Chapter Ten

Pain pulls me out of a dreamless sleep, from darkness into dying candlelight. Every part of my body hurts; my arms are numb when they aren't on fire, and my legs ache from the inside out. Even my cunt is sore from where Priest worked his fingers hard. Not that it hurt at the time—at the time, I only felt a greedy sort of bliss—but I suppose I'm getting used to having a whole new anatomy.

It doesn't help that I've been dumped in an unceremonious pile on top of these garments, my ankles and wrists bound together. He said I could drink wine if I wanted to dull the pain, but getting to the casks won't be an easy feat.

Then again, what else do I have to do?

With a groan, I slowly sit up, the room spinning slightly. My arms were useless even before he tied them behind my back, but I'll have to do what I can. I lean back on my rear, not used to having such a soft, natural cushion either—tails never had a lot of fat in them. I start moving my legs in unison so it's pulling me forward across the floor. Priest may have thought he was immobilizing me by tying my legs together, but this is how my body worked until recently.

I move toward the casks, pretending I still have a tail, then use my feet to push one off the stack. It bounces onto the floor, but the wood doesn't break. I use my toes to turn it on its side and then remove the cork just as I had seen Priest do.

Red liquid spills out onto the wooden floor, and I sniff the air, making sure it is wine and not my own blood—or anyone else's blood. Then, I lie down beside it, the wine splashing over my face as I place my lips over the spout.

I suck the cask dry. Perhaps wine tastes better when you're a human.

It certainly feels better. It's not long until I pass out, back into that dreamless sleep again. I know I should be making plans now that I have a human body, now that I have a chance of survival in this world once I escape.

But my thoughts soon fade to nothing.

"Larimar?"

I hear a faraway voice.

"Larimar?" the voice says again, louder now.

I feel a tapping at the side of my face.

I can only smile. This must be a dream. A man has come to save me.

"You're drunk," the voice says. "Come on."

The tapping gets hard.

I feel a twinge of pain from a slap, but it's not enough to…

Ow!

Something pierces the skin on my neck.

My eyes fly open, and all I see is long, thick black hair as Priest buries his fangs into me. I attempt to scream, but instead, it's that horrible feeling of having the scream die inside you. Nothing comes out but raw, ragged gasps.

Priest lifts his head and looks at me through his dark lashes, amusement dancing in his eyes, a trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

What a beautiful, evil creature he is.

"I'm just getting you back for spilling my blood," he says in a low voice. "Or should I say, your blood." He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair off my face. I can't help but flinch at the gesture. "Plus, I can see that you got into the wine. I brought you some food to help with that."

I blink as he grabs my shoulders and pulls me up until I'm sitting with my legs tucked to the side. It's only then that I notice he's holding a wooden plate with a few slices of bread on it smeared with something shiny and yellow. He puts it down and starts to untie my hands.

"Promise you'll behave, and you can have something to eat."

I nod eagerly as he undoes the rope. My wrists ache from having been restrained for so long.

"Here," he says, handing the plate to me. "It will make you feel better. You shouldn't drink wine on an empty stomach."

"My stomach isn't empty," I manage to say as I take the plate from him, my hands shaking, the muscles weak. "The last thing I ate was your hand."

A ghost of a smile comes across his lips. It's rare to see him smile—then again, there's never been much to smile about—but when he does, even if it's just a hint of it, it lights up his whole face, as if, in that moment, he's no longer a man of shadows.

You shouldn't want him to smile at you, I tell myself and bring my gaze down to the bread. It just means he wants to eat you.

"Have you had human food before?" he asks, and to my surprise, he sits down across from me on the floor. "Have you had bread?"

I nod. "Jorge would sometimes bring me scraps from his dinner, though I often shared it with his dog."

"So, tell me: who was this Jorge?" he asks. He's trying to sound casual, but there's a strain in his voice.

Is it possible he's jealous? Should I lie?

Maybe a little.

"Jorge was someone I befriended," I say cautiously. "A human. He worked for his father's shipyard in a place called Acapulco. He said it belonged to New Spain. Does this place belong to New Spain too?" I gesture to the room with the plate.

Priest nods. "We are in Chile, but it is part of the same empire. It's funny; you've never once asked where you are."

"Maybe it's never been important until now."

Maybe I never had hope of escaping until now.

"So, this Jorge, he taught you how to speak?"

I nod. "He did. We met every evening after his dinner. He and his family lived on one of the large ships. We would meet at the end of one of the docks, out of sight, stayed up most of the night together for a year, at the very least. He taught me everything he could about humanity and human nature."

He clenches his jaw slightly. Ah, he does seem jealous.

