by Casey Lane
“My understanding of the old tongue is not as good—”
“Please, just try.”
“Uhh, she says you need blood to live and that no one is safe. She says when you feed, your desire to feed again will become irresistible.” She shook her head unsurely.
“What if I don’t?”
“…you will die, according to her.”
“I don’t want to believe any of this…” I said. This had to be a trick. Why would I need blood to survive?
“You don’t feel overwhelmed for blood now, do you?” she asked.
“No.”
“Good. Maybe it’s all nonsense. My mother is known to be a bit off sometimes with her prognosis. She once told a man he was a tree that had awoken after a hundred-year slumber—a dryad turned man. Turns out he had a short case of amnesia. He was fine after a few weeks.” She smiled.
“What do you believe I am?”
“Definitely not a tree.” She smirked. “I think you know dark magic, and the gods have punished you for it. That’s what me and my sister believe. We’ve always wanted to know dark magic.”
“Now you’re beginning to sound your mother; that’s about as close as the tree prognosis. I don’t even know what black magic is,” I said.
I saw the beginnings of a smile from her. I found it strange she was so trusting; she didn’t know me, and she had watched me burst into flames only hours earlier. I didn’t know of any dark arts, either. The witch was onto something.
“Does your mother know the man who did this to me?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” she replied.
The girl looked away and stood up, turning her back to me for a moment. Then she turned back around. She eased closer to me, sitting very close to my chest on the bed. She reached down and unlocked the shackles on my wrists.
“Let’s not bother with that now. You need to relax. I can’t imagine your time in the slave camps…so much work,” she whispered softly, and her hands traced over my arms. While not bulky, the muscles were solid and defined. Then she looked into my eyes and must have seen my reaction to her mentioning the slave camps. “So much pain.”
I wanted to touch her. I wanted to hold her. In the camps, I’d felt no affection for anyone, for anything. I raised up and put my arms around her, feeling her warmth. She put her arms around me as well. I embraced her for several minutes without a word. It was as if she knew I needed her healing touch as she slowly massaged my back and arms.
As she did, I noticed I had gained weight in the past day; my shoulders, chest, and arms had filled out to the point that I looked like a full-grown man. It frightened me, but she seemed to enjoy it. I began touching her as well. I started with her legs, running my hand up her gown, feeling her soft skin of her thighs. My fingertips ran along the inside of one leg, tracing the strengthening pulse I felt down there. I didn’t know what I was doing, but it seemed to please her. I did what came naturally, tenderly caressing her, reading her face to make sure she approved.
I kissed her on the cheek. I had never kissed a girl. She stopped touching me for a moment and just looked into my eyes. I felt a power over her I had never felt in my life. She wanted me. “Your eyes…” she whispered.
“What of them?” I asked.
“They…they’re red,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I’ve never seen that before.” But rather than being scared, she smiled.
“Red?!”
I thought about the man before he’d bitten me; his eyes had done the same. I stopped her. “No.” I stood up, walking to the other side of the room. I stood in front of an old, polished bronze mirror, looking at myself. I could tell the bronze mirror was poorly made. Apparently, the craftsman who had created it had used far too much tin, but it served its purpose. I could clearly see myself.
I was shocked at what I saw. I rubbed my eyes. “What?!” I was unrecognizable from the day before. Not only was I heavier and more solidly built, but my face was more refined, hard and angular. Then my long yellow hair…It had turned solid white! My skin was pale, too, as if I hadn’t been touched by the sun in years. But somehow it appeared even more youthful and vibrant.
“Was I…like this yesterday?” I asked.
“What?”
“Did I look this way yesterday when you saw me?”
“Yes, of course, I’m not understanding—”
“I’m fifteen years old!” I said, confused. But even though I was unnerved, part of me was absorbed by it. I wasn’t a scrawny young boy anymore. No wonder she came to see me, I thought. She’d probably never seen anyone that looked like me in her life.
“Are you sure? Maybe more time passed in the camps than you imagined. Perhaps all that work has turned you into a man?” she asked.
“No, that’s…you don’t understand…”
“Well?” she asked.
“The monster…he…somehow he made me look like this,” I said, pulling back my hair.
She stood up, putting her arms around me. “Lie back down,” she said, smiling. She dropped her gown. I looked down at her garment on the wood floor pooled around her ankles. I gulped. I understood that what she wanted wasn’t really me, it was what had happened to me. Some dark force was molding me.
I began to feel powerless against her, but instead of the dark power that constructed her desire, I craved her warmth. I forcefully pulled her towards me, thrusting her against me like hot coals slamming against a slab of frozen tundra. The mesh of hot and cold generated steam between us, a passion I had never felt in my short life. I wanted the anxiety and fear to go away. I needed her to ease my mind.
“But, my father,” I whispered, looking over at him.
“We can be quiet,” she murmured. “He’s resting peacefully.”
“As was I before you came up here.”
“Oh…you would have me leave?” she asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
I could feel my heart racing as I kissed her mouth. I’d seen others do it in the camps, but experiencing it felt enchanting, almost magical. The warm breath from her nose hitting my face, the little hums of pleasure she made seemed to goad me on.
