Table Of Contents

The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries

by Eric Muss-Barnes

Copyright Page
Donations Page
Reviews
Introduction Page
Dedication Page
Proem
Shakespeare Opening
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Shakespeare Closing
Playlist
Epilogue
Biography
Colophon
Poster Catalog
Other Books by Eric Muss-Barnes
Backcover

Copyright © 1997-2013 Eric Muss-Barnes. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved under the Universal Copyright Convention and the Berne Convention For The Protection Of Literary And Artistic Works. The author of this book, Eric Muss-Barnes, secures all rights to this book, including the right to reproduce this book in whole or in part, in any form whatsoever, and extends such privileges to absolutely no other parties, individuals or companies. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, in whole or in part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means including, but not limited to, all existing and yet to be invented information duplicating, storage or retrieval systems, without specific permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages. In other words, please don't try to plagiarize me or rip me off, because this book means a lot to me and I spent years of my life on it, so if you try to steal any of it from me, I will summon legions of loathsome otherworldly monstrosities (including lawyers) to rip your fucking bones out of your flesh.

Published by Dubh Sith Ink, a division of Wynd Feather: Arts & Phantasm.

The Gothic Rainbow, the Gothic Rainbow logo, the font “Noctuary” (used in the cover title), the stylized ankh logo and their designs, the names “Dubh Sith Ink” and “Wynd Feather: Arts & Phantasm,” their various logos and logo designs, are all trademark and copyright © 1996 Eric Muss-Barnes. All rights reserved.

The name “Dreamdancer Motion Pictures,” the Dreamdancer Motion Pictures logo and logo design are trademark and copyright © 1994 Eric Muss-Barnes. All rights reserved.

Address all correspondence and order inquiries to:

www.TheGothicRainbow.com

Author photograph by Kathryn M. Barnes of Visual Echoes

The name “Visual Echoes,” the Visual Echoes logo and logo design are trademark and copyright © 1996 Kathryn M. Barnes. All rights reserved.

Cover designed and created by Eric Muss-Barnes

PRINTED AND MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

First International Printing: January 1997 (1000 Copies)

First International eBook Printing: January 2013

Donations

Dear Reader,

As a writer, the most important reason I publish my books is so good folks like yourself can read and enjoy them. Therefore, in order to make my writing available to the largest possible audience, I have decided to make all of my ebooks available for whatever price readers think is fair.

Here is how it works...

You can download any of my ebooks for free and donate money for it later. Instead of having a set cover price, you can visit www.DubhSithInk.com and give whatever you think this ebook is worth. $1.00 or $5.00 or $50.00 or $18.63 or a nickel. Anything you want. Only you can decide how much value my writing brings your life.

If you can't afford to pay for this ebook, simply share a copy with people in your life who would enjoy the story. Some friends. A few family members. A couple coworkers. Anybody you like. Or perhaps, you might be kind enough to write a glowing review for this ebook on the Internet? Whatever helps my writing gain a larger readership is just as generous as a monetary donation.

Perhaps I am naive in thinking I can earn a living by giving away my stories and requesting donations, instead of selling this ebook for a set price. Nevertheless, in a world where greed and digital piracy has divided people into thieves and misers, I believe readers will gladly spend hard-earned money to support writers who pen worthwhile tales. I believe you are exactly that sort of reader, and I humbly hope you will regard me as that kind of writer.

Thank you for your time. May your few short hours spent with this story enrich all the remaining decades of your life.

Respectfully,
Eric Muss-Barnes
www.DubhSithInk.com

Reviews

“... if you've ever listened to The Cure in the dark, danced to The Dead Milkmen, lost a loved one, hung out with skaters, hated your parents or hated preppies, or if anyone's ever called you a “freak,” I think you'll find a little of yourself in this book. Its honest representation of this subculture - from the music to the fashion - is spun throughout the web of fantasy ...”

- Cynthia Conlin

Implosion Magazine

“... I'm utterly mystified that this book worked as well as it did for me. It's written for readers with a firm grasp of the Goth subculture (I don't qualify); it doesn't attempt to have a plot as such; and the vampires are hopelessly larger-than-life, with their expensive cars, outrageous acts of violence, and nonstop scorn for mortals. (In fact, the vampires consider themselves so godlike that pronouns referring to them are capitalized, a typographical idiosyncrasy that I found rather disconcerting.) Perhaps the book's appeal lies in the sheer honesty of the narrative. ... Self-serving but sincere, THE GOTHIC RAINBOW is definitely worth checking out ... I know that's a strange kind of thumbs-up, but THE GOTHIC RAINBOW is a strange kind of book. It's certainly not for everyone. ... It is a book of dreams and fantasies, power and pain, and bittersweet Goth-flavored wish fulfillment ...”

- Catherine B. Krusberg

Sphere Fantasy Online

“... One aspect of the writing that I appreciated is that the author uses different styles of writing throughout this novel. Muss-Barnes excels in his literary descriptions of buildings, character dress, and dreams. ... the choice of words and inflection of mood hit dead on at what I anticipated I would find when I first picked up the book ...”

-Dan O.

IndustrialnatioN

“... Eric effectively blends elements from different genres and literary styles in a duet between mortals and Fey. Highly unique, believable characters, and a musical playlist to boot! I found the book compelling and charming (in a twisted way), and would gladly read the book again ...”

- Chelsea

Thistle Magazine

“... THE GOTHIC RAINBOW by Eric Muss-Barnes is, frankly, one of the most absorbing novels that I have read in quite some time. ... I've found the book well worth my time, and I hope you will give it a shot. I do not believe you will be sorry. At the end, I think you will agree that Eric Muss-Barnes will be a name to watch ...”

- Christopher T. Miller

Books Stacks

“... it's quite a page-turner, with lots of shocking vampiric escapades. This book, on the whole, is extremely well-written with a wonderful poetic style. I'm glad I didn't let the slow start scare me off ...”

-Susan Moon

The Nocturnal Lyric

“... I haven't yet begun the book itself, and I am already amazed and anticipatory: I feel as one does when you read a page in a book and think, “Yes! I feel that way too!”... That delight ...”

- Karen

Ohio

“... I must admit that I didn't think I'd like your book. When I first read the title, I thought, “Oh, brother, this is going to be cheesy.” I must relent my original thoughts (NEVER judge a book by it's cover), and heap praises onto you. I COULD NOT PUT THIS BOOK DOWN! I took THE GOTHIC RAINBOW on vacation with me, and spent a lot of time each day in coffee shops reading. I was sad when I finished; I had come to know each character and felt close to them. I wanted more! ...”

-Katie

Minnesota

“... I loved this novel, though Chapter 23 did throw me for a loop. I liked the way you interweaved dreams and current life. Threw me for a moment, but then I caught on. I also see you are a bit of a Shakespeare fan yourself. Really know how to manipulate me, don't we? ...”

- Raquel

Minnesota

“... I just finished reading THE GOTHIC RAINBOW. All I can say is “Wow!” Man, I can't remember the last time I read a book that gave me the willies like that! ...”

- Steve

Maryland

“... Your view and opinion of how a vampire should and would act is exactly what I envisioned - I've often thought that most of the books that I read were totally off on how one would feel and behave if one were a vampire. ... I felt as though I had gained some friends by the final page. And I also wished that I hadn't ended. I read your novel in 2 DAYS (much to the amazement of everyone), and completely absorbed every page ...”

- Donna

Ohio

“... I remember how it was just getting cold when I received your book, and how it kept me company for two nights while I constantly sipped Cotton Club ginger ale in my bed and disconnected the phone because I wanted to see what happened uninterrupted ...”

- Elisabeth

Ohio

“... as for your writing style - One word: Eloquent! ... Your use of imagery, or words to create imagery is extraordinary. Very passionate. I can't imagine what you must have been feeling as you wrote this epic ...”

-Chris

Ohio

“... As I read THE GOTHIC RAINBOW, I could sense that Eric Muss-Barnes has a definite passion for writing...”

- Jeff Davis

Puck & CLF News

“... THE GOTHIC RAINBOW gives solace and escape for those who feel trapped in a messed-up world full of heartaches and misunderstandings. There is plenty of sex and violence to stimulate, but it's the delicate beauty and passionate writing of this novel that will touch your soul ...”

- Octavia

Outburn Magazine

Introduction

Dear Reader,

The first edition of The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of the Vampire Noctuaries was finished on 3 January 1996 and published a year later, in 1997. This sentence was written more than 17 years afterward, in the Winter of 2013, for the eBook edition of The Gothic Rainbow.

As I prepared the manuscript for this eBook edition, for the first time in my life, I understood the desire of filmmakers and authors and musicians (and artists in any medium, for that matter) wishing to alter their old works. Tweak them. Fix them. Make some changes.

Goodness knows, one discovers many flaws in artwork created 17 years prior. Indeed there are countless things I'd like to modify and improve in this book.

However, I can't bear to do that. Perpetually “updating” one's work feels disrespectful to one's history. I always strive to make things their absolute best for that timeframe in my life. Evolving and refining the next project is the whole point of creativity! Previous art shouldn't be given that luxury. Why move backwards? Otherwise, artists would only create one project all their lives and where is the fun in that? So, this second printing of The Gothic Rainbow doesn't change a thing. Flaws and all, I left it just the way it was when I began writing it over 20 years ago.

Well, with a few minor exceptions...

When I spotted genuine typographical errors and misspellings, those I tried to fix. I rationalized those are valid flaws to repair, because they are oversights I would have repaired in the first printing, had I noticed them! Therefore, whenever found, typographical issues were mended, but not one word of the story itself is changed. I also removed the outdated order forms and address from the copyright page, added the review quotations, this “mea culpa” of an introduction, and expanded data in the colophon.

I also updated the cover. The full-color, leather-like, cover-graphic is what I wanted in the original printing, but I couldn't afford it at the time, so I made it black-and-white instead. This rather Codex Gigas cover is the design I envisioned nearly 20 years ago, but never got to create until now. Note the "Poster Catalog" in the back of the eBook is also full-color.

Other than those minor alterations, you're getting the unedited, original “Director's Cut” of this literary motion picture. The story remains exactly the same.

Don't forget to pick up the sequel, Annwn's Maelstrom Festival: Concluding Volume of The Vampire Noctuaries. If this is your first time reading this book, I hope you enjoy it. And if you're returning to the tale, welcome back...

Respectfully,

Eric Muss-Barnes

January 2013

Dedication

in the words of Luke Skywalker

“I have a promise to keep... to an old friend.”

so in keeping with a promise

the Gothic Rainbow is

dedicated to

Michelle C. Barnes

Proem

This is the world's first musical-motion picture-novel (well, I doubt that ... but it's the first to my knowledge anyway). All that means is that many songs, albums, and bands are referred to throughout the pages, whenever the atmosphere of the story is befitting for them. Some of the songs were picked for their lyrics. Some for their music. Some for both. And some were chosen just because I like the tune.

- you will even see a few sections of text -

- that are written like this -

Those lines, like the previous two, which are set in italics between hyphens, often (but not always) denote song lyrics, and should by no means be construed as copyright infringement or plagiarism on my part. That is the whole reason why I set them apart from the rest of the text to begin with; in order to acknowledge that they are song lyrics composed by musicians I have mentioned.

On the contrary to offending these musicians, I'm hoping my novel provides some additional positive exposure and free promotion for these artists, simply because I enjoy their work and believe it should be heard.

If you possess the means, and so long as it doesn't interrupt your pace of reading or distract you too severely, I would strongly suggest that you stop to play these songs, whenever they're described. Often, those parts were written with the specific intention of being read that way, seeing as I wrote those parts while listening to those songs myself. Like a movie, I wanted a musical soundtrack to accompany my tale.

Although I certainly want readers to find this novel worthwhile, even if read in total silence, doing so while listening to the recommended music should contribute a lot to the scenes and enhance the feel of the book. As with a film, the boundless emotion reflected in music will often serve to give a greater luster to the facets presented in this saga. My decision to write it like this was my way of adding a touch of further realism, in the hopes of granting the story that much more depth and substance. Subjecting oneself to the actual sounds these characters experience, could make it all the more tangible for you to imagine, and all the more enjoyable for you to read. You may even wish to consider purchasing a few of the albums if you don't own them already.

A playlist, respectively covering all the musical references, starts at the back of the book, if you want to jump ahead and look at it before you begin.

... Welcome to the Noctuaries ...

“. . . now 'tis the time of night

that the graves all gaping wide

everyone lets forth it's sprite

in the churchway paths to glide. . .”

- William Shakespeare

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Act 5 : Scene 1

Chapter One

Allyson called it “The Killing Game”.

The seduction of mortals. Charming them. Wooing them. Enchanting them. Feeding... and driving them into the plunging depths of madness. The act of shining a light onto that everpresent darkness in their own minds. Turning lives upside down. Tearing souls inside out. Filling them with desire... and stealing more than blood. Taking sanity... Hopes... Dreams... Dignity... Everything.

My hands shook with anticipation. With excitement. The lustful thrill. Soon, it would begin. That night, We would play again...

Skinny Puppy's Last Rights CD blared out of My stereo. Peeking into the room, Allyson asked, “So, what will it be tonight?”

She smiled, seductively, with only the corner of Her mouth. Her hair was down and dangled at the top of Her black, lace bra. Her cream-white skin was covered with leather boots, “painted-on” shorts, spiderweb nylons and a spike encrusted motorcycle jacket. All black. Nothing else.

She was ready to play.

I turned down the music. I smiled back, putting on My underwear. “Forty-something. Banker-type, with - ”

Her eyes rolled. “ - No,” She interrupted, “Lonely. Too easy. You can do better than that.” She walked in and sat on the bed.

“Kid.”

She cocked Her head, inquisitive. “How old?” She took out some black lipstick and began to put it on, defying the myth that Our Kind cast no reflection.

“Underage. Got in with a fake I.D.”

Her lips pursed in disappointment. “Too easy! Horny as hell. Not to mention neurotically nervous. I fucking look at him and he'll cum.”

I chuckled. “My, aren't We modest?... Fine. Eighteen - with a girlfriend.”

She leaned back, laughing. “Beautiful, My Dear. That's more like it... Do I get her too?”

“If You want.”

“Two for the price of one. Love it.”

I smiled, satisfied, and continued getting dressed. “Good. And for Me?”

“I'll tell You later.” She put the lipstick away.

“Oh? Something special in mind?”

She stood, threw Her arms around My waist, licked My neck and whispered. “Sure do. You're going to love this one.” She was purring and slowly pulled away. “Now finish dressing - No. Wear Your hair down, it looks better. And wear a little eyeliner. I'll get the car. The Testieroaster?” She joked as She walked out the door.

Giggling I said, “Cool. We'll do crotch-rockets next week.”

She peered back slowly, raising a questioning eyebrow. “Crotch-rockets?”

I made a revving motion with My wrist, as if on a motorcycle.

“Oh.” She mused playfully and took a deliberately long look at My thighs.

“Here I was hoping You meant something else.” She grinned, showing iridescent pearl fangs. I cast Her a cynical gaze and threw a pillow. She ducked.

“Just get the damn car.”

She blew Me a kiss and went downstairs. I finished dressing.

∞ ∞ ∞

Shamus Devonson was hosting a small party on the estate that night. Very big deal. His company, Devin's Squire Publishing, just recently released a biography on some famous, recently-deceased orchestral conductor. Not My type of crowd.

Camillia was just coming down the hallway as I left Our room. She was arm in arm with a man. He was handsome. Clean-cut. Sophisticated. The GQ-model stereotype. I suppressed a grin - a fine Concubine for Her.

Camillia smiled. “Hello.”

“Ah, the slight southern accent tonight, Camillia? How charming. How could he resist?” “Hi.”

“Don't start “dear Brother.” Not now.” Her smile turned amused. She loved it all, these games We played.

“Davíd, this is My Brother.”

“Ah! A pleasure. Miss DuBois has told me about You.”

“Pleasure? It is all Mine, Davíd.” I said, shaking his hand. “Miss DuBois? My, My, what a gentleman. He seems unaccustomed to see a guy in make-up. What kind of a fucking name is Da - ”

“ - Were You just leaving, Brother dear?”

“Why, yes, I was.” I grinned sarcastically.

Davíd spoke up. “Ah, You are in a play, yes?”

My smile dropped. “Ah, no... You're not from around here, are you?” “You conservative dipshi - ”

“No, he's not. We'll see You later, Dear. I have to finish showing Our guest Our humble home.” “And if You make one more smartass remark “Brother,” You won't get fucked by Me tonight.”

“Ah, fine. Well, You do that.” “You're such a tease “Sis.”” “It was a pleasure meeting you - ”

“ - Call him “Dave” and I'll kill You - ”

“ - Davíd.” I saw him nod politely and I walked away.

“Hey... I love You, Camillia.”

“Love You, too. Have fun. And do try to not upset Shamus.”

“Come, come. 'Tis not I. Allyson on the other hand...”

Camillia giggled aloud, Davíd thinking it was over an inane joke he'd made.

The party was in full-swing downstairs. Our mansion filled with lots of stuffy, pompous arrogance in fancy clothes. It was very formal. High-class. Invitation only... What was that phrase, “cultural elite?”... Yeah, sure.

It was a hundred lost souls of the old, uptight, and well-to-do, discussing European vacations, third-rate orchestral performances, and the latest successes of their children whom they never see anymore. The couples leave out the parts about no longer loving each other. About pain. The singles, divorced and widowed, leave out the loneliness that torments them - how they'll go home after the party and cry over a faded photograph of a lost love. They all leave out their lost dreams. Their hating. Animosity and resentment toward life. The pool and the ballroom wouldn't be used that night. Just the piano. Upon which a has-been pianist would play happy tunes with a tortured heart. The mansion stank of the stale blood of the forgotten. Their essence disgusted Me. It was foul. Vile. Revolting. I couldn't wait to get to the club.

I laughed as I walked down the steps into the main hall. Outside, Allyson was honking the horn and revving the Testarossa engine so loud, that the noise was completely drowning out the party. A fitting mockery and belittlement. The guests stared at the door and each other. They were muttering and murmuring. Dazed. Confused. Offended. I smiled and nodded graciously, offering them superficial “hellos” or an unconcerned “enjoying the party?”

Shamus was at the door. He leered at Me. He was hurried. Impatient... Hateful...

I took My time and returned a sly sneer. “Evening, Shamus.”

He ignored Me and shut the door behind Me on My way out. I broke up laughing. So did Allyson. The passenger door on the Ferrari was opened. I climbed in and Allyson peeled out. She careened up the winding road leading off the estate and shot towards the highway. We rode a sleek, black monster, howling towards the city at 120 miles an hour with The Cure's Pornography album turned up to eight on the CD player.

My mind swam in a relaxed fever. Controlled adrenaline. I felt nothing. Sensing everything. My eyes closed. Images danced in the darkness. Lights. Music. Movement. Heat. Dancing mortals. Sultry youth. Sweating. Protruding veins.

Veins. Arteries. Throbbing. Coursing. The pulsating heat, driven off-beat by the irresistible bass. Beating. Pumping... Bleeding - out the neck. The eyes. The arms. The thighs. Everywhere. Ripping flesh. Gored bodies. And blood. Blood. Blood. Draining. Drunk until the soul screams to take flight... My body swims in a blood sea. I'm clutching them. Embracing them. They kick. Scream. Thrash... They're so small. Puny. Insignificant. Meaningless. Helpless. Terrified... Dragging them under the waves. The Oceans of Hell. I laugh. Sweet warmth, caressing My throat. Ecstasy. Oh, sweet ecstasy. To touch. To Kiss. To ravage...

I opened My eyes and stared at Allyson. I smirked, wondering of Her Own fantasies. Of what beautiful perversions did Her black heart dream? The blood of tortured children perhaps? Dragged about the estate as the battle of Hector and Achilles? Ancient perversions with a twisted, demented aspect to lend it originality? Indeed. My dark friend could love just that. Twisted genius. I loved Her. Allyson - My Lovers Sister. My best Friend.

I closed My eyes again as the car carried We two Creatures, and the dark harmonies of “One Hundred Years” through the night. We didn't speak. There was no need. We were on Our way to Our haven. Our sanctuary. Our hunting ground. Heaven. We were on Our way... to play the Killing Game...

Chapter Two

“Fuck!” Allyson punched the roof. Her fist almost tore through. Literally. I've seen Her do worse. Human bones are crepe paper to Her.

“That's Nix's piece-of-shit-car, isn't it?” She glanced at Me. “I'm going to kill that little bastard.”

“Fine. Just chill. Wait here.” I climbed out of the car. The parking lot was jammed. A line of two hundred mortals snaked around the building and awaited entrance to the club. It was only 10:30. And the line was growing.

I glided past them to the front of the line and the crowd parted as I strolled in.

“Hey!” Some angry bouncer grabbed My shoulder. “Get back in line!”

Slowly, I turned to face him. He was enormous. He towered over Me. I leered at him. “Excuse Me?”

My tiny hand clutched his wrist. I squeezed it and took his hand from My shoulder. He swiftly grabbed at Me with his other hand. “Okay, buddy, that - Uuugh!”

I squeezed his wrist harder. Very hard. He squealed and collapsed to his knees.

“I said, excuse Me?” Circulation was cut. With little more effort, his wrist would be pulp. Like crepe paper.

“Whoa! Stop!” A voice called out above the amazed crowd. Out of the mass of people stepped Brandon Gurhin. Another bouncer. One of Us. “The guy is new, man! He didn't know!”

I glared back at the bouncer on his knees. He didn't speak. His eyes pleaded for mercy. He was in shock. His soul in terror. He -

“He didn't know, man! Ease up!” Brandon repeated. I looked at Him.

“Giving orders now?”

“N-No, Your Highness. I just - You know - ”

Without looking back at the groveling bouncer, I let go of his wrist. To Brandon I said, “Where's Nix?”

He jerked a thumb. “Inside. Not sure where. Could check the lounge.”

“Fuck, damnit!”

“What's up?”

“The asshole parked in front of the garage and Allyson is about to tear the Testarossa a new sunroof, She's so pissed.”

“Impatient Lady.” He chuckled, crossing His arms.

“No shit.”

“Yeah, I wonder where She gets it from?” He asked sarcastically. He looked at the bouncer who grabbed My shoulder. “You okay?” The man stood again, holding his wrist, and nodded.

I grinned. “Fuck You, Brandon. She does not get it from Me.”

“Did I say that?” He gave Me a friendly slap on the back as I slipped past Him into the club.

Luckily, Nix was right inside the doors. His real name was Nicholas Iscariot.

He was an annoying, sniveling kid who was mentally trapped with the mind of a fourteen-year old, trying way too hard to be cool. Physically, He was eighteen - and had been ever since three years ago in New York. He was a Regular, when He could pay the cover.

“Hey, dude!” Nix raised a high-five.

I ignored it. “Don't bother. Move Your car or Allyson's going to kill You.”

“Huh?”

I turned sarcastic and condescending. “You parked in front of the garage, Nix. That means Allyson and I couldn't park in the garage. It also means I had to come in through the front door, Nix. You know I hate the hassle of that. In fact, I got hassled tonight. So, what are You going to do about it Nix?”

He fumbled with His keys and stared at the floor; a reprimanded dog. “I'll move My car.”

I stopped Him. “No, You won't. Allyson will just assume kill You. Give Me Your keys. I'll move Your car. You just go have fun and avoid Allyson tonight. Alright? You owe Me one... How many's that make?”

Still staring down. “Um... Five?”

“That's right, Nix. Five... Say it.”

“I owe you five, dude.” He handed Me the keys.

I turned without another word and headed outside. When I reached the car, Allyson was standing against the door, arms crossed. Pissed.

“Where is He!?”

“I've got His keys.” I walked past Her and She got back in Our car. I put Nix's car in the far rear corner of the back lot. There were closer spaces, but He didn't deserve them. Idiot.

Allyson waited for Me. A torrent of light and music poured out of the darkness as We walked in the club. We had arrived at the Gothic Rainbow.

The crowd parted as Allyson and I made Our way across the dancefloor. The club was packed. Hot bodies. Fresh blood. Mortals danced, entranced by rhythm. The dreary vertigo. Spinning. Losing all sense of direction. Losing all sense of self. Losing everything. Throwing their fevered souls into the despair. I could smell the anger. The apathetic hate... What sweet ecstasy... To taste the aura of malice... It was almost as blood... Almost...

Allyson and I walked up to the second level, overlooking the main dance floor. To watch. To hunt. Loud, industrial music shook the walls. The metal railing vibrated in My grip and the floor did likewise underfoot.

She whispered to Me. “Who?”

I smiled. “I've changed My mind.”

Allyson looked interested. She was aroused with the Hunger. I could see it.

“Find a girl.” I said. “Like her.” I pointed below. She was brunette. Long hair. Late twenties. A conservative, professional business woman. She and her boyfriend sat at a bar. Flirting. Plastic affections.

Allyson gave Me one slow nod and smiled. “Fine.” She began to move down below.

“Hey!” I called out. “And Mine?”

Allyson looked back. “Patience, Sweetie.”

I stood there motionless for a long time. Watching. Time slows at such moments. The music. The lights. The movement. It becomes a hypnotic trance, those intangible images in the dark. A half an hour can come to pass in a blink. Or a minute can drag on for eternity. Time loses all meaning and coherence. Time loses all meaning in the gloom.

Eventually, I walked down to the main floor again. As I passed the bar, Allyson flashed a subtle smile at Me - cold joy blazing in Her eyes. Evil. It happened dreamily... Slowly. Surreal. Her face was a distinctive, burning image in the chaos of light and shadow. Her hand was on the thigh of the woman I challenged Her to take. The woman wore an engagement ring.

Fuck her.

I smiled back. She was Allyson's now. Neither she nor her fiance will understand why they drifted apart. How she could've changed so much. She will be consumed by guilt for loving Allyson. She won't understand how she became attracted to another woman. When her fiance finds out, he will hate her. When that happens, she'll turn to Allyson for comfort. She'll have no one else left. No alternative. But Allyson will abandon her. She'll be cruel. Vicious. Without compassion. Without remorse.

Allyson will be laughing. Two lives destroyed. A thousand hopes. A thousand dreams. Shattered. Allyson will be full then. Fed upon pain. Fed upon blood. Tossing the empty carcass of a soul into nothingness. The whole thing may take years. The poor couple. I would have pitied them had they meant anything...

Moving into the lounge, I sank into a couch and gazed out the gargantuan bay window, overlooking the rear parking lot and the city skyline. The crowd came and went, the ebb and flow of humanity. The pretentious yuppies and artists to the hardcore punks. The clean-cut preppies and jocks to the laconic gangbangers and skinheads. Walking business suits, a lone herd of working-class schmucks, and grotesque fluff chicks with hairspray-lacquered scalps. All came to the Gothic Rainbow. Many were drawn there by Us, although they didn't know it.

But the largest percentage of the crowd were the industrial/punk/goths. Dressed all in black. The “Wannas,” as Allyson sometimes called them: Wanna-be Children Of The Night. Dark. Gothic. Vampiric. They were the ones who would have been there anyway. We had no need to draw them in. They were the “Regulars.” The “Clubbers.” Those who had no life but the night. Those who did but one thing - go out into the abyss to dance. Religiously. Addicted. Everynight. They were Nothing. The Lost Ones. Soulless. I knew them all, those sensual deities... And a few of them were like Me... Immortal...

The DJ put on a “hometown” artist - Trent Reznor. (Fine, maybe he wasn't born here, but it's close enough.) Select and magnificent tracks of The Downward Spiral and March Of The Pigs EP started to shake the foundations.

I went to the floor to dance. Black motorcycle jackets protected those who started slamming. Those who usually went to the Top 40 dance clubs seemed a little unnerved. Spinning Kindred sent cloaks in spiraling flight. Skins stomped like madmen in Docs and suspenders. Hate and anger electrified the air and insanity boiled in the eyes of a raging crowd. Strobe lights froze a thousand images into the mind. Dry ice and fog machines turned the frenzy of dance into a surreal nightmare. I became lost in it all as Nine Inch Nails wailed malice... It was My world... I was home...

I don't know how long I danced. Time vanished and the music filled Me. There was a Curve song just starting when I noticed Devan Fordough in the sea of people and light. He was very handsome. Tall. Long black hair. He was lead singer in a local industrial/gothic band called “Lioncourt.” They took their name from Lestat de Lioncourt, the main character in the infamous Vampire Chronicle novels by Anne Rice. Their band was excellent.

Lioncourt was going places.

He approached Me, smiling. As we hugged hello, he asked, “How's it going!?”

“Good!” We separated.

“Hey, man, You'd better come outside!”

“What's up!?”

“Just come on! Felicia wants You!”

She was the manager. Felicia Delbourne - a classy blonde Woman with a southern drawl. She was a Playmate many decades ago. October. Took Her centerfold on a pool table. I always tell Her that She looks like She hasn't aged a day. Lucky for Her She's not Dorian Gray.

“Wait'll this tune's over, Devan!”

“Just have Jim play it again! Come on!” He tugged at My arm. Oh, fuck. I was annoyed. More-so at Felicia than Devan. But Devan wouldn't do this without good reason. I went with him, groaning. “What is it!?”

We moved closer to the entrance and the mood of the crowd changed. Incoming patrons were tense, almost paranoid, looking over their shoulders, saying things like:

“How are they going to get in!?”

“What were they yelling!?”

“What's going on!?”

“I don't know, dude!”

“Shit, that's crazy!”

“I'd hate to be working security here tonight!”

Brandon and his friend were quietly nervous.

Felicia spotted Me and grabbed My arm. John Dackman was with Her too. He was an enormous black man. He had been a professional weightlifter and boxer in the 1940's. Won a few competitions. I've seen trophies. He and Felicia were lovers.

“Found Him!” Devan told Her.

“Thank goodness. Am I glad You're here. I asked Devan to find You - I was just going to look for You Myself.”

“What the fuck is going on?” I asked. The entrance to the club itself was far enough removed from the street that most people standing in line (including those lined up outside) couldn't see what all the commotion was about. Swaying torsos, tip-toed feet, and craned necks tried vainly to offer a better view anyway.

As Felicia, John, Devan and I rushed out of the club, My question was quickly answered. We stood on the edge of an enormous cement patio overlooking a railing to the street almost fifteen feet below. About eight-hundred protesters were lined up and down the sidewalk, three rows deep. Some sitting with arms interlocked, some marched with signs.

Slogans on shirts and signs read, “We Shall Overcome” “Our Parish Shall Not Perish” “Give Us Back Our Church” “The House Of God Is For The Holy” “Return Our Lady Of Gentle Compassion” and more.

Over and over again, many chanted:

“Je - sus Christ... Is Our Strength!”

“Je - sus Christ... Is Our Strength!”

A priest encouraged them. “I can't hear you!... I still can't hear you!”

They were not only blocking the sidewalk itself, but all of the driveways to the clubs parking lots. Traffic was jammed in the streets. The traffic light in front of the club changed time and time again, but no car could move. From our vantage point, I could see cars lining the street in each direction for about half a mile.

Among the gridlocked cars, across the street, directly in front of the club, was a white Chevy station wagon, jacked full of speakers. Empirical Sound. Alpine. It was a sound system that “could vibrate the timing off of a car that passed it on the freeway.” It belonged to a Regular named Kristian. He and his friends idolized A Clockwork Orange - obsessively. They all dressed in white with white trenchcoats and black fedoras. Kristian and his Droogs. They were all insane... And undoubtedly pissed.

Wannas, skinheads, punks and gangstas all taunted the congregation of parishioners. Car horns blared. Drivers yelled:

“Move, you fucker!”

“Get the hell out of my way!”

“You wanna eat that sign, you psycho religious shit!?”

“Yo! Asshole! Move it!”

“Hey! What's up with this!?”

The freaks and degenerates joined in. None of them were even in line to get in anymore. Yelling at the protesters was more fun.

The protesters yelled back:

“This isn't a playground! It's the lord's house!”

“That's our church! We want it back!”

“This is god's house, not yours!”

“Je - sus Christ... Is Our Strength!”

“Je - sus Christ... Is Our Strength!”

Tension was growing on both sides. The picketers were determined that their voice be heard in the face of impossible odds. Desperately clutching to old causes and prayers in vain. Prayers their imaginary god was powerless to answer. Hopes he would never grant.

They were mostly middle-aged couples. The kind of couples who had families. Families with proud sons, loving daughters, and chipper fucking family dogs. Married a dozen years under vows of eternity, already longing to return to their marriage counselors in their old church. Already regretting their eternal vows after a handful of years. Fearing such blasphemous thoughts and the wrath of their god. They know nothing about eternity.

And then there were the others. The old, withered people, burdened with the sins of a lifetime, one foot already dipping into eternal heavens. Uselessly trying to cling to a sliver of their past. Insignificant lives approaching their long overdue demise.

And finally, the young, well-adjusted teens. Attending youth renewals and planning for college. Condemning those who failed to conform to their standards of appearance and thought. Going to pop and christian rock concerts in cars their mommy and daddy bought them on their sixteenth birthday. Feeling like they'll live forever. Unable to imagine the weakened, feeble body and soul that inevitably awaits them down the compassionless corridors of time.

Mounted forty feet above the entrance, immense jets of red flames ripped skyward from flamethrowers on either side of the behemoth, marble “Gothic Rainbow” sign. The entire scene unfolding in front of the club was illuminated in the eerie, hellish orange glow of their fire.

This was Our castle... and the villagers were pissed...

“Fuck.” I looked at Felicia. “Felicia, what the fuck is this?”

She looked at Me apologetically. Before She could say anything, John said. “It's My fault... Uh, I should've told Her sooner.”

I rolled My head. “Well, no shit! These assholes didn't just materialize here, did they? I mean, a few hundred people take awhile to show up, don't they?”

I glanced back below, both hands clutching the railing. “Fuck... Damnit, John.” Back to Felicia. “You know You two have responsibilities here.” My tone became very matter-of-fact. “You're the managers. You're a team. You're supposed to be working together. Okay? And this - this is just a fucking mess. Camillia is going to shit.”

“I - I know. I'm sorry.” Felicia interjected.

I turned around and pointed at the doors of the club, frustrated. “Well, shit, look at this! There's like, what - eighty people in line?” Pointing back to the protesters. “And thanks to this mess, no one else is coming in!”

I let out a long sigh. “Please, tell Me You're going to do something about this.” I turned to Them.

John nodded his head. Knowingly. The way one does when they've got a good idea. “I'll be back.” And He dashed into the club.

Devan was quiet. Felicia said. “You're right... I know. I'm sorry. This is crazy.”

The clamor grew louder. The tension tightened. Things grew uglier below. The crowds were ready to snap.

A young girl started to play Amy Grant on a portable radio. She and her friends started dancing. It was too loud. A bit too loud for some fellow degenerates to withstand.

In slow-motion, a full beer bottle flew at the radio and shattered inches away from it.

And that's when it started. The first stone was cast.

Frothy beer splattered the radio and sizzled on the sidewalk. The startled kids stopped dancing and looked in the direction the bottle was hurled from. So did almost everyone else.

A skin laughed and pointed at them. He flipped them off and made a “sieg heil,” much to the elation of his friends.

A priest dropped his “Keep Holy The Sabbath” sign and angrily approached the bottle thrower. He pushed up his sleeves. “Hey!... Hey, you!... Yeah, you punk! I'm talking to you!...”

...The Lamb broke the first seal...

Kristian's car peeled out of the traffic, shot across the street, and leapt over the curb in a spray of sparks. Fifty demonstrators jumped up and scattered like a scared flock of filthy pigeons. The sidewalk in front of the club was at least thirty feet wide. Plenty of room. Kristian had his parking space.

“Aw, shit... Here it goes...” Devan said.

Kristian and his four Droogs got out of the car, black hat and trenchcoat clad. They each had one hand in their coat.

The angry priest immediately turned his attention toward them and the commotion they caused. Car windows rolled down and drivers cheered Kristian's insanity. The crowds of freaks cheered. Fuming picketers surrounded Kristian and his Droogs.

“Hey! What do you think you're doing!?”

“Are you crazy!? Huh!?”

“Are you trying to kill someone!?”

“Hey! I'm talking to you punk! What's your problem!?”

Kristian and his Droogs stood there in silence. Unmoving. At brain-shearing volume, a song began to emanate from their car. The Beastie Boys, “Looking Down The Barrel Of A Gun.”

Out of five white trenchcoats flew five baseball bats. Kristian nailed the face of the nearest protester, sending a thick arc of blood through the air. Blood that sparkled in the light of the flames. The body hitting the ground was like the drop of a starting gate.

... The Lamb broke the second seal... And the rider of the red horse brought war on Earth so that men should kill each other...

The riot began.

Girls screamed. The gangs, skinheads, and hardcore punks broke out into the demonstrators. Switchblades flashed out of hands, reflecting the yellow glint of streetlights and flamethrowers overhead. Fists and feet battled wooden stakes with “God Forgives Your Sins” signs tacked to them. Spiked gloves and metal chains tore into flesh.

Some people jumped out of their cars to join in. People waiting in line finally gave up their places and gathered around the railing to watch the carnage below.

“Holy shit!”

“Fuck me!”

“Oh, my god!”

“Look at this!”

“Check this out!”

“No way!”

Old people scattered. Screaming, tortured souls unexpectedly cast into the fires of Hell. Young girls ran too. A few punker goddesses devastated the cowering teens. One girl among the protesters held their own with martial arts.

A gangsta had a kid on the ground and was wailing on his face. An old lady whacked the gangsta with her cane. He pivoted, shooting his booted foot into her knee. She went down as it popped.

Insanity raged and reigned.

Kristian and crew wasted everybody in their path with no mercy or remorse.

Old folks. Girls. A priest and a nun or two.

The hate was strong... The hate was sweet... The hate was lovely...

The girl who put on that Amy Grant tape tried to get her radio. She was nailed from behind and tackled to the ground. Hard. She screamed. Her attacker flipped her over. It was the bottle-thrower. She squirmed and frantically tried to scramble away. She screamed again. He punched her face and tore her sweater from the neck. Her hand fumbled in her pocket. She pulled out a small canister. Mace. He roller off of her, screaming and holding his face.

Cruelty was everywhere. Yelling. Screaming. Angry curses. Pleas for mercy. The violent hate of hundreds saturated the very air. I grinned ever so slightly. I took in a deep breath, to relish it all. Never had I felt so alive since the day when I ceased to be living.

Bodies shattered windshields. Bottles broke over faces. Picketers knocked people cold, breaking signs across skulls. People were pinned on their stomachs and their heads were slammed repeatedly into the ground. Some were ganged up on and pummeled. Ribs were cracked. Noses broken. Fingers crushed. Flesh gorged. There were people being cut, punched, kicked, stabbed, thrown, and clubbed. The Beastie Boys told it like it was.

Most of the demonstrators ran for their cars parked on sidestreets, leaving their peers behind. One woman who ran was assaulted by some punk girls. They tore off her blouse and dry-fuck raped her against a mini-van before she reached her stungun and zapped them unconscious.

Devan went back inside, saying it was “too crazy” for him.

So fast it happened. Simultaneously. Before Me were mortals who would label Me, “Beast!”... “Monster!”... “Devil!”... all reverting back to their barbaric, animalistic roots at the swing of a bat. Destroying one another in a single, massive fury. An anarchic street fight, converging and separating, over and again in one violent swarm.

Hypocrites!

So much for “turning the other cheek.” Fitting that I should find Myself perched above them. Superior. They were below Me in every sense, in every way. How strongly I fucking hated them. How beautiful it was to see them hurting. What pleasure that gave Me. The scent of their hate. The scent of their pain. Their blood... It drifted on the night winds, sweeter than any flower. More sensual than any perfume.

Gods did live in their church... and We were called “Vampire.”

Suddenly, John and Allyson burst out of the club with five other bouncers. Allyson had a hunting rifle. John had an uzi with an extended butt and a megaphone in one hand. The others had everything from a pistol to a Tommy-gun.

The surrounding crowd parted in startled fear. Allyson and John jumped up by some lampposts mounted in the railing.

Before anything else could happen, John fired a round into the air. It blared over the roar of music and fighting and the crowd froze in their tracks. It was as if the director of an epic movie yelled “Cut!” and the scene came to a dead halt. The crowd was silent except for the moans and cries of the many injured. The crowd was paralyzed, except for those uncontrollably writhing in pain.

Everyone looked up to the patio. Allyson leaned on the lamppost like an alluring stripper in a dance club. She effortlessly put the rifle to Her eye and pointed it at the Chevy on the sidewalk and held it in Her sights.

A Droog got the hint and shut the stereo off. John got on the megaphone.

“Alright people! That's enough!... This club is closed for the next hour!... Now clear out! The party's over!”

The crowd was still. Finally, one brave clergyman yelled. “You want peace!? Not until we have our say!”

He was shaking. His voice cracked on “we have.”

Allyson pivoted to face him and blasted his shin. She took the recoil like it was a BB gun. He fell to the ground with a horrible scream. The crowd screamed and scrambled back.

“I said the party's over! Fucking leave! That means everyone! Now!” John fired up into the air again. The picketers screamed and scattered - running, limping, hobbling with the injured. However they could, they fled. Cursing us with all the wrath of god on their way.

The Clubbers left too, defiantly.

“Man, fuck this!”

“Shit! That's lame!”

“This sucks!”

“Man, who needs it!?”

John turned to face those on the patio who had been waiting in line. “That includes you too people. If you're not in the doors yet, you don't get in for another hour.”

They were pissed.

“But we didn't do anything!”

“We were up here the whole time!”

“That's not fair!”

“What the fuck!?”

He apologized to them and herded them all out with the help of the bouncers. Along with the others, they went to the parking lot for their cars. Those who were injured left. Many of those who weren't hurt decided to hang out in the parking lot until they could get in.

The crowd dispersed. Some stragglers hung around, but a glance or two from Allyson convinced them to return later. Even Kristian left without a fuss.

It was over as suddenly as it began. Within five minutes, the entire outside of the club was deserted again. Even the street was relatively clear. No one had died. Surprisingly. Diamond shards of broken glass sparkled in dark patches of blood-stained asphalt and concrete. Broken, splintered stakes and torn signs were strewn about, skittering across the ground in a light breeze. No other evidence of the fight was seen.

Except for a frothy spot of beer on the sidewalk, littered with bits of a broken bottle.

Felicia sighed.

I did the same and patted John's arm. “Good going... Please do not let this get this way again. Okay? I'll tell Camillia You did what You could. Okay?”

“We won't let it happen again.” Felicia interjected. “John, We're going to put security back outside again. Double what it was.”

“Sure thing, little Lady.” He turned around. Allyson was still on Her perch, pretending to shoot things with Her rifle, making sound effects like a little kid.

“Allyson?” John reached out His hand and walked towards Her. “Allyson!”

She looked at Him. Smiled. “Oh... Is there anything else I can do?”

“Yeah,” John chuckled, “Go back inside and have a good time.” John helped Her down and relieved Her of Her gun.

“Cool.” Allyson said. She put one arm around Me and We followed John and Felicia into the club.

Static crackles of hate, still lingering in the air, nibbled at the back of My neck...

∞ ∞ ∞

Allyson went back to Her new Pawn while Felicia and John went up to their offices. I headed up to the DJ booth to see Jim Wesson. Jim was in Lioncourt too. He was their drummer. On Thursdays, he used to DJ for industrial night at a club called the House Of Altars. On Friday and Saturday, he spun at the Rainbow. Sundays, he played Necropolis. He was damn good too.

“Hey there! How's it going!?” Jim asked. The booth was dotted with tiny white track lights, the size of small reading lamps, to illuminate the equipment and music library in the darkness. It caused weird, eerie shadows and strategic clusters of light all over the room.

“Good!”

He only gave Me half his attention, cuing up Bauhaus. He gestured “hold on” to Me for a second before he shook My hand hello.

“Do Me a favor!?” I asked. “Play Curve again!?”

“Sure! What tune!?”

“I dunno! Something older. “Blindfold” or “Fait Accompli” or something!”

Jim nodded. “No problem! Hey, what was going on outside there!? Do You know!?”

I shook My head and pulled up a chair. “Holy shit! It was like... five hundred of these protesters out there! It was just insane!”

“Protesters!?... For what!? The church again!?”

“Yeah!”

“Wow! There were never that many any other time! I mean, before when they came, there might be... what, a dozen maybe!?”

I shrugged. “Well, not this time!”

He began to cue a second song, “Firebird,” a song from Lioncourt's first album, Vampire Theatre. Jim looked amazed. “Didn't that judge put a restraining order on them or something!?”

“Yeah! But it didn't matter tonight!”

He shook his head. “Shit!... How could that many people wind up out there with no one noticing!?”

“I don't know! I don't think they had any security outside! Felicia and John told Me They'd make sure it didn't happen again!”

“Damn. See, I knew taking security off the outside wouldn't work! I could've told Them that!” He paused. “They'd just better not let it happen again or Camillia would boot Them out on Their asses!”

“No doubt! I tried to hint at that!” I jeered.

“How is She anyway!?”

“Who!? Cam!?”

He nodded.

“Oh, She's cool! She's been back in France with family all week! She got home last night!”

“Oh, yeah, I remember You telling me about that!”

“What's that!?” I had actually heard him just fine.

“I said, yeah, I remember You telling me about Her going to France!” He said, flipping through CDs he'd pulled. “Is She here!?”

“No! She's at a party tonight!”

“Oh!... Are You going to tell Her about tonight!?”

“Well, I'm gonna have to! Better She hears it from Me than on the news tomorrow!... Besides, I can stick up for John and Felicia! They did handle it pretty well!”

“Oh! They got rid of them!?”

“Yeah!”

“How!?” He put a disc on a tray.

I laughed. “John fired an uzi in the air and scared the shit out of them and they ran!”

Jim's eyes widened. “Fuck me! Really!? No way! An uzi!?”

“Yeah!”

“An uzi machine gun!?” He couldn't believe it.

I shifted in the chair and commented. “Nooo! A fucking uzi pickle!... Shit! Yes! A machine gun! What other kind of uzi is there!?”

“You're not serious!” He studied My face until he was convinced I was serious. It didn't take long. “Where the fuck did He get an uzi from!?”

“Damned if I know.” I lied.

“That's nuts, man! Camillia won't like that either!”

What do you know? Camillia would've shot at the fuckers if they'd pissed Her off. Never pretend to know Us. “Oh, She'll be cool! Besides, I think they were blanks! That's what He said!” I lied again. “Come on, John's not stupid, you know! He wouldn't shoot real bullets for christsake!” I wasn't about to reveal Allyson shooting the priest.

Jim laughed. “Blanks!? Oh, shit! That's pretty funny then!”

“Yeah, I know!” We both laughed about it. Jim laughed at the image of a terrified crowd of peaceful demonstrators dropping picketing signs and running for cars. I laughed at the image of faces spraying arcs of blood through the air and skins screaming as mace filled their eyes.

As we laughed, Jessica Razzman and her brother Sevrin came sprinting up the stairs. They were the final two members of Lioncourt. They played guitar and keyboards, respectively. Everybody called Jessica, “Zi Zi” when she was younger and the name just stuck.

“Hi, guys!” I said. Sevrin nodded and smiled. Zi Zi hugged Me and pecked My cheek.

“How goes it!?” She asked.

“Not bad!”

Jim and Sevrin said hello. Zi Zi kissed Jim too and asked him, “Oh, did you hear what happened outside!? There was this huge riot out there!”

“I know!” Jim said and motioned toward Me. “He just told me! John fired a gun in the air to stop them!”

“What!?” She looked at Me.

“No way!” Perked up quiet Sevrin.

“Devan didn't tell us that!”

I explained. “It was after he left!”

“No way! A gun!?”

“Jeez! Yes! A gun! How many times do I need to say it!? It had blanks in it! It's no big deal!”

“No shit!?” Sevrin asked.

“No! I shit you not!”

Jim asked, “You're not full of shit!?”

We all chuckled. I said, “Holy shit! We're in a church! Stop swearing!”

“You mean “cut the shit!?”” Zi Zi giggled.

We all groaned and Jim playfully slapped the back of her head. “Stop that!”

“Eat shit!” She half-yelled, half-laughed.

“Stop! Mercy!” Sevrin groaned.

“Oh, yeah!? Why!? Who do you think you are!? You think your shit don't stink!?”

“You started this!” I laughed to Sevrin.

Zi Zi laughed, “Yeah, you started this shit!”

“Oh, that's it!” Jim started to tickle her. She was laughing and screaming and trying to get away from him.

He let her go and looked over My head at the stairway. “Oh, hi, Aur - ” He paused awkwardly.

We had two more visitors.

Two supple hands covered My eyes from behind. “Guess who!”

Guess, My dear? It was Auri Nellis. She was seventeen. A platinum blonde from Mentor, with crisp blue eyes and porcelain golden skin. Unbeknownst to her mother, she was a nude dancer at a strip club down in the Flats. Most her friends didn't even know. She told Me the night we met. The first night I found her blood was a sweet and pure honey. No need to guess, My lover. I could smell the scent flowing in your veins a dozen feet away. Her friend Colleen knew about her job.

Colleen was with her, but I hardly ever spoke to Colleen.

“Um, let's see! Is it... Auri!?”

“Yep!” She jumped around to face Me. “Allyson told me You were up here!... Oops!” She stumbled. She was wasted.

I stood. “How have you been!? You vanished for a few weeks there!”

“Oh, I know! I've just been busy! You know! School and stuff like that!”

“Yeah! And work!”

“And work!” She agreed.

Colleen and I said hello.

“Well, this is getting way too crowded up here!” I said, taking Auri's hand. “Come on, let's give Jim some room!”

“Cool!” Jim smiled. “I'll see you later!”

I grinned and started to walk out with Auri and Colleen.

“Hey!” Jim called out. “You're going to be at our show tomorrow, aren't You!?”

“Wouldn't miss it! The Agora!?”

He nodded. “Nine o'clock!”

“I'll be there! Cam wants to go too!” Brief pause. “Say, who's subbing for you here tomorrow!?”

He made a face. “Wayne Farina!?”

He was a DJ on the local “commercial alternative” station called “End Rock.” It had a disgustingly large following in spite of how awful it was. The oxymoronic stupidity of “commercial alternative” never ceased to amaze Me. It was a pop station, plain and simple. If your band wore make-up, had any European accent, or wore flannel, and it released a single on a major label about love or filled with angst, End Rock would play it. Despite their claims, they were nothing new. Nothing unique. Ninety nine percent of their music library was a cesspool of stagnation from which the same old rotten corpse of Twentieth Century pop music was drugged up time and time again. Covered with more layers of crap each time, to create the illusion of being different. Same shit, different day. End Rock sucked. College radio was still the best.

“Yuck! Glad I won't be here! See you guys tomorrow!”

“Bye!”

“Later!”

“Take it easy!”

Auri and I went downstairs and found a couch in a quiet corner while Colleen took her leave to dance.

That was a mistake.

Auri's voice grated My nerves. She was on a drunken self-pity trip. I didn't really give a flying fuck about a single thing she told Me. All that I did pay attention to was that scent below her flesh. Yes, My dear.

Tell Me more. Open your soul unto Me. I will be so gentle with your pain.

She went on and on about her problems, fidgeting with the ruffles on her poet shirt the whole time she talked. Her grades were dropping. She was flunking out of school. She was really depressed, so she'd been going to school stoned a few times. Fuck it, right?

Her teachers called her stupid and she was starting to believe them. I didn't think she was stupid, did I?

No, hon. Of course not. Don't be silly.

Her best friend, Mark, won't talk to her anymore and everyone in school thinks she's a slut. Mark is gay and Auri fucked Mark's boyfriend, Danny. Mark “really loved him.” They'd been together for six months. But, she was just hanging out with Danny, watching movies and shit, and they got a little fucked up and started messing around a little. It was a mistake. She didn't mean it. Yeah, sure.

Auri's mom caught them in bed together, a week ago, and threw her out of the house. She was staying with Colleen for now. But, fuck her mom anyway. She'll be eighteen in eight months and then her mom can just fucking kiss her ass. You know?

My lips brushed her neck. I closed My eyes.

I didn't think she was a bad person, did I?

No, Auri. No. You're not bad.

Her mom thinks so.

One hand reached over her firm stomach. The other slid behind her back, over her thin waist. Into her pants. Under her smooth panties. Moist.

Everyone hates her. Nobody fucking gives a shit what happens to her... Her mom doesn't love her anymore... Why doesn't her mom love her?

I looked at her and told her it wasn't true.

Show Me your soul.

... She cried. Hard. A handful of tears landed on her blouse and rolled like mercury between the ruffles. Auri pulled away from Me, her body convulsing and sobbing, and curled up into a fetal ball on the sofa.

Bitch.

∞ ∞ ∞

I left her there, disgusted by she and her petty life's troubles. I danced for half a dozen songs before Natasha came up to Me. She was a little older than Me. She was dancing with a jock. The collegiate-varsity type. The type who would never call Her again. That's just how She would want it.

“Hi, hon.” She smiled. Her fangs showed. She was drunk.

She hung onto Me. “How are You?”

“Good, Tasha.”

She laughed and left with Her Concubine, who looked jealously at Me in his ignorance. And, like most of Her prey, there was something about him. Something reminiscent of Her lost love; a mortal named Scott... Forget his last name. Maybe I never knew it at all. Yes, something was similar to Scott... There always was. Sorrow emanated from them. Both were vampires. Both were victims.

Time passed.

∞ ∞ ∞

After Pigface, Dia Tribe, and a few more bands, I walked around some more. Auri was still on the couch, looking at the skyline, dazed. Tears on her cheeks dried in faint mascara-run lines.

“Hey, maybe you should get a drink or something!” I suggested over Andrew Eldritch's voice on the speakers.

“What!?” She sniffled, snapping out of it. I doubt she ever noticed I'd left.

I gently cupped My hand on her face. “Go on! Go to the bar! Get a drink! You'll feel better!” I knew damn well it was the last thing she needed.

She thought about it. “Yeah!... Maybe You're right!”

I took hold of her hands and we stood up together. “Of course I am! Get a drink! Just relax! Everything will be cool! You'll see!”

“Yeah, okay!” She pouted.

“Okay!... You wanna see the show tomorrow!?”

“Huh!?”

“The show tomorrow! Lioncourt! You wanna go!?”

“Oh! Uh, huh! Yeah!” She managed a partial smile.

“Well, give Me a call tomorrow and I'll take you if you still want to go! Okay!?”

She nodded.

“Okay! Good! Now go get that drink and mingle and have a good time! That's why you're here, right!?”

A full smile this time. “Yeah!”

“Yeah! Now get going!” I patted her ass with a firm shove.

She giggled. “Thanks! You're so sweet to me!” Wistfully, tear-damp eyes regarded Me affectionately. They turned colors as the rainbow beams of light from the dancefloor caught them. She kissed My cheek and was gone.

I sat down, put My feet on the table and closed My eyes. Dancing became a temptation when “Ruiner” by Nine Inch Nails came on. But I just sat there. Before I even began to relax, Nix came up to Me. I didn't even open My eyes.

“Fuck, Nix. What?”

“Oh, hey, man. Are You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. You don't look so good. You look kinda pissed.”

That's because You're here. I opened My eyes. “Everyone here looks pissed. And when I'm pissed, You'll know it.”

“Oh.” He looked timidly at the floor and didn't say a word.

Finally, I asked. “Do You want something, Nix?”

“Uh, yeah... Um, You still have My car keys, dude?” He asked as if He'd just thought of it.

For a second, I considered fucking with Him. But instead I said, “Oh, right.” I fumbled in My pocket, found them, and tossed them to Him. He thanked Me... And He kept standing there.

“What, Nix? Is there something else?”

“Uh, yeah.” He said, sitting next to Me. I rolled My eyes. “Dude, I wanted to ask You about Auri.”

“What about her?”

“Well... um, she's kinda cute, dude, You know?”

I glared. “... Yeah, so?”

He searched for the right words. “... Well, are You two, like, going out?”

“Like going out?” I repeated.

He groaned. “Dude, You know what I mean.”

“No, Nix, I don't. Enlighten Me. What are You getting at?”

“Well, uh, I wanna go out with her.” He paused, then quickly added, “I mean, if You're not... You know. Give her the old eternal hickey.” He grinned and nudged Me.

“You want Auri?”

“Yeah. I mean if it's okay wit - ”

- My eyes narrowed. I grabbed His shirt.

“Hey!” He squealed.

“You know what, Nix? I thought You might be leading up to something that stupid. I'm not stupid, Nix. I started to figure it out all by Myself. But apparently, You are stupid, Nix. You didn't figure out that she's Mine, did You? Do You understand that?”

He nodded rapidly. “Yeah. Yeah. I understand. I'm sorry dude. I - I - ”

“ - No, I don't think You do understand. Listen. You can date her all You want. You can talk to her. Hang out with her. You can fuck her. I don't care. Write her fucking lovey-ass, Hallmark-card poetry and make her all gooey for Your worthless ass. I - could - not - care - less. But she's My Concubine, Nix. Her blood... is Mine. You touch a drop and I will be pissed off.”

“O - Okay. I - I'm sorry. I just re-really like her. That's all.” He spat out nervously.

I sighed and let go of Him, speaking more calmly. “You re-really like her? Look, Nix, that's fine. But she's Mine, okay? Now, I'm sure You have girls of Your Own.” Well, I wasn't that sure. “Now forget Auri.”

“Yeah, dude, but this - I mean... It's like, this is deeper almost than just, like - ”

I couldn't believe this. It wasn't like Him to go on like this. “ - Deeper? Deeper than what?... Oh, fuck... What, Nix? You're not going to tell Me some bullshit You've come up with about falling for some fucking mortal, are You?... Huh? Is that what You're trying to fucking tell Me? Is that what you're wasting My time with?”

He looked hurt. “No.”

I stared Him down. Scrutinizing.

“No. No, dude.” He repeated. “No. It - It's not like that.”

I still stared. Seconds ticked by.

“Good.” He was a terrible liar. “And that's My answer too: No. You draw one drop of her blood and I'll draw every drop of Yours. Got it?”

“Got it, dude.” He was so let down. He muttered the words almost inaudibly.

Without another word, I got up and headed to the dancefloor, engaging in more superficial conversations with a few Regulars (both Damned and mortal alike) on My way. Most were much like My talk with Natasha. The ritualistic exchange of nothing:

“Hi!”

“How are you!?”

“Good!”

“Cool!”

The elixir of dance intoxicated me for hours then, until the club was nearly ready to close. Slowly, over time, the crowd diminished. Vanishing until only a few dozen souls remained. Last Call had long since passed. The cavernous place had a lonely chill to it when it was so deserted. Foreboding basslines echoed. Saints frozen in stained glass were sinister when night stood behind them and sunshine was only a memory. Meaty hands of devils covered the mouths of screaming angels in the shadows.

Halos tarnished.

Wings snapped.

The gargoyles grinned.

... And in the dark rooms of the basement, where no one went anymore, one could sense... things... were laughing...

∞ ∞ ∞

I sat down on a love seat by the edge of the dancefloor. “Kingdom Come” by Will had just ended.

“What's wrong, sweetie?” Allyson's left arm wrapped around My shoulders as She sank into the cushion next to Me.

I shrugged and shook My head. “Nothing.” I looked at Her. “So, what's her name?”

Allyson pulled away from Me with a triumphant grin on Her face. She reached into Her pocket to produce a crumpled cocktail napkin with a phone number and the name “Jill Berico” scrawled above it. Allyson turned to face Me, crossing Her left leg under Her body. She melodramatically started in a stereotypical game-show-host voice. “She's engaged. And her fiance just got a job as manager at some clothing store in La Place! She's a graduate student in geology at Case and she's interned at BP!” Allyson's face was completely over-animated. I smiled as She finished. “And the love of her life swept her off her feet at Riverfest two years ago, and now that's where they want to be married.”

I looked at Her. We both crooned, “Awwww!” Simultaneously.

“Isn't that sweet?” I batted My eyelashes.

“Fucking, please.” Allyson said in Her natural tone, sitting straight again. She stuffed the napkin away. “Yours never showed up. But You can meet her next time.”

“What?” I asked.

“I told You I had something special in mind for You. But she never got here. She told Me she'd try to make it. Something must've come up.”

“Oh... So, You know this person already?” Obviously. I asked redundantly, but not really caring at that point.

“Yup... You ready?” She hopped to Her feet.

“Sure. Whenever You are.”

∞ ∞ ∞

We made Our final rounds, saying goodbye to everyone who was left that We knew. As We said goodbye to a few mortals in the lounge, I looked down into the parking lot and saw Nix helping Auri into His car. She could hardly walk, she was so trashed. I smirked as her vomit ran down the outside of His car door. She didn't manage to get all of it out the window either.

As Allyson and I were going up in the tower to see Felicia and John, We saw two cops walking out the front doors.

“ - but we've got all these witnesses!” One cop yelled. “You mean we're not going to take them in!? How can you just let Them go like that!? Why aren't more of those people from the rally coming forward to - ”

The other cop glanced over his shoulder at Allyson and I as they stepped out the door. He hesitated. Streetlight flooded in and his body became a silhouette. He adjusted his cap. “ - Look! Just shut your mouth, Anthony! We did what we could. Now, come on... this place gives Me the creeps.”

“Did what we could? How can - ” They left and the door closed.

Allyson and I fell over Each other, chuckling. She mocked the second cop. “Come on Anthony. This place gives Me the creeps. Time to go now.”

I whined in a nasal voice. “Oh, but, why? We've got all these witnesses? Can't We bust Them? Huh? Huh? Can We?”

We laughed even harder. Snickering, I went over to the door, listened, and held the handle ready to open it.

“What?” Allyson laughed. She walked over to Me, hunched over and giggling. “What are You doing?”

“Wait. Watch this.” I laughed. “Watch. Watch.” I held up a finger to silence Us. I got My composure, cleared My throat (more for show than necessity), put on a strait face, and walked out.

“Hey, pig!” I yelled. There were several cops and squad cars outside along with protesters bent on pressing charges against the club. The night lit up with flashing red and blue. The cop named Anthony looked at Me.

“Yeah, you! You fucking pig!” I pointed.

“You talking to me?” He looked pissed. Cocked his head. Stood akimbo.

“Don't play deaf, you fucking pig! I know you heard Me!”

He glanced at his fellow officers, then back to Me. “You have some kind of problem, pal?” Anthony asked, coming back at Me.

“You're gonna have a real problem unless you get you fucking pig ass up here! Now, Anthony!”

The cop came faster. “Now!? Oh, really!? You fucking punk little shit!”

“Yeah, you goddamn pig! Right fucking now! Let's go! Get your fat ass up here! Come on!”

“What are You doing?” Allyson whispered out of the crack in the doorway.

I called upon the shadows. The shadows mixed with light... With the hands of devils... With the screams of angels... With the grin of gargoyles... With the laughter of things in the dark. Shadows and the blood of a rioting crowd.

Something twisted.

Out of the darkness, things took shape.

A bright, pink pig faded into being out of the shadows cast by the absence of bright yellow streetlamps and towering flames. It squealed and ran up the stairs toward Me, nearly knocking over the angry cop named Anthony.

“You stupid fucking pig!” I said, gently petting it. “It's about time you got your ass up here! Don't you know you could've gotten hurt out there with all these people running around, Anthony? I've been worried sick, looking all over for you. Dumb pig.”

The cop stopped dead in his tracks.

What's the matter asshole? You got the creeps now too? Silly boy. You think you're all grown-up now? You've got your badge and you think you're a man. You think those nameless, shapeless beasts that await you in the dark are gone, don't you?

Remember?... Those things that hid in your closet... Under your bed... Waiting for you to move... To hear you breathing under the covers as fear-drenched sweat stung your eyes...

Mommy and daddy lied. There are such things as monsters.

... Can you hear Us? ...

The cop stammered quietly. “Wha-What?”

The other officers were stunned too. Then, they stared laughing at him.

I looked up, pretending I'd just noticed him. “Oh, good evening officer.” I grinned warmly. I grabbed the pig by its big metal collar. In huge letters, the collar had the name “Anthony” engraved in it.

I took the pig and walked back into the Gothic Rainbow.

The door closed and the pig vanished back into the dark. Allyson was in hysterics. She was slumped on the floor, blood tears running down Her face.

∞ ∞ ∞

We managed to leave just as “My Way” by the Sex Pistols started to play. Jim's trademark “last song” of the evening. Dawn was still hours away.

∞ ∞ ∞

Skinny Puppy's “Monster Radio Man” played out of the car stereo as We sat at the light to leave the parking lot. Cops still stood around, half-heartedly taking statements. Squad car lights still flashed. Demonstrators still cried for justice. Wondering: Where was the media? They called every news channel and the newspapers. Where were they? Wasn't anybody going to cover this?

A protester pointed at Us. “That's Her! There! Hey! There! In that car! I know who it is! I swear it is! She's the one!” But in the turmoil, no one seemed to care. His cries went unheard.

... No one listened ...

Chapter Three

“You're quiet.” Allyson never lost her touch of a French accent.

We had been driving for awhile. She was taking a long way home, headed north on Pearl Road. I watched the display of light rolling by outside the car. Nighttime in the city.

The Metroparks Zoo entrance sign was just turning out of view behind Us when I said, “Well, I'm just a little annoyed.”

“About what?”

“You.”

“Me?” Her open palm clutched Her chest. “And what may I ask did I do?”

I looked at Her. “It's what You didn't do. You could've told Me sooner that Your “special surprise” wasn't showing up tonight.”

“How was I supposed to know!?” She grumbled, still confused by My accusation.

“I don't expect You to have known. I mean I know You couldn't have ahead of time. I'm just saying that when it was getting late and it was obvious this person wasn't coming, You could've told Me then, instead of waiting until We left.”

“You could've asked Me too, You know.” Allyson noted. “You can't blame Me for her not showing up. What the hell does it matter? You'll get - ”

“ - I'm not blaming You. And the reason it matters is 'cause I could've just taken Auri.” I interrupted.

Allyson downshifted as We stopped at a light. “So, why didn't You?” She looked at Me.

I pursed My lips. “Ah, she was drunk.” I disapprovingly said. “And I was still counting on playing Our Game. I didn't want to be trashed for it.” I smiled. “I've learned it's best to meet Your surprises sober.”

She glanced at the light. Still red.

“That's why I'm complaining.” I continued. “Had You told Me We wouldn't be playing, I wouldn't have given a shit and I would've Kissed Auri.”

Allyson took out the Skinny Puppy disc. “Put something else on.” She handed the disc to Me and quickly scanned the radio. That left Us with tastes of Bob Seger, Whitney Houston, Roxette, Miami Sound Machine, some ballad by Chicago or Foreigner or somebody and other disgusting excuses for what the public calls “music.” Even the college stations had forsaken Us that night with ethnic shows and elevator jazz. I popped in a compilation disc. We were saved by the soothing tones of Sister Machine Gun.

The light changed. Allyson pulled away and a long silence fell between Us again. Miles passed.

“Don't worry about it. You'll still get to play. You'll still meet her. I promise.” Allyson eventually grinned in a sing-song tone.

“Oh.” I paused then added jokingly, “Well, okay, so long as she's not some old hag like that last one.”

Allyson cried in shock. “Old hag!? Like who? I never gave You - Who? Ms. Struzelli?” She mocked the name.

We called her “Ms. Struzelli” as a joke because We doubted that she was married - especially after the nice anniversary gift I'd sent her spouse...

“Yeah.” I giggled. “Ms. Struzelli.”

A quick glance at Me and Allyson knew I was kidding. Her hand shifted gears. “Oh, come - on. That woman was gorgeous. She was no old hag. She was only... what, forty-two?”

“Forty-three.” I corrected.

“Oh, right. Forty-three. Excuse Me. She looked like she hadn't aged since she was twenty-seven! She could've passed for One of Us!”

“Very true.” I smiled, remembering. “Praise the gods of the health spa.” I sighed.

“No shit. Little ingrate. She was perfect. You said she reminded You of... who in her forties? Teri Garr?”

“Goldie Hawn.”

“Whatever.” She laughed. “Then she reminded You of Cher, so You made her get those flowers tattooed to her ass!”

Knee-slapping laughter shook Us. We were balling.

“Hey,” I finally managed, “Cher was hot in her forties. Making those videos where she'd straddle those phallic fucking cannons on battleships and shit.”

“Did You ever find out what happened to poor old Ms. Struzelli anyway?”

I still snickered hearing her name - as running gags and inside jokes are apt to do, no matter how often they are heard. “Oh, I dunno.” I shrugged.

Allyson changed lanes, passing a rattletrap stationwagon. “Well, find out! You see, that's Your whole problem right there. You're just too... mean.”

“Mean? I'm mean?” My turn to put hand to chest.

“Well, not exactly mea - ”

“ - This coming from a Woman who came up with the idea to put the blood of kidnapped mortals in the milk cartons with their picture on them?”

We both laughed.

“No. No. Wait - ” Allyson began, still smirking.

“ - And what about Mr. Johnson?” I interjected again. Allyson nicknamed him “Generic” because Johnson was such a common name. And his other johnson was generic too - She said. “Huh? Generic Mr. Johnson? Remember? Look at him. You think I was mean - too mean - to Ms. Struzelli? Are You kidding? Look Who's talking!”

I jerked My thumb at Her and spoke out the car window. “The fucking Bitch Queen Of Hell sits here next to Me and calls Me too mean? Get serious, sweetheart. Please.”

“No. Damn it. Hold on. Let Me finish. What I meant was that - ”

“ - And furthermore!”

She raised a friendly fist. “Stop it! Fucker,” were Her words through clenched teeth.

Laughing: “Okay. I'm sorry. Go ahead.”

She sighed and slowed to another light. “What I meant is that You're too ... ambiguous sometimes, and it seems mean. I meant “mean” as in “uncaring.” You come off that way. You're too apathetic.”

“One can never be too apathetic.”

“I mean You're not spontaneous enough.”

That kind of pissed Me off. “Not? - What do You mean I'm not spontan - oh, shit. I hate that. That kind of crap is so - That's so annoying. That's such bullshit. I'm totally spontaneous, it's just that nobody else ever seems to want to participate in My ideas. What - ”

“ - Well, You can't rely on other people in order to be spontaneous for Yourself.”

Quizzically, I looked at Her. “Well, what do You mean? I know... I don't do that.”

“Yes, You do. You just said You do. You said nobody else ever wants to participate in Your ideas. You can't rely on anybody else. You have to rely on Yourself. That's what spontaneous is. That's My point. Other people won't make You spontaneous. You make Yourself spontaneous.”

“I know that. My point is that because of the fact that others hated My ideas, they wouldn't want to do them and then they'd say - “Oh, He's not spontaneous.” I was spontaneous. They were just dull.”

A flicker of a smile. “Well, then what about tonight?” The traffic light changed green and We went on.

“What about tonight?” I repeated.

“Well, if You are so spontaneous, then why do You care that Our Game didn't work out for You tonight?”

Before I could answer, She continued. “See what I'm saying? You're being ambiguous. You're acting like You're not having fun because I couldn't provide You with any. Like You need Me to plan it for You.”

Now I was really annoyed. “Damn! Little Miss Ego here! Back up a second. Hold on. Are You really twisting this around that much in Your head?”

“Twisting it around?”

“Yes! You're totally twisting around what I said. I mean, all I was saying is that I just - ”

“ - I'm not twisting anything. I'm just looking deeper than You'll admit.”

Heavy sigh. “Look... I was just... disappointed, really. That doesn't mean I wasn't having fun. It sure as hell doesn't mean I need for You to plan My fun for Me either. You think I'm not spontaneous because I was let down?... Shit, that's - stupid. I mean, You should take it as a backasswards compliment that I'm annoyed! I'm saying that I enjoy the Game and I wish I could've played tonight. That's all.”

“Okay, so what do You want to do?” We were just turning onto the Veterans Memorial Bridge, going east.

“What?”

“What do You want to do?”

“What? Now?” Crinkled brow.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I don't know.”

“See!” She pointed at Me accusingly.

I groaned. “Oh, what!?... What!?... Because I said I don't know, that means I'm not spontaneous?”

“Exactly.” There was a silence as I awaited Her to elaborate. She didn't.

My palm covered My eyes. “Oh, fuck.”

I uncovered them. This argument was futile. “Okay, fine. Well, if You're so hot, let's hear Your idea. C'mon! Teach Me. I want to see You be spontaneous.”

I edged over to Her and moaned deeply in Her ear. “Let's see what You've got.”

The corners of Her blackened lips curled into a You-asked-for-it sneer. Sinister and mischievous.

Our Testarossa tore through the intersection doing about eighty, when We impacted with the passenger side of a gold Cadillac and slammed it into the stone corner of the Brotherhood Of Railroad Trainmen building on West Ninth Street and Superior Avenue.

Two seconds before impact, their car horn blared in panic. The brief, piercing shriek of tires sounded like the wail of seals being skinned alive. When We initially hit, the shock was a deep bass tone - felt more than heard - which blended into the roaring sound of defiant steel, twisting into tortured, disfigured shapes. Shattering glass cried like I was in an exploding mirror maze.

- My arms instinctively crossed over My face as the collision hurled Me through the windshield. Crunching the glass -

- Then a white flash of pain as I slammed My head and glanced off the buckling hood. The night sky twirled under Me. Lightning sparked in the clouds -

- Or was it pain? -

- Vision swarmed -

- Vertigo -

- Breaking metal squeaked in a high pitch. My body spun in midair sideways and arched over the Cadillac. Arms flailed. The street flipped back beneath Me. Screaming -

- A second passed -

- Pain flashed again when My back smacked into the building. The stun seared through every nerve. I felt My face wince tight -

- The intense momentum bounced Me off at an angle that fiercely spat Me toward the street. Hands and feet tingled -

- The smashing metal whimpered - a ringing in the ears fading into silence -

- My body skimmed the sidewalk and I violently tumbled into the road -

- Glass fragments had the tinkling sound of crystal raindrops before settling quietly on the concrete -

The chaos unwound.

Motion stopped.

Vertigo ceased.

... Another second passed ...

∞ ∞ ∞

Cement was cold beneath My fingertips. The sole of My boot audibly ground bits of sand in the asphalt as I stomped a firmly planted foot under Me.

I stood up.

∞ ∞ ∞

I had to turn around to face the “accident.” Hissing steam sputtered out between the gaps and seams around the hood of the demolished Cadillac. It was crushed. Pinned sideways between the building and the front end of the Ferrari. A gasoline scent wafted through the air.

Inside the car, a voice repeatedly cried in anguish. But the occupants were obscured by the thousands of cracks littering the safetyglass of the windshield. Pink Floyd's “Dark Side Of The Moon” could still be heard, emanating from their radio.

Thunder grumbled. Lightning sparked in the clouds.

So, it had been lightning. A sudden gust of wind came and vanished, shuddering between the skyscrapers. A storm was rolling in off the lake. Fast.

The Testarossas front end was squashed like an accordion all the way up to the interior. Through the space where the sunroof had been, a lightly-pallored hand hooked itself onto the roof. Allyson effortlessly pulled Herself up and out. Not a scratch on Her fallen-angelic face. She stood tall on the roof of the car and quickly glanced around. Spotting Me, She flashed a smile.

In one fluid motion, Allyson locked one knee, bent the other, clenched Her fists, arched Her back, straightened Her arms out behind Her, threw back Her head, and howled.

“OWWWWWWWW!”

One fist thrust victoriously skyward. “Yes!” She smiled at Me again. “What are You doing way over there? You know You should always wear Your seatbelt.” She scolded.

The storm howled back to Her. She jumped onto the hood of the Cadillac.

I finally started to walk the ten yards back to what was left of the cars. Glass shards scrunched underfoot.

Allyson kicked out the windshield and tossed it aside. Pink Floyd sang substantially louder. Speakers laughed and told of lunatics in ones head. The passenger was a woman. Her fluffy blonde hair was matted down with blood. She had on a white, cleavage-emphasizing cocktail dress, gaudily covered with silver sequins. All the ones on her right side glittered red from the blood which soaked over the dress and halfway across her mangled body. She had one of those big, furry, boa scarves like stereotypical showgirls always have. Her lit cigarette had landed in it and was slowly smoldering on her lap. Her head was snapped back at an unnatural angle. Her eyes were open wide, staring into nothing. Dead.

Thunder and lightning announced the approaching storm once more. It started to drizzle.

The driver was conscious. Barely. Apparently, the impact knocked the side of his head into the drivers-side door window. As the window shattered, it tore a huge gash in his scalp. His short, black hair dripped and oozed a blood coating down his face. A gold chain necklace became red chrome. His grey suit discolored to brown in the places where it had sopped up blood. His legs were smashed. His left forearm snapped in a compound fracture and bit awkwardly into his gut.

“Help!” A mist of blood sprayed off his mustache as he gasped.

“Help me.” He was barely heard this time, slipping in and out of consciousness. Moaning. Yelling. Crying. Then muttering quietly again. Whispering. His eyes fluttered, rapidly trying to focus. They would close again. One eye was filled with blood... Still his radio laughed.

“Hey! No fair!... Our stereo broke!” Allyson whined like a saddened child. She was crouching, looking inside.

“What the FUCK was that Allyson!?” I shouted, angrily pointing at the car for emphasis.

She looked at Me, still smiling innocent. “What are You talking about?”

My hand regarded the destruction. “THIS!... That's what!” I was furious. “What the FUCK is the matter with You?”

She straightened up. Defensively: “I did what You told Me. Spontaneous.”

“You did wha - I - ?” My laugh grated with sarcasm. “Oh. Yeah. Well, that was real fuckin' spontaneous! Yeah, You're right Allyson... Uh huh. Totally... But slamming the fucking car into a building at 80 miles an hour is NOT what I had in mind!... Okay!?... Being catapulted through a fucking windshield!... What the fuck is! - You're! - Goddamn! - Fucking! - ” I couldn't speak I was so angry.

The storm broke with another burst of thunder. Large raindrops fell for a couple of seconds. Then lightning took a snapshot as wind suddenly slapped sheets of rain onto the city.

Allyson shut Her eyes and grinned up at the heavens. She threw Her arms out to Her sides, palms up, and spun in circles on the hood. Her weight dented it and grated tiny pieces of glass into the paintjob.

“Ahhhh, You see!” She giggled. “Blood is everywhere!”

She laughed happily and reached down at the driver. Her palm smeared across his face. She showed it to Me. Rain mixed with blood and trickled it off Her hand. “See! That's what You wanted, right?” She sat down on the hood and stared at Her palm. “See. It's everywhere.” Her tongue slid across Her hand. “Mmmmmm.” Faint speckles of blood dotted Her face where Her fingertips lightly touched Her.

I reached through and grabbed the dead womans dress by the cleavage. I jolted her forward with and angry tug. “This?...This!?” I shook the corpse. “No, Allyson. This shit is NOT what I wanted.”

I tossed the woman back. The smoldering cigarette caught flame. Sequins melted. A small fire crackled in her lap and timidly edged up her scarf.

Allyson pouted. Realization hit. “You're mad at Me?”

I didn't even bother to say anything.

Allyson stood again, the rain drenching Her. “Fine.”

The driver moaned. The flames grew.

Hastily glancing down then up again, Allyson braved. “You know, You are an ingrate! I can never do anything right for You, can I!?... Huh? Everything I do for You and You're never happy! No matter what I fucking do, You're never happy!... Can I? Huh? Can I do anything right?... It's never right. It's never enough, is it!? You're never happy with Me!... Are You?... ARE YOU?”

The man in the car wept for help again.

Allyson faced him and stomped Her foot. Her scream was piercing. “SHUT UP!”

He whimpered.

“STOP IT!... STOP IIIIIT!”

He mumbled. Delirious.

She grabbed him and brutally ripped him out of the car like a rag doll. He screamed. His smashed legs dangled uselessly.

“STOP INTERRUPTING ME! I'M TALKING NOW!”

She held him over Her head and pinned him against the building with Her left hand.

“IT'S MY TURN. I'M TALKING! SHUT UP!”

Her right fist flew into his face over and over. All the while, She screeched:

“SHUT UP!... SHUT UUUUP! YOU FUCKER! SHUT - YOUR - FUCK - ING - MOUTH! I'M FUCKING TALKING NOW! FUCK - ER! MOTH - ER FUCKER!”

Rain washed Her hair down the back of Her jacket. The mans face cracked. Puffy chunks of brain spat out of his forehead. His face was a sticky pulp of sinews.

Allyson was right - blood was everywhere. On the man. The car. On the building itself. Her arms were drenched in rain and blood. The mixture arced in drops off of Her fist whenever She cocked it back for a punch.

Lightning. Thunder. The hollow pop of cracking bone.

Allyson eventually let him go. His corpse slumped onto the hood with a heavy thud. She didn't move for awhile.

Fire consumed the dead womans dress and licked erratically through the car. Pink Floyd crackled into silence as the wiring succumbed to the flames. Their orange glow reflected off the slick black of Allyson's wet leather. Allyson just stood there. Mesmerized.

“... Allyson?”

She turned around - frozen still for a moment - and stumbled off the hood. Dazed. Crying. Her entire front was soaked in blood. Falling rain streaked the blood, mixed with Her make-up and ran down Her face. She was a mess.

“You hate Me.” She sobbed painfully. “... You hate Me.”

Stammering quietly, I reassured. “No. That's not - Ally, no. That's not true.”

“Yes You do!” She clutched Her chest, crying hard and slumping to the ground.

I reached out for Her. She buried Her head between My neck and shoulder as We tightly hugged.

“You hate Me.”

Petting Her hair, speaking soothingly, I responded. “I don't hate You sweetie... I don't... I love You. You're My best buddy in the whole world... I love You, Ally... I do... I really do... Don't cry... I love You, Ally...” I held Her for a few more seconds. We separated. I gently cupped Her face in My hands. “... And I'm sorry I got mad... Okay?...”

“I just wanted You to have fun.”

“I know... I know. I'm sorry.”

“You are?” She sniffled at My chest.

“Yes. I am... I'm sorry.” I pushed up Her chin. “... Okay? You forgive Me?” My eyes and smile pouted mercifully.

A moments hesitation. “W-Well... You're not mad?”

“No.”

“And You don't hate Me?”

“No. No, Ally. Don't be silly. Of course I don't hate You... Not even a itty-bitty bit.” I teased with a grin. “I love You.”

“Sure?” She finally smiled.

“Yes, I'm sure.” My smile broadened. I wiped Her brow and put a soft, full kiss on Her forehead.

We held one another for several more moments, Our fingers running through the length of Each others long, wet hair. I patted Her back and We pulled apart.

I looked into Her eyes. Our foreheads kissed. “You okay?”

She nodded a smile.

I grinned back. “Okay...” My arm embraced Her shoulders. “C'mon.”

We walked down the sidewalk together. The downpour grew fierce. The gusting winds grew more frequent, becoming a consistent breeze.

After a few hundred feet or so, She wondered, “Where're We going?”

I stopped. I turned around, looked at the wreck and drew in a hissed breath between My teeth. I jeered. “Well, My dear... Looks like We need a phone. I doubt We'll get very far in the Ferra - ”

The Cadillac exploded with a BOOM! that jolted the very block. We ducked. A brilliant orange and yellow mushroom of fir and smoke bellowed up through the rain. The colors glittered across the wet street. Sunrise on a black sea. Lightning and thunder played in time.

“ - I love the smell of napalm in the morning.”

Oblivious to My Apocalypse Now joke, Allyson giggled. She was like an insane child. Giddy. Psychotic. Proudly overjoyed at Her destructive creation, jumping in place and clapping at the sight. She was in Her Own world, dripping with rain and blood.

Walking onward, Allyson twirled and danced... kicking puddles... and humming “Singin' In The Rain”...

In My Own mind, Ministry sang “So What?”

... The lunatic was in My head ...

Chapter Four

“Goodness gracious! Whatever happened to You?” Isaac, Our butler, asked as he opened the door. A look of bewilderment on him as he stepped back and I walked in out of the rain.

Isaac Ingall was a refined and proper gentleman. Classy. But without the arrogant pretentiousness stereotypically associated with butlers. I liked him for that. Peering around My shoulder, he added, “A taxicab, Sir? Did You not depart with Mademoiselle Allyson in the Ferrari?”

Removing My dripping trenchcoat and handing it to Isaac, I said, “My apologies Isaac. Forgive My disheveled appearance. But I fear Allyson had one of Her... episodes this evening.” In a side-whisper: “Don't ask.”

Isaac smiled and nodded a slow nod. He graciously folded My coat over his arm, leaned toward Me and whispered back, “I understand Monsieur.”

Allyson jogged up to the door after paying the cab fare. The yellow vehicle quickly drove off, turning up the rain-slicked driveway.

“Mademoiselle Allyson.” Isaac greeted. “Wel - ... come home?” His jaw dropped, unprepared to see Allyson's condition. “My word! You look a fright Allyson!”

“I look a fright? Well, then you'd better attend to Me, 'eh Isaac. Can't have the Mademoiselle looking a fright, now can we?”

She took off Her leather. Her pale skin was clean except for the red V of stained blood down Her wet chest and bra. She threw the leather at Isaac.

“Ally.” I muttered.

Isaac slipped out of his own jacket and held it out to Allyson respectfully turning his gaze from Her. “Really, Mademoiselle!”

She removed Her bra and slapped it in his hand with a squish. He jumped, so startled by what She had done he nearly dropped everything. She roughly grabbed his shoulders and kissed his cheek. “Chill out Isaac. It's not the 1700's anymore.”

She traipsed off down the hallway, strutting, wearing only Her boots and shorts over Her pair of nylons.

“Allyson!” I called. “Allyson!”

She ignored Me.

Isaac began to walk off too - more offended than embarrassed.

“Isaac!” Agitation in My voice.

“Yes, Sir?” He faced Me.

“Where do you think you're going? You've seen naked women before haven't you? I've not yet given you My leave.”

He gazed at My feet. “Forgive me, Monsieur.”

I waved off his apology. “Tell Me, is Shamus still here?”

“No, my Lord. He left about one hour ago, back to Chicago. All His guests have gone as well, save the one.”

“The one?”

“Oui, Monsieur. The gentleman Davíd. He and Your Lady Camillia dance in the ballroom as we speak.”

“I see. Thank you, Isaac. That will be all.”

His bowed head finally moved. He smiled. “Your will, Monsieur... You'll be off to retire for the day soon then, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Good evening then, my Lord.”

“Good day, Isaac.”

∞ ∞ ∞

I went to the nearest bathroom to wash up. To remove the blood, smoke and rain. The mirror showed My make-up had run too, as I strained to see My reflection. Throwing on a robe, I went to find Allyson when I was finished. I snatched a blouse from Her closet.

∞ ∞ ∞

Allyson was playing the piano in a room that had immense windows overlooking the woods. Rain streaked them and the lightning froze the image of running water into ice.

The piano echoed the sad tone of “1959” by The Sisters Of Mercy. Allyson was straddling the bench like an evil Tori Amos, Her boots discarded at the foot of the dais the piano sat upon. Her eyes were shut. Her fingers danced.

“Allyson.”

The music ceased. Her eyes snapped open. She didn't seem surprised to see Me. She stared.

“I think You owe Isaac an apology.”

Allyson rolled Her eyes and scoffed facetiously. She muttered under Her breath, playing some more.

“You know I can hear You.” With one hand, I shoved the piano away from Her effortlessly. I was annoyed with Her.

She was frustrated. “What!?... Apologize to the help? Are You serious!? In two hundred years I have never groveled to - !...”

I stared more sternly.

“... Okay! Fine! I'll apologize!”

I threw the blouse at Her that I had gotten from Her room. “Good.” I kissed Her cheek. “G'night honey.”

“Good night!” She slid an arm through a sleeve.

∞ ∞ ∞

Johan Sebastian Bach. “Trio Sonata (For Flute, Viola, And Bass Continuum) In C-Major.”

That lilting melody echoed through the halls as I neared the ballroom. The mansion was dark but for an occasional flash of lightning light, blasting down through a skylight or a doorway. Thunder growled contempt at Bach's harmony.

But the music soared on. It flowed down hallways. It filled rooms. Oblivious to the storm and the dead with which it danced. Oblivious to the world. The music was immortal. Timeless. Knowing only itself. As if it were all that was. Perfect.

Under chandeliers, Camillia spun across the floor of the majestic ballroom. Her gown floating on the winds of Her momentum. Her fine hands reaching out delicately. Her hair up in a platinum-bodkinned chignon. She smiled at Davíd. Into his arms She floated and fell and their graceful dance continued, flowing on still more.

At the end of a long, blackened hall I stood in shadow. Gazing down upon them from the archway. Swans watched by the wolf.

Lightning flashed behind Me. Thunder rumbled down the hall, ferociously punching the sonata back into the ballroom. It rumbled a vicious child's sadistic laughter. Defiant. I felt the air tremble.

... I fell into the shadows of lightning and chandeliers. I melted into the bellow of thunder and the pelting of rain... I mixed into the song of winds gusting through ancient trees... I blended into a music that was immortal...

... The shadows and I were One ...

Bach lifted the dancers along. They skated on ice, elegantly in time with their reflections in the polished finish of the hardwood floor. Massive mirrors, draped in curtains upon the walls, reflected still more images of them.

They twirled. Music swam about them. Flowing. Moving. Gliding. Together. Apart again.

Music.

Dance.

Elegance.

Soaring.

Majesty.

Swans in flight, free and lofty among the skies. Carried by the wings of the airy tones themselves. Magnificent. Greater they flew. To mightier heights. Loftier heights. Beyond clouds. Up to the very stars. To see them for just an instant. The flash of a dream.

... And finally... skimming... back down to the waters from the heavens. The ripples of their wake blended gently into the shiny floor like a pond, and the swans rest. Peaceful. Serene.

One swan turns to face Me. She looks into the shadows... And She smiles... A swan, with the eyes of a wolf.

∞ ∞ ∞

Davíd's shriek drowned out Bach's sonata as Camillia plunged into his throat. A tiny spray of red dotted the glossy floor, and smudged a mirror.

Camillia lifted him over Her head and turned him upside down, as easily as if he were carved of styrofoam. His blood drained. Clawing hands and kicking feet flailed in vain.

... Finally, She righted him again.

The music ended. It echoed quietly into the thunder.

∞ ∞ ∞

Camillia looked at Her dance partner. Over the hollow sound of the storm reverberating through a desolate chateau , She said, “Oh, Davíd.” She sighed, pretending to be short of breath. “That was simply marvelous!... Thank you.”

“Thank You, my Lady. I... I fear You've made me... quite lightheaded... with Your beauty and our dance... I apologize. But, it was... all my pleasure.”

Oh, give Me a break! Aren't you just so suave, Davíd?

He kissed Her hand, and looked at Her longingly, relishing the moment. He sighed. Disoriented. “Ah, yes, well... But now I fear I've much... overstayed my welcome and I... I must take my leave.”

He tried smiling, but it didn't quite work. Rubbing his neck, he bowed politely and Camillia began to walk him out or the room, arm in arm. He stumbled slightly. I followed.

“Nonsense.” Camillia said. “It's terribly late and the weather is even worse. We have plenty of spare rooms. You're more than welcome to spend your evening in Our guest quarters.”

Patting Her hand, he told Her, “Oh, no!... No... By no means. I... I do so appreciate Your offer. And I mean You no insult by declining. You are... exceedingly gracious. But I should not impose myself. I fear it just... wouldn't be proper.”

He was having obvious difficulty remaining coherent. Keeping his balance. Staying focused.

Snicker.

I loved it. And Camillia never had any intention of allowing him to stay anyway. I slid across Camillia's ankle. The quake of a lovers touch. She shivered a quiet moan through pursed lips.

“Stop that!” She thought.

“Are You alright?”

“Yes, Davíd. I'm fine.” She answered.

Shadows giggled. Hissed.

“Quit!” “Well, if you insist on leaving, at least let Our chauffeur drive you back to the hotel.”

“Ah, You are too kind... Certainly. I had forgotten myself that Shamus had gone. By all means... I would be too grateful.”

“Excuse Me for a moment then.” Camillia went into a side room to buzz the chauffeur in private.

I followed Her and She felt Me in the dark. She smiled. I came closer.

“Don't You dare.” She whispered, but Her tone was permissive.

My lightless form brushed over Her thigh... Slowly... She moaned again. Much louder this time. Running Her fingers over Herself. Over inky shapes in the dark.

“Camillia?”

I slipped away.

“Yes, Davíd?” Frustrated.

Hee, hee.

“Is everything okay?” He peered in.

“Yes, Davíd. Certainly.” “You Jerk!”

“Jerk?... Him or Me?” I asked.

“Guess, babe!” She jeered at the dark.

Again, playfully, shadows hissed...

∞ ∞ ∞

The chauffeur awaited Davíd at the main doors, umbrella in hand. He helped Davíd don his coat.

“Thank You once again for an enjoyable evening, Miss DuBois.”

“Thank you, monsieur. I do hope I will see you again in the near future... I've truly enjoyed your company.”

He kissed Her hand once more. “As I have Yours. And let me assure You of us meeting again... in the near future.”

He bowed with a smile and walked out the door with the chauffeur holding the umbrella over Davíd's head.

“Farewell, Miss DuBois! And good evening!” He shouted over the storm.

“Good evening, Davíd.”

∞ ∞ ∞

The devils own darkness awaited Camillia on the steps. I swirled around Her legs as She walked to Our bedroom. A grin lit up Her eyes.

Dark. Dark across Her hips. The small of Her back. Over Her waist. Up Her chest.

Blackened snakes of shadow licking Her neck. Brushing Her lips... Slipping inside. Touching Her in ways mortal men could only wish.

... Pleasing Her in ways no mortal could dream ...

Chapter Five

Camillia laid together with Me in the aftermath of Our concupiscence.

Entwined flesh on blood-stained satin sheets. Our minds freed. Our souls lifted. Being as One in Our mutual damnation. We were the only true Adam and Eve. Shunned by a god. Cast out of Eden's Garden Of Life into Our Forever Death.

... Yet We were reveling in the aftermath. Grateful for Our curse. Laughing and spitting in the face of god. What god would deem the ultimate sins, We claimed as Our heaven. Our Rapture. Humanity and its deities were weak.

... We were mightier than any god ...

Her finger reached up and wiped a trail of blood from off the wall. I watched more drip from the canopy over Our bed onto Her hip. The drop slowly drew a sticky red line down Her curve. She slid Her finger over Her tongue and put it in Her mouth. Sucking suggestively. Alluding to where lips had been only moments before.

Her eyes closed. She tensed. Her back arced for a moment... and She moaned a final sigh of ecstasy.

We melted into each other. One.

Shuddering.

Breathing.

Night had come to an end...

I stared into a candleflame turned red by My tears. Now the veil of sleep to come cover Us... Despite My cries... Despite My screams -

- heard in My mind, a thousand miles off...

... Sleep... And all its nightmares... Again they would come. Unrelentless... Nightmares that had already come true...

Yes... Indeed...

Night had come to an end... And with it, the horror of dreams...

Chapter Six

“Dini! It's for you!” I shout with my hand over the mouthpiece. There is a pause.

“Got it!” My sister yells back from upstairs. I hang up the phone, and kept looking for my keys.

Damn. I hope she wasn't going to take forever - like she usually does - on that friggin' phone. We're late enough. Well... okay, it is my fault anyway. Well, kinda. But it's Dini's fault too. I told her to wake me up earlier. We were supposed to go catch the sunset at Huntington Beach, but I woke up at about seven at night. That's because I went to bed at noon though. That's when I got back from Chicago. I went with a bunch of people from school to see a friends band play, “Bambi Incorporated.” I know the bassist and the drummer. I go to school with them too. Great guys. They were opening for Pipe Choir.

Anyway, Dini and I are going to go over my girlfriends, Sasha's, house afterwards. After the sunset, that is. Then, the three of us are going to catch a movie and then, Dini and I are going to spend the night at Sashas'. Sasha's mom has six free tickets to Cedar Point Amusement Park and we're leaving to go there in the morning; Sasha, her mom and dad, Dini, and myself... oh! and Becky too!

They told us to bring someone else if we wanted. Dini wanted to bring her boyfriend, Mark, but he's in Florida with his dad for two weeks. So, Dini's friend Becky is going to tag along and meet us at Sasha's in the morning. She can't sleep over. Becky's parents are weird about that kind of stuff sometimes. I'm surprised she can come at all. They act like she's still seven or something. Poor girl.

Ha! I should talk about parents? Our parents, well, they kind of just... ignore Dini and I. They're always busy. Always working. We're home alone a lot. What's that phrase?...”Latch-Key Kids.” That's us. In fact, they're out tonight - a dinner party or something. On those rare occasions when they are home, they usually just watch television.

Dini and I feel like we raised ourselves. We have a joke between us - calling each other “Hansel” and “Gretyl” because we don't remember them having parents either. At least, we don't think they do... Oh, well, we made it up because it was the first thing to pop in our heads one day.

She and I are together constantly. Lots of people who don't know us presume we're boyfriend and girlfriend because we're so inseparable. She tells me that we're twins, but she's just three years late - or I'm three years premature. She's really tall and looks a lot older than she is... and I do look younger than my age... Hrumph. Maybe she's right about this twins thing.

Anyhow, Sasha lives in Cleveland Heights. Dini and I live in Parma. (Yes, with the pink flamingos on the lawn. Last Fourth Of July, somebody wrapped a brick of firecrackers around them like a bandoleer and blew them to bits. The next week, the damn things were back, courtesy of our grandfather.) Let's see, hop on... I-77 North to I-90 West to get to the beach. That's a good half hour. Then, hang out at the beach. Take I-90 East back to Chester Avenue and cruise that back to Sasha's. Another half hour at least, right there.

Damn. The longest day of the year and I'm running out of time. When is that movie? I grab the newspaper, absentmindedly trying to brush away a coffee ring stain. Movie is at 10:20 p.m. Plenty of time. And sunset is around, what, nine o'clock? Approximately.

What time is it anyway?... 8:27. Shhit. Forget it. We'll never make it. Not to the sunset anyway.

Especially if I don't find my damn keys! I check upstairs again.

“Dini, have you seen my keys!?” I yell at my dresser. No answer.

“Dini?” I go to her room. She's just coming out. Her backpack with a change of clothes and stuff (like maybe some of the taboo “girl things”) is slung over her shoulder. “You ready?” I ask.

She mutters. “Yeah.”

“I can't find my keys. Have you seen them anywhere?”

“Uh, dad's room? Did you - ”

I snap my fingers. “ - Oh! Right! I forgot.” He moved my car and always forgets to put them back.

“Okay, Grandpa Greer.” She smirks.

“Shut up.”

Another inside joke. Our mothers parents, the Greer's, were prejudiced assholes who disowned our mom because she married our dad. We had heard that Grandpa Greer just called dad, “That Fuckin' Nigger.”

He's not black. Our father is a Native American - Seminole Nation... But I guess that was close enough to African for Grandpa Greer's mentality.

So, because they abandoned us, whenever Dini and I forget something or lose anything, we call each other “Grandma” or “Grandpa Greer.”

“Don't pull a Greer,” we'll say if one of us is supposed to remember something. Forgot to mail a Christmas card?: “Oh, you Greered him!” That kind of shit.

Neither of us hold any real animosity toward the half of our family we never knew. Needless to say, we never make those wise-ass Greer cracks in front of our parents. Dini thinks it's all funny... But it does make me a little sad in a way... I feel sorry for them. If for nothing else, because they never knew Dini.

We never knew they were racist fucking dickheads. For years, our parents had told us that moms' parents were dead. Understandable. Would've made gradeschool pretty weird to know the truth. Mom wanted to wait until we were older to tell us... Nevertheless, it was pretty insane to find out...

“Hey... You okay?” I put my arm around Dini. She looks really out of it.

She finally looks up. “Oh, it's nothing.” Meaning it is something. She adjusts her pack, undoubtedly overfilled with lots of junk she won't need (like maybe too many clothes). “That fucking... dick was on the phone again.”

I know who she means. It was Glenn. He's some asshole she dated a few months ago. He's a lot older than her too. Everyone warned her about the guy. Bad influence and all. Of course, everyone was right too. The typical bullshit I-love-him-forever-but-I-can't-even-drive-a-car love. But she elected to learn the hard way. They always do. And they always think they're the first ones to ever have such emotions as such a young age. Nope. No one in all the history of humanity has ever felt this way! ... Sure. She was in that “rebellious phase” and the more her friends and family disapproved, the stronger her resolve in her convictions. That's why I don't trust him. She and I always shared everything, but she became really distant with me once she met him. Whatever he did, eventually, he really scared her. He started to get “really weird” she said. The last night she saw him, she burst in my room at 4 a.m., crying. Scared the crap out of me too. Things between us quickly got back to normal - we became inseparable again, maybe even closer than we were - but she still never talked about what he did.

But she's sixteen. It's her job to make those mistakes in relationships. It was her time. I understood. She finally broke it off, but he hasn't gotten the message.

“There was a girls voice when I answered it.”

“Well,” observes Dini, “not when I answered.” She's annoyed with me.

“I'm sorry... What did he say?”

“Just forget it. He's an asshole. It doesn't matter.”

I know Dini well enough to know that she's through discussing it now and if I press it any further she'll just get really crabby. So, I drop it.

As I scrounge through my dad's room, I say, “We're not gonna make the sunset you know.”

“I know. It's okay. We can see it tomorrow on the beach!” She says it really happily, like she's totally forgotten about her recent phone call. She wraps her arms around herself. “And you can hold Sasha in your arms. Oh, to make ze love in ze sand!” She teases and passionately kisses the back of her elbow.

I chuckle. “Oh, please. Well, you just wanna go straight to Sasha's then?” I jangle my found keys, under an argyle sock next to their clock radio.

Dini's arms drop to her sides. She adjusts the pack again. “I guess so. That's fine by me. Might as well.”

“Okey doke.” I look sideways at her. “Gee, can we say “redundant?”” I smile. “Let's go.”

I get my own backpack from my room and we hop in my rusty old car to drive to Sasha's.

∞ ∞ ∞

Sasha is in her backyard playing Frisbee (Aerobie actually) with their Golden Retriever, Malcolm, as I pull in the drive, behind her restored Corrado, blasting Balti Mora's “Tarzan Boy.”

She's hunched over, trying to pull the ring from Malcolm's mouth as he growls playfully and runs circles around her. Sasha's hair is back in a ponytail. She has on a tight red tanktop under a white unbuttoned blouse. She's wearing a pair of frosted jeans - cut-offs that Dini bought her on her last birthday. The tanktop is tucked in her shorts, but the blouse flies free. I can see her silver dolphin earrings too. Her favorites. And the matching pendant I got her last Christmas. When she opened the present, she joked, “What? Is that all?”

Like I said, she was only kidding... But I went out the next day and bought her a huge, six foot, stuffed animal dolphin.

“Happy now?” I asked her.

I smile at the memory.

Dini and I get out of the car with our packs.

“Hey!” Sasha yells. “You're early.” She pats her thigh at Malcolm. “C'mon boy!” He drops the ring.

They run at Dini and I. Malcolm barks and his tail wags happily. He cuddles all around Dini's legs.

Sasha hugs me. Perfect fit. We kiss. Even better. “Hi.” I smile.

“Hi.” We look dreamily into each others eyes for a moment. Then Sasha and Dini hug.

My turn to pet Malcolm.

We go inside.

“Say, um, you want something to drink?” Sasha asks, holding open the refrigerator door. “I'm so thirsty.” She straightens up. “Oh, I'm sorry. Just put your stuff on the couch for now.” She points to the patio. We do.

“What do you got?” I wonder.

“... Huh?”

“To drink. What do you got?”

“Oh! I thought you said “Woody Yegot” and I had no idea what the heck... Uh, lemonade?” Her eyes sparkle.

“Sure.” Dini and I were in stereo. We laugh.

Sasha pours our drinks into tall Ren&Stimpy glasses and we go out onto the patio. Dini and I sink into a couch, Sasha between us. We all slip off our shoes. I think I hear “American Pie” by Don McLean, from the living room.

The screens are open. A warm breeze blows through. Crickets and fireflies are starting, chirping and dazzling. Christmas lights for the summer wind. Malcolm comes in and lays in front of us and we all rub his back with our stocking feet. He loves that.

“So, how was Huntington?” Sasha asks me.

“Oh, we didn't go.” Dini says.

Sasha turns her attention to my sister. “You didn't? Why not?”

“'Cause this lazy bum slept until seven o'clock!” She makes use of a throw pillow.

“Seven!? At night?”

I sip my lemonade. “Hey, come on. You know I went to Chicago yesterday.” I direct at both of them. I'd already told Sasha all about it. I called her for free from a broken pay phone at the gig, and again when I got home. I hung out with the bands all night. Not like I had much choice - I didn't drive. But I'm not complaining either. It was a lot of fun. If Dini hadn't gone out with Mark or Sasha didn't have to work, they would've come too.

Before being berated anymore, Sasha's parents walk in. “Look who's here. Hi guys!” Her mom says. “We thought we heard your car.”

“Hi!” I greet. “How could you not?”

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Dunsbury. Mr. Dunsbury.” Dini says.

They hate being addressed so formally. But Dini always forgets. She's really polite. Another trait that makes her seem older than her age and maturity.

“Just call us Beth and Tom. Please.” Sasha's dad says, “You've known us too long. Your brother does.”

“I sure do, Beth.” I say to him. An obviously predictable joke perhaps, but they all laugh.

Tom goes, “C'mere you,” and he puts me in a headlock and gives me a noogie. “That's ten bucks for that lemonade.” I nearly spill my lemonade. Malcolm barks, wanting to play too. Tom stops.

Everyone still laughs. I adore Sasha's parents. They're wonderful. Always laughing and joking around. I love them more than my own parents really. God knows I spend more time at Sasha's than at home, and her parents are as much the reason as she is... well, not quite. But I do think I'm trying to “compensate” or some similar Freudian bullshit.

Anyway, Tom is a writer. He writes children's books. He has all kinds of cool “connections” in the entertainment business of town too. Cool parties, free movies, free concerts. He started out at American Greetings and knows tons of people from writers to filmmakers to musicians. Don't ask me how he does it.

Tom's wife has a heart of gold and a soul to match. She's one of the kindest, most giving people I've ever known. Very down-to-earth. She has her patients call her Doctor Beth. She's beautiful too. Sasha has her eyes.

As I've just alluded to, Beth is a doctor. A neurologist, I think... I always thought that was kind of a weird combination of professions for a married couple. But it sure works. Dreams and practicality I suppose. They're in their early forties. Wed twenty-some years and still going strong. They still flirt with each other. Still go on romantic vacations alone. They're one of those rare couples who not only look like they have the perfect relationship, but they really have it. Not that they never argue or anything. That would be downright unhealthy. Not that their lives are without troubles either. They have their share of awful things happen to them, just like everybody else. What I mean by perfect is that they honestly love each other... I never saw that before. The Dunsbury's seem to have everything but the goddamn white picket fence. I think if I didn't actually know them personally, hearing about them would make me sick. But I must admit - for all my posturing teen-angst bullshit against the fascist evils of suburbia, cynical envy would be the true source of my illness.

“Are you still going to the show?” Beth asks.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, unless you go to sleep.” Dini snidely remarks. I make a face at her.

“What's showing?” Tom asks.

“Mindwalk.” Sasha answers.

“Oh! I didn't know you were going to see that! You should've given Jeanette a call. Last time I talked to her, she mentioned wanting to see that.”

Jeanette was an illustrator. She's in her early thirties, but she looks and acts like its her early twenties. She only lives a few streets away. She did a lot of drawings for Tom's books. I first met her at a release party for one of them. Nice lady.

Sasha moves to get up. “Well, I'll give her a call.”

“Oh, no. Don't bother.” Tom motions her down.

“That's why I asked what you were seeing. She's at Akira tonight. I didn't know you were going to see Mindwalk. I thought you were going to see Akira too maybe.” His lips turn in a pleasantly surprised frown. “Mindwalk. Capra. That's an old one. It's good though. With John Heard and Ione Skye, right?”

“Uh, huh.” I say.

“Oh, yeah. You'll like that one Sasha. Mont Saint Michel is amazing too.” Tom jokes to me: “Are you going to make my daughter pay her own way?”

“Well, that depends.”

Sasha's lemonade goes down disfavorably. “Depends? On what? You're going to make your princess, your queen pay? You're empress? Ha! Surely you jest!”

“Well, I do not jest, I jibe. And it depends on whether or not you still want a date for the prom.”

“The prom?... We already had our proms.”

“Oh... Yeah... I suppose you're right. Well, I can't blackmail you there.” I shrug. “Guess I'm paying.”

“Goofball. I'll pay. You're dirt poor.”

“You never went to either one of your proms anyway.” Beth notes, petting the dog. I'm glad Beth interrupted before Sasha and I got into out typical “courteous tennis match” of each offering to pay for the other; the battle for the happy medium between chivalry and female independence.

Beth and Tom look at one another. She looks back at us, “Well, you didn't miss much.”

Sasha mumbles. “God. Not their prom stories again. Please. Not again. I will scream.” She was so quiet, only I could hear her. “Those stories are half the reason I never wanted to go.”

Oh?... How was your prom, Beth! - No. I can't. I decide to save Sasha and quickly change the subject, just in case. “Uh, Tom. How's the book coming?”

“Oh, it's nearly finished.” He tells me with a grin. “Would you like to read what I've got so far?”

“I would!” Dini says.

“Sure.” He looks at me. “Would you?”

I look at Sasha. Then back to her dad. “Oh... maybe later.”

“Come on,” Beth says, taking Tom's arm, “let's leave the two sweethearts alone.” She has a knowing smile.

“Wait up.” Dini gulps her lemonade and gargles her frozen throat on air. “Bye sweethearts.”

My turn with the throw pillow. She gets up (and dodged the pillow) and leaves the room with Mr. and Mrs. Dunsbury, taking her empty glass into the kitchen. Malcolm follows.

Sasha puts her feet up where Dini had been sitting so she's lying snuggled up against me. I run my hand, wet with condensation from my glass, over her forehead and through her hair. She closes her eyes and smiles broadly as she snuggles more and sighs.

Tweeting birds and a gurgling lawnmower, cars on old brick streets. Along with the scent of a barbecue, Sting's “Fields Of Gold” drifts gently on the wind from a neighbors house.

Like slow dancing in a meadow of black-eyed susans.

No need for words.

We lay there pretty much until it is time to catch the movie. We play about five minutes of Aerobie with Malcolm too. Since it's such a nice night and we're so close to the theater, the three of us decide to walk. It's about ten to fifteen minutes away on foot, if we take a short cut and cut through Jeanette's yard.

“Come right home when the movie's over.” Beth says.

“ - Mom.”

“Well, just don't stay out too late, that's all. We want to be up by seven. You don't want to be tired all day tomorrow.”

“Okay. We won't be too late.”

Tom quips in his two cents. “C'mon, hon. Kids never get tired.”

Beth ignores his comment and addresses my sister. “Becky's mom is dropping her off at eight?”

Dini nods. “Yep. She'll be here at eight. I called her right before we left to give her directions.”

“Okay... Have fun.”

“Enjoy the movie.” Tom adds. “Oh, how was Chicago?”

“Dad, were gonna be late.”

Tom acknowledges his daughter. “Okay.” Then to me: “Well, tell me all about it when you get back.”

“Sure. Be glad to.”

“Be careful.” Tom turns on the stereo. As we go out the door, I hear the first few bars of Don Henley. “End Of The Innocence.”

∞ ∞ ∞

The girl behind the counter wears a candystriped shirt with a nametag that reads “LISA.”

“Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah. I'll have a vanilla soft cone with nuts. Uh, a raspberry slushie and, um, a banana split. Lots of fudge.”

“Sugar cone or regular?”

“Uh, sugar's cool. Yeah. Definitely.”

Sasha and Dini are still browsing the ice cream shoppe. Tom was right. The movie had been excellent. And Sasha knew the guy at the door, so we saw it for free anyway. The earlier tennis match would've been for naught.

“Oh!” Dini jumps, happy and wide-eyed. “Can I get a cookie too?”

“A slushie and a cookie? That's... pretty gross. Yeah. Sure.” I smile. “You got money?”

She purses her lips and stands akimbo - cliched disgust.

I imitate her.

“Stop it!” She whines and playfully slaps my shoulder.

“Stop it!” I mock.

“You're no fun. Get me a cookie.” She is kidding. Like I said, she's actually really polite.

“Oh? I should get you a cookie. And I'm no fun? You have a job. You can't buy your own cookies?”

She hangs on my shoulder and bats her eyes. “Pleeease. What are big brothers for?”

At first I want to say, “Incest baby,” but I decide that's a little too crude a joke, even for me. So, I say, “Ha! That's not gonna work. This brother is already buying you a slushie. You want a cookie too?”

“Yeah, but you make more money than me.”

“That's not what your pimp told me.” I laugh.

“Oh, my God!” She proceeds to slap my head and shoulders in rapid succession as I laugh and attempt to scurry away.

Sasha grabs my wrist, “Oh, no you don't!”

Dini whacks me. Hard.

“Ow!” I feign injury.

“That didn't hurt.”

“It sure did!” I rub my arm.

“It did?” She starts sounding concerned.

“Yeah.”

“Oh... I'm sorry.” Dini tries consoling me.

“Psyche!” I get away and scramble back to the counter.

Sasha calls out. “Hey, no fair!”

I give them a Fozzie Bear. “Waaa! Ha, ha! Got ya!”

The girl behind the counter giggles a little. “That's $4.86 please.”

“Cool. Can I get a chocolate chip cookie with that?”

“Sure.” She smiles.

Sasha nudges me. “You softie.”

““Softie” nothing. I just don't want you two to kick my butt.” To Dini: “Chocolate chip okay?”

“Yeah,” she grins with a crinkled nose, “Thaaaaanks.” Dini coos and rubs her cheek on my shoulder.

I pat her back and kiss her forehead. “Sure, kid.”

Sasha makes a muscle and imitates Hanz & Franz from the old Saturday Night Live (or that pit bull on Tiny Toons). “Yah. And don't tink we couldn't kick your flabby little girly man butt with just the mahscles in ah pinky fingahs.”

I do it back. “No, no little girly girly. I tink you have it all wrong, for I haf the biggah pumpitude. Look.” I flex.

She raises her voice. “No. You are wrong little girly. Smell my voice now and hear my breath later for I could lift dis bilding with da pumped muscles in my nose hairs.”

“In your nose hairs?”

“Yes.”

I break up laughing so hard, I can barely get my money out to pay Lisa. We take our food and make our way out the door. The three of us sit outside at one of the round, white plastic, picnic tables. The kind with a big umbrella in the center. An umbrella which reads “Hut O'Honey Ice Cream” in big fluorescent letters.

It's a Saturday. A warm summer night. A night of crickets and fireflies. I know I mentioned that earlier, but now they're louder and brighter. Starlight and a crescent moon. A night of magic. A night to dream. To reminisce of childhood memories, like Seals And Crofts songs.

We had caught the movie around the corner in The Centrom, the same independent art theater where Sasha and I had met three years earlier. Well, actually, I should say where we “remet.” Sasha and I grew up together, really. We lived on the same street, our houses right next to one another, as far back as I could remember. I can't recall when, where, or how we met, but my earliest memories have her in them. We were together all the time.

We shared all the magic of youth and all the wonders it entails. The time when five friends at a birthday party feels like a thousand. And Sasha was always the most important one there, and were she ever absent, I know it wouldn't have been the same. The balloons wouldn't have floated as high. The ice cream wouldn't have been as sweet. The cake wouldn't have been as fluffy. And four friends wouldn't have felt like as many.

We shared magic wonderlands of discovery and adventure on our first bicycles. A time when we were free. Free to soar. Free to fly. Faster than a cheetah. Faster than our dreams ever carried us, and thereafter our dreams grew just to keep up. Her bike was her unicorn, mine was my pegasus and the neighborhood was our vast and infinite kingdom. God, I remember so clearly how big only a few streets seemed. An endless place of epic quests. A majestic, sweeping place full of waterfalls made from rivers of joyful tears that flowed to our realm from distant lands. Moonbeams through our windows carried us messages from the stars. In the Spring, trees sparkled of crystal raindrops like her eyes and a million blossoming flowers were her perfume. We were quick as the wind, and we were together.

During sleep-overs, we were space explorers, lost on alien worlds in bedsheet tents. On school field trips, we were secret agents in exotic, far-off museums and, once, a Hostess bakery(?).

The cuts, scrapes, and bruises; the laughter, the joys, the wishes on stars; the scoldings and the bee stings; the squirt guns, snowball fights and climbing trees. You name it, we did it all. She was better than hot cocoa after playing in the snow. She was better than mom's band-aid after slipping on the treehouse ladder. She was my best friend. And even though I never so much as missed a Valentine's for her, I never gave her a kiss.

Then, in the fourth grade, she moved to New York with her parents and we just lost touch. It all ended. Just like that.

I acted like it was no big deal. I said it didn't matter. It didn't bother me. No way. Of course not. Why should it? What's the difference? She's just a dumb girl anyway.

I pretended not to care. I tried to “take it like a man” because I thought I wasn't a little kid anymore... But no one ever knew that I cried myself to sleep every night for a week... And after all my birthday parties too...

... I used to imagine my tears could make a river that would sail her back to me over waterfalls from distant lands... They didn't...

Then, one night, I went to the movies. I was in line right behind her and they sold out right in front of her. I recognized her first; her laugh gave her away. It took Sasha a second to recognize me, until I told her my name.

She said I “looked a lot different” but I “hadn't changed at all.” We never did see the movie that night. They were showing The Fisher King. (Part of a Terry Gilliam festival. I saw Brazil, Time Bandits and 12 Monkeys earlier on in the week.) There was one more showing later on, but we each had seen it a hundred times before anyway. Instead, we wound up at her house, talking and reminiscing over pretzels and a jigsaw puzzle of a country road.

Sweet memories, like diamonds, gain an ever-deepening strength and luster under the weight of time, and we grow all the richer for having them. Looking back on our childhood, it's strange to think we never realized just how much we had in common until that night... Hrumph. Or perhaps we gained common interests that we hadn't had before. The next week, we had our first kiss. On a midnight picnic. In the park. Journey's “Open Arms” was on the radio... Ones entire life may be transformed from just one kiss...

... In fact, I still have that jigsaw puzzle. It's in a frame, hanging up in my room. She gave it to me on our first anniversary.

... It is a night to reminisce all right ...

The crowd around us grows larger as the night draws on. People from all walks of life gather outside the Arabica Coffee Shop and the ice cream parlor. It's the social melting pot of the liberal, far East Side of town. Home to old college professors, folk singers (who happen to be playing various Billy Bragg tunes and a darn good rendition of Black 47's “Bridie's Song” and “James Connoly” which they amusingly sing as “Sean Connery“), beatniks, preppies, old hippies, young punks, yuppies and the whole of the artistic community and the avant-garde (which I know is a rather redundant description). No matter what social group you “fit in” with, you fit in there.

I've heard that cities like New York and Chicago and LA have lots of such “melting pots,” but this is the only one in our town. Once it goes to shit (which I pray it never does) I don't know where I'll go. But for the time being, it's great. Recently, an addition of a fucking parking garage, of all things, has me worried that it will become a trendy hell too soon. Everything changes. Already, like they say, “it ain't quite what it used to be.” Everybody calls it “Coven Tree,” a name derived from the street everything is on.

The three of us sit there a long time. Talking. Laughing. Joking. Just being silly. Making crude innuendos about Sasha's banana split and my dripping sugar cone. Mostly, we talked about the movie.

“Oh, shit.” Dini looks down and covers her face with her hand. She almost never swears, unless she stubs her toe or something.

I glance over my shoulder. “What?”

“It's Glenn.”

Oh, yeah, that explains it. He makes her swear too. I never actually met the jerk until now. Well, this should prove... unpleasantly interesting. I'm sure my thoughts mirror Dini's: Hopefully, he won't see us. Or at least ignore us and go away.

A tall and skinny degenerate, with Johnny Rotten-red hair, comes up to us with his four friends.

(A strange thought - did they go to his birthday parties?)

He looks like a punk Ichabod Crane on heroin. He has an aura of “assholeness” around him. His cohorts look equally unpleasant. My friend Evan once said something that fits them to a “T”: He looks like the sort of guy who would kill you for a nickel.

What the hell did Dini ever see in him?

Our conversation comes to a tense halt. Glenn and crew stand around our table, not saying a word. If the creep wants to psyche us out, it's working. Christ, what is with this asshole?... There's just something about him. I can't put my finger on it, but the alarms of my intuition are screaming.

We try to ignore them, but after awhile, Dini can't take it anymore. “What do you want Glenn!?”

He laughs. A disgusting sound. He runs his finger along Dini's cheek.

“I still want you Dini.” He grabs her hair and pulls. “Got it!?”

She squeals.

I jump out of my chair and grab his arm, ready to rip that bastards throat out. Psycho or not, the son-of-a-bitch was not touching my sister.

“Hey, fucker!“ - Hey, fucker? - Is that the best I cold do? Shit.

Glenn lets her go and looks at me. I don't care. I poised, ready to hit him anyway, but his gaze paralyzes me... His eyes... Oh, my God... What is it about him? Christ, what is with this guy?

Evil.

“You're going to die... little fucker.” He hisses. The words sound like an idle “tough guy” threat... but, something about the way he said it...

A cop walks by us. There's always one there on foot during the summer. He gives us one of those “cop stares.”

Glenn and his friends split. I see one of Glenn's friends out of the corner of my eye, kind of behind me... Holy shit! Was that a knife he was slipping away? The cop stops.

The tension eases. Everyone sighs. I sit back down. The folk singer starts into Tom Waits “Little Rain.” I think Dini thanks me and Sasha asks if I'm okay. I mutter something, zoning out. I'm really shook up. I'm just staring down at my ice cream.

Looking at the ice cream makes me feel awkward; like a little kid. This is my reward for standing up to the school bully, a vanilla ice cream in a sugar cone. But I don't feel worthy of it. I feel ashamed. I didn't stand up to him. Not really. Why didn't I do anything? Why didn't I hit that bastard? How the fuck can I justify allowing him to hurt my sister right in front of me? How can I rationalize that?

I can't. I'm a coward. I'm a failure. I let her down. In front of Sasha too. But it all happened so fast! And what if that was a knife I saw? I could have been stabbed. Or Dini might've been. Or Sasha. That's true. Right?

