by Dani René
Leaving the aquarium behind, we brave the rain and dash through the rain-washed streets under the protection of my umbrella. We take refuge in our café, the one from yesterday. It’s a slice of heaven. The place is filled with others, intent on getting out of the winter rain.
Shaking raindrops off my umbrella on the doorstep, I snap it closed. Rafe finds us a table in a corner, the scent of food fragrant in the air reminding me I hadn’t eaten much for breakfast. Our knees touch beneath the table, and I’m aware of Rafe’s body heat as we tug off our wet coats hanging them on the back of our chair. The waitress is cheerful, welcoming us in French when she bustles toward us. We choose Quiche Jambon et Champignons, filled with mushrooms, ham, and swiss cheese, accompanied by soft crusty warm bread rolls.
Soaking in the atmosphere, I find the fear from earlier washing away as quickly as the downpour. Rolling jazz is playing softly from a CD player, the kind that reminds me of New Orleans and home. People chatter around us lost in their own little worlds.
“Will you go out with me tomorrow evening?” Rafe asks abruptly after the waitress brings us our dishes.
Sitting forward in my chair, I take a moment to savor the delicious aroma of our food. “It’s not somewhere as creepy as the catacombs, is it? Not that horror attraction you mentioned before?”
Picking up his knife and fork, he cuts the quiche before him into chunks. “No, a party at a house.”
Watching him, I notice the streak of dried blue paint is still present in the length of his mane of long black unkept hair. The smudge on his cheek has worn off sometime during our adventure. There’s something endearing about it. Innocent.
A moth to a flame, I can’t help being drawn to this man. “I’d love to.”
“Then it’s a date.” Placing his cutlery on the table, he waves his hands together. One second they’re empty, the next a white flower is nestled in his palm. Lowering it gently, he leaves it before me in offering.
A rose.
Soft petals, milky white, its purity takes my breath away.
Chapter Four
Huddled in my coat to keep out the chill of the night, I stand outside the address Rafe jotted down for me on a paper napkin before he left the café the other day. Dressing in a stylish black dress, my blonde hair is tied up in a neat ponytail. Lip gloss gives my mouth a tempting sheen of color. The minimal smoky makeup I’m wearing brings out the color of my eyes.
I’ve breathed in the city and culture for almost a week now. Spent time wandering the museums, marvelled at the artwork and sculptures. Being in Rafe’s company is when I feel the happiest.
I’m hoping my effort won’t be wasted on him. With only three days left until I fly home to the states, I want to make an impression tonight. Why waste the time we have left? I’ve never been so certain about wanting someone in my life. Dreaming of his lips on mine, his body pinning me while we have sex, plagues my dreams. With time trickling away like grains of sand, I want to experience that in the flesh before it’s too late. A vacation fling. Fun with someone who calls to me on a deeper level than I’ve ever experience before. It’s hard to explain how special he makes me feel.
Looking up and down the cobbled empty street, my attention falls to the open metal gate. Gingerly stepping past it, I find a cozy courtyard and a building discreetly hidden within the high brick walls enclosing it. Pausing, I study the brightly lit windows and the tall four story home. It speaks of wealth and privilege. Is Rafe a famous painter? Maybe this belongs to a patron if he has one? I need to ask about his artwork. The thought of buying and taking one of his paintings home as a memento of my time with him brings a pang of sadness.
“Good Evening, Samantha.”
Clutching my shoulder bag tightly, I jump at the sound of the voice behind me. Whirling around to find the owner, I take in Rafe towering over me. Makeup has been expertly applied over his face. His eye sockets have been deepened dramatically with gray and black stark against the white painted beneath them. Cheeks sunken in, they’ve been blended to look realistic as is his missing nose. Skillfully done, his lips are missing, and in their stead, skeletal teeth are present. One blue and one green eye stares down at me from within the hollows.
The effect is disturbing and sinister. It instantly reminds me of the skulls from the catacombs, sending an echo of unease through my system.
“Was I supposed to dress up in a costume?” I laugh lightly to hide my nerves.
