Chapter 4 - The Last of the Spirits


Far in the distance, the campanile in Rhy'Din struck twelve, the loud resounding notes seeming to stir the dust drifting in the room's still air.

From her seated and wholly undignified position on the floor Rose glanced around, looking for the third Spirit. With a slow, luscious smile she murmured to herself, "Looks like the prediction was wrong after all; good, I can use some sleep."

As the reverberant tones faded away, Rose felt a stirring in the air and paused in her path to the soft and waiting bed; a Presence was felt, that slowly seemed to gather to itself all the shadows in the room, constructing itself from Darkness. Gradually the Spirit took shape before Rose's eyes ... and Rose felt her jaw drop.

Death is oftentimes pictured as a skeleton, caped and hooded in black and bearing a scythe, or as a well-dressed man with the oily manners of a rug merchant; there was no way she could prepare herself for the apparition that now manifested itself before her wide emerald eyes. "No one told me you were a woman," Rose said. "I take it, then, that you're the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come, or something like that?"

The woman stood tall before her, gowned impeccably in light-drinking black velvet from her throat to her ankles; she smiled and stepped forward to her with a gentle click of heels on the floor. In a rich, soft alto she said, "Please allow me to introduce myself; I'm a woman of wealth and taste, like yourself." She smiled again. "You may call me Death, if you like; it's my job to show you the future."

"What happened to the skeleton?" Rose asked crossly, now feeling very fed up with the entire night, or day, or whatever-the-hell-it-was. She licked her lips then, a soft wet flicker of her tongue, looking at the Spirit and entertaining several lustful thoughts. The Spirit did not help but notice Rose's look, and smiled at the scenes of delicious depravity that played themselves out in Rose's mind.

The woman smiled, a curious twist to her dark-red lips; in fact, she seemed dark - dusky skin, brown hair and a lurking madness filling her eyes. "Well, you know how it is," she said. "Corporate takeovers and the like. He was phased out in favor of a better image. Now, are you ready to come with me?"

Rose got up from the bed, mildly disturbed to discover that she actually appeared shorter standing beside this woman; but that was ridiculous - she easily stood taller than most men, even those who did stand in her presence without collars. She glanced again at the woman, who waited for her calmly.

"You know, I'm getting really tired of all this running around," Rose remarked in a snide tone, punctuating the comment with a weary sigh.

"You're lucky," the Spirit countered. "You'd hate to have my schedule. Now, come along, it's getting late and we have some stops." She extended her left hand for Rose as her right hand described a wide circle in midair; Rose took the slim, delicately-boned hand in hers and winced. Oh, not at its grip, although the pressure could crush granite; but at its heat. The Spirit's flesh, in that touch, gave Rose a mere foretaste of the agony that comes from direct exposure to the sun, giving her a prophetic look at a potential
fate.

Rose whipped the hand away, glaring at the Spirit, who shrugged and led the way through the airborne circle, vanishing.

A second later and an olive-skinned hand reached out of empty air, grabbed Rose by her wrist and pulled her in, too.

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They stood in the Bazaar in the heart of Rhy'Din, hard by the Slaver's Exchange, a tawdry line of stalls and shops catering to slavers exclusively. Rose had never thought to come here, being far more accustomed to dealing with couturiers from the House of Versace for her clothes and purchasing collars and the like from far better merchants than these. Small knots of slavers, some recognizable to her, others new or just more obscure, hurried up and down, slaves scampering after them, chains and collars clinking musically. The slavers jingled the money in their pockets and pouches as they collected in small groups and chattered of their trade.

The Spirit tugged Rose near one knot of slavers, releasing her before Rose could aim a blow at her and gesturing for her to listen to their conversation. "No," said one man, an Elf by his looks, but fat and overdressed, "I don't know much about it, either way. I only know she's dead."

Rose snorted. "He's lucky he knows anything at all."

"When did she die?" asked another, this one a skinny woman wearing furs and the tip of her sword's scabbard dragging gratingly over the stone paving.

"Yesterday, I believe."

"What was the matter with her?" asked a third person, who looked like a demon (although he'd always deny it). "I thought she'd never die."

The first one winked and jerked a thumb up, towards the pale midmorning sun. The others chuckled.

"What's become of her slaves and money?" a fourth person asked; this one a powerfully-built man with a gun at his hip and a five-lashed whip thrust in his belt.

"I haven't heard," the Elf said, yawning. "She didn't leave it to me, that's all I know."

