Excerpt: Daemon Eidolon

"Now. More."

Chirysh grimaced, considering the slender knife she held. It was nothing special, a single length of age darkened, hand-smoothed metal, simple, utilitarian, little more than a butter knife but with a razor's edge. It had been sharpened so many times the blade was more slender than it should have been and no longer held a smooth, curved shape but instead was more scalloped. If it had ever had any ornament, it had long since worn away by the touch of so many hands. It glinted dully in the light, and she glared back at it with ill grace. She hated this near daily ritual, hated the flash of metal and the sting of pain as it clove flesh and teased forth the crimson blood.

But mostly, she hated how good these daily feedings felt.

She knew it shouldn't, that the very thought of such a daily ritual should disgust her, but it did so less and less. It was nearly normal now, like feeding a pet, and worse, some part of herself craved it. He would come to her, pressing his dry lips to her skin, and the feeling of his flesh on hers was silken, comforting, and indescribably sensual. The touch of the daemon was a fire that froze her bones, an ice that burned like the sun, an indescribable ecstasy, and yet only the least of the pleasures he could give. She'd find herself thinking of it by day, dreaming of it in the most secret heart of night, and occasionally she'd catch a crafty smugness on that inhuman face that made her fear he knew where her thoughts were wandering.

She might be required to feed this creature, but she wasn't required to touch him. Most days she avoided it, using the blade to knick a shallow cut into the flesh of her arms, then squeezing the wound so the blood fell like rubies. The daemon would pant after the succulent drops like a dog, his tongue, nearly prehensile in its flexibility, whipping back and forth to catch the drops mid-air. Any he missed he would scrabble after on all fours, spindly arms and legs akimbo, his strange lizard's tongue sweeping the stones clean.

It made her feel strange to watch as he did so, powerful, and yet powerless at the same time. The daemon had no shame so she could not demean him by feeding him in this manner. If anything it only hurt herself, leaving the cuts to scab and scar, when just the touch of his wet tongue would heal the wounds so quickly they'd be gone before the sun even thought to set in the western sky. In fact, she suspected this method of feeding privately amused him, though the joke, if it existed, was beyond her.

"I've fed you already today, Eidolon" she said, sliding the blade back into its equally simple leather sheath and securing it in place. The sheath she hid just inside the pocket of her apron so it was always on her person, always safe under her care.
The knife might be simple, but it was also special. Anything cut to bleeding by that knife was fodder for the daemon, binding him to feed only from those entrusted with the blade. However the blade, like the daemon, was tricky, so old and layered in spells and arcane prayer that it almost had a life of its own. Just this morning she had felt it jump in her hands, biting into her arm deeply so she feared the blood would never stop and gorging the daemon. Eidolon had been especially obnoxious today, no doubt invigorated by the large meal.

Still she refused the daemon's lips on her skin, only to regret it later as the wound had been reopened again and again, softened by soapy water or pulled apart by the weight of heavy objects. It had been an annoyance and a chore to keep blood out of the only set of servant's garb she owned. The washerwomen here were worth their weight in gold, removing oil, grime, and the other dangers of rough, dirty work with an almost uncanny skill, but blood was harder.

At the end of every day, servants such as Chirysh were required to turn in their filthy uniforms for a freshly washed set, clean, crisp, and worthy of the royal palace. The old were in turn inspected for damage. Blood cost money from your already meager earnings, the money used to cover the extra remedies needed to remove the stain or the dyes and bleaches used to cover it. Even the cooks were careful about blood, covering themselves nearly head to toe in hardy aprons they only removed if and when they left the kitchens.

"It was not enough. You know it was not enough." The daemon's voice was sibilant, lingering on the “s's” and emphasizing softer sounds like "gh" with a breath of extra air that gave him a strange, foreign sound, as if language were new to him. Never mind that his kind had probably taught it to humans.

It could have been unpleasant, but it wasn't, for that strange tongue of his did things to language that turned it into a hedonistic experience, making the syllables so rich and heavy you felt you could roll in them. It was as if the words could curl around your skin like a living being and remain there, warm and soft and gently purring.
Chirysh glanced unhappily at him, this thing she reluctantly allowed to decorate her life with his presence.

