prince pilate of
house ieshan
house ieshan
you think you are possessing me
but I've got my teeth in you.
H
ow long must we stare at each other? Or maybe the better question is how long can we stare at each other—and I don’t know what the answer is, except that it’s already longer than I would have ever imagined on my own. The weight of his gaze, cold and dove-gray under the glaringly white film of his glasses, is inescapable. I feel it all over—prickling like little shards of ice over my own eyes; the curve of my neck; all the way down my shoulders, to the patch of greenish scales over my hips.I feel drunk on it; like I’m standing off-kilter. Though I stay firmly rooted to the ground. I can’t help feeling that my balance is shot. I feel my heart in only one side of my chest. My blood runs cold all over, yet it only freezes to the left. Perhaps I am dying, or perhaps some spell has been cast upon my body.
But I know it’s at least partly the drink’s fault. I try to convince myself it’s more than partly. I try to convince myself I am only drunk: only drunk and not teetering on the edge of foolishness; only drunk instead of slipping under the influence of my own damn truth serum.
But if there is anything I cannot do right now, it is lie. Not even to myself. I know I am in trouble.
I listen to myself breathe, a level whoosh both in and out. I am careful that they remain even; I look at him but see nothing, because I am focusing so hard on breathing in, then out, in and out, in and out, enough to keep my body going without ever being enough to thrive on. My chest burns. I can’t hear anything above the sound of those breaths, so carefully measured as to be mechanical, and the ebb and flow of blood in my ears, its tide-sound overtaking what used to be a brain full of real thoughts.
Whatever you want.
And isn’t that the problem. I don’t know what I want and I never have. I thought I wanted to kill Adonai, but I could never make myself go through with it. I thought I wanted to run away but I can never pack my bags quite right. I thought I wanted this—love, the real and intense and inarguable kind—but when it comes to me I am afraid. Too afraid to function; too afraid to acknowledge what I feel, much less do anything real with it; too afraid to look him in the eyes and say whatever it is that I am thinking, which is—
My heart clenches.
“Go,” I say softly. And I don’t know if I’m telling him to go as in lead the way, go as in you should leave, or if I mean anything at all or if it’s the only word I can think to say.
But I push my way out of the bar, toward the gardens, and I don’t look to see if he follows.
