Escaping Exile Read online

  When a great ship breaks, one thinks massive chunks of wood might remain. However, the ocean is a hungry bitch. There’s little evidence of Edmund’s ship beyond pieces of wood. As he wanders the water’s edge, I keep close and smell for natives, but all I sense now is death.

  We come upon a torn apart corpse. Red sticky ribs cook in the sun, but I recognize the white fabric. This is the screaming man from two nights prior. Edmund turns away from the body. He covers his mouth with one hand and places the other on my shoulder. When he coughs, his whole chest lurches. I know his body wants to be sick, but his stomach is empty—although this is not the opportune time to mention his need for food.

  I drag him away from his dead friend. “What were you looking for?”

  “My journals,” he says. “Silly.”

  “What do you write in these journals?” I continue leading him by his elbow. The less time he spends out and about, the safer he’ll be.

  “I’m a naturalist. I travel the world looking for new species. I find more comfort in nature than other humans. Which is preposterous to you, I’m sure, trapped out here with only nature. You probably sang a ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ when I woke up, and what sort of company am I? I’d rather talk to trees.” He must expect me to be offended, because he stutters. “Not that I…I mean to…” He stops walking and puts his hand to his face, possibly to cover the wet redness of his eyes.

  Not so callous after all then.

  Chapter Four

  FOR SOMEONE WHO studies species, Edmund is quite interested in killing them. When I tell him there’s a lagoon by my home—our home—he shakes off the melancholy from the beach and builds a net out of moss. He says he learned the trick from a man on the ship they called Samuel, although that wasn’t his real name. Samuel was African, Edmund says. They were friends, he says. Then, he shakes his head and keeps working on his net.

  As we wander off into the jungle toward the lagoon, he asks, “Do the natives not come to this side of the island?”

  He asks more than his question might have me believe. “No,” I say.

  He squints into the sun. “You said the natives might be fond of me, but would they not be fond of you, as well?”

  “They haven’t bothered me so far.” I’ve been dead much too long.

  “Perhaps they think this side of the island is cursed.”

  I smile. “Perhaps.”

  Edmund tries to hide the way he winces when he walks, but I remember the bruises on his body. He should be resting, but I allow him this taste of freedom. At least he still wears the bandage on his head, even though I can see it’s soaked in sweat as we pass beneath towering palms as old as God.

  It’s not long before the lagoon comes into view, but it’s the sharp mountain that catches Edmund’s attention first. He halts. “It’s like a finger pointing to the sky.” Then, he sees the water, a shocking blue that makes him blink with its beauty. “So we’re not in Hell after all.”

  He’s been walking the island barefoot, so all he does is roll up the cuffs of his too-long breeches before tiptoeing into the clear water. He gestures for me to stay back, and we wait. I’ve never seen a human so still. He reminds me of the white egrets I’ve observed hunting in long grass. The only discernible movement is the ever-so-slight up-down of his chest as he breathes.

  Then, he moves. The net made of moss and reeds disappears below the surface. When he pulls it back up, a fish the size of my forearm thrashes with enough vehemence to almost knock my injured Edmund over. He laughs, and the low rumble is delightful enough to eat.

  I have a small knife back at the house. He guts the fish and cooks it as the sun begins to set. He sits on the floor to eat and looks up at me in my chair. “There’s plenty for you.”

  “No, thank you, Edmund.”

  “But you need to eat.”

  I fold my hands over my stomach. “Later. Your ship, where were you headed? I mean to ask, where do you think we are?”

  He sighs and swallows. I don’t like how the reek of fish covers the scent of him. “We were headed to Brazil.”

  “That’s a long way from home for an Englishman.”

  “Home is wherever the creatures are. England’s boring anyway. Horses and dogs and foxes. Birds. Nothing new. Nothing interesting.” He sucks one of his fingers. “I assume we’re somewhere off the coast of South America.”

  It wasn’t my America, but it was close—another of Michelle’s little jokes, taunting me with almost but not quite.

  “Where was your ship headed when you wrecked here?” he asks.

