Deux

Two years ago, I began by telling a story of my concept of Kashmir. It was an old in its context, and it went unnoticed, but I sometimes feel awkward when I am the focus of attention. I have purged words from my skull forever and a day. One of my friends calls this a rare gift I should share. When I've referred to it as a curse, another of my friends tells me not to be so melodramatic.

Some things are started with predefined goals, whilst others it's a case of seeing where one ends up. I tend to think this was the ladder rather than the former. Although, to paraphrase someone I used to know; I think I was looking for a new mythology. See, I'd self-published a book a few years back. A angsty dark thing that was great for my twenties and early thirties living within the borders of the greater metroplex, but I was neither that age or in that location anymore. Unfortunately, there were a few cats I knew who could not or would not accept that I wanted to move on. Somehow, I was betraying them.

But, perhaps it was a matter of context. By the time I started purging words my skull here, I'd lived in the mountains for a few years. Different geography. Different reality. I wanted to tell stories about being out in the in-between places and exploring deeper into the American Maghreb. Sometimes, starting out, I would joke were I crazy, or stupid, enough to try for publication once more, perhaps it would be upon the pages of the Mountain Gazette.


That day I vomited out my first story here, my mother was languishing in a sickhouse. Five days later, my brother and I would be standing over her body, trying to reconcile the very harsh reality that she was lost and gone forever, and ever, amen. I did tell stories about losing her and trying to come to peace with it, but, at first, not here. I didn't want to drag any random strangers from across the spider's web of cyber into my mourning. That lasted for four months, and then all bets were off.

I told stories about my mother. About helping my father move from the Rub 'al Khali of the badlands of Eastern Colorado. Stories about living in the mountains, walkabouts through our little Sahel, and observations of the weather. Tales with my daughter, Sabina, and the other species of quadruped we share our tiny house with. I started telling other tales again, ones spoken in the tongues of fiction as well as fact, because it's all true; even and especially the lies.

Somewhere in there, I think I found the shape of this, even if I've not found the words to articulate that particular concept. At its simplist; this is mine. My little bit of terror and shock and awe I inflict upon the rest of the cosmos. The simple fact anyone else looks is really quite humbling. Once upon a time, I thought it would be cool to be famous for the words I purge from my skull, but then I remember how mortified and uncomfortable I became in my own skin when someone announced, quite loudly, how I'd published a book to a room full of strangers. That's when I learned I'll never be a rock and/or roll star.

I've just finished a story arc and have been queried as to what I might do next. Rest assured, it's just as much of a mystery to me, but that could be half the fun of it. A very long time ago, I once told someone that some stories write and/or tell themselves and the storytellers are just along for the ride. It's a bit of wisdom, cosmic in its significance, perhaps, that I truly believe.

Epilogue; The Last Hot Day in September

Her nightmares began right after she found Bear dead. These were horrible black things, which often involved staring into cold amber eyes before waking, unable to scream. She would lay there in the dark, deafened by the sound of her own heavy breathing. After a few minutes, what felt like far longer than forever, she would realize how utterly alone she was and would cry herself to sleep.

She dreamt of the rocks crashing down and being tied up. This time there was no rescue. Her tormentor came back. The last thing she saw was a triumphant smile and those reptilian eyes just before a rock was brought down upon her skull and it all going into a wet, crunching black.

Her eyes flew open into the darkness of a warm room. She could hear her breathing and feel a thin glaze of sweat upon her brow. At first, it was like waking up from any other nightmare until she realized there were arms around her. There was someone else breathing next to her, and it sounded like the purring of a big cat. With a sigh, and perhaps a smile, she pulled herself in closer to the slumbering embrace allowing for the waking safety she was yet to achieve in her dreams.

***

Of course he would disappear. He was Lazarus Lankin. The first time it happened, despite every story and every fact she was told about him, Sydney found her feelings were hurt. Her grandfather’s barn cat, back when she was a child, was like that; curling up in a bed with her one night, and then disappearing for a week or two before the sun was even up.

“Lazarus is Lazarus,” Bast said to her one afternoon at Ira Milligan’s café. “If you think he might be someone else, or try to make him into somebody else, he will turn on you.” She leaned closer, predatory gray eyes narrowed. “And I think you’ve seen quite well what happens to those he turns upon.”

“I guess I might have to learn a new way,” Sydney mused. “That seems to be what I’ve needed to do since I came to Marrakech.”

