by Dean Drinkel
Very different indeed...
Ten
Very slowly, very carefully, Lucien opened his eyes. He knew someone, something, was in the room with him. It was still dark. He tried to recollect if there was anything lying about nearby which he could use as a weapon but nothing doing, it was just him, his bag and…he inhaled: cigar smoke.
“Haven’t you worked it out yet Lucien?” a voice asked.
Lucien groaned as he propped the pillows up under his head, he must have been still very sleepy because his body was aching all over – it felt he had gone ten rounds with Laurent Boudouani at the height of his career.
Perhaps coming to the chateau had been a mistake, perhaps running (both intentionally and unintentionally) into people from the past hadn’t been the right way to go about things – even his dreams had been muddled, confusing…but one thing was clear now – he had accepted his fate. He knew what was coming. It had finally dawned on him why he had been invited here, the place where all this started.
And more importantly by whom.
It wasn’t the Creator.
It wasn’t Kotcheff.
It wasn’t his mother.
It wasn’t Henri. Nor Charles. Nor Louvois. Nor Philippe.
There was only one person it could be.
All along – only one person manipulating him.
It was…
“Of course it was me. Who else could it have been?” Romain stepped forward. He lit the candle, sat it down on the bureau.
“For fuck’s sake,” Lucien sighed.
“I’m flattered. You really didn’t know? I am surprised.” He coughed then did a perfect imitation of the voice left on Philippe’s answering machine: “The boy is dead. What was his name? Philippe?” He chuckled to himself.
“How long have you been smoking those cigars?”
Romain removed the Havana from the corner of his mouth, held it out before him. “A little while now. They took some time getting used too but now that I have, I can’t do without them.” He moved to the end of the bed. “Would you like a blast?”
“No thanks. Does Mother know?”
He put the stogie back in his mouth, took a deep puff, he was scowling. “Does she about what exactly? That I smoke…or what I am? My true self…”
“What are you Romain?”
The boy chuckled, cracked the knuckles of those now elongating fingers. “I’m like you. I am a monster, a bogeyman, the darkness that hides in the shadows. You and I are finally the same, we are equals…my teeth might not be as sharp and my eyes not as red but...”
“No, you are nothing like me - you don’t have the first clue…”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!” Romain spat. He stood, his hands holding his head, he was quaking, it looked like he might explode in rage; he blushed. He turned away, ran a hand through his hair then when he looked back at Lucien, he had calmed somewhat. He smiled then pointed. “Ah…very clever…very clever indeed brother. I know what you are doing.”
“I don’t get you?”
“You’re trying to goad me.” He took another puff. “But that won’t work. It’s a little too late for all that.” Romain paused. “Do you know why I brought you here?”
“You wrote the letter?”
“That part was easy.” He tapped his forehead. “There is so much going on up here Lucien, its magical, synapses have been connected…wow…that’s all I can say…ever since…ever since the Monster bit me – my life…my life changed – the things I have seen, the things I have done. You should have been there…or perhaps you were. It’s all so confusing isn’t it…”
“I didn’t know I was so predictable.”
“That you are Lucien, you definitely are. All it took was an old letter and look what chaos you have created.” He crossed the room, went to the window. He rubbed on the glass but still nothing could be seen through it. “A long time ago you promised you would protect me…but all the time…” He let his words trail off. Was he crying? He wiped his eyes…took a deep breath. “This is the house where it all began. Does it bring back happy memories?”
“You must hate me Romain, is that what all this has been about? Hate?”
“Hate? What are you talking about? Of course I don’t hate you…I love you, you are my brother. I would do anything and everything for you. And perhaps I already have…”
“No, you can’t love me. If you did, you would never have done all those terrible things.”
Romain scratched his forehead. “They weren’t terrible. They were my gifts to you…especially Philippe. Did you like how I prepared his corpse for you? Did you appreciate my attention to detail?”
