“Hi,” I responded tentatively as I heard the sound of the door swishing closed behind me. I didn’t doubt Alaire could tell I was way beyond uncomfortable, especially when I began darting nervous glances around the room like a stealthy chicken. Self-consciously clasping my hands in front of me, my awkwardness probably looked ridiculous when the brashness of my outfit was taken into account.
“Please have a seat,” Alaire said, holding his arm out, and indicating the seat right beside his. He reached over and pulled out the glossy, black enameled chair, which was upholstered in rich red velvet.
“Thanks,” I grumbled, but sat down, my gaze still riveted on the room. The walls were a deep red and interrupted by large paintings every few feet. From my vantage point, I couldn’t make out the subjects of the paintings or maybe that fact was due to the dimly lit room. What light there was in the room mainly came from an enormous, gothically styled chandelier which hung above the table. The ten or so ancient-looking wall sconces around the room imbued it with a sinister atmosphere. There were no windows, which made no difference to me since I preferred not to see the streets of the Underground City.
“You look very lovely,” Alaire said as he sat down beside me and I allowed my eyes to rest on him. “Well, minus that contraption around your waist,” he corrected himself as he eyed my fanny pack with obvious distaste.
“That contraption is called a fanny pack. And ‘lovely’ isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe the rest of the outfit either,” I muttered, finally employing my voice as well as my sarcasm.
“Perhaps ‘ravishing’ would be a better term?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘whorish’ or ‘sluttified,’ but whatever,” I replied with a frown. The goblet on the table in front of me began filling with a red fluid. “I’m guessing that’s wine?”
Alaire simply nodded, but his gaze was so penetrating, I couldn’t help but wonder what he had on his mind.
“Can I have some water?” I asked, deciding not to get inebriated. Dropping my defenses around Alaire would be pure idiocy. As soon as I said the words, my water glass filled itself. I watched in awe before facing Alaire again. “How did it do that?”
He shrugged as if the wine goblets and water glasses filling themselves were no big deal. “Some might say it’s magic, my dear.”
“Is it?”
He shrugged again and reached for a silver bell which sat on the table in front of him. It was an exact replica of the one on the mantel in my temporary bedroom. He rang the bell and replaced it on the table again before turning to face me. “I am sometimes known as the Great Magician.”
“The Great Magician?” I repeated as I shook my head. “Is that any relation to the Great Pumpkin?” I asked, offering him an unimpressed expression.
“Yes and no,” he answered matter-of-factly, not appearing to take offense to anything I’d said. Alaire’s narcissism knew no bounds, something I found incredibly irritating.
“Then, maybe I should start calling you Harry Houdini.”
Alaire just offered me a smile that said my gruff manner was doing nothing to upset his cheerful mood. “It seems you are something of a tailor, I see?” he said when his gaze came to rest on my bust.
“Even though you were, no doubt, hoping for a cheap thrill, I failed to share your enthusiasm about showing up half naked,” I admitted with a shrug. Glancing down at myself, and taking in my scantily clad body, I could only frown again. “Although it looks like I still am.”
Alaire laughed, just as the door to the room slid open. A strange creature, hefty and intimidating, shuffled in. As soon as I saw him, I nearly jumped right out of my skin. He was carrying a large, covered silver platter.
“At ease, my dear,” Alaire said with a hearty chuckle. “Boris will not hurt you.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, settling my eyes on “Boris” as my fight-or-flight response escalated tenfold. Boris was probably eight feet tall, dressed in malodorous fur, and had a generally unkempt appearance. He could’ve been Sasquatch’s cousin. His head was the shape of a pear—narrowing at the top and hairless with a wide, full, cleft chin on the bottom. His nose was broad, but not as wide as his lips which were drawn into a contented smile that hinted at little to no brain activity. His face was comprised of multiple folds of skin, which emphasized his drooping eyes. Warts covered both of his cheeks.
He served (well, it’s really more fitting to say he dropped) the silver platter onto the table right in front of us. Using an enormous hand, he lifted the domed cover, his five bulbous fingers looking like gnarled tree roots.
“Thank you, Boris, I will take it from here,” Alaire announced. The giant simply nodded as he turned around, his huge mass looming back toward the sliding door. The wood floors beneath him groaned with every step he took.
“What was he?” I inquired, but only after my heart calmed down and Boris was nowhere to be seen.
“An ogre,” Alaire answered casually. He picked up the serving fork and motioned to the plate in front of me. Lifting it up, I allowed him to serve whatever was on the menu.
“I prefer your invisible employees,” I muttered.
Alaire didn’t respond verbally, but offered me a raised brow, the meaning of which was unfortunately lost on me. I watched him spear a few pieces of what looked like steak before placing them on my plate, along with wedges of potatoes, carrots and broccoli.
“Dare I ask if whatever meat that is came from the Dark Wood?” I asked.
“The Dark Wood?” he questioned me with a raised brow and the expression of distaste in his features. “No.”
“That’s a relief to know.”
“Did you really imagine I could eat anything from the haunted forest?” he continued and shook his head, as if the very idea were completely inconceivable. “I am not a scavenger, Ms. Harper.”
