AN: Finally. FINALLY. :)
THE CREATURE
The house was quiet. Eerily, unnaturally quiet. It should have comforted him; he remembered days, no so long ago, that he had craved silence and darkness, so that he might drown himself in his own misery and despair.
But that was before Lena, before he had tasted light and laughter and peace.
He smiled, a curl of pale lips and a flash of even, white teeth, as he turned a page in the book he'd stolen from the extensive shelves that surrounded him. There was something innately comforting, soothing, about being surrounded by books. Or, perhaps, being surrounded by such warmth and wealth. His grin faded at this thought, and he leaned back in the plush leather chair. The maids had started a fire in the hearth next to him, to prepare for their master's return, and he had allowed himself to bask in the warmth and light of it, if only for an hour or two.
His expression turned grim. Lena was used to living in such wealth. She had been well cared for her entire life. Pain twisted like a knife in his heart. He could never hope to give her the life she must surely expect. He had no money, no land, not even a name.
He couldn't even give her his name.
He heard the girl before he saw her, quick footsteps and a murmuring voice, and every muscle in his body tensed. He was out of his chair in an instant, disappearing into the deep shadows of the corner of the library. A moment later, Margot, Helena's little sister, burst into the room, muttering to herself in French.
"Tell me to go to bed, hah! And why would I want to go to bed? It's not even ten of the clock, and I'm almost twelve years old. Stupid woman, thinking she can tell me what to do." She threw herself into the chair he had just vacated, with a dramatic hmph! Her indignant attitude made him smile with amusement. This was the impetuous child in the family. Gregoire, the adventurer, Helena, the peace-keeper, and Margot, the little fireball.
"Oh," she said, suddenly quiet. "You're here."
He remained still and silent, wondering what game she was playing in her mind. She had a vivid imagination, he had heard the stories she told Lena.
"Well, aren't you going to say something?"
He grinned. Perhaps even her imaginary friends occasionally ignored her.
"Don't be difficult," she scolded her invisible friend. "I know you're there. I see you almost everywhere we go."
A tiny alarm started going off inside his head. Maybe she wasn't talking to an imaginary friend.
No. That was impossible. She had never seen him. Not once. He was a shadow. Humans always ignored shadows.
"You're the one Lena talks to at night."
His heart stopped in his chest.
"You smell like the forest and... something else. Something nice, like a flower."
For a terrifying moment, he felt darkness open up around him, threatening to swallow him whole. But he fought it. She was just a girl. She could do no harm to him.
But she said she had seen him.
"Normal little girls are frightened when they find strange men in their homes," he growled, adding a note of menace to his voice.
She remained sitting in the plush leather armchair, as if by instinct she knew not to turn around. But when she spoke, her voice was light and playful, and even slightly sarcastic.
"And how many little girls have you frightened in this way?" she wondered.
He couldn't help it. Against his own considerable will, his lips curled into a grin.
"Not many, I must admit," he replied. "But surely your parents taught you never to speak to strangers."
"You are not a stranger, sir," Margot said. She went quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft. "She stopped screaming at night when you came. You made it so that she could sleep peacefully for the first time in my memory. You are not a stranger."
Her words struck him into silence. A weight was pressing down against his heart, crushing the air from his lungs. How could a child know all this? Understand it?
And why hadn't she said something to Lena or her parents?
"Are you still there, sir?"
"Yes," he said in a gruff voice. "Why did you not mention my presence to anyone?"
Quick as a striking snake, her head whipped around and she pinned him with her glare. He froze, like a rabbit caught in crosshairs, his entire body turned to stone. But she did not shriek or burst into tears, her eyes did not go wide, and she did not stumble away from him in blind fear. She frowned. "I'm not stupid," she snapped. Then her eyebrows furrowed. "Heavens, you are tall. I don't think I've ever seen a man taller than my Papa. Why are you looking at me like that?"
He blinked, and let the air rush out of his lungs, and his muscles turned to liquid. He fell to his knees.
No one had laid eyes on his face in eight years, since the day his father died.
The effect of it was almost too much for him to bear. And then she was on her feet, rushing towards him.
"What's wrong? Are you ill?" Her tone was laced with worry, but when she reached out for him, he flinched away from her instinctively. "I'm not going to hurt you," she said gently. Even on his knees, he towered over her. And yet he cringed from her as if she was a feral, rabid beast.
Belatedly, his brain caught up to the events occurring around it, and his hands flew up to cover his face.
Silence fell in the library, broken only by the crackling fire. Somewhere outside the house, down the street, a dog barked, and someone laughed merrily. Everything was a lifetime away from where he sat, curled inside his own world, encased by silence and shadows.
"I'm sorry," Margot said in a quiet voice, from somewhere outside of the darkness. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
And then he felt a small hand on his, grasping his wrist and pulling his hands from his face gently. He let his hands fall numbly, and she stepped back.
"You didn't frighten me," he said, staring at the plush Persian carpet beneath his knees, refusing to make eye contact with the child. "I was just surprised."
"Of course," Margot said quickly. "I didn't realize you were so easily… surprised."
Despite himself, a smile curled his lips. She had the same clever mind as her sister. If she grew up to be as beautiful and elegant as Lena, she would be the toast of the beau monde.
"Old habits, child, that is all."
She frowned up at him. "You make a habit of hiding your face from people?"
He lifted his gaze and pinned her with it, felt a bolt of terror slice through him as her eyes rested on his face. "Can you blame me?"
Margot blinked up at him, tilted her head to the side in confusion. "I don't understand."
"I am hideous," he growled. He absently lifted his hands to brush them over the scars. He knew each one by heart.
Margot smiled. "I do not think so, sir. I think you are almost as handsome as my papa." She paused a moment, narrowing her eyes a bit. "Your hair is very long, though, isn't it?"
A bark of laughter escaped him. His hair reached almost to the middle of his back, now. He supposed it was vain of him to let it grow so long, but his hair was the only part of him that he had ever been remotely proud of. It was soft and thick and black as a raven's wing.
"It is the source of my strength," he mused. Margot nodded with all the seriousness of youth.
"You are Samson," she said knowingly.
Something clicked into place in his mind, and echoed in his heart, like a perfectly cut key sliding into its lock. The pressure, the weight that pressed down into him from every angle, lifted instantly. Disappeared. Banished.
He looked down at Margot and smiled.
"Yes. I am."