At the Slaver's Association
The Caravan Arrives
Paying a Call
There Goes the Neighborhood
At the Realm of Thorns
Native Ground
At the Consortium
Through the Looking Glass
Plucked
Peer Gynt
Solitude
Clipping a Raven's Wings
When Once We Were Mortal
Neighbor of the Beast
The Hunter, Dawn
Realm of Thorns home
The Slaver's Association
Message boards
Web site
| Native Ground |
Chapter One |
Chapter Two |
Chapter Three |
Chapter Four |
 Above and Below
The sun beats down the tops of the jungle trees, its heat weighing so oppressively heavy on the foliage that the breeze, fight though it might, is too feeble to disturb it. Even below, in the shade, so much torrid air has collected under the canopies of greenery that not a creature dares to stir. A spark of laughter, the flickering embers of a wrathful glare, might set these brittle stalks ablaze now. With no wind to excite the leaves to life, the grounds are dense with sloth, the building girdled in lethargy. Inside the estate house, too, the air is like lead, like the inside of a wooden box abandoned on a desert dune, stagnant but for the rhythmic whisper of movement from one of the upper story rooms – there, a window fan beats its whooshing cadence over a chamber long since deserted, but still thick with the aroma of a demon’s blood and death. The light reflected from the courtyard stones is blinding – to touch them now would mean scarred fingertips and scorched toes – and in the fountain, the tears that run from the seraph’s breast have long since dried, and the stone surface of his pedestal bowl is rimed with dust. In the library, time seems to crawl, as the hands of the grandfather clock struggle under the burden of summer’s inertia. Not so, below. In the network of corridors beneath the house, a wintry draft runs free, untamed, trickling down each passage and leaving the underground labyrinth awash in eternal chill. A rat scrabbles along the marble flooring, and the echo of rodents’ claws, the like tips of branches scraping over hard ice, reverberates through the tunnels. The drapes at Rose’s chamber door stir, then fall still, as though some astral entity had passed through (a possibility not entirely out of the question, but in this case, no, it’s just a draft)… On the writing desk beside her bed, the corner of a piece of parchment lifts into the air, tipped by some unseen hand… A sliver of cream satin – the end of a dressing gown sash – draws up and then swims just inches across the floor before drifting to peace once more… In a corner beside the wardrobe, a few magazine pages crackle like summer parched leaves as they roll under the zephyr’s nimble fingertips, and the thick fringes lining the bed curtains ripple an arpeggio… Though it could never be said that housekeeping is one of Rose’s strengths (or that she has shown a particular interest in finding someone to do it *for* her), at least there is some order in the piles of shine and point and excess strewn across the floor, but the current billows in with no regard for said reason, like some miniature tidal wave, shifting everything in its path… As it pads across the carpeting, then rustles the bed sheets with its ethereal footfalls, the coverlet comes to life, the jewels sewn into its surface glimmering like the top of a treasure trove with the slight movement, and Rose… Well, even Rose is coaxed by the crypt-cold breeze, and turns languidly on the coverlet, the folds of her robe falling open in all the right places, her curls spreading out like brush fire on the cushions behind her… But one gets the impression that she is disturbed by far more than the force of the draft… Her figure is china-doll placid, one arm stretched overhead, the other draped across her abdomen, her legs slightly curved (and bared to the tops of her thighs by that obliging satin robe)… A watcher at her bedside might see those lush lips narrow dramatically, tightened into a frown, and her brows hewn to a disquieted furrow… The sound is just an undertone at first, the opening murmurs of an operetta, sung by a chorus of blackened angels… whispering in tongues… hissing promises malicious in languages long dead… With a faint groan, Rose pitches onto her stomach, those exposed ivory stems folding and stretching as she goes… The arcane song funnels up from every corner into the center of the room, like a dust devil picking up speed and building girth along the way… Unsheathed claws gouge grooves into the surface of the coverlet… The hymn swells with the deranged cries of the ancients… Still with eyes pressed closed, she arches her spine, drawing back onto her haunches… And the litany climaxes with a high-pitched wail, a single banshee shriek that slams against the ceiling and falls abruptly silent… In that instant, Rose is upright, her curls tossed over her shoulders, the robe’s sash dangling aimlessly between her thighs… wisps of flame drift down from her temples and across her cheekbones… The sound stops the moment her eyes snap open, but its lingering effects, disturbance and cold, trickle down from the sky and send her limbs to trembling with rage… She smiles, as always, but it is a smile riddled with dementia and agitation… With eyes glittering emerald doom, dark and stormy, she spits out a few furious words, some of the scant Latin she knows, reciting them over and over like some funeral prayer… "Terra viscer meus domicilum… Terra viscer meus domicilum… terra viscer meus domicilum… terraviscermeusdomicilum…" Terra viscer meus domicilum… My home is the heart of the earth… Dazed and weary, she indulges in a long, feline stretch, rolling her curls back across her shoulders, rounding her spine into an eloquent camber, and extending those lean, lean legs so that bare toes peek over the edge of the bed. With palms flattened on the coverlet, her hands creep backwards, seeking support, but finding… …Her cushions, upholstered in sleek satin, and plump with… …but not plump… not ripe at all… rather level, in fact, as though their sacred contents had collapsed under the weight of time itself… and perhaps they have… Curiosity draws nimble fingertips back, and farther back, creeping like ivory spiders, but still she stares forward, refusing to break her sullen pout even when one of the pillows is snatched up and deposited in her lap…
Only then does she glance down, and then with eyes narrowed to emerald slivers,
as thumb and forefinger caress indolent lines over the gloss, leaving dull
impressions behind.
