RoAnna Sylver
Author RoAnna Sylver is a nineteen-year-old dreamer who's never been afraid of dark alleys. She can often be found dallying around the Net - mostly at her art site, Sylverkitsune.deviantart.com.
Regan glanced over his shoulder and tried to light up his cigarette without burning his tongue. His prehensile, lizard-like tongue curled around the cigarette, holding it around four inches away from his face. The tiny red ember-glow erupted at the end of the cancer-stick; he sucked his tongue back into his mouth like a strand of spaghetti – smelling could never compare to tasting. He sucked in the pungent smoke greedily, trying to absorb every bit of the heat into his body. The nightclub was drafty, and every chill cut right to his bones. Chain-smoking, while not the most attractive or healthy of habits, was a convenient source of warmth.
And it calmed him down. He folded his arms tightly to conserve body heat and keep his fingers from nervously twitching, and tucked his chin down into his chest so all anyone would see was a shiny, shaved head. Not the beady eyes darting around the room, never still. And never together; the pupils zipped in entirely different directions, flicking independently, like the spiral-eyes of some life-sized chameleon in a man’s skin.
The crowd was noisy, relaxed, happy, drinks in hand, an aura of jovial anticipation hovering around them. Regan wouldn’t be able to relax until he laid his nervous, disjointed eyes on the only man he had eyes for tonight. Soon, the owner of the place would come out to emcee for headliner Evelyn Georj and schmooze with the audience. It’d be too easy for Regan to slide on up, shake his hand, thank him for the wonderful night, and catch the mark’s scent on his tongue. Follow the poor doomed bastard’s scent-trail. Snap a few vertebrae, crack a few eggs for the omelet called pay-day.
And never set foot in another goddamn drag club ever again.
It wasn’t so much that a hush fell over the audience. Instead, they ceased talking at once, as if some kind of silence-bomb had gone off; instant quiet just hit the room like a wall. Every mouth snapped shut, every head turned like an ensemble of marionettes to stare at the curtain. It was damn eerie; Regan had the sudden impression that the entire room had been encased in a fishbowl, and he was on the outside looking in. He wasn’t surprised. Arcane shield-speaking, he was packing heat, armed to the teeth. A little smirk spread across his face; this explained the club’s popularity. Stage glamour, audience-ensnaring dime-a-dozen spells – it was an old, dirt-cheap trick, but effective as hell.
Then the music started. Double-trouble purple-red saxophones cut through the smoke-swirled air, jazz-syncopated pale green drums got people moving in robotic jiggy-jerks, sporadic sways in their seats as they stared. Fixated on the heavy curtain, panting in anticipation, the rise before a group orgasm. Regan couldn’t keep the disgusted sneer off his face – magically influenced or not, that behavior was just embarrassing for all of them. At least he wasn’t under the voice’s spell. He could remain cool, not entranced - objective.
“You had plenty money, nineteen-twenty-one; you lost it all and then a-way you run…” A smoky voice ooo-oozed out from behind the curtain like motor oil through a mechanic’s filthy rag. “Why don’t you do right – like some other men do?”
Now, that was a damn good question.
Red sequins. Some nonsense business about fishnets and stiletto heels. Sharp cheekbones and eyelashes for miles and lipstick three shades too dark. Undeniably masculine and overwhelmingly female, some life-oozing, sexuality-radiating queen of the damned. Borderline-frightening but God, that made it impossible to look away; she was a Victorian haunted house being demolished in slow-motion; you took a bite, ran her acid-laced chocolate over your tongue, you lapped her up like the mind-control serum that was flowing over the entire audience in waves, she might as well have been an IV drip into their veins.
Her movements whispered saucy tabloid pages in his ear about crazy anonymous sex under a table at a debutante ball, she was the Queen of the World living in a trailer park and shooting at a rat with a sawed-off shotgun; it was disgusting, alluring, confusing, and completely enthralling.
He snaked out his tongue, jammed the cigarette out right on the tablecloth. He didn’t need it to keep warm anymore.
