by Lex Chase
The woman shrieked as the revelers cheered on the other side of the alley. Her pleas for help went unnoticed. She tried to get to her feet, but one of her knees gave out, and she fell again.
His double’s pace quickened, and Corentin held up his fists, ready to protect her. He would get his answers.
In the space between seconds, his twin was nose to nose with him. Corentin launched a punch to his double’s middle, but the double ducked out of the way. He shoved Corentin away and brought his axe around with a one-handed swing.
The blade sank into Corentin’s side.
His hands clasped over the wound, and he staggered back, heaving for air. His lungs betrayed him with harsh involuntary reactions. Pain shot through him, as bright as sunlight. He hesitantly removed his hands to inspect the wound. Nothing. No blood. No injury. Only the crippling pain that his double had been there.
Corentin acted fast and dived for his double, but he was too late.
There was a scream.
And then a sick wet crunch of shattered bone and cleaved flesh.
Finally, stillness.
Corentin’s double then dropped to his knees over her, as if in reverence. He slid his fingers over her open eyes and shut her lids. He sobbed. Trembling from the sharp drop in adrenaline, his double wailed broken tears.
“N-No…,” his double croaked, ignoring Corentin. Was he even here? “Goslynn. I-I’m sorry,” he told the cooling body. “Storyteller, f-f-forgive m-m-me….” He lay across her body and whimpered like a child who had lost his mother.
“Who was she?” Corentin asked, his voice soft.
His double ignored him as he got to his feet, then yanked the axe from her ribs. He tossed the murder weapon away without a second thought, as if he were casting away insignificant tree debris. Horror came over his face at what he’d done and he bolted into the alley. In his haste, he left the axe behind.
Corentin gave chase and found his double desperate and deranged as he toppled garbage cans and ripped open trash bags.
“Where are you?” his double screeched. His voice went unnoticed in the celebration of Krewe of Endymion. He turned an about-face and then shoved Corentin out of his way once again without a second thought.
Corentin caught himself on his heel. Anger heated his face, and he stubbornly set his jaw. “Who the fuck was she?” he demanded.
“A job,” his double said, clearly distraught. “A horrible job.” He kicked a trash can with such fury, it dented against the brick wall. He paced back and forth in a vicious path. “Think, Henri, think.” He seemed to address himself. “Where did you hide it? Think. Think!”
“What are you talking about?” Corentin tried asking.
His double lashed out and seized Corentin by the jacket lapels. He slammed him into a nearby wall. And before Corentin could catch his breath, the cold sting of a knife pressed into his Adam’s apple. “I will kill you where you stand if you don’t shut the fuck up!” his double screamed, nose to nose with Corentin.
Could he really? Corentin still felt the pain of the axe, but there wasn’t a wound.
His double let Corentin go and steadied himself. “There!” he barked and dived between Corentin’s legs. He yanked back his prize from the trash bags at Corentin’s feet. His journal.
Corentin didn’t understand. “But I thought you were that thing?”
His double ignored him and sat upon a pile of trash bags, sinking among the refuse. He held the monstrous book in his lap but wouldn’t open it.
“You,” his double said in a tone of terror and remorse. “You.”
Corentin didn’t dare go closer. He had the proof he needed that he was once the killer he suspected, but he wasn’t expecting the outpouring of tears. Who was Goslynn? The body that cooled on the sidewalk? Corentin shivered as his ribs ached. He felt along where the axe had hit him. He confirmed once again he wasn’t wounded, but his ribs throbbed as if he were. He leaned back and braced himself against the opposite alley wall and he concentrated on steadying his breathing.
His double howled in anguish, drowned out by the blare of the Mardi Gras parade and cheering spectators.
Corentin said nothing and remained an observer as his double ripped open his journal. Frantic, he began tearing out pages in handfuls and then ripping the duct-taped notebooks from one another. Corentin heaved for breath against his nonexistent wound. His double screamed, ripped, and tore, determined to destroy the journal.
Corentin rubbed at his side, trying to work out the pain that wouldn’t ease. “Who was she?” he asked with slow breaths.