She nods knowingly to no one at all, a wealth of meaning in her empty gaze, and the gentle circle forming on her lips speaks volumes to the empty room of what must be planned, what must be done… Without her native ground, her days will be fraught with restlessness, an endless parade of brittle reveries and turmoil, and the day that cannot claim her body now will command an uneasy victory, given time… sucking her spirit dry, nursing at the essence that animates her undead flesh until she is withered, held prisoner in the lavish crypt by her own inertia… destined to feed off the meat of rats unlucky enough to happen into her den… The mental picture draws a shudder up from the pit of her stomach and into her shoulders, to be released with a gasp and a sigh… such a desolate future is not for her… she will not allow it…
With renewed urgency, she tosses the cushion aside and curls forward, away
from the bed, peeling out of the robe as she goes. It is midday, true, but
she has no choice - the task at hand will not be put off. Still, the hour
and its foreign attendance saps the strength from her limbs, causing her
to leer from one side to the other, to stumble towards the wardrobe with
none of her characteristic grace.
"Have the sedan chair made ready," she chirps - but no, as soon as the words
escape her, she chases at them with an exasperated sigh. What *was* she thinking?
The sedan chair will never do, not for the place to which she must journey.
And that is all she need say, really. In an estate house infused with artwork,
some traditional, but more likely than not grotesque, only one canvas stands
out as such, requiring no name. Had it a name, it would be one so profane
that servants daren’t even whisper it in the privacy of their backstairs
corridors. Perhaps it does have a name, but perhaps so vulgar that it has
been deliberately forgotten by time, buried by holy men and miscreants alike
in the annals of civilization.
But first, on earth as Vampire sent, Old Haunts The callous, curdling harpie’s cry of a single gull echoes against the shore, inciting a riot of responses from the creatures inhabiting the foliage along the cliff top, shrieks and squalls that rattle the bushes and ripple out across the estate like rings from the center of a pond… And when the cacophony has reached its sudden crescendo and begins to die down, the gull swoops out, away from the beach, his silhouette slowly dissolving as he disappears into the distant meltdown in the sky, the melange of oranges and nectarines and plums, with rivulets of bitter gore running down it and bright splashes of cotton candy bleeding through, the whole of the transcendental vision crowned by a mantle of velvet that falls with a lazy sigh towards the ocean and the sunset horizon… A hush has fallen over the stones and planks that make up the house… as though they were waiting, suffering through the uneasy anticipation that comes nightly to this property, of the changes the darkness brings, and the horrors that will have been wrought by morning… In the black heart of the mansion beats a tribal tattoo, the rhythm like a hummingbird’s pulse beating in the chest of a young boy. He kneels beside a chair, his knees crushed into the wool carpeting for so long now that he can feel the impression of each individual fiber, each bump and rut as it carves its gentle stamp into his skin… and he barely has feeling in his toes anymore… Sometimes he dozes, his temple dropping to rest against the corner of the picture frame, which rests propped against the same chair… Sometimes he is wide-eyed and alert, watching over the resting place of the Mistress, his gaze trailing along her slender legs, indulging in contemplation of the shadows splashed over her thighs where skin meets skin, and the hidden recesses beneath… it is his own personal sin, a secret pleasure he steals for himself, in these moments when she is not awake to torment him… Sometimes, his heart rages and his blood pounds with the rhythm of her perfume.. and his senses scream her name… Oh, but the silence, hanging like a shroud in this room… the dreaded silence in these twilight moments… so full of promise and foreboding… … Smoky lashes snap open suddenly into emerald brilliance, and for the second time in as many hours, she rights herself with a gasp, the look of a harridan in her eyes… curls straying across her cheeks… gloved fingertips digging into the coverlet and knees curled up against her chest, revealing those stalks of alabaster cream where stockings should rightfully go… The slave boy’s gaze slams to the floor, and his spine goes rigid. The delicate bird thrumming stops for a moment, held in suspension by the fear that his voyeuristic musings might have been discovered… but she peels out of her repose, watching him from the corner of her glare all the while… saying not a word, but speaking volumes with the suspicion etched into her eyes as she crawls, feline and fluid, towards the edge of the bed… Apparently deciding that nothing is amiss about his demeanor, and that the posture, the perfect subservience in the slope of his back and the tilt of his neck as he kneels, is just fine, she brings one leg around, then the other, hanging them over the edge of the bed. Her arms flow along into the next pose as well, and as the traces of doubt evaporate from her scrutiny, she takes up a new focus, and begins to comb through the tangle of her curls with gloved fingertips… "Uncover the painting," she purrs, so much like cashmere as it slips over the swell of a hip reclining, the words cascading to liquid pools at her feet. "And bring my leather coat." Effortless… the words… the chilling lack of sentiment in her voice… as though she were only