A Taste of Blood and Roses

by David Niall Wilson

  Jeanette glanced over at him from time to time, concern knotting her brow. When she thought nobody was looking, she walked over hurriedly and wiped the saliva almost tenderly from his face, then scurried off about her work. He did not move to thank her, nor to watch her. He stared out over the swamp, and the swamp stared back.

  At the bar, Mama Duvalier was serving a tall, leather-clad youth with long tangled black hair. "Hey, Ace," the young man's friend slurred drunkenly, "hurry up with them Dixie's." Jeanette felt a sudden weight on her heart, and knew the man's head must have swiveled to her. "Hey, better'n that," the voice rang out again, "have that pretty little thing over there bring 'em to us."

  "But Juice," the youth at the bar fairly whined, "I already got 'em."

  "You heard me," the voice returned, and Jeanette looked up to meet the eyes behind it, to put an image to the sound. They were dark, deep, and void of emotion. Snake's eyes. She felt a shiver transit her spine, and turned toward the bar, hurrying her steps.

  The beer waited on the edge of the bar. Mama Duvalier had a hand resting on each, and her eyes leaked poison. "You be careful, girl," she hissed, handing over the tray. "You don' want trouble wit dat one. You get them this beer, you get away, eh?"

  Jeanette shivered again, but she nodded, picking up the tray and turning, fighting to place a smile on her face that would not crack from her fear. She had dealt with snakes before, and it was a mistake to let them know you were afraid.

  "That's right," the man called Juice crooned. "You bring those over here real nice like, missy. Me and Ace here, we rode a long way to drink this beer. We're right thirsty."

  His eyes slid over her like swamp slime, and small patches of moisture formed on the underarms of her cotton blouse, but she held her gaze steady. Moving forward as quickly as possible, she set a bottle in front of each of them and stood a bit off to one side, quietly waiting for them to pay.

  Juice was in no hurry. "What's your name, girl?" he asked, his voice becoming sickeningly sweet, like rotted honey.

  "Jeanette," she answered politely, offering no more than was required.

  "Well, Jeanette," he hesitated to let his eyes transit her body once again, "you are one fine lookin' little lady. Anyone ever tell you that?"

  She shook her head no in a short, nervous motion. The more he stared at her, the more she got the feeling of worms crawling about beneath her skin.

  "Jeanette!" Mama Duvalier's voice cut through the gloomy, smoke-filled room like a knife, slicing the oily threads of the man's concentration on her with a sudden snap. "You move faster, girl, or I'll hang your hide out for the gators, eh? You get that money, you get busy."

  Juice was obviously not pleased by the interruption, but he fished a couple of greasy bills from his pocket and handed them over, letting his fingers trail slowly down her palm as he placed the money in her hand. He made a last attempt to snare her with his eyes, but she took the money and nearly fled across the room, casting a look of gratitude to Mama behind the bar.

  The old woman did not notice. She was staring fixedly at the back of the young man's head. Her eyes were nearly closed, and she seemed to be mumbling. Suddenly her eyes snapped open and she spit three quick times into her palms, rubbing them together and slapping them twice. Jeanette wasn't sure if Mama's curses ever worked, but there were certainly those who feared them.

  Not these two strangers, of course. They had the look and feel of the city on them. Empty souls. She had seen many like them traveling through, heading for New Orleans. Some sought magic, others an endless party, still others ran from something or someone they thought to lose in the tangled streets and ancient, moldering cemeteries. They would know nothing of curses.

  The sun was almost down, and Mama gestured to her urgently, nodding her head toward the wheelchair and it's silent occupant. Jeanette knew what was expected. It was almost nightfall, and Paul must be safely away for the night. It was her job -- her destiny. She felt her heart melt at the thought of a few moments alone with him. Drying her hands on her apron, she moved to the window and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair, releasing the brakes with a quick kick.

  As she wheeled him toward the side door, however, she heard the man Juice's voice ring out again, and it stopped her cold. "Hey, Jenny, who's the crip?"

