Brigit's Flame, March Week 1 - Luminary
I can still write the twisted. Woot! :) Another coat of polish will probably go on this before I put it up on the flame tonight... BUT, I'm heading out the door to kayak now!!!! YAY 45 degree weather!!!!!
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Estrella leaned down to retrieve another armload of books from the box, her waist-length black hair falling curtain-like around her slender form. She sighed, bright amber eyes scanning over the titles, and cursed her lot in life for what seemed like the millionth time.
How far she and her kind had fallen, hiding in false guises, when once they had held the world in the palm of their hands. Here she was, hiding behind the façade of a ‘new age’ bookstore owner, when once she had been sorceress for kings! She and her kind had traded their magic to drink from the font of energy that came from the most powerful leaders of the world. There was a symbiosis then. The ambitions of those rulers, their passions, the devotion of their followers made a heady feast, and in turn fed the magic of their sorcerers, which, of course, led to further ambition, greater heights of passion, and the intoxicating spice of terror from their foes.
Then came the church and its Inquisition. The sorcerers were powerful, yes, and immortal in spirit, but they were mortal in body. The church used guile to turn the people, and, when it came down to it, surprising amounts of power, to capture the sorcerers and put them to death. Many fled to far countries, shifting their appearances to match their new homes, but more and more the influence of the church spread. The sorcerers had moved further and further underground, disguising themselves, finding sustenance wherever they could. They were survivors. They would do whatever it took to avoid another massacre.
As time passed, and the church’s influence grew, fewer and fewer people sought them out. The belief in their magic had waned, and many of those who might believe, were convinced that it was the work of evil.
She still had ‘clients’. It seemed that over time, one thing never changed; the powerful always sought more power. They found their way to her and paid her handsomely, both in their own energies, and with enough money to make her a very rich woman. It was a drear lifestyle though. These modern people were so simple in their desires, women, money, political power. Their passions were lukewarm, and hardly sustaining compared to what she had once known.
“And no wonder,” she thought, roughly shelving another book of airy-fairy tripe by Llewellyn press, “If this is what they believe magic is. Llewellyn wouldn’t know magic if it bit them in the…”
Her thoughts were interrupted by the metallic chime of the bells above the front door. She sighed again, straightening and artfully painting a warm and welcoming smile upon her face before she turned to see who had come in. “If it is another one of those obtuse, moony teenagers, looking for a book on Faerie Wicca, or sparkly vampires, I’m going to…”
“Welcome! Is there anything I can help you with?” she said warmly, looking her new customer over. Her outlook on the evening brightened. He certainly wasn’t the usual clientele.
He was well dressed and well groomed, that was for certain. He wore an obviously tailor made, black and dove grey suit, and brightly shined Italian leather shoes. He was of average height, and fine boned. His facial structure bespoke an aristocratic bloodline, most likely French, but long ago, Estrella figured. There the similarities to dignified aristocracy ended, however. Blonde hair, unkempt and about collar length, framed a pale face set with dull, haunted, green eyes. His hands were clasped in front of him, and fidgeted nervously as his eyes flitted over the room, taking it in. He looked uncomfortable in his own skin, and ready to bolt at any moment.
When he spoke, his voice was soft, slightly accented. “Are you… Estrella?” he asked, pronouncing her name as it was spelled: “Es-trell-uh”.
“Es-tray-uh,” she corrected with a kind smile, softly rolling the r, “Yes, I am she.”
He managed to look both relieved and more nervous at the same time. “My name is Allen. I’ve… I’ve come for your services.”
“My services? Did you wish your cards read, an astrological chart, guided meditation?” she asked, cocking her head to the side questioningly.
“N-No,” he stammered. “I seek the services of a luminary. Am I in the wrong place?”
“A luminary?” she purred, savoring the word. It had been so long since anyone had requested that particular service. Above all, it had been her favorite to provide. It took so little of her, and gave so very, very much. It was rare that anyone requested it anymore, and it had been at least a hundred years since anyone had requested it by name. “Where did you hear that I performed such services, and for that matter, their name?” she asked, cautious.
