Paying a Call
The days of wine and roses
Laugh and run away, like a child at play
Through a meadow land toward the closing door
A door marked "never more"
That wasn't there before
The lonely night discloses
Just a passing breeze filled with memories
Of the golden smile that introduced me to
The days of wint and roses and you
~ Days of Wine and Roses, Henry Mancini
Night had fallen, and the air on the Isle of Chains was morbidly still, existing in that moment of perfect silence just past twilight, when it is yet to be seen what the darkness will bring ... but waiting, crackling with apprehension ...
The sound began as a hum (cicada wings, or the flat drone of machinery) creeping low across the glassy surface of the channel, swelling as it approached the island and breaking on the shore in a crash of spray and the foam of lunatic symphony.
A mourning wind wound itself around a stone pillar then stole up the side of a wall, falling back onto itself as the shadows appeared - two by two, at first, then an orgy of silhouettes painting themselves on stone, cast in moonlight, writhing obscenities that flowed like oil on water one scene into the next then melting into the darkness from whence they came ... the wind, likewise, fading ...
For a long moment, the front steps of the Slaver's Association building were steeped in that eerie calm once more.
The mist, as it drifted in, might have been a fog rolling off the ocean ... but for the whispering, the mad murmuring ... layer upon layer of haunted voices (a chorus of the damned) chanted in long dead languages, their ravings permeating every corner of the entry hall ...
The vapor began to thicken by degrees, seeping through crevices and frothing over the floor, creeping ever closer to the middle of the room as the hissing reached a savage pitch.
And then, just as suddenly, the whispering ceased.
The thick fog that had just a moment before been spread across the breadth of the hall was suddenly congealed in the center of the floor and appeared to be climbing onto itself, forming a column of charcoal tendrils that slithered through their own shadows.
Rose emerged from the pillar of smoke - first one gloss black toe, then the other, followed by the unmistakable glare of a latex suit. Her curves caught the light and set off a shower of intangible sparks as each new step took her deeper into the hall.
As the shroud of vapor fell away from her shoulders, she paused ... and lifted her eyes to the walls around her, her expression a study in serenity.
Uncanny, she thought, how very like the old building this one was. She remembered it all - every curve, every texture, every play of light and shadow, the path of every hallway.
As she stood marvelling, shifting on a pair of impossibly high heels, a scarlet ribbon fluttered over the curve of her hip and licked at the back of her thigh. The ribbon trailed from a pair of roses held lightly in her gloved grasp - two long stems with full crimson buds at the end, one for Tara and one for the Master of the house.
A sense of nostalgia stole over her and would not be denied. She had never called the Slaver's Association home - nevertheless, how many times had she wandered these hallowed halls? Social calls on the arm of Muerta Scarre, diplomatic visits in the name of Vaenom Morkai ... and of course, Church had kept an office here.
She began to drift forward again, and the chains at her belt chimed like finger cymbals keeping time with the sharp rhythm of her steps.
The hollow wind carried to her ears a single, distant piano note (a single sliver of clarity cutting through the gloom).
She half-expected Nokturnulz to drop out of the rafters, baring his teeth and flashing red eyes as she rounded a corner ... the phantom of a memory drifted past on the breeze just then, of torn flesh and the scent of his blood on the air (her own eyes began to redden a little as she remembered the taste of him).
When the bright pink panel leapt up before her, it snapped her out of her reverie ... the spell was broken all too quickly.
This must be it ... no one else would have chosen such a color.
Sidling closer, she lifted a dainty gloved fist and dropped it against the door ... once, twice ...
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