Aaron Carlson delivers the rare, the impossible, to the highest bidder. This promise is challenged, however, when he is asked to find a legend; an artefact that even time wants to forget.
For the right price, he agrees to assist the sultry Miss Worthing in her quest for eternity’s gift. He will deliver where those before him have failed.
The heart is what she craves. The ivory legend from 18th Century France; now no more than a cold whisper.
Aaron follows the trail of Trenton, his predecessor, and the heart’s latest victim. A man left empty, broken, by the heart’s perennial chill.
Aaron’s journey takes him through light, darkness and fire, opening old wounds and exposing him to new ones.
And all the while the heart watches. All the while the heart awaits.
Read an excerpt!
Chapter One
They had prepared the room as instructed. Tall candles littered the chamber, their light inviting shadows, and at the centre, the tub stood waiting, its deep brass polished until gold shone from its depth. Wisps of steam snaked from the water within. Hot, thick twists joining scattered shadows, playing among the bitter light.
Monsieur Lilac sipped his wine with deliberate slowness. His tired eyes went to the windows, longing for escape. Outside, the first fall of snow had begun. As Paris slept, dots dropped down from the heavens, the flakes of stars gracing the earth of mortals. He finished the wine in one slow gulp, savouring the burn of its taste. His hand trembled. Today he truly felt the pain of his years. It was the weakness in him; the weakness in all men. Mortality pulsed through his veins like a plague. It wrinkled his skin. Tightened his chest. Tonight, he would escape it all.
He disrobed, his servants taking firm hold of his frame. Water bubbled as his body met its warmth.
“The curtains,” he gestured with a weak hand.
Winter disappeared from view.
He breathed, and leaned further into the tub’s warmth. There was no further need for him to speak. His loyal servants knew what was to be done. Cold hands were upon his chest, nails marking his flesh with thick dots…something sharper. The chill of metal, of medical instruments. The skin underneath curled against the cold whispers of steel.
He closed his eyes, wheezed his last sigh. One by one, the candles were extinguished. He prayed for the comfort of nothingness.
The hands were upon his own, holding him down. Thick cloth closed the charm of his mouth. The aristocratic mouth that had argued, threatened, loved. The pain in his chest was sharp, as expected, his flesh folding to metal wielded by loyal hands. Old blood spilled from fresh wounds. His weakness was being ripped open.
He forced his eyes to remain closed. The sound of tearing flesh, breaking bones.
And underneath it all, the weakest form. His poor heart, still thumping, not knowing when to stop, not knowing when life had become a patient death. Hands dug into the redness of his chest, and with twists and tugs, the heart of old was finally disconnected.
A gasp escaped from his still suppressed lips. It was enough to make him open his eyes. He watched it fall to the floor, and waited for the gift of light.
* * * *
Miss Worthing returned the cognac bottle to the table. Her manicured fingers nudged it forward, ensuring it stood between them. “So ends our story,” she smiled. “The first known tragedy of the ivory heart.”
Across from her, Aaron Carlson sank further into his seat, careful not to appear too disinterested, or too credulous.
“So, he ripped his own heart out,” he smiled. “He got that far, at least?”
“Yes, Mr Carlson. Indeed he did.” She leaned forward, her shadow flowing toward him, touching him. “He was not worthy,” she whispered. “Not worthy for the gift of light. And so he failed.”
Aaron nodded, gripping his glass. “I see. So, the ivory heart—”
“Oh, he did try, Mr Carlson. Indeed, he tried.
Aaron suppressed a grin.
“The heart did not glow,” she sighed. . “No light came forth from its shape, nor did it fill his veins with its whiteness, as he’d so hoped.”
Aaron uncrossed his legs. His own shadow leaned forward to meet hers.
“Miss Worthing, so far you’ve given me a fairy tale. A sick story of an ivory heart; of its supposed immortality.”
“And one man’s attempt to use it,” she added.
“Right.” He breathed sharply. “May I be blunt, Miss Worthing?”
The thick lips of her beauty drained her glass before answering.
“Of course, Mr Carlson. Do be honest.”
So he was. Despite the wealth of her home, despite her erudite accent, he let his impatience fuel his words.
“What’s the damn point? Surely, you’re aware of my profession?”
“Of course,” Miss Worthing laughed. “You deliver that which is not for sale—”
“Only at the right price,” he declared firmly. He set down his glass, pushing it away. “Enough stories. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give you my price.”
Her blue eyes turned cold. Only a flicker, yet enough to detract from her charm. There was bitterness underneath it all, a determined rage, and he felt anxiety soften the tone of his voice.
“Tell me,” he said again.
She refilled his glass, pushed it roughly back to him. The marble table groaned.
“I want the heart, Mr Carlson,” she said. The smile had grown sour. “It should be obvious, from my story.”
Aaron shook his head.
“You really believe all this...”
Her chilled eyes blinked.
“You’ll have your price,” she said. “Whatever it may be. For I assure you, my request is serious. You see, I have the benefit of my fortune to assist me. Over the years I have found information pertaining to the heart. Information I have paid dearly for. Oh, and for the record, Mr Carlson, I make sure such information belongs to no one else.”
Aaron was startled by her intensity, the fire in her voice matching the chill of her eyes.
“Why me?” he asked. He sat back now, as if comfortable.
“Believe me, my dear, I have tried others.” She glanced at her nails, at the deep red of their manicured tips.
“They failed?”
“So to speak, Mr Carlson. Their efforts, however, have yielded opportunities, brought me closer to my goal.”
A deep laugh escaped her lips, as if she were victim of her own fantastic mind.
