Chapter Eight: The Pentacle of Dreams

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Pentacle of Dreams

I bandaged up Mr. Humphries as best I could, even though touching his body was torture. Fortunately, his wounds were not deep, and no bones had been broken. The vampire had been careful not to damage another immortal’s property too severely.

Over the following nights, while Mr. Humphries healed, I deteriorated, becoming increasingly lethargic and famished. I did what I could to aid him, providing support for him to stand up and walk, but I grew hungrier every moment I held his body. I wistfully remembered the way Salem had touched me. I even regretted leaving him.

One night, as the shop neared its closing hour, Mr. Humphries nodded off, the pain too much for him to endure. With a sigh, I carried him to his bed. But after I’d placed him upon it, I found myself lingering. His dark gold hair looked so soft. Slowly, hesitantly, I reached out and ran a hand through it. It was soft. I let out a quivering breath, feeling tingles spread through my body. My hand slid down his cheek . . . then to his chest. His eyelids twitched. Could he feel me? I was so hungry. I could take him right then and there. He was a good man, after all. Not a bad man like Salem. Would it really be so terrible?

The bell rang, startling me. Someone was in the shop. Flustered, I rushed back downstairs, assuring myself that it was for the best.

The shop’s late visitor was the petite, pig-tailed succubus who had accompanied the vampire from before. She was clutching the stolen red hat.

“Here,” she said, pushing it towards me with guilt-ridden eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to take it. I just . . . forgot it was in my hand.”

She was so adorable that I had to smile.

“I understand,” I said, placing the hat on the counter. “I don’t blame you. You can’t be held accountable for what your husband does.”

“Mr. Pervis is not my husband,” replied the girl. “I’m his ward. He purchased me from my brothel, promising an education. Never gave it to me, though.”

Her accent was inconsistent, switching rapidly from formal to crass. I had the impression that she was trying hard to sound higher-born than she was. As a mortal, I would have been uncomfortable being in the presence of a former prostitute, but now I found myself sympathizing with her. “That’s awful,” I said. “Why don’t you run away?”

The girl shook her head. “He’s a ritualist. He’d find me. I’ve asked him a hundred times when he’ll send me to a real school, but he always waves off the question with, ‘Not yet, my little turtledove,’ or somethin’.” She let out a hiss of breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be dumping this on you, especially after stealin’ that hat. I don’t even know you.”

“Honestly, it’s nice to have someone to talk to right now.” I held out my hand for the girl. “I’m Maraina.”

“Splendid to meetcha,” she said, suddenly grinning. “Loretta Wolstenholm, at your service.” She looked over my shoulder, at my back. “You’ve certainly got the wings, haven’t you? Two pairs. Bloody hell.” She turned her back to me and pointed at her own tiny wings. “I can’t even fly with these puny buggers.”

“I like your wings,” I said. “They’re cute.”

“They’re bloody useless,” Loretta whined. “Except in burlesque. I like using ’em like the feather dancers do, you know? Though, Mr. Pervis won’t let me do my shows anymore.” She frowned.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“S’all right. Maybe one day I’ll get him drunk and ask him if I can do a show or two then. And if he says no, I’ll cry. ’Cus Mr. Pervis can’t bear to see his little girl cry!” A wicked smirk crossed her face. “Well, I should get going before he thinks I’ve run off again.”

I smiled in sympathy. “I’m still not convinced you shouldn’t. Stop by again sometime, would you? I could use the company.”

“’Course,” said Loretta.

As she turned to leave, I caught a whiff of her sweet scent. Maybe it was the hunger, but I found myself wondering how she tasted. Flushing in embarrassment, I locked the door and went back up to my room, before it became too tempting to return to Mr. Humphries’s room instead.

~

That night, as I lay awake in bed, trying not to think about how hungry or sleepy I was, I was startled by a knock on the bedroom door. “Come in,” I said.

Mr. Humphries entered, still bandaged but walking, even smiling. He was holding something behind his back.

“I want you to know how much I appreciate your help,” he said. “If you hadn’t been there, I don’t know if I could have gotten up. So . . . I brought you something.”

He opened his hands to reveal a peculiar necklace, the pendant of which was an inscribed pentagram.

“It’s a Morpheus Pentacle,” said Mr. Humphries. “The seller claimed that it prevents lilitu from entering the wearer’s dreams.”

“You shouldn’t have . . . ” I stared at him, simultaneously touched and concerned. It had been so kind of him to get me this unexpected gift. He must have used the only money he’d had left.

“I had to,” said Mr. Humphries, and he helped bring the necklace around my head. “Granted, it cost me plenty, but I’m about to lose all my money anyway. Might as well use it while it’s mine.”

