Sequel: The Gin House Blues ›
Status: In progress :)
The Shadows' Child
A Challenge
The first thing that Liam was aware of was the pain. It wasn't a stabbing pain, just a slow burning throb in his neck, softly slinking into the muscle of his shoulder; like he'd slept in an awkward position. What the hell just happened? Did I pass out? The freezing cold of the snow he was lying in must have sobered him up however, because suddenly that last nip of whiskey Johnny had coaxed him into taking seemed like it had been a bad idea. "Just one more for the road," he'd said, "just one for the road!" Johnny had then started up a lusty rendition of 'Babe it's Cold Outside' and had subsequently fallen asleep leaning against his television set; like the whole performance had taken up too much of his energy.
Out of these gauzy folds of thought, Liam could hear voices rising and falling with the snow that brushed his face. Frowning, he tried to grasp on to a thread of a word, but it unraveled uselessly in his mind and then there was a deafening hush that forced him into wakefulness. Liam's eyes focused, gradually, on the red stained snow beside him. His hand felt too light as he lifted it to press shaking fingers to his neck, they came back red. The fuck? Was I mugged? Slowly sitting up, he looked around him; no footprints in the snow, no sign of a struggle and absolutely no memory of what had just happened. Fear was building tightly in his throat and he began to panic. Home...I have to get home. He staggered clumsily with a hand clasped over his bloody, but no longer bleeding, neck. Once on his feet, Liam shot one more unnerved glance towards the blood-melted snow then, turning to the crimson dawn, he began homeward.
***************************************************
2 Weeks Later
She was warm, it had been so long since she had been warm; properly warm. Right now, heat was spreading down to her very bones, making her feel dreamy and mellow. She looked up at the sky, a pale powder blue washed across the horizon and pushed about the candyfloss clouds. She returned the sun's smile and twirled the barley stalks curiously around her fingers as they slowly remembered the texture of the grain. But then the gold went black and the stalk crumbled to ash in her hand. Dark, voluminous clouds swallowed the sun. She was freezing again. She was lost, lost and scared. So she did what she always did when she was scared, she ran. She ran through the pitch dark fields, stumbling through the rows and through the hedgerows, through the fields. Potato stalks and stones caught her feet, making them bleed as she struggled not to sink in the squelching earth.
Then she was in a house. A huge house and she couldn't see a thing. Her hands were shaking as she ran them along the wall. Amongst peeling paper and crooked pictures she found a door. The room she entered was brighter, still dim, but she could see. Behind her she heard a whisper. Goose flesh raced along her arms and she spun round. But then the noise was to her left. To her right. Above her head...Panicked, she looked up, the high, panelled wood ceiling was rushing down towards her. To crush her. Catch her like a fly in a spider's web and she couldn't even scream. The ceiling kept careening down to meet her, the hot, stagnant air making it harder and harder to breath. She tried to scream...tried so hard. She began to cry instead, silent and unheeded. No one was going to help her.
"Ceara."
She was alone and they didn't care. They wanted her to die, wanted to watch her squirm, to hurt.
"Ceara...."
There was a swift movement at the edge of her vision, then a laughing face. Her mother's face.
"Ceara!"
She woke suddenly, thwacking her forehead soundly off the solid oak lid of the trunk she had curled up to sleep in. "Fuck," she groaned, rubbing the heel of her hand against her head. The lid of the trunk opened and, squinting her eyes against the silvery half light, Ceara looked up to see her tormentor.
"Good evening to you too, starshine," Tristan gave her a a smug grin as he peered in at her.
"Fuck you."
Tristan chuckled. "Well you will insist on sleeping in the silliest of places..."
"If you will insist on keeping those fucking ugly curtains instead of getting a proper blackout blind, then I have no bloody choice," she grumbled in reply, trying to pull the lid back down.
Tristan stopped her. "You're not usually this foul mouthed when you wake up," he noted.
"You're not usually this much of a prick when you wake me up." She covered her eyes with her hands, trying to block out the sparse light.
