Preface
October 24, 2012
The world had gone grey.
Clouds swirled down in thick tendrils of mist until they met the grey
sand of the cove in a soft kiss. Gigantic pieces of grey driftwood were
littered around the cove like the forgotten tinker toys of some child God. The
ocean, normally alive in glittering blues and seemed, seemed sullen and
lackluster. Even the old workout pants and oversized sweater that she wore were
grey. Willow was reminded of Stevie Ray
Vaughn’s The Sky Is Crying and thought that he must have visited this
place.
And where exactly was this place, she pondered, suddenly
aware that she had no memory of arriving here or even where she had been
before. “I must be dreaming”, she
thought. “That would certainly explain the absolute lack of color.”
“You. Must. Stay.”
The high-pitched alien sounding voice spoke in a clipped
tone, carefully enunciating each word like a computerized language translation
program. Startled, Willow leapt up and
spun around, searching for the source of the voice. She was awestruck at the
sight of the being in front of her.
Definitely non-human, she quickly surmised, though human-like. Tall. Exceedingly so. At least 8 or 9
feet. The being wore a white robe but
Willow could not say if this was a male or a female. The being had thick black hair that was piled
up on its angular head in an intricate design.
Willow remembered sitting at the kitchen table as a very young child,
watching her mother and aunt take the pins out of her grandmother’s foot high
hair bun and brush it out until it fell in shimmering black strands to the
floor, dragging behind her as she walked like bridal train. She imagined that if she were to unwind this
being’s Picasso-like braids, they would also cascade to the ground.
The being spoke again but Willow noticed that the mouth
didn’t move. Odd that.
“You. Must. Stay.”
The repeated command
annoyed Willow and she replied sullenly, “I don’t know who or even WHAT you
are, but you can’t tell me what to do. I don’t want to be here anymore and you
can’t make me stay.”
“You. Must. Stay. HE is coming.”
From the folds of the voluminous robe, the being produced a
large leather-bound book. Willow could tell by the way the leather was cracked
and dusty, the edges of the pages within showing a distinct yellowing, that it
was an ancient tome. The book levitated in the air in front on the being,
spinning gently in the mist.
With a slight flick of the wrist, the being floated the
spinning book over to where Willow sat.
“You. Must. Look” the Being commanded. “HE is coming.”
The spinning book opened in obedience to the being’s
command. Before her, Willow saw a
portrait of a man she did not recognize. It was an old portrait, and judging
from the clothes the man was wearing, probably 14th or 15th
century. How curious. The pages of the
book turned with the wind, revealing to Willow portrait after portrait of this
same man, in different costumes from different eras. Perhaps he was an actor, and these were
different roles he had played. But then she became aware that, while she
understood it was all the same man, he looked very different in each
portrait. In fact, she noted, in a
couple of the portraits, he was a woman.
As Willow watched transfixed, the pages of the book began
turning wildly as the book spun on its invisible axis faster and faster. It
rose in the air and vanished in a bright flash of light.
The Being was illuminated in the flash of light and Willow
saw how ethereal it actually was.
“Wake up Daughter.” It said softly as it began to fade away.
“HE is coming. You…..Must….Stay.”
Willow woke suddenly. The sun streaming through the kitchen
window hit her squarely in the eyes. Squinting, she attempted to raise her head
off the kitchen table where she’d passed out. She had no idea how long she’d
been there. Her head was pounding out the rhythm of her heartbeat and her neck
was so stiff and sore that she groaned with the effort of raising it off the
tabletop. Once her vision cleared, she
became aware of the half-finished fifth of vodka, the empty bottle of pills
that had been half full the night before, and……dear God, she thought shuddering…..the
razor blade. Quickly she checked her wrists, suddenly sickened by the
memory of the dark place she’d been in.
“You…..Must….Stay….”
That odd, alien voice resounded in her ears and she shivered violently
as she rose.
HE…is…coming.
