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The tangible ripple of Dr. Reid’s blood coursing through his veins is not nearly as agonizing as his first transformation, no, but it is still very much distressing.
As soon as it hits his tongue, his very vessels seem to open for it, welcome it. These thin canals lined with syrupy, decaying matter are flushed open by the deluge of something bright, something new, renewing and cleansing and as of yet unknown.
His body offers no resistance, not at all. The grey, soft flesh of his throat and esophagus sop it up like bread takes oil, passing it onto the smaller bodies that stream across them. These vessels are so small, so delicate that some are simply sheared open by the force and speed of the Ekon’s blood being shot through them. They bulge and pop, turning into unbridled tiny streams across his tissues.
(Perhaps it is some mercy that, while Sean is at that moment keenly aware of every pinprick of blood darting across his body, the sheer shock of it all does not expose him to any undue pain.)
As wild as this flood may be, it seems to be directed and purposeful. It all ends in flowing and pooling into the veins of his jugular, his thyroid and – he is left gasping by this, scrabbling uselessly at his chest – straight into his dead heart. There may not be any pain, but the sensation is nonetheless… terrifying.
Sean shudders, trembles, gasps. His heart, previously parched and shriveled, begins to fill. It begins to plump, find its form. It swells, gains color. It is full. It is now engorged. His lungs are beginning to flatten outward. His ribs bow out, sternum cracking at its joins. No, his chest – he cannot – it would burst!
Mercifully, his heart has finally remembered how to properly pump. after a week of only lazily stirring at the few dregs of it would ring out of flesh. Its contractions – forcing this new blood out into his arteries – are so forceful he feels as if each shakes him to his core. Whatever lucid part of him left struggles to remember a prayer he cannot say, as he feels new lifeforce diffuse through his body from crown to toe.
He is useless, defenseless, catatonic. He is left here on his knees, rendered blind and deaf, only aware of the sensations of his body tearing itself open to accommodate the transfusion. Yet, also the permeating, unescapable remnants of Dr. Reid’s torn and flooding wrist in his mouth long after its ripped away, tasting so saccharine and near-fermented it makes him dizzy in itself.
If the so-called good doctor is or isn’t watching him all the while, he wouldn’t know. At some point, he loses consciousness entirely.
Sean awakes as he was left: Crumpled in a heap, slouched over in front of the still-open shrine. It must be nearly sunset, not that he can tell from his (thankfully windowless, dark) office. It’s that familiar feeling of lazy bleariness, akin to waking up after a long and good sleep.
He tentatively raises a hand, and is relieved when body does not immediately explode or fall apart. Thank you, lord. His fingers and palms have bled even more over the night, now completely stained a vibrant red rather than the consistent drying flecks of maroon from before. Many of the open cracks, however, have appeared to close up over the day; now there are only a few where his fingers join his palm, and his perpetually sloughing and oozing finger pads and tips.
Cautiously, he wiggles his fingers. They tingle, feel slightly unfamiliar, until they awaken. Then his toes in his boots; those work, too. Wincing in unavoidable pain as he uses a hand to prop himself up, he lifts himself off his backside to his feet.
Sways. Remains upright. Takes a step, continues to be vertical. He takes another, and another. He’s fine, miraculously. At least, as fine as a Skal might be.
As he paces experimentally around the room, the effects of Dr. Reid’s blood become more and more obvious. The token ache of his condition… is still there, of course, but now he feels slightly more humanly arthritic than full of rigor mortis. His knees threaten to lock less at each step, allowing him to gain more pace.
And the hunger…
…is not an issue. Before it was an unavoidable, irritatingly buzzing (touching red at the corners of his vision at its worst, grabbing at his stomach and twisting) until he would feast only to arrive back but an hour later. Now, it was… quiet, mostly. A whisper, rushing but indecipherable. He is sated. For now.
He ends his stride at the door to his night shelter, of which he certainly should have been dragged into in the first place. No matter. Sean roots into his right trouser pocket, and swipes at… nothing but lint. Switching to his other pocket, he digs his red fingers into its corners. Nothing. Oh, no. His keys. Where are they?
Of course, he immediately begins to catastrophize. Imagining poor Mrs. Abernathy, come to drop off oat biscuits for his flock, having stumbled into his cellar of corpses. She’d have a heart attack – and then he’d be forced to consume her, for Mr. Abernathy was always a very persistent and nosy fellow. Or, worse yet, she could have survived and –
– oh, they’re in his left breast pocket. He didn’t even notice his much-improved heart slow its frantic palpitations until he feels the relief settle in, feels it steady to a much more slow and steady rhythm.
But his fingers do still tremble, as he smears his keys red unlocking and opening his door and stepping inside his sanctuary.
From a very quick glance, it appears that neither the doctor nor any other unwanted visitors seem to have disturbed it. Good. But with his appetite tamed for the time being, the bodily morsels and stripped carcasses strewn across the place now look more like a mess than a pantry (a morgue). He mentally puts that as the first entry of his ‘things to do, now with improved vigor’ list.
At the corner of the room, he catches a glimpse of his bloody visage in the cracked floor-length mirror. Literally bloody, he notes. He warily approaches it, stands and regards himself.
His body had bled more than he had thought, more than just his eternally opening hands and the perpetually weeping sores dotting the edges of his profile. Thick swipes of dried and flaking red streaking clear paths from his tearlines, ringing around his nostrils, and of course around and down his lips. They converge together as a thick stripe down his throat, staining the deep grey of his collar into a dark red. His ears too; a tell-tale hue to their depths, a hint of crust on their inner curves.
Shaking his head, Sean exhales deeply through his nose. Perhaps it was during his feeding, or transformation, or during the day – does it matter? He’ll have to check whether he bled on the shrine – he’ll clean that later. Himself, on the other hand…
But first, he needs to remove his stained garments. Perhaps he would be able to approach the Skals like this, but it certainly wouldn’t be acceptable to look like this in front of decent folk. Not that the Skals aren’t decent, but –
Sean’s coat is easily shrugged off of his shoulders, folded quickly in three movements and laid delicately on the nearest chair. His vest is a bit more of a challenge, though. His fingers are too slippery, tremble as he tries to ply the too-tiny buttons through their holes, and the buttons are so thin that they slice and cut deeper through through uncovered open fat and muscle of his fingertips. A bit disappointing, he thinks, that he hasn’t found more finesse with that infusion.
