Death at The Blue Elephant

by xravennax

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Death at The Blue Elephant

Death came here often.

She liked the commercial misery of the smog-stained office building, a nondescript cube of sixties brutalist style, executed in particularly ugly brown brick and aluminium. The sprawling Three Sexes Nite Club occupied the ground floor, filing its prosaic, erstwhile showroom space with throbbing musical darkness, permeating it with indelicate sounds, suggesting unspeakable acts. It sublet the only light corner to The Blue Elephant, a café whose swinging doors connected it symbiotically to its patron. The café never closed. It provided a convenient antechamber for The Sexes, a meeting place for potential revellers, a respite for tired habitués, a talking point for local gossip.

The café's street-facing wall had been knocked out and replaced by trendy folding glass, the better to display its wares, and its patrons, to passers-by. Death liked the aggressively post-modern decor, a mishmash of distressed ochre paint, garish ceramics, and furniture constructed of glass and curled wrought iron whose tortured legs resembled, she supposed, the trunks of distressed elephants. It was always simultaneously breakfast time and cocktail time at The Elephant, where last drinks and nightcaps merged imperceptibly into first coffees and orange juices. Underneath the rich aroma emitted by its shrieking espresso machine, The Elephant smelled faintly of old cabbage, stale frying, dried sweat.

Death threaded her way toward her favourite table in a shadowy corner. She didn't need to advertise. She glanced at the food being deposited, with studied gracelessness, in front of a courting couple: two orders of poisonous looking nouvelle cuisine featuring an enormous platter of white porcelain which supported six ultra-thin smoked slivers of some unfortunate animal, curled and propped artistically against mounds of oil-drizzled salad. Death never ate here. She ordered a macchiato and a brandy, leaned back at a dangerous angle and lit up an old-fashioned Gitane, affecting bored indifference to the accusing glares of non-smoking customers. That was one of the things that Death liked most about this society: it gave her proper respect, worshipped at her altars. It polluted its air, adulterated its food, contaminated its water. Then it looked politely affronted at Her omnipresence. Cool.

Death would not have long to wait. Her clients inevitably found her at the appointed hour. It was traditional. The sex, of course, was optional. Tucked into her smoky corner, she set out her travelling chess set, the ebony and ivory pieces exquisitely wrought, the inlaid box intricately carved with the writhing shapes of Dante's damned, spiralling in their circles toward the central handle of Hell. A pretty thing, the gift of that old lost soul Dr Dee, a gentleman who really knew the usages of chess.

'Excuse me, may I join you? The tables are all full and I've promised to wait here for a friend.'

Death looked up through her black-lensed black Ray-Bans into the blue eyes of a stocky, apple-cheeked young man whose short trimmed blond curls revealed a single diamond ear stud. His pleated dark blue trousers and draped linen shirt were set off by a perfectly knotted midnight velvet bow tie and a soft white leather evening jacket that suggested more than a passing interest in current fashion. Toy boy, she guessed. Well, she liked toys.

'Please, be my guest.'

Death extended a thin, graceful hand, its long, pointed nails varnished dark red-black to match the deep congealed-blood shade of her lipstick. Her Oscar de la Renta ragged-cut black leather sleeve slid back to reveal a glimpse of darker silken stuff beneath. She liked the feel of dead things around her, the rasp and slide of silk and leather against her dry, bloodless-pale skin, against her jutting bones. Her wardrobe was constructed entirely of deaths in the animal world, from her Chanel tortoiseshell hair slides down to her pointed Salvatore Ferragamo handmade alligator boots. Even her Cartier nose ring was inlaid with coral. Black coral.

'Do you come here often?'

The young man smiled, briefly gripping the proffered fingertips. Death felt health in the heat of contact. A challenge, then.

'Never. My first time. I'm Jason. Pleased to meet you, Ms ...?'

'There's a first time for everything. You can call me Azriel.'

'Greek?'

