Episode 2: Regina's Place

Episode 2: Regina's Place

My walk to the home that Regina made with her –  now dead, I have to keep reminding myself – husband was not among my favorite strolls through Genoa. If stroll it could even be described. It was, is, I suppose, among the most memorable.

I am sober. Grudgingly. I left my office without so much as opening the top-left drawer of my desk. I wanted to. Gods, but I didn't want to be. I wanted to eat all of my – considerable – stash of opium. To race down to my basement laboratory and stuff the resin I had curing down there in my face. To develop a method to get the stuff even faster into my brain. I wanted, as my pal Roger Bacon – sorry, Billy Shakespeare – when I described to him the desolation of my soul, the hopelessness I felt in this situation, said – and then put in the mouth of another young man, lost in this huge, hateful world filled with the bullets and arrows of outrageous fortune: To sleep, to dream no more.

In fact, I might – if even as she wept I were thinking these very piteous thoughts – have left with her escorted Regina back to her home. I may have been for her a buttress in her grief, as much as she no doubt viewed me as a megalith – indeed, a monolith: a monument of singular solidarity and strengh in myself. But – no. I let her leave. I let her take herself back to that prison, that house that was for her as much a dungeon as any Rapunzel-like fairy tale princess.

The thought never entered my mind. We could not be seen together. How easy would it be for anyone interested in, as with two birds by one stone, taking for themselves her wealth ad destroying me, if I did? I had enemies. I disregarded them. But not everyone was pleased with the outcomes of my meddling in Genoa. So, instead, for many long minutes, I sat in the dark, lamenting Francis's fate and my own misfortune – my own foolishness in involving myself at all with such a man as he – such a woman as she.

When I did finally leave, I put these thoughts behind me. Mastering – and mustering, frankly, all of – my courage, I began the only-slightly-more than one mile trek. This walk is not typified, perhaps to your delight, Listener, perhaps not, by rambling thoughts, cognitive arguments and mutterings to myself. No. They were present, the Voices. They are always present. But this walk I spent trying and largely succeeding at not listening to them – not thinking.

Trying not to think about how obvious and conspicuous I am. How vulnerable. How if Francis's killer wanted to, he or she, it, they, could attack me in the largely empty streets I preferred. Could have someone else attack me. This fear was, while not exactly unfounded, very real: By any estimation, I was overdue for a jumping, either by a vengeful someone or a hired good. I was simply able to dismiss it, confident in my ability to defend myself, unarmed though I was. Not all mystic schools are nonviolent; the arts martial and spiritual are frequently combined; and, if I may for a moment brag – humbly, naturally – I was trained to fight by a man so proficient at killing, he had but only one name: al'Shamshir – The Sword.

No. What occupied my non-thinking was expectation. I busy my mind with shooing away predictions of what I might find when I arrive. Images of Francis opening the door, surprised by my visit – me, surprised that he is actually alive – of his corpse in a million different, possible, death poses, a million horrible causes; of Regina's sorry, her accusations, how she will blame or admonish me; how this will turn out to be my fault in the end; how I will come to be ruined by this.

A fifteen minute mile isn't exactly a hurried pace; but fifteen minutes is a Hell of a long time when you are certain the end of your life as you know it is at the destination.

My destination was not the biggest, not the richest, not the most ostentatious, not the most expensive house in Genoa. Nor was it the least. Regina and Francis were rich, but the house they built in the new and burgeoning Elite part of town was appropriate to their upper-middle means.

I stand outside the front door for many long moments, feeling the eyes of their neighbors, slave-servant and noble alike, curiously watching me. If they don't already know that Francis is dead, they no doubt do know about my relationships with him and his wife. I didn't care about them. I did – I just didn't concern myself with it. That, they, aren't why for so long I hesitate. It occurs to me, now, standing outside their door as I am, that I haven't the foggiest idea, haven't given a single consideration to what I am doing – to what I am going to do.

Anachronistically and for your benefit alone: I was not a crime scene investigaor. I was neither Lennie Briscoe nor Jack McCoy. I had seen death. Plenty of it. Even violent death. But, as I feel I have too oft repeated, I represented neither Law nor Order in Genoa.

What did I think I was going to do? I knew what she wanted me to do: exonerate her. But what did that even mean? Was I going to examine the boy, determine cause of death, somehow identify the killer? That was crazy. Not that there was no way. I'd taken thieves before. Plenty of times. But a killer? What about in the meantime? Was I going to advise her? Help her dispose of the body?

That was an unpleasant thought.

I could foresee no way that this ended well for yours truly.

I shouldn't be here.

So I let myself in unannounced.

I find Regina waiting for me just inside. Her face is in her hands. Her body slowly shudders. Evidently she still has not found containment for her sorrow. She looks up, alarmed; then relaxes when she sees me.

