Alien Bride (Love, Drugs, and Biopunk)

by McGill, Brie

  The feeling of his arm around her waist flashed like lightning through her mind.

  “It’s a curse.” He tilted his head back and emptied his glass.

  Her face softened.

  “There is chaos enough within the chateau. I’m a casualty to every outburst, every argument, every desire, every anxiety. It surrounds me, eternally, an ocean with no end. There is no escape, no respite.” He glanced out the window.

  Ninkasi noticed a ruby stud sparkling in his ear.

  “I wouldn’t dare go near the city.” Orion faced her. “It torments me.”

  She felt the power of his eyes behind the mask. She wanted to rip the shiny, vexing shield from his face.

  Ninkasi grabbed the wine bottle.

  Orion reached for the bottle at the same time, his hand clamping over hers.

  A soft gasp escaped her lips, and she gawked at his hand. “You have—I never noticed—” Her heart pounded, feeling his gloves against her skin. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t, I don’t mean to be—”

  Neither moved.

  “It’s that—I didn’t expect—” She blinked, unable to tear her eyes away. “I’m not trying to—It’s not that I think—I didn’t realize—” Ninkasi gingerly tugged her fingers out from beneath his hand. “You have six fingers!”

  Orion grabbed her timid hand and squeezed it, interlocking all of her fingers between his.

  She panicked, trying to wrench her hand free from his grasp.

  He squeezed tighter.

  She opened her mouth to protest, but no words, no sound came out.

  He stood up, towering over her. He clenched her hand as if he might crush it, and leaned over the table. With his free hand, he grabbed her jewel-studded twist of hair, and pulled her head backward.

  She was a frightened deer, a prey in his arms.

  He kissed her. He parted her lips with his contemptuous mouth and kissed her, ravishing her tongue with his tongue, sucking the secret, unspoken desires from the depths of her soul as if they were poison, as if they might feed him.

  She tasted the wine, the tobacco, the sadness and the leather shoes. She tasted what was behind the mask, powerful emotions, like thunder, and the thin haze of nightmares. The kiss consumed her, the entire world vanishing before it. It exuded a current that pulled her like a magnet, like a ship into a whirlpool. Everything around her, inside her, about her crumbled, fell like earth into a sinkhole, and her world shattered, sucked into that single moment.

  Their breath became one breath.

  Still gripping her head, he released her hand and ran his fingers over her face, across her forehead, through her hair, over the bridge of her nose. His fingers trailed down her cheeks and to the tip of her chin. He learned her face, navigated every inch of it.

  He released her. He ripped the shawl from her shoulders, exposing her, and turned and left the room.

  The limp butt of a cigarette dangled from Orion’s lips, a long trail of ash threatening to fall and sully his luxuriant jacket. The cigarette wasn’t finished; he stormed through the chateau, fishing through his pocket to light a second. He smoked the remaining butt furiously, lighting the next cigarette with both hands, and marched toward the kitchen.

  His head burned. He needed food, drink, something.

  His head was too full of smoke and chaos to register the heavy plume of church-scented smoke billowing from the kitchen. Hearing the rattle of gourds and tinkle of bells, he heaved open the double doors and stepped into a haze of burning herbs and resins. He breathed the cleansing smell of mastic, the pungent, spicy aroma of dhu pi.

  A flock of Aleister’s worshippers, clad in white cotton robes, encircled a dining table, humming and shaking their instruments. In the center of the table stood a young, well-endowed girl, with one man on either side of her, lifting her skirts in the air, exposing sturdy, shapely thighs, spread slightly apart, and the bare details of the space between.

  Aleister stood on a stone footstool beside the table, wearing a set of flowing white robes stitched with scarlet emblems of The Brotherhood, and a silver, ruby-studded crown.

  Orion noticed metal baking sheets covering the counters behind them, dotted with pink-tinged unleavened manilla wafers: he assumed the pink tinge was from Aleister’s use of the blessed Chianti.