Chapter One
New Orleans February 12, 2013
The grand masque ball of the Mistik Krewe of Comus was well
underway when John Reno stepped through the entryway. This was his first visit to New Orleans
during Mardi Gras as he had been given the honor of Parade Marshall for the
Krewe of Orpheus. The honor included
invitations to the Rex Ball where all the “royalty” gathered to end Carnival
celebrations. All week long, his friend Arty, who was a lifelong resident of
the Big Easy and one of the finest piano players he’d ever worked with, had
been educating him on the protocols and history surrounding the Krewes and
their respective places in New Orleans society.
While the members of the newer super krewes – Bacchus, Nyx,
Endiymon and Orpheus – didn’t require secrecy of membership, the old line
krewes – Rex, Mistik Krewe of Comus, Knights of Momus and the Krewe of Proteus
– still had strictly enforced rules of secrecy and therefore most all the members
wore grand masques or elaborate costumes. The rules and protocols of these krewes had endured since the early 1800's and were not about to conform to those of modern society.
John wore simple formal wear. At least, his version of
formal wear; tight black dress slacks hugged his long, well- toned legs, a burgundy
velvet swallowtail tuxedo jacket with no shirt underneath, displayed the tattoos
on his chest, a black bowler hat with purple and gold ostrich plumes and a solid
gold fleur-di-lis pin, perched atop his silken, shoulder length black hair. He was every
inch the image of the rock god he was supposed to be and every eye in the room
was immediately drawn to the dashing figure he cut as he leisurely made his way
into the ballroom.
No one else in the grand hall was attired so outrageously save
one other gentleman who wore the costume of a French Musketeer, complete with
sword and pistols, and a silken, lace trimmed face mask. The elaborate gold and white costume of King Rex paled in comparison to his elegance. For some odd reason,
John could not take his eyes off the rakish looking gentlemen, and it had
nothing to do with the gorgeous woman who sat at his feet as he
lazily stroked a gloved hand through her thick auburn curls. Stunning as she
was, in a tight golden dress that left little to the imagination, John barely
noticed her.
“Quite the character, isn’t he?” Arty shouted in John’s ear to be heard over
the loud music and general noise of the dance.
“Who is that?” John asked
“THAT is Monsieur de Chevalier” Arty replied, pointing with
his champagne glass for emphasis in the gentleman’s direction. “He’s something
of a figurehead for the Knights of Momus. There’s not a soul in New Orleans
that knows his true identity. Or at least that will admit to knowing it. And
some suspect that; like the rest of the Mardi Gras royalty; a different person
portrays him every year. But I think its always the same guy. You can look at
pictures of past balls and he always looks identical.”
“He’s very… intriguing.”
John said with a wry smile. He’d never been attracted to men before and
was beginning to question his masculinity but still could not take his eyes off the elegant figure.
“Let’s go meet him then!” Arty replied cheerily, already
pushing their small group toward the dais where Monsieur sat lounging with his legs thrown
over the arm of his throne-like chair. The mostly empty wine glass in his hand and his languid
demeanor gave the impression that he was quite inebriated, but he rose as he
saw Arty’s little group approaching.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur” Arty said with a courtly bow to the
gentleman. “Arty Mayfield” he said.
The Chevalier returned the bow with a backward flourish of
his blue velvet cape, speaking no greeting in return but offering his hand to Arty
in a firm handshake.
“Monsieur, may I present my wife Jo.”
Bowing again, The Chevalier raised Jo’s hand to his lips and
brushed a light kiss over it but still did not speak.
“Mr. Kenneth Mann” Arty indicated John’s friend, assistant,
and bodyguard who was a near constant presence at his side. As Ken stepped toward the dais he raked his
eyes lasciviously over the woman seated at the foot of The Chevalier’s throne.
What an exquisite woman she was, he thought. Ken stretched his hand out and
shook Monsieur’s briefly. “A pleasure” he mumbled. Something about the man had
set off warning bells in his highly trained, paranoid brain.
“And this is John Reno” Arty stretched out his arm toward
John as if he were introducing him on stage.
