Bozena and Sveta (Neuripra)

by Poppet

Nothing can tear us apart now.

  It's late, the night is advancing, and I feel bad for keeping my lady waiting. I'm going to have to ride like a tornado to get there before nightfall.

  If she's even still there. Fuck!

  I could have made a date for tomorrow, but last night was our breakthrough and I was excited to complete what I'd started.

  As long as the demons are there with her, she'll be fine.

  I should have brought my phone.

  Fuck.

  Fear advances, ripping through me, and the foolishness of leaving her at Pravus without a guard dawns on me.

  I didn't even ask my neuri crew to keep an eye out.

  There are murderers running rampant through Belgrade and I put her in a vulnerable situation.

  Panicked, I gun the Ghost, scarring an arc over the earth, wrestling onto Zauran's drive and hitting the tarmac.

  Fuck! Zena, please be safe. I'm sorry angel! I'm coming!

  Venix kept me here too long.

  Gnawing doubt burns bile up my windpipe. His agenda is something I'm still not sure of. I have a bad feeling about him.

  But right now I have thirty minutes of traveling ahead and twilight is already deepening the shadows. By the time I get there it'll be dark.

  She is going to be so pissed!

  Chapter 22

  Božena:

  The pyrotechnic display happening in the heavens reminds me of spiritual warfare. It's as if the light is loudly defending its domain from the invasion of darkness, attacking it with booms of war and explosions of plasma.

  Ozone sears every time the sky gods shout and hurl fire across the night. Their anger is so absolute it rumbles, pealing a looping battle cry through the unnatural silence between launches of electricity. It charges the air with static, filling my sinuses with the distinct redolence of hail and frost. Wind knocks around me, demanding entrance and battering trees.

  Multiple strikes split the sky like a snake attack, spitting silver venom into the air and lashing those awful fangs into its clouded victim. It's relentless, just like a viper protecting its territory.

  We should be protecting our territory like that. Sveta should be saving me from Jo like that.

  Glowing white teeth bite into the night, sharp and pointed, forcing the night into pieces, shattering all calm and inducing panic and fear. Every jagged spear is accompanied with the low long growl of a vicious weather god.

  The air smells like wet wood fires and heady mulch. It's crisp and earthy. The scent of hearth smoke is comforting and makes me long for a warm room in front of a roaring fire.

  Slanted rain slashes the darkness, sluicing erratically with every buffer of wind. Rolling thunder never stops and water falls so hard and relentless it sounds like someone left a faucet running. It's cold tonight and I huddle deeper to hide my nose behind the warm scarf.

  With a club of heavy metal thunder pounding a lovedrum behind me, it's poetic when chrome thunder roars up in front to spotlight me in a headlight. It winks asleep and a broad shouldered man stands from it, blending into the night with a black leather jacket smudged in the downpour.

  White lightning stabs a tantrum into the unsuspecting night, turning the man into a god as he swaggers up four steps to obscure the deluge bulleting down.

  The danger beyond the parking area is no more than a blur hazed with my condensing breath; the gutters overhead spill a waterfall straight down behind the tall biker.

  It falls, a sheet catching bubbles of light in water droplets, twinkling a frenzied glitter dance and announcing the sorcerer in front of me with thunderous applause. The storm is so loud it's deafening. Every smack of discipline into the night is harsh enough to make me flinch; that lightning is laying into the dark with a vengeance. Even if we wanted to converse it would be pointless. We'd have to shout at each other through loud-hailers to be heard over this din.

  The Vila sky gods seem to approve of his darkness burning with fiery seduction. It's hard to hide my grin from perceptive eyes when they start misting with a sunset flambé.

  Giving him the disinterested flint glare, I look away, ignoring him. I choose to feign absolute captivation by the sky roaring down around us like a foaming devil, stranding me in a wet and slick manmade cave with a neuri hottie.

  Dripping leather steps closer, splattering water crystals when his arm comes up to support his weight against the wall at my back. Curled over me he demands my attention with intimidating proximity, and I can now see a whole lot of fuck all with his chest and shoulders blocking my view.

