Authors: Mick Farren
More Than Mortal (14 page)
Renquist thought about this. The more he learned, the more he felt a definite sense of urgency. “I presume it’s too late to go to this place tonight.”
Destry didn’t have to consult a clock to know the night was hardly young. “We would never make it there and back before the dawn.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Definitely tomorrow.”
“Then perhaps, in the meantime, you could describe how you first came to learn of this fragment.”
The situation was clearly one in which words were simply too cumbersome and time consuming. She simply opened her mind and let Renquist view her full recall of the discovery. It had been the fourth of her nocturnal visits to the excavation, and the first time she had arrived to find a human still at the dig. Her usual schedule was to leave Ravenkeep in the Range Rover a little after midnight. By that hour, Dr. Campion and his student excavators had departed for wherever they spent the night, but this time was different. Fortunately she had seen the light before she’d detected any other clue to a lingering human. She had quickly parked the Range Rover far enough away so that whoever might be working late would not be alerted by the sound of the engine.
Leaving the truck, she had sped over the springy downland turf, only slowing down when she was near to the tent, where a single figure was working alone by an electric light that was powered by a small portable generator. Gently manipulating his mind so he would not become aware of her presence, she probed his thoughts from a distance, and the first thing she discovered was that this human was none other than Dr. Campion himself, and, right at that moment, he was a worried man.
Leaving the truck, she had sped over the springy downland turf, only slowing down when she was near to the tent, where a single figure was working alone by an electric light that was powered by a small portable generator. Gently manipulating his mind so he would not become aware of her presence, she probed his thoughts from a distance, and the first thing she discovered was that this human was none other than Dr. Campion himself, and, right at that moment, he was a worried man.
William Campion, Ph.D., was a man of modest ambition. He was of middle age, in his early forties, and his sandy hair was thinning as fast as his youthful dreams of glory. Where once he had made brave protestations, at least to himself, that he would one day make a major contribution to the sum total of human knowledge, he was now bleakly satisfied with his secure tenure at Wessex University, the prospect of a small body of published work, and a comfortable retirement. Initially, the excavation at Morton Downs had been mundanely routine. Dr. Campion had embarked on the project as little more than an exercise for his graduate students and a chance for him to oversee the work, looking authoritative in his faded blue jeans and corduroy shirt, and maybe catch the attention of one of the more attractive young female volunteers. The dig had remained as mundane as expected until, in one of the early trenches, the mica fragment had come to light. Since neither the material nor the sophistication of the processing seemed to have any relation to the Bronze Age, and the single written character burned into the thing appeared to be of a language he had never encountered before, it worried him. Such an object shouldn’t have been there, and Campion had reached the age and disposition to distrust anything that turned up where it shouldn’t logically be.
What seemed to worry the man most was how he might explain such an anomalous discovery to a set of skeptical and potentially hostile colleagues. The piece of mica had been unearthed in a layer of subsoil that totally
precluded it having come to the site at a later time, and yet, to believe that such an object might be contemporary with or, worse still, even older than the burial mound could start the kind of furor in the fundamentally conservative world of archeology that constituted Campion’s worst scholastic nightmare. Public revelation of things that didn’t ought to be could consign one to the intellectual hell reserved for those who claimed the Great Pyramid was built by aliens or that Atlantis had existed off the coast of Bimini. Such controversy could also destroy reputations, threaten tenure, and generally reduce one to the status of laughingstock. Of course, Marieko was well aware of how the Great Pyramid had been constructed; she knew exactly what had been off Bimini, and she held the benighted human ideas of history in nothing less than complete contempt—but she was not about to enlighten Campion. His problems were none of her concern. Marieko’s first instinct was simply to take the mica fragment, by force if necessary, and make an end to the matter. Fortunately, she had the foresight to be aware that rudimentary theft would not be the end of the matter, and she also quickly discovered, by a deeper scan of Campion’s mind, that the fragment was no longer at the dig. In his fear of the unexplained, he had sent it back to his lab at the university while he pondered his subsequent moves. Campion was apprehensive of what he might find next, and until a solution presented itself, his best idea was to tighten operations at the dig to prevent any premature disclosure and to face whatever might come next when it presented itself.