I held the pentacle in my palm, and sighed. “You’re so kind to me. You don’t even know who I am.”

He grinned sheepishly. “If you’re going to be under my roof, then I should like you to be able to sleep. If it doesn’t work, and you cry out, worry not. I shall run and wake you up.” Smiling again, he left, closing the door behind him.

I was uncertain if the pentacle would work, but I was already quite drowsy. So I lay back and closed my eyes, the pentacle resting on my chest.

For the first time in months, I slept a dreamless sleep.

~

It was wonderful to sleep again. Unfortunately, sleep did nothing to curb my hunger.

By the end of the week, I could barely move. I stayed in bed, my body hollow, my skin tight around my bones. My limbs ached when I tried to move them.

Without the sun, it was hard to keep track of time. Sometimes, hours felt like minutes, and other times they felt like days. I became delirious, unable to form proper thoughts other than those centered around feeding. I wanted to seduce Mr. Humphries, enthrall him, make him crave me until I was an obsession he couldn’t help but succumb to.

He checked in on me again later that week. He must have said something to me, but I paid no attention to his words. I remember calling him closer to the bed, and reaching up to stroke his face with my frail hand, my fingers trying to penetrate his soft lips.

“What are you doing?” he asked, still smiling shyly, but I could smell the lust in him blossoming at last. He was being proper, trying to not take advantage of my helplessness, but I felt that was all the more reason to give him the pleasure he deserved.

I pulled his body onto the bed, then seized his arms to wrestle him beneath me. Now on top, I pushed my lips to his, my naked breasts rubbing against his shirt. “Please . . . feed me,” I whispered.

Mr. Humphries was speechless. He stared up at my body, jaw hanging open in disbelief, manhood growing erect beneath me. “Goodness,” was all he could manage.

I opened his trousers, and lowered my pelvis until he was inside me. “Yes,” I whimpered. I gyrated desperately, and with each moment, I felt stronger, more alive. I couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to; the pleasure was too strong. The need to finish him consumed all other thoughts.

Seconds later, Mr. Humphries let out a great moan, or perhaps a scream, and as the last of his breath left him, his body became perfectly still. My lower mouth spasmed in joy as it drank every last drop of him. Perhaps it was because of how hungry I’d been, but I felt even more satisfied now than I had with Salem.

My pelvis lifted, freeing Mr. Humphries’s petrified manhood. I sighed happily, and looked down at Mr. Humphries so that he could see me smile. I wanted him to know how happy he’d made me; how wonderful it had been, even if it had been brief. However, I could not tell whether he had enjoyed himself or not. His eyes were wide and glassy, his mouth open but slack.

At first, I thought he was simply in shock. But then a moment passed, and his face had still not moved.

“Mr. Humphries?” I said.

He remained motionless beneath me. I felt his chest. There was no heartbeat.

“Mr. Humphries, please wake up!” I cried out. He had to respond. He had to still be in there. There was no reason why he wouldn’t be.

But Mr. Humphries would not wake. He was gone. His body remained, but he was gone.

I covered my mouth to muffle the scream.

I did not understand. Salem had been fine after feeding me. But Mr. Humphries was dead. Dead, because I’d fed on him!

The Morpheus Pentacle felt cold against my bare skin. Mr. Humphries had given me this wonderful gift, and how had I repaid him?

I heard the ding of the bell from below. Someone had entered the shop.

“Mr. Humphries?” called a voice. “Are you here?”

I froze. If this visitor should come upstairs, and see what I’d done . . .

“Please come out, Mr. Humphries. I’m here representing Mr. Winscroft.”

It wasn’t Mr. Pennil’s voice; this was a new agent. Even if Mr. Winscroft didn’t care about Mr. Humphries, he would still blame me for the murder of his property. Although I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, it had not overtaken my will to survive. I had to get out of there.

The front door would be too much of a risk, so I looked precariously at the window. If I leapt out, it would draw suspicion to me. But I felt strong, now. Feeding had bolstered the muscles in my wings. Flying was the only option I had.

I dressed as quickly as I could. Below, Mr. Winscroft’s representative continued to call out Mr. Humphries’s name. I heard him ascend the staircase just as I pulled on my boots. I didn’t have much time.

I crawled through the window, perched on the sill, and spread my wings. I kicked off just as the door opened behind me, launching myself through the air like a bullet. I beat my wings furiously to ascend, flying so fast that I barely heard the cry of “Good God!” from behind me.

