The fighting never stopped.
Father came home from work and he was an angry man. Mother was never happy to see him. Father... helped... mother see things his way, usually with an open hand, but after their last argument, he made the discovery using a closed hand is far more effective.
The fighting never affected me, though Father made me angry the way he treated mother.
Those things his behaviors drove her to do.
Mother drank the same ugly poisons so many cling to in times of hardship, the same poisons the smiling bartenders serve when they ask what it's going to be, and mother loved the drink... and mother loved me.
This is no past tense love, where mother loved me, but now she's with Jesus. This is the love where mother loved me as Lot's daughters loved him following the fall of Sodom and Gamorrah.
Mother loved me, and why not?
What shoulder was there ever on to cry than a son who understood her pain?
What embrace was never more important than a son who needed holding?
What kiss could not better sate her pain, than mine?
Did Oedipus Rex not indulge in so forbidden a fruit, and if so, why not should I?
Martin Bellar is not - was not - a good man. When he began lashing mother with a cord, I strangled him with it.
I thought mother would be angry, but instead we got a new garden, a beautiful tree, and now Martin Bellar is finally put to good use.
Of course, when the medical examiner failed to show, there were... inquiries, and investigations, but far as anyone knew, father left us; left us behind, a wife, and son in need of a husband, and father.
How could he do that to us? Mother wept; I wept. We mourned, and we begged the law to find him, and return him home to us...
...but father never left home, and never would. He exists only in the trees, the grass, and the flowers. Martin Bellar is gone, and behind him his legacy of violence is done.
We are all that survived his reign of terror, Simon and Elise Bellar, a loving son and his mother, and their beautiful, beautiful garden.
✟ ☧ ✟
"Ladies and gentleman," The D.J announced with a voice that sounded very much alive, and full of excitement. "That was Chance, paroled for your viewing pleasure. Remember our girls work for tips, and tips only, so be sure to take care of our detainees because it's the only buck they'll make here at The Lockdown!"
The "cafeteria" was beginning to fill with more patrons now. On the second story, there were more cells. There were guards up there too, but something about the way they looked and the way they carried their selves cried real. These were bouncers, The Lockdown's security team. These guys were no joke, dressed in black rip-stop cargo pants, heavy boots, and body armor. They looked like private army, or militia, wearing gas masks as if they were about to raid a crack house or a take down a crime lord.
"Frightening aren't they?"
"Hell yeah they are." Gerald Dean feigned surprise, and turned slowly to the voice of the Club Manager, and current owner.
"Laurence Braun." Laurence extended a hand, and Gerald shook it thrice.
"I'm Gerald Dean."
"So, Mr. Dean? How do you like my establishment, Mr. Dean?"
"Please, just call me Gerald. No need for formalities here," Gerald said, eyeballing the guards upstairs, who peered down at the "cafeteria" from above. The second floor was set much like a prison's, more of a walkway around the second floor, rails lining the inside. Every few feet there were large rings in the railing. "Ever have to use them before?"
"You see those rings?"
"Yeah," Gerald stared up at the second floor, feeling the tension from the bouncers. "I was going to ask."
"We don't have trouble here too often, but every now and again an asshole may try to... touch... one of the girls. I don't run a whorehouse here, so the first offense, one of our pretty guards down here will issue he—or she -" Braun smiled curtly, "- a warning."
They walked around the floor of the "cafeteria" a while more, before heading down one of the club's many corridor. Here there were cells, but they were empty, and not pristine like the other cells.
"What if they don't get the hint? How do your bouncers get to them in time to stop a problem?"
"That's why we have the rings on those rails, Gerald. If the patrons just can't seem to get it through their thick skulls, then the guards upstairs latch a carabiner to the ring, and then jump down."
"They repel to the lower floor?"
"It's fast, and it's a hell of an ugly surprise."
"That seems a bit excessive... if not impractical. Do your bouncers have a training course for all this?"
"Well, they're technically more than bouncers. I hire retired cops, mercenaries, militia types. You know, the hard asses. They know what they're doing."
"Hard asses." Gerald frowned.
"No pretenders here."