'Hebrew. Dark Angel. Do you play?'

'Play?'

'Chess.' Death indicated the tiny board.

'Sorry. No. Never learned. But I'm open to experience. I enjoy games!'

Not quite such a challenge after all.

'Dice, then?'

Death spilled ivory cubes onto glass. They rolled to a stop, winking ruby snake's eyes. A loaded question.

'I don't gamble.'

'Never? Should you be talking to strangers?'

Jason's mouth quirked upward at the corners.

'I'll take my chances.'

The real invitation, unspoken, understood, had been issued. And accepted.

Death liked this late twentieth century. Sexual entrapment and damnation through honest lust beat hands down all that tiresome dwelling with 'poisons, war and sickness' required of her in Dr Dee's milieu. Not that these things were at all out of fashion, of course. Never would be. But some of the plagues had been so terribly unaesthetic. Buboes. All that disgusting pus. These new designer viral mutations had real style. Invisible. Pleasurable in the transmission, and just as…fatal. A new meaning for the little death. Death and sex, Sex and death, the romantic fashion.

Still she always offered a fair contest, always offered to by the rules. It wasn't her fault if nobody here seemed to know the rules of first contact any more. At least this way the client had a good time on the road to Hell, and never mind the good intentions.

A sulky waiter materialised purposefully at their table.

'Yes, sir?'

Jason looked in vain for a menu. There was something chalked on a board on the other side of the room. Too far to be of any use.

'Er, a glass of white wine, and, um...'

Death prompted. 'The focaccia's good.'

'And a sun-dried tomato focaccia.'

'And for you, madam?'

The waiter was clearing away Death's untouched macchiato. He gestured vaguely towards the brandy balloon but clearly thought better of attempting to it from her negligent grasp.

'Just wine. Red wine.'

Wine, bread and salt. Death wanted to be sure she was properly invited over the threshold.

Jason was making small talk, chatting easily about boredom with accountancy, his efforts at the local gym, his evolving interest in reiki massage, aromatherapy, Tibetan pulsing. About his attempts at getting in touch with his inner child.

He leaned forward, smiling again, his confidence growing.

'So tell me about you. What do you do? For a living?'

'I don't. I am. I be.'

Death watched Jason cast an appraising eye over her outfit. Saw him conclude it to be eclectic, perhaps, but pure designer Gothic chic. It certainly wasn't, by any stretch of his imagination, inexpensive.

'Sounds very existential. Does it mean unemployed?'

'No. Never.'

'Independent, then?'

'Alone, certainly.'

'Okay, I won't pry. I like a woman of mystery. It's romantic.'

Death's eyes narrowed behind her shades as Jason switched to prudent flattery.

'Romantic. Like your hair's romantic. You've got great hair, Azriel.'

He wet his lips, tasting her name.

'Gorgeous!'

Death inclined her head, acknowledging. She was proud of her hair, of her smoke-dark cascade of spiral locks so variously crimped and curled, woven with love knots, threaded with charms, plaited with silks, tangled in elf locks, tipped in pearls, black pearls, drowned sailors' eyes pearls. She patted her intricately snarled high topknot precariously clasped and pinned with tortoiseshell and ivory. It spoke her history, this sea wrack of tumbling artefact-encrusted heavy hair that spread its riches across her narrow, bony shoulders.

'It must have taken ages to set it like that.'

'Centuries.'

Death sat back, chilling out while Jason talked on about his experiments with alternative cultures, about his restless search for meaning. She would give him certainty. Absolute certainty. Later. He was earnestly working the conversation around to the psychic benefits of rebirthing when the waiter reappeared, bearing their drinks and an oversized porcelain platter that he plunked down, unceremoniously, before Jason. Death conceded that the toast part with its heaped filling looked all right, if she averted her gaze from the oily green stuff wreathed around it.

'This is huge. Let me share with you.'

Jason was offering to divide the food into equal parts.