 “I’m optimistic,” Bast said.

“Your brother said that too,” Sydney quipped and Basted smirked in the manner of a sphinx that knew the answer to the riddle from the time of the dinosaurs.

“Did he now?”

The nursery rhyme of Humpty-Dumpty became a strange mantra for Sydney the rest of that summer, as she worked to pull herself back together again after five years of harassment. She found a newfound sense of freedom living in Marrakech and not all but hiding in her little apartment above Ira Milligan’s. The freedom of being somewhere new and finally really starting anew. There was the freedom of not being followed and tormented, though she still fought back the nightmares and the urge to constantly check over her shoulder. The freedom of knowing Darcy was going away for a very long time.

Sydney found freedom in her acquaintance with Lankin. Sometimes she would find herself at the last house on Lovecraft Lane. There were times they would go for a hike or to shoot pool at Magpie Jack’s and part ways with nothing more than a hug and a peck on the cheek. Sydney joked she never thought of herself as a cat person, but for him, she would try to make an exception.

“My sister observed a defiant streak in you,” he told her one night. “Perhaps it is that, which intrigues me.”

“Or maybe you just actually like me,” she teased.

“You’d find that answer boring, Just Sydney.”

“Only from you.”

***

In Levant County, it was said the inhabitants of Marrakech had an innate sense of when the last truly hot day was before the chill of High Country autumn, and ultimately, winter, was going to set in. It was inevitably a day in September, and, most always, a day when the aspen leaves had hit their peak, turning the mountainsides into tiger-stripped veins of green, gold, orange, and red. On that day, the atmosphere at Magpie Jack’s was that of the most festive of parties, and everyone in town, as well as from nearby, stopped by for at least an hour.

Sydney sat out at a patio table with the warm sun on her face. There were loud voices and the sound of a game of horseshoes being played. Something fun was being sang from the speakers. Her vantage point allowed her a spectacular view of Gaia’s Backbone, including the Death’s Head and Hell’s Watchtower; both mountains she had finally been able to summit.

At the table with her was Desdemona, Bast, and Marty. She was enjoying the company, and the fact she could have friends now and not worry about having them poisoned and stolen away from her. This new life she found herself in, despite the lingering nightmares and occasional old fears, was shaping up to be fairly good.

“I must say you look much better than when I first met you back in June,” Bast observed. “You look more vibrant.”

“I’ve been up on the tundra a few times this summer,” Sydney said. “Someone once told me going up there can be quite cathartic.”

“Sounds like someone rather wise,” Bast said with a smirk.

A round of cheers erupted from inside. It was the type of ruckus that was made when an important point was scored during a game. Bast leaned back in her wheelchair and Sydney stood up to peer in the open patio door. By the bar was a familiar angular figure sipping a glass of red wine.

“Well, well, we will need another chair,” Bast chuckled. “Look who’s coming to dinner…”

“Natty Dreadlocks,” Sydney finished with a smile that might be described as either excited or expectant. 

100 Words; Idle Hands

There was really nothing to do. No victims. The travelers wanted to get where they were going. I got a little punchy. But I insist it wasn't my fault. Idle hands and all.

Images were sent. My sister couldn't stop laughing and my father enjoyed it. My daughter said I was her hero. Sempi said the model never looked better.

For some reason no one believes me when I say the Devil made me do it, even if I might've meant it. Queer. I wonder if it has anything to do with what I once said about the Devil's wife?

A Question of Safety

“I have a cousin who lives out on the plains and a brother down in Texas,” Connelly mused. “Both of them are ranchers. Cowboys. With cowboys, the last thing you ever want to do is mess with their horses.” He then leaned forward to lock eyes with the Darcy, swaying side to side in her handcuffs across from him. “Up here, well, anywhere you got people who enjoy the outdoors, the last thing you want to do is fuck with their dogs.”

“You shouldn’t have killed the dog,” Lankin echoed coldly, his gray eyes narrowed.

Sydney sighed heavily at those statements and leaned her head on Lankin’s shoulder. Darcy, seated between two Levant County sheriff’s deputies, would glare daggers, but, for the first time in five years, it didn’t matter. This was the beginning of the end, although it wasn’t the end Darcy had envisioned. The thought got Sydney to smile. It was as though a weight was lifted. She closed her eyes and relaxed, subconsciously rubbing Lankin’s rope-burned hands.

