Page 53 of The Flesh Remembers
Blackwood’s smile twisted into something darker, colder, as though he relished the confrontation. "Why do you think so?" His tone was a venomous hiss; each syllable laced with contempt. "I knew you wouldn’t want to risk turning your precious James into a bloodthirsty monster. You would have spared him only to lose him, and then what would you have done? And judging by that look on your face, I see now that I was right."
Eleanor’s fists clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. Her silence carried a weight that Blackwood mistook for defeat, but she was calculating. If she had found those journals earlier, she would have never let James's name be uttered in this cursed place. She would have burned it to the ground if it meant saving even the memory of him. Yet it was too late now, they had brought him back. And with his resurrection came consequences she couldn’t erase.
Her gaze didn’t waver. "James will not end up like them. I’ll kill him myself if I must. But I won't let him become a monster."
The words tasted bitter on her tongue, almost foreign. Eleanor’s resolve quaked beneath the surface, buried beneath an ache she couldn’t suppress. Could she truly end his life if it came to that? Could she sever the connection that bound her heart so tightly to his? The depth of her obsession terrified her. It consumed her, and she feared that it might destroy her. But one thing was certain: she wouldn’t let Blackwood dictate her path. Not again.
As the firelight flickered between them, casting shadows that danced like restless spectres, Eleanor took one step closer to Blackwood. The tension between them wassuffocating, the air heavy with unspoken promises of violence.
"You underestimated me once, Lord Blackwood," she said, her voice now an eerie calm. "You won't make that mistake again."
Excerpt from the diary of Dr. Eleanor Ashcroft
I don’t know who I am anymore. It feels like pieces of me are falling away, slipping into the abyss, never returning. And James... James is vanishing too, but not entirely. There are fragments of him still there, flickers of the man I knew, moments when his eyes soften and I can almost pretend it's him again. But it’s not. Not really. The Other dominates him now, like a shadow that has swallowed him whole. The Other terrifies me. I cannot shake the thought that our story will end like Rebecca’s, a tale of blood and horror. I can see it so clearly in my mind, James tearing me apart, his hands drenched in my blood as he loses what little remains of himself.
I’m haunted not just by James, but by myself. Strange fits consume me. I drift into those moments where I feel outside my body, staring into nothingness, my mind gripped by a haze I cannot escape. Is it the pendant they forced upon me? I feel its weight constantly, cold against my skin, a reminder of their power. Whatever vile ritual they wove into its essence, I believe it is working, its grip tightening around me like a chain. Or perhaps it’s merely my fractured mind convincing me of its influence. I no longer know where belief ends and madness begins. I doubt everything. I believe in nothing.
I don’t know what lies ahead. Perhaps there is a chance that we will restore James fully. Possibly one of these rituals will free us both from this nightmare. But even as I cling to that fragile hope, the truth gnaws at me: I cannot leave him. Not now. Not ever. We are bound, twisted together in a way no force can untangle. We will see this through, together. Whether we rise or perish, it will be James and I always.
Walking into Hell
The smell of spices and sweat thickened as Eleanor approached the south wing, where half-lidded novices sprawled on velvet cushions or huddled in corners, coaxing one another into explicit acts that fed the night’s decadent gloom. Whimpers and moans reverberated, forming a tapestry of pleasure and terror that sizzled against Eleanor’s already fraught nerves.
She spotted James at the far end of a corridor, partially illuminated by a flickering torch. His skin, though now smooth and whole, was still the ghastly color of death. But even still, the partial reanimation had given him an eerie vitality which caused his pale skin to almost glow in the torchlight. A novice clung to him, eyes glazed with near-fatal devotion, nails digging into his arms. James let out a huskychuckle, pressing the novice against a marble bust, lips grazing her neck in a half-kiss, half-bite that made her whimper in a strange mix of pain and ecstasy.
Eleanor's lungs froze mid-inhale, the ache of jealousy and heartbreak rippling through her body. She recalled the gentle lover James used to be, and now she saw him revel in depravity, enthralling others with a casual smirk. A spark of arousal twisted within her, the same morbid fascination that had plagued her for weeks. She despised how her body responded to his display, how her pulse quickened at the savage glint in his eyes. In her most secret heart, Eleanor wondered if she had known that James would end up this way if she had gone along with the process from the beginning. Was having any version of James, even this primal, inhuman one, better than not having him with her? And as Eleanor watched James, he lifted his gaze and their eyes met, a jolt of electricity passing between them. As she lost herself in those sky-blue eyes, Eleanor decided that she would do it all over again, even knowing how it would end.
