Labyrinth of the Burning Heart

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By Jstarz927 and Aine Deande

A/N: Intense violence ahead. You have been warned.

"It's all the mirror, mirror on the wall because beauty is power the same way money is power, the same way a gun is power." Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

Chapter 6

The Burning Heart

Friday, August 17, 2001: St. Louis, Missouri

Employee of the Year Harold Lowe tilted his head to one side, scrutinizing his reflection in his silver plaque. Using his fingers, he slicked a lock of greasy brown hair back behind his right ear. Lowe breathed on the silver-plating surrounding the words "...virtuous dedication..." and buffed the metal to a meticulous shine with an edge of his Armani custom-tailored sleeve.

Lowe had spindly limbs and pale brown hair and looked as if he had never fully recovered from his adolescent growth spurt. His resemblance to a parasitic insect had been brought up more than once by co-workers behind his back. Lowe made up for his seemingly weak appearance with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. That afternoon, Lowe polished the silver-plating of his award one last time and whistled as he packed his things into a handsome leather briefcase.

Heads turned as co-workers lifted their eyes to regard Lowe as he walked cheerfully past their cubicles. Whistling still with a light bounce to his step, acting as if he had never repeatedly cheated his customers nor bribed the CEO for his promotion. No problem there, Lowe had received all his money back with his award and then some. The eyes returned sullenly back to their respective computer screens. They dared not say anything.

Lowe halted for a minute before exiting the front door. "Been a pleasure working with you all. Tell the boss that I left early and have a nice weekend." He flashed a toothpaste-commercial white grin and shut the door behind him with a devilish spark in his gray eyes. It was only noon, plenty of time to make all the necessary preparations before tonight. And what a night it would be.

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The bar was a rowdy place. It was Friday night, barely 8 o'clock and the stools were already packed. The bartenders rushed to and fro between impatient customers amidst heavy metal ripping from the jukebox. A group of customers were crowded around a TV, watching a basketball game and roaring obscenities at the referee and at each other.

Harold Lowe wove his way through the sweaty masses, his gray eyes ceaselessly scanning the people around him, winking at every female he saw. He had changed into another suit jacket that he was more willing to spill beer upon. He paused for a few minutes before the TV, more preoccupied with the flabby viewers trading insults with each other than with the game. Quickly becoming bored, Lowe turned to walk toward the main counter.

He turned too quickly. There was a sharp gasp and Lowe reached out to steady the woman he had almost knocked over. "I'm so sorry ma'am. Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, thank you for catching me." She brushed her hair from her face.

"No prob—" Lowe's words died on his lips as he saw the woman's face. Smooth golden eyes seemed to smile from carefully powered skin. The face was surrounded by a generous amount of curly red hair. A skintight tank top barely met the top of a pair of close fitting leather pants. The woman smiled slightly as Lowe did a double take. Whoa, baby, have I hit the jackpot now.

He licked his lips and tried again. "No problem. Again, I'm so sorry…could I buy you a drink, you know, to apologize?"

There came that devilishly seductive smile again. "I'd like that." Then as an afterthought. "Thank you for your kindness."

Fifteen minutes later, Lowe and his newfound beauty sat at neighboring bar stools, still waiting for a martini. Lowe, who couldn't believe his good fortune, was chatting animatedly to her, not bothered by the wait at all. Who cared if this place had crummy service? So far, Lowe was doing all the talking, the woman simply smiled in all the right places, supporting her chin with one hand, or looked over Lowe's shoulder every so often for the bartender.

"…so I really don't have any family. My job is like my life basically; my co-workers all hate me, but that's just because they're jealous. Did I tell you that I'm Employee of the Year?"

The woman looked at him admiringly. "No, you didn't, that's great!" Her dazzling teeth as she grinned could have blinded someone.

"Isn't it, though? I've got my own office now and…" he patted his hip pocket, "I'm also $2000 richer."

The woman edged a little closer to him. "I bet you're so good at what you do! What exactly do you do?"

"Oh, this and that, nothing too interesting. Just doing my part to get by in this rat race." Lowe turned his head to see the bartender approaching. "Ah, it's about time. Yes, the martini's for the lady." He set the glass in front of her, noticing the bracelet on her wrist at the same time. He took her hand without asking her permission, caressing the slightly damp skin while fingering the bracelet delicately. "May I?"

