The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love

by Nina Mason

  18th January. The enemy came at us from every direction in every kind of rig: shorts, sarongs, ten kinds of uniforms. We couldn’t tell who was who in the thick undergrowth, so we opened fire. They fell like bowling pins. When it was over, those left headed into the jungle & set up camp among the trees. Nobody slept. The enemy was near, hidden in the bush. All night long, they shouted, “Any British here? Come out, come out. The war is over.’” We stayed put, knowing they were full of it.

  15th February. Heading back to base camp, we got held down in a rubber plantation. Bombers in the air, tanks on the ground. Heavy casualties. The regiment scattered. A few of us made it back—just in time to see the camp decimated in an air attack. Some got out. The rest, myself included, stayed to help evacuate the nurses & wounded.

  Feeling a bit shell-shocked, she licked her lips, checked to ensure he was still asleep, and skipped ahead.

  Don’t know the date. Those of us left—only about fifty—kept to the trenches around the burnt-out camp until the enemy routed us out & marched us behind our piper to some shithole prison camp. The British surrendered Singapore, apparently. Un-bloody-believable, but true. I could have “transported,” but didn’t feel at the time it was the honorable thing to do. I’m beginning to feel differently now. We’re treated worse than dogs. Starved, stripped, beaten, humiliated, forced to work like slaves. They think we’re all spies. The lads who’ve been interrogated say there’s no line they won’t cross to get a confession. I dread the day they come for me.

  Still don’t ken the bloody date, but I try to keep track of the passing days. By my calculations, I’ve been here about a month. I’m gaunt, filthy, & beyond fatigued. But I look positively robust compared to my comrades, who get only enough rations to keep them alive. I’ve been making do with rats, but can’t hold out much longer. I have to get out of here before I do something shameful, but feel so dreadful about leaving my friends behind. Taking them with me, tho’, is out of the question. Even if we could break out of here, white men stand out in Asia. The few who did escape were caught & beheaded in front of the rest of us—a warning & gross violation of the Hague Conventions. Not that our captors give a fuck. Especially the Jap Gestapo, who beat, burn, shock, ballbust & nearly drown us to force a false confession. Many have been shot dead or transferred to labor camps.

  With a lump in her throat, she threw a backward glance at him. He was still asleep, thank the goddess. He’d obviously survived the ordeal, but most Allied POWs had not. A mixture of compassion and sorrow swelled in her heart. She’d given little serious thought to how much history he’d lived through, but now it weighed down on her so heavily she could hardly breathe. Ghastly images flashed behind her eyes. She blinked hard to wipe them away and set her hands in her lap.

  “What are you doing?”

  The sound of his groggy voice gave her heart a shock. “Searching for spells...to use on Fitzgerald.” The truth, though perhaps not in toto.

  “Any luck?”

  “Not really.” She turned around and let her gaze wash over him. He was so beautiful—and so brave. She wanted to tell him he’d been wrong to think no one would mourn his loss. Somewhere, somehow, she’d been missing him for a hundred years.

  “In that case, come back to bed, eh?”

  She rose from the chair and moved toward him, a bemused smile blossoming. “You really are insatiable, aren’t you?”

  “Do you hear me denying it?” He rolled onto his back to demonstrate he was ready for more. The devilish smile he wore liquefied her knees. “Come, fair Echo, and let lusty Pan have his way with you, eh?”

  Chapter 12: Pandora’s Box

  The next time she opened her eyes, she found light streaming through the crack in the drapery panels, but no sign of Graham. The dogs also were gone and the door stood open. She heard something then. Music. The brooding wail of a cello. She listened for a moment, intrigued. The tune was heartrending. A Scottish lament of some sort. Was he listening or playing? He’d not mentioned playing the cello, but then, she still had much to learn about him.

  Her mind leapt to his manuscript. She was dying to read more. Getting up, she pulled on her clothes and buttoned her blouse as she crossed to the desk. The cello was hypnotic, haunting. She was almost sure it was not a recording. Did he play other instruments? Speak other languages? He’d earned multiple degrees, fought in a war, killed someone out of a sense of justice. Who? What? When? Where? How? Why?

  The laptop whispered like Pandora’s Box:

  Have a peek inside.

  What will it hurt?

  Who will know?