I drove my tongue deep into her mouth as she gasped for air. I groped her passionately, picking her up with ease. I carried her over to the bed, draping myself over top of her, kissing her and touching her breasts. I ran my hands up and down her thighs as she squealed in anticipation, and I held my mouth over hers to dampen the noise until she quieted. Again, I felt her pulse quickening beneath my touch.
I began to kiss her neck, and when I did, I felt a power over me even stronger than my lust. I could sense the flow of blood channeling through her; the sound of it rushing through her body was like standing at the sea’s edge, each beat of her heart a wave crashing against the rocks. It seemed to overwhelm all my other senses.
I felt my upper lip snarl up, and pain stabbed the inside my mouth as my teeth began to hurt. I could feel my gums shifting, and then I heard haunting cries inside my head as if a demon was chanting for my initiation.
The fight was on. I pulled back from her, but it felt like I was being ushered forward by a dark force. I was winning the battle, slowly pulling my mouth away from her neck. Then she opened her eyes and screamed at the top of her lungs! I jumped back, but when I did, I leaped back so far I hit my head on the ceiling, crashing back into the floor.
“Your teeth! You are the spawn of Hades!!!” she cried out. As I stood up, I could hear sets of footsteps approaching us. I looked back into the mirror, and it was true. My eyes were red like fire, and my teeth…I had fangs like a lion.
I looked back at her, easing towards her, attempting to calm her. “I’m sorry I—”
“Get away!”
Suddenly the door exploded open; it was the witch carrying a torch. She stepped in front of her daughter, putting the fire close to my face.
“Ahh. Whoa…what is going—?”
“—he tried to kill me!” the daughter yelled. Father stood up
, placing himself between me and the witch with his hands raised. “Stop. He’s no threat to anyone.” He glanced back at me.
“By the gods!” he said, startled at the sight. “Son? Your teeth…”
“You see!” the witch yelled.
“Father…I-I-I don’t know what is happening to me…” I slid down the wall, leaning against it.
“—how did he get out of the shackles?” the witch asked.
“She did! She did it!” I pleaded.
“Shackles?” Father demanded. He walked over to the witch. “You did this?”
“Look at him! You see? He is the spawn of Hades, what do you expect?” the witch replied.
“He’s my son!” Father roared. I could see the fear in her eyes. Even with a monster in the room, she was more afraid of Father. He grabbed the witch by the throat with both hands, choking her and slamming her against the wall.
“Mother!” the young girl pleaded.
“You bitch! You shackled a freed slave? Huh?!” Father said. “You waited until I fell asleep because you knew I wouldn’t approve!”
The girl stood up, pulling at Father’s arms. Father released the witch then and slapped the girl across the face, knocking her down.
“Get out! Just leave with your demon!” the daughter pleaded. Father looked down at them, then at his hands. His eyes were wide. He was panting. I could sense the fever pitch inside him, his blood pumping so furiously, having risen to a peak in nearly an instant. It was the warrior’s way. After tonight, I truly understood what that surge of bloodlust felt like.
He paused for a moment, glancing back at me. He shook his head in agreement.
“We must leave,” he said.
“Pleee-aaase,” the daughter said, drawing out the word in her broken sobs. “Just, just go…”
Father and I left, pausing only a moment to grab Father’s pack and whatever I could carry in my arms. The witch’s house faded in the distance as we walked further into the nearby forest. Even though it was night, and few travelers were likely to be out, Father clearly wanted to stay off the main roads.
We walked for several minutes without a word until we reached a clearing in the forest maybe twenty feet across. I stopped halfway across and looked up at the moon.
“Father.”
“What?”
“Please stop.”
“What is it?”
“Where are we going? What are we doing?” I asked. He turned around and walked right up to me, pushing my hair out of my face.
“Right after you went to sleep, the witch told me of a man, an old mystic, that would know more about your…condition. His name is Larus. He lives north from us, about two days’ travel,” he said.
“What did the witch tell you about me?” I asked.
“…she didn’t know much, but apparently you’re difficult to kill, other than with a stab to the heart,” Father said. I thought of the monster back at the slave camp. Father must have stabbed him six times, yet he lived. He must have missed his heart.
“And sunlight,” I added, rubbing my arms. Thankfully, the moon seemed to be on my side.
“Well, yes, and sunlight,” Father said.
“We go home first?”
“Yes, of course. We will stay at our village for a few days, then make the journey north. We will see your Uncle Icar and Aunt Zella,” Father said, smiling. “They’ll be happy to see us whole and alive, free of the Persians. And I imagine they will be impressed with how you’ve grown.”
I collapsed to my knees, suddenly weeping uncontrollably. Father kneeled down and placed a consoling hand on my shoulder. “Shhh, quiet yourself, my son. I’m here. I am here with you.”
“It isn’t me…what is inside me has made me grow into a man. This curse, this…disease…” I said, I could hear the chanting of hellspawn inside me.
