Dancing in Darkness: Witch
by
Kassandra Alvarado
Copyright 2014
Covert art contributed by author with special thanks to Miranda Hedman: https://mirish.deviantart.com/
Nebeldarkened: https://nebeldarkened.deviantart.com/
Brush set by https://deviantnep.deviantart.com/
Table of Contents
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Maleficos non patieris vivere: Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live
Chapter 6: Per Via Rectas
The smell of gun smoke lingered in the hallway. The remnants of that thing were long gone. The police had cleaned up neatly and for nearly six days afterward, Mrs. Ramos had been a familiar sight scrubbing the floor and walls of the hallway beyond his door. Occasionally, she could heard praying to herself in brief Spanish bursts. Zac had learned enough of the language to understand all those ‘dios mios,’ meant to the events perpetrated there.
The unnatural, the uncanny and the downright weird. He paced in the tiny apartment thinking it sounded like a bad episode of that TV series Supernatural. How could anyone wrap their head around something like that? He’d have not believed it himself, put it down to a dream if...
His eye fell on the old six-chambered Colt lying on the coffee table.
The image flashed through his mind’s eye.
Spent shell casings littering the floor.
Slamming the rounds home.
Granddad’s gun.
A wave of nostalgia struck and he dropped to the hard floor. Dad giving it to him for his seventh birthday - shooting blanks - old Crush cans in the backyard. Everybody said guns killed, not dad. Dad’s strength lay in rifles, rifle scopes, wicked hunting knives with stained blades. He was sure his old man could give Blackwood a run for her money; if he had still been alive.
She had missed more than she had hit.
The old phrase, couldn’t hit the side of a barn came to mind.
Zac climbed up to his feet, reaching for the handgun. The old metal slid comfortably into its sleeve of tanned leather. The straps fit snugly around his thigh clipping onto the low belt over the hips. For six days he had replayed the events of that day, running them through his mind over and over until every nuance had been probed.
When he could do no more, he waited. He was good at waiting. He’d been waiting most of his adult life for something to happen. A few hours, a few days - the letter came by crow post. He was never certain whether or not the large black bird pecking at his window the next day, was of the crow species or raven. The letter was a large manila type of thick paper, bearing a multicolored crest of black, red and purple. “Per via rectas.” He read, grinning, turning the envelope over in his hands. Since the death of his former owners, Stinky had made himself at home on Zac’s pillow, eyeing the bird hopping on the window sill, speculatively.
He tore open the letter with all the giddiness of a child on Christmas day. “We are pleased to announce your selection in Blackwood Paranormal Security’s department. This division of the company employs people from all walks of life, not limited to chemists, coroners, forensic scientists and computer hackers.” He added under his breath, “yeah, I bet.” He fingered the expensive vellum paper, smooth to the touch. Below the bold text, in flowing black ink, the CEO’s flamboyant signature displayed sophistication. He had to admit she had beautiful handwriting.
“Please attend an acclimation appointment scheduled for six pm the evening of December 18 2014, on the thirty-ninth floor of Blackwood Tower. If the present CEO isn’t available, you are to inquire for a Mr. Reno and he will guide you through the process. Great, now when am I going to get paid?” Like all whom had lived alone for an extended period of time, he had developed a habit of talking aloud to himself, which he did now, mildly antsy. The anxiety came from no particular desire to purchase worldly goods but rather to appease the money-grubbing fingers of the landlady, whom from the worry over an absence of tenants, had given him a temporary extension of the rent, otherwise he, the goldfish and the cat might’ve been homeless.
“I might be yet,” he told Dr. Who, searching the document for any sign of wage related clauses. At the very bottom, in Blackwood’s lovely, teasing script: “Please note, traditional wages aren’t paid until the completion of a six-month probation.” The words sunk in like a punch to the gut. “Bitch!” Zac cried with all the disappointment of the thwarted. She had even included a little squiggly heart right after the damning sentence. Bitch, indeed.
