There must be a defining element, Elise is certain, that ties all of this together. Something I haven’t yet been able to decipher.
She has already decided, even if she has yet to meet any of Terence’s “friends,” that she must come back. She will need to study what’s here. Some of it looks alarmingly authentic. But art worth millions stashed in an unlocked house that appears abandoned?
It can’t be.
Terence left her alone only moments ago. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” His exit was so quick, she almost didn’t realize he had gone. But Elise doesn’t care how long he keeps her. For the first time in months, she feels alive as she drinks in the genius of the work. She hadn’t realized she was starving.
And then Terence is back. Too soon. Elise pulls herself away from the figure of a woman, welded from burnished steel, her mouth open in torment or orgasm. The work reminds her of her own; it has the same clinical detachment toward something elemental, be it ecstatic or horrific. She fingers the metal, its smooth finish, wondering about technique and process. Just a few more minutes alone here, she thinks.
“These are my friends, the ones I told you about.” Two people emerge out of the shadows. First comes a man, much shorter than Terence, but muscular, strength bound into a compact frame. “This is Edward.” He gives a lopsided grin to Elise, not showing teeth. He takes her hand and kisses it; the chill and damp of his lips make her think of slugs. He looks into her eyes and she feels something right away: an odd connection. There is such intensity in his dark eyes; she senses how hard he is trying to engage her. It chills her, yet she instinctively is not as afraid of this one as she is of Terence. She thinks she sees sadness in his face, a melancholy so deep she is afraid to even attempt fathoming it.
“Edward,” she whispers. “I’m very glad to meet you.”
“And I’m really happy that you’re here. Terence told us a little about you last night. You’re an artist. I used to dabble myself…” Edward’s smile is tortured and Elise feels that his story is one of loss and pain. Instinctively, she pulls back, wanting to know more about him and wishing, at the same time, he would just go away. “But that’s all in the past.” There isn’t an ounce of mirth, though, in the smile that follows this statement. “Terence tells us you have something really special, he says you’re really gifted.”
“Well, I try.”
Terence pulls her away. Elise glances back at Edward, seeing one of the clone boys she has seen on the part of Halsted Street that’s “Boystown” central. Yet, there is a longing in his eyes that pains her.
Terence takes her hand and says, “Modesty doesn’t become you, love.” He pauses. “And this is Maria.”
A woman emerges out of the shadows in a moment charged with electricity. It hangs in the air like the ozone after a lightning strike. Her movement is so liquid, so gliding, Elise believes she must have planned her entrance. She wonders if there are casters hidden beneath her long, deep red dress.
Their gazes lock. The art in the room fades into a graying pastiche of color, the blurred background of a photo. The floor vanishes, leaving the two women suspended in midair, legs dangling above a black abyss. The huge fireplace loses its charred brick back and becomes a shadowed portal. Even Terence and Edward fade. And Maria glimmers and shimmers, perfection in close-up. Elise drinks her in, her exquisite bone-white skin. Dark curls frame a face of Botticelli beauty. Elise is swallowed up by dark eyes that bore into hers with knowledge and certainty. Elise can’t recall a time when she has felt such raw, animal connection. Especially not for another woman…
Elise bows her head, suddenly feeling a loss of words, a loss of self. What to say to this creature so stunning she is almost monstrous?
“I’ve been waiting to meet you.” Maria’s voice is broken glass in honey, rough and deep, scarred, as bass as a man’s, but decidedly feminine. She moves forward and embraces Elise.
Elise’s heart beats so hard the blood rushes in her ears, pounding. Maria’s embrace is ice, but Elise doesn’t recoil. She pulls the woman closer, wrapping her arms tight, wanting to warm her, to share her heat. Something stirs inside; her heart gallops. She wonders if the organ will explode, leaving behind a shower of red sparks. It would be a good way to die. She breathes deep and buries her face in Maria’s black hair, to take in whatever essence these dark strands give off. The closeness and the feel of the silken hair against her cheek ratchets up her desire, leaving Elise helpless, lost, and elated. She tries to pull away, imagining the flood of dopamine in her system as a cascade of silver liquid, trying without much success to convince herself this sudden lust for another woman is nothing more than the release of chemicals within her brain. But if any trickery is to work, any black magic to be successful, Elise knows it will not be self-generated.
