Chapter 16: Verchiel - Never-Ending Question, Part 1

This story begins in 1695, somewhere in Asia, eight years after Beldren's story.

***

"Open your eyes."

The words were a command he obeyed. The room was blurry and he blinked to bring it into focus. Dark shadows were held back by the light of a single candle. The furniture was sparse; a bed, a table, a chipped wash basin. He knew the names of the items, but not where they'd come from. There was no familiarity in the scarred wooden walls or floor. Or in the woman kneeling next to him.

She mopped at her mouth and came away with blood. He followed the long drips down her chin to see crimson splattered on her ample cleavage. Black hair was pulled back and cocoa colored skin shimmered in the candlelight. Her dark eyes held expectation; expecting him to know her. Expecting him to understand. Expecting him to speak. He thought he could handle the last one, at least.

"Good evening."

She laughed, long and loud, her full scarlet lips open, white teeth flashing. Something seemed out of place about the fangs. He ran his tongue over his own teeth to find the same thing. Perhaps they weren't unusual after all.

Her laughter faded, but the hilarity lingered in her eyes. "That's all you have to say?"

He propped himself up on his elbow and looked around the room for inspiration. A window hung open, letting in night air. A tattered traveling bag lay on the floor, stuffed nearly to capacity. A pair of worn boots were discarded near the door. A leather bound book lay on the table. He felt no connection to these objects and found no clue to explain what he was doing there or who she was.

Or who he was.

"I must admit, I am at a temporary loss for conversation. If you would give me a direction, I'd be happy to accommodate you."

"I imagine you would." She broke off and her amusement died. Her eyes narrowed; scrutinizing. "You're not jesting."

"Should I be?" He sat up and rubbed his head. Was he the kind of man who jested? He looked at her serious expression and decided that he'd liked the laughter better. She was beautiful when she smiled, but when she frownedyes, perhaps he was the kind of man to jest. "I could try to come up with something to amuse you if-"

She caught his chin and pressed her face close to his. He sank into the depths of her dark eyes, like drowning in molasses. Sweet and thick, it pulled him down and he inhaled, expecting some spicy aroma. The connection ended and he dropped back into the room.

She released him and pulled to her feet. He watched in fascination as she marched circles over the creaky floor, mumbling. Her long skirt swished with her movements. Left. Right. Left. Right. Swish. Swish-

She stopped abruptly and stared at him. Her prying gaze made him uncomfortable and he looked down to see his pale, naked chest smeared with blood. Instinct screamed about an injury, but a quick examination found none. Was it her blood? The same blood that was drying on her chin and breasts?

"Are you hurt?"

"Of course not. Why would you-" she broke off as comprehension dawned across her features. "No." Her voice turned to a purr, "No, sweetling, of course not. The blood is yours. Don't you remember?" He stared blankly and she laughed, like tinkling bells. "No, you don't. You don't remember anything."

"It appears not." He looked around the room again, but it was as foreign as the last time. "Who are you?"

She turned away and walked circles again, muttering to herself. He concentrated on her soft speech, the words a mixture of languages; someone who knew too many and combined them up in unguarded moments. "JorickMasteralonewhy not?...Why shouldn't I?...deserveyes."

A decision apparently made, she snapped around and faced him. Her dark eyes ran over his sprawled body and a lusty smile played across her lips. "I am Kateesha. But you can call me Master."

"Master?" He used the bed to pull himself to his feet, as if he could better challenge her claim at his full height. His legs seemed steady enough, and he stepped in front of her, to study her as she'd studied him. Her long dress brushed the floor, the skirt stretched across well rounded hips. The bodice was tight, so that her full breasts practically spilled out the top in a mound. He had a sudden desire to touch her, taste her, trace her with his fingertips. If she wanted to be his master then who was he to argue?

He stepped closer close enough to kiss and whispered, "Master it is. But who am I?"

She traced his collar bone with a long nailed finger. "My slave. My sweet pale angel. My" Her eyes strayed to the table and the leather bound volume. "My Verchiel." She stepped back, arms open, and stopped next to the bed. "Come, sweetling. The change is complete. Come dance with me, then you shall feed as you have never fed before."

He wasn't sure of much, but he was positive that he wasn't the kind of man to say no to such an offer.

***

Afterward, she clothed him in a clean shirt and he helped her with her corset. When they were dressed, she led him out of the room and down a hall, to the quiet town outside. Dirt streets wove between silent buildings. The inn they'd exited was brick, while the other structures were wooden. He could see the settlement spreading into the distance. The further it reached, the worse it got, until the buildings were barely more than shacks.

That was where they went; past the shacks, until the town fell away to open fields and starlight. A single structure sat alone. The open door splashed feeble light on the dirt path before it, as if trying to push back the darkness and everything that lived in it.

"You're hungry," she whispered.

He absently rubbed the spot where she'd bitten him in the course of their lovemaking. He could still taste her blood on his tongue, spicy and hot, but she was right. It wasn't enough. He wanted more. Needed more.

"Then come, my pale angel. Come and feed." She drifted toward the building, like a dark wraith, whose feet didn't seem to touch the earth. He shook off his admiration and hurried after her. He didn't understand the game yet, but she'd promised to explain if he only tried to play.

The building was a single room. Rough benches were arranged in rows, facing a table at the far end. A candle sat in the center and splashed flickering golden light. On the wall above it hung a wooden cross, and in front knelt a graying man. There was a word to describe the scene, but it disappeared as the scent assailed Verchiel's nostrils. Thick. Hot. Warm. The smell of food. Of warmth. Of life.

He was so hungry.

The world blinked out. It came back when Kateesha pulled him away. Her voice was soft and amused. "He's empty, angel. He has no more to give."

Verchiel looked down to see himself covered in blood. Crimson blossoms stained his shirt and, when he wiped his face, he came away with scarlet. He looked from himself to the man he crouched over; the priest whose throat was torn out and already clotting. Blood soaked into the man's graying hair and his glassy eyes stared at the rough wooden cross, praying for a salvation that would never come.

Verchiel stepped away from the body and wiped his hands on his shirt, but it did little good. There was blood everywhere. Blood on his trousers. Blood on his coat. Blood on his shoes. As he stepped backward, he left ruby footprints on the bare wooden floor. So much blood. The sight only made him hungry.

"You've had enough for the moment. One should never gorge." Her sparkling eyes belied her words, as if she was speaking against a favorite sport. "We should return to the inn before anyone sees you."