Star Dance

by Samantha Cayto

  “As if I know his name—or care. I need relief and he’ll do as well as any other. Pretty, as I recall, and I expect you’ve trained him well.”

  A look crossed Petru’s face. It was a mere flash before his usual stony mask slipped back into place.

  You don’t like that, do you? Not into sharing with your beloved master, Lap Dog?

  Petru wrapped his hand around Dafydd’s hair and used it to yank him to his feet. Dafydd bit back a cry, but he was perversely pleased that Drogo was dead and Petru a little bit—perhaps a lot—pissed off at losing his toy to Dracul, not that Dafydd imagined the boy would care. From what he’d seen, Andri was happy to be a slave to an alien. Maybe it was an act of desperation, a way to cope with his situation. Dafydd didn’t know and he didn’t have the energy to worry for him anyway. As Petru half carried, half dragged Dafydd to the door, he knew his own lot was going to get a whole lot worse before the eternal peace of death could liberate him.

  * * * *

  Why arent’ you wearing your kilt?

  Two days after the fact and Brenin replayed that dumb question in his head every hour like a clock.

  What is the matter with me? No good would come from dwelling on his unfathomable lapse, and it was even crazier for him to feel a little let down every time his path crossed Malcolm’s and he saw that he still wore boring, old jeans. Brenin’s time with the monster must have given him permanent brain damage. That was the only answer that made sense.

  He wandered down the dim hall on the third floor of the castle and tried to work up the courage to open the doors he found along the way. Darling had already told him he could go where he liked and poke around to his heart’s content. And, being a boy like any other, he couldn’t resist exploring the large and ancient building. It was like something out of a book, a place filled to the brim with suits of armor, huge paintings of stern people in clothing from long ago and lots and lots of rooms with furniture covered in sheets. The idea of opening up these dark rooms now that the sun had set sent a shiver up his spine. It was all a fine location for a horror movie and it came with its own monster.

  No, that wasn’t fair. Not really. Malcolm was an alien for sure, but he’d been nothing but kind to Brenin. He’d stared hopelessly into the eyes of true evil often in the last few months and knew that there was nothing like that dwelling in Malcolm. After the first twenty-four hours of coping with his escape, Brenin had found a measure of peace, and he’d had a clear enough head to assess his current situation. Foolish he might be, yet he felt safe and almost carefree.

  Almost. Flashes of memory caught him without warning, sending him into paralyzing misery for a few minutes until he could pull himself together again. His nights were filled with bad dreams. He woke with whimpers rather than screams, a leftover defense from his captivity. Dracul hadn’t been best pleased by being woken by his captive slave and had taken his anger out with a beating followed by a fucking to ‘settle Brenin down’. The instinct to survive had been so strong that Brenin’s mind had managed to keep him quiet, even during his worst nightmares. He wasn’t sure he would ever lose that forced muteness.

  In the light of day, he knew that Malcolm wouldn’t fault him for the noise. The man likely would come and offer him solace. After the tender way he’d washed Brenin’s hair that first night, there was little question of that. Was that what Brenin wanted, though? To have the alien come in and take Brenin in his arms and…hug him? Stroke his hair and whisper reassuring murmurs? Now that was something that made Brenin shiver for sure, and while it should have been from fear, it wasn’t. His reaction disturbed him more than thoughts of ghosts and ghoulies leaping out of unused rooms.

  He didn’t want to think of it, and exploring the castle was as good a way as any to occupy his time. There were books aplenty in the two-story library and television, of course. A computer was available in Cook’s office for him to use, as well. He wasn’t, as Malcolm had promised, a prisoner. He could go outside to walk the hills and gardens if he so chose or go down to the rocky shore, so long as he told Darling where he was going. For safety’s sake—or so Malcolm had said. He hadn’t done so only because he didn’t feel up to exposing himself to anyone other than the few people in the castle. As big as it was, the place gave him a sense of cozy safety.

  As he neared the end of the hall, he paused and cocked his head. The screeching strains of a bagpipe reached his ears. “No way.” But yes, it was. He caught himself grinning. It was too much, really.

