A Dyad in Time

by D. D. Prideaux

  “Enough.” She coughed out loud to herself in a gruff voice.

  “But we like her, little one.” She continued with a soft, silky tone.

  “We don’t like her, Mistress. We hate her. That disgusting wretch will pay for what she did to us.” She managed in the same gruffness as before.

  “We would have done the same if we were her.” The softer voice cooed back dreamily, echoing her inner thoughts out loud. Two sets of eyes looked down at this fake, temporary body they were in, admiring the magik and hating it more than they thought possible as the air innocently tormented her form.

  “True.” She muttered before pausing. “Tell me we’re going to find her and end her though?” She pleaded with herself.

  “In good time, little one. However, you may have noticed that we do not have a body or any way in which to interact with the world. It would have been better to stay in that fleshy being even if she was a dreary person. At least we could feel things. Smell things. Hurt things.” She reflected wistfully. Even though they had no control over the woman they were trapped in, they took pleasure in what they could control. The killing of a spider. The hurtful comment levelled at a friend. The breaking of a man’s heart.

  This last thought brought an unwelcome-welcome idea. “We need Christophe.” The name came out with a growl.

  “I know, little one. That is if, he is still alive.” The Mistress’ thoughts danced around the man, enjoying the idea of him for a moment.

  “He’s alive. We would’ve felt him leaving otherwise.” The Rage hissed.

  “You are right dearest, but would you mind doing the honours? One does not like asking for help. Especially from him. He can be ever so trying when you owe him favours.”

  “If we must.”

  “We must.”

  The formless woman began uttering an ancient incantation into the deserted alleyway as rain started to fall around them. Her smoky existence flickered with the droplets as they fell through her, but her words were uninterrupted as a small tear in reality started to form in front of her, displacing the large garbage bin from its solitary, dirty home. The darkness of where they were, wasn’t so dark that any new light would alert passers-by to their presence, but dark enough to conceal their intent. The metal of the bin creaked, bent, yawned and melted strangely as the tear began to widen. This mistake in reality, just a few feet away from her, started as a small line, extending out into an eye shape and blinking at her. She wove her words into the space, always whispering and adding the memories and feelings she needed to give the shape power. It got larger and larger as a black light surrounded it, infusing with its edges and melting into the wall behind, anchoring it to this plane. The surface of it whirled and flexed like the ocean with a maelstrom at its centre. The Mistress looked at it, seeing a physical reflection of the turmoil they were in, sensing that most of the disturbance was being contributed by The Rage.

  “We need you to focus as well, Mistress.” The Rage thought, wanting her counterpart to lend her strength to the spell.

  “Of course, my sweet. Just a little more.” Focusing their energy further, tendrils from the edges of the elliptical window began to form, reaching out, searching for more of this plane to anchor to. They’d taken the dark light of the portal edges and bled a dark reddish hue into their root-like explorations, a sickening, creeping and pulsing rhythm fusing dark magik to them. Then, without warning, all of the perverse extensions flexed at once and sank into the brink wall behind, attaching to the displaced bin as well. With a few small movements of her hands and some final words the entire aberration shot the dark, red light out in all directions before settling. What looked like a stormy ocean earlier, now looked like a flat, calm lake. Peaceful and tranquil. The Mistress and The Rage were operating at the same frequency now, both lending themselves to the portal in order to keep it stable. Purples and greens slowly worked themselves down from the top of the shape, like inks being dropped into water. As the colours worked down and settled at the bottom of the shape, a room was revealed with a man standing in the middle of it. A new part of her was exhilarated at seeing him, but the two dominant personalities stopped it from surfacing as they took in the rest of the scene. The extravagant chamber was extremely large, adorned with artworks and tapestries that covered plain wooden walls. It reminded her of a building she once burned to the ground, a library filled with untold knowledge, wisdom and caring voices. Unlike the portraits that covered those walls, odd works that looked like paint had been randomly flicked across the canvas occupied these new ones. Looking around a little more, she also saw some had very sharp lines and bright colours randomly taking up the canvas, not depicting anything at all.

