18. Defiled
Defiled
Within the courtyard, we know peace.
It is not insulated entirely from sound, as the inventions of modern day allow.
It is the distance from the rowdy city center and the affluent neighborhood that keeps it so quiet.
It is a way to stay hidden, but also a way to become obvious.
The faces we pass on the street are familiar, though we don’t know their names. We’ve made a point to remain anonymous.
When a ruckus erupts in the street, it is a cacophony.
You and I are not the only ones dragged from our homes to peer into the night. All down the row, humans wipe sleep from their eyes and turn their attention to the normally quiet street.
Ardashir drags Dione by the arm, uttering a string of curses in a language I do not know. Behind them is Shimon and Theon, their faces contorted with rage. You stiffen next to me, your fists clenched at your side.
“Let her go!” yells Theon, his hand outstretched as if to grab Dione and wrest her from his grip.
“No!” Ardashir growls over his shoulder.
“See reason!” Shimon calls. He hangs back as they lumber toward us, his wide gaze darting from Dione to you and me.
Essemteu appears—from where, I do not know—his hands out to placate Ardashir. “What is the meaning of this?”
“She is a traitor,” Ardashir says, jabbing Dione in the arm with a finger. She hisses at him and slips from his grip.
“Perhaps somewhere quieter,” Essemteu offers.
“They are not to pass into the temple,” Ardashir argues, his head jerking toward Theon and Shimon.
“Be silent,” you say at last, your rage fouling the air. The taste turns my stomach. I’ve only seen you this angry once before, when we nearly died and the sun burned me.
Theon and Shimon stop short. Ardashir is unphased by your wrath.
“She is a traitor!” he repeats.
“Lower your voice,” Essemteu says, looking about the street. More heads poke around corners and over walls. Most of them watch you. Even the humans understand your power, that you are unlike the others. I peer around you, secretly thrilled by the scene.
I hope you show them all the consequences of disrespect.
“Inside,” you say between gritted teeth.
Shimon hesitates at the threshold, but Theon does not. He barrels in with the rest of them, as though he belongs. I do not resist the urge to snarl at him. He is not one of your flock, I can be as cruel to him as I wish. Shimon skirts around me like I am a dog that might bite.
At least he has some sense.
The gate to the courtyard swings shut. The cacophony starts anew. I can only pick out occasional words: traitor, secrets, humans, liar.
“How dare you bring your petty squabbles here,” you say, bristling. All at once, the noise stops. Ardashir touches his temple, Dione winces, Theon and Shimon stagger. There is a light pressure in my head, as though my ears need to pop, but it is fleeting.
“What is it he speaks of?” you ask Dione.
“He saw me speaking to Shimon and Theon and decided I was a traitor,” she says, her voice trembling on the last word.
“A traitor?” I ask.
“We split from them for a reason!” Ardashir explodes. You turn your red-hot gaze to him and he is suddenly silent, the veins in his neck bulging. His eyes are wide with shock. He stumbles against the wall of the courtyard, his body stiff.
You look back to Dione and she flinches, but continues on.
“I only meant to tell them about the gift of compulsion.” The words spill out of her now, her fear driving them forward.
“I thought if they knew there was a way to make the humans follow you willingly, to remove any pain or sensation, that they would want to know. Their main issue with feeding on humans is that they are afraid, and I thought—”
“That is not the issue!” Shimon says, waving his hand through the air.
“This is why we could not continue as we had! You do not listen when we speak, you make the issue something else entirely! You claim there is a gift that can be learned to control a human’s mind, to make them follow you without question—that is cruel!
It takes away their agency, their consent.
Your solution is no better…In fact, it is worse. ”
“What is this compulsion you speak of?” Essemteu asks.
“Melinoe used it when we hunted. She simply spoke to a human, told them to follow her…and he did. She commanded him to do things and he obeyed.”
Every bright eye turns to me, burning lines along my exposed skin, tearing me open here in the middle of the courtyard.
I wonder again if I was not supposed to show this to them, if I somehow unearthed a secret.
How far back would this set me in your eyes?
Does this failure undo my century of penance?
But when I look to you, I do not see anger. The corner of your lip turns up in the slightest of smiles.
“Is this true?” Essemteu asks.
“Yes,” you say simply. “I was unaware this wasn’t widely known.”
Theon laughs. “We are to believe you are capable of controlling the minds of humans and you thought that was common knowledge?”
“It takes a level of skill not every one of us possesses,” you say pointedly.
“And yet she can do it?” Theon asks incredulously, pointing at me.
“What do you mean by that?” you ask, your head tilting ever so slightly.
“Do not play the fool. Melinoe is anything but impressive. She isn’t a scholar or a warrior, she has no discernible talents. She follows you around, simpering and useless. It’s no wonder you’ve collected the others, they will at least be good company in the coming years.” He scowls.
His words sink into me, rotting me to my bones.
I feel it all—the taste of bile at my own uselessness, the crash realization that others see me just as I do, the gangrenous hatred that multiplied when Theon shone a light on it.
