Transfigured Read online

  You say nothing, but flinch ever so slightly at my nearness. Something is clenched and about to rear were I to touch you.

  "Am I so repulsive to you?" I ask softly, as if calming a wild thing caught in the woods and lean a fraction closer. "I have had nothing but time on my hands to wonder what it is I have done to drive you away from me or what I haven’t done to prove myself to you. Have I not made it clear enough that I am at your feet? You have only--"

  "I cannot satisfy you," you interrupt as you abruptly rise from your chair and walk away from me. "I am so very sorry," you say gently as you stare at the fire, not even granting me the full weight of your glance.

  "Cannot?" I ask stupidly, still kneeling by your empty chair. "Or will not?" I swallow the painful knot of tears in my throat and stand, without coming closer. "We were close once. Before. Remember?" I am halting and force down my hand, which wants to reach to you. “Tell me what it is I need to do. Is this another test I must pass? Is there a task I must complete so that all will be right between us?"

  You consider your words carefully before turning towards me. "There is nothing you can do, no wrong that you can right. There is nothing you need to prove. Please believe me when I say that you have not erred."

  "Is there someone else?"

  You shake your head sorrowfully. "I have been selfish and unfair. I have taken so much from you, you who had walked into the darkness to save your father and then saved me, and for this I honor---"

  "That is all I am," I ask painfully, "a debt to be discharged?" You do not disagree. "Is my love so accursed that I must suffer every day and every night? You know better than anyone, don't you, how I suffer?" I have come closer with every accusatory word so that you cannot escape my anguish.

  "You’re distressing yourself. Let me call for one of your handmaidens--."

  “No!" I scream. "Stop treating me like a child. Haven’t I done all that has been required of me? I came here willingly in my father’s place. I’ve kept the bargain that I had no part in making. And when I was given a choice, I chose you--not the land that has been restored to you, not the wealth nor the power, not even the beauty that you now wear, but the beast whose heart beats in here." And with this I place my hand on your chest and press my whole body against yours. “I know you better than you think."

  For the first time I am so close that I can feel the beating of your heart and I think for a moment that perhaps there is light in the darkness, but in the next beat, it is smothered by the panic in your face. Somehow you disentangle yourself from my arms and stand aside, your breaths deep and labored as if it had cost you greatly to do so.

  Looking down in a gesture of defeat, you say quietly, "Believe me when I say that I know how difficult it has been for you and deeply regret being the cause of your suffering." You start walking away and I am struck by the cruelty of your grace. “But I am unable to give you what you want.”

  Remaining with your back to me you say, "I will understand if you wish to take comfort elsewhere." In the silence that follows, I struggle to comprehend what you have just given leave for me to do, perhaps what you had expected me to do once we were wed.

  "Comfort elsewhere?" I repeat slowly. I catch my reflection in the mirror, the flawless luminescence of my skin, radiant with undying fire, every inch useless in its perfection. I can think of a half dozen men who would kill for a chance to comfort me, but the thought of them, or anyone in your place fills me with great sadness. Something in the slump of your shoulders suggests that it was not easy for you to wound me so and had there been an alternative, you would have taken it.

  "Help me," I beg, "to understand. I know that I am not quick, that I have no talent for anything but being beautiful, but I know this much, whatever magic love is, it is stronger than the curse that enslaved you. It cannot ever be broken nor usurped, even when it is not returned."

  I can see that you're not unmoved but still you say nothing. "You tell me that there is nothing I can do, but in this you are perhaps mistaken. Whatever it is that you’re keeping from me---you don’t need to face it alone. Just let me show you."

  Again impenetrable silence.

  “I have not erred? Then why do you punish me?”

  “If our marriage is a punishment, then perhaps..." Your words trail off and I see in your face what you cannot voice.

  One by one my arguments fall lifeless all around us like dead birds from the sky. It is hard for me to imagine now that my words ever had the power to change anything at all.

  "If there is a debt to be repaid, then repay it to me, on my terms. Don't you think I am owed?" You turn your head back to me, your eyes in a grave and silent plea.

  "You do not love me." I say these words calmly, in a guise of acceptance and reason. "I offer you everything and you want none of it. I will trouble you no more. But in exchange, I ask only one thing." You wait without a word. "Your child."

  Without hesitation you shake your head.

  "That is all I ask. You withhold from me everything else--give me this one small thing and I will never ask anything of you again."

  "No!" You shout and I am startled. This is the first time you have raised your voice in anger. "This will never be."

  "Never?" The finality of that word sits bitterly between us.

  You again avert your gaze from mine. "If it is a child you wish, you may obtain one by other means. I will claim any child you bear, however many you wish to have, but I will not inflict on another the curse that runs through my veins." At long last, I understand but it gives me no comfort to hear how broken you are. "In time you will realize that you are not without the keys to your own happiness. I will not stand in your way." You pick up my robe and give it back to me without once meeting my eyes.

