‘Good boy.’ She smiles proudly. ‘How will you appear to Star?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you cannot approach her in your demon form. The last time she saw you, you were an infant. Four years have passed for her since. You could be a toddler in need of her protection?’
Edensun shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so. A toddler wouldn’t have the strength or authority to move the other players into position. I should be a man.’
‘No, not a man… a youth.’ Lilith’s eyes shine. ‘A youth at the brink of adulthood. You will still attract her mothering instinct and awaken her sex drive. A youth is perfect. Your strength will not be anticipated.’ She kisses his cheek.
Edensun grasps Lilith’s hand. ‘Yes. That’s perfect.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘What else would you expect from me?’
He laughs. ‘Nothing. I expect nothing. I am never disappointed, but frequently pleasantly surprised.’
She pouts and pushes him playfully. ‘If I didn’t know you better I would take that as an insult.’
‘Don’t, you know I believe you are perfect.’
Her frown becomes a smile. She mouths the word perfect and her green eyes gleam like emeralds caught by moonlight. ‘Yes.’
She stands up and claps her hands before her naked breasts. ‘A party!’ she shrieks, euphorically. ‘We must have a party before you leave.’
Edensun’s grin falls. ‘I was planning to leave in a few hours.’
She strokes his cheek. ‘Then delay a little. After all you still need to imagine the finer details of your plan before you leave. What better way than with chemical and magical assistance?’
Edensun knows better than to argue.
Lilith turns to face a raven-haired servant who walks into the room. ‘Violet, get the others together. We’re having a party.’
Edensun takes his time in the large pearl-coloured bath. Music and women’s laughter rises through the villa. The party is for him, but he knows his lateness will be forgiven.
He sinks under the water. Strands of his hair float around his face attracting his peripheral vision. He remembers his mother. Her hair was dark too. He tries to recall her face, but it appears in soft focus, a distant memory. Her smile is warm, but her features blurred. He shivers, imagining her reaction when he calls her mother. His memory of her may have faded with time, but she will not recognise him at all.
Frowning, he rises from the water and wraps a towel around his waist. Leaving a trail of wet footprints, he retreats to his room to dress.
The women turn to face him as he enters the ballroom. Soporific mist clings to his eyes and pushes vivid colours and wild ideas into his mind. He embraces three beauties at once, kissing them in turn: the blonde, the brunette and the redhead. The handmaidens stroke his skin and whisper words of love and seduction.
Lilith watches with amusement. Edensun hates her aloof moods. It is as though she is somewhere else entirely. A place he cannot reach. Great distance separates them, which he cannot cross and it frustrates him. The attentions of Sapphire, Magenta and Violet suddenly irritate him. He shrugs away like a petulant child and strides towards Lilith.
‘What are you laughing at?’
She looks at him as if seeing him for the first time in years. Her eyes widen and her mocking smile softens. She passes him a drink.
‘No thanks. I’m leaving.’
The servants protest. They ask him for one last passion-filled night before he leaves. His feet itch and his legs burn with an eagerness to stride far away. He feels no sexual desire, only the urge to experience new lands and new people.
‘Thank you for the party, but it’s a mistake. I love you all, but I need to go.’
Protests are renewed. Lilith holds a long nailed finger in front of her lips. The room becomes silent. Even the music ceases.
‘Goodbye then,’ Lilith says. ‘Safe journey.’
Edensun wonders whether to hug her or run. This is his first true taste of freedom and he doesn’t want to waste a second. He pulls Lilith’s fingers to his lips and kisses her hand. Waving at the women, he takes one step to another world.
Chapter 8
Star opens the kitchen door and steps out into fresh air. Grass stretches out before her across the courtyard until it reaches the ivy-laden stone wall and blurs into shadow. At the centre of this wall is a wooden door. Sun and rain have faded the green paint, which has started to peel away in places. The door is bolted and locked. Beyond it, a Victorian park with trees and a duck pond waits. There are no swings or seesaws and children tend to visit other, larger parks. Instead, it is a space where people come to read or think or walk their dogs, if they come at all.
