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(Rose)
"The question I pose, which may be rhetorical, is do you regret that news
or enjoy it?"
Never mind that it would do no harm to answer plainly - she is never such a simple creature as that, and volleys back his question with another, no doubt launching into one of those endless games of catch-as-catch-can...
"But the real question is this: do you regret imparting such news, or take pleasure in it?..."
She favors him with a coquettish grin, then, like the proverbial kitten who's just finished a saucer of milk (answer carefully, the voices whisper, what will your god think of the reply?). Not quite seating herself so much as slithering backwards into a pose on top of the trunk, she curls one leg smoothly over the other, as though they had always belonged in that position, and looks past Angellus, to where her minion awaits.
Raymond is by this time curled up in a corner, resting on his haunches and nearly fetal with his head in his hands; his complexion is sallow as he recovers from the nightmare montage of scenes that has just gone flickering past his mind's eye, bracing himself for the next snuff film marathon scheduled to take place inside his head (the letters hanging on the marquee are crooked and mis-matched, and his watch stopped decades ago, but he feels somehow certain that there will be an encore performance some time before the evening wears itself out).
But Rose's perusal is as tangible as a thousand spiders creeping over his
skin; when his chin snaps up to attention, his lip is curled in derision,
and when he meets her eyes, his are hissing and angry, hers a cold
challenge.
"You'll find a spade back there," she purrs matter-of-factly, floating a
forearm and gesturing behind her, and then, with a careless flutter of
fingertips, "Somewhere."
Almost grateful to be allowed out of her presence for a few moments, Raymond
lifts himself to his feet in a hurry, but the ever-present grimace remains
as he trudges towards the back portion of the cave, soon after to be swallowed
by darkness. His sour expression disappears into the gloom where the candlelight
doesn't quite reach, but his footfalls can still be heard, as the treads
of ancient combat boots shuffle through the soil.
Rose returns her attention to Angellus, just then, draping one palm, then
the other, over the top of her knee, and adopting her most confectionery
smile.
At a sudden 'clank' and an 'oof!' from the shadows, she glances briefly aside,
and her smile widens and darkens by barely perceptible degrees - but only
for a split second, and then she is back to her guest as though nothing were
amiss, back with that somewhat vacant attentiveness in her eyes, as though
she were hostess at a cocktail party and dutifully mindful of her company
(but you can tell by the void in her eyes that she's thinking past him, to
the next martini awaiting in the kitchen...)
(Angellus)
"For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns..."
-- William Shakespeare, "Hamlet", Act 3, Scene 1
"But the real question is this: do you regret imparting such news, or take pleasure in it?..."
She volleys back her question? If she only knew
how hard she spiked it. Shocked by the delight she derives from the topic
at hand, he stares into the seductive depths of her emerald eyes, searching
for... something.
He decides to sit down, in the dirt in front of her, as if to impart that
he's humbled. But he isn't giving up. Not on the battle of posers. Not on
her. He's digging in for a good lob now. So he hopes.
He starts, "To be honest, I personally regret telling you that you should
suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. To die. To sleep, perchance
to dream. ::dramatic pause:: Ay, there's the rub. Truly, I regret to tell
you what dreams may come, will not come to you. Not for a long time."
"And yet, I take pleasure, in letting you know that your time on this earth,
or even Rhy'din, is not over. It all depends on what you choose to make of
it. Who you choose to love. Who you choose to use," as he nods in Raymond's
direction. He continues, "Who you choose to use you."
"I was not always an emissary angel. A shepherd to Death's door. I was an
angel of mercy, once. Sort of worked for Thanatos and Euthanatos. My point
is, and I do have one... I know you have suffered. I know you have lived
well. I know you shall continue to enjoy your 'life'. But I know life is
hard. And you must wonder... I know you do... what this immortality of yours
has truly given you."
"So, to ask of you another question, if I may..." He clears his throat before
he enjoys quoting Shakespeare's finest, "To be, or not to be?"
(Rose)
"Hrmph. He speaks trifles." Her fingertips flicker out like so many wriggling spiders' legs, and she whispers aside, as if she were giving a running commentary to the shadows.
"To be or not to be." That velvet voice is fairly steeped in cynicism, and much like the arachnids they imitate, her fingertips crawl into the air, until her hand reaches to just above eye level, and turns, her palm curling as though she cupped poor Yorrick's very skull in her greedy leather clutch.
"Don't quote Shakespeare to me," she chirps, her expression all gaiety and innocence. "The man was as poor a lover as he was rich in poetry, and I'll be for as long as it pleases me to be."
Diva through and through, she finishes with a toss of her curls, and her curvature begins to rise. The individual movements that elevate her are barely detectable in the shimmer of candlelight; she flows more like oil through a lamp, with none of the stilted motions through which mere humans must suffer.
And suddenly, abruptly as that, she is standing atop the trunk, her heels planted firmly in its wooden top, her feet at shoulders' width, gloved hands stubborn at her hips, in the stance that declares, absolutely, that she is ready to get down to serious work – or at least to watch someone else do it for her.
"Raymond," her silken tongue calls, "enough loitering, enough dawdling." Slowly, slowly, her sweet words are infused with stinging vitriol. "You're a grown man, of at least average intelligence. Surely, you didn't think that I meant for you to linger back there in the shadows. Surely, my dearest Raymond, it could not have escaped you that I meant for you to fetch the shovel in order that you might *do* something with it."
Oh, the look on his face when he emerges from the darkness behind her – as though he would slam the bell of the shovel across the back of her skull, if only he could reach, and if only he had the will, if only his own urge to hurt her didn't laugh at him from behind a barrier of misplaced remorse...
...another, younger voice murmurs over his senses, cooing and sighing, and as Rose pivots like a music box dancer on her stand, the darkness slithers over her features... somewhere in that sliver between shadow and light, the face of that young French girl emerges, then is gone... that split-second is all it takes to erase the hostility in his eyes, and paint him docile, penitent, once more...
"You can start digging in that corner behind you," she croons, with a nod. "And you can rest when you've enough to fill this..."
With a genuflection so deep that it can only be mocking, Rose bends as though she were swooshing an imaginary cavalier hat, plumed and broad-crowned, before her. As she sweeps low, she gestures downward, towards the very trunk atop which she stands.
(Angellus)
"Don't quote Shakespeare to me," she chirps, her expression all gaiety and innocence. "The man was as poor a lover as he was rich in poetry, and I'll be for as long as it pleases me to be."
As she finished her commands to Raymond from atop her steamer chest, Angellus appeared behind and whispered, "These are not trifles that I speak. But truths. I'm glad that you finally answered my question. But may I remind you..."
As he stepped in front of her, he was cloaked in dusty black. He appeared in the visage of the Grim Reaper. Two firy orbs were all that were visible under the hood. As he continued to speak, his voice echoed, "you'll be for as long as it pleases others as well."
A bony hand stretched out and pulled back the hood to reveal a blanched skull, weathered by time and elements. Another hand, perfectly healthy in appearance, picked up the skull -- separating it from its resting place. Like something out of a "Ded Bob" show, he mocked, "Man, have I got a splitting headache."
