Entry One
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As soon as he entered the small village, Ryan could tell that something wasn't quite right. Barely anyone was out on the street, and those who were quickly scurried away from him, as if he was some strange new creature. The buildings were a mess, and most looked like they could collapse at any moment. An aura of despair and misery hung over the village like a dark cloud, ready to let loose a tempest upon the lands on a whim.
But above all else, the place reeked of death, the smell settling sickeningly over Ryan. As he walked towards the inn, he kept a watchful eye on the alleys and roofs. He didn't want any surprises.
Shuddering dog flesh pressed insistently against his thigh, shoving him rather unceremoniously into the horse’s flank as they walked. The normally even-tempered mare snorted in protest, throwing her head back and stomping one hoof in aggravation into the compacted road dirt with a thud. Ryan’s brow furrowed deeply as he reined the mare back in with one hand, the other landing with a reassuring clap on the back of the mastiff.
“Easy, Rolf,” he said, a simple reassurance as much for himself as for the dog beside him. The nervous behavior of his two traveling companions would have set him on edge – if it weren’t for the chill already racing up his spine. And it was far more than the sickly sweet smell of death, the cloying scent that seemed to wedge itself in his nostrils, an odor he knew from long experience that not even the strongest food or drink would be able to rid him of.
Ryan kept his head straightforward, though he was unable to keep his traitorous eyes from a surreptitious glance toward the gallows set up along the side of the road. Two of the three nooses were occupied by the now-blackened, gas bloated bodies of the summarily convicted: a fly-blown warning to newcomers and passers-by alike that “justice” could still be meted out in this God forsaken parish.
Nothing but Monsieur Bellevue’s orders could have kept Ryan on the road now as he moved to the inn, exactly as instructed. One night in this blighted little hell hole alone, and that was it – not even the boss man himself could have goaded him into staying one second more, even with the mastiff at his side. Heavens knew – as insane as it might seem – he already missed the stuffy, overcrowded confines of the wagons, filled to the brim with the incessantly singing and chatting and laughing entertainers and their gear.
Saints preserve him, he even missed the animals, and their grunts, calls, screams, lowing and braying. And compared to the miasma that covered this town like a funeral pall? Even the monkey’s cage on hot day was beginning to seem good - at least, it was life. Alive and good – and so unlike this little piece of Hell at the arse end of a Louisiana bayou.
The young man tied the mare’s reins loosely around the hitching post outside what – he could only pray – was the inn. At the very least, it was the largest building in Beauvais proper besides the “church” - itself no more than a wooden box with a steeple, that looked every bit as dilapidated and abandoned as most everything else about him.
Ryan rubbed at his eyes quickly, blinking a few times in the dim light of the tavern as he strode across the floor to the bar. A ruddy-faced man looked up from the glass he was apparently trying to clean with a greasy-looking cloth. Any words of welcome that might have come died unspoken as beady eyes fell on the dog that remained steadfastly at the young man’s side.
“Hello sir,” Ryan said slowly, removing his cap and running one hand uneasily through the shock of brilliant red hair. “A room for the night, please. Er… see-voo-play?”
“Non,” growled the innkeeper, his eyes never leaving Rolf, “Non non non! Votre chien – ce ne peux pas rester ici!”
Ryan blinked slowly, dark brown eyes traveling from the meaty man before him, following his line of sight to the mountain of a dog sitting sedately at his side. He tried his best to work out what exactly the man might be saying on context alone. French was hard enough for him to work out, and he’d had plenty of experience trapping among the Quebecois. But this thick Cajun patois? It was damn near impossible.
And apparently the innkeeper had had quite enough of Ryan’s obviously blank stare. “Non! No dog! Zees ees a respectable place – get zat damned beast out of- “
“Henri! Ce n’est pas très poli!” The voice that carried across the dark, near empty tavern was smooth as silk – God, sweeter even than wild honey. Cliché or no – it really did seem as if knees suddenly became weak, ready to give out and send him kneeling before the bearer of that voice.
The mastiff’s head ducked low, spindly strings of drool falling from its massive jaws to the dirty wooden floor. A low growl rumbled through his chest, thick lips pulling back over white fangs – even as his great tail dipped and disappeared behind him, between his legs.
