Chrysalis Ch22: Piercing Blue (pt3) (Patreon)

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          An eerie silence fills the living room. L looks down to the gun barrel pinning her into the corner. It’s close, but not close enough. Spencer left it hanging in a way that doesn’t prevent her from holding it by the stock, or even just ducking down and walking through. The ease of the escape makes her suspicious. It shouldn’t be this easy, right?  Why would he just leave her like this?
          It’s almost like Spencer expected her to follow his commands.
          L holds her breath, and slowly slides under the gun. She takes cautious steps along the carpet, avoiding loud creaks and broken glass. Easy enough.
          There.  Free.
          She looks to the front door, considers getting the attention of the officer.  Surely the cops would help?  If she just explained the situation surely they would-
          She freezes, her wings and antennae bobbing forward.  She isn’t glamoured.  If there are rules of secrecy, exposing herself… and all of the fae… could put everyone in danger.  Could risk the King’s wrath.  L gingerly touches her head, all too aware of the skull underneath.
          It kills her to do it, but she withdraws.  At the very least the officer will buy her time. She needs a new plan. A new way out.  She almost got out the window before, so it can’t be under the same threshold rules as the front door.  Otherwise Spencer wouldn’t have bothered to bar them in the first place.
          She looks to the stairwell in the foyer, only a few paces behind the front door.  There’s a second floor. More windows. Spencer might be crazy, but he can’t  possibly have barred every window in his house, could he?  And if she moves while Spencer’s distracted, maybe he’ll still think she’s on the main floor. It’s not a great plan, but it’s better than waiting in the corner, or putting her skull on the line.
          She waits and listens for the sound of Spencer opening the door.  She just has to wait for the right moment, then she’ll make her move.

