Fenton: The Loneliest Vampire
~ A Lost Realm Story ~
By Kate Aaron
Copyright 2011 Kate Aaron
Smashwords Edition
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The wind howled across the cliffs unmercifully, driving the rough waves high against the shore; white horses stampeding onto the jagged rocks across the surface of the steely waters. Inside the low house the fire blazed, the peaty smoke filling the single room, blackening the walls. The few cattle lowed and the sheep stamped nervously as the storm raged outside. The small children cried pitifully into their blankets, afraid of the wail of the wind and the booming crash of the waves and the stifled screams of their mother as she lay before the rough hearth.
Their father paced anxiously. He longed to send for the midwife, but he knew that to send one of the children out was to ask for them to be pitched off the cliffs and thrown bodily into the greedy ocean below. He’d never known a night like it. It was a bad omen, to be born in such a storm.
A long moan from his wife drew his attention: he hurried to her side anxiously. “It’s coming,” she gasped through the wooden bit in her teeth.
“It can’t be,” he answered, horrified. “It’s too early.”
She screamed as a contraction overtook her and he stared in horror at the fresh bloodstain seeping from between her legs. He reached under her skirts and felt, unmistakably, the crown of their infant. “It’s coming,” he told her with dismay.
As the first fingers of dawn stretched over the horizon and the wind began to die a strange sound broke the uneasy stillness of the croft, disturbing the animals and rousing the children. Eamon cradled his new son, swaddling him tightly in a rough woollen blanket.
“Come,” he beckoned to his other children, his face beaming. “Meet your brother.”
The tiny infant bellowed miserably in his arms, its small size belying the huge voice it possessed as it protested against all the indignities of being born. The children gathered round, peering curiously at the new arrival.
“It’s small, ain’t it?” His eldest daughter asked, unimpressed.
“Aye, it’s small,” Eamon agreed, “but it’ll grow. If the voice is anything to go by, the bairn’s strong enough.”
He turned back to his wife, lying exhausted on the hearth. “It’s a boy,” he told her, placing the precious bundle in her arms for her to nurse. The child fell silent, sucking greedily at the breast. His mother stroked his fine hair with the tips of her fingers.
“Fenton,” she whispered to him. “Like my daddy.”
Eamon nodded his agreement. “It’s a good name,” he assured her. “He’ll grow into a strong man.”
He bent to his wife and newborn child, kissing her forehead tenderly, watching his other children settle down around them. He had a fine family of healthy children, and he was sure his wife and new son would both survive their ordeal. He gave thanks to God for his fortune as he left the croft and watched the sun rise over the cliffs. The ground was heavy with rain, the small burn filled to capacity, but the storm had passed; the sea lay flat, a placid sheet of cobalt breathing softly as it smoothed the rocky shores. The sun shone strongly through the watery skies, its first rays warming the earth, sending gentle mists rising slowly to the heavens. It seemed a good omen.
Fenton sat on the hillside watching the other children playing in the long grass of the field below him. The light breeze carried the sound of their shouting and laughter to his sharp ears and he sighed heavily, folding his arms across his knees and resting his chin on his hands. He watched the other boys playing rough and tumble, chasing the girls who shrieked wildly when they were caught, but always ran back to the game, never seeming to mind.
Fenton didn’t understand their games. He’d tried to join in, but the girls didn’t laugh and slap him teasingly when he caught them, they just stared, disappointed, like he’d done something wrong; like he’d missed the point. He didn’t know what it was that he was supposed to do, but he knew that somehow, he’d failed. He had an idea how boys and girls were supposed to interact with each other: he’d seen four of his siblings grow up and get married, after all: but he was never sure what he was supposed to feel, and he suspected that the others knew it.
He started as a girl ran up from behind him and threw herself down on the grass. “Why aren’t you playing?” She asked curiously.
Fenton shrugged.
“Don’t you like me or something?” She smiled at him flirtatiously.
“What’s the game?” He asked, noncommittally.
“Catch and chase, of course. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to play?”
“What do I do if I catch you?”
“You win,” she answered simply.
“But what do I win?”
“I don’t know,” she squirmed. “You get to catch me, that’s all.”
“Is that a good thing?” He looked at her anxiously.
Her face fell. “You’re horrible, do you know that?” She stood, angrily brushing the dried grass from her skirts. “You’re so mean, Fenton, and I was trying to be nice to you.”
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, standing. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”
He watched her storming back down the hill in dismay. He saw her speaking with the other children, saw them looking up at him and jeering. His face burnt with shame. Why didn’t he understand? What had he done wrong? He turned and ran back across the hill to the low, thatched croft. He saw his mother tilling the meagre vegetable patch outside and he flew to her, wrapping his arms tightly around her stout waist, burying his head in her bosom. She held him close, stroking his hair and shushing him gently.