“I have no reason to believe all this,” Aaron sighed. He made to leave.
They had prepared the room as instructed. Tall candles littered the chamber, their light inviting shadows, and at the centre, the tub stood waiting, its deep brass polished until gold shone from its depth. Wisps of steam snaked from the water within. Hot, thick twists joining scattered shadows, playing among the bitter light.
Monsieur Lilac sipped his wine with deliberate slowness. His tired eyes went to the windows, longing for escape. Outside, the first fall of snow had begun. As Paris slept, dots dropped down from the heavens, the flakes of stars gracing the earth of mortals. He finished the wine in one slow gulp, savouring the burn of its taste. His hand trembled. Today he truly felt the pain of his years. It was the weakness in him; the weakness in all men. Mortality pulsed through his veins like a plague. It wrinkled his skin. Tightened his chest. Tonight, he would escape it all.
He disrobed, his servants taking firm hold of his frame. Water bubbled as his body met its warmth.
“The curtains,” he gestured with a weak hand.
Winter disappeared from view.
He breathed, and leaned further into the tub’s warmth. There was no further need for him to speak. His loyal servants knew what was to be done. Cold hands were upon his chest, nails marking his flesh with thick dots…something sharper. The chill of metal, of medical instruments. The skin underneath curled against the cold whispers of steel.
He closed his eyes, wheezed his last sigh. One by one, the candles were extinguished. He prayed for the comfort of nothingness.
The hands were upon his own, holding him down. Thick cloth closed the charm of his mouth. The aristocratic mouth that had argued, threatened, loved. The pain in his chest was sharp, as expected, his flesh folding to metal wielded by loyal hands. Old blood spilled from fresh wounds. His weakness was being ripped open.
He forced his eyes to remain closed. The sound of tearing flesh, breaking bones.
And underneath it all, the weakest form. His poor heart, still thumping, not knowing when to stop, not knowing when life had become a patient death. Hands dug into the redness of his chest, and with twists and tugs, the heart of old was finally disconnected.
A gasp escaped from his still suppressed lips. It was enough to make him open his eyes. He watched it fall to the floor, and waited for the gift of light.
* * * *
Miss Worthing returned the cognac bottle to the table. Her manicured fingers nudged it forward, ensuring it stood between them. “So ends our story,” she smiled. “The first known tragedy of the ivory heart.”
Across from her, Aaron Carlson sank further into his seat, careful not to appear too disinterested, or too credulous.
“So, he ripped his own heart out,” he smiled. “He got that far, at least?”
“Yes, Mr Carlson. Indeed he did.” She leaned forward, her shadow flowing toward him, touching him. “He was not worthy,” she whispered. “Not worthy for the gift of light. And so he failed.”
Aaron nodded, gripping his glass. “I see. So, the ivory heart—”
“Oh, he did try, Mr Carlson. Indeed, he tried.
Aaron suppressed a grin.
“The heart did not glow,” she sighed. . “No light came forth from its shape, nor did it fill his veins with its whiteness, as he’d so hoped.”
Aaron uncrossed his legs. His own shadow leaned forward to meet hers.
“Miss Worthing, so far you’ve given me a fairy tale. A sick story of an ivory heart; of its supposed immortality.”
“And one man’s attempt to use it,” she added.
“Right.” He breathed sharply. “May I be blunt, Miss Worthing?”
The thick lips of her beauty drained her glass before answering.
“Of course, Mr Carlson. Do be honest.”
So he was. Despite the wealth of her home, despite her erudite accent, he let his impatience fuel his words.
“What’s the damn point? Surely, you’re aware of my profession?”
“Of course,” Miss Worthing laughed. “You deliver that which is not for sale—”
“Only at the right price,” he declared firmly. He set down his glass, pushing it away. “Enough stories. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give you my price.”
Her blue eyes turned cold. Only a flicker, yet enough to detract from her charm. There was bitterness underneath it all, a determined rage, and he felt anxiety soften the tone of his voice.
“Tell me,” he said again.
She refilled his glass, pushed it roughly back to him. The marble table groaned.
“I want the heart, Mr Carlson,” she said. The smile had grown sour. “It should be obvious, from my story.”
Aaron shook his head.
“You really believe all this...”
Her chilled eyes blinked.
“You’ll have your price,” she said. “Whatever it may be. For I assure you, my request is serious. You see, I have the benefit of my fortune to assist me. Over the years I have found information pertaining to the heart. Information I have paid dearly for. Oh, and for the record, Mr Carlson, I make sure such information belongs to no one else.”
Aaron was startled by her intensity, the fire in her voice matching the chill of her eyes.
“Why me?” he asked. He sat back now, as if comfortable.
“Believe me, my dear, I have tried others.” She glanced at her nails, at the deep red of their manicured tips.
“They failed?”
“So to speak, Mr Carlson. Their efforts, however, have yielded opportunities, brought me closer to my goal.”
A deep laugh escaped her lips, as if she were victim of her own fantastic mind.
“I have no reason to believe all this,” Aaron sighed. He made to leave.
THE HEART'S LONE DESIRE IS COMING IN MAY 2011 FROM MUSEITUP PUBLISHING!Nicolai De-Gundersen is an author of dark fiction currently studying Literature at the University of Oslo. Having been raised in England and having attended an international school in Norway, his work often finds inspiration from diverse cultures. He has been writing for circa 3 years, penning various tales that explore the human condition under supernatural circumstances, thus merging the rational and the real with the hidden world of the fantastic and macabre.
Join The Heart's Lone Desire Facebook Group page!
No comments:
Post a Comment