Flesh and Stone

     Karen awoke to the sensation of a brush being pulled through her hair. It was a calm rhythmic motion, relaxing, yet intimate. She took a deep breath and waited for sleep to fade and awareness to return. It did not. She suddenly realized she had no idea where she was, or why someone would be doing this for her. Her last memory was of stepping into Alan’s apartment, of being upset about how her date with Brian had ended. It had been her first date, and maybe she had been a bit naive, but she was pretty certain that being on a date did not give him the right to feel her up, much less to attempt such before they even got out of the car. It had been annoying. It had been infuriating. It had been humiliating. And so, after shaking him loose, she had run to Alan, her dear friend. She has knocked. He had answered. Then stood there shocked, as though he had never seen her before. She supposed he had never seen her done up before. Then he had invited her in. Then... nothing.
      She shook her head, trying to clear it. The brush stopped for a moment, then continued. “What... What’s going on?”
      “I’m brushing your hair.” Alan’s voice. Calm. Composed.
      “Why? What... Where am I?” Karen tried to turn around, but felt Alan’s hand steady her, keeping her facing away from him.
      “I’m almost done. Just stay facing away from me a little longer.”
      She knew what he looked like, what he would be wearing. Black. Or maybe blue so dark that it blended into black. Or maybe green of the same hue. On a guess, she would say: black leather jacket with a blue shirt underneath, black jeans, black shoes. Likely dark green socks. Likely hair was tied with a bit of leather. She had asked him once why he always wore black. He had said it brought out his eyes. It had made her laugh. His eyes were the deepest black she had ever seen. They matched his hair.
      “Where am I?”
      “My basement.”
      “You have a basement?” She was more than a little shocked. She had known Alan for some twelve years now, had been visiting his apartment semi-weekly for the last ten years, and had never even heard of him having a basement.
      “I do. It is actually most of the reason I chose this apartment building.”
      Karen felt a shiver run up her spine. Something was not right about the way he said that. The words themselves were innocent enough, but something, maybe the inflection, told her that something was being left out. “What was the other reason?”
      “The neighborhood.”
      She laughed. He was joking. He had to be. If her folks ever found out she had friends in the Dark, much less that she visited them regularly, she would have been grounded for life. Maybe fifty years ago this was a neighborhood people chose to move into. Now it was simply a neighborhood people could afford. Even then, she had heard of folks leaving the City all together rather than move down here... to risk being homeless in some dead-end suburb rather than risk getting their throat slit in some alley in the Dark. “Funny,” she said.
      “Done,” he said. “You can turn around now.”
      Karen started to turn, feeling her waist length hair brush against her back. It was smooth as silk now that it was brushed. Still something didn’t feel right. Something about how he was looking at her? There was only the faintest of bulbs in the basement, though, letting her see shadows of his face, but not his eyes. It didn’t matter. A nagging feeling in the back of her mind made her ask, “Why am I in your basement?”
      He smiled. Not a secretive smile, but a smile like you might give someone for guessing the right answer to a puzzle. “Because I drugged you.”
      She was not even aware of trying to stand up. One moment she was sitting there, asking her question, the next she was tripping over her chair as she fell onto the floor. On reflex she shuffled backwards, putting her back to a wall, really looking at her surroundings for the first time. She was in a bare room. The walls and floor were all wood, well sanded, but did not appear painted. Her chair and Alan’s were the only furniture. There appeared to be some sort of decoration on the wall behind Alan, but she could not see past him. The only light was a bare bulb, hanging about seven feet up. She did not spot any obvious switch for it, but it did not have a cord either. There was one door. It looked solid. It looked like it locked from the outside. She prayed that it was her imagination, but it looked like someone had tried so desperately to get out that they had clawed grooves in the wood. The room was small, cubed to match the ceiling. She could only think of one reason why someone would be brought down here. Even given the evidence, she could not quite bring herself to believe that her friend would do that. That he could. She forced herself to ask. “You drugged me?” She stopped and swallowed. “Why?”
      Alan stood up from his chair and knelt in front of her. “You are not stupid, Karen. On the contrary, I think you are a very intelligent woman. Off hand, I would have to guess that the odds of getting you to come down here willingly were nil.” He reached out a hand to brush a lock of stray hair out of her face. She flinched away as his hand brushed her cheek. At that moment, he paused and inhaled, closing his eyes, as though savoring her scent. “You are breathtaking. Did you know that?”
      Karen shivered, feeling the walls close in around her. This wasn’t Alan. This wasn’t the friend she had grown up knowing, trusting. It couldn’t be. This couldn’t be happening. “Why are you doing this?” Her voice sounded like she was about to cry.
      Alan let his hand catch at her chin, tilting her face up to look into his. “Do you remember when you first met me? I told you that you didn’t want me as a friend. When you insisted, I told you that I couldn’t be your friend forever.” Karen felt a chill pass over her, bone deep, starting where his hand touched her face. “Only until you grew up. Do you remember?”
      As though in a trance, she nodded. This is all a nightmare. This can’t be real.
      Leaning in over her, just before his mouth covered hers, Alan whispered, “Time’s up.”

     Karen lay asleep, tossing and turning on the floor of her cell. It was pitch black in the room, and had been since just after Alan had left. She had cried herself to sleep in the dark, terrified that he would come back. Terrified that he would leave her alone. Her whole body was sore, bruises covering her wrists and thighs where she had tried to fight off the rape. She had never realized that he was so strong. Her body wracked with sobs at the thought, but if she had not fought him, she might not have even been bruised. He had been surprisingly gentle... but insistent. Still, she was haunted by the feeling that he wanted her to be afraid. That if she had not fought, he would have been far from gentle. And she had hated him in those moments. Hated him for betraying her trust.
      Now she slept, fading in and out of dreams. In and out of nightmares. In the first dream she was back at home, in her bed, when suddenly all the lights went out. She started banging on the walls, confident that they would crumble like paper, but instead they shattered like glass. She found herself falling, falling through a sky of discarded lives. When she crashed to earth it was in a cannibal village. She saw dozens of villagers, but she knew that it was trick. There was only one, and as he sliced off her arm and threw it into the caldron, she was not surprised that there was no blood. She was glad he did not notice. If he had sliced out her heart she would be dead, but he did not know that. So she stood, tied to a stake in the center of the village, watching her arm simmer, knowing that she was safe, for the moment.
      She faded into a sounder sleep after that, almost calm. Breathing slowing, mind relaxing. Then she was in another dream. More of a memory. She was remembering the time when she first met Alan, so very many years ago. Remembering it with a vividness that defied dream logic. Remembering it as though she were reliving every moment. Reliving it as Alan.

