What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose)

by Beaumont, Delany

  I hate this place. We’re far too vulnerable here. I feel like we’re at the dead end of a passageway in a maze.

  “Are you sure?” I ask over my shoulder, intending to say, Are you sure this isn’t a trap? But I don’t want to put unnecessary thoughts in their heads. I know they would sell me out in a heartbeat if one of the other Black Riders were to suddenly appear, maybe having followed us in.

  We stumble our way up and up each invisible step, occasionally kicking aside stray bits of debris—a box, a can, sometimes something mushy—until we reach the second floor of the building, the area above the ruined storefront I saw outside.

  “Now where?”

  “There’s a big opening to your left,” William whispers. There’s a bit of an ambient glow coming from inside this space, a few stray strands of moonlight finding their way through a back window. We feel our way to the room’s entrance, a large opening with a missing door.

  The stench in this place is much more intense as we make our way inside. My feet crunch on what I’m sure are bones, the bones of small animals littering the floor. A thick funk of decay pervades everything. It reminds me of the many times I stumbled across a shrunken corpse in the back room of a house I thought of occupying while we were on the road.

  As if she knows what I’m thinking, Tech says, “They eat them. All these animals.”

  I imagine bits of fur, viscera, goo now gummed to the soles of my boots.

  “What are they?”

  “The animals? Dogs, cats, squirrels, rabbits, birds. Anything they can get their hands on. But they hate it. I’ve seen them, at ceremonies, biting into a squirming thing, killing it, choking it down. They try not to let us see them. They’re ashamed.”

  “It’s undignified. Horrifying,” a low voice says from a far corner of the room.

  Another voice, higher, closer at hand, flamboyant and assured, like that of a movie actress, says, “You wouldn’t like to see it, Gillian.” I hear mirthless laughter. The voice is so familiar my whole body tenses yet it’s also different enough from what I was expecting that I can’t quite place it.

  It’s not as dark in this room, the barest amount of light pressing in through a bank of windows on the room’s far side. As I stare into the gloom directly in front of me I’m able to make out the top of a fancy wingback chair and the outline of the head of someone seated in it.

  “Who are you?” My words sound weak, feeble compared to hers.

  There’s no response. There are at least two of them in the room with us. There could be more. It’s a large room, maybe a waiting room connected to what used to be a suite of offices.

  The thought fills my mind—It is a trap. It’s so obvious now that it would be. I should have known.

  But I had to try to do this for Aiden. I had to try.

  Images of new torments to come flit through my head along with the thought of how unlikely it is there will be a reprieve this time. Drowning me, burning me, burying me alive. I’m sure these creatures are capable of anything. Absolutely anything.

  “We don’t want trouble,” William stammers into the dark. “Needle. We want to see Needle.” His voice is so pathetically small next to the easy assurance of the female who spoke.

  There is no response to his words.

  Then I hear the sound of a small pinwheel turning, grinding against a scratchy surface followed by a small burst of flame. The pale white hand of the figure in the chair holds up a lighter and sucks the fire into the tip of a cigarette. For just a moment I can see the ashy lower half of her face from the nose down, a sensual looking mouth with lips the color of bruised plums.

  “W-what do you want from me?” I finally say, stuttering a little, intimidated despite struggling with myself not to be.

  “Don’t be so paranoid, little one,” this creature says.

  She’s back in shadow now, face murky, indistinct. “You remember me, don’t you? Aisa.” She says her name as if it’s the name of a deity.

  Aisa. Yes, I remember her.

  “I like you, Gillian. I really do. You are—or soon will be—useful to me.”

  “Useful,” I echo.

  “Not just useful but you have potential. When you…change, I hope you remember who was kind to you. Who saved you from Moira. Despite what you did to Gideon.”

  The van door squeals as its wrenched open and I feel a cold rush of air. Milo kicks me out of the van and I tumble to the hard pavement outside. Even as I fall, I continue to vomit, heaving up watery residue from my empty stomach.

