Parasite Soul

by Jags, Chris

  No answer. Had she really expected one? A tiny corner of her heart answered back: yes, yes she had, and she wasn’t about to give up so easily.

  “Brother?” she called again, stepping further into the room. “It’s me, Tiera. Forgive me, Merequio… I wanted to visit you, I’ve wanted to for so long, but father… father wouldn’t permit it.”

  Silence. Tiera sniffed and fought the tears welling behind her eyes.

  “Are you no longer here, brother?” she asked softly. “Is Vanyon’s kingdom better? Can you see me, at least? If you’re watching, give me a sign.”

  Nothing stirred in the chamber, but something in the wardrobe moaned.

  Tiera shrieked, stifling a full scream by clapping one hand over her mouth. A suffocating terror descended upon her as she fled for the door. Abruptly, as her fingers closed about the door handle, a thought struck her. It took every ounce of courage to turn back, to face and address the wardrobe directly.

  “M… Merequio?” she whispered, heart hammering.

  Another moan, prolonged this time, echoed from within the wardrobe or, as Tiera now suspected, from some distance behind it. She took a tentative step forward. For the first time, she noticed a trail though the dust, connecting the wardrobe to the door. She was hardly the first person to pass this way.

  “It is you,” she said breathlessly, hope and dread battling violently in her breast. “But how can that…?”

  She left the question unasked. This couldn’t be Merequio. Her brother had died many years ago; she shuddered as a vivid recollection of his demolished face flashed across her mind’s eye. A ghost then, but wasn’t a spirit what she’d come to see? And her brother’s soul sounded as though it were in pain. She had to face it – him. There was no other way of laying her past to rest. Gliding across the cold floor in a nearly dreamlike state, she extended a shaking hand and opened the wardrobe doors.

  This was not the cozy space Tiera had once hidden in, so long ago, when it had been filled with her brother’s best clothes and hunting gear. Now it was an empty, uninviting maw, the back of which had been roughly cut away. Behind this repellant opening, a stairway descended into near blackness, although Tiera, straining her eyes, thought she detected the distant light of a guttering torch. In that moment of indecision, as she was deliberating as how to proceed, nothing appealed less than the idea of committing herself to that dark throat to confront whatever phantom awaited below. Best to find and confront her father, demanding to know what abomination lurked beneath her brother’s old chambers.

  Best, perhaps. But Tiera had to know. Her father would likely spin her a tale, then post multiple guards. Tiera might never learn the truth. If she was serious about putting her past in its place, there was only one choice to be considered.

  Unable to see the steps, she descended with the utmost care. The stone was cold and repulsively clammy beneath her feet and the walls, along which she trailed her fingers, were slick with mold. Accustomed to silk sheets and plush carpeting, Tiera had never before found herself in such repugnant circumstances; she felt she would have to bathe for weeks to rid herself of the sensation of griminess and the unpleasant smell of mildew. Would the stairway ever end? The light, such as it was, crept closer only reluctantly, and Tiera’s sense of claustrophobia heightened with every step. She imagined all manner of horrors slithering and scuttling in the slime: spiders and centipedes; those horrible clicking beetles which spat acid. Worse, she could nearly feel the breath of the assassin on the back of neck as he stalked her in the consuming darkness.

  As a result, when her feet eventually touched the flagstones of the floor below, the princess had worked herself into a state of near panic. Only pure obstinate determination drew her toward the dim but strengthening light. She found herself in a damp passage with a scattering of straw lining the floor, possibly for grip. In the distance, she heard shuffling noises, clinking as of chains, and the squeaking of rats. Shivering, Tiera wrapped the tatters of her composure about herself and padded along the corridor, muck squelching between her toes. One twist in the passage stood between her and the origin of the light, but she hesitated only a moment before rounding it.

  A torch glimmered feebly on an oozing wall. Rivulets of filthy water traced paths through ill-fitted stones into a channel which had been cut into the floor. The smell of decay was overpowering. Somewhat incongruously, at the center of this wretched chamber, a large four-poster bed shared space with a rocking chair and a spilling bookcase on a broad section of stained carpeting. Off to the side, a mahogany table perched on the flagstones, littered with platters, cutlery, and a flagon. A stewpot crouched on stubby legs nearby. Seated at the table, cradling his head and whimpering softly, was a man.

