They walked along a row of cells, their inhabitants hidden in the shadows, until Shallow stopped in front of one. "Visitor," he called out loudly into what looked like an empty cell until Castran's eyes adjusted and he noticed a figure huddled in the back corner. The man didn't move or say anything.
"Your co-operation would be appreciated," Castran said.
"Fuck you," the figure said, the voice little more than a croak.
Both Castran and the man knew that he always provided information when pressed. Sooner or later, everyone talked.
"There was a girl in the Montmatre cell. A blond girl, pretty."
"Who, Lucy?" the man said before lowering his face into his knees. Alright, normally it took more than this to get an answer out of the man. He'd obviously reacted before thinking. "Don't you touch her, you bastard," the man spat, disdain flowing through his voice.
"She's dead," Castran said nonchalantly. He felt a twinge of guilt seeing the man's sorrowful expression. A peeping noise sounded from the man as he apparently cried. "If it makes you feel better, she's haunting me."
The man stopped and snorted. "Serves you right, you cold bastard," he said with hateful tones. The hate didn't bother Castran in the least, but he did react more, unwillingly, to the sorrow the man expressed. "She never did take no for an answer," the man said, more to himself that to Castran. "I hope she makes your life unbearable. You deserve it and so much worse."
"What's her surname?"
"Like I would tell you."
Castran brought up his fist and punched the man, who howled with pain. "Wallis," he finally said.
"Her name was Wallis. Was she British?"
The man refused to answer and Castran went to brandish his blade. "Yes," he shouted, the disappointment in himself evident. He shouldn't be. They all break in the end. Lucy Wallis was her name. And apparently she was strong willed. "I want to know where she lived."
The man's lips tightened. Apparently he was going to fight this one.
*
Five dusty flights of steps and Castran stood outside the door to Lucy Wallis' room. The name seemed to fit and she had immediately become Lucy in his mind, instead of the horrid creature that stalked him from the dank, cold beyond.
If there was one thing Tarquin had taught him, it was to know your enemy. Inside this door was her lair, where she kept her treasures and became the person she never showed anyone.
The lock gave without much trying and swung open with a creak. The dusty, unmaintained stairway gave to a room that was well cleaned and ordered. The sun shone into a small window framed by quaint curtains held back by ribbons. This would have once been a servant's room, part of a large household that had now been converted into a series of tiny apartments. Humans didn't live in style anymore like they used to, with servants, leisurely lives and country houses.
There was a small rug in the middle of the room and a single bed along the far wall. A desk and drawer constituted the other furniture and a bookcase ran along one of the walls, covered with books in French and English.
There was a half written letter on the desk. Who wrote letters these days? Apparently, Lucy was into a bit of nostalgia—even her clothes had been old-fashioned now that he thought back on it. He walked to her wardrobe. Her clothes were cheap and tatty as if she got them second hand, but from what he could recall, she had the body that would make anything look good. Her shoes were mostly practical, but there was one pair of rounded toe, cream-colored heels with scarlet embellishments scalloped around them. These shoes told about her; they were her ambition.
The books varied by topic and the dresser mirror was lined with photos of smiling people Castran had never seen. He still didn't understand why she would do this—destroy herself for some stupid ideal. Her death was the only possible outcome, and from her reading material, he doubted she was too stupid to realize that. She had done this knowing it would probably kill her. So why was she objecting to the outcome now?
The room smelled like her. He hadn't quite known that before, but he could smell her presence now—sweet and florid, and alive, so unlike the presence he experienced in his apartments. The creature he'd seen this morning in the steam was nothing like the creature who'd lived here. This room was bright and hopeful, filled with bare feminine charm. The bed even had a soft toy on it, a white unicorn that looked like it had been with her for years.
