by Tanai Walker
“She’s special.”
Rose gave a short hum of approval and began to pour tea.
“Sugar? Milk?”
I told her I wanted lots of sugar and no milk. She stirred two heaping spoonfuls and handed me a saucer with a small steaming cup. I sipped at it, not minding that I burned my tongue. Perhaps the sensation would wake me from this dream.
“She’s going to need clothes for the party tonight,” Leda said as she received a similar cup from Rose. “Tell Pearl to come look at her and you two can collaborate.”
“Fine,” Rose said and left.
We sipped our tea and watched each other.
“What is a leshy?” I asked. “You called Claudio that.”
She grinned. “Very old. Very Slavic. A wood spirit that can take the form of a man.”
I frowned. “He’s not a man.”
She sipped her tea. “We do what we can to survive.”
The next question fell from my lips before I could stop it. “And you?”
“Like you, I am cursed,” Leda said simply. “Alexandrine cursed me to take a physical form every seventy years and be ritually murdered.”
She spat the last word out with a staunch severity. My hands began to tremble as my thoughts were claimed by visions of the great pyre.
“What are you?” I asked.
“You know exactly what I am, Tinsley Swan,” she said in a bored tone. “You carry what is mine, and you have the blood of Alexandrine in your veins.”
“I didn’t want any of this,” I told her. “They forced it on me before I was old enough to know better—”
“It is an honor to carry the familiar.”
“It ruined my life.”
Leda smirked into her teacup. “So that’s your issue. You feel as if you could not live your life freely because of the responsibility of the familiar.”
I squinted at a sudden dull ache between my eyes. “What is this? Therapy?”
“It could be an enhancement to your life,” Leda said. “If you’d allow it.”
“An enhancement?”
“I’m sure you’ve noticed, especially during this cycle,” she said. “Are you not stronger? Faster? More passionate?”
I thought of Sandra. I would normally never take a lover so close to the time of the transformation.
“Are you suggesting that I have super powers?”
She laughed at the sentiment. “Where do you think all those stories come from? They’re passed in the blood.”
“You speak a lot of blood.”
“Do I?”
“What are you?” I asked again.
She grinned. We said nothing for a few moments.
“You’re immortal,” I said.
“Not exactly,” Leda said. “My life, as you describe it, is not my own. It belongs to Alexandrine’s little cult. Your people have me hostage.”
I balanced my saucer and cup between my knees. “If you’re not immortal, then why do I have pictures of you from the turn of the century?”
She smiled. “I suppose I was photographed in my last incarnation.”
“My uncle knew you. His name was Charles. His brother was Malcolm. He told me that he met you in New Orleans and brought you to my family’s home in Galveston. He said you disappeared, that he and his brother suspected foul play.”
She set her own saucer aside. “I don’t remember much of my past incarnations. Bits here and there.”
“Do you always pose for pictures when you come back?” I asked.
“This body is a lovely prison, isn’t it?” She stood, unbelted her robe, and let it fall open. “It helps me in my short journey. Men want to take my pictures, and women want to serve me.”
A discreet knock came from the other side of the door, and Rose returned with a curvaceous blonde. The two leaned into each other and spoke softly, occasionally throwing glances my way. Leda stood and walked to the window. Her skin seemed to take on the glow of the fading sun. The silhouette of her body played through the flimsy fabric of the robe, more erotic than her little show behind one-way glass.
The girls left us alone again. I cleared my throat.
“You still haven’t told me what you are.”
Leda turned away from me and walked to the window. “I have been called many names over the years―Kali, Astarte, Hecate, the Oracle at Delphi, the Whore of Babylon, the devil’s bride.”
With each name she spoke, my heart beat a little quicker. She belted her robe and turned back to me, quickly crossing the space between us. When she reached me, she bent and placed her hand above my right breast, her skin hot through my torn shirt.
“My consciousness is older than time,” she said. Was that even possible? I challenged myself to look up and into her eyes. When I did, I saw that her pupils had shrunk to specks, the violet of her irises inhumanly large.
“You’re frightened of me,” she said.
I nodded dumbly.
She reached up, and her hand landed gingerly on the side of my face. “There were once many of us. We fought and loved. Some of us rebelled for reasons I do not remember. One faction made the physical world, constrained by time, flesh, and bone to punish the others.”
As she spoke, she caressed my cheek, and a lovely tingle spread from the hollow space behind my ear to my ribs. My face flushed and Leda smiled slightly at the effect of her touch.
“I was on the losing side. I was jailed in the new physical world with many others. Some of us made the best of our squalor. We fell quickly into the trappings of the senses. We were trying to emulate the sensations of our divinity.”
I pulled away from her touch. “So the world is the result of punished immortals?”
Leda scoffed. “The world. Mortal. Immortal. You speak in such limited terms, Tinsley. Your cult should have taught you better.”
I looked up at her. “I am not part of a cult. I never was.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You bear Alexandrine’s mark.”
“Not by choice.” I moved to stand, but Leda sank forward, planted a knee on the chair between mine, and balanced herself there, arms at her sides.
