by Lynn S.
The voices responded. This time he had tapped into something that quelled their anger. They no longer called him traitor, nor did they wish him harm. They knew he neither bluffed nor lied. He simply beat them down with the one rule both Shadows and Light agreed upon. It was their turn to beg off their arrogant sibling, who once escaped the mirror filtering into the soul of a child.
“Mercy, brother. Blood of our blood. You have endless night and we are scratching this wretched surface to have a chance at one.”
The spirits yielded, and Brigitte, who had just been waiting for a slight advantage, pronounced a spell that restored the shiny face of the mirror to one solid piece.
Bansit took her place near the Lady. In her frenetic intent to keep the mirror dwellers at bay, she had called on her own powers and unfurled her wings. Now that it all looked like pieces sewn together by an unsteady thread, the babble and screams of the two weekend necromancers ruffled her feathers. Tracy and her lover huddled in a corner. The Morrigan moved, to look at a face that, granted, had all features belonging to Garan Nolton, but still…
The violinist’s face looked detached of all humanity. His attention was not for the Morrigan, though.
“Well, well. What do we have here?” The vampire turned toward the mortals in the room, his lips extended in a gruesome smile, rows of teeth covered in blood and shreds of ripped flesh. His pupils were dilated and black covered almost all; his eyes looked like red rimmed endless pools of darkness. Tracy thought of a shark.
He squatted down to their level. Blood had started to coagulate upon his skin. The vampire angled his head inquisitively.
“Now, Tracy, my dear. I have some questions. I’ve always been there, underneath Garan’s skin, listening. His life, my dream. That’s why I know he had…genuine sympathy toward you. No one ever told you it’s not wise to play with someone’s feelings?”
The vampire touched her face, trying to find that dimple Garan thought charming.
“This was not my idea, I swear!” she cried. The stench of blood overwhelmed her as the vampire drew patterns on her cheek.
“Ah! You will blame your lover. That is almost cute. You have the damsel in distress figured out. I can still hear the echo of your cries in my head. I was convincing Garan it was better to bolt and run, but you were exquisitely compelling. By the way…what is your terrible master’s name? You never told us. That is so rude. Not that I care much.”
With a swift movement the vampire impaled a couple of his fingers through the necromancer’s eye sockets. Tracey’s screams followed the man’s own wails and trails of blood as the vampire dragged his struggling body, lifted it, and threw it against the mirror. The glass didn’t break, Brigitte had seen to it, but the surface liquefied, becoming malleable, taking the body in as an altar received a sacrifice. The echo of what transpired behind the glass haunted even Brigitte’s nightmares later that night.
“Back to you, Tracy. Now let’s see if you have found yourself in this predicament through your own fault or not. I’ve bet against Garan here. He actually believes you might be innocent. If you turn out to be, you’ll leave in one piece through that door. If not, there is always another alternative.”
The vampire cradled the woman’s face in his hands. It felt surprisingly warm. The black in his eyes had receded and Garan’s own blue shone through. The monster was gone and now the musician looked at her through tear stung eyes with a mix of compassion and fear. She nodded, trembling, believing that in order to make it out alive she had to sell her story, that the monster might forgive on account of his own humanity.
He got close to her cheek and licked it. His tongue was rough, like that of a cat. Tracy could feel the smallest droplet of blood surfacing on her skin. He kissed it away, taking it within him. The truth could be concealed in words. Blood never lied.
Among vampires, dwellers were known for constructing an intimate bond between blood and memory. That was how they could live attached to their human hosts for years, losing themselves in joys and sorrows, feeding from within, as their host allowed. No one could lie to a dweller. Just a drop and the vampire could taste evil that matched his own.
Monsters had the right to be judgmental and discriminating. It was something they had earned. After all, humanity, presuming to be of goodness and virtue, shackled them to shadows. To find someone such as her, with the face of an angel and vermin’s soul, was a particular victory, his turn to gloat at a find. In those rare days in which creatures such as him wanted to justify their wretched existence, monsters thought of the likes of Tracy. Creatures of free will who, believing themselves above damnation, made the choice to be a disgrace.
“This is tempting. I never thought I’d find myself considering…you’d make a fine leech. For what I just learned from you, these beautiful hands of yours have done things that might even make my instinct blush. But a deal is a deal, and you get to exit through the second door.”
He dragged her, throwing her through the blood thirsty portal. The vampire had been compassionate with her wiry little lover. At least the man went in blinded.
“You’ve had your fun for the night. We need to speak with Gran Nolton.” Bansit needed to complete her mission. The sooner she left this plane in which people killed for sport and without a stitch of honor, the better.
The vampire simply smiled. Standing between the two creatures that survived the massacre for virtue of their immortality, he rescued the blade from Brigitte’s hand. It was still stained with Garan’s blood.
“No. You don’t decide when Garan comes in. This was a pact between us. Tomorrow, we will merge as one and he can trust my word that there’s nothing I’d do that he won’t approve. But this night is mine. He knew nothing but treachery coming from you all. Why would he want to talk to you anyway?”