Before, his thoughts could turn too uncharitable, he happened to note an underlined portion he had missed. “Dispensation may be bestowed in certain cases until your name can be added to the payroll.” Dispensation, that was a strange term. He hopped online for the better part of the afternoon, pausing briefly to make a ham sandwich. The company website had been transparent enough with a mission’s statement and links to department store websites featured in the galleria of shopping aptly named Blackwood Tower. Zac bemusedly searched by name then by former CEOs of the main company, unearthing a plethora of archived news articles concerning falling stock prices, closing stores and the near-bankrupt konzern inherited by Miss Evelyn Cecilia Blackwood in late 2012.
He had barely begun to scratch the surface of the turnaround the company was making in Blackwood’s capable hands, when he glanced at the clock and yelped at the time.
Only then, did he kick into panic mode, tossing shirts around, have one shoe on and one shoe off trying to find his keys. It was nearly seven by the time, he remembered they’d stayed in the pair of jeans he’d shucked off the night of monster jamboree. The pair were still crumpled in the bottom of his closet with a few spatters of brackish ochre stubbornly clinging to the pant legs.
Absentmindedly, he stuffed them on, snatching his jacket off the closet door handle. Halfway out the door, he turned back to grab the invitation off the coffee table. “Be good!” He called warningly over his shoulder to the room. Sometime in his haste, he’d remembered to toss the cat into the bathroom. The fish gurgled in the corner beside drawn curtains.
Police cars were often seen passing by his street; fragments of glass still littered the gutters down the road where six people met their end. Zac joined the fracas of life, zipping when he could between honking vehicles, past busy restaurants and brightly lit art galleries.
Twenty minutes past seven, he had squeezed into a parking space and run up the weathered stone steps. Above, the skyscraper rose from forty stories, towering over the smaller department stores and the Metropolitan museum across the street. The front was a wall of glass broken by beams of reflective silver metal. The thick glass doors bore an unusual amber tint. Inside, shoppers traipsed by small cafes, milled around the center fountain rising impressively above the bustle.
He had never been inside the multiplex of industry until that evening. He’d seen photos of the interior shops online, heard raving reviews about the architecture inside and out, but none had compared to seeing with one’s own eyes. The grand lobby with its old world style and the massive fountain dominating one’s field of view. Made of pale marble with alabaster undertones, the figure was of a life-size young woman clad in a simple shift that clung to her luscious curves, standing upon a base of twisting waves. In her delicately sculpted hands, a notched arrow in a long bow arced upward to the gold and silver tiled ceiling -- a gift from the Cartier family when their heirs were united in marriage in the early 1900s.
Athena...he thought pausing beneath the fountain, gazing up; or Diana, Goddess of the Hunt.
A man walked by with a clipboard under his arm. He was tall, distinctive with silver streaked dark hair, proud features trimme
d by a tailored suit leaving the jacket off. “Oh, Mr. Reno!” One of the shopkeepers came forward, hailing the man. Zac turned at the name, embarrassed with his tardiness.
“Um...excuse me, Mr. Reno? I had an appointment at six?”
The man turned around, passively scanning him from head to toe. “So, you’re the Quinn.”
Zac tried to smile, his insides a bundle of nerves. “Zachary Quinn, sir.”
“No,” Reno said coolly, dismissively. “The Quinn, the interloper.” He glanced down at the list he’d been carrying. “Does the word tardy occur to you as having negative connotations?”
“Uh -- well, I can explain! Sort of...”
“I thought so.” Reno concluded steely, motioning with his hand imperiously. “Come along, boy. We’ll continue this upstairs, beyond prying eyes.” He led him up the main staircase to the silver streamline elevators rising to the higher floors. Women in expensive suits chattered together, waiting for the next available compartment. Reno nodded to them pleasantly earning speculative glances.
“Hello, Don Juan of the corporate world.” Zac muttered under his breath, feeling significantly inferior standing next to the handsome well-oiled businessman.
“You say something?”
“No-o-o.”
