Okay, so: First, I'm sorry for posting so late! I'll try to keep up my posting, although I do need to focus on my schoolwork. Second, this one's a bit of a transition chapter, so sorry if it's not as long as you would like! I actually had to do a good chunk of research for this chapter; couldn't go posting wrong history. I looked up the image of The Fall of Phaeton, I have to say, it looks different than I'd imagined (I didn't even know it was real), and I figured "If the Mona Lisa is still kickin', I'm sure he would have the money to take care of his painting!"
Chapter Twenty
Past- 1870
Rixon and I were on a train back to the countryside. He'd convinced me that we needed some fun, that I brooded too much, and it was "becoming a pain in his arse". For a century we'd owned our own small townhomes, away from our Nephils' lives. For Rixon and I, it made handling our own business (mainly trading in secrets and any other dirty work shady humans wanted to keep quiet) much easier. Rixon had had enough of seeing the inside, and took me to London for a week. "Brotherly bonding", he called it.
I had to admit, it made me relax, taking my mind off of bloody bodies, broken kneecaps, and scandalous secrets. We went to the casinos, where my skills and strategy made me a small fortune, and where Rixon was able to release his adrenaline on a few drunken losers in brawls outside of the building. I was able to collect some items of my own; scientific papers, poetry, boxes of books (unbeknownst to many, I like reading; Arthur Conan Doyle was a favorite). Rixon teased me for taking so much, but in reality, I'd never had access to so many new things in one place. We'd gone to a circus, which was interesting enough with its large elephants and dancing women and freaks.
One day, we visited an art exhibit, and I looked at all of the pieces and remakes of art that I'd seen throughout my banishment on Earth. Two of them caught my eye. The Fall of Phaeton, by Rubens. Next to it, The Fall of Icarus. Bemusedly, I couldn't help but wonder if the artist had known any, or was, fallen. I was familiar with both stories; the story of a boys who, in their pride, disobeyed the rules and were struck down by the consequences. I found myself relating to them both, more so Phaeton, because he'd tried gotten in over his head when he tried to control something he never could. Instead of seeing him in the image, I saw myself. Finding the owner of the exhibit, I asked him how much he wanted for the painting.
"It's not for sale, I'm sorry sir. There are few remakes of this painting, and my exhibit is one of few that has one." He was so pompous with this declaration; it annoyed me.
"Right, well, you'll be giving me this for free, and I want it safely wrapped and stored in my hotel room by tomorrow night." I , the man agreed and took my card. Content, I found Rixon, and we ended up paying for a tintype of ourselves. It amazed me that, in a day or so, we were able to place our blurry image onto a piece of paper. Just a century ago, people were still being painted, and that took weeks!
Finally, Rixon had access to all of his prostitutes while I enjoyed a lavish dinner at a bar. Surprisingly, the touch of a woman was no longer something I was interested in. I couldn't feel it regardless, and that made it cheap to me. Rixon somehow still found reason within himself to indulge.
"What, are you looking for one of these prudes to love?" he asked me, once. I'd shaken my head no.
"I don't have a good history with women. None of them have ever been worthy of my presence. Besides, what's the point when they'll die, and I'll continue living?" I replied.
"Ha! That is true. Now he's a philosopher. Reading all those poems and stories are getting to your head, Patch; next you'll be speaking in prose!" he said, laughing. Laughing with him, I shook off the childish slight. No, I wasn't concerned about women in my life; they only represented death to me.
I found it much easier to fit in, with my self-control. Rixon, on the other hand, wasn't a large fan of the Victorian era. Lately it was harder to find prostitutes and alcohol without suffering the constant backlash of the societal hierarchy. Now he sat on the train, going on about how "unfair" it was.
"All these women in tight collars, looking like old maids. Really! Is my sex life their business anyway? Not to mention that frump of a Queen, barging in and repressing us all…if I want sex, I should be able to have it! If I want to get raging drunk, I can!" He paused, only to take a drink from the flask that he made invisible with his power. "All of these humans think it, but they hide behind their rules! How much do you want to bet that some guy knows all about the science of frogs or something, but can't properly satisfy a woman? All this progress, and they forget a natural act! All these poor women, suffering from a lack of real love, and not to mention the men whose parts must be shrinking from lack of use…"
I snickered as the people seated across the row from us stared at him wide eyed. It must have been a sight; Rixon and I were dressed subtly but well. I had on a trim black coat, with black slacks and a white shirt completely buttoned, with a red silk handkerchief in my coat pocket. I sat very still, reading my paper. Rixon had his brown jacket off, his white shirt with the first two buttons undone, and looked very agitated, raging against society and very close to blaspheming Queen Victoria.