  “I see your taste in the arts is as bad as it’s always been Christophe.” She spoke into the room, seeding her voice with seduction and intrigue.

  “My lady.” The man responded with a deep bow from the waste. “It has been too long.” His voice was magikal, with a soft French accent that effortlessly carried his words through the portal window and into the sodden alley.

  “That is quite the understatement, dearest.”

  He nodded slightly with closed eyes before responding. “You look.” He paused. “Different.”

  “Very funny, Christophe.” She replied with some impatience before mastering herself. “One also looks different. I approve of this version of you.” An essence of The Mistress was bleeding through despite her best efforts to remain neutral.

  He straightened up a little bit at this, giving another slight nod of approval. The three-piece suit he was wearing was tailored to perfection, hugging his form elegantly without detracting from the colourful tie and other beautiful accessories that hung from him with ease. When he first sensed she was trying to contact him however, he’d changed his face to match what he knew she’d like. His skin was as pale as snow with delicate black stubble covering his strong jawline and angular cheekbones. Grey eyes were hooded by a dark brow that gave way to an unblemished forehead and a sharp, exaggerated fringe haircut that he could sweep away with the hand or a practised flick of the head. Knowing she was trying to find him he also made sure he was in the gallery when they spoke. Even after lifetimes apart, he still felt the need to impress her and thought the fancy, expensive art would do just that. It didn’t. Recognising, and being frustrated by, his more immature emotions taking over though, he gathered himself and tried to be honest.

  “I’ve missed you.” He offered with a smile.

  “You mean, you’ve missed what we used to do with Naïve’s.” She retorted plainly, losing some of the seduction from her voice.

  “A man can miss many things.” He said authentically, opening his hands up to the ceiling in front of him. True, he had missed what they used to do with the Naïve’s, but he’d also missed her. He was allowed, to miss her.

  “Still like to play games I see.” Half Mistress, half Rage delivered the words, implying that she wasn’t willing to play the games as she began to feel the urgency of her situation escalate. She was in trouble and couldn’t afford to waste time with him.

  Christophe laughed a little before answering. “It’s one of many pursuits I enjoy. You must keep the mind agile otherwise time brings a terrible madness.” He missed the urgency in her, mistaking it for a flicker of annoyance behind the woman's eyes even though the air rushing around, and through her, was disrupting her form. “I’m sorry about what they did to you. I tried many times to break the curse but to no avail.” She appeared to be lost in thought, so he carried on. “But you are free now. How did it happen?”

  This seemed to jog her back into the present, the French pronunciation of the words sharpening her resolve. “I’m not sure yet. We’ll find out.” She paused, steeling herself a little more. “However, that’s not important now. Yes, I am free, but without form. I need your help.” She looked up at Christophe through the window, widening her eyes knowingly at the last word. He smiled at this, mistaking the intent in her eyes for pleading and respo
nded with fervour.

  “Äsheenie. you mean-”.

  “Yes.” She interrupted. “I need a new subject.”

  Christophe clasped his hands together in front of him with delight as a grotesque grin appeared on his face. “I assume you do not have anywhere to put the subject?”

  “No.” She replied solemnly.

  “Do not worry Äsheenie. I will arrange everything.” His mind raced, mentally compiling a list of things that needed to be done as he whispered to himself. “What a wonderful surprise. Such fun to be had.”

  “I cannot contact you again I’m afraid Christophe. This window took everything I had. You won’t be able to come through like in the old days.” She interrupted his thoughts and Christophe looked at her with such a deep love she was caught by surprise.

  “It is okay. Where are you?” Her silence told him that she was embarrassed by her predicament and needing to ask for help. In all the years they had known each other she had never really asked anything of him out of necessity. Only desire. He went on, protecting her feelings and not acknowledging her condition. “Do not worry, I will be able to find you. Just give me a little time to prepare everything.”

