Post by Deleted on Dec 10, 2007 14:24:55 GMT -5
December 1, 2007
Watching the plate before him as if regarding a tasteless pile of ash, Christian Kannon stabbed his fork into the succulent lobster meat and shoved it into his mouth mechanically. He chewed absently, inspired by duty and memory rather than enjoyment. By most standards, it was the best meal he had had the opportunity to enjoy in close to a year, a meal designed to excite his taste buds instead of merely nourishing his body and mind. Knowing where it came from, Kannon couldn't bring it to achieve either.
Feigning ignorance to his mood . . . reigning in the scathing words he wanted to unleash on his wife, Eleanor, seated across from him, Christian swallowed and forced himself through the motions of continuing the meal. This was her decision, ultimately, and they had already engaged in many vehement arguments over it, arguments that hadn't seemed to sway her a hair. He cringed every time she murmured her pleasure at the foreign meal, grunted noncommittally when she gushed over how it was the greatest thing she had ever tasted. Instead of letting his fury get the better of him, he let it billow out in a heavy sigh. "Eleanor," he began tiredly, then paused as their eyes locked. He could already see the stubborn walls sliding in behind hers, as deeply blue and immoveable as an ocean. They narrowed slightly when he floundered, shaking his head as he scoured his mind for the right words, for a way to make her truly look and see. Finding nothing he hadn't already said a dozen times, he sighed again, then muttered, "you don't have to go through with this."
"We won't be talking about this anymore . . . my mind is made up," she replied curtly, without hesitation. She had known it was coming, had been waiting for it since they arrived at the hotel. They had talked of nothing else on the plane, and likely would have argued the entire way had she not cut her husband off by donning headphones and faking an interest in the on-flight movie. Barely a word had been exchanged since, and in truth, she was surprised at how well he had moderated his tone. There was a mountain of tension between them, more than there had been in a very long time. She felt sorry for him, but she couldn't abandon what was needed just for his misguided sense of comfort.
"For God's sake, Eleanor," he repeated, closer to a growl. "I don't think you've thought this through clearly." She ignored him this time, filling her mouth with food to choke down the admonishing torrent on the tip of her tongue. She moaned with put-on pleasure. Smiling sardonically, Christian let his fork clatter to the plate and crossed his arms over his chest in childish defiance. "Or maybe I should call you Ellie~!"
Indignation consumed the petite Eleanor as she lunged up from her seat, the legs scratching angrily and loudly against the hardwood floor. She swallowed the mouthful of food and thrust a finger across the table, letting it hover between the faint flames of the candles. The tension had boiled over. Cold fury had replaced all feelings of sympathy. "If you think for one second that I'm going to sit here while you mock me . . ." Instead of finishing the statement, she threw up her arms and spun around, resolving to leave early so both of them could cool off.
"Stop," her husband implored before she could take a step. The derision was gone from his voice, but anger still flared there like an inferno, hotter than a million candles. "You know I didn't mean that." He glided smoothly around the table, the constant agony in his back momentarily forgotten. She tried to push him away, but he enfolded her in his arms and pulled her close. Her warm, rapid breath against his chest, right over his heart, soothed him a little, enabling him to go on much more calmly than he felt. "But try to understand my frustration. You don't need to do this, at least not with him. Manage someone else, anyone else, and you'll have my blessing."
"No." The single-worded protest set him afire. "No, Christian, I can't." She pushed back far enough that she could stare up into his eyes. "This is the only offer we've had in I don't know how long, and it hinges on him. He specifically requested me, and they made it quite plain that without him, there is no me." She reached up to caress his face, sympathy once more getting the best of her. "I know how he hurt you in the past, Chris, but--"
"Obviously you don't!" he roared, making her flinch, pulling her hand back as if burned. Turning away from her, he slammed the palm of his fist against the wall, then rested his head against it. His entire body swelled and receded like the tide. "If you did, you wouldn't do this."
That cut her. Deep. Not the yelling, but the implication that she hadn't been there with him every step of the way, experiencing everything he experienced, hurting every time he was hurt. She wanted to slap him, to scream at him until he realized how blind and pigheaded he was being. "That's not fair," she murmured instead, angry with herself for having to fight down tears instead of fury.
"Really, Eleanor?" he demanded, whirling on her. "Really? I'm the one that's being unfair? You're running off to manage one of my mortal enemies, calling him your man on national television -- making people believe he's me! -- and I'm the one that's being unfair!? Are you aware that it's my name on the WFWF program, on the websites, on the smark sheets? No one can imagine you in anyone else's corner! Least of all me! The only one that's comfortable with it is you!"
Eleanor looked down, lower lip trembling, eyes wet with unshed tears. "We need the money."
