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readiceprincess · 6 years

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Chapter Thirteen

“What should we get for dinner? Besides donuts.” Sibyl asked as she stretched and walked to the car.

“You wouldn't happen to know how to make fried chicken would you?”

Sibyl ignored him, counting her money. “Come. To the grocery store! I don't wanna eat late.”

She stared at his back while they walked to the car from work. His broad shoulders filled his shirt well. But it was his knowledge she was interested in. Maybe now she could get answers from him.

“Reeve,” she started as she got into the passenger's seat. He turned on the radio, bobbing his head back and forth to The Band Perry.

“Hmm?”

“What happened last night? You know, with me?”

Reeve stopped bobbing his head, his jaw clenched.

“What happened to you this morning?”

Oh. So he was gonna play that game. She sighed. “If I tell you will you tell me?” Her answer was silence, so she didn’t bother to tell him. No answers were coming tonight.

They didn't talk the entire ride. Reeve sang to every song on the country station, even Taylor Swift. It was enough to make her smile, but not to distract her from the question he avoided.

“How do you feel about meatloaf?” she asked as they got out of the car and headed for the market. Reeve shuddered and stuck out his tongue.

“Hell no.”

“Chicken? You said something about fried chicken?”

He grinned as they walked in. “Now that sounds good. But we might wanna get something for Luther.”

“Why?”

“He's vegan.”

She stopped and slapped her forehead with a groan. “Seriously? I don't have all the money in the world.”

“Don't get mad at me. I'm not the vegan,” Reeve reminded as he leaned on the front of the cart. “Hey why don't you push me? We can race around the store.”

Sibyl tried to push but it wouldn't budge. “You're too heavy. I think you should be pushing me around. I'm the one paying.”

Reeve dropped from the cart, coming to her side. He wagged his eyebrows. “Don't tempt me.”

Giving him a sideways glance, Sibyl grabbed the cart and moved forward. “Come on, loser.”

“Why are you doing this anyway? I can take care of us.” They turned into the dairy aisle. Sibyl opened the door, the cool air brushing against her skin as she reached for almond milk. “Sibyl?”

“I want to.” And I want answers.

“No, not that.” Reeve lowered his voice as she put the milk in the cart, leaning closer. “He's here.”

He didn't have to say his name. Freddie. Grabbing his jacket, she shrank into Reeve.

“Don't let them see me,” she begged.

“Why?” he asked as he stood straighter and watched them like a predator.

“He's after me. Westley and I heard him talk about me and I'm... I'm scared. Please Reeve, don't let him hurt me,” she begged, searching his eyes. They were brighter than usual with a tint of yellow. Reeve watched, jaw clenched as he gripped the cart handle. One hand reached up, shaking, and held her shoulder. It was too shaky, a strange vibrating energy coming from it.

“They're coming this way,” he whispered.

“What?” she gasped, quivering with fear.

“It's okay. I'm here to protect you, remember? Stay behind me.” She didn't question him, shrinking against his back. He was stiff.

“Reeve? You're the new kid, right?” Freddie called as he came over.

“Yeah.”

Freddie cleared his throat. “Not much for words, eh?”

“Oh I have some words in mind. Like how you're a self centered dick who thinks it's okay to torment innocent girls,” Reeve shot back.

There was silence.

“You're talking about Bix aren't you?” Freddie's voice dropped a few octaves.

“Stay away from her. If you touch her I'll break your arm.”

His friends chuckled. Everyone knew Freddie was a wrestling champ. No one would get in his way. Not unless they wanted to get hurt.

“I'd like to see that. I'd also like to see her. Stop hiding behind him Bix. I know you're there. I can smell you.” Sibyl froze. The last thing she wanted was to face Freddie. Not now. Not ever. “I saw you two walking in.”

Burying her fear and mustering up all her courage, Sibyl stepped beside Reeve. She gasped, covering her mouth. Freddie's face was blue, the wound going from his shoulder to his nose. It distorted his face, almost as bad as frost bite. Did she do that?

“Like what you see eh? Careful Reeve, she might do that to you.” Freddie motioned to his face.

“I doubt it,” Reeve assured him.

Freddie's tongue pushed against his cheeks. “What were you doing? Preparing a romantic dinner? Need some syrup? I bet Sibyl likes that.” He licked his lips, making her shrink. “What? Does your little boy toy not know?” Freddie reached for her when Reeve grabbed his arm.

“I said don't touch her,” Reeve hissed through clenched teeth. Pain washed over Freddie. He writhed under Reeve's quivering touch.

“Reeve,” she breathed. Freddie paled. “Let him go.”