Maria finally breaks the embrace. For a long time, she does nothing more than stare into Elise’s eyes. She bites her lip as she regards her and Elise again has the peculiar feeling of being suspended in mid-air. Elise wonders if what Maria feels is at least somewhat akin to the rush of emotions she’s experiencing. Maria tears her gaze away, runs a hand through her hair. “Terence tells us you are able to create the most astonishing work, that he’s never seen anything quite like it. He’s very excited. He wants us all to see it as soon as possible.” She cocks her head. “With your permission, of course.”
Elise isn’t sure what to say. What has Terence told them? Is her work good enough for them? But if seeing it will allow her some more time in the presence of this amazing creature, then Elise thinks she might dare risk it.
“I’d love for you to see my work,” Elise hears herself saying, surprised the words are tumbling forth, almost beyond her bidding. “I would love for you to come by.”
“I think I would love that, too…Elise. Elise, right?”
“Yes.”
“From the French? I believe it means something like ‘consecrated to God.’”
Elise shakes her head. She flashes on herself on her knees in an alley the night before, wiping semen off her face with a paper napkin. “I don’t know. God and I aren’t on speaking terms these days.”
Terence laughs. “And He’s completely turned his back on us. So we can commiserate together.”
Maria touches Elise’s face and the chill of her hand doesn’t feel odd, but electrifying, the cold invigorating. “Perhaps you’d like to share something to eat with us.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Well, yes, yes, that would be nice.” Suddenly, Elise feels tongue-tied. She looks to Edward, who stares away, into the shadows.
Terence is grinning.
Elise follows the trio into a kitchen that looks like something from another century. Here are the same water-stained walls and crumbling plaster she found in the other room. There is another large fireplace, this one less formal, more utilitarian, rough bricks and careless mortar, crumbling together. Inside the hearth is something Elise has seen only in period paintings, or a movie theater: a big black pot (could it be properly referred to as a cauldron?) hangs on a peg above a crackling fire. Steam rises from it. Elise sniffs and can smell roasting meat and the sharpness of a good red wine. She cocks her head. “Beef Bourguignon?”
Terence snickers. “Something like that.”
The flame under the stew provides the only light in the room, save for what filters in—gray and flat—through the windows that afford a view of a moonlit garden, riotous with weeds and brambles. The darkness is probably a good thing: electric light would reveal the filth and disuse of the room. Elise is certain she can see heavy cobwebs in the corners. The cabinet doors are hanging off their hinges, some fallen to a rough tile floor.
There is nothing inside the cabinets but shadows. Elise thinks she can detect movement and the twinkling of rodent eyes in one of them.
“I don’t usually eat meat,” Elise mumbles, cursing herself for putting the “usually” qualifier in. Without it, there wouldn’t have been any room for maneuvering when they politely offered he
r something.
Maria moves quickly the big bubbling pot, a bowl and ladle in her hand. “Tonight, for us, you will make an exception?” She glances over her shoulder. “Please?”
Elise scratches at her face, plays for a moment with a strand of hair. “Sure. But not too much.”
Terence says, “Oh, restraint. I was hoping you were a hedonist, like us.”
“Speak for yourself.” This from Edward, who leans against a countertop, his face unreadable in the flickering light.
“I get all the pleasure I can handle.” Elise takes the earthenware bowl from Maria. “Thank you.” Steam rises up from the bowl, bearing up a bouquet of aroma: rosemary and tarragon and a bass note that has a rich, meaty smell. Elise wonders if she is being offered some sort of wild game.
