The Dark Muse By Alby Mangroves, T - Z
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The Dark Muse By Alby Mangroves
She does that thing with her hand like it's nothing; that flipping of hair, all from
the wrist.
Like it costs her nothing.
He resents it because it costs him everything.
It costs him unparalleled restraint not to ruin the whole thing and just do her
now, right now.
Right. The. Fuck. Now.
He could just go over there and make it happen, but she's not alone and the
experience would be sullied. It's not the act itself that he craves; it's the control
and the ownership that are instrumental, like air-filled lungs.
He won't be able to have those things if he doesn't wait for the designated time.
He can't wait to see her when there are no more impulsive movements, when he
himself finally controls everything. His every breath and every heartbeat count
down to this moment, just like hers, though she might not know it.
She runs her palm across her cheekbone and covers his mark like she's ashamed
of it. His whole body shudders with the need to get to her and do it, do it, DO
IT... but no. He will have his perfection. He will wait until the time.
He has watched the ripening bruise over the course of several days and thinks
the dark blue suited her. It's a shame that it's almost all yellows and greens now.
He wonders if he can hold out, maybe see if there are more marks he can put on
her before the deadline. As much as this thought makes his heart sing, he knows
it probably won't work; it has been a monumental effort to hold out even this
long. He doesn't have much patience left in him. Thankfully, it won't be long now.
He feels his mouth stretching into a grim smile. His hand travels slowly to his face
to test this expression under his fingertips; sure enough, his lips are pulled to
either side and his teeth are exposed. He wonders what his face would look like
to other people, to her, while it's distorted into this grimace.
Perhaps he could test the boundary of his restraint just a little more. Maybe he
could see her just one more time before the deadline and prepare her skin with
more shadowy marks while testing the effect of this smile on her. He has been
watching her meet this kid for the last couple of days and he likes it less and less.
Perhaps it's time to put a stop to it. His hand travels to his pocket and he
retrieves his cell.
"Midnight in Seattle, how may I assist you?" It's the same smooth voice, as
always.
He can put a red-headed, shrewish face to this voice now, which somehow makes
it more thrilling, especially as she's oblivious to that fact. He had a wonderful
time just a few days ago, watching her while she stepped out for lunch, emerging
all powersuit and heels from the lobby of the building that discreetly houses the
escort agency. He devoured every nuance and expression on her face as she
spoke into her phone about whatever inane bullshit women fucking talk about. He
wasn't close enough to hear anything, but he's sure he didn't miss anything of
interest.
"Hello, I'd like to request Marie for 9pm tonight." His voice is quiet and calm, the
opposite of the way he feels right now. Looking at Marie sitting in the café across
the road from him is very exciting, even if she is with that kid again. Is he a
client? He licks his lips.
"Hello Sir, nice to hear your voice again. Thank you for trusting us to provide a
memorable evening," the redhead simpers.
He grunts in response, thinking that this tone of voice doesn't mesh with the
hard, angular face of the skinny woman he saw lunching with Marie just last week
while the latter was moving into her new apartment across town. It's all wrong
and he knows that she's putting it on for him: the client. He realizes that she's
still speaking and focuses on her voice again.
"...not available at this time. Perhaps I can suggest Heidi or Chelsea? Both come
with excellent recommendations and pictures are, of course, available on our
website. Would you like to consider these choices, Sir?"
Not available at this time. But he can see her, clear as day, sitting in the café and
tugging on a lock of hair, her mouth moving like she's speaking. Of course she's
available.
"There must be some mistake, of course she's available." His mouth spews out
the thought before he can check it. It takes a huge effort to stop himself from
saying something really stupid, like 'I'm looking at her right now.' There is a
slight pause at the other end of the line, and unpleasant heat winds its way
through his stomach as he wonders if he's said something he shouldn't have after
all.
"My sincere apologies, Sir, Marie is away at this time. She's taking a short break.
