Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
I blink as he grabs my shoulders and pulls me up until I’m sitting with my legs tucked to the side. It’s only then that I notice he’s holding a wooden plate with a few slices of bread on it smeared with something shiny and yellow. He puts it down and starts to untie my hands.
“Promise you’ll behave, and you can have something to eat.”
I nod eagerly as he undoes the rope. My wrists ache from having been restrained for so long.
“Here,” he says, handing the plate to me. “It will make you feel better. You shouldn’t drink wine on an empty stomach.”
“My stomach isn’t empty,” I manage to say as I take the plate from him, my hands shaking, the muscles weak. “The last thing I ate was your hand.”
A ghost of a smile comes across his lips. It’s rare to see him smile—then again, there’s never been much to smile about—but when he does, even if it’s just a hint of it, it lights up his whole face, as if, in that moment, he’s no longer a man of shadows.
You shouldn’t want him to smile at you, I tell myself and bring my gaze down to the bread. It just means he wants to eat you.
“Have you had human food before?” he asks, and to my surprise, he sits down across from me on the floor. “Have you had bread?”
I nod. “Jorge would sometimes bring me scraps from his dinner, though I often shared it with his dog.”
“So, tell me: who was this Jorge?” he asks. He’s trying to sound casual, but there’s a strain in his voice.
Is it possible he’s jealous? Should I lie?
Maybe a little.
“Jorge was someone I befriended,” I say cautiously. “A human. He worked for his father’s shipyard in a place called Acapulco. He said it belonged to New Spain. Does this place belong to New Spain too?” I gesture to the room with the plate.
Priest nods. “We are in Chile, but it is part of the same empire. It’s funny; you’ve never once asked where you are.”
“Maybe it’s never been important until now.”
Maybe I never had hope of escaping until now.
“So, this Jorge, he taught you how to speak?”
I nod. “He did. We met every evening after his dinner. He and his family lived on one of the large ships. We would meet at the end of one of the docks, out of sight, stayed up most of the night together for a year, at the very least. He taught me everything he could about humanity and human nature.”
He clenches his jaw slightly. Ah, he does seem jealous.
“Did this Jorge end up being your first…”
“Love?” I ask before I grin. “No. Jorge was ten years old. The only reason I was talking to him was because I…”
I trail off and nibble on the hard crust of the bread. I don’t feel like talking about Maren right now. If I do, he’ll know why I wanted legs.
“You…”
I shake my head. “I was curious. That’s all.” I motion to the plate. “What’s the yellow smear?” I ask, peering at it.
“Butter,” he explains. “There’s a lady in the village who always brings me bread on Fridays, and she puts salt and dried kelp in the butter. I thought you might appreciate that.”
Interesting that he brought me something I might appreciate.
“That’s rather kind of her to bring you that.”
“People are often kind to the village priest,” he says. “They think they do it out of the goodness of their own hearts, but it’s so they can win favor with God. In the end, I get gifts.”
I pick up the piece of bread and bite the edge of it, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. The butter is good—it tastes like the sea—but Jorge’s bread was better.
“Can you eat this? Or can you only have blood?”
“I can eat food. There are some things in this village I still consider appetizing, but it doesn’t sustain me the way blood does.”
“And none of the villagers know the truth about you?” I ask.
He gives his head a small shake. “I think some of the soldiers suspect since they aren’t as devout. The villagers, they know I’m different, that I’m not like them deep down, but they pass it off as me being a messenger for the divine. They can excuse it, make sense of it, because God is involved.”
“But how do you manage? What…who did you…consume before I came along?”
Something like shame washes over his features, and he looks away, his eyes going to the cross. “I wasn’t always alone here. I had a friend, Abe. My oldest friend. He saved me from myself, brought me here so I could learn to be human outside of the monastery, so I could hide from those sinful parts of myself. He was my moral compass, and he killed others so I wouldn’t have to. He never had to worry about losing control.”