Author Games: The Absent Empress

Task Six Entries: 1-10

King

Harvey Wallbanger:

(3 parts) Vodka

(6 parts) Orange Juice

(1 part) Galliano

It's a feeling in his bones. A shiver, a twitch, something lost and something gained all in a single passing second. There's an emotion in the air he can't place. Not fear. Not confusion. And although the halls are empty, they throb with emotion. King isn't sure of the time. But that's nothing new. It's a concept beyond his reach. Morning, night, day, evening, all the same words but strung in a different order. All that matters is he that he is up before the sun. His wrists flick off invisible droplets of water. In his mind, they splash. One, two, threefour, and five. Suddenly alive, suddenly free, and then colliding with tile. Smeared together like lipstick on a window pane. A forgotten kiss. Full of meaning but without context—useless.

Why can't he sleep? Why does he feel so sluggish? There's energy all around. Misplaced, overwhelming, and lost. But it doesn't appeal to him. Like force feeding a child vegetables, he refuses. And it drains him. It drains him and he can feel his body slowing with every second. Memories becoming more distinct. The buzz wearing away into a dull hum. Not enough to satisfy. Not enough to keep King sharp. But enough even still. Enough.

She is standing in the hallway. Without a breath, he would have passed her by. But something pulls him back. Stops his feet from their mediocre trudge. What had he learned? Nothing really. A whole day wasted on chasing after geese. But this, this is something. Guaritore is wearing all white, her outfit of choice, but why? Why so early in the morning? He knows the girl. Knows she's gentle. When she turns, gentleness vanishes. When she turns, her outfit is spattered with blood. And she smiles. A low whistle escapes his lips. Eyes flicker to the ground, where another girl lays motionless. Bloody. The world tastes like battlefields and beer left out in the sun. Still, she's seen him. His breath hitches, but she's seen him. So he steps forward. Slowly, painfully so.

"I gotta say—" There's a steadiness in his voice. He's no stranger to murder. No stranger to the lifeless stare of the dead. " I didn't think you had it in you, sweetness." He can smell death. With every footfall, it is closer. It's waiting. Her sleeves are lined with blood. Her hands are stained.

When she moves, it is not fluid, not at first. Like a puppet tugged on strings, she smiles. Lips upturned, teeth showing, but nothing has ever looked so menacing. "What a lovely surprise." Guaritore's voice is pure starlight over running water. Soft enough to kiss. Smooth enough to forget. King doesn't forget. Energy pours off her in waves. Hot, burning, intense, yet unfocused. Ill-prepared. If it was a soup, he could swallow only a spoonful before his mouth was scalded raw.

Make them respect you, that's the key. So he does, he laughs, and it bubbles over with more venom that he expects. The taste is bitter and low, just like his voice. Patience is key. This isn't the hero he knows. This is something else. Something that kills. "I don't know what your game is, but I'd prefer to chat face to face."

A head cocked, eyes narrowed, and still that smile. That smile. It sets his teeth on edge, shivers in his bones. "Which face would you prefer?" she asks. A shimmer, a tremble, and then she is light. Unmanifested, unharnessed, then solidified. Whole. With the body of another. A girl with narrow, cold eyes and a heat that simmers beneath his skin. Hydroflare. "This one?" King steps back. The heat increases with each word. He can feel it burning. The cards in his deck crumble one by one. Forgotten, charred into ash beneath her glare. A single step forward, then another shiver. Light, mirrors shifting over a formless body. Now, a man, dark skinned and intense. King knows him. Maanyo. "Or perhaps this one?"