  “And let us consecrate this holy sacrament with the rivers of life that flow from the mother goddess!” Aleister’s voice boomed through the kitchen. He raised his left hand into the air, his front and middle fingers pressed together, pointed at the ceiling, the remaining fingers tucked into his hand.

  The rattling of instruments reached a heavy climax.

  Aleister leaned over the table, pointing his fingers between the girl’s legs, and triumphantly thrust them inside her.

  Orion blankly lit a third cigarette.

  Two white-robed acolytes delivered a baking sheet of pink wafers to the table.

  Aleister stepped down, presenting his fingers in the air, stained red with blood. “Behold! The blood of the virgin!” He smeared blood on each wafer, one at a time, tracing his fingers in an X shape. He stood up and planted his fingers into the girl again, wiggling them around until his fingers were thick with menstrual blood, and returned to marking his wafers.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Aleister.” The extinguished butt fell from Orion’s lips, and he sucked furiously on the next cigarette. “Is she really a virgin if you’re doing that?”

  “Silence!” Aleister pointed two bloody fingers in his face.

  Orion winced and staggered backward. The smell was visceral, rich, perfumed, and oddly narcotic. He wanted to get away. He didn’t know this woman. It was an information overload.

  “Attend the ceremony on time!” Aleister threw his hands in an exasperated gesture. “Or don’t attend at all!”

  Orion shook his head. “Ugh, nevermind.” He turned and left the kitchen.

  He could eat later.

  What he really wanted to know was how he ended up smoking so many cigarettes.

  Orion retreated to the library, puffing his remaining cigarette with a frown.

  A jarring, garbled, electronic thunderstorm crackled through ancient speakers. Lurking in the corner of the library, Phobos adjusted the vinyl on a turntable, grinning like a hyena.

  Nero sat at his computer, fingers mashed into his temples, face warped with disgust.

  Deimos jumped on Aleister’s enormous turquoise armchair, banging his head, clutching an anzein rifle like an air guitar.

  Tilting his head, Orion pointed at the turntable. “Are you playing that record. . . backwards?” A wave of dizziness overtook him, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

  A whole pile of anzein rifles lay before the fireplace. This was the source of his discomfort. Orion marched promptly away, collapsing on the floor in the far corner near Nero’s computer. He rested his head against the bookshelf.

  “I’ve already told him not to be careless with the guns.” Nero shook his head. Studying Orion, a wry smile cracked his face. “Not feeling too hot?”

  He nodded with a sarcastic smile.

  Nero pinched his chin. “I wonder why that could be. . .”

  The chair thumped beneath the force of Deimos’s jumps; Deimos shrilled backwards lyrics.

  Phobos retreated to the fireplace, sitting beside the anzein weapons, neatly packing a row of black backpacks. “Brother, Aleister could return any moment.” He bobbed his head with the music. “He’ll be furious if he sees you jumping on his chair.”

  There were too many anzein devices accumulated in an enclosed space: Orion's head throbbed.

  At the other side of the fireplace, various shapes and sizes of standard-issue kluzein devices were already packed. Aleister was a firm believer in preparedness, packing a gun for every occasion.

  A gun for every enemy.

  Orion bit his lip. Aleister loved making enemies, and he sure as hell didn't limit his squabbles to this world.

  Deimos shook his head and knit his brow,
singing passionately at his brother.

  Nero slapped a palm against his face.

  Orion shut his eyes. There was no rest for him in this library, either. No rest anywhere in this damned chateau.

  Marching toward Deimos, Nero wrested the gun from his hands. “Give me that!”

  Deimos threw his hands in the air. "Give it back! Nobody will get hurt if I use that one!"

  Nero shook his head. "You shouldn't play with these. Any of these." He returned to his desk, admiring the weapon.

  Grimacing at the sight of the weapon, Orion climbed unsteadily to his feet.

  Lifting the gun, Nero slapped the barrel against the palm of his hand. “Incredible craftsmanship. Aleister is not a man to overlook detail.” He cast a cold look at Orion, reveling in the discomfort he caused him.