  Tiera forgot to breathe. The man wore a metal mask, covering all features but his mouth and chin. It had been clamped to his head with bolts – but there was no mistaking the rich wealth of hair which curled down and around his shoulders, the long-fingered, almost effeminate hands which extended from the worn sleeves of his oversized but unmistakably royal robe, nor the golden beard which snaked out from beneath the mask, crooking to the right.

  “Merequio,” she breathed.

  Her brother lifted his head; literally, with both hands. With a sick rush of horror, she remembered, in that moment of finality when he’d breathed his last, the terrible snap of his neck. This creature, whether or not it was truly her brother, inhabited a body damaged beyond repair.

  A pair of sad, mad, familiar eyes locked with hers from behind rectangular slits. Her heart both danced and plummeted simultaneously. Previously, she would have given anything for this moment. Long had she dreamt of reuniting with the only soul in Cannevish she’d ever cared about. But this… what she saw in front of her; what was this nightmare? A revenant, some netherworld horror sent to tease and torment her by cruelly dangling her hopes before her?

  “Merequio,” she said again, more gruffly. If this was some trick, she was determined not to allow it to sway her judgment. At the back of her mind, she knew it was not: what demon would attempt to deceive her by projecting such an avatar of ruin? Had her brother appeared to her hale and hearty, her suspicions would have swollen to almost insurmountable proportions, but this… this, she was almost sure, was no deception. What dark magic had resurrected Merequio, she did not know, but here he was, a shadow of his former self but alive.

  “Tiera,” her brother returned in a voice cavernous enough to startle her. “You should not see me like this.”

  “I should not see you at all,” Tiera returned, suddenly cold. “You died outside Seveston. I saw you die, and I saw your body…” She quivered slightly but mastered her emotions and continued in a steady voice. “I attended your funeral. And yet here you are. Explain that, brother.”

  “Not my doing. Father.” Merequio started to laugh, a thin, hysterical laugh which continued for a distressingly long time before he managed to reign it in with a small hiccup. “I would have stayed dead. Better than way. No. Don’t come forward.” He kicked out one thin leg to show her the manacle clamped about his ankle. A length of chain snaked out behind him, attached to a bracket on the wall. “Don’t come within reach.”

  Tiera froze mid-stride and held her ground. “You would harm me?”

  Merequio shook his head, again with his hands. “No.” The word escaped as a moan. “Not willingly. But I am hungry, always hungry, so hungry…” he trailed off.

  Tiera blinked with sudden realization. “You’re a vampire!”

  “I have been gifted a vampire soul.” His chuckle rattled harshly in his throat. “The price for returning, I am told. But I did not… I did not wish to return. Not like this.”

  Tiera swallowed thickly, but maintained a brisk businesslike tone. “I find it hard to believe father would have this done to you. To what end?”

  An edge of hysteria crept back into Merequio’s laughter. “He loved me, dear sister! You never did understand that concept did you? He wanted me alive. You know fath
er. He would go to any end to have his way.”

  I understand the concept of love, Tiera thought, stung. Instead she waved a dismissive hand. “But look at you. He can’t possibly have wanted… that.”

  Bitterness crept into Merequio’s tone. “Oh, I’m sure he imagined a different result. For what little good it does me.”

  “So he’s kept you here all these years.” It was Tiera’s turn to sound bitter. “Without telling me.”

  “And what would he tell you, dear sister? That your brother and a vampire were sharing a body in the cellars, that he was feeding them pigs…” Merequio spat the word. “…along with the occasional prisoner? Stewed, as they deem civilized, when this body demands raw, warm, gushing blood? That they would ever remain in chains because he didn’t have the stones to undo the damage he’d done? Is that what you imagined he would tell you?”

  “I could have handled the truth,” Tiera responded stiffly. “I should have been informed. I…” Her voice threatened to break. “I missed you terribly.”

