Roland Yeomans's Blog, page 20

NOIR-vember_ COMMAND PERFORMANCE_BLACK MAGIC_CHAPTER ONE

 

Ever wonder how a wolf feels in a trap, leg hopelesslycaught in the iron teeth of it, watching the trapper slowly walking towards it?

Me either.

Until now.

The office I had been whisked away to was spacious,oak-paneled, and smelling faintly of good whiskey, cigar smoke, and leather. 

The odd stained-glass window behind me looked out at nothing … at least notanything of this world. 

But a chill wind blew out from it though it was notopen. But then, Lake Pleasant was full of oddities like that.

It was said that people foolish enough to look hard into itsaw things in it. 

What kind of things they were no longer able to saywhat with their minds wiped or reduced to drooling insanity.  

When swept into the office, I wisely kept myeyes to myself. I had more than enough nightmares to trouble my sleep withoutadding to them.

Anthony Vincent toyed with the cigar he never smoked … notsince his lung cancer surgery. 

“Been watching you a long time, Black. You, asmall-time hustler ….”

“Detective. Got the license and everything.”

“Whatever. Doesn’t change the fact you barely make a living,feeding off the bottom of the pond. You want to know why I bother?”

I shrugged. “Some people watch goldfish. You got me.”

“I got broads when I get bored.”

I fought to keep my face blank. Me being PC would only getme very painfully dead. 

You didn’t get to be the broker of all things criminalin this sprawling city by being a Rhodes Scholar. 

You achieved the blood throneby being more vicious and cunning than every other would-be King. 

AnthonyVincent had been sitting on that dark throne a very long time, 

and he was in nodanger of losing it judging from what I had seen … feeding off the bottom.

“What I don’t got any more is Gloria.”

He didn’t bother telling me Gloria Vincent was his daughter,though he looked old enough for her to be his granddaughter. 

When you are oneof the surfs of his vicious fiefdom, you were expected to know the faces youwere supposed to bow and scrape before. 

Not that I did that. 

I just kept to theshadows when they went slumming where I lived and worked. 

Apparently, I hadn’tsucceeded in hiding all that well. 

Or maybe you didn’t stay King long if youdidn’t keep minute track of who could be useful to you … or deadly.

Merde.

Had I slipped up and let someone see what I could do?

I hadalways been so careful when going “sideways” as I called it. 

But often when Ihad been one inch from dying, I sometimes popped out in the oddest places. 

Ialways checked to see if there were any witnesses then. 

I could have missed awitness, for I was only … human.

The headmaster at Saint Rita of Cascia Orphanage didn’tthink so. 

He thought me being dumped at night in front of the iron gates mademy humanity suspect. 

He made me pray her prayer each night:

“O Glorious St. Rita, who didst miraculouslyparticipate in the sorrowful Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ, obtain for methe grace to suffer with resignation the troubles of this life, and protect mein all my needs. Amen”

She was known both for practicing mortification of the fleshand for the efficacy of her prayers. 

Father Meyers loved to nightlymortify my back with that cane of his after I prayed her prayer … 

until my backstopped bleeding. 

Maybe there was something to the efficacy of her prayersafter all.

He gave me the last name of Black then. I think the nicknameof “Black Magic” came from him, too. 

I could never prove it, nor did Imuch care to. 

I just knew it unsettled the bullies at the orphanage enough tohave them pick other prey. 

I was so satisfied with that result that I startedusing the name on the streets once I had “graduated” the orphanage.

I hurriedly ran the halls and rooms of this mansion throughmy mind that I had memorized when roughly shoved through them for thisaudience. 

If this went south, I did not have many good options.

 His estate wasa regular fortress. I fought a smile. 

A talented bottom feeder like myselfalways found a rat hole to scurry into.

At least so far. There was always a first.

Like Anthony Vincent asking instead of ordering. 

“I need youto find Gloria for me, Black.”

“It’s an active police case. I could get my license revokedfor poking around into it.”

“Do I look like I give a damn for your license beingrevoked? You find her, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How so?”

“You get to live.”

NOIR-vember Thoughts_We Are An ENDANGERED SPECIES and How To Go Down Fighting!

If you are reading this, then obviously you are a reader.

The ranks of book readers 
are shrinking.

A recent study revealed 
that33% of high school graduates 
plan neverto read another book ... ever.
That same study revealed42% of college graduatesplan never to read another book either.

I know what you're thinking.
But You and I 
are of another generation.
We reflect the thinking of the Past not the Future.

In this Digital, 
Multi-Task Era,
our world is designed for shallow skimming rather than deep diving.

Think SHORT STORY
Perfect length for thisdistractible time.

Don't groan.
Think H. P. LOVECRAFT

His stories existed 
in a linked universe
with entities and tomescrossing over from onestory to another.

Readers did not have  to start from scratch with each story.
The surroundings 
were familiar although terrifying.
Or have a character common 
to all your stories.

Short stories bring more pressure, 
because like with poetry, 

each paragraph, sentence, and word 
is more important 
than they would be 
inside a large novel. 