  There was a closed wooden door in front of him, its massive iron hinges and latch testifying that it was likely original to the castle. The sound of the pipes grew louder as he got closer to it. He stopped a couple of steps away, working up his courage to proceed. Just when he reached for the latch, the door swung open. Brenin stumbled back, his heart tumbled and his eyes popped wide.

  It was only Darling. The majordomo held a silver tray under his arm. He arched one brow at Brenin. “Mr. Jones, I’m sorry to have startled you.”

  The man always spoke like he was on some BBC2 period piece, and the use of Brenin’s last name sounded ridiculous to his ears.

  Swallowing down his waning fear, he said, “No worries, Mr. Darling. I was only poking about and thought I heard bagpipes.” Of course, he had. With the door open, the music came floating into the hall.

  Darling sniffed. “The master often likes to play of an evening.” He winced at a particularly loud, off-key note. “Obviously, not well.” Then stepping to one side, he added, “If you’d like to see the tower room for yourself and believe your hearing can weather the assault, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind the company.”

  Beyond the doorway was a twisting set of stone stairs with a rope railing attached to the outer wall. The thought of going up it was almost irresistible. “Really? It would be okay?”

  “I’m certain of it,” the man replied. “However,” he continued before Brenin had taken a step, “be forewarned, Mr. Jones, that you will see the master as he truly is. He has tried to present a more, shall we say, human visage to you these last two days. While in his private domain, he needs only be himself.”

  Brenin hesitated, his foot almost raised. “Perhaps I shouldn’t disturb him after all, Mr. Darling.”

  “That is entirely up to you. I’ve known the master for many decades and I can assure you that he will welcome your presence, so long as you aren’t frightened by him.”

  Brenin licked his lips. “No, I won’t be. He can’t scare me, not after the horror I’ve lived.” Saying the words out loud cemented the notion in his head. He wasn’t afraid of Malcolm.

  “Very well. Then I bid you good night, Mr. Jones.” The majordomo left without looking back.

  It took Brenin another few seconds before he went for the stairs. They were steep and worn, but the rope railing was substantial, so he didn’t worry about falling. He winced a few times at the terrible music filtering down. In fact, Malcolm’s bagpipe playing was so bad that it added levity to the situation and served to banish any lingering unease.

  At the end of the steep climb was another wooden door that stood only partially closed. Brenin peeked through the sliver of light. Seeing nothing, he tipped it open until he spotted Malcolm looking once more like a highlander. The man paced back and forth in front of a window, his hair braided on both sides, a white linen shirt covering his broad chest and his kilt hanging in folds around his thick thighs. He wore no boots, though, leaving his legs and feet bare. There was a decided chill to the room, but if the laird of the castle felt it, he didn’t show any evidence.

  The man squeezed his bag and blew into his pipes with seeming ease, if not skill. As Brenin watched for a few seconds, Malcolm made his way over to a table in the corner and paused his playing to take a long swallow from a silvery cup. Malcolm’s eyelids drooped and he heaved a great breath before putting his drink down again. He clasped the blowpipe to bring it to his lips once more then stopped and turned to stare at Brenin.

  There was a moment, per
haps a second or two, when their gazes met. The distance between them was too great for Brenin to see into Malcolm’s eyes and yet something not quite fear and not quite cold shimmied up his spine. His breath caught, and in that space of time, Brenin’s head emptied of thoughts and there was a stillness to the room and himself that left him frozen to the spot. Then Malcolm smiled and the weird spell broke in favor of a different strangeness. Brenin felt shy but not unwelcome.

  “Good evening, laddie. You’re powerful brave to enter my lair and test your mettle when it comes to listening to my caterwauling on the pipes.”

  Brenin entered the room more fully, stuck his hands in his front pockets and shrugged. “It’s not so bad, like.”

  Malcom barked out a laugh. “It’s bloody awful and that, mind, is after centuries of practice. Fergus always said I was fooling myself if I thought I could ever master this instrument.”