“My own mother and aunt tricked me,” I told her. “They put a mask on my face and forced me to become the beast.”
Leda gasped. “Yes, the mask. That is how they stole away my familiar.”
“Alexandrine?”
“Yes,” Leda said and placed her palms on my shoulders. Her proximity charged the air between us into a hum as if charged by volts of electricity. “The spark burned bright in her. She called me from obscurity. She seduced me.”
“Um, spark?”
“Every soul is a bit of that original fire,” Leda said. “Mine burns bright, while yours is much brighter than your friend the goat man, and his has more glow than most.”
She straightened and moved back to her own chair. “The worst punishment of all was watching our seed degenerate into disgrace. At first, we left them to their own devices, but the spark within them caused them to seek us out, and so we came to our long-lost children and civilized them. We discovered that their love gave us power.”
“Religion,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “It is not a one-way street, this love and power, but it can become…” She paused, searching for a word. “Muddled.”
“Of course that didn’t stop any of you.”
“No,” she said. “Of course that was ages ago.” She laughed. “It gave us something to do with ourselves, to become just what our children wanted of us, demons, angels, gods.”
“Immortals,” I said, determined to make my point.
“No,” she said. “We simply know how to hold on to what is left of our fire. The spark in the average human is so dim, it burns out quickly.”
“And then what?” I asked. “When it burns out?”
She shrugged. “I only know the in-between place. The abyss. It is where I go when I am not in a physical incarnation.”
“So how do you hold on to your fire?�
� I asked. “By drinking blood?”
Leda rolled her eyes. “You know better than that, Tinsley Swan.” She sighed. “There are some who get pleasure from the spilling of blood and death, and chaos.”
“And you?” I asked boldly. “How do you get your pleasure?”
She threw back her head and laughed. “By being a horny little freak, of course.”
I shrank in my seat.
“So you’ve denied yourself because of my familiar?” she asked.
“Someone I cared about was hurt by the beast,” I told her. “That cannot happen again.”
She leaned forward. “Tell me.”
“There was a girl in the Sisterhood, Alexandrine’s cult,” I said. “We were both to be initiated. We fell in love, I suppose, the way young girls fall.”
Leda nodded. “Sounds beautiful.”
“I don’t remember much of what happened,” I said and touched the tattooed part of my chest. “They put a mask on me and I became the beast. I mauled her. What is it exactly?”
Leda pursed her lips. “My familiar is an extension of myself, a bit of my fire, my child.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry it was taken from you.”
“And the Sisterhood?” she asked. “Would they agree?”
“Of course not,” I said. “They’re looking for you—”
She waved her hand. “The Sisterhood cannot touch me tonight. You’ll come out with me. I’m throwing a party.”
“I should get home,” I said. “Sandra will be worried.”
Leda grinned wryly. “Sandra? I thought you were living like a monk.”
I grinned back. “She’s special.”
My thoughts strayed to Sandra. What would she think of this half-naked woman who at least appeared to be young, so close to me? Sure, she could wrap her mind around finding me hiding in the bathroom at our workplace in the form of a beast, but could she fathom my seduction at the hands of this living, breathing goddess?
The door opened again, and a third girl, a lithe brunette with doe eyes, brought my satchel. I made a quick call to Sandra, who was of course worried about my whereabouts. I told her I was with Juliette, hearing her out. The lie came out so easily. I assured her that I could handle the meeting on my own, that I would see her the next morning at the weekly meeting.
My eyes were on Leda throughout the entire conversation, and, sitting cross-legged in her chair, she watched me as well, her violet eyes glimmering in the darkened room.
Chapter Seven
Leda left me in the hands of her girls to be coiffed and dressed. The outfit, I would have never picked out for myself in a million years. The pants were skintight, of a black, silky material that tapered at the leg. There was also a white, tuxedo style jacket, the lapels trimmed in the same material as the pants.
Pearl put some kind of foam in my hair and combed it into a pompadour much like Professor Swiggleslock.
“I look ridiculous,” I said once they were finished with me.
“It’s better than that high school math teacher vibe you were giving off,” Rose snapped as she fussed with her own ebony tresses in the small dressing room mirror.
Pearl laughed at the barb. “I’m going to drink everything tonight.”
“Leda’s parties are always the most,” Rose said.
They continued with the same mindless chatter as they disrobed right there in front of me and redressed in the skimpiest dresses and highest heels. We all filed out to the front of Little Foxes where Claudio waited in human form dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a Western-style shirt. He smirked at me and gave a nod.
Night had fallen outside, the surrounding businesses closed for the day. Next to the curb, a white vintage Rolls waited with Leda in the backseat, her hair a halo of white-blond curls, a horned headdress over them. Claudio moved to open the door for me, but I quickly crossed the distance and pulled the handle myself.
I slid into the backseat and openly stared. For a few miserable seconds, my heart refused to beat. Leda wore the exact same costume from the picture I had stared at for over thirty years. She was the Golden Goddess, her face serene save for that slight smile. Her body was clad in sheer silk, silver and gold, her breasts bare beneath. She leaned forward. The gold halo of the headdress caught and refracted the headlights of a passing car.
