“Very impressive, Marquise.” I looked the fairytale castle up and down. “White marble?”
“If you call me Marquise once more, I shall rip out your tongue,” she hissed. “And no, it is actually polished ivory.”
“That's an awful lot of elephants to have perished for one's pleasure.”
“Always the joker! Anyway, I'm a little sick of the sight of it, in truth. I may have it remade in jade. I think that should look sufficiently different to the norm.”
“Is there such a thing?” I replied.
She just sneered and led me onto a moving stairway; a lazy entrance to a lazy life that somewhat distracted from the overall effect of the place. A barrage of servants appeared as if from nowhere, relieved the Marquise of her excess outerwear, then bade a hasty retreat.
“I see you still rule your home with an iron fist, Mar… Portia.”
“There is no other way, Jean. I work on the principle that if I treat everybody with the same lack of respect, those that deserve it will get the message, whilst those that don't will at best complain.” The accompanying fanged smirk did nothing to encourage my acknowledgement of her methods. Not that it was asked for.
“May I ask where we are headed at this time of oncoming daylight?” I enquired, with as much disinterest as I could muster.
“Why, the view of course. You didn't think I had this castle built especially for the sentimental value, did you?”
“I was under the impression your husband was the one who'd had it built.”
“He likes to think so, Jean. But, we all know men have no real ideas of their own.”
I had a sudden desire to strike Portia's head from her arrogant shoulders. The Marquise shuddered as the thought showed in the flash of my eyes. But, as her standing decreed, she soon recovered, and continued her tottering passage through the brilliant white halls of her home. I walked behind and to the right of her mostly so that I didn't have to look at her face, I was already quite bored with her, also so she was dawn side of me. I much preferred the Marquise to experience the sun first if it appeared during her showing off.
After a seemingly endless walk of which I even started to whistle to communicate my boredom, the Marquise stood before a pair of the longest, red-velvet curtains I'd ever seen. She paused, licked her lips, and then threw the drapes aside with a flourish.
The reflex to pull back from my feared doom was hard to resist, but I presumed even as big an imbecile as the Marquise would neglect to kill herself off so readily, so stood my ground. I think she was impressed to see me there, when others would, and probably had, fled.
“So?”
“So what?” I replied, not wishing to add to her delusions of grandeur.
“Is it not the most beautiful sight?” She pointed across a valley of staggering depth to something in the distance.
I stepped closer, trying to retain my nonchalant air, but couldn't help letting my inquisitive side show. There was a palace of sorts, difficult to be certain of, but something ancient and rather spectacular. Of that fact, I was sure.
“It is Shangri-La, Jean, I've had it moved here. I knew you'd appreciate its majesty.”
I shook my head in disgust, turned my back to the pompous fool, and made my way up to the bedchambers. It would be a long day before I could be rid of the woman.
Chapter Two
-
Confused
I unlocked the Marquise's elaborate coffin, a throwback to an ancient past, although necessary, stretched and then stepped out into the soothing comfort of darkness. The ornate lock was positioned on the inside cavity, a particularly clever touch, if unneeded, which prevented me locking the infuriating woman inside. Instead, I settled for stealth and closed the lid in silence. I didn't expect the Marquise to awaken anytime soon, but had no inclination to take the risk. I'd always been an early riser, or was it late, either way, I vacated her most private place.
The woman, though tedious, did possess style. The sheer gigantic nature of the coffin, easily big enough to hold a double bed with room for movement, showed she was not all idiocy, just mostly.
Like all our kind, instinct decreed when the sun had set. But, I still peeped around the heavy, velour curtains with a degree of trepidation. Evening had come.
The Marquise slept with her windows thrown open and I savoured the mountain air it was so much fresher, so less clouded by stagnation and death at such heights than at ground level. In some respects, I wished I could have remained, but I knew it should bore me after…well, straightaway.
I collected my clothes from where I'd tossed them and was about to set off in pursuit of blood when the coffin lid hinged open and the Marquise rose from her bed.
“Leaving so soon?”
“Well, despite the fact you haven't revealed the whereabouts of the Marquis, I was off in pursuit of a drink.”
“Are you so desperate for it?” she said, whilst stifling a yawn.
Her lack of modesty disgusted me, as she sauntered her overly curvy way towards me. “Yes, I haven't feasted since…” I curtailed my explanation of when I last drank. “I can't remember when, actually. Long enough though.”
“Well, I shall come too. I think I'd best keep my eye on you. I wouldn't want you to stumble into my husband. It could end badly for him and I do so enjoy his wealth.”
I turned away before she could see how I despised her, and walked off with purpose, whilst she shouted and blustered in her attempts to dress.
By the time she caught up, I had already sniffed out the plasma supply and found a rather fine crystal glass to pour it into; false blood always tasted so much better from a quality drinking utensil. The Marquise attempted to look unflustered by my attitude as she ungracefully glided into the room. The fact her skirts flapped behind her like peacock feathers in a breeze showed that in truth she had rushed. Probably afraid I would leave her to her own devices.
“I see you found it, Jean.”
