Excerpt
For almost two hundred Corbenese
years, Jack had haunted the Crescent. The Crescent was his paradise. The smell
of desperation and the painted smiles. The empty people trading in their empty
pleasures. He walked among them, unseen, in a place where people made it a
point to never see anything. Yet, this is where all the masks come off. There
was no pretension here. No illusions. No hope. And into this Boschian landscape
she came, an angel in a bustier and borrowed heels, trying and failing to hide
her celestial radiance.
Every night, she came, and every
night, he admired her from afar. How practiced was her fear, how convincing her
timidity—every reluctant step, every shaking intake of breath, every flight
from her would-be attackers. Other streetwalkers, johns, pimps, rapists—all of
them looked at her and saw prey, practically licking their chops at the
prospect of such a juicy little morsel. In fact, she was attracting more attention than a normal
streetwalker would simply because, on some deep, instinctive level, the natives
seemed to sense how much more alive she was than they would ever be. They
sought her out, desiring to avail themselves of a little of her precious light,
if only for a short while. Sometimes she would let them get near, even put
their hands on her. But try as they might, they could never possess her.
She was not for them.
Jack was able to see what the
denizens of the Crescent could not– that quick little graceful move she did
when she decided that she would not, in fact, be touched. When men tried to
grab her, she dodged and ran. None of them had any idea, as they pawed at her
and spit and groped, that she gave them back their lives as she carried on. If
she had wanted to paint the entire Crescent crimson with their unworthy blood,
she had but to will it to be so.
But she spared them. All of them.
Because it was him that she sought. There came the
point, all too soon, that he could not stay away. And as he drew near, he
witnessed the various responses she’d had to things—the typical goings-on in a
place such as this, the thefts, the assaults, the rapes, the general mayhem. He
savored her shock and revulsion, written clearly in the set of her shoulders,
in the tension that thrummed in her being as the urge to intervene nearly
overwhelmed her, the desire to smite the wicked and avenge the weak. But she
held herself in check, restraining herself for him.
That she went to such lengths on
his behalf. He was truly touched. How much longer could he deny her? He felt
almost selfish, drawing out these long nights.
And then tonight, when she
appeared, he sensed immediately that something had changed.
She had been luminous before, but
something had stoked her to the intensity of a small sun. She was so bright
now, he could still see her when he closed his eyes, an ethereal afterimage
imprinted on his lids, as if viewing her through a gossamer scrim, beckoning,
dreamlike.
No more waiting now. The moment
he had been waiting for had arrived.
* * *
It was very late when Alyssa
turned down a side street. It was so narrow, there was no way it could
accommodate carriages—only foot traffic. Maybe a horse and rider if it wasn’t
too crowded.
Right now, it was empty. Normally,
the Crescent was full of indigents, drunks and all manner of unsavories, even
at this hour. But not tonight. Between the subzero temperatures, the murders
and Moreau, the streets were utterly deserted. She wondered where they’d all
gone, with the charity wing shut down at Four Mothers.
Once, she stopped and turned
suddenly, thinking she’d heard footsteps. But there was nothing. Only the
wind-swept cobblestones, the flickering shadows cast by the green streetlamps. Be cool, she thought. You’re psyching yourself out.
Tightening her cloak around her
shoulders, she kept walking. Some of her hair had come loose from its updo and
as the wind whispered strands of it off her neck, she shivered.
Huddling in a doorway, she tried
to light a cigarette. Her lighter was out of fluid. Perfect. Just perfect. Might
as well pack it in for the night.
She was still fiddling vainly
with the lighter when a flame appeared out of nowhere. She jumped, nearly
dropping both the empty Zippo and her cigarette in the snow.
The man holding the lighter
smiled. “Permit me.”
She stared at him. The man before
her was well-dressed and handsome in an unassuming way. She’d been surprised
before, but man, was she off her game tonight. This guy had managed to sneak up
on her—this guy. The whole Moreau
thing had her more on edge than she’d realized.
After a moment’s hesitation, she
touched her cigarette to the flame. “Thanks,” she said after she took a puff. “Four
birds.”
“It’s terribly bitter out.”
Pocketing the silver lighter, the man looked her up and down. His gaze was not
intrusive, just matter-of-fact. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, you’re not
dressed for such abominable weather.”
