7
THE HABSBURG CATACOMBS
Robin
Vinci, Louisiana
October 31st, 2014
Time: 8:00 AM
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Te dejaron quemar, Petirrojo.
They left you to burn, Robin.
The angels of the Catacombs wept. In their cherubic silence, blood streamed down their stony visages and draped their frilly wings in carmine. Dark as the rose; their faces bland and somber as their creamy white faces were smeared in the sins of Robinʼs guilt. The depth of the obsidian soles of their eyes showed no comfort, no beauty, just a blackness, and she watched. Watched the blackness that permeated, that radiated, that stung her deep in her core. The blood flowed like ichor from the Gods, silently trickling down the cracked curves of harsh contours of the cryptʼs floors, and as the sun burned in the darkness – smoke dying in the wintry mist – Robin felt her.
La voz.
Te ataron a la estaca, a la cruz, y te dejaron arder.
They tied you to the stake, to the cross, and they left you to burn.
The night was dark in its satin expenditures, perfuming the Scottish moon in a shadowy mist that growled overhead. Snarling against the sky in an assault of abusive lightning, bruising thunder, Robin became her, knife in hand. Underneath the canopy of the murky sky, the silver threads of moonlight trying to break the sheen of the eve, Robinʼs knife, la vozʼs knife, drank in the malice as she did. Choking on the blood of the noble Englishwoman before her as Robin choked on the sight of the Englishwomanʼs throat, her ut*rus, her body; defiled with the curdles of her v*rginʼs blood. The high was intoxicating, the pleasure numbing, and as she stared deeply, she looked ahead.
Hágales sangrar.
Make them bleed.
Like a predator – a predator with eyes black as the night – Robin staggered over Desdemonaʼs corpse. Hungry, ravenous. Watching, waiting. Her obsidian black curls spilled over her hourglass form, rotting her gilded physique with the ruin of Robinʼs knife. There was a calm that fluttered over her as the queenʼs body stilled into a murmur of labored breath and weakening respirations. A curiosity that only festered, only grew, only made her hungrier. Panting, she watched Desdemonaʼs crooked, crimson smile greet the Heavens, her sickly, pale face caked in her blood, her riveting blood, her divine blood.
En tierra de ciegos, la tuerta es reina, mi pequeño petirrojo.
Remember that, my little Robin.
"Robin!"
Listening to Lafayette trod into the Catacombs, full of dissonance, full of cacophony, she found herself crouched at the entrance of the crypt, she winced as blood pooled out of her palm. She had scraped her hand against a rock, where the blood came out thick and hot, and as she rose to her shaky feet, she felt Lafayette exhale profusely. Gasping against the wintry tombʼs mercilessness. The Catacombs, the burial of all the descendants of Štefania and Svetla Habsburg, the brutish Oedipal Lovers of her familyʼs history on her fatherʼs side, it was always cold, always frosty. She felt the ghosts of her ancestors make warmth ebb away with the dimming of the lights, and as she wrapped her palm with a torn piece of her ACDC tank, she tucked that painful memory away with all the others.
"Sorry, I spaced out," she muttered, her breath coming out in frosty little clouds. "You bring the stuff, La?"
Lafayette eyed the cut suspiciously, handing her an assault rifle and a leather bound backpack.
YOU ARE READING
Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)
FantasyTHE DEVIL WENT DOWN TO LOUISIANA - And there will be killing until the score is settled. Tortured and exiled, Robin DeMarcus came back to the United States unscathed: a ruthless heiress to an antebellum empire with a hunger for revenge to carry on...