She crosses the lawn. Her bare feet sink into the damp grass. Between ropes of ivy she sees patches of light and darkness. Juggling her load, she steps towards the door and takes an iron key from her pocket. Reaching up, she draws back the rusty bolt at the top and unlocks the door with her key. She rolls the key across the palm of her hand, studying it before she returns it to her pocket. The key is anachronistic. It reminds her of churches and mausoleums. It has its own romance as though it would be more suited to unlocking other worlds, letting them bleed their magic into this one. She shudders. More magic? I’ve had enough magic for a lifetime. Give me peace and tranquillity with space and time to paint and sculpt. Keep the demons at bay. She turns the domed handle and lets the door sweep outwards. Taking care to scan the ground for sharp stones and broken glass, she skirts around thick trunks of oak and chestnut trees. Grass tickles her soles and moss caresses her toes. She finds the same spot as yesterday. The light is harsh today, brighter. She should have come earlier. She will have to adjust her palette to compensate. The bluebells looked rich, yesterday. Today, their hue seems dull.
She lays out her rug and sits upon it to open her easel and watercolours. The half-finished picture rests before her. The air thickens and shadows grow. She closes her eyes and breathes, letting her mind open to the magic of nature all around her. The plants and the trees all have voices and speak to her of legends. Her own story mixes with their words and she remembers, as she always does, her walk through the Scottish forest. What should have been her final walk, and yet here she is, living, breathing, almost unscarred, almost complete.
She picks up her brush and lets it dance across the paper. Greens, blues and purples stain the landscape. Bluebells spring up before her and between them glimpses of other lives and other worlds. Worlds that touch her own each time she sits and opens her mind, even if she would prefer to hide from them and forget.
The other world sent her home. Together, they survived its torments and Satori filled that desperate void inside her. His world became her world until the borders between the world she had spent so long taming and the wildness beyond blurred into shadow. Satori, the magician, her partner - theirs was a life too easily obtained and impossible to escape.
She still shivers in familiar yet exciting ways when he touches her. Her nostrils still flare to capture the scent of him. Yet what is their life? What have they gained from each other and what have they lost?
Each morning Satori leaves their cottage by the park. He returns late. He entertains believers and non-believers alike, reading tarot cards and performing illusions. Star wonders how much of the magic he uses is real. She is scared to know if he still plays with forces beyond his control. Satori’s life is as speckled with light and darkness as the parkland behind their cottage. She knows he visits that grave and the thought of it humiliates her. She feels bitter and betrayed, but cannot grasp the source of these feelings. However often she asks, Satori will not tell her why he goes or what he gains from his time knelt at Raven’s feet.
What of my own darkness? No, don’t think about that. I left that behind. Binah cleansed and changed me. It gave me strength and it took away… what? A bastard child, an evil, twisted wraith with a greedy-toothed mouth. So why do I miss my son? Why is the feeling of loss getti
ng stronger rather than weaker with the passing years? Why didn’t we bring him with us?
Putting down her brush, she studies her painting. The violence of her memories is echoed in her brush strokes. From the shadows, half concealed faces with hungry eyes watch her. To the right, one bloom drips blood that congeals on its stem while a sticky dampness spreads between her thighs. She sighs, knowing at least that her black clothes will hide any stain. Not that there is anyone here to witness. The park is empty except for her, the birds and the insects.
Star screws the lid back onto the jar of water. Pigments weave around each other, merging into russets and browns. She shakes the jar and stares at the dull brown liquid, folds her easel and rolls up her rug. Arms laden, she walks back to the cottage.