  Head spinning, Orion stumbled away from the rifle and crashed into the library door.

  Charging from the other side, Aleister slammed open the doors and crashed into Orion. “HEY!” Shoving him away, he pointed at Deimos and thundered toward the chair. “Hey, hey, HEY!”

  Deimos danced and waved his arms like snakes, leaping on the chair.

  “Get down from there!” Aleister grabbed Deimos by the shirt and ripped him from the chair. “That is MY CHAIR!” He rammed a finger into his chest. “If you break my chair, child, I will break you in half!”

  Phobos’s eyes grew wide with horror; he snuck away from Aleister and his brother.

  Aleister paused, squinted, and tilted his head. “And what the hell is that?!” He pointed at the turntable. “That’s the devil’s music! Nero, turn that shit off!” He stormed toward the computer. “Why would you permit those whelps to do any of this?! I thought you were working!”

  Deimos grinned, mischief sparkling in his eyes.

  “Lord Aleister, Sir.” Nero crossed his arms. “I can complete the task you assigned me, or I can babysit those children, but I can’t do both.”

  Aleister tapped his foot furiously.

  Sighing, Nero ran a hand through his hair, and returned to the computer. “It’s not like they wrecked anything.”

  Aleister threw his arms into the air. “Besides my chair!”

  Orion lay face down in the doorway, hands clasped over his head.

  Aleister marched to the fireplace, and pointed at Phobos. “You!”

  Phobos glanced at his brother, gingerly pointing at his chest. “Me, Sir?”

  “Don’t be coy!” Aleister bit his lip, and raised his hand as if to slap him.

  Phobos winced.

  Deimos quietly slinked to the side, edging away from his brother.

  “If you want to succeed in life, you have to learn some discipline!” Aleister wagged a crooked finger, his dark eyes brimming with fire. “Go clean the stables! Reflect upon your insolent nature!”

  “Lord Aleister, Sir—” Phobos glanced frantically at his brother.

  Deimos made it to the edge of the library, discreetly opening the door and stepping around Orion’s fallen body.

  “No talking back to your elders!” Aleister balled a fist. “That’s a hallmark of disrespect!”

  “It’s just that—” Phobos’s shoulders sank.

  His brother exited.

  Orion felt the heavy door crash against his body for a third time. He couldn’t lift his head.

  “Not another word!” Aleister grabbed Phobos by the collar and dragged him to the edge of the library. He stopped beside the collapsed Orion and knit his brow. “Maybe you should leave until we’re finished loading the equipment.”

  A muffled grunt escaped Orion’s lips.

  Aleister planted a hand on his hips.

  Orion didn’t move.

  “It’s nothing personal. You can come back as soon as we move it all out.” Aleister scratched himself. “But you know we’re potentially pitting ourselves against flanks of demons that—”

  Orion made a guttural growl of disgust.

  “Whoa.” He lifted his hands in defense. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Let’s not. . . discuss it.” Orion spoke into the floor.

  Phobos squirmed to loosen Aleister’s grip.

  Aleister seized the boy’s wrist in a vise-like grip. “I’ve almost completed a device you can wear to—”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Orion reached one arm out across the floor, curling his fingers.

  “Suit yourself!” Aleister rolled his eyes and barreled out through the door, dragging Phobos behind him.

  The heavy footsteps disappeared.

  The door hit Orion’s crumpled body once again.

  ❧　❧　❧

  It had been days since he’d seen her. He dashed through the halls, ecstatic, longing to fall into her embrace. The horror of days trapped in the lab melted at the thought of her.

  Her presence protected him, revived him; she was his only good thing in this world.

  He skidded to a halt outside the door to their room, the cozy room with the books and the fireplace, the room where they met to forget the world, to feel safe together.

  Hearing a whimper, he sensed something terribly wrong. Discreetly twisting the handle, the boy peered inside.

  His heart stopped.

  Andrealphus knelt over her, forcing her against the bed.

  Her cries, her whimpers, her meek and futile protests bored into the boy’s skull.

