Romancing Evil

Lillium met her brother’s glare. The beads of sweat running down her back should not be there. Neither should the rapid cadence of her heart pounding in her chest. Was this the anthem of all Dăwm brides?

“Yes, Brother.” Lillium met Kirk’s emerald glare. The meticulous steps of Kirk’s Berluti shoes clacked against the black marbled floor of the study.

Tonight she would taste the blood of her victim then join her new lord in the temple. Lillium swallowed. Kirk’s instructions pounded in her ears once again as he repeated them for the hundredth time that day.

“I took you in as my sister when you were fatherless, without thought as to what this would cost me. I have housed you and fed you for seven years now. I could have made you my bride and no one would have stopped me. Instead, I left you untouched…pure.” Kirk reached out to stroke her cheek. His hand burned where it touched her. The pungent scent of his Burberry cologne lingered. “Now I have found a way for you to repay my benevolence.”

Take survey or just leave a comment below.

Kirk reached into the pocket of his long, black, silk cassock. He pulled out a vial of clear yellowish liquid and swirled it between his tapered fingers. The Dăwm drug. Once she drank it, she would crave blood and when the two mixed, all care, all emotion, would fall away.

Beads of icy sweat scurried down Lillium’s back, soaking the scarlet bodice of her bridal gown. Her heart pounded out the rhythm of the elevated train, racing into the city several stories below.

Kirk moved to the bar behind him. He took out a crystal goblet, filled it with wine and the contents of the vial. He pierced the tip of his finger with his serpentine dagger and allowed one drop of blood to mingle with the mixture.

Lillium averted her gaze.

Death lurked in every corner, taunting her. Ensconced in marbled floors that pricked her feet with ice, in ebony granite tables pressed against the walls and pairs of burgundy winged chairs, in the tapestries of hunted animals and paintings of defiled women lining the cherry paneled walls. Even the picture of a goat star over the fireplace peered out of its frame at her.

Kirk had declared her wedding before the Dăwm.

Nothing declared remained undone—at least not after tonight.

Tonight she would taste the blood of her victim for the first time and become truly Dăwm—seed of Adam. Her stomach crawled into her throat each time she thought of it.

Lillium swallowed, careful to keep her eyes fixed upon Kirk as he turned to face her. Otherwise, he would take it as impudence and remind her of her place with a swift strike across her face—or worse.

“…Fall to injury and that is your own fault of weakness.” That is what Kirk had told her at twelve when he had brought her to live with him, claiming her as his sister.

Days before the apartment fire, she remembered Kirk watching her from the alley. His piercing green eyes scraped over her body, dredging goose flesh to the surface of her skin each time she passed him. Her father had noticed him once and hurried her inside.

When the blaze engulfed her family’s apartment, Kirk had been the one pressing through the smoke to rescue her. She remembered her brother calling from the bedroom, her parents coughing, crying out their names. Then Kirk had pulled her away struggling, leaving her brother and parents to the inferno.

Fifteen seemed so much older then. Now she realized how young her brother had been—how young he had died.

Oh, how she had screamed for Kirk to rescue him, to no avail. Kirk had never been interested in saving anyone. He had been interested in her.

“Obedience is protection. Obey me without hesitation, and you shall live without injury.”

“Why didn’t you save my brother!” she had screamed, moments before a hard slap knocked her to the ground, forcing the wind from her body.

Kirk had beaten her for her defiance and provided her with her first instruction in the art of the Dăwm. “Contractions mean miscommunication. Do not use them again unless you wish to be reminded. Fall to injury and that is your own fault of weakness. There are no hospitals in Dăwm Tower.”

Seven years later and it remained so even now.

Kirk swirled the goblet in his left hand then pressed it to her mouth. The serene liquid passed her lips, gliding over her tongue then stuttered to a halt. The bitter bouquet refused to move down her throat.

“Swallow.”

Lillium clamped her teeth shut, willing the gagging to calm. Perhaps she imagined the sour afterthought of flavor, which moved the mixture into her throat. The lump of liquid descended as if she had just swallowed too much bread.

“Like that? My own concoction. Makes the bitterness behave.”

Lillium gasped. Her hand pressed against her neck.

Kirk’s fingers pinched together waving in Lillium’s face as if he had a bit of dust to throw into her eyes. “After the ritual, you will be escorted into the temple and brought before me and your new lord where the final bonding ceremony will take place. Do not be afraid, it is a sharp knife and I am a skilled cleric.”

A small cut on her forearm, he had said. Then the mingling of their blood. A chill ran through her veins like an infusion of ice water.

Mingling of blood.

Dare she ask who the groom would be?

Not if she wanted to live through the question.

Kirk had taught her decorum, self-defense and the creeds of the Dăwm. Since when did what she want matter?

Kirk owned no mercy. He only owned her.

Kirk set the goblet aside on the glass desk behind him next to a small wooden box she had never seen before. The serpentine dagger he used to pierce his finger still laid there. She turned her head.

Outside, a plane had just taken off. It canted upward then climbed the dreary sky out of view. She dared only a glance before following Kirk’s pacing once again.

She would trade all her beauty and knowledge for one day of freedom in a world without the stench of death marring every surface of her existence. She could scrub all she liked she would never be rid of it.

Freedom.

Comments and Opinions

Please leave your comments and opinions for others.