Never: an erotic retelling of Peter Pan (34 page)

"I think not," Belle chided, stepping away.  "Something with a little more subtlety."  Her stiletto mules clicked up against her heels as she stalked off. 

The strip of nothingness slipped out of his hand but Pietre didn't look up.  The door shut behind Belle and still he stared at his fingers where the fabric had lain.

He wanted to touch Wendee. 

The thought came to him out of nowhere and he was bewildered by it.  More than bewildered.  Stupefied.   

For the briefest of moments, as he'd pictured her swathed in chiffon, he'd seen himself abased before her, licking her feet and sucking her toes with rapturous abandon.

Leaning back in his chair, he flexed his fingers, imagining what her skin might feel like - taste like.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  This was not a subject on which he normally dwelt.  It was unsettling. 

Then another flash of imagery beset him, and no hazy fantasy this time.  This was a crisp vignette with all the clarity of a real memory. 

Inside his mind he saw his own hands reach towards a drunken Wendee.  They grasped the front of her dress and re-covered the breasts her struggles with Mr Black had released.  And in doing so, the backs of those fingers touched her skin. 

Smooth skin, and cool.  The nipples hard, not scratching, but making their presence known as his knuckles passed over them.  And then, as casually as though he touched people every day, his hands returned to the warmth of his coat pockets.

The replay halted there, as though cut off, and vaguely, Pietre realised his eyes were closed.  He opened them.  Blinked.

He'd touched Wendee.

He'd stepped close enough for her to be inside his personal space and he'd touched her.  Incredibly, it had seemed natural, necessary.  Yet more frightening, somewhere between the performance of that incredible feat and when they'd left the nightclub, the memory had been erased. 

How? 

The chill spectre of hereditary madness haunted him momentarily before he cast it aside.  He was too young.  Too strong to go that way.

Traumatic amnesia?  He considered the possibility seriously.  It had been fifteen years since he'd touched another human voluntarily.  The shock of over-riding his own inhibitions might have created a wall around the incident.

But did it then follow that there might be other forgotten incidents?  Other surprises? 

Alone in the quiet room, he shook his head.  No.  Surely only this one.  But why now?  And why had he touched this particular woman?

Was it a portent?   

At a subconscious level he'd felt a connection between them.  Even without Belle's jealousy to highlight his preoccupation, he'd noticed he was inordinately interested in this particular player. 

He had two facts then.  She fascinated him.  And he'd touched her.  But which had come first?

Had the fascination been at-first-sight?  Had she drawn his touch by some bewitchment of his mind?  Or had there been no fascination before the act?  That being the case, the actual act of touching would have been the catalyst for focusing his attention on its random recipient, hence his subsequent interest in her.  Neither answer seemed plausible.

He closed his eyes, determined to recall every nuance of their meeting. 

It had been early morning, perhaps 3am when she'd staggered into the nightclub with the prostitute Roc.   Immediately Pietre had been impressed by her sensuality - her glossy tousled hair, the pouting too-red lips, the animal glow to her skin that spoke of a rapacious appetite well sated. 

Her intoxication hadn't been at issue.  He'd already known he was seeing the real Wendee, the Wendee he could take with him if he chose.  And he had chosen.  Or at least he'd thought the decision had been his.  Now, he wasn't convinced.

Pietre placed no God above himself, but he did believe in fate. 

Was it possible that his 'accidental' intimacy with this woman had been no accident, but the subconscious recognition on his part of the other half - the fulfilment of his destiny.  

He'd always hoped there'd be one who would awaken the sleeper.  One he could let
in
.   

When he'd first found Belle he'd thought...  But she wasn't the one.  He could tolerate her near him, even accept her touch, in all its forms.  But touch her?  It was beyond him.  The capacity had been lost.

He'd thought. 

But he had touched Wendee
.

Distress warred with exultation as the impact of his actions permeated deep.  He wanted to go to her, to test this new knowledge, to touch her again.  To see if...

He clenched a fist.  It was too soon.  He needed time to assimilate the enormity of this new discovery.  And when, or if, he decided to test their
attachment
, it would be done under the most suitable conditions.  Not in a 'stuffy dungeon' in front of witnesses. 

It would be arranged in great detail.  And first, she must be prepared. 

For now, the game would go on.  The stakes had been raised, but that was a challenge he could meet.  Despite his shock at the revelation, Pietre retained his sense of destiny.  Where such matters were concerned, one could direct but not control. 

There was the matter of her safety, though.  And in that he felt confident of his powers.

Selecting a button on the control panel, he leant forward slightly, his voice trembling with the effort to retain some normality.  "Report, Xavion." 

The faint beep of a response signal came almost immediately, but Pietre was forced to still his impatience as he waited for Xavion to move out of audible range. 

It had been his own instruction that they hid the evidence of their voice communication.  He cursed the subterfuge now.

Seconds ticked over with all the speed of rose petals unfurling.  Pietre began imagining Xavion tortured beyond his ability to remain silent - beyond his ability to endure.  Where
was
he?

Receiving
.

"Where were you?"

There was a pause. 
With the Wendee
.

"Doing what?"  Pietre was astounded at the sudden leap of tension in his body. 

She woke earlier.  A nightmare.  I was watching over her
.

Pietre struggled to regain his control.  "Good.  Did she say anything?"  He ached to activate the screen, to see her, but something stayed his hand.  Common sense?  He needed perspective.  Time.

She called a name
, Xavion replied, his voice flattened of all tone as it came through the speakers.  

"Christophe?"  Pietre suddenly knew he wouldn't give the boy to her again.  It might... confuse her.

Billy
.    

"Who is this Billy?"

She didn't say, but she spoke of blood.  On her hands
. 

Pietre turned away from the controls, this new disclosure coming almost as a physical blow. 

Had she killed someone? 

He should have commissioned a detailed report on her as they normally did with their players.  But he'd chosen not to, preferring to retain her mystery.  At what cost?  If she were damaged...  The mind was a delicate instrument, and who knew better than he the horrors that could be inflicted on the unprotected psyche.

He must investigate her background, discover her pedigree.  If she were -

Pietre pulled himself up short.  He must make no decisions, take no action, while his mind was in such turmoil. 

Closing his eyes, he forced his awareness through the eye of the needle until it reached the place of ultimate peace, the place where no evil could touch.  Not even his own.  He became soothed, becalmed.  And the answers came.

He would accompany Belle to Auckland and watch her perform.  In that way he could regain some sense of himself.  Under Xavion's protection, the Wendee would be safe.

Then, in the morning when he returned, he could observe her integration with the Mermaids - to enjoy her as he had previously.  There was no rush.  Perspective was what he needed.