  I’m distracted when he licks his lips. “Uh, New Orleans. It’s my home.”

  “I’ve met men from there before. They don’t talk like you. Most of them were Creole. French. You’re not.” He shoves at the bandage on his forehead with the back of his sticky hand.

  “I come from all over.”

  He smiles, a flash of white in the firelight, as if he’s heard this before. Being a traveler, he surely has. It’s the usual story of criminals and cowards. “Not to bring up bad memories, but did you have a wife? Children?”

  “I had no one. And you—wife, kids?”

  He chuckles. “Who would want to marry me? Yes, my family has money, but I would never be home. London is a filthy prison, and the bars are made of people, crushing you, boxing you in.” His brows lower. “I suppose I’ll never see it again.” He takes another huge bite of fish, followed by a gulp of water from the stone pitcher I use for washing.

  I lean forward in my chair. Even though I detest fish, I want to lick the juice from his chin. “You don’t seem upset about that.”

  “I don’t think I am. I always thought I’d end up this way, stranded or murdered by cannibals. I never expected to become an old man, not the way I’ve lived.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to die, although death doesn’t really care about age. That man on the beach was only twenty. It was his first time out with us. He wanted to go on an adventure.” He puts down the remaining fish and chews his bottom lip. “What did you do before you came here, Andrew? Did you have a profession?”

  Yes, I seduced and murdered lovely things like you. “I was a soldier once.”

  “Should have guessed. Built like a brick shithouse, you are.”

  I snort, which makes him laugh.

  “Did you enjoy being a soldier?”

  “I did. I was good at it.”

  He wraps his arms around his knees. “Good at killing people?”

  My gaze falls to the floor. “It was a bit more than that. Oh God, you’re not a pacifist, are you?”

  He shakes his head. “Impossible in my line of work.”

  “A lot of violence in naturalism?”

  He smacks the side of my knee. “You tit. No, I mean exploring. It’s kill or be killed sometimes.”

  “You’ve killed before?”

  He looks away from me toward the window—sun gone and night dark. “Yeah. And you?”

  I don’t mean to chuckle, but it happens.

  He smirks. “Of course.”

  “How do you feel?” I gesture to his head.

  “Better now that I’ve eaten.” He lifts the front of his shirt and stares at his chest. “Jesus. I look like a fucking watercolor.”

  He’s good at making me laugh.

  He stands—unsteadily. I rise to help him but drop my hands to my sides instead. If I touch him now, I doubt I’ll stop.

  “Where shall I sleep tonight?” he asks. “I’m not hoarding your bed again.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Andrew, Christ, I’m not an old woman. I can sleep on the floor.”

  I do touch him then, once, a sudden shove to the center of his chest that sends him tumbling backward onto grimy sheets and pillows.

  “Oh, you bastard,” he says up at me, but his head already tilts back on the pillows, revealing his long, pale neck. The skin there looks soft as sun-bleached sand—probably just as warm too.

 
With humans, I’ve found skin is the most obvious indicator of age. The older they get, the thinner the skin, like decaying silk. Edmund said the dead man on the beach was only twenty, but my handsome sailor can’t be much older. I can picture him at eighteen, boarding his first ship in London and never looking back.

  I spend hours watching him sleep, but like a storm across the ocean, the nightmare comes quickly. His voice rumbles over a single syllable—no, no, no—over and over again. Fingers claw at bed sheets, and the bandage doesn’t stand a chance against his flailing.

  I kneel beside him on the bed and pin his shoulders down. He fights with fists as if I’m the monster he sees in dreams. I should be. I say his name, and when he doesn’t respond, I climb in bed and pull him to me. He pushes against my chest. My God, he’s powerful, but still, I hold on. With one hand, I cradle the back of his head, tangling fingers in his sweat-soaked hair. I press my hand into his lower back as I pull his body against mine.

  I shush him and kiss near the cut on his forehead. I press us together and hum until he stops mumbling, stops fighting. He coasts back into a peaceful slumber with his hands curled in the front of my shirt. His exhales tickle my throat in warm puffs.

