Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 09

Cassandra raised her hands, looking at the heavens, thinking, 'Here we go'.

Selene raised a delicate little hand. "The same as me. We were both his hostesses."

"No fuckin' way!" Ally breathed. "Damon... did you and they...?"

"Listen!" Watson said hotly, struggling to his feet, loath to despoil Sook's proximity with something so tawdry. "Ally! I had a role to play. I had to pretend I was somebody else. And that meant... well... I had to live up to certain expectations."

Ally shook her head. "I don't fuckin' believe it. There I was, being beaten up and starved. Then just about ass-raped. While you and the Dipsy Doodle-twins were busy bumping bones."

"Hang on!" Watson glared, "Do you know who I am?"

Ally snorted with derision. "Well I'm starting to wonder."

"Well, let me tell you. I am a ninety year-old psychopath scientist. Possibly the richest man on Earth, who has just invented a genetic treatment for aging. An elixir of youth, one that depends on a supply of stem cells, harvested, in-vivo, from foetuses, in a process that kills the donor. I became that man so I could get into this country, and onto this island, because Beck was about to be sacrificed to the Blood Moon."

"Sacrificed?"

"Close enough. Once she married the king, we would have lost her."

Beck nodded. "Until he died. Which might have been years. Even decades."

"So you see," Watson went on, "it was desperation stakes. And it only got worse when we found out YOU were here on the island. Worse for Sook and me, cos' now there's TWO of you to get out of the shit. But the fact is I'm NOT a billionaire psychopath. I'm a scared old man who wouldn't hurt a fly-"

"It's true," Beck nodded, "he catches them and puts them outside."

"Right!" Watson affirmed, barely able to contain his emotions, "I'm a scared old man, out of his depth in a foreign country, following a script so implausible, any editor worth his salt would have thrown it in the bin. Now, on top of it all, I've just seen a dear friend die. And if I am caught and outed as an imposter, who took a seat in the king's inner circle. Who had him injected several times over, with normal saline and food colouring, then I... am... a dead man. I'm gonna hang, simple as that, or have my head chopped off. So, Alana, before you go casting aspersions, remember this. Whatever fringe-benefits I might have enjoyed... and yes, thanks girls, I enjoyed them immensely... I did this for you. You and Becky. For both of you."

An embarrassed silence settled over the scene, then Cassandra spoke up. "So, Lord Gideon-"

Watson raised a hand. "Please. Just Damon."

"My Lord. So you're not actually a multi multi-billionaire?"

"No, Cassie. Not even a singular one."

"Or a genetic genius?"

Watson shook his head. "No. In fact I can hardly spell the word chromosome."

"And you don't take cells out of dead babies?"

Watson shook his head as the audience looked on, gobsmacked. Billionaire? Genius? Baby killer?

"And you're not even a lord?"

"No, Cassie. I'm none of those things."

Cassandra slumped in relief. "Dios mio! Thank heavens for that!"

"It was only ever meant to... hang on... what?"

"Well, what ruthless billionaire could ever love a simple girl like me?"

"Or me." Selene added hopefully.

Watson stood juggling mixed messages, frankly confounded, while for his young female companions the meaning was clear. "You guys." Beck said, "We're sort of just hanging here."

Watson shook free of his reverie. "Moosh, Honey. Would you mind asking your girls? Can one of them spare their niqab? For Cassandra? I mean look at her, she stands out like a lighthouse in that outfit."

Cassandra looked herself over. As a fashion model, casual nudity was an occupational normality. But her erstwhile sugar-daddy had a point. A see-through gown with nothing underneath, hardly tactical.

Beck opened her mouth to pass on the request, but Floraliza was already on the job, pulling off her head cover, and divesting her black robes before handing them over. At the same time, Ally stepped into the old man's embrace. She buried her head in his shoulder and he stroked her blood-matted hair. "I'm sorry, Damon." she said into his robes, "It's just that... it's just... it's just it's been a shitty few weeks."

"I know, Sweetheart, we're all feeling it. Question is, what do we do now?"

Cassandra shimmied into the niqab, and Floraliza gave her a head cover. "No, no," Cassandra said, "you are too kind."

"My hair is black." Floraliza smiled. "I don't need it." While Cassandra pulled the hood on, tucking in a few light brown locks, Beck checked Floraliza's stealth-rating. Her uniform was dark navy blue, practically black under the moon, but her frilled white pinny stood out like neon.

"Might want to lose that apron, Lizzy."

Floraliza started. It had never occurred to her that staying alive was more important than being in uniform.

Cassandra adjusted her cover. A size or 2 too small, the black niqab nonetheless came as a great relief. "What were you saying about that yacht?" she asked, looking herself over.

"It's gone." Ally replied, palming her puffy red eyes.

"Which one?"

"That three-masted square-rigger in the marina." Ally said testily. "With the solid gold figurehead and fairy lights." Watson pinched the bridge of his nose and Ally spooled down. "There was supposed to be a yacht," she wearily sighed, "anchored off the beach."

"You mean Prince Yusef's?"

Shrugs did the rounds and Ally replied. "I didn't get the owner's name, I'm afraid."

