The Deception Dance

by Rita Stradling

  “Are you bleeding?” He demands.

  I look down at my bloody coat (that I’m using as a dress), then say, “Not mine...”

  One of his hands lets go of me to wave to the sky. Above him, the blades of a helicopter whirl. Its hum, which I didn’t notice until now, quiets as the aircraft speeds away.

  “They’ll be faster without us,” Albert explains as he gently sets me back on the ground.

  I push myself into a sitting position then wince, the back of my thigh complains, every muscle complains, I must have pulled… everything. I lean back again holding my butt-cheeks off the ground. “Is Stephen still alive?”

  Albert sits down beside me on the non-bloody side of the ground. He exhales and scrubs at his eyes with his palms. Dropping his hands, he says, “Barely. He was breathing, but that’s about all I could get from him. ” He stares at me for a long moment with bloodshot eyes. He says, “Your hair is...gone.”

  I lift my hand to my scalp and find only powdery silt covering smooth skin. Honestly, it’s the least of my problems. Then, I remember Hayvee and turn to Albert, “Hayvee. I saw...”

  “I know, we have Hayvee, she’s in Kastellet. I’d have stayed with her, but... someone needed to come after you.”

  I can’t keep sitting this way; I lie back, curling up on the ground. “What happened?”

  He growls darkly, “The Chauncey puppeteer carried Hayvee through the front lines of the battle we were fighting to hold back the demons and soul-bound from Kastellet. She practically threw Hayvee at me. She told me that Hayvee was a gift, from you.” He snorts. “Right before her fangs snapped out and she tried to tear into my throat.”

  “Did you kill her?” I squeeze closed my eyes. Please say ‘yes,’ please.

  “No,” he mumbles, “I smashed her, hard, but she’ll heal herself. You have to damage those puppeteers’ bodies until there is no way they can repair themselves, or they’ll just regenerate.”

  I open my eyes to look at him. “And, Nicholas?”

  “...is more alive than Stephen, but still in danger.” He pulls his hammer from his belt and sets it in front of him. “You go back to sleep Raven, I will wake you when the Helicopter is back.”

  I don’t need to be told twice.

  A jolt wakes me. I open my eyes to discover I’m no longer on the ground. I have no idea where I am. I’m strapped to a seat, next to an open window, a hundred feet in the air. Albert must have carried me into the helicopter and seat-belted me in without me even waking.

  The sight below is a familiar one: Leijonskjöld Slot. We’re descending to the launch pad on top of the garage.

  I let my head sag forward and drift back to sleep. I wake again when we hit the ground.

  I try to press the button to release me from the seat belt but my hands are too weak. I fight with the latch but it won’t release, and about every part of me is aching. And I want out! And I can’t breathe again! I’m stuck!

  Albert has to duck to walk over to me. With one press of his finger the button releases and the straps loose around me.

  I sag forward.

  Albert helps maneuver the belt off my shoulders and pulls me out of the seat. Without asking if I need to be, he scoops me into his arms and carries me out. For a second, I’m sure the hallowed ground won’t let me in; that I’ll be rejected like the demons... but Albert exits the helicopter, and nothing happens.

  Albert is the third man who’s carried me this way this trip, but being carried by him isn’t like being carried by Andras or Nicholas. No, not at all.

  I almost fall back to sleep when I hear a nasally voice waiting for us just inside the garage. He says something in Swedish, and I don’t really care that I can’t understand.

  “No, I’m taking her to the hospital,” Albert thunders back.

  “She needs to be debriefed!” Tobias sniffs, “We need to know...”

  “Raven, was your mission successful?”

  As much as I want to say, ‘yes’, I realize, I have no idea whether or not the mission succeeded. I bargained with Andras, made… no, proposed a deal with him; but he tried to kill me and drag me into Hell anyway. So does that mean…I failed? But, then, at the same time, he didn’t kill me, I am not dead, he left me alive and he hasn’t opened the gates of Hell...well, not to my knowledge. So, in that way, Andras hasn’t broken our deal.

  “Yes,” I say, even though I am far from sure.

  Albert charges forward saying, “She’s debriefed. I’m taking her to the hospital.”

  I open my eyes just for the sake of seeing Tobias scurry out of the way.

