this is my diary screaming out loud --

[pasogal2]

I knew she would come. The poor dear, she?s never been very strong. She?ll always seek out a savior. I listen for the sound of the car door slamming, watch her square her shoulders and charge across the lawn towards my door. Her lips are moving, but I cannot tell what she is saying. Perhaps she is speaking to God, ala Saint Joan.

She has always loved playing martyr after all.

I wait for her to pound on the door, let her work herself into a higher state of emotion with every rough rap of knuckles against wood. Yes, that?s it. It hurts, doesn?t it? I?ll fix it, my dear. I?ll always fix it.

Opening the door, I smile at her ? not a grin, just a tiny smile. Forcing my brows to draw together as I take in her bedraggled sight; I?m so worried about the little thing, after all.

?You have to stop it.? How interesting, she doesn?t even wait to say ?hello? first. I turn to watch her charge past me into the house, take my sweet time closing the door behind her. She?s still speaking, but I don?t pay attention until she?s near the end of her little tirade. ??have no right! I will ? I will not allow you to do this!?

What on earth can she be talking about?

?I have no idea what you mean, darling. I think you had better come inside and sit down.. I?ll make some tea,? I offer while stepping forward, making to brush past her and lead the way into my domain. But, all of I sudden, she lunges forward and shoves me back against the wall, her nails digging into my arms. My, my. I do my best to control my temper, to not discipline the little twit for daring to do such a thing. But I don?t ? I wait it out, gritting my teeth against the tension of her grasp. She?s gotten stronger since we?ve last met. I?ll have to remember this.

?You will not hurt them.? I think she has confused me with Jacob, or that tool of a lover, given the way she?s fiercely grinding out the words ? not shouting, the quiet rage that is all the rage in parenting magazines these days. I?m sure it works wonders on a three year old, but I am not impressed.

?I ? I don?t know what you?re talking about, Shannon. This ? you?re hurting me.? I am pleased that my voice wavers at the end and I lightly struggle to free myself, though it is all in vain. I want to see what she will do next, now that she thinks she is in control.

?I know exactly what you are trying to do, Serena! Your business is with me, not him. You have no right ? no right to threaten him. I swear to God, Serena, I will kill you myself ?? Christ, now she?s on the verge of tears. I?ve seen that look a thousand times. But this is interesting. Someone has been sending out threats, hm? I wonder who is closing in on my territory. I need to know more.

?Why ? why would I have any desire to hurt him, darling?? I sound shocked. How delightful.

?You ? you?re not involved?? Now she?s uncertain. Her little fit of rage is crumbling away; I expect apologies any second.

She releases me and I straighten my spine, smooth hands along my designer suit to make it clear my indignation at her taking such liberties with my person. Ah, here we are ? the apologies start flowing. I let them continue for a few seconds before cutting her off with a wave of my hand.

?No, no my darling, there?s no need to apologize. You?re under a great deal of strain aren?t you?? I pet her lightly, wrinkling my nose slightly in distaste for her new perfume. I hate jasmine. Goodness, she must have it bad. ?This is what happens when you don?t listen to what I tell you, Shannon. Have the other symptoms started??

?I ? yes.? She looks like a lost child now, concerned that she may have caused all of it. That?s it, dear. Do what Mother Serena wants you to do. ?My hand. It?s never hurt this much,? she mumbles while flexing her right hand. The magic is working far better than I anticipated. ?I haven?t been able to sleep.?

?I warned you that denying ? the most important part of yourself would cause you to feel side effects. We age much quicker when we deny our true selves, Shannon.? I curl an arm about her shoulders, attempting to be sincere.

?But before ? you said I had to stop.? She stares at me in confusion and I do my best not to let her see the triumph I?m feeling. I?ve got her now.

?Yes, because we must sacrifice some measure of our lifespan to allow new life to grow, dearest. It does not simply appear out of thin air, you know.? I think of how my plans had almost been ruined, how the seed growing inside of her could?ve been the end of this. But thankfully, she trusted me too much to ever seek out a real doctor. It had to have been my help that brought this miracle upon her. ?But I saw how much you suffered that year, not being able to give life to that part of yourself and do not want you to feel that anymore.?

I?m guiding her towards my study; make a show of searching through my collection for the infusion that is required for such a task. ?So ? you don?t want me to stop painting??

?No, my darling. I want the exact opposite.? I cannot help but grin when I find it. It had taken me weeks to gather all of the ingredients, pieces from her life and mine. But now it?s ready ? she?s ready. ?I want you to paint in a way that you have never painted before.?

?What?s this?? She asks while she studies the strange liquid in the tiny vial.