  I hear the sound of boots clatter to the ground as the two in back jump out beside me. “Get up in the light!” Milo orders me. I feel the toe of his boot jab into my side. I think just for a moment that maybe I could get to my feet, maybe I could run. But I can’t raise myself up any higher than my hands and knees and he keeps kicking at me so I crawl forward, to the front of the van until I’m gasping and heaving in the glare of the headlights.

  I think, These are my new friends.

  Aisa says causally, conversationally, “We’ve sort of been dividing lately.”

  “Like an amoeba,” the figure in the shadows behind her says and laughs with one short brutish monosyllable—huh—like the grunt of a dog.

  She looks over her shoulder and takes a long drag on the cigarette. The smoke fills the air, wafting through the stench of decomposition. I’ve never smelled smoke like this. It’s pungent, heavy and sweet, reminding me of nutmeg and cloves.

  “Yes, like an amoeba. Dividing into two tribes. Do you understand? We were one tribe but now we are two. And when you change, we want you to choose the right tribe.”

  Moira or Aisa, I think. Is there any difference? I can imagine both are cruel. I’m sure that if I displeased Aisa, she would want me dead just as much as Moira does now.

  “Remember who saved you, Gillian. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.”

  “Why me?” I ask.

  Aisa gives me a long, appraising look. Her eyes are shadows but I’m sure she’s watching me closely. “You’re the toughest Elder I’ve ever seen. The toughest girl I’ve ever seen. And I don’t pay many compliments, my dear.”

  I feel tugging on my sleeve, urgent, impassioned tugging. “Let’s go,” William whispers, his voice weedy and desperate. “Needle’s not here. Let’s get out—”

  Then comes the sound of another engine kicking into life, this time an old blocky, sputtering, choking thing like an enormous lawnmower turning over. “It’s the generator,” I hear the male figure behind Aisa growl.

  Then something happens that amazes me. A string of naked light bulbs hung from wires above us begin to flicker. The illumination is a sickly yellow. The bulbs are fly-specked and pulse in and out of incandescence like heartbeats. But it’s enough so I can see.

  It’s been years since I’ve seen a light bulb actually emit any light.

  Now I can see that the walls of the room have been crudely stained black, as if someone splashed and smeared black paint everywhere, across the floor, across the ceiling. There are animal remains in bits and pieces along the baseboards of the walls, in corners, bones strewn across the floor.

  In the middle of the room is a large table littered with empty bags and bottles, syringes. And the small glass vials with the silver metal rims just like the one my father had brought to our house that day so long ago when he injected my mother and me with the experimental serum that was supposed to save us from becoming…like these others.

  The figure in the chair squints and blinks her eyes rapidly, as if even this dim light bothers her. She says, “You’ve never come this close to one of us before, have you? Take a good look while you can.”

  It’s the first time I’ve been able to look steadily at one of the Black Riders.

  Her hair is dyed a brilliant shade of crimson, like she’s washed it in blood. It’s thick and luxurious as it frames her face with a thousand tiny curls. That face is the color of watery milk but it’s a strong face, an attractive face.
<
br />   It’s her eyes that fascinate me most.

  I get a glimpse of them before she reaches into the right pocket of the black leather coat she wears and pulls out a pair of sunglasses to cover them with. Dark purple, indigo deep, mixes with lavender-gold and splotches of watery gray. No pupils that I can discern, no whites, just a smear of color.

  Looking into these eyes feels like observing a strange planet from a satellite in space. A multi-hued, surface-swirled marble, any center lens indistinct, hard to fathom. How do they focus, how do they see? What do they see?

  Then out of nowhere—the rumble of motorcycles cutting into the street. In seconds they’re only a block away, then right out in front of the building.

  Aisa takes another drag on her cigarette, the sweet smell of cloves suffusing the room one last time before she lets the butt drop to the floor. She crushes it out in a spray of tiny embers with the tip of one long-toed black boot that fits perfectly a foot impossibly small and narrow. Then she reaches into another pocket and pulls out a pair of delicate black kid gloves, drawing them with care onto each white hand. “I suppose it’s time to go,” she says as if she had all the time in the world.