Cassandra nodded. "It must have been Prince Yusef's. They told us not to go anywhere near it."

"Or what?" Ally frowned.

"There's no guarantee you'll ever come back." Selene dourly replied. "He's only sixteen, but he already has... how can I put this... a reputation."

Ally palmed her forehead. "Is every male in this country a fucking murdering rapist?"

"Well not all of them." Cassandra said naively, "Obviously. Or no one would ever come here."

"He must have taken it." Watson said darkly. "When the baddies turned up."

"He's not here." Cassandra said. "He's not allowed. Not for the Blood Moon, not until he kills an enemy in battle. It must be around the bay."

Watson looked at Cassandra and when she didn't elaborate, asked, "The bay?"

Cassandra nodded. "There's a bay around the corner, about five hundred meters away. That's where the yacht lives."

Watson scanned the host of anxious faces, wide, bright eyes, suspended like little jewelled moons in a firmament of fear. "Well can you take us there?"

Cassandra raised her hands. "They said we can't go down there."

"Is there some sort of barrier? A fence or a gate?"

"No," Cassandra said, "just a boom gate thingy with lots of signs. Like skull and crossbones."

"But we can get through?"

"Of course," Cassandra nodded, "there's a gap on either side. You just walk around it."

Watson's hopes picked themselves up and brushed themselves off. "Then it's not that we can't go down there, it's just that we shouldn't. Is that what they mean?"

Cassandra shrugged. "I guess."

"Then I guess it's worth a try. With the locals all busy killing each other we might stand a chance. And you never know, if we do get sprung, we can just say we lost our way."

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King Rashiid stalked to-and-fro along the panoramic window, overlooking the palace in its entirety. Way below, under the lights, the swimming pool was bobbing with bodies, its crystal-clear waters turned to red. On a table behind him, beside the throne on its dais, sat an ornate golden casket under the glare of an overhead spotlight. The lid was open, revealing a dozen glass vials nestled in deep purple padding. Scurrying stewards were busy mopping up pools of blood, all that remained of a few holdout courtiers who, when given the choice, took death over dishonour. The curtains parted on the chamber's far side and a squad of 4 sweating soldiers jogged in, slinging weapons over their backs as they approached. Rashiid craned his neck, searching for the vital fifth figure.

The squad pulled up and stood at knee-trembling attention while the leader threw off a salute. "You seem to be missing someone." Rashiid growled.

"Your Majesty." the squad leader said, then swallowed, "The men have scoured the palace."

"That is not what I wish to hear. And you haven't scoured the palace, if you had, you would have found him."

"Sire, several of the VVIPs are missing. Though we found Mister Zhang, and he now awaits an audience."

"I DON'T WANT MISTER ZHANG! I WANT WOODROW-MUNT!"

"Sire, forgive me. We are doing everything we can."

Rashiid looked at the treasure chest, and the ten-mil ampoules of bogus eternal life. "Where is Ahmad?" he growled. "Why hasn't she returned with my prize?"

The troops looked at each other non-plussed. How should they know. They'd been busy enough themselves, searching high and low for the Englishman, Munt.

Rashiid looked around for the nearest ranking officer, then raised a hand and snapped his fingers. "Colonel!"

A breakaway group of renegade security- the old king's expatriate contractors- had blasted their way out of the barracks and were now running around loose on the island. In the midst of this briefing, the colonel looked up. "My Liege?"

"Get over here!"

The colonel dipped his head then hurried to Rashiid's side. "Sire."

Rashiid studied his fingernails. "How long have we been recruiting the blind and incompetent?"

"My Liege?"

"I gave your men one simple order. Find Woodrow Munt and bring him to me. And now they're out there running around in the dark, playing hide and go seek. He's in this palace. Or he managed to sneak away to the barracks. Either way he's within a few hundred meters of where we now stand. An old white man, no doubt with his handsome companion. He can't be that hard to find. Tell your men, bring me Munt, or every last female will shipped off the island, and these idiots will spend the next ten years doing foot patrol on the border."

The colonel nodded. "Yes, Sire."

"And what of Sunray-six? His latest sitrep?"

"He's just tying up now, Sire, about to disembark."

"Is the reception party ready?"

After a heartbeat's hesitation, the colonel inclined his head. "Yes, My Liege."

"Strictly Southern Alliance munitions?"

"Of course, My Liege. We have paid the utmost attention to detail."

Rashiid curled his lip. "Why am I not reassured? Now, where in the Herald's name is that idiot Inayat? And where's my bride?" He was desperate to show the silver filly what he'd done in her name. Aching to show her the pools of blood, the bullet holes, the shattered glass, the blast craters left by grenades. The shrapnel, the rubble, the scraps of human flesh, but most of all himself, her Warrior King, still in his combat fatigues, harrowed yet stoic in the aftermath of violence. Oh, how she'd adore him. And when he found those traitors, the scum who'd kidnapped his Lady from her mountain home, he would execute them himself for her viewing pleasure.

Whispers quickly circulated and a page hurried over. "My Liege," he bowed, "Doctor Ahmad has not yet returned from Royal Wife's chambers."