  Albert calls back, “You can debrief her again when she’s ready.”

  I smile up into Albert’s big hairy face. He might be a jerk and a kidnapper, but I’m pretty sure I’ve made an ally.

  I’m lucky the guesthouse was turned into a hospital, because nothing is better than when Albert lays me into ‘my’ bed. The pillows are so soft, so comfortable...

  I open my eyes to a, “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” sound and find that Albert is gone. Did I fall asleep? I rub my eyes.

  “Just look at you, the boy puts you to bed this way? Tsk, tsk, tsk.” I peer around until I can fix my gaze on Dina.

  “You are bleeding?” She steps up to me, examines my arms then starts to unwrap the bloody coat.

  “No,” I croak, my arms are limp in her grip, “It’s not my blood. Do you have water?”

  She’s ‘tsk’ing the entire time she walks away from the bed and returns with a full glass.

  I sit up to drink it but spill half when I sit on my thigh. Oh, it aches so much, my muscles ache everywhere, my face, arms, neck, legs, but nowhere so painfully as the back of my thigh.

  Dina grabs my hand before I spill the rest of the glass and guides it to my mouth.

  “You are so dirty. I need to wash this blood off.” Dina doesn’t even acknowledge my objections. She strips me bare, which isn’t hard, wraps me in a blanket and hurries me to the bathroom across the hall.

  The stream of water she pushes me into is ice cold. When I try to push my way back out of the shower, she holds me in easily.

  “So much blood on you,” Dina whispers, “Blood everywhere.”

  “Not mine. Stephen’s.” I shiver. Even though I don’t think I have anyone else’s blood on me, I start listing off everyone who bled on me, “Nicholas, and Stephen, Father Dixon. Father Dixon is...” I trail off. I remember what Stephen said, that if we see today then we can mourn. I wonder if Stephen has seen or ever will see today. How long has it been since he was stabbed? An hour? A day?

  “And yours...” Dina said. “You are bleeding from the side of your neck. Only a little cut, but it’s really bleeding.”

  Yeah… From Andras’s sword, he must have nicked me. But I am too tired to care. When the crusted blood washes from my hands, eleven faded sharpie-lines remain. Madeline made sure the blood that stains my hands can’t wash off that easily.

  I drop my arms, close my eyes and let Dina sponge me clean. She does not touch the cut, though; she tells me she’s leaving that for the doctors.

  When Dina finally lets me escape the frigid flow, she pats me dry. She dresses me in a light blue hospital gown, pats dry my bald head and gives me a clean cloth to press against the cut. I spin in the bathroom and jump back clutching my chest; the mirror is covered in a giant sheet. Chauncey is here? How can that be? No, it can’t be... she’s gone, forever.

  Dina examines my face then levels her gaze on me, “Right now, is not the time for mirrors.”

  I nod, “I just thought... I was confused.”

  “Oh...” She takes my shoulders and nods, “Yes, I know what you thought.” She steers me from the room. “But no, it was me who covered all the mirrors that girl did not smash.”

  Dina doesn’t lead me into my room; no, she leads me across the hall. Is she trying to torment me? I don’t want to go in there. I didn’t want to go into Chauncey’s room when she was alive, I definitely don’t want to go in there
now that’s she’s...she’s gone. But Dina doesn’t even notice that I’m digging my heels into the floor, and she keeps pushing.

  When Dina succeeds in maneuvering me into the cream and light wood room, I blink around. It’s not overflowing with beautiful dresses and shattered mirror shards, no, it’s a hospital room filled with doctors. Three doctors, to be exact, all decked out in white scrubs and masks pulled to their chins. Dina leads me to a bed that has a hundred controls centered in the room and helps me sit. When she steps back I grab her wrist.

  The doctors descend on me, asking, “What is your weight? Height? How old are you?”

  “Have you ever taken antibiotics?”

  “Have you ever experienced symptoms of depression?”

  “Are you allergic to any medications?”

  “One-twenty-five. Five’ eight. Eighteen. No. No...Maybe, I don’t think so. Dina...stay!”

  More questions... More questions... “I...I don’t know. Dina stay. Please, stay.”

  Dina doesn’t resist my grip or move from my side.