 Short stories are precise 
with their delivery, 

they must capture 
the attention of the reader 
extraordinarily quickly, 

and

tell a full tale 
from beginning to end 
in roughly 
a half hour of reading.

Which is the perfect length
in today's world
with too much to do.


If you got anything useful
from this post,
consider
sharing it, will you?

:-)

NOIR-vember: TEMPLE OF TONGUES

 

From the diary of Ingrid Durtzfound in  NIGHT SEASONS

(The latest in my DARK HOLLYWOOD saga)


Eyes born of a world whose air was death to breathe studied me.

The Ningyo called Ice murmured, "Ingrid Durtz, you died and re-awakened in another's body."

I suspected where this was going. 
 "Yes."

Her race was long-lived.  
That very fact made the prospect of death more frightening, not less, for them.  

Death on a strange world horrified them.  

Would their spirits become lost looking for their world not of this plane?


Death is a Void.  The body a fact.  
My tenant body they could see.  But what of my spirit?  What had become of it in the ether of non-existence?

She proved my supposition right.  
"What do you remember of your journey from your old body to this one you now possess?"

There was a sadly obvious answer which was much like the answer to that tired jest: 

'How many World War II veterans does it take to change a light bulb? '  

"You don't know, man.  You weren't there."

But we were friends so I answered in a word she might believe but probably would not. 

"Nothing."
Her face lengthened as the faces of her race did when angry.  

"Nothing has two faces: 'Emptiness' and 'Infinite Potential.'"

I sighed.
That duality shaped her ideas of the afterlife.  

If she couldn't quantify the difference between the medical definition of life and the spiritual concept of the soul ...

at least she knew when there was no good reason for me to hold the knowledge and personality

 of a dead woman.

When nothing becomes something, it defies death.  

It put aside somewhat her fear that all awaiting her after death was the void.






I think having the people in my novel introspective and flawed makes them come alive 

and has the reader root for them to survive or at least die with dignity.


What do you think?
How do you make your characters believable?

NOIR-vember_AS YOU HUNT THE TIGER

 

AS YOU HUNT THE TIGER

“The sublime comes down to thespirit itself. The spirit and space. The empty spirit in vacant space. Whatwine does one drink? What bread does one eat?”

 - DayStar

 

The palace had offered the sortof welcome I expected, the walkway lined on either side by pikes topped withsevered tiger’s heads.

Abit  sophomoric for a cosmicbeing. My enemy must be growing bored.

Which might mean my timing wasright on the mark … or not.

Story of my unlife.

Lucy Wentworth was dying in myarms, her blood mingling with my own cursed one.

Her trusting eyes sought mine aswe stood before DayStar

who was currently slumming as thefeared .

I hear in the most dissoluteparts of the French Quarter he went by the name of Mr. Morton.

An asp by any other name stillkills.

His title in India was ironic asbefit DayStar.

 Monarchy is based on fear, cruelty and on themercy of the ruler … or lack thereof.

All through the ages, Cruelty wasa way of life, 

so whoever’s name actually pops up in history books was far morecruel than the standards of those days.

Priyadassi Asoka’s name would bein red in the history books detailing this time. 

The red of the blood of thosewho it pleased him to torture then kill.

His slightly slanted eyesglittered under his turban like the unfeeling diamond of which his heart wascomposed.

He spoke, and his voice soundedgolden and hollow like the ghost bells I once heard in Burma.

“This is why I refrain fromkilling you, McCord. Just when my ennui is near to choking me, you do somethingmonumentally farcical.”

Lucy looked up startled at me,and I murmured, “He is my second greatest enemy.”

He looked startled himself, thencruelly amused. “Oh, you are being metaphysical.”

His deep-set eyes locked on her ownfrightened ones. 

“He considers himself his own greatest enemy. How droll.”

He sneered at me. 

“Did you have theabjectly stupid thought that I would heal this urchin for you?”

“You already have.”

“What?”

“Notice her wounds even now aremending, her wounds closing.”

He shot to his feet. “Not I! I donot heal. I destroy!”

“You heal all the time …yourself. You should have learned that as you hunt the tiger, he studies you …as I have been studying you.”

As Lucy watched withever-widening eyes, I went on,

“In the past, I’ve noticed howlistless, how weakened you grew. Then, you lashed out savagely towards thosewho could not fight back.”

Lucy wiggled out of my arms tobounce on the ground with her old vitality, and I ironed my face with glovedfingers.

“You grew strong once more. Itseemed your cruelty blossomed a healing aura about you.”

He shook his turbaned head.

“And you wagered that my aurawould heal this brat?”

I shook my own head.

“No. As you say – you destroy;you do not heal … others. 

But I rolled the dice that your aura would act as acatalyst that would make of my cursed blood a healing agent.”

He focused the considerableweight of his gaze upon Lucy.

“Then, why should I not witheryou where you stand, brat?”

She drew herself up as tall asshe got, “You will not.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Too short. Too simple. Yourtoying with Captain Sam says you like to play the long game.”

