Monarchs

by Rainey, Stephen

  "I'm not a bargaining chip for you to use at your whim," she whispered. "I'm not."

  Martha chuckled lightly. "Think whatever you like."

  The cold inside her now seemed to spread outward, enveloping her like a frigid web, its strands going taut around her arms and legs. She found herself sinking to her knees, unable to maintain her balance. Two brilliant, piercing stars now dominated her field of vision, and the sound of her pounding heart drowned all else. Better to die, she thought, than to accept the terms Martha offered. A life that wasn't life. A pawn to be played or discarded as the ancient witch saw fit. It was hopelessness that brought her here, she thought. The life Martha offered condemned her to hopelessness without end.

  Death had tasted almost sweet.

  The entire chamber appeared bathed in blue. A cavern of ice beneath a midnight sky. The eyes outside the window expanded until they were all she could see, and — oh, God — she felt the thing inside her, its tine-like fingers digging into her chest, questing for her heart. It tore through her flesh, her muscles, showing her agony, showing her death.

  Showing her a little glimpse of Hell.

  There were dead things all around her, but they were writhing, wormlike, inside tunnels and chasms of ice. The face of Ray Surber flashed past her eyes, his mouth open in an everlasting scream. She saw her husband, Frank, tearing at his face with claw-like fingers, his wails of agony ringing in her ears like a screeching train whistle. There was her father, his head bowed, yanking at his genitals, ejaculating blood.

  Then she saw a group of white men — seven or eight of them — all wearing hats and gray longcoats, standing in a circle around a black couple, a man and a woman, bound with thick ropes and kneeling on the ground. A young blonde woman with Jan's eyes stepped into the circle of men, approached the bound pair, and knelt to peer into their faces. The sound of pounding drums echoed eerily from a distance, its cadence slow and erratic but gradually quickening, and as it settled into a rapid, pounding rhythm, young Martha began to dance, her face beaming with ecstasy, her body whirling and gyrating with wild abandon. The black man and woman began to scream, and a weird, blue light rose around them and gradually began to engulf the dancing girl. Her voice rose in the staccato, unintelligible chant that Courtney had heard from the upstairs window so many nights ago, and it looked like something long and white beginning to wriggle from the black woman's mouth.

  The scene faded, and Courtney saw Sheila, her little girl — the one human being she had ever truly loved — stumbling through a corridor of ivory laced with deep shadows. Her skin was as bone-white as the Monarch's, her eyes sunken and searching. When they swiveled to meet hers, her little mouth opened and called in a reed-thin voice, "Mama…"

  Then Courtney felt a terrible pressure in her chest, and the jagged end of a thick tree branch burst through her ribcage, and all she could see was the Monarch's dark hollow in the swamp, the stars laughing above, and bodies hanging there with her: all she would see for the rest of eternity.

  "No, no, no," she whispered.

  "Choose," Martha said.

  Chapter 23

  Chief Flythe appeared nervous as Arlene ushered him into the great room, one hand clutching his hat, the other swiping at a lock of gray hair that kept slipping down over one eye. His leathery face had turned brittle and a tad chalky, and his usual confident, almost cocky gait had given way to a meek, self-conscious shuffle. His rumpled black and gray uniform looked as if he had slept in it. Through the west-facing window, the sun's last rays found Flythe's watery eyes and glinted weakly in them.

  To Courtney, from the vantage point of her new chair, situated between Jan and David's, Flythe appeared small and unimposing, his lean frame somehow deflated. Her seat on the raised floor put her eye level just above his, and he had to lift his head to meet her gaze. He did so only reluctantly. Standing before her, silent and downcast, he struck her as a sullen subject awaiting permission to speak his piece.

  What a difference from the last time he had come to call.

  She glanced at Jan, who sent her a thin smile. Thanks to Arlene's "old family remedy," Jan's bruises had completely faded, and her relaxed posture gave no indication that she had suffered a grave trauma less than 48 hours earlier.

  "How can we help you, Chief Flythe?" Courtney finally asked, her demeanor nonchalant.

  "Well," he said, fiddling with the brim of his hat, "I'm sure you're aware that there were some strange goings-on out in the swamp night before last."

  "Yes, we are." Her eyes now drilled into his. "But why do you honor us with this news, Mr. Flythe?"

  "Well, now. There are five men from town, all dead." He looked warily at David, as if afraid he might have spoken out of turn. He cleared his throat for effect and added, "Some mighty gruesome business out there."

  "So we gathered."

  "Damn shame. It means the Surber men are basically wiped out. Ray, Ben, Dwayne. And so soon after Hank getting killed that way. Dwayne's wife, Katie, she's something of a basket case."

  "How did they die?"

  He squinted at Courtney as if he were staring at the sun. "We think it was some kind of big critter."

