Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams (18 page)

Stanwick
hammered on the door, her fists raining a fast series of blows.
There was silence from within for several moments, then the slurred
voice of David Beach, “You … you gonna get that?” She hammered
again, punching the door now, slapping it with the flats of her
hands, kicking it repeatedly. She could hear a child screaming,
sobbing, then the sobbing became hushed, mumbled angst mushed into
fabric, and the door handle turned slowly.

There,
unchanged, yet somehow inconstant, a bolt of lightning in a world
of eternal darkness, there he was; her West, the Sire of the Second
Kingdom. Her punch landed squarely in the center of his face with
enough force to throw him several feet, where he landed flat out.
She walked slowly into the apartment and stood over him.

He lifted his
head and smiled full beam.

“Stanwick!”

“West!” She
yelled the word, then glanced menacingly at Charlene, who appeared
to be considering some sort of intervention. Charlene backed up a
step in acknowledgment, and Stanwick’s gaze returned to West.

“West Yestler …
a mailbox label! What the fuck?” West started to laugh, but
Stanwick Thrass continued, “What? You think it’s funny? The whole
world moves into the digital age and somehow you manage to avoid
me? Phone directories, government databases, social networks, and
you remain elusive. I spend a century looking for you, trying to
contact you, wishing like some forlorn child that you’d even spare
me a moment of thought, hoping beyond all hopes that you’d contact
me! Then this?” She pointed at Charlene, “Strolling through New
York without a care in the world, belle of the frickin ball on your
arm?”

Charlene waved
meekly, “Charlene Osterman. Charmed to meet you, I’m sure.”

Stanwick looked
more carefully at Charlene now. She was beautiful, she conceded.
She had that certain glow about her. Stanwick lowered her head, her
eyes meeting with West’s once more, “You … You made her?”

West nodded
slowly.

“No, I mean …”
Stanwick closed her eyes and composed her thoughts, “When? When did
you make her?” She bit her lip and waited for a wave of burning
melancholy, but her anger subsided quickly. She smiled at West, her
longest living friend, “How long did you wait?”

“Seventy-five
years.”

Stanwick walked
over to Charlene slowly, her palms outstretched, her eyes soft, her
smile heartfelt. Stephanie nestled her face against Charlene’s neck
as the woman approached.

“Stanwick Kith
Thrass. Charmed to meet you.” She touched Charlene’s arm gently,
feeling the warmth of her skin, watching for the telltale ripple
there, the delvers protecting their carriage.

“Hello!” David
Beach spoke up, waving a tired hand, “David Beach. Dying over
here!”

Frustrated by
the interruption, Stanwick’s hand fell from Charlene’s arm as she
walked over to the couch.

“David Beach.
Your name, and your actions precede you.”

“Wha?” David
managed, coughing and gripping at his chest with aching hands.

“Tiernan,
struck down in plain daylight, shunted from his pedestal by an
office grunt. None of us could have imagined that the dream would
end with such ignominy.”

West got up
from the floor and came quickly to Stanwick’s side, “Stanwick,
Beach had nothing to do with the assassinations.”

She ignored the
words, kneeling on the floor in front of David Beach, “Tell them
David. Tell them how you and your father masterminded this. Tell
them how you helped him take down the would be Emperor of the
Void.”

David shook his
head slowly, lolling from side to side, “Dad’s a cock. Dad
died.”

Stanwick
grabbed the front of David’s shirt, shaking him bodily, “Tell them!
Tell them how your father stole the seed of Dannum.” She glanced up
at West, “Don’t pretend you weren’t involved in this.”

West knelt at
her side, “Stan, you’ve lost your mind. Julien Beach died years
ago. David doesn’t know a thing about the assassination.”

David stuck out
his tongue, slowly, biting it as he spoke, “Dying here.”

West took hold
of Stanwick’s arm firmly, pulling her hand away from David’s chest.
He pulled the fabric down to reveal the skin, then he spoke softly,
“David’s body is riddled with poison.” He lifted David’s limp hand,
showing Stanwick the maze of cuts and scratches, “He’s managed to
cut himself all over, and he has some badly infected wounds, so
it’s spread fast. He’s done.”

“You honestly
think he wasn’t involved in the assassination?”

West’s words
thundered, “I know he wasn’t.”

“How do you
know?”

West sighed,
“Here, take his hand.”