“I do not play games, littleone.”

“Of course, you do. What else doyou have to do in your exile, Mr. Devil?”

“Devil am I?”

“You do not cast a shadow.”

“I do not scare you?”

“You give me the wobblies, Mr.Devil. 

But Captain Sam has taught me to swallow them and go and do what needsto be done.”

“Your soul burns like a miniaturesun with your naïve faith. In this state I cannot touch you, Lucille Wentworth.But I will be watching … and waiting.”

“Then, I shall try to live an interestinglife.”

As we walked out of his compound,Lucy looked up at me, swallowed hard, and managed to get out,

“Did you just save me, CaptainSam, or curse me?”

I sighed, “Like with most of mylife, a little of both.”

“The exceeding brightness of thisearthly sun makes me conceive how dark I have become.”

- DayStar

NOIR-vember_INTO MYTH

 

Actual photograph of OLD ABE (in public domain)

INTO MYTH



It was April 21st 1865.

Ahgamahwegezhiglooked at me huddled behind the mound of rubble.  He had been my father'sbest Ojibwe student.

Icalled him Chief Sky because every time I tried to pronouncehis Ojibwe name, I sounded like I was a cat heaving up a furball.

Hegrunted, “They also serve who only stand and wait, but the pay is shit.”

He, CorporalDanvers, and I were all that was left of the Wisconsin 8th Infantry.

Well,there was Old Abe, the eagle mascot, of the company.  CaptainPerkins named him after the President.

Whoam I? 

 I’m Jim McGinnis, the last of a long line of teachers,and the idiot who volunteered to take care of Old Abe.

InAugust 1861, John C. Perkins, assisted by Seth Pierce, Frank McGuire, andVictor Wolf recruited a company of volunteers from Eau Claire and ChippewaCounties.

Thiscompany was called 

the "Eau Claire Badgers.”

ChiefSky had come along to make war on whites and because Old Abe belonged tohim.  

Why didn’t he take care of Old Abe? 

The eagle liked to ride on myleather-shod shoulder.

Andhis talons hurt like hell.

OnMarch 25th, the Claywater Meteorite  exploded justbefore reaching ground level, delivering a cluster-bomb effect asfragments of its enormous mass showered Vernon County.

At least, folks thought it hadexploded. 

 

Then, the huge Tripods startedwalking about, killing everything living in their paths. 

The remnants of the Eau Claire Badgers were called back from Mansura,Louisiana to help fight 

the Star Fallers.

We didn’t fare toowell.  But then, I had taken an oath.  I meant to live upto it.

And to repay the debt of the dead… with interest.

Ipeeked over the mound.  The giant Tripod was still too close eventhough it was clanking along to the east.

Danverslicked his dry lips.  

“Lieutenant, we got to get us some watersoon.  We’ve been three days without it.”

Isaid low, “If I were a creek, where would I be?”

ChiefSky looked at me.  “If I were a creek, I would be where the groundslopes.”

“Riiiight.”  Sometimesit was good to have an Indian scout.

OldAbe was where I told him to go.  Up high in thatcottonwood.  The tripod finally noticed him and swiveled slowly, itsturret aiming at him.

Fromthe bloody past, we had learned those Star-Fallers took three secondsto blow something apart. 

Up until then, they had some sort ofinvisible barrier around them.  I raised my already loaded Sharpesrifle.

The smooth, steady movement of myarms raised a shiver of panic in the rational man whose advice I was ignoring.

I aimed down that turret’sbarrel, counted to two, and fired.

Allof us flew to the ground, even Old Abe.

Bitsof smoking metal rained down all around us.  

They were sizzlinghot.  

Old Abe squawked as he flew down beside me. 

Chief Sky wasn’t any happier with me.

“Justlike a white man to kill himself along with his enemy.”

“We’restill alive,” I said.

“Notfor much longer if you follow this way of attack.”

Danversran his fingers through his red hair.  

“We ain’t gonna make it home,are we, sir?”

Isaid low, “There’s still a chance.  We’ll get there.”

Danverslooked to Chief Sky.  “What do you think?”

Thelast of the Ojibwe shrugged his shoulders and smiled crooked atme. 

  “As your trusted Indian scout, I must warn youthat you are now on very thin ice.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“Hope.  You will starveto death 

if you insist on living on it.”

Danvers looked on his lastnerve.  I glared at Chief Sky who flicked flat black eyes at theCorporal.  

He grunted a laugh.

“I will tell you a secret,Danvers.”

“What?” the Corporal asked, hisvoice sounding like a too-stretched skin on a drum.

“I believe that the heart isstronger than knowledge. 

That myth wins over history. 

That dreams beat facts.

That hope triumphs over experience. 

That laughter is the only cure forgrief. 

And I believe that love is stronger than death.”

I sometimes forgot about howspiritual 

Chief Sky was. 

I had been raised as a Methodist where the highestsacrament was the bake sale.

He turned amused eyes tome.  

