Black Light (20 page)

“I actually would like to hear what spooked you up there,” he said. “You looked pretty freaked out.”

I bit my lip. “I
can’t
,” I said at last, hopelessly. Because how could I ever explain anything about Kamensic to someone who hadn’t lived there all his life? Especially a grownup; especially Jamie Casson’s father. “It’s—it’s just so…”

“Listen.
Lit
.” Ralph lowered his voice and let his hand rest upon my knee. “Is this some kind of—
drug thing
? Because if it is, I won’t tell your parents—I can
help
you, but you’ll have to tell me what it was you—”

“
No
! I mean, I wish it
was
—but it wasn’t,
I
wasn’t—I’m not on anything.”

“So…?” He turned and took my chin in his hand. His fingers were rough and calloused and smelled of jasmine. “Hey, come on—you know you’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

So I talked about it. Somehow the angry music and marijuana smoke and velvety light made it seem not so strange to be telling an adult I barely knew about something I wasn’t sure I had seen.

“…was like I went the wrong way up to the house, but there’s only one road, and anyway the road was
gone
…”

As I spoke Ralph Casson nodded and his eyes widened, not with disbelief but as though I were confirming something he already knew. When I faltered, trying to think of a way to describe the stone column I had seen, or the terrible sound the stag had made when it was wounded, Ralph didn’t interrupt, or question me. He said nothing at all; only let his gaze lift from my face to rest upon the black hillside behind us. All the while he continued to hold my chin in his hand, and gradually he let his fingers creep upward until they splayed across my cheek, stroking it.

I didn’t pull away. His touch was hypnotic, it made me feel as though he were gently pulling the story from me, as one carefully plays out the string of a kite against a steady wind. He didn’t say a word, until I mentioned the slight sharp-featured man who had chanted over the slaughtered deer and a living corpse bound with ivy.

“Describe him,” Ralph broke in. The scent of jasmine flooded me as he trailed a finger across my upper lip. “Tell me.”

I shook my head, puzzled.

“Describe him.”
Ralph’s voice rose slightly. He moved his hand so that his fingers knotted in my hair, then pulled my head back. Not forcefully but irresistibly, so that my neck was exposed to him. He ran a finger down the ridge of my windpipe and probed at the hollow of my throat; then traced the skin above my breasts. “Lit. You have to tell me. What did he look like?”

“He—he was small.” I wasn’t sure if I should be frightened; if so, what precisely I should be frightened
of.
“About as tall as me, and he had sort of gray hair. Black hair, but turning gray. And blue eyes. I think.”

“Balthazar.” Abruptly Ralph let go of me. He smiled, those intense eyes glowing with reflected light. With deliberate slowness he slid his hand beneath the front of my dress, until it caressed my breast. I felt my nipple harden as he circled it with one finger. But he drew no closer, made no move to kiss me; only tipped his head to regard me measuringly.

“Well,” he murmured. “Aren’t you the lucky girl.” His palm covered my breast and for a long moment he held it there, so that its warmth seeped into my skin. A sharper scent cut through the smell of jasmine. Unexpectedly he slipped his hand free, and raised it to brush a strand of hair from my face.

“‘Meet the new boss,’” said Ralph Casson lightly. He stood and stretched, his back to me, and stared at Bolerium’s glowing violet windows, the patio empty now save for a cigarette smoldering on the flagstones. “‘Same as the old boss.’”

I shook my head, trying to hide confusion and arousal, and anger that he’d drawn away from me so suddenly. “Who—who was it? Do you know him?”

“Know him? Sure.” He didn’t bother to glance at me. “Balthazar Warnick. I studied under him at the Divine. Cultural anthropology. Comparative religion. We had a falling out, over—well, call it structuralism.”

I looked at him blankly. “What’s that?”

“The way the world is arranged. I thought he was wrong, but I’ve come to see the error of my ways. Now I can find him and tell him he was right all along,” he added.

“But I don’t get it—what was he doing up
there
?” I jabbed a finger toward where the standing stone had been. “Nothing’s there now! It was—is it
witches
?”

“Witches?” Ralph Casson began to laugh. “Oh, you poor benighted child! No, it’s not
witches.
Don’t you know what this place is? This little bedroom community Shangri-la you have here? This incredibly groovy little place conveniently located just seventy-two minutes north of Manhattan?”

I glared at him.
“No.”

