A Dyad in Time

by D. D. Prideaux

“Why are you here?” Xiang croaked out of the quiet, bringing all their minds back to the now.

  “A terrible force has returned to our world, but no one knows how to defeat her. We were hoping to find some answers here.” Khar said, his response taking him back to the vision he had of her birth into this world. Extreme terror gripped him more than it had done before as he brushed past the filthiness of the event to see into her non-eyes. The black tar, the blood, the tearing and wrenching, the maggots and detritus were nothing compared to looking into the depthless pits of those eyes. He thought he had seen death. What it would look like when it came for him in the endless sleep and he feared it.

  “How can I help?” The Chinese man said fearlessly.

  “You can’t.” K’Chool said turning to Khar, seeing him lost in thought. “We need to take him back to the Monastery. Immediately.”

  Khar perked up at this, being dragged away from the pits of The Thousand Curses’ eyes. “There you go again, being all Sojela. The circumstances call for more creative thinking, Weyaal.” He said in his best impression of Cleric Mo. “There’s no harm in Xiang helping us find what we need, is there? We could use the extra pair of hands for a bit and if we get nowhere, we can take him back for judgement.” He turned and winked at the Naïve with the eye K'Chool couldn’t quite see.

  “Fine. Let’s be clear though. He is your responsibility-” She thrust an accusatory finger towards Khar’s chest, making it very clear, again, who would take the heat, should it come to that, “-and you can explain this to The Master himself when we get back.”

  At this, Khar stood up, placed one hand behind his back and one on his stomach before bowing as deeply as possible towards K'Chool. “By your will, Hältia. I am but your humble Pavleja.” He smirked to himself.

  “Don’t give me that, master nonsense, Weyaal.” A hint of a smile appearing on her face.

  “By your will.” He repeated before standing straight and clapping his hands together. The sound echoing through the halls and burned remnants of the building. “Where shall we start?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - COINS

  Christophe was worried about Rosalind. The questions from when he carried her back to the car for a second time rattled around his brain, grating on him. Like coins in a jar they made sharp noises. Wince inducing noises. He could feel his face contort as he thought hard about her actions and how his life had changed so dramatically these last few days. Every time he took the elevator back to the suite he worried about what he may find. Another bloodbath? Her weak and dying form laid on the sofa? Dreeoth strapped into the chair? He cared for his Pavleja more than he liked to admit. They’d been through a lot before Rosalind had returned, let alone what they were going through now. The faithful servant had obediently taken on his new charge of caring for Rosalind in her weakened state, running errands and keeping him informed of any changes in her condition.

  He braced himself as the elevator chimed, signalling that he had arrived. Thankfully he didn’t have to pick his way over to his love through bits of Naïves scattered across his floor. Bleach had done an incredible job, as he always did, leaving no trace of the war zone he was summoned the remedy and having neatly packaged up any intact body parts to one side, as requested. Christophe felt he’d need the man’s services again and was thankful to find another business card on the counter when he at last, returned home. The card sat there innocently, on a pristine counter top, the white card with his name clearly printed on it a shining example of how clean a condition the room was now in. He felt as if here about to be fooled though, or tricked, like something was waiting around the corner to surprise him. When coming home recently, he’d found unwelcome oddities strewn about the place more often than he cared for. His instincts were right as his eyes landed on a strange scene near the steel room and kitchen area, but out of direct sight from the windows. At least she is becoming more discreet he thought. There was some semblance of logic buried in that mind.

  Bleach had very neatly placed all the body parts in gift boxes for their return from the alley, skin of every colour cleaned and placed into the appropriate sized box, nestled in purple tissue paper. The blinding white boxes contrasted the dark and complex colours inside them, initially catching Christophe by surprise, yet that seemed normal, compared to what he saw now. Each limb, and a head trapped in a strange expression, was standing up, completely straight and rigid, the exposed joints where they’d been severed from the body still cradled by the purple tissue paper. Stacked in a strange tiered system it looked like a grotesque set of stalagmites, smaller limbs on top, larger ones near the bottom and the head the crowning glory in the middle of the perverted display. When Christophe looked closer, they all had a strange symbol on them and they looked out of focus. He blinked away some wetness in his eyes to try and see better, thinking it was a trick of light or he just needed to look a bit harder. No good. He couldn’t make out the symbol because the limbs were phasing in and out of reality, flickering between rotting flesh, to healthy, to slightly different positions. They weren’t out of focus either, her realised. They were vibrating so fast it looked like they were out of focus. It made him feel sick, the dull humming that came from them adding to the effect, with dizziness joining the ensemble of ill feelings inside him.

