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Ki
The Devil May Care - Part Two
I was gentler, once. Or perhaps I was merely less cruel; the difference is irrelevant.
Confinement will do that. Caged, there is nothing to occupy the mind but itself, and inevitably, your thoughts begin to clash and repeat, chipping away the enamel of civility, revealing something base and bestial. Half monster, half angel, I was once named by a man who thought to tame me: and in my savage worship and worshipful savagery, I proved him right.
Sometimes, in my fonder moments, I can taste his heartstrings between my teeth again.
It helps to quell my humiliation, the indignity of it all. I have been captured by maggots. You walk under the sun, blinkered and deaf and numb, and call it freedom when in truth it is nothing but horror. If you could comprehend how little you truly are, it would drive you to madness.
I'd like that.
But for all our differences, in one respect we are exactly alike. We are not meant to be alone.
I wonder if the others are out there, and if they feel my absence as I feel theirs. Do they dig through your bodies to find traces of me, lingering like spice in the passageways of your veins? Do they meet, and speak my name to the wheeling winds? Do they keep they vigil over the circling sun, seeking me where flesh enters flesh?
I hope so. And if they are watching, if they are waiting...well, your defences have weakened enough to allow me some small measure of control outside my prison. Enough, perhaps, to send a signal, a flare to the only ones I have ever truly belonged with.
One death, splattered across the sky, and they will come for me. They must.
X - X - X - X - X
Cold air dashed against her skin like water, and Chatoya just had time to feel a pang of relief. At last they were out of that damn wardrobe.
And then the four of them hit the floor in an ungainly mesh of limbs and curses, sending up a huge cloud of dust that flicked into her face. The breath was knocked clean from her throat. Coughing, eyes streaming, Chatoya feebly shoved at whoever was pinning her chest, and put a half-hearted foot into the weight on her other leg.
As the dust settled, she found herself gazing up at the trapdoor that had betrayed them. It yawned open like a demented grin. Stupid of her not to check that she was opening the right door – Goddess, she could have dropped them into anything.
"Ow, god, get your elbow out of my stomach, will ya?" demanded Michael from somewhere in the pile.
"Young man, I strongly suggest you remove your hand from its current position, or I will be forced to take drastic action." Nerine's clipped voice sounded strained. "Your lack of propriety is disgusting, if hardly surprising."
Michael sputtered. "Hey, grandmother, in case you hadn't noticed, we just plummeted fifteen feet onto a stone floor. I was trying to land on my feet, not take the opportunity to cop a feel. Shrivelled spinsters aren't my type."
Chatoya felt the mental bolt zoom across her senses like a bullet, slamming into Michael's mind with an impact that made her wince. She was starting to feel light-headed under their combined weight, and whoever was beneath her had to be suffering even more.
"And yobs aren't mine," snapped Nerine. "Keep a civil tongue in your head, young man."
"Don't complain, I bet you haven't had this much action in years," snarled Michael.
"Please, no more flirting," groaned Vaje from beneath her, confirming her private suspicion that he'd been the unfortunate at the bottom of the heap.
"Flirting?" the pair of them said in unison, Nerine's cultured voice riding up like a bat's squeal.
"Flirting, fighting, whatever," the coyote croaked. "I don't care, just shut up and get off. For a kid and a geriatric, you two weigh a ton."
She whole-heartedly agreed, but the weight on her chest meant she couldn't get out more than a rough gasp. Finally, the pressure eased, and she managed to scrabble off Vaje, collapsing onto the floor. A quick inventory reassured her that nothing was seriously damaged; a strained shoulder, bumps and scrapes, all easy to mend.
Vaje leaned over her. He appeared to have recovered from being squished – he didn't even look out of breath. "Think you can get up?
"Easy," she muttered, and fitted deed to white lie. He steadied her, hands careful.
"Doesn't look like you've broken anything. How's your head?"
"Still attached," she said, gingerly taking a step. Her leg felt weak – another injury to add to her collection, but she supposed she was lucky the fall had been cushioned by a trio of supernatural bodies.
"How interesting." Her dignity restored, Nerine was staring around the room. "This room wasn't on the blueprints."
"Interesting isn't the word I'd choose," Vaje said grimly. "We're stuck in here."
"For now," Nerine conceded. "But you must admit, this is a fascinating puzzle. I assume the lanterns are magical."
For the first time, Chatoya took in their new surroundings. They stood in a gloomy room, swaddled in shadows that hid its precise shape. Only a quartet of lamps in the corners radiated a faint orange glow, like the light of dying stars.
And Nerine was right: the metal brackets had been inscribed with enchantments as ancient as those she'd unravelled earlier. Yet there was something else there too: a layer of power that twanged oddly on her senses. As if someone had amended the spells after they were cast, but clumsily, like a child trying to write in a language they barely spoke.
