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Dream Brother
by Aurette
o
There is a child sleeping near his twin
The pictures go wild in a rush of wind
That dark angel he is shuffling in
Watching over them with his black feather wings unfurled
The love you lost with her skin so fair
Is free with the wind in her butterscotch hair
Her green eyes blew goodbyes
With her head in her hands
and your kiss on the lips of another
Dream Brother, with your tears scattered round the world.
-"Dream Brother" by Jeff Buckley
o
Chapter One: Blood Money
The streets are paved with rubbish and broken dreams, and all she knows is that soon enough she'll be pressed against the brick wall in the alley between a cheap salon and a sex toy shop. Between her legs will be some guy whose name she doesn't know and doesn't want to know. She tightens the holey woolen coat about her thin frame. As soon as any potential trick comes by she has to open it, revealing her outfit of a short skirt and fishnet top, and nothing else.
Her golden hair is limp and dirty, and the night sky above the city is thick with smog and disdain. A man walks by, long hair the color of sapphire trailing down his back like a veil, or at least that's how it shines in the streetlights. She opens her coat, and leans against the street sign, showing off her skinny body in hopes that this man would be hungry for what she could offer.
The man watches her with red eyes, but he stares at her face. It's unusual. They never stare at her face. It's too real to acknowledge there's another soul peeping back. But of course, she's not entirely sure how much of a soul she has left. He takes a few steps, his hand flies, and he slaps her so hard she is thrown to the ground.
"Disgusting trash," he says, his voice as dark as his hair, and walks on.
Sunday woke up with a gasp. She was bathed in sweat, and her hair hung in her eyes. She sat straight up, and looked around the dark room.
"Fuck, Sunday. Go back to sleep," her roommate muttered with a whine.
"Easy for you to say, CiCi. You don't have nightmares," Sunday shot back. The other girl, whom she couldn't quite make out in the dim light of the bedroom, made a rude gesture and rolled over. Sunday shook her head, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The sky was just turning pink out her eastern window, and she made a face as she realized she was up much too early.
Sleep escaped her after every one of those horrible dreams. It was no use. She'd just have to get up. She crept out of the room, not bothering to dress, and made her way through the house. Bastien's mansion was huge. There was no need for doubling up on rooms, but Bastien insisted. Sunday didn't care. In fact, no one really cared. After years on the cold streets, a single roommate wasn't much of a concession.
Sunday's long blonde hair wrapped around her shoulders in thick, glossy curls. She had to admit her hair was a source of pride she could ill afford a year ago. As Sunday shuffled through the house, she remembered many times when people noticed her only because of her hair. That hadn't been quite so prideful. She shuddered. But whether it was from the cold floor or the memories, she wasn't sure.
The house was dark and quiet, just how she liked it. The other five, like her, were fast asleep. In the beginning, it had taken a long time for them to relax enough to sleep, and even longer for them to sleep easy. Sunday still had a hard time letting down her guard and realizing no one would bother her in the middle of the night. And the nightmares didn't help matters. She'd often taken such walks through an empty mansion, trying to clear her thoughts of the dreadful images conjured up by her subconscious. It never quite worked, but it was close enough for comfort.
Sunday opened the door to the library, and peered around. She didn't see anybody, so she slipped in and closed the door behind her. She walked past the stacks and climbed up on the window sill. The windows in the library were the largest in the house, from the ceiling almost to the floor, with tall seats built in. It was a perfect spot to read, and Sunday had spent many a day watching the sunrise.
"Nightmare again, Sunday?"
"As always, Bastien." Sunday looked over her shoulder, and saw the man standing right behind her. He had long ceased to startle her when he would walk up so softly behind her and speak. Bastien was ageless as he stood there watching her, his arms folded and a look of pensive peace on his face. Sunday could never look that peaceful, she knew. Her mind was too much a riot of memory and jaded thoughts.
Her caretaker, if he could be called such a word, was tall. Tall enough to be intimidating. Bastien never used his body like that. Sunday knew all about using a body to one's advantage. Bastien kept his distance, never touching. His skin was pale, with no hint of the sun touching his complexion. Bastien didn't like to go outside.