  She half spun, her eyes lighting with sudden fire, barely catching herself in time to check her tongue. They had no right, no idea . . . she turned back toward the door, but it was too late. Juice had risen, standing over six feet tall on wobbly, drunken legs. He moved toward her, kicking aside several chairs and lurching into one of the tables as he came, not once dropping the ice-laden gaze of his snake eyes from her quivering form.

  "I asked you a question, Jenny," he said, voice low and suddenly more dangerous.

  "My name is Jeanette," she mumbled, instantly wishing she hadn't spoken at all.

  "What?"

  "Please," she said, "he must go to his room now. I . . ."

  "His room? He lives here?" the man said, frowning dubiously. His eyes slipped in and out of focus deceptively. One moment he seemed coherent and merely drunk, the next out of focus and . . . evil.

  "He lives in the cabin out back," she said, again regretting her response, though she didn't know why. "I must get him to his room and his bed. He was injured -- the war."

  Juice's eyes strayed down to Paul's chest, and the medals he wore. He reached out as if to grab at one of them, but Jeanette pulled back on the chair and he missed.

  "Leave him alone," she hissed, and there was no more fear in her eyes, only anger. "Keep your filthy hands off of him."

  Juice stood stock still for a moment, his alcohol-fogged mind working overtime to process what had just happened, and for a second Jeanette was certain he would slap her. Then he smiled, a dark, evil smile and pulled his hand back.

  "I like a girl with spirit," he said. "What is he, your brother?"

  She turned her back on him, kicking the door open and exiting without looking back. "He's my husband," she choked, barely containing her emotions, forcing the words through a throat suddenly too tight and too dry for speech. The door slammed shut behind her, and she was walking toward the cabins, the cool evening breeze soothing her nerves and the sounds of insects and birds ushering her into the world of night.

  Paul's cabin was the very last one in the line, right on the edge of the tree-line that bordered the swamp. There were reasons for this, not the least of which was privacy. She parked his chair beside the door and reached into her pocket for the key ring. She hated the locks, the idea of closing him away with no choice, no freedom, but things were as they had to be. The alternatives were much less appealing.

  She turned the first key, then the second, and the third. She could feel the large metal bars sliding from their deeply imbedded sockets, the scrape of metal on metal. Finally all that remained was the knob, and she twisted it, reaching inside to turn on the light. She hurried a bit quicker as, glancing over her shoulder, she noticed that the final rays of sunlight were seeping over the edge of the hills beyond the road. The moon would be high in the sky in only a few short moments, full and bright.

  She slipped inside, pushing Paul in front of her, and moved him over to the window on one side of the one-room shelter. There was no bed. There were no chairs, no table. All that the room contained was a faded rug and the two windows, barred with metal rods that were sunken into both floor and ceiling and sealed with heavy mortar.

  She positioned him so he could stare out the window that overlooked the swamp, much as he had been in the bar, and she returned to the door, gazing back at him fondly. She would have liked to have stayed, just to spend time with him and talk -- to tell him stories. The memory of how he had been, the fierce light that had lit his eyes and the grace of his movements, all of it was emblazoned brightly in her memory. Her love had not faded with his injury, only become deep and bittersweet.

  She turned to the door and reached again for the keys, hurrying to place the
first in its sheath of metal. As she turned it, feeling the bolt slide home with a dull thunk, strong hands grabbed her from behind, one covering her mouth, and dragged her away.

  She fought wildly, trying to bite the hand and loosen it so she could scream, but a sudden hard slap from her assailant's other hand sent her senses reeling, and she felt her concentration slipping. The world warped, everything fuzzing around her. She squirmed and kicked with every ounce of energy she possessed, fighting to be free, but it was no use.

  Paul, she screamed mentally, Oh my God, no!

  She could smell the odors of beer, faded denim, and leather as she was dragged toward the tree line, combined with the slightly sour smell of his breath. She knew it was the man Juice, the man with snake's eyes. Where his hands groped at her flesh, she cringed and pulled back into herself, but it was not enough. He was strong, and she had been stupid. Blind and stupid.