precluded it having come to the site at a later time, and yet, to believe that such an object might be contemporary with or, worse still, even older than the burial mound could start the kind of furor in the fundamentally conservative world of archeology that constituted Campion’s worst scholastic nightmare. Public revelation of things that didn’t ought to be could consign one to the intellectual hell reserved for those who claimed the Great Pyramid was built by aliens or that Atlantis had existed off the coast of Bimini. Such controversy could also destroy reputations, threaten tenure, and generally reduce one to the status of laughingstock. Of course, Marieko was well aware of how the Great Pyramid had been constructed; she knew exactly what had been off Bimini, and she held the benighted human ideas of history in nothing less than complete contempt—but she was not about to enlighten Campion. His problems were none of her concern. Marieko’s first instinct was simply to take the mica fragment, by force if necessary, and make an end to the matter. Fortunately, she had the foresight to be aware that rudimentary theft would not be the end of the matter, and she also quickly discovered, by a deeper scan of Campion’s mind, that the fragment was no longer at the dig. In his fear of the unexplained, he had sent it back to his lab at the university while he pondered his subsequent moves. Campion was apprehensive of what he might find next, and until a solution presented itself, his best idea was to tighten operations at the dig to prevent any premature disclosure and to face whatever might come next when it presented itself.
The student Campion had made responsible for taking the object back to the lab at the university was a twenty-year-old Jamaican studying for his master’s. He was called Winston “Youth” Shakespeare, and sported red, green, and black tie-dye, a full head of dreadlocks, and a near genius IQ concealed beneath Rastafarian ganja patois. Marieko had already abandoned the idea of stealing the fragment—totally impractical—but she definitely
wanted to examine it herself and not just rely on Campion’s imprecise impression. The easiest and most direct course would be to intercept this Shakespeare and either get him to bring the fragment to her or take her to the fragment. As it turned out, the latter option proved the most practical. Interception was easy. Wessex University was hardly crowded with full-dress Rastas, and Youth Shakespeare required little luring away from his studies when the lurer was a hot if enigmatic Japanese. In a country pub just outside of Casterbridge, and afterwards in the boy’s rattletrap Ford Fiesta, she had first seduced him and then blanked out his mind. Under her full control, he had led her to Campion’s lab.
wanted to examine it herself and not just rely on Campion’s imprecise impression. The easiest and most direct course would be to intercept this Shakespeare and either get him to bring the fragment to her or take her to the fragment. As it turned out, the latter option proved the most practical. Interception was easy. Wessex University was hardly crowded with full-dress Rastas, and Youth Shakespeare required little luring away from his studies when the lurer was a hot if enigmatic Japanese. In a country pub just outside of Casterbridge, and afterwards in the boy’s rattletrap Ford Fiesta, she had first seduced him and then blanked out his mind. Under her full control, he had led her to Campion’s lab.
One look confirmed what she’d already seen in Campion’s mind. The character on the mica was the
nya
of the nosferatu flame script. While the young Jamaican stood blank-eyed, she had stared at the object with a reverential awe. So reverential, in fact, her control on him momentarily slipped. He’d stirred briefly, and she had to swiftly clamp him down before turning back to the tiny, postage-stamp-size link with an impossible past. No doubt, the piece of mica was as old as the nosferatu themselves. A fabulous remnant of the days when the great starships of the Nephilim had hung in orbit and the shuttlecraft had risen and descended on the vast spaceport of Baalbek. It dated back to those colonial days when the Great Ones from the stars had conducted their genetic experiments on the native hominids, creating the Original Beings—the failed biotech warriors who’d been the forebears of all modern nosferatu, current
Homo sapiens
, and much more besides. The obvious implication was that, in some way Marieko couldn’t even guess, long-vanished nosferatu, or at least some kind of unknown but close kin, had once used the burial mound either as a refuge or, at least, as a cache for their valuables.
nya
of the nosferatu flame script. While the young Jamaican stood blank-eyed, she had stared at the object with a reverential awe. So reverential, in fact, her control on him momentarily slipped. He’d stirred briefly, and she had to swiftly clamp him down before turning back to the tiny, postage-stamp-size link with an impossible past. No doubt, the piece of mica was as old as the nosferatu themselves. A fabulous remnant of the days when the great starships of the Nephilim had hung in orbit and the shuttlecraft had risen and descended on the vast spaceport of Baalbek. It dated back to those colonial days when the Great Ones from the stars had conducted their genetic experiments on the native hominids, creating the Original Beings—the failed biotech warriors who’d been the forebears of all modern nosferatu, current
Homo sapiens
, and much more besides. The obvious implication was that, in some way Marieko couldn’t even guess, long-vanished nosferatu, or at least some kind of unknown but close kin, had once used the burial mound either as a refuge or, at least, as a cache for their valuables.