  Belatedly, I notice I’m hard as a rock. If he wakes now, he’ll feel me pressed against his hip. I wonder what Edmund would do if he knew how badly I want him. I hope to find out as soon as his bruises begin to fade.

  Chapter Five

  I RARELY DREAM, but when I do, it is of one particular night in New Orleans—the night of that final slaughter, that final stolen soul. Without a care in the world, I left my favorite brothel, as I had long before learned to never kill where I sought repeated pleasure.

  I lit a cigar in an alley off Gallatin Street and ambled noiselessly through crowds of drunken swine. I wanted a meal; of course I did. After sex, I was always hungry back then. With the scent of whores still clinging to me, I walked as though invisible through the masses until I heard a gentle tittering like piano notes.

  I faced the direction of the noise and spotted him immediately, a young, joyful male prostitute being awkwardly seduced by a short man with a beard. I tilted my head and watched them converse. The hairy man pawed at the young beauty and began digging in his pockets as the whore watched and waited.

  He couldn’t have been much older than eighteen—if even that old. He wore his blond hair to just above his ears, and with a good bath, it might have even glowed gold. As it was, days of sweat weighed it down, although no amount of dirt could soften those cheekbones or the pout of his lips. His malnutrition only added to his appeal, as did his small stature. I could easily have picked him up and carried him wherever I wanted if I’d been so inclined, but a nearby alley would do.

  Before the bearded man could make his play, I stepped up behind him and blew smoke in the air. The whore’s dark gaze found me. Forgotten was the silly little man bartering.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” I said.

  The would-be client started and turned. As soon as he saw me, he scuttled away like a spooked beetle.

  I didn’t touch my conquest, no, not in the open—not in New Orleans, where love between two men was only acceptable in certain circles.

  I tossed my cigar and stepped closer. “Do me the honor of your company?”

  The whore stared at me, probably marveling at my height and wondering how much damage I might do.

  “I’ll be gentle,” I said and smiled. Few could refuse me back then, when I dressed in expensive suits every day and glowed, well fed. “You will find I pay well.”

  I caught him admiring the silk of my waistcoat before he nodded, grabbed my arm, and tugged me into an alley. In the darkness, I backed him against a wall. I had to lean over to reach his mouth. I kissed him once, twice.

  “What is your name?”

  “Azrael,” he said.

  “Like the angel?”

  He blinked those large eyes up at me until I kissed him some more. His mouth tasted sweet, reminiscent of mulled wine. His tongue poked and prodded at my mouth. Inexperienced, then, new to the streets and a little bit innocent.

  I kissed him harder until he gasped in surprise. I lifted his small body onto the top of a barrel that smelled of beer, but as I moved ever closer—slipping fingers beneath his coat—I smelled only Azrael. He was sweat and dirt and sex…and something sweet like a pastry. He lurched forward when I sucked his tongue into my mouth.

  “Hush,” I whispered. “Are you afraid of me, Azrael?”

  He shook his head. I still remember the way those filthy blond locks stuck to the sweat of his forehead.

  I unbuttoned his breeches and reached inside. He made a sound of disagreement, but I shushed him some more.

  “But, sir, I should—”

  I cut off his need to please me by tonguing the side of his neck.

  He was so easily coerced off the barrel. I turned him around and instructed him to rest his hands on the wall. I pushed his breeches down, and his shoulders tensed, his body sadly accustomed to rough treatment. Yet, I, the monster, was nothing but gentle.

  I petted and caressed until my whore actually sighed in pleasure. He whimpered and begged eventually, and that was how I wanted him—my delicate Azrael—begging for it.

  Our fucking was long and slow. He was so small, my embrace sometimes lifted his very feet from the ground. When I reached around and worked his cock, he went practically limp against me, overwrought with sensation. I like to think I made him forget he provided but a service. Instead, I hope I made him feel adored.

  He came with a surprised shout. His muscles still clenching around my girth, I set my fangs free and bit hard as my orgasm blotted out all sound but the beat of his young heart.