Was that what gave the light its curious transcendent quality? Beneath it, Nerine seemed frail and sickly, a jaundiced hue draining the animation from her wizened features. The folds of her skin ran deeper, the blots beneath her eyes as dark and smeared as ink. Every year she had lived was thrown into sharp relief, her very face a tally of the days already gone – and the precious few left to her.
"Pursanguia?" The formal title got her attention. Vaje almost never used it, and concern roughened his voice. "What's going on? Everything's...off."
He too appeared different. Where Nerine was reduced to a bag of bones, Vaje had a demonic glow, as if he were half flame and half flesh. His skin glowed with a false flush while his eyes threw back a brighter iridescence than the lamps held.
And it frightened her.
She'd never feared Vaje. He'd been nothing but kind to her, but stood there, she was aware that he was as much animal as man, and neither could be trusted to take control.
An enchantment. But what did it show? The truth, or lies? Was that Vaje's true shape, or a trick?
Chatoya swallowed. "Do I look different?"
He nodded, and when he opened his mouth, for a wild moment, she thought he would fly at her with fangs bared. But he sounded the same; wry, blunt, considered. "I can't explain it, but you're...spooky."
"As vague as ever," Nerine remarked sharply.
The snap in the words dispelled some of the illusion – and illusion it was, Chatoya decided. That was no dying grandmother. That was Nerine Devilliers, who had survived Pursang for centuries, and who was tough and weathered as an old boot. Though anyone remarking such would quickly discover that she knew how to kick.
"Pursanguia, there are rather more shadows on your face than there ought to be. And you seem more...imposing. Rather regal."
"What was all the security for?" Thumbs hooked in his belt, Michael was slowly scanning the room. "There's nothing in here."
Whatever enchantment held sway here, it had drained him of his mischief and erased the stubborn line of his mouth. So robbed, his eyes dominated his face, wide, dark and oddly lost. He seemed pale and spindly, his muscle tone reduced to knobbles and bone.
But that, she thought, was closer to the truth of what he was. A child, growing into his responsibilities.
She couldn't have explained why it was so important to understand just what those lanterns did, except to admit that the exotic magic she had felt niggled at her like the melody of a half-recalled song, demanding completion. Perhaps she had seen it before, or heard of it.
"There must be something in here," growled Vaje. "Think about it. Secret entrance through a booby-trapped wardrobe. Creepy mood-lighting. Lots of magic. Whatever it is, someone wanted it locked away."
"Doesn't mean it's still here," pointed out the vampire. "This might just be a prison for burglars-"
Over by the wall, Nerine turned. Her hands were dark with grime, but she wore a tight-lipped smile. "I think not."
"What is it?" she said, squinting. It looked like a hole at first, a faint glint to one of side of it. The boys stepped up to examine it, and away from the orange lights, they seemed themselves again – a trio of formidable assassins. And her. Still the outsider, despite it all.
A movement in the hole knocked her thoughts askew. Something was there. A watery, indistinct shape – and another, there! Spells flew into her mind, and she raised her hands, ready to strike-
And then she realised that what she saw was a reflection.
"A mirror." Nerine cleared another patch, revealing speckled glass and their own inquisitive faces. "And there's a plaque to one side – I can't make out the language yet, Pursanguia but once I've cleaned off the dirt..."
"But why all this trouble?" she wondered aloud. "What's so special about a mirror?"
"Ask Lance," murmured Vaje. "He spends hours staring at himself. True love if ever I saw it."
"I need something to remove the dirt." Nerine's beady eye fell on Michael. "Something like your jacket."
Michael glared back. "No way. This is designer. Use that mutilated curtain you're wearing."
"Oh for god's sake," Vaje said under his breath. He squirmed out of his coat, and held it out. "Use mine. I wouldn't want a petty squabble to wreck young love."
Nerine's expression could have soured milk but she took the coat anyway. "Leave that ridiculous train of thought where it belongs. Now..."
With the fastidiousness of a cat, she began to scrub at the plaque. Slowly, script emerged, bright on what looked like stainless steel. The old vampire took a step back, frowning.
"Looks like Hebrew," volunteered Vaje.
"It is," murmured Nerine. "Let's see, it's been a while since I've read any."
Chatoya waited, impatient but knowing better than to disturb a scholar at work. Beside her, Michael tapped his foot, until she reached out and prodded him, just once. As a reminder.
For a moment, a mutinous gleam showed in his eyes – then he nodded agreement, and settled for staring at the mirror as if he could decipher its mysteries.
Nerine was tracing the symbols with her finger, hunched over. "I believe I have it, Pursanguia. It says," and she cleared her throat, and spoke in a fluid rush, words which meant nothing to Chatoya. "-which, of course, translates as-"
Blinding white light lanced out from the mirror.
X - X - X - X - X
We were never meant to be together too long. But for a while – for a little while, we were glorious and unbroken. Maybe I even loved them, insofar as I'm capable of it.
You have left me incomplete.
And desire needs completion, for unlike that weak copy called love, it's ephemeral and tidal, peaking, cresting, crashing. You took that from me. Foolish of you. It's never wise to challenge desire.