Leaving her things on the kitchen table, she heads for the bathroom and cleans herself. She studies her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her blue eyes look dull to her. Too many troubled nights. Her curls need brushing and yet she cannot motivate herself to pick up the brush. How long has she felt like this, hours, days, months or years? She has to remind herself that she doesn’t always feel this way. Some days are blessings. Sometimes lightness comes upon her, sending her dancing through the house and into the garden then she clings to the men she loves as surely as she will push them from her at other, darker, times.
Men, yes plural, my men. One is not enough, not anymore.
Leaving her soiled underwear in the linen basket, she wanders along the hallway and into her bedroom. The plum velvet bedspread wrinkles into valleys and peaks as she sits at the foot of the divan and tries to remember why she came into the room. What is it that I am looking for, a touch, a kiss? Is it hours or years since fingers last sculpted my skin, remaking me, warming and softening my flesh? She responds to the memory of a loving touch. Warm breath tickles her throat. Her breasts ache.
Closing her eyes, she searches her body for an answer, an answer to a question she has forgotten. She tries again with a new question – is this where I belong? The answer confuses her. Yes, no, not yet, soon… sticky warmth returns and she opens her eyes. Her fingers grip cool, brass handles and she tugs at her underwear drawer. Inside a mass of black lace, cotton and silk lies patiently. She holds her hand, palm down, above the selection of underwear then grabs a pair of panties at random and pulls them up over her stocking covered legs. What now? The dishes are clean, the floor swept and vacuumed, the bathroom polished.
The house is quiet, like a breath held. What is it waiting for? What am I waiting for? I have everything. I am free. I can paint all day if I wish. She sighs again. The feelings she expresses in her art confuse her. They are echoes of him, like everything she does now and she yearns to be free.
Chapter 9
Satori sits at a circular table covered in black velvet. At its centre rests a crystal ball, between that and him, a pack of cards. The chairs opposite his are empty. People move around the room, women mostly. He lifts his gaze and smiles at a passing woman. She smiles back.
He has seen ten people already today, each with unique problems, all searching for solutions and guidance. He is their confessor. Their minds open to him and he strolls through their memories. Sometimes those memories linger in his mind long after the customers have paid him and moved on, unwelcome stories to add to his own. He shares their pain, some of it minor, others almost overwhelming: feelings of loss and degradation, confusion and humiliation. He understands. He too has lost. He thought he regained what he lost, but realises he is only fooling himself. Star is not the woman she was. She is more and yet she is less than he hoped. She doesn’t need him. Perhaps she never did.
He thinks of her beauty: her fragile, ivory face, blue eyes full of sadness and regret and her soft lips. He wishes he could make those lips smile, and light her eyes with joy. When she looks at me now, what does she see? He has not lost his looks. Other women’s reactions to his attention assure him of this. When he reaches for Star why does she pull away?
She holds him tightly at times, jealously keeping his cock inside her. Two days every two weeks, it is as though she is a cat on heat. Then when those times pass she walks away from his arms and closes a door on him. He wonders why it isn’t enough and realises that there is no emotion. Her need for him is physical, his need for her spiritual.
His ears still strain to hear her speak of her love for him. He wants to be admired, he wants to be adored. Unlike Star’s, his needs do not rest for two weeks and ignite for two days. He feels used and their lovemaking, if it can be called that, is on her terms only, without love, simply for her gratification, scratching an itch that obsesses her at times and leaves as quickly as it arrives. He wants her always. More than lust, it is a desire to be loved and needed.
His eyes follow a woman around the room. Her red hair bounces on her shoulders and her white shift dress caresses her curves without clinging. She does not turn to face him. She handles crystals at a stall twelve feet away. Perhaps I should join her? Find out what interests her. See her face. As he moves to stand a teenage girl slouches into the chair before him.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hello.’ She fidgets uncomfortably. Her fingers tug at her wavy, mousy hair as her pale eyes dart about the air around him like butterflies, never settling on his face for more than a moment.
‘Would you like me to read the cards for you?’ he asks.
She shakes her head. ‘Would you look at my palm? Tell me whether I’m going to die.’