“Oh. Robert. You – you came. I – I almost feared you would not.”

I hate seeing her pretty face ruined with grief. At least she was not wearing eyeliner to drip down her cheeks in the rivulets of her tears. If I didn't hate Francis before, for all the various torments he'd put her through, I hate him now – for going and getting himself killed.

No doubt by a damned whore.

This thought comes from nowhere. Why would I assume that, after what she'd told me?

Then I think of what Francis said yesterday – the other day? Why couldn't I keep track of the passage of the last week?

“Guess we’ll just see who gets to her first.”

I put that conversation – and his mystery woman – from my mind.

And it hits me anew that he's dead. Really and actually dead.

“Yeah,” I mutter. It's all I can muster.

“He's... upstairs.”

“All right. Yeah.” I look to the stairs, the yawning darkness of the hallway beyond. “The servants?”

“I sent them all home when I returned.”

“Has the body— Has he.... Did they disturb him?”

“I... I don't think so. I locked his... the door before I left. I haven't been able to bring myself—“

“Right. All right.” I make my way to her like I mean to offer her a hug, then stop myself. Probably not a great idea. I hold my palm out. “The key?”

With a trembling hand, she gives it to me.

“Go to your room,” I say. “I'll... look at him.”

“What are we going to do?”

We.

“I don't know. I'll think of something.”

Silently, she looks at me with puffy, bloodshot eyes I try to tell myself are that way just – and only – from the crying. I try not to think of half-snake monster women and vengeful demons. With a nod, she turns and makes her way up the stairs. I watch her, hoping I sound more reassuring that I feel, until I hear the click of her door closing behind her.

Then it's my turn.

I stop outside his bedroom. With the key in the hole, I wonder whether I will need a light to see whatever I'm about to see. No sense going back for a candle now, I decide: I might not be able to bring myself back.

Coward.

I turn the key and push open the door.

I need go no further than this. Dim though the light is filtering in through the curtains draped over the windows, I can see everything I need to of the horror before me.

As disgusting as Francis was in life, his death was infinitely moreso.

I hesitate to describe what I am seeing. Only rarely – and unwillingly at that – have I revisited this moment in my memory. And never in this way. It is – was – horrible. Horrifying. How many ways can I use that word or its variants? How many synonyms are there for me to choose from without saying anything at all? My first response is to immediately bend double and heave. And I find myself thankful now that I am disembodied – that V cannot see as I do, only hear these words ringing like a faraway bell in his mind. Never before had I been so thankful to have an empty stomach. Eyes closed, it takes a tremendous effort to open my eyes once more – to keep from turning and walking from this house to never return, come what may. But I do. I look, stare, at the scene before me.

Francis, it appears, was a fastidious man – in life. Or he liked his servants to keep that appearance. The pristine room is marred by puddles – pools – of filth. Starting in his bed and making a trail of vomit and explosive, liquid shit, to his body. Who knew there was so much vile fluid in the body. Would I have preferred blood? I thought not. But the smell. The wretched, horrid stench of the room. Of him. Even the desensitized Medieval nose was overwhelmed with it. He lays – a corpse, a lifeless thing, now, to be disposed of and nothing more - arm outstretched to the door. His hand less than two paces from where I stand, still bent with hands on my knees. His face buried, submerged, in his own filth.

It is obvious at a glance that he dragged himself there with the last of his dying strength. His last act one of failure. Ignominious. Ignoble. And who did he think would save him? Who will mourn him? No one, not even he, a philanderer, an abuser, deserves this sort of death.

They say it is wrong to speak ill of the dead. Is it likewise wrong to speak the truth?

And a glance is all I give him. It's all I need.

How few seconds I stare, transfixed, into that room. There is no reason to enter. I will find nothing. I know this, as certainly as I know that my hair is brown and it will hurt if I slam my foot with a hammer. There is no vial of poison. No evidence of another in her with him when he died. There are no tracks. No one would be so foolish – not even Regina could be that stupid. The bed clothes have been dragged to the floor. But even that detail is irrelevant. My first thought – or sense – is wrong. I already know it when I pull the door closed.

The pair of tumescent, red holes in his neck, just below the jaw, directly in his jugular, is answer enough for me.

A viper.

In his bed.

I almost can't believe it.

A viper?

And the holes are so far apart.

My thoughts beat against my skull. There is meaning in them. But I do not think on it now. This is not the time to think. This is the time to return to Regina. Thinking will come after I have interviewed her once more. After I have told her what I know I have to. What I know she will hate to hear.

