Page 11 of House of the Beast

His grin turned impish. It was strange—I had never imagined his face in so much detail.

Now I could see the individual strands of his ashen hair, the slight upturn of his eyes as he smiled.

He was older than when I’d last seen him, but that made sense; I was older too.

Had I ever thought much of his clothing?

In my memories he had been dressed simply, more a concept than a full realization.

Now I could see the stiff creases of his white robes, the individual bands of white fabric wrapped around his sleeves, the gold embroidery winding in ceremonial patterns up the lapel.

I’d seen robes of this kind before, worn by dreary processions trudging down the street, marching their dead into the sea. It was a funeral robe.

“There you go,” he said, his chin bending toward me, that glittering gaze fixed upon mine like a cat upon a mouse. “Finally up. What a bore it was to watch you wasting away.”

As if my grief were nothing more than entertainment. Suddenly, I was livid. I thrust myself on him, uncaring that he was just a figment of my imagination, and pinned him onto the mattress beneath me, my fist clenching around the front of his robes.

“So what if I waste away?” I hissed at him. “I don’t care. I don’t need you here. My mother is dead, and I’m all alone, and nothing will ever change that. Not even you.”

If I thought my anger would drive him away, I was wrong. Instead, he seemed delighted. “You’re not alone, Alma. I’ve always been with you, and I always will be, so long as you want me.”

“You’re not real,” I said again, pushing myself off him and pressing my forehead into my palm. “I made you up.”

“Did you?” he said. The skin on my neck prickled as his breath brushed against it, and I pulled my head up sharply. He was too close. There was a deep wrinkle at the center of his forehead that I hadn’t noticed until just now—like an eyelid, closed, though it had no lashes.

My eyes tore away when I felt his arms shift, both his hands rising to grasp lightly at mine.

His skin was cold and I flinched, but his grip tightened to keep me with him.

That was when I realized: his right arm was as pale as the rest of him, almost lit from within, perfectly smooth and unblemished.

His left arm was darker and slimmer, marked with little scratches and freckles.

Those slender fingers, the fingernails bitten short—I knew those fingers as they wound around mine. They mirrored my right hand perfectly.

Everything shifted, clicked together.

He was real. Had he taken the form of my imaginary friend, or had it always been him, even then? Had the Beast gotten into me before I even came to Avera?

“Finally recognize me, do you?” he said, squeezing my hand tighter. “I’ve waited so long to talk to you like this.” His face crinkled with the kind of bright adoration I had always wanted to see directed at me.

“You did this to me,” I whispered, pulling my fingers back.

Finally he let me go and I curled my hand back into my chest. “You took my arm.” I could still feel his cool skin against mine.

He’d said he’d always been with me. A friend who knew my darkest thoughts.

Violence, answered without my knowing. “ You killed that man.”

His shrug was perfectly smooth, his voice matter-of-fact. “He was hurting you. You wanted to hurt him too. I felt it.”

I shook my head furiously—not in denial, but because I knew, in the deepest parts of my heart, that he was right. “What do you want from me?”

He shifted closer, stalking toward me on the mattress to where I’d curled up against the wall.

“You’ve kept me away, Alma.” His pale lips gathered into a pout, strands of silver hair sweeping across his brow.

“But now we’re together again, and you’ve opened your heart to me.

You can finally wield the power you deserve. ”

He tugged at my empty left sleeve; I hadn’t even seen him reach for it.

Instinctively, I yanked it away, a bit too hard.

The motion sent me sprawling on my back.

I heard him chuckle, a dark and mirthful sound, and then he was leaning above me, his hands framing either side of my face as his body hovered over mine. His eyes glowed like glass in a kiln.

I pressed my own closed and shook my head furiously. “I don’t want it.”

“Liar,” he teased.

“I don’t .”

The mattress bounced as his weight lifted away.

I opened my eyes to see him rolling his eyes as he sat up.

It was a childish gesture, and one I hadn’t expected from an elder god.

It almost made me doubt my own assessment of him.

But what else could he be? I had given him shape in my own mind, and he had taken the form from me perfectly.

“Come on, Alma,” he said with exaggerated fatigue, looking at me over his shoulder.