“You spoil that boy,” his father growled as he passed, giving Fenton a clip round the ear for good measure. “He’s too old for you to keep mollycoddling him.”
“He’s right,” she told him as his father went inside. “Go,” she pushed him gently, “go and play with your friends.” She smiled encouragingly.
Fenton sighed inwardly and made his way back over the hill. He curled up in the entrance of an abandoned foxhole, confident that no-one would find him there. He exhaled raggedly, fighting the tears that pricked at the back of his eyes, making them sting. He didn’t want to cry - he didn’t understand why he was - but the deep sobs soon overtook him, rocking his small body as he wept bitterly.
Alec cut furtively across the field towards his quarry, smirking to himself. Fenton was busily hoeing the hard ground, a sheen of sweat shimmering across his bare back and broad shoulders in the blistering sun. He paused to wipe his brow on the back of his arm, straightening up painfully, feeling the taunt muscles contract. He jumped with surprise as Alec dug his fingers into his waist and shouted in his ear. He shouted back as his friend laughed, unhappy at being startled. Alec smiled at him, his green eyes dancing behind long lashes.
“Come on,” he cajoled, “no-one will notice if we sneak off for an hour or two.”
“My father will,” Fenton assured him. “This field is nowhere near ready for planting, and it should have been done last week.”
“So another hour won’t hurt,” Alec countered. “It’s a beautiful day. I want to go swimming.”
He took Fenton’s hand and started to lead him along the path between the neat rows he’d ploughed.
“I can’t,” Fenton resisted, laughing. “You know I can’t.”
“When did we last have any fun?” Alec pouted. “Everyone else gets to. Look at Thomas and Martha.”
“That’s different, they’re courting.”
“So? It’s not like we’re ever going to go courting, is it? Why does that mean we’re not entitled to a break?”
Fenton shifted uneasily. “You know I’m not like you,” he told Alec unhappily.
“But you’re not like them, either, are you?” Alec’s voice was soft. “Please, Fenton. You’re my only friend. I just want to spend time with you.”
Fenton relented, allowing himself to be led towards the small, rocky beach that was their own secret place. They stripped quickly, stepping over the boulders to the shore and wading in, gasping as the cold water made their skin contract and gooseflesh rose on their arms. Alec splashed Fenton playfully, shouting as Fenton resumed fire. They chased each other through the surf, behaving just like children. Alec yelled as Fenton lunged forward and tackled him, pulling them both under the icy waves. They rose, spluttering, their eyes red and streaming from the salt. They laughed and staggered back to the beach, stretching out on a large, flat rock to dry under the hot sun.
Alec rolled onto his side, resting his head on his hand as he reached out to rub Fenton’s chest gently. Fenton turned his face towards him and smiled as Alec bent to kiss him.
“I’ve missed you,” Alec confided as he drew closer, resting his head on Fenton’s shoulder. “I wish we didn’t have to work so hard.”
“I know,” Fenton agreed, closing his eyes lazily.
“I wish life could be like this all the time,” Alec sighed.
“It never will be,” Fenton shook his head unhappily. “I’ll probably be in my parents’ croft until the day I die. So will you.”
“We could move away,” Alec suggested, hopeful. “Go somewhere where no-one knows us, get our own croft.”
“Not this again,” Fenton muttered. “You know we can’t. Wherever we go, it’ll be the same as here.”
“But I can’t live like this,” Alec whispered, digging his nails into Fenton’s chest. Fenton yelped and rebuked him as he broke his skin, scoring thin lines across his breast that welled red.
Alec sat up to inspect the damage, licking his thumb and running it over the small wounds. “Sorry,” he smiled ruefully, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It just makes me so unhappy…” he trailed off, looking sadly down at Fenton, his eyes brimming.
Fenton sat up and pulled him close, kissing his shoulder. “I know,” he whispered into his ear.
Alec clung to him, feeling the muscles in Fenton’s broad back ripple as he moved. He ran his fingers lightly down his spine, lingering over each bump and hollow, following the line down to the top of his firm buttocks. He drew away as he felt Fenton shift uncomfortably, kissing him softly on his neck; his jaw; the side of his mouth; his lips.
Fenton responded hesitantly, feeling the urgency behind Alec’s wandering hands and probing tongue. He broke away as Alec slipped his hand between their bodies.
“Please,” Alec breathed, resting his forehead against Fenton’s. “I need to touch you.”
Fenton leant back to look at his friend, at the pained expression on his face. “Can’t we just stay like this?” He asked.
Alec shook his head. “I can’t. I want more.”
“But I don’t,” Fenton answered sadly. “We’re not the same, you and me. Neither of us wants what other men want, but at least you want something.”
“I want you,” Alec sighed. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”
“I want you, too,” Fenton assured him, “but not like that.”
