Their reverie was suddenly interrupted by a black shirt, dripping with sweat, thrown atop Jaime’s head. “Hey! HEY! I don’t mean to interrupt anything, but, you know, I’d like to get the fuck out of here!” The voice belonged to a bare-chested, willowy Jordan Barker, who was just as sweaty as his bandmate, but – unlike his bandmate – was getting even sweatier because he was breaking down the equipment onstage so they could load up the van before enjoying the rest of the evening with more drinking, drugs, rock’n’roll, and women at The Continental, just up the road and open all night – where every rock’n’roll band in New York City went to enjoy the after-party after the party. “So, do you feel like helping us, Jaime, you fucking bum?”
Angelique looked quickly into Jordan’s eyes, as Jaime had done earlier in the night. She could always tell whenever he was chasing the dragon, because the pupils of his eyes would constrict to near-pinpoints and his deep voice would drag as though he was underwater. Thankfully, this time, his pupils looked normal and his deep voice was, quite clearly, normal as well. In terms of the world of addiction, then, that may be the best he could ever do…to be okay in the here and now…and Angelique was willing to accept that.
“Hey Jordan,” she called out to him. “You ever been in love?”
“No, Angelique,” he replied, still lugging the equipment to and fro, “and I don’t think I ever will be. And certainly, I can’t understand why you love this jackass” – he gestured towards Jaime, who replied promptly with an outstretched middle finger – “but tell this lazy fucking bum to get his dick soft and come help us break down so we can get the fuck up out of here. It smells like barf and butt sex in here. I can’t understand how you get your dick hard with this disgusting stench all around us. Fuckin’ weirdo. You’d fuck your girl in a morgue, next to your dead-and-gone grandma’s stinking corpse, you know that, Jimmy?”
Jamie’s eyes grew wide, all amorous thoughts suddenly wiped from his mind. If there was one thing he hated, it was being called by the nickname that his father gave him. “Jimmy?” he repeated incredulously. “Did you just call me JIMMY, you cocksucker?”
Angelique laughed, shook her head, and then gave a small shove to Jaime, snapping him back into reality. “Go help Jordan,” she told him. “I’ll be right back. I gotta go get Rosie.” She winked at Jordan before hurrying away.
When Angelique was out of earshot, Jaime turned towards Jordan. “You’re an asshole, you know that?” he asked his bandmate while hitting him on the shoulder. “I just wanna make sure you know that as much as I love you, you’re also an asshole of the highest order.”
Jordan laughed and shook his head. “I know, bro,” he said. “Believe me, I know. But I must tell you – mad as I am that you never seem to help when it’s time to break down, I absolutely love the fact that Angelique loves you so much.” He paused, then arched his eyebrow. “Someone has to put up with your lazy ass, after all.”
Jaime grabbed the wet T-shirt and flung it in Jordan’s general direction. “Fuck you, Jordan,” he said, laughing. He then sighed as he looked at his bandmate and best friend – he knew Jordan was troubled. He knew something ached inside of his heart – and this ache, no matter what he or anyone else tried to do to alleviate the pain, could never be cured – and it was this aching that caused Jordan to ride a pale horse, to chase a fiery dragon, to do something that took him to an even darker place inside his soul, proving that it had the exact opposite intended effect of what it was supposed to do.
And this worried Jaime – this made him worry, every day – that one day, Jordan would chase the fiery dragon just a little too far, and he would never come back from that edge he took himself to.
Of course, no one knew it then, but exactly one year to the day after Jamie Ryan had these thoughts, his worst fears would be realized.
“Jordan,” he began hesitantly. “Jordan? You alright, man?”
Jordan looked up at Jaime and smiled. “Yeah, of course I am,” he said, then quickly looked down.
Jaime shook his head. He knew his best friend was lying. He wasn’t alright – he was never alright – he was just getting by from day to day. Trying. Fighting. Surviving. “Isn’t there anything – anything at all – that I can do to make this better for you, or on you?”
