NOVEL LINKS

NOVELS PENDING POSTING

Chapter Two

The hour passed in a flurry of thoughts and barren observations as I remained firmly rooted to my seat; comfortable in the well formed shadows of my little corner.  Few patrons exited the dark confines of the Vates Tavern while the blazing fury of the sun remained aloft, arching in its thunderous circuit, following the apparently endless cycle.  On rare occasion the heavy door, the barrier which separated the dazzling, painful light of day from the secure realm of shadows—thriving within the interring walls—would crack open, allowing only a sliding soul through.  Still, accompanying the soul there always was a piercing ray of light, and that solar knife would cleave the darkness forcing the nightly inhabitants to shrink away, seeking the ever deeper, ever darker shadows. 

I would not be consumed by sunlight as would a vampire.  The warm rays would not seer the flesh, burning it to grey ash, nor would the light char my alabaster bone to darkened cinders.  There was nothing preventing me from standing amid the brilliant daylight with my arms flung wide.  I was not a vampire.  Like vampires, I preferred the concealing shadows of night and cherished the isolation of the darkness.  The night was where I dwelt in peace and comfort.  The dark was my home and my clothing.  A choice had been made long ago, by me, to embrace and thrive in the absence of light.  Unlike the vampires, who were forced to comply with their love of the dark, I chose this life and the darkness. 

There was the exception to the vampire lethal reaction to light.  The three Furies, the sons of Mortua, were special in their ability to walk in the daylight without affliction.  Their names are known to all in the dark circles of the earth: Alecto, the oldest of the three and the most powerful; Magaera, the second son of Mortua; and Tisiphone, who has yet to speak a word to any being, alive or dead.  The three are known collectively as the Furies and form the head of the vampire Archon, which is the ruling council of elder vampires.  From the Archon was raised the dirae law, which binds every vampire to a specific code—as the Furies say: dirae rule, dirae law.  How exactly they became immune to the pure light of day is only speculation, but it is thought by most that the trait was passed down directly from Mortua, but buried beneath the vampirology, demonology, and a half-dozen other obscure-ologies there is nothing conclusive and only a tangled mess of legends and arcane lore. 

The only known absolute to the vampire history is the obelisk of Mortua.  Written by Mortua, the obelisk sets down the first set of dirae laws and establishes the Furies and Archon, who will rule in his absence.  And for the last several thousand years the obelisk has remained in the keeping of the Archon as a constant reminder of their slumbering patriarch. 

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯

The door creaked open, cutting the dark with a ray of light, as the soul slid through the opening and into the cramped tavern.  I immediately noticed the femme who entered was sorely out of place.  She was a vivid contrast to the patrons who stared at her with sullen and empty eyes.  Instead of the forlorn eyes and gaunt faces, she had that sparkle in her eyes, though mingled with an obvious fear, and her face was full and a shy redness blushed her cheeks.

Bait.  The notion hit me faster than I could have imagined and I nearly reacted before my thoughts had rippled all the way through my head.  If I were to use this tart to draw out the vampires, then I could trace her to their coven.  And if I was able to secure her before she meddles with them I could obtain an inside informant.  She was all to perfect.

I watched  as the final lingering stare withdrew from her form.  The vampires were already watching her with a hungry interest.  With a subtle limp—her left leg appeared to cause her some pain—she wandered through the flickering shadows.  Her steps were haltering and short and her shoulders were up and there was a tremor in her hands.  There was no doubt, she was fearful, but not too afraid to depart this place.  Something outside scared her more.  Wide eyed, she kept her gaze down and avoided looking at anyone directly.  What accident had caused her to step into this hole in the wall was beyond reckoning, but this clearly was not her usual retreat.  Fear had its icy fingers embedded in her warm heart.  I heard the rapid and heavy beats, pounding the muscular contractions of her mortal pump of life.  The smell of wet perspiration oozed from her pores—a salt tinged scent common to humanity.  A smile marked my face; the sweat on her skin made her glow with a glistening sheen.  She was an angel in a den of demons. 