?Inspiration.? Her eyes light up.

I have her now.

[pasogal2]

Unlike her last tumble down the rabbit hole due to the push of artificial stimulants, there were no scenes of dizzying landscapes and melting faces to frighten her until her throat grew too hoarse to handle anything more than soft whimpers and carefully chosen words. No, Serena was far more skilled at her craft than any back-alley junkie who blended the powder with supplies strung together from visits to the local drugstore and a little bit of blind luck.

Shannon's willpower was little more than a hastily constructed mess of intention and disproportionate desires and was no match for the allure of the tiny vial burning a hole in her purse as she wound her way through the maze of traffic in the direction of the gallery. At every red light she would stretch a hand across the slender console and shift through the contents of her purse until she had found the glass container, reassuring herself that it existed -- that it was real. She had never felt so empty as she did during that drive across town, aware that all of her hopes now rested with the ingredients that Serena had mixed together for her (a mixture of herbs and dark mana -- not available in stores).

The other vial that was entrusted in her care, clinked against the new addition during her latest search and she felt a pang somewhere deep inside. She should be worrying about the dark clouds gathering around them, should be heading for the safety of her new home with extended family members.... and yet, she was parking in front of that quaint townhouse. Hastily silencing the engine, she gathered her belongings and fairly ran up the steps, jamming her key into the lock before disappearing inside.

Out of habit, she pressed button on her answering machine while dropping her bag and keys onto the kitchen counter. The first one was a wrong number, the next from Lola, and the last was a politely concerned message from her agent inquiring as to whether she had any idea when she intended to end her little "vacation."

"Today, Mr. Adams," she replied as his nasally voice continued to drone on, so intent on being ever-so-polite and delicate about the matter (for artists were a prickly bunch and one must tread carefully) that he ended up repeating himself about a half a dozen times. "I'm starting right now." It was almost purred as she inspected the vial in the glow of the afternoon light, removing the stopper with trembling fingers. Calling on skills from her wilder days, it only took two long swallows to devour the liquid, and a hand raised to swipe at her mouth as it burned a path down her throat. It did not contain the heat of an alcoholic burn; it was like tiny shards of ice slicing their way through her insides until they reached the pit of her stomach.

Coughing harshly, she settled the vial on the counter, fingers grasping onto the lip of the marble finish to help anchor her while the rich after taste took her breath away. It was like the low rumble of an impending stampede, the tiny tremors that began to trickle through her body. And then there was an all-out rush. She was unable to stop from slamming to the floor, from succumbing to the darkness.

Hours later, consciousness returned little by little. She was able to hear the gentle chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall, ticking away until it reached twelfth stroke. She could feel the cool linoleum pressed up against her cheek, the ache that was throbbing in the joints that had been injured during her fall. But somewhere deep inside, was a new sensation -- an awareness that was tingling at her senses, heightening them. Humming a low sound, she cracked open her eyes enough to peer through the cracks in dark lashes, watched the shadows of the dark kitchen swim in front of her eyes as they tried to come into focus. But they were slightly hazy, blotchy -- as if prepared by the hasty brushstrokes of Monet. Sitting up, she rubbed at her brow while staring about the kitchen, attempting to brush the cobwebs away.

But it still remained.

Pushing to her feet, she staggered over to the wall in search of a light switch. The brightness dazzled her, the glow from the light bulbs swam before her eyes like living prisms of light and the marble glazing on the countertop flowed with the constant movement of high tide. Lines distorted themselves, shapes blurred subtly. It was like walking through the boundaries of a Van Gogh, or Matisse; it was wild.

She stared down at her hands, watching the color of her own flesh distort into the multi-faceted hues of one of her portraits. Unbidden, a low laugh built up in the back of her throat, and once it spilled out of her mouth she could not stop the sound from continuing to flow. Fumbling for her keys, she escaped the solitude of her empty home, taking to the streets in order to explore this wonderland with new eyes.

She was alive again.

<center> -------------------------------- </center>

The brush the lawman's beast had infused the darkness within with a sense of purpose, a desire for violence that simmered between the surface, like a vampire's primal urge for bloodshed. Inspiration welled in the back of her mind, tugging at her until she was unable to avoid its call and blindly trailed through the maze of alleys until she reached the door to her studio.

Unaware of the passage of time, she feasted on the spoils in the studio. Splashing paint on the canvas with a reckless glee, the flick of her wrists following the beating of her heart, an echo of the drums of war. By the time she was finished, she was drenched in paint, as if it were the spoils of war. Primitive trophies of the devastation she had caused the poor canvas to endure.