Before her eyes, another hand grabbed at the cloak and threw it away like a magician's screen and revealed Angellus dressed as before, yet glowing from some unseen spotlight. He turned to face the skull and said, "Alas, poor Rose... Where be your jibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?"
With a comic swish, he tossed the skull aside and turned to speak to her again, "We are cousins, you and I. You wear your humanity like I wear my halo. Fallen, but not lost. You wield death like a toy, when it should only be a fuel. A necessary evil. Indeed, you are Necessary. But you needn't be evil. I collect death like that boy earlier. In many ways, you and I are related."
A seriousness she has yet to see in his eyes emerges as he whispers, "Fifty years ago, it was my pleasure to collect Raymond's. I'll be back to collect his again. I hope to collect yours -- when it pleases you."
With that, he smiles. He bows his head, and with a flourish of his hand, the spotlight disappears. With the loss of light, so leaves Angellus. His visit is over. His mission is not.
Down the Rabbit Hole
It's curiously quiet for a Hollywood night... the stars are all in stasis, motionless pin pricks on a field of black, awaiting
the arrival of some magnificent event to set them into play.
That they can be seen at all is peculiar enough – most nights would
find this sky thick with soot, so thick that only the occasional winking
diamond is allowed a glimpse through, to turn its gemstone gaze on the cold
streets below.
Just once, a translucent shaft of light, milky thin and barely there, muted
as it is by the fluorescent haze of street lamps and neon, passes through
the cluster of stars. It trespasses on their peace a moment, then is gone,
leaving them to stir as though in the wake of a gentle breeze.
It's a suspiciously quiet night, indeed - so quiet, in fact, that the sound
of a Rolls door opening screeches like nails down a blackboard, sending a
shudder of foreboding into the silence.
Perhaps it is the lateness of the hour that makes this corner of the city
so still. A far-off siren bleats helplessly in the background, fading as
quickly as it came, and since there are no crickets to liven the urban landscape,
all falls to hush once more. The thugs are abed, the winos long since passed
out in gutters and muddy alleyways – at so late an hour, only trouble
can be afoot.
That trouble first takes the shape of a shadow, the outline of a broad-shouldered
man as it looms across the pavement, dark corners of the silhouette finding
purchase in the rubble and cracks of the neglected sidewalk.
Next to come is an expensive Italian loafer, emerging from the dark hull
of the Rolls and landing with a disdainful sigh at the edge of the curb.
Its brother follows soon after, and with a moment's discreet hesitation,
the car door closes. This time, the sound is just a whisper, hardly enough
to disturb the night's tranquility.
And the journey begins.
Carefully plotted steps are made to appear casual, incidental, by the clean,
flowing lines of tailored pant legs. Manicured hands thrust into Milan's
most costly pockets further the illusion of nonchalance. If there is any
cause at all for ease, it is that he knows the way, but that he has walked
this path before is reason for concern. His stride is full of purpose and
sharp with caution, no matter that his posture says otherwise.
The gilt lettering, faded as it is, acts as a beacon - he can see it glittering
anew, past the shadows of construction awnings, and for a moment, he can
see the last time he set foot on this particular stretch of
street...
It was broad daylight (the best time), and he still had gore on his hands when he walked out into the sun, but he wanted to revel in the moment, relish his triumph... He lifted his stained hands to the heavens, making an offering to God of the sinner's blood... The sinner who found his final rest in a broom closet, with his head in his lap, waiting there for the sun to set and awaken the others...
He sidesteps between a pair of saw horses (attitude dictates that he must not make a show of climbing over the barricade). Funny, he can still smell the blood - it teases at his nostrils and excites his senses. It's there, as tangible as if it had been mixed in with the cement or used to paint the graffiti on the alley walls. And it stinks like old blood, earthy and stale
- no memory was ever so vivid. But, then, no memory was ever so fond to the heart of Malphader Paganini.
"But we'll make new memories, Rose and I," he seethes; his voice is a hiss of stale air, just an undercurrent to the prayers that babble through his brain (but the prayers are always there - they are his walking soundtrack and they guide him through every moment of every day and he wields them like weapons, twisting them to justify himself, contorting them to make his actions right, at least in the eyes of the Lord...)
(Glory to God in the highest... and peace to his people on Earth...)
Were he anything but what he is, he might recognize the hypocrisy inherent in his bloodthirsty exultation. But because it is the blood of demons, the blood of killers and the blood of the damned after which he lusts, he rationalizes, his greed is in the name of almighty God, and for the greater good of mankind...
(The blood of the new and everlasting covenant... It will be shed for you, and for all men, so that sins may be forgiven...)
He slinks towards the broken window, and when he arrives, polished fingers trace over the lettering. He allows them to linger, allows himself time to soak up all the pain, all the memories of sweet, vicious pain that he brought to this place... In the light from the street, a cruel and disturbing half-smile emerges - his lips are curled down at one corner, as he struggles with his glee. Just to be certain, he pats himself down, checking his coat pockets for a few vital items... The flask is there, the gun is at his hip, the wood and the gold and the icons and the rice... all there... and when he has satisfied himself, with a nod, he ducks through the hole and disappears into the pitch... down the rabbit hole...
(He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead... and His kingdom shall have no end...)
(Angellus)
The sound of silence in the streets is almost deafening. The quiet is disturbed by the emergence of a man from the Rolls below. Angellus is perched atop a lightpost like a bird of prey, his trenchcoat flapping in the light breeze above the street. Above the line of incandescent light, Angellus is well-hidden.
"Malphader Paganini," he whispers under his breath. Angellus is well-versed in this vampire hunter's exploits. His particular history with Rose makes him a dangerous man to be here tonight. Angellus is unaware of his plans, but can already sense the forboding stench of death-to-come. Perhaps he should hang around a bit longer.
From his crow's nest, of sorts, he watches Malphader enter the tattoo shop. Once Angellus is sure that he will not be discovered, he exhibits gymnastic skill as he tumbles into a perfectly silent dismount. A far cry from his graceless stumble earlier.
Landing exactly within the boundary of shadows behind the lampost, he waits in silence to confirm his stealth. Once he is ensured of his lurking, he slowly walks over to the Rolls and kneels down to sit against the rear end of the vehicle.
Looking around again to be sure he has not been observed in his cloak and dagger pursuits, he reaches into his trenchcoat and begins to fish around in the inner pocket. Triumphantly, he pulls out a rather large unripe banana. Almost perfectly straight, it could almost be mistaken for a tropical plantain fruit by sight.
He suppresses a giggle as the scene from "Beverly Hills Cop" plays in his mind -- "We're not gonna fall for a banana in the tailpipe." He proceeds to stuff the firm, green fruit into the exhaust pipe of the exquisite automobile. It seems almost a shame to pull such a sophomoric trick on a vehicle this beautiful, but that doesn't stop Angellus. He snickers as he confirms that the banana is securely ensconced in its new hiding place.