“Indeed. Would you like some?” I offered her a glass which she took and attempted to drink without the blood staining her face: she failed miserably. How our ancient forbearers would have despaired if they could have seen us drinking that way.
“Shall you accompany me to the Comte de Burgundy's Halloween Ball?” The Marquise batted eyelashes piled with clots of mascara.
“I wasn't aware he was having one.”
“He's having them all week. Some sort of ongoing celebration for someone or other.”
“Doesn't he always?”
“This particular one is Halloween themed.”
“It was All Hallows' over a month ago, at least, I think it was? I lose track of time and the old celebrations.”
The Marquise leant in close, or as close as her bustle allowed, and whispered, “It's just an excuse to dress up. I'm going as a wicked witch. What shall you be going as?”
“Why, me of course!”
* * *
The return journey to the Comte's palace passed without event. I was in no mood for the Marquise's attentions. Her obstinate refusal to explain her husband's whereabouts only further annoyed.
I contented myself in watching the desolate mountains slip past the carriage windows as we descended from whatever great height we had formerly risen. The repositioning of the Marquise's home without prior consultation had been most unwelcome. It really was bad manners!
“Oh, Jean, you're such a sourpuss. What's going on in that marvellous mind of yours? Why must you always be so troubled?”
“I like to be troubled. Somebody has to make the effort.”
“That's just the point, dear boy, nobody has to make the effort.”
By reflex, I balled my fists at her whining, causing my black, leather gloves to creak in pain. If the Marquise noticed, she didn't let it show, instead, choosing to stare out of the opposite window in statuesque fashion. I didn't care, I had the better view.
After an inordinate amount of wasted time we reached the flat of the land and I, at last, looked upon my
hostess. She noticed immediately.
“I knew you couldn't stay mad at me for long. You've being itching to look at my costume, haven't you?”
I looked her up and down once, then again. “I didn't realise you were wearing one.”
“Oh, ha, ha, funny man!” The Marquise pouted from behind her pointy nosed mask. “I shall be the belle of the ball. All shall bow before the magnificence of my outfit. Look, I even have a broom.”
“I thought you off to do some cleaning.”
“I haven't spent the last several thousand years not cleaning to suddenly do so.” She snorted like a pig and folded her arms across her ample bosom.
“I'd no idea you were so old?” I said, in a purposeful effort to annoy and hopefully be thrown from the carriage. Sadly, it did not work. She actually found it funny and giggled like a little girl.
“Oh, Jean, you are naughty. You know very well that everyone shall have their eyes on me. Does it make you feel special to know you are my chosen Eternal? I expect Princess Charlotte will be seething when she finds out.”
“It's Chantelle, and she shan't be bothered in the least.”
“Are you so sure?”
“Very.”
“Hmm, we'll see?”
I had an irresistible urge to explain exactly why she wouldn't, but didn't.
With a great sense of personal relief, we passed the gargoyle crowned entrance gates of the Comte's grand driveway. As with all of his kind it was unnecessarily long. A compensatory measure according to a mutual female acquaintance. By the time we reached the palace entrance, I was quite beside myself with loathing for the wicked witch of the Rhineland. So, hoping to lose her, I jumped out of the carriage before it drew to a halt. I was about to rush up the marble stairs when a ghost accosted me.
“And where do you think you're scurrying off to?”
“I was desperate for the latrine if you must know, Merryweather.” Nobody else had such a whining voice as he. Even with a large, white sheet draped over him with nothing but two eyeholes cut out of it, he was instantly recognisable.
“You're always but always in need of toiletry facilities. Do I unnerve you, Jean?”
“It would be polite of me to say no, but I'm not known for my manners, am I?”
“Touché. At last, amidst all this decadence, I have met a man of interest.”
“Stop being so melodramatic, Walter, you've known me for centuries.”
“Have I, Jean? Have I?” Merryweather made a mock bow, the sheet riding up to show his choice of red-velvet garb this evening instead of his usual green, then scooted off up the stairs as the wicked witch exited the carriage.
“Who were you talking to, Jean?”
“I'm not sure, some spectre from the past.”
The Marquise was oblivious to my answer as her eyes scanned the hordes of guests. Like a plague of multicoloured locusts the palace was infested with the undead elite.
“Come on,” she said, taking a firm hold of my proffered arm. The Marquise fairly dragged me up the staircase, whilst waving her broom to all and sundry.
We entered the palace and joined the throng of people who pushed and shoved their ways along the main corridor. Such an array of costumes and facial masks was there that I alone remained revealed to the masses.
Wondering what on earth I'd got myself into, I used my lack of disguise to reveal my exact feelings at the logjam. Reversing the Marquise's dragging hold, I growled and sneered our way through the masses until we stood before the ballroom doors. Not giving the panting witch chance to settle, a quick scowl to the guards and we were in.
I felt the Marquise's talon-like nails dig into my arm. The pressure grew through the black leather of my ankle length coat. It did not take a costume specialist to see she, and her wicked witch alter ego, had been well and truly outclassed. A veritable cornucopia of mythological, and somewhat more dubious looking creatures, paraded around the room.
