by A. R. Miller
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The world spins as millions, no zillions of whispers thrum in my ears. Unseen fingers caress my skin, cold like a winter breeze. Exhausted, terrified and hurting, to the point of not caring, I ride along the silken darkness.
When the spinning stops, I play rabbit. If I don’t move, he can’t see me. Not that it should matter, I’m dead right?
“What do you want, little Schattenkind?”
Crap, there’s that name again. The voice is torn and ragged, mingled with an enticingly seductive quality. Like two in one, similar to The Sisters with their surround sound.
Turning my head toward the voice, hesitantly I open my eyes. Posed in profile, sits a woman on a dark throne. If she hadn’t spoken I would have thought it was a statue. A rendition of perfection meticulously carved in luminous stone. Her profile is so stunning I’d have to vote her top of the beauty food chain. Okay, so Royd’s sister ranks up there if you like the Malibu Barbie type. I guess you could call it a tie. What can I say? In my profession, you notice these things.
“Your lack of answer is yet another rudeness, I must tolerate, Schattenkind.” Her tone brings the mask of calm she wears into question.
“What did you call—I’m sorry.” My hashed throat barely manages a whisper that sounds almost as ragged as half her stereophonic voice.
“I called you Schattenkind for it is what you are and shall accept your pathetic apology if you tell me why you are in my domain.”
Somehow, I manage to roll over and push myself up onto all threes. Sweat breaks across my forehead and upper lip, intense pounding in my head and ears nearly knocking me flat. My hand and wrist throb with a life of their own as I attempt to keep the arm tucked against my body. Swallowing, I raise my upper body, cradling one arm in the other, hissing as my hand flops to one side. This is going to make my job near impossible if it doesn’t heal correctly. What am I saying? I highly doubt I’ll be doing hair in the afterlife. Wait a minute.
I’m dead, right? That would make her... That elegant profile turns toward me before I can even think her name. Like a freakish Halloween costume splitting a person down the center, the other half of that perfect alabaster profile wavers between a mirror in onyx and cadaverous remains. The Mistress of the Dead. The goddess, Hel.
After nodding in respect, I fix my attention on the attractive side. Not trusting my reaction to the other, the last thing I want to do is insult her. Seems I’ve already pushed the boundaries of politeness.
“Um...I’m dead, aren’t I?”
Her laughter is like crystal drug over gravel. “Now, if you were I would not be asking why you are here.” Eyes, one frost–colored, the other empty darkness, rove over my broken form. “From the look of you, it is a distinct possibility, if you do not see a healer.”
Advice I don’t really need, I know I’m in a bad way. Battered, bloody and severely dehydrated.
“I don’t suppose you have one of those down here?” Stupid question, but it gets her to laugh. Laughter is better than the alternative, whatever that might be.
“If I did you this favor what would you give in return?”
Damn, there’s always a catch when it comes to dealing with gods. Scratch that, it doesn’t matter who you’re dealing with, there’s always a catch. What could I offer that is comparable? Free haircut, manicure, how about a facial? I shiver at the thought of touching her and it reminds me how important it is I find a healer ASAP.
Clearing my tortured throat, I end up coughing, finally managing to spit out, “What do you want?”
Her smile is downright nasty. “A boon of my choosing, at a time of my choosing.”
“Like what?”
“As I said, of my choice, when I choose it to be so.”
Not a good idea to bargain with the ruler of hel, especially when I don’t know what I’m bargaining with, but what choice do I have?
“Well? Do we have an agreement?”
Pain and the fear of what awaits me on the other side push me to a decision, and I nod.
“I will instruct my personal healer to do what he can.”
“One small problem with that.”
“You do not agree to the terms?”
“It’s not that I don’t agree. If I’m bargaining with the unknown, I’d like to add a term of my own. I need help getting back home.”
I can feel the exasperation in her sigh. I’m not pushing my luck on purpose I really don’t know how to get back. I don’t remember how I got here. Something about wishing the earth would swallow me. It’s all static and fuzzy pictures.
“I will assign someone to take you to the edge of my kingdom and from there you will be on your own.”
The giant lump of fear in my throat grates as I swallow. I’m not going to get a better deal. I’m lucky she’s offering this much and probably luckier that she hasn’t squashed me like a bug.
“Thank you.”
“Do not thank me, just honor the agreement. At a time of my choosing, you shall deliver what I ask.”
***
I figured the healing would hurt, but I’d forgotten one little hitch. My Talents and the whole dead thing. Duh, her healer would be a dead guy, it only makes sense.
The minute he enters the room the situation begins to spiral and by the time he touches me it’s out of control.
Unlike in the mortal realm, shadows don’t slink in, they bum rush me. Piles of bricks restraining my Talent quiver and rock before shattering, leaving a cloud of dust and me open to death’s influence.
Pain in my throat tells me I’m screaming, but I can’t hear it over the choir echoing around me. Being in hel is a bad, bad thing for someone like me when it comes to control. The slender grip I had on my control slips through my fingers and I’m too weak and tired to get it back.
Cold hands grip the sides of my head, muffling the voices. I hear Hel tell her healer to work faster and me to shut up. Then blissful darkness.
