A Very BryonySeries Christmas: Excerpt No. 5

This excerpt is from the second book of Before the Blood, scheduled for a March 2019 release.

Not until John's breathing and heart rate became slow and erratic, did Kellen force himself to stop and run for the Bordeaux. He pried open John's mouth, poured in the wine, waited, and poured again.

Nothing happened.

Kellen slapped John, and shook John, and dumped the rest of the wine down John's throat.

With a gurgle,  the wine bubbled back out.

WHAT TO DO???

            "What do you want from me?

            "You'll let me know," Dr. Gothart had said. "When the time comes, you'll let me know."

            

He didn't need creepy Dr. Gothart, damn it!

Kellen dragged John onto the bed and rang for help.

"He's sick," Kellen told the hotel doctor.

The doctor quickly infused John with a saline solution while Kellen looked on, anxiously wringing his hands.

"I have no medical explanation for it, but he's lost a significant amount of blood," the doctor said. "He's lucky to be alive."

The repercussions of Kellen's gluttony were slow to reverse. For weeks, John lay in bed, wan and listless, while Kellen coaxed spoonfuls of broth between lips too weak to respond.

Every few days, the doctor repeated the saline infusions.

Summer left; fall replaced it, and Kellen worried that John might never improve. Feasting was the only time Kellen ever left John's side, and, even then, he delayed departure until hunger drove him out.

The fire burned low, and shadows danced on the walls.

"Mamma!"

John opened his eyes. Damp locks plastered John's wet cheeks; the bedclothes clung to his naked skin; his gaze darted wildly until they rested on Kellen, who was trickling water into a glass from the bedside pitcher.

The vulnerability in John's eyes ebbed away, and a chilling coldness crept in.

Anxiously, Kellen pressed the rim against John's lips. "Drink."

John drank to the end of the glass. He then drifted into restless sleep and dozed most of the next day, not really asleep, but not really awake either.

In desperation, Kellen wired for Henry. But Henry, with the Kings, had left for the States.

So Kellen played sentinel, chewed the remaining skin off his knuckles, and fretted.

Kellen played caregiver. He bathed John, toileted John, dressed John, and worried.

Kellen played nursemaid. He dispensed food, drink, medicine, and tonic.

Gradually, so excruciatingly gradually, the color crept back into John's complexion. John's stare remained icy.

"He needs to leave that bed," the doctor said one day, after listening to John's heart. "He'll be a permanent invalid if he doesn't."

So Kellen now propped John in a chair for a few hours each day. After a couple of weeks, Kellen walked a reluctant John across the room. Fall's temperatures fell from chilly to cold. In the late afternoons, Kellen prodded John outside.  John didn't resist.

But neither did he cooperate.

What if...?

What if John never let him drink again?

It was a real fear.

For John didn't care, not about music, not about anything. The baby grand still ruled the suite, except now it sat forlorn and silent. John's eyes, seething with loathing and contempt, followed Kellen.

If John didn't care, their bond was broken. Kellen's hold over John was broken. John's consent was withdrawn.

And Kellen's greed had done it.

The Kings? Who cared about Jacob King?

Not Kellen.

He recalled the question he had asked John, the night they had contracted each other's services.

            . "Mr. Simons, how would you like to be the premiere musical artist throughout all western civilization?’

              "Like it?" John choked on the wine. "I'd die for it."

A dead pet was a useless pet. But so was one who had given up.

Kellen watched John writhe at night and pondered.

He ate children and drank from their parents and devoured whole villages and pondered.

During the day, when the hired nurse sat with John, Kellen reposed beneath the hotel and pondered until dormancy overtook awareness.

He pondered and pondered and pondered.

Kellen searched John's mind for clues.

On the streets, Kellen overheard "goose" and "Frumenty" and "snapping crackers."

César Ritz was happy to oblige.

On Tuesday, Kellen instructed the nurse to keep John mellow all day, insisted on several naps, and then bathed and dressed him for a night out. He ordered up a supper of creamed fish and toast.

John's eyes opened wide when Kellen whisked off the silver lid, but he ate.

At ten o'clock, Kellen brought John a large cup of coffee.

It was only a mile to St. Margaret's, but Kellen had ordered a carriage anyway. T'would be a long night; why needlessly exhaust his pet?

The merest flicker of interest passed over John's face at the sight of the Gothic structure, and Kellen took it. Grasping John's arm. Kellen led John up the stairs and inside the candlelit church, Latin all around.

Kellen bowed his head. To his surprise, so did John.

Confíteor Deo omnipoténti, beátæ Maríæ semper vírgini, beáto

Michaéli archángelo, beáto Joánni Baptístæ, sanctis apóstolis Petro et

Paulo, ómnibus sanctis, et vobis fratres, quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne,

verbo, et ópere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa.

Kellen gently beat his chest. John gently beat his chest.

But it was the hymns, oh it was the hymns, especially the beautiful O Iesu dulcis, O Iesu pie, O Iesu, fili Mariae that infused John's soul and slowly, slowly, slowly woke John up.

The hardness around John's mouth softened.

His rigid frame relaxed its hold.

His fingers, firmly clasped behind his back, slackened ever-so-slightly.

John spurned the return carriage for a leisurely walk back to the Savoy. As John walked, he sang under his breath:

Adeste, fideles, laeti triumphantes:

Venite, venite in Bethlehem:

Venite adoremus.

Venite adoremus.

Venite adoremus Dominum.

John didn't comment on the suite's transformation: The Scots pine in the corner bedecked with colored glass and the many candle stubs Kellen carefully lit.

Instead, John wearily sank into a chair and noted the many covered dishes.

Nor did John comment as he peeped under silver lids,. But he poured another cup of coffee and ate the French omelets, hot buttered toast, buckwheat cakes, creamed potatoes and creamed sweetbreads, oyster pie, and assorted jellies. He drank claret punch until drowsiness overtook him.

Kellen helped him to the bed and pulled off his shoes.

At brunch, John ate French onion soup, mutton chops, and fried apples. At dinner, John picked at the sage and onion stuffed goose and let other food be.

"Too full," was John's only comment.

John retired early. For the first time in many weeks, John truly seemed to sleep. His breathing was even; he didn't squirm and toss. In gratitude, Kellen didn't kill until after midnight, allowing his prey to enjoy their final holiday.

Kellen entered the suite in the hour before dawn. John, silk bathrobe tied around a frame that needed beefing up, was playing O Holy Night. Kellen leaned against the door, exhaustion from many watchful months overtaking him.

"Merry Christmas, John."

John did not answer, but Kellen did not mind.

His musician was back.

 Photo by Timothy Baran