The bloodstone, p.12
The Bloodstone, page 12
Instantly the light resolved itself into the shape of a girl.
“Chandal,” Ron breathed. It was Chandal.
As he stood there, hushed and still, he could feel depression like fog souring and dampening the night. Clouds began to gather, moving in a cluster before the moon and hovering for an instant like a black mask before a face.
Then a cry from above.
His eyes darted upward as he sought to see beyond the ceiling of thick yellow clouds. And there it was.
The black hawk circled above the dusty droplets of crystal, its sleek presence a whisper on the wind. With hooked beak and curved taloned feet rolled into clawed fists, it seemed to fade in and out of focus, only to emerge again like black and soft smoke. Then it was gone, features faded except for its eyes. Eyes that searched the ground below for its next prey.
The hawk screamed.
Lights flashed and Chandal turned and started to run through the reddish glow of darkness.
“Chandal!” Ron cried. His body tensed. Became unfamiliar and awkward. He was caught in a strange unseen embrace that clung to him and rooted him to the spot. His heart beat wildly inside his chest. There was the sting of tears behind his eyes.
“Run, Chandal! Run!” he screamed.
She turned, slipped. Breathless, she regained her balance and began to run again, her eyes arched upward.
The wind shifted, and with it—the hawk.
He closed his wings and, with a sudden plunge, forced himself into a headlong dive.
“Help me!” Chandal screamed, but without hope.
The hawk ripped the back of her neck partially off with its powerful beak.
“CHANDAL!” Ron wailed helplessly and watched as she dropped to her knees.
Chandal reached out, started to crawl toward him, the blood seeping down onto her arms, luminous ripples that sparkled blue-black as they ran through the palms of her hands.
The hawk circled back, seemed to float above her for an instant, then dived again.
She screamed as his sharp beak tore the flesh from her throat. A long, mournful scream that transformed itself into a violet mist, a mist that hung before Ron’s eyes for a moment, then crept away, slowly, until all that remained, far out on the horizon, were wisps of vapor which soon ebbed and eddied away into nothingness.
In the pitch-black of the night, Ron sat up suddenly in bed, listening.
Something had jarred him awake. He lay there, wondering. Gradually he realized—a cry of some sort.
He switched on the side lamp.
He stared at the clock. It was just past five. The house was very quiet, but outside the garbage truck was already making its harsh daytime noises. He felt exhausted and would willingly have gone back to sleep had his wondering not left him with an unmanageable confusion that made sleep impossible.
Wearied, he lay there and waited.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE DEVIL SPUN HER AROUND SUDDENLY AND LAUGHED IN HER face. Chandal drew back and tried to smile, but he grabbed her now and began to swirl her around in the vast mirrored room. Caught in the flashing green light, the reflected images, the heat of amassed bodies, Chandal felt dizzy, breathless. There was even a moment when she thought she would faint.
A kaleidoscope of characters rather than people dashed past her. White wigs, black masks, plastic faces. Captain Hook chased Daisy Mae. Chandal tried to reach out to them, but they brushed past her, decidedly bent on desecrating comic book folklore. Cartoon characters mingled in each other’s cartoon strips, raced toward each other, collided and scattered.
The music blared and laughter rose everywhere. No one kept still. Chandal broke away, turned, and felt the devil turn her again, twice more, until she fell backward into his arms.
“Whala!” he exclaimed and the dance was over. With an eloquent flourish he returned Chandal to an upright position. “Wonderful! Wonderful!” he concluded in clipped sophisticated tones. “What is your costume, may I ask?”
“Eva Peron.” Chandal reached up to straighten her blond wig, thinking: So, the devil is English, is he? and pictured him standing on a lush green lawn with a croquet mallet in his hand.
“Ah, yes. It’s a good costume for a dancing girl like you. By the way, I hope you’re not angry with me for sweeping you away. The door opened, I turned, I looked, and there was this ravishing creature. Might I hover at your elbow for a while?”
“My elbow would love a drink.”