  "You are the key to my happiness! Let me in, please, before it is too late," I plead as you turn away from me once more. I am one of those helpless birds that beats itself senseless against immoveable rocks again and again, never stopping until it is dead. “Please, look at me.”

  "It is out of my control."

  Something cracks within me. I have nothing else but the red vial concealed in the pocket of my robe. My fingers find it and within seconds, I have spilled its contents all over me. The intoxicating perfume of a freshly slaughtered lamb strangles the air. You smell before you see the thick blood that dresses me.

  The effect is instantaneous. Your hands clench like claws, the baring of your teeth, your eyes crazed with an overwhelming, sudden hunger, and your whole body is poised to pounce, the muscles rigid with barely contained frenzy.

  Shaking, I approach you, blood running down my breasts, between my thighs, down to the floor. I can see that you are using all of your control to keep from taking me, so I force your face to the blood on me. You growl fiercely, struggling to resist, but I can sense your hunger overpowering you.

  “Shhh,” I hush. “This is what you want,” I say before tasting your bloodied lips.

  I am filled with ecstasy for at long last, I feel you succumb to me, your hands grasping my flesh so tightly that I scream in pain, but oh, what a sweet pain it is when you start to ride against me, your mouth sucking hungrily each drop of innocent blood I’ve spilt. My longing is unleashed and tears flow freely as you lick the inside of my thighs and then the exquisitely agonizing moment when you enter me---We are one, finally, and you are mine.

  “I love you,” I whisper softly.

  Dreadful stillness and then you scream the inhuman scream of an animal in unimaginable pain. You fall away to the floor where you thrash wildly, your hands on your head, terror bombarding your senses. I cry out in horror. There is no recognition in your mad eyes as they roll in their sockets, your bloody face a frightening mask of torment.

  I reach a hand to calm you but at my touch, you throw me away from you in one violent swing.

  Darkness meets me as I hit the cold stone floor.

  Half a day passes before I awaken in my own bed, alone, one side of my body bruised purple and bl
ack and my head gripped in an excruciating vise. I limp to your empty room where servants have cleared away most of the damage, but I can still see the deep gashes on the walls, some blood on the floor and the drapes that had been savagely torn. No one can tell me where you have gone and it is with pity that I am told you have left no message for me.

  In the days that follow, I hear of your travels in far off lands, across mountains and forests, it seems to the edge of the world. I hoard every crumb of news, thankful for whatever magic keeps you alive. Months pass and when my belly does not grow large, I withdraw into my chamber and weep as if you had died.

  My grief makes me lovelier still. In your absence, lord and peasant alike, even kings make bold advances in the name of love, enthralled by the fame of my beauty. I banish them all, one by one, and the castle slowly empties of life.

  The distant hour arrives when you do come home, many days after I had taken poison that had kept me in a sleeping death. As if I were a princess in a fairy tale, I awaken on the day of your return. You are thinner, darker, your beauty sharpened by months of wandering. You are wary as you look down on me.

  “Will you stay for good?” are my first words.

  With the slightest pause, you touch my cheek briefly. Your hand is steady as you tell me to rest.

  You do not leave again and slowly I regain my strength. You are kind and attentive and even manage to touch me once or twice. No mention is made of the night before you left.

  We have finished dining, you and I. When the last dish has been taken away, all that can be heard is the crackling of the fire. By your intense scrutiny of it, I know that you wish to escape the room. I have drunk more than I should have tonight, despite your curt orders for the wine to be taken away.

  You dread, not the evening’s close, but the eventual approach of the question that needs answering, the past that did not die among the roses. You wish to go, but ever the gentleman you have become, you stay in polite civility. A night will come when I know you’ll cease to even dine with me in private—you’ll find some excuse.

  I rise and you are a half-a-second in following. I stumble---the room is spinning. You hesitate for a fraction in steadying me; there are no servants around to do it for you. I know how it pains you to have to touch me when we are not in front of others.

  You know what is to come, and, although I, too, dread its coming, I cannot help but ask, as I do night after night, even knowing how you’ll reply.

  “Will you stay with me tonight?" My voice begs on its own. Even I hate the way I sound.

  You say nothing. Hope leaps to my throat. You walk me in the candlelit hall to my chambers, your hand still on my arm. My hope flies free, bolstered by the wine and your touch.

  Outside my bedchamber, we stop. I try to lean into your arms, but you hold me firmly away from you as you open the door. You have already turned away by the time my tears start falling, these same tears that imprisoned us both, once upon a time.

  You stop and turn back. For the briefest second, your lips touch my forehead, like a butterfly fluttering lightly against my skin on its way to the sun and then you vanish down the hall.

  “Did you ever love me?" I call out after you. My words echo down the dark, hollow hallway, then return in distorted mockery.

  “Love me?”

  My handmaidens have left for the night and I am again alone. I have finished my nightly bottle of wine and the draft that helps me sleep. I stare at my face in the mirror.

  Was I brave enough, the old crone in the forest had asked. "Some curses may be broken, but never completely destroyed," she warned. "Those require a great sacrifice."