"You swear too much," he said distastefully, frowning, "in my day, a woman-"
"Wouldn't swear, drink, or talk back. I know. I get it. I am the epitome of what is wrong with modern society. Your life is so hard, now help me up."
Tristan let out an injured sniff and grudgingly stuck out his hand to help her out of the trunk. Ceara stepped out with all the grace of an ancient queen and stretched up like a cat.
"Nice to see chivalry isn't dead yet."
"Well," Tristan scratched his chin thoughtfully, "technically I already am dead..."
"Ha ha. You're so funny."
"I know," he gave her a winning grin.
"Urgh. I can't deal with you before I've had coffee," Ceara grumbled, shuffling towards the kitchen. Tristan followed her, a cheerful smile on his face, and sat down at the table, watching her rummage in the cupboard for a clean mug.
"You've got five appointments today," he told her. Giving a non-committal grunt, Ceara poured her coffee, taking this as encouragement Tristan continued, counting off on his fingers. "Those two students, that old lady, you know, the one who always brings her cat. She has this," he gestured vaguely around his head,"beehive thing?"
Ceara took a sip of her coffee and blinked at him, eyes still groggy. "What about the other two?"
"The old gambler and some young guy, he sounds fresh." Ceara nodded.
Most of their business was made up of 'regulars'. Tarot readings were big business and there were some people out there who were just obsessed with the idea of destiny; about whether or not they should have held on to that lottery ticket, or if they should read too far into the flowers their husband keeps bringing home. Once in a while though, fate threw new customers in their way. Most of these were chancers, desperate to disprove Ceara's main source of income as a pile of mystic twaddle. Ceara smirked into her coffee mug. Yes, those readings were interesting; her deck always made itself spookily accurate with these particular clients. This was going to be fun.
The great thing about doing tarot readings for a living, besides all the unusual customers, was that it allowed a bit for freedom for the...limitations of the vampire species. No one really asked questions about why the shop only opened after five, or why the entire interior was almost completely sun proofed with tapestries, wall hangings or velvet curtains draped across the walls and windows. Even if people did ask , it was almost offensively easy to palm it off with some sort of vague, hocus pocus excuse. "We need to maintain the aura of tranquility," or, "The cards' energy is sapped by sunlight," normally worked. Besides, Ceara didn't think many people would believe the real reason anyway, it made her laugh to imagine someone's face if, instead of her usual lies, she just went, "Yeah, well y'see prolonged exposure to sunlight makes my skin feel too tight and itchy and if I sat in it too long I'd basically turn into one huge pile of smoking ash." Yeah, because that totally wouldn't lose them any business. The Velvet Star (Ceara had laughed when Tristan came up with that one. "Are you serious?" She had demanded. "It sounds like a bloody brothel!") didn't just draw destiny hunters, no, it was an Aladdin's cave of candles, figurines, incense burners and handmade jewelery which catered for a more... alternative crowd than most other shops in the area.
She found it slightly ironic that some of their more eccentric customers swept through the door dressed in more black, buckles and fake blood than she had seen on any real vampire she had ever come across. Once she was on the till at the shop front just serving this (seemingly normal enough) guy when he smiled at her. His teeth resembled every low budget production of Dracula Ceara had ever seen and when she asked him about them, he simply gave her another grin and said that he'd had them filed down. Ceara smiled, nodded and said, "Cool". She still felt kind of bummed when he left though, and spent the remainder of the day running her tongue over her own disappointingly normal canines. In a moment of thoughtfulness she had even mentioned to Tristan that she was thinking about getting it done.
In return he had threatened knock her teeth out before she had a chance. "You are not feeding the stereotype," he had continued. He had then swanned off to sulk in a corner somewhere. Yeah, because it was Ceara who was feeding the stereotype.
"Hypocrite."
Tristan looked up from restocking one of the scarf racks and blinked at her. "What?"
"Nothing," she waved him off, "just thinking out loud."