The end result was far more De Kooning than Renoir, the distorted figures bathed in the abstract horror that coated every inch of Picasso's Geurnica. The sight had shocked the belle when she had awoken from her slumber on the floor next to it, fingers tense and cracking from the paint that dried on her skin. Intensely fascinated, she had wasted no time dragging Mr. Adams over to see.

Walter Adams had seen many things over the course of the years, tracked the rise and fall of countless careers. Shannon Maguire, while one of his favorite clients due to her gentle nature and southern charm, had never been the sort of talent that he thought could challenge the memory of the great masters that had come before her. And yet, he could not shake the grim fascination that filled him as he studied the lines of this new work.

"And what, uh, brought about the change in -- ahem -- style?" His grey brows drew together subtly while he flicked a glance towards Shannon, taking in the sharpness of her grin with a hint of surprise.

"Inspiration," she replied, simply.

He quit the gallery a few short minutes later, rubbing at his brow to try and ride himself of the pounding headache that had appeared quite suddenly. He must not have gotten enough sleep last night. That could be the only reason to explain the tension that caused his spine to remain ram-rod straight -- and for why he felt the need to slam his weathered fist into another man's jaw when the man dared to try and steal his cab.

Yes, he must be tired. Just tired.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ March 30, 2008 10:25 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

Jacob asked about his father today -- he wanted a story. A real story, he said. I found myself at a loss for words. But it brought up so many memories:

We met in the way most do in this volatile world of travelers and would-be phoenixes, desperately seeking a way to carve a niche in the world, unable to see our true selves aside from brief glimpses in the mirror hanging behind the bar, in the puddles after a recent rainstorm. He was full of laughter then; the corners of his mouth always curled upwards subtly around one of those hand-rolled cigarettes he favors, hinted at an unspoken desire for mischief. A love of life that was bone-deep, absorbed into his soul the way the body soaked in the sun. I loved him instantly.

It would be years before we ever admitted it, however. I linked my name to various paramours in half-hearted attempts at settling down -- I even made it to the alter once, and Bjorn was there to witness it. Likewise, he found himself involved in various romantic entanglements over the years. I thought he was lost to me, in that way, forever. But he was my confidant, my soul mate. I cannot think of any moment in our life during those days that did not involve him and I would have been content with merely counting him as my friend if fate had never brought him any further into my life.

Our first kiss reminded me of the first embrace between Rhett and Scarlet: her reeling from the loss of her second husband, and him being so steadfast, so determined that this was right; that this was it. I doubt Bjorn would appreciate me calling that; he always would attempt to find some reason to leave the house whenever I wanted to watch that film. He was never one to sit still and I would always find him working on various projects at all hours of the night, and he was just as likely to find me knee-deep in paint at three in the morning as he was to find me curled up in our bed at two in the afternoon. It was unexpected, and entirely unlike any relationship I had ever had; but it was ours and it worked.

If we were still in school, and needed to justify our relationship by having a song, it would most certainly have to be "Stand by Me." Whenever we were reeling from the after shocks of an argument all he would have to do is turn on the Temptations and draw me into a dance (he was always such a lovely dancer, though I doubt he'll ever admit it) to allow us to forget all of the anger and start again. He was romantic when I least expected it, and distant when I craved his touch far more than I ever should have. He was like the sunrise: leaking gold through the corners of his stare, shining far more than any man should, and left everyone unable to turn their faces away from his brilliance. I never was more envied then the days when our names were linked together on the society columns in the local papers.

I can recall the exact dimensions of the spare room we had decided to turn into a nursery when the time came to dream of starting a family together. And I know exactly how many boxes it took to pack all of the items I had purchased to decorate the room in order to move them into my new home when things fell apart between us. Jacob was merely a whisper in the back of my mind in those days, merely a collection of cells that would one day turn into a living, breathing testament of our love.

He was the only man to truly break my heart, everyone else merely offered passing blows, and he was also the only man to put it back together again. He was as lion-hearted as any would-be knight in shining armor, and would often try to save me from my troubles. Old-fashioned in the best ways, he was the type to always remember to open the door for you; let his hand linger on the small of your back to guide you, even if you already knew the way. There were times when I would imagine it was still there while walking down a busy sidewalk; insistent and knowing.

The sound of his name will always bring up memories of quiet moments in Spring, a good whiskey ---


The rustle of movement brought her attention upwards in time to catch the arrival of a nurse and she shut the journal, setting it aside in order to push to her feet. She moved closer to the window, in order to provide enough room for the woman to go about her business without infringing on either of their personal bubbles. Her gaze trailed over the line of parked cars before settling on hers -- and lingering.

"--should be all set."