He considered slashing the tires or something more destructive yet effective to immobilizing the well-to-do-Hunter. But that would be wrong, and Angellus has to use restraint. Practical jokes that can be just as effective, however, are perfectly acceptable means of "measured interference".
Satisfied in a job well done, Angellus leaps back to his perch atop the streetlamp and continues his silent surveillance.
(Rose)
She does, indeed, pause a moment on the angel's departure - but only for a moment. Captured on celluloid, she freezes in mid-bow, with one arm at the small of her back, the other still curled in a broad arabesque. When the three so suddenly become two, her features hint at being unsettled – a frown appears, only to be quashed in its infancy by a toss of those insolent inferno curls.
And then it's on about her business, as though her encounter with Angellus had had no impact at all.
"The sooner you finish, the sooner I'll let you leave," she goads, crossing her arms below her bosom and turning to where Raymond stands gawking (tharum, tharum, tharum... the fingertips go rolling along her upper arm).
He's found the shovel, it seems, and with the business end burrowed a few inches into Rose's floor, he is supporting himself on the handle, staring slack-jawed at the empty space that the angel once occupied. Gone is the cynicism in his expression, and in its place, a lonely, forlorn hope flickers behind the dead black of his eyes as he shifts his gaze to the point in the ceiling at which the lights of the young boy's disembodied soul disappeared.
"Wha-... who... who was that?" he gasps, his voice light and airy, like a child wistfully dreaming as he stares at the unattainable treasure trove through a candy store window.
His maudlin tone turns Rose's features sour, and her succulent mouth draws up at one corner, into the tightest of sneers. "Revolting," she mutters, careful to send the word out on a breath, and to keep the sound far below human hearing level.
Tart and stinging, her tongue lashes out, "It was no one about which you need be concerned." With a flourish of gloved fingertips, she winds one hand up into her hair, combing through her curls and then shaking them out; the gesture somehow provides the opportunity for her to turn her chin up and her nose into the air. "Best that you don't think about it," she continues, her tone softening to a lyrical whisper, as she plays a little at being maternal and soothing. She pauses for one beat, then two, as her whisper echoes and winds out to intertwine with a passing draft... and then the whip cracks again, sharply, as cruelly as if the statement were actually a leather strap coming down across his brow.
"Because it won't happen."
Her manner isn't particularly fierce - it's more in the way she erases all his dreams of redemption with so plain a word as "it", and the smooth confidence with which she assures that his hopes of heaven will never come to fruition. It's that stone cold certainty that makes him believe it.
Crestfallen, he slumps forward against the spade handle, allowing his hands to slip down the shaft, and a rasping like sandpaper follows his sigh the way of her whisper and laughter, all of them becoming one with the hollow, faint wind that echoes through this chamber. The scar across his face contorts and tightens down like a corkscrew as he focuses on the floor, and as he hefts the shovel out of the earth and glances around for a place to start digging, a child's pleading joins the ghostly chorus...
Mais non, monsieur... mais non...
...and then is gone, but not without causing his shoulders to curl forward, bringing an unnatural hunch to the shape of his back as he rams the tool into a corner and embarks on the task at hand. Towering above him, from her post high atop the trunk, Rose watches Raymond with a tight smile, her lips pressed together as though to prevent any of the arsenic of jealousy from leaking out. No one should inspire such reverence in her drudge - no one but her. But she can top it, and reclaim his attention, if only with a show of wrath and the teasing, cutting wires of memory that she knows plague him.
Flexing her thighs and loosing her arms from the stranglehold they have kept
about her waist, she leaps from the top of the trunk, landing with a crunch
as her heels dig into the earth below. She is firm on solid ground for a
twinkling of a moment, barely long enough to be captured by a camera's eye,
and then, with the strained leer still cemented to her features, she flies
to the side, lunging at the trunk with arms outstretched and a low growl
of frustration rumbling in her throat.
Amid a swarm of rising dust, the ancient chest topples to its side, falling
with a roar that resonates through the cavernous chamber and continues to
echo long after the dirt has settled. The impact knocks the old lock loose,
and while the chest is still rocking into place, settling on worn straps
and hinges, the lid flies open, revealing just what one might expect to see
- an empty container, that seems all the more barren for the remnants of
a rust-stained brocade liner that hangs in rags along its inner walls.
She draws herself up to her full height, making a stellar recovery to poise
and placidity, her shoes pressed neatly together, hands clasped primly before
her waist... and with a smile as though angels had settled down about her
shoulders and bathed her in celestial light (never mind that it's a lie...
it's always a lie...).
But no matter how saccharine her expression, no one could mistake her meaning
as one hand unwinds from the other's gentle embrace and rises on a cloud
of ether, one leathern fingertip extending, stretching towards the empty
box. Her features never change, but the gesture somehow renders them menacing,
in spite of the candy-coated mask she wears.
Raymond has already built a small heap of soil, some two or three shovels
full; when he turns to regard her, with eyes leveled in suspicion, his typical
wry sarcasm is back in place, and his mouth is twisted in a smirk, hiding
the scar at one side in the pucker of wrinkled skin. He takes the moment
to rest again, propping the shovel upright with his elbow, and looking for
all the world the part of the hired ranch hand as he crosses his ankles one
over the other and swipes at his forehead with the back of his hand (a token
display - the dead have never been known to perspire).
Rose sashays forward, her malevolence growing sweeter by the moment - or
is it her sweetness that grows more malevolent? Her hips roll, and suddenly,
her legs are each miles long, stretching with the languid ease of a jungle
cat on the prowl... and her stroll is accompanied by the ghost of a lonely
saxophone player on some French Quarter curb at midnight, crooning out Harlem
Nocturne, every soulful, succulent note timed perfectly to mark the rhythm
of her sway...
Gazing pointedly at him, her features frozen in tranquility, her fingers
begin to work, creeping up the front of her blouse with spider subtlety -
and for every step she takes closer, another button falls victim to those
nimbly working digits, so that folds of white satin fall away, revealing
the full curves and shadows of cleavage, and just a hint of lace trim at
the border of all that bounty.
He may be dead, but even Raymond knows a good show when he sees one - he
isn't even aware (but she sees it - ah, there's the hook) that his
mouth has dropped open, that his eyes are glazed over (reel him in, baby,
reel him in).
Her chin cants forward, and a sudden draft causes her hair to flair up from
the temples - she chooses that moment to peel the blouse back, so that when
the flame locks settle again, it is on the smooth satiny surface of bare
shoulders. The shirt falls away like so much tissue, to reveal not the withered,
wrinkled body of a woman 600 years plus, but the ripe, ivory curvature of
a young woman in the bloom of health (save that her complexion is just a
shade this side of death).
Beautiful Dreamer
...candlelight peels summoned down clay-coarse walls, fingers of iridescence touring in leisure over every inch of exposed skin, a chatelaine at her waist, loosing the clasps of her underthings and kneading the small of her back (sweltering shiatsu kiss), catching the pretty playthings as they fall away, gentle to cushion their descent to the soil-thick floor... beeswax smoke joins in the cobra dance, tugging down the zipper at the back of her skirt, weaving through a pair of silver rings...