One panel of the vest over his shoulder, he – notices something, in his broken reflection, and pauses. He presses a palm to his chest. An aberrant patch of red has bloomed across the front of his shirt, drawing out to his ribs, tracing the contours of his torso.
It’s with increasing worry that he allows the vest to drop in a messed sheet behind him. He fumbles even more with the top buttons of his shirt; making even more of a mess at its collar than there already was. Sean tucks his necklace under his shirt first, and pulls it over his head to fling it behind him.
Black, blue, and red. It wasn’t a dream. The strange patches of open skin, patterns of spider-like veins climbing from his hips upward, armpits downward. Well, those were there before; perhaps are a little less noticeable now. A few gashes are even puckering inwards, in some attempt to close. Better, yes. However, at his center is a clear shadow, a deep bruise. It is blackest at his heart and palest as it grows away. It branches out, a massive patch of color across grey skin following from his sternum to his individual ribs.
It was his ribs, he realizes. His heart almost burst him open. The fear clutches inside his chest, nearly palpable.
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ The thought drifts as a feminine hiss. Then leaves, forgotten.
Sean blinks, and shakes his head. Giving one last worried glimpse at himself he turns, approaches the sink to cleanse.
Sean has learned to be very gentle when he washes himself. Even now, his throat and cheeks tug and resist when he runs his hands over them to rinse. His body is perpetually threatening to tear, like thin paper. Yet…
Some of these sores have closed, and those regions of gaping and cavernous pores already do feel much smoother and uniform under his fingers. It’s not to say that he suddenly has mortal skin; there are still new ones, oozing little dots gracing his temples. Still, fewer than before.
When he presses a bloody fingernail (more claw-like than before, he notices with fleeting worry) into his forearm, the flesh is still too soft, parting all-too easily. The wound wells up quickly around his finger. It streams, splitting into two rivulets down to his wrist, brighter and wetter than ever. Stings, still. He sucks air through his teeth at that, quickly withdrawing his nail.
So he might be recovering at a faster rate, but he’s still too easy to harm. He’ll still have to be careful.
He gets ready for the night. New bandages, sure to be soaked again in new time. Clean vestments. A kiss and a whisper to his crucifix, beads wrapped across his fingers.
“Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us…”
He gingerly steps over the discarded spine and shoulders of Johnny Evans (torn apart by a more wild Skal of the docks and found by him in scraps long after, God rest his soul), and locks the door behind him as he leaves.
Sean looks slightly more like a man battered and bleeding and torn and dying, than a man who’s been long dead. God is good.
This new blood gives him so much energy. For the early hours of the night, his mind completely shuts out all inference about who it even came from and the circumstances surrounding it.
It was only but a week ago that he had collapsed in the depth of night into his shelter, the infirm and suffering Mrs. Jones’ arm slung across his newly-undead shoulders. He hadn’t taken so much as a foot outside into moonlight since. Until tonight, that is.
It’s brazen. Foolhardy. Opening those big wooden doors and stepping out through the front? Suicidal, even.
Or it would have been suicidal, if the Guard of Priwen who were conspicuously sniffing around his premises but a night ago were still here. Which, thank the Lord, they weren’t. The only movement here is the nightly goings-on of those who visit the shelter – groups of people hunched around fires, families sleeping around the tents. Nothing sinister nor (un-) life-threatening.
As he makes his way to the gates, he gets friendly little nods of recognition from his flock. A respectful ‘father’, two ‘sir’s. What a relief to see that even after all this, he still isn’t a pariah.
Before he leaves, he does pause to greet one figure – she’s hunched up over a small fire, bundled thickly in woolen rags, facing away from him.
Sean stops a few paces behind her, and speaks in a quiet and measured tone so not to startle her. “Ms. Jules.”
He can see her perk up, swiveling only her head to glance over her shoulder. Ms. Miriam Jules was but one of several rough senior women who frequent his sanctuary, taking some reprieve from their lives on the streets. She was, at the least, a fair bit more approachable and kind than some of the others. Not that he would blame the others for not being forthcoming, of course, knowing what little he does about their lives.
“Why. Hullo, father,” she cheerfully croaks. She continues to face away from him, rubbing cold gloved hands over the tall flame. “Good to see you finally out and about the church.”
He nods, giving her a warm smile. “Happy to get some fresh air.” Then, feeling the unnecessary need to justify himself, he adds: “I’ve been very busy, you know.”
“I bet you were, father,” he says. Her cheery expression doesn’t change, but he can see her eyes darting to and fro, skimming across his face.
The question of ‘what’s that supposed to mean?’ almost makes its way out of Sean’s lips, but he manages to restrain himself. He’s really just thankful that she’s not asking any questions about his own visage. He pushes on, as casually as he can, and asks her, “You happen to see any of those Priwen boys here tonight, ma’am?”
It takes her a moment, a quick glance at the sky as she parses through her memory. “Nah, I haven’t seen a single one of ‘em around today at all.” A pause, and the eye he can see narrows. “Why, do you need ‘em right now?”
“No.” That came out a bit more forceful than he’d like. Sean sheepishly smiles, and shakes his head. “No. No, I just,” he waves, trying to buy some time as his mind whirls, “was, erm, wondering if – where they’d –”
“Must’ve found whatever horrible creature they were lookin’ for last night,” she speaks over him, clearly bored by his fumbling. “One of those awful little beasties lurking in the alleys during these dark times. There are so many of the damned things I…”
“They must’ve, ma’am,” he says, backing away quickly. “God be with you.”
So, that partially answers Sean’s immediate question: The hunters had been warded away from here. Not by him, surely; as far as he knows, he’s spent most of last night unconscious and did not accomplish anything notable before then.
‘The damnable doctor,’ goes that voice again. It – she?– whispers impatiently, as if it? she were trying to wring the truth from his brain.
Once again, he ignores it – his thoughts. He’ll worry about the patrol change later. For now, he’s thankful that he’s not in immediate danger of a garlic-smeared bullet the second he walks outside.
The way his body is this second, getting around the docks is shockingly effortless. Even before his current condition (he hadn’t dare to say affliction, for he should see it as a God-given gift) getting around the docks could be complicated, was still dangerous. The narrow nooks and crannies between the partitioned-off loading areas and warehouses gave plenty of places for some ill-mannered thugs to wait for an ambush. Really his reputation as the Sad Saint had saved his constitution more times than he could count.