... So why did I still feel like a cowardly failure? Creamy yellow drips down my hand, carrying a tiny nut. I stare at it until it's dripping, before I lick it away... Yuck. Innuendos indeed. The thought provides a mirthless smile.

I look up. In the distance, I see Glenn... and he's looking right at me... Shit. He wasn't serious. He's an asshole! He's the fucking coward. He can pick on a sixteen year old girl, and terrorize her with his friends, but one cop sends him running? Yeah, real tough.

... But his threat stabs in my mind, pounding like waves in a sea in a merciless storm. I hear his voice replaying in my memory.

Screaming. Louder. Louder. Louder.

You're going to die.

You're going to die!

You're going to die!

YOU'RE GOING TO DIE!

My dream shatters. And the shards break not with the sound of breaking glass, but with the sound of Glenn's screaming voice, overloading my hearing in a million simultaneous octaves and tones. Bone-jarring bass and piercing treble. Shrieking.

Echoing.

Pounding.

Louder and louder until the sound is nothing but an unintelligible static of painful feedback...

Chapter Seven

DIE!... DIE!... die!... die...

Candled darkness was My light, opening My eyes and jumping up in bed.

A voice echoed in the corners of My dream-cobwebbed mind. The trails of the dream dissipated from My memory. Whispy traces of vapor that broke into insubstantial nothing the harder I grasped at them. Whatever I'd dreamt, it was forgotten. Left only were the residual emotions it invoked: Fear. Panic. And sorrow... Such deep, deep sorrow...

The shadows of witches were in that room. Taking the blood from off of the walls, the satin covers and the canopy of Our bed.

Cold fingers slid up My shoulder. “The dreams?”

I looked at Her. So beautiful. So immaculate. A dead soul in fresh sheets and perfect, ancient flesh; the Virgin Lover of the Madonna. Pure and tainted. “Yeah. The dreams... Again.”

Her eyes filled with compassion... Was that possible? I saw Her look into the Void and saw no reflection in those eyes once... No... Not once... Many a time. Could such eyes ever show compassion?

... I was about to doubt it... I knew eyes of compassion once, and a thousand other virtues. I saw them... Recently... Where? In a dream? Who had those eyes?... It must have been...

... Yes. Camillia. It was Her compassion. Her eyes. I felt shame. No need to ever doubt Her. I was pulled down -

(Kicking and screaming?)

My face pressed hard against Her supple bosom. Her strong arms held Me, Her Sacred Son, My Jocasta. I felt the Void reflected in Her eyes envelop Me as Her arms and legs folded around My immortal coil. The sweet smell of decay. But not decay. Decay only like flowers in a cracked vase wilting in the sun on a windowledge. Violets perhaps? Kissing in shadows and drinking blood stains out of silk sheets and the canopies of canopy beds.

Soft violet petals reached between My legs and wrapped Me in a tight embrace. Guided into the warm void of shadows, I rode the cold and forgotten dreams of day.

∞ ∞ ∞

My hand stretched out across the bed to find Camillia gone when I awoke. The room was dim. Many candles were snuffed by their own pools of wax. Outside the stone walls, I sensed the night... again returned. Scratching the rock like the claws of a black annis... or perhaps it was only the branches of a birch or elder tree in the wind. I smiled, tracing a line with My finger down a fold on sheets that felt like My Lover's skin...

∞ ∞ ∞

I found Her downstairs in an atrium; a goliath room with an arched glass ceiling and natural stone walls. Moonlight softly fell in to accompany illuminating the room with electric lanterns. Plants were carved like demons and devils, like dragons and dinosaurs. Flowers grew black and red. Some white. Tree branches were sculpted to twist and turn in ways deformed and unnatural to them. Could they feel, they would know pain. It was the front yard of Edward Scissorhands castle, placed inside Willie Wonka's chocolate room. A place of iron fountains and gravel paths that crunched underfoot. A surreal and disturbing place under the ebony prism of the evening.

Camillia's form filled Her ivory-beige nightgown with appealing dips and curves and provocatively brief, teasing glimpses of bare skin. Dark, full, curly hair fell down past Her shoulders. One hand rested on a wrought iron chair, the other on the head of a young child. A boy.

The boy clung to Her long leg. He was crying. “I wanna go home!”

And a witch watched them.

Isobel Gowdie was a sweet, redheaded girl with primroses and heart's ease's in her hair and a precocious body under a grass-colored sundress. She looked to be the same age as the boy, having seen no more than seven winters... as she has looked for over three centuries.

Isobel took the boy's hand. “You'll be with your mommy and daddy soon. Come on, let's go.”

“Go where?... No! I wanna go home!”

Camillia knelt by him. “Go with Isobel now, Charlie. She'll take you to your mommy.”

“No! I don't like that place mommy was in... I don't like it!... Those - Those... They wouldn't let mommy go. I hate it down there!”

Camillia placed Her hand on his cheek and kissed him like he was a man.

He made a funny face and choked a little. The awkward fear Her action put him in made him silent. Not certain why, he found his mind trembling. Flooding with thoughts. Turning to his mother's warnings of being touched in private places by bad people.

“You want to stay upstairs with Me, Charlie?” Deep and seductive. A threat. She stood again.

He shrank back from Camillia and Isobel led him away. Isobel and the boy walked near Me. The boy ignored Me. He stared at the floor. Gradually, glanced back at Camillia a single time, and faced forward again in a flash, his instilled fears reinforced. Isobel simpered at Me, greeting in a voice like butterflies and banshees. “Good evening, Lord.”

“Good evening, sweet lass.”

She took hold of My hand, while still holding Charlie's hand with her other. She tugged Me down to peck My cheek.

She smelled of rolling Irish hills and brisk northern winds. Her leaf-green eyes glowed with the merry dancing jigs to pipes and drums. That soft, moist touch, her young peach lips stirred coital memories of ancient rituals and black forests... Of mythic rings and fires... Of forbidden thoughts and bawdy desires...

With that and a grin, she and Charlie were gone. They disappeared down a path overcast by the shadow of a towering shrubbery dinosaur. One with a cluster of red, berry eyes and white flower teeth. I leered at them.

I smiled when I wondered if it could dream.

Chapter Eight

As I imagine I shall often find Myself down through the infinite annals of time, I was once again shrouded in shadowy light and smoke.

The band had been on stage for a solid hour already.

Loincourt's fog machine swirled a sickly sweet mist around Devan's feet. A mist that drifted out into the crowd, carrying an odor vaguely like vanilla... but rotten. Too sweet.

And Devan... Ah, My sweet Devan. Such a splendor to behold on stage. In his element. In his glory. He became enveloped by an alter-ego. Channeling not other worldly gremlins, but channeling the blackness inside that most mortals tend to hide. Surfacing his own, personal, masked darknesses from deep within. Beautiful.

His display of evil. Of hate. His anger, so well performed, that for instances, at times, when the glint in his eyes was just so, I could see him as truly being One of Us. And yet, despite his charades, he was mortal: He was the embodiment of what I once was, and I am what he became... for those brief instances, when the mists swirled and the red light caught his maddened eyes, just so.

In dimmer lights of ruby, white, and eerie lavender, were Sevrin and Jessica, flanking Devan. Hidden in almost total darkness, way in the back, stood Jim, wailing angrily on cymbals and synth drums. Off to the side of the stage blinked a camcorders red light, a friend of Lioncourt recording the event for the band.

Smoke twirled. Lights glowed. The music was stygian fury. Young mortals danced in the packed confines of the audience to the heavier songs. They swayed eerily to the drearier melodies.

The crowd was a sea of black. Dark hair or white, platinum-blonde. Black leather jackets painted with the Gothic Rainbow logo or dotted in studs and chains. Winsome young girls, some doubtfully even old enough to drive to the show, in black lace and fishnets. Handcuff belt buckles. Safteypin coated, sable trenchcoats. Silver ankh necklaces.

- Logan Five, do you identify this object? -

Girls red bra straps (with vampirically suggestive blood-red lipstick to match) showing over their bare, exposed shoulders in low-cut, black velvet dresses. Eye of Horace earrings and half a dozen other earrings in each ear (at least).

Handsome young boys in old goth band tee-shirts and classic black Docs. Smoking cigarettes, that they probably bought out of a machine at a convenience store before the show, and bumming lights off the girls. Black lipstick and mascara drawn in psychedelic, finely detailed, neo-gnostic swirls around their eyes. There were nose rings in boys and girls, tiny tattoos of roses and scorpions on heliophobic pallors of flesh.

The crowd was young. The crowd was dark. Sullen. Morose. A sea of black that drank deeply the morel waves of nihilism. Where smiles were rare and sardonic at best. Because in their world, joy was a mask for their pain. Pain that never seemed to go away, but could be forgotten for a minute or two at a place like this. Pain shared with others who knew, perhaps even understood. Though these things were never spoken aloud. Never mentioned. Except perhaps in those dark jests that told the truth but pretended to... simply be jokes. I knew. It wasn't that long ago that I had known their world. Their tests and fears. Their uncertainties and rejections. It wasn't that long ago... Or was it?... I guess it's always at our heels...

It was all as it should be. To paraphrase various Lioncourt lyrics, it was an atmosphere that seemed to pollute the body and poison the mind. Mortals had the sense of being watched by the dead. The crowd of people twisted in dance. Voices spinning in their heads. Torment is the path they took. Their hearts beat with a lonely sound... And, secretly, they loved it. Lost Boys and Girls abandoned by the Pan in Neverland with no way home. My children... It was all as it should be... The crowd was a sea of black. The crowd was youth...

Still, the music continued to drip on out of the speakers. Songs of despair and hopelessness. Of animosity and frustration. Loathingly haunting instrumentals. Then ripping out of the speakers in intense aggression that demanded the most of Devan's voice and Jim's cymbals. Violently subdued industrial static. They told of the fears of the world and the torment that is love, loathing, and life. It's inevitable consequences of death, and how they wished... to escape it all.

Oh, sweet children, be careful what you wish for - We just may grant it. The paradox of truth is that you must die to attain eternal youth. My serene sea of black that I so loved was the Sea of Blood and Temptation. Waves to drink.

Music soared and shrieked. Lulled and wailed. Children swayed and danced. Some just closed their eyes and listened, soothed as the changing lights cast differing shadows across their faces and the vanilla-sweet fog consumed them. Held in embrace by their own arms. Seeing visions of desolation the music conjured in their minds. Visions of home perhaps.

Lioncourt's set played songs off of their first three albums Vampire Theatre, Desires Of The Grave and, Sorrowful Visions, plus a few off of their upcoming release. From the drone of “Black Deception” to the focused hate of “Ecstasy,” the crowd knew them all and sang along word for word with Devan. As the music slowed, two girls in the crowd handed Devan flowers. Roses of course. One red. One black. He politely accepted them, caressed them, and handed them to a roadie for safe keeping. All such lovely mortals these children chose to worship.

Devan jumped and danced. His long black hair flailed to the beat. His fluid motions stuttering sporadically under the flash of the strobe light. Booted feet stomped out in violent time, spinning him in controlled chaos. His hands tracing graceful patterns in the air as if catching trails, grasping at nothing and throwing punches at invisible hatreds with equal poise. Light blazed up across his white-painted face lighting it like a phosphorescent skull. Insanity in his eyes.

Beautiful.

Mixed among the youth of the crowd were the ancient. Mixed among the sea of black were hearts that beat with equal hue. Among the innocent were the Damned.

... And the witches that invited them to join Us... Soon...

A sickly sweet redheaded girl floated through the crowd. Too sweet. Like the scent of rot in an Irish countryside. Eyes a locust-belly green. Tittering like butterflies. Blood was splattered across her sundress. Sanguine dots that glittered like a little boys tears...

With her wandered a withered old woman in black rags. Hunched over with long gray, sable hair framing her face. A face cut with deep wrinkles like cracks in dry mud and painted with grease-black clown makeup, fire-red cheeks and a huge white frown. Her fingers were shaped unnaturally long. Dark like the twigs of an elder tree.

Along with the proiotic hands of the little girl, the elder tree hands served black cards to select members of the crowd. Black cards with pearl white lettering.

THE HOST DuBOIS

WELCOMES YOU TO ATTEND

OUR HALLOWEEN MASQUERADE

OCTOBER THIRTY FIRST

EIGHT PRIME MERIDIAN

UNSEELIE ESTATE

655321 FAIRMOUNT BOULEVARD

And all through the concert, that vanilla smell permeated the club. Just when it was forgotten, it would return, between wafts of designer imitation perfumes and cigarette smoke. The clapping and cheering of the crowd between songs seemed to call on it. The fog seemed a blind, sentient beast, seeking them out, guided only by their clamor.

Another song was played. Jessica moved to the center of the stage, black lace fabric swaying on the neck of her guitar. Her ebony-fingernailed hands curving delicately out of frilly velvet sleeves and strumming beautiful harmonies. Devan moved behind a keyboard.

The song opened with a sample from Ridley Scott's Legend. A quote from Darkness about being protected in the black embrace of mother night.

I stood before the stage, mesmerized by the fog and lights. By the creepy drone of music. Breathy chords on synthesizers and spiraling notes like a starry vertigo.

Suddenly, an unannounced hand slid up the back of My neck from behind. It sent fire sparks of chills down My spine. So gentle. I grinned... Mmmmm... What a pleasant surprise... but I'd half expected such a subtly arousing entrance. I knew that touch. I dreamed of it when it was gone... And I almost always felt it again at a Lioncourt show. Her name was Talya. Talya Rein.

I faced Her. She turned Her back to Me, glanced at Me over Her shoulder, and fell back into My embrace. Like the plea of Darkness, My own dark arms folded about Her. I drew Her in under the canopy of My cloak and kissed Her cheek. She wore boots and black, skin-hugging velvet pants, a black bra beneath a chain mail halter top. Her black motorcycle jacket was painted on the back with Death from the Sandman comic books. Elvin, Her body was the nubile and petite form of the loveliest dark faeries. Golden blonde hair tickled My cheek as I nuzzled against Her.

“Hi.” A whisper under the deafening volume of the band.

“Hi.” Came Her response. I envisioned Her sighing a soft, rosepetal breath in My ear.

“How've You been?” I hadn't seen Her in nearly three months, since a KMFDM show.

“Good.” She smiled, then added with allure, “I've missed You.”

Slowly, I simpered back and handed Her a black card. The pearl white lettering blinked tiny rainbows of deep red and purple under the strobes.

“Good.” I said, “Then, You'll be there?”

She glanced at it, read, and handed it back, scoffing. “When am I not?”

Mmmm... I pulled Her closer to Me, and We swayed gently to the music. One hand rested on Her hip. The other moved across Her stomach... and under the privacy of the cloak, My hands were free to wander wherever She would permit My desires to take them...

On and on the music played. Devan's anger emphasized in the growling, guttural cries and brooding deep sorrow produced by their voice distorter. The music plunged into the heart and etched it with misery. Jim's drumming shook the rafters. Sevrin's keyboards sometimes plodded, sometimes soared through the thick air. Jessica sang one song in perfect French (both the name of the song and Camillia's translation of it escape Me at the moment) and charmed the audience. A shadowy princess. The siren of immortality... On and on...

The senses become overrun at such times, in such places. Even more-so than a nighclub can. The music too loud to allow thought or mortal speech. All that can be done is to give oneself unto the experience, let it consume one.

Yes... For Us it was nearly reliving Our unbirths. Our deaths...

Where attentions are to be focused next is lost in the dizzy haze of the mind. No thoughts. No words. Sights. Sounds. Smells. Touch... Even taste... a kiss on a tender shoulder as golden blonde hair tickles the cheek. All the senses tingle. All the world is a spiral.

The music played.

Music that danced. Churning in the black sea of youths despair. In a place where a too-sweet fog carried the scent of decay. Where light created the glow of dead skulls and stripped the very fluidity from the motion of time. Silver symbols of magic and life hung about necks and painted skin. In a place where witches invited the innocent to the Damned. Where winter winds blew through the heart of dark gardens. Ancient trees were watching from the shadows.

... Ahhh, to be there ...

Where one could dance and be touched by the Immortal Children. Where one could embrace eternity...

∞ ∞ ∞

The show was a long one. At least, it seemed as such with how greatly I relished it. Time stretched out mercifully. After the whistles, claps, and seashell cheers of the crowd had died out for the last time (and two encores had been played) the house lights finally came up.

As with any great performance, no matter how many memories stack up in the mind from the evening, those bright white lights always seem to break the magic spell and reduce the show to an event that seems to have lasted only a minute or two.

∞ ∞ ∞

Less than half an hour later, only about a score of the original eight hundred mortals (along with a few of Us) remained. Most of them knew the band. A man and woman were boxing up shirts, stickers, tapes and books. They were from Propaganda Magazine, which presented the show. They had been selling merchandise for their publication and Lioncourt. They also sold demo EP's for the opening band, Bath.

Throughout the entire club, the filthy floor emanated the odor of spilled alcohol and foot-extinguished cigarettes. A janitor pointlessly swept the carpet. Bartenders carried their cash drawers into the office as roadies disassembled the equipment on stage. Bouncers cleared out the bathrooms and balcony while a barhop cleaned up beer bottles, plastic cups and foil ashtrays off the tables. A punker scavenged the Pit for lost change and trinkets.

The night was winding down.

And the air felt like an old Lou Reed tune.

People came and went. Groups formed. People talked. Split apart. Wandered. Talked with others. Mingled. Socialized.

Being a small, local venue, Lioncourt wandered the club after the show too. Talking to fans. Giving autographs. That's all they did since the concert ended. Devan and Jessica were especially swamped, but remained cordial and gracious. Sevrin was nowhere to be found.

I stood nearby as Devan gave his final signature. Some chubby death-chick, wearing phony vampire teeth, was having him autograph the sleeve of the first Lioncourt CD. She bragged excitedly that she already had the autographs of the rest of the band and she really loved their music. She was so hyper her teeth nearly flew out.

The girl almost fainted when Devan kissed her hand goodbye. He was very melodramatic about it. “Theatrically vampiric,” I suppose you could say. I think he did it for kicks, knowing how she'd react. She left, adjusting the teeth and loudly slurping the pool of spit collected in the top row.

Devan spotted Me. “Hey, how's it going!?” He smiled.

“Good.” We hugged.

Departing teens muttered their envy of Me: Devan hugged Me? No way! Who was I? Devan knows Me?... Well, I don't really look like a vampi -

I grinned... Oh, really?...

“Cool.” Devan said.

“Good show.” I smiled, showing My fangs.

“Thanks.” He did a double-take. “Oh, jeez. Not You too...” He chuckled and looked closer. “Damn... They look really good though.”

I laughed. “I just had to wear some to see how you'd react.”

He shook his head, grinning in disbelief.

I slid the thumb and index finger of each hand over each of My fangs and pretended to “take out” My “fake teeth” and put them in My pocket.

“Well, I'm glad You made it out.”

I looked at him with an are-you-kidding gaze. “Hey, when do I miss a show? I only missed one since I first saw you guys. It was cool. I had fun.”

Zi Zi came up. “Sure You did. I saw You with Your hands all over Talya through half the show.”

I flirted. “Jealous?”

“Guess again!” She chuckled.

“No, I mean of Me.” I teased. “... Where's Sevrin?”

“Backstage. Hiding.”

“Can I talk to You a second?” Allyson asked Me and pulled Me aside. My cloak fluttered. Jessica and Devan started discussing how many tapes they'd apparently sold as Zi Zi sipped some water in a styrofoam cup.

Allyson whispered in a tone mortals couldn't hear. She told Me She was leaving with Joshua and there was a party at His condo. I should come, but don't tell anybody else.

“Don't tell anybody!? Why not?” I said in a normal voice. Such secrets piss Me off. Normally, they pissed Allyson off too. What's up with Her?

She still whispered. She knew it was fucking lame, but it was a floor party. All His asshole neighbors were hosting it too.

I got the idea. They were all nosy, arrogant, yuppie neighbors. The last thing Joshua and His Boyfriend Jonathan needed was undo attention. Okay. I invite no one else.

“Fine.” I said. “You tell Camillia?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Devan sat down next to Us at a table. His newest girl, her friends, Jim, and Zi Zi had been sitting nearby awhile.

“Have You seen Beth?” Devan interrupted.

“Huh?... Beth? Beth who?”

Laughter from another part of the room. It was Dick, a black guy who was in Lioncourt's original lineup. He was with June, one of Devan's ex-girlfriends, and her sister Joann. Natasha was with them too. One of the converging and dissolving groups.

“Beth Lenfalvy.” Devan said.

“No. No, I didn't see her.” I pulled over a chair and sat down.

“A lot of people didn't show up. I thought I'd see a few people who weren't here.” Observed Zi Zi.

“I know. Hailey didn't either.” Allyson remarked.

“Who?”

“You know. The girl who was going to show up at the club last night. Your new Pawn.” Allyson risked nothing by alluding to Our Game out loud. She knew everyone would just blow off Her “pawn” remark and they'd figure it was an inside joke or something. It was in a way. Or else they'd figure they misunderstood Her. But they wouldn't bother to ask Her to repeat it. With some groups of people, You just know You can get away with that stuff: Saying strange things that no one will question.

“Cool cloak” Said a passer-by.

“Thanks.”

“Where'd You get it?”

“It's... been in My Family a long time.”

“Oh. Cool.” He left.

“Well, I'm taking off.” Allyson said. Everyone nearby said goodbye to Her.

“You're going with Joshua?” I asked.

“Yeah. See You later.” She jogged away. She had driven to the concert with Joshua too. He picked Her up at the estate.

Talya came over and sat on My lap. “You leaving?” She yelled to Allyson.

“Yeah!”

“See ya!”

Allyson caught up with Joshua who had been waiting by the doors. They left.

The camcorder guy and his girlfriend said goodbye to Devan and Jim while the others talked about how tired they were and sipped drinks.

Camillia wandered over and stood near us all. I got up to offer Her My seat. Talya put hand to hip, “Hey!” Camillia declined and Talya reclaimed My chair. She stuck out Her tongue. I kissed the top of Her head.

Standing behind Her, I asked Talya, “Where are Your friends at?”

“Who?”

“That Rene girl. Rene Corridor. And that girl... Holly something?” Those three were inseparable. I hadn't really forgotten their names at all. Talya knew it.

“Holly Rioson?”

“Yeah, that's it.” She'd lost her virginity to Me. Bled a lot...

“Oh, are You implying that I have no other friends?” Talya quipped with a smile.

“Of course not.” I laughed.

“I don't know where they're at. Rene and I broke up.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“How about Auri?” Jim wondered. “She's another one who never showed.”

I had totally forgotten about Auri. “Oh, yeah! Shit! That's right. She was supposed to call Me tonight. I told her I'd bring her to the show tonight, but she never called.”

“She was so wasted last night, I bet she forgot.” Zi Zi noted, finishing her water.

“She was?” Jim asked.

“Yeah. Didn't you see her?”

“Just for a second.”

“It was still a big crowd. We had a lot of advance ticket sales. Like, twice what it was last show.” Devan said, swirling ice in the bottom of a cup.

Talya responded. “Really?”

“Yeah. Like five hundred or so.”

“Wow! Cool!”

“That's true.” I said, “There were a lot more people than usual.”

“Yeah, there's more every time.” Jessica's tone reflected the fact that a band can't ask for much more than and ever-increasing audience.

“It was a strange show though. It was a weird crowd, like.” Said Devan's girlfriend.

One of them said, “Yeah. Did you see that girl with the fake blood on her neck?”

Ah, but how much more truth they behold in their fantasies than you hold in your realities... My command... is their wish. Their wish is what I command -

“There were a couple of them.” Talya said.

“Really?” Zi Zi asked. Jim nodded. She continued, “I don't know. I was blind. I could hardly see the fucking monitors. The damn spotlight shining up to light the crosses was right in my eyes. I was like, auuuuuugh! the whole time.”

Her comment garnered a smirk from Talya. Then Talya said, “The crowd seemed to be going for being “gothic,” but just tried way too hard. Total “gother-than-thou” shit. They didn't get it.”

I kissed Her head again. That's it Talya: Encourage their delusions. Let the Pawn laugh at the wisdom of My children.

“They just listen to End Rock too much.” Said one girl.

“Scanning past it is too much.” A boy said, “And one guy fucking looked like Travis Bickle. I thought he was going to shoot Devan.”

I'm not sure everybody got the reference. Those who didn't, laughed a little anyway, so as to not feel stupid.

I told Devan, “Oh, that reminds Me! Get this: Last night, Allyson and I were taking a cab home. And She kept on aski - ”

“ - You took a cab?” Talya was surprised.

“Yeah.”

“... A cab?... You?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“'Cause Allyson wrecked the Ferrari.”

“What!?” Devan choked.

“She did!?”: Jessica.

“No shit? Which one!?” Talya glanced at Camillia.

“The Testarossa.” Camillia answered.

“Besides,” I explained, “it was quicker than calling Isaac, just to call a cab.”

Devan's girlfriend and her friends were nearly falling out of their chairs. “Wait. Wait a second. You... You had a Ferrari?”

Camillia said, “We've a small collection.”

Their jaws hit the floor. Realization hit one of them. He snapped his fingers. “Wait... Do You own that James Bond car out in the parking lot?” He jerked a thumb.

“The Aston Martin? Yes. That's Ours.” Camillia said.

Devan explained to them. “This is Camillia. She's the One who owns the Gothic Rainbow. I told you about Her.” He pointed to Me, “And He's Her Brother.”

“Oh!... That's You!?”

Introductions were done.

Talya, anxiously asked Me, “Well?... What were You going to say?”

“Okay, so - ”

“ - Which Testarossa was it?” Talya asked incidentally. “The red one?”

“No. The black one.” Devan's friends didn't know if I was kidding or not. “So, anyway, the cabbie We had was this, like, old - ”

I paused. “ - Fuck it. Nevermind. It's too late. It won't be funny now.”

“Come on!”

“Aw, jeez. Just tell us!”

“Come on!”

“Come on. Tell us.”

“Come on. Finish the damn story.”

“We promise we'll laugh, even if it's not funny.”

I grinned at that. “Okay. Fine. Allyson kept on asking the cabbie if he knew a guy named The Wizard and telling him We wanted to go to the Belmore Cafeteria for coffee...”

Devan chuckled lightly. Everyone else was silent.

“That's it?” Talya asked.

“Yeah. That's it.” I said defensively. “See. I told You it wouldn't be funny.”

Talya burst out into phony, hysterical laughter. “Oh, that's so great! That's hilarious! Ha! Ha! Ha!” She slapped Her knees.

I smirked and shoved Her shoulders. “Fuck. You... Okay? Fuck You.”

Then everyone laughed.

“Well, at least You're not hurt. I mean, You didn't get hurt, did You?” Talya flirted. She was joking - knowing how difficult it would be for Me to be injured.

“Yeah, I did. I should be in the hospital in a full bodycast, but I decided to come to the Lioncourt show instead... Naw. It wasn't a very bad accident anyway.” I shrugged the lie.

“Well, if He stood right in the middle of a riot, He'll survive anything.” Jim said.

Natasha came over by us.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Devan said. “He didn't stand in it. We were nowhere near it. We were fifty feet away and above the whole thing.”

“Funny it wasn't in the paper or on the news or anything.” Jessica said.

A copy of the days Plain Dealer Newspaper just happened to be strewn on a table several feet away. Camillia and I smirked at each other, then grinned at the floor.

Oh, but last nights riot had been in the paper, dear maiden. Lodged deep in the Metro section, buried between ads for Dillard's Vandeweerd bras and a J.R. Riggins coat sale:

PROTEST GOES AWRY

More than half a dozen people waged a protest last evening outside of a local bar. The protesters, apparently upset with the new management, turned violent and assailed some of the patrons. Father Donald E. Wildman faces criminal charges for inciting the violence and for defying a court order which protects the establishment from such attacks. He also reported sustaining a minor leg injury, from a projectile of some sort, during the violence which ensued. No other injuries were reported.

One paragraph... Now forgotten... Not to mention the police investigation on the mysterious, driverless Ferrari that would never be begun...

A dreadlocked mortal approached Devan. He was in the opening band. “We're taking off, dude.” He told Devan.

Devan stood and hugged him. “Okay. Take care.” They patted backs. Other goodbyes were exchanged and he left.

Suddenly, Devan said, “Did anybody see Denise? I needed to talk to Her.”

“She wasn't here either.” Jim told him.

“No. She was here. She left already.” Natasha said.

“Fuck... Did She?”

“I want to burn that.” One of Devan's friends grumbled at the table. He was looking at a huge “WEND: End Rock” banner on the wall and puffing a cigarette. “The right end of the dial has always been the wrong end... They should call it the fuckin' Rear End!”

Tracing his gaze, one girl said, “They have been getting slightly better. Not much. But at least they're not playing, like, you know, fucking Def Leppard and calling it “alternative” anymore.”

“But I still hate them. I can't even begin to tell you how much I fucking hate them. They're not an “alternative” station. Fuck whatever they claim they are. They don't even know shit about the groups or the music they play. Once, I heard them call Gene Loves Jezebel, Gene And Jezebel. And then, I heard this one DJ say that “Lovesong” by The Cure was from their album Fascination Street.” Everyone chuckled. “Fucking morons! Twice I heard them say that. It's not like that song isn't about a billion years old and they can't even get the album title right? They suck.”

“Hell, it doesn't matter. Someday nobody'll even remember it. They'll be off the air and forgotten before you know it. Just like that metal station we used to have.”

“Z-Rock?”

“Was that what it was?” I looked at Camillia.

I found Myself wondering about all the bits of culture that She saw vanish down through centuries. Little nuances. Slangs. Popular culture icons. Figures of speech or habits.

How many concerns and worries and dreams of the living had She heard? And what did they matter now? How many things that people would die for? How many wishes? How many hopes? Where would My heart and memories be as the centuries tick by?

How many causes and battles die from memory in time? How many disasters and triumphs? Is the tragedy that is history, a direct result of the inevitable curse of mortals forgetting?

In a few decades, society will have changed so dramatically that the culture I find Myself valuing now, will be totally eradicated. In centuries, it will all be gone. Every mortal I know. Every place I hang out. Every band I like. Every book I've read. Movie I've seen. Vanished. Forgotten.

All the music I listen to. All the places I go and pass the time. The wars and the revolutions. So many changes. All coming. All inevitable. It will never be like this again. Changes bigger than I can fathom are just ahead...

“Did you ever hear that Detroit station? It's like, CINX or something.” Devan's girlfriend asked.

“Oh, yeah!” Jim said. “It kicks ass. It's the one you get when John Carroll University's station goes off the air and - ”

“ - Okay! Let's go people! Let's go.” A bouncer said. “We gotta close it up! C'mon! Clear it out.” He clapped for emphasis. They dropped the gate over the main doors. We'd have to leave out a side exit. We had all been lost in our conversation and it was getting late. Time to get thrown out. Lioncourt still had packing to do.

Everyone gathered up and said goodbye. Gave hugs. Take-it-easys. See-you-laters. Nice-to-meet-yous. Give-me-a-calls.

Natasha invited anyone who wanted, to come over to Her place to hang out. It was only a little before midnight.

Camillia personally invited Lioncourt to play Our Halloween party. She had never seen them perform until tonight. She was truly impressed.

“Discuss it with one another and give Us a call.”

They were hesitant. After all, it was on Halloween. Each of them sorta had plans already. It was flattering to ask, but, to be honest, they'd really rather not play on Halloween night.

“You will do it for eight thousand dollars.” To appear polite, She pretended it was a question.

Jim paused. “... Excuse me?”

“I will pay you eight thousand dollars, in advance, to play a set at Our party.” Her arm went around Me. Such an offer was nothing to Her. The Gaultier clothes She had on cost several times that much.

“Yer serious?” Devan's girlfriend asked skeptically.

“My Sister never kids about Our parties.”

Silence.

The bouncer was growing impatient. Devan took a deep breath. “Uh, oh, yeah... I - I think we'll be able to... uh. Yeah. We'll call You. Sure. No problem. Right guys?”

“... Yeah. Uh, huh.”

“... Sure.”

Dumbfounded and disbelieving grins curled their faces. Camillia's grin was sarcastic. But Her voice was pleasant. Pleased.

“Good. The Our servants shall be informed to expect your call... Good evening...”

∞ ∞ ∞

The scavenging punker spotted a paper on the ground just outside the doors... He picked it up... It was an invitation... to a Halloween party. He frowned at it, then tucked it in a pocket, muttering, “Cool.”

He left the club... the shadows of corpses falling on his back as he walked into the night...

Chapter Nine

Thick fog smothered the city at midnight as churchbells bellowed the hour in the distance. We were in the parking lot. Talya was hugging Me goodbye. Fangs scratched My neck. Grated. Prickly. Like cat claws... Over the resounding bass of time.

“See You on Halloween.” She whispered... Rosepetals.

We pulled slightly apart. Mischievous, faerie eyes. Deeper gray than fog. The gray of the sky before a storm... Churchbell gray.

The streetlamp overhead cast a hazy cone of light through damp air. She was foreground to witching time blackness and mist.

Another hand on My waist. Sliding. Camillia joined Our embrace. Moments. Ringing... Deep...

They kissed softly. Slowly.

Our fingers slipped from Talya's hands as She gradually pulled away from Us. She sluggishly walked away and vanished in fog, swirling closed behind Her path.

In the density of their chime -

- fell the weight of churchbells upon Me.

Deep.

Moments.

Ringing.

Chapter Ten

It was nearly daybreak.

“Crazy” Paul and his friend Johnny Ryall wandered into the parking lot at the River Bend Condominiums as Camillia and I were leaving the party. They were two homeless men who lived Downtown. Everyone in “the scene” knew them. They hung out outside all the punk clubs where they could bum change and cigs. All the conservative clubs called the cops on them. So, they stuck to Our scene, where they wouldn't get hassled and were treated cool. Black Flag even took them out to Denny's for breakfast after a gig once.

Johnny was toying with the dial of a beaten, archaic, transistor radio. He managed to get in a static-filled reception of CCR's “Run Through The Jungle.” Paul started to dance. Soft shoe. Oblivious to the world. Perhaps lost, back in another.

They were mere ghosts of forgotten men. Hardly real. Shadows and whispers. The radio blocked the music of men screaming in their heads. Appearing in the fog. Adrift in the night. Holy men, tortured by sidewalks. Their minds gone... Very near the living dead.

“Paul! What's up!?”

He looked at Me. Dazed. Slowly, recognition hit. “Daaa... Glad to see Ya again there my Boy... Ahhhh, glad to see Ya.” He reached out with both hands and gave Me a firm handshake. Fetid.

He went back to dancing. Seconds went by. He shouted. “Whale blubber is rotting the philodendrons!” He picked his nose. A chunky and juicy yield. He wiped it in his armpit before asking, “Daaa, You got money for a beer?”

I laughed. “No problem.” I held up a fifty and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

He didn't look at it. He winked, saluted and without another word, he and Johnny left into the nights impenetrable mist. Dancing... Running through jungles...

∞ ∞ ∞

The party had sucked.

I spent most of My time in the condo of Joshua Dehndron and Jonathan Ferris staring out Their balcony window into the fog. My image barely reflecting in the dark glass, I sunk in a chair. Next to Their collection of U2, REM, and Midnight Oil albums... Gee, what variety.

Memories of the evening were as intangible as the fog I gazed into. Insubstantial.

When someone turned on the radio and Peter Gabriel's “Blood Of Eden” filled the room, I walked out into the fog and the silence of the balcony. Normally, it offered a spectacular view of the Flats and the river. But now it offered only the view of ghostly orbs of light floating in the thick gray darkness. The drone of foghorns echoed off the stillness.

“Hi.” It was a girl like a Valkyrie. Like a unicorn. An angel. She just appeared out of the fog and dark corner of the balcony, champagne glass in hand. Her finger traced the rim.

“Hello.” I smiled. I wanted nothing more than to be left alone. But, for some reason, I didn't mind her being there.

“Quiet evening.”

I sighed. “Yeah.”

“... You don't like it here, do You?” She looked over the railing. Nonchalant.

“Nope... Can't say as I do.” Our voices were quiet. Gentle as the fog they spoke with. The tone of My voice sounded like it hadn't in a long time.

Both of us looked into the night. We stood there, saying not a word for very long moments. Like two familiar old friends, between whom much is said in silence. Between whom the long lull seemed fitting and right. Her company was comforting. Welcomed.

Then, before I'd realized she'd left, she was gone. Vanished. Again gone wisps to trace in the night. Strangely, for an instant moment, I felt the pang of missing her. For a girl I did not know. But never had seen before. And never have I seen her since. Strange. That familiar pang.

The fog churned on.

Allyson was down there somewhere. She'd left the party shortly after Her Sister and I arrived. She thought it sucked too. Hated it. Was bored out of Her skull. We should've taken up Natasha's offer and gone to her place.

Fuck. I hated that party. “Open” by The Cure played in My head over and over. I did not want to be there.

Camillia enjoyed Herself. (That's why We stayed so fucking long.) She was wearing a white, sleeveless, lycra bodysuit with widely-spaced, black leather lacing down the back, over Her ass, and down the inner thighs to Her ankles. The front was laced too, from the neck down to Her navel. A black leather jacket with laced sleeves topped it off. Wealthy. Sexy. Intelligent. Even Her accent knocked them out.

She was the center of attention.

Before We left, Jonathan apologized to Me. Joshua did as well. They were sorry I had such a bad time.

Oh, really?

Such handsome Creatures. Boys faces. Jonathan's fine and beautiful Asian features. Delicate. Joshua was darkly complected. Middle eastern. Regal. Chiseled. His long black hair in a pony tail. Each of My hands reached up to caress Their lovely cheeks. “It's okay.” My smile dripped disdain.

Few eyes of the party had left Camillia who was standing next to Me. It was a strain to Me, trying to remember how to act around mortals. How to fit in with their social nuances. A strain to remember. A strain to maintain it, once I recalled. I had to rationalize My actions. I was sick inside.

No matter how hard I tried to pretend otherwise, I fucking hate mortals. Since I became what I am, they have become nothing. Animals. Vessels. Their wisest sages were fools and the rest aren't worth the dust of which they think they're made. My hatred ran so deep, I felt guilty for even pretending to like them. Guilty for even bothering with the deception.

I wanted to tear apart the very fabric of night. To feel rushing over Me the torrent of every drop of blood that has ever spilled in darkness since the first days of man.

My guilt stemmed not from the meaninglessness of ordained morals, but from what I perceived as a betrayal of self: Why bother to show mortals kindness?

But, in truth, My guilt was unfounded. Kindness had it's place.

Kindness was a seduction like any other. The greater a friend I made Myself to them, the greater My joy at one day tearing them apart. How much more I savor their pain at that moment realization explodes in their eyes and they learn how tiny they really are.

- Shall We their fond pageant see? -

- Lord, what fools these mortals be! -

... How I hated them all. The petty living. Every friendly smile felt poised to spit in their faces. Every wish for their well-being and every cheerful word was a lie. A bitter poison on My tongue.

∞ ∞ ∞

We were just pulling out of the parking lot. Camillia picked up the carphone on the second ring. She put in an old Front 242 disc. The opening chords of “Headhunter” began to blare.

“Yes?” She asked the phone. “Natasha! What can I do for You?”

Driving illegally up Superior to West Ninth, I passed the fire-scorched corner of a building, chipped of stone and stained with blood. I drove north, making a left at West Ninth.

Camillia spoke. “... Excuse Me?... Well, I am here now. Now what are You talking about?... Tasha, calm down - ” A short pause. Then Camillia lashed. “ - Rights!? Your only “rights” are the ones I see fit to give You. Now - start - over. What - happened?”

A longer pause this time. Camillia asked, “What blonde?... What!?” Whatever Natasha said made Camillia tense.

Camillia looked at Me. “Yes, of course We gave Nix permission to Create a Changeling.”

What? That wasn't true. What was She talking about?... Wait... No, it couldn't be...

Camillia continued. I had phased Her out for a second. “ - did not give Him permission to attack You. And His Changeling's actions are still His responsibilities... Where are they now?... Edgewater?... Parking? It's too late to go Parking now. Not a soul would be there. This time of year, no one goes to the park during the day.” Another pause.

We crossed over Saint Clair Avenue and passed where the House Of Altars nightclub used to be. And of course, the good old Nine...

Calmly, Camillia finally said, “Yes, apparently so, Tasha. What matters is that You're okay. Are You?...” She smirked. “Good. We'll take care of this now. Okay?... Thank You Natasha.” She hung up.

I made a right onto Lakeside Avenue, not knowing that in a few seconds I'd be vehemently making a U-turn to hook back west across the Main Avenue Bridge. Front 242 jammed on. Singing of spreading nets and catching men. Steam venting out of sewers in the road made Me imagine they were generating the fog. Being mystically conjured by strange machines for unknown purposes.

“Well?...”

“It seems Natasha was attacked tonight at Her party.”

“By who!?”

She glanced away, sighed, and stared out the window. “Auri... Nix Embraced Her.”

∞ ∞ ∞

I barreled the Aston into Edgewater State Park - where Natasha said They'd headed - and skidded to a halt.

Police car lights were flashing blue and red, distilled through the Ragnarok fog. The lights on the Shoreway were the far-off lights of home in a snowstorm. Piercing halogens over the parking lot had adopted the faint glow of distant moons.

But, as it so often does, the spotlight on the squad car illuminated a gruesome carnage.

An officer was on the ground, his neck ripped open. Auri was bent over him, drenched in blood. She was maniacal. Insane.

Nothing more was seen. The enormous grass fields of the park, the beach, the lake, none of these things could be seen through the fog. And yet I could feel the vast expanses of space all around Me. Stretching on and on... Isolation.

The surreal scene was accompanied by the Pain Teens “King Wicker” playing at intolerable volume out of Nix's stereo, as if desperately reaching to fill in the surrounding void. Nix was in His stationwagon, panicking, trying to get the thing started. I jumped out of Our car.

“Don't fucking move, Nix!” I pointed at Him.

- lock the target -

Meanwhile, Auri had dropped the cops body and was coming at Me, seductively. Her delirium gone. She was now focused on the Hunt. “Hiii, hon. Well, fancy meeting You here.”

Blood coated Her face.

Nix eased out of His car, the cop car lights flashing across His body. Sparking off the car windows and in the dead mans eyes. Glinting on his bloodied badge. The Pain Teens sang on. The weight of silence surrounding Us made the music all the more alien and powerful.

Auri ran Her vermilion hand down My chest. “Fuck Me.” She whispered. Then, She flashed Her fangs and claws, leaping for My throat. How suave.

I brushed Her aside like a doll, grabbed Her forearms and threw Her to Her knees. Rage filled My vision and I bared My fangs as I hissed back.

Terror flooded the Hunger from Her eyes. The faintest grin turned My lips. After all this while, She finally knew. No need to make Her forget. For the first time, I could allow Her fear to remain. Savor Her horror. “You-You're-You're like Us!... D-Did Nix Make You too?”

What!? How dare She! How dare He! I'd rip Them both in two. I could squeeze Her flesh like clay. Snap the bone like rotten wood. My hate brimmed. I growled as blood gurgled in the back of My throat. Whit-hot fury. No thought. Only hate. Pure and unchained. I raised My arm to backslap the impertinent Bitch!

Auri whimpered and turned away.

“No!” Nix yelled.

A gentle hand clasped My wrist.

“Stop.” The voice in My mind was equally soft.

I looked at Camillia. “What!?”

“It is almost dawn. Daylight is too close. We do not have time for this, My Love. Let Them go... There will be other nights.”

... Shit!... No!... But She was right. I would need to race home to reach the house before the rising sun. Fuck!

I looked back at Auri and dropped My hands. She cowered away, crying. Nix ran to Her.

Now He plays Her hero? The fucking coward that had just tried to run and leave Her? Then, He started babbling, “I - I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Really. I didn't mean to Turn Her. Please, don't - don't kill Us. D - Don't. I - I didn't mean it - ”

“ - It's okay, Nix - ”

“ - R-Really. I didn't want - ”

“ - Nix! It's okay! Listen to Me... I'm sorry, Nix. I... had no idea... We forgive You.” Oh, like a bitter poison on My tongue. “Now... Listen... Auri is Our Child too. She's One of Us... Understand? So, We all have to take care of Her. Okay?... Okay?”

“Y - Yeah. I - I'm sorry.”

Auri started screaming as loud as She could. Nix held Her tighter. “Shhhhh. Shhh. Auri, it's okay. Shhhh. It's okay Auri.”

Screaming. Over. And over...

“Shhhh. Auri!” He cried.

Then She stopped. Instantly. Just like She began. No reason. No provocation... but the madness of dying. She stared blankly and intensely into nothing.

Nix stammered. “I'm sorry. I - I - ”

He could've been talking to Auri, to Us, Himself - who knows?

“ - It's okay Nix. Now it's almost morning. Maybe You should take Your Changeling home and get some rest. Okay?”

“You're... not mad at Me?” His eyes flashed rapidly between Camillia and I. “I... didn't know. I had no idea She'd go so crazy. I-I didn't know She'd kill that c-cop like that! - ”

Auri looked surprised. “ - Nix?... Don't be afraid of Him.” She pointed disgustedly at Me. “We can do anything We want to now! That's - ”

Camillia kicked Auri in the face. Auri gasped and fell backwards.

“Auri!” Nix yelled. “No! No. I-I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry. Auri. Auri. Oh, Auri, I'm sorry.” He was petting Her hair, crying.

Camillia hadn't flinched. Totally serene. Not even the slightest sign of anger on Her face. “Never disrespect Your Prince.”

“Nix, go home.” I put My hand on His shoulder.

Auri lashed out for Me, Her anger returned. “Don't touch Him! Don't touch Him!”

Nix pulled Her back. “No, Auri! No. No. Don't.”

Bitch.

She looked at Her bloodied palms and screamed, then put Her head in Nix's chest, murmuring and weeping.

“Go home Nix.” Camillia ordered.

He pointed at the cop. “B-But what about this?” He started to panic again. “What are We going to do about this? He-He was gonna throw Us out and - an - I was gonna leave but Auri just w-w - ”

“ - Nix. Nix! We'll take care of it. Just go home and stay out of trouble. Do it.” I put My hand on Him again. Auri didn't move this time. “I promise You, everything is going to be okay and I will not hurt You. Okay? Now take it easy. Go home. We'll take care of things, Nix. You're a part of Us. Both of You are. I won't hurt You. Okay?... Now go on. Get going.” I smiled.

- bait the line -

“Y-Yeah, man. Yeah. Thanks. Thanks, dude. You - Yer really the b-best, man. Man, You, You know? You know that?”

He finally got to His feet, helping Auri do the same. She was half unconscious. Slipping next to sleep. How unworthy of a girl could one fool be, Nix? Idiot! Fucking idiot!

When He was in the car, He reached out His window, grabbed My hand, and kissed it. “Thank You.”

Asshole.

It took all My will not to shatter His obsequious fucking face. He didn't see Me sneer at Him as He drove away. And the Pain Teens played so loud, He didn't hear My angry claws gashing the side of His car.

They were gone.

Camillia and I stood alone in the fog, thick as the Devil's breath, before a dead body. The doppler effect distorted Nix's music and rattletrap car as He faded through the parking lot, following his headlights slivers cutting the dark.

That sound became a faint drum. It churned. Waves crashed upon the breakwall not one hundred yards away, though the lake was invisible in the dense mists.

Camillia's eyes shut. Winds blew Her hair. My cloak fluttered behind Me. The fog didn't move... A scent... Something like vanilla.

I called out to things.

Churchbells. Foghorns. Drums grew louder.

The spotlight drifted out, the cooling filament fire-poker orange. Flashing blue faded. Red flickered. Crackled like firelight. My eyes shuddered closed.

Drumming. Growing. Primitive. Louder. Tribal.

I called out -

- to things.

Old things.

And...

They come...

Closer... Closer... Beating to the rhythm of hooves. Waves crashing like voices.

The Elders sang. Chanting. The firelight grew stronger. The wind. Cold. Like air before rain.

Drumming waves. Thunder drumming. Hooves. Horned beasts stampede.

The chant. Wind fingers wiped across My face. Rising. Rising. Heat of firelight. Pyre flames stroke My hair. Static crackles. Dancing. The dying. Pounding hooves. The drumming of dead men's hearts. Soaring chorus of deep black waves. Whispers singing off the lake. Fire heat growing. Expanding. Consuming.

... And it all whirled ...

An eagle screeched.

Once.

My eyes snapped open.

Camillia stood opposite from Me, looking directly into My eyes. Intricate warpaint on Her face, as I knew it was on Mine. With ink of wind. Brush of talons. The dead man and his car were gone. With ancient darkness, the sins of the Changeling and Her Sire vanished into the Devil's breath. No trace.

Only a single feather lay on the ground where he died.

∞ ∞ ∞

Camillia walked to an elder tree on the estate. She ran Her fingers over the old cracked bark. Cracked like dry mud.

She kissed it. “Thank you.”

Silhouettes of a little girl and... others... watched from far within the mansion. Unnatural shadows behind etched glass. Moving. The woods echoed drums. The grounds smelled of Fall leaves and wet gargoyle stone. They watched too and silently welcomed Us, We their Masters, home again. Fog made magic of the night.

Camillia placed Her arm around Me. Inviting, the pearl luster of Her skin. Pearl white on black, My hand weaved between the leather lacing on Her dress... So inviting...

In bed, Her Kiss was soft as eagle feathers.

She was right. The Changeling and Her Sire would be Our Guests at another time.

- spread the net -

- catch the man -

There will be other nights.

Chapter Eleven

Ironically, my sugar cone drips on my Tom Petty tour shirt as soon as the folk singers break into “Free Fallin'.” A big glop of vanilla right on his Mad Hatter hat.

“Damn.” I wipe it off with my finger.

“I just don't get all that physics stuff in the movie.” Dini says, breaking off a bit of cookie.

Sasha asks, “Like what?”

“I dunno. I mean, like, saying everything is one thing. That's stupid.”

“No, it's not.” Sasha says, “It's totally true. On the subatomic level, there is no differentiation, no fundamental difference, between things. It's a scientific fact.”

“It sounds like some weird... New Age stuff.”

Sasha groans. “Oh, but it's not. It's nothing like that. People are just beginning - like scientists in the Western world, are just starting to prove what many Eastern philosophies have been saying all along. That's why it sounds like that.” She mutters, “Of course I do think a lot the New Age movement claims to hold a lot more answers than it actually does.” Then in her normal tone, “But, that physics stuff, it's not weird or magic, it's just... the way it is.”

“Personally,” Sasha shakes her spoon for emphasis, “I think one needs to study as many ideas as possible to learn the truth. Science. Philosophies. Religions. Everything. Learn as much as possible. I don't think any one field has all the answers. Even though every field has deluded itself into thinking they hold all the answers. I think they all hold a little bit of truth, but we have to figure out individually which parts are right.”

It kills me when she goes on like that. She's so animated. But Dini's thoughts are still a few steps behind. “Okay,” Dini asks, “But you're saying that in atoms and stuff, everything is all one thing. That doesn't make sense. I mean, I thought atoms were the smallest things. So, if my atoms are separate from this chair - I mean I can get up, I'm not melted into it - how can it all be connected?”

“You might be melted to it if anybody else had ice cream on it.” I observe.

Sasha smiles a second then says to Dini, “No. On the subatomic level, everything is one. Atoms are mostly empty space.”

Folk singers sing on, of things walking through the Valley and moving west down Ventura Boulevard. Again breaking her chocolate chip, “So, I'm a part of this cookie?” Dini questions it skeptically.

“Yes... And the chair. And the table. The ground. Everything.”

“Gross.” Dini eats more. “That means Glenn is part of me too.”

We all laugh.

“Personally, ” I say, “I just wish they would've touched a little more on time and relativity and stuff. That's the only thing I was disappointed with.” I finish my ice cream.

Sasha gulps a scoop of her split (innuendo again). “Mmmm. Yeah. And alternate realities too.”

“What time is it?” Dini wonders offhand.

Sasha smiles mischievous. “Time doesn't exist.”

Dini groans. “Oh, that's enough! Stop it, Einstein!” She throws a cookie chunk.

It lands in Sasha's banana split. “Thanks!” She scoops it out, covered in ice cream and fudge, and eats it.

“Hey! Gimmie back my cookie!” Dini jests.

Sasha swallows (will the innuendos never cease?). “Mmm. But, seriously, time doesn't exist. I read this really cool book once - You got a pen?”

“Uh, no.” I say.

“I think I do.” Dini looks in her purse. Sure enough. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Sasha takes a napkin and starts to draw. “Okay, check this out. This is what this book said on time. Most people have this very narrow-minded, static view of time. They perceive time as one series of events happening one right after the other.”

She drew a strait, horizontal line. “Hence, a “time line” with each moment being represented by a single dot or point along the line.”

She marks it to show what she means. Then, she draws a square, full of horizontal lines, all parallel to one another. “Now, more advanced people can imagine alternate times or dimensions or realities or whatever you want to call them, all in a coexistence with our known space-time. That's when you get the idea of time travel too.”

She draws an arc from the right of one line, back to the left. “People can conceive of jumping out of their space-time to a point further back or forward or whatever.”

“Like in Back To The Future 2 when they branch off to that other 1985.”

“Exactly!”

“... I never did understand that.”

Sasha looks disappointed. “Oh... Well, I think that movie did have one big flaw, one, like, major paradox in it. But, anyway... the last drawing is, perhaps, the reality of time.”

She draws a circle.

“What if, ” she asks, “time has no beginning or end.”

She starts to draw a squiggly, looping, curling line of dots in the circle. “What if time wasn't a line or a plane but was actually a sphere? And every single moment, every nanosecond - or less - is a point in that sphere. And our decisions and choices alter the course we take along those points. Well, that means that every alternate choice has us branching off in another direction - not in parallel lines and realities, but in looping, curling, intersecting ones. Sooner or later, all the points light up. There is no time. Everything is happening all at once. Only our perceptions cause time to exist.”

I can tell Dini's head is swimming, but she's actually getting into this. She's staring at the napkin the the line, square, and circle/sphere. “Wait... I don't... Wait. Say that again.” She laughs and looks up.

“Okay.” Sasha smiles back. “It's like... uh, a novel.”

“Okay.” Dini nods, eager to hear more. She never took such an interest to this stuff before.

Sasha explains. “Okay, now this “sphere illustration” is a good explanation of time because it simultaneously shows that time is and illusion and it explains alternate realities.”

“Alternate realities. Like Back To The Future.” Dini simpers again. “Okay.”

“Okay. A novel... oh, wait. Okay. First you need to understand that reality itself is an illusion too.”

Dini looks really thrown by that.

“You know that mass is energy and energy is mass, right?” Sasha ventures.

“Uh, huh. I don't get it, but I've heard it.”

“Well, it's really quite simple. I mean, all matter is made of electrons - er, atoms, rather. Atoms are made primarily of electrical charges. Therefore, there is no real fundamental difference between energy and matter... Follow?”

A hesitant, “Yeah...”

“Okay. Now - what is thought?”

That takes Dini by surprise too. “W-What is thought?”

Sasha nods. “When you think, what happens in your brain?”

I'm tempted to say “Nothing.” But I keep my mouth shut.

Dini stumbles. “There's... uh... I don't know, like, it's like little... I don't know. Like chemical reactions and electrical charges in, like, nerves and stuff... I don't know. Right?”

“Exactly! Electrical charges. Thought is energy. Every thought you have is an electrical impulse in your brain. Now, for example, check this out - close your eyes.” Dini complies. Sasha continues. “Okay, now I want you to imagine a snowball in front of you on the table. Imagine it melting. It's dripping over the edge. Picture the puddle of water it's in. Imagine the lights reflecting glossy highlights where the table is wet. Now imagine you pick it up. Fell how cold it is. Feel it melting. Feel your hand getting all wet from holding it. Water trickles down your wrist. Now, break some off and taste it. It's wet and cold on your lips like the slushie. Feel it going down your throat - ”

“ - What if it was yellow snow?” Dini jokes.

Sasha laughs. “Eww! Spit it out! Okay, open your eyes.” Dini does.

“Now, we've just established that matter is energy and thought is energy. Right? In order for you to imagine that snowball, certain electrical charges had to occur in your brain. And energy is energy. Electricity is electricity, right? Therefore, what's really the difference between the energy of matter and the energy of thought?”

“Well... There... wouldn't be any. There is none!” Dini is excited that she's getting this.

“Right!... So, was that snowball “real” or not?”

Dini understands and it's blowing her mind. “Whoa! Wait...”

“See, everything we imagine is real on some level of reality. Everything is real. But nothing is real. Everything exists. But reality is an illusion. That's what I meant when I was drawing the sphere. Every moment, our paths branch off and swirl and loop like a giant tree. The other branches exist, but we just stick to our own. We can follow only one at a time. Reality is relative to individual perceptions.”

“... Wow... That's... Wow... So, what's a novel have to do with it?... What were You gonna say about - ”

“ - Oh, yeah! Well, you know, in a novel or a movie, or song, or anything, when you hold it in your hands, you have the entire story there in that instant. There is no time in relation to that story. It simply is. It all exists at once, all at the same time, in a single moment. However, we need time to read it. To see it unfold page to page, we need to read it, to experience... the events in it. It's always “real.” It's always there. But we have to read it before we can perceive its reality. That's why we need time. Life is the same way. There really is no time. Everything that is, was, can, and will be and everything that might've been, all exist simultaneously.”

“This is confusing.” Dini's head shakes. Highlights catch her hair.

Sasha affirms that. “Yeah. Well, I've really simplified it. Read some Gribbin or Hawking and all the mathematics behind this stuff. Play with Schrodinger's Cat. Now that's confusing.

“Huh?”

“... Nevermind... I'll let you borrow some of my dad's books.”

“He puts this in childrens books?”

“Ha. Ha. No! From his library.”

Dini laughed. “No. I know. I was just kidding. But, okay. That'd be cool... So why is the sky blue? If you're so smart.”

I decide to be a wise-ass. “Because the atmosphere acts like a prism and - ”

“ - Oh, shut up!”

“What!? I'm serious. I learned that on Cosmos.” I laugh, singing Monty Python's “Galaxy Song” in my head. My train of thought track back to the movie. “I never realized what a great actor John Heard was until tonight though. I mean, he always has these, like, cheezy, two-bit parts a lot. Like in Awakenings and stuff when he plays that doctor/administrator guy. But now, I'm just like - damn! He was really excellent. I was impressed.”

“A lot of reviews tore it up too.”

“That's because most reviewers are neanderthals.” Sasha notes. “If it's not some big studio, Hollywood-sex-and-violence film, they think it sucks. Anybody who didn't like Mindwalk was just too dense to grasp it. They're - ”

“ - Guess who!” Veronica Ashton puts her hands over Sasha eyes. Veronica is really cool. She's one of Sasha's best friends. Lives in Lyndhurst. She throws the coolest parties I've ever seen too. Theme parties. Last one was a jazz/blues thing. Everybody dressed like prohibition gangsters and stuff. They played old Louie “Satchel Mouth” Armstrong tunes and a band was lip synching to the stereo. (Of course, technically, I suppose I wouldn't call that “lip synching,” but it wasn't like “air guitars” either because they had real instruments... Miming. Yeah, maybe “pantomiming” is a better word. Hell, I know what I mean.) Cats and flappers were cuttin' a rug all over her living room... Christ, that was fun. Another party had us watching old SNL episodes (the good ones, back in the days of Pryor, Chase, Belushi, and Ackroyd) and playing Atari 2600 video games. Total nostalgia. Reviving the good parts of a cheezy decade.

Veronica hated me when we first met though. I showed up at Sasha's with an “X” baseball cap for her dog. I thought it was a cute and funny pun since he's named Malcolm.

Well, Veronica is half bla - er, African American, and she did not appreciate my humor. It offended the hell out of her. When she found out I'm half Native American, she asked how I would feel if the dog were named “Chief” and she got him a headdress. To be honest, I thought that would be kind of funny too... at first. Then, I realized it would be pretty fucking rude.

Anyway, things worked out well, and now Veronica and I are great pals too. So close in fact, that when Sasha and I were having problems, Veronica and I nearly started dating. At least, I think we did. You know how weird those things can become. But... no way. Sasha is too important to me. Veronica is too, for that matter.

Veronica is there with her friends Brian and Angel. The three met in a play that they were recently in. Brian I don't know too well. I'm not even sure of his last name. He's wearing a Church Of The Sub-Genius shirt. A big, pipe-tokin' Bob on the front. The back says “Starwood” in psychedelic lettering.

Angel is Angel Kateri. Fitting name - she looks like a valkerie. All I really know about her is that she lives in Columbia Station, she's joining the Air Force, she loves The Clan Of The Cave Bear, and... something... about her makes me uneasy. But it's never a “bad” uneasy, just... weird. Like sparks flying between us... but I don't mean that in a romantic way. I dunno. I can't describe it. Well, like, when I first met her and I asked her, “What's your name again? I'm sorry. I forgot.”

“You don't know your name?”

“Huh?” She must've misunderstood. “... No. What's your name?” I laughed.

“Angel. But I wasn't asking you a question. It was an observation - you don't know your name.”

“... What?” She was totally serious too. I have no clue what she meant, but... that seemed rather rude. “Of course I know my name.”

“Oh... I'm sorry... You seemed like the type who might not know who he is.”

Weird girl. But not “bad” weird, you know? Just... Oh, I dunno. Nevermind. I can't describe it.

“So, what's going on?” Veronica asks.

“We're just listening to Mrs. Einstein - our armchair physicist here - explain the universe to us.” I smirk. “Stick around. I think she was going to start channeling any moment.”

Sasha purses her lips. “Ha. Ha.” She quips dryly and invites our three guests to join us. They sit.

“I still think it's weird.” Dini slurps her slushie. Before Sasha looks more hurt, Dini quickly amends, “Oh, but, no! No. I mean it's interesting though - ”

I block out the conversation. As I sit there, all I can think about is how beautiful Sasha looks. I don't mean to be uxorious. But, every now and again, it just hits me - BAM! - and I'm enamored as if I'd never seen her before. I don't know why. Certain things do it for me. Songs. The way she'll move. A particular smell.

Ah, a smell...

The scent of perfumes never reminded me of her. No. Not a smell like that. No... She smells more like... the first rain of Spring. Like summer wind. A cliche, I know, but... oh, it's so true. Summer wind really does have a scent to it which is sweetness like no other... Yes, she smells like summer winds, all right. and it lingers in her hair like a sigh. Perfumed like freshly cut grass and poppyseeds... I have no clue what the hell poppyseeds smell like. For all I know, they could smell like total shit, or absolutely nothing. I don't know. But it sure sounds poetic, and any description of Sasha that's flowery and poetic is befitting of her.

She isn't “just a girl” as I'd tried to convince myself when she moved away. She's songs by... Cat Stevens and James Taylor (heh, she's a little AC/DC too). She's family picnics, and pink and blue saltwater taffy. She's merriment and dances on warm nights in the barn at Pennsic War. She's early 80's tunes and waterslides. Summer sun in a convertible at the beach.

I don't think there's a single, sappy pop ballad or love song that doesn't remind me of her. Of how she laughs. How she makes me laugh. How she looks in starlight. How perfect she is. How much I admire her. Respect her. How goddamn smart she is... How certain I am that she's my soulma -

“ - What'cha' thinkin'?” Dini asks.

“Huh?” I look at her. “Oh, nuthin'.”

I smile at Sasha. She smiles back. Warmly. Lovingly. Yes. God, yes. I could spend the rest of my life with this girl. I really could. I've already spent most of it with her. I even looked at a few engagement rings recently. One actually caught my eye - two golden dolphins kissing a diamond on their snouts... No description of something sounds very nice when the word “snouts” is among the words of the description... But it is a really pretty ring. Dolphins... she'd love it.

But, heck, don't ask me what I was thinking. I know I wasn't being very realistic. I said I'm not uxorious, I just lapse into it every now and then. Realistically, no matter how committed we feel, I think marriages at our age are rather foolish and destined for disaster. Not that I'm a misogamist or anything either. Far from it. But I know I'm not really prepared to be with anyone forever. And forever is so long. A lifetime is ever so much longer than so many realize. It is. Very few people truly comprehend the weight of the commitment or the diuturnity that it entails.

Besides, I want to be able to care for her. To provide for her. Otherwise, I don't think I deserve to be with her. And I know I can't do those things for her. Not yet. I've only been out of high school for a year. Sasha will be starting up at Case Western Reserve University in the Fall - full academic scholarship. Can you believe it? That blew me away. I was so proud. Still am. Fucking genius woman.

Not like her boyfriend. What do I have going for me? I have a decent, part-time, office job at the cable company and I'll be starting my second year at Cuyahoga Community College this Fall. Don't ask me what the fuck I want to do with my life, because I have no idea. I'm not all that interested in much of anything. There's just nothing to do anymore. And I'm certainly no good at anything. I can't think of a single thing that I haven't somehow fucked up. Sasha is the only good thing in my life. If not for her, I think I'd just pop some pills or take a jump. Sometimes, I think I'll catch her bopping some yuppie jock from Hawking or something - just so I'll lose her too. Fate would do that to me... I would just die, losing Sasha.

I kinda like creative stuff. Like music. I learned to play a little bass, but I kinda suck. Who was I kidding? I was never in a band or anything. Whenever I tried to write music, it all sounded like... commercial jingles or something. I try to be really “clever” and “cutesy,” but a lot of times it just comes out sounding old and cliched. Or else, I throw in a lot of extra bullshit as filler which doesn't need to be there. I just do it to try to show off how goddamn smart I can be... Atrocious. And my lyrics blew too. I'd always rhyme “pain” with “rain” and shit like that... Not very creative. I can play. I'm just not creative. Not original. No talent.

I am friends with a lot of musicians, a lot of bands... Well, two or three. I have to admit, I kind of envy them. They're so... charismatic. They have all these huge concerts, which are really nothing other than parties. Huge parties with strangers that adore them. Worship them. The band is host and guest-of-honor all rolled into one. It must be astounding to stand on stage and just smile and wave or something and see fifteen thousand people cheer for you. I hate to sound arrogant, but I would love that. Who wouldn't? My God, what power! Ego-trip el grande.

Of course... fame could be a burden too. I suppose the need for a self-generated isolation from insane, psycho-obsessive fans would be a terribly lonely feeling too. Whom can you trust? Who are your friends? How insane is humanity?... Maybe music isn't a great idea. I sure don't have the talent, passion, drive, or desire for it that strongly. I haven't the patience.

I was interested in writing for a little while. Like playing bass, I enjoyed it, but I have no talent for it. Besides, what do they call writing? “The World's Lonliest Profession?” I don't know if it would be such “noble” isolation... Ha! “Isolation.” So, authors are like rock stars then? No... Well, maybe. Each of them can be so self-righteous. Absorbed in self-pity and delusions of grandeur. That doesn't seem so fun.

Of course, whereas musicians have huge concerts, writer have the opposite pleasure: The intimate privacy of words. It seems a story has an almost personal relationship with a reader. Just the two of them. Alone. And no matter where a reader takes a book, the narrator is still in the privacy of their mind. The reader might be in a sylvan park or an emotionless classroom. Maybe in bed or on a bus. It really doesn't matter. So long as they're reading, the story is there with them. Taking them away from where they are on adventures, romances, mysteries, whatever. Perhaps the narrator is speaking forbidden thoughts. Unacceptable taboos and ideas. Dark, private things, just between the two of them.

It may seem happy to think of the “sharing” and “partying” taking place between a band and their fans. In turn, it may seem sad and lonely to think that no one can simultaneously share in that world which is shared between author and reader... But then again, no one can ever share in their privacy either. It's theirs and theirs alone. No other artists quite have that.

But, like I said, I kinda suck anyway. And it's way too time consuming. Character development is about as easy for me as playing bass with my toes. I know I have a crappily (is “crappily” a word?) limited vocabulary and I'm terribly inarticulate to boot. I did learn a whole slew of new vocabulary words to help describe my writing and various aspects of it though. Words like: catachresis; trite; contrived; bathetic (and “pathetic” too, I suppose); platitude; verbose; cacography; malapropism; aphasia (... or is it “aphrasia?”... I can never remember...). See, what did I say?

I had to look those words up when my English professor wrote them all over my creative writing project. She said my descriptions held “the redundancy of journalist gibberish.” Then she wrote “redundant” about a dozen times. Her idea of a joke, I presume.

Yeah, my writing is just filled with all of those kinds of things. Not to mention horrendous grammar. I suck.

So, now I've been leaning towards filmmaking. Sort of a happy medium I guess. I think the reason I love films so much is becau -

“ - Hey! Hello!? Anybody home?” Veronica asks, snapping fingers before my face.

“Oh... What? I'm sorry. What.”

“You were in another world there!” She laughs. “What were you in such deep thought about?”

“Hrmm. Aw, I was just worrying about my life in general, basically.”

“Oh, don't worry about it.” Sasha pauses. “What was it Frank Zappa said?: Life Is Like High School With Money?”

Everybody chuckles. “That's good.” I grin. “I like that.” I liked the quote. Not high school.

“So, how was Chicago?” Veronica wonders. It's obvious that's what she was asking when I was zoning.

“Oh! It was great!”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It was fun. I mean, the bands were just, like, really cool and stuff. Well, I, of course I already knew Bambi. But meeting Pipe Choir was neat. Totally cool. They're really friendly. So, yeah, it was - it was cool.”

“Pipe Choir is great. I wish I could've met them.”

“Well, they're from here. Or he's from here, I should say.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Yeah, they're amazing. Did you know he got signed to his first major label without ever playing out live?”

“Yeah! I know! They're awesome. The only, like, “big name” band I ever met was U2, when I was in California and they were shooting the video for “Where The Streets Have No Name.”“

“Oh, yeah... That's cool.” I nod. “You told me about that once I think.”

“Yep. That's my claim-to-fame.” She laughs. “You can see me for, like, half a second, way in the back.”

We chuckle and suddenly the conversation hits a total dead spot.

“Well, we should go.” Veronica finally says. “I have to drive Brian home yet.”

Brian shrugs apologetically. “Sorry.”

Everyone says their goodbyes. “Oh, Angel!” Sasha calls, “You're going to Starchime, aren't you?”

“Yep.”

“Cool. We'll see you there then.”

“Later!”

We're all looking forward to Starchime. It's a concert. Going to be at Blossom Music Center; a triple bill, starting at dusk - Enya, Mike Oldfield, and Tori Amos. “Picnics encouraged.” I can't wait!

“Well, I think we should start on home too.” I suggest. “We have to wake up in the morning pretty early.”

“You sound like grandma.” Dini imitates her: “Cut your hair! You trying to look like a girl?”

That woman was always on my case about my hair. Decades after Easy Rider and it's still true: “Hey, man, all we represent to them is someone who needs a haircut.”

For being Seminole, our dads mom is surprisingly conservative about those things. About everything really. When I shaved the sides of my head down bald - not even shaved, just buzzed short - she accused me of “trying to be one of those skinheads!” Please. Puleeease. Get a clue, grandma. Now it's shaved bald. And I'm still not a skinhead. Fancy that.

“No. If I were trying to sound like grandma, I would've said, “Come, come Diania. Off to bed.”” I clapped my hands as I said it.

“Nooo!” Dini groans and covers her head on the table. Dini hates the name “Diania.” She says it sounds like something on the Periodic Table Of The Elements. She felt “Diane” was too common. So, she dropped each “a” out of her name and became “Dini.” But, our grandmother always neglects to remember that (because “Diania is such a beautiful name“) and it drives poor Dini crazy.

It's well past midnight when we start walking home. I toss some change into the upturned hat of the folk singers. The guitarist nods his thanks as a girl starts to sing a very Suzanne Vega-esque rendition of “Stay Awake” from Mary Poppins. An eerie harmony. The crickets seem to bow in time to our footsteps. It makes me think a strange thought: I'm dancing with the night and the sidewalk is creaking.

The lights and commotion of Coven Tree drop away behind us as we roam into the dreamy silence. Pools of light from the streetlamps, and moonlight through the oaks, illuminate our way. An ice cream truck drives past, playing a tinny, glockenspiel version of “The Entertainer.” I can not for the life of me, understand why the hell those guys drive around so damn late.

Sasha and Dini discuss which rides they want to go on first when we hit Cedar Point. I keep on suggesting the Raptor, Magnum, and the Mean Streak. Snake River Falls too. At one time, they were each the tallest and fastest rides of their type on the planet.

“Well, I'm gonna be hitting some of the video games for a little while too. That's for sure. Maybe an hour or so.” I say.

Dini groans. “Oh, come on. We go to amusement parks to ride rides, not to play videogames.”

“Why not? Now you're the one who sounds like grandma.”

“Just because. That's why. It's silly.”

“Video games are amusement.” I defend.

“Oh, God, ” Dini whines, “so play on the computer at home.”

“Maybe they'll have Darius.” Interjects Sasha. She knows that's my favorite arcade game of all time. But I only saw it once, a few years ago, at a different amusement park. Cool. Somebody is on my side.

“Yeah! Cool!” I stick my tongue out at Dini.

“C'mere! I'll “dari” your “us!”” She chases after me.

My footfalls echo as I run. “Oh, baby! I bet you will.” Thick grass shuffles as I run around an oak on someones treelawn. She catches me.

Sasha complains unmirthlessly. “Come on you guys!”

Dini assails me with harmless slaps. “Jerk!... You jerk!”

I throw my arms up in surrender, talking as fast as I can. “Okay, Dini! Okay-Okay. We'll - go - to - Soak - City - first - and - I'll - find - you - a - big - tan - lifeguard - to - keep - you - company - while - I'm - in - the - arcade. Okay?”

“... Oh!” Dini lights up. She stops hitting me. “Well... That's cool with me.” Widely smiling. “Sure... I can't argue with that.”

“I bet Mark would though.”

“Well... what he don't know won't hurt him.” She chuckles.

“Dini!” Sasha scolds. Dini was joking of course. She's truly loyal to (and crazy about) her boyfriend, as most sixteen year olds are prone to be. He's a good guy too. I like him. Treats her well. Considerate. Respectful.

“I'm kidding. I could never cheat on him.” She pauses (in dreamy thought of him, no doubt). “Nope. No way.”

With that, we walk in silence. Sasha and I, arm in arm. As we stroll along, I realize that I've been smiling most the night. Happy. Content.

Approaching headlights give us dim shadows on the moon-gray sidewalk. A lone car drives by in a wish. Red taillights shine, then vanish down a sidestreet.

I look at Sasha. She looks back with simpering eyes. Such quiet stillness beholds the night. A slight breeze rustles the canopy overhead. Faintly, streetlights flutter behind the leaves. And in that moment, the most wonderful thing happens: A firefly lights up right inbetween us. Bright as Tinkerbell. Sasha's face glows in the light. Her hair shimmers, sprinkled with fairy dust. Diamond flecks of light raining liquid-gold on the strands. A gleam flashes off her pendant. The fading spark reflects stars, silver as dolphins, in her eyes. She blinks. Giggles. And it's gone. Just like that.

So quickly there and disappears. A divine gift, like life itself, appears and vanishes all in the blink of an eye. It was one of those moments. One of those moments when I knew; that split instant would stay with me always. Forever etched into my mind. Like a dream. A childhood memory. Magic.

She smiles. “I lov - ”

A bullet tears through Dini's skull. The side of her face that's blown off splatters upon the sidewalk as her corpse falls to the ground.

A locust chatters...

Chapter Twelve

I awoke to the whisper of rain.

It chattered on the roof. Locusts sing.

Thunder exploded, rumbling through ton after ton of mansion walls. As bullet tears flesh.

For a moment, the chatter of rain turned into dolphin song. Gleaming.

But both image and song were drowned in prayers, hissed under rotten leaves. Ancient rites brewed in the cauldrons of murky wiccan hearts. Rites darker than the blackness after a fireflies glow.

Candles burned, and My bed was empty.

There was no comfort from My dreams.

∞ ∞ ∞

Unclothed, down I walked to the balcony. Lightly, rain was trickling, licking the etched glass doors. Opening them, I stepped out. Then I too became showered by rain. Air smelled of smoke, like October.

A cold wind. Colder still, the wet marble under My feet, the thick marble railing in My hands. Clouds parted like bellows of factory fumes. Tumbling away. Slowly. Rain ceased. Yet, still the skies shook with thunder. Orange glowed over the woods. Flaming dusk dirtied under soot of night. Like fading glow of...

But these were flames never shared with so much as a sliver of the day.

The prayers hissed louder there. Out beyond the gardens. Through the woods. In the graveyards. Atop stone altars. Prayers. Hissing. Among the dead. The corpses cried.

My Dark Queen was there -

- calling.

I could hear them. All. The coven... Beckon. From elder to child. And the years infinite between.

Feel them. Crouched on knee. Drenched from rain. Clothed in sashes of silk. Hands raised to dark moon and the black of heaven.

Decayed, wet leaves rode along on the wind. Skittering over gravestones. In whispers. The wind howled between the trees. Between tombstones. Across stone altars.

It comes.

Prayers hissed. Winds howled. Leaves whispered as rain. Chattered as dolphin song.

For a moment, the howl of wind turned into...

It comes.

Orange glowing among the trees turned pale green.

Skittering leaves turned into claws. Scratching gravestones under the weight of beasts.

Howling winds.

Like a stag only of legend, a horn bellowed. Once. Deep and resounding.

It comes.

My Queen and the coven She masters. The Huldre. The Badb. Primordial all. They called... Beckon.

Pale green glowed brighter now. Hissing prayers dissolved in the hot panting of beasts. Their claws grated the earth.

It comes.

The Beasts burst forth into the gardens. Gargantuan demons. Dogs the size of steeds. Fury in green glowing eyes. Blood on green-flamed tongues. The pack come to hunt. Growling thunder. Their howl the cry of corpses and wind.

Their steps disturbed not a single petal of flower... Yet, under their breath, rows of bluebells rang a quiet knell for their prey.

He stepped forth in dark robes, taller than his beasts. Master Of The Hunt. Servant to Us. His face black as the abyss. Featureless but for two wild green eyes and long black hair. Twisted and gnarled stalks out of his skull. Antlers -

- like... only of legend.

A cold wind.

My hair was wet, matted to My back.

... Go ...

He raised a horn carved of human bone to where his lips should be. It sounded. Once. Deep and resounding. A lonely tone. Mesmerizing. Carrying for miles.

The beasts scattered into the night. Whether fleeing the horn or chasing it's sound, I knew not. But their hulking forms shook the ground with each step. Moving not one blade of grass, disturbing not one leaf.

A final beast came forth. Enormous. Pulling a black sleigh of skulls and bones, melted together in twisted, tortured shapes. The Master stepped into the sleigh and nodded a single time before politely bowing to Me. Fear and reverence in his eyes - green highlights sparked on the glossy, bone sleigh.

The beast roared and pulled it's Master off into the darkness without a trace.

... It seeks ...

The Wild Hunt does ride...

∞ ∞ ∞

Allyson approached Me from behind. She gathered My hair in Her hands and wrung out some of the rain. She kissed My neck.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” I still stared out into the night. Facing Allyson, I asked, “Are - ?... What the hell is that!?”

She was wearing frosted jeans, a gray Harvard sweatshirt, and white Reeboks. No makeup but for light red lipstick. She actually wore bangs in Her hair. With hairspray! She never dressed like that.

She laughed.

“What - the hell?... This is a joke, right?” I laughed.

“Get dressed.” She ordered.

“You?... Like that? You kidding?... No way! You want to go to Necropolis like this?” I pointed at Her offhandedly. “Why?”

She chortled. “No, silly! We're stopping somewhere else first.”

Somewhere where We'd be expected to dress like that? Oh, shit. “Where?”

Her voice raised in pitch. “It's a surprise.”

“Well, I'm not dressing like some fucking Bugle Bo - ”

“ - You don't have to dress like this. Dress for Necropolis. We'll go to the club after the surprise. Okay? Now get dressed.” She slapped My ass. Hard. And She left.

Sighing and shaking My head, I looked back over the cold railing. The coven was still in the cemetery. But the night was much quieter now... Much darker.

With witches voices unheard, only shadows of moonlight sang the coven hymns. All the world seemed glistening from the unholy waters which rained only moments ago.

And spreading ever-faster, stretching like a spiders net, an ominous, silent presence marched over the whole of the land.

Chapter Thirteen

We had passed the “DEAD END” sign some time ago.

Our stereo was playing Bauhaus, “Party Of The First Part.” Allyson and I had just finished reciting the dialogue in the song. I asked My final line, “Shall We go?” and now only the music played on. Thick expanses of trees bordering the street caught the light strangely. Rows of gray and black shadows seemed to tick by in time to the bassline of the song. All that Allyson had told Me was that We were going to meet a Pawn.

- shall We play a Game? -

The trees ticked by.

“... So, what's this Pawn's name? At least tell Me that.”

She paused, like She was deciding whether or not that would be revealing too much. But She eventually said, “Mmm... Hailey. I told You her name after Lioncourt, remember? Hailey Tompkins.”

Ah, winter sweetness. Hailey... Sounds so sweet. A mind to rape. Innocent. A soul to torment. Dreams to thieve. Turn her spirit to ash and bones. “Hailey?” Rhetorically thinking aloud.

“Yeah. But she spells it H - e - l - l - e.”

Helle Tompkins lived at the very end of a long dead end street in South Euclid. Allyson parked Our Countach in front of her house. As the headlights winked out, red reflectors and a “TOMPKINS” mailbox on a wooden post, were sent back into dimness. We got out.

Trees and bushes lined both sides of the wet street. They grew dense enough to appear as the walls of a giant hallway. Fans of streetlamp light offered a receding perspective. The “DEAD END” sign was too far back to be seen. Intent on dark purposes which could not be fathomed, whispy clouds scuttled rapidly overhead. Bushes and trees felt unnatural. Wind blew in misty, sporadic gusts. When the leaves rustled, My imagination turned them to plastic. Like they were artificial props in a film on a menacing, nightmare set. Only half of the road had a sidewalk. Were We in a hallway, We were at its end, in its darkest corners. Cornered with but one escape.

A driveway lined with blue lights broke the line of bushes and snaked up to a house in the darkness.

Allyson walked up the drive. I tiptoed behind Her on the shade of clouds and leaves... So many things there were so happy to see Me again. I saw them dancing and heard their laughter only in the distance... for they dared not come too close.

... marching ... over the whole of the land ...

∞ ∞ ∞

A man and woman were just getting into a Lexus at the top of the drive. Yuppies. They looked like thirtysomething television show characters now in their forties. Cardboard cut-outs of human beings. I'll bet they were at Woodstock... and actually bought tickets.

“Allyson!” The woman called out, still by her car door. She had a pronounced English accent.

“Hello, Ms. Tompkins!... Just leaving?” Allyson smiled in the most sincerely phony smile I'd ever seen Her make. Masterful.

“Oh, afraid so. But Helle's inside.” Ms. Tompkins motioned Allyson to the house and started to get in the car. Then added, “Oh! I'm sorry. You've met Jim?”

“No.” Allyson sparked.

She thought. “No. That's right... You haven't. Oh, I'm sorry.” She ventured back out. “Jim, this is Allyson, Helle's friend - ” She paused awkwardly, as if she were going to say more. Then, she simply said, “And, uh, Allyson, this is James Dobsun.”

“Nice to meet You.” No accent from him.

“You too.” They shook.

So far as I was concerned, he could just shove his hand up his ass and pull out some of what he was full of.

“And who's Your frien - ” Ms. Tompkins looked down the driveway, bitten by a sharp and sudden fear. Then, it was gone with mosquito-sting haste. Confused, her smile curled away.

“... Excuse Me?” Allyson asked.

The woman was dazed. “Oh... I'm - I'm sorry. I thought for a moment that I'd seen someone behind You!” She laughed, shook her head, and waved the subject away. “I don't know what's the matter with me. Next thing You know, they'll have to be locking me up too.”

Allyson tittered politely.

“Well, You have a good time tonight.”

“Oh, I will. I can't stay too long though. I promised to pick up My little brother from ice skating.” Allyson lied.

Ms. Tompkins smiled approval. “Oh.” Her tone reflected pleasure and disappointment. She was also in a hurry to leave.

“Well, I'm sorry to keep you. You two have a good trip.” Allyson grinned.

“Thank You. We'll see You later.”

“Bye.”

“So long.” Jim smiled.

“Bye.” Allyson waved.

The couple got in their Lexus and drove out... followed down the road by those things in the dark. They tumbled after the car like tortured skeletons, melting together and laughing maniacally at their own exquisite pain.

∞ ∞ ∞

“Hello?” A blonde girl in a frizzy pink sweater answered the door.

“Hi... Uh, I'm Allyson... Is Helle around?”

“Oh, sure! C'mon in.” The blonde stepped aside.

When Allyson was in, the blonde held out a floppy hand. “I'm Cheryl.”

They shook.

Oh, how divine a toy she would make. So young. Not more than eighteen. Seventeen perhaps. I could plunge her to an edge no mortal ever dreamed of. Such a confident blossom to wither.

“Nice to meet You.”

“You too.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Allyson smirked. Shadow things followed, moving to the house. They gathered at the windows and whisper-laughed with Me.

The house was large, but not enormous. Island in the kitchen. Lavish, but not gaudy. Simple chandelier in the dining room. Nothing too fancy, but nothing was cheap. Sliding glass doors off of a family room. The living room held a fireplace, a big L-shaped sofa, and a baby grand off in one corner. It reeked of conformity, school spirit, and a respect for authority.

And other guests were in the house.

“Everybody, ” Cheryl called, “this is Allyson.”

Lest you forget Her shadow, mortal dear?

Cheryl pointed to the others. She stretched out everyones name. The way a mother talks to a child... or a cheerleader talks to everyone. “Allyson, this is my boyfriend Dan. That's Joel, Leslie's boyfriend. That's Leslie. And that's Brian.”

I was surprised she didn't giggle at the end.

“Hi.” Allyson waved shyly.

They all greeted Her. Cheryl pointed at everybody in turn and repeated, “Okay? So, Dan, Joel, Leslie, Brian, Allyson... Cheryl.”

Then she giggled, like a brainless ditz.

I studied her friends.

Dan looked Italian. Hair, eyes and skin all dark. He was wearing a Varsity jacket and a class ring. Football. Sitting on the couch, elbows of young, muscled arms on knees, looking over a TV Guide. His smile and wave were more sincere than his reading. It looked like he just wanted something to do with his hands.

Joel was in front of the bookcase, next to the largescreen television, looking over the videotapes. His activity left him quite enthralled, habitually scratching his side under his USMC shirt. He wore a plain white baseball cap, backwards. He was blonde, the stubble of his butch poking out around the sides of his hat, and fair-skinned. The type who would've had a lot of freckles as a child.

Leslie was with him. And why I wondered. A short-haired brunette with a ribbed-cotton blouse and the obvious brastrap underneath. Ripped jeans. She had a look of innocent manipulation about her. Youthful sexuality. The type who always got her way. Whom the nerdy high school guys imagined in their bathrooms at night. One whom everyone loved... and whispered “Bitch” behind her back.

Brian was stuffing his mouth with cheese curls and watching MTV, eyes glued to Paula Abdul's “Cold Hearted” video. The oldest and perhaps dumbest of them all, he had perfect sandy blonde hair under his old Indians cap, tanning-salon skin, and a health-spa body. If he smiled, I swear a fucking diamond of light would've sparked off his teeth. I dreamed shadows carving “Asshole” in his forehead and watching the blood and flesh drip onto his Notre Dame sweatshirt.

How they looked didn't matter much. So many mortals look alike. The young, like degenerates or preps. Adults like yuppies or blue-collar robots. They all had a strange beauty to Me. These young ones as well. The hate they inspired in Me was stirred with intrigue. They were so naive. So blind. They fascinated Me to pity. So much I could show them. Change in them. I wanted to command every shadow to envelop the whole of their lot. How would they see their lives in the instant I tore out their soul to be held before their eyes? In those final moments, what wondrous pains would they know in their minds?... And a pity such pain could not last longer before they would be corpses slunk to the ground.

... Ah, but it could last longer, should I so wish it.

No... Never... They deserved not a moment of immortality. Not even to lengthen their tortures.

So, why had Allyson brought Me here? Why must I endure the torture of the company of these people for even an instant?

The beasts unseen by mortal eyes clamored at the windows for a better view. Wind and long, drawn-out shadows were the only sign of their presence.

“Allyson!” A faint English accent shouted.

“Helle!”

Helle came running down the stairway.

She looked to be no more than sixteen. Her obsidian-black hair, well past her shoulders, was bound in a ponytail. She was wearing orange pants, a red V-neck sweater and a yellow Mickey Mouse tee-shirt. So, this was Allyson's magnificent new choice for The Killing Game?

Odd.

She had violet eyes.

“I'm so glad You made it.” Helle jumped the last two stairs and hugged Allyson.

Allyson laughed. “Well, I told you I would.” Then apologetically added. “I can't stay long though.”

Despite the simplicity of their words, the accents of the two girls lent an air of sophistication to them.

They moved apart. Helle pouted. “Aww... Why not?” She cocked her head.

Allyson squinted her lips and shrugged. “I found out I have to pick up My little brother from ice skating.”

“Oh... Well, what time?”

Allyson glanced at the grandfather clock. “Eleven.”

“Well, why don't You come back afterwards? You can stay the night. No school tomorrow, remember? Teacher conferences.” Helle does a little dance. “Yes!” Her fist goes in the air.

“Well, no - ”

“ - Or?... Oh, do You have to work?”

“Yeah.”

“... Well, come back for a little bit.”

Allyson feigned thinking about it. “Okay.”

“Okay. Cool... You promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay, cool.” Helle smiled. Then she turned to the rest of the room. “Did You meet everybody?” She looked back at Allyson. “Allyson?... Cheryl and - ”

“ - Oh, yeah. Yeah, we met.” Allyson said.

The others waved, nodded or voiced agreement.

“Okay. Well, sit down.” Helle motioned towards the sofa. “Me casa, su casa and all that. Take a load off... You want something to eat?”

“No, I'm fine.”

“Have some chips or cheese curls or something.” She laughed. “Can You believe my mom bought that shit? I know that's stupid but - ”

“ - Brian ate all the cheese curls.” Dan noted.

“Already?... Brian!”

He looked over his shoulder. “Sorry... They were good though.”

“Don't you have any good movies here?” Joel interrupted.

“No.” Answered Helle. “Used to.” She sounded pissed off and looked wistful for a moment. “That shit's all my moms... A couple my dad had are in there too.”

The wistful look blinked away. “Well, I'm starving.” Helle moved into her kitchen and Allyson sat down in the living room. Cheryl joined Her.

“So, do You go to school?” Cheryl politely asked.

“Oh, no. I was going to BW but... I don't know. I may go back next year.”

“Oh! Really!? My bother goes there. Did You know Rick Dobsun?”

“Um... no. What year is he?”

“Senior, this year. What year were You?”

“Sophomore.”

“So, You're, what? Twenty?”

“About.” Allyson grinned at a shadow in the corner, at eyes only She could see. I smiled back.

Allyson wondered. “How about you? Where do you go?”

Pots crashed in the kitchen. “Shit!” Helle yelled.

“You okay!?” Brian asked.

“Yeah, fine!”

“I'll go help her.” Brian got up and left.

Allyson awaited Cheryl's answer amid chuckling.

“Oh,” Cheryl finally said, “Well, I'm a Junior at Brush. And so's Leslie.”

(Funny. I would've guessed Laurel.)

“And you guys?” Allyson looked at Dan and Joel.

“What?” Dan spoke.

“Where do you guys go to school?”

“Oh. Well, me and Joe go to Brush too.”

(Another surprise. I would've said Hawking.)

“What about Ryan?”

“... You mean Brian?” Asked Dan.

“Yeah, I'm sorry. Brian.”

“Brian's a Senior at Gilmour.”

(Hrmph. No great shock.)

“I thought Gilmour was all-girls.” Allyson speculated.

“What?” Brian returned. Helle rushed him out before he got in. She was fine. He didn't have to help.

“Isn't Gilmour all-girls?”

“No.” Brian's answer was terse, gruff, and defensive.

Leslie wondered, “What did You study at Baldwin Wallac - ”

“ - Cool!” Perked-up Joel. “Steven Seagal!” He had a videotape in his hands.

“Who?” Asked Leslie.

“Seagal. He's awesome.”

“Yeah, put it in!” Dan said.

Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.” Sudden change of thought: “... Dan, why don't you take your jacket off?” He did.

“Who's Seagal?” Leslie mispronounced it. It sounded more like “seagull” when she said it.

Joel said, “He's before your time.”

Feeling insulted, Leslie slapped him. “Then he's before yours too.”

“When is your guys Homecoming again?” Brian asked out of nowhere, looking at Helle's family photos.

Cheryl scoffed. “Like, November third... But at least we have Friday off then.”

“Oh? Why is it so late?” Allyson questioned.

Dan explained. “They had some water damage in the gym or something. They have to remodel it all or... I don't know.”

“Yeah! Water damage? The fucking roof caved in. With those storms we had, the thing collapsed, I heard. Or part of it caved in or something.” Cheryl noted.

“Yeah.” Dan added, “Just in one corner. You can see it, like the scaffolds and stuff if you look in - ”

“ - Anybody want pizza!?” Helle yelled. Her accent became stronger when she raised her voice.

“Yeah!”

“Sure!”

“I do!”

“Then get in here and help me make it!”

Their enthusiasm dwindled. Leslie whispered to Joel, “Fucking whiny psycho.” Joel laughed.

Only he and the dead heard Leslie's voice.

“I'll help her.” Allyson volunteered. She looked at Leslie. “Even if she is a fucking whiny psycho.”

Leslie was stunned. Allyson had been across the room! How could She have -?

Whispering, alien things murmured their laughter outside. Shadows older than those of the Pyramids. Moving in grotesque ways. Brian shifted uneasily.

Allyson went into the kitchen. I trailed along with Her, sliding in the shadowy folds of Her sweatshirt. She was such a divine Master of Our Games, blessed by verboten beings with a talent for lies. Her transformation into sweetness so believed by mortals. Yet, I felt the truth of Her nature vibrating under Her skin. Mmmm... swarming like hornets behind those eyes. Insidious enough to not even desire the restraints of the Game - but to lash out and destroy without question. No games. No regrets. And pity and mercy be damned to the fire of Her vulgar soul.

“I'll help!”

“Good. Get the flour.” Helle said. “It's right up there.” She pointed, then looked back into the refrigerator.

As Allyson reached up for the flour, Helle asked, “Oh! Did You bring those games You were telling me about?”

“Yeah.” Allyson brought down the flour bag. “You wanna play some?”

“Yeah! You got time?”

“Sure.” Allyson nodded.

“What did You bring?”

“Uh... well, I've got Cosmic Encounter, um, Pictionary... Um... Let's see. I brought Ouija too. Wanna play that?” Cruelty dripped from Allyson's simpering eyes as She pet shadows on Her side.

... Games? Games indeed.

Helle jumped to life. “Ouija?” She chuckled. “You mean a Ouija board!?... Cool! Sure. That'd be fun.” Then she looked disappointed and shrugged a shoulder towards the living room. “Hrumph... They might screw it up though.”

“How so?”

The doorbell rang.

“Oh!” Helle put down a jar of spaghetti sauce. “I bet that's Sandra!”

I followed Helle's caper to the door. When she opened it, a girl was standing on the porch. The two embraced awkwardly - the guest's one hand held a tub of popcorn.

“Hi!”

“Hey, bitch.” The new girl joked.

“Slut.”

They laughed. This new guest was nothing like the others there. Her face had minimal makeup on, not mortar-thick like the other girls did. Platinum white hair, strait down to her waist, was black in the last six inches, cherry-red above that. A Lard tee-shirt (with a big worm on it) was under a puke green lace blouse. The purse slung over her shoulder looked to be from a vintage store. The rest of her was covered in spiderweb stockings, a black skirt, and black Converse Chucks that looked like they were dipped in paint and were originally a different color. To keep out the Fall cold, she had on an olive drab military jacket with the name “JENKINS” on it, USMC.

A white plastic shopping bag was in her other hand. She held it up. “I brought some of your old movies.” She smiled. “Popcorn too. G.C.C. the place to be!” She laughed.

“Cool.”

They moved into the kitchen and the girl put her things on the table. Helle introduced the new girl to Allyson. “Allyson, Sandra. Sandra, Allyson.”

Sandra scrutinized Her and half-smiled. “Hi... Oh!” She reached into the bag and pulled out a graffiti-covered notebook and set it on the table. “Here's your history notes too. Thanks for - ”

Sandra was distracted, noticing the others in the living room for the first time. Her expression changed. Slowly, she transformed. She put a hand on her hip and madness flamed in her eyes. She looked at Helle. Her jaw clenched. Then her tongue puffed out her cheek.

“Can I talk to you?” Sandra puckered her lips, and ran her hand through her hair. Tensely.

“Sure. Y - ”

“ - Good.” Sandra marched out of the kitchen and trodded through the living room.

Helle's brow was askew. Her teeth clenched, lips curling in a frown as she shrugged confusion at Allyson.

The conservative coterie chuckled and sneered as Sandra passed. Helle was right behind her and I followed My Pawn.

“Hiiii, Sandra.” Leslie mocked.

Ignoring Leslie, Sandra stomped upstairs, muttering curses to herself.

Shadows heard and liked the sound.

Tension weaved. Bound the air. The winds knew... Laughter... And -

No other words were spoken.

∞ ∞ ∞

Sandra turned on Helle's bedroom light.

The wake of shadows fleeing the room vibrated the windowpanes like howling winds.

Helle's room had pastel-flowered wallpaper, white, frilly curtains and a drafting table cluttered with school books. Ceramic drama masques, glazed black and white and draped with ribbons, hung on the wall. Made of glass and oak, a huge CD rack held only a minimum of discs. All old albums, some Cure, Siouxsie, a little Sinead, Echo & The Bunnymen, The Breakfast Club Soundtrack, some Erasure, Depeche, lots of Kate Bush and a few others. An unkempt futon was folded out on her floor, the blanket and pillow in disarray. Carnation carpeting, pinkish white. A bookrack on her dresser was sparse: two Charles F. Brush High School yearbooks, the first four Salinger novels, and shitty “classics” which were recognizably there only as a result of having been “required reading.” Her walls were splattered with a few pictures that looked like they'd been torn out of Vogue, Sassy, and Elle. A red rosary hung on the corner of her dresser mirror.

Lying on the drafting table was a framed photograph: Helle with a black blob on one side of her. The blob had its “arm” around her. Underneath the blob, as if having been drawn over with black marker, was a vague image of a boy, Helle's age. A man stood on her other side, smiling as widely as her.

“What the fuck are they doing here?” Sandra slammed the door. “Are they staying over too?”

“Shit, Sandra, calm down!” Helle's nose crinkled.

“Calm down? Why? Look at you!” She threw her arms toward Helle. “Shit, Helle, what the fuck is this? You're even dressing like one of them. Like some mindless fucking priss?” Sandra was repulsed.

“It's my mom! Her and my fucking stepfellator.”

Sandra looked like she'd been kicked in the stomach. “... They got married? I thought it wasn't - ”

Quiet revelation. “ - No. Not yet. It's still next Spring.”

“Shit... Don't scare me like that.” Sandra's hand went to her chest.

“This “party” shit is all her idea.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah!” Helle defensively said. “You know that.” She imitated her mother rudely: “I told you she wants me to “start making more “normal” friends because they're a better influence.””

“Shit.” Sandra tossed her head.

Helle's voice was nearly a whisper. “She's been treating me like I'm five ever since they let me out of there.”

Sandra visibly relaxed, her eyes losing their anger and filling with sympathy. She was silent. Then she sighed. Heavily. Sitting down on the futon, she got angry again, but this time she said, “So tell her to fuck off.”

Helle slunk in her chair at the drafting table. Depression and fear carved her face into a disturbed stare. It looked like she was going to cry. She held up a fist before her face. “... That's when stepfellator steps in.” She lowered her fist and forced a brief smile. “... I can't... or else they'll just lock me up again.” She sighed and ran her hand over her hair. “I'm sorry Sandy... I should've told you they would be here, but I was afraid you wouldn't come.”

Sandra looked even more touched and caring than before. She was about to speak, but she didn't.

Helle kept talking, “... You're my best friend. I don't have any other friends... Not anymore.” She looked up, staring hard at nothing. Then she smiled the grin of happy teenage rebellion. “My mom would shit if she knew I was still hanging out with you.”

Sandra grinned, appreciating the risk her friend was taking. “Well, won't little Cheryl tell her daddy?”

“Fuck her if she does. Fuck him too! I'll rip the little bitches eyes out!”

The two chuckled and a brief silence befell them again. Sandra put her palm on her forehead. “... I can't believe you have to have these assholes over your house. It's bad enough to have them in the same classroom.”

“Shit, ” Helle sighed. “They're here half the time anyway. That's why I invited you. You think I could handle this alone?... Look at me! I'm wearing a fucking Mickey shirt!” She snickered and pulled on the bottom of the shirt. Sandra tittered too and Helle let go. “Don't think I like this - not anymore than you do. I was crazy before they locked me away. I'm not now - ”

“ - Bullshit!” Sandra yelled. “You were never crazy. You know that-“

“ - I - I know. I know.”

“Well then don't say it!” She stared quietly at her friend, letting her reprimand sink in. Then added calmly. “I mean it.”

“Okay.”

“That's not funny.”

“I know.” Pushing the heel of her palms over her eyes, she groaned. Exasperated. “I just hate having those fuckers over here too. Damn... xenophobic fascists... Except Allyson. She's cool. I invited Her. I was supposed to hang out with Her the past two nights, but my mom wouldn't let me leave the house.”

Sandra cocked her head. “Allyson?... Oh! Is She the one you told me was... like - ?”

“ - Yeah. Yeah, She's the one from the hospital.”

“How did you meet Her? You said Her grandfather was there or something?” Sandra absently reached into her pocket and pulled out a tape. She leaned over and popped it into Helle's stereo. “The Dance” by Xorcist began as Helle spoke.

“Uh-huh... Cool... I haven't heard this in awhile.” She smiled. “Well,” she shrugged, “anyway, he was in some special care unit thing, right by the psycho ward.” She smiled at the memory. “You should've seen him. You would've liked him. He was just this, like, really sweet old guy. Super nice. Always offering people suckers and stuff.” Her smile widened. “Everybody there loved him. Even the nurses and stuff... well, most of them. I mean, it's like, he never caused any problems or anything, you know?” She shrugged, “I don't know why he was even in there really.”

Sandra frowned. “Maybe his mom was a bitch.”

“Yeah, really!” Helle laughed. “... So, anyway, Allyson is this guys granddaughter and She'd come and visit him all the time.” Helle looked disturbed and uneasy again. “... I don't know. After awhile he got... really bad though...”

“What do you mean?”

Ears in the dark perked to listen.

“He just got really crazy.” Her plum-colored eyes widened. “Like he started grabbing nurses and like, one time... he was... beating off in the hallway and screaming for Allyson.” She was unnerved talking about it.

“... Weird.” Sandra was uncomfortable as well.

“... I know... He was, like, being... really...violent as he was doing it too. And he... it was all covered in blood and shit.”

Sandra made a face, glazed look in her eyes.

Mouths in the dark opened to laugh.

Helle continued, “He started doing all kinds of weird shit... Self-mutilation and - ”

“ - Okay! I get the idea.”

Helle's eyebrows popped up. “Finally, they locked him in confinement and he couldn't have any visitors.”

“Shit... What about the rest of his family?”

“I don't know. I mean, Allyson is the only visitor he ever had.”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah... ” Helle's tone lightened. “See? That's what I mean. She's really cool. Allyson was always really nice to me. I mean, we just started to talk and eventually, sometimes She'd even spend more time with me than Her grandfather. Near the end there anyway.”

“That's cool.”

Helle stared at her lap. “No shit... It's more than my fucking mom did.”

Sandra shook her head. “You should still tell her to go fuck herself.”

“I know.” Helle sighed. She suddenly added. “Cool shirt.”

Sandra looked down. “Thanks.'

“Where'd you get it?”

“The Rockpile... in Parma. Where else?” She still stared at the shirt. Finally, she looked at Helle, grinning. “Hey, I brought that sheet I was telling you about... Want some?”

Helle's jaw fell and she rolled her neck to the side. Violet eyes flared. Then a doubting drop of her chin. “You didn't.”

“Ooooh, yeah!” She laughed out her nose.

“Shit, Sandy!” Helle laughed, and fell forward in the chair. “Nooo... Fuck... You didn't.”

Sandra nodded. “Yup. Just one though.”

They laughed together and wind shook the windows. “The Dance” played on.

“You want one?” Sandra asked. Helle looked hesitant.

Sandra smirked. “C'mon... It'll be hilarious. I brought back your copy of Heathers. Let's watch it and piss - them - off! We'll keep rewinding it when Kurt and Ram get wasted!”

Helle pursed her lips and grinned evilly. The way one does before giving in to temptation.

“Helle!” Allyson shouted from downstairs.

“Yeah!” Helle turned to the door.

“Better forget the pizza! This sauce expired two months ago!”

Funny She would notice.

“Shit. Okay! I'll be right down!”

Silence.

“... Well?” Sandra waved the paper-like square in front of her.

Helle's mischievous grin returned, looking like it never left. “No. I got a better idea than Heathers.”

“What?”

“Allyson brought some games with Her.”

“Games?... Like what?”

Helle dropped...

∞ ∞ ∞

Brian was still shaking when Allyson rushed out of the house with the Ouija board tucked under Her arm.

Lines of dark gray smoke still trailed from the glowing ember atop wicks in the candelabras. Speakers played “Beetle Crawls Across My Back” by Nurse With Wound, from upstairs loud enough to slither through the house. It was half past eleven.

“I heard something, man. I'm not fucking kidding.” Brian tried hard to maintain his composure. His voice came close to cracking. Since he'd not spoken of it yet, I knew he would never dare to mention what he'd seen along with what he heard.

... No. Never.

In My arms, I pet a mutilated shadow as I stared in through the window. Laughing like quiet waves on sand, it sprang from My hands and scurried off into the dark.

Yes... Funny these Games.

“Shiit, ” Dan said, “Just... man, forget it. Just shut up, okay? It's - It was all just your imagination.”

Brian leapt up. “Then how did the TV go on, genius!?... Huh?” He pointed at the television. “Huh!?... How the fuck did it go on with nobody near it?”

“W - It was... just... a power surge or something, man. Come on.”

“Come on you guys.” Leslie said, holding a kiwi cooler. “Let's watch that movie... Come on. Just forget about it. It was just a dumb game.”

The others conceded to Leslie, but the emotions painting that room were still the color of fear. Mmmmm... How I admired that hue. That tint which came from the blood in their hearts.

This Game with thee had only just begun to run it's twisted route, damned maid... 'Tis My guide ye sleep with yon lantern aflame... And for fearing hag's ride, lightly dream.

Upstairs, Helle pondered hard into the night with her lilac eyes and licked moist satin lips which were very nearly a similar shade.

Delicate, her fingertips touched the window. Curling into the most imperceptive smile, she spoke. Quieter than the whisper of waves on sand.

“It worked, Sandra.”

Her grin widened. “I saw him.” So quiet then her voice, no doubt her friend could barely hear. Helle blinked once and slowly, eyes cast down when they'd opened again. Yet they refused to release the brimming tears of her lonely desperation. “He smiled at me... My dad smiled at me.”

Slipping off the window, her index finger reached down and caressed the man in the framed picture that lay on her drafting table.

But these were not the visions Brian had seen. Brian had seen something else. Something which still left him trembling, like the earth, under the weight of... something -

- marching...

∞ ∞ ∞

In only partial form of shadows, heavy as starlight, I lay atop the tall bushes next to the Lamborghini. I was on My stomach, propping up My chin in My palms. From the car vibrated “A Daisy Chain 4 Satan” by My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult.

Allyson sat out the open door, lacing up Her boots.

Now She was dressed for the club. The black wet-leather skirt, tightly hugging Her, creaked as She shifted on the leather car seat. Nylons made Her legs look like black onyx and matched Her eyeliner. Firm breasts snugly filled the ebony bustier beneath Her tailed-tuxedo jacket. Dangling low on Her neck, an ankh crucifix. Real silver. Lowtop Docs matched the red silk gloves which She slipped on with Her teeth.

She ruffled the hairspray from Her hair and looked back at Me. Ever-seductive were those eyes.

I flew off the bushes in a spritely twirl and landed on My feet, in fully solid form again.

Allyson's head craned back. Glossy, slick-black lips parted wide. Fangs gleamed as snow as She laughed loud and deep. I too joined in Her mirth.

And a thousand shades of things dark and long forgotten giggled and rolled and skipped and snickered, cold in the night. On and on, louder and louder We laughed until the echo of Our perverted joys threatened to shatter the moon itself...

Yes... Funny... Oh, so very funny these Games.

Chapter Fourteen

The Sisters Of Mercy sang of the devil in a black dress... watching over. Of guardian angels walking away. It was loud enough to feel the bass outside the brick walls of the Necropolis.

“Temple Of Love!” Allyson took hold of My hand and We ran to the club.

A cop was escorting a man and his date away from the entrance. They didn't meet up to the doorman's unwritten dress code, or maybe he just didn't like them. Their feet shuffled in vehement protest, under the shadow of a telephone pole. Signs on the pole indicated the corner of Elm Street and Spruce Avenue.

Nothing more denoted the club than the doors, (and the line outside them, waiting to get in) juxtaposed with two inverted, wireframe obelisks backlit with bluish light.

The line of mortals stared at Us, having seen Us arrive in the Lamborghini. That's why We brought it, We felt like attracting attention. Lamborghini's do that.

Moving past them, an ursine bouncer opened the door for Us.

“Hey, Kids, what's up?” Grinning behind his sunglasses.

“Thanks, Carl!”

As She and I passed Charlie, the doorman, We said hi.

He looked Our way. “Heyyy, Allyson! Lookin' good! How's it goi - ”

But We were already through the door and rushing for the dance floor. The ticket-taker, Marcy tonight, stepped aside for Us, while the mortals stood at the register paying the twenty dollar cover.

A blast of music poured out onto Us as We stepped up to the main floor.

Hundreds already packed the dark club. But for now I ignored them. All I payed attention to was the beat. The lights. The dance. The trance.

I moved up to My usual spot: The stage dancefloor. The proverbial spotlight. There, I jumped and flailed to the music. Screaming silently at the strobes and fans of laser light as I lip synched with the songs. Neon blazed. Miniature, multicolored spotlights cut the dark with beams nearly as intense as the lasers. Fluttering and flickering, a trillion rainbows in a hurricane. Liquid-filled kaleidoscope wheels projected psychedelic swirls of color and bubbles on the walls. Mirror balls scattered hypnotic stars.

The dancers hands clawed at the air. Their eyes brimmed with loathing and hate for people they remembered. Frustrations and misery vented. Beguiling young girls, sweating, panting and scantily clad. Dressed to attract the person whom they would be able to hate next week. Boys handsome and alluring in their androgyny, slick skin glowing. Mortals in a frenzy. Dancing. Reminiscent of ancient tribal rituals to summon the dead. Songs new, but with rhythms unchanged since the angels fell to earth. Under the flashing lightning of mechanical heavens, no soul was ever in clear view.

On the dancefloor, the bass was a netherworldly creature. Possessing all. Penetrating the flesh. Surging through the veins. Stealing away the soul and carrying it to planes of dark and glorious delight.

Sporadically, over twenty mortals and Damned must've greeted Me as we shared the crowded floor. When Jim Wesson mixed from “Blood” by Numb into the bad-ass riff of 1000 Homo DJ's “Supernaught” the crowd went ballistic. Out of the anarchaic sea burst skaters bent on riding the halfpipe on the stage. The thunder of their wheels, of trucks grinding the coping, was drowned out under the mighty soundsystem. But the spirit of their hardcore rage blared fierce and high as they lofted airs into the rafters. Splitting the laserbeams, they were each aglow in pinpoints of light, scanning their bodies, as they sailed above the crowd. Everyone cheered them on.

... And the songs went on ...

- I've lived a thousand years it never bothered Me -

... Yes! Sing it.

I danced through the morbid carnage of Leather Strip's “Japanese Bodies.” People slammed to the guttural hymn of “Like A Prayer” by Bigod 20. The Nymphs cried of being “Sad And Damned.” Brutal laughter flared as the Revolting Cocks screamed of “Attack Ships On Fire.” Jim cut the volume down so the crowd could sing along: “WAKE ME UP!”

The dancefloor was ferocity and vertigo as always. And it drained on into the night...

Finally, I wandered off the floor. Yet, the rest of the dancers went on as much as ever. Madness and energy.

I walked up to the third level, by a corner of the railing, overlooking the whole club. My favorite spot. My eyrie. The best vantage point in the entire club from which to observe My prey. And over Me fell that old feeling, as familiar to Me as the taste of blood. The timeless aura of mortal sorrows. Of weak and dispassioned, lonely souls. In the clubs, the night was always the same. A stagnated boredom where a minute lasts and hour. Or else the evening was a rapid succession of dance and music, meaningless thought and conversation.

Two immortals happened by as I stood there: Jed and Kennan, carrying Their skateboards by the trucks. They lived in an abandoned warehouse with others like Them. Their unlives were the tales of scruffy degenerates and scavengers. Thieves. Muggers. Lowlife hoodlums. Punks in the truest, old-school sense. But They were still lovely. Seemly as we all. Beautiful. And They would never dream of hitting a club without looking their best.

They died decades ago, each in Their mid-twenties, but looking younger, as the Gift so often bestows.

Even Their clothes were old school: Airwalk shoes. VSW shorts. A flannel tied around the waist. Jed wore and old Thrasher Mag tee. Kennan's shirt was a highly faded old McGill with the skull and snake. They were skaters in the blood. Eternally.

Jed brushed His coal hair out of His face. It was all one length, dangling at His chin.

He smiled. “Hey there bud.”

I nodded. “Heya, skater bros!... Jed... Kennan.” Kennan shook My hand as I patted His shoulder. Then Jed and I shook as well.

“How goes it, holmes?” Kennan asked, bopping back and forth to the music. The song was “Sucks” by KMFDM.

“Not bad. Not bad. Yourself?”

“Killer, brah. Saw You at the show last night.”

I waited for Him to say something more. “... Uh, yeah, I was there.”

“Cool.”

“Did You get invitations to the party?”

“... Huh?” Jed asked.

“Halloween. The party?”

“Oh! Yeah! We did.” Jed nodded. “We'll be there, homeslice.”

“Yeah. You know it. Bic Us in. We're on it.” Kennan smiled. Hang loose. His cropped, honey hair catching the pulsating colors of the club.

“Killer.”

They stood quiet until Jed eventually uttered, “Well, We'll check You, holmes. Gonna go scope.” Jed slapped My hand.

“Later.” Kennan's turn.

“Take it easy.”

“No shit! I almost shack whackled My dillit on that McTwist. Way sketchy on the trannie, bro.”

“Dude, watch those reentries, man. It's new masonite.”

“Right.” Jed laughed. “Later skater.”

They dropped Their decks and sailed like stop-motion ghosts through the scintillating droves of people.

I had to laugh as I stood there. My mind drifted. A thought blinked in with the light: On the way over, Allyson and I had seen Crazy Paul.

There was some event happening on North Coast Harbor at the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame & Museum. (And Museum? “Mausoleum” more like.) Perhaps inducting another old, has-been, overrated nimrod nobody has ever heard of. Who knows? Who cared?... What a joke.

So, anyway, We got off I-90 at East Ninth and cut down to Superior. Yeah, right. It barely helped. Traffic was still hell. Shit. Between Gateway and that Hall, Downtown driving was more atrocious than ever.

But We saw Paul again.

Sitting at the light on Superior by Huron, I glanced across the intersection. Paul was talking to the metal silhouette sculptures on the park benches at the Ohio State Office Tower.

“Shit!... There's Paul!”

“Where?” Ally looked.

“There!” I pointed, jumped out of the car and ran across the street, dodging traffic. A driver yelled, his voice waving and cresting as he passed, “Get outta the road FUCKING PUNK rock faggot!”

“Yo! Paul!... Hey, Paul!... Whatssup?”

Paul was shouting at the sculpture, telling it that he never had exact change for the bus, and they would let him on anyway because he could pay in hamster droppings.

“Paul.” I laughed. “Paul, man, what's up?”

“Daa. Gotta catch 'em now. Gotta catch it.” In a rapid voice, both nasal and gruff, he began grabbing at the air as if trying to catch swarming gnats. Yet nothing was there. I wasn't sure he noticed Me. He was really into what he was doing.

The light changed. Allyson squealed a U-turn in front of oncoming cars, roared to a halt, and parked next to Me in the street. Car horns yelled.

“Bitch!”

“Hey! Learn how to drive!”

“Go back to Pepper Pike! Fucking yuppie!”

“Come on!” Allyson called, blocking traffic. She couldn't care less about the mortals. She just wanted to hit the club. Now.

Suddenly, Paul spun around in two complete circles, faced Me, made the sign of the cross, and genuflected. “Beware the afternoon of the Great Worm!! Daa, You, ahh, got money for a beer?”

Shit, he fucking reeked. Some white, chunky thing was bobbing below his lip in his beard.

“Got it.” I held out a ten, wondering if he'd spent last nights fifty... I doubted it. Probably got jumped for it. Maybe used it to wipe his ass or blow his nose. I doubted he even knew... Could've wiped that chunky thing off his beard with it too.

He took the cash. “Da. Ya - Ya wanna - wanna go and daaa, get a beer?”

“No, thanks, Paul... I'm set. Maybe next time.”

He jumped and turned 180 degrees in the air, so he landed like an en garde Sumo. Then, he ran down Huron Avenue. All the way, dancing and singing Cop Shoot Cop's “$10 Bill” at the top of his out-of-tune lungs, terrifying motorists by glaring in rolled up windows and grabbing at things that weren't there...

Still chuckling, I turned Back to refocus My view.

Still spanning out below was the dark magic of the club. However gradually, My mind once again returned to the reality beneath Me.

Not par with the Rainbow, but nevertheless... what a club!

Necropolis was huge. An all-industrial nightclub down in the Flats. Way underground. Never advertised. And on Sunday nights, it was a haven for My Kind.

Like most clubs in the Flats, the Necropolis was converted from an immense warehouse. Now it held two levels of dancefloors (one with the skateramp) and a gigantic, four-sided bar overlooked by two balcony-level bars and a lounge. There was a private, VIP lounge off in back with a massive glass wall to observe the rest of the club. A small room tucked around front sold gothic clothing while a counter in the lobby (next to the coat room) sold both drinks and Necropolis merchandise. Above the dancefloor, mounted twenty feet in a side wall, was the DJ booth. Finally were two adjoining “Acid Rooms” adjacent to the main room, strewn with deep couches and painted, with behemoth, violent and suggestive fluorescent murals.

All of it resting under a ceiling over thirty feet high. And from where I stood, I could see almost all of it. Patient hunter in a steel and concrete tree.

Ah, and what did I see in the chaos below Me? What prey is this that might be the quarry of My hunt? Oh, a fine one indeed. Succulent true. Oh, My dear, let Me enchant thee with the suave, stereotypical gobbledygook of Dracula-esque beings and steal ye off into My vile Kiss of the Night. Boo ha, ha...

I laughed inwardly at My Own joke.

The “Hymn” of Non Aggression Pact was playing when the owner of the club, Denise Winters, neared and called My name.

“Dee!” Grinned I with fangs. “Hi, there, love!” We hugged, kissing Her caramel-skinned cheek in the process.

It was thanks to Her that the Necropolis was no longer a pathetic techno/house club. I thoroughly despised the whole techno/retro-'60's scene. Mindless music. Samples (the “politically correct” term for “plagiarism”). Drum machines and big-headed DJ's. Predictable break beat every sixteen beats on the dime. Count them. Recycled hi-energy. Old tunes. New beats. And that whole “disco rejuvenation” thing. What bullshit! Techno and disco were two of the worst forms of music to ever putrefy this planet. Think of something new. Those decades were gone and the dead should be left to rest. (Hrumph.)

After moving from Montreal and Her Prince, Denise single-handedly turned Necropolis into a kick-ass, punk/industrial/darkwave venue. If for nothing else, it was for that reason alone that (as far as I was concerned) She should be worshiped and revered. Praise Denise!

Little decor was actually altered when Denise took over, but it was Her idea to put the Necropolis on the imaginary “Vampire Connection” as stated by Anne Rice in her Chronicles: A section of wall in an Acid Room was painted glossy red and on it, in black, was written the entire Declaration from the back room of Dracula's Daughter - just like the opening of The Queen Of The Damned.

Cool.

Denise Herself could best be described as “smoldering.” In many ways, She reminded Me of Camillia. Same confidence. Same sexuality. Her thirty year old body hadn't aged in over a century. Soft as wind, Her morel hair and caramel flesh. Strong and wise lasciviousness simmered behind chestnut eyes. A swarthy lace and chemise bodice conformed revealingly to Her lithe form.

She looked nervous.

“Hello, gorgeous... So, where's Our Queen?” Denise didn't look Me in the eye when She spoke, and She forced a pained smile... Why did She ask? She knew.

At Her age, Denise could feel The Hunt.

So why would...

Blinding strobes. Lasers. Lava lights. Faces in the stygian club lit in guise of a hundred deranged jesters.

Then I realized: Denise was scared... But why? What sins fed Her guilty mind? I sucked in My cheek in amusement. Time to toy with Her.

Accusingly, I wondered, “Why? Do You have some sort of... confession to make to Her?”

Denise's eyes turned pale. She stammered. The worm on hook. See Her writhe.

And let Her writhe I did, for a long minute before I laughed. “I'm just kidding Dee... It's not looking for You.” But should it be?

She relaxed slightly. “We need to talk.”

“Sure.”

“Not here.”

Leading Me by the hand, We moved through the fireworks of light, shadow, sweat, and blood.

We ran into Kristian on Our way downstairs. He talked to Me, but didn't really say anything. I invited He and his Droogs to the Halloween party.

“We need to talk. Excuse Us.” Denise told him.