The temptation to take the tiny piece of mica and disappear into the night was almost overwhelming, but
Marieko had resisted, loath as she was to leave such a treasure in the possession of a human. For the time being, secrecy was more important than ownership even of such a unique object. She also resisted the secondary temptation to feed from the student. Since she had become engrossed in archeology, her feeding had been, at best, perfunctory—but she let the boy be. Aside from the commotion his disappearance would cause, she was firm on the maxim that it never paid to mix business and necessity. Planting a small bookmark in his mind so she could locate him if she needed him, she had left him sufficiently immobilized that he remained standing, stiff and uncomprehending, for a couple of more hours and then came to with a headache and a false, guilt-ridden memory of how he had drunk too much while on an important errand for Dr. Campion.
Marieko had resisted, loath as she was to leave such a treasure in the possession of a human. For the time being, secrecy was more important than ownership even of such a unique object. She also resisted the secondary temptation to feed from the student. Since she had become engrossed in archeology, her feeding had been, at best, perfunctory—but she let the boy be. Aside from the commotion his disappearance would cause, she was firm on the maxim that it never paid to mix business and necessity. Planting a small bookmark in his mind so she could locate him if she needed him, she had left him sufficiently immobilized that he remained standing, stiff and uncomprehending, for a couple of more hours and then came to with a headache and a false, guilt-ridden memory of how he had drunk too much while on an important errand for Dr. Campion.
“I hope you agree I handled the circumstance correctly.”
“You appear to have handled it perfectly.”
Marieko inclined her head and shoulders in what amounted to a seated bow in acknowledgment of Renquist’s praise. “You are very kind.”
“I am merely stating the truth. You assessed the situation and acted accordingly. I could have done no better myself.”
Destry frowned. “I don’t like the idea of such an article being in humans’ hands.”
Renquist agreed. “I don’t like it either, but it doesn’t, in itself, present any real threat. From what Marieko has observed, this Campion, despite his education, is an intellectual coward with a second-rate mind. The most exceptional of humans would be hard-pressed to glean any information from a single character. Even de Richleau, whom Columbine knew well, was never able to decipher the flame script, and he had an entire book to work from. Our real problem is not the single fragment—it’s whatever else may lie under that mound.”
Marieko attempted to keep her aura absolutely blank,
but the slightest flicker betrayed her. Renquist’s face hardened. “You know something?”
but the slightest flicker betrayed her. Renquist’s face hardened. “You know something?”
She avoided his eyes. “I sensed something.”
“Something alive?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How can you expect me to work with you if you withhold what might be crucial information?”
Destry quickly intervened on Marieko’s behalf. “Hold up, there, Victor. You can’t expect us to tip off our entire hand in one go.”
Renquist made no secret of his nascent anger. “I came to this place at considerable risk and expense. It wasn’t to play a game of bluff and counterbluff.”
Destry stood her ground. “So what was your big entrance all about?”
Renquist could not help but smile. “Yes, I suppose you have me there.”
“So?”
“So we call it even and lay all our cards on the table.” Renquist turned his attention to Marieko. “You believe something is inside that mound, but you’re not sure if it’s alive?”
Marieko looked down at the rug on the floor that still showed the dark drop stains of Renquist’s blood. “The first time I went to Morton Downs, I sensed something; a power.”
“A power?”
“Not human and not of our kind, but …”
“But?”
“But perhaps related to our kind.”
Renquist considered this. “I think I should look at this place as soon as possible. Is that all you have to tell me?”
This time the flicker of aura betrayed both the females.
“Well?”
“Columbine had been having these dreams.”
