by Barb Hendee
“Forget them,” he said. “Come out with me again. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
Her lower lip was locked in a pout as she glared again after the rapidly disappearing merchant. After a few hard quick breaths, she turned those brilliant eyes back on him and tilted her head, as if considering his words. Then she touched her right earlobe.
“I only have one decent pair of earrings. I could use another.”
He wanted to sigh in relief. “Of course. We’ll go to a jeweler’s shop.”
The pout vanished, and she smiled.
· · · · ·
The next five nights were a struggle and a trial, as Toret continued starving himself while simultaneously attending to Sapphire’s every whim… and attempting to keep her away from other men.
The problem was that she—understandably—could only spend time with him if she was paid. She spent every coin he gave her on new clothes, perfume, or jewelry. She even hired a girl to come in and elaborately style her hair, gathering her freshly curled ringlets up at the crown of her head.
As a result, more and more of the men who frequented the Siren’s Song began taking an interest in her.
She seemed to view this as a path to earn even more money. Toret began having to arrive at the Siren’s Song earlier and earlier each night in order to whisk her away before someone else took her from him. Worse, her confidence increased, though she continued telling him that she still thought about his offer.
Of course all her flirtations—which she only engaged in to earn extra coin—would end the moment he turned her and she became his. Everything would then become as he’d dreamed. But for some reason, he didn’t want to “take” her. She had to come to him. This made little sense, as he’d had to take everything he’d ever wanted for his entire existence. But this was different, even when his patience began wearing thin.
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could put up with attempting to woo her. By now, he’d expected her to leave the brothel and let him set her up with her own rooms at the White Whistle.
Tonight, he’d had to stop by Master Hart’s to pick up a new tunic, and so he didn’t arrive at the Siren’s Song as early as planned.
Upon walking through the front door, he scanned the front parlor but didn’t see Sapphire. Maybe he wasn’t as late as he feared, and she hadn’t come down yet; it was still early by the standards of this place.
Only six women of the house and a handful of men milled about the parlor, talking or playing cards. The red-haired one, Emmy, who’d helped him five nights ago, flashed him a smile.
“That offer to take me to the Rowanwood still holds,” she said. “Any time you like.”
He didn’t flirt back—not that he’d ever been skilled at that. But he was starving, and his body felt empty. All his attention was focused on the pulsing vein at the base of her throat. He longed to drag her outside and drain every drop of blood in her body.
“Where’s Sapphire?” he asked.
Emmy frowned, “Who?”
Since he always thought of his love by that name, he often forgot that others called her something else.
“Vera… where is she? Hasn’t she come down yet?”
“Oh, she’s come down all right,” Emmy answered, “and gone back up.”
He tensed. “What do you mean?”
To his surprise, she cast him a look of pity. Reality hit him, and he whirled for the stairs, taking three at a time.
Behind him, Emmy called out in alarm. “Wait! You can’t just go up there!”
He ignored her.
Upon reaching the top of the stairs, his head swiveled left and right, seeing only a line of closed doors—all painted a different color. Where was she? Which room?
The sound of a familiar laugh floated out from behind a turquoise blue door. He bolted, kicking the door open, only to realize it wasn’t locked when it gave easily beneath his boot.
“Toret!” an angry voice gasped.
He looked into a somewhat shabby room, in need of a fresh coat of paint, with only a faded wardrobe and a bed for furnishings. But he barely noticed the room. Sapphire was standing near the window with the right shoulder of her gown pushed halfway down her arm, exposing her pale skin and the top half of one breast. A tall man with a weathered face and a seaman’s cap had his hands on her arm and back.
She glared at the doorway. “Get out. Can’t you see I’m working?”
Yes, he could, but she didn’t need to do this. He could take care of her—much better care of her—as Rashed had always done for Teesha.
The tall man jutted his chin toward the door. “Go on, boy. I won’t be long. She’ll be down for you soon.”
Boy.
Toret’s anger turned icy at the man’s dismissive tone—the same that Rashed had always used. He crossed the room before the man could even move. Both of his hands slammed the seaman’s chest as the hunger inside of him surged.
The tall man’s feet left the floor as he flew into the room’s rear wall, hitting it hard, shattering old plaster.
But Toret wasn’t done. The tall seaman had barely slumped to the floor when Toret rushed in and slashed with one hand of hooked fingers.
His fingernails ripped the man’s throat open.
From behind, Sapphire gasped.
The man’s eyes popped wide as he gagged, no longer able to breathe, and Toret whirled around. He’d just killed someone right in front of his beloved. Would she fear him now?
But as she glanced down at the dead man, whose blood was spreading outward in a pool on the floor, her expression betrayed only anger.
“What did you do that for? Do you know how much he was going to pay me?” Then she sighed. “I suppose I could just take his purse.”
Toret stared at her, uncertain what to make of her words. A hint of concern crossed her features.
“Oh, what’s Madam Gilford going to say? She doesn’t like having to get rid of bodies.”