“No,” Jordan replied sincerely, knowing that Jamie’s question was a lot more loaded than its simplicity implied, and answering both questions with that one word. “It isn’t your burden to bear. It’s mine. I don’t think anyone could give me any light in this world, no matter how hard they try. I guess I’m always destined to walk a hard path, as Nora Barker, my dear, sweet, sainted mother says.”
Angelique suddenly reappeared in front of the stage, Rosie trailing behind her. “Baby!” she called out to Jaime, waving. “Baby, can you bring Jordan over?”
Jaime smiled, then tapped Jordan on the shoulder. “Come on, buddy. Angelique wants you.”
Rosie hid slightly behind Angelique’s shoulder, giggling coquettishly. She didn’t understand why she was suddenly so shy. “I can’t,” she whispered to Angelique. “I just can’t. He’ll never like me.”
“How do you know?” Angelique hissed, looking behind her. “He doesn’t bite. Not unless you ask. Now come on. We’re adults. Don’t be shy. I’m right here.”
Angelique turned to face her beloved, kissed him, then took Rosie by the hand and brought her forward. “Hey Jordan,” she called to her beloved’s bandmate, “come here and meet my friend. And try to be charming – you know, not yourself.” She nudged Rosie forward. “Rosie Diaz, this is Jordan Barker. Jordan, this is my best friend Rosie.”
Rosie stepped slightly forward so Jordan could see her in the dim light. And he stopped for a moment to take it all in: mussed chocolate brown hair, sparkling brown eyes, olive skin that was now a ruddy pink with sweat and blushing embarrassment. The curve of her hips, the fullness of her breasts, broad lips which parted into a shy, yet full, smile – even in her messy state, in her sweaty AC/DC shirt, slightly ripped acid-washed jeans, and scuffed black ballet flats – she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life.
Jordan smiled, sincerely, despite himself. “Hello there,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Jordan Barker. I’m the bassist of this amazing band called Faust. And might I say, it was a pleasure to entertain you this evening.”
As Rosie extended her hand in response, Jordan took it and held it up to his lips, kissing them intensely while looking in her eyes. She smiled sweetly, and her face began to visibly glow with delight. “I’m Rosie,” she said. “Rosie Diaz. And might I say, in return, how awfully nice it is to meet you too.”
I walked in to the great room of our apartment overlooking Emperor’s Park. I could see the city glimmering below me – slight specks of light, like fireflies, indicating some activity beneath me, but nothing like the New York City of days gone by. In this city – in the new New York – the flickering lights meant that there was, inevitably, some Cabal action going down.
The room, resplendent with Grecian-style columns in pure white, was glistening with silver tinsel that hung to and fro from every corner, turning the room into a winter wonderland.
I could feel every eye fall upon me as I entered the room, my heels clicking on the white marble floor beneath me. I couldn’t recognize a single face as I entered – their eyes and noses were covered in Venetian masks, all in white, that obscured the top part of their face.
Little toy soldiers, all in a row, I thought to myself as I stepped passed them all.
The orchestra began playing my favorite song – Beethoven’s “Secrets” – and, as the violins eked out the tune, which seemed to echo through the halls and reverberate off the walls, I saw him.
He was gorgeous, Nordic, with a body that looked as though it was carved from the finest marble. I couldn’t see his face, of course, but I could see wisps of copper-colored hair peeking out from behind the mask. His eyes, when I could meet them, were the color of lapis lazuli –
a deep blue unlike anything I’d seen before or since – and I could detect a few freckles sitting high on his cheekbones.
He was perfect.
I walked behind him to check out the remainder of his beautiful, chiseled body – and he did not disappoint – and, from behind, tapped him on the shoulder. Smiling, he whirred around and took my hand.
He knew this – our upcoming ritual – and he was prepared to play it to the max.
“You must be the lovely Evanora,” he said, and after I prevented my knees from buckling from under me, I tried to place the origins of his accent – which, while slight, was still evident. Britain? New Zealand? Australia?
“I – I am, yes,” I said hesitantly, and I could feel my face turning red. “And you are?”
“Tommy,” he said, bringing my hand to his lips and kissing it, gently. “Tommy Sherman, son of high-ranking Cabal officer Mathieu Sherman and his wife, the former Lisa Ann Gendry.” He kissed my hand again. “Is it me you choose this evening, Evanora Joy Cunningham?”