She approached my table.  Not directly, but in her meanderings, for I was not known to her and she was not coming to find me as Job had done earlier.  Short and hollow breaths danced on her lips as she only dared to breath in this place.  I listened to every inhalation, taken with a slow and delicate precision in an effort to intake the air with as little disturbance as possible; and she exhaled with matched precision and care.  There is no doubt that my words stunned her and terrorized her.

"Dear mademoiselle, why do you wander into the dark places alone?  Do you not know what lurks in the abyssal places of this world?  Are you not aware of those who surround you  now?  I doubt it, for if you did you would not have lingered here at all—no matter what danger had forced you here," I said smoothly to her.

The stunning effect had been predicted with the utmost accuracy.  Her young heart seized and paused for several beats, causing her to put a hand on my table to keep from falling over entirely.  She was exactly where I needed her.

I leaned forward from the concealing darkness and into the frail candles light.  "Please mademoiselle, have a seat with me.  I am not here to cause you harm or to steal you away as night descends."

She dropped into the vacant chair.  Her eyes looked over my well cut features.  There would be no doubt; she knew I was a man of status, possibly even titled.  I watched as her eyes started at my well cropped hair, to my eyes, where our gazes locked for a moment, and then she quickly looked down at the marred table.  The intent was to express warmth and security in my eyes as I tried to express, without words, strength and honor.  Then she hunched over the table, cradling her head in her arms and the tears dropped to the lacquer with heavy plunks and splatters.  Her head shuddered as the moments passed on and with every hushed whimper, thick black hair fell forward, strewn over her shoulders and tumbled over her arms to the table. 

"I am Alex."

My words were simple and straight forward, calm and smooth, spoken with a voice as tactile as wet velvet; yet with the firm authority one would expect from a lord.  She raised her head and peered at me with almond eyes, which glistened with moist tears.  And from each eye a shiny line ran down her cheek—the mark of tears marring her features.  The only word which I can deem to do her justice is: exquisite.  She was a perfect and unadorned beauty.  As Emerson would have said in his poetic voice, she was "God's handwriting."  Her pink lips, moist from her sobs, were stained with tears, and her voice was delicate and gentle.

"I am mademoiselle Rose Reagé."

Rose.  The name wound through the air like the thin threads of incense, striking the senses with unbound pleasures.  Maybe it was her name or how it rolled off her tongue; maybe it was the depthless sincerity held within her eyes as she spoke, or her simple beauty—no matter what it was, she captivated me.  There was something there, something deeper than a simple woman, a peasant, or otherwise. 

"I will call you Eau de Rose."

Maybe it was instinctively, but my hand subtly went for hers and grasped her fingers entangling them with my own.  She did not withdraw as I had expected, instead she gripped my hand ever tighter and her eyes stared at me moistening with fresh tears.  The fear was still there, clutching to her spirit, but there was a sense of calm beginning to flicker across her face. 

“What happened to make you enter this establishment and weep at a strangers table?”  I asked cautiously. 

“I was attacked,” Rose stammered.  “A man cornered me in the narrow and when I tried to run he struck me on the knee.  In desperation I lunged through the nearest door and found myself here in this place.  She glanced back at the closed door.  “I had no where else to go.”

An intense rush of heat washed over my body.  It was like I had been submerged in a hot tub of water.  There are many things that I am: cold, calculating, patient, methodical, attentive, idealistic, perfectionistic in my own way, self absorbed, articulate, and so the list continues.  This graceful form of modeled perfection, who sat now weeping at my table, and who was assaulted by a stranger, was against my personal moral code, as she was the weaker and deserved defense.  And so to my list I will add: vengeful.  What was this heat that consumed me?  Anger?  Emotions, to me, are just as powerful as they are with anyone else.  I do feel them despite the belief that I lack all emotions.  The only reason why I admit to my hold nature is because I chose to act, most often, in a concise and logical manner, which is devoid of feeling and so presents me as the abrupt and heartless being.  Anger is not a warm feeling wrapped in fuzzy sensations.

The plan was conceived, hatched, and maturing.  This mademoiselle Rose Reagé would be excellent bait as she has already attracted the attention of the vampires in the tavern.  However, I first had to deal with the pitiful fool who had hoped for a free ride on a beaten bitch.  For who am I, if not the subtle undercurrent, churning beneath the view of humanity—of this world yet not by this world—who sunders tradition, acting on others behalves from beyond the concealing darkness and so communicating through ethereal whispers and dreams older than the worlds formidable cornerstone?  I am the icy manipulator. 

