Tariq was still as stone. His countenance was blank, the pale clot of his sightless eyes vague. His shape was motionless in the gloom of the early morning that poured blackly through every inch of his house. It was clear from the intensity with which he turned his head that he was listening.
He had been in the process of removing his mud-encrusted boots, his skin still cool from the frigid night air, and he still sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, the leather boot halfway off his heel. He sat as though frozen in place with one hand still on the sole, his head cocked. Strands of white hair fell cobwebbed over his useless gaze.
He could hear the boy. His voice was low enough that he could hardly make out the words, only a soft murmur from deep in the house. He had been alerted to his wakefulness by a sharp cry that had sent sparks deep into his belly. He had shuddered to a halt mid-disrobing and strained to pluck the rest of it from the air, curiosity sharpening his senses.
It had only been a few days but already the smell of his newest guest had begun to soak into the house. A single thread in the tapestry of candle-wax and old wood and the overwhelming smell of the girl’s perfume that blanketed his lair, but every time he caught it in his nose his teeth felt heavy in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his sharp eyeteeth and was overtaken, unbidden, by the notion of those teeth piercing the boy’s thin throat. His ears rang with the mewling cries he would make as he faded and went limp as a crushed flower in his fist, and abruptly the vampire was on his feet, pressing his heel firmly back down in his boot.
I had not realized, he mused as he stood motionless, his ears pricking to hear the boy despite himself, what agony it would be to keep my guest here. His veins were flush from feeding only hours ago, his mind alert and clear and free of the lingering cobwebs of starvation. And yet, ah. There it was again – the boy’s voice raised in confusion and his stomach clenched as though in hunger.
Nemo malus felix, he thought wryly. No peace for the guilty, and no respite from his wicked thoughts. How was he meant to keep the boy alive and whole when even his distant presence wracked him so? And how boldly he spoke to him – brazen, despite being a mouse in the jaws of a wolf. The vampire worked to unclench his fists and was dizzied by the impression of the boy’s bare stomach shivering beneath him, his pulse frantically pulling hot blood through his veins as inarticulate pleas fell from his lips like coins.
Enough, he snapped internally, driven to motion by the image he could not shake. It clung to him like paint, the boy’s scent twisting in his nose, the phantom heat of his body reddening the vampire’s skin. He quickly found the door, whirling his cloak about his shoulders as he stepped out to find solace on the streets. The latch clicked quietly behind him and his world broadened from the confines of the house to the vast winding streets and dark air of the sleeping city. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the scents of a thousand slumbering inhabitants, of mud and smoke and the clamor of animals engaged in their nocturnal espionage and found – with relief – that the smell of his boy dwindled away to nearly nothing, an idle buzz in the periphery of his senses.
How will you refuse, he thought ruefully as he stepped away into the night, his steps sure despite his lack of sight on the uneven stone. How will you resist cleaving him in twain to lick his very bones clean when you get your hands on him? How will you keep him alive long enough to kill him? But he pushed these thoughts from the forefront of his mind to focus instead on the destination he had not yet chosen, idly hoping the handful of hours he had left before sunrise would be long enough to work the rot of temptation from his flesh.
He had been in the process of removing his mud-encrusted boots, his skin still cool from the frigid night air, and he still sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, the leather boot halfway off his heel. He sat as though frozen in place with one hand still on the sole, his head cocked. Strands of white hair fell cobwebbed over his useless gaze.
He could hear the boy. His voice was low enough that he could hardly make out the words, only a soft murmur from deep in the house. He had been alerted to his wakefulness by a sharp cry that had sent sparks deep into his belly. He had shuddered to a halt mid-disrobing and strained to pluck the rest of it from the air, curiosity sharpening his senses.
It had only been a few days but already the smell of his newest guest had begun to soak into the house. A single thread in the tapestry of candle-wax and old wood and the overwhelming smell of the girl’s perfume that blanketed his lair, but every time he caught it in his nose his teeth felt heavy in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his sharp eyeteeth and was overtaken, unbidden, by the notion of those teeth piercing the boy’s thin throat. His ears rang with the mewling cries he would make as he faded and went limp as a crushed flower in his fist, and abruptly the vampire was on his feet, pressing his heel firmly back down in his boot.
I had not realized, he mused as he stood motionless, his ears pricking to hear the boy despite himself, what agony it would be to keep my guest here. His veins were flush from feeding only hours ago, his mind alert and clear and free of the lingering cobwebs of starvation. And yet, ah. There it was again – the boy’s voice raised in confusion and his stomach clenched as though in hunger.
Nemo malus felix, he thought wryly. No peace for the guilty, and no respite from his wicked thoughts. How was he meant to keep the boy alive and whole when even his distant presence wracked him so? And how boldly he spoke to him – brazen, despite being a mouse in the jaws of a wolf. The vampire worked to unclench his fists and was dizzied by the impression of the boy’s bare stomach shivering beneath him, his pulse frantically pulling hot blood through his veins as inarticulate pleas fell from his lips like coins.
Enough, he snapped internally, driven to motion by the image he could not shake. It clung to him like paint, the boy’s scent twisting in his nose, the phantom heat of his body reddening the vampire’s skin. He quickly found the door, whirling his cloak about his shoulders as he stepped out to find solace on the streets. The latch clicked quietly behind him and his world broadened from the confines of the house to the vast winding streets and dark air of the sleeping city. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the scents of a thousand slumbering inhabitants, of mud and smoke and the clamor of animals engaged in their nocturnal espionage and found – with relief – that the smell of his boy dwindled away to nearly nothing, an idle buzz in the periphery of his senses.
How will you refuse, he thought ruefully as he stepped away into the night, his steps sure despite his lack of sight on the uneven stone. How will you resist cleaving him in twain to lick his very bones clean when you get your hands on him? How will you keep him alive long enough to kill him? But he pushed these thoughts from the forefront of his mind to focus instead on the destination he had not yet chosen, idly hoping the handful of hours he had left before sunrise would be long enough to work the rot of temptation from his flesh.
