prince pilate of
house ieshan
house ieshan
you think you are possessing me
but I've got my teeth in you.
I
had thought I was already drunk. I realize I was wrong.This particular drink hits me strong and hard and fast, a kick to the head that makes my skull feel like it’s about to split. Suddenly my body is not my own; I feel it shudder, aggressively and unwillingly. I grow violently hot, all over, as if Solis has thrown down a blanket of wicked sunlight on just me. I stare at Andras, my eyes blown wide, their color darkened and feverish; my mouth goes dry, and I have to remind myself to swallow before I cough; in the bottom of my stomach, something venomous and rock-heavy twists and turns until I wonder if there is really something inside me, some parasite, some demon, that I must ask Ruth to extract.
I realize it’s nervousness. I hate it. I want to die.
Whatever concerto the band is playing outside has picked up speed and volume, almost drowning out Andras’ voice. My mouth is still coated with the thick, cold, waxy taste of mint. I wrinkle my nose and try to wash it out with a sip of water. But that only sets the rest of my sinuses to tingling, and finally I resign myself to waiting out the sensation, trying—and failing a little, I think—to focus entirely on Andras: his drunk gray eyes, his smiling white mouth. His laugh—as if we are friends, and not two men in a competition to kill each other the slowest and most torturous way possible.
I make sure to phrase my answer as another question; it wouldn’t be any good to admit my secrets under duress like this. Carefully, I respond: “Does it matter?” And then I smirk, the same shit-eating grin he likes to give me when he’s avoiding my questions. It spreads so wide my cheeks start to hurt, and I think I can my eyes glitter out from the dark of my face. I hope he knows I’m making fun of him. I think he must.
His cup clatters gently down onto the surface of the bar. I watch it obsessively: the light refracting through the glass, the few drops of liquid still clinging to its edges, the rainbow prisms that go skittering over the table. My mouth tightens.
Are you this hard to figure on purpose? the warden asks me, or is it just how you are?
I wish I hadn’t had that drink. I can feel regret rising up in me already, and I know it’s only going to get worse. For maybe the first time in my life, I feel like prey—panicked, backed into a corner, desperate to lash out, even though I know it won’t help.
“If I wasn’t hard to figure out,” I say softly, “you wouldn’t want me.”
There is a reason I’m not known for telling the truth.
