Fool in Love Ghoul in Hate | Greer Stothers #3
Lambert screamed, then threw the severed hand at Waldemar. It sailed past his head to strike a lamp, which toppled, shattering. “You disguised yourself as my ghoul!”
Waldemar had twisted to observe the lamp. Now he turned to Lambert, sneering with great satisfaction. “No.”
“Oh, gods. It consumed you? I told it not to! I instructed it—”
“And would you put bacon in a dog’s mouth, and instruct it not to swallow? Idiot.” Waldemar wagged one of his crossed legs, then shivered. “Fetch me a blanket, would you? Unless you prefer me like this.”
“Don’t be ludicrous.” Lambert rose from his chair, only to waver. Firelight shadowed his face, deepening the lines across his forehead. “I suppose you’ll try to kill me now.”
This startled Waldemar so badly that he nearly lost his shape. His fingers lengthened, and he clenched them, concentrating. “Just because—” he sputtered. “That is. You may have lost all civility, but that doesn’t mean that I… by the gods, Beadle, murder isn’t for everyone!”
“Then, why have you been trying to kill me?”
“Why have I…?” Waldemar sat up straighter, blinking at the other man.
“I imagine you’ve surmised that… well, yes, those are my letters, but I only wanted to expose the dark rot of you.
Your rat turd of a heart, as it were. But to interpret such malice from letters is just… excuse me, Beadle, what are you doing?”
Lambert Beadle was unbuttoning his shirt.
Waldemar stared with the intensity of a starved dog. “Come, now,” he said. “Nobody wants to see that.”
“This wasn’t you, then?” Lambert slipped his shirt over a shoulder, exposing a plane of fish-belly white skin. A jag of red interrupted it, rising in an ugly ridge from his collarbone down to his pink knob of a nipple.
It’s like a kitten’s nose, Waldemar thought, stunned.
“Well?”
“Oh, the wound. Of course that wasn’t me.
And terrible job on the healing, by the way, you’d have gotten a better result from needle and thread.
Here—” Waldemar vaulted from the chaise, producing a shriek from Lambert.
This surprised him, until he realized that, even in a human shape, his movements remained distinctly ghoulish.
He unbent his spine, cleared his throat, and (making a concerted effort not to scuttle) approached again.
Though Lambert stiffened, staring at the ceiling, he allowed Waldemar to examine the scar.
Runes danced along its edges, having yet to fully expend themselves.
Waldemar prodded at these with pure science in mind, not allowing his eyes to descend further.
He hoped that Lambert could not hear his swallowing.
“You’ve applied the spell for a small cut, over and over.
Obviously, hoping that the repetition would be enough to counteract the size of the injury.
Incredibly wasteful use of your energy – I imagine this sucked you dry? ”
“Pardon?” Lambert squeaked.
“Never mind. I forgot that I was talking to a fool. It’s beyond the realm of saving, now, you’ll always have this ugly scar.
But perhaps…” Waldemar bared his teeth, wondering if he should share the resurfacing spell he used to exfoliate his own face each morning.
He’d sub-specialized in healing with quietly purchased books, having more of an interest in the cosmetic applications.
In exposing this private hobby, he also opened himself up to Lambert’s mockery.
But this raw, red ridge annoyed him, as did the forwardness of another man having taken shots at his nemesis, so he spat out the spell words, with enough haste to prevent his reconsidering, and then watched in satisfaction as they wormed their way into Lambert’s flesh.
“You devil—” Lambert pushed him away, rubbing at his skin. Thick white flakes fell to the carpet, revealing a softer pink beneath.
“You must forgive me. I couldn’t stand to look at something so ugly.
” Waldemar swiveled, his heart beating nearly out of his chest, and returned to the safety of the chaise.
Sitting, he tucked his legs to his chest. It was at that moment he remembered his nudity, and discerned a different reason for Lambert’s shriek.
“Huh,” he breathed. Horror squirmed in him – of this new ghoulish bent to his mind, and the unintended bucking of human decency – but it was quickly overcome by curiosity as to what other boundaries might have lost their power.
Lambert Beadle coughed into his fist. He was attempting to side-eye Waldemar while facing a cabinet of plates, and wasn’t entirely having success. “I should have known. The attempts on my life were rather too straightforward to have come from you.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’d expect you to smear cologne over the throwing knives, for one. And carve perverse little messages into the handle. It’s only that my assailant cloaked himself in illusion, which I know to be your specialty.”