"What was it about this time?"
Sunday closed her eyes as she listened to him speak. He had such a lovely voice. Deep, smooth, like candy coated velvet. "You. And me."
When she opened her eyes, she noticed that look of pensive peace had disappeared. In it's place was an expression of alarm. "Me?" he asked, worry tinging his tone.
Sunday shrugged. She didn't want to detail her particular dream to him. Bastien had always been uncomfortable with the fact that she'd one turned tricks in back alleys for pittances. "Just a dream about when I was sixteen," she replied. "And for some reason you were there."
Bastien didn't answer. He could stand so very still and quiet that Sunday wondered if he even breathed. Perhaps the frightening part was that if he didn't breathe she wasn't so sure she would be surprised. Sunday turned away and looked out the window. The sky was a brilliant golden, with pink clouds streaking the sky. The tip of the sun was just rising over the horizon, which Sunday could just make out through the trees.
"It was just a dream," Sunday finally told herself. "Nothing else."
"Dreams say more than we want to listen to." Bastien moved until he was standing behind her. "And show us more than we want to see."
"You always talk like that." Sunday turned her body to look up at him, into those strange dark eyes. "Like you're trying to be mysterious."
"Is there something wrong with the way I speak?"
Sunday shook her head, and turned back to watch the sunrise. "I guess not. It's just weird." She leaned her forehead against the window. "People aren't much with the pretty words on the streets."
"That much is obvious."
Sunday snorted, the unladylike sound marring the quiet peacefulness that the library held. "People will tell you exactly what they think of you, and more. No double talk, no hidden meanings. Is that how they operate in the upper class, Bastien?"
"I assure you I wouldn't know."
The light was gorgeous, filtering through the trees, bathing the grounds in golden sun. Bastien always found her when she woke, to watch the sunrise with her. She'd more than once wondered if the man ever slept. She wasn't allowed to go into his bedroom, but he was up later than she, working at some obscure text or leaving the mansion on his strange whims. And he was always there when she woke up from a nightmare. A more curious soul might have tried to figure out what Bastien did with his time, but Sunday knew better. She was alive now because of him, and for that she could turn the other way.
They all could.
Sunday drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She rested her chin on her knees and gazed out at the sunrise. "They're coming more and more."
"I noticed." Bastien, always so succinct and to the point. And taciturn.
"It scares me. I don't want to fall asleep anymore."
"You need to sleep sometimes, Sunday. Perhaps if you got out more."
Sunday frowned at the thought. She liked being locked away in the mansion. After her years of being homeless, having a place to live, to sleep, to eat without the fear of violence, rape, or arrest was a haven. She craved her loneliness. Facing the outside world was hard for her. She'd barely left since Bastien had brought her a year earlier. And only then if Bastien or Alex was with her. It was a fine twist of fate that she wouldn't walk out the door by herself without a man when before she would wander where she willed, with no heed to who was with her or she would meet. Feeling safe was a luxury, one she didn't want to lose.
"What would I do?"
Bastien was silent for a long moment before he answered in the way that Sunday had been expecting for the entire time she'd lived there. "If you found a job in town, perhaps? Actually learning to care for yourself again."
"I can take care of myself."
"You can survive. There's a difference." Bastien gently twirled one of the curls on the back of her head, letting it slip through his fingers. He'd always been fascinated with her hair. She'd never asked why. No one ever asked why in Bastien's house. It simply wasn't done.
"If I got a job, I'd need to learn how to drive."
"Yes. You would."
Sunday made a face, though Bastien wouldn't be able to see it. He dropped his hand, and she let out a soft sigh. "I can't drive."
"Can't, or won't?"
"I don't want to learn."
Bastien seated himself beside her. She turned her head, chin still propped on her knees, to gaze at him in curiosity. "Sunday, you can't keep yourself helpless. You're stronger than that, and you know it."
"I like staying here."
A smile flickered on the corners of his lips. "You could finish school. Go to college. You can do so much. You have so much opportunity out there."
"I like being where I am."
Bastien reached forward to tuck a curl of hair behind her ear. He never touched her skin, just her hair. "Would you do it if I asked?" Of course, he would have to pull out the last resort.
