leftnightthing

[leftnightthing]

I met a nun once. A terrible woman, but sublime none the less. Her devotion to God was like nothing I have ever seen before. I traced all of it back, to the moment when she knew, in her mind at least, that God was real. You see, there was a storm; she and her brother were in the field. Not a tree in sight. When the first bolt touched ground, the two begun running, faster than they ever had before. Then it struck between the two of them. Tossed them apart, the grass scorched, and the sky rumbling again. She pictured two things in that moment, watching her brother die, burned alive right in front of her. Or the opposite, he would have to watch her die. And then he would have to walk back to the farm and explain to their father that she was dead. She didn’t want either of those.

So, in the time between bolts, she prayed. Shouted out to God himself to spare them both and if not her, at least save her brother. She was struck by lightning. The storm passed afterwards.

[leftnightthing]

The Songz of Rustre

by

Ulysses Nemo

Prologue

This is the story of One-Arm the Old, and it starts about a  few million years ago, maybe more than that actually, back before homo sapiens, back when the world itself was still settling, when Gods could shape things as they wanted and with evolution still working its way to us. This is before language, before names, back when we were more ape than people, with hair all over our bodies, and upright walking was more of a choice than a necessity.t him. “So you aren't defined by your legs.”

“I didn't run.”

“No. But we did bet everything on your dick,” She gives a deep and long laugh as she pulls the car back into the road.

In the North, there is a place simply known as The Pit, not a typical jail of Messina, which only held short term sentences, the city isn't known for incarceration. The Pit, however, was for the rare few who actually had life sentences, those considered irredeemable made a home for themselves here. Elric cuts her hand at the entrance, and offers the blood to the stone, gaining access to this sunken place.

There was some natural light, ports to the sky in the ceiling, but most illumination came from these shimmering crystals that naturally grew from the bedrock of the city. The shacks were actually well built, less shanty town and more pueblo housing. At the big house, they find their man, in the middle of an opium den, pipe to his lips, and breathing heavy on the smoke.

Aurakles Nemo was like a pulp hero that pulled himself out of the novels at their heyday and just kept going on as if the war never ended. Every part of him looked scared and callused, like you could hear his joints whenever he moved. The clothes, maybe bright and bold at one point were now sun bleached and dull, an echo of what they used to be. Though the black elephant crest on his chest is still clear. Interestingly, his mask isn't diminished in anyway, fresh and new, a deep purple that stands out against everything around him.

Elric sits and he offers her the pipe. As she begins to smoke, Rhego leans against the wall, silent and just watching.

“People wonder why I went away, but down here is the only place I can have my rest. Can enjoy myself without judgment,” Aurakles explains, getting a bit more powder for the two of them.

“I thought yours was the land of freedom?” Smokes frames her face and she takes another drag.

“Ranging is freedom, but of the self. Pathfinding, seeker, the trail behind us, so other's can follow. If they so choose.”

“And those that can't walk?” Elric lifts her eyebrows.

He breathes in long and each word comes out as smoke. “They find a way.” He breathes again, and rolls his jaw. “I want to know what you are going to use it for, this thing you want from me.”

“To make my brother whole.”

“I wasn't asking you.”

Rhego stands up straight, now realizing Aurakles had been looking at him the entire time they had been there.

“Hear you're undefeated. Do you really need it?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Maybe your shoulders are already strong enough to bear everything.”

“Probably.”

That makes Aurakles smile. “Normally, I don't like you Sicilians. Little too proud for my taste, humility has always been the great equalizer.” He lifts his hands, motioning to all around them, the den, The Pit. “So what do you offer?” He points as two men enter the den, one holding a red gasoline container, and the other hands Rhego a lighter.

He flips the top open, then clicks it shut. “The truth?”

“That's what true freedom is, brother.”

He grabs the can of gas and begins pouring it over himself. Elric is trying to hide how much she is shaking, trying to hold her leg, squeeze her arm, her wrist, anything to keep herself from rushing forward, anything to just remain still. He empties the entire can over himself, his hair dripping, his socks soaked, and not an inch of his skin left dry.

“Callisto asked me to end the engagement.”

“What?” Elric shots to her feet.

“She wasn't ready and I wasn't going to force her to do anything. So it doesn't matter what happens to me, I did the right thing.” He flips the lighter top open.

Aurakles is nodding in respect.

“Gang gang.” He sparks the lighter and his body is set aflame, his skin bursting as his being becomes an inferno. He doesn't drop to his knees, he remains strong and stands the entire time. His clothes burn away, the bandage burns away, everything is washed away from him. Leaving him blank and pure. His liver explodes, and with it, the memories of the previous nights black out.

It was five men. They caught up to him as he was staggering back home from the Pink Boar, much to drunk to drive, and too late to call for anyone, left for his feet to carry him. They descended on him like a fresh kill. The punches led to kicks when he stopped standing, smashing him into the ground, blood expanding, and refusing to fight back. He tried to warn them away, for their own safety, but then the smoke came from his mouth and his eyes rolled red. The first two dropped without so much as a visible movement from him, their bodies just surrendered. He grabs one's face and lifts their body from the ground, swinging them toward the brick wall of the building behind him. The mortar gives out. One tries to fight, and using his left arm, the force of the phantom limb alone is enough to cause the enemy's heart to explode in their chest. The last was fleeing, but on his second step, Rhego plunges his hand into the man's rib cage. The symphony of tearing flesh a crescendo of the entire opera. Now the man is crying and begging. But where had that sympathy gone? Rhego pulls open the ribs , each break a drum beat, and he takes the heart, stilling beating, and bites, the memories of blackberries.