He melds quite naturally now into the shadows, and with this newfound vigor can move silently and quickly behind both ravenous vampire and watchful hunter alike. It does help him that they’re both distracted by each other, too. From a distance, he watches small groups of those men desperately yelling at one another as they wield cross and flamethrower against the crowds of snarling, scrabbling, flailing beasts. Pity wells in him at the vague thought that those are people’s sons, fathers and brothers being torn by the rabid Skals – but he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it. He looks away, and always moves forward. After all, any intervention by him would only result in his own death (as one of the Skals, voracious or not) and no net gain.
On the handful of occasions that someone does notice him (a group of Skals blindly behind the corner he didn’t notice, the Guard descending from a fire escape above him), he uses his newly God-given abilities to escape.
The first time is naturally the biggest shock: At the sound of a bullet whizzing thinly past his ear accompanied by a boisterous yell of, “You! Stop right there!” he panics. Sean lurches forward and away from the noise so quickly, he feels as if he’s tripping over his own feet. For a brief moment, he acknowledges how silly it is, him dying of clumsiness and a hail of bullets.
Instead of planting his face to the floor, however, it’s as if his body pushes itself forward. Horizontally. The world flies past him in a rush of smoke, and the world seems to explode around him in dark dust. He ends up many more meters away from them, as if he’s run forward for thirty seconds. Emboldened by his success and the increasingly fading voices yelling, “The leech is getting away!” it becomes far too easy to do it again, and again, and again until they’re long gone.
Sean embraces and even downright enjoys becoming this nocturnal, darting creature. To move about the city this way, quietly and quickly, is so effortless that any fear that he holds quickly evaporates.
He fearlessly maneuvers to the east, then north of the Thames as he checks off tasks that should (but couldn’t) have been done a week ago:
Across the docks, there are a slew of households which he can finally check up on. Well-meaning, vulnerable people – widows, the elderly and the infirm.
The first household he approaches is that of Mr. Wiśniewski’s, a middle-aged fisherman who had recently lost his wife and child to the epidemic. His little shack by the pier is brightly lit with strung lights, and he answers the door almost immediately when he knocks. He’s obviously a very lonely fellow, but he seems cheerful enough and not of any harm to himself; a month ago, that was a little less certain. They speak about his recent catches for about ten minutes while Sean tries to delicately inquire about his current mental state. He pushes away persistent offers of jarred mackerel, and wishes him a good night as he goes on his way.
Otherwise, few families and individuals are awake at this hour. For the most part he neither wants nor needs to disturb them: A quick glance across the premises, a quick peek in a window (mindful of privacy; just to ensure there isn’t the remains of some sort of scuffle or a nest) and his innate sense of the lives inside is just enough to know of their safety.
There are but a handful of households which are awake at these hours; he stops by, chatting across the cautious crack of the door. The Banerjees tell him that they need blankets, coats for their exposed home. Mrs. Utkin’s pantry is running dangerously low, and she hasn’t the will to step outside. Mr Hely hasn’t seen Mrs. Hely since she ran out for bread – that one is a real concern. He nods, and writes all their needs on a pad to deal with later.
While there is a flicker of concern across people’s faces as they speak, not a single soul verbally calls into question his appearance. It’s a relief, but a curiosity: He intends to ask Bridget about it the next time he sees her.
Three households he visits have… fallen. His demeanor falters more and more as he encounters each one.
The last time he saw the Maolmhuaidhs, no later than two weeks ago, their son Timothy was suffering a fever. Now, he watches from a safe vantage point as Skals crawl in and out of the ramshackle apartment building, having at least displaced the eight families there – if not worse.
The Booth family’s home, along with the two flanking townhouse, has been simply been reduced to an impermeable rubble. No life stirs there, human or otherwise.
The young Miss Green’s home is neither destroyed nor occupied, but she is conspicuously absent. It wouldn’t have been too unusual – young women in this part of town tend to do as they please – if not for the fact that her neighbors seem to be out of their home this night as well. Sean resolves to have someone else check up on them during the day; he’ll pray for their safety, in the meantime.
By the time he reaches the end of his rounds and begins to make his way back, the blood-initiated euphoria is well-fading. The guilt for his inaction, the wrenching compassion for the people of this city trickles back and settles comfortably into its well-worn bed within his conscience.
As he walks, blinks as dust in the night, the memories of yesterday begin to rear up. Unwelcome.
Sean doesn’t recall who was his meal, other than that he was civil enough to have their offal on a plate – was it a kidney? He does recall, however, Dr. Reid’s unexpected reaction. He can feel it still. Righteous indignation. Disgust. Fury. A curled lip as he hisses, “Are you eating raw flesh?”
There are no stars in this sky. London’s smog is all-encompassing. Sean tries to divert his attention as he plods across cobblestones. He feels… embarrassed.
Reid spoke ill of these ‘monsters’ underneath his sanctuary, as if he were fattening up his flock for their consumption. As if they were not people, doing their best to survive just as the day-dwellers. Mortals and non-immortals, under the watchful eyes of God. Yet, the way the doctor spoke of him. In that moment, Sean felt lower than him. Power wrenched away.
“– not lifeless flesh –” The sheer superiority, as if his sustenance was some sort of abomination rather than a necessity, what God commands of him.
“– the urges, your hunger – ” Not an inkling of trust, nor compassion. It is clear that in the doctor’s eyes, his logic and education grants him so much more willpower than Sean’s faith. But he knows himself, and he knows the Lord wouldn’t…
“ – can’t imagine God intended for you to be – ” No. To use that as a weapon on his psyche was – it hurts, still, to remember hearing it. Makes him press his nails into the soft, flensing palm of his flesh. Scrapes himself ragged, lets the skin hang between bandages.
And Sean remembers his mouth watering at the sharp spray of scent into the air, as Dr. Reid tore open his wrist with his own claws…
It’s a little bit careless how roughly Sean flung open the wooden doors, but the ambiance of the Turquoise Turtle is a much welcomed reprieve from his snowballing memories. Sheepishly, he turns to close the doors gently behind him.
The pub is the same as it’s been for years. Clean enough and smelling strongly of old wood, tobacco smoke, and mostly acceptable beer. Tom used to be more generous with the candles; now, the dimness of the place has become part of its character. Surely must cost less as well.
“Why, if it ain’t the Sad Saint!” says Mr. Watts. He waves a hand clutching a dirty rag from across the bar, giving a crooked grin. “Happy to see you out dragged yourself out of Pembroke.”
This place is a little more busy than the last few times he’s stopped by, actually. There are two tables with groups of men he doesn’t recognize – four scruffy ones playing dice, the other table chatting enthusiastically over a pitcher. A few acknowledge his presence with a nod of their head, a raise of their pint.
