Starblood (The Starblood Trilogy)

by Carmilla Voiez

‘I don’t trust Paul. Be careful.’ Sarah screws up her eyes and imagines Steve hears her warning. He has been silent for days, no messages, no calls. His mobile is always switched off.

  Sarah finds it impossible to concentrate. Sitting at her desk, hooked up to the telephone, she feels like a machine. She hopes no one will review her calls today. Smile when you’re speaking. The client will hear you smile. Her frown deepens. Blinking, she logs off the network and hurries towards the bathroom. It isn’t her break time, and chances are she will be summoned to the office for leaving her workstation without permission, but she needs a break, needs to close her eyes and stretch her legs.

  Fragments of colleagues’ answers to unheard questions buzz past her as she scurries across the busy room. ‘Yes, that’s right … ’ ‘Yes,’ ‘Our most popular tariff … ’ ‘ … with unlimited texts … ’ ‘No, there’s no tie in after the initial … ’ ‘Yes,’ ‘Yes,’ ‘So that’s,’ ‘Yes.’ Voices merge into white noise which fills her head. Running now, she holds her hands over her ears. Just a few more steps and she’ll be safely inside a toilet stall. Her stomach churns and she feels hot. Sweat prickles her neck.

  As she passes her boss’s office her manager, Wendy, steps outside. They almost collide, and now Wendy blocks her route to the bathroom.

  ‘It isn’t your break. Why are you logged off?’ Wendy asks.

  Sarah looks at the angry face. She clutches her stomach, bends in two and vomits all over the woman’s designer shoes.

  ‘I-I’m sorry,’ Sarah manages to say as she pushes past Wendy and opens the bathroom door.

  The water is cold and splashing it on her face helps revive Sarah. A strange, hollow face with blacked out eyes hovers, superimposed on the bathroom mirror. She stares at it, shaking her head in disbelief. The urge to draw it, pluck it from her head and set it down on paper, makes her fingers twitch, but her bag is still under her desk. Wetting her index finger, she traces its outline on the mirror: an oval shape, black circles like coal where the eyes should be and its wide mouth, stuffed with a dull red clay or mud. Symbols, like the ones in Steve’s room, are carved into the cheeks, forehead and chin. She can feel its rage and torment, trapped inside its artificial shell – just like her.

  It frightens her, and she smears it away, but the face remains in her head. Screwing up her eyes, she tries to think of something else, anything else. Her father’s face pushes the mask away. She smiles until she sees the torn papers clutched in his trembling hand. His face is full of disappointment.

  ‘What made you draw these?’ he asks her.

  Shame burns her cheeks, then anger. They were good. How dare he tear them up? She doesn’t reply. Standing in front of him, tears stinging her eyes, she bites down on her bottom lip.

  The ripped drawings fall to the floor, and his hands are on her shoulders, shaking her then embracing her.

  ‘It’s okay. We’ll get you some help,’ he whispers in her ear.

  Sarah opens her eyes again and looks at her own face, distorted by the wet mirror. She licks her lips and tastes blood and vomit. Bending down, she swills out her mouth. It isn’t fair. All I want is to be in control of my own life. Is that really too much to ask?

  Steve’s familiar face returns to her thoughts. Compared to the mask or her father’s disapproving eyes, it is a welcome image and one she embraces. ‘I shouldn’t have left you there alone,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you text me?’ Blushing, she remembers her garbled conversation with Marian, his mum. Marian doesn’t seem to understand her worries. She thinks Steve can take care of himself. Sarah noticed the impatience in his mother’s voice. Does she think I’m stalking him? Sarah wonders how many times her strange yet beautiful boy has stayed away from home. I guess Marian’s probably used to it. The years they were together, Steve frequently slept at Sarah’s flat. Where else does he sleep?

  Her empty stomach twists with jealousy. Not only at the thought of Steve sleeping next to another woman, but also at his complete freedom. Whenever Sarah stays away from the flat, Donna worries. Before Donna, Sarah’s gaolers were her parents, after Donna maybe a boyfriend, partner, husband. She dreams of a life without obligations, no need to log-in and log-off: a life without walls. Years of studying an art degree and yet she still spends each day advising idiots about the best possible telephone tariff. What do I want? In the mirror flickers an image: a tiny cottage, surrounded by flowers and trees. Ivy climbs its walls. I’d have no phone. I could paint all day. But who would buy my paintings? Who cares, I’d live simply. I’d get by. Warmth spreads through her. Could she really do it: live alone? Live free. Maybe, in odd moments when she doesn’t feel weighted down by life, she imagines her existence is no more than a cocoon that she will, one day, emerge from – transformed. On other days she looks ahead and sees only this, until the moment she finally slashes her wrists and kisses it all goodbye.