“I would also say the depths of the lieutenant’s stupidity haveyet to be plumbed,

and ours is coming up fast for we follow him.”

Danvers made aface.  

“I was feeling better until that last.”

Chief Sky smiled like awolf.  “Come, Danvers.  

As Eagle Walker says: 

‘Wehave oaths to keep and debts to repay.’”

And so with Old Abe flyingoverhead, 

did the last of the  "Eau Claire Badgers”

  walk into myth.

NOIR-vember_THE STRANGE LIFE OF LUCY WENTWORTH

 

The Lakota Sioux call me theTurquoise Woman, the cursed Samuel McCord has come to call me Mother.

You two-leggeds sometimes call meMother Nature.

The colors of my thoughts are theNorthern Lights.

I see men come; I see them go,crawling like ants on the rocky surface of my skin.

One such life stands out from thesnow and ice of most two-leggeds, for its touch vibrated through me like aresponsive echo from a distant star.

Lucille Wentworth.

Her parents killed by cravenThuggees in India, my adopted son, Samuel whom I call Damayi (Eagle in Apache)saved her,

And for his efforts was promptlyjailed by her grandfather, a stiff-necked British Major.

The reason is tedious andsenseless, something to do with my son having compassion on both sides of theaccursed Opium War in China.

You have already heard of hermeeting with the undead Abigail Adams.

You can read more of it in my son’saccount, THE STARS BLEED AT MIDNIGHT.

What you do not know is that someseasons later, that carrion Adams took the girl under her wing, seeing her assomething as a daughter substitute.

The girl flew across the Atlanticand Europe in the fabled sky-ship, Xanadu, with my son and Mark Twain …

which you can read for yourselfin THE NOT-SO-INNOCENTS ABROAD and THE NOT-SO-INNOCENTS AT LARGE.

The vampire leader kept herappetite under control for a time, taking the girl to the world’s capitols andtrying to see the world through the eyes of innocence.

As I said, it worked … for a time… until Lucy grew into a stunning woman and so, in the eyes of that carrion-queenwent from beloved pet to … food.

Fortunately, in earlier seasons, myson had the girl tutored in self-defense by experts from around the world.

Not so fortunate was AbigailAdams.

But being already dead, thatcarrion-queen found a way to continue to make life needlessly violent for mygrandson, Victor Standish.

Lucy’s was a life of pathos, contradictions,crushed dreams, and spirited determination much like the narratives of yourpenny dreadfuls.

In Cairo, Egypt, Lucy met the manwho would one day be so bold as to ask her to marry him: Winston Churchill.

You may read more of that in myson’s account, THE STARS BLEED AT MIDNIGHT.

In the upcoming, SAME AS IT NEVERWAS, you may read of Lucy’s nightmarish experience upon Omaha Beach courtesy ofthat uninvited squatter, Sentient.

She and I will one day have anaccounting. I feel it.

I should regret the tremors LucyWentworth’s travails caused her, but the sound of it was too beautiful to sullywith recriminations.

Does the melody of your lifebring beauty or boredom I wonder?

NOIR-vember_DEVIL'S WIND

 Did the undead Abigail Adams get her revenge against Samuel McCord? Did the tormented ranger keep his promise to the dying president?

i

{Itis the year 1857 in the port city of Mumbai, India.

"The Devils Wind" is the name the sepoys gave to the mutiny ofMoslems against British rule,

a barbaric, uncontrollable fury that swept across the hot plains of India as ifblown by the Devil.

To keep his word to a dying British Major, 

Samuel McCord has fought his wayacross all of India to save the man's tiny granddaughter,

Lucy Wentworth -- who is cousin to Alice Wentworth by the way.

A tragic figure in another of my hero-cycles

Just within sight of the ship that could take Lucy to safety, 
Sam and Lucy arestopped by Abigail Adams herself with her best killers.}



Abigail Adams hadn't improved with age.

Her beauty had crystalized into cold porcelain flesh. Her wisdom had brittledinto cleverness. 

And her hate for me had bittered like over-steeped tea.

Small Lucy Wentworth clung to my left leg, looking fearfully at the revenantswho ringed us on the Mumbai dock. 
I studied them coldly. The ship that offeredfreedom was only a dozen feet away.

It might as well have been moored in the dust of the moon.

India hadn't been kind to me. But then, she was harsh even to her own children.

Though there wasn't a part of me that wasn't hurting or bleeding, I could stilltake the revenants. 
Abigail, being both genius and revenant, was anothermatter.

Abigail whispered, 
"I have traveled half the world to have you at mymercy."



Lucy chirped in her proper British accent. 
"Then, you have traveled a longway just to die."

Abigail flicked cold eyes to Lucy then back to me. 
"You are weak, wounded,and unarmed."

Lucy laughed with the confidence of innocence. 
"And still, Captain Samshall kill you and your bullies."

"Madripoor," I said softly, 
and Lucy ducked down and hugged her kneesas she had in that death-trap.

I slipped into the fighting stance taught me by the Shaolin priests, 
andAbigail regarded me with cool, appraising eyes.

