The Flame: A Desire Exchange Novella (1001 Dark Nights)

by Christopher Rice

  It’s simple, really. Or at least it should be.

  Shane is the other half of the woman he loves more than anything in the world. When he was younger, this fact used to make him insanely jealous. Now it fills him with hunger. Because now he’s almost as close with Shane as he is with his own wife, except for the part where they…

  How could he not feel something for the—

  Andrew slams both palms down on the side of the counter, hard enough to knock a bottle of contact lens solution onto its side.

  Get in the goddamn pool before you rub one out in the bathroom like some horny teenager.

  4

  CASSIDY

  The bench looks the same, perhaps a bit lonelier given there isn’t a party in full swing nearby.

  Cassidy is surprised her fevered memories didn’t exaggerate its slender design or its cast-iron frame. It’s in the same spot, beneath the spreading branches of a massive oak, hemmed in by a small perimeter of banana trees sprinkled with uplights. String lights from the party still wrap the oak tree’s branches overhead, but they’re turned off and probably have been since the event.

  The few floors she can see of the condo high-rise next door are dark. A streetcar lumbers by on St. Charles Avenue, its clatter muffled by curtains of foliage. There are scrapes and rustles from the plants nearby, but the loudest sound she hears is the sound of her own breathing as she tugs a matchbook from her pocket.

  The candle rests on the flagstones at her feet. She’s taken care to stuff the tissue paper back inside the bag and set it aside. She’s about to light the match when another thought hits her and suddenly she’s pulling her phone from her pocket and setting it on the bench beside her. Now that she’s done it, she’s not exactly sure why. Maybe she fears the candle will poison her; a few less inches between her and 911 might mean the difference between life and death. It did nothing of the kind while it burned inside Bastian Drake’s shop. But this is different. Now she’s poised to obey the instructions written on the candle’s tiny card; she’s going to light the thing at the scene of her greatest desire. Who knows what will follow? The whole thing could be a terrible trick.

  Maybe, but how much help could dialing 911 be if it is?

  Enough stalling.

  The match doesn’t light after three strikes.

  A little act of self-sabotage, she thinks, bringing a matchbook instead of a cigarette lighter. Then the match lights suddenly. Before she realizes what she’s done, she’s brought the flame to the candle’s wick and shaken the match out with one hand.

  She sits back, preparing herself for—she’s not sure what exactly. Perhaps a stronger tide of the candle’s intoxicating scents?

  But what comes next is something else entirely.

  At first, she assumes a cloud of delicate, luminescent insects have flown into the halo of the candle’s growing flame, circling like lazy moths. But the candle’s surface also glitters and glows. The wax looks like a piece of thin mesh stretched over a puddle of hot lava. And the swirl of particles above are fed by little sparkling flecks that drift up into the air, determined embers driven by an impossible, upward wind.

  The smell hits her next, far more powerfully than what she experienced in Bastian Drake’s shop. She is instantly, fiercely moist. A great wave of pressure has forced her back against the bench. But with this pressure comes pleasure as well, coursing through her with such intensity—it feels as if several sets of hands are caressing her, massaging her body from head to toe. Her nipples are aflame. She can hear herself laughing, the kind of high-pitched, nervous laughter that usually rips from her when Andrew surprises her in the shower with a forceful tongue and a throbbing erection.

  As she catches her breath, she sees the golden column above the candle’s flame. It towers over her now, at least seven or eight feet tall. Its celestial light bathes the undersides of the thick oak branches above. The glittering particles swirling madly through the body of the column take on distinct shapes.

  Bare shoulders, the napes of necks, faces turned away from her—three apparitions appear inside the candle’s impossible golden halo, each one worshiping the tiny flame below. As they gain definition, they rise higher toward the branches above, sloughing off more sparkling tendrils.

  Their naked backs are turned to her as they spin. Cassidy sees a woman and two men, their heads bowed, their foreheads practically touching, as if they’re all staring down at the candle that gave them impossible life. It looks as if they’ve been placed on a hovering, spinning dais composed of the candle’s smoke and light. They rise higher into the air, growing in size beyond any proportion that could be called human.

  Then, some threshold is crossed. Suddenly all three figures lift their heads and gaze into each other’s eyes. But there is only a deeper shade of gold beneath their eyelids. And while their expressions are serene, the display should be terrifying, this sudden life force that courses through figures that were mere silhouettes just seconds before. But the woman in the trio doesn’t look like Cassidy at all, and for some reason Cassidy is too startled by this fact to be afraid. The two men don’t look like Andrew and Shane either. She doesn’t recognize their faces at all.

  Both men peel away from the column before Cassidy can study them further. They lose their human shape, columns of glittering gold, rocketing skyward, the branches slicing through them as they ascend.

  Cassidy is alone with the remaining sprit. Almost as tall as the oak branches overhead now, the woman has tuned her placid smile and glittering gold eyes on the bench—and on Cassidy. If it wasn’t for that peaceful, welcoming expression, if it wasn’t for the warm and welcoming color of her impossible form, Cassidy would be terrified of this…ghost? Spirit? Angel? What is it? Who is it?

