HUNGER

The lines of light upon the surface of the water flicker and die, Mr Segundus runs his hands through his black hair in a gesture of weary resignation. “I cannot,” he says, staring up at the man who watches him, a dark smile upon his dark face, as still and self contained as the water in it’s silver bowl, and just as unreadable.

“You can,” John Childermass replies. “You have the desire but lack the certainty. You expect your magic to fail and so it does. You must lay aside you doubts and proceed as though success is already yours.

Mr Segundus knows this to be true; he bears his self-doubt with a diffident charm that has, over a lifetime of modesty, become the armour of a timorous man. He wishes he could be more like John Childermass, a man, one an enemy, who has become something that is almost a friend. He finds it difficult to imagine that such a burden as humility has ever rested its weight upon the other man’s shoulders and, had he not been of such a retiring disposition himself, he may have felt the sharp, emerald bite of envy tormenting his generous heart. Instead he feels only admiration for the man and gratitude for his continuing friendship and aid.

“I cannot,” he says again. “I do not know how.” For a moment he is afraid that he will weep for the impossibility of the task, for his failure and his unfulfilled appetite for mastery.

As though he can perceive the others restrained emotion Childermass pushes back his chair and stands beside him placing a hand upon his shoulder. “The I will show you,” he says, not unkindly, although for a moment there seems to be something hard and fierce in his black gaze.

Mr Segundus rises, quickly surrendering the chair and the bowl of reluctant water, stepping back against the wall. But, to his surprise, Childermass does not take the vacated seat. Instead he stands in front of Mr Segundus and places his hand upon the wall beside him, his arm becoming a barrier that the other cannot pas without appearing discourteous.

“Will, Mr Segundus,” Childermass says. “One must impose ones will upon the world and act with the expectation of success. Do you understand?”

Mr Segundus nods and stares up at him. The hard, fierce thing he glimpsed before has now become the face of a wolf that bares its teeth in a ravenous smile. “I understand,” he whispers.

“You do not,” Childermass replies, denying him any certainty, any escape. “I must show you what I mean.” So saying he places his hand behind his victim’s neck, pushing his fingers in amongst the dark curls.

As Childermass’s inexorable grasp pulls his head forward Mr Segundus closes his eyes tightly and only feels the other’s lips upon his, surprisingly soft, inexpressibly sweet. He gasps, a sharp intake of air as he shares the other’s breath and draws it down into his body. He feels his tormentor’s knee force his unresisting legs apart and the hardness of the other’s thigh press against his softness, awakening his flesh, drawing small, mewling sounds from his smothered lips. He feels himself dissolve, his body, all but one part, becoming limp and yielding, held upright only by the hand tangled in his hair.

And then it is gone. The sensations, the sweetness, the fire that leapt through his frame, all is lost. He slumps back against the wall, barely able to stand, his wondering hand touching his swollen, hungry mouth. He sees Childermass, stepped back from him, leaning against the edge of the table, a mocking expression upon his face, a touch of the wolf, still, in the curl of his lip.

“You reach out for that which you desire,” he says, “with neither doubt no fear in your heart. And then you will succeed. Do you understand now?”

Silently Mr Segundus nods and steps forward, certainty in his gentle brown eyes as he takes the grim, dark face between his hands and lifts his silent, hungry mouth to be devoured.