Fiction: His First Duchess, Part One, Chapter 3a

Previous: His First Duchess, Chapter 2
Chapter 3a

Colly dubbed Ammy's bedroom boho-luxe. It was done up in plade green, gold and purple; complete with fainting couch and an Art Deco vanity Ammy discovered at the local antique/jumble store.   She particularly loved her bed, with it's high thread count sheets and blankets. And her headboard! It was some kind of microfiber ultra-suede that begged to be touched, but looked like an escapee from the glamourous boudoir of a 1930's film.

This room was Ammy's bulwark; the place to which she retreated when the world was too much with her. It was no sanctuary during those times like now, when she was too much with herself. 

It was the middle of the night.

   Among wreckage of rumpled bedclothes and pillows she felt...she felt...she felt. Oh God, too much.   Somehow she’d managed to leave the restaurant and get rid of her friends soon after her conversation with...that guy.  She wasn’t sure what excuse she’d used to get away,  that horrible, shaky out of control feeling rising in her chest.  A sudden headache, or something.  Anything to get away.

Ammy managed to quash quash the crazy rising within her as she talked Colly out of trying to give her a ride home.  Didn't Colly and Hosh realize how agonizing it was; their combined concern reaching for her?   Yes, Ammy wanted to scream. And scream and scream; she'd kept her lips over her teeth lest the words 'good night' sound more like Jamie Lee Curtis screen test for Halloween.  Instead, Amelie offered her friends a sweet smile under wild eyes, got into her car and drove away.

The drive had been a dangerous ordeal; trembling and nearly blinded by the stabbing pains in her head. Ammy was dimly aware that she should be worried about causing an accident. Mostly, she was focused on keeping her grandfather's voice and the memories which rode in on it, at bay. Ammy managed wit enough to take less trafficked side streets the half mile or so to her home, but that was all.  
 

Stumbling through the door; Ammy ignored Maven twining about her ankles and mewing pitifully. She made a header for the medicine cabinet; fumbling open bottles of prescription sleeping and pain pills and then to the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine with trembling fingers.  Ammy didn’t care about warning labels or drug interactions, she was reaching for oblivion.  Sweet oblivion.

    She woke around two a.m. Amelie gathered her knees into her arms holding on as best she could, a shadowy figure veiled by the soft draping of the canopy bathed in filtered moonlight.  Coiled.  Coiled around inside herself; she was taught amid the luxurious softness of jewel-toned and velvet pillows and bedclothes Maven curled around her feet. 

    Ammy hated her intuition.  She kept it tamped down, the beast in the cellar.   A powerful, unreliable beast.  She kept it trapped inside her; the animal in a frenzy, worked to escape; attempting to tear working her mind apart brick by brick.  And so Ammy coiled, coiled the chains around its prison; desperate to keep the beast locked in her subconscious.   But it was beyond her control.  Elemental.  Wind and sky keening.  Shadows and dark and glass shattering.  Things that go bump in the night.  And the smell; blood, fear...pain.

'Mad witchling', Grandpere whispered.

Stop.

Breathe.

Stop. Stop.

   Ammy sucked long breaths tearing her mind from the edge of the precipice on which it teetered.  Strength of will babe, strength of will; Amelie Isabelle Harris had plenty of will.  By and by the muscles relaxed, by and by the breathing slowed, by and by sleep overtook her overtook her once again.

The next day, the Fams invaded in force.  

Fiction: His First Duchess, Chapter 2

Previous: His First Duchess, Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Leather Jacket intended to be the death of  Pretty Eyes. Like. Now.

    The sharp pain, which, only seconds before threatened to bisect her skull, receded to a more manageable throbbing at its base.  A familiar sense of distance overcame her, a 'there' but 'not there-ness'.  She was viewing the entire restaurant from a long way off and in minute detail. She fell to earth with a thud and the absolute certainty Leather Jacket planned to kill Pretty Eyes

'Evil child, demon spawn.', her grandfather's voice whispered.

Not now Granpere, I'm busy.  

'Witch, the Devil will drag you back down to hell where you belong.', filled with her grandfather's voice, her headache intensified. 

In which case Grandpere, I'll see you when he does.  

She made a supreme effort to wrench her focus back to the men at the table. 

But not today. 

 The world shrank to the size of the table ten feet from where Amelie sat. Though neither was hard on the eyes; Amelie kept hers mostly to herself, letting her 'Spidey senses' (as Hosh and Colly called them) do the walkin'. There was something indefinable in the atmosphere surrounding them which teased the at the edges of her subconscious.  She resisted the temptation make this a rational process analyzing the incoming stimuli. This always went more smoothly when she shifted intellect into 'standby' and allowed her subconscious take precedence.  