Death was appalled, but gallantly mindful of convention.

'Just a tiny corner. Just to be friendly. Thanks.'

She accepted a small helping on her side plate, put a morsel to her lips, washed it down with a little wine. Then she slid the plate to the very edge of the table, where a pointed snout, black and whiskery, emerged quivering from her fringed black leather bag. The nose was quickly followed by the face, paws and torso of a black-hooded rat, which was showing more than a passing interest in the fragments of focaccia that Death was absently crumbling onto the glass tabletop.

Jason gasped. Death put a cold hand over one of his, forestalling his startled exclamation.

'It's only Hecate. My travelling companion. She goes everywhere with me. We've been together for ages. Pretty, isn't she?'

Jason was looking unconvinced, his gaze focused on the needle-sharp teeth with which Hecate dealt with her dinner.

'They're a highly intelligent species.' Death continued over Jason's obvious discomfiture. 'I'm surprised more people don't carry them as pets.'

She tipped a little wine into the hollow of the plate, watching fondly as Hecate slipped out a delicate pink tongue to drink.

'But they're vermin,' said Jason. 'They carry disease!'

Death looked offended.

'Everything carries disease. It's just a matter of compatibility. But if Hecate bothers you, she can stay out of sight in the bag. She's quite comfortable.'

And Hecate, right on cue, disappeared gracefully from sight.

Death settled back, toying negligently with her wine glass, enjoying Jason's sudden intense interest in his own plate. She would not have much longer to wait.

The speed at which the staff at The Elephant processed its customers varied, as always, in direct proportion to demand. Tonight, the crowd at the bar was growing, swelling with incoming patrons waiting in restless hope for newly vacated tables. The moment Jason finished off his focaccia, the waiter reappeared, hesitated a beat while he considered the protocol, then placed the bill carefully in the centre of the table. Death noted the practised way that Jason hesitated, delicately, just long enough for her to pick it up. He did not demur when she offered to pay.

A mistake. Death had rather old-fashioned ideas about debt and obligation.

She tried not to look too bored as he moved unsubtly into his next phase.

'Thank you, Azriel. You're a sport. My friends seem to have deserted me, and I'm all alone. Will you stay on a little? We could have a drink next door. Maybe you'd care to dance? I'd love that.'

'Sure. Happy to. I like to dance. I'll just excuse myself for a moment first. I'll meet you by the swinging doors.'

Death stood, noting with satisfaction Jason's surprise at her height. She towered over him. Not exactly beautiful, but striking, compelling. Definitely compelling.

Death's longish, artfully ripped silk and leather skirt rasped against her boots as she slipped out to the bathroom. It was a clinical place, with safe sex posters, a wall of mirrors and interrogation-strength fluorescent lighting designed to encourage patrons considering dangerous liaisons to invest in the privacy of those little rooms at the back that The Sexes rented out, unofficially, the hour. It didn't take Death long to vomit up the amount of food she'd taken, for form's sake, to seal the bargain. She lingered a moment, adjusting the black on black painted Hemes scarf at her throat, applying a fresh layer of lipstick. She was cupping a little water in her hand for Hecate when they were joined at the mirror by a Goth, a serious grey-eyed girl whose uncertain smile of greeting revealed expensively capped and pointed canines. A small fortune's worth of cosmetic dentistry. Her reflection was solid enough.

Death sighed. The world was full of amateurs and wannabes.

'All these mirrors. So bright. So unkind to the undead, don't you think?'

And Death was gone. It was not this girl's time. Not yet.

She emerged, cool as ever, and there was Jason, freshly combed and eager. Death led the way, guiding him through dim alcoves that yielded fragmentary images: a hand up a skirt, a white line on a flat mirror, a flash of banknotes sliding from hand to shadowy hand. And on down to basement level, into Damnation, the club's cavernous dance floor. It was darkly backlit by red wall lamps and swept by occasional strobes, its low ceiling graced by an old-fashioned mirror ball which reflected the dull red glow, caught the occasional lightning strobe flashes. Manic Suede were in good form tonight, their Morticia-thin lead singer switching effortlessly between sultry jazz-based numbers and upbeat dance rhythms.

