This swelled into a On the Other Side of the Mask freebie story so large I broke it into segments. This is the second part...
The trick was to fall, sway, and move with the riddle. To become part of it. To use Lord Ruthvyn’s madness against him. To seduce the madness, thus seducing the master.
Byron smiled with pure sweetness and made a little bow, wondering if he startled his lord’s guests, hoping that he did. A murmur came from the crowd, but it was more admiration than fear.
Let them admire him if they dared. Once Byron had everyone’s attention, he began to sing. A low, rippling note, growing higher and higher.
More than a few guests clapped their hands over their ears. Not Lord Ruthvyn. Byron could pick his slender figure, clad in a tuxedo out from the crowd, the curve of his red lips below a devil’s mask, painted wood, carved horns, bulges in all the wrong place drawing attention to the contours of its face, and slits where dark eyes filled with melancholy mockery back at the world. Not a clue as what he was thinking was shown in his mouth or his mask.
This maddened Byron. He held onto the high note for a painfully long moment before descending, making each sound more earthy, more seductive. Time for the song itself.
“Chasing shadows
Wisps of warmth
What do you dream?”
He searched for Shelley while singing, searched for that sensitivity which made the air tremble before the other boy appeared, the special warmth he gave everything around him before you saw his slight form, the sweet, heart-shaped face surrounded by strawberry-blonde curls, the cupid’s bow of a mouth which invited kisses. No sign of him of watching or waiting. His warmth was gone if it had ever been here.
He felt the anger rising, heating him. Shelley’s warmth was for Byron alone. It had infuriated him back at the Cathedral when Mae or Claire reached for it, greedy flowers craving the other boy’s light. Now that light had been taken by a pale lord and locked away. Unbearable insult even if it was right, proper, and even merciful on the outskirts of Paradise.
Byron allowed that anger to creep into his smile, his song, all the anger he’d ever felt towards the man who’d snatched two songbirds away from the Goddess’s Cathedral, to separate and trap them in his personal cages.
“High above the sorrows
Untouched by harm
When will you scream?”
Not perfect, nothing like the original poet whose name he’d taken, the Byron from outside Paradise, but the challenge was in the lyrics. Pale lords didn’t scream. They couldn’t. They’d lost the fear, the passion which allowed such a sound to swell within a breast, to escape from a throat.
There was an uneasy stir in the crowd while many a masked figure grew still, far stiller than usual. He’d struck at where once there’d been a heart with his song.
Time for the final blow.
Byron stepped down from the figures in the fountain, passing through the spray of water, feeling it soak into his hair and clothes. This hadn’t been choreographed. He was supposed to stay away from arcing path of the spray’s dance, out of reach of the guests.
Too bad.
He stepped out of the fountain, soggy and wet. He touched the sleeve of a guest’s coat with damp fingers. Another he winked at.
The pale lords shrank back from him, yet gazed at him through the slits of their masks in fascination. Byron wouldn’t allow his attention to settle on anyone other than the distant devil.
His lord moved away from the crowd, directly in his path. Byron weaved his way through the guests, approaching his master. All the while he sang.
“A mask conceals furrows
Disdaining all charms
Are you what you seem?”
He stopped right in front of Lord Ruthvyn, ready for the final scandal. He reached up to seize his master’s face, pulling it towards his own. Those red lips beneath the mask were near enough to taste and he would taste them.
Byron fastened his mouth upon his lord’s, claiming it in a kiss.
He expected to be shoved away or to receive the back of his master’s hand. Instead Lord Ruthvyn enfolded his songbird in his arms, accepting the kiss.
Cold spread through Byron’s mouth, reaching down his throat. Ice invaded his chest, chilling his nostrils, his temples. The chill sought every crevice within him, squeezing his heart.
At the same time, Byron felt a stirring between his master’s legs even as he froze.
“It’s not wise to stir my passions too swiftly, little songbird.” Lord Ruthvyn withdrew from Byron, still holding the boy loosely in his arms. “Or do you think you possess enough heat to satisfy me?”
Byron couldn’t speak, couldn’t get his frozen tongue to move. His teeth chattered.
“What’s wrong, Byron?” His master gave him a little shake. “Where’s your rebel courage, your proud resolve? Surely one kiss didn’t make you forget what truly matters to you.”
Lord Ruthvyn let him go. Never had he seemed taller, or to cast such a long shadow, looking down at the boy with his lower lip curled in amused contempt.
“Where is Shelley? Or did you forget to look for him?” The pale lord cocked his head to the side, studying his shivering songbird. “Have you spotted him yet?”
“He’s not here.” Byron forced the words through his trembling lips. “You promised he’d be here. You promised I’d see him.”
“And you promised to sing for me. Not to disturb my celebration with your crude attempts to seduce me.” Lord Ruthvyn gave his songbird a shove before stepping away.
Byron stumbled, falling to his knees. Tears threatened to well up in his eyes, but no. He wouldn’t cry. Not in front of the pale lords. Especially not in front of Lord Ruthvyn.
“This is what happens to those who lie, those who disobey and disturb the happiness of others.” His master crossed his arms, glancing from Byron to everyone in the gathering. “Remember this.”
“What do you know of happiness?” Byron looked up behind a dark curl which fell forward over his eye, to glare at the shadow waiting to consume him as always. “You’ll never be happy, no matter how much you drain from me or anyone else.”
“Pray you’re wrong about that. For Shelley’s sake. For your own.” Dark eyes gleaming through the slits in a devil’s mask fixed themselves upon his. “From now on, my happiness is yours. My unhappiness as well. You’re mine, Byron. You exist to serve me.” The words trembled in the air, vibrating as they made their way into Byron’s ears, the recesses of his brain. “If I suffer, so shall you.”
To be continued on Wednesday; September 16, 2020...
No comments:
Post a Comment