“Today is the Day of the Dead, and we’re celebrating in our own style. Did you know it has roots in ancient Aztec rituals?” Rafe tells me, holding out a mask. “You’ll have to wear this.”
I inspect the pretty colorful sugar skull design on the front before turning around to let him slip it over my face. “No, I didn’t.”
“It’s said the boundaries between the worlds of the living and dead are at their thinnest today.” Rafe continues, settling the mask in place, his fingers brushing my neck, causing me to shiver as he fastens the black lace ties.
“From what I remember, this is to celebrate the acceptance of death.” Turning, I peer up at him through the eye holes, giving him a shy smile. “And to honor loved ones who have died.”
“That it is.” Offering me his arm courteously, he ushers me toward the smart black door.
“Rafe who lives here?” I ask with growing curiosity.
Instead of answering, he opens it and hurries me inside.
We enter a long corridor. A huge gilded mirror hangs among the paintings, adorning the white walls. The sound of music and voices radiates further from somewhere inside. Slipping out of my coat, Rafe hooks it on a peg on the wall. Taking my hand, he leads me past a set of grand winding stairs. I find myself next in an exquisite open planned room. The walls are covered with a shimmering white wallpaper, which sparkles in the subdued light. Tall silver candelabras hold smooth white candles, whose flames bring brightness to the room. A huge mahogany table with a perfectly varnished shine sits at one end of the grand space. Bottles of alcohol and plastic cups are cluttered on its surface. Floor to ceiling French doors look out into a well-loved garden.
The room is crowded with people. Their skin is as white as calla lily petals. Faces hidden beneath the skull masks they wear like mine, they chat animatedly and dance to the rock music, playing from speakers.
“Do they think they’re all vampires?” I joke, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. “I’ve never seen people so pale.”
“No, they’re not vampires,” Rafe assures me, his painted lips turned up with amusement. “Over there is my cousin, Micah.”
As if he’d some how heard his name over the noise, the man turns to stare at us. Like Rafe, his face is painted like a ghastly skull. Vibrant green eyes inspect me from head to toe, a tight smile on his lips. His skin is more of a honey brown than Rafe’s pale complexion. Chocolate brown hair is gelled back off his forehead. Dressed in black like his cousin, the jeans hug his brawny legs, the shirt only emphasizing the hard-packed chest beneath the material.
Moving through the throng with almost feline grace, he halts before us. “So, you’re Samantha.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” I accept the free hand he holds out, noting the beer bottle he has in the other. The scent of it is strong on his breath when he leans in to talk to me.
“Likewise. Welcome to our humble abode. You lied to me, Rafe. She’s much more beautiful than you described.”
“You live here?” I reply, glancing up at Rafe for confirmation and blushing at his cousin’s compliment, although I’m not sure how he can tell with my mask in place.
“Yes,” he admits with a small careless shrug of his shoulder. “My studio, where I paint, is also upstairs. I can show you later.”
Nudging his arm with my elbow, I shake my head in amusement. “You could have told me the party was at your house, you know.”
Low thick brows dip with an expression of worry. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“You have a very lovely
home,” I tell him, more pleased at his behavior than worried. A chance to see his art has me giddy. He’s spoken about it with such passion that my imagination has run wild with what it must look like. Something bold and abstract, perhaps with bright colours?
“Micah can show you around while I sort something out, if that’s ok?”
“Sure. I can. We’ll start with down here,” Micah mutters before raising his bottle to his lips and swallowing a gulp of beer.
Before I can say a word, Rafe strides swiftly off, through the other guests, on long legs. Observing him go, I trail his cousin reluctantly when he gestures for me to follow him to the door. We view a living room that has been decked out for comfort and relaxation. Four long leather couches face a massive plasma screen. Beneath are an assortment of game consoles. A few bookshelves bear games and DVD’s in both French and English. Moving on in the tour, we come to a kitchen. Bright, airy, the appliances are top of the line. A kitchen table with six chairs dominates the center.
