He was an unexpected spectacle and horror. She didn't intend on seeing him a second time in one night. Her one and only customer, the corpse. The Unquenched. The monster, Ashtorath.
When he came barging into the Gilded Lily, he was unlike anything she had ever seen. He was angry. He was painted in red and shards of purple meat scraps. His teeth were stained a rosy color from squirted copper blood. His eyes were mad. Mud, grass, and bone clung to his boots and tracked inside the soft, exotic rugs of the tea house. The calming incense immediately streamed out the front door as he crashed inside.
"Llara!" he hollered loud enough to cause the walls to tremble in fear.
He was making such an obscene ruckus that the neighbors complained. The guards were called. Not only were the Gilded Lily employees either scattering like cockroaches or coming out of their rooms to watch, but so was the entire block of the Flesh Quarter. Lights from nearby houses were snapping on. Stray dogs howled in response to his screaming.
Ashtorath had never been this loud and demanding before.
"Llara!"
Llara Lily had just bathed and begun to rest, untangling her mind from her meeting with him just hours ago. Her skin was still fresh and pink from the hot water. Her red curls were untied, heavy, and wet. She was perfumed in lavender and rosewater, to fend off the clinging stench of his sweet, dead, rotting smell. She had immediately done what he had asked before he left; she had packed her things into a single, small bag. There wasn't much to pack after the majority of her belongings had been stolen. She didn't get a chance to grab it when she heard her name being bellowed. She was barefoot and only in her bathrobe.
She simply didn't expect him so soon, so sudden, and so like an untamed whirlwind of force and malice.
She was shoved and grabbed, pulled by her sisters to the front of the tea house like a virginal sacrifice to appease a raging colossus. Here, they seemed to say as they pushed her to the front. Take her. Have her, just spare us.
"Llara!" Ashtorath roared again, too blinded by his own consuming desire for her presence to even notice her standing in front of him.
"Ashtorath," she breathed, calm, quiet, and still. "I'm here," she said, knowing exactly just how to talk, walk, and gesture to quell the raging creature. It was like taming a wild predator. Slow, gentle movements. Don't do anything unexpected or sudden to startle him. Oddly, she found that she wasn't afraid, even if he was wearing the sinews and tendrils of broken, dead elves draped down his front.
He dropped his face and looked at her with a snarl. Ashtorath accidentally spit flecks of blood and flesh onto her cheeks. She swiped them away with a brush of her hand as she looked at him indignantly.
"We are leaving," he breathed in a heavy grunt. "Now."
"Let me just dress and grab my things," she said in a quiet voice as she gestured behind her.
"No," he barred his sharpened teeth and snatched her wrist to pull.
Yet she wouldn't budge. Defiantly, she yanked herself back and kept her feet planted where they were. She could feel all the eyes of the room press upon her. For a moment, she felt like a gladiator, a heathen thrown into a ring with a hungry lion. He was going to rip her to shreds and they would stand in a leering arena to watch. "Yes." Her eyes snapped upwards to meet his barbaric face.
He looked murderous. She knew it. He was probably imagining snapping her bones between his teeth. Fine, she thought. Strike me down. Kill me here. Do it. I don't care, she thought. I'm dead anyway. I have nothing to lose.
The entire Gilded Lily was as silent as a graveyard. Not a single person seemed to breathe.
He released her wrist and shuffled himself into his full height. He towered over her, a black iron monolith. His head nearly scraped the glittering chandelier that dangled down. The beast stared down at the beautiful, small woman in a sudden standoff of wills.
She was as pale and quiet as a rabbit. But like a rabbit, she knew when to watch, when to listen, and when to run.
Her body tingled and her mind raced. Llara's palms were sweaty. Her eyes, a bruised, navy blue, remained stubbornly locked on his waxy face. She knew she ought to run. Instead, she stood very still and waited for his hand to cascade down and crush her.
What she didn't expect was for him to lean down and snatch her up. He swung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The remains of his meal suddenly stuck to the front of her clothes and her recently washed skin. He smelt like sugary rotting meat and the metallic scent of the outdoors. He carried her to her room with her hair swinging down in front of her face.
Those in the hallway parted like a sea to allow him to pass.
He set her down in her room and stood in the doorway.
He didn't close it to allow her privacy. He watched her as she dressed. He didn't just watch, he stared, looming over her. She could tell that he was impatient and wanted to leave the very second she finished dressing and grabbed her things. He wouldn't let her say goodbye to anyone, and thus she didn't bother asking.
Let him watch, she thought. She was used to not having an ounce of privacy. There were far worse things in this world. Her body had always been a possession that never really belonged to her. She didn't care if someone wanted to watch an aging whore slip on her plain, rusted red dress with green trim. It was one of the two dresses she had left that didn't get stolen. It was more conservative, made for day wear and warmth. It was a practical dress, not flashy or designed for seduction.
