“We’re running short of time, if your story isn’t a fantasy,” he said. “I need to finish the blue -- quite a bit of blue -- before dawn.”
Nodding, Alex turned away once more. He told no more stories, and he showed absolutely no indication of pain as the needle traced its lines across the taut skin of his back. It was almost like working on leather -- surprisingly little blood, no swelling at all.
Christ, Chance cursed under his breath, the guy doesn’t even flinch when I rinse with the fucking alcohol.
He etched in the final lines of blue -- saving the last for the icy depths of Alex’s eyes. It was his best work -- a panorama of carnage, revenge, pain and blood. It would have made a great album cover, he thought grimly, but he wouldn’t have wanted to meet the band.
With a small flourish he slipped the gun into its stand on the table beside him and sat back. It wasn’t getting light out yet, but there was a sort of morning glimmer through the windows, and an occasional car or delivery truck slid by. In the distance, a siren wailed.
Without a word, Chance walked across the room and pulled aside a black shade on the wall. It hid a mirror. He then returned to his place directly behind the man, and held up another mirror so the tattoo was visible in the first. He waited, wondering what would break the silence, a gasp of delight, a grunt of satisfaction, or a scream of blood lust. It was done, whichever way it turned out. As he was fond of saying, “they may cure cancer someday, but tattoos are forever.” Not literally true, since they could cut them off with lasers -- or Buck knives, he’d seen both techniques -- but in this case he didn’t think he’d be getting a second chance.
Alex was staring into the mirror with an intensity that set Chance’s heart pounding. Whatever the man’s reaction, it was not lukewarm.
After turning first one way, then the other, observing every nuance of the design -- every newly scarred inch of his flesh -- Alex seemed satisfied. He turned suddenly, and without seeming to move -- without so much as a whisper of sound -- he was at Chance’s side, his lips nearly pressed to the artist’s ear.
“I was not mistaken. You are superb. I don’t know how you have done it -- my brother lives and breathes, after a fashion -- in the limited world that is my flesh. His finest moment, recaptured. You have done well.
Chance breathed a sigh of relief, releasing pent up breath he hadn’t even been aware he was holding. He was about to say something, probably something stupid that he would regret, but by the time the thought began to make its way from his mind to his lips, he was alone. The light was growing stronger -- slipping over the sill of the window and across the floor like bright gold. There was no one there. He heard the bell on the front door tinkling, as though something had disturbed it, but there was no other indication that he had been anything but alone all night. Not if you discounted the tray beside his table, the splotches of colored ink and blood, and the tremors that were seizing his muscles and plucking them like guitar strings.
He made his way into the front of the shop in a daze. Something glittered on the counter, catching his eye, and he walked over to glance at it more carefully. It was a small stack of coins -- gold coins. There were six of them.
Chance glanced out the window toward the street. He knew there would be nothing to see -- no one watching. He picked up the coins, noting their weight, and let them fall into the pocket of his faded jeans.
Suddenly the weariness hit him. He’d been working intently for over seven hours, so caught up in the creation, in the art, and in the story, that he’d hardly noticed the passing of time. It had noticed him, and now it was dragging at him with all its claws. Time to get home and hit a serious crash. Plenty of chances later on to find out about the coins, and to think about what had happened. He let himself out, locking the door behind him, and headed quickly down the street toward his apartment.
He fell into his bed a few minutes later and knew nothing until nearly seven o’clock that evening.
* * *
When he woke, he couldn’t be certain if the previous night’s events had happened in the tattoo parlor, or in his dreams. It wasn’t until he’d slipped into his jeans and felt the weight of the coins in his pocket that he knew for certain. Smoothing his hair back over his ears and splashing some water on his face, he dressed and headed out the door. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so late. There wouldn’t even be time to eat a decent meal before work -- he’d have to grab a burger on the way.
Even hurrying as he was, it was nearly eight-thirty, and there was a small crowd of regulars waiting for him. He hadn’t had a chance to check on the coins, so as far as he knew, his next month’s rent was behind the curve. He opened the doors with a quick apology and got to work.
On one sailor, a cover-up -- dark black panther over flowers and a lost love’s name. On a young girl a butterfly on the thigh -- a smile and a promise. He declined -- jail bait. So it went. Dragons, emblems, names and colors blended quickly into a blur that drew his thoughts away from the previous night and into the reality of the present. About twelve-thirty the parlor was cleared of the last of them. He’d done a decent night’s work, despite the late start. It was always good near the military paydays.
He was considering calling it a night -- getting to his bed early, when Alex walked in. Chance never really saw the man walk in, but just the same, when he looked up from some designs he was shuffling and filing, there the man was. Alex was smiling, and in his hand, he held forth an envelope.
Chance stared at the man for a moment, letting it all register, letting himself realize that it wasn’t over yet. Then he moved forward and reached out his hand.
“I took the liberty,” Alex said, “Of having a -- friend -- take photographs. These are prints I had made -- very good quality, I believe. And none too soon.”