     It was mid afternoon, late summer. The park was packed with people, such that you could imagine every denizen of the city was out in force. Probably some parade, or holiday. He never bothered keeping track. That was outside of his world. Instead, he sat on his bench, under the tree canopy, watching the people mill past. There must be thousands of them, but not one noticed the quiet recluse sitting on his bench under the trees.
      “Mister?”
      He spun around, eyes wide with shock. Karen felt a moment of disorientation as her dream-self looked down upon her child-self. She was five years old, soon to turn six, and perpetually sticky. Her light brown hair had been pulled back into pigtails, then tied with bows to keep it out of her face. The elbows of her shirt were stained by grass and mud, while the front of her overalls were stained with ice cream and ketchup. She looked up at him with innocent clear blue eyes. “Mister, are you okay?”
      He tried to remember how to breathe. Tried to steady his heart rate. No! Not so young a child... not... He calmed down. He wasn’t hungry. Maybe it was that he had eaten his fill just two nights ago, maybe it was that she was so far removed from his usual targets, but she did not register on his senses as food. He could not count on that continuing. He did not want to see what would happen if he turned on her. “Go away.”
      To his amazement, she not only did not listen, she pulled herself up onto the bench next to him. Then she just sat there, swinging her legs, watching the crowd flow past, much as he had. Watching the people go about their lives. After a time, she asked, “What cha’ doin’?”
      “Go away.”
      It didn’t work. She wasn’t leaving. Was she suicidal? No, she was just looking up at him confused, as though oblivious to his request. Simply waiting for an answer to her question.
      “I’m watching the people.”
      “Why?”
      She seemed legitimately curious. She wanted to understand. To talk with him. How long had it been since he had talked with someone? Really talked with, not just babbled to fill time? Or worse, simply listened to them screaming? Not since his siblings, surely. And now this child. It would be pleasant to have someone to talk to. “I like to imagine where they are going. What is it that makes them hurry away so swiftly? Each one of them has an infinitely complex life, that at this moment just happens to cross mine, and I wonder where it will go next.”
      She nodded, though he doubted that she had followed half the words he used. He was not used to talking to children. He was not used to having anything to do with them. Then, to his bewilderment, she turned to him and said, “Will you be my friend?”
      He actually went slack jawed for a moment. “What?”
      She blinked, and patiently repeated the question. “Will you be my friend? I just moved to the city and I don’t have any friends yet.”
      “You don’t want me as a friend.” Where were this girl’s parents? She could have walked up to anyone. He was certain he was not the only predator in the crowd today, even if the others were only human.
      “Sure I do. You seem like a nice person.”
      “I am not a nice person.”
      She stuck her tongue out at him. The absurdity of it made him laugh. And stopped him cold. He had laughed. In all these years, in all the time since his father had died, had he ever laughed? If what she suggested was even remotely possible, could he afford to pass it up? Gently, he took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length.
      “You want me to be your friend.” She nodded. “Then there are things you must understand. I will try to be your friend, but I am not used to it. I am not quite sure where to begin.”
      She opened her mouth to say something, but he held up his finger to wait.
      “Also, there is another thing you must understand. I cannot be your friend forever. One day I will turn to you and say, ‘This is over,’ and we will not be friends any more, and you will have to accept that.”
      “Why?”
      “I can’t explain that to you now. You will understand when the time comes.”
      She looked so sad, he felt as though his heart might burst. He had not realized he had grown so attached to this idea, to her, so quickly. He tried to reassure her, “Not for many years yet. Not until you are grown.”
      With that news, she seemed to cheer up immensely, and so he told her, “Now, we must get you back where you belong. Surely someone is frantic looking for you.”
      Such a look of horror passed over her face that he could have laughed himself silly. She was lost then. “Where are you supposed to be?”
      “The playground. Mom gave me two dollars to by an ice cream if wanted one, but it only cost one, and then I saw somebody selling hot dogs and so I asked him how much, ‘cause I only had a dollar, and he said that was enough, and then I saw this little dog... and then when I started looking around for the fence to the playground, I saw you.”
      He did laugh then. She was nearly a half-mile from where her mother was looking for her. No wonder they had not been interrupted. Taking her hand, he said, “I know where the playground is. Come along. I suspect your mother is worried sick.”
      As they walked along, the girl turned to him and asked, “What’s your name? I’m Karen.”
      What was his name? What is a name? He was called many things: Demon, Monster, Beast. He did not want her thinking of him as any of those. What did he think of himself as? Stone, shaped and sculpted to serve a goal. Alabaster. Al felt too coarse, too jovial. “Alan,” he said, smiling.
      He left her a block before the playground, sending her off to the policeman at the corner. From there Alan could see a woman, by appearance likely Karen’s mother, speaking and motioning rapidly to the man. When Karen cleared enough of the crowd to be visible, the woman stopped, rushed over and swept the girl up into her arms.
      Turning away, he smiled. She was safe now. A darker part of his mind whispered, For now. But now was enough. Best not to think of the future.

     Karen felt her dream-self slipping out of that memory and into another. Farther back. Years and years ago.

     Again, Karen felt a sense of disorientation. It almost felt normal, seeing things from Alan’s eyes, but the setting was wrong. The cloths, the décor. The scene she was remembering belonged to her great-grandparents time, to old movie sets and classic books.
      Alan stood in the hall of an apartment building. He wore a crisp black suit, deep gray inner shirt, and polished shoes. His hair had been slicked back in some fashion of the time and was trimmed close to his head. He looked the part of a respectable businessman, allbeit a bored one.
      Opposite him stood a woman in her thirties. She may have been pretty in a different setting, but now she was mostly frazzled. She had attempted to pull her hair back into a bun, but strands had clearly been escaping since the onset. Her conservative cut blue frock was horribly wrinkled, as though she had found it at the bottom of a truck of formal cloths, forgotten until now. Or as though she had been wringing her hands into it constantly since she began babbling at him.
      The foolish woman was still talking to him. Telling him about tax rates and tenant responsibilities. About how all the neighborhood needed was a few more good people and it could pick itself up again. None of it mattered.
      He had known that he wanted this building before he ever approached her. Had carefully selected it. It was to serve as his transition into the new century. A place to call home. A way to stave off boredom. A channel through which to explore his darker nature. But there was no way for her to know that. All she knew was that she wanted to sell this money pit and get as far from the city as possible. Not that he could blame her.
      The last two years had been difficult on Miss Ellana Pennyworth. She had thought that moving to the city, near her brother, would have been pleasant. She was wrong. Reginald did not seem like the brother she remembered. He spent all of his days in the accounting office, and all of his nights doing who knew what. (Alan knew, but that would hardly have comforted her.) Twice a week he took dinner at her home, but even then it felt awkward. He never spoke to her.
      Then this business with “The Butcher” started up. That was what the press were calling the lunatic. A monster who kidnapped women, sliced them up like sides of meat, then dumped the remains off of King’s Bridge. The police were still looking for the brute, but it had taken them most of a year to even realize that there was a pattern to the victims. About Ellana’s height. Dark hair, much like hers. Eyes set slightly farther apart then fashionable. She felt like a volunteer, coming so far into this end of town, what with the papers saying anyone remotely fitting her description should go visit relations out of town for the season. The police claimed that they had a lead, but no one was sleeping well.
      Lastly, this. One week ago her brother’s employer had come into the office and found that Reginald had hanged himself. Dead. He left everything to Ellana. His moneys. His stocks. His apartment building. She could hardly bear to look at the place. The rooms where he had grown into such a stranger, this brother who she had been so close to in childhood.
      Of course, she did not tell Alan any of this. She did not need to. The anxiety on her face, mixed with what he already knew from researching her brother, told him more than enough. Such as, it told him why it was that Reginald could never think clearly enough to mutter more than a formal greeting around his sister any more. It told him why it was that the police only figured out a pattern to the Butcher’s killings after Ellana had moved to the city, after the killings had become more frequent. It told him what exactly it was that her brother did on long lonely nights, when he wasn’t having dinner with his sister. Miss Pennyworth had no idea how dearly her brother had missed her when he moved to the city, but she was correct that she needed to sell his apartment building. She might never recover mentally if she dug too deep and learned of her brother’s hobbies.
      Refocusing his mind on the topic at hand, Alan listened dutifully as she explained that only one of the rental units was currently occupied. That he would have to check with the tenant about when rent was due. He reassured her that this was all quite reasonable, then paid her the asking price in cash, plus five percent.  She was speechless as he helped her out the door and into the street. She promised him that she would have the deed signed over to his name first thing in the morning. He barely heard her.
      Once alone, he stepped gingerly into the first floor apartment that had once belonged to Reginald Pennyworth. This had been the hardest part to research, learning how to get in. Among other things it had involved killing the witness who would have told the police that Reginald was the Butcher. If the man had told the authorities Alan felt confidant that Mr. Pennyworth’s apartments would have been searched. He did not want that. Not at all. Walking across the main living area, down the hall, into the bedroom, Alan very gently pulled on the now empty shelf that had once contained Reginald’s private law books. Tugged very gently, and heard a click. The bookcase, seemingly built into the wall, swung away.
      Alan did not bother with a lantern as he descended the stairs into the private basement. Darkness had never hindered him. The walls outside the room were padded, helping hide any sounds from within the room. Noiselessly, Alan turned the lock, opened the door. The odor of blood wafted up into the stairwell, clinging to him. Blood had never bothered him, either. He stepped into the room.
      The entire room had been soaked until the wood was a sticky black-red. Reaching down, he pulled loose one of the planks. It was soaked through. All of the panels would likely need to be replaced. Such a cost in time. Running his hands along the walls, he tapped to see if there were any other hidden chambers. He did not find any. There was an old rusted meat hook hanging in the center of the room, which he thought was utterly tasteless, but the support beaming it was anchored to continued into the walls and might hold a set of shackles very effectively. Over all, he thought he could have it in useable condition within another five years, doing all of the work himself and avoiding suspicious purchases.
      “Not bad,” he said aloud. The acoustics seemed passable.