The older man eyed him suspiciously, but he wiped his expression clean. The space-age chrome doors glided down to their level smoothly, silently. The reflection they presented made him wince. Reno smiled faintly at his twin image. “Something wrong?”
Zac rallied internally, forcing down that old sense of crushing humiliation.
“No.”
“Good.” Reno said briskly, stepping inside the express elevator. They rode up past the food court level of restaurants, McDonalds, Starbucks and others; the department store level with J.C. Penney’s beauty brand represented by a Sephora megastore beside a smaller rare perfumer and other cosmetic shops. Ten levels were unused space being considered as potential apartments similar to the route the old Sears Tower in Chicago took. So much of it was empty, he realized, amazed at the size of the big echoing chambers the glass walled elevator enabled them to see. On the last five upper floors, signs of habitation lightened the dim corners of the skyscraper.
At length, they came to a gentle stop at the end of a long corridor lined with framed photos. Reno disembarked first, striding confidently ahead. Zac was slower, studying the images presented on each side. Most depicted young women from the fifties in poodle skirts and gabardine blouses with embroidered initials. In the sixties, a fair-haired woman, older, from the previous picture leaned against a classic corvette, rifle in hand. All of them that followed, had a similar defining trait. They were all posing with weapons.
Rifles.
An antique pistol set.
Saber.
Japanese sword.
He stopped at the second to the last depicting two men flanking a sandy-haired woman with an easy smile. The woman was pretty to a fault, with the kind of looks praised by nineties Supermodels. She wore a pink gingham dress with one tanned arm slung around a fencing saber, the hilt rested against her bare shoulder. On the right, a handsome dark-haired man smiled as openly as she, his eyes were a quiet brown, his features lacked the ruggedness of classic masculinity as opposed to the delicate beauty of the platinum blond on the left. Almost painfully thin, captivating green eyes were askance, flickering down to the woman almost lovingly. Zac nearly missed the curve of the man’s arm, his long, slender fingers resting against the slight swell of her belly.
That face...
The last was a candid shot.
Evelyn Blackwood looked askance from the camera in nearly the same gesture as the man. But, she was hugging a small child whom resembled the woman from the other photo to a great degree. Together, they held up a pistol-handled shotgun. The silver plaque beneath the photo read: Family Head 2012 -
In his mind’s eye, he peeled away the darker blonde hair and slivers of blue eyes, unsurprised to find that their features were almost identical. Reno had come back, standing silently in the glass doorway of the small lobby. Behind him, a wide secretary’s desk occupied the back wall.
“They’re--”
“Alike, yes.” Reno hesitated for a moment then went on, “come along, Mr. Quinn. Those pictures are of no consequence to you at the moment.”
He made a face at the other’s back, following petulantly into the pale mauve walls of the quiet office. There were chairs in one corner of the oddly shaped room keeping company with a Dracaena Cinnabari tree whose sinister upturned crown of nude branches oozed rivulets of dragon’s blood sap. Reno went for the door on the right side room.
He meant to follow - he really did, but just then, the opposite door opened and a woman stepped out. Immediately transfixed, his mind went blank and he forgot his reason for standing there, for breathing at all. She was pale and thin like a knife’s edge, clad in a thick purple and black boucle patterned blazer. Low-heeled shoes were silent crossing the floor, she had files in her arms and a distant, almost dreamy look on her face.
“Mr. Quinn.”
Spoken with a hint of sharpness, with a hint of reproach.
The woman had entered the short corridor, waiting for the elevator.
Zac blinked, shook his head and went after Reno through the right door which opened up into a small oval-shaped office of windowpanes overlooking one of the Tower’s numerous Griffin statues. There were many pictures on the walls, few art prints. The floor was a modest wood with an old sheen of age and the two chairs were leather club chairs with brass studs on the sides. Reno’s desk was a large executive affair with a Chrome laptop beside an inkstand of silver. Three low bookshelves were situated around the room lending to the ambiance of masculinity. Reno offered coffee which he gladly accepted.
