Read Online Tales of the Unquiet Gods by David Pascoe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Pascoe
Tags: BluA
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had snapped and whistled through the air as he played, a testament to his fury.
But there was no joy in his face: only slavish concentration. His body strained, pouring forth melody in a torrent, but without a hint of the pleasure he should have evinced. Desperate hunger and something beyond pain etched lines into his face as she watched.
The tiny disc clenched in her fist grew hot, and jumped. Anne's vision shivered, as though all she saw was the rippling surface of a pond. All but the fiddler locked in song before her eyes. She still saw the man as he was, but strangely laid over - or just inside - his features, Anne saw a ghostly, ethereal copy of him. The replica moved just out of time with the physical reality, and pulsed rapidly in a beat that mirrored his racing heart.
Hair, gray and lank, lay matted against a scalp that showed through patches. The lines she saw in his physical face carved even deeper, and multiplied again and again. His already spare frame became a nightmarish, emaciated thing of swollen joints and protruding bones, held together by parchment skin. Even his clothes - grown faded, threadbare and moth-eaten - reflected the transformation.
Anne blinked, and tried to swallow through the new-made desert of her throat. The brief vision ended, but Anne could now see the cracks in the grotto. Nothing physical: the club still seemed carved out of living rock and monstrous trees. She saw through whatever magic kept the musicians in harmony, whatever parasitic force lured the young and creative into Under Hill. And proceeded to suck them dry.
With fresh eyes, Anne saw the fiddler's frenetic motion betrayed exhaustion. She was certain he would eventually collapse, alive perhaps, but drained of everything that made him more than a sack of meat. And she had no idea how to stop it, or even if she could.
Anne's eyes widened as she looked around. It wasn't just the musicians. Her stomach roiled as she realized that those who didn't play danced, moving together in swaying, twitching rhythm. Bare heartbeats earlier, it would have been beautiful - in a way, it still was - but now, Anne was disgusted by the impressions she received. Glazed eyes stared at nothing, limbs wove through each other while torsos bent, slid over and across each other. As though one mind controlled them all, moved them as one.
But not perfectly.
The same flaws - if they weren't completely intentional - affected the dancers as well. At random, an arm twitched out of alignment here. There, a foot misstepped. The whole corrected quickly enough, but if you paid attention, you could see the cracks in the facade. If a single mind did guide the movements of all of the erstwhile agents, it had some kind of palsy.
And over it all, Anne still tasted copper and forest.
"Dance, pretty lady."
Anne understood now why the - no appropriate word came to Anne for the strange, androgynous person who'd spoken to her above - polytonal voice sounded so wrong. The words issued from the dozen or so closest throats. Those glazed eyes, staring at some other world, turned as one to her. Jaws moved, lips curled in dread-inducing parodies of human smiles.
"Dance with us."
It was the same voice. Anne's gorge rose as she felt her feet trying to obey and move in rhythm to the music. Horror and rage fought for dominance, rooting Anne to the spot. Part of her desperately wanted to flee, to disappear. Another part - an intransigent, rocky part - roared at Anne to push that rictus in.
The coin in her hand grew hot to the point of pain. It jumped in her fist and pulled her around to her left. Anne's feet skidded on the floor, and when she focused on it to regain her balance, Anne's eyes widened. She stood on grass. Green, living grass. A perverse part of her mind suggested that a turf floor probably didn't meet any kind of regulation; the food service inspector alone would have a fit.
An incongruously graceful motion seen from the corner of her eye brought Anne's head
But there was no joy in his face: only slavish concentration. His body strained, pouring forth melody in a torrent, but without a hint of the pleasure he should have evinced. Desperate hunger and something beyond pain etched lines into his face as she watched.
The tiny disc clenched in her fist grew hot, and jumped. Anne's vision shivered, as though all she saw was the rippling surface of a pond. All but the fiddler locked in song before her eyes. She still saw the man as he was, but strangely laid over - or just inside - his features, Anne saw a ghostly, ethereal copy of him. The replica moved just out of time with the physical reality, and pulsed rapidly in a beat that mirrored his racing heart.
Hair, gray and lank, lay matted against a scalp that showed through patches. The lines she saw in his physical face carved even deeper, and multiplied again and again. His already spare frame became a nightmarish, emaciated thing of swollen joints and protruding bones, held together by parchment skin. Even his clothes - grown faded, threadbare and moth-eaten - reflected the transformation.
Anne blinked, and tried to swallow through the new-made desert of her throat. The brief vision ended, but Anne could now see the cracks in the grotto. Nothing physical: the club still seemed carved out of living rock and monstrous trees. She saw through whatever magic kept the musicians in harmony, whatever parasitic force lured the young and creative into Under Hill. And proceeded to suck them dry.
With fresh eyes, Anne saw the fiddler's frenetic motion betrayed exhaustion. She was certain he would eventually collapse, alive perhaps, but drained of everything that made him more than a sack of meat. And she had no idea how to stop it, or even if she could.
Anne's eyes widened as she looked around. It wasn't just the musicians. Her stomach roiled as she realized that those who didn't play danced, moving together in swaying, twitching rhythm. Bare heartbeats earlier, it would have been beautiful - in a way, it still was - but now, Anne was disgusted by the impressions she received. Glazed eyes stared at nothing, limbs wove through each other while torsos bent, slid over and across each other. As though one mind controlled them all, moved them as one.
But not perfectly.
The same flaws - if they weren't completely intentional - affected the dancers as well. At random, an arm twitched out of alignment here. There, a foot misstepped. The whole corrected quickly enough, but if you paid attention, you could see the cracks in the facade. If a single mind did guide the movements of all of the erstwhile agents, it had some kind of palsy.
And over it all, Anne still tasted copper and forest.
"Dance, pretty lady."
Anne understood now why the - no appropriate word came to Anne for the strange, androgynous person who'd spoken to her above - polytonal voice sounded so wrong. The words issued from the dozen or so closest throats. Those glazed eyes, staring at some other world, turned as one to her. Jaws moved, lips curled in dread-inducing parodies of human smiles.
"Dance with us."
It was the same voice. Anne's gorge rose as she felt her feet trying to obey and move in rhythm to the music. Horror and rage fought for dominance, rooting Anne to the spot. Part of her desperately wanted to flee, to disappear. Another part - an intransigent, rocky part - roared at Anne to push that rictus in.
The coin in her hand grew hot to the point of pain. It jumped in her fist and pulled her around to her left. Anne's feet skidded on the floor, and when she focused on it to regain her balance, Anne's eyes widened. She stood on grass. Green, living grass. A perverse part of her mind suggested that a turf floor probably didn't meet any kind of regulation; the food service inspector alone would have a fit.
An incongruously graceful motion seen from the corner of her eye brought Anne's head
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