The Rabbit Dies Pt. 03

But the stagnation in her muscles definitely reaches her and that means I must let her go so she can stretch and find some relief. But I get to watch her stretch and that is certainly acceptable.

We dress and douse the embers of our fire and the road greets us again. It always takes her a handful of moments to get going, to get the calcified muscles broken through and loose. The joints need motion and I get an hour of two of silence before she starts singing. The silence is a welcome change from the rest of the day. The noise of the forest, the birds, the sky, a wonderful reminder of how small we all are.

"Let's just lie awake.

In just a moment's time, you'll wonder why

You ever thought you'd ever long for more than you've got," Annette sings and the world shifts to align behind us once more in the late morning. Still a good singer, still something that makes the steps and the trail melt away and slip through the mind like it wasn't even there in the first place.

We eat on the trail and the silence comes once more. She tries, though, tries to get me to feed her so that she can keep strumming and playing. But I refuse. If we were still, maybe, but walking, eating, and feeding are beyond the limits of my coordination.

In the silence of our midday, there is still noise, still rattling and cavorting. Travelers, much like ourselves, filter in along the path, some bidding us a good day, some preferring to ignore us completely. They have their tasks and their lives and there is simply not enough room for two more people on the route they take.

There is also not room for the massive cart coming down the way, gaudy thing of thick curtains and wild stallions snorting and pawing at the earth, carrying their immense burden. I notice it first, the ripple it sends up stream to us. The wave of people, glancing and turning and looking to one another and the wave hits me in the chest.

Flowers and pollen and deep heady wine fill my skull as my breath turns ragged and the knot in my gut promised to break my spine. My cheeks flush and the arousal, the sheer raw lust of everything, starts filling me. I turn to Annette. She is not special in this moment. She just happens to be the nearest to me and that is a good enough vessel to pour my desire into. The green comes out of her cheeks as the wave hits her. People, animals really, break off and let the cart come on through.

As it nears, the all-consuming lust turns to a bubbling rage, still deep in my stomach. The sign, done in a wonderfully curling font of flickering flames, reads "Madame Dantea's House of Carnal Indulgences."

I grip the hammer tight. I do not pull it out. It always strikes me how close those two feelings are within me. Both can be sated by the other. And the hammer is in my hand, so we all know what particular flavor I will be having. The horses are magnificent, I must admit. Tall, black, strong, glossy coats, cantering to heavens, somehow exuding more unfiltered smugness than a noble let standing behind their father. Beautiful creatures, although they snort and huff at my presence. I grip my hammer tighter. I do not trust their ego and I do not trust the stamping feet that could easily trample and stampede.

The carriage comes to a cantering stop at the will of the wave emanating from the grand cart, easily the size of a tavern and a half. The fight enters my palms, thrumming against the hilt. I want whatever is in there to come out ready for blood and splintered bone, to be dashed against rocks until the muscles and organs are pulp. The rest of the traveling crowd gather at a respectful distance, their own wants plainly etched on their faces. Despite my intentions, I notice a rather fetching Gargan trying and failing to hide his arousal as it pours from the caravan.

The side door opens and a slender hand peeks through, beckoning to us. Annette steps forward. I step in front of her and block her path. She whines, because the waves pouring from the cart are strong enough to sweep her away, to knock her feet clean and carry her to the promised land of small death and ether laced dreams.

"Don't be like that, child," says the arm as the door opens an inch more, "You've been chosen. Honored. Come inside. We have many, many days left before our next destination. Your company has been requested and this is not something you want to ignore."

"I don't know you," I say, "I don't care who you are. I don't care how important you think you are. We're moving on and you can do what you want to do."

"Let me talk to her," says a deep voice of beaten leather. The knot in my stomach tightens and breaks and I want to brain something. Turn it red and pulp and broken at the other end of a hammer. Annette fidgets at the voice, no doubt riding the sound waves that travel and rumble through her.

The door opens fully by way of toned arm of light gray traced with sky blue ink. I gaze at the man of my dreams.

"Howdy Claire," says Amaru, "Please come inside. We just want to talk."

