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mayhem-l-monroe · 7 years ago

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Tempestuous Phantoms Excerpt (Claire)

Posting in hopes of some criticism ( this is a first chapter so yeahhh)

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SHE POURED THE poisoned tea into the traitor’s cup.

The Madam was nursing her hand with a champagne-doused handkerchief; glaring at the dog “Wolfish mutt, isn’t he? He might even give me rabies.”

Claire Rayleigh chuckled; the sound a whisper in the rhythm of the ongoing storm. She might have acted more sensibly under present circumstances had it not been for her pounding migraine. It was an ‘amusement’ in itself to endure a day of tedious tasks, to deliver court commissions to a Queen she wasn’t even affiliated with (and only obeyed because she had other businesses in this place that prolonged her stay, making her bound to her authority).

But to find the Madam lurking drunkenly in her office−sprawled against Claire’s satin sofa with a bitten hand, helping herself with her own stash of champagne and a beloved set of vinyl playing in her gramophone was the last straw for her.

She couldn’t wait to get out of this damned country.

“Anarchy protects what’s mine,” Claire replied matter-of-factly “Including my manor. Whatever the hell you’ve ingested must’ve been strong enough for you to forget you were trespassing in my residence.”

“You didn’t change the locks.” the Madam drawled in her silken voice “I was feeling nostalgic. After all, this used to be my home.”

“Yes, well, you should’ve considered the sentimental value before you handed me the deed.” Claire set the silver tray on the table adjacent to the sofa and offered the Madam the cup “Here, it’ll warm you.”

Anarchy growled, clearly displeased at the gesture “Easy, boy.” Claire petted him; though it didn’t change his tense stance one bit.

“I much prefer your feline companion.” the Madam remarked “Though little thing always runs off.”

“Veda goes wherever she pleases but she always returns.” Her hands fumbled for the contents in her drawer, eventually finding her smoking pipe. She turned to the windowsill, watching the raindrops and trail of smoke obscure her view of the golden-lit streets. Though in reality, she was really observing the Madam through the reflection of the glass.

Despite the cold weather, Madam Seymour de Flerida was more appropriately dressed for the bedchamber− long locks of burgundy-dyed hair, a diamond choker on her neck, a face heavily painted in branded cosmetics who wore a scarlet and black-laced silk negligee with a panther fur coat slung on her shoulders. Despite the glamour she bore, she didn’t seem happy with whatever she had. It seemed her brown eyes only lit up during a party or when she catered her services to rich clientele.

Could that be why she became a turncoat? It was hard to imagine she would betray a Queen who offered her compensated income (illegal business aside). The most likely reason that sprung in Claire’s mind was a personal grudge of some kind. After all, caged emotions eventually simmered into catastrophic ends.

“This is some savory tea,” Madam Seymour complimented “Lemon mint, ginger, and something else.”

Claire struggled to hide a crooked smile “It’s imported from New Amrhys.”

Images flashed in her mind’s eye: An old man’s wily grey gaze, tresses of dark hair adorned with red blossoms, crinkled smiling eyes, silhouettes of the elite in a masquerade, a whirlwind of dances, drinks, laughter and dancing and dancing…

She screwed her eyes shut before the bloodcurdling screams begun.

“You never talk about New Amrhys, your childhood home.” Seymour bobbed her head to the side; her glossy lips pouted.

Her eyes opened to the sight of lightning flashing in the window “There’s simply nothing to discuss.” Claire inhaled the toxic fumes from her pipe “Though, it was known as Amrhys in my time there.”

“What’s changed?”

Tendrils of smoke enveloped her face “Apart from the dethronement of the Dimasalang heir, I wouldn’t know. It’s been a decade since I’ve stepped foot in the place.”

“Come now, humor me. The storm is still vigorous.”

Claire raised a brow “Let’s start with what you know, then.” Damned poison, she thought. How much longer of this nosy nonsense must I endure?

The Madam’s sultry giggle accompanied the tune’s melody “How about the fact that your name is actually not Rayleigh?”

For a few steady moments, only the vinyl made a sound; the singer’s vibrato drowning Claire’s stream of thoughts “I beg your pardon?”

