Ante Mortem

THE DUBIOUS MAGIC OF ELLIOT PRINCE KV Taylor

Elliot found his prey—or rather, his project partner—under the brightest lamp. Tim leaned against the wrought iron gate, reading a thin paperback in a puddle of light. The guy always had some esoteric little tome; kept one carefully askew on his desk during lectures and sticking out of the pocket of his backpack on the quad, like he was waiting for someone to notice.

Elliot had done that too, back in high school. No wonder freshmen were like babes to the slaughter.

Still, he was feeling charitable tonight. He might ask about the book; it’d probably make Tim’s night. Maybe he’d even let the guy show him painstakingly underlined passages and tell him why they were brilliant.

He sauntered into the light, strangling the knowing smile on his face. Dropped his cigarette, jammed his hands deep into his leather jacket and toyed with the camera in the right pocket. He let his eyes dart to Tim’s book to create some initial goodwill.

Tim shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stuffed his book into his backpack. His face seemed flushed, but it was cold outside, and Tim was always faintly freckled and pink. Maybe he wasn’t blushing, but he looked fucking awkward, either way.

Definitely a passage under-liner. Perfect.

“Cold tonight, man,” Elliot said.

Tim shrugged, hiking his pack onto narrow shoulders. “I’m used to it.”

Elliot noticed, upon closer inspection, that Tim wore only a thin Adidas track jacket. Right, he was from… Boston or something. Somewhere they couldn’t pronounce the letter ‘r,’ anyhow.

But back to business. “Best place to jump the fence is around the side here.”

Tim looked up at him through a fringe of dark bangs. “That’s how I did it last night.”

Elliot tried to stop his face from falling, but didn’t quite make it. “Why’d you come then?”

“Scouting. The groundskeeper came around once or twice…”

When Tim trailed off, Elliot smirked. “Can’t outrun a 75 year-old, shovel-wielding hunchback?”

Tim set his jaw, stood a little straighter.

“Come on, man. This place is amazing. You go in far enough, you’ll come out a changed man.”

Clever little joke. Too bad Tim can’t appreciate it. Yet.

Tim screwed up his face, a comical determination taking over, ending with his eyes. He almost looked angry, and it suited him. Made him less little-boyish.

Elliot just kept smiling. This might be his easiest one yet.

You go in far enough, you’ll come out a changed man.

Tim had used all his self-control in the split second after Elliot said it. Watching the back of that pretty blonde head retreat around the corner, he felt like he’d been rubbed all over with sandpaper on the inside.

Funny to think how a few days ago, he’d been happy about this assignment. Fate handing him the answers, the chance he’d half wanted, half hoped wouldn’t come. Timothy Maclaren and Elliot Prince, slips of paper drawn at the same time. And then, just when it couldn’t get any better, Elliot told him he wanted to start their project with a long night in a dark, secluded spot.

Sure, it was illegal. But Tim didn’t mind unexpected luck, as a general rule. Now he had warring urges to laugh and cry. Cold dread seeped into him, nothing to do with the weather.

He’d do what he had to do, though.

Half a league, half a league

Half a league onward

Right?

Elliot reached through the fence for Tim’s pack, while Tim hauled himself up the wall behind the caretaker’s house and disappeared into the foliage of the nearby oak tree. Elliot peeked at the title of the book in the outer mesh pocket.

101 Great Poems

Huh. He’d expected Kerouac or Hesse or something else that seems brilliant in high school. Something a pseudo-intellectual like Tim would think made him look smart and deep. He had carried Shakespeare himself, back in the day. Fucking embarrassing.

Elliot was about to extract the book for a closer look when a blinding halogen glow cut the night, the spotlight in the caretaker’s yard. He froze for a stuttering second.

The branches of the oak rustled, emitted an audible “Hell!”

The sound startled him into action; he shouldered the pack and raced for the nearest patch of darkness against the wall. When he slammed his back to the bricks, Tim dropped out of the tree in front of him, landing in an awkward pile on the long grass.

