|
The Production Number
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
BLOOD RED ROSE
RAYMOND GUERRERO, her condemned servant, a World
War II soldier recently pulled from the grave
SECURITY GUARD, a burly man in a brown uniform,
holstered gun, broad-chested, clean-shaven, with a vacant
expression that speaks of more brawn than brain
ELDERLY FEMALE CUSTOMER, a blue-haired old woman,
tastefully dressed in a crisply tailored suit that is a sign of
her affluence, carrying a miniature poodle in one arm
STORE CLERK, a short, weasel-faced man with pinched
features, narrow eyes, balding on top, in an elegant double-
breasted suit
THE GHOULIES, the chorus line; an ensemble of teenage
zombies, in cobweb shirts, velvet skirts, and witch boots,
with hollow eyes rimmed in black kohl, not a hair among
them that isn’t black, not a lip that doesn’t appear
bruised
SCENE ONE
Time: Summer, early evening. ROSE strolls down Rodeo
Drive, with RAYMOND scuffling along in tow. They pass
under the light cast by ornate street lamps, along a cobbled
sidewalk. Most of the stores are closed, but their windows
are still lit. ROSE is relaxed, smoking a cigarette as she walks,
hips swinging because of the height of her heels, one hand
tucked into the pocket of her trench coat. RAYMOND is visibly
agitated - his arms crossed at the small of his back, scowling,
etc. Both are wearing dark clothes, long coats, but the details
of their attire is not clear in the darkness.
They pass by a brass plate engraved with the name ‘Van Cleef
and Arpel’. ROSE takes a few more steps and sidles up before
the display window, peering inside. RAYMOND goes a few
paces past her, then catches himself and stumbles back to
her side.
Inside the window is an abnormal sight - the individual display
cases are lit but empty, tiny spotlights shining on the places
where priceless jewels should be. A few lights are still on in
the back of the store, and through the window, we can see the
STORE CLERK showing merchandise to his ELDERLY
FEMALE CUSTOMER.
ROSE turns and raps on the plate glass door with a single
gloved fingertip. The SECURITY GUARD jumps, turns, and
scowls at her, motioning for her to move along. She replies
with a cocked brow and a winsome, cruel smile.
RAYMOND:
(shifting impatiently)
So why are we here? I thought we were heading downtown?
ROSE:
(tracing circles on the window with her fingertip)
Oh, we are. Our final destination is still miles down the road.
The faint rumbling of a muted trombone is heard. MED.
CLOSE SHOT at the end of the building, movement in the
shadows.
ROSE:
But I’ve been away for so long. A little indulgence is certainly in
order.
ZOOM on ROSE. She turns to RAYMOND and flashes a
brilliant smile.
PAN to the other end of the block, where the GHOULIES
are creeping out of the shadows in a ragged line. The
music grows louder - a slow, slinky trombone wail.
VIEW on ROSE, who flattens back against the door and
glances over her shoulder, grinning.
ROSE:
(purring slowly, almost a drawl)
The French are glad to die for love
They delight in fighting duels
But I prefer a man who lives
And gives
(drawn out)
Expensive jewels
VIEW on inside of store. The pace of the music picks
up to a light bounce, and the CLERK looks up, annoyed.
The CUSTOMER scowls, and the GUARD starts towards
the door.
Before he gets there, the double doors are pushed in, and
ROSE enters with broad strides, RAYMOND and the
GHOULIES on her heels. She is wearing a strapless black
evening dress, hem to the floor but slit to the thigh, opera-
length gloves, her hair smoothed back at the crown and
tumbling to loose curls at her shoulders.
ROSE:
A kiss on the hand may be quite continental
But diamonds are a girl’s best friend
In time with the music, ROSE marches past the GUARD,
who spins in place as he watches her pass. She walks
to the first waist-high display case and smashes her fist
through it, turning away with a wicked laugh against the
spray of broken glass chips. She fishes around for a pair
of bracelets, thick and heavy with diamonds, and clasps
them around her wrists.
ROSE:
A kiss may be grand, but it won’t pay the rental
On your humble flat
Or help you at the automat
RAYMOND leans in the doorway and rolls his eyes.
ROSE marches on to the next case, picking up a plaster
head and swinging it through the top. The glass shoots
up like a fountain, and again she laughs.
ROSE:
Men grow cold
As girls grow old
(with a smirk)
And we all lose our charms in the end
The broken glass sparkles like jewels, almost indistinguishable
from the real thing. ROSE feels around and pulls out an
elaborate diamond necklace, peeling it off of its velvet pedestal
and draping it across her throat. One of the GHOULIES
obligingly steps forward to clasp it for her, and she smiles
over her shoulder.
ROSE:
But square-cut or pear-shaped
These rocks don’t lose their shape
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend
During the next musical interlude, the GHOULIES scramble
to the tops of the remaining display cases, carefully skipping
on the frames and avoiding the glass, kicking obstacles out
of the way as they begin a series of chorus-line styled twirls
and kicks. As she strolls in front of them, one of the
GHOULIES pauses and lifts a diamond tiara from its stand,
placing it on her head. Again, she glances back and smiles
wickedly.
ROSE:
I’ve heard of affairs that are strictly platonic
But diamonds are a girl’s best friend
ROSE taunts the GUARD, tapping a fingertip at the end
of his chin. He fumbles ineffectually with his gun, now free
of the holster, but she knocks it out of his hand and to the
floor. The GUARD scrambles after it, but suddenly RAYMOND
is there, in a tuxedo and black dress shoes, planting a foot
on the back of his neck and pushing his face to the floor.
ROSE:
And I think affairs that you must keep masonic
Are the better bet
If little pets get big baguettes
RAYMOND, holding the GUARD pinned to the floor, cracks
his knuckles and flashes a gleeful expression, as though he
is beginning to enjoy this sort of servitude.
ROSE moves on to the ELDERLY FEMALE CUSTOMER
and the CLERK. The poodle yips at her, but she snarls
back playfully. The dog scrambles out of its owners arms
and disappears under a desk. ROSE then tugs on the
CLERK’s tie and pulls him down, face first, into another
display case. The CLERK stumbles back, blood spurting
from his nose. ROSE reaches in and grabs a pair of diamond
earrings, clipping them onto her ears and shaking her hair
back.
ROSE:
Time rolls on
And youth is gone
And you can’t straighten up when you bend
ROSE struts into the center of the room, and the GHOULIES
file down from the display cases, to form a circle around her.
VIEW FROM ABOVE, the GHOULIES take hands and circle
clockwise. ROSE lifts her arms and face to the ceiling and
circles in the other direction.
ROSE:
But stiff back or stiff knees
You stand straight at Tiffany’s
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend
A sparkling chandelier begins to drop slowly from the ceiling,
hovering just above the center of the circle. Two of the
GHOULIES break from the still-moving circle and lift ROSE
onto their shoulders.