     Karen was already awake when the light to her cell came on. She tried not to hold her breath as she listened for Alan’s footsteps. Instead, she noticed the coloration of the wood floor that she sat on, the gleam of the bulb’s light against the shackles on the far wall. If only to herself, she did have to admit that the room was far more bearable in its currently state than in the form he had purchased it. Mildly, she wondered why she was so willing to accept that what she had seen was real. The only answer she could find was that it had felt real. As real as any memory. More real than any dream. Her musings were interrupted when Alan opened the door.
      He was dressed casually, which caught her off guard. She had not expected him to be dressed at all. He carried a covered tray in one hand and a plastic bottle in the other. Holding them out in front of him, in a voice so chipper and happy she could almost think that he did not remember anything, he asked, “Hungry?”
      Karen merely sat there, back pushed against the wall, as far from her assailant as the tiny space would allow. She glared.
      Shrugging, he lowered himself to the ground, sitting with his legs folded underneath him. Removing the cover from the tray, he revealed two turkey sandwiches, the thin pressed lunchmeat variety, on white bread, with their crusts cut off. Also on the tray were a bowl of tomato soup, with a cup of popcorn on the side, and a pile of pistachios. Anyone else might have wondered at the eclectic fair. Karen recognized her personal comfort foods immediately.
      “Why?” she asked, fighting to keep the tremor out of her voice.
      Alan kept his eyes pointed down, at the plate. “I thought you might be hungry.”
      Karen sat numb for a moment, at a loss as to whether to be amused by the absurdity of it all, or outraged that he was the one acting wounded. She chose instead to wait, wait until he acknowledged her real question.
      After a full minute of heartbeats he finally said, “I told you I would.” He paused to take a breath then, or maybe to see if she would add anything. “I told you I could not be your friend forever, that eventually, when you were grown, that it would end.”
      “You never said how! If I’d known you meant to... ”
      “Then what?” he interrupted with force. “If you had known, then what? You would have left? You would have never spoken to me again? I wonder why I didn’t tell you exactly what I intended then.”
      “How long have you intended?”
      “Since the day I met you.”
      She knew he meant it, knew it from the dream. It was small comfort that she also knew that he had not wanted to entrap her down here as of the day they first met, merely intended it... planned for it. She could hardly believe that she dared sarcasm as she heard herself say, “Well, at least you waited until I was grown. I’m surprised you didn’t jump me the day I entered puberty.”
      “So am I.”
      That stopped her cold. With effort she managed to piece together the words “I would have hardly been out of elementary school. I think I was twelve. You would have... ”
      “I thought I would have.” He sounded as relieved about restraining as she was. “I gather now that so long as I thought of you as a child you were safe.” He looked directly at her again, then let his gaze drift down to the remaining shreds of the dress she arrived in. “I had assumed that once you stopped thinking of yourself as a child, that that might also trigger my appetite, but I see I was wrong.”
      Karen blushed. “I... It was my first date.”
      He raised an eyebrow at her. “First? And you were wearing a dress like that?” He shook his head. “Maybe I wasn’t as late as I thought, then.”
      That said, he pulled himself to his feet, and turned to leave. “Do, please, eat something. The bottle contains iced peppermint tea. I’ll come back later to collect the empty dishes.” With that, he left.

     “What was wrong with my dress?”
      It was three meals later. For lack of anything else to count time with, Karen had begun to think of two meals as one day. Two meals, sleep. Two meals, sleep. He had brought her a chamber pot after the first meal, and now made sure to change it regularly. He never seemed any more or less tired during one visit than another, so she did not even really have him to compare her cycles to. The bulb was always off between his visits, unless she waited to eat until he left. No move had been made to repeat his behavior of the very first night, but likewise no indication was made that he intended to let her go.
      “Nothing was wrong with it, if you intended to go clubbing, or bar hopping.”
      “What’s that supposed to mean?” She took another bite of tuna fish sandwich, washing it down with a glass of milk.
      “The neck was too low, the hem was too high, and those shoes were impossible. If you were on a first date, then you should have dressed more modestly.”
      He seemed like the old Alan again, the one she had known before. Well, save but that she could not imagine that person locking her in a basement. But the jokes were the same. The strange way he built his sentences. The formal clothing and willing smile. It was almost enough to make her forget why she was here. Then the conversation would turn, or he would look at her, just such, and it would all come crashing down. This wasn’t her Alan. Or rather, she had never really known him, only part of him, and now she was forced to acknowledge the rest.
      “What would you have had me wear then?”
      “Nothing.”
      She choked, spraying milk across her plate. “What!”
      “If it were up to me you would have never had a first date. I would have kept you here, away from prying eyes.”
      “Protective, aren’t you?”
      “No,” he said, turning to her with eyes as cold as any she had ever seen. “Possessive.”
      Karen tried to laugh. It got caught in her throat. “I’m not your property, Alan.”
      “Aren’t you?” He stood up and took her plate away from her with a jerk. “I decide when and what you eat. I decide when and where you sleep. I decide how you spend your days, and how you spend your nights. You do nothing without my leave, and, eventually, you will do whatever I tell you to. In what way are you not my possession?”
      Alan had been leaning closer to her with each sentence. When she began to crawl backwards, he followed, until finally she was pinned to the wall, his body pressed up against hers, his hands on either side of her head. “Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t.” There were tears streaming down her face.
      He smiled at her then, satisfaction clear. As he pulled away from her, to give her room to maneuver, he said, “Take off your dress.”
      She stared at him, terrified, petrified.
      “Take off your dress, now, or I will break the first finger of your left hand. I will continue breaking bones until you either comply or are no longer able to resist. Do you understand?”
      Karen continued to sit there, numb. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Her pulse was racing. She saw him reach out and take her left hand in his. Felt him gently separate out the pointer finger from the others. Felt him cradle it in his hand, stroking his own fingers across it. Finally, reality sank in. He would really do it. She pulled her hand back and began fighting with the clasp at the back of her dress. It wasn’t like it was worth much anyway. He had not even bothered removing it during the initial assault, merely pushed it or torn it aside. Now it was little more than filthy shreds. But it was all she’d had. Pulling it over her head, she wadded the cloth into a ball and tossed it at him.
      “Very good. The panties as well?”
      She did not even try to argue, merely complied, and then stood there, glaring at him, attempting to make it clear that while she could not resist, that she was far from willing.
      He caught the second bundle, then turned and opened the door to leave.
      “Where are you going?!” The words were out in a rush, before she could think. He couldn’t leave her like this!
      He turned back for a moment, still standing in the doorway. His eyebrows lifted as he said, “I am going back upstairs, to my house. Why? Did you expect me to do something else?”
      Yes, Damn it! But she couldn’t say that. If he wasn’t going to make the first move, she certainly wasn’t going to suggest it. “I’m cold.” It sounded like a weak excuse, even to her own ears.
      “I’ll turn up the heat. Sleep well, Karen.”
      Just before he closed the door, she asked, “Can’t I have a blanket?”
      “No.” The door slammed.
      Darkness descended upon her, and dreams came with the night.