“Why, you wanna take me home? ‘Cause
that’s extra.”
The man chuckled. “That’s not
what I’m looking for.”
She exhaled a plume of smoke. “What
are you looking for?”
“What I am looking for,
mademoiselle, is a different diversion entirely. But I assure you, if anyone
could change my mind, it would be you. A lady of your beauty does not belong
here. It is not safe. You know, a man had his purse stolen on this very corner
not two nights ago.”
Alyssa laughed. “Yeah, well. We
both know why I’m out here. How ‘bout you?”
“Just on my way home,” he nodded
vaguely northward.
“And you decided to stop and
chat?”
“I was distracted. I hope you
don’t mind.”
“Nope.”
“Now what about this whole
ghastly business with Lord Moreau?” the man said conversationally, leaning on
his walking stick. “Do you think he really did it?”
“From what I hear, the guy was an
asshole, but not a murderer.”
“My word! And here I thought only
Lord Ecarteur spoke in such a fashion!”
“I ain’t in the daintiest of
professions, monsieur. Look, you sure you don’t wanna buy?”
“I will confess to being
tempted,” he drew a bit closer to her, eyes gleaming. “You’re foreign, aren’t
you?”
“Gee. What gave me away?”
“You have an accent.”
“Yes. I am foreign.”
“Ah, I can always tell.”
Alyssa shook her head. “You
Corbenese always say that.”
The man laughed again, genuinely
delighted. He had a pleasant laugh, a pleasant voice. “But where are you from?”
“You’ve probably never heard of
it.”
“I like to think of myself as
well-traveled.”
Alyssa gave him a small smile. “Missouri.”
“I confess, I know of no world by
that name.”
“Told ya.”
“So you did.” He pointed to her
cigarette. “May I. . .?”
She tapped ash from the end. “It’s
not leaf.”
“That’s all right.”
She passed him the cigarette and
he took a drag. “Yes, distinctly not leaf.”
Still holding the cigarette, he exhaled, looking up thoughtfully, “Missouri. What
kinds of lands do they have there? Is it like Corbenic, I wonder?”
“Well, there’s good beef. Otherwise,
not really.”
He examined the smudge of her
lipstick on the end of the cigarette. “Such a pity.”
“Not every place can be
Corbenic.”
“No, of course not. But when you
say the name of your home world, it does call to mind certain images: long
rolling hills, vast mysterious caverns, powerful rivers . . .”
Alyssa’s eyes narrowed. She
plucked the cigarette out of his fingers. “Thought you said you’d never heard
of it.”
“No, but there is something about
you, mademoiselle. It speaks of
mountains and flooding plains. You are a creature of water and fire. Small
wonder that you ultimately found yourself here.”
“Are you a seer?”
Merrily, he laughed. “Hardly!”
“So, what’s your deal?”
If it was possible, he grew even
more amused. “My ‘deal’?”
“Yeah, I sense I’m not the only
one on this street corner trying to sell something. And, like you, I ain’t
buyin’.”
“Forgive me, mademoiselle,” he
said, sobering. “I did not mean to offend.”
“I’m not offended. Should I be?”
“I hope not. I would never dream
of offering insult to a beautiful woman.”
“Uh-huh.” Dropping the cigarette,
she crushed it out underfoot. “Well, smoke break’s over. Back to work with me.”
“Of course. I would not wish to
detain you.”
Turning, she started back towards
the main road. “Good night.”
He tipped his hat. “Good night .
. . Sir Calderon.”
At that, Alyssa spun back around,
but he was already gone. There was only one way he could’ve left so quickly. “Wait—” She dashed around the corner
after him. The corner led into a blind alley. Someone was lying on the ground.
Alyssa gasped. It was a woman, a
streetwalker. There was blood everywhere, too much blood. The wound was
unimaginable. The woman had been opened from throat to pubic bone, her insides
spilling out onto the pavement, steam still curling off them. The smell. So
much blood, and something on the ground nearby—what was it? Minutes ago, this
had been a living, breathing woman. She’d been killed just minutes ago. The
thing on the ground was a segment of pomegranate, ruby seeds scattered over the
ground, almost indistinguishable from the droplets of blood.
And Alyssa hadn’t sensed it—any of it. She stumbled back a few
steps, chest heaving, her eyes still registering every detail of the grisly
scene.
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