“Dreams?” Even before he asked, he knew neither Marieko nor Destry was going to elaborate.
“Columbine will have to tell you about her dreams.”
Marieko nodded. “It would not be appropriate for us to do such a thing.”
Victor Renquist suddenly felt exceedingly tired. “I understand.”
All three of them seemed to share the fatigue. Destry went once more to the liquor cabinet. “Can I pour you another brandy before the dawn.”
Renquist nodded. “I’d be grateful.”
“And then Marieko can show you to your room.”
Marieko rose and bowed. “I’d be honored.”
W
hen Renquist awoke, he found Marieko gone. All that remained was a small origami dragon placed on the pillow, two curls of paper representing the smoke and fire of its breath. He was mildly surprised. It could only be maybe fifteen or twenty minutes after the moment of sunset. The transcontinental flight had slightly distorted his time sense, but not to such an extent that he would drastically oversleep while the household, in which he was a somewhat undefined guest, was up and about its business. He sat up and found that he was still in total and somewhat airless darkness. After a moment of disorientation, he realized the heavy tapestry curtains enclosing the massive Elizabethan four-poster canopy bed were still closed. They rattled on their antique wooden rings as he drew them back, and, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he looked around the room. He’d had little chance to observe his accommodations in the prelude to the previous dawn. Marieko had led him to the upstairs room by the light of a guttering candle
and then, slipping out of her already sufficiently revealing clothing, made it clear that she intended to stay and share the huge bed with him. He’d found both the act and the assumption he’d welcome her diurnal company a little surprising, but if such was her desire, and also the custom of the house and the troika, he had decided he’d be a churl to object. As she’d eased off her metallic leather jeans, he discovered she bore a second, smaller piece of body art on her left thigh. Although the crossed axe pattern enclosed in a perfect double circle looked more like a functional brand of ownership or fealty than decoration, it also warned him that, sometime in the past, she had been the creature of the Yarabachi clan, and, technically, the two of them had been natural enemies in the days of the shogunates.
hen Renquist awoke, he found Marieko gone. All that remained was a small origami dragon placed on the pillow, two curls of paper representing the smoke and fire of its breath. He was mildly surprised. It could only be maybe fifteen or twenty minutes after the moment of sunset. The transcontinental flight had slightly distorted his time sense, but not to such an extent that he would drastically oversleep while the household, in which he was a somewhat undefined guest, was up and about its business. He sat up and found that he was still in total and somewhat airless darkness. After a moment of disorientation, he realized the heavy tapestry curtains enclosing the massive Elizabethan four-poster canopy bed were still closed. They rattled on their antique wooden rings as he drew them back, and, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he looked around the room. He’d had little chance to observe his accommodations in the prelude to the previous dawn. Marieko had led him to the upstairs room by the light of a guttering candle
and then, slipping out of her already sufficiently revealing clothing, made it clear that she intended to stay and share the huge bed with him. He’d found both the act and the assumption he’d welcome her diurnal company a little surprising, but if such was her desire, and also the custom of the house and the troika, he had decided he’d be a churl to object. As she’d eased off her metallic leather jeans, he discovered she bore a second, smaller piece of body art on her left thigh. Although the crossed axe pattern enclosed in a perfect double circle looked more like a functional brand of ownership or fealty than decoration, it also warned him that, sometime in the past, she had been the creature of the Yarabachi clan, and, technically, the two of them had been natural enemies in the days of the shogunates.
He’d also discovered the servants had laid out his traveling things; the fur rug was spread like a cover on the four poster, and Marieko, once undressed, had crawled over it, fondling the fur with a childlike delight. “This is very old, I think?”
“Indeed it is.”
“And you travel with it always?”
“Correct.”
“You are a male who enjoys a single sense of continuity wherever he may rest?”
“You could have read my mind.”
“I assure you I didn’t.”