"Except for your dancers. How much do you pay your security?" Gerald nodded at the second floor, pretending discomfort at a the idea of Mercenaries and Militia working as local security.
"Price range is negotiable, but they're worth their penny—and—I bring in a pretty good revenue nightly here. Weekends are a blast."
"I see." Gerald stroked his fingers through his hair. His hands were sweating, and already he could feel it in his gut; there was more to this club than just strippers and money.
"Well you must get a lot in, I mean the quality of dancers here—your girls are incredibly beautiful,talented dancers."
"Yes," Braun appeared a little distracted. "Do you care to take a tour of the facility?"
Gerald nodded, smiling warmly. "Since you're offering, absolutely."
✟ ☧ ✟
They strolled the corridor of empty cells to a stairwell at the end, winding its way up. "I purchased this stairwell from an auction in 'Frisco. Supposedly it belonged to an old prison, so I had it shipped here and we had duplicates made—sturdier, you know." He grinned, and swept his hand to present the stairwell as if giving Gerald some grand tour.
They began up the staircase, and Laurence went on. "Now, so there is no confusion... so no one's intelligence is insulted by any pretense... I know of your society, I had to go through the Judge to get approval on this establishment. This is why I agreed to your tour." Laurence was polite. Almost diplomatic. "I am curious, honestly, what do you think of my establishment?"
"Honestly?" Gerald wiped his hands over the front of his slacks, his voice and tone professional, a diplomatic trait of a representative of the Honorable Judge Grifford. "I think I'll need to see a few more dancers doing their jobs."
There was a moment of silence between the two men. Gerald's face appeared serious, for only a moment, and then he and Laurence Braun laughed together as if Gerald made some secret, private joke.
"I assure you Gerald. You will be most pleased." Braun said smiling with a dark, but sincere smile. "I have a feeling you'll be here often."
"As do I." Gerald stroked the stubble on his face. The damned stubble. A clean shave meant shaving at least twice a day. He led an active life, and had pride in his health. The Rites and Blessings kept him energetic, and strong; he felt he could do anything, and as a servant of Grifford and their society, usually he did.
Laurence, and Gerald ascended the stairs. "This is the upper level. Many of our higher priced dancers are up here." Laurence made subtle gestures with perfectly manicured hands as they passed the cells.
Up here, there were the darker clad guards.
There were a few prospective clientele, a higher class of scum, but otherwise the second floor was empty. "Up here we keep higher security. The people who pay for entertainment up here can have strange —eccentric— ideas of what entertainment is."
"Such as?"
"About a week ago we had to eighty-six a patron permanently. He kept asking one of our girls to go home with him for some 'shock treatment' as he called it. He seemed to have a fetish for girls and cattle prods."
"Who the hell was that?"
"Well, most of our clientele in the upper quarters are generally respected people—we're not really supposed to share identities. Especially since this one didn't seem to want to draw attention. Confidentiality is extremely important in this industry—to our dancers—and sometimes to our guests."
Gerald stared at him silently a moment. "You must understand, Laurence. I know you're not running a whorehouse here. In fact I think that any of the patrons who've been given the boot here know you're not running a whorehouse. My boss however, and the men who signed the papers allowing your establishment? They don't know that. I want to know the type of people who come in here, so we can help you keep them out. It's a symbiosis really: You help us by letting us help you." Gerald's voice had the subtle tones of threat peering through cracks in his diplomacy.
Braun was silent a moment. "His name was Doctor Martin Bellar.'
"Our - the Coroner?"
"The same."
"I see."
"He came in wearing a bondage mask, but that really is it as far as exceptionally strange details go. He was polite, soft spoken, and he wore an expensive suit. Seemed like a real gentleman."
"Both you and I know real gentlemen - if there's any left - don't frequent establishments such as yours, and they don't want to shock the shit out of pretty girls."
"Well, let's continue the tour, shall we?"
"Of course."
"Further this way, you'll see another corridor. The cells in the upper corridors are generally empty because it's harder to access them for our security team, but it looks good for effect. We like to keep the fantasy alive here, at The Lockdown"
Gerald offered a silent nod, but said nothing.
"This entire facility on this side is topless and full nude. We neither serve nor allow liquor inside of our facility here. The other side is our nightclub. You can drink, dance, karaoke, party, and just piss the night away."