  Merequio released his head to spread his arms wide. It struck the table top with a resounding thud. The platters and cutlery bounced and rattled.

  “Then by all means, dear sister! Come and give your long lost brother a hug!”

  “Thank you, I don’t think I shall.” Tiera needed time to think. Long-buried emotions churned within her breast, many of them nearly alien to her, and she needed time to sort them out.

  “Very wise,” Merequio spoke directly into the tabletop. “Because I would rip off your limbs and suck the blood from them.”

  Tiera’s lip trembled. “You were kind to me when I was a child.”

  “I was alive then.” Her brother raised his wobbling head once again, this time cupping his chin with only one hand.

  “So if I were to free you,” Tiera jangled the key ring. “You would show your appreciation by killing me?”

  Merequio’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. He stroked his crooked beard with his free hand. A tense moment passed before he spoke again.

  “Well, perhaps not,” he admitted. “If I had my pick of morsels, I would have no need to. And I have missed you, dear sister. I’ve thought of you often. I’ve wondered what sort of woman the flailing little nuisance I remember had grown up to be.”

  “And what sort of woman am I?”

  “More than likely a nuisance still,” Merequio laughed.

  Tiera couldn’t help herself; she laughed as well. She could hardly believe these events were transpiring, but this was her brother - or some remnant of him – of that she was sure. Even if he meant her harm, she couldn’t help but to feel that some portion of the cold void within her had just been splashed with a droplet of warmth.

  “This has been a strange morning,” she said at length.

  “It’s been a strange decade,” Merequio rejoined.

  “I will set you free,” she continued after some consideration, “Upon your word that you will not harm me.”

  A flicker of greed flitted across narrow, shadowed eyes. “You would trust to that word?”

  “I would not trust the vampire. But I would trust my brother.”

  Merequio tilted his head with finger and thumb. Silence filled the chamber for a time. The torch sputtered anxiously, in danger of going out. Tiera, none too happy with the idea of being trapped in the dark with the creature, held her breath and tried not to betray any sign of nervousness. At length her brother spoke.

  “The one I share myself with would devour you, but he craves freedom. You know I have never wished you harm. Therefore we promise not to hurt you if you set us free.”

  Tiera released a lingering sigh. She was about to step forward when a creak from above startled her. She spun around as the stairwell flooded with flickering light. Multiple footfalls sounded on the stairs. Merequio made a curious hissing, spitting noise. Moments later, flanked by two soldiers, King Minus stood in the chamber, and for a fleeting moment, his stern facade dropped and he looked aghast.

  “Tiera!” he sputtered, hastily reassembling the royal mask. “What have you done?”

  “What have I done?” Tiera demanded, disbelieving. A fiery core of rage kindled inside her. “Well, for starters father, I didn’t resurrect my dead son and chain him in the basement for ten years, without telling his own sister that he still lived.”

  Minus recoiled, but only slightly. “And how, do you imagine that I could convey such information to you without encouraging the very judgment to which you are now subjecting me?”

  “I will inherit the kingdom one day,” Tiera snapped. “I deserve to know…”

  Her father overrode her. “Your husband will inherit the kingdom,” he corrected sternly. His voice softened slightly. “I thought you were dead, Tiera. I have just learned that all the men in your wing have been killed, without trace or mark. Say that this was not your doing.”

  Tiera snorted. “How could it possibly be my doing? And to what purpose?”

  “Perhaps to win you a clear path into your brother’s chambers?” Minus asked shrewdly.

  “I only took advantage.”

  The king gestured to his men. “Escort the princess back to her chambers. Triple her guard, and…”

  “No!” Tiera shouted, pointing her rusty sword in his direction. The anger within was growing exponentially. “No, I go nowhere until I have some answers. I am owed an explanation.”

  Merequio chuckled. Tiera expected her father to repeat his order, but to her surprise, he nodded slowly.

  “A reasonable demand. I will answer your questions. Make them quick.”

  This was a window of opportunity rarely afforded her; Tiera determined to make the most of it. “How did this…” she indicated her brother. “Come about?”