The plan to use Eau de Rose to draw out at least one of the two vampires who remained perched within the tavern seemed sound enough to me, though it was rather improvised.  She had the graceful body which vampires preferred to tempt and seduce, with a pale neck and supple skin which would easily succumb to the sharp fangs—spilling her hot blood for them to gorge on—and so birthing her into the darkness.  As I got her to my table first, before the vampires could make a move, I obtained the upper hand on them.  By ensuring her safety and dealing with the ruffian—who may still be waiting for her outside—I could secure Rose’s loyalty to me.  The only question which remained was: would the bait draw the prey?  She would draw them, there was no reason for me to doubt. 

I released my hand from hers.  Quickly she shot me a worried look, but immediately seemed to calm when her eyes locked onto mine. 

“You’re safe with me,” I assured her.

Her wet eyes silently pleaded for me to retake her hand.  There was a sense of security which vanished when I let her go and the safeness she had felt departed her, leaving her vulnerable and open.  Obligated to comfort her, I traced my fingers down from her ear, following her jaw, and lingering at her lips.

“Do you want to leave this place?” I asked gently.

Of course I knew and anticipated Rose’s answer, but she needed my guidance, my soft prodding.  The art of coercion is to create a sense of independence; to make the other person feel in control, like they are making their own decisions.  All the while you are arranging the steps, setting the pieces, and cunningly placing them on the path you want them to follow.  This Eau de Rose would be my masterpiece. 

“Only if you leave with me,” said Rose.  Her voice a humble whisper as she softly spoke with downcast eyes. 

“I will leave with you and if the foul man who has insulted you dares to appear then I will take it upon myself to defend you—unless there is another you wish to call upon?”

I had to confirm this mademoiselle was unattached, uncourted, and unwed, making her free from a tyrannical father, deranged brother, courtier, or husband, before I made any moves, in order to avoid an unexpected conflict which would no doubt end in a duel over her honor. 

“Monsieur, I am sixteen and have never known a man and have not been courted as of yet.  I am intact.”  Her eyes drifted up to mine.  “My father died this past year and my mother followed him this past harvest.”

Carefully I wiped the tear from her cheek with my finger.  “As the Holy Father proclaimed through His word, your parents reside in a place better than this harsh and bitter world.  They are free of pain and no longer know suffering.”

She nodded, looking idly at the tables indented surface.  With her finger she absently traced from one nick to the next. 

I decided to press for more information as she was old enough to be married and have born children, though she still claimed to be a virgin and uncourted.  “How is it you have survived in Paris without money, parents, husband, or lover to support you?”

Rose continued to trace the mars in the wood, staring blankly at her finger as she answered me.  “Some silver was left to me along with our small home, but the money is nearly gone and I refuse to give up my body to a pompous man who expects to use me as a fleshful hole for his own personal pleasures in exchange for a little money and no security.”

She was strong willed, but I sensed her pliability.  I also refused to believe her virginity was intact; so she was capable of lying discreetly and with some talent.  Rose was far too radiant a flower to not have attracted a man—at least one passionate night.  I stood promptly and watched as her eyes snapped back to me.  Without hesitation I dropped a crown on the table with a dull thud and walked around, standing behind her.  The beats of her heart doubled as I moved and her breath went from the steady rhythmic breathing to rapidly short breaths. 

“Come with me,” I said.  My voice was firm and gave her no option to resist, as I pulled the chair she occupied away from the table with a grinding sound.

Her voice was a frail sound.  “Yes monsieur.”  She stood from the chair and looked at me for further direction.

