Seithe (Pravus)

by Poppet

  This book is dedicated to you.

  Live again. I dare you.

  Copyright 2009 Author Poppet

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  SEITHE

  Meus Mortuus Diligo

  A Novel

  by

  Poppet

  Chapter 1: Pravus

  Like a snow cloud I storm out into the street. Stomping through puddles caused by rain and salt spray from the heaving waves on my right.

  I've had it. Enough is bloody enough. Good for nothing jerk. All I know, is something snapped when for the gazillionth time, I had to take something used and empty, and place it into the bin. What makes men so inherently lazy like that?

  Do I look like a maid?

  I have a brain. I've got a shit-hot body, turn heads, and still end up being some lazy jerk's maid.

  I'm just walking. I do this. I get so irate that I thunder off into the dead of night. With no clear vision of where I'm going, or that I might be endangering myself.

  There comes a time when you know if you don't put some space between yourself and him urgently, someone's going to end up damaged and broken.

  Simmering, I find myself stomping down the moonlit, partially tree dappled road, away from our apartment on Beach road, walking briskly uphill toward inner Seapoint, away from the pounding ocean.

  I cast a cursory glance behind me. Bet half the council people responsible for replacing those blown globes are men too. Because it's dark isn't it?

  I'm hearing music. Defiantly I follow the sound to stairs going down. A club? Here? Why not? The neighbourhood is changing so fast, anything is possible. I've walked farther than I realised. Sea Point has always owned a dark array of choices for entertainment.

  A drink?

  Yes. Let me get totally, mindlessly, trashed out of my skull!

  An opportunity to just let go and forget men that are too goddamn lazy to get their asses off sofas to throw their own trash away.

  I'm blind to danger when broiling angry. With too much confidence, I tilt my chin up to a contemptuous angle and glare with silent challenge at the black clad men flitting around the stairs.

  Looks like they're scoring drugs if you ask me for my opinion. Not that anyone ever does.

  Women were born to be told what to do, weren't they? Good for two things, shagging and cleaning. Stuff you all.

  I descend down dingy stairs past tall people in figure clenching garb. One thing they all have in common is the black they're wearing.

  So? I've got nothing against the Goth scene. So why are they all staring at me like I'm lost?

  Joining the short queue at the door, I plunge a livid hand pumping with adrenalin into my jean's pocket to find the cover fee. Okay, so I'm wearing blue jeans.

  Sue me.

  The bouncer looks me over like a reject. Staring back into his black eyes; I dig the new contact lenses, they're so über cool. He has shoulder muscles bigger than my head and is built like Thor sculpted him, himself.

  You don't scare me. So glare your black eyes at someone else. Don't mess with me. I'm not in the mood.

  "It's okay, she's with me."

  I give the dude in front of me a glacial scowl.

  I don't need you to rescue me.

  "No, I'm not," I say.

  The tall man who is the bouncer, in a tighter-than-tight stretch black shirt, steps in to block my way.

  Show off. Just because you're hot, you think you're intimidating parading that six-pack at my eye level.

  Swivelling my gaze to narrow my eyes at his face; okay he's a huge mofo. I admit it. But nothing on earth is getting between me and a mind numbing drink.

  "What?" I challenge through clenched teeth.

  Go on, give me a reason to castrate you.

  A hand reaches past him and hooks my wrist, yanking me into the muscular wall. I smile insolently at the bouncer, as the Billy Idol wannabe drags me into strobed darkness. I don't get it when hearing the bouncer laughing in a deep baritone, as I stumble over my own feet, being dragged along behind Mr *how long are my legs striding*.

  I jump involuntarily as the strobe highlights two black shapes right next to me, wrapped in each others arms. The male is taller by about three inches, and his eyes are reflective red.

  Wow. What a cool place to hide.

  With the modern aesthetic enhancers you could be anyone in here. I bump into Mr Rescue. Taking a step back, I look up at him.

  What the heck?