"Did this Jorge end up being your first…"

"Love?" I ask before I grin. "No. Jorge was ten years old. The only reason I was talking to him was because I…"

I trail off and nibble on the hard crust of the bread. I don't feel like talking about Maren right now. If I do, he'll know why I wanted legs.

"You…"

I shake my head. "I was curious. That's all." I motion to the plate. "What's the yellow smear?" I ask, peering at it.

"Butter," he explains. "There's a lady in the village who always brings me bread on Fridays, and she puts salt and dried kelp in the butter. I thought you might appreciate that."

Interesting that he brought me something I might appreciate.

"That's rather kind of her to bring you that."

"People are often kind to the village priest," he says. "They think they do it out of the goodness of their own hearts, but it's so they can win favor with God. In the end, I get gifts."

I pick up the piece of bread and bite the edge of it, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. The butter is good—it tastes like the sea—but Jorge's bread was better.

"Can you eat this? Or can you only have blood?"

"I can eat food. There are some things in this village I still consider appetizing, but it doesn't sustain me the way blood does."

"And none of the villagers know the truth about you?" I ask.

He gives his head a small shake. "I think some of the soldiers suspect since they aren't as devout. The villagers, they know I'm different, that I'm not like them deep down, but they pass it off as me being a messenger for the divine. They can excuse it, make sense of it, because God is involved."

"But how do you manage? What…who did you…consume before I came along?"

Something like shame washes over his features, and he looks away, his eyes going to the cross. "I wasn't always alone here. I had a friend, Abe. My oldest friend. He saved me from myself, brought me here so I could learn to be human outside of the monastery, so I could hide from those sinful parts of myself. He was my moral compass, and he killed others so I wouldn't have to. He never had to worry about losing control."

"When did he leave?"

"Over a month ago," he says in a quiet voice. He sighs softly. "He would be quite disappointed in me if he knew what I was doing."

"And what are you doing?"

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. "Keeping a woman as livestock."

I swallow uneasily. That is what I am, isn't it? First, he saw me as an animal, a creature, and now, even with legs, his view of me hasn't changed.

"What would Abe tell you to do?" I ask, trying to appeal to this moral compass Priest has lost sight of. Would he tell you to let me go? I think hopefully.

"Abe would tell me to kill you," he says plainly. "Alas, he isn't one for sentiment. He's a doctor. He would tell me to kill you and be done with it, then continue to hunt in the villages or in the native settlements for my prey, just as he would do for me."

Alright. Perhaps Priest needs a new compass.

"And my blood allows you not to hunt."

His mouth twists. "Your blood gives me more vitality than I thought possible. Beyond that, I can go for weeks without another drop. By keeping you, by feeding from you every now and then, you're saving a lot of that humanity you learned about. Jorge would be proud."

"Don't bring his name into this, trying to justify what you're doing."

He shrugs. "Fine. But I can justify it. And if you cared about human life at all, you would appreciate it."

"Well, I don't care about human life," I tell him. "If you've forgotten already, I eat humans."

"You did," he points out. "Would you have eaten Jorge?"

I jerk my chin back at the question. "Of course not."

"Then there are some humans you care about, aren't there?"

I ignore that. Jorge was the exception.

"So how many of your kind are there in the world?" I ask, switching the subject. "Are you all priests and doctors? Are you all trying to battle some monster inside?"

He gives me a measured look. "There are monsters inside everyone, Larimar. The only difference is we're the only ones who know how to deal with them." He pauses. "But no, most of us aren't priests. Only the ones at the monastery. But we were a different…breed."

"What does that mean?"

His sun-bright blue eyes stare at me for a moment, and I feel unsteady, like the room has started to spin. It's hard to tell if it's the wine or if he's trying to do some sort of magic on me.

But then the sensation stops, and he looks away, letting out a long exhale, running his slender fingers over the shiny fabric of the dresses we're sitting on.

"They say there is a name for us now," he says in a low voice. "Vampyres. We've always called ourselves bloodsuckers, blood-drinkers. The fact that there is a name for us is troubling. It means the humans are starting to catch on."

"I'm sure they've noticed people going missing, drained of blood with teeth marks in their neck," I comment.

"We know to be careful," he says quickly. "Or, should I say, most of us do. When I say I'm part of a different breed, I'm part of the ones who aren't careful. You see, there are two ways Vampyres are created. The first and most common is that you are born to Vampyre parents. If you're a female, you turn into a Vampyre at the age of twenty-one. If you're a male, you turn at thirty-five. But you are born knowing what you are, and you are raised accordingly. You know how to hunt, you know how to blend in with humans. These are the ones who walk amongst everyone else."