The two vampires watched with subtle glances as Rose arose from the chair.  Both of them wanted her, wanted to pierce her arteries, allowing her heart to pump the fresh blood into their thirsty mouths.  I could see it in their eyes, the desire to take her, and their movements betrayed their intents.  Always did they keep Rose in their view and with every move they made they slowly worked their way closer to her, and to me.  They had to know I was not a vampire.  I lacked the pale skin and the customary tell-tale fangs and my movements were not the dramatics the vampires often used.  Maybe they assumed I was a lycan or maybe a well connected man of Paris as men had dealings with the dark ones on occasions.  And not just anyone would linger in the Vates Tavern without cause or appointment.  There was a purpose for my presence.  They had to believe that.  That believe and notion may hold them at bay long enough for me to dispatch the fool outside and solidify Rose’s loyalty to only me and placing her in my debt.  A debt I needed before I threw her out to the wolves as bait.

I looked at Rose, peering into her almond eyes.  For a flickering instant I saw a reflection of myself which I did not recognize.  Then as quickly as it appeared it vanished.  Tenderly my hand pressed against the small of her back.  “It’s time for us to leave,” I said.

She moved serenely, walking in front of me as my hand maintained constant contact with her lower back.  It was formed from such a subtle curve that my fingers sensed the aching of her narrow waste to the sides.  Slowly my hand slid around to her side and then back to her lower back.  At that instant a rare and unprecedented feeling sized me—also dissipating before my rational mind could clearly interpret it.

The moment it took us to exit the Vates Tavern passed swiftly and I had to smile as the light fearing creatures within shrunk back as we opened the door to depart.  If the vampires were unsure of my nature, my stepping into the light of day would have clarified it to them.  Rose sauntered a step ahead of me as we crossed the worn threshold, allowing the door to close with a thud behind us, and entered the narrow—the winding by-lane.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯

Uneven flagging and broken curbstones floored the scene.  Several drain barriers littered the by-lane amid half rotted crates which defied gravities incessant pull, and small pools of stagnant water sat in the depressed portions of the stones adding to the decrepit tone of the by-lane.  Heavy stone walls and massive timbers walled in the narrow, except for the few intersecting alleys, lanes, by-lanes, rows, and mews.  Above, the brilliant light of day filtered down, illuminating the dank air with a flowing light which was ever surrounded by stealthy shadows.  Often I wondered how anyone ever found the Vates Tavern, but then again, the tavern was not one to be found.

I used my hand at Rose’s back to turn her to the right.  The larger pavé was only a few dozen footsteps away.  “Once we reach the pavé we will move north—heading to the left—until I find a place more suitable to talk further.”  My lips nearly touched her ear as I gave her the instructions and as I spoke she leaned heavily against my palm at her back.  When my words were finished she silently nodded her understanding.

The simple smile on my face enlarged, becoming a broad smile as Rose stepped and then suddenly backpedaled into me.  A wiry figure with scarecrowish hair emerged from behind a drain barrel a few steps in front of her.  His thin arms ended in spindly fingers clutched a club resembling and enormous squash.  Undeterred by the sudden appearance of the man, I moved Rose to the left, putting her against the wall.  There she clutched my hand as I moved forward, as she desperately tried to hold me back.  But as the French would say, this is an affaire d’honneur—an affair of honor—resolvable only with a duel.  In this place and with this man, it would be less of a duel and more of a brawl, but the idea and concept still remained the same.  With a slight push, I pressed Rose firmly against the wall.

“I’ll not let this man harm you again,” I said firmly and loud enough for him to hear my words.  

With a fragile sigh she relaxed her clasp on my hand, but left it extended out, touching my arm.  And as I took the stride toward the man her fingers traced down my arm and fell free at my elbow.  She was afraid for my safety.  If only she knew my capabilities and my power. 

The man stood menacingly, eyeing me with utter contempt as I closed in on him.  I watched his grip tighten on his gnarled club and I watched his gaze gauge my movements and approach.  He was unskilled in combat, that was clear, but he was not a fool when it came to a brawl.  The odds were that he had grown up on the streets of Paris and that brawling was a way of life, the way to get silver and food, the way to procure a femme or stake out territory.  To him fighting would not be an art, but would instead be a way of survival and instinctual instead of intellectual, emotional instead of rational.

He spoke, while I was only two steps from Rose.  His voice was harsh and raspy.  It was a detestable and twisted vocal utterance, which made me smirk.

“The femme is mine,” he claimed blatantly.