Angry, scornful laughter devoid of humor erupted from deep in Christian's throat. "He's the reason we need the money! Have you forgotten RPW? It shut down because of him!"
"Damn it, Christian!" Eleanor shrieked. "Stop acting like I wasn't there! Stop acting like I'm an idiot!" She was crying now, glaring up at him through her eyelashes. The urge to slam her fists against his chest -- just to hit him, period -- was overwhelming. "I know what he did to you! To us!"
"You don't act like it!"
Falling into him, thumping her fists against his chest in a pale imitation of what she had envisioned in her mind, she was surprised when he hugged her tightly and nuzzled her head with his own. "What do you want me to do?" she sobbed, bringing a fist down hard. "Damn you, what do you want?"
Overcome by her vulnerability, Christian took a deep breath and a long moment before answering, relishing the warmth of her body, the floral scent of her hair. Savoring her safety, here in his arms. "I just want you to be safe," he whispered. The quiet ferocity of his words boomed through the room like no shouting could have. "That's all I want, Ellie." He tenderly kissed the top of her head. "You safe. With me."
Reeling from the sudden turn, she wanted to pound him like she never had before. How dare he turn the tables like that! Choking back more tears, she kissed his chest. "I know you do." She forced herself to look up, to meet his beautiful eyes. "But I can take care of myself."
Those beautiful eyes swirled dangerously, painfully. "Not with him. Oh dear god, Eleanor, not with him."
Holding the gaze, she pursed her lips and said nothing, letting her defiance speak for itself.
"End it, now, please. Before it's too late to turn back; before something happens." He leaned down and brushed her forehead with his lips, clenching his eyes shut. "He's up to something, Ellie, I just know it. He doesn't care about you, or your skills as a manager; this is about his vendetta against me, plain and simple. He's using you to get to me, and we're both going to get hurt in the long run. Don't let him do it. Please. Don't be a pawn."
Drawing herself to her full height, Eleanor wriggled free of her husband's arms and shoved him back into the wall. The tears stopped abruptly, but she was trembling. With renewed rage. "Of course," she bit off facetiously. "It must be about the great Christian Xavier Kannon! Everyone knows his idiotic little wife was just a tagalong for the success! What could she possibly bring to the table?!"
"Eleanor," Christian said slowly, carefully, reaching toward her.
Violence erupted in another shove, banging Christian into the wall again. She was backing away from him now, briskly shaking her head. "Maybe," she began, heaping the word with so much disdain there was plainly no maybe about it. "Maybe he actually saw something in me, Christian. Maybe he thinks I can help his career, like I thought we both knew I helped yours. Maybe, just maybe, just this once, Christian Xavier Kannon isn't the centre of the universe!"
"I never-- Eleanor-- He's--"
Leaving him to stammer, Eleanor spun towards the door, turning her back on him. She was near hysterical, and she knew it, but she didn't care. He always turned it into something about him! Always minimizing her importance. Always unintentionally degrading her. "Maybe I'll be back later!" she shouted as she lunged through the door, slamming it shut behind her.
Letting himself slump back against the wall, then sliding down it, burying his face in his hands, Christian hoped against hope that his wife was right. Deep down he knew she wasn't. She wasn't safe, either. She was in grave danger. And he was powerless to help her.
"Evil," he whispered to the empty room, finishing what he had tried to say while she was storming out. "He's evil."
That was all he could mouth.
Only she would be able to learn from her mistakes.
Christian knew the truth, however, and knew his wife might be in grave danger.
Once again, though, only she would be able to learn.
"My God you're stubborn, woman," he thought to himself.
Eleanor was off, but to where she didn't know. She just knew she needed to be away from her husband. She knew he was going to take it this way, but thought that he would at least be open to the idea. The money.
Being selfish was never a part of it at all. This was for him more than her. His career is over . . . it doesn't mean their life had to start ending, too.
At least that was her side of the argument. As the night grew darker she realized more and more why, perhaps, he didn't want her to have anything to do with him. She decided to go back home.
"Chris I'm so-" were the first words out of her mouth when she came through the door. She stopped in her tracks as she noticed that he was passed out with a bottle of Jamison next to him. And then she knew she had to leave.
Knew it was time for things to change.
Saturday
Winding up to the large iron gate between the barbed-wire lined brick walls that stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction, Eleanor hit the brakes, bouncing and grimacing as the ABS of her rental car kicked in. Still accustomed to driving in Barbados, she had suffered that wrenching feeling several times in the last hour. The paved blacktop looked clear of snow, but she knew of and had driven on black-ice before. Not that that stopped her from clucking her tongue at the car as if it was at fault.