Word travels fast in rural counties with small communities. It was joked in Levant County that rule was doubly so. Upon entering Magpie Jack’s that night Lankin and Sydney were greeted by a tide of cheers and pats on the backs and shoulders. Someone, as a joke, put on Queen’s We are the Champions. Grizz showed them to dimly lit table just past the pool table. There was a bottle of beer and bottle of wine already waiting for them.

“On me,” Grizz said. “So’s your dinners, in case you were wondering. And, Lazarus, if you don’t start another bottle tonight, I’ll be insulted.”

“Then I’ll endeavor to get half-drunk, Grizz,” he replied with a respectful inclination of his head.

Sydney found that Lankin was not exaggerating when he said Grizz made the best elk steaks. They ate well and shot a few games of pool. Every so often, she would allow herself to get closer to Lankin. Although he maintained his usual feline aloofness, it also seemed he was receptive to her advances.

“You certainly more relaxed, Just Sydney,” he said at one point. “I told you going up on the tundra would work wonders.”

“Cute. Although I’m a little leery now of your definition of ‘cathartic’” she snickered. “It’s strange, though, knowing that Darcy’s being taken care of after so long. I don’t know if I can explain it, but in a way I think I’m safe now.” She took his hands and pulled closer. The look in her dark eyes bordered between fear, relief, and simple desperation. “I am safe, aren’t I?”

Lankin reached up, cupping her face in one hand. She squeezed it and nuzzled his palm, planting a few light kisses along the red marks he’d acquired from the rope earlier. The look on his face was pensive.

“Not completely,” he said, a single finger tapping her temple. “She’s still in there, and she probably will be for a very long time. It’s something I can neither protect nor save you from. You’ll have to face that down and make peace with it on your own.” He then leaned forward and gently placed his lips on her brow. As he pulled back there was a compassionate smile on his face. “I am, however, optimistic.”

Sydney found there was nothing she could say. Instead, she merely nodded, and with a smile, she squeezed his hand once more and planted another kiss along his palm.

Crime and Punishment

Just beyond the rockslide was a drop-off overlooking mounds of scree just above the Abyss. There were several crevasses in which a body could easily be swallowed, never to be seen again. Darcy liked to believe if An Interested Party had not been crushed by the rocks, he had fallen, to either be dashed upon the scree, or devoured by the mountain itself.

Still, she wanted proof. In her encounter with him in Leeds it was obvious he was possessed of some cunning. She found this both intriguing and intimidating. Most of the men she dealt with, even those who looked after her when she was locked away, no matter how intelligent, could be manipulated after some time. It was a matter of figuring them and out and knowing how to play the games necessary to achieve her ends.

An Interested Party, upon first impression, seemed impervious to such things. In fact, Darcy felt the only reason she came away from their initial encounter was because he allowed it. That he was quite dangerous in his own rite. The very thought of which, no matter how likely, was sickening.

As she scrambled about the crevasses, she thought she heard the distant thwok of a helicopter. At one point she thought she heard the jackrabbit speaking in a raised voice. This got her attention. It occurred to her she wasn’t going to find a body, because there was no body to be found. With a frustrated hiss, she turned herself around to finish what she started five years ago.

She was nearly back to rockslide when movement along the Abyss caught her eye. At first, Darcy could only stare in disbelief at the sight of the jackrabbit heading back down the trail at a brisk pace. She almost screamed in rage as she moved closer to edge for a better look.

At the edge, she felt her balance wane for the briefest of seconds, as if something behind her moved her ever so slightly forward. The lower tiers of mountain seemed to reach up for her momentarily as she struggled to right herself. Then, she felt something, someone, gripping her very tightly about the waist.

“It’s all right. You’re okay,” Lankin whispered into her ear. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Darcy watched her prey disappear down the trail with a scowl. When she tried to struggle, his grip merely tightened. The turned her head to be face to face with Lankin and spat at him. He regarded the action with feline detachment.

“You should let me go!” She snapped, and he merely shrugged, as if unsurprised.

“Perhaps.”

And she was flying, hurtling toward the rock a few hundred feet below her at incredible speed. At first, it didn’t seem real; that he would let her fall. But, there she was; cold air screaming in her ears as the ground rushed up. The scree yawned before her in the manner of broken teeth and jagged talons, ready to embrace her.

