Shifters (31 page)
Authors: Edward Lee
“Yes!” Locke bellowed, though what erupted from his throat was a broken creak.
“And now your love is gone.”
In moonlight, Locke looked up at this figure of black splinters which sat beside him. But then his heart leapt. His companion’s face formed and—
Locke’s breath seized in his lungs.
It was Clare’s face.
His hands reached out, fingers groping to glide through her lovely blonde hair, to touch the face of his love but it was all gone in the next blink. Not Clare, it never had been. Just a ghost-image from the past, a past as dead as this room.
The woman was simply showing him things. “When you close your eyes, do you see angels or devils?”
“Angels,” he muttered. Open or closed, there was little difference. Just different variations of black.
“The truth is there, you just have to know which curtain to look behind, or what face.”
Now Locke was freezing…to death. His bones shivered.
“If truth is born in reality, what happens when truths change?”
Locke didn’t understand the question. The moonlight lent his skin a hue of morgue-blue as though he was dead already, just not yet on the slab.
Let me die…
But if he died would he wake up? Or would he really be dead? Locke didn’t much care which.
“You refaced yourself tonight,” the woman whispered. “You turned your vulnerability into power, your weakness into strength.”
What? Agreeing to write the book for no money? Yes, he’d felt good about that, and Lethe’s clipped aesthetic advice had seemed to raise him up from his doldrums. But what difference did any of that make?
“He will have to find other weaknesses now, and he will.”
He? Lethe? The dream was absurd.
“There’s no turning back anymore. Your truth has set the rest in motion.”
To hell with it,
he realized.
It’s my dream, I can do what I want, can’t I?
Shivering he leaned up and looked at her hard.
he realized.
It’s my dream, I can do what I want, can’t I?
Shivering he leaned up and looked at her hard.
“Who are you?”
“Moira. At least that’s one of my names.”
Moira…
Locke had never heard of such a name so how could a dream, the spillage of his unconscious mind, create it? Something he’d read somewhere, or heard, and had simply forgotten.
Locke had never heard of such a name so how could a dream, the spillage of his unconscious mind, create it? Something he’d read somewhere, or heard, and had simply forgotten.
“I want to see you,” he croaked.
“You are.”
“But—” A shadow, just a figure hidden in darkness and shadow…
“Look harder.”
Something happened then, a sifting sound? Something ineffable, a swarm of ebon glints. Then Locke
saw
.
saw
.
No, she wasn’t merely a figure hidden in shadow. She was
composed
of it. Her blood was the night, her flesh and bone a physical accretion of darkness, of tenebrae. She was
made
of it. A creature as real as himself yet a creature of secrets. Lightless yet vitreous, human but something far more yet strangely less. She was either the first woman to ever walk the surface of the earth, or the last. Oblivion formed her skin, infinity her hands and long delicate fingers. Yes, she was as black as the deepest chasm of the earth…
composed
of it. Her blood was the night, her flesh and bone a physical accretion of darkness, of tenebrae. She was
made
of it. A creature as real as himself yet a creature of secrets. Lightless yet vitreous, human but something far more yet strangely less. She was either the first woman to ever walk the surface of the earth, or the last. Oblivion formed her skin, infinity her hands and long delicate fingers. Yes, she was as black as the deepest chasm of the earth…
But just as real.
Only the touch of her carbon hand to his chest dissipated the deathly cold. In an instant, Locke felt hot—he felt alive again. Her bottomless eyes peered at him, and there was something like longing there, however primal, however encrypted and ancient. And then her face—that was no real face at all—urged forward, and she brought her timeless lips to his.
Locke felt immersed in the same oblivion that she was made of.
Moira,
he thought.
Not a woman at all…
Moira,
he thought.
Not a woman at all…
A goddess, or—no! An angel!
“All the truth that you can bear…is yours.”
Then Locke knew. She was the angel who’d carried him off the other night, in the dream, or his madness. She was the same.
“We’re the same, you and I…”
A hot tongue slipped into his mouth. Her own mouth sucked against his; it seemed to steal the life from his lungs but give something back—some wisdom, some cabalistic message. Locke just closed his eyes and sighed into her beautiful mouth.
Take what you want,
he thought.
Take everything…
Take what you want,
he thought.
Take everything…
But the kiss didn’t take as he expected—even desired—It simply gave more to the point that Locke saw visions as though he were standing upon the highest peak of the known world. He saw heralds. He saw secrets the likes of which had not been whispered to another in thousands of years.
“See…”
Then he began to see, but what was sight save for pinpoints of light and color reflecting off the backs of his eyeballs? Locke’s eyes were closed. Yet he saw.
“Don’t open your eyes,” a hot breath oozed into his ear. “You can’t really see me.”
Why not?
Locke thought the words, but he didn’t care. He knew that he would do whatever the angel said. Anything…
Locke thought the words, but he didn’t care. He knew that he would do whatever the angel said. Anything…
Her abyssal body slithered over him, a dark, luxuriant fluid. Locke, by this point, didn’t dare reopen his eyes for now he could see more finely than he ever had. Eyes closed, yes, but mind
open…
open…
And he saw—
Lambent skin like moonstone. Flawless contours and indefectible lines. Skin warm as the inside of a freshly cut animal pelt.
The feel of her lips, then, quickly on his penis, coaxed a sensation like a skewer of high-voltage current.
Somewhere something ticked. A clock? Or the essence of his life, each grain trickling out like the filings of an hourglass.
She didn’t talk now—not with her mouth clamped onto his. Instead, she thought, and Locke heard it. He heard her words with the same efficacy as someone with a key in an electrical socket, shimmering in the course of the sensation.