going out for an evening at the home of a nodding acquaintance, one of those cold affairs that everyone despises, but no one neglects, where society is prized above company… A hairpin appears between nimble thumb and forefinger, seemingly from nowhere (well, it was with the collection on the nightstand, but her reach is such a wisp of movement as to appear supernatural), and with the same dour indolence in her expression, she begins trussing up that wild mane, winding the curls around her fingertips and twisting them into a neat chignon. When the slave boy’s back is turned, when he struggles with the weight of the canvas that covers the portrait, only then does she reach for a pair of silk stockings draped over the headboard – and this with a tiny, private smile. She knows he watches while she sleeps, and has for some time, ever since he began appearing at her bedside so promptly after dusk, always ready with a drink and so attentively on his knees in those moments when her eyelids flutter open for the first time. She knows that he is devoted to those last sweet seconds of sunset, the time of dishevelment at the end of a long sleep, when her robes have unwound to the point of indecency, and her breast and thighs are bared with wanton abandon… And so what more luscious torture than to send her legs slithering into their silken sheaths, to point her toes with a dancer’s eloquence towards the ceiling, lift her calves one by one and roll the sheer tissue down, down, over her knees and thighs? So that the picture greeting him when he turns again is of the smug upturn of her lips, and a wool skirt being tugged down and straightened into place over her lap? When he returns, trench coat over one arm, it takes a moment for his downcast eyes to flicker with the light of understanding, but then his cheeks take on a savage flush, of realization and disappointment. With a flourish of fingertips and the uptilt of her chin, she rises from the bed in a lazy serpentine, trailing an imaginary mantle of ermine tails and royal amethyst behind her as she sashays past her servant. The coat she takes without skipping a beat, snatching it from his outstretched arms and unfurling it over her shoulders as she breezes on by.
The painting is another matter altogether. The moment the sway of her hips
brings her into range, to see the scene laid out before her in all its dark
glory, her poise dissipates into dagger-eyed, tight-lipped animosity.
…along one side of the street, the houses sit in pretty suburban rows, smug with their neatly cropped lawns and windows like eyes, glowing from the indoor static of TV dinners around the coffee table… …the hum, the white noise, is a steadily ebbing tide… numbing… deafening… cleansing… the soundtrack for a legion of undead in their button-down sweatshirt worn slippers jeans torn for fashion, hair so carefully coiffed it never shimmies nails polished power tools collecting dust in the corner of the garage as honey collects angst in the corners of his mind from years of drowning in the syrup of vanilla air freshener and Lysol… …and every car glistens a fresh wax job and every shutter and awning is dusted ripe with the glow of moonbeams splitting hairs to find the rainbow’s end, only to learn they’ve been lied to again… there’s no rainbow here, only apathy, and the lawns are too perfect, the doormats too straight, the smiles too leaden with morphine, to allow that everything could be all right inside… not a chance… … a scrawny cat, vermin-puss, with fur spiked vengefully in the patches that remain behind his ears, sinks low to the ground and scuttles across the pavement… his belly scrapes, pelvic bones scuff… …or is that the grating of leaves, rasping, leeched dry and sagging to the ground, primate knuckles dragging the curb and through the gutters on the gloomy side of the street… for the length of the block, vines and snarls of moss and weeds lock arms to keep the joy out, defying the intrusion of vanilla blight, wind around each other and through, a thorned barrier… … a hinge squeals lonely in the summer breeze , an iron bar rattles complaint against its brother, and a rusted gate swings on its foundation, shifting neither warning nor welcome, just a shuttered, winking eye – a window on the souls of the lost, in their terra firma houses with the drab stone roofs rotting musty slick with mildew black decay… …Endsville… the Horizontal Hilton… Termination Station… the last exit on the highway of life… death’s doorway… the city of eternal rest…
…the only visitor is the wind banshee wailing blowing tin whistles through
the guardian leaves…
Rose turns her back on the painting, unconcerned in the set of her shoulders and the way her fingertips play over the top of the vanity table. Her over-long cigarette holder awaits, but she dances towards one much shorter and not so outrageous, twirling it once and then tucking it into the breast pocket of the trench coat. She runs the pad of her index finger along the top of the other, a gentle caress more suited for parting from a beloved friend… As she circles back towards the picture, the tails of the coat swing lazily about her calves, and once again her chin tilts toward the ceiling, lordly… vain… Only the slightest spark of unease registers in her eyes. Oh, she tries to mask it with the proud indifference so familiar to her features, but to no avail… the emerald of her eyes deepens slowly to black, and her lips will not be coaxed to more than the bloodless wax replica of a smile… Is it nostalgia? Is it fear? Bitterness, perhaps? Resentment of the path she must walk, however brief? Of the bland suburban landscape over which she must traipse? The mediocrity? The mundane vanilla whitewash…?