Abruptly, she realized that the woman had started speaking to her, and with a quirk of a brow turned her head. "Beg your pardon?"

"He should be able to go home today."

"Oh -- that's great. I -- have to do ... something. Will you tell him I'll be back in an hour to take him home if he wakes up while I'm gone?"

Without waiting for the woman to answer, she rushed out of the room, leaving the journal behind. Due to the fact that she avoided the long wait for the elevator by taking the stairs, she was able to make it to the parking lot in no time at all. Her steps slowed as soon as her feet met the pavement, and she carefully picked her way towards her Jeep, and the man sitting there.

African-American, he was lounging on the hood like an idle king in need of a good war or seduction to bring some flavor to his daily grind. Coated in black from head to toe, he sucked air between his teeth with an idle sneer while slicing at an apple with his pocket watch.

"Hospitals are funny, yah? Always keepin' the balance."

"--Excuse me?" She faltered slightly, staring at him in confusion. Did she know him from somewhere?

"Y'can check out through two doors. Most folks only get one."

Glancing up, she noticed that his stare was so dark, it was hard to tell where the iris ended and the pupil began. "Can I help you, sir?"

He flashed teeth in a jagged grin, moving to jump down from his throne. "But others -- well, they know that dere be rabbit holes elsewhere." He waved his knife at her with a lazy gesture before snapping it closed and tucking it away in his pocket.

"I don't know what you mean." But she did -- it showed in the flare of her nostrils, the wideness of her sea swept stare.

He laughed softly, drawing in close, too close. Letting his face glide along the space inches away from her cheek, as if he were drinking in her scent the way animals do in the wild.

"It's time for you to paint us another pretty picture, artist," he breathed against the shell of her ear before disappearing into the sea of parked cars. Staring straight ahead, she was unable to move for quite a few minutes, her gaze locked on the lilly tucked under one of her wiper blades.

[pasogal2]

Rain lashed at the panes of the glass that surrounded the corner phone booth located in a part of town where the residents were more likely to know the going rates for heroin and crack than they were likely to know the Dow rates for the day. They were brokers of bullet wounds and hollow-point love affairs; Shannon had no business being in this neighborhood. The restlessness that heralded the skeletons that lurked in the roots of her family tree had mixed with the ever-growing sense of paranoia that had seeped into her skin like a lover's knowing touch. Insistent, lingering, and unable to keep from triggering goose bumps to coat her sunscorched flesh.

The weather was to be expected on a night in the middle of April and Shannon had no desire to sing away the pouring showers. Soaked to the bone, even her sea swept stare was leaking rainy grey, and she couldn't help but notice the way her cheekbones had hollowed out over the past few weeks, reflected back to her in sharp relief by the pane in front of her. The electric sign posted in front of a local bank across the street forced her to realize that the time was creeping steadily closer to midnight and she had to get this show on the road.

Fumbling through pockets, her mind tripped through what little knowledge she had about the time differences between this town and those of her world, adding in the time differences found in different regions there as well -- inevitably, she gave up and merely prayed that he wouldn't kill her for calling this late (early). Dropping the few silver coins she had been able to find in the depths of her pockets, she tried to ignore the tremor in her fingers as they tripped along the stainless steel buttons, receiver held close to her ear. She counted the rings while watching the movement of the shadows; any number of them held a dangerous Hansel or Gretel who had followed her trail of breadcrumbs to her location.

"..hng, hello?"

The sleepy mumble caught her just as she was about to hang up and seek shelter elsewhere. Quickly returning the receiver to her ear, a grin flashed briefly at the familiar tone.

"Paulo?" Urgency was hot and heavy in her drawl, to the point where his name was a slippery slur that made her own voice impossible to recognize in his tired state.

"i--yeah? Who is this?" Somewhere in the crowded streets of Rome, a man fumbled around the contents of his nightstand in search of his lamp switch, checking the numbers on his alarm clock. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" He fairly growled, swiping a broad palm along the hollow near his left eye.

"I'm sorry -- I'm so sorry," she whispered, sinking down along the glass while teeth dug into her lower lip, moisture coating her rain-soaked stare. "I just --" Am in over my head and I'm so scared. I just needed someone to talk to. "I made a mistake. I should have stayed for breakfast." She settled for in the end, head turning to catch sight of a shadow that appeared to be on the move.

"---Shannon?" Surprised, to say the least, he sat up and stared at the wall opposite his bed. "Shannon, where are you?"

But she was already gone, the receiver left to dangle violently on its cord.