Elliot barely suppressed a laugh.

Tim launched himself toward the safety of the wall. When he got there, he was biting at the inside of his cheek, and he had a leaf stuck in his hair.

Elliot couldn’t stop himself, he picked it out and waved it in Tim’s face, laughing silently.

Tim’s cheeks puffed out; he looked away, obviously trying to quiet his own laughter.

A door slammed on the other side of the wall.

Right, better get moving. Elliot dropped the leaf and whacked Tim’s arm to get his attention, then nodded to the nearest mausoleum rising from the sea of gaudy grave-markers.

Tim, still looking torn between abject horror and laughter, nodded.

They heard slow footsteps beyond the wall, and ran as fast as they could.

Tim tried to concentrate on the sensations; long grass swishing against his ankles, cold air heavy with the smell of rotting leaves crushing into his lungs. But there was Elliot just ahead of him, running too fast, too effortlessly, to remind him what was wrong with tonight.

All so easy for a guy like him, isn’t it?

That made Tim feel a little better. And if Elliot thought it was the groundskeeper that scared him, that made it better too. But now it was close, and they were only running closer. Closer and colder with every step.

He didn’t know if he was happy or sad, but he hoped Elliot wouldn’t make him laugh again.

Elliot swung around the mausoleum and reached out, grabbing Tim’s arm.

Tim practically screeched to a stop, panting, “Jesus.”

Elliot tried to calm his own breathing, but even magic couldn’t argue with a pack-a-day habit. He grinned anyhow, enjoying his heart thudding hard against his ribcage.

A lot of life in the middle of a silent necropolis. He congratulated himself on the artistic sensibilities he displayed by appreciating the contrast. Fuck you all—I’m glad you’re dead. Won’t catch me underground.

Not if he kept this scheme running, anyhow. There were a lot of magics available to people willing to do what was necessary. Death magic just happened to be Elliot’s personal choice. He was young and good-looking; he had too much to lose to choose any other.

“What if he follows?” Tim was still panting. “He might tell the school—”

“What if he does? Dr. Kline would just pat us on the back for being so hands-on—hell, he’s an old hippy. We’ll probably run into him getting high behind a mausoleum.”

Tim cracked a smile, which, in the moonlight, made him appear ten years younger.

“Anyhow, the best part is the old graveyard.” Elliot shot his companion a sideways glance. “You go there last night?”

Tim hesitated.

Elliot narrowed his eyes.

Another moment of silence. Finally, Tim said, “I don’t think so. I’m not sure where anything is.”

Elliot tried to back off. There was no way Tim had found out; if he had, he wouldn’t be here now. “It’s cool. I know this place inside out.”

“You can give me my stuff back.”

Right, the backpack. Elliot held it out. “What’s up with the poems?”

Huh. He hadn’t meant to ask so quickly. Well, whatever.

Tim slung the pack over one shoulder. “Dunno. I like something different every day.”

Elliot surprised himself. Not only had he not regretted losing five seconds of his life listening to that answer, but he actually asked, “For what?”

Tim paused, looked him in the eye for a minute and seemed to consider whether or not he should answer truthfully.

Elliot surprised himself again by waiting for the answer patiently, leaning against the cold stone of the mausoleum and sinking into the comfortable feeling of the place.

Even before he’d discovered their uses, he’d always liked cemeteries—this one in particular. Liked that they were quiet and empty, but he never felt all that alone in them.

Eventually, Tim spoke again. “You know that thing where you open the refrigerator and stare inside, but you don’t know what you want exactly? You’re just hungry for something?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that. I want something, but I don’t know what. I stare at my book shelf and wait for it to tell me.”

“Does it?”

“No. That’s what I get for buying furniture at Wal-Mart, I guess.”

Elliot snorted. “I’m disturbed that I get that.”