***
“Since I cannot trust you near my subjects, I am forced to escort you.”
The Queen of the Dead has a soft spot no matter how she tries to hide it, one that gives warm cloaks and shoes. I don’t think she hates me as much as fears what would happen if someone with my Talents were to stay. Can’t say I blame her. I’d be a bit peeved if a stylist that could do what I do moved into my salon.
Try as I might, I can’t keep up. Even in peak condition, it would be near impossible. My healing didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. My wrist and hand bound in a crude splint, bruises and scrapes faded, pain factor dulled to somewhere between five and six on a scale of ten. I still look and feel like crap.
Surprise, surprise the dead can’t heal the living, but I’m able to move and my head is clearer. If anything, the healer looked better when he was done. I have a feeling the total adoration in his eyes when he looked at me is going to be a problem later.
She grabs my arm and pulls me along. The contact makes it easier to focus on not only my surroundings—not that there’s much to see besides barren trees and rock—but her as well. The constant shimmering between death and beauty stabilizes leaving only the beauty part.
At the edge of the stereotypical spooky forest, she stops, yanking me back. The rest of me feels lighter than a kite as my heart plummets. Exactly what I would have done had I taken that last step. Pebbles roll from under my toes as I teeter on what looks like the edge of the world.
“I take it this is it.”
She nods staring at the obsidian perfection of the hand resting on my arm. Raising the other, she studies its crystalline beauty, her features soften and longing fills her eyes. By touching me, she’s become an exquisite otherworldly work of art made of two glassy stones.
Swallowing back fear that threatens to choke and fighting the urge to pull away, I almost feel sorry for her. It’s definitely time to go before she changes her mind about me staying. I’m in the business of making others look good, but spending eternity in hel playing personal sty
list to a goddess isn’t what I had in mind.
She pulls away quickly, power and prestige, winning out over vanity, and the dizzying cycle of beauty and the beast resumes.
“Yes,” she says the faintest touch of regret in that gravelly tone. “From here, you go on alone.”
The ground continues crumbling in front of my feet, the debris falling so far I can’t hear it hit the bottom. “So I just jump?”
She shrugs. “If you wish, but one step is all you need.”
One step sounds simple enough, but it’s a long way down. I’m not afraid of heights, I’m afraid of falling and the big splat I’m going to make when I find the bottom.
“What is this place?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the nothingness on the other side of the line.
“The Between.”
“Between? As in, between worlds?”
She nods.
A race to the top of my spine starts as I remember what little I know of The Between. It’s nothing, except unfiltered chaos. The possibilities of what can happen when you are there are endless. I could end up sitting on my couch eating Moocha Java, or in an endless loop of dealing with past complaining clients. At the very worst, the beings that live there could rip me to shreds. The longer you’re there, the greater the chances of you ending up in the nut house if you make it back. Navigating The Between is no easy task for those who know how. For me, it’s going to be near impossible.
Chewing on my lower lip, I glance from her to the chasm of nothingness below and back. Maybe staying wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I mean really, how taxing would being her personal stylist be? I’m tired, but that could be from all the walking and my physical condition, not from her zapping the life out of me, right?
Turning to ask if we could come to some sort of compromise, her hands extend and the force of her blow sends me over the edge.
Guess that would be a no.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
I’m running, to something, no from something. The rational part of my brain tells me I’m dreaming, but fear doesn’t seem to care. It’s too real.
Shadows spread across the bleak landscape. I’m being pursued. I don’t know by who. Only that they want me and if they catch me, it will be bad with a capital B.
That little voice of reason again tells me it’s not real, but others soon drown it out. Maybe they’re just the reaction of an overly vivid imagination, but they sound real. Real scary and real threatening.
Run is the only thing I can do. Stay ahead of whatever hunts me. That’s the only thing that matters, keeping one–step ahead. Waist high, grass slaps and slices. Adding insult to injury, I’m naked. My legs hurt and my lungs are on fire, but it doesn’t matter. Something’s out there and if I slow down—or gods forbid, stop—it’ll get me.
I stumble, ground cover tangling around ankles that twist painfully. Tears sting my face and blur what little vision I have in the encroaching darkness.
Something screeches in the distance followed by howls and something that sounds like laughter a lot closer. My body protests as I misstep and tumble to the ground. Clawing at the grass, I pull myself a little further, then collapse.
I lay there in the fetal position, shaking with silent sobs. Unseen fingers caress my skin, cold like a winter breeze. The world spins as whispers thrum in my ears. Exhausted, terrified, humiliated, to the point of not caring anymore, I squeeze my eyes shut. Let them take me, just let it be quick and as painless as possible.
Silvery light blossoms behind my eyelids, chasing away the darkness, sending the voices and hands with it. Slowly I open one eye, then the other and push myself up. I’m alone. Even the grass is gone. No sky, no land. No ceiling, no floor, no walls. There’s nothing, nothing, but the light. Soft and silvery.
The fear of being pursued and hunted is replaced by another kind of fear. Being alone. Utterly and completely alone in this vast nothingness. It sounds silly, being afraid of nothing, but I am.