“Why, it’s the sacred fucking grove!” he exclaimed bitterly. He pointed to a neighboring hillside that blotted out the sky to the east, then to the service road winding down from the far side of Bolerium to the village. “I mean, right there you’ve got Sugar Mountain, and Muscanth here’s your fairy mound, and down there’s the river where boys drown trying to fuck Undine, and here at Bolerium—”

“Charlotte! Where have you
been
?”

I turned to see Duncan Forrester weaving across the patio. He was wearing his sister’s fuchsia tank top over ragged blue jeans, blue eye makeup and Ali’s black cherry Biba lipgloss. The blouse was too small for him: the seams had split across the front, so that you could see glitter sparkling in his chest hair. He stopped and stared at me, grinning with totally blitzed good humor; then leaned forward to frown at the top of my head.

“Tell me, Charlotte—is it my eyes, or has your hair turned quite gold with grief?”

“It’s henna. Ali did it,” I said dully. Because Duncan’s appearance had the opposite effect of reassuring me. As clearly as though it had been spelled out on a banner overhead, I knew that everything had changed. Whatever happened next, neither Duncan nor any of my other friends were going to be able to stop it.

“Ah: another mystery solved!” Duncan raised his eyebrows, shedding tiny flakes of silver. “Miss Fox in the bedroom with the curling iron.
Très rouge,
Charlotte,
très très rouge
.” He turned to Ralph. “Hi. I’m Duncan Forrester.”

Ralph stared at him in distaste. “Ralph Casson,” he finally said.

“Charmed, charmed…” Duncan wandered off a few steps and gazed at the sky. “Is there a full moon tonight? Is there a moon at all?”

“I think I’ll leave you to your little friend,” said Ralph, and walked away. As he passed Duncan he made an elaborate show of giving him a thumbs-up. “Groovy threads, man.”

“Who the hell is that?” asked Duncan, throwing an arm over my shoulder. He held up a fifth of Tanqueray, already half-empty, eyed it wistfully before taking a swig.

“He told you…Ralph Casson.” I watched until he disappeared around a corner, turned back to Duncan. “He’s doing sets or something for Axel. His son is that new guy Jamie—”

“Oooh, yes.” Duncan lowered the bottle. He flicked a drop from one corner of his mouth, then smoothed out his lipgloss. “I met him. Jamie Casson. The new guy. He has a sort of—
spiritual
quality, don’t you think?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I think he’s a
junkie
.” Duncan pursed his lips. He looked less like Marc Bolan than Don Knotts in drag. “Hillary is inside having a fit looking for you.
Très formidable.
And you know who’s here? Precious Bane!
And
Hillary said there’s supposed to be a band later, or a movie, or something…Tell me, Charlotte, do you like what I’m wearing?”

He spread his arms to model the tank top. I heard another seam rip. “Damn.” Duncan sighed. “Do you know, I spent an hour picking something out, this beautiful old peach organdy Balenciaga gown of my mother’s—and then I got here and walked inside and there was some guy and you know what?
He was wearing the same dress
.”

He made a tragic face. More mascara and glitter rained onto his cheeks. He took another mouthful of gin and started for the patio.

“You’re not going to get sick, are you?” I asked.

“Never mix, never worry.” He handed me the bottle. I sniffed it and took a sip. “Don’t look like that, Charlotte, Tanqueray is mother’s milk to me.
My
mother puts it on her muesli. Come on, you’re missing everything. It’s like the Tomb of the Unknown Hairdresser in there. Give me that—”

I handed him the bottle. “Wait till you see inside,” he announced when we reached the patio. The music had momentarily died away, though the rumble of conversation was loud enough that Duncan had to yell for me to hear him. Beside the doors, windblown asters and chrysanthemums erupted from terra-cotta vases shaped like amphorae. In the ultraviolet light the swollen flower heads looked dark as blood, but everything else had an edgy dark-night-of-the-soul glare. A jackknifed cigarette stained with lipstick lay on the ground, still smoldering. Without pausing Duncan swooped down to nab it. He toked it as though it were a joint, tossed it into the bushes, and propelled me through a doorway.

“Don’t bother thinking. Just
go
—!” he shouted.

