Gothic Blue

by Portia Da Costa

  André nodded, his heart pounding far faster than it had ever done in his natural life. He swallowed, full of nerves as Michiko lifted the crystal flask and the weird blue radiance that was all that remained of the woman he loved more than life cast slowly dancing shadows across their bodies.

  André? queried Arabelle, her clear discarnate voice full of happiness. Do not be afraid … Michiko has told me of the hopes you share. Perhaps next time you and I will be together always … And if not, let us take heart from what we are about to share now …

  She was always so calm, so accepting. It made him feel weak sometimes; inadequate because he could not endure his lesser torments with the same grace. But by the same token her equanimity was a solace. He remembered the early days, and her fits of manic uncomprehending terror and raging confusion, and gave thanks that she had matured and found wisdom. In truth, the way she had accepted her fate was a miracle, because never having physically aged, she was effectively still little more than a girl. The same exquisite, innocent, sensual girl he had fallen in love with over two centuries before.

  Michiko put the flickering flask on the bed, then wound the silk ribbon around her wrist and arm in a complicated pattern, leaving one long end of it trailing free. She nodded to the vial, and with fumbling, shivering fingers, André unscrewed the glass lid then very carefully slid the tail of the ribbon into the opening.

  ‘Great Amida,’ intoned Michiko softly, ‘guide the kami of the lady Arabelle into the shell of thy humble servant.’ Crossing her free arm across her torso, she arranged her fingers into a magic symbol and pressed them against her skin, murmuring a low incantation in Japanese. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes tightly, then her lips parted in a tiny yielding gasp.

  André watched for a moment, tense with anticipation, as Michiko’s breathing quickened and a droplet of sweat appeared on her suddenly furrowed brow, then he switched his attention to the vial and the ribbon.

  Slowly, oh so slowly, the blue radiance that was Arabelle began to flow along the pristine white ribbon. Through sheer power of her will, Michiko had banished her own spirit, her kami, to some unknown nirvana, and Arabelle was passing into the vacated body by osmosis.

  When the blue glow was right out of the jar and just about to slide across Michiko via the ribbon, André could observe its progress no longer. This temporary fusion was unpredictable and sometimes didn’t work at all. Lying back and struggling to hope, he closed his eyes. If the process was successful, he wouldn’t open them till it was over.

  ‘André … my love,’ murmured a dear familiar voice in his ear, while a slender, female form lay down beside him.

  ‘Belle! Oh, Belle!’ he gasped, drawing her into his arms and rolling over to kiss her with more power. His eyelids still firmly shut, he seemed to see the woman he was embracing with his inner vision, and every detail of her lovely face was sweetly sacred.

  Arabelle returned his kiss with a quiet, nascent passion that delighted him, pressing her body against his without shame. Even though Michiko, the vessel, was completely naked, as he held Arabelle he seemed to feel the brush of clothing. She had come to him, as she had before on these infrequent occasions, dressed in the gown she had been wearing when he had last seen her – a soft, elegant dress of the palest blue sprigged muslin, bound at the neckline and at the waist with fine blue ribbons. The bodice was low cut, as the fashion had been at that time, and he had a keen, almost painful memory of her allowing him to dip his hand inside her linen and touch her breast. He groaned, recalling the puckered texture of her nipple.

  Just as he received a tactile recollection of Arabelle’s pretty clothing, he also seemed to feel her silky hair; the heavy fall of her cascading auburn ringlets. As a fresh young girl, not yet tainted by the excessive pursuit of fashion, she had mostly worn her hair loose and flowing and only very lightly curled, its glossy thickness a delight to eye and hand. One day, he had made her blush profusely by describing how, when they were man and wife, he would ask her to caress him with her hair – to rub her lustrous satin tresses against his penis. She had laughed and told him he was a wicked man to corrupt her with such an outré suggestion, but later, when he was touching her, and she was sobbing with pleasure, she had promised him he would eventually have his wish.

  Too late now, he thought, feeling a little wistful as her firm, sweet lips parted under his. There were limits to how far illusion would stretch.