  One of the woman doctors pokes me with a needle. “Count down from one-hundred,” she tells me in thickly-accented English.

  “One hundred, ninety-nine...” Whoa, what did they give me? “Ninety-eight, ninety-seven...” I feel like...I feel like that one time. “Ninety-six, ninety-five...” I feel like that one time, when Andras saved me. “Ninety-four, ninety three...” No, that’s wrong: he didn’t save me, he drugged me...”Ninety-two, ninety-three...”

  My eyes close. I swim in my eyes, float in a stream just beneath my eyelids.

  “Ninety...” I giggle. “Eighty-nine, eighty-eight...” Andras gave me something, something made me barf, it took the drugs away, it...I chuckle, “Eighty-two, eighty-one.” It healed me... “Eighty.” It was, “Magic!” I shout.

  I struggle to open my eyes; my eyelids are portcullises, and they slam shut. “Dina, magic! Magic, Dina. Stephen needs magic. Call Madeline. Find Madeline, Dina, she can save Stephen...”

  I’m diving, diving down into blackness. And I’m falling, flailing, diving to my disastrous end. Chauncey stands, singing in the dark. There’s a light ahead, no not a light, a fire.

  I land in the blazing fire, it’s burning my hair, my clothes, but not me; I don’t burn. Hell fire can’t burn me.

  Then, I’m crouching on the small flaming platform on the top of the roof of the desecrated church in Rome. There are ravens everywhere around me, and they are bursting into small fires. Behind them, the sun is rising.

  “You’ll never be free of me,” His voice comes from behind me.

  I wheel around in the fire, but it extinguishes.

  Andras balances on the roof, he’s wearing his old body, his bare feet curling around the ridgeline. He grins down tenderly, his beautiful tan skin wrinkling into smile lines, his black hair falls carelessly as he’s outlined by the waxing light. His giant black wings arc out to each of his sides and point skyward. He leaps down and lands beside me on the platform. His hands grip my shoulders, and he pulls me to my feet, “I’ll always come for you.”

  I scream, scream into his face, but he presses his lips on mine and silences me. And, this is the inferno… he is my inferno… and I see no escape.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Day Sixty

  Opening my eyes is a fight I’m losing; I open my left eye about thirty seconds before I can manage with my right. Even when I succeed with both of them they struggle to close again. The world is a blurry mess, where ever I am is a fuzzy mix of cream and white, and… so, I know where I am.

  My fingers scratch my head; my scalp has a layer of bristles, like a boy’s unshaved face. Well, at least my hair is going to grow back ... I wasn’t sure if it would. The skin beneath the bristle itches, almost painfully. But I feel no burns, as if the fire consumed my hair, and then just stopped. I run my fingers down my face, my lips (which should have burnt off), and then my arms: not a single burn.

  My room starts to come into focus through my blurry eyes... I sit up a little stiffly. I’m alone; Dina is gone. I manage to swing my legs over the side of the bed. The same light-blue hospital gown covers me. I feel my neck and find a ridge of wet stitches. My hand, when I pull it away, comes off bloody. Are stitches supposed to bleed?

  The door opens and Dina walks through. She doesn’t look at me, she concentrates on a tray, heavy laden with jars, she’s carrying. She places the tray on the dresser across the room, grabs a blue bottle, and wheels around.

  When she sees me, Dina literally jumps and clutches her chest. “Oh,” She breathes, “You scared me, Raven, I thought you were sleeping.” Her glaringly-red hair is piled on top of her head in a high bun. She wears a flower printed apron that has a clashing pattern to the flowers on her dress.

  “How long was I asleep?” I choke out.

  “Let me see,” She sits beside me on the bed. “About three days...”

  “Three days!” I reach my hand up.

  “Do not!” Dina yanks back my hand. “Your cut will not heal. Don’t touch it. Now, I have a cream for your cut; but, I also have something else for you...if you want it.” Dina pulls a bottle from the pocket of her apron, “Stephen gave this to...”

  “Stephen. How is he? Did he...is he...?”

  “Stop that smiling; you might pull on your cut. The stitches keep coming out.” She presses her hands into my cheeks forcing the corners of my mouth down, “I did as you said, went to Albert and he found the witch girl. She barged into Stephen’s operating room and did some magic; I do not know about these things, but when I saw him he did not look as if he had even been hurt, though I did not see under his shirt. It was… He was… Stop that!” She presses down at the corners of my lips again.