"Stop complaining. Once, you would have had to trudge through garbage and shit to get to your women. Once, you rolled around in dirty old taverns with them as well. And to think, you called me the 'pretty boy'." I teased, not looking up. The paper told me about America, and how, with their Civil War finished, they were rising from the dust. It seemed like an intriguing investment. Chauncey no longer lived with his descendants, preferring to watch from afar. It made keeping up the façade of aging easier. Some of them decided, before the Revolutionary War, that they'd migrate to the colony of Virginia. Chauncey was able to swipe some letters, all of them describing prosperity through the generations, at least up until 1865. I wasn't sure if he planned on joining them or not; he was an avid Tory and abhorred the loss of America back in their war for independence. He'd seemed to have gotten over it, which was interesting as he rarely changed his behaviors.
"All the pretty lasses with collars up to their chins, covering up the beauties underneath…the clean, bonny ones are all hard to get, seeing as they're so 'indulged' with this society!" Rixon continued on in his rant.
His words faded to the background as I continued reading. I continued thinking about Chauncey and his descendants again. Maybe we ought to make a permanent visit…
"Where in the fuck is Chauncey?!" I hissed. Upon our return, Chauncey and Barnabas' homes were devoid of their belongings. All that was left was large pieces of furniture. I lifted a small table and threw it into the wall, enraged at the realization that he must have been planning this, and waiting until he knew I'd be gone to enact it. In anger and desperation, I began to go through everything, looking for clues as to where he might be. Rixon appeared in the doorway, a look of pure Hell on his features.
"I'll kick the teeth out of the fucking Nephil's mouth!" he shouted.
"Search for something useful! Anything that can tell us where they've gone!" I commanded, impatient with his rage. Cursing, he began to scour the home. Two hours later, I entered Chauncey's office; if there was anything important, it would be there. I had no luck as I aggressively pulled out drawers and threw them onto the ground. Empty, all empty…Sighing angrily, I kicked open the door to the closet. Something floated into my vision, and I looked onto the floor. A small newspaper clipping lay on the floor; probably missed in the haste to leave. I lifted it up, scanning its contents thoughtfully. It was about New York City, and the riches that were beginning to line the businesses' pockets that were centered there. Something clicked, and I knew exactly where to start.
Chauncey Langeais was really pushing it. After the incident with Elizabeth Underwood, for centuries we'd had a "peaceful" relationship. Besides a few harsh Cheshvan possessions, he'd seemed to realize his place, and I'd stopped bothering him in turn. He no longer married or had any children, so there was no one for me to disturb with his disappearances. I hadn't hurt his descendants. He'd grown prosperous, and I'd taken advantage of that prosperity. Part of this, I realized, was my fault. I had become complacent, comfortable with my situation in life; I hadn't seen this coming due my own lack of diligence, which he'd taken advantage of quite boldly. Obviously, he'd forgotten who he served. He was messing with the wrong person, the person that he knew could do him and those around him harm. It took him nearly two centuries to gain the nerve to defy me, and I would make sure I returned it in kind.
Lifting the paper, I sauntered slowly into the main room, where Rixon had taken to breaking the furniture against the walls. Seeing me leaning against the door frame, he tossed me a pipe. I caught it between my fingers, and observed it. Mahogany wood, with gold trimming, smelling sour; it was Chauncey's favorite tobacco pipe.
"All I could find. You?" he grunted. I fanned the clipping in the air.
"You miss the old times, right? You hate this place, and are looking for something new?" I asked him lightly.
"Aye…" he answered, not following me. My face twisted into a sinister look as I showed him the scrap of paper.
"Maybe America will suit your tastes. New York City, to be exact."
Once he finished reading it, his face twisted into a mirror image of mine. I thought only briefly of the suffering that Barnabas would go through when Rixon found him.
"You should probably go get your feather. Among other things you need to pack."
"It's in my reliquary. It's all I'll need; I can get new things after rippin' Barnabas a new one. Only one who needs to pack is you." I raised my eyebrows at the irony of his hiding place, but let it go.
"I suppose it doesn't matter. Besides, this trip isn't about us," I said, grinning evilly as I flipped the pipe. "Poor Chauncey will be missing his favorite pipe. We should return it to him."
So, what do you think? Finally, we're heading to 'Murica! Oh, and I was surprised to see the amount of reviews from last time! Thank you so much! Especially Patchlover212; you weren't playing with that review button! I'd like to reach 55 before I post the next chapter (it's pretty much finished already, just have to edit it a bit); lets see what we can do!