by Trisha Telep
Monsters.
“What did his blood taste like?” she asked suddenly.
No matter that they forgot something as vital as pure love. They always remember the blood.
“As you’d think,” Alexander lowers himself into the leather chair and looks away.
She knows what she thinks. It tastes like the air after the fireworks have died. Like petrol freshly touched by flame.
Ina runs the tip of her tongue across her incisor, nodding slowly.
“There will be no one to help us this time,” she mutters before realizing what she’s just said. She looks at Alexander sharply, nicking her tongue, but he’s gazing at her with a new look on his face.
“We posses a year to find someone else,” he says, eyes on her lips and tongue as the puncture wound closes and she licks the blood away. Ina feels herself go light-headed. She has already noted that Alexander’s speech – he has told her he hates to be called Alex – is closer to the old tongue. To her, looking at him is like gazing at a living portrait. She has adopted the new – language and style and mores and dress – and she wonders if he minds.
Fuck it, she thinks and opens her mouth to ask him just that, but a child’s voice rings through the new night, sharp through the open window, though it’s at least two blocks away. Another shoots back like a bottle rocket, the sound crisp. It’s too late for them to be out, their mother should know better. You never know what lurks in the cradle of night.
“Hungry?” Alexander asks her. Is it a simple question, ot is he concerned for her?
“No, they’re just annoying.” Ina watches him for a moment, wonders if it’s only hunger that has him licking his lips or if the fouled blood has affected him after all, coating his mouth with the fumes of spent fuel.
“Stay inside,” Alexander says, rising like a sail. “I’ll go tell them to be silent.”
“No, I’ll go with you.” Somehow she already knows she must stay with him every possible second. A year is a very short time. She joins him with equal fluidity. “Besides, I like children.”
Ina does eat in front of Alexander and he in front of her and, later, when they’re back in their kitchen, nestled among pillows with the door locked tight, she thinks that watching him feast was perhaps the most erotic thing she has ever witnessed in her life. She has gorged to the point that she might burst with one more drop, and she drapes her arm across her belly only to find Alexander’s is already there. She touched his hand and finds it’s too warm as well. They have each been chasing a hunger they’re still afraid to name.
Surely it’s not the shared blood. She decides that by tomorrow’s sunset they will be in control again. They will part. They will inhabit their own universe.
But curling into Alexander’s too-warm side, Ina already knows this for a lie. It’s like those mortals who cheat on good spouses, opening themselves up to appetites best dampened and flesh that doesn’t belong to them. They start out in control, thinking they’ll be satisfied with just one smile, one caress, one kiss, one fuck, maybe once a year. Until their motto alters from ‘just this once’ to ‘you only live once’.
But Ina, not even able to claim the same, knows they’re wrong. Even without memory she knows that when it comes to the passions, once is never enough.
A hunger like this never dies.
The Sacrifice
Rebecca York
King Farral of Balacord had preyed to the gods for a son to secure his succession. When his wife presented him with a daughter, he named her Morgan in defiance of her sex.
Twenty-seven years later, Morgan knew her father was still disappointed in her. He had planned to marry her off to the prince of a neighbouring kingdom to secure a military alliance. Since they had not come to satisfactory terms, she was still unmarried and well past the age when most girls had made a match. She knew that, in her father’s eyes, the fault was hers.
But that problem had receded into the background now that the kingdom was under siege from the northern barbarians. Two hundred people were crammed inside the castle walls. Their food supply was dwindling, even with pitifully short rations. And the enemy had beaten back the royal troops time and again.
As Morgan watched and worried, she came up with a desperate plan to save her people – if she had the courage to see it through.
It was night when Morgan tiptoes towards the door of her chamber.
Nedda, the old nurse who had raised her since she was a baby, sat up on her straw pallet. “Where are you going child?”
Morgan kneeled beside the grey-haired woman. “To the mountain stronghold we talked about.”
Nedda grabbed her skirt with a trembling hand. Her voice wheezed out of her as she spoke. “No woman has ever come back from that terrible place.”
“But I have to try it. It’s our only hope.”
“Can I change your mind?”
“No.”
Her old friend hugged her hard. “Then the gods be with you, child.”
“And with you,” Morgan answered, feeling heartsick at this parting, fearing she would never see her faithful guardian again. “Go to sleep now. And when they ask you where I’ve gone, say you don’t know.”
Stepping outside her room, she stole down the corridor, towards a small door that led to the cliff on the riverside of the fortress.
Inside the castle, the air was fetid with the stench of fear and too many people huddled together in too small a space. Outside, on the ledge above the river, the night was a welcome balm.
She looked up to the narrow slit of a window where light shone out into the darkness. It was her father’s room, where he paced and raged over the fate of his kingdom, and maybe of his people, too. Because if they were dead, how could they serve him and pay him tribute?”
“Forgive me father,” she said, with a quaver in her voice. “I have never pleased you. I hope I will make it up to you now.”
