Page 80 of The Flesh Remembers
James.
His presence anchors me even as I fall. His voice hums through the void and wraps around me like gravity. We are no longer bound by flesh, mortality, or the rules of a world that no longer matters.
We are woven into eternity, entwined beyond time, thought, and even ourselves.
I feel him, his pulse merging with mine, his breath dissolving into the abyss that stretches before us. We step forward.
We are unending.
We are eternal.
We are United.
One Eternal, Insatiable Hunger
The church no longer stood. It had breathed its last, exhaling a final shuddering moan as its walls melted, its ceiling stretched into infinity, its foundations swallowed by the abyss. The sacred structure had become something else entirely: a place of skin and breath, worship and ruin, bodies and whispers. The stone had softened, pulsing as though alive, as though the very fabric of existence had been transformed into something intimate, something obscene.
Above them, the sky ripped apart, exposing something that had never been meant to be seen, something vast, watching, waiting. The air was thick, not with fear or dread, but with pleasure. The scent of sweat, sex, and the incense of something more sacred than holiness itself wrapped around Eleanor, intoxicating, heavy, sinking into her pores, into her tongue, filling her lungs with something richer than air.
The apparatus hummed, moaned, and pulsated beneath her touch. It was no longer just a machine, no longer just a device of power. It had become something organic, raw, and uncontainable. The sigils carved into its shifting, breathing surface glowed in feverish ecstasy, slithering across its form, searing themselves into the skin of those who dared to press against it. It was not just consuming them. It was worshiping them.
And the faithful worshiped back.
Bodies writhed in a final, sacred rhythm. The worshipers, once individuals, had become one mass of heaving, gasping, devoted flesh. Their cries rose in a chorus, their mouths spilling hymns in a language of panting breaths and desperate moans. This was no longer a mere ritual of indulgence. It was something greater, a communion of lust and transcendence, an obliteration of self into the whole.
Some had already ceased to be human.
Their spines arched unnaturally, their flesh stretched into new shapes, their hands became grasping tendrils, seeking, wanting, devouring. Their moans melted together, no longer separate voices but one unified cry, one final song of devotion. They were becoming part of the church itself.
The walls, once mere architecture, shivered at their touch.
Long since shattered, the stained-glass windows had left behind only gaping mouths, whispering, begging to be filled.
The altar, oh, the altar had changed.
What had once been cold, dead stone was now soft, wet, and inviting. It was a living thing, throbbing, pulsating, swelling in anticipation. It was no longer a place of sacrifice. It was a lover.
And tonight, it would take everything.
James stood before her, or perhaps, he towered. He was no longer just a man. No longer a revenant, a ghost of the past, a creature caught between life and death. No, he had become something much more.
His body moved without moving, his limbs shifting, stretching, twisting in the flickering light, no longer constrained by mortal form. His skin had turned to something luminous and dark at once, a figure of pure need and impossible beauty. He was a storm of shadow and light, yet his hands were warm when they reached for her.
He was limitless. But he was not whole. Not yet. Not until Eleanor made her choice.
He cupped her face, tilting her chin upward. His touch was a brand, his voice a whisper of gentle fire.
“Eleanor.”
His voice pressed into her ribs, curled beneath her skin, filling the spaces between her thoughts. She felt it in the pulse between her thighs, in the tightening of her breath, in the surrender that had already begun before she could even answer.
“One more sacrifice, my love,” James said softly, raising the dagger. “Your blood. We need your blood.” James took her hand and dragged the blade of the dagger across her delicate flesh. The pain was so much more than pain in any normal sense. It was life, death, the cause, and the cure. Eleanor cried out as the blood ran down her fingers and into the earth at her feet.
Memories began to flood her of all the times that voice had called to her in greeting, whispered to her in love, cried out to her in passion.
El, seeing your face that night in the lab was the best thing that ever happened to me. I knew then that there was no one else for me but you.
Eleanor Ashcroft, you’ve fought through so much to become a doctor. You make me so proud.