Chance had no idea what the psycho was babbling about, but he took the proffered envelope and dumped the prints out into his hand. The quality was more than good. It was exquisite. Though the tattoo was fresh, the colors and the outlines -- even the subtle shading he’d done with a single needle -- had come through with remarkable clarity. It was as though the cuts his art invariably made had already healed. It was usually weeks before he could get such a glimpse of his work.
“They are for you,” Alex said. “Now, I am ready to begin.”
Chance looked up, perplexed. “Begin what? The work was complete . . . this is all there was.”
“Oh, I realize that you have captured the image as I gave it to you,” Alex continued, beginning to remove his shirt as if all decisions were made. “I have another tale to tell you, and the hour is already late. I have lived a long life -- there are many moments -- many tales of darkness, passion, and shadow. I wish to capture them all.”
“Where?” Chance blurted. “Your chest? We can do something there, maybe the thighs -- they hold quite a bit -- but an entire life is no way fitting on one body.”
Alex only smiled. Spinning, he showed Chance the gleaming, unblemished skin of his bare back.
“I have nothing but time, my friend -- and you are my chosen.”
Chance staggered back. Suddenly the weight of the gold in his pocket seemed to drag him toward the floor, weighing on his soul.
“As long as we have our partnership -- our, collaboration, -- it will prove an interesting life. Maybe more than that. As one such as I can tell you, the possibilities are endless.”
Chance staggered backward, coming to rest against the counter, but before he could react beyond this, Alex had locked the door and turned back with a smile.
“My first love was years after my brother’s death . . . her name, it occurs to me, may prove poetic, in this instance. They called her Sheherezade.
The Subtle Ties that Bind
He was dark. Even looking down from the stage, the glaring multicolored lights drawing the sweat from her skin in oozing waves, he was dark. He sat alone, in the far corner of the club,
the farthest booth from the stage, an e
bony blotch against the shadows that leaked out around the back wall.
Performance was a rhythm, a pulse she could follow by touch, closing herself off and moving on instinct. The music pounded behind her, pulsing with her heartbeat, pulling the strings.
That was how she saw it. There were dancers, and then there were those whose abilities were not wholly their own. She was the music, manifesting its own creativity back into the world that had spawned it. She was a reflected, off world vision, second hand, from the musician to the netherworld and back. The man in the corner did not reflect at all.
She watched for a flicker of light from his eyes, a flash of smile. There was nothing. He was a silhouette, void of light.
She was intrigued. The music wound down, and the strings slipped loose from her limbs, releasing her into a bow that draped her long, whiteblonde hair over her like a silken curtain, reaching nearly to the floor.
The scented air parted for her reluctantly; stale smoke, cheap perfume, equally cheap cologne, groping for one another in an olfactory war of loneliness and fantasy. She felt focused. The music was not for her, not for the moment, but she felt the subtle touch of the strings, tugging her forward, tugging her toward the shadows. It should not have been happening.
She slid into the booth across from him, reaching without comment for his cigarettes and helping herself to one. Her eyes remained averted, an illusion of freedom that her very presence negated.
"Who are you?" she asked. No greeting. No pleasantries.
No bullshit. "Who are you?"
He did not answer, not right away. She could feel the steps of his eyes across her skin, the subtle imprint of his own fantasies on her psyche. She felt the strings tugging at more intimate places and blew a small cloud of smoke through her nose to try and calm her nerves. Then he spoke.
"I can set you free." Just that. Nothing but a simple phrase, softly spoken, but with authority.
She fidgeted nervously, crossing her legs under the table and drumming her fingers. "Who are you?" It did not matter. For the moment, he held the strings. She slid free of the booth and moved into the night, his eyes tracing patterns on her back as she went.
* * *
Her apartment was cold and lifeless. She lay in bed, waiting for dreams to wipe away the shadowed walls and the ache of the loneliness. In vain.
His outline the etched crevasses that marked his features, the profile, bereft of emotion. He held her easily with the image alone. She stared at the spider's web of cracks that mapped the plaster of her ceiling, reaching finally for a cigarette and lighting it quickly. Her memory of his image did not waver. She closed her eyes; nothing changed.
"I can set you free."
* * *
The second night, when the lights flickered on and the club closed, she followed him without a word. He slipped from the interior light to the exterior blackness like a wraith. She floated in his wake, subtle lines of force binding her movements to his. She had not slept. She had not eaten.
"Who are you?" She'd asked again. "Where are you going."
Her answer was his feet, one in front of the other, stepping off into . . . what? She followed, smoking furiously, one after the other. Her eyes were red from smoke and fatigue. She did not have so long to wait.
* * *
There was no color in the room. She lay on his bed – she assumed it was his and he paced slowly around the room, gazing at her from all angles. She was nervous, but he'd moved the cigarettes out of reach. His gaze lingered on every curve of her body, slid between her thighs and up the sides of her stomach, flickering over sensitive skin like liquid.
"What do you want?" she said, feeling her legs slide further apart, subtly, invitingly. She could feel the arousal coursing through her. Not a single touch. Not a single word.
She was his.
"I will set you free."
She tried to protest as strong hands grabbed her left wrist, as a silken scarf circled soft skin and was fixed to the bedpost.
