Heartbroken

The brass bell above the door jingled, startling Jonas from his slumber and causing the leather-bound book on his lap to fall to the floor.

“Damn,” the twenty year old in britches, canvas shirt and scuffed boots cursed as he hopped to his feet, scraping his chair back from the counter and turning towards the bookstore’s entrance.

A woman stood there, silhouetted against the glow of the setting sun, a woman unlike any he’d seen before.

“Good evening,” she said, nodding as she eased the door shut, closing it in the face of a short, fat man clutching a fur-hemmed coat in both arms. “Mr. Wilkerson?”

Tall and striking, with olive-toned skin and long, dark hair bound at the neck, her grey eyes bored into him, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Um. No, I’m…just Jonas.”

The bald man she’d left outside appeared at the dust-coated window, positioning himself between the shop and a horse-drawn carriage. Like the woman–and the horse, a silver-grey

stallion with a shimmering coat–the carriage, with its polished black panels and intricately carved wheels, was like none Jonas had ever seen. These visitors were not from this land but they were far from ordinary travellers. Based on her finery, the lady in the black gown, ivory coloured gloves and polished boots was nobility. 

“Well, ‘Just Jonas’,” she said, in a silky voice, as she ambled alongside well-stocked shelves and trailed a finger over the spines of books. “You’re here so I’m sure you can assist me.” 

A subtle fragrance reached Jonas’ nose as she approached the counter behind which he stood. It wasn’t like the lemongrass he was used to from the women of Spiritsville, but something richer, like toasted jasmine. It was…enticing.

“What is it you need?” he muttered, and she smiled, causing him to blush and avert his eyes. Her olive-skinned breasts were bulging from her gown’s tight bodice and when he realised that’s where his eyes had gone, he blushed more and shook his head. The book he’d dropped was still on the floor so he bent to scoop it up and placed it on the countertop before him. Balling his hands into fists he began ironing out the creases that had formed in its pages. All the while he felt her eyes on him, smelt her perfume, remained aware of her graceful movements as she reached the counter.

His mouth was dry, his hands trembled, a thin sweat had formed on his brow. Why was he reacting this way? She was just a customer. A traveller. An incredibly beautiful woman who was inspiring feelings he hadn’t felt before.

“I hope you can guess,” she said, clasping her gloved hands together. “Considering this is a book store.”

“You want a book,” Jonas nodded, and inwardly cursed the comment. He raised his eyes to hers, noticed the playful look in them, returned his attention to the damaged pages of the volume. “I’m filling in for my father while he tends to a sick relative. I don’t know the full inventory but I’ll try my best to help.”

“I do desire a book,” said the woman, resting her elbows on the edge of the counter and bringing that olive-skinned buxom into view. “I’ve been on the road for days and have exhausted all the reading material my vassal packed. Not that it was to my tastes. Histories. Memoirs. Very dull. I have more…curious interests. A man at the city gates said I’d find something here.”

“I’m sure you will,” Jonas replied, folding back a bend in a page and trying to settle his heart, which he was sure was pounding visibly under his shirt. “My father has a vast selection of books. Fiction and non-fiction. To a certain extent. If it’s something more fanciful you require, we have last-century fantasy in that corner. Crime and horror on that shelf. Poetry beside the door and…”

He glanced at the window and his eyes fell again on the doughy, glaring features of the scrunched up man holding a coat, whose intensity of gaze made him jump. Which, in turn, made his customer chuckle.

“Don’t mind Morvain! He’s my vassal. Miserable-looking goat, isn’t he? Bad choice in literature and lacking in social niceties but he’s loyal and never grumbles. He’s been on the road too, but driving in all kinds of weather, not sitting comfortably like me, so we must overlook his demeanour. Now, your suggestions are fine, but I’m after something else.”

“I see,” Jonas said, turning from the window and finally managing to hold his customer’s gaze. She really was beautiful, not a blemish on her skin, and the way she looked at him made him feel nice. Girls didn’t look at him like that. For good reason. It was one of the rules. Prevention is better than cure. Abstinence in lieu of temptation. Keep interactions with the opposite sex distant and cold. The woman before him, looking him up and down, licking her lips and wafting jasmine-scented pheromones his way was clearly from a far-off land, but still…she should be aware of the rules. Everyone, from every corner of the globe, was aware of the rules. If somehow she wasn’t, he’d have to compensate. Meaning escape.

“I’m sorry to rush you but it’s near closing and…”

As if on cue, the town hall bell began to peel, announcing the end of the day and warning of curfew. Jonas’ eyes snapped to the wall clock, watching as the big hand crept past 12 and its companion pointed at seven. More important than flattening out some pages that might never be seen was getting home before the Enemies started patrol, so he eased the cover of the volume over and returned it to the cabinet where it was stored. 

“See? You’ll have to come back tomorrow,” he said, locking the cabinet with the largest key on a set he fished from his pocket. “We open at 10, my father will be back so…”

“Romance,” the woman announced, snapping his head back around.

“What?”

“Passion. Love. I need to know what passes for it here. I want your romance novels.”