Then, suddenly, she stopped. Something jerked tightly about her waist. Darcy looked down to see it was the very climbing rope she had used to bind the jackrabbit. She was suspended just above the scree. First, she started to laugh manically and she found herself crying at the realization of what happened. Her bladder and bowels loosened and she was only partially successful in restraining the urge to vomit.

The thwok sound seemed to be closer. Something about that worried her. She felt the rope pulling on her waist and realized she was being pulled back up.

“I am afraid it’s not going to be that easy for you,” Lankin called down to her.

“I hate you!” Darcy screamed.

“If I was here solely for you to like than we’d both be disappointed.”

“Just let me fall!” Then her voice became plaintive; “Please!”

“No,” he said softly.

“No?!?”

By this time she was dangling just a few feet from the edge once more. Lankin stood firmly, his wiry arms as knotted as the rope around her waist. His gray eyes were narrowed in predatory concentration, but there was a slight look of amusement playing across his lips, like that of a barn cat with an especially fat mouse.

“You’ve been building up to this for years,” Lankin said off-handedly. “Torment, torture, and ultimately murder someone you decided was the source of all your misery, then kill yourself so you could be with the fantasy of someone who left you fifteen years ago.” He pulled her closer to the edge, a smirk forming. “But you’ve been a naughty, naughty girl, and naughty girls need to be punished.”

With that, he gave a mighty tug, sending Darcy hurtling past him, onto the bare rock of the Death’s Head. It took her a moment to realize she was back on solid ground. Even before she could move, Lankin’s booted foot was jammed into the small of her back. He was using the rest of the rope to tie her hands behind her back. His trek pole ran behind her, making her feel as though she was being trussed.

“And your punishment is you get to live!” Lankin growled as he pulled her to her feet forcefully. Then he whispered in ear in a voice that was far removed from anything human; “Now, you see you’re not the only one capable of abject cruelty.”

Darcy felt defeated tears begin to flow as she was made to start walking along the trail. The thwok sound of the helicopter was very close now. Both of them turned to see the vehicle coming down along side them. There were official markings on it and men in uniforms could be seen riding in it.

“Lankin! We’re here!” Connelly’s voice was amplified by a loudspeaker. “We’ll land at the usual place and wait for you.”

“Dammit, Connelly!” He shouted back, although there was a smirk on his face. “We were going to be down by tonight! Did my sister ask about me?”

Nine Lives

This was what true defeat felt like. Sydney was convinced of it. No matter where she went, what she had, or who she met, Darcy was there to ruin it and then take it all away. It was an inescapable as the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening. This was what it was like to truly be broken, to be utterly powerless. A lump formed in Sydney’s throat and she could feel the tears welling up in her eyes.

With a deep breath, she fought back the urge to weep. She might be defeated. This might be the end. But she wasn’t going to make it easy. She resolved to kick and spit and fight until the very end. Darcy saw her only as prey and Sydney was going to prove that was not the case.

From behind, she felt someone working with bonds on her wrists. She was being pulled to her feet, slowly, and gently, which puzzled her. Darcy had gone on to inspect the rockslide more thoroughly. Her other quarry was a wily one, she said, and she wanted to make sure he was properly dealt with. She hadn’t come back yet.

“This is good rope,” Lankin said softly. Sydney’s head whipped around in surprise to see him, not even dusty from the rockslide, working on untying her. “It’s climbing grade. I can always use something like this myself.”

The tears almost sprang up again. She started to shake. As she started to open her mouth, Lankin pressed a single finger to his lips.

“Remember that little tall tale I told you that the old-timers say about me and this hill?” He whispered with smirk. “Even if it’s not true, this is the Death’s Head, and it’s not my first rodeo.”

The rope was pulled away and Sydney turned to regard him fully. It occurred to her that there was only one way Darcy might’ve known where they were. Her cheeks flushed with anger at the thought. Once more, she started to open her mouth, and, once more, Lankin, anticipating her words placed a finger on his lips.

“If you do not like how I’m dealing with this, then you should’ve handled it back in Prague,” he growled, his eyes narrowing, his face suddenly screwing into predatory harshness. “But instead, you brought this misery into my backyard.”

“What now?” Sydney asked finally. She hated how small her voice sounded.