     She had not dreamed since that first night, and so was surprised when she fell straight into a dream this time. Almost as soon as she closed her eyes she could see herself, Alan, standing at the foot of the stairs. Turning the lock. Stepping into the basement.
      There was a woman in the basement. Black, thin, maybe twenty years old. Her hair was braided neatly, pulling it tight against her head. Her skin, at first glance looked to be covered in tattoos. Then dream-Karen shivered. Not tattoos. Cuts. Carefully placed patterns of skin had been sliced and the wounds had dried a darker black against her skin. Thousands of cuts. As Alan, she knew that it had taken weeks to make them all. Some he had made, as discipline, some she had made in frustration. And Karen knew that he was annoyed. Upset. She looked back at the woman, realizing what she had missed. She was dead. A blanket lay crumbled at her feet. She had torn some of it to strips and then made a noose, which she hung from the shackles.
      The dream reset. Suddenly she-Alan was outside the room again. Opening the door again. This time the light was still off, though they could see clearly. Another body. This one middle aged, white. She had torn a blanket into shreds and managed to shove sufficient down her throat to choke to death.

     Karen pulled herself back to waking, felt for her chamber pot and was thoroughly sick. It wasn’t the bodies that made her ill, though she had never seen a corpse so closely before. It was Alan’s thoughts. Yes, he had been upset that they were dead, but not for any good reason. He had been annoyed at the waste. That was all. Two women, dead by their own hands rather than enduring his tortures, and he was annoyed at the waste. He had intended to kill them himself, eventually, and so was put out. It was becoming harder for Karen to deny that he really did intend to kill her.
      It was over an hour later when she finally cried herself to sleep, and back into dreams. Another memory.

     Alan leaned against the railing around the lake. It was a beautiful evening. The sun had just finished setting and a chill was in the air. The park was mostly deserted at this time of night, but he could still hear an occasional couple admiring the lights in the city. Slowly, he began to stroll around the parameter of the water.
      He was near the east edge of the park when he spotted her. A lone shape, small and abandoned on a park bench. On the same park bench that he had met her on. He approached quietly, trying to get a feel for why she was there. She sat, knees curled up in her lap, face tilted as though crying to herself. She did not hear him approach and thus gave a sizable jump when he addressed her.
      “Little one, what are you doing out here?”
      Karen looked up, face radiating joy. “You came!” She jumped down from the bench and rushed over to him, throwing her arms about him.
      “I had not realized I was expected.” He had met her here sometimes, but never on a schedule, never so late at night. “How long have you been waiting?”
      “What time is it?”
      “Just past seven.”
      She thought for a moment. “Four hours, I guess.”
      He stared at her. She had waited four hours, when who knew what might have happened to her, waiting for him to happen by... “Why?”
      She sniffled. “I just did.”
      He thought about it. What did he know about her home life? He had followed her before. “Your mother and father are fighting again?”
      Silently, she nodded. After a moment she added, “Mom told me to go play with my friends. To get out of there for a while.”
      He nodded. “Why didn’t you?”
      She looked hurt. “You’re my friend.”
      He sighed. “Friends your own age. Why did you not go to them?”
      She wilted, and whispered, “I don’t have any.”
      Alan knelt down then, to be on eye level. “None? Forgive me if I have trouble believing that.”
      She sniffled. “They say I talk funny. And they make fun of how I dress. No one at school talks to me.”
      Suddenly the eagerness she always showed at his arrival was not quite so heartwarming. She was alone. Surrounded by her own kind, she was alone. Alan reached out and clasped her hand. “Come with me,” he said.
      Obediently, she followed. “Where are we going?”
      “I don’t always visit the park. What if I hadn’t come by?”
      Karen looked down at her shoes, avoiding his eyes. He knew the answer. She had waited four hours. She would have kept waiting, and eventually either he would have happened by, or someone less generous would have. He needed to put a stop to that.
      “I don’t want you waiting for me in the park any more.” They stepped onto a subway car, still talking.
      “But... ”
      “I mean it. Lots of bad things can happen to people at that park.”
      “But... ”
      “I’ll show you somewhere better to look for me.”
      She perked up instantly, hugging his side and only disentangling when they reached the stop.
      Karen did not know anything about how to read a neighborhood. She knew that there was a bad side of town, but she hardly recognized it, walking confidently beside Alan. A block away from their stop he told her to walk on ahead of him.
      When the first local approached her, he grabbed the youth by the shoulder and spun him around.
      “Hey man, what... ” Then the boy got a look at his face. Everyone who lived anywhere near the Dark knew that face. Everyone was scared as hell of it. Alan had made certain of that over the years.
      “You see the girl?” He motioned with his head toward Karen, skipping now and growing farther away.
      “Yeah, man. I see her.”
      “You think you’d recognize her if you see her again?”
      “I don’t know man. I... ”
      Alan moved his grip from the shoulder to the throat. Lifting the man off his feet, he turned him to face the way Karen went. “Learn what she looks like.”
      “Sure, man. Sure. I’ll make sure I could spot her in a crowd of little blonde prissy kids.”
      He realized his mistake as soon as he felt Alan’s grip tightening. “Her hair is brown,” Alan whispered to the flailing form. “And you will learn what she looks like and be sure to tell everyone you know. Everyone you meet. Because if anyone hurts her, if anyone makes her feel so much as unwelcome, I will not only skin them before I kill them, but will dismember all of their family before I do so.” He dropped the boy on the concrete. “Understood?”
      The boy nodded, gasping, as he massaged his throat. “Yeah,” cough. “Yeah. I got it. What’s so special about her?”
      “She belongs to me.”

     The memory ended, but Karen knew what came next. She had never heard that conversation, but she knew that that was the night Alan had first shown her where his apartment was. She had been seven years old. And from that day she had felt more at home, more welcome, in the Dark than in any other part of the city. Now she knew why. No one had dared make her feel otherwise.