He winced and sighed deeply, obviously not wanting to explain, but knowing he had to in order to get what he wanted. “My great-great-grandfather wrote often in his journals about visiting one. Her name was also Estrella.” He met her gaze, his eyes pleading, “I have done a lot of searching to find you.”
Turning quickly to hide her expression of surprise, she motioned him to follow. “Come, we shall talk someplace more comfortable.”
After locking the front door and flipping the sign to ‘closed’, she led him through colorful, gauzy curtains into the back room where she normally did her readings. Motioning for him to sit at heavy, antique table that dominated the small room, she walked past him, to the rear of the room, and plucked a small amount of several herbs from the various ceramic pots that lined the wall. With a graceful flick of her hand, she lit a small brazier and sprinkled the herbs over the flame. The smoke from this particular mixture would put her nervous guest’s mind at ease.
She sat in the chair across from him, folding her hands on the table and leaning forward. “Tell me about your great-great-grandfather,” Estrella prompted, watching his eyes soften, the weariness and dark circles fading somewhat, his body calming as the herbs worked their magic.
He closed his eyes, giving a small, involuntary, shudder. “His name was René LeBlanc. He was the mayor of a small town in northern France around 1850. His journals, they - they spoke of his visits to Estrella. The dreams she gave him, how real they were. Like… Like living through the very day.”
Estrella’s eyes widened. That name was familiar indeed. René had been the last man she had served regularly as a luminary. There was a reason for that.
Never had she drunk from a cup so endless, savored one as exquisitely powerful, as René LeBlanc. René had showed up on the doorstep of her bar, “La Fée Verte”, seeking her services. It was not uncommon, in those times, for her to serve three or four people a day. The service of a luminary was to look into one’s heart and soul, and paint for them a dream so exquisitely real, so perfect, that one could not tell it from reality. One could make their deepest desires manifest, and live at least part of their lives in absolute bliss. Many of Estrella’s kind made their ways to the absinthe houses of the time, plying this trade, feasting and all the while inspiring great minds to new heights of artistry and poetry.
René came in that day, eyes burning with unquenched desire, and paid for the entire day up front. He was the mayor, and he paid good money, how could she have denied him? When they were alone, he confessed to her what he wanted. Estrella shuddered in revulsion even now. Over the year before, René had kidnapped, raped, and brutally murdered three young women from the village. Each one fanned the flames of his twisted lust even more. As depraved as he was, however, he was not stupid. He realized that the more women went missing, the more people would search to find the culprit, and if that led them back to him, no amount of money or position would save him.
So, he commissioned Estrella to paint these dreams for him, each one more violent, more depraved than the next, each one simultaneously slaking his lust and fueling it. Again, how could she refuse him? If she didn’t create these dreams for him, he would make them a reality. If she refused, there was so much he could do with his position as mayor to out her and destroy her.
She did the only thing she could, creating dreams more and more twisted, more and more violent by the day. After only a few sessions, he began to try to force his will into the dreams, trying to take control over them. Never had she met a mortal with a stronger mind! After so many years of drudgery and boredom, she had to admit, the challenge was a thrill. As time passed, so much of it spent gazing into the abyss, a part of her began to twist. She began to look forward to his visits. In her idle time, she found herself inventing new plots and turns for the next dream. Never in her existence had she felt so strong, so vital, fed by the vast well of warped emotion that was René Leblanc.
However, mortal he was, with a mortal lifespan. After twenty years of depravity, René died naturally, and more peacefully than he deserved. Estrella, so used to the endless vitality, the overwhelming energy and power, felt like a junkie whose drug suddenly no longer existed. That time in her life was one of the darkest, one she did not care to look back upon with much scrutiny, and always, always, it was haunted by his eyes, his piercing, burning eyes.
She had fled France, and his memory, not long after, starting over in America. Without his influence, she found herself again, and was able to begin anew. The memories, however, forever followed her.
Now, somehow, his great-great-grandson had found her. Fate had a sick sense of humor.