Sunday dropped her arms and leaned against the window once more. "You don't even need to ask that question, Bastien. I'll look. They usually like having I.D.s and social security numbers and things like that, you realize."
Bastien raised one dark eyebrow, and Sunday chuckled. He hadn't even needed to say anything. He never had to say anything at the end of the day. Sunday always understood him perfectly.
They watched the rest of the sunrise in an easy silence.
o
Bastien made himself scarce that day. Sunday did her usual chores. She took over Jett's and Sammy's when they started working overtime at the factory. She didn't mind; the furious cleaning managed to get her mind off her unpleasant memories. CiCi and Alex and no doubt gone into the city to pick Wolf up from the airport. So she thought she was the only one in the mansion when the door rang. She was on the second story, cleaning the bathroom Wolf, Jett, and Sammy shared when she heard the unfamiliar sound.
Visitors were extremely scarce at Bastien's estate. She set down the rag and bottle of disinfectant and wandered out to the landing. The entryway was large, almost the size of a ballroom, and the carved wooden door was over-sized. She couldn't see out the stained glass windows, so she went down the stairs and opened the door.
"Can I help you?" she asked. The man standing there was tall, taller than even Bastien. His skin had an almost golden hue, as if he were sunkissed. He was just the wrong side of too skinny, and his suit fit him too loosely. His hair was dark. She couldn't tell it's exact color, but just as Bastien's black hair reminded her of sapphires, this man's hair reminded her of garnets. If it caught the light, she was sure the shine would be glinted red.
"Well, he always did like the tragic ones," the man said. His voice was as smooth as Bastien's. He spoke with an amused lilt, and his large blue eyes lingered over her form. Sunday fought the urge to shiver at the force of his gaze alone. He leaned in until his face was inches from hers. Before she could pull away, he caught her shoulders. He pulled her closer, and sniffed her hair deeply. "You have the smell of a street rat gutter slut."
Sunday struggled, fear rising in her chest. The man's grip was too tight, his fingers were crushing into her shoulders, though his fingers caressed her collarbones gently. It felt so strange. The bruising strength coupled with the gentle touch. "Let me go, you freak!" She stopped struggling, but gripped his wrists as if she could pull them off.
"Asmodeus, unhand her."
Instantly, the man released her shoulders at the sound of Bastien's voice. "We're all brothers under the skin, Sebastien." He didn't move away from Sunday, but he didn't touch her. "I'm here for what you owe me."
"Get out of my house and do not touch any of mine again, Asmodeus."
That name again. Sunday looked from Bastien (Sebastien? Was that his real name?) to Asmodeus. She was used to hearing strange names on the streets. Gang boys who chose a tougher name than their given, or those who wanted to escape the holds of their past. Her own name had been given to her when she was fifteen. But Asmodeus? It was unusual on her tongue. She spoke it softly.
He turned those blue eyes to her and a knowing grin played at his lips. "I remember you, now, Sunday."
She shrank back at his cruel tone. Sunday didn't remember this man. She would have remembered his cruel tone, surely, if he'd been one of her tricks. None had hardly been that handsome, or had such a tone to their voice. But then again, conversation wasn't a high priority back then.
"Leave her alone!" Bastien took a step forward, and Sunday was more surprised at the fact that Bastien raised his voice than that Asmodeus seemed to know her.
"I knew all the whores in the city," Asmodeus continued, ignoring the man edging closer to the two of them. He reached forward and gripped her by the hair. She struggled again, her fear bubbling over as she frantically tried to get away. He pulled her closer once again, adjusting his grip so it was painful. "They all came back to me, you know. When Straights tried to hide your earnings. . ." Asmodeus trailed off, and pulled her hair so that she had to tilt her head to the side. He looked over her shoulder at Bastien. "I suppose that's why you stopped hooking, am I right?"
Sunday started shaking. Her knees gave out, and in one fluid motion, Asmodeus pulled her to his chest, holding her hostage as he spoke to Bastien. Her face was turned away, so she couldn't see her guardian. Sunday hated being scared, and she hated being this close to anyone, let alone a strange man.
