What was that saying, “You are what you eat?”
I laughed a little more due to the joke in my head. I offer an apologetic smile as she cuts away the rest of my shirt and uses it to clean up. We lay there in silence. Sweat from both of us mixing and forming swirls of the most intoxicating aroma.
To no one's surprise, the moment ends as elevated voices bounce off the stone walls. Crashes and bangs follow shortly after, interrupting what could have been my paradise. I recognize the deeper voice—Brennan. I knew then I had to get her out of here. Not because he might see her. No, I can't allow her to see him.
Chapter 20
Emory
"Intamacy is not just of the body, but thesoul--dare to be seen."
It’s been pure torture that I haven’t been able to, truly, touch him till now. It was only recently that I held his hand, and now this and whatever ‘this’ is… is intoxicating.
The control.
The intensity.
A strong, intimate connection, like a string tethering our souls to one another. I’ve never enjoyed causing someone pain—I’ve always been the peacemaker, fixing problems I was never originally a part of. I never had it in me to hurt another human or otherwise, but he wasn’t human, was he? No, he wasn’t. His body died a long timeago, and while his soul ages like top-shelf whiskey, his appearance prevails, unfazed by time.
With every wound of his I open, I feel one of mine close. A fleeting moment in time, and this man has made a mark on my heart. Not a smudge, which can be smeared over time. A deep laceration that would leave behind an ugly scar—one that would heal but would always remain. Slowly, he became the only real thing while everything else dematerialized and faded into the background. The world revolves around him and me in this moment. The way he feels in my mouth, his taste, the subtle sounds that escape him, all mesmerizing.
All this power should be illegal. The reactions this man has… are magnetic. When I suck, he moans. Rhapsodies of praise and elation radiate from deep within his core. Breaking away from him, I allot the right amount of suction to provide that satisfying pop on release.
Not even seconds after the sound echoes off the stone, I feel a sticky, hot, mucus-like substance hit my face. “Well, I’ll never say you’re a bad shot ever again.” My laughter is a difficult obstacle to talk through as he bursts into a giggling fit. I lean over, relieving him of the scraps that once formed his shirt, and use it to clean up the mess we made.
My mind drifts to his words about the ‘being’. His voice becomes muffled as my mind is bombarded with thoughts, images, and more questions. I couldn’t get his story out of my head.
What could it have been that had such a hold on him that he would choose to exist in misery? Did he love my Great-Grandmother? Or was it my Great-Grandfather? What was thepromise he made?
Then my thoughts shifted to the words on the headstone he said belonged to him:
“Eternally shall I be a thorn upon the stem of thy Rose”
Voices interrupt our recently obtained joy, and I see the look in Oliver’s eyes—his pupils were consuming their irises. As a compilation of emotions oozing from their sockets, telling a story of pure ecstasy interjected by fear.
He kicks at me, trying to get my attention. “The keys. Get the keys.” He demands in a hushed tone. “They're in the nightstand.”
I yank open the first drawer—I almost send it flying across the room. There, in the front right corner, sat a vintage set of keys. I grab them. Noticing the clothes they rested on, I make a mental note that they are there, knowing my clothes are still soaked.
As my fingers shake, I insert the key into the olden day cuffs, turning it and allowing the lock to release so the metal vise can spring open. Once free, Oliver scrambles to his feet, grabbing clothes from within the stand on the opposite side. Quickly stripping the wet material from me, I pull a thin white button-up from the drawer, and I begin to fasten it over my body. A rush of air brushes across my face, and I am swept off the bed and into the darkness of yet another hidden passage.
Beating on Oliver’s back, bartering with him to put me down. “I have legs, damn it.” It was only with the vanishing light that the corridor came to life. The sconces on the walls flickered on, dimly lighting the old stone catacombs.
“Oliver, at least tell me what is going on?” I holler, “Who were the people yelling? Where are you taking me?” No words, just the silence and the wind as it hastens past my ears.
Occasionally, he would glance behind him, before a loud thud interposed the quiet as we broke through a door, bringing us into the cellar. Here is where he finally puts me down
“Emory, I do not have the time right now. Please take my hand, and I will escort you to your room.” He drops his hand in front of me, palm up. “Once all is said and done, Iwillcome back, and wewilltalk.”
I refused his hand, smacking it away from me. In moments, I am soaring through the air again, thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Before I can get a word in, edgewise, I am thrown on the familiar champaign sheets as the door slams behind me.
The distinctive sound of the lock causes me to go into full panic. Slipping from the bed, taking the sheets with me, I charge the door once my feet hit the ground—I try to turn the handle. A loud howl emanates from my core when the knob doesn’t turn.
“OLIVER!!” I scream before I rush to the balcony. I fling open the French doors as a clash of lightning strikes—bathing me in an electric blue. I stand there looking up at the sky as the clouds close in, adding to the already eerie events of the night.
“What a gloomy way to bring in the new year,” I yell to the heavens, a smokescreen plea to whatever God is listening. “I haven’t even found my sister.”
It was this moment that the flicker of candlelight dancing in a far window of the library caught my attention. Something is swaying on the other side, periodically blocking out the light. At first, I thought it was Oliver.