If you could talk me through your exact requirements, perhaps I can assist you
with making an alternative choice. Let's start with an easy one: blonde or
brunette?" She's being overly accommodating, her voice dripping with so much
false charm that it makes him want to puke.
He realizes that she's serious. Marie is sitting right there, just beyond his reach,
just across the road from him, and he can't have her. It's infuriating.
He watches as she speaks to the kid, her eyes a shape he's never seen before;
they're soft and beautiful, entirely different from the wary, hard eyes she shows
him. Why isn't she working? He doesn't like deviations from the plan; they can
lead to unforeseen hurdles and this won't do. He needs to study this in detail and
work out if this affects the timeline.
He snaps the phone shut without answering, he knows there is nothing to be
gained by harassing the redhead. She's not the driving force behind this change,
Marie is.
He turns away from his vigil and swiftly makes his way to Marie's apartment. His
fingers close over the key in his pocket and he starts running, not knowing how
much time he has before she goes home. It takes only minutes to get there and
he slows down to a trot on approach, catching his breath.
He takes the stairs three at a time and twists the little key to open the door with
a soft pop; he knows to put his shoulder into it, it's a little sticky. If Marie hadn't
just moved here, he might have had time to work on fixing this in order to make
his entries and exits silent and undetectable.
The first major hiccup in the timeline had happened when she inexplicably up and
moved into this place just a few days ago. He was lucky to have been watching,
or he might have missed the whole episode and never found her in time to make
their fast approaching deadline. He wondered if he'd pushed her too far with his
preparations, and had to back off while people came and went from both of her
apartments, the old and the new. He watched carefully, and decided that it was
good she had moved, it showed she had fight in her, after all. A survival instinct.
It would be so much better in the long run.
Although this kind of improvisation had never happened before, he took it in
stride and hit the ground running, rewriting the plan to suit this new location.
Nothing has really been affected. He has kept up his side of the exchange, and so
far, she is sticking to hers. He wonders if she is aware of their agreement on the
same level that he is; does she hurtle towards the deadline resigned to her fate,
or will she fight at the last?
He's not sure which he hopes for more.
He steps inside Marie's apartment and leans his back against the door, closing it
behind him. His steps are sure as he walks to her bedroom and slides open the
wardrobe doors. He inspects her clothes, sliding his palm between the folds of
dresses and inhaling the lovely scent of her.
His eyes pan down to find what he wants: the black knee-high leather boots. He
removes them from the wardrobe and places them neatly beside her nightstand
where she can't miss them. He briefly contemplates placing her trench coat on
her bed as well, but doesn't want to spoil the subtle effect. He understands that
sometimes, less is more. The boots are perfect, standing upright against the wall
like they're full of her legs.
A flash of inspiration bursts in his mind and he wants her to wear the boots when
he finally owns her, when she's perfectly still and just so right and complete and
his.
Maybe he'll take them away with him when the time is up.
Satisfied with his contribution to making the plan a reality, he shuffles through
her apartment, touching her things, lifting them to his face for a sniff or a closer
look and putting them down again. She has hardly touched her possessions, most
of the still-sealed cartons are in the same place as the last couple of times he was
here since she moved in.
He can see no traces of anyone else having been here. The dishwasher is empty
and only one glass and small plate sit atop the kitchen counter. He checks her
laundry hamper and sees no evidence of anyone else's things. He hooks a pair of
panties on his index finger and checks the gusset. He can find no indication of
fluids, hers or otherwise. Most importantly, he can find no evidence of the kid.
Everything appears on track.
Satisfied, he takes one final sweep of the apartment, and that's when he notices
the book.
She has unpacked at least one carton of books, and a thick tome lays on the
couch where she left it. He picks it up and reads the blurb. Something about
monks. He flicks it open to Marie's bookmark and finds nothing of interest.
Thumbing through once more to another pre-creased section, his eyes are
immediately drawn to a small paragraph of text and he sucks in a breath.
'…Once again I was tempted to follow her; once again William, grim, restrained
me. "Be still, fool," he said. "The girl is lost; she is burnt flesh.'