“How?” I asked.
She grinned. “How what?”
“I have a picture of you in this costume.”
The Rolls began to move, piloted by Claudio.
“That is possible,” Leda said. “It is one of my favorites.”
“Do you always allow yourself to be photographed?” I asked.
“I allow myself to be worshipped, yes,” Leda said. “Were you not paying attention?”
She placed my hand on her thigh. Her skin felt hot through the sheer material. “All these years, you’ve been watching me, haven’t you?”
I nodded dumbly, not sure what to think or do, except kiss her. Which I did not, certain that I should be faithful to what Sandra and I had. Still, I didn’t reclaim that hand. Leda closed her eyes and parted her lips.
Leda slid my hand higher until my fingers brushed her other thigh. Her lids fluttered open, and she laughed, placing my hand in my lap.
“Your Sandra is very lucky,” she said decisively.
The Rolls slowed as we pulled in front of a procession of cars. I looked out the window to see the old bank on Washington Avenue, its neoclassical behemoth of a façade lit up with a pink spotlight.
A group of people reveled out front, and I realized they were waiting for us, for Leda. I looked to her, and she gave an exasperated sigh.
“I’m working tonight. This is a party for the Bacchanista thing.”
I smirked. “Will Bacchus himself be there?”
“In spirit, I’m sure.”
When we exited the car, the crowd gasped collectively, and some of them actually applauded. A few of them reached out to touch her as we passed. I clutched her hand, stunned by their rapt, awed faces. They called out to Leda, and she engaged them like a starlet, stopping to pose for pictures and exchanging clever banter.
“You’re famous,” I whispered.
Jimmy came to greet us as we entered the building. Leda kissed his cheek. “St. James,” she said. “It seems we have a mutual friend.”
“Tinsley?” he said.
Leda patted his arm and walked into a throng of partygoers.
“It seems she likes you,” Jimmy said when she was out of earshot.
“Yeah,” I said simply. “It seems she does.”
He studied me, as if for the first time. “I never thought you would fit in with her crowd.”
“And what exactly is her crowd?”
“Modern-day witches, neopagans, artists, misfits.” He gestured to his broken body. “People who don’t fit in with the rest of society.”
“What makes you think I fit in?” I asked.
“Because you’re so fucking straight-laced,” he said and put an arm around my shoulders.
He trailed us as Leda took me around to introduce me to everyone. Many of the partygoers she had helped in some way. She backed their businesses, provided them with a place to crash, a shoulder to cry on, and inspiration. From what I gathered, she just showed up in the community a year ago and started helping people.
A transgender woman in a sparkling pink dress called Leda her muse. A young man with a glass eye introduced himself as the brains behind the Bacchanista ads. I gave him my OddDuck card and told him to give me a call soon.
A local string quartet I like provided the music. They were joined by a stunning full-figured woman with a powerful voice who began to sing a bluesy song to their usual gothic score. Most of the evening was spent drinking and reveling. I danced with each one of Leda’s witch-nymphs.
A little after midnight, Leda stood and whispered into my ear. “Now the real fun begins.”
I moved to follow her, but she motioned for me to stay. Someone passed me
a cigar with a fragrant smoke wafting from the end. I took a puff of it. The smoke coated my lungs, and I exhaled as a pleasant, light-headed feeling claimed me.
I wandered the room a bit. A bunch of people were gathered around a large gilded fish tank guarded by several men. Inside the tank, a woman lounged, her elbows resting on the rim, her dark hair damp on her shoulders. Her legs lay inside the tank covered by a tail of what looked to be stylized scales of shining blues and greens.
I said hello and tried not to stare as I wondered if she were some exotic form of entertainment or an eccentric who showed up at parties in a mermaid costume. She looked through me listlessly, and after a few seconds, she dropped her arms and sank into the water. There was not much room in the tank, an inch or so from her head to tail. She floated with her arms at her sides. She scowled and her face changed for a second. Her large eyes became glistening pools of black, her lips parted in a snarl to revealing two rows of conical teeth.
I gasped and stepped away, then looked to the men, but they were as stoic as the Queen’s Guard. I noticed Jimmy approaching slowly in his hitching gate.
“That woman in the tank,” I said. “She’s not human, is she?”
“You’re bound to see anything at one of Leda’s parties,” he explained.
“And those young women at Little Foxes?”
“Her coven,” he said. “Leda’s a witch.”
“Is that so?” I asked.
He raised his eyebrows. “Claudio told me that you change. What’s that all about?”
A commotion took over, and everyone craned their heads in one direction. I turned and saw Leda covered in nothing but lacy scarves, her arms and legs bare. The quartet stopped their song cold and began to play a slow, deliberate, overwrought march-like rhythm with their strings.
Leda began to dance, an exaggerated sway of her hips. She raised her arms and removed the scarf that covered her head. She lifted her leg and balanced on the toes of the other with the grace of a trained ballerina and untied a red scarf from around her ankle. The march sped up into a wild, gypsy-like folk tune, and her sway became more vigorous as she removed another scarf from her neck. Each scarf fell into the same pile and seemed to be the center of her movement.