“I am afraid we’ll have to take a rain check on the rest of our trek,” Lankin replied with a disappointed sigh. “It’s too bad, really. I wanted to at least show you the summit of the Death’s Head. But there are some people who cannot understand good advice when it’s given, and I must speak with someone to that point.”

“Lazarus!” Sydney’s voice raised a little louder than it should have. “No! Please! Let’s just get out of here! We can go where she’ll never find us!”

“You need to get back down the mountain, Just Sydney” he continued as though she hadn’t said anything. “Back down to Marrakech. In fact, meet me down at Magpie Jack’s for dinner tonight. If memory serves, Grizz just got in two cases of my wine and he’s grilling up elk steaks. He makes the best elk steaks. Probably because he hunts and carves them up himself.”

“I’m not going to leave you up here alone with her!” She snapped.

Lankin reached out, grabbed her shoulders firmly, and shook her. His manner was that of a big cat on the hunt. For a brief moment, she became worried for her own safety, and Darcy had very little to do with it.

“You will get your ass the fuck down the mountain and back to Marrakech, or I will forget that I ever wanted to do anything to help you!” he growled. “And you will do it right fucking now!”

He released her and stepped back. Sydney realized she was seeing the Lazarus Lankin that rescued hikers from mountainsides and recovered bodies from avalanches. Here was the barely human creature she would here about in stories. Someone who carried themselves like a big cat ready to eviscerate its prey, but not before having a little fun and games first.

Before she realized what she was consciously doing, she threw herself at him. Something very primal told her she needed to kiss him at least once. At first, he reciprocated, drawing her in so close it seemed as though he would consume her. Then, in the same moment, he pushed her away. When she opened her eyes to see him once more he was standing with his arms folded across his chest and his feet planted firmly on the rocky ground.

“Now go,” he said harshly.

“You better be at Magpie Jack’s tonight,” Sydney whispered. “Promise me!”

“Of course,” Lankin said, cocking his head to the side inquisitively. Slowly, he licked his lips. “After all, it seems we have something to…discuss.”

Sydney caught herself blushing slightly, but found there were no words. All she could do was nod before turning and heading back down the trail. Lankin watched her disappear down the slope toward the Abyss with a sigh, grateful she was leaving. He reached down to grab the climbing rope and start gathering it up. Despite himself, he found himself softly singing a mock-song he would sing with his sister when they were children;

“I’m looking over

My dead dog Rover,

That I overlooked before…”

100 Words; A Little Night Music

Something from awhile back...

About every three weeks, the Music Geeks meet...

One brings the prog rock, another the grunge. I handle the African/world/punk. Sabina does folk with one Rush song, because. There's Icelandic and electronica; all of that Knob.

I'm not an open fan of the Knob, but I groove to it; a guilty pleasure...

The context speaks to me of after dark in the most neons of downtowns. Places I have been before, though lifetimes have passed. I groove on it when the Geeks play. See, it is so rarely after dark, when the neon comes up I can indulge.

***

This was partially inspired by the 100 Words posts from Mister London Street and a bit from the soundtrack of  Tron; Legacy of which I blame one of the Music Geeks for playing at one of our gatherings...

Snake, Rattle, and Roll

The Death’s Head, outside of Marrakech, Colorado…

Sydney drew a sharp breath as she took in the view of Gaia’s Backbone from just above a place Lankin referred to as the Abyss. She noticed a sadness in his eyes at mentioning the place, and knew there was perhaps a story behind it. She opted to hold back on inquiring. There would be time. It felt as though there was all the time in the world.

She really was enjoying herself. Remembering back to the afternoon in Glasgow, Lankin did make a wonderful outdoor companion. Although, as they climbed up the Death’s Head, she would notice him disappearing either ahead or behind her. He seemed simultaneously distracted and deep in monk-like concentration. Sydney dismissed this as how he must get when climbing a mountain. The same mountain, he mentioned the old-timers were convinced he was born on, and was the only thing in the whole creation that would decide when it was his time to die.

The bright sun was finally beginning to warm mid-morning air. The occasional chirp of a pika would interrupt the otherwise profound Backcountry silence. Below them, the tundra spread out like a patchwork quilt before meeting the Krumholz sentinels of tree-line once more. The Death’s Head itself was bald rock, which shot up imposingly across Gaia’s Backbone, to only be dwarfed by its neighbor, Hell’s Watchtower. Lankin mentioned some hikers would climb both mountains in a day, daring the Abyss to do so.