  Andrealphus held her down, straddling her so she lay face down on the bed. He flashed a jagged snarl, swatting her hands away whenever she tried to stop him from lifting her dress.

  The boy balled his hands into fists and gritted his teeth. His first impulse was to bolt into the room and kill Andrealphus, to throw him off her, to stomp his face into the floor.

  But the boy didn’t stand a chance. Andrealphus was too huge, too fast, too strong.

  Andrealphus grabbed her by the hair, lifting her head to whisper something hateful in her ear.

  She cried out, painfully bending her body to support the way he pulled her neck.

  The boy squinted his eyes shut. He knew, all this time, that she kept a secret and something was wrong.

  But not this. God, no, not this.

  With an enormous hand, Andrealphus thrust something into her mouth to muffle her cries. He tied a thick cord around her mouth, gagging her, and let her head drop against the bed. He ripped both her arms behind her back and pinned her down with a monstrous knee, binding her hands behind her back.

  A soulless laugh escaped his lips like festering pus from a wound. He shoved her face into the mattress.

  The boy heard her muted cries, caught a glimpse of her face before it was buried, streaked with tears of horror and humiliation.

  Andrealphus forced her knees into the mattress, pulling her hips into the air. He peeled away the dress to reveal her delicate body.

  The boy wanted to kill him. He wanted to murder him in cold blood, right then and there. He trembled.

  He knew the only way to help her was to successfully murder him. . . Impossible, at the moment.

  The girl shivered, bawling into the mattress.

  Andrealphus muttered hateful things, handling her like an inanimate object and preparing himself.

  The boy looked away.

  The gag and the mattress were not enough to stifle a blood-curdling scream.

  The boy’s mouth hung open in horror. He hated himself, hated himself that he wasn’t strong enough to end her suffering now. He couldn’t forgive himself.

  The scent of blood distracted him, and he peeked through the door.

  For as long as he would live, the image of the depths to which Andrealphus sank to satisfy himself was forever burned into his mind.

  No one, anywhere, ever, should have to endure what she endured.

  And she’d have to live with it. Every day, she would have to look at herself in the mirror and live with it. Live with this nightmare.

  The boy couldn’t forget. He sank against the wall, digging his nails into the gold tiles.

 
; For how long had this been happening? For how long did she keep it from him?

  His heart bled.

  An unholy cry signaled the end.

  The boy turned and bolted from the room. If Andrealphus suspected the slightest thing out of the ordinary—let alone suspected he was caught—he would increase her torment a hundredfold.

  If the boy were the only one who could save her, he had to be practical, cunning, clever about how he chose to do it.

  Andrealphus may have been bigger, stronger—but he had a dreadful tendency for excess that the boy suspected he could exploit to his advantage.

  Andrealphus would die by his hand. It was decided. Never again would she suffer like this.

  He was only sorry that he couldn’t stop it now.

  The Third Bottle

  IX.

  Ninkasi buried herself beneath her blankets, hiding in shame.

  This was it. She had finally snapped and lost all touch with reality. She didn’t require physical abuse, hard labor, torture; none of these brutish things were necessary to make her crumble and submit to her captors.

  She was crazy for the enemy. Crazy for one of the men who attacked her little brother, broke into her house, and ruined her life. Crazy for a man whose face she’d never seen.

  Just plain crazy.

  And a downright lunatic to be more interested in what might transpire between them than to plan her own escape.

  She buried her face in her pillow. She had tried to escape. She did her best. She couldn’t think of anything short of murdering her way out, in a cruel and savage way. She could break a flower pot into sharp pieces and stab the servants in the throat.

  But that’s not the kind of person she was, not the kind of deeds she wanted to live with for the rest of her life.

  What if it were true, that she were trapped on an isle? Escape would be impossible.

  Would Orion lie to keep her here?

  Ninkasi had no idea. She knew nothing about him, nothing at all. Other than the way he kissed. . .

  Would it be so criminal to kiss him again? Was it pointless to resist?