This was her fault. She shouldn't have been there; she'd forced his hand. The room warped into something that felt nauseating. And no one had come to clear it away. Perhaps the living didn't know she was dead, or maybe the people who cared for her were all perished now. He didn't want to think about it anymore—this room, apparently waiting for its occupant to return, resume their life here. It wasn't going to happen. Sooner or later, someone would notice the rent wasn't being paid and come clear her life away.
Chapter 7:
* * *
She felt him return, felt the moment he entered the premises. When he was gone, she closed her eyes and for a while, she didn't exist. Now he was back and she filled with fire. She waited but he didn't come. Fury burned in her veins and she didn't want to wait anymore. Closing her eyes, she sought him, pulled herself where she felt his essence.
"She's here," he said as she opened her eyes, standing in a dark room with a heavy, wooden desk that gleamed with polish. The fire crackled in the grate, but she felt nothing emanating from the flames. Looking around, she saw the other one there, too.
"I can feel her," the cold one said as he sat behind the desk.
They said nothing for a while, as if she was disturbing a conversation.
"I know who she is now," the hated one said.
"Castran," the cold one started. That was his name, Castran—an awful, hated name for an awful man. "I don't know if getting into that is a good idea."
"Why, she'd pried her way into my life; I am going to return the favor. Lucy Wallis," he said loudly. "A sweet girl, by all accounts, with equally sweet family and friends," he said pointedly.
Fury boiled over and she rushed forward, reaching through his clothes and raking her nails down his back. He hissed and arched. A change of energy rolled up her arm. Hurting him changed her. She looked down at her fingers, seeing small smears of blood. Maybe it was the blood that fed her.
"I swear to whatever will listen, I will destroy you and everything you ever loved," he said through clenched teeth.
"Castran," the cold one said calmly. "Sometimes I wonder if you are trying to provoke her. Are you seeking to go to war, are you? Tear this house apart fighting a ghost?"
"I'm going to beat her into nothing."
"Yes, well, you already tried that. And apparently she is the one that can hurt you, not the other way around."
"I will find a way. I just need to find the right leverage point. Everyone has a price—even this bitch."
She swiped again across his cheek and angry red welts ran down his cheek. Again, energy flowed up her arm, filling her with lightness.
"Unless you calm, she is going to rip you to bits before you even have a chance. Upsetting her seems to make her lash out. We'll find a way to deal with this, but perhaps you could in the meantime act with some circumspection."
Castran's lips tightened and he turned sharply to the door, marching out. The cold one watched after him for a moment, then returned his attention to some papers on his desk.
*
"Your parlor tricks are a mere nuisance," the hated one said when she appeared in his apartments, where he stood by the mirror in the bathroom, spreading ointment on the angry stripes down his pale cheek. His shirt was off and she could see the welts along his pale back. "Careful what you do. I will naturally return anything you inflict on me tenfold, Lucy Wallis."
The name meant nothing to her. It connected with nothing in her mind. All she was was hatred.
"You're disgusting," he said, eyeing her through the mirror. "You're revolting to look at." His mouth screwed up in disgust. It was supp
osed to mean something to her, but it didn't.
Lucy. She had a name. That was who she had been. A girl who had lived—a life he had destroyed. She was exacting punishment, she realized. Haunting him for what he'd done. The details on how he'd killed her were absent from her mind, but she knew he had.
"Know what this is?" he said, drawing a book from inside his jacket. His eyes returned to hers, searching for comprehension, a smirk on his lips. She didn't know that the book was. "This is your life written down. Your journal, and now it's mine. I wonder what little tidbits I'll find in here." He was pleased with himself.
He pushed forward, walked through her. A thickening sensation washed through her as he moved through and his barely audible groan and shiver proved he felt it, too. Clearly not a comfortable sensation.
Taking his jacket off, he threw it on a chair and sat down by the fire, opening the journal. "Let's see what we find. Oh, you lived in Grimsby—charming place," he said sarcastically. "With your mother. Certainly not from a family I've ever heard of."