She spoke low. 
"Yes, even after fighting your way across all of India, 
Ido believe you would be unstoppable ... in defense of a small child."

"I-If Abigail Adams were still alive and here, you'd be sorry,"quavered Lucy, 
her beloved pith helmet dinged and battered.

The revenants around us jerked at Lucy's words and looked to Abigail. 
Lucylaughed.

"See? Even your killers know the name of Abigail Adams."

And death was on the night winds like the smell of ashes as the woman namedmurmured, 
"And where did you hear that name, child?"


Lucy raised her chin in defiance. 
All through these many frightful nightsCaptain Sam would tell me stories of her ...
of how she and her husband gave birthto America ... of how strong she was, of how smart she was, 
of how brave shewas ... of how much she sacrificed for love."

Abigail husked, "Sacrificed for love."

"Yes, for love. Oh, I can see how you scare these leeches all around us. 
No doubt you are strong, brave, and perhaps even smart."
Lucy hugged my leg as if it were my chest. "But you will never beloved."

Abigail's eyes sank deep in her perfect face. 

"No. I shall never be loved... again."

Lucy raised her chin in defiance. 
"Captain Sam said I could do no betterthan to model myself after Abigail Adams, 
that if she saw any Thuggee trying tokill me, she would box their ears for them."

Lucy giggled, "I would have quite liked to have seen that."

Lucy pulled out five dirty pages, folded neat in her torn jacket pocket. 
"I've copied some things Abigail said to memorize and live by."

The little girl closed her eyes and repeated by rote,
 "To be good, and dogood, is the whole duty of man comprised in a few words."

Lucy glared at Abigail. 
"But to a monster like you I would wager thosewords mean nothing."

Abigail spoke thickly. "You would lose that wager, Lucy Wentworth."

She looked at me with eyes suddenly wet. 

"I was mist in the darkness,Samuel, when you promised my husband you would save me if you could."

Lucy frowned, "Your husband?"

Abigail rasped, "Yes, my beloved friend and husband ... President JohnAdams."

Lucy looked up stunned at me. "Captain Sam? Th-This is AbigailAdams?"

I nodded, 

"This is what has become of a hero who made choices she thoughtwere right ... 

and was mistakened."

Lucy gave a look of horror at Abigail. 

"B-But you are a monster."

Abigail shook her head. 

"Not at the moment, child. Go to the ship, Lucy.Go now. Quicky. 

Before the monster returns."

The circle of revenants reluctantly opened for us.

I took Lucy up in my arms and limped fast to the ship and safety. 

Lucy lookedwistfully and sad over my shoulder at the shrinking figure of Abigail Adams inthe deepening mists.

Lucy gave a forlorn, childish wave to the tall, tormented leader of America'srevenants.

 For a short moment my enemy was gone.

And the beloved Abigail of John Adams returned the same wave.

I know it was just a trick of my mind. 

But for a moment I thought I felt a handsqueeze my shoulder.

And I heard President John Adams whisper in my ear,

 "Thank you."

This tune played in my mind as I wrote this:

NOIR_vember_ A FAREWELL TO LOVE

 From the last page of the last diary of former President John Adams:

It is July 3rd in the year of our Lord, 1826.
And I am dying.
The question is "Do I wish to be re-born?"

At my bedroom door, the young man, wide-brimmed hat in gloved hands, has the answer.

But I fear I already know it.

The young man is a conundrum.
He looks at me with the eyes of a sad poet. 

Yet, he is a walking arsenal: two shoulder-harnesses of pistols, another pistol on his hip, still another in a strange stomach rigging.

"Come in, Sergeant McCord," I speak in a once strong voice now grown frail.

"An honor, President Adams."

"Former President, young man."

He flashes a smile much like a wolf's. "Like with Texas Rangers, sir, once a president, always a president."

He sits down in the plush leather chair close to my bedside, and I frown. "Odd. Your face is perhaps 25. Yet your hair is moon-white."

His lean face goes somber. 

"There was a time when my hair was darker, my heart lighter."

My voice thickens. "As with myself, McCord. As with myself."

I pat his arm and frown again at how my hand shakes. "I met your father at my Alma Mater. He was a great patriot."

McCord nods sadly. 

"Father said history bleeds on every page because of patriots. But he liked teaching at Harvard, and he liked you."

"And my wife?"
The light dies in his eyes. "He thought of her as a wise and good friend ... once."

"Before she became a ...."

I find it difficult to say the word, "... revenant."

"Yes, sir."

"I need to ask a favor of you, young man."

His lips shape an uneasy smile. "I'm not going to kill Mr. Jefferson for you, sir, if that's the question."

I slap his arm at his rough jest. "Time will soon have her way with us both I'm afraid."

I tap his buckskin-covered knee. "No. I need to ask you ... w-what do you think of revenants."

McCord sucks in his upper lip, then says low, "Mighty broad question, sir. Might as well ask me what I think of humanity."

"Then, you believe revenants are no longer human?"

