The Council of Dark Root_Armand Read online

  He closed his eyes, reading her again. The images that appeared forced his eyes back open. Damn it! He hit the bed with the side of his fist.

  “What’s wrong?” She grasped for the sheet lying next to her. “I’m so embarrassed. I threw myself at you, and you don’t even want me. Please don’t tell anyone.”

  He looked at her. How could she think he did not desire her? She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “Yes, yes I do want you.”

  “It only has to be for tonight…”

  She wasn’t telling the truth.

  Isabella believed in signs and earlier that day that she had been fighting with her father. He demanded that she marry a man much older than herself who had a good family and owned some land. She prayed to the Angels to have her burdens lightened, and then, miraculously, Armand appeared. It must be God’s hand. She had no intention of letting him go.

  Armand pressed his lips together. This wasn’t the first woman who’d made such assumptions, and he had even played along, but there was something different about Isabella. He sat up and dangled his legs over the side of the bed, his face in his hands.

  Isabella climbed to her knees and pressed her naked breasts into his back. She ran her fingers through the long strands of his hair. “I shouldn’t have told you, but I didn’t want you to think I was one of those women.”

  “I wish you were.” He had taken his share of those women, Hell, he had taken someone else's share, too. But he had never taken a virgin.

  Her warm breath fell upon his neck.

  He dropped one of his hands into his lap. He could show her things, of course. Open her up to a new world of pleasure. No real harm in that. Not if she loved it.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I’m a grown woman. I know what I want.”

  And it wasn’t like he was promising anything. His other hand dropped.

  “Armand…”

  Her fingers traced a line across the back of his neck. Her aura filled the room, an intoxicating blend of fear and desire.

  “I can’t.” He turned to look at her, hardly believing he spoke the words.

  “Lay by me.” She patted the mattress beside her, lowering herself down. He obeyed. White-yellow energy rippled around her and he wanted to immerse himself in it. He took her hand again, allowing her thoughts to flood through him: memories of her childhood, Catholic School, news of her mother dying…

  She was as broken as he was.

  His eyes slid towards the window, staring at the stone wall of the adjacent building outside. “I can never love you. I don’t think I can love anyone.”

  She smiled, climbing on top of him, turning his head back to meet hers. “I’m not asking you to.”

  Armand’s eyes took in the swell of her breasts, the soft roundedness of her belly. She raised her skirt, allowing him a glimpse of her thighs. She raised it further, revealing the white lace of her panties.

  His resolve broke.

  If there was a God, as his Catholic mother claimed, at least He would know Armand had tried to be good.

  His hands worked on his zipper. He needed to feel her life-force, to understand what it was like to be pure, too.

  She lowered her hips, hovering above him. He saw her thoughts without probing––she imagined them falling in love, getting married, moving away and sending for her family. He saw all the hopes she pinned on him.

  He squeezed his eyes to block it out. The images broke into confetti.

  The pink flower fell from her hair, landing on his chest. He took it, holding it against his heart. If he was going to do it, he was going to make this memorable for her.

  “Close your eyes,” he said rolling her onto her back. He looked down at her, tucking his hair behind his ears so that he could see her face. “It will feel like a dream.” He brushed the side of her face with her flower. “A very good dream.”

  FOUR

  There are some doors you should not open.

  Armand sipped his brandy from the far edge of the town square, watching the people of the village go about their lives with the self-importance one gives the task of buying a loaf of bread or sweeping a sidewalk.

  The sun cast a fiery hazy over the landscape, blurring the multi-colored, two and three story buildings into the sleek mosaic pavers that covered the square. The scene resembled a watercolor painting, with no clear edges or images to focus upon.

  Armand put on his sunglasses, not to shield his eyes against the setting sun or the hazy watercolor world, but because he felt less conspicuous with them on.

  The municipal building clock tower hovered above the town, watching for moral infractions while counting down the hours until judgment. Superstition ran deep in this part of the world, even among the more progressive.

  God and his Angels and his Saints saw everything and would reward––or punish––accordingly.

  The fountain in the middle of the square was the most obvious reminder of God’s presence here: four laughing cherubs converged around a tall statue of Mother Mary. The cherubs held pens and scrolls in their chubby fingers, recording the deeds of the township while Mother Mary looked on with compassionate eyes, her arms outstretched and ready to receive the worthy.

  An arrow of birds flew overhead, chasing the sun. They had the right idea, Armand thought, suddenly missing L.A. Back home, he’d still be in shorts and the women would be in sundresses and bikini tops. Well, at least he had his drink––if he was going to be stuck somewhere so dark and primitive, at least he had his drink.

  As he nursed his third brandy of the evening, he watched for Isabella. Her work shift started two hours ago, yet he hadn't seen her enter the bar. Was she ill? He could go in and inquire, but if she was there he’d have to face her, and if she wasn’t…

  …if she wasn’t, he didn’t want to know why.

  A woman emerged from a shop across from him.

  For a moment he was certain it was Isabella. He sat up straight, craning his neck, only to see that the woman was older and rounder than Isabella, her aura the color of ripened fruit.

