Author's Note: Wow. Thank you all so much for the follows, favorites, and reviews!
Ngome055: I'm glad you like James March and my OC. Their feature interactions are going to be really funny/sweet; they'll say and do things that will have them questioning the other's sanity. ;)
Anonymous: Hello and welcome! Thank you so much for your review. I really love the way James interacts with other characters on the show; he's so snarky! I find it utterly adorable. I do have a lot of "special things" planned for James and Rosaline, so keep your eyes peeled.
VampWolf92: Thannnnnk you. Lol.
Moonshadow427: Thank you so much for your comment. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter.
New Guest: I'm glad my dialogue is true to character; I often worry that it isn't at times, so this is nice to know. As for my errors, I apologize. I try to catch them all, but I have a tendency to add to the story as I correct, which in turn gives me more to review and I just pass right over my mistakes. I'll strive to do better.
With Memory Comes Mystery
There are lessons to be learned in death, challenges to be had. The first is simple yet tricky, the dead must learn to escape from hell. Everyone's version of hell is different. It could be something as great as experiencing fire and brimstone, or so meek as a breakup, singing in a musical, or dissecting a frog.
It took Sally, five years before she stopped dancing, stumbling her way to that bright light from whence she fell. For Miss Evers, that wait was seven years. Seven long, hard years. Once she came to, it was like she didn't even break the cycle. For two months after she couldn't stop muttering, crying about her boy and clutching at the linens. As for our golden boy, James, it took him four short months.
The reason for his swift escape is due to the fact that the memory of his own personal hell is not buried deep, but at the forefront of his mind. Even as he looks at the fading sunlight in the distance he can see and relive that moment. With perfect clarity he could see tendrils of blonde hair moving, blowing gently with every labored breath he took, could feel the fabric of a yellow ruffled skirt, and smell dirt and roses.
Until now the sight of the flower be it the real image or just a photograph, would cause that memory to surge forth. But now... Well, now there's a new memory and with it a clean, fresh scent of the once tainted bud. How did it happen? He wondered to himself. How could she-
"I hope I'm not boring you."
Pulled from his thoughts, James turned his head, eyes clashing with green. "You've done many things to me, my dear, but boring me is not one of them."
Elizabeth, the Countess, as she liked to be called, studied James with a critical eye. Though he was her husband—on paper, not in heart—she knew him. Knew him well. Conversely, as much as she knew there was still a part of him that was kept out of her reach; a world she never truly cared to venture into. While she didn't love him she adored his doting presence, his jealousy, and flares of temper, they made her smile thus making their visits tolerable.
"Hmm," she responded, reaching for her wine glass. "Then should I take your silence to mean that my visit has reached its end?"
Clenching his jaw James' eyes flashed in warning. Their time together was always short, too short for his liking. Knowing that, she tempted him. She would always wear the most form-fitting gowns, entice him by pinning up her hair and baring her slender neck, and would dangle herself in front of him, silently baiting him by reminding him of what he had once had.
Staring at her now, he noted that he should have acknowledged that warning in his blood all those years ago. But he had stared into those green eyes, failing to see the jaded woman underneath, and wanted her. All of her.
Truly in that first glance, he had fallen hard. He grew to love her, cherish her, wanted to give her everything he possessed. And while he would be loath to admit it, there was a still an attachment, a stubborn pride that demanded that she submit to him, that she desire him as he had her all those years ago.
Still, knowing what he knew now he would have let her fall. In fact, he would have pushed her out the window himself. 'Freak accident,' he would have declared to the horrified residents and pedestrians below. 'Just a freak accident. Nothing to see.'
Like a simpleton, he saved her life and like a fool he allows her to goad him in death. Maybe it's because, in the back of his mind, he wanted to believe, to entertain the idea that she could have cared, but looking into her eyes he knows that she never has. Not even once. How could he ever compete with a 20ft god on a screen?
"Mrs. March," he admonished huskily, eyes twinkling as he saw her own flash in anger at being called by her married name. "How could you possibly leave without having dessert? After all," he went on to say, his famed charismatic smile in place, "it is the very best part."
Reaching forward, he gripped a silver bell and gave it a little shake.
At once Miss Evers appeared. "Here you go, sir," she sang as she came through the door, struggling slightly with a young woman who was bound and gagged. The frightened young woman gave a muffled scream, her doe brown eyes pleading for them to help her as she tried her best to pull herself from Miss Evers' hold.
"I thought you would know my type by now, James."
James said nothing. He merely waited for Miss Evers to throw the girl, whoever she was, on the bed and dart outside. "This a hefty one, sir. Quite the fighter."
A blonde brow went up.
Turning in her chair, Elizabeth watched as Miss Evers dragged a young man by his leather-clad ankles. The man jerked like mad, practically lifting himself off the floor as he tried to pull his legs free, cursing at Miss Evers through the gag. But death gives Miss Evers added strength and she shushes him. "Now there will be none of that," she stated, slapping his leg with her hand. "Behave yourself!" Gritting her teeth, she pulled him further inside the room.