By the time I have righted myself and determined to tell Regina what I know – hoping that I will figure out what to do with it before I get to her room – I have convinced myself that I was mistaken. For the holes to be that far apart, the viper's mouth would have to be as wide as my own. Or Regina's.

And that was not possible.

It couldn't be.

A snake that big would be twenty feet long.

Or longer.

And that's just impossible.

How would he not notice it?

Maybe if I could have stomached entering the room, if I could have braved exploring and analyzing the filth, the splatter patterns, if I had bothered to notice that his legs were shattered and mangled, his ribs crushed, as though by a titanic, constricting hand, things would have turned out differently. But maybes are about as much good as coulda, shoulda, and woulda: they never did anything, and maybe never helped anybody.

I open the door to her room. Regina is sitting on her bed.

The space is pretty, if plainly decorated. Just like her. The bed is simple. She has a desk. No books or anything. An unfinished piece of some kind of idle woman's art – needle point or whatever; I don't know enough to identify it – is forgotten upon its surface.

She looks up at me, her eyes wide – and hatefully hopeful. I want – and I couldn't explain why if I wanted to – to slap her. To slap that look off her face. Literally. I do not. Instead I take a single step forward, leaving the door open behind me. It's not like we need the privacy. Not like someone might walk into the house at any moment. And who knows – maybe they might. Probably they won't. People aren't as indecorous as I.

“You've seen him, then.” She states.

My face must be as pale as I feel. There is a slight tremble in my hands and my knees. I try to tell myself it's just hunger. I know better.

“Yeah.”

“It's awful. Just... awful.”

“Yeah.”

“What could do that to him?”

I frown. Then answer. “Two things could do that to him. Arsenic poisoning – or certain types of venomous snakes.”

“...Snakes?” she asks, as incredulous as I. Maybe she didn't see the bite wound. Maybe I imagined it. “Arsenic? I mean... he did say his stomach was bothering him. Could someone have poisoned him?”

I nod. You could have poisoned him. “The way he... that much.... It would take a lot of arsenic to do that to you. Not so much it's impossible that someone did it. It's just... someone really wanted Francis dead.”

She looks at the floor. Her shoulders slump. The posture of the guilty?

“Then no one will believe that it was not me. They will say I put that... arsenic... in his food.” Her eyes snap to mine. “But where would I get it?”

“It's easy enough to get. It's also, famously enough, the poison of choice for Roman noble women when dealing with their sons or husbands.”

Regina shudders. “I didn't kill him, Rob. You have to believe me.”

“I want to,” I say. Then I say something stupid. “But whatever the case, this has to be the end of us.”

Her mouth falls open. Then her eyes flash fury. “You can't be saying this.”

“I'm sorry. Really, I am. But—“

She shoots to her feet. “Yeah. You're sorry. You're a sorry piece of shit! How could you do this to me?”

“Regina, please—“

“No! You're so pleased with yourself, aren't you? I bet you killed him just to get rid of me.”

So much for interviewing her. Why had I said that? Why hadn't I asked a question, like, Where were you yesterday?

Gods damn, Rob. You're a fuckin idiot.

You think I don't know that?

“I'm not pleased with myself. I just mean—“

“Yeah. You just mean to get rid of me. You think that you can just walk out of my life after tangling yourself between my legs for all this time? You think you can just abandon me?”

She's crossing the room, now, her fists balled at her sides.

“Regina, stop.”

Instinctually, I thrust my open palm at her for silence. Her head snaps back on her neck like I'd punched her. When it returns to its natural position, her eyes are rolled into her head so that only the whites are visible. My eyes flit from my hand to her.

What had I done?

Regina's brows turn down in a frown and her mouth shapes a hissing snear. I'm pointing at her, now, as stupefied as a child seeing something to them remarkable for the first time.

“You again!” I all but shout.

“You again!” She echoes. The voice that comes from Regina's mouth is not her own. It is the same voice as the being that called itself the Lamia Spirit, only now it is not lingering on the sounds it is making like the sound of its voice is delicious to it. It's speaking like a normal person. “What do you want now, fool Fulcrum?”

I hadn't mean to do this. Again. But this time I know exactly what I wanted to know. My pointing becomes accusatory – as though I might channel whatever power had someoned her into a command.

“What did you do to Francis?”

“Who? Oh. What did I do?” the spirit mocks me. “I did nothing.”

“Do not lie to me, demon.”

“Demon?” she gasps. I can't tell whether her insult is genuine. “I am no demon! I am La—“

I've lowered my hand by now. “Yes. I know. You're the Lamia spirit.” An idea – a defense for Regina is forming in my mind. “Do not lie to me. What did you do?”

She laughs, tossing Regina's hair and placing her hands on her hips. The pose is defiant; her voice is proud. “I killed him.”

“No kidding. How?”