Water drips from the brim of Officer Chiagozie black bowler hat. ‘METROPOLITAN POLICE’ clearly printed on her bright yellow vest. The thick braids of her hair, her makeup, all ruined by the rain. She stares at the lion-shaped bronze handle and rolls her eyes. Always lions with these people. Lions and legacies and family lines.
          The only family she cares to think about is her younger brother, and boy did he stay on her mind.   The frantic call only a few hours before.  Dragging her brother out of trouble with the YOT.  How can a sixteen year old get into so much trouble?
          The last thing she needs is to stand at the door of some rich wanker’s house, in the rain, answering some noise complaint call.
          Chiagozie taps her foot impatiently, then knocks again. She knows what’s waiting for her.   Fumblingly over-gracious apologies or blustering outrage.  The latter signed off with threats that her superior will hear about this.
          She’s just trying to do her bloody job.
          Of all the places she patrols, Chiagozie despises Kensington the most. Not because it’s difficult; it’s almost always quiet. She just hates the people. The type that visibly scowl when they see that the uniformed officer at the door is someone like her.
          Chiagozie was used to it. A black woman learns to weather these kinds of things.  It never matters that she’s only seen Nigeria from photographs, never matters that she doesn’t know a sentence-worth of Igbo. It never matters that she’s the cop living in Peckham, getting to spend her weekends wiping ‘1312’ graffiti from her house’s walls. No. None of that has ever mattered. They will see her, then the uniform, and then all think the same thing.
          Chiagozie inhales, her finger’s moving reflexively to the old paperback her Mum left her, always in her back pocket.  Reminding her what really matters.
          The door finally opens, and Chiagozie has to double-take the tall man who greets her. It’s not his blonde hair, winning smile, or blindingly blue eyes; in this area, that’s a dime a dozen. It’s that he’s dressed like he just found the source of the bloody Nile, his posture all giddy with energy. He giggles awkwardly at her stare. She really wishes the safari get-up was the strangest thing she’d seen this week.
          "Evening, officer." His voice is cool, calm, collected, probably rehearsed. "Did the neighbours give you a ring? Sorry, heh, I can really stir up a ruckus."
          Over gracious apology it is.  He expects her to laugh along, the poor guy. Chiagozie pulls out her notebook.
          “Name and address?”
          “The Honourable Spencer Harcourt, Member of Parliament for Ashford, this is my home.” Chiagozie silently writes it all down. “Heh, the weather seems dreadful. Shall I let you inside, Miss…?”
          “No need, Mr. Harcourt,” she responds coolly. “If you comply, this should only take a few minutes.”
          The MP leans at the door, peering at her vest.
          “Of course, Badge Number BD133AD. Heh, a constable! Just starting out?” Spencer waits a moment for her reply, receives none. “I understand your concern, but I’ll be completely cooperative. I know that some of my friends on the aisle get really finicky when the Met meddles in our affairs.”
          Chiagozie breathes out a humourless laugh. The hook is so obvious. Did the MP see her youth and think she’d be easy?
          “...You know, it’s rare for rookies to be posted with the embassies-”
          “Did you use a firearm, Mr. Harcourt?”
          His smile wanes, just for a moment, before his posture slides into nonchalance. “Sure. Westley Richards, single-barrel, .476 Nitro Express cartridges.”
          “.476?” She raises a single eybrow “Hunting rhinoceros, Mr. Harcourt?”
          “Foxes. Just hate having my bullets get stuck in them. Prefer clean, straight through. Last proper hunt I’ve been on was in Snowdonia. Ever been?”
          Impressive that he went this long before flaunting his wealth.  But all the-
          Something moves in her periphery.  Something beyond Spencer.   She lowers her notepad, first time in th conversation, and tries to peer past his shoulder.   He moves, leaning against the doorframe.   Blocking her view.  On purpose?  Could he be-
          “Is there a problem, Officer?”
          … she’s quiet a moment.   Maybe she’s just tired. “Is the gun licensed?”
          “Licence?” Spencer seems confused. “Hah. Hahaha. It’s an old royal privilege. Files are locked deep in some dusty pile at Westminster, not worth your time.”
          “Shame I’ll have to dig it up,” Chiagozie responds curtly. That… whatever it is, is moving again.  Harcourt quickly talks over it.
          “Just seems a waste when you could be protecting our streets. Not to pry, but I’ve heard that performance reviews are coming up-”
          Her attention snaps back to Spencer.   Skipping over the blustering rage and going straight to the threat.   Chiagozie narrows her eyes.  “That’s none of your concern.”
          The motion, now halfway up the stairs, becomes a creak. The MP hears it too, his smile briefly faltering. He almost looks back, but remembers himself.
          “Would you be so kind as to explain why you were using an unregistered firearm?” she asks.  Thunder rolls in the distance.
          “Heheh. It sounds outlandish, I know, but… pest control,” he flashes a smile. “See, an insect flew in from one of the windows-”
          “An insect?” Chiagozie doesn’t bother to write it down.
          “An extremely large one!” He raises his arms. “Look, if you were there-”
          “That’s enough jokes, Mr. Harcourt.” Chiagozie tucks the notepad away. That was enough of an invitation to keep her superiors off her ass. “Listen carefully.”
          “Officer, I’m-”
          “Listen carefully,” she tries to use her Mum’s tone, the one that always got the boys in line. “I am going to search your home. You are going to hand me the gun, answer my questions, and appear when summoned to the station at-”