When Elizabeth caught sight of his face, she felt her pulse quicken. Lips parted, she breathed him in. "He's full of rage," she purred seconds later, pupils' lust blown. "I can smell it."
It's more than rage. James knows exactly why she likes this young man. From his raven hair and chocolate eyes, all the way down to the point of his chin, James knows why she's so damned pleased; he is the spitting image of her deity.
"Are you satisfied?"
Looking back at him Elizabeth gifted him with one of her rare half-moon smiles, the kind that touches her eyes for a heartbeat before they become vacant once more. "Very much so," she replied coolly.
"Well, please," he said, motioning to screaming pair in the bedroom, "have your dessert. Enjoy it." With a grace that still made his heart constrict, he watched her rise from her chair and make her way over to her meal.
Blood splattered across the Western wall in a great arc. Entranced, James watched the blood begin to run down the wall slowly, adding to the morbidity of the arc. It was absolutely beautiful.
The injured woman let out a gurgled, bubbled up scream and stole his attention. Gazing at Elizabeth's curved backside in her green Dior dress, he wished that he could join her. But that wish was quickly discarded when she, with blood dribbling down her chin, looked to her false idol.
James waited for the kill, yearned for it. She didn't lay a finger on the man. Gripping the armrest so tight that the wood cracked in protest, James leaned forward in his chair, eyes glued to their interaction.
Leaning across the bed, she whispered something into the man's ears that James couldn't make out. Pulling back from him she received his nod and did the unthinkable. She... smiled... at him. Not a grin or even the rare half smile she had gifted James just minutes ago, but a real smile.
Fury snaked along James' spine, slithering higher until it went off like a gunshot in his mind. Slinking back into his chair, he narrowed his eyes at the pair and dug out his cigarette case from the pocket of his brown pinstriped jacket. Traitorous wench, he declared silently as he lit his cigarette.
While it angered him he couldn't say it took him by surprise. Putting out the match he had to admit that deep down he knew she would save his life, which is why her doing so fit so well into his plan. After he killed Rosaline, whenever that was, he would take the life of her false idol next.
Blowing out smoke his eyes gleamed at the thought. Not only will he have feasted on a well-deserved meal, but he would have destroyed another deity, killed another god. Why even now he could still hear the sound of, Rudolph Valentino's, fists pounding against the steel wall as he shouted for help that would never arrive.
"Thank you," Elizabeth purred, drawing his attention. Though she thanked him, she had eyes only for the young man who was now under her spell. "I came for a meal and leave with a gift." Taking the man by the hand, she guided him to the door. "Until next time, James."
The champagne glass broke in his hand.
Still in his seat, James could feel blood pool in his hand. It didn't bother him. Soon the glass would push itself out, the wounds would close, and he would wipe the blood off his fingers with his handkerchief. Taking another drag from his cigarette he exhaled slowly.
As he inhaled a ragged breath an all too familiar scent tickled his nose. It was not the cigarette. Eyes flying to the serving tray in the corner, he spied a tall crystal trumpet. It couldn't be, could it? Putting out his cigarette he pushed back from the table, ignoring the stinging of the glass as it was just his mind toying with him, reminding him of what physical pain felt like, and moved toward the tray.
Standing before it, he peered down at the clear liquid inside.
"Why do you insist on drinking that nonsense before every meal?" He asked one evening. "The sherbet does a much better job of clearing your palate, I'm sure."
"It's not used to clear my palate," Elizabeth answered. "I drink to remember."
Clutching the neck of the bottle, he brought it up to his nose. As the scent pierced his olfactory bulb his eyes fluttered closed and he groaned. He can see her, see Rosaline as she walked alongside the fountain with the sun in her hair and her eyes on him...
The clear liquid flowed between his lips and trickled down his throat.
Eyes flying open, the bottle slipped from his fingers. Like her scent he can taste this, this... rose water. The taste, though subtle, is strong on his tongue.
More than just providing taste, it expunges his rage. Dazed James stared out the window, eyes roaming over everything yet seeing nothing at all. Bit by bit the gnawing fury ebbed away and a peace like he had never known took hold of him.
For a moment, he was lost.
Closing his eyes, he can feel the sunlight on his body, see the curves of Rosaline's smile, and feel her pulse race as he holds her hand, guiding her along the path under the cover of Oak trees... Another memory has formed, securing a place in his brain. With the newfound taste and memory, came mystery. Mystery and rage.
"Who are you to curb my indignation?" He questioned aloud as his eyes opened.
Blinking the city into focus, he clenched his jaw tight, causing a muscle to flex. Whoever Rosaline was—whatever she was, he was going to find out. He was going to expose her secret, rip it from her breast if he had too, and then he would destroy her. Desecrate her soul for daring to limit the one thing he had left, his wrath.
Sunday couldn't come soon enough.