She nodded and he slipped the bracelet off her wrist. He made a show of examining it admiringly. A thin band of smooth, unblemished gold, no visible marks of any kind. Lowe looked up at her and smiled. "Very pretty. Just like you."

She blushed furiously, the bracelet slipping from her fingers as he handed it back to her and falling onto the floor. "Oh, I'm such a klutz. Excuse me." She bent down to retrieve her bracelet.

As she lowered her head, Lowe regarded her rear with a grin and with his hand carefully removed a tiny plastic bag from his breast pocket. He poured the powder inside into the martini glass. A second's work with the stirrer and the powder dissolved perfectly, the drink once again innocuously still.

The woman's head came up again as she fixed the bracelet back onto her wrist.

"Sorry about that," she murmured, her hair falling delicately to the sides of her face as to hide the still lingering red coloring of her cheeks. Lowe watched the display with growing passion and he felt a familiar twitch in his groin.

As if suddenly remembering, he smiled broadly, saying, "Where are my manners? Harold Lowe is my name. And who do I have the honor of buying a drink for?"

She smiled slightly. "Ariadne."

A slight shadow came over Lowe's face. He hadn't been expecting that; the name didn't seem to suit her. There was something haunting and mysterious about it. For a split second their eyes met and the shadow darkened on both their faces. Lowe shook himself mentally. "Beautiful."

The shadow was gone. A shy giggle. "Thank you." She wrapped her hand around the stem of the martini glass. "To your health, Mr. Lowe."

Lowe watched her drink. "Harold, please," he said with a slightly twisted smile. To my health indeed.

Rachel Ariadne Cahlin sipped the drink slowly, making sure to pass the liquid to the sides of her mouth. The super-absorbent cotton tucked inside her cheeks did their job well, and not a single drop of what she rightly presumed to be a drug-laced drink passed her mouth. Not only did the cotton absorb the drink but added shape to her twisted jaw, allowing her face to look almost normal. She had also injected herself with an ample amount of Romazicon barely half an hour ago.  She would have to give herself repeated doses over the next few hours just to make sure she kept her wits about her. The drug had cost a small fortune to obtain, but money was not a problem. He had seen to that.

Inwardly, she cursed her chosen attire. The tank top restricted her breathing beyond annoyance and she was not at all pleased by how her pants prevented comfortable movement. Something that she would undoubtedly need in the hours to come.

Her wardrobe could be forgiven if it helped her accomplish a passing job of appearing to be charming. The truth was, Ariadne had given up the majority of her communication with the outside world long ago. She had the uneasy notion that every word to pass her lips sounded fake and hollow, but the idiot seemed to be falling for it.

Ah, yes. Her ever-gracious host, who even now was rambling on about one thing or another, attempting to hide his true intentions from her. A difficult task for one who wore his heart on his sleeve like a cheap trinket. Perhaps he would not mind losing his tonight then. It would not have even taken someone like Lecter to see through this man: this weak, pathetic being with an unhealthy obsession for himself and a mind that would have sickened his own mother. Ariadne could not help feeling a slight twinge of pity for the creature.

He revolted her beyond belief and it was all she could do to keep from vomiting when he touched her. In a way, she would actually be doing him a favor, releasing him from his living hell. Even though doing so would not prevent him from journeying on to another hell not of his making. Ariadne took another sip of the drink, washing it around in her mouth. To his health indeed.

Ariadne was careful to slowly present the impression that she was becoming more and more disoriented with the passage of time. Rohypnol, also known as Spanish fly, was said to cause amnesia, confusion, and frequent blackouts. She continued to rest her chin upon her right hand, closing her eyes now and allowing an expression of puzzled fatigue cross her brow.

Lowe was jabbering on, something about his father and how he had been such a role model for his life. Ariadne only half-listened. She knew about his father. She knew that he had nearly throttled Lowe's mother to death one night twenty-five years ago when she had let his dinner get cold. She knew about Lowe's admiration for the filthy rich. She knew he spent too much time alone. She knew his childhood fear of bugs. His bad habit of chewing on the back of his hand. His preference for boxers over briefs. She knew his social security number, his credit card number, his address, and the maiden names of his three ex-wives. It had taken her nearly a week to gather all the necessary information. Piecing together someone's personal history was tedious at best, but it was necessary if she was to do her job well.

