Art by Avelina De Moray
Days passed. I had not seen Deirdre or Isabella’s cousin in my many wanderings through the halls of the big house. There had been no sun for ten days, and the first snow had fallen. Often I ventured out into the cold to walk the grounds, never seeing anyone else. Not even footprints in the snow allowed me to believe there were others there. An empty shell with no connection to my surroundings, I slowly sunk into a dark mood I could not shake. It hung about my shoulders like a cloak, with no warmth for my soul.
Fatigue gnawed away my ability to think. I remained nameless, and I did not care. All logic told me I should leave this horrid place, yet I stayed. I stayed while the Mistress—Isabella, my Isabella—drained me of my life’s blood.
I no longer dreamed, or if I did, I did not remember. There were no visits to my subconscious by the mysterious dark haired woman, carrying messages of cryptic books and symbols from the great beyond. I had no appetite. The emptiness of the dining room emphasized my aloneness, so I no longer took my meals there. The food brought to my room remained on the tray, cold and congealed when the timid chambermaids scuttled in to take it away. No longer did I react to the sound of the heavy door opening in hopes of seeing Deirdre walk in. My heart no longer hurt. I was numb, dying. No, I was dead. A ghost.
I tried to decipher my surroundings, the furniture and such in order to know where I was. Isabella had refused to answer any of my questions, guiding our conversations to other subjects; when I insisted on answers, she would smile gently, almost pitifully, and say “Another time my love”.
My patience slowly died, and I grew irritated. Anger and hate for her filled me, yet my desire was strong and at times obsessive. I felt out of control when she was near. A force beyond me made me desire only to be with her, pushing Deirdre from my mind. Afterwards I felt shame and guilt. I desired Deirdre, longed to hold her, but only when the Mistress was not near. I loved Deirdre.
Love…
It had been days since I had seen Deirdre. Our last moments together haunted me. Things had been so awkward. Why had I not reached for her? Why had I not forced her to tell me what was wrong? Why had I not told her, in that moment, that I loved her and that she meant more to me than the Mistress ever would?
I feared it was too late.
The library, a spacious room with high, narrow windows of stained glass, became my haven. Colorful renderings of battle scenes from wars long forgotten and saints whose names I did not remember filled each pane. Paintings of cherubs and clouds covered the high vaulted ceiling; directly below, in the center of the room, was a mosaic of hell.
Majestic tapestries, which I took my time studying, hung along the great walls. A strange one hung by the great table near the windows. What I first thought to be a unicorn was actually a goat, sitting on a throne, whose left horn had been broken off and now rested at its feet. A nymph in a green gown reached for the horn, great concern on her face. Men, women, and children danced around the throne, wearing manic expressions. Absolute dread filled me as I studied the tapestry. My breath caught in my throat as I took note of the background. In the distance were a churchyard and a fire. I stepped closer and peered at the scene above me, my soul draining from me as I stared at my dream. The dark haired woman, my mother, pled to the heavens as flames licked at her garments. Shaking my head, I took several steps back.
“No… impossible,” I shut my eyes and prayed this was not so. “No!”
Another look at the tapestry showed me the macabre scene of the man-goat surrounded by the manic dancers; the church and fire were absent.
The candle flames flickered as a breeze blew through the room. A shadow passed over me and my heart skipped several beats.
“Isabella,” I whispered.
Her hand fell on my shoulder, her breath fanning the back of my neck.
“My love” she purred.
I cursed my body for its instant reaction to the touch of her tongue on my skin. Stepping away from her, I walked around the table, using it as a barrier. Turning to face her, I opened my mouth to speak, but her expression made me swallow my words.
Was that concern? Pity?
“You are weak, my love.”
Yes, I was weak. I nodded.
She took a step forward reaching for me. I took two steps backwards, bumping awkwardly into the windowsill behind me. Her deep-set saphire eyes penetrated my very soul. For one moment I felt a sincere tenderness I had never recognized before; Isabella truly wanted to give to me.
Slowly she walked towards me in that deliberate manner, allowing me to see every movement of her lovely body through her dress.
I remained motionless.
God help me but I wanted her touch.
“I will give to you, and you must take. And I will give to you because I love you.” Her voice was barely a whisper; the rhythm in her words pulsated in my head and within my veins, and I found myself responding with a slow nod and a murmur of “Yes, I will take”.
Confusion clouded my thoughts, then, in a lightning-fast moment, as her cold hands touched the sides of my face I knew what she meant. Holding me, she ran her tongue beneath fangs that now grew sharp. Beads of blood welled and she moved to kiss me.