Seymour made a satisfied noise “Don’t play coy with me, darling.”

Claire snapped her fingers twice to summon Anarchy to her side. Tension built in her taut shoulders “I’m about as coy as a fish in an empty pond. What are you on about?”

Madam Seymour stood, a lazy grin plastered on her face “Could the fish be flopping due to lack of remembrance, then?”

It was difficult to be present at the conversation when her thoughts and the downpour hummed louder; contesting the white noise that echoed in her mind. Her innards felt like a gooey mesh as her heart fought to pump presence of mind in her system. No one, not even the Queen, knew she was an amnesiac. It wasn’t something she was open about, though it was no surprise. To have intelligence over the political intrigues over the aristocrats who co-ran the country, to know the meticulous details of information on local and foreign figures …

She would know what went on in the lives of others, but could not bring herself to remember her own; the greatest irony for a spymaster.

To have that weakness exploited by someone who could use it against her was not ideal “I have no love for your subtlety, Madam. Try to use small words, if you can.”

The woman walked idly; encircling her like a vulture “You’re still wearing suits and putting on airs- ruthless, mysterious. A brooding foreigner struts to the Queen’s court, snatching her favor, and you didn’t think anyone would conspire to bring you down?”

“So, I’m a target for one your debauched associates, is that it?”

A beat of silence answered her rhetorical question. It was an answer in itself: Not yet, but in time.

Seymour opened her glossy mouth to speak, but only a strangled noise came out. Her face contorted in confusion; clearly not understanding what had just occurred. Her hands went to her neck, her grip adjusting to her internally-tightening throat.

In that instant, the Madam’s black eyes turned accusatory “Y-you-”

Her knees buckled as Seymour made gnarled noises; hands still on her throat, as if her grip would stop what was to come.

Claire rubbed Anarchy’s left cheek- a silent command from his owner. Find Veda, get out of the house. In obedience, the dog barked to affirm and ran towards the door.

She sighed and sat in her office chair, fingers scrambling for some paper and ink. The scratches of the plume almost tuned out the restrained cries of pain. She wasn’t even in the mood to write an encrypted report after dealing with the aftermath of the Queen’s dirty work.

“Worry not,” Claire said at last, her lavender seal imprinting on the black envelope “The poison’s slow-acting. Plenty of time for you to suffer.”

She looked at the Madam; still kneeling with a reddened face, blue veins protruding from her neck “Powdered wing of the barrlado, the most poisonous butterfly in the world.” Seymour sounded impressed.

Claire slid the envelope aside for later delivery “A small dose equates a long-awaited death; enough renders you semi-paralyzed and half-witted.”

“At your mercy, you mean.”

Claire threaded her fingers together “Maybe the dosage wasn’t nearly enough. In any case, you know why you’re here.”

“Whatever you’re about to accuse me of, it doesn’t die with me-”

“A claim with legitimate evidence hardly seems accusatory to me. It seems more like the truth.” Claire pulled out a drawer and withdrew a large book with a covering of purple velvet, throwing it unceremoniously in front of the Madam “Does that look familiar, my dear? I’m sure it does.” The Madam’s eyes gave away nothing, but Claire knew better. After all, it was the woman’s personal ledger.

“A book of sums in your own handwriting, several expenses linked to ‘charity work’,” Claire glared at her knowingly “Though we both know just how generous your traitorous heart can be.”

A smile tugged at the Madam’s lips “Perhaps it’s something we can agree on.”

Claire fumbled for several pieces of paper “And let’s not forget the correspondence between you and the very people who have laid siege to the Parliament’s Square. Brilliant encryptions, your bastards gave my cryptographers a hard time.”

The Madam coughed violently, froth building at the corners of her mouth “Deities-damned, why are you being so casual about this?”

The other woman was busy eyeing a photograph “Because I’ve heard the Inferno is a difficult place for the spirit to be, so I decided to ease your conscience a little.” Claire’s turned the picture over: A black and white photo of a group of elitists, one of which was the Madam herself, her dolled-up face merely a half-smile amongst the wolfish grins of her debauched peers “I thought you might want to see your death warrant.”

“But that photograph isn’t mine; none of the people there even have that copy.”