  Fresh cologne mingles with the damp spray bouncing off every surface and is magnified by it. Obstinate, I stare at his chest, knowing that jacket will be cold and could saturate my woolen jumper and scarf in a nanosecond if he gets any closer.

  The zips are so silver they mirror the lightning splicing the night. Beyond him it cracks whips at the darkness for being too quiet and obedient. Lightning is loud, angry, dangerous, unpredictable.

  It's teaching obedience a lesson. Stay silent and pay the price.

  If you get angry shout it out, work it out, burn whatever stands in your path and bury it in mud.

  Mulling over the choice, I decide to challenge his stare with my own, drawing on my defiance to stare him down in mute disdain.

  His expression is bemused. A smile twitches the corner of his mouth, pouting a full bottom lip while his eyes strip me down to nothing more than a smile and two nipples.

  He has always been able to do that. In just one look you know he's already got you bent over the kitchen counter, riding you to daybreak. No one can deliver an 'I'm going to fuck you' stare, like Sveta can.

  Biting, clenching my teeth, I force my laugh to hide back inside my chest with an accelerating pulse. It's beating so fast I know a collision is in the cards for me tonight.

  The roads are wet and perilous; the weather unpredictable and dangerous, the thunder so loud it could hide Satan's screams of agony. It's just me, and a man, on a cold shadowed step in the dead of night. Every flash of light roars another threat into the dark, daring the planet to deny who's more powerful in this standoff.

  There's no one to save me.

  I couldn't outrun him if I tried. I'm not strong, or tall enough to whip his ass, and the neuri dust that flicks off his eyelashes every time he blinks is already working its magic on my ability to breathe without artificial respiration.

  Two demons are inside, testing the sound system. I have a hunch they live here, or it's their portal to netherworlds of pain and angst, of damnation and justice... all I know is they won't hear me if I run, scream, bite, or fight.

  The suave bastard in front of me bunches muscles when he supports his weight on two hands, changing and adjusting polarity to maneuver. He unzips his jacket, slowly, pulling my attention downward with the motion.

  Typical.

  He's such a poser. It's pissing down like a woman with heartbreak and this pretty boy isn't even wearing a t-shirt to stay warm.

  Sucking my cheek in to prevent a smile, I drag my attention back to eyes of hellfire. Swirling tangerine iridescence they clear to flint for a moment, the seduction brimming in them is so dark and elicit I can already hear myself screaming his name.

  The sky ratchets up another notch, beating heaven's drum with booms of anticipation. It's a voodoo beat pumping bombs of light and sound, demanding we dance. Like a hundred thousand feet stomping in the Colosseum, nature's drummer starts a death metal drum roll and the clouds roar with thunder.

  The audience demands more.

  It's as if one look from this biker inserts a key that unlocks all resistance, simultaneously incarcerating every defense and the ability to think coherently.

  Lucid be damned, if those eyes are anything to go by, that's a promise I want to see him make good on.

  Lifting my chin, I raise my eyebrows, giving him the 'don't be such a wuss and make a move already' challenge glare.

  The sky explodes, shaking the rafters and gusting warnings
at us, ravaging its rage into our makeshift cavern.

  It elicits a shiver, drawing me closer to the heat emanating off his body. It's a drowsy heat, the kind that lulls you into false safety before it scorches a brand into your eyelids.

  Teasing, he stands perfectly straight, siphoning frigid air out of the night to channel at me with his movement.

  Abandoned, cold, I watch him stalk away, thrusting carnal red doors open and strutting that sexy swagger into the chasm of darkness.

  Wet leather sucks on his legs and a strong hand fans water off his short hair. He glances back with naughty eyes, expanding his ego when he discovers my gaze is stuck to long legs capped with blunt biker-boots.

  The doors swing closed, shutting me out and blinding me from his glorious masculine safety.

  Alone, worry scores fear down my spine like icy slime. Shivering with the creep, I bolt with a crack of synchronized lightning into the club still thick with smog from the smoke machine.

  *

  The Murderer:

  I just found her, advancing with stealth, ready to appear behind her, grab her and vanish, when the bike breaks the moment.

