The Taste of Sin by Newton Webb
A Contemporary Urban Fantasy Horror Short Story: Eat the soul, steal the skin. Maeve thought she was the only fetch in London until a chance encounter revealed the truth.
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The Taste of Sin
By Newton Webb
Thursday, 14 November 2019, London
Maeve took a delicate bite of a truffle arancini. She watched her date, Rupert, preen. He had spent the last twenty minutes detailing the latest renovations to his townhouse in South Kensington.
She twitched in her chair, taking another sip of her dry martini. It was proving difficult to look attentive when faced with the man’s droning voice. Her stomach groaned under her sleek black dress. The food in front of her did nothing for her. It was true, Rupert possessed a certain aristocratic flair, especially with his flawlessly tailored light blue suit, but her interest in him had been piqued when she smelt his thoughts seeping out of him. He had an old, colonial stink that ignited a potent thirst in her.
Rupert leaned forward. He placed his broad hand over hers on the cool marble table. “The terrace looks directly over the private gardens.” His grip tightened just enough to trap her fingers.
She tasted the dark, oily seep of his thoughts. His honeyed words clashed with the rot that hung around him.
“I had the contractors install a fire pit.” Rupert had a predatory look to him that she couldn’t help admiring. “A man needs a place to unwind after managing those absolute vultures in the City.”
Maeve slipped her hand free, picking up her glass as he leaned in closer. As his scent grew stronger, she could detect words in it.
I can’t wait to ruin that absolute tramp.
“That sounds lovely.” Maeve sipped her drink, tilting her head coyly.
She’ll be pliant enough once she’s had another drink.
She had already opened Hinge, lining up more barristers and tech boys for the week ahead.
A firm hand and she’ll learn proper manners.
She finished her drink, a false smile on her face.
Corner her properly and she won’t have anywhere to bolt.
Maeve snapped her attention back to his face. “Pardon?” she asked.
Rupert tapped his gold signet ring against the tabletop. He blinked his pale eyes. “I said we simply must go hiking in the Scottish Highlands. There is something about the crisp air and the gorse that clears the mind beautifully. You’ll adore my cabin. Well, it’s more of a hunting lodge really.”
Eyes losing focus. Mouth slack as she bleeds across the floorboards.
“Well, of course, that sounds lovely.” Maeve’s pulse hammered against her temples. The rush flushed her cheeks bright red.
The body will stay warm and pliant for another four hours.
A waiter in a crisp black waistcoat stepped to their table. He offered fresh martinis and a heavy leather dessert menu. Maeve waved him away with a flick of her fingers.
“The evening has been wonderful.” Maeve leaned across the table and pressed her lips to Rupert’s cheek. “But I have a different kind of dessert in mind.”
I’ll open her up from collar to stomach. Like gutting a pheasant.
Maeve had never eaten pheasant, but she was suggesting skipping dessert, so maybe she deserved it.
“Perhaps we should have it at my place?” Rupert paid the sizeable bill without flinching. A wide grin split his face. His scent was overpowering.
She is gagging for it.
“You look pleased.” Maeve played with her hair, regarding him with cool eyes. She hoisted her oversized handbag over her shoulder.
“Oh, my day has been improved immeasurably by you.” Rupert stood as the waiter brought him his jacket. “Why shouldn’t I be pleased?”
Of course, Rupert had a private parking space off Wardour Street. No black cabs or Ubers for them. Rupert had a matte black Range Rover with tinted windows. As Maeve slipped inside, the absolute stench of his soul filled the car. It made her woozy. She almost purred as her hunger peaked. Rupert steered the massive vehicle through the dense West End traffic, heading towards his South Kensington townhouse. Her body started to itch. She bit her lip. She had left it too long between meals. As they approached the dimly lit streets of Chelsea, Maeve saw a narrow, cobbled mews.
“Can you pull over, please? Just for a moment.”
She hid her hand, where her skin was starting to wrinkle, and stilled her body as her shoulder twitched.
Is the bitch tweaking?
Annoyance tightened Rupert’s jaw. He parked the Range Rover beside a brick wall. Maeve ran her fingers down his Egyptian cotton shirt. She didn’t need to smell his words. She could see his thirst. He pressed down on the door lock, and the child safety system kicked in, locking all the doors in the Range Rover. “Ask me nicely.”