Then the right. Then her legs. There was no pain. The silk caressed her skin and she felt herself moving against it – the touch electric. She wanted more, but he still moved slowly about, caressing her only with his dark, unblinking eyes.
He moved to the dresser, returned. There was a box in his hand, black lacquered and gleaming slightly. He propped open the lid and turned it so she could see. Pins. Needles. Each had it's own ceramic top, like an oldfashioned hatpin, and yet not like a hatpin at all. They were sheathed in a block of velvet.
Her eyes rolled with momentary fear, but the motion of the struggle it caused brushed the silk across her wrists, worked it up her ankles but not far enough and the fear melted to desire.
He plucked a pin and moved closer, holding her thigh with one strong hand.
"Do not move."
She watched as he ran his finger softly over her skin, felt the tremor of nerves as he found just the right spot, felt the sudden prick of the sharp metal biting into her skin, felt nothing. He had already moved to her other side, her other leg. The caress, the bite of metal, nothing.
She could almost hear the snap of the strings as he clipped them, one by one. Arms next, ear lobes, the soles of her feet. She could see the black heads of the pins protruding from her limbs, but she felt nothing. Nothing but the heat, growing, emanating from the very center of her being. The silk no longer caressed. His hand lay gently on her breast. She did not feel it. She saw it, she knew it was there, she felt only the heat.
"It is a focus," he said at last. You find release through here," his hand drifted between her thighs, one soft brush of fingertips. She lost control. Her vision swam, and she could not steady her mind. Her body was stationary, relaxed, except for the orgasm that rippled through her soul. Gasping, groping for reality, she tried to speak.
"Wh . .who are you?"
He touched her again, more fully, and she lost consciousness, the waves of pleasure pounding away against her insides like a relentless tide.
* * *
She awakened in a larger room. She lay in bed, still, perhaps a different bed. The pins were gone, her limbs her own.
She was not alone. On another bed sat a woman with long satiny red hair and eyes like a doe. She did not smile.
"Where am I?"
There was only silence. Then he was there, at her side.
She trembled. The memory of his touch held her as he moved closer and pushed her back onto the sheets. "What do you want?" she asked again. He did not speak.
He held up his hand, one of the pins held out for her inspection. She trembled again. Without waiting for approval, or reaction, he moved his hands directly to her thighs and slid them up slowly to tangle in the curls of her pubic hair. She watched him wildly, wishing for a cigarette, wishing for the sensations she'd felt, what, hours ago? Days? He massaged her slowly, and she felt herself growing warm, moist. Her lips parted and she moaned, an animal sound. He ignored her. There was the soft caress, the lingering touch on that most tender of spots, and the bite of steel.
She gasped. The sensations were cut off so sharply that her eyes immediately filled with tears. The loss was incredible overpowering. She whimpered, moving a hand down toward his own --toward the pin.
"You cannot remove it." The words were without passion. Without hope or compromise. Empty. She knew without trying that he did not lie, and the tears burst free. She felt the salty liquid burning its way down her cheeks. She felt the texture of the sheets beneath her. She felt the cold touch of his eyes on her flesh.
"There is more than one focus," he said. "Each sensation is important. It is late, now. You must dance."
* * *
She felt the music coursing through her. Her arms and legs were tied in bonds of gossamer, gracefully twisted about as the music played its 3D symphony with her soul. The chords tingled down her skin, rippling across her muscles, her tendons, subtly strumming the tune of her motion.
She watched it all from the distance of the artist, watched als
o the dark silhouette against the back booth. She dreamed of a different sensation, a different focus. Begged for it, pleading with eyes and heart and bitter tears that would not pass her eyes.
The music slowed, releasing the strings, and she drooped toward the floor, less a bow than an act of supplication. Her cornsilk tresses caressed the wood of the floor, and she could feel the grain through nerves previously unheeded. Below, tucked into a fold of skin that would not release her, she knew the pin violated her skin. She felt nothing.
The lights receded. There was only darkness, and against
it, his shadow, moving forward, closing the distance between them.
"There is more than one focus," he said. "I will set you free."
She saw him reach out, saw his fingers black slivers of shadow slide over her skin through it. She felt him pluck gingerly at her mind, her thoughts, her dreams; Felt him linger, searching; felt him move unerringly to the center of her being; felt the bite of steel.
She felt the snap as the strings burst free, untangling, whirling, a kaleidoscopic vision, yet more than a vision, a release and end. There was nothing.
A Taste of Blood and Roses
The wheelchair sat directly in front of one of the small windows that lined the side of the bar, facing out over the swamp. The light of day was fading, and the evening crowd was just starting to filter in, but the chair's occupant paid no attention to them. His stare was icy and empty. A thin string of drool ran down and joined the tip of his chin to the heavy flannel shirt he wore. He leaned forward at what would have been a painful angle, were it not for the unnatural, twisted curve of his spine.
He wore a faded fatigue jacket over the flannel shirt with the letters USMC emblazoned across the pocket in front. On his shoulder rode the insignia of a Gunnery Sgt. Two medals dangled from the pocket opposite his name: the Purple Heart and the Silver Star.
A Taste of Blood and Roses Page 9