  “Will you get us out of here?” I ask her, trying to control the urgency in my voice. Tough. She thinks I’m tough. Show her you’re tough.

  “Perhaps.”

  The male Black Rider has come closer. He must be Milo or the one driving the van that night, Bodie. Their names pop easily into my mind. Before I can do anything, he circles in back of us and takes a position close to the windows.

  William suddenly shoves against me, pressing against my shoulder, partially hidden by my back. I hear him screech, his lips close to my ear, “What do you want with us?”

  “Just to talk,” Aisa says lightly, unbelievably calm. “But now we’ll have to save that for another time.”

  She stands up and moves a little closer. A naked light bulb dangles right above her head and it’s obvious it irritates her. She swipes at it with a black-gloved hand and the bulb shatters into dust. The naked filament flares and goes dark. I try to shield my eyes. Fortunately the glass powders harmlessly across my bulky parka.

  “Damn Needle and his lights,” she says.

  Just as the sound of the smashed bulb registers in my mind, there’s a barrage of steps clumping up the stairs. And immediately another Black Rider steps into the room. He stands opposite the window and a little weak light glints off the sunglasses he wears. I can see thick, black work gloves, a large, bulky body. “They’re here,” he says. “We should get out. I don’t want to meet them in a confined space like this.”

  All at once Aisa loses her cool. It’s like somebody’s flipped a switch. She turns to the table and sweeps the debris littering it to the floor. She screams out, “Why can’t they leave us alone?”

  “Why didn’t you kill the generator, Bodie?” the one who must be Milo standing behind us asks softly.

  “They already know we’re here. What difference does it make? Aisa, you wanted these three to be able to see.”

  “Just for a moment, fool. All right, it was a bad idea.”

  “Where’s Needle?” I say, trying to shout down the confusion.

  Aisa swings back to me. For a moment I think she’s going to leap at me, knock me down, throttle me.

  “Forget about Needle,” she hisses. “He doesn’t want to get involved in this. He doesn’t like conflict. He’d rather meditate over Gideon.”

  “Like Gideon’s gonna start speaking,” Milo says. “Give up the secrets of the tomb.”

  And then I feel lost. Escape seems impossible. Either Aisa will take me with her or I will die at Moira’s hands. Crossing the river uninvited was a fool’s mission. Doomed to failure.

  But it’s all I could do to help Aiden.

  Then an ugly thought enters my head—Maybe I should have let Aiden die if it meant I could help Stace, CJ and Terry. Maybe even Emily. My family. I put that strange, helpless boy over the ones closest to me.

  Now no drugs. No medicine. No Needle.

  I feel a crushing, sudden sense of failure. The whole reason for this undertaking has been lost. I look at the rubbish Aisa knocked to the floor, what I can make out under the dim light bulbs that remain—nothing there is of any use to me.

  Everything comes down to one question now—

  How can I get out of this room?

  It’s the only thing I want. To get out. To regain my freedom. To get back to my family.

  Bodie looms in the doorway. Aisa is very close to me and Milo is only a few feet away. Both William and Tetch are hovering at my back. The three Black Riders seem reluctant to move too close, as if they want to grab us, subdue us somehow but don’t want to actually come into physical contact.

  We hear cries now from the street below, taunts. Someone throws a heavy metal burn barrel which bangs hollow against a crumpled car. Obviously Moira’s tribe knows the element of surprise is over. I wonder how many of them are waiting outside.

  I have seconds to do something, to try to save myself.

  William and Tetch—I don’t care. In half a second I’ve written them off. They’ve taken their chances. I forced them into this but I don’t feel responsible. I’ve done what I felt I had to do and might have to pay dearly for it. They can struggle with the consequences of doing what they had to do. I feel like I’ve made them live up to their responsibilities.