  She stumbled along, remaining upright only by the strongest of efforts. Every few steps, Juice slapped her again, or twisted her head by a handful of her long, dark hair. She couldn't muster the breath for the scream she longed to release, even when his hand was free of her mouth, and in any case she knew it would matter very little. The hanging moss on the trees surrounding them could dampen sound like a wet blanket, and they were moving in deeper by the second.

  Finally, with a grunt, Juice stopped, spinning her roughly against him and planting his mouth firmly over hers, sliding his hand around to hold her tightly by a handful of hair. His other hand was working feverishly, tearing at her dress, shredding the fabric with ease. She fought determinedly, but every effort seemed, somehow, to aid him, and her clothing soon lay in tatters at her feet as he fumbled with his own belt.

  She screamed then, a lost, lonely scream, her head tilted back so that the light of the full moon fell brightly on her face. Something inside clicked, something almost forgotten in the whirlwind of events that had swept her up. Her body went suddenly rigid, and her eyes widened. "Paul!" She screamed. "Oh, my God! Paul!"

  "That cripple don't hear you, honey," Juice whispered harshly, lifting her bodily and pressing her into the damp ground. He pushed himself easily between her flailing legs, moving his hands over her body and pulling her toward him. She scratched and tried to bite, swinging at him with whatever limb was momentarily free, but to no avail.

  "You need a real man, prob'ly needed one for a long time. I'm doin' you a favor." His grin was wild, maniacal, and the moonlight glinted off of a silver cap that covered one of his two front teeth.

  Jeanette felt her mind spiralling downward, away from it, away from the night. Her thoughts caromed about inside her brain, repeating a single word . . . "Paul".

  * * *

  The moonlight seeped over the window sill slowly, moving like a spill of corn syrup over hot-cakes. It slid down the wall, eating away the shadows, moving relentlessly toward Paul's inert form. Deep within, beyond the immobile strings that once animated his body, beyond the rotting, worthless husk that had been a strong, virile man, anger boiled. It raged, barely checked, bubbling over the walls of reason.

  His eyes did not move, but he saw. His ears conveyed even slight sounds to his brain, but his mouth refused to acknowledge them. He was trapped, helpless, as alone in a crowd as in a locked room, and he gnashed mental teeth, reaching even farther inward, reaching for something long gone. He had heard the screams. He knew what was happening, knew he was trapped -- doubly, the deadened nerves of his body and the solid steel of the dead bolts. Still he reached, and when the moonlight slipped across the floor like an obsequious servant to lick at his feet, his will was answered.

  The first sensation to return was pain, excruciating, mind numbing pain. He used it, concentrated on it, funneling it into his anger. He must be free. Jeanette was out there, and another. He must go to them, go before it was too late.

  The tendons and muscles spasmed in his arms, his neck, his torso, knotted and contracted, stretched and molded, changing. There was the snap of joints being rearranged, the popping of skin too-tight for it's host body. Then he moved. He raised his head, threw it back in a combination of rage and pain beyond description, and he screamed.

  Leaping from the chair, flexing long idle muscles and re-orienting his eyesight and balance, he turned to the door, eyes smoldering. A fleeting memory returned. Sounds. Only one key. Only one key had turned before Jeanette's muffled cry, and one lock would not hold. Not nearly.

  He charged. There was no thought in the movement, no planning. He lowered a shoulder, now deeply muscled, covered in dark gray fur, and with a roar he pitted his strength, his pain, his anger, and his soul against the treated wood and metal reinforcements of the door. There was a meeting, wood and flesh, will and strength. With a splintering explosion the dead bolt ripped free of the wall and he was through, sprawling, rolling rising to a stooped four legged stance and running. The swamp beckoned, and he heard a faint scream . . . his name. Then the rage took him beyond thought, and, howling his fury, he plunged into the trees.

  * * *

  Jeanette didn't immediately register the crashing sounds as they approached. She was concentrating on not hearing, not seeing. Not being. She felt the weight of the man pounding against her, felt the bruises and the small knots of pain, the razor-wire ball clenched in her gut, but she refused to acknowledge what was happening. All that mattered was that she get away, back to Paul. The keys. Something about the keys.