“I remember him.” Her voice was steely, her eyes hard.
It was Allen’s turn to be surprised. “You really are her, then! Oh, God is merciful! I barely dared to hope! You must help me. Help me escape this madness.” His voice broke, pleading.
“If you are asking me to once again delve into that depravity, to create nightmares for you in order to sate your perverse desires…” she growled.
“No, no!” he cut her off, shaking his head vigorously, “Not like that. This, this madness is a curse. I don’t take pleasure in it. It… What I’ve done… Haunts me every day of my life, every waking moment. I only wish to escape, to see… her, again.” Voice cracking, he buried his face in his hands and wept.
Estrella’s expression softened, and she reached across the table to place a hand on his arm. “Explain. Tell me what it is you wish, and we will see.”
“I cannot. Her eyes! The blood! Their smiles… I can’t get them out of my head. I can’t…. I can’t speak of it…” he managed to choke out as his body spasmed with sobs.
With the barest of whispers, Estrella wove a spell that wrapped Allen in a cocoon of calming energy. The result was instant, but not extreme. He lifted his head, his face ruddy and running with tears, and roughly wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. Hugging himself like a child, he leaned back in the chair and shivered.
“I still cannot,” he whispered, his eyes distant, haunted.
“I need to see then, Allen. I will bind you to me with a spell. You have my word that the binding is not permanent, and that it is not deep enough for me to cause you any physical harm. What I will do, is search through your memories, your needs, your desires, in order to learn of you. I must do this to know what to create for you, and what to avoid. I must know you for the dream to be real to you... And I cannot take the chance that you are anything like your grandsire of generations past. I will not do that again.”
He nodded slowly. “What must I do?”
Estrella took a bottle of clear liquid and a tiny, cut crystal goblet from the shelf beside her. She murmured an incantation as she poured the liquid into the goblet, her voice deep and low, echoing with unearthly susurration. From the stopper of the bottle, she pulled a long silver needle.
“Your hand, please.”
Allen extended a hand, hesitantly, and Estrella guided it over the goblet, turning it palm up. She met his eyes, still speaking soft incantations, and pressed the needle deep into the flesh of his finger. He started and involuntarily began to pull his hand back, but her grip was like iron, and his hand did not move. A glimmering ruby gem of blood welled up on his fingertip, a near perfect sphere. Estrella spoke the last word of the spell with a long exhalation, almost a sigh, and just as the drop of blood was about to well over his fingertip, turned Allen’s hand palm down over the glass. Two large drops fell, as if in slow motion, and the instant they disturbed the surface, the clear liquid within the goblet turned the same crimson hue.
Estrella released his hand and took up the glass. Amber eyes still locked with his green, she drank the contents in one long swallow. “Sit back,” her voice was a soft command, filled with ghostly whispers that resonated in his mind. Allen could do nothing but obey. “You will relax, sleep. Nothing will harm you here. I will sift through your memories, but your sleep will be dreamless. If you are worthy, you will wake into a dream. If not, you will wake to reality, and leave, never to return. Understood?” The note in her voice was final.
Allen sunk back into the chair and closed his eyes, nodding. All the tension in his body eased; his breathing became slow and measured.
Estrella closed her eyes and followed the lines of her spell back into the recesses of Allen’s mind. She shuddered. He had not exaggerated. His mind was filled with guilty images. Cheerful smiles, loving eyes, turned to grimaces of fear, masks of pain.
Above all, one face stood out, bright blue eyes set in a lightly freckled face, haloed in blonde curls. She was always smiling, laughing, love sparkling in her eyes. “Amanda”, a voice whispered.
Estrella pushed further back into his memories. Amanda had been his high school sweetheart. Like a fairytale, they had married, each professing true love... fate... soulmates. They were exquisitely happy. Luck had even brought him an inheritance from a long lost uncle, just like in the storybooks. They packed up everything and moved to France. They were now wealthy, and the house was a huge mansion.
