He stands up and fills a glass from the pitcher. I drink it in one gulp and then finish eating the leftover food on the tray. I eat as quickly as possible, and his face brightens as he watches me stuff my mouth.
Once I’m done, I feel awkward and a little silly, but at least the sad look in his eyes is gone. I clasp my hands together, looking at them lacing into each other. When I lower my head, a strand of hair falls into my face, and suddenly I realise I haven’t worn my hat in several days.
Lazarus reaches toward me, brushing the curl behind my ear. There he lingers, caressing my jaw with his thumb. I close my eyes and lean into his touch.
Suddenly, I feel his breath on my face, and when I open my eyes, Lazarus is right there before me.
His lips are slightly parted. So inviting. I feel my heart skip a beat, and if I wasn’t so focused on Lazarus, on his body being so close to mine, I might have been embarrassed.
He leans in, ever so slowly. I try not to move an inch, scared I might do something wrong again and scare him away. His hand cups my cheeks gently; my throat tightens, and all I see is the slight quirk of his lips. And that line. That line right next to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a dimple, but rakish, enticing. I want to lick it so bad but I stay still.
His breath smells like oblivion. My need to kiss him is overwhelming. I remember what happened yesterday but brushthe thought off. I don’t want to think about what almost was but then wasn’t. I want to only think about right here and right now. Lazarus and the feeling of his cold skin against mine. His soft?—
When his lips finally reach mine, my body melts into his. Lazarus’ kiss is as gentle as the quietest whisper, his mouth cold and as impossibly soft as it looks. I grab onto him, pulling him closer, needing to feel him all over me. He leans in, enveloping my body with his own. I slip my tongue between his lips, and he opens them, welcoming. His kiss intensifies. The coppery-sweet taste of his mouth makes me dizzy. Too sweet. Not enough.
My brain starts to hum in new ways I could never imagine. I feel tight yet loose. I grip his arms, my nails digging into his flesh. My heart is in my throat, and my breath is in my stomach. I feel. I want. I want to?—
“NO!”
Lazarus shouts so loud, my ears start to ring. He throws himself away from me, nearly falling into the fire, and clutches his hair like he’ll rip it all out, growling in pain and fury on the floor. I rise, unsure what to do. I want to get closer, touch him, speak to him. But he looks too distraught, too enraged.
And then I remember the last time I was in this room. When Lazarus had a similar reaction. I remember the fear in his eyes, and the roughness of his voice when he shouted:run, Astaire, run!
XX
LAZARUS
“What took you so long, boy?” My maker’s voice slips between my thoughts before I can lift my hand to open doom’s door.
Scarcely had I crossed the threshold when my feet were wrenched from beneath me. The cruel cracking of my skull against the unyielding rock splits through my ears. Only then do I feel the warmth trickling through my orifices.
“Come hither, my sweet,” he drawls. “Your father wishes to gaze upon thy lying face.”
I attempt to rise, but torpor weighs down my limbs. They lay inert, refusing to obey my will.
“I will not repeat myself,” and at these words, sudden agony sears through my core. Though I have endured such tortures a thousand times over, the pain seizes me anew as if it were my first. It’s only for a moment, yet a hoarse cry is wrenched from me as my frame contorts and twists upon the ground.
Through invisible fetters, forged of my creator’s will to imprison me, I am dragged toward him, slowly, inexorably, by a force against which no mortal or immortal strength can prevail.
Even in this state, I refuse to be dragged on my knees like a beaten cur. Summoning the last dregs of my battered strength, I propel myself forward upon my hands and knees until I dare go no closer. There, I lie gasping, rough-cut rock scoring my palms, refusing to lift my gaze to the abomination who gave me this cursed existence.
His stench envelops me: the fetid reek of a countless corpses, piled in a forgotten cavern and left to rot for a thousand years. His corroded feet, grotesque and crumbling, are mere inches from me, only seven toes still intact, and of these, but one lone nail yet clings precariously to life.
“Come hither, my inchoate beles,” he coos, “for I must lavish you with a father’s love.”
I suppress the sickening impulse to retch, for I know well the cost of disobedience. I know, should I falter but a single instant, his wrath will seize my frame once more.
Clasping his fossilised hands, I drag myself over his hardened limbs as I’ve done countless times before. He exults in my abasement. He relishes each pitiful embrace, every putrid exhale that I am compelled to endure as though I adore him. I was but fourteen when my stature exceeded his, yet he still forced me upon his lap, revelling in my false adoration.
With utmost care, I arrange myself upon his thighs, striving to minimise the contact with his petrified flesh.
“Give me a kiss, my son,” he whispers like a serpent luring its prey.
I avert my gaze, unwilling to behold the visage that has haunted me since boyhood. Reluctantly, I press my mouth to the tear across his cheek, where the muscles of his jaw gape through ruined remnants of his teeth.
“You reek of a filthy human,” he says.
I am not deceived by the calmness of his tone, thus fear clasps my throat tightly shut. Could he know?