Again my smile widened as a clear chuckle escaped my lips.  “Mademoiselle Rose belongs to no man,” I stated, though I knew there was a good possibility she had fabricated that story to enlist my aide.  Despite her simple appearance and nature, I knew she had the capabilities to lie.  And if she moved to manipulate me, I would manipulate her.

“It’s not her choice to deny me,” he sneered as his thin lips drew tight over his clenched teeth.

“Are you joined to her in marriage, making her your wife; has her father given her to you in arrangement, so that you are now engaged and a marriage is pending; or are you courting her now with the intent to marry, making her a happy bride and eventual wife at which time you will take her innocence?”

“We are not married and that makes no difference!”

“I did not think you were married.”

“Her father…”

I cut him off.  “Is dead—God rest his soul—and interred six feet beneath the ground.”

“I plan to court her!” he snapped suddenly with infuriation.

“With a club instead of flowers?”  Again I chuckled.  This man was an idiot and a fool.  “And you would force her into a by-lane instead of taking her to the fountain or the garden or even the square?”

His gaunt cheeks flushed red.  “I drew the club on you!”

“Did you not also draw it on her earlier?”

“Not intentionally!”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“Though you do draw it upon me, an unarmed man?”

Rose laughed behind me and quickly stifled the joyous outburst with her hand.  She had a right to mock him with a laugh, as all idiots have a right to be laughed at, and this man was moronic.  How far his idiot mentality would carry his actions was completely up to him.  He could walk away with or without the club and either way I would never think of him again.  On the other hand he could press the insult and at worst dare to outright attack me.  Though he had already drawn a weapon on me.

"Bitch!" he managed to spit out as he pointed a spindly finger at Rose.

"Bitch?  You need a lesson in common courtesy and courting."  My voice cracked on the edge on uncontrollable laughter.

"What?"

"Let me show you," I said.

He stared at me as I turned and paced back to mademoiselle Eau de Rose, stopping only once I had drawn up within a hands breadth from her face.  Her sweet breath caressed my throat and I took a slow deep breath in, absorbing her presence.  From her position against the wall she peered up at me with her almond eyes locked on mine, frozen to me.  They were flooded with deep anticipation.

"Monsieur?" she whispered.

"Mademoiselle," I began, "your form is perfect—molded by God—formed to rival Venus; your complexion and angelic face surpasses the long foretold graces of Helena of Troy; and your subtle innocents conceals a woman more profound and erotic than Cleopatra.  If I could clasp your hand within my own, the world would cease to be filled with vibrant colors, for your perfection would pale them, making them bland to my eyes.  What enchantress are you?

"Monsieur," whispered Eau de Rose as she leaned closer and nearly kissed her his throat as he spoke.

"I do not see Cupid with his arrows of meaningless lust; nor have I partaken of Aphrodite's elixir of romance, which inspires fruitless conditions of erotic substance.  Instead your honeyed breath spurs me nearer.  The palpable sensation of our co-mingling spirits overpower me.  Your gentle voice, whispering in sweetness compels me to think only of you.  If I could only clasp your  hand within my own, the world would cease to be filled with vibrant colors, for your perfection would pale them, making them bland to my eyes.  What enchantress are you?  Will you remain silently posed, standing there with your back to the wall?  Will you not grant me the honor of hearing your lips utter a word or speak your name?"

She trembled subtly, keeping her back firmly against the wall with her hands pressed against the heavy wood behind her.  Her eyes lost to unknown and fathomless depths.  "Monsieur," she whispered again with heavy breath.  Her head dropped to the dirty ground.  "I am Eau de Rose."

I placed my hand beneath her downcast face, cupping her chin.  Delicately I raised her head  until her eyes again found my own orbs of sight.

"No Goddess of ultimate beauty should feel unable to look upon any man—for I don't disgrace you.  You are the rare lily, unscathed by  mortal hands.  You are the virgin forest, ancient and unexplored, full of vibrant life.  You are the unconquerable deep, which inspires all men to dream fantastic dreams.  Will you allow me to humbly caress the lily?  May I take a thousand years to explore the width, breadth, and glory of your vibrant forest?  Will you allow me the privilege to dream of you in my nightly slumber."

Eau de Rose's eyes filled with tears, threatening to spill down her face.  Her body trembled and she wavered.  With both hands she clutched my arms, clinging to me for support.  There was only one word she could whisper.  "Yes."