His attention returned to the journal. She'd had a mother. The idea hadn't occurred to her before. The hated one, Castran, was doing this to find something to hurt her with. Which wouldn't work. She felt nothing and even the idea of a mother meant nothing.
Darkness had fallen and the twinkle of lights started. Frost crept up the windows as she moved near, while Castran sat as close to the fire as he could get. He was asleep when she turned her attention back, unknowing how long she had been staring at the lights. She had no concept of time. Time didn't exist. It was just him and now he was entrapped in his dreams.
Staring at him, she wished she could get in there and wreak havoc, tear his dreams apart. Maybe she would have more mobility in there, an ability to voice her rage. She moved forward, but her fingers slipped into his head like mist, unable to get a grip. She could scratch along his skin, but nothing more. She wasn't even sure how that worked. Anger seemed to be required.
She scratched along his neck but he didn't wake. Apparently very little woke him when he was asleep. A guilty conscience certainly wasn't keeping him awake. A tiny drop of blood sat on her nail, then sank into her skin. Energy flowed; she could feel it inside her. His blood fed her in some way, more than the bond between them, the shimmery one she could at time see.
Lucy stared at the journal for a while. Her life was written in there. A life she didn't remember and didn't care about. It wasn't important now, who she had been. There was no future there, just a past that was now dead.
His blood gave her strength. The thought bounced around her mind, as if trying to tell her something important. Her mind was so slow, burdened by mist and death. Blood made her stronger.
He still sat there, with his head back on the headrest, eyes closed. Curves of dark lashes fanned out across otherwise pale cheeks. Her eyes moved lower to his pale neck. The blood strengthened her and she could have more of it.
Placing her knees at his sides, she sat down and lowered her hand to the side of his neck where her scratch was, tiny droplets of blood having formed in her wake. Her nails scraped along the wound again and blood welled. He groaned in his sleep, feeling the pain reverberate through to his dreams. Good. Lowering her lips, she tasted the blood on her tongue, strength flowing into her. It was the first and only sensation of taste she could recall. She tasted his blood, rich and metallic. Teeth firmed and she bit down and his blood gushed into her mouth, tasting like life and sun. Taste. A minute ago, she hadn't realized it existed. Now every cell in her body absorbed it as his eyes flew open. Hands grasped for her, and tried to force her away.
"Get off me," he yelled, finally forcing himself up and through her. The blood inside her turned painful, transforming her in some way. "You bit me," he accused, his hand on the wound in his neck. He rushed to the bathroom to tend the damage.
Pain and fierce tension filled every part of her. The power of it zinged through her mind and ears. Holding her hand out, she thought it looked more solid. Not solid like a person, like he was. She was still dead, a ghost. Just stronger now.
"You horrid bitch," he accused, coming out of the bathroom with a white towel pressed to his throat. "You fucking bit me."
She turned on the couch toward him. "Serves you right," she said.
He froze where he was, staring at her. Thin bands of blood ran down his chest. That blood made her stronger. Unfortunately, she didn't want more.
"And now you speak," he said. She hadn't noticed that she had, but he had obviously heard her. His eyes pierced her and he shook his head. "I will find a way to destroy you."
"We'll just see who manages first," she said. They apparently had the same goal. "That man is right. I have the distinct advantage in that I can hurt you and you can't do anything to me. Your blood makes me strong and I am going to drain every drop from you," she hissed.
He just stood there for a moment, trying to think of something to do. She could theoretically chase him around until she'd drained every drop, except she didn't think she could take anymore. There seemed to be a point where she'd had as much as she could take. It hadn't exactly been a hunger, but a need for energy and now her body sang with it. Her mind was clearer and she felt more cognizant with her surroundings, even of him. Still standing there, she looked into his eyes and he stared back. Her nemesis. The hated one. She would destroy him, hopefully before he managed to find a way of destroying her. Either way, one of them would destroy the other.
Chapter 8:
* * *
The marks where she'd bit him had healed. He got the blood connection, just sorry that it had to be his blood, and that she was there at all. What the fuck did she want?
