Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 39: Think On the Promised Happiness

Everywhere, death.

Highwaymen splayed out on the road and in the forest's undergrowth, some groaning out their final breaths. Hannibal's men, those who survived, moved from body to body, finishing them off.

Will wrenched his dagger out of the first of his victims. It was an act of desperation; he wanted his weapon, not entirely sure the fight was over. The dagger was comforting in his hand, a contrast to the way his stomach roiled at the sight of the dead man he'd torn it from. The blood. The look of shock on the man's face, the vacant eyes. Will reached out and touched his face. Still warm. Hot even. He snatched his hand away.

Will stumbled over to his other kill. This one was younger, his age. Pretty face. Peaceful, much more peaceful than the other man's death mask. Her hand was still wrapped around the hilt of his dagger that stuck out of her throat.

When he touched it, she gave a great gasp and her eyes flew open. Blood poured from her mouth and she choked on it, coughing, the scarlet staining her teeth. Her large dark eyes were pools of disbelief.

This woman would have killed him without a second thought. Still, he felt sick.

It had happened so fast. Instinctive. Not one second's hesitation. What made him sick wasn't remorse. It was his lack of remorse.

She was beautiful like this, choking to death in front of him. It was all beautiful.

But it shouldn't be. It shouldn't be beautiful. He should not feel so disastrously, recklessly alive. It was ungodly, this feeling, wicked and sinful–

And there was his bloody hand, wrapping around the hilt of his dagger and pulling it out of her neck with a wet, suctioning sound. Blood gushed out in a greater torrent, and he watched, in a kind of fascinated ecstasy, as her eyes dimmed and her choking breaths went silent.

He stood, his breathing coming hard again, slicked with blood and sweat, floating in womb-like waters of a kind of pure presence, soaked in righteousness.

"Iliya!"

Will turned to see Count Lecter, fine riding clothes disheveled, a bruise on his cheek and one eyebrow split, leaking blood, a similarly stained sword in his hand. The look on Hannibal's face was one of complete shock. Will could only imagine what he was thinking. He half expected Hannibal to rip off his wedding band and throw it on the ground. No one should enjoy such a brutal act. Will was subhuman, incapable of being loved.

What have I done? How dare I delight in such wickedness? Thou shalt not kill!

"Hannibal," was all he could manage, and the name was nearly obliterated by the groan of another dying man not far away.

Hannibal's smile lit up his face. He opened his arms, and waited. Will rushed into his embrace. "My clever, vicious boy," Hannibal murmured through a disbelieving chuckle, words tickling against the side of Will's sweat and blood-dampened hair. "You were magnificent."

Will pulled back to look at him, the world wavy through the swollen tears that poured out of his eyes in a sudden torrent. "It's beautiful," he admitted through a smile of his own as Count Lecter thumbed away a tear, then leaned in to kiss him.

There was blood on Will's lips and they both tasted it, sharing the metallic bitterness between their mouths. Feverish now, grasping one another with greedy hands, bodies tangled together. Hannibal groped his backside in a possessive grip, pulling at his hair to tip his head back and kiss his throat, dragging his tongue over a crimson spray. "Am I not... damned to Hell for enjoying it?" Will breathed through the rising tide of desire. "Killing is supposed to be the ugliest thing in the world..."