---

The inside is about as big as the outside suggests, maybe a bit smaller. Walls tend to take up more space than they're given. The thick cushions and the plush curtains certainly don't help. Clinging things with soft fingers, eager to reach out and hug and snare and take the body down into a tar pit of soft fibers. I do not trust the pillows. Anything that comforting has to have some sort of angle it wants to pull. I don't trust the tea either, for that matter, as it sits steaming in a fuchsia porcelain cup. Too fragile, too perfume floral, processed and shaken through.

"It's really good, Claire," Amaru says, "Mistress Dantea's handpicked blend. Don't know most of the ingredients, but I think the main ones are sarsaparilla and rose. Maybe hibiscus, but I'm not sure."

"Definitely hibiscus," says Annette, "Although I'm not getting the rose."

Amaru shrugs and I let the cup stay where it is. I'd probably end up breaking it anyway. I don't trust things made of porcelain, especially with floral designs. I don't trust the heavy perfume covering the scent of sex. I don't trust the fact that Amaru has decided to forgo any form of shirt the entire time we've been speaking. And, for that matter, I don't trust how smooth of a ride this has been. Carriages should rock and bump and rattle with the road. Gliding is not suitable for anything horse drawn. It must be to protect the teacups.

He sips and sets it down and I watch the work travel up his arm. His well-muscled, smooth, flexing, toned arm, that could probably pin me down or lift me up or hold me gently or do any wonderful number of things now that the mind is fixated on that. I don't trust this place with the odd scents entering my mind and turning my thoughts to him and me and Annette and the whole world really. I eye the tea and let it sit. I do not trust the potential it has within me.

"Good tea," says Annette, desperate to try and crack the silence. I see no reason to break this one. I see no reason to not just let this all stay still and wait for the host to make her wishes known.

"Yeah," says Amaru, "Yeah. It's good, Claire. Really good. Never thought that we'd actually meet like this. You look good. Really good. Really, really good."

"Thank you," I finally say. Feels like I should say something at this point. I'm fine with the quiet. I'm fine with waiting.

"Alright, I'll do it," says Amaru, "I had a pull from Master Warren last night. No words, but a feeling, I guess. I knew it had something to do with you and of course, I agreed. I'm assuming this is it. Claire, whatever you need I'm here for. Whatever needs doing, I'm doing it."

"What's he talking about," Annette says.

"Warren wants me, now us, I guess to go to Goldenrod and get a key. That's all he said. And my guess is this whole show is going to Goldenrod on its next stop, so I have to ride along and play with whoever is running this thing. And I'm not too happy about that."

"Why?"

"Don't know. The master has a task, so it must be carried out. So says the Loom and its teachings."

"No, I mean why are you not happy about riding in this thing. What a mansion! Someone slapped a castle on wheels and filled it with sex. Dantea's got good taste. And I happen to like sitting on soft things instead of rocks."

She sprawls back on the loveseat, kicking her feet up and laying her body into me. Every nerve alights at the touch.

"If you're worried about the effects," Amaru says, "it will pass. It's just that initial shock wave. Give it a day or two. And Dantea won't make you perform, although I bet she'll certainly try. Two who walk with Warren, a lot of people probably want to see that."

"I'm not doing that."

The thoughts turn in Annette's head and I can certainly see her thinking of ways to push me that way. It is a conceivable possibility in the world now, and I don't see the joy in quashing a dream so early. Let it build and fester until it is overripe and rotten. The juices would fly much farther that way when it is stomped. But she's thinking of grand schemes, I'm sure. She takes another sip and sets the cup down.

"She's always like this," Annette says, "Always says no. And no doesn't really mean no with her."

"I am aware of that," Amaru chuckles. I watch the jump in his chest with raging hunger. Annette does as well, the lines, the swell, the bounce. And his stomach, more hard lines that look like a wonderful place to rest my head. I can even see the outline in his trousers, that snaking muscle. I do not like it here.

The carriage finally rattles, and my tea has the audacity to spill onto the plush carpet. Of course, that moment is also the time the footsteps come from up above, shaking the roof and sending Amaru's back ramrod straight. I have to take up the slack, apparently, leaning into the cushions, letting them take more and more of my form until it all melts away. Annette takes this opportunity to shuffle a little closer.

