The River 1.3
Silent, I passed the note to Cerise, my mind slipping as it tried to find solid footing. Concentrating on my breathing, I yanked out my cigarettes and my lighter dropped toward the ground. My fingers curled around it, snatching it out of the air. Waving the flame over the end of the cigarette, I inhaled slowly, one, two, three, four, five heartbeats. I could think again.
As I re-entered the world outside my own head, I realized that colorful and anatomically creative, yet entirely improbable French expletives, spewed from Cerise’s lips. Slipping back into English, she demanded, “Why is Liam even here? I thought the Vatican sent him to Lebanon?”
“I think the more important question,” I observed, holding the cigarette away from my forehead as I rubbed my temple with my thumb, “is who would openly challenge us here. We’re retired; what threat could we pose?”
Cerise nodded, re-reading the note. The tingle of my vibrating phone caused me to flinch. My nerves felt like rubber band beginning to tear. I brought the phone to my ear. A silken voice that chimed like crystal, purred, “Hello, Olivia.”
“Gabriella,” I acknowledged spitting her name, not bothering to disguise the contempt. “Are you making a bid for this territory?”
“Oh, precious Olivia, don’t be like that,” she pouted. “We used to have such fun. Don’t you remember?” Her voice turned dark and sensuous, sending shivers through my bones. The taste was still so clear and the smell, more intoxicating than cognac. No. Bringing the filter to my lips hastily, I drew in the burn of the tobacco overwhelming all other tastes and smells.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I reminded her. “What are your intentions in this territory?”
“Oh, the Americas hold little interest for me these days,” she replied as if bored. “Though, I have to say there are so many lovely priests here to play with. I can see why you two chose to settle down in this valley.”
“Gabriella,” I said as a warning, a snarl beginning to build in my throat.
“Calm down, Olivia,” she retorted, “I haven’t touched a single puppet of the Vatican from this town.”
“From this town?” I drew out each word to keep my voice even.
She sighed melodramatically. “He’ll heal, Olivia. He wouldn’t have gotten damaged,” Gabriella lingered over the final word, “if he had accepted my invitation graciously like a gentleman would have.”
“No games, Gabriella,” I said through clenched teeth, my jaw locked to restrain the desire to rearrange the cityscape surrounding 18th Street. “Tell me what you want or I’m gone and whatever you want from us goes with me.”
She sighed as if this was all very taxing and replied, “I miss the old Olivia.”
“The old Olivia,” I contemplated in barely a whisper, “would you really want to have met with the old Olivia tonight, Gabriella?” I left the unspoken implications hanging between us in the silence.
“A trade,” she prompted, her voice rhythmic even when curt.
“Name the terms.” Smoke drifted out of my sinuses lazily, an almost laughable incongruity.
“The Codex Ben-Sira,” she said, her voice caressing each word as she stretched them out indolently.
“That’s a legend,” I insisted unequivocally.
An inhuman howl ripped raggedly from an unwilling voice was Gabriella’s response. The muscles in my throat tightened. “I thought you didn’t want to play?” she asked with seeming innocence. She let the silence thicken. After several breaths, she continued, “Did you think we were unaware, precious Olivia? As if we would believe that you and Cerise retired to live quiet lives in obscurity. It’s one thing to take the law into your own hands, those years we could,” she paused, “overlook. But, dearest one, to side with the Vatican?”
“They know nothing,” I replied, the sound catching in my throat, “of our true research.”
“Good,” her voice poured over the word like silk. “Then, we have an agreement. You will deliver the Codex and we will release this half-breed trash-” she stopped short. “Oh, forgive me, precious Olivia, I forget myself.”
Fighting back the words, I lied, “Nothing to forgive, Gabriella.”
“Then, we have an accord, sweetling?” Her tone was bright and carefree as if she had just scheduled a Sunday tea.
“You know this is not my decision alone,” I reminded her.
“Naturally, you must give Cerise my love,” Gabriella cooed. “You have one hour.”