Hesitating, his jaw clenched. She reached for his arm and he faltered. Freddie toppled to the ground and grunted in pain. Sibyl gulped. What did Reeve do to him? He hid his hand, eyes a touch golden. But it wasn't the beautiful liquid gold Westley had. It was all the more unsettling, like stark paint splatters marring a painting.

“Let's go,” she told him in a soft voice, pushing the cart. Freddie's friends dispersed, crowding around Freddie. “What did you do?”

“Made my message clear,” Reeve replied, his breath warm against her cheek. He gripped the cart next to hers. There were holes in his gloves.

“He won't be with you all the time Bix,” Freddie shouted. “I'll get you for that Aislin.”

Reeve flipped the bird at him.

****

When they arrived at the house Reeve marched straight to his room, leaving Sibyl to cook by herself. Josephine set up the table with Westley's help. The sweet homey scent of mashed potatoes, fried chicken, and corn was a blanket over the house. Yet there was an unsettling undertone, something unspoken lurking.

“Dinner was delicious,” Luther complimented when they finished. Now and then he'd cast disdain looks to the chicken.

Sibyl pulled a smile. “Thank you.”

Reeve didn't come for dinner.

“Please pardon me. I'm going to check on Reeve,” Luther said with a bow.

“You're excused,” Josephine replied, picking her mashed potatoes. His smile faded before he marched out. Josephine wiped her mouth. “Let's clean the dishes.”

“Uh... Sure...” She stood and gathered the dishes. There was a bang upstairs, but Josephine continued on as if nothing happened. “Is everything alright?”

“Don't worry about it.” Josephine grabbed Luther's plate and rushed to the kitchen. “Come on. Westley you can give us your dinner when you're done.”

“Okay.”

Sibyl stopped at the foot of the kitchen door. A glass plate dropped, shattering all over the kitchen floor. Josephine groaned and tugged on her hair. She leaned down, mumbling while she picked up the shards.

“Ow!” Her finger bled.

“Run it under water,” Sibyl instructed. Josephine jumped, a yelp escaping her.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough. Now do as I say. I'll get the dust pan and clean up. We need to talk.” Sibyl walked to the closet by the fridge and pulled out the dust pan. Josephine put her finger under running water.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. People drop things. It happens. Unless you're apologizing because you won't tell me what happened.” Sibyl stopped, staring at her hands. “I've never felt anything like it before.” Sibyl let out a deep breath and cleaned up the glass. “I need to know the truth.”

Josephine pulled her finger out of the sink, examining it. She pulled out a napkin and tore it to a smaller piece to tie around her finger.

“It's not easy to explain,” she began as her voice cracked. “Faerie is a complicated place. What happened to you is something we should've seen coming.”

“What about my mom? No one ever tells me anything about her. I'm assuming she was a member. And famous?”

Josephine chuckled. “Oh she was famous alright, but not a member. Celia was never part of the Order.”

“She wasn't?”

“No, she's an ambassador from Faerie.”

Sibyl almost dropped the dustpan. “What?”

Josephine gave her a weak smile then grabbed the plates and started to clean them. Taking this as a sign she should move, Sibyl threw out the glass shards and grabbed a wash cloth to dry the dishes.

“You'd think the heir to one of the largest kingdoms in Faerie would-”

“Heir to one of the largest kingdoms? You've gotta be kidding me. My mother?” She shook, eyes wide with astonishment. Josephine handed her a wet plate to dry.

“Her country is about as powerful as America in Faerie terms. Your mother was royalty and famous for escaping Faerie. She wanted to stay in the human world, marry, and live a normal human life. But she couldn't leave her kingdom so she made a deal with someone I hope you never meet.” She hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The Spider King.”

Sibyl cocked her eyebrow and snorted. “The Spider King? Does he dress like David Bowie in Labyrinth?” Josephine gave her a questioning look to which Sibyl closed her eyes, her lips forming into a straight line. “I'll add it to my list of movies we have to watch. Anyway you're losing me with the whole 'my mother is an heir' thing. My mom is not royalty. You must have the wrong person. She's from New York. She came to Montana because of my dad's work. You've got it all wrong.”

“No, that's all a part of her agreement. And even if you hate the name he's real or was real or... Anyway he made a deal with her. He'd give her a normal human life in exchange for one thing.” Josephine hesitated. “I-It's not easy to say.” Sibyl stopped. “It has to do with me, doesn't it?”

Josephine sucked in her lips. “I've said too much. The council would have my head.”

Sibyl blinked. Her jaw dropped. “What? It's not fair to leave me out of the loop.” Before Josephine could turn back to the sink and the dishes Sibyl grabbed her arm. “Josephine, I need more.”