“Can't We talk here?” I smiled.

“No.” Denise tugged My hand. “Valeria and Erin were here... And it was important. You should've seen Them. Come.”

Valeria Kingstone and Erin Burnwash? Two of the most beautiful Creatures I had ever seen? Bewitching Siabra They were. Like Handmaids of Hecate herself. And it had been too long. Indeed, I should like to see Them once again.

Denise and I stood at the bar in the private VIP lounge. There was a smaller crowd and the clamor of the night was quieter there. But light still sparked and music still quaked.

“Valeria and Erin were here? Where are Th - ?”

“ - They went back to New York already.”

“... Shit, Dee.” I looked sidelong at Her. Valeria and Erin already left? They were Friends of Denise, back from Denise's years in New York City in ages long past. Always They were welcome in My city. But none of the Damned should be there without the diarchy of Camillia and I knowing... Besides, I smirked, I'd never let Them leave without inviting Them to the party. But, technically, the Girls were responsible to notify Us. Not Denise. “Why didn't You tell Us?”

“They had to leave. They couldn't stay long.”

“Fuck.” I enjoyed the company of few Kindred. Valeria and Erin were Two I adored. We'd hang out every night, all night, when They were here.

Denise added quickly, “That's why I thought The Hunt was...”

... Was?... Was what?... I finished Her thought. “You thought it was after You for keeping Erin and Val from Us?”

Her eyes confirmed it.

I was annoyed. I shook My head. “I resent Your underestimation of Our mercy, Denise... An old Friend's minor infraction would not justify the invocation of such a thing.” My tone was relaxed, yet nefarious underneath.

“So... ” I could tell She was about to ask whom The Hunt sought, but She realized it was not Her place to question. “I see... I'm sorry. I meant no insult. It won't happen again.”

“I know.”

Her usual poise and unwavering strength of character returned. “They... told Me things.”

“Things?... About what?”

She sighed, looked over My shoulder, and froze back to My eyes. “Something is happening in New York.”

“Something? What's happening?... Are They okay?”

“They're not sure. But whatever it is, They thought it important enough to come here in person for it.”

Disinterested, I rubbed My eyes. Her melodramatic ambiguity was lost on Me. She could see that.

She added, “I know that's vague. Just... stay alert.”

“Always am.” I calmly revealed.

She wasn't convinced.

I sighed. “... Listen, Dee. Nothing will go down that I won't know about.”

“With due respect, Your Majesty, You're not that ubiquitous.”

Sardonically I raised My brow. “Perhaps not. But I'm... well connected.”

Denise laughed capriciously. “Hell... You're right. It happens.” She shook Her head. “It is New York. I was always seeing plots and discovering things that were never really there. It's just weird vibes. Just paranoid... It'll pass... It'll pass. You know Those Two. They hang out at The Vault too much.”

“Mmm. Who wouldn't? I doubt it's ever too much.” I smiled. I dug that club.

“Yeah... I'm sure They're alright.” She smirked.

“Well, next time They're in town, don't let - ”

“Denise! Phone!” Called the bartender.

“Mmm. Take it in the office!” She excused Herself.

I added. “Oh! Have You talked to Devan?”

“No.”

“He was looking for You last night, after the show.”

“Oh. Thanks. I'll give him a call. Don't leave without saying goodbye.” She kissed My cheek and sauntered to Her office.

Left alone, I went to the window. Behind Me sat a handful of rich and pompous regulars in leather couches. All comely. All mortal. Laughing. Drinking. Flirting. Smoking. They reflected in the glass. And beyond their reflection, looking through the window, the dismal joy of the club, the shifting crowd unfurled below.

Tones On Tail lit the triste “Burning Skies.”

To the somber dirge, the dancefloor swayed with hauntingly slow fluidity. A nightmare ballet. A fine harmony played in the sway below Me. A private chuckle: Though they know it not, “their name is Legion...”

So many lives. Each one, a universe of thoughts, wishes, hopes, and dreams. All their stories. Experiences. Their mix of quirk and pattern in their personalities. So many of them. Each with a different tale of sorrow and broken promise.

I will always love the presence of these pests.

That one - where was she born? How old was she? What memories does she have of her youth?

She slipped away.

And do any of them truly recall their youth at all?... No. It's doubtful. Those promises and pledges made to self and best friends. Those ambitions of childhood to be so many things, to achieve so much. All forgotten... But children often forget such things. And then they become that which they most hate. That which they most fear.

Fascination fueled My thoughts. Not pity or sadness. I did not see them through the eyes of sympathy. I was merely curious: What do these creatures think? Like the superior scientist staring deep into the rat's pink eyes, late one night in the lab.

... Do you have many friends? How many of you are truly lonely? How many are terrified of life itself? And you, My dear, are you caught up in things dark and sinister that the child in you vowed to avoid not so long ago?

I laughed to Myself. Ah, but what are You thinking now, sweet Prince? On Your self-indulgent soapbox again? Preaching and judging the lives of the living?

Hmmm. But Who better to pass sentence on the living than the dead?

How much value do they place on the life itself that they will inevitably lose?

Their brightest gift... My darkest curse.

Yes, I am right to judge.

Had they seen the sun today? Did that one take the time to look up at a heavenly white cloud, so bright it burned itself into the vision as a flashing red blob when he blinked?

I laughed again. “Flashing red blob?” That description amused Me... Years since I'd seen such things.

How curious.

They all hustled about in their busy lives, trying so hard to do so much, yet amounted to nothing. The faster they go, the less time they have. Placing such immense values on such trivial things: Their jobs. Their cars. So many... objects.

All the meaningless things in which they placed their pride: Their children. Their achievements. Their country. Sports figures. Schools. How marvelous. How splendid, the morbid futility of it all. One day, this country will fall. America will be no more. Their heroes will die. Their homes will crumble. Society eroding from within. And it will collapse for not being able to support its own gluttonous weight any longer. Do they not see the inevitability of this? What record company executive, what oil corporation CEO would leave any mark in this world? A commemorative plaque in a penthouse office building? A name in a company logo?

And these fools will count themselves “successful,” thinking they “accomplished something” in life as they toss and turn forever in their tombs.

Yet will the mark of such a “powerful” person ever be etched into the world of man as deeply as a Jewish carpenter? As an Indian lawyer who taught his people to draw salt from the sea? Will legends live on like an outlaw robbing from the rich to give to the poor? Will they have the significance of rulers of people who built golden tombs in the sand, made to last for eternity?

No. There is no longer such a thing as a worthwhile mortal.

Every mortal had been tricked, by themselves, into believing that they had meaning and value. What a ghastly deception. In one hundred years, few of them on this Earth will be remembered at all. Not by anyone. Not in any way. What a waste. The mark they leave will be nothing more than an epitaph etched into a gravestone.

And every one of you would believe yourself to be the exception to that truth. To be “one of the few.” Arrogant illusions, they run so deep.

That one - would you hear My words and think, “Not me?”... Yes. They all would. Every last one.

They meant nothing.

It is for the ignorance of their delusions that I imprecate them with such passion. And it is for that which I hold the right to judge.

I turned around to face the mortals on the couch. Arrogantly, I smirked as I stared at them. Being quite rude, I didn't bother to be subtle. I was rather blatant about it. A few of them caught My eye. One at a time, their conversation quieted. Glances made. Necks rubbed. Uneasy silence. Faint nods in My direction. They were becoming nervous. Disturbed. They were just about to say something to Me.

Wendy strolled into the lounge, a Child of the Shades. A Revenant - a mortal who tasted immortal blood and feeds from mortals to sustain her own immortality. She had many brethren, all permitted by Us to continue to believe they are Our equals, including Wendy's friend and shadow in sapphism, Cream. Yet they were not truly One with Us. The only gift we share is life eternal. They had much to learn which they never would. Their lives were deceit. But ones such as Wendy and Cream knew the seductions of the Undying. They knew the manipulations. Wendy could play...

She was in a shin-length, black dress. Completely sheer with black, frilly lace around the neck and wrists. The frosty bra and panties offered a stark contrast beneath. Three skeleton earrings jiggled on each ear.

I forgot those mortals on the couch.

Wendy smiled My way and tossed her cola-tinted hair. Her voice was a happy octave too high. “Well, if it isn't the God of Serpent Kisses.”

“Ah, is it isn't one of My Scarlet Women.”

After a passionate hug, I said, “Good to see you... Where's your shadow?”

“Who?”

“Cream.”

“Oh! She's here too. As usual. Down dancing.” Cream was quite an exquisite dancer too. Cream was a nickname. Her real name was Robia Pearl, but nobody ever called her that.

Wendy held My hands and pulled back. She was moving to the beat and looking Me over. “You're looking good tonight... I like the shirt.”

“Thanks. I'm sporting the Loki-look.” I smiled. Wendy missed the reference. Like Ally suggested, I'd dressed for the club: Everything I had on was black and red. Just like Loki, God of mischief, strife and fire. Allyson pointed it out to Me. I hadn't done it deliberately. Red boots with black laces. Black fishnets. Red shorts. A black motorcycle jacket with a big, red, inverted crucifix painted on the back - cartoon blood dripping down. And a black tee-shirt with the words “KEEP MUSIC EVIL” in oversized red letters. “You look pretty hot yourself.”

“You like it?” She spun a circle.

My eyes traced her curves. “Very nice.”

“Thank You.” She rubbed against Me. “Cream bought it for me.”

“Nice... Care to wander?”

“Lead the way.”

“After you.” I held the door open for her, My hand resting on the Members Only plaque. “So, what have you been up to?”

We walked out.

“Same old thing!” Wendy shouted over the noise. “Working!... How about You?”

I shrugged. “Nothing!” I put My hand around her shoulders. Warm and sweaty tingles on My palm.

Her hand found My waist. “Just hanging out!?”

“Yeah!”

She nodded. “Mmm... Did You hear Tandy ran away!?”

“... Tandyyy!?...”

“Yeah! You know! Tandy Bowen!... From Shaker! She's living with some black guy, Tyrone or something! She wrote us a letter about a week ago!”

Nodding: “That's cool! Where is she!?”

“She went to New York!”

“Shit!... Doesn't anyone ever go anywhere else!?”

“Huh!?”

“Well, it just seems like everyone I know goes to New York City! Doesn't anyone ever go anywhere else!?”

She thought about it. “... Yeah! Everybody else goes to LA!”

I smiled. “Cute!”

Wendy nudged Me. “Holy shit!... Look at her! Is that a woman!? Look!”

“Where!?”

“Look! She fucking looks like Danny Aiello! Look!”

I saw the... lady (?) in question. Wendy was right too! Scary. How did she get in? Charlie fall asleep?

“You want a drink!?” Wendy edged toward the bar.

I dove in close to her ear. “Sure! How about your neck!?”

Wendy elbowed Me. “Ha! Ha!” She quipped dryly. “No, I mean a real drink!?”

“No! No, thanks!” I shook My head. She didn't know I couldn't.

“Well, I need one!”

I waited as Wendy squeezed inbetween crowded stools to get a bartenders attention. Between the shuffle of talking, moving and light, I saw Allyson. I waved, but She didn't see Me. Jim passed by with a Coke in his hand, and patted My back to say “hello.” I grinned back. More skaters glided past.

Wendy turned around, sipping a yellowish drink in a plastic cup through a red straw. “So, what else is new!?”

“Not much!”

“Let's sit!” She headed to the larger of the two Acid Rooms. The one with the Declaration. It was scattered with tiny, white candles atop black tables. People sat drinking and smoking, their faces lit by an occasional flash of flame from a lighter. Some in the couches just stared at the lewd walls. Like all the club, it was apocalyptically dark. And a strange, soft sensuality clung to the darkness.

A slow simper followed My observation: The blacklights illuminating the murals were like Helle's eyes.

Everything looked horrid under that light. Eyes and teeth glowed like squashed lightning bugs. Skin turned sickly hues. Fingernails and hair were ethereal.

Just as Wendy and I were about to sit, a girl waved her arms at us from across the room. Cream. My other Scarlet Woman.

We went to her.

“Hi, guys!” Cream hugged Me, still sitting.

“Hi!” We kissed.

“What's going on!?” Cream, holding My hand, pulled Me down to sit by her. Wendy sat on My left.

“Very little! What have you been doing!?”

She sighed, widened her eyes, and swept her hand across her brow. “Shit! Sweating my ass off! I'm sooo hot! I've been dancing since we got here!”

“What time'd you get here!?”

Rolling eyes and pursing lips in thought, “Oh... around eleven!... How come you got here so late!?”

“Just had shit to do!... You look really great tonight!”

“Thanks! Don't I always!?” Cream put her hands up in the air so I could see her better. The dress she wore was ebony and backless. A plunging neckline dipped down to her navel while the sides were cut high up to her hips. Chalk-white nylons and shoes matched her long hair, shaved to stubble on one half of her head.

“Jeez, I'm hot!” Cream waved herself with her hand.

I was going to say “You sure are,” but this conversation was shallow enough as it was.

“You're hot!?” Wendy asked her girlfriend. “I'm freezing! Especially my shoulders!” She rubbed a shoulder while sipping her drink.

“Well,” I chuckled, “... you could always wrap My penis around your neck!”

Her jaw dropped. I was laughing... Oops. So much for not being shallow.

“What!?” Cream asked, clueless. “What did You say!?”

“No!” Wendy guffawed. “I don't think so!” Then she flirted, making her eyebrow jump. “Unless I can bite down on it!” She tuck out her tongue suggestively and pulled out a straitrazor - the Revenant alternative to fangs.

“Oh, baby!” I licked My lips. Her tongue darted out and brushed Mine. Quick as kissing snakes.

Wendy, laughing, playfully nudged Me and put away her blade.

“What did You say!?” Cream asked again. “I missed all of that!”

I turned to Cream and related the story to her. As she snickered about it (after calling Me a “pig”), some kid approached Wendy. He had postcards in his hand, was wearing a blue baseball cap over his Michael J. Fox hairdo, and wore tennis shoes. He wore black pants with a big Tasmanian Devil on the hip and an Eastern Airlines workshirt over some red and white striped tee-shirt. I didn't pay attention to what he said. He gave her a postcard.

“Oh, wow!... A rave!? I love raves!” Wendy said. “I go to, like, every one! I was at the one in Toronto last month!”

“Really!? That's cool! It's hard to find cool people to go anymore! They're all posers, nowadays! It's all commercialized!”

(I know I spelled “poseurs” wrong, but he would've too.)

Wendy said, “Oh, I know! But I love raves! I was just at a rave in Pittsburgh two nights ago!”

“I heard about that one! Really!? You went!?” He said happily.

Wendy, ever the hoyden, capriciously crinkled her nose, “No!... No way! Raves, fucking suck - my - ass!” She ripped up the postcard, threw it, and kicked at his groin. “Go home and listen to some real music!... Get away from me! Loser!... I'm serious asshole! Leave me the fuck alone!”

He stared at her like she'd just crushed a hamster with a mallet.

His face looked like it was going to slide off his head. Humiliated, he slinked away. Fast as he could, but not so fast that he lost anymore dignity.

“And tell your raver friends to stop dressing like fucking hippies!!”

“Oh, shit!” I laughed. “That was cold!” I gave her a high five.

Cream hissed like a cat, her hand imitating claws. “Wreeeeaw!... Don't fuck with the Wendy-person!”

“No shit! You just about tore him a new one!”

Wendy set down her drink and sprang up. “Oh!... Wait! You think that's bad!? Wait!... Wait! That just reminded me! Get this!” She reached in her purse and began digging. “Wait!... Where is it!?”

“Ohhh, yeah!” Cream said. “Get this! We saved one 'cause it was so ridiculous!” She motioned to Wendy's purse.

“Saved what!?”

“Breathmint!?” Wendy changed the subject, holding up a roll of Certs.

“... Is that a hint!?”

“Nooo!” She smiled, “You want one!?”

“No, thank you!?”

The Certs disappeared. She dug more. “Oh! Here is is! Check this out!” Wendy unfolded a pink flier and handed it to Me. It had a big cross in the middle:

YOU ARE ALL SINNERS IN THE EYES OF THE LORD

BUT IT IS NEVER TOO LATE: GOD LOVES YOU - HE FORGIVES

TURN AWAY FROM THE DEVIL

CEASE YOUR PERVERSE FORNICATIONS

REBUKE THE OCCULT - ITS SYMBOLS AND ITS UNHOLY MUSIC

BE THE FIRST IN THE LATEST TREND: START “HANGING OUT” WITH

JESUS

THIS IS THE NEWEST RAVE - FIND PARADISE

Sponsored by: PMRC, Dr. James Dobsun, Father James Liset, AFA and the

Rush Limbough Association For Family Values And A Better America

CALL “1 - 800 - FIND - GOD” FOR MORE INFORMATION

“The Disposable Heroes Of Hiphopricy could write a whole album on this thing.” Cream noted.

An unbelievably corny drawing of a smiling Christ filled the entire right side of the flier. He motioned to the reader as if saying, “Come... follow me.”

The only thing I really noticed was the bottom:

Sponsored by Doctor James Dobsun!?... No way... My lips worked back and forth into a smile despite My vain attempts to stifle it.

“I don't believe this!” I said.

“They're sticking them all over cars outside the club! Some guy handed it to me when I was parking my Jeep!” Wendy revealed, picking up her cup. “That is sooo fucking funny! We had to keep one!”

I gave it back. I'd seen them stuffed under wiperblades Myself. And here I thought they were fliers to promote punk/industrial night at the Fantasy Theater in Lakewood. The Fantasy used pink paper a lot.

“I saw them! I thought they were club fliers!”

Wendy nodded vigorously, “Mm-hm! No shit! So did we! Then this guy comes up to me and he's, like, going “Excuse me! Excuse me, child!... Do you know god loves you!? God loves you!... You aren't going into the devil's lair tonight, are you!?”” She mocked his voice.

“The devil's lair!?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh, fuuuck!” I chuckled.

“He was being all quiet and humble and, so, I'm like “Well, we're going to the club!” And then all of a sudden he looks really solemn and concerned and shit and he says, “God bless and protect you, sweet children!”” Wendy put her hand on My shoulder, imitating him. “Then he hands me this flyer!”

I shook My head in disbelief.

“But wait! Wait! Then, Cream stands next to Me, right!? And I gave her the flier and really loud Cream goes, “Oh, honey! Thank you!... Help me to see god!” So, the guy turns around to look at us, and we totally started, like, heavily making out right up against the car - ”

I jeered. “ - No way! All right! That's classic!... What did he do!?”

“He nearly shit and, just, like, booked it the hell out of there!”

I was cracking up. “That's awesome!... That's awesome!”

“You should've given that flyer to the raver guy and told him raves are against your religion!” Cream suggested, leaning over Me. “You could've said they encourage poor family values!”

“No shit!... What a dweeb!” Wendy put the flier away. She stared into the crowd. “Ooooh, my!... Look at her!”

We looked. A guy and girl walked by through the reeds of people. Darkly punk clad.

“She's so cute!” Wendy revealed.

“Mmmm... We'll share!” Cream looked at Me. “You can have the guy!”

I made a face. “Yuck! Mortal male blood!?... No thanks!”

“Why not!?”

“It makes Him sick!” Wendy explained.

“Really!? You don't do guys!?” Cream asked.

“Only... Ones like Us!”

Cream looked surprised. “I never knew - ”

“Allyson!” Wendy yelled. She glanced at Me. “You didn't tell me She came!”

“You didn't ask!”

Wendy set her drink down and stood. “Ally!”

A grinning Allyson filtered out of the masses. She hugged Wendy before they kissed. “Heyyy, Wendy!”

“Hi there!”

“Wendy!?” Allyson asked, cocked head and simper.

Wendy tossed her hair and smiled broadly. “Yes, Allyson!?”

“Is the water warm enough!?”

“Yes, Allyson!”

“Shall we begin!?”

“... Yes, Allyson!”

Cream and I looked at each other, rolling our eyes simultaneously. It would've made a great photo.

Cream stood up next to Ally. They hugged too and said hello.

“You Two match tonight!” Cream compared Allyson and I.

“He takes after His big Sister!” She squeezed Me affectionately.

“Oh, I think not! You should've seen what She was wearing earlier!” I laughed. “I wouldn't have been caught dead in clothes like that!” I did an onomatopoeic rim-shot. “Get it!? Caught dead!?”

Cream groaned. “What's with the bad jokes tonight!?”

“Just kidding! I love Ally!... She knows it!... And what bad jokes!? At least I'm not making some corny old Prince And The Revolution references!”

Ally flipped Me off. I kissed Her temple.

The metallic guitar of Killing Joke's “Eighties” started to animate the crowd. Socializing souls repacked the floor. Skaters relaunched.

“Whoa!... I'm gonna dance!” I announced. “Who's coming!?... Anyone!?” Cool. That was the consensus of the other three too. Back into chaos...

Rows of giant screens hung from the ceiling above the dancefloor. The lasers projected images on the screens, inverting and reversing as they went through one after the other. Mirrors and splitters shot lasers overhead in every flashing color, direction and configuration imaginable.

I danced.

Throes of dance, writhing through song after song. One dark, violent, abysmal melody to the next. Controlled Bleeding mixed into “Ego Testicle” by Vein Cage. Staring intently down on the dance turned it into a swirl of dolls. Marionettes of the deranged.

Elegant.

So much vibrance and energy to drain from them. And so easy they make the Hunt, because they throw it so carelessly into the darkness. For all their dancing and drinking and cavorting their defenses are slowly weakened. When they went there, they lost all their spirit. All their will. The immolation of their own souls, checked at the door like coats... How unwise. To enter Our lair with no protection from the cold... Their sadness. Their sorrow. So sweet... I Hungered. For blood. For the precious, precious blood... And possibly something more sacred. Sanity, perhaps. Hunger... Hunger... And Hunger swelled. The air was humid with carnal and hateful thoughts. Passions both.

... I saw her again ...

The same one I spotted before Denise came up to Me. She was dancing alone, like a stripper, on the island in the main bar. Seeing her only in flickering bursts of light and sound. Long I watched. Slowly, without noticing at first, My body went still. My focus intensified.

This was one far from innocence.

... Exactly the type I wanted. Artificial blonde. White and black stripes across a lycra sport bra and shorts, practically tattooed on. Boots and a beret in beatnik black. Athletic build. Angelic face. A voluptuous comic book villainess come to life. She danced a ballerina turned black widow. Seductive. The type of woman who radiates a sexual energy that causes an entire nightclub to take note of her presence.

I smiled. Chuckled a little too. I've noticed you too, My dear. Be careful throwing that much of your soul into the darkness... Something might hear you.

Something far, far from innocence...

∞ ∞ ∞

Her name is Drew Ann Atkins.

Her breath smelled faintly of alcohol and cherries. Eyes like the moon. Lights jumped across her body. She sat at a barstool. Laughing.

Overlooking the entire club.

Colors spun.

No, Drew told Me, her boyfriend was boring. She was breaking up with him. The old geezer actually brought his sister along with them tonight. He used to own Necropolis before Denise did.

Music screeching. Loud and mechanized. Joking. Her laughing. Song and light drowned out our petty words. What was being said hardly mattered.

What do I do? The beat pounded.

Does she really want to know? “I'm an immortal vampire come to suck your blood!”

Her loudest laughter yet. No. Really. She was serious... She really wanted to... get to know Me better.

Touching.

The air filled with the scent of cherries and liquor. Smiling. Teasing. Nothing talk. Conversation to flash and fill the darkness between the rainbows. A soft caress.

“... Take me home.”

Laughing echoed. Music faded silent until the lights seemed to move for My cachinnations alone.

Laughter to shatter the...

Eyes aglow. Begging.

Something soared from them. It fled. Rising above her. Over the club. Across the night.

∞ ∞ ∞

Outside, Kristian listened to Front 242 from his car. Blood soaked his boot. Next to him, an unconscious boy lay on the ground. Pink flyers fluttered from his hand, jumped around them on the wind.

- welcome to paradise -

On the wind...

In the distance. Bound in chains. Moaned the tormented soul of a man, torn from the grave and not allowed to rest. For the selfish love of his child.

A child with eyes of black light.

Things tittered and teetered on spiderweb strands that shot through the club. Strands like laserbeams. Unholy things... long since cursed from the day.

Music unending. Light and darkness mix eternal. Laughing still. Drew smiled.

Something fled. Rising above her. Over the club. Across the night.

Her guardian angel walks away.

Chapter Fifteen

Drew was framed by skyline, high in her panoramic apartment window. The lake and the city stretched out far below.

Society Tower's pyramid glowed neon blue, the highest point in the land. Striking. Like a modern Egypt. Pharaoh to this Dominion was I. Divine. Legends live on. Myths never die. And the lore of Set demanded deliverance.

She popped The Mission U.K. into her stereo. “Deliverance” began. Drew was outlined by the skyline... Smiling. Inviting.

In the dark ran... a slip on the web of spiderweb strands.

Strands of fabric tore as Drew's clothes -

- The shreds of spirit. Their backs the cobblestones on which the Hounds trod. Leading Me. Riding through majestic gardens of dead kings.

Thrown to the floor. Pinned to the walls. Glass softly splinters. A pyramid cracks.

Someone is laughing. Something. Seductive. Dark. Far from innocent. The hand guides...

It Hunts.

Looking into her eyes. They cry. Tears reflect prisms of skyline light. Only darkness. Like eerie waters. A fathomless lake.

The lady holds My hand. Haunting pipes of Pan. Piercing screams. Silent as fog. Loud as wind. As beasts. Breath of flame melting tombstones. Rotting people scream.

In the heat. The warmth. Mythic rings of supple fire. Skin so tender. Granite hearts. Carved into graves of bone.

Do those eyes know tears? No tears.

No tears.

Whispers. “No tears.”

Flesh tears. The heart screams.

Fangs pierce. My flesh penetrates... Skin so tender. A moan escapes. Falling softly. Riding the night air like softly broken glass. Riding the flesh of the beasts. Fangs of hounds. Wild the Hunt. She shivers. With no protection from the cold. The sword of a dead king plunges into a fathomless lake.

Blood flows.

The black widow cries out. One with -

- things laugh on...

Tears of blood. Widow in eagle's claw. Brittany pipers and dirges old. The laugh of deep resounding horns. Beastly horns piercing flesh. Like fangs.

Falling.

Crashing.

So soon returns the day.

Dragged into the web, the Damned are wailing. Rending the air with pleas for salvation. Child screams. Nothing cries. Dragged about the night behind sleds of skeleton.

As Achilles and Hector.

The prey is found. Pray black widow. Pray. Moan to your God. Serpent kisses. Mischief and evil an arachnid black and red. She screams. Squirms. Kicks.

Sleep sweet harlot... Dream... Forget...

Mixed in the sheets. Her drained mortal coil. My darling odalisque.

- love is always over in the morning -

∞ ∞ ∞

Allyson danced with Wendy and Cream to Lioncourt's “Sin Drone” in Our ballroom. Lying in bed, I heard the music. I imagined the dance. I lay hypnotized by candleflame and incense.

Hundreds of feet below, beneath thousands of tons of stone and earth, Nix and Auri screamed. His moribund voice echoed in the enormous chambers. Amplifying. Begging... Horrible.

“Nooo! L-Let Me go! I-I know h-how - Stop. N-No! NO!... Pleeeeease!... Get them off meeeeeee!”

For a long time I had watched what was being done to Them. Things that made Me laugh. Things that made Me feel good to see. And to think, I hesitated. It could be worse. Much worse. I could assure that... Horrible. I smiled.

... What could be on a person that would make them scream like that?...

- I think the dead should shut up unless there's something to say -

In the rest of the mansion, Their cries merely hushed quietly on chill drafts from the dungeons. Drafts always seemed to be voices from below, even when they were nothing of the sort. Whispers of air knotting incense smoke. Brushing eyelashes. So faint they seemed imagined.

My lullaby.

Camillia sang Me to sleep with the tranquility of Their screams. With rapture... Their screams.

Chapter Sixteen

Sasha's screams fade alive like locust chatter. Rising. Welling up in a steady stream from the murky night.

Headlights.

A dirty, mouse-gray van vaults the curb. Charging and lumbering all at once. Headed right for us. My mind is reeling. Dini's unmoving body lays on the ground before me. My mind clicks a cruel snapshot, forever locking the image in my memory.

Headlights.

Before I have time to think, my instincts force me to run from the lunging van, leaving my dead sister on the pavement.

Sasha runs before me. Our stark shadows elongate across lawn and sidewalk from the vanlights as we zig-zag away from it. So close. Nipping at my heels. I think I can feel the heat coming off its radiator. The engine grunts its doleful intersignes.

Sasha. Don't stumble, sweetie. Whatever you do sweetheart, don't fall. She's crying, I think. The roar of the van make sit too loud to tell. The tires squealing on patches of sidewalk. Tearing and grating determined trenches in the grass.

Sasha cuts sharp behind a giant oak. Yes. Good. Good thinking Sasha.

The van rips past, biting for my leg. I dodge. I grab Sasha's hand and we pin ourselves against the tree. Panting. She's saying, “My God,” over and anon with each breath. Trembling. She's wild-eyed. Fear leaves me silent. There's a stitch in my side. Shin splints. I swallow a lump of panic in my throat.

We'll be safe. We're almost to Jeanette's. We're almost there... Almost... Almost.

Sweat drips down my forehead, burning my eyes. I wipe the rest away on my palm.

Almost to Jeanette's. Then - Then it'll be okay. We'll be safe. W-Why didn't... W-Where's Dini? Why isn't she coming? Why isn't sh -

- A bullet tears through Din -

- No!

Where's Dini? She was right behind us... Wasn't she? She'll be okay.

... Dini? Dini should be coming. Please. Please God. Please. Get up Dini! Please, God, make her get up. Then... We'll be okay. I know - We'll be okay. We'll be okay. We'll be okay. “We'll be okay.” I say aloud, speaking to myself.

The huge van screams back around toward us. It seems like it's growling. Antagonizing. Toying with its quarry.

Back on the sidewalk, almost hidden in the dark, Dini's body lays prone, a red gloppy mass spread on the concrete by her head. Glow worms wink around the carnage. My body goes tense.

I've got to help Dini!

- The side of her face that's blown of -

- Noooo! Please. God. Please. My eyes clamp closed to force the memory from my mind. But in that darkness, the memory plays over again as vivid as reality. A snapshot.

Headlights.

Instinct shouts again: Run!

Again, the van charges. The tree no longer offers solace. We run. Every muscle seems sore. I hurt all over.

Missing us, the van steams into reverse. Circles around. Still coming. It zooms down the street and jolts over the curb in front of us, blocking our path. Its rusty frame creaks to a halt, like an old wooden cart. Glenn is hanging on to the ladder on the back, clutching a smoking gun in his wiry hand.

Our eyes meet. He looks almost expressionless. So calm. At ease. Amused. Like he's in no hurry. His peaceful eyes seem bloated. Protruding eyes. Somehow, they match his swirly “Magical Mystery Tour” Beatles shirt. Offering a clear view into his raving mind.

He's too late.

Sasha and I jump into the trees and foliage bordering the sidewalk. We stumble, run and trip down the steep hill leading to the clearing behind Jeanette's property. Panic drives me. Bushes scrape. I shove branches from my face. Slipping to my ass, I slide through the plants. Twigs snap. Roots tear. I can see nothing.

We'll be okay.

It's so dark, I don't see the small log in front of me. My shin cracks into it. I fall and roll, landing hard against a tree.

Van doors slam atop the hill. I look up. Dark, human silhouettes move amongst the still silhouettes of trees. I face back.

Sasha turns around.

Entangled in cold, creeping vines, musty soil. I scurry to my feet.

We keep on running... Almost there.

Moonlight floods the clearing. Just on the other side sits a stone wall; the border of Jeanette's yard. Cricket chirping sings in the night air. Oblivious. Incessant. The song of crickets.

One of Glenn's friends run past me. He's huffing, spittle flying out between clenched teeth, headed for Sasha. No! Anger swells. With a new burst of speed, I tackle him. My left hand grabs his hair as we go down and I slam his face into the ground. My knee crushes the small of his back on impact.

Sasha screams.

Someone lifts me from behind. I'm thrown to my back and a boot stomps my stomach. I feel organs squishing together inside. Air explodes from my lungs.

Another steel-toed foot cracks the side of my head. My throat tries grunting in pain. But with no air in my lungs, I simply wince in silent misery as my chest and throat constrict. Hot and sticky-wet, my temple throbs. As I stare across the grass I see Sasha in the shadows. She spins and kicks one of her attackers in the neck. He goes down, clutching his throat and gagging.

None of this is real. Like a choreographed dance in moonlight. Every one of them are dark and ghostly shapes. The boy who kicked my head wears a Mini Discman and I can hear the faint treble of “Summertime Rolls” by Jane's Addiction chirping from his headphones. Sporadic and faint like cricketsong. Glow worm sparks. Locust laughter. Yes. The locusts are laughing at us. I can hear it clearer now. I imagine insect faces grinning slow like imps. Talking to fiends in deserts...

- fall into a sea of grass -

Sasha is overcome. I struggle to help her. Halfway to my feet, someone lands on my chest with their knees. One of my arms is pinned behind my back. My solar plexus bend and I think some ribs break, but I can't tell. There's a hornet-sting of pain as the wind is crushed out of my lungs a second time. A fist slams into my eye. It makes a gushy noise as it sinks back in the socket and a blaze of color flashes. Then a fist cracks my jaw. Over and over. Left. Right. Left. Right. I try blocking it with my free hand, desperately trying to breathe. I taste blood as the impact slices open the insides of my cheeks on my teeth. My stomach is still knotted, excruciating...

Sasha is thrown in the dirt. Two guys start kicking her. Between her legs. Her head. Chest. Arms. A girl is beating Sasha's back with a golf club. For a second, the girl with the club stops. She's laughing - impish locusts...

- he trips her as her sandals fail she says “stop” -

Sasha tries scrambling away. WHAM! The club downs her again...

Fury as I have never known detonates within me.

Adrenaline surges. Somehow, I throw my attacker off my chest and spin to my feet. Adrenaline numbs all my pain and any pain remaining drives my hate all the more. I charge for Sasha. I'm grabbed from behind. I face my attacker: switchblade boy. Fine, fucker. Let's go.

Is this real?

He flicks the blade open - ah, not a switchblade, a balisong. In that millisecond stand-off, it registers for the first time: They're laughing at us. This is fun to them. Egging us on. Daring us. Taunting. But they're eerily quiet about it. Not yelling and shouting. They're as placid as Glenn's smile.

I've forgotten fear. I've dismissed pain. No longer was it important to reach safety. Nothing mattered other than protecting Sasha. I had failed Dini. I will not fail Sasha too.

I charge at him and it seems I hardly move. I want to tear his laughing throat out. Rip out his esophagus with my bear hands. Drive my blunt fingers into his neck through sheer force of will. I know I can do it.

His blade slices my collarbone as I jam my palm into his chin and chuck the back of his head into the trunk of a pine tree. His eyes wince shut and his teeth jar with a gasp. I grab his wrist. My knee slams into his pelvis with all I've got. He vomits. Twisting the balisong from his hand, I bury it in his cheek with an upward thrust. He grunts and shrieks, clutching his bleeding face. It's all a series of blurry stop-motion. A frame at a time. Snapshots. Snapshots. Snapshots.

A dull whomp of air behind me. The golf club hits the base of my neck. The fury of my resolve is blasted from my mind. The world goes white-hot with pain. It feels like my tear ducts are going to explode. God. My God. I've never known pain like this.

Have I?

It is pure as polar wind. Pain like every drop of sunshine to ever kiss the sky was injected into my eyes.

- pepper sunlight -

A firepoker lanced into my skull through the back of my neck. My nerves overload. I can't move.

- screaming “tag! you are the one” -

My God. Is my back broken? Am I paralyzed?... I fall to the ground. Funny - in the movies I'd be knocked out by now. I guess it doesn't work like that in real life. The adrenaline does little to stop the pain now. The world is nothing. Only anguish. I feel it all. Starting at the base of my neck and scorching through my lungs. My shoulder. My temple. My eyes. Molten sun and ice searing every nerve, igniting into my fingernails.

- made of mothers pearl -

I can't see. Can't focus. Red blurs my vision. Muddy red. I can't tell if it's blood or pain. I'm awash in delirium. Darkness. Shapes. All slow motion.

A familiar sound: Ripping duct tape.

What a funny sound.

My hands are pulled behind my back. Frigid handcuffs ratchet around my wrists. Thick, gooey tape is slapped across my mouth. Yanked hard over my cheek, it distorts my lower eyelid. I can't fully close my eye. My face is smeared into the cool grass. Pine needles embed my skin. Dirt gouges my flesh. Sticks to my blood. Burning pain as my nose crunches into the turf. It flares time and again as my face is bashed over and over into the ground.

“How do you fuckin' like it!? Huh!? How do you like it!? Huh, fucker!? How do you like it motherfucker!?” Angry but almost whispers.

I don't like it. Will you stop now? I smell blood and feel it oozing in stringy, soupy strands from my nostrils. I relish those seconds when my tearing hair is holding my head above the merciless earth.

I'm suffocating again. I wonder when I had caught my breath again to begin with?...

Tape tears once more. My ankles are bound.

I taste duct tape glue, dirt, and grass in my mouth. Forced to breathe through my nose, I'm gagging and choking on my own blood. Muscle spasms contort my throat. Panic starts to strangle me. I try spitting to wet the tape and loosen it enough to breathe.

The guy gets off my back. A hundred boots seem to kick me with all their might in every part of my body. The ones hitting my head and guts hurt the most. I try turning my head, only to get hit from another direction. Under the overwhelming scent of my own blood, I smell the soil and leather on their feet. I smell tangy and sharp pain as they kick my jaw and, like squeezing oranges, saliva floods my blood-drenched mouth.

- the children all ran over me -

Feels like I'm floating. The pain swells and welts until finally it melts and torture and numbness is all that is left. It goes on and on. Pain without end. But I retreat to someplace deep within: Some safe and primal place. A place I never knew about. A place I never needed until now.

Little registers as reality anymore.

They flip me over and pull me to my feet. The resulting headrush makes me vomit. Sour and acidic, it drips out my nose, burning and bloodied. Squirting out my mouth, it oozes around my face, between the tape and my cheeks. Slight sweet of sugar cone. I manage a gulp or two of bitter air before the tape is smacked back on.

Like a photograph: Sasha is there in the dark. She too has been cuffed and taped, though her legs are still free. Her hair is frazzled. Dirt and grass stick to her. Tears run muddied down her face... Even in the dark, I see her tears.

It's like a dream. One of those nightmares that's more shape, shadow and feeling more than anything else. No vision or substance. Dreams like horrible paintings on magic canvas, dragging me into them.

Sasha kicks.

She clocks the girl with the golf club solid in the crotch from behind. Grunting, she faces Sasha. Still not quite shouting, the girl groans. “Fucking bitch. Hold her.”

What happens next looks like it's happening under strobe lights. Two vicious swings of the club shatter each of Sasha's knees. Pulverizing them with the pop of coconuts being split. Even beneath the gag of tape, Sasha's scream is deafening... and the second scream leaves the first sounding like a whisper. She crumbles.

My mind wipes blank. Erased by vestal horror. This... can't... be...

- I love her I mean it's serious -

As Sasha and I are lugged up the hill, I can see over the wall on the far side of the clearing. For a twinkling, there beyond the trees, I see a tiny mousehole of cozy light; Jeanette's kitchen window... Warm and promising. If I stare hard enough, will that light come to save us?... A dark figure moves within the sight. The will 'o whisp light is blotted away.

- and disappear among the shady blades -

Spasms of agony and cricket bows wring my heart.

∞ ∞ ∞

Crucified, I'm chained inside the van on the rusty back doors. Sasha is on my left, cuffed to the wall. The van's dome light paints garish shadows and highlights across her beaten form. The side door rumbles open. A black bodybag is tossed in like trash into a garbage truck. I know it holds the body of my sister... Even without seeing it, I know. Someone slams the door shut and we drive away into the night, Ministry's “The Missing” blaring painfully out of tin-sounding speakers at high volume, as they take us away.

We're barreling down the road, our captors shouting, headbanging, violently losing their minds and jamming to the music. The van runs lights. Cuts off traffic. And takes corners so fast, we nearly tip over. As precarious as the stereotypical carriage hurtling towards Dracula's castle.

Salty blood and the sharp flavor of vomit coat the back of my tongue, burning deep in my sinuses. The cuffs have eaten huge chunks out of my hands from vainly trying to pull free. All the circulation is cut. My hands tingled at first. But not I can't feel them at all. When I lean my head forward, it seems my neck is being doused in lava. Instead, I keep my head lodged back against the doors as much as possible; the frying pan instead of the fire. Wetness on my body - I can't tell if it's sweat or blood. My face is soaked in vomit and wet glue. I have a hard time focusing. Granules of dirt scratch my eyeball. The same eye that was punched. Burning like it had melted wax for tears. My whole body is throbbing. Hot. I bang around like a windchime as the van randomly jerks and races. My neck is pulsing. I try moving my toes. Good. I'm not paralyzed... Shit... Is that good?... Yeah. It is. Thank - ...

Who?...

Thank God?... No. I was spiked to the tree. Crowned of thorns. Speared in the side. Given vinegar to drink. And He did not heed my prayers in the garden... I have no thanks to give to Him.

- My God. My God. Why have You forsaken me? -

The mind's eye plays everything over for me: What if I did this?... I should've hit that one sooner... What if I'd tried that?... I could've hurt him worse if I'd only - ... Why didn't I see the one behind me?... I bet if I moved to the left and then...

“Hiiii.” Coos the golf-club girl. She stands before me and tosses her sooty hair. Behind her, scroll yellow rectangles of streetlight through the sunroof, across the floors and walls. She slips a knife between the tape and my face. She slices the tape, then rips it away. I notice it doesn't hurt at all. Too numb, I guess.

It feels good to breathe normally again, without smelling so much glue and puke. When I try to move my jaw, I get a pinching pain. So, I just work my lips, trying to rid the sticky feeling from my skin.

“Undo... Sasha too.” My mind shouts the demand, but my throat just croaks it weakly. With the music so loud, I can hardly hear myself anyway. “... Please.”

“Huh!?” The girl says. She glances over her shoulder for a second. “Oh! Her!?” She waves the knife at Sasha, catching her balance on the roof as the van whips around a turn. “Is that her name!?... Saaasha!?... Well, you don't need to worry about your little Sasha anymore! You're mine now! Okay!?... Hmmm?...”

Glenn climbs into the back. Ministry is replaced with “Killing In The Name” by Rage Against The Machine.

“What's your name!?” The girl asks me. I look away. She reaches in my pocket. Then the other. “You're not gonna talk to me!?... Fucker. Where's your wallet!?... Huh!?... That'll have your name in it!... You gonna tell me your name!?” She finds the wallet and opens it. She stuffs the money down her pants and throws the wallet over her shoulder. “Name don't matter anyhow!”

Glenn looks at Sasha. It's a vulgar stare. “God... You're ugly.” He snarls at her.

The girl rubs against me. “My name's Susan... Susan Gittes... You know, as in “gets-it-on“... ” She pulls off her Crash Worship shirt and drops it on the floor. Purple demi-bra.

Glenn takes off his shirt. A huge tattoo covers his entire back. It depicts a storm with red clouds and silver-bright lightning. Devilish creatures blend into the landscape. It's an airy, wispy, spectral image. Like dead babies breath.

... horrible paintings on magic canvas, dragging me into them.

Reminds me vaguely of the style of Timna Woollard, an artist whose work I saw with a friend at the Art Museum once. But Woollard's art is captivatingly beautiful. Like the art of old theater posters that have ghosts in their ink. Intrinsic enchantment.

This painting on Glenn is one of the most exquisite and unsettling I've ever laid eyes on. This is monstrous...

Susan begins to undo my pants, rubbing me with her hand. Rings pinch. Glenn begins to undo his pants and points his gun out toward me. He snaps the dolphin pendant off Sasha's neck.

Susan takes me in her mouth.

Glenn rapes Sasha. The whole time, calling her awful names and forcing her to say that he's better than I ever was. She has to tell me how much she likes it. If she doesn't say it, Glenn says he'll shoot me, just like Dini.

Conjuring imagos of Sasha keeps me separate from reality. Light keeps flashing in through the moonroof. Rectangles of light, rolling over the darkness like flying carpets. Soft moonlight trickles in too. I imagine I'm back in the clearing, watching the sky with Sasha and Dini. I do everything I can to keep from hearing Sasha's screams. To keep from hearing her say those vulgar words and how good Glenn is. Stop it, love. Stop. I'd rather he shoot me. Please. Please. No more. Don't try to save me. Let me die. I close my eyes. I turn away.

“Watch us!” Glenn says. “... Open your fuckin' eyes!”

I don't open them. Shoot me.

A gun shot. Sasha wails in agony. My eyes click open. Glenn shot Sasha's foot. The gun is now to her head. “Watch us, or I'll fuckin' kill the ugly whore.” He jostles her when he says “kill.” “... And don't think I'll stop just 'cause she's dead.” His voice is weird. Very high-pitched, yet edgy. Like a ten year old who smokes a pack a day. He's telling Sasha that it's my fault that she was shot. Nevertheless, she continues to play his sick game to spare my life. I can't look in her eyes.

Susan's head still moves up and down on me. I can hardly feel it. I'm watching from that place deep within. If little was reality before, nothing is now.

I keep hoping Sasha will pass out. I hope she goes unconscious so she doesn't have to go through this anymore. But she doesn't. Only in movies. And I have to watch them as she says those terrible, terrible things. She keeps on saying them until finally it seems she's doing it without Glenn's threat.

Susan looks in my eyes, sappy white trickling from her lips. She smiles.

“Shit.” Says Glenn, pulling out. He's muttering. “Gonna... man, I'm jus - Dump this fucking trash.” His tone is annoyed. “Andy!... Yo, Ankou! Stop this old wagon!” He pounds the van wall. BANG! - BANG!

The van grinds to a sudden stop with squeaky brakes.

“Move.” Glenn orders.

“Sorry.” Susan kisses my cheek and steps aside. “Just... acting on impulse.” She smiles.

Glenn removes my handcuffs. I fall like a sandbag. He opens the rear doors and kicks me out. I bounce hard off the bumper, catch on the trailer hitch, and smack the road.

“Next time, we'll break your fuckin' legs.” Glenn spits at me. He starts closing the doors, then swings them back open. “Aww... fuck next time.”

Gunshots sound like breaking china. Strange.

One bullet in my arm, the other low in my shoulder. Susan blows me a kiss. Laughing, Glenn slams the doors. The engine snorts and yanks the van away. The siren of Clawback's “Claw Behind Me” yells as it peels off and the music sticks in my head - last song I heard.

Brake lights go blurry - two, soft, carmine spots. The last I see of the van is the license plate which pops back into focus for only a flash: ABN-UDD. Anybody get the number of that truck?

I try laughing. And to my surprise, though dreadfully... it actually works.

∞ ∞ ∞

Left somewhere in the dark backallys of The Flats, I'm laying in a puddle on the asphalt. A gasoline smell permeates the water. Rainbow colors swirl in the puddle. The horror is over. Finally. I've peace. The cement is cool and soothing at first. Then it becomes the embodiment of my soul, cold as a stone bier. Streetlamps buzz monotonously above me - the harsh lights strangling an operating table. Hypnotizing sound. At that moment, I am more alone than I have ever been. Never have I felt such a soul-wrenching sense of being alone in all existence.

My heart takes the snapshot this time. Strange. How many feelings overload me tonight. So many things best described as something that has “never been.”

“Somebody! Help me! Somebody! Somebody! Please! Help me! Help me! Help me! Pleease! Somebody! Help me! Help me! Please! Help me!”

No... I'm not - ... I could've sworn that was me screaming, but I'm not. It was only in my head. I was only thinking the words. No sound has escaped my lips.

Disjointed images. Time gone mad. Hallucinations dictate reality: (I'm in the clearing. The trees unnatural as a rusty gray van. Sasha is bound to a tree as big as a wall. Her throat is slit, but she's still alive. Dini lays dead. No! I - I bet she's just unconscious, I bet. I must get help. We'll all die here. We'll bleed to death.

You can't leave them.

I have to. Sasha can't walk. I'll get help. I have to. I'll be back. I'll help her.) Memories are unhinged. Off track. Nothing is coherent.

I feel like Atlas, and the world has fallen upon me. The first time I try to stand, nausea hits me like... a golf club. The planet twirls and my skull pounds like it's about to crack under the pulsing of my brain.

I was dying with the thought that I watched helplessly as my childhood love was beaten and raped in front of me... Did she blame me? What must she have been thinking? Is she cursing me? If she had not known Dini and I, this would've never happened to her...

- Before a cock crows twice thou tilt deny me three times -

Would she be killed too? Would she die hating me for not having saved her? But how could I? I tried. Oh, Sasha... Dini. I tried. Believe me. Please. I tried.

I'm losing a lot of blood.

Is this where I'm to be left with my thoughts? Dying on a cold strip of a desolate street, in an oily puddle, smelling of blood, dirt, vomit, and gasoline?

Dying.

A simple truth comes to me: I am going to die. Glenn had been right after all.

That truth is simple... and clear. A shaft of snow. Pure. When death is hypothetical, when it's imminent yet avoidable, it's terrifying. But when it must occur, when Fate had brought you to it through an unalterable course, it comes with an austeric and peaceful sense of acceptance.

Now, I die.

My intestines wring like a terrycloth washrag. Try to stand. I throw up. Fall to my knees. Throw up again. Head pounds. Surprisingly, my leg barely hurts... But I can't move it or feel it very well.

I'm clutching a fence. I throw up on myself after I fix my pants. Barely standing on accordion legs... Standing? I hadn't even noticed that I'd stood up.

- Far better to die like a man on your feet than to live forever like some slave on your knees -

That was somehow familiar. Had I heard it recently?

I'm in a deserted industrial wasteland. Old brick warehouses. Rusty, steel smokestacks and paint-flaking loading docks. Busted wire-mesh windows and creeping vines clinging in the corners of abandoned gravel parking lots. Iron bridges that looked ready to do... something. Don't bridges always look that way

underneath?

A Mad Hattered, Tom Petty stares on my filthy shirt. Good old Petty. His Cheshire Cat grin is lost under smears of soaked dirt and blood... What, no smile, Tom? I brush him off...

- Where be your gibes now? Your gambols, your songs, your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? -

I'm walking. Though I know not how.

Glow worms glitter, superimposed over the brown, rusted night. I see them now as worms. Insects. Grotesque things. Their light glows so briefly because their true form is so horrible. Not magic. But beastly things. Cannibals. Horrid visages of antennae, legs and mandibles.

Locusts, I see, laugh with perverse grins. Faces that are abominational guises of humans. Laughing around tables at outdoor coffee shops and cafes. Eating live glow worms on platters, which relish their own destruction with gruesome delight. And crickets bow requiems with the widest grins of all.

I stumble and fall over old traintracks. Strong whiff of that burnt-wood smell that railroad ties always have. The little sulphur-scented rocks chortle when stepped on.

A motorcycle howls by in the distance. Fear paralyzes me. VRRRRRRRRRRRRR! WHRRRRRRRRR! MMMMMMMM! MMMM! MMMMMMM. Fading.

Something about that sound, loud in the dark, has always frightened me. Some intrinsic quality of it can still scare me to this day. When I was a child, I would have recurring nightmares about homicidal bikers on horse-sized Harleys, chasing me. Only one at a time was ever after me. That was enough. They moved unnaturally fast. They could ride anywhere. Go over any obstacle. Squeeze into the smallest spaces. I could hide in a closet upstairs, and it would still find me. No matter how far away they started and no matter how hard I tried to hide, the dreams always ended with the headlight in my face, the biker staking me coldly in the eyes, and the front tire about to rip me to shreds.

I often awoke to the sound of a real motorcycle tearing away in the distance, like a - ...

- bat out of hell?...

I suddenly realize - maybe that's where those dreams come from. I remember being with my uncle over the house of one of his friend's once. We were in this guy's basement. Shoot, I must've been four years old. Maybe five. Among this guy's record collection was Meatloaf's Bat Out Of Hell.

When my uncle and his friend talked, I stared at that album cover. It felt like I was staring at it all day. I couldn't take my eyes off it. I'd never seen anything like it, at that age. And it scared the... well, it scared the hell out of me. Not to mention the terror of the motorcycle in and of itself. That proved it was from hell. I was young, but I sure knew they don't bury people with motorcycles... So how did the bike get in the grave?

I kept trying to look away from it and ignore it. But once I saw it, I couldn't look away and I kept glancing back at it. It terrified me.

Nevertheless, with morbid fascination, I could not - stop - looking at it. The pure hate that seemed to fuel this supernatural horror. The raw power. The beastly machine. The demonically muscled biker. The graves and the embers of hell.

Devilish creatures blended into the landscape. It's an airy, wispy, spectral image... the most exquisite and unsettling...

Surely this thing was evil. Evil like nothing my young mind had ever known. Illustrating rage like I was never exposed to. It said it was from Hell, right in the title! Whoever painted that was wrong. It was wrong to paint pictures like that. And that man in the painting was... was... well, that was the... devil.

And... and dead things shouldn't... couldn't come... to life again.

YOU'RE GOING TO DIE!

I've been tripping over the tarred roof of an old warehouse. I must've stumbled down over the guardrail from the road. The road is on a hill above and behind me. It winds down and circles around to the front of the renovated building in a big “S” shape.

The roof I'm on is dotted with pipes, fans and air vents. Moss grows in some parts. Glistening lights of the city and The Flats sparkle all around. Reflecting off the Cuyahoga below like the Fourth Of July. Shimmering on the water. People bustle down on the busy boardwalks by the hundreds. Commotion. Civilization in the wastelands. There's light all around me, shining up from below through a gaping, circular skylight. Light imitating a glow worm crushed undertoe on a porch by a cruel child.

If I stare long enough, will that light come to save... me?

I laugh. No, Glenn, you're wrong.

Glenn was wrong about me after all. I'm laughing uncontrollably. Insanely. Then the laughter becomes the hysteric breathing one does before crying. Deep. Sharp. Heavy. Where the world spins and it seems your heart will implode. Where everything quiets. Where everything slows.

And pauses.

... I feel paralyzed. My throat sticks. Still breathing sharp. The air goes down thick as oil...

Glenn was wrong about me. He wasn't better than me. She wanted to wait and I honored that. All these years, I was loyal to her and I respected her wishes without pressure.

Sasha was a virgin.

∞ ∞ ∞

Heart, soul and mind splinter in one solitary, horrific sound.

∞ ∞ ∞

As I collapse, I hear the peal of crashing glass. I feel it slicing warm into me as a cavernous room of light and crystal forms up all around. Is this Heaven?... A tiny mousehole of cozy light? People are screaming.

Falling.

In a soft whuf! of wind, I tumble in shards of broken suns. Lost in locust shells. All tied up in cricket bows.

Nothingness.

Brittle as a shattered soul. Screeching bats out of hell. Tinkling glass is the only sound in all the world.

Falling.

∞ ∞ ∞

Silence.

Chapter Seventeen

“Helle!”

The angered voice came from downstairs. “Helleee!”

Helle was in her bedroom, at her table, drawing on a tee-shirt. I sat quietly outside her open windowsill. It was Saturday, and the sixth night in a row that I'd visited her since we met. I still hadn't spoken to her. Just observed. Concocting machinations. Twilight, navy-blue still domed half the sky, the sun only having recently set.

“Helle!” Her mother's fiance threw open her door. It banged into the stop, vibrating at the jolt.

Helle stopped working and mischievously smiled out the window, as if she could see Me, and we were sharing a private joke. “Yes, James?” Helle asked innocently. Only it was that tone of innocence people use right after they've confided to a friend with a glance - I'm guilty of whatever it is I'm about to be accused of, but it's our little secret. She faced him.

“You know what.” He was pissed and plodded into the room.

Helle revealed her first signs of nervousness. But spoke in honest tones. “No. I don't... What.”

“I just went downstairs... in the basement, for my shirt!” He stood akimbo. Waiting. As if expecting her to show signs of guilt.

“... And.”

“And I'd like to know just what the hell happened to my goddamn pool table! That's what, little missy.”

“Your pool table?” Helle turned her back. “How am I supposed to know?”

He lunged at her, grabbed her, and threw her out of her chair to the fouton. She screamed, throwing her arms in front of her face. He took a fistful of her blouse and cocked his arm back.

“No!” She whimpered. It was more a noise than a word.

Muttered fury: “... turn your back... don't... fuckin' little miss innocent... with me...”

“James!” A voice called from downstairs. “James!? Come on, honey, hurry up... We're already late! Richard Neil just called again!”

Helle trembled. James sat ready to nail her. It was a stand-off and I'm sure eons ticked by for the girl.

He let her go. “The money to fix it gets added to your rent, until it's paid for, little missy... You got that?”

“But I...”

“Got it!?” He paused, knotted brow. “... What was that?”

She choked. “I said, yes, sir.”

He walked out of the room, giving her one last look to intimidate her into obedience. “Coming dear!” He shouted at the hallway and continued buttoning his shirt.

Helle flipped him off when he'd gone. She shambled up, rubbing her arm and uprighted her chair. When she went to close her bedroom door, an old lady stepped in the way and smiled at her. “How's my little Helle?”

“Fine, grandma.” Helle said unhappily.

“I heard a noise while I was on the pot.”

Helle rolled her eyes. “Oh... jeez... ” She mumbled. “I - uh, no, that's... I'm fine grandma. I just dropped my art box.”

“Ooooh, you're drawing again?”

“Yes, grandma.”

“Oh, that's good, dear.” She began pushing her way into the room. “You always were such a good drawer. What are you maki - ”

Helle politely blocked her way. “ - Uh, well, I'd really rather wait until it's done before you see it.”

“Oh. Okay.” Helle's grandmother smiled, not at all disappointed. “That's fine, dear... You should really use a bigger light. You're going to ruin your eyes, you know.” She turned on the lightswitch. “Now you go draw some more.” She motioned at the desk. “As long as it's not one of those kooky drawings like you used to do. I don't like those. You're not doing those kind anymore, are you?”

“Oh... no, grandma. No. Those were paintings.”

“Okay.” In a clueless drone. “Well, you need anything, you just yell.”

The symbolism and irony of that hit Me. “Just yell?” Helle had just done that... What good did it do her?

“Okay, grandma.” The woman left and Helle closed her door. Turning off the lightswitch and still rubbing her arm, she went over to her stereo. After much clattering of plastic cases, she picked out a tape. Gene Loves Jezebel. She put it on. Blank hiss, then “Gorgeous” filled the room as she began to work on the shirt again. She looked distracted. Trying to lose herself in what she was doing. But teetering. Seconds from tears.

The phone rang.

“Hello.” Tears brimmed closer. She looked at the ceiling. She was perturbed and snapped coldly, “What?” A long pause as she sat on her fouton. “No, I guess you shouldn't have. I have nothing to say to you. I've told you that. There - ... No. Listen. There's nothing you can say to me that- ”

Her face sculpted with disgust as she spoke. She stood again, just to occupy her body. “You're sorry? The fuck I care if you're sorry.” She muttered. Then she shouted. “Fuck you! How many times do I have to hear your fucking bullshit?”

Helle was pacing angrily. Shouting and half-crying, doing emphasizing hand gestures that the caller couldn't see. “No... No. You lied to me. You - ... bullshit!... Oh, bullshit! You don't even know what the word means.” Her free hand crossed her chest. “No! I don't care! Being sorry isn't enough.” Her voice mocked the caller. “... I - I don't want to hear it. I - ” She sat down again, this time on the chair, then moved back to her feet. “I gave you other chances! How many fucking chances do you need?”

Her eyes narrowed. Sarcasm dripped. “What? - Yes, I heard you. How dare you!... You don't - ” She was shaking her head. “No. You're turning it all around on me! How dare - ”

She froze. Her jaw quivered. Disbelief at the caller's audacity contorted her face. She started to cry, listening to the voice in her hand. Her voice was slow and cracking. “How?... Because you know I did.” There was a long pause as Helle wiped away the tears and sniffled. Finally, she defensively croaked. “... No ...”

Following the longest pause yet, she just rolled her eyes and sniffled some more. She looked up, holding the phone away from her ear. The voice still talked. Helle sighed deeply, looked at the floor, and shook her head. “You fucker.” She was barely audible as she hung up on the caller and took the phone off the hook.

The rich, black-sapphire sky, above the trees, blew a tender wind.

A fresh, Indian Summer warmth breathing in the room. The kind that gives clean bedsheets a familiar, comfortable coolness. Bittersweet pain.

An air of obsessions. Of missing old, loved, and lost things.

Times and feelings that have always brought tears.

Sickness buried beneath absent memories.

Disturbing mixes of melancholy and terrible. Unsettling ambivalence of apathy and wishing to feel again.

Hurting that never leaves. And only subsides at best. Hurting that one has been bearing a long time. Going beyond what anyone knows. Going beyond what most could imagine. Deeper than anyone could understand.

Suddenly, Helle's face had changed, charged with furious conviction. “Fucker.” She half-sobbed, half-grunted. She picked up the photo of her, the inked-out boy and the man and threw it hard into the dresser. It shattered. Then, she ran at the dresser and swept everything crashing to the floor. She clawed at the walls, screaming, and fell in a heap on her covers.

She cried harder than ever. And looked lonelier than ever. Crystal-brilliant tears thickening her lashes. Violet of her eyes shined in the afterglow. Brought pastel colors to pallid cheeks. Moistening such kissable, pale lips. Made her look... smaller somehow. Hollowly fading away.

Gene Loves Jezebel told her she was gorgeous and begged her, “save me.”

- you're so gorgeous, baby, yes you are -

Seeing that girl crying on her bed as that music played was one of the most profoundly lonely sights I had ever seen. Like a lambent rainbow in an overcast sky on Midsummer's Eve. It was an undispellable loneliness. A loneliness that came from events she could not change and things she could not control. No soul in the world could comfort her. No word. No touch. The pain of her heartache was all she had to hold.

To this day, I've tried to describe it and I just can't quite ever seem to do it justice. Something was striking about it. Moving. Nearly profound. I knew that I was looking at someone crying out to the world. She was pleading. Begging in tears to be heard. To be held. But no one could hear her. And no one could help...

But, a lot of people feel that way.

This was more than that. For I felt that even if someone was there with her, that, deep down, there was no person she ever met that she would want with her. Not truly. That is what struck me so sternly in her loneliness. That's what was so deep, profound, and so utterly devastating about it: She'd rather be alone - painful as it is - than be with anyone she knew in the world.

If a friend were there, she'd beg them to stay, while secretly wanting them to leave. She cried until well after the tape ran out. Until well after the deep, oceanic guitars closed on “Every Door.” Soothing like sails of crying. The gliding swan that sorrows may dream upon? The stereo was silent the rest of the evening.

Even today, I can't hear any of Gene Loves Jezebel's The House Of Dolls without thinking of Helle... Crying in her room... Lost in quiet night... Begging the world to be her friend.

∞ ∞ ∞

Helle cleaned up and sat at the drafting table, trying to repair the photograph. She cut out the boy altogether and was gluing on a new background.

“Shit.” Too much glue. She wiped it away. “... I'm sorry dad...” She said to the picture. “... He just pisses me off...” She sighed, and held the finished picture out at arms length. Deeming her patchwork satisfactory, she smiled and set it down.

A knock came on the door. “Helle?” Her grandmother.

“Yeah?” Helle answered the voice through the closed door.

“I think there're some people for you downstairs.” Her voice was worried.

“So send them up.”

“They're outside.”

Exasperated, Helle went to open her door. “Why didn't you let them in?”

“Well, are you expecting company? I don't know who these people are.” Now she was worried and defensive. “I'm not just letting in anybody.” Parental-types always say that kind of shit, even when they've met a friend of their kid a dozen times.

Helle made a frustrated groan and stomped downstairs.

When she'd come back up, Helle had Sandra and a boy in tow. He was their age. In black. Dead Kennedy's shirt. Helle turned on her bedroom light and closed the door. Sandra had a backpack with her. She flopped on the futon and opened it.

Helle reached in and pulled out books. “Cool!” They were paperbacks mostly, and scant hardcovers. She caressed the books the way a sorority chick would caress clothes. “Oh, I've missed these.” There was everything from novels to an Aquarian tarot deck. Books on psychic healing, Ouija, dreams and dream control, Celtic myth and the Goddess. Texts of traditional mythology, Native American shamans, Earth magic and the Tao. There were psychology and self-help books. Numerology books. Palmistry. Authors from Tolkien to Rice to King to Barker to Rollins to every little-known one inbetween. Even comics like the Dark Knight, Arkham Asylum, Sandman and others more obscure. Classic horror novels and a Shakespeare compilation.

But wiccan books clearly dominated the collection. There were more wiccan tomes than half the others put together.

“Thank you.” Helle said, clutching Linda Goodman's Sun Signs. “You took such good care of them.” She sniffed the paper. “Mmm. They still smell like incense.”

Sandra kissed Helle's cheek. “You're welcome... Oh! Guess what I came across when I was digging the books up.”

“... What?”

Sandra giggled. “The notebook with the “Hooka Song” in it.”

“No way!”

The girls laughed hysterically, falling on each other. The way only two good friends ever laugh. The boy was confused. “What's the “Hooka Song?” Dare I ask?” He had to ask three times before they settled down enough to reply.

Helle explained. “It's one of the bands never-performed-classics. Here,” she cleared her throat, “okay, remember that old song, it's really old, called “Luka” by Suzanne Vega?”

“... Yeah.” The boy laughed, the gears already turning.

“Okay. It's sung to the same music.” Helle snickered and hunched over, index finger holding the laugh in her nose. “Okay, here goes. This's the “Hooka Song.”” Clearing her throat one more time, she sang, “I do smoke hooka / I smoke on the second flooor / I toke up staiirs from you / Yes, I think you've smelled it beforrre / If you smell somethin' late at niiight / Some kind of smoke comin' from myy pipe / Just don't ask me whaaat it waas / Just don't ask me what it was / Just don't ask me, I got a buzz.”

Then they all laughed, and it was awhile before Sandra finally asked. “Won't your mom be pissed though? I mean, if she sees all your books back and stuff?”

Helle looked perplexed, like she hadn't thought of it. Then shrugged, “I'll just tell her to fuck off.”

They both chuckled lightly.

“Right on!”

“Did I tell you my mom wanted me to go out with Brian tonight?”

“Brian!... Brian Colemun?”

“Yeah! He keeps calling me. Ever since Sunday.”

“Oh, jeez. You with that GQ jock?... No, I don't think so.” Sandra shook her head. “Next thing you know she'll be setting you up with that psycho Kevin Jung.”

“My ex-asshole just called too.”

The boy meanwhile, who had been looking about the room, said, “Damn, this is awful.”

“What?” Helle asked.

He motioned. “This. The room. It looks like... so stagnant. It's like a friggin' hospital room.”

“I know.” Said Sandra. “I told you.” Her eyes shifted to Helle. “It's like they just want to keep you in there. Stuff you in their little mold.” She imitated stuffing a tiny doll in the air.

“No shit. I know that's why they asked my grandma over. To babysit me... Aughhh! I'm totally stifled in... this house.” Helle sighed the last two words and looked ready to cry again.

“Hey... What's wrong?” Sandra was concerned.

Helle was silent.

“... He hit you again?”

Helle tried smiling. It came out crooked. “Good old, loving stepfellator.”

Sandra held out her arms and hugged her friend briefly on the bed.

“You're room used to be so cool.” The boy said. Awkward. Nervous. Still looking around and trying to shift the subject.

“No shit.” Agreed Helle again, holding her friend.

He looked at Sandra. “Did you bring everything of hers over?”

“What?... Duh. No. Just some book - ”

“ - No, dummy, I mean to our house.”

“Oh. Most of it.” Sandra said. “There were just a couple of things her mom got ahold of and tossed out. She was gonna burn everything else.”

“She was going to burn Shakespeare? Oh, yeah, real subversive stuff there.”

Helle crinkled her mouth. “Not that I know of, she wouldn't. I - I dunno. I didn't want to take the chance. I just gave your sister everything.”

“... Can I have your Lost Boys poster?” He asked, pulling over the chair and straddling it backwards.

“No, Louis! You can not!” Helle said.

“Well, you're not using it.”

“No, but I'd like it back someday. That's why I gave everything to Sandy.”

“When do you want it back?”

“When I move out I'm going to take everything.”

“So, that's when? When you're eighteen?”

“Yeah... The day I'm eighteen.” Helle looked at Sandra, simpering.

“So, that's in two years.” Responded Louis.

“No, Louis. Forget it.”

He chuckled. “Okay. I'm just kidding... Oh!... Here.” He pulled out the latest issue of Propaganda Magazine from his jacket and handed it to Helle. “I thought you might want to read it.”

“Cool!” She clutched it as hard as her paperbacks. “Thanks, Louis.” She held his hand for an instant.

“I need it back though. It was Chris's last one.”

Sandra corrected him. “Record Rev and Chain Link still have some.”

Helle glances at Sandra. “Man, I feel like a fucking junkie... You know?” She started shaking. “Like, man, I need a fix. I need a fix... All this shit I haven't seen in so long.” She looked at the cover; some erotic Fred Berger photo of Tia Giles.

Everyone smirked.

Sandra said, “That reminds me, you want a tab?”

Helle waved her hand. “No. Not tonight. That batch you had - ”

“ - No.” Sandra laughed, reaching into her jacket. “I mean a Tab. A pop. We stopped at Farmer's before we came over.” She pulled out a pink soda pop can.

Helle laughed. “Oh, no. I thought you - oh, nevermind. No thanks. Maybe later.”

“'Kay.” Sandra set it on the floor.

Helle started to reshelve her many books on the top of her large dresser.

“Whoa! Cool shirt.” Louis was looking at the table.

“Thanks.”

“What is it?” Sandra got up to see.

“It's not done yet.”

Sandra laughed. “Oh, my shit. That fucking rules! You've gotta make me one.”

Helle stood next to them. “I got the idea after you were ripping on me for that Mickey shirt I was wearing on Sunday.”

The shirt on the table was an ink drawing of Mickey and Minnie Mouse. They were both in full, leather bondage gear. Mickey was tied up on the ground, with a gag ball in his mouth, as Minnie whipped him.

“I haven't come up with a good caption for it, so I might just leave it like that.”

“That's great. No, it doesn't need a caption. This says it all.” Then Sandra abruptly changed the subject. “So, are you gonna build that board?”

“Huh?”

“The Ouija board. You said that's why you wanted your books baack. You weere - ”

“ - Oh.” Helle said, shelving her copy of Patricia Garfield's Creative Dreaming. “I already made one. It's in the closet.”

“The closet?”

“Yeah.” She motioned. “I finished it last night. Go look. Bring it out.” She kept organizing the books.

Sandra pulled a Ouija board out of the closet made of thick, tanned leather. The face was tooled and mounted with gold studs to a carved and stained wood board. The pointer was matching hard leather and the legs were little, glazed, wooden sticks that still had tree bark on them.

“Wowwww.” Sandra sighed.

“You made this?” Louis asked in wonder.

“Helle, this is beautiful.”

“Thanks.” Helle grinned. “I know it sure beats Parker Brothers.”

“No doubt.” Sandra caressed the tooled face of the board. “And it works better if you make your own too. You know? Like, you're more psychically in-tune with the thing, really. More of your energy is in it.”

Louis flipped the pointer over and fingered the legs. “Where'd you get the felt for the little leg thingies?”

Helle smirked. “Oh... I sort of just, found some green felt in the basement. It was my stepfellator's. I just... borrowed some.”

“I can't believe you did this since Sunday... Helle, this is so good.” Sandra complimented.

“That's what he said.”

Sidelong glance. “Har. Har... You're just so witty, you half-Brit you... You're a halfbrit! Half-wit.”

“Oh, no word puns please.” Helle exaggerated her accent.

“Ah, you're just too smart for them?” Sandra postured. “They're just so below you?”

“Why, yes dear. I'm far too civil for such petty... parlor humor.”

“Oh, really?”

“I am! I'm so goddamn smart you... you - you could fry an egg on my head!”

“What?” Sandra laughed. “That makes no sense.”

“Sure it does. Like, my brain is always working. Steaming with intelligence. See?”

Sandra paused. “... So why isn't your hair on fire?”

Helle waved a finger. “Hey! Don't get technical with me.”

“Hey,” Louis interjected, still holding the pointer, “why don't we use it? Hmm?”

Sandra and Helle snapped out of their joking charade. Helle shrugged. “Cool... That's what I made it for.”

And that was My cue. The one I'd been awaiting, half a dozen days.

∞ ∞ ∞

Helle had turned her lamp up toward the ceiling and draped a red cloth over it that she'd yanked out of the closet. A dim, rosy glow painted the room. The white curtains and walls were soaked with the light. Absorbing it as a tourniquet does blood.

Shadows, bloated and stringy, bizarrely convened around the corners of the room. Strange jabbering sounds and deep-throated whispers moved through them.

Twelve youthful fingers dabbed the pointer.

“Sweet Spirit, I speak to You Whom I spoke to on Sunday, six days past. I spoke to You every evening in my heart as I... crafted, this board, Sweet Spirit... Answer... Do You hear my call?... Do You hear my call?... Hear my call. Hear my call - ”

Her voice, like harebell petals on a pond, grew softer as she spoke. Ahh, what a polite goety. Simple and heartfelt. How could a ghoul resist? Next to Helle I sat and wrapped a pseudopod of shadow around her hand to move the pointer. I edged it gradually, letter by letter, across the slick leather.

H - E - L - L - O

“Hello.” Helle smiled. She looked at the brother and sister, then continued in solemn breath. “Are You my Sweet Spirit? Are You the One who spoke to us on Sunday?”

YES

“Cooool.” Sandra was aglow with delight, a child at Christmas, her dream present just unwrapped. Her words were a whisper, nearly as quiet as the shades.

A breeze lightly pet the trees and shimmied on the drapes.

“Are you moving it?” Louis asked, attempting to be skeptical. He said it like he wanted to yell, but it came out very quiet. Everyone was whispering.

“No!” Said Helle. “I'm not.”

Sandra's whisper was harsh and terse. “She's not moving it. Just shut up. It doesn't work right if you don't let it. You're the one who wanted to do this.” Then to Helle, “Ask It questions so we know if It's honest.”

“Huh?”

“To make sure It tells the truth. Like, ask questions, you already know the answers to.”

A tiny imp, no more than a few centuries old, dashed to the board. I clutched it before it could move the pointer. With one hand, I snapped its neck and tossed it into the corner. Phantoms cowered and ate the imps twitching body. The bloated ones murmured among themselves and nodded blackened approval, hitting off shadowy pipes and bongs.

“How old am I, Sweet Spirit?”

I moved the pointer again, slowly.

1 - 6

Their racing thoughts were shared only by quick pans around one another. Helle continued. “Ummm... Where do I go to school?... Careful. Careful. Not too heavy.”

Faster this time, but still gingerly enough to maintain their hazy awe, I spelled out: B - R - U - S - H

“What about the others? My friends.”

B - R - U - S - H

“You're moving it.”

“Shut up, Louis.” Sandra's teeth were clenched.

“What year am I? In school.”

D - O - N - T Y - O - U K - N - O - W

At first, they looked bewildered and let down. Then, once they realized what I spelled out, Helle laughed. Sandra giggled too. “I guess your Spirit has a sense of humor.”

“Will I get laid soon?” Louis wondered.

“Louis!... Damn it.” His sister scolded.

“What?” His fingertips moved off the pointer to his heart. “What? I'm serious. I mean, like, will I get a girlfriend?”

“Then ask It that. Don't be obnoxious.”

“C'mon you guys.” Helle was soothing in her voice. She was really telling them to be quiet and keep concentrating. They did. Helle continued, on the boy's behalf. “Will Louis find a girl?”

“Soon.”

“Soon?”

NO H - E I - S T - O - O U - G - L - Y

“Man, that's it! You're moving it.” Louis jumped away, pouting on the futon.

The girls chuckled. “Come on Louis.”

“Yeah, come on. I'm sure my Spirit didn't mean it.”

“Come on. One more time... I swear we didn't move it.” They laughed harder, but were trying hard not to.

“Oh, that's great. You didn't move it. So even the fucking spirits can't stand me?”

“Louis... Come on. It was joking.”

Helle closed her eyes. “Spirit. Would you apologize to Louis?”

Sandra closed her eyes too. Louis, disgusted, came back to the board.

J - U - S - T K - I - D - D - I - N - G

I moved it astoundingly fast. They were all flabbergasted. Even Louis was hesitant to ask: “Sure... Can You prove You're real?”

“Nooo. Louis, don't ask it that. You'll piss it off.”

For less than two seconds, I fluttered over the board in the faint ruby light as the shadow of a raven, and a silence fell so hard that the young trio would feel their heartbeats in their ears. A gremlin edged toward the pointer. Quickly reaching and retreating, like a child fearful of a scalding pot. I leered at the monster and it slithered away, yelping.

Sandra took her fingers off the pointer. “... W-Wait... Did you just-?...”

“What?” The cloth-filtered light made Helle's eyes crimson-lavender marbles.

“It looked like I... just saw, like, it was a bird.” Sandra looked up at the ceiling. “It was like a shadow of a bird. It...”

“I saw it.” Helle's voice returned to a whisper and the words stuck.

Louis nodded, his chin down. “Yeah... I saw it.” They all looked up in consternation. “That was weird.” Louis said.

“That was aaaawesome.” Sandra noted, her Christmas-look returned.

Some deep instinct stirred in their mortal souls. Something remembered. The something making mortals leery of strange altars, old places, and willow trees at night. All such things, when mortals neared, they will feel deepen such a fright. A feeling I'm sure they had all felt before. Helle peered slowly up her walls, out her window, and in the swarthy corners. “There's definitely some... one, else, in here with us.”

Sandra nodded.

I noticed she'd been careful to say “someone” and not “something.” The shades chuckled in an uproar.

After a bit of hesitation, Helle spoke some more to the board. “W-Will my mom marry James?”

I thought it over. YES

She sighed. “... Will they get divorced?”

YES

Of course, I didn't truly know. I was simply entertaining myself.

“When? When will they get divorced?” Helle asked joyously.

S - O - O - N

“Cool!”

J - A - M - E - S A - S - S - H - O - L - E

With trepidation, they all laughed. “This is so cool.” Louis said. They didn't realize I was starting to communicate without being questioned. Nor did they see the shapes betook by the darkness only a rat's breath away.

“My forearm is tingling.” Louis hushed.

“I know, mine too... Do You have any friends?” Sandra asked the pointer.

YES

“... Where are They? Can we talk to Them?”

NO N - O - T H - E - R - E

“Where are They?” Helle wondered.

O - U - T - S - I - D - E

“Can You bring Them in?”

NO

A silence covered them. They seemed pressed for more questions. Helle ended the silence. “... Do You know my dad?”

Ah. Now she asks true Killing Game questions. Yes. Let Me toy with your heart and desires, My orchid-eyed lass. So fair thou art, and wilt do lilacs in My birchtree touch.

YES

“Where is he?” Helle was slightly choked up. Her friends looked nervous about the direction Helle was taking them.

N - O - T H - E - R - E

Helle asked, only slightly annoyed. “But... where are You?”

I paused. They sat, quietly awaiting My answer. The breeze had stopped and even the wraiths were still... All manner of the Mother's Earth was a hush in the night.

“Helle!”

All three of them jumped and screamed. Louis slapped the pointer so hard it damn near flew out the window.

“Helle?” Quieter. It was Helle's harridan grandmother out in the hall.

“Sh - i - i - t.” Laughed Helle.

Sandra collapsed back like a snow angel and put her hand over her heart. “Fuck.” She and her brother looked miserable with laughter. “Damnit. That scared the fuck out of me.”

Snickering, Helle uncrossed her legs and went to open her bedroom door. Snickering instantly turned irritated. “What gramma?”

“Helle?...” The virago peered suspiciously into the room. “What are you doing in here? Why do you have the door closed like that?” She opened the door more fully. “Didn't you hear me calling you? You have a phone call.”

“Okay.”

She smiled. “I think it's that nice boy, Brian.”

A sardonic glare from Helle to Sandra.

“He said your line was busy. Who were you talking to?” She looked in the room, staring at Sandra and Louis like they were giant snails. “Why is that... What is that on your lamp? You trying to make it look like some... some-somekind of cemetery in here? That can start a fire, you know. Honestly, Helle. What are you doing in here? You kids. Locked up in this room all the time. Helle, what's the matter with you? I just don't see how you can stand it. And I just don't understand why you insist on it being so dark in this room all the time.” She flicked the light on.

“Grandma, ” Helle put her hands on the old woman's shoulders. “... my whole life is a dark room...”

Helle grinned at Sandra and Louis again. All three teens said in unison: “One... big... dark... room.”

The woman became flustered as the kids laughed at her, and the Beetlejuice reference went right over her head. While she and Helle went downstairs, she whispered. “Helle, you know, I'm not sure but, I really don't think your mother wants you to see those kind of people over here... Why don't you go out with that Brian fellow? A girl your age. He has nice friends... And Cheryl. She's a good girl. They're very popular in school, you know, your mother tells me!” She said it as if it should really appeal to Helle, like she was offering a little girl candy.

Helle just paused and chuckled in deriding disgust.

Then...

Just outside, beyond warm hide of that room where had sat the three, there swayed in a cold, dark wind the arms of a wizened old tree.

Ghoulie ones and ghastly things and all a darkly sprite aglow - all these things and a thousand more then into the Shades did go. The two young in the room, boy and girl both, ceased their laughings bold when sensing those Host. And upon darkened stairs, the chuckling violet-eyed one, she too no longer chuckled for want of the midday sun...

I bounded through the window and leapt off the sill, tumbling and swinging down the branches of a willow.

∞ ∞ ∞

I spent the rest of that evening at the first Halloween party of the month at the Gothic Rainbow. There would be one every Friday and Saturday night until the last weekend in October. Halloween happened to fall on a Monday that year, which was perfect for the club and for Our Masquerade.

Yet another night in “the scene.” Few things could be more shallow than clubs, more superficial. The novelty can wear thin rapidly, although the shallowness of the atmosphere is always a thing to savor. Entertaining to watch. Sad eyes wandering in lonely corners over drink-laden tables. Cigarettes dangling, just to look occupied. Speaking about nothing. Laughing at less.

But such things are superficial. The music. The dance. The spectacle. The crowd is what makes it exciting. That's why I love it so and always shall. Youth and the vibrance of blood pulsate through the scene like an ambrosian wine.

Nevertheless, eternity has a peculiar way of becoming horribly monotonous. And some nights are best discarded and forgotten. Every night seems the same now and then. Stagnation sets in. One evening like all those before. For every interesting one, there are twenty other nights that aren't worth mentioning. The same faces in the same places... I grow ill and bored just thinking about it.

No doubt, some new turns had to come up in the Game very soon... If not, I'd just have to make some.

But I must admit: That night was fun.

Everyone at the Rainbow was not only encouraged, but required to come in costume. No threads, no admission.

Camillia looked nefarious in Her allure. She had a customized black leather outfit made - Peter Chungs' Aeon Flux. She even cut Her hair and and had it colored and straightened for the evening to more accurately depict the woman in the cartoon. No matter. The following evening, Her hair would return to the way it was.

Since My hair would too, I cut My hair short to better fit My costume as well. The same designer who made Camillia's seven thousand dollar costume made My Gemini attire - the half and half jester suit that Prince wore in the “Batdance” and “Party Man” videos. Corny as hell, but did I give a fuck? This was a costume I could definitely get into.

- All hail, the new King in town -

Our costumes fit Us as well as the inked-on suits of animated characters. Unnaturally lithe and beautiful in form. Young and ancient all at once.

Down in The Vault, the club was as packed as it was upstairs. A flurry of handsome, costumed people passed in every array in the dark. With Camillia leading the way, We were shoving past the Terminator and a Shmoo. Wandering smoky rooms with latex Nixons and a Godzilla. Across from a table of Imperial Stormtroopers sat the Fruit Of The Loom Guys.

Camillia laughed really hard at Devan's costume. He dressed like a superhero in a big musclesuit with a cape and a giant condom on the chest. He called himself “Captain Karezza.” His girlfriend Malory just shrugged noncommittally behind his back. Either she didn't know yet, or she wasn't telling.

My attention was shifted in a new direction every other second. People We knew came and went.

“Hi!”

“Hey!”

“Hey!”

“Good to see You!”

“Hi!”

“You too!”

“How are you!?”

Coming and going. Appearing and vanishing. Fast pecks on the cheek. Squeezing shoulders. Patting backs. I'd stepped into a Dali daydream.

“Cam!” Allyson shouted to Our right over the sound of clanking bottles, hundreds talking, and the house speakers - they were playing “Burn And Rob” by Paleface. Just getting into it. He was talking about how he would've bought more records but he had a lousy job.

My Countess and I went over to Her Sister.

Allyson was seated at a table in a corner with Jill - that Pawn I gave Her on Friday. Allyson dressed like Wednesday from The Addams Family. She even brought a headless doll. Jill was a she-devil. Pitchfork. Tail. Horns and all.

Allyson introduced Camillia and I to Her friend.

“What time did You wind up arriving!?” Camillia asked as I pulled out a chair for Her. “Thanks, Love.” She whispered.

“Bienvenu.” I kissed Her and sat next to Her by the wall.

Allyson looked at Jill. “Oh, I don't know!... About, what, fifteen, twenty minutes ago!?... We just got here!”

“Brandon!” Camillia called.

“Hey, Brandon!” I waved.

He came over. “Hey, how's My favorite Royal Family? Hiya Ally.” He put His hand on Her back. “Great costumes.” He glanced around at Us. He ignored the mortal.

“Thanks... Pull up a chair.”

He did. He was uncostumed since He was working. Just a big black Gothic Rainbow Staff robe. “Dijew just get here?”

Camillia nodded. Her regal movements and posture looked strangely out of place in such a provocative costume. She appeared all the more unique and mysterious.

“You just got here. Cool.” Then, He added, successively tapping My shoulder, “Oh, oh, You missed Mirror Mirror then! You seen it?”

“Mirror Mirror?” I pouted, shrugged and shook My head.

His head cocked, smirking. “Ohhh, yeah. They screened it when the doors opened. Like, when I first got here. There's this one gothic chick in it. She's like, the main character.” He shook His head. “Man, she - is - hot.”

“Rainbow Harvest.” Allyson said. Jill sat there, straining to hear Us.

“Huh?”

Allyson told Brandon's confusion. “I saw it before. That's the girl's name. In the movie. That's her name. Rainbow Harvest... Well, that's her real name, not the character.”

“Well, personally, I bet she has nothing on Paula Marshall.” I slyly observed.

“Who?”

“She's been in all sorts of horror films too. I think, sequels to Warlock and Hellraiser and shit. She played a girl named... Samantha, I think, in the Warlock flick. Oh. Stunning girl.”

“Yeah?” Brandon said. “That Rainbow girl, I think her character is Megan or something. Oh, man, she's...” Brandon looked up toward the stage and nodded. He mimed: Huh?... Yeah, okay. He began to stand. “I gotta go. Sorry. But I'll ask Felicia or John to show that again. You haveta see it.”

“Cool.”

“Empress. Ladies. My Lord. Enjoy the show.” He bowed and shuffled off.

Jill was about to speak, but I cut her off, calling out, “Brandon! Who's playing?”

“The Milkmen!”

I grinned. “No way!... You're shittin' Me. They were supposed to have broken up. When they goin' on?”

Walking back, He snuck a peek at His watch. “Midnight... In about five minutes or so.”

“Cool.”

He snickered. “Hey, The Vault's always a surprise, huh?... Didn't You see the promo flyers? We called 'em The Stephanie Rowley Barn Band.”

I chuckled, interlacing My fingers. “No-o-o. I missed those.”

“Yep. Well, they're here. I heard they're touring to promote their next album Mephistophelsneeze or something. Comes out in around a month or two. And that, uh, Old Skull just opened a little while ago.”

“Who?”

“Old Skull.”

“Never heard of them.”

“They're cool. They're punk. All, like, eight year old skater kids.”

My nose crinkled. “... Eight? Eight year olds?”

“Yeah... well, no, okay, maybe twelve or so.”

I looked at Cam who tittered. I told Brian. “Kick ass. Fuckin' PR there, man... I'm sorry I missed 'em.”

He shrugged. “Well, maybe hang out after the show. You could see 'em... If they're not in bed yet.”

“Ri-i-ght.” I laughed. “Scam Me an Old Skull CD if You can.”

“No problem. Check You later.” He left.

Allyson and Jill were in their own conversation.

I let My Sire know: “Cool. I wanna stay down here. You don't mind, do You?”

“No.” She said. “That's fine. I'll be upstairs.”

“Nooo.” I pouted. “Come on, hon. Don't leave Me.”

“I'm sure You can take care of Yourself.” She thought.

“Pleease. Seriously... I miss You, Love. I never see You enough - ”

She smiled. “ - You see Me every day and night.”

I nodded. “Okay. Fine. I know. That's true... I just really want to spend time with You tonight.”

“So, You don't want to see Me on other nights? Weary of Your Bride already, sweet Prince? Before a fortnight of years pass?”

“You know what I mean.” I guffawed.

Her eyes turned mischievous. “What's in it for Me?”

I shrugged. “In it for You? Well, well, do I sense greed? Is this a selfishness I hear? You ask I, the Harvester of Nightmares, He Who Capers On The Black Dragon's Lips, what more I might give?... How about My continued love and devotion and charming personality?” I frowned and laughed a Morris Day smile. My threads demanded it.

She giggled like a tickled child. “Oh, how could I refuse?...” “Okay, I'll stay a little bit.”

“Thanks.” I grinned.

“So, tell Me more about the little fille-de-joie, Drew.”

“Drew?”

“Mm-hm. The one courtesan You met - ”

“ - Oh, Drew.” I nodded. I started struttin' as I spoke, light-heartedly playing up My costume. “Well, I didn't tell You the best part. I got her to come to Me.”

“How so?” Camillia leered, playing along and personifying Her costume.

I talked with My hands. “Well, I figured that I had her figured out, You know? Little vamp-ass bitch, latches on to rich guys, just a suckin' on their blood. So, I figured, fine, if I'm wrong I'll spare the sweet child. But if I'm right, I'll make her get down and beg for Me.”

“Uh-huhhh.” A sneer.

“So, I walked on up to her and said hello. You know, just started talking to her. Being nice. Friendly. Not flirtatious 'cause I wasn't trying to hit on her, You see.”

“Right, Dark Angel. I see...”

“So, she totally blows Me off, like, big time. So I tell Denise, talk to the girl. So, I left them alone. I said Denise, You know, tell her who I am.” I thumped My chest.

Camillia grinned, panther-smile beautiful.

I spoke normally again. “So, then I went upstairs and waited while Denise talked to her. Next thing You know - ”

“ - Next thing You know, Drew is all over You because You're rich. But when she thought You were a poor degenerate kid, she treated You like shit.”

“Exactly.”

“So, You were right about her after all.”

“I was right.” Nodded I with a simper.

She dramatically put each hand to Her heart. “Ah, if only the maid were one of virtue and honor, My Devilish Prince would've spared her blood.”

My forehead buckled. “Tragic, isn't it?” I laughed like Morris Day again.

“Oh, Aesop, Thy judgments are so cruel.”

My eyes met with Jill. We smiled at each other.

Camillia asked her. “Jill!... Have you been to The Vault a lot!?”

“Allyson. Does Jill know that We own the club?” I asked.

“Not yet... Why?”

“Just curious.” My shoulder skipped.

Jill brightened up, like she'd been hoping We'd talk to her. “Oh, well, I usually stay upstairs, in the dance club!... Actually, I just started to come recently! I don't know why! This kind of place was never really my thing! I'm more of a Headliners Niteclub sort of person!”

“We can see that.”

Camillia was leaning over the table, squinting as if She were having a hard time hearing Jill. She did it purely for the benefit of Allyson and I. It was hilarious to see this sophisticated, sybarite Woman - a Woman who was raised as royalty, Who hosted parties for Emperors and Queens - stooping to a mortals level. Rarely did She ever act so human, and the amusement it gave Me, I always cherished. Allyson and I would be laughing about it with Camillia like mad when We got home. She controlled everyone by giving them what they wanted. She was a master diplomat in that way. So, to make Her Sister and I laugh, She gave Us what We wanted: A totally out-of-character charade.

Camillia told Jill. “Well, it can be a real hoot, this club can! You stay close to Allyson, you'll come a lot more!”

A hoot? Oh, shit. In Her entire life of over three hundred years, that must've been the first time Camillia ever used that word.

“I hope so! I kinda like it! My fiance isn't into it too much!”

“That's too bad! He'll grow to like it, I'm sure!”

“So, are You Two married!?” Jill directed at Me, waving her finger back and forth.

“What!? I'm sorry!?” I cupped My hand to My ear. “Can I play too?”

“Are You married!?”

“Who!?... What, Me and Camillia!? Oh, no!” I pointed with surprise.

Camillia's hand crouched on My shoulder. “No! He's My Brother!”

“Oh!” Her palm covered her mouth. “I'm sorry! How embarrassing!” She glanced at Wednesday. “I'm sorry! I misunderstood! I thought Allyson said You Two were married!”

“No! Not quite!”

She looked strangely at Us. “Well, it did seem... weird! I mean with the age difference and all - Y-You are older, er, younger than Your... Sister! Right!?... I-I was confused! I wondered how You could have anything in common!”

“Oh, actually, We have more in common than most couples!” I draped My arm around My Bride's waist. My voice turned to a normal volume and Jill couldn't have heard Me say how much I love My Sisters.

I kissed Camillia on the mouth only slightly longer and softer than a brother should. Jill looked unsettled and tried masking her confusion. We were Siblings?... How old were We? What was happening?

Camillia and I looked at her. Our shadows grew up the wall behind Us. Twisting. Turning. Converging and separating like a sentient liquid. Camillia licked her lips. We looked into Each Others eyes and the shadows stopped. For a second, every shadow in the room was frozen while the multitudes moved on without them. Freed again, the shadows went on once more.

Jill smiled difficultly. Creases criss-crossed her forehead. “So, what do, uh, what do You do for a livi - ”

The Dead Milkmen came on stage dressed like Kiss. It was fucking hysterical. Crazy went the crowd with cheering.

“ - Come on! Let's get up front!” I took My Princess by the hand. The audience was howling.

Rodney Anonymous said, “No. We're not Kiss. They're our cousins... Does anybody know who we are?”

“Want an introduction?” Asked a stage crew guy.

“Yeah.”

“Ladies and gentleman, presenting a band that brings new meaning to the term banned... The Deceased Lactate Product Delivery Personnel, or to put it, in other words... The Dead Milkmen!”

Dozens of costumed kids cheered louder. Voices echoed bizarrely behind masks. They clapped. Whistled. Made any sort of noise they could. The drums began.

Rodney looked back. “Are you ready Dave?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Malory?”

“Okay.”

“Joe?”

“I don't knowww.”

“Well, alright fellas. Let's goooooooo!”

They opened with “The Pit” and the Pit went insane. Punker kids galore slammed and pogoed in the crowd. Punks dressed like Batman and werewolves surfed Headless Horsemen and mummies. They wailed the lyrics along with Rodney when he held out the mike.

It was the good-old-days all over again.

Not the bullshit we had at shows for awhile. For awhile, everyone slammed at shows. Any show. Especially when all those End Rock-esque bands had been mislabeled as “cool” and they gained popularity. I remembered being at shows where people slammed to music like Curve and My Bloody Valentine - which really pissed Me off because I was enamored and mesmerized at Toni Halliday's feet, trying to dance and enjoy the music. But noodle-bodied idiots were surfing the crowd like limp fish.

Those Pits were usually initiated by clean-cut, punk-jocker, frat boys in Ministry tee-shirts, and Bugle Boy pants... Where the fuck did they ever come from? Those little football-player boys, straight out of a 1950's TV show, with backwards baseball caps and beer bottles in hand. It didn't matter if they played football or not, they all looked like they did. They'd grow up to wear trimmed mustaches; the same style of short hair they had since the third grade; and work middle-class, suburban-house-buying jobs. They'd try to meet girls with, “Can I buy you a drink?”... Please. Beer-drinking, wife-slapping, kid-beating, white-trash larva.

Those huge “festival shows” also encouraged a bunch of strait-laced assholes with no business being there, to start showing up. Moronic fuckers who never hear of Sid or Ian but thought that Nirvana and the Chili Peppers were musical pioneers. Crunchy, granola-eating, hippie motherfuckers who bought flannels and ripped jeans at Merry-Go-Round in shopping malls. They liked techno and tossed around terms like “modern rock”, “alternative”, and “grunge.” They never listened to college radio and they found all the music they like at homogenized, corporate, commercial recordstore chains. I wanted to incinerate every one of those clueless fucks.

They made fun of anyone who looked different from them or the newest trend in Details magazine. They'd mock on the cool, fourteen year old, hardcore, X-handed, straightedge, just because he had a shaved head, dreads, and a ragged shirt of a cool band they never heard of like 7 Seconds. They'd see the gorgeous, hardcore punker skate bettie with a Mohawk, gnostic tattoos, and a nosering, wearing a halter and bicycle shorts and they'd call her a slut. Or worse. Usually, they'd say it behind her back too, because she could single-handedly beat the puss out of their whole gaggle if she heard them.

Then they'd wonder why a huge, musclebound guy with Black Flag ink was crushing their bigoted skull on the floor while their friends looked on helplessly. In fact, kicking their ass was the only thing about them that I missed. That was fun. Good way to hang out after a gig - shredding aryan preppies in Nitzer Ebb shirts, which they never deserved to wear.

People actually got hurt when those shitheads invaded the scene. Injured people were few and far between before those stupid shits showed up. So were fights for that matter.

But that was because they didn't know how to behave. Their forced their intimidated, reluctant girlfriends up to surf by throwing them on top of the crowd and thinking it was funny. They stage dove vertically (stage jumping, perhaps?) or just fucking belly-flopped onto the front row. Their feet flailed and they kicked people in the head. They just stared at people who fell and kept on slamming.

Hello, motherfucker!? Pick them up!

They broke every unwritten rule of courtesy, conduct, and etiquette in the mosh. They were mindless, worthless people who saw the Pit as violent, angry, anarchaic chaos. They had no idea what was really going on.

... But do they ever?

No matter, I suppose. Those days were long gone. That crowd was never around anymore. Never. The good old days had returned. Nothing but hardcore, gothic, punk, industrial, skater-type boys and girls in the club that night. Whatever label one decides to put on them, they were cool. Oh, it was fantastic. We danced on into the music and the tsunami of sweet and sour-noted harmony.

The energy never diminished. It brewed hyperinsanity that never settled down. Rodney ran around the stage, leaning over the monitors and singing at the crowd. Screaming. He dove in, singing “Where The Tarantula Lives” as he surfed the costumed monsters and aliens in his Kiss gear.

I slammed through “Beach Song” and “Big Time Operator.” As usual, the Pit grew quickly hot, humid and sticky. Sweat poured off the mortals. Everyone knew all the words and everyone was laughing and screaming along with the lyrics.

Scores of teens all jumping up and down in unison. Costumes fell apart. Guys stripped down to bare chests. Girls wound up in just their bras. A rubber Greedo mask was in shreds on the floor. The Baseball Furies makeup melted and ran with sweat. I knew My costume was getting trashed too. It was sopping. I took off My jacket. Sweat wrung out of the sleeves as I tied it around My waist. Even Rodney's Kiss makeup was running in less than an fifteen minutes or so. Finally, he wiped most of it off with a towel and had a mostly-gray face.

He paused after “Labor Day” and looked at Jack Talcum. “Okay. Now, before I do - now wait - ”

The crowd screamed and heckled:

“Yeeeah!”

“Earwig!”

“Jellyfish Heaven!”

“Play Blood Orgy!”

He continued. “Now wait. Wait. Before we do our next song, I - I wanted to ask Jack, my good pal Jack about something! So every - everybody just shut up, okay!?”

Everyone was still yelling, cheering and screaming. The sound was unreal. Fists punched up in the air.

Rodney continued. “Okay! Hey! Now, there've been some rumors about you Jack! I declare! There've been a might large bit o'rumors floatin' 'round about you!”

“Oh, yeah?... W-What'd they say? Uh, I didn't do it.”

“Yeah, well, uh, rumor 'round town says you might be thinkin' 'bout goin' down to the Shore.”

Cheering vibrated the floor.

“Uh, yeah. I think I'm gonna go down to the Shore.”

“Whattaya gonna do down there?”

“Oh, I don't know. P - Play some video games. Buy some Def Leppard tee-shirts.”

“... Oh, okay... So, what should we play next?”

Every voice must've shouted “Bitchin' Camaro!” Some screamed it all at the same time. Most were in haphazard discord.

The band played on. “Bitchin' Camaro” and song upon song. They went into “Milkmen Stomp,” told about a “Big Lizard” and shared “Dean's Dream.” They were “Watching Scotty Die” in the “Land Of The Shakers.” They spotted a kid off to the side and Jack dedicated “The Puking Song” to him. He looked really ill. “Girl Hunt” was dedicated to a “Punk Rock Girl.” They sang of orgies on hilltops and Charles Nelson Reilly. Tunes about living in a fucked up world, drinking till you drop and killing cops. They sang about mom and dad not liking them and neighbors trying to run them down because of the way they dress. Girls don't really like them, their songs said, that's why they hate themselves. They got nowhere to go and their folks say they've got no ambition.

The crowd empathized with their angst. Loved their humor. Shared their fantasies. Everyone could hear silly music and lyrics about serious things and laugh their asses off. It was old-school, Stateside punk at it's finest - kids enjoying loud, obnoxious, irreverent, tongue-in-cheek fun with no inhibitions. That “Pit/bonding” thing. Laughing at themselves. Just being young. Not a care in the world. Forgetting their cruel teachers, parents, and peers... for a short time anyhow.

Dean Clean tossed out handfuls of crayons during “Methodist Coloring Book.” (Graffiti reading things such as “THE MILKMEN RULE!” promptly appeared on many walls in burnt-umber, azure, and sea-green.) I noticed that Allyson enjoyed “Air Crash Museum” a little too much. Like She was spending more time imagining one than listening to a song about one.

A few kids sat out on the edge of the Pit, panting for air. Another one looked ready to puke. He had slipped and caught a shoulder in his stomach, but he was still smiling. “Fuck it,” he swam back into the Pit and dove off the stacks. Sweat rained off his head as he fell. One guy danced like a maniac seizure victim against the back wall. I saw a skinhead dressed like an Edie Brickell hippie in a longhair wig and tie-dyed shirt help up a guy who fell in the mosh. The guy who fell was dressed as a rabbi.

Surreal.

They turned on the sprinklers over the crowd to cool everyone down. They loved it, clamoring over one another to get hit by a steady stream.

People air-guitared and air-drummed. Hair flew, flinging sweat, and smiles abounded. Someone in a generic monster costume chased a hippie kid in circles across the stage when they sang “The Thing That Only Eats Hippies.” They danced on stage through the whole song. Finally, embracing and dancing arm-in-arm together at the end.

Kids dressed up as nuked and melting soldiers really got into “Beach Party Vietnam.” Three of them did a chorusline onstage and did that fucked-up kind of dancing they did in campy 1960's beach movies. Rodney stuck out the mike after he sang, “'Cause I don't have any arms,” and the entire club provided the scream.

And the audience loved “Moron” and “You'll Dance To Anything” even though the insults of the songs applied to many of them so well. But it applied to the band too, and everyone knew it. Wafts of sweet jane seemed particularly strong when they sang “Two Feet Off The Ground.”

A costumed Elvis really got into “Going To Graceland” and Rodney let him sing along until finally he just gave Elvis the mike and Elvis sang the rest of the song. He wasn't bad either. Charlie Brown caught Elvis when he dove back.

When they reached the mellow parts of “Smokin' Banana Peels,” the crowd stopped pogoing and peacefully swayed back and forth. Were it planned ahead of time, it couldn't have been choreographed any better.

The whole show brought to mind images of sixteen year olds driving around with nowhere to go. Cruising the town. Hitting malls until nine and riding around wishing they were old enough to get into clubs or something. 'Cause, after all, they had this car but nowhere - to - go! So, they skated, smoked cigarettes, and drove mom's car around Parma, Olmstead or Heights, cranking Milkmen tapes.

Everyone was singing, dancing and screaming so loud, I had little doubt they'd all lose their voices the next day. Palms would tingle from clapping (or smacking into the floor of the Pit). They'd go to sleep with smoke in their clothes and ringing in their ears. Overcome by that ambivalent “invigorated” and “spent” feeling one has after a good gig. Few shows had ever been as fun.

Unlike any of Us was that night. Even Camillia stayed the whole time and fully enjoyed Herself. A rare form: To see such blatant joy among the Damned Kin. Innocent fun was not the nature of We Creatures. For awhile, I think We all forgot what We were...

... But, no. Maybe it was as great a pandemonium as ever.

Olden revels in the dark. Insidious costumes. Dire merriments and black joys. On the dancing went with its noise. The cave-like club. Like a village tavern. Like hovel old. A darkened place with shadows dour as pyrelight in the witching time... We can never forget Our nature. We can only change it for a time, with glamour before mortal men's eyne. Masks may change Our faces and laughter may mask Our souls. But We are always misanthropes underneath Our clothes. Watching Them, My Night Brothers, My Sisters, Brethren between the places of sleep and moon. Never prints of Our passing do We ever leave. Only mortal heartstrings into woeful yarns weaved.

The dance to which they churned was archaic indeed. Many of Them I doubt knew just how closely They mirrored those dances done in lives past, at similar merrymakings. Then too, in myriad of costumed skin, they waltzed in shadows at midnight.

Yes. It was as great a pandemonium as ever.

We had forgotten not what We were. No. Never. Not even then. Joy wasn't unnatural, even in Our demonic veins. Be them dark, they still be joys... And yet, something felt strange in that night. Something was wrong. Something was out of place and not right. Far off, something was laughing at the echo of long forgotten screams.

Further away than the beat of the music. Further than a trillion hearts, beating like stars above... I felt, only for an instant, something... Distorted and twisted. Gnarled like an undead, oaken soul. Something unlike anything I'd ever known was taking shape.

Like a memory... Forgotten... A scream.

It climbed, that teras, quickening in the womb of darkness.

∞ ∞ ∞

Camillia's corpse was still warm from the heat in the club. “Well, We're headed back home. It's getting late.” Camillia smiled. “But it was a pleasure meeting you, Jill.”

Jill smiled back, shaking Her hand. “Oh, thanks. It was nice to meet You two too.” She glanced at Me. “Awww... Your costume!”

I looked down at My tattered self and ran a hand through My wet hair. “Ahhh, well... I'll live.” I smiled. “... I hope We see you around some more.”

“I'm sure You will. I'm glad Your Sister dragged me out. I had a good time.”

“Cool.” I nodded.

Allyson came by. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” Jill looked around, patted her purse and said, “Yeah. I'm ready.”

“Take care.” I smiled as they left.

“You too... Bye.” She waved at Camillia. That stupid wave people do where they tilt their whole torso sideways for some reason.

“Bye.”

Camillia and I were too tired to talk much more that night. That half-sleep state had taken over, when all loved Ones feel closer, whether They are or not. Knowing looks. Gentle grins. A familiar caress was all We needed. Camillia, My darkly scried mirror, engulfing, consuming and altering all I saw in My soul.

“Let's go home, My Pan.”

Her voice brought Me away and took Me anew. Yes. She was right. Day would rise again soon. Time to go.

- ... This must be done with haste, for night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, and yonder shines Aurora's harbinger, at whose approach, ghosts, wand'ring here and there, troop home to churchyards. Damned spirits all... fear lest day should look Their shames upon, They willfully Themselves exile from light, and must for aye consort with black-browed night... -

My soot-hearted Bride and I watched the skaters out in the lot. As We pulled out in Our XJ220, Keenan skated up to Us. He knocked on the window and asked Us for some Grey Poupon. We laughed. I told Him, He was so bad He should be in detention, because someone was playing “I'm The Man” by Anthrax. Classic tune to skate to.

He returned to His pack of skater bros and betties, grinning.

They were like so many taken mortals, pixy-led into the rings. Camillia and I observed Our lithe Court, smiling. A graceful dance there too. And a chorus. Rumbling. Clacks. Grinding. Kingpins screeched across the fenders of old skate-stickered Escorts.

Ringing. Metal screamed.

The churchtower bells chimed with anvil-struck echoes.

Ringing. A hammer fell in the high hedges, as the haunting cobbler toiled upon a single shoe. Almost a glowworm sheen, sparks leapt between the thick leaves from the anvil strikes.

A sound to trigger memories. Music. Odd and old. Strange as cold wood. From blood-red steel, I imagined noxious brumes. Metals blood-hot, cooled in water of oaken pails.

The hammer fell. Sparking. Like breaking glass catching light and throwing it back into the darkness. Where even in the day, light did not go, it sat in the eaves of his dark Rainbow. The cauldron black-scorched, like his hat pointed thrice, from the flames of burning mortal sacrifice. His potted gold was an illusion, a treasure of decay. At the end of the rainbow was death, rotten flesh and dismay. A crock that snapped. A crock of lies. A crock of blood and babies eyes. His purse rattled and squished with maggots and skull-lost teeth. Dank things reeking of earth.

Frumplebones McClure, he'd disappear into the mountains for a couple of hundred years... never knowing when he'd return.

The hammer fell.

Chiming. Arcing down through dark nothing. Silent. Striking steel. Molding. Like blood. Ringing. Striking images. Shaping. Like blood. Sparking. Striking churchbells. Flashing. Like snapshot flashes. Snapshots of the heart. Of the mind.

The hammer fell.

Falling.

All tied up... where ivy grows? Lost in anvil bells? Amongst the ivy and bushes, the sound was like a long forgotten scream. It climbed the terrace quickly in the gloom of darkness.

Chapter Eighteen

Falling.

Glass rains. Christmas snow in a crystal ball. Hell awaits at the bottom of the kaleidoscopes of angels.

Falling to death is peaceful. Serene. Quiet. A silken wind and light.

Silence.

My spine splinters on a boulder as I land. Crunching bitterly like seashells on a vast oceans beach. Bluebells rain with glass. Bluebells with faces and knells of mocking laughter. A posy of primroses spoils garnet from my blood.

Lightless pain in ink-well waves sends me blind.

Wine glasses crunch as I land on them. Gorging into me. Filling with the remaining drops of my life. The table collapses and I fall again. Bones pop like champagne corks. Skylight glass plinks on the marble floors and splashes in punchbowls and drinks. Red wine and my blood mix into gallons. They flow together over everything as thunder announces the coming of rain.

Fine opera music, with all the harmony of the holiest seraphs, caresses the wine and stream of blood. The piece is familiar. Sweeping. Ominous. Measures soar. Epic movements unfurl. The requiem for God. The anthem of Satan.

Fallen candles snuff in wine. Saturated already, baby's breath, toppled for bouquets, soaks in blood. Tangled in a lace tablecloth, my deathshroud bleeds.

Voices.

“My God!”

“Help him! Help him! Somebody help him!”

“Call an ambulance.”

“Is he dead? He must - ”

“Yes! Call them! Call!”

“Don't move him!”

“Everybody stay calm! Stay calm! Don't crowd him!”

The voices are growing faint. Vague murmurs from a loathsome dream. They say things I can't understand, muttering. Suits and dresses surround me. Blurry. Unfocused. Golden light is fading. The concerned faces begin to vanish and even lightning fails to dispel the dark into which I slip.

Rain starts pouring through the gaping wound in the skylight, distilling the ghastly brew of blood and wine.

More voices.

“God! My God!”

“Somebody do something!”

“No! Don't touch him! Don't touch him!”

“Leave him!”

“Yes! Leave him!”

“Leave him! Let the fucker rot!”

“You're going to die!”

What!? Consciousness barely snaps back. They're all scared. Hateful. Spitting what they say. Then I do not hear their voices. No words at all. Only animal sounds of fury. Screeching from zoo prisons. Tormented simian noises.

Everything is getting lighter. Weightless. The pain is lifting. It seems to rise and fall with my breathing. The drifting breath of angels. Gentle waves lapping a beach. The pain isn't really there at all anymore. I think my eyes are open, but I'm still blind of sight. Everything feels more immediate and intensified. More real. Vivid.

Moreso than things have ever been... Ever. Hardly now, like astral dreams. Do I die now?

In agony I hear myself groan in half a whisper. Pain returns, flowing back like a liquid soul returned to its corpse. Choking. Hating where it is. Resentful as a Beast in a pentagram cage. Flooding me. Filling every pore. Again I feel the weight of my broken body. The anguish is like being drowned and burned alive. Flashbulbs explode in black and white brilliance. Red filament glows, embers of every vein in my eyes. Someone is carrying me.

Lightning bursts. Destroying the crystal ball. Revealing the bottom of hell.

And all the color drains from the world.

∞ ∞ ∞

Again I drift on Heaven's wind.

Still I cannot see. Yet somehow, I know that...

... She's beautiful.

She draws my body from her car and carries it into the charnel mansion. Beyond darkened corridors and halls my body is taken. The wind-combed vastness of the place threatens to consume me. To suck my soul into the black heights of vaulted ceilings, never to reach the sun.

I hear silent footfalls.

She lays me on a sprawling pile of delicate furs before a fireplace. Violently soft. Viciously gentle. A bed of granite and steel suffering. Though I don't feel like I'm there at all. Her movement is panther-confidence. Spider precision. Terrifying is the fireplace. Unnaturally huge. Gated with iron, almost a genocidal furnace. Able to burn dreams. Yes, that is what it sought... Dreams for kindling.

Floating above it all. Watching. Adrift on cherub breezes.

The beautiful one is kissing me. Beautiful and never have I seen her face. My body returns her affections. We're touching. Blind. I feel skin. Bare. Crisp, frozen satin. So immediate. Real. More real than any waking moment I've ever known. As vivid a difference as reality to nightmare. But the difference is vanishing and the dreams are all too familiar. Awash in substance less than vapours.

Arms. Legs. A caress of shadow. Unreal light. The bits of fire I feel are gray. Panting at my side. The hungry flames. The color is still gone from the world. Hues of sunlight through stormclouds. Everything is mixing. Slices of gray and white highlights on shadow. Like moonbeams through blinds. Glass fingers. Ice smooth. Across her face. In my hands. Her every shape. Inside her. Moisture wet and sliding. The whole image is dissolving.

Beginning to float higher still. Vision gradually clears as if opening my eyes in a pool at night. High above the room, I see my body below. The fireplace claws up walls that never seem to reach a ceiling. Tapestries and giant pillars overlook my moribund form before the fire. Overlooking me with sinister judgment. My body still awash in blood. Nude.

She sits atop my hips. Rocking. Gray firelight glistens off her lily skin. She's groaning. Panting. Primal. Animal grunts of carnality.

My body echoes her pleasure. Her deep-throated sounds... Or are the echoes from my fleeing soul?

Arching her back, she looks up. Straight into the abyss of the roofless chamber. Straight into my eyes.

Heavens wind sighs me into hellfire and I feed the ravenous flames. Kindling to the blaze.

∞ ∞ ∞

Seventy and seven hurricanes cleft my spirit asunder. I plummet back into the body I was wont to leave. A woosh of sound, like locking a window at the seashore, snaps over me as I open my eyes.

Again the world is color.

Again the world is anguish.

Feline, her magnificence steals my final breath. As a kitten from a child. Loveliness so divine, she is agonizing to gaze upon.

My soul meanders again. Unwillingly entering her as my body has.

And for one moment I remember a song. And everything is gone to violence. A crashing white sound. Swelling like dolphin cries under the limbo of an ebony pond. Thick, piercing and eerie. Horrifying. Dolphins being tortured. Eviscerated. Scythes of cloaked figures, disemboweling their flesh. Hanging on meathooks by their tails, thrashing in an infinite room. Their song rings silver as chimes. Droning flutes and tainted bones. Silver dolphins chained about my throat, crushing my neck.

A pale spark, my spirit is. A wick, dry in the lightning.

Sacrifice to a legendary goddess, archaic and brutal of will, I'm draining into her. My horror. My medusa. The forked tongue probing my skin. My fingers sieve the serpents. The python stings behind her lips with spider precision. Asp incisions. Under her glance, I freeze into stone. Into ice. The immaculate mother draws blood from rock once flesh.

Faintly, I'm aware of resisting her. Of fighting this scrimshawed skeleton on my thighs. Weakly shoving her like a sweated dream and slipping back over and again. My feet kick. My fingers rake the air in futile efforts to clutch God's protective hand. But the beguiling succubus simply draws harder on my blood from her serpentine wounds.

Spilling under again to a realm where pleasure and pain take on dimensions beyond my understanding. Releasing the last of those. Releasing a wave that jolts from heart to hip and spills from within her.

Hearts slow... Hers... Mine. My beating heart is dying.

A drum beats in time to my heart.

A voice chants in time to my screams.

Of both breath and blood I am being slowly crushed alive and failing to die. To feel every inch, gradually, methodically pulverized of all life under the weight of an unfathomable cruelty. And I know that it enjoys what it is doing to me. It enjoys it with all the sadism of every bestial monstrosity ever to be blessed in darkness and cursed from light.

My heart thrashes like a cardinal, mortified within the cage of my chest. Its beat leaps sporadically and haphazard, as the chaotic drumming grows louder and more defined. Desperately, my heart fights in vain to cling to the last drops of blood it holds. Finally, desert parched, it's tapped only of its final ounces of arid dread. My heart crumbles into dust and ash.

Fireheat crackles. Kindling snaps in the blaze. Like the wounds in my skin. Like a dolphin charm around a throat.

The fire dances and animates my screams. Chanting and strange music. Smoke and the eerie melody of didgeridoos.

This is my death.

My soul frolics around the precipice of my grave.

Images churn in the fire. Images beat flashstrobe to the drums. Drums awakening animal desires. To kill that which wishes to live. To mate with those who wish it not. Lust. Blood.

Bloodlust. The rhythm. Beating. To dying hearts. To bucking hips. The blood swells within. The flesh turned to stone. The blood is drained without.

It all beats in the drums. Drumming of tribal rituals in grandiose palaces beyond the sea. Disturbing the minds of civilized royalty. Yet the disturbed becomes exhilarating. Those civilized men and women would dream of those primal passions at night. Haunted by memories. Ever verboten, by the repressions of their culture, to admit their dreams to even themselves. This is what the music stirs. The music of blood coursing out of every vein into oblivion. That croons and hums. Blood turns bow. Vein turns string. And scared, their dirge plays. The music conjures these. Summoning gods and devils. Calling fire and wind. Beckoning the Boatman and chariots to damnation. An homage to rain and warriors. Volcanoes and storms. Drums that praised dark, dark secret things. Things that happened nowhere but in the murkiest forests and the desires of man.

I am in those forests where happen dark, dark secret things. Where falls my blood springs a glade of soot roses and brambles.

Into the precipice I tumble, blanketed in the black mantle of my graven tomb. Quietly from above she speaks.

I am looking down on my body through her eyes.

With apple spices her voice bids unto me.

“Drink, my changeling son.”

∞ ∞ ∞

Blood from her wrist is an ichor of fly agaric, rowanberries and wild thyme. As the blood rains to my lips, it is icy as Christmas snow. Vast as an ocean in a crystal ball. Tempered in blood-driven fire, her venom etches my very bones with ghoulish visions.

Seeing my reflection in her eyes, I drown in a mirror.

My voice cries out screams as I tear her wrist from my mouth. But my screams are unnatural. Inhuman as Japanimation. Piercing as an army of swords striking enemies of granite.

Their song rings silver as chimes.

I throw the woman off me. Slamming her to the stone floor.

What is she doing to me?

Still I shriek, my voice changing pitch and octaves. Still with the sound of legions of clashing steel.

Her head smacks down by the fireplace. Hair sprawls in an evocative, tangled frame around her face. Not the slightest pain or fear in her eyes. Brutally, I growl, cracking her skull onto the floor with both my hands. Trying to hurt her. To make her cry and hear her scream. A light far within me pleads me to stop. But it is only a pale spark. A wick, dry in the lightning that snuffs in an ebony pond. Eyes close in a pool at night.

She's laughing as I bore into her neck.

Blood splashes into the back of my throat. A salty, honeydew spring on my tongue. And with that flow swims unblessed apparitions. Imploding flashbulbs again are my eyes. Followed by the low, whining fizz of molten glass chilling in summer air.

FLASH

- I am in those forests where happen dark, dark, secret things -

From dust, my heart pulses to life once more. Music still plays. Drums beat louder than ever. So fierce their sound, I feel my own flesh stripped away. Stretched for the drumskins.

Images flicker with greater luminescence in the fire. Painful twinges of light. Bright, as my eyeslids are scorched with all I see. Their chanting surges through my ears harder than the blood. Magic far darker than voodoo black.

Painted in regal majesty, adorned in stone, feather, and bone, the dancers frenzy around the teepee of flames. Withered men smoke pipes. In them are the ashes of my heart. Muscled as gods, men beat on drums covered in my skin. A thousand throats sing lamentations sung only by my dying spirit.

With them I dance. With them I sing. Pulling away from the pole of the sun on skewers of bone. Seeking rebirth as my chest rips.

People I have never known celebrate my return. I am their son. Brother. Holy chief. I am the raven and the crow. Of Paha Sapa, I am shadow. I am now manitou.

I am Windigo.

Tribal elders speak in strange tongues, yet I understand their words. Sitting at their fire, we share the pipe. My heart burns. Visions come in the vapors. Visions and voices speaking to me and no one. Appear to everyone and oneself. Slow, rich accents. Speech thick like deep Dakota snow.

“Soon, the white package will arrive... plundering ravagers... of the land... and the beasts. They will kill, for their own demented pleasure. They will destroy the sky and... the sea.” An elder motions up and across the air. “Our people... will be obliterated and oppression will chain the survivors... on barren wastes.” Dust is cast into the fire.