Gerald raised an eyebrow. "...and if the drunks want to see a little nudity?"
"They're more than welcome to, if they're not shitfaced drunk. People know better by now than to aggravate our security team."
"I would think so. If you don't mind, I would like to watch some of your better entertainers. You'll understand if I forgot my pocketbook of course. Bill it to a tab, Judge Grifford will take care of everything."
"That will be quite unnecessary Gerald. His honor already taken care of us enough. I think that will do. Just have fun, and keep it in line with the ladies."
"You don't have to tell me twice."
They laughed once more together like old friends, though Gerald's laughter sounded hollow. Laurence's grin faded, and he excused himself. "I have to return to the floor. Have a good time, Gerald Dean."
✟ ☧ ✟
He knows damned well this wasn't a check in.
He's probably got every camera, and guard here watching me to see if I'll do anything wrong—and even if I did, what could he do? He knows who I am, and he knows who I work for. He may not know what we do, but he knows that it's serious.
The girls up here - if it is at all possible - are prettier than the girls downstairs. Up here they go by names like Rose, Crimson, and Lust; but I'm neither interested in Crimson, or Lust—not today—today I am here for Ammielle.
A guard approaches me casually, though his shoulders are slumped and his head is a little bowed. I know he's not that old —I know his body language— his standing like most men who know me would stand in my presence, a position of submission. He's armed with a pistol and a baton; a stun gun, and mace. This guy would look as tough any soldier if he weren't so slouched.
He has come to direct me away from the cells, and into the "Warden's Office".
So that's what that was. I thought it would have been Braun's office for sure, man, oh man: was I ever wrong.
The Warden's Office: the upper level VIP room. A lush, private den for the rich ones. Private dances to a more personal nature, without the distraction of other patrons watching you; without the sounds of cat calls, whistles, toilets, or a combination of any or all of them. One pole in the center and a circular stage surrounding it. The pole is polished brass it looks like, though it could be gold the way it shines under the lights. There's two huge, lavish, half-circular couches set up around the stage, a space between them so that the higher-class scum here can get in and out.
There are guards in each of the corners of the room, which is dark, other than the spotlight on center stage.
The first out to dance: Her name is Marisal. She looks to be someone born into an exotic culture, dressed like a gypsy. She could be Turkish, Russian, or Hispanic. She could be any of them... all of them. I couldn't tell you, and I'm damned good at calling roots. I'm looking at her, and she's looking back at me, and she is gorgeous, that's what she is.
When she dances, her hips move and the entire world seems to sway with them, the seductive swivel of her body, her belly, her legs and her hips.
She is amazing.
Through the entire dance, she never once removes an article of clothing; she doesn't even allude to it, and I find myself wishing that I had my pocket book. Her dance is so full of the mystery of a woman; like the perfect antidote for the empty-girl I saw when I first walked in. Her dance is Nirvana; it's Paradise—it's the Garden of Eden—and before I know it, her song is over and she's standing there with a smile.
It could have been a smirk, a grin, or a simple gracious smile—the mystery in that puzzle alone makes me understand why this one makes the big bucks, while the girls downstairs are swinging what God gave them to top forty hits.
She graces off of the center stage, brushing past me. She smells of everything good that I have ever known in my life, with her skin like shimmering iridescence. I feel captivated – entranced - by the mellow allure of her mysterious dance. As she steps down, I see her heading for the corridor that will lead her down the stairs.
I wonder if she'll dance again down stairs with the regular girls, the cheap crowd, and the top forty hits, I've almost forgotten is part of this establishment.
The sound over the speakers is a soft, woman's voice. She announces the previous dancer simply a Gypsy. I have to hold back from clapping. Not too much creativity, but you know what? I don't care. It's a silver light to the dark cloud of my presence here. I'm supposed to be here on business, but it's not what Braun thinks it is.
It's so much darker.
"For your viewing pleasure, Crimson." Is all I hear from the speakers before the soft beat, like a heartbeat, begins.