Stanwick took
command of David’s clammy palm, extending a finger to his wrist,
feeling his pulse. West was right about one thing at least; without
intervention, David was about to die. He could die, she thought; it
wouldn’t really change anything, and eventually she’d learn the
truth of his involvement. West wanted him alive. She glanced at the
child who still clung nervously to Charlene’s side. Of course the
child wanted him alive. She lowered her head in an attempt to make
eye contact with David, “Hey, David … David” She snapped her
fingers in front of his face, and his eyelids raised slowly,
“Huh?”

“David, we can
save your life, but you’re going to become one of us.”

“A dick?” David
chuckled slowly, his breath catching in his throat. “Hoth …” he
tried again, “Hothpital.” David chewed his tongue again, eyes
wandering about the room.

Stanwick stood
up, and pulled something from her pocket. She looked at Charlene,
“Cover her ears.”

“What?”

“The child.
Cover the child’s ears.”

Charlene’s brow
furrowed in confusion, but she clamped her hands over Stephanie’s
ears. Stanwick’s stern expression flickered into a smile as her
eyes locked on West’s, “He needs this bad. He needs it fast.”

West offered no
resistance.

Glancing about
the ceiling, Stanwick spoke firmly, “Music please, album Achtung
Baby, volume full.”

She listened to
the three seconds of chiming that signaled the start of
Zoo
Station
, then she counted off thirteen bars of sliding guitars
and drums. Bar fourteen, she raised a handgun in front of her. Bar
fifteen, as the song entered full swing, she fired a shot into
David Beach’s leg, the sound masked by the first thud of the kick
drum. David Beach’s scream was joined by the self-proclaimed
beautiful voice, not that Stanwick was inclined to disagree with
Bono.

“Fix him.” She
yelled at West.

“This was your
choice!”

David’s hand
lashed out as he groaned in agony, trying to grab West’s arm.

“He has a
daughter! Fix him, or he’ll bleed out before the chorus.”

West looked
genuinely panicked, which was not something Stanwick was used to.
“I’ve got nothing Stanwick.” West yelled over the music.

“You promised
his daughter you’d save him!”

Dumbfounded,
West shook his head, “At my apartment Stanwick! I have nothing
here!”

Stanwick
reached into the inner pocket of her jacket and pulled out a metal
flask, but scared of what new hell she was about to unleash on him,
David clambered up from the couch, blood gushing out from between
his fingers. He fell backwards over the couch’s low back, vomiting
as he went. Stanwick threw herself after him, her pant knees
slipping in David’s bile as she hit the hardwood floor. She gagged,
dry heaving as she spilled the contents of the metal flask onto his
fresh wound, then she watched his writhing form spiral out of
control, an eerie death spasm break dance, and Bono sang on, ‘ready
to duck, I’m ready to dive, I’m ready to say I’m glad to be
alive.”

David felt
numbness at first, as if the lower half of his body was being
thrown about the floor without his will. For brief moments when he
managed to open his eyes, the room span wildly, then the pain came
crashing through the wall of numbness, like a fire spreading
through his body. He closed his eyes against the pain, his mind
closing down quickly.

Stanwick
grinned self-satisfaction as the multi tracked heavenly choir
heralded the birth of another Progeny of the Void. She picked
herself up off the floor, and walked over to Charlene, who had
danced with Stephanie towards the kitchen in an attempt to shield
her from the madness. Taking Stephanie from her arms, Stanwick
swung her on her hip with one arm, and pointed at the speakers,
“Listen child.”

And Stephanie
heard the voices, ‘Hey baby, hey baby, it’s alright, it’s
alright.”

When consciousness
returned, David lay still on the floor, breathing heavily, aware of
the weight of his limbs as his body pulsed with pains and shocks.
He could hear Stephanie’s voice, soothing, telling him again and
again that he was going to be okay, that the nice lady had fixed
him. In the darkness, he could see her standing there still,
looming over him, gun raised. Nice lady. He tried to respond to
Stephanie, but his jaw felt tight, his lips unyielding. His skin
crawled as if there were insects moving all over his body, then the
feeling would change, and he was sure that someone was scrubbing
him all over with wire wool. He wanted to ask them to stop, but he
could only manage a repetitive “Mmm, mmm, mmm.” Freezing fingertips
stroked his brow, then Stephanie’s voice, “Dad, I can see it! I can
see you fixing up. Open your eyes.” Slits of harsh light, broken by
vague shadows.

