Grey October (East Hollow Chronicles)

by Charlotte Munro

  ‘What?’ I growl, but she raises a hand, it seems she is not done.

  ‘The sea is aches and it throbs for her life,

  But in taking her soul and her heart, will you feel the strife.

  A price you pay dear Prince Boy, for being bored,

  For the future cuts deeper, than any gold sword.’ She reels backwards, skeletal hands lifting to her shrouded face, she cries out, a loud, bone-splitting scream. I get up, tearing myself out of the chair with such rapidness, it is knocked over, hitting one of the candelabras upon the small tables in the circular room. The wax boils and drips to the floor, and all I can do is stare and listen to her cries of fury, of rage. I am not sure. She is mad, mad and deluded. Too many years the once human has spent staring into the glass sphere. Too many years indeed.

  ‘Wait, Prince Boy’ she reaches out and clutches my shoulder with her gnarled hand. Her touch feels like ice, even through my shirt and jacket.

  ‘What does that mean, what did that mean?’ I demand, biting my tongue from screaming obscenities and gripping my fingers into my palm, stopping myself from throttling her across the room.

  ‘A Demon cannot love. A Demon has no heart, no soul. When she learns that, she will be broken. Only when her soul is in the sea will you be safe. You are not safe Demon Prince! A girl’s heart is fragile, you will break it, and you will break her. And in turn, you will feel as broken as she.’

  ‘Is that a threat, witch?’ I growl, prying her fingers from my shoulder. I find my hands trembling, strange, I feel so strange. I back out of the curtained spherical room, bundling through the door, hearing her shout, her hiss like scream penetrate my ears.

  ‘A promise. It is a promise, bound in blood, her sister’s blood!’

  Ellison –

  ‘You can’t mope over your cornflakes and croissants, Elli.’

  Jade’s words echo within my head, ricocheting in her soft and caramel-like voice. She has a point. She always has a point. She is right, somehow that is always so. When all three of us parted ways this morning both Jade and Liv said that they will bring me back something to cheer me up, to try and remind me that they were there and that I was still very much alive and in need of therapy; their therapy though was not the sort of sitting on plush sofas and talking out your problems with a stranger, their therapy was pulling anything bright and glittery from the coat hangers of Isabella’s and throwing them all together in a costume of what Jade describes as The Diamond. If the grey October nights draw in and fill you with sorrow and disdain, wrap yourselves in glitz and glamour and you will never be the same. I am certain half of her haphazardness involving clothes and glitz and glamour stems from her love of fashion – and of course her college course in fashion design.

  Their words, primarily their usage of alive made me feel quite dark, quite low, so stepping out of the front door of our flat to be met with the dismal charcoal skies of threatening rainfall, made me feel even worse. I just wanted to slink back inside and hide under the warmth of the duvet, cocooned into a lull of false happiness. I pull my woollen sweater closer to my body; the chunky cable knit that sits just above my knees feels more like a dress than a sweater, but in days where the wind bite through to your bones, you grabbed at whatever was warm and woollen. Closing the door behind I fumble with the aged lock fitting, just about getting my fingers out of the way before it slams shut with a gust of icy wind. The naked trees weave and wave in the wind and the carpet of autumn leaves rustle and whirl into a tornado of oranges, browns and reds along the pathway. I trail the mismatched concrete and brick path, half sleepily, half bemused, pulling on my black winter trench coat; anyone would think I am expecting a snowstorm, how well wrapped up I am. But the sorrow that knits my face, the lack of sleep that bruises my eyes and the memory of what day it is, makes me feel like ice runs through my veins in place of blood, so wrapping up is justified.

  I am lucky I live just a few minutes away from The Mall; it makes travelling to and fro from work much easier than catching a ride with Jade in her car – the red rust bucket of a vehicle dislikes the cold as much as its owner, who wrapped herself with two scarves and layer upon layer of chic silk and taffeta. Even when chattering in the cold wind, she looks a well-made doll.

  The ice in the October wind bites through my clothes, I feel it enter my veins, drilling me with hoarfrost, with a coldness I cannot shake, even when I quicken my pace and cut through the car park at half a jog and a loping walk, I find that the wind still ails me.