"Didn't you learn anything, martyr? Never care about anyone, not even yourself. It's the only way you'll survive without either of them."
"Let her go, Asmodeus, or I will destroy you."
"Too late, Sebastien. I'm already destroyed." He let out a harsh laugh and twisted Sunday so that he had his hands on her head, ready to twist and break her neck. Four years on the crime-ridden streets, and she'd never been so frightened as she was as Asmodeus' captive. "You know what I've come for. You owe me. I gave you blood, I need my reparation."
Bastien was silent, and Sunday couldn't turn to see what he was doing. "Bastien, p-please," she managed to cry out. "Get him the fuck off of me!"
"Shut up, slut." Asmodeus whirled her around so she was facing Bastien, with one arm was around her neck and the other around her waist, trapping her arms to her sides. "You have one week. And it's not just me you should be worry about. Don't style yourself as a true martyr, St. Sebastien. He-Who-Rules-Heaven-and-Earth will smite thee. Am I right?" His tone was mocking and sarcastic. It made Sunday tremble all the harder. She had been safe, so safe. Bastien was her protector, and this stranger came to the door and was using her against him.
"Let her go." Bastien's voice was calm, and he was staring, his expression impassive. Asmodeus threw her to the floor, and she banged her elbow trying to avoid falling on her face. The relief at being away from his person was immense, and she melted to the floor, trying to keep from crying. She hadn't cried in years, and she'd be damned if she started now.
"One week, Sebastien." Asmodeus looked at Sunday as she tried to swipe her hair from her face. His smile was still firmly in place. "Or we start playing with your little toys. One by one. And she will be the last. Her screams will be most arousing."
"Get out of my house." Bastien's voice was congenial, conversational. It was creepy and unsettling, to boot.
The golden-skinned man cocked his head, and regarded his adversary. His smile was knowing, cruel, and amused all at once. "I would think you'd be more welcoming. Remember? We're all brothers under the skin." He grabbed the door handle, and slammed it closed after himself.
Bastien crouched at Sunday's side. She started rubbing her elbow, and glanced up at the man she had never dared question before. "Did he hurt you?" he asked.
"I think his words hurt worse than anything else," she whispered, and turned away. She stood up, and felt her knees give out. "Shit!" Bastien caught her before she hit the ground for the second time. He righted her, and she caught her breath enough to ask. "Who was he?"
Bastien slipped a hand around her waist and led her out of the entryway and into the sitting room where Wolf and Jett liked to watch sports on the big screen TV. "He was Asmodeus."
"He said he knew me."
"He probably did know of you. He controlled all the pimps in Dantalion."
Sunday pulled away from the man and sat down on the couch. She didn't much feel like being near him. Asmodeus conjured up her feelings of her time as a cheap whore, and it made her feel dirty. "He's a part of the mob?"
Bastien, realizing she didn't want to be near another person, least of all him, crossed the room to gaze out the window. He walked quickly, his long legs allowing him to eat up the distance. No doubt he was checking to make sure the stranger had cleared his grounds. "Something to that effect."
"What did he want?"
"Blood money."
The simple answer explained everything and nothing. Sunday opened her mouth to ask more, but decided against it. "He'll be back in a week."
"Don't worry about him, Sunday. Continue on. Alex will drive you into the city when he brings Wolf home, and you can get your learner's permit and you can start to learn to drive."
How effortlessly he changed the subject. Sunday was relieved, though she felt almost guilty for it. She was slipping. She had to be. "I still need some form of ID, don't I?"
"I'll take care of it." Bastien turned away from the window to fix her with a dark eyed gaze. "Finish your chores, Sunday. Please don't take Asmodeus' words to heart. Forget about him. It is best that you do."
"He called me a toy."
"He calls me lots of things, but that doesn't mean they're true."
Sunday still felt weak in the knees. One part of her wanted to ask about the blood money, and how the manager of the prostitutes in Dantalion was connected to the man who took her in and got her off the streets and clean. And then she remembered the code. It was an unwritten code, one she'd lived by for the past five years. Do not ask questions. Questions get you killed. Survive at all costs.
Never ask why.