Not that Ryan noticed in the least. He watched the woman approach, the heels of her boots making a light clicking noise against the floor’s timbers. A vision in pale green and ivory satin, she seemed to glide across the room, her every movement as soft as water in a slow-running creek. Ebony curls were piled on the top of her head, barely kept in place by a gray velvet hat, its ostrich feathers bouncing jauntily with every footfall.
He couldn’t help himself. Ah Saints preserve him – but the thoughts suddenly came unbidden. God, what I would give to see her hair down around her shoulders His mind’s eye ran with the image: all that long black hair framing her sculpted face, those full, tender lips – cascading over her soft, pale brown shoulders – oh, and they would be soft, too. Tender and sweet – just like the rest of her…
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Ryan’s eyes traveled down the curve of her neck to her throat. A tiny silver crucifix was suspended there, laced on a silver ribbon, the end pointing down to that promising shadow, the valley between the gentle curve of her breasts.
What I’d give, anything, anything at all just to touch her, just once to taste her-Ice gray eyes met Ryan’s gaze, stopping those thoughts cold. He shook his head, suddenly overwhelmed with feeling he’d just woken from a dream as a faint, knowing smile played on those rose petal lips. Ryan could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, a near sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach as the irrational thought struck him - that somehow his thoughts weren’t his own, that against all common sense he’d somehow spoken out loud his little foray into fantasy.
His mouth hung open for only a moment longer, before he finally managed to close it, to “stop catching flies,” as his dearly departed mother would have said. He must have looked like an imbecile, some small panicked part of him worried – not, of course, that he could have done a damn thing otherwise.
“Marie,” breathed the innkeeper softly, that single name somehow sounding like a response and a prayer and a plea rolled into one. His great red face seemed suddenly gentled, tamed almost.
“Oui, cherie - pardonnez-moi.”The innkeeper turned toward Ryan, for all the world as if he’d noticed him for the very first time. “Up ze stairs, second door on ze right ees yours. Just keep zat… zat…
dog… out of sight,
oui?”Dumbfounded for the second time in less than a minute, Ryan simply nodded his head. “Yes.
Oui. Sir.”
“Well now, that’s all nicely settled then.” The lady turned toward Ryan, holding out her hand for him.
“Marie-Agnès Chevalier, mon ami. And you would be… ?” Her voice trailed off, one perfect eyebrow raised expectantly as a small, remotely amused grin played about her perfect face.
For one mortifying second, Ryan actually feared he could not speak, his mouth opening and closing like a dumb fish before he finally managed to stammer… something. His face reddened even further as a shaking hand took the lady’s fingers lightly. “Ryan, ma’am… er… mad-mwa-zel She-val-ur. Ryan Kelly – and… And pleased to meet you.”
“Mais bien sur,” Marie replied without a hint of irony. “And what brings you all the way out to Beauvais, Ryan?” In one fluid motion, the woman threaded her arm into his, as she began to walk from the inn into the gray light of day.
The mastiff followed on the opposite side of Ryan, still growling impotently, tail still tucked firmly between his legs. The dog’s giant head butted heavily into the young man’s thigh as they approached the door, leaving a long trail of slimy saliva along his pants.
Ryan startled as if he’d been struck, shaking his head quickly as he looked about. His eyes widened as he looked into the woman’s face, blinking slowly as they emerged onto the street.
God, what the hell is wrong with me? “Advertising, ma’am,” he said quickly, clearing his throat and moving toward the black mare, still tied to the post. “Carnival time is soon – and my employer, M'sieur Bellevue, he runs something of a traveling show. Sure, we could’ve headed to the Quarter – but he got it in his head to come to Beauvais – though I sure couldn’t tell you why-“
Ryan’s teeth clamped down on his tongue, cutting off the thought he nearly spoke out loud. This town was rotten – right to its very core. But how could he possibly think it so bad, so very, very terrible, when a creature as exquisite as Marie graced its grimy streets? When a goddess of antiquity moved through its putrid air – and somehow remained so very above the squalor, untouched, her beauty unmarred by the nasty meanness of what had become of Beauvais?
“Le Carré?” Marie purred softly, as if she’d noticed nothing at all to Ryan’s speech. “Your employer must be a generous man,
mon cher, if he would choose to grace
our humble village at such an otherwise lucrative time of year?”