“I am not a happy woman,” growled the Marquise under her breath, just as some sort of faerie glided over to us in a shimmering mirage of a dress.
“Good evening, Jean,” she breathed.
“Good evening,” I replied, without any idea as to whom I addressed.
“Good evening, Portia.”
Her words were like cherry blossom twirling in a midnight breeze, soft and exotic. The faerie bowed, her slivered eye openings the only compromise in protecting her desired anonymity.
“How did you know it was me?” spat the Marquise.
“Your accessories,” grinned the faerie emerald eyes blazing from behind her ornate mask.
The Marquise looked to her broom, and then realising her stupidity, to me. I could feel the burn from beneath her masked face. Particularly impressive it was too for a stone-cold undead.
“I think I shall mingle for a while. If neither of you object that is?”
I bowed to the Marquise as she jostled past the faerie into the milling crowd.
“Ah, I have you all to myself. Would you like some air?” the faerie inquired.
“Thank God,” I replied. “I thought I was stuck here for good.”
I sensed a smile behind the kaleidoscopic mask and allowed myself to be drawn from the petting zoo. This should have been an awkward task due to the general melee of frolicking partygoers, but the crowds backed away as though we were lepers. I put it down to being generally disliked by all bar a few of the Hierarchy that frequented such gatherings.
I'd never set out to endear myself to anybody that I didn't like and felt even less reason to do so for those I did. I was what I was, went where I went, and did what I did. But that didn't change the fact I was more than a little perturbed by just how much of a cold shoulder I was shown.
I said nothing to my mystery guide, as she breezed through the ensemble towing me in her elegant wake. She led us from the ballroom, which I noted had a new ceiling depicting pagan times, devils and all, very appropriate to the occasion, and out onto the same balcony of my former misadventure. The faerie glided over to the railings, where she stopped and stared out into the darkness. Partial darkness would have been more accurate thanks to the random bonfires that burned for no seeming purpose all around the grounds. Someone had decided on varicoloured flames, which I felt most unnecessary. The whole effect was, as usual, spectacular, and totally pointless.
My companion gazed towards the Danube for many minutes. I knew that for a certainty as I gazed at her magnificent form for equal length. She may have sensed my lascivious eye upon her, as she eventually turned and tucked her great, lace wings into her arching back. She was of quite staggeringly good stock. The moulding of the dress over her luxurious frame only enhanced her physical appeal although I wondered what lay beneath the mask more so.
“I like your costume,” I blurted.
“Why, thank you,” she said after a slight pause.
“I think you may have every chance of winning the best dressed. I've no reason to doubt there'll be one, as there always is.” I rolled my eyes with exasperation.
“I will win it,” she said, very matter-of-fact for a woman of such obvious good taste.
“You're very confident,” I replied.
“Well, I will. It's all arranged.” I felt quite the co-conspirator as she touched her mask's elongated beak.
“By whom?”
“My father.”
“The Comte!” I fairly choked. “I didn't know he had any daughters.”
She laughed out loud at this seemingly ludicrous statement and lent out into the cool night air. Her actions made me imagine a time where so beautiful a creature's breath would have danced in the chill air. However, those times had long since passed. No earthly resident had warm breath anymore and hadn't had for centuries. But one could still imagine.
I was about to say more when the house orchestra struck up the tones of Night on Bald Mountain.
“Oh, no, not Mussorgsky!” she all but yelled. Let's get out of here. And before I had chance to argue, she'd hop
ped over the rails and vanished down the grounds. A quick look back to the revelry, and then I followed. I'd have loved to say we went unnoticed, but a myriad pairs of eyes were well and truly upon us, or rather me.
I landed to one side of a gorse bush and noted to look first next time, then made hasty pursuit after the winsome creature. She had alighted on the riverbank and was watching the undulating waters chug past.
“You never said how the Comte had fixed your triumph?” I breezed.
“Comte! That idiot couldn't arrange his own socks onto his feet never mind my so-called costumed triumph.”
“I see, so you aren't the Comte's daughter then. May I ask who has arranged your impending victory?”
“King Rudolph, of course.”
I wasn't a man prone to irrational outbursts but the desire to scream almost overcame me. How had Chantelle survived my bite, and why was she acting so sweet after I'd manhandled her to a Danube burial? My fangs chattered against my lower teeth. For once in my life, I had no idea what to do or say.
“Hello, one and all,” came the last voice I wished to hear.
“Hello back,” returned the faerie. She was coolness personified for someone who I'd not long since tried to dispose of.
“Merryweather,” I grumbled. “What do you want?”
“Well, I was thinking of haunting you both but decided it was too tedious. It's easier to just chat.” With a flourish, the ghost drifted past a line of imitation rhododendron bushes and removed its sheet covering to reveal the blond haired idiot that was Sir Walter Merryweather. “Good God, Jean, you look like you've seen a ghost!”
I remained impassive as Merryweather struck up an immediate accord with the figure he simply called his darling faerie. Simmering to one side, I fought back the urge to kill, once and for all, the pair of them. Particularly Merryweather though, I would hasten to add.
The Eternals Page 2