27. Caspian

"Your tab's been closed, I'll have you know," the fat woman snarls as I approach. "Ironically, your visa's still active until Sunday. I don't even want to know what you've been up to for an entire year. I can't call the boneys on you for illegal entry, though." She shuffles papers at her desk. Pretends to be oh so busy.

It's a lie. She isn't busy, she is worried. Worried because of me. She hides behind her strip of wood and yards of space between us. Her throat is jiggling, pulse trembling.

"And don't think you can start a new line of credit, either," she spits. "Not after the last time."

Last time. I stare at her, waiting for the memories to appear. They don't. Cassius must have locked those up extra tight. Even out here I can't access them, far away from him.

Yet, he hasn't come for me yet. Why? Good. But why?

"Well," the mortal sniffs, still uneasy. Her eyes dart to a circle hammered onto the opposite wall. Moving appendages contort to point to different symbols. Numbers. A clock it's called. I remember that much.

She eyes her clock and becomes more uneasy with every passing second. She's waiting for something. Something that will come when the number she has in mind is struck. Tik. Tok.

"Don't think you can run out on your bill, neither," she huffs. "We ain't special like you all, but we do have our ways. I'll have the boneys after you in a heartbeat, vampire. They know how to deal with your kind. Imprison your kind."

Because these "boneys" have talents. Magical unworthy talents. Or so she thinks. Out here, they are tricks and illusions. Fake spells. Fake magic.

Except for the mortal upstairs. Her magic is real.

"Anyways, you can square your tab with me another way," the fat human squeals. Mo is her name, or so the other one claimed. A fake name. These vermin hide their deceit with false fake names.

She needs one too, perhaps. Niamh. To keep her hidden safely. To keep her mine a little longer. Then I remember that her name is already fake. Already a secret. Already mine.

Because I know without asking that she hasn't told anyone else. She didn't dare to. It's my name that should change. Something other than Caspian.

As if that will ever be enough to erase Cassius' hold over me. I am Caspian. In spite of him, I am Caspian and it is my name. Wasn't always, but it is now. Mine. Mine.

Won't change it out of spite, not even to outrun him.

"You can do me a favor," the fat woman drones on and on. "I need you to deliver something for me. Then bring the payment for it back. It's nothing you vamps from there will want to steal. Take the package. Bring the payment back here, and we'll be square. The doctor will get her cut from me, so you don't even have to worry about squaring up with her. All good?"

"Good," I hiss, watching her scurry and jump. She's antsy, this one. More anxious than I have ever seen her.

Because I have seen her before. For years. Decades. I've seen her when she was a young, gangly teenager lurking in the shadow of another older, fatter woman. I've seen her deflate of any beauty she once had and become a hunched, shallow wretch. I've seen the light and joy leave her eyes and she's seen me parade victim after victim before her.

Victim after victim she smiled at, sniffed at, ignored. Victim after victim whose blood she had to clean out of the floors. Not in the room Niamh is in now, but another one. A designated one. There were two, I remember as much now. I would ask for them on cue, one or the other depending on Cassius' specifications.

One room to fuck in. To ply the stupid mortal in tow with enough wine and drink to make them slumber. To make them stupid. What happened to them after that?

I don't recall. But I would see them again, in the mansion, hair white and eyes empty, one of Cassius' new dolls.

There was another room, however, that was more fun. My favorite.

I got to kill in that one. Bleed those victims dry and rip them limb from limb.

Only I didn't want to. Didn't always want to. Sometimes he made me. Told me it was what I wanted.

You are my monster, Caspian. A killer. A murderer. For me, you'll do it. For me, you will do anything?—

No! I shake my head to block out the memories. It is those remnants of this life that I do not want. They're not what I want to see. Stupid, stupid Cassius.

He ruins everything. Even death and violence which I love and crave. He taints everything with his stupid lies.

"You alright?" The fat mortal Mo has shied further away from me. Her back is to the opposite wall, a pile of papers clutched to her chest like a pathetic makeshift shield. "Don't forget why you got banned the last time, eh?" She leans in and whispers loudly, "We just got one rule in here for your kind. Keep it in the room, on the clock, and pay in advance. Don't you go feeding on anyone indiscriminately. I got a business to keep and clientele to protect."

Clientele. Because I am hungry. That is why I'm leaning forward, hands braced over her little wooden desk. That is why her jowls jiggle as she swallows a nervous gasp. I frighten her.

Because I am hungry—but I don't recall this feeling. It isn't familiar. Cassius always kept us well-fed, on his lies. He blotted the hunger from our little brains unless he could use it against us.

Out here, there is no master. No leash. I laugh. Laugh again.

The fat Mo turns pale. "You should go now, before I change my mind." She waddles close enough to drop something within my reach before darting back. "Do the delivery and we're square."

Square. I do the delivery and my debt is paid. I do the delivery and there is one less step tying me to the mortal realm. One less day with her.

We are square, me and Niamh. But no, she still wants something from me after all. I should draw it out. Keep her here for more days. Weeks. Years even.

Keep her. Keep her. Let her block out Cassius forever.

"Fine," I tell the mortal, snatching up her little box, wrapped in brown paper. "I will do the delivery."

She cringes at my tone. Nice. Sweet. Fake. "Just go."

I'll go. But not without my toy. My Niamh. I head upstairs to that room at the back of the hall. I wait, ears straining for her voice, which I easily pick up.

She's speaking to the mortal, animated and lively. Not in those stilted fucking one-word, yes-word sentences she fed that male fae.

This is her, truly speaking.

I should enter the room and silence her.

I don't.

I listen and drink in her voice. I listen and wait. Listen to her…

The world goes fucking still.