          “I don’t need an address,” Spencer answers.  No more smiles now. “I’m in the Committee on Public Safety. I’m sure my friends in the Interior would be delighted to provide it.”
          “I’m sure they would,” Chiagozie steps forward. “Now, please, stand aside-”
          “-they’ll want to make sure that the rookie who ruined my evening is given a proper disciplinary hearing.” Spencer doesn’t move an inch. “For her own sake, you see. Too many mistakes like these… they’ll cut careers short if one isn’t careful.”
          She scrutinises his face, trying to read him. Every politician tries this at some point, nameless friends and idle threats. Most are bluffing. Some aren’t.
          “Mr. Harcourt, threats, against a police officer, even implied, are-”
          “Heheheh.” His voice turns harsh, stabbing. “What’s your name?”
          “I am not required to identify-”
          “Derek’s a phone call away, 133. Are you sure this is worth your job?”
          “You don’t hand out P45’s, Mr. Harcourt.”
          “True. I can only make you beg for one,” Spencer chuckles to himself. “If ten years stuck beneath paperwork and ten grand in court fees don’t push you, I can make both fifteen.”
          Chiagozie can feel the bead of sweat trickle down her cheek, and knows he sees it, too. Goddamn politicians. “Nekasi Chiagozie,” she finally answers.
          “Thank you, Nekasi. Always easier when our two little clubs can be civil.”
          She starts to reply when a flash of lightning illuminates the estate. For the first time, Chiagozie can see the the foyer clearly: a glittering chandelier, large, stunning canvasses, and-
          … and…
         Wide doe eyes, small soft face. The girl is standing in the hallway of the upper story and wearing a thin, almost sheer white dress.  Blood splatters. She appears student-age, college at most. She’s frightened, mouth is agape, her brow quivering.
          Silhouetted against a pair of metres-long butterfly wings.
          The light fades.  Chiagozie looks again. The woman is gone.
          Chiagozie’s mind asks a thousand questions, but she doesn’t have a single answer. Unconsciously, Chiagozie watches her badge lift, feels her body move towards the door, and hears her voice say, “I’m going in.”
          “We’ve just been over this, Nekasi,” Spencer seethes.
          She stares in disbelief. “There’s a life at stake. When my superiors hear of this-”
          “Who do you think they’ll believe?” His smile grows. “Nekasi, follow my advice, don’t bring this up. These matters lie far beyond your jurisdiction.”
          “On the contrary,” she growls. “You couldn’t possibly have enough influence to hide what I think you’re doing, Harcourt. You can’t possibly have enough friends.”
          “Can you risk finding out?” His smile grows. “Will your superiors, your comrades, risk with you? That ‘thin blue line’ is a lot thinner when you’re… well…”
          Spencer nods to her. He doesn’t need to finish. They always think the same thing.
          Chiagozie exhales, slowly. This wasn’t her style, this wasn’t her way. She hadn’t scrubbed graffiti off her walls to become a cog in somebody’s machine. She knew the look that girl gave her, that mix of horror and hope, that cry they expect to go unheard. Chiagozie knew exactly what it was like to not know if the police were here to help, or-
          Her hand glides over her mother’s paperback.
          “You look tired, Nekasi,” he grins. “You should be getting more sleep.”
          She clutches the cover until her knuckles turn white.
          Chiagozie can’t stop thinking about her brother. He’d be in YOT right now, if she hadn’t been there. If she couldn’t use her stellar record to vouch for him, if she couldn’t fall back on her merit when those faces and that thought appeared.
          But that girl’s frightened face won’t leave her mind, either.
          Nekasi Chiagozie slowly steps back.
          This isn’t a retreat. She’s not abandoning that girl. She’ll be back with a warrant, backup. She’ll TRY.  She keeps telling herself this.  Tries to ignore the voice saying she won’t get either.
          “Give Mr. Jakova our regards when you calm him down. He just finished his patio, we can’t wait for the chance to see it.”
          Chiagozie does not make eye contact. The memory of that girl’s face is staring at her. Old, crusty pages crinkle her fingers. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Harcourt.” It doesn’t sound like her voice
          “Thank you for understanding! Shall I see you off the estate?”
          She doesn’t answer. He simply strolls into the rain, past the iron gate. Her mind is hazy as she follows him.
          Maybe it’s nothing serious. Maybe his daughter’s dressed for an early Halloween party. Maybe he buys certain costumes for his prostitutes. Maybe wearing wings was just some weird fad, like that one kid in Ollie’s class who wears a tail.
          She grimaces. They can’t be worn. They can’t be fake, she saw them move. But how? When Chiagozie blinks again, she’s leaning on her car’s hood. Spencer giggles as he shoots a finger gun her way.
          “Have a good evening, Officer Chiagozie. Remember to vote Labour.”
          She doesn’t turn to watch him leave.
          … She should. She can’t. It’s outside her jurisdiction. Why on earth should that matter? It’s nothing personal, she needs to keep her family safe. Safe from what?
Goddammit, Nekasi, you’re not doing this for the girl.
          Chiagozie sighs, pulls the novel from her pocket. Things Fall Apart, by Chinua Achebe. The glue is slacking off, the cover has been folded a hundred times over.
          The pages are still stained with the last of her mother’s lifeblood.
          Chiagozie knows the fear on that girl’s face far too well. It was a face she promised she would never see on another person again. If she’s not doing this for the girl, then who.
          Rain dots the paperback. Chiagozie slides into her patrol car and quickly, almost frantically, dries it.   Droplets already stain the pages.  She tosses the book on the other seat, turns on the engine, and lets the war in her mind rage under a dry roof.

