by N. M. Brown
“Little shit.” She hissed checking her leathers trousers for claw holes. “Next time I’ll make you into a clutch bag!” Luckily the Gucci gold leather was without a nick, so the vagrant lived another day.
Walking to the door, Echo was deciding how best to spend the dying hours of the day before the House grew back into life. That was until she found a small, fluttering piece of paper stuck to the door of her room with an imbedded knife. Underneath a small leather pouch hung, its condense clinking as she gripped it in her hand.
All it read was:
‘Used supplies. Get more.’
Only by the knife did Echo guess it was Mara’s. She wasn’t one to part with weapons of the pointy kind, but then she didn’t ask for things either. Like much in the House, Echo was expected to just do it. Huffing a sigh, Echo grabbed her red coat, knowing by this time there would be a chill in the air, before heading out down the servant’s stairwell. Leading straight to the back kitchen, and then out the front door she was out on the grounds in moments. So much easier then clambering over unconscious or dead bodies on all the different floors.
✽ ✽ ✽
Rippling wasn’t a big Town; in fact it was quite small. Small enough Echo hated it, but to be fair, they hated her too. Long ago the towns people had made assumptions about her and her family; some right, a lot wrong and even more nailed right on the head.
“Satanic scum.” A little old lady hissed at her as Echo walked toward town. It wasn’t far from the House, not that you could tell. Trees blocked the view so unless you knew that Cardinal House was there, you’d never have guess.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” Echo asked walking into the lady’s path. She was at least two feet shorter than her, and wore enough layers to be an Eskimo, despite it only being Autumn. The old bat, stuttered in her step, clearly not expecting a confrontation. The little wheeled trolley she pulled behind her trembled in her fragile hands and Echo could see the slow, creeping fog that had begun to cloud the woman’s eyes. “I said; Did. You. Say. Something?” Echo didn’t raise her voice, and asked softly, but the trolley trembled more, and the old woman couldn’t have ducked her head fast enough. Signing the cross over her chest, she scuttled away as fast as her swelling ankles could take her. “That’s what I thought.” Echo muttered.
Walking on, she quickly fell into the darker alleyways and grungier back exits of Rippling’s centre. It wasn’t long before she came to a taller building, four floors high and very wide, taking up half the street but with a neat garden separating it from the sidewalk. Once it might have been the town hall; stunning red brick with white detailing around the door, while windows were gathered in groups of two or three across the front. But now it had been converted in to flats, though they weren’t on any real-estate list. To a passer-by, they wouldn’t give it a second glance. To a local, they were told to stay away and for good reason.
Two bushes either side of the main entrance had over grown by any gardener’s standard, but no mortal was stupid enough to try and cut it. Passing slowly, Echo was cautious not to be pricked. The Silverthorne bush grew over seven feet tall and the thorns were as long as Echo’s middle finger. The bushes had been enhanced, by what Echo didn’t know, but then she didn’t ask. This place was very much somewhere with a don’t ask – don’t die policy. All she did know was that with a single deadly prick you’d be paralyze and slowly rotting from the inside out screaming silently. She was told - and completely agreed - it was a nasty way to go. So, Echo took her time. The door had no lock, or buzzer unlike a lot of modern apartments, but that was to stop people entering. The residences here were more than happy to greet unwelcomed guests.
Stepping through the small door; one that was cut out of two much larger ones for conventions, Echo entered the lobby. It was thin and narrow, leading to the large rectangular stair case at the end. The walls were cream, the ceiling was cream and the carpet, wore down from over-use, was red beneath Echo’s feet. Old mail and advertisement fliers littered the floor when brave souls dared to sell two-for-one pizzas on a Friday. Unfortunately, Italian cuisine wasn’t the tastes of choice here.