“Champagne and wine on the table to your right. Or, if a mixed drink is preferred, there are two bars, one upstairs in the greenhouse, and the other one right through the archway.”
The disco lighting had ceased for the moment. Softer music had begun and a gentle glow of chandelier light revealed what Chandal suddenly recognized to be an almost exotically lush townhouse. The entire west wall consisted of sliding glass doors opening onto a patio where, cool as the night was, a few party guests were still enjoying the lit view of Central Park as seen from Fifth Avenue. Traditionally dressed maids and bus boys wandered through the large, high-ceilinged rooms, serving hot and cold hors d’oeuvres and clearing empty plates and glasses.
On a sunken level was a heated swimming pool where a few guests seemed to be swimming—naked? Chandal wondered uneasily and then caught a glimpse of giggling nudity, as a flat-chested, long-haired model type rose from the water, more like a young male god than a woman. Beautiful though. Pure and sexless.
Embarrassed, Chandal glanced behind her into the less threatening atmosphere of a library. Her first impression was of a strictly male room—heavy leather-upholstered chairs, a silver tray of brandy and snifters on the desk.
“I think I’d rather have a mixed drink,” Chandal said, still gazing at her surroundings.
The devil laughed. “It’s right out of a fantasy, isn’t it?”
“Not my fantasy,” decided Chandal. “It’s too—you know, much! Too much wealth, too many people, too many servants, oh, it’s just...”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” murmured the Englishman.
“Are you? Why?”
“It’s my house,” he breathed in her ear and pulled her toward the bar. “What’ll you have?”
Chandal was still red-faced, standing alone at the window looking out on the patio as she sipped her dry martini and told herself for at least the tenth time what an ass, what a damned idiot simpleton she was, when a hand touched her on the shoulder.
“I heard you were here and that you don’t like my friend the devil’s townhouse,” announced a familiar sardonic voice. Chandal turned in confusion to stare at a man who was flamboyantly out of costume. At once she recognized him as the director she’d read for at the Pilot Theatre. His relaxed self-assurance, his well-tailored dark slacks and white open-necked shirt, even the small imported cigar between his fingers, plainly spoke of a man who enjoyed being the only man who hadn’t dressed for the masquerade. Except for the guests at the swimming pool, naturally, but even their nudity was a costume of sorts.
He stood in a trapezoid of light thrown out through the open library door, feet planted solidly to the ground, his sharp-featured face open, smiling. “Remember me?” he asked.
“You’re the director at the Pilot Theatre.”
“Ah, yes. But do you remember my name?”
Chandal bit down on her lip. “I’m afraid...
“It is always a good practice to secure the director’s name. Especially if you’re interested in the part.” His smile broadened confidentially. “You are interested in the part, I take it?”
“Yes,” Chandal said quietly, nodding, her eyes still focused on his face.
He laughed softly, his eyes twinkling under light, airy brows. “Rachel is an actress’s dream. She is spirited, my God, is she spirited. Powerful. A bomb that is ready to explode.”
“But she’s not at all like me,” she blurted out and then reflected that she had made another stupid remark. One that could very well cost her the part.
He didn’t seem to be taken aback at her single-minded pursuit of the point, but was rather pleased with it. “Yes and no,” he smiled.
“She’s a—” Chandal stopped herself.
“A bitch,” he filled in succinctly.
“Thanks. Thanks very much!”
“You’re welcome.” He grinned at her anger. “I enjoy that unexpected bitch quality in you. That Evita costume emphasizes it nicely.”
She pinched her eyebrows together and frowned.
“Are you enjoying the party?” he asked.
She let her frown relax. “I think I’m getting ready to. My enthusiasm is just about here.” She laughed and leveled her hand just above her bust.
“What an exciting place to be,” he said politely.
She wondered if she was supposed to react to that, and if so, what sort of reaction was expected. Was his comment a prelude to a flirtation? But already she was shaking her head. He wouldn’t be the sort of man to flirt. He’d be more the direct sort: Do you want the part or not and how far will you go for it? She gulped and wondered. How far would she go? It was a good part, a damned good part.