ROSE:
There may come a time when a lass needs a lawyer
But diamonds are a girl’s best friend
There may come a time when a hard-boiled employer
Thinks you’re awful nice
But get that ice
Or else no dice
ROSE is lifted and seated on the chandelier as though it
were a swing. She holds on with one hand and places
the other hand demurely in her lap as the chandelier begins
to rise again, and she takes on an expression of mock-
concern.
ROSE:
He’s your guy
When stocks are high
But beware when they start to descend
The sparkling diamonds and broken glass begin to pulse
brightly. ROSE smiles heavenward, a brief glint appearing
at the tip of one of her fangs.
ROSE:
It’s then that these louses
Go back to their spouses
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend
The shine blurs and bursts into solid white light.
ROSE:
(joined by a chorus of voices from the girls among the GHOULIES)
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend
FADE OUT.
FADE IN ON SIDEWALK SCENE.
ROSE and RAYMOND are back on the street. RAYMOND
looks confused. Both are back in their regular clothes,
ROSE in a trenchcoat over a tailored suit, her hair in a
tightly bound chignon, a wicked gleam in her eyes.
ROSE:
(snapping her fingers as she strolls away)
Come along now, Raymond. We have business to which we must attend.
The Barricade
Beverly Hills is an enclave of luxury in the center of urban hell, and the
step off the golden sidewalk and into the gutter is no greater a distance
than from melancholy into madness. A few short blocks finds our heroine (sic)
strolling along a nameless boulevard, one hand tucked in her coat pocket,
the other toying with a tiny, glittering bauble.
At every intersection they cross are whores so perfectly proportioned, with
skirts and heels so high, and lips so glossy red, you’d swear they were
actually women. A constant stream of traffic roars past in either direction
- for every Mercedes, there is a beat-up Chevy Nova, rumbling along on the
power of sheer will alone, crunching over ruts and paving that hasn’t
been repaired since the 1950’s, vomiting exhaust fumes into an atmosphere
already heavy with that magical combination of summer heat and industrial
sludge.
After a time, the cars become fewer and fewer. The ratio of broken street
lamps to working ones grows, and the boulevard becomes darker as they travel
farther into the black heart of the city.
This is the real Hollywood, a squalid few blocks where the rents are so high
and the class of patronage so low that the average life expectancy of a new
business is only a month – perhaps two if they aren’t robbed. Most
of the buildings are so old and cracked that when moonlight shines down through
the smog, they almost appear to be ruins of some lost civilization –
in a sad, sordid way, they are, relics of the days when the studios were
a part of the community, before they retreated to their penthouse offices
and left the rest of the city to rot on its foundations.
Behind the veined stucco walls of old apartment houses, aged harlots who
still dream of glamour shamble around in their marabou mules and too much
makeup (big rouged lips and raccoon eyeliner) to hide the bags and lines,
smoking Virginia Slims and praying at their shrines to Marilyn Monroe.
The contrast in their postures is marked – Rose walks proudly as always,
her chin lifted and her strides broad, her eyes curiously eager and excited,
but Raymond slinks along in her wake, struggling to keep up with her though
his legs are nearly as long. He gazes at his surroundings through narrowed
eyes, shifting back and forth as though trying not to see. He recognizes
this street from a time when it was dazzling and clean, when the avenue was
filled with the roar of convertibles filled to overflowing with starlets,
their lemon-drop curls tumbling in the breeze, sunshine smiles
dazzling…
Their wanderings take them past a liquor store. The only truly bright light
on the street is spilling through that open doorway, looking freakishly out
of place as it pools on the sidewalk. The men milling around the entrance
hover just at the edge of the light, hiding their faces as they lean back
to puff on cheap cigars. Every one wears a slightly altered version of the
same derelict’s uniform – wife-beaters with stains under the arms
and down
the front, hanging loose on slouching backs, and baggy pants bulging from
hands shoved into the pockets. Like pack hounds, they cling together in the
shadows, their hushed mutterings lifting onto the air the stench of stale
beer.
One by one, they straighten as she approaches, and the first one to whistle
sets off a round of baying and catcalls. In a mob, they move out onto the
sidewalk – pack hounds – not quite obstructing her passage, but
making it clear that they could. The shortest of the men – the one with
the most to prove – breaks away from the pack, circling around behind
Rose and makes an obscene gesture. It’s a coward’s trick –
an attempt to violate her dignity without her knowledge – and he glances
past her, looking to the eyes of his friends for approval.
"Yeah, you go right on ahead and screw with her, buddy boy," Raymond rasps
under his breath, laughing a little, and almost hoping that Rose has eyes
in the back of her head, and that the little worm gets what’s coming
to him – not out of any sense of honor, mind you, but of the sick sense
of greed for bloodshed that resides in every soul, the natural cruel curiosity
that makes us slow down for auto accidents and stop, transfixed, to watch
a man being beaten on the streets and not make a move to help.
No such luck. He is delivered the satisfaction, though, of seeing her meet
the threat in their posturing with a wry grin. She slows, but barely, her
brow rising at the same languid pace, and begins to circle in place, surveying
the men with lazy up-and-down glances. As though deciding them an unsuitable
snack, not worth the waste of her time, one corner of her mouth turns a little
farther upward. With an arrogant sniff, she tosses the jewel that
has been her plaything – the earring bounces from the short fellow’s
forehead.
The diamonds glint in the darkness like a miniature Roman candle, unmistakable
in their purity as they tumble in slow motion to the sidewalk. With hardly
a moment’s pause, the men dive after it – pack hounds fighting
over a piece of raw meat – and she strolls right through them, motioning
for Raymond to follow. From somewhere among the shouts and grunts of brawling
dogs comes the crunch of a spiked heel into bone, and the subsequent shriek
and unintelligible foreign cursing that follows, but she isn’t even
aware of the sound, nor of the even louder bellowing, as one of Raymond’s
boots also grinds over a set of clutching fingers.
"So when are you gonna tell me what this is all about?" Nervous notes are
scattered across the timbre of his voice, giving a slightly nasal twang to
the otherwise dusty tongue. With the exhilaration of near-conflict behind
them, his mind has reared back to the situation at hand, and the frigid woman
walking just ahead. On any other man, it would sound like congestion –
but everyone knows that the walking dead don’t get colds.
"And why should I tell you anything?" she deigns to answer, making it clear
with the chime of her laughter and the insistence of her pace that she still
regards him as little more than a beast of burden, far beneath her notice.
"You’re my workhorse, Raymond – you’ll do what you’re
told when the time comes."
It takes a few moments for the comment to sink in, for the newly re-fired
synapses to connect and the barb to entrench itself firmly in his mind. But
when it does, his face immediately contorts with anger. The diagonal scar
reddens, the rest of his complexion blanches, and his lips puff in and out
as he struggles for the words to retort.
He chokes on any comment that he might make, however – there really
is nothing he *can* say. He has about as much choice in the matter as a
marionette has in which way its strings are pulled.
They walk along in relative silence for a few moments more (relative because
the faded sounds of the city are punctuated by his huffing, which grows more
infrequent and slowly dies away), but then, like a child with the eternal
‘Why, Mommy, why?’ on his lips, he speaks again.
"Well, you could at least tell me why you need *me* along – you seem
like a woman who can handle herself."