His double’s attention shot up to him. His sadistic expression had become bewildered anger. “Goslynn,” he said in an accusing tone. “She trusted a kindly huntsman.” His lip trembled with the words. “She trusted me.” Smearing away the blood on his face, he then scowled at Corentin. “He told me ‘Fuck who she is. She’s a job.’ And if he wants me to do it again, I will. I don’t have a choice. He promised me.” He looked down to the scattered journal parts at his feet. “She wasn’t just a job.” He crushed the heels of his palms to his eyes. “I’ll go down the rabbit hole in two days. I’ll forget. With the journal destroyed, I’ll forget it all. I’ll be brand-new.”
They used the same term for losing his memory—going down the rabbit hole. Corentin surmised it was the same horrific place he had found himself in. But his double had said something that piqued his curiosity. He shook his head with a frown. “Who promised you what? Who gave you the job?”
“You know, you are really fucking nosy for someone who left long ago,” his double snapped. He gave Corentin a disapproving once-over. “Look at you. You’re as innocent as a princess. I bet you wouldn’t even know how to get one down on their knees anymore.”
Corentin’s stomach tightened, and he heaved through his fictitious wound. “You listen here, you shit.”
Before Corentin could take another breath, his double lashed out, pinning him to the filthy alley wall. “I’m talking. You are listening,” his double hissed in a deranged tone.
Corentin grunted in agreement and frustration.
“Fine,” his double said and let Corentin drop. He stalked back to the body, and Corentin cautiously followed. “You want to know so badly? Why else would you hunt me down? Goslynn wasn’t an Enchant, but a Storyteller. Said to be one of the descendants of Mother Storyteller, Herself.” He scooped her up with the care of cradling a child. He sniffed. “Goslynn? Gos was my friend.” His double snarled in disgust. “The only damned one I may have ever had. The only one who understood me.” He whimpered. “And she knew all along I was going to kill her. She was going to tell my story.”
Corentin watched Goslynn’s body, as if hoping she’d move. But that moment never came.
“She knew,” his double repeated. “It’s inevitable. Curses. Fate. There’s no escaping either one.”
They watched each other for a moment in silence as the revelers carried on in the next street over.
Corentin frowned. His double continued, and Corentin watched the fear take over.
“Whatever you got,” his double said. “Whatever life you have now, it’s not going to last. You’re not going to change. There is no such thing as change. You are hardwired to destroy all you care about.”
Corentin shook his head and coughed. “You’re wrong. People can change.”
“People don’t,” his double insisted. “There’s dead. And there’s not dead. That’s the only changes we make. Me?” He glared at Corentin like a beaten dog. “I’m already dead. If you’re here now, like that?” He nodded at him. “We’re unrecognizable to each other. We may as well be separate people. You’ve already written me out of your life.” He pointed a bloody finger. “And I have to dispose of her body tonight so I forget, forget everything.” He tilted his chin toward the alley, indicating the scattered journal ruins. “Everything will be gone.”
Corentin followed as his double carried Goslynn’s body down the sidewalk. Together, they duc
ked into the shadows of shop awnings and behind cars as another roaring line of National Guard Humvees rolled through.
“Curfew’s coming,” his double said as they took refuge behind a truck. He held Goslynn’s head to his chest as if silencing a baby.
Corentin took a stuttering breath as his ribs trembled. Even in the act of murdering her, his double treated Goslynn with tenderness after the fact. “Curfew?” Corentin asked.
“Yeah. Ever since Katrina upended life down here, nothing makes sense anymore. Imagine waking up every seven days to the aftermath.” His double peeked over the hood of the truck. “She needs to be put to rest away from here. Away from where the dogs would find her. Or worse.”
That was all his double needed to say. Corentin swallowed.
“In two days, I’ll forget all of this,” his double said, and bounced Goslynn against him like an infant.
Corentin didn’t understand. Was she only sleeping or was she really dead?
“But you do remember, because you wrote it down,” Corentin said, and he took another stuttering breath through the pain.
His double hesitated. “I didn’t write anything down….” Their eyes met, and Corentin noticed his confusion.