“But you’ve never wanted anyone like that,” Alec cried. “You have no idea what this feels like; how much I want you. And you always do this; always torment me. You let me kiss you, and hold you, and then you withdraw – every time! It’s not fair, Fenton. You’re breaking my heart.”
“I don’t mean to hurt you,” Fenton stammered. “I’ve told you how I feel. I do love you, Alec, I truly do. But I don’t think I can make love to you. I just don’t feel what everyone else does about sex. It holds no interest for me.”
“How can you say that, if you’ve never tried?” Alec ran a hand up the inside of Fenton’s leg, light fingers brushing through the fine hairs of his thigh. Fenton shuddered at the contact, but didn’t pull away. He sat placidly, allowing Alec to touch him, to kiss him.
Angry shouting from the cliffs above them made them break apart instantly. They stared upwards in horror, their hearts pounding as they saw Eamon scrambling down the narrow trail to their beach. They rushed to dress themselves, dragging their clothes on as Eamon approached, whispering frantically to each other, trying to work out what he could have seen from his vantage point.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He demanded angrily of Fenton when he reached them.
“Father, I - ”
“It’s a sin, do you know that? You’re going to hell for what you’ve done.”
“We weren’t doing anything,” Fenton protested desperately. “Nothing happened.”
“Don’t lie to me, boy, I saw you. It’s unnatural; unholy. It’ll break your mother’s heart.”
“Please don’t tell her,” Fenton gasped, tears sliding down his cheeks.
His father cuffed him angrily. “It’s an abomination,” he hissed. “And as for you,” he rounded on Alec, “you’re the worst kind of pervert. We all know what you are. We know what God says about men like you.”
“Please, Eamon,” Alec begged, “please don’t say anything.”
“I will not make myself a sinner for you,” Eamon spat through gritted teeth.
I’ll leave,” Alec promised, terrified. “I’ll go now. You’ll never see me again. It was me, it was all my fault. Don’t punish Fenton, please. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
Eamon hesitated, looking at his youngest son. Fenton stared at Alec in horror.
“Don’t say that,” Fenton told him.
“Don’t you speak to him,” his father rebuked him. “If I ever see you again, you won’t live long enough to regret it,” he promised Alec, who swallowed nervously, flinching at his harsh words. “Come on, Fenton,” Eamon ordered, taking his son’s arm and dragging him away.
Fenton resisted. “Where will you go?” He asked Alec forlornly.
Alec shrugged.
“You don’t care where he goes,” his father told him. “You’ll never see him again.”
“No,” Fenton moaned, fighting to free himself from Eamon’s vice-like grip. “Alec,” he called, desperate.
“Go,” Alec ordered through sobs. “Go, please. Save yourself.”
“I’m not going without you,” Fenton insisted.
Eamon shook him angrily. “What do you think you’re saying?” He demanded.
“If he goes, I’m going with him,” Fenton insisted, breaking free and standing beside Alec.
“You can’t.” Alec stared, horrified. “Don’t exile yourself for me.”
“But I love you,” Fenton cried. “It took me eighteen years to find you. I’m not going to lose you now.”
Alec’s eyes shone with hope. “I love you too,” he smiled.
“No,” Eamon moaned. “Son, you can’t love him. You don’t mean it.”
“But I do, father,” Fenton answered simply.
“Then you’re no son of mine,” Eamon growled. “From now on, you’re dead to me: I disown you. I never want to see your face again.”
“So be it.” Fenton held himself stiffly, not daring to glance at the expression on Alec’s face.
They watched Eamon turn and climb back up the cliff in silence, Alec slowly reaching out, taking Fenton’s hand and rubbing gently with his thumb. Fenton squeezed his fingers in response, turning to face him as Eamon moved out of sight.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Alec told him. “There’s still time, you can go back.”
Fenton shook his head firmly. “I meant what I said,” he assured him. “I do love you, Alec. I know it might not be in the same way that you love me, but the thought of losing you…” he trailed off, his bottom lip trembling.
Alec kissed him gently, leading him up the steep path and over the fields on the cliff top.
“Where are we going?” Fenton asked as they reached the high road.
“Wherever we want,” Alec smiled.
Fenton stumbled as the ship rolled, swinging himself awkwardly up into his hammock. The third mate watched him from his own bunk, laughing.
“First time at sea?” He asked knowingly.
Fenton grimaced in acknowledgement.
“You’ll soon get used to it,” the man assured him. “Next time you’re on land, it’ll feel like it’s the ground pitching, not the ship.”
Fenton lay back into the rough material, closing his eyes and trying to get used to the unsettling sensation of the ship’s movement. He fought a sudden wave of nausea as they lurched unexpectedly. His calves burned from the pressure of remaining stable, his shoulders ached from the manual labour on deck. Less than a month ago he’d been toiling in the fields around his home, but his muscles had already grown soft from disuse.
He heard footsteps on the ladder and opened his eyes slightly, just enough to see Alec enter the hold and approach him.