“That's more than one question, Boy.”

“And you will answer it. In the name of—“

“In the name of what? Jesus? God? You do not believe—“

“In the name of the Fulcrum of Fate,” I boom. I hear the power in my voice. I don't know where it comes from; I don't even know why I say these words – unless I remembered her calling me them – which I didn't. I just do.

Regina's face smooths. Her hands fall from her hips. “I see,” she says, impressed. “Yes. I killed him.”

“How? Tell me.”

“I'm getting to it.” The Lamia's tone is petulant, now. “With her, of course. I used her body. One bite was all it took.” She gnashes Regina's teeth with a wicked grin. I almost expect to see vipers' fangs have replaced her canines. I do not see this.

“You lie, demon.”

“I am not a demon. Stop calling me that. And do I? The girl, she called me. You taught her the magick. She called, and I came. It is my way. My nature to free women from evil men. Even men like you.”

“You lie.”

“Do I? Then why do you believe? Why do you fear that it is true? Hmm?” She stares at me, defiant with those all-white, bloodshot orbs. Then she looks down, regarding Regina's body. “She is a beauty, isn't she? Young, supple body. I remember bodies like this. Young girls. How easily you send her to this transe-place. How easily indeed. Now, let me ask you something. Silly me, I already have, haven't I? Well, let me ask something else. Do you practice on her? Is this what you do? Is this what you do with her? Do you put her under like this, send her mind away so that she will not resist you in what you want? Does she want to be on top, little Fulcrum, little Adam?”

As she is making these terribly untrue accusations, she drops Regina's dress to the floor so that she is naked before me. She runs her hands along Regina's body, caressing her belly, her breasts, teasing her nipples hard, then along her ribs, the swell of her hips, the thickness of her thigs, between them. She lifts a hand, glistening in the sunlight streaming through the curtained windows. Rubs Regina's wetness between her thumb and fingers, smiling more than a little seductively at me. I find that I cannot help my body's response: fear and arousal. I am, before she says what she says next, in a word, scaroused.

“Will you do it with me Fulcrum? Would you take me as you have taken so many women before?”

I feel like a Catholic priest in a whorehouse – rather, I feel like the image of a Catholic priest in a whorehouse. In reality, the majority of those guys were more familiar with womens' bodies than the average Medieval man. My spine stiffens – as hard and straight as my prick.

“Be gone with you demon,” I command, my body coursing with pre-coital, anticipatory convulsions. “Leave this girl.”

“Oh, I'll go,” she says, twisting Regina's face in devious disappointment, pouting her lips and batting her eyelashes. “But the girl is mine. She called to me, and I will have her. Just as I will have your wife. And then I will have you.”

Then, just like that, she's gone. I know because Regina's head slumps forward and her arms go limp at her side.

And I'm left standing there with a throbbing erection and a very naked Regina – my most regular lover – and client. She comes to her self almost immediately. When she realizes what is happening – has happened? - she is not thrilled.

In fact, she's even more furious than she was before.

“Robert?” she asks, staring at the bulge in my pants. “What are you doing?”

In the famous last words of every idiot male caught with his pants down, prick where it does not belong – and, again, for the record, my pants were most decidedly not down – I ejaculate:

“It's not what it looks like!”

“Then why does it look like I am naked and you are preparing to take advantage of me?” She might have said rape. “Did you put me under?” She is definitely screaming now.

At least I'm not hard anymore. No. Not aroused; just scared.

“No. Yes. But—“ I stammer.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Please, Regina, just—“

“My husband is fucking—“

“Now, just stop it. Barely an hour ago, you—“

“Don't tell me what I did barely an hour ago! I found my husband dead! Drowned in a sea of his own shit and vomit, you unbelievable shithead!”

She slaps me hard across the face; then shoves me with all her might, for the open door.

“Get out. Get the fuck out!” she screams.

“Regina, please.” I'm trying to reason with her, but I know any chance of that is already lost. “Just listen to me. I know—“

She punches me in the chest.

“Fuck you! Fuck you until you fucking die!” I stumble into the hallway. She punches me in the chest again. She no pugilist, but the air is knocked from my lungs. Only with effort do I not bowl double – do I not present her a more appealingly painful target. I'm going to be bruised, whatever the case. “I can't believe I thought I loved you. You're just like every other man. You just take whatever you want whenever you want it.”

“Regina! Please! I'm have an idea—!”

The next punch catches me in the mouth. So much for not giving her a better target. Bright spots of light brighten the dark of the hall, and I taste blood.

“You were going to just discard me like a crusty old rag full of your cum! Get out. Fuck you. I hate you. I hope you fucking die – and worse!”

She cocks her fist to hit me again – and, coward that I am, I flee.