Would that she could forego this visit home, not the home of her birth but
the home of her rebirth, whose soil succors her in spite of the bile of disdain.
Round and round and round she goes, shrinking still further, to funnel into the center of the canvas… an explosion of sighs, a choir of fallen angels humming their goodbyes, the sound suctioned away into a vacuum (one finger on a vinyl disk, winding backwards on the turntable), into a vortex… following the smoke into…
Silence.
traveling at breakneck speed down a stretch of endless blacktop following with a camera’s eye zooming through the desert and passing the scrub brush a blur barely discernible by the roadside streaks of charcoal and sage on the fringes of periphery air dappled with indigos and greys eerily charred along the horizon somewhere between twilight and Bedlam There's no earthly way of knowing Which direction we are going There's no knowing where we're going Or which way the wind is blowing Is it raining? Is it snowing? Is a hurricane a-blowing? buzzing past clock faces hands winding dizzy and out of control melting Dali nightmares as they transcend the artifacts flying more pieces of time passing words distant pains Manchurian vases and Swiss halberds wheeling end over end to slice the air (everything around me seemed to move in slow motion)
Not a speck of light is showing
Yes! The danger must be growing (Faster! Faster!) Stop the boat. Harry Duke has fallen asleep in front of the TV again (oh, and Mildred is so glad that she insisted on separate beds for the two of them out of last spring’s income tax check… no more rude 2 a.m. awakenings as his bulk heaves into the bed beside her… how sad when passion gives way to age and familiarity). His heavy frame is slumped against the back of the La-Z-Boy, the rumpled orange cardigan molded over his bloated chest and belly giving him the shape and semblance of a piece of rotted fruit. Wire-rimmed glasses slip down the bridge of his nose, just on the verge of losing their grip on that veined, bulbous precipice, and the static from the wide screen television set plays over his features like some spooky seraphim glow, sparking and reflecting in the angled lenses. The sudden power of a breeze forces its way through the crevice in one corner of the window, where the rubber moulding strip has peeled away from the pane just enough to allow a whistle to sneak by, to tickle at his ear. He lifts a meaty hand to swat the sound away, dragging across his temple and knocking askew the few strands of oily hair that remain combed sideways across his forehead. A snort shifts his heavy jowls, and he stirs in the easy chair, eliciting a squeak from the Naugahyde, so that one of the thick upholstery buttons scrapes his leg through corduroy slacks. It is precisely that twinge of pain that causes one eye to crack open, the other to follow in lazy procession, neither one really focused. As he forces his bulk around in the confines of the chair again, his gaze falls, half-lidded and sluggish, through the window and onto the street outside. It never really occurs to him to wonder at the appearance of the figure in black strolling along the sidewalk. Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, he thinks to glance at the screaming cherry numbers on the VCR display to note the lateness of the hour, before his attention is drawn back to a brief dust devil that kicks leaves up around the tails of a trench coat. The rest of his visions, his thoughts, are too murky, and as his eyes drift shut once more, his only concern is for how his back will pay the price the next day, and how he really should be getting along to bed. But one is forced to wonder what he might have thought, and how easily he would have been lured back to sleep, had he only been roused a few seconds sooner… and seen the sidewalk completely vacant… Standing there on the street, with a row of shoebox houses at her back and the cemetery before her, she appears, at most, to be a harmless passerby, a curiosity-seeker on a midnight stroll whose attention has been caught by the unlikely sight of a bone yard not fifteen feet from the safety of middle-class doorsteps. How strange, that it should be placed there. How very odd, indeed. The night shadows obscure her features, allowing just a glimpse of the celestial smile chiseled in alabaster, the traces of mad longing that glint eternally in emerald eyes. (From several blocks away comes the sound of squealing tires, muffled by the dwellings and lawns and fences and barking dogs between them and her.) (WAITING … FOR THE MIRACLE … FOR THE MIRACLE TO COME) Darkness weaves through the little bit of light there is and slithers over the belted trench coat, writhing over her figure like the shadows of a thousand snakes reflected on the canvas of caravan tents, backlit by torches on a Bedouin desert night, torrid and deadly. A single tendril of curl the color of cayenne on fire has escaped her chignon and trails wistfully over the contour of her pale, pale cheek. Drawing in a solemn breath, she pauses, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. (The engine roars nearer, turning one corner, then another, and growing louder by the second, as it is joined by the heartbeat thumping of a heavy bass beat.) Her eyes narrow to intent perusal of the cemetery gate… her gaze remains focused there, ruby lips pursed in anticipation… she steps off the curb and into the center of the street… The stench of rubber burning drifts beneath her nostrils, an acrid precursor to the laughter, raucous and drunken, and to the belligerent screech of tires, the burst of wind as the air is jostled then settles back into place.) (SEE THROUGH ME…) The car comes shrieking to a halt at her side, just inches from hitting her.. The chromed front fender sways to within an inch of her shapely calf, and her knee is a curved reflection in the gleam… She freezes sharply, instantly, snapping her neck and turning to look with an impish grin, so rife with