The Calm Before (Reign and Ruin novella) (2 page)

And eventually,
when the trembling and nausea was replaced with the normal feeling
of warmth and self-loathing, Marty splashed his face with cold
water and tried to tidy up the creases in his collar.

Ricky turned
around on the stoop when he heard the swish of automatic doors and
held his hand up for an enthusiastic high five. Marty smacked his
head sharply and handed him a can of beer. Ricky looked up
hopefully.

“Marty, do you
have anything else for me?”

“Don’t be a
dick, Ricky,” Marty said good-naturedly. Ricky smiled and held out
his hand. Marty pulled out the bag, accidentally knocking a smaller
plastic bundle of glass marbles to the asphalt. Marty snatched them
quickly up again and Ricky eyed him curiously.

“Marty, why do
you have marbles in your pocket?”

“Never you
mind, just take your smack.”

Ricky accepted
the plastic ounce bag and opened his can of beer with a sharp snap
and hiss. As Marty prepared to move off, he grabbed his hand.

"Marty, man . .
. is there something you want to tell me?"

Marty froze in
surprise and looked closer at his friend. He was serious. His face
was straight and concerned. Marty didn't think he had ever heard
Ricky show concern about anything other than youth culture and
getting fucked. And now, on the edge of a Friday evening where all
he usually did was get high, he wanted to talk?

"Ricky, I'm
fine."

"Nah, man.
You're not." Marty gaped as Ricky pushed his weight up with a
grunt. He placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and looked deep into
Marty's eyes. "You look old, man. You look sad."

Sighing, Marty
tried to shrug off Ricky's hand but it gripped harder. Ricky's eyes
narrowed and the frown that creased down his face cracked through a
day's worth of construction site dust and dirt.

"Ricky, I'm
fine," he pushed.

"Prove it," he
said. "Spend some time with me tonight."

No no no,
there is no time
, Marty thought but even as those words rushed
frantically across his brain Ricky was pulling him down the steps
and hailing a bus.

"Quality time,
my brother. I'll order a pizza and you can tell me why you look
like the entire world is on your shoulders."

Because it
is
, Marty thought. But the drugs were beginning to feel
relaxing and after all, why not? The Painter is usually up later
anyway. Some food and another hit wouldn't hurt. Would it?

*

The fuck it
would.

Marty jerked
awake as the night crept past 3 am. No alarm had sounded. There was
no movement in Ricky's basement apartment and the window above was
so close to the sidewalk that even the streetlights and any passing
headlights couldn't crack into the darkness of the underground.

Snoring
resounded from another room and Marty felt like his eyes were
covered in glue. The taste in his mouth was sour as bitter medicine
and his dry tongue was sand paper. All he wanted to do was turn
back over on the couch and pull the ragged throw blanket closer
around his neck. But there was something he needed to do. Right?
Somewhere he needed to be . . .

A creeping
feeling stole up his back and settled on his shoulders like a giant
boa constrictor. His heart beat an erratic pattern and as he pushed
his feet over the edge of the couch and onto the floor, he couldn't
help but swallow down a stab of panic. Why did this feel so
wrong?

A van rumbled
along the street above and threw a can out of the window. The tinny
clack bounced along the sidewalk and knocked against the glass,
startling Marty to his feet. And just as quickly as he stood up,
the weight of his pockets registered in his mind: the soft, new
pressure of the heroin and the hard, shifting bundle of marbles he
always kept to transport him in and out of Palet.

Palet.

The
Painter.

Oh no.

Marty gasped
and clutched his heart. He had forgotten the Painter. What time was
it?! He took a few steps forward, fumbling for his phone, and
groaned as the screen lit up his face to display the time. How much
would he have taken without Marty there to pull him back?

But as he
scrambled for his shoes, the snake tightened around his neck. There
was something else. Something worse.

Suddenly,
Marty's eyes closed and he gripped the edge of the couch to keep
from falling. The blackness split open to a blinding white and he
heard the scratchy voice of a summoning. A state of emergency.

"Painter
compromised . . . report back immediately . . . apprehend niece."
The white light flashed once more as the eerie whisper faded from
his ears and his eyes snapped open. The brightness had completely
set him back in his adjustment to the dark, so he stood catching
his breath in the pitch black.

