Dream Couch

"His name is Rasputin, and he is a Russian blue. He keeps me company and accepts my quirks without protestation. A new face among your typical muscle, who is she?"

"Ekaterina, also Russian, and recent acquisition to my stable," the duke replied absently, twisting the ornate ring on his left hand. You know my craving for redheads; even you must admit she is beautiful. Would you like to borrow Ekaterina for the evening? She won't mind, would you, my pet?"

To change the subject and end the awkward moment, Farahd asked, "Did you receive my letter?"

"I did," the duke said, letting the artisan pour five portions of Black Burke's finest for them. "Is the signature authentic?"

"Yes, I sent a photo to my agent in Rome, and he verified its authenticity. It belongs to Leonardo da Vinci; they even found a reference in one of Leonardo's journals. Undoubtedly, you have a work of a grandmaster in your possession. I envy you."

"Did you perform the test, I asked?" The duke asked as he sipped his drink.

"With some difficulty, as you know, I am not an engineer, but I have the footage if you wish to view it yourself."

"I do indeed," he replied. Farahd picked up the remote control for his plasma screen television and turned it on, then qued up the video he had taken of the duke's test. "A friend of mine purchased the boat anchor and raw material for the framework. As you can see, I removed it from the frame for obvious reasons." Farahd hit play, and they all watched the footage as the anchor and three hundred pounds of gym weights slammed into a single point without leaving a scratch. "It is invulnerable to harm."

"What else can you tell me about my acquisition?"

"This," Farahd said as he removed a framed document from the wall and handed it to the duke for his opinion.

"What am I looking at?"

"Leonardo's sketches of the various parts of a Chinese puzzle box. The creator's design and cunning ingenuity are behind the frame Da Vinci so lovingly carved. It took time to solve Da Vinci's challenge and take it apart. Once in its component pieces, the real work began, a labor of love, I assure you."

"I believe you, Farahd," the duke said. "Ekaterina, don't fidget."

The girl with the fantastic blue eyes glared at her employer but became still for now. Farahd noticed that for apparent bodyguards, the other two women were surprisingly docile, relaxed, even lethargic, and blissfully dismissive of their environment. Were they intoxicated or under the influence of a drug or something? Farahd almost missed the duke's gesture with his left hand where the iridium and platinum band rested. The same piece of jewelry that Farahd had repaired five years earlier. There were many legends surrounding the ring, and all of them were horrifying. It was listed in Eithorn's Encyclopedia and carried many monikers over the centuries, the latest being the Magician's Apprentice.

"The anticipation is killing me," the duke declared with a rumble of laughter and anxiety. "Where is it?"

"In the garage under the white tarp. Shall I show you?"

"No," he snapped. "I mean, I want to view it alone. Ladies, you will remain here until I require your presence."

"Yes, your grace," the trio said in a single stunted voice. Ekaterina seemed to be grinding her teeth and seething but obeyed.

Farahd poured a second round, and the women appeared to relax once the duke had left to claim his prize. The bodyguards were all beautiful, but each had a uniqueness that set her apart. Ekaterina, for example, was shorter than the others but equally curvaceous, as was the nobleman's preference. Dharma, the dusky-skinned Asian, was of average height, deliciously rounded, and like Ekaterina, a natural redhead. Asian, red hair, and possessed eyes like chips of emerald. Where did he find her?

"I was prostituting myself around Bangkok," Dharma said dismissively. "I like sex, money, and wealthy, well-hung men. Do you have a problem with that?"

"No. Everyone has their own life to live. How old are you?"

"Twenty, and I've been in the Duke's employ for two years now," Dharma said, using air quotes when she said duke's employ.

"He keeps us well enough," said Inadia, his oldest and most exotic bodyguard. "Growing up in a warzone is no one's paradise.

"I met you a few years ago when the duke brought me the ring for repair. You are still as gorgeous now as when I first met you."

"The benefits of being pampered and having access to a gymnasium, pool, and skilled trainers. It takes a lot of work to look this good all the time." We all heard a fierce one-sided argument coming from the garage. "Damn it, not again. Is anyone hungry? May I borrow your kitchen?"

"Have at it," Farahd said, pouring the last of the liquor into his glass.

"Not this same old fucking argument," the duke roared. Farahd cocked his head and listened, but no one spoke, yet the duke fired back at the unheard words. "Bitch, I own you like I own those cunts out there. You do what I say when I say it; do I make myself clear?"