  The electronic doors whir open, inside I am met with a gust of warm air; the electronic heating systems I’m very thankful for. I glance up at the large clock that sits proudly in the centre of the Mall, its white face greets me with stark black numbers and red hands ticking second by second. They remind me that I have just made it to work before Old Charlie starts clock watching for me.

  Beaumont Antiques is a quaint little store; its old musty smell of the ages and of vintage artefacts has become quite a welcoming scent to me now. I have always been fascinated with staring in the window, even when I was younger and I used to come to the Mall with my sister. The glimmer of gold brooches in the window, the unique vintage jewellery, the pocket watches, the crystal ball canes and old knives. They all were another life, each once belonging to an individual that loved and cared for it, only to be passed on and on until it found its way into Charles’s possession, and I didn’t mean my boss Charlie, I mean his forefathers, all duly named Charles. Charles Beaumont the First, the Second, the Third, the Fourth and good old Charlie the Fifth. It is quite romantic, keeping the antique shop in the family, very dreamy how each son passed on all of their knowledge, all of their history to their son, it makes me think just how sad it is that Charlie has no successor.

  ‘Ellison, is that you?’

  As I slip inside, the jangle of the old door chimes alert Charlie of my presence; the musk of coppers and gold, the twinge of old perfumes, cinnabar and lavender, they hit me with such a force, it lightens my dismal mood. The glimpse of shimmering gold lockets and silver hand glasses feels more homely to me than the dark outside, the monochrome backdrop of East Hollow.

  ‘It’s me, Charlie.’ I say, there is a smile in my voice, a lighter tone than what I had earlier. I slip out of my coat and hang it on the antiquated birch coat rack, rolling my cable sweater to my elbows, ready for what the day might bring.

  ‘Good, Good.’ He drawls, his whiskered face beaming with a broad smile, he has his hands dusting off something golden, rubbing almost furiously with a keen eye. ‘I have something that may interest you, Elli.’ He looks up and I see the interest, the dazzle in his soft hazel eyes, the very bewilderment that shrouds him when he has found something of value, or mighty interest. This golden item in his hand, may just be both, with that broad grin.

  ‘What is it?’ I cannot hide my curiosity as I step closer to the counter, watching as he wipes clean the last bit of the pendant before dangling it for me to see; the golden chain interlinks in a way no other does, almost looking like claws hand in hand. The pendant is the size of a palm, such pristine gold set around a dazzling, glimmering red stone. The way the light reflects off of it, it looks almost alive.

  ‘When did you get that?’ my eyes reflect the bright red jewel, the flickers of light bouncing off the large gemstone and reflecting off all the other golden items in the store. Charlie notices my intrigue, he rubs his chin in that matter of fact way, placing the necklace back upon the desk, speaking to me with a slight faraway voice.

  ‘It found me, strange of course.’ He stops, his eyes tearing themselves away from the precious stone to me, where his quaint smile settles, ‘It was outside of the shop this morning, I am very surprised that no one pinched it. A stone that huge would fetch quite a pretty pound.’

  ‘It’s very beautiful.’ I muse, still looking at the electric red stone. It isn’t quite a ruby, it does not have the diamond glint. It seems more like an unfinished, an unpolished carnelian, perhaps even a garnet. It is a
mixture of oranges and reds, even the slightest tint of yellow. The way the light catches it, it seems to ripple, to look more flame-like than anything.

  ‘I thought you’d like It.’ he chuckles, a hearty and manly chuckle. It makes his head bob, his cheeks flush with effort as he seats himself behind the desk, pulling the old velveteen upholstered seat closer so he hunches over and examines it closer with a keener eye. ‘That’s why…’ he muses, placing the necklace in his palm, it seems to generate a lot of heat, and I can see the slick perspiration form on his skin as it rolls around his palm.

  ‘I’m giving it to you.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I rush forward with hasty and disorientated steps, leaning over the desk with eager eyes.