All four laughed heartily at the incredibly cheap joke, and Death held out a hand. A small pad and a pen whose shaft was a piece of human rib appeared in her palm, and she jotted a quick note. Rose glanced at her quizzically, and Death remarked, "He'll be dead of arteriosclerosis within three years. Come on; we need to make another stop."

Rose, now completely furious at these constant intrusions into what had at first promised to be a long and sensuous pre-Christmas nap, rounded on Death. "Look, darling," she hissed, the term of endearment drawn into sarcasm with the slight curl of her lip, and an affected lift of one sculpted brow, "I've seen quite enough for one day. Take me home now, or perhaps we'll see if Death can die."

The dark woman actually laughed at that. "Death die? Oh come on, my dear; you've sent enough people to me to know that as long as I get what I want I'll never die. And, since we're on the subject, may I remind you that you're cheating me by remaining deathless?"

Rose paused in her anger; this woman had a point ... must be hard to find a hat to cover it, though she thought. More to the point was the reason the Spirit insisted on showing her her competitors, giggling and snorting over her death.

Yes, her death. It really couldn't be anyone else's, and Rose was nobody's fool by any means. "Fine," she said, "show me what you want ... It's beyond me to care anymore."

Death smiled, and in that smile Rose thought she saw the hideous pleasure that came from pinning a living soul down and tweaking it to bits, or kicking a puppy just for the sheer randy hell of it. Rose sighed, a gentle lift and fall of her full breasts, and resigned herself to go where the Spirit led her.

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The scene suddenly shifted, from the smooth cobbles of the Slaver's Quarter to a rough, uneven floor of rammed earth. They were in a cottage, a hovel really; the only illumination came from candles and the fire burning in the hearth. In the flickering glow of the fire could be dimly seen a cradle of wood, various implements and the most ragged collection of cheap furniture Rose had ever seen. In a corner of the room sat a figure barely recognizable as a woman who rocked a baby to sleep in her arms. As Rose and the Spirit watched, a man entered the hovel and shook off the snow that covered him. "Well?" the woman asked.

"Well what?" the man asked, as he headed straight to the liquor cabinet and grabbed a bottle; without another word he twisted off the cap and drank deeply. "Did you get the promotion?" the woman asked as she set the sleeping child in its cradle and walked toward him.

The man turned toward her; his face was grim and flushed with anger. "No, I didn't get the promotion," he snarled as he upended the bottle again. "The commander gave it to some slut," he added as he ripped an intricate guild insignia from his shirt and threw it in the fire. "Well, can't you talk to somebody?" the woman asked as she attempted to take the bottle from him.

Without a warning his hand lashed out, bottle still clenched in his fingers; the woman yelped and reeled back, cowering as the baby started to cry.

"Look, why are you showing me this?" Rose asked, though she could hardly help the amused glimmer that lit up her eyes at the unexpected entertainment.

"It was in the contract," Death replied.

Rose smiled then, a warm smile that failed to conceal the predatory gleam in her eyes. "Contract?" she echoed as the man began to beat the woman. "Perhaps I can do better; how much are you getting paid?"

"Look, sweetie," Death said, and smiled as she caressed Rose's cheek with the backs of her fingers. "I know you mean well, but I have to show you these things. And as for doing business, you and I have had an excellent partnership for centuries. Now, let's go."

The scene changed again, to a sight Rose was not fully acquainted with; a battlefield from some indeterminate modern age. Under a daylight sky the color of cold iron the ground for as far as the eye could see was churned into a hummocky morass the approximate consistency of thick oatmeal. From horizon to horizon the field was pocked with shell craters partly filled with brackish, foul water. And there were bodies; corpses in various stages of decomposition and varied contortions of horror and agony littered the landscape. "Oops," said Death with a sheepish grin, "accidentally went to one of my favorite places. Sorry."

As the scene altered once again, Rose's lips drew down in a disappointed pout, a gentle moue at having been snatched too soon from such a delightful landscape. The previous look at an unhappy home, and now a field of corpses set off a pleasurable wave of heat that traveled from Rose's loins to her extremities. With a soft purr at having visited her own favorite spot, Death slipped a companionable arm around Rose's waist.

A party, it could be nothing else; lights shone yellowly out the fogged windows onto the fluffy blanket of fresh snow. Within came the low dull roar of loud dance music, like something a heavy-metal garage band would have played had they been filled with plenty of rum-laced eggnog. Death stepped to within a yard of the windows and gestured: "Have a look," she suggested.