Then came the eyes, burning, dark eyes. They followed Allen, always watching. They seemed to laugh as he struggled with nightmares night after night. Estrella recognized those eyes, and her heart ached for Allen. He had been so innocent.
Visions of joy swam before her now. Amanda was pregnant. Allen scooped her up and kissed her, so excited. The kisses turned from joy to passion, and he carried her up to their room.
She searched, trying to follow this thread of memory, but there it went blank. The next thing she saw, moving along the thread, was Allen, awakening, covered in blood. The bed, the carpet, the walls, were smeared and pooled with blood. He screamed for Amanda, searched for her... and found nothing.
He scoured the house, scoured himself clean, and reported her missing. Of course, no one could find her.
Broken, he checked himself into a mental hospital. They medicated him for depression and sent him back out.
From there his memories were jumbled and hazy images. Snippets of laughing women, call girls, young, lonely women in bars, flashes of blood and violence and screams. Over it all, always those eyes, burning with lust, laughing.
He had tried to drown himself in alcohol, drugs, anything to ease the pain. He had tried to commit suicide, but something inside stayed his hand every time.
She pushed her way further into his mind, searching his soul for what she knew to be there. Suddenly, those burning eyes loomed before her and mad laughter echoed in her mind.
“Oh, you crafty girl, you found me! Oh how I have missed you,” he purred. “See what I had to do without you?”
“René,” she growled.
“Of course. Though, I cannot say, ‘in the flesh’. Those days are long gone, no?”
“Leave this boy, René.”
There was that mad laughter again. “Oh, my dear. Why would I do that? He is such a delicious puppet. I get to savor his madness, and the pain I inflict through him.”
Estrella began to feel as if the tether between her soul and body was being pulled thin, a sensation like smoke being drawn out.
“But the fun we could have, Estrella. The power you could wield once again!” he crooned, “Just think. You weave the nightmares for him, and you get to drink of two souls at once, his terror, and my lust. Beautifully simple, no?”
His will was as strong as ever. For a moment, Estrella felt herself beginning to succumb. She pulled every bit of power she could around her and forced René from her mind.
“No!” she spit, “Never again.” She struck out psychically, seeking to push him back, bind him, imprison him until she could exorcise him properly. To her surprise, he fell back almost instantly, his presence completely snuffed.
Tentatively, she turned her mind back to Allen. After what she had seen, she could not just wake him. To have him, even for a moment, think that she would send him away, after all this… She couldn’t do it.
Delving deep into his memories, she created him a dream so beautiful, even she nearly wept. Visions of Amanda, large with child, laughing, smiling, Allen with his head against her belly, her hands softly petting his hair. Then, their child, a perfect little cherub, a little girl to be daddy’s angel. She wove these dreams into his memories, so that he could cherish them when he woke.
She would keep him near, cut each and every of those threads that had broken him, heal him. She would force René from him, and destroy the evil spirit, once and for all.
It was then, mind engaged in weaving the intricate tapestry of his dream, drinking of the intoxicating joy she was inspiring in him, riding a wave of power she had not felt in years, that she was torn, brutally and completely, from her work.
The sensations of her body came back in startling agony, her vision in a blinding flash. She tried to gasp, but couldn’t find air. As her eyes focused, she found Allen atop her, his eyes burning, perfectly mirroring his psychotic ancestor’s. His hands were on her throat, squeezing the life from her. She brought her arms up to tear his fingers from her flesh, to no avail. His hands clamped at her airway like a vice, bolstered with otherworldly strength.
She kicked at him, pushed, rolled, but all her struggles served to do was start him laughing that mad, cackling laugh. Spots of light began to swim through her vision, darting like fireflies. Damn this mortal body! She would not die like this! She had survived too long to die like this!
Having found fighting futile, she sunk back into her mind, gathering all her power to her, pulling more power from the fiendish glee René was emanating. She struck out with all she could, seeking to both sever his hold on Allen, and strike Allen enough of a psychic blow to knock him senseless until she could tend to him. It would break him if he woke to this.