Nobody was there to welcome her on the ground floor, nor was anyone in the elevator as she stepped in. “Going up.” She muttered to herself as creaky metal gates closed behind her. Padded walls of red leather covered the walls and shiny gold buttons awaited to direct travellers to the right floor: some floors Echo hadn’t been too, some she didn’t want to go too and some she couldn’t avoid.
Waiting for the elevator to climb to floor three, Echo pondered the intensifying events around the House. She hadn’t been lying when she told the Detective’s she’d expected something like this to happen much sooner. Bodies that may-or-may-not have still been breathing ferried in and out of their doors on more than one occasion. However, discretion was paramount. Nostray hair would be found on any surface that could be found by any snooping parties. However, from what she’d heard from customer’s - which was as reliable as snow on Christmas - two were dead. Dwight and his Friday slot, Mr. Farrows.
Dwight had hated the guy: sweaty and smelled like a dying fart had been the description used. A regular closet case too, which meant he was as adventurous as a Victorian sponge. But the guy paid, and Dwight swore up and down that he had a thick, meaty cock. Echo still didn’t think it would have been worth it, but Dwight always waved away her concerns. Thinking of the kid, Echo wondered what his lasts thoughts were as he died. Probably that he wished he’d been paid in advance, not that the money would do him any good now.
The elevator dinged, and Echo shook her self-awake. This wasn’t the best place to be caught day-dreaming, not when the things that lived here would happily drain those dreams away. Striding down the hall with a confident gate, Echo arrived at room nineteen. Whispers followed her down the hall and cold fingers trailed down her neck but she ignored them all. It was all child’s play to her by this point.
She didn’t knock and walked straight through the green peeling door with ease. “Oh, great and terrible Ozar!” She called out, closing the door behind her and sweeping through the emerald green curtain.
The octagonal room she stepped into was round with four alcoves parting off to the North, South, East and West. The South was where she just entered from, a few dusty coats hanging either side before she entered the main room. The walls were covered in dirty silk-paper which might have once been a summer green but had slowly turned a gritty olive. Black and white tiles decorated the floor in diamond patterns and the light bulbs were covered with dusty Moroccan shades. Through the East alcove would be the rest of the apartment, cut off by a deep blue fabric and was somewhere Echo never went. To the West was also covered by a curtain of deep emerald green, thick and heavy it muffled a lot of noise. However, the gentle clatter of metal on metal could just be heard through the heavy material but Echo didn’t peek. One didn’t peek in this building. The alcove dead ahead however intrigued Echo the most. It held an old cabinet full of bottles and pouches, draws half open while their contents spilled out as if begging to be taken. Echo walked towards it with confidence, not one to turn down anything that begged.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Echo smiled to herself as she picked her way through the cabinet. She pocketed three small pouches and a glass bottle, slipping them into her cleavage. She was just about to reach for a fourth pouch when an old wrinkled hand snapped out and slapped her hand hard.
“Helping yourself, were we?” A cackled voice asked from within a bundle of clothes. Long lengths of fabric all green and blue wrapped around the hunched figure. “I should take your fingers!” The voice snapped.
“Just my fingers? Why not my heart as well? Or my brain?” Echo asked, slipping the pouch under her left boob as the old hunchback walked away.
The fabric snorted. Pulling a chair out from the central octagonal table, it hopped up onto the seat. Terracotta pots chimed above, bursting with overflowing greenery, hanging from a glass dome thro
ugh which sunlight streamed. Echo knew theoretically, sunlight through a ceiling on the third floor, with the fourth floor above was impossible, but again, it was something you didn’t question, just accepted. The vines of the plants swept low and the sweet smell of flowers danced around them. Seating herself opposite, the mound of threads raised its head showing Echo the old, wrinkled face underneath. “So, what do I owe to the pleasure of your company?”
Echo refrained from rolling her eyes. She never came here for anything else.“Just my normal supplies please.” She answered instead of a growl.