“In general, I make it my business not to be in yours,” I quipped, even as I wondered if it was a good idea to provoke him.
He didn’t act as if my comment offended him though. Instead, he sat back in his seat, placing his black, cloth napkin over his lap and faced me with a seductive grin. “And I make it my business to be in yours,” he purred with a practiced smile. Then he took a breath and said, “Bon appetit,” before cutting a bite of the meat and tasting it.
My stomach immediately started to growl loudly and I could feel my cheeks heating up with embarrassment. I quickly cut some of the meat, hoping to sate my stomach and keep it from making my hunger so obvious.
“How is it?” Alaire asked.
“Delicious,” I answered truthfully. “Tastes like steak,” I finished and glanced up at him. “Which I hope it is.”
“And if it is not?”
I shook my head. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Alaire didn’t reply as he speared a piece of potato. A few seconds later, a slow beat began emanating from the speakers that were hung in each corner of the room. It took me a second or two before I recognized the song as “Desire” by Meg Myers.
“Interesting taste in music,” I said before looking at Alaire again. I took a bite of my carrot, which was perfectly cooked. “Did Boris cook this?” I asked, frowning because I couldn’t imagine how that would be the case.
“Heavens no!” Alaire laughed and shook his head. “I employ a cook.”
“So you do have help?” I asked, after swallowing a bite of broccoli.
“Of course I do,” he responded.
“Well, I’ve just never seen any of your…attendees,” I continued, sounding defensive.
“Most of them are not visible by the naked eye.”
I nodded as I swallowed down another bite of steak. “That’s smart of you—going the stealthy route.”
“In general my invisible employees are my most valuable,” he finished before his expression changed and I supposed so would the topic. “As regards your observation that I have interesting musical tastes,” he started and leaned back in his chair
, considering me with an amused smile. “I must confess I quite like this song.”
“I bet you do,” I agreed, more than aware of the sexual nature of the lyrics. I liked it too, that is, before discovering Alaire did.
After taking another few bites of his dinner, Alaire pushed the plate away, even though there was still a piece of meat and a few carrots left. Then he leaned back against his chair, tipping it up until the legs straddled the air as he began rocking back and forth, never prying his gaze from mine. “I especially like the line where she says ‘she wants to skin me with her tongue.’”
I laughed and shook my head before eating another bite of my steak, or what I hoped was steak. “Um, I don’t think she’s actually referring to you, Alaire.”
“How do you know she isn’t?” he inquired, the smirk on his mouth growing wider. He brought the legs of his chair back down to the ground and reached for the metal bell on the table, ringing it once.
“I guess I don’t,” I answered honestly, lifting my eyebrows to indicate he had me at an impasse. Silence ensued for a few seconds as I frantically searched for a new topic of conversation. It was no secret that Alaire made me uncomfortable. “Nice to know you get all the newest music in Hell.”
“How many times have I corrected you about terming the Underground ‘Hell’?” Alaire replied, sounding slightly put out before sighing dramatically. “And yet, you still continue to call it as such.”
“If it walks like the devil, talks like the devil, looks like the devil,” I started with a smile.
“Yes, yes,” Alaire interrupted as he waved me away with his hand and appeared flustered. “As to your question, you should already be aware that whatever you enjoy on Earth, I can procure in the Underground as well.” He cleared his throat and smiled at me again. “I hope you enjoyed your ride here?”
“Are you referring to the shade? Or the Tesla?”
“The Tesla,” Alaire specified with a slight laugh.
“Yes, I did enjoy the ride,” I answered honestly. “It’s also very reassuring to know you’re so conscientious about zero emissions and saving the environment.” I faced him with an expression that suggested I was pleased with my comment.
Alaire didn’t say anything right away as he studied me with unmasked curiosity. “I daresay I have not met a woman like you before.”
“I daresay you’d be lying.”
He continued to study me, a slight smile pulling on the ends of his lips. “You are an interesting woman, Ms. Harper.”
“Not as interesting as the paintings on your wall,” I rebutted, honing in on the one directly in front of me. It was the first time I’d paid attention to the subject matter of the wall art since walking into the room. Maybe Alaire and Boris were so overwhelming that I’d failed to notice anything else …
“Ah, Luis Royo.”
“What?” I asked, ever so quaintly.
“The artist,” Alaire informed me with a grin. “His name is Luis Royo. Have you heard of him? Or seen his work before?”
“No,” I answered immediately. I pushed my chair away from the table, placing my napkin beside my plate as I stood up. Then I approached the painting, which hung on the wall directly in front of us.
“That one is my favorite,” Alaire commented from behind me. “It is entitled, ‘The Hand of Three Circles.’”
“Interesting,” I replied as I studied the painting. I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it earlier because it was nearly six feet tall and a good four feet wide. It depicted a blond woman with her hair in disarray. She had a chain around her neck and one of her wrists. Her other arm was out of view. She was sitting inside a circular opening in what looked like a wall of iron or some other metal. She didn’t look unhappy, but neither did she appear to be especially content. Her white, transparent dress hung in shreds around her small frame, just enough of it left to barely cover her breasts, although her nipples were clearly visible through the fabric. The rest of the dress disappeared between her legs, one thigh obscuring the viewer from seeing anything he or she shouldn’t. “Who’s the guy in the distance?” I asked.
