Forbidden Desire

1 - A Wager

A familiar smog drenches the parlor, thick and rich, accented by the presence of alcohol. The dim overhead lights set the mood for the men. Slight raises of iced scotch, swings of sticks, wet pounding and a sweet singing luring one close to sleep. A man would do much and then some to hear even a sound from that throat.

The streets of New London have winded down, settling into their ruffled nightgowns after a quiet fire-lit dinner. Obviously, the maids and nannies have tended to the children while the man of the house, the husband, takes his wife into his bed, tends to her nature before climbing up and showing the true beast they both know himself to be.

Motor viscosity lingers about, honks muffled away by the woman swaying her hips, her eyes void of feeling. She dresses in a long dress, her cleavage on display. Her makeup is minimal. Messy. Her neck wrapped with white linen cloth, soaked by a blotch of red that threatens to stain her silk ensemble.

Leonard flicks his wrist, clicking the ball and having the power to take my mind with it. Old London was once a time to be. A generation known by conservatives and right-winged radicles. The Green-marketing desire blinded most while their actions were in opposition. Pollution, more people than were necessary. It was not a problem without a solution then. It started as little.

What began as a miniscule conflict between the harbours of Old London and her neighbours, sought herself into endless war, famine and disease. Such were the least of my problems as I walked the trashed grounds in ragged scraps with nothing but silver to such a weak and nameless frame.

The virus took the fittest. Those with the immune systems of whales became them. Bloodshot, glassed eyes, advanced speed, immeasurable strength, a desire, a taste for something... more. They placed them behind bars, testing tongue dryness, urine. Placing chemicals into the beasts, turning them against their own.

Such transition felt more of a curse than a gift by some distant god. It was brutal. Backs crackling, bones shifting to a sense of discomfort, brains expanding, organs pushed together, and apart for some, to adhere to these enhancements. An internal execution. Death was preferable. The reality for those who were 'weak fitted'. The lengthened process stripped the strong of their strength, searching for weaknesses that bore any fragility from the heart itself until only the will to hunt was all that was known.

The world didn't become some twisted hell of scorching fire engulfed by nothing but darkness. It became sharper, brought along with a heighten sensation to hear the heartbeat of the singing women, much less her voice. Her blood flowing through her veins, fist sized organ pumping, thumping, barely keeping her afloat.

Pins of enjoyments were set for their experiments. Placing use against their new species. A discovery in which to gaze with fear and caution. An error of maladjusted genes. An agony of pain no man should endure for the lifetimes they chained us to.

A deep and rich mummer pulls me from my scape, my attention now on the tailor-fitted form of rough hair and the half-naked form atop of him, "You know, it comes as a shock that you of all people are here." His laugh deepens from the amusement of my being here at his call of authority. A cup of warmth threatens me to step out and roll my motor home.

I hum along, playing into his games. I lean into my swing, watching the balls collide, paving ways into the corner directed. It comes with great enjoyment to myself, for I do love games. The hunt is not what excites men like myself. Rather, it is setting the trap, the thrill of the wait before we pounce.

Wait, we did. We waited until they miscalculated. An unlocked cage, a loose beast, and great enjoyment soon followed as their structure began to crumble like dominoes toppling over the other. This was no ordinary prison riot. It had been a century of precision silently made behind metal bars. An army within their walls.

Once they had thought overcrowdedness was the iceberg of their worldly problems and that night we lay claim to ensure it never was. Cores and organs spilling from the first of the guards as we feasted was incapable of thirsting our quench. We'd been too lenient that night, hunting, setting our traps.

They'd spent decades, centuries perfecting the worst of their nightmares, setting the knowledge aside that we lived among them. The perfect weapons of their cruelty and sin. War was the least of their worries. One fought with the need of no such maps and treaties, the declining population calling about the nonsense they believed was a truce while we grew in number. A war fought with primal need and fury. We took what could be taken before daybreak was returned to its rightful owners.

Then we settled. We rebuilt. The weak would feel the way they treated us. As errors. Prisoners of their own lifetime of torment. Glass shatters and is enough to pull my mind from the gutters of my past, enough to cause the deathly silence invoking the parlor. Even the smoke ceases in its path. The cause stills in fear, his weak-minded uselessness trapped in a state of being choiceless.

Valerian does not curse. He does not yell. Simply sets his cue stick aside with a noticeable click, standing in his fitted shirt as he stares around at what now remains of the vintage Wexford glassware.

The human boy scrambles to collect the broken shards, begging Valerian to spear his weak-minded uselessness, "Forgive me...my Lord. It was a mistake," the boy gasped, a cut of his finger staining the glass edge red, his voice walking a thin rope of excuse, terrorized by the reality he would become like such glass, "The smoke...I lost my footing."

Valerian doesn't care for the priceless glass. He doesn't care for the wasted refreshment the boy could never dream of paying back in full. He cared that this child, no older than sixteen, was one of them. Human. An error of maladjusted genes had dared to interrupt a high stakes game of his masters.