  I close my eyes and from a great distance I hear the screams to come.

  I know what needs to be done.

  I open my eyes and smash the mirror with my hand.

  Facing the broken image on its shattered surface, I take a shard and raise it to my face.

  THE END

  If you enjoyed Transfigured, please consider writing a review on Amazon.

  Be notified when my next book is coming out - subscribe to my mailing list!

  http://www.avazavora.com

  OTHER WORKS

  Contemporary Romance

  Rosethorn

  Dear Adam (Fall 2013)

  Fantasy

  Belle Noir: Tales of Love and Magic

  Mirabilis

  No Loyal Knight and True

  Fantasy Thriller

  [Untitled] (2014)

  Turn the page to read a teaser from my as-yet-untitled novel, to be published in 2014.

  A historian becomes ensnared in a centuries-long quest to unearth Alexander the Great's deadliest secret, one that will release untold evil into the world.

  Venice, 1912

  The package had been hand-delivered by a messenger who insisted on placing it onto Halkan's care himself and vanished before he could be questioned. The postage stamps bore images of the Aya Sofya replicated in miniature, so Halkan knew it had been sent by the Magician. His heart sank in dread. Halkan did not think, or cared to know, that his old teacher was now once again in Constantinople, a city which had been dead to him since the day he left.

  He had not been as careful as he thought, if the Magician's messenger could find him so easily among the many gentlemen in Piazza San Marco. He had only been in Venice for two months, more time than he had originally planned. With no appointments to keep and no one waiting for him to arrive at any particular place, he was free to be at leisure. He was a man not bound by time and its earthly constraints. And because he could want for nothing, at least nothing that his purse of immeasurable coins could not purchase, he wanted nothing. Restlessness was his only constant companion - yet he lingered in Venice.

  The palazzos floating on the Adriatic, the mosque-like Basilica - they reminded Halkan of home, of Constantinople. The moment when he admitted to himself what drew him to Venice again and again, as he sat on the square at a shaded table at Florian's, which he had now come to regard as his, smoking his cigarettes and nursing his fifth cup of espresso indifferently - was the moment the boy - some dirty urchin - had dodged past the elegantly attired waiters and dropped the package onto his hand. Inside the package was a box.

  He regarded the ornately carved, onyx box before him, decorated at the top with elaborately painted blue and turquoise Iznik tile, reminiscent of those at the Saray. What possible treasure would his old master think to send him, as if anything could ever tempt Halkan to submit himself under his guidance or return to Constantinople ever again. He was no longer the naive and inexperienced student. He had seen for himself the world, its transient beauties and lasting cruelties. The thirst for knowledge the Magician had nurtured in him had long ago dried up. He could not think of the last time he had been surprised.

  He briefly considered throwing the box to the sea, just a few hundred meters from where he sat, unopened. He knew no good would come of what lay inside.

  He set his cigarette aside and took up the golden clasp, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he opened the box. A single object lay in a plush bed of dark blue silk, partially obscured by smoke from his cigarette. As the smoke dissipated, he was able to see that it was a photograph.

  No letter of explanation accompanied the package. None was needed.

  The photograph was of a young woman in sepia, her dark, abundant hair caught in a bun sitting low on the nape of her neck, pulled away from her face so that her features could be seen in startling clarity. She held her pose proudly, body slightly turned to the gazer, dark, sphinxlike eyes meeting Halkan's in a bold look that seared him, made him hold his breath in aching surprise. It was all there in the portrait - although the clothes were different, modern and all wrong. Wrong, he supposed because all this time he had imagined her as he had known her, in vibrant color, hair loose or flying in the wind as he ran after her, in billowy silk trousers and gauzy scarves. Despite the trappings of this century, however, there was no doubt it was her - down to that cipher of a smile.r />
  The Magician, damn him, had been right all along. She was so alive in the photograph, so healthy and young, almost just as she had been before that terrible day. It could not be - and yet, had not the magician proven to him that he had the power to subvert nature to his will? Was he not sitting here breathing when everyone else from his time had turned to dust by now? Almost everyone.

  She lives, but how? The devious Magician knew no ordinary summons, no promises of power or mysteries revealed could sway him, except for this. Except for her.

  Was she a creature the Magician had created to lure Halkan back? The resemblance was eerily exact, from the slight arch of her brow to the curve of her lips. Not in all his travels has he even come close to finding what the Magician had evidently procured. The photograph and the woman in it was a conjurer's trick, he was sure.

  But even as he tried to dismiss the photograph's power over him, he could not help but gaze at the woman it portrayed, everything around him, the crowds of Italians strolling on the marbled piazza, the café, the present, receding in time as if he and the object before him were alone, suspended. He could feel himself trying to resist, but in vain for he was already fumbling for lira to toss on the table, his cigarette and espresso forgotten. He was crossing the square, photograph in hand, flagging the gondolier with impatience to take him back to his hotel, where he will pack quickly, and then be ferried to Santa Lucia, where he will take the next train bound for Constantinople.

  He was finally coming home. To her.