<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ May 19, 2008 08:26 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

Every city had a special season, a moment where all of the natural landscaping blended in seamlessly with the concrete monstrosities of modern life to create a picturesque scene to fascinate the parade of tourists and briefly distract the natives from the trivial concerns of their daily grind. For Paris it was spring: flowers blooming, lovers strolling by the Seine with their hands entwined and secret longings spilling from the corners of their mouths. The echoes of history lining every cobblestone in old London, mixed with the pristine whiteness of a fresh snow made it the perfect location for a wintry getaway, and nothing held a candle to the bayou splendor of a New Orleans' summer. But there could only be one city once autumn caused all of summer's heat to fade away, sentencing the leaves to turn a brittle shade of brown before tumbling for the earth: Rome.

A modern day blend of Scarlet O'Hara's charm and Persephone's restless nature, Shannon made no attempt to avoid the flow of seasons and followed them in her normal trek around the cities of America and Europe. While it was no journey around the world in eighty days, it was a whirlwind affair that left her constantly spellbound by the beauties of the natural world. Jacob soon picked up words from languages dotted all over the northern hemisphere, peppering his speech with a seemingly sophisticated fare and amused the southern belle to no end. But in Rome, he was always Caesar, and she was the Cleopatra of the art world: regal and always somewhat withdrawn, cautious.

<center>--------------</center>

Sunlight splintered through the fabric of linen curtains, painting the bed in a prison cell pattern of perfectly organized rows of light. Winter was fast approaching, the falling temperatures caused a chill to prickle at the skin left uncovered by the tangled mass of sheets that clung to her form. Even in the clutches of the sandman, the sensation of cold air gliding along her body caused her nose to crinkle with dismay and she rolled over, instinctively seeking out a warmer section of the mattress. The texture of the sheets, mixed with the unfamiliar scent of a different fabric softener crept through the layers of her consciousness until lashes finally lifted, her piercing stare narrowing as they tried to focus on her surroundings. As soon as she realized that she would never be the type to own navy sheets (the color was far too drab), she heard the sound of a throat clearing from the doorway.

"Coffee?" Paulo inquired, lifting up one of the mugs in his hand in a friendly invitation. His dark hair was ruffled from sleep and his grey sweat pants hung comfortably about his hips; sharp as a battle ax.

Sitting up, she delicately held the sheet up to preserve some sense of modesty, drowning in an anxious free-fall of jumbled memories and a blinding headache. "I --" Abruptly, she noticed the lack of a shirt and peeked down discretely at herself, mouth pinching in a tight line when she found that her under garments still coated her frame. "-- where is my dress?"

Chuckling, Paulo ticked his head pointedly towards a nearby arm chair while drifting forward to settle the two mugs on the nearby nightstand. "You were concerned about it getting wrinkled," he informed her, somewhat successful in keeping any hint of amusement from entering his voice.

"I -- did we..." She gestured lamely at the bed with one hand while the other continued to hold the sheet against her chest tightly. Attempting to judge the distance between the bed and the chair, she was caught by another stab of pain along her temples. "How much did I have to drink?"

"No," he answered quickly, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "I slept on the couch." He wisely turned his head and busied himself with looking for his watch in one of the nightstand drawers while Shannon slipped from the bed and padded over to the chair. "You had a few drinks, bella. But you deserved to; the show was quite a success. No one even noticed my work." A rueful quirk to the stretch of his mouth.

"You're just trying to make me feel better." She neatly avoided all of the compliments hidden in his words as easily as if negotiating a minefield with nothing more than instinct to guide her. Drawing the dress over her head, she smoothed hands over the fabric briefly before snaking hands back to begin working at the zipper. "I -- I have to go. I'm sorry that I ... that you... I have to go." Sighing, she awkwardly settled into an arched posture in a desperate attempt to drag the zipper upwards for those final few inches.

"Hush," he murmured gently while carving a path around the bed to settle in behind her, carefully pushing the mass of dark curls aside to tumble down one shoulder before he nudged her hand away from the zipper. "You don't have to rush off. You could stay.." Easing the zipper upwards easily, the pads of his fingertips brushed against the nape of her neck before withdrawing. "Have breakfast with me." It was not merely a request.

"I .." A tiny hint of heat lingered once the contact had stopped and Shannon palmed the nape of her neck instinctively while teeth scraped along the plush line of her bottom lip. She had weathered her fair share of workplace flirtations, it was to expected in a profession where bedroom antics were just as well-known as painting techniques, but this was different. It had never come from such a gentleman. Never come from such a dangerous source. "I can't. I just .. can't. I'm sorry -- I have to go."

Turning, she avoided any further contact by carefully circling around him and heading for the door.

"Shannon -- stop, you don't have to rush off. You should stay. I want you to stay." He caught her at the door, catching it with one hand while the other reached out to grab her arm before she disappeared down the hallway.