Rose stepped forward, dragged a gloved hand across one window to clear it ... and stared in speechless amazement. Angrily she turned to glance back at the Spirit. "What on *earth* is this?" she hissed.

"Exactly what you see, my dear," Death replied as a group of choristers passed her by. She hurriedly produced her pad again and jotted another note, chuckling quietly as Rose again looked in the window.

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What Rose saw were her slaves, all of them, male and female; saw them without their collars and saw them drinking her wine cellar dry. She saw them pair off into little groups and sing carols, some with tears on their faces as a small mound of steel chain collars smoked in the center of the fireplace.

With a howl of pure rage Rose sank to her knees and hammered her fists on the windows. "What, is there no one here to take my slaves and put them to work?" she screamed. "Where's Traevyn? Brutin? Ashe? Where's Falschheit, for the god's sweet sakes?"

Slowly Death stepped up behind her and slipped comforting arms around her, helping her to her feet and hugging her in a warm embrace. "You wish to know where they are?" she asked. "There," she said, and pointed to a structure that stood like a monolith (but minus the "2001"-style choir of eerie voices). Crimson rings of indignant rage outlined Rose's emerald eyes as she stepped away from Death's embrace and walked toward the structure. And as she walked, muttering "How dare they?" Death followed.

All her friends had gathered there, in the snow and darkness; all were grouped around the structure and appeared to be in deep mourning. Rose looked up, and briefly touched her gloved fingers to her lips.

She saw herself there, imprisoned as a fly is imprisoned in amber, a look of utter pain twisting her lovely patrician face. The trapped body was placed so the rays of the rising sun would always fall on her and guarantee an eternity of agony. Rose whirled and faced Death. "Who is responsible for this?" she demanded, striking out at the air in an impatient gesture towards the monument.

Death said nothing; merely lifted her left arm in a languid gesture, and pointed at the trapped form.

With a suppressed snarl Rose said, "This is Christmas Future ... that means I can change this, can't I?"

Still, the Spirit stood, and pointed.

Rose's gloved fingers closed around the Spirit's shoulders in a grip that could have crushed the bones of any ordinary person; the Spirit lowered her arm, her dark face impassive. Rose asked, "Can't you tell me if I can change this or not? My properties, gone; my ... " Her voice trailed away like a wail of dying hope as she suddenly recalled that at the window she had seen one of her slaves wearing her clothes. And not wearing them well, either.

Suddenly Death smiled, and the wave of heat that radiated from her became pleasurable as her arms slipped around Rose's waist. In a soft, almost inaudible whisper she told Rose, "Of course these scenes may be changed; the future is always in motion."

At that, what was once a look of wistful desperation became a dark smile, a study in contrivance and plotting retribution for crimes that had not yet been committed against her. With slivered emerald eyes, Rose slowly nodded her head in comprehension, the blaze of flame-red curls writhing at the movement. "I understand now," she purred. "Take me home."

The snowy street, the tall monolith, all vanished; Rose allowed one eyebrow to lift in mild astonishment as she felt warm sand underfoot. She and the Spirit stood on a beach, illuminated by a moon as full and brazen as a whore's breast, casting rippling reflections on each wave as it tumbled onto the shore. The air was scented with jasmine and only the cry of some night-bird broke the calm and rhythmic sound of the sea. "Where are we now?" Rose asked; a sinking feeling came over her that this night or whatever would never be finished.

Death smiled and dragged her thumbnails down the center of her velvet gown, splitting it wide and leaving her naked. As she stepped toward Rose, a seductive smile on her lips, she murmured, "Well, even Death has to take a holiday ... "

Rose smiled in return as she took Death in her arms, their lips meeting in a sultry kiss.

With a start Rose's emerald eyes snapped open. Her first impulse was to stretch, and much to her surprise was gratified to feel the rough surface of her gem-encrusted comforter. She was in her own bed, in her room at the Estate. Her internal clock told her that it was indeed her morning; the sun had already gone down. "So," Rose muttered, "it was all a dre - " She stopped in mid-word as she sat up, flexing her nails into the coverlet.

There, secured to the foot of her bed by a length of highly-polished steel chain and one of her best silver collars, curled up in blissful sleep on a thick floormat, lay a dark-skinned young woman. Rose smiled but barely, her overwhelming bliss hidden behind a mask of cool serenity, clutching at the bedpost; she said, "So it wasn't a dream!"

((The above chapter was contributed by the mun of DthDivine.))

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