by Dyrk Ashton
Bödvar can’t wait any longer. The last of the dust wafts out of the cave as he ducks his head and enters. Once inside, he can stand upright, and there he sees an amazing sight--Lamia’s gleaming body swirling in psychedelic eddies of every hue, The Madman in her slimy embrace.
According to Baphomet, Lamia can manipulate chromataphore pigmentation in her skin to create multiple color combinations, like certain frogs. Her flesh is also bioluminescent, which gives her the ability to emit light, even in complete darkness. Bödvar didn’t give a shit when he first heard it, but now he understands Baphomet’s fascination.
The Goat also explained that the clear mucus she exudes from her body magnifies the colorful light show and contains chemicals that have euphoric and hallucinogenic effects on those she touches. When she was queen of Libya, she’d share this substance with her most loyal subjects in drug induced orgies of sex and blood.
Myrddin shudders with pleasure. The warmth of her, the pressure of supple breasts on his chest, soft hands on his shoulders, luscious lips pressed to his. The feel of something other than clammy stone. The touch of his dearest Nyneve.
Bödvar observes as Lamia slides one slippery hand from Myrddin’s shoulder down his chest and stomach to his groin. In spite of his age and condition he throbs to life. With her other hand she grabs his wrinkled saggy ass and squeezes hard. Myrddin moans.
Humming her little song, she lowers her face to his breast, where her lips and pallid tongue find the scar that never fully healed, the one she gave him when he was a babe. She slathers him with slobber that contains both a powerful anesthetic and an anticoagulant that will keep his blood from clotting. Her mouth expands and she suction-cups her lips to his chest, her naturally lubricated hand still working his Mad-manhood.
Bödvar is enjoying this. After all the times Myrddin Wyllt has misled him and made him look the fool, this death through deception is sweeter revenge than killing the bastard himself.
Lamia slides her hand up from Myrddin’s butt to brace his back. Her rings of razor teeth slice into his chest. Blood flows into her gullet. Then she stops. He’s helplessly, hopelessly, under her spell. She releases the hold she has with her teeth. Blood trickles freely from the ring of incisions on his chest. She looks him in the eye, revels in his glazed expression of false ecstasy.
Lamia has waited for this moment all her life. She and The Madman not only share a father, but The Leech’s mother had Myrddin’s mother’s blood in her when Lamia was conceived as well. By her reckoning, they are truly brother and sister. But when they were new to this world he had been coddled, nursed at a warm teat, cooed at and cherished, while she was kept in a basket and fed on rats. Then Father cast her away like trash and embraced the whelp of a parvulus whore as a true Firstborn child.
Lamia remembers, oh yes, Lamia remembers. She hates The Madman. And she loves him. Now she has his blood in her once again. Sweet, sweet nectar, the most delicious she’s ever tasted. The first time she fed on him was no accident. This time he will die, and he will like it. Some grudges last that long. Some vengeance worth waiting for.
She will outlive her brother, and when the Deva are defeated and Father cast down she will be a queen again. The Madman will be only a myth, forever, like so many before him, and she will be free.
She moves her dripping mouth to his ear. “Hello brother-r-r-r-r-r-r,” she whispers. “Me am no Nyne-e-e-e-e-ve. No-o-o-o-o-o. Me am you sister-r-r-r. L-a-a-a-a-m-i-i-a-a-a-a...”
“Not... Nyneve?” Myrddin mumbles. He opens his eyes, but all he sees is Nyneve.
“Me love you, brother-r-r-r...”
“Lamia?” It still doesn’t register.
“Me love you to death...”
In Myrddin’s blurry sight, the image of Nyneve’s beautiful face dissolves to the visage of The Leech--but he’s too far gone. There is nothing he can do to stop her. Nothing he wants to do to stop her. She licks blood from his chest, attaches her sucker mouth to him once more, and begins to hum.
“Ohhhhhh... Lamia...” Myrddin closes his eyes. If it’s to be for the last time, he just doesn’t care.
* * *
Mesmerized by the shimmering rainbow of her body and the lilting melody of her song, Bödvar watches Lamia drain the life from The Madman. It’s a wonder to behold.