  She stayed quiet, letting him take her in as she was. A desperate, half alive creature of darkness unable to hold herself together in the rain. She hoped it would encourage speed in his response and to add additional drama she let the window flicker and collapse as if she had lost the last of her energy. The portal left a dirty, contorted ring of brick and mortar where it used to be, the root-like scorch marks permanently marking the wall. Around the melted mass of building there were more burn marks and the bin had deformed even more from where it was in contact with the magik. The rain continued to pour all around, sometimes patting against her skin, mostly passing through her to splash on the ground. She looked past her hands at her feet, where some debris and rubbish collected around her toes and then passed through. She was still shifting, vibrating and phasing in and out of existence, the only thing that soothed her being the sound of the falling water as she thought about Christophe. He was just passing entertainment in the before times, yet now, she felt something different towards him even after all these years. Maybe parts of her had merged with her captor. Maybe he has different. She didn’t like the new feeling and the conflict it brought.

  “We don’t like it when he calls us that, Mistress.” The Rage spat out of nowhere, interrupting the peace she’d found.

  “We must forgive his small indiscretions little one. He loves us, remember?” She paused. “He loves us and fears us.”

  “As it should be.” She replied petulantly. “He doesn’t deserve to call us that after all this time and after how little he did.” In an over dramatic mock French accent she repeated the words from earlier, “I tried many times to break the curse, but to no avail.”

  “Peace, dearest. We must remain calm if we are to do what must be done.”

  “Lies. He’s so full of lies!” She felt the anger swell and paused. “I pity him.”

  “Now, now. Everyone has their purpose.” She looked down the alleyway with glazed over half-eyes and a foggy brain before continuing. “You honestly don’t think we’d let him get away with his feeble attempts at trying to rescue us, do you?”

  “What do you have planned Mistress?” She replied to herself excitedly.

  “One has a few ideas my creation and delight. We must use him for as long as possible and throw any would-be hunters from our scent with his misguided deeds. A good distraction is worth its weight in gold, remember. Isn’t that what she taught us?”

  “Yes Mistress. You’re right, as always.” They both thought about the book then. It’d always looked after them and spoken soft words of encouragement. Even though it was just leather and paper, it spoke to them in a motherly voice, always nudging her in the right direction and supporting her when she was struggling. She couldn’t remember the amount of times the book had guided her when she was lost, or comforted her when she was hurt. She’d often thought about how the voice may’ve been a figment of her imagination, but it was so compelling and felt so real when it spoke, like a teacher was sat right there with her, opening her eyes to the secrets the worlds held. It could talk to her when she was in the room or from miles away, always there at the exact moment when she needed it.

  Too weak to move very far in her ethereal form, she sat there and began the wait for Christophe. Naked in the rain, she slowly began plotting her revenge on the wytch who trapped her, using her time alone to plan what she could before setting everything in motion. She mulled over the complex feelings she had about the woman and her companions, swearing curses upon them all as she sat. Those same feelings of conflict rose then, like they had when she thought of Christophe and with a great effort she tried to silence them. She thought long and hard about the book, taking shelter under it and listening for her voice. She thought she heard it a few times but knew her weakened state would be playing tricks on her. There’d be a time when she’d hear her again, and they’d be together, the soft leather pressed to her cheek and the kind words guiding her forward. Mostly, she thought about completing the plans she put in motion all those moons ago, and how she wouldn’t allow anyone to stop her this time.

  CHAPTER SIX - A SLOW MADNESS

  Focusing intently on that moment was what I needed to do in order to push through the crippling pain. The awkward stiffness in my bones and muscles started to drift away as I thought of her and what happened, the emotional pain of that moment replacing the physical that I was feeling. I’m scared though. I could get lost in what I’m going through, paralysed by emotions and a broken body, forever trapped in this room and becoming a memory on the wind. This, and never seeing her again is what I need to anchor myself. I visualise dropping these thoughts into the ground, attaching them to me with hopes and desires that would keep me here and present. From now on, all I do must drive me towards finding her and reclaiming my past, whatever it was. Suddenly, all types of pain attack me as I think this, my subconscious reminding me that I’ve more pressing matters to attend to. For now, I need to leave this place of death. That singular resolution to get out of this room seems to do the trick and as it sweeps over me, I find the strength to move. I find the strength to push towards figuring out what was going on and tasting free air.