“As moons... pass on... the white evil, will bring forth... the black skinned to be sold... and traded... and worked, like cattle. White treaties, with our people will all be broken by the white men and then... they will... be furious when their Communists do likewise to them. Their collared priests, will Inquisition our spirits... and Crusade their God into... our hides. White medicine men will plague their own people... with an incurable deficiency syndrome... to kill undesirable members of their tribes.”

“During their War To End All Wars, they will imprison innocent, yellow men because of their race... and color. They will condemn German death camps, after the hypocrites, created... their own. The white men will attack... an evil called Hitler... for his Final Solution, of exterminating a race - and the white hypocrites will ignore what they did... to our people. Their... Mount Rushmore... will desecrate holy lands with impiety equal... to Hitler being hewn into a Mount called Sinai.” The old man stares momentarily before continuing.

“When the white men bear young... they will send them off to jungles and deserts halfway, around the world... to kill brothers they have never met, and die... for reasons... that no one can explain. The evil... of the white man will pollute the sky with winds that kill and they will rip out... the very lungs of Mother Earth. Holes will be torn in her clouds. Her seas will vomit back the wastes and poisons that were fed to them for centuries. They will invent more weapons to kill each other all the easier.”

The elder stands. “In the end, they will call our land “America,” the land of the free... home... of the brave.” He taps a wrinkled finger to the side of his brow. “They will forget that the only time the land was free and home... to braves was the time before their white evil arrived. America will not be... the nation that the white men lead themselves... to believe.” His hand moves to his chest. “It's foundation will be carved. . . into our souls... and into our sorrow. The American Way... it will not be based on truth... morality... freedom... bravery or justice. It will be built on lies... oppression... cowardice... hypocrisy, and the blood of our people.” Finished with a gesture to himself and me.

“Take AIM against them.”

Life renewed, I fall to wounded knees. In the sand creek. Driven on a trail of tears. Bridal-soft comfort, my killing succubus hoists me to my feet. Swimming then gone. Fire blares. Drums thunder. Chanting reaches stars and swats them from the sky.

Windigo howl.

The circle does not end. It stretches forever across the land. Of a million dead warriors...

The ghosts dance.

In four hundred years...

Wovoka had spoken true.

FLASH

- Where falls my blood springs a glade of soot roses and brambles -

Crucified.

Pilate's hands are washed in my blood. Barabbas tramples free over my carcass.

Carrying the Passion down dark, back alleys. Stumbling in oily puddles and gasoline. My ankle burns when it twists in a gravel-rimmed pothole. Crowds jeer and taunt me. Standing along the road. Laughing from rusty brick warehouses. Throwing stones and words that are even harder. Cruel words alone can make my sweat bleed. Smash the strength of my heart.

“Why don't you save yourself!?”

“He calls himself a king!?”

“Fucking faggot geek!”

“Blasphemer! Heretic!”

“Long hair freak!”

“Crucify him!”

Every step makes me fall. Feet pummel me on the road. Ash clubs assail my wretchedness. The wreath of thorns slips down to my neck. Ripping eyelids. Tearing cheeks. Slicing ears. Constricting. Chewing into my throat. Thirsty, dry thorns whet in my veins.

Not a kind Simon to lift my cross. Not a kind Veronica to wipe my brow. Not for them... Not for them shall I die. Let not this cup pass me by. Forgive them not, for they know what they do.

Faces of friends scoff in the gantlet. Rocks from their hands hit the hardest. Spit from their lips burns the most. Their fists leave the darkest bruises. They're in white shirts with big black letters on them: LIFE. When I stumble again, I see my chest. A black, tattered shirt with big white letters: DEATH. Lots would not be cast.

My nostrils fill with my own miasma. Inside my eyes gurgle cochineal colors. Worms and weevils skitter through my arteries. Bits of flesh peel from bone and flop to the asphalt in a squish. Sizzling like dry-ice in the puddles.

To Golgotha I climb. Tree upon my shoulders. Carvings of hell withon my bones.

- And in those days, men will seek death and will not find it; and they will long to die and death will flee from them -

Nailed to an elder tree. Intertwined between a blackthorn pair. But the blackthorns stand bare and the thieves are not to be found condemned by my side...

Left to die... And I find that the Divine did not forsake me.

The Virgin Mother rapes Her Son of the Precious Blood.

The tapestry of my life tears with my eyes. The Great Curtain shears in twain with thunder in mourning.

She is the God to hear my cries. To heed my prayers in the Garden.

She is my Salvation. With Body and Blood have I her to worship. The Blood of the Lamb. This is the Rapture. Stigmata to open my veins. She is Eve and she is Eden.

Impaled to the Great Tree of Woe. Crucified. At the Center of the Garden of Life. She is the Serpent upon my branches. The Fruit upon my limbs. I bloom in her warmth. Her dark soil.

She is Temptation.

The Forsaken Son will rise from the Dead, but refuse to ascend. And then will I forsake god, so that he may call Me, “Lord and Master.” And behold - will there be a great trembling in heaven and the Dead shall wail, smiling, and the skies shall bleed white with molten cracks in the firmament and both angel and devil shall fear to speak My name.

We are One in the Same. To One Another, We are the Fruit of the Vine. I to Her. She to Me. As I am covered by Her, so Her too I fill.

- He also shall drink of the wine of the wrath of god... and He shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the sight of the holy angels and in the sight of the lamb. And the smoke of Their torments goes up forever and ever... They Who have worshipped the Beast and Its image and Anyone Who receives the mark of Its name -

And with the Dead shall I remain... Now... And forever... Amen.

FLASH

- Skylight glass plinks on the marble floors and splashes in punchbowls and drinks -

A hundred shattered wineglasses are My holy grail.

This is My body.

This is My blood.

The blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for You and for All so that sins may be... Do this in memory of Me.

White lace is My shroud, burned with My likeness.

Lucifer cries tears of blood and wine. Jehovah laughs the thundering knell of bluebell rain.

FLASH

And the heavens know no remorse.

FLASH

And quiet is all.

FLASH

And still is all

FLASH

And still is all in a hush in the eye of the tempests.

FLASH

... Peacefulness in breezes mends the storm-mangled sky. A mighty window covers a wall, large as a theater screen with an arched top and rivulets of lead between the tiny panes. Outside, I see the wind blow amongst the treetops. For three days We seem to lay in Embrace. Three days... And never do angels drag away the stone to unseal My tomb... Never...

She speaks to Me, and the lull of Her voice tickles My ear. Words I do not comprehend... But I know that they mean... I am home.

“Bienvenv, Enfant de Famille.”

Chapter Nineteen

Helle was sitting on the floor in her living room. The lights were out... And she was home all alone.

A tape of Cure videos cast eerily, glowing splashes of illumination across the room. Light and shadow to match the songs.

- all the faces, all the voices blur -

Her hands gingerly clutched a mug of hot tea, spiked with vodka. She sipped and set down her drink. Wearing dark leotards and an oversized, machine gray sweater, she practically blended into the room; her body threatening to become as lost in the grimness as her mind. Music and mood clouded the house in unseen mists. The air smelled like sadness.

- dreams a wall around herself -

Her bottom lip shivered violently. A hand coated her black hair. Stopped and clutched a handful as her eyes shut. Helle's sobbing came on hard and without warning. She hunched over and blinked. Once. Tightly. Clenched jaw. Quick, hiccuped gulps of air before she sat back up. Forcing back the tears with a deep, spittle-sounding breath, she wiped her eyes with the heel of her palms. Her mouth still quivered. Eyes still dazed. Motionless, she stared at the video for awhile, but I doubt she was really watching anything.

Her breathing was difficult. Calculated. Like each breath was pained and near to her last.

Poor, lost siren.

Depression terrifically coated every room. Filling them and splashing into every recess. Everything seemed to be coloured sea-gray and sorrow. As a shadowy jest of whispered secrets in a lightless reflection, I stood not inches away. During the past weeks, I had become quite fond of her. Of My evenings spent with this Pawn. Delighted in watching her saunter through the sullen atmosphere she created. Cherished her delicate movements. So many sights and sounds. The lash of her heather-petal eyes.

- her eyes so opened to the dark -

Even the sound of her shuffling from carpet to linoleum. That tick-tick-tick as her bare feet stepped across the kitchen floor. Taste of tears, saved on a pillowcase. The arc of a cheek. The locked curve of a wrist... The soft swish of the leather pointer sliding over the letters every night.

- night after night she lay alone in bed -

Tear-saturated, her expressionless face. She slid a diary and pen off the coffee table. She sniffled and uncapped the pen. She did it with the slowest melancholy. As if it were something dangerous. Something that intimidated her and was best handled gently. The glue on the spine of the diary crackled as she eased it open to a blank page. Slightly squinting to see with the mournfully dim, television light, she began to write.

- light seems bright and glares on white walls -

∞ ∞ ∞

My worthless fucking mother was insulting dad again. Bitch! I hate her so much. How dare she! And what-the-fuck did dad ever see in that wench anyway? What the hell has she ever done with her life!? Dumb, old vicious bitch! She's gone again, with Jim. And I'm not allowed to leave. Or as the stepfellator put it, “No gallivanting for you young lady.” ... Gallivanting?

Shit! I fucking hate them! Hate! Hate! Hate! I hate them because they don't love me. I hate them because I can't talk to them. I hate them because they give me only food, clothing, and a roof. I don't want them. I need them. I need them for that, nothing more. And I hate having to rely on that. When they die, I won't care. I've already thought of that. I have many a time. And do you know what I will miss? Do you know what I fear? Money. Not “Who can I talk to?” or “Who can protect me?” or “Who will take care of me?” I'll wonder, “Who will pay the bills?” That, sadly, is cold. It isn't love.

They just sustain me in my bodily existence. That's not love or concern or care. It's a vegetable garden. This house is a dead vegetable garden with a single butterfly too dependent on her cocoon to fly away. If I could, I would leave... never to return... ever.

Sometimes, I think I'll never get out of this fucking house. Like when I turn 18, they'll still keep me here somehow. Or else Fate will keep me here. With my luck, every college and apartment in the country will burn down the day before my 18th birthday. Wouldn't surprise me one bit.

Sandra is supposed to sneak me out to Aege Merwin tonight. But, I'm not in a clubbing mood. I hardly feel like going anymore. It seems the millionth, lazy, slothful weekend in a row. The endurance of time. What more do I do?

... Recalling times long gone. Misty memories that flutter in the peripheral vision of my mind like butterflies. Fictional memories... of elegance... Of Love.

... Dreary. Oh, how dreamily. “I think I'm old and I'm feeling pain. And it's so cold, like the cold if you were dead.” ... And this lass is... for all intensive purposes. I am. Dead. Ashes... Oh, to be a phoenix. Only that... to be...

Does the pain stop if you cry?... Does it stop if you hate?... And if you feel nothing, why wake up at all?

... I do not like what I've become. I do not like my inability to do that which I most need to do: trust and love.

I trust no one. Love terrifies me.

... Ha... How silly of me! Oh, sap. To think him to be... to consider it.

Vanity. Futility. I have learned. He is not the one. He will kill me, like so many others.

No one has ever cared. No one shall ever. Look very closely. See the signs. Some things never change. Did I expect things to with him? Oh, why? Naivete. Oh, foolishness. No one will ever change to love me. I am at fault. I am nothing. I am unloveable. Otherwise, he would not have hesitated. No one has ever needed time to accept me - only to reject me.

Foolishness. What a fall to set up for!... Wanting. Hoping. Expecting... . oh, even beginning to believe! I should have learned. As I have...

No one who loves you will ever hide their love... No one has ever loved me. No one shall. Ever. I am nothing. Unloveable...

... Does the pain stop if I cry?...

... No... No. I doubt even if I die.

Loneliness. Insecurity. Loneliness. Pain... and pain. Oh, consuming. Glorious. Heart-wrenching... Drown.

There is no way out. No ending. Not a thousand deaths. Not a million tears.

I have discovered my infinity. Eternity. Circles of Life - Insecure, Lonely, Pain.

Forevermore.

No. The pain does not stop if I cry.

The Pain Does Not Stop... Ever.

Fate continues to drag me by the heart through the Thorny Gardens of Hope. Cutting my flesh. Slowly, mercilessly tearing me apart, piece by bloody piece with false promises and illusionary hopes. Wisdom would resign me to Lonely Despair, but Fate is often stronger than Wisdom... And Hope, well, that unforgiving, forgetful imp is the worst of all. Oh, how his thorns do cut...

I am alone. I am dying of loneliness. That literal truth is all that matters now. And how pitiful I am. What a joke I've been. As is my entire life. I'm a selfish coward who thinks only of herself and fears losing anything that even hints at potential happiness. I am a fool. Nothing. Being who and what I am has gotten me nowhere... and I don't think that'll ever change.

Perhaps such wisdom is good. Perhaps it is better to realize and accept such a truth than it is to cling to the Thorns In The Garden.

Nevertheless, I do hurt. And, my love, whoever you are, I miss you. I hope that my dwindling belief in your existence will one day be vanquished. Your princess is dying, my knight. Save me from myself. Please. On bended knee with tear-filled eyes and a golden heart that's painfully turning to stone, I beg you. I need to be rescued from this world of hate and cruelty. This world which values the most worthless of things: nations, flags, religions, politics, hair, clothes, skin color, sexual preference. I need one who knows the value of things which truly matter. Of kindness and compassion. Of patience and respect. I need you. I need your friendship, your companionship. I need your life, vitality, passion, wit, wisdom, intellect, loyalty, honor, trustworthiness, your beauty... your love.

... But, perhaps... it's too late. For such words and thoughts no longer inspire me. Now, they are “just words.” Words without meaning. Hopes and dreams that are ever for naught... Perhaps the gold is already stone... Oh, why don't I feel anymore? Why is it just Pain! Why live? Why die? Why ask? Why care?

No longer am I dragged through the Garden. Now, I simply lie in the Thorns - a sleep resigned to Death. I have given up years of longing, to Nothing... Years.

I've come to the point where I can never go back to be happy about the things which used to make me happy.

Sleep. Ah, that Little Slice of Death. No wonder it's the Time We Dream. It's been a long life. A Little Slice of Sleep should end it quite well... Then, it'll stop hurting for awhile. It'll stop. Oh, stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop...

... Oh, how his thorns do cut...

Excruciating physical pain prevents me from falling back under the blessings of sleep. Pain caused by abandonment. The Pain has been intense enough lately. I'd forgotten how Lonely Despair can make you physically ill. I'd forgotten that it can drive you to dry-heave over a toilet. That the Pain can feel like literal knives in your heart and stomach... And I could've easily done without a reminder. The Pit still awaits my soul.

For a few days, I guess I'd forgotten just how much I could cry. And the salt of those tears utterly scorches those wound that Time can never seem to heal.

Time heals all wounds?... Oh, does it? I feel the weight of centuries upon me - an “old soul“ - and the wounds burn fresh.

... Time heals all wounds? No. Sometimes, it just makes new ones and festers the old wounds with reminders of failure. Sometimes, the more time that passes, the more we hurt.

Time opens all wounds... indeed. Time opens all wound with the salt of tears. But right now, I think I'm far too cold and abandoned and lonely to feel much of anything. My heart aches, and my spirit shivers in Darkness as the Flame of Hope flickers... and dwindles slowly away...

∞ ∞ ∞

From her My attentions briefly drifted.

Television pictures reflected in the sliding doors that lead to the patio deck. Bright as creepy, slinking holograms upon the glass.

Now and then, a moments time was well spent, upon watching the nightmare shapes. Beyond the doors glass. In blackened trees. And dark rooftops. When the trains of thought scream sparks and ride cold rails of shivering spines. Seeing from whence come the trooping nights.

- on that bleak track (see the sun is gone again) -

Like a hundred thousand moments before and since... One where I felt a heavy weight, of absolute... nothingness...

∞ ∞ ∞

For the first time, I'm starting to accept loneliness. Not with a self-pity attitude like I always used in the past. But with a blunt and simple, matter-of-fact view. Maybe I should just come to terms with the idea that I'll always be alone.

Better to give up my fantasy and feel pain for years than to keep the fantasy and writhe for a lifetime. I will not think. I will not feel.

... It's not going to be easy. But I can't go on without having to accept that I can't find him or I always suspect the wrong guy. I psyche myself up all the time. I set myself up for the inevitable fall. I can't fail for 16 years without a destiny predetermining my loneliness. It's unalterable. I am meant to be alone. Forever. Eternally. I must accept and live with this fact.

And so it must end. Don the mask. No more false hopes. No more fancifully vain wishes. No more foolish dreams.

How could I have been so naive? Love is nothing useful. It is not good. It's destructive. Suffocation. Jealousy. Oppression. A total obliteration of respect and freedom. Trust turned suspicion.

Love has ruined a thousand, billion relationships. And I complain of being unloved? Ha! I should rejoice! I've been spared. Being unloved is a blessing!

Oh, how foolish I was. Love is nothing other than destructive pain and possessive, suffocating, jealous oppression in careful disguise. After all, if so many people who claim to believe in love really believe, then why don't couples stay together anymore? Everyone splits apart!

After all, is anyone truly prepared or willing to even attempt the prospect wholeheartedly and truthfully of spending forever in an exclusively committed relationship romantically with one other person? With so many women out there for the men and vice versa? Who can truly expect devotion!? An exclusively eternal devotion!? What a ludicrous notion! Certainly I could never expect another to grant such a loyalty to me. Am I worthy? Do I (or does anyone) have the right to even consider asking for such a promise?... Especially to me!

I have nothing to offer or give to anyone that they could not find a dozen times better in somebody else. I have no skills or talents. I don't have very much of anything of worth, except perhaps for a good ton or two of bullshit. Yes, tons of that.

And I searched for love. For devotion. Loyalty. Commitment. Romance.

Ha! In exchange for what? A ton of bullshit? Some trade. And I wondered why I was always abandoned... Why a guy has never considered me his “best friend?” How could I be?... Why would anyone think that? Why would anyone think that of me? How could a suicidal depressive ever be somebody's “best friend?” I can't be expected to ever be stomached for too very long. I'm a lonely, gloomy, depressed, suicidal, cynical, arrogant failure who revels in wallowing in pain and megatons of self-pity. In all my years, I have never achieved or succeeded at anything which bears any significance. My life has always been and ever shall be a stagnated void, devoid of meaning and achievement forever. Whenever I'm determined to achieve something, I always fail. No matter how minor or simple my goals or aspirations. And days go by... wasted. And everynight I vow “tomorrow will be different.” But it never is. And it lasts for weeks, upon weeks... upon weeks. Breaking promises. Achieving nothing.

My very existence is unimportant and without any truly real meaning or significance. Yes, my very existence itself - pointless. What can I do? What might I strive to achieve in my life? What can I learn that will make any difference to anyone or have any bearing on anything?

... Yes, love is pain carefully disguised. Every step I take is one closer to death. And life is simply a series of meaningless events en route to the grave.

... Did you ever look into the mirror and find yourself staring into the eyes of a dark madness?...

∞ ∞ ∞

The honk of a carhorn finally stopped her chronic writing. Disappointing. The pit she dug only grew deeper with each passing sentence. Something amiable in that. She looked up in an utter daze which must've lasted a tenth of a second.

- she hopes to open shadowed eyes on a different world -

When she finally snapped out of it, the pen was capped, the diary shut, and she went toward the front door.

She turned and I shivered as she passed through Me. Spirits crossed. Slightly startled, she smiled a tiny sigh and glanced briefly back at the empty space where I stood.

Could her hurting spirit only see all the charm she possessed.

- come to Me, scared princess -

Staring outside again, I waited for her to return to our dour cove.

It was a Saturday evening. All Hallows Eve was just slightly over a week away. The crow twilight had, hours past, consumed the night sky. Cold, October winds sliced the leaves off the trees and dripped away their green. Dark, decayed faerie flags. Banal banners tumble under conquest of autumn. Trees their castles, soon to fall beneath siege of snow once more. Trembling at the anticipation.

I was at Helle's alone that night.

Camillia and Allyson had been in New York City for days. I elected to stay behind. Allyson was on a shoot in the City through David & Lee. Camillia went along only because She hadn't been to New York in weeks. They were planning to be home late that night. Allyson was modeling an old Kenneth Richards rerelease of a Fall Collection which was inspired by the works of Edgar Allan Poe. Breathtaking clothes. Camillia had bought advanced orders of the entire collection when it was first released. Allyson showed it back then too.

There was a time when Allyson modeled a lot. Landed a five year contract with Taxi on Her first go-see ever. Long ago, She even had a contract with Calvin Klein. She stopped completely for awhile, but She's gradually getting back into it. Mainly, She quit because She got pissed off a great many years earlier, when She got cut from the final edit of George Michael's “Freedom” video. Allyson even originated the idea for the pinprick/blood-sharing scene between Linda and Christy... Brilliant. But they still cut Her footage. When they had scorned Her like that, She told the whole industry to go fuck itself. Luckily for those She worked with, She fell into one of Her states of depression instead of rage.

She went back eventually though. Couldn't stay away from the lure of eternal beauty and youth. The lure of an industry that will drain all life from the venules of its prey. For those and other reasons, She returned... something to do with the seemly quality of pinpricks and... sharing.

Beyond walls of My mansion, I therefore had to roam, especially when it lacked the company of my constant companions. Those old walls grew confining and lonely for Me at times. Not like a foreboding prison so much as simply a sad place. Desolate. And it took little time apart from either of My Sisters - especially Camillia - for Me to miss Them a great deal. Without the company of both of Them, I was feeling all the more lost.

Yes, darling Helle, I know a taste of your woes. As belittling as you might find such a statement.

I needed to come visit My Pawn. My tender young doll. How blessed she was to play with. Tender, tender, so very tender.

Besides, like I said, I had developed a bit of an affinity for little Helle. So, with Cam and Ally gone, I visited Helle even more. Taking some comfort in playing cruel games with her everynight. Games which reminded Me of Allyson.

Being vicious drew Me to Them, and made them feel closer to Me somehow.

Perhaps I'd add a new twist and finally reveal Myself to Helle tonight when she and Sandra go to the nightclub, Aege Merwin. When I considered it, I didn't feel much like going to the Rainbow that night. Though, I did talk to Talya and I told Her I'd meet Her there on the off-chance I decided to go. Aege Merwin sucked for the most part. Mostly techno and bad early 80's tunes. Besides, it was a “Rear End” night (as the kid at the Lioncourt show put it) sponsored by WEND, which made it even worse than usual. Truthfully, it made it fucking unbearable. Although, all that aside, it could prove quite entertaining if Helle and Sandra went.

I laughed a little. Like a noise under a child's bed. My grin showed on the shadows of the glass like a sere leaf on a wind-tickled branch.

Blustering in from the open front door, a draft mazed through the house, ruffling plants and papers. Rippling drapes and Helle's mug of tea. Along with the chilly breeze came Helle's shouting, “Come inside!” and punk-as-shit P.J. Harvey's “Man-Size” jamming outside from the car. The cacophony burred against “All Cats Are Grey” on the television.

The front door closed.

Helle came back into the living room. She took a big gulp from her tea. Waiting. She moved a little less lethargically than she had when she left. But her eyes still reflected the sadness of a moonrise... or an empty mansion.

The doorbell rang. An impatient fist pounded.

“Shit.” Helle muttered, spinning on her heel. In one fluid move, she swept up the remote to turn off the TV and continued out the room to unlock the front door. “Hold on!”

“Whatja lock the door for!? It's freezing out here!” Carried Sandra's voice from the porch. I could hear her jumping in place and her hands rubbing her upper arms for warmth. “My tits could cut glass, I'm so cold.”

“Sorry. Force of habit.” Helle explained, neglecting to even acknowledge Sandra's joke. The door shut tight with a refrigerator-like shlook, when the magnetic seal caught.

The girls came into the living room.

Sandra was attired in her pseudo-Samantha Mathis/Pump Up The Volume look. A turtle necklace. Striped black and white stockings. Paisley vest. Black button-down dress; unbuttoned. Boots. Everything but the banshee-black hair. Sandra's was still three colors. She had on an L7 tee-shirt too; it depicted a woman shoving a guys face in her crotch with the caption: “Smell The Magic.”

“Aren't you ready yet?... Come on.”

Helle slumped in the couch. Leather upholstery snored. “I really don't feel up to going out.”

Sandra put hand to hip and creased her mouth. “Oh, come on. I know you still wanna go... Come on. Why did I drive all the way over here?”

Helle grumbled.

“Come on. It'll be cool. You'll have fun. I promise... C'mon. Shake your bootie.” Sandra wiggled her ass. “Come on. Do I have to drag you out of here?” She reached for her friends hand and began to tug. “Come ooon. Let's go. Get dressed.”

Helle closed one eye and took aim at Sandra's head. “Do you realize that the continents are moving as fast as fingernails grow, and if we sat here long enough, I would kill you, because my fingernail would grow straight into your brain?”

Sandra's brow slid down. “... Huh?”

A ringing phone gurgled upstairs.

Helle leapt to her feet. “Oh... Come on up!”

Sandra chortled in annoyance. Helle was gloating in her excuse to change the subject. Chuckling, she took three stairs at a time, running up to her room. So skilled in hiding all her pain.

Reaching over to click on her stereo, the DJ was just announcing he was about to play a half-hour set of Cranes starting with “The Puppet.” Helle skipped turning on the light.

I was already waiting on her windowsill again by the time she reached her phone. Buried under blankets and clothes on the floor, she was to it by the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

Following quickly behind, Sandra stepped into the darkened room and switched the light on in the corner. She gasped at the drapes.

She must've seen some sort of... reflection in the windowpane. She smiled, dismissing her silly paranoia. Wondering why you're so jumpy, Sandra?...

Then I too was grinning... but not kindly. A substanceless smirk on shadow. Scraping bizarre ideas of mutilation through my mind. Hurtful things ran below, echoing My thoughts on the darkling lawn.

“Fuck... you!” Helle slammed down the phone. She paused momentarily, shrieked and kicked it across the cluttered floor. “Fucker!...”

Wide-eyed, Sandra regarded her friend. Then a searing rage simmered just below her composure. Rage intermixed with understanding. Her lips puckered and contorted uneasily. “Umm... Mm, bet I know who that was. One of your great admirers?”

To answer, Helle shook her head. Repulsed. “... Bastard.”

Sandra sighed, walked to the fouton. She smoothed out the covers before she sat down. Reminded Me of a cat the way she did it. “Helle, I... uh, not to be, like, you know... like a total bitch or anything, but... Well, just, like... why did you ever... go out with him anyway?... Other than him being really cute?” A grin attempted to cushion the question.

“'Cause I was a fucking idiot!...”

Helle leaned her hands on her swivel chair and it rolled a fraction of an inch with a muffled, plastic cackle. Deeply, she sighed. “I don't know... He made me laugh I suppose.” She mused. “Did I ever tell you he called his dick Mister Probosis?” Helle laughed harder. She spun the chair and sat.

Sandra was lost. “I don't get it.”

Giggling cheeks strained into a straight face. “That's an elephant trunk.”

“Oh.” Sandra chuckled, but obviously she wasn't as amused as Helle. “How appealing.”

Helle, between snickering, stared into days past. “He was funny. He really made me laugh, even when we first met. We met in study hall.” Helle could've been talking to ghosts in the wall, judging by the look on her face. Her gaze shifted to recognize Sandra's presence. “Have I told you this before?”

Sandra shrugged, shook her head, and made a noise that sounded like, “No.”

Helle's gaze wandered again. “Mm... Well, like I said, when we first met, we were in study hall together. And we had talked, like, a few times and stuff and, finally, the one day we were talking and I asked him his name... And he tells me... and then when I told him my name, he's like: “Oh, yeah, I know. Everybody knows you.”” Helle deepened her voice.

She continued. “So, well, that kind of pissed me off, you know? I mean, like, what the hell does that mean?: Everybody knows you?... You know?” Helle looked back at Sandra, who was smirking, politely attentive. “So I asked him, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I'm like: “You think I'm a slut, don't you?” I mean, I don't know why, it's just, that's what it seemed like he meant. And I was thinking about some shit some jocks had been saying about me at the time. But he like, put his hands up and his eyes are all popping out and he starts going, “What!? Where the... heck, I... N - No. No. I didn't mean anything like that. I just mean you're really popular and everyone knows you.”” Reminiscing brought her to laughter once more.

“Popular?” Sandra asked.

“Well, you knoww, popular as in... well-known.”

“Hrmph. Notorious more like.”

“So, anyway, I let it drop and I didn't say anything else. Then, like, about thirty seconds later, he looks back at me all sly and whispers: “Why?... Are you?”“

Sandra chuckled.

“So, I laughed, and I was like, flirting back with him and I said: “Well, only on weekends.” Then he goes: “Gee, you must be pretty happy then. There's a three-day weekend coming up.”” Helle finished her story and a brief smile lit her face.

Sandra smirked too. Neither of them really laughed. The look on each of their faces seemed to agree that it wasn't so funny after all. Or perhaps it was just funnier at the time.

Helle's thumb and index finger framed her face. That long-ago-and-far-away look returned. “I don't know why I ever stayed with him though.”

“Because. You're a girl. He's a guy. His brain is between his legs - ”

“ - That's true - ”

“ - and your heart is between yours.”

Helle kicked at the air in front of Sandra's face, in half-hearted anger. “Fuck you. It is not.”

Sandra propped her hands behind her back and started grinding her hips, fucking the air. “Oh!... Oh, yes! I love him! Oh, I love him so much... Oh!... You don't screw guys you love. You just convince yourself you love them, to get laid.”

Arms folded into iron, Helle just stared at Sandra equally rigid. “Shut up.”

“Well, you're just an asshole magnet.” Sandra nodded, influencing Helle to agree with her body language.

Helle conceded. “No shit. That's true... Can you buy a demagnetizer for that, like a tape deck?” Her face warped into a snarl. “Asshole flypaper... That's what I get.” Helle sang to the chords of Nine Inch Nails.

Sandra seemed repulsed. “Eeew, asshole flypaper? That could really be painful - oh!, there's the cat?”

Rich brown and sable, a cat poked its head in the room through the partially opened door. It meowed as if asking, “I'm not interrupting, am I?”

Helle picked it up. “Come herrre. How are you?” It clawed. “Oww!... Fucking cat!” She dropped it. When it landed, it turned and stared right at Me.

“You okay?” Sandra wondered.

“Fine.” Helle inspected the puffy scratch lines on her hand.

“What's its name again?”

“I did name it Mister Roofles, but - ”

“ - Mister Roofles?” Giggled Sandra.

Helle smiled. “Yeah.”

“Where'd you get that from?”

“I just made it up.” Helle shrugged. “I thought it sounded funny. But then I changed it to Bast.”

“Ooo. Cool.” The smile Sandra made glowed with approval. “Much more fitting for you too. I mean, that sounds like the name Helle Tompkins would call her cat.”

“Yeah.”

Sandra wiggled her fingers at Bast who had been staring at Me the whole time. “C'mere, kitty. C'mere, kitty... Bast... Hey!... Cat!” Bast glanced uninterested at Sandra's hand, then turned back to the window with another meow. “Is it a boy or a - ”

“ - No. She's a girl.”

Sandra stopped trying to get its attention. “So why were you going to call her Mister Roofles?”

“'Cause, that made it even funnier.” Laughed Helle with another shrug.

Bast's fur began to stand on her neck. Then it settled down and her head cocked in confusion.

Ancient folk, not more than a hand tall, stood in rows. They lined the forlorned places where people have learned to seldom look. Their arms were crossed. Babbling frightful things that could only be understood when awakening from a nightmare.

Bast could see them.

Like a mental stand-off, gazes were locked. Powers and resolves tested. Threats made without a move or a word.

So, dear Bast, you're an arrogant rakshasa, aren't you? Typical. When I slunk into the room, all the light dimmed. Helle and Sandra silently questioned it by looking up at the ceiling fixture. In the next instant, it was forgotten and ignored. My face twisted with rage. Fucking cat. How dare she challenge us! Fuck how many lifetimes she'd known. Our presence was greater. Our wisdom more absolute. We are more ancient than you!

Bast bounded, fear-striken, out of the bedroom and I perched back on the sill.

Light brightened.

“Are you going to get ready or not?”

Helle groaned, slapping her face to her lap.

Sandra changed her inquiry. “Where did your mom go again? Some kind of - ”

“ - She went with Jim to the Everett Theater, where the Hanna used to be, to hear Robert Peters talk about some pro-censorship or banning something or other. Brainwashing kids, I don't know.” Helle's head never left her lap and she spoke in a completely sing-song monotone.

“Oh.”

Helle finally looked up again. Her hand lazily pointed. “Oh! Get this! Listen to what my fucking mom did today. Well, among other things. I was so pissed. Here, she - ”

“ - Helle... you know... there's a big spider in your corner over there.” Sandra tensed, her line of sight motioning to the wall.

Helle glanced at it with cherub calm. “... I know. I like them.”

Blinking in that split instant, I wanted to throw her on the floor and drain every innocent drop of blood she held. My lips bent in a mawkish, carnal smirk. That statement instantly put My view of Helle into an entirely different light. A blackened light. Darker perspective. Inexplicably erotic... So, the beauty likes the grim shades that most mortals do fear?... Magnificent. Monstrous shadows like malformed beasts with two backs, droned impassionately in the distant night.

Nice choice Allyson.

“Oh. Okay... So, what were you saying about your mom?”

“Well, she was watching this talkshow today - ”

“ - Can you get ready while you tell me this?”

“Just listen.”

“Uuugh!...”

“Listen.”

“Okay!”

“And, okay, this talkshow, they had these, like, really cool punker kids on it. You know, the whole hair-fuck, leathers, piercings, the makeup, the whole deal. Everything.” Helle motioned around her head.

“Any cute guys?”

Violet irises shined. “Ohhh, yeah. And my bitch, the fucking... hoebag, mom is just, like, totally ripping on them. Being, like totally rude, and I know she's doing it just to piss me off. I mean, just mocking them and laughing at every word they - Auugh!” Helle strangled the air. “She was pissing me off so much with her fucking laughing. Like, every word they said, no matter what! Not that anybody on a talkshow ever really says anything anyway. They might talk a lot, but they never say anything. But, the cool thing about these kids were that they were all straightedge too! I mean, that's why they had this talkshow on them, I guess, but - ”

“ - Well, you and I aren't exactly straightedge though... Especially on the weekends.” Sandra joked.

Ignoring the weekends comment, Helle said. “That's my point!”

“And real punker kids aren't straightedge... usually.”

“Oh, come on. How the fuck can you stereotype a punk? You gonna be like my mom? What the hell is a real punker kid anyway?”

“You know, like the whole Sid and Nancy scene.”

Helle drolled. “Well, yeaaah, but there's a huge big difference between the original, old-school English punks and the Stateside punks today... I should know. I mean, it's really different.”

“... True.” Sandra conceded in a moment.

Helle laughed. “Besides, punk kids would - there wouldn't be any punks if they were all like Sid and Nancy. They'd all be dead.”

“True.” Sandra quickly agreed this time.

“I heard poor Nancy had brain damage anyway.”

“Really!?”

“Yeah. Supposedly. I don't know.”

“Wow.” Sandra bummed.

“Yeah. Not many people know that. That's why the chick was so messed.” Helle frowned. “But, anyhow, on this talkshow today, I mean these kids were like, straightedge little goodie-goodie, straight-“A” students and stuff. Well, I don't mean they were goodie-goodies because they got good grades. But, you know what I mean. It's like, my mom could care less though. Even though they were straightedge, my mom had no respect for them just because of how they were dressed.” Her eyes looked disgusted and misty. “...My dad never cared about that shit... He was never that, like, trivial, you know? But fucking Cheryl and her friends look like totally preppie... shits; and they fucking get wasted on beer and crap; and they're all underage and they drive wasted but - oh! that's okay. But straightedge punkers are weird and they're assholes?... I don't think so. Like, screw what a kid does, but don't look different? What the fuck is that? I think my mom has some majorly fucked-up values.”

“Yeah. No shit... Cheryl's dad doesn't know she drinks, does he?”

“Nooo. Of course not. But, I mean, you can bet they'd have a royal shit-fit if they knew I drink. If they found out half the other shit I've done - oh, holy... crap, they would flip!... But I bet they'd think it was no big deal if Cheryl got caught compared to if I did.”

Sandra contributed. “I remember one time when I was little, it was like my uncles birthday or something and I was going to spend the night to see my cousins and stuff - ”

“ - Uh, huh - ”

“ - And my mom, like, gave my bottle - duh! I mean, gave my uncle this bottle of Black Velvet. And he was guzzling it like it was a fucking trough before he drove us back to his house... It's just one of those things, like looking back on it, it makes me wonder how ignorant and irresponsible my parents and my relatives can be, you know?” Sandra said in disbelief. “Of course, my moms been a drug addict and everything else since she was pregnant with my older brother.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, well, it's one of those sort of prescription drug addictions. She can keep it a big old family secret because she's normal when she's on the shit. Without it, she wigs. Frayed nerves and crap. Been on it for years. Decades.”

“Damn.”

“They're all psycho. They really are. Parents are fucking lunatics.”

“I know. My mom talked to a therapist and shit. Just once or twice. After I was locked up. Trying to “deal with me” she said. Some help group or support group or some bullshit. And they always told her “don't think”... Shit! Like, right, just the advice my ignorant mother needs.”

Sandra laughed.

Continuing, halfway in own chuckling, Helle said. “Seriously!... But I guess it is good advice for her. They're afraid if she thinks she might realize what a pathetic failure her life is when she questions anything... Fuuuck!... I hope she does... I hope she wakes up one day and really sees just how worthless and pointless her life is. What a waste it is. Her death would be a blessing to this world. A blessing. Self-centered, assinine, fanatical, weirdass motherfucker... And my mom is so fucked-up, when she was watching that show today, it's like, she's so goddamn inarticulate that she couldn't even explain why she had a problem with it. She just says shit like, “That's weird?” or “What's the point?” She's like, “You don't think that's strange? You like that?””

Sandra shook her head.

“She's fucking... clueless... Don't people like that ever... hate who they are?” Helle was costumed in numbing sadness. Drifting. “Sometimes, I think I'm the only sane person alive.”

Sandra smirked sympathetically.

Approaching the window, Helle looked out into her backyard. Perhaps she only saw her own face in the dark glass. Maybe she just drank up the night with her gaze.

But she seemed to stare right at Me.

“I'm serious... Don't you ever start to feel like that? Like the whole world is so incredibly fucked that it, like... everyone is so clueless that you're the only one who knows... You know what I mean? Like no one gets it but you. You know that you're the only one who knows what's really going on. You're the only one who can see the simple truth of it all... It all just hits you. And you realize all at once that no one can see the world quite like you do. Everyone else is just completely crazy... Everyone is in pain because everyone has been hurt or betrayed by someone, or something. They're all so mean and petty and... it's just insane... I dunno. I mean, that's the one reason why I could never have kids. Soon as a person has a kid, they're heartless scum. I don't think they can help it. It's like, the moment one becomes a parent, you've become sort of evil in a way. Like you have to be intrinsically... cruel... almost sadistic to bring a child into this fucked-up world... All parents are bad parents just for that reason alone.” Every word mourned out breathless like dust.

Quite some time passed once Sandra said. “Yeah. I think I know exactly what you mean.”

Helle turned her back on Me, again, but she obviously had difficulty in breaking away from the dark. “I don't know... How was the club last week?”

“I dunno. I didn't go to Merwin, I went to Necropolis last week. Last time I went to Merwin was... okay, I guess... I don't know. I mean, the music is alright, it's good and I like it, but... after awhile... it all starts to sound like Erasure.”

Helle laughed. “Trrue.”

“The club was so much better when it was The Loft... Oh, whatever happened to our scene?” Her intonation wasn't sarcastic. It was completely serious.

Pained, dreamy looks overcame each of them. That sorrowful look I'd seen a billion times before.

“Well, hey, it's still cool. We've got the Rainbow. And at least they're not making references to old punk shows to sell Fords anymore.” Helle drifted to the corner of the room. “... Fffuck!... goddamnit!!”

“What?”

Helle's phonechord was snapped right out of the base and the receiver had cracked open. “Shhhhit.”

“... Looks like you'll be needing a new phone there.” Frowned Sandra facetiously.

Helle smirked nastily. “Mmm, naw... Fuck it. My moms phone is exactly like mine. I'll just trade with hers.” Mocking herself, she added with a laugh, “She'll probably never notice.”

Sandra's shrug was indifferent. “Mmm, so are we going to the club already or what? Come on. I'm wasting my time here.”

“Hold oon. Just chill out. We've got plenty of time... What time is it anyway?” Helle searched out her clock.

Sandra eyed her Nightmare Before Christmas watch. “'Bout quarter past ten.”

“Shit! It's past ten” She could've meant it as a statement to her clock or a question to Sandra.

“Yeah... so?”

“I need to talk to my Spirit.”

“Your Spirit?... With... the Ouija board?”

“Yeah. Everynight at ten. I promised.” Helle fumbled with the radio. The channel changed, cutting off Cranes in midsong of “Golden.” Next instant, Helle found the power and shut it off.

Sandra nibbled on her lip. Her speech skeptically flat. “... Oh.”

For as long as it takes to draw in a breath, there was complete silence. Helle turned. Scrutinized her guest. Accusingly. Slivers for eyes. “Oh?... What is that supposed to mean?”

A shorter and more tense silence followed. Sandra's subtle remark was enough to ignite Helle. It was enough, just for that instant, for Helle to see Sandra as she never had before. Just enough to make Helle feel betrayed. Not so much what she said, as how she said it. And Sandra's hesitation only reinforced Helle's suspicions.

As a shadow, when I laughed, the wind blew.

Just as Sandra was about to answer, Helle cut her off. “You know, I thought at least you would believe me... I get enough shit from everyone at school. Cheryl and fucking jocks calling me the Little Witch!? Fucking assholes wouldn't know wicca if I shoved a broom up their ass! - ”

“ - Helle, I - ”

“ - What!?... I thought you at least believed me!”

“What are you? - I do believe - ”

“ - Then what's “Oh” supposed to fucking mean? You believed in it when Louis was over. You believed on that Sunday when Cheryl and her friends were - ”

“ - But - ”

“ - But what?”

“But... Helle, we were tripping on Sunday.”

Helle scowled. “Oh, yeah... sure! Great fucking explanation Sherlock. Is that really what you believe? Wha-? Y-You think I'm crazy and full of shit? What about when Louis was here? What about Cheryl and all them? They weren't tripping.”

Long pause. Helle: “Well!?... I'm waiting, Sandra.”

Sandra peered despairingly around the room. Her head lolling on a rubbery neck. Intently fumbling with her necklace. As if it, or the walls, would whisper words to her that could express all she was thinking. “...Well, it's just... Helle, noo, I don't think you're crazy... It's just... some of the things you've been talking about, that, you said are happening and stuff just sound kind of... weird, that's all.” She tried looking at Helle again, but it didn't work. “I mean, it's not that, I don't believe you, it's just that, it sounds, well, maybe kind of dangerous, that's all... Like you're not being careful enough. I mean, you gotta be - you just... gotta be careful with this stuff, that's all. That's all I'm saying. I do believe you.”

Recognizing Sandra's sincere concern, Helle responded more calmly. But she still remained somewhat defensive. “I'm being careful, Sandy. Give me a little credit, huh?... He's a good Spirit... Better to me than most people are.”

“I wouldn't be so sure.”

Malice returned like a cracked whip. “... Well, he's been a hell of a lot more understanding to me than you are right now!” Helle's tongue was searing and she ripped open her closet.

Each of the girls seemed on the verge of lashing with some horrible, anger-spoken phrase. The air was sparkling with it. That vicious coil, wound gut-tight. Just about to strike with cruel words that could never honestly be taken back of fully forgiven.

“Helle, have you even asked it what its name is!? Don't you - ”

Glaring over her shoulder in a crouch, Helle spat revolted laughter from the closet. Slinging muffled curses. She tugged with a gasp on something buried in clothes. “ - Look, I'm not going to get into this, okay!?... I'm really not. You're - ”

“ - But - ”

“ - No! I don't want to talk about this any more. You're not being supportive. You're not - ”

“ - I'm trying to be supportive, I - ”

Spiteful, Helle leered. “ - Yeah, well, fine. I'm through talking about it Sandy.”

Wrapping a black, lace kerchief around her hand, Helle clutched her leather Ouija board close. A selfish child with a favorite toy. Both brocade and wood summoned from her closet.

“Come on! You're just - ”

SLAM! - Helle flung her door closed and bolted downstairs. Catching her envenomed profile revealed her frustration: such an act was far too inadequate. Too feeble to display all her fury the way she wanted to.

With equal indignance, Sandra shook her head and laughed in disdain. Flipping-off the door half-heartedly, then realizing the childish futility of it.

“Fuck you.” In a hush. Then louder, she bitched at the empty room. “Fuck you!”

Knotting arms and legs, Sandra scooted back on the fouton. Pouting. Vainly staring at her lap for comfort.

Leaves trickled down the air from the willow. One caught, wet on the house, for a second, then peeled away. By the time it felt the ground, Sandra had crawled to her feet.

“Fine, let her talk to her Spirit.” She deplored, quietly as a whisper only she could hear. Wandering the room. Distracted. Spotting The House Of Dolls tape, Sandra fingered it slightly, then set it aside. A quick scan of the rest of Helle's sparse music collection made Sandra turn on the radio.

Crinkling her face at the stereo, she grumbled. “Don't know who the fuck pissed in her birthday cake. We were tripping on Sunday.”

“White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane came in a brief taste over the airwaves.

- and the ones that mother gives you don't do anything at all -

Sandra switched to WCSB. Sinead O'Connor. “Feel So Different.” Not too loud. Within seconds, Sandra was just beginning to vaguely reel to the music... And smile, ethereal, at the speakers... But the smiling came not easily.

Horrible things were grinning too. Easier than Sandra. Things I wondered if Helle would like. Grim shades a smiling. In a thousand spider corners. Smiles fanning as wide enough to split skulls. Patient as statues. With harder hearts more icy. And damp, musky rot.

More leaves shuddered through night air to the earth. Swallowed up and floating on the black jade lawn. An amorphous sea. Bubbling waves like torture horrors. Devoid of the forms of any holy creators.

Rage. Animosity. Quickened pulses. Blood and hate. Leftover in the rooms like scalding spices on the wind.

∞ ∞ ∞

Wind feathered the dreary corners of Helle's kerchief. A quailing waltz. Placed beneath her precious board. The stark, wooden patio a temple. The picnic table now an altar of divination. Covered in sullen pall. Calling homage to devil-god of endlessness time. To any thing that listens... And nothing that should... For the calling justifies inveigled answers from the tar-blackest tongue.

... And a sadistic touch...

Eyes dripped shut and her breath moved like a watery song. Rhythm was in her hands. In tender kisses blown by insidious mists. All a music. A tune familiar yet unplaceable. Song that made one smile happy with vapid terror. Too much to cry.

Somewhere between ease and pain, Helle's silent face flickered.

Emotions held in like swallowing bitter regrets. Anger and conviction seemed dissolved. Diffused. And now disheartened... Mostly... Yet still she broke the rhythmic spell. Blinking. Muttering about how she could “care less if that bitch stays.” Actually, she hoped Sandra leaves, because she “ain't going to no fucking club with her now, that's for sure.” Loathing which made her oblivious to the dew-bearing chill.

Swishing wind hissed amongst willow branches. Delicate whips, lacerating the song. Hushing to becalm the young girl. Tumbling tresses of her pearl black hair like waves in sunlonely clouds. Undulating to recapture the musical rhythms. The pace of the distant beasts. Beasts reeling...

“I'm sorry.”

Click. Everything stopped. And simultaneously echoed far off.

Sandra stepped out the sliding door and closed it timidly behind her. Shoulders cringing at the squeal. Bast shuffled her head out of the shrinking doorway. Meowed at the glass with perk ears.

Helle didn't even look back. Her amethyst eyes delicately clenched shut again. Repositioning herself, she smiled, “It's okay... I'm sorry too.”

Willow branches hissed in the breeze like fork-tongued serpents. From there I watched.

Sandra laughed a little. Not disrespectfully. Just enough to ease the tension. “Huh - I, uh... I couldn't believe how fast you jumped down my throat back there. I - I mean, I know I deserved it. I... well, it was just kind of - I was just kind of thoughtles - ”

“ - It's okay... Sit.” Helle motioned to the other side of the table. Still with her back to Sandra.

Sandra relaxed, walking around the table. The first instant she relaxed since angering Helle. Yet one look at Helle caused Sandra's apprehension to trickle back. One drop or two of unease. Although she didn't become as defensive as I might have imagined... She must've known better. “I-I'm sorry... You really freaked out on me.” Forcing herself to laugh. Her breath steamed in the cold.

Sandra's eyes practically begged Helle to laugh with her.

Helle did. Laughter that simmered white and mean.

All the hate still hung thick in the simmering white of the patio spotlight. Helle's face showed that she knew full-well the odium was there... Yet she would deny it if Sandra spoke of it a word.

Sandra looked around the dark yard. As if searching out a magic, invisible warmth. Again rubbing her upper arms. And she refrained from complaining about the cold.

“It's okay, Sandy... Here...” Helle slid the wind-waltzing kerchief out from under the Ouija board. She held it out toward Sandra.

“... What?”

“Tie it around - blindfold me with it.” Helle made a circular motion around her head. Fog on her breath made it appear she was necromancing a horrible spell.

“Why?” Sandra puzzled, taking hold of the delicate cloth.

Deep, flat monotone. “So you'll believe me.”

“Oh, come on, Helle. I - ”

Helle stared. Eyes flaring cobras. Demonic loathing, coated like candy, with the phony grin of a drama masque. Undoubtedly chilling Sandra more than the air. Bast ran back and forth, pawing at the door panes.

“How will you know what it says then?”

“Read it to me.”

Pause before nodding. Shrugging off her apprehension, Sandra blindfolded Helle. A lissome innuendo to Me. Conjuring fantasies of sapphism and bondage. Sandra was folding the cloth over and again upon itself. Assuring, delicate as the mesh was, that no light could get through.

As added assurance, Helle leaned her head back so her blinded eyes were facing the spotlight above. Facing Me in the weeping willow, which unmistakably was reaching for her. “Sit back down... And put your hands on it with me.”

Sandra complied.

Our ritual. Our routine. As infinite hearts of blood have called on discarnate darkness, countless times past. To summon beasts and hunts wild. From the bleak tree, I awaited my turn to speak. The hooded Pan, dangling on twigs that would snap under a sparrows grasp. Few sinister hands tickled then. Razor willow leaves, bleeding on the breeze. Faintly, the stereo in Helle's bedroom continued to play. The bedroom light continued to burn.

Helle's fingertips hovered on the pointer. Lips mimed in silence and up to a teddybear whisper: “There is something here... that I can feel in the dark... Where are You, my Spirit?... Speak to me... I call upon You... Speak to me... I call upon You...” Helle repeated over and over. Trance-like. Quieter and weaker like whispering a mantra. Relaxed as rhythmic breath before falling to sleep.

Then...

Gently, a knowing smile parted her burgundy lips. Whether she sensed Me there, or simply allowed herself to imagine My presence, I wasn't sure.

“Hello, my Spirit.”

Astonished, Sandra's hands sprang away from the floating pointer.

“... Helle.” Slowly, Sandra quizzically panned at Helle. Mesmerized and terrified. “You've got - ... Come on. You can see out that. Y-You... There's no way it can move that fas - ”

“ - Shhhh!... It's here... Put your hands back. What did it say?”

“It... s-said, uh, HELLO.”

Strange that pond of patio light. Making the lawn look like a stucco ceiling. And the mortal girls became statues of antiquity under anachronistic museum lights. Their breath even more visible in the cold as it swelled through the beams. The ends of Helle's blindfold panted in the air like Cerberus tongues.

Surreal were those girls, seeing them from above in that tree. Me the puppeteer. They the marionettes. Their emotions the strings I controlled them by.

And for all the awe and skepticism in Sandra's voice, some primal shudder in her tone proved her belief. Eyes flickered sour apprehension. And fear. “Hssss - jeez, my hand is tingling again.” She sighed her thoughts, squeamishly dabbing the pointer. “... You still never found out Its name.”

“Be quiet!” Chided Helle. Almost growling through clenched teeth. “... How are You tonight?”

Sandra seemed to be trying to catch her breath. As I tugged the pointer by Helle's heartstrings, Sandra stammered, “Uh... F-F,I,N,E... H,O,W A,R,E Y,O,U?”

Dark winds of enticement just then fluttered across Sandra's heart... With My every breath. Dripping it ashen. Attempting to snuff its flame. And discolored it nefarious. To inveigle her to the curiosity of slithering, undefinable shapes. Shapes the texture of loathing. Convoluted beyond places she could not see. Frightened as a faun of her own reflection in a dark, November stream... But eventually, she would succumb. Eventually, fascination stirred the streams murky sediment and she watched the darkness billow...

And suddenly, like wind-fondled candles, a grin sequacious quivered across her mouth.

Upstairs within the house, the stereo switched from Sinead to Suicidal Tendencies. First album.

“Kinda shitty.” The blindfolded Helle said up to the willow.

Sandra snickered My response. “YOU SMELL FINE TO ME.”

A dog barked in the distance. Even with her eyes covered, I could see Helle's brow crinkle. She giggled like an infant in pain. “That's not what I mean.”

“SO, WHAT'S WRONG?”

Lips grimaced. “My mom... As usual.”

“... WHY DO YOU PUT UP WITH HER?”

Helle paused momentarily. Silent in thoughts behind the erotic blind. “Well... because... Last time I told her off I got shipped to the looney bin... Because she said she couldn't handle me.” Her cheek trembled, as if the memory made her cry so often in the past that she couldn't cry over it anymore. “... Lots of fucking good that did me.”

The pointer kept still.

“Damn, it's... cold out here.” Sandra finally mumbled. Doubtful Helle heard.

The pointer remained unmoving.

“... Spirit?... Are You still here?”

Oh, yes precious Helle. Leaping down from the tree, fast as a falling dream, I landed next to them. Darkening the shadows in liquefied sin by a shade or two. Standing patiently upon the darkness between slats of the patio deck. The cruel likeness of My hand rested in shadows cast on the pointer by Helle's fingers. Needle talons of spindly silhouettes.

- Did she realize... continents... moving... fast as... and if I sat here long enough I would kill her, because my nails would gore straight into her soul -

“YES, BUT I CAN NOT BE YOUR SPIRIT.”

“Why not?” Helle hissed, a little hurt.

“BECAUSE YOU ARE A GIRL AND I AM A BOY.”

“You silly ass.” Helle's eyes surely widened under the lace, playfully joking along.

Sandra apparently missed what we were referring to.

“Seriously though. I wanted to ask - Sandra wants to go out tonight... Is it safe to go?”

“YES.”

“... You're sure?”

I spelled it out letter-by-letter this time: “YES.”

“Oh...” Helle sounded almost disappointed. Looking for an excuse to avoid Sandra perhaps. Still capping her fermenting anger.

“What is it?” Sandra questioned of her own accord.

Jaw clenched, Helle sighed and squirmed on the bench. Dragon-like mist vented from her nostrils. “I don't know. Just have a bad feeling about tonight. Like I'll get in big trouble or - ... I think maybe I'm jus - hmm, I dunno, just too upset at my mom. Some shit she said earlier... She's such a - ” Helle's nose crumpled, as she looked for the right word. Finally, she just said, “ - fucking... bitch.”

“YES.”

Startled by the pointers movement, they each laughed. Sandra agreed, chuckling. “See! Your Spirit's got that right... Even I get pissed off too, the way they treat you. Obviously. Of course I would. Fucking bullshit. Paying rent at sixteen and shit?... What the fuck? Your stepdad, th - hmm, Jim should just be... fucking... shot!”

“YES.” Driving the pointer so fast, Sandra almost forgot to translate for Helle.

Detest like arctic breath. “Yeah! Right through his fucking greaseball mouth, damn his eyes! Brains all over the bastards precious pool table... Er, maybe all over Cheryl on her prom night! Gooey brains on her bangs!”

“YES... The Center Bullet.” Sandra sang like Edward Ka-Spel.

Sardonically laughing, Helle finally lowered her head. “I haaate them.”

“YES.”

Helle snarled at Sandra across the table. “I should never even listen to another, single fucking thing she tells me!”

“NO!”

Volume rose on Helle's stereo by My shadowed will.

“They don't love me!... They don't even know me!”

“NO!”

“They treat me like shit!”

“YES!”

Bast hissed inside the house. Claws bared.

“And my room, it sucks. The one place I had that was my own... They made it look like a fluff's!”

The bass from Helle's room throbbed.

“YES!”

“The hell with them! It's my life! I shouldn't let them run it!”

“NO!”

Arms swung back and forth at blurring speed to keep up with Me.

“I never want to hear her say my name again!”

“NO!”

“I want to be me again!”

Suicidal Tendencies reverberated through Helle's trembling windowpane.

“YES!”

“Should I keep taking their shit!?”

“NO!... NO!... NO!”

“Fuck them!”

“YES! YES! YES!”

Manes ripped the pointer from their hands, slightly shrouded in the fog of their icy breath. Flinging the pointer in concentric circles upon the board. Beads of blood soaked into and dribbled across the leather.

Helle's blood like spittle.

Spiraling away from the pinpoints where her fingertips had been. Some dotted the picnic table, resembling a black rituals candle wax.

Sandra beamed. Excited by the blood rather than horrified. She shouted, bearing her teeth. “YEEEAH!”

“YEAH!” Helle tore off the whispy blindfold like a filthy cobweb. Leftover blood from her fingertips, smeared faintly across her face. “Fuck this!”

No longer were they human for the wilderness on their faerie faces. For they flowed with the fury of a thousand beastly forests. Breath of steaming ice. Venules in their eyes laced with blood, like stone speartips after a kill. Enthralling primitive and enchanted stygian.

Throwing open the sliding doors, they charged into the house. Chill winds funneling right behind and being My steed to return Me to the willow.

Bursting in Helle's room, her Sony was wrenched to a volume they surely found painful. Treble which made temples and jaws tingle. But they only let the pain enrage them all the more. The volume on Suicidal Tendencies stayed where it was.

Helle slammed open her window facing the tree, nearly shattering the pane. Half a second was all it took: A certain forestfire deep behind violet-peach eyes. Odium churned in Helle, thick and crisp as blizzard-thrown snow. Foaming to the surface. Releasing so much of what she'd hidden. All hate and abhoration. Not quite a hate I had ever seen any mortal express. Months... years of suppressed violence. Hidden resentments. Secret angers. Private frustrations. All came crashing out of her heart at once. Gigantic waves. Thrashing. Pummeling titanic, tranquil cliffs which she had built so carefully.

On the coast of a savanna of blood.

Veins... Flooding over... Adrenaline and devastation...

- they just keep bugging me and it builds up inside!! -

Both sets of her frilly drapes were yanked from stubborn curtain rods and parachuted out the open window. Magazine photos ripped from the walls and thrown down behind the curtains. Some photos in sheets. Some crumpled into balls. Drawers were pillaged. She gathered up blankets and ransacked her closet. Sandra helped exacto-knife tear and hand shred Helle's things into bits. Shoes. Blouses. Pants. Underwear. Floating out the window like a ticker-tape parade.

- I'm not crazy!! -

She sliced up her flowered wallpaper into Nightmare On Elm Street strips with shears from her drafting table. Gouging occasional holes and chunks out of the plaster. Grabbing ribbons and corners of wallpaper, she tore it down in full sheets. Glue sporadically hushed and clucked as it forced loose.

Sandra pogoed on the futon. Scissor-stabbing the ceiling. White plaster snowed in powder and pebbles. Both girls were singing. Screaming. Dancing. Swirling convulsive.

Wallpaper stuffed through the open window too. Pastel pink carpeting cut, tugged and slashed into yards of mahogany dust and fibers. Shoved outside with the other junk, and determined grunts.

- you're the one that's crazy!! -

Spinning around the room, furious as driftwood twirling on a leather thong, Helle demolished everything. All heaved out the window. Everything she hated. Everything suffocating her. Everything she was warped into pretending to be.

Hairspray cans. Lame makeup kits. Expensive, cheesy jewelry from Beachwood Place Mall. Even school notebooks and texts. Hurled bottles of a dozen designer perfumes shattered below on the patio deck. Soaking the porous pile of wood, cloth and paper.

Bast pounced away from the falling debris. Meowing and hissing. Backing off from deck to lawn.

- you're driving me crazy!! -

Helle paused. Panting.

Grinning. A hospital-blue wristband in her blood-stained hand. “Glenbeigh Psychiatric Ward : Doctor Name : Admission Date : Medicinal Doses : Patient - Helle R. Tompkins : Thanatomaniacal“

Bumming Sandra's lighter, with a sniffle and a sideways brush of her hair, Helle ignited the medical bracelet. Throwing an exotic glimmer on cheeks and mussed locks of her hair. Flaming plastic, the final item cast out her window.

The perfume-doused drapes were the first thing to catch.

- all I wanted was a Pepsi just one Pepsi!! -

Helle and Sandra screamed at each other. “AND SHE WOULDN'T GIVE IT TO ME! JUST A PEPSI!”

Continued they to lose themselves in their private, saltant realm. Smiling. Shrieking. For a brief and even awkward moment, they kissed. Then lost once more. Stifled grins. Clenched jaws. Nostrils huffing.

The orange glow shimmering upon the willow gradually captured Helle's attention. She flung her torso out the window. “Holy! SHIT!”

Dancing back downstairs on the patio, the girls capered in apricot light and crisp, sharp shadows. Everything bestrewn from above had become a bonfire. Fueled further by whirlwind-piled clusters of dry leaves gathered in corners of the deck and huddled beneath the picnic table. Tossing in leftover scraps of clothes and paper, the fire reached ten feet in the air. Half the table and much of the deck was burning. The Ouija board was unscathed, yet neither girl made any effort to move it. Too transfixed were they by the flames.

Helle raised her fists overhead and howled. Long. Loud. Practically collapsing to her knees. Misty breath escaped into the night. Victory, relief and passion in her piercing yell. The scream of feelings buried alive, and clawing forth like dead from the grave. Screaming and motioning as if, by pure desire, by pure conviction, she could force the flames to rise higher and scorch the dome of heaven. Orange embers fumbled skyward. Neon motes of spiraling dust.

The molds that tried to bend Helle were cracked.

- how can you say what my best interest is!! -

The screws to warp her became smoke.

- when I went to your schools!! -

The nails to deform her were charred.

- I went to your churches!! -

The voices to distort her had shattered.

- I went to your institutional learning facilities!! -

Her mother had failed... And she would twist Helle no more.

- so how can you say I'm crazy!! -

With a whine of treble and a thud of bass, her speaker cones blew and the stereo went dead. For the time it took a paper ember to rise from fire to air, was there silence. But silence broke with madness. Nothing could hold My laughter then. Echoing and hissing. Matching the wicked cackles and wheeze of the flames. Leeching moisture from the air as the fire made it whistle out of bone-dead timber. Blotting out tortured whines of Bast beneath the patio in clutches of spirits horrid. And, as with all foul shades, My contemptuous laughter came from a thousand directions and within their minds all at once. Loud as a stereo wrenched to a painful volume, yet only a sigh.

Helle cringed. Eyes swirly. Giddy with delirious thought. “What do we want to do now?” Spritely titter.

My whisper emanated from every shadow. “KILL SANDRA!”

Echoes -

... kill ... kill ... kill ...

But slithering leaves.

“Yeah!” Helle, glowering menace, spun to face her. Far beyond autumn, impish malice.

The glass mural of illusions they had created, shattered into reality. Lurid horror bled out Sandra's eyes. Her cheeks fell. Breathless. Stillness so complete, that even the fire seemed to burn in a silent movie.

“... Wha - W -... I - I...” Sandra sighed deeply and shook her head. Eyelids quivering wide. Chin shuddered. “Man, don't even - ... uuugh. Oh, my g - My, my go -... I... Huh, fuck this... Ohhhh... Fuck! This!”

The patio doors rumbled on bearings like tumbling gravel. Sandra composed herself again. Slightly coherent, she began to leave through the house.

Delirium. Confusion. For full seconds, Helle didn't seem to know where she even was. She scurried after Sandra. “Well - I... W - Wait!”

Helle's voice was her own once again. No hate. No anger. No animosity. Only a girl who was pleading a friend not to go. “Sandra, wait! I'm sorry!... I'm sorry!... Don't go!... I didn't mean it! I don't know what - ”

Voices within the house, faint under the sound of the shrieking cat which cried below the fire.

“ - Get the fuck away from me!”

“Sandra, please! I'm sorry - ”

“ - Y'know, you are a damn psycho! You don't even know this things name! You know how much power it - ?... Awww, fuck it!”

“I'm sorry.”

“Leave me alone!... And you know what? No! Get off! You know, you can have all your fucking shit back again.”

The front door opened.

“Nooo! Sandy, come on!... I - ”

“ - Oh, fuck you! I don't wanna keep your crap in my house anymore. You'll need it now! Let your nameless Spirit hold onto it for you... Psycho bitch. I warned you!”

“I know. I know. I... I didn't mean it! Honest. I...”

“... The fuck you didn't.”

“I didn't! I didn't - ”

“ - Bullshit!” Sandra opened her car.

“Sandy... just... don't - ”

Silence.

“ - Get off of me!... No!... Fuck! You!”

Sandra's car door slammed. Helle rapped on the window almost in tears. “I - Come, come on, San - I'm sorry. I'm sorry... I'm sorry!... Sandyyy! I didn't mean that! Don't - ”

But the car was already peeling out of the drive, shuddering with “Blume” by Einsturzende Neubauten to drown out Helle's cries.

“Sandy!” Voice abrasive with hoarse desperation. Croaking. “... Saaaandyyy!... Sandy...”

During drawn-out, shadowy moments, she was frozen in the street. Unmoving. Staring a long while as embers were all stars and lightning bugs of Fall. Flames like water shimmied demonic winks.

Helle eventually sulked back to the patio.

With a weary groan, she sat on a bench built along the railing. Sucking her arms into her sweater, the cold was finally affecting her. Sweat beaded on her brow twinkled in the firelight. Leaning forward into the heat, she meditated on the fire. Now burning so hot that the broken glass was melting. Fetid, sable smoke wriggled upward from burning plastics.

Helle stood and took less than six steps.

A hairspray can exploded.

Helle, startled, didn't scream. She just sheltered her face with her forearms. Watched, squinting, the fiery plume bellow into the shambling willow.

And among those spidery limbs...

In that moment of a burst of illumination...

She saw Me...

Smile fanning as wide enough to split skulls. Patient as a statue. Needle talons of spindly silhouettes. And a harder heart more icy. Remembered... And forgotten.

Gasping, she nearly screamed. Screaming but snagged on the back of her tongue. Legs gave way and she collapsed. Lips so chalky, face so grave, she almost fainted. Blinking slow. Still looking into that tree. As if I were a nightmare, falling upon her.

But with the plume of fire gone, I was simply a shadow to her sight again. Half-known shapes. Opaque memories of fears of impossible forms. Children fears. Remembered... and forgotten.

Continuing to look where she had seen Me, sitting on fear-weakened legs, she began to chuckle. Then laugh resounding. Bottomless laughter... like promises. Laughter indistinguishable from agony. Pain overjoyed, which seemed to be crumbling out of some broken part of her. Virtues lost... Bliss found in tarnished life...

My laughter was so honest, it was nearly human... and Helle's was nearly vampiric. Flame and willow and wind and night all joined us both... pitied.

... The crimson rosary which had slung from her dresser... Melted... On a pair of burning, white panties... Christ's passion, like an irreverent menstrual stain...

∞ ∞ ∞

Headphones played “Some Kind Of Stranger” by The Sisters Of Mercy as I held Myself up in the willow. The bonfire was then only smoke and char. Cinders like sandcastles, lifted away into the breeze. Gray and dust-fragile coal.

A leather Ouija board, unharmed by any flames, rested on the half-scorched picnic table.

Smoke permeated the rooms. Stripping away artificial scents of central airconditioning and disinfectant potpourri. Replacing the clean, house-in-the-suburbs smell with the primal odors of ash and flame.

A diary, and a mug of vodka tea, remained on the coffee table.

A tape of Cure videos sat in the VCR.

Bast was cowered far behind a sofa, licking wounds.

Eldritch sensations charged the doorways. The very walls felt older. Ancient. Sorrowful... Only the most peculiar places can feel so scarred. Places known to such things time and before. Where the dread somehow rides. Pale but true.

Watching from deep within the ebon. The bedroom of My Pawn lit by a dim, torchiere lamp. Walls coated in layered, black paint, crusted with wallpaper glue. Cold and glossy hardwood floor had waited beneath incarnadine carpeting. Pieces of plaster scraped and crushed on the polished, oaken floor like chalk. So, for fun, Helle had drawn a body outline beside her futon. Decapitated. Head by the closet.

India ink, she randomly splattered on her white furniture. The rest became band logos and invented designs, painted on carelessly with artist brushes: Lycia, Legendary Pink Dots, spiderweb patterns, Bel Canto, ankhs of varied sizes, Clock DVA, Cocteau Twins, Pankow, a skateboarding rat skeleton, The Cramps, Doubting Thomas, Clan Of Xymox, an eye of Horace. Finished with bottles of ink poured like swarthy blood over dressers and partially obscuring her mirror.

The pale torchiere burned dismal as candlelight.

Archaic.

Dirty felt the air. Earthen seemed the house. Wood thick and soil for ceiling and floor. Relic and ancestral.

Gazing through the knoll crevice. The Pan watched. In willowy tree limbs. In shadow of such on walls. Patient. To see Helle stripped this eve.

She sprawled. Naked above her sheets. Curling and pleasure, writhing near slumber. Snuggling into a pillow. Pale and pert with youth. Peaceful grin. Eyes watchful of dreaming. Becalmed the perfume of her pattering heart. Skin silvery in gray light. Skin the covetous smoothness of some kind of velvet angel tears... Beautiful... Beautiful.

Silhouette shrouded in brocade faerie wings. Might dreamed or netherworldly true. The Mistress of Strife, sleeping serenely in the aftermath of her cataclysm. Her smile dissolute. She was proud of her mawkish display. Princess courted to moonglow of fay. Drowning in a sea in a boat too small. Beneath where the creatures are bare. Tend they to her wishes and most driven from mind for fear of their grant. Gathered courtesans composed of all that which, once sacred, slipped from maidens head and grasp... But did she want to cry?

For a moment...

Ah, Helle. Was I only able to glimpse her lithe form. But, alas, only her bed knows such pleasures now... Damnable sleep. Damnable day. Were it only the scathe shades all hours of life and death. With days and weeks marked only by a darker and lighter moon.

Aye, then would the Pan pipe for joy! And Helle may know the charms of a Goodfellow. To that ends would I see.

Despite all she'd done, there was an endearing innocence that no sins could remove from any young girl, freshly turned sixteen.

Black hours called. Come through the door, and we shall see where nightmares have gone to die. How much what one has lost can hurt. Does it laugh at you when you have forgotten? Nothing is known or real. Clutch not hard to your tears... They will always fall.

... Ah, to be the night she beds...

But for then, must I rite return to the Lady Night who beds Me.

... But for Helle... Beautiful. Beautiful.

What a splendid immortal she would be.

- prepare yourself for bed -

- sometimes I dream... -

- sometimes I dream... -

- sometimes I dream... -

Chapter Twenty

Peacefullness in breezes...

... and rivulets of lead between the tiny panes...

... never do angels... unseal My tomb...

... Never...

... She speaks to Me...

... I am home...

∞ ∞ ∞

Raindrops gather in Her eyes, from light through the windows, for a murmur of a second. Then, they're forgotten. False tears of Jocasta sorrows.

Gentle rain. Metallic trickling on gutters and downspouts. Thick on glossy-wet, brick-fired shingles. Leathery drops plucking on leaves. The hush of rain in a little pond. Cool, gray scents on the breeze. Sheets of water flutter onto the windows in gusts of air. Water in snake-charmed streams wriggles down the glass. All velour, plush music feelings, this sensual drizzle.

For a long time I listen to that rain. Beneath the vaulted ceiling that shackled My soul. For a long time I listen, thinking of nothing. Before the gaping fireplace which burned My dreams. For and endless chime and pendulum swing I imagine the rain washing Me clean. Below the immaculate lamia Who stole My dying.

My tears... Is it? Is it My tears? Imagine. Washing Me clean. Later I imagine the rain is blood in which I dance exalting... and grow filthy again.

Blood... It...

Gargoyles thirst. Alive in such showers. Sway they like a dread ballet. Stone claws outstretched. Throats fill to flooding. Brothel-drunken on burgundy rain.

Blood... I...

... I listen to that rain for an age I can not measure. Horrible, the lull of it. Layers of sound. As an expanse of dead forest. Numbing My mind. Relaxing.

Feel I like a Child again... Did I hear. . ? But... it doesn't matter. Makes no difference. I do feel like a Child again. Young, uncertain and afraid. A Child listening to a chilly rain before the first day of school. Mortified by what the future holds. Perhaps, thinks the Child, by wishing hard enough, tomorrow will never come... and I can just listen to the rain forever. The perfect, gray sky all a single shade, a slab of shale. Safe in bed. Safe at home. Shivering feet tucked under blankets. Curled up in a ball to savor Where The Wild Things Are.

For a duration longer than memory can recall, I lie there. Listening to the rain. Thinking maybe I can just do this forever.

Listen to the rain.

Listen to the rain.

Listen...

Listen...

And listen to the rain.

... There is the mystery of doleful storms. Whence lies all wonder held unto it.

And misery found when never sought. Creeping down. Seeping from paradise to ruin. Through congealed, mossy places. Hating the sweetest touch. Creepiest touch.

But how black this place is. Deeper than...

Blacker than frothing thunderclouds... even under veil of moonless sky... I wish I were there now... parading with Max... and the Wild Things...

But... I... am... not... alone...

I want to be.

I never want to be.

Fears surge of something. Of everything. Of nothing. With tears and... fear making Me cry. Or wanting to think to. Crying fear of shadows moving under sheets where I hide. And sounds beneath the bed do rise and writhe. Behind the closet door where come voices, worse guttural than thunder.

Spinning dreamwaters. Swirling violins tumble over deep Gregorian chants. Tin whistles and pipes breathing brume of mourning mist. Hearbreaking brogues lilting in sonorous harmony.

Rains call to Me. With three Queens and one in Black, sail I to Avalon.

- ... tears could make a river that would sail her back to ... -

Her?... Who is she?

- (as this fell sergeant Death is strict in... ) -

- Her arrest? -

Who is She?

What. . ?

... No.

“I am Your nightmare... I am Your dream.”

∞ ∞ ∞

Camillia DuBois

... unspeakable ...

Nevermore can I conceive of lust in another. Devotions uxorious, I could never before vow, pledge I now unhesitant. At this moment, Her face is that of a hundred girls I covet. Any of a hundred women I desire.

Fervid the flesh of intangible and always never phantoms. My breath quivers. Knowing only fallen angels can possess such comeliness. Angels which slip Me inside. Biting Her lip. Bleeding torn, slash of fangs. Of cardinal cream. Moan of snowing suede. Neck curves. Feathery down in furs surrounding. Sighing eyelids.

The memory of a lovers name slips away like... -

- ... a sash ... a ... -

- like a sash in the wind. Something about the first rain of Spring... and poppyseeds. Come to forget what that name meant. Ripples of time softly wash away the smile with which her name went. Merely a dream. Fairy tale for a child... But tales of faerie grow dark, and children forget chaste loves when virgin blood is shed. To reign in the emptiness so demanded.

Images so valued, shudder away in oubliettes of mind.

Deep within, someone is crying. Blotted out by the muddied, granite heel of a mighty weakness...

Whisper of a sisters name. Far away, a sister drenched in -

Sweet. Sweet. Moist. Blood.

- The side of her face that was blown off... -

Moist heat of a season of velvet. See I the image of the face of a Beast in dark of Her eyes. Diamonds encrusted on Her necklace are lambent brilliant screams of a lovers tears. Vestal thigh and throat turn to offer entry by parting lips. Her fingertips hold Me more tenderly than an infants kiss. She spins Me like a Pisces web when I weep.

More alone than I was in the alleyways, sprinkled with oil rainbows, and the Dark Man in the puddles.

The side of her face... blown off splatters... Her corpse falls to the ground.

Blending movement on shadow behind light. Color and fire-orange burning. Sparked by obsidian of cloven hooves. A smile and a drop of blood drawn on sere lips to quench. Unable to discern where My movements ends... Where Hers begins. Between Her lips flows My swelling blood. Within Her I taste the poisons again.

What sort of wraith have I become, to ravage such hideous beauty with such tender violence? Too feeble to evade such terror...

Perhaps not a monster I never was. Perhaps become the monster I have always been...

Understanding to what I have been transformed. The living dead have I often felt to be. Within the black well of mortal heart, My sight wanders. Pebbles cast into bottomless waters reveal secrets veiled in all souls.

Torches are raised to castle gates. Crucifixes are clutched. Trained hounds bear fangs. To know why walls desecrated by the dead, despise the living. Why chapel pews harken hushed prayers. Mortals unease and knowing what watches on lonely roads just beyond their headlights. What happens on tainted, ancient altars. Childhood traumas, seeing the color of dust-beige windows on the house that no kids went near. Where those people disappeared to. What unlocked their treehouse all those nights, on the coldest summer they recall. The sound of their breathing, isolated in a starless cornfield. Know I now why those children were never found. Where she comes from when you say her name in the mirror. What thing made that noise in the snowy woods. Causing and being the feeling no one ever totally forgets, about the basement stairs at night. The things I grasp... what sometimes rattles the doorknob to the attic. Told it's the wind. But knowing better. No. It only makes itself sound like the wind. Doesn't it?... Lies...

Yes, I can imagine what sort of a person could do such inhuman things to the bodies.

Rape from a lifelong friend one trusts.

Torture from a brother one would die for.

Anguish and pain of betrayal from a true love.

Cascading pebbles in the well. Stones of the fruit sink from off the Forbidden Vine. Knowing how the moon does oft bleakness be. The wineglass crescent dipped in sanguine spirits. Succulent ichors brew. Where its shades do gruesome shivering hide. The current of breeze to delve scents of dirt met blood. Sounds of tulle red currents in hearts vapid by woe.

Knowledge gouges depths. Of sludge oceans of blood in Avernus. Drudging apocrypha never imagined.

To know the greatest darkness and evil in all existence lies only within the soul and will of humanity... - as in a beloved glen where nothing blooms...

As... Glen -

Goodness hangs by broken branches, cruel and bitter. An entire life a delusion. All in which I believed superseded by this immortal terror. All during life, told these monsters do not exist... Shut off the light and go to sleep - light of life? - sleep eternal?... and in the space of this moment,

I know the iciest fever of all: That these creatures roamed the night eons before I knew birth. Before childhood innocence. Before all the magic, love, and beauty of life which I possessed, lurked this horrid death in the evening shadows.

Truth exploding marcasite flame; glass stained aurora flashing through sinews to mortified bone.

Their very existence mocks all I believed, invalidates all memories I had, and turns the glory of life a sadists joke. They are legend... They are always... They are truth. They are horror... They are all...

In all They are blackness simpering.

Now I am One with Them.

... And all is forgotten ...

The senseless talk of nightmare psalms. A hemp stirred in a swollen scripture.

A potion told in visions of thrashing limbs. Fright questing pursues... Does the heart convulse in ecstasy or agony?

Calmed. I was poisoned by a bullet once. Pretty note untrim. And where does one discover any redemption when Hell is a blessed bed? Be still. The wicked man is in a ghost, puts it in a sleigh. In the same deep water...

The same deep water as You. The cure... kiss, drowning together. And the words go on. From a book with pages that do not turn. The senseless ramblings of deepened, dreadful dreams. Dreaming in colors from the pallet of dusk.

Never will I die.

Genesis this. Blessed and horrible the day. Night of damnations biblical fires. Our apocalypse of revelations. Baptism this.

This My apotheosis.

... And all is forgiven ...

Let Us be united in sacrilege union.

Craving seductions. Seductress tongued mouth and firmest fingered clutch. Desirous hand feared by god. To blood pulsing. Daughter of the Serpent demands all to which I succumb. Offerings of the Forbidden Branch. The Great Tree be canopy to Our unholy church. Sun sets forever. Draping limbs of trees and goblins, white banners drip blood. In the dying merrigold light. And snow of snapdragon petals. Devotions avowed in Eden's showers scarlet.

Acquiesce do I between ruby rainpuddle rings. Ring of the irresistible dance. With this ring, I Thee wed. Dancing nine-circled beneath the pillar raised hill. Forth from cherry waters do rise washing women and the witnessing Court...

Fealty to the once and future Erl King...

Let spectral banshees rejoice in all their encrusted pits and black cursed hollows.

Alone in a chamber of whores. Never look up.

Soft and arousing. Lace and tassel and velvet and gold and private kisses cheaply sold. Pillows lush and shamed with pleasures. Wood darkened by candle tarnishing flames. Scent of harlot sisterhoods and cowslips.

Never look up.

Heaven graces only betrayal. Above are the unforgiving Gates shut. Sentencing distant past. Shunned by all who may offer absolution. Angels in orgies scoff with saints and turn away from mortal lament. Vicious fists of the holy trinity backhand pleading souls into the Pit.

Never look up.

Never look up there.

Dead are chained to the ceilings by rusted, crumbling shackles. Some die and aren't discovered for days. The Hanged Man is falling from his gallows. Screaming with My voice out of a rotting face... with My voice... screaming...

Boundless icicles, eclipsing fear, stitch Me to the stone tiles.

Lost breath.

Retreating thunder, in rich echoes, trickles through the marble floor, in vibrating ripples like rainwater.

∞ ∞ ∞

... WHO ... R ... U ... ?

Words hover from Her. Unspoken like smokerings blown by caterpillars on magic mushrooms.

Who am I? - Go ask Alice -

Little boy lost. Lost in the illusionary delirium of Disney World. The Small World was not so small after all. Not so small. Rather endless... and so, so frightening. So terrible. Strangers asked who I was. Where were the parents of this lost little boy? I don't know.

I don't know.

... WHO ... R ... U ... ?

Searing. Hunger again.

Every moment exists unto itself and stretches for an eternity which ends in the flutter of a cowering eye. Suffering daggers of pulsar starlight. Not realizing that I convulsed into solid iron until I begin to relax again.

... WHO ... R ... U ... ?

This misery all I know. This pain all I am... This is Who I am?

... WHO ... R ... U ... ?

She takes Me by the hand. Time simply ripples in a well...

Mirrored wall, the size of medieval tapestries, framed in etched platinum and intricate gold. Fire burns, raging in the hearth at My sinister side.

Who...

Camillia.

Name soft as a boreal sun. She is bare but for wearing a lamina peignoir, spun from sullen sugars. Fabric itself appearing to relish the texture of Her body. Skin flawless edelweiss, poreless smooth. A pearl caratyid given to life. Majestically tall and elegant. Hair like windchimes and dolls of black satin. Jack-'O-Lantern flames lick highlight glows upon frosted, winter-window flesh. Cinnamon irises fluorescing to peacock blues, like elaborate wode knotwork. Rainwater shadows, mercury-silver on lingerie. Her whisper the breath of January and the honey of Spring waterfalls. Mistral eyes coquet to breathe with a columbine smile.

Carved with spry, feline muscularity. Veins faintly raised in limbs and hands. Athletic tendons shudder beneath the flesh with Her briefest motions. Slightest moves, shimmering with the liquid of divine gracefulness and strength. Consummate beauty and allure from blink to simper. Presence alone offering the promise of inhuman passions and the prospect of merciless brutality.

Aguichant perfection. Volupte in all rapture.

Rapture.

Nothing mortal was ever this sensual.

... WHO ... R ... U ... ?

And behold... what have I become...

Barely can I see My form within the mirror. Opaque and mocking visage of whom I once was. My hand before My face is just as tangible as Camillia and Her likeness within the glass. Yet when I look at My Own reflection, I am hardly there.

Disrobed, I stand unshamed with Her. My eyes lazily watching. Dizzily exploring Us Both. My light, chocolate hair dangling upon muscular, sinewy shoulders. Grazing My back. Curls tickling at a nipple. Sides of My mohawked scalp, still shaved bare. But for the exception of lashes and brow, not a follicle of hair remains elsewhere on Our skin.

Skin lustrine, taut as tanned ivory. Wrinkled ever so little at knuckles, joints, and the crow of eyes. Giving the impression of youth and agelessness. Purest flesh and scarcely more pale, I haven't a scratch or a bruise. Nothing scarred from the cuts. Nothing swollen from the punches. No discoloration from the kicks. Not a bone broken from the fall.

Muscles more defined, ribbed quietly as desert sand. Every limb more fluid in shape and form. Every feature and curve more crisp and firm. My fingers seem eerily longer somehow. Only just subtly. Stronger. Wiry. With endless capacity for harm or ecstasy.

Lips curl into grins more impish. Eyes stare with conviction more beguiling. Embodiment of all that which entices and destroys. All which enchants and ruins. Barely discernible ambivalence of pleasure and pain. Canvas on which I am painted with My entrails. Stone in which I am chiseled with shards of My skeleton. Seduced by My Own, slow swaying reflection.

Almost effeminate in childish androgyny. Covetous, little-girl boy. More the petite Pan than man. Truly the malicious, exquisite Child begotten of the Mother Death. Born from blood of hate and angels.

From the corner of My sight, every feature looks practically iridescent. The manner in which My eyes consume all surrounding light and drown it in overly black pupils. Pupils black without depth. Soft, brown eyes, mostly a shade darker than My hair. Yet with irises actually wedged by half a dozen hues of brown. Always looking a bit sad. Even at the happiest moments, an underlying sorrow is ever-present within. Passionate and expressive, the sort of eyes that seem to reveal everything. Merely a trick they play as they bore into the essence of whomever they watch. Blinking being enough to shift them from gentle tenderness to heartless apathy.

... WHO ... R ... U ... ?

Crowned by a mauling wreath of blackberry thorns. Ecce homo and behold the Pan. Violet blood vividly syrups down My face. Dripping one sleek stream off cheek to chest. Smear of blood, stretching gradually like marmalade teardrops.

... WHO ... R ... U ... ?

Once upon a time, I was a lost little boy. Come quickly to accept I would never be going home... So be it... I would live in Cinderella's Castle. Adventure upon Space Mountain. Play on the Peter Pan ride and sleep in the Darling nursery at night. Live on french fries and raspberry slushies. Hide out in the Haunted Mansion if need be.

... I wasn't scared of that place. Not even the ghosts in the ballroom. That stuff wasn't real. Just a ride. Nothing to be scared of. That's what they said. Right? Nothing to be scared of... Except for the graveyards maybe... That graveyard was kinda spooky...

The grave. Why is that so spooky?

The dead go there.

... WHO ... R ... U ... ?

Hiding in the graveyard, I am the coffin walls. Vestal frills of silken white. Embracing those committed to the earth.

Where the withered dead go, am I. People decaying without their souls.

... WHO ... R ... U ... ?

Someone I do not recognize at all and fear. Something I have known all too well and love.

Running through the churchyards, I am He Who Is With Those Without Souls. The Bringer of Dying and Storm. The Hand of Blight and Scourge. I am home. Astride My tombstone. Thinking. Mischievously crouched upon My final resting place. Adorned in nothing but a blackberry crown.

No longer do I fear the grave.

... WHO ... R ... U ... ?

Does She truthfully not know? Does She not know as I learned of Her, without a voice? Names given Me at mortal birth are no longer Mine. And I can never again be whom I once was. For any clarity focused from this bedlam, that command is clearest of all.

... WHO ... R ... U ... ?

The name that can not be spoken.

The face that can not be seen.

The heart that can not be broken.

The soul that can not be cleaned.

Shadow am I. Shadows moving on curtains out of synch with the light.

Nightmare am I. Nightmares that do not leave with the break of morning.

Sadness am I. Sadnesses which last a lifetime over events ages gone.

Tears am I. Tears always burning in eyes that have long since stopped weeping.

Scream am I. Screams unheard by everyone, yet never ceasing their cry.

Slime. Snails. Puppydog tails.

WHO...

This budding Goddess venerable. My Mother and My Wife. My Sister and My Mistress. Prince virtuelessly bedding His Queen.

Partially awake... (gray)

Camillia's corpse was still. Warm from the heat of...

My blood. I was born in Her womb -

... Women know the greatest pain in all their life, during birth. During the giving of life. Tearing body and soul in two with baby boy or girl. Hating their lover and child for the sincerest split second... Hating their family and friends for the sincerest split second. Tearing body and soul in two with bullet or blade. During the losing of life. Man knows the greatest pain in all His life, during death...

- of darkness.

... She is My Mother ...

... She is My Murderess ...

But are dreams ending? Brushing consciousness... (mists)

Turning to Her, My hand traces Her delicate cheek. For all Her radiance, I know it is only the dimmest implication of the pleasures She can provide. And only the dimmest reflection of the suffering She can bestow. As are the promises of We Both. Our souls sweep away warmth of innocence easily as winter brumes.

Elvin forms of such winsome divinity as to make any mortal cringe with jealousy and desire... As are the promises of We Both.

Reality teasing... (fog)

Lucidity is stirring. Mixing. Something desiring to last longer, yet dying. How this I can feel... But what lasts longer than dying?... Things become difficult to sense. Dissolving dream like sand-carved names under the tide.

Waking close... (shapes)

Leaving slumber... (haze)

Witches present Me a child. Baby of no more than seven years. Madness eyed in tattered, filthy clothes... Across the room, She motions to the infant... To the offering...

... Raindrops gather in Her eyes...

... Falling...

... screams fade alive like locust chatter...

... sugar cone drips...

Dini! It's for you!

And so with the Queen of Faerie, I to bed then do not tarry. Revel over and just begun. Veiled behind the rising sun. Dancing, prancing in melting glass. Move backways 'round the Hill to pass. Forget. The day will never start. We sith do strum on broken harps. Laugh and sing and drink in this land. Come and join Our dark faerie band...

... motions to the infant...

“My Prince! It's for You!”

Chapter Twenty One

Nine Inch Nails was playing “Hurt” in My head.

... for You-uuuuuuuuuuu ...

Camillia's final words in My dream blended into the sound of seashells held to ones ear. Mixing with the rasp of noise on the opening of the music, it seemed to lightly fade in and out with My drowsy blinking.

... Waking slowly in the dark, upon a davenport in the chamber where I died. Rain no longer on the windows. Fire no longer in the hearth... But I think a bit of My soul was still trapped in the vaulted ceilings. A wisp of My reflection was still screaming within the mirror.

Opening keyboards were prickling claws in My eyes and cat-tongues scouring My skin. Static cough of silent and hollow tears.

Maybe... the music was coming from Allyson's room?

... Grabbing an iron arrowhead which capped the bars on a balcony railing, I wandered through the mansion. Squeezing the iron so hard, I let blood flow from My hand. Watching it hit the ground. Sort of did it by accident. A stain on the stone awaited the blood from all the times I had done it before.

Acoustic guitars and bleak keyboards. Soundtrack of a violated child, stark upright in bed... alone... and rocking back and forth, trying to stay awake. As the screams and the memories refuse to go away.

... Walking to the atrium, I thought of the dream. Thinking about it all. Fearing My Own self. Every night I awake with only the vaguest feeling for all I've seen in My nightmares. The feelings vague. Emotions mostly gone... But the images were all too distinct. Apathy. Forced from too much sorrow. Reliving the night. Over and over. In clarity perfect. Every time My eyes shut upon day or night.

Until that night of which I always dream, I believed few things were lovelier than a summer day... All its sounds. All its taste, its brilliance, its color. Always adoring how much life clung to living... Stupid. Now, so long have I walked in blackness, that nothing seems dark anymore.

Guitars were distorted with melancholy pain. So moving as to only be played on strings of veins ripped from crushed hearts. Grief-stricken vocals cracked, and strained not to break completely. Why did that make Me smile with such an insanity of confused despair?

... Winding up in the gardens outside the rooms where I died. Tears of blood, in the emptiest eyes, would not fall. Sometimes, I wished I could forget all about them... Wishing that I could forget their names. Their faces. Wishing so hard I could block the memories, and those seconds of peace, just before I wake, when I think all the horror is only a dream. Wishing that I didn't know where she was or what became of her...

Forgetting who I was might keep Me from hating what I became. Before I failed to stop things that never should have happened. Before I was touched in ways I never should have allowed. Before I did things I never should have done.

Forgotten every single love, be they soul or substance... Failed those who mattered most...

Why didn't I go?

Why didn't I go!?

I could've stopped them.

I guess You didn't love her so much after all.

Bullshit! Fuck you! I would've - !

- died for her?

... Yeah...

Good thing I am dead...

Would've wanted to die anyway... I deserve it...

Plinking keyboards croaked out of tune. Picturing smashed, grand pianos coated with dust in abandoned old houses. Kicking up plumes of cobwebs and moth-rotten memories with each hammer stroke.

... Wandering grounds in a blur. Staring. My eyes so wide. Eyes felt dry from maybe not knowing how to cry anymore. Not knowing who to cry for. Unmoving. Sailing over every hopelessly broken ocean within Myself. Looking to avoid in distance what I saw inside. Sizzling over lines of disconnecting ideas.

Now, I Lord over this ruin of My making. This labyrinth of grotesque and twisted dreams. And all My pleasures, no longer innocent, are foul and spoiling. Nothing pure doesn't die when it finds Me. Prince of the Defiled. “Bastard Of All I Survey.”

Much more than I have gained, have I lost.

And who might come to save Me? Who could help? Plagued from any that could redeem Me. Delusion to think that simple acknowledgment of My sins and faults absolves Me from the crimes of possessing them.

What could be more horrifying than never dying?

Sorrows must be buried at the grave... But what of We Who Walk In Death? Where be Our graves? Where then might Our sorrows find rest?

Knotted chords, even more twisted by the time they reached My mind. Echoing even louder in My head than it was in the air. The very air of the rooms deformed the music all the more. Wringing even darker sadness from the discord and hurt.

... When reaching the ballroom, I wonder upon all I should never think about. These things that I have done. Pain which I have known. From Myself I run, never reaching home.

Voices in My head, singing of regret. Feeling My skin shed, trying to forget. Voices crackling harsh and turned up too loud. Searing through the heart, never turning down.

What would I not give to silence their screams? Echoing for years in the depths of dreams.

I can make them kneel. Worship at My feet. Chaste kingdoms do fall when with Me they meet. Innocence is gone, and forever dead. Underneath Her Kiss is where I have bled.

Underlying synthesizers crackling like wind among bare Fall trees and rusted tin cans. Buzzing insects. Rustling, dry leaves on lonely, wooded paths. Sounding like dead branches dragging along on cement.

... Wading through corridors to My bedroom I felt utterly detached from Myself. Purity. This I once had. Friends I have known had it too. Seeing them from afar. Never touched their lives again. For how putrescent I have become. Having no choice but to lose every friend I ever had. Never do I want to desecrate them in My image. Even though they are nothing like they were. Nothing like the people they were when I called them “friends.” Yet, I do watch.

Candelabra sorrows in shadows. When light and shadow carries across a room to mix with a certain melody, ghosts can form on the walls that only I can see. And I see them too, slipping. Over years. Being alone. Falling into the Pit with the rest of the decrepit hounds.

Does it shock Me more to see them fall, or to see My Own hands trying to claw from the muddy walls?

Jade black slime in the marshes of old regrets. Black is the color of all things when innocence is stripped away... We never asked for this, did we?

So I stare for hours at nothing. Night getting later and later... or just longer? Nothing to do tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after. Or the one after that. Just stare at nothing. The same monotonous routine. Day after day. Night after night. Can't tell one from the other. Smoke rises. Hypnotizes... Never did I think I'd grow to hate Myself this much.

Drumming convulsed to the rhythm of the most hear-wrenching sobbing. Music strangles and drags Me down with barbed wire ropes through shale razors of My shattered past. Handfuls of dirt and burrs choke My screaming throat.

... Never did I expect this horrible course to be Mine. And, looking back, it seems hard to tell exactly where it all went wrong. What did I decide to do that was so terrible? Was any one choice I made so awful that this cursed existence could be the result? What lead Me to these moments?...

... And if I know so clearly that I can never go back, why can't I see clearly how to go forward?...

It seems that I tried for so long, and yet somehow, I still fell. Still failed. Despite all My effort. How many have I hurt? How far have I fallen from grace? Given another chance, could I avoid all I have turned into? My wasted life, all the more wasted in death. This is the echo of shadows and rivers torn apart. This is not the person I ever intended to be.

There are times I feel... so tired... To what solutions might I turn? When death has already come, all options are exhausted.

What could be more empty than My life? Hollowest husks and haunting ships, centuries sunken in strange seas? Ruins of castle walls, cold as midnight sand? When time wasn't so old, when I was young, I thought I was so strong. Nothing could touch Me. Nothing could harm Me. Felt almost... immortal.

... How? How? How did I lose that? Where did it fall from My hands? Once lost, these things are gone forever.

My greatest fears always come after death. And so must some things remain Mine and Mine alone to bear.

Becoming an adult isn't something I avoided because I love being a child. Staying childish had nothing to do with the love of childhood. Becoming an adult is something I avoided because I feared the world adults live in... Always did.

... No longer do I fear the grave...

... Indeed.

Because I would rather be dead than a grown-up.

And now, I am the only thing that I fear...

∞ ∞ ∞

“What Angel wakes Me from My flowery bed?”

No, Camillia. You are the Angel. Darkest, darkest, You are - ...

- My Mistress with a monster is in love -

“... You're awake.” Camillia moaned, then stirred to face Me, smiling.

“So are You.” I grinned, sitting on the edge of satin and silk. “...Why didn't You tell Me You're home?” Kissed Her neck, then forehead.

“We didn't want to wake Your nap.” Her forearm tucked under Her cheek. Gentle brow arose. “... And, I enjoy watching You sleep.”

Smiling again. “Oh... So, how was New York City?”

“Lovely. Allyson found the first album by In The Nursery for Me.”

“Excellent.” I frowned, nodding. That was Camillia's favorite band, since recently.

“Linda wants for You to call her. She wanted Me to tell You that she misses You.”

“Oh! Okay. Cool... I was just thinking about her and Christy earlier... Is, uh, she gonna come to the party? Linda?”

“No. She's not able to make it. She has a shoot in Australia at the time. Then she'll be going straight to one in Japan. But she would like for You to call her in New York before she leaves on Saturd - ”

- A knock on the door interrupted.

“Okay.” I nodded to Camillia.

Allyson strolled into the room wearing only a “Hothead Paisan & Chicken” nightshirt.

“Hiya, Love.” Walking with smiles through candlelight, She approached.

“Hi.” I smiled back at eyes happy to see Me again.

“Knew I heard You walking around...” She hugged Me as I sat and locked My ankles behind Her. “Just came to wish You sweet dreams.”

“Oh... Okay... Sleep well, Love.” We kissed. Her mouth tasted of a rose. “You'll have to tell Me about the trip tomorrow - ”

“ - 'Kay - ”

“ - Like the nightshirt.”

“Yeah? Thanks.” She glanced down at it. Grains of light, catching weirdly. “Eve Salvail bought it for Me.”

“Aw, cool! You met her? Finally? She model in the show to?”

“Yeah... We hung out a lot too. Nice to carry on conversations in French with someone cool too.”

“Yeah?...” My grinning expanded as I asked. “You tell her how much We love her in the-eee, um, ... Lenny Kravitz video?”

With a chuckle, Allyson answered. “Yeah. She really wants to meet You too, she said... She should be coming to the party.”

“Hmmmm... She really wants to meet Me?” Cocky flip of My eyebrow and turn of My head. All Our voices were gravely and tired.

Allyson was smug. “... Uh... Sorry, Hon. She's mine.”

“Yeah, so?... So what? Camillia, tell Your little Sister to share.” I whined, pointing at Allyson.

Camillia became as smug as Allyson and as whiny as Myself. “Maybe We don't wanna share.”

“Oh, jeez!” Rolling My eyes, I facetiously shoved Allyson away. “Fine... fine... go to bed... You slut.”

“Takes One to know One.” She childishly taunted over Her shoulder, sticking out Her tongue.

I made a face. “Nuuuugh... Love You too... Jus - go... Go to sleep... G'night.” Warmly, I smiled. She winked and was out the door.

Took a peculiar notice of the doorlatches clicking shut. There are just moments when a sound can darken a room moreso than a lessening of light. Then, a loving look is colder than a sneer... So I found Myself grinning pensively. Hardly aware of it.

As time fell, I watched a flame slowly erode a white candle. Barely noticing that I had undressed in the meantime.

As much as I'd missed Them earlier, I found Myself wishing for a moment, that I was by Myself again. Because, for just a moment, even in Their presence, I felt... loneliness. “... I'm... glad You had a good trip.”

Camillia had been scrutinizing Me, curious concern. She began to ask what's wrong. But She stopped Herself and merely said. “... Dreams?”

“Yeah.” I force a smirk, as if they didn't matter too much.

My Lover touched Me. “Come to bed...”

More than an invitation to passion and sleep. Her tone told Me not to worry, that the dreams would vanish in time. Though they have come every night, they would fade. She had tried to comfort Me with that a thousand, thousand times:

Reminding Me the dreams of dying could last a decade.

But that knowledge brought Me no ease. That knowledge brought Me no comfort. Only resentment.

For My nightmare had already lasted a dozen years... Why should I be forced to suffer worse than most?

Thinking about Disney World, I laughed inwardly... But the laughing hurt. Appropriate locale for such fears. Strange that such memories in retrospect are amusing to envision... When, at the time, I had never been so alone. So scared. So flooded with terror... Do all moments of terror turn into memories that are laughed at with such trepidation? Does time and hindsight always perverse the deepest fears to mirth? Does it distort lost, true loves to mistakes that one is better off without? Does memory always warp the most passionate dreams one regrets never fulfilling, into compromises best lived with?

... And did I really care at all anyway?

Lying down to sleep, shrouded in sheets and Lovers flesh, I imagined My eyes sinking deeper and deeper into their sockets. Until they became two fathomless pits of nothing... She enjoys watching Me sleep...

When will My guilt fade away?

When will My nightmares cease to haunt Me?

∞ ∞ ∞

“Hurt” still played in My head and was fading just as it began, writhing within the nearness of dreaming. Steel runners scraping along ice. Winter winds, cutting within, cold crystalline. Glitter and dark in coal. And with the shades and waxen lights and nothing inbetween so vastly gone. As cascading the sounds...

And night... And frozen... And raining something other than seen... Shiver. Shudder. Never enough with warmth no longer.

All devil and angel and gentry folk hushing a Son to slumber.

Cascade...

Screams and sighing sounds like snow. Crying white noise, frozen far beyond all time.

Chapter Twenty Two

Snowflakes, the size of silver dollars and mice, are blanketing a medieval Mayfield Road. Blizzard winter chilling. Turning everything to gray, black and whites. The eeriest, wonderful white noise in the distance.

Witches, that's where they are, crying tears of snow from places where they can not be found. As the snow clutters and turns the dark, barren tree branches white, it rings out like gentle, ancient bells.

Somewhere far off, waving between the snowfall comes a whisper, reminding Me of “Bells For Her.” Sparking. By likeness hand of Tori Amos... Sylph hands.

The bells for her ringing melodies on an old upright piano in a crumbling chapel. Bells for her ringing and plinking and running gray. Then once they're singing and easing and gently sway.

The Sbarro motorcycle beneath Me doesn't make a sound. In the snow, a lone tiretrack remains behind. Racing, nearly sixty, down the trafficless street into what looks like the South Euclid Public Library...

So much as crystal and ivory, charming and chiming. Naked children on knee, shooting icicle marbles atop the labyrinth of cobblestones. A day where I know, somewhere, clouded up above, are blue skies... It's grim daylight. Colored slate... Weeping this, a tear rings broken xylophones. A neglect and rainbows chipped peppermint.

Dismounting My bike in the conservatory, by the fountain, I walk through to the sunporch patio. With flickering, old-movie light. Yellowed funny, no happy smile. Just inside sits a young, summerdressed child, softly making a grand piano giggle among the children's books... Bells... Of wind-up toys and blind popsicle eyes.

Upon the patio balcony I walk. There, a beautiful girl is sitting at an ebony, iron breakfast table. The table covered in the purest, white lace tablecloth. Gossamer fine. A perfect match for the girls ivory, filigree unitard. Perfumed honeysuckle. Clear, acrylic combat boots protect crossed feet. Her jacket is motorcycle-black with a Black Tape For A Blue Girl logo adorning the back and left sleeve. Silver serpent earrings slither with highlights of her long, black hair.

Eyes the purple of Arizona sunsets.

“Hello.” Surprisingly, she smiles up from a book which is keeping her quite enthralled. A misty English accent spicing her voice.

“... Hello.”

“Sometimes I forget...”

My brow puzzles. “... Forget what?”

“This time You'll remember.”

“... Huh?” I question, almost knowing what she means.

She goes back to reading. An act done as an empty impulse. Her smirk reveals she's no longer paying the book much attention.

I ask her, “What's your name?”

Her book finds the table, the page absently marked with a ringed finger. “Helle Rochelle Tompkins,” she nods politely, “... But I hate the name Rochelle, so I like to go by... Charlotte sometimes.” With a chuckle and a crooked neck, she sang the word “sometimes.”

I laugh along a little too.

She finishes, saying, “People, er, my friends usually just call me Hel... Well, no they don't, but I'd like them to... What is Your name?”

As I approach the table, I pull up the only other chair and sit across from Helle. Strange way to answer... is it? Not too sure. A woodcut Ouija board rests before her upon the tablecloth. Stained and etched with images not of sun and sacred moon, but of Peter and darling Wendy. In the nursery. Swashbuckling umbrellas and bunkbed sailing ships. A crying boy trying to stick his shadow on with soap. A needle and thread. A thimble and a kiss. The tinker of bells and the second star to the right.

Placing Helle's free hand upon the board, I put My fingertips on the back of her palm. Her index finger points to the letters of My response as her lifeline sweeps across the wood.

“Elric DuBois.”

- o, the cleverness of Me -

The detuned piano continues ringing. Ringing under nimble butterscotch fingers of the summerdressed girl. While fuzzy dandelion seeds stick to a blanket. A blanket spread out like a throwrug beneath the breakfast table. A blanket worn quite threadbare.

Rain is coming down without making a spot of ground wet.

Sunlight beams between trees tie up like bows around fluttering snowflakes.

She looks like she's been... expecting Me somehow.

“Is that all?”

“Yes...”

Happily, she flashes a smile and returns to reading.

“... Where?... I-I'm not supposed to be... here.” I don't notice I whispered, until I finish the words. “... How did I get here?...”

Stillness... Sweet Spirit.

She's...

Yes, I adoringly grin, even prettier in... My...

... a dreamwalker.

That... I feel... or... did?...

Dream... I am here.

“When I was younger,” Helle explains in a voice just past My recalling, “I sometimes used to imagine life was a dream that I couldn't wake up from. Everybody I knew, all my family, my friends, and everybody, were all in my bedroom... and they were all panicking, trying to wake me up. For days. Weeks... Maybe years. Shaking me and screaming my name and things... but I couldn't wake up... I can't wake up.” She smiles at Me without grinning. “No matter how hard they tried... You never know if you went to sleep once and that really happened... Maybe none of it is real anyway. Nobody I know... Nothing I do... None of them are real.”

She gazes lapward for only a little, like wishing that it's all true. “Nightmares always scared me, even when I know they're dreams. Because I always think: What if it's not a dream? What if I died in My sleep and this is hell?... I think, it's just, it's... safer in dreams. I find myself...” She scoots in her chair and talks more rapidly. “... D-Did You ever wonder, what goes on in houses as, maybe when, You're driving down the highway at night?... I mean, all over the country. All over the world... Millions of houses... Millions.” She pauses. Sullen once more. Nearly shivering, she adds. “Just scrolling by. All those walls inside them. So many doors. All those windows... it scares me to think what... terrible, terrible things are... going on, inside of, some of those houses when I, see them at night... Someone, like when-when there's someone in a house with th - flaking paint and that cracked wood that's all split open and dusty windows... and they're being beaten on an old mattress with all the stuffing billowing out. Maybe... I dunno, there's lots of worse stuff too... And it all really happens. For real... I mean, somewhere out there.”

Looking so weak and frail, so tiny, that I feared speaking the gentlest word would splinter her in so many pieces, she could never be whole again.

Ever.

Sometime, though I'm not certain of exactly when, it could be before or after this, but I'll mention it now, Helle says... or maybe she merely thinks. “Everybody knows what it's like to be depressed... Few people truly know despair...” And her eyes ask if I understand.

Kinking the edge of My mouth into a minuscule grin, I just shrug. Even I'm not sure is I mean it as a “yes” or a “no.”

Dreamwalker... Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for the sunlight and the snow. Thank you for... this peace.

Voices. And wondering and wandering. Thick forest soil and oaks and rainsoaked stone. Buttercup hush of dance. Sleeping ladybugs in pocketwatch mountains.

Thinking about what she said for awhile, although having no desire to remember, I notice she went back to reading again some time ago.

Turning a page, she's been reading Vampires Among Us by Rosemary Ellen Guiley, someplace in Chapter Nine. Intently once more.

“... You admire the dead?” Mischievously, I inquire.

As she speaks, the words come to me strangely, as if she'd said much else, which I hadn't heard. “We all spend a lot more time dead than we do alive, don't we?... You know, it could be maybe we're all dead, in our graves already anyway... And everything that happens to us is just the memory of our lives played over and over... How would anybody know the difference?”

Something dark is coming over, but it's emanating from within. Though I still recognize the song, I find Myself questioning what it is.

Her book is set aside.

Compulsively shifting a gray shoebox, with a hole cut in one end, back and forth across the table, Helle adds, “Once you've been ready to die, you've learned a hell of a lot about life.”

Helle draws the box closer to her chest. Gingerly picking it up, she holds it to her eye and looks into the hole. After a few seconds, she sets it back down.

She smiles.

“... Aren't You gonna ask me what's in the box?”

Shrugging, I play along. “What's in the box?” But it doesn't really matter to Me.

“Oh, I can't tell You that.” She melodramatically explains, chuckling at her own inside-joke. Cute quality to her snickering. Attractive. Moreso cute than annoying. She could use one of those straw, southern-belle hats wrapped with a carnation silk scarf.

Bitter laughing explodes from inside the library. Distorted behind the screen doors are standing Helle's mom, stepdad, Cheryl and some of her pathetic friends. Cruel laughing. Growing. Dwindling. Rising in waves. One boy I hadn't seen at first, a clean-cut, all-american ROTC shithead-type is laughing harder than the rest. And her stepdad is mocking Helle the hardest of them all.

A day of thunder without lightning.

Helle's face twists. Snarling.

Their ridicule intensifies.

Her fingers grip tighter on the shoebox. Beginning to crush it. Bloodshot, furious looks in her threaten. Tears of rage are welling.

Taunting...

“Fuck you.” Helle mumbles. “Fuck you!” Bolting up in the chair, she hurls the matte-gray shoebox at the doors. “Fuck! You!” The box hits the screens shattering them into endless amulets.

Helle collapses back. Stolen of all spirit by ones she has never loved.

The shoebox tumbles open... Empty inside, but for shards that fall in slower than leaves from the bursting glass.

The demeaning group is gone. Only books remain.

Every sound is quiet. For a moment less than a fluttered butterfly wing.

Helle moves toward the box and brings it back to the table. Wiping tender crying eyes. Enigmatically, her lip is split and swollen. Specked with a tiny smear of dried blood. A huge, dark bruise is puffed around her left eye, fading into her cheek. Slightly yellowed. Flakes of blood are left on her jaw and nose.

She stares through Me, pressuring herself to laugh. Or perhaps it is easier for her than it seems.

“Nothing was ever... in it.” Her chuckle tries to cover her pain. Reactionless lies the shoebox. “Nothing was ever in it.” She whispers at her feet. “I... I just, You know, took it to school, just - just to be...” Looking up, she moans, “And... - They... They're always fucking with me. Cheryl. All, worthless... Especially Kevin Jung, that fucking psychopath everybody thinks is so goddamn innocent. He rips on me the most... And everybody just joins right in.”

Haphazardly, she reaches out for the crushed shoebox. “Can't... W-Why can't they just leave me alone!?... They have... They're... Why are they so fucking... vicious? Vindictive. That's what they are. Every single day at that fucking school. Like fucking vultures. If you're not like everybody else...” Closing her eyes and massaging her forehead, she sighs several times. Muttering.

So, so lost. So pained. Abuse. Loss. Loneliness. Abandonment...

Motioning softly to her beaten face, she quips with another revolted giggle. “And You can see my stepfellator didn't... take too well to my redecorating...” Sourly, she snickers. “B-But, I, like it. I... liked it. It's... it's more me... Seems like no one in my fucking family likes who I am. None of my relatives. They all treat me like some idiot they need to talk down to. Like nothing about me makes sense. Not to them, anyway.” Yanking at her jacket, hair and throwing out her hands, she says, “My name, my clothes, my hair... my interests, it doesn't matter. Nobody in my family seems to... value me or accept me for who I am.”

Gradually, welling tears finally give way. Landing in tulip colors. “... And I've worked so hard to be someone that I could be proud of... Why isn't anybody else!?”

Pencil shaded tears in a watercolor sky. Falling pastel leaves turn piano notes to frost. Summer eyes and strawberry hair in a ballet of bells for her become swans of winter. Chords of “Winter” by Tori Amos lilt with the perfume of pinecone braids. The feathers of caterpillar beards... The little girl continues to play among the childrens books.

Nodding, Helle draws in her lips. “I still have my corruption.” A whisper far within Helle's throat. Louder she blares. “At lest they can't take away my corruption. Can they?... That's mine. At least I still have something. At least I still have that. They can't take that back... I still remember.” Flares a smile. “I still remember her. I remember... who I was. I'm still - I'm still looking for her... I'm still looking.” Her lament has returned to a stifled moan... Gentlest words would splinter her.

Violet eyes look into nowhere and close. “Everything else seems to have died inside me.”

“... Everything dies for a reason...”

“... No... Not everything...” Helle stands and glides over to the edge of the railing. Breezes of summer and winds of fall tug at her skirt and jacket belt. The buckle jingles.

- all the white horses are still -

Momentarily, her eyes shut. Lashes flutter. Snowflakes melt. When she reopens them, Helle grieves. “My dad never treated me like that. He never treated me like them... He listened. He understood.”

Every word she speaks quivers like a dim trail she's trying to follow. A lost and vague search through bleak paths of mind. “Since he died, everything, everything looks the same, but everything feels so different. Like I'm watching everything from... inside some sort of glass bell... I dunno. It's hard to describe. It's like there's this force field around me, preventing me from, feeling anything. Cutting me off from the whole world. I can't touch anything anymore. Every little aspect. Every little nuance of my life. It's all - I've become so... jaded? Nothing feels right.”

Nothing but snow cyclones around us. Burying the patio in dunes. Filling up the woods with uncaring white. Helle drifts in the mesmerizing blizzard. “Sometimes I feel guilty, like I don't miss him enough. Like I don't cry for him enough... Then I realize that I cry so often that I don't even notice how much I still cry... Hrmph. My tears come so often that it doesn't even feel like missing him. Sometimes, I think I'll still see him again. Isn't that - ... I think, I know that's crazy... Probably. Even after all this time, I... I still think, maybe there's been some bizarre mistake. Hh-he's been there my whole life, and now - ... I-I hope... One of the hardest parts of dealing with it is that... no one truly understands just... how much he means to me.” Her voice squeaks. Feeble. Beaten.

Observing the yard, she suddenly, briefly appears...

A dreamy vision of familiarity. Regret. Sorrows. Sentinel rigidity. Standing by a balcony railing. Rusted. And there memories crumble. Into snow. Into rust.

- where the drifts get deeper -

And I feel things and hear sounds from just past the rift of life, eternity, and existence.

Orphans clothed in pegasus manes iceskate on a frozen sea. Shorelines dotted by more dandelions than one can count. Crept up from wintry dust and a graveyard of green giraffes.

“Awhile ago, I learned that I would never get over it. I'll never be able to deal with it...” Helle claws tighter on the rail to hold herself up. “This isn't some - ... It's not that they're - They, they aren't wounds that - not a pain that will heal someday! They won't leave me scars... They - ”

Helle's pauses are practically eternal. Every aspect of her features gored by self-doubt. Uncertainty. Aching, withering snowman eyes. “This... has left me... damaged... emotionally mutilated... so that it - it's to the point where I can never be the same person I was... Never again. Not even remotely the same... Nothing will ever be the same again... Nothing.”

- things are gonna change so fast -

Groaning through clenched teeth with tight shut eyes, she tells. “You can't know what this has done to me. How it... I spent years learning about myself... and now I feel I have to start all over again.” She relaxes. “... Because I have no idea who I am anymore.”

“An... disheartening to, feel I've come so far, and... suddenly been ground to a stop so hard.” Facing around to Me, she scoffs. “And, You know, there are times when I just start to think I'm okay. Like, I'll be alone in my room and everything is fine... Then I'll try to go out and do something fun and... I-I can't really do anything fun anymore... Everything just reminds me...”

Anger ignites her. “Why did he - ?... Everything I loved has been fucked to shit!”

Myriads of stacks of books riddle the porch. Helle's boot pounds a column of them, throwing volumes into the air. Most fall into toasty pools of sunlight on the cement. Some land in rainpuddles. Some fly away onto the roof. Some just fly away.

Pages flipper under the breeze. A bashful titter from Helle stirs with the sound. As the breeze dies, so too does Helle's mirth. The way the light finds her for a second, she looks like a grainy character in a black and white comicbook. “I know I knew what laughter was once... but I forget what it's like now.”

Violas sound in the wafting of tree limbs. Raintrickles in sandboxes are choir harmonies. Voices blissful. An inadvertent simper glimmers before Helle's notes. “Maybe I need a magic friend to take me away from this... Huh?... I can't seem to get away on my own.” First shaking, her head drops to the side. “Someone like You...”

Admiration on her breath becomes sadness. “I wish someone could get rid of all those shitheads in my life... Somehow... Something, something, ahhh... Something terrible is happening to me... and, I, can't, stop it coming.” Frightened whispers of a mantra on a prayer necklace. “I can't... I can't... S-something... Something terrible... Terrible... Terrible... Terrible.”

- so many dreams on the shelf -

Returning to her seat, she looks weary as a girl just walked twenty miles. “I... I can... um, I never realized that... anybody I knew would die... And now I know I'm going to die too... Everybody, knows. But I mean... I really... know. And it scares the fuck out of me. One day it's... going to be all over. Everything is. Doesn't matter how - how familiar a place is or how comfortable we - ... No matter what, we, lose everything. E - eventually, we lose everything and we see places we love and the people we love for the last time! . . It...”

Terror freezes her until she says, “I remember it, was - ... There was, uh... one night when I was thinking about my dad, i-it hit me. I mean it really hit me... Once, I heard, what was it?” Helle's eyes shut to better summon the memory. “... Like... um, if people weren't aware... of their own mortality, that they would lead miserable lives, because our value of time makes us relish life and savor our existence...”

Her cheeks crumple Helle's disagreement. “I dunno... I don't know. I don't like knowing I'm going to die. Truly feeling it was... cold. Horrifying. Just... this... emptiness.”

Shivers ripple over her as she toys with folds on the lap of her skirt. “Like there was this black hole inside me that I just started falling deeper and deeper into? But not like depression... Uhmm, describing it is - ... Realizing the actual truth and meaning of ones own mortality must be one of the most... profound and... disturbing... concepts anyone is... able to grasp. I'm not, trying to sound conceited, but, few people I think ever know. Honestly comprehending mortality while you're still alive!? I mean, that shouldn't really be possible in a way... But... if you think about it hard enough though... I never used to know. All my life, I... never really knew... I miss not knowing that. I miss... being a little kid. Hmmph. There's something about a childhood that becomes, like... elusive in a way, as - as you get older... And it doesn't really matter how old you are, it just depends on... how many shitty things have happened to you. Like, life can get so dull and meaningless. You get stuck in these routines that become so melancholy and boring that... some memories of being a kid, are more vivid, that they're, like, more real than what goes on around us everyday.”

Her fist covers her mouth. Tears trip down her bruised face. “... Why didn't he talk to me!?! Why didn't he come to me!?... He was always there foe me. Where was I when he could've used - ?... Where was I w-when he needed somebody?... I... I let him down. I... I'm responsible. I'm responsible... simply because I wasn't there. I should've been. An... I... I should pay for that.”

Continually licking her lips to choke the weeping. After four defeated sighs, every portion of her control slips like polar wind through chiffon. Some sound between a hum and a groan, grumbles in her throat. Agonizing, I can see her stomach tighten and loosen in wrenching convulsions. Rocking herself back and forth in the chair with neurotic compulsion.

Life betrayed its promises. And she has faded from everyones mind...

“... The sunniest days look so black...” Heavy and staggered she tries calming her breathing once more. Tormented, with an expression near vomiting and fainting. And what can I tell her? That everything is okay? Why tell her such an obvious lie? What might I say? Not to blame herself?...

Why shouldn't she?

No more do I see the light.

And Helle spoke true about sunny days. They are merely vapid, shadowy guises. Sickly and gray imitations of brightness... So black...

Her spirit is in one of those dark corners that few have. Where everything smells like stinging tears. Everything sounds like a crisp, windy day in a cemetery... A place inside where no one can follow, yet she desperately needs someone to see. To comfort her. Show her compassion... Love...

But, we both know, nothing can. No one will. No one can ever help anyone in that place... And what martyr would try?

One forearm firmly crosses her stomach. Pressing her other wrist to her forehead, she realizes. “Maybe being a kid ends... m-maybe that's all over once you go through some... tragedy which'll never leave your life... Once that fucked-up thing that you can't stop thinking about... happens.”

Her suffering is a storm. And her words let Me taste a raindrop she is drowning in.

I understand everything she is saying. But nothing she says will ever be enough.

Scratches rip the air. Objects absorb a distorted, sepiatone hue. Playing like a bad print of an old film. With stuttered breath, Helle adds. “... I miss him... I really miss him.” She gulps a sob and wipes a snuffle on her hand.

