“And you made me,” I smiled. “So you are God.”
You turned, and I noticed a line between your brows I had never seen there before. “No,” you said. “I made you, that’s true—but God made all men, I only one. So I can never be more than God’s shadow—his pale, pale shadow.”
“You are my God,” I said, simply.
And you shook your head—but I do not think you really wanted to.
* * *
A month had already gone by when Ivan’s letter finally arrived, the gist of which was that he would be arriving shortly, accompanied by the new Countess—Rebecca, his wife.
Elle est tres belle, et douce aussi, Ivan wrote. Adding, in a cramped hand: Mais c’est seulement toi j’adore, mon cousin.
He advised me to expect him at any time. That particular evening, however, I intended to spend instructing my creation in the basics of English literature. So I filed the letter away, and promptly forgot all about it.
* * *
You had told me many times by then never to go beyond the last field of our lands. When I was ready, you said—and you would decide when that was. It rankled, even from a God.
That night, I sat near the window, watching a string of birds flap slowly across the purple sky. The light was almost gone, and the book I held was making my eyes hurt. I saw the last field’s fence against the red rim of the sinking sun. And something rose in me—something that could no longer be denied.
A minute later, I was on the ground, running quickly and silently. Had reached the fence. In one quick leap, had bridged it.
Once on the other side, however, I paused in mid-stride, unsure of my next action. Ahead and behind me stretched the road. Lulled by the cry of night-birds, the slither and skitter of small creatures in the long grass, I stood stock-still and breathed deeply. The dark air, tainted and singing, spread like wine through my veins.
I did not see the men until I was upon them, nor they me.
“Make way for the Count’s carriage, fellow!” One of them ordered, impatiently. Behind him reared a conveyance drawn by four harnessed things that stamped and snorted in distress, making their master curse, as my scent reached them. At this further disturbance, an exquisitely-dressed young man leaned from the nearest window, glancing imperiously about for the cause of his discomfort.
“Monsieur Grushkin,” he said to the first man, “remind me once again, if you would be so kind, what exactly it is that I pay you for?”
The man flushed. “By your leave, Count Ivan,” he replied—and stepped toward me, drawing a cudgel from his belt. But this fresh threat drew no reaction at all, since at that same moment—over his shoulder—I had spotted . . . her.
As dark as you were fair, and frail, with a cloud of ringlets hiding her dark, dark eyes. She hovered close by young Count Ivan’s side, peeping through the carriage window, and that slender hand with which she held the velvet curtain open was so pale each vein brought a faint blue blush to her nacreous skin. At the sight of her, my mouth dried out. My temples throbbed. And like a barb to my spine’s base, a hook arching up through dark water, the hunger took root: Soul-deep, nameless, aching. A negative image, fleet as steam on glass, faint haloed trace of an object struck by lightning, beneath which lurked only the dimmest recollection of what had roused it.
Silver flesh in a darkened room, and the slick touch of you stirring—sleepily—in my palm.
And when Gruskin’s men shone their lanterns in my face, as I blinked at them in mute surprise, their eyes seemed to widen as one. Rebecca saw as well, though from much too far away to mark my features, and fell back with a quick half-scream.
“Un monstre, pardieu!” Your cousin exclaimed, in equal parts horror and surprise. I did not feel the first blow, but the second stung me. I caught the man’s hand in mine, before he could strike again, and squeezed it until I heard a crack. He sank to his knees, screaming which is when the others leapt upon me.
I turned then, and ran. But not fast enough.
* * *
Exactly half an hour since I’d climbed the steps to his room and found him gone, I looked up as he entered the study. Behind him, a trail of footprints made from mud and blood admixed smeared their way across the polished granite floor.
“And where have you been?” I demanded.
“Get me a mirror,” he replied.
* * *
“A mirror,” I repeated, and bared my teeth as I had in the face of the last man’s torch. I saw your anger give way to fear, then—just a hint, but a surprisingly gratifying one. You passed me a frame worked with a swirl of silver crosses. I gazed into it for a long time, before raising my head again.
“Why did you not tell me,” I asked, slowly, “that I am a monster?”
“Because you aren’t,” you snapped, voice a lash.