Renquist, having divested himself of his own clothing, joined Marieko on the fur. She drew shut the curtains of the formidable piece of furniture, adding an extra density of darkness and enclosing them in what was almost another small private chamber of their own. She then turned and embraced him, arms immediately encircling him, pressing her body close to his. Time was long, extremely long, since Renquist had engaged in even an approximation of human sex, unless one counted the telepathic sleight of erotic hand he regularly practiced on potential prey or others he wished to bring under his
control. If Marieko was not aware of this already, he made it no secret, and he let the fact be clearly reflected in his aura to avoid any later misunderstandings. Her instant response, however, indicated that such a confusion was not a possibility. “Do not worry, Victor-san. Just look on this as a physical welcome to our Residence. What might be considered a tradition of the Priory.”
control. If Marieko was not aware of this already, he made it no secret, and he let the fact be clearly reflected in his aura to avoid any later misunderstandings. Her instant response, however, indicated that such a confusion was not a possibility. “Do not worry, Victor-san. Just look on this as a physical welcome to our Residence. What might be considered a tradition of the Priory.”
Renquist wasn’t sure if he believed her, and when he woke, in the wake of the vivid and highly perverse dreams that seemed to have occupied his entire day’s sleep, he was even less certain. As far as he could tell, the dreams had begun immediately, commencing by caressing him, stroking his mind to a more than mortal ecstasy immediately as his consciousness had withdrawn, and then, by way of extreme contrast, plunging him into a welter of unfocused and mindless violence. The first dream—or if the whole day was to be considered as a single epic vision, the first phase of the dream—was a deceptive sanctuary of calm tranquillity. He made his entry to the dreamstate in a walled garden, and, although he had no solid information to substantiate it, he knew he was sometime in the past, in Japan, and, as far as he could tell, somewhere inside Edo Castle, the stronghold of the great Shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu, in what was now Tokyo. This indicated he was most probably in the early seventeenth century, at approximately the same time as, in the real world, he had arrived there in the hold of a Portuguese merchantman, after a series of events he still found close to unfathomable.
The garden was a place of quiet delicacy, despite the monumental stone blocks and heavy balks of timber that were the basic form of its surrounding military construction. A cherry tree in bloom stood beside a fast-flowing, man-made stream that created a high melodic splashing while, beneath the surface, very old and lazy carp took their leisure. The stream was spanned by a miniature bridge, which he knew he was supposed to cross. In the
dream he was dressed in a simple black kimono, and in the sash at his waist he carried the self-same Bushido sword that was among his luggage back at the Savoy, the one given him by Hideo Matsutani, the legendary undead swordsman of Kyoto. He suspected the back of his kimono bore the red trefoil of the Kenzu Clan, to whom Hideo had owed his fealty. Renquist knew much of the content of the dream was being fed to him directly from the mind of Marieko, who, in the physical world, held him tightly to her. It could have been a purely random occurrence, but the segment of Renquist’s consciousness that knew he was dreaming, and remained fully analytical, doubted this. The dream experience was too aptly contrived, and, if that was the case, Marieko Matsunaga was an extreme rarity among the undead. She was a vision-shifter, a dreamwright, an manipulatrix of unconscious fantasy, and, as such, a dangerously powerful individual. Perhaps it was a gift, or maybe an acquired discipline. Either way, he should, in the future, treat her with the most extreme circumspection.
dream he was dressed in a simple black kimono, and in the sash at his waist he carried the self-same Bushido sword that was among his luggage back at the Savoy, the one given him by Hideo Matsutani, the legendary undead swordsman of Kyoto. He suspected the back of his kimono bore the red trefoil of the Kenzu Clan, to whom Hideo had owed his fealty. Renquist knew much of the content of the dream was being fed to him directly from the mind of Marieko, who, in the physical world, held him tightly to her. It could have been a purely random occurrence, but the segment of Renquist’s consciousness that knew he was dreaming, and remained fully analytical, doubted this. The dream experience was too aptly contrived, and, if that was the case, Marieko Matsunaga was an extreme rarity among the undead. She was a vision-shifter, a dreamwright, an manipulatrix of unconscious fantasy, and, as such, a dangerously powerful individual. Perhaps it was a gift, or maybe an acquired discipline. Either way, he should, in the future, treat her with the most extreme circumspection.
As if to confirm his speculation, a dream-Marieko sat formally cross-legged beneath the cherry tree, as if waiting for him. Her hands were concealed in the sleeves of a white kimono that seemed to glow with its own internal light. Her eyes were cast down, and her breathing was so slow and shallow that he wondered if she were in a trance. She looked up, however, as he crossed the bridge, and smiled. “So you have finally come, Victor-san. Even though you are bound to the Kenzu, and I am of the Yarabachi.”