  So sated on sex, it took Azrael a moment to realize I was feeding. Once he noticed my teeth had broken his skin, though, he panicked. He tried to push against the wall, back against me, but I had him trapped in my embrace. Before he could scream, I covered his mouth with my hand and drank faster, faster.

  God, he tasted like one hundred merry Christmases. No, his blood wasn’t rich like that of the aristocracy. He was an impoverished boy of the streets, not a pampered brat. Still, he was the best meal I’d had in weeks—innocent and struggling and so desperate to live and begging against my palm as he sobbed and I drank and drank and drank.

  I swallowed his very soul. His death was a bright light between my eyes. My head soared as he finally went limp and I dropped his body on the ground. I wiped my mouth.

  “An angel indeed,” I said. I left his corpse to rot but at least pulled up his breeches and straightened his clothes.

  I hailed a carriage and rode back home floating on the freedom of the kill. Holding someone’s life in my hands? It was a thrill I have never forgotten—and will seemingly never live down.

  When I walked back into my coven that night, Michelle waited at the bottom of the grand steps. She looked me over and sniffed. Her face twisted as though she tasted every bit of sex and every bit of murder.

  She pointed, and they descended on me, faceless immortal villains I once thought friends. And that was only the beginning of my hell. It was fitting. After all, Azrael was the archangel of retribution.

  Chapter Six

  A WHISTLE WAKES me. Not a whistle—a bird.

  I’m back on my island and smell nothing but Edmund, sweat, and fire. I feel him in my arms, warm and small. Edmund is not small, but he feels that way in his sleep as if lack of consciousness lessens him somehow. Sometime in the night, we moved. I now have my front pressed to his back, my arms completely surrounding him. His hair tickles my nose, and I open my eyes to see the sun streaming through the window. Peaceful breaths escape his parted lips as I roll away. It would not do to have him wake practically tied to the bed by my embrace. However, my left arm is trapped beneath his head, and my shifting does indeed wake him.

  His breathing changes, and he sighs. Probably realizing my intimate proximity, he says, “Andrew?”

  “Y
ou had a nightmare.” As if that explains everything. I’d put money on him never waking up on his ship with another man wrapped around him, bad dreams or not.

  “Nightmare? I never have nightmares.” He rubs his eyes but doesn’t shove me away. “Well, I never used to.” He sits up and stretches his arms overhead. “I could murder a cup of tea right now.”

  With the scent of him farther away, I realize something’s wrong. Did a bird’s morning cry wake me, or…

  I tackle Edmund to the bed and cover his mouth.

  “Don’t make a sound,” I whisper.

  It was indeed a whistle that woke me, and I didn’t smell the invaders earlier because all I smelled was Edmund. I smell them now, though, the cannibals. They are blood and filth and murder—and they are close, closer than they’ve ever been to my house before. I never should have let Edmund go to the beach. I never should have let him fish. The breeze probably carried the scent of his blood for miles in every direction, right to these monsters that hope to swallow his screams and devour his flesh.

  Pressed together as we are, I feel his heart pumping blood at a panicked pace, especially when we hear the natives speaking in their foreign tongue. They speak and whistle to each other, but they must be at least twenty feet away. Perhaps they fear coming any closer to the home of the dead thing that walks among them? God, I hope so. Starved of human blood, I’m weak—too weak even to defend my Edmund.

  His heart continues to thump against me as I remove my hand from his mouth and wait. His chest rises and falls, but his breaths are silent.

  I smell them moving away more than I hear them. Once the breeze is again perfumed by only ocean and Edmund, I exhale and lean back, but Edmund, eyes wide, shoves me away and tumbles onto the floor in his hurry to escape. The vehemence is surprising considering he woke up minutes earlier with a man in his bed and didn’t bat an eye.

  But the look in his eyes.

  Oh, no.

  “You have no heartbeat,” he says. “How is that…” He stands and picks up the knife by the fire, cleaned of fish guts. “You don’t eat. You have no heartbeat. You’re of no interest to cannibals. Wh—what are you?”