Monday, March 16, 1998

Tommy sat down on the bed beside Jenny, who had already changed into her new disguise. In his hand were strands of hair from Roland’s deceased daughter.

“I’m going to have to handle this next spell, because it’s complicated,” Tommy said. “I can teach it to you later if you like, but the important thing you need to remember is, you can’t change your hair, or use any other spells to change it until after this job is done. So that means brushing your hair instead of shaping it.”

“Oh, poop.” Jenny pouted, her new slimmer face wrinkling with skepticism. “But why do we need to go through this much effort?”

“Because sooner or later, you’ll do something that will make Roland think you aren’t a clone. Then a sample of your hair will cloud the issue, because your roots will have the ‘right’ DNA sample.”

“Then it’s not an illusion.”

“No, it’s a hair summoning, and a transfusion. I’ll have to keep repeating it every two months or so.”

“All right, as long as it won’t make me go bald,” Jenny said.

Smirking, Tommy leaned over to bind one strand on Jenny’s hair with Clarissa’s.

His amused expression faded as he concentrated, and the two strands merged.

From that single fused strand, he began replacing every hair follicle. The spell took almost an hour to complete, and when Tommy finished, he was panting and sweating.

He swallowed, reaching up to wipe his brow. “All right, you are now officially Roland’s clone. I’ll go clean up, and then we can head to Roland’s for the delivery.”

***

Roland paced the full length of his den, stopping just a foot from the wall at one end and turning around to complete another circuit across the room in front of the windows. It didn’t help to get rid of his nervous energy, and it was torturing his hip, even if he was using his cane.

He slung the cane forward with each step, thumping the silicone cap on the hardwood floor with explosive authority. His shoes clacked, creating a steady pattern in time with the cane.

Click-clack, thump! Click-clack, thump! Click-clack, thump!

The game of cat and mouse had continued for days, and Roland was never sure which person held which role. The days became a full two weeks without an answer from Walter. He ignored Roland’s calls to his cell phone, possibly deleting Roland’s messages.

But Roland got through, and he “convinced” Walter to make a clone. Walter came by the next Tuesday, and he said he could have a clone ready in a week.

One week. The thought was baffling, but Walter assured him that it was possible, so long as he had a viable DNA source to work with.

So Roland had given him a few strands of Clarissa’s hair, along with many of her photos.

He faltered in his pacing, losing his urgent speed once he’d thought her name. It was like summoning a specter. Roland longed to see her again so much that his mind developed a hallucination of Clarissa’s ghost.

His psychiatrist had convinced him that she wasn’t real. He wouldn’t take medication to dull his mind, but he couldn’t think her name without seeing the pale, thin wraith that had been his daughter in her last two years of her life.

Chronic myelogenous leukemia. The doctors had said that it was rare for teens to get the disease, but their prognosis had been so positive. There was a 90% survival rate, or so they claimed.

His daughter was in the 10% that didn’t survive, and every dime he gave to the doctors could only prolong her agony.

The ghost who paced the room with him bore the bruises of their needles and catheters. Her shoulder was pitted by an ugly open wound visible through the thin white nightgown she wore.

Her wound was the result of a shunt that had failed just days before Clarissa died. It was one more treatment that the doctors said she couldn’t live without, but only seemed to kill her faster.

He was still haunted by her gaunt face as she cried in his arms, frail and pale white. She’d stared up at him with sunken, sick blue eyes, and then she’d whispered the words that he’d prayed she wouldn’t. “Daddy, please let me go.”

Roland’s heart pulled into a hard knot, emptying his chest and pushing his stomach into his throat. It wasn’t fair. He’d lost his wife, and then, six years later, the only other person who still meant anything was also stripped from him.

It was no wonder that he’d snapped and begun to see his daughter roaming the halls of the manor.

The door to the den opened, and a butler rushed in, his eyes wide and swollen with shock. His flabbergasted stammering was so unusual that Roland was able to focus on him and dispel the hallucination of his daughter.

“Well, speak up,” Roland prodded.

