Powerful heartbeats pumped against his chest wall. Looking down, he saw red welts running along his thigh. Four of them in a row, like thin, skeletal fingers. They were around his ankle as well, pain searing up his leg and horror filled his mind for a moment, soon being pushed out by pure rage.
The rage wasn't enough to compensate for the iciness that had set into his body. His breath was condensing again and ice had crept up the lower part of the windows. This coldness hadn't been there when he got here; it had come and it had attacked him. Fury coursed through him as he rose, his leg aching in latent pain.
*
It stood in the doorway watching him, knowing it wasn't seen. He was there, the pale one. It hated him. It was the only thing it knew, hate directed at the pale, young man. Cold hate emanated from fingers, freezing anything it touched.
Red welts ran along the man's thigh as he stood in the shower, naked now under the steaming water. It had placed them there. The ability to touch him, to hurt him, had been a revelation. Icy fingers reached through blankets and clothes, and scorched him.
The notion of form had just entered its mind. It had no past, no identity, no purpose other than to hate. Now there were fingers for touching—for hurting.
The man leaned on the tiled wall, the hot water making his shoulders red. The urge to touch him again grew, to see him contort in pain, but abruptly he turned off the water and stepped out, naked, corded muscles on the slim form of youth. If he was beautiful, it didn't notice. There was only hate.
Quickly, he stroked the towel along his limbs and let it drop to the floor as he walked with unseeing eyes. Solid form moved through mist and he continued, unaware he had passed by the thing that hated him.
Dressing quickly, he pulled on a shirt and pants, then a black jacket. As black as his heart.
The man left and it thought of following, but it was too tired. Too much energy had been used and now it was empty—too empty to follow. Touching took energy; rage fueling its actions, but now energy was depleted.
The hated one returned with another, older and colder.
"Even with the magic protections, it is reaching me," the hated one said. "I don't know how, but it must be someone very powerful. Who is powerful enough to get through our protections and attack me physically?"
The cold one slowly walked around the room, twisting a silver cufflink. "I don't know. Perhaps we need to get the professionals in, see if we can trace where this is coming from."
"Can you feel the chill?"
"Yes," the cold one said. "I will send a message, have Heffing come."
The cold one left and the hated one sat down on the sofa with his arms crossed, mouth drawn tight. It wanted to dig its fingers into his chest and pull him apart, aching to hurt, to scar the pale flesh.
He pulled out a small, flat box and focused his attention there, while it stalked around him.
The cold one returned with a short man with dark rimmed glass making his eyes too large for his face. "Let's see," the man said as he lifted his hands and closed his eyes, moving like he was feeling the air. He walked around the apartment, eyes still closed, and grunted when he walked into objects.
"There is a definite chill and I think it's colder over here."
"What is it?"
The man with brown hair combed over his balding head concentrated further. "There is nothing."
"What do you mean there is nothing?" the hated one demanded. "We can all feel it. Don't tell me it's nothing!"
The man tried again, mumbling as he felt the air. "It's not magical," he said, lowering his hands. "Other than the objects in this space that do emanate, which are all harmless, there is nothing here. Not even a trace."
"You're useless," the hated one screamed. "Get out."
The cold one didn't move as the small one rushed past.
"He's obviously worthless if he can't find anything. It couldn't be more obvious that there is something here."
A small knock on the door signified the short man's return. He refused to step into the apartment and looked ready to run if anyone so much as moved. "You might have to consider metaphysical," the man said in a squeaky voice.
"Metaphysical?" the cold one repeated.
"What the fuck does that mean?"
The short man made a peeping sound and disappeared.
"It means you could be… haunted," the cold one said, looking down at the other who stared disbelievingly.
"That's ridiculous."
"Probably," the cold one said and walked out the room.
Chapter 5:
* * *
Castran sat at a bar not far from his house, girls around him chatting innately, trying to give him meaningful looks, but he wished they were gone. It would be closing time soon and he had to leave. He considered going to another bar, one that stayed open, but he couldn't bear the flashing lights and pounding music. In fact, he didn't want to be here at all. It certainly wasn't fun when you had to be there, but he was sick of being cold at home, even as he sat by the fire. So now, he didn't go home—stayed at whatever bar/club until he was too tired or drunk to stand. The only thing that truly warmed him were showers, hot water flowing, thawing out his body. This had to end. Adaeus had someone coming. Some specialist that was being flown in from Iceland.
He could pick one of these girls as his lay and sleep at her place, but the principle of it rubbed. It also meant tangling with expectations he didn’t want to deal with. No, he would not be chased out of his own house and refused to relent.
The only thing he could do was get so drunk it did matter. He would be beyond hating how he listened for any sound, watched the windows constantly for the ice to change. If he was drunk, he slept and let the thing do its worst.
Lifting a finger, he ordered another whiskey, downing it in large gulps. One of the girls ran her hand up his leg, but he ignored her.
This expert would come and fix it. He just had to wait.
*
Keeping his eyes closed, Castran lay under the blanket, pretending to still sleep. He surveyed his body, searching for anymore slashes from the thing, but there were none tonight. Anger grew. It was unbearable that he'd been reduced to this, shivering under his blanket like some frightened child. He wanted to kill so badly, crush something under his foot. The damned thing just didn't have anything to crush—but he would find some way to kill it. Help was coming.
Castran showered and dressed, certain he could feel its presence in the room, the iciness trying to draw the heat out of his reddened skin. Taking his time, he walked out of the room, refusing to let it show that the thing was chasing him out. He took the stairs downstairs and joined his brother who was reading the papers at the breakfast table.
"How is our house guest this morning?" Tarquin asked.
"Still there."
Tarquin looked up momentarily before looking back. "Madam Priya will be here momentarily. I understand she has landed."
"Good," Castran said and picked up a plate off the buffet table. He needed hot food these days, particularly in the morning, to warm him from the inside. This thing just had to end. They would kill it and forget this ever happened. "Where is father?"
"Rome," Tarquin stated. He always seemed to know Adaeus’ schedule, while Castran had no idea. Not that he really wanted to know. His involvement in the family business was enough as it was. One day, he would have to be closer intertwined with their activities, but for now, he was fine being partially his own person, with a life and identity away from the hard, cold realities of ruling.
Castran ate quickly and a commotion was soon heard from the hall. Staff were letting someone in and this must be the expert they were awaiting. Delight filled Castran. This would all be resolved now.
They both stood and met the woman as she entered the room, wearing a worn coat and her straggly, white hair done up in a bun. By the look of her, Castran suspected the woman hadn't had a shower in a while. In fact, she looked like some homeless tramp, but this was the expert.
"Madam Priya," Tarquin said cordially. "It is encouraging that you could come." The woman eyed the food behind them, licking her lips. "Are you hungry? You are welcome to eat."
She shuffled over to the buffet table.
"Where did you find her?" Castran said, eyeing her disheveled appearance. "Are you sure she is capable?" She didn't look like she was capable of much of anything.
"Looks can be deceiving, Castran," Tarquin said.
"I can feel her," the woman said, taking her filled plate to Castran's chair.
"Her?" Tarquin said.
"Definitely female. Weak."
"She isn't weak," Castran said, realizing that it sounded like he was defending her. No, she wasn't weak, because she was wreaking havoc on his life.
The woman chuckled and started eating. It wasn't a sight Castran particularly wanted to see, so he turned away and went to the library, lighting a cigarette out of agitation and boredom. Breakfast time was definitely too early to drink, and he wanted to be sharp for this thing's demise. Sitting down, Castran forced himself to relax, assured that this would end now.
Footsteps on the marble filtered through the door and Castran joined them as Tarquin took Madam Priya upstairs. They slowly walked to his apartments and she stopped just outside, before taking a step inside. Castran almost expected something to happen, that the entity knew it was about to be destroyed, but nothing. Just the constant chill.
"She is here," the woman said. "Unformed."
"What does that mean?" Castran demanded.
"She does not know what she is."
"It doesn't know what it's doing? Then why is it here? Get rid of it."
The woman closed her eyes, swaying slightly on her feet. "She is linked to you. Sever and both parties bleed."
Castran stared at the mad woman. "Are you saying you can't get rid of it?" he said sharply, hissing between his teeth.
"How did this happen?" Tarquin cut in.
"Link formed," the woman repeated and Castran clenched his fists. The stupid woman had already said that. "Death at his hands and instead of seeking Great Darkness, she sought him. Link formed."
"Unform it," Castran demanded.
"I cannot. You will bleed and bleed attracts things."
"What things?"
"Other things, nasty things."
"So how do I get rid of it?" Castran was near losing his cool.
"Only the parties can sever the link."
"How?"
"It is here," she said, pointing to his chest. "It flows between you. You feed her."
"What does she look like?" Tarquin said.
"She is unformed."
"Unformed," Castran repeated. What the hell does that mean?
"But you are responsible for her death."
Castran's thoughts traveled immediately to the pretty girl with the quivering lips. In his gut, he knew it was her. A supposed link created when he’d killed her. He suspected it was all bullshit. "Tell me how to sever the link."
"You have to find it psychically and release it."
"How the fuck do I do that?"
"Castran," his brother chided.
"This is useless. Telling me I'm responsible and I need to psychically cut something that isn't there. Is she going to get rid of this thing or not?"
"She is saying not," Tarquin said sharply.
"Mandrake root will form her in your eyes," the woman said, turning away.
"You said she was unformed," Tarquin said in his typical, supreme patience.
"She is, but you will see what she is."
"I don't care about form. I want it gone."
"Patience. A spirit will relent once it has what it seeks."
Castran wanted to roar his frustration.
"Is there anything else you can tell us?" Tarquin asked.
"These things do resolve themselves," she said, "in time. Sometimes there is a price, and for you," she turned to Castran, "It is time to pay."