  Juice was oblivious. His mind was lost in a swirl of lust and alcohol, enhanced by two Seconal he'd dropped an hour before hitting the bar. When the trees parted at his back and the scream of rage split the muggy, dampened air, it took a long moment to register on his mind at all. He turned his head slowly, not really aware of danger yet, only confused and annoyed at the interruption. It took entirely too long.

  Jeanette felt a sudden release of pressure. One second Juice was pressing his foul-smelling, repulsive flesh against her in a relentless, mind-numbing rhythm, and the next he was just gone. Not there. She opened her eyes slowly, willing herself to move while there was a chance, to roll to the side, anything, but her body wouldn't respond. Only her eyes moved, in the end, and the sight that met them was nearly enough to send her back to oblivion.

  Juice was dangling about two feet above her, his eyes wide and his mouth constricted into a rictus of horror. He was held tightly at the neck by a gnarled, impossibly-large clawed hand. Long and covered with coarse gray fur, veined and rippling with barely contained strength.

  She followed the arm back up it's length, unable to stop herself from looking, though she knew what she would find. The werewolf was huge -- overpowering. His frame, though bent, towered over her, handling the body of her attacker as if it were an insignificant plaything. She was snared instantly by the eyes. They were focused on Juice, and they were on fire with a raging hatred that was nearly palpable.

  "Paul" she squeaked, unable to fully control her breath -- her voice -- "Paul, don't . . ."

  She spoke to the air, to the wind. He did not hear her, or if he did, he was beyond listening. The wolfman reached out with his other hand, clamped it over Juice's mouth and began to squeeze. Awash in terror, and finally comprehending the imminence of his death, Juice clamped down himself, biting into the hand with all the strength he could put behind his jaws. There was an incredible roar of pain and anger, and the hand fell away.

  Where Juice's teeth had broken the werewolf's skin, steam rose, and the skin seemed to blacken and pull away from the bone. As the man's jaws released, the moonlight glittered off the silver capped tooth once more, flashing brightly. Then the other hand had released as well, and Juice fell, hitting the ground with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. He lay there, rolling over and over and bent double, trying to regain enough strength and composure to run.

  Jeanette saw all of this as if from a distance -- detached. It couldn't really be happening. Paul was frothing at the mouth, eyes wilder than before, sweeping the clearing as if con
fused. It only took him a moment to find what he sought, but that was enough time for Juice to reach his feet, still doubled over but very determined.

  The two stood facing one another for a long second, then Juice broke for the trees, screaming at the top of his lungs and slapping through the brush and brambles without thought. Holding his injured hand limply in front of him, Paul leaped after him, head thrown back and a wild cry of rage and pain shooting skyward, aimed at the heart of the moon.

  Moments later, when she was alone, Jeanette stumbled to her feet. Juice had no chance, she could already hear his screams changing in pitch, rising and falling away. She had to get back, to find a way to stop what her own foolishness had begun. She wrapped the remnants of her dress about her as best she could and staggered off through the brush, praying that her senses were correct and that she was going the right way. If she were lost in the swamp, there was little hope of lasting the night. Not now. Not with Paul loose.

  She knew he would not harm her, not if he were himself, but this was only part her husband, this creature of darkness and pain, and she didn't know, if it came to an inner struggle, who would win, man or beast. That he would kill others was not even a question.

  She kept moving, concentrating on her footing, and it wasn't long before the trees thinned out and she could see the shattered door of the cabin ahead. With a tiny gasp of gratitude to a God she was no longer certain she believed in, she stumbled forward, screaming again when a short squat shape melted from the surrounding shadows. It was Mama Duvalier, and sobbing, Jeanette stumbled forward into her arms.

  "Where is he?" the old woman hissed, pulling away sharply. Jeanette felt a momentary pang of rejection, then realized Mama was right. There was no time for comfort. Maybe there was no time at all.

  "He is in the swamp," she said, trying to control her sobs long enough to be coherent. "He is after the man, the . . ."

  She lost the battle with her emotions, then, but it was enough. Nodding curtly, Mama grabbed her by her arm and led her back into the cabin and over to the wheelchair.