Ariadne giggled stupidly again and reached for the martini glass again and knocked it over in her clumsiness. "Oops." She tried to bend over to pick it up, but the floor was swirling too violently. She was unsure how much longer she sat there, picking away splinters from the bar counter and listening to Lowe's ever-droning voce. He should have chosen a job as an answering machine instead of going into real estate. He would have been harmless, and she never would have found him.

Shouts and sounds of breaking glass from the TV area. Two pairs of beer-bellied men were locked in dispute over the game score. Ariadne watched in amusement as bottles were shattered over tables and heads and one frustrated man upended the television. As the bartender ran to restore order, Lowe leaned close to her.

"Let's get out of here before everything goes to hell."

Ariadne's head lolled upon her neck, eyes closed in dumb stupor. "Okay," she said softly. Lowe supported her on her feet as they walked through the sweaty chaos out through the door; Ariadne felt the cold night air hit her face. A familiar, sickening feeling rumbled through her stomach as she opened her eyes to the blackness punctuated by lurid streetlamps swirling in her vision like the lanterns of tumbling coracles on the River Acheron, but she shoved it quickly away. No time for old memories now.

Ariadne was helped into the passenger seat of Lowe's car. A Porsche, she noticed. The top was down and wind blew furiously into Ariadne's face as Lowe drove at top speed through the darkened streets. She checked her watch at regular intervals, and once, when Lowe regarded the side view mirror before cutting off a white Camry behind him, she fumbled in her purse for a syringe and injected herself with the straw-colored liquid. Her mind felt clearer immediately.

The streets were growing smaller and darker now as Lowe headed toward the sparser, more opulent suburbs. He lived on the end of a street devoid of all but one streetlamp and a quarter mile away from the nearest house. Ariadne had been sure to take that into account when choosing Lowe. Not too long now…she took deep breaths to prepare herself for what would come.

Ariadne did not move as he parked the Porsche and came around the side to get her. Her breathing remained even and calm as she allowed him to lift her in his arms and carry her across the lawn and through the front door of his house. For once she blessed her tight leather pants that numbed her legs of the feeling of his hands on her thighs.

Entering the house, Lowe headed for the flight of stairs, paused at the foot, and moved instead toward a large living room, his heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Ariadne's purse rested upon her lap as he laid her down on an overlarge leather couch.

Now the sound of him taking a few steps back to regard her lying motionless across the cushions. Ariadne opened her eyes to see him standing there and smiled slightly. He returned the smile with a full-hearted grin and loosened his tie.

It was time.

Ariadne's eyes rolled back in their sockets until the whites were showing, and then rolled them back further and further still until she peered into her mind. She wandered the yet-unadorned halls of her memory palace, savoring the simplicity. She never found the purpose to build much higher than the foundations. There was nothing worth the space it would fill. Except one. But the notion that she could confine him inside these walls was absurd. The silence would keep her occupied. She would return in full vengeance for the fun ahead after this unpleasantness was over.

Pressure on her mouth now, she felt it from far away, as Lowe forced his tongue into her mouth and kissed her long. Ariadne was reminded of maggots crawling through the unhinged jaws of decomposing corpses. Her hand crept closer and closer toward her purse, but no, not yet…not unless she could see, could be sure of her target. Her other hand ripped away at the buttons of Lowe's shirt, exposing his chest.

Lowe moaned in barely concealed lust as his hand inched toward the zipper of her pants.

Slam of her fist into the bare concrete wall as she screamed and choked with rage.

Those hands she still felt moving over her body, touching, caressing, raping, tearing, clawing…A hand mashing her head down sideways as an inexorable weight savored its possession. "Don't look, you bitch!"

Her pants were sliding down her legs now as Lowe worked them off with one hand. Her underwear was still on; her legs were free. The brief cool air she could feel upon her thighs was gone immediately as Lowe rolled on top of her. He grinned lasciviously and licked his lips before bending to Ariadne's mouth again. His eyes closed as he kissed her.

Her left hand came up and rested upon his chest, a few inches left of center. She clutched at his skin, fingers entwined in the chest hair. Her right hand grasped the object concealed in her purse.

She tore her hand, bleeding, out of the hole she had made in the wall. A trickle of sunlight crept in through the gap in the concrete. She whirled, spun aside, hiding her eyes from the light.

The shadow was waiting on her other side and she raised her eyes to him. He asked her plainly if she had ever seen a rose bleed.

