Post regional Requiem tat

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

"I have to go. Paint will be waiting for me?"

"Who?"

"My ghoul. He worries if I'm late. He's...possessive. Sometimes."

"I bet he bloody well is."

Cold. Cold outside, and the dank smell of fog in the air. That means the sky is full of ghosts. Behind me, I smell blood, thicker than anything else. That's what the Embrace does. It takes away the nuances - the fine shading of desire - and fills it in with guts and hunger. Ahead of me I can smell petrol, sweat, and magnesium perchlorate, which means that Paint is there.

Paint. Not Paint? No, not the man I first called 'Paint', who's skin ran rich with ink and who smelt of warm things. He came home with blood, sharp and twisted, with emotions which made my nostrils sting. But he's gone now.

"Miss Riley," Paint says, and reaches out a hand as if to touch me. It hangs in the air. I am not in a touching vein this evening. "Is all well?" he asks.

I don't answer, but open the car door.

"I'm cold," I say, and slide inside. Gott im himmel, I am shivering and my skin feels sunburnt. To be that close to that much passion sometimes is a little like standing in the sun. I think I'm a creature of shadow. Bright lights hurt me.

"I'll make you warm," he says, and I know he will be hurrying to the boot of the car. He'll fetch me a blanket and he'll care for me, because what else can he do?

Alone, for a second, I close my eyes. Paint will come back soon. He'll wrap a blanket around me, and take the opportunity to brush up against my skin, and touch my hair. Maybe, later, when we're alone, he'll call me his Erzuli, and I know when I sleep he'll go through all my pockets in case there is something I haven't told him. He loves me, and he serves his purpose well, and so I will permit it. However, for the moment he is not here and I wish to lose myself in my memories of this evening.

I want to remember the sharp sting of de Selby's flesh, and the prickle of his sadism as he talked about the filthy Jews. I want to remember how cruel he was, and how for a moment I found myself strangely empty and cleared of any kind all my doubts and remorse when he spoke.

I want to remember Danny Kovacs, sitting on that staircase, burning up with a passion for a woman who, in that moment, had no capacity to love him back. I want to remember how he shifted from a beautiful sepia, from the faint scent of old oakwood, to burning up, like tar and treacle.

I want to remember Charlie's pain, sharp as a knife from across the room.

I want to remember the sudden flash of musk, and smoke. Liquor and leather. The paint beneath the skin was gone, but instead I could catch the scent of cedar and blood, as intoxicating as wine. I thought he was dead. I thought there was nothing left, but a creature with his face.

I clutch at those memories. I need to hold on to them until I get them home, back to the lab where I can begin to try and isolate each note, each key, each jigsaw scent. I won't let these memories go. I'll bottle them, and then they will be mine, as precious as any of the rubies I keep sewn into the hems of each of my skirts. The moments themselves may be dead and gone already, but as long as I've got the memories, then what else do I need? I caress the small vial of blood as well. I'll find the secrets there too, and I will use them.

"Are you ready to go, Miss Riley?" my Not Paint asks and I smile up at him. I can sense, rather than see, his rush of joy at my smile.

"Take me home, my darling boy," I say and wrap my blanket tight around me. "And you can carry me to bed. You won't mind if I close my eyes for a while on the drive home. I have a lot to think about."

Comments

[adze.livejournal.com]

I really like this.