A Fractured Conjuring Read online

  And now she was having nightmares.

  “But it wasn’t a nightmare,” she said to the empty room, “not really.”

  And that much seemed to be true. There’d been no sense of disturbance in her sleep—just that voice brushing against her ears, dragging her up out of sleep into that awful sadness.

  Who are you? the voice had insisted, and the voice had seemed to be her own.

  . . . . .

  Chloe shook out of a doze when the elevator whined into life and began its clanking ascent. She rubbed her eyes and blinked at the laptop screen. Caffeine-jittery, she’d still managed to fall asleep while writing.

  She stood, did a few deep knee bends and wind-milled her arms to get the blood flowing.

  “Okay, let’s see what kind of mess we’ve generated here.”

  She sat back down, glanced over the last couple paragraphs without really reading them. It was fine. At least it looked okay at the moment, structurally cohesive anyway—tomorrow it might appear differently. The word count showed she’d added a little over a thousand words. The clock in the corner of the screen displayed 2:19 a.m.

  A thousand words in under an hour—and I was asleep for part of that.

  “Shit,” she whispered, “this story is getting out of hand.”

  But she had never really had a grip on the story to begin with; it had grabbed her—possessed her—and wouldn’t let go. She wasn’t sure where the idea came from, or where it was going. She’d never been militant about outlining or needing to know exactly every twist and turn before it happened, and she’d always enjoyed the delicious chill when one of her characters did or said something unexpected.

  But this…this was something else. Perhaps most disturbing of all was the undeniable truth that she really could not remember much of what was happening in the story when she was away from it. Just seconds ago she’d looked over what she wrote, decided the structure was good—but the content was not there; she could not bring to mind a single line of type. And yet she felt haunted by it. Her normal habit when starting a day’s writing session was to read over the previous session’s work, get back into the feel of the story and continue from there. She hadn’t been doing that with this book, at least not that she remembered. If pressed, she would have had difficulty even discussing the story or its characters—what they looked like or sounded like. She was only fully in the story when she was writing it, and that seemed to be taking place more and more in a kind of fugue state.

  It was exciting on one level—showing up at the computer to see what would happen next, especially when she had little memory of what had gone before—but there was also an underlying sense that something was going on behind the lines, something of which she was completely unaware. Even that shouldn’t be as unnerving as it was, but whatever was going on beneath her words seemed to be a threat to her, which of course was ridiculous. But ridiculous or not it was there, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that every time she powered up the laptop she was like one of those brain-dead horror movie bitches who find it necessary to wander down into the basement in their undies to see what the noise was. Still, she couldn’t keep away from it, and she didn’t feel so much like she was writing the story as it was somehow writing her.

  She rubbed her eyes, smiled.

  God, Dr. Jon would have a field day with this. Stretch me out on the couch and fire up the yellow legal pad. See, Doc, I’m writing a story that scares the living crap out of me and…what’s it about? No idea, Doc. Not a single fucking clue. You may quote me.

  The elevator stopped at her floor, then the rust-screech of the iron grating being thrown back. And a low voice, humming “A Change is Gonna Come,” slow and soft, grittier and more soulful than Sam Cooke’s version.

  Chloe saved her work and powered down as a key scraped in the lock. She swiveled around in her chair to face the door, realizing only at that moment that she was still naked except for the boy-short panties. “Oops,” she said, then crossed her legs primly and smiled. With Dray’s schedule it had been awhile since they’d been, as Dray liked to call it, friendly. She thought about whipping off her panties as well, but there was no time.

  Dray walked in, closed the door softly, and smiled at Chloe, as if knowing exactly where she would be and that she would be waiting. A long gaze at her sitting there half-naked, a soft moan and a shake of the head.

  “Damn, baby.”