  He turned from the swelling, trembling unnaturalness towards the TV. One hand on the kitchen island, he stood up straighter and targeted the TV with his attention. He heard it when he came in, some mainstream news reporter going over the day’s headlines, but he paid no attention. He never paid attention to the news. One thing that being very old had taught him, was that no good thing came from the news. Having used the woman on the screen to refocus him from the shuddering, squelching noises behind him, he went to turn for the steel room, knowing that was where he’d find Rosalind.

  “Finally, a special report from our medical correspondent, Jennie Lockhart, on the Flu season that has arrived.” The anchor turned to the side, talking to another woman on the other side of the studio. “A little early for Flu isn’t it, and especially one that’s having such a large impact so quickly?” The anchor-woman was cheerily asking the question, undermining the seriousness of the statement from her colleague.

  “Thanks Erika.” Jennie turned from the co-host back to the camera to deliver her report with the sincere tone it deserved. “According to the most recent numbers from the Centre of Disease Control, every region is reporting widespread influenza activity, up by nearly two hundred percent compared to the same time last year. I spoke to a specialist earlier today who said they have not seen such a potent, and rapidly evolving, strain of Flu since records began. He did however, urge the public not to panic, but to take extra precautions against this particularly nasty outbreak. Check your local health websites and our homepage to get some helpful information and also stay tuned for a special report on the epidemic later tonight-” Christophe stopped watching and marched towards the steel room, Rosalind coming into view.

  “Is the flu epidemic really necessary, Äsheenie?” He was careful not to directly challenge her based on her recent behaviour, but he couldn’t take all of the sting out of his words. Regretting his lack of composure, he prepared for the verbal lashing he was about to get. It never came.

  “We need more power for what’s next.” Her voice was delicate and caring as she turned to face him. Surelikai she looked good. She had favoured her more natural form rather than the black toothed feral thing she had worn since he found her initially. Christophe waited, the silence enough for her to answer the question.

  “We need others-” Her head nodded towards the purple, white and mixed flesh coloured pile of body parts in the kitchen. “-and I need a bodyguard.” Her slender and graceful arm motioned towards something in the corner of the steel room. The man that Dreeoth had carried to the car yesterday was now standing there, naked and staring lovingly at Rosalind, completely unaware that Christophe was even there. He was acting in the same way as the pile in the other room,
shifting, changing, morphing at unbelievable speed. One moment he was passive and peaceful, the next, a silent scream formed on his face, veins popping out of his head. Sometimes whole, sometimes decaying, always reverberating in and out of view. His skin wouldn’t stop moving, bones protruding then retracting, hair sprouting then moulting, muscles bulging then withering, nails growing into claws then flattening to normal.

  “We started the Naïve illness so that we could syphon their life force to here. To help us, Äsheenie.” She had taken a few steps towards Christophe and was now holding his hands in hers as gentle as feathers on a light breeze. She’d been thinking long and hard after coming face to face with Eve. She knew she needed help. She knew she needed Christophe and quelling her annoyance at having to depend on him was quite the conversation between the three of them. As always, the Diplomat was trying to provide a more even-handed viewpoint to the discussion with the The Rage and The Mistress reacting poorly, the former with indecency and the latter with a little more grace. She was glad no one had seen that exchange. Glad of the quiet so she could think straight and try to listen to her book.

