THE CREATURE
"What is your name?" She asked of the shadows. Her voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper, but there was no fear in her. Not anymore.
He felt his lips curl into a smile before he could control the impulse. It was amazing, how her presence and her words could soothe his wild temper.
"Can demons have names?" He mused, watching the play of thought on her face in the pale, filtered moonlight. He knew the answer, of course. A tender subject for him. Demons had names: Beelzebub, Gremory, As'bel, Volac. Even Lucifer had a name.
He did not.
Perhaps that made him something worse, something lower than a demon. An unwanted blight upon the Earth. Something that even Hell would not take.
"I do not think you are a demon," she said softly.
You cannot know.
"You have never tried to take my soul," she added, as if she had heard his thought. The pragmatism in her voice made him smile again.
"But I could easily take your life," he replied. Her lips thinned slightly, but she was not cowed.
"I grow tired of your underhanded threats, my friend," she said, bemused. "If you ever intended to kill me you would have shown yourself a long time ago."
Of course, she was right. He didn't want to admit it, because it meant that she'd seen something in him that he had not noticed, an ulterior motive that had completely eluded him.
"If I were to do so now, it would be a death sentence by your own words."
She paused, tilted her head, bit her bottom lip in a way that made his blood run hot.
"If you were to do so now, it would mean that you trusted me, and that is something you cannot do," she said softly. He winced at the resignation in her tone.
"Trust is irrelevant. You are human; you all react the same way."
"That is extremely unfair," she snapped. "You should never have judged me without giving me a chance. But you already have."
"Have I?" He mused.
"You can see me," she pointed out. "You have judged me by my appearance since the beginning. And yet you claim that I am the one who would judge you."
He paused. It was true; upon first seeing her he had thought only of her beauty and his overwhelming desire to destroy her. He had been running wild through these lands, the uninhabited forests that bordered France and Switzerland. And here he had found her, in her father's large, luxurious home, lying in a bed of silk and down, her skin silvered by moonlight.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Overcome with envy and rage, he'd wanted to smother the life out of her, to feel her elegant neck snap in his hands.
But then she had woken up, and pinned him with her pale, intelligent eyes.
She had spoken to him, her voice fearless and arrogant. And something in her tone had reached him through the haze of bloodlust and hatred.
"If I had judged you by your appearance, you would not still be alive."
"Are you implying that you did not originally intend to kill me?" She demanded. He raised his eyebrows at the heat in her voice. "Because then you would be lying."
"I do not lie," he whispered, as the first tendrils of anger slithered into his mind. "And you would do well to watch your tongue, Helena."
She did not heed him. "And that is another advantage you have over me; you know my name. You know my family, and my friends. You know almost everything there is to know about me. And what do I know of you? That you are not a demon. That I can sleep in peace when you are near. And that you are so desperately shy that you would sooner kill me than let me see your face."
He stepped forward, propelled by his anger, until he was close enough for her to see his movement through the shadows. She froze, and every muscle in her body went tense.
"There is nothing to know," he told her in that dangerously soft voice. "I have no history, no family. I don't even have a name."
"Why?" She whispered.
"What?" He asked in surprise.
"Why don't you have a name?"
He hesitated, and frowned. "I was not given one."
"Then give yourself one," she said firmly. "It is the least you deserve."
"You know nothing," he whispered. "What makes you think I deserve even life?"
"Stop that," she snapped. "Everyone and everything deserves life. When you were born you were a blank slate, but you had life. It is not something you must earn. It is God's gift to you, along with a soul." She waited a moment, and then added, "though if I know you at all, next you're going to tell me you don't have a soul."
He stopped short at her sudden humor.
"If I have a soul," he said slowly, "it was damned a long time ago."
"Stop it, blast you," she cursed, throwing her blankets to the side and stepping down onto the cool wooden floor. "I'm sick of hearing you speak so horribly about yourself. What is it that makes you think you deserve such hatred? You are the smartest man I have ever known."
She stepped out beyond the rectangle of moonlight that always kept her illuminated and he in shadows, arms outstretched slightly. He maneuvered easily around her, but his heart was beating so hard he could hear blood rushing in his ears. She had never done this before, she had never struck out into the darkness.
"Is this human curiosity or human stupidity?" He wondered quietly, and instantly she turned towards his voice. "Or are they, perhaps, the same thing?"
