Chapter Text
Street performers spilled out onto the decorative cobbles. Torch light danced amongst them, a hand drum giving rhythm to the CBC Radio 2-smooth female narrator wearing a headset mic.
The LED streetlights were on, but the chain of fires gave the modern downtown high street an aura of the mystical and ancient. White rental tenting marked off this particular site of the Nuit Blanche festivities, only one of countless intriguing things to see in the all night arts revel.
Rey Walker held her breath, the welcome and powerful energy of burgeoning theatre never failing to give her chills.
A printed banner above the tent's stage read "100 Myths in 100 Minutes! Plays By You!"
The dancers wore black morphsuits, scattering from their central stage cluster, each seeking in the crowd on onlookers.
They passed where she stood alone next to a blazing autumn maple, their shadows drifting different powerful scents. Each one evoked a feeling, and as the dancers wove through the audience, they blended- cinnamon, satsuma, dark soil.
Intoxicating jasmine stopped in front of her.
The pause was only for a heart beat, then the dancer, lithe and tall, probably female, gently took Rey's hand and led her to the main staging area. Wide-eyed, Rey was too surprised and too unwilling to interrupt the drama to back out of participating.
Like the other patrons selected, the dancers encircled her in a flurry. They slipped off her jacket, loosed her hair, and within seconds had poured over her head a creamy embroidered tunic, tying bands of fabric around her arms, her waist, wrapping her hair.
Rey wondered briefly if she was to be sacrificed to an ancient god right on the streets of plain, unexciting Sussex, Ontario. It was a city with half a million people, a lazy municipal council, a poorly designed transit system, and likely very few practitioners of dark arts.
A woven crown of jasmine was placed on her head. Rey inhaled deeply, letting it infuse through her.
She caught the flow of the narration again, watched as fellow audience members were used like puppets to tell barebones mythological stories, posed by the dancers, rapidly going from beat to beat.
One minute Icarus. One minute Dekanahwideh. One minute Psyche and Eros. One minute Loki. One minute Eye of Ra. One minute Havelok. One minute Medea.
"Maiden," the narrator beckoned. She felt a stage knife pressed to her fingers, and guided to fend off an attack from a fellow audience member who smelt of fish. He was dragged to the ground by her "wound".
"She draws the attention of Death, watching from the shadows."
Rey hadn't noticed the figure in black, another press-ganged recruit no doubt. They had him in an asymmetrical black mask with silver lines that left his chin and mouth bare, long black divided robes like a medieval knight, and a black hooded cowl about his shoulders and head. He stalked towards her, longsword in hand, his dancing guides invisible to Rey with real intimidation.
She wasn't catching all the narration, it was slipping in one ear and out the other.
"Death covets the beautiful maiden."
The figure in black stopped close. She bent back her neck to examine his mask. They'd made him smell of iron and ash. He slowly lowered his head to take her in, checking her out, then focused on her face. Rey's eyes were fierce, her body frozen by the spell woven in the night.
He motioned as if touching her cheek gently, but no contact was made.
"Death claims the maiden for his own. He will take her to his kingdom and make her his empress in hopes she will see him as something other than a monster."
The man in black, unbidden by the dancers, swept her up into his arms. Rey allowed her body to go slack, thinking of old horror movies. She heard some loud intakes of breath from the remaining audience.
He carried her out of the theatre area, and into the darkness behind the tenting. Rey was fairly certain no one expected him to take her right out. They both heard the narrator move on to the next myth, the drum beating the time.
Tiny golden honey locust leaves stirred along the gutters with the late September breeze.
"What a lovely empress you would make," the man in the mask said in a low, smooth voice. "Shall I offer you half my kingdom to tempt you?"
His gloved fingers curled deeply into her thighs, into the seams of her pants under the gown, shifting her in his arms. Nervous he was about to drop her, Rey flung her arms around his neck. His shoulders felt solid under the cowl and long tunic.
The minute play between unwilling actors had woven a magic more intense than its short build up should have allowed.
"I wouldn't let my maiden fall," the stranger assured, "you're safe."
"Are you intending to release me, creature?" Nerves made Rey's voice more annoyed than intrigued.
"Death demands a price," he whispered.
"You've grown into the role quickly, haven't you, monster," Rey observed. "Name your price, then."