Paler and weaker than ever, she says nothing and doesn't move for a long, long time. Staring. Sniffling. Swallowing. A tear again wets her battered face now and then.

And the dreaming waivers.

And the dreaming loses its focus.

Everything is damp, cold, and leaden. Tuatha De Dannan upon pond and dusk pause and turn in stone silence. Runny noses, chilled feet, and dew turned into a foil frost.

Rain makes everything silver.

Water of an antediluvian sea sighs up a beach. Of a frozen cobblestone pond. Sands of black, moist dreams. Children join hands to encircle an oak... Shadows are burned into the hillside.

The dance and the tribe.

- ring around the rosy -

The rattlesnake and the wardrum.

- pocket full of posies -

Painted skin and bead.

- ashes, ashes -

Miles away... between the snowflakes... Chanting...

- we all fall down -

Of their own accord, My hands reach down into a windswirled pile of leaves. One leaf, somber black rot, is scrawled in pearl lettering. Fluid script, announcing a party this Halloween.

Standing, I hand it to the lost girl with a chivalric bow. “Do not miss the Night Of Nights, Helle.”

Lips upturn a tiny smile. “What's this?”

“... In the words of Xorcist: You are issued a clear invitation, to the dance.”

“... Thank You.” Taking the leaf, her widened smile almost obscures her misery.

The girl at the piano has gone and the wood is splitting in the sun. Hardly loud enough to hear comes an old song. From the stormclouds. From further than that. I can not be sure... and it doesn't matter...

... Distant melodies remind Me of “A Night Like This” by The Cure. But it may not be. Moreso, it reminds Me of a lost time. When the first girl I ever kissed left for another boy.

Hasn't such a moment ever abandoned the recesses of remembering?

- say goodbye... if it's the last thing you ever do -

... A brisk summer dusk... Outside on a restaurant patio... She ran off... Then she cried about not wanting to be left alone... But when I tried to hold her, she pulled away... She appeared on the verge of tears the whole time, but hardly cried at all... Someone had scrawled “Nation Of Teflon Souls” on a cement bench with a paintmarker... She said they were really good... Other than that, she barely spoke for the three hours we sat together... Neither did I... Her name was Hollie... We were fourteen... Months passed before the hurting stopped...

That song is that night in every verse.

- it goes dark, it goes darker still... please stay -

Helle looks at Me with eyes rather like a ghosts. Tucking away the invitation, her composure is an ocean monsoon.

Remembering when I forgotten, this edifice, this effigy -

“ - like cloudless skies within me.”

Wise and forthright, Helle smirks sardonic. With a contumacy few can attain. All I can do at this, a watery moment of make-believe, is to return a grin.

“... There's a lot of pain in this world.” Tells Helle, to the woods beyond the yard.

“Even in dreams...”

Perchance she finds this a revelation... Your knight has died. The charming prince is no more. And castles fall to ruin about you.

- for always and ever is always for you -

Marks of her abuse vanish when I look at her now. Skin as pure as... a cloudless sky. Netherworldly simper of Hesperus lanterns. So immaculate, the beauty she holds. A girl who will break anyones heart if she doesn't show them a smile. Winsome enough to haunt ones mind for months after only seeing her once. An ache churns inside while only near her presence, wishing for a single spellbinding kiss. Just a look. Praying to have her. For just one night. Praying to gods you don't believe in. And, in longing memories, the soul can still pine for the mere sight of My pretty Pawn.

- but I watch you like I'm made of stone as you walk away -

This fairness of meadows and Spring. She, this figure of desire and yearning. Carrying darkness within her pocket like a tarnished coin. My wiccan princess, who casts a lavender moonshadow on the snow.

Time for this dream to perish... again.

Without a word...

Without a world...

Dreamscape...

... Blink, blink.

A young girl. With hair the tint of sour raspberries and monarch butterflies. The piano phantoms have stopped dancing round her hands. Winter became somewhere here in My head. Watching the wolf bites in a fern-carpeted crowd of trees. Fog shackles the ankles. These daughters bound in olivevine bracers, by the kitten who can not hear. Can not bear. Cryptic muse resting, hanging dew on spiderwebs like Samain ornaments. The child asks of Helle. “... Has death... ever touched your life?...”

Helle's response is a maternal smile. Directed to that nowhere point in the forest she has watched so often. Crouching down, Helle simply brushes the girls hair with her palms. They hug.

There is nothing left to bring her comfort. Every good thing shall one day end. What does she attain by losing it all? She is possessed by the past and half estranged apparitions whisper her name. Dread and hopelessness bring a strange flask of peace and relief. Like death to a long suffering mind.

All is nothingness.

And the scream in the night is never heard. When it is, no one cares.

... Listening...

Everything.

Helle. A sigh, somewhere distant, of comfort and familiar ease...

I look back over My shoulder. But I look so often, I find nothing to see. Images in time caught on worn photographs with scalloped edges. Tear washed. Photos of the living lose an innate magic when those in them die.

Finding outside... And sometimes... sometimes... just sometimes... a wind blows...

A lone crow. In a single tree. In a vast pasture. Has no answers... Crickets. For weeks they have been singing... They will be some instance missed. Sickened. Understanding how madness could make them a passage.

Diffused sunlight between leafy timber flitters upon the scenery. Hundreds of mutating splotches of light from the size of tiddlywinks to gobs of Play-Doh.

Fireflies glitter in the dark thicket like so many fireworks on a creek.

Blue rosepetals, fumbling motes of dust. Almost to a dream sent never forgone. Naming the colors of crayons across a pitch dark room. In thus backward, sugarcone twisting hallway. Colonnade corridors done the universe beyond. Time then. Can't it? Wish upon scorched flutes telling octopus wings longer? Footsteps soft upon retreat.

Foliage scrolls overhead as black coral, backlit by immobile stars. Cat tails, bursting cotton tender. Chinese dragons breathe smoke like mud, beneath the moonglow. Windchimes made of snow are strung from vines and ivy terraces. By crimson ribbons. And platinum rainplop lollipops.

And in the shapes of bushes branches, leaf and shade, I do see grim goblins, grinning across yon glade. So funny, creepy, funny how not moving...

With horrid ratchets, film clogs in a projector. Warped visages resonate. Tuning fork pain. Convoluted... Hornets on baby rattles... Snowfall... Antiquated telephones... Candle crowned skulls... Lunging fangs... Screams... Something on a wall... Stretchers under cloth... Tongues... Glaring... Mouths... Sickles... Smirking... Thick blood... Pestilence dolls. All visions flooding oily and vertigo. Blurrily, everything melts before the bulb.

Hound yawl, stealing the voices of laughing mad, old men. Darkness in your room will tell you it loves you. Fear coats every limb, thick as vasoline. Sandpiper screams and beads of sweat bolt your helpless corpse to the bed.

Never trust a phone that rings at 2:36 a.m. Hell is calling. Ghosts can rob your breath in the middle of the afternoon. And dreams can come true.

None of this is new. Not one element is unfamiliar. Only crickets can explain how it is possible. Voices I refuse to comprehend.

“There is a space between the moment You dream and You wake when You know everything.”

Helle bids goodbye with a Cocteau Twins smile.

Blue roses rain onto her bed.

I deny the tear I wipe away. Still blood.

Sharp thorns, touching so gently as to be unable to ripple water.

... Coating her room...

Coating...

... Coating her room in blue roses.

- and count Myself a King of infinite space, were it not... -

“a dream itself is but a shadow“

Even though they know it a nightmare... Nobody is trying to wake us up.

Chapter Twenty Three

Parmatown Mall flung open under Allyson's hand.

“After You.” She courteously motioned through both sets of doors with a dominatrix-like switch. Thanking Her, We kept on talking about Helle.

A mall is never exactly where I want to be... Exactly where I want to be? Hell, it's never at all where I want to be. But, I sort of sensed that it would prove to be a night of weird circumstances. And a mall is, regrettably, where I found Myself. I fucking hate malls. Anyone who wonders why is a dumbass, vaginal-bloodfart who deserves no explanation. Those who don't understand are the same oatmeal-brained shits who watch a movie with jokes way over their head and keep asking “What'd he say?” “Is that supposed to be funny?” The kind of people who repeat jokes they do comprehend to everyone around them, as if the others need an interpreter. People like that grow in malls. As though they're a fungus, part of some deranged greenhouse/bioshpere experiment to give them sentience.

We were there to pick up Natasha. Not a part of the “experiment” was She, thankfully. She and another Friend of Ours, Sibyl Buck, came to see the directors' cut of The Crow (the original, with Brandon Lee), a special Halloween Season screening at General Cinema. The next night would be Quentin Tarantino's From Dusk 'Til Dawn vampire flick... Maybe a mall has a rare shot of redemption now and then. They asked Me to go, but I'd seen the movie thirty-seven times already. Even saw it in Germany at the glorious Faith & The Muse shows, way back when.

Sibyl was headed back to Her hometown of Detroit that night. Although She was in town since Monday, I still hadn't seen Her yet. The opportunity to briefly visit with Her is the main reason I came into the mall to begin with.

Camillia, Allyson and I decided to go horseback riding in the haunted corners of Olmsted Falls and Township. Allyson invited Natasha along. She accepted. We figured, picking Her up after the movie would be easier for Us all. That way, Sibyl didn't need to drive Natasha home and could go straight back to Detroit.

Construction on Ridgewood forced Us to pull down Day Drive and park around in back of the mall. Wendy and Cream were there somewhere too. In the parking lot, I spotted Wendy's jeep with its Sugarcubes decal and the “Please Don't Tease Or Feed The Straight People” bumper sticker.

Camillia waited in Our massive, polished-black International truck. In the matching obsidian trailer brayed four greenbroke stallions. Three were dark as felt and one was bright as powdered ivory. Thoroughbreds and an Arabian. “Love's Secret Domain” by Coil had been shaking the CD player when Ally and I climbed out of the hulking rig.

- in dreams I'll walk with You -

... Crap... Malls...

Home to blind, clueless lemmings of humanity. Shrines to apathy, selfishness, greed, underdog-crushing megacorporate capitalism and petty values... But I should talk. Those faults are all Mine too. What do I have on them but high doses of angst and loathing in place of their mental oblivion? Do I have any great insight or wisdom in place of their pathetic, shallow ignorance?

... No.

Just hate. Hate and abhoration... to an incalculable degree.

Hrmph. Ironic: Because that at least makes Me much more alive than they are. Passion for something horrible is healthier than no passion for anything.

Besides, I get off on feeling superior to people too clueless and inarticulate to even feebly defend themselves from any attacks upon their own dimwittedness and hence reinforce their own inferiority. Wearing “FUCK YOU!” on ones sleeve is better than wearing “... HUH?”

We arrived at the mall a little before nine o'clock. And there were still too many people there. Droves and waves, an undulating, reeling sea of people. Enough to make the recycled air atypically stuffy. Flyers taped on the door announced extended hours: Opened until 10 p.m. from Friday, October 28 thru Halloween Night.

Oh, fucking, joy...

Damn. Here I hoped it would be fairly empty. Why shouldn't it be? Every other goddamn night of the year it was... well, except christmas. But, no such luck. And that night, Saturday night, some teen-magazine/mall-rat “band” was playing an 8 p.m. concert in the center of the mall. So said the flyers. That explains all the hyper twelve year olds running around having I'm-their-biggest-fan-orgasms.

Forget if it was another Tiffany or a New Kids On The Block or a Debbie Gibson, Vanilla Ice or maybe even the goddamn Jackson 5. I dunno. Just some other soon-to-be-discarded-band. Another in a perpetual line of fuckin' corporate-rock lickers of Lucifer's testicles who inspire mass misopedia. All fluff and no substance, exactly like the walking business suits who create those abominations.

Luckily, We missed the so-called “concert.” That didn't save Us from nauseating music however. As if the air wasn't stale enough, the usual Michael Bolton-type muzak was replaced by crap like, the muzak version of “The Monster Mash” with its monotonous “chickee-boom” beat.

Blocking it all out, I continued to imagine Coil tunes. The melody in My head somehow found harmony with the clamor of the rabble around Me.

- in dreams I'll talk with You -

Halloween decorations gaudily putrefied every crack of the mall. “Watered-down terror” was an overstatement. Orange and black banners, spinners and rubber balloons. Mylar balloons with caricatures of witches and werewolves. Folding paper pumpkins. Plastic Jack-'O-Lanterns with lightbulb candles. A scarecrow/pumpkin patch/hayfield scene was set up near the southern waterfountains. Dry-ice clung to the set. Grayness billowed out into the rest of the mall. Drifting unusually far in every direction. Thickly coating the floors for hundreds of feet. Adding a slightly hallucinogenic quality to everything. Bewildering slowed motion. Children could have their picture taken with the scarecrow... For a small fee, of course. Parents obliged. Couldn't help but chuckle when I thought they should've been playing Ministry's “Scarecrow” from somewhere.

And splattered over every storefront window, far more ghastly than blood, were about a quarter trillion of those jointed, posterboard skeletons, black cats, and mummies and moons and shit. Ghosts made of bedsheets. Deformed straw bodies propped in lawnchairs. And tons of aerosol-can cobwebs, clinging to everything like white cottoncandy. In every goddamn window. In every fuckin' store.

The only reason it was genuinely eerie was because of how artificial and bastardized all the horror was. Perfectly manicured beneath fluorescent illumination. Never were these rituals meant to be taken so lightly. Dead do walk the night. And costumes are not enough for mortals to hide...

Parents hustled their costumed children through their safe, suburban nightmare. Kids collecting candy from the stores minimum-wage, teen employees. Not even Halloween yet, and there they were, giving out candy. Single servings of sweets carefully rationed out into identical “Parmatown Mall - Happy Halloween - Trick Or Treat” bags. Glossy orange paper, with black nylon string handles.

Trick or treating in a mall... Was there no greater blasphemy?

A few employees were in shoddy costumes. Looking pretty obvious that their hears weren't into it and management made them dress up. Allyson and I laughed at a blonde boys vampire attempt; hairsprayed widows peak; stick-on fangs; garbage bag cloak. (How symbolic!) We spotted him simultaneously, glanced at Each other, and lost it.

Security eyed Us suspiciously. Parma cops abounded in larger-than-usual numbers, because of the concert, I'm sure. Not that an establishment really needs added protection from extra cliques of juvenile, teenie-bopper, mall-rats, but what do bureaucrats know? Normally, the Parmatown rent-a-cops may have tried to trail and hassle Us. Not that they ever do, unless We allow them to anyway. Simple task to remain socially invisible. Sadly however, that night, all the cops and “tough guy” security guards were too busy watching the crowds to bother harassing two more punker degenerates. But they still watched Us. Thinking they're so slick. As if We didn't notice them. Oh, sure, they blend right in... Uh-huh. Assholes.

Should've waited in the goddamn truck.

As We strolled past Camelot Music, a wall of monitors played Highlander. Ahhh... a welcome diversion from the disturbingly sterile Halloween-motif. Thank the gods it wasn't the original Frankenstein or something... Although, I mused, Young Frankenstein would have been fine. Anyway, Highlander was at the part where MacLeod first flashes back to his death on the battlefield. The other side of the store, on the matching wall of monitors, was showing Aliens. Newt just told Ripley, “We'd better get back. 'Cause it'll be dark soon. And they mostly come at night... Mostly...”

The conversation between My Sister and I, continued. “Come on, You can't fall for a Pawn.”

“What?... What? I never said I fell for her.”

“You're not supposed to.”

Glaring away and back to Ally, I scowled. “Who the hell said I have!? Ffuck. You're the One who's - look, I never said I fell for her. No. It's just - I just... like her, that's all. That's not falling for someone.”

“Uh-huh.” Allyson sneered, clearly facetious.

“Fuck You.”

Her eyes flared, but She brushed off My insult. “Have You told Our big Sister how You feel, about Your little Pawn?”

“Yeah.” I made a nasty growl at a passing old couple who were gloating at Us and wearing stupid golfing duds. Then, I amended My response to, “...Well, kinda, I told Her.”

“Camillia'll fucking kill You!”

“Oh, jeez!... What?... What is the matter with, uhh... Gimmie a fucking brea - ” An instant of staring and I stopped. Two seconds later, I concluded. “... What, are You jealous?”

“Me?” Allyson's riding switch virguled Her chest.

The way She answered made Me know I was right. Body language. Look on Her face. She was jealous. How cute. I knew Her too well. “Yeah, You. What the fuck do You care what Camillia says? You think I - wha? - You think I would actually leave Her? Huh? Camillia? No way... How the hell did this even come up? Where did You - ” Laughing, I paused. “... Whatever. Is that why You think Camillia'll kill Me?... I couldn't leave Camillia.”

Allyson bluntly retorted. “No shit. She wouldn't let You.”

“Fuck! Look, I would never even try, okay? I have no desire to lose, or leave, or piss off Camillia to begin with. This has nothing to do with Her.”

“Unf... Yeah, well, whatever.”

“... Hey.” My hand reached to hold Hers. Once Allyson gets so testy, everything just escalates. Instead of challenging and confronting Her, I decided to be kind. I could see one of Her “moods” coming on. I simply didn't want to argue. Softly, I let Her know. “... No mortal Pawn, no one at all, could ever replace You either.” Caressing Her face with a forefinger and a smile, Ally grinned back. Fangs peeked between nightsatin lips. “Never... All I said, is I like her. I like Helle.”

Less defensive, but still a bit heartsore, Allyson whined. “But, that makes it sound like... the way You say it, is like You don't want to Play with her anymore... And I was never jealous. Guess again - ” She quipped, wickedly jerking away from My touch. Swatting lightly at Me with the switch.

Ignoring Her bitching tone, I gently responded. “ - Good. You shouldn't be. And, yes, I'm still - she's still My Pawn. Of course she is. Are You kidding?... Is that what Your problem is? No. She's the perfect Pawn. Perfect. She's probably the best You ever gave Me. I haven't quit Playing with her... Heck, You gave her to Me, remember? It was Your idea - ”

“ - Yeah, so.” Allyson shrugged.

“So, I still can't believe You were so - ” Catching Myself, I decided to let it drop before Ally got all pissy again. So I just finished off saying. “... I dunno. I can't believe You flipped out when I brought her up.”

There was a thwap! as the switch again crossed Her torso. “I didn't flip out... That wasn't flipping out. You've just been mentioning her a lot.”

I really wanted to change the subject. “... Well... Well, You made a good choice... Besides, You - Mmm, One should always have a certain respect and admiration for a Pawn. That's what set them apart from all these other assholes.”

Allyson laughed and look at Me like I spat in a baby's eye. “... Respect and admiration!?...” She laughed harder. “Shit, I don't. Who made up that rule? Huh?... Who taught the Killing Game, first?” She asked the musical question with a sour sneer and a shove.

For some reason, I kept talking, thought I really did want to shut up. “... You'd like her too, Ally... You would. Just because she's physically alive doesn't mean she is in any other way. She's already dead in so many ways. Just because she can go out in the sun doesn't mean she likes it, You know?... Helle is just like Us, in her own way. In so many parts of her, she's dead - ”

Camillia knew about the dreamwalking, but Allyson I never told.

- in dreams, you're Mine all the time -

Allyson snapped bitterly. “ - Yeah, okay... She's nothing like Us, though. Okay?... Okay? Don't bring her up to Our level! She's just a worthless mortal. What the fuck is wrong with You!? So, she's fucked-up? Big deal! What's so different about that?... You act like You never met some psycho gothic chick before! They're all fucked-up, Elric... They're all fucked-up. They all write really bad poetry, and watch The Hunger, and read Sandman comics, and wear black, and think they're vampires... None of the little bitches ever made You act like this before. You're making Me sick babbling about her, alright? Just shut up abou - ”

“ - Fuck You, Allyson... Fuck You.” As much as I loved Her, She could really annoy Me at times. Especially when She got so damn spiteful and snide. So defensive. Screw Her!

So much for not arguing. First, She fears I'm not going to Play with Helle. Now, I mention Helle too much. Can't win, can I?

Perhaps I do know My best friend too well, but forgot Who I was talking to. Why did I ever say She was jealous? Hell, She wasn't jealous. Allyson was just a conceited, malevolent bitch... That's My Girl.

And, admittedly, every word She said was absolutely right.

“Fuck Me? Aren't You ever going to fuck her!?”

“Yes, - ”

“ - Good - ”

“ - But fuck You anyway.” I mocked in disdain.

“Fuck You.” Sticking Her forefinger in My face, Allyson screeched.

“Bite Me.”

“Oh, that's original. Fuck You!”

“No, fuck You!” I shoved Her arm, cracking Her with the heel of My hand.

Angrily, She hammered back. “Asshole!”

A laugh erupted like a cough. “Really original, bitch!” With better leverage, I punched Her shoulder and knocked Her backwards.

Startled, She sighed. Dropped Her jaw. Slits narrowed ebon-sprayed eyelids. Ally yelled. Challenging. “Yeah?... Come on, You fucking prick!... Come on!”

Turning My back, I flipped Her off.

Charging at Me, bull-like, I blocked Her and booted Her ass aside. Dry-ice swirled and nipped around Her battering trenchcoat. Spinning around, She backhanded My chest.

“Ow-w-w!... Fucker...” Had I been mortal, She would've snapped a few ribs.

By then, We were both laughing. Drawing a lot of attention from stunned children. Offending parents. Security didn't do a thing... Aww, but I guess We were violating the malls little “conduct codes,” huh?... Well, well, let them suck Our collective ass. Fascist assholes.

A few skaters chuckled good-naturedly when they saw Us. Hell, if security wasn't fucking with skateboarders, the pigs must be inebriated. They get paid double-time for harassing those dangerous “felons” known as skaters. They must. Since pigs do it all the time. Part of their all-american (or is it “all-aryan?”) oath to serve and protect and be full of shit or something.

Walking - hell, Allyson never walked, She sauntered - in front of Me, Allyson shouted. Calling Me a shithead without bothering to turn around.

Running up from behind, I grappled Her into a playful headlock. “Screw You, You shitfuck witchcunt.” I giggled. “I'll kick Your ass.”

She squealed. “Oww!... I can't wait... Get off Me!”

“Get off on You? Oh, yeah, baby.”

Letting go, We slapped Each other childishly and slung more uncreative insults. Occasionally, She took a crack at Me with the leather horse switch. Occasionally, it fucking hurt.

“Ohhh... Whip Me! Beat Me!... Bitch!”

“Quit whipping Me. Slut!”

“Oh, thank You. They always compliment Me in the end. Are You sure?” Allyson grinned diabolic.

Flirting in return, I offered. “No... Keep it up. I'm starting to like this... Ouch!...”

“Just starting? I thought You always liked this.” Crack!

“Oww! You fucking... punk rock, cuunt! - ”

“ - Excuse Me? - ”

“ - Hey! Hey!... Watch the Armani.” I brushed My shoulder with feigned aristocracy.

“Oh, right. You hypocrite. You fucking painted it! What do You care? Loser!” She got in a good one and smacked Me right in the face. Stung too. “Ooo-o-h-h - ” Her moan was half apologetic but mostly proud.

Left Me impressed and pretty darn surprised. “ - Hey!... Skanky goddamn wench!”

“Oops.” Allyson tittered with only mock remorse. Never lost Her regal French charm. “Didn't hit You too hard there now, did I pal?”

“... Who the fuck You calling a loser? Hoebag! Gimmie that hand I'll - ”

“ - Oh, You'll what? Oh, You'll nothing. Fucking pussyhole wimp.”

“Just try it again, hon, You'll see.”

We stayed at it. Joking and playing and laughing. She got a bit pissed when I tore Her suede trench... Oops... Heh, heh. Luckily I hadn't ripped Her shirt. She would've really freaked. The shirt was one of Her favorites: Mickey Mouse pissing on the stars and stripes and giving the observer the finger. Caption read “Fuck America.” Rednecks and patriotic N.R.A. trash get real miffed at that one. Obviously, the prime reason Allyson adores it. (Which reminds Me, Helle's Mickey & Minnie bondage shirt now had the phrase “Who The Fuck Is Toni Basil!?” on it.)

Ally and I fought and bickered and seconds moved only faint beats of then. Faint passings of now soon gone. Slowly. Dreamily as a frozen snail. Fond, mirthful moments do that so often... Maybe so they're easier memories to savor later on. Maybe because of the mists. Fogs clamping at foot. So numberless caught forever in mind.

Allyson was chuckling. Such a beguiling sound. Between the slapping and rather torrid whipping. She teased Me, singing the old playground taunt. “Helle and Elric, sittin' in a tree - ”

“ - What? How old are You? Is this just a little immature?”

Thinking about how old She really was, I wondered when She'd even heard kids say that rhyme. Was it that old?

And, only kidding, Ally antagonized. “So, are You going to Turn her or what?... Huh?... Make her Your little Girl... Elric and Helle, sittin' in a tree. F - u - c - k - i - n - g. First comes lo - ... Well, hell, I already sang the best part.”

Allyson instantly ceased laughing. Then took a single step away from Me. Not far distant, nearer the center of the mall, emanated “The Ring Of Fire” from the Dracula Soundtrack. Coppola's version. Exceedingly faint.

Ally stammered. “... W-What?... What is it? Elric? I-I'm sorry. I was only kidding...”

She followed My sinister gaze. Fogs thickened under My path of vision. Allyson relaxed, only a little, when She realized the emotions in My eyes weren't directed toward Her. For a moment, She almost had the nerve, and lack of wisdom, to reach out and touch My arm. But, instead, She timidly shied away.

Camillia never even had the audacity to touch Me when I became like that.

Then. When the dominance of My presence glowed so malevolent that no mortal ever dared blink, nor whisper, nor even tremble near Me.

For cruel, they could sense the air itself, seething. With the might of the Arch Fiend's every iron cage and lash. Fibers of reality and intangible netherness, seething. With the brutality of all the blood ever washed over My lips. All the acts of endlessly dark legends. All the mercilessness of My defiled heart. When frothing stallions itch to canter. And sardonic vampire children, slink feline touch.

They're howling. Guttural simmer.

Instilling fathoms beneath all dread. Instilling dread fears wished lost.

While infants are moulting dead flesh... Cackling behind Mine pools of rotting sight.

“... Elric?... What's wrong?...”

“... That's the fucker who's been harassing Hel...”

∞ ∞ ∞

Kevin Jung and his friends were gathered just across the way from Us. In front of B. Daltons Bookstore. I recognized him from Helle's dream. He, the one who had laughed the hardest. That, coupled with the felt “Jung” nametag on his Varsity jacket. I pointed so My malicious Allyson would spot him too. “There.”

One of his friends, Began, also wore a felt-embroidered school jacket. Short and stocky with a wrestlers build. Tobacco-brown hair was parted on one side. Feathered across his scalp. Hands in pockets. He had on white sneakers with those inane lights in the heels. Didn't know they still made those stupid things.

Another boy I didn't know, stood with Kevin and Began. This other kid was wearing a white, preppie pull-over shirt. The shirt was actually tucked in dark gray pants... With a belt. His blackened hair styled in the traditionally never-changing Tom Cruise haircut. He carried himself like he'd had his dick proudly glued shut. The bastard smiled way too much. Too phony and superficial.

Resentment boiled.

All three of them would be at Spring Break in Florida next year. Wouldn't you children? They were just the type. Can just picture it. They'll go to Wet Tee-Shirt Contests. Barking. Howling. Shouting, “I wanna eat your pussy!” Yelling, “Take it off!” and loving it. Sporting Oakley shades. Possibly brave a Tasmanian Devil tattoo. Work on tans. Get drunk a lot. Get laid a lot less... Bet they'll think anatomically airbrushed “Show Your Tits” shirts are cool.

I envisioned them drowning. Intoxicated. Consequently washing up on a breakwall somewhere. Half eaten by sharks. Swollen and blue. Their bodies battering soggily on boulders in the tide... That made Me feel a lot better. Have a nice trip, guys!

And the rest of the “Chic Prick Clique” was on hand too... Lo, and behold...

Cheryl Dobsun, Brian Colemun, Leslie, Dan and Joel stood outside the bookstore as well.

Olde dreams -

... children torment and library horror...

the redheaded child is crying...

... they rip her to skins, using her smile...

If only I had a shoebox to throw.

Brian's golden hair actually had bangs! How did I miss noticing that before? Male fluff chick indeed. Ass-wholesome, Young Republicans at their finest. Their biggest concerns were dating, their “image”, clothes, and sports. For that alone, death is not a cruel enough punishment... But I could think of some.

Remaining unseen, We watched them. Listening along the nowheres...

“Dan.” Kevin called.

Both Dan from the party and the kid in the white shirt said, “What?”

“No. Roman.” Kevin motioned to the boy in white. “Let's go. You comin'?”

This time, only the kid in the white shirt responded. Nodding. “Sure. I'm ready.”

Kevin, Dan Roman and Began all started to leave. “Who else is coming?” Kevin wondered.

“Matt.” Cheryl grabbed Began's arm. “Come on you guys. Why go now? Just hang out awhile.”

Kevin was arrogant and condescending. “It's easier to park now.”

Cheryl checked her watch. “No, it's not. It's nine o'clock. The Flats are still going to be jammed now already. I mean - Come on, just hang out with us.”

“I wanna leave.” Matt Began responded. “This mall sucks anyway. We shoulda just gone to Beachwood.”

“But we always go to Beachwood.” Leslie noted, whining.

“Let's go.” Ordered Kevin, still trying to vacate.

“Fine.” Joel said. “Why don't we just - We'll meet you down there.”

“Okay... W-Meet us at Timmy's then.” Kevin told them.

“Wait. I thought - aren't we all still dressing up for the Halloween contest thing?” Cheryl observed. “Come on, you guys. I was going to - ”

“ - I'm not - ”

“ - Yeah, I wanted to dress up. Where do you want to go now?” Leslie pouted.

“Timmy's. Just meet us there.”

Ceasing to chew her gum, Leslie asked. “Timmy's?... Where's Timmy's? I thought we were all going to Nine Point Zero.”

“We'll still go, just meet us there.” Kevin explained. “Timmy's is right next to Nine Zero.” He began to talk with gestures. Fingertips pointing ahead. “You know where Fagins is when you're on Old River Road? Looking, like, north?”

Leslie looked perplexed.

Kevin's head shook “nevermind.” He started over. “Well, no, first there's Timmy's.” The blade of his hand chopped the air. “Then there's a driveway to the parking garage. Then, there's the building with that freak club and Nine Zero is right next door. It's right there dude.”

“Okay. I know where that's at.” Brian affirmatively nodded. “I know Timmy's.”

Cheryl said. “Yeah, they're all on the same side of the street.”

“Right. All on Old River Road on the... east side.”

“What freak club were - ? Oh, you mean that Boy Lure Tomb or whatever it's called? I hate that place. Nobody ever dances with anybody - like they don't dance in couples. That's so fucking strange. All those freak bars are like that... But who the fuck would wanna dance with those weirdos anyway? That's why, I bet. They don't even wanna dance with each other! You know that freak place down there?” Joel inquired. “Where all the headrots go, right?”

Kevin responded disapprovingly. “Yeah, right a part of Nine Zero.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know now.”

“They shouldn't even let them in The Flats. All those weird, freak headrots... Alternatives.” Matt laughed. “Look like they're all trying to be dead or something?... Friggin' losers, man.”

“Yeah, that's what my aunt and uncle call them: Dead People.” Leslie laughed. “They're so strange... I swear, do you ever notice all those progressives and alternative-types ever talk about is music? - ”

“ - No kidding - ”

“ - It's like, that's all they ever talk about... Don't you think there's a little bit more to life than that, you know? Hello!?” Leslie popped her gum.

“No josh. Dude, I've blown farts that were better music than those groups like, that Louis Jenkins listens to.” Everyone laughed at Dan's comment.

“What a geek.”

“I've heard some of their shit and it's not music. They're all into these bands no one else has even heard of. I mean, no wonder what they listen to sucks. If it's not popular, there must be a reason for it.”

Leslie giggled lightheartedly. “... And why do so many of them always wear black all the time? I hate black... Well, on a nice dress it's okay, but - ”

“ - So, what about wearing stuff for the Halloween contest? We're - yer not gonna dressing up for the costume thing, or what?” Cheryl wondered again.

Joel answered. “No. I don't want to look like some little... hrmm-whatever. 'S for little kids. I'm not dressing in no costume. I never was gonna.”

The other boys verbally agreed. Except Dan Roman who just scoffed at the idea.

“Hey! Check it out!” Brian pointed in the store, laughing with ridicule. “That looks like the kind of stuff they'd like at that headrot bar.”

Displayed in the B. Daltons window was the newest edition of White Wolf's, Storyteller System, role-playing game, Vampire: The Masquerade and The Mind's Eye Theater. Several accessory volumes, posters and shirts were also neatly placed behind the glass.

“What the heck is it? A movie?” Leslie's nose crinkled at the display like it was a roadkilled skunk.

Brian stared and shrugged. “I don't know. Looks like some stupid comic book.”

“No, I think it's a game. I think... I'm pretty sure Helle played it, but her mom doesn't let her anymore. It's really weird. My dad says it - like, there's a bunch of games like that and it makes people suicidal and stuff.”

“Like Helle's dumb little Ouija board game. Damn, freak.”

Curdled fears, dipped in scicomancy fear, trilled over Brian's bones.

Recall those feelings, brave Brian? You'd better defend Helle. We are no dream... Yes, you remember what you saw, don't you? Just barely. Fears lost of any matter. Fears still able to haunt the corners... Corners where they will cling all your miserable days... What did you see? What did you see that night?

We still see you, Briiian...

Brian gasped. So subtle, I doubt he noticed he did it. Rigid, his eyes squinted away his fear enough to say. “Well... D-Don't really - ... I mean, that stuff was just kinda... jus- ... bizarre. You have to admit - ”

Never say it out loud... You know better... It'll all come true if you say it out loud. Even if you think it too long. Even you know that... Don't you...

“ - Oh, you're just superstitious.” Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Nothing happened. You didn't see anything. There's no such things as that stuff. That was just your imagination. I'm telling you.”

“Or your intoxication.” They all found that much funnier than it actually was.

“Yeah, no fooling. I bet he don't even remember. Remember, we all went out and got those sixers from the car first?... Man, we were just wasted.”

“ - But that was afterwards - ” Brian whispered so his lips moved not at all.

“ - That's all. Come on. You don't - ... Only stupid freaks like Helle believe in that Ouija stuff. Everybody - it's all fake - everybody knows that. It's like all your subconscious and stuff.” Dan reiterated.

“Yeah. Dummy. We were drunk.”

“Yeah.”

“Did I - ? I told you the bullshit Helle said about my dad and shit, didn't I?”

Kevin snorted scornfully. “Yeah... Dude, don't let her get to you.”

He tapped Cheryl with the back of his hand.

Looking...

Drunken passions and secrets...

... Vows to never tell.

At that moment, I knew, Cheryl and Kevin had fucked each other. Recently.

Touching more of the dark in night than each other... And they both still think of it...

“I just still can't believe that bitch would say those things.”

Kevin's tone was repulsed. “Oh, so what? Nobody believes it... I mean, who would? Wake uup. Come oon. Your dad? Of all people? Think about it, has he - he ever hit you?”

“No.”

The jocks attitude was completely deadpan and compassionless. “Well... Helle is - she should just wake up. Wake up, you know? Do you know any girl who claims that she got beaten as much as she says she has? I've never known anyone, in all my life, get beat like her... And it's funny that it all comes out now. You notice. After all the shit she did? Ahh, she's so full of shit. I don't believe it. I don't believe her. I really don't.”

“I know. And like I said, he never hit me.” Cheryl brushed aside her hairsprayed locks.

“Of course! Of course not. And then she's crying about it and asks for help? W-What can anybody do? Huh?... What can we do? Nothing... Nothing. You told her that... And it pisses me off that she turns around and inconveniences you or anyone to help her. I-I don't want to get dragged into any of that. 'S none of my business.”

“I don't believe her anyway.”

“Oh, I know! She makes that shit up. She makes it all sound worse than it is so people will feel sorry for her, that's all. And all her depression and shit. What does she know about being depressed? She's too young to be depressed. You can't be depressed at that age.”

“I think so too.” Offered Matt. “I'm never depressed.”

Kevin exaggeratedly shrugged. “Hey, she's got a big mouth, she brings it on herself. She really does. She's got a mouth. That attitude. Come oon, setting their deck on fire? Tearing up her room and shit? What does that prove? Huh? What the hell is that? Of course she'll get beat for that... What a loser. Heh, there's something really wrong with that girl. She'd not normal, y'know?... She's not normal. Get a life. Get off those drugs and get your life together, you know?... What an idiot.” Kevin chuckled and reached to brush his hair with the comb in his back pocket. “And she always dates those scumbags. No wonder her mom never lets her out.”

“Well, Brian used to want to date her.” Leslie mocked.

“Wha-? Nu-uh... No I didn't. I never liked her. No. No way. She's one twisted fuckin' girl, man.”

“Maybe if she really did get beaten once in awhile, she'd be a little more fucking normal. Knock some sense into her.”

“Hey, Cheryl, an asshole is an asshole, you know? She'll never change. You made your bed, now lie in it. That's the way it goes. That's life.” Kevin's comb slipped back.

“Did you see that Ohio State game today?” Matt asked Kevin.

Joel responded instead. “Yeah, my team was getting clobbered. Down by two in the third - ”

“ - Yeah!? Damnit, don't tell me, I taped it. We're outta here.” Kevin told everyone who was staying behind. “We'll meet you all at Timmy's.”

Swirling elsewhere among nowhere, I wondered - Can Helle hear their cruel thoughts? At least feel them, I know. Does she know how much of a no one they find her to be? Ghosts and echoes of a past time knew those answers... Yet could not speak of it to any but their own selves. There is no more journey.

All occurred behind frosted windowpanes. And locked in the cold, anger grew. Snowflakes are blood.

Goodbyes were cast and the group split in two. Discussing football. Kevin, Matt, and dick-glued Dan left the mall together... Brian still appeared unsettled. They all did, to some degree. But none would admit it then. Not ever. Even when the reaches of their instincts told them to be still. Be still so the things might not see you.

We always watch you, trivial living souls.

Dark nothings and black feelings are simply a dream?... Then We shall find you in your sleep. When its too late at night for anyone to help. Touch. Fear. From reflections of who you really are. Shudder in clutch of something dead inside. Of wonderful creatures that never slumber in dark... Instead of feeling alone. Instead of knowing what can not be. Mortal thoughts were always possessed the immense foolishness of rationalizing the unreasonable. Granting “logical explanations” to what they consider illogical experiences. Enfolding arms of desire about it, should they be. Over time, however, the mind of the living may belittle the most vivid, horrible recollections into foggy, unmemorable nothingness. Never able to embrace darkness. Weakly and unwisely, it does this, to keep from going insane.

Those children all appeared to wish they were...

These things can be arranged...

Hate strafed My veins with a single dissonant piano chord jet. On tear-stained walnut. Dashed against the rocks. Bloated and frostbitten corpses afloat on a slushy northern sea. Lilypads algae of the banshees, hour sands. Allyway eyelash bands. Behold the manes of raven hands. As all enflames...

Helle is possessed by the Creator of Madness and Despair. She belongs to Me...

How dare anyone else torment My Pawn.

“Elric! Come here!”

∞ ∞ ∞

No longer with Me, near the Bombay Company, Allyson was calling out My name from the central fountains. My foreboding stayed pressed on the teens for a score of breaths longer. Until they dissipated within the masses.

Marching My way to Allyson, I saw the stage for the mall-rat band. Placed between the fountains, roadies stood on stage, waiting to break it down, I supposed. One kid was pretty cool looking. He was the one quietly playing Dracula through the soundsystem. Wearing a Love Spit Love shirt. Thought he kinda resembled Richard Butler too...

Allyson stood by Natasha and Sibyl who were seated on the beige tile fountain wall.

Sibyl jumped to Her feet, smiling. She leapt into My arms.

“Elric!” She squealed.

“Hiya, Sib.” My retort lacked the enthusiasm I felt.

Sibyl didn't notice. “How ya been, bud!?”

Swelling affection trickled warm into My limbs. “Great... Couldn't wait to see You. You look really good too.”

“Aww. Thanks. Well, that's why I am a model, dhaling!” Sibyl thought I didn't “look too shabby either.” Offhandedly, she glanced down the front of Her body. But Her looks were more than that. Always was She a darkly rebellious Spirit. A mace-balled, barbell nosering, pierced Her septum and complimented Her pierced tongue. The spiked, cold metal licked My neck. Baggy skate overalls covered Her legs, tan with black tie-dyed highlights. A ripped Melvins tee-shirt was covered with an oversized olive flannel. Bad Brains-esque dreads were colored stopsign red. Often, She was atypically animated when She spoke. Especially around those She liked. Similar to an eight year old on PCP. Uninhibited. Part of Her persona was pristine silver melting through glass claws. Her left wrist had been tattooed with dotted lines, a tiny pair of scissors, and the caption “Cut Here.”

Matching that sentiment, on Her skates grip tape, was the paintmarkered phrase: “I Was Born Suicidal. I Have Perforated Wrists.” Finally, the whole morbid motif was capped with an undead skater skeleton on the scuffed underside of the deck. The weathered motto read: “You Are What I Was. I Am What You Will Be.”

Had to love Her.

Natasha was in a black net bodysuit, and Her “good old leather biker jacket.” The jacket had a worn Flatliners logo on back and a Christian Death patch on the hip. Levi's 501's cut-offs (which She nabbed from a former boyfriend) covered fishnet stockings that are great for feeding because they attract the prey. And no-frills Docs capped Her toes. She smiled with coppery lips. We hugged hello. Familiar crush and whiff of old leather and hair.

The symmetric, penny-dotted waterfountains shushed and garbled in the background.

To Sibyl, My eyebrow jumped. “Don't I get to see Your other bodypiercing?”

She snorted, apathetically, rolling back Her eyes. “Sure.”

Yanking down everything at Her neck, including Her bra, She revealed one of Her pierced nipples. “Happy?” She laughed, making it shimmy. “Poppin' a big old bone, You perv?”

“No, but I am.” Natasha smirked.

Sibyl, chuckling, hid Her perfection back under clothing.

Her doing that wasn't nearly as hysterical as the reaction of the prude old woman who saw Sibyl do it. The old virago said something about “the whole kit and kaboodle” of the country going down the drain. Whatever the hell that means. That cracked Me up to the point of being almost painful.

Frivolously, I joked. “Vhat ah You, cwazi?... So, whattaya been up to?” I asked Sibyl, still laughing. My arm still wrapping Natasha's waist.

Natasha and Sibyl sat back down. “Hangin' out... I was just in Washington. I skated the, um, that cop memorial thing. I'll have to take You there. We'll ride it together sometime.”

“... The what?”

“In Washington D.C. Ah, there's this cool, curved, like, banked memorial.” She made an arcing motion with Her hand. “I think it's the Law Enforcement... Officers Memorial or somethin'? Gots all these names of dead cops carved in it. 'Ya just ollie up and carve this embanked, like, curve thing. We had Body Count's “Cop Killer” on repeat... Really loud. 'T was reeally cool... Really cool...” Her skate wriggled back and forth underfoot.

“Cool... I skate on your grave.” Was spoken in My best James Earl Jones-octave.

Sibyl snorted. “How 'bout You?”

Smirked and tumbling My eyes, I let Her know. “Ah, same old things... Got this industrial/hambone band I'm in. Uh, been getting into a little albino, Siamese-twin leper wrestling too. Nothing new I guess.”

As Sibyl laughed, light glinted off Her nosering. “Oh... yeah. I heard that was becommin' all the rage. That leper wrestling especially.”

“Oh, hey... What can I say? It's like, You know, everything starts to become trendy eventually... I think they're even going to start showing it on ESPN too. Right after fetus bobsledding... Yeah, I mean, that really sucks. But hey, what can You do, right?”

“What can You do? Oh! What are You guys doing on November fourth?” Sibyl glanced at Natasha. “I've been meaning to - I, meant to ask You too. I kept forgetting.”

Allyson and I looked at Each other. Frowning, I shrugged. “Nothing I can think of.”

Allyson couldn't either and asked why.

“Miranda Sex Garden is coming... Up in Detroit. You guys should come.”

“Cool. Yeah. We'll come... Why not?”

Natasha reminded Me. “Isn't that the Siouxsie show that night?”

“Siouxsie is coming?” Sibyl's brow soared. “What the fuck? Nobody told Me.”

“... Aw, shhhit. That's right. You're right. I can't believe - I totally forgot about that. I - No, I can't go to Detroit that night... You should come down here.”

Sibyl's frown was minor. “Mmr... Okay. That's cool... I don't know yet. Maybe.”

“Wonder who was playing here.” Allyson nodded toward the stage. “Or trying to play... Lip synching to DAT maybe?”

“Some mall-rat band.” Natasha volunteered the obvious.

Crumpling Her face, Sibyl joked. “Mall-rats?... I thought it was that, uh, what's their name?” Her fingers snapped successively. “Pearl Garden? Or Sound Jam... er, Stone Temple Chili Peppers, Alice In - ... something or other or someone? I dunno.” Dreadlocks flopped in Her confusion.

Allyson announced. “I heard it was a bunch of Liberachie impersonators covering old Run-D.M.C. songs.”

Cute. All of Us chuckled. Then Sibyl's thoughts abruptly changed to. “Well, why don't You guys at least come up for Devil's Night tomorrow?”

Ally and I looked at Each other. Our gazes asking One anothers confirmation. Allyson told Her. “Yeah. Cool by Me... We were planning to already anyway.”

Across from Us, a father smacked a little boy who had practically crawled into the fountains. Shouted warnings about being electrocuted-and-breaking-ones-neck arose.

“Oh, okay. Good. Cool beans, man.” Giving a thumbs-up, Sibyl looked much happier. “Where's Your Wife? The Wife unit. I thought She was coming.”

“Yeah. She's out in the truck waiting for Us. 'Fact, We should really get going.”

“What, did You lock Her out there or something?”

“Noo.” Half the word was a chuckle.

Natasha addressed Ally and I. “'Er, You guys going to Joshua's art opening on Wednesday?”

“Yes.” I answered.

“Yeah. We're going.”

“Wasn't - ? Weren't We supposed to get invitations to that?”

“Yeah. We got Ours... Don't worry. You'll get in. We can - ”

“ - Oh, I don't care. I mean, I know that. I'm just pissed that He didn't give Me My invitation yet.” Natasha's nailbitten fingertips clawed hair out of Her eyes.

“You know Joshua.”

Allyson revealed. “I think He intends to hand out a lot at the party on Monday.”

“Oh... Isn't that kind of tacky for Him?”

“Nice costume!” Some chickenshit moron sarcastically yelled. Interrupting when he and his pals were thirty feet away from Us. Who knows which of Us it was directed toward. They never have the guts to look at the person they ridicule.

“Eat shit!... Fuckin' Trapper Jacks.” Sibyl muttered.

“... What?” Ally and Tasha looked strangely at Her.

Sibyl snarled at the cluster of passing mortals. Pointing. “You know, those guys - ... Trapper Jacks.”

... None of Us knew what She meant. “What the hell is a Trapper Jack?”

Sibyl pushed a clump of hair aside and shifted Her weight on Her ass. “Oh, You don't know, a - ? ... Okay. Um, Me and one of My Friends talked about this once. We made it - We made this up. See, a Trapper Jack is - Well, a guy has to meet a few requirements, first, to be one. But, it's real easy. So, a Trapper Jack, is usually like thirty, forty years old. They got their short, styled haircut and a little Tom Selleck-trapezoid-mustache. And they all, like, wear football sweatshirts and hang out in sports bars and, they go around making these rude, prepubescent remarks to one another about every well-proportioned female they see... You know? They're Trapper Jacks. That's a Trapper Jack. 'Cause Me and My Friend saw some guy on a billboard once, and that was his name, and We realized every guy in the Midwest looks just like that!”

Getting the idea, Natasha joined in. “Don't forget their two gallons of cologne too.”

Sibyl made a ratcheting sound in the back of Her sinuses. “Eeew. Shit. No fuckin' kidding.” She laughed. “I know. It's like they all... fuckin' bathe in it. They walk by You and You can taste it. Fucking taste it, the shit is so goddamn strong! Uugh... Disgusting.”

I looked around. “Hmm. 'Yer right. Trapper Jack Central around here.”

Security came by and told an old man on a bench to put out his cigar - No Smoking Area. He and his wife grumbled about it, once the guard was out of earshot. The old bag started to berate the geezer that the doctors told him to quit anyway.

“We should probably go. Camillia's waiting still for Us.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” I agreed with Allyson. “We, um - ”

“ - Oh. Wait.” Natasha held My arm. “I, uh... There's something I - ... I really need to talk to You about something.”

Natasha's eyes were graven. A knowing look was shared between Her and Sibyl. Ally and I were clueless.

“... Well? What?”

“I... need to talk to You alone. First, before, We go. I just - ... There's somethin' I really need to talk to You about.”

Without overanalyzing it too much, I merely said, “... Okay.” Besides, the longer I thought about what She might want, the more time We wasted. The more time I'd be in the fucking shoppingmall.

When I began to walk off with Her, Sibyl called out. “... Elric! Hey! Wait up!”

Sibyl scampered over. “I should really say goodbye now. I really have to get going too. I'm, supposed to meet people at three and stuff, so - ...”

“... - Oh. Okay... Fine. Leave Us. Go right ahead. I don't care. Go on. Go away. I don't mind. No, it's alright. Leave.” I pouted, fanning Her off.

“Aww... I'll see You soon, kiddo.”

My pitch changed with My smile. “I know. You will. I'm just teasing.”

“I know.”

“Well, I'm glad I got to see You again... Even for a little bit.”

“Yeah... Me too.”

We kissed. Quickly and soft. Sweetness flared.

“... Take care.” Sibyl turned and wandered back to Allyson.

“You too. See You soon... See You tomorrow.”

“Yeah! Cool!... You remember how to get there?”

“Ha. Ha.” Sarcasm oozed.

“Later.” Waved fingers in a cascade.

My hand froze in the air. “'Bye.”

Turning to Natasha, I wondered. “So, what's on Your mind?”

Screwing up Her cheeks, She groaned. “Hrmm...”

Once I asked, it was apparent She wasn't ready to tell Me yet. She tripped over Her hesitation. “I... it's jus - ... I-I'd rather - ”

“ - Okay. Okay. Nevermind. I'm sorry. Take Your time.” Actually, that's the last thing I wanted Her to do. But, the more I pushed, the longer She was liable to drag this out. As We left, Sibyl was telling Allyson that She liked Her switch. Allyson was bragging about smacking Me with it.

Natasha and I swam through a wake of Trapper Jacks, frat boys, baby carriage pushers, costumed children, and sexually-repressed old folks who were flustered over Her attire. Rows of media-spawned “missing links” of middle america. Completely detached from their world.

The Company I kept just scowled Her lips. “Well-adjusted people piss Me off.”

Hrmph. True.

Funniest part about the whole Halloween ordeal was that all four of Us could sit around talking and people-watching with Our fangs extended, and We barely garnered second looks... From most people anyway.

Together, I couldn't help but look at Tasha again and again. Familiar...

So reminiscent of the time We met. Only learned Her name that night. In those hours together, I know We spoke of more. Of what, I know not. Nothing much more I can remember. Only Her name.

Natasha.

Indeed, Our gait resurged thoughts of the moment We met. Of Tasha and I walking along a beach together. Two strange, bleak specters, newly acquainted.

Little and everything has changed...

Recently Damned to all majesty of twilight, I had been at Edgewater Park. Unusually bright moonlight in those memories. Skimmed the sand with tickles. Winds spoke, waving in whispy beard, leafy limbs. Someone had created a huge sandsculpture of a moated castle. Before the portcullis lay an enormous dragon. Nearly as big as the keep. Guarding its horde of treasure. Waves gargled. In time to moonglitter on the sandcarved wonder. And the moon embossed for it a shadow, black as charred cathedrals. What a curious sight...

Abandoned had the beach been. For a determineless time I stood there. Absorbing the tender wind. Feeling the moon. Touching artful sands. Lost in My horror.

Natasha appeared from that deserted eve. Like an apparition I might hope to meet. By chance alone. Collecting there Her thoughts, now so grim. Hair pitchblack as the sky. Strands catching needlepoints of light like constellations. Her beauty adorned a little joy to desperate minutes. For hours We talked that evening. Gentle and kind words... Though I remember nothing of what was said.

Ah, wait!... Yes! Laughter, as well, I recall... By the quirk of irony and coincidence, I had happened to be wearing a Standing On A Beach Cure shirt. Both of Us had remarked on it.

- staring at the sea -

- staring at the sand -

...Yes. That was funny. How strange... To remember that only now...

And strange how ominous such all hours seem. Usually, I don't remember it that way.

... But that memory was old. Old as lifetimes for some... Sometimes it changes a great deal. Ages gone it was. Much time had passed since then. And many, many things have occurred since We shared that night...

Nearing the corner of Kaufmanns, the mall-rats roadie changed The Cure to Peter Gabriel's “Rhythm Of The Heat.” Knocked it up louder this time. The music broke My trance of reminiscing, so a new one might begin... I hadn't even noticed when he had put The Cure on...

“English tack?” Natasha dribbled a finger at My outfit.

“... Huh?... No. Tack? Tack is for sissies. Bareback.”

“Oh! Good. Even better... Then why are You dressed up like that?”

A valid question. Black riding boots, coordinated riding pants, and a custom, sable Armani jacket were not My usual attire. But I responded with. “What do You mean?”

Turning around, I showed Her the Transvision Vamp logo on the jacket back.

“Oh, cool... Is Wendy James coming to the party again, this year too?” Tasha inquired.

“I don't know. Pretty likely.”

“At first, I thought that was an Armani... Is that an - ”

“ - Yeah.”

“I can't believe You painted an Armani.” As She snickered, I unbuttoned the coat. Underneath was a shirt with a diabolical Simon Bisley painting and the phrase: “Just Because We Hate You, Doesn't Mean We'll Kill You.”

“Oh, that's perfect! Leave the jacket undone.” She opened the coat with both hands to get a clearer look at the shirt. “That's so cool... What did Camillia wear?”

“That black dress/cloak thing She has... I forget what it's called.”

Natasha was confused.

Attempting to clarify, I described it. “... You know. You said You liked the one other one She had. She had one on similar to it when We saw You, out at - ”

“ - Oh! I remember. The - ... Yeah. Okay. Did You know Wendy and Cream were here?” Natasha added unexpectedly.

“Uh. Yeah. Saw their jeep outside - ”

Obviously, She was avoiding the subject. This certainly wasn't what Natasha felt so adamant over talking to Me alone about.

“It sort of is...” Natasha answered.

We paused in the hallway, next to the neon orange of Record Town. A lonely little corner of the mall, considering all the commotion just forty feet away. A group of three black kids slipped out the nearby exit, but didn't pay much attention to Us.

“It's sort of about Wendy and Cream?”

“... It's about Nix.”

“... What about Him?”

She had eyes which said I already knew. And I did.

But I had a voice which said I didn't care. And there was no way I would make it that easy for Her.

Besides, Her capricious shyness was annoying the hell out of Me. Screw this “politeness” crap. I leaned against the wall. Folding My arms. Deridingly I demanded. “What - the - fuck - do - You want, Natasha?”

Rubbing Her face, She tensely answered. “Well, it... it has a lot to do with Camillia too. But, I always felt - ... I'd really rather just talk to You about this... Okay?”

Oh. Keep this between the Two of Us? That's what She was requesting? Bullshit. I wasn't about to play stupid games. And I never wanted to speak of that idiot Nix ever again. Maybe I'll reveal whatever Tasha says simply because it ticks Me off that She'd mention Nix at all. Let's get this over with. Impatiently, I growled. “Go on...”

Full well, I knew She would interpret that response as a consent to Her wishes - even though it was nothing of the sort.

Lips quivered out frustration. Pacing in circles, Tasha scratched Her neck. Building courage. Dramatic pause. (How pathetic.) Birch-white fangs instantaneously snapped rage. “Why the fuck did You let Nix Turn that little blonde bitch!?”

Reactionless, I stared back at Her. The tiniest scornful grin shaped in My mood. Natasha gazed at Me. Her head cocked defiantly. I did not answer.

An emotion between sorrow and loathing wracked Her. Very old betrayals sharing very old dreams melted behind Her desolation. Wishes never fulfilled slipped away. And Tasha's grasp was waning.

“... Damn it!... Answer Me... You always hated Nix. Why the fuck did You give Him Auri? What did I do wrong?”

Still I did not respond.

“... You've never Sired a Changeling have You? Have You? Have You ever wanted to? Even just a Revenant, like Wendy or Cre - ”

- SMACK! Quick as a longbow snap, My fist backhanded Her jaw. “How dare You ever ask Me anything like that!? I do not answer to You! Not to anyone! GODS answer to ME!”

Tasha stumbled over from the strike. Holding Her cheek. Boots clomping on tile to catch Herself from falling. She never squealed. Only caterwaul venom hissed from stone eyes.

“Don't You ever question Me! Is that understood!? And You dare to come to Me and question Her Majesty's authority, behind Her back!? You never question Us!... Never... You're forgetting Your place, Natasha. You're forgetting Your respect.”

Bitch.

Tasha peered fire and thorns into Me. Courage greater than I expected in Her. Tears She forced back were ones of hate. Determination. Not defeat or humiliation. Certainly not fear or pain. Her voice a quivering ice floe. “Damnit, Elric... Why?... That's all I want. Just to know.” Teeth clenched. “I loved Scott. You know that. You knew I did... Now I'll never see him again... Why didn't You let Me Take him?... Why? I never asked for anything in all these years. You never gave a reason. I deserve - ”

“ - Nothing.”

Stunned Her for a moment... Then, with that word, She faced away. Turning Her back to Me, Tasha knotted Her fists. A schreech built and grew inside Her. With an exasperated groan, She kicked over a stone trashcan in the aisleway. The impact of the slamming stone cracked tiles underfoot. Cigarette ashes, candy wrappers, and fast food bags fanned across the floor. Doused in a stream of stale pop and melted ice cubes.

Natasha tripped to the opposite wall, kicking a paper cup along the way. Leaning on Her shoulder, standing sideways. Weakened. As much as it was possible, She curled into a ball. Into Herself. Giving a hardlong look at nothing.

Back between Her and the thin glacier of pop I stared. Eyelids shut, immobile as a wintergarden statue was She. Daggers of light reflected and shifted on the wet floor. Slivers of french fries soaked like sponges.

The beautiful dead Girl still did not move.

Still She did not speak.

The air held to scents of Her beaten jacket. And I found Myself unable to stop tracing Her dour form.

“... Tasha...” My voices Own compassion surprised Me. Popcorn scrunched beneath My boots. Next to Her, I approached. Touching Her arm. “...You know... You didn't have to stay here. You could've just Changed Scott and left. Embraced him somewhere else.”

Tasha scoffed but didn't bother facing Me. “Right. And be Hunted and banished everywhere We go?... Outcasts? No. No thanks, Elric.”

When She faced Me, it was done with the softest eyes I may have ever seen. And that cut deeper than any thorns She had just leered. “... Do You know what it means to love somebody?... I couldn't Outcast Us. I couldn't do that to him...”

Do I -

Do You know what it means to -

Do You...

No!

Rage welded Me to silence. Somewhere inside, I buried it alive. Suffocate it to death. Never show Her. No one. Remember: She deserves nothing. She's just an impudent club kid. I could drag Her mind into places She's never conceived of... But I should've snapped Her goddamn neck for that.

... And... Of course, She was right about being Outcast. Because of forbidding Her of Scott, She had run off on Her Own, to New Orleans for several years. Just to get away. To be alone. But She went alone. And She was not Outcast. Had She been cast out, where could She go? How long would They have lasted?

The wilds were no place to be. Even for Us. Mortal runaways and fugitives can barely survive on the run without help. How could We? How does One exist in the wilderness or countryside when daylight itself equals destruction? And no city would take Them in. And cities, with their sunless sewers and abandoned buildings and subways are the only places where the banished stood half a chance... Well, not really.

Every Creature form Toronto to LA would know They were Outcast the very next night... And wolf packs destroy lame stragglers, showing up to share Their prey.

As little as any Kindred ever wanted to admit it, We needed Each other. Not necessarily to survive. Just to not turn against one another. We could protect Her anywhere. And if a Royal Family ordered anyone dead, be they mortal or Damned, it would be done... Especially one with an influence reaching all the way to Europe. With cold, cold claws. Nowhere in the world was safe.

Natasha was right. Defying Us would have sealed Their doom.

Even with the other dangers overcome...

There was no escaping The Hunt...

“I never tried to hurt You.” That assurance was ignored... And sometimes, I doubt it was even said.

Devouring crimson tears She shed, Natasha grinned a cracked-leather smile. Every pause bore a disgusted titter. “... You still won't tell Me? And You suggest something that You know would've got Us killed!?”

I hadn't meant it like that... But why bother telling Her now?

“... Fine. Fine. Thanks. Fuck You anyway. It's none of My business, why You let that little shit have that... slut... I know... Forget I even asked... It doesn't matter why You let Him Change Her. It doesn't matter... Doesn't matter. Nothing does.” A hush faded Her words.

Natasha recoiled from My touch. Flicking Her arm out of My hand. One part of Her seemed to be trying to convince another when She said, “Doesn't matter why You let Him.”

Sidestepping the lid of the trashcan, She deftly walked away.

“... We didn't.”

What I had said wasn't loud enough for a human to hear.

Natasha's svelte legs froze. Ten seconds must have gone by before She turned around. “... What?”

An old man, smelling of dentures, came in the doors. Passed Us without a word.

No expression on My face other than a crimped brow.

Natasha sauntered back toward Me. “What?” She asked again. Quieter this time. Almost fearful. For She knew the implication of what My words meant.

“You heard Me... Never will I repeat that... And if You ever do, to anybody, they will be the last words You ever say.”

Not one grain of mirth in My tone.

She heard that.

Perplexed at first, Her mouth widened into an ill smile. Spreading open slowly as a blossoming flower. Smickering lightly. Sadistically eased into maddened giggling. Over and over Her whole appearance contorted. Trying to come to terms with My revelation. Her mental anguish over the past few weeks held the simplest explanation in the world: One She never even considered.

“That's Who it was after...”

Laughter both seductive and psychotic finally tore Her apart. And She couldn't stop. Comely, Her stygian joy. An aura of beguiling coalsmoke enveloped Her.

A childish glimmer in Tasha shined across an iris. Resembling airbubbles frozen in a marble. “And here I was almost envious of Him!”

Then, I too had to laugh.

Chuckling so hard, Tasha was wheezing. Weeping scarlet tones.

Eventually, after many resurgences of laughing, somewhat of a calm serenity returned to Her. That took quite some time. Time rippled like light on water. Hanging onto Each other in hysterics became an empathic embrace. There We stood. Holding Her in My arms. Exchanging supple words. Forgiveness. Touching with the sympathy of siblings. Regrets. All that was said, tranquilly spoke. Apologies. With ease. Compassion. Kisses on cheeks. Caresses of hair. Wiping of tears.

“Don't hate Me. I know it - ... I know You were pissed.”

“No... No, I don't. And I was too depressed to be angry... Now I'm pissed.”

Sniffling, She drew away. Huffing a fuming sigh. “... I just... Wanna tear the fucking - ... tear the fucking world apart sometimes!” Fists pulsed like beating hearts. A thousand other unspoken hates and thoughts swirled in Her marrow.

Mortified eyes widened. Almost every portion of Her aspect changed in that instant. Realization illuminated Her face for unknown reasons. Realizing all She had just done. “... Forgive Me.”

On bended knee, She dropped. Natasha bowed Her head. “My anger doesn't justify the way I just treated You. I... I was inexcusably rude to You, My Lord.” She raised Her head again, but Her eyes were shut. “On Your mercy... I am sorry.”

Wise of the Lass to say. “... Are You?”

Enraged blood still quivered within Her. Eyes opened. What She did next, She did without hesitation: In the time it takes a mortal to sneeze, Natasha pulled out a switchblade, drew up Her coatsleeve, and sliced halfway through Her forearm. Pain hazed Her eyes. But the dark Beauty did not flinch. Proof of Her remorse.

Raising Her arm, She showed Me the cardinal flow. “I am sorry, Elric.”

She licked a drop that had splattered to the edge of Her mouth. Evil grinned. “... But I'm still in the mood to tear apart the world.”

Iris dragonflames.

Yes. Truly that vicious desire scented Her spilling blood too. Flooding. Coarsing... Running. Mmm... Savage wants are such honeymead incense.

My simper drained thick as maple wounds... We could do some terrible things tonight.

“... You are forgiven.”

Natasha licked both flesh and steel of their ichor.

We hugged. Her blade hidden away. The gashed arm nearly healed. Once more, sharing words of friendship. Honest words. Ones of caring. Words of old companions. Warm words. Said by Two who met long ago, on a silent shoreline.

Moonlit beach of sandcastles and dragons... She was forgiven. We would need not speak of these events ever again.

Cheryl and her xenophobic friends walked down the main strip of the mall. Seeing Tasha and I in the side hall, they pointed and laughed. Mumbling. Hurling their little comments. Having no idea We could hear them so well.

We ignored them.

“Freaks!” One yelled in a disguised nasal voice. All giggled cowardly as they walked behind a corner.

I ignored them. Tasha tensed with fury. Redirected. She had no idea who they were. But that was irrelevant. Scorpions reared Her bones.

Completely detached from -

Another world, begging to be torn apart...

“They looked just like Helle's weirdo friends.” By now, they assumed they couldn't be heard at all.

As an afterthought, another shouted back. “Hey! Do You know Helle Tompkins!?... Fucking psycho freak.”

“We should've invited Helle tonight and just leave her down in The Flats somewhere.”

“Heh! Heh! Yeah!”

“Or we coulda got her drunk and sent her home with some old pervert.”

“Yeah, but who would pick her up?” More insolent laughter.

How dare anyone torment My - ...

... - dreamwalker...

∞ ∞ ∞

Helle is...

... standing on the library balcony.

- I wish someone could get rid of all those shitheads in my life... Somehow... -

... What you wish for. You just may get it.

- Fucking...

“ - fucking psycho freak - ”

... Freak -

The old say...

A dreamwalker stands at the horizon of shadowpaths. Between the blanket shadow and candleflame. Between the door dreams and sunlight. Between the spirit life and eternal sleep.

Here, on thunderstorm of crossroads, stands the trail.

Here... stands a dreamwalker.

Musicbox visions rise on prairie heat. Everglade murk. Rising. Beyond their plume lies the quest. The song plays for those with listening ears. Singing of warrior deeds... and the twilight tribes of far lush lands...

All is myth -

All is dream -

Only legend and inner dance to shadowsongs. Above everglade and moor...

Stars care not for the wishes of man. Oh, but I be perked listening ears. We, My Brethren and I...

Neither you nor Me nor Us nor We...

Never do they care. But I...

- Those children all appeared to wish they were... -

The Old is coming back...

- She...

“ - she brings it on herself - ”

... Herself -

Leaving the balcony. Climbing down ladders of steel beds. In an endless room of pure white. No walls. No ceiling. No floor. Far as I can see. White in every direction. And on the beds lie corpses. Freshly burned and disemboweled and dismembered. Covered in pristine snowy sheets. Sheets not stained by a drop of blood. As if all the infinite slabs were preternaturally stacked, seconds ago, with these horrid bodies. He kept logs in his dad.

Down these gruesome rows I climb. Down...

Down...

- I...

“ - I just still can't believe that bitch would say those things - ”

... Things -

Peacefully, Helle lies in bed. Lady O'Connor of birth and Hibernia strong, lamenting song of “Scarlet Ribbons.” Ribbons tied snug around Helle's bosom. And so she would not be Becoming this night. She stirs only faintly. Peacefully. As one in bedside prayer whilst sleeping sound.

- Like...

“ - like Helle's dumb little Ouija board game - ”

... Game -

Quiet and dark by the atmosphere of hardwoods. Princesses have taken refuge in this room many age after age. Where books and shelves rest cozy around a mahogany desk before leadened glass. The werewolf prince, in rabbitsnow ermine, bursts through bolted oak doors. Girth of a minotaur bear. Fast as a fox. Cannonshot quick.

Screaming, the lascivious princess clutches her infant closer to her breast. Cowering to the wall. Divine in beast-torn clothes which cover only without a thought.

Striding the room in a step. In most stately, handsome vestments. Royalty growling freezes the scene. Even the clock seems to fear its own ticking. Nothing dare move. But for jittering and wanton gazes. Salivating fangs. And princess hair shuddering under his steaming respire.

- She's...

“ - she's one twisted fucking girl, man - ”

... Man -

Ministry of Dream Song.

- you're alive -

Unclouded sunlight gives trees a blinding green glow. Against the stark backdrop of a stormcrowded sky. Skies matching russet, apricot kaleidoscopes of the witching months. Murky rainbow hues of changing leaves.

On gump They be seen. May Erin and Ira slay the Queen of Hearts. Ordering butchery from her palace of bucking swine.

The sighs and hushes of death whisper in My lungs. The Bridegroom of dying... Where pipes carry far, smoke and song.

The trails I stride, gray from the pipes...

... are those of smoke.

... are those of breath.

Those of -

Peace carved of tribes. Ulleian charms of mists.

“Without time, memories cease to exist.”

- Knock...

“ - knock some sense into her - ”

... Her -

Them We will lead through the grimwood. Where sidhe run free hurling bad and shunning good. Hurling games to draw stout sticks and mighty swings. Mortal hearts too blind to fear the truth of things. Struck and ridden and led they are said, to a place both far and close. Where torment mates with ecstasy in glory of The Host. Winickey children shall their lot be. For on the path they have crossed is the Daoine Sidhe. Pixy led and nixy led to strange realms wished a dream. For when mortal foot trod on this path, only nightmares shall it deem.

- As...

“ - as one in bedside prayer whilst sleeping sound - ”

... Sound -

Minotaur eyes of the wolf prince stare at the life he is about to take. He loves...

- all those shitheads in my life -

Nothing changed.

A very particular emptiness remains.

And tragedies never cease...

- We could do some terrible things -

- nymph, in thy orisons be all My sins remembered -

∞ ∞ ∞

- Woe To The Inhabitants Of The Earth -

Skinny Puppy. “The Killing Game.” Thanks to the mall-rat roadie. Out of the stage speakers. Such music winded.

... Fear be Our name.

But I heard a hundred songs. All dark. Mysterious -

Bloodlust frenzy was -

in the all way

in the always time

- infants are moulting dead flesh... behind -

Hate and violence as -

Surging - Destruction -

They were an aroma in the packed air. Stuffy. Choked with viciousness. Fragrant. Noticeable to We as the noon sun. Arousing to Us as nubile maidens. Clothed only in their own blood. Sheer -

Violent. Hate. Warblood.

Filling Me. Flooding Natasha. Finding Allyson.

All knew...

Cheryl gasped... Impossible -

A thought singing dust stinging eyes.

Natasha and I were standing in their way. Cheryl and her mocking cowards. How -

- “How the hell did They...” -

Still laughing at Us. But -

- Just Because We Hate You...

Doesn't Mean We'll Kill You -

Avoiding My eyes...

Dan bumped into Me. As startled, they passed.

“... Oh-uh... Sorry.” Muttered. Head down. Submissive.

Faced back. Felt My skin like wood -

Voice of molten dirt -

“I don't... like it... when mortals speak to Me.”

Dan scorned. Looking around. Smirking -

“... Heh. Oh, sorrry. Go to hell. You little... freak - ”

Barely managed his final word.

- no mortal ever dared... even tremble near Me -

- so malevolent -

Yes. Your thought of Me - Of Me... The last words upon your lips.

We didn't...

Impossible.

- “They can't be.” -

- “No.” -

- “Weren't those the same Two standing over by...?” -

No... No.

... No.

A thought singing dust -

Impossible textured flesh around empty eyes. Stared hornets at Dan. Stingers. Mandibles lacerating.

The widest grin of dreads cruelest avatar.

Danielll...

... Who feared to tremble.

“HEY!” Yelled some pig. Across - Other side of the stage. Holster emptied -

Allyson raised the cops stolen gun. Up to his head. His familys future tears shone in his eyes.

“... No...” Whispered.

Hate and violence...

Finding -

Pulled the trigger - slurp - lonnng lick. Tongue slid through his draining blood... Grails full. Dead body slumped in a heap of navy blue.

Is death ever aquamarine?

Screams -

- Heap of navy blue...

Mortals tried to flee. Futility. Dropped to the ground. Heads hidden by arms.

Lifted Dan off the floor. By his collar -

Pure grin of terrible. Lizard mastiff fangs.

“... I did go to Hel...” - fangs filled his vision - “She told Me to come to you.”

Gracefully. Leaped onto the stage. Dark. Morbid Siabra. Again Allyson fired. From above. Angled down through the back of Dan's head.

The bullet exploded out the bridge of Daniel's nose.

Mouth flung open. But his scream had no time to sound.

Bullet doused in bone. Wet with brains, blood and flesh.

Vicious lead...

Sliced down into My right eye. Forge red pain. To savor...

Ripped out the rear of My skull.

Ripped - Out My skull -

Finally rested in the arm of a passing little boy. Child costumed as a lion. Burgundy perfume... flowed. Moistened his saffron fur.

Pained laughter.

Screams -

Screams -

Screams -

Caws of crows and doubling of dragons.

... Mine a spear through mountain frost.

There is a nobility. Is there a dignity in the death of things which have brought the world pain?

Dan's corpse. Hurled strawman. Rotten grain with termite brains. Arcing twenty feet above the floor. Bloody smudge left on golden ceiling slats. Bursting out. And back through the wallowing skylight.

- Glass. Shards. Falling.

Cracking like bloodshot eyes.

Entangled in Halloween spinners. His mangle-faced figure crashed. Operatic elegance. Slamming into a far speaker stack. Tumbling over.

- Entangled. Sparks. Landing in a fountain. Noise and death -

Flesh and sound -

- SKREEEE!!

See him die in clay bursting.

Sparks blue. Whine of ozone -

Burn.

Flicker. Sn-nip...

Snip...

All lights go dead. Or attempt to die... Flashing strobes.

Wiped Dan's blood from My lips. Blood and crumbs of his face still painted Mine.

People trying to scatter. Too crowded to move. Everyone was trapped. Everyone cornered. Wailing. And voices of children terrified.

Most didn't even know -

What was happening?

Stunned.

Screaming.

Chaos.

Dancing as a harlot stripper. Allyson.

... Writhing to the music. Chin coated in crimson. Smeared. Her switch -

- erotically thrust. Between thighs of snow samite pudding. Sardonic salacious seductress.

- Just try it.

Entropy endearing minuet mirth and giggling.

Cops running in a crouch. Howling out a dead mans name. Taking cover behind pillars. In the dark. Scurrying around gobs of the living huddled on the floor. Firearms unsheathed. Scared. Mosquito shuddering.

“Down! Down!”

“Everybody down on the floor! Don't move!”

“Down!”

“Nobody move!”

“Drop it, missy!”

“Drop the piece! Now! Do it!”

“DO IT!”

Winsome Allyson. Lustful of the blood. Dancing. Laughing.

- fangs - crimson - mouths - arteries - tears - dying -

My Sister lost in -

fragrance where colors have run. Chaos We are winded entwined. Chances are We are mad.

Pig next to Us. Adrenaline wired security. Out from shadows. Emergency cells had hummed to life -

tiny spotlights...

Ally the limelight star - On a New York fashion runway, I mused. See how She wears malevolence.

Tasha charged the nearest cop. “Fascist pig!”

“You don't even know what a fascist is, little Lady! Now I suggest You - ”

Snapped his gun arm. Elbow to his face. So hard his adams apple split open. Broken neck. Three cracks. Crispy apple crunches. Eyes turned blank.

Gun limp in his dead hand.

Natasha fired. Every shot fountained blood. Yelling horrors. The groveling. The innocent.

Barrels of pistols.

Dying clogged the air greater than rains in a storm.

“Take Her down!”

Flashes of brilliance. Lead and fire.

Fingers hammered triggers. Confusion.

More.

More!

Again! Again! Again! Again!

Faster!

Faster! Faster! Faster! Faster!

Smoke of guns. Aroma of smoldering nickel and gunpowder.

Allyson rended to fabric and blood. Mickey shredded by - Gray matte metal.

Standing crucified. Scores of bullets. Shuddering as on gallows. Gun flashes -

- like a million cameras on the beautiful model Allyson DuBois.

Guns. Flashing.

A million cameras.

On a fashion runway -

With no cries of pain -

See how She wears another death. Another dying.

Allyson was blown back into the soundboard. Volume thrown higher from Her fall. Lead slugs gouged Her centuries old body.

“More lovely than ever, My Darling.”

She tried not to laugh. “Fuck You, Love.”

Death was Her charade.

- As it is for We all.

A toy ghost was yelping. Accordion skeleton flittered in frantic breeze. Open skylight drafts.

One foolish cop...

Edging closer...

Closer... Edging...

- She must be dead -

Oh! Yes!

... Is She?

Allyson swung and punched his jaw. Shattering it. Knocking one side out of joint. Haunting the way a man screams with only half a mouth.

- just keep laughing -

Death driving his carriage overflowing. Clawing -

My Sister started to slay them all.

My -

The Cruelest Empress -

A steed of blinding white -

Distant. But I can feel:

Camillia smashes through the glass doors into the mall.

Glass tore. Charging in slowest motion. Amongst the mortified and dry-ice swirls. Glass split like light. Highest scales of an ice flute.

Death. Cloak batters with winds of a gallop. Whip in hand. - Scorpion poised. Barbs and poison dripped...

Tiles split under the -

Hooves... People couldn't always move -

Charging...

Skin ripped. Limbs trampled. Pulsing heart of a beast. Hooves dripped with bled victims. Gehenna's cold steam breath - huffed - from the horses nostrils. Reared up onto the stage. Scrunching glass of the busted skylight.

The Cruelest Empress...

Silent.

Calmly astride Her beast. Pensive as a Spring pasture... Still...

- come not near Our Faerie Queen -

Allyson's gun still ejaculated bullet-gray smoke. Laughing with anarchys tenebrous hand. In dark and shadows. Halloween decorations. Sputtering lights. Music. Among fears of death...

That are We incarnate...

Right?... Leslie!...

An old woman had fallen nearby. Pathetic. Sluggish. Terrified. Lost in Our total confusion. Heaved up Her aluminum walker. Dragged Leslie to her feet.

- swung -

- Impact across her torso bent the aluminum rods.

Leslie went down. Bleeding. Wheezing. Unable to scream. For lack of breath. For fear...

One eye socket shot open. Pulp and sinyews on My cheek.

Snatched Natasha's pistol.

Five shots into Leslie's legs.

- They're so much more appealing when they bleed -

Sprung atop her. Inhuman pounce of panthers. Sitting on her chest. Soft breasts between My legs. My hand... Tenderly crushing her supple throat. Texture of her esophagus beneath My palm. Slowly...

Cries - Begging -

Wishing for mercy... What makes anyone special enough to deserve mercy?

Mouth locked in silent screech. Tears -

- trickled out the corner of her eyes.

In silence of sirens.

Tighter...

Tighter -

Grip their souls. Fading. To disappear...

Gingerly. No. Wait... Wait. Pull them back.

Let them not die.

Cry returning through your failing skin.

“Just kill her.” Allyson dove from the stage. Tattered clothes shuddered. Time -

“Kill her!”

“... No!... I won't kill!”

Disgust stained Her eyes. “... Why not!?”

Leslie. Life. Death. Pain. All in My hand... I released her.

“You know why!” All in My - “... Because. Then they can't suffer... And suffering - ”

“ - Suffering is an art.” Camillia. Diabolic empathy.

- An art...

Natasha laughed. Sitting on the stage edge.

“They should all die.”

(... No... Death is too easy. No. Never have I killed. Never shall I. Hurting someone so they die, anyone can do. Not anyone can -

Not any can drive another to the edge of dying. Hold them. Hold them over that chasm. That misery is art. Art. Perfection.)

Allyson cupped the face of a child. A skeleton dressed boy.

Just within the entrance to Kaufmanns

Innocence defiled by Our amusements.

Eyes ever soon deranged. Inevitable...

“No! P-Please! D-Don't. Don't huurt our son! Don't hurt our son!” Groveling fetal woman.

Cries. Screams. Pleas. Echoed steel plates in My temples.

They should all die... They all deserve it.

Stifled smirking. No. “Why? They don't...”

Everyone should die in the dark.

Allyson fired the gun. Shoveled into an ear of the boys father. His wife shrieked. Scrambled to his remains. Wailing. Hole in his head still smoking. Flesh chimney. The boy too devastated to move. Grip tightened on his bag of candy.

Blood from My lost eye. Paste on cheekbone.

Soothing from the unthinkable.

“Horror is fine if one becomes psychotic, My child... Let it hurt you. Let it break you. Let terror devour the essence of all you are and love. When people resist the insanity, that's when their minds are lost - By trying to stay sane... Become madness. And madness will protect you.”

We are Gods who have created Ourselves in Our image.

The monsters won't hurt you if you become one of them. Take comfort all dear children.

Kill her.

“Allysonnnn!...”

No!

“It's too late for him.”

Allyson blasted out the little boys heart.

Drank every ounce...

He understood Me then -

He... Knows...

Yes. As it should be.

- who taught the Killing Game...

first -

“NO!”

- I taught...

the Game...

first -

“I taught. I taught. I taught... the Game... first.”

“... Fine... Then I'll kill her.”

Allyson picked up Leslie. Drudged up her body. Tossed her onto the stage. Bullet-filled legs spraying blood. Flipping. Rolling. Leslie's body jarred the music. Skipping the CD to -

Schnitt Acht sang “Killing All The Time.”

But I heard a hundred songs...

Joel was still near. Hrmm... Where could he go? My arm snapped. Spring-catapult strike. Elbow cracked his nose. Tortured sound like chewed cornflakes.

Gripping his collar and crotch. Cast him across the rooms expanse. He splashed through the rising fountain stream. Burst through the window of Illusions Jewelry store. Bounced off. Fell. Stains of blood on their deep maroon woodwork.

Moaning in glass splinters and pain.

Too weak to crawl...

Adder hissing. Viper grin.

- no one lives forever -

When Damned frenzied to bloodlust - Our voices shrilled in sounds no mortal would ever pray hear again.

Fury brazened. Standing taller for coursing.

- Drenching. Dread awe from those fearing death.

Mimicking a fish drowning in air. Last few seconds of life. No longer thrashing. Just a mouth pulsating. And glazed eyes seeing their end.

Vertigo. Rooms and walls warbled spin. Countless times.

Dragonboned limbs.

Nothing could stop Us. Not crying. Not pleading. Certainly not prayers.

Brian had gotten away.

Briannn!

Two leaping strides:

- To the stage.

- Atop the horse.

Camillia and I. Hurtling from the heart of the mall. Galloping. Hooves in a flurry. Devilish snowflakes. People diving clear. Childrens' bags of candy - exploding pinatas.

People crushed beneath Us.

Mortals chained in the web of Our cabalistic spell. Radiating. None knew where they were. Only that it was horrible. That damnation was two steps away all around them.

Puffy. Inverted arches of black and orange spinners. Swaying from Our wind. Surging past. Our minds swaying -

Of Angels of hate -

Screaming -

Braying -

Crying and bleating.

Coward panic leaves...

- a putrid trail to follow. Brian scurried before Us.

Scorpion poised -

Cracked the whip. Thwap of shaft of tanned hide.

Ripping down spinners overhead. Split. Raining. Wavering.

Leather shackled Brian's ankle. Burr bit his calf. Buried itself in muscle. Yanked the whip taunt.

Scorpion -

Fireant heads burrowed under veins.

As he fell -

his face crushed a Mug Memories cart.

... We turned back the way We came. Dragging Brian's flopping body behind Us. Skin rubbed raw on floor tiles. Squealing of flesh wearing down on dusty marble. Pitch squeal equal to the ringing in the base of My spine.

Skin peeling from muscle. Screams peeling from throat. Blocking his face. Grinding. His body battered. Decking pillars and benches at the speed of Our maniacal steed. Whip grinding deeper in.

Fingers clawing -

Gripping nothing to stop him. Only air and slick ground.

Helplessness...

His head cracked on a fountain stool.

Dismounted. Untied him. Tugged to his feet.

Dazed. Camillia stared too. At this rag of life.

Wolf packs -

Eyes of blind -

Brian could not move. Every part of his mind. - Shredded flesh - remember -

“... You're... You're...” Your words can never say:

Beast of your visions?

Beast of your visions.

Creature of -

Malignant Things you had seen?

You had -

Brian knew. Brian remembered...

This that stood before him.

This was...

This is -

“The Thing... I saw... You're - You're the... the...”

Squirming in My grip. He began to cry. Squirm. Wail. Writhe. Heaving air. Squealing in a continuous tone. A child -

trying desperately

to awaken from this nightmare.

... See Me...

Infernal faerie glamour. Pull him...

Down -

Mawkish vixen. Love Me, pretty, pretty boy...

With blind reflex -

My fist struck Brian's jaw. Contorting his skin. Deforming. So it seemed I hit a new face with every punch. So many times, blood gushed from his mouth like breath.

Camillia slipped Her tongue between his lips. Drinking.

Carefully - Swallowing no more than My hand spilled.

Lost, he was. My Lover slowly drew back.

Wanted he more of her razor affections. Yearned...

Camillia turned. Smiling. Licked the trail of blood from My cheek. Lapped delicate. Edge of the socket of My eye. Her hand caressed My blood-matted hair.

Those exotic eyes.

Brian's dazed frame I held. Outward -

Out over the pit -

The Pit...

Over the pit of the waterfountain. Gaping yawn. Eager for the offering of that mangled boy.

Throwing him in -

Knobs of copper fountain nipples. Pierced his wasted skin. Wrist shitlist wedged under a pipe as he landed. Bone snapped -

- noise crackling bone crushing - Of tires on a gravel driveway.

Water tinted of blood to pink.

Pastels...

People shivering. Scared like urchins on winter streets.

Brian was the only one. He remembered Me. Though then -

he thought - of nothing...

None of them -

Allyson.

Allyson was a ghost to all Her victims. Nothing like She was that night at Helle's. A ghost. Unrecognizable. Even to -

Leslie...

Meanness. She and Cheryl and them all. And all these pathetic attempts of cruelty. Their intoxicating weaknesses. Knowing nothing of hurting. Knowing...

Nothing of how to hurt.

Always felt I shame that such inflictions are inadequate. Never able to be brutal enough. Not like they deserve. Not like I desire.

- Desire. I will never truly feel I am a master of the art of suffering.

Can't I make anyone hurt just a little more!?

Just a little -

Just a little more.

- More!

I do nothing better...

Allyson held Leslie.

Yes. Making - Her suffer -

The mortal girl. Limp in Ally's clutches. Her body in that erotic arch of helplessness. Eyes glazed. Crying. Horrible pain in her face. Horrible lust in her smile.

Pulling Allyson deeper into her neck... As her crying eyes -

Begging her own body to stop.

Obey it would not. Drawing in her own dying...

Now. She was -

In My Sister's unbreakable embrace...

Now -

She -

Leslie.

You belong to Allyson.

Nothing else. No one else. No dreams. Not life. Nor light. No futures. Not hope. (... No... No... Never hope...) Only to Her soft lips. Her ravenous feeding. And Her steel hands. Crushing your heart as you smile.

Grin at your death Leslie.

Be honored to die at the hands of My Goddess of Malignance.

Naive girl - Who used the words “love” and “hate” too freely...

Something royal. Mystic. Dignified.

Epic.

Thinking I heard a fistful of nails scraping across a slate pooltable.

Oh, the fucking blessed aura of torture.

- Cause to celebrate -

And We all knew joy. We cried laughter.

As they cried -

Pain.

We cried. And cried. Laughter. Thrilling static delight.

I could ruin it all. Everything.

Yessss. What I am. I can - All can I do...

And so -

Everything... I want to maul from them. Once I took their life -

And so I would never kill. Had never. Killing and...

Their pain would end -

No... I will never grant them the merciful gift of death.

I WILL TAKE...

STEAL EVERYTHING

... Leave a shell worse than nothingness.

- just keep laughing -

Who is here? Who was left? We're missing...

But where is Cheryl?... Let her join Us.

So much to celebrate.

“Come to Me, child...”

Let her add to Our laughter.

Whether you hide or not -

The Wolf Prince of Dragons is going to have you...

∞ ∞ ∞

“Cherryl...”

Cowering deep within Kaufmanns. Behind shelves. Beyond displays.

Up... stairs...

Some lights still on. Fluorescent water pools.

Never was the place darker...

My presence - leaked into every fold of clothing. Every pane of glass. Every corner of rooms... Every pore of bones.

“Cherrryl...”

And in the jitterbug dark -

Jitter. Jitter.

- Eye frantic scans - key on a ragtime jazz piano...

“Cherrrryl...”

Peppergreen Halloween - raping of holy thrones on candyapple fetish christmas wreaths...

Crows are shaking the pine.

Up the rolling escalator. Gliding...

Mirrors and reflections ghost -

“... I am the Master of the Games of the Mind...”

Liquid mirrors. Rounding displays of kitchenware and furniture. Finger tracing contours of porcelain figurines and plastic-encased pillows.

Cruched cardinal smearing -

Zzzzzip... Squiiiiiip -

“Cherrrrryl...”

- Games of the Mind.

Brass bed. Sheets pulled...

Hidden under - a bed -

“Cherrrrrylll...”

- Harder than granite hail - Hurled - Raining off Circus walls -

Dragon - Burning fangs would slam into her neck - Hail.

From her tender arteries -

Every venule and vein. Blood will rip. Slip. Scission. Ripping roots and tearing hair strand pale from soil. Dripping thick. Heavy. Filth.

“Chhhherrrrryll...”

Orgasmic fear would leave her trembling. Drifting.

What would she say -

Whimpers of horror so close...

Sweat heated wet wetness.

Sweat - Slinking -

... To ecstasy.

“Cherylllllll...”

Hush, My child. When you awake to your last day of life on this earth, that morning will carry with it a hint of this night... Believe what I whisper in the blackness of every blink. I am the Keeper of Lies. And in My veins erodes a caustic spittle of decay... Kiss Me... Let your life add to the brutal flow of Our void.

- We can never return from dust. Unto this shall you be gone. Soft as moss on labyrinth walls. Hush, My tender girl...

Come to this place... Where We have forgotten everything any child has ever known...

“Cheryl!”

This will hurt you so much more than it will Me...

Curious cats with mice:

Fur slashed from gray little bodies.

Knew I where she was hiding. - Hidden. But I pretended to look.

And look. Looking look... Inflating her futile hopes. Only to make her pain and -

- Her fear -

Fear all the more awful in the end. - Do you not wonder? - Wonder why? -

... Stop... Why there you are, little one...

- More awful in the end -

... When I peered... Peer over the mattress edge... with one mauled eye... and grinning face awash in blood...

“No one toys with My Pawn but Meeee.”

∞ ∞ ∞

Welcome to neverending sorrow. Welcome to neverending pain.

And...

Natasha was igniting the dead. Flames wavering. Hell watering hands. So happy. Bodies ablaze. A lighter tapped to more clothes. Piles of bodies.

Clung. Melting. In fire-dying.

Stacks. Mounds.

Of corpse enflamed -

And...

Winds shrieked. Through -

Down through broken skylight panes. Vainly attempting to carry away the stench. Breathing bile life into the pyres.

Halloween costume embers - Skin lit in orange. Burrs of light. Thorns of fire.

- set off sprinklersystem storms. Thorns of fire.

And...

Glass slivers. Eaten into Leslie's back. Allyson's spent heroin needle flopped loosely. Bobbing in Leslie's arm. Dead glazed eyes - of paisley squiggles turned parameciums.

Allyson beat Leslie with Her switch.

Face. Chest. Arms.

Not a vial of blood. Remained.

Leslie's overdosed carcass shook. Each strike. Needle danced. Ragdoll wiggling.

And...

Human blood and body pieces fueling an abysmal machine. Grinding. Chewing. Breathing flame and rose smoke. Choking air. Ombra scene pyrelight.

Skylights even shuddered...

The very hideousness - of the setting -

More shards of glass. Resistantly tumbling. Fumbling down in fear.

And...

From the towering rafters - hung a dead cop -

... Hanging by his ankles on twisted cables of speakerwire. Twist. Spinning. The same who told Tasha - she didn't know what a fascist was -

Slopped in his blood - Blood smeared words across the floor (little Lady... ):

(Fascism : n. : a centralized autocratic regime with overly nationalistic policies and an economy based on state-dictated capitalism motherfucker!)

What might you suggest? -

Do you see became all blood? Diluted became all blood. Draining in the artificial rain. Breathing sacrifice... All Hallows Eve at the mall.

And...

- was there no greater blasphemy -

And...

We cried laughter.

Camillia tossed Leslie - she a kindling log - coital death. Onto a burning cop. Death filled with sadness and gloom. Maybe at her end Leslie could see why Helle always wore clothes of drear shades.

Let the devil -

You who hated and loved too freely... May you be buried in black...

- let the devil wear black for I'll have a suit of sables -

Upward her embers juggled... By maniac -

Moonrising jokers -

Maddened jesters of ebon blizzards - Every fear manifest. Juggling... Look on.

Passing the skylight... To never find...

- See affixed nothing between glass and prism - Light. Welcome to neverending -

Still.

Stillness for such obsidian breath. Licking out the candleflame.

Time -

For a song. Sing. Sing. Terrible things had just begun.

Once more to someone sang -

- it's lonely here... there's no one left to torture -

Chapter Twenty Four

Black locomotive rage.

Our truck thundered with into the Flats blasted flown down Old River Road wrong direction over one-way boiling steamengine stampede fury “Mindphaser” by Front Line Assembly was a volume nearly splitting the windows instruments of the cab - state of the art destructive capabilities - a gearbox screaming metallic sheared beat chugging coalfurnace power fired rumbling iron horse steamtrains on cablecar tracks rails pistons drivetrains punching jumping the track derailed so loud it hurt the eyes white cheekbones ached skin of the noise vibrations and shuddering leathertaunt stammer massive howling wheels barrel blackened crushing using devilish hooves blackened ran surround crowded street of cars swirling motion and chugging chugging chugging beat pulsating blare piercing jackknifed overturned curbs squealed pedestrians up scattered sidewalks forced glass ripped steel yelling fears cursing horns roared and alarms chirping pealed squalking chirp chirp chirp psychotic night mare brayed steeds bucking kicked galloping entrapped bits slicing the mouth totaled heap mauled screeched wreckage turned - fading vision lost in time tragedy of course - smashed the grillwork of Our truck from underfoot and overhead and every which move unstoppable around slamming one vehicle domino into the next groaning warning some guttural grumbling torn inside out that grind haphazard chaos and a pile over a dozen almost a score hacked brakes clawing holding back a grated squeal under weight of tons hurtling of split... of metal hissing radiator anger... and threats of destruction... carried on... wisps... brutal... infuriated... steam...

- rhythm of violence cuts through the air -

Shock stunning.

... Crawled. Slowed. Movement. Resting... Silent...

Nearly. Nearly silent...

Dead.

... Stopping directly in front of Timmy's bar...

- shattered dreams shattered hopes dead bodies everywhere -

Allyson and I. Exited -

Undazed. Scrunch. Undaunted.

Exited the truck. Marched at Timmy's.

A sidewalk-width away. Two dumbfounded jocks. Flashing I.D.'s at Timmy's doorman. One called “McCorlick.” Name and number 76 on his varsity coat... Weasels... awww, so precious.

Catholic schoolboy... Pray -

Other -

Line of sight swept over his friend's license - Bob Hudski. No costumes. Wholly lame...

The doorman - Dressed as Gilligan from Gilligan's Isle.

- would be lost - He and the jocks stood. Under archway entrance of the bar. Red woodwork. Colored matching -

Awestruck. Gaping at the street. Demolished by Our -

We have come. - by Our arrival...

Staring at Us.

Camillia and Natasha. Seated. Within broken glass -

Crystal Ice Jar Of Marbles -

Stayed inside in silent quiet unheard immobile - a mirth. Evil - Patient smirks cut wry faces. Waiting...

Our auras dripping raven brine.

Bob and McCorlick realized Ally and I...

- Were right nearby. Both flew off into the club. Jungle panthers startled a canopy of trees.

We followed.

“... Hey! Uhh, You can't go in - Y-You got... um, need some I.D. dude... I.D.?” Doorman caught My arm. Apprehensive. “... What the shit? Can't Your friend fuckin' drive, man?”

I faced him.

Allyson turned around. On a flawless brow - streetlights slept aglow.

Where We were. What he saw. Somewhere between panes of - perceptions - he was caught. All mortals were there. Pinned between anger and compassion. Between -

“Fuck You! Are You people fucking psycho!?” and “Oh, shit are You alright!? Are - ?... Oh, shit! Holy shit, are You okay!?”

- Pinned between that and - Here. Here, sit down. Relax. Jeezus... You need - You need some water or something? W-Wait here. I'll get - Somebody call an ambulance!

Yes. You will all need one soon...

And every...

Every streetlamp painted in dried blood -

Dried blood... Dusts. Painted...

Laughter strangled Me. Made Ally smile.

Tens upon tens of people. Dashing to the street. From clubs. From bars. Many in Halloween costumes. All gawking to see -

- Devastation. Horrible. Sounds... What the hell was that?

... Most never even know...

Volatile motorists. Quivering. Crawling. Dazed of shock. Finally climbing out of cars. Steels molded together. Smelling - of heat of ruptured radiators. Torn fuel lines...

- raven brine -

Enervative glare - stared a hundred caterpillars across his back -... Removed the doormans hand from My shoulder. Simple grin reinforced it.

Mortals were lost between their worlds. Within shoulds shrouds and forgottens forgotten and ares arcs. As Our footfalls reverberated tremors of anarchy. Shudder - Shhh - The wake of disorder flooding every will...

Wedged on either side by terrors unspeakable and - Pretend nothing -

Nothing happened.

Ignoring the unfathomable - This world can not be seen.

Water dripped. From My brow. Hair still wet. From downpours of the mall sprinklers. Can We recall the taste of - ... Burned halos leered. Gracious - sardonic bow -

“My I.D.?... Can't She drive?... After Our grand entrance? That is the best you can say?... Good sir, surely you would not forbid weary travelers entry to your tavern on such a... chill night.”

“A ghastly evening.” Allyson cooed, picking up right on My beat. “Run astrewn with the undying.” Lips snarled flirtatious.

- run... run with the undying...

Breath, scented coughdrops. “... W-Well... I... You're okay, but, Your Boyfriend here needs - ”

Allyson - Sneered. “ - Wrong answer.”

Firewood cracked. Bones -

“Go fuck yourself, Gilligan.”

Snapping out -

Quickest... No fly could have beat a wing. Snatching his fist. Bass - Glacier split yell.

Slammed the back of his palm. - Crushed into the wall behind him. Impact so hard his hand - exploded - became a blotched smear. Smudge of crushed bone. Mixed in bloody paste.

His world frozen - Shock vanished. Pain drowned. He -

Floundered into the bar. Screaming. Vomiting. Hysteric panic. Cradling his dismembered wrist.

- artificial rain -

We followed.

“Owwwww! Hooters!!”

“Hey, baby, wait up! Yo, baby, wait up a second! Let me look at You!”

Some Trapper Jack. His nigger friend. Prickwads.

Each rounded the building corner. Staggering from the rear parking lot. Drunken already. Oblivious in their inebriation. Their lust -

Clueless to the smoldering wreckage - Didn't see - of mauled cars bulldozed down the street by Our truck.

Hic! (little aftertaste of beer)

... Oblivious to splotch of doormans blood. To flesh embedded onto the wall.

“Hey, baby, let me look at You. Stop there fo' a minute. You ready fo' a real man to take care o' You, baby?” Black guy repeated. Stumbled -

Each worthless dick asshole stared. - Pigs. Rude and obnoxious eyes pawed. Vision raped. Horny gaze... licked...

Allyson - Hard. Smooth. Body.

“Ooooh, baby...”

She - in the truck - had removed Her trenchcoat and Mickey shirt.

- Fuck America - Just Because We Hate -

Now She wore a black, ribbed tanktop. Shapely - Chill October air - Tightening. Inky jeans to match. All still bullet-hole ripped. Bloody sweat drenched. - Revealing.

Taunt. Erect steel... Guns...

Her two stolen police revolvers. Hidden from view. Tucked in the belt. Around Her back.

Extra shells slipped -

- creatively away... Cold casings on skin...

My shadowy Love still high. Under a nightime sky harmonica burned. Wired on drugs She had jacked into Leslie's blood. Never saw Her -

... quite so fucking high...

White. Snakes coiled Her irises.

- bloodshot bitten Jormungandr -

“You can call me the cookie monster, 'cause I gets me a lot o' chicks.” African finger pet his nap.

Friendily. Permissively. Concentrating...

First - Allyson smiled.

- The flies wings... Solitare... Beat -

- Disgusted.

- Ambidextrously fired. Every bullet from both pistols. Into their faces. Red splattered - paint off a brush. By the time carrion hit the ground - Couldn't recognize one from the other. (How groping hands scratched air desperately for nothingness - )

- The flies wings... One... Solitare... Beat -

Touched ends of barrels. Blew. Smoke swirled intertwined spirals.

Slipped Her fingers in -

Privately... Creative...

Cartridges -

Reloaded.

Nearby people screamed. Scattering.

Camillia and Natasha left the truck. Serpentine finesse those -

- Phantom Nymphs.

Massive, muscle-bound blonde - Pried himself from his car -

Grabbed Camillia.

“HEY! Bitch!... Fuckin' crazy cunt! What the fuck are You, some stupid fucking asshole!?”

∞ ∞ ∞

Except for a cool crowd at Peabody's Down Under to see a Pet U.F.O. concert, every barroom in The Flats was the same.

Swarmed with pathetic souls, flayed in yuppie-hell who mistakenly consider discourteousness a mark of strength. Genitals and finances took precedence over the heart and friendship. Seduction with Camaros, Porches, and credit cards. They'll fuck anothers wife, husband, boyfriend or girlfriend but they're still too repressed to admit they masturbate.

Filled with every putrid race and religion. Minions of fluff and marshmallow minds. Fucking homophobic, mustache-head, conformist, sports fans. Aryan, gestapo, nazi-frat boy, date/gang rapists in Polo shirts. Two-bit, white-collar-gaggles of anal business pansies descending upon strip clubs because they can't get laid. Melon-breasted, big-haired, jock-fucking, college-sweatshirt-wearing, skanky hoebags. Dreadlocked, hip-hop, rasta-retro-disco, “shout out” making, bruthas and sistahs. Fat-fuck, tough-guy, Harley-boy bouncers. Shit-kicking, deer-hunting, redneck-hillbilly-bruisers in cowboy hats. Preppie-assed, health-spa, sorority-bitches who giggle too fucking much, dancing with drinks in hand. And the scummy, emaciated, gas-station-attendant minorities who took the parking lot fees.

Punkers, goths, straightedges, vampires and all Our ilk could identify such pestilent, conservative slime no matter how they were labeled. All the redundant, hyphenated descriptions in the world always added up to the same thing: Us versus “Them.”

Always will it be as such. Unwavering entropy.

Which side were you on?...

Which side would prevail?...

Yes. Which world shall you see?...

... Which side will outlive the enemy?

Rick Astley or Richard Marx or Billy Idol or someone like that was playing over Timmy's soundsystem. Thankfully, Pet U.F.O. was giging just a few doors away. Their cover of The Rezillos doing “Somebody's Gonna Get Their Head Kicked In Tonight” leaked down into Timmy's for only immortal ears.

- well now the kids are rockin' and a everyone's feelin' all right -

Searching for Kevin and his companions, I scanned the flickering, smoke-choked club. Near the dancefloor I stood. Allyson was close by. Looking for any excuse to kill. Any excuse. To slay anyone. Their misguided air of superiority was reason enough, I thought. Off in a corner, some barhop was panicking. Trying to help the doorman and rush him off to a back room.

Lots of people were in costume. None were terribly original. Just stereotypical Frankienstien Brides, Draculas, and red Devil outfits. Plus the ambiguous costumes that make no fucking sense whatsoever, bearing no resemblance at all to what they're supposed to be. And the lazy bastards who did nothing other than slip on hot, smelly, rubber masks. Felt like a film students pathetic recreation of Jabba's Palace. Drunken slobs slurred English that sounded more like Bib Fortuna's native tongue.

My attire was no costume. Every Halloween, people assume it is. The rest of the year... it allows Me to identify comrades in a world of enemies.

As usual, ornate, gnostic sable tones decorated My face. Tortuous, gothic curves, fleur-de-lis, and tapering blades of makeup. Put it on during the drive from Parmatown. Wore it drastically different everytime. And My Sisters love it...

Cam and Ally offered a few suggestion: Their dark little-girl-Brother imbued with a femme soul. My Wife had half Her face done in scarab-like black as well.

Missing right eye I covered by a pirate patch. Stolen from a costumed child in the mall. The boy freaked out when he saw Me: “Mommy, the sides of His head are bald!”

Hrmph. No shit... Should've kept your mouth shut kid...

Most of him will heal...

Rick Astley became Depeche Mode. “Personal Jesus.” Mortals began line dancing.

Allyson stomped into the middle of the dancefloor. Rigid. An expression mirroring millipedes. Crowds parted... Perfect. She had Her excuse...

Pet U.F.O. seemed louder somehow...

Much louder...

Dissonance lent an insidiousness to the murmur and drumfire of laughter and speech.

- there's gonna be a pool of blood on the dancehall floor -

“I feel like I'm watching The Crow again!” Some slut in six-inch, fuck-me-pumps laughed next to Me.

Her fluff-bitch friend wanted to pass by. Holding some drinks with an I'm-better-than-You smirk. “... Uh, excuse me! We know You're The Crow and all, but, we work here! So, You're going to have to move!”

... One... Look... - isolation of smokering irises -

You've dropped your drinks, dearest -

Her blood trembled before she. Draining back away into the very recesses of her marrow. A gentle touch and smile. Making her fear Me wasn't even worth it.

From My hands flashed tarnished brass and briarneedle claws. Swept up into the fleshy underside of her jaw. With one fluidly effortless toss, I hurled her overhead through the nightclub. Upsidedown, she crashed into bottles stacked behind the bar. Blood splurting from the holes in her chin.

- and the whole dancefloor'll be a doggone mess -

Allyson was moshing. Guns in hand, She blasted out necks and kneecaps of the line dancing trash. At first, She wasted only those who looked at Her funny. Those tramps with their purses in the middle of the floor who bitched at Her for bumping into them... Then it was all of them... Powderflashes strobes. Bodies dropping. Then the screaming... The running. The chaos. The flailing slip into realization. Our pandemonium... Oh, a dance. Run astrewn with the undying.

Just the guy I was looking for...

Kevin clamored off his barstool. During the flash of a single shot I moved across the room. Grimacing before him. Sucked savory, the mortals girls blood from My fingers.

Nevermore. No nerve to move. He heard no yells nor guns nor music. Did he know there was a choir of snails on a grave singing of forbidden songs for him?... Far more silent was his world than even his deathbed shall be.

-Have you any idea who We are that you scorn?... -

Slip into Our pandemonium, pious child. The Court is at hand.

And Our trail has been crossed.

And Our trial led...

“Shhhh... Listen... ... Necessity knows no madness.”

∞ ∞ ∞

Outside lay scattered broken - six seals... with the seventh about to crack...

- “No! No - Don't hurt Me!” - squealed - smirking...

Allowed Kevin to -

Throw My body - crushed - Flung Me into the walls.

Feet slammed -

would have been an icepick searing in My jaw. Felt nothing... nothing...

“And don't fuck with us, Freak!!”

How many have you hurt?

Kicked. Punching. Scruff of My shirt. Hit again - Give another tiny smirk. Tossed Me into the street. Ground cement nibbling fleshy...

- slammed - “Hey, Freak, I didn't fuckin' tell You to get the shit up... What? You want some more? Huh?”

- Think you have ever hurt Me?

“C'mon, man, He's had enough. Let's get the hell outta here.”

Over shoulders - watch your back -

Kevin - Chuckling -

Dan. Matt. All mocking...

Beside Me - Faceless corpses on the sidewalk -

“... Shit... L-lookit tha - ” They noticed. Carnage -

Turned. Stood...

“My ga - Uh - uh - ” Matt puked at the sights. Wet on shoes - Pantleg-

Dan stepped. Down. Backward. Over ankles. Groping - caught the wall - wood slivers insertion... “Holy shit!... Holy!... Shit!...”

But - icepick searing - no, I hadn't felt one scratch.

“I do believe we have yet to finish this, My boy.”

“... Huh?...” Kevin. Dazed. Hyperventilating - Blind to everything but mutilated dead before them.

Bent to pet I their blood.

“Were you not the one shown cruelty to pleading hearts?”

Natasha charged -

By thundering on steed. Everywhere escapeless. Dashed cruel as fell dream and spilled silken knives. Horseback and rearing hooves - horseshoes snapped arms. Ribs popped.

- Crack - Legs... Braying. Breaking. Trampling in a typhoon of - Whirlpool static. Eyes rolled - Reared back white.

Friends - all mocking - All screaming. Squirming. Showers of - whirlpool static - hooves. Blazen of stampeding. And futile arms thrown over faces.

Kevin's -

Take him. Now no strength? Grappled his hair. Lifted. Ratty teddybear - Easy as empty pillows. Spineless heaping puppet disembowled. Swung - Dragged. Pulled him over near the Boy Lure Tomb.

Did I think I heard him beg? Thickly blood in throats swallowed - Making wants to kill... now and then...

Every vein become cobras -

Every blood become venom -

Towering tempered plate glass...

Crashed - One windowplate after another. Shearing template with -

Slammed. Threw his soft, splitting brow... Glass crumbling - Icicle chunks. Dancing silver patterns. Matched blood spattering the sidewalk.

Yes. Scream. Let blades shower - and rain ripping your tongue...

Windowglass - Less vein flows spilled -

Could Kevin spill into...

- Drain into the gutters. To mix? -

Mallet. Bashed out windows with his face.

Puddled blood dousing - Change the tint of winds -

Blending -

Skinless remains of -

The one who grabbed Camillia. Flesh piled suit. - Neat tidy pile. Strapped with - Tied down with his own clothing. Tied and skin with knots. Bound to the hood.

- Hood torn away. In his car. Flesh sizzling - Steaming hot on the engine block - like Dick Dale guitar strings. Muscles and ripped off - dripping. Minus without even - Eyelids gone -

Still with the strength to wail - In agony not never? Joys.

This, for you all, is where We reign... Remember!

Astral Chords. Nailed. Shackle stone plateaus crowning dying deserts. We bound them - Incapable of death.

No. Not as strong. Not as tough.

Fuck your meaningless souls -

Somewhere in Our spells all the air turned to fear - Fear I ravaged swimming blood -

Violence lust whetting senses -

Blood and Fire and Fear and Pain - Favored subjects of Our Realm. Our Dominion...

Blood. Fire. Darkness.

Smoke obscuring Our -

- Ribs for daggers.

- Kneel at Their feet. Always will you be slain... gradually.

We love how you call your gods -

Deep in the Pit - Inside - Warm My spirit spread with blackest glowing...

And in turn - shown cruelty to pleading hearts -

I will not - Forgive. And I will never - Bear mercy. I am not your whore. For the fruit of My womb is riddled of decay.

- As every caress you gave -

How many have cried and kicked and screamed? Your hands called tender. Touch called forever. Your impurities shall I taint. This benediction for all defiled. Nothing you try to take will you ever have... But how much is lost by what you can not hold?... I see her tears eaten by the maggots in your eyes...

“Ask Me to stop, Kevin... Ask Me! Ask Me to stop.”

“... s -... st -... pleas -...” Coughed -

“ - FUCK YOU!”

- love how you call your gods -

Cowards mourn at a beauty that consumes daylights moons...

Camillia over slender - Muscles ever slender - Crowbar flailing. Tore open Our trucks fuel tanks. Silver shredded to foils. Muddy colored geysers.

- With silence hushed. Ripping apart Her clothes. Natashas favorite part - Shred. Soaked slopped in diesel fuel. Damp. Squish - Squish -

... And dozens of old beerbottles. Removed from curbs and clubs.

Old dead mans cigartette...

- cherry ember... glow -

... Lit...

Trickle, draining, poured...

Flaming diesel in glass. With - firebomb - Threw. - Into a doorway -

Popped. Hit - Porcupine puffed exploding - shards flying - clothing enflamed - screams afire -

Beerbottle rootbeer browns - Squirming curves with firelight...

Bottles. In filled with spilling gas. In torn clothing wicks. In soaring torches tossed to tombs.

Bursting firebombs sounded growls. Sounding mortals fears. Of dying. Death by flame and spikes...

Glowing on cars. Buildings consumed in blazen orange.

Perfect noh blacks and whites. Flawless stark graces.

Behold comes the dead messiah -

From Her murderous - Tombs -

Newly layered in a hundred lives of blood - Allyson seeping. Squinting at the light. Always hate anyones bright - Zeroed in. Every shot at a streetlamp -

Seeped hissing.

Not - No bullet missed.

Stripped down after the other - Streetlights. Breaking. Lead clean through infant skulls.

Dimmer -

Darker -

Paler -

Bleaker -

And glass of dead light... Showers... Hail cuts...

Not a glow in any skies... For no planes fly past midnight. Do they sheen?

Stomping bloods of maroon to cardinal - Stomping blood out of Kevin for... hours?

With Allyson -

vicarious murder -

Mouths stuffed with heavy barrels and shells.

“Let him go!...”

Kevin still My toy. Entangle in metal windowblinds - Bashing blood - Out of his pores. His skull. Thousands of glass slivers in his face.

What would you suppose I'm capable of, bitch?

“ - Let him go motherfucker!” Poolcue. Warbled wind with the - swing - Square across My neck.

Askant - Bad form!... You wanted My attention?

Spun Kevin around. Swept his glass-embedded face. Smashed it into -Kiss My new friend, Kevin - Straightrazor slices as they each hit. Hard battering pain.

Can you not shout for Me?

Scrawling blind for his face. His poolcue - Reaching - Reaching - Reaching -

Natasha cantered back around. Up choked confines of the road. Asphalt bit by horseshoes. Came for the screamless man...

Swept up his poolstick. Wooden lance. Through - pierced out his stomach - off his feet lifted -

Crashed him against a telephone pole.

Others. Surrounding Me. Heroes?

Dirk for sight and touch. Tore gouging ruts across ten faces before they could flinch.

Stupid ass shitfucks.

- Shooting stars of glass land in their midsts -

Bottles - With flaming cloth.

Several - Walk horrified. Deaths route. Mortals shriek into flames.

All I saw - sandstorms burn. Avernus forging every - Sinews -

We were never like them. Never. Not one.

This is not where We're from - And We detest your world -

The music turns up too loud. And the blood flows too hard. And her heart will burst as the sight explodes. And the jaw bleeds in the brain.

Never mourned nor suffered enough. So crucify them again... again... again... again...

Fistloads of needles hammered in My ears -

Scampered atop the hood of Our colossal truck. By My foot, smeared - Blood. Grillwork bars long past dented. (Back in the Parmatown parking lot, Camillia had run down the “chickenshit moron” that Sibyl called a Trapper Jack.)

A bit of his shoulder remained. Twisted in steel. Flesh still clung. Pasted under the treads.

Huddled. Cowering. Mortals all around...

Dropped Kevin - So well bled -

Camillia underhooked swings of iron. Car windows bursting with waves crashing out of seas. Wave as of seas. Bloodied frenzy of hatchets... And bodies of the crippled. Mangled and injured - Heaps of their own broken forms. Pinned by door steel. Dashboard coffins -

Necks wrenched to cracking. Skulls split in twain. Elbows pop like chicken bones.

- Bleached white. Left to dry like impossible tiny things. Veins fed of flavors and devoured. Steam from breath and blood in chill October air.

- But heat -

Wrapping living and rotten dead in burning cloth -

Throats trapped screeching...

Colors are deafening syphoning the cries. Operatic torment intoxicating shrouds of erotic mist. Floating higher inside an agonizing peal. Agonizing. Screams. Float...

Make Me cry. Make Me smile. Tell Me everything...

Oh... Youth... Oh... Tender flesh. Their biggest fears set upon plates for feasting.

This Queen and I - Laughing and aroused. We penetrate against their will. Grab and pet and paw -

Sweet maids - Make her cry impassioned for yearnings she never knew she desired... Yes, let the first We covet be named by angels...

Prophesies dire told Our coming. The village was cursed. And We Children of the mandrake and blackberry wines, born under the mandible crescent moon, were amok in heinous sins.

Heartless Sorceress. In form of a black viper. Slipping into lakes of playing children to feed. I would make Her Mine. Quench Her lust. And offer lives to Her. In sacrifice. Worship Her name.

Queen of insatiable pain. Unending hate. Depthless evil and bestial desire. Our domain. Our darkest romance...

Wanton bitch with leathery gauze for wyvern wings.

Ours is forever the final generation lost grieving Our apathy. And when this world burns, We will be dancing in the streets and savoring the fumes of chaos.

Kids emerging from Peabody's played amongst firehydrant rain - comrades in a world -

And in final deeds - My Unholy Three I love -

Some things were so abhorrent that no description could befit just of reflection of Their acts. Things torturous going on and on. Things mortal minds would repress from memory without Our influence.

By morning few would remember.

- By mourning - Even those who suffered. Even these hundreds. Within weeks - every detail a haze. Difficult to remember anything at all... But injuries would remain.

Dead stayed departed. Madness... Corpses that jump on the heart. Vomit on graves. Scars and scares from beautiful Killing Games.

Toss the fumbling dice...

Helicopter blades - Thumpered bass. In from the lake. Between buildings. Over the parking garage. Sweeping - insect chatters.

Nowhere risen -

Spotlight sharp - Bright as keen sun remembrances...

“Everyone stop right where you are! Drop all your weapons! This is the police... Stop and drop your weapons! Now!”

Allyson slithered - Writhing in -

Lightless... As dark as -

Panther blood. And reflection gone... Pounced. From street to lamppost. Atop a roof. Leapt another - Soar wingless three stories to the helicopter runner...

Blood garbled. Filled the cockpit.

Through Your eyes, My Love, hath I seen the euphoria of dying hundreds of times and ways in Your hands... Are We, the Ones so undeserving, so cursed?...

Swirling light. Spiraling noise. Tail rotor bashed the Main Avenue Bridge. Snowshower sparks. A million glitters - fireflies. Constellations afraid to cast stargazed lights... Cymbals immeasurable crashing into canyon floors.

My Sister riding a plummeting fireball of crumpled metal. Wavering streamers of hair. Arms gargoyle arrow. Misty blood droplets fizz - Victorious screech -

- cymbals immeasurable -

Under a moon the size of a traffic light. Pouring butterscotch...

Blues. Reds. Sirens. Tires - Squealing.

Doors slammed. “Move out! Move it! Move it! - ”... Funny. They actually talk that way...

Light meshed - Atop yellowish teargas -

Blue. Red. Flashes hiccuped -

Now have they come...

Masked and shielded -

Pigs holding guns. Marching.

Our Modern Knights? Such brave “Boys In Blue.” Boys... Indeed how true... Children. Geared of riots... And only We four. Maiden Deaths Immaculate Quartet.

- bring Us your war -

- accept Our darkness -

- lost to treaties in blood -

From above - Flanking down Front Street and West Tenth...

Meet Us on Our ground. This kingdom. Built on the mortar of marrow. - Our domain - Fight your futile battles. Best surrender... The Order of the Knights of Anthropmancy always takes - Prisoners -

Carpe Ordo Equitum Nocturne - Blessed Be the Dominion of Our Rule.

Teargas shambled.

And clouds the choking...

And mists the crying...

- The leaving of a hundred storms -

Smoke billowing - Rolling before the arrival -

- The coming of a hundred shields -

Uncountable corse - lay in waiting - Strewn. Others barely breathing-

Of thus uttered he, that tragic prince...

Camillia walked over to Kevin. Spoken caressed as a waterpool sigh.

“Next time yea be led by The Court, yea may find some solace... in this...”

Removing his jacket, She slipped it back on him, inside out.

A long kiss on his forehead wet Her lips in blood.

May you never find your way... Never.

It should have been snowing. Some certain unforgiving lies in the hush of snow. In the silence of icicles... Which the liberating anyone earth must be defeated. Against desires through the door and voices are the tunnel of proximity. Whispers of razors in paranoid fever.

In The Nursery trickled an unheard song in mind. Colin tells of William's “Byzantium” thus as by muse craftwork spun.

- “The Seventh Seal” - about to crack -

Stories telling of icing and raindrops on cypress swings...

Salvation and redemption are never what We can ever expect... Why sought inside places abandoned?

On horseback Our charge to journey home...

On wisps of fogs and mankinds breath... Poisons to weep...

Children know nothing of their names.

Had bartering with Death for life so long caused existence to vanish?

... Children know nothing of their names.

Slain of loves...

For any loving. Life.

This was never a place I could see too clearly...

So often - Nightmares I can always dream -

Absent. How dying will not come...

But I cannot regret, the mermaids, crying for a dolphin...

Orpheus kettles upon My palm.

Smoke and dreamless fog. This was like snow. This is what I knew... Betwixt falling flakes come to dust the world. Like -

- some certain unforgiving -

Sure was the footing of Our steeds. Astride eyelash shadows. Skimming crests of sable breeze. Knights agallop across waters frozen time...

My mount and I atop the peak of obsidian metal. Bridge arching. Tressel towering over throats of hooked eddys and unsettling lakes. Steam engine down queen west by sanctuary. Holding overflowing cars of undead. Holding this span wreckage of steel horses...

Gentry revelry. Rades... Our cavalcade... processions. Orange saltant charade. Dusk moments and Sluagh damned hours, immemorial. My Goddess bare and child lustrine throes. The Tutha of scores seven and trooping heroic bejeweled. Across ruined chapel floors. Mounts made of not real... That no mortal dared may burden, nor straddle.