  I feel lighter, hopeful at the thought of getting out, before a sense of urgency takes over from my wounds tear at me with the small movements I’m experimenting with. They’re too severe for me to heal naturally as I reflect on the last time I was in this shape. I can feel myself glazing over at previous horrors where I discovered the limits of what, and how quickly I can heal. Memories of that dreadful battle rush forward, threatening to paralyse me and undo my progress, trapping me with inaction. I’m sinking into the ground, as I had done the last time I was this injured but I’m okay with it. I allow myself the relief of melting away to nothingness and getting lost in the dreams of my past. I struggle to stay awake and the anchors start to drift when a bright light shines, and a distant, large bang goes off. I jerk back from the sleep that wants to take me, my body suffering an involuntary spasm. It feels like a giant suddenly stamped, unceremoniously on my stomach, so I harness this jolt to my advantage, wrenching myself back to the present and resetting the anchors.

  I galvanise behind all those feelings around losing Eve and repeat the mantra over and over in my head. I push the thoughts of sleeping to the side, thinking about floating rather than sinking and keep saying the words to myself. About halfway through the process, I heard a strange rhythmic sound. I’m speaking, loudly, but I don’t recognise the voice. It sounds stilted and rough, like tectonic plates rubbing against each other. Forced and incongruous. I smile a mad smile at the thought of the plates talking to each other as they butted heads. What voices would they have? Would they have accents? The distraction is welcome and before I realise it, I’m standing, in someone else's clothes, held together by a gun holster and some body arm
our. My breathing feels hard and dangerous. Rattling, long breaths come and go like a tide dragging rocks. A fresh wave of pain flickers through me as a reminder of how bad a shape I’m in. The worst in a while. I need to leave this ever increasingly claustrophobic space.

  Chest heaving, I look around again, but it was useless. I can’t concentrate until I know the extent of the damage. The smile returned as I likened myself to a computer that needed to do some quick systems checks. A review to see if there’s anything new since I first woke up. I work from my legs upwards, methodically visualising each body part as a discrete compartment that needed careful inspection. Highlighting each area in my mind as I check myself over helps, the systematic and visual approach logging the problems for attention. I gingerly look down at the partially shredded clothing that I’m in, soiled with a stranger’s body fluids of every type and slowly mixing with my own. My left leg is in good shape. Minimal bruising, no cuts and a strength I could rely on. The lower part of my right leg is in a similar state and bar the bullet wound in my thigh, I don’t have anything to worry about. Luckily, although nothing about my situation screams good fortune, the bullet missed any major arteries and has embedded itself somewhere in the muscle. Depressingly, being shot is quite a familiar feeling for me and I knew the bullet needed to come out. A memory of an old friend giving me the advice warms me and pushes me on.

  Moving upwards to my arms, it feels like both of them have been crushed in some sort of car disposal machine but thankfully, they are mostly fine and wouldn’t be the end of me today. I think about what would actually happen to me if I was in a car disposal machine, my limbs folding around me until I couldn’t move and then the small pop of my head exploding when the pressure got too much. I smile at the little accident and the imaginary me with the imagined head. Then my real head feels sore, manifesting the imaginary popping and telling me to hurry up. With numb fingers and dull senses, I work across my features to see what’d happened, wincing at every little discovery. Fortunately, most of what I find isn’t critical, knowing what I’d find next would be. My chest becomes a glowing highlight in my brain in response to completing the rest of my once-over. It flashes at me, like an alarm is going off in there and I probe the space with my mind. Broken ribs, a few of which protrude in odd angles, and most likely a punctured lung. A wave of nausea takes me in its grip at calculating the damage, my only response being to bend over, heave up some more flesh and pass out.