Brothels seldom reported deaths on the premises—of either the women who worked there or the men who visited. Gaining such a reputation was bad for business. That Sapphire could be so coldly practical was somehow both shocking and a relief.
But he didn’t care what Madam Gilford thought or said. He was done waiting, and Sapphire was done with this place.
Striding to the window, he threw it open with one hand. Then he grabbed Sapphire around the waist and tossed her up over his shoulder.
“What are doing?” she cried with a grunt. “Put me down!”
After pulling her through the window, he hopped down onto the sloping roof of the front porch, and from there, he hopped to the street. She gasped as her stomach bounced against his shoulder, and he flew into motion before she could try to cry out again, running into the nearest alley, through the cross street, and into the alley on the other side.
She struggled and tried to fight him. “You bastard!”
Glancing around the darkness, he saw that no one had followed, and they were completely alone. Only then did he lean over and set her on her feet.
“Don’t run,” he said.
She stared at him. “Are you crazy? What am I supposed to say when I go back?”
“You’re not going back.”
He stepped closer, hunger expanding his senses, until he could see her throat in the dark, hear the pounding of her heart, feel the heat of blood in her flesh.
“I’m going to give you a gift… the most perfect gift,” he said quietly.
“A gift?” She tilted her head.
“You’ll never get any older,” he said. “You’ll look just like you do now forever. And I’ll take care of you forever.”
Her expression flickered. “What… do you have some kind of potion?” Then her mouth pursed. “If this is some kind of trick, I’ll know. My father sells fake concoctions throughout the dregs of Hovel Row.”
But even when he drew close enough to feel her breath on his face, she didn’t turn to run.
“No
concoction, no trick,” he replied. “But if I could do as I say… would you want me to?”
With her eyes narrowed in wariness, she watched him with irises as brilliant as gems. Those eyelids widened a little.
“You’re not lying, are you?” she whispered.
He moved closer, until his chest was nearly touching hers. “It’s not a potion. But if I could do something so that you’d never age another day, would you want me to?”
Still watching him warily, she nodded. “Yes, if you can really do it.”
That was all he needed.
He struck.
His actions were all based on clues he’d learned from his old master and maker, Lord Corische. He’d never actually seen Corische raise an undead, but he’d heard enough over the years to piece the process together.
Grabbing the back of her head, he bit into her throat and drank without caution, feeling life and strength pour into his body in an overwhelming wave. He’d starved himself on purpose in order to take in more life than usual—much faster than usual. This was the gluttonous gorging of the starved, with no pleasure in it as his body soon seemed to tear inside under the pressure of so much filling him up all at once.
She tried to scream and briefly fought him in shock, and then she began to weaken. He was draining her as rapidly as he could, and as he did so, he pulled her down to the floor of the alley so that she lay on her back.
But he slowed the pace of his drinking upon hearing her heartbeat falter. She had to die so fast and hard that it pushed her beyond the point of death before it actually occurred.
Again, he based his next action purely on what Corische had told him.
Pulling his teeth from Sapphire’s throat, Toret slashed open his own wrist with his nails, and forced the dripping wound into her mouth. Trying to keep from choking her last breath, she was forced to swallow down Toret’s dark fluids.
Her heart stopped beating.
Toret fell, writhing in pain.
The alley darkened before his eyes, and the sounds of his own body convulsing on the alley floor faded in his ears. He suffered her death as if it were his own. In this moment, he and his new creation were connected as one.
It was horrifying—much worse than he’d expected. He felt himself pulled to the edge of darkness and death, so close it was difficult to find his way back.
His own flesh felt like it would split and rupture from the inside. Pulling his wrist from her mouth, he forced his senses to widen, open, and then slammed his fist against the alley floor. Pain shot up his arm, but he didn’t dismiss it as any undead could. He let it stab him. He struck the alley’s floor again, and again. Finally he flopped down on his back.
The hard cobble ground into his back, but he welcomed any sensation to help him stay aware and to pull him away from death.
His vision began to return, and he struggled up to his knees, looking down at his beloved as she lie there, her gown askew, her throat torn open, black fluid dripping from the corner of her mouth.
She was dead. From what he understood, her body would flush all its waste, and perhaps by the end of the night, she would rise. She’d need his care and to rest for a short while, but by tomorrow evening, she would be ready to hunt. She’d long to hunt, and he would show her a new world. She’d be grateful.
Carefully, he lifted her up, carrying her in his arms, and he slipped down the alley, staying in the darkness of the shadows, where he—they—belonged.
· · · · ·
Vera opened her eyes and looked up at silk canopy above her. She found herself lying on a wide bed atop a thick, squishy comforter of down. Then she heard something like a skittering upon paper, and when she turned her head toward the sound, her eyes locked on a tiny black beetle crawling slowly across the papered far wall.
“Sapphire?”
She turned her head the other way, and there was Toret sitting on the bed’s edge beside her. At first, she wondered what he was doing there, and at the sight of his face, everything he’d done in the alley came rushing back.