With a savage blow, she felt René’s control shatter, heard him roar in anger. Allen’s hands fell from her neck, and he collapsed on top of her. She had just enough time to feel herself gasp, the air burning into her lungs, before everything went black.
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Estrella leaned down to retrieve another armload of books from the box, her waist-length black hair falling curtain-like around her slender form. She sighed, bright amber eyes scanning over the titles, and cursed her lot in life for what seemed like the millionth time.
How far she and her kind had fallen, hiding in false guises, when once they had held the world in the palm of their hands. Here she was, hiding behind the façade of a ‘new age’ bookstore owner, when once she had been sorceress for kings! She and her kind had traded their magic to drink from the font of energy that came from the most powerful leaders of the world. There was a symbiosis then. The ambitions of those rulers, their passions, the devotion of their followers made a heady feast, and in turn fed the magic of their sorcerers, which, of course, led to further ambition, greater heights of passion, and the intoxicating spice of terror from their foes.
Then came the church and its Inquisition. The sorcerers were powerful, yes, and immortal in spirit, but they were mortal in body. The church used guile to turn the people, and, when it came down to it, surprising amounts of power, to capture the sorcerers and put them to death. Many fled to far countries, shifting their appearances to match their new homes, but more and more the influence of the church spread. The sorcerers had moved further and further underground, disguising themselves, finding sustenance wherever they could. They were survivors. They would do whatever it took to avoid another massacre.
As time passed, and the church’s influence grew, fewer and fewer people sought them out. The belief in their magic had waned, and many of those who might believe, were convinced that it was the work of evil.
She still had ‘clients’. It seemed that over time, one thing never changed; the powerful always sought more power. They found their way to her and paid her handsomely, both in their own energies, and with enough money to make her a very rich woman. It was a drear lifestyle though. These modern people were so simple in their desires, women, money, political power. Their passions were lukewarm, and hardly sustaining compared to what she had once known.
“And no wonder,” she thought, roughly shelving another book of airy-fairy tripe by Llewellyn press, “If this is what they believe magic is. Llewellyn wouldn’t know magic if it bit them in the…”
Her thoughts were interrupted by the metallic chime of the bells above the front door. She sighed again, straightening and artfully painting a warm and welcoming smile upon her face before she turned to see who had come in. “If it is another one of those obtuse, moony teenagers, looking for a book on Faerie Wicca, or sparkly vampires, I’m going to…”
“Welcome! Is there anything I can help you with?” she said warmly, looking her new customer over. Her outlook on the evening brightened. He certainly wasn’t the usual clientele.
He was well dressed and well groomed, that was for certain. He wore an obviously tailor made, black and dove grey suit, and brightly shined Italian leather shoes. He was of average height, and fine boned. His facial structure bespoke an aristocratic bloodline, most likely French, but long ago, Estrella figured. There the similarities to dignified aristocracy ended, however. Blonde hair, unkempt and about collar length, framed a pale face set with dull, haunted, green eyes. His hands were clasped in front of him, and fidgeted nervously as his eyes flitted over the room, taking it in. He looked uncomfortable in his own skin, and ready to bolt at any moment.
When he spoke, his voice was soft, slightly accented. “Are you… Estrella?” he asked, pronouncing her name as it was spelled: “Es-trell-uh”.
“Es-tray-uh,” she corrected with a kind smile, softly rolling the r, “Yes, I am she.”
He managed to look both relieved and more nervous at the same time. “My name is Allen. I’ve… I’ve come for your services.”
“My services? Did you wish your cards read, an astrological chart, guided meditation?” she asked, cocking her head to the side questioningly.
“N-No,” he stammered. “I seek the services of a luminary. Am I in the wrong place?”
“A luminary?” she purred, savoring the word. It had been so long since anyone had requested that particular service. Above all, it had been her favorite to provide. It took so little of her, and gave so very, very much. It was rare that anyone requested it anymore, and it had been at least a hundred years since anyone had requested it by name. “Where did you hear that I performed such services, and for that matter, their name?” she asked, cautious.