He rubs his face with a hand strangely gloved in this heat. 

"With each passing year, they lose more and more of their humanity, sir, until they forget what it means to be human."

He leans forward. "Surely, sir, you have noticed that in your ... wife."

I clutch his arm feebly. "Yes. Yes, I have."
I close my eyes. "And now, she demands I allow her to ... to ...."

I find I cannot put it into words, and McCord just pats my hand.

 "You would gain immortal youth at the cost of your humanity, sir."

I look at this strange man with the saddest eyes I have ever seen in a youth. 

"I know you are aware she rules a confederacy of shadow states all across this country."

I manage to make my lips speak the words. "Abigail says that together, we could do much good for this country."

His face twitches, then he speaks softly. 

"On a cattle ranch, the ranchers live mighty fine. The same cannot be said for the cattle."

I nod gravely and sigh, "I had come to a similar thought, McCord."

The decision I always knew I would make settles firm within my heart. "I -- I will refuse. Abigail will take this badly."

McCord smiles as if it were a wound. 

"Even so, sir, you have made a hard but wise decision."

"And in doing so, I have doomed you."

"How so?"

My mind fills with mocking echoes of shared laughter with Abigail, and I sigh, 

"She knows of this meeting. Once there was a wellspring of forgiveness in Abigail's heart ...."

I could not meet McCord's eyes. 

"Now, she will believe, despite my protests, that it was you that has robbed her of my being at her side. She will not rest until her revenge is complete against you, sir."

McCord smiles sadly. "That's all right, Mr. President. It'll mean one less monster in this sorry old world."

My blood chills, for I see he wants to die. 

No. I will not be the cause of the death of my friend's son. But how can I save him from the grave, from himself?

I look up at the portrait of my wife when she was still my Abigail. A plan comes to me. I whisper to McCord.

"When you think 'beautiful but diseased,' what city comes to mind, McCord? Quick. No moment for reflection. What city?"

He laughs like a wolf. 

"Don't need any time to reflect, sir. New Orleans is the prettiest city with the blackest heart I've ever seen."

"Then, New Orleans is the city I, as former President, charge you to save from the revenants."

"What?"
"I cannot ask you the impossible task of saving my nation from the evil that has consumed my wife. 

But one city, McCord, one city. Pledge to save it from the curse of the revenants, and I will die at peace."

"But, sir, I took an oath to Texas."
"Do not speak to me of oaths, young man. I, Jefferson, Washington, even your father bled for this nation. 

if not for me, save New Orleans for them ... for your father."

I was fighting unfairly I knew. But my friend, his father, would have me do no less to save his son from self-destruction.

McCord runs gloved fingers through his silver hair and sighs,

 "All right, Mr. President. You have my word."

His poet eyes flick to the portrait of my wife, and he murmurs, "Beautiful but diseased is it?"

He turns to me. "Another pledge, sir. Strange as it sounds, sometimes enemies become as close as lovers. If I can, I will save your Abigail, too."

"You are a romantic, McCord. It will be the death of you."

"Something will. Might as well be that."
When he leaves, and the shadows of the night and death grow closer and closer, it is his second pledge that comforts me.

NOIR-vember_ FALLEN WORLD, BROKEN SOULS

 

FALLENWORLD, BROKEN SOULS

“If the living are haunted by thedead, then the dead are haunted by their own mistakes.”

 – Helen Mayfair

 

I frowned. “I am unfamiliar withthis street, Sister Ameal.”

She grimaced, “That is becausethis street can be found only at night. It is Rue la Mort … where Meilori’sis located.”

“Is that where we are going?”

Mrs. Adams shook her head. “No,McCord has closed his jazz club for the duration of this world conflict.”

I frowned again. “The movie andradio mogul?”

She huffed, “That One is manythings, chief of which is hated by me.”

Sister Ameal smiled thin as apaper cut. “Then, he must be doing something right.”

“Not in my ledger.”

Sister Ameal raised an eyebrow. “Youraccounts are notoriously … in the red.”

Mrs. Adams arched her back. “Howlow brow of you.”

The nun retorted, “Speaks a lowbrow herself.”

“What nonsense are you spewing?”

“One has to be a lowbrow, a bitof a murderer, to be a politician, 

ready and willing to see people sacrificed,slaughtered, for the sake of an idea, whether a good one or a bad one.”

“Coming from a former paidassassin that is rich.”

“True, I killed for a price, but Inever deluded myself or others into thinking I was doing it for the ‘greatergood’ … which is merely a synonym for self-interest.”

I shushed both of them. “Hush. Youare ruining a perfectly good girls’ night out.”

Mrs. Adams curled her perfect lips.

 “When I could rightly have been called a ‘girl,’ the term had not yet beencoined.”

Sister Ameal bristled. 

“We arenot out for an evening’s entertainment, Seraph. We are in search of anabomination to put it down.”

Madame President growled, “Overmy undead body.”

“That could happily be arranged.”

In an attempt to forestall violence, I asked, “So where are you taking us,Sister?”