  "A critter?"

  "Coroner's saying a bear, maybe."

  "Really? I didn't realize there were bears in the Dismal Swamp."

  "As a matter of fact, there are."

  "Do you think it was a bear?"

  He hesitated and cleared his throat. "I can't really say, ma'am. You know, I was out there, and I saw…something. But late at night, in the dark, sometimes you can't be sure what you're seeing. I suppose it might have been a bear."

  "My gracious."

  He worked his jaw back and forth in obvious frustration. "I also found Ray Surber, pretty well hacked up."

  "Ah!" She put on a look of surprise. "Was it the critter?"

  "I expect so."

  Now, with a brief, approving glance at Courtney, David leaned forward and asked, "Who were the other men, Chief?"

  Flythe flicked his eyes at him. "Johnny Spencer and George Tillery."

  Jan spoke, her eyes frigid. "Well, that group together couldn't have been up to any good. You know the kind of people they are. Or were."

  "Well, that's as maybe. But being as they're all dead, it's my job to investigate."

  "Are you investigating now?" Courtney asked, her voice a razor.

  For a second, Flythe's complexion went from pale to beet red. When he spoke, his voice came out as a harsh whisper. "Well, ma'am, I don't guess I really have anything to investigate here. But I thought I should come out and check on you. And share any pertinent information."

  David chuckled. Then, in a measured tone, he said, "Chief, by way of sharing information, I thought I might mention how important I feel it is for people to be discerning about the company they keep. After this, perhaps folks in town will be a little more careful. Do you think?"

  Flythe narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean by that, Mr. Blackburn?"

  "Well, take Johnny Spencer and George Tillery. If they hadn't thrown in their lot in with the Surbers and gone into the swamp to do whatever it was they were doing, they'd probably be alive today. Wouldn't you say?"

  "I suppose that stands to reason."

  "I just trust you'll remember that. For yourself."

  Cowed, the chief lowered his head. "Your point is taken, Mr. Blackburn."

  "Good. Then may I trust that you have no issues with any members of this household?"

  Flythe's eyes shifted to regard Courtney for a moment. He shook his head, but his eyes could not conceal his displeasure. "I have no issues."

  "You know, Chief, there was a time — when my father was alive — that this family could count on the law's prompt assistance whenever we might need it. It wasn't all that long ago. Do you know what I would like? I would like to see a return to that far more agreeable state of affairs."

  Flythe nodded to himself, realizing he had been singled out as a traitor but was being offered a possib
ility of reprieve. "Well, Mr. Blackburn, everyone is entitled to fair and equal treatment by the law. Your family is no exception."

  "So we have your personal guarantee, then? Of fair and equal treatment, I mean."

  He gazed somberly at David for a long time before nodding. "Yeah," he muttered. "My personal guarantee."

  Having said his piece, David sat back in his chair and looked at Courtney. She took his cue and said, "Well, Mr. Flythe. You've checked on us. Are you satisfied?"

  He squinted again, attempting to meet her stare. He clearly desired nothing more than to arrest her and charge her with murder, but he knew that as long as she was under the family's protection, doing so might cost him his life. "I reckon I am. Y'all just be careful." He jerked his head toward the window, and, more to himself than the others, he said, "There's something bad in that swamp."

  "And I expect it knows your address," Jan said, her gaze darker than midnight.

  Flythe took a step backward, rekindled fear turning his face chalky again, his eyes searching David's for some kind of reassurance. Finding none there, he nodded curtly to the three of them and said, "I'll wish you all a good-night." Then he turned and headed for the door. Unbidden, Arlene appeared from the darkness of the hall to escort him out.

  "You be careful out there," Jan called after him.

  The three of them sat in the silent, deepening gloom for several minutes, gazing through the hall door in the direction the chief had exited. Jan was the first to speak.

  "He's terrified," she said softly. "He'll want to get back in our good graces now that his cash cow is dead."

  "Martha may make it an interesting time for him," David said. "We shall see, won't we?"

  The two of them rose from their thrones, David going to the bar to pour himself a scotch, Jan moving to stand before Courtney, her eyes still weak, but full of a new, cold resolve that made her look almost like a stranger.

  "I'm glad you'll be here with us now," Jan said, a hint of the old warmth creeping back into her features. "I know it's all a bit overwhelming. But you'll adjust. You're strong. I know you." To Courtney's surprise, Jan took her hand, lifted it to her lips, and kissed it.

  "I'll be all right," she said, her voice wooden. She pulled her hand back, turned away from her friend, and looked at the portrait David had painted of her, now hanging next to the one of Jan and David's parents. From the canvas, her familiar eyes stared back, sullen and melancholy. Without hope.

