CODENAME: LANCÆLOT
by silverluna
Chapter Eleven
They were holding their breaths. Lance continued to stare at the mirror, barely blinking.
Little Flower hit Alexander on the arm. "Well, you almost thought he was looking at us, didn't you?"
Alexander didn't fail to catch the near nerve twinge to her voice.
Behind the wall, Lance stared at the mirror. He could hear voices somewhere; he felt the presence of something near him. He wriggled his fingers; they almost were going numb. His lips were closed over the gag; he was thinking. Too much. There was too much. He was alone, scared, and now restrained. He didn't know what they wanted. He didn't know if he could give it to them, whatever it was. He didn't know what these visions he was seeing were. He didn't know where they were taking him, or what drugs they'd been giving him. LSD? If only that were all. Who was he endangering while he slept? They were talking about someone....Who was it?... Lance thought desperately. He had no idea how he'd gotten into this room, or how long he'd been half unconscious.
He was trying to remember...his lips trembled. Remembering was too hard. It hurt...the past slicing through him like a knife. He thought nonstop about his brothers...and felt a twinge of blinding terror. God, are they... Biting down on the cloth, he tried to stay calm. There was nothing else he could do at the moment.
"What do you think?" Alexander asked.
"I think he's going nowhere fast. We've got to move him—this whole operation."
Alexander raised his eyebrows. "To the house?"
Little Flower nodded slickly. "Yes. Perhaps a little visit home will make all the difference. "
"Tonight, then?"
"Yes. What better cover is there than the dark?"
"We should tell Janus. I think he's pleased with your progression so far."
Little Flower's eyes narrowed. "He should be. This is the biggest casefile we've ever had."
Alexander opened his mouth but stopped. The threads of speech dangled on his tongue but were left unwoven.
~*~
"The Beauregard House?" Janus asked.
"Yes," Little Flower answered
As they exchanged some words, Alexander's eyes drifted over some information about the Beauregard House. Pierre Gustave Toutant (P.G.T.) Beauregard was the most famous Civil War soldier from New Orleans. He had a residence in the city and a plantation outside the town....One particular battle always haunted General Beauregard. This was the terrible two day battle of Shiloh (means "place of peace"). Thousands of men on each side died in that struggle where some of the war's greatest commanders fought.
"Mr. Alexander?"
"Sir?" He looked up. "I was just looking over history. Just stopped when I got to the part about the ghosts."
Little Flower frowned. "I don't think you should ignore the ghosts. Ghosts can be vengeful, don't you know?"
"We'll see," Janus interjected.
"This is just what Lancælot needs. Some time with old family. A place of peace. For him to remember. Everything," Little Flower continued.
"Yes," Janus drew out. "Let us hope this is the way. Or perhaps he'll be joining that old family, those—"
Little Flower hushed him. "Not the 'g' word. Not now." She smiled darkly and the two men followed suit.
~*~
He had another dream. This one was blurry and lacked mental clarity. How badly he wanted to understand. Drops of blood. Real blood. A blood-stained .handkerchief. A looking glass. A window to the past. Blood trickling down a mirror. Reflections. Blind eyes.
He awoke, choking on screams.
~*~
Day passed to night; no moon rose.
Cottony, white fog spread over the night like ancient cobwebs. It was cloudy, hazy, blinding fog. Almost like a blizzard. It rose from the marshes like ghosts trapped in the darkness. Its presence shapeshifted and spread over his features like a cloth soaked with chloroform. He gagged, half suffocating, and tried to twist away. Then he went through it as if he were a ghost mingling among trees. The scent of magnolia was thick. He opened his green eyes wide wide wide.
There was a house. Grotesque yet magnificent. His eyes strayed to a circular window curved high into the mansion. In the window, like a picture frame, was a girl.
She said: Beauregard, you have returned to me.
Lance recoiled in a vicious shock. He was locked in a car with the windows rolled up. The windows of the house were all closed. They weren't even close enough to the house yet to see inside the front windows.
Yet, he had heard her speak. Her lips hadn't moved. She seemed familiar to him. When he looked up again, she was gone. He was horrified all over again, and struggled.
They worked to restrain him. He screamed. A crushing fist ripped into his mouth. He felt something liquidy slipping down his chin. As if it were a watermelon he was eating. He fought against sudden blackness pulsating. He twisted, pressing himself against the dark glass. The fog ate him alive.
