Of Phantoms

[The Cedar Witch]

At first, her driver was reluctant to take her anywhere after the last stunt she pulled at Sticks and Stakes.  Sonya had gently reassured him that she was perfectly normal now--and that seemed to do more harm than good.  The woman was not known to speak gently.  She was taken, nonetheless, for a drive as requested.  Dressed rather casually in a pair of lightly distressed jeans, a loose low-cut grey tee-shirt, a leather jacket and a pair of open-toed stiletto heels; Sonya silently watched the city rush past the backseat window.  She hadn't told the driver where to go, just to drive.  Something else that made her driver nervous--she never just wanted to go for a ride, at least not with him.  Usually, well a couple of years ago anyway, she found some asshole with a sports car when she felt like going for a ride.

The weeks of voluntary solitude came to an end when she brought the boy, Marco, to her home.  He valiantly attempted to coax her out of her pensiveness, and she thought it cute of him to try.  He wanted to make love to her, gently, as if doing her some sort of favor, as if it would "fix" her.  A few evenings with her teeth in his neck and nothing more put a stop to that.  She said she would call him again when she was free.  They both knew that would likely never happen, but he parted from her affectionately nonetheless. 

She wouldn't miss him.  It felt like she was chasing a ghost.

"Stop."  At her command, the Escalade braked in front of Qamar Art Gallery.  The driver was about to park, get out, and open the door for her but she beat him to it and stepped out into the night air. 

Sonya couldn't remember the last time she set foot in the gallery--not completely anyway.  There was the chill of déjà vu again as she approached the door, and by the time she crossed the threshold, she was positive that she had sold a painting here once before.  Once greeted by the gentle ambient instrumental music and the sight of various works of art, the feeling grew stronger.  It was as though she expected to encounter someone she knew at any moment, around some corner.  An unnerving feeling.

Her eyes scanned the first area, lingering over a few impressionists works before settling on a space devoted to an installation composed of spilled polyurethane foam.  It was a strange piece, ectoplasm-like, spotlit with blacklights.  It wasn't anything that she was particularly interested in but she felt drawn to it nonetheless and approached it to examine closer.

[Trillian]

On the other side of the artwork stood Decker, wondering how much artwork like this went for. He needed to start earning cash and was willing to pose as a wanky-artist to get it. Proper artists that didn't behave like pompous assholes never made the money. To earn that, an artist had to be more eccentric than their art. Maybe he should dress up in overalls and a top hat and carry around a frog.

His gaze lifted when he felt someone approach - because he hadn't heard them. They'd walked silently yet moved quickly. He could tell this by the air currents which travelled to him (bringing with it a delicate waft of cloves and honey) more than in the periphery of his eye because the artwork between them blocked them neatly. He took a few steps around the work to see who'd joined him in looking at it. He didn't know what to expect other than not to be surprised, but he was wrong.

The woman had an ethereal look about her, with skin smooth like milk over marble. Her eyes looked beautiful/terrible and they weren't even trained on him. She could probably kill with those eyes. He knew what she was, he'd come across her type before. His skin broke out into goosebumps as he realised how helpless he was amongst her kind. Not entirely, of course, he had his dagger and his gun, he knew how to fight... but she was well-seasoned, this one, and if she wanted him to crumble, he would crumble.

He should've turned heel and walked away. Instead, he spoke to her. "You're here late," he said, as though he'd been waiting for her. "Everybody left," he said, as though more people had been waiting for her but the rest had given up. Not him though. Solid guy.

[The Cedar Witch]

Peripherally and with mild interest, she watched the human move toward her.  She hadn't expected to be approached, giving off no pulses of charm to lure prey.  Her arms were crossed over her chest, giving the appearance that she was engrossed in the sculpture.  She was not.

The human spoke with velvety words.  The corner of her mouth turned upward slightly as her gaze flickered over to him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she spoke with light sarcasm that ended with a smile.  It did not reach her eyes.

An icy chill passed through her chest, accompanied by the unshakable feeling that someone was standing behind her.  Sonya gave no outward indication of this, save the prickling of hair on the back of her neck.  Instead, she fixed her focus on the heartbeat in front of her and wondered if she should draw this one into her web.  Perhaps.  He was different than Marco, at any rate. 