Aurakles looks into Rhego's burning eyes, the boy, the man, still standing in front of him, and the elder smiles, wide and truthfully, and then speaks.

But the language is something never heard before, lyrical, familiar, but completely unknown, with sounds no human can make. A single word, one syllable, but impossibly complex. REST

Rhego shuts his eyes, and is brought to his knees.

-

Jupiter hugs him close to his body, his arms covering all of Rhego, protecting him from everything around him, his body shielding the boy from the entire world. “Esta bien, hijo. The first time is never easy. This'll make you strong. I promise.”

“I'm proud of you.”

-

When Rhego finally wakes up this time, its not from the vision, it's from the pain rushing into his consciousness. He wants to scream but doesn't, the pressure in his face is huge and he grabs his left arm, looking down to see that something new has been placed there. It's still mostly bone, but the joints and nerves had grown in, and the very beginnings of tendons were forming. He groans, looks over to see Elric, scared awake by his held in shout and is running toward him. The two stare at each other, and he has the look of confusion, bordering on betrayal as he looks at her. She comes to him and holds his face, brushing his hair back and trying to comfort him with her presence.

“I know, I know it hurts, but it's working. It accepted you. This is good.” She kisses his forehead and helps him sit up.

With her here, the pain eases, mostly from no longer being alone. She hugs his head close to her chest. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“Two days. It was a little touch and go those first few hours.”

He looks at the palm, or the bones where his palm will be, and almost without thinking begins to flex his fingers, beginning to close them, the pain of it half blinding him from the blare in his head. “Wow. This is so painful.” He forces himself to laugh, to hide the tears, but it gives way to real laughter.

“I know. I think you should stay in the Osseopolis until it finishes healing.” She holds the back of his head, still concerned, despite his laughter.

“Dad still down there?”

Her face falls in a little, and she rubs his shoulder. “Yeah. He hasn't left since it happened.”

He leans his head against her, catching his breath. “That'll be alright then.”

She embraces him again, hugs and holds him tight against her, her own eyes watering. “You should have told me.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn't have been mad.”

“I know.”

She pulls back and holds his head, holds back his hair to see his face, the same way their mother would when he was younger. “What did she say?”

He doesn't look at her, his eyes just lower, unfocused. “Just felt she hadn't seen enough of the world yet. Wanted to go to places untraveled, see things unseen. I got it. Jupiter's Wall is big and she rarely left. I had fires to fight. I could stay. She could go.”

“But the price.”

“You've been in love.”

Her shoulders drop in understanding, but her face is begging him, and all of makes her laugh as she looks at him. She brings her forehead to his and holds there. “You're a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah. Whatever. You still love me.”

“That I do, little one.” She kisses his forehead. “That I do.”

The city of Messina has four hidden places, to the north is The Pit, but in the west, their sunken secret is the Osseopolis, the House of Izaya held up by bones—dozens, hundreds, thousands, of bones. Here was the temple of sacrifice, here was the arena of testing, and here is the remembrance of all. The memories and echoes of all who came before, their remains, their essence, their legacy. Like a field of snow as far as the eye could see. The revered, the noble, were honored with statues in their likeness, memorials, ever watching over their progeny.

Here, before the marble of his mother, Rhego finds his father, the great old Bull, Robert Izaya.

Shirtless, the clothes torn from his chest, and the tatters hanging from his waist, like shed skin. His back is scarred, the newest lash slowly steaming shut. His head is bowed, and he holds the whip taught between both of his hands, the edge of the tail still wet.

“When I meet with your mother again, I suspect she will beat me, and then toss me to what lies below.”

He stands next to his father and looks up to his mother, to Elizabeth, and the softness of her eyes. He remembered her being much smaller in life, but even now he can hear the boom in her voice, and that's what always disappointed him about this version of her, it was never true to how big she could make herself.

“I don't know. Maybe smack you around a little for sure. But tossing you out? Not even on her worse day would she consider that.” He turns and grins.

The old man seemed so much older now, for so long he was like granite, but now he seemed frail, tired, and his hair finally seemed to be white. He could still probably carry the fire engine on his back like he always claimed, but his eyes, his eyes seemed to heavy for his own face.

“You think so?”

“Hell, she'll probably give me a slap.”

Robert shakes his head, and lifts his neck, facing his wife first. “Never.” He then looks to his son and they embrace. He points to Rhego's left hand. “Your sister?”

“You know her.”

“Maybe that will be the one good thing out of all of this. Her in her rightful seat. Ivory Queen.”

“Was she actually able to draw it?”

Robert is already shaking his head. “No one has been able to lift it since...” He pauses for a second. “Not even me.”

Rhego turns around, for at the center of the Osseopolis, in the gaze of all the noble dead, is their holy weapon. Simple in design but strong in function, an ax with a handle made from ivory. The edge is plunged into an executioner stone, and the blade is still red with his blood. He looks at his father, and the old Bull nods.

“We are the ones who stop the burning.”

As he walks toward the ax, he extends his left arm and makes a fist, roaring quietly as his heart beats lava and his blood  burns around the bone until his new hand is regrown, muscle, skin, restored.