Her shoulders quiver slightly with a chirp of smug laughter, but she is otherwise
silent, and if anything, her pace becomes more insistent, forcing Raymond
to take larger strides.
"Hey, at least it’ll make for scintillating conversation." He goes slowly
over the word ‘scintillating’, as though his dust-coated tongue
is having trouble wrapping around all the ‘L’s’.
Her feet keep moving, and she is a long time in finally answering.
"Good point."
As the words slither past her lips, her steps slow, and she turns her chin
up, perusing the doors and doorway arches as they pass.
"I brought you here… because I could."
His derisive snort is lost on her, but not the scoffing "Oh, yeah, that explains
a lot…"
The clicking of her heels snaps to silence – a silence so sudden that
Raymond springs back a pace, bracing himself. As she glances over her shoulder,
attacking him with nothing worse than a withering glance, he releases a sigh
and sinks into his usual slouch. And when she swivels back, returning to
her distraction, he finds a little bravado and straightens up.
Smirking to her back, he barks a little louder, "But why me? Why not the
poor schmoe in the plot next door?"
"Because the gentleman next to you had already moved on. And you were easy
to spot." Absentmindedly, still admiring the doors and arches, she begins
to trace numbers in the air with just two gloved fingertips. "The damned
fairly radiate…" At that, she turns to him, her eyes aglitter with the
best kind of cold sarcasm, that accompanied by a saccharine smile.
"…and you, my dear, were lit up like a Vegas casino floor."
She breezes on, her footfalls keeping cadence like a lazy funeral drum.
"But I can’t see why you should complain. It’s not as though you
were going anywhere. And traipsing around with me must be vastly more
entertaining than lying in a musty hole for the next half-century."
Instinctively, he smirks again, this time with a barely perceptible tightening
in his shoulders.
"It’ll freeze like that, you know," she purrs, without bothering to
look back.
"Huh?"
"Never mind."
"Yeah, yeah… so I ask again – where are we going?" This last question
is emphasized with enormous hand gestures, as though adding a little drama
to his impatience might finally convince her to answer.
"Just…," she coos, dismissing him with a flourish of digits,
"…down…," her forearm rising, her index finger extending to point,
"…there…" Her brows draw together in a childish pout, and that
arm falls back to her side.
"…Oh."
She eases to a stop again, this time propping a hand at her hip as she stares
a few feet ahead, to a barricade of striped saw horses topped with garish,
blinking orange lights. The barrier stretches across the sidewalk, all the
way to the edge of the street, and a line of wooden planks have been dropped
in the gutter to form a makeshift walkway. For nearly the length of the next
city block, a tangled trellis has been slapped together, erected to
bar pedestrians from the abandoned storefronts that line this side of the
street.
"Red Line construction? Keep out?! Ha!" Crossing her arms beneath her bosom,
she tosses her head back, so violently that the chignon nearly looses
itself.
"What in Pete’s name is a Red Line?"
"I’ve no idea – but what I need is just beyond that
barricade…"
"And what is it that we’re seeking beyond said barricade, your most
gracious highness?" Sarcasm has truly taken hold, as he salutes her with
an exaggerated, mocking bow.
She’s far too perturbed to reply with the belt to the chops that she’d
*like* to give him, and instead glances aside, shooting him a warning look
twice as scathing as the first.
"How would you like to spend the next century as a scarecrow hanging in my
garden? I think you’d look charming in a straw suit, covered in bird
excrement… crucified on a stone cross in the courtyard…"
He replies with a burst of brave laughter, but she doesn’t bother to
notice, turning back to scowl at the barricade as the sound fades to mere
nervous twittering.
"Soil. I need soil."
"Dirt?? That’s it?!? Why can’t we just take –". Raymond sputters
his frustration, lifting his arms in another big gesture, and glances around
at the street, just then taking note of all the surrounding concrete surfaces.
"Never mind," he grumbles, his arms falling so that his palms slap against
his thighs. Defeated, his shoulders drop into a slump, until he is struck
with a sudden sense of indignation that draws them up again. "Why couldn’t
you
just –"
"Because it was hallowed ground, you oaf. I’d never get a minute’s
rest."
What she means, he hasn’t got the first clue, but he gets the feeling
that he *should* know, and whether he does or not, the decisive tone of her
voice makes it clear that she’s given him all the answer she intends
to give. Feeling more than a little foolish, he shoves his hands into his
pockets, and his whole body sags. Still, he maintains a little pluck, a little
spirit, and mutters ineffective curses under his breath as he shifts
restlessly,
watching her for his next cue.
"Hmph…" Her hands are at the taper of her waist again, this time curled
into fists, and the ball of one foot taps impatiently as she narrows her
eyes on the warning sign. "How dare they attempt to lock me out… How
very rude…"
Loftiness wins the day, and with her nose in the air, she adopts a bored
expression (placid but for the fact that her fists are still curled at her
side) and stalks towards the barricade.
It’s a few seconds before Raymond stops stewing and picks up on the
fact that she’s moving again. When he finally does, his steps are hurried
as he stumbles to close the gap, and by the time he reaches her, she’s
already shimmied her skirt up over her knees and begun to climb across (oh,
yes, there are easier ways to get through, at least for her, but none that
expose the tops of her thighs so provocatively).
Behind them, the curb is packed tight with cars, metal boxes with barely
an inch of breathing space between each of them – Los Angeles is not
notorious for its parking shortage for nothing. Most of them are distinctly
unappealing, shabby sedans in shades of sand and avocado, and each one as
forlorn as the next and distinguished by unique scrapes, dents, and rust
marks (the footprints of time marching over their hoods).
Unnoticed by either of them, though (she was too busy checking out addresses,
and he was engaged in a vain attempt at trying to argue with her), sandwiched
between a Skylark and a salvaged Cadillac, is a polished Rolls Royce, in
a gunmetal grey buffed so hard that it is almost black. Until this moment,
this car has been lifeless, just another piece of refuse in the gutter, and
perhaps that’s why they never noticed it.
The first of Rose’s ivory legs curls over the blockade (startling a
passing driver with a flash of milky thigh and lace garter), as she pauses,
straddling one of the saw horses. In precisely that moment, a rear passenger
window of the Rolls hums down, and a cigarette butt is flicked out, exploding
into a delicate shower of firework sparks on the sidewalk, flaring to brilliance
for a few seconds, then dying with a sigh.
A hand appears on the windowsill – tanned, manicured, with the slender
fingertips of an artist, unblemished and without callous one, the elegant
hand of a modern-day aristocrat… A well-timed beam of moonlight glances
over his knuckles, for a fraction of a moment illuminating a gold band as
it perches on his index finger; diamond chips set in the shape of a small
crucifix send another spark hissing into the darkness, and then the hand
recedes, and the window closes again with little more than a faint electric
buzz.
