17. The Rule of Five
The Rule of Five
They are all in our courtyard.
Essemteu sits on his usual bench, head tilted back to look at the moon. Zahra and Dione lounge on the edge of our fountain, their bare toes tracing patterns in the water. Ardashir and Menodotus stand, both moving shadows along the periphery of the group.
And you—resplendent but annoyed on the chair we dragged from one of the rooms. You sit elevated, all eyes on you.
“I call together the Rule of Five,” Essemteu says. He fell into his position amongst the new faction just as easily as the old one. They may follow you, but he holds their reins.
I hate the name. It’s supposed to represent the five remaining Elders (that you don’t know if they even still live) and the five rules (that none of them knew until you told them). The old group didn’t have a name—it was referenced in vague terms. The guild. The meeting. The group.
Yet here they sit, the Rule of Five, stretching themselves to every corner of our courtyard.
No longer do they wait for the full moon—the meetings are more often now. At first it was to establish guidelines for the group. Now? Now it’s just so they can listen to themselves talk and preen under your attention.
I do not begrudge their affection of you. How could I? You are worth every ounce of their devotion. It’s how they’ve infected every part of our lives. They blister and leave scars all over our home.
One of them is near you always. At first it was Essemteu, whispering in your ear, nodding along when you replied.
Then it is Dione, who sits near you in silence, as though she can steal your greatness by proximity.
Ardashir and Menodotus act like guards, though I suspect you could best them without a thought.
They are young, brash, and think they can protect you.
Our only moments of peace are in the grave, when you hold me close and we fall into each other.
The meeting begins with a devotional to those who came before, the Elders that no longer exist, and the First from whom we all came. Any reservations about the First being a woman have vanished once they learn more of her. Her capacity for violence soothed the men, made her worthy in their eyes.
What do they think of you, I wonder? They follow, they obey and listen. Do they find your quiet words a type of strength, or do they think it a women’s weakness? I study them during the devotion. Their eyes remain closed, their heads tipped back to the moon in reverence.
Obedient servants.
Then it is much like the discussions from before, though they are wilder.
There is no need to show restraint when surrounded by those who agree with you.
It’s no longer just about humans as food, but their position in the world as a whole.
Who are humans to lead, when they’ve experienced so little of the world?
Should not one of us sit atop the throne in Rome, lead armies and churches and universities?
I hate this conversation. They think because they are older than the humans who rule that they are wise.
“And if the humans decide to battle by day?” I ask. I do not enjoy the group forum of debate—those who do are sycophants. They speak louder than the others so you might hear them better and praise their position. I do not think they believe their own words sometimes.
“Then we have the human soldiers fight,” Menodotus says with a roll of his eyes. He dislikes me—that is fine. I hate him. He is no better than Theon with his stupid word games and how he says so much but so little.
“Ah, the mighty war admiral, who puts his weak humans on the front lines because he cannot survive in the sun,” I reply. Zahra giggles, but Ardashir does not join her pleasure.
“What do you know of battle?” he hisses, then chances a glance to you. Perhaps I am protected from their true ire by my proximity to you. Essemteu may whisper in your ear, but I am made by you. Chosen. I am your companion and they are not.
Still, I know to tread lightly. I wanted this camaraderie amongst our kind; I asked for this. And for all your annoyed gestures, you enjoy their devotion. You are a goddess, you deserve nothing less.
So I still my tongue when I want to rip theirs out.
“Enough to know being felled by the sun would make for a poor leader. Tell me, how long can you resist the call of the sun in the morning? A minute? Two? An hour?” I press. Dione watches me curiously, her head tilted ever so slightly.
“Resist?” Ardashir asks, blinking at me.
“Yes. When the sun rises in the morning, how long until you fall into the deep slumber?”
“Instantly,” Ardashir says, confused. “As do we all.”
“The point stands,” you interrupt, drawing attention from me. Well, all the attention except for Dione. Her gaze cuts into me, reading what I do not say.
“Our strengths are great, but our weaknesses are greater. It is why the first rule was made first, to show its importance. If humans were to know our true nature, they would exploit it,” you continue.
“Exploit it how?” Zahra asks, leaning forward, her chin resting on her hands.
“The blood of our kind creates immortality,” Essemteu says.
“Yes, but it’s not that simple,” Zahra says. “They cannot just drink our blood and be like us.”
“No,” you agree. “But our blood does lend to healing. Our blood fed to a sick child can heal them of most maladies. If they knew this, they would hunt us down.”
“But we are stronger,” Menodotus protests. “No human could overpower us.”
“They need only find where we rest,” you say.
“But they would need to know that,” Menodotus continues.
“It is far better for them to know nothing. The tales of our kind are myths to humans, stories they tell their children to behave, or excuses for treating others poorly. The more we remain in mysticism, the less chance we will be hunted,” you say.
“Have we been hunted before?” Dione asks.
“Yes,” you say, your voice so quiet that had we been human, we wouldn’t have heard it.
“By humans?” Ardashir asks.
“Yes,” you repeat, louder now. “It is why the five rules were created. Each was to rectify a grievous wrong. Telling our true nature to a human without intention to make them into one of us led to their knowledge of our kind. Leaving a trail of bodies gave the humans a villain to investigate. Making another of our kind without proper thought meant too many of us, and too few humans to hunt. Writing about us leaves evidence. And the last rule...” You pause, your gaze sweeping skyward for a moment before you continue.
“To walk this earth eternally in the body of a child is cruelty. The bond between maker and creation is intimate, too intimate for a child—or family. So the rules were created.”
“What grievous wrong?” Dione asks.
You are quiet for a long moment, and I think you will not answer. When you do, I do not recognize your voice. “A wrong that brought our numbers from hundreds to less than ten. I will not speak on it, lest I bring about its second coming.”
