by Неизвестный
That it was a dream, I did not doubt. My mind felt disassociated from my body, floating invisibly above it. I watched in calm concentration as my body rose and stalked on stockinged feet to the shelves of books that made up one side of my room. Unerringly, my hands reached out and plucked a half dozen dusty tomes from a low shelf. I gazed down from the heights as my hands stacked the books on a table, reading with no difficulty the titles. They were all collections of sermons; not my usual reading pleasure, so I had not examined them in my time there. Then I watched as my body turned to the now empty shelf, reached a hand in and scrabbled across the wall behind where the books had rested.
A tiny click...and a section of the bookcase slid out. An opening wide enough to slip through appeared, and I floated after my body as it disappeared into dimness.
But the dim light was an illusion. As the section of bookcase swung to behind, I could see, though there was no apparent source of light, a stone stairway twisting out of sight. My body began the journey downward as familiarly as if it took the same path every day. I followed, floating just above, thinking that this was without a doubt the most amazing dream I'd ever had...
The stairs took a final turn and ended at an ancient carved door. My hand reached out to open it and I--we walked inside.
The huge room must have once been the dungeons of Arraine DuBois's manor. Rusty chains hung from the sweating walls, and I saw an iron maiden pushed against one wall of the huge rectangular chamber. Other devices with which I was unfamiliar stood here and there; I was not interested in studying them, for I feared what would now happen.
In the center of the room was an iron brazier full of coals. In my present state of what I can only call "disembodiment,"I could feel neither heat nor cold. But I could see the waves of heat rising from the fire, and the iron bowl glowed crimson. I watched, aghast, as my body walked toward this brazier and seated itself beside it in a straight chair.
For a time, nothing happened. I found I had the power to flit about and, oddly enough, through things, feeling and touching nothing. I searched the vast chamber, finding other unpleasantnesses that I will not discuss. But I could find no other inhabitant.
I returned to my body, which was sitting at ease in the chair.
"Stand."
The word echoed through me, setting up vibrations that almost made me lose my grip on consciousness. My body obeyed, standing on stockinged feet--too near the brazier to suit me.
I looked around. I could see no one who could have uttered the word. I dove toward my body, desperate to enter it and awaken from this dream before something disastrous, monstrous...I do not know what I thought, what I believed might happen. But I wanted to awaken more than I had ever wanted anything.
Then, the oddest of a series of oddities occurred. Where nothingness was a heartbeat before, now stood the tall slender figure of a woman dressed in inky black, with silvery hair billowing down her back. It was, it could only be...Arraine DuBois.
But she was without her mask.
Her face...her face was the stuff of nightmares. The lower half projected forward like the muzzle of some animal, with the mouth hanging open to display long, sharp, pointed teeth. A thin stream of silvery drool hung from the corner of that mouth, which was topped with two slits for a nose. Her eyes were huge and round, as red as the coals in the brazier; they crackled with a lust for blood.
My blood.
My uninhabited body stood as if this hideous creature were not even there. I watched in horror as she stalked toward it, slavering in anticipation. I imagined those sharp white teeth sinking into my throat, tearing it out as I watched in my helpless, wraithlike state.
"No!"
I thought that it was my ghostly presence that cried out, my voice made audible in my terror at the death that was stalking me.
But it was not.
"No. I will not allow it."
Another form stalked forward from nothingness. This form was, to my eyes, the same as the first, that is, Arraine DuBois. Tall, lean, dressed in black, silvery hair, and she too wore no mask.
But the difference in the two faces...
This woman, whoever she was, had the face of a fallen angel. Straight nose, square jaw, high cheekbones, broad forehead; she was perfection in visage. And her eyes were not the ravening red of Arraine DuBois, but as crystal green as a mountain lake.
Green eyes...Arraine DuBois had green eyes.
Were they both Arraine DuBois? I was dreaming, after all....