Waldemar sank back into his seat, allowing the cushions to swallow the notches of his spine. “How many times has this happened? How many attempts?”
“Three. Though this is the first to mark me.”
“But who could possibly be trying to kill you… oh, it’s Pietro.”
“Pardon?”
“Pietro Angeli. He uses illusions on his teeth. And he’s been pressing me for weeks, worming after your secrets.
As though you were interesting enough to possess any.
” Holding up his hand in lazy examination, Waldemar wrenched the ring from his thumb to reapply it to his pinky.
He twisted it, admiring the shine of the bloodstone in the firelight. “A shame. He’s such a well-bred man.”
“Breeding! Pah! Is that all that matters to you in a man, his breeding?” Lambert Beadle (a man of decidedly lower breeding) stomped across the carpet, so that his gesticulating hands passed inches from Waldemar’s nose. “And should we talk about your breeding, Pemberton?”
Waldemar crossed his legs a little more urgently, placing his hands on his lap.
“Why, with your level of inbreeding,” Lambert continued, “it’s shocking that you lack gills.
Many times, I’ve examined your fingers for evidence of webbing.
I’ve had your family tree framed and hung above my bed, to better count the number of sibling-fuckers that produced you, and I find that sleep typically comes before I’ve made a full circuit around the wreath. ”
Waldemar leaned back to avoid a particularly forceful gesticulation. “I must admit, your heritage is far more diverse. One could not imagine more genetic distance between your father and the goat he finished in.”
A shriek of rage sprayed spittle in his face. “You think that with your looks, you can say anything you want—”
“What?”
“What?”
“You think I’m good-looking?”
“I—”
Lambert had leaned so far over the chaise that he’d nearly lost balance. It didn’t help that Waldemar had shot forward in glee, nearly cracking their skulls together. “That’s it! That’s the secret Pietro wanted to pry from me!” Waldemar couldn’t help wiggling in his excitement. “You’re a molly.”
“I am absolutely not,” he panted into his opponent’s mouth. To help with his stability, he pressed a hand into the chaise beside Waldemar’s head.
“You are.”
“I am not. And that can be verifiably proven.”
“How so?”
“You…” Lambert’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “You could do any thing you want to me, and I’d have no reaction.”
“Then maybe I will.”
“Alright. And then, you’ll see that I’m not a molly.”
“Alright.”
Afterward, they lay entwined on the carpet, sticky with intermingled sweat and other unmentionables. The cold no longer infiltrated; between the crackle of the fireplace, and the body he clung to, Waldemar felt as warm as if he lay in a bath.
“I have hated you…” Lambert’s breath tickled into his ear. “From the moment I first saw you.”
“Hmm.” Certain parts of him had already begun to chaff, but with effort he shrugged off the sluggishness that warmth and satisfaction inspired, and raised himself on one arm. “My hatred is such that one glance burns your face into the back of my eyelids.”
“The very thought of you makes my skin break out in hives. Why even now I… mmph!”
Waldemar had lowered his hungry mouth, cutting off his words.
By the time they finished, the fire had burned low, scarcely more than embers in a heap of ash. The window curtain glowed with the first gray wash of dawn.
“I’ve hated you—” started Lambert.
“Don’t,” he groaned. “I need a breather.”
“I’ve hated you since—”
“Oh alright.” Waldemar rolled over.
At some point, the lounge chair was knocked over. The room cooled, the fireplace containing nothing but white ash, while the curtains shone ever stronger, unable to hold back the light.
Exhausted, Waldemar lost all hold of his form. He stretched the gray, lanky limbs of a ghoul, his tail flicking like a cat’s. A blanket had found its way to the floor, and the pillows from the chaise, which, bundled atop the plush carpet, formed a sort of nest.
Lambert stumbled into the room, eyes heavy with exhaustion. He carried a tray with two teacups and a steaming pot, the smell of bergamot overtaking that of sweat.
Waldemar yawned, then froze at the sight of the long, pointed tongue that unfurled from his mouth. “Say,” he said, “do you think it might be interesting if I—”
Another hour passed.
The tea, once they returned to it, was cold and over-brewed.
“Don’t do that,” Lambert muttered, his eyes half-closed with sleep. “These were my mother’s. She never let us drink from them – said they were only for special guests.”