...doumbek rhythms on Turkish dunes she stretches up on her toes, long legs
taut, beatific smile in place while Bedouin fingers click together cymbals...
spine curling writhing hallelujah free of fabric constraint cymbals clinking
arms above her to embrace the back of her head and play in the shaken puzzle
of curls... weaving fingertips through with plated rings and crusted coin
belts one two one two bead rattles shaking... glint of metal piercing, spark
of delight from the tip of one pearled fang...
I thought that you knew it all
Well you'd seen it ten times before
…wailing chanting woman and crying birds… The last of the
clothing falls away, leaving her alone in a pair of silk stockings the color
of richly tanned skin smoothed in coconut oil …writhing like a serpent
standing on end, while the snake charmer breathes a mournful tune rippling
up through a dusty Baghdad bazaar at dusk and ivory curls up out of the
basket…
And rose perfume swells from her pores.
I thought that you had it down
With both your feet on the ground
But Raymond is the charmed one, mesmerized by the gaze she levels at him
- he has seen those emerald eyes many times in the few short days of their
acquaintance, but this is like ice slivers carving through the marrow, the
worst of a bone-chilling winter's wind making short work of his resolve,
and, too cold to move, he is pinned in place …lepidoptera on the
mad doctor's table, his arms stretched like wings, his viscera turning itself
inside out, proof that even when the blood stops flowing and the heart stops
beating, the most primitive instincts yet remain…
I love slow ... slow but deep
Feigned affections wash over me
…the air around her silhouette shimmers, all the outlines blur; watercolor
spills over dusk, and before his very eyes, she melts away – in her
place (one mirage to supplant another) is a spectral bathing beauty, with
platinum and gold creeping out from her scalp, swiping over the red to frame
a cherry-blossom smile, dimpled cheeks and lips like maraschino
heaven…
Dream on my dear
…smoke falls from the ceiling to wreath her tresses in a halo of slate grey that quickly becomes a chiffon scarf, and cat's eye shades form over her eyes, and then she is the covert operative, international woman of mystery, the whole of her curvature obscured by the outlines of a translucent trench coat …
And renounce temporal obligations
….the costume dissolves over the downy cardigan contours of an adolescent girl, barely grown, the shorn waif washed clean in innocence then rouged with dangerous curiosity, knee socks short pleated skirt patent Mary Janes and lopsided pigtails, suckling a lollipop and facing Raymond with a kitten's smile…
"*This* is what you like, isn't it?"
Dream on my dear
It's a sleep from which you may not awaken
Honey-coated laughter shakes Raymond loose from his fantasies, and the particles of illusion disintegrate like a sprinkling of fairy dust all around her. Lurching forward, he knocks the shovel over into the small heap of soil, then trips on the wooden handle as his foot catches on it; he falters a few steps forward, catching his balance and steadying himself, and looking up just in time to see her exposed back, peppery ringlets tumbling halfway down, and a buff-bare derriere.
Elusive and playful, the candlelight seems to draw away at her command, deliberately obscuring the rest of the view, so it takes a moment of eye blinking and listening for the sounds of creaking wood to realize that she is bent forward, rummaging through yet another old trunk.
"Now is no time for a break,", she snaps (it was the eyes in the back of her head), her sharp tones tinged with a cruel sort of mirth. "You haven't earned it just yet."
(don't stop don't stop don't stop never ever stop)
You build me up then you knock me down
You play the fool while I play the clown
We keep time to the beat of an old slave drum
Chagrined by his own clumsiness, Raymond collects himself quickly and dusts off, retrieving the shovel with a pointed jerk of his wrist – the scoop end grates along the ground, effecting a wince that cuts through the glare in his eyes. But no matter how flustered and aroused he might be, he's also deeply offended by the manner in which she hands down her mandates as though they were part of a game.
"What do I look like, a trained monkey?" he wisecracks.
She whips around, lashing fire-kissed curls through the air, glancing over one shoulder and fixing him with a look both pure and haughty, knowing that she holds all the cards, lips slightly upturned and pursed as though she were holding back a tempest of giggles - oh, how she does enjoy this goading.
(and he knows in that moment, too, that what he intended as sarcasm is woefully close to truth)
You raise my hopes then you raise the odds
You tell me that I dream too much
Now I'm serving time in disillusionment
Gradually, though, her look softens, and her gaze turns slightly down, in
that coquettish bedroom angle. Still intent on his features, she props her
toes on the edge of the foot locker and begins to peel one stocking down.
The intensity in her eyes could melt iron, a burning contrast to the whisper
of gloved hands against the bare white silk of her inner thigh, where she
allows her fingertips to linger many moments beyond propriety.
I don't believe you anymore ... I don't believe you
"Not another inch until you get back to work." Her tone is playful, but the glance is a hard, scolding reminder to him not to pause in his efforts.
It hardly seems that it should matter, as she is already nearly nude, but
somehow, the challenge of that last bit of silk stocking becomes the most
important thing in the world, and with an expression near to a smile, a sentiment
approaching giddiness, Raymond lifts the shovel and stabs into the earth.
I thought that I knew it all
I'd seen all the signs before
Just beyond her, a glint of sparkling ruby catches his attention, but he
disregards it and throws himself into the digging; like the sound of bones
crumbling beneath the consequence of stilettoed heels, metal crunches through
soil, as the shovel becomes an appendage, and he rapes the earth with his
bladed phallus.
I thought that you were the one
In darkness my heart was won
Rose lifts her toes in a dainty arch and peels the rest of the tawny silk
away, tossing it into the shadows, then turns her head, a phantom smile trailing
behind her as she lowers one leg, props the other up, and fixes her attention
on the second stocking.
You build me up then you knock me down
You play the fool while I play the clown
We keep time to the beat of an old slave drum
Raymond's internal pistons are churning, his energy drawn from an inner coal
furnace, fueled by the promise in her eyes… hunger bellows through his
veins, howling for the one thing in the world that can sate the demon appetite
within - to see the last shred of stocking stripped over the end of her foot,
leaving every curved inch of flesh exposed to his scrutiny, a dessert
to crown the flesh feast, to render the ivory banquet complete.
You raise my hopes then you raise the odds
You tell me that I dream too much
Now I'm serving time in a domestic graveyard
Undulating a serpent ballet, she surges upright, her spine curling and
straightening (gilded caravan wagons, painted fingertips and piper from
lofty stone spire calling down the prayer to mecca) so that her tresses
descend to swoop low between her shoulder blades; shoulders poised, she cocks
one knee, resting it on the edge of the locker, and rifles through her locks
once more with gloved fingertips.
