A Demon of Midwinter Part 4
A Bloodborne Pathogens origins story with with a new demon and an old love story
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Rhys scratched out his most recent line of writing with an anger that tore through the page. He’d promised Dar he could help, said he’d have something for him tonight, but the layers of riddles in the runes were confounding him. Despite working on the bloody thing all day, he’d hardly made any more progress since last night. Now there was a cat and a shadow…or smoke. That was the sum total of a day's work. He closed his notebook and flung it away in disgust, drawing a baleful glare from the only other person occupying the table in the library. Rhys returned her glare with a scowl. Then his anger dissipated, and his shoulders rounded as his back slumped. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his bleary eyes.
Runes danced against his closed eyelids. Whatever little sleep he caught last night had been restless, disturbed by runes. They’d taken on a life of their own, dancing, long-limbed across a frozen expanse that chilled him to his bones. A woman of lightning watched them — silver hair, eyes of blue ice, and quicksilver grace — and faced off against another of thunder, mink black hair, slinking movements, and red eyes. Rhys had tossed and turned, then sat bolt upright when their battle came to a head. Unable to get back to sleep, he didn’t know who’d won.
Putting his glasses back on, he gazed out the window. Even though it was still early, the sun was setting. The last of the day’s light crept away over the rooftops. In the flat light, he almost missed the tortoiseshell cat that slunk across the quad, hunched low as if hunting something, or avoiding something hunting it. It hissed and skittered away as a woman strode towards it, her steps purposeful. Her red jacket, still vibrant despite the darkening sky, was very unacademic. She scowled as she passed the stray cat, and it arched its spine, pretending it was fearsome.
He rubbed his temples, undecided whether to continue to struggle against the runes or admit defeat. When he glanced out the window, he saw the disgruntled stray pick up each of its feet in turn to shake the water off. Not that it would do any good — there was water everywhere.
“Water everywhere,” he whispered, scrawling another note in his notebook. The words he’d been stuck on was simply a poetic reference to water. He turned to the parchment, his fingers spread the paper flat, and he started reading what he had deciphered. Even though he whispered the words, the woman at the far end of the table snorted in disgust before packing up her stuff and leaving.
Rhys continued to read, louder now. The old Norse words tumbled from his mouth in a rhythmic cadence. His pulse beat in sync. The lights around him dimmed, stopping him for a second, thinking the library was about to close. But when he looked up, he saw it was his imagination. They were as bright as always, and it was still a half hour before closing.
Returning to the paper, he picked up the beat again. His fingers kept time on the tabletop as his head nodded. His voice rose of its own volition as it spoke of eternal night, talons of death, and a creature that sucked the souls from men. He was so focused on the words that he barely registered when the lights dipped and the shadows crept out from between the rows of shelves. He blinked and raised his head. This time the shadows remained, only disappearing as he continued to blink, lips pressed together. Glancing around to make sure he wasn’t disturbing anyone, he began reading again, even though he was coming to the end of the part he’d figured out.
As he picked up the thread again, the words flowed. And when he came to the end of what he’d transcribed into his notebook, they continued unabated, as if some magic placed the words in his brain. A little shock tickled his neck, and he smiled as the rest of the incantation fell into place — telling of how to trap the creature with words and a circle of magic.
He reached the end, snatching at the air in triumph. A pop sounded to his right, and the area went dark. He jumped, clutching a hand to his chest, and sought out the source of the sound — a burnt-out light.
“Get a grip,” he said, chastising himself for getting spooked. Still, he smiled. He could help Darius after all. His smile broadened into a grin, which he tried to suppress, at the thought of eliciting a smile from the handsome stranger. He rolled his eyes. “Get a grip, indeed.”
Nonetheless, he shoved his books, pencils, and the paper into his satchel. Grabbing his scarf and jacket from the chair beside him, he hustled through the shelves of books, breaking into a run when he hit the ground outside. And promptly flailed his arms as he tried to stay upright on the invisible ice that coated the cobblestones.
A cat darted away from him, hissing and arching its back. Not the tortoiseshell from earlier, this all-black one was barely visible when it pressed itself into the shadows to peer at him, except for flashes of red when its retinas caught the light. Still, it stared at him as he found his balance.
He grimaced at the animal with its haughty expression. “Don’t judge. You have claws to dig in.”
Even though he knew he was likely to slip again, he picked up his feet and ran, heading towards the address Darius had given him.
Icy droplets fell from Rhys’ hair then snaked down his back while he watched the landlady amble along the dark hall as she muttered and glared over her shoulder at him in turns.
“Last time I rent to a foreigner. Midnight calls. Late night visits….” The woman's eyes narrowed, and she sniffed. “From riffraff.”