“How many of you live here?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. Running my hand alone the smooth surface, I trace the swirls in the light wood. There’s more here than two people would need.
“Four,” he tells me, brawny arms crossed idly over his chest as he swirls the contents of his bottle from side to side. “Our other cousin.”
I pick up on the fact he’s only mentioned three people not four. “They’re not here tonight?”
“No.” He doesn’t elaborate.
An awkward silence stretches.
“What do you do for a living, Micah?” I question, grasping for something to say.
That earns me a chuckle. “I prepare the dead for they’re passage to the afterlife. I’m an undertaker.”
Turning to face him, my spine presses into to the hard firmness of the table as I lean back into it for a second. “Your family seems to have a bit of an obsession with death.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” He breezes into the corridor and along it with me in tow. “And this is the library.”
It’s the biggest room I’ve seen, so far. Bookshelves stand tall and close together, forming a maze as far as I can see. Some of the spines look worn with time where others are far newer. The books sit waiting to be opened and have their words spoken. A sea of stories waiting to be read.
“Wow,” I breath in awe, lifting up my mask and slipping it free.
Micah looks amused at my response, one eyebrow tilted up into his hairline. “You like to read?”
“I love to read!” Still gripping my mask in my hand, my feet moving across the gray marble floor as I venture past the towering walls. The passageways they make stretch off in different directions. Inquisitiveness stirred, I explore with no concerns of getting lost.
“Do you like surprises, Samantha?” he asks, his footsteps loud behind me.
I glance nervously over my shoulder at his painted skull face. “It depends what they are.”
Green eyes hooded, the fingertips of one of his hands caresses the side of a bookcase. A click sounds. Before I can even blink, the whole wall swings away, revealing a hidden room. My expression washes blank with confusion.
A hidden room?
Beyond the threshold, tiny lights in the ceiling illuminate the space. It’s much smaller than the library. Bare except for an exquisitely carved stand, which is home to a book.
It’s old. Very old.
Bound in dark brown leather, the thick tome is cracked and dried with age. An insignia has been branded on the front, the black edges of the deep burn marks creating a skull design. The pages within it look thin and brittle, stained yellow, almost like parchment.
Caught in a bubble of morbid fascination, I can’t resist its strange pull. Treading closer, hand extended, I reach to touch its cover. My fingers graze the surface and freeze. It’s warm and supple.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The book pulses beneath my touch. It’s the perfect rhythm of a heartbeat. A calm pace that’s so alarming I snatch my hand away in shock.
“It…it moved when I touched it,” I stammer, glancing at it with apprehension then at the man leaning in the doorway.
“Hmm.” Micah’s eyes narrow to cat like slits in his blacked-out eye sockets. “It’s made of human skin. Our book of the Dead…”
“That’s not a funny joke,” I cut in, my fright taking me away from the tomb toward the exit and the safety of the library.
“ And contains the soul of an Egyptian priest pledged to Anubis, God of the Dead,” Micah continues, swivelling to watch me. “It’s been handed down through generations. A living, sentient, record of our family.” A loose grin plays on his lips, his white teeth flashing in his ghoulish make-up. “It will soon be time for it to be recovered, and you do have such lovely young, soft skin Samantha.”
As the lights flick out, plunging us both into darkness, I scream. In blackness, I run, my shoulder hitting something in the dark, sending what I can only guess are books flying and my shoulder bag. Letting go of the colourful mask I’ve been clutching, I abandon it to the unknown. Blindly, I navigate the twisting pathway of shelves, the sound of Micah’s laughter echoing all around me. My mouth is dry, my stomach turning in apprehension. Around the next corner, I see light. The doorway.
Relief making me shake, I hurry out into the hallway.
“Samantha, what’s wrong?”
I give a startled cry, finding Rafe before me. “Your cousin was scaring me with some weird book…It’s wasn’t funny.”