From the second floor of the carriage comes a languishing stride of smooth gossamer and soft sighs of content existence. I see the train come first, the flowing silk robe of ruby red. And I wish once more for my hammer as the most beautiful women steps forth from the entranceway. Blonde, so incredibly blonde of sunshine and daffodils and golden wheat, hair drapes from her shoulders down to the floor. I don't know why she even bothered putting anything on if she was just going to wear it open and plain, breasts softly brushing against one another with each and every step. Swell of hips and tone and I want to get up and bend her over and shove her to the floor. I remain seated, mostly so I can feel Annette squirm on top of me.

"Apologies for the late introduction," the Madame of the house says, "There were some affairs I had to attend to with my husband. A very intricate operation, you know. But you must be Claire Verlaine. Even if I hadn't the luck of employing one of your associates, I know so much about you. If half of it is true, then I am honored. Although, I'm afraid I do not know your fetching companion."

"Annette Biedermeier," she hums. Even the voice pouring from the crimson lips sets the skin on fire. I want to shred the cloth and the leather of everyone in the room. I want to press bodies to mine and taste lips and tongue. The hair would make a good lead.

"It is lovely to meet you, my dear," the demon purrs. The horns and the tail, those she keeps hidden, although I glance their form piercing the curtain every other heartbeat. Glimpses of more red shimmer, shifts and waves. She moves and sits a respectable distance away from Amaru and a poison claw clutches my gut. I still do not touch the tea.

Amaru pours and she takes a languid sip, sighing once the drink passes her throat.

"And you, Miss Verlaine," she says, "I believe my employee has already expressed my interest in hiring you, at least for a short little while. Two who walk with Warren would be something, especially if one of them is you. And of course, Miss Biedermeier, should the urge strike, I know we can be accommodating as well. Treblex and Warren are linked more than people seem to realize. Or at least they can be linked. Dance and song are closely tied to love making and- "

I hold up my hand and the words relent with dignity and grace.

"Annette," I say, "If you want to, I won't stop you. But I am a hammer, not a set of spread legs. If you need a hammer, then you have one. I'm not going to be something I'm not."

She sighs.

"Shame. A real shame. Missing a good opportunity. You don't want to only be known for that hammer, don't you?"

"Considering you know my hammer, I accept it."

Amaru looks disappointed and I do not blame him. He had his hopes up and I took them down. Natural really. But I also want to spite someone and the knot in my stomach relents with the action. Dantea shrugs and drains her cup. Like twin serpents, she uncrosses her legs and sadly puts them back together.

"Alright then. That door will be open for you, but I'll take another guard for the road. Can never be too careful. And there will be front row seats if you want them. I treat those under my employ well. Don't I, Mister Blackmountain?"

"Yes, you do ma'am. Yes, you do. I'm glad to be here," he says. His eyes never leave a point in space a foot or so above my head, even as the mistress so coyly shimmed over and sat on his lap. That same poisonous claw came and scraped against the insides of my gut. I'm just glad I am on official duty to be violent now. There is a cup in my hand, full of floral tea. A sip is gone and I taste the perfume at the back of my throat.

---

The carriage rattles along and it is a smooth ride. Very smooth. I sometimes doubt we are even moving at all. Then the whole thing shakes and rattles and that sharp crystal adornment hanging over the couch in my quarters. That I definitely don't trust. Splinters and shards and all matter of pain from lacerations. And probably an infection or something. I don't trust whoever does the cleaning in this place. The scent of sex has been baked into every fiber, covered up rather well all things considered, with perfume and flowers and tea.

There always seems to be a pot or a kettle steaming and piping wherever I turn. The quarters I've claimed have one delivered at every hour. Every corner I turn has another just sitting on a table. The one meal we've shared had a pot for each and every lovely guest. The madame didn't join us for the occasion, unfortunately. More matters with her husband or some such.

From what little Annette knows of magecraft, there doesn't appear to be any bindings on her, no runes, or rituals to keep her grounded. Not unheard, although certainly odd. She doesn't mind. She should mind, but she doesn't. She should also stop drinking the tea by the bucket, but she doesn't heed my warnings. Amaru also seems to be fine with the copious amounts of drinking going on, and I do trust him, more or less. I do trust him, but I do not trust him to be in complete control of his faculties here.

I am not. The scent and the wave and the current of energy in every grain of wood has tightened the knot in my stomach ever so slightly with each breath I take in this place. I have my hammer. I have my hammer nearby and that is a good thing to keep close at hand. It is a good thing to have a weapon so close, just in case I need to kill something immediately.

The couch I have chosen as my nesting site for the time being is comfortable. Perfect length to slot my body into, head propped, thick blanket covering my feet and a steaming kettle for tea near my head. Gods forbid I have something else to drink. I would like some cold water to be honest. That would be nice. That would be something incredibly refreshing as it would cut through the cloying perfume in my mind. But there is only tea. And a crystal chandelier that sways and dangles and rattles, threatening to pierce and shred me.

Annette shuffles in, humming a tune that only slips through the mind and shifts the fog to my ears. I have a headache and the song doesn't really help.

"I think you need to get up and start exploring, Cottontail," she says, "Kind of a waste to lay up in this place. At least check out the closet."

"I'm not wearing somebody else's clothes," I say, "Especially from someplace like this."

"You're really uptight, y'know that? And they are really good. Like really, really good. A good thread count and very breezy. But like, in a good way."

I can hear the sway in her hips. I can feel it. I can feel the way she walks cut through the scent, the floral. Everything about the air shifts and folds into the sensation of skin on skin. Not in control, not in command.

And Annette is not helping. Silk and cotton and embroidered low cut trailing number of fabrics, open almost down to her navel. Bare shoulders and tight around the waist, humming in feigned ignorance of her body as she simply putzes around the space I've claimed.

"And you have a room, y'know? You don't have to use a couch. Dantea was nice enough to give you a bed. And by that, I mean us. We're sharing."

That I do not mind. And I don't mind that it's not posed as a question. A simple statement of fact.

"I don't trust a succubus' bed," I say.

"Fair. But Amaru's here. And he's fine. Probably. Definitely seemed intimidated, but who wouldn't be right? You still kind of scare me sometimes."

"I do?"

"Oh yeah. Especially once you get going on me. What do you expect? You can get kind of intense. And on that hill, you were going to kill me. That was scary."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was a fight. That's what happens in fights. And it was also kind of hot. But you feel that way too, right? See a guy come back all bloodied and battered and broken, still that wild eyed rush in his stomach. Something broken or torn. Maybe missing. Maybe. That's how I found you."

I sigh and I feel something click within me. How long since I've just sat in stillness and let the world carry on with my body? Not that long really. Had a cart when I was with Saaverdra. Didn't have to march with the rank and file, at least for long. Didn't really do all that much with them really. Couple drills, a drink or two that bled into a night. But it wasn't comfortable as this. The cushions weren't as plush or soft. The itch crawls on my legs and I need to get up and stretch. The blanket makes it difficult though. It is very, very warm.

Even the floor is warm to the touch once my bare feet hit the carpet. Too comfortable and I don't know what to do with that. Annette moves the sit by me, press into me and I want to. I want to lay back down with her, but I do not trust the floral perfume clinging to my skin. I don't trust the urges in this cart. She does and I can't help but feel that is a mistake. She takes my cheek and presses her lips to mind, and I do, I do want to let go. But not here and not like this.

"Later," I whisper in her ear with a little nip. She sighs and groans and tries to push me back to the cushions. I do not let her have that victory. I need to take a long, long walk and hopefully find a spot that does not reek of perfume. She pouts as break from her. As one final push, she pulls the dress low, exposing her chest, and once more, she makes a good, persuasive argument. But the cloy in my mind makes the urge dull and broad and blunted. I need fresh air and I cannot get it here.

It all smells of perfume. Every grain, every fiber, every nail has been soaked into the mind sedative. It seeps into my muscles and I can't see straight. It's all the winding thoughts and shifting colors. Red. So red and warm and soft, everything worth diving into headfirst in suffused slumber half awake. Everything is soft and dull and warm and relaxed and does not allow the sharp hard edge of anything rational. I huff and walk. I huff and keep stepping, each turn taking me deeper and deeper into the labyrinth, each step sending me deeper into the mist. There should be a window at least. A door that doesn't open to a sea of pillows and blankets and cushions and another tea kettle spitting steam in my face that urges me to strip and take Annette until she is comatose and catatonic, and I am still needing.