~*~
She appeared. She was something different; why was she in this place? Splintered through time. Merely a ghost ribbed and placid. She crossed her arms, frowned. A strange color, pale yet oddly metallic, blended her from head to toe. She moved like ripples. She watched. Her footfalls sounded like shadows. Her face burst into a thousand prisms. She watched interlopers drag a scraggled body into the foyer.
It was years later. So many. She hadn't been able to leave; this place had seen many deaths. She must go now. Back to the place she hovered. She must summon the others. The spirits, the fragments. They must know. She ascended a spiral staircase. She moved like a shadow down the hall. When she reached the end, light splayed into wild ribbons all over her. She merged with a wall.
~*~
"Now, that other kid?" Little Flower began. She read over some words. The first evil. Older than sin. Older than death. I am the thing the darkness fears. She fingered Alexander's temple gently. She imagined he was Lancælot. She gripped Alexander's hair and violently tugged on it.
"Ouch!" Alexander protested, yanking her wrist from his face. She just laughed. "Don't worry about it. He belongs to us."
"Tell him you are the thing the darkness fears."
"I thought that was you."
Ignoring him, Little Flower flickered indifferent red nails against the darkness. "So, what are you going to do?"
"We've been watching. They didn't call the cops. They're obviously stupid or something."
"I love dealing with these famous types. They think nothing can touch them. Nothing at all. But the darkness gets to everyone."
"I've got a plan." He put his mouth to her ear and whispered.
She giggled darkly. If anyone looked upon them then, it would have seemed they were merely lovers sharing an exotic love secret.
Little Flower squeezed his hand. "Do it. Do it for the madness. Do it for me."
Alexander briefly flashbacked to a scene he'd encountered earlier in the casefile as she spoke the words. He played with some madness of his own.
Alexander came up out of the dark, encircling his arms around Little Flower. Her first reflex was to tighten up, instantly followed by the attempt to flip him over to the ground.
"Ease up," Alexander murmured. "It's me, baby."
Little Flower's dark glance paused. She relaxed a little. A playful grin toyed with her red lips. "Lover."
"Yes," Alexander said.
She held on a moment longer before turning in his grasp. She was almost level with his cobalt blue eyes.
He studied hers with insecurity. "Do you like his green eyes better?"
She pulled back, frowning. Her dark eyes scanned his viciously. "Is that what you think?"
He tried not to wince at her menace. He cursed his jealousy.
She half-turned, shadows eating half of her body. "It's just business." Her mouth half curled in a sadist-like smile. "I'm driving him mad." She turned to face him. Only the whites of her eyes shone; Alexander could tell her mouth was infected with a grin. "Do you want to help?"
He showed teeth, yet his lips betrayed him, curling up.
Her hands encircled his wrists tightly. "Lover," she whispered in Alexander's ear, biting it.
He winced. "Flower," he drew out.
She nuzzled against his face. "You," she murmured. "I love you."
Alexander held onto her, and his jealousy of their case—Codename: Lancælot. The jealousy of the pale, blond, green-eyed young man he'd seen Little Flower kissing made him rage. He clenched his fist. I'll make you suffer, Lancælot. You will pay....
"It will take a bit of time," Alexander continued, coming back to the present.
"Time is all we have, my darling. But theirs is running out."
~*~
Justin cradled JC's head while Joey and Chris attempted to restrain him. "JC, shut up," Joey hissed.
JC had had another dream. He woke up screaming, and now, half conscious, was twisting violently. Joey knew it was serious, not telling Lonnie or Dre or Johnny about JC's attempted kidnapping, but he didn't want any of them ot be reprimanded like children. Didn't they know it was dangerous to be out there all alone, considering the circumstances? Did they want to end up like Lance?
Joey tightened his grip on JC's wrist. The thoughts he had came from a guilty conscience. As JC struggled, he figured keeping the secret was for the best. They could play it off as stress over Lance's disappearance. Stress, that's all....
"In the night, the dark. She said, 'I am the thing darkness fears,' " JC babbled suddenly. His eyes shot open and he stopped moving.
The entire room was covered with blood and before JC could stop himself, he screamed.
Startled, Justin, Joey, and Chris released him. Before they even moved, JC was into the suite, running for the door to the hall. Lance was kidnapped, he thought rabidly. He unlocked all of the bolts and flung the door open. A hand snaked over his mouth and another around his chest and another around his waist. The arms dragged him down and backwards. The door was shut and locked again.
