Eolian; Familiar to the Queen
Word Count: 512
He lay on his back, his head resting on her chilled thigh, the tips of her talon-like fingernails dragging along his neck like tillers in soil; his blood blossomed on the torn, jagged flesh, but he did not flinch. He could smell the bitter copper scent of it as it trickled down over his adam’s apple and began to make small splattering patterns on the cement floor. The Grand Chamber was filled with vampires; the stench of cold, clammy flesh and hunger and old blood filled his nostrils. On his tongue he could taste his own blood, could feel the point of her nail scratching at the tender flesh as she licked it off. He kept his eyes closed, preferring the serene silence that came with sharing the Queen’s mind. She tapped his temple with her claw, once, and he opened his eyes.
He could feel her as a second consciousness behind his eyes; a second pulse, a second bundle of raw instincts and tender nerves. He paid no attention to what his eyes processed, but he didn’t need to. She was looking, seeing everything through his vision, and all he had to do was let her in. Give her access to use his senses, to manipulate his body to her whims. He was the marionette and she was the puppet master.
For now, he was comfortable with his role. He had greater power, greater intellect, greater advantages than any of the familiars or lesser vampires combined. He was her prize, her favorite pet in the zoo that was her following.
The noise in the Chamber, however, could not be muffled – not while it penetrated the Queen’s thoughts. Above the brouhaha that had been the bulk of the last few minutes, one of the Familiars said, “My Queen, the scouts have been killed.”
Eolian’s mouth moved, but his thoughts were far off and irrelevant. He held no command over his tongue. His voice said, “By whom?”
“We aren’t certain, your Highness.”
Again, his lips twisted out the words, “By whom?”
“We believe it was a Cleric, my Queen.”
His throat stung with the force behind the words the Queen pushed from between his teeth, “I said by whom, you fool.”
“We don’t know, Highness.”
There were no words, then. Eolian rose from his lounging place upon her lap, his eyes blackened with her control, and his motions were quick and deliberate; he moved like slow-motion lightning in the dark room, brief, yet still disturbingly fast, and bright and violent.
When a small collection of bodies rested at his feet, none of them being the Familiar that dared to hold information from the Queen, Eolian lifted his sagging head and met the Familiar’s gaze with the black, merciless voids of his irises.
Through his lips, the Queen said, “Whom?”
With a piteous sob, the Familiar crumpled to the cement floor, the crack of his knees echoing in the Great Chamber, and whimpered, “We suspect it was the High Lord Cleric Aquila, my Queen, but we do not know for certain.”
Eolian killed him anyway.