     “Wake up, Karen,” he whispered into her ear.
      Karen came awake with a start. The room was black, pitch black. He’s left the lights off... She could feel his body leaning over hers, arms pinning hers to her side merely by their proximity, breath still warm against the side of her face. He had not climbed fully astride her yet; she could feel his erection warm against her leg. He felt as nude as she was. Her heart doubled its pace.
      “I can’t see,” she said.
      “Really?” He sounded amused.
      Karen shivered, then felt it. A knife, cold and sharp, had just been placed across her neck, just beneath her adam’s apple. For now it did no harm, but any increase in pressure, or any movement on her part and it would slowly begin to slit her throat.
      Framing her words carefully, so as to cause as little movement as possible in her throat, she began, “What... ”
      He stopped her almost immediately, still whispering in her ear. “Shhh,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to distract me. I might slip.”
      Her heart rate doubled again. What was he playing at this time? No straightforward assault it seemed.
“Spread your legs.”
      Closing her eyes and trying to steady her breathing, she complied.
      It was easier than she thought at first. His free hand traced along her side and then down onto her stomach, over and across to her thighs. Feather light strokes, just brushing the nerves. It would have been extremely pleasant, if not for her desperate need to stay calm. Any sudden breathing, any minor spasm of muscles, and it would be over. She could feel tears beginning to pool at the corners of her eyes.
      It seemed an eternity before his hand stopped, palm resting cupped over her nethers. Just resting. Not once had his fingers actually caressed that region. Even now he stopped, suspended just above her. Karen was nearly insane with trying not to move, trying not to think, trying not to feel. As if through a cloud of emotion she heard Alan’s voice say, “Very good.”
      Karen felt herself smile, and cursed herself for it. Why should she care if he was pleased? He wanted to hurt her! He wanted to kill her, and he didn’t even have the decency to do it quickly. He insisted on making a game of it. She hated herself for being glad of his praise.
      “Do you know what I am going to do next?”
      She waited, heart pounding.
      “Karen?”
      Her mouth was dry with fear. He wanted an answer! What answer did he want? “I... I don’t know.”
      His hand stroked the curls between her legs. She felt a shiver run the full length of her body. She felt the edge of the knife beginning to part her skin.
      “Guess.”
      Karen steeled herself against moving. His hand was still stroking, still caressing. His fingers had begun to slide into and out of her. She could hear her own breathing picking up, despite her best attempts at control. She was going to lose. She was going to begin flailing around, and the knife would slit her throat, and it would be over, and he would have won. Or would he be disappointed that she had not put up a better fight? She couldn’t think. Her mind was refusing to focus. Her will was slipping. Any moment now.
      “Time’s almost up.”
      A question. He had asked a question. What did she think he wanted? He wanted... he wanted... No... What was he going to do next... what... “You’re going to hurt me.”
      She felt his tongue upon the top of her breast then, and she lost. Giving into the orgasm she felt her body thrash and flail, only as it faded coming to realize that he must have moved the knife.
      “Very good.” He said, a purr in his voice. “Now, roll over.”
      She blinked, confused. Over. Roll over... Gingerly she rolled onto her hands and knees. Carefully she tried to swallow. She did not think her neck was bleeding, but it had been a near thing. She could clearly feel that the skin had parted. But she did it. She won. She was still alive and that meant she had won, right? Then she felt the tip of the knife pressed to the nape of her neck.
      She still could not see, but she felt him moving. Rotating around her until he was squatting, facing her, knife blade once again flat, but still touching her. She heard his voice asking, “Are you afraid of me, Karen?” but she hardly noted the question. She was too focused on the knife. It was moving, dancing along her skin, down one arm and up the next, along her collar, her cheeks, finally coming to rest with its tip lightly pricking the space just between her eyes. He then repeated his question.
      “Yes.” She could hear the shiver in her voice.
      “Do you know why?”
      She was silent, feeling the knife, waiting for it to sink deeper into her skin, into bone. It was so near her eyes. Her eyes that could not see.
      “You are afraid of me because I am unpredictable. You can’t begin to guess why I am doing the things I chose, and so you are afraid.”
      She shivered.
      “Would you like to know what I am going to do?”
      Karen counted her heartbeats. One one thousand. Two. “Please.” It came out as a whimper. She honestly was not sure if she was asking him to explain, or begging him to stop.
      “I am going to kill you.” He said it simply, dispassionately, and as he spoke she felt the blade moving again, tracing over her head, behind it, to the soft spot at the back of her skull. At the last moment his grip on the knife shifted. It was his palm that connected with her, pulling her head forward into a kiss, forceful and hungry. It seemed an eternity before he pulled back for air, and when he did, he bit her lip in parting. Again she whimpered.
      “Not right now. Likely not tonight, or even tomorrow, though one never knows. You might well be with me for another month at least. But I will kill you. I will kill you slowly, and I will kill you deliberately, and I will relish every scream you grant me.”
      He pushed her over then, fully over, onto her back. He was astride her, then inside her, pounding with all the intensity, all the fury of that first kiss.
      Karen, lying there, was torn between gratitude that the preliminaries where finally over, and terror now that she knew the rules.

     The remainder of the night the only dreams she had were her own. The cannibal village. Her arm was still gone, and now a leg was removed as well. The savage who cut her seemed to have noticed that she was not bleeding, though he did not understand what it meant. She now only saw her tormentor, none of the distracting ghosts. Anyone could have seen that there was only one cannibal in the village. Anyone could have seen that it wore Alan’s face.

     “It’s not as deep as I would have thought.”
      Karen remained silent, allowing him to dab clean water on her neck. When he was finished, allowing her to return his looks, she asked, “Would you have really slit my throat?”
      He shrugged. She could have screamed, but then he added, “That was up to you, not me.”
      Damn him! Damn him to the Abyss of... It was the mood swings that she hated the most. At times like this he was civil, approachable. She would even dare to call him friendly in his more daring moments. Then there were the other times. It was infuriating.
      “Why do you bother talking to me? If you want me to be afraid of you, why bother talking to me at all?” Going out on a limb, she asked, “Do you talk to everyone you put down here?” He had never actually said that he had used this room before, never in as many words, not like in her memories, but she thought she could be allowed to guess.
      “Not so much.” He paused, as though forming his thought. “Sometimes I will talk to women who seems to be holding together particularly well. Rarely are they willing to talk back. I think they assume that I’m just toying with them again. That I would fail to notice anything they said.”
      “Aren’t you?” The words were out before she could pull herself in check. But rather than looking angry, he looked hurt.
      “I care what you say, Karen. You are the only woman I have ever known who has actually seen me as a person. Now,” he motioned at their surroundings, “you also see me as a threat. Still, though, like now, you are willing to see me as a person. You can not imagine what that means to me.”
      Actually, Karen thought, she could, remembering his emotions when they first met. His fear of what he might do, but also his desperate hope of what she represented to him. “Why are you doing this? If you don’t want me to be afraid of you, why are you doing this at all? Why can’t you just let me go?”
      Alan shook his head. “Nothing is ever that simple, Karen. I do want you to be afraid, just not right now. I live with hungers you can not dream of.”

     It was sleep time. Karen tried again to steady her heart. She could not believe she was about to try to do this. The thoughts had been chasing themselves in her mind for hours. Hunger. Appetite. The cannibal village. Snippets from her own link to Alan’s dreams. Human predators. Ridiculous spans of time. She was going to attempt the impossible. She was going to try to choose what memory she pulled up. A memory of Alan eating.
      The dreamscape opened on a scene much older than when he bought the apartment. There was a Spanish flair to the buildings, but she did not know enough about history or culture to know the differences between Barcelona and Los Angeles in the 1800s. Alan was standing at the corner of a building, near an alley. He looked weathered, drawn. There was a tiredness about him that she had never before witnessed. As she watched, a girl came out of the tavern, not twenty paces from him.
      “¿Senorita, un momento, por favor?” Miss, a moment, please? She understood the words without effort, as he did. A piece of her knew that the sounds were Spanish, but the meanings were all that she heard.
      The girl was perhaps twenty, likely younger. She was dressed in a peasant frock and a long flowing shirt. She wore no makeup that Karen could see, but her skin glowed with a radiance that made her breathtaking. As Karen watched, the girl stepped closer to Alan.
      “Yes?” she asked, in her own language. “Are you lost, sir?”
      “No, thank you.” Alan took a step back, toward the alley. “I live just over that ridge.” He motioned to the mountains overlooking the town. “I only came to town for the festival tomorrow.”
      “Ah yes!” The girl seemed to be delighted to be reminded of the holiday. Then she seemed to realize where she was. She had taken another few steps toward Alan without thinking and now found herself standing directly in front of the alley. She took a step back.
      “If you could help me?” Alan asked, reaching out a palm to her. He looked so tired, so in need. Karen knew that it was a ploy to get the girl closer, but it was not completely an act.
      The girl stared at the hand, torn between offering aid and remaining in the safety of the street. Alan’s knees seemed to buckle. She dashed to his side, to help support him. As soon as she was in arm’s reach, she realized her mistake. Too late. One arm had been thrown about her trunk, pinning her arms to her sides, the other hand was clasped over her mouth, silencing any protests. Alan tilted his head only slightly and whispered in her ear, “It will only take a moment of your time, I promise.” He pulled the struggling woman backward, into the shadows of the alley.
      When they reached the back wall, where another building blocked exit, he leaned in again and whispered, “If you scream, I will snap your neck like a twig. Nod if you understand.”
      The terrified woman nodded, tears streaming down her face. Alan removed his hand from over her mouth and relaxed the grip overall. As he spun her around to face him she began to babble. “Sir, please. Please, sir. I am a good girl. Please, don’t. Please.”
      Alan held a finger up to her lips, gently silencing her. “Shhh. I know. I know you are a good girl. And because you are a good girl, I would hate to hurt you if I did not have to. You do not want me to have to hurt you do you?”
      Tears continued to flow. The girl began to shiver. “Please, no. Please, don’t.”
      “Shhh.” And then he was on top of her, pinning her to the wall. Mouth smothering hers, free arm forcing up her skirt. The violence and speed with which he performed the assault made even his most frenzied couplings with Karen seem tame. She was sure she would hear bones break. Then the impossible happened. As her dream-self watched, the girl suddenly evaporated. Poof. Into a cloud of dust. Alan seemed in no way put out. Instead, he merely straighten to standing, retied his pants, and walked out into the street. As the light of the street lanterns hit his face she was struck by how much better he looked. How much healthier. More lively. Sated.
      How much like the morning after he first attacked her.

