And I must leave.
I must leave, for her. For Elli.
To be continued…
Read Along for a Sneak Peek of ‘BLACK NOVEMBER’ the Sequel to ‘GREY OCTOBER’.
Black November –
Have you ever woken up from a dream and thought about just how full of holes, how wispy the memory is from it. Looked closer, trying to piece together the fragments only to find many pieces missing, staring at the big picture and there is a massive, gaping hole, where you know something should be? You know it is meant to be there, something is meant to be there, but you don’t quite know what.
My nights have consisted of lucid dreams, of burning sapphires in shrouds of flame, of delicate black feathers and burning white statues. I know there is meaning to them, I just can’t find it.
It happened the same time I lost my twin sister, Madison. My dreams, they were vivid nightmares, painted black and white, still the memories haunt me, and they pierce me like knives. Every night another piece of the puzzle slotted into place, and slowly, very slowly I started to understand what my dream were meaning.
I still feel the hollowness inside of my chest, a gaping hole that throbs with the memory of my sister, Madison and my old Boss and friend, Charlie. That emptiness, sometimes I do wonder whether or not I have lost someone else. Someone who has meant as much to me as those two.
My days in Beaumont’s Antiques are spent categorising the boxes and boxes full of items, from age old jewellery, to slick metal weapons. To moth-eaten tomes and leather bound manuscripts. When Charlie left me this place in his will, he left me a lot of work.
I spend hours jotting everything down, an inventory of everything in the shop, alphabetical and neatly scrawled. The big book I chose was one Charlie treasured, the huge gold edged pages, canary yellow paper, old and like parchment. The front a black leather binding, no engravings, no embossments. Just a single red ribbon, like a slither of blood, as a bookmark.
Sometimes, as I stand and pour over the journal, I think just how much stuff I never knew he had, hidden and concealed in drawers and cupboards. Working here a year prior to this death, just after my sister’s, I had thought I knew everything he had.
I stand in the middle of the backroom of Beaumont’s, hands on hips, staring down at the last few boxes on the ground. I’ve done well, sorting through them and writing on the brown cardboard with thick black markers their contents. As I stand there, I feel eyes watching me, I feel the chill in the air as a breeze from nowhere passes me by. I like to think that it is Charlie watching me, keeping an eye on me and his shop. But then the chill peppers my skin, I swat away a feeling of spiders wandering my skin, and I know, deep down I know that those eyes are not his at all.
I stack the final two boxes, juggling the sides in my arms, just as I hear the familiar ding, ding of the door chimes. It sends a strange flutter of butterflies in my stomach, a sinking feeling within my chest. As though I am expecting someone, someone else, not my friends Jade and Olivia, or a few of the regular clientele, but someone else entirely.
From behind the towering box, I spy through the door to the front, blocking my view of the door sits the beautiful china vase filled with calla lilies, next to them on the countertop out front a basket of baby roses. Flowers of condolences, flowers of well wishes.
I focus back on the large box, teetering on my heels, I wobble forward, just a bit higher and I can put it on the top with the other stack. My fingers squeeze the bulging sides, feeling them quake and bend, any minute now the box will crumble and all the periwinkle Chinese tea sets and Royal Daulton cups and saucers will shatter in splinters on the floor.
Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall.
I can just imagine Charlie clawing his hand down his face; such expensive items now in shards on the thick Chinese rug on the floor. I can imagine him turning in his grave.
Just a little closer.
Too late.
I close my eyes, I don’t know what else to do, but my fingers slip and I cannot grasp it soon enough. I don’t want to see the damage, the remains of periwinkle tea cups and quaint little milk jugs.
‘You should be more careful.’
I open my eyes, they are ready to observe destruction and chaos, not ready for who is standing in front of me. Expertly golden hands hold the box close to his chest and he tiptoes elegantly on his feet, dropping the box on top of the stack I had made. All so easily, all so flawlessly. I wipe my brow with the back of my hand, thankful that there is no mess. Charlie can rest easy.
‘Thank you.’ I blurt out, realising I had been staring absentmindedly at his golden hair falling in silken spun locks around his face, watching his equally golden eyes. They seem to be smiling as much as his lips.
‘Heavy box like that, you’ll need a sturdy pair of male hands for. Speaking of which, is Mr Beaumont around?’ his questions haunts me, all I see is Charlie’s face, flashes of his weary smile, memories of his phlegmy laugh. Then the flashes of that night, his pale, ashen face, looking silver and like his hair, matting with blood, his cold, dead eyes. My hand pulls at my chest; the poor old man’s heart gave way, it didn’t seem fair. He had the biggest, gentlest of hearts of anyone I know, and it just decides to give in one night.