  ‘It’s been a hard year for you, Ellison. With your sister, and your parents not being very… amenable in such a difficult time. I thought that maybe this would bring you a bit more luck, maybe brighten up this dark time for you.’ Charlie’s voice is soft, like a pleasant warmth in the cold ice of October. He brings his eyes up to meet mine; he is sincere, the most genuine guy I have ever known. He is like the older grandfather who sits and answers all of your questions, the warmth that draws you in, in winter with a steaming mug of hot chocolate. I’d like to say he has been a close fatherly figure to me this year, since my own has discarded me, blaming me for what happened to Madi. My mother, she couldn’t even look at me without screaming. That’s why I no longer see them, my father thought it was best if I left home, found somewhere else, and never contacted them again. So Jade and Liv took me in, Liv’s father rented the flat for her as a getaway, somewhere to go so she wouldn’t ‘ruin his kitchen’. A very expensive investment but it was something that helped me out greatly. As well as Charlie giving me this job so I can save all the money I get for my dream, well my sister’s dream. I am truly grateful, grateful for the people in my life that are as trying and as kind as those you only read about in books on dusty old shelves.

  ‘I... don’t know what to say.’ I eventually mumble, looking over the strange fire-like gem with a scrutiny that leaves no part of the jewel unchecked. ‘It’s beautiful... Are you sure, Charlie? It could fetch a lot if you put it out in the window…’

  ‘You deserve it more than some window shopper, Elli. Take it.’ he hands it to me, the metal feels unnaturally warm, as though I has been held close to someone’s heart for years. It also has a strange pulse to it. The warmth feels welcoming and so alive in my hand.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Beauty is fleeting in this life, Ellison. One must catch it when they can.’

  ‘So is kindness.’ I murmur, entranced by the golden beauty in my fingers, I run my fingertips over the flame gem, feeling the pulse beneath my fingers. ‘Thank you, Charlie. It... It means a lot.’

  ‘Now, why don’t you put it in the locker for the day, and you can enthral yourself with some of the new arrivals in the box over there.’ He gestures to the large cardboard box of trinkets. Gold boxes and china ornaments. Adorned more with great detail than you can ever find in the corner stores. I wonder sometimes where Charlie finds all these amazing things. I place the necklace back in his hands and he tilts back in his chair, getting up with a fluid movement that makes me wonder if he really is the sixty-plus greying haired man he appears.

  I manoeuvre around some of the trunks of spilling trinkets and around the tall vintage lampshades toward the cardboard box, crouching down I rifle through and start to organise the goods between type and era. The old Chinese wooden medicine boxes, engraved with golden dragons on each sliding drawer, did not quite fit with the eighteenth century bronze statuettes.

  Once more, I am amazed at how well preserved some of these things are. I handle them with such care, as though they are made of glass (in some cases, some of the trinkets are.) I think while pulling out a few iron rings, just how much Madison would love to work here, and as I continue to organise, I picture what it would be like if we both were sitting side by side. She would be trying on the ruby encrusted hair clips, piling the rings upon her fingers and then clasping the slightly worn diadem of dusty diamonds and sapphires between eager fingers. This thought brings tears to my eyes, my vision blurs and I hold onto the diadem with trembling fingers.

  Oh, Madi. I miss you so much.

  Evander –

  Sulphurous air claws at my throat, the red fire, blood-like and vivid, lights the Arena with a scarlet glow; the way it bathes the gilded thrones with a flaming kiss. The way it burns brightly through the dank shadows of the spectators, it makes me feel like this whole charade is under a blanket of red haze. Anger. Rage. I can feel it pulse within the air. There is nothing quite like a fight to the death, where Demon versus Demon means more than a mere wrestling match, staged and dramatic like they have in the human world. No, down in Hell, we have grudges and when those grudges become too unbearable, we throw them into the Arena for a little bit of amusement. All the nobility of Hell sits proudly in the golden booth, perched upon their thrones whilst the servants bring goblets and trays of beverages and snacks.

  I’m leaning against the booth’s railing; the warm golden gates separating us from the lower ranked denizens of Hell, who sit in a sea of shadows, craning their necks to see just who the grudge match consists of.

