Beautiful Freaks (24 page)

He lay there staring at the dancing rainbows caused by the chandelier droppers. Just like the rest of Eve’s quarters
,
her bedroom was
white,
giving the extraordinary sense that one was in a world
yet to be painted with colour, a
blank canvas.

Kaspian dragged himself out of bed, knowing that
if he lay
there
a moment longer
he ran the risk of
never
being able to leave. Everything about Eve’s world was captivating; her antique French furniture stuffed full of undergarments, her white kid
-
skin leather jewellery box full of diamonds and trinkets, the silver topped perfume bottles filled with rich exotic smelling musks
– for a woman who always wore b
lack, her pale white world was a strange contrast.

Eve had brought his clothes through from the salon and placed them on the end of the bed, saving him the indignity of having to walk naked through the rooms of her apartment.
He dressed to the point where he not
iced he was missing his jacket, recalling how it had been thrown over the back of the sofa. He stepped through the quiet house, feeling
like a cat burglar, uninvited and intrusive.
F
leetingly
, he
wondered how many men had been through this morning ritual of waking in a strange white land and retracing their steps as if finding their way out of a dream. It didn’t make Kaspian feel jealous
but it did make him feel like he didn’t really understand the rules of adult engagement.

Fastening the buttons of his jacket, Kaspian closed his eye and saw his own bedroom in his mind’s eye. When he opened them, he found himself standing before his own bedroom window. There were times being a phantom was very convenient.

*

If Heartlock noticed Kaspian’s night
time
absence then he did not comment or show it. He was already in the middle of his day’s work when Kaspian walked into the study, showered and redressed. Heartlock was making notes from a great leather bound tome. Kaspian hadn’t intended to show it much interest
,
but
then he’d
found himself gripped by the illustrations sprawled out amongst the text.

“What book is
this
?” Kaspian asked.

“The one I had on order from Foxglove. He brought it over this morning. It’s called ‘The Fantastical Phantasmagoria of Eastern Europe’.”

Kaspian let out a snort of laughter and Heartlock replied with a similar laugh. “Yes, a little flamboyant in its title, I admit.” He tapped at the pages of the book with the end of his pen, “But there are some interesting parts – some references that might be of use in Steptree’s investigation.”

The liquids in Kaspian’s body suddenly ran cool. He’d almost forgotten about the investigation and the ticking clock that counted down a collision between his two worlds.

“How so?” Kaspian asked, trying desperately to relax his voice.

“Well, see here,” Heartlock pointed to a detailed black and white engraving of a castle; exactly the kind that wouldn’t look out of place in a book of fairytales. “There in the corner, what looks like a normal forest, what do you notice?”

Kaspian moved closer, letting his eyes pour over the lines of the copperplate. “The trees, they have faces.”

“Yes! Wh
at else do you see – look, just there?
”
He stabbed at the image with his finger.

“A forest fae,” Kaspian’s voice came out barely above a whisper. His eyes flicked from the picture to the text.

“The book is full of accounts written by a man called, Valentine. He spent
years
travelling Eastern Europe, documenting all the local folktales. As you read through the book the accounts become more and more fantastical
– I wonder if he started to lose his mind
. At one point he evens claims to have killed a vampire with nothing but his bare hands and a silver crucifix.”

Kaspian took the corner of the page and flicked over to the next page. It was similarly full of illustrations and strange diagrams
. One image took up most of the page and was annotated with notes explaining it was a sketch of a scene
graphitised onto the
wall
of a church in a remote mountain village. It was a dark scene, full of angels, demons, and tortured souls. It had been done by a skilled hand; signed by a Miss Valentine.

“He took his daughter with him!”
Kaspian exclaimed with surprise.

“Aye,
very
progressive
– there’s a picture of her here somewhere.
”
Heartlock
flicked to a page he had marked with a pi
ece of violet paper. “Here, see – quite a looker!
”

Kaspian couldn’t help but let out a gasp as his eyes landed on a perfect likeness of Evangeline. “When did you say this book was published?”

Heartlock
chortled
, “Oh,
I’m afraid she’ll be long gone, son
.”

Kaspian slid his hand under the pages and flicked the book to its title page. The date 1801 stared back at him defiantly.

“Here, take a seat and have a look at it for a while. I’m going for a coffee and a read of the paper.”

Heartlock
manoeuvred himself out of the way, allowing Kaspian full access to the book. He found himself reaching for the chair and pulling it up to the desk before
Heartlock
had even had
the
chance to leave the study.

“It can’t be,”
Kaspian
whispered to himself. “It must be her mother – her grandmother
,
surely.”

Kaspian returned to the page with the portrait and looked at it more closely. There was no escaping the extraordinary likeness. He tried to lick his finger, a habit he had before turning a pag
e, but his mouth was as dry as sand
.