"My mother was Egyptian, and my father Greek," Inadia said to take everyone's mind off the shouting match. "I get my olive complexion and hair from dad and my tits and ass from mom. She was a musician and dancer before she died and left me to fend for myself. If the duke hadn't rescued me, I would have starved or worse. Sure, it sucks, but it is better to suffer from one man's unwanted touch than many at a time. So, don't lecture me on my life and survival choices."

"Inadia, no one is shaming you," Ekaterina said. "We are all sisters under the yoke of that worthless, selfish piece of shit. We survive, and ultimately, we'll outlive him by decades. Mark my words; this shit will end, and hopefully soon."

"You are preaching to the choir, sister," Dharma laughed. "Let's eat."

Farahd sat with them and listened to the stories of how the duke had found, ensnared, and controlled them for his protection and pleasure. When asked about their combat training, the answer surprised him.

"Little to none," Inadia said. "We are human meat shields, that's all. If someone dangerous approaches him, we form a human wall while he escapes."

"You do so willingly?" Farahd asked, and all three shared the same expression, fear. Did I do this? Farahd asked himself. When I repaired that ring, did I create the shackles these ladies wear? How could a hunk of metal do anything? The shouting from the garage ended, and the duke returned. His complexion was now waxen, and he appeared haggard and listless. He could no longer hide his nervousness and trembling lips and hands.

"Come on, you three, I want you to see something. Oh, Farahd, thanks for everything. You'll find a handwritten note in the garage. Read it at your discretion after I've left."

Farahd thought it strange that the duke mentioned his departure and not all four of them. Were the ladies staying behind? Was he letting them go? He'd wait until he heard the car pull away before returning to the garage and closing the outer door. He switched to his streaming service and doomscrolled through the possibilities to pass the time. Though he loathed seeing what the outside world was up to, Farahd became curious and selected a news broadcast.

"...breaking news, the murder of the Duchess of Wales has the nation in an uproar. Authorities seek to question the Duke of Exeter in connection with the crime."

"Motherfucker," Farahd cursed as he turned and raced to the garage. As he yanked open the door, he heard the duke's limo roar into the street and streak away at high speed. His gaze was caught by the flash of light on a small metal object as it fell to the ground and rolled toward him. "What have we here?" He asked as he lowered his hand, and the duke's ring rolled into the palm of his hand.

"Mow?"

"A mystery," Farahd said as he closed the outer door and turned to face Da Vinci's Mirror. "The mirror is still here, the duke tossed his most prized possession to the ground, and he is nowhere to be seen. Hmm? What do you think, Rasputin?"

"Mow."

"You are right, the note he left behind. Let's see what it says."

With Rasputin perched on his shoulder, Farahed broke the wax seal bearing the Windsor family crest, unfolded the parchment, and read its contents aloud.

"Farahd, that's me; if you are reading this note, the worst has come to pass. I murdered my cousin and am fleeing to the United States to escape the justice I so well deserve. I am going against the will of hell to perform this escape if I perish, take care of the girls while I'm gone. My only hope is the legend behind Da Vinci's mirror, or what the Greek's called the Janus Gate, is true. I will spend the rest of my time behind bars if it is merely a story. I hope a kernel of truth hides behind tales and lies told over the years. Yours in friendship, Lord Gregory Bishop Windsor, Duke of Exeter. Why? Why would he kill his cousin?"

"Mow."

"I'll lock this up nice and tight," Farahd said. "Right after I see if it fits. Well, would you look at that? How strange that the duke had such big hands, yet it was a perfect fit. Crap, it won't come off. Hell, what have I gotten myself into this time?"

Rasputin dashed off and skittered to a halt in front of the windows in the living room. The shafts of sunlight warmed his fur and inspired a massive yawn from the kitten. Farahd smiled at his sole companion, stretched, and fell asleep on the floor. Farahd forgot about the duke's ring immediately as his full attention focused on the Da Vinci. He would relocate the mirror needed to his bedroom. He grabbed a dolly, moved it behind the relic, and Farahd meticulously tied clean rags to every spot where the frame's wood touched the hand truck. There is no way that, after nearly a year of work, Farahd would let the dolly inflict a single scratch on the ancient wood. Once Farahd was sure that moving the mirror was safe, he wheeled it to the back steps and gingerly pulled it up the stairs a step at a time.

