Dark Reflection
Chapter 18
"Santa Muerte"
by Lilyjack
A glass along with its medicinal contents shattered on the wall next to Phoebe Von Vleck's head. Ducking and shrieking loudly, she cursed, "Why, you cheap little red-headed floozie! Wait'll I get my hands on you!"
Before Phoebe had a chance to make good her threat, she was forced to dodge a lace-up boot hurled in her direction. "Stop that!" She groused, "Dammit! That was the last of the bottle you wasted!" The amply-proportioned prostitute gingerly plucked shards of glass from her brunette hairpiece as she spat at Kitty, "I don't know why Silas doesn't just kill you and get it over with."
"Phoebe." A voice whose cold, emotionless sibilance brought to mind a hissing rattlesnake sounded from the open doorway. "I expect you to have better control of her than this."
The tall Von Vleck, even taller than Kitty Russell, flashed a panicked look toward Silas Blackthorne as he lay his brown package and bouquet of flowers on the dresser. Her brightly-painted mouth fell open and she stuttered his name nervously. "S-Silas…"
"I expect you to maintain better control of yourself as well," he drawled evenly, but his one visible eye glinted unmistakably and sharply towards Von Vleck. Then his gaze shifted to Kitty Russell, tiredly leaning against the wall after her heated outburst, smirking at her disconcerted warden. Phoebe curled a surly lip at the redhead.
Blackthorne admonished Von Vleck in his raspy voice, "I'll not have you upsetting her like this."
Phoebe's head snapped around towards him again, her Adam's apple bobbing hard before she exclaimed, "But Silas, it's not lasting as long as it used to. I think you gotta give her more."
Kitty burst out in a ragged voice, "More?! You really do wanna kill me!" Her watering eyes were full of fire, her stance ready for a fight in spite of her exhaustion.
"Settle down, will ya'?" Phoebe admonished. "Silas is here now and he'll…"
"Phoebe, that's enough," Blackthorne commanded under his breath.
The dark-haired saloon girl shrank back a few steps toward the corner. "That was the last of it, Silas. She threw it, broke the bottle. She's nuthin' but trouble, I tell ya'. Nuthin' but heartache," she muttered. "I wouldn't be such trouble for you, honest. She ain't worth it, Sil-…"
"Enough, woman!" he hoarsely barked, holding up his gloved palm. "I'm warning you…"
Von Vleck's eyes flew wide as she gasped at Blackthorne's reaction.
Silas Blackthorne closed his storm cloud gray eye and took a deep breath before untying the string from the paper package he had set on the dresser. As he uncorked the bottle, he turned and kept his gaze steadily on the profusely perspiring redhead trembling against the opposite wall. "Never fear…" He now spoke in an even tone, "I brought more today. I know how you're hurting, Miss Russell. I'm very aware of the pain in your chest, the burning needles piercing your skin…" He expertly tilted the small glass bottle to pour it, focusing the eye not covered by the leather mask hiding half of his face. His gravelly voice lowered further, "…and I can help you. I can make those hot needles go away in just a matter of minutes, my dear."
"Don't call me that, you son-of-a-bitch. I'm not your 'dear.'" She wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead with her sleeve and pressed her lips together stubbornly.
Von Vleck's jaw muscle twitched at Kitty's brazen words as she took another nervous step back towards her corner. Blackthorne trod slowly towards the redhead with a whiskey glass containing a larger measure of liquid from the bottle he'd brought from Hetzel's Pharmacy. "Miss Russell," came the oily reply, "I simply do not understand why you continue to remain so obstinate."
"Stay away from me, Blackthorne."
"I could give you anything you desire…"
Phoebe's jealous, hateful look glowered in perfect contrast to Kitty's sick expression.
"I don't want anything you have to offer," Kitty breathed. "You're a thief…and a killer."
Both Phoebe's and Silas' expressions carefully froze. Blackthorne continued to advance, although more slowly. He saw Kitty ball her fists, shift her weight on her feet. He knew she would not drink the contents of the glass easily tonight, not that she ever had before. But this time, he steeled himself for a fight. He would not let this willful girl have her way. No one bested Silas Blackthorne. No one.
"I mean it, Blackthorne…" Kitty's voice shook, but her expression was unflinching. "I want no part of you."