“Hades,” Alaire answered.
“The King of the Underworld,” I murmured. Hades was depicted just behind the beautiful woman and was holding the handle to the chains around her neck and her wrist. He appeared as a dark, shadowy figure with glowing white eyes and a face like a monster. His ears were pointy and long and his nose was thick. He was bald on top with long straggles of hair hanging down from the middle of his head. His ugliness was obviously in direct contrast with the beauty of the woman.
“It’s an artistic representation of the story of Hades and Persephone,” Alaire explained as I turned around to face him. I noticed his attention was fastened on the painting, and I glimpsed an expression of sheer admiration in his eyes. “Are you familiar with that tale?” he asked, resting his gaze on me.
“Remind me,” I answered. Although I had heard the name Persephone often enough, I just couldn’t remember all the specifics.
“Very well,” Alaire replied with a smile. “As you quite astutely pointed out, Hades is the God of the Underworld. He happened to fall in love with Persephone, the daughter of Zeus. She was an innocent, virginal maiden. When Hades stumbled upon her frolicking in the fields, he decided he had to have her for himself.”
“So? What did he do?” I asked moments later, growing irritated at myself for sounding so enraptured by his story.
“While Persephone was gathering flowers, Hades appeared in his chariot. It was drawn by four black horses with red, glowing eyes. Persephone, who was petrified, tried to flee from him, but Hades was an omnipotent God and much too powerful for the helpless girl. He simply grabbed her before stealing her innocence by raping her among the flowers.”
“Jeez,” I started but Alaire interrupted me.
“The Earth responded by opening up so Hades could drive his chariot into the dark chasm, while Persephone cried for help … in vain of course.”
“So Hades won then?” I asked, frowning at him angrily. “What a horrible story.”
“If by ‘won’ you mean Persephone had to stay with him, then yes and no.”
“Yes and no?” I repeated, trying not to sound so irritated, but there it was.
“Persephone became the Queen of the Underworld; although, every year, she escapes from Hades and returns to Earth, bringing springtime with her, or so the fable would lead us to believe.” He was quiet for a few seconds. “Do you like the painting?”
Glancing back up at it, I studied it as though seeing it for the first time. Somehow, I managed to glean much more from the artwork now that I knew the story behind it. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly.
“As I commented earlier, it is my favorite,” Alaire said as I stared at the painting, still not sure what to make of it. “I believe Persephone looks quite a bit like you.”
“Me?” I replied before scoffing and shaking my head to let him know he was way off base. When I turned around to face him again, I noticed at least four more Luis Royo paintings in the room. “Are all of the paintings depictions of Greek mythology?”
“No, not all,” Alaire replied with a secretive smile as he leaned back in his chair, and resumed his incessant rocking, back and forth. Finding the paintings easier to look at than Alaire, I honed in on the next one. It portrayed another blond woman with curly hair who wielded an enormous sword. The end of the sword was dripping with blood, which also appeared all over the bottom of the woman’s white dress. Her breasts were clearly displayed as she held her hand up to her face, wearing an expression of pity. A hideous creature lay dead or dying beneath her. A few seconds later it dawned on me that her piteous expression was merely a façade since it was obvious she was the one who had dealt the death blow.
“What’s the name of this one?” I asked.
“Immaculate.”
“Why? What’s the story behind it?”
Alaire shrugged. “According to Royo, Immaculate cove
rs herself with her victim’s blood. She’s a demon hunter.”
“Oh,” I said before my gaze landed on the creature below her. The horns on its head, and its long, pointed teeth, combined with the talons at the ends of its fingertips and its horned wings, definitely resembled that of a demon.
“Did you notice the demon’s erection?” Alaire inquired.
“What?” I hiccupped, feeling embarrassment going all the way down to my core. Forcing my attention back to the painting, I immediately spotted the enormous erection between the creature’s legs and wondered how I’d missed it earlier.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Alaire asked.
“What?” I asked, the heat of my embarrassment still fanning across my cheeks. When I glanced back at Alaire, I found his attention unapologetically fixated on the painting. “What’s ironic?”
“That Immaculate is represented as such a tiny, curvaceous and lovely woman; yet she is the one responsible for slaying the repugnant, dominant beast whose primary intention was to ravage her.”
I didn’t respond as I approached the next painting on the wall. It was of a woman with enormous breasts, which were obscured by her hair. She stood naked except for a black swath of cloth over the junction of her thighs. The fabric was held in place by a dreadful, winged, black creature that stood behind her. His other hand rested on her thigh, with her hand atop his. It was quite clear that the woman wanted the creature’s hand on her—and that the two were involved, in some manner of speaking. “And this one?” I asked.
“The Chapel of Darkness,” Alaire responded. “Perhaps a true ‘Beauty and the Beast’ story?”
I just nodded as I headed for the next painting. I wasn’t at all sure about my true feelings in regard to any of the paintings. Dark and frightening, they were also erotic and perplexing. They were paintings that the onlooker couldn’t simply look at. They made you think.