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          The upper hall is just as ornate as its lower twin. Brilliant sunset landscapes, rows of photographs dating back centuries, a ceremonial blade hanging over a pristine, polished shield. The splendour reaches further than L’s eyes, unveiling doorway after doorway, dozens and dozens of windows.
          Each is barred with iron.
          L doesn't have the time or strength to make sense of what she saw and heard. She swears that policewoman saw her.  Why didn’t she come in?  Why would she LET HER SEE HER LIKE THAT?  What was she THINKING. Her heart is pounding through her chest.
          L’s antennae jolt; she hears the click of the front door, shoes on carpet. She bolts down the hall, opening rooms and turning handles as quickly as she can.
          She doesn't need to bother. Bedrooms and side rooms and studies and lavatories - every single one of them has gorgeous, sun-catching windows. Every single one is grated with the same bars. She’s starting to hyperventilate, drawing in air laced with freezing scents. Her sizzling, blistered hand is cradled her chest, each movement making her wince. There has to be somewhere. There has to be something.
          The room is little different from the others; an office of some kind,  with a heavy-looking desk and another barred window. More books, all sporting rich leather covers that have barely been touched. A phone is tucked away on the side, half-buried under stacks of stamped papers. There are folded notebooks and chewed-on pens. A-
          She almost misses it.
A phone.
          L leaps inside the room. It's not even a mobile, it's an actual landline, old enough to be an antique.  But who can she call? Her parents can’t help, the police chose not to, and if the Glade has a phone, she’s never been given the number.
          She curses under her breath, terror shaking her grip. She hears steps down the hall. He’s coming back, he’ll be here any minute, she needs to be DOING something not freezing up.
          "Ah! Fuck. Fuck!" L hisses with realisation. She has one number. However badly Ian’s fucked up, he was very, very, fucking right.
          She snatches the phone off its cradle, holds it awkwardly against her ear, punches on chunky buttons. Her breath picks up pace with every lingering dial, hitches when the line finally clicks.
          "Ian,” she swallows, her voice hoarse. “It's - "
"Oi, fam, Ian ‘ere." A familiar voice crackles to life. L's heart leaps.
          “Ohmygod, Ian, Ian, please-”
"Sorry! Eivver I’m out or, heh, the battery is. Just leave a number and message after the beep, and I’ll get back. Cheers!"
          "I'm going to buy you a magic battery!" L wails, flickering anxiously back and forth as the line clicks again. "Ian! Ian, it's L, I-I'm in trouble. I'm at Harcourt's, Kensington, fuck!”
          She doesn’t hear soft, sock-clad feet trickle into the room. She doesn’t feel piercing blue eyes stare at her back. She doesn’t see a ring-studded fiddle with a sterling Fireside remote.
          “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry!” The tears fall uncontrollably from her face, terror clear in her voice. “You were right! Harcourt, he-"
          But she does hear his voice. Bright, gleeful, and spirited. It proudly, triumphantly shouts out a word, humorously absurd.
“Zap!”
          Spencer presses a button, and the frequency hits L’s body like concrete.
          An onslaught of fierce, unyielding pain. A piercing screech, its tone higher than high should go, rockets through her antennae, drowning out her screams as her nerves twist and pull. The phone falls from her hand as she slams into the desk with a brutal thump.
“AAAAAAAAGGHHHH!”
          The taste of wood and blood. Her wings shudder on impact. She clasps her hands over her ears, digs her fingernails into her forehead skin, scrambling for any way to drown out the noise.
          Her legs finally give out beneath her, and she falls gracelessly to the floor, pulling herself into a sobbing ball.
          Suddenly, the pain stops. L can barely bring herself to breathe, her eyes still snapped shut, her world an echo of awful ringing. She hugs herself tightly, praying that if she doesn’t move, nothing else will happen.
          The only thing forcing her eyes open is the laughter filling the room.
          She looks at Spencer Harcourt's beaming face through tear-filled eyes. The MP points his remote at her. “You… keheheheh… I gotchu! I WIN!”
          Terror starts to push against her chest. L slowly peels from the wood, rising up on shaking hands. "S-Spencer-"
          “Please darling, hold your congratulations. I can only be as good as my ‘prey,’ and you were splendid!” He smiles brightly. “Heheheh, shame that officer killed the adrenaline, right? Holy shit, we were having so much fun!”