Twisting at the waist, the butler pointed back toward the door, his mouth flapping open and closed several times before his brain could engage his vocal cords. “Sir, Mr. Reed has arrived with…with someone who looks like your daughter. He wouldn’t give her name, sir.”

Roland took off at a fast limping pace, ignoring his hip’s protests. His cane rested in the crook of his arm, and the corridor blurred in his vision until he rounded the corner into the main hallway.

She stood in the foyer carrying a black duffle bag, and even from a distance, he could see major differences in her face and frame, all of which could be accounted for easily. She was a healthy teen girl, where his daughter had never looked so vibrant and alive.

She wasn’t looking at him, but rather at the chandelier hung in the foyer. Her mouth hung open, her pale face filled with an expression of admiration.

She dropped her head when Walter tapped her arm, and her gaze swept from him to Roland. Her face blanked into shy uncertainty as she stared at him.

Roland couldn’t stop staring at her either, but he refused to let himself think of her as Clarissa.

Walking into the foyer, he asked, “What’s your name?”

“I could take whatever name you like,” the young woman answered.

Roland shook his head. “No, I was told that it would be better to let you make your own choices, so I’d rather start off on the right foot with you.” He stopped walking in front of her and offered a soft smile. “What shall I call you?”

“I like Christine?” she said, but she sounded like she was asking for his approval.

“That sounds like a lovely name.” Holding out his hand, Roland said, “Christine, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Roland Montague.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Jenny said.

Roland finally looked at Tommy and laughed. “Walter, you’ve…she’s amazing.”

“Yeah, I thought you might say that.” Tommy stepped back, waving toward the door. “I’ll just leave—”

“Nonsense,” Roland objected. “You must stay for dinner.”

“No, I’ll just make things awkward for both of you.” He patted the cell phone clipped to his hip. “You have my number if you have any questions, and she has it if she has any problems that she wants to discuss with me.”

Roland nodded, suddenly eager to be rid of Tommy. “All right, if she needs anything I’ll get her a cell phone to keep in touch with you.”

“She already has one,” Tommy said.

Jenny held up her bag. “Walter told me that you would handle my clothing and put me up in a guest room?”

Roland closed his hand over her arm and led her into the main hall. “Yes, and you can decorate it however you wish. I know white is dull, but I didn’t want to make the entire room pink and insult you by making you live in a ruffled lace version of hell.”

Jenny grinned, her laughter escaping as a snort. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

From the door, Tommy called, “Good-bye, Roland. I’ll see you later.”

Roland just waved, his attention locked on Jenny.

***

Jenny sat on her new bed, staring outside through a wall of windows. She was in a corner bedroom, and from two walls, she could see a vast expanse of green grass and mazes made up of squat, dwarf shrubs.

It was a maze that was impossible to get lost in, because anyone could step over the shrubs to cross boundaries. But the visual complexity of the maze stunned her, and she stared for a long time, meditating on the thought that she was in Clarissa’s room.

Which became a creepy thought without warning and sent her out to explore the house on her own.

Roland had been pulled away from giving her a tour for a business call, and he’d been gone for a while. She didn’t want to be rude and explore on her own, but she gave up and tried to figure out where would be a safe place to hang out in the house.

The staff all smiled and nodded politely, but no one spoke to her, and most seemed stunned, as if she were really Clarissa. They made her feel awkward in the open halls, and soon she started dipping into rooms, moving every time someone came in to clean or find something from the room she was in. Then she would move and try to find some new place to hide.

Which was stupid and childish, not to mention pointless. But it was good for wasting half her morning without doing any damage.

She found the music room, and her mouth fell open. The stereo cabinet dominated one wall, a unit that stored hundreds of discs.

Hundreds, Jenny thought. She forced herself to calm down. Relax, and think. He’s an old guy. They’ve probably only got some big band stuff on it.

Yet even this idea excited her. She might like big band music, if he had it. She walked up to the stereo and hunted for a power button. The surface was black glass, and there were no knobs or buttons.

Jenny fidgeted with her fingers, frowning while she squinted and tried to search for any dents in the surface that might be a recessed switch.

She gave up and looked around, calling out loud, “Need a remote.”