Tim grinned—possibly the first unselfconscious face he’d made in the three days since their assignment. “So I pick random stuff up every day and see where it takes me. This seemed like a good graveyard book. Been reading it all day.”

Elliot let himself appear interested. Tim was sold on him, he was sure. It couldn’t get any easier.

Too bad the guy’s kind of smart, though. Maybe he could hold a real conversation, even.

No time to find out. They’d know he was here, by now. They’d be expecting him.

Tim knew right away he shouldn’t have given a straight answer. He’d thought of it as a safe confession—the kind you give when you know you won’t have to see someone again. Like saying “I’ve always loved you, goodbye” or “That was me that ran over your dog last summer, goodbye” or “I used to watch the back of your head in class and wonder if you’d talk to me like this if we were stuck on a deserted island. But goodbye, you horrible motherfucker.”

He’d liked it more than that, and it left a hollow feeling in his guts.

Tim made himself think about Benny. The blank expression behind his eyes. The paleness of his lips. The look on his mother’s face when she’d come to take him home, for good. Hard to imagine he’d ever be coming back to school when he’d lost his mind.

Or his soul, as it turns out. But Tim hadn’t known that until last night.

Elliot lit a cigarette, then held up his lighter for Tim. “So you’re not always reading to try and pick up chicks?”

Tim leaned forward and took the first drag to get the cherry going. He smoked like someone who never smoked; awkward fingering, lips too pursed, but at least he didn’t choke. Then he let out a long breath and said, “That’s not really on my list of things to do.”

Elliot looked at him sideways, but Tim looked straight ahead.

Elliot smirked; he supposed he’d seen Tim with Benny once or twice, come to think of it. Now he wondered if they’d been fucking, or just friends. It would be more poetic if they’d been fucking.

He bit back the smirk, watching Tim try to hide himself in the cigarette. They were coming up on the old section; the paved walkways thinner, the markers less gaudy—fewer giant angels and replicas of the Washington Monument over grandma’s grave. Overgrown trees and shrubs and jagged broken stones were more in order, a place where the Earth was in the process of taking back its own.

He felt himself tightening inside, his senses sharpening, but he forced himself to slow down in light of this new and interesting information about his companion.

They’d wait for a few minutes. They had with Benny, after all.

Tim pointed to his right. “Look at that one. That’d work.”

When Elliot saw the massive menhir of a gravestone, he remembered with a stupid shock why Tim thought they were here—local history. Tim dropped his cigarette, took his pack off, produced an ancient Nikon and a flashlight, then handed the latter to Elliot.

Elliot produced his own slick digital as they approached the marker. The thing was maybe five feet tall, smooth and oblong and alien among the tiny square jobs favored in the late 1800s. The writing was still obvious, and Tim crouched in front of it, producing a smaller light from his own pocket. The inscription was pocked with bits of scruffy green and yellow moss.

She was loved. And we were lost.

Not fucking bad, really. But Elliot could feel Them calling, hungry, distracting him. He took a final drag and flicked the butt away. “It’s mostly impressive because of the context. There’s not much interesting in the form on its own.”

Tim looked up. “Well, there’s not much interesting in any of the forms in this part. They’re all too old and plain. Might get some interesting rubbings but…”

Elliot arched an eyebrow. That was entirely too astute, and he didn’t like the feeling it gave him. Nor did he care for the sudden flicker in Tim’s eyes.

He decided to change the subject. “Got a poem for this one?”

“The Night Has a Thousand Eyes,” Tim mumbled, looking back down.

Elliot got a swaying sensation, as if he’d gone off-balance. He needed to think. He crouched next to Tim, set his camera and flashlight on the grass, and extracted the book from his pack.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tim said.

Elliot raised his eyes from the book. “What, you don’t want me to see which passages you underlined?”

Tim snorted and looked away. “What am I, twelve?”

Elliot flinched.

Tim knew they were both stalling, now.