  Dray bolted the door without looking, still humming, low and raspy. Six-feet tall, the full-length black leather coat as glossy as her shaved head and only slightly darker than her glistening black skin, Dray had a presence that made her something to see on the pole at the Rumpus Room. Men were sometimes too stunned to make the usual Neanderthal grunts and groans—they knew they were seeing something special, someone doing what she loved and was designed to do: perform, captivate, subdue. Those men usually sensed pretty quickly that Dray was not their conquest—she was capital-A Art to be witnessed, admired, and heavily tipped.

  And she’s all mine, Chloe thought, willing away the earlier fear that she could somehow lose this one pure and good thing in her life.

  Dray slipped out of her coat and tossed it on the counter. She wore torn jeans and a black wife-beater style tank top a couple sizes too small to fully contain her breasts.

  Her smile was wide, reaching into large, impossibly green eyes, smoothing the tired lines from her forehead. “Not that I have a problem with walking through the door to find your tits pointing at me, but you’re up late, young lady.”

  Chloe closed the laptop and stood, her eyes level with the swell of Dray’s cleavage. She laid her head against Dray’s breast, felt Dray’s long arms wrap her up, inhaled the slightly salty post-dance sweat-tang of her. “I’ve been writing.”

  “Ah,” Dray said, and it was all she had to say, because she knew what it meant when Chloe was in the grip of a story.

  She leaned down, kissed Chloe softly, her mouth covering her lips. Then she pulled back, folded her arms across her chest and smiled. “Now. Let’s talk about this hair.”

  5

  In the House of Broken Corridors

  By Chloe Sender

  Part Two

  Sissy’s funny.

  She makes me laugh right out loud.

  She was here before me. A whole year. Maybe more. Or maybe it was only a couple minutes.

  I don’t know. Maybe she wasn’t born at all.

  She was here when I came. I was somewhere else and then I was here.

  Sissy’s always been here.

  She’s not here anymore.

  Sometimes I think I hear her out in the hallway, trying to find her room or something I guess.

  Sometimes I still talk to her. Sometimes she answers.

  Sometimes she doesn’t answer, but I know she’s here.

  Even if she’s not here.

  That makes me laugh. Sissy makes me laugh.

  She’s here and she’s not here, maybe over there, oh where oh where is the girl with red hair?

  Ha. I’m a poet and don’t know it.

  That’s what Papa says.

  Papa makes me laugh, too.

  He used to make me laugh.

  Not anymore.

  Sometimes he laughs now. When he’s all alone and there’s nothing to laugh at.

  Poor Papa.

  Sissy has red hair like Mama.

  She used to have red hair like Mama.

  Maybe she still does.

  Mama still has red hair. And green eyes.

  Sissy used to look like her. A lot.

  Then something else happened.

  That’s when Sissy stopped looking like Sissy and started looking more like Mama.

  Old like Mama. Tired like Mama.

  It’s why Papa laughs at nothing now.

  Poor Papa.

  Poor Sissy.

  Poor Dolly. She looks like Sissy too, and sometimes I think it’s Sissy talking to me but it’s really only Dolly.

  Sometimes that make
s me laugh.

  But not always. Sometimes I don’t think it’s funny even a little bit.

  Especially when I think it’s Dolly talking but it’s really Sissy.

  That doesn’t make me laugh.

  But Sissy loves me. She takes care of me.

  She tells me to watch out for things that might hurt me. She doesn’t like Dolly.

  Didn’t like her.

  But all that was a long time ago and doesn’t matter anymore.

  Because Papa is laughing again.

  6

  Dray had been too wound up to call it a night and the sight of Chloe sitting there as perky as a sixteen-year-old cheerleader did nothing to calm her nerves. It was a half hour since she’d walked through the door, and Chloe was still bare-chested. Nothing out of the ordinary about one or another of them walking around half-naked, but when Chloe was feeling feisty she had a way of holding herself that made it impossible to think about anything other than touching her.

  Only Dray’s wired fatigue had kept her from throwing Chloe over her shoulder caveman-style and tossing her onto the bed...or the couch, or the kitchen counter or any damn place at all. She’d managed to keep her cool while assuring Chloe that she loved what she’d done to her hair, and no, she did not need to see what she’d done to the rest of her hair right now so keep those panties right where they are, thank you very much.