Miss Cavendish, dutiful and focused as always, is tending to a recently vacated third table. She lifts her head at Tom’s voice and straightens up. “Indeed,” she agrees. Sabrina may not smile, but her voice and demeanor both take on a certain warmness. “Hello, father.”
“Mr. Watts. Miss Cavendish.” Sean bows his head in acknowledgement. “Good to see you folks doing well.” He lifts his head, and gestures to the patrons. He adds, “Pleased to see you’ve managed to find some business, too.”
Tom nods, giving a glance over his shoulder at the small crowd. “We’ve been blessed with a few seats, yeah.”
“Folk passing through?” he asks, curious.
“Folk passing through. Ain’t for looking a gift horse in the mouth.” Tom and Sabrina exchange a quick look, then she goes back to scrubbing the table. Sean recognizes that look. Probably code for ‘we’re not keen to ask, and we don’t need to know’.
Tom looks back at him, expectantly. “Anything we can do for you, father?”
Sean shakes his head. While the environment is comfortably familiar, he’s beginning to feel a little… awkward. He fidgets with his bandaged fingers.
“Taking a walk around the neighborhood. Figure I’d stop by and check up on everyone. Can’t imagine you need a hand with anything?”
“No, we’re just peachy at the Turtle.” An exaggeration, but they do seem fine. He gestures to a tap. “Could I at least offer you a drink? You’ve had a rough one as of late, what with the hospital and all.”
Ah. One of the types of moments he regrets being like this. A life ago, he would’ve eagerly hopped on the opportunity to have at least a pilsner. Now, even the smell of booze is making him a little nauseous. A real pity.
“No, no. I appreciate your generosity,” he raises his hands, shakes his head insistently, “but I’m fine.”
Tom’s eyebrows raise up immediately. “What, Father Sean Hampton turning down a free pint? What’s the world coming to?”
“Afraid so,” Sean shrugs. For some reason, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to meet Tom’s eyes.
“Well, fair ‘nuff. Anyways, I think the doctor was looking for –”
Sean immediately cuts him off, raising his voice over him. “Has Mr. Delaney dropped in anywhere tonight?”
Unaffected by the interruption, Tom gestures to the door at the other side of the pub. “Dyson’s drinking out the back. I reckon it would be good for him to see you.”
“May the Lord bless and protect you,” he says. He begins to pace past the bar, giving Sabrina a last wave. She doesn’t look up at him.
“Be seeing you, Sad Saint.” Tom’s voice follows him, uncharacteristically soft.
True to Tom’s word, Dyson Delaney is sagged against the wooden paneling at the back of the pub. His cheeks are red from the flush of alcohol, and he’s holding a bottle loosely against his belly – an empty one, Sean can tell. It’s upside-down.
The usual emotions fill Sean at seeing him: Pity, disappointment. A man who used to be so filled with ideals reduced to this. He crouches in front of him, and wordlessly takes the bottle from his hand and sets it to his side.
Dyson fixates on him with a hazy, begrudging glare. He slurs, “Whaddya want, father?”
“Just making sure you’re not choking on your own vomit,” he says. “I’ve seen you have better nights, Mr. Delaney.”
“You look like shit yourself,” he spits back at him. At least he’s looking more awake, now. “Sad Saint, looking like he’s been on the cross for a month.”
That’s a first. It’s not nice, but he’s the first living person to point out the obvious: Sean isn’t not looking his normal self.
“Fucking bleeding all over the place,” Dyson murmurs, and his eyes glaze. His eyes glaze, head drifts to the side. When Sean reaches to shake his shoulder, he snaps back at focus and weakly bats his hand away. “Don’t you goddamn touch me.”
“Fine, fine,” Sean says. He clasps his hands, suddenly a little self-conscious about their state.
For a few moments, they look at each other. Dyson pipes up: “Doc’s been looking for you.”
“I’m aware,” he says, not holding back his frown.
“So…” Dyson chews on his lip. This is how it usually goes: Dyson is angry at him for calling out his drunkenness for a few minutes, and goes back to begrudgingly liking him. “Did you two talk?”
Well, yes. Of course; the Ekon is a bloodhound. But he feels suddenly flustered by the line of questioning
“Did you two talk?” he asks instead, deflecting the question. It’s been on his mind, remembering how Dr. Reid plied his mind and confidence with his history. Thinking about it just makes him relive his discomfort.
Dyson nods.
“Did you tell him where the shelter was, Mr. Delaney?”
Dyson’s eyebrows press low, and he adopts a scowl at the accusation. “What? No.”
“Bearing false witness is a sin,” Sean warns.
“I ain’t goddamn lying. The man’s got a way with worming his way into your head, but I didn’t tell him anything about you.”
That’s true. Dr. Reid does have a way with worming inside one’s head. To make one spill every secret, to act on a compulsion that isn’t one’s own.
‘Remember how he made a sacrilege of the communion? Mocking your faith, whilst making you feed?’
With some desperation, he asks what’s been on his mind for the past hour: “Did you tell him about my past?”
It takes a moment for Dyson’s brain to catch up to what he’s alluding to. When it does, though, he rolls his eyes. “Christ, father. It ain’t news to anyone around here about you got –”
“Don’t,” Sean begs, more than warns.
Dyson does bite his tongue, at least. Instead, he slowly concludes: “About your bad past an’ all. No, I didn’t tell him nothin’.”
The sentiment does hurt, a little. But, he recognizes, it’s fair. As much as Sean struggles with Dyson – the guilt of saving him physically, but not him as a person, let alone his soul – he’s among the least likely to betray him.
“I believe you,” he says, quietly.
“It don’t matter to me if you do,” Dyson lies plainly to both their ears.
Sean straightens up, wincing as his knees both make an unpleasant crack! as he stands. Looking down on Dyson, he tells him: “Would be happy to have you at the shelter again.”
Dyson scoffs, looking away from him and towards the tipped bottles. That’s not a ‘no’, at least.
One day, maybe…
On his way back to the shelter, the memory plays out in his head, over and over and over. His powerlessness, yielding to Dr. Reid’s glamours, the wrist pressing unwanted against his lips…
‘What a shame that had to happen…’ she whispers, taunting him.
Sean finds them, or at least some of them. The Priwen men who were staking out his place. Their mangled, bloody bodies are in a widespread pile underneath the eastern flock flanking the shelter.
