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This chapter is for: Dark Angel's Blue Fire, Piscean Wisdom, Mental Twitch 'Sh33r's, Annad and BC-Dancer.
CHAPTER 3
siren song n (1568): an alluring utterance or appeal; esp: one that is seductive or deceptive
She woke up, panting.
Another night.
Another nightmare.
Always, the same strange dream pushing at her, a sea of nothingness so heavy the silence seem to drown her. A mind numbing whiteness roaring in her mind, mocking blankness where she thought maybe she had forgotten something… something important…
And then the screaming. Blood curling screams, fear, hatred, impotence, but the worst sound that ate at her was the keening of loss.
The cries of helpless, heartbreaking loss that began as someone else's voice then melted into her own, echoing deep, deep inside.
The first hooks of consciousness dug into her mind and sitting upright, breathing hard, she clutched the sheets to her with hands that trembled, a ghost of her usual self.
Staring into the darkness, she tried to gain a sense of her bearings, a sense of who she was.
The tangle of white sheets felt familiar around her skin. The room was the same, haloed silver where the moon spilled in through the slats of the curtain. The breathing punctuating the silence was her own.
Alone. Always alone.
It was her secret, this time of the night. It was her secret - the terrible, strange dreams that haunted her at night, when she was most vulnerable.
It never got better, each time the fear ate at her insides, each time the feeling made her feel sick.
But the screaming had only started lately.
… influenced by your music… attempted suicide…
Slowly, tentatively, she stretched out her feet to the cool floor and shuffled towards her bathroom, feeling the darkness soothe her pounding heartbeat.
Spoilt, June had called her. Spoilt girl with her own ensuite bathroom, own private apartment.
But she never felt spoilt in her life. Always – empty. Always – unsatisfied
She turned the tap and felt the cold water gush and trickle between her fingers. She splashed it on her face, wishing she could wash away more than the sheen of sweat beading her skin.
Her reflection stared back at her, as if searching for some kind of answer.
Pale. She looked so pale, so haunted.
Weak.
Damnit, she was not going to spend another sleepless night in this place. If she was going to stay awake she might as well do it with style.
Flinging open her closet, she flipped the dress off the hook.
The Empress was a more exclusive club, expensive in taste, décor and entry fee.
There were details at every turn, jagged lights hung from the ceiling like icicles in one corner, nooks in the wall for people to cuddle. Screens were everywhere, showing a feline eye, icy blue, roaming the crowd. The black railings glittered under the gothic lights, woven like chords of vines along the staircase. A girl in a feathered boa danced on top of the bar.
It was a mad, mad place, where whacked imagination came to life.
People gyrated on the dance floor, and stage balcony, and higher up people leaned down over two balconies, and with the lights and smoke and disco ball throwing shafts of colors into the vast hall, in the semi darkness the place looked like Hades.
Hell, with all the sinners partying.
People writhed in the semi darkness, in the throbbing light their movements somehow silent and sensual, and under the roving spotlights they could have been naked. It seemed like a dance of sin, misted and jailed, the sea of people moving as a mindless, contorted mass.
But there was no doubt of who was the Queen of the dance floor.
She had been here often in the last weeks, sometimes alone in the higher lookouts, watching, absorbing. Drinking in the sights, smells and the explosion of life and tempers. Sometimes she laughed, flirted, and left entwined with another.
But tonight, she danced.
Amidst the blacks and patterns, sequins and flares, her simple white transformed into haloed silk under the UV lights, wrapping her waist as tenderly as a new lover, trailing after her movements. There was something in the way she held herself that spoke volumes... of confidence... of knowledge. Knowing her profile was flawless and defined. Knowing how to be at one with the music, to dissolve and be devoured within it, and find release. Knowing... how to draw eyes and hold them in her spotlight.
And all the time, the beat of the music rocked the very foundations of the massive building. The beat was so intense, she felt her whole body vibrate with it.
It was a dance of passion.