He winced and sighed deeply, obviously not wanting to explain, but knowing he had to in order to get what he wanted. “My great-great-grandfather wrote often in his journals about visiting one. Her name was also Estrella.” He met her gaze, his eyes pleading, “I have done a lot of searching to find you.”
Turning quickly to hide her expression of surprise, she motioned him to follow. “Come, we shall talk someplace more comfortable.”
After locking the front door and flipping the sign to ‘closed’, she led him through colorful, gauzy curtains into the back room where she normally did her readings. Motioning for him to sit at heavy, antique table that dominated the small room, she walked past him, to the rear of the room, and plucked a small amount of several herbs from the various ceramic pots that lined the wall. With a graceful flick of her hand, she lit a small brazier and sprinkled the herbs over the flame. The smoke from this particular mixture would put her nervous guest’s mind at ease.
She sat in the chair across from him, folding her hands on the table and leaning forward. “Tell me about your great-great-grandfather,” Estrella prompted, watching his eyes soften, the weariness and dark circles fading somewhat, his body calming as the herbs worked their magic.
He closed his eyes, giving a small, involuntary, shudder. “His name was René LeBlanc. He was the mayor of a small town in northern France around 1850. His journals, they - they spoke of his visits to Estrella. The dreams she gave him, how real they were. Like… Like living through the very day.”
Estrella’s eyes widened. That name was familiar indeed. René had been the last man she had served regularly as a luminary. There was a reason for that.
Never had she drunk from a cup so endless, savored one as exquisitely powerful, as René LeBlanc. René had showed up on the doorstep of her bar, “La Fée Verte”, seeking her services. It was not uncommon, in those times, for her to serve three or four people a day. The service of a luminary was to look into one’s heart and soul, and paint for them a dream so exquisitely real, so perfect, that one could not tell it from reality. One could make their deepest desires manifest, and live at least part of their lives in absolute bliss. Many of Estrella’s kind made their ways to the absinthe houses of the time, plying this trade, feasting and all the while inspiring great minds to new heights of artistry and poetry.
René came in that day, eyes burning with unquenched desire, and paid for the entire day up front. He was the mayor, and he paid good money, how could she have denied him? When they were alone, he confessed to her what he wanted. Estrella shuddered in revulsion even now. Over the year before, René had kidnapped, raped, and brutally murdered three young women from the village. Each one fanned the flames of his twisted lust even more. As depraved as he was, however, he was not stupid. He realized that the more women went missing, the more people would search to find the culprit, and if that led them back to him, no amount of money or position would save him.
So, he commissioned Estrella to paint these dreams for him, each one more violent, more depraved than the next, each one simultaneously slaking his lust and fueling it. Again, how could she refuse him? If she didn’t create these dreams for him, he would make them a reality. If she refused, there was so much he could do with his position as mayor to out her and destroy her.
She did the only thing she could, creating dreams more and more twisted, more and more violent by the day. After only a few sessions, he began to try to force his will into the dreams, trying to take control over them. Never had she met a mortal with a stronger mind! After so many years of drudgery and boredom, she had to admit, the challenge was a thrill. As time passed, so much of it spent gazing into the abyss, a part of her began to twist. She began to look forward to his visits. In her idle time, she found herself inventing new plots and turns for the next dream. Never in her existence had she felt so strong, so vital, fed by the vast well of warped emotion that was René Leblanc.
However, mortal he was, with a mortal lifespan. After twenty years of depravity, René died naturally, and more peacefully than he deserved. Estrella, so used to the endless vitality, the overwhelming energy and power, felt like a junkie whose drug suddenly no longer existed. That time in her life was one of the darkest, one she did not care to look back upon with much scrutiny, and always, always, it was haunted by his eyes, his piercing, burning eyes.
She had fled France, and his memory, not long after, starting over in America. Without his influence, she found herself again, and was able to begin anew. The memories, however, forever followed her.
Now, somehow, his great-great-grandson had found her. Fate had a sick sense of humor.
“I remember him.” Her voice was steely, her eyes hard.