Tristan rolled his eyes and mumbled something about "noisy thinkers" and "women in general". Ceara reciprocated with, "Glass houses", then stalked behind the curtain at the back of the shop to prepare for her next appointment. She had been looking forward to this one all day and, as she unwrapped the silver star spangled scarf holding her cards, Ceara smiled, a predatory smile. She began sifting the cards between her hands, loosening up her deck. When she heard the bell at the shop door jingle, her smile widened. "Bring on the chancer," she said softly.
Out of these gauzy folds of thought, Liam could hear voices rising and falling with the snow that brushed his face. Frowning, he tried to grasp on to a thread of a word, but it unraveled uselessly in his mind and then there was a deafening hush that forced him into wakefulness. Liam's eyes focused, gradually, on the red stained snow beside him. His hand felt too light as he lifted it to press shaking fingers to his neck, they came back red. The fuck? Was I mugged? Slowly sitting up, he looked around him; no footprints in the snow, no sign of a struggle and absolutely no memory of what had just happened. Fear was building tightly in his throat and he began to panic. Home...I have to get home. He staggered clumsily with a hand clasped over his bloody, but no longer bleeding, neck. Once on his feet, Liam shot one more unnerved glance towards the blood-melted snow then, turning to the crimson dawn, he began homeward.
***************************************************
2 Weeks Later
She was warm, it had been so long since she had been warm; properly warm. Right now, heat was spreading down to her very bones, making her feel dreamy and mellow. She looked up at the sky, a pale powder blue washed across the horizon and pushed about the candyfloss clouds. She returned the sun's smile and twirled the barley stalks curiously around her fingers as they slowly remembered the texture of the grain. But then the gold went black and the stalk crumbled to ash in her hand. Dark, voluminous clouds swallowed the sun. She was freezing again. She was lost, lost and scared. So she did what she always did when she was scared, she ran. She ran through the pitch dark fields, stumbling through the rows and through the hedgerows, through the fields. Potato stalks and stones caught her feet, making them bleed as she struggled not to sink in the squelching earth.
Then she was in a house. A huge house and she couldn't see a thing. Her hands were shaking as she ran them along the wall. Amongst peeling paper and crooked pictures she found a door. The room she entered was brighter, still dim, but she could see. Behind her she heard a whisper. Goose flesh raced along her arms and she spun round. But then the noise was to her left. To her right. Above her head...Panicked, she looked up, the high, panelled wood ceiling was rushing down towards her. To crush her. Catch her like a fly in a spider's web and she couldn't even scream. The ceiling kept careening down to meet her, the hot, stagnant air making it harder and harder to breath. She tried to scream...tried so hard. She began to cry instead, silent and unheeded. No one was going to help her.
"Ceara."
She was alone and they didn't care. They wanted her to die, wanted to watch her squirm, to hurt.
"Ceara...."
There was a swift movement at the edge of her vision, then a laughing face. Her mother's face.
"Ceara!"
She woke suddenly, thwacking her forehead soundly off the solid oak lid of the trunk she had curled up to sleep in. "Fuck," she groaned, rubbing the heel of her hand against her head. The lid of the trunk opened and, squinting her eyes against the silvery half light, Ceara looked up to see her tormentor.
"Good evening to you too, starshine," Tristan gave her a a smug grin as he peered in at her.
"Fuck you."
Tristan chuckled. "Well you will insist on sleeping in the silliest of places..."
"If you will insist on keeping those fucking ugly curtains instead of getting a proper blackout blind, then I have no bloody choice," she grumbled in reply, trying to pull the lid back down.
Tristan stopped her. "You're not usually this foul mouthed when you wake up," he noted.
"You're not usually this much of a prick when you wake me up." She covered her eyes with her hands, trying to block out the sparse light.
"You swear too much," he said distastefully, frowning, "in my day, a woman-"
"Wouldn't swear, drink, or talk back. I know. I get it. I am the epitome of what is wrong with modern society. Your life is so hard, now help me up."
Tristan let out an injured sniff and grudgingly stuck out his hand to help her out of the trunk. Ceara stepped out with all the grace of an ancient queen and stretched up like a cat.
"Nice to see chivalry isn't dead yet."
"Well," Tristan scratched his chin thoughtfully, "technically I already am dead..."