  Her father coughed into a gloved fist. “In the town of Vanyon’s Parade, there was rumored to be a witch, a necromancer of sorts. She hides her talents and will act only through intermediaries, but I had heard a great deal about her skill, so I…”

  “So you entrusted your son’s body to men you did not know to ferry to a witch who might not have existed?”

  “Merequio could not have been any more dead. I saw more hope than harm.” Her father’s brow creased. “At any rate, she turned out to be authentic. Her talents do indeed allow her to rejuvenate the dead. As you have seen there is a price.”

  “But why?” Tiera didn’t like the pleading edge her voice had taken. That her father could have fallen prey to such madness…!

  “All things come at a price, daughter.”

  “Yes. A vampire soul. But that isn’t what I meant. Why… why would you do this to my brother?”

  King Minus took a moment to consider. Brother and sister alike transfixed him with their gazes.

  “I was arrogant,” he admitted at length. “Merequio is of the House of Minus. Of royal blood. I understood the risks, but I confess… I was certain a prince of Minus could resist the influence of the creature within. As you can see, Merequio was weak.”

  “Weak?” Tiera sputtered. “He was dead!”

  “Father is a fool,” her brother said calmly from behind her. “He always was. When mother died…” Here his voice took on an enigmatic edge and he smiled darkly for no reason that Tiera could ascertain. “… he attempted the same procedure.”

  Tiera’s eyes flew wide. “You what?”

  “Your mother,” Minus said uncomfortably, “Was also weak. But she was of common blood. I thought that was why she could not resist the bloodsucker’s soul. By rights, Merequio…”

  “You did this twice?” Tiera screamed. Hot rage flared within her like a rising phoenix. A red veil dropped over her eyes. She had an impression of her father and his men staggering, clutching at their chests, crying out for her to desist, to stop whatever sorcery she was doing, but her fury was a hurricane and she could not. When the veil lifted, all three men lay crumpled and dead upon the floor, her father’s unseeing eyes staring blankly past her own. Panting, she stared at what she had wrought,
and the world seemed to have stopped. She let the sword drop to the floor and joined it seconds later, her knees striking the cold flagstones.

  A long moment passed before she became aware of the sardonic sound of clapping.

  “Well done,” Merequio said. Her brother had allowed his head to loll to facilitate his applause. “I suppose we know why the men upstairs are dead, then,” he added dryly.

  “That… was me?” Tiera whispered. Her whole world had grown cold. Her eyes drank in every detail of her father’s corpse; an impression of his glassy eyes, parted lips and jutting beard burning itself into her brain. With more confidence she repeated: “That was me.”

  “You are indeed powerful,” Merequio asserted. A note of admiration colored his voice.

  “What have I done?” Tiera felt swollen with fear, yet suffused with potential. “And how… how did I do it?”

  “Neither of us know,” her brother admitted, “But the details of agreement have changed, sister. Free us and not only will we not harm you…” He paused for dramatic effect, grinning down at Minus’ crumpled body. “We will serve you.”

  Tiera stared at the creature blankly for a moment. Then her mouth quirked. The twitch bloomed into a full-blooded smile.

  “The keys are yours,” she returned, and tossed them.

  XIII

  Sallinger proved to be a much more distant than Simon imagined - or perhaps passage through the forest just seemed tortuously slow. Beneath the filtered light of a watery sun, he, Niu, and Sasha followed the lurching Oswald and a disgruntled Hezben through the dripping forest, the ground still treacherous underfoot. At least the torrential rains had ceased; occasional drizzle was the worst discomfort the travelers endured as they wound through the depressingly unceasing sea of trees.

  Following several attempts to sketch a working map, Oswald had scrunched up his parchment and tossed it into the hearth, offering instead to guide them to the border town. This gesture of goodwill did not sit well with Hezben, who had launched into a lengthy rant forbidding his imposing friend from accompanying a ‘creature’ so ‘dangerously volatile’. Oswald stubbornly stuck by his original determination to lend the refugees his aid, but the leshy’s evaluation of his nature did little to boost Simon’s confidence or esteem. He said little as they walked, folding in on himself in an attempt to become as unnoticeable as possible.