He had just reappeared and was nonchalantly sipping water from his bottle and hooking his trek-pole to his pack. Sydney wanted to make a remark about how much she was enjoying herself. She found there were a lot of things she wanted to say to him. There was a combination of fear and his detached manner, which caused her to hold her tongue. Perhaps, she felt there would be time to say all those things too. Up along the Death’s Head, it was as if there was all the time in the world.

“We’ll break here for a minute,” Lankin said finally. “You probably need to catch your breath.”

“You’ll notice I’m doing a fair job of keeping up with you,” Sydney remarked. She caught herself smiling playfully.

“I have,” he said with a smirk. “Impressive.”

There was the sound of movement. Sydney noticed how Lankin cocked his head to the side inquisitively. She couldn’t quite read his expression as he began to walk, almost unconcerned, in the direction of the noise. Part of her wondered if it was a marmot or maybe even a mountain goat. It was only as he got further away, closer to the edge, that she found herself feeling anxious.

Rocks, small at first, began to come down, scattering around his feet. Dust began to rise up, making Lankin’s angular figure hard to distinguish. It did look like he turned to look up just as large boulder came crashing down.

Sydney was running toward the rockslide frantically. Her voice caught in her throat, but she wanted to call out. She wanted to cry for help. She wanted to call out for Lankin, hoping against hope he would answer back.

Before she reached the slide, something landed on top of her. She was being pushed to ground. It took her only a heartbeat to realize this was not a rock landing on her. She felt her arms being pulled savagely behind her and her wrists being bound. Shock, fear, anger, and betrayal played across her face as she turned her head to see a set of familiar cold amber eyes.

“End of the line, jackrabbit,” Darcy hissed triumphantly. “End of everything.”

***

Levant County Courthouse, Leeds, Colorado…

Bast slowly opened her eyes and noticed her hands were shaking. This was understandable. With a deep breath, she worked toward steadying herself. Trembling would do no good right now.

Slowly, she turned her wheelchair back around. Connelly was standing on the other side of her desk, waiting. No words passed between them as their eyes met, just a mutual nod. With that, Connelly spun his heel and moved purposely out of the archival office, the whole time, furiously dialing into his phone.

Parlay of the Predators

Darcy watched the tow truck pull into the post office parking lot with a jaded fascination. Something was happening. Something, which was quite curious. The driver, a young man with straw-blond hair began hooking up a familiar jeep to the tow chains. The owner of the jeep was not there. In fact, she had seemed to disappear into thin air just a few hours before from the Leeds library.

Most likely, the jackrabbit had help. As Darcy followed her through the afternoon streets, she noticed the panic in her prey’s eyes. Something, which she found exhilarating. She enjoyed the levels of fear she caused. The jackrabbit deserved every bit of it and more.

But she had been eluded, and this would not do. It didn’t take long to figure out her prey did not actually reside in Leeds. There were other places nearby to start checking. The jackrabbit’s five month respite was going to come to a very abrupt end.

Darcy decided she would start with the tow truck driver. He might be willing to tell her something. Men liked to do things for her at first, getting lost in her eyes, if not her cleavage. Such simple, predictable, creatures. It was only after some time passed that her male prey items became uneasy around her, her hypnosis not working quite as well.

It was what happened with her Jacob. If she had just a little more time, she might have been able to seduce him once more. But she was locked in that cage for a few years, before she convinced those who needed convincing she was perfectly well. By then, Jacob had been stolen by the jackrabbit and had gotten sick and died.

These thoughts passed through her head in lightning flashes of rage as she started to walk toward the post office parking lot. The tow truck driver would give her some answers, she was sure of it. Adjusting her top and adopting playful smile, she began to walk toward him.

“The owner of that jeep isn’t going to be coming back any time soon,” a voice behind her said casually. “And Curtis there doesn’t really like girls that much.”

Darcy spun around, barely concealing the scowl on her face. He was perched on the hood of her car in the lengthening shadows of a mountain dusk. His head cocked to the side inquisitively and an amused smirk played across his lips. She felt a shudder pass through her, recognizing his manner as predatory, having seen cats with similar bearing just before they pounced.

“Who are you?” Darcy inquired coldly.

“An interested party,” Lankin said simply, his grey eyes not wavering as he pulled himself from the hood of her car.          