“Having fun?” Alec asked, grinning, as he looked at Fenton’s queasy features.
“Not yet,” Fenton admitted, wishing Alec would let go of the hammock so it’d stop swinging.
“You will,” Alec promised, bending to kiss him. The third mate coughed conspicuously from his own hammock. Alec withdrew guiltily.
“Running away, are you?” The third mate asked knowingly.
“None of your business,” Fenton growled.
The man laughed good-naturedly. “Everything’s my business on this ship,” he warned them, “mine and everybody else’s. Ain’t nothing’s private for long once we set sail. But don’t worry, we don’t mind your sort here. Means there’s more women for the rest of us when we reach port, eh?” He gestured lewdly at them.
Fenton blushed.
“Aw, you’re gonna have to be tougher than that,” the mate rebuked them. “You’re sailors now: live rough, talk rough. We ain’t got time for nothing else. You might have your little romance, but most of the men on this ship don’t get much chance for action.”
Fenton looked away, avoiding Alec’s eye. He still couldn’t bring himself to give Alec what he needed. Alec hadn’t pressed him, or made him feel guilty about it, but it hurt to know that he wanted more; that what they had wasn’t enough. Fenton suddenly felt like crying, he felt like he was eight years old all over again, unable to understand the game the other children were playing. He knew, now, what Alec wanted – what everyone wanted – but he’d never felt that desire for himself: he’d never once looked at someone with a longing that was physical; that clawed at his gut and burnt to be released.
He saw that longing in Alec’s eyes with increasing frequency. He’d observed it on so many of the faces of the people back home – even his mother’s, once, as she watched his father bathing. He’d studied him surreptitiously, trying to see what she saw in him that made her eyes glaze and her mouth hang open. He had heard them having sex, of course – their croft was too small to allow for any privacy – but he’d never understood what either of them gained from it. It certainly didn’t sound like anything special to him: the stifled gasps and grunts as his father entered her roughly; a low moan as he climaxed; then nothing but the sound of snoring.
He turned his head, smiling up at Alec. Why wasn’t this enough, he wondered, stroking his face softly. Alec took his hand, entwining their fingers as he kissed each tip. He liked this, the easy intimacy that they shared. He liked kissing him, he liked stroking his warm skin. He liked holding hands and hugging and sleeping curled up together, feeling Alec’s soft breath warm the back of his neck and ruffle his hair. These were all easy, familiar things that made him feel good inside. When Alec reached lower, putting his hand between his legs, kissing him deeply, urgently, it made Felton uncomfortable; uncertain. He didn’t know what was expected of him in those moments, he didn’t know what to do next. Alec seemed to know – everyone seemed to know – by instinct, and desire, what was supposed to happen. Fenton felt like a fraud. Worse, he knew that his reluctance in those moments hurt Alec in a way that he couldn’t explain, and he felt guilty. The last thing he’d ever want to do was cause Alec distress, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t know how to make it right.
*
They quickly fell into the routine of life aboard the ship, making and losing friends as easily as they made and lost money at cards, or dice. Each port saw a change of faces as men left and others joined. They grew accustomed to the rough and tumble sailor’s existence, learning the language, understanding that coarse words and coarser behaviour didn’t mean that there wasn’t a good heart underneath. They became roughened, like the men around them. They drank and they gambled and they joined in with the lewd banter, understanding the frustration at its source, and knowing that there was no malice behind the hard words.
Still Fenton held back from committing himself physically to Alec. There were times, when Alec’s frustration built up and overflowed, that Fenton was coaxed into relieving the pressure, submitting to his wandering hands and probing mouth; but more frequent were the times when cruel, angry words were exchanged, when one or the other or both would cry themselves to sleep, feeling the dark eyes of the other sailors, brooding. Sex they understood, and even expected. Fenton’s reluctance was something new and unfamiliar.
Alec started going out alone whenever they reached port, disappearing for hours at a time into the bowels of whatever foreign city they were docked in. Images of swarthy men with almond eyes haunted Fenton as jealousy tore through him, but he bore his suffering in silence, knowing that it was he who had driven Alec away. Alec always returned more loving and less insistent; satiated by whatever experience he had gone in search of; and Fenton always forgave the unspoken transgressions, the terrible betrayals that Alec committed again and again.
*
They had been aboard the same ship for two years when Matteo joined the crew. The young Italian was friendly and cheerful, and soon found himself a favourite among the men, who would stare wistfully at his slim, graceful body as he passed, chattering frantically to them in broken English. It seemed that every man, however old and jaded, was a little bit in love with Matteo: the young man was too charismatic, too beautiful, not to be loved. He bestowed his favours benevolently: a kind word here, a playful wink there: and the men competed to collect them, Matteo’s natural charm breaking down the barriers of authority and nationality.