Another interesting thing to note was that the iciness had disappeared after her little bloodletting, as if she was a little closer to life with his blood absorbed into her. She was still one big, grave-ly drag, sulking in the corner of the room, staring at him with her empty eyes. Her face was a little more coherent now, her eyes clearer, his blood having sharpened her a bit. This could not be a good development. He wanted her gone, not more clearly here.
But then he didn't really have a way of preventing her. He couldn't stop her, couldn't grab her or shove her away. Like a pinned insect, he was at her mercy, a feeling he was completely unaccustomed to.
He had to find some leverage and he knew it was in that journal. The production of it didn't have the effect he wanted. There had been no shocked indignity and pleading. It was like she didn't care.
Returning to the bedroom, he enjoyed that the iciness had gone. He doubted it was something she had control over, sure she wasn’t remotely amenable to making his comfort a priority. He grabbed the journal and sat down on the bed, leaning back on the headboard. She was still floating over in one of the corner, watching him. If she was trying to unnerve him by always watching, he refused to let it get to him. What did he care if she floated there sulkily? Soon he would have something, something to threaten until she relented. There was always a pressure point, it was just a matter of finding it.
Her handwriting was almost flowery, with large loops, initially writing about a friend who had just come back from a trip. This was so mundane, he yawned. Maybe he could get someone else to read through this dribble, but on second thought, he didn't trust anyone else to find the really unique and powerful opportunities for inflicting duress. This was something he had to do himself, maybe at a stretch feeling a bit responsible for his own predicament, as if he'd had some weakness that had drawn her to him. It had to be sorted. No weakness was tolerated.
Apparently her friend had been to New York, where they had walked around the shops and had a drink at a really expensive bar, ice-skated at the Rockefeller Center, which was too crowded to really be fun. Castran could have told them that, not that he would ever consider doing something pointless like going ice-skating. Lucy was jealous, listening intently to these stories, knowing she couldn't afford such a trip, probably ever. Mum only worked twenty hours a week and th
e money just stretched to keep them in food.
Putting the notebook down, Castran rang for some breakfast to be brought up. "How'd you end up involved with a cell?" he asked her form, which just stared endlessly.
She didn't answer, didn't even indicate that she'd heard anything. Maybe she was nothing more than a non-corporeal zombie, wanting nothing more than blood. But then she didn't want it now. She hadn't made an attempt at taking more. She just stared. "God, you're ugly," he said and returned his attention to the journal.
There was some boy named James, who had taken her out, kissed her in some tea shop. Lucy went on about this kiss. How old was she? he suddenly wondered, closing his eyes and wondering how he would tolerate reading a whole journal full of this dribble.
James this, James that; it was nauseating. Until he'd fucked her in a graveyard. Obviously she'd used prettier words, but Castran laughed. "So you let some guy ride you in a graveyard. Spread your milky thighs on top of some sarcophagus." He stared at her, wondering if he saw some hint of reaction in her dead eyes. "So disrespectful," he chided with a grin. "Wouldn't have thought you had it in you."
Turning on his side, away from her, he read on, about how James asked her out again, took her to lunch in the winter gardens. How his hair shone in the sun and how she'd gotten lost in his soulful eyes. She loved him, she wrote, how she expected they would have a future together. It was all nauseating, but Castran wondered if this might be his ticket, this boy that had deflowered her and then taken her for walks in a park. How completely inane. Even a weekend in some little village in Scotland.
"You remember that weekend in Scotland?" he said, turning back to her, his hand holding his head up. "Says here you never left the room. Must have fucked you every way possible."
Castran had spent the weekend in a girl's bed, but never with such intensity and compulsion that Lucy had obviously felt for this guy. Maybe it had all been her, reading things that weren't there. "Did he love you?" he asked, staring at her milky eyes. "That boy, did he love you?"
Unrequited Page 4