She responded to Rhys’ smile with a scowl before disappearing, presumably to fetch Dar, though she hadn’t actually said that’s what she was going to do. He rocked up onto his toes as he waited, rubbing his arms. Although his cheeks were still flushed, a chill settled into his bones now that he wasn’t running. He should have grabbed a proper coat before heading out, should have known that the blanket of grey cloud would turn to slushy snow. To keep moving, he did a tour of the small entry. Grimy paintings of stormy seascapes and bucolic splendour hung at random intervals. Peering at them, he soon realized they were all done with varying degrees of skill by the same artist — not one he’d heard of.
“Rhys.”
Rhys spun around, and his cheeks flushed once more. He shivered at the sharp inhalation from Dar.
“You’re soaking. You must be freezing.” Dar strode over to him, his eyes glinting red when they caught the weak light from the sconces. “Come, let’s warm you up before you catch cold.” His voice was rough, like he’d just woken from sleep, except he still wore street clothes. He placed a hand on Rhys’ back and indicated the stairs with his other.
The landlady’s scowl deepened. “No overnight guests,” she said before disappearing through a side door.
“Don’t mind her. She’s a sweetheart deep down.” Dar paused on the stairs ahead of him, his gaze flicking from Rhys to the door the woman had gone through. “Very deep down,” he added, his voice loud enough to fill the hall. He smiled and started up the staircase again.
Rhys breathed into his belly as he followed; the run had winded him more than he thought.
At the top, Dar led him through a door to their left into a cozy room with a blazing fire. The flickering red light silhouetted the man, and a wave of heat rushed over Rhys as he lurked on the threshold.
“Come in and close the door.” Dar half turned towards him. “I can feel the draught in my desert bones.”
Rhys did as he was asked, shutting the door by pressing himself back against it. Dar gave him a flicker of a smile, and Rhys shivered, telling himself it was the breeze from outside.
In a couple of long strides, Dar stood in front of him and grabbed his hand. “Come, warm yourself.”
Rhys nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and went with him to stand by the fire. As Dar let go of his hand, his fingers lingered, lifting Rhys’ up. For a second, Rhys swore he was going to kiss it, then Dar dropped it as if it burned and turned towards the mirror over the fire. Rhys felt as if his skin was on fire. His face was still warm from his run, but his cheeks blazed anew at the images of the two of them that whirled across his mind, soured by Dar’s rejection. My own foolishness.
“What did you want?” Dar’s voice was ragged, as if he was the one who’d run pell mell through the frigid winter night. When he stepped away, behind the desk strewn with papers, Rhys forced himself not to follow like a sad puppy.
Instead, he blinked at his own reflection. “You asked for my help.” He shifted his gaze to watch Dar’s mirrored image as the man focused his attention on the papers. Even in his own rooms, he was dressed like a proper gentleman relaxing at the club. Despite the starch in his shirt, his movements were sinuous. Rhys inhaled and forced himself to turn and face Dar as he exhaled. “I’ve deciphered the runes.”
Dar’s head lifted, his eyes narrowing as they homed in on his face. “You’re flushed.” His voice dropped low.
“I—” Rhys’ head ticked sideways in his confusion. He shifted from foot to foot, inching back towards the fire, shying away from the fiery examination. He cleared his throat. “I ran here…I —”
“Why did you do that?” Dar’s fingers turned white as they gripped the back of the desk chair.
Rhys frowned, and his voice was quiet when he continued, his cheeks now red-hued by embarrassment. “I wanted to tell you about the runes. What they say.”
He sidled towards the desk as he pulled out his notebook. Placing it on a clear spot, he produced the sheet Dar had given him and laid it beside the book. “It was actually a stray cat and its dislike of water that led me to the clue.” He picked up a pencil and moved from parchment to page, repeating the instructions then their accompanying incantation in his poor translation.
As he fell into the rhythm, once again shadows seemed to descend. The lights dimmed, and he found himself squinting.
“Stop.” Dar imbued that single word with a quiet urgency as he placed his palm over Rhys’ notebook. Rhys lifted his head to find Dar’s Madeira eyes had turned the colour of claret.
Taking a deep breath, Rhys mustered all his courage and stepped up to Dar, their heads inches from each other. He placed his own hand on Dar’s.
“Don’t….Stop.” Dar pulled away with a snarl.
Rhys cheeks turned red again, and he stepped back. His nostrils flared, and he blinked rapidly. He tried to focus on the paper filled with runes, but they tumbled across it in a blurry dance. “I’m sorry. I thought….” He was stopped by Dar’s fingers coming to his face, turning it towards him. “I—”
Dar’s fingers pressed against his mouth as he shook his head. His forehead was so close they almost touched. Almost. “You don’t know what I am.” The words were low and strained. “I could destroy you.”
“Maybe I do,” Rhys whispered, his voice like a whetstone on metal. He steeled himself, and kissed Dar, quickly, furtively. He pulled away before Dar could protest, feeling a little queasy.
Dar’s fingers came to his own lips this time. His eyes flashed fire as he peered at Rhys.
“No, I don’t think you do.” His fingers dropped and his shoulders fell. An eyebrow arched. “And you won’t believe me if I told you.”
Stay tuned for part 5.