"Perfect," he declared once he had positioned the Da Vinci for maximum viewing pleasure. "The entirety of European culture comprised in a single creation." On the right side of the frame hovered a grinning angelic cherub, and a forest dryad was naughtily leering opposite it. Crowning the center of the peak, watched the amused Green Man with its twin frowning from the other side—a clear depiction of Janus, the god of doorways and journeys. "I suppose that is why they named it the Jansu Gate. No time to spare; we have a book to deliver, but first."

Farahd returned to the garage and retrieved the wooden box he had crafted to hold his copy of Eithorn's Encyclopedia. Unlike the original, his exterior matched other similar tomes of esoteric knowledge and folklore he had acquired over the last few years. Once it was with the others, he would carry the genuine article to its owner. A great upswelling of pride filled him as he walked across the street and knocked on his neighbor's door.

"Hey, Farahd," Scott Melvin said as he answered the door. "Dad's not home right now. Can I help you with something?"

"I finished restoring your dad's book. Do you think I could leave it with you?"

"Sure. Dad should be back in a little bit. He went to the store for supplies. I'll be sure to give it to him when he returns. Hey, did you see those gals tearing out of here?"

"You saw that? Was there a man in an expensive suit with them?"

"Not that I saw, but he could have been in the back seat. Did something happen? Did they steal from you?"

"No, he left without what he came for, is all. Maybe he'll be back, but somehow I doubt it. Here. Give this to your dad and ask him to call me once he looks it over. Will you do that for me?"

"You got it. Hey, mom baked homemade bread. I bet she'd share some with you if you came for dinner."

"Um, perhaps you'd better talk to her before making that offer; if she and your dad are willing, then great. I'd hate to pass up bread right out of the oven."

Farahd returned home, but the invitation didn't manifest until two days later and coincided with the arrival of a member of law enforcement. Claudette Melvin knocked on Farahd's side door, throwing his morning routine into chaos. But with her came the mouthwatering smell of freshly baked bread coupled with a tantalizingly obscure smell he wasn't familiar with, making him feel strange.

"Morning, Farahd, may I come... in?" Claudette asked. Farahd stumbled over the stilted way she had asked her question.

"Please do," he replied, noting her short skirt and checkered blouse. The last three buttons of Claudette's shirt were unbuttoned, and the material tied beneath her ample breasts. In fact, only two buttons held her cleavage from breaking free of their cloth containment.

"What a lovely kitchen. I spend most of my days preparing meals and baking to entertain my husband's clients. He was over the moon when he saw that book you did for him. I thought the least I could do was to reward your 'hard' efforts with something warm and inviting."

"You are too kind, Mrs. Melvin."

"Claudette, please, everyone calls me Claudette," she purred as she made a show of bending over to place the basket holding the bread onto the kitchen table. Farahd watched the back of her skirt rise and revealed half of Claudette's stunning backside. She must have been working in a hot kitchen when he noticed a line of sweat running down her inner thigh. Poor thing must be hot and sweaty.

"Can I offer you a refreshment? Are you thirsty for something I can provide?"

"Oh, gods Farahd, you have no idea," she gasped in surprise. "Did you know that your bedroom faces the street?"

"Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"Ooh, I like that, playing so coy and proper. It is okay; I can roleplay too. In fact, I love pretending to be someone else. Who do you think I could be?"

"Historically speaking, your Slavic heritage could make you a great candidate for Katherine the Great. Your skin makes me think you may also have some Latin, perhaps Brazillian."

"It's my ass, isn't it? My grandmother was from Brazil. Guys go crazy over my butt. What do you think of it, Farahd?"

'Slap it. Go on, place one hand on Claudette's shoulder, lift her skirt, give her ass a hard slap, and see what happens.'

The sudden intuition was impossible to resist. Farahd followed it to the letter. His right hand settled on Claudette's shoulder, he tugged up the back of her skirt with the left, and after cupping his hand, he let fly, and the slap sounded like a gunshot. Claudette cried out as her knees buckled, and her climax hit her with the same force as Farahd's hand.

"So good," Claudette wailed before he snapped out of it and could apologize. "I haven't had an orgasm that strong in years. It goes to watching you for so long and wanting you inside me. Forgive me. In my zeal, I seemed to have gushed all over your floor."