He’d hurt her, bitten her throat… drank her blood. He’d shoved his wrist into her mouth and something awful and oily had filled her mouth, choking her. She wanted to scream at him… and then realized she wasn’t breathing.
She gasped, finally taking a breath, but found drawing air took effort.
“It’s all right,” he rushed to say, sounding relieved. “I thought you’d wake up last night, but you didn’t. Then you were dormant with me all day, and I was worried when you didn’t wake at dusk. But now, everything’s all right.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. Sitting up, about to shout at him to get away from her, she got a better look at the room. It was the nicest room she’d ever seen.
The floor was covered in thick rugs. There was a hearth with a wood mantle. To one side of the bed stood a polished dressing table of reddish wood, and the pillowcases on the bed were a fine eyelet lace.
“Where are we?” she asked, her own voice sounding strange, as if someone else were speaking.
“Home,” he answered. “This is where I’m staying. I brought you back here.”
This was the White Whistle? He could afford this place?
She touched her throat, finding the wounds of his teeth, though it felt as if those had almost closed.
“What did you do to me?”
“I told you last night. I gave you a gift. I made it so you’d never get any older.”
He looked so serious she thought he might be completely deranged. Then she realized she wasn’t breathing again, and she forced herself to take a breath. It changed nothing.
“You’re undead,” he went on. “You—we—can only live at night. You can’t ever go out in the sun again. You have to hunt and drink blood to take life, but you’ll never get any older.” He paused. “I did this for you, so I’m your maker… your master, but I won’t act like one. I’ll take care of you, give you anything you want… and you’ll take care of me.”
He was so wistful, so sincere. Maybe she should have agreed to his offer sooner. Maybe he wasn’t just flashing his money around for show. Maybe he could keep her in all the finery she’d dreamed to have.
But what was that about being her master? And what had he said about…
“I need to drink blood?” she asked.
That thought should have made her nose wrinkle in disgust. But it didn’t. The memory of him biting her throat should have made her run for the door. But it didn’t.
She studied his face.
Maybe he wasn’t so undersized and unattractive after all.
· · · · ·
Toret gave into a request—against his better judgment—before taking Sapphire on her first hunt. He climbed up onto the roof of the Siren’s Song and crawled through the window of her bedroom to fetch her gowns and jewelry. He’d hesitated to do this until she’d threatened to walk in the front door and get them herself. He preferred that she not have to answer any questions about the man he’d killed.
In the end, it had all gone easily, and then he helped her change clothes in a nearby alley, removing her stained and soiled gown and lacing her into the red velvet one she’d bought with the first money he’d ever given her. Then he tied a wide ribbon around her throat to hide the healing wound—which would be gone completely as soon as she fed tonight. Her hair had held its ringlets for the most part, although they’d need to be re-curled soon. But she was lovely.
Holding her arms out, she turned all the way around once and asked, “Good enough for the Rowanwood?”
“Good enough for the king’s castle,” he answered, “my Sapphire.”
She stopped turning and looked at him. “Why do you call me that?”
“It’s your name. It suits you. A new name for a new life.”
“Did you pick a new name?”
He faltered at telling her, for what would she think of what he’d once been called? Then he straightened. She was his love, and he could tell her anyt
hing.
“My master called me Ratboy, but I went back to my given name, from my living days, Toret.”
“Ratboy?” she smirked as if amused. “Ratboy?”
He tensed and spoke carefully, biting off each word. “But now you’re Sapphire, and I am Toret.”
Maybe she caught the tight tone in his voice, because her smirk faded immediately. “Yes, Sapphire and Toret.”
· · · · ·
Sapphire insisted that Toret take her inside the Rowanwood for white wine before they started any of this “hunting” he kept mentioning. She was so hungry that after only a few sips from her crystal glass, she said, “Order some oysters.” The wine tasted wrong on her tongue.
He shook his head and leaned closer, speaking softly. “You can’t eat. You can drink tea and wine if you like, but your body won’t digest… pass… food.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. No more chocolate? What had he done to her?
“Don’t worry, in a little while, you won’t be sorry,” he went on, and then he looked around the large room. “Follow your instincts. Look and see who appeals to you the most. Or better yet, who you’d most like to hurt.”
She scanned the room, passing over one person after the next, finally stopping on two women, one young and one middle-aged, at the front door donning their cloaks. Both cloaks were trimmed with white fox fur. The younger woman saw Sapphire looking, and on impulse, Sapphire smiled. The woman glanced away, raising her nose as if she smelled something sour.
“That one,” Sapphire said immediately. Women with fur-trimmed cloaks had been lifting their noses at her since was six years old.
Toret smiled slightly and nodded. “Good enough.”
He got up, and they both slipped into the darkness outside, following after the pair of women for four blocks until passersby grew sparse. Toret stepped into the mouth of an alley between two tall closed shops and pulled off his tunic and dress shirt, revealing a shabbier shirt beneath. Then he messed up his hair.
She had no idea what he was doing.
“When I pretend to grab your purse, you cry out,” he whispered. “When I pretend to strike you, you fall.”