Darkling shades to cast baskets. Wicker of petals for Our fanciful pageantry. To gather palmed. Clans of desolate nothings. Scathe rades in coffin clothes... And noble born touched by cloth covers handmaids. Ridden within miracle and drear. Fogtrumpet groans afterglow the pangs of cathedrals wrung.

Beneath black wrought irons Pagan woven wriggle stone voices.

Swum upstream the brook of rivers. Rivers of three, black-winged dolphins. Take them flight abysmal floors burying centuries of spirit essence. Drowning in a drying swamp and muck.

Devotions lie in My stride to the repute, the duty of infernal pulse...

Feel I not like the Emperor?

My graven sanctum...

This rampage glade of daydreams and tears. Where trees grow apart.

Riding on a symphony of flaming two-headed dogs.

Atop Unseelie tombstones lay I stretched. Intricate clouds gripped the heavens still and unmoving. Slowly ripped the pirate patch from My healed eye. Winds lofted it to the hair of a toppled granite angel.

Three black-winged dolphins haunted Mine transplanted dreams until they were more image and vision than even word or thought. Breeching in darkly pale blood. Flowing out My skin.

... Alone...

Hearts beat in a timpani of the Dark Ages. A flashback chorus call Illiads to share in pharaoh gardens. Vocal anatomy of the fog. Distant unicorns without eyes, lament in whalesong.

Mortifying... Almost saying My name...

Natasha gone home. Camillia curled stories above awaiting Me in bedcloth. Allyson came near to bid Me in.

“Let Me sit here awhile... Something is singing to Me...”

Spun, understanding, She turned away.

“... Ally?... We always win the Game, don't We?...”

- and death said “now the game shall end” -

Her answer came neither as smile or smirk. Only a simple, faceless pause and a walk into ancient, across ghastly ancient grounds...

Had We wise enemies, none would We have.

And time away I wander.

Hallways resonance of spire awashed heights.

Allyson disrobed behind open door. Breast and hip bared pallor undefiled. Allure inviting gaze. Purged of Hades silvery sight. She chose a nightharmony to play Her to bed.

Somnolescent sounds evaporating saturation...

Came yet a thousandth song so noted. Where The Cure tells of “Three Imaginary Boys.”

- spire and resonance -

My wish for a goodnight...

Hours enraptured the flesh. The blood enraptured every want of My Betrothed. Blood drowned ageless on Cleopatra's needle.

As I drifted dreaming in the arms of ideal Death and Erl Queen -

Drunk in cloth and fluttered cloth.

Cloth fluttered as brocade and lambent to waking. Sights perilous upon rim of ether slumber. Melancholy cascading permeates some swathe enveloped strata. Dancing. Dazing. Before nightmare memories. Beyond libraries tomed of miseries.

... I am falling between squares of the Game...

And before the vision of the Obsidian King -

All My armies begone -

All My enemies -

Alone I stand on the board -

The Obsidian King -

Reaching out for Ivory -

Contending a pure... Ivory... Pawn -

“... Who welcomes whom to this place?...”

“... Does anyone?...”

∞ ∞ ∞

Petals of black roses are raining in your eyes when you look at Me yesterday. I think you are dying until I see tears glisten on your cheeks, then I remember that the dead don't cry.

I try to wipe your tears away because the thorns tear at My soul when you weep. But you push My hand aside and tell Me to watch My Own death.

So I do. And I don't know why. I should've wiped your tears away. But I didn't. I couldn't. I should've. Your tears are the blood of My soul. And when it is shed I die.

So I should've wiped your tears away. But I didn't. I couldn't.

Dark blood is sullen from your lips. Depression. Black nails... Rows... Of black...

“Mine is just a sadness...”

Black, thorny roses cut My caring hand. And once more... I bleed.

Chapter Twenty Five

The Unseelie Estate was built in 1697...

Created in what became Hunting Valley on over three thousand acres of land by Jules Hardouin-Mansert, architect of the Palace Of Versailles. Erected among contoured hills and cliffs, it took twenty years to finish.

Back in 1669, when King Louis XIV let Robert Cavalier De LeSalle survey the realm of the Iroquois Nation, the DuBois family resolved to hold conquest over a portion of the New World which was proving so boundless. At that time, Camillia's grandfather, favored among the nobles and passionately devoted to France, set in motion, plans for the construction of his Unseelie Estate. Such an undertaking would serve to emphasize a foothold in this land both for France and his children. Not to mention a spiteful blow to England.

Bringing the place to life was a monumental achievement, even by modern standards. All its difficulties and valor lost in the annals of history. Lost in unsettling decadences of the seventeenth century. Never spoken of by mortal lips any longer.

Curses and mysticism shrouded the chateau designs. Preventing anyone from ever learning too much about its architecture, new workers were hired in from Montreal every year. Rumors came with them. Devilish ritual parodies, mocking the church, they said were happening back home. Rumors of strange black masses, taking place among the Royal Courts of France, shuddered across the sea. Trembling in pious voices of common men became a fear that carved out the mansion as much as tempered it.

Upon its eventual and costly completion, the Estate exceeded all expectations as an ideal home for the family DuBois.

... Epic, ageless and eternal...

Ages in coming, it seemed to embody everything their lineage beheld for centuries. This is where they belonged. Once assembled, the mansion walls felt infused by a destined inevitability. Curves and corners shaped under aeons on incantations. Carried from Brittany winds, breathed on DuBois tongues. Sculpted from Galli bloodlines, pure in DuBois veins.

Exceptionally unorthodox and unusual construction fashions were required, especially compared to what was stylish in Europe during that time. Endless arguments took place over the bizarre layout and framework Monsieur DuBois demanded. In the end, everything about it almost subconsciously reflected the druidic heritage of clansmen even more ancient then their French traditions could provide.

The whole Estate was embattled within an enormous granite wall. Mortar marred by weathered and warred eons but ne'er splintered through. Surmounted by hundreds of gargoyles, each reaching thirty hands in height.

Boulders the size of houses overflowed bleak wood surrounding its grounds. Woods densely obscured. Where sunshine rarely rested upon any soil. Splendorous bluffs and waterfall streams scattered through rock outcroppings. Valleys lined with creeks chipped of shale that flooded with thunderous waves during rainstorms. Feeding a river where ripples themselves flow from chagrin to eerie. Thick mosses and toadstools and brambles carpeted the forest floor. Old broken swords and arrowhead eroded to camouflage in dirt. Rooted near crooked robur trees, thrice linked mushrooms made triangled chains. Dancing atomies attended with cricket legs and clover parasols.

Ominous churned indiscernible drear harboring musty birch thickets beget of apparitions. Birch beget of madness and dying touch. Upon this stray sod would those of second sight be plucked blind. And those who had seen nothing among nightshade foliage for years, might again mark misshapen shapes in the gloom.

Thorn tree trinities tilted torturous. Witches hid as elder wood beside ash all sickly from children passed.

Changeling hearts did beat black, cradled beneath the flying rowan hands. Sound like walking willows wisp and mutter foxfire of the good peoples banns.

Hazel be wise and alder be watched and whitethorn be guised among those cistern winded haunts.

Nan A Push and dour spirit kin mounted dryad saddles in mounted sin. In gorge feasting of bogle fruits. Crimsoncapped goblins slithered round wormwood jungled brush where all did blossom to wither. In mistletoe wafts, beannighe stained the streams with deathcloth blood. Down gwillion stared from height reigned and hags dragged hapless victims below to watery perils dug.

Sickly-eyed and wrinkle-mouthed, scrabbled rainspout words. Runes older than speech singed rotten bark where Their hands came to rest as fern.

Glyphs to make mad any mortal mind. Where oakmen seethe in felled trunk knots, and mushroom ring clocks tick-tock out faerie time. We speak not, as it must be. For a time it is Their will and Their will must be hallowed and done.

Stands that border dour shade of Broceliande and all Her pillared mounds. Never is it easy to peer in glades too far into the distant frond.

Invariably, the limbs close in...

To choke even day and bring the night...

And lunantishee laugh in blackthorn leaves at all the livings plight...

For eternity must the cat people ride. One warrior firing bow over his shoulder, to stave off the cavalry astride. So long as his spirit fights, none may claim that soil. None have the right.

Neglected pathways overgrew next to cracked statues covered beneath creeping ivy vines. Hanging on rusted lichgates. Old groves long abandoned under wind-blighted sands and time.

Winding routes and roots clutched round edge of tombstones.

Busted vaults and catacombs made way to the heart of a now unhallowed graveyard. Encumbered with a dread, an eminence and antiquity to shame even the crypts of Highgate and Pere LaChaise. Outdoing even Lake View, only several miles away.

Sacred dirt mangled open to hear pagan song and drum. Requiems of flame and dance. Of tear and widowveil. Crosses and prayers to commit dead to ashes on roseleaf biers.

Tens of thousands rotted in graves with names too worn to read. With footing too askew to be stood as placed. Coffers and sepulchers that no living soul ever again would visit. Over which no tears would ever again be shed. Upon which no flowers would ever again be set.

Lonely altars of marble where wretched things once and still took place.

For acre after acre scowled monuments carved to angel and devil visage, coated in lichen whites. Relics towering awkwardly, fanned cryptic shadows in moonshine. Flung among haphazard trails, betwixt gnarled timber, were headstones molded grotesque, possessing crumbling and worn crests.

Aside thickets, craggy bridges arced, casting trow shade over brook and pond. Ponds where glaistigs may bed asrai lovers framed in reeds. Waters owning no bottoms beneath their twilight currents.

Other bridges spanned avenues wedged at the bottom of three story crevasses. Lanes twisting between walls honeycombed with their corse. Some walkways filled with stagnant rain and melted snow. Gathering depth until becoming pools that leeched bobbing caskets from the clay.

Centuries of ancestry were exhumed from Brittany soil and buried within almost three score acres of Our cemetery. Graves embraced fallen soldiery of countless wars, clawing back in time three hundred years. Laying beside cinders burned of Iroquois and Cat Nation pyres.

Stolen souls of murder and suicide. Taken in birth and battle. Lost to age and ills. Every form death can beseech had come to rest under that unanointed earth... To writhe under those soured, sprawling stones...

No creature trod nor roamed that carrion loam. No squirrel nor possum nor rabbit nor coon. Not even the branches woven o'erhead be roost with raven or sparrow longer than a breath. All avian flute and caw like dove and crow and gull to warn their kind awares. Keep far from this ground of death.

Almost eleven times larger than the cemetery were plush LeNotre gardens. Gardens lavishly scenting the Estate with spectral fragrances.

Parterre meadows dotted with sculptures meticulously cast in bronze, stone and shrubbery. Massive behemoths of foliage statues lumbering lazily. Bobbing in the breeze under their own weight.

Pale bluebells hung sorrowful in comely glum. Oberons love in idleness shuffled with midnight sun.

Exquisite flora which resented brash admiration of mortal stares too barbaric to admire their divinity proper.

Elaborate spans of ruined walls and cubbyholes. Doorways and gateways and pathways and thisways and thatways by canopy lattice trellises encased.

Reflecting pools and pillars rose around dais rimmed gazebos. Marble and moonstone bridges and viaducts stepped over grotto, glen and vale.

Pointed sundials which now were read only by eyes dead in moonglow.

Lolled topaz cowslips and some culver keys, faerie maids dreamed of naughty thoughts and deathly deeds. Riding ragwort rods and drunk on primrose wine. Held they harebell and foxglove spirits tangled by windchimes.

Fountains of black opal and onyx shaped sylph with faun. Depicting indulgent and vulgar hedonisms. Beauteous as the vast skies of hell in a crystal ball.

Kensington Gardens of Pan. A gloaming land. Conjured by solemn pianos, tubular bells and mournful sighs of lovelorn loss.

The piece de resistance was a hedge-and-silver-mirror-maze, spanning more ground than Our castle alone. Riddled with interwoven stairs and multiple levels of cobblestone lanes made explorations of the maze finding oneself lost into lush M.C. Escher illustrations.

Giger nightmares in Escher dreams...

The mansion itself stood in likeness of a tireless and inhuman sentinel. A citadel of oblivion, fortitude and malice. Stretched across an excess of thirteen hectares, it rose upward, soaring to some ten stories in castellated towers.

Innumerable wings and floors stacked and jumbled behind impenetrable walls. Unexplained drafts and sounds being the only things that permeated each den.

Endless expanses of chambers cared for by Revenant servants.

Extravagant balconies and moonporches shut behind stained glass doors above the great hall.

Stone fireplaces, tall enough to stand in, heated awkwardly huge rooms.

Canopy beds slept quiet upstairs, under cathedral-high ceilings. Only the purest silks and most evanescent fabrics shrouded their comforts. Pampering washrooms complimented with saunas and waterfall sinks awaited adjacent to every suite.

Twisting helix staircases flanked by ornamental banisters wrapped through rooms decorated with hanging lanterns, tapestries and curtained archways. Dovetailed mahoganies, oaks, walnuts and teakwoods sturdily bound together intricate frieze and furniture.

Atriums and greenhouse arboretums floated among the architecture, overlooked with balconies and chandeliers hung from galleria glass. A fountained courtyard conservatory served as the center of a three floor library. Shelved were modern authors and original works of Moliere, Racine, Corneille, and LaBruyere.

Nestled by a theatre seating hundreds were galleries awash in priceless sculptures from Coysevox and Girardon.

Camillia collected only the finest virtu to display in twin museums. Decorations by Charles LeBrun and Nicolas Loir flourished throughout the home.

More and more paintings I persuaded Her to replace over the years. Being more partial to the works of H.R. Giger, Robert Williams, Mobeius, Edvard Munch, Lars Fruth, Robert Gregory Griffeth, Michael Parkes, Michael Green, and Brian Froud. The last and first most of all.

Robert Williams was hired by Denise to do artwork in the Acid Rooms at Necropolis too. All of them who still lived, had gargantuan works commissioned by Me, on display throughout Our castle.

Slowly, Camillia came around. She commissioned a few of those artists Herself. Until their murals and paintings dominated all other artwork on every wall throughout the tormented chateau.

Together, We also purchased Andrea Mantegna's “Christ Between Two Thieves” from The Louvre.

Every corner of the palace was bewitching awe. Every corner a work of necromantic art and rude grace.

None entered certain dark corners in centuries. Certain rooms and closets left locked forever. Home to the baddest things...

Hewn into bedrock darted cellars and dungeon vaults and catacombs and caverns to depths no mortal could fathom or be certain of...

Down there... was... Form to black fancies. Reality from nightmares... Where nightmares are born...

This and more was The Unseelie Estate...

A place where nothing real was quite true... Someplace where every event was a memory before it occurred. Where wood was stained sable with time in its grain. Marble was always colder than snow. Light feared to shine. And the Host of myth and fright were always just natant shadows on ones eye.

Etched into the frosted transom glass read the Lennon-plagiarized words: “This Is Not Here.”

... Was it at moments?...

Those walls of ghosts and visions. Those halls where stride the dead. A home impossible to live in.

For every word written in its praise fails to convey any woeful radiance beheld among those floor, attics and lofts.

The place... breathed...

Not an inch of its corridors failed to give the sense of feeling the presence of long forgotten people passing through the place.

Something olden and dark and magnificent managed to have rooted itself into every stone. Whether lit by sunlight or stars, the grandeur and majesty of its foundations forever echoed, silently, through the ancient Erie trees. Encompassing the essence of legends and desires and obsessive nightmares... Always has the Estate been coursing with DuBois blood...

Until his demise in 1729, lord over The Unseelie Estate was Camillia's uncle, Her father's older brother. By 1783 the family cut all ties with France and allied with the Iroquois... but that is a story of a later time...

Back when Camillia's uncle died, under strange circumstances, his distraught wife and children returned to Brittany. Within the week, Camillia and Allyson, still just young children as well, were moving in with their half of the family. Leaving Versailles with the blessing and support of King Louis XV.

My home as well had it become. And never felt I so welcome in any place.

(Had I?)

Never had haunted arms such a comforting embrace.

Vampires live in The Unseelie Estate... It was said centuries ago. That's what they say today...

The scared children tell stories of the people who disappear. The stories of the scary sounds... The teens scoff uneasily, but still won't drive past the gates. The adults never discuss it at all. They pretend not to remember. Discount the myths. Old wives tales. Old hags concoctions. Old covens of witches traitorous to the Goddess...

Children believe.

Children know.

Vampires live in The Unseelie Estate. Those gargoyles... move...

“I saw it move daddy! I saw it. It moved its head like this...”

Don't imitate them!... Oh, please... if it comes looking don't let it take me. Just take my child. I didn't -

... Don't... move...

None go that far down Fairmount Boulevard unless invited. The roads old bricks are easily avoided by other routes.

But invitations had gone out for to revel upon that night...

... And in the drizzle, Halloween had finally come...

∞ ∞ ∞

“Memphisto” by Depeche Mode carried a sway of clashing red klieg lights out in front of Our mansion.

Saffron skies, I imagined, trailed the setting sun that night. Saffron prior to rain...

Ironic, that on Halloween, the chateau was lit with the most light. Filled with the most guests. And glowing with the most joy, laughter and celebration of any given moment during a year.

Some years, Halloween just wasn't a holiday. Sometimes, it just didn't feel like one... Not that year.

That party proved one of Our biggest. Our most memorable. Yet, it seems, there's not a lot to tell. Although there could be no doubt - The Feast Of The Dead had truly come once more.

Crisp and sharp nipped the chill air and with waft of mortal veins. Drizzle mimicking a Niagara mist enveiled every breeze. When the life of nature took the scent and color of the-summer-is-dying.

When all earth falls silent... and briefly... motionless...

Down I looked from wooded hills. Casually surveying My Dominion. With goblin grim and gargoyle guile gazed I at the gathering guests asmile. Hundreds had already arrived and more cars backed up, all the way to the main gates.

When Emperor Napoleon III visited Our city back in 1861 and was quoted as saying, “Good town. Good people. Good time,” he was referring to a DuBois party.

Once again, a legendary gala was unfolding upon the Unseelie Estate.

Costumed living and dead handed invitations to the gargoyles at the top of the road. Everyone was welcome. The stone fiends saw only to granting no admittance to those with no costume. Silently, they accepted the pearly lettered cards...

“Whoa! That's one cool costume!”

“ --- ”

“... I think he wants to see our invitations, Ken.”

“Huh? Oh! Yeah, sure. Here - ”

“ --- ”

“Do we just go in?”

“That one opened the gate, Ken. Go.”

“Right... Nice talking to you!”

“ --- ”

“Ken.”

“What!?”

“Ken, don't tease him. Just drive... Those costumes are fucking creeping me out.”

They move yet do not breathe...

Piles of thousands of pumpkins lined the entire length of the driveway. Jack-O'Lanterns incandescent atop their uncarved brethren. There were so many that the whole length of the drive became illuminated by candled orange.

Traditional black and orange balloons and streamers wove all over the innards of the mansion. As with the driveway, there were so many that it transformed from being comical to surreal and unsettling. Giger murals peeked between balloons.

As for comical, larger-than-life-sized statues of classic horror movie monsters were placed all about rooms. Hoisting drinks and capped in party hats. (Allyson's idea. Cam and I protested. Ally pouted. She won.)

A huge “Halloween Tree” filled the foyer. Leafless and spraypainted black, it was ornamented by decapitated old doll and action-figure heads in various states of being melted. Instead of tinsel, it clutched spray-on cobwebs and was lit by nothing but red, miniature christmas lights. For a star, burned a Barbie head impaled at the very top.

Coffins opened and full of dry-ice fog added another weird effect to the atmosphere.

Tombstones tucked in corners sat out of drunkard footpaths.

Funky voodoo pumpkins burned with waxen shine down dark halls and studies.

We created a modern party encompassing all the air and aura of a Renaissance masquerade ball. The mansion itself, and the whole of the Estate, would always imbue even the most obnoxious ruffians with a hint of refined dignity and cause all guests to carry themselves accordingly.

This was not Our doing. Nor the bedevilment of any fair glamour. Merely it was the imposing handsomeness of their surroundings. The wildest, most debaucherous and unrepeatable tirades ever seen by the chateau, always held some hint of equity.

For Our masquerade had guests crossed oceans, after all. Schedules and appointments were canceled or changed. Deserts and mountains were surpassed. Plains and forests would they venture through. Some, from the other side of the world, came just for that one evening. Traversing storm, blizzard, and flood, at any price.

Once in attendance, people floated in phantomed finesse. The feel of their surroundings taking hold. Costumes all so flawless in craft and detail. Every soul, both living and Lost, showed up looking their best.

Naturally. Who would dare arrive presenting themselves in anything less?

Camillia, as a nightingale Queen, appeared atypically and undeniably ravishing. Attired was My Love in a copy of the bridal gown given to Lily by the Lord of Darkness from the Ridley Scott movie Legend. Otherworldly and spectral with its insatiably arousing decolletage and menace.

The original designers from the film, Charles Knode and Robert Lobetta created the styling especially for Her.

Carrying black, a lorgnette, Camillia meandered among the hundreds, unmatched with debonair allure and charm.

My Sister Allyson almost came as Jamie Hewlett and Alan Martin's Tank Girl. Deciding that was too cliched, She dressed as Harley Quinn from Batman... Oh, how fitting. A character both adorable and maniacal... That's My Allyson.

As for Myself, I too was a Legend incarnation. And, thanks again to the films original artists, I was the perfect likeness of Blix, “the most loathsome” of the goblins of Darkness.

Gargoyle by My side, watching from the woods, I wondered who had yet to arrive...

And what of My lovely Helle?

What might she whom I awaited for wear to Our humble masquerade? She whom I knew would never attend. You haven't come yet... I'm waiting for you.

I look forward to your visit, Hel.

Hel...

Hel...

Hell...

Miles away, a young girl gasped.

Hearing voices...

Crying like going mad.

In likeness of desperation and pain.

... Grounded for months, in her lonely, lonely room...

∞ ∞ ∞

My immortal Beloved happened to be greeting Natasha just as I came back through the crowded foyer.

“Look Who's here.” Camillia reported frankly among the flurry of voices and music.

“Ahhh, the lovely Natasha Dragony graces Our presence, all the way from Ohio City.” Flamboyantly, I bowed.

“Graces Us with Her presence, Dear.” Camillia corrected Me, coyly quirking Her neck.

“That's what I said.”

Natasha stared around to Me. Brow clumped. “... Elric?”

“Aright speakest Thou.”

“Holy shit!” Natasha chuckled, stepping back. “Un-fucking-real. You Two always have the best costumes... That thing is amazing.”

“Thanks... Do You know who I am?”

Some guy dressed as Leon Redbone sauntered past. Heh! Now that was slick.

Natasha had Her turn at being coy, yet gracious. “Of course. Blix... from Legend. Right?”

“Yup.”

“Cool. Very cool.”

Natasha came sporting a full-dress uniform of a Nazi SS officer. Two nights earlier, back in the mall, She had finger-painted blood swastikas on all the corpses before We left. That gave Her the idea for the costume.

Not that She was a Nazi. She just painted them to fuck with peoples minds and offend the hell out of everyone who found the bodies. But She was no Nazi. She didn't get along with Neo-Nazi Skins very well either. Quite the opposite. Few vampires would condone any genocidal waste of blood. Life was too precious to throw away all it had to offer Us.

“Who else is here?” Natasha puzzled.

“I'm not sure. Quite a few - ” I said as someone squeezed by. I knew every One who was there, but didn't know exactly Whom Natasha meant.

“ - The place is packed.”

Smugly confident in Our parties, I noted, “As usual... Quite a few have showed up so far.”

“Felicia and John are here.” Offered Camillia.

Rhetorically, I responded. “Really? I missed Them. Where'd They go?”

“They're around. They're Cloak & Dagger. Shamus is here too.”

Fuck. Not that asswipe. Must She remind Me? Ignoring Her final remark, I simply commented on Felicia and John's costumes. “Ha. Cool. How fitting. Lioncourt should be going on soon.” I added capriciously.

“Great! In the ballroom?” Tasha jerked a thumb, half turning.

“Yeah... Er, no, I mean, the theatre.”

“How soon?”

Camillia told Her. “Just five minutes or so.”

“Good... Well, I'm headed over there, in that case. You coming?”

“Not... yet.” I glanced about while explaining. “I gotta find Sibyl. She wanted to see them with Me.”

“Oh, fine. Ditch Me for Sibyl. Go right ahead.”

“Shut uuup.”

“I'll come.” Camillia offered Tasha, not Me. The Two said They would meet up with Me and began to leave.

Before They were gone, there was a palm on My shoulder. Knowing who it was, I simply looked back saying, “Hello, Wendy darling!... How be Nana and the twins!?”

Wendy curtsied. “Just grand, dark Pan!”

Wendy and Cream were together and were spectacular, dressed as Siamese from the comic series Kabuki by David Mack. Articulated metal sheaths covered their arms, perfectly matching the most difficult part of the costume to recreate. Fucking cool. Spared no expense. A local designer, Rene Cigler, helped them out they said.

Talya Rein was right behind them, swirling in the noisy ocean of visitors. Camillia saw Her and asked Tasha to wait. We each greeted Talya.

Talya kissed Cam. Hugs and admiration of costumes were exchanged by all around. Cream put an arm around Me (the flesh one) and wouldn't let go until I kissed her. Not an easy task with the huge fucking nose on My outfit. The thing damn near made Me cross-eyed all evening. But, hell, it looked fantastic. She knew that I could hardly kiss her with that in the way. Everyone laughed at My awkward and futile attempt to fulfill her request. So, I elected to just allow her to hang on to Me instead. Actually, I could've kissed her. But given the choice between a brief kiss and having her paw Me indefinitely... Welll... Sorry, Cream. Can't kiss you. Pawing wins out.

Hee, hee...

Talya wore a glorious, pastel blue, fourteenth century princess gown.

“I cheated.” She explained. “I couldn't find a costume! I was going to be a gypsy or Cyndi Lauper, but... I dunno... So, I just came as My SCA persona.”

“Ah! Welcome then, Mi' Lady Isabel.” I bowed, kissing Her hand, Cream still stuck to Me.

Talya's Society For Creative Anachronism persona, Isabel Darkmoon, was also the heroine of a novel She had long been writing. “Your presence is always both an honour and pleasure.”

“Thank You, My Lord.”

“Shall we off to see the dark minstrels then!? Zis court of ze lions!?” I joked with a waft of My palm.

They were all into that. Off to the theatre it was...

Damn. I almost forgot. “Oh! Wait! I gotta find Sibyl.”

“What about me!?” Cream purred, continuing to cling to Me. Rubbing closer.

“Well, you know I can handle you and another!” I grinned at Wendy who knowingly sneered back.

Wendy's girl whined. “But I don't wanna share now!”

“Please!...”

She wasn't budging.

“Let go!! Stop it! Hey! I'm a loathsome goblin! You have to do as I say!” Pretend and teasing anger.

Cream hung on steadfast.

“Would you let go!?... Let go!... If you let Me go, I'll go down on you later!”

Her forehead raised.

“Hey, My nose is longer than My dick!... Think of the possibilities!”

Cream's upper lip rumpled with a revolted chuckle. Shoving Me away, She declared. “Oh, yuck! That's sick! You're disgusting!”

“Just the way ya like Me, baby! You little deviant!” I said like a perverted old man.

Cream kissed My cheek and proved Me right... Actually, she was a lot of deviant. Just the way I like her.

“You sure You're not coming?” I asked Cam once more.

“No. I'll just meet up with You.”

“Okay.”

As I moved away, Cream shouted over the teeming masses. “You'd better make good on Your offer!!”

“You can hold Me to it!!”

“Oh, I'll hold You to it until Your nose is pickled!!!”

“Ha! And I'm the pervert!?”

Blowing her a kiss, I vanished into the eddy of guests. People laughed. Smoked. Getting drinks. Meeting each other. Seeing friends they were glad showed up. Dancing to music. Flirting. Shocked to see famous people in the mix (“Is that really... him!?”). Amazed by the “house.” Discussing and wondering “who owned it?” “Pet Cemetery” by The Ramones played from somewhere. Muffled echoing.

As I passed a guy (girl?) in a minotaur costume, Talya caught up. “Let Me, um, I'll help You find Her. What's She dressed as?”

“Sibyl? You'll recognize Her. Can't miss Her. She's Priss.”

“Bladerunner, Priss?”

I thought about that. “... Is there any other?... What other Priss is there?”

“No. None. I guess not... Sarcastic bastard.” She teased.

“What!? I'm sorry. That wasn't sarcasm. I was serious... There really are no other characters from movies or books or anything named Priss... are there?”

“... Nnno, I don't think so.”

“Good. 'Cause I'm never ever fucking sarcastic. Do You understand Me? And if You gimmie any shit again, You can just fuckin' leave, babe.”

Talya's eyes rolled at My pathetic humor. For a moment, I'll admit I wondered if all My usual sexual remarks were a sign of juvenile immaturity... Then, I realized I didn't give a fuck.

“Where's Allyson?” Talya's head leaned as She spoke.

“She's around somewhere. She brought Her new Concubine. I think She's giving her a tour.”

Talya purred. “Ohhh...”

Sibyl, We eventually found, talking to Denise and some blonde woman in a succubus outfit. The she-devil looked to have been peeled off a Lords Of Acid poster, from some astonishing coital position with Ruth McArdle... and several of their close friends...

Denise, beautiful as always, appeared incredible in costume. Only heightening Her appearance, She was dressed as Storm from the X-Men comics. Phenomenal. She should just seriously dress that way every damn night. The attire couldn't help but be flattering on Her. Uncanny likeness. (Eeew!... Did I say that? No pun intended.)

The wing of the mansion they stood within was doused by “Surprise! You're Dead!” by Faith No More which gradually gave way to Alien Sex Fiend doing “Now I'm Feeling Zombiefied.”

Sibyl leapt at Me. Big hug. “Hey! My pal! How is ya, old Blix?”

“Cool guava, man. You ready to dangle, bub?” I asked.

“Ready?”

“Lioncourt is going on.”

“Oh! Yeah. I'm all set. Talya! Hi!” They embraced. Talya returned a pleasant hello. Then Sibyl asked, “You met Susan yet?” Sibyl motioned to the succubus.

“No. I've not had the pleasure.”

We were introduced. Susan O'Wens her name was. Gorgeous straight hair swept just past her waist. Seemed quite impressed that I was One of the Hosts of the evenings little get-together.

Denise, on the other hand, didn't say much. She appeared caught up in a strange mood. She and Talya said hello. But Denise left it at that. For some reason, She was distracted. Kind of quiet. Not too talkative... No problem. That's cool... None are ever preoccupied more deeply or more often than Our Kind...

“How was Devil's Night!?” Susan wondered over the slamming music.

I was surprised she would ask. “Oh. Good! Good! We had a great time!”

“Sibyl was just telling us!”

“Oh! Okay! Yeah, We got out and saw Rocky Horror again!”

“Again?” Talya asked.

I ignored Her. I hate redundant questions. Instead, I just asked Susan, “So, how do you know Sibyl!?”

“I don't! We just met!” She laughed. But pleasantly, not irritatingly. “I know Denise because my boyfriend tends bar at Necropolis!”

“Oh! That's cool! I never saw you there!”

“Well, I just moved up here from Kansas, and so I just met my boyfriend too! Like, about a month ago!”

“Heh! Well, no wonder! How'd you meet him!? At Necropolis!?”

“No! He was in My class! I teach - I teach as a personal fitness trainer at a health club and we met there! Playing squash!”

Oh. I nodded in affirmation. How cheesey. A fitness trainer?... And what the hell is “squash” anyway? That's no sport. It's a verb and a plant.

Out of nowhere...

A gargoyle stepped near, making Susan slightly uneasy. Awe. Confusion. Disbelief. All mortals reacted as such. Deep down, they were all terrified. But their grown-up minds suppressed their wise fears and dismissed those preternatural abominations as inexplicably “great costuming...”

How I adore their pathetic simplicity.

Susan said nothing of the beastly statue.

His massive stone hand gently placed a satin kerchief in Denise's palm. On the red cloth were embroidered lavish black silk lettering:

You Are Cordially Invited To

- La Toussant -

Denise thanked him. Our stone demon silently faced away and left us. Denise offered Me a tiny smile of polite gratitude, which I respectfully returned.

“What's his name?”

Susan took a second to realize I was speaking to her. “... Huh!? Oh, I'm sorry! What!?... What's who's name!?”

“Your boyfriend! You mentioned - ”

“ - Oh!... Kevin!?” Saying his name as a question asked if I knew him.

I did. He was a shithead. “Oh! Kevin! That's cool! Yeah, he's a good guy!”

“You know him!?” That prospect lit her up.

“Vaguely!... Did you come with him or - ”

“ - Yeah, yeah, he's here! He's looking for a lavatory!”

After hearing her use a word as dumb as “lavatory” I really didn't want to talk to her anymore. I simply muttered a sound to acknowledge what she said, and I turned away.

“Yeah, We saw Rocky Horror again!” I told Talya. Then I prodded Sibyl, “Come on! Let's go see the show.”

“You two coming!?” Sibyl inquired of Denise and Susan.

“Maybe,” was all Denise said.

“Yeah! Later on maybe! I'd like to see bands!”

“Okay!”

Susan quickly added. “You have an amazing home! Mansion, I guess I should say!”

Chateau, actually. “Thank you!” Spotting Isaac, I called him over to us. “Isaac!”

“... Monsieur?”

“Susan, this is Isaac! Isaac, this is Susan.”

“A pleasure mademoiselle!” Our Revenant bowed.

“Should you need anything, just tell Isaac! He'll take care of it!”

“Oh! Yes! Thank you! I'm fine for now!”

“Good! Well, I'll catch you later! That's all Isaac.”

“Monsieur.” Isaac left to get back to his other duties.

“Nice to meet You!” Susan offered Her hand.

Kissing the top of her palm, I let her know, “The greater pleasure was certainly Mine!... I look forward to meeting again!”

“Oh, me too.” The succubus grin was titillating. Provocative. Sweet, her disloyal thoughts...

We left Denise and Susan to their sparse conversation and headed for hearing the Lioncourt set.

Brushing once again through the cluttered rooms and hallways, Sibyl lead the way, while Talya announced, “I'm moving. Did I tell You?”

“You are? Where?” Glancing over My shoulder, I asked.

She answered with scrunched neck and wriggled lips. “I don't know yet.”

“How come?”

“I just haven't found a place yet.”

“No. I mean, how come You're moving?”

“They cut down another tree in My neighborhood today. In the last, like, ten years they've cut down at least ten trees... I can't live in a neighborhood like that...” She paused like She expected Me to respond. I simply nodded oh-I-guess-that's-understandable.

Talya continued, stating, “I might move to the O.U. wicca house.”

“... Huh?... The wicca house?”

A kid portraying an excellent Beetlejuice bumped into Sibyl and apologized. She said it was no big deal. Answering My question, Talya said, “Yeah, it's this old house just off campus down at O.U. - ”

“ - Oh! I think I remember You telling Me about it... Isn't that the one where there's an altar... in the attic or something... and people say it's haunted and shit?”

“Yeah. That one. On the crossroads.”

“Oh... That'd be cool... Don't some people You're friends with live there already? I thought once You said something about... - ”

That question made a glimmer of sorrow slip across Her lips. “ - ... N-No. Not anymore... That was a long time ago.” She smiled a sourhoney grin.

“... Oh.” Yes... A long time... Of course.

Perfect timing.

Lioncourt was just taking the stage. “Lullaby” by The Cure faded out on the soundsystem to make way for the band. Houselights were dimmed, announcing their entrance. The universal cue that the show is starting.

We found Camillia and the others. Simple smiles were Our hellos. Standing up front, we settled in for the concert.

Music trickled in synth chord harmonies. Slowly and tauntingly building to a torrent. Before mortal eyes could even see them, the presence Lioncourt conjured on stage swept enthralling up theatre walls.

As music of “Insignificance” washed over the crowd, three hundred people began to waver with slow, drear sounds. Unity of despair...

Out of the rafters burst a solemn gray light as Jazz stood to entrance his admirers.

“Jazz” was Devan's stage name. And in his typical style, Jazz charmed every little goth boy and girl before him. Moving. Swaying.

Lights grazed his eyes creating neon jade glow. Dry grin. Somber dance. Arms swirling. Lights giving him a halo of misty crimson before dry-ice clouds.

(Jazz of Lioncourt had not quite the intensity of Jaz Coleman, but who the hell can outdo Killing Joke?)

Their set began to rumble black Halloween faith through the Estate. Drowning darker than sandstorm blood. Dire flames that burn nothing but hope. All such an identifiable joy to those there. Perhaps all they need was lost... but at least not alone...

Hearts beat faster. Tribal and gargantuan myths of cruelest sorrows. Their concert mesmerized.

Moment stacked upon moment of claps and costumed cheers. Not many songs into the set, just as time began to lose meaning and substance, a voice spoke next to Me.

“Are You Lioncourt!?” Some pretty young girl dressed as Alice In Wonderland asked. Three friends were with her. All beautiful in their own ways. The first one soft, another sultry. One girl was smoldering and the last, creamy.

“Huh!? Uh... I know Lioncourt!”

- I'm not what you think just turn away and leave -

“Yeah, I meant - ”

“ - You do!?” The sultry one asked. “You know them!?”

“Yeah!” For a moment, I nearly added that it was My party... but I decided to take this conversation slowly. That first inquiry pegged the one as a bit daft after all.

They looked at each other all excited. Great. Want to meet the band I guess, eh?

“Who are you!?” I wondered.

Melissa Belvoir was the sultry one. A smile that taught devil souls to warm and know love. Dressed as the Mad Hatter. Cute kitten whiskers.

The smoldering girl of the four was Justine Lancanshire. Justine was supposed to be the Queen Of Hearts. Somehow, however, I don't recall the Queen Of Hearts wearing a completely sheer, white bodystocking with strategically arranged playing cards tucked in it. Different...

Out of place, was creamy Janet MacKall, who was the Scarecrow from the Wizard Of Oz. The other three changed to the “Wonderland motif” after Janet already had her garb all together. Janet didn't care. But, nobody wanted to be the Tin Man, so, Wonderland replaced Oz as their theme.

Sabrina Harleston was the most endearing of them all. She was the first to speak to Me. The one soft and dressed as Alice. And she wasn't nearly as flighty as her first words made her out to be. The girl had christmas tree eyes and a Book Of Love glow. Soft Cell, Marc Almond and OMD written all over the way she carried herself. She was vocalist in some band with her boyfriend.

I learned their full-names later, when getting their phone numbers. Most of the concert I missed, spending My time talking mainly with Sabrina. We moved away from the stage.

“I've seen you at the Rainbow a lot!” I told her.

“You have!? I've never seen You! Well, of course, I don't know what You really look like!”

“True!”

“That's a really neat costume!”

“Thanks!”

“Where'd You get it!?”

“I had it made, for the party!”

“Oh, that's cool! Really, it's amazing!”

“How about you!? Did you make that!?”

“Yeah! Well, we all did! We all helped each other!”

“Yeah!? Well, I'm glad to finally meet you after seeing you at the club so much!”

“Yeah! What's Your name again!?” She leaned closer. Smelled great.

“Elric!”

“Oh! I know You now! I mean, I recognize the name!”

“You do!?”

“Yeah! Everybody knows You!”

I merely grinned.

“I meant that as a compliment!”

Continuing to grin, I wondered, “Where're you from!?”

“Um, I live in Coven Tree!”

“Oh! Perfect! You hang out there a lot then!?”

“Yeahhh!” With an all-knowing frown, she rolled her eyes.

“... You don't sound like you like it too much!”

“Huh!?... Oh, no! It's not that! I really love it there but... well, You know how Coven Tree is! It's like there's all these totally cool people, but... it's also a place for all these trendy losers and these wanna-be Pagans and Buddhists who've read like half a book on it and take themselves way too seriously!”

That cracked Me up. “Yeah, I know what you mean!”

“You know what I mean!? I met some guy on Friday who was like that! Totally annoying! Like, he seemed cool at first and stuff! But then he started telling me this stupid, weird shit like he was really psychic and mysterious or something!... And he wasn't, he was just a clueless fucking moron! And it was like, shit, just go away!”

“Yeah! I know! Like, the type who get a Tarot deck and some incense and suddenly they're these powerful... whatevers and they “practice” and have “teachers” and reach different “levels” and shit! I know! I can't stand those kinds of people!”

She nodded. “I do believe in that stuff, but some people can be such idiots about it!”

“Yeah! I hear you! They get so full of themselves that they can't see they're full of crap! And they always get that dumb ego-thing going, like, “I'm more advanced than You are!””

“Exactly! Oh, I hate that! I mean, I'm not like some - I'm not like, um, what am I trying to say!?... Not like I don't think - like... I'm skeptical or anything! I mean I totally believe in all that stuff! It's just that, there's a lot more to it than that! Truly psychic people never reduce their abilities to a rating scale or an ego contest!”

“... Oh, yes!... That's very true!...” No. This girl did know a thing or two after all.

Brief lull in the concert.

Jazz dedicated the next song to Camillia. A cover of the Pain Teens “Daughter Of Chaos.”

Cool. That was nice of them. And what an accurate assessment of My grave Beloved.

“Sorry! I'm babbling!” Sabrina crinkled her nose.

“No, I don't mind! That's Coven Tree for you! Everything you said is so true!”

“So, where do You live!?”

“... You wouldn't believe Me if I told you!”

“No, come on! Seriously! What, do You live at home or something!?”

“In a manner of speaking!” A manor of speaking.

“Well, there's nothing wrong with that, You know!? That's cool! I moved out just as soon as I turned eighteen!... But not many people can do that!”

“Yeah!”

“I just couldn't stand my parents anymore!... How old are You!?”

For all intents and purposes? “Nineteen!”

“Cool!... So, where do You live!?” Hesitation altered her tone. “... You don't have to tell me! I mean - I'm sorry! Maybe I shouldn't ask... I mean, it's none of my business really!”

“You really want to know!”

“No!... Only if You really want to tell me!”

“... Okay!...” This would be an unforgettable night indeed. Lost for over an hour in christmas tree eyes. I could picture us kissing in shadows.

Sometime...

Our words tasted soft. The quench of cream. Flavors smoldering and sultry on the tongue of enticement. Come and meet your vampire dreams.

Drinking in every phrase...

I will introduce you to an immortal band...

And stygian magic wove the music...

And the costumed masses ebbed and flowed on through the night. An evening where every memory replays in a dreamy slowness.

Onward strode the shade past midnights.

Music beat. Candles burned. Guests talked. People laughed.

Some strange quotes and conversations heard in passing. Out-of-context smatterings of words:

(“... I'm apathetic and ignorant!...”)

... Every memory... dreamy slowness...

Seeing Camillia dance in the ballroom. So idyllic of form.

(“... You stepped on my heart! You ruined my life!...”)

The laughter of the dead. Fast fashion of a black celebration sang.

(“... Don't smile at me if you're cute! You don't mean it!...”)

(“... When I get down, any Melissa Etheridge tune will do!...”)

The stride of brutal stone among those guests.

(“... Is it just me, or does B.O. sometimes smell like pizza!?...”)

Sibyl wanted to dance and talk with Me since We hung out so little at the Lioncourt gig.

(“... If I told her The Smiths suck, she'd never speak to me again!...”)

Iggy Pop and Debora Harry sung about “what a swell party it is.” Crosby and Sinatra never sang it so well. “Did You Ever?”

That gave way to “Everybody Loves You” by Cop Shoot Cop which lead into Oingo Boingo's “Dead Man's Party.”

(“... I totally dig the fuckin' Pogues!...”)

(“... Once you survive the excruciatingly tedious hours of high school, you can endure anything and there's nothing to be depressed about!...”)

One parlor had a guy telling a group of people about knowing a boy with an outie belly button so long, it looked like another little penis.

Gee, how pleasant. He was stoned. The bud was ablaze in that room.

(“... I tend to injure myself a lot when I'm on the phone!...”)

And in the same room, some college student was irritated by endless charities after her money. Complaining about being bombarded by propaganda poster on campus of some kid with a fly in his eye.

(“... I felt content for a minute today!...”)

(“... Fuck you! Real punkers can't afford leather jackets!...”)

Stupid drunken kid hung on every other person he could literally bump into. “Yer so beautiful - (HIC)! You knowe yer beauifu!?... Hrmm?...”

Sure. Whatever. Get away from Me, dumbass. And don't yak on Our floor.

(“... I suppose you could say I'm a proud supporter of the decline of Western civilization...”)

(“... I knew someone who thought Rock The Casbah was “Fuck The Dashboard!”...”)

Costumed as Delirium from the Sandman graphic novels, a bi-girl was talking to a tipsy jock dressed as Aquaman. In another packed room, he was saying how beautiful it is to see two women together. He called it art. Like a great painting or sculpture.

To which miss Delirium responded. “Oh, come on! Do you have any sisters!?”

“Yeah! Two! Twin sisters!”

“Well, see, if you ever saw my face buried in your sisters pussies, you'd freak out!”

Right on, babe!

Aquaman split real fast. Everyone else lost it.

(“... I've got seventy-five cent socks on!...”)

(“... The movie of my life would require a lot of special effects!...”)

We quipped and danced, beguiled by all our own joys and mirth. Such moments when so much woe begone.

(“... That fuckin' gives me the willies, man! I don't like that shit!...”)

And for briefest times, caught in the pearly glint of moonlight on a brasshanded clock, all of those who mourn existences futile may feel alive in that split ticking of the pendulum.

(“... He's not gay!? Oh, come on! I have gay friends who are less effeminate than he is!...”)

Yes. A time to forget death, however briefly, and relish in laughter that We can feign as genuine.

(“... I'd love to run away!... But if I'm going to be uncomfortable, it may as well be in my own house!...”)

The laughter boiled like inviting bubblebaths and at times, like maddened lava of paranoia. When smiles became snapping fangs. When nothing was something a mortal could understand.

(“... Next time I talk to him, I'll tell him I was drunk and I didn't remember the things I said!... But that won't be true! I'll remember it all!...”)

Countless hundreds played. Dancing in Our behemoth ballroom. The air smelled of rubber masks and the fabric of new costumes.

(“... You haven't made a friend laugh properly until some liquid spews out an orifice!...”)

(“... I'd better go to sleep before I wake up tomorrow!...”)

Mortals sweat. Vampires drank the scent of their pumping blood. Cigarette smoke and flirtation.

(“... It's easy to hurt people when they're not looking!...”)

(“... No! I never learned to fuckin' ollie, okay!? I tried! But all I succeeded in doing was frustrating myself and perpetuate my self-loathing!...”)

Had the vertigo not been so invigorating, it may have been dizzying instead. Yet, I began to question again, maybe the party wasn't so great after all. Maybe I just built it up in My mind so long, that I was really looking forward to it.

Do I ever... do I ever like anything anymore?

Hell, had I ever? I think so. But it can be so difficult to recall...

(“... She was emaciated since she was fifteen!...”)

(“... You mean emancipated!?...”)

Out from long halls, where none should be, deep within, floated the haunting song of “Greensleeves.” That melody of melancholy dreams that never seems of any time or place. That, inside, all lovers and poets may lose themselves.

A fireplace, attended by unwelcome dead, crackled on a wall.

“Shamus... Enjoying Yourself?” My tone was snide as fuck.

Shamus was dressed as Mola Ram from Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Doom. He was sunken down, in high-backed leather, conversing with the only Beings at the party who would socialize with Him. His friends, Rudlof Schmidt, Ernest Morrow, Henry Fencer and David Gacaf Kabbe.

Never would allow any of Them at La Toussaint.

I knew very little about Them. No need to. I didn't care.

I did know David was Czechoslovakian. He died in March of 1951 at the age of one hundred one in Europe and was born on the fourth of June. Fond of black hats, darker hearts, and crueler deeds. Appeared to weakened children in their meanest mirrors and wishes.

Cranes “Starblood” could be heard from a more sociable room, many halls away.

“Why, yes I am, Elric. So nice of You to concern Yourself.”

Going to the turntable, I shut off “Greensleeves.” Cranes became clearer.

Leaning in His face, I offered, “Oh, no need to thank Me, 'cause I really don't give a damn. Get the fuck out, Shamus. You're not permitted in this part of the chateau. Off limits to guests. Sure You understand.” Sardonic smirk.

“Arrogant little shit!” He leapt up, grabbing My collar and hung Me overhead. “How dare You insult Me before My Associates! I held reign in the mansion three hundred years before Your mortal bones were conceived! And You tell Me tha - ”

My Own hand struck cobra venom to His face as I dangled in His grasp. Fangs flared hissing. “ - Never speak to Me!”

His eyes were failing Him. Staring reminders of a desolate destiny.

“Elric!” Camillia was in the doorway. Firelight murmured. “... Let Him go.”

... Hrmph. No fun at all... Sure... Fine.

“... As You wish.” I let go of Shamus as He did Me. Veins boiled. Walking to Camillia's side, I stood next to Her with no apologies.

Shamus brushed Himself off. “That's a good little Boy, Elric. Obey Your Mommy Camilli - ”

My hand was at His throat again and crushing Him against the wall. Faster than any living thing could move. Even the old vampires looked startled for a moment. The reaction of being startled, a loss of composure next to impossible to invoke in Them.

My heart pummeled with starblood.

“I obey Camillia only out of respect. You obey Me out of fear, Shamus.”

Camillia calmly curled Her lips. Disapproving snarl. Almost amused. I knew Cam didn't really care what I did or how I treated Shamus. In all honesty, I think She got as big a kick out of it as I did. But She pretended to be angry and offended. For His sake. “That wasn't very polite. I suggest You apologize to My Husband before He harms You, Shamus.”

“My apologies, My Lord.”

“No... Out loud.” I ordered.

“... - My... apolo - gies... - My... - Lord...”

“But I just told You never to speak to Me.”

My grin broadened.

My grasp intensified.

My gaze as taunt as Cranes guitar chords.

“Elric.” Camillia's voice in My mind.

His throat was caving in. His black spirit cowering. What was this? Ah, indeed, invitations They were not worthy of?

“Elric!”

“I don't believe They deserve these.” I removed a red kerchief from His waistbelt. Embroidered with black lettering, I tossed it into the fire.

“... Fine.” Camillia answered. “None of You may attend.”

All Their kerchiefs burst into flames.

With that, I let Shamus go, and left the room without another word.

I scowled at the gargoyle who should have kept Shamus out of those rooms. Mindless fuckin' rock.

Never could tolerate that fucker. And I never will. In and out of rooms I strode.

Somebody put on Morrisey's “Ouija Board,” but that crap was turned off in half a verse. Good song. Too fucking cheesy for Halloween. So, some queens put on Lou Reed's “Halloween Parade.”

Off in a chamber, unusually large even by Our chateau standards, Jacob's Ladder was being projected on a wall. The scene where Tim Robbins was thrown in the icewater bathtub, bent over frieze and column.

(“... Wouldn't it be funny, if when people gained weight, they got taller instead of fatter!...”)

There, I saw the girl dressed as Delirium talking to “The Host”, as he called himself. He was a gothic/punker guy who had a cool local video show called Shellsongs: Audible Shadows. Directed some Lioncourt videos. Played all sorts of great gothic, industrial and obscure shit that mainstream video channels and programs won't touch. Very big in the scene. Was at the club every week. Arrived at our party clad as an excellent Edward Scissorhands. Delirium sat on his lap and he and she were apparently the best of friends.

(“... I have nightmares that make gore flicks look like the Muppet Show...”)

Back in the ballroom I eventually wandered. Ministry came on with “Everyday Is Halloween.” Moving, I saw Felicia out in the crowd. Still hadn't talked to Her yet. Passing a lovely group of depressed, fucked-up, punker girls dressed as sensual dominatrix deathchicks and leatherettes, I began to dance.

- I dress this way just to keep them at bay -

“ - What the fuck was that all about?” Camillia thought, grabbing My arm.

“Yes, My Dear?” Was My innocent response.

“That was really out-of-line, Elric.” Her French accent intensified when angered.

Serenely matter-of-fact, I said, “Oh, the hell it was. I don't like that prick.”

“So, You become just as big a prick to Him?”

“Yup.”

“Shamus is My Guest. Disrespecting Him brings shame to Me.”

“Bullshit. It does not.”

“Yes, Elric, it does. And thanks to You, I had to humiliate Him.”

“Yeah. Whatever... Feels good doesn't it? Besides, how dull might parties be without these little escapades?”

A jovial smile finally shredded Her fury. “... I can't win, can I?... Why do I bother? You are such an asshole sometimes.”

“Most the time.” I kissed Her cheek. Awkward nose and all. “But I learned from the best.”

“Go.” She laughed with a pat to My ass. “Get the hell away. Have a good time... Just leave Sha - ”

“ - I'll leave Him alone. Don't worry. I already had My fun.”

“Elric...”

“... I know... Me too.”

- why should I take the abuse that's served -

My love left Me to dancing. And there, time stretched on. Moments turned to memories. Between the music and the meeting. Laughter and a daze. Between the moonglow and malice.

Hours.

Once, I saw Brandon, Jed and Kennan as I danced. They all came together. Dressed as The Three Stooges. Actually, They even wore all gray shades and painted Their skin so they looked “black and white.” Clever. We talked awhile. They hung out with the women in the band Fem To Fem, who dressed as nymphs.

(“... Tongue piercings are for wimps, man! I wanna get my fucking teeth pierced!...”)

Unwelcome guests like Shamus also came in the form of psycho Kristian and friends. We told him, they couldn't come dressed as Clockwork Orange characters because they always dress that way. Sorry. That doesn't count as a costume, guys. They were among the first ten people to show up.

Three hours later, they returned as dead rock stars. A rotting corpse of Sid, Jimi, Morrison, Cobain, and Curtis. Nice idea. Nobody recognized them.

I'll never figure out how they got such cool duds in three hours... Probably best not to know with those guys.

From then it seems much of the night was hazy. The night needed a change. Restless I grew. Because that's when it hit Me: Phasing between enjoying Myself and that oh-shit-I-really-don't-want-to-be-here-anymore-and-I-wish-these-fuckers-would-all-just-go-home feeling.

Sometimes I just want the whole fucking world to go away and leave Me alone. Would be the best thing for all of us.

(“... Believe me, if my mom looked like Audrey Hepburn, I'd have an Oedipal complex! But she doesn't! So I don't!...”)

Before Concrete Blonde began to move dancing crowds with “Bloodletting,” I was approached by Felicia. A freshly received kerchief of red satin floundered in hand.

Sitting alone in an oriel, I watched the Blues Brothers in an atrium. Jake and Elwood were hitting on Wonder Woman and Little Red Riding Hood. Felicia came over with two friends of perplexing radiance.

“Elric! Hi!... Damn, I heard Your costume was amazing, but I had no idea!”

“My Dear.” I kissed Her hand. My attitude warm but dry. “Looking fantastic Yourself.”

“Thanks.” She twirled a generous view of Her lycra-encased curvature. Dagger to a tee. To the hilt (forgive another pun). Winking at Me with Her white-encircled right eye, dagger earrings jiggled. A golden medallion crowned Her cleavage.

Something was said about those She wanted Me to meet.

“Elric DuBois, meet Corinna Herbert and Tyra Brockbath.”

Corinna was Cleopatra. Tyra was Marilyn Monroe.

They posed too. Just like Felicia. Pubic Hares. Miss April and May. All three of them had the rare “horizontal centerfold.” Oh. Gee. Good for you. How quaint. Daddy would be proud, huh? “Hey, Bill, check this out! Yeah, my daughters tits and ass for the whole country to wack-off on!” Sweet.

Corinna smiled at Me like maple syrup.

Trying to impress Me? Want to use your looks to get to My money through My pants? Fine. I'll take things you value and would never part with... I'll return nothing of worth but torment. I'll play your shallow and petty games... But you won't like how I win.

“Corinna!” Your beauty looks to carry the most savory blood of any mortal in attendance. Thank You, Felicia. What a lovely gift. “It was Corinna, right!?”

“Yes!” Eyes already agreed to more.

“Sounds... majestic!”

“Majestic!?... That's a unique response!” Hips swayed.

“Everything about My Kind is unique! Would you care to have the grand tour!?”

“Your Kind!? What Kind is that!? You waste no time, do You, Elric!?”

“My Kind is the kind that has nothing but time to waste! But, the night grows late! That's why I offer the tour so soon! I have few hours to get to know you!” Little time to charm you. To touch you. To taste you.

“Oh!? You think I'm worth getting to know!?”

“I think I will never forgive Myself for missing all the moments of all the nights I haven't been acquainted with you! Therefore, I have much to make up for!”

Come, Corinna... I know every desire you fear in yourself.

“Your offer is intriguing enough!” She offered Me her arm. “But we may have hundreds of other nights to become... better acquainted!”

“Indeed!... Care to perambulate!?”

“Perambulate!?” She laughed deep and sincere. “Let's dance awhile first! As Dracula says, “The night is young!””

“... Certainly! As Dracula says!...”

I've always loved those conversations that are so phony they sound like classic movie scripts.

They can actually happen when the last thing on the mind talking. When those meetings of mutual desire click, with a blaze of spark and flame, and loins ache under their gaze and one knows... We shall lay together this night.

No other words need be said. But we shall share all those meaningless phrases that lessen our guilt, and make our lusts falsely appear like a prelude to love.

No longer do I know guilt.

... But We play the games better than any.

And so we danced, an exotic Cleopatra with a horrid goblin. Half a dozen songs played before slowdancing to “Witches” by The Cowboy Junkies.

(“... How the fuck can full-length mirrors show your whole body when they're so much shorter than you are!?...”)

Someone dressed as Sam Kieth's The Maxx was dancing with Little Bo Peep. Another couple was Mickey and Mallory Knox from Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers. Fucking cool as hell. Allyson and I must've seen that movie twenty times.

- only love can kill the demon -

No longer do I even know the prelude to love...

Endlessly we danced with the witches and the dead.

Pressed hard against perfection.

And never did the ache subside...

(“... I don't listen to rap or anything that rhymes with it!...”)

Camillia stormed near Me. At first, I thought She was going to bitch at Me again about Shamus. Then I realized...

Something was...

I felt...

Yes...

Who are They?...

“Cam?”

A hush that none could hear settled on the gala.

Camillia ignored Me in a way that nevertheless requested Me to follow.

“Excuse Me a moment.” I took leave of Corinna.

They are not welcome here.

Three gargoyles stood guard at the main entrance. And there, four evil Jesters were stopped at Our door.

“Good eve, Lady Camillia.”

“You are not invited here.”

“Surely, Gillian Hill is One always well received - ”

“ - Not here You are not. Not now.”

“But We have traveled all the way from New York City. A city that would turn to pillars of salt, those who look back. And We come encumbered with a message just for You and Your youthful Lord, Mi' Lady. Your Friend Nix, had a Friend who took notice of Your deeds. We have been sent to let You Both know it was not appreciated. And now, things You can no longer control are making due and will be coming to - ”

“ - Messengers of idle words often carry home grave injuries, little One. Leave Our Dominion, Gillian. Our bounds are never to be crossed again. Neither by You or Your Master... You know the price of disobedience.”

“... Do You?”

... Oooh... Big mistake.

Camillia cocked Her head. She felt like the serenity of a billion lightningstorms.

With one look from Her -

A gargoyle swept out -

Clean took off the arm of One of Gillian's Minions. One bite. Through the shoulder. The way I would envision the bite radius of a thirty foot shark.

He fell. Screaming.

The remaining Two were bear-hugged by gargoyles who soared into the air with effortless leaps. Vampires devoured, could be heard wailing among treetops.

No one was too mortified more than a second or two. After all, It was Halloween. People thought it a trick... Then... They forgot seeing anything at all.

“Never come back here. You leave only to return My message, Gillian... Or shall I send My Own messengers?...”

Gillian and His injured turned and left without the foolishness of another threat or word. He was only brave enough to be cocky, not stupid enough to remain.

... Now it was My turn to ask -

“What the fuck was that all about?”

“Nothing, Elric. They just never - ”

“ - No. Oh, don't fucking bullshit Me. It was more than never seeking permission to be in Our Dominion... He knows You.”

“Elric, it was nothing.”

“... Nothing... Nothing? That was nothing? Come on. What the fuck is going on, Camillia!?”

Silence...

... Bitch.

Fine. I'll let it drop. Because I knew She was lying. But there was something else to it. For the only time I had ever known, I saw a look in Camillia that almost resembled fear.

Fear? It wasn't fear. Not quite. Not even close, really... But close enough to make Me think maybe I didn't want to know the answers that encounter would give. Old memories and vendettas are often left as far in the past as possible. And what else could this be? Nothing else ever inspires as much secrecy.

Many Kindred stood close. Denise was nearby. Her eyes met with Cam. And They shared something in that look.

I remembered Denise telling Me about Val and Erin at Necropolis. Maybe They weren't just paranoid. Maybe something is happening. That's why Val didn't tell Me. It somehow involves Cam and I. She was protecting Us.

But, this “messenger,” Gillian, mentioned Nix and nothing happened to Nix until after Val and Erin left... Connection? Coincidence?

Maybe...

We could All sense the maybe of somethings...

Some things were indeed happening.

... And I doubted Camillia really knew more than a dream almost come true.

Possible futures and visions of things that might be...

Yes... Something...

Something in New York. Something about Nix. Something to do with fear. Something of betrayal. Something bloody...

A thing that slowly turned eastward, the head of every gargoyle to wolven cries...

Thoughts hung on, tight as any noose.

Yes. I felt it too.

So the scorch of coal in cloudbursts.

Watching.

Then, like stepping out a room, it vanished. No trace. Not even the residue of the emotions it induced.

Just... Gone...

Something I could never care less about...

A single voices sound returned Me to nightshade drear reality.

“Show me Your intentions now, Elric!?”

Darker presences certainly know the bounds of longings as thee.

Yes. Yes, Corinna... Of course...

“Into The Night” by Julee Cruise hung smoky in the room we were leaving. And that ghostly melody clung to the rest of My evening.

“I will show you things little have ever been spoken of.”

Cleopatra I took in towers to peer across the night. Through galleries of ancient arms and murals. Walls of swords and mail and canvas oil. Out among stables holding the finest tack and purest bred steeds. Visiting Our garage housing automobiles from Bugatti, Rolls Royce, Ferrari and Lamborghini. Motorbikes crafted by Bimota, Barvarian Motor Works, and Sbarro.

Gardens I then guided her in. Fragrant and lush even in the withering season. Holding the night hard as rigor arms of near graven clay.

Beyond...

Fear not the drizzle. Such dew will be the sweat of snide, grim beasts.

A voice of ghostly nightshade.

A melody drear reality.

- so dark, so dark, so dark -

Remember what lies in earth beyond Our gardens.

The beyond...

“Elric...”

Deafening whisper.

I tend thee, flower. Rest yea here My maid. Lie upon the stone beds of death. Hold they quilts thou shalt sink within.

Oh, and she smiled...

Silken gauze murmured open, tickling flesh. By tender breezes shudder. Uncovered trace from navel to neck.

Malevolent faerie bands thickened that night. Leering whilst hissing. Grotesquely clamoring underfoot of dimwood statue and shrub. Ease, My friends. Patience. And I will share her pudding flavors, her moistened delicacies.

I am the score in spirits deep.

In the branches creep the wobble. It's name you know. Say it aloud.

Touch her. Caress her. Bring peace to every leap in her quickening breast.

Inhuman eyes drank the preys drowsy form.

Wanton thirsts for congealed wines. She poured white and she poured red and she to lips and tongues of cat and wyrm a glory of magnificent grace.

- I cry out for You -

Cry not. Cry not aloud.

The screams were whimpers. Moans and windchime rings in cold sleep, crying of mortifying dreams.

Ohhh... Hush, tender lass. So few living ever feel this horror. Mark thy curses as blessings. Relish all these sweetmeat terrors that hobgoblin and elve will suckle and kiss. Thou art ichor to legend and never-been.

- night so dark, where are You -

Goblin bent over Cleopatra in a boneyard of wight, imp, and wraith. How so like a priceless tapestry of lost centuries. The glory of that setting seen. Musty and damp. Bitter spice pock hearts and serine eyne.

Dash from Me, but run My child, for tonight all is wild. The hunt, the prey, the games, the course, the corse, the rain, and much, much worse. Run yea fast, dash yea flea. But in every drop of every leaf, My eyes, from dew, I see. And you I watch to fall and flail and writhe and wail and never, never again avail against Our dread and vile assail...

Into... Through... The greenest of eyes. Flesh Arabian-tanned and lithe, flawless as dunes of Egyptian sand. Wet of night dewcups. Rake and claw betwixt cinnamon thighs. Aching... And rip... And ravage...

And the plunge...

And the flow...

And the feeding...

And the soar...

And a thousand things none sane may bear to see were cackling with echoes of My voice.

- I cry out Your name -

Out and over screams and ecstasy and the blood of whores. Oh, fight what you can never defeat. Every writhe of longing adds to My passions. All there crumbled she grand and such mortal fury upon death erupted in those greenest green eyes.

Into them... Falling. Wailing she as I plummet. Out My body to screams of every -

Mourn an innocence.

- something I can never have -

What?

... No. Songs I could not have heard. A sound spat beneath miles of earth and raked across the sky after stillness of a beaten heartstroke.

... Call...

“Light shant ever touch thee as warmly again, My precious... Ne'er even the Giza suns.”

Corinna saw the sunset once more. A reflection. Burning the back of her leafen eyes. Green as Nile waters.

- I couldn't do the things that I can do now -

Calling...

... What!?... How can she!?

“Elric!”

And I knew for a moment the choke of -

That is -

Green. Into the leaves of -

Lavender and emerald leaves of -

Violet. Violets -

Violent calling... Tumbling in violet green.

- I'm down to just one thing -

- and I'm starting to scare myself -

Yes...

Just beyond My carcass, My consciousness flickered. As tree shadows in battering wind. Ghastly, a thing looked upon Me. Others mumbled dripping rain, then ceased. Silent. They fell silent. Silent to hear My laughter. Laughter that turned the stomach of maggots.

I hear you...

Helle. Your is the loudest ghostly voice -

I hear you, My child...

Call out to Me and I shall come. Yell to the night. Scream to the dark. Never lose hope and I shall come. Be patient for Me. Keep loving Me. Desire Me. Call out... And I shall answer your cries.

That is the way of We darkling things.

We always listen.

And We always arrive at the moment you stop fearing We will.

As a goblin of Darkness, My body straddled a green-eyed Cleopatra in a graveyard...

Yet...

Her call -

My blackened soul stepped within the darkly scried mirror of the bedroom of -

Helle.

∞ ∞ ∞

My Pawn a vision of whiten faerie flesh. Immaculate changeling child. Hair asparked in goldenrod candleglitter to top the pallor of her elegant form.

I am here, My blessed. Name your wants. Give them form and voice. Allow Me to consume whom you long to be.

Watching in reflections of her windowsill. Always remember, I a nightmare darkling imp, wet with rain of black thunderstorms which does not fall.

A padlock now shackled her door shut.

All the better for privacy, My dear...

Her walls were adorned with score upon score of posters, flyers, postcards, record flats, and photographs.

Helle was home again.

Truly her sanctuary from home, if not truly home.

A poster of a grotesquely oversized head of Jack Nicholson from The Shining plastered her door. Next to her bed, a framed movie poster hung, from Jim Henson's The Dark Crystal.

Stacked beside a polished oak, wiccan altar on her floor, was an unshuffled Temple Of Isis tarot deck. Incense burned stale.

Two bundles of dried flowers hung inverted to flank her Frances Ford Copolla Dracula poster.

Out was her torchiere lamp. Light in her room only emanated eerie red from a fake firelog in the corner, and candles surrounding the altar to the Goddess. Ounces of illumination seeped under her door from the hallway.

Velvet, lace and ruffled clothing carpeted the floor. Undergarments to Victorian dresses. Scattered about like a ransacked hotel room on a 1970's cop show. The floor still a mess of glue and hardwood. Walls still a chaos of plaster potholes and old sable paint.

Momentarily, in a lapse of reason, I was surprised to see an enormous European poster of Pink Floyd The Wall over her bed... Then, I remembered the film, and I wasn't surprised in the least.

Two other posters she made herself had every word to “I Know You” off of Henry Rollins The Boxed Life spoken word album written out. The other transcribed Perry Farrell's “To The Mosquitoes” from the liner notes of the album Ritual De Lo Habitual by Jane's Addiction.

Tons of maniac sketches were doodled on everything from napkins to corners of her bedsheets.

A bizarre Tim Burton-esque painting of Hel's house hung crooked over her drafting table. The title of the piece read “Nilfheim” scrawled in brownish-red of her dried blood.

No doubt your finest medium, Helle...

Ghastly Magazine and a few B-Side issues peeked out from under a stack of schoolbooks. A copy or two of Dark Angel as well.

Along her dresser stood a cluttered mess of ceramic gargoyle candleholders, a crucifix dildo, jewelry, makeup and Manic Panic hair dye. A bottle of Prozac fell lopsided beside some black nailpolish and a pair of Egyptian earrings.

Most of her CD's filled their racks. The remainder were splattered all over. Jewel cases, inserts, and discs littered as so many snowflakes.

Indeed, it was her room again. Just as I imagined it should be. This was the real Helle.

Sighing, she tossed a pen and her diary on the futon and blankly stared out her window.

Pages bounced open on the mattress to the entry she had just scrawled.

“... Elric... Hear me...” Her eyes closed gently as her voice whispered.

∞ ∞ ∞

In my prison again.

I was going to sneak out to tonight, but ever since my little fit last Saturday, I've been kept under armed guard. Still have no clue why they didn't lock me away in a soft little room again. No more insurance I guess. Maybe just so my stepfellator can have the satisfaction of slapping me around now and then. That still hasn't ceased. Only happens all the more... Fucker.

... Elric...

I'm all dressed up to go to that Halloween party from my “dream.” Crazy, I know. Now everybody says I am. Even Sandra. And I bet they're right. For all I know, there's no party at all... But what if. I mean, what if that was more than a dream and Elric really did invite...

Shit... I am fucking psycho... Am I?...

So, now I sit in my room, cranking NIN (on my new speakers) “all dressed up (as Oona from the motion picture Legend) with no place to go.”

Risa Nihiser at Chain Link designed it for me, my Oona costume. She even mentioned me maybe modeling for some bondage-night thing they're doing with the Gothic Rainbow soon. That would be awesome!... Hell, why am I so excited? A lot of good that does me now. It'll never happen anyway.

Pathetic.

I really am a goddamn fucking lunatic.

I was going to dress as Kabuki from the David Mack comic, but my swordsmith friend in SCA couldn't make the crescent moon daggers in time. Bummer.

Shit. What does it matter anyway? I'd have just driven out to an imaginary address, from a dream I barely remember, to see a boy who doesn't really exist at a party that isn't truly happening... Hell, I should actually be grateful that I'm grounded for all eternity. At least it prevents me from going out into a world where I'd do nothing but further embarrass and humiliate myself. Maybe my bitch of a mother did something right for once. It's best I not venture into the world. I only fuck up my life all the more.

Sandra still hates me. Still won't talk to me. Gave me “all my shit back” as she puts it. So, I padlocked my door so my mom doesn't fuck with it. Just waiting for my stepfellator to break it down and paint my walls pink or some shit. Good. I hope so. I hear pink is a color that encourages fits of rage. Maybe I'd get the tits to off the bastard.

Now I heard Sandra is moving back down to Newport with her family. Some piss-in-the-middle-of-noplace town, way down in southern Ohio. One of those white-gazebo-in-the-town-square places. Sick. Fucking great.

I know half the reason she's leaving is my fault. Because I hurt her feeling and freaked her out and shit. Said I “toyed with her emotions.”

Shit... How?... Yeah, whatever that means. Yeah, whatever. I didn't try to. And I know if she really wanted to stay here, her 'rents would never move them back down there. But she wants to leave... Probably never come back either.

Good. Who fucking needs that slut? The cunt ratted everything about Elric out to my mom anyway, I think... I didn't want to write that because I still don't want to believe it. And I could be wrong, but...

Who cares?

I lose every friend I have.

Sooner or later, everyone fucking leaves. Always happens. Inevitable as shitting. I'm really fucking sick of making dear friends, that I honestly think will be around my whole life, only to lose them in a year or two.

Everyone ditches me. No one ever calls me back. All my “friends” leave me. I meet great people, whom I like a lot, who want nothing to do with me. People lie to me and betray me and just constantly abandon me.

So, what's the point?

I hate everyone.

I just want to be left alone. Just like everybody else wants me: By myself.

No one supports me.

No one encourages me.

No one believes in me.

So, why should I want to have anything to do with anyone in this pathetic world?

... Who am I fooling? If dad truly loved me, would he have allowed himself to die?

Maybe no one ever has given a shit about me.

Why should anyone?

What good am I?

I'm pathetic.

A shitty person. A shitty friend. Shitty at everything I do. And a failure at everything I try. Has one, single, solitary thing in my life ever been something of genuine worth or value? Have I ever done a thing I could be proud of?

No.

Life is pointless.

Death isn't cool or romantic or noble or neat. It's not admirable. It has no saving grace. It's fucking painful and it sucks.

And when I die, nothing I have ever said or written or done will have made any difference at all in the world.

Dad said he loves me...

But I don't think anyone ever really has...

... I just don't want to do anything. I don't want to go anywhere. Not speak to anyone. Nothing. Not even sleep. I just want to sit here in silence and do nothing.

Never trust anybody with anything.

They'll all betray you.

Everyone will let you down.

Even me.

Everything I touch, I taint and turn to shit. I may bring a little joy, but ultimately, all I bring is pain, death and sorrow. To everyone.

Do I deserve to be forgiven at all?

The world grows darker everyday... As if the sun fails to rise quite as high. Until finally, it will never rise again...

And now all is hopelessness. Between Sandra and Elric, what have I? All he or she may be is a painful memory. For I have betrayed the traitors and loved the only one I might hate. And I ache for a touch that has cursed me. I long for the embrace of the nothingness I have come to deserve.

Never shall I hold that which I want the most. Perhaps briefly. Maybe temporarily. But never lasting.

It breaks my heart to know how much I miss the darkest soul to ever stain my life. Shame overpowered by desire.

Come back to me. Tear me apart... Please...

I'd rather be destroyed by another than myself. That way, I can pretend, and call it love, and sense some sort of redemption in my sins of self-hate.

You are nothing.

But I'll call You “everything” only so it will hurt a little less to want You as badly as I do. Yes. I'll lie to myself to justify myself. To suppress how much I detest myself. Let me imagine it's right to care about You.

All our sad talks tricked me into loving You.

... Shit. I don't mean a word of that, do I? I truly do care. And I don't hate myself for an instant for that... But maybe I should. All my affections are truth. I don't lie when I express a yearning for His soul.

I guess it's always just easier to convince ourselves that we don't feel something than it is to deal with why we shouldn't feel what we do. And I shouldn't be stupid enough to keep loving someone I can never have. I learn that lesson over and over and over...

But why not? Fuck the world and its standards of love and desires. Mine lies beyond all petty mortal comprehension. I am better than them.

What's the saying?: “That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.”

Fuck that.

That which kills me will even make me stronger!

As Oona said, “What care I for human hearts!?... A faeries heart beats fierce and free!!”

Is He real?...

I began to imagine Elric was a vampire or faerie or witch that I wrote to on my paper trees. When I was a little girl, dad took me to the lagoon outside the art museum when we visited here once. There are these beige trees there with paper-like bark on them that I wrote to witches on. Like birch trees, but not quite. I returned the bark to the trees after taking it to the hotel. Called them the “Paper Trees.” I believed faeries and vampires wrote to each other on them and I could be their friends if...

... Hell... My dad thought it was sweet.

My mom thought I needed help (of course).

But I thought...

... If only Elric could write back... Haven't You saved any of my letters?... Haven't You ever heard my call?

Mom threw out the Ouija board the night I roasted her patio.

But I don't need that to hear You anymore, Elric.

... Oh, Elric... Hear me... Answer me...

The rope is severing. Yet still, I hang upon Your every word, my Darling...

Choking...

∞ ∞ ∞

Helle, My love, when I look into your masks and mirrors, I am choking on roses.

She spoke My name time and again.

... Quietly at first.

Her journal all seemed to be the simplest words. Simple thoughts. Simple ideas that the world around her had no hopes of comprehending. Helle's haven aglow of a nightlight of regrets of saddest sorts.

Have you chosen your grave, darling Helle? Be buried in your illness.

Hating yourself to sleep everynight. Slicing the darkness from your flesh. Envisioning your funeral leading you beneath great oaks in a Lake View plot... Will it be a sunny day?

- my favorite dreams of You still wash ashore -

... Another time she called out to Me. Louder.

She was a victim of fate moreso than failure. Best to blame ones downfalls on outside influences than on ones own lack of responsibility? None of the shit she dealt with was her fault. All at once, she was one of the strongest women I had ever known... and the most delicate little girl.

- just a fading fucking reminder of the one I used to be -

... My name she did utter with every breath.

Loneliness smeared her face. The loneliness of hanging up the telephone with a friend, as if you'll talk with them tomorrow, when you really know you'll never speak to them again.

Neurotically, she toyed with the seam of a sweatshirt. Endlessly rolling it back and forth between her thumb and forefinger. She had a bit of a thing for seams.

... Screaming My name over the sound of her Nine Inch Nails CD changing to My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult's “Do You Fear?” She slammed her window open to ungodly gusts of wind.

“Elric!”

- straight outta hell -

“Helle!” Mrs. Tompkins shouted, pummeling her daughters bedroom door with drunken fists.

- do you fear for your child -

“Are you talking to that fucking vampire boy again!?... I told you to got to bed! Helle!... Do you hear me!?... Open this door! Now young lady!”

“Elric!... Save me!”

A willow leaf served as quill while crepuscule gloom became ink.

Helle smiled while the doorframe splintered open. Oblivious to her mothers rage, she focused joyously upon...

And in the shapes and shadows and rain of barely light... Children watch from backlit doorways in haunted dollhouses.

See Me...

Light pouring around her bedroom door from the hallway.

“... Elric?”

In the open window soared...

With a burst of wild gales -

Kisses blown on moist birchtree bark... Landing on her diary.

Soon, My Pawn... Keep believing...

“That which kills you will even make you stronger.”

Her mother began to scream.

- do you fear for your child -

And scream...

The Paper Trees finally wrote back...

∞ ∞ ∞

Screams were all the night...

Marilyn Monroe was shrieking, holding the Queen of the Nile limp in her arms.

- show Me everybody naked and disfigured -

Jane's Addiction erupted out on stage. Tearing into “Ted, Just Admit It...” Reunited the whole of the band, just for Our party.

Wails rending with a volume to outnumber droplets of the rain.

Corinna was delirious. Tyra in hysterics.

Down below, in the cemetery, I heard their cries. Everywhere, I could hear someones... Snickering to Myself, slinking down hallways in search of My sweet Sister Allyson. High above, on floors stories above the crowded concert and party, I meandered. Far removed from the coital bier shared of Corinna and I. Crossing puddles of light and silhouettes.

Eventually, finding Allyson in a guest bedroom. Naked but for Her Harley Quinn makeup and jester hat. A whip dangled in palm.

“There You are.” I said.

“... H-h... Help me!... uugh...”

Allyson just smiled, tugging on a choker chain.

“Having fun?” Inquired I.

“Tons...” Was Allyson's snide, throaty groan.

“... ahg... Help... Help me! Get Her - ”

“ - I was curious as to what You were doing all night.” Casually, I told Allyson.

“... help meee...”

Allyson answered sardonically. “Curiosity killed the cat, My Love...”

“... Please!... Help! kaagch!...”

Simultaneously, She and I spoke sing-songedly. “... Ah, but loathsome rituals brought it back.”

Time paused.

Allyson looked at Me... with eyes that thirsted for rituals.

Candles flooded that room. Making it unbearably hot. Almost painfully bright. Astounding, that for centuries, people survived in the dark with only candlelight... That amazes Me... Centuries. Nothing more than their dim lights, animating shadows with rippling life. Any tone of speech even caught aflame in the wicks.

The angled mattress was covered under inches of chalky, thick, gray mud. Smearing every wall. Coating the entire floor. Every sticky square inch. Coating also the nude girl shackled spread-eagle to the bedposts. Some mud drying and cracked, criss-crossing her flesh.

“Help me!”

- snapshots make a girl look cheap -

Jill she was. That Pawn I challenged Allyson to play with, from the Rainbow. She who came to the Milkmen gig. She who already lost her cherished fiance over Allyson. Floundering in heat and bonds. Longing for the missing champion set to abandon her.

And so We sail through death on a wake of broken hearts.

“We're all basically bisexual to some degree, Jill. You think so too, don't you?... But it's so much easier to remain open-minded when you're alone in your room at night... isn't it?”

Jill was silent but for tears.

Shouting, Allyson drew back Her arm. “Answer Me!...”

Candlewax spilled on Allyson's Pawn as brass candleabrums crashed upon her from the vampires violence.

Upon a shelf sat clay figurines representing dozens of different gods and prophets of countless religions.

Allyson bellowed while grabbing a figurine. “Let's see how you like these Worshipers!”

Throwing the tiny statues at Jill, they each shattered upon impact with her body.

Welts bloodied from Her whip were dabbed by civil kisses.

Subharmonic feedback shearing...

Flames shuffled under breath of screaming. Quaked with pulses of music.

- just another show with sex and violence -

My Sister was grinding Herself, from tongue, to lip, between to thighs against such down softness of waxen and muddy Jill.

- little sisters not a virgin anymore -

Glorious to observe. Glory of obscene. Allyson the perfect butch and femme all in one. Jill's eyes were not there anymore.

Jill not seeing the place she was in.

Jill fell inside.

Inside dead and herself. Inside these canyons of madnesses minions.

And those falling, always scream...

“Help! meeeeee - ”

- Schtok!

I slammed the door as I left the bedroom.

All the night are screams... And smiles... And seams... And seems...

Unraveling what is and was...

- sex is violennnnnnt -

∞ ∞ ∞

Delirium was playing piano.

The Host, by her side on the bench.

Our party had ended and All Hallows Eve drew toward its annual close. Goodbyes all were wished and the chateau was mostly deserted.

Before Natasha left, She told Camillia and I that on the night We “visited” The Flats, Crazy Paul was pissing on some dead redneck as We left... Damn! Why didn't She tell Me? Sorry I missed it. I would have slipped Paul wads of cash to see that one!

In addition to Tasha, Joshua and His Brother, Bryce had also just bid Us farewell. Twins: A narcissists dream lover.

Bryce lived in Toronto. Visiting for Halloween and Joshua's art show. They were dressed together in an astonishing, twelve foot, queen Alien costume (forgive yet another pun) from the infamous Alien film trilogy. Jonathan, Joshua's boyfriend, came as a ninja. Stereotypically befitting His Asian lineage.

Joshua presented Camillia and I with invitations to His art opening at the citys Museum of Art in University Circle on Wednesday, two nights hence.

He and His Lovers were reciprocally invited to attend La Toussaint upon the morrows eve.

Until then, most every guest had gone.

Sparse few remained, as Joshua, Bryce and Jonathan were among the last to leave.

Camillia insisted Delirium stay awhile longer, after hearing her talent. Tinkering on the grand piano, she had suddenly flowed in a wash of elegance. During that thrilling instant, an overwhelming insight and emotion was evident in those hands. A magnificently gifted pianist was she. One it would hurt too much to befriend. A perfect girl in the horror of gangster shoes, innocent but not naive. Playing out the traditional standard, “Bewitched Bothered And Bewildered” in much the Big-Band style Sinead O'Connor granted it.

My mind provided horns and high-hats. Drums and violins mentally adding a flair of accompaniment to lonesome ivory.

“May I this dance, Mi' Lady?” At the waist, I bowed theatrically to My Wife.

With a cold, inviting smile, She accepted and took My hand.

Allyson entered the ballroom. “Hey! How goes it?” Clothed again, Her costume was slightly crusty with mud.

- and worship the trousers that cling to Him -

Camillia pecked Her cheek. “Wondrous... And You?”

“The same. May I join You?” Allyson twirled into Our arms.

“Of course You may.” Was My answer.

As the three of Us swayed together, Allyson glanced to Me. “Enjoy Your night?”

“Indeed... But for the presence of Shamus and some assholes from New York City, I had a great time.”

Allyson angled Her head quizzically. “Assholes from New York?... Oh! Is that what what was?”

“Hrmm, some shithead Friends of Nix, or something.” That got Me slyly thinking. “... A shame Auri couldn't come to La Toussaint tomorrow.”

Vainly, I glanced at Camillia to see if the subject of unwelcome Visitors would provoke any new revelations in Her face. Nope. To no avail.

- He is cold, I agree -

Bemused, Allyson pulled away, just slightly.

Her lips puckered inward.

“... What?”

She rolled Her eyes. Shaking Her head, She snorted on a repressed laugh. Ally's whole face began quivering to hold back Her amusement.

Then Camillia asked Me with a look, What was so funny? Shrugging, My Own expression indicated My cluelessness.

“... Allyson... What is it?”

Cheekbones swelled. “Nix!?” Ally burst out His name so hard, it could've been just another cackle of laughter. “That stupid fucker?”

“... Yeah. What of Him?”

“Oh, I've got a few little secrets about Him.”

Patiently, We awaited Ally's revelation.

... It never came.

“... Ally! Come on. Like what? What secrets?” Why the fuck was I asking? Like I gave two shits about anything involving Nix. Frankly, once I thought that, I truly didn't care if Ally explained Herself or not.

- lost My heart, but what of it -

She fell into another laughing fit. Contagiously, it made us all chuckle. Even Delirium broke a grin as she continued to sing.

Okay. Maybe I was curious. “Come on... Tell Us...”

“What is so funny?”

Finally, Allyson managed to wheeze out, “Nix never Turned Auri.”

Wha?... What the hell did that mean? Why was that so hysterical?

Even Camillia was perplexed. “... What?”

“Huh?... What are You talki - ”

“ - He never Turned Auri.”

My eyebrow curled awry. “Uh... yeahhh, He did Ally - ”

“ - No... No. I made Him Turn Her.” Her palm tapped a breast. Blood tears of amusement began to subtly well. “He didn't do it on purpose. I made Him do it. He didn't even realize what He was doing. He didn't know He was doing it until it was all over with. He had no fucking choice.”

She giggled fanatically once more. “You didn't know that? Come on, Elric!... Were the both of You that clueless? Like He would ever, like anyone would ever defy You, Brother Dear? That little worm would've never dared. He didn't have the balls to even think it.”

An arc in Her back, Allyson spun in Camillia's arms and smirked.

- He can laugh, but I love it, although the laugh's on Me -

“I thought You guys would've figured that out by now...” Allyson's face stretched as She sucked in Her upper lip.

“... Well, then - ... Ally... W - why the...” Attempting to comprehend Her mad reason, I glanced at Camillia for a clue. My Bride but stood dumbfounded as I. “Whyyy... did You do - ”

Mirth twisted Allyson's visage into insulted rage. “ - 'Cause I knew You'd kill the motherfucker, and I wanted the Bastard dead... Again!” Snickering at Her Own joke lit Her up once more.

- He's a fool and don't I know it -

Camillia idly turned away from Me. Giving more full attention to Allyson. Speaking so mortals were deaf to Her words. “Okay, Ally. But why did You set Him up for that? You made Him defy Us so We would see to His demise?... Fine... But why did You want Him - ”

“ - Because He took My parking space, silly! Why else?” Allyson gleefully laughed. The tone She spoke in mocked Us for being so foolishly oblivious to Her justification. “He never should have parked in front of Our garage, that night. I mean, what a rude, inconsiderate... asshole. Dumb fuck... Hrmph... Well, g'night...”

Quick as She appeared, Allyson had gone from the room.

- I've sinned a lot and mean a lot -

With Her carried Our utter silence...

With Her carried a cresting crescendo of Our laughter.

A wake and waves of bliss in square spiraling vapour trails. Laughing not with infant robins drowning in rainpails.

As it was so much Our humor, My Wife and I affectionately resumed Our dance. Mutually withdrawn in covetous gazes.

Nothing then remained but music. Dance. Light. And its quiet, hushed vacancy. Eyes transmuted speculums casting back My faint soul.

Dance with Me awhile more.

So honored to be.

Beads of chandelier glow trickled upon glossy black lips. A smile held a happiness that I thought only living mortals could make.

- I'm wild again... beguiled again -

Swirling in a minuet alone. Blix and Lily embraced, to part then touching once more. To frolic on a wooden pond. Mirrored in the fine sheen of polished oak beneath Our feet.

Delirium's vocals added even deeper luster to the gleam underfoot. Soared upon silver winds and platinum sighs beyond Our nadir.

- a simpering, whimpering child again -

Lost turned the vision of My face, inverted in a hundred-thousand raindrops on windowpanes.

Helle... This is where you are, is it not?

In eyes of vampires. In lusts of dead wives. Just past hollowness. Just within nowhere.

Where is known the unmitigated rage in grief. The birth of dead from fire.

We are all welcome nevermore and beyond...

“Your dreams are changing, aren't they?”

And should dreams be Gods? Your specialty My Queen? A caress that felt of pattospade blue. When glances meaningless are crimson ephemeral accolades.

“Helle?”

Dream of me, Elric...

Not one evening passed in all these weeks without being haunted nightly by visions of you, dear Pawn.

... Or was it others who haunt Me?

... Other dreams?

See Me...

See Me in your bedroom looking glass and wooded fears.

“Sometimes, you just know when you look into a mirror with the lights out, that the shape in the reflection isn't really you. It's something else. Something horrible. Something that wants you to strain to see what it is.

It always gave me the sense of there being something nameless. Something unspeakably mortifying. Waiting. Watching... The woods at night have that thing in it too... Wanting you to strain to see it.

And maybe it's just us, in a night of lightning without thunder.”

Yes, Helle. Plea to dream of thee and that I shall. So with all My weakness... So with all My haunted visions...

You have changed My dreams... Forgotten.

And now I too bless the ones whom have cursed Me...

∞ ∞ ∞

I can't understand why I'm so cold. I still can't.

It is raining outside for hours before I realized it is snow.

I touch the windowpane with My cheek. Tears crystallize as they run down My face and freeze to the glass.

She smiles at Me. At least, I think she's smiling. Maybe she is laughing.

I can't tell. I still can't. Because she is an image blurred in the wind blown snow... Or is it rain? I'm still not quite sure. Not for summers naught.

I smile at her. My heart dies. The rain stabs Me until I can't feel anything... and it hurts.

So, I run - and leave My tears frozen on the windows. Tears that form her smile.

I look for her in the snow as the rain pours down My back. She is in the trees, smiling.

I stumble through the drifts as the snow whips wildly around Me. Now she is lost. Gone. Forever.

I find her dying in the rain under our willow tree. A dagger of frozen tears is stuck in her heart.

“I thought You loved me.” She says as blood trickles out of her mouth.

“I do.” I answer. But the harder I cry, the harder unseen hands twist the blade in her breast.

I kiss her, and she smiles at Me.

“I thought you loved Me.” I say. She just shakes her head and drives the dagger deeper into her heart.

I try to stop her, but there is nothing I can do. Because she has always been the one holding the tears. There is nothing I can do while I watch her die in the mud.

I pull the blade out of her to take My Own life, to plunge it into My Own soul. But it melts in My hands, and is tears once again.

It starts snowing. I cry as I reach out for her still warm corpse. I want to hold her in My arms forever.

But when the thunder roars overhead, I know that I have My arms around Myself as I freeze to death in the cold.

Through tear blurred eyes I see her corpse crying and silently speaking My name.

Chapter Twenty Six

La Toussaint.

Beginning at late dusk, when there lingered just enough shadows to slink behind... Our drear set a trance to Sol, and after sepiatone afternoons, all firmament shone plum and apricot.

- Pulsing - One night amidst a pair each year. - Joining - When We All reveled as the centuries demand. - Beating - Free to savor any Gentry We covet. - United as a single pitch heart -

We sang with faith no more in the woodpecker from mars.

From the ninety nine corners of darkness rose They. Kindred souls damned, converging within Our Unseelie Estate. All Whom We invited with crimson satins attended. Without hesitation... Without choice.

Out from graffiti and gang-rape ruins. Damp basement hovels. Marching in sewagetunnel hallways strode battalions of deaths cherubim.

Crawling forth, leaving shady, treeroot caverns along obscured creeksides.

Swimming from watery grease pools of abandoned, condemned trainyard cellars.

Refined Ladies converged from castles of penthouse condominiums. Pinching out the light, clutched in black skull candleholders.

As rogue Siabra stormed warpaths to Our door, nights own darkness rejoiced Their diabolic enrapture.

Mocking a jesters grimacing, Nosferatu bowed in decaying coffer clothes. Even lightning feared to illuminate some of their havens.

On foot, Gentlemanly Hordes approached in Victorian regalia. Crunching boots upon bone gravel roadways.

Wiccans old as oakes and young as sunsets boasted the Huldre Coven. Girls fresh moist for virgin seedtimes. Women wanton of boys with harlot risen pleasures.

Such was the silent splendor of Our ritual La Toussaint. All words are mere glances, motions and thought. No greeting need be uttered aloud.

Come, O'Children. Eat. Drink. And be buried. Danse enveloped in Our shaded embrace. Swallow Our stormclouds of blood.

Pray to Us.

Fear Us.

And feed Your yearnings We shall.

Yet, to know Your needs...

The compulsion of Our Thirst is hopeless to convey in speech. Divine ecstasy of Our orgies gratification is beyond all literaries boundaries. For with language, the experience instantly becomes reduced and diluted into the intrinsic confines of definition and context.

There are no confines to that rapture.

To belittle the desire to even profound vocabularies is insult and injustice to fellow Kin more articulate and prolific than I, Who have attempted and failed, in a deluge of millennias past, to achieve such ends.

There is a certain silence which must be maintained in order to accurately and meaningfully describe what it is to feed upon the blood of Goddesses and Gods.

The most compelling of phrases are only the faintest, dimest imitations of My thoughts. They capture no idea, with even remotest clarity or fever, in a way in which anything is perceived. We, Who may for want of dreaming and desires and striving, endlessly fail to express anguishes unfathomable. We all know the pain that art never harnesses emotion, thought or feeling. Ours is a self-destructive compulsion to reach out for a thing which can ultimately never be. The contentment of an immaculate description being an impossibility to achieve. And that lack of success only compounds miseries already inexplicable in any medium.

For the enigma of a living death is eternally more elusive and intense than the grandest forms any artful creation shall reflect.

Never a pen nor brush nor note nor dance nor sculpture may ever reveal the true depths of passions agonies.

And so again, the shadows.

Ah... such shadows.

- these but the trappings and the suits of woe -

Dark, crow-like twilights cover every facet of being. Decay is a theme too often wrought behind these shreds of reality.

Sometimes, I find I still can't bring Myself to be alive.

And the black, windy, midnight ticking is a true, true wonder. When the cold air can scar, and all things ghastly know no fear outside their mantles...

“Shadows... Things... Whispers... Wind... Half-felt memories.”

It seems I have used those words countless times to describe all I've seen. Yet, all the horrors of intangibility lend themselves to the truth of those phrases and none other.

These are the essence of My epoch and My demise.

All I see is indeed shadows.

All I hear is truly whispered.

All I feel is ghostly as wind.

All I remember is hardly true.

... And all I have no voice to describe are truly nameless things. We, Their Master Lords, The Host of Fallen Seraphim. Our time had come. Sands poured to smothering. Hands clicked to strangling. Chimes again rung in La Toussaint with all her unhallowed and orgasmic bacchanals.

Allyson to join Us, silenced Dead Can Dance in the midst of The Serpents Egg.

∞ ∞ ∞

This was where Clock DVA buried dreams...

Beneath the cellars...

Beyond the dungeons...

Below the catacombs...

Under Our Estate...

Corkscrew stairwells coiled into an abysmal heart of a defiled and antediluvian bedrock.

Caverns sprawled, endlessly gaping. Breathing foul honeysuckle winds like breasts of behemoth abominations.

Roof strung tightly crumbling woven roots, of wicker men and Yggdrasil...

Bottomless lakes by torchburning lit. Waters the boatman Charon would tremble to sail. Dotted with daemonic colonnades. Solid obsidian pillars reaching fifteen stories in height. Stretching rows in every direction, to unseen horizons. Fiendishly sculpted, likening twisted-torsoed imps of gehenna.

In the center plummeted a waterfall black as oil. Before it, an isle of lush silk cushions and razorfeather cobbles.

Hell where heaven might be.

Upon pendulous chains, hung mortals. Skewered by their ankles. Long dead and freshly ravaged writhed hundreds.

I have seen fear in mortal eyes.

I know the sound of horror a person makes before they are about to die... Before their greatest terrors come to life, from amorphous confines of lowest consciousness.

And nothing compares to the looks seen on those faces or the screams they shrieked.

Nude forms with doubly lacerated throats. Showering blood upon every fiber of Our concupiscent conventicle. Overflooding vats and chalices to anoint velvet, lake and stone.

Bare flesh Undead, beckoned My Beloved Maid and I, Her Master and Servant.

Never may We join any Damned excepting Our Betrothed... But for that night and its summer twin, when All may and must share and deliver any sensuality. Any conjugation We will.

Eyes of bone stare on this paradise.

- ... and I saw a Woman sitting upon a scarlet colored beast, full of names of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns... -

“Let Us praise Those of Maleficence, immolate the blood of Us to We.

After this eve shall the fruits be unfit to eat.

Lichen of gold shall be soiled by blood to red.

We pour your milk over graves in Our libation for dead.

Shoney be offered such at Hallowtide and All Sufferers Nacht.

Speaking liturgies and litanies summoning ghastly prophets.

For Gallows Hill too and Burning Times, this feast and more your countless crimes.

For all your wrongs, screams are their requiems.

We Who may seduce angels of any prayers. We Who may mortify gods of any cloth.

We Who Hardly Cast A Shadow In Our Lairs.

... We Who Bare Dead Children, weaned on violence and flesh crops.

We are the Heirs of Avernus. We are the Offspring of Orion and Minotaurs.

Malignance pixy bell and malevolence spritely charmed.

Let Us harvest Our fruits so blood may thick flow, blotting out the dawn.”

- ... because in Her heart She says “I sit a Queen, I am no widow and I shall not see mourning”... -

Dead yet animated. Edelweiss bodies dripped with streaks from burgundy steaming rain. Alabaster lusts, an iconology upon catafalques. Piscina blood clutched in flowing nyanza.

We lave in Our lakh abattoir. In craters awash of vermillion. Delving behind lichgates locked. Under vilest recesses of knowing.

- ... having in Her hand a golden cup full of abominations and the uncleanness of Her immorality... -

Evanescent enlightenments tell sanguine blood sculpts shadows upon the face of the moon. Incubi and succubi copulate just beneath bedside horizons. Melding into voracious idols. Surrounding and penetrating every crease. Tasting every climax of deviance. Repugnant captivation to mortal understandings of cupidity.

Our images - when candlelantern silhouettes, mocking Us on earthen walls, as Gods made We appear. Cast as Tezcatlipoca and Mictlantecuhtli lurked somewhere in ivystung crypts and waves of fathomless waters. Lying in wait upon husks of insects and rodent skulls.

Upon Allyson ran My skin. Letting Us taste Sisterly lover ambrosia. Echoing every delicacy exchanged. With a rapturous torment. Crying so loud, Her flesh crawled inverted out Her mouth. Ripped inside out. Pouring within Her My being.

Liquid through pores and loins. Eyeteeth and claws tear. In forearms. Swimming about sinews. Muscle ponds and rivers rippled, touched of forked tongues darting. Drained all essence. Only leathertaunt skin over bone remained.

Erogenous fondling marinated in sacrificial blood.

Veins I then severed to be fed from. Blood shared back and returned as breath. Climaxing rhythms as bodies devour their alchemy.

A dozen vampire Maids and Lords come storms fused in My marrow.

- ... She has become a habitation of demons, a stronghold of every unclean spirit, a stronghold of every unclean and hateful bird... -

A Boy lapped deep at Another as All soft and solid sexes melded in verboten webs. Eyelid forms pressed upon innards of flesh. Contorted a score upon backs doubled two and limbs slippery knotted. Blossomed flavors anew and overripened nectars.

- ... and upon Her forehead a name written... the Mother of the Harlotries and of the abominations of the earth... -

Swilled cinnamon pink tips ripened full. Salacious firm such quenchless forms. Licked molten laced jugulars. Drew sewers in Her arteries to fuck My heart.

To hold Them, all My Corpse Lovers. To ravage in Our delirium. Endless immaculate arms enveloped Us and the worlds We knew. Enticing naked carrion, strewn about bombed claybrick ruins.

Sexuality of velvet opium tongues scraped through My venules and aorta rum.

- ... and I saw the Woman drunk with the blood of the saints and with the blood of the martyrs... -

Bedeviled growls of deviant titillation rose. Sonology of auroras mourning. Aroused by sound alone. Pleasure and pain brought whimpers so alike.

Cutting My veins on Her lips and His kisses. Gouged under bones. Rib cages mangled from a chest. Beautiful and horrid disoriented feasting. Clamored over twisted shambles of fishnet-ladder veins. Snapped the strands in bloodshot visions. Bundled tight and caressed filigree as hair. Quaffed syrups of the heart.

- ... and the beast... will hate the Harlot, and will make Her desolate and naked and will eat Her flesh and will burn Her up in fire... -

Sinking deep, one hundred canine fangs pierce halfway through My neck and hips. One thousand covetous lips suck, consuming My liquor.

Solder to skeletal hands. Ice texture skin, mascicated from sinews. Behind faces flayed from skulls, licked for their sustenance.

Instruments to open flesh beyond its limits.

Rituals.

Furrows creamed oil smooth, and ebony. Grafted interlocked thighs fused cabalistic dread. Tendrils pawed gentleness of branding lances. Itching tangs carried through every nerve. Sensing scents of sordid allure. Reeking of despair or clover.

Joints snapped nutshells of pulp squeezed. With brass jaws grate I My Concubines as They do Me.

Cowering finally others, they ceased to hope or fight or strive. Instead just plummet below the blackened sea that pulled at their vitality. That weave of a room, masked in four bleak tapestries.

Erect, burgundy womanhood tantalizing. Riveted by chain link lace. Perverse and promising violent lashings of passion.

Metal stitched spines driven to sew black leather pupils among eyelash whips. Bounding gags brazing by a fashionless supremacy, garnered obscenity.

Every cell quivered fetishes of entropy.

Garnet broth drowned the pit of My lungs. Inviting mouths split for kissing and emotionless love. Steel cut mouths, siphoning thick succulence. Phallic flavored uvula depths come tempting Boys. Delicious red. Until shuddering. Until up whites rolled, engulfing irises. To ne'er see a day but ones own innards erode.

- ... all... have drunk of the wrath of Her immorality, and the kings of the earth have committed fornication with Her, and by the power of Her wantonness... grown rich... -

Blindfolded, Our orchestra played on...

Music like tori to serenade of little earthquakes upon the Atlantic...

To dance in graveyards till dawn.

- give Me life, give Me pain, give Me myself again -

Laughing sighs rancid cool as air from mire bogs.

- foul deeds will rise, though all the earth o'erwhelm them to mens eyes -

∞ ∞ ∞

Within Our deathyards and grave groves moved Our pagan debauchery. Shedding caverns to drape in cloudcovered starshine.

Erotic junketing betwixt grains of rainpours. Frenzied carousals gating clandestine mysteries.

Tlaloc danced. His sweating brow flung rain. His flashing eyes split lightning. Pounding, His henking feet threw thunder.

We ate of primrose and wild thyme. Primitive revelries spun about drunken banshee rhymes. Obscured in fog and smoke from elderlog bonfires. Sinister that sylvan vale, prickly with what transpired.

Fierce. Wanting. As wanting as gales of rain.

Coated in blood, thicker than rowanberry jam, smeared across hides of bulls and back again.

To the wold. To the wold. To all her pasts.

So We danced, in cemeteries with Sith and black seraph bands. With black bishops and shadow troupes, hiding owl feather sands. Junketing boles with dryads hand in hand. Drums aflutter from wiry and spritely clurichaunes.

Wicked windfalls of elvin grace, rippled across every immortal face. The beauty and the wonderment so awful with fear. Allures so compelling and drear, they might Take a captive for one hundred years.

Never can enough tales be told to justly glorify the splendor of the faerie wold.

Lightening strobes froze a trillion raindrops in midair. Iridescent platinum fangs of threatening winds tear. Storms were blowing down angels. Smacking holiness from the sky. Battering the naked moonlight halos and the dead so defiled.

Bawdry and deified nixy children played. Bright We in Our night amidst leafpile shrouds and her glades.

Luminous beings with stygian streaks. Berobed by white silks and red caps peaked.

Cold was the air whilst dewskins stretched to swathe those Who slumber. Retreating, gently as the shush of loving parents cracking a bedroom door, gurgled thunder.

Then evening drew curtains shut, ending too brief hours time dared. Nightmares were those I stared.

Nightmares where, when I closed My eyes, I could still see. Likening a child at the end of Nobottom Road who will evermore scream.

The Pan had fallen to dream on guard. A dismal headstone was a welcoming pillow. And as in Neverland, those unsteady faeries, over His way, tweaked His nose and continued on.

Other Boys, They may have mischiefed, Their orgy now done. But of Their revels was He One.

So, for once and only thus, halfway to dreamless nightmares, farewell bid I to faerie time.

It all ended at early dawn, when there lingered just enough shadows to slink behind...

Chapter Twenty Seven

Clan Of Xymox (I always refused to call them “Xymox”) swelled over the noise of traffic with “Craving.” Drowning out the hornet buzz of My motorcycle. Weaving between lanes like an eel. Soaring down Mayfield Road on an ebon Bimota Tesi. Speedometer read 89 miles per hour as the front tire dropped from a wheelie, passing Lake View Cemetery. Winding maniacally through Little Italy and across Euclid Avenue, I tore around East Boulevard.

Once reaching the Museum of Art, I parked on the sidewalk in front of the north entrance. Almost hit the valet.

Spotting Joshua's Lexus in the parking lot, I had to chuckle. I couldn't help but think I should've made Crazy Paul shit in the sunroof when I left Joshua's afterparty for Lioncourt... Fuck, that would've been hysterical.

∞ ∞ ∞

Camillia was first to greet Me as I entered the museum. A grin from afar I felt rather than saw.

“Sir... Sir. Excuse me!... You can't park there.” The valet followed Me.

Just within the doors, an old white-gloved and haired doorman approached. Looking irately comical, as only elderly people can.

“Sir, Joshua would find it far more apropos to park Your vehicle in the adjacent lot. Hmm? Please?...” He motioned Me back out the doors. “The galleries are closed You know. I can't imagine You're a guest. This is a private opening this evening.”

Security languidly sputtered to life.

My indelible Wife peeked from a dim archway. Searing in Her geniality. “My Lord may park His bike in the center of Joshua's fucking exhibit if He sees fit, good man!”

The shocked geezer stared a tennis match between Cam and I. “Lady Camillia. I - Oh. You're... Oh, Monsieur DuBois? I'm... Forgive me. I - I did not recognize - ”

“ - I suppose you want My invitation?” Snidely, I wondered, holding it out to him.

“No. No, Sir... Of course not.” He grinned awkwardly. “There is no need. My apologies. Please, enjoy. Your Friend has done superior work once again.” His motions now welcoming. Security lulled back to obliviousness.

“I'm sure. Most of His shit kinda sucks. I'm just here being polite.” I then addressed the valet. “Make sure nobody fucks with My Tesi there, bud, okay?”

“Certainly Sir.”

“Good man.” Briskly, I thrice cracked his cheek with My palm.

Swallowing his pride, the valet split.

“... Did You hear that?” Camillia asked, scowling.

Turning back to the old doorman, I snarled. “Yeah... Did you just call Me a conceited little asshole?”

Naturally, he hadn't said so aloud.

Clasping his hands, the mans confused face contorted. “Wh - wh - I... Of course not. Never, Sir.”

“Oh... So, you're a liar as well as a coward?... Huh?... Look, you gutless fuck, if you're gonna have the gall to be insulting, at lest have the decency to admit it, even if you lack the courage to repeat it to My face. Okay?”

“I - well - ”

“ - Shut the fuck up.” I walked away with My Sister.

Finally kissing Camillia hello, We passed the sign pointing to - ”Exhibit AB234: Joshua Dehndron - The Rickman Stowe.”

∞ ∞ ∞

Closet sexuality was long gone for Joshua. (As Allyson once said, “He's the sort of guy Who likes Depeche Mode a little too much.”) Yet, it seems gay or bisexual (or even asexual) lifestyles are a prerequisite for a burgeoning career in fashion or art... Stupid theory. But I say it because such sophomoric ignorance amuses Me. Artists varied tastes and interests can simply be accounted for by their love and appreciation of beauty in every form it takes, be it sexuality or sunsets. The desire to experience such beauties to the threshold of every sense is where unabashed indulgence in all facets of life springs from for creative individuals... Another crock of shit, too generalized to ever hold any truth. But these sophisticated artist types just love that sort of posturing, mental masturbation. So, lets say, Joshua was gay because He's an artist, and the fools will actually believe it! Oh, how I love art. Kissing His Boyfriend for the photographer from FAD Megazine, Joshua proudly displayed one of His attractions all across the land.

Camillia wandered off to talk with someone while I perused in My Own direction.

Joshua made all His openings extravagant. Each outdoing His last. That time, every part of the room was actually transformed into an element of art. So, observers were not merely looking at pieces on the walls or pedestals, but surrounded by displays on all sides at all times.

Even underfoot, ivory tiles constructing the floor crisscrossed in grid patterns. Filled with leaden and black cubes, the grid work created an optical illusion of depth. As if large squares were cut in white marble, plunging toward infinity.

Smoky gray and chalky ionic columns flanked parallel rows down the chamber. Metallic matte grays lined oddly angled walls.

Centerpiece to the exhibition saw an inverted ebony pyramidal table. Tubular silver handles surrounded its perimeter. Able to spin around a central axis, appeared it both menacing and elegant.

Over the speaker system crooned “The Crying Game” by Boy George. That was pushing the art-fag-thing slightly too deeply down My throat, if I may use a pun. Too far into the tacky and trite realm, in My opinion... But, hell, what do I know?

... “Artists”...

Should've been playing “Obscene And Pornographic Art” by Bongwater. One of the more underrated, intellectually witty bands of the day, I think. Far more befitting, I'd say.

But, what do I know? Right?

The place smelled of champagne and pearls. Too many nimrods with college degrees who were way too hip for everyone around them. All packed in a gallery, feigning to possess style, sophistication, and a flawlessly wise set of bullshit criteria by which to measure, categorize, praise, or dismantle the worth and integrity of any “art.”

... Shit, I just liked the pictures.

One particularly disturbing painting commanded My attention. Entitled “Avian Emerald Feline,” Jonathan was credited with assisting Joshua in its creation. Jonathan had a distinctive, French impressionist style, that immediately identified all His work.

Garishly, Their canvas depicted a circular torture chamber with a steeply dished floor. Suspended from a chain in the middle of the chamber swayed an iron cage. The disc-shaped cage was riddled with spikes, inside and out. A victim was locked within, face down and spread-eagle, completely nude. Given the height of the cage, said prisoner was incapable of even rolling over. And every writhe would have only made barbs of iron pierce further.

As the cage swung, another figure was thrown into the cell. Also nude, but for wearing a rusty crown of metal thorns.

No matter where the one in the chamber hid or cowered, the cage would eventually rip at his flesh. With every swing, more blood let flow.

Chocolate browns, sooty blacks, and stone grays predominately toned the mural. Encased by twisted metal frameworks, it brooded across its wall as a mountain of fear.

Elite guests joined to admire Their work. More mortals than We were in attendance.

Another portrait, called “Amiable Fowl,” hung about four feet by three feet in size. A man and Woman stood facing each other. The Woman was on the right. She had short, black, thick, curly hair and wore a pure white dress. Her eyes were shut. Head slightly leaned back. Vaguely smiling. Blood coated Her lips and tongue and was smeared on Her dress.

I knew that was Joshua's real blood, not paint. And it had fingerprints in it instead of brushstrokes.

The man was in a suit. Staring at the Woman. He was very clean-cut. Brown, short, straight hair. He looked something between frightened and sad as he stared at the Woman... And I somehow knew he was mortal, in the portrait.

“You're a collector?” The voice questioned Me from behind. Obviously a snobbish old wench by her tone. Probably held a degree.

“No. Just a Friend.” Coldly, I turned My back as I answered. Not desiring to socialize, I ignored her. Tried to anyhow.

“He's a genius.”

“He's a faggot.”

The old bag gasped. “I beg Your pardon.”

I spoke in simple and clearly articulated words. Deliberately insulting her ability to comprehend Me by addressing her like a child. Snobs hate that. “Beg all you want, I won't pardon you! You heard what I said. I said He's - a - faggot... You know, a queer. Homo. Dicklicker. Cocksucker.” I made an obscene gesture. “... No big deal. Just last night, He was over with My Wife and Our Friends while He and I were sucking the blood out of each others - ”

“ - Well! I've never heard anything so vulgar!” The lady disappeared, visibly shaken.

Well then, you are one sheltered bitch.

Offending her happily entertained Me. Just enough to quiver in Me the tiniest smile. Noticing Denise among the crowds, I was going to call Her a “nigger” and any other euphemisms I could think up. Shout them at the old woman. Simply to add to My shock value... I decided to save that one for later.

In truth, Joshua and Denise were a prince and princess, capable of bestowing pleasures offensive beyond that old hags most deviant imaginations to conceive... Ah, and I do for thus love Them so...

My gaze pet every visitor.

... Fuck... A bad sign when a gathering is boring as puss in less than ten minutes. Wasn't there a single being there whom appeared halfway interesting enough to make the acquaintance of?

“Elric!” Joshua excused Himself from other visitors to bid Me hello. “My Lord, so pleased You made it.” He kissed My cheek and hand.

“Of course.”

Camillia returned, slipping Her hand about My waist.

Joshua continued. “When You failed to arrive with Lady Camillia, I feared You may not be attending.”

“Oh, no. I was simply struck with mood to ride My bike. She opted for Isaac to chauffeur Her in the Bugatti. Of course I wouldn't miss this. I said I would come, did I not?”

“Yes. And so She said. Thank You.” Joshua asked Cam. “And Lady Allyson had not arrived then with My Lord?”

Camillia explained. “Oh, no. In fact, She drove the other Bugatti. She was off to pick up a guest She wished to accompany Her.”

“Ohhh, I see... I had misunderstood then. I assumed She was - ”

“ - Coming with Me.” I said.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“I see. Well, marvelous! My opening can not be complete without the DuBois family being seen.”

“An honour You say so. I'm certain She'll be soon to arrive.” Camillia politely dipped Her chin.

“Excellent... Please, enjoy! And pardon Me to take Your leave, My Lady.”

“By all means, Joshua.” Camillia responded as Her hand was pecked.

“Your Highness...” Joshua bowed to Me.

I returned His gesture, and He mingled into the crowd.

Camillia started idly at Me. Unusual. Nothing She ever did was idle. “You know, You are the best dressed of anyone here tonight.”

“... Thank You... Where did that come from?”

Flattering as always to hear Her say as such. Nothing too unique about My attire that night however. Hair down, I had on German gladiator boots and a white pirate shirt under an unbuttoned blackberry jacket with tails and flared cuffs. Tucked into the boots were stretch jeans, laced up the side and checkered in two shades of black.

After a kittenish shrug, Camillia said, “I don't know... A certain aura about You.” My forehead She tapped Her lips unto. “Gallant.”

Gallant?... Well, that was rather unexpected. I liked that. What a gracious adjective.

My voice was silent, yet My eyes told Her how flattered I felt.

To My silence She responded. “... Uh-huh... You're bored already, aren't You?”

“Ha! Out of My fucking mind, My Precious.” Warm feelings swelled across My skin. Just for the fact that anyone knew Me as well as Camillia made Me all the more in love and endeared to Her.

“I thought so. The cocky youth abandoned for the congenial Lord? You must be bored, sweet Elric. Entertaining Yourself by mocking them at their own game? Unbeknownst to them of course.”

“Ha! Oh, You think - The cocky youth abandoned?... What about that doorman?”

“Ah, well, true enough. But they deserved that.”

“Don't they all? Oh, and You missed My talk with that old grandma over there.” Pointing at the lady, she noticed Me. Suggestively, I licked My lips at her. Gasping again, she turned away, more flustered than ever.

Camillia rolled Her eyes with a laugh. “Okay. Nevermind. You are still being a disdainful bastard.”

“And since when don't You approve of the cocky youth?”

“Never.” Lust in Camillia's voice.

“Hrmm. Sure...”

Sardonic Her mouth. “All part of Your charm, Brother Dear.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed.”

“So... I'm gallant and charming?”

Eyes tumbled. “Don't dig for compliments. It's unbecoming.”

I stuck out My tongue.

“... Mmm. Just be careful how You chose to keep Yourself amused tonight, Elric.” Her tone was lighthearted.

Pretentiously, I grinned. “Ahh, but of course Mi' Lady... A wise choice in words... To keep Myself amused... Excuse Me, won't You?”

“Elric...” She scolded Me, tilting Her neck.

“What!?... I'll be good.”

Impishly sultry She groaned. “... Please don't.”

Laughing, I kissed Her full on the mouth. Unseen, I left the gallery into closed areas of the building.

Bored as I was, at least I could go to the Rainbow in two nights.

∞ ∞ ∞

Ghostly halls I wandered. Passing doors for the outdoor sculpture courtyard, I moved down hallways to the central lobby of the old museum.

There sat beige marble of Asian dragonheads on pedestals. Under dimly lit cones of recessed lights. Some intangible aspect of that area of the museum always made it unharrowing to Me. Perhaps, at a similar party, ages ago, some ravishing young Flapper was killed on that very floor. And no one found her until the next morning. That is the nature of what I've always sensed in that room...

Or could it be older than that?

Far more sinister?

A curse linked to those all-seeing dragons perhaps?

Or perhaps the dragons saw the girl die... And have evermore wished to see something as horrid again. Would I hear them breathe? Ancient stone lungs swelling dust.

First opened in 1916 were the original galleries. I heard stories that people once swam and took rowboats into Wade Lagoon outside of the museums south entrance.

Those must have been happy times. As if I had seen those afternoons could I picture them. Sunny days. Clean air. Newlywed families. Prosperous futures. Playing children. Blossoming romance... Now, in a decaying neighborhood, the murky lagoon harbored only rotting leaves and sickly goldfish.

Ancient curses perchance?

Knowing all dragons eventually prevail, I simmered with grinning.

Up worn marble stairs I stepped, into the enormous atrium of the interior garden court. Frosted glass in the ceiling tinted black with night skies.

Even in daylight, standing quiet and alone in a museum long enough, every voice from the past seems to be hauntingly saying ones name. The sound of blinking eyelashes whisping across the air.

At night, such sounds are all the more unearthly.

Music ushered among galleries from Joshua's gala. Altered and distorted by corners and stairwells. Twisted into unrecognizable gibberish of bass and treble.

Yet, I knew the tone of My name was truly uttered by places older than I.

My roaming carried Me through the medieval treasury into the gaping expanse of the armor court. As with the atrium, a ceiling of black frosted glass loomed overhead.

Staring across ancient arms and armor, I wondered what wars they may have seen. Which battles had those swords fought? Whose hearts had those pole arms cleft? What winsome maidens had cried upon that mail once donned by their defeated loves?

A knight on horseback stood an enshrined sentinel in the midst of the enormous room. Flanked on either side by two others. Any moment, I expected they and their steeds may march again. Leaping to life, prepared to do conquest once more. A trinity of heroes to slay the undying dragon. Who sits idly by as youth is murdered before Him.

“Ah, but noble knights, never have I killed a mortal one... Nor a devil as I either.”

Though My hands be washed, they be bloodied still...

But the room stayed silent. Nothing stirred for justice amongst evenings gloom. Chivalry merely collected dust as dragons they vanquished.

Horses and heroes each remained frozen in time.

Gargantuan tapestries futilely insulated a lone wall. Stripped from manor castles, their dignity and usefulness torn in the dark drafts of antiquity. Their faded figures impressed within Me profound perspectives upon the passage of centuries. For it was not the skill of the artist as it was the age of the art itself which awed Me. The sheer endurance of it through the ages... Dare I call it “humbling.”

Was it possible? To stand in rooms, surrounded by objects more ancient than most immortals. Every bend in a statue. Every thread in a canvas. Such minute things. Details insignificant at creation manifesting into pure divinity once endured and appreciated by millennia. Impervious to time as I.

... No... Could humanity truly construct immortality?

Trembling slowly. Shuddering suddenly at My Own sense of insignificance, I began to feel smothered. With no need to breathe yet choking on realizations of My irrelevance. My achievements of nothingness in lonely alcoves full of accomplishments.

What had I ever done? What had I ever made?

Rooms swayed. Floors spun. Walls crushed and ceilings were shrinking about My mind.

Humbling...

Mortifying...

Art is not beauty. Art is horror. Reminders of never being able to perish. Of dying with the terror to go on. Of lifelong struggles to be forgotten and at best rot in a stuffy museum behind sterile glass. Every strand of My essence fell ill to thoughts not only of being nothing, but of being such for eternity...

Staggering within the south lobby I moved. More clearly I could hear the last part of “Mountain Voices” by James Ray & The Performance from below.

Down on the sprawling staircase outside of the south entrance I came to rest. Falling to My feet like a mortal baking in deserts...

... The sky adorned with a moon so loud, it could be leaned toward and kissed. Full shone she across waters of the lagoon. Brilliant enough to luminesce off mica flakes embedded in granite stairs. Bestowing bright, poltergeist glows through the zodiac garden.

Monuments to the twelve houses blushed with shadow. Sculptures so celestial as to only be carved in Medusa's wynd.

Branches on shrub and tree, in breezes seemed intent on tickling the moonlight. Shaggy fluffs of clouds phosphoresced betwixt orient starshine.

Relief from My minds Own tortures.

Relaxing in air not stale by primeval lands... Yet what earth has been upon the world longer than the native soil of My blood?

To My feet, gradually returned I to stand. Arms crossed. Blinking slow.

Ease came with heavy breath and silence of thought. Only music and sighs to hear.