“I have the journal,” Corentin said with a nod. “I’m reading it right now. The year is 2016.”
“No,” his double whispered and immediately headed back to the alley. He clung to Goslynn as he ran. “That’s impossible. You can’t.”
Corentin kept the pace, his chest burning. When they reached the alley, his double howled in agony as they watched the scattered portions of the journal crawl back together. The pages inched like worms over the filthy concrete. The open notebooks blossomed with regenerating pages like petals of memories. The duct tape peeled in long sticky rips and repositioned itself on the multiple books. His double danced back and held Goslynn tight, as if shielding her from the macabre magic.
“It’s… healing?” Corentin asked, uncertain.
His double’s lip quivered. “Why. Why, Storyteller, why?” He cupped Goslynn’s cheek and whimpered. “Why, Gos? Why are you doing this?”
There were too many questions and not enough answers. Corentin couldn’t calm his double enough to elaborate on all of it. All the while, the healing journal contorted and buckled as the tabs stabbed out from the pages like defensive quills.
“You have it, yeah?” his double asked, turning to Corentin. “The journal. That one?”
“It’s how I’m here,” Corentin explained. He was only partway following.
“Get rid of it,” his double spat. “Bury it in concrete. Sink it to the bottom of the ocean. Don’t let it find you. Don’t let all you see here remain in your head.” He laid Goslynn against the alley wall as if she were sleeping.
“How do I do that?” Corentin clutched his middle and coughed for breath as his double spun on his heel. “What did you do to me?”
“You listen to me,” his double said and jerked Corentin upright. He glared, panicked and deranged. “You need to get out of here. Stop reading this. Stop talking to me. The longer you stay here, that wound is going to become real. Whatever you’re doing, wherever you are, they’re going to find your body.”
Corentin wheezed. “How do you know this?”
His double let him drop, and Corentin staggered back to catch his footing. “Because I’ve done it once before. Found one of the older journals. He told me the same thing.” He rubbed at his neck. “Right after he slashed my throat.”
“He was Persian, right?” Corentin asked. “Us, you, me, him. The Corentin from before was Persian, yeah?”
His double blinked, the confusion evident. “You have the license.” It wasn’t a question.
Corentin nodded. “Who is he? The man on my driver’s license?” His chest contracted as his diaphragm seized. He coughed.
“You need to go. Now,” his double urged. “You’re going to die. This journal is poisoning you.” He snatched Corentin’s wrist and yanked him close. “Listen to me. The journal is going to want you to write me back in. Write down what you’ve seen here. Make you remember it. Make you remember you killed your best friend.” He paused and pressed his lips into a grim line. “Following me?”
Corentin coughed a ragged gurgle. “Yeah. Got it.”
His double slapped his hands on Corentin’s cheeks and forced him to meet his eyes. “And whatever you do, don’t. You’ll come back here. This will become a part of you.” Unmistakable panic filled his words and was carved on his face. “Don’t remember this. Don’t remember this! Now go!”
Corentin gasped, gagging for air in the darkness of the bathroom. He coughed, three seconds away from vomiting. He tumbled to the toilet and waited. Dry heaves wracked his body and his ribs throbbed from his imaginary wound.
He dropped to his knees before the toilet, and the journal clattered to the floor as graceful as a cinderblock.
He fought for his breath. Don’t write him back in. His double’s words were clear. Corentin would heed the words. The past was in the past, and there was no need to relive it.
Blinded by the pain in his ribs, he stood and reached to click on the light. His lashes fluttered against the sting of the yellow incandescent glow. Corentin blinked into the mirror, and then shifted to lift up his shirt.
A colossal splatter of black ink stained his skin with a splotch large enough for two hands. He gingerly touched it and flinched with the shock of pain.
“Memories can truly hurt you,” Corentin muttered. He’d obey his double and find a way to dispose of the journal. He wouldn’t let those memories remain.
He placed his hands on the sink in thought. His double called Goslynn his friend. Corentin didn’t remember her at all. Should he? Should he try to find who she was and what she’d meant to him? He shook his head and ground the heel of his palm against his forehead. “Don’t write her down, leave it. If you write her down, you’ll remember.” He cursed himself and coughed through the ache. The mark needed to go away soon—Taylor would ask about it, and Corentin wasn’t sure what to tell him.