His pale eyes read the line over and over until he is satisfied that it's not a fluke.
There is no such thing as coincidence.
He drops the book, having seen what he needed. Everything is definitely on track.
Silently, he lets himself out of the apartment.
10 Days Earlier...
Marie's eyes follow the patterns of green, blue and gold from one end of the
graffiti piece to the other, then back again.
It is easy to do; the piece coils around itself and leads the eye on an intricate
dance. Green, blue and gold are such mundane words to describe the endless
variants of color that have been used to create this art. The longer she looks at it
the more entrancing it becomes, almost as though this blank, stark red brick wall
was built purely for this captivating mural to adorn it.
She can't see a lot of detail from her second story window. She squints her eyes
experimentally and it is still beautiful when out of focus. Now it looks like a birds-
eye view of lush, verdant fields, the shapes appearing deliberate and rhythmic,
like music.
She has no idea what the graffiti says. It has been spray painted in a loose, fluid
style, and although she is sure there are letters in there, she just can't make
sense of them. She doesn't really mind not knowing the meaning; the piece has
no trouble visually conveying a mood. The warmth and appeal of it are intuitive.
She notices that the emerald piece is on the back of what appears to be a
warehouse or shop beyond the courtyard wall. A previous tenant has obviously
been very creative; this is no random spray paint attack on private property. It's
beautiful and evocative and it makes her smile. She would like to look at it until
the mystery of its meaning is revealed, and then to keep looking at it just
because it pleases her.
She thinks she might go down into the courtyard and see it up close. The gnarled
arms of the giant tree outside her window are obstructing her view and she wants
to see it in its entirety. She wants to run her fingers along it.
Sighing, she promises herself to do just that. Soon.
Turning her attention back to her new apartment, Marie begins to unpack her
possessions. It's a task she soon loses interest in, her momentum slowing as she
goes.
Not having a car bothers her, and she wonders how long hers will take to fix.
Being suddenly without transport of her own means that Marie has had to rely
completely on Victoria to organize this move, and to find a new apartment at
such short notice. Despite initial misgivings, the morning has gone according to
plan and courtesy of Victoria's offsider Riley (and his muscled, mustachioed
friends) her furniture is now all in, having sustained only minimal damage during
the move. She supposes that she could have hired a van and moving people
herself, but that would have meant having them in and out of the place the whole
weekend, and she really didn't want to have strangers coming and going like
that, under the circumstances. Besides, Victoria offered her help and organized it
all; she made it so easy.
Marie and Victoria have known each other a long time; long enough for Marie to
know that Victoria doesn't do favors out of the goodness of her heart, and Marie
gets that she will be required to repay in an acceptable manner. She sighs,
knowing what this will entail, only hoping that it won't involve The Ghoul. She
doesn't really understand Victoria's relationship to the decrepit old man.
She has had the misfortune of meeting him on two occasions, and as far as she's
concerned, it's two times too many. His thin, papery skin and colorless eyes make
her skin crawl and he dresses like a relic in ridiculous, dandified shirts that smell
like mothballs. He doesn't seem to blink, which increases the creepy factor to
eleven.
Maybe she'll be required to see The Drill. She smirks, thinking that this won't be
unpleasant. The smirk disappears as soon as she realizes that anything remotely
bearable when given for free won't be required by Victoria as payback for a favor.
Therefore, it won't be The Drill, who is a nice, funny guy that likes to regale her
with stories about his workmates and family, and never makes her feel cheap.
She remembers their first time with relative fondness.
His extended hand had hung between them and she had looked at it blankly, not
sure what he was expecting her to do with it. He raised his other hand too and
bent toward her, lightly grasping her own cool hand between both of his warm
ones.
"Nice to meet you Marie, my name is Eric." His eyes were shy, waiting for her to
take the lead. She was left staring at her hand after he'd released it.
She had realized then that he'd never done this before, and stepped in toward
him to make him feel at ease, smiling at him confidently, slipping into her
working persona. She hadn't allowed them to banter, taking the reins right away
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