Siobhan, The goddess' handmaiden

7. The tower

Siobhan leaves the library. The way she always comes from has no stairs of any kind, so she goes in the opposite direction. She counts the steps like she did on the inside. If she calculates the thickness of the wall the library ends at the end of the hallway. A smile spreads on her face when she sees another corridor. It’s narrow, but it follows the wall of the library. She walks carefully. The small lamp she uncovered before is filled with petroleum. It flickers in the light breeze. There is an opening, but are those stairs? Siobhan protects the flame with her hand. She hates wasting energy for parlour tricks. And she doesn’t have a lighter to light the lantern if it goes out.

The end of the corridor has a small window that is opened. She shuts it closed. One would think it was hot in hell, but the breeze is ice cold. The other thing she finds is a narrow staircase. It spirals up and around a pillar in the middle. She must be at the outer wall of the library. Siobhan is so focused on finding another entrance to the library that she forgets to count the stairs. At the next small window in the stairwell she looks out. Are those the library windows? What else has windows from the bottom to the roof? She is probably on the same level as the upper balcony in the library. But, how is she looking into the library if she’s right next to it? Should she give up? That has never been in her vocabulary before. Siobhan is not a quitter. She’ll go up one more turn. If there is no door, she will return down and look for another staircase. Or conjure a bloody ladder to get to the first balcony.

Next turn around the pillar does bring a door. But is it the right one? She opens it carefully and her jaw drops. Screaming might be a better option, but she is frozen. The room is black out and around. The floor, the carpet, the bed, all the walls and drapes too. What’s not black stands out like a spotlight is directed right upon it. Or them. A demoness is tied to the bedpost with a thick chain. Her skin is naturally red and her long hair is midnight black. She might look human, but she’s anything but that. The serrated fangs and red eyes give her away. And she’s panting with pleasure.

Nakir’s black hair is a mess, but Siobhan recognises him everywhere. He’s kissing the demoness down her neck. Yeah, she knows what that feels like. Watching him f**k someone else is wrong, but she can’t move. She wishes she was in her place. It’s been over sixty years and she still pines away for him. Pathetic! Her breath hitches and her eyes go wide. He lifted his head, and is staring right back at her. His black eyes are rimmed in red, a trickle of blood is running down from his fangs. Was he feeding on the demoness?

“You either participate or get out,” the demoness growls. “You killed the mood!”

“No! Don’t move!” Nakir orders. He gets from the bed and pulls on a pair of black pants. Then he comes to Siobhan and grabs her arm. Not hard, but it’s enough to wake her up. He pulls her behind him when he exits the room. Nakir stops at the bottom of the stairs before he says anything else: “Don’t come to my tower again.”

“I see. I wasn’t special, was I? You f**k everything that breathes,” Siobhan throws into his face.

“What? I love to play with my food. Ery drinks it from a cup, I prefer it fresh from the vein. Sweetheart, you’re dead. The only thing I could eat is your soul and then you’d cease to exist,” Nakir smirks at her.

“So, you’re vampires?” Siobhan asks.

“No,” he laughs. “I can eat normal food, there just isn’t any here. Blood is much better sustenance anyway.”

“That’s what you live on? Blood?” She gapes.

“Welcome to my reality, sweetheart,” Nakir chuckles. “Go back to your mistress.”

“Don’t be patronising. It doesn’t suit you,” Siobhan shakes her head.

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Siobhan. You know better than that,” he turns away from her. She can watch his back as he walks away.

It’s his tower she has found and not the stairs she’s been looking for. And he called her sweetheart. It’s not the word itself, it’s the tone in which he said it. His words sent chills down her spine. Is it possible he has feelings for her? But she’s a servant and he’s… What exactly is he? Ereshkigal depends on him, she talks with him and no one else, she listens to him. They both claim that there is nothing between them, but in the end they both live off of blood, they both have the same aversions, and their story is just too perfect to be believable. Are they related somehow? When has that stopped the gods in any way?

“You think too much,” Ereshkigal whispers into her ear. The goddess snuck up on her.

“How do you know what I think?” She wonders.

“Something threw you off. I can see right into your mind,” the goddess answers. “Don’t mind Nakir, he’s a man slut. Do you know the origin story of Nakir and Munkar?”

“The angels were created after the death of a god?” Siobhan says. She doesn’t want to say the name. Avoiding pain is her first choice.

“Exactly. While Nakir holds the darkness and death part of my first husband, Munkar was the light. His essence, his soul. I was drawn to Munkar, he completed me. And he destroyed me when he died. That is the only thing we have in common,” Ereshkigal tells her. “We both mourn Munkar. Nakir loved his twin brother just as much as I did.”

“So, you don’t hate love, you hate loss?” Siobhan looks up at the goddess.

“Clever little witch,” Ereshkigal smiles. “What were you doing in Nakir’s tower?”

“That’s even more pathetic. Can I just admit to stalking him?” Siobhan cringes.

“No. it’s not true,” the goddess shakes her head.

“I wanted to find the passage or the stairs to the upper floors of the library,” she confesses. What difference does it make? She was caught by both of them.

“Hm?” Ereshkigal murmurs. The goddess walks down the hallway to the throne room. The pitcher and goblet are there on the side table, and she beelines straight to them. Taking a nice gulp of blood, Ereshkigal swirls the rest around the goblet like it’s a fine wine.

“Do you need me for something?” Siobhan inquires. Standing here in silence is not a top choice for her.

“Not really. I’m thinking,” the goddess responds. “I’ll get back to you on the library thing. And stop thinking about Nakir! You can’t have him!”

“I’ll just dream about him then,” Siobhan shrugs. Daydreaming is a thing, in case her grumpiness doesn’t know. But her mind is well protected and Ereshkigal can’t read it. It’s futile and silly, but what does she have to lose? Nobody else is even mildly appealing to her. She never liked women, and the demons are just gross. Siobhan might be dead, but her mind and body function fine. Lust is a b***h when you can’t quench it.