Crimson glides out next, her eyes silver —almost glowing— but not quite. She has a feral nature to her, the tender looking lips on her face betraying her to something possibly more sinister. Her lipstick makes her lips dark, crimson, like her name. Man, oh, man. They don't hold back on the creativity here, do they?
What's in a name though?
Sorry.
Getting philosophical again.
Her skin is unnaturally pallid, as if she's powdered it white, but you can tell she hasn't. You can see just the faintest of blue veins spider-web beneath her skin. It makes her look delicate, like a newborn, but that's where the common ground ends. There's no innocence in her, not that anyone is innocent, but a step up —or down, depending on how you look at it— she's the thief of innocence. She moves with a grace so inhuman.
Her beauty is preternatural, and she terrifies me without so much as a glance in my direction as she steps onto the stage. When she begins dancing, time suddenly slows to a near halt. Every single sense of warning and panic in me cries out at once, and I have to fight myself from bolting out right now —it isn't a Hunter's instinct— it isn't human's instinct. This feeling is primal, and instinctual; it is a feeling that dates back to prehistory, imbued into my genes like the fear of falling, or the unknown. Fears that need not be trained into a person when they are fears born into them.
This fear I have is the fear of a prey. I can feel my palms sweating while she dances . She smoothly shimmies out of her clothes. I'm not even certain when it happens, but the next thing I know, she's nude, and dancing like prairie waves blowing in a gentle breeze or swaying with a spring storm. She smiles at me and I feel my stomach drop.
You know the feeling.
It's like the release of steam that moment just before the roller coaster drops. The fear and anticipation of what's coming next—and then that drop—but on a roller coaster, at least you're safe. Here I feel about as safe as a bleeding fish in a school of Hammer-head Sharks, and then it occurs to me.
I am swimming with the sharks here.
It must have happened while I was thinking, or maybe when I blinked, but it was the last thing I saw coming. She's on my lap, and she moves like the girl I saw when I first came in.
I should be appalled.
I should be disgusted.
Instead, I find myself entirely enthralled by her preternatural dance, so much that it's hard to think clearly, even in this moment. I move my arms a bit, just to shake it off—to shake her off—but she's still on me. I sense movement out of the guards around me, but she subtly —ever subtly— shakes her head to assure them things are fine. Her hands are like vice grips —if only for a moment— and she pins my hands back down to the chair while she's dancing on me. Whatever perfume she's wearing, it's sweet, but there's something wrong - something menacing beneath it - something coppery and metallic to my nostrils.
I can barely smell it... I can barely—before I know it, she's already sliding off of me. She kisses me on the cheek as she arches her back. It lingers cold, but I feel my skin burn throughout my entire body, my flesh betraying my mind. Yeah, I'm scared, but even so... it's not showing.
God, I hope it doesn't show.
She calls me lover, or love, or something like that, and before I can even react she's dressed and slinking back into her cell. A predator in a cage.
I hear the soft woman's voice again. A round of applause for Crimson. Crimson. Red. Her lips like dark red, crimson, blood. She's back in her cell, but the metallic coppery scent still haunts me.
I stand up for a moment. My mouth is dry. There's a server already there. I order anything carbonated and clear. She's gone only a few minutes and returns with soda water.
Funny. Real funny.
No tip for you. I don't have my pocketbook, but if I did, you certainly wouldn't.
I sit back down. Crimson's still in my head, taunting me somehow with her dance, but she's gone, and no—no.
She's not why I'm here.
I shake my head a few more times to clear it.
The next girl out on stage for review, it seems, is a taller girl. I don't recognize her, but she goes by the name Lust. She's tall, darker skin — Hispanic. She's pretty, too... but in a different way. She is nothing spectacular to behold. I'd go as far to say she's common stock among the trade of beautiful women here, but there's something different about her. Her movements lack grace. They're almost clumsy — but why then am I so enticed?
As each of these girls dance, I feel as though I am one step closer to a dancing cobra, and with each dance, I fear it is about to strike... but I am not afraid of her. Lust as though she may incite, her perfume is like candy, or cookies, or sugar—it is sweet, but I can't place it. Her perfume is the smell of all my memories.
She looks me directly in the eyes while she dances.