“Why don’t you do right… Like some other men do…?” The last high note hung in the air for just a few seconds. Then the stupid robots just had to scream and stomp and practically drool and piss all over the place. They didn’t notice as Regan sidled around the last table, slowly working his knife out of his belt and into his hand.
And there was the mark, lounging at a private table next to the stage. The emcee in tails and a top hat. Now, if Regan could reach that alcove, he could melt into it and watch the emcee sip his martini in hedonistic smugness, catch his scent. And follow. Just a couple more steps, people were still shrieking in joy, they’d never –
“Hey, how ya doin’ there, lovey?”
Regan gasped and clapped his hands over his eyes as he was suddenly plunged into a blinding column of light. He shrank back away from the light stabbing into his sensitive eyes, and crashed into a table.
“Enjoying the show so far, babe?”
“Aaagh – uh – ggghhh…”
“Man of few words, strong and silent type, hey? That’s okay, don’t need a big vocabulary with a face like that, do ya, honey?”
Perfect. She had to pick him to heckle. “Listen, man – lady -” he hissed with a slight lisp, desperately trying to get his balance back, he was so disoriented by that damn spotlight. He couldn’t see, his sharp lizard’s eyes were completely overwhelmed, he weaved and swayed like a drunkard trying to keep his feet after an all-night binge.
“Man? Lady? Pff, I think you mean Evelyn, dear! People may call me a queen, but we’re all royalty here, we’re all friends, right babies?” Another round of hooting applause. “Lighten up, have some fun! So where are you from, hon?”
“Nowhere – I don’t – I just -” he fell back against another table, this time too fast - he tripped and went down hard, found himself flat on his back in a nanosecond, staring at the black ceiling. And above him the knife had flown out of his hand and now traveled through the air so slowly, as if the air were pudding, turning end over end, razor edges illuminated by the spotlight it flew through as it unfolded with a snap…
The butterfly knife slammed into the stage, hypodermic-needle edge embedded directly between Evelyn’s stiletto heels. She stared at the blade in horror, for once struck completely speechless and still.
The emcee in the top hat was not. Dark, ratty little eyes immediately saw from point A to point B. Knew that knife had been meant not for the painted songbird, but him. He reached up one hand, slid it along the wall – and pulled the fire alarm he’d consciously sat directly beneath.
People screamed as the sharp keening of the emergency bell sliced through the smoky air. And not in rapture now, but rage they erupted – someone had tried to harm their princess, and they were not letting him get away in once piece. They charged at Regan who was now scrambling to get up. He rolled under one table and flew out the other side – and faded as he ran.
There was no shapeshifting involved. His chameleon’s gift only went so far, but in the place of actual color-changing, he found sneaky backdoor ways to blend into shadows and shades of burgundy, he slipped around people who should have blocked his way, he bent and twisted in ways humans could not. Running for his life, desperately tearing and shoving through the crowded, rioting nightclub, he pulled out every one of his tricks, blended in where he should have stuck out like a sore thumb spray-painted fluorescent orange, did things that human beings should not have been able to do. He faded.
Evelyn slipped behind the curtain, unnoticed for once. The emcee scrambled almost on all-fours out the back door, all but wetting himself. Before the crowd could even register what had happened, all three were gone. All that remained was the knife.
Regan slumped against the cold brick alley wall and tried to catch his breath. He sucked in the chilly air; it burned his throat just as the cigarette always did. As he gulped in air, the dizziness and disorientation from the spotlight faded.
Out front, people were starting to run out and flood the street. Nobody had bothered to shut the fire alarm off. That was fine - in fact, the stupid emcee had just made his job so much easier. With everyone evacuating out the front, nobody would be watching the side alley where Regan gasped like a gutted fish. This night might not be a complete bust after all.
Then, an odd sound reached his ears – a sharp scream of pain, and then a suspended raspberry noise, like all the air being let out of a balloon. Something flew out of the dark alleyway in front of him, something huge and round and – very balloon-like. It zoomed in crazy zigzag patterns across the sky, silhouetted against the moon, until it deflated into the shape of a man flailing his arms as he sailed helplessly through the air, screaming a very human scream. And, seconds later, there was a very human splat.
