Beautiful Blood

For the better part of a week Rosacher was in and out of consciousness. One state came to resemble the other. His sleep was littered with vivid dreams that were extraordinary in nature—in them, dressed in a black hat and coat, he traveled throughout the Carbonales Valley, often to different portions of the dragon’s body, even visiting Griaule’s internal regions, and there he would speak with various and sundry (he could not recall much detail from these conversations, but had the impression they were significant). By contrast, his waking periods were drowsy and muddle-headed, enlivened by the stirrings of arousal he felt whenever Martita visited him. He recognized she must be giving him mab to treat his pain and this accounted for her newfound allure; but knowing that did nothing to diminish that allure. Though thicker and less dainty than the women he was accustomed to having in his bed, he did not find this off-putting. She seemed epic in dimension and he pictured her image carved bare-breasted and forward-looking on a ship’s bow, or sculpted in battle dress at the head of an army, and imagined himself lifting away her bronze breastplates and pressing his lips to the bounty beneath. Toward the end of the week, when she came to clear away the remains of his supper, he pulled her close, fondled her and nuzzled her neck. She allowed him a free hand for several seconds and then went to the door and called downstairs to her assistant, Anthony, telling him to tend to the counter. When she removed her clothing, her skin gleamed as if a sun were embedded in all that whiteness. He understood that what he saw now differed from how he had once perceived her, yet he did not question his response to her and soon was lost in the soft turns of her body. She straddled him, her hands braced on his shoulders, her braids lashing his chest. Through lidded eyes he observed the quaking round of her belly, immense, pendulous breasts shaped like summer squash jouncing together, slack features pinked from exertion, these sights orchestrated by the rhythmic slapping of flesh—she seemed a divine animal in human form and he gave himself over to the act, drowning in her, devoted to her pleasure as he had been with no woman before. Afterward, lying torpid amid the rumpled bedding, he watched her buttoning her trousers and realized that, while he did not feel love toward her (he doubted he would ever know that emotion), he had no sense of disdain such as customarily attended his liaisons with unimportant women. Instead, he had an urge to make a joke or be playful in some way, but he was uncertain of his instincts in this regard and kept quiet.

“If you’re strong enough to give me a bounce…” Martita cinched her belt. “You’ll soon be wanting to get up and about.”

She went to a closet, took out a black suit and a slouch hat, and laid them on the foot of the bed.

“Try these on when you’ve a mind,” she said. “Mister Doans wore that suit whenever he went to town. It can take a bit of letting out if needs be.”

Rosacher tried to pull her down onto the bed again, but she fended him off, saying she had to get back to the bar or else Anthony would rob her blind.

“I’ll look in on you again this evening,” she said. “Get some rest and we’ll see how you’re feeling then.”

After she had left he examined Mr. Doans’ suit and hat—they were identical to those he had worn in his dreams, and identical also to those worn by the man with the horrible cough and the bandaged face who had come to him in a dream on the night the Church’s assassin had invaded his bedroom. He knew what Martita would say were he to bring the subject up. She’d tell him that Griaule’s ways were too subtle for men to comprehend and would advise him not to waste time on matters that were beyond him. The usual drivel. And yet, he told himself, although he had backslid from this viewpoint on several prior occasions, the usual drivel was becoming ever more difficult to discount.

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