JC woke up. It was mid-morning; light filtering in. "It was all a dream?" he asked himself, sitting up. He rubbed his eyes. The dreams had gotten much more vivid since he'd nearly been abducted. "Maybe I should write them down," he said softly. "At least if they have nothing to do with Lance, maybe writing them down will help me get through this."
He retrieved the notebook in which he'd use to write the first dream down, the one whose mere writing had turned out strangely. He studied it for a few seconds before writing down what he remembered of these new dreams.
There was a pattern. The guys were always in it, all but Lance. A dream within a dream within a dream at times. And this otherworldly presence...
JC chewed lip as he tried to make sense of it.
~*~
Tears filled Lance's eyes. He gazed around his new surroundings. There was something unclearly familiar about them; almost as if he'd visited here in another lifetime. He was unsure what the tears were for. Perhaps because he was in a new place, yet in the same situation. Still a hostage, still bound and gagged. There was some unease that his kidnappers hadn't blindfolded him or took care to wear masks. It scared him to dwell on it for too long.
He figured the room he was in was locked, but he had the urge to explore it. He pushed himself up against a wall, working his way to his knees. Luckily, his feet weren't tied. He used the wall for support to stand up. For a moment, a wave of dizziness careened through his head. It slowly dissipated. Lance gazed around. This room was large, but not excessive. The decorator obviously had money; it looked almost like a stop on a tour, blocked off with a velvet rope. No entrance, stay out.
Lance walked in the direction of a grande piano. Portraits hung with care were perched on the walls ahead of him. They appeared to be of Civil War generals and others who dressed the fashion of the nineteenth century.
I wonder if there's any way to get the ropes off? He also pondered getting in trouble because he was sure they hadn't just left him all alone. How empowering it would be to get the ropes off by himself, to do something not to feel like such a victim. The only helpful thing he saw was that portraits were framed with glass; except dropping the glass would cause a commotion.
Maybe I could just work the gag off, Lance thought. Swallowing was becoming a difficult task because his throat was so dry. He sat down at the piano bench, looking for a place that could catch the cloth. He saw an edge and bent to examine it.
"Beauregard."
The voice startled Lance violently. He jerked his head up and half turning, he forgot where he was. He slid off the bench, his body slamming against the hard floor. He protested in pain into the gag.
A few minutes later, he tried to remove the imprint of himself from the floor. Getting into a sitting position, he scanned the room. No one was there. What? I'm sure I heard someone— The voice hadn't even been that loud. It was more like an eerie whisper. The room was breathing a haunted breath in the stillness.
Through curtains, Lance could see sunlight trying to get in. Daylight. It's day. But what day? Lance tried to swallow the growling fear. It could be any day of any year of any era. No. That was—ridiculous. Wasn't it? Some intruding sunlight caught the glass of one of the portraits. Lance followed the light, his eyes resting on the picture. It was of a solider dressed in a grey confederate uniform. From his place, he couldn't read the plaque. Lance got to his knees, then to his feet, walking towards the portrait. He got close enough to read the name: General Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard. Beauregard? Wasn't that the name I heard?
"Oh, Beauregard, that isn't a picture of you," the same voice uttered.
Lance flung around, his heart beginning to thud in his chest. There was no one to confront. The room was empty, save of Lance.
"Shh, you mustn't taunt him. He does not know you."
"But he does. He will remember—"
As the spirit voices echoed around Lance, he stayed still, his eyes beginning to blacken over. He blink several times, watching the scene unfold.
An older man with white hair strolled into the parlor, a room astoundingly similar to the one Lance stood in now. This parlor was more olde south. Following the man was a younger man, perhaps in his thirties, with a young woman, obvious to be in her early twenties, if not late teens. The woman had white blond hair, pulled up neatly in a bun. Her dress was laced and tight in the waist where a pink ribbon was sashed. In her arms was a baby, one with white blond hair. It appeared to be sleeping.
The older man, his face lined with age and ware, turned to the man with the pale blond hair. "You mean this then?"
The blond man smiled warmly. "Yes, Pierre. Lily and I have discussed it. What better way to carry on both family names? Our son shall be christened as Beauregard—" The man said something else but coherence was fading.
Lance choked. This was something he should not possibly be able to see. Was it because—but he blinked and the vision disappeared. The room was ordinary, the modern day parlor....Lance began to sink into the house of unconsciousness....