Lucien shifted in the bed (Christ, his body was killing him) – he could taste blood on the back of his tongue, the aroma – only minute though it was - was unmistakable but where was it coming from?
The other pressing question: was how the hell he could get down the stairs and out of harm’s way – it was obvious the boy was insane…it was true what he had told his mother all those years ago – there was something wrong with the damned child and now he was the one paying the price.
The bizarre thing was, Lucien was feeling at odds with himself. Something didn’t feel right. His feet, his legs – they felt numb…and that coldness was working its way up his body.
Romain chuckled. “Ah, it’s finally kicked in has it – I thought it was taking a long time.”
“I…I…” Lucien’s throat was dry, retracting, closing in on itself.
“Blood poisoning…imagine the irony of that ha ha.”
“What…what the hell have you done to me…?”
“Are you not getting this at all?!” He crossed his arms. “I haven’t done anything, not really. It was you. All you. Right from the very beginning. I didn’t kill Henri, or Louvois or Charles. You could almost say I didn’t kill Philippe either – I said almost by the way – you were the one responsible for all of their pain, all their misery and I’m sure for many others. Look at you lying there…fucking pathetic…you were the one who killed out fath…no, I’ll let you dwell on that one for the moment. You’re probably trying to take all this in as it is…”
Romain dusted down his jacket, his trousers. He sauntered across the room, seemingly without a care. The flame from the candle appeared to follow him.
“You and I, we are so alike,” he pulled down the collar, motioned to the scar there on his neck. “And you see this…I didn’t escape, you promised to save me but you didn’t. And now with your passing…there is a whole wide world out there for me Lucien and it’s all mine…all fucking mine…” There were several red droplets on his skin, he ran a finger over his neck, then licked it clean.
“What…what will happen to me…”
Romain shrugged. “Who cares? My poison is working its way around your body. This is my body, this is my blood ha ha. A little present from me to you.” From his pocket he pulled out a knife, he threw it on the bed, it landed near Lucien’s hand. “I could have finished it myself while you slept but why spare you the torment? There is so much poison in you brother…your blood, your flesh, it’s turning to stone.”
Lucien tried to lift his arm but it was impossible.
“The thing is, I bet you wanted some kind of show-down between the two of us? Some big battle where we could unleash our talons, expose our fangs…” Romain shook his head. “That’s not my style. I’m just going to walk down those stairs and out of your life forever. If you are able, use the knife, it’ll be easier for you in the long run…see you Lucien…Jesus Conquers ha ha - imagine that fucking hypocrisy.”
Romain opened the door.
“There…there is one thing…” Christ it hurt when he spoke.
“Um…okay, what…”
“Charles…you mentioned Charles.”
“What about him?”
Lucien coughed; he could taste the blood, the bile in his throat. “I didn’t kill him…I let him live.”
Romain smiled as he chewed the end of his
cigar. “Did you Lucien, did you indeed?”
And with that he skipped down the stairs, he didn’t even bother closing the door behind him.
“Roommmmaaaiinnnnn,” Lucien shouted.
So. Much. Fucking. Agony. The pain was acute, so intense, his whole body felt on fire and the flames were working their way up his body - from the soles of his feet, his shins, his thighs, his groin, his stomach, his chest…everything under his neck had gone numb – heavy, as if he was encased in concrete. His breathing slowed almost to a stop, his heart was ready to give up, he couldn’t move his eyes, he was a deadweight.
His mind though – it was still active. Thoughts rocketed around his brain. It wasn’t correct what Romain had said – Charles had survived, he hadn’t hurt him but there was something…something on…
…he could hear music.
The opera!
Soft at first but then growing louder and louder. To begin with he thought it was actually in his head but no that was wrong, it was everywhere around him. The vibrations of the aria moved both inside and outside of him causing both pleasure and pain simultaneously. His molecules were screaming, they begged for their freedom.
There was only one thing for it – Lucien bit down on his lip, the teeth slicing through the skin…the blood began to flow…slowly, so fucking slowly his concrete chrysalis began to crumble.