Maeve hesitated before undoing her seat belt.
“How would you like me to ask you?”
He relaxed into his seat. “Well, I think it would be appropriate to—”
She launched herself at him. Her fingers dug violently into his tailored jacket. She locked her arms around his neck and bit down hard on his mouth. Rupert tried to shout. She swallowed the sound and forced her long, leathery tongue past his teeth as she felt herself reverting to her true form. His mouth had the putrid flavour of rotting flesh. She could feel his memories, his brother’s neck in his hands, and the look on his sister’s face as he told her that her fiancé wouldn’t be coming home again.
His hands beat weakly against her shoulders, then lost all rhythm, fingers slipping something clattered from them, falling into the footwell. Rupert’s large body shuddered as she took him in. Pitiful, mewling noises escaped his nose. His skin tightened first, drawing hard across his face, lips peeling back from his teeth. Fine cracks split along his cheeks and throat, darkening as they spread. The flesh beneath collapsed inward, loosening from the bone. His skin dried in seconds, turning transparent, shrinking, then flaking. His eyes sank, clouded, then slid out.
She clung on and ran her hands over his suit as it emptied.
The final threads of him slipped down her throat as his body went limp. Maeve’s limbs elongated. Her muscles thickened with unnatural speed. The figure-hugging black dress tightened dangerously across her expanding rib cage. She needed to work quickly. She stripped off her clothes with practised efficiency.
She dragged Rupert’s corpse sideways across the driver’s seat. The jacket bunched at the shoulders, pinned by the wheel. She swore under her breath, yanked harder, felt the seam strain before it gave a fraction. One arm came free with a dry knock against the door.
The shirt clung to his ribcage, one of the buttonholes caught on the sharp bone beneath.
She hooked her fingers through the eye sockets and lifted. The spine unspooled in a loose chain, vertebrae ticking softly against each other as it cleared the seat. Taking out a marker pen, she wrote ‘Rupert’ on the top of his skull, ripped it clear of the spinal bones before bundling it up with her dress and underwear into her handbag. She slung the bag into the back seat.
The trousers were worse. The belt had cinched tight. She worked the belt buckle with stiffening fingers, missed once, then forced it. She hauled the waistband down over the hips, the pelvis catching, then sliding. The femurs dragged, knocking the console, leaving a pale dust across the gear stick.
Maeve’s jaw cracked. Bone shifted with a grinding spread, broader, heavier. Her spine arched. Her collarbone snapped with a wet crack as her shoulders spread.
Her fingers spasmed. Nails split, then flattened. Skin pulled tight, ridges smoothing, reforming under the strain.
Rupert’s shirt hung loose for a moment, then settled as her frame forced itself into his shape.
Her teeth clicked into place.
She swallowed. His taste still coated her throat.
Maeve, now in the form of Rupert, tossed the remaining bones into the rear footwell. Something glinted, she reached in and found a steel flick-knife. Flicking it open and then shut, she smiled.
Oh Rupert, didn’t do you much good, did it.
A group of lads loitered near the parked Range Rover, watching as she emerged to brush the worst of the dust off her newly acquired suit. “Spilt your Charlie mate? Look at him, he ain’t got the words.”
She levelled an arrogant, dead-eyed stare at them.
The boys shut their gobby mouths and scattered down the pavement.
The Range Rover purred beneath her. She abandoned the massive vehicle in a brutalist concrete car park in Hackney. She parked on the top level, taking her bag with her, despite it clashing with her new body.
Unlocking his phone, she used her absorbed memories to access his keysafe. Even Rupert couldn’t remember all of his PINs. Walking to a cash point, she made sure to extract cash from as many of Rupert’s cards as possible.
She stuffed the cash into her handbag. Seeing the camera watching the cash point, she decided to make the most of her time in Rupert’s body. Walking to the nearest pub, she ordered a gin and tonic and relaxed in an armchair, watching the other people mill around.
I could get used to this body.
She sighed.
But then she wouldn’t get to live with Clara.
She smiled. Checking to see if there were security cameras in the pub, she went into the disabled toilet. Getting undressed, she reached into her handbag, pulling a skull with ‘Maeve’ written on it in permanent marker. Her limbs retracted, her spine snapped and reshaped itself.