He pauses for a moment, eyes seeming lost. "Then there are…the beasts. The monsters. The ones who were born human and turned into a Vampyre by another bloodsucker. They are killed and brought back to life by drinking the blood of the Vampyre who slaughtered them. When this happens…you are born a creature of Hell. You have no mind, no conscience. You are pure power and bloodlust, and you don't even look human anymore. It's these creatures who kill indiscriminately, without mercy. They are hard to control, even harder to kill, and they become the subject of every frightening bedtime story told to children."

Priest looks at me, his eyes taking on a red sheen I hadn't seen before, his mouth opening into a gruesome, fanged smile. "Want to guess which one I am?"

Fear runs down my spine like an icy finger. For the first time, I actually fear him. For the first time, I realize his monster isn't a figure of speech.

"But you're…" I whisper.

"A priest," he says matter-of-factly, the redness disappearing from his eyes. "The monastery was started by Abe and a few other Vampyres to take care of creatures like us. He figured it wasn't our fault that we were turned. All Vampyres know the consequences, but not all Vampyres are good. Some only want chaos. I was turned by one called Kaleid, who led his band of bloodsuckers across the middle of Spain to create an army of killers. I suppose he succeeded. He just happened to pick a witch when he did it."

My eyes have been wide the whole time I've been listening to him, thoroughly engaged. We have our own problems in the underwater world, and there are Syrens who are cruel and dangerous to others, but all of this seems utterly fantastical.

"So learning about God kept you in line, kept you human?" I ask.

He nods. "Yes. In the beginning, it was hard to understand. All I knew was hatred and rage. But I suppose the Good Book has some good use. It got through to me. I started believing it. Combined with the discipline that was a part of our lives, we slowly came around. Eventually—and we are talking centuries here—I realized it was all made up, just stories to keep people in line. But the rigid routine, the vows, the structure? That kept me in control. That brought me to here and now, how I'm able to talk to you without wanting to rip your head off."

I swallow uneasily at that. "So you stopped believing in God…"

"No," he says, biting his lip for a moment. "No, I believe in something. Maybe it's God. Maybe it's something else, someone else. But all these rules, this guilt? That's all man-made."

"But you're peddling it," I point out. "You're spreading these rules and the guilt to the people here, and you don't even believe in it. You're spreading lies."

He lifts his shoulder in a shrug. "In time, they will come to their own conclusions. Maybe on their deathbed."

I think about that for a moment. We have our own beliefs in Limonos, but none so complicated as this. Then again, my head feels foggy from all the wine I've consumed.

"Earlier, you said it's Friday. How long was I out for?" I ask him.

"Twenty-four hours," he says.

My eyes widen. "You left me tied here for a whole day?"

"You said you wanted to be alone," he says mildly. "Besides, now that I don't have to wet your tail every couple of hours, I don't need to tend to you as much."

"I see," I say, suddenly not hungry. I put the plate down. "So I'm just supposed to spend my days in here like this, with you only dropping by when you feel like it to throw me some bread?"

He stares at me, his expression curious, like he's trying to figure out a puzzle.

"What is it exactly that you expect from me?" he asks.

My mind spins, fueled by alcohol.

I can't forget my plan.

Seduce, destroy, escape.

I'm still a Syren, no matter what.

"What about company?" I ask him, making my voice softer. "Don't you care at all about how alone I'll feel in this cold, dark room? Don't you know what loneliness is?"

He flinches like he's been slapped. "Of course I do. Loneliness is all I've known. I'm marooned at the bottom of the fucking world."

"Then you don't have to be so cruel to me," I tell him, twisting in my seat until I'm on my knees in front of him. "You don't have to torture me."

"Cruel?" His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, his gaze on my chest. "I will keep you clothed, bathed, fed. What more could you ask for?"

"A warm body," I tell him. "A little company for these dark nights."

"You're my prisoner. You're…a pet."

"Even pets deserve some kindness, don't they?"

"Not if you're planning on slaughtering them one day."

He says that as a way to scare me off, and it does scare me because I hear the bitter truth in his voice. But even so, I lean toward him, enough that I lose my balance and pitch toward him.

He reaches out and grabs me by the shoulders, holding me back.

I stare up at him, pouring every ounce of seduction into my eyes, hoping they'll have some effect on him.

I know he wants me, desires me; there's no question there.

I just need to loosen the rope that has him bound too, the one he doesn't know he's tangled in.

"You wanted to take away my voice," I whisper, watching as his pupils become black holes. "So kiss me until I can't speak." My gaze drops to his lips. "Kiss me before I?—"

"Christ," he says through a growl, his eyes flashing wildly.

But instead of kissing me, he reaches out and grabs me by the throat.

And squeezes me until I can't breathe.