“Ms. Anastasie Dupri is a fey.” Reno said out of the blue, stirring creamer into his cup. He offered some of the Amaretto flavored creamer to Zac whom shook his head, surprised. “Who?”
“The secretary you just saw.” The older man clarified.
“Oh...I...wait--! Did you just say-” everything came out in a rush. Zac dropped his gaze, embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m barely getting used to this whole thing. “So, fairies...do exist too then?”
“Both courts.” Reno added sugar. The steam had vanished from his cup, but Zac’s was nearly boiling on its marble coaster. “Seelie and Unseelie. Ms. Dupri is a beguiler of men or was before her capture. A Leanan-sidhe, by the book. That was why you were snared if even temporarily by her glamor.”
He nodded, taking the coffee carefully. It was best to accept explanations. His unkempt reflection stared back no matter how hard he tried to groom himself. “Why aren’t you affected?”
The other smiled secretively, “that, I cannot explain just yet.” The old-fashioned green phone with a gold bezel dial rang shrilly, interrupting anything else Zac might’ve said. Reno sent him an apologetic look and picked up the receiver, “where are you?” he asked without preamble. Receiving an answer, he grunted a response, swiveling over to the laptop. Swiping the touchpad, he scowled at the screen. “Plenty.”
The door opened, the pale secretary appeared with a ream of official-looking documents.
“Oh...,” Reno motioned for her to leave them on the desk.
Zac avoided glancing in her direction; she left as quietly as she had entered.
“Quinn’s here. Do you want me to deal with him or unload the goods?” Reno pulled the top sheet closer, looking it over briefly. Then, pushed it over, motioning for him to start reading. Out of curiosity, he wanted to ask where the itinerant CEO was, clearly not ruling the roost.
“You’re on...Adirondack Veterans Memorial Highway, unofficially known as Fuller Road Alternate.” Reno said, returning his attention to the computer. “Far as I can see from the map, you’re half a mile from Jarboe Tree Road.”A few minutes passed while he listened.“Hmm...well, the information did say the town was isolated. Keep on the right lane, th
ere should be a break somewhere along the line for you to turnoff on.” Reno grunted to something else she said and hung up, redialing a few minutes later. “Ms. Dupri can you patch me through to a Mr. Bhatnagar? Yes... I believe so.”
He waited a few minutes then shook his head. Without explanation, he finally set the receiver down and fished a gold-banded pen from a fluted glass cup, switching topics to the paperwork Zac had to fill out. The clauses and terminations and contract breaches he had to be wary of. Blackwood seemed a set of rules run by an iron hand that imposed death by hunt to any whom resigned without first being approved termination by the CEO whom was Ms. Blackwood.
When everything at last had been signed, he’d been issued a temporary gun license if stopped by police, and a notice signed by Reno to hand into his landlady as guarantee of a check within two weeks. He’d drunk two cups of coffee, ate two raspberry danishes under Reno’s amused watch, it was late afternoon. Zac wiped his fingers on a frilly napkin from the patisserie and stood up. “I’ll submit the documents for Ms. Blackwood’s approval when she returns. Have a good day, Mr. Quinn.” This time, Reno offered his hand cordially.
As he took it, he remembered the gas gauge dropping on the scooter. “Thanks...um...my Vespa was nearly out of gas when I got here and uh...I don’t have any money to put a gallon or two in. Sorry.” The last part was muttered shamefacedly. After all, what prospective employee arrived on fumes? Not many he was willing to bet.
Reno hardly batted an eye. “I’ll take you home after I’ve gone through these expense reports. Make yourself comfortable. There’s refreshments in the conference room downstairs.”
“Thanks.” He nodded, heading for the door. He had half a mind to resume looking through the photos in the hallway in greater detail, when he stopped short of the threshold. “Hey, where is Ms. Blackwood, anyway? That was her you were talking on the phone with, wasn’t it?”
The other man said nothing for a moment, appearing to weigh the validity of the question. Finally, Reno shrugged slightly, dismissive. “On assignment. She left to investigate the disappearance of a witch from the Los Angeles branch.”