Pressing the phone closed, I covered my eyes with my hand. “Liam was right,” my voice was taut, “Gabriella is planning on killing him regardless.”
© 2008 Elizabeth Mock
As I re-entered the world outside my own head, I realized that colorful and anatomically creative, yet entirely improbable French expletives, spewed from Cerise’s lips. Slipping back into English, she demanded, “Why is Liam even here? I thought the Vatican sent him to Lebanon?”
“I think the more important question,” I observed, holding the cigarette away from my forehead as I rubbed my temple with my thumb, “is who would openly challenge us here. We’re retired; what threat could we pose?”
Cerise nodded, re-reading the note. The tingle of my vibrating phone caused me to flinch. My nerves felt like rubber band beginning to tear. I brought the phone to my ear. A silken voice that chimed like crystal, purred, “Hello, Olivia.”
“Gabriella,” I acknowledged spitting her name, not bothering to disguise the contempt. “Are you making a bid for this territory?”
“Oh, precious Olivia, don’t be like that,” she pouted. “We used to have such fun. Don’t you remember?” Her voice turned dark and sensuous, sending shivers through my bones. The taste was still so clear and the smell, more intoxicating than cognac. No. Bringing the filter to my lips hastily, I drew in the burn of the tobacco overwhelming all other tastes and smells.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I reminded her. “What are your intentions in this territory?”
“Oh, the Americas hold little interest for me these days,” she replied as if bored. “Though, I have to say there are so many lovely priests here to play with. I can see why you two chose to settle down in this valley.”
“Gabriella,” I said as a warning, a snarl beginning to build in my throat.
“Calm down, Olivia,” she retorted, “I haven’t touched a single puppet of the Vatican from this town.”
“From this town?” I drew out each word to keep my voice even.
She sighed melodramatically. “He’ll heal, Olivia. He wouldn’t have gotten damaged,” Gabriella lingered over the final word, “if he had accepted my invitation graciously like a gentleman would have.”
“No games, Gabriella,” I said through clenched teeth, my jaw locked to restrain the desire to rearrange the cityscape surrounding 18th Street. “Tell me what you want or I’m gone and whatever you want from us goes with me.”
She sighed as if this was all very taxing and replied, “I miss the old Olivia.”
“The old Olivia,” I contemplated in barely a whisper, “would you really want to have met with the old Olivia tonight, Gabriella?” I left the unspoken implications hanging between us in the silence.
“A trade,” she prompted, her voice rhythmic even when curt.
“Name the terms.” Smoke drifted out of my sinuses lazily, an almost laughable incongruity.
“The Codex Ben-Sira,” she said, her voice caressing each word as she stretched them out indolently.
“That’s a legend,” I insisted unequivocally.
An inhuman howl ripped raggedly from an unwilling voice was Gabriella’s response. The muscles in my throat tightened. “I thought you didn’t want to play?” she asked with seeming innocence. She let the silence thicken. After several breaths, she continued, “Did you think we were unaware, precious Olivia? As if we would believe that you and Cerise retired to live quiet lives in obscurity. It’s one thing to take the law into your own hands, those years we could,” she paused, “overlook. But, dearest one, to side with the Vatican?”
“They know nothing,” I replied, the sound catching in my throat, “of our true research.”
“Good,” her voice poured over the word like silk. “Then, we have an agreement. You will deliver the Codex and we will release this half-breed trash-” she stopped short. “Oh, forgive me, precious Olivia, I forget myself.”
Fighting back the words, I lied, “Nothing to forgive, Gabriella.”
“Then, we have an accord, sweetling?” Her tone was bright and carefree as if she had just scheduled a Sunday tea.
“You know this is not my decision alone,” I reminded her.
“Naturally, you must give Cerise my love,” Gabriella cooed. “You have one hour.”
Pressing the phone closed, I covered my eyes with my hand. “Liam was right,” my voice was taut, “Gabriella is planning on killing him regardless.”
© 2008 Elizabeth Mock
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