Blackthorne's grip on the whiskey glass tightened and what passed for a smile tugged the visible corner of his mouth up as he stood directly before her. Although he was twice her size, she did not shrink before him. She straightened herself to her full height and met his stony stare. His jaw muscles twitched, nostrils flaring as he inhaled a calming breath. His voice lowered to a deadly tone, "You think your young cowboy is coming to rescue you?" He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, "You're wrong. Dead wrong..." He turned his head to look into her eyes, and she could see the keloid scars snaking down his throat. He laughed, an ugly laugh, deep and raspy and long.
She narrowed her gaze at him, her heart squeezing in her chest. She had to ask, even though she knew it would give him pleasure. The question slipped out as a whisper, "What do you mean?"
"Your handsome, would-be rescuer, Jack Mathias…" He bit out with a hateful flourish, "…is dead."
"But…I…I…didn't even know him…" she stammered in confusion. And even though she believed what she was saying, knew that it was true, her heart sank at his words and she felt sick, so nauseous, she could feel the bile rising in her throat.
Silas Blackthorne triumphantly hissed his rattlesnake's parlance into her ear again, "So you've got no one but me now, Miss Russell."
"That's what you think…" Kitty uttered through gritted teeth, and she struck out with her fist, smashing Blackthorne soundly on the side of the head, knocking off his hat and sending his leather mask askew. The glass and its contents dropped to the floor. Blackthorne shook his head to clear it and the mask fell away, revealing the wormy white scars over half his face, writhing their way through his dark, wiry beard and down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. The milky white eye stared blindly around the room as he staggered, unable to believe the strength that Kitty Russell had packed into her relatively small fist. Kitty quickly took advantage of his insensibility and slapped him hard across the face, raking her nails deeply over his scarred skin, and as she did, drawing blood.
Phoebe was frozen stock still in the corner of the room, dark eyes wide as saucers, gaudily painted mouth ajar.
Blackthorne, grabbing Kitty's wrist, hoarsely prodded the senseless Phoebe to action, "More drugs, you stupid whore!"
Phoebe sprang into action at his voice, snatched the abandoned glass from the floor and poured another generous measure of the potent liquid with shaking hands.
Meanwhile, she heard a roar from Silas Blackthorne as Kitty elbowed him hard in the midsection. He grabbed her savagely by the hair, jerking her head back, rendering her incapable of attacking him.
"Hurry, you useless bitch!" Silas growled to Phoebe.
"I'm coming, Silas. I'm coming…"
Kitty clamped her lips tightly shut, so Blackthorne roughly ordered, "Hand me that glass, Phoebe. Hold her nose so she can't breathe."
"Yes, Silas," Phoebe replied hastily. She'd never seen him this angry. She'd never seen him without his mask. She couldn't bring herself to look at his face, so she kept her eyes cast downward.
Kitty struggled, but she was helpless to move freely with her head pulled back at such a sharp angle. She used her hands to tug at Blackthorne's and Phoebe's grips on her, but they were strong, and she was already weak to begin with. She felt herself growing lightheaded from lack of air. Tears sprang to her eyes. Slowly parting her lips, she drew in a sharp breath. That's when Blackthorne forced the bitter liquid into her mouth. The dosage was increased, and she choked and coughed, swallowing so that she could breathe. She couldn't help it - she hiccupped a sob, and closed her eyes against the burning tears…and what was to come. Would this hell never end?
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"La Niña Blanca…" he whispered into her ear.
"No," she breathed as her eyelids drooped and her limbs grew heavy, so heavy she could not support herself. "I'm…I'm not who you think I am."
He effortlessly scooped her limp body into his powerful arms, carrying her to the bed.
"Tú eres mi…" he earnestly began.
"Silas…?" An unwelcome interruption.
Blackthorne's head snapped around quickly to glimpse Phoebe staring at him. He'd forgotten she was still in the room.
Her features once again registered shock at beholding his ruined face without the mask hiding his horrific scars. She stumbled backwards a step, stammering, "I… I… You…"
"What do you want?" he seethed impatiently.
"Nothing… I…" She shook her head, gaping in disbelief. "Nothing…"
"Then leave us," he demanded through gritted teeth, waving her away.
"No, Phoebe… Stay here…" came the entreaty from the bed, the words slurred by the effects of the drug. Kitty reached out a hand, "Please…"
Phoebe shook her head at Kitty, trembling. Obediently, she replied, "Yes, Silas," and hurried out the door, closing it softly behind her.