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I am?” he asked and paused to draw cigar smoke up into his head.
“If you are what?” she replied blankly.
“Enjoying the party.”
“Oh, sorry. Are you?”
“Not particularly. I don’t care for parties. Never did, even as a kid. You’ve grown prettier since I last saw you. I wonder why that is?”
“Comes with practice, I guess,” she said, trying for flippancy.
He didn’t respond. Instead he simply gazed at her, his body erect and still, his blue-green eyes the only part of him in motion. He must be in his mid-thirties, she judged. Greek-hewn, something finely sculpted and polished. A person who exuded a sense of possessive pride, as if to claim whatever he wished to gaze upon.
Uncomfortable, Chandal said, “Is there another...?”
She couldn’t finish the sentence. It fluttered in the air for a moment like the broken wing of a bird, then dived.
“Yes?” he encouraged her.
“Oh. Nothing.” Then suddenly that was all. She had made all the talk she could muster.
He had to fill the vacuum by stating the obvious. “You haven’t been back in New York very long, have you?”
“No,” she said and thought: He’s making fun of me. He knows very well I’ve just come from California. But his face was devoid of sarcasm and his question was of an ingenuous nature. Yet there was something in his slightly darting eyes. A strangeness.
“Well,” he said, and with a decisive swing of his body, he turned to face the room fully, “I’m getting myself another drink. Would you care to join me?”
“Thanks, no.”
“That’s what I’m going to do: go over and down a few.” His eyes moved around the room slowly, then he took a step forward.
“Wait,” Chandal said, putting up a slightly shaking hand. A curtain seemed to be sliding back and forth between two areas of her mind. “You still haven’t...”
“Eric. Eric Savage.” He turned back to stare at her.
“That’s a nice name,” she said awkwardly.
“It used to be David Stein.”
“Oh, well—”
He dropped his eyes, contemplated the glass in his hand. “You really are Rachel, you know.” He turned his gaze upward now, and their eyes locked. “If you don’t believe me, see for yourself.”
“What do you mean?” she said with a half chuckle of confusion.
“Sometime tonight, without giving yourself much chance to think about it—you just wander over to that mirror wall. Just stand there and look very deeply into your own eyes. If you can be as honest with yourself as I think you can be, you’ll see it. Way back there in the back of your eyes, you’ll see it.”
“What?” she asked, and for no reason felt her heart begin to race. “What will I see?”
“Rachel,” he smiled. “You’ll see Rachel.” Then he turned and walked away, adding over his shoulder, “You read for me again on Wednesday. Have a nice time tonight.”
She felt herself shake and realized she was laughing. Tears blurred her eyes and then in the next moment she swallowed her martini in one swift gulp. It felt good—hot and cold all at once and it soothed her varying emotions as effectively as water on fire.
A plump, rhinestoned, bleached blond suddenly seized Chandal by both shoulders. “Chandal?” she wheezed.
“Thelma,” blinked Chandal. “Thelma Rose.”
“Dear, I thought I recognized you. I’ve been studying your picture. I still can’t place meeting you, but you must have made a good impression or I wouldn’t have been sending you out.”
“Thelma, what am I doing here? Did Eric Savage...?”
“A lot of money,” said Thelma sagely, myopically viewing the room. “Have you been to the bathroom? Solid gold fixtures in the one I was in. Dear, I’m sure you’re going to get this role. We have to arrange something about the commission, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, technically I can’t ask for a commission. It’s way under scale, a mini-contract. But I do these things for my people and—”
“Oh, sure, Thelma. I understand.”
“Good, good.... Oh, there’s... yoo-hoo!... Excuse me, dear. Yoo-hoo!”
Chandal smiled as she watched Thelma blunder her way through the crowd.
The band struck up again because the devil had given them the cue, and people began dancing. The colored lights revolved and confetti filtered down over the crowd, floated like colored snow through the air, then submitted weakly as awkward feet ground it into the floor.
The devil tossed a football into the air, and shouted: “Come on, God, let’s play catch!”