  ‘Do not be sad, André,’ she whispered, as if she, or Michiko, had sensed the thought. ‘Let me make love to you.’ Her quiet, vibrant voice was filled with humour. ‘You will be surprised how much dear Michiko has taught me.’

  Gentle fingers slid down over his chest, spreading deftly to create a flat caress, then closing to catch his nipple and carefully tweak it.

  The sensation was so intense that André murmured, his head tossing against the pillow, his body arching. Because he loved her, even so slight a thing could thrill him.

  Arabelle laughed, the husky impish chuckle that had always meant ‘beware’ because she had some further naughty trick laid in store for him. Pressing her slim thigh between his legs, she massaged his erect penis with the textured muslin of her skirt, pinching his teat in the same relentless rhythm.

  ‘My lady, have a care,’ he gasped, clasping her closer and locking his legs around the one that rubbed against him, ‘or I will soil your handsome gown.’

  ‘Who cares about gowns,’ she answered, continuing to roll and jerk, her lips opening like rose petals against his throat.

  ‘Minx,’ he whispered, making her stop her gyrations by gripping the lobes of her bottom. How firm and trim and rounded they felt in his hands – sheer perfection! Tightening his hold on her, he quickly turned the tables and rocked her thinly-covered sex against his hip.

  After a moment or two of this, Belle went deliciously limp against him, her slender shape as pliant as a reed. Her arms slid around him and he felt her panting, her breath cool and sweet, her mouth just an inch from his ear. ‘Oh André,’ she breathed, her pleasure evident not only in the beautiful malleability of her body but in the unguarded message he received directly from her soul. Her whole ethereal being was ablaze with love and wonder, an emotional wavefront that stunned him to silent awe. He would do anything to make her happy, he realised, and in any way. He would risk any risk and take any chance, regardless of any perils that path incurred.

  An instant later, he forgot danger, he forgot the odds against success and he forgot all the moral considerations that plagued him. Uncoiling her right arm from around him, Arabelle walked her fingers down his belly, the steps as light and tiny as those of some mythic fairy, until her fingerpads were resting on his penis, just touching the root of it through his flossy pubic hair.

  Moaning, he surged against her, pressing his hard length into the billows of her skirt. Her lips were at his throat again, kissing softly, whispering and encouraging, while below, her fingers curved around his shaft, gripping firmly with the exact pressure that he craved.

  ‘My darling, my darling,’ he chanted, as that snug grip began to move smoothly on him. Up and down, up and down, sliding the mobile skin over the iron-hard inner core. Stretching; pumping; tantalisingly gloving, twisting and teasing, his virgin beloved used a whore’s skill upon his flesh.

  ‘Oh God help me!’ he cried out hoarsely, as his penis leapt and juddered and his spinal column seemed to melt and turn to fire. Collapsing backwards among the sheets and covers, he held his lover close, knowing that even as he climaxed, she was receding from him.

  ‘Oh, Belle,’ he whispered, as her essence fluttered and shook like a guttering candle flame, and he felt the woman he was embracing twist and struggle. She was Michiko again now, reaching out for the crystal vial that lay beside her, guiding her discarnate friend towards the safety of containment.

  ‘I am so sorry, my lord,’ she said after a moment, and André realised he was sobbing like an infant.

  They had been so close, he and
Arabelle, but under these conditions their joy could never be more than fleeting. Michiko was an accomplished sorceress, full of sympathy and power, and using her mental skills she could temporarily be a vessel. Fundamentally however, she was incompatible with Arabelle, and even her greatest efforts couldn’t furnish what they needed.

  As he snuggled into Michiko’s jasmine-scented embrace, he thought again of another woman who was within his orbit.

  Belinda Seward – who was compatible, and who could, if she were willing and brave enough, sustain Belle’s essence through the erotic ritual of release.

  But would she help them? he pondered, his hand moving automatically over Michiko’s satiny back. Would Belinda risk her very life for two people she hardly knew?

  You can only ask her, said his Japanese lover, her voice clear and assertive inside his mind. ‘And you must ask her,’ she reiterated – as if for emphasis – by forming the words with her perfect rose-hued lips. ‘You must ask her soon before it suddenly becomes too late. We both know there is only a limited period in which to act.’