Painter
compromised. Apprehend niece.

Marty grabbed
his belongings and checked to make sure he had enough marbles. He
burst out onto the street, slipping a bit on a piece of slick
newspaper, and rushed down the grungy road towards the nearest bus
stop.

He hoped to
Painter that 'compromised' didn't mean 'lifeless.' And he didn't
even want to think about what they meant by
apprehend niece
.
Painter forbid Maggie gets involved in this. But as Marty jumped
over puddles and frantically scanned the road for oncoming
headlights, he already knew there was no other choice.

She would need
to be found. All she was had been leading up to this. Marty only
wished the news didn't need to come from him.

Cirrus

The Man in the
Mirror

Cirrus strode into the
front entry room of his house and gave his body a furious shake.
Sand rained down from his hair and scattered across the floor like
a broken hourglass. Three men in white trooped in behind him and
immediately sat down on the waiting room chairs.

Cindy looked up
from her appointment book and winced.

“Sir, would you
mind doing your shaking in the yard?” She glanced out the window
and sighed as the house rose up from the Wilds of Palet and back
into the sky on the purple cloud. “Never mind, Sir.”

He straightened
his gray lapel and smiled apologetically at his secretary.

“I do
apologize, Cindy. I should have thought. I’ll have someone come in
and clean this up later in the evening.”

“No, Sir. It’s
fine,” Cindy said in her resigned way as she moved out from behind
the counter with a small broom. Cirrus reached down before she
swept across the floor and caught a pinch-full of the fine sand in
his fingers. He slipped it discreetly into his pocket and moved off
through the hallway to his office. Cirrus stood behind his door and
leaned back against the dark wood, breathing in slowly and
luxuriously.

He had felt so
many things that afternoon. So many beautiful and terrifying things
that his body was fit to burst like an overripe cherry He could
still hear the silence that he left behind in the Wilds; the
rebellion and the lack of shame that Lucan insisted on taking with
him up until the very end. But despite that, the feeling that
rushed through his blood was pure and an adulterated elation.

As he moved
across the room to kneel in front of the cold fire, he closed his
eyes to the memory.

The Painter was
dead.

Even saying the
words in his head shot a strong bolt of excitement through his body
close to arousal. The Painter is dead. It was a moment as fine as a
knifepoint. Each atom of his internal system shutting down, every
last beat of his heart as it slowed and shuttered; even the ebbing
flow of his blood through the veins in his arms to his brain and
his heart was like a lover’s caress to Cirrus. Because he had felt
it all.

Cirrus stacked
the kindling on the fire, each stick of wood piling up like the
day’s list of glorious events, and he played back the last hour as
a show reel in his brain to savor each glorious moment.

The desert had
been quiet. The air was mercifully mild and the stars of the Wilds
shone above the party to celebrate the occasion. There were no
clouds in the sky, not even the infamous purple one, as Cirrus had
landed about a mile away to appreciate the march across the sand.
I am going to enjoy this
, he thought. He had been waiting
for an excuse to do this for years. But now that it had finally
come, he drew out the experience like foreplay.

As the leader
of the group, Cirrus formed the tip of the flock of figures
crossing the sand. He had brought with him a few of his men: Simon,
Terrick and Albion. Three very strong, very loyal men who also
didn’t speak. He didn’t need to take many precautions. He was the
Dream Catcher, after all. He couldn’t even remember the last time
anyone had questioned him. But when anyone makes the choice to do
business in the dead of night with three men who wouldn’t tell
anyone, Cirrus reasoned, perhaps what they're doing isn’t so
kosher. It never hurts to step a little lighter. And if the Council
found out, it would mean paperwork. Messy, bloody paperwork.

The logs
stacked up one by one in the grate. One by one.

Step by step .
. .

Cirrus turned
his neck to look over his shoulder at the man being hauled behind
him. So much bigger than he, gifted at birth to be broader and
darker. He could never be from the same father, which was painfully
obvious. There was an air of myth about Lucan, everyone always said
so.