[Trillian]

Decker laughed genuinely. "You're not sorry," he said. This one, she wasn't sorry for anything. Perhaps that's why he'd spoken to her. Something about her was familiar... perhaps she cared even less about the human race than he did. Pffft, what the fuck was he thinking? Of course she cared less about the human race than he did. But was she as disgusted with the human race that he was? Now that could be something interesting.

He sensed she had little interest in him. What would a woman of her calibre need? Very little, he thought.

"Are you lost?" he asked. It seemed the older he got, the more lost he was. He wondered if that was true for those who could live eternally? Or did they have enough time that they actually found themselves?

[The Cedar Witch]

Curious.

Sonya was caught somewhere between a scoff and genuine reply, which caught thoughtfully in her throat as she turned back to the sculpture.

"Aren't we all?"  she kept her eyes--and smile--on him.  Studying.

What sort of person responds like this?  You're not sorry.  It echoed hollowly in her mind, dancing together with Are you lost in some slow waltz. 

[Trillian]

He held her gaze, noticing that her body shifted towards the sculpture but her eyes and smile stayed with him. How unusual. She wanted to dismiss him but was still on hook. What was he supposed to do with that?

"Do you-

need

"-have a use for me?"

He was glad he hadn't said 'need'. The only thing she'd need from him would be his throat, likely. It had been a pleasant experience for him after he'd got over the rude shock of losing a fight to a wimpy looking kid. He'd laughed on the floor of the alley, thinking it was a stupid way to die and then, yeah, like swimming in sexy molasses.

He'd also meant to phrase it like he needed work from her, but it hadn't come out that way. Fuck it, let her interpret that as she liked.

[The Cedar Witch]

Ghostly distant, under water,

'And what of me, then?'

Whisper of a voice.

A wave of--was that nausea?  Sonya's eyes widened slightly as she uncrossed her arms.  She was still and silent for a moment, eyes locked and holding a hungry glint.  With a gliding step she closed in.

"Now, why would you ask such a thing?"  Her voice was soft and low, a step above a whisper.  Surely, we've only just met. 

[Trillian]

He watched her approach; the elegant step, silent yet demanding. She said so much with her posture, with her expression. He met very few people who used words as sparingly as him. He talked a lot into his microphone in his studio at home, or sang songs to his empty living room accompanied by his guitar, but he found people talked too much when they were in public. Most of the time it was bullshit and nonsense.

"Because it keeps the conversation moving," he said honestly. Perhaps she would think he was making fun of her. It had been his intention to keep her talking, to find out if she thought he was worthwhile. He didn't want her to be insulted. "I don't like standing still."

The two statements together made it his fault that he yearned for her interest. Yearned. Was that what this was? The most interesting person to happen to him lately was a woman who could murder him with her eyes?

Fuck, yes.

[The Cedar Witch]

"Strange way to hold a conversation," Sonya eyed him with interest.  There could be a use for him.  Attractive, delicious neck, peculiar word choice, enticing voice. 

A welcome distraction.

"What is someone who doesn't like to stand still doing at a gallery?"  Her voice took on the slightest playful tone as she gazed--like a predator--into his eyes. 

[Trillian]

He shrugged when told his conversation was strange. It was only strange if she judged him by social conventions. He'd thought she would've tired of such things by now.

When she stared at him that way, his skin rippled gooseflesh again and his shoulders flexed to repress the shiver. "Because galleries aren't made for standing still." His fingers itched to get a cigarette out of his pocket and put it in his mouth. No smoking in the gallery, but he gave less of a fuck about that than the knowledge it would probably bother her. "Will you walk it with me?"

Absurdly, he found himself invested in her answer. Maybe he was getting lonely or something. It was hard to tell.

[The Cedar Witch]

Fascinating.  Bold.

'Might the lady honor me with a dance?'

The rustle of gowns.  The chiming of laughter, murmuring conversations.  Echoes of a sixteenth-century routine crossfading into the quiet of the mostly empty building.