Josephine bit her lip, avoiding eye contact. “I can't.”

Sibyl's lips formed into a thin line. No. It wasn't fair. “Fine. Maybe Reeve will give me answers.” She put the plate down and marched out.

“Wait!” Josephine called but she ignored her.

Why wouldn't they tell her anything? It was frustrating. She wanted clear answers. Who was the Spider King? What did he have to do with Celia?

As she marched up the steps, she heard a strange noise. It was heavy breathing, but it could have been from an animal. Her hands throbbed and tingled. Sibyl licked her lips as she came to the top of the stairs. The hallway was empty.

“Reeve?” she called.

The breathing stopped. A new noise seeped into the walls. It was low and harsh, a warning to not come closer. Was that a growl? No. It must be her imagination. Sibyl took a curious step. Her voice was small. “Reeve?”

There came another growl, louder, angrier. This wasn't her imagination. Whispers tried to calm the voice, but the growl returned, furious. No, it wasn't furious. There was a sense of fear and resent.

“Sibyl,” Josephine shouted as she came up the stairs. “What are you doing?” There were scratching noises. Something was scraping the walls.

“I want answers...”

Josephine stepped in front of her, turning to the direction Sibyl was looking. She took a step closer, humming a tune. There was a growl in response, then a whistle. Josephine straightened.

“Luther where are you? I need the potion!” The scraping pierced through the hall, like a nail on chalkboard. Josephine covered her ears and ran to a room down the hall. A loud howl came from the room as she entered.

Westley came out, his hair a mess. He came to Sibyl as Luther hurried up the stairs with a drink in hand. Luther ran to the room Josephine was in. The growls continued, and something banged against the walls.

“Stop it!” Josephine screamed.

“What's going on?” Sibyl demanded.

Westley touched her shoulders. “Perhaps it's best if you go downstairs and rest. It's late-”

“What? No. What's going on?” She shoved him away. “Stop keeping things from me. I need to know.”

Without another thought, she ran down the hall. Westley tried to grab her but she slipped free, making it to the room. She was tired of the secrets, tired of being sheltered. It was hard enough to trust them as is, but even worse when they wouldn't share anything with her. Sibyl pulled the door open.

Nothing prepared her for what she saw.

It was a monster, bright like crystal and the shade of the night sky with blazing yellow eyes. It stood with hunched shoulders as the large crystals on its back weighed it down, large crystal hands dragging on the ground. Blood dripped from its sharp fangs. Josephine tackled his waist and tried to hold him down as he screeched, the crystal scratching the walls and floorboards.

Josephine was too small to hold it down and it grabbed her then threw her to the wall. Yet, despite that, it wailed. There was a bloody gash on her arm where it bit her. The hurt in its eyes lasted a second, but it was enough.

“Reeve?”

The creature roared as it kicked Luther away, whipping its arm at Josephine. He pounced for Sibyl. In a split second he was on top of her, pinning her down to the ground. Westley tackled him but they shoved him off.

He growled, blood dripping on her cheek. With his giant hand on her hands, she could feel him. His energy was out of control, shaking with fear and anger. Images swirled in her mind, incoherent and all over the place. There were distant cries.

“Reeve...”

Josephine tackled him off, wrestling with him on the ground. Reeve wiggled around, trying to get back on his feet. Luther and Westley pinned him down, Luther pulling the cork off the drink with his mouth. Sibyl sat up as Josephine locked her arms around his neck, her legs wrapped around him.

“Now!” she shouted.

Luther forced the drink down his mouth. He tried to spit it out but Josephine held his mouth shut. They waited, holding tight while it convulsed.

“You can let go now Westley,” Luther told the prince. He got up, walking into the hall and opening a closet. Pulling out a blanket, he brought it to the room and laid it over his body as Josephine peeled off him. When he came to Sibyl's side he helped her up. Her knees wobbled and he pulled her into his warm arms.

It moaned, his body shaking. At first she thought it was angry, but no it was in pain. Tears streamed down its yellow eyes as they darkened. Josephine hummed, stroking his face. A few grunts escaped its closed mouth. No, it wasn't grunting. It was humming.

When the humming wasn't as hoarse and harsh, Josephine sat by his side, humming with him. His paws turned to crystal hands. Then it fell off, shattering to reveal new skin. Bits of crystal stuck out of his skin like a plague that wouldn't leave.

He stopped humming when his face returned, eyes locked on the wound on his sister's arm. Blood dripped from his lips and left a puddle beside him. The blanket covered his naked body. Josephine didn't stop humming.

