Alraune Kestrel

Alraune held the blank card in her hand, the same thickness, the same size as the tarot cards she carried with her, those given her by the Arcana, painted and enchanted, the cards were the echo of Fate, the windows and doors that linked dreams and destiny.

But this one had no face, held no pattern on the back.

It was…waiting.

She stared at the moons, crescents, and statues among the stars.

How long had it been since she’d felt this tightness, this need?

Too long.

She settled on the edge of the pool and stared at the reflected moons in the shining surface, perfect duplicates, pristine and pure.

She closed her eyes, drew the radiance to her, gathered it into a mound of purpose then stepped upon it into the stream of dreaming.

It swirled around her, hopes and aspirations, dark fears and impossible desires. Lust and rapine, hopes and fears, whimsy and delight – all the colors of brilliant want, all of it sweet, sweet wine to her.

She’d stayed away, maybe out of fear, maybe out of need, but she’d consciously denied herself this bliss, this impossible pleasure. Alraune splayed herself onto the stream of mist, arms and legs spread, her skin a stone against the current, every rush, every rivulet, hers. Every want was hers, every wish, every dream, until she pulsed and beaded with it, until it ran her to peak and she burst against the sky with it.

Languid, pliant, her skin stretched to touch the stars, the tender flesh thrummed with knowing. Regret tugging at her soul as she pushed beyond the joy to the shadows that awaited her.

Sticking, tacky bitterness.

Deceit.

Dark, foul vice.

Hate.

She tasted the bitter alkali, felt the burn of acid in her bones, knew the foul scent of burning flesh, felt the needles piercing, piercing her wrists, her bones, her heart.

Leaving his name.

Charnadis.

By her command.

Alraune gathered herself, whole, dark skin shining in twin moonlight, her hair glittering pearl against midnight, body firm, breasts high, eyes as fathomless as Darkness’ heart.

Whole, one, free.

Bare and proud, Alruane walked toward the gnarled, leafless willow, its twisted trunk and stripped, whip-like limbs as familiar to her as Adam’s scent upon her skin.

And there, impossibly beautiful as only dreams might grant a soul, hair perfect ebony, skin pale, silky cream, and eyes the same as Alraune’s – black as coal, with a glimmer of triumph turning them to precious onyx.

Alraune stopped before her, emotions whipping her soul to a frenzied storm of hate, fear, hope, disgust, longing, and…

…love.

She didn’t smile, she didn’t move, but she watched Alraune as she so often had – with cool calculation and confidence.

“There you are, my dear,” she crooned.

Alraune’s chin fell to her chest and her eyes closed as she slid to her knees, prostrate.

“Aye…I am here.” She whispered against the wind.

“It’s time to finish what we’ve started, Alraune.”

And as Esme’s hand settled on the crown of Alraune’s head, the cool evening breeze brushed her skin and the water of the pool swirled around her fingers.

And in her hand the single card of the tarot, once blank, now showed a painted face, vivid and true in the glowing light of the twin crescent moons.

The Tower.

Shattered by lightning, crumbling to ruin, destruction from within and without, chaos and fire.

Endless, killing fire.

Alraune stared at the herald in her hand and shut her eyes to banish the image, barriers against the dread, against the fate she ever tried to bury.

Then she forced her eyes open and looked at the crumpled card, her jaw set, her eyes moist. Alraune tilted her hand and let the cursed card fall into the pool. She turned away and walked to the tile that would take her from the roof garden back down to where Adam slept.

She looked up at the gods and demons in the sky, at the twin moons, renewal and destruction.

She whispered, “I won’t run this time, mother. And yes, this time, let’s finish it.”

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