"Kiss your monster to break the spell, then beauty may go free."
Heart pounding, Rey pressed her lips to the leather of the mask-clad cheek.
"Death is for now appeased, maiden," he said darkly, carefully lowering her to her feet. "I also would have accepted a counter-offer of a coffee later."
"Help me with my costume?"
The black-clad knight's nimble fingers made easy work of the fastenings. Together they slid the dress off, and for a moment Rey felt naked in her jeans and tshirt.
His hands wrapped around her waist, reeling her back in until her shoulder blades met his solid black-clad chest.
"I thought we had a deal," she questioned, unsure why she was allowing this, unprepared for the electricity of his touch.
Death's long pale hands splayed across her stomach, tracing fingers drifting up her sternum.
"I've altered the deal," he murmured into her throat, mask bumping behind her ear. "Pray I don't alter it further."
Rey knew she could step out of his embrace. His fingers curved over her muscles possessively but didn't restrain her. She pressed herself closer, revelling in the touch.
In the autumn darkness she thought maybe just for a few minutes, maybe she could be the kind of person who lets a stranger seduce her.
I'm overdue for doing something irresponsible.
"Yes," he hissed. Releasing one hand from her body, he took her chin. Guiding her face back and up, their eyes met for one short beat before he stole her breath. His lips were lively, capturing her mouth, boldly tasting what he'd claimed.
Pomegranate. Who tastes like pomegranate.
He bit the middle finger of his right glove and pulled it off, letting it fall to the ground. The bare hand trailed down her stomach, down into the band of her jeans. She could feel him harden against her back.
A lifetime's sexual repression hit Rey in a wave, demanding release.
Must be the mask, she rationalized, kissing the stranger. Maybe the drums, or the jasmine.
She placed her hand over his and helped him into the soft, damp curls.
"Fuck," he breathed. He probed gently with a couple of fingertips.
Soaked.
"Maiden," he whispered, reverently.
She arched back against him as he boldly slid one then two fingers into her, wrapping his body over her back and shoulders to reach.
"Keep this up and you won't be able to call me maiden," she said into his neck.
"How about empress?" he asked, exploring a rhythm inside her that made her knees weak.
What am I doing? she briefly asked herself. The thought faded as a third finger joined the others, his thumb drifting around her clitoris.
She tried to reach back between them and stroke him through his black costume, but he trapped her hand.
"No," Death said in a low rumble.
He brought his mouth down on hers again, desperate, consuming, as he worked. She made a noise in her throat, feeling the impending orgasm. Refusing to release her mouth, he swiftly moved his hand to her breast and massaged it. He swallowed her cries, slowing his fingers as she cinched them tightly inside her.
So that happened, she thought, drowning in the happy chemicals her brain sent racing through her veins
His phone began to vibrate in his pocket, the old school telephone default ringer sounding softly overtop of Rey's attempts to catch her breath.
"Death has a phone call," she said, pressing her forehead into his neck, and helping his sticky hand escape her underwear.
He used his clean fingers to fish out the shiny black phone from under his robes, and looked at the caller.
"Of course," he said tersely. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Work."
"Don't forget your scythe."
She stepped away from him, where it was several degrees colder, and checked herself over.
The fuck did I just let him do.
She peeked up at the looming man in the mask. His eyes were shadowed, but she guessed he was staring at her.
"Let me put my number in your phone," he demanded, hastily wiping his fingers on his back pocket under the robes.
Making a mental note to sanitize the case later, Rey unlocked her phone and gave it to him. He typed quickly, a hesitant expression crossing the part of his face she could see as he returned it. He didn't look as confident giving out as his number as he had distributing his favours to a strange woman.
A dancer sauntered over, holding Rey's jacket with a quiet word of thanks for participating.
The drum had stopped, applause begun. Rey had no idea how their piece had fit into this section of the narrative as a whole.
Rey pulled on her jacket, the dark figure watching.
"Goodbye, Death," she said with a quirky grin, "I hope work lets you enjoy the festivities."
"I think the evening has peaked for me," he responded evenly, following the dancer back to where the costumes were stored. He disappeared around the corner of the tent, her dress neatly over his arm.
Rey looked at her phone.
Death (Ben)