“Stop pretending. You were never going to just lay down here and die. We both know you won’t give up so quietly after all your father’s done to you.

” Suddenly he stood, those white robes fluttering like a bird’s wings as he turned on me.

His voice became vicious as he whispered, “He’s taken you from your home.

He killed your mother. You have nothing now and that’s the way it will always be—living off the scraps of your pompous relatives, kept out of sight except for when your father needs you to prove his own worth. ”

His words were as sharp as the swords I’d seen in the mausoleum, blades perfectly crafted to slip between my ribs with their utter, horrible truth.

My father had made my role here perfectly clear, and my soul roiled at being forced to serve the man who had destroyed the only thing I’d ever cared for in this world.

My friend took a deep breath, lowering his chin as if in apology for his outburst. His voice softened as he said, “But you can change all that. It just so happens that our goals are perfectly aligned.”

Cautiously, I pushed myself up to sit. “What goals?”

Those ember eyes flashed, but this time I did not look away. He said, without a hint of hesitation, “I want you to become the sword of Kugara. I want you to usurp the First Hand of the Beast and take his place.”

I stared at him dumbly. Waiting for a punch line. It never came. “You’re mad,” I said, almost wondrously. “That’s not my goal. My father is the one who wants to be First Hand.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, dangerously. “And you’re just going to let him have what he wants?”

That made me pause.

He smiled fully then. “See? We understand each other.”

“Why would you choose me?” I sputtered. “There are others.... What about Kaim?”

“I much prefer you.”

I wanted to snort. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You must be,” I stated with passion. “No one wants me. I hurt people. I had a great mother, and I let her die.” My lip wobbled, but I took a deep breath and bulled on: “I’m the worst of the worst.”

“My silly Alma.” His smile was very indulgent. I wanted to wipe it off his face, violently. “The worst of the worst is exactly what I need.”

I fell silent. He’d followed me all my life. He had seen for himself all the most terrible parts of me. And yet here he was, looking at me like I was something precious—like there was some worth in me despite it. Or maybe because of it.

“I can’t do it,” I said. “I don’t know how.”

“That’s all right. I do.” He shuffled in close, like we were sharing a secret. Like we were having one of those imaginary sleepovers from so long ago, whispering confessions under the cover of darkness. In the dreary half-light, his eyes seemed to glow. “Want to see something?”

“See what?”

He straightened with a flourish and held a hand out toward me. I realized he was offering to help me up.

I let him pull me from my nest of sweaty blankets and despair, and the force of it, the very fact that I could feel him tugging at me, nearly made me stumble.

Could something from my imagination carry me so solidly?

I looked down. The hand holding mine was my own and felt as alive as if it had never been severed from my body in the first place.

I stared, marveling at the impossibility of it, but those were indeed my fingers, with my oddly shaped pinkie nail from when I’d once bitten it down past the quick.

Seeing it reminded me of when I used to twine my own hands together, pretending to hold on to my friend.

Now he really was here. The hand was still mine, but the gentle tug guiding me forward came from him entirely.

“Come on,” he said, and led me out of the room.

It was as he approached the doorway that panic surged up in me and I dug my feet into the floorboards.

“Wait,” I said. “I shouldn’t go outside.”

“Why not?”

“The last time I went outside—” I began, and then stopped, trembling. “What if someone sees me?”

Understanding softened his impish features. He stepped closer, as if to reassure me. “No one will see you under my guidance,” he declared. “I’ll keep you in the shadows. I’m very good at hiding. Come on.” He began to pull me gently forward again.

I’ll just see what he wants at the door , I told myself. But when we reached it, I was too busy marveling again at the fact that my friend was able to open it—and then the fresh air upon my face felt so good I forgot to voice my protests.

I had been holed up for so long, weighed down by my own grief, I had forgotten what it felt like to breathe properly.

The hand in mine kept pulling me on, and I found myself reluctant to let go.

For a long time, I had wanted nothing more than this—to have him holding on to me, bringing me on adventures.

I did not want to be left alone in my little guesthouse again.

Soon my bare feet touched the cool grass, and the sensation startled a gasp out of me.

My companion looked back at me, delighted.

“Where are we supposed to be going?” I hissed to cover up my sudden embarrassment.