mischief that it cannot help but appear a little eerie… A moment’s pause, as she runs the tip of her tongue oh-so-subtly along the rim of her upper lip, and she takes a step out from the front of the car, allowing a few gloved fingertips to whisper over the hood as she goes, just enough to leave an airy trail in the thin coating of dust on wax… The car is run-of-the-mill for these parts, but by no means dull – a sky blue Buick convertible, at least three decades old, maybe more – and it has probably seen twice the years and experience as its occupants. The boys, all three of them, wear the uniform of the modern swing hipster, with baggy pants and wife-beaters (conspicuously a dazzling white), plaid shirts open past the hips, and long chains hanging from their belt loops, disappearing into the shadows at the floorboards. She continues on her way, languid steps carrying her across the street, her heels crunching into the pavement, the slinking of her curves evident even beneath the bulk of the leather coat. As she goes, her head turns slightly, so that her gaze remains fixed on the car and its passengers, and her smile remains a haunting fixture in their eyes. Royal Crown Revue blares from the stereo, causing the car’s entire frame to tremble with delicate vibrations (and if all the dogs in the neighborhood weren’t awake before, they’re certainly agitated now). As his head bobs up and down in a blatant once-over, the front seat rider hangs his forearm out over the window, clutching a rumpled brown paper bag with a conspicuous bottle neck peeking from the top. (GO DADDY-O!) All of the boys, though of slightly different heights and builds, are dark-complected, with skin like caramel, spiked and cropped black hair to match the darkness in their eyes. Two of them sport the beginnings of mustaches, except for the driver – he looks a little older, if only because he has the added feature of neatly trimmed sideburns, probably cultivated to hide the jagged scar that creeps out from underneath one of them, along the top of his cheek. They could be a midnight snack, for all the clinical regard she affords them, as though she barely stoops to recognizing them as sentient beings at all. And they probably will be – a snack, that is - it’s just occurred to her that she never stopped for her evening’s repast before stepping through the painting. With a brief flicker of interest and a quirk of her brow, she glances over the contents of the car, like a diner picking over a sumptuous feast, and looking for the choicest morsel with which to begin. Her knees crook slightly, and her chin cants, as she stoops to lower the suitcase to the pavement… Two of the boys hoot and send enthusiastic catcalls her way as she pivots around and begins to make her way back towards the car – the greed in her smile has apparently lost some of its bone-chilling effect. Darkness never hampered her - no doubt it is dampened by the change in hairstyle and attire. But something of her former ability to inspire that odd combination of desire and dread remains… Even as he joins his friends in taunting her from the back seat, the third boy, the youngest, displays something of fear in his eyes, and a note of uneasiness plays on his smirk… Does he know?… Does he recognize her intentions?… Her gaze freezes on his, emerald orbs seizing onyx and locking them in place, and under the cacophony of laughter runs a current of anxiety… *His* laughter… shrill, nervous notes plucking away at the booming bravado his friends have worked so hard to build… She comes to within one step of the side of the car, threat written into every angle of her sway, broadcasting menace with nothing more than the way gloved hands rest so calmly at the swell of her hips… close enough to reach out and drag any one of these delinquents from the safety of their metal coffin and into the street… Perhaps they do sense it, because the moment she stretches leathern fingertips towards that beautiful boy, the car lurches forward with a start, as if by its own power. In slow motion, she turns, her forearm extended, fingertips splayed as she reaches for him in the darkness… Her lips are pursed somewhere between regret and a kiss to the air that promises to come for him (his features are engraved on her memory, and will remain there at least until the first drop of coppery cinnamon splashes onto her tongue and down her throat). A blast of hot night wind, Mephistopheles’ kiss, pries at her belt and opens the coat, sending its folds fluttering away from her legs, revealing the tailored wool suit and the hourglass outlined within… As the car passes by, the boy turns to watch her, glaring over his shoulder through the haze of rubber smoke and exhaust… The dagger points in her eyes follow his, until the car has turned a corner, and the laughter is just an echo, the lingering ghost of merriment with no knowledge of its own brush with doom…
~~~~~~~~~~ As she swivels and stoops to scoop up the handle of her suitcase, the car full of little plastic rebels is already a buried memory - her stride is brisk and businesslike as she steps up to the cemetery gate and slings her carpet bag to a new resting place at the edge of the curb. She strips the coat off and drapes it over the bag, dipping at the waist for the space of a moment to rummage inside the leather bundle, before finally coming away with the cigarette holder, a single slim cigarette, and a cloud of clove and tobacco perfume. On righting herself, she slips a silver Zippo (the one with the Vargas girl engraved on the lid) from her suit pocket… A sudden fluorescent orange interrupts the darkness, the brilliance of a cherry coming to life as she inhales… and then SNAP!, CLICK!, she tucks the lighter away. Unfortunately, the gated perimeter is as close as she dares. Oh, she could go a bit farther if she wanted to… if she wanted to feel her muscles peeled over her bones from the inside out, and if she wanted to enjoy one last hearty scream before her exposed innards