  Languidly my hands dangle over the barrier, my eyes dart from the two corners of the fire-burnt and blood stained basin. The scent here is acrid, the sulphur and brimstone suffocates you before the deathly decay and metallic blood. I lean into the barrier, trying to get a better look of the competitors. All I see is them wearing shrouds of scarlet velvet, strange for lower Demons, I narrow my gaze, only to feel the ever omniscient glare burn into my back. I can imagine him, sitting on his ruby encrusted throne, at the very precipice of the basin, fingers curling around the armrests whilst he picks on a few finger bones in a thoughtful manner. Satan, our Greatness, our Ruler, he finds these events not much to his taste, he would prefer an all-out battle, I know it and everyone else does, but he sits back with laced hands and allows his minions, us, to enjoy what festivities we make.

  ‘Well, I didn’t think it would be a Rank battle.’ Alpheus’s voice is low enough not to rouse the thrones behind us, but loud enough to show his shock. His eyebrows knit together, as he stares down just as the two Demons pull down their shrouds and reveal themselves.

  ‘Grand President Malphas and Marshal Nebiros. This ought to be good.’ Kaiser chuckles, stretching out his arms over the barrier before resting them against his cheeks, leaning forward into the gold bar in laziness, getting a better view as General Flauros appears in a burst of flames, black wings stretching out behind him, looking worn and leathery in places as they furl out at full span.

  ‘Who’s your money on, Evan?’ Kai’s silvery eyes meet mine, in a studious stare that seems to delve deeper into me than I desired. I take a slight step back, resting the base of my palms on the gilt railing while leaning back away from it, trying to avoid both Princes’ stares.

  ‘It’s just a game of gambling; you know we don’t need money. I’m not wasting my time.’ I breathe out, just about catching the brusque voice of Flauros, it carries out quite well, an echo bouncing off each bloody wall of the basin. There is a slight rise in his lips, a smirk, and a knowing smirk at that, as he introduces both competitors. A fight for the rank of Great President. A title of prestige, I am surprised a mere Marshal would even attempt it. Malphas will use his face to redecorate the sides of the Arena, a nice bit of blood here, bit of burnt skin there.

  ‘Are you still all wrought up over the witch’s prophecy? Come on, Evan. She hasn’t been right for years.’ Alphie says with a steady watch of me, I can see out of the corner of my eye that he is thinking, the mind’s cogs and wheels turning and creaking inside of his head. I bet he’s wondering, I bet he is.

  ‘The witch knows nothing.’ I bite, my tone sharp and cutting. I would rather not talk about this here. Whispers of doubt, they slink through the ears of Hell’s residents and get s
o twisted and so bent that they don’t even resemble what initially started it. One time, a rumour was started that Kaiser had tried his luck with Hecate – well everyone would know that she has her consorts and has little need for another, but it didn’t stop the rumours circling that she had her way with him. Some different stories were that she had pushed him from the Infernal Cliffs and into the Sea of Sorrow, others were as ludicrous as Hecate denouncing all of her consorts in favour of Kai. Well, that one I am certain was Kaiser himself stirring. Needless to say, Hecate silenced those rumours with a sharp tongue, when she found out who it was, she ripped their own tongue out and served it to them. Harsh. Harsh and merciless. Making it known not to mess with the Queen of Sorcery.

  Which is why I would rather not talk of the witch’s prophecy out here, with interloping ears and fast tongues, all too quick to make trouble.

  ‘Course. That’s why you’re all moody and sullen.’ Alphie chides, he is pushing me, trying to get a rise, but I simply glare, piercing blue eyes frozen and cold.

  ‘Maybe a trip will lighten you up.’ Kai mouths each word, his voice is so low, barely a whisper, but I get where he is attempting to go with this conversation. I cross my arms and lean into them, resting my chin on both hands, just catching Malphas’s sword coming down and cutting into Nebiros’s side, cutting through with the cursed iron that burns like acid and stings like ice. A scream, so guttural, so blood-curdling pries both Alpheus and Kaiser from probing me, to stare as Nebiros crumbles to the ground. He yielded far too early.

  ‘Trip?’ I play coy. My voice low, yet amid the crackle of delight and roars of triumph, my voice is lost regardless if I shout or whisper. Nebiros has lost. In two attacks no less. That has to be a new record of loss. The quickest time too for the win. I think no less of the Great President and his skill. He wipes his blade with his hand, the black blood of his opponent tainting his pale fingers, he then cleans off his fingertips with his tongue.