"You have no choice in the matter,"spat the first Arraine, tearing her gaze from my helpless body and turning to face the new arrival; she moved like a wolf about to strike. "It is my turn. You had the last one."
"Yes, I did,"said the other, the fallen angel. "For a time. Until you murdered him."
"Why, I believe I did, did I not? Yes, I remember. He was sweet and tender. His juices were like nectar running down my throat."
"This one you shall not have,"said the second woman. "I will not allow it, not this time, and not ever again."
"You know the bargain,"laughed the other, her eyes spitting red flames. "If you refuse, then I am the winner. I shall take my prey wherever I wish it. None shall be safe from me."
"Yes, I know the bargain. But there is a way..."
"You would not dare!"
"Wouldn't I?"
The two sprang at each other, locked hands about each other's throats. They slashed with tooth and nail, tore a hand free to strike, tripped and tumbled about on the floor. In the tumult, they slammed against the brazier, tilting it over. The coals scattered across the stone flaggings. I watched as once bounced off my stockinged foot...
I sat up in bed. Outside my window a bird offered a cheerful greeting to the dawn.
My heart was pounding. I shook my head with a weak laugh and promised myself no more overindulgence in wine at supper.
I flung the covers off.
I was fully dressed except for my boots. My stockings were filthy--and one had a hole burnt into it.
* * *
"What am I to do? What am I to do?"I repeated this meaningless phrase as I paced back and forth before my bedchamber windows. Meaningless, I knew, for there was no way for me to escape this place.
Arraine DuBois was indeed my captor, my jailer. But who--what--was that other creature that looked so much like Arraine? Was it dead? Were they both dead? Had they torn each other to bits last night? Or would one greet me during the day, not knowing that I remembered my last trip to the dungeons?
My last trip, but not my first one, I knew.
I calmed at last, changed my clothing and washed my face and hands. As I was doing the last, a gong sounded. Breakfast.
Well, I decided, I might as well die full as hungry. And I had other plans than breakfast. The knife that always lay beside my plate was long and sharp.
The meal was as excellent as usual. I partook of every dish that Marta set before me, praising her lavishly. Her swarthy face flowed at my words and I thought I could even detect a blush. So pleased was she that I did not believe she noticed the large silver knife I hid under my jacket...
I was determined that I would not go easily into that creature's maw if it still lived; not if I could help it. I knew, from my dream, how to reach its lair; and if it had been successful in the fight, I would do my best to destroy it.
And if the real Arraine DuBois lived? What would I do then?
I remembered that fallen angel face of hers, I remembered her kindness to me, I remembered her love of books, so like my own.
I remembered her sadness.
If the creature that had mimicked her form and voice had murdered Arraine DuBois, then I would do my best to kill it before it killed me.
If Arraine Dubois still lived, I would tell her that I would remain by her side as long as she wished it. For the moment I had seen her face, I had loved her. No. That is a lie. I had loved her long before.
Finally that endless meal was over. I stood up, careful to concea
l the knife even though Marta was not in the room. I made my careful way back up the stairs to my bedchamber. The bed was smoothed; my disordered clothing that I had flung on a chair was gone.
I closed the door behind me and put a high-backed chair against it.
If that creature was still alive, I didn't want it loose in the house.
Then I walked over to the bookcase and reached for the books that hid the latch.
I will not pretend that my heart was not racing, my hands not shaking. I was, not to put too fine a point on it, terrified. But I would not allow Arraine DuBois's brave sacrifice go in vain. For that was what it must have been, I knew. Arraine had offered her life to save mine. Somehow she had whisked me back inside my sleeping body and away, while she fought for her life against that evil creature.
I found the latch and the secret door swung open before me.
Clutching the silver knife, I started down the stairway.
* * *
The journey was not as easy as it had been before. The stairs were single slabs of rough stone, slippery with condensate. Torches, magical they must have been, were burning in sconces on the walls; they shed a flickering light that made the shadows menacing. Still, I seized one and proceeded downward.