The sky hit my face. The air smelled of rain and industrial fumes. My eyes stung, but my wings were excited to finally be released from the heavy blankets of my bed, and were all the more energetic for it. I rose higher and higher, my wings flapping in a panic-borne frenzy, and to my surprise I no longer had any fear of falling. For a moment, my shame and terror were forgotten in the euphoria of flight. I turned and twisted my body, twirling and barreling gracefully through the air. The world passed beneath me like a stream: rooftops and chimneys and steeples and spires! I soared above the docklands, the ocean, the Thames and the Necropolis, amazed at my own speed. I passed other lilitu, including cat-calling incubi. I even flew beside airships in the London skies. I’d never felt so free in all my life.

Then I remembered that I was only flying at all because I’d murdered Mr. Humphries. My flapping slowed as shame weighed over me. Was it right for me to feel such bliss after what I’d done? Was it right for me to be flying freely at all?

That’s when I noticed the flock of winged Reapers zooming towards me from the open air ahead.

I doubted that Mr. Winscroft’s representative had seen my face, but how many other women in London had crimson hair and wings like mine? He must have spoken to a nearby Reaper. Given their psychic link to Mr. Cillian, that would be enough to guarantee that they were all looking for me. Even Reapers on the ground were staring up at me with their eyeless sockets.

Part of me wanted to be punished for murdering Mr. Humphries, but I was frightened all the same. I did not want the Reapers to take me.

I whirled around, trying to see a way to fly away from the airborne Reapers, but more of them were creeping into sight every minute, floating up from behind buildings or airships. Indeed, they were all around me. Their blades were not drawn, but the closest one flew towards me with chains in its boney hands. The only direction that seemed Reaper-free was beneath me.

I hurtled downwards, hoping to surprise them with a sudden burst of speed. The Reapers darted after me, accelerating faster than I’d expected. One of them grabbed my ankle and tugged me backwards. I kicked its skull, sending it crashing into a tower. Unfortunately, it had succeeded in slowing me enough for two more Reapers to catch up. They grabbed my wings, their sharp bone fingers tearing holes into the soft black membrane. I cried out in pain and struggled to free myself, but their grip was too strong. Below, pedestrians stared up to watch.

I didn’t intentionally aim towards the cathedral; it was more that I was trying with all my might to pull away from the Reapers, and the cathedral’s stained glass window just happened to be directly in our path. Nonetheless, we crashed through. The glass shattered, lacerating my flesh. The sudden impact forced the Reapers to release me from their grip.

I slammed into the cathedral’s cold stone floor, in the central aisle between the pews. Red, black, and purple shards were embedded in my wings. My vision was a dizzying swirl of red as both my hair and my blood danced before my eyes. The stink of copper filled my smashed nostrils; I did not yet realize it, but my head had split open from the impact.

“My wounded sister,” called a voice. “Are you lost?”

I tried to get to my feet, but I could not even tell where the floor was. I shook my head, tried to orient myself, and felt my arms—and the sharp pieces of glass piercing them. I pulled them free, one by one, and tried to stop myself from wailing in pain. I had to be strong. I had to get away, before the Reapers recovered.

A pair of hands grabbed my shoulders.

“You are hurt,” said the voice. I looked up and saw a black tunic, a white collar . . . and a horned, goat-like head. I stumbled away, only to fall onto my back, crushing my already-torn wings.

“It’s all right,” said the goat priest. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

The two Reapers from before entered my clouded vision from the sides. One of them grabbed my wrists, and wrapped chains tightly around them. Then it pulled me to my feet and carried me to the doorway. I managed to turn my head just enough to see the goat priest’s unimpressed expression. He had nothing to say now that he knew I was wanted.

Outside was an armored coach. The Reapers threw me inside onto a hard stone floor, then slammed the door shut. I kicked at the door, but it would not budge.

I tried to think of a way to escape. My skin and wings were beginning to heal—they still hurt, but the remaining glass shards were being pushed out as the cuts in my skin closed up. Evidently, I could heal significant wounds if I’d recently fed. Maybe by the time we reached the Necropolis I’d be strong enough to fight back. I imagined myself kicking the Reapers when they opened the door, then flying away—but then they’d just capture me again, wouldn’t they? I tried to formulate other plans, but each time I thought of one, I quickly realized it was folly.

By the time the coach stopped and the doors opened once more, I felt drained of hope. The Reapers hauled me out and forced me to stand. I knew where they had taken me even before seeing the tall bone walls.

Through white marrow hallways they dragged me. I passed trees and shrubs with bone bark and bone leaves. In great glass tubes, there were animal skeletons—an elephant, a whale, a family of mice. Finally, we came to a tall pair of double-doors, which the Reapers carried me through.

My blood ran cold as I saw who sat across from me at the other end of the room: Mr. Cillian.

I was trapped in the hands of my enemy, and I had no way to free myself.