“No,” Jonas stuttered, sweat rising on his back as both cheeks flushed. “We don’t have anything like that. Where are you from? You must know such talk is forbidden.”

His eyes darted to the door, and the window, where Morvain remained statue-still and staring, clearly not reacting to the approach of any Enemy hunters.

“You can’t say the ‘L’ word,” Jonas continued. “Can’t think it, want it, provoke it or try to…”

Try to what? Flirt with a boy? Inspire unwanted feelings? With your beauty and fragrance and smile? Make him feel something illegal?

A lump caught in his throat and he felt trapped, forced into an inescapable situation for which the only remedy was imprisonment, rehabilitation and therapy or, if it was already too late, if these few minutes of exposure had already doomed him, cleansing, evisceration and death.

Then the lady in the gown threw back her head, filling the musty store with laughter.  

Tears ran down her cheeks as she clutched her sides, strands of hair slipping into her eyes. Caught off guard, Jonas took a step back, looked at the clock, the door, the window and the vassal Morvain, who was shaking his head now, shooting a disdainful look.

“Oh come on!” the noblewoman laughed, dabbing tears with delicate fingers. “Please tell me the youth of this land isn’t so stuck in the past.”

“Please go,” Jonas insisted, his fear of repercussions for fraternising with someone who so brazenly chose to violate laws overriding any–feelings–she might be inspiring. No girl or woman had made him feel like this and he wasn’t about to be tempted by some blow-in from a strangely liberal land. “And get to an inn. I don’t know what it’s like where you’re from, but if the Enemies see the way you carry on, they won’t think twice about…”

“The way I carry on?” she interrupted, moving to block him as he tried to come out from behind the counter. “What way is that? Am I being too forward? You’re cute, and I’ve been on the road for weeks, with nobody but Morvain for company. Also, I’m new in town, I don’t know any inns. So how about you dig out one of those ‘illegal’ books I was told your father sells, under the counter, if you know what I mean, then we can take a ride in my carriage.”

“What are you saying?” Jonas, flustered, loins tingling, unable to take his eyes off the beauty. “My father doesn’t deal in outlawed literature. He’s a law-abiding citizen. And I can’t ride in your carriage, it’s not allowed. I don’t even know your name…”

He didn’t want to know her name, didn’t want to know anything about her.

“Anamelle,” she said, extending a hand as though he were to kiss it. “And it’s allowed if I say it’s allowed. Who can prevent it?”

Anamelle. Like animal, but…pretty, mysterious and…

Her hand, not there to be kissed, dropped to his shoulder and pushed, causing him to stagger back as its owner, unexpectedly, moved into the space behind the counter.

“The…Enemies,” Jonas stuttered, shocked by the contact and baffled by the unexpected move. “They’ll be patrolling soon. You must have them where you’re from? You know they don’t permit fraternisation.”

“Oh, we have them,” she continued, casually dropping to a crouch before the counter. “‘Enemies of Love’. Ridiculous. They’ve been mostly powerless for some time, little more than a joke amongst my–our–generation. Once it became clear to anyone under thirty that the legends were bunkum, tall tales created by the Elite to keep people obedient and to ensure only they were responsible for procreation, in their towers, in the most loveless ways possible, the youth stopped giving a fuck. Well. Started. This is disappointing. I expected the Northlands to be wilder, and they are, but I thought that would mean they’d have moved on from empowering costumed goons, letting them terrorise people into avoiding contact on the premise that a spark of attraction might cause infection and start an endemic. But here you are, shattering my illusions. Keys.”

Between trying to avoid staring into the fleshy crevasse separating her now further exposed breasts, wrestling with the radical interpretation of what he believed was universally accepted fact, and feeling like he had no choice but to heed the command of someone he inexplicably wanted to please, Jonas extended his arm and allowed her take his keys, though the logic of what was happening escaped him. 

“I don’t understand,” he muttered, watching as she flicked through the keys. “You don’t obey the Enemies? You…let yourselves love? But…what about…” 

He licked his lips, acknowledging he was venturing into uncharted territory, opening the floodgates on forbidden thoughts that had flirted with his obedient mind for years.

The clock tower bell had stopped chiming, Anamelle’s vassal was still staring, head cocked now, no doubt wondering what his Mistress was doing, and all of a sudden Jonas was overcome with fear of the ‘repercussions’ in leather jumpsuits, latex face coverings and rubber-tubed gas masks that might at that moment be approaching. With this thought in mind but overcome by his fascination and–yes–attraction to this woman, now tenderly inserting a small bronze key into an equally small keyhole on a battered mahogany trunk, he hunkered down and craned his head closer to whisper.

“What about the Qpids?”

Anamelle locked eyes with him, treacherously close, her lips mere inches from his, her scent draping itself over him like satin and filling his head with unnatural thoughts. 

“Really? Do you believe in Father Christmas as well? Come on, Jonas. Have you ever seen a love leech? With your own eyes?”

Click, the key turned, releasing the lid. 

“Of course not. I’d be in rehab. Or an urn, depending on how long it had with me. I haven’t seen one but I’ve seen what they do to people, after they suck them dry, draining them of reason and emotion. Turning them into murderous husks. You can’t tell me Heartbreak didn’t affect your homeland? In the Southsphere? It affected the whole world, it’s well documented.”