“You need a spoon.” Maria pulls open drawers and finally locates a tablespoon. She wipes it on her dress and holds it out to Elise.
“Aren’t you eating?”
Edward stands up straighter. “We’ll wait for you to start; then we’ll serve ourselves.”
“Old European tradition,” Maria says.
“Oh, well then, all right.” Cautiously, she takes some of the stew onto her spoon. It appears to be only meat, herbs, and broth. She brings it to her mouth and the smell is an odd paradox of a delicious aroma and something off-putting, something causing her stomach to roil. She forces herself to take a bite.
The taste of the meat is a surprise, more like pork than beef, with a strange gamy aftertaste Elise finds unpalatable. The broth has a viscous, almost metallic tang. She struggles to control her gag reflex, setting the bowl on the counter. “What is this?”
“Just a little meat, some wine, a few snips of special herbs.” Maria is dishing up big bowls for herself and her companions. “Why? Do you not, uh, care for it?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m afraid I’m just not very hungry.” Her stomach continues to churn. She doesn’t really want to look too closely at the reason for her queasiness. “What kind of meat?”
Terence lifts his bowl, bringing it up to his mouth, and slurps up the broth. He lets out a satisfied sigh. “It’s just a little pork. What do you think? We’re cannibals?”
“No. No, of course not. That would be silly, wouldn’t it?”
Edward stares at her, mute. The other two get busy with their food.
“I need to be going.” Elise takes her bowl to the sink. Its surface is stained and chipped porcelain. A cockroach skitters across the bone-dry surface. The sudden movement causes Elise to drop the bowl, which shatters. She gasps. “I’m sorry.” She reaches for the porcelain knob to start the water’s flow and nothing happens, except for a creaking protest. She turns and smiles, stupidly, at them. “Your water seems to be shut off.” Elise feels a rising panic. “I need to go.”
Maria takes her hand, making Elise wonder where she had come from; it seems Maria took only a fraction of a second to cross the room and appear at her side. “I understand. Let me see you out. My cooking isn’t always to everyone’s taste.” She smiles, and Elise notices that her teeth, like Terence’s, are tiny and pearlescent, the canines sharper than the average person’s. Elise trembles. If she had more of a supernatural bent, she might think these three were something other than human beings. But she gave up on horror movies and all that crap when she began turning crime scenes into art. The real world is horrific enough.
Isn’t it?
“Come.” Maria leads her forward. “We need to talk about when I can see you again. We need to talk about when I can see your work.”
Chapter Six
1954
Why had he done it?
Edward lay back, trembling. He had spent the day trying to feel normal again, to regain a feeling that now seemed alien, fleeing from his grasp. How would he quell the queasiness in his gut, the pounding in his head? It had taken hours just to get to the point where the only thing he felt was fatigue and not the kind of nausea that made him think death wasn’t such a bad alternative. He had eaten canned chicken soup and pieces of dry toast, forcing them down with weak Red Rose tea (there was some orange juice in the refrigerator, but the acid in that would have been adequate to start the whole cycle all over again). He had stared out the window, at the parade of delivery trucks, cars, and foot traffic that never seemed to ebb, wondering where everyone had to go. Wondering why there was never a moment when everyone just stopped, when they all simply got to where they were going and stayed. It was thoughts like these that occupied him, that kept him from dwelling on feeling sick and remembering.
So why, as soon as he felt good enough to walk around, had he allowed the fantasy to run rampant, like some caged animal for which he had unwisely unlocked and opened a door?
Edward felt almost like a marionette as he lay on his mattress and closed his eyes. What hands were pulling the strings, bringing to life thoughts Edward would swear hadn’t originated in his own brain? Projected upon his inner eyelids were images of Terence, naked. Images of Terence’s blond hair, buried between his thighs, ignoring the turgid sex and sucking the blood from slim razor-drawn cuts.