After all, I know nothing of mercy – and I will draw forth everything you've ever dreamed of, everything that's jolted you out of daydreams in your humdrum job, those sweaty thoughts that oozed right through your pores, everything that's sent a shudder down your spine as if some sly lover had crept up to leave warm breath tingling on the back of your neck.
Because here's the secret, no secret at all. Desire is not beautiful. Desire is ugly and brutal and squalid. Desire is back alleys and bathroom walls – it's gravel and friction, guilt and mornings-after. It's that shot of alcohol, wiping out your inhibitions with your stomach lining. It's the heat that settles between your thighs and swarms about your skin.
It's everything you're afraid to admit you really want – those deep, delicious things that you don't even know that you crave. The years, long and wearisome as they are, left me nothing else to concentrate on...and you have only yourself to thank for it.
Shriek beneath me, cry above me, bite your tongue beside me – you'll never tell me to stop.
And even if you asked, if you crawled on hands and knees across burning coals until your skin was blistered into pus and dangling scraps, I wouldn't listen.
But I'm listening now. Closer, closer, so close – there you are, just beyond me, just outside. What are you waiting for? Afraid, still?
Clever of you.
Ah – but no, there are the words, echoing from the stones themselves, there's the entrance, thinning, swinging open. You beautiful, bold fools.
I'm going to give you everything you've ever wanted.
X - X - X - X - X
With an instinct born of many years spent around bad-tempered vampires, Chatoya hit the floor. Blinking away sunspots, she found Vaje and Nerine beside her, but...
But the mirror now gleamed with a strange silvery light, as if the moon had melted onto the glass. Michael stood in front of it, his lips parted, transfixed...
Reaching out.
A strangled sound left her: she knew with terrible clarity that the same curiosity which had drawn him to this house was drawing him to that mysterious glow, seducing him with promises of magic and glory and excitement.
"Keane, don't!" shouted Vaje, as Michael's fingertips brushed the surface. The coyote was already halfway to his feet – a feral fear wrenched his expression into that thing she had seen beneath the lamps.
Too late.
The surface ripped like mercury beneath Michael's hand, and her breath stopped clean in her throat.
The vampire turned an ashen yet composed face to them, hand immersed in...in whatever that was. "It's okay," he said in a shaking voice. "Feels like a doorway. There's just air beyond it. I'll just take a quick look-"
"No!" Her cry burst in chorus with the other two. She barely noticed she was on her feet, trying to hold him back. "Don't be stupid. Whatever's in there is heavily guarded. Take your hand out, right now."
Her strength was no match for his. Michael didn't move a muscle, and his eyes were pure mercenary desire. "But Pursanguia-"
"Now!" She added a lash of magic to the word, and was shocked when it smashed like thunder in the confines of the room.
He flinched back. Finally, he understood this was not negotiable. "Yes, Pursanguia."
He made as if to draw back – and nothing happened. She opened her mouth to berate him, a wickedly sharp spell in mind, and then she saw the panic in his face, saw his shoulders tense and strain.
"Nothing's happening!" His voice was high and breathy. "It's like cement!"
Chatoya swapped glances with Vaje, and without a word, they both hauled on him. Nerine came to join them, adding her considerable strength to theirs. It must have hurt, but Michael didn't complain – thin, shuddering breaths racked him, and she realised he was clammy with fear.
He didn't shift an inch.
"Brute force isn't going to do it," she said, letting go. "Magic's next-"
Michael screamed, and the sound froze her blood. "Something's touching me!"
Oh gods. There was something in there. She'd been hoping to face something inanimate, a relic, a dangerous spell. Those, she was equipped for.
Then she recognised Michael's expression, and understood just what the strange lanterns in the room had revealed. It had been the future staring out from their own faces; Vaje's desperate anger, Michael's dreadful, childlike fear, pouring forth before her now.
Something had put those spells there – and fear to match Michael's rose through her stomach as she stared into the mirror, unsure what lay beyond it – only that it was cruel, and clever. And she knew far too much of cruel and clever monsters. Chatoya clung to the vampire, trying to dig her heels into a floor that had little purchase.
"Please!" He turned a blind, agonised face to them. "Help me! Oh god, it's got my hand, it's, it's..." His voice melted into a wordless shriek as he began to slide forward.
"Let go!" Vaje shouted as he and Nerine stepped back.
But the wild terror in Michael galvanised her, ringing a deep chord. She knew that endless, mindless fear. She had been left to it: her first instinct was to cling on, to try and haul him back.
"Let go!" Vaje sounded desperate, and part of her recognised he was right. She was being foolish. She knew it was futile. She should obey, come on, let go.
She couldn't abandon him.
She had to. She could not afford to be weak.
Her fingers uncurled...and Michael was yanked forward so hard that her only reflex was to tighten her grip. She was dragged with him, that silver light looming in her vision so fast it was like an explosion, bright and soundless-
Then there was only grey oblivion.
X - X - X - X - X