They’ve been clearly half-eaten by some wild Skals, some more than others. One is torn apart entirely at the waist, his entrails stringing loosely in the sand. For some others, gaping bites expose muscle through their clothing – as if the Skals hadn’t bothered to tear away their clothing, taking mouthfuls of cotton as they feasted. Claw marks across chests, red zig-zags glinting in moonlight.
They’ve clearly been interrupted; Sean isn’t going to wait long for them to return. He approaches one displaced slightly away from most of the other corpses, which he can immediately tell is in better condition.
The body is that of a young man, couldn’t be past his mid-twenties. His face is caught in a permanent contortion of fear, mouth hanging open in what appears to be his final scream. Very carefully, he reaches and closes his mouth, lowers his eyelids with a swoop of his fingers.
“And the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God who gave it,” Sean whispers.
Past the superficial scratches of the Skals, he spots it. Two deep blooms of red centered around – he reaches to his chest – one, two holes in his vestments.
Quickly, he gives a cautious glance around. Undoes the bandages on his right hand (they’re soaked by now, anyway), then touches one of the openings on his chest. With the cavity already pierced, it’s easy to dig into it. He plies his claw into the space in the ribs that has been fragmented into shards of bone, sliding the rest of his finger in the space it makes. The bullet that he expected is nestled rather shallowly into the tissue of a blood-ridden lung; he hums in affirmation as he spoons it out with a curl of his claw. The innocuous little bullet hole is now a fair bit wider with his manipulation, and he holds the crushed little projectile between his thumb and forefinger.
Wild Skals weren’t the ones getting the jump on these folk.
‘The Ekon. The doctor…’
“Maybe,” he murmurs to himself. Sean puts the bullet and his fingers into his mouth, polishing the bloody pulp off of them with his saliva. Then, wiping them off on the boy’s pants, he slips it into his chest pocket.
Evidence, he supposes, though he doesn’t know next to anything about the difference between one bullet and another.
There’s nobody around – he checks again – and it isn’t too far to the safety to his shelter, the more obscured entrance.
Well. Waste not, want not.
He drags the body through the sand by its ankles.
Taking a very short detour into the sewers, he’s able to haul the corpse without event or trouble to his night shelter. He’s switched from dragging it to carrying it in front of him with his arms hooked under its armpits, grunting whenever he’s tasked with some vertical ascent.
He’s not hungry, of course, but more insurance is better. Rot and decay, as he now finds, doesn’t bother him much.
Kicking the sewer gate behind him, he walks into his private sanctuary ready to set him down and rest.
“I see you haven’t changed your behavior, Sean.”
He jumps in his shoes, dropping the poor boy. The body makes a gentle thump! as it folds limply onto the floor.
Sean turns, and blindly stumbles back to hit the back of his thighs against a stone slab.
Dr. Jonathan Reid is standing there in front of him, apparently having been waiting for him at the corner where he entered. There’s this terrible, cold expression on his face.
Sean recognizes it, for he shot the same look to Dyson but thirty minutes ago. Abject disappointment.
“I sincerely thought you’d find satiety from what I’ve given you,” he tells him, lowly.
Sean feels suddenly flustered, his heart beginning to race. He insists, “I am satisfied.”
“Really?” he asks, his voice poised in the lilt of false innocence. “Who is this, then? A parishioner who’s lost his way?”
“I think he’s one of yours, actually.” There’s a moment of him nearly shrinking under Dr. Reid’s inscrutable gaze, but he suddenly remembers. Fishes for the tiny bullet in his pocket, holds it up to the lamplight.
The doctor looks at it for but a moment, then back at him. Unfortunately, he looks completely unperturbed by being confronted by it.
“Yes, the bullet is mine.”
“I thought so,” Sean says, feeling a little swell of pride with the (minimal) detective-work.
“As you well know,” the doctor speaks slowly and patiently, “the Guard of Priwen show no mercy with immortals.”
The pride quickly fades. Sean can see where this is going.
“You were in immediate danger. You and I might be able to get away with approaching the common man, but to those inquisitors we are nothing if not very obviously feigning life.”
Sean’s hand, the one clutching the bullet up, begins to tremble.
“In my search for you, they attacked me. I did not feed on them. I swear to God.” The last utterance is delivered so shallowly and so insincerely that it would almost be funny to Sean. Very close to it.
“That’s meaningless, coming from you.” His voice comes out weak, ineffectual. “You’ve no qualms with deception and blasphemy. I know this well.”
Reid doesn’t respond to that with anything, other than a tilt of his head. He takes a step forward. Sean takes a step back – or would, if he weren’t pressed against the examination table.
Reid takes another slow, deliberate step forward. By the time Sean’s brain catches up and his body realizes he should step to the side – which he does, trying to dart around the slab – Reid has traversed the distance with tremendous speed, catching Sean’s wrist and yanking hard. Sean’s body jerks in his direction, pain radiating as he can feel the weak pocket of connective tissue partially tearing at the force. He yelps, from both the surprise and the sharp tear.
The doctor squeezes his wrist, quite hard; the bullet falls from Sean’s hand into his other one, where he summarily tosses it onto the floor.
Now, Reid is seething. His teeth are bared, his ice-blue eyes narrowed.
“Look at you! You are flushed with my blood, yet you smuggle in yet another corpse to cannibalize! Why?!”
There it is.
Dr. Reid can tear his impulses from his chest and ring them dry. The feeling is that of an unwilling surrender, clawing back at his own consciousness trying to get back some modicum of control. He can feel his mind bend, and warp, scramble to obey; he fears getting in the way of it, for what it may do to his sanity.
(And he fears the exhilaration he feels at that; the inner fight, of trying and losing.)
Past his own gritted teeth, he says, “While I am sated, I don’t think this feeling is eternal. ‘And when they had eaten their fill, he told his disciples, Gather up the leftover fragments, that –’”
“Enough,” Reid commands, voice raised over him. Sean almost bites his tongue trying to do so. He speaks in a rushed hiss with tangible irritation, “Do you not understand what I am trying to accomplish here? Is it that opaque to you, why I have fed you in the first place? Have I not made that abundantly clear to you?”
“You’ve clearly come to bully me and exert your will over my own, doctor.” Is his face red? It feels hot. His own fingers are posed loosely over his palm; Reid is still squeezing him hard, as if he were still holding the bullet. “Would you please let go of me?”