In less than a decade, he scrutinized me and found me wanting in all the same ways I did.
You laugh.
Had I a stake, I would have driven it through my heart. I am in the box again, dying, drowning, drinking and vomiting water over and over again until the sun rises and I sleep.
You take a step toward him. He holds his ground, his stupid face overjoyed with his words. And you laugh and laugh. You laugh until you stand before him, then your fingers close on his throat, your nails pressing into the skin.
Theon doesn’t move, he just stares at you. The whites of his eyes are red now, bloodshot, each vessel swelling and bursting. I am removed from my misery to watch as blood trickles from his eyes, his nose, the sides of his mouth.
“Do you know how I got my name, Mother of Silence?” you ask, your voice low. Theon doesn’t answer. He cannot answer, I think. He can only shake his head, a tiny movement that could just as easily have been him trembling.
He should tremble. He should kneel. To insult me hurt, but it insults you as well. That is the bigger crime.
“I can kill you without touching you, and you’ll never make a sound,” you say, your mouth close to his ear now. Each word is a whisper, a caress against his skin.
“I am the Mother of Silence because I have silenced so many. Not just with death, but by maiming them. Did you know that if I wither your tongue, it will never grow back? I can take your eyes and you will never have them again, no matter how many humans you drain. Your ears, too. I am not lamia, I can tear you limb from limb and let you live out your immortality like that. Can you imagine what it must be like, Theon? To spend century after century, unable to speak or listen or see?”
You look over your shoulder to me. The rage in your eyes does not unsettle me, it fuels me. You are angry for me. You threaten this man for me.
Because you love me, even in all my imperfections.
“It took Melinoe awhile to learn the gift of compulsion,” you say softly.
“I think you will be the perfect thing to practice the gift of silence on. I wonder how many times she will fail, being simpering and useless. How many times will she shrivel your tongue, just for it to regrow and her to try again? Hmm?”
For Theon I would fail over and over again. I would pretend to be just as useless as he thinks I am. No scholar. I am older than the books he worships.
“That is, unless she shows you mercy,” you consider, quirking an eyebrow at me. You turn Theon’s face with your hand, pointing it at me so he can see. “She doesn’t look very merciful right now.”
Whatever part of Theon’s face he has control over crumples. His bloody tears fall faster now, his lip quivering. Bloody spittle drips down his trembling lips.
Yes, I think. Something inside me leans into this display of love for me. I am lucky to have been found by you, someone so caring, so strong.
“The gift of compulsion was never a secret, you are just too stupid and weak to learn it,” you tell Theon.
Then you look to Shimon. His back is pressed against the wall of the courtyard, his hand fumbling blindly for the door.
He refuses to take his eyes off you. “This is madness,” he murmurs.
His hand finally finds it and he turns to run, the gate clattering shut behind him.
“Your colleague left you,” you tell Theon, gripping his chin so tightly it starts to crack. The bones snap and Theon cries out before you reach out and steal the noise. His mouth opens but all that comes is a gurgle.
“I will teach my followers the gift of compulsion, because they have earned the right at last.” Theon sags, held aloft only by the firm grip on his chin. “You are at the mercy of my unimpressive lover. Let’s hope she is as unimpressive as you think.”
Then you let go and Theon drops to the ground and crumples. His body lays unmoving, the whites of his eyes red, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. You turn your blazing red eyes to Ardashir. He drops to his knees, his hands clasped before him in supplication.
“My shahbanu,” he whispers, lowering himself before you. “We have witnessed your khvarenah, you reign supreme above them all.”
Essemteu and Dione mimic him. Essemteu is reverent; Dione is shocked.
But I am not.
I’ve always known what you were capable of. Some part of you lives in me, and it thrills at the prospect of this sort of power. Perhaps when Shimon tells the others, they will join us too.
“We need a new location. Find one,” you snap at Essemteu. “And take him with you. Ensure he cannot escape. If he does, you will take his place.”
The courtyard is peaceful once more.
Your lips clash onto mine, my fists ball in your dress.
We are heated and heavy, our bodies moving for instant pleasure.
This isn’t the slow dance of lovers, this is a lust. Your hand is between my thighs, coated with Theon’s blood.
I come almost immediately. You bite into my neck, tasting me, and I come again.
I pin you against the wall, tearing off your clothes, leaving them as little more than shredded fabric. I dive between your thighs, bite along your breasts, until you must forsake a name that claims you are silent.
When we fall into our grave, we are too spent to fight the call of the sun.
“A new home, psiche mou,” you say. “This one has been defiled.”
“One none of them know about,” I say.
“I will rip the image of it from their mind,” you say into my collarbone, my neck, my hair. The dirt of our grave is cool against my naked back, the caress of a second lover. Your hand trails up my inner thigh, parting me, entering me once more.
“I will teach you all the secrets of silence,” you promise.
“You are not ordinary,” you vow.
“You are not simpering,” you affirm.
“You are mine, and you are exceptional.”