It took a few minutes to settle back into her own skin, to return to the form she had been born with. She pulled her dress back on, slipped her feet into her heels, and combed her tangled hair with her fingers. It took her a few minutes to hastily reapply her makeup. The barman barely glanced at her as she walked out. She sniffed as she walked past him. He had a bland scent that wouldn’t satisfy her appetites. Little in the way of sin or purity. The thoughts she caught from him were mundane obsessions with a VW camper van. Leaving the pub, she caught the Night Tube back to her flat in Camberwell.
Friday, 15 November 2019
She pushed open the front door.
Clara stood at the cramped kitchen counter. “You made it back.”
Maeve’s eyes were wide. Strains of the viciousness Rupert harboured lingered in her veins and kept her blood running hot.
“Well yeah, you said we’d have cheesecake and watch a movie.” Clara wore a short tartan miniskirt and leather jacket over a Judas Priest crop top. Her short curls caught the harsh kitchen light. Despite her aggressive attire, her soul smelt of sunshine. “Did you forget?”
“No,” Maeve lied, kicking off her shoes. “I would never do that to you, my darling. Have you been waiting long?”
“An hour or so. I let myself in and started on the wine, that’s in the fridge. I’ll pour you a cheeky pinot grigio.”
Maeve felt a flutter in her chest. It was a sensation she never experienced during a hunt. She only fed on those who smelt of evil.
“I assume the date was ghastly. You don’t normally come home if they go well.”
“You could say that.” Maeve accepted a glass of wine.
“I’ve picked the movie. It’s set up on the telly.”
Maeve looked at her suspiciously. “It’s something good, right? Not a trashy horror?”
“Of course. It looked fun.”
Poking her head round the corner, Maeve looked at the TV. Paused, it showed the movie as ‘Frankenstein Created Bikers.’
God dammit.
“I’m not sure we have enough wine for this.” Maeve edged past her to load another bottle in the fridge, avoiding physical contact. Clara assumed Maeve possessed boundaries around touch.
The reality was far worse. Clara smelt of sweetness and warmth.
“He should have put you in a cab, that’s what a gentleman would do.” Placing two plates of cheesecake on the coffee table, Clara took her place on the sofa, curling her legs up underneath her. Maeve joined her, keeping a slight distance between them. “It’s the polite thing to do. Not that polite men seem to live in London.”
Maeve selected her targets with extreme care. That was how she survived. But until now, nobody had tasted quite as rich or as hideously depraved as Rupert.
I’ll open her up from collar to stomach. Like a slaughtered pheasant.
“I guess that attracting scumbags is my superpower.” Maeve ignored Rupert’s echoed thoughts as they bellowed in her mind.
“Well, as superpowers go, it’s not exactly laser eyes, is it? You be careful.”
“Oh, shut up, I’m alright.” Maeve pulled out her phone to check her notifications.
“No, stop that. Put the phone away, Maeve. I’m not being phubbed again.” Clara put her wine down and reached for the cheesecake. “That reminds me. Your mum rang while you were out. She was moaning that you never visit her.”
Maeve let out a sharp laugh, her good mood vanishing. “Can you blame me? Stratford is a dump.”
“Maeve, she is getting older.” Clara gave her a reproachful look. “She is all alone in that place. You’ll miss her when she is gone.”
“It’s her age. All her mates from the pub are dead.” Maeve pictured the bleak council flat in Stratford. Her mother huddled by a portable heater with the curtains drawn tight against the damp. Empty bottles covered every available surface amidst the nicotine stains and hoarded rubbish.
Clara sighed. She leaned back against Maeve.
For once, Maeve did not pull away. Every muscle in her body locked tight as she inhaled the comforting scent of Clara’s soul. Hunger flared up within her, even though she had just eaten.
“Could you at least try to be kind to her?”
Maeve thought about her father. She had been seven years old when her mother had drained his soul. “Are you seriously asking me to go there?”
Clara stayed silent for a moment. “I know you have beef with your mother, and I’ve never asked you what or why,” she said softly. “But if you don’t patch things up with her before she dies, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
Slice her throat, watch her as the light fades from her eyes.
