Paper Flowers

When his newest acquisition had left the office, Mephistopheles turned away from the door to consider the other young man lying on his couch.



“Well now. What to do with you ...”



He rose from the desk, thumbs hooked casually in trouser pockets as he crossed the room. The sick man -- Rafael, he believed the other had called him -- was barely conscious. His eyelids fluttered weakly, his breathing shallow and uneven.

Mephistopheles doubted he’d survive the next couple of hours, let alone the night.

A shame, for there was a potentially beautiful man beneath the pasty skin, shadowed eyes, limp hair and sunken chest. Yes, Mephistopheles could imagine him in good health. Golden skin, thick, shiny black hair. Young body thin, but strong and nicely toned. And the eyes ... Mephistopheles extended a hand and peeled back one of Rafael’s eyelids to see what

colour his eyes were. Brown. Warm brown eyes to chase away the chill of a cold winter night.

A terrible shame to let such potential go to waste. Mephistopheles smirked. Better do something to ensure that didn’t happen.



He walked briskly back to his desk and picked up the telephone. A few button presses and a few seconds later, a female voice greeted him on the other end of the line.



“’Evening Master. What can I do for you?”



“Find Malakai and have him come to my office. Tell him I have a job for him.”



“Of course. I’ll tell him right away. Is there anything else you need, Master?”



“No, that’s all. Thankyou Sasha. Good night.”



Hanging up the phone, Mephistopheles leaned his weight against the edge of the desk and watched as Rafael shifted fitfully in his half sleep. A self satisfied smirk crossed his face. Two souls in one night. Business was good.



+++



Few words passed between Styx and Jay as the boy lead him through the building and up a creaking staircase to the second floor. When Styx had returned to the front desk and repeated Mephistopheles’ orders, Jay had looked at him with undisguised pity in his eyes.



“You’re one of them?”



“One of what?”



“Them. The special ones.” Jay sighed and looked up at him. “The damned ones.”



“What d’you mean, damned?”



“You’ll find out soon enough. Come on. I’ll take you to your room.”



Nothing more was said until they reached the top of the stairs. The second floor was noticeably warmer than the first, and worn, but clean carpet had replaced the dusty floorboards. Beyond the stairwell, a hallway stretched in two directions, the wooden panel walls scorched in places as though a fire had swept through sometime in the building’s history. The halls were lit by small candles enclosed in glass containers, set periodically in sconces along the walls.



“That way,” Jay pointed to the right, “Is the East Wing. There’s a bunch of rooms there, all different to cater to the clients’ tastes. That’s where you’ll go to work. This way,” He began walking down the left hand passage, “Is the West Wing, where the dorms are.”



“Are there many others staying here?” Styx asked as they walked down the featureless hallway.



“Up here, not so many. Seven I think, now that you’re here. No, six. Eva died last week ...” Jay frowned, then shook his head, coming to a stop in front of a door with the number 215 scratched into the wood. “This’ll be your room.”



While the boy fumbled with a large key in the lock, a door further down the hall opened and a slender, red haired man stepped out. He wore a crumpled black suit and white shirt, was smoking a cigarette and walked with a pronounced limp. Dark glasses covered his eyes, but Styx could feel the man’s gaze on him as he walked past.



“Damn door ...” Jay muttered and gave the wood a hard kick, which both encouraged the door to open, and drew Styx’s attention away from the red haired man. He only looked away for a moment, but when he glanced back down the hall, the man was gone. “What’re you looking at?”



“Huh? Nothing. Just that guy.”



“That’s Solitaire. Scary bastard.” Jay wrapped his arms around his thin chest and looked uncomfortable. “If I were you, I’d stay out of his way. He’s Machra.”



Styx shivered and turned to steal another quick glance down the empty hallway. Jay’s words sounded like pretty good advice to him. Largely blamed as the initiators of the war, the Machra were a rapidly fading race of people, identified by their large jewel like eyes and psychic abilities. The extent of those abilities differed from person to person, but all Machra were treated with the same caution you’d show a dangerous dog. It might not bite you today or tomorrow, but the potential for violence was there, and you avoided it whenever possible. Or you shot it before it had the chance to bite. Both were seen as acceptable ways of dealing with the Machra.



“C’mon, Styx. I have to get back downstairs.”



“Right. Sorry ...” Pushing aside all thoughts of his new neighbour, Styx followed Jay into his room.



Even with the light on overhead, the room seemed dark, and it had that feeling of emptiness and abandonment that unused rooms get after a while. It was large enough to comfortably fit a double bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers, bookshelf and bedside table. At the back of the room was another door, which Styx guessed lead to a bathroom.



“Home sweet home.”



Jay shot him a funny look, but otherwise gave no indication he’d heard Styx’s remark.