  Did she dare? Was there time? She threw a stealthy backward glance toward the door, listening for the cello. He’d stopped playing for a moment, but had started again on a new piece. This one, she recognized as the Saint-Saens concerto—one of her favorite classical works. Camille Saint-Saens composed in Paris during Le Belle Époque. Had she known him back when she was Catharine? The thought sent a shiver through her. Who else might she have known? Maurice Ravel? Claude Debussy? Matisse? Modigliani? Picasso? Still hearing the cello, she pulled out the chair at his desk and sat down.

  Her pulse quickened as she opened the lid and started to scroll, stopping this time at the year 1888—the Victorian era, though nearing the end. Trembling under a mixture of emotions, she began to read:

  1st October. Feeling peckish after an evening at the theatre (School for Scandal performed scandalously), I wandered down to the east end to sup. No sooner did I cross into White Chapel than a pickpocket tried to nick my watch. I dragged him by the scruff into an alleyway & filled my gullet. One hunger sated, I moved on in search of a strumpet to satisfy the other. I found a promising candidate outside a dodgy looking pub by the name of The Ten Bells. She wore a tight-fitting velvet jacket—purple & bald in patches—& a boldly stripped skirt with a bustle. Perched atop her mop of red curls was a flattish black straw hat.

  “Well, look at you,” she slurred as I approached. “What a fine gentleman. Fancy a little company this evenin’ do ya?”

  She’d evidently noticed the fineness of my evening costume. I tipped my hat as I took in her bouquet: ale, body odor, blood, cunt, semen. I licked my lips. Oh, aye. She would do very well.

  Her name was Maggie—Drunken Maggie, to her familiars. I followed her down the road & through a low doorway. I removed my hat & ducked to clear it. The space was poorly lit and reeked of stale porter, tobacco, sex, & piss. I held my breath as we climbed a narrow staircase, the treads creaking under our weight. She proceeded down a dark hallway to one of several identical doors.

  She took me into a fetid-smelling room as dark as a coal shaft. The furnishings were sparse—just a small bed & a rickety table on the far wall & a washstand & wooden chair near the door. The curtains on the only window were no more than tatters.

  She struck a match & flamed a wick. In the candlelight, I could see she was thin & malnourished. Oil & grime shone waxen on her face, which under better circumstances, might have been bonny. My eyes moved to her bosoms—buxom despite her small frame. I turned away from her & removed my hat & cloak, hanging them on a peg near the door. When I turned back, she was pulling the long pin from her hat—a small female ritual I observed with pleasure.

  “Normally, I don’t allow no kissin’...but in your case, I might be persuaded. For the right price, of course. Same goes for knockin’ at the back door, if you catch my meaning. But I don’t mind a good nosh, if that appeals.”

  “Just lie down upon the bed and lift up your skirts. I need naught but a fuck. And it will not take long.”

  As she backed toward the bed, the smell of fear pricked my nostrils. Why was she suddenly afraid of me? Had she somehow sensed what I was?

  “You ain’t ’im, are ya?” she asked, eyes wide.

  I set a hand on my aching erection, urging patience. “I don’t know whom you mean.”

  “The Ripper.” Eyes glassy & on me, she stepped back, nearly toppling the candle as her bustle bumped
the table. “He got Long Liz last night, he did. Cut ’er throat so deep he nearly took off ’er whole bloody ‘ead. It was a grizzly thing, it was.” She swallowed. “You ain’t him, are ya?”

  I gazed into her eyes, assuring her in silent words she was safe—leaving out, of course, that I was capable of doing to her in a heartbeat what that fiend had done to Long Liz & the others . . .

  She let out her breath, unaware until that moment she’d been holding it. She listened for the cello, returning her eyes to his prose when she heard it.

  Once finished, I sorted out my clothing & set the agreed-upon sum on the bedside table. She sat up, jerked down her skirts, & snatched up the money, counting it before stuffing it into her cleavage. As I turned to retrieve my hat & cloak, she said, behind me, “Please, gov’ner...might you spare an extra bob or two so a poor girl can get herself a pint?”

  Pitying her, I pulled the money clip from my pocket, peeled off a note, & held it out to her. “Buy yourself something to eat as well, eh lass?”

  She took the money. “Bless you, sir.”