Despite his sensual touch, despite the breathy roll of his words, despite even the smell that wafted to her sometimes, the scent of burnt apples and some exotic unknown spice that seemed to fill the room, there was nothing much to look at. The creature had the gray skin of rock from a barren world, soft to touch, she knew, like ancient aged leather, but the look was pockmarked and craggy. If he chose now to crawl into a rock quarry he would vanish as surely as a drop of water disappears into a lake. Oddly enough, that mottled skin was also good for blending into forests and even in castle rooms. He had simply to find the right kind of light and he'd seem to fade away, the sun picking pigments out of his skin you'd never guess existed. Even now, in candlelight, he seemed washed around the edges, as if he were only partially in this reality.

She wasn’t sure why the gods had granted him such excellent camouflage since no one else could see him. Well, not really. There had been a close call or two with those gifted with the mage sight when Eidolon hadn’t thought to hide. Very young children often saw him, as would otherkin, though the latter was rare in this part of the world. Those whom sanity had fled also saw him, but that was never a problem since people listened to their rambling less than they did children. Beyond those few, however—and it was fewer than one would imagine—Eidolon could choose who did and did not see him. Mostly he used his ability to hide for giving her heart attacks at inopportune moments.

Yesterday he had hidden against a faded wall hanging, and gods only knew how he had managed that, what with the many colors pulled through its surface. When he’d finally leapt out at her, for one wild moment she’d honestly thought him a haunt bent on devouring her and had screamed, falling over backwards so that she wound up wearing the filthy contents of a rather large mop bucket. She'd been angry and dripping, smelling of things she'd rather not think on, and the daemon was practically purring his pleasure. Though she couldn't yet speak the language of this place, she well knew she was seen as something of a clutz by the other servants, and much of the reason was laid directly at the feet of Eidolon.

He was a spindly thing, his arms and legs long and thin as if the barest amount of skin had been pulled tight over the bone. He was jointed differently than humans, giving him a range of motion she had never seen in any other living creature. He could reach forward or backwards with equal ease, and could delicately bring his arms straight behind him to grab a full teacup and bring it forward without spilling. And his legs…his legs bent in ways that made her teeth ache. The only thing he couldn't do was a full circle, his joints as limited as humans were by that minor annoyance.

The floor seemed to him to be simply another surface. She'd never quite figured out how, but something about the longer than average fingers he had, seven to a hand, and the nearly prehensile toes on his feet came together in such a way he could cling to anything. He was as often crawling across a wall or upside down on a ceiling as loping behind her, going where she went with an every present clackity-clack; a noise that used to make her nuts when she was first taken on at the castle. These days she was more nervous when she didn't hear it. It meant he was up to something.
She sometimes wondered if the reason he didn’t see licking the floor as demeaning was because to him it was simply another surface. She supposed eating from the floor wouldn’t bother her either if she could, laws of gravity not withstanding, also eat from the ceiling.

Gaging his height was...somewhat problematic. Much like his skin, his height was hard to pin down. Most days he seemed her height or smaller. Admittedly, she was tall for a woman, often a full head above everybody else in the servant's quarters. However, there had been times he towered over her, the long, straight torso so high she saw directly into his chest and had to crane her head back to see the skinny neck and bulbous head. However, he never seemed to grow, or shrink, he simply...was. Often when standing, his arms and legs were bent, the hands folded in what a human would have seen as a submissive gesture, and she put off his seeming changes in height to this.

He was a strange, uncanny creature to have always at her side, always tempting her, always offering tidbits of pleasure, of power, of nearly anything she craved so long as she gave him…gave him what? He was always happy for smaller things, a little more blood, a little more freedom, to open the powers she supposedly had—if they weren’t all provided by him—just a little bit more. But though she was young and barely trained in the keeping of this creature and though her Sisterhood had long since been butchered, she knew the old tales. She had been raised on them, and glutted herself on more, many more, with the traveling performers resting on the temple grounds.

Daemons were not inherently evil, but they were not good, either. They were creatures of the Wild and the Chaos magics and the Dark, and they were always inherently self-serving. They were known to be mysterious, and, when not choosing a path of destruction, strangely loyal to their masters, but they could turn on you, consume you at any time. Some daemon-keepers had wound up mad from their touch, some consumed by the magic the daemons awakened or passed on to those whom they had chosen to bind to, still others had just wound up horribly, horribly dead. No one knew where the daemons came from or why they chose the paths they did, and no one knew why some of them chose a path of human destruction while others existed like parasites on life after unlucky life. All anyone knew was they could never be trusted. It was the first rule of daemon keeping.

These days they were almost unheard of, the numbers of them dwindled until they were nothing more than creatures of legend and ancient myth. Until she was chosen by Eidolon, Chirysh had thought even their resident daemon, the one the Sisterhood was created to both protect and contain, was also a myth, and the Sisterhood itself a relic of bygone days.