John extended his hand to the The Chevalier then leapt back
in surprise and pain when, as their hands met, sparks flew and a shock of
electricity surged up his arm, instantly numbing his fingers. Cradling the
injured arm in his other hand, he was horrified to discover that his cock had
gone rock hard and was straining against the tight black slacks. His breath was
coming in ragged gasps and his vision was clouding. He feared he would either
cum in his pants or faint. Possibly both. It took only a few seconds to regain
his composure and he silently prayed no one had noticed his struggle.
He glanced at The Chevalier, who had quickly sunk back onto
his seat and was flexing and shaking his injured hand. The elaborate masque hid most the man’s
expression but John saw that his icy blue eyes were wide with shock and wonder.
And something about those eyes made John’s cock go even harder. He swallowed
hard.
“My apologies Monsieur” he stammered. “I hope you are
uninjured?”
The Chevalier waved his other hand dismissively as if to say
“think nothing of it” but spoke no actual words. Bending his head to his consort, he whispered
something in her ear. She giggled and glanced coyly at John.
“Monsieur says that he is fine and is grateful for his
leather gloves. They absorbed most of the shock. Otherwise, he fears his
fingers may have been turned to ash. He
also says that he hopes you have suffered no lasting injury, though he fears
you may have been more shocked than we realize.”
She giggled again and dropped a furtive glance to the bulge
in John’s crotch.
He felt his face reddening with embarrassment.
“I’m happy you’re okay sir.” John said, a little irritated
that the man would not address him directly. He gave a slight bow of his head
then raised his eyes again to meet The Chevalier’s. Those incredible blue eyes met his green ones
in an unwavering stare, both searching for answers in the other’s gaze. Finally,
John turned away and stepped back toward the others.
Ken was immediately at John’s side, fussing over him like a
brooding hen.
“Boss, are you okay? Do I need to call the paramedics? An
ambulance? The COPS?”
That last word was emphasized and directed straight at The
Chevalier with an angry stare. There was no doubt as to who the bodyguard
blamed for the exchange.
“I’m fine” John replied testily and stalked angrily out of
the ballroom.
“That was quite a shock” Arty gingerly took John’s hand in
own, turning it one way and then the other, inspecting for damage. The small
party had retreated to an outdoor patio where they could speak without
shouting.
“You SAW that?!” John was incredulous.
“We ALL saw it” Ken said. “It looked like a firecracker went
off in your hand.”
“What caused it?” Arty asked
“I honestly have no idea” John replied.
“I touched his hand, and it was like grabbing a live wire.”
He shook his head in bewilderment still trying to make sense
of what happened and of his strange physical response to The Chevalier.
As if reading his mind, Ken said “There’s something wrong
about that guy. I feel it in my gut.”
He rushed on “ I mean, the guy couldn’t even say ‘I’m sorry’
just waved it off.”
“That’s not rudeness really” Arty interjected
“Silence is common among the Knights, so no one can guess
their identity through their voices. Like Monsieur, most of them keep a
mouthpiece nearby that can speak for them when pressed.”
"That’s actually one reason I believe Monsieur is always the
same person. His consort is always the same. Poor girl, no one knows HER
identity either, even though she never wears a mask and never hides her voice.
She’s a beauty though.” Arty said appreciatively.
Jo playfully smacked him on the back of the head. “And why
would you be knowing that Arty Mayfield?”
Her thick, Irish accented voice twinkled with merriment.
Arty took his wife’s hands in his and dropped to his knees
dramatically. “There’s no other woman in the world for me but you my darling.”
He kissed both of her outstretched hands. “But if I didn’t know a great beauty
when I saw one, then you would think I’m lying when I tell you how gorgeous you
are.”
Jo blushed and preened a little under the outrageous compliment.
“She really is a beautiful woman” Ken said thoughtfully. “Shame to see
her with that arrogant son of a bitch. You should charm her away from him
Boss.” Ken’s smile brightened at the idea “That would knock him down a peg or
two.”
“You charm her Ken.” John chuckled, but his famous roguish smile
was quickly replaced with a thoughtful stare.
“I have other thoughts about how to deal with Monsieur”