     Karen lay awake, trying to piece things together. He was feeding. Honestly and truly feeding on her. And some part of her had known it. He was feeding, and he wanted his food to be scared when he fed, but he was lonely and so didn’t want to lose what connection they had, just to heighten how much she was afraid. How much did he need her to be afraid? They had been close friends before this began. Would it have been possible for him to feed from her willingly? Would she have allowed it? But she forgot, he had thought of her as a child. He didn’t want to feed from a child. Given how he fed, she was grateful of that. But could he feed without fear? Karen let her mind drift and faded back into dreams.

     “I’m worried about you.” The speaker was female. Her accent was cultured, flowing. She was shorter than Alan, though not by more than a couple inches. Her hair was long and lush, wavy and blonde. Her eyes were the deep green of unpolished emeralds. She wore a long gown, carefully trimmed and expertly fitted to her frame. The neck held one of those ruffled collars, the type you see on pictures of Shakespeare or Elisabeth I, but the dress seemed made for it, and she seemed used to it, so it looked far from foolish. Instead it helped accent her cheekbones.
      Dream-Alan looked up at her. He looked angry. “There is nothing for you to worry about.”
      “Isn’t there? We all worry about you, Brother. You take too much on yourself.”
      Alan turned away, standing. “Truly? Well, now you have told me. If that was all you came to say, you can now leave.”
      The woman frowned. “You are cruel without need, Brother. You know that is not the only reason I came.” She averted her eyes, looking down, into her lap. “I missed you.”
      Sighing, Alan retuned to his seat across from her. He looked tired. “As I have missed you.”
      He was in the same style period dress. Pantaloons and doublet. Neck collar and heeled buckle shoes. Gone were the blacks that Karen was so used to, but his choices were still rich, deep shades. Colors that would not arouse suspicion yet would still blend into shadows with ease. The lantern cast too poor of light for Karen to see if tears were forming in his eyes, but as it was a dream she could feel that he was about to cry.
      “How many did you find this season?” his sister asked. Since last reunion
      Alan sighed. “Three. Four of you count the one who destroyed our brother. They are all dead now.”
      “Last gathering, I thought you had said you were finding some dozen or more in that time?”
      “That was nearly fifty years ago. They are scarcer now. It takes more time and effort to hunt. Two that I found had only just awakened, had barely realized what they could do.”
      “Is it right to kill them so young? We do not know they are a threat... ”
      Alan slammed his hand down on his leg. “You can say that? After what they did to our brother? After what father did to us!”
      Her voice dripped with cold as she said, “He was not our ‘father’, Brother. Our tormentor. Our creator. Our master. But you give him too much, calling him our father.”
      “It was by his blood that we are in this world. I do not claim that he was a good man. Many fathers aren’t.” He sighed. “It is a point on which we have never agreed. Can we let it pass?’
      She nodded, and they sat in silence for a time.
      Karen felt around inside dream-Alan’s mind, looking for names. She was surprised to discover that there were none. Alan knew whom he spoke to, who he spoke of, but at no point had he even entertained the idea of naming either. If she was honest about it, he had only even thought of himself as Alan in the dreams where he knew her. He really hadn’t had a name?
      “Would you like to take dinner with me?”
      Alan looked up, shocked. “You would share?”
      She laughed. “I live at a brothel, Brother. There is more than enough to go around. Likely even someone to your tastes.”
      Alan’s eyes did hold tears then, and hope. “It would be... pleasant.”
      “How long has it been?” Her voice held soft concern.
      “I do not know what you mean.”
      “How long since you had someone willing?”
      He turned his head away, hiding his face from her. “You know I was not built for that.”
      She shook her head, disagreeing. “No. You were built for conquest. You were built to push your will upon your prey, but not this. Not... I have been hearing rumors. Has it really been so many lifetimes?”
      He turned back around. He made no effort to hide the tears streaking down his face. “You don’t know what it is like. You were a good choice. A seductress. Every sennight I find myself out hunting and every time... Every... It's gotten so that it is easier to just take what is most easily on hand, rather than search for something I might never find. It has got so... I almost think I enjoy it. The rush. The... ”
      “The flavor.”
      He looked at her, shocked.
      “You think I haven’t felt it? We all have senses, Brother. And all humans feel. But too much of any one thing is not good. I have spoken to others. I have felt it myself. Too much, and an emotion becomes addictive.”
      “That is what you think I have. An addiction to their fear? Like one of their opiates?”
      She placed her hand on his shoulder. “It would make sense. Come. Try one of the girls I work with. See if you can dine without scaring her beyond sanity.”
      “Won’t a disappearance be noticed?”
      She laughed. “I’m sure it would.” Taking in her breath again, she continued. “And I would not recommend it. But if you take a bite from one, a nibble from another, you can easily get your fill without consuming anyone. Not in their entirety. Do you think I would ever get any customers if all my johns went missing? I have regulars!”
      Alan smiled at the idea, so foreign to his own musings, and let her lead him out of the room. Perhaps it would work. Perhaps he could restrain...

     Karen shook her head awake. Evidently, it had not worked. Or not well enough. Fear was a drug, eh? She suspected that they knew more about drugs now then back then. A body could develop a physical dependence on a chemical, so that if weaning was possible at all it was forced to be slowly. Also, if he had a physical dependence, she would have to really be scared for him to get his fix. Acting terrified would not cut it.
      She had not understood that first part of the dream at all. She tried not to think about it,

     “Tell me about your family.”
      Alan looked at her, confused.
      “Please? I suspect you know most everything there is to know about me. I don’t know much more than your name.”
      Still he just looked at her.
      She relented, pulling back, into herself. Focusing her attention on her meal. “If you don’t want to talk about them, I understand. I just... ”
      “No. I... ” Alan shook his head. “It is not that. It is just... odd. Odd that you ask. I have not thought of them in many years, and then, just last night I was remembering an afternoon I spent with my sister. And then today, you ask.”
      “Strange,” Karen said. Inside she was shivering. In what she hoped was a casual voice, she added, “You have a sister?”
      “Four of them. And three brothers, though some have passed on. The rest, we have lost touch over the years. It has been a long time since I have seen any signs of them, much less heard from them. We used to meet every few years, but it has been... I am not sure they are still live.”
      “I’m sorry.” She was. He had seemed to care deeply for the sister in his dream.
      He smiled. “Time is a thief. It will rob us of everything, eventually.”
      “The rest of your family?”
      He was silent for a moment. “My mother died when I was very young. Before my first memory. My father... my father was... He liked to control things.” Alan paused, then added, “My siblings and I were things.”
      Karen gasped, dropping her fork. “Oh, Alan! I... ”
      He closed his eyes morosely, and shook his head. “It’s alright. There is no harm in you knowing. Or in me telling.”
      She tried desperately to think of a tangent to pull him away from such hard memories. “You were the youngest then?”
      Alan shook his head. “No... I... It would be simplest to say that my father took many mistresses. We each had a different mother. We were all the same age. We grew up as peers.”
      Karen was silent. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know why she asked. She had wanted to understand more about him. She had wanted to hear him talk to her about this family he cared so deeply for. She had never suspected that this was why he had never spoken of them, even in their early times.
      “You are doing well.”
      Karen looked up, surprised out of her reflection. She looked at him puzzled. “What?”
      He reached out and stroked her hair. “I said you are doing well.”
      Her mind raced. “Shouldn’t I be? You’ve been bringing me food. You said you didn’t plan to kill me immediately. You haven’t even done anything too serious to hurt me.” Her throat felt much better now. She tried not to think about it, though her hand went reflexively to it anyway.
      “Well... yes.” He let her hair fall through his fingers. “Just the same.”
      Still she looked at him, confused, willing him to explain what was wrong.
      “I’ve never seen someone so alert after so long here. You’re perky at moments. Your hair is still glossy. Your eyes shine.”
      Karen swallowed. “You would rather... ”
      Alan shook his head. “No. No, I do enjoy being able to talk to you. And I’m glad you are still able to fight back, at times. It doesn’t seem... ”
      He got up and left, sentence still hanging.
      Karen finished the thought for him, after the door had closed. “Natural. It doesn’t seem natural.”