I don't believe you anymore ... I don't believe you
The shimmer of slick plastic rubies and latex shining bright with gore catches
the light again – a swatch of something lustrous red lifted from the
trunk and hanging over the back of her other hand. Raymond's internal sigh
of frustration is almost audible. And so he digs. And digs and digs and digs
- anything to quell the stinging poison fire and pump it through his system,
anything to ease the tide of tension that threatens to petrify his muscles
and… (keep moving, keep moving, before she snares you in her thrall
and you can never move again)
Her legs curl forward, one at a time, her hips roll (doumbek patter, thrumming
hollow fingertip rhythms on ceramic bowls and tanned goat hide), her
buttocks swing back and then forward again as she steps into the suit, and
he can only see the shadows, but with the arch of her back, her bosom swells
and falls, and a few silver sparks jump from the darkness, winking reflections
from a flamelit metal fixture on the wall she faces – Raymond devours
it all, though the sight is like venom spreading through his veins, paralyzing
his own flesh, choking out of him the will to do anything but her bidding.
Never let it be said I was untrue
I never found a home inside of you
Never mind that her seduction is subtle, veiled in darkness and only intimated
by the promise of a canted shoulder, occasionally by the curve of a breast
half-revealed as she squirms into the suit - the curve of her back is Hellenic,
her skin could be marble laced through with the finest rose threads, and
the protest of latex on latex blends with the screech of metal zipper teeth
in a deviant symphony.
Bewitched, his engines already fired with nitrous, his muscles pump beneath
the uniform jacket, and he only pauses a moment when his tie swings in the
way, tugging it loose and wrenching it from around his neck, tossing it
carelessly aside, then plunging the shovel back into the earth…
pumping… driving… drilling… penetrating…
Never let it be said I was untrue
I gave you all my time
His nerves are on fire, his mouth filled with cotton and his throat raw,
as though he were experiencing the union of flesh for the first time
again…
He found her in the Dijon countryside, just a few towns before the site
of the indulgence that cost him his life. She was a farm girl, ripe and fresh
as a newly plucked apple, burgeoning with youth… and vibrant… the
noises she made, the way she struggled for every breath and gasped and cooed
into his ear… and her perfume was like this, like sweet rose blossoms…
and when he bored into her, it felt like this, like the most satisfying,
indecent thing he had ever done…
She with her dance, he with his memories – they have carved out a private
niche inside reality, where passion and depravity and romance and sickness
all melt together…
[WHAM!]
…and like a bushel of bricks flying through a wall of plate glass, the
fluid ecstasy of their world is suddenly shattered, the capsule burst by
ear-splitting, bone-rattling calamity that starts instantly from every angle
of the room, shrieking from every corner and spitting through every crevice
before winding down into a coarse, sodden rumbling. The walls begin to quiver,
and dust falls in dainty streams from the ceiling; puffs of smoke join the
silt in the air, rising from the tips of candles extinguished as they knock
about inside their nooks.
Raymond's own low growl sneaks up on him, sound and friction building in
his chest and throat until the static of frustration reaches his ears, startling
him aware. Looking down, he notes that the trunk is full and nearly overflowing;
absently, he realizes that he may need to empty some of the soil to get it
closed.
Rose's expression is more like enraged. Wheeling around, she tugs the zipper
the final few inches up through her cleavage, forcing it to mold instantly
over her curves, and steps into a pair of waiting shoes. As she stalks past
a bewildered Raymond and towards the wall (without so much as a nod to the
job over-completed), her stride is infused with wrath; even so, even determined
and impatient, it is a far more feminine gait than what she has displayed
before now – the shadow and light see to that, flowing over her curvature
like oil streaming over the curves of a glass lamp, defining every movement
in feline fluidity.
Reaching the wall, she stretches forward on her toes and leans in, brushing
the tangle of curls away at her temple, pressing her palms flat against the
cavern's side and flattening her ear against the wall. The candlelight comes
alive in brilliance for one more caress, molding itself like a pair of loving
hands to cup her posterior, so round and firm and glistening in its latex
glaze.
The look on her face is far less appealing – it could curdle milk, that
look, as she leans against the wall and notes the growing sounds of construction.
The initial rumbling has died away, but some semblance of it remains in the
steady hum of machinery, the clang and clank of hammers on steel, and the
throbbing, pounding of drills digging through solid rock.
~ Lyrics quoted from "The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove", by Dead Can Dance (Lisa Gerrard/Brendan Perry)
THE SKY IS FALLING
On the verge of apoplectic outrage, Rose turns and throws her back against
the wall, as though turning away from the source of the disturbance could
rule out the possibility of its existence. With lip curled in a tightly reined
sneer and eyes flashing daggers at random intervals, she flattens her palms
against the cavern side, and her bosom swells as she gives in to a bout of
indignant huffing and puffing.
"How dare they… how *dare* they?!?"
Raymond hasn't a clue – he only knows that he does *not* like what just
happened, and that he isn't too anxious to have it repeated. His shoulders
are hunched protectively, and he clutches the spade handle against his chest,
looking around at the ceiling with a furtive wonder, as though suddenly nervous
that the roof might cave in on both their heads at any moment. Frankly, if
he's going to spend his eternity buried, he'd just as soon go back to the
cemetery where she found him – at least he had a box there.
He just looks puzzled, and not a little annoyed (but that annoyance in his
expression is perpetual, present since the day he was born).
"So, eh, what the heck's going on?" Oh, he's trying to play it cool, but
somewhere in the undercurrent beneath his voice is an unspoken gum-cracking,
and the shifty way that his gaze darts about the darkened corners of the
ceiling betrays his composure as an act.
"Red Line…," she babbles, "*Red Line*!" Her vague answer is for him,
but her attention is not. Flinging her hands into the air, she stalks away
from the wall, swaying into the center of the room and letting her arms drop
against her hips once more. She executes a sharp pirouette, then, curls and
forearms following, whirling over her shoulders and waist, and narrows a
gaze at the offending wall with lips pursed in crimson consternation.
"The barricade outside – it's Red Line construction." She's at least
talking *at* him now, but still looking past him, her eyes boring an imaginary
hole in the wall and pretending to burn to a crisp anyone unlucky enough
to be standing on the other side. "It's this gods-forsaken city's attempt
at a blasted SUBWAY LINE!"
As though in mocking response, another eruption causes the ground to tremble.
Rose totters a little on her heels and is forced to throw her arms out for
balance; Raymond's feet move apart and he drops his hands lower on the spade
handle as he, too, struggles to remain upright.
"They sound pretty close," is Raymond's innocent comment. Such an astute
observation wins, from Rose, a look of subtle wrath – slivered eyes,
lips pressed into as thin a line as their succulence will allow, with one
corner of her mouth tilted slightly upwards.
Suddenly, a shot rings out – not the crack of powder ignition and a
bullet erupting from its chamber, but the sound of a voice nearly as sharp,
nearly as shrill with enthusiasm and hardened within the conviction of its
own deadly potential.
"The hour of judgment is here, Rose," comes a decree from the darkness at
the head of the cavern, spoken with bold civility, and by the voice of a
small man attempting to boom and be larger than life.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Rose cocks a brow and rolls her eyes, as
though to say 'for pity's sake, not *another* intruder'. "Perhaps it's time
I saw to putting wards on the place," she mutters under her breath, shifting
her feet to shoulder's width and canting her chin upward and preparing for
whatever onslaught of fresh nuisance this latest gate-crasher has to offer.