Leather Jacket and  Birkenstock's. Body language. Birkenstock's angled toward ratty office. Leather Jacket, angle of repose. Pretty Eyes, Gideon's three hundred men. Her head. Her head!

Ammy leaned forward and bit down on a soft moan. Collette and Hosh paused in their enjoyment of  their wine, excellent garlic fries and juicier subjects of who had done what to whom among their acquaintances. She was staring across the table at her friend Colette, who appeared to be speaking to her.  But Amelie was powerless to disengage from her interior world to re-enter the exterior one.  Finally Colette rolled her eyes and turned back to Hoshi.  

Murder shrieks out.

   Even as subconscious and conscious mind engaged in the familiar battle of wills the conclusion was foregone.  The certainty of Pretty Eyes peril rested within her like a stone. Ammy didn't want this, didn't want to involve herself.  But she knew.  With knowledge came responsibility. This man was in danger of losing his life, she could not sit by and do nothing simply to serve her own peace of mind

   A glance told her Pretty Eyes could handle himself.  A word to the wise should be sufficient.  But how to get that word?  How to convince him if she did? Too late. She watched as Pretty Eyes readied himself to leave.  Relief followed quickly on the heels of horror as she realized Leather Jacket made no move to leave the table.

       Ammy scribbled her number on a scrap of paper and rose to follow the man ignoring the questioning glances of her friends.  He stood in the alcove next to the pay phones.  She caught his eye and smiled, aware that they could still be observed by their dinner companions through the glass doors.  He winked saucily at her. Encouraged, she approached and whispered urgently,  “Act like we're flirting."

“Aren’t we?”, he whispered in return.

            “No, not really.”

“Oh.”, he said, chuckling ruefully, “I must be losing my touch.”, and aimed a dimpled grin at her.

         “Okay, dude, seriously?  a) lame, and b) we haven’t got time for that now.”  Continuing to smile at him-- through her teeth; she laid her hand on his arm.  “This is going to sound completely insane.  But I’m gonna ask you to believe me, to trust I know what I’m talking about.”  He shrugged, still giving her the come-hither grin that was really beginning to grate on her nerves.

      “Your friend.”, she took a deep breath and plunged. “He means to kill you. I’m pretty sure he's got a shooter waiting for you to leave here.” She gazed earnestly up at him.  The icy eyes went positively glacial for an instant before returning to amorous. She should have realized; would have, but for the distraction of being completely freaked out. 

He knew.

        

       The shock of sudden knowledge, snapped her out of her own head, even silencing Granpere for the moment.  "Crap."

That indefinable something that clung to both men, suddenly appeared in Ammy's dictionary. Danger.  She began to draw away.  Pretty Eye's smile broadened as he trapped her hand on his arm beneath one of his own.  “Not so fast sweetheart. Who are you?” As he spoke, his fingers began to apply uncomfortable pressure to a small bone in her wrist. She winced a little. “My name is Amelie.”

Impatience flashed in his eyes. “Who are you working for?”

“Lumina Gourmet Foods.”

    That surprised him. He loosened his grip for an instant and she slid her hand away.   He smiled down at her indulgently.  A false, false smile.  And brushed her lips gently with his own in a kiss. A cold, cold kiss.  She stepped away from him smiling.  Playing out the scene for the benefit of their audience on the other side of the glass.

      She turned away and moved back through the doors.  She was aware of the scrutiny of the man sitting at the table as she passed. 

      Amelie sat smiling smugly, abandoning thought, intuition and shock; falling back on her actor's training. She played the part of 'Amelie who has met an interesting man'. 

"Well?", asked Hosh.

Ammy took a sip of wine, "Well, what?" 

        Hoshi rolled her eyes and Colly took up the questioning. "What happened? You kissed him!"

Ammy shook her head, "He kissed me." She had the sense to play the farce out to its conclusion.  On auto pilot, her act must have been good enough for Colly and Hosh because they weren’t looking at her as if she’d completely lost her mind.

        Peripherally, Ammy watched Pretty Eyes return to his table She watched from the corner of her eye, flashing the scrap of paper at his companion.  He winked over at her and she smiled and turned away, practically wilting relief as she heard  the distinctly masculine tone the conversation had taken.  

       

        The relief was short-lived. Her demons rose within, threatening to break her down right there the restaurant. 

Devil child. 

Hello Grandpere.
Next: His First Duchess, Chapter 3a