“Normal, normal. You come and darken my doorstep for normal.” Stretching her fingers wide, Madam Ozar placed her hands lightly on the table top. “Why not something more exotic? Pixie wings? Dried troll liver?” Madam Ozar wiggled her single eyebrow and smiled, showing her rotting teeth. Dark makeup surrounded her eyes and deep red paint was smeared on her lips. She looked like mutton dressed as lamb, but Echo would never tell her that.
“I don’t need those-,”
“Basilisk scales? Fermented eyes?” The crazy bat pushed.
Echo cooled her face. Getting angry wouldn’t help her. “I am not a witch, or a wizard or a Wicca, Ozar. I don’t want to be.”
Madam Ozar growled, clenching her fists. “A waste! A waste you are!” leaning back, she slumped in her chair, only her nose and above now visible over the table’s edge. “You disappoint me time and time again.”
“Well it’s a good job I don’t live to please you then isn’t it.” Echo smiled mockingly.
“Yes.” Madam Ozar mused, picking her nails. They were cracked and bleeding, caked in dirt and blood. “But who do you live to please Echo? Humm??” Madam Ozar pushed back up, rising over the table. She reached towards Echo, too far away to touch, but she gestured as if she was stroking her face. “You are bound to so many... each one sinking their teeth deeper and deeper…”
“…and yet I live for so little, yes, yes I know.” Echo hissed. “I just need my supplies Ozar. No fortunes, no advise and no witch mojo.” Counting off on her fingers, Echo began. “I need-,”
“One bottle of Adder’s tongue, swelling the throats of liars and cheats. Three ground boxes of Poppy Milk, for comas and pain relief. Devils Eye’s for hallucinations, capturing the soul and so on and so forth. Yes, yes, I know what Archer sends you here for, for his little sin hole.” Echo stiffened as Ozar began to remove vials from shelves and boxes from draws. There was no order to her chaos, but Echo saw the bag of dried hemlock, rose tea and powdered Lily of the Valley go in her stash.
“Thank you, Madam.” Echo promptly said, collecting the ingredients as Ozar threw them on the table. As the supplies changed hands, Echo threw the leather bag on the table. She didn’t know what currency Archer paid in, she’d never looked but it wasn’t coin or gold. It didn’t jingle when it hit the table top. It clinked, like porcelain but deeper and the leather stopped Echo from feeling anything. “Pleasure doing business as always.” Echo didn’t mean it, as usual.
“Entertaining, as always.” But Madam Ozar was already opening the pouch, counting the insides. Moving toward the exit door Echo was pleased to be leaving. The single room was all Echo had ever seen of Madam Ozar’s place, but she suspected the rest of the apartment was much bigger than you could guess. Sometimes Madam Ozar was already in the room when she arrived, sometimes it took her minutes to arrive. Once she didn’t turn up.
“And how do you intend to pay for the monkswood in your cleavage?” Echo froze feeling a chill up her spine. “And the mandrake sap and the crushed golden obsidian? I know they didn’t mean to fall so deep between your breasts.”
Echo straightened her spine. Glancing over her shoulder she smiled wickedly, the one she knew made other people shudder. “Bill me darling.” Sweeping the curtain behind her, Echo strode from the apartment, down the elevator and out the door, heart hammering with the thrill of her exit the entire way.
✽ ✽ ✽
Cold, damp mist clung to Echo’s face as she strolled down the garden path. Literally, it was considered the garden path, despite being around a mile long. It was a long-ass walk into town, but Echo didn’t mind. She liked listening to predators hunting prey when the night took over. Watching the moon pass behind a cloud, she wondered what mischief she would get up to tonight. With a fresh supply of stock, she could do anything. A deep swell of longing twisted in her gut and she pictured a little lost lamb, walking towards the House, just begging to be taken by her….
It took Echo an extra second to realise these ‘feelings’ weren’t her own. Long ago it became evident she, and at the time, her brother Adin, were attuned to the feelings of others. Or, to be more precise their sins. For this reason, she refused to be called empath; a ridiculous witch notion. No, knowing the inner most desires of those willing to sin for it, that wasn’t a wiccan party trick.