He looks to his palm, and though it is a part of him, it's clear the hand isn't his, so he doesn't use it. He was always left dominate, that's why they took it from him. His right hand is weaker, but his right hand is his own. He grabs the bone and lifts the ax from it's trap without resistance.

And though he doesn't feel it, his father smiles, seeing the burning crown form over his son's head, floating just above, like a halo. “There's your boy, Lizzy. There's your knight.”

Interlude (i)

AU REPOS

The noon sun reflects off of the black king chess piece resting in the center of his chest, kept perfectly balanced with the rise and fall of his breathing.

What do you know about yourself? A woman is attacked by a 6’4 white man. When shown a police lineup of those suspected responsible, out of all of them, she selects the 5’7 black man. Is she wrong? Is she racist? Likely both. But, the point I am trying to make, is that memories are not perfect. There is no absolute recollection. The things, all of the things in your life, all of our actions, all of your feelings, even your memories, are ambiguous. Memories, especially, are malleable.

El Cadejo sits up quick, catching the king.

A memory is all you have to define yourself by. If it changes, you change with it. And if you were to lose a memory… you would lose a part of yourself. And I? I am the memory you forgot.

He pulls his coffee pot from the maker and starts to pour a cup, the scent drifting into the air with the steam, a welcome rise for his late start.

I met a nun once. A terrible woman, but sublime none the less. Her devotion to God was like nothing I have ever seen before. I traced all of it back, to the moment when she knew, in her mind at least, that God was real. You see, there was a storm; she and her brother were in the field. Not a tree in sight. When the first bolt touched ground, the two begun running, faster than they ever had before. Then it struck between the two of them. Tossed them apart, the grass scorched, and the sky rumbling again. She pictured two things in that moment, watching her brother die, burned alive right in front of her. Or the opposite, he would have to watch her die. And then he would have to walk back to the farm and explain to their father that she was dead. She didn’t want either of those.

So, in the time between bolts, she prayed. Shouted out to God himself to spare them both and if not her, at least save her brother. She was struck by lightning. The storm passed afterwards.

Cadejo drinks the coffee slowly.

She lived. She thanked God every day for her life and her brother’s. She read the bible, religiously. And that’s my point. Her identity and everything about her personality and future was predicated on that one moment. That memory. Do you know what she did when I removed that memory from her? She traveled the world for 10 years. Climbed Kilimanjaro without a guide. Bathed in a waterfall without shame. Got a doctorate and then adopted four children. She sends me a Christmas card every year.

He grabs a bottle of whiskey and pours a splash into his mug.

I go to AA meetings every now and then. No exact schedule. I like hearing their stories. Whoever has the worst one gets it taken away. Their worst memories from drinking get erased. I leave it up to them to decide how they want to be defined. Whether by pain again or by gaining something from the removal of a lifetime of guilt. Refuge or ruin. It is not for me to determine. It’s on them.

He removes his stained tank top and throws it to the side. He smells a black shirt, it seems slightly used but not all that bad. Outside his dilapidated apartment he focuses the lens on his camera, trying to adjust for the light. It’s an older film camera with a scratch on the lens and a speck of dust on the inside of it.

Later, at the Pink Boar, a glass of whiskey is put in front of him. He nods Wednesday.

I have whiskey at home, I know. But that isn’t why I came here today. No one goes to a bar just to drink. No one enjoys over paying for anything. They come for the company. For the atmosphere.

The bar is crowded. Music murdered by the entire place talking, alive. The kind of talk where it seemed like everyone was yelling, but at the tables simply everyone was just being heard. But the different sounds gave everything a motion and the entire joint seemed to be in an uproar.

El Cadejo sips from his glass slowly. A woman walks to his side. She recognized him.

“I recognize you.”

“And where have you seen a face like mine before?”

“I think it was a meeting somewhere. I don’t remember exactly.”

“I don’t expect you would. I’m flattered you remember me though. Or at least a part of me.”

He turns and faces his entire body toward her, letting her know his only attention was on her.

“You seem hard to forget. Like you leave an impression. An imprint on people,” she notes.

“I do attempt to make a mark on things. Do you do the same?”

“I’m a painter.”

“Famous?”

“Nope. Starving artist. My rent was due yesterday. They’ll kick me to the curb by the end of the week.”

“How is the hunt for a suitor going? You seem a little drunk. I would guess not well.”

“Hard to explain you’ll trade sex for a roof to sleep under.”

“I can only imagine.”

Cadejo signals for Wednesday.

“Only sodas for her from now on. And refill mine.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know. I’m just making sure you stay that way. We’ll get food before we go back to my place.”

“That was confident.”

“I have no room for doubts. I know what I’m about.”

“Tell me.”

He points at his camera. “I want you to look around this room and tell me whose picture you want me to take.”

“Like someone pretty?”

“No. At random. In fact, close your eyes when you do it.”

The woman closes her eyes and giggles slightly as Cadejo spins her around slowly.

“Them.”

Her eyes are still closed, and she points to a young, very attractive man in a small group of friends. He is not the center of their attention. Just sits with them, laughing and drinking.

“You’re perfect.” His whispers against her neck.

“Thank you.”

El Cadejo lifts his camera, focuses on the man and snaps the picture.