Death's dance style had an erratic, capering energy that belied her elegant appearance. It was catching: soon the Damnation cave was a mass of leaping, writhing shapes as The Sexes' patrons followed her lead. Things tended to become a bit surreal around Death. The smoke curling at the edges of the floor thickened into heated fog that coiled about the dancers as the rhythm accelerated, inexorably. Roiling shadows loomed closer, edged in the black-red glow of burning coals. Dark flames licked at keyboards, fret boards, soundboards. The band caught fire.

The music came faster, faster, from scorching fingers. Tiring dancers found themselves unable to stop, found themselves capering madly, cavorting together in an antic headlong rush towards exhaustion. Death looked smug. They really were so suggestible.

Suddenly bored with the game, she took Jason's hand, now slick with perspiration. She headed for the exit. Behind her, the music limped to a last riff while the burned-out band announced to the sweat-stained backs of departing dancers that they'd take a short break. They'd be back soon. Maybe.

'Let's get out of here. I'll just get my coat.'

Death handed in her coat check, retrieved the thickest, blackest sable Jason had ever seen, draped it over her shoulder.

'Where to? My place is a bit of a charnel house just now. Redecorating. Perhaps we could go to yours?'

She expected Jason's hesitation. 'Er, not really. I share. It would be a bit crowded. No place for a sophisticated lady.'

'Moonlighting, huh? No problem.'

Death stepped back to the desk. After a couple of minutes of whispered conversation, Jason saw money, and a key, change hands. Death looked complacent.

'They have a few private suites here. For parties, special occasions, that sort of thing. I've borrowed one for the evening.'

She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. Perhaps he was accustomed to a slower pace? Well, Death didn't have all night.

The corridor at the back of The Sexes was a narrow, businesslike tube leading into a drab little foyer which formed a discreet hub for multiple private entrances masquerading as offices. A legal fiction, a courteous alibi to protect the privacy of clients. Death could hear clinking glasses and muffled giggles over the low hum of a Jacuzzi motor as she steered Jason towards their doorway.

The suite had the gilt mirrors and upholstered ruby plush of an old-fashioned bordello, dimly lit by a glass drop chandelier with electric imitation candle bulbs that flickered irritatingly. Death cast a jaded glance over its squashy brocaded couches, its vaguely erotic framed prints, its dusty maroon velvet drapes. The centrepiece was a huge iron-framed bed, swathed in crimson satin quilting, fringed and tasselled in antique gold, and connected, incongruously, to a vibrating machine. Some undergraduate interior designer's idea of amatory atmosphere, she supposed. But the suite did boast a well-stocked bar fridge, and an equally well-stocked bathroom whose shelves displayed a range of condoms, shrink-wrapped vibrators, dildos, Chinese balls, nipple clamps, manacles of various shapes and sizes. The bathroom smelled of bleach, and rubber. Death was amused by the padded bondage restraints, designed for tender beginners.

'Well, Jason, is this secluded enough for a sophisticated liaison?'

His only answer was a nervous smile.

She gestured towards the cold-beaded bottle in its imitation silver ice bucket. 'Why don't you open the champagne? You'll feel more relaxed after a drink.'

Jason obeyed, gulped down his champagne, then quickly refilled his glass. It seemed to help. He removed his tie. A muscle twitched in his smooth throat. Death could almost see the blood pumping, could smell his good clean good health. She peeled him slowly out of his clothes, admiring his robust, muscled young body. So fair, full of flesh. His penis was already stirring, catching in underpants as she stripped them from him. He reached for her Ray-Bans.

'I want to see your face.'

'Not so fast. I am not altogether pleased with you. You trod on my toe on the dance floor. Why should I pleasure with my body?'