My poor, tired brain runs in all directions at once and nothing becomes something. Something even more horrifying. Nothing is exactly what everything I’ve worked for has become. In the blink of an eye my world, once so full became empty. Stripped naked, just like my body.
No, says that little voice of reason, not taken, just changed.
“No, he took it. Destroyed it. Everything I ever wanted gone. Poof!”
The important things are still there.
“Like what?”
Your friends. Your family. Your self–respect.
“Ha, my family hid things from me and my friends want to use me,” I say feeling the unwanted guest of guilt creeping in.
Your family did what they thought best, and there is no proof your friends wish to use you.
I don’t want to feel guilty, I want to pout and feel sorry for myself. I don’t want to think about the good things in my life. I want someone to blame other than myself. I want to rail at the world for everything that’s happened. Most of all I want to take the easy way out, like the rest of society, I want to ignore it and pretend it will go away.
You can fix this.
“No, I can’t!”
You can, and what’s more, you know you can.
I scream, covering my ears with my hands.
Oh gods, I’ve finally stepped over the edge. Trapped in my own mind, doomed to hold pointless conversations for eternity.
Stop being a whiny little bitch and do something for a change!
Damn, now I’ve done it. I’ve gone and made myself mad at me. I snicker and that turns to giggling, then a full–blown rolling–in–the–nothingness belly laugh. I really have gone mad—ooops—make that crazy.
Keely.
“Yeah?” My voice, is suddenly deeper and very sexy. The giggling intensifies until tears are streaming down my face.
Keely!
“What?”
Come back.
“Come back where? Reality? Sorry, no can do.” I’ve become a Tickle Me Keely doll, the slightest thing setting off the laughter. Even things that aren’t funny, like my slender hold on sanity.
Come to me.
“If I knew who you were, I might think about it.”
Do not think about it, just do it. I refuse to lose you.
“You lose me? Hel, I’ve lost myself.”
My giggles come to an abrupt stop with the hot stinging pain in my cheek.
Forgive me.
I lay my hand gingerly on my throbbing flesh, the tears in my eyes no longer from laughter. Is this what they mean by a danger to yourself? Will the others part come later, because I’d sure like a crack at the owner of that invisible hand. Wait, it’s me. My psyche is taking arguing with yourself to a whole new level.
“Fuck you,” I scream, cradling my aching face. “Just go away and let me be.”
Curling into a ball I lay there choking on my own tears. Wave after wave of emotion wracks my body—anger, fear, hopelessness. I’ve reached the point of not caring what happens, showing just how pitiful I truly am.
Invisible hands grip my arms, squeezing until my sobs become whimpers. Jerking me upright, shaking me like a naughty child in the toy aisle.
You are acting like a foolish child, not the capable woman I know.
“Ha, then you don’t know me very well.”
I try pushing the hands away, but there’s nothing there, just the painful tightening around my forearms. Another lovely illusion brought to you by the cracked mind of Keely Fey.
I know you and what you are going through better than you think.
“Whatever.” My lower lip protrudes and I feel the urge to say, you could never understand what I’m going through. Amazing how a woman of my years can be reduced to adolescent angst.
I gasp as the grip on my arms tightens. Red imprints flush to the surface, amplifying the intensity of my delusion.
Stop.
“Stop what? I’ve already teetered off that tiny ledge of reality. It’s too late, so just leave me be.”
&n
bsp; I give up struggling and just hang limply. It’s too late.
Self-pity is the only pity, you will receive.
Apparently, the contempt I feel for myself is out in the open. Even I can’t stand me when I’m sitting on the pity pot.
“Fine, I didn’t ask for anything from you. Just go away. I don’t want to fight anymore.”
All I want to do is lay down and close my eyes. I’m tired. Tired of things I can’t do anything about. Tired of the intrigue. Tired of the lies and half–truths. Tired of being placed under a microscope. Tired of everyone thinking I’m something I’m not. Tired of being used. On top of that I’m just plain tired, physically and mentally. Like that’s not evident considering I’m chatting with and physically abusing myself.
“Just go away and let me sleep.”
The voice starts to recede as I pull inward, drifting off. In my dream inside the dream, I’m standing at my wall. That lovely shield that stands between me and everything else. I begin piling brick on brick, walling off that part of myself, just like the dead. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Three more walls, and I’ll finally be alone.
The voice keeps rambling, but I’ve given up listening, substituting an internal radio station. Humming along with my favorite band I move to wall number two, three if you count the one previously installed. It’s hard work, but it helps. Keeping my hands busy seems to cloud the echoing drone of that voice I’ve come to think of as my male side.
What? Women are always claiming they want to see the feminine side of men—problem is when we do, we usually want to toss it back in the closet—it’s time we admit we have a male side.
Before I can slam the last brick into place, something clamps down on my shoulder spinning me around. I let out a yelp. If I had panties on, they’d probably be wet right now. The familiar white gold hair and silvered skin lets the air out of my tires.
“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“I’ve come to find you. Have you forgotten The Between is where we always meet? The only place we can meet?”