  Chloe—easily one of the most brilliant people Dray had ever known—had stuck her tongue out and called Dray a big poo head. In the cuteness department, this was a little over the top for Chloe. Something was eating at her and she was compensating, whistling past the graveyard in an attempt either to pretend she was okay or to keep Dray from asking her what was wrong.

  That was fine. She would talk when she was ready. Dray selfishly hoped she would hold off, at least until tomorrow. All she really wanted tonight was to unwind, have a drink or two, chat with her love, watch the little ticks and eye-glimmers Chloe had when she got animated, and pretend she wasn’t affected by the sight and sound and proximity of this precious bit of heaven.

  Wine was poured—Chardonnay for Dray, Zinfandel for Chloe—they’d sliced some white cheddar, and Dray began to unload about her evening. It was a tried and true combination that rarely failed to take her adrenalin from a boil to a simmer.

  Giving Chloe the highlights (few) and lowlights (many) of her evenings at the club was a ritual of sorts. Most men were okay, but a good percentage were still pigs, even at the best of times. And those who frequented a strip club in the middle of the week…well, these were generally not very happy people, and unhappy people tended to be miserable shits to both the servers and dancers.

  Chloe was a good listener. Her eyes stayed locked on Dray’s as she nibbled and sipped, nodding and mmm—ing and hmmm—ing in all the right places.

  “Flo punched a guy.”

  Chloe’s mouth opened. “Wait. This isn’t Florent you’re talking about…?”

  Dray nodded. Florent Degoode managed the Rumpus Room. He was a gentle although somewhat fastidious man, and if there was a sweeter soul on the planet it was news to Dray.

  Chloe’s tongue played along her bottom lip for a moment, then she closed her eyes in concentration. “Nope. Sorry, there is no way I can even begin to picture him punching someone. Not possible.”

  Dray could hear the wine in Chloe’s voice. When the alcohol began to hit her there was a huskiness in her voice, a drop in pitch. Her lips got a little loose and they tended to hang just a bit apart, moist and showing a hint of her delicate pink tongue that always seemed to be resting just at the edge of her plump bottom lip.

  Chloe’s head tilted. “What?”

  Dray tilted her head back at her, mimicking. “Just looking at you.”

  “Oh, now you’re looking?”

  “I never stopped. Just exercising self-control.”

  Chloe sat up straighter, her breasts lifting. “The girls and I would like to hear the rest of this story, if you please. We three do not believe for a moment that delicato Florent could ever strike another person. Explain please.”

  Dray shrugged. “Saw it myself. I was actually on stage at the time. This skinny little prick had his, ummm, prick out and he’s pointing it at me and at anyone who cared to look—and trust me, no one did—and Flo walks up behind him, taps him on the shoulder and says, ‘Excuse me, sir?’ At which point the little fucker turned and shot jizz on Flo’s pants. Timing is everything I guess.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Shit is right. Flo looks down at his pants, back up at the guy and just sort of blinked at him for a few seconds. I mean, you know how Flo dresses and how much he spends on his clothes, right? Kenners was bouncing the door tonight and he sees what happened and launches his muscles across the room. Coke was tending bar and he sails his little self all ninja over the bar like ‘Hey, gravity, fuck you,’ and he and Kenners are coming at the guy from opposite sides of the room, very fast. I’m watching all this, thinking there’s one hell of a grief sandwich coming together when Flo—boink—pops the midget on the nose. Hard. Now the little squirt is leaking from two orifices and screaming like a little girl, still holding his dick, which had sucked itself back up in his fist like a bashful turtle. And you know what I did?”

  Chloe sipped her wine. She lifted the left corner of her mouth into a delicious little almost-smile and said, “Kept right on dancin’.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “So how’d it end?”