  He hasn't let go of my wrist, but now his hair is brown. How the hell did he do that?

  He leans down to talk to me. Swiftly, I avert my face. He smells so damn yummy. I hate biological reactions. Just when you want to hate them all and rip out every male heartbeat inside a five mile radius, you have to get one that sets your pulse racing, don't you? Fate is such a twerp. Twisted sense of humour.

  "Why are you here?"

  Feeling myself drawn, as if intoxicated. My head is like a piece of iron being sucked to a magnet called Mr Six-foot-three's chest. Is this the literal meaning of swooning?

  I shrug grumpily, "Just needed to get away. I need something strong and alcoholic." Staring up past the square chin speckled with stubble, I jump again. His eyes are silver. "What do you care?"

  He stares at me, now with blue eyes. Am I losing my mind? How can I be hallucinating? I know the expression called disapproval. Men come with it loaded standard in their artillery, and he's giving it to me now.

  Oh, go get knotted Mr Yummy.

  Yanking my wrist to pull it free from his grasp, I stalk toward the bar. The bar is a crescent, deserted space, overlooking a dance floor, sporadically highlighted with the strobe. Figures pop in and out of my vision with the stark highlight, against no light.

  Oh, very funny. My simmering eyes glower around at the lyrics drowning out logic. The music is so loud, yet I recall this song. Typically the lyrics are yelling, 'You disappoint me.'

  Yeah, so freaking what.

  The dude behind the bar refuses to acknowledge me, and it's pissing me off.

  "HEY!"

  He glances at me and smirks. He's way too pretty. Must be gay. Oooh, he's psychic. That got a scowl of attention thrown my way.

  "Why did you come to Pravus?"

  I'm feeling annoyed and wish this guy would just leave me alone now. Do I look like I want company?

  "What?"

  "You're in Pravus. Why did you come here?"

  "For a drink!"

  He has mirror eyes again. That's such a cool effect. His hair is back to being blond. Totally freaky, but whatever turns him on right? Who am I to judge someone else's weird taste, as I have irrefutably shown that mine is appalling. Just look at the loser I walked out on earlier. Where the hell are the women in this place?

  Snapping fingers from Mr-Tall-and-Yummy, and a goblet is handed to him without payment. He passes it to me, standing with half of his body shielding my back, "You don't belong here. Drink up and leave."

  Staring at the purple liquid in the pewter goblet, I ask curiously, "What is it?"

  He smiles, revealing amazing teeth with long incisors, "Glühwein."

  I shrug, it's better than nothing, right? Sip.

  Oh stuff me.

  It's so freaky. It manages to feel effervescent on my tongue. Exploding flavours around my mouth, almost causing my nose to itch, like I'm going to sneeze with a hay-fever tickle, which dissipates.
Sipping it slowly, inhaling the potent aroma, staring with interest into the darkness.

  What? Dammit.

  Everyone stares at me as they wander past, like I'm the freak at the circus. I am normal. With long black hair, blue eyes, and a petite five-foot-two figure. Why does this make me a curiosity? I glare back at each one wandering past, with a smirk plastered on yet another smooth face. So where did they hide the hairy men? Actually, I'm getting rather fed up. I didn't come here to have strangers press more of my emotional buttons. I down my drink and slam the goblet onto the counter. Oh look, Mr Pretty is smiling at me now. He looks luminescent he's so cadaver pale.

  Turning to Mr Rescue to thank him, my breath catches, as I notice he now has brown hair and brown eyes. What a trip this guy must be. You could never get bored, he's a different guy every thirty-two seconds.

  The music is screaming into my ears, the strobe making me feel dizzy. I feel arms locking around me as my legs buckle.

  Glühwein my ass. They drugged me.

  Hot lips close in on mine as my legs lift off the floor. Draped in She's-with-me's arms, I struggle with nausea and consciousness. Red eyes pop to look down at me, laughter, music, strobing, scared.

  What have I done?

  Blackness. Darkness closes in and eradicates the lucidity from me.