All Firstborn can see the cloak of another, but they can also see through it with little effort. Firstborn of a human mother, however, like Myrddin Wyllt, have the parvulus frailty of mind. A master of the art of cloaking such as Lamia can fool them easily. And she is one of the best. In addition, it is said she can hypnotize parvuli with her songs, fluttering eyelashes and wavering body--and even overpower the faculties of Firstborn who are not born of a weakling parvulus. For this reason, Bödvar knows he shouldn’t look directly at her for too long, but he’s loathe to turn away.
Entranced as he is by the bewitching allure of The Leech, the ordinarily ultra-vigilant Bear doesn’t notice the breeze that ruffles the fur on his back, is barely conscious of the shadow that flits past his shoulder to form an inky blot on the cavern wall beside him. The soft voice is his first real clue that anyone is there at all.
“Matunos...”
Bödvar’s consciousness twitches in its hypnotic haze. Someone has spoken his Truename, which none have used in over a millenium. Altar stones raised by the earliest Brythonic Celts still stand in honor of that name in High Rochester and Risingham here in England. He considered visiting them after this mission is over, if time and duty permitted, just for old times sake. The name Bödvar Bjarki is a recent appellation, one he took when he fought as a sellsword for a Norwegian king after the fall of Attila the Hun. He’s kept it ever since, having always liked how it rolls off his floppy bear’s tongue.
Who said that? His eyes try to focus on the shadow. Who’s there? He’s turning to see what might be blocking the light of the moon when a thin blade pierces his chest. Pierces deep. Without a grunt or moan, he slumps to the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Flowers & Figs 10
Fi and Zeke have barely touched their burgers and fries. They’re seated at a table in a downtown establishment that calls itself an Irish pub and boasts the “best burgers in town.” Peter obviously thinks they’re good enough. He’s devouring the second of two giant jalapeno cheeseburgers. Three empty beer mugs sit in front of him and the fourth is nearly gone. Zeke hunches in his chair, the bank manager’s cashmere overcoat wrapped tightly around him, sucking soda through a straw. He isn’t as chilled as he was, but his color hasn’t fully returned.
They haven’t spoken a word since they ordered, Peter having spent the intervening time between then and the arrival of the food chatting up a couple of attractive and well attired businesswomen at the bar. Since then he’s been busy eating but incredibly alert, scanning TV screens above the bar and the crowded tables, studying everyone and everything. Every once in awhile he’d close his eyes as if listening.
He’s watching people texting on their smart phones at the next table when Fi leans forward and speaks quietly, “Peter, you shouldn’t...” He looks at her inquisitively. “It’s rude.”
“Just catching up on the latest patois,” he responds, unabashed. ““Lol, lfmao, rotfl, those I know, or can figure out. But, YOLO!” he shouts. Nearby patrons look at him. “I’m assuming it means ‘you only live once,’ correct?”
Fi answers, embarrassed, “Yes, it does.”
“Not entirely true, but...” He waggles his head, thinking about it, then stuffs his face with the remainder of his chili fries.
Fi takes a sip of her water. She loves a good burger, but she isn’t hungry. Just exhausted and overwhelmed. She’d like nothing more than to wake up from this bizarre nightmare in her comfy bed, wrapped in her favorite quilt, and start the whole day over again. Without realizing, she lets out a dramatic sigh.
Peter pops the last bit of burger in his mouth and washes it down with the rest of his beer, some of which dribbles into his beard. He c
lunks the mug down and lets out a loud wet belch of satisfaction. “Pardon me,” he says with a grin.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Fi retorts. “That was disgusting.”
He watches her languidly stirring ketchup with half a fry. “Fiona?”
She drops her fry onto the plate and gives him a squint-eyed, dirty look. Only her Uncle Edgar and Mrs. Mirskaya call her Fiona, and she likes it that way. “Finished?” she asks briskly.
“You’re not tired, are you?” Peter asks, ignoring her question.
She sits back, wiping her hands on the napkin in her lap. “Well, yeah. I am.”
Peter gives her the same scrutinizing look he gave Zeke earlier. “Hmm...”