I smiled broadly. “Yes,” I said, this time with soaring confidence. “Yes, Tommy Sherman, son of Mathieu Sherman and Lisa Ann Gendry, it is you I choose.”
What he did next surprised me – putting his hand over his heart, he bowed before me, keeping his back perfectly straight, until his face nearly touched the ground. “May I have this dance, my fair Evanora?”
I returned the gentility with a curtsy of my own. It was fun, after all. “I would be delighted, my fair Tommy.”
He took my hand and our dance began.
It was a full, circular minuet. I remembered my lessons in finishing school and executed them well – so much so, in fact, that it occasioned a comment from Tommy about my skills.
“Evanora, darling,” he said, again in a clipped accent whose origin I couldn’t place, “you move like the wind.”
Grabbing me by the waist, he lifted me in the air and spun me around. For a moment, I could see the room spinning – whirling – the faces all a blur, the lights all flashing, and the only face I could clearly see was Tommy’s beatific, smiling face looking directly up at mine.
Instinctively, I put my hand up against the side of his head to run my fingers through that gorgeous copper mane.
But as I traced my fingers through his hair – coarse to the touch, but easy to run my fingers through – the pads of my fingertips caught themselves on what felt like a healed rip in his head.
Almost on instinct, Tommy pulled back and put me down.
I flinched at his sudden coldness. “Tommy,” I began hesitantly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
He removed his mask, shook his head slightly, and looked away. “You couldn’t have known,” he said, softly. “You couldn’t have.”
My face seemed to register my question as the music drifted off to a lilt. “Tommy, what happened? Who did this to you?”
Chapter Six
Jamie
Clang. Clang.
As soon as I heard the metallic sound coming from above, I breathed a sigh of relief.
Though I didn’t see what had went on – I was hiding, safely, in the relative anonymity of a desolate Bowery alleyway – I knew the sequence of events. We’d gone over the plan so many times.
He was on a second-floor landing now, hoping to descend on the Cabal from above. But the clang sound startled him despite himself. “Shit,” he hissed softly, then looked around to make sure no one had heard him.
Feeling safe that he was hidden – for now – Kanoa looked across the Bowery, to the corner of Elizabeth Street, where he saw Basile hiding behind a street lamp. Basile looked up and gave a slight acknowledgment to Kanoa, who returned the acknowledgement with a slight tip of his sunglasses before returning him to the top of his nose.
“If you can hear me, Jamie,” whispered Kanoa, “get ready. We’ve got company.”
I can hear you, alright, I thought to myself, and I felt that that was acknowledgment enough, given the circumstances.
We all focused our laser-like attention on the grunting sound that we suddenly heard – heard, it seemed, all at the same time -- and we realized that The Cabal had arrived and found their latest target: a young man, who couldn’t have been more than 25, of indeterminate ethnic origin, who was using chalk to draw on the street.
Colored chalk, I could hear Kanoa thinking to himself. A colored chalk drawing that would last the all of four hours, on a good day – that is enough to get The Cabal on you. Jesus Praise-Dancing Christ, what have we become…
“Who are you?” The leader pointed his rifle at the back of the young man’s head. “Identification demanded, immediately.”
The young man shook, violently, as he reached into the pocket of his faded jeans and produced his identification to the leader. He made it a point to remember what they all looked like – frightening creatures, all – because he knew it would only be a matter of time before he wouldn’t be able to remember anything.
The Cabal posed an enormous threat – and this was due, in part, to how they presented themselves. They were figures dressed all in black – all broad-shouldered, all clean shaven, all with close-cropped hair and bullet-proof vests (though, really, there was no point for that, as Emperor banned all weapons, and far be it from the citizenry to be cognizant enough to even look for them), combat boots and full rounds of artillery strapped over their shoulders – and who seemed to blend, seamlessly, into one another so that there was no chance of anyone being able to distinguish one from the other. The leader, then, looked no different from the lower-level officers, and they moved in a side-by-side formation, all in lock-step with one another.