"Goodbye, Paulo." Shaking off his arm, she hurried off with a swish of silken fabrics.

The next day, they left Rome.

[pasogal2]

The steady flow of tourists into the city was another sign that summer was fast approaching; nothing brought more people into the air-conditioned halls of the gallery faster than the threat of a heat index and a mid-afternoon swelter. If Shannon had ever been concerned by such things as attendance records or financial gains, she might have been pleased by this development, but for her it merely meant that there were more exchanges of polite small talk penciled into her daily schedule and that she would have to carve a more circuitous route from her office to the door of her studio.

There were those who obviously had no clue about art, much less how to properly inspect a piece, others who studied a painting in terms of its potential relationship with the sofa in their living room or the stain on their wood furniture in the guest bedroom. It was all a game of cultural ladder-climbing and facades, and the strains of conversation that could be overheard from the safety of her office caused her mouth to subtly curl upwards into an amused smile.

In the midst of arranging some of her travel plans for New York, and researching a certain dance production that she might be interesting in seeing, her attention had wandered (as it so often does when one was allowed to toy around on the great Internet). First, she checked her email and the day's headlines, before she found herself drifting towards gossip sites and finally Google. Glancing down at the slender business card that she had discarded onto her desk beside her computer (close to her phone, just in case she felt the urge to take the initiative and call), she hummed softly while typing in a few letters into the search bar: chr--

"Oh, lord. This is ridiculous," she chided herself with a hint of a chuckle, closing out of the window.

"What's ridiculous?" The question came from the doorway as her assistant, Samantha, neared the threshold. A creature bred on the exotic streets of Soho, her style was a wild assortment of wild colors and differing trends that did not always mix well together.

"Nothing." Shannon waved the question away with a hint of a smile, drumming fingertips along the front of her desk before she pushed her chair back and made to rise. "Did you need something?"

"Sanders called to ask when they would be seeing prints of the new collection for the show next month..." Samantha glanced down to consult the page on the tiny notepad she held in her hand, and did not notice the wince that crossed Shannon's face. The mental picture of a half dozen blank canvases waiting for her in the nearby studio did little to help the restlessness that was crawling down the ladder of her spine and her body was already in motion, heading for the small rack where her purse was hung up, before her mind caught up with it. "...And Ms. Maroon asked me to remind you that you have an appointment for lunch and a visit to Dolce's this afternoon."

"--Yes, I haven't forgotten. I think I'll leave now for that -- it's a nice day for a walk, you know?" Babbling, and sadly unaware of that fact, Shannon settled the strap of the bag onto the jut of her shoulder. Surely a long lunch with her closest friend and some retail therapy would shake the restlessness from her veins; she had a grey dress to look for, if nothing else. "I have my cell should you need anything," she called over a shoulder before slipping out of the side door and out onto the sidewalk.

The flow of pedestrians drifting in every direction among the urban sprawl of concrete sidewalks and glittering skyscrapers made it easy for her to become distracted from the plan of carving a direct path in the direction of Lola's offices, whether it was due to the flashy coloring of someone's clothing, or the snippets of conversation she overheard. It may have accounted for why the itching feeling that began to creep along the skin between her shoulders went unnoticed for as long as it did, but once the chilling sensation of a pair of eyes watching you finally seeped through the layers of her conscious mind, she knocked a curious glance over her shoulder. The flash of a feather protruding from a brim of a trilby had her biting down on her bottom lip and she changed course abruptly, ducking between a couple in order to head down the stairs and towards the subway station.

The feeling intensified as she trickled down the last flight of stairs and fished her pass out of her purse, but she did not dare glance back again. Feeding the card through the slot, she shoved her way through the turnstile and carved a path through the milling crowd to wait near the lip of the platform for the next train, humming a soft sound of impatience as the seconds ticked away. Once the train arrived, she bolted onto it and found an empty place to lean near the door on the opposite end of the car, curling an arm about the steel post for support. It wouldn't be until the doors closed that she chanced a glance upwards towards the window in front of her.

When her eyes met those of the pitch-black raven, she could nothing but simply stare. As the train drew away from the platform, she hissed a sharp sound through clenched teeth while she watched him lift a hand to his mouth; a mockery of a farewell gesture between loved ones or friends.

That moment alone gave her plenty to think about during the rest of the train ride, so much so that she missed her stop.

[pasogal2]

Two Days Prior.