  Chapter 2: Fire Burns

  Ouch!

  Jarred into awareness, my body flinches with the attack of scorching heat accosting my spine. Forcing my eyes open, I stare at a gauzy white curtain dancing with flickering flame induced shadows.

  My flesh causes my spine to ripple with reaction. I twist, to see what is causing this perpetual singe on my skin.

  Oh lordy. I'm rather well secured, face down, to the bed I'm on. Instantly ill with fear I force a swallow of nausea down.

  "Ow!" Yes, bugger this. I am objecting loudly. "What the hell are you doing?"

  I can't see anything other than a strange blur of red in my peripheral vision.

  Movement whispers over my skin. Someone is hovering over me, directly above me so that I can't see them. Music is still blaring.

  I won't lie. I'm overwhelmed and way out of my comfort zone. Shees! Breath on my nape.

  Hello? Am I naked?

  The breathing causes my skin to ghost with cold shivers. A hot nibble on the side of my neck, followed with a voice, "What turns you on?"

  Go get stuffed weirdo. "Screw you."

  "Aren't you the eager victim?"

  I get sarcastic, which is ironic considering how truly screwed I am right now. "What turns you on?" I mimic back. Men are all deranged.

  A deep voice drips the answer hotly into my ear, "Adrenalin."

  "Am I pumping enough for you then?"

  "A feisty appetiser. Nothing more."

  A song about going deeper is pumping through the room so loudly that it's deafening. Well then, if this is a subliminal message, I'd say it's blatant. I flirt briefly with the idea of panic.

  But, you know what? I'm so pissed off, I don't care if this guy is a mass murderer. I don't care if he cuts me into little pieces. I've just had enough of the life merry-go-round. How is what he's doing, any different to what we live daily? The difference is this dude is openly making me a victim. He's not pretending to love me, he hasn't offered any false promises, he's being open about wanting to make me helpless; powerless.

  Scary that. In this moment I have more respect for my abductor, than I do for Mr Dickhead at home.

  He laughs. It holds incisive clarity and cuts through the music, scything into my ears with seductive tones.

  Oh, I have so lost my mind. Maybe I'm the deranged one? At what point does a victim get Stockholm syndrome? How can I find him the least bit seductive?

  "The skin is the largest organ of the body."

  "Thanks for the biology lesson, asshole."

  A strong grip holds my head as my eyes are shuttered with cloth. It's tight. Too tight to be comfortable.

  "When the eyes are blinded, we start to use our other senses with deeper clarity."

  "Is this how you get your kicks?"

  Flinching, a gasp is extricated as something frost cold drips between my shoulder blades.

  "Sensation is heightened."

  I let out a bored sigh and force myself to relax. I will not give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

  Just kill me and get it done. Put me out of my misery.

  A slow seeping heat replaces the cold. Despite my resolve, breath hisses out through clenched teeth as it begins to scorch. Freezing cold follows again.

  "The skin can become so acutely aware that normal sensations can be painful to withstand."

  Something slippery and cool runs down my spine.

  Ugh, it feels like a crushed slug. So gross.

  "Enough! You're demented."

  A low chuckle advances close to my ear, "Your imagination is making you sick, isn't it?"

  My stomach is tight, and I admit that bile is hovering behind my throat. The thought of what could possibly be creating these sensations makes me want to vomit.

  "As fear takes hold of the mind, adrenalin increases." He inhales next to my temple. Something sharp traces my hairline. "For one of them I find you alluring. So brave, and so very stupid."

  I arch my eyebrows, but keep my mouth firmly clamped closed. The last thing I need is to have crushed slug in my mouth. That would just make today perfect.

  "Fuck!"

  An expletive wrenches from me automatically, as agony explodes with a pierce impaling the skin above the dimple in my lower back.

  "That is true pain. The body swiftly induces an adrenalin rush so you can withstand torture, fight me, or run for your life."

  A sensation which I assume is his tongue circles the location of the throbbing pain.