Behind me I could hear the steadily increasing breath of the idiot.  There was an agitation in the breath and I knew he could not tolerate this display much longer.  In a moment he would either snap and leave or he would attack me.  Either way I would win.  It was the fact he could not avoid or change, though he had no idea of the outcome or the facts which faced him.  Now it was time to push him a little further.

"Will you walk with me this afternoon until the sun kisses the western horizon? For I..."

Her lips, moist and pleading, pressed into mine.  Instantly and without warning her warm tongue drove through my lips, parting them, as she kissed me with a furious passion I did not know still existed.  I watched her eyes close, spilling the tears down her face, and the saltiness seeped through the crease of our embrace.  A soft moan escaped from deep within her, arising with an involuntary quiver.

The kiss was not my intent and I doubted it she was planning on kissing me either.  It was one of the unplanned things.  However the naked reality was:  I stood there with our tongues entwined and held her to my own heaving chest.  Even  now I do not fully understand what transpired in that instant and at that moment I was powerless to comprehend the moment for what it was.

Blind to the thin man, I heard his footsteps descending upon me long before he reached me, but I was still too sluggish in my reaction.  He came at me full tilt, charging and ending with a powerful swing, landing a blow to the side of my head.  The force of the blow from the blunt instrument split my head open, splattering deep red blood across Eau de Rose's face as my head violently snapped to the left.  I staggered to the side and crumpled to the ground.  From my prone position I watched as Rose fell to her knees, burying her blood speckled face in her hands.  The blow was brutal and blood filled my mouth and streams of thick blood poured down my face onto the flagging to mingle with the grim saturated pools of grey water.  Raw iron, the pungent stench of a mortal wound enveloped the by-lane.  Those who knew death and what it looked and felt like would have known my demise—but I am not human and my death is never complete.

It was impossible for me to cease smiling.  The fine mist of red blood lingered in the air, while I watched him ignore me and move to stand over the fallen Rose.  She could do nothing but cower beneath his shadow, as she struggled to press herself into the wall behind her, hoping it would absorb her and protect her.  But there was little she could do, the wall would not take her in and she kept her head down and put her hands up to cover her blood smeared face. 

Spittle dripped from the face of the fool as he gloated over her.  And like a wraith rising from the must veiled soil, I arose, moving silently behind the club wielding menace.  He was nothing more than a breathing and moving corpse, an acting dead man.  My hand reached slowly into my belt pouch and my nimble fingers found the four connected metal rings which slid over my fingers with remarkable ease.  The perfect pair of metal knuckles. 

"Bitch!" he snarled at her.  With the words he raised his gnarled club over head, gripping it with both hands to add all his might to the descending blow.  "You will be mine or be eaten by the sable birds of hell."

Rose did something then which I never expected her to do.  She raised her head, displaying her bloodied face which bore two twin lines of pink, where the tears had washed the blood away.  With her stunning almond eyes she stared through him, allowing her determination to eat at him.  The words she said cut him and widened my smile, for her words were spoken clearly without faltering or err.  "I will never be your anything.  I will not be you whore, your Rose, nor your Eau de Rose."  Her steady voice declared the informal name with an impassioned dignity.  The fear of death—in the form of a bludgeoning—melted away and from its remains was born a creature of unbelievable will.  She defied his position and soberly crushed his power over her.  The morale victory was the equivalent of Lionides's victory over Xerxes. 

He remained standing over her, his knuckles paling with the tightening grasp on the club.  "Eau de Rose," he mocked her spitting the words on her face.  "You're only a strumpet trying in all desperation to clamor out of the sewers.  The fun I would have had with you would have been the only pleasure you would have known.  And I will still have my way with your corpse—while it is still warm."  His hell born smile wickedly spread across his face.  