He puts the camera down and looks back to his new companion as she nurses her soda. “Before we get home, before we even leave actually, etiquette tells me I need to ask your name.”

“I didn’t ask yours.”

“You would prefer namelessness?”

“I don’t mind strangers.”

Cadejo smiles and bites his lip lightly and grabs his glass, draining it completely, with much hunger.

-

After eating and making love, the woman lays in Cadejo’s bed, naked, with the sheet barely managing to hide her body.

“I might not have asked your name, but I’m big on cuddling.”

Cadejo stands in front of a wall, naked as well, and laughs at her statement.

“You’re a myriad of paradoxes, my dear. But I will be with you shortly.”

He had the film developed and holds the photo he took in the bar. The man was smiling at the time of the photo. She gets up and hugs him from behind, looking at the picture.

“Who is that?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“Friend of mine. Met him today. Just before I met you.”

“Was he nice.”

“He was happy. And I think that’s all that matters.” Cadejo takes a pin and puts the photo to the wall.

The two of them stand back and look at the wall together. The paint was peeling and faded. But it couldn’t really be seen now. The entire wall, from corner to corner, is covered in photos of people. Men, women, and children. All ages. All races. Most are smiling, willing participants. Some are reading or looking elsewhere, distracted with their lives, worried about one thing or another.

These are the forgotten. None of them exist. Outside of this wall. I am the king of the forgotten.The King in Black

“I really like your art,” she pushes her face into his neck, speaking the words into his skin.

He holds her hand to his chest, and looks back to see her eyes. “You got another round in you? I ain’t tired yet.”

“We’ll change that.”

The kisses are hard and fast.

“I’ll let you take pictures. If you really want. You seem to have a thing for that.”

El Cadejo smiles and shakes his head.

“No. I think I want to remember you.”

North: Winter: The Highland

NOT YOUR KIND OF PEOPLE (1b)

It never rains here. Just seems like it wants to. Like it should rain.

Ranger Campbell arrives at the scene, and as far as he knew, he was the first to get the call, and should have been the first there, but someone had beat him to it. In the apartment living room, with a red stained carpet, he finds Detective Marston already present, standing over the victim.

Campbell had seen him only a few times before, once or twice at scenes, but his office was on the other side of the precinct, so rarely at work, if ever, but Marston always struck him as odd. He was wearing spotless black gloves, Campbell had never seen gloves quite as clean as that. The other thing that stuck out was the detective’s suit, not the suit itself, which was just a normal black with a purple tie, but it was the way the suit fit the detective. It fit him perfectly. Whenever Campbell wore suits, they were always just a little too big or just a pinch too tight. His ash grey hair wasn’t that odd either, as odd as that in and of itself may seem. The blue skin? Maybe. His domino mask? Again, Campbell was unsure what he truly felt for this man, outside of mild arousal.

“Sir, I didn't expect anyone to be here yet,” Campbell steps toward Marston, and inhales his scent and fights of his urge to become erect.

“Heard the call over the wire. Had to see it for myself,” Marston lowers himself to look at the victim better, to inspect the wounds more.

The stabbing was rather gruesome. And the bloodshed was severe. The killer didn’t use just one knife. They used three. None from the kitchen set, and all three rest in a row beside the body. Placed there carefully, as if showing off. One of the knives is much larger than the other two, and has a bit of grey matter clinging to it, while the other two, the smaller ones, are simply coated in red.

“I’ve never seen one like this,” Campbell says looking at Marston.

“No. They aren't usually this bad.” The victim's head has been removed, and like the knives, placed beside the body, on display.

Marston stands and looks at Campbell.

“Good luck, sir.” The younger Ranger offers his hand.

“Forensics are going to come through. Make sure they call and send me all their findings. I’ll see you soon, Campbell,” Marston places his card in Campbell’s hand and leaves the room, passing the forensics team on the stairs.

Campbell keeps watching until he can no longer see Marston. He looks down at the card and hides a smile but really tries to hide the growth in his boxers.

-

Marston looks at his glass of scotch, the caramel colored liquid melting the large ice sphere in the glass. He had attempted to remove responsibility from his body, at least for the moment: his phone, gun, and badge all on the bar beside his drink.

“Detective Marston?” She was a tiny little thing, almost swimming in her clothes, her hair kept in a messy bun, but her glasses were very nice.

“Evening.” He gave her a smile as she sits next to him.

“I guess you've never seen my face. I'm Euphemia Rose. We talked on the phone a few days ago. You agreed to an interview.”

“Oh.” He grabs his glass. “This might not be the best time for that. I just caught a case.”

She perks up, grabbing her pen from her ear, her notepad already in her hand. “That might be the best time to talk then.”

He laughs, not even bringing the glass to his lips. “You can't write about...” then he laughs more, “What are you gonna do, just embed yourself in the investigation?” He was surprised with her.

“This is my first real piece for the Daily. They've had me on album reviews before. I liked it enough but, I've heard some rumors. So, I'll by the drinks if you let me stick around.”

He was surprised by her confidence. “They even pay you enough for drinks?”

She laughs under her breath, looking at the glass of water in front of her. “No.”

“I get to read it before you publish it.”

“I can do that.”

“Then you can stick around. I got the drinks.” Marston looks to Wednesday, and points at Euphemia. The man gets her a scotch too.

“Thank you.”

“You staying the night?” Wednesday asks.

“Probably a couple,” Marston says.

