Outside the operating theater, the night was restful and the air was still
and chilly, sitting on the ground like a hen nesting an egg. The silence
unnerved the hunter as he, in a true gentlemanly fashion that seemed
incongruous with his intent, held the door open for the lovely black-haired
Toreador to pass in front of him. The various horizons holding their
breath for the moment allowed the Father to notice, for the first time
since the visitors first arrived, the cool breeze that seemed to emanate
from the woman's body. He shivered profoundly. The door swinging to a
close behind him made him jump a few inches while he tried to shake off the
chills the Seneschal's wife had given him.
She turned back at the noise and tilted her head with a pleasant smile that seemed too warm to belong to such a cold 'corpse,' as Radar had seemed to take to calling them. The term seemed appropriate, somehow, to the Father. Corpses, and souls, souls too, only animate by a force that defied nature, God, and all that was right.
"Quo vadis, Pater." The beautiful monster spoke.
Collecting himself, he nodded, "Yes. Well, right this way," he extended an arm toward the VIP tent. She turned to walk slowly in that direction, obviously hoping for him to catch up and walk at her side, but he lingered, his eyes scanning the edge of the compound where a few men lingered at the mouth of the Officer's Club, seeming neither to want to enter nor exit, but to hang in a fluxuant state and create not so much a clamor as a soft shuffling of feet and murmuring of voices that made the quiet of the night that much more unbearable.
'Go in, or come out. Go in, or come out.' The words ran over and over in his mind, not in the voices of the angels, no, but his own inner voice, directed first towards those lingering on the threshold of the O- club, and second towards himself, lingering on the threshold of his second... murder? No, not murder. Restoration. All things can be restored to their proper place, through the grace of God. Go in, or come out, Father Mulcahy. Do this thing, or don't do it. Trembling on the edge is not the way of a God-fearing man.
"My husband," the monster was saying, as she paused to wait for the priest to come to her side, "Isn't the monster he seems to be, these nights." She reached to take his arm, and, when he pulled away, frightened a bit at the words the vampire seemed to pull straight out of his mind, she simply clutched her hands in front of herself in a ladylike manner.
"He's really a very good man. There IS such a thing, Father, even among us."
Mulcahy crossed his arms across his chest in an awkward gesture, tucking his hands into the crooks of his elbows to keep them from reaching for the flaming sword. One of the tidal men laughed, a clear sound in the dark compound. "And you? Are you a--"
"A good woman?" she finished, reminding him for a second time so far in the trip across the compound of Radar, and the Pooka's face came into mind, the image of the young lad standing on the rickety poker-chair, much distraught and knowing... knowing everything.
"I try to be, Father," she finished meekly. "I try in all I do." She paused, taking in his troubled expression, "You're right to be wary. The path is hard, and it's easy to fall. But you, of all people, should understand that."
Father Mulcahy lifted his chin and nodded vaguely. "Yes. I understand. We all do what we must." The clacking sound of the door of the Officer's Club closing ran to the hunter's ears, and as he opened the door of the VIP tent, he looked over to see whether the tidal men had finally gone in, or come out.
In.
The door closed behind the two, priest and monster, hunter and prey. The Seneschal's wife lifted a lithe arm to turn on the light and display to the chaplain what she'd known since entering: that they were alone. She turned around, for the first time a small frown gracing the warm and tender countenance of the sublimely beautiful face.
"Father? Where's Meg?"
She faced him, and that gorgeous face contorted into a monstrous countenance, red lines of hellish flame running up her cheek and down her neck, marking her with the mark of the beast, the upturned crescent, the cross of sanctity scattered with the taint of foulness. The priest's adrenaline surged as his quarry stood before him, and as its eyes began to glow a sulfur yellow; its body to push out striking wisps of ice-cold black smoke. "You'll find her soon," he intoned quietly.
Irene, for her part, stepped back a bit, unnerved by the priest's sudden manner toward her. She tilted her head down and stared; the briefest of instants later, she lifted her hand halfway to her eyes, the glorious aspect of his aura having come into focus. Had she still been breathing, it would have taken her breath away. The opaque colors that swathed the hunter were white and iridescent, and flickered like flames on a chalice of unicorn's blood, pearly and suffused in holy power. Her mouth fell open and she was nearly thrown into a trance by the beauty of the sight that made even her seem a toad by comparison.
Nearly. Through sheer force of will she continued to stare into the depths of the hunter's soul, and her hand, which had nearly come to her eyes in an effort to block out the blinding light of his aura, now fell to her pale seashell-colored lips as the full truth of his statement was laid open to her.
To Mulcahy, a short gasp was audible, and the monstrous visage faded into the mundane reality as shock racked his system when the monster before him slowly pronounced: "You've killed her."
Not sure about how the vampire managed to figure the fact out so quickly, Mulcahy's spirit panicked, and, before he was quite ready, he raised his hand to grip the sword he felt forming there in the charged atmosphere.
Pulling her eyes back into focus, and leaving the beautiful view of the bright aura behind, Irene's beast shuddered mightily within her soul at the sight of the fiery blade swirling into existence in the hunter's grip: Irene lifted her hand in a prohibitive gesture and emitted a swift, sweet monosyllable, which hung in the air like the ringing of a glass bell:
"STOP!"