Maeve could still taste Rupert’s upper middle class malice on the back of her tongue. The thick, bitter soul sat within her. “Fine, but I want you to know I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”
Clara winked at her. “I wouldn’t nag you if I didn’t care.”
Maeve smiled back at her. Deep in the back of her mind, she could feel Rupert stirring, and she forced him back into her subconscious with her other victims.
As he was buried, he whispered in her mind.
You don’t waste something like that.
The Stratford council flat brought the memories rushing back. Her mother was a notorious hoarder, and if anything, her habits had worsened since Maeve had left home.
Stacks of the Guardian and cheap plastic bags made it difficult to push the front door open. The stench of damp and stale nicotine made Maeve cough. The hoard reached her shoulders. Maeve picked her way through the narrow paths. The constant drone of daytime TV bled past the rubbish.
Shelves honeycombed the walls beneath the rot. Like Maeve, her mother kept the skulls of her old lovers like trophies.
Her mother huddled in the cramped kitchen with a cup of green tea. The laptop screen cast a sickly blue glow across her face. She was sat in her true form, her skin drawn thin and yellowed over sharp bone, eyes clouded to milk, lips peeled back just enough to show the dark seams where they had split and healed. Maeve looked at her with disdain. “I see you’ve not been eating.”
“I eat every now and then.”
“Clara said you wanted to see me.” Maeve looked for an unoccupied chair. She should have known better. Instead, she loomed over her mother, who looked up at her with milky eyes.
“Is it a crime for a mother to want to see her daughter?” Her mother glowered at her.
“Fine, I knew this was a mistake.” Maeve turned to leave.
“Wait.” Her mother’s gruff voice turned plaintive. “Don’t go.” She looked down at her hands. “I’ve never been able to forgive myself, but I hoped that one day you might.”
Hell no.
“Eat or don’t eat. I don’t care, but if you think twenty years is long enough to forgive what you did, you’ve another thing coming.” Maeve pulled a mock smile. “This was so lovely. I’ll see you in another decade.” She ignored her mother’s cries as she left the apartment. At the front door, she turned. “Eat something, mother.”
“Something you ate has turned you mean,” her mother called after her. “You think you’re the apex predator out there? You have no idea what’s waiting out there.”
Maeve closed the door behind her without saying goodbye and strode off down the street.
I’ll never forgive you.
The scent of Stratford clung to Maeve’s skin. She wanted to scrub it off immediately. She boarded the Jubilee line and opened Hinge. The train rattled through the dark tunnels. She angrily scrubbed tears away as her vision blurred. Her mother wasn’t worth the moisture.
She looked at the notifications on the glowing screen.
Eleanor had long dark hair and slim black rimmed glasses. Her smile held a sharp, commanding edge. Maeve scanned the profile. She needed a distraction from her mother. Eleanor looked relatively young, but there was something about her that caused Maeve’s heartbeat to quicken.
In the right light, she looked a bit like Clara.
Eleanor messaged back quickly. They flirted until the words popped up on the screen.
“I’m free tonight if you would like dinner? My treat.”
Maeve made a quick stop at home. Her heart hammered as she boarded a train bound for Central London. Her red lipstick was immaculate.
Eleanor watched Maeve eat. Her pale eyes flickered from Maeve’s mouth to her throat. Eleanor smiled. “I adore places like this.” Eleanor gesticulated with her fork. “It only seats ten people a night. The waiting list is three months long, for most people anyway. Have you dined at the Rookery before?”
“I can’t say that I have.” Maeve’s fingers fumbled with the heavy silver fork. Tremors clicked the tines against the porcelain plate. It made picking up the seared venison difficult. God, Eleanor smelled delectable. Maeve had never encountered a mind so twisted and rich.
Maeve could already taste the woman on her tongue. It would be the greatest meal she’d ever had. Her hand quivered with anticipation.
“You are in for a treat.” Eleanor looked up as a waiter stepped out of the shadows. He poured another measure of deep red wine into their crystal glasses. He was the only staff member visible in the oak-panelled room. “This dining club actually started as an illegal gambling den back in the eighteenth century.”
“I bet the walls positively reek of sin.” Maeve’s eyes flashed at Eleanor.