"Anti-Lock piece of crap," she scolded. "I’m doing ten." As if at her command, or out of shame at being criticized, the wheels finally found their grip and brought the car to a smooth stop. She stared dubiously at the gate, with steel panels between the bars that prevented her from seeing into the compound. As she began scanning for a doorbell or buzzer or anything that might let her contact those on the other side, a section of the brick -- even seeing it acting as a door, she couldn’t think of it as one -- to the left of the gate swung out, admitting two dark-haired men in matching black suits into the wintry air.
Yeah . . . okay . . . Identical in appearance, manner, and bearing, they descended on her car as if they meant to plough it underfoot. She was uncomfortable. Their faces were hard and somber from more than the cold, likely from the life they had chosen, and she didn’t need to see the bulges of their shoulder holsters to know they were armed. For the millionth time, she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe her husband was right.
Noticing her hand reach over to engage the power window on the driver side, she let it slide all the way down, and tried to force him out of her mind. As far out as he could ever be, at least. Cursing him for a stubborn fool, she shivered at the sudden influx of cold air, annihilating the toasty warmth she had managed to achieve in the cabin. Why couldn’t he just support her?
"Eh, Ms. Hall, I presume?" one of the men said as he leaned down and all but climbed through the window. The other stood directly behind him, hands clasped idly behind him. That was, she hoped it was idly.
Refusing to lean back, she locked eyes with the man, and when she spoke, drowned him in a cloud of mist. "Mrs. Kannon-Hall." Jack Frost himself would have shivered at her tone, but the man just flashed a thin smile and grunted something she decided she would interpret as an apology.
"Evening, Mrs. Hall," he said as he backed out of the window, straightening to avoid her glare. She could no longer see his face, but she knew he was grinning petulantly. "Go right on in. He’s expecting you."
As the gate started disappearing, sliding into the wall almost soundlessly, Eleanor slammed her finger against the window button without a word of thanks. If they were going to be rude with her, she was going to be rude with them.
Leaving them behind her, skidding the tires only slightly, Eleanor sped through the gate as soon as there was space enough for the car. She knew she was going too fast, and it registered somewhere in the back of her mind that she should slow down, but that feeling of dread was back, manifesting as a weightless feeling in the bottom of her stomach, and it blinded her to all else.
Lost in thought, debating whether she should turn the car around and speed out of the gate before she was locked in, she ignored the trees whizzing past her on both sides. She had seen the forest looming over the walls when she approached, and if it now seemed darker and more ominous, even she could be taken by flights of fancy from time to time. Was that all the dread was? A flight of fancy? Thinking of it so didn’t make it go away, and that made it worse. Maybe she should turn back.
Yes, that niggling voice in the back of everyone’s mind agreed, turn back. Run back to your husband and cry on his shoulder because you got spooked. Admit that he was right all along, and you were wrong. Admit you’re in over your head. The car jerked to the side as it momentarily lost its grip on the road. The lane here was paved as well, but even without the ice, snow fell from the trees with some consistency, blanketing it in spots. Eleanor barely noticed. Admit you can’t support your future children. Admit you’re a failure.
Ignorant to the fact that she was now doing seventy-five, she felt tears welling up again, and cursed them. She thought she had gotten all of her crying done on the way here, but damn him, Christian could make her cry at will, even when he wasn’t around. Sometimes she thought he must possess a voodoo doll of her, a voodoo doll he would take out whenever he was bored and run its eyes under a faucet.
She knew she was being irrational, but she didn’t care. When aren’t you? Telling the voice to shut up, steering with one hand as she tried to clear the sheen from her eyes with the palm of the other, Eleanor’s foot got even heavier on the gas. The vehicle was almost hydroplaning, skidding and weaving across the road. An ambitious branch scratched the passenger-side door.
"Get a grip on yourself!" she croaked, finally mastering her tears. "You can handle this. You will handle this." Strengthened by the pep-talk as it continued in her mind, she suddenly realized how fast she was moving, and did the worst thing she possibly could have.
Over and over she pumped the brakes as the car turned sideways, sliding along the slick surface with no semblance of grip or control. The ABS coming in and out shook the car uselessly, serving only to aggravate Eleanor’s panic-ridden mind. She might very well die here, right then and now. Ahead of her gnarled trees loomed, their high branches seeming to reach for her like the cold arms of death. The only thing that saved her was an abrupt end to the forest as the car spun off the road, now moving backward.
It took a moment for the car to stop on its own, plowing through the snow, but eventually it did come to a grudging halt, rocking Eleanor back against her seat with a final jolt. Adrenaline throbbed through her, but she was angrier than anything else. Angry with herself, angry with her husband, angry with snow, angry with the entire situation. It only got worse when she pressed the gas pedal down and the wheels spun impotently.