“Rooms ready whenever you are.” The old man pats the wood of the bar before heading down to tend to someone else.

“I didn't know this place had rooms to stay in,” Euphemia looks at him confused.

“Pink Boar always has room for those who need it.” His phone vibrates, forensic team had sent over their first report, mostly just pictures. Photos of the scene, the body, and items in the victim's pockets. He looks over and she's staring at him, not excited, but there is anticipation.

“Uh... I don't know if you will want to see.”

“Is it really bad?”

He puts his phone down, screen up, so she can make her own decision. “They cut his head off.”

Her jaw tightens and she makes a face, breathing in through her teeth, and looks at him. “Oh god.” She slowly grabs the phone and looks through the photos. She seems almost sick for most of them. She slides his phone back to him. “None of those knives seem big enough.”

“No. They aren't. They haven't reported it yet but the cut on the neck.” He points at his own. “Or, through it, was done in one motion. It's none of these. Something bigger.”

“So...” she is making notes already, trying to get everything down. “We're looking for a new weapon?”

“It seems that way,” Marston says and finishes his glass, rubbing his face as he swallows, thinking as it burns at his eyes.

“What is it?” Euphemia asks.

“Not sure yet. Something missed. Can we pick this up tomorrow? I got to go check something out.”

“Yeah. Sure.” She smiles, excited he had agreed to keep her on.

“Just come by my office. And get another drink if you want. Wednesday will take care of you.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't worry about it,” He pats her back as he leaves, leaving his gun and badge, only bringing his phone.

-

He left the lights off, only a dull yellow enters the room from the street lights outside. Marston stands over the blood stains in the floor. There's a flood of it. They bleed him out… not even from the stabbings. They let it pool like this.

He walks to the door, opens it, and checks the hinge; no forced entry. He walks to the wall, looking at photos of the victim with his wife. They're both smiling.

Marston moves into their bedroom. He enters their closest and begins looking through their photo albums. Nothing really. He puts them back.

He moves to their drawers. Nothing in there jumped out. He does find the wife’s vibrator. It's pink and he looks at it for a moment, then reaches into his suit pocket, getting a evidence bag to put it in.

Either going to be an awkward conversation with someone down in the lab, or exoneration for the wife. Probably both. 

He enters the children's room now. The two sons shared it. Marston looks at the various superhero and TV show posters on the wall. He looks through the closest, finding nothing.

He sits on one of the beds and looks to the night stand. In it he finds a box of art. He looks through the drawings and paintings, mostly of animals or just a series of colors, but something stops him. It is a dark drawing, looking like a demon. Roaring. It’s teeth are soaked in blood. It seems to have an erection. Marston holds the picture up then puts it in his suit pocket as well. He leaves the room.

Once again in the living room, he looks back to the blood. Then back to the front door.

Outside, overlooking the parking lot, he finds a single drop of blood beside his foot, almost stepped on it it was so small.

Prepared. They didn't leave anything inside.

He grabs his phone. “This is Detective Marston. Yeah, hey, I know it's late but can you send the team back to the Matthews house? I need a survey of the parking lot and sidewalk. I think our guy got ready outside. See if we can pull a tire print.”

“Got it, boss.”

Marston hangs up and looks down at the drop. At that red drop. He takes a deep breath, so cold it's visible when he exhales.

-

Interview #1

Euphemia sits on the other side of the two way glass, unable to take her eyes off Marston. Something about him completely threw her off. No balance. There's a heat and a hum. Eyes have a hard time focusing. Heart flutters the whole time.

Marston is looking over several files and pieces of paper in front of him.

“Can you tell me where you were at the time of your husband’s murder, Mrs. Matthews?”

“I was at the office. I had a last minute project to finish and submit.”

“It's estimated that the home invasion began around 9:00 pm. Was there anyone in the office that could confirm you were there at this time?”

Mrs. Matthew looks at Marston.

“Am I… am I a suspect?”

“No. I'm making an effort to rule you out. This is a necessary step and I'm sorry if it is making you uncomfortable, Mrs. Matthews.”

Mrs. Matthews sighs, and brings both of her hands up, hugging her arms and chest. “No one was in the office. I was alone”.

Marston leans back and looks to the glass, and Euphemia can feel him looking directly at her, knowing exactly where her eyes are. He rolls his tongue in his mouth, and considers not asking, but he has to.

“Mrs. Matthews, were you having an affair?”

“What did you just say to me?” She doesn't blink or hesitate.

“We… recovered a personal item from your home.” He shifts in his seat. “There were two sets of DNA on it. Your husband’s was not on it.”

“Personal item?” She's weak in breath.

“Are you having an affair with your sons’ babysitter?”

Mrs. Matthews holds her breath completely now, squeezing her chest, and looks at Marston, past his mask and into his eyes.

She mouths the answer a few times before giving it voice. “… yes.”

“And you were with her at the time of his death?”

A tear goes down her face and she covers her mouth. She can’t speak. Just nods.

Marston looks back to the glass and nods as well.

“Mrs. Matthews, that is good news. We'll need to contact the babysitter, and once she confirms you were with her, you won’t be a suspect anymore.”

“I should have been home…”

“No. You would not have wanted to see what they did to him,” Marston says and holds his hands out.

Mrs. Matthews is trembling but slowly puts her hands into his, letting his fingers embrace hers.