But Regan didn’t have time to wonder what the hell that had been, more screams and sounds of a fight were breaking out up ahead. And it was right between him and his vital way into the theater. Well, he could do this the sneaky way or the fun way, and he’d had enough of sneaking for one night. He stalked forward, hand going towards his smaller backup knife, and slipped around the corner.
Moments earlier, Evelyn Georj slipped quietly out the dark and isolated back loading bay entrance and shut the heavy metal door silently behind her. She hurried down the steps, trying not to let her heels clang on the metal, and nearly ran towards the alley’s mouth. Halfway down, some faint noise or maybe simply a would-be-woman’s intuition made her stop. There was something here, someone—
“Where you goin’ so fast, honey?” slurred a voice in a mocking imitation of Evelyn’s own stage banter. “Stick around for awhile.”
Damn it. Two figures stumbled out of the shadows—they were definitely drunk—to block her path. Though they both wove on their feet a little, they looked like pretty solid, strong guys. And given the way they were leering at her, these fans meant business.
“Cool it, sweeties, show’s over.” Evelyn tried a calming approach. She’d had enough insanity for one night, it was time to try a little refreshing diplomacy. “You can catch my next show here tomorrow night, same time.”
“It ain’t a show we want, girl.” One of them stepped forward, actually licking his lips. “We wanna make you sing. Such a pretty, pretty voice…”
Oh, God, they were still quite literally under her spell, that was it! With an exasperated, exhausted sigh, she reached up and pulled off her wavy red wig – stopping them dead in their tracks. “Boys. Show’s over. I’m leaving it up there on the stage, and so should you. You can see me tomorrow. It’ll be a good show, I promise.”
The two men looked at each other, then back at the boy with the messy, spiky black hair who’d suddenly appeared in front of them. The boy in the sequins and the striking green eyeshadow and dark lipstick. They stared blankly, as if a dog had suddenly looked up from chasing its tail and started to inquire about the weather—then they slowly shook their heads, as if waking up from a dream. The glamour was broken when the illusion was. George Evelyn started walking again, tried to slip between them as they shook off their disorientation.
“God– GOD! Shit!” one of them spat on the ground. “You’re a DUDE?! I got turned on by– that?!”
George Evelyn sighed, turned his eyes to the heavens as if seeking answers or divine patience there. “What part of ‘drag club’ do you guys not understand? If you’ll excuse me, now.”
“Oh, hell no, you ain’t goin’ nowhere!” Hard hands were grabbing at him now, and Evelyn Georj – now George Evelyn - spun around faster than anyone should have been able to in stilettos. A most unladylike punch like a cobra’s strike to the man’s windpipe, and he went down hard, gagging. George wrenched his wrist out of the man’s grasp and charged toward the alley’s mouth.
“Blow— blow it up, Frank!” the man on the ground sputtered. The other one leaped in front of George and flung out his arms, blocking the alley’s exit—puffed out his cheeks and started to grow. In all directions, began to blow up like a balloon, inflate as if his entire body was made of elastic or rubber, until he was so huge he was wedged between the brick walls. He leered down at George with wicked, piggy eyes nearly squeezed shut from the puffed-out cheeks.