It's all about the savage passion at the core of human nature, for her…
a breed apart, by design and machination, her chill blood nonetheless runs
rife with the heat of human passion… time and heritage have dictated
her faster, stronger, more durable than all the rest of mankind, and her
hungers both reduce her to the level of mere animal and elevate her to the
playing fields of the gods, for no mere mortal ever moved through the world
with so ravenous a carnal appetite, cravings and demands that have lain waste
to entire tribes of souls and made scrap of what innocence has dared to stray
into her path…
Why else would she go to so much trouble over a few handfuls of dirt, if
not for sex? Sex is what moves the world, and in this respect, Rose is no
better or worse than the rest… Rather than live to feed, she feeds to
live, and the blood feast, for her, is merely a means to an end, the fuel
to feed the fire to keep the engines running to keep the limbs moving and
the senses purring and the desire simmering and to lead her on to the next
erotic conquest, the next sweet morsel of sensuality…
But passion does not equal love. Never mistake her for human. Just watch
your back, and remember what she lacks…
Tell Me A Little Something About Love
Daylight, see the dew on the sunflower
And a rose that is fading
Roses wither away
Like the sunflower I yearn to turn my face to the dawn
I am waiting for the day
Steel grates across cement, one of her heels catching on the worn and broken pavement, as she scrambles over the barricade and under the awning, away from the watchful eyes of a city street and into the shadows that make the night a much darker place. A car passing by whirs in harmony with her sigh, and she crosses the sidewalk, closing the distance with just two broad steps to press herself flat against an empty store front… Her palms slap open against the window, to the tune of a hollow reverb that sings volumes about the vacancy inside, and the buttons down the front of her suit jacket squeal misery, protesting the close quarters, until at last they free themselves and fall away, and the curves beneath a liquid silk blouse make love to the glass…
She hadn't realized, until now, with her cheek pressed to its cool surface, how muggy the air has been, and the glass offers intoxicating relief. Again she sighs, and this time her voice mimics the ease of a contented child. Her eyes, too, drift closed as gently as a toddler's, but that sense of peace remains otherwise elusive in the map her features make of her psyche – her mouth is curdled into a disturbing, giddy smile, and the tips of her fangs are just beginning to peek out onto the cushion of her lower lip.
The ghosts of past prizes filter through her, steeping her in memories sweet as a thousand cotton candy carnivals, screams like blood-laced taffy in a place where gluttony is sold from a glass jar on the confectionery counter… A moan, the first stirrings of arousal, whispers from between her lips and is carried away on fallen angels' wings, taking the recollections with them to dissipate on the night air. Memories such as these are best savored, relished in small doses, in selective measures… She would never actually return to make her home here, but the flavor of what she has enjoyed in this den of iniquity lingers like a saccharine aftertaste on her consciousness…
Like delicate moths' wings, her eyelids flicker open, and burning behind a fringe of sable lashes are the embers of madness; to anyone who knows her it's a familiar sight, those emerald lenses turned nearly to black by the sudden onslaught of extravagant hunger that is the hallmark of her breed.
The lunacy does not begin to melt out of her gaze until she has circled fully around; quite a lot of that dangerous greed remains as she turns to face Raymond. Rather than look directly at him, she writhes back against the glass, brushing her body across it with the languor of a lazy cat, then lifting her eyes slowly, and her chin soon after, so that she is placid, proud, and inviting all at once.
Just past her shoulder, the glass is slightly yellowed, maybe from age and exposure, maybe from the little bit of lamp light that leaks in from the street; the jaundiced cast lends an uneasy crude quality to the arch of lettering that remains. Most of the characters have been partially rubbed out over time, but the words are still legible through the skips and breaks. Fat crimson letters edged with burnished gold, with thin black scorch lines on the inside where the name was once also traced in neon, spell out "Black Corona Tattoo Emporium", and just below that, in much smaller type, appears the phrase "Est. 1985".
Now Old Deuteronomy, just before dawn
Through a silence you feel you could cut with a knife
Announces the cat who can now be reborn
And come back to a different jellicle
life
Something pensive flashes across her features in that moment – something almost haunted, and certainly somber, that tugs at Raymond's sympathy. Not that he had a choice anyway, but he shuffles forward willingly, almost eagerly, limping over a crumbled spot in the pavement along the way, and when she gestures for his hand, he offers it. Clearly, this place has a lot of meaning for her, and the experience of being here is taking a lot out of her, so as much as he may resent his captor, he can't help but feel a little tender concern…
Rose pretends tenderness, too, of course (and how much practice she has had at this game), taking his hand in hers and closing gloved fingertips around his wrist, brushing the tops of his knuckles with the kiss of leather, and meeting his eyes with feminine yielding… even allowing his hand to glance across her waist, permitting the most brief caress…
The softness in her eyes is replaced by needle-thin cruelty just a split second before the tug comes; her fist tenses around his, and with a delicate hiss, she snaps his hand past her hip, slamming it through the glass behind her.
Raymond, overtaken by surprise, lurches forward without a protest, and the momentum brings him flat against her torso… but what could be a pleasant experience under any other circumstance is made repulsive by the playful twitch at the corner of her mouth, as she does her pitiful best to hide a smile and stifle laughter… and then the shards of hurt arrive…
Pain waltzes arm in arm with the sound of shattering glass, traveling up his wrist and shooting through his knuckles while a rainfall of silver needles and pebbles of music dance on the pavement… shining chrome bells… Rose's laughter… crimped sterling wires slicing through the sky, striking so quickly that it's almost as though they never touched down at all, but rather were there all the while, only waiting for a flash of back lighting to illuminate them…
When the slivers have settled, and the pain receded to a dull throbbing, Rose flattens her palms at Raymond's shoulders and pushes him away, with a healthy thrust, a toss of her head that nearly unbinds her curls, and an exaggerated smirk of indignation.
Memory, turn your face to the moonlight
Let your memory lead you
Open up, enter in
If you find there the meaning of what happiness is
Then a new life will begin
The old glass was brittle, and the blow has left a gaping hole in the lower part of the window, large enough for a person to walk through, and so she does just that, turning away from him and bending a little at the knee, to crouch as she passes.
Rather than follow immediately on her heel, Raymond takes a moment to stop and examine the cuts across the back of his hand. In the dim light from the street lamp, he can see only torn skin and exposed flesh, and at least one broad opening where he can look in and see that his bloodless hand is deep purple on the inside, the color of jarred beets, nearly blue with lifelessness… and for all that he has seen and done, for all the atrocities he himself has committed, for all the wartime horrors he has experienced firsthand, this particular sight fills him with revulsion…
"Have you ever shown even a shred of kindness, to anyone?" he calls after her, his voice quavering with something of that little-boy fear masquerading as anger and bravado. "Or cared about anyone at all?!" Screwing his face up in a mask of frustration, that with his scar resembles nothing so much as a childish pout, he shoves the damaged hand into one of his pockets and forges ahead, ducking below the jagged edge of the glass and plunging into
the darkness.
Reflections from the floor provide the only light for the room, and with so little light to speak of, the place is awash in phantoms - dusty chairs and blemishes on the walls and scars in the vinyl flooring take on the shapes of demons, the stuff children's nightmares are made of. Cracks in the plaster trickle down from the ceiling like so many cobwebs - to be sure, at least some of them are actual cobwebs, but the difference is impossible to make out. The dingy brown water marks that creep across the ceiling could be blood stains, and anyone familiar with the history of the Black Corona might, in fact, question their origins.