"No," she growled, pumping the gas, trying to rock the car forward. "Don’t you even think of it." Again, as if at her command, the car lurched forward, finding grip where there was none. Eleanor actually giggled, a rich sultry sound unlike the false giggling she adopted when she was playing Ellie~!.
Getting back onto the road, she kept the car moving at a moderate speed, not wanting a repeat of her near-accident. The feeling of dread remained, but she also moderated her mind, forcing it away from her husband.
That was easy now, with a great house looming above her, more like a palace than any house she had ever seen. She counted a dozen spired towers lined with ornamental parapets before she stopped herself, letting her eyes roll along the sparkling black and white marble surface. It was beautiful, not only in its material, but in its structure and design. It led the eye gracefully and easily, as if it had sprung forth from nature’s bosom rather than the clumsy hand of man.
Only with great effort was she able to push her attention back to the road, which was curving into a rounded driveway that dipped down to an underground garage. She stopped just short of the decline and cut the engine, then mentally steeled herself for the encounter ahead. She harbored no more thoughts of turning back, but that didn’t make her eager about moving forward.
Reaching for the trunk latch, she popped it and opened the door, stepping out and tugging her unzipped coat around her for protection from both wind and cold. She hurried to the back of the car and pulled out an opaque white bag, then slammed the trunk and jogged up the sloping interlocking stone that led to the front porch.
Eleanor was surprised when one of the great double doors opened as she stepped onto the porch, but not very. The men who let her in at the gate surely would have notified those at the house. She didn’t stop or hesitate, but bounded through the door, embracing the sudden warmth. The door closed behind her, soundless but for the click of the latch and the automatic lock.
Gaunt and subdued didn’t even begin to describe the man who had closed it, and was now trying to ease Eleanor’s coat from her shoulders. She put the bag down and allowed him to, then cringed as he greeted her with a "Welcome, Ms. Hall." She didn’t bother to correct him, opting instead to snatch up the bag and glare at her surroundings.
Reeling on the man as he slung her coat over his arm, she demanded, "where is he?"
Eleanor’s curt request was met with a hollow smile and a gesture toward the back of the house. "In the library. If you’ll kindly follow me." It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t wait for a response before stalking off ahead of her down the broad hallway. She followed, making faces at his back before scolding herself not to act like a child.
The interior of the house was even more beautiful than the exterior, decorated with woven tapestries and exotic flora and a mixture of antique and modern furniture that somehow gelled instead of clashing. When the hallway opened up into what could have passed for a ballroom, with great cathedral windows and curving staircases that led to balconies nearly three stories above, Eleanor gasped, and immediately wished she could take it back. The man -- she assumed he was a butler -- never looked back or said anything, but he suddenly radiated an air of satisfaction.
The butler strode across the floor and took one of the staircases, glancing ever so slightly over his shoulder to make sure she was following, not gaping in wonder. She continued glaring at his back, barely a step behind him.
Her ears perked up as she heard music coming from somewhere high and deep, a symphonic sound that at once soothed her and made the hair on the back of her neck rise. It was melancholy, yet celebratory of that feeling, as if that were all that was to be expected. There was dignity to it, quiet and strong. And pride. It resonated with a pride for life and love, and of facing death free of fear. She thought it was a violin, and it was arguably the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. Definitely not the type of music she had expected to hear playing here.
Intrigued, Eleanor wished the butler would move faster. They were on the catwalk now, moving out of the grand entry room and into another hallway. The music grew steadily louder, until suddenly the butler stopped at a door and gestured toward it with a bow. He didn’t open it for her, or even stick around to introduce her; he just straightened from his bow and swept past her, disappearing down the hallway at a much brisker pace than he had come.
She gasped again when she pushed open the door and stepped into the room. It was almost as large as the first room she had seen, but there were no staircases or even doors that she could see. Bookshelves lined two of the four walls, one crammed with more hardcover books than she had ever seen in her life outside of a real library. The other, oddly, was empty. The third wall was a swirling mosaic of black and white marble, like outside, and the fourth, directly opposite her, was dominated by large many-paned windows. None of that was what made her gasp. What made her gasp . . .
. . . was The Deville himself, standing and seeming to coruscate in the expanse of light pouring through the windows. His back was to her, and the fiddle tucked under his chin now seemed to boom its melodic tune. She was stunned, speechless. In his white dress pants and form-hugging white undershirt, which accentuated his statuesque musculature, he struck her more as an angel carved from purest stone than the devil she remembered.
~><>…<><~
ing genious..