Death drew a thin coil of plaited black leather from her bag, unsurprised at the answering gleam in Jason's eyes.

'Ask me to punish you.'

Jason slid easily, too easily, into a submissive role.

'Forgive me, Azriel. I would be grateful if you would punish my clumsiness with, um, six strokes of your lash. Or in, um...whatever way would please you.'

Death bent him over the edge of the bed, pleased the way his little blond curls stood on end as she began his punishment. Under her leather thong his full white flesh was welting nicely, raised red weals that would remind him of her in days to come. He was silent, his face buried in the scarlet coverlet, but she heard him gasp at the seventh cut. She stopped at ten. No sense overdoing it.

When she turned him over, he was afire with lust, his glazed, his full erection straining hard towards her.

Death knew her customers.

She kissed him, then. A painful kiss. A kiss to pick open hell. Teeth grated against teeth as she forced his mouth open, thrust her long tongue down his throat, dripping saliva. Jason gagged, jerked his head away.

Clients always reacted to their first taste of Death. She did not try to disguise her odour of decay: up close, her body smelled musty, old, mouldering. Dead.

Death savoured these moments of recognition. She saw incipient fear behind Jason's eyes. He began to stutter something about waiting, maybe, but it was too late now for second thoughts: Much too late.

She pushed him back onto the bed, tracing a razor-sharp fingernail along the length of his erection. It left a thin trail of blood and broken skin. Jason groaned, tried to push her away.

Death's answering grin was murderous.

She hoisted her skirts to mount him, exposing the papery white skin of her too-thin thighs, skin that gleamed dead white, bone white. She felt his terror. She knew, now, that he struggled, willing his flesh not to respond, unable to prevent it. Death is stronger than life. She forced him down on his back, her powerful fingers talons now, raking his shoulders where they gripped. She straddled him, guiding his organ into her darkness, consuming him.

Death rode him hard, her pubic bone grinding against his pelvis, her thighbones clamping against his, grating against his soft skin, her hipbones gyrating in age-old parody of need. She felt his heat as his body betrayed him, lifted herself clean away just as his back arched and Jason was racked by painful orgasm.

Dismounting, Death idly watched a drop of spilled sperm turn pink where it mixed with his blood, blood already contaminated by her own lethal juices. It didn't take much. Not really.

Jason lay sprawled on the covers, bruised, bloodied, spent.

'You've infected me.' It was a statement. 'Why, Azriel?'

'It was what you wanted,' Death said simply. 'Don't look surprised. You came to me, invited me, submitted to me. Your choice.'

She was adjusting the black on black folds of her skirt, preparing to leave. She scooped up her shoulder bag, shrugged into her coat, eased her voluminous hair over its collar.

'You can't just walk out on me. Not now.'

'Stay as long as you like, Jason. The room's paid for all night. There's everything you need here. Get some rest.'

'Please, Azriel. I'll do anything.'

'I know.'

Hecate had climbed soundlessly from the depths of the leather bag and into the satin-lined pocket of the sable coat. Death absently stroked her pet's shiny fur with long bony fingers, observing Jason's hopeless struggle against the sleep she gave him. A two-edged gift. She knew that nightmare was just beginning.

'Will I see you again?'

'Inevitably.'

Jason was defeated. He lay back quietly, the spores of death multiplying, generating, rioting in his pulsing blood as sleep overpowered him.

Death slipped noiselessly into the corridor and let herself out through the back entrance to the street, stepping carelessly over the huddled shape of a homeless girl sleeping there. The girl radiated disease. Death's disciples were many, their numbers growing daily. She fitted in so well here, in this death-driven place where the clients were so obliging.

She wrapped her coat about her against the pre-dawn chill, strolled easily towards her next appointment. She never hurried, was never late. Her Ray-Bans reflected flickering blue neon. The Elephant never closed.

Death came here often.