But the most eerie feature of this little shop is the silence. One might not have guessed the walls to be so dense, or the glass to be so soundproof, but once past the threshold, the subtle noises of the street are completely obscured, leaving the senses free to focus on the musty odor, the stench of abandonment...
"I was that weak once."
Her voice ushers out of a shadow, and Rose blossoms from the darkness as though she were made from it, her curves taking shape in a black silhouette far darker than the pitch of the room.
"I had a heart, when once I was mortal," she coos, advancing towards the center of the room with a few careless, swaying steps. The tone of her voice is breezy, distracted - other sights and sounds (memories of the room which only she can see and hear) are fighting for her attention, and as she glances about, her eyes flash electric with excitement. "I knew love, and I've no doubt that it was genuine, but that was in a time far past, and so it hardly merits discussion now."
Memory, all alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again
She is poised beside a closet whose door stands slightly ajar; the closet is empty now, but on one fateful night, perhaps a decade earlier, Bradley's body had been found there, along with the bowling balls and the janitorial supplies, folded in half like a road map and stuffed upside down behind the old rain coats, with his head left to rest in his lap...
Bradley had not been a particularly dear friend, but he was, by virtue of his cursed blood, a part of the same brotherhood that counted Rose among its members, a fellowship devoted solely to seeking the continued survival of its members... and Bradley's murder was the final assault in a year-long siege by the Top Hat Society, the graceless, vulgar league of Malphader's minions who made a mockery of their namesake by bathing themselves in the blood of the damned... Their insult this night was double - not only had they killed Bradley, but to sneak into this sacrosanct territory and leave his body there, where his comrades would find it, was twice the effrontery - Malphader was snubbing his nose at them, reminding them that they had lost, and that he could go where he pleased, even across their most sacred thresholds...
The vampire hunter Malphader Paganini, Rose had always thought, was more monster than those he stalked. He destroyed undead of all kinds, not just the blood sucking variety, operating under the pretense of doing good in the world. But he stole just as many as he exterminated, imprisoning them for his own twisted tortures and games, and so, like so many who profess to do good, he was a hypocrite, using piety as a shield to hide his evil.
It was the last time the shop had been alive (odd, that, given that its occupants had been dead for years, many of them for centuries)... Mikey and Don perched on stools on opposite sides of the room, one heavyset, the other painfully thin, both swathed in wreaths of smoke from their cheap cigars... Charlie smoking like the little fiend that she was, sitting Indian-style in a corner, surrounded by ashes and dozens of cigarette butts, mascara running from the edges of her hollow eyes... Pandora nervously pacing the floor, muttering curses at an absent Thomas and declaring it certain that all this was *his* fault... and Rose leaning against the wall, beside the very same closet door, absentmindedly studying her nails...
They all wanted to run, all but Rose. She wanted to stay and fight, but how could she have done it alone? If the others were determined to leave, so too must she go...
And in spite of their despair, in spite of their panic, all of them like had the look of vultures in their eyes, hovering around Bradley, trying not to show the hunger that the smell of his death had aroused, trying to deny that, for all their so-called fraternity, they were still just carrion feeders, every last one of them...
Burnt out ends of smokey days
The stale cold smell of morning
The streetlamp dies, another night is over
Another day is dawning
Blinking a few times and clearing her throat (to shake off the distortion of an illusion out of time), she props gloved hands at the small of her back and eases towards the rear of the room, farther away from the street and the light. Her chin plucks up, and again she glances in every direction, apparently searching for something.
Raymond, through the duration of her musing, has proven himself useful, digging
around beneath the counter to produce a scrap of metal bar and the remains
of an old rag. Darkness may be to *her* liking, but even as a doomed creature,
he's better suited to moving around in places where he can actually see what
he's walking into.
"That was someone else, that woman who knew love," she continues, oblivious to Raymond's puttering. With a heavy-hearted sigh, she lifts one of her palms to the wall and begins patting down the plaster. "When I look back now, I can only watch her from the outside, as though she were on a television screen... I don't even remember what it felt like to be her, not anymore..."
>click<
Orange light flares from the Zippo in his hand, casting a glow that lends warmth to the room for just a second before blazing much more brilliantly, as the rag goes up in flames. Hearing the sizzle-pop of fire, Rose wheels sharply around. Her gaze narrows, and her shoulders draw up with tension, but other than to eye the torch warily, she does little more than bristle at the offense of flame so near.
"Let's go," she hisses, watching him carefully as she props one hand high on the wall and gives it a push. A seam in the plaster that had been carefully concealed before now reveals itself, and the wall seems to fall away, opening up like a gaping mouth bubbling with tar and pitch.
Daylight, I must wait for the sunrise
I must think of a new life
And I mustn't give in
When the dawn comes tonight will be a memory too
And a new day will begin
"You've got the light," comes her saccharine crooning (lies, all lies), "so why don't you go ahead and lead?" The suggestion is punctuated by a pert quirk of her brow, along with the sudden tilt of her smile into sweetness and innocence, and she takes a step to one side, ushering him ahead with a sweep of her forearm.
"Oh, yeah, great," he scoffs, taking the first few cautious steps. "How thoughtful of you, sending me in there first... What am I, a one-man scouting party?" His words reek contempt, an effrontery that only wins him a smack to the back of the head.
"As a matter of fact, yes," she chirps, adding a blow to his shoulder for good measure. "Don't worry - there's nothing down there that bites. At least nothing that bites as hard as I do."
Raymond is so busy rolling his eyes at the remark that he misses the first of a series of steps; one foot slips on the edge of a rung, and after that, it's a comedy of errors as he skips down the next three, spinning into the wall, his free arm flailing as he attempts to grab on to the hand rail. Finally careening to a stop about halfway down the staircase, he leans back against a bank of cold gray masonry, rubbing one knee and wincing as he lifts the
torch.
Rose titters at the sight - normally, she might laugh with more zeal, but she, too, is occupied. As she alights after him, her footfalls on the metal staircase are almost a funeral knell, leading her with much somber pageantry into the sanctum below the tattoo parlor. And so they descend the spiral in silence, he bitter with more than his usual annoyance, she lost in thought.
Maybe she knew love once, but now, in this moment in time, her heart feels like granite, leaden in her breast and useless but for an anchor to weigh her down. Occasional twinges of tenderness may pluck at her, softening the stone, but never breaking it, never cracking that shell.
Sunlight, through the trees in the summer
Endless masquerading
Like a flower as the dawn is breaking
The memory is fading
The stairs only go down two flights, and as they reach the bottom, Raymond gestures ahead with his torch so that lurid shadows leap up at the sides of a long, brick-lined hallway. Smells of old oil and grease, and the pervasive odor of emptiness, permeate the air, adding considerable weight to an already stale atmosphere. The shadows leer and stretch their ghastly reach across
a row of three red doors; once fire-engine bright, their paint is peeling
now, flaking away to expose layers of rust. Their pitted surfaces more closely
resemble diseased orange skins than steel... but while the doors, and where
they lead, inspire a mild curiosity in Raymond, they are of absolutely no
concern to his benefactress...