Why did these images excite him? Why did seeing something in his mind’s eye like Terence rubbing Edward’s blood on his own sex force him to take hold of himself roughly and tug and pull until he spurted all over himself? Why did he pick at one of the cuts on his legs until it bled, then mix the blood and semen and bring some of it to his mouth, where its odd bleachy, metallic smell almost made him vomit once more?
Yet at the same time, the aroma and the taste excited him again, as though the mixture was a potent aphrodisiac.
And now, he lay upon his sweat-soaked mattress, after coming three times in quick succession, feeling drained and out of breath, his own blood and semen a mess across his stomach and running in crawly streams down his thighs. His head buzzed. He closed his eyes, trying to blot it all out, but the simple act of trying to obliterate one sense activated his imagination. The blank, black canvas of the inside of his eyelids caused brilliant crimson visions to bloom.
He stood, inspired—and rubbing his hands over his chest and stomach—painted broad swathes of red and viscous gluey fluids across a bare canvas, then stepped back, panting, to look at the shiny swirls of bodily fluids.
And saw nothing worthwhile.
Later, Edward dressed to go out. He had no money to spend, but would make a circuit of Greenwich Village and somehow find Terence. He felt a curious mixture of dread and desire. Dread because he knew Terence had awakened in him a hunger he didn’t understand, and seeing him again could up the hunger, making it worse, making it unbearable. He wondered if his need for this strange man had the potential to drive him insane. Desire because he knew he wouldn’t be able to think, or create, or even tend to life’s small responsibilities unless he saw Terence again. He was like an addict in that sense.
Was this what love was like? Edward had never known that particular emotion; he had always stood on the outside, observing. If this was love, he couldn’t imagine why anyone would court its irresistible, all-consuming siren call.
Could another human being have so much power over him as to render him helpless?
He needed to find Terence to see if he could somehow release the hold this strange and beautiful man had on him, whether that release would come through complete immersion in Terence, or through some means of breaking the bond Terence had forged when he had drunk his blood.
Outside, the night was close. The temperature had gone up as darkness fell, cloaking the city in a moist, heated embrace. Everywhere Edward looked, it appeared as though the people on the street were more than tired; they were dead, zombies walking the street, their pace slow and languid, their gazes dull. They simply existed, driven by legs that would not stop walking, hearts that would not stop beating, lungs that would not stop working, like bewitched bellows. Edward knew he was projecting his own feelings upon the men and women he passed, but that didn’t make the feeling he was walking among scores of living dea
d any less real.
He had no idea where he would find Terence. He had no idea even how he could go about locating a single person—admittedly a unique single person—among the millions inhabiting this small island crawling with humanity. But he knew he had no other choice. Otherwise, he might as well just walk out onto the wooden sidewalks that spanned the Brooklyn Bridge and fling himself into the Hudson River’s dark and dirty waters. The prospect had an odd appeal, seeming as encompassing and final as the fever of obsession gripping him. At least the river’s waters would be cool, offering a different kind of oblivion.
For all this drama, Edward thought, locating Terence should have been much more difficult than it was. But, as he turned the corner of Horatio onto Greenwich Avenue, he spotted him.
It seemed as if Terence was waiting. He stood, dressed in a white linen suit, near a street vendor selling flowers. The white suit, crisp and clean on this hot and humid night, the flower vendor with his rusting, chipped green painted cart, and the blur of humanity surrounding them looked like a scene created purely to engage his senses. Again, he had the thought he should turn to realism in his work, when such scenes kept springing up before his eyes, perfectly composed, waiting only for the touch of his craft to freeze them. Terence’s blond hair was slicked back; Edward could see the dark, lacquered blond underneath a white straw boater. He wore white bucks and his white shirt was buttoned at the throat; no tie.
They had made no plans to see each other, not tonight, nor ever again, for that matter. Yet, there he stood, looking like an oasis of cool on a busy street of people who dripped sweat, whose clothes were stained with dank, odiferous moisture. There he stood, waiting. The single white rose in his hand, Edward knew, was for him.
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