“Club Oblivion.”

Adams shook her head. “I havenever heard of it.”

“It just opened up. MyNightcrawlers recently told me of it.”

“Nightcrawlers?” Adams made aface.

“Sherlock Holmes had his BakerStreet Irregulars. I have my French Quarter Nightcrawlers.”

I sighed, my hopes of a colorfulouting dashed. 

“Will the customers of this club tell us the whereabouts of thismissing child-revenant, do you think?”

Sister Ameal snorted, 

“In Hell,you would be foolish to count on people displaying high standards of honesty.The same goes for those destined for that locale.”

It was my turn to make a face.

“If there are damned souls inHell, it is because men blind themselves. 

Perhaps, there are a few souls inthis club who have, as yet, not mutilated their better selves.”

“Then, they would not be in such a place as to where we are headed, Seraph."

And with those words we werestanding in front of the lace-iron gates of the very place. 

Gleaming gold letterswere etched over the fanged gate:

“Damned be the dark ends of theearth where old horrors live again.”

"Charming," said Mrs. Adams in a droll, making of the word three syllables.

I looked at the stone stepsleading down and past the open gate. I grimaced.

‘Here the earth devours itself,’ I toldmyself. 

I didn't imagine a fissure at the bottom of the steps, I imagined amouth. I deluded myself.

There were many mouths.

I started to go down the stairswhen, knowing better than to physically touch one such as I, Sister Ameal heldup a single palm.

“Hold.”

I stopped and turned to her asshe whispered, “You do not think of yourself as arrogant and naïve, but youare.”

“Do tell me.”

As Mrs. Adams watched bemused,the nun did just that.

 “Your nature made you faster, stronger, smarter than anyassailant enemies of your step-father set against you.”

I nodded. “I have taken no pleasurein taking those lives.”

Sister Ameal shook her head. 

“Suchwill not be the case with those you face down there. They take much pleasure inthe agonies they inflict upon their victims.”

She breathed in deep, though I knewthat, like the revenant beside me, she did not need to breathe to live … forshe only appeared human.

“They have had centuries toperfect forms of martial arts I have, as yet, even had an opportunity to instructyou.”

She glared at the revenant queen. 

“This one had a twofold plan in approaching you tonight: one you know – to retrieveher pet. The other was to lure you here to your death, removing a threat to herself.”

I nodded. “I deduced as much.”

Adams frowned, “Then, why did youcome?”

I sighed, “All around me see whatthey expect to see, while I see ... so many things.”

I reached out to touch her armbut pulled back as she flinched. “I see your soul.”

“Wh-What?”

“It still exists deep within you,though calling it ‘alive’ would not be quite true. I see it quivering, dew dropsof blood glistening along the many mortal wounds you have inflicted upon it.”

I cocked my head towards Sister Ameal. 

“I will not reveal the existential loneliness of a cosmic creature that I viewwithin you to our common enemy here.”

Her thin lips curled. “I believeyou just have.”

I shook my head.

 “She knows thetip of the iceberg but not the majestic immensity that lies beneath.”

I drew myself up slowly. 

“As formyself, I am not the naïve doe you imagine me to be. I am … Other.”

I fought a shiver. 

“None like meno matter what that Scaramouche Darael believes. 

No other of my kind wascreated as a babe to grow as mortals grow in stature and awareness … away fromthe glories of the Gateless Realm.”

I lost to the shiver. 
“Even now, Igrow. I now hear the death-bleats from the tortured soul waiting at the foot ofthese steps. It protests what its diseased host intends upon inflicting on me.”

I prepared myself to race downthese cracked steps when I remembered the kind voice of Richard, who unknowinglyspoke healing balm to my darkness. 

He had thought me but merely depressed, notcontemplating suicide those day past.

“There are flecks of gold in thegravel of each moment, Miss Mayfair, if you but look close enough. 

Take thatmoment, be in that moment, live in that moment … not beyond thatmoment. It won’t be much, mind you. 

But it may prove enough to go onto the nextone with a lighter step.”

With a restored sense of peace, Istarted down the steps. Mrs. Adams placed a restraining hand on my arm.

“Do not. That travesty I wouldensnare again is not worth it. I … am not worth it.”

I smiled sadly. “But you are … now.See? You did not burst into flames at my touch.”

She hushed in a breath. “How?”

“You unselfishly thought ofanother over your own well-being.”

I withdrew a glistening rose frombeneath my cloak. “From the lushness of Eden. Take it. You will not suffer fromits touch.”

I watched her gingerly take it, notcaring if I lied.

“Keep it high upon a wall in yourbedchambers, Mrs. Adams. Mayhap its fragrance will remind you that your soulstill lives … 

still fights to remain true to the love you once shared with yourhusband.”

Abigail Adams hunched over and walked slowly into the utter darkness.

I heard her whisper. “Gently areyou revenged against me, Seraph.”

Sister Ameal frowned as I turnedto go. “We are not going into Club Oblivion?”