Ryan simply shrugged an answer, a small half-smile on his lips as he reached for the mare’s saddle bags. She stomped irritably, snorting and rolling her eyes until the whites showed as Ryan and Marie approached. He pulled the precious roll of papers from his pack, untying the strings there as he unrolled them.
Bellevue’s Circus of the Occult and the Macabre screamed the headline, the attractions printed in French and English in a beautiful manuscript, the bizarre and graphic pictures teasing any passersby with the promise of the strange, the unusual, the shocking and the horrifying. For just a pittance, a night to remember…
“Oh!
C’est formidable! How exciting!” Marie exclaimed, clapping her hands together in joy as her hungry gray eyes fell on the poster. A slow smile spread across her face as she looked up to Ryan. “May I have one, Ryan?
S’il vous plaît? To show to a dear friend, who I know would be so
very interested?”
The young man’s face fell for a moment, torn between the value of the posters he had in his hand - the cost of the ink alone a week’s wages at least for him - and the undeniable desire that welled up in him, to give Marie anything –
anything at all she could possibly ask for.
But in the end, the decision wasn’t really all that difficult. Ryan peeled off one of the posters, rolling it up quickly and laying it in her waiting hands.
“Merci,” she said softly, eyes lit with a satisfied glow. She laid one hand on Ryan’s shoulder, leaning over to brush petal-soft lips against his cheek. “So
very kind,
mon ami.”
The young man breathed in her scent deeply.
Warm. Dear God, warm – nearly
hot, like purest cinnamon she was, and as intoxicating as absinthe. Ryan let his breath out slowly. “You’re welcome,” he replied shakily, leaning against the mare’s side for support as, still weak kneed, he watched her turn and walk away.
A beautiful mirage, she seemed, to Ryan’s near desperate eyes – before she stepped from the curb, turned a corner and was simply… gone.
*********
The clasps finally unhooked, the dress fell quickly in an emerald and ivory pool about her bare feet. Marie stepped lightly from the pile of cloth, bare arms stretching over her head as luxuriously as a cat as she turned. The clear white cotton of her shift hid next to nothing of the flawless body beneath as she slowly sidled across the exquisitely appointed room.
“The carnival is coming to
us this year, René,” she crooned softly, walking around and behind the man resting on the blood red and gold damask chair, set before the marble fireplace. Her long, knowing fingers played with his curly, dark brown hair as she peered over his shoulder.
Marie grinned wickedly as she watched him holding the small handmade doll. Not much more than simple canvas, really, with brown buttons for eyes, a crudely stitched mouth. Utterly unremarkable, but for the few dark red hairs sewn inside – the very same she’d managed to palm when she’d touched that silly boy’s shoulder, distracting him with a simple glamour and a kiss on the cheek.
She gave a snort of derision.
Pathetic - what kind of a threat could this Bellevue possibly pose to them here, when he couldn’t even be bothered to teach his own people the very
basics of protecting oneself from a
mambo?“So it is, chère.” The man’s rich tenor filled the air about them, almost palpable in its undeniable power. It was a voice used to mastery, the man who possessed it quite used to having his every last whim considered a command. René laid the doll on the mahogany table beside him, one graceful hand reaching upward to take Marie’s fingers in his own, and pulling her around the chair before him.
She knelt there before him, smiling eagerly as her hands ran slowly along the silk of his trouser legs. “But you would be
terribly wrong, to underestimate Bellevue,” René said easily, cupping her chin in his hand, raising her face to look into ice blue gaze. She gasped, seeing the sudden tempest there, and cringing before him. The smile disappeared as if it had never been, Marie’s gray eyes widening in fright. “Pardonnez… I did not think- “
“Shh… “ he hushed her softly, one finger pressed to her lips carefully. “It is not your place to think, my sweet,” René continued, almost tenderly, “Yours is, simply, to do as you are told… “
Marie nodded slowly, her eyes closing with relief as she sensed the storm had passed.
For now.
Her pale pink lips opened slightly as her tongue ran slow, unhurried circles around his finger.
René smiled, burying his free hand in those soft black curls as he pulled her to his lap.
“Quelle bonne fille.”[/blockquote]