  Damn him!

  Lifting my gaze, I inhale heavily.

  The night promises death and pain.

  It smells of anger and vengeance.

  And... what's that?

  I don't believe it! They're coming!

  At last!

  Hardening with lust, I discard the chase for the slakax. I'll get to her later. And if not her, the oldest. I wanted the oldest but she's not been in Belgrade for weeks. I keep searching, appearing in Pravus in flashes, trying to locate her, without avail. I've been to every Pravus on the planet and the bitch is nowhere.

  But this... now this is too amazing... they come!

  *

  Božena:

  The doors blast a breath of bitter air at me as they swing shut. It's the last stand of the weather gods denied the encore they wanted.

  A song without lyrics rattles the chairs with a demanding drumbeat. It's a complete paradox to the weather raging outdoors.

  The lingering blue haze inside Pravus adds to the atmosphere of the music, which feels like an Arizona desert billowing dust across a lone highway melting in arid heat.

  Sweltering hot, like the man discarding his leather jacket while he walks through lingering mist to the dance floor.

  Every movement ripples muscles into sharp ridges and tight bunches. The intricate knot-work hidden by his perfect skin captivates me, and I pause, breathing in the ambiance and perfection. Naked to his hips, I feel like a voyeur witnessing something I should never be tempted by.

  And it is tempting. Very.

  The southern style twang of the guitar changes to a grunge of ache, grinding chords through the mirage. Strange lights lining the bottom of the dance floor illuminate sporadically with the beat, hopping back and forth with tantalizing provocation in a line dance of suitors desperate to impress.

  The guitarist manages to communicate a dare, frustration, sliding down metal strings to force his instrument to sing with anguish. It feels secluded, isolated, lonely.

  It strands Sveta and myself in the powdery steam hovering a foot off the floor, shrouding us with mystery while we're cocooned by the raw power of a guitar gritting its teeth, chanting, chewing, spitting chaw, and somehow managing to give a wicked wink of invitation to my heartbeat.

  My chest feels the excitement building with the instrumental tune. My worries flee. It's just the two of us. Perfect. In every way.

  Sveta pivots, planting his feet and loosening his knees, swiveling hips slowly in time with the music, rotating abs into a frenzied keyboard of writhing shadows and muscle.

  I can hear the tumbleweeds scrolling down the song's highway, straight into a dingy bar where horses are fettered outside and dusty boots scar wooden floorboards.

  A polite man with a cheroot for company watches from a corner and tilts his hat, half in greeting, half in a bid to reclaim his privacy.

  I can picture it all as if I was smoking a cherry cheroot and listening to spurs twang their jangle up stairs to the second level. The level currently held hostage by the shamanic neuri, Sveta.

  It's the symphony of a rodeo cowboy, tired after a long hard day on the ranch, going someplace secluded to sit at the bar only to be lured from his rest by spilling cleavage and salacious smiles.

  Climbing riffs singe need into the air, slipping anticipation down the marrow of my bones, making me watch the sexy apparition and expect a grand finale with the crescendo piquing the airwaves in a scream, shrieking a guitar for a split second in a squeal of triumph. It wrestles humans into submission, a victor with a primal language that pulls you into a story sung with an electric guitar.

  Then it relaxes again, back into the gait of a plodding horse, a tired rider, a neuri dancer lost in his own world, my world, my very own warrior sliding through shadows and lights to tease me into dark desires and slippery seduction.

  Doing what I do best, I ignore the wet skinned rider and move to the bar to get tequila.

  The music's put me in the mood for Mexican fire.

  When I've had a drink I'll give my vice a little ego stroking.

  Smiling to myself, I'm tempted to offer the lone dancer a wink, but change my mind.

  I think I'll make him work for my attention tonight. He was late.

  Removing my scarf, pouring the shooter, I lean my back up against the bar, hooking my foot on the metal rung lining the base, watching Sveta who is drenched from a downpour but now looks like a man who's been in the harsh heat between dusty plains all day and is covered in the slick strain from his day's labor.