Crystal poked out of his skin and with a clenched jaw he tried to force it back. His body shook. He concentrated hard on Josephine's wound, cracking. His face turned red. Then his body went limp, his eyes and rising chest the only sign he was still alive.

Sibyl couldn't stop staring. Westley was rubbing her arms but brought her no comfort.

“Did something happen today?” Luther asked as he looked over to her. Her lips formed into a thin line.

Freddie at the grocery store. It must have unleashed this... Whatever this was in him. Reeve was upset and this was the result. Which mean he had to be in control of his emotions or this happened. And this was the person who was supposed to protect her.

“The trickster will fade to a snarl soon enough,” Rose’s chilling words echoed.

“Do you see why we don't tell you everything? You're not ready,” Luther remarked. He ran his hands down his face with a sigh. Unable to erase the image of the crystal beast from her mind, she did what perhaps anyone would do. She ran. She grabbed her things and ran out of there, not looking at them or talking to anyone.

They called her name but she didn’t listen. She just kept going. Kept running. When she stumbled home she fell to her knees. Frost and the wind greeted her as she quivered at the doorway. There was a sigh. Sibyl looked up to find Rose dressed in furs and silk, the essence of class.

“So the warmth faded to a snarl,” Rose commented. A raven sat on her shoulder. “I told you you’d come back to me.”

A cruel smile crossed her face.

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hollywoodjuliorivas · 7 years