It was like diving underwater; like being pushed into one of those huge, extravagantly lit aquariums you see at louche nightclubs or fabulous Malaysian restaurants, where nightmarishly beautiful fish dart in and out of coral ziggurats, skeletons and organs visible through their skin; then devour each other before your eyes. From outside, it seemed that the UV lights were trained on the entire main hall, but they were not. They were fixed in upright columns all along the outer perimeter of the room, so that I walked through a glowing cobalt corridor; then almost immediately was in darkness so profound I thought the power must have blown.

“Dunc?” I called nervously.
“Dunc!”

But he had already disappeared. I stood and tried to get my bearings, after a minute figured that the lights actually had
not
gone out. I was in the broad inner hallway that ran along the back of the mansion like an extension of the patio. But once past the rows of black lights, there were only candelabrums for illumination. These hung by long chains from the vaulted ceiling: great clusters of horns and antlers like knotted fingers with candles thrust between. The soles of my boots grew slick with wax; directly under some of the larger candelabrums fragrant stalagmites thrust up from the slate floor.

The noise was deafening. There were people everywhere, half-seen through candlelight and a veil of periwinkle smoke. They looked like those ghostly afterimages you get when you stare into the sun and then look away; figures so swaddled within their flamboyant clothing that I couldn’t tell if they were really human, let alone male or female, old or young. A grotesquely tall, emaciated woman with a white afro and skin lacquered gold and crimson; twin matrons in chaste Chanel suits and pearls, their heads shaved; a boy wearing lederhosen and an ammo belt. Bare, glitter-encrusted breasts like the ripple of light on a trout’s belly; eyes like holes gouged in a green melon. For one split second I had a vision of Duncan Forrester, laughing beneath a tapestry; but as I took a step toward him he disappeared. In his stead there was only a suit of armor hung with plastic Hawaiian leis, a yellow happy face beaming from its visor.

—TV eye on you—

With a roar the music suddenly came back on. The whole place erupted into laughter and cheers.

—My TV eye on you—

I covered my ears and started threading my way through the dark, to where I knew a doorway opened onto the music room. Drinks spilled on me, a girl shouted my name. I almost tripped over a prone body but was held up by the crowd.

“Hey, Red! Here—”

Someone thrust a joint into my hand. I sucked on it, my fingers damp with someone else’s spit; then held it up over my head to be snatched back. Before anything else could come my way—magic needles, wreaths of poppies, an arrest warrant—I lurched forward, and at last found the way out.

There was no door; just a high arched entry, so wide you could have driven a VW bus through it. For all I knew that was how all those guests arrived. A small cluster of relatively sedate-looking people stood in the passageway. Men in tuxedos; Amanda Joy and her rival, the agent Margot Steiner. Opposite them lounged my high school classmates Christie Smith and Alysa Redmond, in matching white silk jumpsuits, whispering to each other with fingers interlaced. As I walked by they glanced sideways and smiled.

“Hi, Lit.”

“Hi, Lit.
Great
party…”

As though I had something to do with it. I gave them both a wobbly smile. “Hi, Alysa. Christie. Have you seen Hillary any—”

I stiffened. One of the tuxedoed men was laughing at something a companion had said. He turned casually in my direction—a short slight man with dark silver-touched hair, a keen blade of a nose and disarmingly alert blue eyes. When he saw me his laughter did not stop, but there was a nearly imperceptible change in its timbre, as though he’d drawn a breath of cold air. His gaze caught mine and held it. Not challengingly, not fearfully, but with disbelief—

But a sort of disbelief that seemed almost like ecstasy, a raw surge of emotion that I had never observed before, and certainly never directed at
me.
His brow furrowed and his blue eyes narrowed, as though he was not quite sure of what he was seeing. Then he turned away again, so that I saw only the back of his bespoke tuxedo jacket.

It was not quickly enough. I had recognized him. The man I had seen atop Muscanth Mountain; the man Ralph had named Balthazar Warnick.

Yet what terrified me, what sent me pushing past that little crowd and into the reassuring silence of the music room, was not the memory of slashing wind or the soft dreadful cries of the dying stag. What was most horrible was that, somehow, in that flash instant, Balthazar Warnick had recognized
me.
The unguarded look he had given me was not mere disbelief. It was the joy I had seen on Peter Burke’s face when he learned his son Evan was not dead in a place crash, but had missed his flight. It was the look my mother had one dawn when I hadn’t bothered to call first and returned home from an unexpected party; the look of a man seeing a loved one he thought dead. And the revenant was me.