Rashiid looked around for something to throw. "I can see that, you blithering imbecile. Colonel?"

"Sire?"

"Hold the ground here. I'm going to see what's taking them."

Rashiid set off with a small entourage- his runner, his biographer, the head of his security detail, and three lowly troopers. He led the way, crunching over broken glass, outside into the long, curving hallway. Knots of soldiers standing around, chatting and smoking, threw down their smokes and snapped to attention, saluting the glowering monarch as he strode by. The Royal Wife's chambers finally swung into view, at the far end of the 4-chambered tier. Milling troops leapt to attention as he drew near, fear written all over their faces. "What's the meaning of this?" Rashiid demanded, toeing the splintered wood and rubble littering the floor.

"They barricaded the door." someone said.

A young lieutenant shouldered through the crowd. "We had to call the breachers, Your Majesty."

Rashiid's eyes bulged in their sockets. "You blew your way in? To my wife's chambers?"

"I'm sorry, Sire. We pleaded with them time and again, asking them to open the door. Promising we meant no harm."

"And then you blew the door in?"

"Sire... I... we..."

Rashiid barged the officer aside and squeezed through a jagged hole in the woodwork. "Where's my wife?" he barked. "Is she alright? If there's so much as a scratch on Lady Rebekah I'll see you'll all hang."

"That's the whole point." the officer puffed, trying to keep up.

Rashiid caught sight of Doctor Inayat in the middle of the melee. She was turning on the spot in a state of ranting apoplexy, shrieking unintelligibly and waving her arms. Rashiid seized her wrist. The doctor looked at him and promptly collapsed. "My Liege," she wailed, gripping his boots.

Rashiid grabbed her by the scruff of her hijab. "Get up, woman! Get up, god curse you." While Inayat was finding her feet, Rashiid looked around, searching the royal bed chamber for any sight of his beautiful young bride, fully expecting to find her laid out on the bed, deathly pale, a rose blossom of blood over one delicate breast. And when he rushed to her side, she would reach up with a tiny hand to caress his cheek, and wipe the tear from his eye, her rosebud lips whispering his name. Saying she loved him, for eternity, as she cast off the shackles of fleeting mortality. And yes, he would carouse with his warriors tonight, celebrate their victory... wine, women, song, all the accoutrements... but in his heart of hearts he would be mourning the loss of his chosen. And come the morrow, he would carry her in his arms down the long winding path, past his men as they stood in an honour guard, heads bowed, grieving for their young monarch's loss. And then...

The bed was empty.

Rashiid's eyes bulged in their sockets. "Wherrre... IS SHEEE?"

"We've searched everywhere, Sire." Inayat cried, hands clasped.

"WHERE IS SHE?" Rashiid roared, back-handing Inayat across the face hard enough to send her staggering. "YOU MOTHER OF A WHORE, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HER?"

A trooper jogged up, sweating buckets. "Sire! We've turned the chambers upside down."

Rashiid looked at the soldier, teeth clenched, nostrils flaring. A bloody coup, brought on 2 days early, with scores of men dead and many more wounded. Not to mention his own father deposed. All in the name of a girl they now said was missing. "Your next words better be, 'we found her'."

The trooper swallowed, while the rest of his men shrank back. "Forgive me, Sire."

"Is this some kind of joke? First Woodrow Munt, now my bride. This is bloody insurrection! I'll see you all hang!"

Inayat crept back like a kicked dog, her right eye closed and eyebrow swelling. "My Liege," she croaked, "I swear we've looked everywhere. Even as we speak, combat engineers are checking the plans. For any voids or cavities, or ducting we might have missed. I beg you, be patient, she can't have gone far."

Rashiid bit his knuckles, thinking. When he was a boy of 8 or 9, just for lark, he'd set a 5-foot cobra loose in his father's bed chambers. For days he waited for his father's scream, the sound of steward's stampeding to His Majesty's aid, lights and sirens, all that fun and excitement. But there was nothing.

A few weeks later, a freshly-shed snake skin was found in the bathroom and the king was moved to alternative chambers. Several months passed. Rashiid had forgotten all about his little practical joke, until a maid picked up a towel in the linen closet. The cobra struck a fatal blow to the young woman's cheek, so the young Rashiid's efforts weren't entirely in vain. He looked at Doctor Inayat. "She's in the linen closet."

Khan swiped a tear from her seeping eye. "But Sire, we've checked."

Shoving her aside, Rashiid stormed through the chambers, into the bathroom, then onwards into the linen press. The space had been ransacked. Rashiid kicked through piles of linen in a rage, until he reached the bare floor, then turned to the shelves on rearmost wall. Troops and stewards and courtiers dived out of the way, as dismembered shelving flew out of the room. Sweating and dishevelled, Rashiid looked around for the nearest ranking officer. "Where's my father?"

Pushed to the fore, a brigadier tugged at his collar. "They've taken him to the docks, Sire. For the... fishing... trip."

"Well get him back." Rashiid snarled. "He's behind this, I know. As god is my witness, I'll not be denied a third time."