“You know what happened,” you said darkly. After the first time that repulsive man grabbed you by your hair in one of his sadistic pursuits, you’d shorn them off. I wouldn’t pretend anymore that I hadn’t been watching you.
“I miss them,” I said, thinking you might not hear me.
“I miss you, too, Henri. Staying away from me is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. I need you so bad. And you need me too. You’re being cruel.”
I couldn’t deny it. Instead, I fell into a melancholy silence as you drifted off to sleep. I listened to the patter of your heart as you curled so pliant and trusting against me.
I waited until you were deep in slumber, then returned to that degenerate’s domicile. You don’t need to know the details of what happened there, but let me assure you, I was convincing. My mercy was allowing him to leave that room with his despicable life, but before releasing him, I detailed all the depraved things I’d do to his body if he ever returned. Then I suggested the only way to get over you was todrink, drink, drinkhimself todeath, death, death. His limbs functioned enough to mount his motorcycle and disappear into the night. Then I set fire to that abominable place. It didn’t give me peace of mind to know he could still harm you, but I’d made you a promise.
I didn’t kill him.
37
Orlando
Sergei disappeared. Our instructors said he’d left town without warning, without even a forwarding address. The school was scrambling to find his replacement. Our opening night forLa Bayadèrewas swiftly approaching, and he’d left the company in a lurch. You told me you’d sent him away, but I worried you’d done a lot worse than that.
Then Sergei called me a week later—during our normally scheduled time—to tell me I’d ruined his life. He was drunk and crying, but I felt so relieved. He was alive, and I was rid of him.
I should have been grateful my debt to Sergei was paid and that Bruno and I could now enjoy relative safety, knowing our positions in the company were secure. I tried to focus on dance, and I did, but alone in my apartment, my thoughts always circled back to you. And something you said to me stuck in my mind until I became fixated on it.
This isn’t my body anymore.
That would always be our biggest obstacle. You’d told me before that you couldn’t completely trust the body you inhabited. But if you had a body of your own, then you wouldn’t have to worry about losing control, and we could be together.
We could be together.
You were still visiting me, and you were no longer trying to hide it, which meant I knew when you weren’t around. I’d never felt the need to sneak around, until now.
During your absences, I conducted research.Nephilim, Malakhim, Grigori, Potestas… You weren’t the only one keeping a journal, Henri. I’d been keeping a diary ever since that fateful night that you showed up in my bedroom when I was sixteen. I had to write this shit down, or I wouldn’t believe it myself.
Those strange, exotic names led me to Biblical stories of fallen angels and rumors of bloodlust, vampirism, the occult, demon possession, and the conquests of the Roman Empire…
I read firsthand accounts of run-ins with the supernatural. Some of their stories were similar to my experiences with you. I became friends with the librarians, and they let me look at the books in the back—the good stuff—thick volumes with tissue-thin paper and peeled leather covers with gilded spines. I left no rock unturned, and the more I learned about you, the more I kept coming back to the same solution to our problem.
Your mother.
I knew the dangers involved—she was evil, cruel, and not to be trusted—but could there really be any harm in just talking about the possibility with her? What would it take for you to get a body of your own? Xavier didn’t know, or if he did, he wasn’t telling me. There was no one else I could ask.
I recalled the words written on the back of her card—If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell. It was both a threat and a promise. And no one without power would make such a ballsy statement and have it printed on a business card.
Lena. You’d called her a temptress, and I could see why.
I sat on that information for a few days and considered abandoning it, but the idea had taken root inside of me. It haunted my dreams. It all seemed so simple, and once I latched on to it, I couldn’t let it go. This was the answer to all of our problems.
I setup my altar—three candles, our notebook, the reaver I’d given you, and a shallow pool of my blood in a white, porcelain dish. The altar grew over time as I added more items to it—scraps of paper with passages in Latin, hair clippings, red wine, a dried rose you’d given me from my very first performance, a shirt that still smelled faintly of you…
For as long as I could, I knelt on bended knees with my head bowed and called for your mother. Because I could no longer call for you.
And then one night, she answered.
38
Henri
Despite the unsavory arrangement which garnered you the solo in your ballet production, you were marvelous in the role. The Golden Idol had several movements that required precise articulation as well as an incredible amount of athleticism and control. Only you, and perhaps Bruno, had the bravado to pull off the costume. You were practically naked onstage, your whole body painted metallic gold, with only a thong dance belt and a leather harness, also gold.
The production itself was a feast for the eyes. The costumes were saturated with color, and the lush setting incorporated several cultural elements from India. The plot was a love triangle, which was a little ironic considering I was in the theater watching your beautiful body command the audience’s attention, knowing there would be no sweet reunion between us. At no moment during the night could I run my fingertips against your silky skin or massage the muscles that brought me such exquisite joy.