  Yes, she envies Steve his freedom, but she still worries about Paul’s intentions. Paul seems far too interested in Steve. What will he do? No, surely Steve can take care of himself? That’s what being a man means, but there is the other thing … Steve’s demon, real or imagined. What will we do about Lilith? Only a few days ago she pledged to help Steve defeat Lilith, and yet here they are, already separated by distance and focus. Am I letting him down?

  ‘Stop this,’ she growls at the mirror. I’m not letting anyone down but myself. Have I bought into his psychosis again? Steve is a disease. I see his face, smell his skin, and I am lost again, drowning in a world of chaos and magic. It isn’t my world, it’s his and I don’t belong there. She shakes her head, tears sting her eyes. But where do I belong? Surely not here either? Maybe she should be with Steve. Standing here in the bathroom is getting her nowhere. At least she could check if he’s okay. She dries her face and goes to leave the room, then stops. Do I want to help or hold him? I left him for a reason, many reasons. It was painful enough the first time. I might not be strong enough to leave again. She looks back and stares at her face in the mirror. Her fingers yank at her curls. She pinches her cheeks. Clenching her teeth, she shakes her head, long enough and rapidly enough to leave her light-headed and dizzy. She must stay at work. She should concentrate, earn her money then leave. It is the only way she can be free in this world.

  She walks back to her desk. As she reaches it she hears her phone beep, and she rushes to her open bag. Let it be him. Let it be him, she wills. It’s a text from Raven. Logging back onto the network, she puts the mobile back, the text unread. Her phone beeps again, and she rummages through her bag: Raven. She decides that reading the messages and answering is the only way to get some peace.

  ‘Got us tickets for Combichrist next month. You owe me £40 Raven x’

  Bitch, you know I hardly ever listen to that industrial shit. Forty quid!

  The second text reads, ‘Where are u? Answer me dammit.’

  ‘Okay,’ she texts back and starts to cry. Feeling someone standing just behind her, she looks up. It is Wendy.

  ‘I-I’m sorry,’ she says again. Her eyes dart down to Wendy’s stockinged feet.

  ‘Just go. Come back when you’re well enough. We’ll talk about it later,’ Wendy answers. Not waiting for a reply, the woman marches back to her office.

  Sarah gathers her things and trudges to the elevator. Outside the sun is shining and the air feels warm for October. Seagulls swoop and glide overhead. She passes through a cloud of cigarette smoke as she walks towards the bus stop. Blinking at the bright sky above her, she wishes she could join the birds.

  The bus is almost empty. The few people sitting downstairs are laden down with bags of shopping. A mother reaches towards her young son as he yanks a roll of shiny, holly print wrapping paper from a bulging Debenhams carrier. He jabs at the empty aisle with his prize, humming.

  ‘Michael, give it back,’ his mother growls.

  ‘I’m not Michael, mum. I told you already, I’m Luke,’ he says, slipping off his chair. A huge grin lights up his face.

 
; ‘Come back here. You’ll fall.’

  The boy looks up at Sarah and frowns. ‘Why’s her face all weird?’ he hisses at his mum.

  The woman shoots a glance at Sarah. ‘Shh,’ she says, taking the opportunity to pull him back onto his seat.

  Sarah blushes and looks out of the window, mobile phone still clutched in her palm. Maybe I should call him. Make sure he’s okay? His number is still stored on her speed dial.

  ‘Welcome to Mobnet answer phone. The mobile you are calling is switched off. Please leave a message after the tone … ’

  Pressing the disconnect button, she sniffs. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why can’t he think of anyone other than himself? Why do I care? Frustrated, she throws the phone back into her bag. She presses her nose and the palms of her hands against the cold glass. Condensation tickles her skin. Pushing as hard as she can, she imagines the glass melting. If only I could grow wings and fly away. The glass remains solid. Her breath simply obscures the outside world even more. I hate my life! She wants to scream the words, but the people around her stifle the sound before it is even formed.