crumbled to dust… She doesn’t even risk sparing a glance aside, but she knows it’s there - the country-styled church on the edge of the property - "styled" because any true countryside is legions away from this sprawling suburbia, and any imitation of country innocence in the tiny clapboard building is a puerile mockery. Still, it is the house where a Christian deity resides, and she will not chance a step onto his hallowed ground, or even venture into the range of his watchful eyes. As she pauses there, she props one hand on her hip, the other lifted to shoulder height and turned towards the stars, the cigarette holder balanced on the leather platform of her palm. She studies the cemetery with cold eyes, her lips curled into the faintest of sneers. Bette Davis would be proud. The cigarette goes neglected for the moment… Her eyes dance with needles of awareness, narrowing occasionally - she is attempting to read the bone yard, it seems, plunging in with the whole of her consciousness and divining from it the secrets of its cherished, guarded, captive souls. Jencks… Norton… I am the resurrection and the life… Mourney… all mere memories… Von Elsner… He who believes in me, even if he die, shall live…. Baylis… John 11:25… Aborn… Miniva K. Shields, 1893-1956… And her senses alight on a spirit damned, one that the angels have long since abandoned…Raymond H. Guerrero… October 16, 1921 - August 30, 1944… S Sgt US Army… A sound trembles out of the sky, and she calls with that most haunting of voices, the one that seems a whisper, a banshee’s wail, and a siren’s lure, all at once… the one that slips up through the cracks in the paving, murmurs through the trees and shudders through the leaves, shrieks from the clouds and strikes the earth like a lightning bolt, an electrical current growing beneath the soil, a rustling in the underbrush… it comes from everywhere but her own lips…"Raymond…" The song is, lyric and chorus, sweet and tender, alluring … mother’s milk taken flight in musical notes, offering the comfort of a beautiful lie… Any sense of serenity that the cemetery pretended to furnish begins to fray at the seams, and the air is filled with electronic vibration, equipment pulsing, and white noise… even the sturdy oak trees that pepper the landscape quiver, their branches leering in a crazy dance, and jets of warm wind rush across the ground, trampling footpaths in the grass… "Ya na kadishtu nilgh'ri stell'bsna Nyogtha, K'yarnak phlegethor l'ebumna syha'h n'ghft." With the grating of granite on limestone, the rumble of soil bursting free, and a muffled scream, its unholy temper unmistakable, horror and remorse ringing true as one syllable is stretched into dozens of echoes… "Nooooo…!" "Ya hai kadishtu ep r'luh-eeh Nyogtha eeh, S'uhn-ngh athg li'hee orr'e syha'h." With the sound of heavy, dragging steps, her sneer becomes a smile of bold proportions… her whispering ceases, and the only sound is the moist suction of leaden feet being dragged through the soil… She takes a few steps back from the gate, which opens of its own volition, its hinges squealing a protest as a gear turns, a bolt slides up and out of place, and it swings wide and free, towards the boulevard. A pool of light from a nearby street lamp casts a circle, whose glow seems to prefer the other side of the block wall, the interior of the cemetery, but part of it falls on the driveway, its edges blurring just a few feet away from where she stands. A single muddied boot appears in the murky spotlight - it is new mud, fresh from the trek across the cemetery grounds… then its mate appears, equally sullied, the chocolate brown stains spreading up once-pristine gaiters to the hem of a slim pant leg, olive drab and remarkably preserved… the second leg appears, moving forward into the light, and then a tailored coat of dark serge that hangs loose on his gaunt frame, brass buttons mottled with spots of rust, shoulders strewn with grimy chevrons and bars… Lifting her chin in regal perusal, she focuses on the face that finally comes into view, a face that was clearly once handsome. His complexion is like watered down butterscotch, even through the pallor that comes with death and formaldehyde, and his raven hair is neatly cropped just above the uniform collar… a determined chin, delicate brows… all marred by hollow, unseeing eyes, and a conspicuous, angry scar that travels diagonally from his left temple, across the top of one eye, over the bridge of his nose, through the corner of his mustache and mouth, and down to his jaw line at the right. And there is a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, as though he had been shot in the skull, then his face cleaved open as a final insult. He takes a few steps forward, to just beyond the gate, when she lifts her hand away from her hip, palm out, gesturing him to a halt, and though he does stop, it is with an uncertain lurch. "It was a closed casket ceremony, I take it?" she chirps, her eyes alight with amusement. Her puppet remains silent for a long moment… and then the glaze on his is shattered by sudden realization, and the hitherto expressionless mouth twists into a smirk (made all the more eerie by the scar that tugs his lips farther up at one side than the other), to loose upon the night a gust of weak mock-laughter, accompanied by a puff of dust. "Hah-hah… I guess that was… meant to be funny," he groans. "So what do you want with me?" "Well…" And she launches into a predatory circle around him (come on, you knew it was coming), her forearm out to the side with a flourish, her hips rolling from side to side as she goes. As she looks him up and down, the cigarette holder seems to bob in time, and as she eases to a stop behind him, she finally lifts it to her lips. There is another long pause, as she inhales, and then blows a gust of sultry smoke past his ear. "…the first thing you can do is pick up my coat and bag…" With that, she nudges his shoulder and nods past him, towards the suitcase at his feet.