  Then there is the stomping of heavy-soled boots in the corridor, then more on the stairs like storm troopers swarming through the building. It’s so horribly familiar to me, the arrival of the Riders—standing with my rifle on the balcony of the motel, at the Orphanage when they hauled Aiden down to the cellar…

  It’s not me but William who is the first to move, the first to panic. Aisa looks sharply at something happening over my shoulder and leans forward with her arms raised as if about to spring. I turn to see William dart toward the doorway as if he might somehow be able to run right past Bodie. Bodie isn’t as tall as Aisa but he’s much bigger, broad shouldered, the dyed black fuzz of his hair shaved close to his head.

  I think Bodie’s going to do something to stop William, trip him, knee him, whack him on the head but he simply moves slightly to one side to let him pass. He shrugs and says, “Let them get him. Right, Aisa?”

  “Yes,” Aisa says. “Let Moira have the small fry.”

  I start to back up to the window. Tetch is the next to try to run but Milo grabs her from behind, a black sleeve and black-gloved hand jerking her up and back by the throat. She dangles for a moment, thrashing, kicking, her heels slamming into Milo’s shins, tearing at his arm before he throws her aside like he would a cat clawing at him. She pitches onto the filthy, slime-covered floor of the room, scrambles to her feet but they slide out from under her. Bodie has a smile on his face watching her struggle. Tetch darts past him out into the hall but I know she won’t get far. The members of Moira’s group are almost at the door of the room.

  Aisa comes close to me. My back is right against the window. “You’re not going to be bad, are you Gillian?”

  “Are you going to help me get out of here?”

  There’s the clatter of footsteps just out the door. Bodie starts to cross the room toward us and Milo draws near.

  Aisa whispers, “Curl into a ball and try to land softly.”

  Before I can react she raises her right hand in its tight black glove and slams her open palm hard against my chest. She knocks the wind out of me and sends me flying back against the window pane.

  There’s no time to panic. No time to struggle.

  Only time to fall.

  Three

  There have to be a few seconds I can’t remember. I have no memory of my plummet down to the pavement. I remember the sound of glass shattering and then I’m lying on the ground in an alleyway, on a pile of rotting, sodden cardboard and chair cushions. I can’t remember the moment of impact, the sight of the ground rushing up to me.

  At first I thi
nk I’m alone.

  It seems to be completely silent except for the harsh rasp of each breath I take. I’m trying to recover, trying to suck in oxygen, steady my breathing.

  Then I hear a question spoken softly, seductively, with a false sense of concern, “Are you all right?”

  Aisa’s voice close by.

  I look around. I’m in a narrow backstreet, behind the building that holds Needle’s room. It’s too dim to see much. There’s a soft, flickering glow from the naked bulbs still lit in Needle’s room above me but I can’t see anything at either end of this narrow lane I’m in.

  I’m flat on my back, positioned almost like I’ve been sleeping and have just awoken. I twist and turn and start to push myself up and feel the sting of a shard of glass slice into the base of my thumb. I ignore it until I’ve managed to get to my feet but, once I’m standing, I nearly topple down again.

  My right leg feels wobbly, numb.

  “Well?” I hear Aisa say. “We don’t have much time.”

  Now other sounds begin to reach me and the world pulls into sharper focus. There’s the low growl of idling motorcycles from only a street away. They seem very loud, very obviously there to me now and I wonder how I could have blocked them out until this moment. I look down and see the light from the room above glinting off fragments of glass that lay all around me. I start to brush myself off but realize I’m smearing blood from my cut hand across the front of my parka.

  For just a moment I get a mental flash of Aisa or any of the Black Riders tearing into some helpless little creature they’ve caught, blood dripping down their chins as they crunch and munch their way into its flesh. I smother the thought immediately, shutting my eyes tight, not allowing myself to think it. But I can’t help wondering—does the smell of blood entice them, drive them wild?

  I know I have to move, that Aisa’s right—there is no time. I must make myself concentrate on moving, getting away, if that’s even possible. I take a tentative step and nearly stumble but manage to stay on my feet. My right leg seems to be reviving but I’m wary of putting my full weight on it. I make my way across the uneven pile of refuse that’s served as a landing pad until I’m on solid ground.