“He has…opened gateways through mirrors before,” the Morrigan replied. “There is someone we need to rescue from the glass.”
“Oh, yes! I think I caught a glimpse of two who don’t belong there. Corporeal forms, not at all blood birds. There is a vampyr who still holds on to life, if only by a thread, and a ghost who keeps her company.”
“Indeed. And it is impe—”
“And it’s my prerogative to say when and how it will be done.” The vampire interrupted the Morrigan without a dash of consideration. Bansit was left with the impression they were to pay dearly for waking this fiend.
“And as for you, my Lady…” The vampire pointed the dagger toward Brigitte, tracing the curve of her lips with the point of the blade. “I’m requesting free roam through your streets until dawn. You owe me that much, Brigitte. Still, I can feel your safeguard squeezing my heart and I know not to mess with a beauty of your caliber. Don’t you fret about your beloved musician. Tomorrow night, Garan Nolton will be at your bid and command. His body, his mind, my powers. I’ll give him memories belonging to a vampire. He’ll be undead, no questions asked, no suffering to torment his soul. He won’t remember a thing about what happened here tonight. The sins he is to acquire will be his own.”
“Sounds about right, then. But you must take care not to submit my streets to your particular brand of violence.” Brigitte was as serious as death. She didn’t give a damn about the Morrigan’s plan or the dweller where her city was involved.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Madame. Every city has people who long for death; no need to force anyone’s hand. Before I leave, though, I’ve been thinking how much my return is worth. I really like this flat. I want it. Make it so. Garan deserves it.”
He disappeared without another word, leaving both women staring at each other with a puzzled look. He left his new apartment on St. Peter and took to the streets. Eventually, his steps would be Garan Nolton’s and the dweller prayed that once they became one, the young musician would keep his inclination to mistrust and shameless attitude. But those were cares for another night. This night was his, and his only.
The vampire heard the roar of the Mississippi in the dista
nce. The early rain had woken the river and now it steadily disgorged into the gulf. New Orleans reminded him of the mirror, a realm trapped by a gleaming surface. He followed the stench of death and desperation, the bitter sweet scent of a potential suicide that led him to the levees.
Spring showers had the power to bring forth memories, to push those most tormented to reevaluate what life had to offer and tally all the times their hearts barely made it. The vampire met a young man who stood at the levee’s edge, considering. It was a matter of convincing him that a kiss could bring forth as much death as the embrace of waters.
Chapter X
Stirs and Echoes
Biloxi, Mississippi
New Orleans was the answer. As Francis thought about it, the more relevant it became. His idea grew from a hunch to a confirmation as soon as Marissa had a vision of Killian. The dark Fae had no inkling of whether the Morrigan and the prince had completely reconciled. Had it happened, in case either of the women confessed to their deeds against Killian…if the prince forgave them somehow, he’d be left without bargaining points. The last thing Francis Alexander could afford was to come in unarmed before a member of the Seelie Court.
New Orleans was built on iron. The dark, ornamental balconies that were a staple of the city’s architecture and the path of the streetcars below formed a grid, a beautiful iron maze in which a pure Fae might find themselves close to being helpless. Of course, Francis being a Sidhe might have experienced limitations as well. But having possession of a half human body such as Esteban’s granted advantages enough to risk it. Alexander’s afflictions were generated by direct contact with the foul metal. Killian, however, was meant to curse every day of his stay.
There was also the delicate matter of the oracles of the city. Francis knew to keep away from Brigitte, whose infamy extended into the worlds beyond. But the vine carried interesting rumors. It was said that the avatar of the loa of death was worried sick by her brother, Wedo. It had been months since someone saw the serpentine entity that represented life walking the streets of New Orleans. And if they ever saw him, they said Wedo looked pale and stringy, with feathery hair covering the side of his face. Drifting further and further from the semblance of his brothers and sisters. There might have been something there.
But Francis was tired of tossing and turning.
Marissa slept beside him. Francis turned on his side, just to watch her breathe. She was the closest he’d ever get to total compatibility. He could see in the creamy white of her skin, the wheat blonde of her hair, and the delicate curves of her body almost the spitting image of that girl he once met at the Popescu castle. Adriana’s mother was his perfect match, but he could not claim her for being stained with that vicious vampyr’s progeny. Francis couldn’t help it. He searched for her in Adriana’s memories as he almost killed her to slow down her advance. The vampire remembered her mother, not as the beauty that was, but as a ragged bag of diseased flesh and brittle bones.
It was a shame, but also an opportunity lost, and Francis Alexander held no sentiment. Marissa was there, available. No need to dwell on whether or not she was second best.
He had to touch her. Sometimes, as logical as he meant to be, it was impossible not to fantasize about shedding Esteban’s skin and trying to charm her as his true self. But the tales were not wrong: even being but half human, Marissa’s mortal self would be consumed by madness if she ever laid eyes on his true form.
He still had quite an array of details to fix.
Being with her, even under a guise, had helped to restore his youthful appearance and long lost stamina. Something as inconsequential for others as a touch restored him gradually. Alexander could see his real face underneath Esteban’s as he regained that primordial, savage beauty that accompanied those of his kind. Marissa was a drug that sustained his vanity.