Stanwick nudged
Beach’s leg with her foot, “Come on lazy legs, up and at ‘em.”

Charlene folded
her arms across her chest sternly, “You just shot the man!”

Stanwick didn’t
take her eyes off the leg wound, which was now barely visible, “He
was going to die Charlene.”

“You didn’t
have to shoot him.”

Stanwick
laughed, “You rarely
have
to shoot anyone, but when the
opportunity presents itself …”

West stepped
away from the group, heading towards the kitchen, “Charlene, pay no
attention. Stanwick’s not as callous as she makes out.” Feigning
shock, Stanwick looked at Charlene, “Oh, no, I’m not being callous.
Great big open wound like that gives the little shits something
clear to work with, focuses the mind.”

“The leeches?”
Charlene asked, and Stanwick nodded and shrugged a noncommittal
response.

West returned
from the kitchen with a small stack of glass tumblers and a bottle
of Drambuie. Handing each of the women a glass while keeping one
for himself, he reaffirmed Stanwick’s claim, “She’s not wrong
Charlene. David was fading fast.”

Stephanie
suddenly bounced into motion, rocking back and forward on her
haunches, “He smiled.” She patted her father’s head, “Wake up lazy
legs. Up and at ‘em.”

Charlene rolled
her eyes in dismay at how quickly Stanwick’s influence had rubbed
off on the girl. She watched West filling the woman’s tumbler, and
she suddenly found herself wondering where she stood. There was
clearly a connection between West and Stanwick, and Charlene was
surprised at her own jealousy. Yes, that was the feeling, painful
anger, bubbling to the surface, a tightness in her chest. Stanwick
stepped towards her and leaned her glass in to chink against
Charlene’s. Their knuckles touched for a moment, Stanwick’s eyes
locking onto Charlene’s. She smiled slyly, “Down girl.”

“I’m Sorry?”
Charlene asked, stepping back involuntarily, her calves pushing up
against the couch.

Stanwick took a
sip from her drink, allowing the sweet liquor to warm her throat,
“I can hear you gritting your teeth Charlene. I can see the veins
standing proud of your temples. I can hear the unspoken word as
your tongue clicks about inside your little mouth. Such a harsh
word, but a personal favorite.”

Charlene made
to speak up in her own defense, but Stanwick raised her glass to
silence her, “Down. Girl.” She spoke the command softly now, then
lowered her head conspiratorially, closing the distance between
Charlene and her, “I love West. I’ve always loved West, but spend a
thousand lifetimes in someone’s company, and love takes on a
different meaning. West would not wait seventy years for anyone,
certainly not at any time in my recollection. I can’t tell you he
loves you, but I can tell you that he’s fascinated with you, and in
that fascination, he has found joy.”

West tilted his
glass towards Charlene’s and smiled warmly, “She’s not wrong.”

From smiling to
sitting upright took David another ten minutes, and by that time he
had managed to speak a few strenuous sentences, while the others
busied themselves with drinks, and cleaning up his blood and vomit.
Stephanie sat by him, holding his hand, or stroking his brow, only
moving when it was necessitated by busy dishcloths and towels. Once
the pain had subsided, he had felt the steady and gradual
progression of his strength returning, and as he sat up, fully
alert, Stephanie’s arms wrapped tightly about his neck, which to
his relief, caused no pain.

“There he is,
the man of the hour.” West announced, pouring a glass of Drambuie,
and passing it off to David, “Let me fix you some food. I don’t
know if you’ve been here long enough to see, but the fridge is
stocked fresh with meats and cheeses.

David stared at
the glass for a moment, sniffed it, then sipped apprehensively, “We
had really just got here, when … What happened to me?”

Stephanie stood
up and twirled on one foot, “Stanwick fixed you up.”

David looked up
at the two women, unsure now which one had shot him,
“Stanwick?”

A woman stepped
forward, finishing her second glass and setting it on the end table
by the couch. Seeing her properly for the first time, David figured
that there could have been worse ways to go than to be shot by her.
She was tall, with long dark hair falling either side of her face,
and David, (who had never seen a contract killer, except in
movies,) thought that she looked like she could be an assassin, in
her well fitted leather jacket and tight jeans.