Of course there have been exceptions, spikes of warmth that have managed
to puncture the ice and melt small nesting places for themselves... James,
her pet, her darling, her most charming Favorite, who would likely never
know how much she cherished him, since her affection could only take the
form of games, and her games were so cruel... and Baghiira, a sister in the
most surreal sense, the one who always made her feel like a child, the only
one with whom she had ever felt comfortable enough to discard her dignity
and *play*...
She breezes past, nudging his elbow and jogging the light by a few degrees
as she moves by. The typical languid serpentine of her steps has been tightened,
refined; the sway of her hips is not nearly so pronounced as she clips along,
and the murmur of an absent-minded song is counterpoised by the staccato
thrumming of her heels. Passing the doors without so much as a glance aside,
she plunges deeper into the corridor, past the point where brick gives way
to earthen wall, where the darkness is so thick and alive that it seems to
close around them in its malignant embrace, rendering Raymond's makeshift
torch pathetic and useless...
Other cancers have taken root in her affections... inventing fables, inventing
stories all woven with the most beautiful silken threads of falsehood to
woo her, until the drapery of pretty lies was dropped between her eyes and
reality, and like backstage parasites, they leech her strength, feeding on
her devotion, turning all the dials and knobs and pushing the buttons (pay
no attention to that man behind the curtain)... obsidian eyes, and his body
had been her own private house of worship... and then the eyes turned to
gold, and the soul as black and mean as the rotting belly of a whore overturned
in a gutter and long-dead...
She pauses before a final door, this one of oak with bands of dutch gold
across the top and bottom, their dull gleam somehow refusing to reflect the
torch light to any significant degree. Where a lock should be, there is only
a lump of brass tarnished to drab brown by years of neglect. Inhaling deeply,
so that the flesh of her full bosom rises and strains at the seams of her
blouse, she reaches for the handle... and leaves her hand to rest there a
moment... leather-clad fingertips curled over the knob, listless and expectant...
Suddenly nostalgia turns to bile in her throat, acid on her tongue, and
bitterness burns in her breast... and that kind of betrayal, that's why,
that explains it all... and as she thinks about it, she can feel her heart
hardening by further degrees...
Touch me, it's so easy to leave me
All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun
If you touch me you'll understand what happiness is
Look, a new day has begun
~ Song lyrics from "Memory", from the musical 'Cats', music by Andrew Lloyd Webber and lyrics taken from Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats by T.S. Eliot, additional material written by Trevor Nunn and Richard Stilgoe
Flesh Idols
The darkness that has so veiled their approach turns hostile, smothering all light and extinguishing Raymond's makeshift torch as they take the last steps towards the door. A duet of gasps fills the blackened corridor - one of shock and surprise from Raymond, the other a hiss of pure pleasure that ebbs away to join the gentle moaning of a hallway draft.
That blackness is but brief, however, and with a dainty grunt of effort from
Rose, the hinges begin to creak. Where the door parts from its frame, a sliver
of mercury appears, spilling through the opening and cascading over the toe
of one of her shoes; while not precisely light, it is at least *less dark*
than its surroundings, and burgeons into a gaping chasm, through which the
outlines of a cavern are barely discernible in the gloom beyond.
One by one, like flashbulbs popping, candles crackle to life throughout the
crypt, on high walls and floor stands, illuminating the vast vaulted ceilings
and giving some indication of the depth of the underground chamber as it
travels back into the heart of the earth - but a thick shroud of cobwebs
hanging over all mutes the light to a dull watercolor glow.
There is a room in Rhy'Din modelled after this very chamber, but this place
now is a dull predecessor. Everything remains just as she left it, with some
of the furnishings draped in sheets, some clearly defined by their silhouettes
as broad-backed chairs or chests or trunks, and everything is carefully preserved
in a thick coating of dust that casts the linens in a shade of pale dove
grey. A carpet in the center of the room is barely recognizable as being
the color of aged wine, but it, too, is blanketed in dust. Otherwise, the
floor is composed of hard-packed soil that melds seamlessly with the walls.
They, too, are of hewn earth, still displaying the claw marks from when the
chamber was gouged from virgin terra firma. One side is bare, but for the
pairs of tethering rings implanted at shoulder height and stretching into
the darkness; on the other side is an indentation in the shape of an "X"
as tall as any man, with bolt holes left behind where the infamous contraption
was ripped from its post in haste.
"So what do you think of my home?"
The words are silken smooth, but Raymond, lulled into senselessness by the
sight before him, jumps, startled, and his shoulders quiver in concert with
the vibrato of her purring; in the instant when his jaws snap together, he
realizes for the first time that he has been gaping.
Without waiting for a reply, Rose strides briskly into the room - and is
instantly transformed, her pallid features taking on a surreal incandescence
(though evidence of moonlight having breached the barricade of earth is nowhere
to be found). She is reborn as she crosses the threshold - in truth, she
only looses her chignon and strips off her jacket, discarding it carelessly
on the floor behind her, but her posture straightens dramatically, and whether
it is her chin, so proudly lifted, her eyes wide with longing, the smile
that stretches to such malevolent proportions, or merely a trick of the looming
shadows, she appears to grow as though her modest heels had sprouted an extra
few inches.
One step, then another, and a pirouette carries her into the center of the
room... laughing, laughing with a child's glee... dancing, spinning (arms
outstretched to catch a flurry of bleeding rose petals tumbling across the
camera's eye)... everything happens so quickly, even in the vacuum of time
brought to a crawl... some crazed ballet takes her round and round... the
air is changing, grainy now and infused with the musk of lovers long dead,
sucked dry... dessicated... her spinning slows, her laughter winds down to
a growl like a vinyl record being turned backwards... buoyant curls drag
across her shoulders, her arms fall around her hips, as she wheels to a stop
in slow motion, and as she fixes her attention on a particular corner of
the room, her upper lip curls back over the pearl tips of fangs...
Raymond makes out the shape of a vagrant in the shadows, and it seems an
eternity, swimming through the molasses that time has become, to bring a
'Nooo' bubbling up to form on his lips, and when it does, the word spreads
with that bizarre slow-motion sluggishness, a word become taffy, stretched
out over his vocal chords and crawling through the air like syrup...
It's a boy, probably once sweet-faced, the roundness in his features apparently
having been leeched away by starvation so that his skin is like rice pastry,
his expression shapeless, and the hollows around his eyes tinged with blue;
cracked, dry lips hang partly open, though whether or not he draws breath
through them cannot be readily seen. Perspiration mats thick auburn curls
to his forehead. He looks to be no more than seventeen, though street dirt
tends to add years, and so perhaps he is younger. His jeans are torn in
unfashionable places, and he wears a filthy t-shirt of faded purple, with
shredded sleeves and unidentifiable stains down one side; the sole of one
of his Vans is flopping loose, and on the opposite foot, his toe pokes out
through a hole in the top.