“You’re starting work tonight, right? You should probably start getting cleaned up then. Take a bath, rest, do whatever you need to prepare yourself. Can I give you some advice?” When Styx nodded, Jay continued. “Don’t fight it. Just accept whatever happens, let them do whatever they want. They’ll do it anyway, and it ... It doesn’t hurt as much

that way.”



The look in Jay’s eyes right then made Styx’s heart ache. So much pain, so much knowledge in one so young. God, what kind of fucked up world were they living in, where a teenage boy could be so jaded, so hurt, yet continue to function? Before he had a chance to answer, to thank him, Jay had fled, leaving Styx alone. Sighing, he closed and locked the door, then went to run himself a bath.



+++



He slipped into the heat of Mephistopheles’ office and leaned against the door as he closed it behind him. Pale, tired green eyes swept the room, passing over unimportant details to alight upon the young man lying on the couch. He gazed at the stranger for a moment, then lifted his eyes and turned to Mephistopheles.



“You asked for me?” His voice was soft and slightly ragged from long hours of screaming.



“Yes.” In comparison, Mephistopheles’ voice was smooth, baritone silk. It flowed across the room like something touchable and vaguely obscene. “This man is dying. He’s of no use to me dead.”



A dejected sigh;

“You want me to turn him?”



“Yes. And Malakai ...”



He paused halfway to the couch, but kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

“Yes Master?”



“No mistakes like last time, hm? I don’t want another one dying of blood loss because you accidentally took too much.”



“Yes Master.” He coughed to clear his throat and sat down gingerly on the edge of the couch. “No mistakes ...”



The man on the couch was barely clinging to life, his heart beat faint, his skin sweaty but cold to the touch. Malakai brushed his cheek with the backs of his fingers, a familiar expressionless mask settling over his own face. Even his eyes went blank, twin green pools of nothingness. He could feel Mephistopheles’ icy gaze on his back, but he didn’t turn around or acknowledge him in any way. His attention was all for the young man whose freedom he was about to snatch away.



Very slowly, Malakai sank to his knees, black leather pants creaking with the movement. He pushed up to the too long sleeves of his shirt and gently turned the half conscious man’s head to the side, exposing the line of his neck.



“What’s his name?” He asked without looking up.



“Rafael.”



‘Rafael ... I’m sorry ...’



Curly black hair fell around his face as he leaned towards the young man’s naked throat. He brushed his lips against damp skin, tongue darting out to taste his pulse. Weak, erratic. Just a few hours more, and he would have found release in death. Now he never would.

Malakai closed his eyes and locked away regret in the part of his mind where so many other emotions had been banished. Then he opened his mouth and bit down, fangs sinking into flesh, finding the vein, spilling blood. It flowed in a bittersweet river, hot and metallic, pushed from the wound with every beat of the man’s dying heart.

He fed from Rafael’s throat until he felt his life force growing dim, his heart struggling to continue beating. Only then did Malakai raise his head, lifting a hand to brush the curls out of his face. That was when he realised the man’s eyes were open, watching him. His lips moved as he tried to speak, but no sound came, his voice lost in his wounded throat.



“Shh ... It’ll be over soon ...” He brushed a hand over sweat dampened hair, then moved it to cover Rafael’s eyes. “Just be still ...”



Wincing a little, Malakai bit down on his tongue, puncturing it with a fang. When his mouth was filled with his own blood, he bent over Rafael’s weakly struggling form and kissed him. Initially the younger man panicked, his feeble struggles becoming desperate as he tried to push Malakai away. But as the blood flowed into his mouth he lay still, heart fluttering in his chest like a frightened bird.

Malakai felt the exact moment the change began to take hold. A spasm went through Rafael’s body and his hands lifted to grip Malakai’s arms, fingers digging into flesh through the thin fabric of his shirt. His torso raised slightly up off the couch as he leaned into the kiss, parting his lips to allow the other man’s tongue into his mouth.

After that there was no more need for Malakai to force things. He remained passive, weight supported by his arms, hands pressed to the couch either side of Rafael’s chest. His eyes closed as the younger man fed from his mouth, bit down on his tongue to make larger the small wound, to increase the flow of blood. It hurt, but not nearly as much as he had been hurt already today, or would be tomorrow. No, this little hurt, he could endure.



He let the feeding go on until he started feeling light headed, a sure sign that he’d lost enough blood. With a little difficulty -- for Rafael was reluctant to let him go -- Malakai untangled himself from the younger man and rose from the couch. His eyes were guarded when he glanced at Mephistopheles, lifting a hand to wipe the blood from his chin.



“It’s done.” Voice little more than a ragged whisper, he waited to be dismissed.



“Good. Thankyou Malakai.” Mephistopheles smiled, then lowered his eyes to inspect a perfectly manicured fingernail. “You may go now.”



Malakai didn’t waste any time leaving. Without so much as a glance at Rafael, he turned away from Mephistopheles and left the room.