Her dance is so amateur, it makes me wonder why I want to sign my entire fortune over to her. She's nothing special at all, but she keeps my interest. There's some song in the background, but each of her movements seems to make its own music.
She doesn't go nude, and I don't really think she needs to.
I find myself on the end of my chair, smelling the air, my eyes half shut. Her dance ends without me knowing how long it was, or much of what she looked like. Her clothes are back on, and she's already off the stage.
I feel like an ass.
I feel like a real ass, sitting there with my nose out like a dog begging for a treat. If I felt fear at all, with anything, it is wiped clean.
This last one, blatantly a daughter of Persia; a Middle Eastern looking girl. She is tall, slender, and her dimensions are unrealistic. Her figure is impossible. She stands silently on the stage. Motionless.
Not still.
Motionless.
She's staring at me, wide eyed.
Her face is otherwise unreadable.
She cautiously begins forward, walking with elegance and grace—that very elegance and grace that I missed, when I watched the dancer —Chance— when first I arrived. This one — Ammielle — she moves with a calculated inhuman sophistication. She's not a common dancer. She's not a common woman. She's not a common anything. The longer I look at her, the more I notice her strange nuances. No lines in her face, or on her body that show age, youth, or otherwise. Her skin is neither loose nor tight. She has the complexion of a mannequin. Her hands are smooth; the knuckles and joints on her body are smooth...
...and, she has no naval.
I am here for this one.
She looks at me as she removes her clothes, dropping them softly; seductively to her ankles. Her body makes me promises without her ever saying a word. I see the past, the present, and the future in her; I see a world where I am king.
Where I am God.
Now I know with absolute certainty this is my mark. She's moving with a darkness, each step, each movement a sinister grace. Her fluidity is impossible. She's like watching a lava lamp; her flow of liquid elegance keeps me expecting at any moment for gigantic feathered wings to unfold from behind her.
Maybe not feathered wings... but wing all the same.
She's mysterious, but in a manner that leaves my guts feeling warped, the terrible reality of her beauty is perverse. It leaves me feeling sick—renewing that feeling each passing second—and yet I am still enchanted by the inhuman nature of this woman-creature.
She smiles at me, as if she's read my last thought. As if she's been reading my thoughts. She smiles at me, and just as if she's read my last thought, and she gives me this sense that those thoughts may be the last ones I may ever have.
Her hips sway, and the universe sways with them. Reality sways with them. The world, and all of mankind sways with them. They swivel, but they don't gyrate; the thrust, but they don't grind; she is a ballet in her every breath, a symphony in her every glance. She could be anywhere, doing anything... but she's just a common dancer.
Well.
Not so common.
I'm still waiting for her to unfold wings that will never unfold. Her smile is beautiful, as sardonic as it may be.
I want to run.
I want to stay here.
The walls of the lockdown are no longer here.
The cells.
The music.
Everything.
It is an echo now, something that was, but is gone.
There is Ammielle, and the stars and the galaxy behind her. No —there is Ammielle— she is the stars and the galaxy. She stares into me.
Man, this wasn't even my gig.
This was Clay Walker's gig. I heard he's fallen on hard times. Lost a son. Poor luck, Clay. I wish I could have known your boy. That's a raw deal, but at least he has one left. Keeps the bloodline going. The boy would be here in my stead if he was old enough but he's not even two years old.
My body's stiff—all of it—not just the parts that generally stiffen when a girl-thing like Ammielle's dancing. There is violence in this. Sure, it isn't blood and war, but this is an attack all the same. She's digging into me without even getting near me.
My soul burns, my stomach is turning.
She moves closer to me, dancing the entire way there.
Step.
Step, step.
Step.
Step, step.
Step.
She step-step-steps right off the end of the stage, and it's like she glides to the floor.
The rhythm of her movements is snakelike. She's a viper. I'm no snake charmer. There is tension in the air. I know I can't take her—but I won't have to. I can't take all these guards at once. Now, I'm good. I'm damned good... but even I can't take down a task force. She's on my lap, and immediately my erection recedes completely, limp and dead as a fresh corpse. Her skin is warm, and yet cold to the touch.
When she breathes on me, it's like she's breathing a storm, and her eyes are empty of any kindness. She brushes her lips against my cheek.