  The apartment is empty. Sarah switches on the television and turns up the sound. Excited voices fill the room. She takes her mobile phone and places it on the coffee table. One at a time, she pulls open the heavy velvet curtains. Shafts of sunlight hit the dusty air and for a moment Sarah is mesmerised, watching the tiny particles swirl and dance around the room. Picking up her phone, she checks she has a signal then replaces it on the table.

  The kitchen is dark and she switches on the fluorescent strip light. It hums and crackles as the tube warms. She fills the kettle and drops a tea bag into a mug. Her favourite mug, the one Donna bought her last year. You’re just jealous because the voices only talk to me. Today, the slogan makes her smile.

  Opening the fridge, she looks through bags of salads, tubs of hummus and a bowl of lentil salad until she finds a bar of chocolate hiding near the back. She grabs it and a half empty bottle of milk and pushes the door closed. The fridge exhales as rubber seal hits rubber seal. She replies with a sigh.

  Tea in one hand and chocolate bar in the other, she returns to the living room. She puts the confectionery down first and hunts for a coaster. Spotting one beside the television, she grabs it. Peter Murphy pouts from the black and white image as she covers him with the hot cup.

  Shiny contestants with plastic smiles hover on the screen. She flicks through the channels then turns the television off again. Silence. She reaches for another remote control and switches on the stereo. The music is gentle. It must be Donna’s. After checking her phone again she snaps the chocolate into segments and opens the foil packet. She lets the pieces melt in her mouth as she sips her tea.

  The sound of a key in the front door wakes her and she realises she is still cradling her mug. There is no message from Steve. When she tries to call again his number remains unavailable. That evening Donna and Raven move around her like ghosts. She hardly notices them. Questions hang in the air unanswered. When they head for their beds Donna covers Sarah with a blanket.

  The following morning at eleven o’clock she makes herself a pot noodle for lunch. Resisting the temptation to curl up again on the sofa, she fetches her artist’s supplies: a wooden box of acrylic paints. Her Muse is hiding and, after thirty minutes, she packs it all away again, without making a single mark. Pushing the supplies back under her bed, she pulls out a small black box. Inside is a packet of razor blades. The steel calls to her. Reaching for a new blade, she smiles. She lifts her skirt, baring her pale thighs and makes her marks. The steel is cold as it bites into her flesh. Teeth clamped against her bottom lip, she shivers. Her canvas is threaded with red and pain is her art. Her pulse quickens. The sting cleanses her. All other pain is forgotten and for a few moments she is free.

  She decides to go back to Paul’s house. After pressing the buzzer she waits for what seems like an eternity. Then finally the gate opens and she trudges up to the door. Paul stands blocking the entrance. He is wrapped in a silk dressing gown.

  ‘I was in the shower,’ he says.

  The ridiculousness of Paul’s explanation silences her. His hair is dry and his body stinks. He repulses her, and the idea of him touching Steve makes her body shake and her stomach burn. Anger bubbles and a red mist sweeps across her eyes, breathing deeply through clenched teeth she wills the worst of her anger away, until at last she feels able to speak.

  ‘Can I see Steve, please?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course, he’s just … practising. He’ll be right down. Would you … like to come inside,’ he asks, motioning the hallway with a dramatic sweep of his arm.

  ‘Thanks,’ she mutters.

  Steve descends the large staircase like a debutante. His hand strokes the polished wood banister and his steps are carefully measured. Sarah doesn’t know whether to laugh at him or cry with relief. She does neither. Impatient for him to reach the bottom she rushes forwards.

  ‘How are you? I tried to phone. Your mobile must be switched off. Have you found anything? Are you ready to come home yet? You look strange. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he answers, but his eyes look glazed. She wonders whether he’s been sleeping.

  ‘Have you found anything yet? Any way to stop her?’ She emphasises the word, challenging Paul.

  ‘I think I’ve almost got it,’ Steve answers. Each word is spoken like a yawn. Sarah is worried he might fall over. She reaches for his elbow to support him. He weighs nothing and for a moment Sarah imagines her hand passing straight through his arm. His insubstantiality terrifies her. Is this what I really want – to lose him?

  ‘You’re not eating,’ she says. ‘When will you come home?’

  He shakes his head in silence. She turns and looks to Paul instead.

  ‘When will he come home?’ she asks Paul.

  ‘When he’s ready. He needs to be prepared,’ Paul answers.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ she asks.