As expected, he doesn’t. Instead, he continues his indignant rambling: “You’ve been turned into the creature you are with the same blood which had doomed your friend to madness –”
“I’ve known the Sewer Skals for –”
“Don’t interrupt me. The Skals that I have met in the sewers have been in existence for decades, or perhaps longer. Your genesis has occurred in the midst of an epidemic of madness and violence, a sickness that has left hundreds of victims – more, likely – completely mindless after relatively variable gestation periods. You are not safe. Your faith does not make you an exception, it makes you into some… blind fool!”
Sean is aware enough now to recognize that he is right in some respects; his fate is not guaranteed to be that of the older Skals. They, too, have whispered about how hate clings to these new bodies. That they themselves have never felt the absent interest that he tried to articulate… his own fleeting, albeit controllable, interest in the flesh of the living.
The denigrations on his faith are nonetheless not appreciated.
“The only person damning you is yourself, Dr. Reid. You spoil your own soul. It is written in scripture that eternal life is the greatest gift that the Lord would grant us, and yet you label it as a curse upon your own spirit.”
“No. I label it as the affliction it is,” Reid shoots back at him. “Regardless, I haven’t come here to debate theology with you.”
“Please let go of my wrist.”
He pointedly ignores Sean. “Stop the nonsense with this…” Reid gestures, widely, at the strewn bone and butchered bodies surrounding them. “Macabre morgue. You put yourself in danger of exposure. This is too close to the mortals you care for, the hunters sniffing you out. This is not sustainable.”
“How else would I sustain myself?” Sean asks him, defensively. The thought of putting all this work in establishing ready access to food so he doesn’t starve – throwing it all away?
“Must I hammer this into your head? I, myself, will regularly feed you.”
“No. No.”
The panic is there, fluttering in his chest, batting against his bruised, beaten lungs.
“Father Hampton, have you not reaped the benefit from my blood? Frankly, you look positively brimming with vigor.” Sean’s breath hitches, as he feels the pad of Reid’s thumb press insistently on the flesh of his inner wrist. “I can feel it in your pulse.”
“I… I do feel better now, yes. But it was quite an unpleasant experience.” Sean only admits it begrudgingly; after all, his blood has done him good. Only physically. He adds, “Please let go of me.”
Reid’s thumb now strokes his wrist, reassuringly. His heart pounds; he loathes faux kindness more than abject cruelty. “It will be less of an unpleasant experience with regularity,” he says, quietly.
“I’m not going to just,” he struggles to find the words, ones that aren’t so… intimate or implicating or crude to himself, “resign myself to being force-fed by the likes of you on a regular basis. As if you were one of those, ah, tubes they shove in the throats of geese –”
“A gavage. You’re thinking of foie gras.”
“– it doesn’t matter! I didn’t ask for you to give me your blood. I don’t intend to change my mind after that point.”
Reid shakes his head. He quietly says, “You seem to mistake me giving you an option, father.”
Sean looks at him. The top layer: Hurt. Then angry. Then helpless. There’s this female voice in his head going ‘spit in his eyes, bite him’. He’s pushing down the deepest sentiment that he somehow both loathes and enjoys this, which he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
“This is monstrous,” he says, simply.
“No,” Reid assures him. He lets go of his hand – finally – only to grab both of his shoulders and shake him, face close. “This is necessary.”
Face hot, he tries to turn his head away.
“This is the only way I can ensure the docks don’t fall to the epidemic. You are their anchor. You are their pillar. I intend to care for you as such.”
“Do you really regard this as care, doctor?” Sean asks, his heart hasn’t stopped racing. He feels – dizzy, delicate.
“I do,” he says. There’s something finally sincere in his voice; a pleading reassurance. If he was a preacher rather than a doctor… “You’ll see.”
Sean doesn’t want to see. Or – he does. He doesn’t know.
Reid’s breath is lukewarm on his cheek. The hands clutching his shoulders are better than the one clasping his now black-and-blue wrist, but he still feels claustrophobic. Constrained by him.
Suddenly, Jonatan asks, “Would you let me listen to your chest, Sean?”
Sean blinks. It irritates him, the audacity of him even asking. “No. Why? I’m not going to be your subject of medical examination.”
“I think I still see some irregularities with you. Signs. It would help me decide as to whether I should give an additional infusion.”
“Another – an infusion? You’re forcing me to consume your blood you – !” Bastard. He doesn’t say it, but he should. God strike him down.
Reid’s left hand releases his shoulder, raises to cup his cheek. Sean doesn’t know if he wants to lean in, or jerk his head away. Instead, Reid exerts some pressure – tilts his head so that he’s made to look him in his piercing, infinite eyes.
“Unbutton your shirt,” he commands.
“No,” Sean says. His eyes are wide. His hands clutch by his sides.
“Let me listen to your chest. Now.”
His fingers – slick and red, still perpetually bleeding, muscle flensed – raise to try to ply apart those tiny buttons, but they slip and slide ineffectually as he fumbles with their delicate construction.
Reid, watching, either feels some pity for him or simply loses patience very quickly. “I’ll assist with that,” His hands release to move to quickly undo the buttons of his undershirt.
Sean stands there, embarrassed and somewhat defeated, as Reid reveals inches and inches of his torso. His cold fingers tickle against his bare skin. Sean shudders.
It’s only the top part of his chest – he doesn’t even bother removing his jacket, or his vest – but the exposure and the intimacy of the moment is making him feel warm, deeply uncomfortable.
Then, Reid presses his ear to the bare skin at the top of his chest. It’s the junction where the joint of his neck meets the collarbone; the top of his head rests just under his chin.
“Breathe,” he reminds him. Sean tries his best; it’s hard to remember how, in this moment.
A moment of this. Then, across to the other side. He can feel his nose pressing into his chest, a set of eyelashes fluttering against his skin as he considers.
An inch down. Sean breathes more forcefully. Another switch of sides. He thinks about what would happen if he grabbed his head, right now. Then he asks himself what’s wrong with him.
Reid has to tug at the edges of his shirt to expose more skin as he slides his ear yet another inch. Sean wants to hold his breath, here, afraid to exhale and press into Reid’s cheek. He does it anyway. Sean spends more time here than any other. He can even feel him trying to dig his face into his skin, to somehow get closer to the source of the noise.
It couldn’t have been more than two minutes, this process, but it feels torturously long. “That’s enough,” Reid says. He lifts his head away from him, and now takes a step back. No grips, no holds. Sean stands still against the slab, and Reid looks at him with an expression that he could only call worrying.
