No way.
Fuck. Please let it mean I can.
I want her.
Want her more than the money.
More than the success.
I have no clue who the fuck she is but I want her more than I want to redeem my worthless name.
The ball disintegrates into a million incandescent pieces that slide like shimmering sand through the priestess’ fingers. In their wake, something else takes shape. I squint at the paper—no, the parchment she’s now offering me, its words illegible to my gaze.
“That life was always meant to be yours. You know it deep inside. It’s why you’ve never accepted your fate. Why you’ve railed against the gods for failing you.”
The gods?
Before the inquiry leaves my lips, she leans into my space, pointing with the end of her grotesque nail at the only clear spot on that parchment—a signature line at the bottom. “All you have to do, my love, is agree by leaving your print right here.”
My “print”, not my signature. That should’ve been my main clue that something wasn’t right.
As if everything else about this twisted scenario wasn’t clue enough, huh?
I eye that line, pushing aside my revulsion at her distorted nail, and seriously consider giving her my print.
Whatever that means.
Surely a mythical creature such as her can deliver on that promise and lead me to that beauty with murderous intent in her eyes.
No sooner than the thought finishes crossing my mind and the world behind her—what seems to be a basement, my subconscious provides—explodes in a burst of color. It settles down almost as fast as it started. In its wake, small sparks of rainbow-like shades remain, and the candles have died out.
We’re also no longer alone, and I’m not talking about the snakes.
In the corner of the basement, where the whirlwind of color is the brightest, stand six figures.
They’re unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed.
Dressed in all-black, they’re a mix-mosh that’s straight out of some psychedelic trip.
Man, those pills I took had to be laced.
There’s a female mummy in the front in black wrapping from head-to-toe.
They’re all wearing black.
To her side, a man in a suit and tie rubs his gloved hands together, face also covered by linings.
There’s a thin, slightly bent over man with the spiky face mask that covers his features entirely. His long-sleeve shirt has a deep open V that leads to the leather pants encasing his legs.
Another facing the wall, face hidden, hands held behind his back, German soldier helmet gleaming in the polychromatic sparks of light surrounding them.
And then we have the last two.
I don’t know if the guy off to the left is wearing some sort of modified knight helmet or what the fuck is that, but it covers his entire face, the mouthpiece curved like a protective beak around his jaw. On top of the helmet, there’s a giant black poof, honest to God don’t know what else to call it, and it looks like a perfect bun. He’s also in a military-style uniform, except his cape is made of black feathers, and the broach holding it together would make my dead great-Aunt Edna proud.
The pièce de résistance is the last guy, the most flamboyant of them all. His face is covered in black linen like most of them, and on top of that he’s wearing these small, round sunglasses, but based on the angle of his head and body, it’s clear he’s staring right at me.
His leather jacket is awesome, something straight out of 80s pop-culture, and the satin gloves are fine, I guess, but what the fuck is up with that top hat? And the gossamer black veil beneath it? Or the dramatic black feather pinned to one side of it?
Forget that. The tiny black bird perched on the other side of that hat is what I really want to discuss with him. Just how did he get it trained enough to stay up there?
My chest bounces and it takes me a second to realize laughter is bubbling up, tinged with escalating hysteria. I choke on it as I try to force words through, until I finally manage to get out, “Nice bird, bro.”
His response? He nods this sage nod and somehow manages to take a drag of his cigarette although his mouth is covered by linen.
I fall sideways, almost hitting the floor, tears streaming down my face from laughter.
No fucking doubt about it. Those pills were some really good shit.
The priestess waves her hand and I’m lifted to an upright sitting position by her will alone.
Which, of course, pushes me to a level of hysterics I’ve never experienced prior to this.
Can’t tell if I’m still laughing or possibly crying at this point.
She holds the parchment to my face and murmurs, “It can be yours. Do as I ask, and everything you’ve ever desired will be yours to have for a time.”
I wipe a tear off my cheek. “Oh really? And what do you get out of it?”
“What I need. Just like you. You’ll get everything you’ve ever wanted, and when it’s over, we’ll send the collector to get our due.”
“Your ‘due’?”
“You get the life you desire . . . and then your life will be ours.”
If I remember this tomorrow when I wake up from this bender, I need to make damn sure I write this crazy trip down. It’ll be a heck of an ad for my dealer, won’t it? Shit he’s selling is so fucking good, your brain goes off into another realm entirely.
Can’t believe I even thought this was real for a bit.
Screw it, though. Might as well play along, right? “You know what? Sure. Fuck it. Where do I sig—” She snatches my hand, extends my thumb, and slices across the pad with her mutated nail—her sharp as a fucking knife nail. “Argh!” My hand is left extended in the air near the parchment, my thumb bleeding like crazy.
“The next part is all up to you. You need to make the choice. Press your thumb to this line and your life will change . . . forever.”
Ahhhhh. That’s what she meant by my “print”.
I don’t get to watch much TV, and don’t remember watching too much trippy crap as a kid when we did have some cable running from time to time, but, hell, my imagination is on some shit right now.
Shrugging to myself, I hold out my thumb, aiming for the space she indicated, and place the digit right on the paper.
There’s a loud bang, everything shaking around us, the six silent figures the only thing that remains steady as the world appears to be racked by a huge earthquake . . .
And the world goes black.
That is, until the next morning, when I wake up, no hangover, no lingering effects, back in the bed at the shelter I could’ve sworn I’d never be allowed to return to.
CHAPTER 3
Present Day
- Ritz Carlton, French Quarter, New Orleans, LA (USA)
Flames surround her, a tempest of hellfire that encompasses her entire form.
I’m not burning as she approaches; I’m frozen down to the depths of my damaged soul.
“I know you,” I say, just like in the dream.
Holy hell, this is identical to the recurring dream I’ve had for years now. All of it.
The only thing I ever missed was the gore surrounding me and the fact that I’m naked as the day I was born, covered in it.
“We all recognize death when it finally arrives at our door.” Her outline flickers as she appears inches from my body.