It's like fire.
She whispers into my ear, and her voice carries the tortured souls of the damned. She says, "Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem."
I don't speak a word of Latin, so I just say the first thing that comes to mind. "God damn you."
"Nihil curo de ista tua stulta superstitione."
I have no idea what she's saying, but I don't think it's friendly.
She says it in a friendly way —a sweet way— the way a lover speaks in secret whispers. Her voice isn't cold, just hell ridden, and filled with all the pain and anguish of the damned. She arches her back, pushing herself into me. I arch back away from her, craning so that her flesh doesn't touch me. She continues to arch until her palms are on the cold cement floor.
Flexible girl.
She pulls her legs off of me, over her torso and back onto the floor. She pulls herself up, eyes at slits; that smile still on her pretty face. She must know why I'm here. I force myself to break eye contact.
I'm dizzy, but the dizziness is fading now. I see the guards again, the world is no longer stars and space. The guards are uneasy looking, tense. The world is taught. I nod my head —just slightly— a subtle gesture.
I'm not sure if she picks up on it or not.
I stand up, and she looks almost insulted. There are footsteps behind me and I feel a graceful sweep as the gypsy brushes past me, her purse full of money. There are no ones, or fives in her purse; nothing under a hundred dollars.
I doubt she undressed. I know she didn't. Not Marisal. Not the gypsy.
God she takes me back.
Makes me think of a time, a long time ago.
I nod that subtle nod one more time... and I head down the spiral staircase.
✟ ☧ ✟
Sirens blared, muted, as Gerald walked slowly out the front doors of The Lockdown. It was evening now, the sunset though was blocked by a predominantly cloudy sky. It rained a lot in Driftwood—not always at a constant—but sunlit summers and spring breaks were often disappointing for the children of this city.
Here in the barren outskirts, there was little to notice.
No one could know the truth about things here, there was no way. Not that they weren't strong enough to handle it—just that people in large crowds are stupid. Stupid enough to kill off the only thing protecting them. The muted sirens inside of The Lockdown continued, a monotone rise and fall, a second alarm buzzing incessantly behind it. It sounded like there was a prison riot going on in there.
Gerald sighed, lighting a cigarette as he continued down the path from The Lockdown, to the lot where his ride would be waiting.
Ammielle was the mark, but there were other terrible things in there; Lust, and Crimson. Succubus, and vampire. He knew what Crimson was, and in many ways, he felt she was worse a creature than Ammielle could ever be, but Ammielle was responsible for the death of James W. Wallace Junior.
It was enough for a death sentence, but Ammielle was not going to die. She could not die. Ammielle, the beautiful blasphemy. The fallen. Demon, if you believed in the bible.
The good judge arranged for her defeat though. He paid good money to arrange for her removal from this plane, and put into a place where she could not harm another again. At least, not here.
Grifford was fascinated with an interesting... people.
He called them City-Walkers—rather; he said they called themselves City-Walkers. The way he explained it, City-Walkers were capable of great and terrible things. They could do things that Coven could not do, and did not rely on any conjuring to do it.
The City-Walkers were capable of finding anything, and anyone, so long as they were in Driftwood. They could hear footfalls of whoever they needed to find, and track them expertly — precisely— without need for surveillance. These fascinating specimens of the city were capable of remarkable feats that even a hunter could not control, or resist. It was because of this that Grifford felt a treaty, or an alliance would be wiser than an all out war.
Indeed it was exactly why a prior visit to The Lockdown was necessary. Four of the guards inside of the establishment were City-Walkers placed by Grifford. He must have struck quite a deal to get those Agents in there.
City-Walkers are the only people in Driftwood who can physically tear their way into the mindfield. Judge Grifford said some could even drag others in with them. City-Walkers. He heard that term before, but never experienced.
It was a witch thing; Gerald avoided anything Coven or Conjure. Such things were for pencil pushers like the good Judge Grifford and his goons.
Peace was rarely an option in Driftwood—a fool's dream, as far as Gerald was concerned. So long as Coven ran in the bloodstream of his home, there would be little peace. The conniving, conjuring bastards; they deserved their lot —true some more than others— but every last one of them should burn for their contribution to the religious pollution of Driftwood.