EVANGELINE VALENTINE

ROSE RED

“Father! Look over here!” Evangeline skipped between the gravestones
and beckoned
her father to follow.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he laughed. His leather satchel jumped about as he chased after her and his glasses made a bid for escape. “Don’t forget I’m twice your age, dearest.”

“They’re amazing,” she said, breathless with excitement.

“Wow, they sure are!”

Doctor
Frederick Valentine stretched out his hand and let his fingertips trace the outlines of the strange carvings. They’d been there a good whil
e; moss had spread through
the crevices.

“It’s difficult to see what they are until you stand back,” Evangeline explained, treading backwards and ju
mping over a grave mound. “Here – you
can see the full picture
if you stand
just
here.”

In front of them a
scene both extraordinary in scale and image unveiled itself.
A
ngels and demons
were
locked in battle
, claws, wings, and teeth smashed into one another. In the background
a castle
burned, its wild, dancing flames were littered with pentagrams and crucifixes.

“What do you make of it
,
father?”
she asked.

“I have no idea. It’s extraordinary! It’s been skilfully done. I’ll ask the locals back at the tavern; in a village this size someone’s bound to know who did it.”

“I’ll stay and take a sketch whil
st you explore inside
,” she said as she took a seat and leant against the back of a tombstone. “Call for me if you see anything interesting.”

She recovered
the
pencils and paper from her matching leather satchel and rolled up her sleeves. The da
y was overcast, rain was coming, which meant s
he’d have to work quickly.
From behind her, a raven cawed. Evangeline was not easily spooked, but something about the bird’s cry filled the space with an icy eeriness.

Her hand moved swiftly over the paper and as if by magic the image in front of her
transferred onto the page of her sketchbook.

“You’re very talented.” The
soft, velveteen
voice of a man
made
her jump
,
causing
her pencil
to slip across the page and leave
an ugly
,
deep line. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Evangeline’s heart
beat rapid with surprise
. She hadn’t heard him approach and part of her was fearful of turning and looking
on
him. She wondered if her father would hear her if she were to call out.

“Do you know the history of it?”
she asked in a near whisper. When she heard her voice, it was completely unfamiliar to her; she’d never sounded so fragile.

She turned her head towards him, flushed with the unfamiliar feeling of v
ulnerability. He was impossibly tall, although that was probably a trick of perspective
from being sat at his feet. A
s she looked up towards
him,
she found herself squinting against the brig
ht white of the cloud-flat sky. It made
his face difficult to decipher at first.

“Yes. I know its history. Would you like me to tell you of it?” he asked.

“
Please
,” she said as
she tried and then failed to
scram
ble to her feet.

The stranger saved her further indignity and crouched down beside her. “Please don’t disturb yourself. I can talk whilst you sketch.” He flashed her a charming smile.

Evangeline settled back down, straightened her back and pressed herself into the hard surface o
f the grave stone. She was tense, alert – ready
to scream if she had too. 

But why would she need to? He was a gentleman
;
e
ducated and of wealth
,
if his c
lothes were anything to go by.
Evangeline’s eyes scanned the cream
y
white
ness
of his hands. They were you
thful with long fingers, like they belonged to a
concert pianist
, or a painter. O
n his little finger
he wore a dark amethyst ring; the
stone was
a
cabochon. A milky swirl, the colour of
grey afternoon light
was trapped under its surface and it looked like a star.

Evangeline traced her eye back up
the man’s
arm and up towards his face. He
was striking, as if he’
d been cut from marble. Evangeline couldn’t be sure if he was exquisite or hideous; his attraction seemed to ripple. Whichever he was, he
was fascinating.
Evangeline felt herself blush
,
and her eyes flash with a sudden brilliance.

“
You know what these figures mean?” she asked.

“Yes. More than I’
d care to.” He turned to her and offered
her
a sad smile. “It’s a monument to
ignorance and persecution – fitting it should grace the side of a church, don’t you think
?”

Evangeline met his eyes
. In that single
moment
everything she’d ever understood to be certain and real was thrown into the air and held in suspension. The feeling was electrifying and the force of it stole her breath away.
Her skin erupted with sensation, as if someone had just run a hundred feathers across her, and the intensity of emotion made her feel on the precipice of crying. A
lthough the sensation was overwhelming, when she tried to pull her eyes away from his, they refused.
It was as if she were locked into a wild game in which she was daring herself to go to th
e very furthest edge of feeling – to
the point just before she imploded into a thousand, glorious, burning stars. She trembled. Her mouth opened to say something
,
but in place of words came a sigh.

As her heart beat, she thought she felt the movement of great flapping wings. The sound was almost terrifying in its magnificence.

“Evangeline!” her father’s voice cut across the vision, snapping her out of it. He arrived just in time to catch her in his arms as she fainted.