Quickly, she bound up her long golden hair in a net, then stripped off her clothing and stood in her shift, moonlight streaming over her slender curves. She stuffed her clothing and her sandals into the leather bag she had brought, the outside of which was smeared with grease to keep the contents dry.
Moonlight glimmered on the water far below. It was a long way down. She had never dived from this height before, but she had seen boys dive off the cliffs into the river and she knew the deep pool where you could hit the water and not break your body on rocks. Well, at least she hoped she knew it.
At the edge of the cliff, she looked down, her heart pounding, and her mouth as dry as old parchment. She might die in the next few minutes, but if the barbarians, the Digons, took the castle they would surely rape and murder the king’s daughter. Tonight she had a chance to choose her own fate, a choice she had never been given by her father.
Before she could lose her nerve, she tied the bag by a cord to her ankle, then took a deep breath and dived.
Hitting the water was like slamming into a stone wall. Then she went down into the depths of the pool, so far that she thought she would never come up again. But she was a strong swimmer, and she kicked upwards, stroking with her arms to give herself more momentum.
When she thought her lungs would burst, she broke the surface and dragged in a lungful of air, then let the current carry her downstream. Away from the castle. Away from the barbarians who were determined to capture her father’s kingdom and enslave his people.
When she finally climbed out, the wind blew against her skin, raising goose-bumps. After rubbing her arms to bring the blood to the surface, she hurried into the forest, where she pulled out the boy’s trousers, shirt and sandals she had brought. After hiding her hair under a leather cap, she strapped a knife to a sheath at her waist and set off towards the East – towards the mountains where the monster dwelled.
The monster of legend – Garon.
She had heard whispered tales about him. And days ago, she had slipped into the room in the castle where the books were kept and read what she could. It
was said that, long ago, he had come to the aid of Balacord. And he had extracted a terrible price. Was he still alive? Would he help them again?
She knew her father didn’t give credit to those old stories, or he would have acted on them. But she believed. And people like Nedda believed.
So she walked eastwards, past cottages and farmyards filled with the stench of death, where the Digons had slaughtered the people and the animals. When her feet ached and her legs refused to carry her further, she found a tangle of brambles where she could rest.
After a meagre meal from her provisions, she set off again more cautiously than before. It was dangerous out here with the sun up. But she knew that the further east she travelled the less likely she would be to meet anyone. People stayed away from Garon’s stronghold.
She travelled for three days, singing was songs to keep up her spirits and thinking about her parents and her younger brother, Kerwin. If he survived, she believed he would make a better king than her father. When she let herself think about the monster, she almost lost her nerve. But somehow she kept walking into the mountains.
Gradually the trees grew shorter and more scraggly, and the low vegetation more compact. The sun was dipping behind a tall peak when she came to a place where the ground was scorched and rocky. The old legends said that this was where Garon lived and they told what she must do to make herself acceptable to him.
What form would the monster take? She had heard he might look like a man. Or maybe some fearsome creature. But whatever his appearance, she must throw herself on his mercy.
She retraced her steps to a mountain stream she had crossed, then pulled off her travel clothing and washed her body in the cold water. Colder than the river. She used the shirt for a washcloth, with a bit of soap she had brought along, then dried herself with the pants.
When she was clean, she opened her bag again. With trembling hands, she took out the other clothing she had brought – the white gown that Nedda had sewn for her wedding night. She pulled it over her head, feeling the silky fabric cup her breasts. The waist was snug, with the skirt flaring out over her hips. She had seen herself in this gown. She knew her nipples showed indecently through the cups of the bodice. And the skirt did nothing to hide the golden triangle of hair at the top of her legs. Only her husband and her serving women should see her like this, but here she was, out in the open air.
Next she pulled out a gold chain, with the King’s crest of a laurel branch and a sword worked onto a flat disc. Quickly she slipped the token around her neck, so that the crest lay flat against her chest.
Would she please the monster?
Would he accept her as a sacrifice?
Her heart pounding wildly inside her chest, she went back to the scorched earth and continued on to a little field where the rocks were small and sharply pointed, covering the ground with a treacherous carpet. The legends said she must slip of her sandals now. But her hands trembled as she untied the straps.
Teeth clenched, she took a tentative step onto the shifting surface. A sharp rock dug into her sole, but she took another step, and another, ignoring the pain. She was halfway across the terrible field when a voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Who dares approach this place?”
She looked up and saw a man standing stiffly at the opposite side of the rocks, about 20 yards away, with his back to a mountain cliff. He was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes fixed on her like a hawk watching a rabbit. He wore black trousers and a black shirt open at the neck.
She raised her chin. “You are Garon?”
He made a dismissive sound. “What of it? I asked who you are.”
“I am Morgan of Balacord.”
His voice turned derisive. “What half-cracked father would give his daughter a man’s name?”
“King Farral of Balacord. I am Princess Morgan.”
