Toll the Hounds

Oh, in retrospect, so many regrets this night!



‘She never thought you’d accept her invitation,’ Delish went on, glancing down to where she had kicked off one of her sandals and was now prodding it with a delicate toe. ‘Desirable as you are. In demand, I mean, on this night espe¬cially.’



Too clever by far, this stroking of his vaguely creped and nearly flaccid ego. ‘But dear, why are you here? Your list of suitors must be legion, and among them-’



‘Among them, not a single one worth calling a man.’



Did a thousand hormone-soaked hearts break with that dismissive utterance? Did beds lurch in the night, feet kicking clear of sweaty sheets? He could almost believe it.



‘And that includes Prelick.’



‘Excuse me, who?’



‘The drunk, useless fool now passed out in the foyer. Tripping over his sword all night. It was execrable.’



Execrable. Yes, now I see.



‘The young are prone to excessive enthusiasm,’ Murillio observed. ‘I have no doubt poor Prelick has been anticipating this night for weeks, if not months. Naturally, he succumbed to nervous agitation, brought on by proximity to your lovely self. Pity such young men, Delish; they deserve that much at least.’



‘I’m not interested in pity, Murillio.’



She should never have said his name in just that way. He should never have listened to her say anything at all.



‘Delish, can you stomach advice on this night, from one such as myself?’



Her expression was one of barely maintained forbearance, but she nodded.



‘Seek out the quiet ones. Not the ones who preen, or display undue arrogance. The quiet ones, Delish, prone to watchfulness.’



‘You describe no one I know.’



‘Oh, they are there. It just takes a second glance to notice them.’



She had both sandals off now, and she dismissed his words with a wave of one pale hand that somehow brought her a step closer. Looking up as if suddenly shy, yet holding his gaze too long for there to be any real temerity. ‘Not quiet ones. Not ones to pity. No… children! Not tonight, Murillio. Not under this moon.’



And he found her in his arms, a soft body all too eager with naught but filmy silk covering It and seemed to be sliding over him, a sylph, and he thought: Under this moon?



Her last gesture at the poetic, alas, since she was already tearing at his clothes, her mouth with those full lips wet and parted and a tongue flickering as she bit at hii own lips, And here he was with one hand on one of her breasts, his other hand slippiiig round to her behind, hitching her up as she spread her legs and climbed to anchor herself on his hips, and he heard his belt buckle clack on the pavestone between his boots.



She was not a large woman. Not at all heavy, but surprisingly athletic, and she rode him with such violence that he felt his lower spine creak with every frenzied plunge. He sank into his usual detachment at this point, the kind that assured impressive endurance, and took a moment to confirm that the snoring continued behind him. All at once that sonorous sound struck him with a sense of prophetic dissolution, surrender to the years of struggle that was life’s own chorus-and so we shall all end our days-a momentary pang that, had he permitted it to linger, would have unmanned him utterly. Delish, meanwhile, was wearing herself out, her gasps harsher, quicker, as shudders rose through her, and so he surrendered-not a moment too soon-to sensation. And joined her in one final, helpless gasp.



She held on to him and he could feel her pounding heart as he slowly lowered her back on to her feet, gently pulling away.



It was, all things considered, the worst moment to witness the blur of an iron blade flashing before his eyes. Burning agony as the sword thrust into his chest, the point pushing entirely through, making the drunken fool wielding it stumble forward, almost into the arms of Murillio.



Who was then falling back, the sword sliding out with a reluctant sob.



Delish screamed, and the look on Prelick’s face was triumphant.



‘Hah! The rapist dies!’



More footsteps, then, rushing out from the house. Voices clamouring. Be mused, Murillio picked himself back up, tugging at his pantaloons, cinching tight his belt. His lime green silk shirt was turning purple in blotches. There was blood on his chin, frothing up in soft, rattling coughs. Hands pulled at him and he pushed them all away, staggering for the gate.,.



Regrets, yes, jostling with the oblivious crowds on the street. Moments of lucidity, unknown periods of dim, red haze, standing with one hand on a stone wall, spitting down streams of blood. Oh, plenty of regrets.



Fortunately, he did not think they would hound him for much longer.