"Ha ha. You're so funny."
"I know," he gave her a winning grin.
"Urgh. I can't deal with you before I've had coffee," Ceara grumbled, shuffling towards the kitchen. Tristan followed her, a cheerful smile on his face, and sat down at the table, watching her rummage in the cupboard for a clean mug.
"You've got five appointments today," he told her. Giving a non-committal grunt, Ceara poured her coffee, taking this as encouragement Tristan continued, counting off on his fingers. "Those two students, that old lady, you know, the one who always brings her cat. She has this," he gestured vaguely around his head,"beehive thing?"
Ceara took a sip of her coffee and blinked at him, eyes still groggy. "What about the other two?"
"The old gambler and some young guy, he sounds fresh." Ceara nodded.
Most of their business was made up of 'regulars'. Tarot readings were big business and there were some people out there who were just obsessed with the idea of destiny; about whether or not they should have held on to that lottery ticket, or if they should read too far into the flowers their husband keeps bringing home. Once in a while though, fate threw new customers in their way. Most of these were chancers, desperate to disprove Ceara's main source of income as a pile of mystic twaddle. Ceara smirked into her coffee mug. Yes, those readings were interesting; her deck always made itself spookily accurate with these particular clients. This was going to be fun.
The great thing about doing tarot readings for a living, besides all the unusual customers, was that it allowed a bit for freedom for the...limitations of the vampire species. No one really asked questions about why the shop only opened after five, or why the entire interior was almost completely sun proofed with tapestries, wall hangings or velvet curtains draped across the walls and windows. Even if people did ask , it was almost offensively easy to palm it off with some sort of vague, hocus pocus excuse. "We need to maintain the aura of tranquility," or, "The cards' energy is sapped by sunlight," normally worked. Besides, Ceara didn't think many people would believe the real reason anyway, it made her laugh to imagine someone's face if, instead of her usual lies, she just went, "Yeah, well y'see prolonged exposure to sunlight makes my skin feel too tight and itchy and if I sat in it too long I'd basically turn into one huge pile of smoking ash." Yeah, because that totally wouldn't lose them any business. The Velvet Star (Ceara had laughed when Tristan came up with that one. "Are you serious?" She had demanded. "It sounds like a bloody brothel!") didn't just draw destiny hunters, no, it was an Aladdin's cave of candles, figurines, incense burners and handmade jewelery which catered for a more... alternative crowd than most other shops in the area.
She found it slightly ironic that some of their more eccentric customers swept through the door dressed in more black, buckles and fake blood than she had seen on any real vampire she had ever come across. Once she was on the till at the shop front just serving this (seemingly normal enough) guy when he smiled at her. His teeth resembled every low budget production of Dracula Ceara had ever seen and when she asked him about them, he simply gave her another grin and said that he'd had them filed down. Ceara smiled, nodded and said, "Cool". She still felt kind of bummed when he left though, and spent the remainder of the day running her tongue over her own disappointingly normal canines. In a moment of thoughtfulness she had even mentioned to Tristan that she was thinking about getting it done.
In return he had threatened knock her teeth out before she had a chance. "You are not feeding the stereotype," he had continued. He had then swanned off to sulk in a corner somewhere. Yeah, because it was Ceara who was feeding the stereotype.
"Hypocrite."
Tristan looked up from restocking one of the scarf racks and blinked at her. "What?"
"Nothing," she waved him off, "just thinking out loud."
Tristan rolled his eyes and mumbled something about "noisy thinkers" and "women in general". Ceara reciprocated with, "Glass houses", then stalked behind the curtain at the back of the shop to prepare for her next appointment. She had been looking forward to this one all day and, as she unwrapped the silver star spangled scarf holding her cards, Ceara smiled, a predatory smile. She began sifting the cards between her hands, loosening up her deck. When she heard the bell at the shop door jingle, her smile widened. "Bring on the chancer," she said softly.
♠ ♠ ♠
It's finally done. :DAs usual, please comment and let me know what you think.
I promise I won't bite, can't say the same for Tristan...but there ye go.