Sighing, Kitty turned her face towards the wall.
Silas laughed to himself as if enjoying some private joke. One by one, he lit the amber candles he had removed from the bureau where Chester always hid them away. Shaking his head, at last he spoke, "You see, you have no one but me." He dimmed the bedroom lanterns until the candle flames made shadows dance grotesquely on the walls. Lightning from the looming thunderstorm occasionally flashed outside the window, illuminating the bedroom with its ghostly white light. Blackthorne insistently added, "But I will take care of you…"
Leaning over a primitive oil lamp he had lit with a match, the scarred man deeply inhaled the smoke from dried herbs and tree bark smoldering inside. He held his breath and closed his eyes, his small half-smile an incongruous contortion of his disfigured facial features. Then, on a long exhale, he finished, "…porque eres mi Señora de la Noche. Se que me curaras." Taking a handful of gold coins from his pocket, he scattered them onto the bed. "I know you will, my lady…" he repeated in English, retrieving a pint of bourbon from his large duster pocket. "You will heal me." He uncorked the bottle and poured a drink, simply inhaling the dark aroma. The glass containers clinked as he set both on the nightstand next to the bed. Placing the bouquet of prairie flowers next to the whiskey, he removed a few from the bunch and scattered them on the bed with the gold coins.
"I'm not…" Kitty drunkenly turned her head to face him, brushing a prairie flower from her arm, eyes half closed. "…who you think I am," she repeated, her lips barely able to form the words. "I'm not…"
Inhaling deeply from his healing herbs once more, he felt he could see things with more clarity, more vision. His senses came alive and his mind reeled.
"Cúrame," he whispered, heal me, as he sat next to her on the edge of the bed, facing her to admire her soft, white, unblemished skin, her perfect face with stunning blue eyes barely visible beneath sleepy dark-lashed lids. "Santa Muerte, por favor me releva de toda envidia," he murmured. Saint Death, please relieve me of all envy. She was nearly asleep.
He reached out to hold her flawless hand in his own, to smooth his palm over it slowly, touch the tiny freckles that adorned it like stars in the night sky. He watched her slack expression - she did not protest, so he placed her hand upon his ruined cheek. Her touch caused a shudder to race through his body – like a bolt of lightning, it was. His head reeled - she did have the power to heal. She was indeed his Señora de la Noche. Lady of the Night…
He cradled her hand in his own to kiss her sweet palm, but was shocked when he beheld a crimson stain. Blood. Blinking, he searched her hand for an injury but could find none, then realized with a start that the blood could only be his own. Gingerly touching his scarred cheek, he found it warm and wet. He quickly looked down at his own fingers, stained red. Fresh blood. His cheek was bleeding. He hurried to the mirror and looked within. He was shocked to see his own reflection, a mass of lumpy flesh dripping with blood, his own milky white eye staring back at him, unseeing. Blackthorne caught himself as he stumbled in confusion and shock. He leaned over the healing herbs to take another deep breath, then staggered back to the bed and lay across the foot, closing his eyes to make his head stop its relentless spinning.
Blood...sticky, warm blood everywhere. He was choking on his own blood, lying on the sandy earth, feeling the life literally drain out of his body.
Laughing…he could hear young men drunkenly laughing, cruel and mocking, angry and bitter. He couldn't see their faces - blood and dirt mixing to blind his eyes, but he could hear one of them heatedly assert, "Reckon you won't be hurtin' anymore pretty girls, Blackthorne."
Liquid splashed on his face, in his mouth, choking him further – the fumes and flavor of corn whiskey unmistakable. As he gasped, more whiskey sluiced atop his body. It seared the deep knife slashes across his cheek, down his neck and through the ripped fabric of his shirt to his chest, burning until he writhed, gurgling in pain. More laughter from the men, three in all.
"You're not so handsome now, are ya', Blackthorne? Girls won't wanna have anything more to do with you, will they?"
"It don't matter, brother. He's a'gonna die now anyways."
A deeper, more sinister voice, "That's what you get for messin' with our sister, you son-of-a-bitch. She's seventeen, dammit! And she's a lady, Blackthorne. Ladies wait till they get hitched, comprende?"
A boot heel aimed at his temple caught him in the eye. Throwing up an arm too late to shield his face, a strangled curse was Blackthorne's only audible response.