You are such a cunt, Romain.
But then the truth hit him.
This had been a long time coming.
“Oh shit,” he muttered.
Lucien’s body exploded into thousands and thousands of scarlet butterflies. They fought to be released from the room but they were imprisoned - so attacked the door, attacked the window, crashing into them both, hurtling their tiny and fragile bodies into the void – yes, of course there were casualties but eventually victory was theirs and the glass shattered – en-masse they escaped into the world outside.
From there they flew over the chateau, through the orchard, over the lake, through the forest, the city…
…Lucien had been Transformed.
Paris...
...now
One
Madame Kotcheff-Moncrieff led the police inspector into the lounge. She sat down on the sofa next to Dr Khoury. Romain sat in the chair. The inspector was offered the last empty chair but he refused, he remained standing.
“Have you any news? Any news on my son?” She turned to Romain. “My other son, Lucien obviously.”
The inspector shook his head. “I’m sorry I don’t.”
Dr Khoury grabbed her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. “I know you blame yourself but there really is no need. He was damaged, right from the start...”
She yanked her hand away. “And you think that makes me feel better, do you think that is some kind of tonic which allows me to sleep at night?”
“Mother!” Romain snapped. “You know Dr Khoury didn’t mean it that way.”
“I just can’t believe he was responsible for all that killing, all those deaths. I refuse to believe it in fact. No matter what you, what the courts say...”
Romain sat back; he rested his head on his hand. The inspector caught his gaze, he shrugged.
“You’re going to have to face up to it Mo...”
“It doesn’t matter what you say Romain, you’re not going to convince me.”
The inspector smiled. “But if he didn’t then who did. At each of the crime scenes, his blood, his DNA was found and as you know...he did...have history. Your husband...”
She burst into tears. “That was an accident, a terrible accident, he was just a child after all...he didn’t know what he was doing...the boat...it was just an accident.”
“Okay, okay, look, we’ll leave it there. My intention was not to upset you. I just wanted to let you know that our investigations continue but we haven’t heard anything from him...he is still missing, presumed dead.”
Dr Khoury. “And we thank you for the update. I’ll see you out.”
He led the inspector through the house, meanwhile Romain went and sat next to his mother, hugged her whilst she sobbed.
Outside on the path, the two men shook hands.
“I’m sorry about that,” Dr Khoury apologised.
“No problems, I understand. It’s not easy.”
“She won’t accept it, no matter what we tell her. I was treating him for a number of years...he was a very warped individual. A liar too. He could never differentiate between reality and fantasy...”
“You talk about him in the past tense. Do you think he’s dead?”
“Don’t you?”
The inspector shrugged. “I’m not so sure...I have a feeling we still might hear from him again one day.”
Dr Khoury smiled but didn’t say anymore.
“Well,” the inspector said as he headed down the pathway towards his car. “If you do, please let me know because there are one or two questions we’d like to ask him.” He waved goodbye.
Dr Khoury watched him leave then headed inside, he closed the door behind him, but not before briefly pausing.
Such a beautiful scarlet butterfly had landed nearby which he could have sworn was staring right back at him...
Father Charles Xavier Rottiers stared at his watch. It had been a long, long day. He heard the door of the confessional box next to him open and then close, the shifting of weight as someone sat down. He played with his rosary beads.
“Bless me father for I have sinned,” a voice said.
The priest frowned.
“Lucien?” he asked. “Is that you?”
He slid back the wooden panel and looked inside; the box was full of scarlet butterflies....