Francis slipped his arm over sleeping Marissa’s waist, following the soft curves of her body. He started caressing her, brushing the hair away from her face and neck as he kissed her softly. She stirred as a soft moan escaped her lips and at that moment he found her irresistible. His hand traveled the length of her body, from hips to the mounds of her breasts. She turned toward him, misty-eyed and half asleep. Her smile and the soft gray of her eyes blinded him with desire.
But then her eyes focused and she woke completely. Marissa’s body tensed. For the briefest of instances, she thought to have been dreaming; however, upon discovering he had been touching her, teasing her while in deep sleep, the gesture didn’t strike her as romantic, but deeply disturbing. He felt it too, the slight tremble of her skin, the clenching of her stomach, that measured breathing that indicated a level of repulsion. It was barely a second before she went back to smiling, but it was enough.
“Sweetheart, I don’t think I feel…” She sighed before simply blurting out, “Not now.”
Marissa’s words triggered his mercurial temper and he was overtaken by an unexplainable rage. The Sidhe had always prided themselves on keeping their emotions in check, but Marissa always found a way to stir the worst in Francis. That word, that damned word: sweetheart. She kept using it, as well as countless others—love, dear, my life. If given time, she’d probably invent some ridiculous nickname in order to avoid calling him Francis Alexander. Marissa might have been emotionally torn, but even as she needed him to keep her grounded, deep inside, a part of her refused him.
You clever little bitch! What will happen if you ever come into all your senses? He thought to himself, but he could have screamed it at the top of his lungs.
There were some things that stories got right. Fairies were used to having their way, bargaining was just an option. Stories of seduction and love had been reduced to such over the years, leaving important details behind. For one, that a negative was always met with a level of brutality.
He tugged at her, violently, turning Marissa on her stomach and pressing her body underneath his. Marissa shouted and pushed back, but he soon had her locked in again while his lips crashed against hers in an effort to keep her silent, a hurtful kiss that became an extension of his need.
“What’s gotten into you, Esteban?” Marissa barely escaped that kiss, trying to make him come back to his senses, but hearing that name just spurred him even more. He roughed her up, the back of his hand rubbing against her lips as if pretending to cleanse them from the words she just uttered.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to use that name?”
He set against her, using just a minuscule measure of the strength that characterized fairies. Marissa’s voice became frantic as she knew he was about to take her against her will.
“Let…me…go!” She tried in vain to hurt him, scratching his arms, but he held tight. She had been sleeping in a t-shirt and the piece of cloth had rolled up to expose her thighs. The heat of his erection pressed hard against her stomach and it sickened her to think that just a piece of thin cloth stood between them and the unforgivable.
“You don’t understand, Marissa. How frustrating is to have you and not to have you.”
He didn’t make much sense, but they had gone beyond the use of reason now. He started unzipping his pants as Marissa struggled. And then something unleashed inside her.
It was more than the need not to feel a victim. It rushed through her skin like lightning, exploding through the tip of her fingers. Her nails curved, forming short but sharp claws. The instinct that had been sublimated for weeks now rose to defend her. Marissa’s opened palm struck full force against Francis’s face, leaving four rows of stringy skin; one strike perilously close to his eye.
Though his healing abilities kicked in at a fast rate, the heat of blood upon skin made the Sidhe realize something had gone wrong. Marissa was able to call upon her instinct, and there was only one thing that could have allowed for that. She was not wearing the ring. The young woman had taken it off her finger and now it rested, along with a watch, on top of the bedside table.
The Morrigan alone could apply a ge
is, that supernatural brand that kept someone subject to words. Alexander had lived long enough with them to learn a couple of tricks, though. He could not brand Marissa’s skin to make her obey his every desire, but he could easily infuse magic in certain objects close and dear, so as to keep her under a spell.
When Marissa took off the ring, it debilitated the spell long enough. Alexander’s mind cleared in a flash, the violence subsided and gave way to cold calculations. He had tried to rape her in order to submit her, because even at an unconscious level he knew she was up to something that might give her the upper hand. He allowed for the lowest impulses to take over because he had lost control—his illicit and risky incursion in the lands of Aval, falling into Killian’s and, therefore, the Morrigan’s radar, his unsuccessful attempts at keeping Marissa in total thrall had all blinded him for a moment.
But he was back.
Marissa pushed him and he let himself go, emboldening her. He crashed upon the floor and she was ready to leap on top of him, but her instinct was weakened. Without a vampyr to sustain it, the spirit of a dhampyr was lost and lacking direction. Francis was up on his feet before she could strike, and with minimal hesitation, he hit Marissa back, right in the stomach, making her body twist in pain. Pushing her against the bed once more, Francis took the ring off the nightstand and forced it back on her finger. Her eyes became vacant, the force of the binding pushing her instinct back into the recesses of her mind.
“Now, hear me! Forget what just happened, and remember this: the ring stays put. It’s fused to your finger. Under no circumstances will it cross your mind to take it off. You just can’t!”