          L tries to pull herself up, despite shaking uncontrollably.   She has to reach the phone.  She has to tell Ian what’s happening.
          “No, darling, stop! The game’s up!” Spencer waves the remote threateningly. “I’m not as young as I used to be, I can’t keep up. And you keep wrecking my other possessions-”
          “Please,” she whimpers, raising her hand. Her wings unfurl lazily behind her, stiff and solid. “Ian I… I need help-”
          "Zap!"
          Her world becomes blinding pain all over again.
          The second surge is just long enough to leave L a convulsing mess on the floor.
          "How's that for a spy movie, huh? My test this evening confirmed it: your antennae pick up all sorts of frequencies humans can’t even hear! Quite sensitively, too! As you’d say, ‘neat trick, innit?’ Hahahahahahah!”
          L’s antennae involuntarily jolt. She can only taste a bitter, ozone-like haze through them. Her arms and legs are so weak… so heavy…
          “One second, darling,” Spencer skips over to the desk, swiping the phone. He blows a kiss her way before speaking firmly. “This is Harcourt. Sorry if she got you all out of sorts, we both know she can get a little hysterical, hahahahahah!”
          She doesn’t think she can stand.
          “Rest assured that my little nymph’s in the safest place she can be! She doesn’t need you anymore. So don’t try to contact my wife again.  If you do there will be consequences! Ta-ta!”
          He slams the phone back into the cradle, giggling with abandon. She grabs the leg of the desk with her good hand. Dragging herself away from him.
          “...p...pleaaase..." L whispers, her wings flickering at odd intervals.
          “Sorry, what was that, darling?” He holds up an ear. “Speak up!”
          L tries to haul herself further. She makes it a few inches. Pushes, lifts her head off the floor.
          "Ooooooo, look." Spencer kneels down. "Heheheh! My little moth’s pretending to be a caterpillar!"
          L’s good arm gives out, and her face slams into the floorboards. She tries to push back up - until she feels the heel of Spencer’s foot in her back, pinning her to the ground.   Leaning forward he hoists her over his shoulde.
          “L Morgan,” he beams. “Consider yourself taken.”
          She’s dropped unceremoniously onto the bed. Her heart pounds in terror. He waves the remote back in her face.
          "This was a lovely date, darling.  The chase was such a good idea! We should do it some more, after you’re settled. What do you think?”
          L pulls herself together long enough to look deeply into his eyes. "I... I tr-truhhhhss… tr-truuuuhstttted… y-you."  She whispers, unable to stop her voice from catching.
          And for just a moment she thinks he sees it.  He sees her.  Sees what he’s doing. The manic light leaves his eyes and he goes still, as the delusion fades against the wall of pure, unrelenting reality.
          Broken by a smile.
          “Awww,” Spencer smirks as he leans down near to her, slowly runs his hand over her hair. "I’m sorry, darling. I suppose I could have been a bit more forward, but… what can I say? I’m a politician! It’s in my nature.”
          Her face falls. It's all too much.
          “It’s okay, shhhh. I’ll show you I’m trustworthy. I have a whole lifetime to win it back.”
          This is too much.
          "But first, I need you to rest while I set everything up. Okay, darling?”
          She can’t handle this.
          “Sweet dreams!"
          She can’t-
          "And I promise you, the future we'll share will be…”
Please Ian...
          “…even sweeter!”
Ian…!
          “Zap!”

          A second of blinding pain. A blood-curdling scream.
          And then long, deep, blackness.


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Heart hear!

That was a LOT, wasn't it?   Phew, let's all take a collective breath.   

What are we all thinking about Chiagozie?  We did our best to make her sympathetic, while also have her be forced to walk away.    We all have our boxes, even those of us who don't have moth wings.

On top of doing an illustration for today's post, I needed to do a design for her.   I really like how she feels in the concept piece, kind of a cross of Vi and Sevika.   I might draw her more just for the fun of it =)

Next chapter we switch back to some lighter stuff with Ian, OUR NEW PROTAGONIST.   I kid I kid, but I know me and the entire creative team are excited to see how our troubled bestie continues to grow and develop, considering the circumstances.

Part 1 of Chapter 23: The Rite of Keeping will go up Friday, February 17th.
Thanks for stopping by!