It was hard though, with Elliot murmuring over Bourdillion and discussing what lighting would give the best contrast for their purpose. Hard not to admire his dedication to making an ordinary history project something beautiful, but even harder not to admire how calm he was about his thin excuses. It made Tim wonder if he had his facts straight, if he really knew what Elliot had planned for him.

Elliot went on and on. Of course, these were just source photos to help them with the certain atmosphere they required in the finished project. Just wanted a certain depth of shadow unavailable during daylight hours—

Excuses that might’ve held up if they’d stayed where the interesting gravestones were. Last night Tim had found a magnificent angel with crumbling wings, and a pathetically weathered rocking horse from 1964. On the other side of the graveyard.

Tim felt it, felt Them calling, waiting, starving. Second thoughts gnawed at his insides now that they were so near the source. He knew if he didn’t move soon, Elliot would.

It had to be him. For Benny. Not even half a league. Time for the charge.

Elliot struggled to regain his mental equilibrium while they lit, photographed, and took a rubbing; he talked pointlessly, soothingly.

At first it was difficult. Fucking smart ass Tim and his useless rock. Why was he bothering if he knew damn well nothing here was going to make the project? Why was he humoring him?

Of course, it could be a good sign. Could mean Elliot would have a chance to get a little something extra out of the bargain, like with Benny. He was only human, after all.

Sometimes.

He had that awful cold feeling creeping over him like a slow winter frost. Tim might’ve been lying. Might’ve come over here last night. Might’ve found Them. The thought made him afraid for a split second before the adrenaline started to get him high. The more he thought about it, the bigger the rush. The bigger the rush, the less angry he felt.

That made it easy to regain his control.

What if Tim does know? It wasn’t as if he could escape, now. Hell, that might make it even more fun. Clever little prick.

Elliot tucked his camera back into his pocket. “Maybe the mausoleum over there will make for some decent imagery.”

Just a casual suggestion. Cool-headed. Collected.

Tim stuffed his camera into his pack, then stood and faced him. Elliot smiled, feeding off the rush again, off the look in Tim’s eyes. He thought it might be fear, even. His heart soared.

They got louder under the mausoleum. The air grew colder, slow but obvious. Elliot took a step closer and composed his face into something meant to be concern. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You okay?”

Tim’s chest rose and fell with a hard breath, a little ragged.

Elliot’s heart convulsed joyfully.

“No.” Tim looked down, then to the mausoleum in question. Then finally met Elliot’s eyes again.

It was fear, but something else, too. Elliot didn’t know what, but it got his blood up. It practically screamed in his ears.

He wanted to ask. He knew it was stupid, but he also knew it was too late to turn back.

If he’d known Tim this well before, he might not have done this; not right away, anyhow. But how often would he find himself in this position? With someone who may or may not have him figured out?

This wasn’t going to be like it had been with Benny at all. It might be better. He asked, “Do you know why I brought you here?”

Tim chewed at the inside of his cheek, nodding once, causing his bangs to flop into his eyes.

Elliot swallowed his elation. “Do you really?”

“Same reason you brought Benny.”

It meant he did know more—but it didn’t tell Elliot how much. For all he knew, Tim thought of it as a perfectly innocent midnight rendezvous.

Which it had been, depending on one’s definition of innocent, for the first half hour or so. “Did he tell you we were going to meet here?”

Tim nodded again.

“I’m sorry,” Elliot tried to sound sincere. “You two weren’t…?”

“No. He’s—he was my friend.”

Elliot smiled, even though it ruined his poetic little notion. He could try a couple some other time, maybe. Next time. He stepped closer still, reached upward.

Tim flinched.

Elliot felt a tiny surge of vindication, and brushed Tim’s bangs out of his eyes. Used every bit of intensity he could muster, leaned forward to push it into him. “Shame about what happened.” The rush made him want to jump and scream for joy, like dancing along the edge of a very high ravine. Tim’s reply would tell him everything.

