DALIA, the secretary of the Moon Goddess, is met by the deity's most troubled victim; the first and only lycanthrope. In a violent heist, the lycan abducts the loyal secretary as leverage.
Two figures from different worlds are forced to revaluate t...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The Beast sat hunched on a bedside stool, leaning on his hand with misguiding aloofness, betrayed only by his narrowly cinched brows, peering at me with unflinching concentration. His hair had grown slightly longer, enough to softly curl over his nape and tickle his dipped upper back.
Early morning sun glazed his side, a blurry line illuminated his cheekbone and the sharp profile of his nose, warm like an angel's breath if not for its richness, indulging, and soaking into every bit of his position. Stern and golden.
I parted my lips, comfortably moist, to speak, only to deliver the rasp of an uninhibited opossum.
"You've been out for over 48 hours. Color's back in your face though. Eyes pearl," he said, compulsively noting. "I'll get you water."
He got up and closed the door behind him, in the same clothes I remembered him to have been wearing.
I hesitantly moved my arm down to touch the bandages, tough and masterfully secured to comfortably compress. I was surprised by his handiwork and medicinal expertice, it was unexpected from a man so combatively capable and frightening. Then again, the domesticity of his cooking had caused even stronger whiplash. I supposed living in solitude for hundreds of years required one to gather all the necessary skills for survival. My amazement was more due to the art of his intricate, precisionist processes, the attention applied past the survivalist need.
The longer I fixated on the Beast the more ripe came my stomach churning. His presence could hardly leave the room, it was clogging, and I leaned into the necessary discomfort. I felt this sickening need to regurgitate myself, purify from the inside out. I wanted to spew out my entire history with Dima and inspect it with manic focus, to search for every proof of her love for me. I didn't know if my shrewd search for any genuineness that existed between us was to be wielded for her defense or in burning restitution. I couldn't imagine genuine love sprouting from a body with a proclivity for destruction and abuse. The Beast's pack harbored their own load of inflicted hurt, but nothing justified rampant brutalization. There's nothing profound about suffering, nothing to repair the original crime. The Moon's satisfaction was regressive, and it hurt, because when I looked at the Beast all I saw was Her utter senselessness.
The window cracked open as a plume of cold air drifted in and caressed my exposed skin. I heard a subtle crinkle from underneath the pillow. In confusion, I dipped my hand underneath and discovered a sliver of parchment. Pulling the slip out, I squinted at the lines of precise calligraphy, suspecting the sender without reading a word.
'We cannot move while you're in poor condition. We will speak directly in a month. Be well.'
The Tempest. The insertion of "be well" seemed less out of consideration and more like a command.
While my great escape was no longer fueled with the same sentiment, what the Beast had confided didn't change how disadvantageous my captivity was. The Tempest had alluded to a greater political instability among the gods as a result of the situation. I couldn't imagine in what way my capture garnered this rippling consequence. Realistically, the existence of the Beast in itself was the ignition. I'd witnessed firsthand the abilities he possessed.