  He knew it only too well. It was only a matter of time before his revived state was detected – and the pursuit that never ended resumed again. ‘You are right, my friend. As always,’ whispered André, touching Michiko’s brilliant coiffure and remembering certain long, black tresses that he had once had the misfortune to handle – a fall of hair that was not that of his faithful Japanese ally.

  Neither one of them named the danger they feared was coming.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Perils and Pleasures

  ‘TELL ME ABOUT Arabelle,’ demanded Belinda of her exotic and eye-catching new acquaintance. ‘How can she live like that? Without a body?’

  She and Michiko were strolling in the garden after dinner, and though the night was warm, their conversation had made her shudder. Michiko had told her all the things that André couldn’t. ‘And you said there were dangers. What dangers? To whom? To André? To Arabelle? To me?’

  Now she knew his secret, Belinda could understand her host’s strange reticence. André needed her to escape. Only she could help him leave a life she had already sensed was purgatory for him; and only through her could he take his best beloved with him.

  ‘One thing at a time,’ said the beautiful Japanese softly, slipping her arm through Belinda’s as they wandered along the path. The touch of her bare skin was cool, as André’s was, the sure hallmark of a being more than human. ‘Arabelle is a discarnate spirit. When she was drugged and killed by the black witch Isidora, the life force was teased out of her, along a silken filament, and trapped inside a crystal vial.’ The orange-haired woman spoke calmly and reasonably, as if such things were commonplace. ‘And once she was sequestered inside the vial, Isidora destroyed her body so she could never return to it.’ Michiko paused and turned, her near-black eyes glittering with anger. ‘Her beautiful body burned to ashes … to bones and dust. And all so that foul creature could indulge her evil passions and have André to herself for ever.’

  ‘But André told me that he wasn’t actually immortal … just very long-lived.’

  Michiko released Belinda’s arm, then took her firmly by the shoulders. The Japanese woman’s eyes were as glossy as chips of onyx. ‘The spell was never completed, which is one of the reasons why Isidora pursues him.’ Strong thumbs dug into Belinda’s naked upper arms. ‘She created a bond with André. Linked their fates. If he achieves his goal – if he dies – then Isidora can no longer live either.’

  ‘I see,’ said Belinda, knowing she didn’t – properly – see at all.

  ‘You see a little of it,’ countered Michiko, a smile softening her fierce samurai face.

  Belinda couldn’t speak. Michiko’s momentary gentleness was far more affecting than her dominant persona, and it spoke to something in Belinda that was new-born and unsure of itself. She found Michiko intriguing, a little frightening, and quite stunningly beautiful. It was strange to feel desire again, after all that had been revealed to her within the last hour, but she felt a strong urge to touch the Japanese woman – to repeat what she had learnt from Feltris and Elisa.

  She became aware that Michiko was studying her closely – a new look in her dark, upslanted eyes.

  ‘You have questions?’ she enquired of Belinda, cocking her luridly-coiffed head to one side. Questions about me, little one, she seemed to add, confusing Belinda completely because the words were audible but Michiko’s lips had remained still.

  Can you read my mind? thought Belinda, concentrating earnestly on the phrase, so much so that she felt the muscles of her face tense painfully.

  ‘Yes, I can,’ answered Michiko, her smile broadening, ‘but if you don’t like it, I can stop.’ The fingers that gripped Belinda’s bare arms released a little of their pressure, and the hold seemed to take on a more subtle quality.

  Something about the Japanese woman seemed to dare Belinda to accept the challenge of mental communication, but she still felt slightly afraid to rise to it. Michiko was powerful, frightening. She induced in Belinda a peculiar sensation that was vaguely reminiscent of being a child cowering before a stern, omnipotent teacher – and yet not like it at all. It was fear, it was awe, and it was excitement. A physical thrill that was completely sexual in its content. She had experienced something of the feeling with André – a need to obey and to be controlled – but his haunted aura had somewhat softened its effect.