Passion, because she knew nothing else. Shaera didn't know how to do things by halves. She didn't understand why some would choose to be pastel when they could be brilliant. Didn't understand the meaning of plainness.
But she understood subtlety, the sensuality of whisper over a shout, she understood mystery, how half revealed can be more tantalising than bared, evoking imagination and the desire to see more, and more still...
She understood the darkest of human desires and the darkest of human natures.
Understood only too well.
The strobe light framed each movement in a stark holocaust, the length of a slender neck, cat lilted eyes half closed in both agony and ecstasy, the sway of hips and lips half forming words in silent prayer. She was an exquisite harmony of dualities - hunter and victim, strength and weakness. Seductress or prey?
Feminine... or feline?
It was a dance to drown in. A dance to forget.
The night deepened then slowly slid into a sweet dawn, though they did not know as the pulse of the club blinded them to the world outside. It didn't matter if the sky was starless, or the air cold, all they were focused on, all they were aware of, was the minx in white dancing as if it were the Armageddon, as if there was no tomorrow, ignoring them all as if she couldn't see them. But each thought he would be the one to break the trance and get her to notice him.
He would be the only one.
He knew it, like he knew his own heartbeat...
Just like the other beside him, looking, watching, yearning...
And finally, she opened emerald eyes to see them, and smiled.
The bouncer wondered if he would have to kick the boys out by packs before they started a riot on the dance floor.
If he hadn't been carrying that huge folder, he would have seen the woman before they collided. She swore, and the files in his arms tumbled onto the pavement, papers flying.
"I'm sorry, so sorry." She mumbled, bending to hastily help him pick up the files.
Idiot human, he thought, but kept the tight smile on his face.
She hadn't meant to look. Hadn't meant to intrude – after all, she had other things to do. But the photo jumped out at her.
Such a familiar face. Stunning. Exotic.
"Ahh… isn't that the new singer? Shaera, isn't it?" She frowned, and unaware of what she was doing, flicked through the stack of papers she had collected.
The singer stared back at her each time, from different locations, in different outfits. Some were professional photos, others unaware. Sitting at a coffee shop with a companion. Walking into a club alone.
"If you please."
She glanced up, saw his stiff hand outstretched, waiting for her to return the files as if she had tried his patience. Flushing, she dropped the papers into his palm.
"Big fan, are you?" But the documents looked kind of official. "Media?"
His chin tilted slightly with distain. Maybe he had listened to her CD a few times – okay… many times – but it was degrading to be labeled as either. Mindless, pack followers. Not he.
Shaera was not the only one who knew how to play complicated games.
"Government documents. Council." He explained quickly, allowing a flash of smile to brush her off. "If you'll excuse me…"
He gave her a nod then strode past, ignoring her puzzled frown. She was insignificant, and humans were easily fooled. There was no need to explain which Council, no need to rub the Night World's superiority into their faces. He simply didn't have time for it.
He was focused on Shaera, and the new puzzle she presented. Shaera, and the news he had unearthed through several interviews and discrete checks. Nevermind the ways he conducted the interviews – if any other Council members had issues about his methods of work, they were paid well enough to ignore it.
But he had come upon something very, very interesting.
But what was more interesting was what he could do with this information. A frisson of pleasure trailed hot in his veins – so much power. The decision that could ruin a life, secrets buried deep lay open before him, ready to be used and manipulated.
Ready to be exposed.
"Snap out of it." Jovian clicked his fingers in her face and watched her startle and blink. "Are you in the same world as I am? Hello? Are you tanked? It's too early in the morning to drink – although I did have some beer, mind you-"
"I'm fine." She interrupted. And sighed. "Start again. From D major."
"We've tried the chorus all morning," Kaz murmured, his brown fingers rubbing his temple as if trying to ward off a headache. "It's not working."
"We'll make it work!" She insisted, emerald eyes intense, ignoring the sleepless fatigue eating at her like a true slave driver. "We must make it work."
"Take a break," Kaz met her eyes and held them, matched them.