"You never told me where we were going," she blandly stated as she tugged on her boots.
"I bought you," he said, not answering the question. "And you are mine."
Oh, she thought. This brought her pause. She didn't see money exchanged. Did she cost money for this transaction? When he told her that she would belong to him and to pack her things, she half didn't believe him. That, or she assumed that Lillandyr would deny him.
A small part of her felt cheap. She wondered if Lillandyr fought for her. Maybe she didn't. Maybe she was so worthless she was given away. Lillandyr disregarded her so much that she was just given to her dead half-brother to be eaten as an afternoon snack.
How inconsequential I must be, she thought, to deserve this fate.
Even the women that "belonged" to a single client – just as she had once belonged to the Marquis of the Artisan Quarter, Marquis Malviss – she was still technically Lady Shadowglade's property. And money was always the exchange. She was, after all, a commodity, like spices or silk. A possession. This seemed different; this was different. What did it mean to belong to someone that didn't desire? Did he have a house, an estate? He was a lord. Where did he go at night? Where was she about to go? Where did the Unquenched live? How would they get there? She had never seen him ride a horse or carriage. She doubted he would even fit in one. Unquenched were as much people to her as inanimate objects. She couldn't fathom him doing a single normal, everyday routine thing.
These thoughts never concerned her or were given any consideration, till now.
"Hurry up," he grumbled brusquely. The wood creaked as he leaned against the doorframe. He continued to stare, boring holes into her body as she finished dressing and tying her hair behind her with a long black ribbon.
She looked very plain, a commoner. She looked like any other woman now. Her dress was ordinary and functional. She didn't decorate her face in makeup, and thus every stress line and blemish was visible. Her hair, her only striking and exotic feature, was tied back in a formless ponytail. She wore heavy leather boots made for long treks and manual labor. A gray woolen cloak was tied around her shoulders to fend off the chill.
She didn't know where they were going or how long they would be there, but this and a small bag of sentimental things was all she had left.
She stepped away from the room and approached him. Her small leather bag that held every possession she had in the world was slung over her shoulder. She was done and as ready as she ever would be to leave. He knew this and turned away from the door, expecting her to follow.
She passed by the patterned walls and the textured paintings of sensual women. She looked down at the soft, rich carpets, marble statues, and up to the saturated, colored frescoes. Goodbye, Gilded Lily, goodbye. Those that remained stared at her as she passed like a convict walking to her execution. Not even the Head-Mistress would make eye contact with her. She was dead already to them, a ghost. They wouldn't acknowledge her.
Am I free, she thought? She had never been truly free before. She wondered what it would be like. She never had to lay with a man she didn't know again. Or wear a fake smile.
No, she thought. You're far from free. You're just moving into a smaller cage. You now have to somehow please someone who can't be pleased.
You're just going to die as some Unquenched appetizer. You're going to die for Nehmain instead of Baellith. You should probably run, Llara. Run fast, little hare. Maybe when he is away. Take your chance and run from him. Perhaps it is a godsend that you're now his. If you manage to escape, neither he nor Lillandyr can kill you.
She nodded to herself. That was exactly what she intended to do. Run. Just continue being a courtesan – smile and pretend, until the opportunity presented itself. She made it this far, perhaps she could make it a little longer and actually live to a hundred.
But where would she go? She had never lived by herself before. She had been in the small, strict, measured world of a courtesan most of her childhood and all of her adult life. She had never wanted for a place to sleep or truly worked a job before. The idea was daunting, overwhelming. She was intimidated and afraid of the outside world.
And that was her prison, her cage. Her inexperience.
Still, she thought. She was brave. And she could try. It was better than death.
The worst that could happen was that she could fail and beg on the streets, or return to selling her body. That certainly wouldn't be ideal – but then again, neither was dying.
They stepped outside and into the streets. Immediately, Llara knew it would be wise to tug her hood up and hide her face. She knew the neighborhood; she knew the homes and businesses around her. The lights were on. People were watching and staring as a result of Ashtorath's presence and hollering in the middle of the night.
"Why do you keep coming back? Filthy, undead monster!" Llara didn't see the source of the woman's cursing, but she heard her. It came from an apartment window, high above. She had never before seen the effects of Ashtorath's visits. She imagined, now, that people had been watching and noticing him coming and going from the Gilded Lily several times a week, almost every day. The entire community must have taken notice and soured to him, not just the girls at the Lily. As Ashtorath began to glide down the street, Llara didn't hear the rest of the woman's complaining.
The neighborhood probably cursed, slandered, and feared him. They did not want him to be a common sight. But he was. No one wanted an Unquenched in their midst. She didn't consider the ripple effects of him coming to see her.