  “We are sorry.” She said looking directly into his eyes for the first time since she had returned. “We. I.” She said with some effort. “Have been irrational, acting without thought or consequence. Ever since parting from Eve I’ve been struggling to master myself. I know that it’s been hard for you and I realise the error of my ways.” The hand she placed on his cheek was warm, very different to what he’d felt before. She loved Christophe, but not like her previous love, this love was different. She welcomed it, having only ever wanted to be loved herself and the book in her other hand whispered something out of earshot that she liked.

  Christophe could see the change in her eyes and how she moved. It was like she had made a decision and wanted to follow through on it before she changed her mind. He saw the old Rosalind. Not the predator or the feeder. Not that chaotic force that he fell for all those years ago. It wasn’t even the chaotic parts of her he liked back then. All they did was entertain them in the boredom of long life. He saw the woman, vulnerable and strong. Lost and driven. Careful and carefree. When her lips touched his, all the coins that rattled around in his head disappeared. Spent on happy memories and food for the soul. He forgot everything in that moment, focusing on how close she was, how warm her skin was. Her body melted into his, filling up the spaces time had put between them, taking up the space that the horrors of the last week had created.

  Things pushed and pulled then. The world froze as two people came together after too long. They tore and caressed each other. They playfully bit and kissed untouched and unseen areas, taking their time to rediscover themselves and their misplaced hearts. They exchanged hot breaths, eager to feel one another, wanting to be closer than their bodies would let them. Time passed, or it didn’t. For them, the moment was too brief and felt like an eternity. They didn’t want it to end but when it did, they were content with the fleeting moments of happiness they’d just experienced. Satisfied.

  Lying in bed, chests slowly moving in time with each other, Christophe looked over to take in every detail of Rosalind. He didn’t know how long he had, fearing that events would escalate, and this may be their only chance to be as they were. Really see each other like this. Light danced across her skin, dust particles drifting in and out of focus. He drank in the curves, the angles, the softness, the harshness. He knew he was completely at her mercy now, his defences lost to the attrition of the charms he wanted to see in her. The coins could rattle someone else's brain for a while, all that mattered was her. Keeping her safe. Helping her do what she needed. He’d start another ten flu outbreaks or steal away hundreds of subjects in the night for her. He'd kill, he’d maim, he’d destroy and manipulate. He’d walk to both ends of both worlds for her. He would crawl. If he had to, he’d even die for her.

  “This curse that Eve has put on me will be my end if we are not careful.” Rosalind had turned her head, so they could see into each other’s souls, wanting to reveal secrets. She really had changed Christophe thought. That look was still there, even after the sex.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s always there. I can feel it.” She clenched her fist in front of her perfect chest, her skin elegantly stretched over her supple form. “If I did nothing, it would show me to the endless sleep.”

  “Is that why you keep the woman out there, like that?” Some distaste appeared in his mouth at what else he’d seen. Fresh coins threatened to be dropped into the jar as he recalled the woman in the chair. Even though he’d only glanced at her, the image rooted itself in his brain like a great redwood. When thinking on it now, extreme details were easy to pick out and shone brightly in his mind. In his long years, he hadn’t seen something so torturous and loving at the same time. Her arms and legs were well proportioned with the rest of her body and had been skinned, but not entirely. Neat lines of her pale flesh would reveal muscles, fat and bone, like a strange drawing of anatomy. It didn’t seem real. Small bite marks in certain places indicated that Rosalind had been taking her time with it, not ripping and tearing like he’d seen before, but something more restrained. She’d been careful not to gorge. What was more disturbing, was the open chest and torso cavities. Delicate eating and magikal surgery had been performed, evidenced by the nail, teeth and knife marks across her internal organs. Some were missing too, the holes they left behind carefully sewn back up and glowing with a sick, red light. To Christophe’s surprise, the woman was actually alive with her eyes lolling about and uttering unknown, garbled words to no one, but she didn’t seem to be in any pain. He knew a dark magik was sustaining her that reeked of malcontent and he knew where that knowledge came from. The book.

  “Yes and no.” She was trying to find the words. Concern was in her voice, where before she would have spat her annoyance. “It doesn’t matter how much I eat, or what I eat, I still get weaker.” She was figuring out the mechanics of the spell out loud with Christophe as witness. “Each time I consume something, I can feel the power flow back into me almost immediately, but just as quickly it comes, it starts to fade again. And it hurts.”