So was this sight before the young man as he began to tremble and cry. “Please,” he said, “please, have mercy. It’s just chalk. It washes away – see?” He took his hand and rubbed at the chalk frantically. “I’ll wash it away right now. I’ll never do it again.”
“That’s right,” said the leader, moving in closer. “You won’t.” He tapped the tip of his rifle to the back of the young man’s head. “Get up. Now.”
From atop the building across from this travesty of justice and democracy, Kanoa shook his head violently. Was I this way when I was one of them? I could hear him thinking to himself. May God forgive me, if God exists, for these sins I’ve committed, for I knew not what I had done.
“Get ready, gentlemen,” Kanoa repeated, whispering. “We gotta make this one count.”
We got you, buddy, I thought.
The young man trembled and whimpered as tears spilled down his face. “Sir,” he said, standing up weakly. “I have a family. I have my children. My children need me. Their mother needs me. Please, sir, it’s just chalk.”
“You know the law,” said the leader, monotonously. “And you know that we cannot tolerate any deviation from the law. If we let you go, we must let others like you go. Art and non-conformity in the streets will not be tolerated. Obedience to Emperor above all. Conformity – stability – that is the key to law and order.” He banged the butt of his rifle onto the concrete three times. “His Word! Before All! Above All! With Liberty and Justice for All!”
The remainder of the battalion responded in kind – they all banged the butt of their rifles onto the concrete three times, then chanted, “His Word! Before All! Above All! With Liberty and Justice for All!” They then fanned out to form a circle around the young man, whose sobs were growing louder and more hysterical with each goose-stepping stomp, as he prepared to meet his fate.
Had the remainder of the battalion been paying attention, they’d have heard the muttering from behind the lamplight not more than 10 feet away. “His word,” muttered Basile. “His word, my black ass. Fuck y’all. Liberty and Justice – man, fuck y’all. Y’all can find the darkest part of my Louisiana Bayou asshole to lick, that’s what the fuck y’all can do with that bullshit.” He looked around, then snarled in a low baritone. “The fuck you two waiting for? A goddamn engraved invitation?”
Is everybody in?
I thought to myself. The ceremony is about to begin.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I began as I slowly emerged from the fog, tipping my coppola in a mocking, exaggerated gesture of Old West gentility towards the battalion.
The leader squinted his eyes as the remainder of the battalion slowly backed away from the young man and surrounded their leader in protective formation. The young man scurried into the doorway of a nearby abandoned building, then collapsed on the weather-beaten concrete steps, sobbing hysterically.
I was still concealed by the shadows, and so, the leader couldn’t make out who I was. No matter – I made sure to stay a safe distance, so I couldn’t be identified. “Who are you?” the leader demanded. “Identification—"
I stopped dead in my tracks, then emitted a sound of peeling laughter when I realized who owned the voice giving me the command. “What the fuck?” I said incredulously. “No way! It can’t be!”
I stepped forward, slightly, but not enough to have my face be seen by The Cabal. I was still hysterical with laughter. “I can’t believe it. Mathieu? Mathieu Sherman?! That’s who the fuck Emperor made a Major General in my place and stead?” I was literally howling now. “I can’t. I can’t stand it. You puppets are pathetic!” Tears of laughter began to stream down my face as I doubled over with laughter, the oblique muscles of my stomach literally burning from the violent contractions.
Mathieu Sherman – still as ridiculous as ever – twitched, then tried again. “Under the penalty of psi,” he began, but his voice cracked with nervousness, “I demand…”
I laughed even harder. Need some help there, big boy? “Your nuts haven’t even dropped, Sherman,” I called out mockingly. “How the fuck do you have the nerve to demand shit around here? Come to think of it, how the fuck can you even talk when you have Emperor’s cock in your mouth?”
I’d been waiting for two decades to get my licks in on this bastard. His nightmare was just beginning. I was on a roll, now. “All throughout The Trials, you were too pussy to ever stand up for anything. They passed you out of pity, Matt, not out of skill. I don’t know who the fuck you gave a blow job to after I got the fuck out of there, but whoever it was, at least you knew enough not to use your teeth when you pushed your mouth down on the shaft.”
The Gathering: Book One of The Uprising Series Page 6