"He's back?" Llara heard a man's voice somewhere. It was a conversational tone, but she was listening for voices now. The man may not have been referencing Ashtorath, but he probably was, she thought. Who else could he be talking about? The buildings were close enough together, that it was very, very easy to hear what people had to say during the night, after the noisy commerce had died down. The clay and stone buildings were open and many of the windows were simply wide holes.
She kept close to Ashtorath's swift pace. He was much, much larger than she, and one of his long strides took two steps for her. She went at a brisk walk, almost a run, just to keep up. She did not know where she was going, and although she was an adult woman, she never had to venture out into the city on her own very often, let alone at night. In many ways, she realized, she was just a girl. The entire city had a different look and mood to it at night. The empty buildings looked like jeering skulls and the rats began to creep out from the sewers to scavenge and squeak.
His cloak caught an arthritic evening breeze and billowed around the clank of his metal greaves. No wonder he was the subject of gossip around town; he was impossible to miss. In small, tight-knit communities such as this, anything out of the ordinary was discussed. An undead behemoth clomping down the street night after night must have been the hot topic since his arrival.
Llara, living in her gilded cage, was sheltered from this. The people probably wondered why Lillandyr was allowing it. The people probably felt unsafe and violated.
"Do people notice you?" she asked breathily, holding her bag over her shoulder and doing her best to keep from falling behind.
"Notice me," he echoed back with a condescending snort.
"Yes. Notice you. You have been coming to see me... quite a lot. People must talk," she pointed out, then dashed to his side. He was too big, walking too fast. She was running out of breath. He didn't notice.
After a pause, he answered. He wasn't even looking at her as he loudly clashed through the streets. "People always talk," he grumbled.
She stubbornly pushed the conversation onward. "I know. I know people are people and that they always talk. But I think they're noticing you. You – you're Unquenched. You make people ill at ease. You scare them. You aren't supposed to be in the city. They aren't going to accept you –"
He stopped abruptly. She almost slapped into his backside. He slowly turned to hover over her, imposing and threatening. The ice in his eyes was two sharpened blades. The moon crowned just above his head and caused his hair to glow. He was inhuman, a beast, a monster. He was overflowing with bloodlust and animosity. He didn't want her talking. He looked as if he were about to tug her tongue out from her throat with his fist.
Fine, the look on her face seemed to say. She was daring him to do it without any verbal acknowledgment. Rip my neck open. Eat me. You're going to eventually do it anyway, so what's the difference?
Before they could continue the confrontation, Ashtorath turned, distracted by a clamoring sound. Llara followed his direction and glanced away.
A knot of guards were approaching them. They were clanking along in full armor with their weapons drawn. There was a captain among them, carrying a banner with Shadowglade's emblem while riding upon a horse.
"We have a report of a disturbance, outside the Gilded Lily," the captain on the horse said in a curt, official manner. He eyed Ashtorath. "And you... fit the description."
One of the side guards lifted a torch to see.
Through the halo of warm firelight, Ashtorath's waxy-blue, undead pallor gleamed. It confirmed their suspicions and reports. There was an Unquenched here, screaming and upsetting people.
"I assume you're aware, then, that your kind isn't wanted here?" the captain said, addressing Ashtorath.
"I am Lord Ashtorath Sunmourne, brother to the Lady Shadowglade. And I have permission to travel into the city and do business as I see fit," he hissed and spit.
The captain was unmoved. He tugged the reins of the horse to clop closer. Ashtorath carried his papers with the official seal on them. He must get stopped and questioned frequently, Llara thought.
As he fiddled with his paperwork, she felt eyes of one of the guards on her. Who was she, they probably thought, that traveled with this Unquenched?
Hesitantly, the younger guard carrying the torch approached Llara. The light fell upon her face, stripping away the shadows of her hood. She gnawed her lower lip uneasily, hoping they wouldn't ask her anything, leave her alone.
"Miss...? Do you need any help?" he asked softly, as if trying to keep the conversation private, just between them. He must have felt sorry for her, Llara thought. The guard glanced back to Ashtorath, secretly incriminating him. "Are you under duress?" the guard pried gently. "Is he keeping you against your will?" he whispered, motioning to the creature as he stepped closer.
Help, she thought. He was just trying to help her, do his job. This guard was a good, kind man. Technically, she wasn't in any trouble. Apparently, she had been bought and sold. Ashtorath was her new client. Her eyes lifted above the guard's shoulder as she looked at the Unquenched with the silver-white hair and black, spiked armor. He was about to kill her moments ago, before the guards arrived, just for asking a question.
