Dark Seduction

by Jeffrey, Shaun

  “Because that's what you sent her for.” He pointed back at Jade.

  “She's nothing to do with me. I did warn you that people would try to stop you.”

  Still unsure, Zen bit his lip. The doorway led to a dark passage, and with a final look back at Jade, he entered. The passage wasn't that long and moments later he came out into an impossibly large open area the size of a small village, dotted with strange buildings that defied all laws of geometry. Some seemed to balance on their roofs; others leaned at such acute angles Zen felt certain wires must hold them up. Some buildings were circular, others glass towers. As he stood marvelling, Jade ran in behind him. He suppressed a scream. Why had the albino man let her in if he didn't want her to kill him? They circled each other, leaving macabre, bloody footprints on the tiled floor like bizarre dance steps.

  The other two men that tricked him into the venture appeared from the shadows, as though forming out of the very atoms of the air they displaced.

  The men closed in on Jade, leaving her nowhere to run. She looked around with wide, white eyes, breathing heavily. She slashed the knife, but the men grabbed her and subdued her without any trouble at all.

  Conscious of being naked, Zen covered his privates with his hands. He couldn't believe that only a few hours ago, he’d slept with a crazy woman that now wanted to kill him. He watched the men manhandle her to the ground, but he couldn't feel any sympathy for her, not after she’d just tried to kill him. But why had she tried to kill him? Hadn't she said she was sent by the very men who now restrained her?

  It was getting more confusing.

  The albino man approached Jade, his expression unreadable. A long leather coat hid his legs, although he seemed to float more than walk, his movements too fluid to be natural.

  “Did she send you?” the albino man asked as he crouched beside her.

  Jade spat in his face.

  The albino man shook his head. “Well if you’re not prepared to speak, your mind can’t hide the truth.” He ran a hand across her face and Jade flinched. A word appeared on the back of his hand like an indelible tattoo: Yes.

  “Just hold on. What's going on?” Zen said, growing angry.

  “That's what I was going to ask you,” the albino man said as he turned towards him, his red eyes flashing with anger.

  Zen stumbled back, his legs shaking. “The girl said you sent her to help me.”

  “Then she lied. You're a fickle man who thinks with his dick instead of his head. If there was some other way ...” He turned away and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

  “Some other way to what?”

  The albino man whirled around, coattails flapping; his features set like granite.

  “Well?” Zen prompted.

  “Tell him it's his own mother you want him to kill,” Jade said.

  The albino man turned on Jade, and in that moment, Zen saw something in the man's features that chilled him to the core.

  “Be quiet,” the albino man hissed, his voice like waves crashing against rocks.

  He turned back towards Zen, opened his coat and swept the flowing coattails over him, enveloping him in darkness.

  CHAPTER 10

  The rain lashed down, stinging Verity's face. She stood on her brother's doorstep, her cheeks red and sore.

  Her resolve hadn't wavered. Determined to find out what happened, John was her first port of call.

  She pressed the doorbell, heard it ring somewhere in the hollow rooms of the large, Edwardian house. After a few moments, she pressed it again, eventually hearing the pitter-patter of scurrying feet. The door opened wide and John appeared, unshaven. His eyes were dark smudges but his lips formed a smile that seemed incongruous to his shabby appearance.

  “Melantha, I knew ...” When he saw Verity, the smile dropped from his face. “Oh, it's you.”

  “John, are you all right?” She could smell brandy on his breath.

  “Of course I am. What do you want?”

  “Well, you could invite me in. It is raining out here.” She lifted her arms as if to indicate the obvious and wiped her face.

  John begrudgingly shuffled back into the house, allowing her to enter.

  “Make it quick, I'm waiting for someone to call.”

  Verity gratefully slipped her coat off, creating a watery dot-to-dot picture on the tiled floor of the hallway. “Can we go into the living room so I can dry off?”

  John looked pensive, chewing his lip. “What's this about?”

  “You know damn well what it's about.”

  “I haven't got time for this.”

  “Well, make time. I'm not going anywhere until I've spoken to you.”

  As if resigned to his sister's determination, John nodded his head and walked away into the bowels of the house. Verity shut the front door and followed.

  She noticed that apart from a tatty settee and bottles of spirits, John's living room was empty; the curtains closed so that only a wan light filtered through.

  “Where is everything?” She opened the curtains.

  John collapsed onto the settee and picked up a brandy bottle, swallowing a good mouthful before he answered. “What business is it of yours?”

  “What's happened here?” Verity sat down next to him. “Where are Margaret and the kids?”

  He shook his head and took another drink. “What do you care? When was the last time you saw them? What do you want?”

  Ignoring John's sarcastic attitude, she pressed on. “So where's Margaret?”

  John forced a sound halfway between a laugh and a snort. “She's gone.”

  “Gone!” Verity frowned. “Gone where?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “John, this isn't like you.”

  “And how would you know what I'm like? You left years ago.”

  “You know I didn't have a choice. Father was trying to run my life for me.”

  “Well, he seemed to make a better job of it than you have. Look at you. What's this?” He grabbed the sleeve of her blue and yellow hemp top. “Don't you realise how stupid you look? When are you going to grow up?”

