He had found quarters in a hostel, ignoring the incessant calls, emails, even telegrams from his family back in Port Elizabeth. They were obviously concerned, wanting to know of his state, wanting him to return home and get help. He would not. He could not. He had seen things; he had done things. People were hurt now.
Ernst felt the splintering of his mind like a compulsion, and he realized he had begun sleepwalking, or perhaps just wandering about at odd hours in such a hypnogogic state that he assumed he had been taking a stroll in the midst of his slumber. His odd, haunting dreams lured him into depths he’d just as soon not visit, but even in his alleged waking moments, he began to glimpse the flashes of images, the sharp blink of something that seemed to be there, to be very, very real, and yet proved missing just as quickly, no focus or scrutiny of his eye capable of revealing the truth.
The things he heard, the things he saw.
He began to try to fight the sleep, which just made things worse. He dissolved his bank accounts, taking everything he could in cash, selling his books, what items he had that held any sort of negotiable value, and his health deteriorated, his usually trim form lessening as he began to subsist largely on coffee, cigarettes, amphetamines. He held on to his diary, buying a generous handful of the pencils along with a cheap sharpener, and since he had few blank pages left, he bought two more empty journals. If he managed to fill them all, he’d have a cryptic trilogy documenting his descent into madness.
He sold his violin for the train ticket. It should have pained him, but the power that now compelled him proved all that mattered. For a time, this force had given him to create these unearthly compositions and render them unto the air with his playing, but now merely the writing of them was sufficient. He heard them quite clearly in his mind. He pawned the instrument, thinking nothing of it, and he boarded the train to come here. Why? He did not know, nor did he ask. He merely followed his compulsion.
He has been here now for over a month, reaching an odd plateau with his physical condition, mummified in life in order to complete his work before he will likely fall to dust, grated up and chewed to mulch in that gaping fissure which waits to finish him.
Chapter Eight
She is good at knowing things she is not supposed to know. This is part of her talent, her skill set, her job. She figures those that employ her are aware of this, and if not, that’s their tough luck. To assume may make an ass out of ‘you’ and ‘me’, but she is determined to not be the ‘me’ in that.
She finds the initial information easily enough. It’s on many of the public news channels, and keywords are set to trigger one of her sniffer scripts, anyway. It looks like a classic set-up, and it is being handled fairly well, not going too overboard, thus causing suspicion, almost delicate, apologetic – the way to properly handle the disappointment from the fall of a hero.
She digs deeper, and though she does not so easily find everything she wants or suspects is out there, it’s obvious to her why this is happening. She knows things she is not supposed to know.
She pauses in her work to take a sip of the steaming café mocha, slurping at it, then sucking slightly on her lower lip, as though in thought or perhaps realizing the drink is hotter than she expected. She sets the mug away without taking her eyes from the screen, data streaming over it with such rapidity as to give one to wonder how she processes any of it, open windows like a chaotic-looking mosaic, some showing video, none of it appearing to impede the computer or its operator in the least.
She absently plays with the left ring of her snake bite piercing, the hoop quite tight over her lip, then dropping her hand, still moving the metal about with a suck on that lip and movement of the tip of her tongue. She slowly brings up her right leg, pulling the knee to herself as her eyes continue to funnel the information. She is wearing black boxer shorts, with a style of print on them that a gamer might recognize, as well as a white tank top.
Her girlfriend, Akua, had spent most of the day here, sleeping over after a fairly late evening out last night, but Therese had finally shooed her away, so she could get some work done. The girl had been reluctant to leave, putting on something of a big sister approach in her obvious care for her friend. Therese figures it is likely due to the mystery within which she surrounds herself, keeping even her close friends, like Akua, at some distance out of necessity. Akua probably thinks she’s a drug addict or maybe even a dealer. She smirks lightly at the thought.
Just as quickly, she wills that from her mind, concentrating on what she is learning from her searches. She’ll distill this down to the important stuff and send it to her contact. She figures it will reveal something about herself, but she doesn’t mind. She has measures in place for all sorts of protection, some electronic, some more mundane, but no less practical.
This is about the vigilante. She knows that much, and that is one of those things she is not supposed to know. This also means someone else who was not supposed to know does, otherwise, the unfortunate man would not be in this predicament. Someone good had to have found this out. She knows of the connection, but she is very good. Still, the compromised detective is not quite in the same league, obviously. She does some more digging, fingers flying over the keyboard with a speed that may make one wonder if she has not melded with the machine on some level.
She eventually pads over to the counter here in her tiny kitchen/dining room, deciding to make herself a bowl of instant oatmeal, pouring some water from the tap into a bowl and shoving it into the microwave. She chews more on that left hoop as she waits, eyes still showing a lack of focus as the beep is heard, and she moves her hands to open the door.
She hisses as the heat transfers to her fingertips, resolving more attention to the task at hand, setting the bowl down quickly, then pouring the oatmeal into the near-boiling water and slowly stirring with a spoon as she walks back to the table, her work station, such as it is.