Wedged between two draped chairs, he rests with his back to the wall, his
legs resting on what appear to be his only possessions - a worn backpack
and a scuffed skateboard. Judging from the vacant look in his eyes, one might
also guess that the spent syringe is his...
The cry of protest is still stretching from Raymond's throat and just beginning
to taper off, when she reaches the boy... click, click, click, cicadas on
a warm summer's night... it could be her bones, or her nails, or even the
gnashing of her teeth - the candle that so obligingly lent its light to
illuminate the boy has just conveniently decided to turn away, and now the
darkness obscures all but the most blatant sights... quick as that, she's
on him, her limbs wrapped around him, enveloping him (wire entangled, meshed
in the gears), so that all Raymond can see is the boy's face over her shoulder,
as he wakes with barely time to register the shock (and a voice whispers
into Raymond's ear, remarking on the passive obscenity of a mask so serene,
so peaceful, but wide-eyed and lucid)...
...he had not meant any real harm, only as
much as a boy of fifteen can intend when sneaking onto the local forbidden
property, and on a dare by friends (who remain outside the gates, out of
harm's way, home and safely abed just after sundown, the traitors)... but
what cares she for intentions, cushion-silent and lacking the lyrical clink
of coin or even the crinkle of paper...? ...wander into her path (never mind
that the path is tiled with candy-coated illusion, sugary to the taste and
tempting to all manner of careless children), trespass in *her* dominion
(never mind that the house itself tosses out baits of sweetmeats and the
perfume of promise, lures like clawed hooks on invisible chains), and suffer
a pleasure far greater than death...
...and now he is bare but for a loin cloth of butter-soft leather, his skin
dough-white and clinging over his rib cage (you're in it for sure, now, boy)...
his limbs tremble nervously (butterfly wings newly emerged from the shell,
weak, slick with inexperience)... swathed in fear and exposure, he looks
more like a child than ever, a child king in his crown of thorns, the wreath
biting into his forehead and gouging out holes, spilling precious droplets
of crimson over his brow and sending it running into his eyes (dumbfounded
with shock) to mingle with the tears (pity him)...
...the rich scent of blood, heavy on the air... a thick soup seasoned with the perfume of roses... roses blooming, peeking from crevices in the wreath... mocking him with their kind
perfumes...
...chain grates, link on link, whining in protest as his outspread body begins to rise from obscurity, into the spotlights illuminating the rafters... arms stretched out even with his shoulders, head lolling to one side, he is dazed but not yet deceased (his eyelids still bob lazily in time with the unsteady transit towards the ceiling)... light spills over his limbs, exposing more of the abomination - palms flattened against the arms of a wooden cross, pinned down (a mounted insect) with iron spikes as thick as a man's index finger, ankles crossed over one another, feet nailed down in similar fashion... the creaking of the pulley chain lifts him higher and higher (towards ascension), as a beam of filtered light from above casts his halo, most exalted martyr that he is, and indeed, the cherubim and seraphim join in a whispered chorus...
o fortuna, velut luna / statu variabilis / semper crescis, aut decrescis / vita detestabilis / nunc obdurat, et tunc curat / ludo mentis aciem / egestatem, potestatem / dissolvit ut glaciem
...a groan of protest, weak and half-hearted (useless and he knows it), is lost somewhere in the haze at the edge of the light surrounding his spectacle (burning up in the atmosphere), withering to a vacant hush in time with the fading grinding of chain into silence... miserable silence... a silence pregnant with anticipation to provide the backdrop for angels' song...
sors imanis, et inanis / rota tu volubilis / status malus, vana salus / semper dissolubilis / obumrata, et velata / michi quoque niteris / nunc per ludum, dorsum nudum / fero tui sceleris
...the blade flashes up and back down into the darkness again...
...still...
...until a red line, needle-thin, appears across the boy's ankle... his anguish is just as slow in surfacing, as though, for the first few moments, he is not even aware that he has been cut (is such a thing possible)... the trembling, tickling in his throat swells and rises, surging into a rip curl scream, and the red line widens, and the neat little stripe loses its clean edge as rivulets of blood begin to spill in pandemonium over the top of his foot and around the side, clinging desperately to his sole, until gravity wins and the crimson spirits are released, falling away from the light and into the darkness below... one can only hazard a guess at the goings-on down there... the excited hiss that issues from that darkness... distorted goblin squeals and the chattering echo of pixie laughter... a gasp of excitement and the low, barely audible moan of arousal...
sors salutis, et virtutis / michi nunc contraria / est affectus, et defectus
/ semper in angaria / hac in hora, sine mora / corde pulsum tangite / quod per sortem, sternit fortum / mecum omnes plangite
...snicker-snack, the knife flashes again, this time taking the other ankle in a ragged line, tearing open the skin and the artery beneath it, so that blood sprays out like a champagne fountain... on cue, the spotlights begin to rotate, trailing down the boy's tortured body, showing with picture-perfect clarity the blood that has crusted around the holes in his hands, and the fresh sanguine that continues to lacquer over the top of it, building ever greater layers of gloss-red, as he struggles with futility... and down, down over his his rail-thin legs, the scene is repeated at the top of his feet...
...was the music there before or was he too stunned to notice or did she hide it from him until the moment was ripe... industrial machinery pulsing and gears turning and oil throbbing and demons screeching slow and grinding a stripper's beat... a sharp edge from the darkness flies across his chest and leaves the anger welling, spitting, spilling down over his abdomen, soaking into the loin cloth, and rolling down the insides of his thighs at breakneck speed... the knife goes the way of the shadows, but a pair of hands appears from below (cursed claws, razor tips), reaching up to worship the golden calf...
...arms writhing ivory serpents alive from Medusa's crown teeming and he shivers from the
cold, his skin gone frosty white and nothing left to keep him warm as he bleeds from the eyes and tilts his red-rimmed mouth to the heavens to crow his anguish dripping down a shower she dances in drunken Dionysian revelry, intoxicated on his gift she too turns her lips to the sky to form a cup to catch the drops on her tongue pretty little copper drops spinning round and
round...
With a clatter that bursts the cavern's silence like a brick through plate glass, the now-useless torch falls loose to the floor, its components rolling to a stop against the far wall - Raymond follows soon after, dropping to his knees and clutching at his temples in a desperate attempt to claw out the images that have invaded his imagination, pictures of inhuman carnage that can only be a gift from his hostess (tunneling through his brain like
so many worms on fire).
Does the scene truly repulse him, or does it only remind him of the depravity of his own crimes? He tries to speak, to cry out, but his tongue seems to have turned to putty in his mouth, the muscles refusing to obey his commands, and all he can do is gape in horror as Rose rears back. In that moment, he catches in profile the macabre appearance of her once ladylike features, the lower half of her face blanched porcelain but for a trickle of wine that runs from the corner of her mouth to the edge of her chin, the sparkle of her teeth, the few drops of blood that have splattered onto her shirt sleeve. The boy, in sharp contrast, is drained of color, drained of life.. his few pitiful possessions will belong to the rats now...