“You’re having some sort of… irregular flutter,” Reid says. Maybe not worrying. Suspicious? “And your lungs sound pneumonic in a way I don’t particularly like.”
Sean watches him tug the sleeve of his jacket up. It’s not a surprise this is how it ended up. This was inevitable, he thinks.
“The less of William Bishop’s blood in you and the more of mine,” he explains, rolling his up to his elbow, “the better you will be. I’m sure of it.”
Not just inevitable, he realizes. This is what the doctor came here for.
‘Feast. Consume. Tear him from his wrist to his throat. Make him suffer. Suckle the marrow from his ribs.’
Who are you, even? No.
Reid uses his teeth this time, not his claws. He bites narrowly at the outer palm-to-wrist junction, then tears it diagonally in and downwards with a quick jerk of his head – done in seconds. When he takes his wrist away from his face, Sean can see it dribble off of his lips, down his chin. It has sprayed fine droplets across his right cheek in a way that looks purposeful, beautiful.
That rich, aged copper scent hangs seductively in the air. It’s becoming more difficult to think. He’s salivating.
“Let us not play this game again,” Reid says. His wrist is extended low in front of him, inviting. “You know what to do.”
“I,” Sean stammers, “no, not again, I –. ”
“Kneel and drink, Sean,” he insists.
“I kneel only before my Lord, in holy devotion, I…” the world is turning a hazy, floaty red. His words become lost to his own ears.
“You will kneel in front of me, now.” Reid’s voice is low, dark. Sean is drowning in it. “Devote yourself to me. Drink.”
Legs collapse from under him, as if he were struck behind his knees. Reid’s other hand reaches first, tangling itself in his hair and tilting his head up.
With one of the lamps positioned behind him on the shelving, Reid’s head is illuminated in such a way that it’s almost as if he has a dark, dim halo.
“Drink from me,” he nearly purrs. When his wrist is brought just adjacent to his lips, Sean’s vision goes red entirely.
He does more than drink. He bites.
Sean can’t see, but he can hear and feel. He feels the scrabble of his own teeth against the bone of the doctor’s wrist, the feeling of those tiny little veins catching in between the incisors of his own teeth. He relishes the feeling, the wet burst and the pop of them as he tears them away. Then, Reid’s initial shocked yell, his visceral gasps of pain as he drinks, as he chews..
The blind ecstacy of Ekon blood, and his welling of savage anger when the doctor digs his fingers into his scalp and wrenches Sean’s head away from his wrist.
This time, though, he’s not left catatonic. He’s panting with the exertion, gasping as red runs down his chin, his neck. His fingers scrabble at his own knees, desperate for leverage. His eyes can’t focus, though; they’re criss-crossing, as he struggles to re-orient his vision.
In the blur of things, he can see Dr. Reid has turned away from him. He’s murmuring to himself, working hurriedly over the bench with something.
Every single moment grants Sean an inkling more sanity. He wants more, until he doesn’t. He relishes the heat coursing through his body, until it repulses him. The blood and tissue running down his face is a luxury, until it is obscene. Why did he do that? Why did he go that far?
Knees still week, Sean reaches up to grab the stone table with a hand. He uses it for leverage to drag himself up. When he realizes he can’t seem to stand on his own accord, he sits on it and closes his eyes. Lets himself catch his own breath, lower his own heartrate. He feels positively suffused with blood, like a fat and happy leech…
Reid’s hand touches his knee. His eyes fling upon.
His arm is held out, bandaged in the white vestments of the slain Priwen. He shakes it in front of Sean’s face, looking more bewildered than angry. “Why did you do this?”
Sean’s eyes flit back and forth between his arm to Reid’s face. He shrugs.
“Why did you do this?” he pushes again, probing his mind for an answer – as if he needs one.
“It was a mindless compulsion,” he admits, but he thought it was obvious. “It gave me pleasure,” he adds, and his eyebrows furrow at his own implication.
“A compulsion,” the doctor echoes. “You do understand this is proof as to why I should keep a close eye on you, yes? Isn’t this evidence enough for regular feeding?”
Still breathing hard through his nose, he shakes his head. “I am never going to do it willingly.”
Reid scoffs, his patience running thin. The blood is already dotting through the cloth wraps. “Enough with this nonsense. This play. It only may go so far.”
“Play?” Sean echoes. His mind hums, hot and red and barely kit together.
“Please. I’ve indulged you until now.” When Sean continues to stare at him incomprehensibly, he gives an irritated sigh. “Are you feigning ignorance for your own morality? To maintain your self-imposed image of tortured innocence? Or do you sincerely believe this act of yours?”
There’s this undefinable, unpleasant constriction in his chest. Emotions well. He doesn’t tear – not in front of him – but if he were alone, he would.
“If this is what is needed for me to keep you under my wing, I will do it. But please, I beg of you: Do not make this more even more difficult than it needs to be.”
“Are you…” It’s becoming difficult to speak. “Accusing me of something, Dr. Reid?”
“Stop this,” Reid immediately commands. His other hand touches his knee; he is braced above him, looking down at him indignantly. “I have been reborn as a being of blood, and of impulse. The alterations in heart and your bloodflow are stark to me to me as if they were marked on snow. I can feel it on the tip of my tongue: Your trepidation, your longing, your need. Tell me you don’t enjoy this.”
“I… Lord, I don’t know.” That is the truth. Sean does know his anger is real, he should have been listened to, his discomfort was not an illusion – but the guilt, the embarrassment of being perceived in the way he was. It weighs on him. His shoulders sag.
Reid leans in, his face but a few inches away from his. Sean freezes, fixated on the drying freckles of red projected on his cheek. Blood still rings his mouth and chin.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his tone low. It plays on him, pulls on his strings. He cannot think. The only thing between them is a thin buffer of hot air, and blood marking them both.
Then, Reid closes the distance. He tilts his head, lips locking Sean’s slack ones.
Sean’s conscious mind tries to process this; it rends him still, like a terrified rabbit. When the blood hits his palate, he acts. Mirrors the movement of Reid’s lips, thrives in the unfamiliar and harsh scratch of his beard on his own. They ply each other open, mouths wide and hot and hungry against each other. It’s not just the blood rending him mad: There’s a feralness to this, a lust that he does not admit to himself except for the rare quiet, lustful moment alone. His hands bunch up in the lapels of Reid’s coat, smearing brightly across the tidy leather and wool.