~~~~~~~~~~
- travel brochure from the Sovereign Hotel/Beverly Hills
Late night arrivals of the clandestine sort are nothing new for Herbert Rostvold.
Sixty-two years old and still just a desk man at the Sovereign, he has seen
all the greats, the lovers and killers, the addict celebrities, arriving
alone or in pairs… always after midnight and always disappearing to
their suites for cocktails and trysts and throat slittings and needle orgies
and infidelities the likes of which he can only imagine.
…
The demanding trill of the counter bell just inches from his ear shatters
his senses, and he jumps, startled, tottering on the stool and slipping out
of balance, so that one aged hip cracks across the edge of the seat. The
newspaper goes flying, wrinkled pages flittering to the floor and landing
pell-mell - the Red Line budget fiasco leads into an editorial on the
woes of gang violence stretching its blood-stained fingers to the suburbs
and toddler angel Lourdes cavorts in the dance club listings… His
palm slaps weakly to the counter as he catches himself (you can almost hear
the bones snapping like twigs), and he slowly, with much effort, pulls himself
upright, his limbs limp as though he were a marionette on strings, rattling
then settling into place.
Some time after she has gone, he awakes as though from a spell, to find himself
sitting on his usual stool, one elbow propped on the counter, staring out
into an empty lobby. With a start and a sharp intake of breath, he glances
around - the registry book is in its usual place, the newspaper is open before
him. All he can see is black through the glass panes of the revolving door.
And the lobby is, in fact, empty.
Following a moment’s sick fascination, Herb grimaces and turns the page
with far more violence than necessary. He harumphs, drumming his fingertips
on the countertop. The newspaper is screaming for his attention, but he just
can’t shake the feeling that he missed something… He has some vague
memory of having checked a guest in and forgotten to get a credit card number.
With a glance over his shoulder, he notes that all of the room keys seem
to be in order… Nothing seems amiss… Good thing, too – he’s
getting old, and they’re looking for reasons to put him out to
pasture… a slip like that could cost him his job if that smarmy young
general manager (the owner’s nephew) ever found out…
···÷•ö¤•{ RAYMOND’S NIGHTMARE }•¤ö•÷··· ···÷•ö¤•{@ THE VIEW FROM UP HERE @}•¤ö•÷··· High above the city, at the top of one of its faceless obelisks of glass and steel, a shiny nameplate on a set of mahogany double doors denotes the location of the heart, brain, and perhaps even nervous system of Tungsten Industries. Unfortunately, this handsome nameplate is rarely seen, but by the privileged few invited into the sanctum. The penthouse office can only be accessed by one express elevator, and the door only opens to the retinal scans of two people, one of whom is a secretary who suffered through an extensive background check before coming to work here – but you won’t find her name on any Social Security register now.The name of the other is etched into that brass plate - D.M. RAPHAEL GIAPANNI. That name is also printed on his business cards, his credit cards, and his gym membership. He’s known as simply ‘Raphael’, or ‘Raph’, to his business colleagues and henchmen (for he has no real friends to speak of), but no one has ever known what the ‘D.M.’ stands for – the initials adorn his cuff links, but their meaning is one of his most jealously guarded secrets. Beyond the double doors and through the gold-toned and windowless antechamber where the secretary resides, an avenue of plush raspberry carpeting leads up to another set of doors, this one with no name, no identifying marks whatsoever, not even a set of handles (it can be opened via a control beneath the secretary’s desk, or with a tiny remote key that Raphael carries on his person at all times). Few eyes ever get a glimpse past that second set of doors – the secretary can only claim to have seen Mr. Giapanni’s star chamber ten times in as many years of employment (work at the uppermost echelon of Tungsten Industries must seem awfully severe, but believe me, she’s paid well for cultivating that lack of curiosity and the ability to remain anonymous). However, as you, the reader, have been so tolerant in enduring the abstract nature of Rose’s voyage thus far, perhaps a visit into hidden territory is in order. The office spans a majestic thirty feet in all directions. *All* directions. To say that the ceiling is vaulted is the understatement of the century. Every surface is spotless, from the narrow laminate counter trimming the perimeter of the room, to the ceiling-high windows with their sterile ivory blinds, to the L-shaped desk with black lacquer so thick that it more closely resembles a reservoir of fresh oil. Not a speck of dust obscures the floodlights that cast the gallery in so intrusive a glare. No paintings adorn the walls, nor statuary the corners, for this is not a place meant to clutter, and the wet bar in the corner is strictly incidental, as this is also not a place for