Taylor knew what he was, and he had accepted it. Taylor didn’t know the level of Corentin’s depravity before they had crossed paths. The depths of his past needed to remain a secret, scant on the details, and generally accepted that Corentin didn’t remember. He ran the icy water and then splashed it on his face. He scrubbed as if trying to wipe away the man he was to find underneath. Taylor couldn’t know. Playing house, living happily ever after in seclusion, pretending to be as ordinary as can be…. Taylor would fear him. Taylor would run. And Corentin would have to stop him before he could tell.
Corentin slapped a hand over his mouth to hold in a gasp. He had to protect Taylor from himself and from the truth.
The horror remained that Corentin’s own truth had to stay hidden from himself.
Don’t write it down. His double was panicked. Had his double caved in and done the same? How did his double remember the man who came before the two of them? And how long ago?
Don’t write it down! Corentin hissed through clenched teeth. Don’t ask these questions. Don’t go digging. Don’t decide to find out!
He clutched the lip of the sink and heard a tap of plastic hitting the edge between his fingers. He raised his right hand.
A pen had materialized between his fingertips.
He swallowed. His journal demanded more thoughts to slake its all-consuming hunger for knowledge.
“Please…,” Corentin begged. “You don’t need this.”
His journal laughed.
“Corentin?” Taylor called from the other side of the door.
Corentin startled and tossed the pen in the trash can. He hefted the old journal back into the hidden cubby behind the medicine cabinet.
“Come on.” Taylor groaned and knocked again.
Corentin yanked his toothbrush from the holder and shoved it into his mouth. He yanked open the door, and Taylor stood there midknock.
“’Lo,” Coren
tin said around his toothbrush and then smiled.
“Took you long enough,” Taylor muttered. “I gotta pee so bad.”
Corentin pretended to brush his teeth and then mimicked spitting. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Some things still needed to happen behind closed doors.”
As Corentin stepped out, Taylor called to him, “I’ll still be up awhile. So leave your journal out so Ringo and I can get it updated.”
Corentin stuttered a breath as his ribs throbbed. He coughed in a ragged grunt.
“You okay?” Taylor asked, tilting his head up at Corentin, studying his face.
Corentin attempted to fool him with a charming smile. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Never better.” He planted a long kiss on Taylor’s forehead. “Just be careful not to touch it. I don’t want to rush you to the ER and not be able to explain why.”
Taylor arched a brow and cracked a lopsided smile. “Dude. That’s what Ringo’s for. What’s gotten into you?”
Corentin kissed his forehead again as his answer. When he pulled away, he watched Taylor’s momentary confusion. He was such an innocent. As much as Taylor had changed over the years, he was still a trusting princess caught in a huntsman’s trap.
“Yeah. Yeah,” Taylor said as he squinted up at him. “I know I look like death. I get it. Now outta the way or we’re going to have a cleanup on aisle four.”
“Oh,” Corentin chuckled and shifted out of the bathroom and into the hall. “Hey,” he whispered.
“Dude,” Taylor whined. “I gotta pee!”
“I love you.”
Taylor blinked, bewildered. “Okeydokey? Love you too?” He pointed at the toilet. “I swear, I’m just gunna pee. Not like I’m running away and joining the circus. I already joined it.”
Chapter 9: Note to Self
May 4
The Devereaux-Hatfield Home, Sullivan, Maine
TAYLOR DIDN’T understand Corentin’s unease as they parted ways for the night. Corentin headed back to bed, and Taylor settled in for a session of organizing Corentin’s journal.
Taylor poured over the random stacks of paper. Post-its, receipts, to-do lists, and an assortment of personal notes lay out before him like an ever-evolving puzzle. Corentin was the puzzle, and these mundane mementos held the key to the picture. It had only been two days, but they had already accumulated piles of random thoughts. Corentin had taught him what to keep and what was insignificant. He taught him where to file them, what tabs belonged in which sections, and how many pages to leave blank between entries to permit room for additional notes.