  Cassidy has no time to decide. Suddenly, the ghostly woman’s face collapses. Her body becomes a single sheet of glittering gold that crashes silently over Cassidy’s body like snow in a downdraft. A shuddering orgasm that’s been building in her since she first lit the candle explodes inside of Cassidy. She hears her ecstatic cries as if from a distance.

  When the darkness returns, it feels as if a blanket has been drawn around her. In contrast to the blinding wash of gold, the garden’s ordinary shadows suddenly feel like a jarring supernatural event.

  Cassidy shudders and gasps. It feels as if the woman’s spirit moved right through Cassidy from her toes to her head, gently dragging her fingertips along every pleasure center in Cassidy’s body during the trip.

  A stab of guilt tries to pierce the layers of bliss, but fails. An orgasm without her husband? It’s not like she was truly alone. Not really. Two other spirits just rocketed skyward, very much like the one that has left her thighs in spasms. But she knows right where they’re headed; she’s sure. Or who they’re headed for. The idea that Shane and Andrew may soon share in this intense, ethereal delight fills her with joy. Not just joy, but also a wild and unrestrained hunger for them both.

  5

  ANDREW

  With each stroke, Andrew hopes Cassidy will return home before he exhausts himself. When she does, he’ll pull her into the pool by one arm, peel her wet blouse from her breasts with his teeth, grip her hips and squeeze just a little so that her back will arch and her sex will rise up toward him through the bathtub warm water.

  In the meantime, he risks temptation swimming in the nude like this. Each time his bare ass breaks the surface, each time water rushes across his cock and balls when he turns off one wall, he’s tempted to seize his erection in one iron-fisted grip and finish himself off. But he’s saved himself for his wife every night since the incident. It feels like the right thing to do. But it wasn’t easy. Especially during long days at the office, when the memory of her gasps as Shane devoured her neck would have him eyeing the only private bathroom at the office to see if he could steal a few minutes of self-release.

  Not then, not now. Save it up, mister. Stroke. Breathe. Stroke. Breathe. Find another word for stroke. Breathe. Find another wo
rd for stroke, seriously. Now.

  Their swimming pool is a long, slender rectangle that takes up most of their backyard. To keep the neighbors from getting an eyeful, he left the pool light off. Same story with the row of gas lanterns along the brick wall that hides the neighbor’s house.

  He installed the lanterns himself, which required him to learn more about gas-powered fixtures than he thought it was possible to know. So when the lantern closest to him pops to life like a miniature Olympic torch, the wrongness of the sound halts Andrew in mid-stroke.

  They don’t come on one at a time. That’s not how they work. You hit the switch, and then you wait a few seconds while clicking sounds indicate that gas is being fed down the length of the line. Then all four lanterns flicker to life, gently, sometimes so weakly it looks like they’re not going to catch. Never one by one, never with a loud, obtrusive pop.

  But it happens again. And again. And again, until all four lanterns are lit. An impenetrable radiance fills the glass chambers of each lantern. He can’t see the tiny gas flames anymore, just a bright halo of yellow. Fingers of bright gold have emerged from each lantern. They rise snakelike through the night air before converging at the end of the swimming pool, just above the steps to the shallow end. Their movement is steady, determined, unswayed by the humid breezes rippling the pool’s surface. Treading water, his rasping breaths the loudest sound in the entire yard, Andrew watches as the glistening, gold tendrils of material he doesn’t have a name for form the vague outline of a…ghost?

  But ghosts are not made of gold.

  They’re also not real, jackass.

  Then the smell hits him and Andrew Burke thinks, I’m dying. That’s it. And then he thinks, Dying smells incredible, like every delicious scent I’ve ever discovered on my wife’s body, the floral notes of her perfume mingling with the scent of her juices, a combination of lilac—and candle wax.

  The figure standing at the edge of the swimming pool is not human. Human beings aren’t hollow. When they open their eyes, you see pupils and irises, not golden sclera. It’s a he, for sure, with handsome, defined facial features, but the rest of his identity is a mystery, and wondering about his identity seems insane given that he doesn’t have a real body, just a glittering, shifting suggestion of one.

  The figure goes down on one knee, lowers one glittering finger toward the surface of the water. But his face is angled upward. Andrew realizes this spirit, this golden ghost, is staring at him expectantly.

  “What are you?” Andrew whispers.

  He’s answered by another burst of intoxicating scents. Only now there’s a new smell—it’s vaguely sandalwood, earthy. It’s Shane. It’s both of them, essences of Cassidy and Shane entwined in this impossible bouquet. It washes over him with invisible, overpowering force. The shimmering figure is still down on one knee. One glittering finger, shedding tiny particles of bright gold like delicate embers, still hovers just above the pool’s surface.

  Waiting, Andrew thinks. Whoever, whatever, he is, he’s waiting for my permission.

  “Yes,” Andrew whispers.

  Instantly, the golden ghost touches one finger to the water. Andrew watches in astonishment as two glittering snakes of light travel under the surface of the pool.

  The nearer they come, the more his cock hardens. Then suddenly he feels himself lifted as if a whale is passing directly under him. Pleasure courses through his body from head to toe. The smells of Cassidy and Shane fill his nostrils; they bathe the back of his throat.