It was Allen’s turn to be surprised. “You really are her, then! Oh, God is merciful! I barely dared to hope! You must help me. Help me escape this madness.” His voice broke, pleading.
“If you are asking me to once again delve into that depravity, to create nightmares for you in order to sate your perverse desires…” she growled.
“No, no!” he cut her off, shaking his head vigorously, “Not like that. This, this madness is a curse. I don’t take pleasure in it. It… What I’ve done… Haunts me every day of my life, every waking moment. I only wish to escape, to see… her, again.” Voice cracking, he buried his face in his hands and wept.
Estrella’s expression softened, and she reached across the table to place a hand on his arm. “Explain. Tell me what it is you wish, and we will see.”
“I cannot. Her eyes! The blood! Their smiles… I can’t get them out of my head. I can’t…. I can’t speak of it…” he managed to choke out as his body spasmed with sobs.
With the barest of whispers, Estrella wove a spell that wrapped Allen in a cocoon of calming energy. The result was instant, but not extreme. He lifted his head, his face ruddy and running with tears, and roughly wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. Hugging himself like a child, he leaned back in the chair and shivered.
“I still cannot,” he whispered, his eyes distant, haunted.
“I need to see then, Allen. I will bind you to me with a spell. You have my word that the binding is not permanent, and that it is not deep enough for me to cause you any physical harm. What I will do, is search through your memories, your needs, your desires, in order to learn of you. I must do this to know what to create for you, and what to avoid. I must know you for the dream to be real to you... And I cannot take the chance that you are anything like your grandsire of generations past. I will not do that again.”
He nodded slowly. “What must I do?”
Estrella took a bottle of clear liquid and a tiny, cut crystal goblet from the shelf beside her. She murmured an incantation as she poured the liquid into the goblet, her voice deep and low, echoing with unearthly susurration. From the stopper of the bottle, she pulled a long silver needle.
“Your hand, please.”
Allen extended a hand, hesitantly, and Estrella guided it over the goblet, turning it palm up. She met his eyes, still speaking soft incantations, and pressed the needle deep into the flesh of his finger. He started and involuntarily began to pull his hand back, but her grip was like iron, and his hand did not move. A glimmering ruby gem of blood welled up on his fingertip, a near perfect sphere. Estrella spoke the last word of the spell with a long exhalation, almost a sigh, and just as the drop of blood was about to well over his fingertip, turned Allen’s hand palm down over the glass. Two large drops fell, as if in slow motion, and the instant they disturbed the surface, the clear liquid within the goblet turned the same crimson hue.
Estrella released his hand and took up the glass. Amber eyes still locked with his green, she drank the contents in one long swallow. “Sit back,” her voice was a soft command, filled with ghostly whispers that resonated in his mind. Allen could do nothing but obey. “You will relax, sleep. Nothing will harm you here. I will sift through your memories, but your sleep will be dreamless. If you are worthy, you will wake into a dream. If not, you will wake to reality, and leave, never to return. Understood?” The note in her voice was final.
Allen sunk back into the chair and closed his eyes, nodding. All the tension in his body eased; his breathing became slow and measured.
Estrella closed her eyes and followed the lines of her spell back into the recesses of Allen’s mind. She shuddered. He had not exaggerated. His mind was filled with guilty images. Cheerful smiles, loving eyes, turned to grimaces of fear, masks of pain.
Above all, one face stood out, bright blue eyes set in a lightly freckled face, haloed in blonde curls. She was always smiling, laughing, love sparkling in her eyes. “Amanda”, a voice whispered.
Estrella pushed further back into his memories. Amanda had been his high school sweetheart. Like a fairytale, they had married, each professing true love... fate... soulmates. They were exquisitely happy. Luck had even brought him an inheritance from a long lost uncle, just like in the storybooks. They packed up everything and moved to France. They were now wealthy, and the house was a huge mansion.
Then came the eyes, burning, dark eyes. They followed Allen, always watching. They seemed to laugh as he struggled with nightmares night after night. Estrella recognized those eyes, and her heart ached for Allen. He had been so innocent.