The man who steps through her door could easily be another angel (the candle
flames shudder backwards, repulsed by his saintly radiance). His smile is
slick with too good to be true, his teeth brighter than the gleaming reflection
off a freshly waxed chrome bumper at midday - he comes without the new car
smell, but rather is perfumed with simple elegance, leather and a hint of
musk, fine wines and aged cigars. From the tops of his Italian loafers, to
the lapels of his tailored silk suit, he is the very picture of refinement.
He could just as easily be a surfer, dressed up for a night in society. He's
certainly got the build – sinewy shoulders, narrow waist and sturdy
legs that keep him eye to eye with the vampiress, even when she towers in
her favored stilettos. Likely, he's hidden a precisely defined six-pack beneath
that silk shirt. And California gold glistens on every surface, from the
strands woven through his seraph's locks, to the cast of his complexion,
to the ring on his left hand and the understated watch peeking out from beneath
his jacket cuff.
"And it looks like there's no one here to save you from your fate this time,"
he says pleasantly. Too pleasantly. (Was that a spark at the corner of his
mouth, from the light glinting off the surface of his perfect teeth?)
Rose's expression becomes abruptly void, smooth and cold, revealing nothing
of her thoughts on seeing the figure standing in her earthen parlor…
no surprise, no ire. That she was not expecting him, you would never know
to look at her – not one modicum of tension evidences itself in the
lines of her face… her features are truly placid porcelain in this moment.
And for all of his flawless beauty, the bracing chill in Malphader's eyes
renders him dark and sinister, coats his smile in mad shadows and paints
a trail of venom seething from imaginary fangs. His greed for her demise
makes itself too evident – he can hardly contain himself, and it shows.
What a study in contrasts this pair makes - she with her features cast prim
and proper, he cold and black and dripping with cynicism. It's impossible
to tell which is the more hungry for blood, save that one masquerades in
a cloak fashioned of the Savior's own.
We interrupt your regularly scheduled fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat, white-knuckle ride programming to bring you this narrative of rather tedious length...
He knew what she was the moment he saw her - even then, in his blunted mortal
years, his senses were attuned with bloodhound precision to the finer perfume
of endless life, and when he happened upon her that night… well, that
night on the curb in front of the El Rey Theatre, with pastel blues and roses
from the marquee glowing down on her like some divine corona… he could
hardly mistake her singularity - or ignore the pale skin shining radiant
enough to foster jealousy in the blushing moon…
In fact, the moon was notably absent that night, perhaps out of envy, but
more likely just because the cloud cover was so oppressive over the city
- this was in a time before, a time when smog was as yet an unknown factor,
and the choking brown sludge that is our bosom companion now was just the
product of some fatalist's imagination, when the only haze likely to obscure
the bright lights of downtown was the pea soup rolling in from the nearby
coast.
Nonetheless, the moon was not to be seen, and that is perhaps why her pallor
stood out so, like a beacon. But anymore than he could overlook her splendor,
Malphader could not mistake the centuries-old arrogance that glinted from
her eyes, sparked in her half-smile, then dissipated on the night air with
a gasp of exasperated breath.
"I'll have this one, Gunther."
The leather that wrapped the interior of the death-black Deluxe Model Ford
Sedan was aged to just the right softness, and was yet still far from drifting
into decline - its creaking was no more than a buttered whisper as he angled
forward, tapping his driver on the shoulder and then lifting a gloved fingertip,
to indicate the object of his interest.
"…evil on wheels, perched like a predator at
the curb. Lines of chrome trim ran along the seams of its glossy front hood,
accentuating contours like the beak of a bird of prey, and behind windows
tinted with corruption, an interior of tan leather was barely visible. Those
grained front seats were dappled with the orange glow from a radio dial,
where a chauffeur's grey-gloved fingertips twiddled with the knobs,
searching… 16" wheels and white wall tires… The effect was
hypnotic….
With a grind and a click, the tiniest of flames sparked up in front of her, nearly blinding her with its suddenness. She hadn't realized she'd been so mesmerized, hadn't even realized that the cigarette was out and hanging between her fingertips, but when the light appeared,
she blinked to attention, and shoved a smile out to center stage, turning
towards the man who had offered it.
And there, she was forced to pause again, but only for a second. Pride hastened her to take a draw and a puff on the long cigarillo, so as not to appear foolish before a gentleman with such foreign grace.
His hair was shiny, black as coal, and graced with
a natural gloss, not the product of a pomade, combed back to reveal a high
forehead and the curiosity of a widow's peak. Set in dusky olive skin was
a broad, toothy smile, but as his lips curled back, they revealed jagged
outlines at the corners of his mouth that resembled fangs... as though he
had been hit in the mouth, at some point, and his teeth had been broken off
in places. But, strangely, it did not detract, merely added a roguish, tough-guy
charm. Besides, anyone could forgive the rakish, lopsided smile who was blessed
with seeing those eyes - dark, almost black, but soft and yielding like a
child's, and when he laughed, those eyes lit up like the diamonds of moonbeams
hitting the ocean waves at midnight.
He spoke, and the enchantment was complete.
"Good evening, Rose."
Like melted butterscotch, drizzled over her senses, was his voice… and so rich, she found herself swimming in it… and it never even occurred to her to wonder that he knew her name. But when he sniffed the air, she nearly choked on a lungful of smoke as she realized
that… he knew… what she was... not her profession, but what she was… As she swallowed hard, struggling to regain her composure, she found that she could not tear her gaze from his, and so, it was left to him, to glance mockingly to the sky, to where a full moon would hang some five days hence…"
Convincing her to join him for a ride in the sedan had been easier than even
he guessed - the knowledge in his snide smile had proved coercion enough.
A few drops of chloroform and a few ferocious struggles later found her tied,
spread-eagled, to the four corners of a cold steel examination table. Her
lovely satin gown was torn to rags, and wide iron cuffs were so harshly pressed
into her wrists and ankles that they were cutting into the flesh, leaving
smudges of crimson around the edges of the bands, smudges that were blackening
in spots where the blood had begun to dry.
It was the first night of study in what promised to be many more.
"Odd," Malphader remarked off-handedly, taking note of the bruising that
had already begun to spread along his subject's shins and forearms. As he
passed by the table, the sounds of his loafers scuffing along the tile floor
echoed through the poorly-lit cubicle of a room, and the tails of his evening
suit rustled restlessly, as fingertips swollen with manipulation fidgeted
at the small of his back.
Aside from those few sounds, and the rhythm of his breathing, the examination
chamber was dead silent - nothing of the outside world passed through the
institutional avocado of those concrete walls, and nothing could cut the
stench of formaldehyde. Rose resolutely refused to make a noise - the ivory
skin beneath her eyes remained dry, unsullied by tears. Pride is a powerful
bastion against fear, and it prevented her even considering this anything
but an absurd comedy of insults.
"Odd," he repeated, musing, "that she exhibits such signs of injury, and
so soon. I'd have expected her to heal immediately." His tone was scientifically
dry, the tone of scholarly observation, and with equal dispassion, he paused
at her side, bringing his arm around and thrusting a forefinger at one of
her swollen wrists. His expression pinched into smug distaste as he prodded
her damaged flesh, but hers remained stone - she wasn't going to give him
any help.