“None other than the photographer.”

The Madam spat her foamy saliva “Yes, none other than the dead photographer.”

Claire chuckled “The fact still remains that you’re heavily involved with the terrorist attacks. You’re a funder that even held a grand party or so it says here on one of the letters.”

She could hear the Madam’s teeth chatter as she knelt in the spot she was rooted in. Even if Seymour attempted to harm her, the effort would be rather futile, given the five figures closed around her in a circle.

The woman had no sixth sense of any kind. Only Claire could witness how their eyes were bloodshot and distant, their complexions translucent from the trappings of the afterlife. But they would not know peace until Seymour met her end; their grip on her said as much.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the spirits that surrounded Seymour that brought her concern. It was the Queen’s command.

Claire Rayleigh was above all a negotiator of intelligence, not an assassin-for-hire. She sold her services during the skirmishes that transpired in the war; learning their numbers and their tactics to weaken the opposing forces into surrender.

But that beautiful morning bore bad news after bad news. A messenger had announced in the throne room that the enemy had intercepted Claire’s spies-the very same souls that now held her- laid siege to Parliament’s Square, marched there with the royal Colonel’s head wavering as a makeshift banner of victory.

When she had managed to uncover the truth of the war, of the traitors within the country, Claire immediately reported it all to the Queen; the order was swift, subtle yet seemingly absolute.

“The Inferno is boiling for another soul. See to it that they meet the place half-way, no?”

Madam Seymour snickered “So that’s what our beloved Queen has been up to? Orchestrating my demise?”

“Before you make hers, yes.” Claire stood and knelt before the Madam, her deft fingers tracing the lines of the choker she had on “If you had enough fortune to fund a terrorist attack, why bother stealing the Queen’s jewelry?” She twisted the band of diamonds in such a way that it choked the Madam further. Porcelain hands clawed at her gloved ones, but to no avail.

The five spies gripped on her tighter, rendering the woman paralyzed as Claire curled her fingers “That bitch you call your queen is a usurper,” Seymour squealed out “Bribing criminals to do her bidding while allowing them freedom in exchange of surrendering their illicit businesses that made them rich in the first place?” A husky cackle escaped her lips.

“This is how you repay the Queen’s mercy?” Claire countered, tilting her head in curiosity “By siding with the tyrannical father she overthrew?”

“I would rather kneel to an ambitious man of principle than a bitch whose tail is tucked between her sore legs.” Seymour whispered with an obvious effort.

“Well tonight you kneel to Death, and nothing can save you now.” With a sudden tug, the clasp of the choker flies off its hinges “You disappoint me, Seymour.”

Claire had never seen the Madam smile as wide as she did then, despite the trickle of blood oozing from her nostril “Wait for your turn, Rayleigh. I promise you, you’ll meet your due. You might even join me, one day.” Silence was no solace to Claire’s racing heart “Or will that day be this one?”

She looked at the waiting corpses; their figures waiting for her order “Not today, I’m afraid.” Claire nodded once to them all “Be at peace, my tempestuous friends.”

This elicited a confused glare from Seymour, but in an instant, there was a harsh ripping sound. Claire could see the essence of ether separating from the Madam’s corporeal body.

“I swear on my soul, Claire Rayleigh! The truth of Clarita Aguilar will be unveiled, and by the Deities’ mercy, the rest of the world will know of your treachery. Not even you can protect her then!”

The five souls were adamant in their tug-of-war, with the Madam refusing to be apart from her corpse. Seymour began a petty catfight- tugging their hair, slapping their faces- that ended in the spies restraining her by the limbs, escorting her to the mouth of the hearth.

Into her inferno.

And while her soul left, her corpse lay by the carpet. Her neck still donned the veins that the barrlado had pumped in her system; leaving her beautiful complexion marred, as her soul always had been.

Annoyingly, Seymour de Flerida’s death only left her with more questions. True, she had uncovered many more figures linked to the recent disaster on the ongoing war, but it was just merely the beginning.