“But I promise you, I will catch whoever did this. They will see justice for this crime.”

Mrs. Matthews keeps nodding and squeezes Marston’s hands tighter.

Euphemia clutches at her thighs, almost trembling herself.

Afterwards, in the restroom, her panties are at her ankles and Marston’s face is pressed tight between her legs. She grips his hair hard and makes no effort to hold back her moans. The sensation grows and within moments is released. Marston stands and turns on the sink, washing away the wetness left on his face.

“Get your fucking pants back on and act like a professional.”

Marston leaves Euphemia to fix herself back up, shaking his head as he hears her giggling.

He comes back to his office, Mrs. Matthews and her two sons waiting by his desk.

“Mrs. Matthews, if I could have one more, quiet, word with you.”

“Of course.”

The two walk back into the interviewing room, but don’t sit. Marston pulls the drawing from his suit jacket and hands it to Mrs. Matthews.

“This was something else I found in your home. I don’t know if you've seen it before.”

“I haven’t,” Mrs. Matthews says as she looks at the drawing.

“Your younger son was home at the time of the murder. When you arrived, he was asleep, unaware of what happened.”

“Oh my god,” Mrs. Matthews grabs the table, in order to keep from falling.

“I think he may have seen something.”

“Are… are you saying this is who killed my husband?” Mrs. Matthews drops the drawing, unable to hold it.

“I'm saying it's a possibility. And the only lead I have right now. I would like to talk to your son. Not now, but soon. Maybe talk to him today? Come back if you think he is up for it.”

“I'll try, Mr. Marston”.

“Thank you. I'll walk you to your car.”

-

Interview #2

“Julie was it?”

“Yes.” Julie, the Matthews’ babysitter is a 25 year old woman. Fit and tan. There's something radiating about her. Her body scent is very difference, like fruit and flowers, but naturally, like something from the earth itself.

“Mrs. Matthews says she was with you at the time of her husband’s death. What were you two doing?”

“We were having dinner. I had the reservation in my name and if you need to call the restaurant, I can give you the number.”

“That would be very helpful actually.”

Julie hands the card to Marston.

“Are they open right now?”

“They should be.”

“Hang on.” Marston gets up and walks out of the interview room and to where Euphemia is sitting, and hands her the card. “Can you call them for me?”

“Really?” She looks at him with eyes of awe.

“Yeah. Just mention my name. You'll be fine.”

“Okay,” she looks at the card and smiles.

Marston comes back to Julie, asking the next question before he even sits down. “How long have you and Mrs. Matthews been involved?”

“What do you mean?”

“How long was the affair?”

“Well… we had two phases really.” She puts on finger to her bottom lip. “The first night she hired me, we fucked in her bed”

Marston stops writing. He looks up at Julie.

“It took a few weeks before we started going on actual dates. We used to pick the boys up from school together. I would visit her office on my off days”

Marston looks down, and sees Julie’s bare foot pressing into his crotch.

“How did you feel about Mr. Matthews?”

“I was jealous of him.”

“Julie, you have a right for an attorney to be present.”

“I'm not confessing, Detective. I didn’t kill him. I'm just answering your question.”

Her foot strokes against him more. Marston shifts and grips the side of the table tight. Julie smiles softly as she sees this.

“Just jealous?”

“No. I didn’t really trust him either. I didn’t like being alone with him.”

“You felt unsafe around him?”

“I felt uneasy.”

“Because of the affair?”

Julie lowers her feet.

“Among other things.”

Euphemia opens the door, tries to make herself smaller when Julie looks at her. “Sorry,” she says to her, then looks at Marston, “She checks out. They were there for two hours. Paid with a credit card. The place has time stamps and everything.”

Marston twists his tongue in his mouth and stands.

“That was all we needed. Thank you for your time, Julie”

She shakes his hand. “Call me anytime.”

Julie leaves both of them in the interview room, and once the door closes, Euphemia turns to him. “Good new, bad news?”

Marston sighs and leans against the table, shaking his head.

“She left that,” Euphemia points to Julie's purse.

He grabs it, it's small and open, so he looks inside, having her wallet, a pack of gum, and lipstick inside. And a blank business card. Marston flips it over, blank there too. He removes his glove and runs his finger over it, feeling no ink. He had seen this before. He puts the card in his pocket and leaves the room with the purse, Euphemia left still confused.

At the elevator, Marston catches up to Julie. “You forgot this.”

 She smiles and takes it from him, their hands touching. “Thank you. I was wondering how long it would take you to notice it.”

The elevator bings.

“You should really call me again.” Julie enters the elevator and Marston watches the doors close on her smile.

Euphemia walks to his side. “What the fuck was that, boss?”

“I don’t even know. But I need to check something.”

In the evidence room, Marston opens the box containing Mr. Matthews blood soaked clothes and the knives from the scene. Among these things however, is an identical white business card to the one Julie had.

Marston removes the card from the bag and puts it with the one he took from Julie.

Back in his office, Marston finds Euphemia at his desk, writing on her notepad.

“What do you make of this?” Marston asks and drops both cards in front of her.

“They’re blank.”

“First is from Julie’s purse. The other was on Matthews’ body. In his pocket. They ran it, no print on it. Not even his own.”

“How do you get something in your pocket without touching it?”

Marston sits down. “You tell me. So even with her alibi, Julie just shot up to the fucking top of the suspect list.”