At the bottom, the carven door stood open. I walked inside the dungeon, holding my torch high above my head; the knife was in my other hand.
There was the iron maiden; the chains still hung from rusty bolts. I walked forward, my eyes trying to be everywhere at once.
In the center of the vast room, just as I remembered it, stood a brazier--tossed over on its side, with cold ashes strewn about it. The chair where my unresisting body had sat was overturned as well.
I looked about me.
No blood. No ravaged bodies. Nothing.
But wait. There, against the wall, crouched a shadowy figure.
I darted forward, knelt down.
Arraine DuBois, her silver mask covering that angelic face, one sleeve torn away to reveal a bloody gash that reached from shoulder to wrist, leaned on the stone wall. Still, silent, eyes closed...
Eyes.
What if it were not Arraine, but the other? What if, when those closed eyes opened, a ruby glare shone through the silver mask?
I looked wildly around for something with which to subdue her. I saw a manacle at the end of a heavy chain, still attached to a stout iron bolt in the wall. I seized it and clamped it tight about her undamaged wrist.
Then I jerked the mask away. A seraph face, serene and untroubled.
I shook Arraine, trying not to disturb her injured arm. Her eyes opened...
Horror stared out at me from their emerald depths.
I drew back as her perfect lips parted and she said, "Erik...I tried to save you, my darling...but she is too strong. Run, run while you can."
Then she blinked and those emerald eyes began to darken, even as her angelic features twisted and mutated. From flawless nose and perfect lips, nightmares bubbled forth.
She, this other, seized my wrist with her unbound hand.
"Erik,"she sneered, spewing spittle on me from her slavering slit of a mouth, "she tried to keep you from me. But she failed, as she has always failed. Now you are mine, as you were destined to be."
I jerked away, scuttling like a rat from her ravening mouth, her grasping, tearing hand. She leaped after me--only to be caught up short by the chain that bound her wrist.
A howl of dismay echoed through the high chamber, bouncing off the walls, rattling the fearful machines of torture and pain.
"No! No, I tell you! This cannot be--you cannot know the secret! You cannot know how to keep me from you. None would dare to tell you..."
I ran from the chamber as though death were at my heels.
* * *
I close my strange story now. It has been five score and eleven years since I first came to the house of Arraine DuBois as payment for my father's debt. I have lived far beyond the normal span of mortals, kept alive and seemingly young by the magics that inhabited that house of doom and delight. But fledgling though I still appear, I feel my years like a massive burden and I know that my time approaches. I leave these notes for any who might follow me, so that they will know of the precious--and perilous--inhabitant in the dungeons of the castle of the wolf in the wood.
Arraine and I have loved each other fiercely, passionately and hopelessly for all these weary years. She, kept alive in torment by the curse that fell upon her as a young woman, has remained chained in the dungeons since that horrible and wonderful night when I first saw the two sides of her nature. Waited on by Germain and Marta--who do not change, and I dare not ask of them why--she no longer needs the silver mask to hide her from my adoring gaze. We have loved each other, as I have said...
But we have not dared to touch.
For my touch, in love and desire, calls up that other Arraine, the ravening beast that would tear me apart with glee. And when my dying body would be lying in its own blood, gasping for a final breath, that horror would leave and Arraine would return, to cradle me in her arms and despise herself for causing my death...as had happened too often before.
So Arraine and I have loved from a distance. A little distance, to be sure, separated us...but the length of an arm. But it might well have been an ocean that coursed between our longing hearts.
Still, we have had our compensations. The old dungeons were transformed into pleasant chambers and all our beloved books surrounded us. We could talk, we could smile, we could banter, we could spend countless hours together...and we have. We have done all that lovers can and could do, from time immemorial.
Save touch.
But now, the magics are dying around us and we know our time is growing close. We can only hope, only believe, that our long purgatory is over and that we will awaken in some better place, where a kiss, a touch, will not destroy us.