  The scorch returns on the back of my thigh, "What is this?"

  "Hot."

  "You can do better than that. What is it?"

  "Bloody hot. I don't know."

  A creepy cold runs down my spine. "What is it?"

  "Cold."

  "And?"

  "Heavy."

  "What is it?"

  "I don't know."

  His warm breath falls over my ear again, as he whispers, "Open your mind and engage me. Tell me what it is."

  I release a pent sigh. I'm tired, and this guy is a weirdo that outshines all others. He's what I'd label, extra special. He probably won't kill me, or release me, until I play his little game. Fine. I hazard a guess.

  "Mercury?"

  The weight disappears as I listen to him laugh, "Very good."

  The slimy sensations returns, "And this?"

  "A slug."

  He makes a tsk-tsk noise. "Would I slide slug over the skin I intend tasting?"

  Ew! He's such a fucktoid. He's turning into Mr Creepy - the deluxe version. I shrug awkwardly. My neck is beginning to hurt at this angle.

  "Clue?" he suggests.

  "What is this? You are so weird."

  A sharp sting lashes over my thighs, "You are trying my patience."

  "How do you think I feel?"

  The cold pierces behind my neck. "That is a magnet."

  The heat burns into my skin on my inner thigh. "Melted chocolate, to which I am holding a flame."

  The slug rubs against my cheek. "Cucumber."

  Well, that's a relief.

  A piercing of pain runs up my sole, "Pin."

  Stinging sensation behind my legs again. "Willow rod."

  "Who are you?" I ask.

  "Seithe."

  I'm experiencing the wet warmth like a tongue again, followed with a sharp pain.

  "Lips, tongue, and I give up on the other part."

  Lips close over mine, scalding breath washing over me.

  "Taste your lips."

  Tentatively, I run my tongue over them. Flinching reflexively as it's caught between teeth. He sucks it into his mouth, and I can taste metal. I have the urge to cry.

  His mouth releases mine from
captivity and he pulls the blindfold off. I stare back at liquid silver eyes.

  "You fucking freak me out, dude."

  "What is your name, girl?"

  "Phoebe."

  He smiles and his eyes change to deep brown. A masculine hand pushes errant strands of hair off my face. "You forgot how exciting it is to be alive, didn't you?"

  What kind of question is that?

  He snatches at my hands, releasing me in wrenching gusts of movement and carelessly commanding my body into his strength. He turns me around, and I stare at a table covered in bowls. The entire rear of the room is painted red, adorned with red lit candles.

  Are we in the voodoo fetish room?

  He clasps a bowl and holds it under my nose, "What is it?"

  "Cinnamon."

  He repeats the process, "What is this?"

  "Lemon."

  "This?"

  "Menthol."

  Holding my neck tight, he demands passionately, "You take it all for granted. Your senses speak multiple languages. When was the last time you consciously used them?"

  "You are so fucking strange."

  He laughs and leans over me, my skin prickles with the body heat emanating off his chest, his skin an inch from mine, "Oh, we are a long way from fucking, or strange."

  Long fingers continue holding my neck in silent intimidation, "You take breath for granted."

  "Is there a point to this?"

  He lets go and folds those sexy arms over his torso. Staring at me with mild curiosity, "You're no fun. I picked the wrong toy to play with."

  Up yours!

  Male arrogance just ignited my latent rage.

  I stand and shove my finger into his shoulder. "No fun? No fun! Do you think I find this fun? You drugged me, stripped me of virtually everything I was wearing and play stupid, let's examine your senses games with me!"

  Shove.

  "I wasn't planning on being fun! Men suck. You suck. Fuck you!"

  Clenching my jaw so tightly it hurts. Freak.

  He catches my hand in a swift movement and forces my fingers back, exposing the wrist, "Pressure points. Have you ever played with them?"

  I'm really upset. Tears are wanting to be noticed and they're pooling. My frustration and disappointment are mingling with powerlessness, again. I'm sick of being some asshole's victim.