So Marieko knew that they had been on opposing sides centuries earlier. Was she about to weave this strand of truth into some Romeo-and-Juliet fantasy of doomed lovers—and, if so, how doomed? Renquist answered carefully. Even in dreams, caution was advisable, and in a dream like this, it should be multiplied by many additional factors. “I am here, but whether I came or was brought is something I have yet to conclude.”
Marieko continued to smile. “In the end, does it really matter?”
“I suppose not. Although it might say much about my freedom of will.”
Marieko’s face was expressionless under its geisha makeup. “Does your freedom of will concern you?”
“I try to shape my own destiny.”
“Is your will sufficiently free to release control and follow mine?”
“To where?”
“What is an adventure if it doesn’t commence with a secret?”
Marieko held out a hand, and Renquist, without thought or hesitation, grasped it. Instantly he was elsewhere. The second phase was a place of shadows where he was soon to be a principal participant in a highly inhuman coupling. Alone and naked, he lay bound, strapped down with leather thongs at his wrists and ankles, bound to a bed of swords, identical blades, razor edges upward, racked precisely at four-inch intervals on a rectangular frame of black wood lacquered to a mirror finish. To avoid fatally slicing himself into strips of flesh, he was forced to extend the discipline of the fakir to a quantum degree, a torture of focus and an energy drain of near levitation.
“Do not move, Victor-san. Do not move at all, my love from the Kenzu, or the swords will cut your flesh clear to your naked spine.”
At first he couldn’t see her. He again knew instinctively they were still in Edo Castle, although he wasn’t sure if it was the same time-space. Now he was deep in the bowels of the great fortress, in a dungeon so deep maybe only demons and the undead frequented it. Somewhere to his left, flames licked and leapt from the coals of an iron brazier, bathing everything, including his own nosferatu corpse-body, in an infernal red-orange light. It was as though the Shogun Tokugawa had comissioned the building of his very own hell.
“What am I doing here?”
“You are doing absolutely nothing, my love. As I just said, do not even move.”
Her voice came from somewhere in the red-dark, beyond even his peripheral vision. He didn’t dare turn his head and seek her presence. Even at perfect rest, the edges of the swords threatened to split his skin. “Would you care to explain?”
“It is a devised experience, my love. I hoped it would prove a challenge even for you who has done so much and known so many.”
Now she was in his sight. Her body was oiled, and the tattoos gleamed in the firelight. Her hair was tied up into a samurai topknot. To say she was clothed was something of an overstatement. Protected was a better word. Her hands and forearms, knees and calves were sheathed in light steel mail over leather, a broad belt of similar material cinched her waist, and the armored ensemble was completed by a wide collar covering her throat. She was also masked. A blank expression wrought in what looked to be highly polished silver replaced her face. As she walked determinedly toward him, she adopted a stride in complete contrast to the usual short subservient steps of Japanese courtesans. Renquist realized, with a degree of horror, her intention was to straddle his body on the bed of swords and consummate a form of carnal interaction during which the slightest movement on his part, voluntary or involuntary, could result in, if not his actual destruction, at least some decidedly horrible wounds. To admit an unaccustomed level of fear was more than Renquist cared to do. Enough of his mind remained detached to remind him all was just a dream—at worse a test, at best a game. He would endure, and, since he appeared to have little choice in the matter, he might as well quite literally lie back and do his best to derive what satisfaction he could from Marieko’s “devised experience.”
Her body was not only oiled, but also perfumed, and
the sweet musky scent overwhelmed him as she carefully mounted the bench, balancing deftly on the edges of the swords with her armored knees and the palms of her hands. With the physical precision of a highly trained gymnast, she swung one leg over his body and lowered herself so she was seated across his hips. Her naked thighs grasped him with an unexpected firmness and authority for so slight a figure. She leaned forward so she was lying along the length of his torso, although not bringing the whole of her weight to bear. Her tiny breasts touched his chest, her undead nipples hard and her concealed face close to his. Her breathing was audible and rasped slightly as though amplified by the mask. Fire reflected in the distorting curves of its mirrored surface. He noticed a tiny silver teardrop, crafted by the unknown silversmith who had made the thing, as though it had just welled from the inner corner of the dark, right-hand eye-slit—a cliché, maybe, but he found it fitting.