I couldn’t understand the words, but I felt they were mocking me, laughing at me. Then I heard a voice rise above the cacophony, clearer than the crack of a slaver’s whip. “You muuuust feeeeed,” the haunting voice demanded. The voice screeched, reminding me of a demon running its long claws across a shield.
“Oh! A voice inside me! It speaks to me from the depths of hell!” I said, putting my hands over my ears.
“W-What does it say?” Father asked.
“It says I need to…kill…” I said, burying my face into my hands.
“Acula…You are not what they want. You are not a son of Hades. You’re my son, your mother’s son. This was a mistake. We will find the remedy for this. By the gods, we will find it, I swear. Look at me,” Father demanded.
“How? How must we to find the power to turn back a sentence from the gods?” I asked helplessly. I looked down at my hands, which had become so suddenly those of a full-grown man, and remembered vividly the pain—and pleasure—of those fangs erupting for the first time. It was as if I had been bonded with some demonic creature, one whose only purpose was to spread death and chaos, and it was a fight I was losing more with every hour. “I have been branded to kill my fellow man. The voice, it calls to me, Father. Please! Help me! I don’t want this inside me!”
Father’s eyes began to water as he put his hands around me. His lip quivered slightly, though I could tell he was trying to suppress it. I could see it in his eyes; he felt powerless, same as me. All his skill as a warrior and his love as a father subdued by a force neither of us understood. I wanted this to end.
“Acula—”
“Kill me, Father. Please. I beg of you and the gods, remember me for what I was. A son of Sparta. Take your sword and drive it inside my heart, end this before—”
“How dare you ask that of me!!” he said, shaking me at the shoulders.
“Father, I don’t want you to have to do it. I…of all people, Father, you are the last, but…I want to this to end. Please—”
“Thirteen hours your mother struggled in childbirth, bleeding, sweating, screaming in pain to bring you into this world, and you ask me take your life? Don’t you ever, ever ask me that!” Father yelled, pointing at me. I could hear his words echoing off the hills in the night. “I’ll hear no more of it!” he said.
I looked away from him. I had never heard him speak of my mother in detail, and now I knew it was for good reason. He put on his helmet, staring at me. He paused for several moments before looking out into the countryside.
“It’s time to go to war,” he said.
“Father—”
“Do you remember the people that day in the market, standing idly while the Persians sacked them?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, they might not have understood warfare—I can respect that—but everyone understands the will to fight. You either fight or you don’t. We might not understand what happened to you, but we must go to war against it with every fiber inside us.” He spoke this oath intensely, nodding his head.
Truth was, the voices were barely noticeable. I was exaggerating, but I truly didn’t want to live any longer. Not like this. I was a risk to everyone around me, including Father.
“Acula. Do you remember what I told you, about the similarities between making a sword and a man?”
“But I’m cursed, Father. Cursed by Hades and the underworld. The witch said it herself,” I mumbled.
“Yet you still have choice. Demons have more than one form. Yes, your demons are plain to see, but we all have them. Some are invisible. Slow killers.”
“Like what?”
“Sadness, for one. I once knew a man that was crippled by it. He wasn’t capable of taking care of himself. Most people said he would die from sorrow…he lived, but became hostile to everyone he knew for a time.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“…he learned to warm his fire. Remember, your desire to rid evil must burn inside you,” Father said, wiping off his shield.
“But that was a man. He does not desire blood from another,” I said.
“Monsters come in many forms, fangs or no
t. Every man has the potential to be evil. The reason that witch’s daughter is still alive is because you are not a monster. You’re my son. Your mother’s son. A product of our love. I raised you with this love in mind to respect all men and live by the Spartan code, best I could. Now, have I failed you?” Father said.
He turned his back on me and walked several paces toward the far end of the clearing. I felt the moon bearing witness to our exchange.
“…no, but I failed you,” I said, slumping my head.
“What?” he asked, tilting his head.
“I heard about Leonidas…I was told by a slave that the king called for you to fight at Thermopylae…I denied you. I denied you a Spartan’s death with your king,” I said.
Father was silent for a beat before speaking in a measured tone. It seemed as if he’d practiced this a hundred times, though I had not heard the words even once before.
“He did ask for me…he sent word with a message boy who almost died running to our village. I left at once…” he said.
“So the message came too late? You never saw the battle?” I asked.
Father paused for a few moments. “I arrived in time. I saw Leonidas and his men just before the battle, putting oils on their skin so their bodies would be preserved for transport back home.”
“They knew they were going to die,” I said.
“They knew, as did I. They were outnumbered by far too many.”
“Why didn’t you go to them, Father?” I asked. I knew he was no coward. Father turned around slowly, kneeling in front of me. His eyes began to water as he turned his shield in front of me. He ran his fingers across the tattered bronze shield, skimming the lines of red griffin.
“This shield…this shield was made out of a promise…a promise not to honor a Spartan’s death, but to honor a life, our family, I made it after your mother passed,” he said, dropping his head.
“Father…”
“Do you know…you know w-what the Greek griffin represents?” he asked me. If he had practiced telling me this a hundred times, it was nothing compared to laying everything bare out loud, and he had trouble finding his words.
“…power?” I said, observing its majestic lines and ferocious features.
