Demon Stories

Beau: Wipe it Away, 1644, France

Beau

Wipe it Away 

1644, France

"Is this a bun? A cake? The honey on it is so sweet," my Saya was saying, licking the honey with his soft pink tongue. 

I was just staring at him, enchanted. 

"My beau?" he asked, looking at me now. Then he smiled slowly, and put the cake down. He took my hands and I sighed upon feeling their warm softness. They were sticky from the honey, and smelled sweet.

I rose his hand to my mouth, and kissed his fingertips lingeringly, pressing my lips to them and longing to keep them there forever. His eyes looked heavy as I did this, drunken in my love for him. As I brought my lips over his fingertips and began to suck the sweet honey from them, he moaned just slightly, a young sounding moan and his eyes closed completely.

I rested his lovely hand on my cheek, feeling the moisture and the stickiness and let it trail down my face a little. He moaned again in the pleasure of it, on this small occasion of touch, the nearness to the one he adored. "I love you," I declared, staring at his happy face full of gentle joy. 

"I love you," he whispered in his native tongue, hardly able to speak in his dear happiness.

But the moment couldn't last. In the next second, his eyes flew open and he ripped his hand away from me. He put his hands over his mouth and started to run in the opposite direction. I looked shocked, but I wasn't. Only his suddenness had shocked me. But the other thing. This was common and it broke my heart.

Slowly I followed in his direction, out to the garden viewing room. The doors had been thrown open in haste, and in the garden I could hear him vomiting. I felt awful. 

As I became near him, I saw he had his hands on his thighs like always and he was doubled over, letting everything out. His face was red, and large blood tears like dark liquid rubies rolled down his cheeks from the effort. 

Quickly, I gathered his long black hair in my hands and held it to his back, but the ends were already full of blood. Some of the stray silky strands painted the blood on my hands, but I did not mind. I kissed his exposed neck, a peck, and stood still as he did what he had to. 

It didn't smell bad. It was just blood. Raw blood, from the night before. I had brought home a young lad, and we had taken him for ourselves. I had taken a small knife to his neck, and let the blood drip into silver cups for us. I felt this was the most humane way, the way that would cause Saya to feel the most comfortable. This was how we did the deed for nearly twenty-five years. 

And for twenty-five years, Saya's body would reject the very thing that would cause him to stay here with me. For without blood, he would become like a china doll, unable to move or speak. Becoming as like brittle porcelain was the fate of demons if we did not have the blood. The blood warmed our bodies, caused us to move. But for some reason, Saya...

I began to rub his back, trying to soothe him. He seemed to be finishing, only spitting now. I took off my shirt and turned him to me. He had weakened like a ragdoll, flopping over and unable to stand very well. I began to mop up his front, blotting the blood.