Grayson's Veil

Grayson was tortured for several days. Or what he thought were days.

Inside the tent he could not tell, there were no windows or slits in the fabric to see if it was light or dark outside.

He was in and out of consciousness too much to really distinguish a time frame with Uphir. Each extraction left him teetering on the edge of a black out. Then, the demon physician would make him stay awake until he drank the concoction of alcohol and tobacco before finally allowing him to fade.

It was easily the most painful thing to happen to Grayson.

Having a needle in your eyes was torture within itself, but to have to fight yourself from moving to keep your eyesight was another level of sadistic.

And Uphir enjoyed every moment with Grayson. He would hum while pulling back on the syringe, loving the feel of the colorful fluid resisting at first then giving way harshly, making a light gush sound when it hit the tube.

After, he would stare into Grayson’s pupils, getting lost in the black of them since there was no color to distract him. He would watch with morbid fascination as the iris would fill back up with color and how the needle mark would disappear. He would mumble about his questions and findings, making miles upon miles of mental notes that were tucked away in the recess of his mind.

He was in love.

With Grayson the half-demon.

Not in a sense that he wanted to have sexual intercourse with the man and cuddle in front of a fire till the end of time. In a way that a doctor fell in love with the subject, the questions, the mystery.

It was all in the name of education.

That was why he would make Grayson drink the alcohol and tobacco before he passed out again. So he had no choice but to stay with Uphir and let him study him.

It made Uphir heady with the prospect of discovering something new.

After several days of extracting the iris, which was becoming paler and paler with each removal, Uphir decided it was time to study something else. The need to learn was making his armor crawl with anticipation.

Perhaps Grayson’s skin would be next.

Uphir did love skin. An organ on the outside, protecting the fragile on the inside.

Yet another fascinating thing about humans. It made Uphir feel closer to them when wearing his skins.

With Grayson currently passed out, Uphir dragged a long claw-like finger up his arm, savoring the feel of the tingles that came with touching his skin.

How smooth yet rough it was.

How clear yet flawed it was.

Normally Uphir wanted blemish free skin. He would fuss and complain and punish if the skin was not absolutely perfect. He wanted to be perfect.

But there was something about Grayson’s skin. The way the scar’s told a different story. How it showed how masculine he was.

It would be so perfect for when Uphir wanted to portray a man.

The thought of Grayson finally peeling off his skin and offering it to Uphir made his mouth water. But he wanted him to do it willingly, not with his smoke and wards.

No, it would be so much better if Grayson wanted to please Uphir with his skin.

The demon physician inhaled sharply as he imagined Grayson kneeling before him, the skin draped across his forearms, a look of pleading in his now almost-colorless eyes.

Uphir brought his hand to Grayson’s head, being careful around the screws that help hold his head in place.

He flipped out his long claws and started to drag them deeply across Grayson’s face.

He wanted a new scar for Grayson. Something to commemorate their time together.

The four long cuts went diagonal from his right temple to the left side of his chin. Then, he stood up straight to watch the skin zip up together, leaving the faintest of scars.

At just the right lighting and angle, Grayson would be able to see it.

The thought made Uphir smile.

A groan from behind him notified him that the last man of the militia was awake. Uphir’s smile grew. He loved studying them, especially for Grayson.

After some questioning, Uphir found out that those men were following Grayson and his company on the orders of a high lord.

After he smashed the knees of the man in charge, they squealed out his name like the little piglets they were.

Lord Eilif.

The very name caused Uphir’s mood to shift.

He knew all about Lord Eilif. A Lamia, a blood sucker, an enemy.

Walking over to the militia man, he began to think of what Lord Eilif could possibly want with the half-demon Grayson.

Perhaps it had to do with his missing wife?

Uphir had his informants within the mortal world, he would have to have them do some digging.

And have some witches try to come up with a potion so he could walk alongside Grayson in the mortal world.

Uphir was beginning to realize he was becoming obsessed with the half-demon. It almost made him giggle like a teenage girl. Almost.

Sighing loudly, he looked at last man.

The man’s tear-streaked face was painted with several emotions, but fear and fatigue were the most prominent.

Uphir rolled his eyes. It was the same damn thing with every human he tortured.

Scream, cry, beg for their life. Bargain till their red in the face. Then, defeat.

That used to be his favorite part. The look on their face when they finally surrender to their fate. It used to fill Uphir with content.

But now, it was not enough.

So, he grabbed the man’s face and squashed his head.

Bone, brain, and fluid passed between Uphir’s fingers and down his arms.

His lips curled in disgust at the mess. As much as he loves humans and their bodies, he hated unclean things.

Contamination was a fear of Uphir’s, to the point of constantly keeping everything clean.

As he stared at the new mess, Uphir’s breath quickened.

He had to clean.

Now.

Quickly.

Forgetting everything else, Uphir grabbed his rags and began to clean his hands. The bone and brain mush that laid on the table started to drip down onto the grassy floor. His eyes dilated as he gathered as much of the organic debris as he could hold before dumping it into one of the many fires.

Then he hurried back, determined to make the table spotless and the grass underneath green instead of red.

If it was not clean, then his research was for not. If it was not clean, then everything would be tainted. If it was not clean, then his whole world will come undone.

Uphir moved the body to one of the larger fires and tossed it in. The smell of burning flesh and singed hair gave him a calming effect, but was not enough to fully sate his desire of everything being aseptic.

Taking what alcohol he had, by the odor it was vodka, he doused the table and the grass surrounding it and began to scrub.

Uphir scrubbed until his armor covered hands ached and his back screamed at him to stop.

Even then, he scrubbed harder.

He was finally satisfied when the table sparkled against the light of the fires and the smell of the alcohol was making his eyes burn.

Straightening his back, he turned to see if Grayson had woken.

A blank table with a small amount of blood on it and the empty head device greeted him.

Uphir froze, unable to comprehend what his brain was telling him.

Grayson was gone.

His prized possession had disappeared.

Uphir clutched the table, his claws ripping into the metal.

A growl rose in his throat, but when he opened his mouth to release it, it came out with a wail laced within the roar.

His lament pierced through the tent and into the sky, making sure any and all creatures knew that a predator was mourning the loss of their prey.