She could tell them everything, she thought in a brief panic. She could tell them that she was being held against her will, that Ashtorath had taken her. But what good would that do? What if he had papers showing that he owned her? It would do nothing but incite his terrible anger, and he would murder her and devour her for sure. She had no legal leg to stand on to gain her freedom.
"Get away from her!" Ashtorath barked as he tore his attention from the captain on the horse. The guard carrying the torch and questioning Llara turned to him, startled.
"I said –"Ashtorath tore his paperwork from the captain and advanced on the guard near Llara, "Get away from her!" he snapped, possessive and controlling. His face knotted in cold, icy anger and bore no resemblance to anything that was once elfish.
The guard backed away in fear, but the captain brandished his weapon. He was a strong man, Llara could see. A righteous man. He was going to protect her, perhaps fight for her honor. Maybe even free her. There was a flutter of anticipation, elation, and joy in her chest. Hope. She never had hope before. It was a strange, white, flickering beam of light. So easily, it could be crushed. It was fragile and small, like her.
"Sir..." the guard with the torch addressed the captain slowly, in trepidation. "I think the woman needs..." but he trailed off. Llara could see that the captain clearly had the same thought as his men – she was kidnapped and being held against her will.
More hope. She exhaled a long, streaming breath.
"Lord Ashtorath, we will ask you just once to step away from the woman," the captain began. His silver sword gleamed in the moon's glow, clean and bright like a heavenly beacon, ready to strike the demon down.
Llara was stuck in the middle. There were two guards behind her, and Ashtorath and the captain on the horse in front of her. She could not merely flee. She said nothing. She could feel Ashtorath's gaze roaming over her, searching her, ripping her to shreds like his razor sharp teeth. Maybe he wanted her to defend him.
She couldn't. He was going to eventually kill her, probably in a horrific and painful manner. She wanted to escape him just as much as she wanted to escape Lillandyr.
She only wanted her life. Nothing else. As measly and small as it was, it was hers. It was all she had.
There was noise, buzzing, excited conversation, and more torchlight in the distance. She saw the shadows and reflections on the clay walls behind the horse. There was a loud cluster of people approaching them through the narrow alleyway.
"Captain!" a voice called out from the new band advancing towards them. More soldiers. They were all dressed and looking pale-faced and frantic. "Captain! Fire!" the guard in the front of the herd cried out. "Fire, the Gilded Lily, the whole Quarter is about to go up in flames!"
The guard who had been kind to her looked at Llara with concern. By the look on his face, she could tell that he needed to leave, but he wanted to help her, too. The other guard behind her was listening to the commotion.
Llara trailed her eyes upward. A tall pillar of black smoke was belching into the sky. It couldn't have been there long. He wasn't lying. There was a massive fire that had broken out into the city. It wasn't until the soldier said something that she noticed the acrid scent of burned brick and mortar spill into the atmosphere.
The Gilded Lily was burning, Llara thought. How could that be? Had she been there a moment longer, she could have been in that fire. She wasn't entirely sure if she ought to feel grateful, lucky. Her sisters? Her Headmistress? Were they alive?
She closed her eyes and briefly thanked the gods that she was spared. Thank you. And may the other girls, please, please be okay. They didn't deserve that fate.
The captain spun around and began blasting out orders. Llara and the Unquenched were now an insignificant problem. The captain had an entire Quarter to save. The buildings in the Flesh Quarter were so close together that one building in peril meant an entire block could easily become consumed.
Another look was exchanged between her and the helpful guard. He looked apologetic.
"Miss, I suggest –" he began to speak when Ashtorath came barreling into them. The Unquenched growled and drooled like a manic, rabid animal. In a frenzy, he swept Llara off her feet with one arm. With the other, he swung his arm like a massive lead pendulum into the man.
The guard was launched and airborne before coming to land onto the pavement. His armor split from his body in a loud, metallic clatter. She couldn't see above Ashtorath's pauldrons to see if the man got up to move again.
Ashtorath fled, cradling Llara. It wasn't protective or coddling; it was like she was a belonging, something he owned that no one else was allowed touch. He squeezed too hard and his armor pinched into her skin like needles. She couldn't see where they were going. Suddenly, they were swallowed into darkness as he ducked through the streets and alleys.
"Kidnapper! Unquenched on the loose!" The second guard had watched the entire scene unfold. Ashtorath flung his comrade into the wall and absconded into the night. The soldier's voice bounced off the stone walls but was soon drowned out.
Llara knew that her hope was suddenly snuffed. That guard, as well-intentioned as he was, couldn't help her. He would be called to help with the fire. The chaos was ill-timed and worked against her favor. Every soldier for miles would be summoned to help save the citizens and put out the flames.
All she could do was close her eyes. Ashtorath carried her, jostling in his arms. She was getting motion sickness. His grip was iron tight, a constrictor's vice.
There was no escape or hope.