Horrified, I tried to push away from her, but she held me tight. Her voice, in my head, told me to be calm. My heart threatened to beat out of my chest.
“No,” I said shaking my head. Her mouth closed over mine, and she forced me to take of her. My mouth filled with her blood; it was sweet and left a sting. I fought the urge to swallow.
“Drink!” her voice again in my head. I gagged; warm blood spilled from the sides of my mouth and down my chin.
“Drink my love. Take of me,” she urged.
I drank.
The warm thick liquid coated my throat, warmed my chest and belly, and spread through my limbs.
My thirst grew and I craved more.
My arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer, and I drank, losing all sense of time. I cannot say how long we stood there. My mind swam as if I had drunk several cups of wine and body pulsed with an energy I had never known before.
My hand tangled in her hair; pressing her face closer to mine, I pushed my body against hers. Sucking on her tongue with animalistic desire, I could not get enough. I wanted more! Her hands were on my chest and she struggled against me, but I held her tight.
“Enough, my love!” She pushed at my chest. Nevertheless, I drank.
“More,” I pleaded.
“Enough!” her mind cried out in mine.
I did not care. Digging my fingers into the cold skin of her back, tearing the delicate fabric of her dress, I pressed her to me.
She screamed then, a guttural primal sound, pushing me hard, sending me reeling backwards towards the stained glass window. My arm shattered the glass as I tried to stop myself. Jagged shards imbedded themselves deep within my skin; I cried out and tumbled to the floor.
She came at me, her face distorted by fury, her lips twisted and curled in a bloodstained sneer, reaching out with claw-like hands. I tried to scramble backwards to escape her, but my bloody hand slipped from under me and my head hit the stone floor. The world spun. And then she was upon me, straddling me, her hands at my throat.
“Fool!” she roared.
Pulling at her hands, gasping for air, I was no match for her animal strength.
“You dare disobey me? Fool!” Her hands tightened and little bursts of colors exploded before my eyes. “Fool!” Her arms shook and she sobbed. Darkness flooded my vision, a violent pain crushed my lungs and chest.
“You are killing me!” I howled in my mind, desperately reaching out to her.
Her eyes opened wide and her lips trembled, as if she suddenly became conscious of what she was doing. She released me and pushed herself away.
I sucked in a ragged and painful breath; my lungs and chest were on fire as I rolled on to my side, gagging and coughing up blood, the wound in my hand forgotten. Not knowing what she would do next, I desperately tried to push myself on to my knees. My body shook violently; I did not know if it was because of her attempt to murder me or if it was from the amount of blood, I had taken from her.
I willed my fear and anxiety to subside, but my anger remained.
Where was Isabella?
Looking around I found her sitting on the edge of the desk, unmoving as a stone statue, her eyes fixed on me. There was no expression on her face. An involuntary groan escaped me as I sucked in another breath.
“Forgive me,” she said, breaking the long silence.
My hands shook with rage and indignation, on dripping blood, and I could not answer. A thousand distinct emotions washed over me.
After some time she stood. “My love, forgive me. Why did you not release me?”
Deep emotion reflected in her eyes, and her voice was woeful. I tried to look on her with compassion, but I felt only fury. The silence ran several beats too long before I answered with a slow shake of my head, “I—do not know.”
Repulsion twisted my stomach into a knot as she knelt beside me, reaching to stroke my cheek. She knew my thoughts and she stopped suddenly. Without a word she stood.
“Isabella—“ I began in a small whisper but she interrupted me.
“Tomorrow evening you will dine with my cousin and two other guests. Deirdre will accompany him. I hope that will not disturb you.”
My anger burned bright because I knew she purposely spoke of Deirdre to antagonize and hurt me. Gritting my teeth, I swallowed hard and kept my mouth shut; my hate for her was bitter bile in my throat.
“I shall not return for several days.” Her tone was cold and harsh. She was gone suddenly, and I was glad. In the distance, thunder echoed, a warning of the storm to come.
I remained on the floor, contemplating my escape from this hell.
Bryan Thomas Schmidt, do you know him? Well if you have not already heard of this Sci-Fi author, you will soon! The Worker Prince is an epic tale that is not only interesting in concept, but, WOW! it is beautifully written. Bryan’s writing has an easy flow to it that makes you forget you are reading a book. Instead, you become part of the story, and you feel compelled to finish, because you MUST know what happens. THAT, is great writing my friends. When you invest time and emotion in characters, it is a rewarding experience, and one you won’t forget, when the author remains true to his story and the natural development of those characters.
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