“Oh, that they do. They even managed to keep the original floorboards. I bet they could tell a few stories.”
Eleanor’s kind eyes masked the scent of her ancient and ugly thoughts.
Maeve sniffed as discreetly as she could, but despite the overpowering odour, her thoughts were just noise. She couldn’t detect any recognisable words.
Maeve spent the evening sweating through her crisp trench coat. She nearly dropped her fork twice. She breathed in the scent of her date as hunger tore at her. It took every ounce of Maeve’s willpower not to attack Eleanor right there and then. She wanted to drain her soul and rip her aristocratic mind completely clean.
Eleanor smiled across the table. “Not hungry? You look hungry.”
Maeve glanced down at her plate. She had barely managed two bites of the rich meat. “I am on a diet.”
“I understand completely.”
The waiter finally disappeared into the kitchens. Maeve couldn’t stop herself. She leaned forward to kiss Eleanor across the table. Eleanor made a startled noise. A gentle pink flush spread across her cheeks. She did not pull away. Maeve rested her elbow on the table.
Maeve opened her mouth to take the first bite.
“So, I am quite curious.” Eleanor leaned back. Her breath brushed Maeve’s lips. “Who is Clara?”
Maeve snapped her eyes open.
Eleanor maintained her smile. Her voice sounded warm and tender. All her edges turned completely dark. “She seems rather delectable.”
Maeve backed up rapidly. She knocked over her wine glass. The dark red liquid spilled across the white cloth. Eleanor didn’t flinch. She just kept smiling that kind and gentle smile.
“What’s stopping you? Is it because your mother ate your father?”
What?
Maeve was starving. But she felt a pang of terror as she realised exactly what sat opposite her.
“You are a fetch?” Maeve shook her head. “You—Get out of my head!”
“I’m not in your head. Your thoughts are spilling out everywhere around you, it’s a bit embarrassing to be honest.” She waved around her. “All of us can smell them.” Eleanor leaned in, propping her chin on her hand and smiling faintly.
“You mean, everyone here is a fetch?”
“That’s exactly what I mean, it’s not often that we find a stray.” Eleanor tapped her fingernails on the table. The waiter reappeared instantly. He brought a reinforced wooden trolley with a naked, gagged man strapped to it. The diners at the other tables didn’t pay much attention to it. “I suppose, I’d best show you how to shield your thoughts. It just takes a little practice and discipline.”
The man thrashed weakly against the straps, eyes rolling, spit soaking through the gag. Maeve caught the scent as it broke open in the air. His memories spilled out along with his thoughts. She caught a child’s voice, hoarse from crying.
Maeve’s stomach clenched. The smell thickened, and a memory of a locked door wafted towards her.
Eleanor inhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded. “There it is,” she murmured. “That particular vintage is my favourite.”
“Compliments of the house, Madam,” the waiter murmured. He turned and disappeared again.
Eleanor rose and, stretching her jaw open, latched onto the man’s mouth.
Maeve moaned with envy as she watched the man’s skin desiccate.
Eleanor glanced up at Maeve from behind her glasses. “You can have the rest. I’ll grab something on the way home.” Eleanor returned to her seat, her voice deepened, her eyes changed colour. Her shoulders widened. “This conversation has turned a touch one directional. Are you going to say something, or should I let your mind answer for you?”
The heady and rotten perfume from the dying man made Maeve’s head spin with ravenous hunger.
“You really believed you were the only fetch?”
Maeve’s head snapped up.
Eleanor’s expression didn’t change. “That’s what she told you, isn’t it?” She paused, then, with a quieter voice, said, “You should have questioned that.”
“I need to go.” Maeve staggered to her feet.
“I think your true form is beautiful, but I doubt Joe Public will agree.” The smile fell from Eleanor’s face. “Best eat first.”
Maeve leapt at the man. He moaned slightly as she crunched on his soul.
“My, my. You are a hungry girl.” Eleanor’s smile had returned.
Maeve gasped. Her body started to warp. She stripped off, not caring who saw. She could hear laughter from the other tables. It was wrong immediately.
The taste was bitter and unfulfilling, like biting into unripe fruit. Maeve swallowed anyway, dragging what remained of him down, forcing the change.
Her bones lurched.
