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Authors: Sarah A. Hoyt
Tags: Science-Fiction
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to flow onto my cold, cold, tongue, down my parched throat.
"Mithra's crown!" he said, or some other legionary oath. His left hand held my wrist and pulled his right hand free. Then he backed two steps. His left hand held his right. Drop after drop of red liquid fell from his wrist. He watched me from the shadows of the room. There was surprise in his eyes and the fear of a man confronted with impossibility. "I have heard of such things," he said. "I have heard of them, as I have heard of ghosts and witches and gods. I have heard them all, and believed them all in my moments of weakness, and laughed at all of them in the sunlight . . .but Hylas, sweet Hylas, what could make you crave living blood?"
I blinked, but could not answer. My eyes were riveted, mesmerized, by the drops falling from his wrist, their odor clear and pungent in the stale air of the room. I moved towards him, towards them. My movements were no longer painful. Those few drops of his blood, of his life, had restored some of my own.
But he evaded me easily, stepped back around the two low sleeping couches, took hold of the dark red curtains behind him and opened them in a quick tearing gesture.
Light burned my eyes, my skin. I was naked and every point of my body exposed to this strangely searing light. Pain, unbearable, stinging pain possessed me. I pulled the covers over myself and crouched, trembling, under them, uncomprehending, uncaring, longing for nothing so much as darkness. Darkness and life, to stanch my thirst.
Adriano's laughter rang joyless and loud. Gently, slowly, he closed the curtain. "So it is true," he said, his voice morose and tired. "It is true. There are such creatures. Lamias . . .. The legends say they're women with serpent bodies. One of my Germanic mercenaries told me they can also be corpses, dead but living, needing blood to survive and fearing the life-giving sun. And Hylas, always bloodthirsty, has become one of them," he finished with a sort of ironic gaiety.
Encouraged by darkness and the lack of threat in his voice, I pushed the covers back, sat up uncertainly, reached a hopeful hand for his wrist, just an arm's length away, his wrist from which the merry river of life still ran, unheeded. But he was not to be caught unawares. He stepped back, away from my touch. "No, no you won't, Hylas," he said. "I will not trade my blood for death in life . . .nor for life in death." His eyes were interested but repulsed. Thus had I seen him, once, examine a scorpion. With his left hand he tightened the open brass bracelet he wore on his right arm, tighter, tighter, tighter, till it would serve as a tourniquet. The flow of blood slowed to a mere trickle, then tiny droplets. "What am I to do with you?" he asked, coldly. "What did you think I would do with you? Give you my enemies as fodder?"
I found my voice. My head still pounded and my throat still felt desiccated but I found a little of my mind, of my humanity, a morsel of my outraged self. I had done this for him, to keep his love that relentless time and growth were plundering away. "I thought . . ." I said, then stronger, "I thought everything would be as it was . . .as it always was. I would never change, you wouldn't worry about people saying you are pathic, or" I stopped as his expression clouded.
"Oh, no," he said and smiled, ironically. "Not pathic, just necrophiliac." Then with sudden force, "I do not share my bed with cold corpses, much less corpses who seek blood to replace a life they have lost."
He stepped back into the shadows. The light of the candle forbore to show his face. "So, what can I do with you? I hear one can kill such monsters as you, Hylas. Light will kill lamias, and water, that sustain normal life. Should I kill you, Hylas?"
I got up. I clasped the covers about me. He couldn't be serious. I had given him my love, such as it was. He had the enjoyment of my body while it pleased him. He could not kill me.
I protested all
"Mithra's crown!" he said, or some other legionary oath. His left hand held my wrist and pulled his right hand free. Then he backed two steps. His left hand held his right. Drop after drop of red liquid fell from his wrist. He watched me from the shadows of the room. There was surprise in his eyes and the fear of a man confronted with impossibility. "I have heard of such things," he said. "I have heard of them, as I have heard of ghosts and witches and gods. I have heard them all, and believed them all in my moments of weakness, and laughed at all of them in the sunlight . . .but Hylas, sweet Hylas, what could make you crave living blood?"
I blinked, but could not answer. My eyes were riveted, mesmerized, by the drops falling from his wrist, their odor clear and pungent in the stale air of the room. I moved towards him, towards them. My movements were no longer painful. Those few drops of his blood, of his life, had restored some of my own.
But he evaded me easily, stepped back around the two low sleeping couches, took hold of the dark red curtains behind him and opened them in a quick tearing gesture.
Light burned my eyes, my skin. I was naked and every point of my body exposed to this strangely searing light. Pain, unbearable, stinging pain possessed me. I pulled the covers over myself and crouched, trembling, under them, uncomprehending, uncaring, longing for nothing so much as darkness. Darkness and life, to stanch my thirst.
Adriano's laughter rang joyless and loud. Gently, slowly, he closed the curtain. "So it is true," he said, his voice morose and tired. "It is true. There are such creatures. Lamias . . .. The legends say they're women with serpent bodies. One of my Germanic mercenaries told me they can also be corpses, dead but living, needing blood to survive and fearing the life-giving sun. And Hylas, always bloodthirsty, has become one of them," he finished with a sort of ironic gaiety.
Encouraged by darkness and the lack of threat in his voice, I pushed the covers back, sat up uncertainly, reached a hopeful hand for his wrist, just an arm's length away, his wrist from which the merry river of life still ran, unheeded. But he was not to be caught unawares. He stepped back, away from my touch. "No, no you won't, Hylas," he said. "I will not trade my blood for death in life . . .nor for life in death." His eyes were interested but repulsed. Thus had I seen him, once, examine a scorpion. With his left hand he tightened the open brass bracelet he wore on his right arm, tighter, tighter, tighter, till it would serve as a tourniquet. The flow of blood slowed to a mere trickle, then tiny droplets. "What am I to do with you?" he asked, coldly. "What did you think I would do with you? Give you my enemies as fodder?"
I found my voice. My head still pounded and my throat still felt desiccated but I found a little of my mind, of my humanity, a morsel of my outraged self. I had done this for him, to keep his love that relentless time and growth were plundering away. "I thought . . ." I said, then stronger, "I thought everything would be as it was . . .as it always was. I would never change, you wouldn't worry about people saying you are pathic, or" I stopped as his expression clouded.
"Oh, no," he said and smiled, ironically. "Not pathic, just necrophiliac." Then with sudden force, "I do not share my bed with cold corpses, much less corpses who seek blood to replace a life they have lost."
He stepped back into the shadows. The light of the candle forbore to show his face. "So, what can I do with you? I hear one can kill such monsters as you, Hylas. Light will kill lamias, and water, that sustain normal life. Should I kill you, Hylas?"
I got up. I clasped the covers about me. He couldn't be serious. I had given him my love, such as it was. He had the enjoyment of my body while it pleased him. He could not kill me.
I protested all
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