  “What does?”

  “Eating. The first time I fed I didn’t really feel it. I was just hunger. The second time, even though I was so angry, was agony. Every swallow cut me. Every sip dented me. I could eat every part of her at once and temporarily get my powers back, but I need to be patient.” She was only half telling the truth. It did hurt to eat, and maybe more than she was saying, but she felt she needed reminding of what she was. In the heat of the moment, or in the fatigue of casting magik, the pain was the reminder of what she was and why she was suffering like this. A part of her felt that she needed punishing for what she had done. Who she had become. The pain was the punishment and she often caught herself wanting to give in to both directions. One which took her towards carnage and the other that took her towards repenting and the endless sleep. For now though, she’d found the balance between staying alive and paying for that privilege. She wasn’t ready to admit that to Christophe, who was now looking at her and could tell from her look that he just needed to be patient. She would tell him eventually.

  “Is she, in pain?”

  “No. I don’t know why, but she doesn’t deserve it.” She looked at Christophe to help him understand and remind him of their past deeds. “When we did this before, I thought that every Naïve I ate deserved it. That their ignorance was a personal affront to me and that the pain I brought them was sweet release from their blinkered, short existence.” She saddened a little at the arrogance of that younger version of herself. That petulant and juvenile take on the world grated on her now. “It’s not her fault that Eve had placed this curse on me. She just happened to be close when I needed a subject.” Christophe was taken aback by this rare act of kindness, his surprise quickly turning to panic knowing that the magik would be traced back to them. He threw the sheet aside, making for his clothes only to be ge
ntly pulled back to lying down by a warm hand.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve made arrangements so that the magik won’t be discovered.” Christophe’s curiosity replaced his desire to escape taking a breath to ask how.

  “Old friends, now in high places. We can operate without hindrance from now on.” She kissed his bare shoulder and then turned over to hug a pillow close, slowly drifting to sleep. Christophe’s mind was firing coins like machine gun bullets into his jar of a mind, but he mastered himself and trusted in the woman he was staring at, shoulders moving with the slow in and out of sleeping breaths. He let the coins fall out of the bottom of the jar for someone else to collect and then gently lay down close to Rosalind, draping an arm over her stomach.

  “Let someone else collect the coins.” He whispered to himself before falling asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - SHATTER

  I’m trapped in a prison of my own making. A dreadful, soulless, agonising prison, for what seems like a forever. Terrible thoughts and feelings swirl around me as I think about what I’ve done. Anger and rage at letting it happen. Sadness and loss at losing my Äsheen. Complete helplessness at being unable to undo what I had done. I can’t look anywhere, other than at my hands. Everything that I can see is just my fingers, covered in black. Tools that I thought I had complete control over had just caused complete devastation. Every time I think about losing him it’s a fresh hammer blow to my mind, stamping out the fire in me. A stark reminder of what this cursed power can do. My feet are numb for sitting on them so long. Alien and dead to me they help bring focus back to the present. Djoonga had taught me that we’re the sum of our experiences. Experiences that we cannot change. The now is most important in defining who you become. The now is how you move forward.

  Wiggling my toes, I force blood from anywhere that had some to spare into their unfeeling recesses. Slowly, bit by bit, feeling comes back to my feet. Slowly, bit by bit, feeling returns to the rest of my body and I can take in more of the room again. Slowly, bit by bit, the fire in me finds strength and burns a little brighter. My friend, my butler-rack, my part time trainer and confident was gone. He would want me to finish my training. He would want me to get out of here. I can feel some warmth spread through me, knowing I would mourn him when the time was right. The fire in me coughs and sputters, getting brighter with each passing moment. I can feel the space around me becoming more and more real, the blurry parts of my vision going. Focus comes to me and I stand up, a few pieces of black falling from me. Seeing them land I notice one of them has a small sliver of gold in it, still winking and glistening its hopeful light. Hope springs up in my heart, my fire shining brighter. So does the gold.