Alec quickly became Matteo’s favourite: the two could often be found huddled together among the stores, whispering quietly to each other. Some of the men, noticing, went out of their way to include Fenton, sympathetically commiserating with him over his loss. Others felt that he had brought the estrangement on himself, and their hearts were hardened towards him. Fenton watched the budding relationship with dismay. Alec didn’t intend to be cruel: he didn’t realise himself what was happening. It was plain to everyone but him that he had fallen for Matteo, and the other man seemed equally smitten. They made a striking couple, Matteo’s honeyed darkness contrasting beautifully with Alec’s auburn hair and green eyes.
One terrible day, it happened. Lewd jeers and whoops from the store announced the truth about their relationship and Fenton felt his heart splinter and break. Alec was embarrassed but not ashamed when the other sailors teased him, and Matteo took his place at his side like a prince ascending the throne.
They had one last, stilted, conversation. Fenton forgave him the betrayal, and the humiliation. He wished him well. He hoped their paths would cross again, but even as he said it he knew that they would not. He held Alec’s face in his hands, committing to memory every hair and pore in his tanned skin. He kissed him chastely, smoothing away the single tear that tracked silently down his cheek. He smiled sadly.
The next day the ship docked, and Fenton slipped silently away.
He wandered through the backstreets drunkenly, pushing away the painted whores and ratty pimps that accosted him. He was a thousand miles from home, in a city that he didn’t know, where he didn’t even speak the same language as the people milling around him.
A young man beckoned to him, pouting his lips. Fenton’s eyes slid over him dully, noting with distaste the garish clothing and unsubtle make-up. The man approached, wrapping his arms around Fenton’s waist, nuzzling against his face as he chattered to him. Fenton understood very little of what he was saying, but enough to realise that the man wanted money.
He tried to disentangle himself but the man laughed, taking his hand and leading him towards a darkened doorway. Fenton allowed himself to be led. What did it matter, now Alec was gone? So what if this man killed him in his bed, he didn’t care. A dull curiosity beckoned: perhaps now he would discover what Alec had wanted, perhaps he too would be able, finally, to understand.
They entered a small, bare room and the man pushed Fenton onto an old bed, covered by a thin, grimy sheet. The springs creaked as the man straddled his waist, kissing him lasciviously. Fenton could smell his overpoweringly sweet perfume, and it sickened him. The man tugged impatiently at Fenton’s shirt, pulling it roughly over his head. His eyes lit up as he explored his tanned skin and well-defined muscles, running his fingers over his firm chest. Fenton gasped as the man pinched his nipple, squeezing hard on the small nub, inducing a sensation that transcended pain and became intensely pleasurable. The man smiled as Fenton squirmed beneath him, running his hand lower, across his taunt stomach and between his legs, his deft fingers stroking, coaxing.
Fenton felt his body responding dully, as through a veil, detached from the physical reaction that the man had wrought from him. This was nothing more than Alec had done in the past, and while the sensations were nice enough, Fenton still didn’t understand the overbearing drive that demanded this experience again and again. The man moved lower, opening Fenton’s trousers and pushing his face into his crotch, taking him in. Fenton inhaled sharply, feeling him drawing on his body, sucking his resistance out.
The man stood, quickly undressing and posing before him, letting Fenton see his own arousal. Fenton didn’t want to touch him. The man straddled him again, rubbing their bodies together, pressing himself into him as they kissed, grinding his hips against Fenton’s hard erection, sliding onto it, pushing Fenton inside him and riding him roughly.
Fenton gasped and jerked as the man rose and fell in his lap, letting the hot waves roll through him, crashing down over him as he climaxed. So this was what Alec had been doing, all those times he’d gone off by himself. This was what they’d caught him doing with Matteo in the stores. Fenton smiled a little, realising that he was no longer a virgin.
The man kissed him lingeringly and rose, gently disengaging their bodies. He dressed quickly and looked at Fenton expectantly. Fenton patted his pockets, took out his last coin and handed it over, shrugging as the man jabbered at him angrily. “I tried to tell you,” he grimaced as he picked up his shirt. The man shrieked furiously, shouting incomprehensible words in an unmistakable tone as he harried him out of the room and down the rickety stairs to the street.
Fenton stopped to pull on his shirt, surveying his surroundings. It was late, he had no money and nowhere to go. He’d never felt so completely alone in his life. The loss of Alec was a physical ache, gnawing away at his insides. He shivered involuntarily, even though the night wasn’t cold. He resigned himself to sleeping rough and started walking, looking for a place where he might find some rest.
He soon became aware of the sound of footsteps falling in time with his own. He dully registered the fact that he was going to be attacked: that someone was going to cut his throat for his empty purse, or perhaps extract their revenge for his treatment of the prostitute. He turned to face his would-be assailant, pausing, shocked, as he looked at the man. He was breathtakingly beautiful: long, raven-black hair cascaded over his shoulders in rippling waves, deep brown eyes glinted in the darkness. His white face shone palely in the moonlight.