Humming a low tune under her breath, she carefully navigated the maze of streets that led from the Jing Wei estate on the outskirts of the town to her delicately fashionable townhouse. She could have chosen to segregate her private life from her public one by planting roots in some far-flung plantation like so many of her other friends, but she had never been able to remove the grit of the city from her soul. It had infected her veins like a virus, and now she could not live without the pulse of the city echoing in her ear, just as a diabetes patient could not skip a dose of insulin in their fight against the erratic nature of their blood.

Glancing upwards, a hint of a smile tugged at her mouth for the sight of Jacob, slumbering contentedly in his booster seat. Everyone said that children resembled angels while sleeping, but Shannon was sure that no one looked more beautiful than her little prince. Carefully worming into a spot at the curb in front of the tavern, she parked the Jeep before turning off the engine and switching off the headlights. Reaching across the console, she snagged her purse and caught sight of a dark smear on the cloth of the seat. A grim reminder of the morning's events, she made a mental promise to call the hospital and check on Aden's condition.

From here it was a game of finesse and skill. The first round involved the careful extrication of Jacob from the car seat so as to not wake him and the journey up the front steps of the townhouse, the second involved the juggling act of keeping the slumbering child securely against her while she attempted to search through her purse for her keys. There was a minor hitch when she tried to find the correct key in the dim lighting, but otherwise she was successful in her mission.

After tucking Jacob into his bed and making sure that he would remain asleep, for at least a few hours, she drifted from his room to her own. She left the silver dangling earrings on her dresser, kicked off the stilettos near the foot of her bed, before drifting into her closet to remove the silver cocktail in favor of more comfortable clothing. A few calls were made before she finally crawled into her own bed and settled in for a good night's rest.

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Shadows. Crawling, grasping, choking. The threat of pursuit was whispering at the nape of her neck, teasing like a lover - but with a far graver purpose. A sharp, sickening crunch came from somewhere in the darkn--

Lurching upwards, she raised a hand to the brittle line of her clavicle, skin sticky with sweat, and listened to the sharp pounding of her heart while her gaze stared at the opposite wall; unfocused. Slowly, her racing pulse settled and details crept into her conscious mind. The blackness of the sheets -- hadn't she always used white? Raising a hand, she was struck by how pale her skin appeared in the dim lighting and hummed a surprised sound when anxious fingers encountered a feather in her hair.

"What the hell?" She murmured before slipping out of the bed and picking her way across the dark expanse in the direction of the door leading to her bathroom. Or well, what would have been the bathroom in her house. "Ah--huh." A confused hum of sound against the tight press of her lips when she found herself in an unfamiliar closet. Back-tracking, she found the bathroom and flicked on the light while slipping inside. It only took one glance at the face in the mirror for her to start screaming -- before her eyes rolled back in her head and she crumpled to the tile floor.

[pasogal2]

Swish. Swish. Swish. The delicate flare of her wrist sent the small stack of tarot cards shuffling into her waiting hand, beautifully crafted miniature paintings flashing briefly in the bright light of her studio before the process was repeated all over again. Major and minor, figural and literal blending together in a seamless motion. She could have been a dealer at a high stakes table in the gutterborn wonderland of Las Vegas given how well she handled the cards, instead of an artist taking a mere interest in something far beyond her world of brushes and paints. Aden could not have guessed how well his gift would be received when he selected it; he could not have chosen better.

Unbidden, thoughts of the Master and his caustic Ten drifted through her mind. If she could have chosen a card for him it would be the Magician. Focused on the divine, he was the eternal guide with various tricks up his sleeve. And, according to the beginner's guide she had picked up at a local bookstore, it symbolized a journey out of darkness and into light. Mercurial, she was never sure what to make of his shifting gaze and crooked smiles. And yet, and yet, there were moments, as fleeting as a shooting star and just as rare, when she had caught glimpses of a true gentleman and not the sight of a broken down scarecrow with lead in his pockets and predators nipping at his heels.

From Aden her thoughts spilled over to Persephone and her gaze lifted from the circle of cards she had created on her workbench to focus on the glass vase filled with a wilting collection of hand picked pansies. A few even had roots dangling from their stems which only made them appear more quaint, childish. Adorable, and sometimes utterly perplexing, she was grateful to have the little maid's presence in her life.

Their paths were not linked, he said. And yet -- it made her wonder.

She was most certainly linked to the fate of Lola, Ghost's cruel trick aside. Even now, encased once more in the shell of her sweetly golden skin, she could not shake the sour sensation that had filled the pit of her stomach during her odd transformation; block out the fear of creatures hidden in shadows. Side effects from being caught in the trap of a nightmare not meant for her fragile soul to witness. She loved the avian as deeply as if they had been born of the same blood, forged in the same fire. They were two sides of a single coin; her other half, her better half. She wished Christian would understand.