No, no, I can't— The room continued to tilt as he blinked his eyes furiously, banning the darkness to another corner. I need to stay awake. I need to figure things out—
Lance wriggled his hands, trying to loosen the ropes. The ropes were tight, but he hoped if he strained enough, they might stretch so he could get out of them. Help himself. Right now, he was the only thing he had.
~*~
Little Flower watched him from a secret window. It was actually a panel in the wall, but it was cracked enough so she could see what was going on in the parlor. "Lancælot," she murmured. Her lips caught a scowl as she watched him try to get the ropes off. "Silly, silly boy," she taunted.
Alexander was pacing. "So he's here. But it's still no good."
"He was just writhing, Alexander," Little Flower purred. "That's a good sign."
"We have no idea what kind of memories he could be seeing here. If we're going to get on with this casefile, we're going to have to get the other one."
Little Flower slid the panel shut, and stared at Alexander. "Why are you so sure he'll be worth anything? He was never part of the original plan."
"That's not true. There was an opening in the research, if you remember correctly."
Little Flower paused, thinking. Then she smiled deliciously. "Oh, Alexander, do you really think it could be?"
He nodded, setting his jaw. "Plus if Lancælot doesn't have all the answers, then maybe this kid might."
"We'll see. Maybe they are in this together, somehow." She bore down his eyes. "It's your department."
He nodded. "I know. Remember what I said?"
"I remember."
"Well, it's going down, real soon. I'll prepare the plan on the outskirts. Work on Lancælot, and I'll bring the kid in at the best possible time."
Little Flower let out a low hum. "Honey, you seem so sure. But last time—"
Alexander's occult blue eyes snapped and frowned. "That was the wrong time." His eyes flickered. "You trust me, don't you?"
She pursed her red lips, and he caught her dark smile. He hadn't expected an answer. He paused at the doorway. "Wait for me?" he asked, mocking the legend.
Little Flower appeared strange in such bright light. Still, her answer was dark. "Always."
~*~
It was a garden dressed with lilies and roses. She paused briefly, her white gloved hand straying upon some petals. Her thoughts sickened, right to her heart. This was the day he was supposed to come, and meet with her father. He was so much older than she was; she couldn't bear the thought of being his wife. He was gnarled and wrinkly, and she felt like a flower whom he was tearing the petals from. His eyes were dark and penetrating; she felt his mere look directed at her was violating.
She glanced backward, praying she was not followed. This meeting was to remain...secret. She whispered his name as nesting birds cooed. His name, the one she truly loved. Near a grove of trees she caught movement. Eyes appeared, and though it was shaded, she knew it was him. She would know his eyes anywhere. Her rose bud lips shaped a smile. He extended a white gloved hand and she rested hers upon it. As he pulled her close to him, a long tendril of chocolate hair came loose from its bun.
"You are an angel to me," he whispered in her ear.
She giggled politely.
He brought her gloved hands to his lips and kissed them. Her eyes deepened with love. Her words became whispers, gentle and steady. His eyes flashed bright with color.
~*~
JC flipped on the radio in his room. A song filtered through, one he hadn't heard before but the words became clear almost immediately.
"...Why am I so uptight today? Paranoia's all I got left. I don't know what stressed me first, or how the pressure was fed, but I know what it feels like to have a voice in the back of my head. Like a face that I hold inside, face that wakes when I close my eyes, face that watches every time I lie, face that laughs everytime I fall, and it's nothing just everything. There's no doubt when it's time to sink or swim, the face inside is here me, right beneath my skin.... It's like I'm paranoid, looking over my back. It's like a whirlwind inside of my head. It's like I can't stop what I'm hearing within Like the face inside is right beneath my skin."
JC shivered at the song's accuracy. He listened to the rest of it, then flicked off the radio.
Exit 75, I'm still alive, I'm still alive, I'm still alive, I'm still alive—
JC froze, a voice tapping at his skull that was not his own. Grasping the notebook he had been scrawling the dreams he'd been having, he flipped to the first dream, and read the words, not the picture. This voice in his head was familiar. JC's eyes opened wider. He whispered one word. A name, actually. "Lance?" Even the whisper sounded strange, disrupting the silence.
As he stared off into space, part of the room fell away. Off to one side, dark was glittering with diamond shaped stars. Actually, the graves of stars, only the light remaining; the soul of the star long gone. Something struck him, not physical though. He was in between realities.
She had another name but he didn't know what it was. He used to know...he used to know and that disturbed him. Not being able to remember something he knew he knew...because the danger was very real. He had to recognize it. He had to get his fingers around it and make the connection.
There's just no other way....