“Of course it was enough,” she said dismissively. “It was more than you get most days.”

“No.” He crawled across the floor to her, a begging dog, those overly large eyes luminous and pleading. “There is more. The storms are coming and the dead are rising. The bells will be ringing, sweet singing, and you will not be here in the morning. There are dreams coming tonight, sweet release nightmares you will need me to soothe and contain. I need more.” He clambered up the side of the bed where she sat and clung, peering over the edge like a hopeful child. He could have stood to tower above her, but instead he prostrated himself, making her feel somehow dirty. She looked away, disturbed. “At least let me close the wound.”

Chirysh pressed her lips together. It was the only words he could use that would make her waver, even a little. She made a pittance as it was; she really couldn’t afford to have what little money she did earn to be turned back in as her uniforms soiled. She sighed.

“You knew this would end this way, didn’t you?” she asked, though she was too tired to be properly accusing. The daemon blinked slowly at her, the lids at a diagonal to his sockets, turning the gesture alien.

“I did not know, but I hoped. You are very stubborn, cherished one.” She snorted at the name, especially from his lips. It was nothing more than a bastardization of the pronunciation of her given name Chirysh, and was no gesture of warmth or kindness on his part. She sometimes did get the feeling the daemon liked her, as much as his kind ever liked anybody, but she did not fool herself that his pet names meant anything. They were nothing more than another way to tease, to feel around her edges for chinks in her armor, something he could use to take control.

With a grumble she once again unsheathed the blade, finding it warm to the touch. Some days she’d swear the blade took as much pleasure in these feedings as the daemon did. She tried not to think about it too hard, however, as the idea of the blade as a living thing made her distinctly uneasy. With a practiced move, she quickly lay open the cut from earlier morning, holding her arm out over the floor and bracing herself.

The tongue that swept across her arm was long and narrow, but incredibly soft, like moistened velvet, the lips that locked on shortly afterwards soft and supple, almost caressing. A sigh escaped her, and she balled her other fist, digging in her fingernails. Her body began to grow heavy, her breasts warm, and a dull fire started in her loins. It wasn’t urgent, it didn’t demand a coupling to slake the burn, but she’d always had the sneaking suspicion that if she let him feed long enough it would build to completion without her ever moving a muscle. The pleasure was dangerous, as addictive as a drug, and she feared the release she might find at the daemon’s hands. She ground her nails into her skin, concentrating on the pain.

She let the feeding continue until it threatened to overwhelm her, then tried to move her arm away. Eidolon grabbed her, his skin a caress against hers but the fingers locked like steel around her arm. Chirysh felt a flutter of panic stir in her belly.

“Release me,” she said, and her voice was husky, unconvincing. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Release me!” Eidolon gave a couple more greedy sucks, then let go reluctantly. “What in the nine rings of torture?” she demanded, snatching back her arm and looking at the wound. It was practically sealing before her eyes, and she knew it would show no trace by morning. A drop of blood hit her skin, and she realized she’d dug into her other hands so hard the imprints from her nails were bleeding.

Quick as thought, the demon’s hand snaked out, grabbing her wrist and pulling the bloody hand forward. He didn’t drink, he could not for the blade had not touched it, but he did run his tongue across the wounds, which immediately stopped bleeding. She scowled darkly at him, grabbing her hand back, and he easily let it go. Chirysh’s brow furrowed as she realized the demon was neither triumphant nor taunting, his usual expressions when he had gotten one better on her. Instead he look…concerned? Yes, concerned, oddly enough for her, and the cause of that concern…fear.

“Eidolon, what is it?” she asked softly, reaching out to him with a hand that stopped before connecting with his flesh. The demon glanced sardonically at it, but it was only a momentary irritation, a swift flicker of his large eyes, and it could not erase the worry on his alien face.

“It’sss coming,” he said, his “s” prolonged and sibilant in his agitation. Chirysh fidgeted, wondering what could possibly worry the daemon. Even the death of the Sisterhood, his home for at least two centuries, had netted nothing more than his annoyance. What could possibly—

The sound of a bell filled the little stone room, low and sonorous, vibrating the stone walls that surrounded her and rattling the items on the shelves. Chirysh rose slowly to her feet, her mouth going dry.

The castle had many bells, bells for weddings, bells for holidays, bells for tolling warning across the city, letting every citizen know to barricade their doors against disasters. Each bell had a distinct tone, light and merry for weddings, a peal of utter joy for the holidays, a brassy clang that raised every hair on your body in response for the alarm bells.