“’An Interested Party’ is a rather odd name,” Darcy mocked.

“I believe it’s Swahili, but it might be Diné,” Lankin remarked. “And you’re Darcy McCellan. Come all the way up from Prague, New Mexico.”

“You apparently know things.”

“I’m a likable sort, so people tell me things.”

“You’re the one who helped her at the library.”

“Indubitably.”

Darcy walked closer, swaying side to side. Lankin stood firm, his arms folded across his chest. Their eyes remained fixed on one another, neither willing to break their gaze. Such an action would spell defeat.

“You should stay away from her. She is not what she seems.”

“Which makes her all the more interesting.”

“She’ll break your heart.”

“Preposterous! My heart has no bones.”

“She’s a whore and a thief,” Darcy whispered, her voice almost sweet, despite the venom carried upon her words. She placed a hand on Lankin’s arm.

“You are a stalker and a dog-killer,” he said coolly. “So far, you New Mexico girls seem to be anything but virtuous.”

Darcy’s gaze hardened and she withdrew her hand as she backed away. Normally, her charms would have achieved their ends by now. This one was more of a challenge than most men. In fact, the only interest he seemed to have in her was that of an adversary.

“Then I am dangerous,” Darcy stated, adopting a colder tact. “If I could kill a dog than I could be considering killing you right now.”

“You most likely are,” Lankin said dismissively. “But it would be rather embarrassing for you to try.”

“You seem to think I would fail.”

“It’s a given.”

She began to walk closer once more. This time, there was more of a predatory stride in her movement. Lankin let out a heavy and disappointed sigh as he uncrossed his arms. His gray eyes narrowed and something that sounded like the growl of a mountain lion rattled in the back of his throat.

“I promise it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

Darcy stopped cold. For the first time she could ever remember, she found herself standing completely still. She found herself looking down at her feet, ceding the primal and predatory challenge that had existed between them since they started speaking.

“Why are you here, An Interested Party?” She asked.

“I came to make you an offer.”

“Of what sort?”

“Sydney Pollack is no longer in New Mexico. She’s nowhere near the places your mutual dead x’s remains lie. In a sense, you’re victorious.”

“So?”

“I’m offering you a chance to walk away now,” Lankin said plainly. “Go back to New Mexico happily knowing you won.”

Darcy started to laugh. It was a twisted, mocking, hateful sound, which had gotten those hearing it to shiver in the past. Lankin listened impassively, simply folding his arms across his chest once more.

“You don’t understand!” She spat.

“You’re the second girl from New Mexico to say that to me today,” Lankin shot back. “Are the boys down there a little less bright?”

“It’s you who should walk away,” Darcy hissed. “You should run.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“We’re going for a wander,” Lankin said. “The Backcountry around Gaia’s Backbone. Up the Death’s Head, to be specific.” It was then he turned and began to walk away, melting into the gathering shadows, but added over his shoulder; “Don’t be here when I get back.”

Opal Labyrinth

Her hair was spiral sequins, which framed the face of porcelain doll. Eyes, the color of opals, took in every tiny detail. Her skin was bronze and copper with a hint of cream. She dressed in second-hand store eccentric and was possessed of the knowledge of thousands of lifetimes. When she spoke, her sing-song voice carried an accent of a faraway warm land, perhaps south of the equator, by way of the bygone European empire. Her scent was that of cinnamon.

I had occasion to talk to her in a coffeehouse as she puzzled and poured over Arabic poetry, trying to decipher the riddles she found therein. Her stories played out like untitled blues songs, sang in nameless and forgotten gin joints beyond the ends of the world. The very fabric of reality shifted around the table with every tale. Sometimes I caught myself being lost within the labyrinth of her gaze, not caring if I was found.

She seemed equally fascinated with my stories, though I didn't think any could compare. Perhaps it was the way I perched in my chair, or the simple fact of being something of a curiosity. Whatever it was, she listened with rapt attention, even saying she was hanging on my every word. At the time, I didn't care whether or not she was lying. She was exotic, and I can easily become entranced and fascinated by such things.

We parted ways under a full African moon. I never asked if I might see her again or sucked up the courage to even try to ask for a kiss. The very idea seemed impolite at the time. Perhaps somewhere, sometime, we'd run into each other again. Share more stories. Until then, there are the memories. A recollection of getting lost in a labyrinth of opal colored eyes.