I had heard enough from this arrogant shitheel.  He was a wastrel, a good-for-naught fellow, or as they would say in France: mauvais sujet.  He was a verminiteous blight, a ricidivist, the dark mar on a rising society, who needed to be extinguished.  His dark heart was filled with vile, foul, arrant, nefarious, and heinous  devilry , from which his sickened and gangrenous soul could not know how to follow through with any penitential act.  I would not hear his cry and pleading for quarter and mercy.  My heart would be callous to his desperate moans, for I became savage and had forgotten amnesty and grace—my heated heart had grown icy.  Violence and wrath would spew from me as I now stood poised and malefic, prepared to embrace the sadistic rite and with all the feral might strike him down unaffectionatly.  Mercy—I knew not the word—its meaning departed on swift wings.

"Go now and wander forever in the valley of Acheron!  For no coin will pay Chiron!" snapped Eau de Rose.  "When you die, you will die a hell bound man with no one to save you!"

The long inhalation of the stank air foretold the idiots intent to deal the deadly blow.  There was the slight rise of his frame as he prepared to hammer the club down with what would be a mortally crushing end.  I could not let her be injured any further.  The time to kill him had come.

My strong right hand, armed and laden with the heavy metal knuckles , slammed into the soft lower flank, driving upward, dissecting his kidney and crushing it into his liver, as my hand buried full-fist into his body.  The sheer power of the blow lifted him several inches off the ground.  He crumpled to the right and dropped the club to the stones with a thud.  With a grunt he twisted, shifting his footing and spun counter-clockwise, arching a backhanded swing with his off hand at my head.  I easily ducked beneath the rounding swing and slammed the metal plated fist into the openly exposed ribs beneath his heart.  Several cracks split the air as his ribs fractured under the merciless assault.

He staggered backwards and fell into Rose.  Blood, thick and dark, drooled from his mouth.  His eyes narrowed, seething with morbid rancor.  Without breaking the his stare, he wiped the blood and spittle from his mouth and chin with the back of his forearm.  Bitterly he cringed as he drew in a deep breath.

After a sly crouch, he lurched forward at me, unpinning Rose from the wall as he wildly thrust a jab at me.  I rolled to the right and allowed the blow to glance off of my shoulder and as I came around from the spin I brought my left elbow up and caught him in the face.  The orbital bone gave way under the weight of the strike and was driven through his eye. 

Stunned, he stood with quivering hands.  Thick fluid from his eye drained and ran down his face, pooling in the deep laceration on his cheek.  His legs trembled, but they continued to hold him upright; he was defiant to the very end.

Eau de Rose managed to squeeze out from behind his form, picking up the club from the stone.  She took a defense stance to my right, holding the new weapon out in front of her body.  Clearly she had never brandished a club in her life and her form was horribly wrong, but she was at least attempting to appear prepared.  Her whole body shook with rage and fear, a deadly mix of emotions. 

"Bitch!" bellowed the man.  Foul saliva soaked in raw blood splattered from his lips as he cursed and fell to his knees.

I took hold of his hair and wrapped it in my left hand.  His hair was soaked in sweat and straw-like, but the roots held firm and with a jerk I forced his head back.  He flopped his arms around without sense of intentional action as he lacked the strength to move them.  His words disintegrated into bestial mumblings and whines, accompanied by wheezing breaths.  With my left hand entwined in his hair, holding it back, I drew back my right hand and pounded the metal clad hammer of a fist into his exposed throat.  The rigid cartilage of his windpipe collapsed like paper and my fist found his spine behind his throat.

Instantly I released him as he wheezed and tried to flail.  His one remaining eye widened in the horror and realization that death would soon bed him with t he eternal and dreamless sleep.  A violent shudder tore through him, dropping him to the flagging in a convulsing mass of quivering flesh.  Then all went still and his eye stared emptily at the heavens above.

Eau de Rose raised the man's own club over her head.  "Eau de Rose," she whispered.

She reeled back to strike, and the second she began to swing, I caught her hand where it gripped his club.  For several seconds we remained locked in that position.  Her eyes pleaded for me to allow her to tenderize his flesh. 

"No," I said.  "He is already dead."

She shook her head defiantly, but dropped the club back to the ground with a series of short thuds and thunks.  Then she took hold of me and clung to me and stared at the dilated eye of the dead man on the ground at my feet.  With a slow exhale she went soft in my arms—her eyes closed as exhaustion overtook her.  Delicately I picked her up in my arms, cradling her against my body.  It was time to take Eau de Rose home.

Return to top of page