  “I haven't come here for an argument.”

  “Then what are you here for?”

  “My father's dead. Didn't you think I deserved to be told?”

  “Why are you so bothered? I thought you'd be glad.”

  Verity pursed her lips. “Of course I didn't want him to die.”

  “Whatever, now if you don't mind.” He made to stand and Verity grabbed his arm.

  “John, please. Tell me what's happened to the money.”

  “It’s gone. All gone.”

  “Gone! Gone where?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I just need to know what's going on. How did father meet this Melantha woman? Where's she from? Where is she now?”

  “None of this is her fault.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “I love her, and I'll not listen to you accuse her of anything.”

  Verity frowned. “Love her. How can you love her?”

  “Because I do. This is none of your business.”

  “Are you seeing her?” She waited for an answer, but John took another swig from the bottle. “Well, are you seeing her? Is that what this is all about? Is that why Margaret left?”

  “Margaret didn't leave. I threw the bitch out.”

  “For God’s sake, what's happened to you? Why would you throw her out?” She’d never heard her brother speak like this before. It scared her.

  “What is this, twenty questions?”

  “I'm worried about you.”

  For a moment, she thought she had got through to him and he visibly relaxed his hostile stance. Then the barriers came back up.

  “Just go, and shut the door on your way out.” He stood and walked out of the room. She heard him traipse up the stairs and a door slammed like a gunshot.

  She took that as her cue to leave. It was futile trying to press her brother for answ
ers when he was like this, so she grabbed her coat and walked out of the house and back into the rain. At the foot of the drive, she turned to look back, and saw her brother watching her from the upstairs window before he pulled the curtains across, making the house appear to be in mourning.

  Verity walked away without looking back.

  Peter lived on the outskirts of town, his dwelling smaller than John's, but no less impressive.

  A crow regarded her with beady eyes from its chimney pot perch. The wind ruffled the bird’s feathers and it cawed before it took flight, rising on the wind to circle the house.

  Verity walked up the path, braced herself, and then knocked on the wooden door.

  After a moment, she heard her brother say, “Who is it?”

  “Peter, it's me, Verity.”

  Silence.

  “Peter, open the door please.”

  “Go away. There's nothing for you here.”

  Verity couldn't understand what was going on. Why was everyone treating her this way? What had she done that was so bad? Her life had been ruined, not theirs. She wandered around to the kitchen window and peered in. Everything seemed normal. Walking further around, she peered through the dining room window. Like John's house, it looked bare of furniture, a house without possessions, like a body without organs, devoid of life and character.

  She wasn’t going to get any answers here when he wouldn’t even answer the door.

  Her only lead was the name of a village on a crumpled piece of burnt paper. Although not much, it was better than nothing.

  CHAPTER 11

  Verity stepped out of the taxi and looked up and down Trinity’s windswept high street. If ever there was a one-horse town, this was it, she thought.

  Rocky outcrops in the distance looked like gravestones and she shivered and tried to shake off the morbid thought, but she couldn't because it made her realise she didn't know if anyone had arranged a headstone for her father. She felt a twinge of guilt that she tried hard to dampen.

  Made out of huge granite blocks, the houses looked like giant Lego pieces. Grey, slate tiles adorned the roofs. Lichen covered walls on some of the buildings making it appear nature was trying to assert herself. None of the buildings looked newer than two hundred years old; each of them appeared nondescript with nothing to differentiate from the one next to it. From where she stood, Verity spotted a public house, a bakery, a convenience store and an undertaker’s. It wasn't exactly Oxford Street.

  She took her bag out of the car and paid the taxi driver. She watched as the vehicle sped away along the street, and felt very foolish. What was she doing here? Good God, she must be going senile.

  She shook her head and walked to the Salvation public house, opened the door and stepped inside.

  A fire blazed in the hearth, the heat from which hit her like that from an open oven door. After only a few steps, sweat prickled on her forehead and she wiped her brow.

  She approached the bar, above which hung brass plaques and a black-barrelled blunderbuss. The few patrons in the bar sat at round wooden tables. Mostly tourists, she thought, identifiable by their hiking boots, thick jumpers, and the cagoules and wet weather clothing hanging on the backs of the chairs to dry in the heat from the fire.

  The barman rose from his seat, smiled warmly and rolled his sleeves up.

  “Rum weather out there. What can I get you?” he asked.

  Verity dropped her bag on the ground. “I was wondering if you had a room available.”

  The man nodded his head and pointed to a sign on the wall that read: Rooms available. His ruddy cheeks glowed in the firelight, almost the same shade as his curly ginger hair. “How long do you want to stay for?”

  “I'm not really sure. Can I say a couple of nights and then see how it goes?”

  “No problem.”

  He told her the price, then took a few details and a deposit before she signed the register. Then he showed her to a small room on the first floor with a single bed (a double bed would have nearly filled the room), small dressing table, a cupboard and an on-suite bathroom. It wasn't the Ritz, but it would suffice as somewhere to begin her search.

  Despite the slight mould on the bathroom tiles, she took a quick shower and then dressed in a pair of black Lycra leggings beneath a red tie-dyed dress. Finally, she pulled on a baggy purple cardigan and then wandered down to the bar.