“I don’t have any money,” Fenton stammered.
The stranger smiled slowly. “I don’t need your money,” he replied in Fenton’s own language.
“Who are you?” Fenton asked, breathless. “Where are you from?”
“I am nobody,” the stranger answered.
“What do you want from me?”
“Who says I want anything?”
“You were following me,” Fenton accused him.
The stranger nodded.
“So what do you want?”
“What do you have to give?”
Fenton sighed. “I’ve got nothing but what you see before you.” He raised his arms helplessly, indicating his poor attire.
“I’ll take it,” the stranger smiled, approaching him.
Fenton started to back away, alarmed, but there was something mesmerising about the stranger’s eyes: he felt himself calm as he looked at him, allowing him to approach and put his arm around his shoulder.
“What’s your name?” The stranger asked, leading him swiftly through the narrow streets.
“Fenton,” he stammered. “What’s yours?”
“My name isn’t important.” The stranger shook his head. “But people call me Kali.” He ushered Fenton towards the gates of a large house on the outskirts of the town.
“You live here?” Fenton stared in amazement.
“No,” Kali answered. “It’s just somewhere to go.”
He led Fenton through a marbled hall and into a large bathroom tiled in azure and emerald. Fenton gasped at his surroundings as servants appeared and began filling the ornate tub sunk into the floor. Thin wisps of steam began to rise from the water. The servants disappeared as silently as they had arrived, leaving Fenton and Kali alone. Kali closed the door firmly behind them, turning to Fenton and smiling.
“Come,” he beckoned, taking off his shirt. “Wash yourself clean of that whore.”
“How do you know about that?” Fenton was shocked.
“I know many things,” Kali smiled, dropping his trousers and standing naked before him.
Fenton swallowed nervously, trying not to look at his smooth, white body. Kali approached him slowly, his eyes lingering over Fenton’s muscular limbs. Fenton stood placidly as Kali undressed him, running his fingers lightly across his firm chest, tracing the line of his hard muscles. Fenton squirmed as his hands moved lower and Kali paused, his eyebrows raised.
“Don’t you want me?” He asked quietly. “Am I not attractive enough?”
“You’re beautiful,” Fenton answered honestly.
“But?” Kali prompted.
“I just don’t feel like that.”
“About me? About men?”
“About anyone.” Fenton looked at him sadly. “I never have.”
“I knew it,” Kali breathed, smiling. He kissed Fenton softly on the edge of his strong jaw.
“Come,” Kali took his hand and drew him into the bath, settling himself behind him. Fenton hissed as he stepped into the hot water, drawing himself up into a tense ball. Kali reached forward, pulling Fenton into him until he was lying between his legs, his back resting on Kali’s smooth chest. Kali slowly began to wash him, stroking his skin tenderly, massaging his tense muscles, feeling his body relax.
“I understand, you know,” Kali whispered into Fenton’s ear. “I know how you feel.”
“You do?” Fenton started, turning.
“Yes,” Kali smiled, pulling Fenton back between his legs. “I can help you, if you’ll let me.”
“How?” Fenton whispered, not daring to hope.
“I can teach you desire,” Kali promised, picking up a lethal-looking razor.
Fenton eyed it nervously and held his breath as Kali tipped his chin back, exposing his neck. He shaved him skilfully, taking care not to break his skin. When he had finished, he kissed his bare neck softly.
“How can you teach me?” Fenton persisted. “Others have tried – and failed.”
“They wanted you to desire the wrong thing,” Kali told him.
“What else is there?” Fenton asked, puzzled.
Kali shook his head, rising and pulling Fenton to his feet. “All in good time,” he assured him, wrapping him in a soft robe and leading him into a large, sumptuously furnished chamber. They settled on a low couch, in front of which was a small table laden with delicate sweetmeats.
“Eat,” Kali encouraged, indicating the food.
“What about you?” Fenton asked.
Kali shook his head and picked up a small morsel, feeding Fenton with his fingers.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Kali asked as they lay together, his arms wrapped around him. “I can give you this, always. No sex, no pressure; just perfect companionship and intimacy.”
“It doesn’t exist,” Fenton sighed.
“It does.” Kali assured him. “You’re a beautiful man, Fenton, but I don’t want to sleep with you.”
“What do you want?” Fenton asked, curious.
“I want your blood,” Kali whispered.
“What?” Fenton started, alarmed.
“Blood is the only true desire,” Kali explained. “Everything else – sex, relationships – it’s all just a distraction. I can teach you that: teach you not to care.”
“But what do you mean, you want my blood? I don’t understand.”
“Let me show you.” Kali sat up, rubbing his hand along the back of Fenton’s neck. Fenton leant his head back, enjoying the shiver that ran down his spine as Kali opened his fingers, raking them firmly through his hair, massaging his scalp. He closed his eyes a Kali kissed his neck softly, gasping as he felt him bite down, his sharp teeth piercing his skin.
