It roused him from his slumber. The smell. Magnificent. General Slauson had never in his life enjoyed meat so thoroughly as he did now, at Fort Spencer. If an army truly marched on its stomach, he was quickly finding himself just as voracious as one. Yet, tomorrow he had a journey ahead of him, and far too much work to do to indulge in a meal this late at night. So, fitfully, he continued to sleep...not even concerned that anyone would be eating at such an odd hour. Ives cooking was so delectable, how could they not?
"You know, there's nothing quite like letting go," Ives remarked into the crackling fire, turning and twisting the rather large hunk of meat he'd carved and strung up with a bit of tallowed thread to roast just enough that the outside would be nicely charred. This was a special meal, after all. A celebration.
"I'd offer you something to drink, but, ah, I'm sure you know the last of our reserves were spent on Knox's...proclivities. Better that way, really. It was a mercy to kill him while the last of that port was pumping through his blood." He chuckled, looking back at Boyd, who had taken to glaring at him in that defiant way he had. "Stare at me all you like," he licked his lips slowly, "I could just have you eat it all raw. Quite pleasant that way, actually." He cocked his head to the side.
There was a haze behind those angry eyes, hunger and exhaustion battling with each other. Unfortunately for poor Lindus, the hunger was stronger. Ives would prove it to him, too. He quickly reached into the cook fire with his small paring knife, sawing off a pleasantly singed, but still bloodied bit of meat.
"Here," he held his hand out, "have a taste. You'll feel better." Then, with a bit of darker satisfaction in his voice, "you already know you'll like it."
"You," Boyd mumbled, too weak to even grind his teeth anymore, but the hate was strong enough in that one word for him to get his point across well enough.
"Mmmm," Ives hummed, bringing the meat closer to his own mouth, "Lindus may be dead, but there's so much...life...left in him...are you sure you don't want any?" His eyes sparkled with delight as he watched Boyd slowly inching forward despite himself.
He could just let the man die, of course. The less experienced windigo wouldn't have nearly as much strength, or vitality to live if he didn't eat soon. Ives was far more acquainted with his own nature, and he'd indulged often enough, especially recently, that he could very likely go weeks without flesh and still be fine. Somehow for all the trouble he was, Ives couldn't bring himself to eat Boyd...well, not in quite the same way.
"Boooooyd…" Ives taunted in a devious whisper, sang his name, "John…" He added, far more intimately, keeping the meat close to his own lips as if he still hadn't decided whether he would share or not. This was the most fun he'd had in quite some time. Not that Ives didn't always find a gruesome way to enjoy himself.
"Y...yyyy…" Boyd trembled, flinging himself forward and snatching at his salvation, which Ives very happily pressed to the man's mouth, eager and grinning as Boyd's eyes closed in sheer ecstasy. He could fight it. He could hate it. He could do anything but escape it, when hunger showed its ugly face to turn death away at the doorstep.
Has breathing was harsh as he chewed, groaning in short, shallow gasps, while Ives took the opportunity to pull him closer. He curled slender fingers through Boyd's hair, laughing against the crown of his head.
"It tastes better and better, doesn't it?" Ives whispered, reveling in this one of many victories. Whether anyone called him the devil incarnate, he could happily admit he was here today as Boyd's savior. Boyd's messiah.
"Do you want more?" Ives questioned, pulling back and reaching towards the rest of the meat dangling invitingly over the cookfire. "Hardly done enough for polite company, but certainly hot. I don't imagine you're too picky right now, are you?"
Boyd angrily shoved at Ives's chest, the remainder of his one bite smacking of iron on his tongue at least gave him strength to break the man's hold. "Damn you," Boyd rasped, pressing his hands to his face.
"You first, John, though I think by now we've both long since reached that point," Ives smirked, cutting the twine that held the meat. Good, soft, a very tender cut despite his limited time for preparation. Lindus would not likely miss it, or the rest of his person Ives fully planned to make good use of later.
Ives snatched up a large tin serving dish he'd been keeping by the hearth, dropping the meat into it and offering the meal ceremoniously to Boyd, "are you quite done with your dramatics, then? Or will I have to force-feed you the rest?" His lip curled up slightly in dark amusement.
Those angry blue eyes stared, tried to burn through him, even as shaking hands tore the dish from Ives, and Boyd's bloodied teeth tore into his meal. Always, those eyes watched him. Right down to the very last bite.
Once, when she was very young, and George couldn't yet walk, Martha's grandfather used to tell her of monsters. He spoke of the evil Anamahkyah who dwelt underground, the Mishipeshu which had dragged her own father to a watery grave in the high of winter while it's great sawed back bobbed above for the rest of them to stare in horror. Sometimes he would tell them of the Memegwesi, whenever something went missing, or she wildly tried to tell him of the furry heads she'd seen ducking in the fields.
Yet even worse than the Misiginebig, the great serpent more terrifying than the Mishipeshu, was the one creature her grandfather only told her of in whispered warnings. The Wendigo.
They could not die as men might, unless they willed it. Their bodies would always be inhabited by the evil spirits, whether by choice or accident, though she didn't really know how it wasn't willful that a man may eat the raw flesh of another. It had to be raw, the first taste. After that it didn't matter. Her grandfather was old, and claimed to have met one once...before her father even came into the world.
Run. He would tell her. You can smell their sour breath in the air. Run when they know you've spotted them for what they are. From the first moment she had met Boyd, she had known what he was. George wasn't so lucky. Yet...it was when they had all disappeared in the wilds for those several days that the smell had truly been foul enough for her to cease doubting the truth of the matter.