Jovian flung off his guitar delightedly, oblivious to the sudden tension. "Hell yes, great idea, buddy. I've been needing to piss for the last hour, but Shaera here's been scary as – see you in 30."
She swung to him, her lips half curved. Despite everything, he always could make her smile. "It doesn't take so long to go to the toilet – what are you, the king of constipation?"
"It'll take me 15 minutes just to stretch my perfect, mile-long legs." He shot back, grinning, before the door slammed behind him.
The sudden silence unnerved her.
"Ah… Have you spoken to Thistle lately? Damn Agent, I couldn't get a hold of her." She turned to Kas but recoiled when she realized he had walked up behind her. Gently, he touched her chin and coaxed her face round to his own.
"Look at you," he said softly, "Shadows under your eyes, pale… haven't you been sleeping?"
She jerked her face away, and he cursed himself for the jab of pain he felt when she turned from him.
"I went to The Empress last night."
His brows shot up. "Again?"
Shaera shrugged, and busied herself by tidying the manuscripts. "It helps me… forget things."
Seeking an oblivion she could never have. If such a thing existed.
Kaz hesitated. He hated to ask, but the question dragged out from his lips despite himself. "What are those men to you, Shaera?"
Her eyes swung to his, and she looked at him directly. Tilted her silvery head.
How many people were there last night, again? Who was it that chased her outside, tried to convince her?
Just another handsome face, voice eager and breathless, asking if he could see her again.
They are nothing to me. Distractions.
Playthings.
Her lips twisted in a smile bitter and beguiling. "That's my business. You know that, Kaz."
He waited until she was at the door, her artist's fingers caressing the steel handle.
"What am I to you?"
It was said softly, very softly, but he knew she heard by the way her back straightened, rigid, almost.
The words hung in the air between them, tense and fragile.
Her face turned a fraction, barely noticeable.
Answer me, damn you.
But then her fingers tightened on the handle and she walked away.
"It's been happening again, hasn't it?"
Annoyed, Shaera looked up from her notes. "What?"
"The Nightmares,"
"Are you my mother or my shrink?"
June set her cup down beside Shaera's and eased herself into the chair with a sigh. "I can always tell, you know… after another bout of nightmares you get irritable." She eyed Shaera's posture. "And sloppy."
"Are you suggesting there is something wrong with my posture?" Shaera yawned, eyeing her long legs resting on the balcony railing, the way her clothing wrinkled from the way she was scrunched up and lost in the seat. "I don't come here to get lectured, June."
For a moment, the blonde woman looked sad.
At that, Shaera raised her hand. "Please… don't start."
"Alright… alright… geez, you're just perky today aren't you. I missed your sparkling personality."
"And you call me sarcastic."
The silence between them was comfortable, two women outside on the porch, feeling the sun. This house was the rare places that put Shaera at ease. The place that held memories and familiarity, the good and bad of growing up.
At length, June turned to her, serious this time. "How bad is it?"
Shaera fiddled with her pen. She hadn't told her yet, hadn't mentioned about the screaming, the chilling cries that haunted her. Somehow it was – personal. Somehow, she was reluctant to share it, like a painful secret.
"I can handle it." Or she could until she broke.
Broke into pieces too small to pick up again.
June watched her, with eyes that worried, her usually soft lips tight.
There was so much she wanted to say, but couldn't. Not yet. Not now.
"You will tell me… won't you?" It sounded more like a plea than a question, even to her ears. "If you are in trouble."
"I can handle it," Shaera repeated, staring at her pad so hard she lost focus, watching the words blur and run until they meant nothing at all. "As long as I have my singing, I can handle it."
June felt a chill run through spine, like a bad premonition. Nothing. That was nothing, She told herself. The breeze.
"They can't take that away from me," It came out as a whisper, a vow. "I won't let them."
Suddenly, she just felt tired. Famous, brittle, and tired.
"Why is it never enough, June? Why is it never enough…"
But June couldn't find an answer.
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