Kali held him close as he struggled, releasing him as he felt him relax into his embrace. Fenton’s head swam; every nerve and fibre in his body tingled and vibrated; every cell bound inextricably to the two small punctures in his neck through which Kali was drawing his hot, red blood. Here was all the passion and the intensity that he’d always felt he was missing; here was the thrill of desire; of domination and submission.
He moaned as Kali withdrew and licked his neck sensuously, sealing the small wounds.
Kali looked at him through heavily-lidded eyes. “Do you understand now?” He asked, smirking.
Fenton nodded.
“The blood is the only true desire,” Kali told him seriously. “Too many of my kind have forgotten that fact. They confuse more bodily lusts with the desire for blood. They sully the purity of the blood with sex.”
“Your kind?” Fenton asked.
“I am vampire.” Kali drew himself up importantly. “I am immortal. For three hundred years I have searched for the right companion: a man I can love, and who will understand the importance of the blood, not just of desiring for desire’s sake.”
“I think I understand.”
“I think you do, too.”
The years passed. They travelled together through all the major cities of the world, hunting in the shadows, united by their desire for the blood. Fenton revelled in his new identity; in his freedom from all the mortal constraints that had bound him. He could be himself with Kali: the other man didn’t judge him, or try to change him.
Yet, as the years passed, Fenton noticed a change in his companion. He grew distant, brooding. They had never stayed anywhere for long for fear of drawing attention to themselves, but now Kali seemed struck by an insatiable restlessness. They flitted from city to city, country to country, but nothing changed, nothing was resolved. Kali seemed fixated, possessed. Fenton knew, in his heart, that he was looking for a new companion.
Fenton, too, felt restless. He had trailed behind Kali for centuries, forever in his shadow. He was older now than Kali had been when he Turned him, and yet he still followed his maker, unwilling to strike out alone.
When the break finally came, it came quickly. They were in Venice: the city was alive with people celebrating the start of the summer season. It was not yet late enough in the year for the heat to grow unbearable, or to bring the plague, and the denizens of the watery city were out in force. Fenton saw the young man shuffling nervously in the corner of the room. He watched, detached, as Kali also spied him, approaching and introducing himself, his liquid eyes mesmerising his victim. Fenton could still steal him away - his gifts were greater than Kali’s - but he didn’t want to humiliate his maker. He let him have him.
The man was beautiful: his body strong and well-formed, his face still possessing that first flush of youth that was always so appealing. Fenton knew from long experience that his blood would be sweet and musky. He envied Kali his prize. He watched them leave, arm-in-arm, through narrowed eyes. They’d long ago agreed not to toy with their food; to take their victims swiftly and painlessly. They were not to take them home.
Fenton fed perfunctorily on a waiter, annoyed that Kali’s selfishness had spoilt his own evening. He stalked back to their townhouse, determined to rebuke his maker for his carelessness. When he arrived, he was greeted by a newly-fledged vampire.
In the years that followed, Fenton wandered the earth aimlessly. He gave up looking for a companion, unable to risk the heartache of a third rejection. He took lives cruelly, brutally, relishing selecting his victims and leading them to their deaths. He lashed out angrily at young lovers, revelling in ripping them apart. He was like a puppeteer, manipulating the lives of the marionettes around him. He dabbled in sex with men and women, experimenting, still anxious to find its attraction, but it never moved him; he never craved it. Sex remained as incomprehensible to him as it had ever been. Kali was right, the blood was everything, it was the only thing that truly mattered.
He moved in circles with the other vampires of the world, but he despised them for their frivolousness and hedonism. They were arrogant, careless of the great gift that had been bestowed upon them. Fenton shunned their company, silently rejoicing when news reached him of the passing of one of their number; occasionally weeding out the less desirable members himself.
The vampires soon ceased to seek him out, satisfied to whisper quietly among themselves whenever Fenton was seen in their cities. He was aware, vaguely, of the mythology that surrounded him; of the intrigue that he commanded; the excited, curious response that his arrival provoked. Gradually he understood that much of his mystery had evolved around his age. Vampires may be blessed with immortality, but few actually survive more than a century or two. They were careless with their lives: they killed each other over petty disputes; they set up elaborate and ill-concealed nests that were raided and burnt to the ground. Many went mad: heartsick of the darkness they would crucify themselves under the blazing sun.
One day, Fenton realised with a shock how long it had been since he saw a vampire as old as himself. He knew of few others that were older. Their names were hallowed, their existence legendary: Kali; Azrael; Auric; Tasha; Raul. Fenton had met them all, in his time. His maker, Kali, still wedded to the young Venetian; ancient Azrael, perhaps the most powerful of their kind, about whom it was rumoured that he killed his own maker while still a fledgling; Auric, father of a great European dynasty; Tasha, a dark-skinned beauty who hunted the swampy plains of the Mississippi; and Raul, a haughty, regal creature who had mastered the art of disdain.