She didn’t look behind her, nor did she speed up; too obvious. Evening meant the sun was long gone, and only the moon gave any light. But rain clouds had been hanging heavy overhead all day so every-so-often, they rolled into complete darkness. However, darkness wasn’t something that had ever unnerved Echo. If anything, she preferred it.
The threat was just a slow lope behind her, keeping pace, but the hairs on the back of Echo’s neck stood on end and her heart began to race. Her feet begged her to run as adrenaline flooded her system and she tightened her grip on her bag. It was good that her back was to her stalker; their small human mind wouldn’t understand her wild smile and eager eyes.
She wasn’t prey. She was predator. Taking a sharp left, she moved deeper into the shadows of one of the oak trees that lined the long drive to the House. Figures danced at her feet as leaves moved in the gentle wind, but she kept her eyes trained ahead. Perhaps it was the River Bridge murderer? Perhaps she could give him a few pointers? It had been a time since she dived into the mind of the wicked and swam in the pool of the depraved.
The man, because he was a man; his stride long and his figure hunkered down with heavy foot falls, was being cautious. He checked over his shoulder more than once every thirty feet making his short-buzzed hair scrape on his up-turned collar. He was tense and nervous. A first-time offender, Echo mused, as her eyes flickered to the darkened silhouette of the House. It still wasn’t close enough to run too; but why would she. It wasn’t close enough to scream for help; but why would she. She was alone, helpless and oh so very excited.
Suddenly if by accident, Echo hitched her bag higher on her shoulder, causing a little bottle to fall from a conveniently opened flap. The sound of glass tinkled through the night like a dying wind chime as it bounced harmlessly off rocks and tree roots. The bottle rolled, coming to a stop only once it hit grass, pulling Echo and her stalker deeper into the dark.
The stalker stilled mid-stride, shaken by the sudden noise, boots crunching in the dust. Catching his figure out of the corner of her eye, Echo saw him glance around, as if the police or some do-gooder was about to pop out from behind a tree any minute. In this day-and-age however, no one ran when someone screamed ‘help’. Not even the smashing of glass would warrant the flutter of a window curtain or for someone to brave the cold outside. That was if she were in town too. Out her in the grand grounds of Cardinal House, no one would hear her scream.
Breathing easy, the stalker looked back to Echo who was now scuttling in a crouch hunting for the fallen bottle. “Now where did it go….?” Echo pondered out loud to herself, keeping her voice light and amused, like crawling on the floor of a deserted stretch of driveway, in the dead of night was fun. A raven crowed overhead, its ghoulish cry sending shivers to the bones of any normal mortal, but Echo paid it little attention.
Instead she listened to the approach of her stalker, his footsteps light as he walked cautiously up behind her. Men; beasts, monsters, they liked cute, they liked the helpless, they liked the naive. Pushing herself further into the darkness Echo slipped her bag from her shoulder, placing it to the side; weapon-less. “I’m
sure it rolled over this way.” Again, she mumbled, moving into the darkness. She could still hear the beast behind her, his breathing laboured as she expected. She lifted her ass higher into the air allowing her long hair to fall to the side of her neck revealing pale skin. She made the pose as alluring as possible.
‘Here beasty, beasty, beasty’ she cooed in her head. ‘Come play. ‘
Echo wouldn’t let him go further than she wanted. She was the predator, like the scorpion on the frogs back, but unlike the story, Echo wouldn’t drown with the frog. She would devour him. What fun it would betoo damn him to hell, hooked on power, oppression and ruthless lust, letting him fall, and fall and fall. Mara would be proud. Her wayward Aunt, the embodiment of Wrath had a special spot for wife beaters and tyrannical men. She liked to drive them to insanity, until their own existence made then so mad, they brought upon their own destruction. Echo thrived off her tales when she was a child.