In crisp night air of November, I wondered, but what of those medieval works and nameless artisans? Are they truly remembered at all? No wars to wage any longer. What of their shields and daggers? Were they too not meaningless now? At that hour when only Things as dead as they may admire them? Where lies the essence of their worth if I deem them useless?

Was I not greater than all art, in and of Myself alone?

What compared I, their mortal art, to My Own potentials of immortal blossoms? As mankind's creations may be greater than they, so too am I mightier than their creations.

I am My Own legacy.

Priceless things I may mold, held more significance and divine value in their mere conception, than in any mortals actual act of fabrication.

My thoughts themselves were more relevant than their every deed.

What may I think to create out of an eternity of nothingness?

- here comes that girl again, all dressed in tears again -

Allyson spoke some distance behind Me. Talking quietly. Gently. Reassuring. “I'd like you to meet My Brother... Go... Introduce yourself... I'll catch up with you later.”

By the time I turned to see Her, Allyson had left the south lobby and was gone.

A silhouette took two steps forward into the light.

The figure looked very Siouxsie.

She wore a black, stretch-velour cage dress with matching, bicep-length gauntlets. Black suede stiletto boots complimented her dress and fishnet stockings.

Atop her head, long and soft purple hair wafted in a breeze. Hung luxurious plum and lilac, in sparse braids, nearly to her waist. The sides were shaved and dyed a blinding pumpkin orange. Nailpolish, lipstick and eyeshadow were all the color I'd expect.

A hematite wiccan puzzle-ring, carved to resemble two snakes, was coiled about her thumb. Doubling as a purse, she carried a worn and dented Black Hole lunchbox; Slapped with stickers, one proclaiming “Punk Is Undead,” one for the phenomenal bands This Ascension and The Shroud, another for Noir Leather and Lip Service fashion lines.

Around her wrist ratcheted a handcuff bracelet. Tiny links of silver (tapering chain mail, thin at her nostril and widening by the earlobe) clasped in a belt from lavender nosering to feathered earring.

Over supple hips fluttered a crimson, gypsy miniskirt. Lacy, the mesh quivered watery and sheer. Finally, complimenting her miniskirt, she held an evanescent maroon parasol.

Darker turned the evening under the heartsad smile she gave Me.

- just take My hand girl, I'll take your tears girl -

Helle Rochelle Tompkins, framed in the art museums doorway, stood facing Me on the stairs.

∞ ∞ ∞

“... Elric...”

“... Thou speakest aright... I am that merry wanderer of the night...” Crossing forearms over stomach and spine, I bowed to her with bent knee and... gallant smile.

Angelic and sonorous harmonies of This Mortal Coil quietly tumbled over us with the wind. The heavenly melody of “Song To The Siren” poured out of the museum like a chorus barely heard over a car stereo on a spring noon. A promise of sorrow in a wanting for joy. Voices of the dreamsoaked blessed who shall mourn for we both. Unmoving and with parted lips, Helle regarded Me.

Beholding her as a memory of a girl I forgot I loved. From ages ago, with a face I would have no longer remembered. Just a vague emotion from an era long lost stirred in her presence.

Everything was familiar seeing her again. When she blinked, I lamented to be her and all she had become.

“Have you ever felt deja vu in a dream?”

“... Yes...”

Momentarily moongazing, I then wondered, “... But it never seems you've been there before once you awake, does it?”

“... No... A-Allyson told me She was bringing me to You.”

“Yes... I know. I asked Her to... You believed Her?”

Helle's breath sharp and staggered. “Barely.”

Disbelief was being overwon by a sense of inevitability evident in her posture.

- You knew this moment would come, Helle -

“Yes... Yes... I believed... I'm - My name is - ” She held out her hand to shake.

“ - Helle... I know you. This is no dream.” Turning her hand, I kissed the back.

- did I dream, you dreamed about Me -

“... Deja vu?” She snickered.

“Yeah... Would you care to join Me?” Removing My jacket, I fanned it out across the steps for her to sit upon.

“Yes. Of course. Thank You...” Still propping her parasol over a shoulder, she daintily sat, turning a smile.

Dead leaves skittered past, cycloned, and rustled still again.

“... How were you able to get out of your house, anyway?”

Slyly, her eyes slit. “Oh, the otherworldly charms of Your Sister, I'm sure... Oh. Okay. I see.” She nodded, then paused for a second, speaking more to the ground than to Me. “... Of course I didn't realize that until She told me all about You in the car. I - I didn't know...”

Her silent pause was longer this time. “Having Cheryl's boyfriend die helped too, I think. It's like, their irrelevant little tragedy brought them all closer together... Just reinforces the fact that I'm not really welcome in that house anymore. They're happy for any excuse to boot me out the door so Cheryl can weep in private or some shit, I suppose. They made me go along to the wake and we just got back as I was leaving to come here with... Allyson, so... Besides, I - My mother actually likes Allyson... She trusts Her. She thinks She could be a... good influence...”

A laugh hiccuped from Me at that thought. Helle seemed to understandably agree.

My eyes traced over her in another awkward silence. Awkward, yet perfect. This was how it should be. I knew that. Although, I didn't know what “it” even was. Nevertheless, I knew that this was the right way for all things to unfold. This was how it should be.

“I really... forgot how stunning you are... How glorious... How... immaculate.” Almost reaching out to touch her, I shyed away. “You are My Helle... The ideal beauty I've dreamed of all My days.”

She seemed unphased by My compliments. Neither flattered nor patronized. Just looking at her fingers and very plainly responding with: “I used to be more beautiful... Before I became older than My years...”

“Oh, but Helle, we all were... We've all been aged far beyond our days by all life has done to us... We were all more beautiful once.”

“... I think I remember You from then.” Glancing up, she smiled.

“Yes. As do I.”

Focusing upon the sky, she pondered the moon. Or possibly the clouds. Or nothing at all, for a long time. “... What happened to us?”

“I don't know, Helle.”

Elizabeth Fraser's vocals washed through the dark, talking of lying with death her bride.

“Mmmm...” Helle shut her eyes so tight, they appeared sewn closed. Acidicly she snickered. “I - I reallly don't want to be here... I hate this place where - wherever I've ended up.”

“Yeah...”

Helle held her tongue between her teeth awhile. Gothic black eyelids snapped open. By a look far within her, I could tell she was wondering about telling Me something. “... I... How the fuck did I get here?... I really can't see myself ever... being a part of anything... You know?”

Nodding bleakly was My response.

Her gaze pinned Me. “Back, like... when I first joined the S.C.A. and stuff... I remember finally... I fit in someplace, but... This one day, I remember I went to this demo they were doing at the South Euclid Library once. And I - I remember they had a, uh, a maypole.”

She glowed wistfully at the memory. “And, they were teaching us how to do the maypole dance and stuff. Maybe it may not seem like a very big deal, at all, to You, but... wwwl... When it was all over with, after we finished the dance, the woman who taught us sort of critiqued it...” Helle giggled sorrowfully. “And... out of all these dozen people or so, half of which were mundanes, from, like twelve to sixty, my ribbon was the only one that was wrapped all loose and woven all crooked and shit.” Her hands twisted together to illustrate her story, dropping her parasol. “... I was really having fun and then, it was like, come on, for hundreds of years they've done this and I can't even weave a goddamn ribbon around a fucking pole right!?” Helplessly, Helle tossed her hands in the air. “... It's like, nowhere is my time or place: Then. Now... And of course I didn't know I was fucking it all up until it was all over with. So the maypole looked stupid because... Because I'm just - ... I never fit in or get anything right. Sounds stupid, but... it really upset me. I guess... regardless of the fury of your determination, you can still amount to nothing... No matter how hard you fight or how much you want it.”

Grabbing her parasol, Helle rubbed an eye, sighing. “I - You know, I was wrong. That was never my place. There I didn't fit in either... At least alone in my room, no one judges me though...”

Counting her statements on her fingers, she told Me. “No one criticizes me or tests me. No one condemns me or hurts me. It's perfect. It's the one place where I fit in. No one makes fun of me. No one can be... belittling to me or, or condescending... Of course, no one can ever love me then, either... Why the hell am I telling You this pathetic, self-pity shit?”

“Because I'm listening.”

That she pondered. Lifting locks and braids out of her face, her bracelet rattled. “... Hrmmh. I made this cool little, blue ceramic wizard in school Freshman year. I had to borrow all the clay and junk just to make him too 'cause I never got any of my own stuff, and my teacher was always really miffed and all... And, well, but anyway, I have him, this little wizard, standing on my dresser. And for some odd reason, he always turns his back to me. I mean, I set him face out, like outward on the dresser, You know, and over a few weeks time... hell, it's more like a few days really, he'll just sloooowly turn around. I have no clue how it happens... Always the same. Turns to his left, then stops. Never keeps turning. Never turns the other way... It's really weird. I don't get it. Maybe he just doesn't like me either... I guess I'm saying that I'm glad, well... it's nice You listen, that's all.”

Helle shrugged apologetically. Body language to indicate she didn't really know why she told Me that either.

Nothing happened for a long while. We just sat. Each as if we were totally alone. A squirrels scamper on gravel accompanied This Mortal Coil. Eventually, Helle seemed inspired. Minutely happy again. “And, hey, at least I met You in my room, huh?... Well, not exactly, but mostly we talked in my room... Lot of good talks we had.”

“Yeah... They have been.”

Opening her lunchbox purse, she took out a lighter. Spark... Spark... “Shit... Come on.” Spark. Flame. “Yep... Lotta good talks.”

Lowering her parasol, she set it on a stair. Gingerly, she tapped flame to fabric. A few tries she made before it caught. Once it lit, she blew out the lighter and tucked it away. Thin orange squiggles of flames crawled across the misty material like caterpillars.

Our talk became illuminated by the growing fire. Blowing on flames, she made them spread. Faster wriggled caterpillars.

Helle turned blankly mesmerized by the blaze.

“I'll live forever if I kill myself tonight.”

Standing, I frowned. “... But there is a small chance you may die someday.”

“I never feel alive anymore anyway.”

“... So, what is it you seek in death?” Quizzically, I sat back next to her, watching her parasol burn.

Defensively, she responded. “You don't approve of my wishes? Of everyone I know?... That way, Someone who cares might always remember me... And that doesn't seem so bad... It takes just as much courage to die as it does to live.”

Educating Me on death?

She would've made Me chuckle, but then I wondered if she may be right.

“Sometimes it does. Usually, it just takes impatience... Nevertheless, I do not judge you, Helle... I'm merely curious. What are you saying you wish?”

Finally, looking away from the fire, she stared deeply through Me. Her attributes twisted in the firelight. Perplexed and analytical. Some sort of assessment she appeared to be stacking upon Me. Surprised approval summoned a smile far within her pupils that slowly peeled over her cheeks. “... I love You.”

The night was long quiet before I shook My head. All she was assuming from Me was really beginning to amuse Me. What did she expect? Your little faerie Prince is going to sweep you up into His dark arms and rescue you? Just as you hoped? Saving you from your tragic world? The romantic, gothic, vampire cliche?... Fuck you. I think not. She had no clue what I was. No idea what dying can really do. She loves Me? Yeah, right. Fucking bullshit. Manipulative little witch.

Standing again, I bitterly stepped away from her. “... Don't tell Me you love Me. I am everything everyone hates.”

She grappled My arm. “... Redemption!... If Your curiosity must be satisfied. That's why... That's what I seek in death. Have You never desired that?” She motioned Me with pleading glances to sit again. Vague premonitions of tears glittered.

Reluctantly, I sat but didn't look at her until I spoke. “...Maybe...”

Biting her lips, she swallowed those tears. The parasol bonfire fell down one step with a rattle of charring metal ribs. Helle talked with shut eyelids. “And I do love You. But, I don't know how to live anymore. I'm not saying that I can't. I'm not saying that I don't... really even want to try. But I am saying that I don't know how... Sorrow has made me forget... I don't think... I've ever felt so much nothing. So much emptiness. I'm being so beaten. So... methodically destroyed.”

Opening her eyes with a dry laugh, she began to shake her head. “I was wrong. Even my room is - I'm not safe... anywhere. Especially there. Because every single day I'm still in that same house and it - ... The memories are too much. I don't want to do this. I don't want to do this anymore... Death must bring some form of salvation, no?... No?... What else could?”

The way she asked, I knew she truly hoped I could give her a reassuring answer. She needed Me to. One dead should know all of death - but how could I answer her? Had I ever cared about such things? I had no idea Myself. Even a lie was impossible, because I knew not how to do that either. Dying and redemption felt universes apart. Incomparable.

Disheartened by My silence, she continued. “There are things I've seen and things that - ... I don't know. I just wish people could take a little more responsibility for their lives and face up to the shit they fuck up... Including me. Be willing to face the consequences... And do what needs to be done, to set things right again.”

“... How so?”

Furiously restrained, she cried. “Because when someone kills themself, a lot of people are responsible. People just don't see it... People just won't see these things...”

“Hmm... But you're not dead... And I know nothing of redemption.”

Helle got lost in her thoughts, and I could tell she hadn't heard My last statement... And maybe she just didn't believe Me.

Lemony flames gleamed off the chrome chain straddling her cheek. Playing with a seam in her dress, she leered intently. Picking at a mica flake in the stone, as if she wished to pray to it.

“Suicide is everyones fault...” She whispered. “You know that? Everyone who didn't care and didn't listen. Everyone who... Everyone who hurts you... Who lets you down. They're the ones responsible. I don't give a shit what anyone else ever says, that's the truth... You're taught that it's no ones fault. But that's bullshit. Worthless fucks like that are the ones who are to blame. We're taught that everyone means something. That - that we're all important. That we're all worth something. When the truth is, most people are just meaningless, worthless, mindless slugs with not one redeeming quality to them... And you know the most pathetic parts of all?: They don't believe they're meaningless. They don't realize they're fucking human garbage. And yet they are and it's only because they've chosen to be... Suicide is everyone's fault. Every single person... But people never want to admit any fucking responsibility for anything. Especially that. Because if the world showed...”

Her head rolled weakly. Desperately. Choking tension in her accented words. “Shit!... If the world showed just some sense of hope!”

Softer and softer her voice withered, despite growing visibly angrier. “...Often I wonder if he thought of me before he died... Could he have? How the fuck couldn't he?... And I wonder why that wasn't enough to save him... Hmm? Why weren't his feelings for me, enough to make him stay?

Doesn't that make me one of those responsible?... Because I failed? Because I wasn't enough?... It's a travesty to admit that I force myself not to think about him. I force myself to forget, only so it doesn't hurt so much. How dare I!?... His memory deserves so much more... So, I guess I fail again... Does anything matter anymore?... Does anything matter anymore?...”

... Now I see, dear Pawn... Now I see where you've gone... So... Helle was a vampire after all.

She was the true vampire type. As much as any mortal might be. She could drain the life out of people with such talk. Or, worse still, out of herself... How splendorous. She was a vampire. Always has been.

She loved the night. She was the most vibrant and “alive” then. She was a Child of Darkness, surrounded in the own gloom and torment of who she was. I'll bet she didn't hate it nearly as much as she claimed. On the contrary. Her misery was her comfort and familiarity. Her “place to fit in.” Walls to sadistically protect her.

Where would she be without her depression? She reveled in it. It gave her a sense of grandeur: No other person knew her pain.

That delusion granted her a sense of importance. An achievement none may match... A meaningless and irrelevant achievement perpetuating itself into deeper recesses of hopelessness.

Yes, she was a vampire.

... And she was, mercilessly, her own worst victim.

Helle was saying words, but she wasn't talking any longer. Noticing her shiver, I stood and Shakespearianly remarked, “The air bites shrewdly, it is very cold.”

“Yeah.” Helle smiled through wincing effort. Mentally snapping back to the present. She stood with Me, accepting an offer of My hand.

Wrapping My coat around her shoulders, I wondered. “Shall we go in?”

She sniffled. Though whether from chill or pent-up tears I knew not. Flirtatiously smirking, she paraphrased her own Shakespearian passage. “I'll follow Thee and make a heaven of Hel, to die upon the hand I love so well.”

- here I am waiting to hold you -

Vanes of her parasol crumpled in on themselves. Embers of the fire twirled skyward, frightening squirrels and determined to singe the moon. Embers blown by breath of music and goblins.

∞ ∞ ∞

“What is it like to die?”

Vocal majesty of Lisa Gerrard singing “Sanvean (I Am Your Shadow)” wafted and nestled home, into corridors of idyllic vaulted ceilings. Possessing so true the glory of roosting doves. The transition from This Mortal Coil was fluid and waveless.

Helle and I strode through the stygian museum together. In her company, those ancient displays felt even older somehow. More infernally majestic. Yet, everything sinister about our surroundings became diluted to the point of being trivial. Almost pensive in fact.

Helle made every step carefree as dancing. Uplifting as some melancholy bliss of weeping violins. Epic moments, so touching as to be heartbroken with delight.

Sanctimonious radiance of art was rendered grotesque with comparison to her own comeliness and humility. Goddesses of Beauty would damn her in envy.

Monuments she deserved to have crafted in honor to her loveliness, no museum was worthy to hold. By all that was holy or impure, her elegance could have driven Me to have faith in Eden once again.

The interior garden court through which we journeyed was home to a marble wishing well that remained covered for the night. One arced swing and I tore off the gray vinyl sheath. Motioning to the well for Helle.

“... No... I'm tired of paying for my wishes.”

Smirking, I dropped the cover. Tossing in the water a silver dollar, it kerplunked and sunk to the bottom. Graciously, I led Helle arm in arm up stairs and out the atrium. Through a doorway we discovered a grandiose iron terrace adjacent to the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century European wing.

Crossing first the railing, designed to keep the public out of a Seventeenth Century French furniture showcase, we walked. Overlooking the outdoor sculpture courtyard, we stepped out before the terrace. Toasty warm behind glass doors.

Shoulder to shoulder, we peered down upon sculptures. Lit by moon and clouds. Cooled by wind.

“You missed Our Halloween party.” Unexpected even to Myself, I blurted out.

Was her frown discouraged or regretful? “I know. I'm sorry...” With a boiled laugh, she added. “You should've had Allyson pick me up.”

“True.”

Birdlike, her neck cocked. Listening. Apparently, she was hearing the distant music of Lisa Gerrard for only the first time. Distracted, she shriveled further with misery.

“... What's wrong?”

“... That's the sound my heart makes, when I miss old friends...”

Our smiles lingered and ebbed slowly as ones final breath. Helle reached toward My cheek. Curiously grasping through a pristine quiet. Fingers prepared to kiss My temple.

Distraught, her hand quivered to her side instead. More frustrated than shy. “Why did You tell Allyson to bring me to You tonight?”

My reluctance to answer came quick enough to give her an honest response; Yet lasted long enough to think of a way to phrase it so cryptically, that I knew she'd never truly understand what I was talking about. “... Because the Game was tiring, if you must know... And maybe it was about time I lose.”

“What?” Keen was her tone. Annoyed. Dissecting meanings from My words rather than allowing My esoteric ambiguity to polish over and deceive her.

Taking her hand, I grinned. Deciding to be less mystic. Soothingly speaking to calm her racing thoughts, I amended My answer, saying, “Maybe I just wanted to finally say hello... Or goodbye... I wasn't actually sure.”

“Ah... Rather irrelevant now, huh? To say hello...” Letting go of Me, she faced back to the surreal wonderment outside.

For a moment, tricks of the mind had Me convinced she was made of moonlight. And had I the audacity to attempt to blemish her virtue with My touch once more, she would melt away into neverness. Forgetting I ever knew her.

Navy blue and puffy whitish scars lined the length of both her wrists. I had never caught notice of them before. Appearing like frozen millipedes just beneath her skin. Catching Me staring at the old wounds, Helle smirked ruefully. Raising up her arms so I'd have a better view. “Like father, like daughter.”

Mimicking her sour grin, I puzzled at all she had suffered.

“You never answered my first question.”

“What is it like to die?” I repeated. Had My memory of her question surprised Helle, it didn't show.

“Yes. What is it like?”

Before I could decide not to tell her a thing, I found Myself lying. “I don't know, Helle. I... don't really remember.” Never could she tell I was being untrue. “Live. Live a life where you never wish for death.”

“How much do You remember?”

“I don't know... I'm not certain... It comes in dreams. Fragments. It's easy to forget.” For unknown reasons, I averted her gaze. So many lies, making My head throb. “Easy to forget everything.”

Only for how I felt did I make it hard to recall. But I had never truly forgotten a thing. Every memory seems clearer now than ever before.

A numbing secret about the past is, that what has been, can be as uncertain as ones future. Each is always changing. I may drive the memories from My mind for a time. But when they return, they seem to batter Me. Scouring My sorrows to My bones. Punishing Me for denying them... I remember it all. Despite the changing of dreams. Despite the murder of wishes.

No matter how far years may distance Me from death, I've never forgotten what it felt like...

Her jaw hung open. Wanting more of an explanation. Expecting more. “...Doesn't make any difference anyway.” She sighed in resignation. “You're not really dead anyway, right?... I've heard that some people believe we can all live forever. That death is unnecessary. Some new age/buddhist type thing. I mean, why not, right? I believe that. I think we could. That if we're spiritually advanced enough, we can just... avoid the illusion of aging. By realizing time doesn't exist and reality is based only upon what we individually concede to be true, we can just cease getting old. Stop aging altogether.”

Smirking cockily, she surveyed our surroundings randomly. Seeing everything but pretty much looking at nothing. Acting like her next words were held captive in old French furnishings and she had to find them before she could speak. Wistfully, her cheeks crumpled as though blinded by sunshine on a winters day. “... I envy You.”

Revolted, I spat out. “Because you want to be immortal too!? Learn how not to - ”

Mortified, her face paled. Squealing in reply. “ - No! Fuck, no! That's what I've been telling You all along, Elric. Haven't You been listening to me!? I'd never want that. I envy You because You have the bravery to face existence. Because You have the courage to be immortal.”

She appeared both astonished and horrified by My misinterpretation. Cracking in her voice, she told Me. “... You read my mind. How could You think that of me?... Life hurts too goddamn much... I don't want to be forgotten... But I'd never want to live forever.”

In agonies of silent waves, her composure eroded all the further. Grinding her teeth. On the verge of saying more, she hesitated. Worn and defeated. Collapsing into a plush, three-hundred year old sofa. Helle buried brow in hand. Pain emanated from her withered form although her expression were veiled under palm.

Paralyzed by disbelief and shock, I stared down on her. Wanting to laugh at the sheer depth of My grievous mistake, I remained silent. Knowing full well she might think Me to be ridiculing her as opposed to Myself.

As I stood there, watching her longer and longer, I began to be ashamed of My error moreso than amused. My Pawn was Game enough by the Fates without Me... What was I doing with her?

One can never break the shattered spirit nor drive the lovelorn mad.

- At this moment, this is the part where I should turn and walk away and never speak to Helle again so long as she lives -

Instead, My arms covered Helle as I sat at her side. Continuing to hold herself, she did not return an embrace. Though she didn't shove Me away, she didn't want Me near. That didn't matter. I still held on. Her body trembled.

I didn't notice she was crying until two tears fell in My shirt and landed on My chest.

“You know what I want. Please!... You're my best Friend. You're the only Friend I have anymore... At least my death could give You... what You need... and, what I need too.” Her body tensed under My hug. “Always... remember me...”

We always need what We don't want.

Helle squinted at Me with the formless eyes of hell. “...Kill me...”

All lavender iris and indigo tears, bleary as sorrowful mysteries.

Know thee what yea ask? -

But it didn't matter anymore. Nothing did.

- o that this too too sullied flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew, or that the everlasting had not fixed his canon 'gainst self-slaughter -

Our first kiss -

Rose slow and wet from a nervous pinpoint between heart and loins. Slippery tongues tracing blackened lips, smooth as lava glass.

One of us moaned.

“... Kill me...”

None I had kissed, ever broke My heart so severely with every touch. Metal of her chained ear, cold under My thumb. Lashes fluttered inadvertent butterfly kisses along My cheek.

“... Kill me...”

Autumn breezes shuffled trees in the nighttime courtyard. Lost in desires, I found all our words tumble away.

Pulling apart, she froze. Blank captivation in her face eased with a lavender, ice-cream smile. Yes. One stare and all was said. Gingerly, fingers unclasped her skirt.

Moist. Tongues rolled again. Down My neck.

Tears still cool on My shirt, slid across My back, and fumbled to the floor. Ivory ruffles landed, piled atop My blazer.

Nails raked My shoulder.

Shrouds of mist disrobed. Wisps of fabric melting away. A break of morning fog. Falling to ankles. Draping across dressers. Covering over armchairs. Stiletto and gladiator boots tumbled together. Vapid mounds of discarded clothing. Rippling off skin.

Before a quilted bed stood Helle. Coy mistress, dolorious in her seductions. Yet, she was the sort who held a modesty about her charisma, which only served to enhance her charm.

Liquefied, she melted across the sheets. The first in hundreds of years to lie upon them. Lapping at puddles of moonlight, that painted her through the windows, as a kitten to a bowl of milk. Just as creamy and cool.

Remnants of dove tears she had wept, glazed her eyes.

Captivating enough that I found Myself jealous of every wind that had ever kissed her cheek. No words we spoke. Enthralled by eyes imposing.

Only Camillia had ever dared leer so challengingly.

Beckoned with a curious turn. Demanding. Lips pulled Me in. Damp and sliding. Up over thighs. Hands drew Me. Deeper into her mouth.

Arcing back. A palm on the small of My tailbone. Holding Me. Swelling under her tongue.

My hands stroked orange stubble lining her scalp. Around and behind. Dragging her further onto Me. A coaxing she did not need. Watching angelic, her eager face surround Me.

Stringy blood she dabbled atop tastebuds.

Privately inside, I believe I hushed out her name. Black fingernails cupped beneath Me. Squeezing tenderly.

Suckling to kiss, My blood I tasted lightly in her throat.

Faint salt of sweat. Swarthy streaks of lipstick smeared across My wrists and pelvis.

Licking over her stomach and across firm torso tore My lust. Each peak of Helle's chest, dark and stiff as caramel. Equally luscious.

Limbs knotted and curled. Motioning. Playful. Controlling.

Shaven lily smooth between her legs. Savoring honeydew thick succulence. Panting and shuddering she quivered. Milky down My chin.

Teasing. Tickling. Soaking in plum sensuality. Every flavor of her, warm with youth. Gouging her grip into the base of My skull. Ribbed muscles of her lithe belly flexed rigid beneath My fingertips. Into My stomach, she flowed pudding rich.

Musky scents swam through My lungs. Heavy. Compelling.

Vertigo of swimming over skin tides.

Rolling to her side, I noticed her lone tattoo for the first time: A nine-inch long profile of the goddess Isis centered over her spine. Resting between her shoulderblades, Isis was stylized in a deranged, Skinny Puppy-type of form. Sharp and skeletal. Angular. Narrow and fluid.

My lips peeled over the ink, yanking aside her hair. Hair like strands of a purple sunset.

Winds continued hissing through trees. Sounds imitating a pit of serpents.

Rolled again. Helle atop Me. Coating Me in peach-sweet steaminess. Slick her syrupy wantonness.

Heated breath prickled at My ear. Tongue outlining contours. “... Kill me...”

Came so desperate the words again. Rasping.

Repeated...

Touch of flesh soft as snowfall in a stream. Rocking her hips.

“... Kill me...”

Sticky and hot, she leaned off My body. Tauntingly having never taken Me in. Savoring the memory of just feeling her comforting weight on top of Me.

Delicate as china in moonbeams or the glow of snowy vapor trails. She sat curled in a ball. Lips kissing her knees. Argon lightning eyes caught starlight. Sparking in every shade of amaranth.

Desires for deaths oblivion perhaps greater than oblivions coital.

Over us hung a monolith of vanity.

Painful to believe an allure like she existed.

Helle lingered far from redemptions, I imagined.

Echoes of her pleas crackled around My mind. Rustling leaves. Reaching a point where I became uncertain if her voice or My memory replayed the phrase.

For her, for once, I should not win the Game.

And yet...

Killing her was the only way for Me to lose this time, was it not?

Continuing to be near her, I betray her sanity.

Nor can I leave her. Then too shall I win, tormenting the child by becoming yet another friend and love to miss.

Do I torture her more by remaining in her life or by vanishing from it forever?... Which option makes Me the worse enemy?

... No matter. I could not take her life. I did not want her to die. I would not let that come to pass.

“... Kill me...”

No, Helle! You shall not perish by My hand.

There is another choice...

A tear burst and trickled down her arm. Washing My tongue over a wake of goosebumps, I followed the tear back to her neck.

Arousal petrified her mantra behind clenched teeth.

Forget I ever was. Forget Me, precious love.

Ah, My still cruel escape. Let us play to a draw, lovely Pawn.

Still I own thee.

Subtle aromas of her perfume washed aside by overpowering scents of her blood.

Forget Me...

But with a taste?... Oh, yes... A taste to seal the spellbinding kiss. Astride the collar of Cerberus, journey with Me.

Lowering her down. Serenely sliding her one knee aside.

Argon amaranth eyes twirled back to white. Bowing her entire body. Guiding Me in tensing softness. Scorching gratification. Joining within her opened loins.

Helle gasped. Hurried and ragged. Air hissed through tightened jaw.

Cries animalistic. Sick with pleasures. Lips snarled in a beauty of perverse titillation. Carnal noises and hateful desires burned in her voice.

Blood drawn from inside Me. Mixing with broiling wetness.

Weak with evil and blood running down her legs.

Unconscious thrusting and pawing. And so slow and gentle violence. Quickly bucking and shaking. Muscles cramped to stinging ecstasy.

Our eyes pinned each other. Tender. Sweltering humidity of breath and sweat. Beading sweat on her face. Trickling over her forehead.

Groaning caught in her lungs. And from our primal yearnings, we summoned demons of heaven. Moaning incantations that all wraiths do answer. Calling forth beasts who demand winds and oceans to submission.

We became as horrors of sensual malice.

Yes. This moment was ours. Blissfully lost with malevolences sordid. Insatiable in nymph and satyr passions. And all spirits cruel and mischievous turned ears to the music of our orgy.

None a solitary element of the night seemed real. All which was, swept away, into what could never be. Pallets of hallucination and moonfog composed all colors painting realities canvas. Fabric washed unto the void with a single swipe of a finger.

An insubstantial dimness strangled the air. Threatening to tear eyes from sockets if any secrets were seen.

None of nights wisdom however, was secret from I. For such, drear rain of tears wept from beings who could not crucify.

Rather with others, silent and spindly shadows rose in refined celebration. Coating every inch of the chamber wriggled shades of leaf and ivy. Even slithering in places where shadows should not have been able to fall. Every wall. Every bend of ceiling relief. Manifesting from branch and windowglass. From ironwrought weaves of the terrace. From nowhere at all.

Unfathomable shapes writhing sentient dances. Dances that knew themselves they existed.

Perhaps ghouls of gunfighters and rabid bards laughed nervous fears. Haunting plains in Scottish Highlands, grave to frozen priests and pregnant babies.

Lovely, yet frightening beings. Impossibly spidery limbs and doe eyes in antlered skulls. Their flesh, midnight greens and brown. They too touched Helle and I.

Caressing us and stroking us. Pulling us. Leading us.

Until banishing us in a valley of thunderstorms.

And with such, we too danced and cried, in lovemakings of pain and reverence. Atop mossy boulders sponged by pelting showers. Wrapped in forbidden and irresistible consummations.

A hundred ghastly wights played vicious games in creekbeds. Lit only by bursts of prismatic lightning through hazy rain.

Fiends lumbering big as oak trees and scurrying small as pine needles.

Their only song, a grotesque mimicking of our guttural serenade.

“... Kill me...”

“... Helle...”

Blood as every divine feast surged in Helle's veins. Willingly, her throat twisted. Offered to My frenzy. Fangs extended excruciatingly far. Aching.

Neither having to suck nor swallow after piercing her flesh. Geysers of blood burned through every capillary. Knowing by instinct, what emptiness to fill. To draw the light from life, and a thousand will o' wisp glints off her chainmail band.

“... Kill me...”

Drumming of hearts, beat for adding rhythm to darkling dancing. A pulse in time with our grinding. Sliding into her. Slipping back from Me. And over. Motion. Unison of flawless dexterity.

“... Helle...”

Noises and black sins echoed throughout trees and over waterfalls. Rain of impish sorcery dousing her flesh and mine. Taunt, her grasp on Me.

Proudly fierce with grief... Oh, the ferocious grief.

If only to be inside her always. Here where I could hear old ones and ancient dragonflies carry rusty balloons. Clawing at the edge of a bed.

“... Kill me...”

Blood swirled around creekpool eddies like cinnamon veins in bread. Every thrust further into her body, pumped suicidal breath. Savage.

“... Kill me...”

All rain and river became Helle's blood. Gorging to quell a hunger I never before knew. Raging.

The nectar of no mortal, in over a dozen years dead, ever compelled Me so madly.

Clutching her. My blood spilling softly out of her. Rolling down her thighs. Soaking the sheets. Devouring.

Quaking spasms lancing My body. Gliding her into a comatose delirium of feverish nightmare gallops.

“... Kill me... Kill me...”

Another explosion of thunder as dirt became mud by gallons of blood. As it drained from Helle's throat. As it surged from inside Me to overflow. Soaking first the mossy quilts beneath us. Spreading and seeping down beds and stones. Adding to cinnamon bread coils.

Shouting her name with bass and volume overpowering calls of shellbursts.

Running nude with Me among trees and thunder and echo and shadow and night and mud and pathways of blood.

“... Helle!...”

“... Kill me!...”

Glowworms in a hornet swarm, outshining daylight. Swept toward Me. Carving the bones of sunlight. Every blink a searing spearhead painfully brilliant.

Flailing My body from a cliff of blood-wrung stone.

Towards the valley floor I plummeted. Banshee cries petting My hair.

Screeching electrified every nerve, beyond thresholds of pain and baby milk. Quickening. Falling out of a dead girls eyes.

Engulfed by vast, endless prairies of flaming lilacs and amaranth petals.

Slamming down on My tailbone.

Cracking the brittle canvas of surreal nowheres.

Landing atop an intricate French rug of an old art museum display. Torrents of orgasmic resonance. Burn... Fade...

Svelte movements turned fused to cold stone. Rigid... Lifeless.

Creak...

Statues of sandstone clothed in lichens and sexual wines. Art and sculpture of a glorious corpse. Death infused the collapse of orgasms and deep kisses. The cut of thorns from roses. The risk of torment for love.

Again in the room with Helle. Substance and reality smeared back across the night. Stiff and silent.

“... Kill - ...”

“... Hel - ?...”

∞ ∞ ∞

Helle was about to die.

Sprawled naked and drenched with blood, I picked Myself up off the floor. Still lying on the bed, Helle was sunken in thick, quilted mattresses. Doused full of her own blood. Sheets dripped with springy, coagulated drops which required numerous seconds to touch the floor.

My stomach wrenched with gluttony.

Gory tones of vermillion glistened varying hues under floods of moonshine.

Barely a spot of blood sacrileged Helle's body.

Some odd sound caught My attention. Drifting. From the party below, I imagined hearing Sinead O'Connor singing “Three Babies.” Watery violas and vocals which both severed and soothed. But there was no music I might bear to hear.

“Helle?”

Only her eyelids stirred. And even that was doubtfully a response to My voice. She could barely move. Hardly breathing. A perverse glow of contentment was occasionally branded by winces of despair.

Nothing gave way to indicate how long I stared at her.

Again My stomach cramped. Searing nausea.

She was dying. Far too much blood had I drawn. Every vein within her was parched dry. Only the unnatural will of her death, still kept her alive.

Outside the museum I found Myself. Not quite remembering having moved...

A burned parasol sat upon the steps.

How did I get -

Wait... Yes... I remembered moving.

Soaked in blood and unclothed, I had run staggering from the room. Fleeing horrid sounds. Ears ripped. Able to hear the setting of rigor mortise, crunching in Helle's bones.

- You killed her.

No!

- Yes, You have. Just like You wanted to. Just like she begged You to.

No! Fuck you! I didn't mean to!

- Bullshit. Yes, You did. You've never once “accidentally” fed too much. You never have at all... Because You've always known when to stop.

Why could I not help but smile?

Staring to heavens, I caught sight of the final stars. Clouds moved in, shutting out their light. Covering the moon, a rain came. Soft and comforting. Brushing ripples through the lagoon.

Not a storm. A simple and steady Fall rain. The sort that lasts all night. Gray clouds scuttled like minnows in a stream.

And I stared at the place where a star had been. Wondering who wished upon them anymore. Almost missing them.

A wiseman once said, stars care not for the wishes of man. Ironic, isn't it? That people wish on stars and the stars don't care.

Yet, people keep on wishing anyway. Is tenacity noble when it is futile? To hope upon the will of forever and to have those hopes never be?

... And stars will last longer than anything. If any force in heaven may grant a wish, why not the wink of stars? Stars were here before man and will be there when the last of the undead is gone.

They shined so tiny. Dim. Almost insignificant. Yet they've never been reached. Never been owned or bought or sold. Just been. Just floated in celestial skies for eternity. Soaring above all concerns of the earth. Untouchable.

“And every single one may have burned out and died.”

Ah, the inevitable, cliched thought. Stargaze long enough and that is always the eventual, horrifying realization. Leading to the ultimate feelings of loneliness and irrelevance. Feeling betrayed by a self-induced sense of worth, which crumbles under the weight of the infinites scrutiny.

Tasting the showers. Water running cool down My face. Letting it cleanse Me of all My wrongs. Downpours flavored of melonwaters. Tenderly to comfort My sickness.

Rain had washed almost all the blood from Me. Staring down at the diluted puddle beneath My bare feet. Hearing the ridicule of templar mercenaries who were never moral knights.

- ... perhaps at a similar party... some ravishing young Flapper... and no one found her... -

No...

Voices pulled Me into a court of armored heroes on horseback.

- “Ah, but noble knights, never have I killed...” -

“So, now... will you not vanquish Me?”

Dripping rain and watery blood, I fell to My knees before them. As if humbly prepared for an accolade or execution. Did I care which I received?

Behind unmoving visors, their royalty gazed through Me. Watching with stares blacker than the darkness between dying stars.

Stars care not for the wishes of man.

And chivalry stands indifferent to the sins of dragons.

... Darkness in them fermented as apathetic as in I. Or were they mocking?

Be I more knight than dragon?... Am I My Own fool?

Filled with equal shades of drear. Seeing the world through a shroud of dark. Nobility following a dismal code of irreverent ethics.

Our unholy grail is charred black and brims with blood. Our quest is nearly at an end...

To restore the creations of a scorned King.

Darkness is a beautiful thing. And it should be praised. Should be worshipped and revered. Should be honored. Do not cower from it. Darkness is not an enemy to be disdained nor defeated. For it is just as worthy as the light. Just as honorable. A chivalry of differing fealty. Darkness can be a friend. An ally. A companion. Just as much as the light.

The only reason darkness can be found cold and cruel is because it can become resentful. Darkness is too often alienated. Belittled... And it is worthy of so much more. For in the beginning, there was not light.

In the beginning there was not darkness.

In the beginning there was everything.

For a beginning there has never been.

Light and darkness are a part of one another. They are the same.

Inseparable. Shadows are only a trick of the light.

And a sword of malice was tapped to each of My shoulders.

“Rise, a Black Knight, Sir Elric DuBois of The Unseelie Estate - ”

And take pride in Your dishonor.

To the armored three I bowed...

My wet footprints marked the uncertain trail of I, the Fourth Dark Knight, as I took their leave and walked stumbling back through the garden court.

In the wishing well remained My silver dollar.

- wondering who wished upon them anymore -

I too wished for redemption, Helle.

So it shall be...

Never had I forgotten death... Or My failures... Or My nightmares... Or My sins...

Now, perhaps I can make amends I never before could.

- You wanted her to die all along.

... Yes... Perhaps I did. My anger at thinking she wanted to be immortal was truly because I felt a jealousy for what I thought she shamelessly and ungratefully desired.

And yet, I was ashamed when I learned she shunned immortality. Because I truly wanted to make her One of Us all along. To have her love what she could become. Appreciate it. Relish dark her futures.

- Accept Who You are, Elric. Accept what You are.

Yes. I wanted this. I wanted this all along. To give her a reason to be. To give her a reason to live, by making her die.

You're wrong about Me, Helle. I am dead. I have been for a long, long time.

Suicide is everyone's fault. And, therefore, hers would have been Mine. No. That I shant permit. She shall not perish by My hand. She will live for all time. Both tortured and redeemed... Soaring above all concerns of the earth. Untouchable. Burning out among the morel nights. Never to fall from grace. Watching the blood of her wanting, drenched at her feet.

Blood trickled off My hair. Plopped and spun like morbid smoke in water of the wishing well. Obscuring the silver dollar. Overshadowing the price of My wishes.

You shall I protect, Helle. For the forgiveness of those I could not save. You are to die for My wrongs. For My failure to rescue those who should have lived.

The desires of all others be damned. My redemption was at hand. My immortal artwork awaited her creation. In a bed flooded with blood. To never be forgotten. My living penance anointed to repent.

Maybe I can save someone this time.

Maybe I can save Myself.

Never shall I lose the Killing Game...

∞ ∞ ∞

For one night, I wanted her forever.

My mind seemed to instantly suppress the memory of Helle's beauty every moment she was out of My sight. Only when I could see her were all My memories of her intact. For everytime I saw her, even after glancing away for only a second, I was always stunned by how overwhelming I found her to be once I looked upon her again. Perchance I so easily forget her elegance, because any moment to be denied her presence was excruciating. All the seconds I endured were only spent in longing for another glimpse of her gloriousness. Such comeliness remained impossible to fathom.

Helle was airbrushed perfection. Columbine complexion with a body of music and song. Gwenhwyvar skin, haunting as ghosts and seashore pallor. Lascivious as unchaste queens of once and future realms. A living caryatid, drowning to her demise.

Approaching the bedside, My shadow felt her before I, trembling. Crescents of light, highlighted pert, nubile breasts of alabaster.

... Oh, Helle, you were truly born to never die.

Some maidens are simply flawless...

Take My hand, and be My Changeling Child...

You need not wish for dying, sweet damsel. I will make your ceiling a sky. I will build idols unto thee. I will show you all the charm of the night. It's breath. It's heart. The spirit of shadow. Welcome to the magic soul.

Wouldst thou not take My hand? Harken unto My call? Come. Let Me show thee the warmth that beats in the devils heart. Sorrows which burn, quench in the ice of demon tears.

Dance with Me. Wind be our stage. The stars cheer our ballet and our audience be. Black shadows, in night-veiled forests, I shall spin for thy gowns. Your spotlight be the moon. Lonely dirges and requiems sung by breaking hearts, these shall thine music be.

Again wraps the shroud of nocturne to collect upon your wishes. Your wishes can I grant. For there is no greater redemption than damnation.

I will curse you with what you never desired. I will bless you with what you never imagined.

Never shall we forget each other.

Clap if you believe in faeries, and I shall give you a Kiss...

Discovering an antique, silver thimble upon a dresser, I slit open My wrist on a fang. Allowing My blood to fill the tiny vial, I poured the ichor into Helle's dead mouth.

“Like Father, like Daughter...”

- o' the cleverness of Me -

Helle's eyes cracked open with a touch of jade.

In that one look, I could see that She knew I had lied to Her. Death does not make One forget.

She was dead, and She remembered everything.

For a moment... I believe She hated Me...

With needle fangs and threads of blood have You resewn My shadow to My souls Helle, darling.

Spiteful melted to wonderment. She lay then, My divine creation. A masterpiece beyond any tapestry or stone. Able now to outlive all works of man. Only a sliver more of My soul for the labor of Her Unmaking.

Perfection a pale word.

No words would have the audacity to allow themselves to be spoken to describe Her transformation. Art from nothingness, to outlive all virtu around Us. Eternity. A tender madness boiled behind Her eyes. Hurting.

Musical melancholy continued faintly. Blissful woes of erse.

- I will carry with Me for Myself -

Winds once told of epics I recalled. Entailing the arrival of heroes and adventure. Indian summer nights envelop memories so old they may be from childhood days or recent dreams.

A hunger that would never be atoned, ripped through Her insides.

Fangs and unicorn horns sunk through My neck.

The virgin white spiral, burying itself in My soul. Twisting. Lacerating My innards beyond recognition... And laughing.

Helle raped Me exquisitely. There must be everything with Her night to hold. With succubus vile, brutally gorged My blood. Scorching. Unwavering euphoria of rapturous pain. Atrocities of pleasure.

Pulled into expanding voids of unblemished purity. Consuming Me. Surrounding Me in white nothingness.

Artist and creation become single entity, then art. Drowning in an onyx sea of ivory ice as ten thousand spiral horns dug into Me. Bound Me under tentacles muscled like leather. I bled white and black wants were etched into My souls.

But it didn't hurt anymore.

Because Helle and I were finally One.

- I have wrapped Your cold bodies around Me -

Slipping back into that skin. Relishing every touch.

Falling over the cliffs to land in a valley of corrigans and faerie lyres.

Relinquished to beguiling night. Now might She own Me? No resistance after hovering between worlds.

Beyond midnight is a place to see, not a time about to come. At the murder of Her present, all tomorrows have arrived.

At journey's end, naked and alone, We were drawn to the Divine. Curious in a place of frost and wind and spiderweb threads of coalsmoke.

Eerily slithered Helle's smile. Blood at Her mouth.

“... Sang real.”

Of thus born now was She.

Of verboten saintly Brides of Brittany fled blasphemy.

To My Daughter of Zion, receive of this twisted grail cup. Both bearer and sewer of fruits of that My deiparous womb.

“As My Magdeline.”

“... Thank You.”

“You are welcome.”

Every feature of Her was glorified tenfold. Burning by passion embers of My fire Bride. For with Helle, the Muse of god was dying in karmas charnelhouse. Feeling Her majestic beauty an omen, profound and absolute as the ending of time itself.

The gradeschool stairs were crumbling. Chasms too distant to leap. Wood and hate of what has been done to Us, creaked under Our feet. Sword made of veins and vengeful screams would tear apart everyone who had ever done Us wrong. Lovers who may take more than they deserve or give more than they should.

Stained glass hung, framed by the branches of trees. Our cathedrals long in ruins. Foundations grown round mushroom rot. Now may She see, supremely dark, an essence of Her being.

Again lay the scepter in Her grasp.

A Dark Princess returned. Pawn become Queen. To rule those lost realms She had always reigned over and within. My Daughter. My Heir. My Lover and Wife to My Bride. Every spirit of shadow bowed as Her devoted subjects.

Malevolent sith weirds and grim bands of My court. They which soar aloft at midnight to kidnap mortals. Mortal victims who are scratched and pummeled and made to assist in horrible acts with their captors. Bodies painted in ethereal patterns of gnostic wode.

Amongst such and like adorned in Our valley We played. Our birthplace.

- I was not willing to leave -

Drawn was My blade to do the justice of Her will. To defend the honor of She Who was now My Sister and Lover. This time I shant waiver from My duty. Championed, My Helle, these devoted virtues of irreverence be worthy to die for.

Die for Me.

- but there's no other way I could be -

We drank.

Faerie hands offered unto Helle, ladles of My blood. Showering.

And in return, Helle's Own blood, I was given by Her hand. In Her fingers, an acorn button filled, without a drop spilling over the rim.

We Kissed...

From thimbles and acorns and lips and fangs... At last, that was Our wisdom...

“I know this place... I've missed it... Without remembering what it was.”

Once again, She thanked Me.

“You are welcome, Helle.”

“No. Don't ever call Me that again... My Friends call Me, Hel...”

So be it.

Welcome to where You belong. Legends performed upon a stage which is no more. A broad view of pearl ridden theatres.

We were watching Our first sunset. With a girl who did not exist...

- If the world hates You, know that it hated Me before You. If You belonged to the world, the world would love You as its own. But because You are not of the world, because My choice has driven You from the world, therefore the world hates You -

“John. Chapter fifteen. Verses eighteen and nineteen.” Camillia's voice.

Light reflected into My eyes off of a wet silver dollar. Sinead still sang.

Camillia, standing in the doorway, flipped My coin along Her fingertips. With an unreadable expression, She set the old wish upon a dresser beside Her. Water beaded around it. Water shaped vaguely like Australia and tinted with moonlight.

- I ask no One Else will be Mother -

She was quiet a long, long time.

“... Bon chien chasse de race.”

∞ ∞ ∞

Allyson drove My motorcycle home. Camillia asked Her to without telling Her why. My Wife was chauffeured back to Our estate, just as She had arrived.

Careening around Martin Luther King Junior Drive in Our swarthy Bugatti EB-110, I drove alone with Hel. She was puking out the passenger window while The Moody Blues crooned “Nights In White Satin” over the radio. Knightly accolades stung My shoulders as burlap.

Vomit sprayed once more.

As if making promises She knows She'll never keep. Once stuck in a future which would offer a series of shitty apartments, humiliating jobs and abusive and meaningless relationships. Living a life as though the city were New York. Would We make a home of pulling kitchen knives and locked bathroom doors and taxi rides away? Might She sing and know how to be tearfully touching even after I hate Her? Every verse sounding like no forwarding address on a rainy afternoon?

Hung up on “hellos”, just to hear Your voice.

Any last words tonight?

A blackout in a storm, and You've ruined everything...

Between heaves, She managed enough coherence to ask Me where We were going.

“... We're going home, Hel... Second star to the right... And straight on 'till morning...”

Chapter Twenty Eight

“We are Gods... And Our creations despise Us.”

Camillia blew out a match. Placing a newly lit candle upon Our bedside table. Camillia regarded Me. Trying to gauge My reaction to Her statement.

Nothing did I say. Why would She tell Me that? Never did I feel as such for Her.

Turning to the canopy bed, She stared through the thin shroud. Behind it, Hel tossed and groaned in an uneasy slumber upon Our sheets.

As with Camillia, Hel's beauty held a smoky, haunting quality about it. Seeming to weave itself through the very fibers of the beds gauze cocoon.

“You disapprove then?”

“Would You care if I did?” Camillia didn't shift Her gaze from Hel.

“Do You?” Of course I would. How could She ask that of Me?

Quizzically, Her tone changed. “... Are You apologizing to Me?”

“... No.” I never would. But She had Me feeling like She expected Me to.

Camillia finally moved Her glance to Me. If vampires smoked, She should have been holding a cigarette. Sharp and snide She snapped, saying, “... Tell Me about Her, Elric. Not the superficial, pointless bullshit. Really tell Me about Her... Is She worth it?”

Sadness grew magnified the meaner Camillia became. Off in Allyson's chambers, I could hear Her listening to “Cradle Song” by Shriekback. Muffled on a worn-out tape which had been played a hundred too many times.

Funny that I would even bother to notice, with how silent everything seemed.

Piano chords trickled across My feelings. Resembling sleet over windowpanes. Dragging Me down to choke My tears. Lullabies sung with a voice like autumn ponds. Guitars strung by blessed compassions.

Questioning Hel's worth, I should know Her well.

My resentment for Camillia's attitude made Me endeared even more passionately to Hel. All the more confident of the praises She was entitled to. Camillia should know of Hel. Of course Camillia had the right to hear Me say what I thought and felt of the Child... Our Child.

All that I could tell Her, I did.

But how well did I ever know Hel at all? I wished I could know Her. To protect Her from every harm that so long befell Her. To have Her help Me to be what I always dreamed, yet I'm certain I will never become.

There had to be some way to save Her. Just to be inside Her and make all Her hurt go away. Even for just a little while. To give Her Herself again, even if what I gave Her were Someone She never was.

Hold to Your salvation of ultimate pain, Hel.

- as the world rolls away from the sun -

The pain beyond being self-destructive. The pain that makes Her go on through Her existence, night to night as She always has and simply not caring.

Yes. That is where She was. That is the ultimate pain. Hurting so much and feeling so alone and self-destructive that She didn't care to die. She didn't want to hurt Herself in any way, other than leading the introverted life She always had.

The ultimate self-destruction wasn't suicide. It was living a life void of all Her deepest dreams. It's going forward. It's going on without true hope. It's keeping the bounce in Her walk and the smile on Her face while She's dying inside. It's not wanting to get fucked-up, drunk or wasted because She wanted pure pain. She wanted to feel it untampered and natural. Pristine.

The ultimate pain and self-destruction is telling everyone She was “okay” and “nothing's wrong.” It was going out and laughing and having fun, when the truth was, She could break down in tears at any moment. The pain was enough to make Her cry everytime She thought about it. No matter how happy She appeared to be, the pain could devastate Her within seconds if She let Herself think about it.

Yes, indeed. The self-destruction of suicide was a merciful way out for those who weren't familiar with the misery. But not Hel. She knew the pain for too many years and each second of those years had felt like a day. She was committing the ultimate suicide. She was smiling and laughing while Her insides were being torn apart. And the longer She endured that pain, the more of Her would be gone, until one day, She would finally be an empty shell that no one could ever love.

- numbed with pain to unfeeling -

She had nothing left there. She had nothing left then.

There were lives best left behind. Sorrows none would wish to imagine upon enemies, befell those She loved everyday. Not a shred of remorse for comfort.

Life cut with cruel days in the world. Betrayals. Abuses. Selfishness. Violations of love and trust. So many things unfair and unjust. Shameless.

Years of contentment obliterated in an instant and an angry tear of regret. Everything had died in Her already.

Burdened by unforgivable blames and responsibilities She had no reason to bear.

- I remember Your face as You cried for the first time -

Lose Your fears, darling Changeling. May peace an relief from all Your nightmares come in Your dreams.

Hold to Your spirit and Her phoenix wings. May Your sorrows of being unwanted and unneeded by everyone melt away.

Just for being kind and noble and true, You may not be promised any healing wish nor love.

Let this night be one of forgiveness for vengeances to come.

A night wherein children may play without fear. This She was due.

Nothing is ever forgotten.

- may the fire be Your friend and the sea rock You gently -

Camillia's face tenderly turned into a smile. “... I see.”

My Wife touched My face, Her appearance gentle and kind Her stare. So tragic and painful it was almost cute. With genuine warmth, She told Me, “Accepting or expecting an apology for this I would never do. Because I do not in the least disapprove. Not in the least do I disapprove of what You have done... On the contrary, Elric... She seems a glorious maiden. Like Brittany solstices and wines...”

“Truly?”

“Truly...” Lowering Her hand, She took hold of My palms. Camillia looked sincerely thrilled. “I only wished You to love Her as deeply as I do You. Now I see that You honestly do. That's all that matters to Me. That You love Who You are and Who She is to You. That's what I want... Only kill those You truly love.”

“And what of Your feelings for Hel?” I puzzled.

Quietly, Camillia spun and slowly parted the canopy using the back of Her hand. Finding the softest of smiles, Camillia caressed Hel's neck. Tracing a line down across Her breast. Stopping just beyond Her stomach. Approvingly. Seductively. My Wife hushed. “Mmmm... This is a Daughter I could wed.”

Hel winced again.

“Shhh...” Camillia pet Her hair.

My Wife read the concern on My face. Touching My shoulder to comfort Me, She explained. “She'll be alright. Delirious awhile. Days usually... It comes and goes. You know that. Give it some time.”

Yes. I know. It will pass. But until then...

She will dream of Her dying, just as I have, everynight, all these years... Perchance such feverish sleep may never cease.

Forcibly smiling to avoid the subject, I told Camillia. “Our Daughters high school Homecoming dance is tomorrow night. She mentioned that She would like Us to go.”

“... Goodbyes for old friends?”

“Oh, I think, yeah... Something like that.” My smirk evil with delight.

“Ahh. I understand... Sounds like fun. Then We can proudly present Her to the Damned of Our Dominion at the club on Friday. After the Siouxsie show.”

“Indeed?”

- may the moon light Your way 'till the wind sets You free -

Camillia walked to the bedchamber door. Opening it, the music grew louder. Nodding, She offered out Her hand. “Come... Let's tell Ally She has a new baby Sister.”

Chapter Twenty Nine

Allyson tongue-kissed Hel before the high school principal pulled Hel away.

“You just missed it.” Camillia laughed, nearly doubled over.

It had taken Me awhile to reach the three of Them. They were off in a side foyer, adjacent to the gymnasium. Tucked away from the noise and commotion of music, lights and crowds of dancing teens.

Hel waved Us all a hyper, farcical goodbye as She was led out the foyer and down the hallway. Dancing and skipping to the principal's office.

Cheryl Dobsun was likewise being taken away to the nurses clinic by the vice principal. A friend or two went with her. She gasped for breath. Crunched over in agony and holding her stomach. Panting. Whining. Cheryl's dress collar moist with blood, she protested with tears. “She... started it! She's the little psychotic... bitch, not me!... Fucking headrot!”

Hel frolicked. Oblivious and unphased.

“What the fuck?” I asked My laughing, older Sisters. Hell, all I had time to do was park the goddamn car. What did I miss?

Camillia and Allyson filled Me in.

Apparently, when the three of Them walked in the dance, everyone who knew Hel seemed to notice Her.

To mortal eyes, Allyson and Camillia blended right in. They Each looked like They were about fifteen. In fact, the teacher at the door was sure she had Allyson in her third period history class... Fifth period, maybe?... Hell, those kids all start to look alike.

Faculty and students never gave Ally or Cam a second glance. Although She went unseen by the administration, some students muttered and pointed at Hel. Everyone in the school evidently knew She was missing and hadn't come home since going to the art museum with some college girl the night before.

A jock or two pretended to cough:

“... headrot...”

“... freak...”

Another shouted at Hel from the bleachers. “Hey, the punk look is out, babe! Get in style!”

“Yeah! Punk is dead!”

Nearby, Sandra Jenkins overheard and smacked one of the jocks in the back of his head. “Shut up! Leave Her the fuck alone, asshole.”

“Ow! Cunt!”

Hel charged up the bleachers at the boy, screeching. “Yeah! Punk is DEAD!”

Before he could do much more than flinch, My little Sister punched the startled kid in the face. Hard enough that She broke his nose. Bone shattered to crumbs. Cracked a portion of his cheekbone too.

“Fuuuck!” Sandra jumped back.

Grabbing his face, he yelped in pain. Hel ripped his hands aside and licked the blood that poured over his mouth.

He was too stunned to even attempt to shove Her away. Between the darkness and volume, nobody saw or heard a thing. Only the friends immediately surrounding the bleeding kid realized vaguely what Hel had done to him. Shocked, they had scattered from the spray of his blood. Nauseated, they were all too disgusted and confused to react. Repulsed by the sight of Hel drinking from him. At first, one ignorant guy even cheered his friend on, thinking Hel was kissing him.

Whining in agony and blind with hurt, the kid with the busted face couldn't move. Hel let him go and menacingly smiled at him. A kiss She blew, as though nothing had happened. Licking blood off Her lips, She vanished into the crowd quick as She had surfaced.

Ignoring the boys cries with Their Own laughter, My three Sisters wandered out of the gym. Walking down some stairs, They took solace in a quieter lobby, away from blaring Top 40 dance music. There, a few folding cafeteria tables, attended by some teachers, served punch and miniature bags of pretzels and chips.

Sandra followed after My Sisters. “Helle!... Helle! Wait up!”

Rolling Her eyes in disgust, Hel pretended not to hear Sandra. Even when Sandra wound up standing right in front of Her.

“Helle! Right on! Good going, punching that dickhead in... the - Hey - Hey, are You okay?”

The desolate vampire merely glared. With, I imagined, those same eyes that had wanted to kill Sandra as they leered at her over a Ouija board.

“W-What happened to You? Wh - I heard You were missing or ran away or something. Your mom even called me. Where did You - ”

Sandra stepped back. Remembering. Her voice only a squeal. “... Helle?...”

Concern and worry gradually gave way to a deepening horror. Those eyes unfathomably colder this time. Sandra could scarcely talk. “Helle... What the fuck... h-happened... to - ”

“ - Helle!” Cheryl paused atop the staircase. Her shout broke the dreaded, mesmerizing stare that imprisoned Sandra.

Two or three concerned friends accompanied Cheryl. She didn't pay them much attention. Shoving people aside, she scurried down the stairs. Half staggering with misery, she ran over and threw her arms around Hel.

Crying pathetically, she babbled, “Oh, Helle! Where were You? We were so worried! They said, they found blood in the museum and - You - When You weren't at Dan and L-Leslie's funerals today we - ! You didn't come home - we - we were so scared something had - ”

“ - Get the fuck off of Me, Cheryl!”

“W-What?...” Cheryl was too drunken with grief to notice Hel's agitation. Cheryl released her embrace anyway. Her voice whined, broke and cracked. Although addressing Hel, her eyes wandered and shifted in random spasms. It looked as though she were just talking to the walls in an empty room.

Everyone around her was obviously thinking the same thing: This girl should have never come to this dance tonight.

“Oh... I - I'm sorry. I... Daddy thought I should still be able to - to come to - to the dance tonight because it could, um, it would be good to... be with... like, um, my friends he said. B-But they almost canceled Homecoming though b-because, the funerals were, um - I was supposed to be here with Dan. And...”

Trailing off her voice, quivering, Cheryl could not hold back her tears any longer. “I was supposed to... be here... with - ”

One of the most popular girls in school broke down crying at her junior Homecoming dance in a room full of people. Too bad she wasn't Homecoming Queen on top of it. Ah, well, can't have it all, I guess.

Her friends tried to comfort her.

Even Sandra looked compassionate.

Hel started to mock and point at Cheryl. Imitating and ridiculing her. “Aww, poor baby.”

“Helle...” Sandra berated Hel. Instantly fearing the consequences. Staring at the ground and regretting ever having made a sound. Yet, even Sandra was offended by Hel's cruelty and embarrassed by Her callousness.

Hel scowled at Sandra. Infuriated, She growled. “Sandraaa!... Hey! Fucking look at Me!”

Sandra timidly glanced up.

Hel spit a glob of blood in Sandra's face. “ - You betrayed Me. You worthless whore! Every tragedy which befalls you for the rest of your life will be the result of your single instance of betraying My friendship... Such is My vengeance.”

“Holy shit!” One onlooker pointed.

“Damn! Did you see that!?” Another said.

Sandra gasped. Humiliated. She stood there petrified. “... I wanted... to tell You I'm sorry - ” Shaking her head, the sentence drifted aside. Then, she torturously wiped the blood away and gradually cowered off. Close to tears. Swallowing them back, trying to maintain some dignity.

But how does one remain dignified in the face of somebody so viciously throwing a friendship away? Sandra may have been sincerely remorseful for hurting Hel... but now it would never make any difference.

Deep inside, everytime something meaningful ever ends, it does so with a fade to silence.

Cheryl was still wailing.

Hel yelled, grabbing Cheryl's shoulders. “Hey, sis, it's okay, babe! Don't cry! Besides, Allyson told Me in graphic detail how fun it was to kill Dan. I wish I had the honor. Be happy for Her. And, after all, we all still love you! Right everyone!? Everyone loves you Cheryl. In fact, even I'll fuck you now that your little boyfriend is worm food!... Okay!? Would you like that!?”

Hel started bucking Her groin against Cheryl's. “I'll strap on a big old cock and bang you. Yeah? I'll be just like Dan.”

Mortified, Cheryl tried pulling away. But Hel's immortal clutches were too strong for any human to break free from.

Shouting and grinding, Hel was screaming and laughing. Loud enough for the whole foyer to hear. “Oh, Cheryl! Cheryl! Yes! Fuck Me! Make Me cum, Cheryl! Nail My pussy, baby! Do it! Do it! Fuck My cunt! Fuck it! Oh, just like Dan! Yeah! Just like you fucked your dead boyfriend! Do Me! My tongue is better than any dick, sweetie! Oh, fuck Me! Pound My clit! Fuck Me. Fuck Meeee! Oh, Cheryl, I'm so wet baby! Aren't you?”

Allyson and Camillia took a good five minutes just to tell Me the last part alone. Because They were laughing so hard as They relayed the story, They could barely speak.

While They calmed down, a Lyndhurst cop came marching through. Headed for the principal's office after being directed there by a teacher.

My Sisters continued with Their tale.

As Hel had terrorized Cheryl, the kid from the bleachers showed up in the foyer. Holding his bloody face, he and his friends pointed Hel out to two haggard teachers. A third faculty member guided the boy to the nurses office.

Hel tore into Cheryl's throat. Stunned eyes impaled on fear. Unsuppressed, the flow stained her neck. Just a taste.

Cheryl screamed. Weakly. People tried to peel Hel off her to no avail.

Hel licked and healed the wound. Throwing Cheryl to the floor, Hel kicked her in the head and stomach. Bashing her half a dozen times before any teachers could shove through the gawking crowd and stop Her. They broke it up, and kids hesitantly dispersed with their entertainment gone.

Of course, Hel let them stop Her. Temporarily at least.

That's when I walked in and found Them, as Allyson kissed Hel farewell.

“Sooo, You mean to tell Me I missed all that while I was parking the car?” Disbelievingly, I asked. “You gotta be fucking kidding Me.”

Allyson joked sarcastically, “Well, yeah. Of course all that happened. Why? Didn't anything interesting happen to You in the last ten minutes?”

“Well, ah, no. Nothing to quite compare, that's for certain.” Our car We arrived in was an exact replica of the Jaguar hearse driven by Harold, from the film Harold And Maude. One cop working security in the parking lot actually recognized it. The same cop who had just headed to the principal's office, in fact. He commented on it, thinking that the car was really cool.

Thanked him with a wave.

That's all that happened to Me.

Teasing, Allyson shrugged. “And now I guess You don't have a date for Homecoming anymore either.”

“Awwww... Well, no, I guess not, huh?”

“Yeah, but I do.” Allyson hugged Camillia closer around the waist. Camillia responded by kissing Allyson's cheek.

“Ah, I didn't plan on staying very long anyway.” My mouth tightened as I smirked.

Camillia speculated. “No. No. Neither did Hel, I do believe.”

Shaking My head in confirmation, I told Them. “Nah. Just - I - hrmm, She wanted to come, hang out, fuck some shit up, then leave. That's the way I understood Her. Besides, I think She's already got a pretty good start on fucking shit up.” I jeered.

“Yeah. I don't see Us staying much longer.” Camillia told Me.

I agreed.

The school had a distinct, funny smell to it... All schools do, I imagine. Perhaps pedantic bullshit has an odor. People might notice a similar scent, years after graduation, and know it smells familiar. But they'll still never quite be able to place that it was the smell of their school.

Depeche Mode echoed from the gym with “Blasphemous Rumors.”

Allyson bubbled. “Oh, cool! I wanna go dance. They're playing something halfway decent, finally.” She started swaying to the music and singing along. “This song reminds Me of Hel, actually - whole life ahead of Her, slashed Her wrists, bored with life...”

Allyson melodramatically pantomimed slashing Her wrists and laughed. Although it may have seemed insulting, I knew She wasn't making fun of Hel at all. Knowing Death's acquaintance permits one to joke with her. But genuinely knowing Death takes a lot more than being maniacally depressed or owning a Joy Division album.

“I'm gonna make sure that dumbfuck DJ plays more than one good song all night... Let's go.” Already half dancing, Camillia and Allyson excused Themselves and ran hand in hand to dance in the gym.

“No running! No running! Hey, You two!” The teacher went unheeded and “dying for a cigarette.”

They were so cute.

Left to My Own device, I meandered across the foyer to yet another cafeteria table.

Strewn upon it were flyers and brochures for Students Against Drunk Driving. Beside the various paraphernalia were 8” by 10” yearbook photos of Leslie and Dan.

With their deaths, SADD membership had apparently increased by twenty percent. Everyone remembered their deaths as a drunk driving accident. A giggle snorted in the back of My nose.

There was clearly something bizarre in the air that night. The atmosphere of the whole school seemed dull and foreboding. A shroud of sorrow permeated everyones evening. Now I saw why.

Two students dead. Two hospitalized. Others battered and scarred so as to be unable to put any of their woes out of mind.

Oh... How fucking beautiful... Happy Homecoming.

My brow crimped.

Although, despite all that, it struck Me as a bit macabre (for mortal standards) to display photos of two dead high school students, at their Homecoming dance. Especially on the day of their funerals! Nothing like pounding the message home, 'eh?

Weird.

You would think Allyson was the principal.

Whatever...

A jar of money sat on the table for donations to help pay for the medical expenses of Kevin Jung and even Brian Colemun.

- hit by a car ended up on a lifesupport machine -

Rich little shitheads like that?

Give Me a motherfucking break!

Those pricks didn't deserve baboon jism as donut filling, let along getting help with their doctor bills... Well, at least the jar wasn't very full.

But, the more I thought of it, I couldn't stop chuckling.

- I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors -

Drunk driving?... Why not?...

Mark them down as a statistic and it's the first step to never remembering who they ever were.

Drunk driving is as good a tragic memory as any.

Mortals would never accurately or truly remember those We took to their deaths. In the end, nothing would matter but that they were gone. They would go from missing to murdered or suicides. Death from terminal illnesses and natural causes to runaways and drunk driving victims.

Until finally, the most loved people in mortal lives, would forget their existence completely.

“Killed? No, my mother died in childbirth with me. I never knew her.”

- and when I die I expect to find -

Eventually, the dead are always forgotten...

∞ ∞ ∞

Following thick, serpentine smears of blood, I ventured. As a shadow moved I. Unseen down mammoth lengths of dismal hallways. Dismal as only high schools can be.

Coating tiles along the floors led a gory trail of blood from the principal's office. Twisting straight out the main doors of the school.

Would students remember that smell too? Suffering and sharp, salty scents likely to long linger within those walls. Stains unremovable from trophy case or mind.

Pushing the steel bar, the metal latch KUCHUNKED free.

Outside sat Hel upon the stairs, Her back to Me.

“Hi.” She greeted Me without turning around.

Though much of it was vicious, the night somehow still held all the mystic solace of a Loreena McKennitt song.

The path of blood continued out the school. Leading up the flagpole.

Atop it hung Hel's dead principal and the cop. Naked. Tied by their ankles with an american flag.

Walking over near Hel, I slid My hand along the dense bushes that lined the walkway and staircase. Crisply cool twig and leaf.

Having yet to face Me, Hel noted behind closed eyes. “It feels like the whole world is becoming more gothic... Darker somehow.”

And I could hear eerie chants of men in ancient mosques. Yes. How true...

Finally looking up, Hel scooted over. “Take a load off.”

The cops revolver laid in Her lap. She wiped a finger through the bloodtrail and idly licked it clean. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.” I sat beside Her, stifling an unappetized laugh. “So... what's up?” I winked and nudged Her, motioning to the flagpole.

A bored glare and smirk was Her only acknowledgment of My stupid pun. “... Nothing much. You missed it all.”

“So I heard. Looks like You spilled some.” I waved a finger at the front of Her dress. Drenched in blood stains like a tedious horror novel.

She peered down. “Yeaaah... Did I tell You I used to dress like this all the time in England?”

“... With blood on Your clothes?”

“No, You silly ass!” She laughed.

“No.” Chuckling, I was genuinely interested. The way She had said it just sounded funny. “You did?”

She was wearing a huge, ivory wedding gown. Reminded Me of Kat Bjelland of Babes In Toyland for some inexplicable reason. We dusted off the dress from deep within the wardrobe of the mansion. Was to be Allyson's, but She never wore it.

Hel nodded, reexamining the bronzing blood stains. “Yeah. That Depeche song reminded Me. I always wore wedding gowns when I went out to concerts and shit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah... One time I even got interviewed on MTV at a Depeche show, in London, because I was wearing a wedding dress... But I said My name was Caroline to the VJ guy, because I didn't want the VJ to know My real name.” Her nose pinched tight. “He was a twit.”

A pleasant titter screaked from Her at the memory. Politely, I smirked in return.

Slowly, She shook Her head. First it was wistful. With a grin to recall those memories of European afternoons She shall never again see. After some time, those days of old to recall, became feelings that words could not be put to. Upon Her face changed lines of time and long lost memories melted to dearness. “Hrmm... I feel strange... like the ocean is really close.”

Curious. I noticed Her blink. A replacement for a grin.

“Why did Camillia Make You?” Hel's question stung Me without warning.

“I... I dunno. Kindness, I guess - ”

“ - Kindness? You don't give someone eternal life out of kindness.”

“I don't know. Sympathy, then. Loneliness. Take Your pick... I was dying anyway. Besides,” I joked, “Who wouldn't want Me forever? Come on. Need You truly ask?”

“... Well, there's gotta be more to it than that.”

My retort was indignant. “Oh?... No. There doesn't.”

“So, You've never questioned why?”

My throat tightened sorely. Uncomfortably. This was not something I desired discussing. “... No, Hel I haven't... Because I don't care... She tried to drive Me to the hospital first... But - With all the blood I had lost that night, I think She just lost control and - ”

“ - Wu- How did - Why did You lose a lot of - ”

“ - Don't... Just drop it. Okay? Please.”

Memories I didn't wish to have, cackled maliciously at the portcullis of My denial. Unlike those I saw Hel just recall. These were brutal. Savagely, I suppressed them. Yet, something still began to hurt. Damn what I had been anyway.

Suddenly, I found I couldn't bear to look at Hel. Although I couldn't see Her, I could feel Her gaze. Searing at My nape. When it became obvious I would state no more, She reasoned. “Sorry... W-Well... Why didn't She just kill You then? I mean, w-why - ”

Despite the sincerity of Her innocence, I was beginning to imagine rats in Her spine.

“ - Would You have rathered that? What the fuck do You want to know? Huh? Do You - What is it that You're really trying to ask Me? Why the - Why? Why do You fucking care? It doesn't matter. Okay?” This was growing irritating.

Hel peered at Her precious puddles of blood. She managed to respond both apologetically and snidely. To this day, I've never met anyone Who could be both so remorseful and sardonic using the same tone of voice. “Whatever... I just - I thought that if I understood more, I would know... - ”

“ - What?” Ashamed of My vulnerable agitation so easily revealed, I tried turning annoyance to rage. Pretty goddamn easy.

Fuck it. And fuck the weakness of mortality. Frustrated that She wouldn't let it be, I repeated Myself. More enraged this time. “What, Hel?”

“... Why did You Make Me?”

“Uuuugh!? Why the fuck did You want to die!?” I snapped, angry fangs bared.

She jumped back. Less frightened than surprised. No living thing on earth would have been.

The haunting cruelty of sweet memories sat with gargoyle patience beside the weird sisters of Fate.

But, quick as a summer rainstorm, My madness fled. Hel charmed Me so, with every flawless and graceful turn in Her form. One minuscule smile was all it took to make Me cease loathing Her. Never would I admit to Her the power She held over Me.

My anger, strong as ever, was then only for fate and destiny. My sorrows I did no longer so carefully conceal. Why bother? Bitterly, I explained. “Look, Hel, You cried to Me of redemption but do You have any clue what it really is?... You see, I had it. I had something to redeem... the very essence of all I was. All I could ever be, began and ended with that redemption. But I lost it before Camillia ever Turned Me, so I've never really given a fuck why She did it... She gave Me more than I lost. Gave Me more than She took. Beyond that, I never have questioned Her.”

What was in Hel's gaze that I resented so passionately?

Walls of rage fractured and pain flowed through. Contained. Channeled. Chameleon pain of scalpel precision. A focused, unemotional pain I existed with at every moment. “I lost My salvation!... I mean, I - I had it. You know? Most peopllle - most people - people don't... They look for - They keep reaching and clawing through - this shit and... everythings all insane and they look. They need it. But they'll never find it. All they seek is just shit they denied themselves - and... And I'm not like that. Not like like them. I had it. My salvation was here. Do You know what it means to have something like that? Then, what's more, to wind up losing it? You know? She was... she - she was...”

My hesitation lasted long enough that I began to drift. Perhaps I never really had anything at all. I didn't want to say anymore. Hel's gaze remained detestable.

Now I recognized it.

Hel looked at Me with eyes of pity. That look I resented so much, it made Me want to have Her hate Me instead.

Possessed with newfound fury, I pounded My fist into My palm. “It was here. Here! I had My salvation!... Then - ” With a snap of My fingers I paused.

My next words I said in a voice more human than I imagined I could speak with. Inadvertently, I heard Myself far away... like the ocean was really close.

Sweeping My hair aside, I asked, “What does someone look for when their salvation is stolen away?... Oh, what the fuck am I doing?... Why am I telling - Look, screw it. None of this shit makes any fucking difference, okay? Just forget it... Camillia gave Me something. I had hope. Then I had nothing. She gave Me something again. I had the magic of life... Then I lost it all. In one split second that I can never change... That is why the reason for My death is so irrelevant to Me.”

Gradually, She nodded. Apparently satisfied at long last. Gently, She revealed. “Life's magic has always been treating Me pretty black... That's why I wanted to die.”

With that, all was said, and She finally let it lie.

Those men in mosques still sang. No further could I see than to leave that fog of lamentation.

A wind caught the flagpole rope. The breeze tapped moor to pole, ringing out like chimes. Xylophone bells come to ease Our tensions.

“So, um, why aren't We dancing?” My smile dispersed the last of the uneasiness between Us.

“He called My mom.” Hel lifted Her chin towards the flagpole. Indicating Her former principal. She smirked with insidious glee. “I'm just waiting for her.”

“Ah.”

Her grin soured. Lips and nostrils quivered. Fury intensifying. Leaping to Her feet. “Then, after he called, that fucking pig started trying to scare Me. Making fun of My hair and threatening to throw Me in the DH and shit... I don't bloody well fucking think so!!”

Aiming his gun, Hel fired three bullets through his corpse. Each shot resounded louder then I would have expected. The chambers spent, She hurled the pistol at them. Bounced off. Clacked three times onto the pavement.

Laughing, I wondered what they thought as this petite young girl started to rip them to death. “I'm surprised Cheryl or the vice-principal didn't notice the schools new flags... Not to mention the gunshots just now. They're probably waiting for Your mom and her dad too.”

“Ha! Doesn't surprise Me one bit... Cheryl is about as smart as a lobotomized muppet... Moronic tart.”

Following a brief silence, Hel further explained. “Besides, I don't wanna dance because My ex-asshole is in there too. And I'd really rather not deal with that loser right now.”

Confused, I reassured Her. “Hel!... Those petty, high-school-bullshit worries are all behind You now. Another life. Not only that, but he doesn't have to recognize You if You don't want him to. Don't let his being here keep You from enjoying - ”

“ - I'm not. I'd rather just wait for My mom.”

“Okay.”

Unnecessarily, She wiped Her nose. “He was behind Me already... Fuck, talk about petty bullshit! He would get on My nerves so fucking bad sometimes.”

“... Tell Me... How so?”

She laughed in a way that said She was happy to talk about it because it didn't matter anymore. “Like... well, as an example, when I would be having problems and getting depressed and shit, he would take it all personally. Like really personally. Even when the things that were upsetting Me had nothing to do with him.”

Disgusted, She shook Her head. “He never understood what My little fits of neurotic insanity were all about... Hrmph. Nobody fucking did. I mean, I don't care though. Don't get Me wrong. I was never some sniveling, self-pitying little bitch, or some low-self-esteem, psycho mess who always cried about being misunderstood. I never asked for that. Never expected to be. He was just an idiotic shithead... When I got really depressed, You know what he did? He got depressed too. As if My... perpetual happiness were a state he was responsible for keeping Me in. He was miserable whenever I got bummed. Instead of being encouraging and trying to be uplifting or understanding or being supportive of Me and being strong, he just got weaker and felt sorry for himself... Ssshit. What a moronic asshole. I'd rather he just left Me the fuck alone when he got that way.”

She shrugged. “But, no. He'd never be over My house and instead of leaving, he'd just sit in My room and wouldn't say anything. He got totally silent, introverted and pathetic. And there were even times when, if I begged him to speak to Me, he would just stare at Me. Dead silent.”

Rolling My eyes, I scoffed.

She continued. “Selfish little prick. Maybe his own selfishness hurt his feelings the most... He constantly noticed what was wrong with Me before he would notice anything wrong with himself... Asshole. When I was depressed and My depression did nothing but depress him, I'd rather just be left alone. Then his very presence became a fucking annoyance. You know? I mean, come on! As if that stupid attitude of his would actually help Me? All he did was make whatever was bothering Me even worse by being so goddamn moody! And he was so clingy and smothering. Totally neurotic and obsessive... You know how, if You really love someone, little things they do that are really annoying, can actually be kind of cute? Well, little things he did that were annoying weren't cute. They were just - ”

“ - Annoying.”

“Exactly. He got on My nerves. He just never understood that. He thought he was being generous and altruistic or something. But he was really just an obsessive, submissive little... lap dog. Up until the point where he would think I wasn't reciprocating his blind devotion. Then, You can bet he'd be quick to turn around and accuse Me of being cold or distant... Truth is, he only thought of how useful I could make him feel... His self-confidence was for shit. Like he was worth nothing unless I valued him... Ha! Which is probably true!... Of course, infuriating as all that may have been, there were much bigger reasons why we split up... Much bigger...”

She cynically laughed it off. “Doesn't matter. I can't be hurt anymore, because I grew to sort of expect everyone to fuck Me over. Every single person I had ever known in My life brought Me some sort of disappointment. Let Me down in some form or another... Never had much faith that any so-called friend of Mine would ever do anything relevant or accomplish much anyhow... And I don't give a fuck that not being able to be hurt means not being able to love anyone. Why be so vulnerable? Who needs it?”

“You've said You love Me.”

“... Yeah... But You can hurt Me.” Hel winced in Her grin. No more words broke Our brief silence.

After that thought, She readdressed the issue of My being Turned, saying, “... Sorry if I annoyed You with My questions about Camillia. I... I only wanted to know - ... I'm sorry if - if it's not a subject You care to discuss... I didn't stop to think it might be - I dunno. N-Nevermind. I - I just love being Turned. I love being a part of You... I'm grateful for what You did... Even if I did think it was the last thing I wanted. I... Maybe - Maybe You saved Me and... gave Me something. As much as She did to You.”

Simply and slow, I nodded.

A darkened joy and brightness gleamed within Her. “As time goes on, I think I'll begin to remember that whole night without rain. I'm sure I will... Just like I recall christmas with snow, from years when I know it didn't actually snow at all... So perfect. So... mmmm, perfect... And You know what else?...”

Hel cuddled next to Me. Sinisterly. Kissing My neck. Hand under My shirt. Scratching. Her other hand slid into My pants. As Her swelling tongue slipped deep into My ear, Hel groaned seductively. Fangs scraped. “Mmm... You make the cutest noises when You cum.”

Winds sailed a rain of blood upon Us from the flagpole. Smeared and splattered all around. Converging on Hel in garish splashes. Stains on the bright orange of Her hair.

Fiercely, My faerie Child shredded the white tuxedo from My flesh. Every thread of fabric gone. Bare in sylphan grace. Claws raked. Trailing pallor shades upon nude skin.

Erotic and primitive lines. Symbols and runic seals. Traced over My body with Her tongue. Tribal and ritual patterns kindled of nomad campfires. Conjurations marked in primal wards. Glyphs bearing passionate, lost chants. A heraldry of death and fertility.

A lick of My blood. Long and relishing. Teasing near deep in Her throat.

Wraiths did shift within every branch. Skirting the borders betwixt bloodstain and earth. Beneath eyelid shadows on dead mortals faces.

Aflame the night with never-dying and all manner of elvin fiend.

Slipping Her arm beneath My hips. To pull Me further across Her mouth. Subtlest pain. Seared before pleasure.

... The cutest noises...

“I'm in love with You.”

“... No. You're not... But I like hearing Your lies.”

∞ ∞ ∞

Metal scraped as the gun in the street lodged itself below the tire of James Dobsun's car, which skidded to a halt before the school.

Two emerged from the car. Two for whom the flagpole went unnoticed.

Somewhere inside him, and his clean exterior, I knew there lurked an overweight, balding old pig. Dumb shitfuck with an inbred, hillbilly accent. Well... can't judge a man by the color of his neck, I suppose.

She who was once Hel's mom, shouted Her former name. A name She would no longer answer to.

Inside the school, could I hear an industrial version/remake of The Rolling Stones “Sympathy For The Devil” done by Skrew.

Imp and spectre trickled from smoke that still swirled from gunbarrel and exhaust pipe.

Shouts and screams. Frozen. Brews so tasteful of anger and hate spiced the air. Marching fury stormed toward Us.

Hel lifted Her head from My lap. Turned around.

Bloodied grins and hands pet Me lustfully.

“... Hello, mother... Or so you were... You do know that you are no one to Me anymore. This is My Father now. His Wife, Our Mother... My Family.”

Who am I? Came a bellow and threats to get away. Curses and fists drawn. Accusations of perversion. Vulgar words. More threats lest violence be met.

Never saw any human move so fast as I. Nor effortlessly soar as nimble and high.

Impossible for any beast of flesh and bone, twirled and leapt I atop towering shubbery and bush.

Balanced upon fingertip then toes. Standing over twigs which curved with not the slightest bend. Deranged ballet grace, the God of dubh sith and chimera spiders.

Hel giggled and clapped. To Her I bowed.

And Who do I think I am?

Fair folk glimmered and mischievous grims laughed. All mortal voices now silent and afeared of those gyre paths.

“Know yea now that My Lover speaks not false. She ne'er was thine. But now is Mine. Her Own too, with Her old self lost. That is all you need know of the Who I am... Who, you ask, do I think I am? I think, suggest to wonder uncertainly, not. Rather I know My make and want and form with no doubt.”

Something almost like light glinted over My eye. “For, you see, I fly the ragwart and ryegrass, swift as any mount.”

Spinning on a leaf, I said, “I am as divine as dust. The keeper of dreams. The harvester of nightmares. Sixteen souls in a circle - oh, that's vile. Sixteen souls in a vile circle. Vials to drink sixteen souls of essence.”

Pointing chaotically to the woods, My voice and grasp. “Then the sound of candlelights in trees. Redemption there comes in shards fine as hair.”

A hair I plucked from My scalp, to let feather down to earth. Backhanded then I sprung. To more bushes across the way. Bushes which quivered only as tickled infants beneath My touch.

Evil shone with vilest brilliance in a vengeful heart of My Hel.

To Her once-mother, She burned. “Never again shall I be thy Daughter, for thou hast chosen him before Me. To thee, his comfort held more worth than My suffering. He, the most disrespectful, unhonorable, contemptible and worthless trash I hath e'er known.”

To that one who had so long done Her wrong, Hel then faced without fear. Shades did chatter giggles knowing the impending drear.

Quiver nor shudder nor run by terrored feet for he was stuck steadfast by glamours of fay and efreet.

“You shant ever hurt another again with fist nor kick.”

Along joined a thousand gremlin and host, lashed with Hel. Tore fingers from sockets of hands. Ripped feet from joints of ankles. Held up by scruff of shirt.

His feet and fingers She ground to mush beneath Her shoe.

Off scurried goblins with pinkies to feast.

“And if you so desperately care to ignore Me and not to ever speak to Me, so be it. Your wishes for silence, shall I, as well, grant true.”

Claws flashed. Shredding tongue from his silently screaming mouth.

Convulsing, he fell in a heap of mutilated flesh. Unable to stand, cry or crawl. Only writhe. Then move not at all.

Statuesque were those mortals. Turned stone solid by horrors. Eyes marbled ice. Steel skewered limbs. Stiff as bronzed fountains in royal gardens of old. Pissed upon by Kings and Queens...

Hel spoke once more to the woman. Tongue of the man squeezed to pulp in Her hand. “His juvenile rudeness and bestial cruelty have you condoned, supported, and consented to by your silence and inaction. By your apathy. Everything he has ever done to hurt Me, you have overlooked and turned away from. You just stood by and let it happen. Without saying a word. Without doing a thing. Without giving a fuck at all. Until it reached the point where you actually convinced yourself that his treatment of Me was acceptable. Deluded yourself into thinking that what he has done is forgivable. Even justified... That I deserved the things he did.”

Overhead and underfoot, scathe battalions strode. Enamoured and despising with sensualities of children and dogs.

Moist jowls were panting for flavors of vein and lace.

Apparitions shrieked voices slicing flesh.

Yes. Hurt her. Destroy her. And not once with a lie to give such sorrow.

“Weak. Cowardly. Pathetic. Bitch! So ashamed of Me are you, and so scared of all which you so prudently find inappropriate, that you will never even acknowledge imprisoning Me in the hospital! You never talk about it. Or dad. Or anything. You want to repress it. Make the memory go away so you won't have to face it. Just like you did to Me. You have forgotten your duty to protect Me. To care for your only child. There is absolutely no excuse whatsoever in the world for what you have allowed this piece of shit to do to Me. And none of it can ever be forgiven.”

Every gentry shade sat attentive, quieted by their young Mistresses words. Come turned to nod and grumbling. As offspring to ancestor.

Those fear paralyzed mortals mocked they.

Mouths yawned open. Terror ridiculed in their eyes.

Giggling guffaws, the cyclone winds that shuddered houses to their abalone bones.

“I want you to live out the rest of your insignificant, unfulfilled days knowing that I hate you for your failures to even try to cease his abuses of Me. Knowing that I will never forgive you, even at your dying breath. Knowing that I loathe and despise you, for your utter indifference to all that was done to Me. For your blind denial. That because of your disregard for My pain, I curse upon you nothing but ruin, grief, heartache and torture beyond all eternity. Beyond even both your graves. May you each rot in endless torment, without hope for the slightest mercy.”

Stark and stretched monsters, hatched of baby blood. Dwelling. Lingering. Harboring the wants of scorned loves and fallen heroes. Clandestine diseases witched unto stovepipe slippers.

Some to the route of hopes crushed bred. Bearing their foul ideas of pleasure and infernal carnality as stillborn walruses and cradle dolls.

“Adieu, adieu, adieu. Remember Me.”

And this? What?

Woman? Do your eyes beg of forgiveness and remorse?

From dying bushes I then flew. Face to face with she who was once Hel's mother. Heat of her breathing warmed My cheek.

Timpani drums whispered foul and hiss. Dreamdrowned and missing real. Steamed breath from My mouth stolen from her.

“Ahh, but no My winsome jewel... This Child is Mine and thy claim to Her be evermore gone. No manner of tears may change that now, though thy cries are so lovely a song. Tap the handle of a key to a windowpane. Burn thorns atop the faerie rath. Bring banana skins to the flame. Still shall yea find no steed ever vault Her grave.”

Fingers tickled over My breast. “Lay a clover fourleafed upon Her Changeling chest. Pass Her through the stone of Men-an-Tol. Boil water in eggshell bowls. But this dark faerie, I the blackest seraph, will never relinquish My rule of Hel.”

“As dad was dying, he said he fucking detested you. Abhorred you. That you revolted him. He told Me that you were the most worthless cunt he ever knew and the reason he wanted to die was to get away from you.”

∞ ∞ ∞

Back in the hearse, We sped away with Ally and Cam. Although it may have proved to be a mistake, I asked Hel, “Did You really mean that?... What You said about Your dad. Was that true?”

Hel just shrugged and turned away.

Capriciously chuckling, I threw open the back door of Our Jaguar.

Did I mention We had stopped by the cemetery before arriving at the dance?

“... One... Two... Three!”

Hel and I kicked each freshly exhumed coffin of Leslie and Dan onto the roadway. Landing right in front of the high school.

Tumbling like two twigs in a creek, they burst open. Throwing gruesome corpses onto the pavement. Entwined together they fell, in purest suggestion of necrophilia.

Cheryl had just come out of the school. The vice-principal escorted her. She couldn't miss her dad's muted cries. Nor her boyfriends corpse, lit under a streetlamp. Weird with shadows and decay.

Every mortal there seemed to catch sight of the top of the flagpole at that same instant.

Vomiting and screams were the final noises I heard.

None of them would ever forget that night. Let it be, that they each remember it, exactly as it had truly been.

Homecoming at an end... Goodnight kiddies...

My three Sisters and I drove home. Singing along to Depeche Mode. Blaring the stereo with “Never Let Me Down.”

∞ ∞ ∞

Home in Our chateau; and a conjugal bed of bigamy I laid with Camillia and Hel.

Daughter and Bride, with Mother and Sister We make three. Bare skin entwined together in evil ecstasy.

Jane's Addiction was sung by Hel, humming “Three Days.”

- I prepared the room tonight with christmas lights -

- a city of candles -

- fresh sheets -

Climbing to lakes. Surmounting cliffs of porcelain. Drunk upon forbidden ichors of missing gods.

Wed to Death and Her Family sang I of nothing remembered.

And the Family strengthens...

Hel cried violent love. Reaching for doves that died in heaven at Her wants.

With Her desires, a rain of dove corpses dropped from the skies.

Ferryweight gloom.

Heard from nowhere as the ballerina cries. “The perfect girl!” Nobody looks quite like this place.

Tender of perineum flesh.

The Huldre Coven, touching, looked on. Grainy specks that move across the eyes when staring in the dark. Blessing Our fevers. Blessed be the deviant and defiant, the defiled. Cursed the obedient and pious, the devout child.

Satin over sheets lie down upon ceilings, yet walls as soft to consummate. Every plane lend gravity to Our movements.

Astral valentine blood, hovered through night air.

Soaring to heights impossible to ever attain without feathers of shared passions ways.

Intriguing as the key and most brilliance for the blame.

And if He will dance, white flowers of snow.

Paroniria candles lit waking wax and oils. Scented oils and incense trails.

- shadows of the morning light -

- shadows of the evening sun -

Dominant and creative. Masterful and servile in leather fishnet and metal bonds.

Talents brew arts of wicked fetish convents.

Succumb to the power of Their touch. As if Their touch alone were aphrodisiacs. Created to instill the most irresistible of lusts.

Seductresses claws nailed Me to crucifixes of adulterous saviors.

Thrusting. Bucking. Drumming. Chanting.

Come. Be Saints bedded by gods salacious and reverent. Be One in Thy most stygian, dark fantasies.

We chose new Kin from adopted strangers...

If You need a crown, They will be calling You. And if You need a paper crown, They won't be calling You at all.

Received of sanguine and honeyflesh fruits.

As dawn rose and night turned lost until her holy return. Thunderous praise be to Goddesses. For They are evermore the chosen. Each Baroness of barrenness.

Hush, My Loves. We can not see here clearly anyway.

To slumber I slipped. Humbled. Cherished. Empowered by Their blasphemies made when solemn were sleeping in times of old.

Their moans, orgasmic sapphism, My lullaby.

“Mrrrrr... You Both make... the cutest n-noisesssss...”

- night is shelter for nudity's shiver -

... As was Our enrapturing Hel ...

- all now with wings -

Chapter Thirty

“... Mmm... Good morning.” Hel stretched. Arcing Her entire body.

“Good morning.”

“Or evening, should I say? Technically.”

Noncommittal shrug. “Either way. I know what You mean.”

Pouting, Hel slid Her hand over empty sheets. “Where's Our Honey?”

“She and Allyson are getting dressed for the club.”

“Already?... What time is it?”

“Almost 8:30.”

“Already!? I can't believe I slept so late. Why didn't You wake Me?”

Grinning like a hug, I shrugged again. “Camillia and I were enjoying watching You sleep. Our baby...”

Hel's eyes lit glowingly. “Mm. How sweet... Weird dreams I've been having though.”

“Yes. I know.”

“You do?”

“Yes. For years, We all dream only of the night We died. Over and over. That's - ”

“ - But... I don't dream about that.”

“... You don't?”

“No. I mean, the past two nights, I have had the same, recurring dream, but it wasn't that.”

“What is it?”

“... For years I'll dream this?”

A frown curved My mouth. “You... should. But You should be dreaming about the night You died.”

“Aww. Daddy's sad that He's not the Boy of His little Girl's dreams? You sound so disappointed.”

Shaking My head, I explained. “No. Just surprised... I've never heard of Anyone not dreaming about that... Tell Me about it. Tell Me what You dream.”

Unable to recall most of what She dreamt, Hel told Me much of Her dreams ending. A dream in which She would watch the events unfurl before Her. Unable to alter of effect them. A spectator. Invisibly observing everything She saw.

It always began, from as much as She could remember, with a man, woman and young girl driving in a car. The car twisted, rose and fell down curves and hills of a lonely, nighttime stretch of wooded, country road...

... The dream She told...

... When She was done, the final images of Her dream I found to haunt Me the rest of the night.

So vividly could I see those scenes She described.

As if I had been there before. Or as though I had dreamt it as well.

As if they were some eerie premonition of things not yet, but soon, to come to pass.

“ - Huh?”

“What does it mean?”

An allegory for We, I wonder...

“Oh. Uhh, I don't know, Hel.”

“Hrmph. I guess We should get up and get dressed too, huh?”

“Yeah... Yeah, let's go.”

“... Don't worry... You're still the Boy of My dreams, Elric.”

Thinking of Our drive home, from the dance the night before...

Cobwebs of Hel's nightmare still clung in My mind...

Within Her dream...

∞ ∞ ∞

No darkness...

No light...

Beginning with a sound...

A frightful melody plays deeply distant. Gaining less ethereal substance. Distantly forth from far reaches of mind.

Indescribable music. Reaching unsettling harmonies no instrument could ever attain. Composed by the very elements themselves. By black of evening in pasture and grove. By things which changed flavors of ember and brume.

Mortifying and unshakable sounds. Disturbing to the very core of ones essence.

Distortions vaguely resembling Her hypnotic recollections of World's Edge by Steve Roach. As “Beat Of Desire” there lingers that disquieting music. Hardly audible and amorphous. Slowly taking form. Deceptively seeming to solidify, only to dissipate obscurely once more. Much as cavern echoes resounding noises never before known.

Permeating.

Enveloping.

Shrouding.

Suffocating every moment in intangibility.

Every breath of air scented of mud.

The little girl in the car is staring into the woods. Peering through her angled reflection, set somewhere far within the windowglass.

She hears no music, but would sense a change in silence were it gone.

Patterns of scrolling trees turn mesmerizing. Fluttering behind her reflection in mimic of thunderstorm and lightning sprites.

The fireflies seem to be flashing in unison to songs the girl can not imagine.

Something feels funny - something seems wrong. The fireflies look... frightening.

The girl screams as the man jerks violently on the steering wheel to avoid hitting the thing in the road.

Skidding out of control, their car bashes violently into a roadside ditch. Dirt chortles, flying airborn. Shoveled upward by the front bumper slamming the embankment. Tired and bruised headlights weakly illuminate the mud. Light trickling over some reeds. Shadows like prison bars. A fraction of the light seeps over the embankment. Out into the woods. Woods that seem to resent the light. To hate it.

Still, the unheard music plays.

“Are you okay?” The man asks both passengers.

Dazed, the woman manages to say “yes”, although sounding shaken.

The girl nods. But she is hardly aware of what even happened. And she makes not a sound. She is staring into the woods. Transfixed.

“Are you alright!?” The woman yells to the girl. Turning to face her, she hadn't seen the girl nod. No answer.

“Honey, she's okay.”

Scared, the woman repeats. “Are you?”

“Huh?” The girl looks graven. Answering not the woman, but rather another voice. Not upset by the crash - Terrified. By something else... Another voice.

And suddenly, it is as if she forgets about it completely. Fear so overpowering, it vanishes with no trace. Instantly, she smiles. “Yeah. I'm fine... I'm fine.”

The woman looks to the man. “What the hell was that? A cow?”

“I don't know.” The man says.

But it has a vague and horrid familiarity about it. Part of him almost thinks he knows what it was. As though the thing had been there before. Awaited them on other nights.

... But, no.

Turning off the engine, he tries to open the car door. Stuck by their askew angle, he pushes harder. Twice more. A final small shove through stubborn mud and he opens it.

“Wait here.”

“But - ”

“ - Wait.” The man steps out.

Whatever the thing had been, it was big. It took up the whole road. No cow was ever that big. Climbing out of the ditch, he thinks, no, it wasn't a cow.

It looked almost like a giant slug, the man muses.

... Then, he stops. Somehow, that doesn't seem so funny as he walks nearer to it.

Grudgingly, his pace slows.

He suddenly wishes he hadn't shut off the cars engine. Only for a familiar noise in utter silence. Not even a hush of wind blows.

The car passed it in the crash. Now the taillights of the ditch-lodged vehicle give the roadway an eerie, red glow. An evil glow. And the glow falls upon the thing in the road. A glow.

The girl watches the man out of the rear window. The dark shadow in the road seems to breathe. Up and down...

As the man nears it. Breathing.

The girl hears the passenger door click and sees the woman getting out. “No!”

“Stay there... It'll be okay, sweetie. Honest. Now stay put.” The woman orders and shuts the door with an intimidating stare before the girl can object any further.

With that, the girl is left alone in the car. Cold with fright, she aches for the light of day. When window reflections look so different. For even the light of the city. Just not the light in the reeds. Not the light of the fireflies. Just the day, where they can not glow. No one could turn off the music.

Turn off the music they glow to.

“What is it?” The woman whispers.

“Don't know.” The man says, still unwilling to get too close. In his mind, he pleads that the woman not say his name. No. Please. He doesn't want the thing to hear his name! “Get back in the car.”

“Fine. Let's go.”

The thing in the road is moving a little. It seems to be breathing. Just a little. A little.

Why must certain things never be aware of ones name?

“We should try to... move it. To wake it up, so nobody hits it.”

“... Wake it up?”

“Yeah.”

“But what is it?”

Part of him expects it to rear some ugly head he doesn't even know it has. Then drag him to some horrid fate.

He shouldn't be letting his shadow be cast upon that thing. His shadow swimming in blood-tinted light. No. He musn't let his shadow touch it... It will know him then...

The man fidgets. Moving back two steps. For some reason, he is scared. Not because of crashing into the ditch...

Being stranded...

And this thing...

No.

And...

It is something else. He feels like a boy again. A child afraid of cellar dark. A child afraid to look at the crack of his closet door as he falls asleep... Because it moves. Like breathing.

Breathing the imperceptible ringing of silence and static of blackness.

This time, most especially of all, a child afraid to look at the woods in the night. A boy.

He knows, there is no way he should ever turn around again. Never dare...

... They wait, he thinks...

Back in the car, the girl thinks she hears something in the woods. It is like a voice. A voice.

She doesn't want to turn around. If she looks through the front windshield, she'll see something terrible in those woods. Something too close.

Something old. Horribly, horribly old.

She knows the fireflies will be something else then. She can feel them watching her. Feel what they really are. How they feel. Feel each time one lights up like a pinprick on the back of her neck. Needles. Needles in her neck. Making needleshadows of reeds. Lighting the breathing mud.

Slugs are breathing...

She tries to close her eyes. The bass of music she can not hear makes her heart skip. Makes her ears ring. Tears run from her shut eyes. Tears turned to saltily dance upon her lips. She clenches her fists over her ringing ears. She tries to scream. She tries and she tries. But it is too loud for her to imagine her cries.

The girl opens her eyes. Hoping to see the woman in the gory, red taillamp light. Praying for a familiar comfort in -

- But the only light the girl sees is seeping into the woods.

... Out... the... front... windshield...

Tired and bruised light. Over the embankment. The horribly old thing she sees -

In the woods...

The woods...

Seems to hate the light. To hate her.

Hate...

The woman runs back to the car as she hears the girl screaming. The man follows close behind. Dare not look. He dare not...

Shouting for the girl, the woman tears the car door open. The child is gone.

She should not be shouting so loud. You might make it mad...

And madness mad -

Music vanishes...

To sense a change in -

The silence is deafening. Ringing.

The woman yells the girls name to the darkness three times before she notices the man is staring blankly into the woods.

You yelled? You yelled at the darkness!? Oh, no... No. How could you!?

He looks like a little boy. Transfixed. Captive by fear of the crack around his closet door. Afraid. So very...

The woman follows his gaze.

Headlights illuminate the woods like grey ribbones of a million dead souls, stretching into infinity.

Totems of tribes with no past.

Off in the furthest distance...

Straining at the very edge of their ability to see...

Crucified upon a bony tree...

Fireflies dance around the dusty grey skeleton of a young girl. And the firefly light seems -

Hate -

And the firefly light seems to hate her...

... It seems to hate them all ...

Chapter Thirty One

Our motorcycles roared south down Interstate 271 at over 120 miles an hour on Our way to the Gothic Rainbow.

Allyson and Camillia each rode an old Honda NR-750 while Hel shared a bike with Me. Mine was custom built. An exact replica of the red motorcycle owned by Kinada in Katsuhiro Otomo's animated film epic, Akira.

An icy and stinging November rain was falling. A rain ready to become snow. Able to seemingly sear flesh from bone with the brutality of its impact and chill. Tires flung rain from pavement in enormous arcs. Watery blades slicing the skies like gargantuan scythes of evil gods.

Ministry thundered the remix of “Just One Fix” on all three of Our radios. Tuned to a live broadcast from the Rainbow simulcast on WRUW, 91.1 FM.

Devastating volume beat almost as hard as the rain.

Strobing threads flashed to rhythms and pulsing torrents.

Piercing the night, Hel howled. Laughing sadistic and horrid warcries. My Goddess reveled in Her dark magnificence. Dancing atop the back of Our bike. Arms outstretched. Swaying. On one leg She craned. Toying with Her hair. Writhing with showgirl beguile. In Her eyes, a Hunger screamed.

Any who have imagined the Thirst of the Undead once, have imagined it countless times. To feed. To desire. To fury. Any who have imagined it begin to know... Comes and goes, Camillia said. And the insane conviction with which it manifests. The addiction. The delirium. Rage...

It comes and goes...

And it came...

Hel pounced off the rear of the motorcycle. Soaring headlong with extended claws, like a tiger from the trees. Crashing through the drivers side, plate window of a van which was traveling at only half Our speed.

- smash the control images -

Like a cannonshot, She bashed through the glass. Hitting the woman in the passenger seat so hard that her face cracked the dash. The impact split open the womans skull like a snap bean. She never had time to know how she died.

A vacationing family found Hel in their midst. Arriving in a hail of breaking glass and torn metal. Skidding, the van swerved. The father barely regained control. Cold wind and razor-shards of glass battered through the safe, warm van. A tangle of venetian blinds and curtains shuddered. Wind and rain clawed and ripped over the family.

A young boy, Hel pulled from his seat. Fangs tearing out his neck, She fed. Drained of blood, She tossed his body out the broken widow onto the roadway.

A freight truck ran over him. Brakes locking, the truck spun out, tumbling end over end.

The kids teenage sister cowered. Horrified. Retreating to the rear of their van. Far too dazed by the chaos to react.

Out of a bay seat, Hel ripped another boy. Drinking from the infant, He was thrown out the front windshield.

Parent and daughter screamed a noise I had only hear those in Our catacombs make.

“STOOOPP!!”

Slamming on anti-lock brakes, the van merely slowed.

Thump. Thump.

Webbing scattered across the front glass. Completely obscuring the fathers view of the highway. Unable to see, except for out the hole through which his newborn son was hurled. A hole in which bit fangs of freezing rains.

Hel kicked out the shattered windshield and flew into the fathers face. Perched bizarrely atop the dashboard. Some daemonic avian was She.

“I could stop... If I wanted to.”

- never trust a junkie -

Flying to the rear, Hel wrenched the daughter out of her corner. Dragged along, the struggling girl was yanked out where the front windshield had been, to the roof of their van.

“YOU KILLED THEM!”

Wailing an echoing shrill of victory, Hel lofted the girl overhead. She plunged a hand though the girls chest. Disbelief, then shock bent the girls face. Out was mangled the girls heart. Drained pulsing from Hel's fist to mouth.

- just one fix -

In one fluid motion, Hel dropped the girl back through the front of the van and sprang off the roof. Returning onto Our motorcycle as I slowed before Her.

The girl's corpse slumped in her fathers lap. In a panic, he let the wheel go. Tipping in a severe turn, they twirled sideways on the slick freeway.

Another freight truck and a corvette simultaneously cracked into the dying van. Spinning it like a childrens top.

Everything behind Us shrieked in a violent pile of crushing steel and scents of melting rubber.

Camillia shared My stifled amusement. Allyson cheered in praise of Hel at the top of Her lungs. And Hel simply laughed and laughed and laughed...

Regaining speed, the four of Us hurtled away.

Boundless ferocity of the snowstorm erupted. A snowstorm with thunder.

Yes. Let the rains come. Let lighting tear the sky.

By the time We reached Pearl Road, a silent blanket of heavy snow muffled every sound in the night. Glistening yellow flecks of crystallized ice shone beneath the glow of streetlamps. Scythes from tires now flung in frost and white.

All dead quiet.

All but the music. Music to which My fearless Daughter still moved. Continuing to dance with preternatural dexterity on the hind of our streetbike.

∞ ∞ ∞

Siouxsie & The Banshees were just taking the stage in The Vault as the mammoth video screen, showing clips from the Disney film Something Wicked This Way Comes, retracted over the backdrop.

Advertised as their old alias, Janet & The Icebergs, only the most diehard Siouxsie fans recognized the name and expected to see them playing that night. And even they doubted it too much to honestly believe it.

As soon as the Ice Queen actually stood before the audience, the crowd turned maniacal.

When the Sex Pistols first appeared on the scene, they attracted a loyal following of fans who became dubbed “The Bromley Contingent.” Among them were Janet Ballion and Steven Bailey, the founding members of what became Siouxsie & The Banshees.

The fanatic enthusiasm of The Bromley Contingent had nothing on the crowd at that show.

This - was - punk.

In a flurry of light and sound, Siouxsie opened with “Hong Kong Garden.”

Dancing in her hypnotizing shudder of marionette spasms, Siouxsie still managed to look somehow elegant. Refined. Royal...

Graceful and angry, she scowled both seductively and sardonically.

The predominant beauty of her charm laid in her ambivalent ability to appear so loving one moment and hateful the next. Instilling and forcing endearment and fear from her admirers.

Among the swirling light, I couldn't help but think that her magic would enthrall the crowd for weeks after she walks off that stage.

As Jon Wilde said in their liner notes - “There might be other groups, but this is the one that matters.”

To My overwhelming elation, Shawn Roman hugged Me hello as I shoved through the crowd. Lead vocalist of her local band, Piper Blue, they had opened for Siouxsie.

“Elric! Holy shit! Hi, beautiful!”

We kissed. More passionately than I would have expected. Much less passionately than I would have hoped.

“Hey! Great set!” My happiness to see her was completely genuine. Not the least bit phony.

Almost every single club kid (and most Kindred as well) were total go-nowheres. Boring losers who were not nearly as interesting or unique as they thought they were. Such was not the case with Shawn. Her I sincerely liked.

Talya introduced Me to her a few years ago, in fact. Although, they don't get along with each other too well anymore. I seem to recall some comment about Talya “always running around like some damn chihuahua.”

Rude. But funny.

The Girl was petite after all.

Laughing, I was remembering that comment moreso then seeing Shawn. Trying to subside My giggling, I swept a hand over My cheek. I repeated, “Yeah! Great set!”

“Thanks! Thank You! Yours aren't bad either!” Shawn smirked, glancing down on Me.

“Ha! Ha!”

Her grin turned platonic from lustful. “No, but, seriously, You saw it!?”

“Of course! And how've you been!?”

“Excellent! And You!?”

“The same!... Damn... It's been way too long since I've seen you!”

“No shit!” She frowned pensively. “I've really missed You too!”

“And I, you, My dear! How's Lyman!?” Lyman was her four year old son.

“Fine! He's with his grandparents tonight!” Shawn nodded and blinked slow.

“Cool! Yeah, I sorta doubted he was pogoing in the mosh or anything!”

Chuckling and snickering breathlessly at the image I conjured, she wondered. “And how about Your Sisters!?”

“What!?”

“Allyson and Camillia!? How are They!? Are They - ”

“ - Oh! Fine! Fine! They're doin' okay! They're out and about someplace here tonight! I came with Them!” Craning My neck around, I remarked, “I dunno... really... where They went!”

“Hopefully I'll run into Them!”

“Yeah! Yeah! I'm sure you will!... Are you gonna be here long!?”

Her eyes unconsciously widened. “At least until Siouxsie is off stage! No way I'm missing this!”

“Yeah!? Well, stay a little while after!”

“I will!”

Remembering, I remarked, “But I'm sure you have to get home to Lyman and all!”

“Yeah! But he'll be in bed anyhow!” She shook her head.

“True!... Well, stay then! You'll see Them!”

Deafening cheering emanated from the crowd as the Banshees finished their first tune. After a brief thanks, they broke into “Love In A Void” at a volume easily outdoing the claps and whistling.

“What!?” Shawn yelled.

“I said stay awhile! Stay! And you'll have to meet My cousin, Hel! She's moving in with Us! With Allyson and Camillia and I! I'll have to introduce you!”

“Your cousin!? What's that!?”

“She's moving in!”

“Oh, really!? Moving in!?”

“Yeah! Moved in, actually! Past tense! She's from England!”

“Cool! Is She cute!?”

“Very!... Cute accent too!”

“... Available!?”

“Completely!”

“Hmmm. Yeah, She sounds nice!”

“I'll introduce you later!”

“Why is she moving in!? Moved in, rather! Going to school or - !?”

“ - No! Her parents died!”

Shawn's brow dropped all its lighthearted mirth. “Oh!... Damn, I'm sorry!... You're serious! That's horrible!”

“Yeah!”

“When!? When'd it happen!? And when did She move in and all!?”

“Eh, everything happened a few months ago!”

“Wow... How is She!? I mean, is She, You know - She handling it okay and - !?”

“ - Yeah! She's not bad! They never had much time for Her, I guess! From what I hear!” I shrugged.

“Hrmm. That sucks! How are You!?” Shawn asked awkwardly. Uncertain if she should be bringing it up at all. “I mean, that wassss... What!? Your aunt!? Uncle!?... I guess You probably didn't know them very well either! Errr - I mean if - !”

“ - Uncle! No, I didn't! You're right! I never knew him! Distant relative! It's... you know, no big deal for Me! Just typically weird, fucked-up, dysfunctional family shit! I just met Hel Myself, so - !”

Understanding it wasn't a painful subject, Shawn relaxed. “ - Ah! But She's pretty cool then!?”

“Oh! Totally cool! I mean, if She didn't live with Me, I'd still want to hang out with Her all the time anyway!”

“Yeah!? Very cool! Well, I hope She likes it here!”

“Oh, yeah! I'm sure She will! She's visited the States a lot!”

“I think I could make Her stay enjoyable!” Flirtatiously, Shawn swung her hips.

“Shawn! Come on! I'm sure! Her parents just died and you're - !”

“ - Oh, like I was serious!? I'm kidding! Elric. Come on!”

“Surrre!”

“I was only joking!”

Sarcastic with doubt, I said, “Uh, huh!”

“I was!... Besides, You said it was months ago!”

“Okay!”

“How old is She!?”

“Sixteen!”

That made her nod rather bemusedly. “Ah... Too young anyway! Nice age to become fucked-up though!”

“No shit! Inevitable age perhaps!”

“Did You!?”

“Did I!?... - ”

“ - Become fucked-up at sixteen!?”

“Me!? Oh, I became fucked-up out of the womb, babe! Moment of conception and all hope was lost for Me!”

She laughed and slapped My shoulder. “Figured as much! Uuuugh! I thought You felt wet when I hugged You! Lookin' a little soggy there! Sweaty!?” Wincing in disgust, she flung water from hand.

“Yeah, well, no that's what happens when it rains!”

“Oh! No wonder! Well, that's okay! Kinda grossed me out though for a second there!”

“I'm much drier now! You should've seen Me at the start of your set!”

“Damn! Take care of Yourself! You'll catch cold!” Motherly, she rubbed My arms.

“Hrmmm. Cold outside! All the rain turned to snow!”

“You're kidding!”

“Nope!”

Her eyes rolled and hands on My shoulders found their way to massage her forehead. “Oh, fuuuck!... Great! Reloading equipment is gonna be real fun!”

“Well, you don't have much! And the staff helps!”

“True! And our van is in the garage, but we're helping the Banshees put stuff back on their bus!” Shawn shrugged.

“So, don't worry about it! It won't be so bad! Let Me know if you need a hand!”

“What!?” Shawn squinted.

“Let Me know if you need help - If you need any help breaking down the - !”

Waving Me off, she translated it. “ - Oh! Okay! Yeah! Thanks!”

“No problem!... Killer shirt, by the way!”

“My shirt!?”

“Yeah! I like it!”

“Thanks! Made it myself!” She explained. In bold letters, it cleverly read: GOD IS AN ATHEIST.

“Nice!”

With tortured puppy yelps, Siouxsie squealed out the final bars of “Love In A Void.” Never missing a beat, they transitioned into a rendition of “Punish Me With Kisses” from their side-project, The Glove.

“So, You caught our set, You said!?”

“What's that!?”

“I said, You caught our whole set!? Our show!?”

“Oh, you bet, love! I wouldn't miss it!”

“When'd You get here!?”

“Hour ago, maybe!”

“So, what'd You think!?”

“Of your show!?”

“Obviously!”

“Phenomenal!... You really have adopted those Sarah McLachlan-esque vocals, like you were telling Me once!”

“Huh!?” She squinted yet again.

Jerking My thumb behind Me, I wondered, “Wanna move to the back!? Or go upstairs!? It's quieter!”

“Oh, no!... I wanna see Siouxsie! Now tell me what You said!”

The second time, she heard Me and agreed. Thanking Me, I could tell how flattered she was to be compared to the glorious voice of Sarah McLachlan. She should be flattered. She deserved such compliments though. I was impressed.

“Well, I won't keep you from the gig any longer!” Giving her a reassuring frown, I noted, “We'll talk later!”

“Yeah! Definitely! I'll see You!” Waving to Me without another hug, she vanished hastily into the crowd. Grateful to be off enjoying the show, she'd been looking antsy for the last few moments. Clearly eager to not be talking, but too polite to blow Me off. I can take a hint.

When I told her I'd keep her no longer, her smile silently sighed, “Thank You!”

Though nothing of the sort could actually be heard, the air felt heavy with sinister Leonard Cohen tunes.

∞ ∞ ∞

Parting the sea of people, I made My way upstairs. An already thick crowd in The Vault became more and more serried as word spread to the danceclub above:

“Siouxsie is playing!”

“Suzy?”

“And The Banshees!”

“No way.”

“Yeah! Listen...”

“... Fuck! Siouxsie is playing!”

The news detonated in shockwaves through the Rainbow.

Having met Siouxsie and seen her play in Europe numerous times with both The Banshees and The Creatures, I was a bit more jaded.

As I finally approached the upper level, My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult's “The Days Of Swine And Roses” began to squeal and reflect over the sound of Sioux doing “Hall Of Mirrors.”

Over at the merchandise window, a kid was buying a Gothic Rainbow tee-shirt. On the front was the Gothic Rainbow logo. The back read: “Children Of The Night - What Beautiful Music They Make.”

Cheesy as fuck.

Always hated that shirt.

Allyson loved it. Naturally.

Wading through stale breath, clove cigarette, and musky alcohol smells, I passed rather unnoticed amongst everyone.

That bouncer who hassled Me, the night Nix parked in front of the garage, saw Me and turned away. Quickly attempting to pretend he didn't catch My eye.

Ignoring him, I watched the wondrous multitudes who continued to funnel in through the doors.

Welcome children of the last and lost.

- christian zombie vampires -

Eerie denizens of the night were again home. Dancing. Laughing. Drinking. Flirting.

Heading all the way up to the balcony level, I watched those below Me dance. Imprisoned was I by undeniable rhythms. A willing captive. Almost as much as they.

Music to enshroud and encase them in dark corners, behind a safe shield, from all the wrongs of the worlds judgmental condemnation. Hungrily, I stared, behind My veils of swarthy light.

Sexually varied couples pawed each other in the shadows. Meeting. Desiring. Girls. Boys. Single lovers and a few.

Immolating mind and body to the sound. Music turning into the only aspect of relevance to being. Harmonies dark and all-consuming which bellowed from every direction.

Overpowering dirges could truly possess an intangible sorcery.

Drowning out all other sensations. Creeping in so slowly. To eventually drive out all other thought. Changing. Mutating. Growing... A power nearly sentient.

Until volume and light are all one sees and feels. Vocals whined. Seeping all the way through to ones marrows.

A flavor. A scent.

Every sense coveted to willingly succumb.

And if moving with it, the music could become an invisible armor. Noble vestments which protected the wearer from every harm of the night.

Channel. Focus. And step. Walk with the Siren song and even the living may feel they were divine. Every decibel resounded in their honor. Every chord composed to glorify those who knew its dance. A private and sacred phantasm called to an inner part of those hundreds and dictated to them: They must dance.

For there is nothing but the totalitarian drive of music. Where every stride is floating. Skin tingles aware. Every perception of existence became unable to know anything beyond the beat. Relinquished unto it were we all. Lying fathomlessly beyond measure.

Time forever transformed to a transcendence where past and future are never the eternity of the present. And several tens of minutes slipped by during the flash of a dozen lifetimes.

Biting with “Reptilian”, Nine Inch Nails ate “Awake And Watching” by Click Click right off the dancefloor. Screeching with Godzillian cries, the colubrine melody soiled everyone's blood.

Dancing enslaved to said vertigos, I saw a woman possessed by primal bonds. Every move erotic, yet horrifying. As though trying to break free of unseen hands. Both ravished by them and agonized.

Short brown hair was cropped close to her head. Muscular legs sheathed in black pants. And on her delectable chest dangled a lose and open mesh belly-vest of black.

Teasing flashes of sweat and skin. Shimmering under the netting of her top. Erect nipples grazed light. Glistening wet. Slipping behind sparse strands of webbing once more.

Ancestral memories existed within -

Urgings -

... And none seem to ever notice the primitive compulsions bound in drumming -

Tribal -

Sacred somatic patterns, unknowingly mirrored from lives past. Incantations traced back to rituals used for calling forth all manner of devil and god.

Remembering how it felt -

This was your way. And it was fear -

Do they not recall?

Upon every dark dancefloor about the world. Those movements rooted immemorially far within human past. Infused in the confines of the grotesque knowing of man. Jungle fears and wasteland rage.

Throbbing bass fluctuated. Stung in jellyfish tendrils.

Allyson undulated in the midst of it all.

- oh, My beautiful Liar -

Buried beneath masks of fertility and war. Anarchaic ceremonies of a nihilistic faith were avowed. Bastardizing antediluvian sacraments in a ridicule of consecrated acts.