"I'll clean it up," he said, and then to his horror, he spied the unmarked police cruiser pulling onto his driveway. "You need to leave. The police are here; I'm sure you don't want a scandal. Damn it all to hell."

"Don't fret, Farahd. I'll return with more bread and something special just for you."

While Claudette left via the back door, Farahd sprayed an ammonia-based cleanser on the tiles to mask the strong feminine odor left behind by his neighbor's fluids. When the doorbell rang, he had just returned the spray bottle to the shelf. Farahd controlled his breathing and saw why the police were visiting him. Two men stood outside and introduced themselves as they displayed their badges.

"I am special agent Derrik Mulgrew, and this is Warren Moneypenny from MI5. May we come in and have a word?"

"You are Farahd Wargrave, are you not?" Warren asked.

"I am, and please come in, gentlemen. What brings you two to my home?"

"The murder of a duchess and the disappearance of a duke," Warren continued.

"The FBI and MI5 are coordinating this investigation. It is unusual, but the British government extended a plea for our aid in pursuing justice in this matter."

"Coffee or tea?" Farahd asked. "We can be civilized in this endeavor."

"Coffee is fine," Derrik said, and Warren agreed.

"Follow me into the kitchen. Sorry for the mess; I cleaned up a spill when you pulled up."

"I smell bread," Warren said, and Farahd frowned.

"One of my neighbors dropped off some freshly baked bread as thanks for the work I did for her family. I recently finished a project of restoring a book, a family heirloom."

Farahd began the coffee and observed the two men and how different they held themselves. Warren's posture was ramrod straight, and he carried himself with easy dignity. Derrick, however, had a more casual demeanor, but his glance was intense and calculating.

"Let's get to the point," Warren began. "We are here because you are a contractor for work done for the Duke of Exeter."

"That is true. The duke was here recently but left abruptly, leaving behind the object I had restored from him. The wording on my contracts is quite explicit. If I don't receive the full payment on time, the object in question reverts into my possession. In this case, an antique mirror, which now resides in my bedroom."

"May we see the mirror?" Derrik asked.

"I don't see why not. Follow me, gentlemen."

Farahd led them up the stairs and to his bedroom. They passed his craft rooms and remarked on the various materials stored there. Both agents gasped when they saw the frame carved at the height of Leonardo's career. When Warren brought out his camera, Farahd stood between him and the mirror.

"I said you could look and never granted permission to photograph my property. Perhaps we should continue this discussion below."

Reluctantly, the two men acquiesced, returned to the living room, and questioned Farahd about the duke and what had transpired the day he visited and subsequently vanished.

"In a nutshell, he arrived with three women, all of them quite lovely. The duke went by himself to view the mirror, and the ladies and I could hear a loud argument from the garage. The duke was shouting at someone, and I assumed he was on his phone. He returned, looking quite flustered and upset. After that, he ordered the women to the garage. A short while later, I heard the limo speed off and found the garage door up and the four of them gone."

The agents asked and reasked the same questions and variations for the next hour. Rasputin interrupted things by walking into the room, dramatically throwing himself onto the carpet, and begging for food. At this point, Farahd called the matter closed.

"You have asked the same ten questions repeatedly in what has to be every possible permutation available. If you want any more information, locate the girls or the limo. This situation has become tedious, and if it continues, I will contact my lawyer and solicitor to deal with any further inquiries."

"You have been more than fair and patient with us," Derrick said as he stood.

"Oh, one more thing," Warren added, to which Farahd giggled and replied.

"I love it," Farahd snorted. "Do they teach the Columbo method at MI5, or is that a personal technique you use?"

"I um," Warren stammered, being the one taken off guard momentarily. "You were adopted rather late in life."

"Yes. I was fifteen and a casualty of war when I was adopted. The British ambassador Lord Clive Ashton Singen Smythe, and his wife took me in and finished raising me. I owe them a debt I can never repay."

"So, you didn't know that your adopted father passed away recently. He left you a considerable amount and three large parcels of land and property. Notably, the chief amongst those legacies is the Singen Smythe family home."

"He's dead?" Farahd said weakly as he dealt with the news. "Clive was like a father to me. I mean, he and Olivia treated me as if I were family. This will upset Richard to no end; he was sure he'd inherit everything."