‘Die?’
‘Soon,’ she says. ‘Will I die soon?’
Satori leans towards her. ‘Let me see your hand.’
He studies the creases and lines that decorate her palm. Her story is told beneath them, within her skin. Her palm is a window, nothing more. Her hand trembles as he holds it.
‘What are you afraid of?’ he asks.
‘Everything,’ she answers.
He looks at her face. Her eyes are focused on the table. He peers through her lashes trying to see her eyes. He looks again at the palm of her hand. The life line is stunted, but that doesn’t have to mean imminent death. More like a pause until her life is re-established.
‘Who is he?’ Satori asks.
She glances up at him then back at the table. Colour rises in her cheeks.
‘She?’ Satori asks.
The girl nods. ‘She’s my best friend, but she’s popular now. I don’t see her. She certainly doesn’t see me, not even when I’m right in front of her.’
‘And you want her to see?’
She nods again and a tear hits the table, exploding on impact. She pulls her hand from him and wipes her face with her sleeve.
‘She will,’ he tells her. ‘She will see. Give her time.’
The girl shakes her head. ‘She doesn’t need me.’
Satori swallows. ‘What we need and what we want are not always the same. Give her time. She’ll see you and you’ll have your answer.’
‘I’m scared of the answer.’
‘Don’t be. Do you want me to tell you what I see, here in your hand?’
She nods.
‘Potential. A life full of potential. You aren’t going to die. Not soon anyway. You’ll live, and she’ll see and be proud of you.’
The girl nods and wipes her face again. ‘Thank you.’ She offers him a note.
He takes the money. It feels wrong. It cheapens him, making his gift feel hollow, but Star’s art doesn’t sell. Their house is full of her paintings yet, in spite of his encouragement, she has never spoken to a gallery or even sold a picture online. She just sits and paints and thinks. What does she think about? What makes her so sad? Why can’t I touch her soul and make her smile.
Chapter 10
Mark looks over his shoulder, but does not stop running. His feet propel him forward with wide strides. His heart pumps blood around his muscles and his lungs drag oxygen from the air. Movement is his medium. He cannot be still, not until he knows he has lost them.
Clothes cling to his b
ody. Rain has plastered his black hair to his olive-skinned face. His green eyes dart around him, afraid of shadows in doorways and scowling faces.
His heartbeat quickens. He has no idea where he is. Have I run this way before? The skip on the corner, did I see that half an hour ago? Am I running in circles? Will they be waiting for me around the next corner?
He tells his legs to stop running and spins around. His eyes search every direction for potential threats. Three men gather near a doorway with a shivering dog. They are talking to each other. One gesticulates wildly about a subject he appears to feel passionate about. The others nod sagely and open their mouths to speak filling the gaps between the roars of their companion’s excited voice. Mark cannot grasp the subject of their conversation, but reassures himself that they are oblivious to his presence. Ten metres or so further along the street, two children kick a football heavily against a stone wall. One boy turns to face Mark, frowns and looks quickly away.
Mark pushes wet hair from his eyes. To his left he sees an open door. It leads into darkness: an abandoned factory or warehouse. Will I be safe in there? Will they find me? Are they waiting within the cold shadows of the room beyond?
He creeps towards the building. One of the three men glances at him, smiles a toothless grin and holds Mark’s gaze. Mark shivers. Is he one of them? The man keeps staring. Mark halts, looking from the man to the doorway then in both directions along the dilapidated terrace. When he looks again towards the men, the two others face him and their grey, weatherworn skins crease as they peer through the drizzle towards him. The dog barks. They know. The dog can sense I am different. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere. That’s the point, isn’t it? If I find her, if she tells me why I’m alone, explains who I am and what I should do then I might be safe. Perhaps she could protect me?
‘Mother,’ he whispers.
With a final glance towards the open door, he turns away and runs, faster this time. At the end of the street he turns left. I didn’t go left last time, did I?
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