  It doesn't take a lot of imagination to picture him hauling hay bails, wrestling with a bull, testing his might against a boulder fallen down the wrong side of a ravine to block the road.

  Chasing liquor to scorch down my throat, burning inside me all the way down, I slam the empty glass onto the counter and hook my thumbs into my jeans, wishing I was wearing a peasant skirt with a red hibiscus flower tucked behind an ear.

  Leaving my lids heavy and hooded, tilting my head so my hair cascades forward and veils my shoulders, I narrow my gaze and saunter with the looping drumbeat, taking slow and deliberate strides to the lip of the dance-floor.

  Stepping into the paddock with the wild palomino, I crush the floor with a merciless boot, circling my quarry while loosening my arms, limbering them with an imagined lasso.

  When I catch him he's going to struggle and fight, buck and charge, he's big and strong, wild and defiant, every step I make must be sure and resolute.

  Show no fear.

  No sudden moves.

  This must be slow, gradual, cautious. The untamed bolt when cornered; I must lure him in with patience and innocuous temptation.

  I love the games we play, they distract me from my woes.

  Flicking my hair in time to the snaring guitar, I let metal hiss do the stalking for me. The potent musical drug sedates me, working my spine into a slow rotation with my hips.

  Ignoring the supernatural sweetheart in the arena, I step round in an arc, feeling the art of the maestro, moving only my outside leg and keeping the left planted in the epicenter of my circle.

  Moving with slinking slow hip sways, I start a solitary rendition of a romantic zouk dance. Shoulders back, I melt my body into an endless undulation, like kelp caught in the crest of a wave.

  Staring at the floor, I flay my long hair in time to the beat, letting the rock-narcotic of the savage guitar siphon out my hidden flamenco dancer.

  Only I exist in this gloomy haze, my vision obscured with heavy mist which has reawakened in a resurgence of powdery white zeal.

  It's medieval, primal, surrounded with billowing dragon's breath while the melody pours down to entomb me in an endless whorl.

  Flicking my head back, I let it drop so my hair hangs down my spine, worshipping the music with my entire body, releasing its heat to snake up my spine to b
lush my cheeks and chase the chills away.

  Electric guitar skates a catharsis through me, freeing inhibitions. Untethered I let the muse use me. Now a puppet guided with the swells of chords and whispers of octave secrets, I unravel, drifting mindlessly away to where music induces virile images of naked skin, nipples chaffed with impatient mouths, and strangers free-fall into each others eyes.

  My chest is lifting with exaggerated breath when the music fades out, pulling me back into the moment. Hot, I yank off my sweater, throwing it to the steps. A veined arm reaches out of the mist and snares it in a hand.

  That hand tightens into a fist and I watch the biker use my jumper to wipe his face dry as he steps into my vision through the cloud blustering across the dance floor. He breathes in my perfume, then tosses it behind him in a flourish of movement to stare at me with eyes as dark and dangerous as Perdition's oldest alleyway.

  The same song starts playing again and he glides through the haze like a stingray circling through murky water. The smoke machine has created so much mist I can't see his legs or feet. It's as if we're standing on a cloud halfway between heaven and hell.

  The hidden angel doesn't have a harp, he's a metal god who probably works for Thor conspiring with the warriors tearing up the sky outdoors.

  Drawn back to Sveta, I watch him taunt my senses by circling a wide crescent behind me. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning around, but I tense regardless.

  More mist billows out, submersing me in fine powder, leaving me blind to his movement. I'm stuck in limbo with a sneering guitar which is almost gleeful when it slides back into chaffing slings of whining metal strings.

  Clenching my hands, his appearance directly in front of me catches me by surprise. Looking up at him looking down, my heart screams with the music, electricity fires up my blood and my pulse spikes with the six-stringed frenzy.

  He hasn't said a word to me, but he doesn't have to.

  A commanding hand presses against the base of my back, sticking me to his body like a siamese twin, and he starts to move me. Sveta gives me the penetrating, soul searching, high octane stare that ignites my soul. It's a slow burn like a peat fire, and I rest against him to hide from his intrusive eyes.