Silas's head swam, and for a moment he remembered the sweet, supple skin of their sister, her golden hair and blue eyes and rosy lips. But that little bitch had been a tease, she had. She'd led him on with her pretty smiles and charming ways, and then she'd had the audacity to say "no" to him when he wanted to sample her wares. Who the hell did she think she was? "You can't say 'no' to me, pretty little angel. No one says that to Silas Blackthorne." And so he'd taken her to hand.
Another vicious kick to his head brought him back to the present.
"Hope you roast in hell, Silas. We trusted you." More whiskey poured onto the knife cuts on his face, filling his mouth so he couldn't breathe. "We trusted you with our little sister, you goddam bastard."
Silas Blackthorne swallowed the whiskey, coughing and spitting. It burned like hellfire all the way down, but it cleared the metallic, scarlet death flooding his throat long enough for him to perversely rasp, "Your precious sister…tasted so sweet, boys. I'll carry…the memory of taking her innocence… with me all the way…to hell…" An ugly, hacking chuckle grated from his lips as the brothers listened in horror. "Me and Lucifer, we're old friends…"
And with that a final, white hot slash of pain sliced across his neck, making him groan while his breath ominously bubbled black-red in the silvery moonlight. An angry, disembodied hoarse whisper sounded in Blackthorne's ear, "That there was for our Gemma. I want you to think a' how bad you stove her up afore you die." The brother's voice caught in a sob, but then he managed to continue in a tight voice, "You…beat her black and blue, and Ma says she may not live yet. I hope you remember that whilst you bleed out, you cursed devil." The man spit on him and rose again.
Before Silas Blackthorne completely lost consciousness, he heard the men mount up and ride far away across the deserted landscape. He thought he would never live to see the light of day, and obviously, neither did they.
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Silas Blackthorne cracked open one eye, for the other was swollen shut, and through the dim light his gaze landed upon the figure of a skeleton standing in the far corner of the room, dressed in black robes, adorned in jewelry, her skull draped in ivory lace. In one hand, she held a scythe. Was he dead? Was he indeed in hell?
Then he became acutely aware of his own pain - his face, neck and chest were either wrapped tightly in bandages or swathed in poultices of foul-smelling stuff. The room surrounding him was a small, adobe-walled structure, the air wispy with smoke of a strange spicy-sweet aroma, the walls hung with bunches of dried herbs, vegetables and fruits. Then, over the sound of his own ringing ears, a symptom of many blows to his head, he finally noticed the sound of a woman's voice speaking low, whispering, in the cadence of a prayer: "Santa Muerte, porfavor me releva de toda envidia…"
He tried to turn his head in the direction of her voice but was unable to move. His bandages were too confining and, in any event, the pain too great.
Suddenly she appeared within his field of vision, carrying a lighted amber candle to place next to the figure of the skeleton that had so surprised him when he first awoke. The figure was a statue, half as tall as the woman herself, and appeared to be of some religious significance. She continued her prayer, "...Porfavor me releva de toda la pobreza y el odio…" Blackthorne watched motionlessly as she took a necklace of woven flowers from around her neck and placed it on the statue. He was surprised to see the Spanish woman had hair as red as fire falling loosely down her back. It gleamed in the shafts of sunlight beaming through the window. The señorita, dressed in homespun peasant clothing, picked an errant blossom that had caught in her curly titian tresses, placing it at the feet of the skeleton figure, then reached into a small leather purse tied at her waist. She withdrew a single gold coin, kissed it and lay it next to the flower, adding "… y les pido que porfavor me concedas el poder de curar a este hombre." Then she turned toward the bed.
Liquid brown eyes widened in surprise when they spied her patient watching her. "¡Estás despierto!"
He attempted to speak, "No… hablo…" but all he could manage was the barest whisper. Instead he rasped, "Water…agua…porfavor…"
The woman hurried to bring him a gourd dipper full of fresh water. Supporting his head, she carefully held it to his injured lips so as not to damage the handiwork she had done on him.
When a peasant farmer and his two boys had brought this man to her a week ago after stumbling upon him in a field, more dead than alive, she had not known if she would indeed be able to help him. His flesh was cut to ribbons, one eye ruined, and he was badly beaten. But Santa Muerte was the patron saint of lost causes, and if anyone could help this man, it would indeed be Señora de la Noche. "I thought you say you cannot speak Spanish," she remonstrated.