Instead of replying she made one slow circle around him, assessing and admiring.  Ending with a challenging look and seductive, knowing smile, she turned and moved across the room.  Sonya stood in front of a highly textural abstract painting, a predominantly warm pallet on a four-foot canvas.

What was she doing?  The thrill of this game mixed unpleasantly with the lingering feeling of dread, the disquiet of familiarity.  Did he know her?  It was maddening, this absence of memory.  She could have easily picked his mind but that would shatter the intrigue.

[Trillian]

Decker watched her move past him, her eyes fixed on his face until they swept down his body. The way her steps crossed clued him into the circle before she performed it. He didn't turn with her, holding his ground and letting her check him out. Her expression at the finish was like praise and his gaze fell to the curve of her lips, thinking them as much a work of art as anything else in here. This time she moved away and he followed her, unhurried, looking at whatever she looked at, interested in what she stopped at.

It was another thing that begged to be touched. He disliked the 'no touching' rule as a default. Of course he knew why - the artwork would be destroyed, but perhaps the painter should have considered that as another component of their art instead of trying to immortalise it. Age would only make it brittle and crack, like people. Lots of money was spent for maintenance to preserve it... like people. Not this one though, except she felt brittle in other ways. Maybe her temperament? He couldn't know until it flaked away in his hands. By then it would be too late.

There were no guards here - perhaps the pieces in this room weren't expensive enough - but there were cameras. He didn't want to be kicked out but at the same time it was frustrating being prevented from doing what came naturally. He read the plaque. It said something about the earth. Even more reason to make it contact-friendly.

"Why this?" he asked, wondering if she was getting more out of it than he was. Or maybe her view was simpler. Maybe she just like the colours.

[The Cedar Witch]

Careful now, not too quickly.

He had stood his ground then followed, and this pleased her.  She did not turn to acknowledge him when he joined her side and asked his question.

"It teases."  she murmured, eyes tracing the movement of brush stroke and pallet knife and imagining the piece in progress.  Quick pulls up, harsh repeated scrapes down.  Pressing and filling the canvas, allowing it to rest before filling it again, scraping back excess here and moving it there.  It was the motion, begging to be traced with fingertips.  Her own work waited for its fourth coat, but she hesitated in a creative block.  Inspiration lingering on the impulse to tear past the layers through the canvas itself.

"These are stunning." 

From the corner of her mind, this voice traveled.  Fingers, uninvited, grazing the dips and peaks of dried paint.  A part somewhere ached and she pushed the image sharply back.

"Your turn."  Sonya turned to face him, waiting to see where he would lead them.

[Trillian]

He agreed that it teased, finding it curious she would be drawn to it rather than repulsed. Perhaps she didn't get 'teased' a lot. Yes, that felt right about her. She took what she wanted.

His turn.

He regarded her firstly, his gaze roaming her face, always returning to her eyes. He shifted them away with difficulty and looked into the next room where there were sculptures. He followed his own stare and left her, moving for the first one that had caught his eye. It had one of those plaques that he liked; the 'Please Touch' sign.

Golden wood, worked and highly polished. Rough white stone melded into it. Metal poking out of it, bronze in colour. It looked like a harm of instruments. There was something musical about it, and he stroked first the wood before his palm moved to the stone - rough and biting. He pushed harder onto it, leaving imprints on his hand before finishing with a twisting grip on the metal rod. He'd initially thought of it as trumpet-like but now it felt phallic.

[The Cedar Witch]

Sonya did not move from her place until he had reached the next sculpture.  Her pace deliberate, she passed behind him close enough to graze but skillfully avoided touching him.  As she passed she took in his scent, tobacco and musk, and the Hunger curled in her mouth.

She moved around to the opposite side of the sculpture, keeping her eyes on him.  Ever watchful, she studied his expression as his hands explored the surface.  As his fingers touched the metal she placed her own on the polished wood, delicately tracing the grain with her fingertips and nails.  Leisurely her hand moved across the wood to stone, tapping lightly against the rough white in time with the music as if on piano keys.  She did not touch the metal, moving again to place her palm flat against the wood.

"Why this?"  She echoed his previous query, eyes on his face.