No word is spoken. Valerian shoots his hand out in a blur no human eyes could trace. He squeezes at the boy's throat, his feet dangling above the ground, "Did I say you could speak?" Comes the murmured purr carrying a centuries of hate, refined into less than six words. "Even after we pillaged your cities, burned your lavatories, turning your children to charcoal, you humans never learn."

He struck the boy. It was no ordinary slap. No strength had been speared into the backhand, cracking the boy's head into such an angle no man could hold. He settles the boy back onto his feet without effort, slapping him across the broken shards. Glass shreds the boy's face, entering his skin.

Valerian stepped towards the boy, placing his shined shoe onto his head before crushing it to the ground. The boy struggles to breathe. He lifts his foot, returning it into the boy's abdomen as he flies from side to side, choking from his own blood.

There is no doubt that the boy is on the brink of death. Such events still cause a brief reflex of my eye muscle and the movement does not pass beyond Valerian's radar, "Still soft, are you, Dominic?"

"The boy did not fall on his own. He was stumbled by Julian's bored cruelty." Lucian cuts in, gesturing to a lower lord in the same circles as Valerian. It never fails to deter my knowledge how the prince of our nation, and a man of relations to my own, keeps men like them. They, too, fitted well in appearance, with silk ties and enough money backing them to be considered part of upper society. That is as close as they come to class. Money can buy this and that, but not class. The Lord Blackwood himself holds his distaste for his son's social circle.

They are no different from the rest. Beasts with an elegancy befitting to them, revealing their status as shields should they feel the need to, only ever staying in line of the law. The only thing they have in common is their hatred for these worthless creatures. It comes as no surprise that no man is ever close enough to another before immediate family

.

Valerian tightens his jaw, a predatory mule reigned in by his command, "Quiet, Lucian," the last of the retorts yielded by a flick of his pristine gloved wrist, "The nursery is closed for the night. If you desire to play little saint to the 'weak-fitted', do it other where than my presence. Not among men of status."

Lucien slinks into his seat, opening his mouth to retort, but his brother's heated gaze shuts down any attempts of even the thought to do so. Valerian turns his back on blood, his gaze prickling that of his own cousin, his eye shining with twisted ideas, no doubt in mind to embarrass me in front of polished wool and silver-spooned children. A chorus of vultures waiting to see which Blackwood would spill the first blood. A unified front of practiced laughter and rehearsed loyalty as thin as the crystal shards on the boy's side.

"Forget about some dignity and noble reputation. We both know you are above saving face," he purrs into an acceptable low tone, retaking his cue and drawing the game into flow, "Let us make a wager, dear cousin."

I c**k my head in question, taking my own cue. We both know I cannot step back from a bet, "What do you have in mind."

"A quick game. I will spar this boy's life and allow him the mercy of crawling back to the kitchen. I won't even charge for the spilt vintage. You shall visit the royal auction tomorrow with our soft Lucien and select from a list I present. You shall break her. One of unbreakable spirts. A spitfire. You cannot return her nor kill her. She is your burden to bear until she bows, or you fail. If you lose, a lake house of my choosing." He demands, "And you'll relinquish your control of the royal guard to me."

"Fine, Valerian! I'll take a spitfire. I'll bend her until she breaks," I whisper, my voice low and unmoving. "Should I win?" I counter. He raises his own in curiosity, "Should I succeed, if she bows to me, you'll pay a price more than just some replaceable lake house."

His smile falters, a sign he wishes to step back. He won't. Not now. Not in front of his rubbish, "Go on."

"Should I win, first, you'll resign your seat in the Hall of Councils. Society is full in its needs for sadists like yourself drafting laws we neither need nor want. You're unfit and you know it. I know it."

He grips the table as a gasp ripples through his flock of fakeness. A Blackwood has always been on the Council. To be without one is suicide itself. He looks shaken with disbelief. Some other lord can fill the vacant position.

"Second," I lean my breathe into his ear, as ripples erupt from my next bet, "You will deal with my fiancee. Either you take her hand as your own or you take it up with your father - our king - and have him denounce the engagement. You're his son after all. You can manage convincing him. Use your silver spoon-fed mouth to tell him I am a lost cause. I have no desire to be a sting pulled in political arrangements."

Valerian's flash a predacious crimson, as he took his swing. "You're asking me to commit social suicide," he spat, winning points and allows for my cue.

I take his bait, "I'm asking you to put your status where your mouth is," taking the shot over-fueled by a instinctive fury that advanced strength and speed cannot achieve accuracy. The ball screams past the pool pocket by inches, shattering the hung mirror behind the bar.

Valerian picks up his faltered smirk that was moments ago unsure, "Good day cousin. I look forward for our little game. May the best man win." He struts with his cue dangling under his arms, supported by his high held neck.

I take my leave afterwards, rolling into my motor and following the lead of winded down New London.