The man finally stopped drinking, and she lay his head gently back on the pillow. "Mostly…I can't," he whispered, his voice nearly nonexistent. "Just a little." He was exhausted by his brief period of wakefulness and drinking his fill of cool water. His eye, the one not covered by a bandage, began to drift shut again. With great effort, he rasped, "Muchas gracias, Señorita…?" He left his question hanging, waiting for her name.
"I am la bruja," she said without hesitation, staring at him unblinkingly. "My name is Esperanza. I pray to Santa Muerte…Holy Death. She help me to help you. You do what I say. I think you will live…in spite of what you must have done…" She waved her hands over him, gesturing at his injuries. "…to deserve such castigo…punishment. I think if you live, it might be punishment enough for your crime, gringo, sí? Because you not gonna look the same as you look before." She shook her head, narrowing her dark eyes and pressing her wide, full lips together in a grim line. "No."
Blackthorne closed his good eye. He couldn't listen to la bruja any longer. Besides, what could she mean by a fate worse than death?
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Blackthorne's head pounded as he staggered out Kitty's door, hurriedly retying his leather mask onto his face and replacing his hat. He frantically beat on the door next to hers, calling, "Kitty Russell, where are you? Are you in there?" He had woken at the foot of her bed to find her gone, instantly panicking.
"Boss!" It was Linwood Chaney at his side, his rifle leaning against the wall next to the chair he'd abandoned beside the stairs. He insisted, "She ain't gone nowheres!"
"She's disappeared!" Blackthorne growled, grabbing Chaney by the collar. The huge man hefted his guard inches off the ground, jerking him close to his face. Thunder clapped directly overhead, and Chaney swore it felt like a direct hit on the saloon this time. Blackthorne snarled, spittle flying, "Why haven't you been doing your job! Where is she?!"
"But, Sheriff," the wiry man gasped, his nose a hair's breadth from Blackthorne's leather mask, "she's just down…"
"Right here, Boss…" A honeyed alto voice called softly to him. "Don't you fret none. I got things under control. She in my room– come see fo' yourself." Blackthorne turned to see a buxom girl with smooth golden brown skin and hazel eyes crook a finger at him. "Sheriff, she was actin' crazy, wantin' to run off, but I calm her down and put her in here with me. You know Linwood woulda hurt her if he got his hands on…"
Chaney sputtered as Blackthorne dropped him to the floor, "You shut up, girl! Why, I oughta…"
She quietly chastised him, "Hush up, Linwood. You gonna wake her up. I like t' never got her to quieten down."
Blackthorne released a breath he'd been holding. Relaxed his muscles. Ordered his mulatto whore, "Show me, Ruby."
Ruby Moon pursed her generous lips, but knew better than to buck Silas Blackthorne. "Come on in. She sleepin'."
Silas brushed past Ruby in her sequined, red satin dress that set off her voluptuous figure to perfection. He started for the bed where Kitty lay on her side, a ghostly pale figure with knees hugged to her chest, sound asleep. The only illumination in the room was a dim oil lamp on a table and brilliant streaks of lightning that flashed through the window incessantly now.
He started to touch the redhead's shoulder, to rouse her, but then he felt a soft, insistent hand stroking his back.
"Aw, Silas, honey, let the girl sleep. She awful tired."
Blackthorne turned and stared at the mulatto girl. She was smiling warmly at him. He narrowed his good eye, the muscles in his jaw working, his fists clenching.
She seemed to read his emotions, then looked at the white girl lying on the bed curled in a ball. "C'mere, Silas, sugar." She slid her supple arm around his shoulder, kneading his neck. "I'ma take you on back to Kitty's room where you can get some rest. This girl ain't in no shape for what you need." She smiled at him seductively, kissed his one flawless cheek gently. "Come on now, Ruby Moon take care of you. What you say?"
He followed her, and she hazarded one last look at the still form on the bed before shutting the door quietly.
Blackthorne sharply ordered Linwood, "Don't take your eyes off this door, Chaney."
Ruby Moon cast a glance over her shoulder at Linwood Chaney sitting alertly, shouldering his rifle, before she sighed and led Silas Blackthorne down the hall to Kitty Russell's abandoned bedroom. That's when the heavens finally opened up and poured down a torrent of rain on the city of Dodge.
tbc
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