Cross references have produced further information, and she does more digging, running a script on a somewhat secure site as she follows the data trails. What she finds causes her to forget her oatmeal and coffee as she sits up straighter in the chair.
“Shit,” she curses, eyes widening, lips thinning as she draws them in with a sudden tension.
She then works quickly to compose a message, adding in relevant information, applying the necessary encryptions, then firing it off to her contact. She stands up, looking about, then runs a hand through her short, black hair, obviously worried. She knows risk comes with the territory, but she does not like what she has found. She hopes her contact is able to handle it. She wonders if her contact may be the person she somewhat suspects they may be. If not, they have to be close. Something has to be done with the information she’s found before those using it get what they want.
This is big, very big.
*****
They have accessed the place through a non-descript blue door. There is no sign, but the door is open for those who would pass through. The building looks old, though it is actually one of the more modern ones in the particular area. This is not an attempt at pretentiousness or mystery, though one may easily assume such, it is a result of the limitations on dreams, the daring chance to cultivate a deeper temptation that holds and lasts if but found.
Inside, the place is dimly lit, of course, the walls of creamy, rich brown wood save for some areas where it has been painted a warm red. The tops of these walls shows a change to a milk chocolate coloring, textured, almost marbleized. A large, wide painting hangs over the length of the bar, water color on parchment, laid out in panels within the plain-seeming frame, a study of a simple outdoor scene, one that lures one to fantasy in order to provide detail to the open spaces.
The furniture is a mélange, though not confusing, merely a palette of many offerings for the various tastes of the place’s clientele. One may sit at the bar, or at tall tables with similarly tall chairs. There are lower tables with several seats, some with few, many couches from various periods, offeri
ng a multitude of aesthetics and means of comfort. A few stained-glass lamps populate the place like art nouveau sentinels.
It is called Frelankse, and it is a lounge primarily for lovers or those perhaps seeking to become so.
“How did you find this place?” she asks him, looking about, open curiosity in her expression and demeanor.
“The Internet,” he smiles at her, giving the smallest of shrugs with his shoulders and the twist of his lips.
She gives him a very short, airy chuckle at this, her smile rising. He is entranced. He manages to raise his stout glass, a vodka-based cocktail, looking at her as she goes back to somewhat studying the environ.
“I did a search for the city’s most romantic bars,” he expands, just as the rim of his glass gets to his mouth, following up with a sip.
Lilja looks back at him, the warm smile returned.
“You did well.”
“Thank you.”
Her own drink, a rich amber held in a somewhat bulb-shaped glass. Next to it, a serving of water and a spoon take up some small amount of space. The piece of cutlery is ornate, sterling silver, and looks as though it would be equally at home beside a bowl of sugar. She reaches for this, sampling the scotch with a raw sip, then using the tiny utensil to precisely add a couple of drops of water to open up the flavor of the liquor.
They share a moment of just looking at each other, their banter generally smooth and easy.
“Have you had a lot of experience?” she asks.
He smiles gently at her, “With …?” he leads, eyebrows slowly rising.
“This sort of thing,” she elaborates, holding out a hand in a casual way, indicating the sultry bar, “Romance. Women.”
“Some, yes,” he openly admits, and he notes the ever-so-slight narrowing of her eyes and the subtle twist to her lips, so he decides to do his own elaboration, “I have been in three relationships that I would consider serious – two resulted in marriage, the first of those produced my son.”
She nods, thoughtfully. “I have only been in one,” she informs, looking away, seeming to get lost in memory, then she looks back at him, “The one I told you about.”
Skothiam moves his own head, indicating he recalls this, “I suppose relationships that came to an end are not generally the fondest of recollections. Still, if they had not ended, we’d not be here now.”
She nods slowly, giving this very real thought, instead of just taking it as some charming point.
“Yes,” she finally does say to him, smiling warmly.
He returns it with one of his own, feeling that fluttery surge inside that she so often causes.
“Is there anything else you’d like to know about me? Please, ask me anything,” he says.
She smiles further at this, a different sort of tone to it, but a positive expression nonetheless. “You can ask me anything you want, too.”
“Thank you,” he replies, sincerely.
“How many lovers have you had?” she decides to take advantage of his offer, raising her drink for a very dainty sip.
“Oh,” he thinks on this, mulling it over in his mind, then, “Thirteen.”
“A coven,” she casually remarks.
“Ah, yes, well I had not really thought of it like that,” he admits.
“Were any of them witches?” she follows up, and he blinks a change in focus to her, studying her, but he cannot tell if she is joking.
“Only one, actually,” he decides to answer with a mingling of serious and whimsical, “Though several had potential.”
She grins at this, nodding, her glass again back in her lap, held by both hands. They have chosen a comfortable couch of dark fabric, sitting next to each other in a somewhat secluded area, turned toward one another so that their knees barely touch.
“What about yourself?” he asks, “How many lovers have you had?”
“Just the one,” she says, punctuating this revelation with a sip of her scotch.