George shot a glance over one shoulder—behind him, the other man was starting to stagger to his feet, and in front was that giant inflated balloon of a man. There was nowhere to run now, nothing to—
Wait. He bent down and ripped off one stiletto heel, flipped it around in his hand like a gunslinger, and stabbed at Frank’s inflated bulk with the wickedly pointed heel. The spike plunged in with a satisfying POP, and Frank’s scream of pain and shock mingled with a loud raspberry sound, like all the air being let out of a balloon. He dislodged from the ground and alley walls completely and flew up into the sky, zigzagging as he deflated, until he was just a man again, falling through the air—
George didn’t wait to hear the sickening splat he knew was coming, started running again towards the alley mouth—but something snatched at his foot. A hand locked around his ankle and his other foot came down off-balance—a wrenching pain shot through his entire leg as he went down hard, head catching a glancing blow on a garbage can. George grit his teeth and kicked frantically behind him, but the man wouldn’t let go. Now he was climbing up George’s leg, slamming a fist into his face, his full weight keeping the smaller, thrashing man pinned to the ground as his other hand fumbled around with his belt buckle, oh, God—
“Oh, hell, why can’t anything be easy tonight?” sighed a weary, slightly lisping voice from the alley’s mouth. “Either of you crazy kids seen the emcee? Top hat and tails, smarmy as a sewer rat with too much aftershave?” George strained his neck to look up but couldn’t see much under the drunken weight of the man who straddled him almost protectively.
“Piss off! We’re busy here!”
“For God’s sake, get this pig off me!” George belted, trying to knee the man in a sensitive area.
“Yeah, he’s a real winner. I don’t think that’s any way to treat a lady, do you?” The new man said, stepping forward. That delicate lisp, skinhead scalp and the heavy combat boots definitely did not go together like a wink and a smile. What did click was George’s memory – he recognized that voice, from somewhere else tonight.
“Holy hell, these fags are everywhere tonight!” the man snorted, and now he did thrash to get off George, attention fully captured by this new arrival. “Fine. That one can wait until I’m done with you.”
George struggled to all fours and tried to stand up, but his throbbing ankle wouldn’t support any weight, painful red-alert lights flashed in his skull; he felt sick, needed a quiet corner to spew his guts out. Instead he clamped his teeth shut and tried to control his twisting stomach.
“I really hate people who resort to violence without a damn good reason. Especially when it’s someone like you – bashing on someone like him.” Punctuated by two deliberate head jerks.
“’Violenth’? Psh – quit ‘thpittin’ and fight, you little bitch!”
Regan made an odd barking sound that could have been a laugh – had he even remotely cracked a smile. “I don’t think you really know what ‘violenth’ ittthhhh.” He exaggerated the lisp, blew a raspberry on the word – a very sloppy raspberry from his long lizard-tongue.
“Oh, and I ‘thuppothe’ you’re gonna show m – AAAAUUUGHHH!”
The man never saw what hit him. Regan faded, disappeared right before both the thug and George’s eyes. Regan slammed into him from the side, coming back into focus abruptly as he pinned the man against the brick wall. The man’s feet dangled a clear foot off the ground, a gleaming butterfly knife's edge against his throat. Regan gave a deep, lazy sigh, long tongue flickering and tickling the tip of the thug’s nose. The man whimpered and squirmed, and the fabric around his crotch area suddenly turned several shades darker.
Regan jerked his head back towards George, who was trying to claw his way up the brick wall, helped by some garbage cans. “Where’d he hurt you?” he grated.
“What?” George overbalanced on the cans as he looked up, surprised, and they all went over in a small shriek and several metallic crashes. “Oww…” he gasped, blinked hard and held his ankle tightly.
“Come on now, try not to kill yourself while I got this little roach up here, can you do that for me?!” Regan growled. Then he took a deep breath and rubbed his temples with one hand, holding up the creep with the other. He softened slightly, but kept an iron clamp on the whimpering man. “Now. Where’d he hurt you?”
“My ankle. Think it’s broken or something.” George sniffed and tried to look dignified.
Regan grunted in assent. He picked the man up off the wall and slammed him down into the ground, onto his ankle—piledrove his leg into the concrete. The man howled and flailed, trying to claw and bite at Regan’s arm, knee him in the groin. His ankle bent at a crazy, unnatural angle and his foot just hung as if it belonged to someone else. George physically couldn’t look at it, felt his stomach lurch when he did.
“Where else?” Regan snarled through clenched teeth, sneering at the screaming man.
“My…” George’s hand went to his bloodied head, bruised eye and cheekbone, split lip, one loosened tooth. Then he caught sight of the man’s wide, tortured eyes, begging for the pain to stop. “Nowhere…” he whispered.