entertainment or comfort. Spartan. Yes, you could call it spartan, though Raphael prefers to think of it as restrained (simple surroundings mean fewer diversions to take the mind away from its true work). The view from the top more than makes up for it, though. This high-rise towers far beyond the smog line, and on any given afternoon – this one, for example – he can see down through the brown film to the network of freeways crawling like earthworms over the Southern California landscape. Just north, the saucer-shaped top of the Capitol building breaks up a skyline of art deco ziggurats and Angelyne billboards, all of them veined and crumbling from the weight of pretending so much glamour all these years. To the south lies Union Station, the portal through which so many suburbanites come and go every day, feeding off the riches of the inner city, then returning to their vanilla homes and lawns without ever having seen the streets for what they really are – except for that glimpse they get past the fence, of a sidewalk lined with derelicts and drunkards; the government buildings nearby are likewise peopled, furnished with cardboard beds and newspaper pillows, their scars baking to leather in the pretty California sunshine. Not a very pleasant sight, you say? It is if you’re above it. This afternoon, the sunset is a particularly lovely mixture of golds and reds, like Chinese dragon scales and fireworks seeping in slow motion down the sky, sloping towards the ocean (from the end of, say, Santa Monica Pier, looking up through that brownish haze, it appears more like slowly congealing blood and molasses). Sundown sets the office window on fire, sending lava lights melting down its surface. Layered over the burning reflections, the phantom image of a man’s face is cast in celestial glow. His chin is dramatically cleft, his mouth a sliver of blush on a field of bronze; his nose is Roman, slightly hooked, a fine nose, a nose of the aristocracy. Chestnut hair is smoothed back from his forehead to curl at his collar (you can bet that he pays dearly for the stereotypical California shine that glints with strands of gold here and there). And his eyes are merely brown, nothing remarkable about them at all, except that they are frosted with lashes a trace lighter than his locks. Given that he is in the office alone, it would seem that this man is the ‘D. M. Raphael Giapanni’ to which the name plate refers, but here’s another insider’s clue: the inscription behind the face of his Rolex reads ‘Malphader Paganini’. His eyes narrow pensively, and his lips press into a bloodless line as he stares out at the masses below. Through the layer of smog, he glares at the metal boxes crawling by on the freeway, then lifts his chin with a snap, turning his gaze to examine every window in every adjacent structure. Impatience declares itself in the tense square of his jaw, but he takes his time, penetrating each building then moving on to the next, following the scent of commerce until it stretches into the Hollywood Hills. Even by day, the city writhes with the diabolical serpents of diablerie, oily smudges squirming through the gutters, shadows hiding under bus stop benches and inside liquor store doorways…
The devastation of the Top Hat Society… the humiliating debacle at the
Haven… all of that, and his own pride besides, can be avenged at long
last.
But then the scene shifts, and the image in the desk top takes a lazy turn,
lazy as a summer day in fact, towards a path and a row of tree-shaded bungalows
painted a distinctive shade of mango. As one particular door comes into focus,
his fingertips clamp around the flesh of his own outer thighs, and he nearly
mashes his chin into the edge of the desk in his enthusiasm.
"Mr. Giapanni?"
The image in the polished surface is reduced to a white static schism, blinking
once and fading out like a dying picture tube, as his secretary’s voice
comes scratching over the intercom at his elbow.
With a withering glance to the phone, then back to the empty desk top, and
back to the phone again, he curls his fingers around the receiver and lifts
it to his ear… Within seconds of passing his fingertip over the white
pulse, his attorney is indeed blathering in one ear, but the voice is just
meaningless goblin chatter… Raphael’s attention has already drifted,
to the view of a much-advanced sunset over one shoulder. Within an hour,
it will be completely dark… If traffic is cooperative, he may have time
to get to the Sovereign… How delighted she will be to find us waiting
for her when she wakes …
|
He sees it all through the child’s eyes… without the spiraling phantom haze of dreams, or the leering, distorted perspective that is the hallmark of hallucination… he sees it all with precise clarity – every edge is outlined, every image sharp…
He awakes with a start, trembling from head to toe, and it takes a long moment and several glances around at the moon-washed furnishings to remember where he is. He has no heartbeat to steady, but his breathing is rapid, labored - an artifice, a habit remembered from the world of the living.
He is clearly searching for something.