     Her dreams were chaos. Short snips of being in the cannibal village surrounded by a collage of short scenes from Alan’s life. It was the first time she had ever dreamed of the cannibal village without him feeding first.
      The village was cold, deserted, save her and the tormentor. He was poking at the wound where he leg had been, noticing that it did not bleed. He did not notice that she was growing a new arm. A thick stumpy thing, like a lizard growing a new tail.
      Suddenly she was Alan. He held a woman pinned to the wall. It looked like a gypsy. She was clawing at his arm, trying to claw at his eyes. Alan snapped her neck.
      There was a man underneath Alan, pinned to the ground. He seemed to be chanting. Anywhere his hands touched Alan, it burned. It felt like living fire where the man wrapped his fingers around him. Fighting the pain, Alan snapped the man’s spine.
      He could see her up ahead. A youth, sitting on the edge of the cliff. In front of her, lights were sparking. Tiny, deliberate, beautiful lights. Alan came up behind her. Her face showed such joy as she looked up at him. Joy at realizing she could do this. He picked her up, and tossed her down the cliffside. Easily two hundred feet.
      A dark room. Alan cradled a rock in his hand. It was carved in the shape of a face, eyes cast in sapphire. A movement in the shadows. Alan leapt without thought, trusting instinct to bring him were he needed to be. A young woman, wounded, frightened, pinned to the wall by a fallen table. Cold fury radiating from every pore, Alan approached. And crushed her skull.
      There were more, dozens more, hundreds. It was easy to see the theme. Mages. When finally the memories slowed, Karen found herself in the cannibal village again. Her tormentor stood before her, Alan’s face as clear as it had ever been. He looked deep into her eyes and, in a deep booming voice intoned, “Suffer thee not a witch to live.”
      The last dream started.

     It began in darkness. The faintest sense of awareness, and then the opening of eyes. Alan blinked, and looked at the world. Colors. Sensation. Movement. Movement was the greatest assault to his senses, the most foreign. He could move. He could see other things moving. Cool stone, like himself. Warm organic things. Plants being pushed to and fro by the air. There was a voice. Above him a voice was talking. Alan looked up.
      Meanings came to him, flooding at him, enveloping him. Clearing. Courtyard. Dais. Human. Two humans. Creator. Maker. Birth. Others. Life.
      The Creator was speaking, not addressing the creatures in the courtyard, but rather the other man standing beside him. “They live.” He smiled, looking down at Alan and the others.
      Alan looked beside him, at his peers. There were seven others. Some shaped to appear male, like him, others female, but all were like him. All were stone, wearing only the faintest imitation of human seeming. Two had emerald eyes. Two had sapphire. Two had ruby. One, a female, had jet black. He inferred that he therefore also had jet black eyes. He returned his attention to the humans. They still conversed.
      “Don’t you realize what I have done?” Laughed his creator. “They said it was impossible. They said that with hundreds of years of effort a grand archmage could create one. They still call me a pup, little more than a century old, and I have created eight. Eight!”
      “And you say it only took one village per?”
      The creator nodded. He was wearing long thick robes, soft and luxuriant, embroidered with symbols to strengthen his craft. Alan could feel the energy pulse from within the stitching. His hair was long and white, but his face belayed the age he quoted. If his hair was shorter, if he was dressed differently, he might have been mistook for thirty years, not the hundred that he claimed. His companion was dressed as a courtier, fresh from travel, with rich brown hair and a youthful face.
      “Some hundred lives mixed with my will. My direction. They are my constructs, extensions of myself. Emblems of my power.”
      “They don’t look terribly lifelike. They move but... ”
      “They have not yet fed.”
      With that word Alan knew that he was dismissed. Out. Out of the keep. Out into the countryside. To feed. To bring back energy for his master. He knew what he needed to do.
      Time skipped. It was years later, or maybe months. Alan stood beside his siblings, behind his maker, looking out across to table. A meeting. A gathering of mages. Their creator, their father, sat at the head of the table. Someone to his right spoke.
      “None here question your ability, Archmage. We question your methods. The peasants have lived in fear of us for generations, but you have heightened that. You have frightened them to the point that they are calling on their sovereigns to do something. ‘Witch hunts’, they are calling them. We have seen the effects in other territories. Once we were independent from the petty dealing of kingdoms, but we must heed. Call in your pets, Lord.”
      The Archmage listened. “What would you have me do? They are young. They are learning. And they need nourishment. Should I slice off my right arm because the commoners fear my rings?”
      Those around the table laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. A laugh supplied because it was expected, supplied with fear of what silence might bring.
      The first man continued, “We are not asking you to starve them, my Lord. Merely, could you keep them within your own walls for a time? Bring food to them? Give the peasants a few years to forget their fear. Surely a few years is nothing to one of your power.”
      “I will consider.”
      Another shift. Darkness. Damp.
      Alan was in a cell. Chained. Beside him were three of his siblings. All of the male constructs. They had been down here for days. Days and days. None of them knew what this new game was that father was playing at. He had seemed sane enough when he first started keeping them inside. But that was months ago. Slowly, he became bored. He toyed with them.
      All of them were chained to the walls, each near a corner. They could feel themselves fading. They were starving. When it was over, when they ran completely dry, would they return to stone, or something else? The door to the cell was opened.
      A woman was tossed in. Older, but still strong. Some fieldworker’s wife, likely. She was naked, but she did not appear otherwise abused. She was terrified. Standing in the center of the room, she was just out of reach of them all.
      She scanned their faces. They felt her draw strength from the knowledge that they were as trapped as she was. But not much strength. Not much hope. She knew she had been cast into the cell to die. All that would change was how long it took. She looked closely at each of them, starting with Alan.
      He was taller than her, though not by much. His eyes and hair were jet black, a contrast to his pale skin. His face was chiseled, sharp with angles. The look he gave her promised that she would die swiftly, without needing to believe she surrendered. There would be no time to surrender. He took. That was what he was.
      Beside him hung emerald green eyes. Deeply seductive. Rich blonde locks curled about his ears. His face was smooth, his smile promising sins unimagined. What does it matter, his eyes seemed to purr. Give up yourself. Feel the needs within you. Embrace them. Embrace me. And feel things the like of which you have never imagined.
      Blue eyes. The blue of precious gems, of deep secluded pools. No threats here, no cajoling. A warm hand. A friendly smile. Shaggy red hair sat atop his head, but he seemed the measure of coolness. A sanctuary in this storm of seduction. A friend to trust. A friend to keep warm at night with. She almost stepped toward him. Then she saw the other.
      A child. No more than eight, possibly younger. His hair was shaggy brown, drooping too low to see his eyes. He was too thin. His body shook as though he were crying. A victim. She did not know why he was chained to the wall, but this was obviously a victim, just as she was. She went to his side, kneeling beside him to comfort him.
      She barely had time to scream as he grabbed her, staring at her with eyes so bloodshot that she could discern no other color. Barely had time to think as he tossed her to one of his brothers. She would have plenty of time to scream in the minutes that followed. He trusted them, though. He was not strong, not like them. He was not meant to ever be on top in a coupling. His turn to feed would come when she was too weak to fight back. He would have to trust that they would leave him his share.
      The world faded. The cell faded.
      Alan was again in the courtyard. The weather had turned cold. Everyone was outside. All of his siblings. His father. All of his father’s guests. Alan felt the first drop of snow hit him. He raised his hand, to brush it away, and remembered the chains. They were all chained. They were meant to be the entertainment for this party.
      Father addressed the crowd. “Thank you all for coming!” He smiled, the mad grin that had frozen to his face recently. How could any of the other mages think him sane? “Doubtless, you wonder why we are outside. Wonder not! Your blood will be warmed soon enough.”
      With that he stepped down onto the level of his creations and walked among them. Each of them cringed away. He was not the beloved father anymore. They were not his precious children. He was the tormentor. They were his toys, so much less than human, and he held no regard for human life. How much could he hold for theirs? Faces turned as one when he stopped. Stopped beside the youngest form. The ruby eyed girl.
      He unlocked her chains, feeling her cringe away from him. He pulled her to the center of the courtyard. As his guests looked on in shock, he began to fondle her, then to molest her in earnest. She squirmed and struggled, knowing that there was no way to escape, knowing that he could kill her easily. With a normal man she would have at least had some defense. She could have drained him while he force himself on her. Drained him until he was dust. But not a mage. Certainly not this mage. As her creator, as a mage of the same magics that created her, she might get a sip of power, if he allowed it, but mostly... Mostly he would drain her. He would drain her dry until she was an abandoned pile of rubble. The others, her siblings, turned away, knowing inherently that they were watching her end.
      It did not come. Yes, he drained her, but then he stopped, just short of death. She lay there, gasping, too weak to curl herself into a ball. He fastened a chain to her ankle and stepped away. Then he clapped his hands.
      A guard stepped forward from the crowd. A large man, wooly and gruff. The look he gave to the young construct was one that should never have been directed at a child, but she was so starved, so desperately hungry that she almost welcomed his crushing embrace. But then he was gone. Barely a taste of food and suddenly he was gone.
      Another came. And another. Looking on, Alan was confused. They were all near starved. What was he playing at? Did he think to make the others jealous of her? Did he understand them so little? As her skin began to glow, he began to understand.
      All of the mages were watching now. It was a fascinating experiment. Take a creature that is designed to harness sexual energy and drain it bare. Then gradually fill it past its capacity. It would not take on such quantities of energy willingly, but what if willingness was removed from the equation. What if its essence was so starved that it could do not but absorb the food it was offered, even past its own tolerances. What would happen then?
      The cracks began slowly, under the surface, but the others could tell they were there. Tell by the look in her eyes. When she shattered it was her eyes that went first, ruby dust exploding outward. But only by a split second. Then the rest of her followed, chunks of marble flying into the crowd.
      Alan had no idea what the creator had expected to happen. He felt confident that it was something else. As one they broke their chains, fueled by outrage at their sister’s death. They charged at him. Pummeling him. Beating him into the ground with their fists. If he could touch them, he could drain them, make them silent stone, but only if he could think. They were more than him. Stronger. Faster. Relentless.
      When Alan looked up from the bloody mass that used to be his father all of the other mages were gone. Fled. Abandoned their supposed leader. They would all die soon enough.