A chime sounded overhead, and Jenny snapped her head back. “Hello?”

A computerized voice declared, “Remote is five yards from your present location.”

“Oh, cool!” Jenny spun around, looking at the twin black leather recliners placed in front of the huge dual speaker cabinets. Whatever Roland had in the player, he could listen to it loud. Jenny was on the verge of drooling.

Then she noticed the other half of the room, and her jaw unhinged. Three guitars hung on the wall, and below them were an additional pair of four-stringed bass guitars. Dominating the other corner of the room was a black baby grand piano.

Clearly, Roland was going to have more than big band on the stereo.

Now Jenny was really intrigued. She walked over to the recliners and searched the sides, finding a pocket on the right arm of one recliner with a huge bulge.

The bulge turned out to be made by multiple remotes, and Jenny sorted them, counting ten remotes in all. She tried to sort them by brand, but seven of the more complex multi-purpose remotes did not have brand names.

Then she looked over toward the stereo, remembering that it had no brand markings either.

Jenny huffed as she looked back down at the remotes. “God damn it! Why do I have to be the blonde that lives up to the stereotype?”

She slapped the pile of remotes, which turned off the lights, killed the school of tetras in the aquarium by electrocuting them (Roland had it programmed in as a feature), started a fire in the freestanding fireplace behind the recliners, and produced a cat screeching sound effect from somewhere, randomly. This sound effect did not come from the stereo, because she didn’t turn it on.

Jenny sat in the dark, stewing for a few seconds before she shouted, “Reboot!”

She slapped the scattered pile again, turning the lights back on, the fire back off, and the aquarium filter and lights back on.

The fish were still dead.

The aquarium filter jammed on the soggy, floating corpses of the recently deceased stress relievers. It barked like an angry chipmunk before a short in the motor sparked and arced, making a loud crack. The filter stopped bubbling, as dead as the fish.

She raised her hand, thinking Third time’s a…

But another, more rational voice suggested that the third time would be the charm for her to sustain an injury.

Heaving a sigh, she got up to walk over to the stereo again. She smiled at it and said, “Computer, turn on stereo.”

The computer beeped, giving her hope. Then it replied, “Unknown command. Please speak clearly.”

“I di-didn’t stu—stutter, butthead.” Pouting, Jenny leaned over to look at the panel again. Feeling dumb, she cooed in a silly voice. “Oh, mister music box, won’t you spin for me?”

Nothing.

She sang, “Oh happy music box, I cannot find your locks! This whole freaking house talks, so why can’t I have the rocks?”

The stereo clicked on, and the front face plate lit up with blue LED lights.

Pumping her fists skyward, Jenny squealed, “Yay!” Then she grimaced. “But that’s an awful spell.”

Behind her, Roland said, “It was, yes. So maybe it’s a good thing that it didn’t really work.”

Jenny turned around to see him holding up the right remote. Despite his joke, he didn’t look amused. He looked pissed.

He was also soaking wet.

Jenny squirmed under his glare. “Sorry?” She had no idea what she was apologizing for. But her Jenny-sense was tingling, telling her that she’d screwed up, and good.

Roland said, “You slapped the remotes.”

It wasn’t a question so much as an accusation.

Jenny flinched. “Um…no?”

“Christine, you just activated my car alarm, the automated Gatling guns, and the sprinkler system in the west garden where I was sitting. I wouldn’t mind all of that if you hadn’t also hung up my conference call with my newest investors in Japan.”

“Oh…shoot, I’m sorry, Roland. I just wanted to turn on the stereo.”

Roland sighed, holding out the remote. “Then use the right one.”

Jenny nodded. She’d already noticed how the remote didn’t have a brand name on it. It looked like too many of the other remotes from the pile, so she couldn’t set it down and get it confused.

She stared at the front, trying to memorize the buttons. Many didn’t look related to stereo functions, and after killing the fish and booting up the Gatling guns, Jenny was reluctant to push a button with a skull and cross-bones for a label.

She waited until Roland left before she hit play.

The last song that had been paused started up, and Little Richard shouted, “A whop-bop-a-lu a whop bam boo!”