Claire knelt to the Madam; her fingers hovering over Seymour’s eyes to close them “Rigartis en morta, muy il rigar muert”

Born of spitfire, and so to the flames you shall return. It was an old saying in Amrhys, to those who chose the wickedness within them until the very end. It was meant for the stubborn, for those who did not conform in any aspect in life except for their own belief. To those who did not bow to anything other than themselves.

To their phantoms that were to be reckoned with.

Claire couldn’t help but frown. Aguilar. The name wasn’t particularly notable. It didn’t strike any sense of recognition, even after several minutes of pondering over the thousands of names she had come to encounter. She made a mental note to investigate the relevance of this Clarita Aguilar to the loss of her memories. But at the same time, her impatience got the best of her. Whenever a mystery was uncovered, another question was left in its wake. Claire searched her pack for a cigar. The cycle of it all unnerved her to no end.

She found herself staring at the Madam; thinking of the possible turn of events upon Seymour’s downfall. The harlots would probably print missing posters by the third day of her absence, as per protocol. They would eventually reinstate a new madam due to the popular demand amongst its patrons. Though the dispersion of the ‘prized starlets’, as Seymour affectionately called them, seemed like a more likely scenario. Claire knew of the several girls who were tired of their trade. They would probably use the Madam’s disappearance as an opportunity to escape her control and return to their provinces. In all honesty, Claire would have preferred the shutdown of the brothel altogether. While she had no arguments over anyone’s libido, she was of the mindset that the Jhinsen would fare better in their diplomatic communications if they didn’t have the reputation of being infatuated by whores; evident in their active participation in the power play of the kingdom.

Claire struck a match and held it to a cigar’s tip; abandoning her smoking pipe for a safer alternative. It was made of mint with tampered sage; a salve for her impatience and stress. It wasn’t as gratifying as tobacco, but she had to discipline herself, so it’d have to do.

She made a move towards the cadaver but stopped when a hard substance pierced her shoe. It broke her from her thoughts when she saw she had stepped on a diamond. Her gaze then wandered to the trail that surrounded Seymour’s head like tiny stars. The spymaster proceeded to pick up the pieces of jewelry. Oddly enough, pain gradually built in the back of her eyes as she picked up each diamond. Claire winced, gritting her teeth. Something wasn’t right.

The diamonds were placed on a knapsack Claire took from her inventory. She dumped them on her table and searched the office for some disposable cloth. The spymaster wracked her brains out, a realization at the tip of her tongue.

And then it struck her.

Knowing Seymour de Flerida, a disowned Duchess from the West Shore, the act of thievery would be beneath her. That meant she didn’t steal the Queen’s jewelry, it was most likely bribed to her. Perhaps someone close to the Queen’s quarters gave a tip to the Madam, a secret leftist in the kingdom.

There wasn’t a shortage of sorcerers in the kingdom, either. The spymaster may not know much about the magic in this realm, but she knew enough to identify when sorcery was inflicted. She glanced at the diamonds. Upon closer inspection, she saw that the diamonds lost its sheen; a faded grey that gave her a distinct aura of something otherworldly and sinister.

It’s a cursed necklace.

Claire knew assumptions wouldn’t solve anything, but it somewhat cleared her mind. But she was certain of the hex in the diamonds. There was no mistaking it.

In a whim, she grabbed the knapsack and threw it into the fire. It made a crisp noise; comparable to the sound of something frying in a pan in high heat. She watched the fabric gradually burn into a pile of embers, unsure whether her actions were wise or whether it had any effect at all. But for once, her migraine had prompted her to care lesser than usual.

A bark echoed next to her. Anarchy was sitting right beside his owner with his head tilted to the side.

“I’m almost done, dear boy.” Claire muttered to her companion. There still had to be another errand done before the spymaster could call it a day: proper disposal of the body.

She proceeded to dial numbers on her telephone. For a few agonizing seconds, Claire waited for the person in the other line. It seemed like an eternity when a gruff, accented voice answered “Yes?”

“A crate of white wine meant for Eden Redwick has found its way to my doorstep by mistake.” Claire said in a clear, steady tone. It was a coded message that meant ‘her will has been done’ “I was hoping you’d deliver them to her.”