  Andrew realizes the sparkling gold tide hasn’t moved around him and that can only mean one thing.

  No, not possible, he thinks. I’d be in pain, terrible pain. At least, at first. Cassidy’s never even put a finger down there. And it was so fast, and there was no resistance. But the shimmering gold waves are gone now, and there’s nothing outside of him that could be sending these waves of radiant pleasure through his limbs. It feels like he’s being massaged by several sets of hands. Two sets of hands. But the pressure inside of him is something else altogether; it moves to a different, more powerful rhythm. It was outside of him before, but now it’s inside. His balls have drawn up so tightly he knows exactly what’s coming next, but he can’t believe it. Only one person’s ever been able to do this to him with the touch of her hand. Well, two people, if you count him. But never, not once, has he ever been able to do what’s about to happen without touching—

  His seed jets from him. He’s so dumbfounded he looks down into the water, tries to watch it happen with his own two eyes. But it’s too dark and the orgasm is so powerful it knocks his knees out from under him. When he throws his head back, his scalp touches the water’s surface. Will the pleasure literally drown him if he doesn’t get control? He flails madly to right himself. But even as he tries to stand firm in waist-deep water, he bellows.

  And then, when his breath returns, he gasps the word that was on his lips that night at The Roquelaure House, that word he didn’t have the courage to voice then as he watched his wife and her best friend kiss passionately for the first time, a word that filled him with excitement and arousal and satisfaction as he beheld the oneness, the beauty of Cassidy and Shane together at last.

  “Mine,” Andrew whispers.

  6

  SHANE

  “Are you out of your goddamn mind, Shane Cortland?”

  “Easy!” Shane hisses.

  “Easy, nothing.”

  Samantha Scott glances around the restaurant to see if her outburst attracted attention from any of the other diners. It did, but she doesn’t seem to care. Before Shane can catch his breath, she’s back to glaring at him as if he just informed her, a few bites too late, that her shrimp remoulade has magic mushrooms in it.

  The wall behind her is covered in antebellum portrait paintings, Civil War muskets, and a succession of gilt-frame mirrors reflecting the crowded dining room. It’s certainly an ironic image; the sight of his black transgender friend, decked out in a banded plunge-V Donna Karan dress the color of Merlot, sitting before a collage of artifacts from the slave days. On any other night, Shane would get a kick out of it. But right now, he’s so surprised by Samantha’s anger he can barely look her in the eye.

  Perry’s occupies both floors of an old French Quarter carriage house and its expansive courtyard. The most popular tables are outside next to the fountain. But they’re sitting inside because he wanted to talk over things with Samantha in peace. He didn’t expect the place to be quite so packed. It’s a weeknight, after all. He also didn’t expect Samantha to pitch an epic fit when he told her about a wayward moment of sexual fluidity with Cassidy and Andrew.

  His veal cutlets swim in some of the finest beurre blanc he’s ever tasted. But the slow burn of Samantha’s anger incinerates his appetite. She’s crossed her hands over her lap like a prim schoolteacher. She’s shaking her head and taking deep, dramatic breaths through both nostrils. The only thing she’s missing is a Bible and a fan.

  “Lord, girl,” he mutters. “Calm down.”

  “She is your best friend,” Samantha whispers.

  “Yeah, well, maybe you’ll replace her.”

  “He’s her husband.”

  “Yeah, and he started it. Not me. So lighten up already.”

  “Dark and proud, thank you. It’s the one thing God got right the first time.”

  “Samantha, of all people, I didn’t think you would be so judgmental.”

  “Oh, what? You think ‘cause I’m your trans friend that I’m just gonna sit back quietly while you juggle knives? Listen here, Shane. Secrecy is not how the heart operates. Take it from someone who used to wait just a little too long to tell a boyfriend my birth certificate said Stanley Scott!”

  “Wait. What secrecy?”

  “You telling me you never made a move on Cassidy’s husband?”

  “Never. Oh my God! Andrew? Are you kidding? He’s her husband.”

  “He’s also fine!”

  “Yes, and I love Cassidy and I have a c
onscience, thank you very much.”

  “So it just came out of the blue? Andrew has too much to drink and suddenly all three of y’all are making out together at some party?”

  “Basically.”

  “Basically?”

  How can Shane answer this? Out of the blue… They’re his best friends, for Christ’s sake. He can’t think of any two people in the world he’s closer to, can’t think of anyone who knows more of his secrets than Cassidy and Andrew. But there was one secret they didn’t know. Samantha didn’t know it either. Because no one knew. No one except for the couple he’d shared that furtive afternoon with, on the carpeted floor of the penthouse he’d just sold them. Because they hadn’t just been a couple. They’d been his clients, for God’s sake. And the three of them had done a helluva lot more than make out for a few minutes on some garden bench.

  His cheeks are so hot he contemplates pressing some ice cubes from his water glass to his face. Now he’s struggling to sift through a decade’s worth of memories looking for signs that this—he still doesn’t have a name for it; they’re all too scary—was always in the making, the eruption of a long-denied passion that’s simmered just below the surface for years.