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ART & DESIGN Bowie, Bach and Bebop: How Music Powered Basquiat By EKOW ESHUNSEPT. 22, 2017 Continue reading the main storyShare This Page Share Tweet Pin Email More Save Photo Jean-Michel Basquiat, pictured in 1981, sold his first painting that year to Debbie Harry of Blondie for $200. Credit Edo Bertoglio, via Maripol/Artestar, New York LONDON — In 1979, at 19, the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat moved into an abandoned apartment on East 12th Street in Manhattan with his girlfriend at the time, Alexis Adler. The home, a sixth-floor walk-up, was run-down and sparsely furnished. Basquiat, broke and unable to afford canvases, painted with abandon on the walls and floor, even on Ms. Adler’s clothes. The one item that remained undisturbed was Ms. Adler’s stereo, which had pride of place on a shelf scavenged from the street. “The main thing for us was having big speakers and a blasting stereo. That was the only furniture I purchased myself,” said Ms. Adler, who still lives in the apartment. When Basquiat was around, she recalled, “music was playing all the time.” On Thursday, the exhibition “Basquiat: Boom for Real” opened at the Barbican Center in London. The show focuses on the artist’s relationship to music, text, film and television. But it is jazz — the musical style that made up the bulk of Basquiat’s huge record collection — that looms largest as a source of personal inspiration to him and as a subject matter. The first major retrospective of his work in Britain, it is a kind of homecoming for Basquiat’s art: In 1984, the first institutional show of his work opened at the Fruitmarket Gallery in Edinburgh, and then traveled to the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London. In a satisfying closing of a circle, a large drawing that Basquiat made in London for the institute’s exhibition, but that ended up not being shown there, will go on display at the Barbican. Continue reading the main story ADVERTISEMENT Continue reading the main story Basquiat’s tastes were eclectic: Curtis Mayfield, Donna Summer, Bach, Beethoven, David Byrne, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Aretha Franklin, Public Image Ltd.’s “Metal Box” album. “And he had his favorite tracks that he would just play and play,” Ms. Adler said. “Bowie’s ‘Low,’ definitely. And the second side of ‘Heroes.’ The influence of music was huge.” Basquiat eventually amassed a collection of more than 3,000 albums. It spanned blues, classical, soul, disco and even zydeco, a type of popular music from southern Louisiana. He also made his own music: as the leader of Gray, an experimental art noise quartet; as the producer of the single “Beat Bop”; and as a D.J. at venues like the scene-setting Mudd Club in TriBeCa. Photo “King Zulu” (1986) represents the trumpeters Bix Beiderbecke, Bunk Johnson and Howard McGhee, and a face inspired by Louis Armstrong disguised as a Zulu king at Mardi Gras in 1949. Credit The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat/ADAGP, Paris/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York Basquiat made frequent references in his work to the musicians he most admired. He paid homage to Parker, whose nickname was Bird, in paintings such as “Bird on Money,” “Charles the First” and “CPRKR.” “Max Roach” was a nod to the vision and style of the jazz drummer of that name. And in “King Zulu,” a masterly painting inspired by the history of early jazz that occupies a prominent place at the Barbican, Basquiat summoned the memory of the trumpeters Bix Beiderbecke, Bunk Johnson and Howard McGhee. In the center of the painting’s intense blue background, a face in minstrel makeup stares out, the image culled from a photograph of Louis Armstrong disguised as a Zulu king at Mardi Gras in New Orleans in 1949. Basquiat was especially devoted to bebop, the restlessly inventive genre typified by the likes of Parker, Davis, Ornette Coleman and Thelonious Monk. Basquiat’s love of bebop fueled his art, said Eleanor Nairne, co-curator of “Boom for Real.” Photo The exhibition at the Barbican in London is the first major British retrospective of Basquiat’s work. Credit Tristan Fewings/Getty Images “Bebop was quite an intellectual movement,” she said. “It was also quite iconoclastic in wanting to break away from these older jazz harmonies. That idea of a kind of rupture, and of these musicians who were very young, vibrant powerful forces; there were lots of parallels he found with his own work and life.” Basquiat, who died of a drug overdose at 27, attained dizzying heights during his short career. His first sale, the painting “Cadillac Moon,” was to Debbie Harry, the frontwoman of Blondie, in 1981. She paid $200. ADVERTISEMENT Continue reading the main story Within months, his works were selling for tens of thousands of dollars. By his early 20s, he had made his first million. Yet Basquiat was discomforted by success. He was acutely conscious of his place as one of very few African-Americans in a predominantly white art world, where he was regarded by some as little more than an interloper. The eclectic taste of Jean-Michel Basquiat The American art critic Hilton Kramer once described Basquiat as “a talentless hustler, street-smart but otherwise invincibly ignorant, who used his youth, his looks, his skin color and his abundant sex appeal” to win fame. According to Ms. Nairne, Basquiat was “hugely, uncomfortably, constantly aware of the racist ways he was constantly being pigeonholed.” And he found a telling parallel between his position and that of his jazz heroes. “These are musicians who are, in one sphere of their lives, incredibly celebrated,” Ms. Nairne said. “And in other aspects, on a daily basis and in the most banal terms, consistently reduced to the color of their skins. They are literally having to use the back entrance of clubs. There’s no way you can divorce their music from their treatment in society. There was a lot of identification in there.” Ultimately, Basquiat felt more at home in downtown New York. He had first come to prominence in the late ’70s as a graffiti artist with a “SAMO” tag, scrawling the streets of Lower Manhattan with sardonic and elusively poetic maxims: “SAMO for the so-called avant-garde”; “Samo as an end 2 the neon fantasy called ‘life.’ ” Photo Basquiat dancing at the Mudd Club in 1979. Credit Nicholas Taylor The downtown scene was a famously antic fusion of emergent art trends, street style, graffiti, trendsetting nightspots like the Mudd Club and Area, and upstart musical genres like New Wave and hip-hop. Its flourishing took place against a wider backdrop of MTV, sampling, scratching, semiotics and postmodernist theory; a time when the creation and dissemination of culture seemed an increasingly fluid, boundary-free process. “It was all merging,” Ms. Adler said. For Basquiat, “it was a period of discovery.” "I wanna go back," by Gray. Video by BLASPHEMER4711 The multifaceted nature of the scene gave Basquiat license to crisscross artistic forms on the way to developing his own style. He performed poetry onstage and produced the a mesmeric hip-hop “Beat Bop,” by the graffiti artist Rammellzee and the rapper K-Rob, that remains a genre classic. ADVERTISEMENT Continue reading the main story In the band Gray, he played the synthesizer and the clarinet, and made Steve Reich-style sound experiments, looping snatches of audio on a reel-to-reel tape recorder. The group performed only sporadically but drew admirers including Mr. Byrne and the hip-hop pioneer Fab 5 Freddy. An Interview Magazine review described them as “an easy listening bebop industrial sound effects lounge ensemble.” Basquiat pulled out of Gray in 1981, when painting started to command his attention in a serious way. But music still remained a significant marker of his creative achievement. David Bowie, writing after Basquiat’s death, hailed him as a kindred spirit whose sensibility belonged as much to rock as to art. “His work relates to rock in ways that very few other visual artists get near,” the musician noted. “He seemed to digest the frenetic flow of passing image and experience, put them through some kind of internal reorganization and dress the canvas with this resultant network of chance.” Basquiat himself was less forthcoming. “I don’t know how to describe my work,” he once reflected. “It’s like asking Miles, ‘How does your horn sound?’” A version of this article appears in print on September 23, 2017, on Page C1 of the New York edition with the headline: Name That Tune. Order Reprints| Today's Paper|Subscribe Continue reading the main story

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