A beat of silence “Ah, she’s rather particular with the wine she consumes.” The man answered “When was the brew manufactured?” It seemed peculiar at first to speak in codes, even in a private conversation. Unbeknownst to many, there were organizations that were privy to telephone calls, mostly the people who connected incoming calls to the receiving end and had to listen in on the call to ensure the connection was operating smoothly. Though only a member of Claire’s circle of spies guarded her line, the palace security still valued discretion above all else, always using codes that not even Claire’s lackeys were aware of.

“1879.” 18 was the postal code of her neighborhood (Viridsville), with 7 being a corresponding street and the 9 being the number of the houses the lackey will pass by. It was a code they’d thought of a year ago, when the Queen needed to deliver something to her address, with none the wiser. The code wouldn’t have worked had she been under a different city (the year might have been peculiar), but whatever goes…

“I’m afraid they don’t accept wine that hasn’t brewed for at least 20 years.” The person on the other line interjected “It’s yours at your discretion.” He’ll be here in 20 minutes, Claire thought. Though 20 years is exactly how it’ll feel.

“I see,” Claire feigned confusion as she spoke “Tell Eden I send my warmest regards.”

“Duly noted. Good night.” And just like that, the line had cut off.

Claire glanced at Anarchy who was sniffing the Madam sprawled at the carpet. He growled in distaste.

Claire sighed “Don’t worry, she’ll be out of our hair soon enough.” She rubbed the dog’s tawny mane “We just have to wait for the jolly fellow to meet me by our doorstep and Seymour will be whisked away to wherever the Queen wants her to be.”

After wrapping Seymour’s body up in a cocoon of black cloth, Claire half-walked, half-ran towards the street while carrying the light-weighted body. Her manor was a little bit more elevated than the rest of the houses, which in retrospect, made it easier to miss in the night. While Claire hadn’t checked her clock, she figured it was at least two in the morning. Not even the company of Anarchy lessened the tension she felt upon standing by the street lanterns that bathed the area in gold light. The street was deafeningly quiet; no household awake within miles. As was expected, no one was allowed to be up past curfew yet.

Claire allowed herself to think. After this errand, she was going to hand in a letter of resignation. She reached for the black envelope from the inner linings of her coat. The lavender wax had an engraving of a swan, the crests of the Rayleighs, of the crone who had fostered her.

She had to go back to New Amrhys, where she could get some answers. She had to figure out why when she thought of the kingdom that was once her home, she only recalled an old man’s stern glare, the faint scent of musk and pine and the horrible hotness of spilt blood.

Claire snapped out of her reverie as Anarchy began to growl viciously. She looked sideways for any signs of the man she conversed with in the telephone. But no one was in sight. “Anarchy, snap out of it.” Claire hissed in a low tone. But uncharacteristically, he still barked off. It took a second for Claire to realize Anarchy was fixed in a direction that was out of her peripherals.

When she turned to where he was facing―

All of a sudden, the nape of her neck felt awfully cold.

Normally, the sight of a child wouldn’t alarm her. But her inhumanness― her dark, limp tresses of hair that did little to hide her abnormally large eyes with slit irises, the billowing white dress and the stillness of her gait― petrified Claire on the spot. The golden light seemed nonexistent as her form absorbed none of it; merely a whirl of black and sickly white.

Claire slowly reached for the inner linings of her coat once more; this time to grab a pistol nestled in her camisole. Although informally abandoning the practice of faith altogether, she began to chant a prayer in her mind, to any god that would listen. Her finger hovered over the barrel; the sound of the click so audible that it elicited a thin-lipped smile from the child.

“It doesn’t work that way.” A tiny voice whispered in her ear

Claire barely made it twelve steps before an explosion shook the entire lot and lit the mansion in a burst of flames. The impact of the convulsion sent her reeling; eventually rolling unceremoniously into the dirt and concrete.

Her eyes peeled at the commotion. Flames…

A burning ballroom was the last thing her mind’s eye had seen, bodies strewn everywhere around her as the noise of her neighbors kicked in. A young man’s masked face came into view; three scars above his brow the last thing she saw as darkness claimed her.

#novel #chapter #chapter1 #tempestuous phantom #fantasy #beta reader #in need of critique #critique #political fantasy #book

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