Visions of joy swam before her now. Amanda was pregnant. Allen scooped her up and kissed her, so excited. The kisses turned from joy to passion, and he carried her up to their room.
She searched, trying to follow this thread of memory, but there it went blank. The next thing she saw, moving along the thread, was Allen, awakening, covered in blood. The bed, the carpet, the walls, were smeared and pooled with blood. He screamed for Amanda, searched for her... and found nothing.
He scoured the house, scoured himself clean, and reported her missing. Of course, no one could find her.
Broken, he checked himself into a mental hospital. They medicated him for depression and sent him back out.
From there his memories were jumbled and hazy images. Snippets of laughing women, call girls, young, lonely women in bars, flashes of blood and violence and screams. Over it all, always those eyes, burning with lust, laughing.
He had tried to drown himself in alcohol, drugs, anything to ease the pain. He had tried to commit suicide, but something inside stayed his hand every time.
She pushed her way further into his mind, searching his soul for what she knew to be there. Suddenly, those burning eyes loomed before her and mad laughter echoed in her mind.
“Oh, you crafty girl, you found me! Oh how I have missed you,” he purred. “See what I had to do without you?”
“René,” she growled.
“Of course. Though, I cannot say, ‘in the flesh’. Those days are long gone, no?”
“Leave this boy, René.”
There was that mad laughter again. “Oh, my dear. Why would I do that? He is such a delicious puppet. I get to savor his madness, and the pain I inflict through him.”
Estrella began to feel as if the tether between her soul and body was being pulled thin, a sensation like smoke being drawn out.
“But the fun we could have, Estrella. The power you could wield once again!” he crooned, “Just think. You weave the nightmares for him, and you get to drink of two souls at once, his terror, and my lust. Beautifully simple, no?”
His will was as strong as ever. For a moment, Estrella felt herself beginning to succumb. She pulled every bit of power she could around her and forced René from her mind.
“No!” she spit, “Never again.” She struck out psychically, seeking to push him back, bind him, imprison him until she could exorcise him properly. To her surprise, he fell back almost instantly, his presence completely snuffed.
Tentatively, she turned her mind back to Allen. After what she had seen, she could not just wake him. To have him, even for a moment, think that she would send him away, after all this… She couldn’t do it.
Delving deep into his memories, she created him a dream so beautiful, even she nearly wept. Visions of Amanda, large with child, laughing, smiling, Allen with his head against her belly, her hands softly petting his hair. Then, their child, a perfect little cherub, a little girl to be daddy’s angel. She wove these dreams into his memories, so that he could cherish them when he woke.
She would keep him near, cut each and every of those threads that had broken him, heal him. She would force René from him, and destroy the evil spirit, once and for all.
It was then, mind engaged in weaving the intricate tapestry of his dream, drinking of the intoxicating joy she was inspiring in him, riding a wave of power she had not felt in years, that she was torn, brutally and completely, from her work.
The sensations of her body came back in startling agony, her vision in a blinding flash. She tried to gasp, but couldn’t find air. As her eyes focused, she found Allen atop her, his eyes burning, perfectly mirroring his psychotic ancestor’s. His hands were on her throat, squeezing the life from her. She brought her arms up to tear his fingers from her flesh, to no avail. His hands clamped at her airway like a vice, bolstered with otherworldly strength.
She kicked at him, pushed, rolled, but all her struggles served to do was start him laughing that mad, cackling laugh. Spots of light began to swim through her vision, darting like fireflies. Damn this mortal body! She would not die like this! She had survived too long to die like this!
Having found fighting futile, she sunk back into her mind, gathering all her power to her, pulling more power from the fiendish glee René was emanating. She struck out with all she could, seeking to both sever his hold on Allen, and strike Allen enough of a psychic blow to knock him senseless until she could tend to him. It would break him if he woke to this.
With a savage blow, she felt René’s control shatter, heard him roar in anger. Allen’s hands fell from her neck, and he collapsed on top of her. She had just enough time to feel herself gasp, the air burning into her lungs, before everything went black.