"It could be her pale complexion, sir, making the wounds appear more evident."
Malphader's assistant, the one he had addressed earlier as Gunther, stepped
forward from the shadows. He'd gone unnoticed before, his rail-thin figure
concealed by the darkness slashing at irregular angles across the corners,
and by his own patient inertia. Missing, now, were the chauffeur's cap and
jacket, and in their places, a lab coat and a pair of sheer latex gloves.
From that point on, Rose was little better than a study tool, a lab rat,
a calculated loss on which he could exercise his most diseased fantasies
in the name of unraveling her secrets. No atrocity was left uncommitted -
he cut her skin and examined her flesh, tested and tasted her blood, handled
her organs and plumbed the depths of her very being… as though this
mockery of a scientific inquiry would reveal a formula for the spiritual
exodus he sought.
In time, Rose discovered that she was in the company of others, that the
world in which she had been trapped was not limited to a stainless steel
table, a pen carpeted in straw, a bogus savant and his skeletal assistant.
He held women for pleasure, as well - nearly a dozen of them, chained and
collared and housed in a honeycomb of cells adjoining her own. They were
mortal women, from what she could gather - in nearly fifty years of captivity,
her dealings with them were limited to shuttered glances through peepholes
and occasional brushes in the corridors, as she was taken from her pen to
the laboratory that was becoming her familiar home.
…she was awake with a start, every nerve in her body tensing at once
so that her shoulders drew up around her neck and fingertips quivered, and
she struggled to recapture steady breathing for long moments after the haze
of sleep had begun to burn off… she had been dreaming of a great house,
a dark manor with thick white tapers on the walls, and beeswax dripping in
lazy rivers down the paper… strolling down a dimly lit corridor, trying
every door as she passed, only to find all of them locked… and just
as she found a knob that made that magical clicking and gave way as she turned
it, the booming of footfalls sounded somewhere behind her, coming after her
with a threatening kind of urgency…
…she heard his angry footsteps brewing on the tile and knew the coming
storm was for her, the cacophony corrupting the otherwise still of the
laboratory's sterile air… when he reached her cell door, there was no
pause, just the brief rattle of a key in a lock, then the thunder of a door
being thrust wide - she caught just a glimpse of the trousers undone and
the frustrated rage clouding his features before he came swooping in on
her… but she did not cower, simply turned her head and turned to stone
inside, waiting for it to end… his violation was a surprise only in
that sex was the one tool he had not used as an instrument of torture before
now…she was far distant by that time, watching it all from a dark corner
of her own history, steadfastly cold, and in the end, her frigidity was her
only victory…
From then on, she was his obsession. Determined to break her, he threw himself
into the task with violent enthusiasm, so much so that he nearly lost sight
of the search for everlasting life. Alternately, he forced himself upon her
and violated her with lab instruments, anything that would fit, and committing
acts of utter brutality on her body, the only respite for which was the time
between, in which her bones and flesh were allowed to heal before stepping
into the cavalcade once more. Always, these acts were committed in the cover
of darkness, with the lights dimmed and the examination rooms all but empty
- the one thing he would never allow was that Gunther should see, or be entitled
to touch her similarly. In moments of supreme weakness, though, as all masters
are, he was a slave to his own possession, making tender love to her on the
hay-strewn floor of the pen, begging her in hushed whispers to unlock the
secrets herself, that he may not be forced to destroy her. But the voice,
to her, was only a streamer of sheer gauze rippling in a breeze, soft through
the haze of delirium, but later remembered only as a waking dream.
And she thought she'd long since lost the power or the will to scream...
Part IV
If I ran away, I'd never have the strength
To go very far
How would they hear the beating of my heart
Will it grow cold
The secret that I hide, will I grow old
How will they hear
When will they learn
How will they know
~ from Live to Tell", Madonna (1986)
Somewhere along the way, Malphader still found his treasured immortality,
but at what cost was anyone's guess.
And Rose didn't run far - the City of Angels was a cornerstone in her demon's
foundation.
On every street corner east of Fairfax could be seen the same washed out
starlet, the gaunt figure with raccoon eyes, the waif with locks of tarnished
gold and a street grime tan, one arm draped casually at her side, where dangling
from chipped press-on nails was the syringe that fed the habit; the other
arm was always outstretched, reaching for the stars she imagined were there
behind the curtain of smog, bruise-stung lips pouting "Please, sir, may I
have some more?" with a kind of resigned desperation in knowing that the
only direction left is down…
Sunset Boulevard does look like every other urban block in parts - strip
malls and tacky neon, 7-11's and golden arches, and streets littered with
pot holes (although the gutters are always kept very clean by the street
people, shambling along, collecting any piece of refuse that might become
a contributing piece to a life). But the farther west of the freeway you
get, and the closer to the ocean, where the grand movie houses of old begin
to pop up alongside deco apartment buildings, is a stretch of city that has
played host to some of the greatest moments in modern gastronomical history.
In a town that could make Andy Warhol's prophecy of fifteen minutes of fame
seem a charity, where a career in film can come and go before the ink on
the financing contract for those silicon implants is even dry, things move
too quickly for any sense of consistency. But while the names on the awnings
may change, sometimes weekly, this area will always be fashionable for lunching
with celestial Hollywood.
I wear my sunglasses at night
So I can so I can
Watch you live and breathe your storylines
(And) I wear my sunglasses at night
So I can so I can
Keep track of the visions in my eyes
~ from "Sunglasses at Night", Corey Hart (1984)
The old regime still sipped cocktails under Frank Sinatra's picture at the
Mimosa, while corporate L.A. claimed Yamishiro Palace on the hill, but for
Hollywood brat culture, the flavor of the week was Eastern Mediterranean,
and nowhere was the night air weighted heavier with the musk of its spices
than at Sebasteia, on Sunset.
Sebasteia, with its enameled mosaics and terrazzo floors, offered an elevated
patio outdoors, with tables so that diners could watch the city come and
go. More often than not, though, the cars were slowing down to watch the
restaurant, to peek in under the canopies and catch a glimpse of scandal,
or have a brush with glamour.
Rose was seated at one of the café tables, reclining in a wide-backed
cane chair, with one sleek leg draped across the other and her hand dangling
listlessly, in that pose of practiced boredom, over the armrest. In a jungle
of life-sized Barbie dolls, with plastic shoes and chunky earrings, and big
80's hair, she was a badly misplaced picture of elegance. Her own fiery tresses
were tamed back into a French twist, and in spite of the muggy evening
atmosphere, she shunned tennis whites and tube dresses for a tailored grey
suit.
Behind a pair of Chanel sunglasses, her eyes were turned, studying the crowd
with an agitation that her demeanor was designed to hide. But she was not
alone - for her table partner, she kept up the pretense of a distant smile.
It was the kind of studied, frosty smile that made you want to run immediately
to the nearest restroom and check yourself in the mirror, as if you had something
caught in your teeth, or a stain on your tie that you hadn't noticed yet,
and she was just too polite to bring it to your attention.