He nods, contemplatively, many thoughts coursing through his mind about her. He decides to also have another taste of his cocktail, his dwindling at a much more rapid pace than her own. The ice shifts back down once he is done, the clear liquids mingling with more of the tiny, floating particles from the fresh lime.
“Have you …,” she thinks for a moment, “done BDSM in all your relationships?”
“Oh, no,” he is quick to say, though he pauses to think, “Though I am sure I developed such inclinations long before I lost my virginity.”
“And when was that?”
“When I was sixteen.”
She spends a moment taking this in, not looking shocked, just absorbing.
“I was also sixteen,” she reveals.
He nods, “We seem to have a lot in common.”
She looks up into his eyes, then, smiling, taking a moment to just do this, then she exhales through her nose, smiling further, her cheeks becoming more noticeable.
“Well, except that my sixteen was much longer ago than yours,” he segues in a not terribly subtle fashion, “Does our age difference bother you at all?”
“No,” she shakes her head, easily, “Though I wonder what others may think of it.”
“Hmm,” he muses, “I am more inclined to be worried what you and I think of it.”
“I know,” she agrees, speaking somewhat softly, “but I wouldn’t want people to think I was being a Gold Digger.”
He grins, then blunts it to more of a gentle smile as she looks at him.
“If anyone we care about thinks that, then we can point out their misconception,” he offers, and her somewhat serious expression resolves back to the smile at his words.
A moment of silence begins to brew between them.
“You have such a wonderful smile,” he says, and she looks down and away, that expression widening a bit, teeth showing, and though the lighting in here is indeed dim, he can somewhat make out the rising flush to her face.
She finally looks back at him, raising her chin to firmly focus on his face. “So do you.”
“Thank you,” he replies, just looking back at her, not as prone to blushing as she.
He leans down then, covering the short distance between them, to offer her a kiss. She accepts it eagerly enough, a movement of her face showing this, and they both melt into it, moving their lips together, slowly, until the union is broken, and he pulls back, sitting up again. They look into each other’s eyes, smiling warmly.
“That’s very nice,” she says.
“It is,” he agrees.
He slips his left arm about her, holding her close, feeling her lean into him. It is a lovely contact, warm, sincere, and stirring. They sit there like that for a moment, his left hand moving lightly at her arm, her right hand moving out to tentatively touch at his knee, grazing him gently with her knuckles.
“So, you said you have a lot of speculative knowledge about BDSM,” she begins a new avenue of discourse for them, and he nods, “Will you give me an example?” she asks, peering up at him.
“Of course,” he agrees, still holding her close, thinking for a moment before answering, “I know that there are certain places on the body that should not be spanked, even if you are familiar with the use of the chosen tool.”
She glances back up him, silently bidding him to continue.
“Like the joints, knees, elbows, hands, lower back, for example. It also depends on what you are using.”
“Ah, yes, those are sensitive places in combat.”
He nods, having some knowledge of these things but deferring to her likely more extensive experience.
“Why does it depend on what you are using?”
“Well, a crop is a lot different than a bullwhip,” he elucidates, “I don’t use bullwhips, as those require a good deal of training and practice to not hurt the submissive or even the wielder.”
She nods, thinking, then stops, looking into the unfocused distance, and another blush takes her face, enough that he easily notices it this tim
e.
“What?” he asks, smiling.
“Oh …,” she says, blinking, looking up at him, “I was just thinking on what you said.”
“About crops and bullwhips?”
“No, about the submissive,” she answers, and though she blushes more, she holds his gaze now.
He sees strength there, even in her obvious desire to yield. It is like a sure arrow into his heart.
“Do you want to be my submissive?” he asks her, deciding to be forward, like a well-aimed dart.
She takes a moment to answer, and he wonders if he has moved too quickly, asked too much too soon, but he does not falter now, merely waiting for her answer.
“Yes,” she finally says, surprising him somewhat, even as it was the word he longed to hear, “I think that could be fun,” and she leans into him.
“Thank you,” he says, hugging her with his one arm. “Of course, this requires a great deal of trust and communication.”
She pulls back a bit, looking up at him, fully, “I trust you,” and in so saying, he realizes how much she trusts herself; she is indeed a strong woman.
“Thank you,” he says again, “And I trust you.”
“Thank you,” she offers her own sincerity.
A couple of hours later, and they walk into his hotel room. She knows where he is staying, asked him about it before. She recognized the name of the quite fancy place, though she had never, personally, been there for any reason. He does not waste time giving her a minimal tour of the suite, for that is not the pressing need. Instead, he shows her in, then closes and locks the door and extends his hand without a word. She takes it, and he leads her to the bedroom.
He walks her a few steps inside the expansive chamber, very little expense spared in these rooms, and releases her hand. Candles hold place here, and he sets a small few aflame, giving flickering illumination to the space. He looks over at her, offering her a warm smile. She returns the soothing expression. Her pulse is faster than usual, her skin taking on a different flush than her sometimes usual reaction.
Dance of the Butterfly Page 15