  To hell with it all.

  He crinkled the flower in his hands: the flower from Isabella’s hair the first night they made love. Three weeks they were together, and each night she came to him with a new pink flower in her hair, but this one he kept.

  He opened his palm and stared at the crushed petals. Why should he care what happened to her? She wasn’t the first woman he’d let go and she wouldn’t be the last.

  Feeling the anger rise up in his chest, Armand disentangled himself from the patio chair and stormed towards the fountain.

  He hadn’t made his wish the night they tossed Isabella’s coin into the well. He’d make it now.

  “I wish to never think of you again.” His words slurred as he dropped the broken flower into the water.

  He was drunk, publically drunk, but he didn’t care.

  “Take me away!” He beckoned with his fingers, looking up and down the road to see if any of the policia were out, but there was only a handful of people left as day turned to dusk.

  “Ah, hell. I can’t even get myself arrested.”

  His head pounded like a drum and he pushed his fingers into the sides of his temple to alleviate the pressure. He thought the liquor would have cured it, but it only made it worse.

  I just need to sleep.

  Sleep.

  Now there was an idea.

  He hadn’t been lying when he told the English woman he didn’t sleep. Sleep came hard to him. His insomnia was the reason he started drinking and smoking weed at the age of sixteen. Now, the remedies which were meant to help him get through the night were necessary to get him through his days.

  He could take some pills, but he had less than a handful left and he wasn’t sure he could get more.

  He stared at the cherub nearest him: a fat, winged child with round, mocking eyes. It wrote quickly and Armand stepped backwards, resisting the urge to read the scroll. The pounding in his temples quickened.

  Three nights. That’s how long it had been since he had slept. He stopped doing everything the night he said goodbye to Isabella.

  They had just made love. She was still in bed, a dreamy expression on her face, her black hair fanned across the white pillow. He dressed, not meeting her eyes as he gave her the speech.

  She was a great girl, he said buttoning his jeans, but he just didn’t see a future for them.

  Armand remembered the look on her face as if he had taken a picture. Her lips slightly parted, her eyes crinkled, her head cocked to the side.

  She smiled a little. “You are joking?”

  “It’s not you.” He continued his march across the room, gathering pieces of her clothing and placing them on the foot of the bed. “It’s me. I’m not in any position to continue this relationship. I have to leave soon, you know that. I don’t have a job. You deserve so much better.”

  She cried, soundless tears at first, begging him to reconsider.

  “It will be better once we are out of here and can share our lives in public,” she said.

  Armand lit a joint, inhaling––holding for the count of four, then, slowly exhaling. He continued pacing around the room, listening but not responding.

  Next came the screaming and the accusations that he was without a heart and had never loved anyone but himself.

  “I know, I know.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I told you in the beginning.” He took another hit from his joint as she cursed him in multiple languages.

  Armand had given this speech to enough women to know that she would throw things next: plates, glasses, and his brandy. He readied himself; he might even let her hit him with something.

  She needed the absolution. So did he.

  But she didn’t thro
w anything. Instead, once the crying and the screaming were over, she stood in the center of his room with the curtains open and the murky light streaming across her tear-stained face and stared at him.

  After a long, terrible silence she spoke her final words to him.

  “You’ll pay, Diablo.”

  She collected her things and left.

  For several days, Armand stayed in his apartment, sure she would return with her father, or the policia.

  But no one came.

  He should have left town.

  That would have been the smart thing to do. If you screw a tourist or two, no one cares, but if you ruin a local woman you’ve got trouble. He’d come to Santo Aldea hoping to learn more about his father, but his father wasn’t here, nor his father’s ghost. There was nothing to keep Armand from leaving.

  Except he needed to know that Isabella was okay.

  Eventually, Armand had to leave his apartment. His weed and his brandy were gone and he was growing hungry.

  Sleep-deprived and shaky from withdrawals, he had staggered through the low arch that led into town, uncombed and un-showered, amazed at how the world went on, even when his life was shit.

  “Are you okay?”

  Armand jumped, looking for the speaker, but he was still alone by the fountain.

  He eyed the scribbling cherub nearest him. By now, Armand’s scroll should be quite long. Where would he send the scroll, he wondered? To heaven or hell? Armand wished for clay to cover the thing’s eyes so it would stop watching him. He waved the statue away and stumbled back to his chair.

  “Cheers!” he said, lifting his drink. “Cheers! Here’s to being alone in this screwed up world.”

  A woman with a baby walked by. She frowned and gripped her child tighter.

  He winked and she quickened her pace.

  Armand managed to sit himself back down as his waiter dropped off a cup of hot coffee. “Please,” said the waiter, his eyes darting around the square. “Drink this and try to be more quiet. People, they will start to complain.”

  “What people?” Armand opened his arms. “There’s me, and you, and that woman whose pretending she doesn’t hear me…” He raised his voice as the woman disappeared with her child. “And those demon-angels at the fountain.”

  The waiter moved his gaze from the fountain back to Armand and made the sign of the cross over his heart.