  “Fergus?”

  Malcolm’s expression changed, turned in an instant from cheerful to somber. “A friend. He died long ago.” Looking away, he took his cup and drank deeply this time.

  Brenin came closer. “May I have some? The wine,” he amended with a nod to the glass decanter on the table. He realized right away that the request was pointless, given that there were no other cups.

  Malcolm’s eyes flashed. “It’s not wine.”

  “Oh?” Brenin stared more closely at the bottle and saw that the red liquid was clinging to the sides with a thickness that no wine held. “Oh!” He took a step back then made himself stop, feeling foolish. “Of course. Sorry,” he added, although he wasn’t sure why.

  Malcolm put his cup down and moved to block Brenin’s view. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s upsetting to see and think about.”

  Now Brenin felt really bad. “You have nothing to apologize for. This is your private space and you should do what you like in it. Mr. Darling warned me not to come up unless I could deal with your true nature.”

  “Darling said that, did he?” When Brenin nodded, Malcolm added, “What else did he say, then?”

  “Nothing, except that you wouldn’t mind my intruding.” In his mind, Brenin was already turning to leave, certain Malcolm wasn’t happy with his presence.

  “Och, he was right about that. Other than my embarrassment over my pitiful playing, I’m happy to have you here, so long as you’re not frightened.”

  “I’m not,” Brenin was quick to assure him. He glanced around the circular room. “It’s proper lush here, isn’t it?” He set his gaze back on Malcolm. “I mean…it’s like something out of a fairy tale.”

  “It is, yes, although I’m old enough to remember when those stories didn’t end happily.”

  Brenin stared down at his feet. Darling had outfitted him with nice sets of clothing that fit—jeans, sweaters—the whole lot, including new trainers. He hadn’t worn anything new since before he’d left home. “I know all about that, but still, exploring the castle has been a grand time. I know you say you don’t mind, but I hope that’s true and not you just being polite.”

  “Hmm. I’m not sure anyone has accused me of being that much.” Malcolm removed his bagpipes and went to set them down in a place clearly designed to hold them. “The truth is I’ve been hiding out in this big, drafty monstrosity for a very long time, so long that I’ve seen many generations of the villagers come and go.”

  “They don’t tell on you?”

  “I’ve gained their loyalty through the test of time. At first, I protected them against the English, who were hellbent on wiping out the Highland way of life. I saw them through famines and wars and all manner of strife. They don’t all know who and what I am, but they don’t ask questions and they have been surprisingly loyal, even those that leave the hills for the Lowlands and beyond. I’m blessed in that way.

  “Although I’d never bring the war with Dracul to them, I’ve on occasion met him in battle elsewhere, despite my efforts to live a quiet life. I’m bloody glad I did on this occasion, given that you are here, safe.”

  “You don’t like fighting.” Brenin stated the obvious.

  “No. What I like are the stars.” His face lit up in a bright smile. “Would you like to see where I come from?”

  Brenin found himself surprisingly intrigued. “Is that possible?”

  “Aye, in a general sense. Come over here.”

  Brenin followed him across the room and over to a large window. A telescope stood in front of it, something he hadn’t noticed before. It should have caught his attention right off, except Malcolm’s presence loomed larger and more attention-taking than anything else. Just the thought of it gave Brenin a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach—not a bad one, only disquieting. He ignored it and focused on the telescope.

  Malcolm stuck his eye against the lens and adjusted the direction then angle of the scope. “Here, laddie. Take a look.” He stood aside to give Brenin room.

  Slowly, shyly, but with tremendous interest, he peered into the lens. He saw a bunch of lights in some swirling pattern. “What am I looking at, like?”

  “The Andromeda Galaxy. It’s where my planet is located.”

  Intrigued, Brenin squinted. “Can I see it with this?”

  “No, this instrument is not powerful enough and my home world is at the far end of about two-and-a-half-million light years away from here.”

  “Oh.” Brenin stepped back and looked at him. “That sounds a long way off.”