     Karen awoke panting, covered in cold sweat. My god!, she thought. He is going to kill me. She had known it before, feared it. But never like this. Never with a cold certainty that gripped her heart. Somehow she had always thought that she might reason with him. Might make him understand. That he would repent and let her go. If he thought she was human, he might have. But she could not deny it. He thought was something else. She was not even sure what it meant to be a mage, save that it meant that Alan wanted her dead. That was enough. He wanted her dead and she did not want to die. She did not even really know what a mage was.
      The light to the cell came on an hour later. It felt like an eternity before he opened the door.
      He stood in the shadow of the doorway, watching her. On the surface he held the same cocky self-assuredness that he had with every feeding. On the surface. Behind his eyes she could see wariness, unease. She wondered how long it had been there.
      “Ready for our next row?”
      Karen swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Like I have a choice?”
      He smiled. “Back up. Against the wall.”
      She obeyed, feeling the chill of the mounted shackles against her back. What was he playing at? Why didn’t he... And suddenly she knew. Watching him stalk toward her, she knew. He was not certain. He had not been remembering those scenes to wet his appetite, or even to steel his will up for a necessary evil. He had been remembering every mage he had ever known, and holding them up against her. Trying to decide what she was.
      As he took her wrists in his hand, pulling her arms up above her head, she knew what he decided. He decided she didn’t know. Why else would she have never fought back? Leaning over her, looking down into terrified eyes, he kissed her.
      She felt it then. Knowing what to look for, she felt the pull. Felt him begin to drain her. Felt her life slipping away. She knew what would happen. She would die. Either he would drain her to death, or he would drain her until he could hold no more, and then simply kill her. But she would be dead. She felt him pull and so she did the only think she could think of. The only thing she could. She pulled back.
      Energy flooded into her. Thought, emotion, sensation, and more. Overwhelmed, she fainted.

     Karen opened her eyes slowly, head spinning. She was lying crumpled on the floor and for a moment did not remember how she got there. The light was on overhead, but something stood over her, casting her into shadow. Reaching her hand out to steady herself, she met smooth stone. It all came back.
      He was going to kill her. She fought back. Feeling the energy wash over her she fainted. As she went limp, she must have slipped loose from his grasp. But then what? Why didn’t he attack her while she was unconscious? She looked up, and knew. A statue loomed over her. Smooth as marble, beautifully chiseled. The form was of a man, pulling back in surprise. The face matched Alan’s perfectly. The eyes were obsidian. The expression was fear.
      Karen ran her hands over the sculpture. Not marble. She knew that at a second look. Should have known it from the dreams. Alabaster. Hard as marble. Alan had taken her to a museum when she was ten and pointed out a bust of a pharaoh that was carved of it. She felt tears falling from her eyes.
      “Damn it!” She spun away, striking the wall with her fist. The sound echoed in the tiny room. Why? Why did it have to go like this? The whole reason he attacked mages was that he had been afraid they would kill him. He attacked her, and in defending, she had killed him. Why? Why! She slumped to the floor, crying.
      She was not certain how long she sat there before she felt it. Felt it pulsing inside her chest. Warm and alive. Even then, she was not clear on how long passed before she was certain what it was. Alan’s soul. His spark. Whatever it was that had made him alive. Whatever it was that his creator had originally placed into a cold statue of a man to make it come to life. Whatever that was, had come away whole and was now sitting inside her. Waiting.
      What could she do? Did she want him back? Wouldn’t he try to kill her again? Didn’t he have more reason to, this time? If she could bring him back, did she have any right not to? Certainly he had behaved horribly, but in the end hadn’t he just been trying to survive? Trying to get by the only way he could imagine? If she didn’t bring him back, didn’t that make her a murderer? If she could even bring him back...
      In the end, none of it mattered. She missed him. She missed him with an ache that she could not begin to explain. No matter what he had put her through, no matter that he might kill her upon coming to, no matter who he might kill next, she was afraid that she loved him. She laughed at that thought. Of all the things about Alan to be afraid of.
      Karen pulled herself to her feet. It was now or never, and she was not even certain what she needed to do. What type of mage she was. If this was going to work at all, her only guess was to reverse what she thought she had done. Leaning forward, she put her arms around Alan’s neck, put her lips to his, and pushed.

     Alan came to with a start. His first impulse was to scream, but he managed to check that. His second impulse was to assess his surroundings. As he scanned his familiar cell a thought nagged at him. What am I not dead? He had realized what was happening the moment he felt it. Had realized everything. Why she had been drawn to him. Why she had not been getting weaker. Why he seemed so much more charged than he expected after each feeding. It was all clear. And terrifying. She was at least as strong as his creator, and she had never been trained. How much more powerful would she be, now that she was aware? What had he done?
      Echoing through those thoughts: Why am I still alive?
      Finally, satisfied that he had not been dead stone for more than a day, he turned, to leave the cell. He needed to find her. To stop her. There was no telling what she might do. She might... .
      He opened the door out, to the stairs. Curled up just outside the room, asleep, lay Karen. Alan fell to his knees. And wept.