The younger vampires seldom came into contact with these behemoths of their kind. Most viewed their existence much as a subject views their monarch: they were infinitely greater, and impossibly far removed. It gladdened them that they lived, but their continued survival didn’t impact on their day-to-day lives. Fenton enjoyed hearing stories of the ancient ones, the strange mix of myth and folklore that they seemed to attract. He knew from the tales he had overheard of his own exploits that the rumours were often shockingly accurate.
So it was that he found himself, one dreary, rainy evening, sitting with a small group of awe-struck vampires, listening to the most extraordinary story. He had heard many worrying tales of increasingly powerful covens of witches. They had grown arrogant and proud since they were forced into hiding, and he had always feared that one day their vanity, their unshakable belief in their own superiority, would cause trouble between the supernatural communities of the world. He had heard whispers – nothing more – of witches coveting the vampires’ gift, of offering to barter in exchange for the blood. The thought of an immortal witch worried him as much as it excited the covens who dared dream of it. The ancient ones had sent word, very clearly, forbidding any such exchange. The penalty for turning a witch was death, both for the guilty vampire and for the fledgling, lest it become too powerful. Even the youngest vampire knew that.
If this latest story was true, the witches had ceased to barter – they intended to steal. Azrael – of all the vampires, great and mighty Azrael – had been captured by one such coven. They had taken him prisoner, repeatedly draining him, trying to extract his immortality from his blood. Proud, foolish creatures, they did not understand that a vampire’s gift is his alone to give. They had tortured him; threatened to kill him; but still he had not relented. Then they had starved him.
Fenton shivered at the thought. A starving vampire was a creature terrifying to behold. Its skin dried and drew back, its features hollowed, its colour faded. It became an animate corpse, screaming for blood. Its hair fell out and its flesh flaked and peeled away. It was a nightmarish vision – one that Fenton had seen only once, but the sight would haunt him forever. He’d been forced to kill that creature, to end its misery, knowing that there would never be enough blood to revive it fully.
Azrael had not been killed: he had been released. A small battalion of fae warriors had attacked the coven, killing many of their lesser members and forcing the rest to flee, abandoning their cruel experiment. The fairies, led by their prince, had followed Azrael’s screams to his cell. The other fae wanted to kill him, not to end his suffering so much as to protect themselves. A starving vampire is not usually a creature able to reason – he would surely have drained them all, had he been released. The prince would not hear of it. He looked at the mutilated creature with compassion, tears brimming in his eyes. He stroked the raw scalp and spoke to it softly. He quarrelled with his own troops about its future; ultimately ordering them to leave. He remained, alone, with the vampire, and he untied the silver chains that bound him.
Fenton’s eyes shone as he tried to envision the man capable of such bravery, and compassion. Who was this creature, who would risk his own life to save a vampire – the sworn enemy of his kind? Fenton quickly ascertained that the prince had lived. If he was no ordinary fairy, then Azrael was no ordinary vampire – in all likeliness only he would have possessed the control necessary not to reward the prince’s kindness with death. Fenton hugged the story close, holding it jealously in his heart. Deep within him, a slow pulse quickened: he felt himself start to hope for the first time in centuries. He had to meet this man, this prince, he had to know if this story was true. He smiled softly to himself, his lips slowly forming the name that had awakened his spirit, enlivened his heart: Skye.
He swiftly rose, abandoning the other vampires and their gossip. They exchanged relieved glances behind his departing back. He didn’t care. Azrael had sworn allegiance to the prince, vowing to fight alongside the fae. It was Azrael he must find; he would lead him to Skye. Fenton hurried, speeding through the dark night, unable to keep from smiling. He skipped joyfully, hugging himself and giggling quietly, his heart full and brimming over with happiness. Here, at last, was the one he’d been looking for, the perfect soul who would never hurt him and never betray him. Fenton didn’t know how he knew, but he did. Certainty overwhelmed him as he flew through the night towards Azrael’s last known location. He would find him, and he would take him to Skye. He may have lived for over five hundred years, but Fenton felt like his life was only just beginning.
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About the Author:
Kate Aaron lives in Cheshire, England, with two dogs, a parrot and a tank full of fish. She has a BA in English Language and Literature, and an MA in Gender, Sexuality and Culture.
Also in the Lost Realm Series:
Blood & Ash (#1)
Fire & Ice (#2)
Also by the Same Author:
Danny’s Boy
Four Chances: A Short Story Quartet
Connect with the Author Online:
Twitter: http://twitter.com/@fairkatrina
Smashwords: http://smashwords.com/profile/view/fairkatrina
Blog: http://onlytruemagic.blogspot.com
Goodreads: http://goodreads.com/fairkatrina