“Hmm yourself!” she snaps, tossing the napkin on her plate.
Peter grins wide, greatly amused for some reason. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve then notices the two women he was talking to earlier shooting furtive glances his way. “If you’ll excuse me, and stay put, I need to use the little boys’ room.” Without waiting for an answer he drops a 100 dollar bill next to his plate and walks away along the bar.
Fi and Zeke sit quietly. There’s so much to say. And nothing at all.
Zeke notices she’s chewing her nails. “I didn’t know you bite your nails.”
Fi flashes him a look and shoves her hand in her lap. “I don’t. Or, I didn’t.”
He changes the subject to what’s really on his mind. “Well, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“Anything. Everything.”
“You don’t believe any of that stuff he told us, do you?“
“I honestly don’t know what to believe. He did say he never lies.”
“Which is exactly what every pathological liar says.”
“I know, but still...” He leans closer. “Who do you think he is, I mean really?”
“Every time I think about it my stomach ties up in knots.”
“Yes! It’s exactly the same with me.”
“Yeah?”
“Hell yeah. But... I can’t help but think...”
Fi watches, waiting.
“I mean, there was a moment there, after we first did that slipping thing,” he makes the sliding motion with his hand, “when he came out of that ocean of memory, or whatever it was. I thought maybe...” he laughs uneasily, “he could be God.”
Fi feels like she’s going to retch--out of anxiety, disgust, or both. She’d considered the same thing. But Peter? God? No way!
Zeke sees it on her face. “Or... you know, he could be some kind of god. He said he gave Billy the Axe of Perun--that grew out of a necklace, by the way--you saw it too. Perun was a Slavic deity who saved the world by defeating a dragon named Veles. But he also said that thing he got from the bank is Odin’s Spear. Odin! The supreme god of the Norse pantheon, the All-father--“
“I know who Odin is,” she retorts, holding her stomach. ”I’m not completely clueless.”
“Sorry.” Zeke knows he’s grasping at straws, but there has to be some explanation. “An angel? Or an alien--maybe?”
She shakes her head, incredulous.
“I mean, he can’t be a man. Not a normal man, anyway. Can he?”
“I’m still trying not to think about it too hard,” she groans. “I’m really hoping I’m just having, like, the most messed up dream ever.”
Zeke reaches under the table and pinches her leg.
“Hey!” she shouts, jerking in her seat.
“Did that hurt?”
She gives him the dirty look. “No. You just startled me.”
He tries a different tack. “Think about when he first came out of that sea of mist--”
“Naked,” Fi interjects.
“Okay, naked,” he concedes, “but changed. What was your first thought?”
“I’m pretty sure it was ‘AHHHHHHH!’ Just like yours.”
“Well, yeah. But seriously, the first real thought, or word, that came to mind?”
Fi thinks about it. What was it? What did I think?
Zeke looks over his shoulder to check and see if Peter’s coming back. All clear. “Come on, we’ll say it together, on three, ready, one--two--three--
At the same time, both of them say--“Beautiful.”
They stare at each other.
“Really?” she asks. “You thought that?”
“Yeah. But I almost said ‘perfect.’”
Fi remembers--she thought that too.
They gaze at each other for what seems a very long time, then realize what they’re doing and look at their plates.
“Zeke,” she says softly after a few moments. “This has to be a dream. Otherwise, the world’s completely different from what we’ve always thought it was. What anybody thinks it is. And... a lot of people are dead.” He looks at her with empathy and remorse, then focuses on his hands in his lap.
Fi stares at her plate. Peter... What happened to her special old man? The gentle dementia patient who loved flowers and figs and gazing at the stars? The quiet helpless guy who could brighten her whole week with an occasional faraway smile? It’s strange, but she misses him.
She takes a deep breath, scans the restaurant. “Where is he?”
* * *
Fi and Zeke squeeze down the narrow hall of the pub to the restrooms. They come to the women’s room first. “I’m going to stop in here,” says Fi. Zeke nods, then halts. From the other side of the door comes a distinct smack and a woman’s muffled groan. They share a look of alarm and Fi shoves the door open.