Christian. Had he not explained to her just the other night how Alessandro was his other half? Of all people, she would have expected him to understand why Lola was so important to her, and why the bird was so protective. But .. he didn't and she was at a loss as to what she could do to rectify the situation. Grade school rules lingered in the back of her mind, but perhaps the golden rule would simply not be enough in this case.

On the tail end of a sigh, she gathered the cards together once more and tucked them away into their elegant burgundy case before pushing to her feet. She had work to do -- an attempt had to be made before another distraction caught her attention.

[pasogal2]

The scent of jasmine hung in the air like an incomplete love song, lingering and bittersweet, and the soft sound of the breeze rustling at the paper mobile Jacob had made for Mother's Day served as background noise as the artist dipped her toe into the world of mysticism and shadowed secrets once more. It was a journey she didn't have a map for, aside from a few picture books that Persephone had loaned her at Aden's request, but she felt no reason to be concerned. Her fingers drank in the stiff texture of the new cards as she shuffled them idly, letting her eyes drift shut as the brush in her mind began to work, coating her inner canvas with the image of the cross formation, before she moved to replicate the pattern with her own cards. Humming the refrain of a song she couldn't quite remember, she carefully organized the cards before leaning back in order to inspect her work.

"Something's not right." A soft sound of disappointment escaped while she set the remaining cards aside, head tilting ever so slightly.

"I'll say," cut in Raven from the studio door, his dark frame blocking out the light that had been filtering in from the hallway. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows in response to the heat and when he crossed them in front of the sharp lines of his lean torso, her eyes were immediately drawn to the strange runes tattooed into his skin. She didn't recognize any of the markings, but they made her wary nonetheless.

"What are you doing here?" Years of lessons in poise aided her in maintaining a calm exterior as she pushed up from her sprawl on the studio floor, tucking fidgeting fingers away into the back pockets of her paint-smeared jeans.

"I came for da paintin'," he answered simply, his eyes locked on her from underneath the brim of his trilby. His dark stare was as deep as Alice's rabbit hole and brutally unreadable; she did not like Raven. Shifting away from the door frame, he passed scan the studio intently, once, twice, and then a third time before asking. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?" Shannon turned about while trying to unlock the mystery behind his question. "What painting? You didn't order --"

"The painting she saw. Don't be playin' no games with me, girl. It's supposed to be right dere," he told her while jabbing a thick finger towards the middle of the floor, where a few splashes of black and grey paint lingered on the concrete floor. "The shadows -- dey called to her, girl."

"I .." Following the accusatory line of his hand, she felt her stomach escape through a hatch in the bottom of her body once her gaze landed on the empty space. 'I .. I just painted that. No one saw it. How?"

"Ya don't know, do ya?" For a brief moment the dark man appeared to be ... surprised? Perplexed? Though it vanished a moment later, she could see the tension in his jaw, could almost feel the way he ground teeth together in her bones. "It don't matter none. She saw it an' she wants it -- and you owe. You owe," he reminded her, pacing further into the studio. "Where is it?"

Instinctively, she retreated for every step forward that he took. "I .. I .. I sold it," she confessed, attempting to ignore the strangled feeling that curled about her slender throat.

"Ya did what?" He shouted, dark eyes widening. "Where -- to whom?"

"I don't know," she lied, hoping the weak sound of her voice would be attributed to fear.

Pacing away from her with a furious sound, he palmed the nape of his neck while surveying the ceiling, lips moving at lightning speed, though no sound escaped. When he finally turned to face her once more, his expression was far more frightening than the snarling display she had just witnessed. He was grinning. "Ya have work ta do den, girl. I'll find ya when da time comes."

Heading for the door, he paused in the doorway to offer a tap of fingers to the brim of his trilby, making a mockery of a gentleman's farewell, before vanishing from sight.

[pasogal2]

<center>She can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes.
She can ruin your faith with her casual lies.
And she only reveals what she wants you to see;
She hides like a child, but she's always a woman to me.

She can lead you to love, she can take you or leave you.
She can ask for the truth, but she'll never believe.
And she'll take what you give her as long it's free.
Yeah, She steals like a thief, but she's always a woman to me.

And she'll promise you more than the garden of Eden,
Then she'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding.
But she?ll bring out the best and the worst you can be;
Blame it all on yourself 'cause she's always a woman to me.


She's frequently kind and she's suddenly cruel.
She can do as she pleases, she's nobody's fool.
And she can't be convicted, she's earned her degree,
And the most she will do is throw shadows at you,
But she's always a woman to me.

</center>


(lyrics are billy joel.)

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 04, 2008 06:18 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>