A priest grabbed the ball and screamed: “Touchdown!” not to be outdone by his adversary.
A waiter struggled through the French doors, precariously balancing a tray of drinks. Chandal reached out. Moments later, she reached out again and then again.
Chandal could feel herself getting pleasantly tipsy. The party noise swirled and eddied around her. Her smile radiated uncontrolled until the grin was fixed on her face and she felt herself so goddamn friendly that she could barely contain herself.
“How’s it going?” Thelma asked.
Chandal aimed a smile in her direction and nodded.
“A little tight, I see,” laughed Thelma from the arm of a girl as they sauntered by on their way to the powder room.
Chandal tried to nod no, but somehow nodded in the affirmative. Thelma winked. Chandal tried to nod again, but Thelma had disappeared. This little mistake made her feel the need for dignity within herself. Enough of this drinking, she scowled. She set herself a dignified expression, something that would convey proper decorum.
Hell, she whispered to herself and took another drink. Now, as she tried desperately to look outward from herself, squinting to focus upon the other guests for relief, she suddenly stopped her gaze on a woman who had just removed her mask for a moment, then quickly placed it back on her face. Miss Ramsey! The woman from Friendly Realty.
Chandal rose and made her way through the kissing festival to the door, wearing a smile which she tried hard to keep from falling lopsided. In the press of bodies on the crowded dance floor she brushed against sharp thigh bones, elbows, and a hand that patted her rump gently and then withdrew. She heard the hand get slapped by another hand, but never looked back.
The smells hit her next, caught in her nostrils. The mingling of exotic perfumes, fragrant hair sprays, scent-dabbed shoulders, cigarette smoke and the sweat of hot dancing bodies.
“Miss Ramsey!” she shouted over the crowd.
“Where are you going?” queried Eric, faceless, bodiless. Only a familiar voice in an anonymous ocean of people.
“What? Oh, I’ll be right back.” She rushed forward now as the woman turned and began to leave the room. Chandal darted after her, blindly pushing through the crowd. A wild song bellowed forth from a group of men who blocked her way.
“Miss Ramsey! Wait. It’s Chandal!”
The woman had disappeared into the hallway now, as if deliberately trying to avoid her. Chandal followed swiftly in her footsteps. However, when she reached the hallway seconds later, the woman had gone.
Chandal’s eyes flicked around the huge expanse of empty space—at the front door, the harsh points of light that sprang from the modern wall fixture, the inlaid cabinets, the spots of light that fanned out across the ceiling—as though she was surprised to see that Miss Ramsey was actually no longer there.
Finally she lowered her head, pressed the toe of her shoe into the design of the floor and sighed. As she lifted her face and gazed once more at the front door, an odd look came into her eyes. A vagueness, as if somehow she had lost a small fraction of time and space.
Something made a clicking sound.
She heard it quite distinctly—a small sound like the clicking of a camera shutter.
She couldn’t name its essence, but the source was clear—it was coming from inside the base of her skull. Her mouth and nostrils seemed to take in a sudden gush of cold air. Yet the palms of her hands were slick with sweat. She held them out in front of her. They were trembling. She realized that most of the physical sensation had gone from her fingertips. They were cold, numb, no longer a part of her.
Something tickled her nose, a faint odor of... Lilac?
Click.
She cleared her throat, and as if by some built-in command, turned slowly and started back into the main room. She knew someone was with her. A familiar presence of.... She felt overcome by the sudden feeling of fatigue and age and a longing for—what? She could not tell. Within her mind, images fluttered: an old woman lying in a coffin. Her mother? No, someone else. Her brain groped. What was it? Something from the past?
The party seemed to go on forever. Time slipped away. The room hummed with conversation, punctuated with laughter. People came and went, leaving a residue of chatter and stale jokes ringing in her ears. She wasn’t quite sure whether her eyes were open or shut. Whether she was actually present at a party or dreaming. She stood quietly with an inane smile on her glazed features, swinging her head from the flurry of one group to the next.