  “Senor, please…”

  “Fine. I’ll be quiet.” Even in his state, Armand knew the waiter was right. He didn’t really want to disappear with the policia. He lifted the cup and let the steam rise to his nose.

  It calmed him almost at once.

  The waiter disappeared and Armand felt the sting of tears in his eyes. Why couldn’t he have stayed with Isabella? He had felt a strong connection to her, but he had meant it when he said he couldn’t love anyone. He might be able to tune into someone’s thoughts but he was incapable of sustaining any deep emotion. There was something missing from him.

  “I shouldn’t feel guilty,” he said, as if speaking to a friend across the table. The shops were closing for the night and the only lights left on came from Isabella’s bar. “What’s there to feel guilty about?” he said, his words slurring into one long word.

  “It’s just sex. She loved it. She told me she loved it. Why should I feel bad about it?” He felt his eyelids grow heavier with each word. “She had fun. I had fun…”

  The world spun around him and he took a long draw of his coffee.

  “Well, maybe taking a little bit of her life-force,” he chuckled to himself. “But its not like she needed those last few days. She won’t even miss them when the time comes.”

  From the center of the square the cherub watched him, looking more like a gargoyle as the sun disappeared than an angel.

  “And what do you get from it?” the cherub asked, his pen poised to write down the answer.

  “Power!” Armand slammed his mug onto the table.

  How could he explain to the statue that at the moment of a woman’s climax, he would siphon off some of her aura and make a wish? Money, status, charm. Tack on a few extra hours to his own life. Or maybe more energy to perform his tricks and keep the whole cycle going. Sexual energy was raw and untamed. The good stuff.

  “I get power,” he repeated, wiping the drool from his lips.

  The cherub eyed him. “I see.”

  Armand pled his case. “I didn’t ask to be born like this.” He frowned at his offending hands, hands that plucked the flowers from women’s hair then crumbled them. “Take that up with God, okay?”

  He took another drink of his coffee, his head clearing. The tears came back into his eyes.

  “If I had stayed with Isabella I might have taken too much. I could have killed her. I was doing her a favor when I said goodbye.”

  “You didn’t have to take anything.”

  “But I did. I did. And I would, for as long as she let me.”

  Scribble, scribble, scribble.

  The angel lowered his pen. Mother Mary’s arms dropped to her side. Armand’s head hit the table.

  Drool spilled from the corner of his mouth. Only half conscious, he drew up the image of Isabella: her arched back, her face between his hands. Their last night together when she whispered that she loved him.

  He couldn’t keep a cat alive. He certainly couldn’t keep love alive. He might not even be able to keep her alive.

  He closed his eyes, the image of Isabella’s crumbled flower the last thing he remembered before he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  A tap on the shoulder nudged him from his sleep.

  Sleep?

  He had been sleeping, without dreams or pills.

  He rubbed his eyes, aware of the pounding in his head. The sun was out again. Families walked the square. He found his sunglasses on the table and put them on. He must look like shit.

  “Señor, will you buy a doll? My grandmother make them homemade?” A young girl in tattered clothes stood before him, her eyes wide and hopeful. A cross hung around her neck. “The doll, she is for to protect you.”

  Armand blinked at the girl, not quite comprehending. She stared back, her mouth stretching into a wide smile. He reached into his trench coat pocket and produced a handful of pesetas.

  Too much for the doll, he knew, but he didn’t care.

  “Gracias! Gracias!” the girl squealed, jumping up and down, her braids bouncing behind her. She gave him the cloth doll and raced off to announce her sale.

  Soon he would be swarmed by an army of children, all trying to unload their overpriced goods onto him. Kindness rarely paid.

  Armand studied the doll. A sweet but crude thing, with stitches that ran across its face like she’d undergone a bad surgery. He stuffed the doll into his coat pocket where his coins had been.

  He was about to leave when a woman on the far side of the square caught his attention. She had brown curls that coiled down her back, a white cotton dress hemmed just above her knees, and a large, floppy hat––the type popular in his mother’s day––which framed her narrow face. She laughed easily as she conversed with a woman who was twice as wide yet inches shorter than herself.

  As if she could feel his eyes on her, the woman turned, peering at him over her shoulder. As she stared, the easy manner dissolved from her face.

  Once her appraisal of him was complete, her lips slid into a tight smile. Her aura flared around her, a light so blinding he was surprised it wasn’t accompanied by an explosion.

  Just as abruptly, her light receded and she turned back to her friend.

  “Señor, a coffee?” a young waiter, different from his server last night, asked, as he placed a clean ashtray on the table.

  “Yes, a coffee. Do you know who that woman is? That one in the white hat?”

  “I know everyone in the village, but this woman I do not know. I have seen her a few times this week, always with the other woman. She doesn't wear a wedding ring so perhaps…” The waiter smiled amorously.

  The man continued on about the merits of love and marriage. Armand snapped his fingers to silence him. The waiter blinked in confusion before turning to go.

  The woman looked at Armand again, her face caught in an expression between curiosity and amusement. She whispered to her friend, then crossed the courtyard in his direction with long confident strides.