“Eleanor,” he rasped, his voice husky. You look shaken.” A trace of dark humour laced his words, as though a part of him relished her discomfort.
She swallowed. “I’ve been searching for you. We can’t keep letting you… feed on them. The final ritual is almost here. We need you to be stable.”
He released the novice in a burst of movement, who slid bonelessly to the floor. James lunged, grabbing Eleanor’s wrist, yanking her against him. She gasped, her robe falling open to reveal bare flesh beneath, bruised from prior rites. The collision of their bodies sent a wave of forbidden longing through her.
“You want me stable?” he snarled, pressing her against the wall with alarming strength. She felt the cool, waxy texture of his chest and suppressed a shudder of revulsion-laceddesire. “Are you sure you aren’t drawn to my chaos, my hunger?” His hand travelled down, grazing the bruises on her hips from their last encounter. A half-smile ghosted his lips, daring her to deny it.
She let out a long breath. “I… want you alive, truly alive. Not this twisted half-state.” Tears pricked her eyes. “James, please, remember who you were?”
For a moment, she could see it, a flicker of the man he once was sparked in his gaze. A soft smile played upon his lips, and he reached out and touched Eleanor’s cheek in a soft caress. He was there, somewhere in that cold, ashen body, her James still waiting for her. Then, as quickly as it had come, his gaze twisted into maddening lust. He leaned down, claiming her mouth in a brutal, demanding kiss that tasted of rot and raw passion. His lips were cold, and the faint tang of decay made her stomach twist, but her body would not obey her and continued arching into him.
James’s hands roamed her body with a feral hunger, nails grazing her flesh hard enough to leave marks. Eleanor moaned against his mouth, torn between pleasure and shame. His grip tightened on her waist, pulling her hips against his, and she gasped as his teeth grazed her neck. The mix of pain and pleasure sent waves of heat spiralling through her, every rational thought drowned out by the primal pull of his undead allure.
In the corridor’s half-light, Lord Blackwood emerged, quietly observing the scene with a predatory fascination. He let out a soft, approving chuckle, stepping around the half-conscious novice on the floor. “My, my,” he murmured, eyes flicking between James and Eleanor as they tangled in a savage embrace. “I’m thrilled to see you both harnessing the potent energy of erotic fury and necromantic hunger.”
Half-mortified at the lurid spectacle she must be making, Eleanor caught his gaze mid-kiss. Yet part of her respondedto the dark thrill of being watched, fuelling the twisted desire in her loins. James, too, seemed aware of Blackwood’s presence. He glanced over his shoulder, lips curled in a silent challenge, as if to say, "I belong to no one’s control, but I’ll let you watch if it amuses me."
Blackwood stepped closer, voice silky with manipulative glee: “Such raw fervour is exactly what the final rite requires. Let me facilitate.” He produced a small copper rod from his robes, etched with runes, its tip crackling faintly with galvanic sparks. Setting it near them on a small side table, he smirked. “Your passion can feed the coil even now, forging the heightened bond we need.”
James’s hold on Eleanor tightened, nails digging into her shoulders. He pressed his lips to her ear, whispering in a low growl, “You hear that? Even our sin is fuel for their obsession.” She whimpered, half in pain, half in uncontrollable pleasure. The rod sparked a little brighter, as if gleaning the electricity of their collision. She realized with a twisted sense of excitement that every wave of lust, every groan, fed the impending reanimation more power.We’re all complicit,she thought, a tear sliding from the corner of her eye.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the haze. “Enough! Stop this madness!”
Dr. Fairfax burst into the corridor, breathless and dishevelled. His clothes were torn, and his face glistening with sweat. It had been days since anyone had seen Fairfax, and Eleanor had worried that he had perhaps succumbed to madness or even taken his own life. But it appears now that he had tried to escape the clinic at some point, perhaps in a last attempt to save his soul. He must have re-entered the clinic, perhaps moved by guilt or terror. Whatever his reason, the shock on his face at seeing James nearly devour Eleanor was palpable. He advanced, trying to wrench them apart. “Let her go, damn you!”
James let out a low growl, eyes narrowing as he snapped with feral annoyance. He released Eleanor just enough to pivot and seize Dr. Fairfax’s wrist, twisting it. Eleanor collapsed against the wall, chest heaving as she tried to regain composure. She saw the flick of galvanic arcs dancing around the corridor lights, responding to their emotional crescendo.
“F-Fairfax,” she gasped, voice shaky. “Don’t”
But the doctor was fuelled by a final desperate moral outrage. “This is a plague upon us all,” he spat, glaring at James, then casting a horrified glance at the nude novices moaning nearby. “I won’t stand by while you degrade everyone for your undead lust.”