Mulcahy stopped. Oh, /how/ did he stop. The blade, poised to strike, stopped still and momently flickered out of existence. If she had, at that moment, asked him to leave the priesthood and run away with her for a wild weekend adventure in hedonistic pleasures of the flesh, he would have readily done that, too.
~
She turned back at the noise and tilted her head with a pleasant smile that seemed too warm to belong to such a cold 'corpse,' as Radar had seemed to take to calling them. The term seemed appropriate, somehow, to the Father. Corpses, and souls, souls too, only animate by a force that defied nature, God, and all that was right.
"Quo vadis, Pater." The beautiful monster spoke.
Collecting himself, he nodded, "Yes. Well, right this way," he extended an arm toward the VIP tent. She turned to walk slowly in that direction, obviously hoping for him to catch up and walk at her side, but he lingered, his eyes scanning the edge of the compound where a few men lingered at the mouth of the Officer's Club, seeming neither to want to enter nor exit, but to hang in a fluxuant state and create not so much a clamor as a soft shuffling of feet and murmuring of voices that made the quiet of the night that much more unbearable.
'Go in, or come out. Go in, or come out.' The words ran over and over in his mind, not in the voices of the angels, no, but his own inner voice, directed first towards those lingering on the threshold of the O- club, and second towards himself, lingering on the threshold of his second... murder? No, not murder. Restoration. All things can be restored to their proper place, through the grace of God. Go in, or come out, Father Mulcahy. Do this thing, or don't do it. Trembling on the edge is not the way of a God-fearing man.
"My husband," the monster was saying, as she paused to wait for the priest to come to her side, "Isn't the monster he seems to be, these nights." She reached to take his arm, and, when he pulled away, frightened a bit at the words the vampire seemed to pull straight out of his mind, she simply clutched her hands in front of herself in a ladylike manner.
"He's really a very good man. There IS such a thing, Father, even among us."
Mulcahy crossed his arms across his chest in an awkward gesture, tucking his hands into the crooks of his elbows to keep them from reaching for the flaming sword. One of the tidal men laughed, a clear sound in the dark compound. "And you? Are you a--"
"A good woman?" she finished, reminding him for a second time so far in the trip across the compound of Radar, and the Pooka's face came into mind, the image of the young lad standing on the rickety poker-chair, much distraught and knowing... knowing everything.
"I try to be, Father," she finished meekly. "I try in all I do." She paused, taking in his troubled expression, "You're right to be wary. The path is hard, and it's easy to fall. But you, of all people, should understand that."
Father Mulcahy lifted his chin and nodded vaguely. "Yes. I understand. We all do what we must." The clacking sound of the door of the Officer's Club closing ran to the hunter's ears, and as he opened the door of the VIP tent, he looked over to see whether the tidal men had finally gone in, or come out.
In.
The door closed behind the two, priest and monster, hunter and prey. The Seneschal's wife lifted a lithe arm to turn on the light and display to the chaplain what she'd known since entering: that they were alone. She turned around, for the first time a small frown gracing the warm and tender countenance of the sublimely beautiful face.
"Father? Where's Meg?"
She faced him, and that gorgeous face contorted into a monstrous countenance, red lines of hellish flame running up her cheek and down her neck, marking her with the mark of the beast, the upturned crescent, the cross of sanctity scattered with the taint of foulness. The priest's adrenaline surged as his quarry stood before him, and as its eyes began to glow a sulfur yellow; its body to push out striking wisps of ice-cold black smoke. "You'll find her soon," he intoned quietly.
Irene, for her part, stepped back a bit, unnerved by the priest's sudden manner toward her. She tilted her head down and stared; the briefest of instants later, she lifted her hand halfway to her eyes, the glorious aspect of his aura having come into focus. Had she still been breathing, it would have taken her breath away. The opaque colors that swathed the hunter were white and iridescent, and flickered like flames on a chalice of unicorn's blood, pearly and suffused in holy power. Her mouth fell open and she was nearly thrown into a trance by the beauty of the sight that made even her seem a toad by comparison.
Nearly. Through sheer force of will she continued to stare into the depths of the hunter's soul, and her hand, which had nearly come to her eyes in an effort to block out the blinding light of his aura, now fell to her pale seashell-colored lips as the full truth of his statement was laid open to her.
To Mulcahy, a short gasp was audible, and the monstrous visage faded into the mundane reality as shock racked his system when the monster before him slowly pronounced: "You've killed her."
Not sure about how the vampire managed to figure the fact out so quickly, Mulcahy's spirit panicked, and, before he was quite ready, he raised his hand to grip the sword he felt forming there in the charged atmosphere.
Pulling her eyes back into focus, and leaving the beautiful view of the bright aura behind, Irene's beast shuddered mightily within her soul at the sight of the fiery blade swirling into existence in the hunter's grip: Irene lifted her hand in a prohibitive gesture and emitted a swift, sweet monosyllable, which hung in the air like the ringing of a glass bell:
"STOP!"
Mulcahy stopped. Oh, /how/ did he stop. The blade, poised to strike, stopped still and momently flickered out of existence. If she had, at that moment, asked him to leave the priesthood and run away with her for a wild weekend adventure in hedonistic pleasures of the flesh, he would have readily done that, too.
~