  "Arlene's still got some work to do on me," Jan said, and Courtney turned back to see her massaging her abdomen, clearly suffering some pain. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to let her tend to me. Are you doing okay?"

  "Yes. Much better. Thank you."

  Jan nodded in satisfaction. "Good. I'll see you later, okay?" Then she turned and left Courtney alone with David.

  He settled himself on a barstool and stared at her for a time. In a black silk shirt and silver-gray trousers, his thick hair neatly groomed, he looked so sharp that she found her body responding to his presence. He sipped his scotch and smiled his most captivating smile.

  "I'm also glad you're here. I guess you know that."

  She nodded, trying to keep from staring back at him. He was a liar and a conniver. A devil. He had also saved her life and committed himself to her, damning the consequences. Martha had already proved that even her own family members were hardly exempt from her unique brand of justice; Courtney knew how much courage it had taken for him to face the thing in the swamp for her.

  Perhaps it would have been better if he had just let her die.

  "Care for a drink?" he asked, as casually as if the two of them were lovers meeting on an innocent summer evening's tryst.

  She slid out of her seat and went to the bar, where she found an open bottle of Cabernet Franc waiting for her. She poured herself a glassful and gave David a long, cool look.

  "I think I'd like to be alone for a while."

  "I hope the chief's visit didn't upset you."

  She shook her head. "No, that was nothing."

  In deep thought, he looked at the floor for a time, then nodded. "All right. You'll join me upstairs later?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." He placed a tender hand on her shoulder and offered her an honest smile. "You know what?"

  "What?"

  "I love you."

  "You're too kind."

  "Don't mock me. I mean it."

  "I know you do. Inasmuch as you know how to love."

  He looked puzzled. "Never doubt my feelings for you, Courtney."

  "Oh, I don't doubt them."

  He refreshed his drink and then stood up. "Well. I know your wounds are still raw. I'll leave you now, and we'll see each other in a while."

  She raised a hand. "No, you don't have to leave. I'm going to my room for a little."

  He gave her a long, fond look. The way a pet owner might look at his new cat. "Till later, then," he said.

  She nodded and walked away from him, taking her glass with her.

  On the far wall, her portrait was weeping.

  Having finished her wine, she dropped the crystal goblet into the dew-frosted grass and took a few steps through the darkness in the direction of the woods.

  A heavy crunching sound came from somewhere not far away, and as she peered into the black depths, she glimpsed something pale moving just beyond the latticework of the nearest tree limbs.

  It was out there — watching her, shadowing her. She turned and walked slowly toward the driveway, listening to the heavy footfalls keeping pace with her.

  She dropped to her knees, close to hyperventilating. Her heart thudded sickeningly in her chest, and bile burned the back of her throat.

  Trapped. Like an animal.

  In a gilded cage.

  But a cage nonetheless.

  The chill she had suffered since her arrival was gone now. The cuts in her abdomen had all but closed. Her feet no longer hurt, and her body felt as if it possessed more physical strength than when she had worked out regularly at the gym in Atlanta.

  It was the magic of this place. Arlene's magic. Aunt Martha's magic.

  As long as she remained here, she was protected.

  "God help me," she whispered to sky, looking up at the timeless, twinkling stars. But nothing and no one was there to answer her, nothing but something that was the antithesis of everything she'd learned as a child about God.

  I'm a murderess now.

  No, not a murderess. She had killed because she'd had to kill. Any reasonable human being would have done the same.

  Butcher.

  No!

  David said he loved her, and she knew that, in his way, he did. The vile creature. The liar. The devil.

  Of them all, only Arlene possessed integrity, but she lived in her own cage, trapped by fear, too weak to even want to break away from the captivating power of this place. Even after Martha had stolen the soul most precious to her.

  Courtney turned back to the house and looked at the upstairs window, which glowed faintly blue in the pitch-dark night. The family's guardian sat there, silhouetted in the rectangular frame, the ancient, unseen eyes watching her, probably laughing at her dilemma, the crushing weight of the hellish chains that bound her.

  But what do you know, she thought. Her rage was gone. The last remaining familiar thing — the essence of her being, ever since Frank had killed her child and stolen her life — had finally deserted her.

  One day, if she could be patient, and learn the secrets that Martha knew, maybe she could turn the tables. She would command the thing and send it away, and she would be able to escape, back to the sane world she had left behind such a long, long time ago.

  But by then, maybe she wouldn't want to.

  Finally, she turned her back on the horror in the woods and headed for the door, knowing that his was her home and here she would remain for as long as she lived.

  Inside, David would be waiting for her.

  In the hall, Arlene greeted her
, eyes sad but offering her some solace. She opened her arms and Courtney fell into them, welcoming the woman's warmth, the genuine care, which was all she had to freely give.

  "Oh, my precious child," Arlene whispered. Then she began to sing her lullaby.