Chapter 14 Silas
SILAS
I’m frozen to the bone by the time I get home after my last lecture of the day, and yet I hesitate on our doorstep as soon as I open our front door, staring vacantly at the frayed, beige fibres of our doormat.
Do not enter without wine, it says in black cursive.
Roxana and I argued incessantly over this particular purchase of hers. As per usual, she was deaf to my protests that I needed to be able to invite my colleagues without feeling embarrassed.
But the doormat isn’t the cause of my hesitation. Nor do I have any particular desire to keep looking at it. No, it’s the smell. That absolutely delicious smell that is making my mouth water and my stomach rumble.
Lamb chops.
The last time Roxana made them was after discovering that gynaecologist Woodrow and not me was Mia Campbell’s secret lover. And prior to that, we hadn’t had them for at least a year, not since she guilt-tripped me into spending a small fortune on her publishing venture.
Can I really be blamed for wondering what sort of petty marital victory she achieved this time?
Alas, there’s nothing for it but to go inside and find out.
No sooner do I close the door behind me than I’m undoing my coat. It’s swelteringly hot in the antechamber.
“Darling!” Roxana marches in to welcome me, a red-dot apron tied over one of her little black dresses.
Except for the somewhat hard rolled ‘r’, she pronounces the word almost like a native, if with something close to theatricality—an exaggerated Britishness of expression, similar to that of American actors portraying English characters.
She didn’t sound this way when we first met, oh no, her accent was all Eastern Europe back then.
I haven’t remembered it for years, and as I do now, I feel myself blush bright red because I get so hard I’m bursting through the zipper of my trousers.
“How was your day?” she asks as I hang my coat, turning away from her so that she doesn’t notice my excitement.
A thing like that has been happening more and more recently, just another one of my complaints. My body doesn’t feel like my own anymore.
“Horrible,” I reply to her. “I feel like I’m coming down with something. Tired. Spacey. I’ll probably need to go lie down after dinner.”
Meanwhile, I get rid of my erection by forcing myself to think about Beatrice Stubbs, her uptight bun of thin mousy hair and the creases in her dry skin.
“Oh, sure, honey.”
She says it sweetly enough, but there is just the faintest hint of condescension in her voice. Does she think I’m exaggerating my symptoms?
I don’t know, but something in the way she’s looking at me leaves me unsettled, even if I cannot explain why exactly. I’m still trying to figure it out as I let her lead me to the table by the elbow. Obediently, I sink into the upholstered chair.
“How about a nice cup of tea?” she offers with a smile that I don’t find the least bit reassuring.
But then I feel guilty because what am I even suspecting her of? I must get a grip on myself.
“That’s a wonderful idea, love,” I tell her. “Thank you.”
I watch her busy herself in the kitchen and notice that she must have already boiled the water before I came in, because she pours it steaming into the prepared mug.
She puts the tea bag in, pressing it down with a teaspoon, before taking the milk out of the fridge and tipping a generous splash into my tea, just the way I like it.
She throws out the empty plastic bottle, not bothering to separate it from the non-recyclable rubbish.
She sets the tea before me, and I take a few sips gratefully as she brings the serving dish of mashed potatoes and the tray of lamb chops.
“No veggies?” I raise my eyebrows at her over the rim of the mug, regretting my words the moment I let them slip past my lips.
I prepare for her anger the way I would for physical impact, hunching my shoulders and tensing my aching muscles.
But it never comes.
Roxana just gives me a tight smile as she sits down with a large glass of wine in her hand.
“Not today,” she says, a little too cheerily. “No need to eat like rabbits all the time.”
“Heh,” I chuckle uneasily.
I take another large sip and then help myself to the food, and we both eat in silence.
Which I find worrying, because usually she nags me about conversing with her during dinner, no matter how tired I am, no matter that we have nothing to talk about.
No, she always insists that I speak for the sake of speaking, if only about the weather.
But tonight she is quiet and seemingly content to drink her red wine in large gulps while accompanying it with the smallest bits of food.
Something’s definitely off. I just wish that I knew what.
Roxana
The taste of wine is rich and spicy on my tongue as I swirl it around my mouth, and I picture it staining my teeth.