Michael was at her side - Michael, her Romeo, her Prince Charming and Gallahad
all rolled into one. Through eyes of sparkling jet he studied her, occasionally
reaching to brush away a few long strands of hair, equally dark, and smooth
them over to one side of his skull. Thirsty for detail, his focus never wavered
as he followed the minute subtleties of her repose - fingertips wrapping
around the stem of a flute, fulsome lips parting to welcome a splash of golden
champagne, the glare from the street lamp penetrating those designer shades
to illuminate the emerald sparkle beneath...
They were a motley pair, she wrapped so conservatively, he in his mohawk
and nylon jacket, and combat boots straight-laced red, a badge of the South
Bay Skins.
The aroma of spices kindling in the air mingled nicely with the perfume of
wealth and greed. The two of them were surrounded on all sides by chattering
stars and artists, glitterati gorging themselves on laughter, spilling their
lives into the linen napkins on their laps, passing their complaints around
as they passed the bottles of Dom. From time to time, the faux punks, the
colorful angelfish swimming outside the aquarium, would pass by on the sidewalk
and toss an obligatory finger and a sneer in the direction of the tables,
but it was all a part of the same merry stage play.
A man shambled by, a man who clearly did not belong on the set - his back
was hunched, and his hands were shoved deep into the pockets of a scuffed
and threadbare tan vest. His skin and hair were of the same muddy hue, both
colored brown by street dirt, and his hair stood out in greasy tufts. As
he passed (hurrying along, because he knew he didn't fit here), he turned
a toothless frown on the crowd, and Rose suddenly found her attention drawn
to the reason in his eyes - there was the warmth of a human being inside
that animal.
An animal… with human sentiment… how she despised the image…
turning away with a sniff of disgust, she finally transferred her attention
to Michael. The man would be gone soon enough, and the show would go on.
"Don't worry. We'll find her," he whispered under his breath, closing his
hand over hers and giving it a reassuring stroke. That he adored her was
clear in the lost, dreamy quality his eyes had taken on, shifting from hard
coal to pools of flowing, seething oil.
She smiled wistfully, extending a fingertip and reaching to trace the stern
line of his jaw, until finally the end of her nail touched at the corner
of his mouth.
"But I want to join you…" came her little-girl sulking reply.
"I know, I know. But we'll find your sister soon, and then all of this will
be over."
He winked, then, and the edge of his lip curled up to reveal a hardened spike
of porcelain white. Yes, this was what she wanted, and with teasing in his
eyes, he parted his lips a little more to graze the pad of her finger with
the rough edge of his fang.
Her smile broadened, but expanded to diabolical proportions when his canine
plunged past her skin and into her flesh, bringing a single deep red droplet
welling to the surface. The velvet bead lingered there a long moment, quivering
on the end of her fingertip, before rolling to one side and splashing onto
his lower lip.
Her jaw went slack, and her eyes narrowed gently, but otherwise, her outward
composure remained cold. Inwardly, though, she shuddered and frothed with
the delicious panic of electroshock passion. The fire spreading through her
veins humbled her, while the scorching imprint it left behind made her greedy
with appetite.
When she remembered to breathe, a deep pant and a chance flutter of eyelids
brought her glance up, past Michael's shoulder, at just the wrong moment
- and a bolt of recognition brought her pleasure screeching to a halt.
A man had just come sprinting up the handful of steps, with a blonde on each
arm and leading a small entourage of yes-men. He was all Miami Vice flash
in his baggy white suit and coral t-shirt, celebrity right down to the clean
sparkle of his smile… but something was out of place, something not
quite right about the whole picture, something jarring and obscene. As he
dashed up to the patio to the largest of the tables, a canopied affair in
the center of the floor that had presumably been reserved for himself and
his retinue, he turned, first to one side and then the other, gallantly offering
a seat to each of the ladies on his arms.
His once-ebony hair had blanched nearly to gold, and the color was slowly
draining from his eyes, leaving them a shade of liquid blue, approaching
ice; his skin, now apparently no longer hidden by the cover of night at all
times, was sun-kissed and nearing a golden hue similar to that of the carefully
groomed locks.
It had only been a matter of months since she last laid eyes on him, and
his appearance had changed drastically, but the savagery of his spirit remained
identical, shining through the doctored enamel perfection of his smile, emanating
from him like a barbed wire aura. It was Malphader, all right, dressed up
like a Ken doll - but beneath those California good looks lurked the heart
of a beast.
As he turned back to the first woman, favoring her with a toothy grin, a
flash of gold leapt from his chest - it was just a passing wink, but Rose
found herself struck with a sudden, unreasonable fear that tightened across
her chest like an iron band. Though he was only a heartbeat away, she stared
brazenly from behind the protective shading of her sunglasses, and her eyes
narrowed on a small crucifix, gleaming through the vanilla folds of his lapels.
A lead weight pressed to her throat, choking off her ability to cry out,
and luckily so - all that Michael saw was her glacial composure, but when
his own eyes trailed to trace the direction in which she had turned, he recoiled,
drawing his lips from around her fingertip and emitting a single, shuddering
hiss.
There was a chain, too, and another golden cross hanging from it - when Malphader
turned to take his own seat, his body flickered like a disco ball, and Michael
averted his eyes and pressed his lips into a tight grimace, lest he bare
his teeth and reveal everything.
The realization barreled over her like a renegade bus headed full steam for
the border - Malphader had sold his soul to God, in much the same manner
that some bargain theirs away to Old Nick…
"We should leave… this guy's going to make me start something…,"
came the warning, mild and growled through clenched teeth.
The sound of her lover's voice chased the sense of suffocation quickly away,
and with a bemused shake of her head, Rose snapped to. She suffered no risk
from Malphader's presence, certainly not in the way that Michael did, only
the profound annoyance of knowing that she must still abide in the same city.
Without a word, she nodded towards the rear gate, and the two of them rose
in unison, like vapor trails from candle heads.
Just as she was turning, another golden lure caught Rose's eye - a nugget
garishly crusted in diamonds, also in the shape of a cross, resting on his
index finger.
She simply remained quiet, coupling her hand with Michael's and retreating
into the crowd. Like a pair of wind dancers, they flowed, hands coming together
to claim one another, the c-note drifting to the tabletop, footfalls padding
over terra cotta tiles to the exit.
To her surprise, but much to their advantage, a herd had already begun to
form, social climbers and well-wishers surging upstream to rub against the
celebrity that Malphader had apparently made of himself. What could account
for it? Rose could hardly wrap her mind around the concept. What had he done?
But she wasn't going to spend too long puzzling over it - she and Michael
knew their respective instincts well enough not to question each other's
haste, and like mercury, they flowed through the jungle of bodies. By the
time they reached the exit, little more than a meandering film of smoke remained,
winding over the arms of a looming shadow - anyone watching them in that
moment would probably have dismissed the vision as a trick of the light,
or the result of too much wine.
She would come to realize, much too late, that she should have killed him then.
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