the sweet musky scent overwhelmed him as she carefully mounted the bench, balancing deftly on the edges of the swords with her armored knees and the palms of her hands. With the physical precision of a highly trained gymnast, she swung one leg over his body and lowered herself so she was seated across his hips. Her naked thighs grasped him with an unexpected firmness and authority for so slight a figure. She leaned forward so she was lying along the length of his torso, although not bringing the whole of her weight to bear. Her tiny breasts touched his chest, her undead nipples hard and her concealed face close to his. Her breathing was audible and rasped slightly as though amplified by the mask. Fire reflected in the distorting curves of its mirrored surface. He noticed a tiny silver teardrop, crafted by the unknown silversmith who had made the thing, as though it had just welled from the inner corner of the dark, right-hand eye-slit—a cliché, maybe, but he found it fitting.
To remain absolutely motionless or suffer the razor-sharp blades was being made far from easy by Marieko. She moved on top of him, and he began to feel a long-forgotten sensual stirring, decidedly more human than nosferatu. She was actually taking him to at least a ghost memory of long-lost human passion. He was definitely not in control of this dream, but, almost to his chagrin, he was beginning to enjoy not only the risky tactile experience, but also the actual passivity. To Renquist’s complete surprise, he actually heard himself moan softly. Marieko responded with a sigh. “So how does vulnerability feel, Victor-san?”
He wished he could see her face behind the mask. “Why are you doing this?”
“Does it not please you?”
“It pleases me, but …”
“But a part of your mind still wonders?”
He would not admit it, but of course it did. A questing and rational part of his brain wanted answers. Was this
strange and customized dream-scenario an allegorical warning he had yet fully to grasp, or a cover as the deeper areas of his mind were probed for his plans and intentions? And, indeed, was all this purely the work of Marieko on her own, or a concerted triple threat in concert with Columbine and Destry? After the way Columbine had behaved in the real world—all the business of attempting to run him through with the saber, and then her furious exit—he could hardly believe she was in any frame of mind to contribute to this dreamstate imagination. This did not exclude, however, the strong possibility of Marieko being the actual dreamweaver, but charged to report back all she learned to the full troika. Also not precluded was the chance Destry might be lurking unseen somewhere in the fantasy, probing his mind as deeply as she was able to delve without being detected. One, two, or three, if they truly believed a mere shadow play of half-forgotten sexuality would unlock his secrets, his only response was “Think again, my dears.” More than a sleeping illusion of weird erotica was needed to pry loose the private schemes of Victor Renquist.
strange and customized dream-scenario an allegorical warning he had yet fully to grasp, or a cover as the deeper areas of his mind were probed for his plans and intentions? And, indeed, was all this purely the work of Marieko on her own, or a concerted triple threat in concert with Columbine and Destry? After the way Columbine had behaved in the real world—all the business of attempting to run him through with the saber, and then her furious exit—he could hardly believe she was in any frame of mind to contribute to this dreamstate imagination. This did not exclude, however, the strong possibility of Marieko being the actual dreamweaver, but charged to report back all she learned to the full troika. Also not precluded was the chance Destry might be lurking unseen somewhere in the fantasy, probing his mind as deeply as she was able to delve without being detected. One, two, or three, if they truly believed a mere shadow play of half-forgotten sexuality would unlock his secrets, his only response was “Think again, my dears.” More than a sleeping illusion of weird erotica was needed to pry loose the private schemes of Victor Renquist.
Marieko must have sensed either his questioning detachment or instinctive resistance because her hips thrust down upon him harder and with more determined intensity than before, as though she now rode his body with a corrective authority, to impose such discipline on his mind as she thought fitting. With an unconscious recalcitrance, he met this motion of command with a counterthrust of his own. He had no sooner moved, though, when he felt a blade bite into his back, breaking a three-inch section of skin and causing blood to flow. He was so instantly aware of his overreaching error, he didn’t need Marieko’s whispered reminder. “I warned you, my love, even the slightest movement exacts its penalty.”
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