  ‘I –’ Belinda began, then faltered. Michiko’s look, and her touch, seemed to be making weakness steal up through her. She felt her knees almost buckle and she swayed in the Japanese woman’s hold. She was also aware that her body was betraying her in other ways. Her nipples were hard points beneath the thin bias-cut satin dress she had been left to wear – she suspected it was a thirties nightdress rather than a real evening gown – and she could feel a tell-tale flush seeping up across her chest and throat.

  ‘Ask your questions, Belinda,’ commanded Michiko, her tone like a sheathed blade. ‘I have nothing to hide from you.’ For the moment, she seemed to have forgotten about telepathy.

  ‘Are … are you like André?’ Belinda asked, still conscious of her vulnerability. Her dress was revealing, the off-white satin poured over her shape like fluid, without underwear beneath to give even a semblance of protection. In contrast, Michiko was clothed in leather, which only reinforced her personal supremacy; narrow trousers and a waistcoat in a fine hide the colour of gun-metal, worn with soft, unstructured boots in the same grey shade. Around her neck was a brushed-steel pendant, suspended from a white cord, in the shape of an indecipherable ideogram.

  ‘In some ways,’ she said, answering Belinda’s question, ‘only my longevity derives from a different source.’ She looked thoughtful, almost amused. ‘A bargain with certain gods. A twist in the laws of reincarnation, you might say. I am allowed to retain the same body, and my belief is what sustains my state of youth.’

  ‘Not sex then,’ Belinda blurted out without thinking.

  Michiko laughed loudly, her slanted eyes crinkling, then she kissed Belinda full on the mouth.

  ‘No, not sex!’ she said after a moment. ‘I enjoy it, but I do not need it to survive.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Belinda, feeling vaguely crestfallen. She ran her tongue across the print of Michiko’s lips.

  ‘Are you disappointed?’ the Japanese enquired, loosening her grip, then sliding an arm around Belinda’s waist and encouraging her to continue along the path. It felt just as if they were a pair of lovers out strolling, the male suitor guiding his mate towards seclusion. ‘Were you hoping that I was desperately in need of sexual stimulation, and that you were my next intended victim?’

  Uncannily, that was exactly what Belinda had been hoping, and the words crystallised her muddled yearnings. She saw now that since she had first encountered André’s Japanese friend in the library, where they had gathered for a pre-dinner drink, she had been wondering about the body beneath the leather. Wondering about it, wanting
to explore it and caress it; and wanting to give herself to Michiko in return.

  Are you still reading my thoughts? she asked silently.

  You never actually said I shouldn’t, came the reply, projected into her mind by Michiko’s.

  ‘Then you know what I feel,’ Belinda said, swallowing. She was aware that her whole face and throat were pink now.

  Michiko nodded. ‘Come! I know a place which will serve our needs perfectly.’

  It’s too late, thought Belinda, as her new friend hurried her along the path, through the overgrown rose garden with its almost narcotic odour of night-scented blooms, and in the direction of the building she had noted earlier. The dilapidated shell of the almost ruined chapel.

  As they stood in the porch and Michiko tackled the massive door with its rusted hinges, Belinda was unable to control a jumble of mental pictures. Herself, being fondled and made love to by Elisa and Feltris; herself, being exposed and studied by André, her buttocks naked to the night air of the terrace as she experienced disappointment when he didn’t smack her bottom; herself, in a new scene, one that at first seemed unknown, then suddenly became familiar. She was kneeling awkwardly, with her bottom raised and completely bare, while an unknown figure stood threateningly behind her. Belinda realised that she was seeing a representation of her fantasy, the one in which, like some kind of latter-day Alice, she had fallen into the pages of a book and been a submissive who was about to take a beating. As the image grew in detail, the figure behind her raised its hand, ready to bring it down again with raw and stinging force. The figure turned and showed familiar almond eyes –

  As Belinda gasped in recognition, Michiko swung open the chapel door, then whirled to face her. The Japanese woman’s smile was oblique and knowing – and Belinda acknowledged the source of the final image.

  ‘A preference of mine,’ Michiko said, her voice smooth, ‘and a fantasy I perceived in you when I first saw you.’ Her eyes narrowed for a moment, became quintessentially inscrutable and Oriental, then she turned and led the way into the chapel. Belinda followed, watching her companion’s boyish bottom sway.