AN: To those who have become impatient with me, I beg pardon, and I thank you for forbearance. Thanks to everyone who reviews, it's greatly appreciated. In fact, it is so much appreciated that I will write another chapter of Crystal Spam dedicated to everyone who has ever reviewed me.
The last drifting notes of the song ended, and the dancers became spectators. They stood apart, applauding the musicians' skill and laughing senselessly. Carefree laughter. The next strains began to cast their net, but when Michael extended his hand to his partner she shook her head with a small smile beneath the edge of her mask. "Follow me, Michael," she implored him, taking his hand enjoiningly. They threaded their way through the swirling fabrics, weaving through the dancers. The golden masked woman and he came out into a garden courtyard. The sunlight danced on the metallic mask, and gifted the flowers with a newly born look.
He turned his face back from the garden blossoms to his companion, and her lips met his in a gentle kiss. Michael willingly immersed himself in the sensation of her soft champagne flavored lips. Finally she pulled away, both breathing a little harder. "You are so beautiful inside," she breathed in a reverent tone. Her voice was as mellifluous as the music that still caressed their ears. He gave an incredulous laugh. Shouldn't he be the admirer?
Beneath the heady rush of the champagne and the lingering effects of the kiss, there was a small part of him that was disturbed. Something was wrong, it insisted, something was terribly wrong with this. He stepped away from the woman, leaving her with her arms partly outstretched in a wistful gesture. He frowned. What was wrong? Searching, he was searching... He turned his head, and glanced at the ornate sundial, registering the small amount of time left. Time was running out, and he was looking... For someone.
His shoes made soft scuffing sounds on the wet pavement that glittered in the streetlight's gleam. It was so very late, and he was becoming desperate. Bleak thoughts clawed at his mind, insidiously whispering doubts that he would ever find her. He took a deep breath of air made temporarily clean by the rain. A car drove by, windows opaque and suddenly jeweled in the streetlamp's glow. Then it was gone, and it hadn't really offered Michael any relief from the pain of an increasingly hopeless search.
But there was no one else to share the burden with. The Garda were unimpressed by his assurances that Bettina would never disappear on a whim, not without telling her mother. They had told him that the odds were she'd show up the next day. They couldn't file a report, not for another day. So he had left, angered and frustrated. And very, very, scared. He knew there was something wrong, that it had to with what he had discovered a bare week ago, the shocking revelation about a girl he had known since childhood.
He didn't know what it was he was looking for, here in the worst parts of Dublin. A sign, his intuition whispered. A sign from God, showing him where to look. He needed to find her, felt the urgency in his bones. It kept him walking, despite the weariness that the search had long since worked into his soul. In spite of the exam the next day that had previously been foremost in his mind. He looked at the ground, watching the scintillating wet light. It changed color, suddenly, to vivid green. He looked up, jerkily, like a man almost too weary to raise his eyes.
A nightclub, complete with a bouncer who glared ill temperedly at the glistening world. The door opened, two drunken women shrieking with laughter breaking the night followed by the heavy pulse of dance music. Michael watched as one of them drunkenly fumbled a plastic bag into her bespangled purse. His eyes flicked back to the door. He changed direction. The bouncer glowered at him. "What're you?" He asked bluntly, "Some sort of undercover police?" He surveyed the somber gray slicker with suspicion. Michael blinked.
"No," he said, "And if I were, wouldn't it be a bit too obvious?" He had no patience to spare for this antagonizing man. The bouncer shrugged and stuck out a hand for ID. Michael handed it to him and he shrugged again. Michael went in. The music was so loud; it seemed to be trying to shake him dry. He blinked at the shifting mass of writhing bodies. The entire place was like some saint's vision of Hell, except here the denizens wore grimaces of pleasure.
There was no sign of Bettina. Somehow, he hadn't expected there to be. He made his way to the back of the room, anyway, edging close to the walls. Four women and two men were doing cocaine in the corner, not yet high but working seriously on getting there. They looked up with eyes that were glazing over as he approached them.
"Do you know a girl called Bettina?" He asked, yelling to be heard. One of the girls' eyes lit up after a moment of disoriented staring.
"Oh yeah! The brunette with the little dog, right? She shrieked delightedly. "Sure, I know her. Who're you? Boyfriend, something?"
"Yeah. Do you know where she is?" He asked her urgently. She screamed with mirth.
"Sure, I know where she probably is. You aren't gonna like it, but I know where she'll be." The drug-using girl burst out laughing, her friends laughing too. Michael waited until they'd calmed down. "This guy called Rick. They do business. Want the address?" Her friends chortled and she snorted. Michael waited while she scrawled it down. Then he snatched the scrap of paper and left, amid gales of laughter that the pounding music instantly obliterated.
He pushed his way to the door, and stepped out into the chill of the night. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the throbbing beat. Slight rain cooled his aching head, and he left the hood off. The umbrella bearing bouncer glanced at him suspiciously, but let him walk away unmolested. Michael looked at the untidy scribble, making sure of his destination. He strode through the streets, the air permeated with the smell of rain. He glanced at a few miserable, sodden people tucked into doorways, but didn't pause.
It took a long time, but eventually he glanced upward and saw street signs that matched the names on the paper. His heart beat against his chest, hope flaring. There, a derelict house with the lights on. He leapt up the cracked concrete steps and pounded on the door. No one came. The urgent feeling was back, driving him frantic. He stepped back, glancing about at the windows. Barred. He shifted his stance. Then he brought up one leg, twisting his body around and lashing out with his foot. The old wood cracked. He repeated his assault in a flurry of kicks.
Breathing hard, Michael stepped through the splintered door. There were shouts coming from upstairs, which explained why no one had come to investigate the knock or the battering. Michael took the flight of stairs two at a time, and burst through the open door at the top. He registered Bettina, cowering in the corner, and the man leveling a gun at her. Then he had his arm around the man's neck, and was reaching for the gun with his free hand.
The man- whom Michael supposed was Rick- struggled with him, attempting to both break his grip and aim the gun. They lumbered about the room in an ungraceful dance, with Bettina's screeches in the background. Rick slammed Michael up against the wall, trying to dislodge his assailant. Michael's breath went out of him with an oof! but he hung on doggedly, gripping Rick's wrist. Then the back of the other man's head smashed into Michael's face with nose breaking force. Rick slumped, with the young man's arm still around his neck.
Bettina stood there looking shocked, a hefty radio in her hands. Michael let the unconscious man thud onto the floor and gathered the trembling girl into his arms. She broke down, sobbing incoherently. He stroked her back, making soothing sounds. As he rocked her slowly, he sent up a thankful prayer that he had found her. Suddenly, he stiffened.
"No," he whispered fiercely, "I didn't find her. I was too late. Bettina is dead!" He thrust his startled girlfriend away from himself, recoiling. "This is all a lie!" He cried out, in anguish and fury. And the entire world spun apart, into brilliant shards.
AN: The poor boy's head is being messed with, neh? The next chapter is where the gore starts, just to warn you. Some of you are going to hate me for that. : )
Please, review. I read palms, not minds. Tell me what you think, or I won't know what to fix! This isn't being edited by anyone but the readers!