  “The witch made you something too; Stephen gave it to me...”

  “He’s here?” I try to get out of bed but she pushes me back.

  “No not now, two days ago he gave it to me. Sit down.”

  I’m already sitting when she commands me. “Did she heal Nicholas? Is he better?”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head, “Not healed, but alive. He would not drink her potions and she would not give him any, but he will survive, if God wills.” Before I can ask, she adds, “And he is also not here.” She holds out the bottle again, “The witch made you a potion, too. I waited to give it to you until you woke, because I did not know if you want...”

  “I do,” I insist. “I’m not afraid of magic.”

  She shakes her head at me. “Magic is something to be afraid of, very, very afraid.” But she hands me the bottle before she stands. “I would not even offer the magic, I would...I should have destroyed it; but that cut of yours will not heal. It is not natural.”

  She’s walking out the door but I stop her by asking, “Did Stephen have a message, or anything, for me?”

  She turns at the open door and smiles. “Not that I know of, Raven. He did come in your room for a couple of seconds; but I was not in here.”

  He left me a note. He must have. Why else would he come into my room for only a few seconds?

  “Thanks,” I tell Dina as she closes the door behind her.

  The bottle is little, black, and sealed with a cork. It’s also freezing cold; as if Dina just took it out of the freezer. This is two I owe Madeline. I’m surprised she even gave Stephen something for me, I’m pretty sure she...um, absolutely despises me. I look into my still-marked hands; she does despise me. I examine the bottle.

  She might hate me, but she loves Stephen, so I doubt she’d give me anything that would seriously harm me. I uncork the bottle and sniff it. Pine, it smells like pine trees, and honey. I put the bottle to my lips, squeeze closed my eyes, and pour the contents in.

  The potion is freezing, colder than ice yet still liquid. It slides all over my mouth as if it has a life of its own, then plunges down my throat. I feel my tonsils freeze, my esophagus, my stomach, and all my internal organs crisping over with ice. I fall back.

  I ima
gine my heart pumping ice crystals into my blood stream. My skin literally frosts over, from my scalp to my ears, over my face, down my neck, a thin layer of ice covers. I am still, immovable. The ice spreads over my chest, under my hospital gown inching over my ribcage, and filling my navel. Soon my entire body is covered in frost. And… I’m so peaceful.

  Suddenly, I’m eight years old and my father has taken my sister and me to the city Lake Tahoe after winter’s first snow. I lie in a blanket of snow bundled to my teeth but the wetness still slips between the cracks of my clothing. I spread my legs and arms out to make a snow angel, when I’m done I just lie, with white snow wings spreading from my back. I watch as the snowflakes drift down. And, I am an angel, and god is sending my skin a thousand cold kisses.

  Linnie’s giggling beside me. I inhale the pine scent of the trees surrounding us. My mouth tastes like honey and I have a hundred snow kisses on my cheeks. There’s no Hell here, no demons, no fire, no void, just Heaven in the snow.

  “Thank you, Madeline.” I whisper, as I open the eyes of my eighteen year old body.

  The frost turns into water and drips off my skin. Linnie’s laughter fades from my ears, and there’s no more snow falling, no more kisses. I’m staring up to a beech-wood paneled ceiling, not into Heaven. The bed around me is soaking wet.

  My neck itches; when I scratch it some thread comes off into my hand.

  That’s not good.

  I cringe. I need a shower. I stand and make my way to the bathroom.

  The stitches fall off me one-by-one in the shower. I see them play on the marble floor, until they worm their way into the drain.

  I’m afraid to check, but I raise my hand to my neck anyway finding smooth, unmarred skin. The ever present itching on my scalp increases to a painful throb. I grab at my head, but feel the stubbles grow into bristles under my fingers. My hair grows in seconds, channeling between my fingers. It feels soft, downy, like a child’s hair. It thickens, sticking to my wet shoulders and back.

  When I’m dried and wrapped in a guest house bathrobe, I pull off the sheet that’s still covering the mirror. The lingering steam automatically comes between me and my reflection, but after I use a towel to wipe the mirror, I see myself.