Fee, fi, fo, fum,
I smell the blood of an Englishman.
Be he live, or be he dead
I'll grind his bones to make my bread.
Volterra was unmercifully hot. The tourists pushed the listless burning air around with anything they could get their hands on – paperbacks, brochures, itineraries. Tired thoughts began to tread back to hotel rooms while harassed bodies pressed on into the yellow Tuscan summer. Another stop, the last stop, nearly there now, another castle, oh boy, at least it's out of the sun. Dusty loafers eased themselves up the steps. The edifice of the castle wall speared their eyes.
Dimly, they perceived a pair of Marzocco lions languishing at the entrance. The castle spectres pressed ineffectual hands against the tourists, silver mouths moaning voiceless discouragement and the absence of birdsong; 'avernus, avernus!' – the tour guide was louder. The old souls among them pricked up their ears, running on something deep and barely remembered, like the memory of a childhood illness. But even they slithered through the grasp of the benevolent dead, into the castle's mouth.
They shuffled into a small, bright reception area. Water from the cooler tasted like tarpaulin, like plastic grave-sheets, like maggots. They threw their cups in the trash half-empty.
As they passed through the castle, it carelessly forsook its hospitable façade: the Florentine landscapes were shrugged away, light undressed to the edge of darkness. A squinting man slipped on the beslimed floor. Cold enough to forget the sun, sunburned limbs began to prickle and palsy. A faint smell, like off-meat, stole into the air: somewhere unseen, something rotted.
If truth is nakedness, they were utterly seduced. As with any good seduction, the all was teasingly withheld to the very end: they danced with a corpse.
"Santiago, Felix – get this cleaned up," a girl said, indicating to the mess of gristle and blood over the floor – the Volturi were fastidious, if a little clumsy. The nightling child knew they'd do her bidding. She was Chelsea, and her every wish was acquiesced. Special providence was given to the only guard that walked the castle by choice.
Her eye caught a flicker of movement, over the girth of the room – but it was nothing, a stir of the air. She looked at her hand, a pale lily that tore into her breast, and sighed.
Unseen, the last tourist stood still enough to lull a field mouse. He clung to the stone wall, a rat on a sinking ship, shocked, shriven, not daring to breathe, witness to mass murder; his saving grace a peculiar ability to pass the eye unnoticed. But, for a second, he stared into the demented eyes of that unnatural creature and was certain she was staring back.
Author's note: This is my contribution to the regrettably shallow pool of Chelsea/Afton fanfic. And after reading so many wonderful tourist/volturi fics, I wanted to have a go!
Reviews are welcomed!