He only glowered at her. She'd been no use at all and he didn't follow her out when she left, instead stayed in the room. "This isn't over," he said into thin air. "I will find someone to destroy you, you dead bitch." There had to be someone else, someone stronger. Unfortunately, even Castran knew they weren't dealing with magic. Surely there had to be some gypsy medium who dealt with this shit somewhere. He would scour the world if he had to.
*
It was a she, a knowledge that clicked into place. It was a she and she had died—hating him, because he had killed her. Now she wanted him to suffer. All she wanted was for him to suffer. He had killed her. The thoughts were still too fuzzy in her head. Nothing formed, but she knew the truth of what the woman had said. He had killed her and she wanted vengeance—needed vengeance.
She watched as he left, waited patiently for his returned. She could feel him. The link between them was like a shimmering mist and it stretched as he walked away. Traveling along it was simple, but she waited for him here. Weakness still burned through her form. Hurting him helped feed her, scratching him gave her a jolt of energy.
He'd killed her. The thoughts echoed around her, and she knew there was something there behind the fog—something harsh and cold, and he was the reason. She wanted to claw her fingers into his body and rip his flesh. She would find every way possible of hurting him.
Chapter 6:
* * *
With a heavy hand, Castran crushed the mandrake root, then tumbling it into the boiling water for it to steep, release its essence. He might not have any idea of how to get rid of this ghost, but if he could see her, that was a step closer.
Letting the concoction boil down, he sat down and looked out the glass of their enclosed garden conservatory. Rain rapped on the glass over his head and streamed down the sides, obscuring any vision of the outside world. She was definitely not there; the chill exclusively from the inclement weather outside. The rain felt like a barrier between him and the rest of the world, or perhaps it was the ghost haunting him that left him feeling so abstract.
Even though he couldn't see her yet, he knew in his heart it was that girl from the Resistance cell they'd eradicated a couple of weeks back. He felt it in his bones. He didn't even know her name. But somehow she'd wheedled her way into his life, and he now had to find some way of getting her out.
A chime sounded that the concoction was ready and he rose, returning to see that the liquid had boiled down, still bubbling hard. The bubbles died down immediately as he shut off the flame and let it cool. It was probably a little too hot when he drank it down, but he didn't care.
As he walked back to his apartments, he didn't feel any different, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. The chill hit him immediately as he walked through the door, seeping through his clothes, licking along his skin. Castran gritted his teeth and looked around, but saw nothing. He could have screamed with frustration, but instead closed his eyes and let his anger flow through him.
His clothes smelled of the brewing he'd just done—for nothing apparently. Why did this have to happen? This wasn't supposed to happen. When people died, they should just accept that they were dead, bested as in this case. That was how things worked—the strong prevailed, the weak faded away to nothing. Except this girl refused to fade—for now.
Taking his jacket off, he walked into the bathroom and ran the shower. He didn't want this smell hanging around him all day, taunting him with how the simple task didn't work, but then nothing worked right when it came to this girl.
*
The streaming water was hot when he stepped in and he let it soak through him, warm him. He'd never appreciated hot showers more than when he couldn't escape this pervasive cold. They really were his life savior, undoing the nastiness this stupid girl was trying to heap on him.
The whole bathroom steamed and Castran turned his mind to what he was going to do with himself for the rest of the day. It might be time to get out of the house and have a bit of fun. Maybe get laid. This whole thing had been one giant
distraction.
Turning, he startled at the sight of a face in the steam, a blue, cold face with cloudy, jelly like eyes. With a gasp, he instinctively retreated into the warm stray, as if it offered him protection. Once over the shock and the adrenaline pumping wildly in his veins, he could see her, as she were wherever she lay, decaying. At least there wasn't any smell, because by the state of her, she'd be rank. Her hair lay lackluster around her face, which was contorted a bit, turning her from beautiful to something grotesque.
"And there you are," he said, making his voice as steady and aggressive as he could, controlling the adrenalin flowing through his blood. "Not much to look at."
She didn't say anything, just stared with her awful, unseeing eyes. Then she faded. He wasn't sure why, but he was glad. There was nothing pleasant about seeing her face, standing there on the other side of the glass door, almost close enough to touch if not for the barrier between them. He'd be a hell of a lot more creeped out if she's appeared on his side of the glass door.
Maybe making that concoction wasn't a good thing. And now he didn't know whether she had disappeared or if the potion had stopped working. Not that he cared. He knew it was her now, and he needed to find out who the hell she was.
The coldness was still there when he got out of the shower, but he couldn't see her as his eyes darted around the room. He dressed quickly and efficiently before walking out, continuing down to the cells deep in the bowls of the mansion. The décor turned from sumptuous to cold and bare, with hard stone surfaces. Down here it felt more like his apartments—pervasive cold and unrelenting despair.
"Mr. Chartrice," Shallow said, standing from his small desk. "How can I help you?"
"I need to see one of the prisoners."
"Of course, sir," the man said, picking his key ring off the desk. "Any in particular?"
"Mr. Sherry, I think," Castran said, standing still as the man unlock the first gate. These cells were medieval in origin and not much had changed, including the heavy iron gates. The noise of the locking mechanism grinding echoed off the walls.
Unrequited Page 3