Raymond fights back the impulse to retch and nearly loses; his stomach spasms, but just at that moment, as though she knew, Rose snaps around, and a pair of emerald razors bore into him (those damnable gemstone eyes that both scald men's souls and freeze them to quick), daring him to show such temerity, to defile her home... and so he swallows back the bile that wells up, burning his throat as it goes down, and turns his head away, to avoid looking, to hide his face in shame, to hide from the waves of illness that wash over him again and again...
What is the law?
No spill blood
What is the law?!
No spill blood!
Who makes the rules?
Someone else
Who makes the rules?!
Someone else!
Home Sweet Home (Angellus)
When the battle stopped
And the smoke cleared
There was thunder from the throne
And seven Spanish angels
Took another angel home.
A shadow in the darkness bent down and silently picked up the relinquished torch from against the wall. Neither Rose nor Raymond noticed his arrival. Raymond was too busy kneeling on the chill earth, trying to keep down his 50-year old bile. Rose was preoccupied with enjoying an unexpected snack.
This is not to say that he assumed that his arrival was unexpected. Angellus stood in the smothering darkness of the pitch corridor outside the dimly candlelit room and quietly observed the scene. He drank it in like a chilled Sangria. He not only saw what Rose did to the kid who was in the proverbial wrong place, but he felt what Raymond saw through his damned eyes. The imagery at once puzzled him and enthralled him. But overall, it disturbed him. That Raymond would have such imagery over the event -- was it his perception or Rose's torture for her pet?
What is the law?
No spill blood
Now that the boy is dead, Angellus regrettably has a job to do. This, he decided, would be the appropriate time to make his presence known. He held Raymond's dead torch in his right hand, lifting it up, outstretched. With a slight squeeze, the torch flamed to light. It burst with a perfect white light, and seemed to glow with the light of the sun, rather than a typical blue-trimmed orange. The light it projected acted as a beacon. A bright white light for the boy to follow.
Who makes the rules?
Someone else
The spirit of the boy stands erect from the lifeless shell, seemingly like those cheesy double-image special effects that Hollywood is famous for. When illuminated by His light, observing eyes could be fooled into seeing that. The translucent form walks past Rose, without casting her a glance. While he was frightened of her moments ago, he knows no fear now.
As the apparition nears Angellus, he does not see the ragged boy in tatterred clothes. He sees a healthy lad clothed in brilliance. The ghost stops and Angellus finally speaks, "I cannot guide you on your journey. But you will not be alone. Take this torch, it guide you along the path you must follow. Tell St. Peter I said 'Hi' when you see him."
Angellus then passed the torch like this was a Holy version of the Olympics. And as soon as the boy grasped the torch, the light was gone. So was the spirit of the boy.
Now Angellus was alone with a dangerous vampiress and her nauseous ghoul companion. No one spoke. At last, to cut the silence, Angellus finally said, "I guess 'there's no place like home', Rose." He half-chuckled then said, "You don't call, you don't write."
He smiled as he walked casually, yet carefully deeper into the room. He turned to read her emerald orbs as he awaited her response.
˜~ÅngelluŠ~˜
"And seven Spanish angels took another angel home..."
-- Willie Nelson, "Seven Spanish Angels"
(Rose)
The euphoria of blood intoxication trickles out of her consciousness with all the haste of molasses on a midwinter's evening, and she rises at much the same pace, swiveling and craning with a serpent's ease. Her eyes, sleepy and turned down at the corners, swim with the bliss that comes seeping only from a life extinguished - she savors these moments, lapping lazily at the last few drops that decorate the blush of her mouth (glistening rubies in the candlelight), and when they have gone, her eyes narrow to slivers, and her tongue winds across her upper lip, in a brazen harridan's greeting to the newcomer.
A smile of dubious design flickers across her features as she saunters forward, one hand at rest over the swell of her hip, the other reaching across to stroke Raymond's shoulder in passing. 'There, there', her gloved hand whispers, but a subtle cicada clicking, the playful gnashing of her teeth, casts a cloud of sarcasm over the soothing gesture.
"And do you suppose Saint Peter will welcome him...?" she chirps, with a cant of her chin and a questioning lift of her brows. "Or perhaps slam the gates in his face, once he smells the burning, acrid stench of damnation branded onto that boy's soul?"
So she hasn't been oblivious to the goings on, however the stolen blood may have filled her with billowing clouds of high... Casually, and with a dismissive flourish of fingertips to stop the comment about to form on Raymond's lips, she strolls across the floor, to the side of a distorted, sheet-covered lump that rises just to her waist.
"It'll be amusing to find out, won't it?"
The cooing laughter that burgeons on her lips then is genuine, and like a child at play, her fingertips twitter over the surface of the shroud, nipping and picking at dust-covered cotton, finally selecting a corner and plucking the fabric away with a great show of melodrama. While the sheet goes its own way, to haphazard heaping on the floor, the dust goes another direction entirely, forming a cloud that seems to target one person in particular...
Strange, there didn't seem to be any sort of draft wafting through the room... but poor Raymond, long-suffering and constant, with his lungs already so caked with graveyard powder and metal filings, suddenly finds himself caught in the haze, and if he wasn't going to speak before, he certainly can't now - he's too busy hacking up what passes for phlegm among the recently un-departed.
Untouched by either the dust or Raymond's pitiful situation, Rose fairly glows, her smile blossoming with impish glee. As she swivels once more to face her guest, her hands smooth over her hips, then come to rest, palms down, on the edges of a steamer trunk papered in travel stickers, with leather strapping that looks as new as the day it was purchased. The shapeless mass beneath the sheet, it would seem, is only a pile of hemp rope, coiled in a rather haphazard manner atop the chest.
(Angellus)
Angellus walks around the chest, marveling at the multitude of travel stickers adorning the steamer trunk. He ponders whether the chest is meant simply to cart the earth from this place, or if it is to transport Rose as well during daylight hours. It is obvious why she needs Raymond now... a lackey to move the chest. That part of his mission's riddle is solved. But Rose will need to open the portal back to Rhy'din at the end of the journey. What will she do with Raymond then? And why choose such a damned one as he?
As he walks, he says, "That boy I sent off is not damned... as opposed to Raymond here. If the boy had not tasted of your blood, he will be allowed entry to his Reward." As he reflected upon the Infinite Mercy, he said, "From personal experience, I can tell you; He is a forgiving God."
By now, he had walked full circle around the trunk and had ended up directly in front of the magnificent beast before him. No, he would never relegate her to the level of a beast. She is above that. She is above humanity even. And as an angel, he feels closer to her than to Raymond or any human. But an angel, she is not. Fortunately for her, she is no Demon, either. She is Immortal, a special kind of curse. The curious kind which often masquerades as a gift.
He turns to address her directly, "It will be interesting to find out what shall happen when you reach the Gate. I hope I will be the One to take you there when your time comes." He smiled a wicked smile and continued, "But that day is long off from here. And of that, I can assure you. The question I pose, which may be rhetorical, is do you regret that news or enjoy it?"
|