Chapter 11
“And then, it was…” My words falter, and I remain silent for a moment. “I cannot begin to explain the kind of agony I endured,” I finally finish.
I glance at the stranger sitting across from me on a well-used Chesterfield. With his legs draped over the side, he looks completely relaxed. Even though his garments look very en vogue and well-tended to, the room we are in tells a different story.
Decades’ worth of paint and paper peel from the walls in colourful layers.
The sparse furniture looks ancient, its threadbare appearance matching the walls.
Although everything is spotless, there is an air of purposeful abandonment to the room.
The result is strangely cosy, even if it transgresses all conventions and fashions.
“Your senses failed you completely, correct?” he asks.
“They did,” I respond.
“You felt or sensed nothing, then? No taste, no touch, until you ingested that potion,” he continues.
I agree.
“So then this so-called potion made you feel. Which is good. But it was pure pain and suffering. Which is bad.”
“I suppose.”
“How very interesting.” He folds his arms behind his head, silently staring into the hearth.
When he returns his gaze to me, I continue. “Another made me invisible. The last one took my sight. I remember little afterwards. I awoke from my staff entering the room and searching for me. I watched them and then left,” I explain.
He’s observing me so intently, as if he could tell truth from lies only by the tone of my voice.
“This is the most riveting tale of my existence,” he says. “And believe me, that is an impressive feat.”
The man appears around five years younger than me, maybe even ten. What sort of life does he live that he sees me like this and finds it fascinating?
I remember the strange things he said in the alley. It was all impossible.
The stranger shifts his body until his feet are planted on the floor, then leans in very closely. He stares at me intently, like he’s trying to discern something hiding inside my translucency.
“As a man of your intelligence, you surely deduced that I am no human. I believe it wasn’t by chance that I found you wandering the streets.” He leans back, looking quite satisfied, as if that explains everything. When I say nothing, he continues, “Perhaps, I am the answer you seek?”
“Pardon?”
“You are not the only creature roaming these streets, dove, for I am blessed with healing ichor.”
“You are a god?”
“Alas, I am not. But my lifeblood might help you even without godlike powers. Would you care to try?” He crosses one leg over the other, thinks better of it, and plants his feet wide once more.
I want to ask him what sort of creature he is or how blood could possibly heal, but instead, all I say is, “I will try anything.”
A wicked grin spreads across his features. It’s too beguiling. “I hoped you would say that.”
The man stands up faster than any human might, then fetches something from a darkened corner.
The bronze goblet gleams in the firelight. Small beastly paws circle the bottom. He unfastens his collar and top button, then pulls a necklace from below the folds. A small sheath dangles from a golden chain. With swift fingers, he pulls a minuscule sword covered in intricate metalwork from within.
With this small blade, he cuts his wrist. Brown skin splits. Red blooms from the gash. Droplets disappear into the goblet.
When he’s finished, he slowly licks the wound and hands me the cup.
I stare, fascinated and enthralled.
Moments pass before I accept his offering. Inside, dark liquid awaits at the bottom.
“My name is Moreau, by the way. It’s only proper to introduce oneself before offering one’s blood.” He flashes that dazzling grin of his.
“Moreau?”
“I know. Isn’t it amusing? So perfectly pointed,” he laughs.
“I’m Orlando.” I stretch out my hand, but he doesn’t take it.
“What a beautiful name you have, Orlando. A pleasure,” he says, inclining his head like a prince.
Moreau is utterly strange and fascinating. With his casual nature, he breaks all propriety and conventions, but he’s simultaneously the most elegant man I’ve ever encountered.
“Go ahead, drink it.”
I place the goblet to my lips and drink Moreau’s blood.
Thick, tasteless liquid coats my tongue. And then, the last drop. The goblet is empty. Nothing happens. Seconds pass, minutes, and then…
Spiced meat drenched in cinnamon. Roasted tomatoes and mushroom mince. Soft and fragrant Christmas pies.
Blood? No. The ichor.
Suddenly, it’s hot, too hot. The smell of ashes coats my lungs.
Moreau watches me intently, his head shifting like a bird’s.
No, like a wolf.
My pulse rushes through my ears, my breath catches. Perspiration appears across my skin. My cheeks blush, a fire grows from within.
Moreau’s lips—such soft, full lips—part over brilliantly white teeth. The smile of a predator. Infinitely alluring, yet promising exaltation. It’s dazzling, hypnotising. I can’t look away. There are no more words, only—
My stomach groans. I feel hunger. Thirst. But wait, there’s something more. The deepest longing, a yearning for—
“Look at you, Orlando, you are even more exquisite than I could have imagined,” Moreau murmurs.
The words are so soft, I can almost feel them caressing my skin. His gaze drops to my lap. My fingers are still grasping the goblet’s neck. My eyes catch on my hands. My ordinary hands. Pale skin enveloping too-long fingers. Not graceful like a pianist, but rather thick like a cobbler’s.
I lift my hands to the light. Move them every which way. I wiggle my fingers. Stroke my nail beds across my cheek as I have so many times before. The stubble on my face scratches my skin. How many days passed while I was barely a man?
I stand to approach the mirror hanging over the hearth’s mantle.
My face looks distraught, maybe even crazed. But it is my face nonetheless, and there is nothing more exhilarating than seeing it reflected back.
Moreau is draped over the sofa again. Half of him glows from the fire’s dance; the other is shrouded in darkness. He looks like an old painting.
I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to run through the streets. I fist my hands, take one deep breath, and contain it all.
“Tell me what you feel?” he asks.
“I’m hungry,” is the first thing that leaves my mouth. How brutish of me. It seems this ordeal has made me forget my manners.
“Delightful! Let’s find something edible, shall we?” He stands up and hands me the throw that was draped over the settee.
Realising that I’m entirely naked, I grip the fabric, mortified. But Moreau pays me no heed. He’s already halfway down the corridor.
I ignore the heat rushing to my cheeks as I wrap the throw around my waist. I look utterly indecent, but there’s nothing that can be done right now. At least the heavy red velvet gives me some sense of modesty.
The kitchen looks like it hasn’t been used since the burning of old St. Sebastian’s. By some miracle, we find a jar of preserved pears, a dusty bottle of elderberry wine, and a box of stale biscuits. Moreau serves everything on a tarnished tray as if it were a royal feast.
“I apologise for this meagre meal. I’m not in the habit of eating,” he says, placing a pear on a biscuit.
“I don’t mind. I’m grateful to be restored; I would eat anything right now,” I say, and mean it. I’m so hungry, I don’t even mind that the food might be older than me.
“I cannot imagine what it’s like not to feel. It must be the most cruel horror to exist in such a state.”
I nod with a mouth full of pears. Their sweetness is so cloying that their juice coats my mouth like honey.
The biscuits are bland and dry, but following the pears, the texture is delightful.
The wine tastes like spiced golden syrup, tart and fermented.
It heats me to the core, packing my head in cotton.
I eat, delighted in every sensation that courses through me. When I look back at Moreau, the joy seems to have leached from his features.
He’s looking at my hands.
I hold them up.
A map of crimson roads criss-crosses over yellowed cotton.
I close my eyes.
No. It can’t be.
I look again. It’s fading. Fading so quickly.
Please, stop.
Every layer disappears as if washed off with turpentine. First, the veins, bright and strong, fade into the rawness of muscles.
Red and angry, they are determined to prove who the mightiest is on each hand.
Tendons glitter silver in the firelight, clinging to the bones with force, until they appear just as dull as ancient fossils.
There is no more heat. There is no more tightness in my chest.
I am but a pale imitation. A man only in shape, taking up nothing but space on this earth. But truly, I am no more.