  ‘He’s perfectly okay. The magic just takes its toll. He’ll go back to being the Satori we know and love as soon as it’s all over. Now did you need something? Only he really should get back to work.’

  She turns back to Steve. Staring into his eyes she sees mist rather than granite in their greyness.

  ‘Come and sit down. Talk to me Steve … Satori. Tell me all that I’ve missed.’

  ‘He really doesn’t have time, darling,’ Paul answers.

  She silences Paul with a cold stare. He looks frightened of her, although she cannot understand why.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ she whispers in Steve’s ear. ‘Tell me what to do.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Steve answers, his fragile voice barely audible. ‘I don’t know what you can do yet. Not until … ’

  ‘Until what? Tell me.’ She feels the familiar bubbling in her mind. Until I believe. ‘I understand. I want to help you though. Do you need anything from home?’

  Steve shakes his head.

  ‘We’ve got everything we need, thanks,’ Paul answers for him. His low voice growls as though speaking through clenched teeth.

  Star can feel his impatience. She feels expelled from this place, this time, these people. Hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and her skin prickles. I shouldn’t be here. I’m making a fool of myself again. Walk away. Let them have their time together.

  ‘Just turn your phone back on, okay? In case I need you, please,’ she asks. I love you. Those three words shoulder their way into her thoughts. She concentrates on each syllable. A smile flickers across Steve’s lips and she wonders if he understands.

  ‘I’m sorry, Star. You really should leave now,’ insists Paul.

  She fights back the desire to leap at Paul’s smug face and tear at his skin with her nails. Without saying a word, she walks towards the door, hoping that Steve will remember his phone.

  Chapter 9

  Satori watches as Star leaves. Why can’t I speak to her, tell her the research is complex and I
’d be better off with fewer distractions? Paul is always there, lavishing attention on him. An altogether more intimate quest threatens to eclipse Satori’s search for a way to stop Lilith. Star’s departure feels like a final goodbye. Why can’t I just tell her how much I love her – need her? If she asks me, I’ll promise to give it all up, marry her and never look back.

  He turns, planning to look for his jacket and turn on his phone but Paul catches him around his waist before he takes four steps towards the cloakroom. The older man’s strong arms hold him firmly but tenderly as his breath gets closer and closer to Satori’s throat. He hears Paul’s shallow breathing in his ear.

  ‘You’re better off without her,’ Paul whispers. ‘She’ll only try to stop you.’

  Satori doesn’t answer. The man’s sandpaper skin brushes his neck. He closes his eyes and lets his body sway forwards and backwards. The movement disorientates him. He wonders whether he will lose his balance completely and fall to the floor. Will he fall forwards or backwards or will Paul catch him? His head feels unbearably heavy and his arms hang like lead weights from his shoulders. Even opening his eyes requires too great an effort. Instead, he allows himself to be guided back upstairs.

  In the bedroom Paul loosens his silk belt and lets his robe fall open. Satori looks at the man’s body. His chest is wiry and hairless. Its two nipples are so pale they are hardly visible except for the rings hanging from each of them. Memories of Star’s beautiful breasts, small and high with dark pink nipples, which used to point upwards when he teased them, fill his head, and he licks his lips. Then, as his thoughts return to the present, he realises Paul has taken this to signal approval. The man’s silk boxer shorts are already tented with excitement.

  Hovering by Paul’s bedroom door Satori feels the rapid beating of his own heart. Adrenaline makes his stomach churn. Fight or flight? On the other hand he likes Paul, and he finds the older man’s company stimulating. He doesn’t want to lose the friendship. Paul moves closer. Like a geisha, he inches towards Satori. Fight, flight or fuck? Any homoerotic fantasies would always be with a man his own age: a beautiful, tentative, gothic man, a mirror image, with long black hair, ivory skin and kohl-rimmed eyes. Not an old, frail man. Not this man. Whispering a few words beneath his breath, he holds the man in stasis. He narrows his eyes and concentrates on Paul’s motionless body. In spite of his age and claims to a weak heart Paul looks strong and vibrant. Time stands still as the men face each other. Like a breath held too long, watching Paul makes Satori’s body shake. Something inside him is bursting to be released, burning him, begging him to let go. Fuck. He already knows this moment, this potentiality, is more exciting than the actuality could ever be. This desire is physical, not spiritual, and for just one second he feels like crying. The wave of sadness passes through him, and the promise of Paul’s body draws his attention once more.