She had lingered. Hoped she might find a way to destroy him, for George. Then the other came, and she knew what true evil was. It had not been a difficult decision when Knox all but told her to gather the other white men to deal with Boyd. She had stopped him from attempting to slice Ives throat, because...if he had...Martha didn't doubt the rest of them would be finished off for the stronger monster's supper that very night. A Wendigo never stopped hungering. Never stopped eating. An injured one was far worse.
Martha made her way slowly out of the shelter she'd sought for the past few days, one she'd crafted with her brother for winter hunts. In her arms was a shotgun. In her coat pocket, a knife. If any of them left Fort Spencer, she would do what she could to prevent it from getting any further. If only long enough to find peace for her brother's spirit…
It would never cease to amaze him how much he could eat, or how quickly he could recover. Boyd marveled at how easy it was to stand, to pace, to move...yet the only blood on his clothes and the strips of linen wrapped about his chest and torso...was already old. The outer layers long since dry. He refused to look at the accusing eye of Lindus, his body splayed on the dining table with a butcher's knife firmly buried in his chest as if he were to be carved within the hour.
"I'll kill you," Boyd warned, watching Ives throw another log onto the cookfire while he seemed to be preparing his own far smaller meal in an iron skillet.
"Yes, I know you will," Ives agreed with a condescending note in his voice.
Boyd clenched his fists, glaring down at the crusts of blood in his cuticles, the way his flesh turned red the second he'd let his knuckles relax. Why couldn't he fight this? Why was yet another man's death piled onto his guilty conscience?
"Dark thoughts," Ives observed, focusing on his skillet, "I didn't have any after my first meal. You seem to be made of them, Boyd."
"You don't know what I'm made of!" He snapped back, brave words sounding far more pathetic, given his actions, than he'd have liked.
"You'd be surprised," Ives chuckled. "I had quite a good view when I helped Lindus change your bandages while you were sleeping."
"Then why didn't you just carve me up, then and there?" Boyd ground his teeth, staring hatefully at Ives.
"Well," Ives took a deep, thoughtful breath, stirring the contents of his skillet, "that's a very good question," he popped a piece of meat into his mouth, savouring it, drawing out the moment with gleeful satisfaction. He knew he was only making Boyd madder. "I think I've already answered it before, in so many ways. I didn't plan to kill you. Still don't. Why would I waste all of the effort I've already put in, when you're far more of a killer than I could ever make on my own?"
"I'm not…" Boyd trailed off, the protest dying on his lips. A very bad lie, now that he didn't have imminent death hanging over him. He could have easily survived the night, another, perhaps the rest of the week...without killing poor Lindus.
Aristotle sought truth, not happiness. Boyd recalled what he'd said to Hart, bitterly realizing that was indeed what he himself had found, in this moment, trapped with what was very likely the only man in the world he couldn't kill.
"Strength," Ives went on, "energy, spirit, vitality, virility...I'm sure you've felt that one. I know you have." Ives twirled his two-pronged fork, casting a very pointed look at Boyd's nether regions, before becoming once more fascinated with the progress of his meal. "Not such a bad trade-off for the paltry little codes we all follow just to keep ourselves alive."
He couldn't help but roll his eyes, finally pulling out a chair from the dining table and sitting down, shoving one of Lindus's booted feet aside. "You talk too much."
"I have to do something to fill the silence. You talk too little," Ives pointed out. "Stuck in your head, worrying over the morality you seem to find so important. Rules only made so that one man can survive and feel a little bit safer knowing his neighbor won't likely stab him and take his money. Why should we care, though? You're outside, now, Boyd. Enjoy it. Live a little." He grinned, popping another piece of meat into his mouth and yanking his skillet from the fire to dump his 'Hash a La Lindus' into a tin bowl. He set the skillet aside and stood up, taking yet another bite as he approached Boyd.
"You have no soul," Boyd stated flatly.
"Forgive me for saying so, but, ah, you're hardly one to talk anymore. If such thing as a soul even exists." He settled down at the table beside him, heartily enjoying his meal while Boyd watched.
It was the longest five minutes the exhausted soldier had ever experienced, watching the other eat, waiting for some sort of unpredictable insanity to develop. A punch to his stomach, a bullet to his head, a knife across his neck...he could see his blood spilling down his chest so clearly, he could smell it…
But...that was just Lindus. Poor, dead Lindus. Boyd hated how the silence seemed to make him more aware, hungry again for what no reasonable man should want. His pulse hummed. His heart beat out a strange, violent rhythm, even as Ives placed the last bite of meat and potato on his tongue, devouring it with just as much gusto as the first. There was a sharp hiss of breath, then...he licked his lips, and a thread of blood seemed to blossom on the pale pink flesh.
"What're you-" Boyd's eyes shot open wide in alarm, when quick as a viper, Ives dropped his plate on the table and lashed out with an arm to bring his face close, pressing bloodied lip to lip, wounded tongue darting across his, sharp nails digging into Boyd's scalp as he struggled to shove him away. He tasted so good...he tasted…
Ives released him and stood up, smoothing his shirt, "I'll have to clean up in here, Boyd. Why don't you go back to bed, hm? I'm sure we'll have plenty to talk about over breakfast."
The bastard's amused laughter tormented him all the way back to his quarters, and so too did the unfortunate arousal that seemed to appear after his unwanted assault.
"Damn you," Boyd snapped, before he hastily propped a chair in front of his door, then thought better of it. He wasn't afraid. He wouldn't have Ives think he was a coward. Boyd slept with a kitchen knife he'd swiped from the table. It was a shame the knife didn't prevent his dreams. Or the continuously taunting laughter as Ives passed by outside.