"Please," she said, dropping her arms and stopping in place. "Let me see you."
"No," he replied flatly. He saw her eyes close, and she sighed.
"Let me touch you, then," she pleaded.
"What part of me?" He mused with a sly grin.
Her eyebrows furrowed in frustration. "Your face."
"No," he repeated.
"Please," she begged. "Even Cupid was not this cruel to Psyche."
"Cupid was beautiful," he reminded her. "He had no reason to hide himself other than pride."
"And what reason have you?"
"Every reason, Helena," he said softly. And then, against his better judgment, he took a step forward, and then another, until he was only a few feet away. She was a force of nature. He could not help but be drawn to her.
Her eyes were wide, but she remained blinded by the darkness.
"What am I to you, then?" She wondered. The sadness in her voice sent a bolt of pain through his chest. "Why are you even here?"
He couldn't speak, couldn't move. His entire body felt numb and heavy. Why, indeed? What was he doing here if not amplifying his own suffering? She was beautiful, and clever, and kind. He would never deserve this woman. Even if he completed the tasks of Hercules, he would not deserve this woman. She was everything he wasn't.
Innocent.
Suddenly she was standing right in front of him, eyes closed, head tilted back.
"I can smell you," she whispered. "You smell like wood smoke and cedar and something else, something very faint and fresh, like… lavender?"
He couldn't move, even though she was standing only inches away. He could feel her there like a force, a blazing fire, emanating heat and silence.
"Don't," he whispered. Pleaded.
She reached out and brushed her fingertips very lightly over his bare chest; he was naked except for the heavy cloak and soft cotton breeches he'd stolen from a merchant in Austria.
The sensation nearly drove him to his knees; soft, cool skin, light fingertips sliding over his chest like droplets of water. That little touch sent a ripple effect through his entire body, igniting him, turning his blood to a fire that burned straight through him.
If she was surprised to be touching bare skin she did not show it. And she didn't jump when he grabbed her wrist and stepped out of reach. There was a small smile curling her lips.
"You're very tall," she whispered. "I meant to touch your face."
"You have no idea how dangerous that was," he told her in a low, growling voice. Then he realized he was still holding her wrist and he released her instantly. She brought her wrist to her chest and cradled it there; even in the semi-darkness he could see the bruises forming.
"I think I have some idea," she replied, rubbing her arm. One corner of her mouth curled up in a wry smile.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I forget my strength."
"I don't mind," she replied. Then in a softer voice, "I'm not going to stop trying."
"I know," he murmured.
"Please?"
"Why?" He demanded, unable to hide the exasperation in his voice.
"Because I want to know more about you," she replied. "I know what you sound like, what you smell like. I know what you feel like. You won't let me taste you, so I wish to see you."
"You do not need to know everything about me," he murmured, ignoring the humor in her words.
"Please," she begged, serious again. "What do you want from me? I'll do anything."
"Stop that," he growled.
"Stop what?"
"Your supplication. It is useless."
"Let me touch you again," she commanded. The change in her tone and posture brought a smile to his lips. "Let me see through touch."
"Ordering me about won't work, either," he noted.
A look of supreme frustration crossed her face. "Why?" she demanded. "Why are you tormenting me like this?"
"You are tormenting yourself, Lena," he replied calmly. But he could feel his willpower beginning to weaken. He could hear and see the emotions that ran beneath her anger and frustration; she was sad, and hurt.
His heart ached for her.
"So I am a masochist," she agreed. "And you? You are a sadist. We are a perfect match, aren't we?"
He did not reply. There was nothing he could say that would convince her to let this go. He knew that.
Lena brought her hands up to her face and rubbed her temples. And then, in a soft, trembling voice, she said, "If you have any love for me at all, you will let me have this."
He flinched at her tone. He did not like causing her pain. He hated it.
In fact, he was fairly certain that if any man ever made her look as desolate as she looked now, he would beat the unfortunate bastard senseless.
He did not like being a hypocrite. There was only one thing he could do.
He came forward and dropped to his knees, head bowed in defeat. Kneeling, he no longer towered over her, though he was still several inches taller.
Lena stood very still, and this time she jumped when he took her hands into his. He was careful to keep his grip gentle this time.
Dread filled him, head to toe, matched only by his despair.
Her perception of him was about to change forever. There was no turning back from this.
"Be kind to me," he whispered, and he placed her hands on his shoulders.