Gerald waited a moment.
"Behind you, hunter."
Gerald did not sense it, but was not surprised either. A conjurer would not have been able to do that. "You get it taken care of?" He turned with causal disinterest.
"She's been ripped into the mindfield."
"Any casualties?"
"I'm the only one left." The Guard said. "Grifford will not have to pay the other three."
"Grifford will take care of your families. All of them. You've done a service to us, and to Driftwood today..." Gerald said, holding out four envelopes. In each of them there was a check written by Grifford, for a very, very large sum of money.
Enough money to help fund a City-Walker's efforts to keep his or her city clean.
"What do you know of Driftwood?" The City-Walker took the envelopes. Gerald watched him walk off, dropping accessories of armor and articles of his guard uniform until he reached the woods. Then it was silent, and Gerald was alone.
✟ ☧ ✟
"Three City-Walkers dead in one sitting. The best part is," He smiled. "We weren't the ones who had to do it."
Gerald was silent, and Grifford took his silence - correctly - as disapproval.
"You haven't yet seen what these abominations —these children of the city— can do yet, have you?"
"No."
"These —people— are different. They are not like Coven; they are not like we are. I have seen them rip their way out of our reality."
"It isn't that I don't believe it," Gerald said. "It's just that for me, seeing is believing sir. I have seen some scary shit; I have seen fire and ice conjured from nothing, and just—just some really, really frightening shit. I have never seen a City-Walker do anything."
"These people are strong, Gerald." Grifford said in a grave tone. "Don't let size fool you. I have seen them in the act. I watched them walk out of our world. It is neither a sight, nor a sound. It's more like a feeling. One moment they're here, one moment later... they are not." Judge Grifford stood up from his armchair, pushing it out as he did. He stepped to his window, and looked out of his office, over the acres of land that was his property. "These beings are unnatural. They neither affect, nor feel the effects or the Natural Order; they are unaffected by any rift in the Balance that we uphold. They are living, breathing, walking extensions of this city. They think and feel what it thinks and feels; they are ambassadors of something else."
"Are they our enemies?"
"They are not our friends, but no. No, they are not our enemies. They're mostly self-serving— whatever will make this City better in their judgment. I would never want to cross blades with any one of them though. I've seen them rupture a person with as much as a glance. Easily. They are not to be trifled with, and the loss of three of them is a victory for everyone's community."
"Except theirs. Three souls in heaven."
"They have no souls—or so I hear—and I am inclined to believe it. In the mid or maybe late seventies there was a young man about eighteen or so, maybe. Not in our community, but he was a Pastor's son. He was with a woman—the very thing they pulled out of Driftwood today."
"That's impossible."
"No, it is not. She is an Angel, of sorts. She commonly referred to City-Walkers as false life. It is believed that Angels hate these abominations because they have no souls. They are shells of men, walking and filled with the soul of our city."
"So it is told."
"So it is told." Grifford smiled. "What you did today was a blessing. You managed to rid us of six potentially deadly nuisances, and you survived it to be home in time for supper."
"Yeah. I feel you should know that I gave the money to their families, seeing how the three did not survive it."
"That's fine. Let them see our generosity, so that they never side against us." Grifford turned from his window. "Let them see our greatness, and our kindness so that we have their trust —and if not their trust— let us have their alliance."
Gerald looked hard at Grifford a moment. "I will take my leave, sir."
"Tell your wife I send my greetings."
Gerald nodded, and quickly enough, he was gone.
Grifford stood at his window until he saw Gerald Dean in his courtyard, and then he watched him get into his car. As Gerald pulled out of the driveway, and into the street, Grifford took three short steps to his desk, and sat in the leather bound chair. He smiled at the trophy heads on his walls, all those dangerous hunts. Especially the one that almost got him. He picked up the telephone, and dialed.
It rang.
"Your honor."
"Good to hear your voice, Bartholomew. I have a task that needs attending. There is a city-walker I need dispatched."
"Just one?"
"...and the remaining family members."
"Which ones?"
Grifford narrowed his eyes, staring at the trophy heads on his wall. He flexed his free hand for a thoughtful moment, and smiled. "All of them."