She hit the skip button and then skimmed her thumb to the volume button to turn down the massive sound system.

Many of the songs were familiar, but everything was slow ballads, and most of it was just depressing. Jenny skipped for a while before she found a song from the Rolling Stones that she liked. Almost as soon as the song started, she had new lyrics in mind.

“Please allow me to introduce myself.” Jenny’s voice became low and sultry. “I’m a woman who’ll steal your face. I build power in the songs I sing, every verse, a work of grace.”

She started to sway to the beat of the drums, and the singer’s voice stared to fade, even as the music swelled in volume.

In her chest, she felt the faint tingle of energy building up, slowly at first.

“I was found in a dumpster once. I think someone was high on faith! But I hung around and I’m back again! Brand new bod, and brand new place!”

She began to gyrate her hips, rocking with the music. The energy swelled into a constant pulse in her limbs.

She raised the remote, “Hi, I’m Christine! Hope you like my act! You got no magic here, and I’m gonna bring it back!”

The lights in the room brightened, some of them colored lamps that made the room swim in swirling patterns. Fluorescent blacklights flickered like strobe lamps, creating an erratic glow on every bright surface.

Common sense should have dictated that she stop the spell there, but the music had enchanted her, and she wandered in her spell, reveling in the raw power.

“I’ll hang out to ease your woe! Heal your wounds and help you grow! But then I’ll let you go!”

She didn’t hear the click of the door opening, and she’d closed her eyes, dancing with reckless abandon. “Beat your blues as I kick my shoes! You say you’re depressed. Well here’s the news!” She leaned her head back. “Pleased meet you, Christine is my name!”

Roland surprised her when he sang, “But what’s puzzling me, is the nature of your game.”

Fortunately for Jenny, his verse completed her spell, and the energy she’d collected remained under her control.

Her body thrummed with her efforts to contain it, and she couldn’t stop moving. She could only hold so much and she had to release the excess energy.

Roland’s return presented her with a golden opportunity to help, and with a way to vent energy without causing another disaster.

Jenny waved her hands to him, inviting him to join her in a dance.

He shook his head, angry over her playing music too loud. He was still mad over being wet, and over a dozen other irritations.

But the glimmer in her eyes convinced him to cross the room and take her hand.

His thumb dropped the remote, and the song skipped to another tune.

Recognizing the song from the Young Rascals, Roland started to sing. He didn’t notice the lack of a lead singer.

“I was feeling, so sad! I asked my overpriced shrink about what I had! I said, butthead!”

Grinning, Jenny sang, “Butthead!”

Roland started to sway to the music, though he was careful not to move his feet too much. “Make a pill for me! One to fix all, of what’s eating me!”

Jenny twisted to the music, and she would have made Chubby Checker proud. “But I say, throw those pills away today!”

Roland raised the pitch of his voice. “Gonna throw those pills away today! Cause all I, I really need!”

“Is true love!” Jenny sang.

Roland sang, “True love!”

The spell channeled power though him, and he had no idea of what to do with it. He didn’t understand what was going on; only that he felt too hot, and he needed to sit down.

Yet he still sang out, “Got to have true love!”

The heat in his body became overpowering, and he stepped back from Jenny to grab his forehead. Closing his eyes, he panted for air.

Jenny moved in to take his other arm and guide him to a chair. She turned down the music to a faint whisper, and then she pouted at Roland. “I’m sorry. I think I overdid it.”

Roland laughed, his cheeks flushed a rose color while he struggled for air. “Don’t be, sorry, dear.” He panted between words, and he was about to check his pulse when his stomach growled.

He beamed a tired grin at Jenny and asked, “Are you ready for lunch?”

Changeling: AUMCF - Chapter 19, 5.0 out of 5 based on 1 rating

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... I write dark fiction in a variety of genres. My blog contains my rants and rambles, and some short fiction that can only be found here. I can be pretty fucking offensive, so viewer discretion is advised.

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This entry was posted on Saturday, December 26th, 2009 at 1:10 pm and is filed under Bards, Changeling: AUMCF, Dark Fantasy, Musicals, Shapeshifters, my writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.