Her spine tried to lengthen, caught, then snapped forward in jagged increments. She screamed through clenched teeth as her ribs spread unevenly, one side rising higher than the other. Skin slid across her frame, then stalled, hanging loose in places, stretched tight in others.
Her hands reshaped last. Fingers fused halfway. The nails came in thick, too big for her proportions.
She staggered upright.
The body didn’t fit.
It sagged at the jaw, one eye sitting lower than the other. When she inhaled, the chest expanded unevenly, a hitch in the rhythm like something inside hadn’t formed properly.
Maeve touched her face. “What did you do to me?”
Eleanor watched, amused. “Half a meal,” she said softly. “Half a body. Either snack on your prey or eat a whole one. There really is no middle ground.”
Eleanor leaned across the table. Her lips pressed hard onto Maeve’s mouth. Eleanor tugged gently with her teeth on Maeve’s lip. The tingle of cruel euphoria lingered in Maeve’s chest as she tried in vain not to feed on Eleanor’s soul.
“Oh no. You can’t have mine.” Eleanor pushed Maeve away. “Besides, I don’t think you could handle my soul. It’s too rich for a novice. Perhaps when you have a little more experience, hmm?”
“I’m sorry, I just couldn’t stop.”
“We’ve all been there, my dear. You mustn’t fret.”
“Let me introduce you to the rest of us. We like to think we provide a public service.”
The waiter stepped forward and removed the skeleton.
Eleanor stood up and offered her hand. Maeve hesitated for a moment, then took it.
“I can’t be seen like this.” Maeve reached for her skull in her handbag to transform back.
“Is that marker pen?” Eleanor frowned. “That won’t do at all. Although I suppose it might have some kind of gothic appeal. I’m going to have to introduce you to my scrimshander.” She reached up to her bone amulet and her body returned to its original form.
Maeve got dressed, ignoring the muttering around her as she used her skull to shape back.
They left the restaurant and stepped onto the pavement. Eleanor pressed her lips to Maeve’s forehead.
“Come, let’s see what else London has to offer.” Eleanor released her ancient stink. She hailed a black cab from the fleet circling the Mayfair streets. They climbed inside together.
Monday, 9 December 2019
Maeve lay naked on her bed with Rupert’s skull next to her on the bedside table. Touching it, she assumed his form. She played with his flick knife, the blade flicking out and in as she savoured the taste of his memories.
Her groin twitched as she remembered the tech bros and junior barristers that Eleanor had introduced her to in the Shoreditch rooftop bars. Old Street and Hoxton were new hunting grounds, where they found wealthy men masquerading as poor to boost their social media credentials. When they hunted for vulnerable women to exploit, they found Maeve and Eleanor instead. Their ink-black essences slipped down her throat like wine.
She scraped them hollow and left their empty forms behind, keeping only the skulls.
She ran her fingers over her masculine chest, tweaking a nipple and then scraping short, cropped nails across her pectoral muscles.
There was a knock on the door.
Maeve bit her lip, it could only be Clara. She was finding it harder and harder to be around Clara, it felt like the stronger her love for her grew, the more beautiful the scent radiated from her body.
“Wait! I’m naked.”
Maeve reached over to stroke the skull marked ‘Maeve’ and transformed back into the form Clara knew and loved, throwing on a dressing gown.
Clara was waiting patiently outside, politely not using her key. “You needn’t have got dressed on my behalf.” She blew a kiss at Maeve that made her heart lurch and her stomach rumble. She waggled a DVD. “Look what I brought.”
Maeve saw the rubber suited man on the front and gave a faint smile. It took all of her willpower not to devour the girl in front of her. “Look, I think we need to get some space, I really care for you. But I have a new girlfriend, and she is the jealous type.”
“You have a girlfriend?” Clara’s face dropped, before anger rose behind her eyes. “How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I meant to, but—”
“I’m your best friend.” Clara took a step back. “She is jealous? Sorry, where did she even come from?”
“We’ve been together for about two weeks, we met—”
“No, I’ve changed my mind.” She turned to the door. “I hope you are very happy with your mental, controlling girlfriend. I wish you all the best.”
Eyes losing focus. Mouth slack as she bleeds across the floorboards.