He lays a hand on my shoulder in a gesture of concern. “He’s a little too obsessed with Halloween and horror movies. It’s nothing but a prop to scare people. I’m sorry. I should have warned you he likes to pull pranks,” Rafe assures me as he palms my cheek gently with his other. The soothing tone in his voice calms me.
“He was just messing with me?” I ask, heart still pounding frantically in my chest. My mind returns to the tome. It had felt so real. Was it all really just fake? Special effects and rigged lighting? First the catacombs. Now this. Is this some sort of gruesome game? The thought is unsettling.
“I’m sorry. He has a sick sense of humor,” Rafe apologizes. “I didn’t know he was going to pull a stunt like this.”
Still shaking, I release an unsteady breath. “It’s all right. I shouldn’t have let my imagination run away with me like that.”
Micah slinks from the library like a shadow from the dark. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Samantha. I was just having some fun.” My shoulder bag held out in offering, I snatch it away from him. “Let me get you a drink to make up for my behavior.” Disappearing toward the dining room, he re-joins the party.
Distractedly I look in the direction of the front door while hooking my bag on my shoulder. “Maybe I should go…”
“No,” Rafe says hastily. The grip on my shoulder tightens fractionally. “I want to show you my studio.... Please.”
With a half-hearted nod, I left him take my hand, leading me through the house. Music floats from the main room, the mingled noise of chatting voices still loud and happy. Holding a plastic cup, Micah is waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs.
“Rum and coke,” he informs me, sliding it into my hand.
Bringing it to my nose, I sniff suspiciously. I’m not about to drink it. After all, I’m not sure I like Rafe’s cousin at all. There are shades of something sinister about him.
Rafe tugs me up the steps away from the other man as we ascend to the next floor. I note another staircase, one leading higher. Strolling along, we pass closed doors.
“This is why I left you with Micah,” he confesses before ushering me into the room. Clusters of candles create an arc of golden light in the dark. A carpet of white petals lay in a path. They remind me of unblemished snow, crisp and clean, on a cold winter’s morning. Dozens of white roses have been arranged in crystal vases and left positioned on furniture.
My heart melts at the sight. He’s gone to so much trouble. “It’s beautiful.”
The candles flicker briefly. Rafe’s eye sockets lie in inky pools, the weak illumination casting his painted skull features into something even more ethereal and spooky.
“In here is my studio.” Nervous energy radiates off him in waves. Restlessly, he paces to another room. Eager to finally see his paintings, I hasten to join him. Canvas are as far as the eye can see in different shapes and sizes. Brushes lay abandon on a work surfaces, surrounded by pots of paints.
Every color is bold and striking, sharply defined in the creation of his masterpieces. Eyes moving from place to place, I marvel at the stunning pieces. A woman is featured in the majority. Frozen in different poses, it’s if he’s caught a snippet from a fairy tale. In one, she stands bare foot among a gathering of bleached white bones. Another, she seems to be dancing, the long flowing skirts of her fiery red dress being tossed fiercely with her movement. Yet in all there’s one thing that’s missing. Something that adds a sense of gruesomeness.
“Your paintings are amazing!” I tell Rafe in a hushed whisper. “Who’s the woman, and why doesn’t she have a face?”
“She never shows it to me,” he confides, raking a hand distractedly through his curly locks. “My muse is a tease. In some ways, sometimes, I feel like she’s taunting me.”
“Is she real?”
“Perhaps”—one shoulder lifts carelessly—“I don’t know.”
“You don’t sound very sure.”
Entwining my fingers of one hand with his, he guides me back into the candlelit space. “I’d like to paint you, one evening. Capture the raw beauty of your inner being in my work for everyone to see.”
“I fly home in three days’ time.” Moving to the worn couch in the corner, I sink into the cushions, discarding my untouched drink on the coffee table.
We haven’t spoken of my time remaining here. I haven’t wanted to mention it, and Rafe has never asked. We’ve both been avoiding it. Clinging, perhaps, to the time instead of watching it slip through our fingers.
“Stay with me.” Plucking a tightly budded flower from its bouquet, he pops it into a slender glass vase next to my unwanted beverage.