He had only been kissed twice before; two young lasses in his adolescence, well before he took his vows. It was the sweet, cloying romance that children have – nothing like this. His vows…
Sean breaks away first, swallowing desperately at air he doesn’t need. Looks away, down and to the side. He feels hot, spiraling out of control.
“Sean?” Reid’s voice is tight as well, his own hunger palpable through it.
Sean doesn’t answer. His fingers tighten more on Reid’s collar.
“Tell me what you want.”
A shaky breath.
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want to be touched,” Sean says, automatically. Then his eyebrows knit, and he stammers, “I. Wait, I don’t know, I…”
Nonetheless he yields, and raises his head when the doctor nudges his head underneath his chin. Reid is pressing his face to his chest where he first checked his breath – now, instead of his ear, it’s the whole of his face. His lips catch loosely on the skin bared by the parting of his shirt. He drags it loosely down his body, catching the edge of his pectoral and then allowing his lips to drift across the clothed part of his torso, his vest. Sean lets go of his coat, and allows him to drift lower.
He reminds himself: Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature: sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed, which is idolatry.
The buttons of his trousers are quickly undone by Dr. Reid’s quick fingers, but he cannot bring to himself to look at him. Instead, he opts to close his eyes, clutching his hands by his sides. He shakes, as he feels the doctor kiss the inch of skin revealed as he tugs his waistband down. It’s a gesture so gentle it makes him nauseous.
Then, Sean’s drawers are tugged down low. The cool chill of the cellar touches his exposed genitals (he’s half hard already, has been so for a while, God forgive him), and the hair on his skin stands at the sensation.
He holds his breath, screws his eyes shut.
Reid’s lips kiss his hardening length, far too gentle and purposeful. Sean gasps, as the lips open – lick a wide, meandering stripe from his base to his tip, then back down.
Sean looks down. Reid’s eyes look up at him, tinged with hazy dark lust as he pleases him with his tongue. His prick is pale, framed against the dark scruff of his beard, the blood on his cheeks, the pink of Reid’s warm mouth. Reid himself is on his knees, hands still firmly clutching at Sean’s legs.
The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Sean closes his eyes again, cannot bare to witness this depravity more, for not seeing it makes it less real. When Dr. Reid rings his tongue across the head of his cock, and takes him into his mouth, the groan that erupts from his chest is unrestrained and wanton.
The sensation of Reid’s mouth engulfing him, sliding easily over him into his throat is – almost too much off the bat. He has to raise his own hand to his mouth to stifle himself, latches his sharpened Skal teeth so hard onto the cartilage of his knuckles that he can feel them quietly crack underneath his bite.
The sounds are filthy, indecent: His panting, groaning into his own hand, and the wet and deliberate sounds of Reid swallowing him up over and over and over. Sean can’t help himself; he begins to stutter his hips, desperate for release from the doctor’s leisurely, terribly slow pace. Reid’s quiet laugh, his pleased purr vibrate pleasurably around him.
It doesn’t take long for Sean to finish. Letting go of his own hand he gasps, “Oh, Christ.” His toes curl in his boots as he comes into Reid’s willing mouth, rocking his hips into his beard. He arches his back, scrabbles at the cool stone by his sides. The orgasm washes over him, and leaves him gasping.
The wet pop! of his moistened prick sliding out of the doctor’s mouth, the cool air touching his softening skin, brings him back to the moment. Reid’s hands leave his knees, his body pulls away. He opens his eyes.
The guilt it already settling in, he can feel it. He sits there uselessly, exposed and vulnerable as he watches Dr. Reid fumble in his pocket for something – a red kerchief. He wipes his chin, then carefully spits Sean’s fluids into it. Folds it neatly once, twice, then puts it back into his pocket.
Reid turns his head, and catches his eyes. His lips, his cheeks are flushed; Sean can see his chest rise, and fall. “Are you going to make yourself decent, or do you expect me to do it for you?”
“Oh,” he says, feeling himself flush in embarrassment. He puts himself away – now, too sensitive even to his own touch – buttons himself up, as well as the buttons of his shirt.
How many sins, he thinks, did he commit tonight? Breaking vows for his own bodily needs – is this going to be the routine?
The pleasure is quickly fading into self-disgust. Reid’s eyes may be still be filled with lust, but they’re regarding him critically. Sean glimpses him, from head to toe, and his eyes rest on his stiff, untouched groin. His eyes trace back up.
“Are you satisfied, now?” Reid asks, lowly.
Yes. But no. The question is insulting to him; he frowns at him, instead.
“I wish you didn’t do that,” Sean tells him. A partial truth. This warm, postcoital feeling is tempered by his own self-loathing. When he says it, his soul feels a little bit better.
Reid’s expression falls. A cold look settles to the corners of his eyes, his lips. He takes another step back.
“Of course, Father Hampton.” His voice is cool, disaffected, as if he didn’t just spit Sean’s come into a kerchief but two minutes ago. “I expect to be busy in the next night; I will see you the one afterwards.”
Sean looks at his own hands.
“In the meantime – and I do mean this – please clear this place. This is an unnecessary temptation, and as I mentioned before, an invitation to discovery. Do not obtain other sources of satiety when I am in London.”
He doesn’t watch him approach the door to his office, but he can hear his voice grow progressively faint as he walks. Careful steps make the wood creak.
“Yes. Dr. Reid.” Sean’s bitterness is unconcealed. “You make yourself abundantly clear.”
“Excellent,” Reid says simply, so quietly he can barely catch it.
The doorknob squeals, the door creaks open. A pause.
Sean raises his voice and says with the utmost sincerity: “God be with you, doctor.”
The door slams shut behind him.
Sean is left alone in his hidden alcove. Lust and blood heavy lie on his limbs. His own transgressions against the Lord skip continuously across his mind.
The voice of that she-devil, whoever she is, is silent after that. Her wicked songs of violence only raise up shortly before his next feeding.
She bitterly decries Sean as he makes short trips from his night shelter to the nearby entrance of the sewer. The Priwen boy, whoever he is, is dumped first. Rot has begun to distort his features, bloat under his eyes and the soft flesh of his throat. A pity, wasting it. The other Skals might appreciate it more than him.
Then the other half-butchered bodies, the limbs, the fragments of sinew and bone until there is nothing left.
The blood is washed clean with two hours of dutiful scrubbing, soap and water hauled from outside.
After all this, his night shelter is left clean and without fault, a simple place of rest. Immaculate. One could walk in and have no idea of the bodies split, flesh consumed, or the sin waged.
When he waits for Reid to arrive, his lips contort in prayers he does not speak aloud.