We can only hope.
The Girl in the Box
by Janet Miller
During the weekday Janet is a mild-mannered software engineer who writes code and design documents. But at night and on weekends she turns to the creation of offbeat stories about imaginary pasts, presents, and futures, such as her fantasy tale, Lady of the Knife, or her contemporary, A Christmas with Sarah. You can read more about Janet's books at her website at www.janetlynnmiller.com.
Amirilla Asteras gazed at the stars, watching them through the window in the station's outer shell. Cold and lonely to some, but not her. They were her lucky stars, her friends, the only ones she could count on.
Until now.
"Noble Cause to Space Station Blue. Come in Station. Ammi, you there?"
In the dark and deserted communications center, she smiled and rolled away from the window, activating the switch on the single console left lit for her shift. "Station Blue here, Noble Cause. Welcome back, Ganth. How long you going to be with us this time?"
Opening the console viewscreen, she directed it to show the ship's docking, the slip two hundred meters away and outside the view of her window. Built by the Gaians, the Noble Cause was sleek for a freighter, its clean lines a departure from the bulky Outer Colony crafts. With Ganth at the helm the ship eased into its assigned slip as graceful as a dancer, sliding to a stop as the docking locks secured.
From her console came a soft rustle, as if Ganth passed a hand over his hair. For a moment Ammi wished he'd activate the viewer so she could see him. But then he'd want to see her, and that wasn't possible, he'd see too much. They'd made an agreement early on--no visuals.
They'd been talking for nearly a year through their comm units. Ammi worked the third shift of station time, middle of the space night, a lonely time, but her choice since it restricted her exposure to others.
But then Ganth had come along with his sweet sexy voice and easy-going laugh and penchant for working third shift himself. He and his father were the sole operators of the Noble Cause, a small freighter working the Outer Colonies trade routes. Seeking company, he'd fo
und his way into her comm center for long talks and holograph games.
Found his way into her heart as well.
"We'll be docked for a few days. Dad has some people he's meeting. They haven't arrived so I'll be available for a couple games of astrochess."His voice rose, betraying his enthusiasm.
"Only a couple of games?"she teased. "What else are you planning to do, hang out and dance in the station bar?"
His answer was an ill-humored grunt. "Oh, yeah, like I could get away with that. Until I attach and marry I'm never getting off this crate. You're the only friend I have."
He sounded more disgruntled than usual; she shouldn't have teased him. Attachment was very important to Gaian males; they weren't sexually enabled until it happened and it only occurred when they found a woman they matched.
Ganth was twenty-three but under Gaian law, until he married, he wasn't allowed to mingle with non-Gaians, particularly women, lest he inadvertently attach to someone "unsuitable."
After all, Gaians mated for life.
From what he'd told her, Ganth's father's idea of what was suitable was pretty restrictive. It certainly didn't include a space monkey confined to a transport box. Ammi glanced down at the square metal and plastic cube that covered her from the waist down, allowing her mobility. In her twenty-two years, she'd learned to live with her handicap, the legacy of a pregnant mother exposed to unsafe levels of radiation.
The mining colony she'd been born on had few medical amenities and when she arrived from her mother's womb, legs twisted like construct cables, so the best they could do was keep her alive. Repairing her legs had been beyond hope. Later, the only solution had been the box, a motorized chariot she controlled through connections in her lower back. She'd seen pictures of an old kid's toy, a jack-in-the-box. That's what she resembled.
At least she could thank her lucky stars the rest of her worked properly. She'd even been assured she could have healthy children; assuming anyone ever looked at her that way. She was pretty enough--copper-brown hair she kept spacer short, and eyes an interesting shade of green. But no man had seen beyond the box and no one was ever likely to, with anything other than pity or dismay. Ganth was her friend, but he'd never seen her. If he had she knew he wouldn't flirt with her this way.