“What do you want to do?” She looks at him and that awe is still there, but it's getting sharper.

He thinks a moment, but all he can picture is Julie's toes pressing into his crotch, and the smell of her. Lilacs.

“Do you know if there's a flower shop nearby?”

-

Marston places a bouquet of lilacs on the front step of his house. He kisses his hand and puts it to the front door but doesn't knock. He crosses the street, back over to Euphemia, and together they look at his home. A two story town house. It didn’t look old, but it was. The foundations go all the way down to the bedrock. Not even an earthquake could take this place.

“You know, you never really explained why you leave home when you work a case.”

“You weren’t there when I started out. You didn’t see how I was back then.”

“It was bad?”

“First case I worked was, uh… a triple homicide. Father. Mother. Son. He butchered all three. Eat a part of them.”

Marston drops his head, pushing his thumb between the nail and the flesh of his middle finger.

“The family had a daughter. She was four. She watched the entire thing.”

It's got to be half the Summerlands at the dining table, and even more outside, several generations brought together for the feast, the nightly bounty. A celebration of nothing other than simply being here, enjoyment of the work. There are big bottles of beer being passed down the rows, a few of the younger ones stealing some sips. The pupusas were going fast, as usual, but the steak and chicken was trying to hold people through. They had grilled vegetables, peppers too. There was no one server, people would get up and simply ask what the others needed. And that kindness was always returned.

“I got to say, this is probably the best thing I've ever eaten in my life,” Euphemia says as she finishes her third pupusa, getting an extra helping of curtido. “And what did you say this little herb was called again?”

“Loroco. We grow it right there,” Callisto points to flowerbed right in front of the house.

Saturn gives a long laugh, her glass of wine always topped up. She leans toward Euphemia. “In the words of my husband, salvy style.”

The feast is long and people eat well. They clear most of the food, most, but leave some to snack on as they drink and keep talking. Some families leave, children to put to bed. Some kids stay while their parents head home, to enjoy the night for themselves as the younger ones keep playing.

With the moon high now, he finally emerges. Behold the man—or maybe more. Jupiter. The Obsidian King.

Skin dark from the sun. A heavy beard with a white streak of age down the middle. A huge man, tall and fat, a wealth of the body, of the riches that actually matter, and arms strong from long days of work. Behind him, following, is a pack of grey wolves, all seem tired but well fed, like heroes returning after a hunt. The pack sit around the cadejo, and he greets each one to count, and once he has the full pack, he lowers his head and they all begin to rest.

Jupiter enters and kisses his wife, then looks to Euphemia.

“Where's the boy?”

She points out, Lion watching the moon.

“Yeah, now let's see if he's finally ready.”

“Now?” Euphemia asks, suddenly standing.

“Why not.” Jupiter whistles loud and Lion rises to the call.

As the beast gets close, Jupiter removes his shirt, his entire chest scarred and burned, marked and carved. He takes a hand full of the dirt under his feet and drags the soil against his chest.

Once the boy is close, Jupiter speaks as he does, an animal language, a roar, and all eyes turn to him and Lion.

Callisto holds Euphemia's hand. “Stop worrying. It's just ritualistic.”

“It still has meaning,” her eyes never leave her Lion.

At first he's on all fours, but as they circle each other, he rises to two feet, trying to match the man before him. But Jupiter stalks like an animal, breathing hard through his nose, sending signals that only a beast would understand. Euphemia squeezes Callisto's hand tight, and the two of them clash.

They grab each other first, struggling to grip and hold the other, both roaring, and Jupiter manages to get a lock, but Lion lifts him with his back and shakes him off. They pace back from each other, looking for a moment to shoot, to strike, and Lion sees it first. He slams into Jupiter's gut and takes him to the ground, fighting to get the pin, but Jupiter easily holds him off, holding both of his wrists and keeps him from pressing his advantage. Though he has top position, he's off balance, and Jupiter capitalizes and rolls, shifting them around and manages to get the lock again and this time, the pin. Lion fights hard, thrashes, roars, and pushes to free himself again, but Jupiter presses the lock just a little more, applies the smallest of pressure and Lion settles. He taps and Jupiter releases the hold.

Jupiter gives a laugh and lifts Lion's hand high, as those watching clap and cheer, rising their own glasses to toast the Lion.

The boy however keeps his head low, and when Jupiter notices, he takes Lion's face and looks into his eyes. The two touch foreheads and share a word and embrace.

“You're ready.”

“Io, mi amor. My hammer.”

The youngest, a tiny little one who favored her mother's features, comes forward holding her father's great hammer. It's bigger than her body, a handle of purpleheart, the driver some great weight, bigger than a man's head. She hands it to her father and he presents it to Lion with a smile.

Lion takes the handle and his feet begin to sink into the dirt from the weight. Jupiter loses his smile, and Lion grabs the handle with both hands, the air around him becoming heavy, visible even, and he begins to growl.

“Breathe deep and keep your shoulders strong, son.” Jupiter begins to release the hammer, beginning to leave Lion to fend for himself. “Don't lose yourself in the struggle of it all. It's here now. Embrace it. Be true. Be here. Be real.” His bones crack and grind and his shadow makes a depression in the earth as well.

“Remember who you are.”

Lion exhales through both of his noses, closes his eyes, and lets his heart beat. He loosens his grip and everything becomes light.