  A few of the people in residence scrutinised her before returning their attention to their drinks.

  Verity sat on a barstool and ordered half a pint of cider.

  “Is the room okay?” the barman asked as he poured the drink.

  “It's fine thank you.” After a moment, she said, “I don't suppose you could help me?”

  “That depends on what you want.”

  “Well, I'm looking for someone that might be in this village.”

  The barman cocked his head.

  “It's a woman called Melantha.”

  “We’re only a small village, and I don’t know anyone of that name. Sorry love.” He put the drink in front of her and took the money, returning a moment later with her change.

  Drink in hand, Verity walked to a table by the window where she sat, watching the world outside. Was Melantha here? Perhaps the letter was nothing. Perhaps she was clutching at straws.

  “You a friend of hers?”

  “Pardon?” Verity turned to face the bald-headed man who’d spoken. Dressed in a sombre grey suit too big for his frame, he sat at the next table, nursing a pint of bitter in his hands. Dark skinned, his wrinkled face showed signs of age, and his dark eyes held a lively twinkle. Apart from a few hairs sticking out of his ears, the only hair on his head was a straggly grey moustache.

  “This gypsy woman, you a friend of hers?” he asked.

  “I never said she was a gypsy, so you must know her. Is she here?” Verity's heart skipped a beat.

  The man chomped his lips as though chewing something, and when he spoke, his false teeth almost fell out. “She's bad blood.”

  “Bad blood?”

  The man supped his drink and nodded his head. “You'll rue the day you met her.” He sucked air between his teeth, as though trying to stop them falling out again.

  “No, she’ll rue the day she met me when I find her. So where is she?”

  “Do you know what Melantha means? Its means dark flower.”

  Verity wasn't bothered with what it meant. “Just tell me where she is.” Her voice rose and the barman looked across and frowned.

  “You wouldn't be so eager to find her if you could see her black heart.”

  “Look, I'm a friend of hers. More than a friend. She’s my stepmother.” She almost choked on the words.

  The man snorted. “You're gadje. You'll never be a friend of hers.”

  “Gadje?”

  “Foreigner. Not a gypsy.”

  “I really need to find her.”

  “She's marime, polluted and you're best steering clear.”

  “I think that's my decision, not yours.”

  The man shook his head.

  “Is old Leo here bothering you, miss?” the barman asked, standing over the table.

  Leo looked up and belched loudly. “I don't bother anyone, Bill. Now bugger off back behind the bar and leave me alone.”

  “Miss?”

  Verity waved her hand dismissively. “We're just talking.”

  “Well, if he gives you any trouble, just give me a shout.” He glared at Leo. “You're not too old to be barred you know.”

  “Away with you.” Leo put his hand to his mouth as his teeth slipped out.

  “And if you leave those teeth in one of my glasses again, I'll throw them away.”

  “Bugger off and leave me be.”

  Bill shook his head and wandered back behind the bar, where he sat staring at Leo.

  Leo took his teeth out, dropped them in his jacket pocket and slurped noisily on his drink.

  “Please, I really need to find her.”

 
Leo sucked his gums. “She'll only bring you prikasa, bad luck, and I don't want it on my conscience. Go back where you came from. This is no place for you. There's a dark cloud hanging over this village. Leave before it's too late. There's a saying: in a village without a dog, a man can walk without a stick.” He swallowed the last of his pint, stood up, grabbed a walking stick that leaned against the wall and walked out of the pub.

  Perplexed, Verity stared after the man. Seconds later, she stood and followed Leo outside. He knew where Melantha was.

  A strong wind blew, the sky overhead leaden. Apart from the rocky escarpments in the distance, the surrounding landscape appeared barren and windswept, the only sign of life the odd sheep that endured the elements as it hunkered behind crumbling drystone walls.

  Although harsh, the landscape radiated an uncommon beauty.

  There weren't many houses in the village, and Verity doubted there were more than four hundred inhabitants. Apart from a couple of crofters’ cottages on the outskirts, most of the village seemed self-contained, a small enclave that survived against the worst the British weather could throw at it.

  Verity watched Leo stop at the end of the high street and light a cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind. She ducked into the undertaker's doorway, noticing the pallid, hawk-like proprietor eyeing her up from behind the counter as though measuring up a prospective customer. Verity shivered.

  What use did a small village have for an undertaker anyway? Surely, there wasn't that much money in death out here. There were hardly enough people to keep the living functioning, never mind the dead.

  A couple of hikers walked past, dressed in wet weather clothing. Verity felt underdressed, the wind breaching her limited defences. She hadn't realised how cold it was, the fire in the pub having lulled her into a false sense of security. Gooseflesh peppered her skin.

  She walked on, the bangles on her arm tinkling like wind chimes. Afraid Leo would hear them and turn around, she put her hands beneath her armpits, pressing the bangles into her chest.

  At the end of the road, Leo walked up a garden path and into a small terraced house. Verity ducked behind a low wall opposite a garage daubed with graffiti and surveyed the house. If Melantha was here, she’d find her.