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Siren Sweet & Harpy Shrill copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter Disclaimer:
These characters were created by Thomas
Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of
admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no
profit, of any kind, is made by the creator, maintainer or contributors to this
site.
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6 of 12 PART 9 The room is immaculate, richly appointed, and I know instinctively that it is his bedroom. I enter it cautiously, seeing it through the eyes of predator that has entered another creatures territory. Lush burgundy curtains pool around the windows in velvety shadows. The wine-hue of the curtains is echoed in the coverlet that adorns the carved, dark wood four-poster bed. His night table is sparse, embellished only by a small reading lamp and a lead crystal carafe. I am possessed by the desire to open the drawers of his night table, to sniff out any literary pleasure he has secreted away, any dark, hidden enigma that might bring me deeper insight into his fascinating mind. I curb the impulse. I might as well dig through his garbage; such rudeness would not be tolerated. My hand brushes the coverlet, and I savor the slight crinkle of the blood rich velvet. Laid out on the bed are a variety of items, all of which are much more luxurious than I am used to. My breath hitches in my throat as I catch a glimpse of the dress. It’s the same one he sheathed me in during our escapade on the Chesapeake. Of course it’s not the SAME one. It’s ill fated sister suffocates, bagged in an evidence locker as dark as a midnight alley. As I run my fingers over the jet black silk, a wave of conflicting emotions crashes over me with all the force of tonight’s unforgiving sea. On the floor at the foot of the bed, the black heels that I keep hidden in the back of my closet wink up at me. I dress quickly, my pulse racing as the plunging v settles over my heart. I sweep my hair back into a sleek tail, and slip on his chosen foot ware. I steel myself for whatever lies ahead, and walk to the door, but something out of place catches my eye. On his dresser, rests a black brocade bag far to feminine to be his. I open it, and am greeted by a few carefully selected cosmetics. I smudge muted copper shadow in the crease of my eyes, and a soft gloss over my lips. A light sweep of bronze over my cheekbones, and I’m through the door. The hallway seems like an eternity, but eventually I find my way to the dining room. Candles of varying heights bathe the room in an inviting glow. A rich mahogany table is set for two. And standing at the head of the table, in what I recognize to be the identical suit he wore on the Chesapeake, is the most intriguing man I have ever met. He holds a glass of deep red wine in one hand; the other rests on the back of his chair. His eyes drink me in, and I can see the appreciation that lights them from behind. “You’re breathtaking.” I have no reply and so I stand mutely in the doorframe. “Come. Sit, Please. He sets his glass down and pulls back the chair for me. He’s pushing in my chair when I first notice the nasty scratches gouged into the back of his weathered hand. I shiver, and am grateful he hasn’t chosen to take it personally. He turns back from the table, and pulls a small serving cart with chafing dish into the room. A slight wave of uneasiness washes over me as he ladles something into a shallow bowl and places it before me. I am immediately relived to be greeted by a innocuous clear brown liquid. “Veal Consume’ . I know you’re not likely very hungry now, but your body can use the nourishment.” I take up my spoon and obediently sip the fragrant broth. It’s delicious, tangy and mellow at the same time, with a hint of some strange liquor. I resolve to purge all my cupboards of bullion, forever and ever, amen. He joins me at the table, but does not partake in the consume’. I cast my eyes down as I blush under his appraisals. After what seems like hours, I set my spoon aside, and he rises, removing the dish from the counter top. He leaves me a moment to whisk the cart away, then once again seats himself at the table. “Feeling better?” “Yes, Thank you.” “It will hit you again in about eight hours. A delayed reaction to physical stress and emotional upheaval. Don’t let it concern you. It will pass.” I nod and focus in on the flickering candle flame to my right. The silence, though not awkward, is heavy. Thoughts roll around my water-logged mind, darting back and forth like a school of silver-blue fish. Do I attempt to apprehend him? The notion is laughable, as well as more dangerous than I care to contemplate. Do I politely ask to take my leave? Would he allow me to walk out the door and back to my former life? Or would he drag me back to the frigid gray ocean with blankets of sea foam and pillows of seaweed? Is there any other option? The only thing clear to me is the fact that my former Master’s have jumped shipped with all the loyalty of a bilge rat. If I sink or if I swim, I at least know for certain, it will be by my own efforts. I am back in the holding cell below deck, and even in the warmth of the dining room, I can feel the death cold water licking at my naked ankles. The ship I have lived my life on for years is sinking The rigging has been slashed. The sails are in tatters. There’s a sucking hole on the port bow. Captains go down with their ships. Will I have to as well? Or is there another way? Across the table, he cocks his head at me, scrutinizing. There is a fascination in his eyes that is both flattering and confusing. I wonder what it is about myself that could be of such interest. “Do I detect a crumbling in an archaic moral matrix?” The words sound smug, but his eyes look sincere. “Archaic?” “Archaic: Outmoded. Burdensome. Useless. Yes, Clarice. Archaic.” My words come out harsher than I intend. How can he blame me? I’m a condemned woman, looking over the side at a harsh ten inch cedar plank. “What do you want me to say, Doctor? Thank you for proving to me just how disposable my superiors think I am? Thank you for opening my eyes to the grand folly of my wasted life? Truth can be a cold comfort, Doctor.” “And would you rather live in a den of lies, Clarice? What is more appealing to you Clarice, honest brutality or hidden treachery?” I’m shivering again, but this time it’s not from the frigid ice of an ill tempered sea. It’s rage. No offense to my trusty gun, but right now I’d like to get up close and personal and stab him in the gut. “A little girl is walking down the road, and she meets a talking snake.” “Fairy tales now, Doctor? The interruption colors his tone brassy with annoyance. “A little girl is walking down the road, and she meets a talking snake. The snake says to her ‘I am freezing and if you leave me here I will surely die. Please warm me inside your coat’ But the little girl is wary and replies “No, no! you are a snake and surely if I put you in my coat, you will bite me.’ But the snake assures her that he will not bite her, and the little girl tucks him into her coat and sets off to school. The snake begins to thaw, and a few moments later the little girl feels two sharp pricks over her heart. And as the venom soaks the wound, and she falls the ground in her death tremors she manages to gasp out one final word. ‘why?’ And before he slithers off, the snake replies…I’m a snake. Snakes bite.” “I don’t have time for stories Doctor. Is the bureau the snake, Doctor? Are you? “We both are, Clarice. There’s just one difference.” With the speed of his allegorical viper he’s bridged the gap between us and kicked my chair out from under me. I hit the ground hard, and my teeth click shut. He rolls me from the chair and in a heart beat his full weight in on me, pinning me to the ground. I fight for air as his crushing strength anchors me into the plush carpeting, his lips grazing the lobe of my ear. He half whispers, half hisses into my ear. “The difference is, Clarice, I never promised not to bite you.” And with that he sinks his teeth into the side of my neck. FIN Part 9 of 12
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6 of 12 copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter |