Pensive

Don't Be a Ginger around Cadmus Pariah

((woefully rough, but I'm posting anyway))

And here he was, in his home away from home, the nearly immortal Poison Rose, watching the ginger boy dance with flat, black eyes. Anyone prompting memories of Orphaeus Cygnus ran the risk of Cadmus’ ire. Even though anger was certainly no stranger to the Pariah, this irritation had crept into his bones when he had been focused on the sublime stillness that so often defined him in these times. The ginger was an intrusion for which he had no taste. He must pay for this indiscretion.

Rising from his seat, disregarding the fawning acolytes who invariably assembled in his shadow, Cadmus moved to the dance floor. He took no notice of the leather and spandex-clad bodies that parted like the Red Sea as he approached them. He saw only the ginger boy, moving in tandem with his pale, plump girlfriend. Even the girl shied away when she saw Cadmus, leaving the boy at the center of attention.

He looked at Cadmus Pariah, he brow knitted in a mixture of confusion and awe.

“’Sup, bra?” he shouted, trying to impose his voice over the din of electronica that permeated the air.

Cadmus’ ire increased. These children spouting American slang instead of embracing their own heritage splintered his patience like cracks in endless ice.

“This,” Cadmus said, his seething eyes lidded with determination. He could feel the boy’s blood pressure rise to meet the level of his anger, and could not deny his dark satisfaction when the boy dropped dead at his feet.

Instantly, Cadmus knelt and looked up at the girl, pulling a face of concern. “Call emergency! Something is wrong with him!”

As she frantically dialled 999, Cadmus brushed his fingers along the boy’s hairline, and took a tiny bit of his flesh with the hair still attached. A fine trophy indeed to add to his Harming Tree, a kind of miniature version of Orphaeus’ own scalp, which still graced the Pariah’s altar, resting in the depths of his veiled castle home.

He remained at the boy’s side until emergency crews arrived. They took one look at Cadmus, and dismissed him as a suspect. He exuded a sense of opulent command that made most believe that he only took control of unfortunate situations, being the best candidate to help out until authorities arrived. A police officer actually thanked the Pariah for his help. He stood back and watched the paramedics attempt to resuscitate the young man, to no avail, and he felt the skin on his face tingle with secret satisfaction at the thought of the bit of skin and hair tucked away in the folds of his priestly robes.

“What is this here?” One of the emergency workers asked. “What is that? He’s missing a little bit of his scalp here, right behind the ear.”

“Do you think that’s what killed him?” The officer asked.

“Ma’am, do you know if he bumped his head recently?”

The Goth girl the ginger had been dancing with shook her head, crying silently.

“It’s possible that he banged his head at some time during the day, and it somehow affected a brain injury. We will have to let the coroner decide that, though. Let’s get him to hospital so we can make a proper declaration of time of death, then hand it over to investigators.”

“We’ll need to close the club for the rest of the night,” another officer said to the owner of the Poison Rose. “Probably have it closed for tomorrow, too, until we survey the entire area. Just to be on the safe side. I don’t think foul play was at work here, but we have to canvas the area, just to dot our I’s an cross our T’s.”

The club owner nodded grimly and set to clearing the rooms of customers. No one objected, as the atmosphere was particularly grim, even for a Goth crowd. Cadmus was one of the first to leave, entering his car and instructing his thralled driver to take him back to the West Country. His tree was waiting for a new offering.
  • Current Location: Home
  • Current Mood: awake awake
  • Current Music: Radioactive - Imagine Dragons