Rupert’s thought’s cannoned into her mind as Clara left.
“I’m sorry,” she said as the door closed. “But, I’d only ruin you too.”
Saturday, 18 January 2020
Maeve ran into Clara two months later outside the Camberwell flat. Maeve carried the final cardboard box of her belongings out of the front door. Clara looked pointedly at the box. She carried a canvas bag stuffed with old heavy metal records.
“You’re moving then?” Clara asked.
Maeve shrugged. She stared over Clara’s head avoiding eye contact. “Yeah.”
“Oh.” Clara swallowed hard. She shifted the bag higher on her hip. “That’s wonderful. I’m glad it’s all working out so well for you.” Her smile looked incredibly shaky. “She must be feeding you properly. You look healthier. I mean, look. I’m sorry I stormed out. You just caught me by surprise.”
“It’s fine, I should have spoken to you earlier, I did kinda spring it on it.” Why had her confidence vanished? How did Clara still have this power over her? She tried to avoid breathing in Clara’s scent.
“What is she like then?” Clara asked.
“Older. Bit posh. Shorter than me. She enjoys fine dining.” Maeve edged past her towards the pavement. “Look, I’m sorry. This box is heavy. The removal van is waiting. I really must go.”
“Wait,” Clara said. She grabbed Maeve’s arm. “Your mother keeps ringing me. She is worried about you, and I haven’t seen you in ages. You’re just going to pretend that our friendship is over?”
“I’m sure I will see you around.” Maeve shrugged off the grip. “I just need some time to adjust.”
“Let us get dinner sometime,” Clara said.
“Sure, sure,” Maeve lied, already dumping her box in the back of the van. “I’ll text you if I have time.”
Saturday, 7 March 2020
Caterers flitted like crows through the Mayfair townhouse. They wore neatly pressed dark uniforms. The party spanned three floors. Well-dressed aristocrats and politicians flocked together in the drawing rooms and the library upstairs.
“You’re wonderful.” Maeve knelt on the massive four-poster bed and kissed Eleanor’s cheek.
Eleanor adjusted Maeve’s hair. She was wearing a sleek midnight-blue gown.
Maeve had already met several of the guests. They were a mix of politicians, influencers, and high-ranking clergy, the kind usually found in ancient families or exclusive gentlemen’s clubs. “I will go check on the guests,” Maeve said.
Eleanor brushed her thumb over Maeve’s cheek. “Whatever you please, darling.”
Maeve escaped into the corridor. She murmured polite greetings to the lords and ladies she passed. Their hideous thoughts lurked in their musk. The townhouse reeked of sin. The shapes glimmered and snatched at Maeve as she slipped past.
Something made her look twice. A leather jacket. She walked closer. It looked just like… Her breath hitched. The scratches on it, the wear and tear, the studs.
Clara.
Maeve turned abruptly. She sprinted for the main staircase.
Does she know what I am?
She shouldered her way through the wealthy crowd.
What is she doing here?
Maeve kicked the heavy oak bedroom door open. Clara was looking into an ivory cabinet. She didn’t seem surprised to see Maeve.
“Maeve, darling. I hope you do not mind. Ever since I felt this little snack in your thoughts, I knew I had to have it.” Eleanor smiled from within Clara’s body.
“Take her skin off,” Maeve hissed.
“No, I don’t think so.” Eleanor rose gracefully, stroking her bone amulet.
Maeve’s eyes widened at the sight of her best friend being reduced to jewellery.
“It’s nice, knowing how she felt about you. I know your little friend better than you ever did.” The sounds of the string quartet drifted into the room as Eleanor’s eyes twinkled.
Maeve shut the door. She locked the heavy brass bolt.
Eleanor laughed. “I can smell your grief. It’s intoxicating. She loved you, you know? Even now, I can feel her terror fluttering against my ribs as she watches us. Don’t fret, darling. You’ll be resting right beside her soon enough.”
Maeve recoiled against the wood panels.
Eleanor kissed Maeve’s neck. Her teeth scraped violently against the throat. The scent of her ancient, malevolent power was so intoxicating that Maeve’s knees buckled despite her rage.
She wormed free, wriggling to the side before pouncing forwards, her hand outstretched to grab Eleanor by the throat.