“What the hell?” Regan stared at George. “Come on, dude. You’re all messed up. This waste of lungs should be the same. He should feel exactly how he made you feel.”
“No. Nowhere. He didn’t hurt me anywhere else. Please… stop.”
Regan shook his head in wonderment. He just looked at George. Something about that weird mercy, behind the filth and blood… it made him lower his hand, and toss the creep down like a sack of garbage.
“Run, you pitiful shit-souled cockroach. If you can.”
He couldn’t. Crying and shaking, he hobbled out of the alley on one leg and two hands, as fast as he could. Regan heard him sobbing even after he disappeared.
“You okay?” Regan crouched down next to George, who slumped against the building in his ruined sequined gown, stained with blood and dirt and rancid nightclub food from the garbage cans. Lots of bright red sequins had come off in the fight, and they littered the alley like glitter among the filth.
“Do I look okay?” George gave a little mirthless laugh, spat out some blood. He couldn’t quite look at Regan – no matter if he’d just saved George’s life, after what he’d done to that man… “My stupid ankle, and… my head…” he closed his eyes, tried to get the alley to stop spinning.
Regan gave a crooked half-smile. “Thought you said he didn’t hurt you anywhere else.”
“Yeah, well... I lied.” George looked at Regan out of the corner of his eye and gave a weak, haunted smile back. “Thanks.”
“It was a pleasure,” he said, simply, flexing the fingers on one hand. “Believe me.”
George nodded uneasily. Even if this guy had just saved his ass – this skin-headed, lizard-tongued, lisping man gave him the creeps. He’d really seemed to enjoy hurting that thug…
“So. How you getting home?” Regan asked grudgingly.
George looked up sharply. “I’m just going to wait until my ankle feels a little better, and then I’ll be fine.”
“Huh-uh, that thing’s twisted bad at least. You still ain’t walking nowhere for…” he trailed off. Regan found himself at a stinking crossroads. Down one road lay a completed job, a dead emcee, and Regan back home with the satisfaction of a hit well done, and some extra cash. And a beat-up drag queen, left in a filthy alley, on a night that sure as hell wasn’t going to get any safer, or warmer.
Quick cash, or helping a freak in need…
“Come on. I’m taking you home.” He bent down and started to lift George up off the ground, but was quickly stopped by a whack on the shoulder and a sharp protest.
“Hey! If you think I’m letting you carry me anywhere, someone’s got a few screws loose! I may have gotten knocked around just now, but I’m no invalid.”
Regan sighed. “Look, buddy. It’s cold. It’s damp, it’s generally horrible out. I’m not all that familiar with this shitty part of town, and I want to get out as soon as possible. That’ll happen much faster if I do the running and you do the navigating. So just suck it up.”
George rolled his eyes and kept an expression of the highest dignity while Regan scooped him up off the ground, picking him up as easily as if he were a small child. “Now, if you’re done being all feisty…”
“Uh, yeah, speaking of that.” George said, suddenly suspicious, and uncomfortable in Regan’s arms. “I’m really grateful and all, but if you’ve got any nasty ideas about how I’m gonna be paying you back for this, you can just drop me right now.”
“What?”
“I’m. No. Whore.” George said deliberately. He instinctively tensed up, ready to punch him in the face, kick him in the nads if Regan tried something.
Regan had to toss his head back and guffaw, long tong flickering. “Well, that’s good, ‘cause I’m no queer!”
“Well. Sex aside, you deserve some serious thanks for probably saving my life just now. Let’s go.” George was still uncomfortable with this whole arrangement, but it went against everything he believed in not to somehow repay this strange man.
“Fine. Which way?” Regan asked at the alley’s mouth, and responded to George’s direction. He shot a glance back at the alley’s darkness, and the glint of red sequins that caught the dingy streetlight’s glow. He’d be back there again with a butterfly knife or gun in hand. Soon enough he’d be a little bit richer and an emcee would be a lot more dead. But for now, they moved on into the open street of sick yellow streetlights and gasoline rainbows.
© Copyright 2009 RoAnna Sylver