At the far end of the galley-style restroom Peter and the two women from the bar are pretzeled in a way that seems almost physically impossible--yet somehow Peter manages to hold both women up with a little help from the sink. Clothes are strewn everywhere. There’s the same groan as before--but it isn’t a sound of distress.
Fi and Zeke just stand there, gawking.
Peter smacks one of the women on the butt.
“Ohhh, yes!” she groans. “Say it again!”
“You really like that?”
“I do! Do it! Say it!”
“Okay then, Who’s your daddy?”
“You are! You are!”
Zeke reaches past Fi and pulls the door shut.
“We’re leaving,” she says firmly.
“But...”
“Now.”
* * *
Fi storms out of the pub, Zeke stumbling after her. Daylight has given way to night and it’s begun to drizzle. Oblivious to the wet and cold, Fi darts across the street, weaving through traffic.
Zeke calls after her, “Fi!” then mumbles, “shit.” He raises the collar on his coat and follows, dodging angry drivers who hit their brakes and honk.
“Fi!” he shouts again. “Come on! Think about--”
She halts on the sidewalk and spins on him so abruptly he almost runs into her. “I’m going home, to find my uncle. You can come with me, or you can stay with...” she waves back toward the pub, “him.” Zeke runs his hands through his hair apprehensively while she glares up at him. Having waited long enough, she figures, she turns and hurries up the sidewalk. Zeke groans and follows.
“Okay!” he says, catching up to her as she crosses the street at the next corner. “But, maybe we can come back, after...”
“Maybe,” she says brusquely, without slowing.
“Look, we could get a cab--”
“Just wave one down? In Toledo? Good luck with that!”
“You know, your uncle sounds like an interesting guy and all, but can you really tell him about all this?”
Fi keeps striding along, making her way through downtown, headed toward home. She hadn’t considered what Uncle Edgar’s reaction might be. She’s just assumed he’d believe her, and would know what to do about it. Now she wonders.
She wipes her eyes, glances up without stopping. At that moment there’s a break in the gray sky and the moon glares down upon the world. The clouds blink it away and she shrugs off the eerie feeling of being wat
ched.
“Fi,” Zeke puffs as he jogs to keep up. “What if Peter really is somebody--important--and we just left him--”
“I think he’s doing fine all by himself,” she responds harshly. “And he isn’t really all by himself, is he?” She checks for traffic and crosses another street. In spite of her mood, she hopes Zeke didn’t see her almost twist her ankle in a pothole.
“But what if he is telling the truth?” he asks.
“What truth? He hasn’t really told us anything. Nothing that makes sense! And if you want to think of it that way, have you considered your angel or god or whatever, might actually be a demon?”
“Those people who are after him,” Zeke counters, “they sure don’t seem like good guys to me!”
“Yeah? How do you know? Maybe they are demons, but maybe there’s some sort of coup going on, a fight for control over hell or something!”
“Come on, Fi...”
“Well?! It isn’t any crazier than--OH!!!” In her haste, she trips off a curb and stumbles into the entrance to an alley. A car slams on its breaks and comes skidding right for her on the wet pavement.
“Fi!” Zeke shouts, sprinting to tackle her. They tumble onto the far sidewalk as the car squeals to a stop.
The driver’s door flies open. Fi swipes at the damp hair clinging to her face, shields her eyes from the headlights and rain. Out steps an elderly man in a windbreaker and slacks, with a hooked nose, braided ponytail and mutton-chop sideburns.
“Uncle Edgar?”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Mendip Hills 5
Myrddin Wyllt is having the most wonderful dream. It must be a dream, because he’s making sweet love to his beloved Nyneve.
Or is it his sister, Lamia? It doesn’t matter. Then, through the fog of carnal lust, he sees something watching. A pitch black shadow, hovering over... a bear?
Yes, a dream, but what a dream. And like all good dreams, he knows it will be interrupted before he can finish. It’s already happening.
The shadow floats toward the pair in their lovers’ embrace, flings a handful of sparkling crystal powder. His dream-beloved jerks away and screams the most horrible scream.