  Malcolm grimaced. “It is.”

  “How did you get here? I mean, I think I learned something in school about traveling at the speed of light and such. It’s impossible, innit?”

  “Not if you use a wormhole.”

  “Go on… They really exist?”

  “They do.”

  “How do you navigate it without getting crushed or lost?”

  “With difficulty.” Something passed over Malcolm’s face, and for all that it was alien, it showed a human-type grief. “The navigator miscalculated and we left the wormhole too early and crashed here.”

  Brenin stepped closer, drawn to the guy’s obvious need for comfort. “Was that you?” He couldn’t say why he asked the question. He simply did because it seemed important for him to do so.

  Malcolm looked away. “No, it wasn’t me. Although I was—am—a navigator, it was the other one onboard who plotted that last course. You see, in a hive, there are always redundancies and a ship is manned the same way—two for each station, except there is only one captain and one first officer.”

  He paced away and went over to his drink. “Sorry,” he said, holding the cup to his lips. “I need to finish this.”

  “It doesn’t bother me.” That was mostly true. He was careful not to watch. “If it wasn’t you plotting that course, why do you feel guilty, mun?”

  Malcolm looked at him with startled eyes. “Is it that obvious?”

  Brenin shrugged. “To me, yes.”

  The alien drained his cup and refilled it. “You’re the first to think so or, at least, the first to call me on it.” He drank some more. There was a flash of fangs, which set Brenin’s heart racing a bit until he reminded himself he was safe with this man. Malcolm wasn’t a monster.

  “We normally don’t get to pick what our role in life is going to be. I was fortunate in that my family and hive accepted my interest in navigation. My shipmate had no such interest. We had to spend a lot of time together of necessity and he told me as much. He had no intrinsic interest in the stars. Didn’t appreciate their beauty and the stories they had to tell.”

  Malcom returned to the telescope and pressed his eye against the lens while he swirled his cup of blood. “The irony is that I used to do this very thing back home. Only then, I was gazing at the Milky Way, intrigued and wondering what I might find there. I was disappointed when the ship I was assigned to had another destination in mind.”

  He straightened, drank and appeared in deep thought as he stared out of the window. “Anyway, he was senior to me. Not my place to que
stion his scheduling or how he went about his duties.” He turned to Brenin. “But I knew he wasn’t up to the job. His placement had been political, not one of my captain’s choices for the crew. I knew all that and said nothing.”

  Brenin frowned. “Was that a possibility? Saying something to your captain? I don’t think a human would have. Like, I once saw one of my teachers snatch something at school. I never told because I didn’t think anyone would care what I had to say and he was a good teacher, for all that.”

  Malcolm gave him a sad smile. “You’re very perceptive. That navigator never did anything outright wrong that I could take to the captain. It was only my impression and that wasn’t sufficient reason to complain. One doesn’t disrupt the hive without good reason.” He sighed then drained his cup. “And still I wonder what would have happened if I had expressed my concerns to the captain. I was right to worry.”

  Brenin took a step toward him, something unexpected and unnamable drawing him closer to this creature when he should have been putting more distance between them. He could smell the blood, and that alone should have sent him screaming.

  Why am I not afraid?

  “What happened to him?”

  Malcolm’s nostrils flared as he stared at Brenin. He didn’t answer right away. Then, he abruptly turned and strode back to the table. “He, ah, didn’t survive. Most of the crew died on impact.” Putting his cup down, he picked up the decanter and drank directly from it.

  Instead of staying put, Brenin perversely followed him. “How many did that leave?” It occurred to him that he didn’t know how many of these creatures walked the Earth.

  “A couple of dozen.” Replacing the decanter, Malcolm stood with his legs braced and his hands folded in front of him. “There are fewer now that we’ve been waging war with each other.”

  He sidestepped his way around Brenin and went back to the telescope. He looked at the stars again. “I’ve used this room as an observatory since I settled here. My equipment has changed over the years but the view hasn’t. I guess some foolish part of me hopes to see a rescue coming.”