‘Is that a no?’ he asks, no smile this time, it fades away when seeing my ashen face and tight lips, my glassy eyes remembering the pain.
‘Mr Beaumont passed away recently.’ Very recently, so recent that I can still see the faint marks against the wood where he had struck his head, still see the stains on the carpet, even though they have been cleaned thoroughly.
‘Ah, sorry to hear that.’ What else do you say to someone who has lost someone they cared so much about? The conversations always feel so strained, so edgy, one must tread so tentative. It is like stepping on razorblades, even that will be easier.
‘He is a good man. Well… was a good man.’ I say, losing my voice.
‘You must have thought a great deal of him.’ his golden eyes meet mine and for a minute it is like a warmth starts to pull me from the cold darkness.
I say nothing – it is a hard relationship to sum up in a few words. He was like my father, my grandfather, he cared for me more than my own parents; who still have not phoned me, not gotten in contact with me since my sister’s death. They blame me, even a year on, they blame me.
Drove her to jump, you did.
You destroyed our lives, Ellison. You made her go, you drove our perfect princess away.
I suppose they’d think Charlie’s death was my fault too?
I turn away from the golden haired stranger, bending down to pick up the last few books strewn on the floor. They had fallen out from one of the other boxes I had been moving. They are threadbare and worn, old golden titles fading into the velvet covers.
‘What business did you have with Charlie?’ I ask, forgetting that the blonde guy had asked for him moments earlier.
‘An old friend of mine. I’m quite shocked to hear of his passing.’ He is wistful, lifting his hand to his forehead, gripping his nose between forefinger and thumb.
‘I don’t suppose he had a box lying around do you? An old box of jewellery, a few old books?’
Books. Jewellery. Charlie’s voice fluttering like wings in my mind – the box is long overdue to go back to it’s rightful owner – my fingers grip the edges of the book in my grasp, when I try to recall that memory, those books, that jewellery box, I feel blocked. A familiar haze, like a fog, drapes me and I cannot see a thing. Just like my dreams.
‘Sorry, I haven’t come across it.’
‘No worries. He might have sold them on.’
‘Were they yours?’
‘Mine?’ he raises a brow, his jaw shifting uneasily. A chuckle slips from his lips and breaks the tension that has formed.
‘I just heard they were here is all.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t help.’ He shakes his head at my words, the movement makes his eyes glimmer like the gold in th
e jewellery case in front. As his chuckle dies out, he offers me his bronze hand, I notice as I look over his skin, his long fingers, exceptionally flawless. Like an artist, a musician. Pianist’s hands, or a harpist.
‘I’m Zack, by the way.’ He says, his hand beckoning me to take it, I do and as I enclose my hand with his, I feel that warm glow radiate through him to me, lightening my dark sadness. His eyes gleam like polished gold, his hair like golden spun silk as it falls just over his right eye.
‘I’m Elli.’
‘Elli…’ he mouths my name, a tweak of a smile on his soft lips, ‘is that short for something?’
‘Ellison.’ I feel a flutter in my chest, a sense of déjà vu.
‘Beautiful name.’ he comments.
‘Is Zack short for anything?’
‘Zackariel – you can tell why I shorten It.’ he laughs, the movement catches his chest and wrinkles his loose burgundy hoodie. I feel his voice, his laughter, bounce throughout the whole o Beaumont’s, filling it with a new warmth, a softness it has not seen for quite a while. I feel the warmth claw at me, it’s soft, delicate fingers pushing away all the feelings of sadness, all the strange flutters of memory that I try and sift through. He has really lifted my burdens.
‘You’re not too busy, are you? There’s a patisserie just up from him, they make the best pastries.’
‘Devil’s Delight.’ I say, the name comes to me, rises from my heart and fall from my lips without a second’s thought. I bring my hand, my fingers silencing my lips. His eyes meet mine, making me forget what I was so concerned about.
‘You’ll join me?’ his eyes light up, a quirky smile twisting on one side of his mouth.
The flutter in my chest returns, heavier than normal, it sinks, it claws at my heart, like a shadow wanting to engulf me. It is a familiar feeling, a familiar sight. A flash of blue passes my mind’s eye, but is soon forgotten, left in the dust of the back room as Zack takes my arm and walks out. His touch making me feel feather-light, weightless.
But there is something I cannot shake, why, why does Devil’s Delight feel so familiar to me?
BLACK NOVEMBER – COMING SOON
Grey October (East Hollow Chronicles) Page 24