“No need. I see that in thoseenvirons, the poor thing begins to age. Even now, she appears a teenager. Oh, I misspoke: she has crumbled into dust.”

I smiled of salt. “Sometimes, it isa fearsome thing to gain that for which we wish.”

I saw a flash of what lay instore for Richard … and myself and knew what I said to be true.

“Death is the mother of beauty;hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.”

 NEXT: 

DEATH IN THE HIDDEN VALLEY OF PARIS

A tale of the mysterious McCord mentioned in this tale.

NOIR-vember_FALLEN WORLD

 

FALLEN WORLD

“I have lived all my life amongshadows and broken images.”

– Helen Mayfair

 

I looked at a slightly amusedSister Ameal studying me. Let her.

If she could decipher the enigmaof my blank past, I would welcome it … assuming she would share.

But assuming with that one wasdangerous.

She long since has taught me toask questions and not to make assumptions.

Sister Ameal was an austere whipcordof a human.

 Supposedly one of the Daughters of Charity, her white cornette flaredout so that the children round about called her “the butterfly nun.”

“Miss Mayfair,” she murmured,“what led you to become a librarian and one in that accursed orphanage, St.Marok’s?”

“Libraries are the source ofanswers, to which I am drawn. And on that orphanage’s steps was where I wasfound as an infant.”

She had her answer; now I wantedone of my own.

 “You call this structure your rectory, but arectory is reserved for a priest. Why then, do you live here and alone at that?”

Her lips curled in a fashion thatMona Lisa would have envied. “I blackmailed the cardinal. I find the directapproach with the Church to be best.”

“Sister!”

She shrugged. “Why so surprised?You know that before the Convent, I was the highest paid assassin in all ofPortugal.”

Sister Ameal raised her righthand suddenly. “Bide. The Mistress of all America’s revenants is lurking in thefoyer yonder.”

“But she will burn in myPresence!”

“Calm yourself, fledgling Seraph.Not in my rectory she will not.”

“Why?”

“You must have me confused withthe Oracle of Delphi. I owe you no answer but one that amuses me to give.”

I heard an intake of breath thata revenant would not need to fill collapsed lungs. Then, it was needed to braceunsettled nerves.

Abigail Adams, smelling slightlyof decaying flesh, walked with a studied grace around the corner.

I saw both relief and disappointmentin her azure eyes.

New Orleans. 

Here, despair playsthe populace like an instrument -- blows through the trees of our minds likeflutes. But trees will not grow in cement. 

And as heartbeats bring percussion,fallen hopes bring repercussions. This city plays upon our souls like brokendrums.

I sighed.

Adams had both wanted to live andto die at the same time. Not unlike most of the inhabitants of this city …except for that artful dodger, Richard Blaine.

He took delight in dodging deathin all manner of forms. There was no telling what manner of mischief he was upto at this moment.

All that was certain was that hewas laughing.

Abigail Adams, widow of thesecond President of the United States, looked troubled. She usually lookedangry.

 Perhaps she had traveled with her anger long enough to learn its truename.

Grief.

I felt a strange sort ofcompassion for this undead woman who had none for anyone.

Love without power remainedimpotent, and power without love was bankrupt.

Sister Ameal said, “I see youdress in the fashion of this century for a change.”

“What I do, and why I do it isnone of your concern.”

“You came to me.”

Adams shook her carefullycoiffured hair and pointed to me with a stabbing forefinger.

“No, I came to see this one.”

Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “Isit true that you are a Seraph?”

“So, the strange being, Darael,tells me.”

“That one! He is a SeraphProvocateur. Trust nothing that one says.”

“I trust no word from anyonehuman.”

Adams smiled knowingly. “Whatof Blaine?”

Sister Ameal murmured, “What madeyou think he was human?”

Adams went paler than I thought possible.“H-He is something Other?”

“As is everyone else in thisroom, and I will tell you nothing further.”

Though I was burning to ask thesister, I would not in front of this undead empress. Instead, I asked aquestion of my own.

“What would you have of me,Madame President?”

“A four-year-old girl precious tome has gone missing.”

Sister Ameal shook her brilliantlywhite cornette. “Rather an abomination that appears to be a four-year-old girl youmean.”

I started to rise from my chair,but Sister Ameal placed a light hand upon my arm. 

“Hold, Fledgling, Adams didnot turn her, but merely wished to turn her to her advantage.”

I frowned, “How?”

“It has been thought impossible beforenow to turn such a young human into a revenant. 

If only Adams could control anarmy of such undead urchins that could pass unnoticed down the halls of Power …what increased power might be hers?”

I wheeled on her. “You are anabomination!”

Adams was unmoved. “Now, anotherunknown entity has her. We must both rescue the child ….”

Sister Ameal spat, “Child!”

Adams continued as if notinterrupted, “Before untold chaos is released upon the streets of New Orleans.”

She turned a smug defiance glareat me. 

“Or are you going to sit impotently upon your outraged naivety and letHell claim these streets?”

 

TO BECONTINUED IN

FALLENWORLD, BROKEN SOULS