She’d heard each at least once and knew them all, but for a long time all of these bells had remained silent. The only one that rung these days was the final bell, its tone so low it vibrated your teeth, so powerful it could be heard even in earth lined basements or, in Chirysh’s case, in a secret, forgotten room that existed between the thick, windowless castle walls. It always tolled a single time, its resonant tone letting peasant and noble alike know that the King’s Own, the hand picked of his finest, most powerful guards, had gone to battle against insurmountable odds and lost their lives trying to protect their lands.

Chirysh closed her eyes as the vibrating tone slowly faded away, fists clenched helplessly. She knew little about this guard, only that it was special, powerful, possibly magical, and that its warriors were extraordinary. They were few, far fewer than the regular Guard, but she had watched them practicing in odd moments between her chores, easily distinguishable from the regular guard by the blue and black uniforms they wore. They were amazing, swords flashing so quickly they seemed only a blur of shining metal, bodies moving lightning quick, bending in ways she had only previously seen in acrobats and contortionists, and even without speaking the language she could easily see the respect, awe, and even fear the common people treated them with as they walked by.

And it didn’t take knowing the language to know they had lost an unnatural amount of them of late. Men she had seen easily take on twice, even three times their number without breaking a sweat were coming back mangled, some so badly damaged that the stretchers used to carry the bodies to the funeral pyres were as often as not covered in sheets. The funeral pyres themselves never seemed to cool these days. The ash on top grew cold and dead, but it took nothing more than the push of a stick to find the living coals beneath, and took less to stir them once again to life.
This country was not at war, of that she was certain. Sheltered though she was, she had studied a great many books. She had seen how it was around here, the peasants reading pictograms while only the nobility seemed to know words, poor children working in fields or shops while the rich whiled away their hours shut in rooms with tutors, and she suspected she’d had an education every bit as thorough as the rich men’s brats, if not better.

Certainly much of it was skewed towards the mysticism of the Sisterhood, but they received at least a basic learning in nearly everything else as well. They had to, how else, in their isolated, nearly forgotten corner of the world leading the sheltered lives they did could they possibly hope to interpret their visions? They would have to know what they were seeing, and that meant large chunks of her childhood had been spent indoors, fidgeting and glancing wistfully towards a window showing sun drenched skies as one of the sisters droned monotonously about battle strategies or the symbols found on maps or the kinds of stones found in caves.

No, she knew the signs of war. There would be supplies and survivors, ragged men with battle wounds. Troops would be deployed, and sooner or later all the strong, able bodied men who worked the marketplace and cleaned the city gutters would disappear, leaving the women, aged, and very young to keep the home fires burning. Everyone’s belts would tighten; and the beauty of the city surrounding the castle would atrophy as taxes that normally went back into the maintenance were poured into troops and supplies instead. No, it would take a blind man not to see a war.

Still, knowing the language would help her learn what was going on, for she had no clue. The rumors that were swapped around her every time another funeral procession marched by were nothing more than frantic, noisy murmurs to her, signifying nothing. It was then she most acutely felt the frustration and loneliness brought on by the language barrier. Whether Eidolon understood any of it was a mystery to her, for he never volunteered any hint that he did, and to ask would mean bargaining sessions with the daemon she wasn’t certain she could win.

The final tones of the bell finally died away, and Chirysh sighed, grabbing her apron. Though her day was past, she knew the servant’s quarters would be in riot, and if she didn’t appear it would earn her a week’s worth of abuse from the other servants. Though she worked as hard as any of them, possibly harder, she was often treated badly simply because she could not speak in her own defense.

The bell tolled again, the deep, sonorous notes filling the room and Chirysh froze, eyes wide. She had never, never heard it toll more than once, not once in the two years she had lived here. She remained frozen, listening to the tones as they slowly died away, then was startled by a third deep, resonant gong. She looked wildly at Eidolon, who looked sadly back at her.

“You know what happened,” he said softly, and Chirysh closed her eyes. Yes, she knew. It was the dreams, uselessly prophetic dreams that filled her sleep, mixing with her normal ones until sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. She had jerked awake last night, disturbed by images of a dark, poisoned wind blowing through the castle turrets, winds that altered everything they touched, including a straight, proud man wearing a golden crown and his handsome young son. She knew what had happened and knew where she was needed. Quickly she tied her apron on and slid on her shoes, scurrying out of her room.