"No."

"I hadn't either. Until now." With that he took her hand and kissed it, his maroon eyes never leaving her face.

Without a word, she drove the stiletto into Lowe's chest, the entry point perfectly centered between her left index and middle fingers splayed across his torso. The slender handle of the stiletto wiggled as Lowe's spiked heartbeat rose to an ecstatic height were it not that he was in immediate danger for his life.

He screamed, tumbled sideways off the couch as his eyes lowered in shock to the knife protruding from his chest, a millimeter to the right of his heart.

Ariadne got up swiftly from the couch and advanced on him very slowly, every step measured and calculated, any sign of dizziness or weariness gone in a flash. Her smile was red with lust. She spoke no word while the man stared at her, stared and stared and tried to find an answer for what was happening in those golden brown eyes of the woman.

They spoke back like daggers in themselves, and even he who had no experience with the reading of eyes could make out the message: Vengeance. Punishment. Time.

"Trust me."

"I will."

Ariadne pounced upon Lowe, covering him quickly like a spider hovering over a crouched parasite. With one swift movement, she jerked her fang out of her prey. Blood trickled out of the neat hole in his exposed chest. There wasn't nearly as much blood as there should have been. Lowe had time to take one breath before the stiletto was plunged into his chest once again, this time to the left of his heart, now fluttering oddly like the crinkled wings of a newly born butterfly.

Lowe's ankles worked mechanically, pushing him away from the monster in spasmodic jerks, slipping over hard wooden planks and his own blood. His movements were rushed by dead fright, but he was fighting a battle he had already lost. Ariadne paused slightly in her advance, an amusing memory brought to mind by this sight.

Rachel felt the gold metal of the ring on his clenched hand connect with her jawbone, as she then lost her balance and fell to the ground. "You stupid bitch! How dare you?!" he shouted, over and over again, spitting into her face as she lay writhing and crawling backwards, spitting up the blood that was dripping into her mouth. It tasted like gutter water.

Lowe spat a mouthful of blood into the air that congealed into a fine mist, hovering in front of his contorted features. He continued scuttling backwards, then quite suddenly felt his back against a wall. Gray eyes met golden brown as he stared into the face of hell.

Ariadne squatted next to his trembling form and coolly yanked the stiletto out of his chest yet again. "Do you know what a thrip is, Harold?"

Stab.

"Thrips are light brown, slender parasites, who while in the adult stage will fly to other plants when disturbed. They particularly enjoy preying on roses."

Yank. Stab.

"They 'rasp' into the leaves to obtain the plants juices, leaving the leaf distorted, with noticeable scars." Her voice was dry and monotone as if reading from an encyclopedia.

Stab. Piteous screams.

"That's what you we planning to do to me, weren't you? I was quite expendable in your opinion, just as you are in mine."

Her hand hovered over his chest, the knife dripping and poised. And then her whole body shuddered. She lowered her face to Lowe then, and the deathly sparks of light were clearly visible in her eyes. Those sparks seen in only one other. That none, except Will Graham, had looked upon and lived.

He choked on the blood in his throat then as Ariadne looked on, and on, and her excitement grew wilder and madder as Harold Lowe became deader and deader. Her hand surged forward as she bowed to him, and stabbed, over and over, punching a neat circle around his heart, cutting it out, removing his black heart from its temple, burning in her hands, blood gushing from every wound like oceans of crimson. An annoying buzzing, screeching sound was filling her ears from the body on the floor, and she finally cut it off by plunging the knife, straight and true, into the very center of the heart.

She laughed, then. Another memory struck her, a funny story. She remembered the smile that met his eyes when he recited to her what he had said to one man before.

"Looks like a straw down a doodlebug hole, doesn't it?"

Ariadne tilted her head slightly, considering while regarding her piece of art, her victim that laid now motionless upon the throw rug, blood surrounding him like so many rose petals, torn and cast upon the ground. She took a few quiet steps toward the couch and removed eight bracelets from her purse and put them on next to the identical one on her wrist. Nine golden bracelets. Nine treasures. The gold glittered upon her blood-smeared wrist.

She recalled Margie, and smiled. "Looks more like the thrip surrounded by the rose petals upon which he has engorged…and swelled to bursting. Doesn't it, Lowe?"

But it was too late for Lowe to answer.