Read Online Tales of the Unquiet Gods by David Pascoe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Pascoe
Tags: BluA
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winding through the staircase heightened the discomforting impression.
"The pretty lady should dance." The weird voice - full of strange harmonics - ran a shiver up Anne's spine and sent a jolt of adrenaline through her. An eddy in the crowd revealed the voice's owner. Anne's hand clenched hard around the "lucky" coin Mike slipped into her pocket.
Smooth cheeks swept up from a pointed jaw and framed a sensuous mouth whose full lips bent upward in something that approximated a smile. Prominent cheekbones rode on either side of a straight, puckish nose that flipped up at the end. The owner him - her? no, him - self looked far too young to be in any club, let alone one as new, and therefore exclusive, as Under Hill.
Until she looked him in the eyes.
Old eyes, empty eyes, eyes of no color she'd ever seen. The lights from downstairs flickered in those eyes, giving the lie to the smile on his androgynously beautiful mouth. A cruelty Anne intuited she wasn't supposed to see flared bright in those eyes like uncut gemstones. He nodded toward the downward yawning portal.
"Dance, lady," he repeated. The false smile widened, revealing square, even teeth that Anne utterly failed to trust. That voice - a voice that sounded as though it should have come from multiple throats - betrayed hunger. Hunger Anne was again certain she shouldn't have felt. The press of humanity pushed between them and hid the speaker once again.
It was time and past time to find Chelley and leave. With difficulty, Anne forced herself to relax, and let the flow of mesmerized youth hide the disquieting club owner and draw her down the steps. The smell of damp earth and herbs swirled thickly here, and the coppery scent was a foul taste on the back of her tongue.
The steps descended into a short tunnel that opened into an enormous room made up to look like a cross between a natural cavern and a forest glade. Walls that looked like rough-hewn stone were studded here and there with what seemed to be the boles of enormous trees. Anne looked up and saw the source of the multicolored light she'd seen above.
Globes of brilliant green, blue, yellow and white glowed here and there near what she presumed was the ceiling. The lights shifted through a range of colors and shone through leaves. Enormous leaves - each far larger than her own hand - though otherwise faithful to nature. She recognized oak, maple and alder, among several species for which she had no reference. She couldn't see an actual ceiling for the foliage.
The fortune this place represented set her head spinning. Live musicians clustered here and there, eyes screwed shut, bodies held rigid by the frenzied force of their art. Somehow, they all managed to play together. After a moment of intent focus, Anne realized it wasn't so much that they played together, as their disparate melodies blended perfectly to create that wild, haunting harmony she'd heard above.
A formless unease wrapped itself around Anne's heart. The music was as beautiful as the setting. A part of her longed to throw caution to the wind and embrace the savage magnificence she'd found. She could feel the desire, the yearning toward unlimited freedom Under Hill seemed to represent. To pour out her soul; to give up the pain of life. For a moment, she ached to release her hold on herself and simply become part of the magic.
The guarded, pragmatic steel that had held Anne together when her family had fractured and come apart held her back. Anne ground her teeth, feeling the old anger stirring. She drew back from the metaphysical precipice step by shuddering step. She opened eyes she didn't realize were closed, and happened to look at the face of one of the musicians.
A young man, maybe nineteen or twenty, slim and lanky in the half-starved manner of dedicated musicians stood rooted, caught in the grip of the music. Sweat beaded on his forehead and soaked the black shirt he wore. His fingers blurred on the neck of his violin. Threads of his bow
"The pretty lady should dance." The weird voice - full of strange harmonics - ran a shiver up Anne's spine and sent a jolt of adrenaline through her. An eddy in the crowd revealed the voice's owner. Anne's hand clenched hard around the "lucky" coin Mike slipped into her pocket.
Smooth cheeks swept up from a pointed jaw and framed a sensuous mouth whose full lips bent upward in something that approximated a smile. Prominent cheekbones rode on either side of a straight, puckish nose that flipped up at the end. The owner him - her? no, him - self looked far too young to be in any club, let alone one as new, and therefore exclusive, as Under Hill.
Until she looked him in the eyes.
Old eyes, empty eyes, eyes of no color she'd ever seen. The lights from downstairs flickered in those eyes, giving the lie to the smile on his androgynously beautiful mouth. A cruelty Anne intuited she wasn't supposed to see flared bright in those eyes like uncut gemstones. He nodded toward the downward yawning portal.
"Dance, lady," he repeated. The false smile widened, revealing square, even teeth that Anne utterly failed to trust. That voice - a voice that sounded as though it should have come from multiple throats - betrayed hunger. Hunger Anne was again certain she shouldn't have felt. The press of humanity pushed between them and hid the speaker once again.
It was time and past time to find Chelley and leave. With difficulty, Anne forced herself to relax, and let the flow of mesmerized youth hide the disquieting club owner and draw her down the steps. The smell of damp earth and herbs swirled thickly here, and the coppery scent was a foul taste on the back of her tongue.
The steps descended into a short tunnel that opened into an enormous room made up to look like a cross between a natural cavern and a forest glade. Walls that looked like rough-hewn stone were studded here and there with what seemed to be the boles of enormous trees. Anne looked up and saw the source of the multicolored light she'd seen above.
Globes of brilliant green, blue, yellow and white glowed here and there near what she presumed was the ceiling. The lights shifted through a range of colors and shone through leaves. Enormous leaves - each far larger than her own hand - though otherwise faithful to nature. She recognized oak, maple and alder, among several species for which she had no reference. She couldn't see an actual ceiling for the foliage.
The fortune this place represented set her head spinning. Live musicians clustered here and there, eyes screwed shut, bodies held rigid by the frenzied force of their art. Somehow, they all managed to play together. After a moment of intent focus, Anne realized it wasn't so much that they played together, as their disparate melodies blended perfectly to create that wild, haunting harmony she'd heard above.
A formless unease wrapped itself around Anne's heart. The music was as beautiful as the setting. A part of her longed to throw caution to the wind and embrace the savage magnificence she'd found. She could feel the desire, the yearning toward unlimited freedom Under Hill seemed to represent. To pour out her soul; to give up the pain of life. For a moment, she ached to release her hold on herself and simply become part of the magic.
The guarded, pragmatic steel that had held Anne together when her family had fractured and come apart held her back. Anne ground her teeth, feeling the old anger stirring. She drew back from the metaphysical precipice step by shuddering step. She opened eyes she didn't realize were closed, and happened to look at the face of one of the musicians.
A young man, maybe nineteen or twenty, slim and lanky in the half-starved manner of dedicated musicians stood rooted, caught in the grip of the music. Sweat beaded on his forehead and soaked the black shirt he wore. His fingers blurred on the neck of his violin. Threads of his bow
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