  “How it always ends. Authorities came. Flo apologized for inconveniencing them. They said it was all part of the job, both his and theirs, no harm, no foul. Jen was maître d’ tonight and she—”

  “Jen is the one with—”

  “Yeah, she of the triple D jugs. Makes me look like a ten-year-old boy. She bid New York’s finest a fond adieu by standing half in the exit. Made sure they had to graze a hunk of boob on their way out, don’cha know. Everybody happy as could be.”

  “How ‘bout Florent?” Chloe had slumped a little and her eyes were beginning to droop.

  “He stayed cool until we shut down and it was just me and him. Then he started to cry.”

  Chloe frowned. “Poor thing. Did he hurt his hand?”

  Dray upended her glass. “No. He felt bad for hurting the guy. And for losing his cool. You know how he is. Anyway, I hugged him, thanked him for being a little more butch than usual and waited with him until Henri came with a car to pick him up.”

  Chloe’s head bobbed forward and then popped up and she looked around, a momentary look of surprise on her face. “Whoa.”

  Dray nudged her with a foot. “You ready to call it?”

  “Prolly should. Hey…how’s Cok—” she belched softly, shivered at the taste “—scuse me. God, that was nasty.”

  “You’re adorable when you’re shit-faced.”

  “Yeah, I know. What was I…? Oh. How’s Jesse doing?”

  “Young Mr. Cokely is svelte as ever. Any fat on the boy’s body is very well hidden. Still sweet as can be and smarter than any one person has a right to be. Like you. In fact…” She looked at Chloe and nodded. “You know, I never really noticed it before, but the two of you could be brother and sister. He’s your size and overall paleness, same dark hair and eyes, and almost as pretty as you.”

  “Ah, but my hair is not naturally dark.”

  Dray nudged her playfully again with her foot. “Technicality.”

  Chloe swayed to some internal melody. “He’s is cute, isn’t he? Those eyes and lips…”

  “Easy there, oh lesbian partner of mine.”

  Chloe finished her drink, spilled a little down her chin, set her glass down carefully and came over and sat in Dray’s lap, laying her head in the crook of her neck. She moaned a little as she nuzzled in. “Tell me another story, sweetie.”

  “Have I ever told you the one about the exotic dancer who murdered the pretty-boy bartender when he caught the eye of said dancer’s sex-toy writer-girl?”

 
Chloe grinned into her neck. “Mmmm, one of my favorites. Tell me again.”

  Dray pulled her in tight, drawing her all the way onto her lap. She waited, watched Chloe’s small toes wiggle, clench, and then relax. She laid her fingers lightly on the cream skin of her thigh.

  Chloe mumbled something nonsensical, her lips a delicate tickle on Dray’s neck.

  Dray closed her eyes and began to hum softly, resting her cheek against Chloe’s head, her fingers gently stroking her thigh.

  In less than a minute Chloe was snoring.

  . . . . .

  Chloe opens her eyes in the darkness and sees Florent Degoode sitting at the end of the bed. His hands are in his lap, his head hanging forward in a posture of dejection.

  Poor thing, she thinks. He’s ashamed of what he’s done.

  “Florent,” she whispers. “It’s okay, honey, you were just protecting your girls.”

  Florent’s voice is the airy whisper of a career smoker who’s had a lung removed; an operation that, in the process of saving his life two years before, nearly killed him. “That may be true,” he says, “but it’s not a justification of violence. But I did what I did. I can’t undo it, now can I?”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over this, please. No one thinks less of you. You were a kind of hero, even Dray thinks that.”

  He raises his head, looks at her. “I’m not really here,” he says.

  “But…oh, I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

  He nods, smiles. She knows he is smiling even though it is too dark to see it.

  Chloe waits, watching him watch her. Florent remains silent. She glances down, notices her breasts are showing and pulls the sheet up to cover herself.

  I’m dreaming and he’s gay, what do I care if he sees my tits?

  “Because if I actually were here,” he says, “you know it would make me uncomfortable to see you exposed. Your subconscious covered yourself for my sake. Such a sweet, tormented soul.”