“Child.” Eleanor took hold of Maeve’s wrist, pivoting on her hip to flip Maeve onto the floor. “That’s enough.”
Scooting back across the floor on her backside, rubbing her wrist, Maeve glared as Eleanor stalked closer.
“Soon, you and all the souls you’ve absorbed will be just another meal for me.” Eleanor lashed out with her foot, cracking two of Maeve’s ribs with a Jimmy Choo. She reached down, gripping Maeve around the throat and squeezing tight as she lifted her up. “Hmmm, you smell like perfection.” She opened her mouth to feed.
Maeve headbutted her, straight on the nose.
Eleanor threw her across the room, Maeve’s body smashed into a drink’s cabinet, the glass shattering and slashing her skin. She collapsed to the floor winded, pain exploding across her back.
“Clara, please.” Maeve staggered to her feet.
“Even an amateur like you must know that isn’t how this works?” Eleanor touched the bone amulet and her broken nose, clicked back into position as Clara’s body returned.
“Clara, I need your help. Please.” Maeve rushed towards Eleanor who caught her by the throat.
“Now then, were—”
Maeve pulled Rupert’s flick-knife from her pocket, stabbing it into Eleanor’s side. At the same time, her other hand grasped at Eleanor.
Eleanor gasped, a wet sound. “Cold iron? How delightfully provincial.” Rage replaced her smug expression. “It’s a myth you know.” She reached up for the amulet, her hand patting around her neck.
“Looking for something?” Maeve held up the amulet with her other hand, before shoving it into her pocket. Holding the knife in front of her, she charged.
Eleanor moved with supernatural speed, snarling with fury, but suddenly froze. “Quick,” she gasped, her voice entirely Clara’s. Then she blinked, shaking her head as Eleanor violently reasserted control.
It was the opening Maeve needed. She tackled the fetch to the floor, locked her jaw over Eleanor’s mouth, and inhaled. Her body rippled and tore as the collected souls flooded into her. She felt like she was being torn apart from the inside. Hundreds, thousands of victims pouring into her, all screaming their memories, until a warm, comforting sensation filled her. It was Clara, her memories, her heart. Maeve focused on Clara, she reached into her pocket, the amulet, carved from Clara’s bones caused her to shift to her body. She focused on Clara’s love and let the other memories wash over her. The pain reduced and she breathed. The hatred and bile that she’d fed on for so long balanced by the echoed emotions of a woman who had genuinely cared for her.
For the first time in her life, Maeve understood her mother. Why she had given up feeding, why she had succumbed to feeding on her father. Maeve fell to the floor, tears erupting from her eyes as the emotions overwhelmed her.
Eleanor’s heavy diamond bracelets clattered to the floorboards, followed by her bones. The empty blue gown collapsed in a cloud of desiccated skin.
It hurt to consume that many souls at once. Maeve’s stomach cramped violently. Her body shifted from one form to another as hideous, ancient thoughts pounded in her skull.
A sharp knock at the door jolted Maeve upright. “Madam,” a voice called. Maeve recognised the head caterer. “The first of the main courses is ready. Lord Ashford wishes to know if you will come down and deliver a toast.”
Panic flared. Maeve snatched Eleanor’s skull from the pile of bones on the floor and focused. “I will—” Maeve glanced at the gilded mirror above the fireplace. Her body had stabilised into the form of Eleanor. “I’ll be right down.” Maeve dressed herself in the discarded blue gown and left the room.
Her heart pounded violently against her ribs.
Maeve walked Eleanor’s shape down the grand staircase into the dining room. The guests milled about with crystal glasses in hand. Maeve smiled Eleanor’s perfectly measured smile.
The diners gave her a knowing smile. Maeve returned it with a confident look. She recognised each of them from Eleanor’s memories.
A waiter handed her a glass of vintage champagne.
Fifty pairs of eyes locked onto her. The caterers’ eyes glittered coldly from the shadows. Did any of them know? Could the lords and politicians tell the difference?
“To your continued health and to a fabulous dinner.” Maeve raised her crystal glass.
As one, they drank.
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Tales of the Macabre
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Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-4 are intended for mature audiences.
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Fantastic
Eew! I should not have just eaten! Quite disgusting, a bit like eating oysters?