Dione follows me through the streets.
Does she think I cannot sense her? Does she think she is that quiet? She is no hunter—she was a philosopher’s daughter, created by a poet who thought her clever. She may be clever with words, but she is not so clever now.
It is not hard to disappear down an alley, climb up a building and drop into the street behind her. She searches for me, her pace quickening as she tries to recover the distance between us when I disappeared.
“Looking for someone?” I ask, just as she is about to duck down an alley and search for me.
She turns quickly, her eyes narrowed as she watches me. “How did you do that?”
“Why are you following me?” I ask instead. I do not wish to explain the boring details of how easy it was to notice her and slip away undetected. I also do not want her to use the tactics on me.
“I wanted to join you in your evening hunt,” she says.
“I hunt alone,” I say, unable to keep my lip from curling at the thought of hunting with her. I do not dislike Dione more than any of the others in the Five—if anything, she is the one I dislike least. That does not mean I want her following me and watching me eat.
Hunting is something you and I do together—or, at least, we used to. Since the Five came into our home, we are very rarely alone together except to sleep.
“Indulge me,” she says.
I should leave her, but I don’t. She is one of your disciples, one of the creatures that’s chosen to follow in your footsteps. If I turn her away now, will I upset you? Disappoint you? You’ve never said I had to entertain any of the members, but isn’t that an unspoken rule?
I still work to be worthy of you, though tests like this try me.
I do not answer Dione, I just continue down the street. She falls into step beside me. Fewer humans stare at me because I am no longer a woman alone, but a woman with a companion. Dione doesn’t speak, and for that I am grateful.
I move to a tavern, and she hesitates at the threshold.
“What?” I ask.
“In here?” she says, confused.
“It is where the humans are,” I reply. She frowns and follows me inside, hesitating again as I sit at a table.
Someone comes to serve us but I wave them away, waiting.
Dione’s gaze darts over the scene, so unlike the woman who lounges on the fountain during the meetings.
Yes, the tavern is loud, but it is like any other building in Alexandria.
“A drink for the lady?” asks a man at last. He is large enough for the both of us to drink from, so he will do.
“Follow me,” I say. He nods, his gaze vacant.
I stand and I’m nearly to the door when I realize Dione is not with me.
She remains seated, her nervous expression replaced with shock.
The human stops just behind me, but he does not turn to look.
Dione stands at last and moves quickly to join me into the night.
We wind through a few streets until we find a quiet alleyway, one where we will not be disturbed.
“You will remember none of this,” I tell him.
He doesn’t flinch as I bite into his wrist and take the first long draw of his blood. His blood is the type I like best—a light buzz of drink, thick and warm from his work outside. I dislike the drunks, their blood is like water, and I need much more of it to feel sated.
“How did you do that?” Dione asks.
I don’t understand her question. How did I feed? I’ve seen her do the same in our courtyard, her teeth digging into the flesh of a human’s forearm. The human moaned its salacious moan, silenced only by its proximity to death.
“Do what?” I ask, collecting the bits of blood around my lips with my finger and sucking on it.
“Get him to…” She trails off, her gaze sweeping over his form. He is tall and broad—were I human, he could harm me easily. But I am not human, and he is coerced into silence.
“Compulsion,” I say simply.
“I don’t understand.”
Dread sours the blood in my mouth. She doesn’t know about compulsion or coercion.
I drag my fingers through my memory, trying to find when you taught me it.
Did you ever say it was a secret? No, it was centuries before I met another of our kind.
You didn’t mention it when we began to attend the meetings—that I would recall.
You never told me to keep it a secret, and thus I assumed it was something we all knew. An inherent trait. Dione knew her maker, they spent several decades together before he abandoned her. In all that time, did he never teach her this?
“It is a way to frame your words so a human is forced to listen,” I attempt. Do I downplay the strength of this act, so as not to alarm her? Or do I lean into it, another show of your power and also mine? If her creation can do this, think of what she can do.
“Can you teach me?” Dione asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, and it is mostly the truth. I have never tried to teach another, so how could I know if I am able to teach it now?
But I want to hold this close to me. If Dione does not know this, then neither do the others. You and I are bonded in this, a secret only we share. The others cannot subdue their prey until they bite them. You and I are not restricted by such ridiculousness.
“It took me decades to learn,” I say.
“I am very smart,” Dione says.
And I am not? It burns on my tongue, but I keep it inside. I will not upset your followers. I will be worthy of you by keeping your followers happy.
Dione takes the man’s other wrist and brings it to her lips.
She bites tentatively, her gaze trained on his face.
He makes no noise, nor does he flinch at the press of her teeth.
She drinks deeply, swallowing mouthfuls of his blood.
When she’s had her fill she steps away, and the man sways on his feet.
“And now what?” she asks.
“You drank too much at the tavern. You woke up in this alley. You ate something bad, you feel sick and weak. It will fade in a few days.” The man drops to his knees, swaying under the weight of the compulsion and his blood loss.
Then he closes his eyes and crumples to the ground, looking every bit like a drunk who crawled into an alley to sleep.
Dione doesn’t speak until we’re nearly back to my home. I want to tell her to leave, that she isn’t welcome, but I cannot. Our home is no longer ours—it’s the Five’s. They come and go as they please.
“Does anyone else know about this?” Dione asks when we are a block from home.
“I don’t know,” I admit. I have not seen the others hunt, just seen the bodies or the nearly dead humans they brought home. The first group drank from glasses, as though the blood were wine.
“Hmm,” Dione says, watching me anew. What does she see now? The strength of your creation? Proof that we were superior, even from the members of the group? Does this solidify your position as leader?
“Does it work on others like us?” she asks.
If this menial thing I learned to do centuries ago is so powerful, what other powers do you keep from me?