  It was the least I could do. She might have been a whore, but she was still a human being—which was more than anyone could say for me. She stank not of evil, but of desperation, poverty, & neglect. She had performed for me an invaluable service—however much I loathe my avaricious needs & the revolting way I am forced to gratify them.

  The morning paper is once again filled with speculations about the killings of the demon they’re dubbed Jack the Ripper. His methods are incredibly gruesome. He slashes the women’s throats nearly to the spine, rips open their abdomens & removes their female organs. Meanwhile, the police seem no closer to catching him than when the killings began. The O’Lyrs remain convinced he is like me, though I have my doubts. Perhaps the time has come to test my theories. If the fiend is human, as I suspect, he will not evade me for long.

  She felt strange about what she’d just read. Not shocked, since he’d confessed he went to prostitutes, but bothered at some level. Was it jealousy? Revulsion? Moral outrage? Did it offend her feminist sensibilities? Turn her on? All of the above? She couldn’t really say. Still, she’d gleaned one new piece of information: he’d lived with the O’Lyrs at least as far back as 1888. Returning to the memoir, she scanned over the next few passages chronicling his nightly hunts for the killer.

  11th November. Tonight, while making my tour of the slums, I caught a whiff of a fouler stench of evil than any I’ve encountered to date. I began to follow the dark figure attached to the odor. After a few blocks, he sped up & started throwing anxious glances over his shoulder. I hung back, keeping out of sight.

  The street was dimly lit, thick with fog & deathly still. I could hear only the scuff of his shoes against the cobbles. At an alleyway, he stopped to check his pocket watch, casting about nervously as he did. In the gaslight, I got a look at him. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties & was considerably shorter than I was—no more than five-foot seven by my calculations. He was pale & wore a slight moustache turned up at the corners. Dark hair & eyes were only just visible under the brim of a bowler. A long, dark coat trimmed in astrakhan concealed the suit underneath, but I could see the cuffs of checkered trousers & dark spats over boots. In his right hand, he carried a pair of dark gloves. Black kid, probably. A heavy gold chain held the watch to his waistcoat. The fob had a large wax seal set with a red stone. As he put the watch away, he turned sharply into the alleyway. I followed, keeping back. The reek of garbage & urine was enough to make me wretch.

  Just as he began to scale the riverbank, I lunged, catching the arm of his coat. I threw him to the ground, dropped on him & shoved his face into the dirt. Blood gushed from his nose, flooding the air with its tantalizing scent. As my fangs broke free, a dark rage took hold. All at once, I craved retribution—not just for his heinous crimes, but also for every injustice done to me. I found his jaw &, with a quick jerk, snapped his neck. The fog & the hissing waters of the Thames swallowed the sharp crack. With all the smiting power of an avenging angel, I ripped open his shirt & plunged my fangs into his chest, striking heart blood. I drank & drank, reveling in the sinful pleasure of it.

  I lay there afterward for several minutes, engorged, euphoric, and intoxicated. When my head began to clear, I felt for the first time ever, not so much as a twinge of remorse. I gathered rocks, leaves & debris, and then lit a fire. From my boot, I withdrew my dirk &—with a few quick cuts—removed the heart & dropped it into the flames. Finally, I dragged the corpse to the river & hurled it over the side, but not before nicking the pocket watch—a lure for future prey. The corpse landed with a splash, bobbed on the surface for a moment or two, then sank into the depths—unknown, unwept & unsung.

  A shiver crept through her. So, that was number two, then. The one who deserved what he got. She agreed, despite opposing capital punishment in general. A sinister smile twitched. Did he still have the pocket watch?

  The cello warbled on, roving from ringing tenor to growling bass. She paused to listen, impressed by his artistry. She’d always loved string instruments best and the cello was her favorite. He’d started the second movement—the andante sostenuto. A poignant musical prayer. The concerto only had two movements. To continue reading was too risky. Besides, she had other curiosities to satisfy.

  * * *

  Shutting the laptop, she rose from the chair and crossed to the nightstand, a pretty French antique on curved feet with a marble top and three drawers. She kept her masturbatory material in hers. Did he do the same? Sliding out the top drawer, she found folded handkerchiefs, extra batteries, a gold pocket watch (was it Jack the Ripper’s?), a half-empty packet of Gauloises, and a cellophane bag filled with dog treats.