You’ve defeated a weakness tonight. That’s what led me here…
Her kisses sucked away his doubts, slurped out his deficiencies. The mattress felt like warm clouds now, mist that propped him up to her endless kiss… Her spread palms on his body gave him existence; he felt emboldened, empowered—with
something.
Next their mouths tracked every square inch of the other’s skin, the flat of their tongues licking pleasure from every sense. His close-eyed face between her legs found her flavor alchemic, preternatural. The most extraordinary of elixirs—it seemed to transmute him in some way. Her sex veneered his mouth, sheened down the slope of his throat. She came and came, and Locke tasted each climax.
something.
Next their mouths tracked every square inch of the other’s skin, the flat of their tongues licking pleasure from every sense. His close-eyed face between her legs found her flavor alchemic, preternatural. The most extraordinary of elixirs—it seemed to transmute him in some way. Her sex veneered his mouth, sheened down the slope of his throat. She came and came, and Locke tasted each climax.
Eventually, he impaled her; his hands picked her up and folded her into every possible position of love, lust, wantonness, and instinct. Passion or selfish hunger—it scarcely mattered either way because it was
real
either way.
real
either way.
It was truth.
The peeling of his love bled through his mind and his spirit, sucked out by her body heat, her aura, and her sweat. Was he giving to her, or was she taking?
Take!
Locke thought, but in essence he knew it must be neither. It was merged, a
commingled
lust and desperation. A need to be groped for and a gift to be freely given.
Take!
Locke thought, but in essence he knew it must be neither. It was merged, a
commingled
lust and desperation. A need to be groped for and a gift to be freely given.
This was more than sex, more than fucking. So much more than the genetic impulse to copulate, shudder, and aspirate sperm. Whatever this really was didn’t matter for Locke knew it was everything he’d ever been searching for in his entire life.
More than Clare, more than anything…
My verity, my love,
the heated thought fluttered. It was the tiniest of sounds in his being, a ticking heart valve, a synapse firing between nerve cells.
the heated thought fluttered. It was the tiniest of sounds in his being, a ticking heart valve, a synapse firing between nerve cells.
A night without finish, a dream without end. Locke put his semen into her time and time again; her sex seemed to suck out each release as if dying for it. She whispered words into the crook of his neck, but Locke, in his frenzy, could only discern an inscrutable milieu: sounds like the abrading of insect mandibles, nightbirds flapping their wings low in the twilight, the blood rushing through the veins of a lioness as it waits for a scent, the wind through a fertile field at midnight. Locke could feel the sounds, could smell the colors, and the harder his eyes squeezed shut, the more effusively he saw her:
Raving, silken red hair. Slim-toned limbs, taut skin the color of fresh snow, and agate eyes like a cat’s. Her breasts stuck out to him like flawless chiffon orbs.
They made love without end. The moon, and the night’s fine stars, peeked in on them through the barren window. Their sweat soaked them, sliding into a natural shellac on their skin.
Later, numb and unable to move, he leaned up nonetheless. In his mind he saw every aspect of her human beauty, every plane of her womanhood.
Her delicate hand caressed his spent penis.
“Open your eyes now,” her voice chittered. “Tell me what you see.”
Locke opened them. And froze.
The shadow again, the night folded over a million times into this living, corporeal obvolution. She lay as a contour of razor-sharp, carbon-black lines.
Her eyes grew into obsidian spheres—huge—and as she spoke, her lips parted to show him yet again the deepest chasms of the earth, the black guts of the universe, and death.
“Remember this,” the words wavered, not a voice anymore but the murmur of a distant waterfall.
“Nothing is immutable. I’ve watched the proof of this since time immemorial. My heart has bled with every glance, with every second for the last five thousand years.”
Locke lay pinned down by his own misconstrution, his own error and his loss. The terrifying cold returned, a cloak dropped over him, and he thought he would die; he even wished for it.
It’s just a dream,
he reassured himself.
he reassured himself.
No,
the precious specter said
. It’s not…
the precious specter said
. It’s not…
Locke plummeted into death.
SIXTEEN
Nether-manse
(i)
I dreamed I died…
Sex and death, love and loss.
A real D.H. Lawrence kind of dream.
A literary analyst’s field day. This dream had it all. Maybe the only symbol it
didn’t
have was the old Freudian cigar.
A real D.H. Lawrence kind of dream.
A literary analyst’s field day. This dream had it all. Maybe the only symbol it
didn’t
have was the old Freudian cigar.
Locke walked along the graveled path that wound from the guest house around the perimeter of Lethe’s estate. High branches hung over his head; late-season flowers bloomed, spreading pungent scents. A gravel walkway encircled a spacious garden, and the lawn had been meticulously trimmed. He remembered what Lethe had said about “appearances”; here was just another example. The exterior of the manse and the outer yard proved an utter eyesore, while the inside as well as the rear grounds and the four neat guest cottages provided a polar opposite.
Appearances…
Why should he suddenly be fixated on this word, and how it might more deeply relate to Lethe? Maybe the walk would clear his head; instead his mind felt fogged by fuddled notions. And remembering the dream didn’t help.
Appearances…
Why should he suddenly be fixated on this word, and how it might more deeply relate to Lethe? Maybe the walk would clear his head; instead his mind felt fogged by fuddled notions. And remembering the dream didn’t help.
It had seemed so vivid…
Indeed, he’d dreamed of his own death, but also of a rebirth in self-assessment.
Just another nightmare…and a fucked up one at that,
he forced himself to conclude. The picture wouldn’t fade, the woman—Moira—placing his hands on the swelling of her breasts as she leaned over…
he forced himself to conclude. The picture wouldn’t fade, the woman—Moira—placing his hands on the swelling of her breasts as she leaned over…
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