“After such beginnings does it surprise you to find me what I am?” – Comte de Lautrémont, Les chants de Maldoror
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Biographies & Story Notes
Dean M Drinkel is an award winning writer / poet and director. As well as being runner up for the Sir Peter Ustinov Screenwriting Award (an International Emmy Award) he has won three screenplay awards at the Monaco International Film Festival. His short films have been screened at the Cannes Film Festival. He directed a stage version of Clive Barker’s ‘Frankenstein In Love’ in London and his own original plays have been staged throughout England. Dean has had almost thirty short stories published, contributed to several anthologies as well as compiling / editing several of his own including: ‘Phobophobia’ (Dark Continents Publishing), ‘Phobophobias’ (Western Legends Publishing), ‘Kneeling In The Silver Light’ (Alchemy Press), ‘Tales Of The Titanic’ (Lycopolis Press) and ‘Masks’ (KnightWatch Press). His short story collection ‘Within A Forest Dark’ was published by Dark Continents Press. He has also been interviewed by French Property News (October 2013) and Fangoria (#331). More about Dean can be found at: http://deanmdrinkelauthor.blogspot.co.uk/
Story Notes:
Sometime during 2014, I believe it was at a British Fantasy Society Open Night in London, that Peter and I spoke about me contributing something to a series of books Hersham Horror were publishing – of course I was honoured and immediately said yes – perhaps without giving it much thought at all – and why should I? If a publisher (and a friend obviously!) asks you to write something for them, the answer should always be yes. There were going to be four of five of us and as “Dean you’re always busy, there’s no deadline as such, just get it to me when you can”, was agreed, then I was to be the last book in the series.
All good thus far.
The initial problem for me was that I was busy, finishing a short film script (which then went on to win an Award at a film festival in Monaco) several anthologies (published throughout 2015) as well as one or two other projects which will see the light of day 2016 – with no clear deadline as such, I worked on it in the background, picking it up whenever I had the spare time. I needed the ideas, the themes, and the plot to percolate properly because I wanted to approach the Vampire mythos freshly.
I then encountered a se
cond problem and that was because at the same time of writing this novella I tried to work on an accompanying screenplay – in French (why you ask? Well, because the story was set in Paris)...it was all good to begin with but it was becoming too problematic for me trying to do both projects at the same time, I eventually decided to put away the screenplay so I could concentrate on this novella – a wise decision in the end.
What you hold in your hands is several months (long months, sorry Peter!) hard work, it is not the story I set out to write at the beginning (and in fact, I now have three other completed novellas with the same title, same characters but completely different stories) and whilst maybe not an easy read for some, I hope that that my effort can be appreciated and that there is enjoyment here to be had. Yes, it is bloody, yes, it is graphic but then again what else would you expect?
I think it important that I take this moment to thank the following people who in some way influenced the story you are about to read:
Aaron Sidwell; Adrian Chamberlin; Andrew Hayden-Smith; Anne Dyer; Barbie Wilde; Bradley Simpson; Brinn Bevan; Chris Evans; Christopher Teague; Clive Barker; Danny Purvis; David Narcizo; Danniella Westbrook; Dave Jeffery; DM Youngquist; Ed Ward; Emile Berling; Fabian Hambüchen; Gary Mills; Helen Hopley; Henry Thomas; Jack Grealish; James Powell; Joey McIntyre; Jordan Metcalfe; Joshua Evans; Justin Bieber; Karis Thomas; Kim Tiddy; Kristen Hersh; Kristian Thomas; Joe Woolford; Lionel & Nathalie; Lily Childs; Madonna; Mario Götze; Mark West; Martin Barlan; Martin Delaney; Martin Roberts; Max Riemelt; Michael Starke; Michael Stipe; Murray Lachlan Young; Nick Jonas; Nile Wilson; Oliver Woollford; Olly Alexander; Phil Ambler; Pierre-Louis Bonnetblanc; Rebecca Major; Ricky Wilson; Rob Zombie; Sam Oldham; Sam Strike; Sheena McHugh; Sia; Scott Neal; Susan Penhaligon; Suzanne Kendall; Tanya Donelly; Tom Daley; Tom Holland; Tom Carroll; Tom Pergola; Thomas Doret; Thomas Sangster; Tony Bignell.