  Closing the drawer, she opened the one below it. Bingo. Skin magazines. With trembling hands, she shuffled through the pile. Mayfair. FHM. Zoo. Knave. Nothing too kinky, thankfully. Lifting a copy of Mayfair, she began to thumb through it. The centerfold model had freakishly large breasts and a hairless muff. She wore a lacy corset with suspenders and thigh-high black stockings. When the spread started, anyway. Her name was Heather and her hero was Beyoncé.

  With narrowed eyes, she studied Heather’s mammaries. They couldn’t be real, could they? Not that he probably cared. Most men didn’t seem to for whatever reason. She bit her lip. Was he into big boobs, shaved pubes, and trashy lingerie? If so, why had he said he liked her “lovely wee tits” and native bush? It must be the truth because he couldn’t lie at the time. She shrugged it off. Maybe he just liked all sorts.

  She returned the magazine and closed the drawer. He was halfway through the concerto’s second movement. If she didn’t get down there, she might miss seeing him play. She followed the music down the staircase, through the foyer, and into the doorway of a stunning room. The ceiling was high and the white walls covered in moldings and gilded flourishes, lending it a palatial feel. A matched pair of French sofas flanked an ornate fireplace on the far wall.

  In the middle, on an armless chair, was Graham with a cello between his thighs. He wore only a pair of jeans, torn at the knees, and an intense expression. She watched in awe as his hand traversed the neck, pausing now and then to violently vibrato. A quiver of longing snaked through her as she imagined herself as the instrument he played.

  Finishing with a flourish, he opened his eyes, blinking in surprise upon seeing her in the doorway. He gave her a heart-warming smile. “Oh. Hello. Did I wake you?”

  She shook her head. “That was beautiful. How long have you played?”

  Meeting her gaze, he loosened his bow. “Not long. Only since the Fifties.”

  “Are you finished? Playing, I mean.”

  “Aye.” He set his bow on the lip of the music stand. “For now.”

  Her gaze traveled down his bare torso, following the auburn trail southward to his jeans, which hung low on his narrow hips in an alluring way. As her eyes found his fly, sparks sizzled low in her abdomen. Lifting them to his face, she took her best shot a
t a come-hither look. “Might I persuade you to come back upstairs?”

  His mouth quirked and an eyebrow twitched, but he didn’t speak. He sat there for a long moment, drinking her in, eyes smoldering. Desire flared, melting her insides. He stood and stretched, gaze fixed as if she was prey. Drawing closer, he gathered her in his arms and fused her mouth with his. He gave her his tongue, ran his hands down her body, cupped her buttocks, and pulled her against him. She could feel through his jeans he was hard.

  “Have you ever fellated a man?” he asked, pulling out of the kiss.

  “No.” She ran a hand across his bulge. “But I’ve read a lot about it.”

  With a laugh, he stepped back. “Does that mean you’re game to try?”

  “Very game.”

  As he began to unbutton his fly, he instructed her to kneel down. A moment later, she was on her knees, eye-to-eye with Angus Og. “Well, hello there,” she said, flushing.

  “Do you ken what to do?”

  She didn’t answer; instead, she stuck out her tongue, poking wee Angus in the eye. Graham hissed with pleasure and set his hands on top of her head. She took a breath, calling what she’d learned from her memory. She’d read advice from both men and women and watched both sexes doing it dozens of times on the internet. She’d boiled it all down to five basics: 1) use everything in your mouth but your teeth; 2) suck hard; 3) maintain eye contact; 4) be enthusiastic; and 5) don’t ignore the balls.

  Gathering her courage, she seized the base of his member, steered it toward her mouth, and closed her lips over the bell. He released a ragged gasp and quivered a little. Lust hooked her womb and tugged. Oh, yes. She could get into this. And so could he, apparently. She started to suck—like a vacuum—exploring his ridges and grooves with her tongue. The groan he emitted intensified the ache between her legs. She took as much of his length as she could without gagging, flicking and twirling her tongue as she went. She liked the feel of him in her mouth, liked his response, and even liked the ripe, salty smell of the region. Remembering his balls, she took them between fingers and thumb and gently pulled.