“Remember your name.”

The pressure snaps away from him, a quick breeze washing over the house and the guests. The wood, the metal, it feels weightless now, like a part of his own body, the unnoticed weight of your own arms. He only needs one hand to hold the hammer now.

Euphemia leaves the house and walks toward her Lion, looking at him in awe, the wind still coming off his coat. The two look at each other, and there in his eye is something new. She can feel it, something different, grown, changed shape. It's still him, but something more.

“Speak to her.”

And he does, not in words like ours, but in words of beyond, words that come to life and dance through the air, words that hang in the ear, that linger and expand, words that reshape the land itself. She looks out to the endless grasslands, to the fields forever of his heart, to the inescapable truth, to the center. The blade of the grass are soft on her palm. The sun is warm on her face. The air, she can taste it, the water in the distance, the sand, the soil. She doesn't need to walk to find them, they have always been there. A father and his cub.

They touch noses first, then the father begins to clean his son's fur. Annoyed, the cub gives a low growl, unable to roar yet, and pushes over his father. The king surrenders and lets the tiny cub tackle him. The little one bites his father's ear and the king gives a great cry and the cub stands triumphant, before returning to his father's paw and sleeping in his embrace.

These are the words he speaks to her and she is left with her own words gone, for what could she truly say. She puts her head to his chest and slowly he wraps his arms around her body. He speaks to her again, a single word this time, something new and bright and she looks up at him with tears in her eyes and they kiss.

The ceremony is over, the feast was done. Some would still remain, but for others, they would leave with stories of a birth, of unity. Of remembrance.

-

Jupiter rests outside, Io asleep on his chest, both enjoying the night air, and the quiet of all other's being asleep. Euphemia kisses Lion's head and leaves the guest house. She considers leaving in general, taking the one paved road out of the Summerlands, not escaping, just walking. But when she sees Jupiter, she goes to his side. She sits beside him but he doesn't open his eyes.

“Are you finally going to tell me the truth?” she asks.

“What truth is that?”

“All of it. Everyone I've talked to, every single one, first hand accounts, say they saw you swing that hammer twice, and raised the entire wall on your own. Two swings, one for the rock and the second for the trees,” Euphemia explains.

“That's not true. Took us damn near a decade, and every family helped. The little ones picked the stones, the older ones planted the seeds. And then we waited.”

She looks at him, at his unfazed and calm face, at his daughter sleeping against him. “I don't believe you.”

He smiles and opens his eyes. “You're right. But your facts are wrong. It was only one swing to raise the entire thing. The trees carried the rock. The wall is from a single hammer fall.”

Euphemia is silent and brings her knees toward her chest, hugging them close.

“Is he going to be okay?” Euphemia asks after just sitting beside him.

“There are many things he gonna be.” Jupiter points to the sky, to a star, and as he moves his finger, the star follows, until he sends it shooting through the night. “And all of them are for him to decide.”

“He'll do what we all do.” Jupiter waves his hand, and all those far off stars seem to be falling. Not dropping or ending, just being sent on a new journey, a new path, the old light revealing new. “Decide for ourselves.”

The three of them stay there, watching the light pass over head, a shower of stars, searching for a new place, forever in flight until they arrive where they need to be.

-

“They're late,” Euphemia says, taking another sip of her beer.

“We're early.” Callisto looks over and tugs Euphemia's notebook toward her, to see what she is drawing. “What is that?”

“A map of the city. I've been drawing it from memory.”

“You have the shape wrong.”

The door to the Pink Boar opens and the two of them turn around to see Elric and Rhego. The boy gives a laugh and walks right toward Callisto. She turns in her seat and he stands between her legs. They don't say anything, they touch foreheads and then kiss. She lingers for a second, and then kisses him again.

“One day?”

“Maybe.” She smiles and pushes him away. “Maybe.”

Elric takes her shades off and looks at Euphemia. It was the first time in what would otherwise have been forever. They both want to smile, and half do, but then don't. Elric holds her hand out, and Euphemia takes it.

“You keep him safe?”

“I'll bring him home. When he's ready.” She squeezes in reassurance. “I promise.”

Euphemia blinks until her eyes are clear and takes a deep breath in. “You know, I was brutally in love with you.”

Now Elric smiles, and turns her head to see Rhego and Lion sizing each other up. “Yeah well, maybe you choose right this time.” She kisses Euphemia's forehead and puts her glasses back on.

The others give her a final moment with her Lion. An embrace, a kiss, and a word he teaches her to say. She nods her head and holds his hand as long as she can until he finally leaves. When the doors close she almost falls over.

She takes her seat next to Callisto, and says the word again, to herself, to remember it, to simply speak his voice again.

“Do you know what it means?” Callisto asks.

“Not that one. Not yet. I can kind of figure the other ones, but that one is so new.”

Callisto nods. “It's a hard language. Our first. That word means a lot of things, as they do. But in it's simplest forms, the most base emotion of it, means to return.”

Euphemia looks at her drawn map. Streets leading nowhere, branching around, breaking and then reconnecting later, attempting to show the movement of it, the shifts, the fluidity.

“To return.”

She marks the four ends of the city, the four divine directions, and using them, she draws the true shape of Messina.

It's a circle, perfectly round at the edges.

Sacrifice /ˈsakrəˌfīs/ v. “In these final hours, I will lay down my heart”