His gaze drilled into her. “Well Princess Morgan, you should not be here – dressed like that.”
“I have come in the old way – to ask your help for my kingdom.”
“You won’t get it. Go back before it is too late.”
She would not simply turn around and go home. Defiantly, she took another step forwards, then another.
“I can smell your blood. Leave this place,” he said in a harsh voice.
She looked down at her feet, then back at the bloody footprints she had left on the rocks. Ignoring him, she kept walking forwards until the pain was so great that she wavered on unsteady legs. She swayed to the side, and he sprinted forwards, his boots crunching on the rocks. Swiftly, he caught her before she fell and gathered her into his arms. She felt his body tremble. Looking up, she saw his face, pale and rigid above her. Clenching his teeth, he turned and carried her the rest of the way across the rocks and into an opening in the side of the mountain.
Beyond the doorway was a cave, but like no cave she had ever seen. The rock walls were squared off. Tapers flickered on candelabra set about a huge room with beautifully carved furniture and marble statues on low pedestals. The rugs were richly patterned and the walls were lined with tall shelves full of more books and scrolls than she had ever seen in her life.
He laid her on a couch, looking down at her feet.
“Your blood . . .” he said in a thick voice.
“Take it. I have come to make the sacrifice demanded for your help.”
She saw his nostrils flare as his gaze swept her, travelling over her neck, her breasts, her hips and down to her bleeding feet.
She tried to lie still. Tried to keep her body from shaking. But she was frightened now. More frightened than she had ever been in her life.
He knelt on the rug beside the couch, taking one of her feet in his hand, lifting it to his lips.
In a kind of haze, she watched his tongue flick out and stroke over the sole of her foot, taking the blood with it. His tongue was rough and it sent a tingling feeling over her foot where it laved her. But it did more than effect one spot. Other parts of her body responded. She felt an ache kindled high up between her legs.
She had heard stories of this creature who craved mortal blood and she had hardly believed them. But she had come here hoping that they were true.
He turned her foot to the side and found a place where the sharp rocks had cur her deeply. He sucked at the wound, drawing more blood from her, increasing the frisson coursing through her body. She felt his small, sharp fangs graze her skin as he licked at her blood. Then he swabbed his tongue over her wounds before placing her foot back on the couch.
As he broke the contact, she made a sound low in her throat. He raised his head and looked up at her, then clasped his hand around the opposite ankle before stroking upwards with his long, delicate fingers to her calf, then her inner thigh, leaving a trail of heat.
Once again, she watched him lick at her wounds before finding a place where the puncture was deep. When he sucked strongly, the pull increased the fire in her body. He drew on her for long moments before licking at her wounds.
She looked down, seeing that blood no longer flowed from her cuts. In fact, her skin felt whole – as though she had never been injured.
He raised his head, his eyes bright as he stared down at her. When he started to stand, she reached out and grabbed his hand, holding him where he was.
“I must leave you,” he said in a thick voice.
“No,” she answered, as she gathered the courage to hold him there, to make him finish this. Lifting his hand, she brought it to her breast and rubbed his fingers against her through the delicate fabric of her gown. As she felt a dart of sensation, she heard his indrawn breath.
His gaze bored into her. “What do you know of this?”
“Nothing. I am a virgin. But I know what I feel now.”
“And I am a monster who has just taken of your blood. What do you say to that?”
“That you’re also a man who will give me pleasure.” She said it boldly, not even knowing if it was true.
“You are much too . .
. forward.”
“I have been told all my life that I do not know how to obey the rules.”
“You have displeased your father, the King?”
“Many times.”
“And you have been punished for your wilfulness?”
“Yes.”
Defiantly, she dropped her gaze to the front of his pants. She had never seen a naked man, but she had heard the maids whispering and giggling about what they did with their lovers. When she reached out a trembling hand towards him, he jerked away from her and moved back until he was standing a few feet away.
His voice was harsh. “If we go any further with this, no man will have you for his wife.”
“I know.”
“You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“I do.”
As she watched, he suddenly changed – from a man to a creature with horns, a long thin face, claws instead of hand and a forked tail that whipped back and forth across the rug.
A devil. From the legends. And from the nightmares of her childhood.
Morgan gasped and pressed back against the sofa cushions, her heart pounding as she fought to catch her breath. She knew that he was trying to frighten her into fleeing, but she wasn’t going to do it. Not when she had come this far. Gathering her courage, she sprang off the couch. With her eyes closed, she reached for him, clasped him in her arms and held tight.
He roared his anger, but she stayed where she was. She felt him changing again, to a creature with skin that was rough and scaly. Again, she kept her eyes squeezed closed.
This time when he roared, his face was inches from hers. And she felt his breath turn hot, burning her cheek.
Still, she held on to him.
And then he changed a third time. Feeling the shape of his body, she could tell he was a man again.
“You are brave,” he said, awe in his voice.