Cirrus blew
angrily through his nose and spat in the sand, trying to dispel the
horrible feeling of shame that crept downwards into his gut when he
thought about the unfairness of it all. And to add insult to injury
he had to deal with this additional blow. His own family. His own
blood. And all because of some stupid little git of a girl, his
half-brother had left his post and left the Painter.

Lucan must have
sensed his gaze, because his ocean-blue eyes shot up from following
his feet and caught Cirrus smack in the middle of his disdain. They
were angry and vengeful, like the sea during a storm, and Cirrus
felt his bravery and power quell slightly at the sight. He quickly
looked back to the horizon and walked faster.

"Where are we
going, brother mine?" Cirrus heard the words float mockingly up to
his hearing. He gritted his teeth and kept walking, ignoring Lucan.
"Cirrus, I am being marched to a certain death. You can at least
tell me where that will be."

"Wherever it
is, it cannot come soon enough," Cirrus shot back over his
shoulder. He heard Lucan scoff loudly.

"Oh, come on.
This is a performance. You could have shot me in cold blood and
wrapped me in the sheets you found me in. But you didn't."

"Your mistake,"
Cirrus breathed, "resulted in the most extreme case of neglect in
my entire term as Dream Catcher. It was selfish and insulting and
–"

"And you're
jealous." Lucan interjected snidely. Cirrus turned sharply around,
his fists clenched in quivering billiard balls, and looked squarely
into his brother's eyes. It was blue versus green, courage and
envy; the sky inked with the oncoming night facing off with the
murky depths at the bottom of a cold lake.

"I am not . . .
jealous," hissed Cirrus. Albion and Terrik looked sideways at each
other, each wondering when, if at all, it would be appropriate to
unhand Lucan before he burst outwards like a cyclone.

"Oh Cirrus,
what a joke!" Lucan crowed. "I’ve heard your dreams, the whispers
that slither out of your throat like vipers when you allow yourself
to sleep. You are positively aching.” Lucan leaned in closed and
Cirrus felt his breath catch in his throat. "Maggie, Maggie. My
darling, my angel." He paused. "My love."

Cirrus's hand
smacked against Lucan's cheek so suddenly it startled both of them.
It echoed off the sky and pounded with heat against Cirrus's palm.
Lucan twisted his face slowly back up, and even in the dark Cirrus
could see his hand had left a burning mark, red as a dying
star.

"You know
nothing, bastard brother," Cirrus said. "You are an
attention-seeking, lustful, useless bag of skin. And I cannot wait
to see you hang like the dog you are."

Lucan's eyes
were furious but Cirrus had turned away swiftly, motioning for the
group to walk on . . .

His palm still
stung faintly with the memory and back in the light of his office,
Cirrus knew his shouldn't have lost his temper. It did not bode
well.

He struck a
match with a small crack. The light flared up and he considered the
flame as it wavered, inching slowly down the match stick until it
was only a hairsbreadth away from the tips of his fingers. Throwing
it into the fireplace, it immediately caught on the dry kindling
and newspapers. Cirrus gingerly blew on his singed fingertips.
Today was all about fire, it seemed.

The fire had
flared up earlier inside of his chest when the Painter died. He had
raised a hand and allowed the group to pause as he stood still,
face raised to the sky while wave upon wave of molten heat coursed
through his veins. With a quick gasp he staggered back a step,
feeling like a brand had been seared into his chest and quickened
his heart like a shot of adrenaline. And as he breathed the feeling
deeper, relishing in the crescendo of death, small bits of his
joints started to pop and sizzle.

His knees
buckled and crashed down hard against the cool sand. He could
barely see as his eyes clouded over with fluid and blood and the
dying dreams of a man still reeling from hallucinations. It was one
giant explosion of pain and color and suddenly –

Suddenly.

Suddenly it
stopped.

It was as if
his mother had laid a cool hand on his brow. Or like a window had
been opened to release the pent-up frustrations of a boiling room.
He could still sense the life retreating, but it was the acceptance
that was taking over now. The body was giving up and opening its
arms to the relief of death. Cirrus’s eyes cleared and as he and
the Painter took their last connected breath, the sounds and smells
of the desert Wilds gently came back.