- oh, My precious Whore -

Beat after beat -

Drillpress screeching bore through tense melodies. To rise and fall.

Crowds cleared away from Allyson without consciously doing so.

Light focused. Illuminated dead center on the dancefloor. Clinging tightly to Allyson's ambrosial body, She wore an H.R. Giger, airbrushed bodystocking. Venomously transfiguring My Sister into the most harrowing of reptiles.

- devils speak of the way in which She'll manifest -

None could dare to approach. None could bear to leave.

- She spreads Herself wide open to let the insects in -

Enchanting mortals. Even beyond their ability to remain transfixed by music in dance. Snapped in song, shutterclicks to remember Her.

Allyson Herself had become a very ritual. A rite of passage.

- seeds from a thousand others drip down from within -

Slowing the passage of time to moments where none who lived continued dancing. Rusted tin toys whimpered in childish pain. Their armor welded by corrosions. Charred around Her bedevilment. Until finally, none moved... Not Revenant nor mortal.

Enchanted...

Then none turned a head.

Not one limb flinched.

No breath sighed.

None blinked.

Only hearts -

Beat -

- She has the blood of reptile just underneath Her skin -

Allyson -

Lifeless fell She. In a ball on the middle of the floor.

Chalices of blood were raised. A toast.

To Her. To Us...

Vampires summoned forth. As all manner of devil and god.

Decrees had gone out the night before to all Damned of Our Dominion. Orders indicating simply that Their presence was demanded by the family DuBois to attend the club that evening.

No more need be told. None would question.

All did come.

Moving like ill winds through a forest of static mortals. In an ocean of color and shade.

Upon the altar.

Blood -

My wrist.

Camillia opened.

Our blood. Together -

Hel drank.

And from Her, We tasted -

All Our Subjects to see -

- I am so impure -

Three stood with Allyson lying Our feet. Not since My matrimony to Camillia had this been seen. To the Congregation, We turned. Shocked They looked, with eyes agape. Yet solemn. Respectful.

Nearby, Shamus whispered to the Flock. “All hail Our Lord and Ladies.”

Hearing Him over the music thundering from loudspeakers, They noiselessly rose Their filled goblets overhead.

“All hail Our Queens and Their King.”

Grails raised silently once more. And with an arm crossing breast, all dropped with nutant heads to one knee.

Allyson bowed to Us as well.

“Blessed be, Hel DuBois, Sang Real of Their Unseelie Dominion.”

With a wave of Her hand, Hel released the Legions from Their genuflection.

One by One, They dignantly approached. Congratulating Us with quiet kisses to the back of Hel's outstretched palm.

Shamus, the last of dozens to swear fealty to this young Queen.

Two parallel rows They formed once They had paid Their respects. Rows defining an aisleway beginning at the altar. Headed straight down the center of the dancefloor. Clear back to the buildings main doors.

- I now know the depths I reach are limitless -

“Drink.”

At Hel's word, all cups were brought to lips and drained.

Our wedding ended - A Trinity exchanged of blood.

Now to All, of Our imperial Family was She. The scope of those implications manifest with not one thought of defiance to Her authority. Our arms about Each others waist, Hel and I kissed. At the same moment, Camillia and Allyson pecked kisses to Her cheeks.

We had kissed Our Bride...

A sound swept -

A hundred thousand satin curtains dropped and were swished away in cyclone gale.

“HOORAAAAY!!”

∞ ∞ ∞

“Bizarre Love Triangle” by New Order burst across the nightclub as I danced with Hel and Cam, accompanied by hundreds of mortals again animated with life. Silly and vulgar, We moved. Lip synching and giggling funny faces. Bumping. Grinding. Petting. Being generally stupid and corny. Goofy and obnoxious.

None of Us could stop laughing.

The rare treat of Camillia's sophistication being sloughed off for playfulness sake, I relished. Savoring every moment of Her winsome comeliness, which youthfully sparked when She let loose.

All Our Subjects joined in Our celebration.

Hel smiled an endless delight. Stuck out Her tongue and pretended to steal Cam away. Liquefied sensuality They swayed.

Pouts and phony kisses on the air won Them back with puppy-sad eyes.

Holding hands, We rippled. Each One of Us, the side of a triangle.

Just when Our antics got too repetitive and consequently stopped being as funny, One of Us would do something else totally ridiculous and send All of Us in another uproar.

Synthesized hand claps and violins rang with giddy chimes. Clapping along. Fingers tapped out imaginary xylophone pings. Arms swung overhead.

Swirling around in time to triggerpad drums. Lengths of hair flung as We twirled.

Hel got down on Her knees and mimed praying to Us as She sang along with the lyrics.

Not even every move derived humor from being arousingly suggestive. Sometimes We just danced like totally psychotic idiots and that was hysterical enough.

Warm bass chords beat in riffs like fuzzy blankets on cold afternoons. We leapt on clouds of light and song. Soaring in a neverending expanse of fog, with the feeling children have when pretending they can fly. Reminding Me of times... I think I had... once before. Long ago... Times I don't so very clearly recall.

- living a life that I can't leave behind -

That night was the most fun I ever had since I died.

That night, for a few moments, I forgot I even had...

Natasha glared at Me from across the club. Only at Me. So faintly that no One else could have possibly noticed Her do it. That secretive was She with Her gaze. That subtle.

She left the city that night.

No goodbyes to anyone.

Never spoke to Me again.

... Oh, well...

But She had kissed Hel's hand. Just as Everyone else. Just as courteous and polite.

As New Order mixed flawlessly into “Boy” by Book Of Love, Hel jumped wildly. “Oh! Yyyyes! I love this song!... I love this whole album!”

Screams of delight from scores of people on the dancefloor made it obvious just how many felt exactly the same.

Laughing, We each spun a circle on one foot. Gleefully. Still blustering in the magic of dance and joy.

Joshua approached Us. Bowing, He asked My Sisters if He might cut in. Jonathan and Bryce followed suit.

Acquiescing to His request, Hel gave Joshua My hand. “We want Him back later.”

“Damn.” Joshua joked, feigning disappointment.

“Take what You can get.” Hel informed Him, snickering.

With submissive mirth, I faced Him, batting My eyes. “I'm all Yours.”

Susan Ottaviano's sultry voice sighed her bedroom passions over the room. Possessing the panting desires of virgins and experienced seductresses all at once.

Jonathan and Bryce surrounded Me with Joshua at first. Stretching arms over shoulders, I had Them instead stand side by side. Chorusline kicks We danced. Just the Boys.

- uh, huh... uh, huh... uh, huh... uh, huh -

Music that was so much summer and life. This was beauty. This was triumph. Tubular bells rang and were the sound of hearts which never knew pain. Christmas jingles. Sorrows agelessly gone. Misery abandoned for a gala of rejoicing.

Joining hands. Looking in Each others eyes, Joshua smiled. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks.” Pulled Him closer.

“She's beautiful.”

“Mm, hmm.”

Deep and warm, We kissed. Hugging tight.

Slipping apart, I grinned. “Mmm. Thanks again.”

Under a classy smirk, He eased into Me once more.

A second time We kissed. Longer this time. Heavier.

Being a snide flirt, I moved back. Cocked My head. Body language to tell Him, I hope He enjoyed it, because He'd not get another for a long time.

“Tease!” He berated, good humoredly.

“Hussy!”

“Hussy?” He laughed.

“Yeah!”

“Whatever.”

We both laughed then.

Being such a short song, the DJ soon faded from “Boy” into “I Touch Roses” and kept Book Of Love flowing without losing a single dancer. In fact, the floor gained a few people. They filed on like animatronic mannequins as strobe lights jittered their motion.

Shawn tapped My shoulder.

“Oh! Hi!”

Her sarcasm was ice and steel picks. “Hi! You think I can steal You away form Your throes of Admirers for a moment!?”

“What's up!?”

“We actually need help loading our van after all!”

Trudging off with her, I slumped. Happy to help her, I pretended it was a big hassle. “Well, okaaay! I guess!... Well... Wait! Dance this song first! Dance with Me! One song!”

Didn't take much plodding.

She agreed. Another old Book Of Love fan.

While we danced, I introduced Shawn to Hel. Speech washed away by the grating volume, they only said hello. From that, I could tell they would want to talk later on. Just from their mannerisms. One can tell if two of ones friends find each other interesting. They'd talk once they were away from the dancefloor.

Book Of Love eventually made way for Battery's “Nevermore” and everyone remained crossed by teeming masses of shimmering lights. Dancing on through the night.

“... Ready!?” I asked Shawn.

She nodded. We left.

∞ ∞ ∞

Brushing our way through the droves, we headed for the back doors down in The Vault.

Standing out among the faceless mobs, one girl, simply with how she was dressed, was defiantly thumbing her nose at all the industrial/goth kids who took their pretentious shit way too far.

Instantly, I liked her.

Little punk rock girls with their incense and wicca books certainly looked suitably offended in a muttering clique.

As for the cool, defiant girl, she wore beautiful Eurpoean-style fashions of the high renaissance. But every shred of fabric was shining in half a dozen gaudy shades of bright fluorescent.

Gorgeous.

Glowing under all the purple blacklights, she was quite the center of attention whenever she passed by. Even her Celtic and tribal facepaints were very gothic and dour in design, but fluorescent in color.

We made eye contact a few times during the course of the night. But I always became distracted with something or other before I had the opportunity to compliment her on the way she was dressed.

That time, we didn't meet because, next thing I knew, I was carrying a Marshall amp into a crappy blue Ford van, parked around the rear of the club, in the lower level of the garage. The snow was drifted way up to the garage doors. Lumbered lots of gear to the tourbus Siouxsie brought as well.

“See why we need extra help?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Now round 1:00a.m., by that time, there was a severe blizzard pummeling the entire city. Shawn was mortified that she'd never get back down to Akron in this weather and Lyman would be throwing a rabid fit when she wasn't there in the morning.

Siouxsie and her band were stuck because their driver was never going to be able to plow their tourbus through the roads, back to the Airport Marriott. In fact, they'd be lucky to leave the damn parking lot. There was talk that they'd just have to sleep on the bus with the heater running.

Not that it mattered much anyway.

Their noon return flight to Britain, with a changeover in New York, would surely be canceled anyhow.

A team of faerie marched like sled dogs through the foreboding night. Ferociously, the winds began to sweep and drift the snows to the parking lot edges.

Felicia came in from the cold. Burst of winds howled outside. “Well, that's it. They decided. They're going to just sleep on the bus.”

“What!?... Ah, no, I don't think so.”

“What other choice do they have?”

Getting the last keyboard from the club, I sent the roadie back who was walking past. “... Hold up. Just leave that.”

He looked confused.

“Put it back... I'll take care of everything.” An idea slowly forming, to Felicia I said, “Don't worry about it. Siouxsie & The Banshees are Our guests and they will not be spending their night on a tourbus, during a blizzard, in the parking lot of My nightclub. No way. I'll take care of this.” I repeated.

The roadie took the keyboard back.

With Felicia, I returned to Siouxsie's bus. Shawn I had come in too. We bullshitted with Sioux and Sevrin awhile while their manager was on the phone. He was attempting to confirm their flight status out of Hopkins International.

Finally, he was off.

“They say they can't confirm whether or not it's canceled yet and to call in the morning.”

Using their cellular phone, I called Isaac at the Estate and instructed him and two other servants to drive three of Our Hummers out to the club. Explaining each bands dilemma, the conversation was over in thirty seconds.

“No problem.” I assured them as I hung up. “They should be here in about an hour or so. They can get you and your gear to the hotel. And I'll get rooms for them as well, so they can stay the night and drive you to the airport in the morning.”

Turning to Shawn, I said, “And you guys will get back home to Akron tonight, no problem... Tell the rest of your band, someone will have to come back up for the van when the roads are cleared, and... it may be six o'clock in the morning by the time you get there, buuut, you'll get home tonight for sure... Now how about we all get the hell out of this bus and go dance?”

Blushing from everyones little round of cheers and applause, I went back into the club with them.

Facetiously, I told them, “Ah, don't mention it. I'm not as generous as I seem. I just didn't wanna carry anymore shit through the snow.”

They laughed.

Entering the club, I thought about how there was always a bit of truth and honesty in all humor.

∞ ∞ ∞

Shawn wanted to find Hel and talk to Her a bit.

But when we found Hel, She was on a couch in the lounge, kissing some androgynous mortal boy.

“Hrmm. She looks a little busy!” Shawn smiled.

Once again having to shout over music. Prayer Tower blared “Brain Child.”

“Uh... yeah! I'd have to say so!”

Patting My shoulder, Shawn smirked, “She's fitting right in. I guess!”

An affirmative nod accompanied My laugh.

“I should find the band anyway! I'll talk to Her later!”

“Okay!”

Kissing My cheek, she said, “Thank You soooo much, again, Elric! Thank You! You don't know how much I appreciate this! Seriously!”

“Oh, hey, it's no problem! Really!... You're very welcome!”

She winked. “Okay! I'll see You! We'll dance more before I leave!”

“Yup! You've got it!”

Shawn scampered off to let her band know they'll be going home.

Glancing back to Hel, I shook My head, insidiously happy. Hel spotted Me and smiled over Her shoulder as the boys tongue found Her neck.

There's nothing quite like the danger and mystery of making out with a girl just met, in a dark nightclub, among the smell of dry-ice and alcohol. Among the pulsating music. Arousing. Forbidden... And totally irresistible.

Oh, kid, if you only knew...

All sex is vampiric.

Nodding My respect to Her privacy, I turned and meandered away.

Pushing through hordes, numerous people were overheard discussing the weather. Some concerned. Some excited. Most indifferent. A few were looking forward to snowboarding. But others wondered if their cars would even start. Windows in the lounge offered a panoramic vista of the world quickly being turned into the planet Hoth. Snow like this, at the start of November, was unheard of... The worse it grew, the more concerned those indifferent people became.

Not Me.

I stayed rather indifferent.

Off to the heart of the club I wandered.

∞ ∞ ∞

Devan stood on the edge of the dancefloor with one of his roommates, Tracy. We waved at a distance. Closer I walked.

“Hey, Devan!”

“How's it going!?” We hugged once I was at his side.

“Good!”

“Cool!”

“Hi, Tracy!”

“Hellooo!” We hugged too.

“You're an intelligent guy! Maybe You can add to our conversation!”

“About what!?”

“Well, Tracy and I were just standing here discussing the... endless perks of Stupid People Genocide!... So, what are Your thoughts!?”

“Stupid People Genocide!?” My brow lifted.

“Yeah! Any opinions!? Good idea, You think!? Pro!? Con!?”

Frowning, I laughingly considered the notion. “Ah, no! Definitely pro! Yeah! I, uh, could think of a lot of people in trouble if that were -... I'd have to say I would definitely be a proud supporter of both the concept and the actual practice of Stupid People Genocide! Actual implementation I'd support most of all! No doubt!”

Devan chuckled deeply and morbid. “See! Good man!... Doesn't the whole idea of it just make You think, hmmm, they'd be gone! And him!... Uh, and oh, she'd definitely be outta here!?”

Laughing, I agreed. “Oh, yeah! Definitely! Definitely!... So, name some survivors!”

“... Are You kidding!?”

“Oh, we were already mentioning that!... Nobody in here!” Tracy added to the angstful dialogue. “Stephen Hawking maybe!”

“Stephen Hawking is here!?”

Tracy hit Me.

“No, there's a few!... Like her!” Devan motioned.

I saw nothing special. “Why!? What of her!?”

“The shirt! That's cool! Pretty clever!”

Tracy thought so too.

Devan pointed out a girl in black (surprise, surprise!). Pinned to her shirt was a black patch with a red “A” sewn to it. Below that, in big letters, read the caption: “... And Damn Proud Of It...”

Didn't mean a fucking thing to Me. “Wha!?... I don't get it!”

“Hester Prynne!”

My head wriggled. Give Me another hint.

“The Scarlet Letter!”

Yeah. So. The letter was red. Big deal. “... I have no clue what the fuck you're talking about!”

Devan looked genuinely disappointed. “Uh, oh! Be careful! That could put You on the endangered list! Not knowing classic literature references!”

Rolling My eyes, I pursed My lips snidely. Maybe I'm just too intellectual to waste brain capacity with petty trivialities... Yeah. That's it.

Who wants to read a book with a character named “Hester” anyway? He sounds like an idiot.

Replacing the tune “Psalm 69” by Ministry was The Sisters Of Mercy. As “Lucretia My Reflection” began, the three of us exchanged glances... Hmm. Yes or no? We were nearly tempted to dance. But we had all danced to that song about ninety billion times.

... No... Stand this one out.

Nevertheless, I found My hand and foot tapping to the danceable beat. Once Andrew Eldritch began to sing, resisting the desire to dance became progressively more difficult.

“Lucretia, my erection - !” Devan sang jokingly.

“Uh, speaking of Stupid People Genocide!...” Tracy pointed to the crowd, her face all askew.

“... Ohhh, my!...” Devan looked equally unappetized.

Blonde and libertine, a woman was slithering across the dancefloor. Sliding her crotch behind her as she tastelessly crawled on her stomach. Legs and hips bucked in mock fucking and scissor rhythms. Stretch pants and a matching top revealed every contour she was endowed with. Pulling herself along on her hands, she nearly spilled from her vest.

She was actually an attractive person and may have even succeeded at being sexy if she didn't act like such a completely trashy slut.

Now where had I seen that before?

“What the hell is she doing!?”

Still sleazily rubbing her groin over the floor.

“... Leaving mucus trails!?” I shrugged.

Devan's eyes split open and he laughed violently. Tracy hadn't heard Me. She laughed pretty fucking hard too, once Devan repeated what I said for her.

Their laughter rolled on.

“Ohhh!... That was good!”

“I think You're right! She is! Go get a mop! Somebody! People will slip!” Devan announced.

My mind again thinking about the Sisters Of Mercy song, I wondered about the lyrics. “Ever notice that - I hear the empire down - sounds like he's actually saying - I hear the vampire down - !?”

My inquiry was directed to Tracy. She nodded like she agreed. By the look on her face, I could tell she hadn't actually understood a word I'd said. She was just being polite.

Devan heard Me instead.

“No! This is it! You ready!?” Devan asked us.

He began to sing along with the song. Changing the lyrics on the way. Making it all up as he went along. Fucking hilarious.

The harder Tracy and I laughed, the more Devan came up with.”

“I'm only sixteen years old and I don't know shit / 'Cause I'm just a little kid / ... I don't know shit / But I'm gothic / ... I only dress this way / To get laid / Guys really dig this cloak I made / ... The rest of the week I dress like a prep / But I'm not a poseur / ... I dye my hair black / I like Christian Death...”

Tracy was clutching her stomach, laughing so hard. Most the words didn't rhyme too well or fit with the actual pace and melody of the original song, but that made it all the more funny.

My cheeks were sore from grinning when Hel came over to Me.

“What's so funny?” She wondered.

My response was a thumb flicked towards Devan.

She smirked, listening to him. Her jaw comfortably dropped. “Cute.”

“Have You met them?”

“No. He's Jazz though. From Lioncourt. Right?”

“Yeah. This is Jazz. Real name's Devan. This is Tracy.”

With Hel shaking their hands, I told them, “This is My cousin Hel, from England!”

“How's it going!?”

“Nice to meet You! England, huh!?”

“Good! You too! Yeah, England!” Hel graciously grinned, answering them both. Giving Her attention over to Me, Hel said, “Did You take that CD up to the DJ?... You wanted Me to remind - ”

“ - Oh! No. I didn't. Thanks. Wanna go up with Me?”

“Sure.”

“We'll see you! We're gonna say hello to Jim! I haven't talked to him yet tonight!” I told Tracy and Devan. They nodded farewell.

“Oh! Okay! See You!”

“Later!” Devan looked severely bummed that Hel was leaving so soon.

“Nice to meet you both!”

As Hel and I walked away, I asked Her, “So, did You get his number?”

“Hmmm?”

“The boy in the lounge?”

“Oh... No. I won't be needing it.” Maliciously, She bent Her neck.

“... Hel! You didn't. Not here.”

Her nose buckled. “Wha? No. Nooo! He's alive. He's just real fucking boring, that's all.”

“Ah. I see.” Left it at that.

Continuing to wander, We almost left the main floor of the club. Hel paused before We did.

“... What?”

“Let's dance to this first.” Last minute decision. Hel dragged Me away to finish out the Sisters tune. Guess I'd dance to it after all, I shrugged.

Siouxsie & The Banshees were dancing ten feet away and Siouxsie Sioux blew Me a thank-You-kiss just as the song was over. Smiling, I waved “you're welcome” as Hel and I resumed heading for the DJ booth.

Before We navigated upstairs, I noticed some punker deathchick off in a corner, singing away the tiny hairs around her nipples with a cigarette. Hrmph. Whatdaya know. The same girl who was wearing that fishnet vest. Funny that. Always seem to notice the same strange characters during the duration of any given night out.

Miss Fluorescent Gothic wandered by as well.

Didn't talk to her. Again.

∞ ∞ ∞

“Elric! Heyyy, buddy!” Jim hugged Me.

Some kid in the DJ booth had just asked that Jim play Rollins Band's “Low Self Opinion” later on. Jim told him that he would. The kid left. Peering at Me with a strange, awestruck glance.

“Jim!”

“How You been!?”

“Not bad! I gotta gift for you!”

“Oh!?”

“Yeah! Cam brought it last time She and Allyson went to New York!” Out of My pocket, I removed an original, unopened copy of the album U2 by Negativland. The CD was released on SST Records before the band and the label got sued for it and the copies were ordered to be pulled from the market. Casey Kasem sued because samples of his voice, swearing endless profanity at his crew during a taping of his America's Top 40 show, were used in the song. Wholesome family icons hate the truth of their monumental assholeness being revealed.

“Oh, wow! No way! Where'd You find this!? New York!? You got it there!? Where in New York!?”

“Nuh, uh. Can't reveal My sources!”

“Damn, this is cool! Thanks! Tell Your Sister I said thanks too, okay!? Yeah! Tell Her Jim said thanks a lot!... Well, I'll tell Her!” He put the album away.

“Sure!”

“Thanks for saving me from that weird kid, by the way! He left as soon as You came up! Psycho fan! Did You see him!?” Jim's eyes swelled.

“Who!?” Stupid reaction: I looked around as if the guy was still there.

Jim's eyes puffed even bigger. “That kid who wanted me to play Rollins! Did You hear him!? He was weird! He was really weird, Elric!”

“Why!? What'd he do!?”

“He comes up here, and he's like, “Oh, you might remember me! You looked right at me at your last concert!””

“Ahhh!... Okay!...” My head slid back away from Jim.

“He thinks I looked at him!? Yeah, right! Like I really looked at him from behind my drumkit! You know how far back I am on stage! I can barely fucking see Devan! Can't even see my triggers half the time! Like I really looked right at him!? And then, get this, he starts telling me how he's a real vampire and shit! I'm going, uh, okay, whatever dude!” Jim was melodramatically astounded beyond comprehension that anybody would say that.

Hel and I really laughed at that lie.

“Yuh! A real vampire! Oh, sure he is!” I scoffed. “I think I would know!... What else he say!?”

“Isn't that funny!? Fucking strange dudes out there, man! I'm tellin' You!”

“No shit!”

“You think You would know!?” Jim finally laughed at My previous comment. Then he turned to Hel. “'Cause You're the original Vampire Boy, huh, Elric!?”

I shrugged. Bemused by the label of that silly old nickname which I hadn't heard in awhile. Certainly, I never encouraged such a daft, I'm-so-goth label. Just as dumb as those Gothic Rainbow tee-shirts Allyson likes, if You ask Me. Yet, so many people, who never met each other, all somehow wind up calling Me that. Vampire Boy.

Ho, hum, the irony of it all...

“Maybe I should play his request so he doesn't drain my blood or something!” Jim punched My arm and chuckled with bent knees.

“Really! Be careful! He might turn into a bat and hide in your car or something! Bite your ass when you sit down!”

Jim crouched lower and laughed uncontrollably for a second or two. “Turn into a bat! You're funny!... Turn into a bat! Heh, heh!”

“Hey, never can tell with those real vampires, you know!?” I smirked. No wonder the kid looked at Me so bizarrely. He was probably awestruck with Me, simply because of the fact that I knew Jim.

Sheesh.

Gimmie a break.

“So, Who's this!? Who's Your Friend there, Elric!?” Jim laughed in a rather nerve-wracking giggle, still amused from My “bat” comment.

“Oh, I'm sorry! Jim, this is My cousin, Hel!”

“Is that - Your cousin, You said!?”

“Yeah!”

But She would not be remembered as such for long. By the end of the night, every Revenant and mortal We knew would recall Hel as being just another Sister in Our Family, that they always remember having been around.

Including those who had already been introduced to Her as My cousin.

Including those who had never even met Her yet at all.

“Oh! Nice! Nice to meet You! I'm Jim! I like Your nosering! What is it!?... A ballerina!? Looks like a little ballerina!... You take ballet!? Are You a ballerina!?” He peered close to Her nostril as they shook hands.

Hel responded flatly. “No! It's a faerie!”

“Oh!... Are You a fairy!?” Jim, picking a CD from a shelf, laughed at his own joke.

We didn't.

“Like your shirt!” Hel told him. Her tone pitied his inane attempt at humor and tried changing the subject.

He just wore a Vampire: The Masquerade tee-shirt.

“Thanks!”

“Uh, huh!”

“What was that song you just played!?” My question was nearly answered while I was checking albums he had pulled.

“The sooong - !? They're called Voice Of The Beehive! “Monsters And Angels” it's called, the song - !”

“ - No! I know! That's now! I know this song! I mean right before this!”

“Oh! That was... umm, what did I play!?... “Give Me You” by... Lights Of Euphoria!... Why!? You like it!? You like that!? Pretty cool, huh!?”

“Yeah, actually!” I frowned with an introspective pout.

“Kinda technoie!” Jim needlessly explained.

Nodding in acknowledgment, I said. “That's why I'm surprised I like it! Techno fucking sucks!”

“Most of it does! Some is good! Lords Of Acid is cool! Fem 2 Fem is kinda good sometimes!”

“Yeah, I like them!”

“See! Not all techno is crap! Just most of it is! Most sucks!”

“Cubanate!” Hel offered. “They're good! Hardcore! Almost an industrial sort of techno! Gabber rocks pretty hard!... Rave techno blows rotted cock!”

“Too many old industrial bands turned techno. They sound so lame now.”

“That's where the money is, I guess.” Hel resigned.

My fingers clicked. “... Oh! Thanks. Money... You just reminded Me of something else I gotta do.”

“What?”

“I have to go up and see Felicia about something.”

“Have You ever been here before!?” Jim wanted to know as he began cueing up “Heresy” by Nine Inch Nails.

“Yeah! I have! But I never came with Elric at all!”

“You haven't!? How 'bout a tour!? I can give You one when I'm done! You should get a tour! See what the whole club - You wanna tour!?” Nine Inch Nails was ready to go.

“Yeah - !”

“ - Elric, You should give Her a tour!... What's the matter with You, Elric!? Give Your cousin a tour there, buddy!”

Ah. I see, it's the old, I-think-this-girl-is-hot-so-I'll-make-you-look-like-a-dickhead-so-she-likes-me-and-thinks-I'm-cool technique. Never does work.

Jim continued, “Or, I'll do it! I can give You a tour! You want a - Give Her one! Show Her around! Have - ”

“ - YEAH! I planned to!” Ready to kill him if I had to hear him repeat himself five hundred more different ways, I interrupted.

Hel too was suddenly in a hurry. “Really? Cool. I thought so. I hoped so. Let's go then.”

Jim interjected. “... How can You guys hear Each other!? You both talk so quiet to Each other! It's funny! You always talk so quiet! How can You hear Him!?”

“I'm a real vampire!” Hel offered, as though joking.

“Oh!... See! I thought maybe You are a fairy, huh!?”

Hel said not a word.

“Sure, Jim! We gotta go!” I told him as We left.

“A fairy! Heh! Heh!... Okay! See You guys!”

“Play “Hearts Filthy Lesson” by Bowie sometime tonight!... Or “Ich Bin Ein Auslander” by Pop Will Eat Itself!”

“You got it, pal!... Hey! Check my car for me! Make sure there's no bats in it!” Jim waved Us off, still bright and snickering with his sweet, friendly smile.

The CD player clicked as he released Nine Inch Nails from pause.

∞ ∞ ∞

Outside the DJ booth, Hel and I found a group of kids caught up in a conversation about perverse superheroes. First, they invented “Silver Bullet Penis Man” who would seduce werewolves and fuck them to death.

Climbing past Us on the stairs, Hel offered them the idea of “Wooden Stake Penis Man” (who would obviously fuck vampires to death) and instantly, she made some new friends.

“Cool! See! You got the idea!” One girl said. Understanding grins were given and reciprocated.

We all continued on our courses.

“Jim is pretty interesting.”

“Yeah... He starts every night out with “The Rainbow Connection” by Kermit The Frog.”

“Oh-h-h-h! Clever that.”

Throbbing resentment pounded through the foundations as Nine Inch Nails crushed everything in an avalanche of music. Garbled distortions. Vocals shuddered. Old church walls seemed to tremble in horror from indisputable truths of blasphemy.

- he sewed his eyes shut because he is afraid to see -

Felicia was also on Her way up the stairwell.

“Ah! Just Whom I was coming to see.”

“Your Highness.” She nodded to Hel, then to Me. “My Liege. What can I do for You?”

“How much is Piper Blue making for tonights show?”

“Nine hundred.” Felicia relaxed. Once greeting Us, the formal tones were acceptable to drop.

“Wow! Holy shit. That much? That's a hell of a lot... Make it nine thousand.”

“... Really? Nine thousand dollars!?” Her face flared shock.

“Yes. Really.”

Hel snorted, equally stunned. “They'll think the check is a fake.”

“That's Felicia's problem.”

Again relaxing, Felicia rolled Her lip. “As You wish... Shall I tell them that You - ”

“ - No. Just tell them You... were feeling generous.”

“Okay. No problem. Consider it done.” She nodded.

“I will. Thank You, Felicia... Well, I'm going to show Hel around Our little danceclub.”

“Little?” Hel sardonically squealed.

“Excellent. Can I do anything else for - ”

“ - No. No. Just enjoy Your evening. That's it. That's all I wanted.” I waved Her away.

“Very well... Enjoy Yourselves!” She called out as She resumed walking up to see Jim.

“We will!”

“Take care!”

“That was nice of You.” Hel complimented once We had gotten back to the lobby.

“Eh...” I merely blew it off.

“So, where should We start?” Hel wondered, excitedly looking about for some idea.

“Well... I guess that depends on what You want to see. What You want to know.”

Wide-eyed, She took My hands. “Everything! Tell Me everything. This place is so amazing. I want to know how You got it and where everything is and - Just - show Me it all... Lead the way.”

Bouncy, She revealed Her mortal age, in Her thrilled and contagious enthusiasm.

Nice to see Her that way.

All I could do to keep from giggling was smile. “Okay. Well, then I guess We should start at the beginning? We'll... start down in The Vault and We'll end up... back here? I guess? Err... at the top of the steeple? How's that sound - ?”

“ - Okay - ”

“ - And I'll just - I dunno. I guess I can just... tell You everything along, the way?”

“Perfect.”

Pulses from overwhelming drumming punched the air. Hissing beats fired piston blasts of locomotive steam. Bass riffs rolled as disturbingly and sinister as millipede legs.

Nine Inch Nails screeched a thousand times louder than I had imagined on the night vampires first came to that church. Heresies a thousand times worse had taken place within those walls since the night We claimed them for Our Own.

“Okay. Good. So... Here's the whole story on how the Gothic Rainbow came to be...”

- your god is dead and no one cares -

∞ ∞ ∞

“Our Lady of Gentle Compassion?” My hand slipped the blindfold from My eyes and was then removing it from My neck.

I had read the words carved at the bottom of the massive, triangular stone pediment.

“Cam... This is a church.” Allyson took off Her Own blind and stared at My Wife, as confused as I was.

Camillia had promised Us a new nightclub. One to outdo anything We had ever imagined. One as grand as the Skeksis castle in Jim Henson's film The Dark Crystal. A vow I highly doubted She could ever hope to attain. Surely not that grand.

After all, what did it matter? At that point, any new club would do. With the closing of places like the House Of Altars, I was near to tears. So was Allyson. My heart ached the night they tore down the building on that hellishly cold January night.

(Actually, it was never torn down. It became an adult video store. But remembering it as having been razed is much more dramatic.)

A wistful pine for all the memories and friends I had made there was very sincere, however. I found that instead of relishing what We had, I spent all My time missing what We lost.

There was no place else like it. Tiny. Cramped. Yet a generous dancefloor. A totally scummy, underground dive. People came from miles around to go there, hole-in-the-wall though it was. The best, the only progressive dance club in the city.

The “place to be.”

A place where the first, mad days of dying, could start to make a bit more sense.

With the House Of Altars gone, We were tragically, lost.

We needed a new haven.

... So what the fuck was this?

“This is a church.” Allyson repeated, leaving “Killing For Jesus” by the Circle Jerks playing on the stereo. Exiting Our Rolls Royce limousine, She spoke just as confused as the first time She stated those words.

“Not for long.” Camillia grinned.

The limo had been parked on the broad sidewalk. Looking around, I gained My bearings. A few houses. Main street falling away from Us on a massive hill. Traffic light behind Us. Corner of the T-shaped intersection of Pearl Road and Bucyrus Avenue. Not much else.

Nothing around.

Nothing but the church.

Gradually, I smiled. Comprehending Camillia's ingenious machinations... Yes... The church... Of course...

“A church?” Allyson asked Me this time.

“... Not for long.” I repeated Camillia's sentiment as though I had obviously comprehended all along. Slowly moving away from Ally, I stared up at the structure and stood at Cam's side.

Our backs to the church, We watched Allyson's face gaze at the imposing form behind Our heads. As gradually as Mine, a horrible grin cut Her face.

Meeting Our eyes, Allyson understood and laughed sinisterly.

“I always liked christians... They believe they drink the blood of a god.”

Circle Jerks were still stuck in My head, and played in the background.

“Lead on, Dear cicerone!” My hand arced aside for Camillia as I theatrically bowed.

Allyson accepted the chaperon offer of My elbow as Camillia guided Us through Our Lady of Gentle Compassion.

Built in brick and limestone, using an Italian Renaissance style, it stood upon the hill which was then hoisted on a further rise over the street level.

Stone stairs swept in an arc from the street up to the main doors. Centered beneath the steps, even with the street, was a pair of doors leading to the church basement. Flanking that interior passageway were candlelit prayer rooms, hidden beneath the stairs. Each shrine filled with huge bleachers of candles and statues, ready to stare sinners into the damnation of guilt and piety.

Four gargantuan, corinthian columns of limestone supported the pediment and a carved cartouche held by two angels. Reaching dizzying heights. Created by man to instill a humility before god. Staring unintimidated at the intimidating stone, I noticed the church name again.

Left of the inscription I had read were lilies upon a stone shield and the letter Alpha upon another. On the opposite side, two shields bore Omega and the star of Bethlehem, respectively.

Up the stairs We moved. Standing upon the huge, stone landing in front of the portico. The interior was shut behind three pairs of four-hundred pound bronze doors. Each swung on rollers in extravagantly carved archways.

To the north of the church was a four-story elementary school building. Perched on the edge of a manmade cement cliff, the school overlooked a huge, public transit authority busbarn.

South of the church lay a priest dormitory. Next to that was a separate parish center which housed a theatre, cafeteria, and gymnasium.

Wandering around the church, the building proper ascended sixty-seven feet high. Reaching out sixty-nine feet wide and one-hundred-sixty-eight feet long from face to back.

The basement church swept equally as broad and long. Unlike the upstairs nave, unadorned ceilings rose only a dozen feet over a pillared floor.

Upon the northwest corner soared an imposing tower. Capped in a verdigris pyramid, it climbed to a height of one-hundred-forty feet, copied from Santo Spiritu Church in Florence, Italy. Perilous enough to dismay any steeplejack.

The entire face of the cathedral, and stretching all the way up the tower past the belfry, was illuminated by massive spotlights strategically mounted around the grounds. Glowing with a blinding, ghostly light against the stark contrast of the midnight sky.

Allyson found the cornerstone. Set on 28 July 1929, it bore the inscription: “In Honor Of The Most Precious Blood Of Our Lord Jesus Christ”

Within the church, it was even more breathtaking.

At the southern side of the vestibule, a baptistry was caged behind an intricate, Italian Renaissance, wrought iron grille. Locked by gates of matching black. On the vestibules northern side, a stairwell wound down into the basement church.

Directly above the vestibule, was the choir loft, which could be reached by steps in the corner. Further up the stairs led into the belltower, within which hung four behemoth iron bells. Once in the loft, thick brackets, richly carved with symbolic ornaments, supported the figured, red gumwood railing, overlooking the main auditorium. Matching pews faced the altar far below.

Above the choir gallery, watching the main street between the two, middle corinthian columns, was a circular window of stained glass.

Most outstanding and bewildering of the upper church was the complete absence of pillars in the main auditorium.

At the time it was crafted, it held the record for the largest unsupported public ceiling structure in the country. All the more impressive when viewed from the godly heights of the choir balcony.

Ornamental rosettes of plaster, painted in red, blue, and gold, decorated the coffered ceiling. Stretching across all sixty-nine feet of the church, the roof arced in one magnificent bow. A matching coffered ceiling curved in a half-dome over the apse. Strozzi Lanterns hung upon their long, pendulous chains to light the nave.

Spectacular.

Below, the gray, macoustic plaster walls were staggered in renaissance pilasters with cornice and frieze. Travertine stone completed the wainscotting while the base of the auditorium and vestibule walls were made of Napoleon grey marble.

Half a dozen confessionals were recessed into the walls. There they waited, bound behind thick oaken doors which swung silently on hidden shames.

Each wall in the nave also had eight, mammoth, steel-sashed windows, protecting more stained glass. The largest stained windows I had ever seen. During the day, I envisioned, that they would shine the brightest as well. Among the sixteen wondrous windows were depicted the Seven Sorrows and the Seven Joys of the “virgin” mother of their god.

At the front of the church, an enormous backlit crucifix hung from ceiling to floor in the apse. Before it, the main altar was built from Rosa Verona marble. A sturdy ivory, streaked in greys. Botticino Italian marble made up the sanctuary floor.

As Nine Inch Nails blasted in My mind, We decided to have an even closer look around.

The church was packed full. Standing room only.

Midnight mass.

Christmas eve.

Ignoring the ushers, We threw open the central doors of the vestibule. Sacrilegiously, We marched, straight up the main aisle towards the altar. Hundreds of heads were cast down in reverent prayer as the gospels were read from the pulpit.

Revolting.

Pathetic those brainwashed multitudes. Taught to never think. Punished if they ever questioned a senseless word of their flawed mysticism. Every tradition they followed lost all meaning until they were simply rituals of mindless, heartless action. Every organized religion was a cult. A deranged cult with rules, limits and stipulations placed upon the boundless freedom of true spirituality.

Onward We stalked.

Another usher pointed for Us to turn back. Before We reached him, he was shaking his head “we-have-no-more-space, turn-around.” Next to Us, he spoke in a whisper. “I'm sorry, there's no more room up here. If You could stand in the rear of the - ”

He gasped. Offended. Disgusted. He just noticed Allyson's shirt.

“Huuu!... Uh...”

We paused momentarily.

On Her chest was a scowling priest, depicted fucking a frightened devil up the ass. Over the image read the heading: “Christians Fucking Hate Evil”

“Excuse me. You will have to go in the back of the church.” Now stern and forceful, the ushers congenial smile was obliterated. Blocking Our path with an outstretched arm, he motioned Us again away. “Please...”

Still We ignored him.

“Perfect!” We all looked around. Standing still in the aisle. Halfway to the altar. Talking in a normal tone of voice, My word echoed far through the quiet church. “Flip the crucifix upside down. Paint the walls black. Tear out the pews. Instant underground dance club!”

Allyson chuckled. Camillia grinned.

Dozens of dirty and perplexed looks were cast My way.

“Sir!” The usher called, still using a firm whisper.

The gospels ended. Upon the sanctuary dais, a children's choir began to sing. Directed by a youthful nun. Voices rose more celestial than the finest Gregorian chants. Innocent. Sincere. Harmony which churned up into that extravagant ceiling and tumbled soothingly, back down again. All the richer for having been that much nearer to heaven.

The three of Us began to walk up front again.

“Sir...”

Allyson broke the ushers hand when he dared grab My shoulder.

Enveloped in a heart-jumping scream, he collapsed to the floor. “OWWW, god!! Oh, god! My han - My han - Uuuh - Uuugh!”

One solid crack and She shattered his cheekbone. Silencing him to unconsciousness.

“Hey!” A man bolted from a pew and tried to stop Allyson. At the last moment, he paused, then turned to assist the old usher instead. Others joined him to help.

Finally, the balding middle-aged priest looked down the aisle.

A mixture of sour notes spoiled the choir melodies.

Glancing over her shoulder, the sister asked the priest with her facial expression “is everything alright?”

Waving her to cease the music, the priest craned his neck toward the center of his church.

Worried, the nun hushed her children to stop for a moment. In a cacophony of off-key voices, they took several seconds to quiet down.

Whispers of those who were at the ushers side made an eerie murmur of echoes.

Silently, the nun glanced at Me. Then turned away.

“Hey! Alright! What in gods name - ? What's going on down there!?” The priest angrily called in a boisterous nasal voice. Concerned for the usher who lay immobile, the priest was attempting to look around the three of Us approaching him.

“Justice! And now that this mass has ended, Our justice has only begun.”

Camillia bellowed as Allyson and I followed Her up the aisleway.

Refocusing his eyes on Camillia, the father was shocked. “Uh!? Excuse me?... This is a house of god! If You can't respect - ”

“ - God is dead! You killed him... and gave his rotting carcass to Us. Expecting Us to devour him like cannibals to feed Our spirituality.” Sagaciously, She yelled.

Staring the holy man directly in the eye. Camillia stomped up to him and grabbed his chasuble.

About to throw Her out of the church himself, I saw his face instantaneously glaze over. Holding a fear I doubt he had ever been capable of experiencing.

Camillia whispered harsh and vindictive. Her voice creepily amplified over the speaker system of the entire church. The whisper received by the lapel microphone pinned to the priests vestments. “Nine million innocent lives were murdered during all the Crusades of your loving god. Another nine million by the plague of your missionaries. Your Inquisition killed men, women and children simply because they opposed your hateful faith. Christianity has been directly responsible throughout history for the slaughter of more lives than that of the Nazi Holocausts. And yet, you remain free to deceive the world with your repressive and elitist propaganda. None of your Holy Roman Empire has ever had to answer for the centuries of your crimes against humanity. For your misogynistic rape of the Goddess. For your bastardized theft of Her pagan rituals and rites. For your killing of the native Great Spirits. For the wasteful spilling of so much... precious blood.”

- his perfect kingdom of killing suffering and pain -

Finishing Her homily, Camillia motioned to Allyson. “And now, the wrath of the first of many Goddesses and Gods return... to lay you to waste. So, again I say... this... is... justice.”

Briefly, the good sister made eye contact with Me.

Allyson went over to the choir. Daintily smiling. Children backed away...

Snatching a boy by the scruff of his neck, She shoved his throat onto Her fangs. He flinched only in his last second of life, She drank from him so fast. Color faded from his flesh and skin pulled latex-taunt on his bones.

All of it happened in the space of three seconds.

The nun gasped. Stumbling backwards to the piano in fright.

Aghast and bound by panic, the priest cried. “W-What are You doing!? What are You - Leave those children alone!”

By the time I took five further steps to the altar, two more corpses of girls lay at Allyson's feet. Pulling down the pants of a little boy no more than eight, She sucked from him all life as well. Savoring him more leisurely.

Screams of absolute terror exploded from the congregation. Those who weren't frozen in horror, and praying with closed eyes, were trampling one another, trying to get out of the building. Chaos splintered the peaceful gathering. Havoc raged.

An altar boy tripped over the manger in a life-sized nativity set, as he tried to clamor away. Knocked himself into a daze on the marble floor. Accidentally toppling the tabernacle. Shrieks and wailing only grew louder.

Parents grabbing children. Babies crying in siren waves.

Several other parents -

Charging toward Us, a man shrieked, “TOMMY!” Desperate eyes locked on a dead child sprawled across the floor.

Turning -

At the congregation I spun -

My shout -

Fang and blood. Noise from astral nightmares. Paralyzed every soul within those walls.

One crack of thunder bellowed outside.

Rippled...

Piercing -

Dark. Evil. Blackness glowed.

Auras monstrous of direst shadow.

Imploding into a fetal position, the mans limbs jerked violently. Haphazardly. Convulsing in a puddle of spittle and urine, he shivered upon the tile floor. Drawn deep his eyes, into a darkness only he could see.

Only he could hear.

Shaking. Freezing. Frost upon his breath.

Fear beyond a mortality.

Mortified, everyone slowly moved backwards...

Some cried... Few prayed... Most deathly silent. A black and white movie with no sound.

Reversed... Fading... They slinked -

Shackled by Our sorcery.

Staggering back, the priest knocked the piscina over as he groped for something to hold. Shoes slipped on the spilled water and he slammed his ass on the floor. Whimpering, animal noises whined in his throat. Magnified over the nave.

Holding his rosary before him, he cowered at Camillia's approach.

Nefariously, She laughed in his face, and waved a lazy arm towards the apse. “Your crucifixes can not keep Us at bay. Nor the wood of any cross plunged into Our hearts. Your Christ told you to eat and drink of his blood... That is all that is savory to Our pallet. A request We obey with devotion.” Camillia's finger traced his brow.

“N-No. You can't be - ”

“ - We are the Apostles of the oldest of Gods... Ourselves.”

“N-No. You're... You're - Oh! Angels and ministers of grace defend us!... F-From hell. From hell. By Satan, You're from hell!... All of You!... Deliver us, from evil - Deliver us, from evil - Deliver us, from - ”

“ - Evil!? What the fuck do you know of evil?... Or Satan? Or hell?” Leering through him with ragged eyes, My fist clutched hair on the back of his bald head.

Maddened I snarled. “Whatever you do is considered evil by somebody. And of your hell, I can tell you this: That to follow a religious doctrine which condemns non-believers to eternal damnation is to support the spiritual equivalent of Nazi death camps. Eliminating all those who fail to fit your ideals. Concentrating them all into a single place of torment. Only the faith of your judgments and condemnation are even worse than that Holocaust. Because yours never end... Should a just god truly exist to pass such a sentence on the goodly-hearted, the condemned should shit in your gods face, and curse him for being the evil hypocrite he is. Your god is a lie and Satan is simply an equally pitiful fabrication invented by cowardly men who fear to admit that the darkest power in all the universe lies within their own souls. Too ashamed, too terrified, to acknowledge that the most bestial cruelties ever conceived were created by themselves. So, wake up... and smell what your full of, motherfucker!”

- he dreamed a god up and called it christianity -

With closed eyes, he babbled as though being choked. “No!... You're wrong!... Our, lord... is a loving - ”

“ - No!... I'm right... If I were wrong, perhaps sins really could be forgiven...”

Throwing him from My grasp, he landed at Camillia's feet.

Grizzly rage pounded about My veins.

Bashing the cruets to the floor, My Bride slammed the priest, prone across the altar and prepared his viaticum.

Fallen candles burned. Igniting the three linen cloths as fire consumed the missal.

Choir boys and girls and the whole congregation made no sound. Packed and crushed tight by fear, to the rear of the church. All of their faces were warped into tortured, screaming visages. But only their breathing could be heard. Not one of them moved anymore. No color left in the night.

Sacrificed atop the altar, Camillia feasted in the friar's blood. Dragging his body off the stained marble, She soared upward and hung his remains on high. Dangling twenty feet above, from the ironwork of a lantern overhead.

“Let us pray?” Allyson, blood across Her mouth, spoke to the nun. “That's what you say, isn't it?”

The nun was staring at Me. And she was not afraid.

“Yes. Just pray. That's your pathetic answer to every tragedy which befalls everyone. Is it not?” Sarcastically, I groaned. “Don't even try to deal with your problems. They're too big for you to overcome. Never attempt to change that which makes you unhappy. You're too incompetent to improve your life on your own. Just pray. Just leave it up to god. Just put it in his hands... Teach mortals they are hopelessly weak and powerless to control their own destinies... Thank you, dear sister. You make Our influences so much easier... Let Us prey...”

- he's got the answers to ease My curiosity -

“... You're so beautiful...”

... Allyson and I puzzled at the nun.

She didn't seem to have heard a word I said. Her stare was distant and alone. Tears welled. Reaching a hesitant hand toward Me, she revealed, “... You're the One I prayed for. Hoped for. Before I ever came... to the church... Before I ever - I... didn't believe anymore... Bu - You're so beautiful... Vampires?...”

Breaking her gaze, she collapsed in tears and distressed laughter.

Allyson and I grinned at Each other. Without exchanging a word, We eased the sister to her feet. Rage become lust.

“Shhhh... Hush, My little one... Come. Come with Us.”

- he flexed his muscles to keep his flock of sheep in line -

Guiding her over carcasses from the childrens choir. Taking her to the center of the sanctuary. We removed her habit. Soft hair fell over her shoulders. Disrobing the rest of her, Allyson rested her athletic, young body over the bloody altar. Frosty chaste bra-straps melted off her arms.

“I know what You are...”

“... Don't you all?”

For a long time, she cried.

We played. We laughed. We spoke.

We touched. We caressed. We passioned.

We moaned...

For a long time, she screamed.

“... Share your fondest wish.”

“Take me with You...” She finally prayed, wrapped in suffering and titillation.

Laughing in her face at her yearnings. Draining her a fraction further. Prolonged that majesty of despair. Hurting. Pulling out of her syrupy heat. One finger pet freckles on her temple.

“Shhh... Shhh... Now wilt thou see thy god...”

Serene was her numbed, drowsy smile.

Allyson gently bent the naked nuns head over the back of the altar. As I climbed off of her, Camillia licked My blood from deep between her legs. Allyson sunk into her neck and drank her unto death.

Standing there unclothed, I looked around the church. Smell of blood heavy on the air. Mixed with burning cloth and the charred word of god.

Chuckling when I again saw what Camillia had left of the priest.

My sensuous nun had told Me that she never cared much for him anyway. One time, she actually saw the priest flip off someone's grandfather!

Obscene gestures from a disciple of a loving god? And, what's more, he was proud of the times he did such things. Bragged about it.

And what would his excuse be? That it was okay to do because the old man did it first? That he was “only human” and it was not a sin he committed?

Bullshit.

He was a fucking priest. Wearing that collar, he took on the obligation and the responsibility of having virtues more resolute than his fellow man. Human or not, he was expected to be better than everyone else. Because he vowed that he would do as such, and he owed a duty to that promise.

Justice was truly done to him.

Standing up for himself by being rude to other people? Giving the finger to an old man?

Perhaps he never heard (or learned the meaning of): “Honor Thy Father And Mother.”

Good thing that fucker died.

Police sirens whined outside. Red and blue flashers poured up across stained glass. Weirdly distorting the true colors of the images with dim glows.

Unmoving, the crowd of parishioners stirred at long last. Minute threads of enchanted terror shredded by hope. Perhaps vainly believing themselves to finally be saved.

And what would the crowds within those walls be, once We opened those doors to the outside world again?

Once that place turned Our new haven...

No doubt through those doors would come My children. Heart and mind within, My offspring are they. Not a soul in the world knew pain until I had. All that they feel is a mirror of Myself. No one ever was before Me. Nothing lived. Never do memories exist until I know them as deep.

Alienated. Abandoned. Forgotten.

Conceived of mortal wombs in all the Summers Of Love. Made orphans from the ideals those days promised.

They were all on their own. And utterly alone. Always.

But in that club, for a few hours, they could at least be together for a little while. Encouraged to be who they are. Complimented on their naughtiness. Admired for being, thinking and dressing shamefully wicked.

At the very least, they would never be disillusioned about the truth of riding the earth straight to hell.

No. No illusions. The Summer Of Love was long gone.

And woe to those mindless motherfuckers who challenged our hate.

Conformist enemies to those outcast are always easily seen. Always spied. It winds up being shown in speech. Spotted in mannerisms. Manifesting in dress.

We know who you are...

Modern fashions created cliques in the nightclub scene as distinctive as medieval heraldry did on a battlefield. For the sake of views and opinions, such clothes were just as essential to life and death as any coat of arms. You knew your nemesis...

Although, no matter how differently clad they may have seemed to the outside world, the “freaks” all hung out together. And they would all be at home in Our club.

None of them would ever dress half-assed to come there. And they never did.

No matter how “underground” the club was, they would all set standards for themselves.

Gothic kids went fully garbed in renaissance corsetry, ruffles, cloaks and black makeup. Girls in dresses of dark Vivienne Westwood styles.

Punkers arrived with freshly-dyed scalps in every color and shave. Wearing endless leather accessories and everything spiked from hair to bracelets.

Artsy college students came in tailored suits and vampiric sunglasses with not a hem miscut.

Fetish crowds brought whips and restraints, collars and chains and chatelaines, and knew exactly how to use every last toy they carried.

Countercultures and their decadences altered with the passing of each decade. Society continually mutated and evolved out of the irresistible nature of human desires for stimulation and to alleviate stagnation and boredom.

And We are there. Always. As centuries pass.

New standards in morals and ideals give way to acceptances of deviant weirdnesses and perversions undreamed of by cultures past. Demented and shocking in one era becomes perfectly normal and befitting in the next. Taboos become suitable. Not only by the free-thinking fringes of a society, but by the most steadfastly conservative in the mainstream as well.

For My Sisters, this was Their hearts desire.

Decadent and indulgent perversions consuming the world. For centuries, every year They saw, gave way to even more twisted and hedonistic practices.

This was whom Our club would be for...

The whole of the underground scene. The unaccepted. The scorned.

Goths. Punkers. Progressives. Straightedges. Fetishists...

And as they vanished from the culture through the decades, (and go from being innovate, to being a ridiculed parody of themselves, as all social groups eventually seem to do) We would embrace the new flocks of nonconformists in every form they might take.

Outcasts and pervs.

Freaks and degenerates.

Psycho and sadist.

... Witches.

... Necromancers.

... Monsters.

Vampires...

“... What shall We call it?” Allyson wondered, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“Hrmph. That's a damn good question.”

And for a long time, Our nightclub didn't have any name at all.

As it was reconstructed and rebuilt over the months, We contemplated numerous names. We almost called it “Zombie Zoo” in honor of the Tom Petty tune. Befitting as hell, I thought.

“The Pawn Shop” was another consideration.

Get it? As in - Pawns for the Killing Game.

Allyson was pummeled with throw pillows for suggesting such a lame pun.

“I still like The Zombie Zoo.”

“Uh, no. Wrong.” Allyson soured, crawling out from under pillows.

Okay. Perhaps not.

But I had been right about one thing -

Black walls. Inverted crucifix. No pews. Instant club!

Although... well, okay, it took a bit more effort than that.

Down in the basement church, the floor became gutted of pews, as I had said. Fake stone was then cemented over wire mesh on the walls and pillars. A decor to make it look like a cave. Speakers, lighting and ventilation were hidden in the tan, beige and gray plaster rock.

Multiple levels of flooring were created. A disarray of tiny steps led to varied landings, plateaus and recessed pits with booths, barstools or tables and couches.

Where the sanctuary once existed was built a three foot high stage. Acoustics were designed so that even in the cavernous setting, a band would play with no distortions whatsoever. In fact, much of the flawless harmonics were derived from the amplification and soundproofing built into the design.

Those bizarre stalactite and stalagmite formations actually enhanced the audio rather than hindered it.

Just inside the main entrance of the downstairs church, further alterations were done. Leading down the passageway off the street, the old prayer rooms were made into the ticket booth and a coat check. The opposite side was turned into the merchandise table. Selling shirts, albums, stickers, postcards, programs and the like, for whatever band was touring through that night. Memorabilia from past concerts was also available.

Calling it The Vault was an easy and quick decision to agree upon. Not unique for a club. But appropriate. Allyson wasn't so pissy about that one.

Speaking of which...

A generous amount of what became unisex restrooms were remodeled within both levels of the church. A mortal need We nearly neglected to recall.

Upstairs, behind the apse, a gargantuan lounge was added. As wide as the church, it curved in an enormous, domed half-circle. Windows arched up from walls to peak like the quarter orb of a greenhouse planetarium. Dotted with recliners, sofas and love seats. Ranging from modern, plush leathers to imported Victorian antiques. The quietest place in the club to socialize. Televisions in the walls showed videos sent from the disc jockey booth.

Now with ebony walls and a sable ceiling, the massive crucifix in the apse was inverted after all. Glittering gold and blue tiles behind it were changed to a coal obsidian. Backlit by blacklights and not the former heavenly glow of white.

Replacing pulpit and tabernacle, two lengthy L-shaped bars flanked the sanctuary. Every confessional was likewise enclosed by half-circular speakeasies. The same held true of confessionals down in The Vault.

Once the pews were removed to create a behemoth dancefloor, a balcony level was added around the upper nave circumference. Set halfway up the walls, it surrounded the entire perimeter of the church. Reaching fifteen feet out from the walls, the second level was strewn with couches and tables. An elbow-height, scrap-iron railing protected patrons from the twenty foot plummet to the main dancefloor below.

Up in the rear of Our haven, the choir loft was transformed into the DJ booth. An electronic network of mixers, equalizers, turntables, tape players, effects control panels, and computerized digital video and audio systems filled the loft on boards and racks. Shelves stretched into the rear of the choir gallery and held countless thousands of recordings. Vinyl record albums to compact discs to DV tapes and lazerdisc music videos which could be fed into monitors all over the venue. (Dozens of artists, from international acts like Bjork to locally based bands like Bath, had their world premiere video release parties in Our club.)

Directly below the gumwood railing of the loft, an inscribed beam was installed. Rippled wood made to look like cloth. Across it, in three foot tall letters facing the dancefloor, read the phrase: “Mal Vit Quj Ne Maude”

“He Who Lives Badly Will Be Damned.”

Cute, huh? Camillia's idea.

Hung from the ceiling were scaffolds. Holding hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of Intellabeam lights and a thirty-five thousand watt soundsystem. Further lights and fog machines were built into the hardwood underfoot and in tiers constructed upon the dancefloor. Still more were tucked under the balcony, all the way around the outer edge.

Top theatre and auditory design specialists created the structures. Equalized to maximize not only volume, but sound quality and clarity as well.

Controlled from the DJ booth, the entire scaffold and effects system thundered and blazed. Endless mirrors and prisms could streak lasers and lights of every hue, intensity and pattern across the club. Bathing every square inch in color and shadow or lambent phosphorescence. Unobtrusive video screens continually flashed the name and artist of every song the DJ happened to play. Stored in a computer, the titles were automatically displayed when the system read a sample of the song and matched it to a corresponding file.

Below the booth, in the vestibule, a huge steel, grillwork wall was placed between the southernmost and central pairs of doors. This isolated the side of the vestibule with the bapistry from the rest of the room.

In front of the club, the outside handles were removed from the left two pairs of the three sets of doors, making them “Exit Only.” This forced people to enter the vestibule, through the only remaining doors, into the side with the baptistry.

The baptistry cage then became both the merchandise window, a coat check and the door to pay the cover charge.

Dress and attitude were the standards for admission. Otherwise, it was all-ages. Once you were a Regular for six months or so, people working the door usually let you in for free anyway.

A second admission gate in the vestibule, stood at the opposite end. Blocking the top of the stairs which led into The Vault.

Paying for a concert ticket admitted one to the show and the danceclub, but not the other way around. For a slightly higher fee, clubbers could venture below as well. For a pretentious membership fee, free reign was granted everynight. But, once again, if you were a Regular, no one really gave a fuck anyway.

Near that second gate were the stairs that also led from the vestibule up into the tower.

On multiple levels within the steeple, more windowed lounges were constructed. At the very peak, the belfry became Felicia and John's quarters. Through a pair of glass doors, wrapping around the entire tower, a broad stone balcony was steadfastly affixed outside.

Surrounding the grounds of the church, both the school and the rectory were destroyed. The parish center building was leveled as well. Over the spaces where those buildings had existed, more parking lot was paved.

A towering, grim fence enclosed the ocean of asphalt which always swam packed with cars on nights the club was open.

Upon the outside of all six facade doors, a twenty pound bronze carving, portraying the clubs logo, was eventually bolted. Stylized initials, centered in the design, were encircled within a pennant ribbon. Written into the ribbon were the words: “De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bonum“

“Let Nothing Be Said Of The Dead But What Is Favorable.”

My idea.

More than on merely the doors, a shell of grotesque architecture was constructed over the cathedral. Reliefs and sculpture to hide atop the original brick and limestone of which it was initially chiseled.

Burned black and etched with whitened cracks, the steeple took on a new splendor. Hit with blacklight floodlamps, in place of the brilliant sodium yellow, it glowed vile and cruel. The pinnacle polished bright. Looming in the night.

At the base of the pediment, an embossed slab of marble was fused over the inscription of the parishes former name. Into that marble, the name of the club was now hewn. And flanking either side, flamethrowers hurled fountainous jets of fire into the sky.

The place looked fucking evil.

Held it a life... A pulse. A personality all its own.

Wracked by savage and outlandish outcroppings of diabolically etched granite. Adding barbaric gargoyles and hellish beasts of sooty stone.

Elongated claws tore crookedly from the walls, forever fossilized in limestone. Tempered crags flew up, rigid and mythical as butterfly shadows.

Masts and sails of painfully contorted rock, crested in forms sharpened and stretched. Ferociously voyaging haunted ports like a castle galleon of... dark crystal.

... So... Camillia had come through.

Grand promises and all, I smiled.

Dark crystal...

So it was.

No end to the eminence the place had achieved. Flying buttresses, shaped as petals of atrocious flowers, arced like devilish, gothic rainbows. Intricate spires pierced the heavens. Become petrified wooden stakes, thrust into the heart of god. Fiendish was its beauty...

Fiendish and unforgettably divine. For all time it... would... stand...-

And... -

Arced?

... Like... devilish...

... Gothic... Rainbows...

Holy shit -

“The name... That's it... That's it!... I've got it... Hey, You guys, I got it!...”

- if there is a hell I'll see you there -

∞ ∞ ∞

“... Whoooa!... Elric... This is... astonishing...”

Opening the ornate glass doors, Hel and I stepped out onto the snowy balcony, surrounding the belfry of the Gothic Rainbow.

Our tour at its long coming conclusion.

Lugubriously climbing and plodding up the side of every crystal flake of snow, “You And Me And Rainbows” by The Tear Garden, found Us at the steeple peak. Music ever so faint. In the blizzard, from a maniac dance far below. Awashed under the lyrically demented genius of Edward Ka-Spel, and spells of what seemed to be a melancholy regret.

A blithe smile flashed at Me.

Cold.

So cold that were we mortal, Our breath would have steamed on the wind.

All too soon for a season to die. And yet, in the cracks, cuts some frozen May.

... Now came winter. When homes sealed tight from chills are shut to the sound of churchbells. Oberon realms all alight.

Atop the icy railing I leapt.

Hel hugged at My calf.

Craned and twirled. Teetering over a razored edge of stone. Playing at a dying I would never have. To scant flakes I jumped and spun back again on the railing peril.

Might Thou see when I show Thee how well We can fly?

Still it was snowing. Every spot of ground and welkin turned to white. Little tippy-tops of fences, to the summit of tree and bush, branches were afrost in alabaster.

The air danced with snowflakes and winds. Swarmed them in blinding, swirly gusts. Blustering through guitar remorse. Lost far within the sky of one, solid, uninterrupted shade of a perfect light gray. Nadir and breath as one.

Snowy trees held a glitter like the iris of a lost love.

... Yes. I think I had missed that faerie snow. That snow seemed to have a spirit to it, which I had not seen in snow for years. A spirit that rode hidden upon the backside of snowflakes... Hidden. But it was there... Giggles and loving...

It danced to the time of wistful snare drums and the harmony of a psychotic jesters song.

The dust of corse as snow, I trembled... And whom could We yearn for with tears? Never want to know or act.

Oh, might We cry again? Wishing Our dreams were more vast than confined? Finding this wasn't so much after all... And We thought We had a friend...

Nothing may change. We all wait for the rules which are never told. Wanting to lie and think We have won as We drive Ourselves to breed the worms that will feed on Our bones.

Loosened up on tomorrow and clung to yesterdays games in a desert of peace.

Better to forget and want for naught.

For black-plumed sparrows swam and fluttered among the trees and swept bundles of snow no bigger than sugarcubes from the branches.

... Mmmm... A sacred night...

November...

... November fourth...

More than twelve years had passed since that summer night.

Brushing at Her arms, Hel floated back into the tower. A solace from ivory cold. Behind Me, I heard Her put an album on Felicia's stereo.

Enigma carried out from The Cross Of Changes with “The Dream Of The Dolphin.” Mixing around the subdued melodies of The Tear Garden from adown.

And can You forget?

Everything -

Alone by candlelight, in raging snow, I penned the last of My nights upon the lecterns of neverlore.

Purely as before.

Oh, how lost are We without the day?

But all My dreams did change in that instant. And since those fireflies winked away from My dusk, all time has become winter.

... This time to arrive. Departing every sigh.

A dolphin I thought I saw. Someplace in snow...

And for one impossible moment, I remembered that tears were water and not blood.

A new sunrise brought an epic I never desired.

And these bitter snows do not cease.

Are We any sane?

In Myself I broke a promise I had no chance to keep. Too ashamed to let eyne e'er shed a tear. No matter how hard I might scream, I could never bring it back. And at the end, I was always returned to lonely silence, tearing out My ears.

Frozen upon My cheek. Crystal bright.

Clear as oceans...

A pendant of dreams...

Please... Please...

Please... Please let Me wake up... My guide is lost and My shaman gone.

I can not find My way.

Elsewhere the drifting dunes rose. Distantly frozen in the storms of the heart, all I could do to keep from drowning was hold to the silver of a dolphins hope. Wait for the string of our links to save Me and draw Me up from the waves of My nightmares.

Mists of dolphins breaching the sea, blazed rainbows across sunlit skies.

An ocean might forgive...

I remembered hope.

I remembered -

Returned to My side, I looked down at Hel from My eyrie. And I did not know this Child. Softly morose, Her concerned eyes stared up into Mine.

And in that moment, the most wonderful thing happened: A snowflake caught the light, bright as a firefly, right inbetween Us. Bright as... Tinker... bell?...

Turn away -

Best to hurt with memories than -

Shhh -

“... What's wrong?”

“... That's the sound My heart makes...when I miss old friends...”

- We're quite alone just You and Me and rainbows -

The Rainbow is still lit. And the insidiousness. Like tree silhouettes in the veins of a broken heart. Neglected We hide. Blacker yet the Rainbow turns, as air parts from from kissing the breath of the sun.

Noah's dove may never return. Waters of the flood may forever rain. All branches of mercy drowned in ice.

Of the end of rainbows has everyone heard...

Yet, how does it come to pass that any rainbow may no longer be?

- I will set my bow in the clouds and it shall be a token of the covenant between me and the earth. When I bring clouds over the earth and the bow appears in the clouds, I will look upon it and recall the perpetual covenant which is between me and You and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth -

Pointing from heavens to earth and touching in cauldrons of gold?

Fading from sight at storms demise?

These are not an end.

No rainbow has ever died. Circles of light stand immortal. Too noble to ever perish. Embracing in rings, dolphins took to flight.

So We shine -

Nightmare.

Dream.

... And hope.

No beginning. No end... Rainbows... are eternal...

“. . . now could I drink hot blood

and do such bitter business

as the day would quake to look on. . .”

- William Shakespeare

Hamlet

Act 3 : Scene 2

Playlist

Musician - “Song” / Album

Skinny Puppy - Last Rights

The Cure - Pornography

The Cure - “One Hundred Years”

Nine Inch Nails - The Downward Spiral

Nine Inch Nails - March Of The Pigs EP

The Beastie Boys - “Looking Down The Barrel Of A Gun”

Curve - “Blindfold”

Curve - “Fait Accompli”

Nine Inch Nails - “Ruiner”

Will - “Kingdom Come”

Sex Pistols - “My Way”

Skinny Puppy - “Monster Radio Man”

Pink Floyd - “Dark Side Of The Moon”

Ministry - “So What?”

The Sisters Of Mercy - “1959”

Johann Sebastian Bach - “Trio Sonata (for flute, viola and bass continuum) In C-Major”

Balti Mora - “Tarzan Boy”

Don McLean - “American Pie”

Journey - “Open Arms”

Black 47 - “Bridie's Song”

Tom Waits - “Little Rain”

Creedence Clearwater Revival - “Run Through The Jungle”

Peter Gabriel - “Blood Of Eden”

The Cure - “Open”

Front 242 - “Headhunter”

Pain Teens - “King Wicker”

Tom Petty - “Free Fallin'”

Monty Python - “Galaxy Song”

U2 - “Where The Streets Have No Name (Video)”

Suzanne Vega - “Stay Awake”

Bauhaus - “Party Of The First Part”

Xorcist - “The Dance”

Nurse With Wound - “Beetle Crawls Across My Back”

My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult - “A Daisy Chain For Satan”

The Sisters Of Mercy - “Temple Of Love”

Numb - “Blood”

1000 Homo DJs - “Supernaught”

Leather Strip - “Japanese Bodies”

Bigod 20 - “Like A Prayer”

The Nymphs - “Sad And Damned”

Revolting Cocks - “Attack Ships On Fire”

KMFDM - “Sucks”

Cop Shoot Cop - “$10 Bill”

Non Aggression Pact - “Hymn”

Tones On Tail - “Burning Skies”

Killing Joke - “Eighties”

Vein Cage - “Ego Testicle”

Front 242 - “Welcome To Paradise”

The Mission U.K. - “Deliverance”

Jane's Addiction - “Summertime Rolls”

Ministry - “The Missing”

Rage Against The Machine - “Killing In The Name”

Clawback - “Claw Behind Me”

Gene Loves Jezebel - The House Of Dolls

Suzanne Vega - “Luka”

Paleface - “Burn And Rob”

The Dead Milkmen - “The Pit”

The Dead Milkmen - “Where The Tarantula Lives”

The Dead Milkmen - “Beach Song”

The Dead Milkmen - “Big Time Operator”

The Dead Milkmen - “Labor Day”

The Dead Milkmen - “Bitchin' Camaro”

The Dead Milkmen - “Milkmen Stomp”

The Dead Milkmen - “Big Lizard”

The Dead Milkmen - “Dean's Dream”

The Dead Milkmen - “Watching Scotty Die”

The Dead Milkmen - “Land Of The Shakers”

The Dead Milkmen - “The Puking Song”

The Dead Milkmen - “Girl Hunt”

The Dead Milkmen - “Punk Rock Girl”

The Dead Milkmen - “Methodist Coloring Book”

The Dead Milkmen - “Air Crash Museum”

The Dead Milkmen - “The Thing That Only Eats Hippies”

The Dead Milkmen - “Beach Party Vietnam”

The Dead Milkmen - “Moron”

The Dead Milkmen - “You'll Dance To Anything”

The Dead Milkmen - “Two Feet Off The Ground”

The Dead Milkmen - “Goin' To Graceland”

The Dead Milkmen - “Smokin' Banana Peels”

Anthrax - “I'm The Man”

The Cure - “Charlotte Sometimes”

George Michael - “Freedom (Video)”

P.J. Harvey - “Man Size”

The Cure - “All Cats Are Grey”

Cranes - “The Puppet”

Nine Inch Nails - “That's What I Get”

Cranes - “Golden”

Jefferson Airplane - “White Rabbit”

Sinead O'Connor - “Feel So Different”

Suicidal Tendencies - “Institutionalized”

The Tear Garden - “The Center Bullet”

Einsturzende Neubauten - “Blume”

The Sisters Of Mercy - “Some Kind Of Stranger”

The Cure - “The Same Deep Water As You”

Nine Inch Nails - “Hurt”

Tori Amos - “Bells For Her”

Tori Amos - “Winter”

The Cure - “A Night Like This”

Tori Amos - “Here In My Head”

Coil - “Love's Secret Domain”

Ministry - “Scarecrow”

Dracula Soundtrack - “The Ring Of Fire”

Body Count - “Cop Killer”

The Cure - “Killing An Arab”

Peter Gabriel - “Rhythm Of The Heat”

Sinead O'Connor - “Scarlet Ribbons”

Ministry - “Dream Song”

Skinny Puppy - “The Killing Game”

Schnitt Acht - “Killing All The Time”

Front Line Assembly - “Mindphaser”

The Rezillos - “Somebody's Gonna Get Their Head

Kicked In Tonight”

Depeche Mode - “Personal Jesus”

In The Nursery - “Byzantium”

In The Nursery - “The Seventh Seal”

The Cure - “Three Imaginary Boys”

Depeche Mode - “Memphisto”

The Ramones - “Pet Cemetery”

Faith No More - “Surprise! You're Dead!”

Alien Sex Fiend - “Now I'm Feeling Zombiefied”

The Cure - “Lullaby”

Pain Teens - “Daughter Of Chaos”

Depeche Mode - “Black Celebration”

Iggy Pop - “Did You Ever?”

Cop Shoot Cop - “Everybody Loves You”

Oingo Boingo - “Dead Man's Party”

- traditional - - “Greensleeves”

Cranes - “Starblood”

Morrisey - “Ouija Board”

Lou Reed - “Halloween Parade”

Ministry - “Everyday Is Halloween”

Concrete Blonde - “Bloodletting”

The Cowboy Junkies - “Witches”

Julee Cruise - “Into The Night”

Nine Inch Nails - “Something I Can Never Have”

Pink Floyd - The Wall

Rollins - “I Know You”

Jane's Addiction - Ritual De Lo Habitual

My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult - “Do You Fear?”

Jane's Addiction - “Ted, Just Admit It...”

Sinead O'Connor - “Bewitched, Bothered, And Bewildered”

Faith No More - “Woodpecker From Mars”

Dead Can Dance - “The Host Of Seraphim”

Clock DVA - Buried Dreams

Tori Amos - “Little Earthquakes”

Clan Of Xymox - “Craving”

Boy George - “The Crying Game”

Bongwater - “Obscene And Pornographic Art”

James Ray And The Performance - “Mountain Voices”

This Mortal Coil - “Song To The Siren”

Lisa Gerrard - “Sanvean (I Am Your Shadow)”

Sinead O'Connor - “Three Babies”

The Moody Blues - “Nights In White Satin”

Shriekback - “Cradle Song”

Depeche Mode - “Blasphemous Rumors”

Skrew - “Sympathy For The Devil”

Depeche Mode - “Never Let Me Down”

Jane's Addiction - “Three Days”

Steve Roach - “Beat Of Desire”

Ministry - “Just One Fix (12” Remix)”

Siouxsie And The Banshees - “Hong Kong Garden”

Siouxsie And The Banshees - “Love In A Void”

The Glove - “Punish Me With Kisses”

My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult - “The Days Of Swine And Roses”

Siouxsie And The Banshees - “Hall Of Mirrors”

Click Click - “Awake And Watching”

Nine Inch Nails - “Reptilian”

New Order - “Bizarre Love Triangle”

Book Of Love - “Boy”

Book Of Love - “I Touch Roses”

Battery - “Nevermore”

Prayer Tower - “Brain Child”

Ministry - “Psalm 69”

The Sisters Of Mercy - “Lucrettia My Reflection”

The Rollins Band - “Low Self-Opinion”

Voice Of The Beehive - “Monsters And Angels”

Lights Of Euphoria - “Give Me You”

Nine Inch Nails - “Heresy”

David Bowie - “The Hearts Filthy Lesson”

Pop Will Eat Itself - “Ich Bin Ein Auslander”

The Circle Jerks - “Killing For Jesus”

The Tear Garden - “You And Me And Rainbows”

Enigma - “The Dream Of The Dolphin”

Epilogue

On Winter nights, between trees bare of leaves, I could see the illuminated steeple of the Gothic Rainbow in the distance, glowing outside the window of my very bedroom, wherein I wrote this novel.

The name “The Gothic Rainbow” was derived from a high fantasy adventure novel I began writing (but never finished) when I graduated high school. Worked on it for two weeks and wrote over 150 pages before I realized the premise and the title were cool, but the writing itself sucked.

Frankly, the Vampire Noctuaries are a far cry from what I would've imagined my first novels to be, back in 1984 when I decided, “I want to be an author.”

Just as my idea to become a writer came and went over the years, so too did the direction of my writing. Back then, while all those insignificant supposed “peers” of mine in junior high were first allowed into teen clubs and were having parents-out-of-town-makeout-parties on the weekends, I was home alone in my room, inventing AD&D characters (which I almost never actually used). That was my idea of fun. And my writing reflected it: dragons, wizards, knights, and monsters.

As I said, The Gothic Rainbow was originally a high fantasy novel. The first book I ever attempted to write, in fact. Rather different indeed from this book you're reading now. High fantasy and adventure were more my thing... And the arc of The Gothic Rainbow proved to change shape quite a bit by the time it became a book of the Vampire Noctuaries.

Funny how little times change.

These days, I would definitely go to a danceclub or a concerts or a party before I worked on a role-playing game character... Hell, these days I actually get invited to parties!

... Yet, I admit I have turned down a party or two and sat at home to work on my novels. And I'm willing to bet those evenings were best spent just as they were. All alone with my characters and writing. What could be better? I'm confident I didn't miss a thing... Yep. How little times change after all...

Ironically (or perhaps not so ironically), the dark fantasy of the Noctuaries evolved from a role-playing game too; namely Vampire: The Masquerade published by White Wolf. Since then, when I bought the first edition of the game in the summer of 1991, the characters I invented developed until they took on a life of their own and even became unique from the Kindred in the game.

Most of the characters in the Noctuaries originated in a Vampire chronicle I was gamemastering called “Dancing With The Vampires.” Sadly, the chronicle lasted only two sessions. Some of the reason it was so short-lived had to do with conflicting schedules (ahh, the death of many a role-gaming troupe). But mostly, it had to do with being a downright cruddy gamemaster. I was far more concerned with the world I'd created and the NPC's, than I was with the players and their enjoyment.

But, despite the very justified grumbling of the players, I couldn't resist the call of Elric, Camillia, and all the others. They had a story to tell. And this is it.

The Gothic Rainbow is only half the story of the Vampire Noctuaries though. From the onset, I knew there was much more to reveal. But I gradually came to realize that the story was too long to put in a single novel. After all, it took me over 3 years to write this one. I did not want my first novel to be some 800-page behemoth and take me more than 5 years to complete! Instead of attempting to create such an inevitably monstrous single book, I decided to divide the story into two parts.

So, this series should end as a duology. However, I have no desire to stretch the books out into trilogies, tetrologies and beyond. I know the story I have to convey won't take that many installments.

After all, with very few exceptions, most sequels are designed to be nothing more than a greedy way to make more money off a series. The importance of the contents becomes secondary to the prices on the covers.

Bullshit.

My novel means too much to me to just water it down into a perpetual series and turn it into my own personal prostitute that I pimp out for extra cash.

No way.

So, the Vampire Noctuaries will end with the concluding volume entitled, “Annwn's Maelstrom Festival.”

Before I go on about this book anymore though, allow me the indulgence of skipping to a totally different subject for a moment. (Yeah, I ramble on too much. This is one of the longer Epilogues you'll find anywhere. I know. Bear with me.)

Anyway, I would ask that you please forgive any typing errors that appear in the text. Remember, this is a self-published novel and I didn't have the benefit (or the hindrance) of an editor or typesetter or proofreader. Sorry. Did my best. Plus, I made up a hypnogogic word or two when no good ones existed. That could easily be misconstrued as an error too... It's not. If a novelist can't invent new words, who can?

I encourage any readers to write in to Dubh Sith Ink with any typing errors they might discover, so I can fix them in subsequent printings of this book. See the copyright page in the front of this book for the address of Dubh Sith Ink. My sincere thanks and gratitude is all I can offer you in return for extending me such a courtesy.

In other words, if you're kind enough to notify me of an error, don't expect me to send you autographed gold bars embossed with the Gothic Rainbow logo because you won't get any. Be content with simply knowing you have my heartfelt appreciation.

As a result of my grammatical mistakes, I am also reminded that I must apologize for something else: Some of the numerous band and/or song references I've made may be incorrectly spelled. Or maybe I have a song title or a band name totally wrong.

This is because some of the songs I've only heard on the radio and I don't actually own a copy. (Hey, give me a break! I'm trying to buy it all. There's just too much great music available. I can't afford it all yet. Give me time!) Anyhow, if I have made any embarrassingly horrible errors in my song references, I humbly ask the band and all their fans to forgive my mistakes. Sorry.

Picking out what music to play wasn't very easy either. Everytime I got a new CD, I was ready to riddle the book with songs from it.

“It needs lots more Clock DVA.”

“Hmm... Where could I squeeze in a Will album?”

“Needs more Dead Can Dance.”

“I should make more references to bands on Projekt: Darkwave.”

“Damn! In The Nursery and Steve Roach could fill up every scene in this book!”

Indeed, the musical selections in and of themselves were quite a challenge at times. Sorry if I skipped something you might have liked to hear. Maybe in the sequel. Write me a request list. (No. Don't do it for real. That's a joke, folks.)

“We'll see if we can get that one on for you.”

Seriously though, like I said earlier, I want to buy more music. So, I give you the same advice. I can not emphasize it enough: Go buy these songs! Broaden your horizons. Play the soundtrack of The Killing Game.

Naturally, it has occurred to me that numerous readers may feel excluded and alienated by so many references to music, if they're unfamiliar with all of those songs.

Well... too fucking bad.

Despite my adamant praises of these songs, I am sadly only too aware of how my decision to name all those musical references will also serve to make this novel more and more “dated” as time goes on; and all the musicians (and the people in the audience I've catered this to) will grow old and forgotten. The Lost Generation, slipping into predestined oblivion so that every year, the generation gaps will separate more and more people from relating to this book. Until finally, the music, the clothing, the language and the very mentality of the story itself will prove to become an obsolete, outdated old joke...

Well, so be it. For that I make no apologies. I never professed to be timeless.

In fact, Skinny Puppy, The Dead Milkmen, and Siouxsie & The Banshees are bands that were all around for over 12 years, and each of them split up while I was writing this book. And all of those groups play major roles in the course of this story!... Ah, well...

Perhaps the obsolete joke will be upon me sooner than I envisioned. (Isn't it always?)

Not to insult future generations, for I'm certain that your social lives are every bit as enjoyable as mine (maybe even moreso), but let me say, that as much as you may be laughing now, you sure missed some good times in the old underground club scene.

Therefore, since I was there in that scene, I certainly know that these genres of tunes are all too befitting for the Noctuaries. If they were set in the 1940's, I would've used big band and swing music. Set in the Renaissance, I would've chosen classical music compositions. In the dark ages, I'd have no music at all, but for an obscure ballad or two sung by bard or minstrel. Consequently, as dated as it will become (or as it has become) this music is appropriate for the time period of the tale. Look on this work as... historical fiction.

After all, a lot of this shit really happened at one time or another (in one allegorical way or another).

Names have been changed to protect the innocent?

No. No one is innocent. Not in these allegories.

Names have been changed to protect me from libel suits.

Of course, any similarity to persons living, dead, or undead is probably a coincidence, so please don't try to sue me and be a dickhead. Besides, I'm too poor to bother.

(And any ideas that I did steal, I hid so well that even the artist I took the idea from would never recognize it... That's called a “tribute.”)

Tribute or not, I realize that no matter what I ever write, there will be people who hate it, insult my work, and belittle it from every possible angle in every conceivable way. Some will always exist to butcher and dissect any art.

So be it. Fuck 'em. As David Bowie said, “Artists make the culture. Not the critic.”... or something to that effect.

There will always be those opinionated assholes (especially those who have never written a novel) with nothing but negative comments to make.

I've said all along that I don't care how well this book is received. That I wrote a story I enjoy, I wrote this story for me, and not to please anyone else. Everyone else be damned.

In the documentary film Hearts Of Darkness, there is a part where Francis Ford Coppola is talking about making Apocalypse Now and he says, “So here you are on one hand that's trying to aspire to really do something; on the other hand, you're not allowed to be pretentious. And finally you say, “Fuck it!” I don't care if I'm pretentious or not pretentious or if I've done it or I haven't done it. All I know is that I am going to see this movie. And that for me it has to have some answers.”

I loved that quote. Because I feel the same way about this novel. Screw it if I'm pretentious. I don't care if I preach or I'm self-indulgent. I know that parts are completely overwritten, dull, lengthy, self-involved, monotonous, masterbatory crap... Fuck it. All that matters is that I like the story.

No offense dear reader, but you spent hours reading this. I spent years writing it. If you think it sucks, remember you didn't waste one tenth the amount of time on it that I invested.

If you hated it, it's doubtful you ever got as far as this paragraph anyway.

So what? Besides, another percentage of folks will enjoy my efforts... and that's cool of them.

But that's not entirely true, to say I don't care at all.

These characters are my friends. And, although I'd never abandon my friends even if nobody likes them, I do hope they're well received.

My only concern has been that my readers will think I'm being condescending to them. I could not care less if most people think this book sucks. If people think the story, the characters or the writing is atrocious, that's fine.

I just don't want my “audience” to feel I've belittled them. There are enough “teen stories” and enough “vampire stories” out there that are totally shitty and insult the intelligence of the readers. Hopefully, this isn't one of them.

I don't think it is.

This series was written because it was something that I've always wanted to read, but no one else ever wrote a story quite like this for me to enjoy. And even if I'm an idiot, I'm not stupid enough to insult my own intelligence(!?)... (Well, not usually...)

I wanted to write a vampire story in the music and nightclub scene because, at the time I wrote this, that's where the most “modern” legend of the undead lived on. If you were ever in that scene at all, you'd know how true that is.

As this book evolved, I also knew I wanted to include elements of numerous myths, beliefs, and legends. Like George Lucas intended with Star Wars, I wanted to create a modern faerie tale... But one very dark and dreary in feel.

Not that I would for one instant compare myself to George Lucas or his story. I'm not that pretentious. His is an epic saga, appealing to people of all ages and backgrounds, all over the world.

Mine is a little yarn spun in black thread for the tiny audience of misunderstood 15 year-olds who are just starting to listen to The Cure and Robert Smith's ingenious imagery and lamentations... You know who you are...

(And at this rate, I know The Cure will cease to exist, shortly after I write this damn sentence!)

Anyway, my friends, I wrote this book for me and for you. For us. I doubt it'll appeal to many more.

I wrote it for those of you who see all the phony superficial bullshit in the world and know you're above it... Most of you aren't 15 anymore either... But that 15 year-old is still inside of you...

Besides, no matter what the future holds, every generation will still continue to have those kids who just never seem to belong. As for the rest of you, well, if you were never there, it's doubtful you'll ever understand.

If you never cried yourself to sleep, feeling lost and friendless; if you never went through school in a daze, being ridiculed or socially invisible; if you were never the freak or the outsider; if you never heard of the music and can't relate to the scene; if you never stayed in your room and played an angry or melancholy album over and over and over and over... if you never did these things, you wouldn't fit-in at The Gothic Rainbow. But if you are like the person I've described, then I welcome you to a lonely home with open arms.

You are the ones who have grasped this tale. You can see I wanted to portray a real vampire story. One where the characters act like vampires would be in the late 20th century. (Well, okay, Chapter 23 was a big, unrealistic, Hollywood-esque action/adventure sequence, but my neverending residue of teen angst wouldn't allow me to preclude it.)

I'm bored by vampires that spoke like android English professors, in perfectly articulate and sterile sentences, making them sound as fake as ketchup blood. I'm tired of the poor, forlorned, tragic, gothic undead. I'm sick of the punk, wild, rebel vampire with a heart. I wanted it all.

When one lives forever, one is not always depressed, violent or merciless. I wanted vampires like you - ones who have fun amidst the tragedies. Ones who keep on living for reasons they have never understood. I wanted real Kindred. I wanted them to hate, to love, to have fun and revel in their curse and only feel rare pangs of any self-pity or remorse. Basically, I wanted vampires who occasionally had a damn good time.

Furthermore, I wanted an aire of Celtic myth and dark, traditional, faerie stories of Gaelic folklore to pervade. Plus, I felt it should be combined with a small dash of the most ancient of spiritual cultures, Native Americans. Both the tribal cultures of North America, and the Mayan and Aztec cultures of Central America. All cultures with human sacrifice and creepy forests...

Churned together, it's all intermixed and woven into a brew I hope you found intoxicating and a tapestry I hope you found intriguing.

I attempted to make realistic places, characters and events. I didn't want to push the “supernatural” and psychical sides of the story so far out there that it lost all credibility and became too difficult to visualize, hear, taste, touch, smell and believe. The crowd I've tried to appeal to will realize this. Whether you've seen the things going bump in the night; whether you've walked dreams or heard thoughts miles away; whether you've felt the darkness in some souls; whether you've laid hands on Ouija boards or other dread oracles - you who have, know. I didn't go too far after all. The rest of you skeptic morons would be surprised by just how accurate I've been.

With the exception of a few self-indulgent action/adventure scenes on my part, I like to think that this is one of the more “realistic” vampire novels of its time. When you drift off to sleep tonight into hypnogogic visions and sounds, you'll likely see and hear just how real the Noctuaries are. And some of you won't be surprised at all...

... Once upon a time, I read the quote, “Never save anything for your next book, because that possible creation might not be...”

In keeping with that sentiment, I have many, many people to thank for their inspiration to me for this book. And, as dissimilar as some of their work and achievements and relevance may be from this novel, I feel I must take the time to thank and recognize them all for their influences on me. After all, I may not get another chance at this, since my next book “may not be.”

For all that these souls have contributed to my life, writing a mere paragraph or two in their honor is the lest I can do to thank them. The credit I give these people is all well deserved... But, who are we kidding? Credits are just a way of bragging about how many people you know anyway. (I know that's not really true, but it sounded good when I wrote it in my journal way-back-when.)

Obviously, I will start by thanking other writers.

These authors have each taken me on some of the most spectacular adventures and the most insightful discoveries I have ever known. I stand humbled by the richness of your tales, dear storytellers. Thank you for that gift. If I touched in others with my work, one iota of what most of you have each touched in me, I have been a success.

Thanks must first go to Michael Ende. You are the one person who ultimately inspired me to become a novelist. Therefore, you deserve my thanks before all others. With the film version of The NeverEnding Story, I was taken on a mythic journey wherein all borders between real and dream evaporated as morning mist. Once I read the novel, I saw a realm I knew I was never meant to leave... So, I never have...

Thanks to Steven R. Boyett for writing Ariel. No other novel have I reread as many times. I even bought two extra copies in a used-bookstore, when it was out-of-print, so I could lend it out to friends to read. Intimidating to think that you wrote Ariel at an age slightly younger than I was, when I wrote this book. I still feel I'm quite a pale writer in comparison. For 10 years I have searched for books by you beyond your first two. Haven't found any yet. That's okay. Ariel by itself is worth more than all the books most prolific authors pen in a lifetime.

Thanks to Raymond E. Feist for writing Faerie Tale. In fact, I'm hesitant to even thank you for the influence that book brought me. I'm hesitant because it seems my Rainbow holds little of the color of your Tale, and were my work compared to it, I would be woefully embarrassed and put to shame. All praise and recognition you could get for that story is well deserved. I still find myself skimming chapters and savoring your crystalline descriptions half a dozen times in a row.

Thanks to Richard Bach for numerous books about forever, illusions, and seagulls with no limits. Your writing is on the furthest end of the spectrum from where the dark Gothic Rainbow resides. Although you may not have inspired much of the actual text of this novel, you certainly inspired me on a personal level to strive for my dreams. Your impact on my life has been so positive and overpowering, that I consider you to be one of the best friends I ever had, even though we have never met.

Thanks to James O'Barr for writing The Crow. I knew nothing about either of you until I was more than halfway done with my novel. The parallels are... unsurprisingly eerie. For the pain such memories cause, I will say nothing more. Only that I hope you read this book one day. Because you wrote it too...

Thanks to Mark Rein•Hagen for writing the original version of Vampire: The Masquerade role-playing game. That game, as I said earlier, was a huge inspiration which got these books off the ground (or should I say “out of the grave?”) May you enjoy this story that your masquerade launched in my imagination.

Thanks to Harlan Ellison for being a writer who has given me something to aspire to, yet is far enough away to keep me always reaching. I usually hate popular, prolific writers because they write trite, boring shit. Few have written anything to prove they're talented to boot. Prolific and gifted is the rarest pairing of traits in any artist. One or the other is easy to come by. Both together is a blessed treat. You are both, and therefore your popularity was rather inevitable. Your frankness, passion, and blunt honesty are an inspiration to me. You always kick me in the ass with your comments which remind me to always speak my mind... In a way, I suppose that sucks to admire that in anyone. Truthfulness and passion should be commonplace, not the exception.

Thanks to J.D. Salinger for writing books that showed me a magnificently unique style of writing. For the first time I found myself reading stories with no plot! They had only realistic dialogue and complicated characters, and I was completely enthralled. How wondrous to see the conventions of storytelling thrown on end, and see them rendered into useless old myths! By not following the rules, you composed some of the most well-written material I have ever read. Fifty years before I wrote the Noctuaries, you created books more interesting than 90% of the works published in my day. Truly a visionary, ahead of your time.

Thanks to Hans Bemmann for writing The Stone And The Flute. Every now and then, a work can come along and change our lives forever. Give us a new outlook and perspective. My memories of my journeys with Listener are like half-remembered childhood dreams. Visions and sounds I shall forever cherish. That story is the sort which astonishes me and makes me humbly wonder, “How can anyone write something like this?!” Truly breathtaking. To me, the mark of a great story has always been one which makes me laugh out loud and cry tears onto the pages. I did both many, many times over with The Stone And The Flute.

Thanks to Rosemary Ellen Guiley for writing Vampires Among Us. Truly an intriguing view of a subculture that I found particularly enchanting.

Thanks to Patricia Garfield PH.D. for writing Creative Dreaming. Long was the door opened for me, but you showed me where to go once I was through. For your guidance do I gently kiss your hand, kind dreamer.

Thanks to Sir James M. Barrie for concocting a dreary little play about a darling family. His version of a land never, never told in a way quite as happy and bright as most “interpretations” of it are.

Come to think of it, I would also like to thank writers who have written pathetic vampire stories too. Believe me, there are a lot of you. Reading your contrived crap was very motivational. It gave me hope. After all, if your shit got published, then The Gothic Rainbow will kick your ass!

Thanks to Brian Froud for illustrating the book Faeries. Although you're not a writer, like these others I have named, your artwork is the most honest mirror into faerie realms I have ever dreamed. How I adore your labyrinths of dark crystal and mythic lands. Long will your visions last in my mind, for you have given form to my strangest fancies, by drawing exactly as I wish to write. May the fay continue to grant you such privileged sight for all your days.

Thanks to W.Y. Evans-Wentz for likewise illuminating Faerie with the writing of The Fairy Faith In Celtic Countries. Another doorway of majestic and disquieting splendor into the mists of Broceliande it is.

For all the music I mention, most of my references in the text of the story, may be perceived as forms of thanks, in and of themselves. But, as I have been speaking of faerie glory, and I turn now to recognize musicians who have influenced me, I should give a heartfelt special thanks to the elvin Tori Amos.

Tori, you once performed the most empowered and euphoric concert I have ever seen. Now and again, we meet a soul who sparkles, with hues so obviously not of this world. Your music has filled me with more melancholy and light and giddy and rain than most storms and sunshine and eves of Midsummer.

Once upon a time, we did meet, briefly, after one of your shows outside the Music Hall in 1994. An event I cherish for my admiration of you and your art.

That night, I gave you a video I made for you, to your song “Sister Janet” and in exchange, a tingly warm hug you returned. All my efforts more than rewarded.

If the good people bless us further, perhaps we'll meet again soon, and talk of evanescent thoughts, put to word and song. Maybe, during a little earthquake, we could have a dance together someday... in a graveyard till dawn. At the very least, may our paths join once more wherever Judy Garland is taking Buddha by the hand...

Thanks to bands I actually know, such as Lestat on Jevan Records. You, obviously, are the real “Lioncourt” as I called you in this novel. (No libel suits, guys! Please! Every line was meant as a compliment!) Since I know all of you personally, I guess I rarely take the time to let any of you know how much I enjoy your music. Maybe this book will reflect some of my appreciation for your work and its influence on me. The underground music and club scene in Cleveland wouldn't be as good without you.

Thanks to Mike Bostwick of Pipe Choir... of course. Your support of my writing meant a lot to me and the passion in your music always inspired me, just in knowing that I had a friend who understood what it means to express ones spirit in creation. Our talks I valued. Your talents I admire. Stay tenacious and persistent and the magnificence of your music will be widely recognized. I've always believed that. May Pipe Choir enrich your life beyond your most powerful dreams.

Now, as I get ready to wind this down and finally shut the hell up, there is a random mix of people I would wish to give my gratitude to.

Thanks to Henry Rollins for his spoken word performances, which are undoubtedly some of the most overwhelming, thought-provoking storytelling I have ever heard. Since he is both a writer and a musician, I wasn't sure which group to thank him with... Anyway, Rollins and I met after a spoken word gig he did at the nightclub Peabody's Down Under in 1992. I asked him of his publishing company was accepting any submissions. He said, “No. We're swamped up the wazoo for the next 2 years with books.”

Then, he kindly signed my shirt for me, shook my hand, and we parted ways. As I was walking off, I heard him call out to me, “Keep writing!!”

... Well, here it is, Henry. My first book. I kept writing.

Thanks for the advice.

Thanks to E. Gary Gygax for creating Advanced Dungeons & Dragons. The influence and inspiration spawned in me from that game is immeasurable. Always will I recall those junior high days of gaming sessions lasting all through the night. Good friends, sleeping bags, character sheets and six multi-colored dice.

Gary, you deserve a lot more credit and gratitude than you have ever received. And it is owed to you from a hell of a lot of people who had their imaginations brought to life in your magical game. Tens of thousands owe you at least a pat on the back and a thankful smile. You helped me to become a storyteller before I even knew that I was one. The first winter night I read the rulebooks on my living room floor is still vivid in my mind to this day. And the memory of that awe always reminds me of the wonder and dreams I shall forever hold.

Thanks to Sam Rosenthal for carrying such amazing acts on his Projekt: Darkwave record label. Many are true soundtracks for these tales of mine.

Thanks to George Lucas and Steven Spielberg. Earlier, I wrote of how a work can come along and change our lives forever. Many times over, you have each done this for me and taught me an endless love for vision, form, motion, and composition. I doubt that I would have ever found my way into writing and motion pictures if not for each of you. In fact, you have inspired the dreams of so many countless thousands of people, that I wonder, “What does expressing my appreciation matter, after hearing it so often from so many others?”

Star Wars made me realize, at 6 years of age, that I just had to be a part of the heavens. There was just so much excitement there!

And Jurassic Park filled me with a sense of awe that I hadn't felt since I saw Star Wars!

My hopes and ambitions still have me one day writing at Skywalker Ranch, working on effects at ILM, and being a cinematographer for DreamWorks SKG. Now in my twenties, I continue to find myself wishing upon stars and playing in the rain and I can't help but wonder, “Do George and Steve still do this too?”

Thanks to John Williams for composing music so flawless and befitting of many of the greatest motion pictures of all time (in fact, I was listening to the Jurassic Park soundtrack as I wrote this). Granted, most films you have worked on are nothing like this story, but, anyone who has read The Gothic Rainbow can see how obvious the importance of music that compliments a story is to me. So, I thank you for your epic creations.

Thanks to real vampires I have known, and to those I've yet to meet, yet shall know again... (such as all those endless psycho and cute gothic and artsy punker girls who served as the embodiment of Helle).

Thanks to the many DJ's on the Cleveland college radio stations WUJC, WCSB and WRUW. If you had a gothic/industrial/ambient show on any of those stations from December of 1992 to January of 1996, I probably listened to it almost every week. You provided the source where I originally heard many great tunes.

Remember: Support the little people! College radio. Local artists. Local musicians. Local writers. Local film and independent theatres. Local record stores and independent labels. They're all treasures, so dig for them! The best art isn't that corporate crap coughed-up for the masses.

Thanks to Brandon Lee... you know why...

Thanks to Dr. James Sheridan who taught English at Cuyahoga Community College. I began to write this book in an independent study course he invited me to participate in. My project I chose, was to write a novel. Although he was encouraging to me and approved my project, he had some serious doubts that I could actually write a whole novel in one quarter of a school year.

... Damn! Was he ever right about that one!...

He died shortly after giving me an “A+” for completing a mere 11 pages, and I never did get to discuss his opinion of my story with him... Hope you liked it, Dr. Sheridan.

Thanks to those in my family who offered any support.

Thanks to Michelle DeFrasia for countless evenings of cool nightclubbing at the Phantasy Niteclub in Lakewood, Ohio.

Thanks to Kathryn M. Barnes (no blood nor marital relation) of Visual Echoes for supplying her gifted talents in creating the author photograph in the biography. Your abilities as an artist are truly exceptional and I hope my meager assistance can help give your work more of the exposure it deserves. Talent of your caliber should not have to struggle to prove its worth.

Thanks also to all the wonderful, “vampiric models” who took part in photo sessions with Visual Echoes, that were used for advertising this novel. Specifically, I would like to acknowledge, once again, the generosity of model (and photographer) Kathryn M. Barnes, and in addition, my thanks goes to Natalie Ditinger, Val Stoneking, Evan Ford, John Rossi, Dave Chercourt, Molly Kalejs, Katie Kalejs, Lydia DeLaCruz, Larry Szyms, April Bodig, and of course, she who is embodiment of all the beauty of Helle: Erin “my Muse” Brutvan.

Thanks to Jessica Ann Grandel, in the words of The Sisters Of Mercy, “the first, and last, and always...”

Thanks for the truly infinite amount of inspiration I received from magazine publications such as Propaganda, IndustrialnatioN, Permission, Outburn, The Ninth Wave, Ghastly and countless other underground gothic serials.

And I do have more than just people to thank...

Thanks, as Tori Amos has also written, to the faeries. May my praises of you come to assist the renewal of humanity possessing a humble remembrance of your true glory. I have for you the utmost respect and honor and wish you no ills nor mockery by mentioning your kind on these pages. Please take no offense to my gratitude, though at times I know you may prefer only silence. Blessed be the sith, in all thy names.

Thanks even goes to the worthless masses of pig fodder I have seen and known in my life. You pieces of shit who have let this beautiful, amazing gift called “life” just slip through your grasp, have all been a big inspiration and motivation to me. Thank you for being the “nobody” so many of you have chosen to be. You kept me determined to at least try to stay out of your place, even if I too, wind up there with you losers some day.

Indeed, those of you with no life, goals, aspirations, dreams or ambitions are a great inspiration for me to get off my ass and at least attempt to achieve something.

Plato's famous quote of, “The unexamined life is not worth living,” is a glorious truth, incomprehensible to many people I've known, who honestly live a life with not one neuron of thought ever given to the purpose of their existence.

There can be no greater wrong, I think, than failing to find meaning and worth in ones own life. And the mark of that failure or success comes not in some answer which lends merit or validity based upon a scale of anyones expectations. Failing or succeeding in that regard is derived from the tenacity of ones desires to strive. The search itself, a credibility and reward outshining the achievements of any ends. More can be attained on the journey than on arriving at a destination. Maybe the mere passion to discover value and purpose in ones life is enough to give meaning to ones days.

Thanks to Ryn for being the first to do me the honor of walking these pages. Befitting that you were, since you stood on a journey to this bleak realm when my novel first began, and became even more a part of it from one horrible moment in time. For that I am saddened and sorry. But, while here, you have given my spirit the strongest support of anyone. Not only for all of this tale, but for my memories of a better past and better possibilities to come. No words I write here seem enough to express my affections for you. Perhaps one day I shall hold enough command over language to describe how breathtaking you are to me, writing tome after tome of odes in your name... But I doubt I will ever capture in word or deed, any drop of the immaculate allure and charm you possess over my heart and soul. After all, if Shakespeare himself had adored you as I, you would've left him speechless. But, this I can say; that thus far, in all my time upon this earth, no other spirit hath e'er enriched my life as gloriously as thine. Had I known you during only the hours when we first met, I would owe you an overwhelming thanks for ever having been a part of my existence. You have become the most important person in my world, and I woe to spend a day of this lifetime without you. Thank you for all you are to me, my sweet Soulshine. For sharing with me your sacred, secret gardens of thoughts about my rainbow. I will see to the darkest and holiest angels protect you. For I owe you such, at the least, since you have so long been my dearest friend, for countless reasons. Since none but you could help to ease my suffering during the most difficult times I had endured. With every “I love you” I have ever written or said, I have never come close to telling you the awe with which your ravishing comeliness holds me, nor the depth of my adorations.

Thanks to my dear friend Ariel, who was killed in the Fall of 1993 as I was hundreds of pages into writing this novel.

Long before she died, I had been intending to thank her with special warmth in this book for all that she has contributed to my life. Now, it fitting: A tale of innocence lost, where I thank one who has returned to innocence.

- what have I become, my sweetest friend -

- everyone I know goes away in the end -

Disconcerting how her death transformed my life (obviously)... and (less obviously) it is disconcerting how it altered the feel of this novel.

Intricate fictional creations suddenly became simple and tormented allegories for reality... Everything really is relative I suppose... Reality gets a lot more harsh as time goes on. And it becomes a lot less real.

- and maybe that fucked me up much more than you'll ever know -

A few of you who have read this, know the anguish that death can bring. My heart compassionately goes out to those of you who have suffered that way. Others who have read this, never had one of your true loves die... May you never need to endure such anguish.

But I fear you shall one day...

Pains me a great deal to know she may never in flesh read this yarn I've spun, which I owe so deeply to her. But thank you, Ariel.

Finally, I conclude to thank the most important person of all...

This book is dedicated to one of the best friends I have ever had, Michelle C. Barnes, (no blood nor marital relation there either). This is certainly not the happiest, brightest, or most cheerful book, which is ironic, because she is one of the most radiant souls I've ever met or known... But the dedication is appropriate nevertheless. For, at the times I struggled with this, year after year, it kept me going - knowing I would dedicate this to Michelle. I promised her this, weeks after I first met her, so many years ago. Promised I'd dedicate my first book to her. So this is it. This is for her.

There were times, even when hundreds of pages were done, when, full of insecurity and self-doubt, I thought, “I'll never finish this!” But when I couldn't go on for myself, I could always easily be inspired to go on for you. You deserve my most passionate thanks of all.

So, with all my love...

Thank you... Thank you... Thank you, Michelle...

Novel Written From: 2 July 1992 until 3 January 1996

Epilogue Written On: 9 January 1997

Biography

Born in Cleveland during 1971, Eric Muss-Barnes has worked as a martial arts film stand-in (for the stunt coordinator of “The Crow”), and as a freelance artist for the toy design division of American Greetings.

Having begun producing music videos for bands, and other projects, under the name Dreamdancer Motion Pictures (which he founded in 1994), he also created a gothic/industrial video magazine which aired on television across northern Ohio.

In addition to both novels of the Vampire Noctuaries, and having his writing appear in numerous magazines, he has also composed a book of poetry and axioms entitled “In This Harsh World ... Draw Thy Breath In Pain,” the name of which is a phrase taken from the final act and scene of Shakespeare's Hamlet.

Colophon

Printed Editions Colophon

First Edition (1997) Colophon

• Mead 8.5” by 11” College Ruled 200 Sheet 5 Subject Notebooks

• Bic Fine Point Metal Roller Pens (Black Ink)

The Gothic Rainbow was originally written by hand, in notebooks, and later typed into a word processor.

• Canon StarWriter 30

In 1996, I borrowed a Canon word processor from John Rozack, the uncle of my gradeschool friend, Mike. For 3 weeks, I locked myself in my bedroom, typing 16 to 20 hours a day, to get the book into an electronic format as quickly as possible. I was only able to view my progress on the entire 188,000-word novel using a 12-line LCD screen.

• Apple Macintosh Performa 6116CD

• Claris Works 3.0

The first edition was reformatted for final printing on a former girlfriend's Macintosh, using Claris Works 3.0. The boards were printed on a laser printer (not sure of the make/model) and submitted to the printing company, McNaughton & Gunn, in Saline, Michigan.

• UMAX Vista S6E Flatbed Scanner

The original photographs were all printed as standard 4” by 6” prints and digitized into the Macintosh with a 300dpi flatbed scanner.

• Macromedia FreeHand 5.5

I designed and built the cover and title page of the first edition in Macromedia FreeHand 5.5 as vector art.

• Adobe Photoshop 3.0.5

All the interior photographs were composited and manipulated using Adobe Photoshop 3.0.5, including the author photo.

• Macromedia Fontographer 4.1.2

• Fonts: Palatino, Caslon Antique, Noctuary, Helvetica, Goudy Old Style

The cover font (called “Noctuary”) was a new typeface I created exclusively for use on The Gothic Rainbow and her sequel, using Fontographer 4.1.2. I built all the letters by hand and never made them available elsewhere. With the first edition of the book, I spent a great deal of time printing test pages with various fonts and variations of point sizes and line spacing. Searching for the best readability, I eventually settled on a nice 10-point Palatino for the body text, Caslon Antique for the headers, and Goudy Old Style for the party invitation.

Second Edition (2013) Colophon

• HP Pavilion dm3t Notebook PC

• Windows 7 Professional 64-Bit OS

The 2013 edition printing was reformatted entirely on a solid-state laptop computer system - mainly to recapture that “written in bed, in notebooks” feeling of the original draft.

• EmEditor Professional 4.13

• Open Office 3.2.0

Plain text was edited using EmEditor. All of the original 15-year-old .DOC files from the 1997 ClarisWorks edition were reformatted into the native Open Office 3.2.0 format. This was a tedious and time-consuming process, as the old ClarisWorks version had the page numbers hardcoded into the body of the text. All of these had to be manually removed, so the page numbering could be automated, by having them placed into proper headers in an Open Office template.

• Macromedia FreeHand 10

• Adobe Photoshop CS2

The second edition of the book used FreeHand for the title page and the photo pages. The revised cover was designed in Photoshop, using photographs I took of an antique 1820 book cover, which I purchased from a used bookstore in The Valley in Los Angeles.

• Apple Mac Mini 2.26GHz Intel Core 2 Duo

• Macintosh OS 10.6.2

• Font Lab 4.5

• Fonts: Palatino Roman, Caslon Antique, Noctuary, Goudy Old Style

With the second edition of the book, I found myself unsatisfied with the original Palatino font for the body text. Preferring the aesthetics of curled smart-quote punctuation in Times New Roman, I used Font Lab 4.5 on an Apple Mac Mini to change the standard Palatino font to use the comma (,) apostrophe (') and quotes (“”) from Times New Roman - this new font variation, I named Palatino Roman. The second edition uses Palatino Roman for all of the body text.

eBook Editions (2013) Colophon

• HP Vostro 400 Desktop PC

• Windows XP Professional OS

The eBook editions were created on a desktop computer, converted from the original Open Office .ODT files.

• EmEditor Professional 4.13

• WinZip 9.0

In order to make the book available to readers digitally, the original Open Office .ODT files were rebuilt as an .EPUB file. Being a programmer, I engineered and constructed the .EPUB files by hand - coding all of the CSS, XHTML, OPF and NCX files in a plain text editor. Once that was complete, I used WinZip to package my .EPUB file which was then quadruple-validated against epubcheck 3.0, and epubpreflight 0.1.0, and Sigil 0.6.2, and finally in Flight Crew 0.7.2.

• Kindlegen 2.7

Using the command-line utility KindleGen, I converted my .EPUB file into .MOBI format for sale and distribution online using Amazon and other .MOBI-based eReader systems.

Poster Catalog

Original Photography Copyright © 1996 Kathryn M. Barnes of Visual Echoes
Additional Photography Copyright © 1996 Eric Muss-Barnes
Digital Manipulation Copyright © 1996 Eric Muss-Barnes
All Rights Reserved

Books authored by novelist
Eric Muss-Barnes
www.EricMuss-Barnes.com

Voodoo & Loveshadow
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Ever since he was a little boy, Rusty Stratford always believed he was destined for great things. Now, with his 40th birthday fast approaching, Rusty is starting to suspect he might only be destined for mediocre things. A bachelor with few family members and fewer friends, life hasn’t quite panned out the way Rusty hoped it would, and he’s beginning to resign himself to being alone and unimportant.

All that changes the night he meets the precocious ghosts of his unborn twin daughters, Isabeau and Oona. Quickly, he comes to discover the universe is a strange brew of fate and happenstance wherein Isabeau and Oona only have a small window of time during which their spirits can be born. Can the little girls help their father find the woman destined to become their mom? Or will Isabeau and Oona miss their chance to exist?

If you squandered decades of your life awaiting “one true love” who never arrived, if dreaming of an idyllic “soulmate” kept you alive through your darkest hours and they didn’t show up, this magical tale will comfort your heartache of missed chances and abandonment with an empathy like you’ve never known. Voodoo & Loveshadow kindles hope in the loneliest of hearts, assuring when the world has given you up for dead, you may still conjure reasons for life, love and laughter to prevail...

The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of The Vampire Noctuaries
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Helle Tompkins has reached the end of her days as an outcast, suburban teenager. Ever since her beloved father killed himself, and they released Helle from the mental hospital for trying to join him, she’s been in a place where her pain is far deeper than high school melodrama.

No more hiding behind black lipstick and a mohawk. Now she’s playing with pagan charms, Wiccan rites, and the scrying sorcery of her Ouija board. It’s the perfect distraction until she summons the attention of a charming and sinister faerie prince. A seductive spirit lurking in the shadows of treebranches shimmering upon her walls, he may be something much more horrible than he claims.

Will she succumb to bewitching promises and find salvation in his cruel embrace, or will his own agonizing secrets draw Helle into even deeper heartbreak?

“...The Gothic Rainbow by Eric Muss-Barnes is, frankly, one of the most absorbing novels that I have read in quite some time. ... I’ve found the book well worth my time, and I hope you will give it a shot. ... At the end, I think you will agree that Eric Muss-Barnes will be a name to watch...”
- Christopher T. Miller, Book Stacks Unlimited

“... The Gothic Rainbow gives solace and escape for those who feel trapped in a messed-up world full of heartaches and misunderstandings. There is plenty of sex and violence to stimulate, but it’s the delicate beauty and passionate writing of this novel that will touch your soul ...”
- Octavia, Outburn Magazine

“... if you’ve ever listened to The Cure in the dark, danced to The Dead Milkmen, lost a loved one, hung out with skaters, hated your parents or hated preppies, or if anyone’s ever called you a “freak,” I think you’ll find a little of yourself in this book. Its honest representation of this subculture - from the music to the fashion - is spun throughout the web of fantasy ...”
- Cynthia Conlin, Implosion Magazine

“... it’s quite a page-turner, with lots of shocking vampiric escapades. This book, on the whole, is extremely well-written with a wonderful poetic style. I’m glad I didn’t let the slow start scare me off ...”
-Susan Moon, The Nocturnal Lyric

“... One aspect of the writing that I appreciated is that the author uses different styles of writing throughout this novel. Muss-Barnes excels in his literary descriptions of buildings, character dress, and dreams. ... the choice of words and inflection of mood hit dead on at what I anticipated I would find when I first picked up the book ...”
-Dan O., IndustrialnatioN

“... Eric effectively blends elements from different genres and literary styles in a duet between mortals and Fey. Highly unique, believable characters, and a musical playlist to boot! I found the book compelling and charming (in a twisted way), and would gladly read the book again ...”
- Chelsea, Thistle Magazine

“... I’m utterly mystified that this book worked as well as it did for me. It’s written for readers with a firm grasp of the Goth subculture (I don’t qualify); it doesn’t attempt to have a plot as such; and the vampires are hopelessly larger-than-life, with their expensive cars, outrageous acts of violence, and nonstop scorn for mortals. (In fact, the vampires consider themselves so godlike that pronouns referring to them are capitalized, a typographical idiosyncrasy that I found rather disconcerting.) Perhaps the book’s appeal lies in the sheer honesty of the narrative. ... Self-serving but sincere, The Gothic Rainbow is definitely worth checking out ... I know that’s a strange kind of thumbs-up, but The Gothic Rainbow is a strange kind of book. It’s certainly not for everyone. ... It is a book of dreams and fantasies, power and pain, and bittersweet Goth-flavored wish fulfillment ...”
- Catherine B. Krusberg, Sphere Fantasy Online

Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival: Concluding Volume of The Vampire Noctuaries
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Fetishes claw inside of you. Ones you dare never admit. Desires you could never reveal. Claims of being free of all their taboos has never made you stop fearing your own carnal wants... For none could ever endure your passions and live.

Whips and chains are for prudes.

Fangs. Talons. Blood of full moons. The darkest hungers never die. Tell us the tale of your lusts. Succumb to the story of your deviance.

Or pretend this isn’t you at all. Wonder how far burns the flame, but fear to melt the wax. No matter. We have you eternal. Wondering. Wanting. Trapped with no escape from the blackest scenarios you envision.

Know no remorse. Submit to this dread sensuality.

Mock my every word, for still, this is you.

There is a vampire legend within us all. You have felt it for years. Yearned to hear of it. To read of it. See it in a tangible form. Live it. Hungered. And yet no one has ever even spoken of it. No one has ever given that saga a voice... Until now...

This is the myth of the vampire as you have always dreamed it should be told. The one we have all secretly shared, but never expressed.

Hear how she wants every boy and girl?

The dawn of eternal night has come.

More than 17 years in the making, Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival is the long-awaited conclusion to The Gothic Rainbow. When you thought the shadows could become no darker, Annwn’s Maelstrom Festival: Concluding Volume Of The Vampire Noctuaries takes you further into the tale of Elric and Helle DuBois. Told from Helle’s perspective, the story picks up where The Gothic Rainbow: Beginning Volume of The Vampire Noctuaries ended. We learn the true motives of Camillia, and the mystery of mortals played as Pawns, in centuries-old Killing Games, by the insidious DuBois sisters.

The secrets grow deeper. The passion becomes stronger. The fury knows no limits. There is far more to Elric and Helle than they have ever dreamed. Welcome to Annwn’s Obsidian Sideshow & Maelstrom Festival, where the love of Elric and Helle will cause dominions to fall and tragedy and death be left in their wake.

How You Can Get a Job at Walt Disney Studios Without a College Degree
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Working for Walt Disney is a childhood dream, shared by millions of people, from all across the world. Since the founding of the studios in 1923, only a small fraction of individuals have ever experienced the bliss of making that dream coming true.

After working at the illustrious Studio for more than 6 years, author Eric Muss-Barnes shares his story of how that wish-upon-a-star came true for him, starting from humble beginnings in a bluecollar family in Ohio.

Told with warmth and humor, you learn every job, every experience, every career move he made. Starting from his childhood paper route during Cleveland blizzards, he explains how he journeyed all the way to sitting with Minnie Mouse, as a Cast Member, at the Disney Studio lot, on a warm Summer day.

How You Can Get a Job at Walt Disney Studios Without a College Degree is not merely about landing a job at Disney. Rather, it’s a tale regaling every trial and tribulation which lead Eric to Los Angeles, told in the hopes of inspiring you to continue the pursuit of your own dreams, whatever they may be.

You still have time to make your dream come true too. It’s never too late.

As Jiminy Cricket promised, if your heart is in your dream, no request is too extreme...

The Page of Wands
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Legend has it, an ancient walking staff, known as “The Wand”, first presented itself to old widow McCreadle, along with The Three Rules.

1. You may use the magic wand for 3 days.
2. You may only use it in your profession.
3. You must secretly bequeath it to an anonymous stranger.

As the power of The Wand is entrusted from one Los Angeles resident to the next, randomly falling into the hands of noble and corrupt citizens alike, the city is brought to both bliss and ruin. But, when things finally spiral out of control in neighborhoods infested with aliens, dragons, dinosaurs, and superheroes, can a misfit group of townspeople set the world right again, before The Wand must be passed on once more?

Grandpa Steiner Saves the World (from Illegal Aliens (from Space))
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Grandpa Steiner offends everyone. He doesn’t mean to. It just happens. During his youth, his attitudes were commonplace and perfectly acceptable. As the conventions of society change around him, and more and more of his opinions become derided as obsolete, Grandpa Steiner decides to start a blog, to vent his frustrations upon the Internet.

Little does Grandpa Steiner know, when a race of space aliens secretly decide to obliterate mankind, they regard his blog as the only redeeming quality of humanity. Grandpa Steiner inadvertently causes the aliens to reconsider, thereby sparing the world from annihilation.

But when his popular essays cause a media backlash and his family convinces Grandpa Steiner to stop his politically incorrect rants, will the prevailing “culture of damn sissies” spell doom for the Earth?

Schooling Your Boss To Not Suck
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Schooling Your Boss to not Suck takes a fun and sarcastic journey into tales of horrible bosses. There are countless books on improving the workplace, but nothing quite like this.

Is your boss a supervillain? Need a superhero to straighten him out? Instead of being written by another stuffy “expert”, author Eric Muss-Barnes (who barely squeaked out of high school, let alone finished college), offers a lighthearted slant on leadership from the viewpoint of the common worker.

True stories. Real experiences. No silly parables here, folks. No “puppydogs and rainbows” like those other motivational books. Just genuine events of piss and vinegar from the American middleclass workplace.

Eric is just an Average Joe, like yourself, telling it like it is. If your boss sincerely wants to learn how to motivate and inspire the people, it’s time the boss stopped listening to other leaders and started listening to what regular people like you have to say. It’s time someone stood tall, whipped off those mild-mannered glasses, and schooled your boss on how to not suck!

Forever Loving You
by Eric Muss-Barnes

Years ago, after author Eric Muss-Barnes had the cover photo for this book taken, a friend ridiculed him and said, “Who do you think you are, Michael Bolton? This looks like a cover for an album of rock ballads. ’Eric Muss-Barnes, Forever Loving You!’” Twenty years later, instead of an album cover, it became a book cover for a compilation of cheesy lovepoems.