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“That’s too long,” I retorted.

Lymra said, “We don’t often have willing subjects for our studies and since the concern is other Strigaix, we cannot be like you and ask the Council for special permission.”

“Seven days,” I said.

“Ten,” Lymra said.

I threw back, “Eight.”

“Nine and that’s my final offer or I’ll only tell you the Luther’s name.”

“Done,” I said.

“My dear, can you get the paperwork for our blood manipulator to sign?”

Not three seconds had passed before she stood up and placed a thick stack of papers in front of me, handing me a needle. The rational part of me wanted to sit and read through everything just to get a sense of what I would be in for, but no, the time for bargaining was at an end.

If this was meant to be a test to see how much I would endure, I would see it through. Thus, I pricked my thumb, dropping a piece of blood on every part I was meant to sign.

No turning back now.

* * *

The woman looked up and up, causing The Shadow to stop. “What? Am I boring you?”

“Never.” The woman looked down, picking at something on the ground.

“Then what are you thinking about?”

“How cruel that thing called love really is.”

Chapter 13

One-Sided Conversations with Magnun

The Musician

The poets say ‘ishq or passion was originally a thorny plant. In the context of love, a feeling which grips onto your soul, refusing to let go. We praised the lovers who died to passion, the ones who gave their lives for the malady known as love. People like Magnun, the madman whose poetry stands as a living testament to the love of his dear Layla, are celebrated with literature and lyricism from generation to generation. Yet, we forget that Magnun too cursed his passion and his love as if it were a disease.

For the first time in an eternity, I was not standing practicing my violin. It was right there. The hard case resting against my desk. If I could just get up, it would be within my reach. I stretched out my hand towards it but it was as if the floor from my bed to my desk had been a desert, a deep unfathomable expanse of sand and heat laying between me and the object of my affection.

Magnun, was this what it felt like to be separated from your Layla?

I shook my head, trying to get up instead of laying in bed like some invalid. But it was hot. So very very hot. So hot that all the rays of sun which did not exist had penetrated bone deep into my very flesh.

As the heat overtook me, the desert grew and grew. For the first time in over half a year, familiar light bathed my skin. I looked to the side, the room and desert melding until I could not tell one from the other. In the distance was Magnun, wandering the desert as he cried out for his Layla. I clawed at the bed sheets as if they were sand and wild beasts, the paleness of the clear sun—or was it crystal chandelier—above only reminded me of him.

His too pale eyes.

The tendons of his hands.

The way his clothing laid upon his lean muscles.

His endless hair like gold silk begging to be worn.

Tell me Magnun, when you looked at the moon did it only increase your thirst? Even if I had no idea how the long-dead poet looked, it was as if he were right there next to me. I turned my head to the other side. Magnun’s sweet agony mirrored my own.

Unable to stand it, I shut my eyes, but it only made things worse. I squirmed, biting down on my lip as my mind’s eye conjured up phantom hands. Lighter than a feather, they touched everywhere: my face, my eyes, my neck and even over the thin nightgown covering my body. Every time I tried to move away, a little breeze would draw me back down to the bed.