Anamelle shook her head and turned her attention back to the trunk, raising the lid. Jonas watched, only now becoming conscious of what she was doing.

“You shouldn’t,” he said, moving an arm as if to stop the rise of the lid but failing to commit. Commit and disappoint. Make her think he was pathetic. “That’s…my father’s…”

“...stash of outlawed literature? See? Your father isn’t as law-abiding as you think. Elders lie. About everything. Even what you think you saw. Husks of men and women drained of love. No. Brainwashed victims sent to create confusion and sustain the status quo. To keep the ruling classes in power. The lies have been passed down for generations, ever since the so-called ‘Heartbreak’. Of course you believe that too. Can’t comprehend that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t a demonic invasion but carefully seeded chemical warfare instigated by failing world leaders. Population control of the highest order. To turn the world back to the dark ages and keep them in power. Their descendants manipulated into believing their falsehoods until the time was right for them to adopt the facade. Because then it was their turn to play, and they liked it. But it’s time that ended. I and others like me in ‘the Southsphere’ have quite the movement going. That’s why we’ve ventured North. To spread the word. Expand the revolution. Open eyes.”

As she said this, she lifted one of many tatty paperbacks from the trunk and held it up for Jonas to see, a novel with a painted image of a negligee clad woman in the arms of a topless man, beneath the title “Love Throes”. 

Jonas, awash with confusion, allowed himself to drop to a sitting position and scoot away from his companion, fingers pressing into rough floorboards, as if to anchor himself in reality. 

“That’s…crazy,” he said, as Anamelle flipped through the book. “You’ve been misinformed. Heartbreak happened. 2053. Thirty five years of Hell. They created a black hole in CERN, a gateway to the Underworld, and the Qpids flooded the world, attracted to love, leeched on to anyone who felt it and sucked out their goodness, creating a hoard of…”

“Monsters.”

Her voice curled around the word as she read from the book, fingers caressing the page.

"They rutted like monsters, all sucking lips and probing fingers, fevered and desperate. It was an evolution of their love, an extension into something wild and wet. A need that burned through their skin as they melted into one. He pinned her hands over her head and she arched against him, breathless, trembling, aching to be devoured and..."

She stopped, flicked her gaze to Jonas, who was watching, unmoving, breath fast, face red, left hand scratching at his neck.

“Goodness,” she said, giggling as her eyes dropped to his waist. “You seem to have a disturbance in your trousers. That was quick. Are you sure you’ve never seen a Qpid?”

Jonas frowned, bit his lip, scratched his neck more as it burned. With one hand, Anamelle took hold of a locket around her neck and popped it open, revealing a mirror.

“How about now?” she said, holding it out so he could see his reflection. His and the creature’s on his back, clawed fingers piercing his shoulders, slobbering lips hovering close to his neck around the oily proboscis that had penetrated his flesh and was sucking.

“Oh God!” Jonas shrieked, scrambling into the space between cabinet and wall, slapping and clawing at his neck. “Get it off! I didn’t do anything wrong!”

He looked over his shoulder but couldn’t see the thing he knew was there. Latched on to him, draining his essence, lured to him somehow by…

Anamelle had risen to her feet and was brushing out creases in her skirt. 

“But…why..? I didn’t…I don’t…I’m not in love with you!”

“Not love,” a gravelly voice grunted, and Morvain appeared at the open end of the counter. “Lust. You filthy humans are full of it. Sickening, intoxicating lust. And I crave it.”

Jonas, struggling to think, wincing as the heat in his neck bored deeper, his whole body tingling, skin crawling, heart racing as colour drained from his vision. 

“Aw, Master,” said Anamelle, taking the coat her–Master?–who was holding out. “I didn’t enjoy this one. He was…nice. I prefer to contaminate those who actually struggle with desire. Jonas didn’t have any.”

“You’ll find a lot like that here. It’s a different playground. A different breed. And It tastes…better.”

Jonas, body contorting, eyes darting, surroundings turning grey, watched Anamelle and Morvain glare down at him. Over their heads, as his vision grew darker, Qpids began to appear, winged, tumour-like abominations, stomachs pregnant with the humanity they’d stolen. One fluttering closer to Morvain, who tilted his head back, allowing it to vomit steaming black bile into his maw.

“Well. As long as you’re happy,” Anamelle sighed, brushing past her Master into the shop. “But can that be the last for today? We’ll be neck-deep in Enemies soon, and the five we’ve done will be enough to start spreading destruction. Spiritsville is already doomed.”

Jonas, drooling, angry thoughts in his head, fury flowing through his veins, hatred for those who had done this, for Anamelle, for Morvain, for his father for making him work, for his brothers who retained their emotions, for the Enemies who’d failed him, for the people of Spiritsville who could be lured to lust and so must die.

“Don’t worry,” the ‘man’ with the beak-like nose and cauldron black eyes standing over him said. “About warm, fuzzy feelings anymore. You’re free to dwell in my darkness. Now, become a good Heartbroken...”

“And prepare to deliver me chaos.”