No matter, that’s what whitening is for.
Yellow teeth are far easier to sort out than extra weight from too many calories.
And the wine already has plenty of those, so I need to be careful with how much I eat.
I stab a small piece of lamb with my fork, and fatty juices ooze out of it.
I set the fork down, the meat still impaled on it, and drink some more.
I watch as Silas starts swaying in place, barely paying attention to the food on his plate.
His breathing gets erratic and louder. I wish I had put some music on, so I didn’t have to listen to it.
He raises his sight to me, a crease of suspicion between his eyebrows.
But before he can put them into words, his face freezes, still like a block of stone and just as expressionless.
And then his eyes change, more abruptly than I expected them to, the irises darkening and widening.
The transformation is drastic, and not just in his eyes, but in his overall appearance, now slashed over with harsh lines and carved with a malicious smirk.
“It’s you,” I greet him. “It’s really you.”
And now that I can see him for what he is, I don’t understand how I could have not seen him before.
He may look like Silas, but his presence is so much larger.
It’s like he sucks all the oxygen out of the room.
Like he sees to the marrow of my bones. And I know now that there’s nowhere in the world where I could hide from him.
“I should have known I wouldn’t be dealing with a sceptic here.” His voice is soft yet deafening.
“I wanted to talk,” I tell him a little breathlessly, rolling the stem of my wine glass between my fingers.
“And since you can count on Silas to never refuse a cup of tea, I spiked the milk with my painkillers from home. Romania, I mean. You know, the ones that you ... well, Silas ... said were so strong they made him feel all loopy. Do you know that? Do you know his memories?”
As I raise my eyes to him inquisitively, I notice that he sits differently than Silas would. The distinction is subtle, but it is there; his shoulders are squared to their full width, and his back is perfectly straight, his whole posture assertive and regal. Fit for the Baron of Bones.
Seeing him like that makes me realise that I’m cowering in my seat, as if poised to make a quick escape, subconsciously expecting him to lunge at me at any moment.
Even though I now know that I’ve had many conversations with him already, that I lay in bed with him and gave myself over to him body and soul, my mind still rejects the idea of feeling safe with the one whose name it has always associated with terror.
“I do. I know him inside out. There isn’t a corner in his body or mind that is secret from me.”
His expression is mild, like he’s aware that I’m afraid of him and doesn’t want to spook me any further. He is completely still, stiller than any person could ever be. He is hardly even blinking, and his gaze doesn’t stray from my face for a second.
“Goodwoman Stubbs thinks I should play dumb in front of you. But why the fuck would I listen to her?” I ramble, my heart speeding up and my hands turning clammy.
“My mother told me that my ancestors drugged possessed people to bring the demon—you, I mean—out. With herbs and such. I wanted to try it.”
The wine glass finally slips from between my fingers and rolls across the table, leaving a thin trail of wine behind.
That finally snaps me out of my stupor. I won’t be able to negotiate anything with him if I’m scared shitless.
He didn’t harm me back in November when he possessed Wilson; he won’t harm me now.
He wants something from me. That gives me power.
I take a steadying breath and relax my muscles. Then I put my hands in my lap to stop myself from fidgeting.
“Are you scared of me, dark darling? Why would I harm the one who’ll give me the key to the ultimate power in this world? I’m nothing but pleased that we can finally talk,” he croons.
Trapped in his deep gaze, I straighten the glass, pour some more wine into it and take a sip as he feasts on my every subtle movement. I savour it before swallowing, swirling it in my mouth and in no hurry to react to his words.
“I’m glad too,” I say finally. “This whole thing about me carrying your son ... what do I get out of it?”
He huffs in a half-laugh before he realises that I’m serious.
“What makes you think you’re supposed to get anything out of it?” he asks sharply, his eyebrows almost meeting in a deep frown.
“It’s a big ask.” I shrug, encouraged by how pissed off he seems; a heated reaction of any kind is a lot more promising than calm indifference.
“It’s not an ask,” he hisses. “Much as I’m enjoying your sweet, tight cunt, I wouldn’t be fucking it just to give you pleasure. Through your obedience or through your fury, I will have a son by you.”
I feel the corners of my lips stretch to what I hope is an assertive smile.