“Yeah. It was.” Tim smiled, but it was a twisted thing, an out of place expression on a sweet face. “Let’s look at the mausoleum.”

All the air rushed out of Elliot. His heart still thudded, but his blood seemed quieter in his head. That was a fucking disappointment.

Silly fantasy, anyhow. Tim didn’t understand—no one did. And that was why they were all so very, very expendable.

Elliot let the act drop and turned on his heel. He started toward the mausoleum. He was getting tired, anyhow, and he needed a fucking cigarette.

Tim’s stomach rested in his shoes as he followed. A million words rushed through his brain, but nothing that could stop things now.

He didn’t really understand what had just happened, but he knew that he’d almost given in, almost told Elliot everything. He wondered if Benny had known everything he knew, if he would’ve given in anyhow, or if it would’ve made him stronger.

Tim wasn’t made for this any more than Benny had been. He was made for a lot of things—art and people and poetry and sunshine. This wasn’t his world.

It was awfully seductive, though. He could still hear Elliot murmuring over his book, feel him touching his hair, his face.

Tim could have it, if he wanted, when it was done.

The thought made acid rise in the back of his throat.

The massive stone construction loomed before them—the end of the world. The graveyard, its silence loud in his head, its sudden cold pricking his skin, came to life around them. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it.

He wasn’t sure he could do it, he’d give almost anything not to—but there was no one else.

Elliot planted his feet in an overgrown patch of ivy and called out in his head. He felt Their cold cackle in response, that one high thin voice that slipped inside him, like poison in his ear.

Hungry. He would get what had been arranged. He would get what he deserved.

He looked upward, admiring the knotwork tooled into chipped granite. Really, this might not be bad for the project. Maybe he’d get a few shots after it was over; he had to do the project whether his partner turned into a zombie or not, after all.

How sad, everyone will say. Poor Tim Maclaren, remember him? Another victim of academic stress at the university.

Elliot’s skin pricked, but he didn’t feel as excited as he should. Disappointment was a bitch. “What do you think?” he asked, to lure Tim closer. He didn’t feel like struggling.

Tim stepped up beside him. No hesitation. Mundane bastard.

“I have to ask you one question,” Tim said.

Elliot looked at him, taking his hands out of his pockets, ready.

“Did you fuck him before or after you sold his soul?”

A tsunami of consciousness—starting in his brain and falling to his feet. His heart stalled.

Tim met his eyes—there was no fear in him.

God. He knew all along, and he came here anyhow. Elliot tried to mentally drag himself back into submission, under control. “Before,” he admitted, though he didn’t know why. He only knew that it felt good to say it. That he was, in some overwhelming, black way, thrilled.

Tim blinked at him. His eyes were wet, like some fucking sweet little hero in a romance novel. They practically glowed. “Why bother?”

Elliot smiled. “It’s important to have standards.”

Tim smiled back; that ugly, twisted smile.

Elliot knew he should do it now; reach out, shove Tim into the wall, watch him disappear, listen to them have their little feast. Get what he’d come for—another twenty or so years of perfection.

But he wanted something else, something more, now.

“You never feel bad about this, do you?” Tim asked.

Elliot couldn’t answer that; he couldn’t recall feeling bad about anything, ever. So he answered with someone else’s words: “Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe.”

Tim chewed at his lower lip. “Who said that?”

“It’s from Richard III.”

“You have that underlined?”

Elliot barely kept from flinching that time. “Yeah.”

“Think you missed the point. But that’s all I needed to hear,” Tim said, moving suddenly—too suddenly —for Elliot to realize what was happening.

A rough hand on his shoulder, something knocking hard against his knees in the back, buckling them. He pitched forward, and the wall rushed to meet him.

It was like belly-flopping into a pool, but instead of cold and wet, it was cold and stale. A thick clinging sense of nothing all over him. He spun, though he didn’t know if it was head-over-feet or the other way around.

An invisible hand stopped him, shoved him hard against an equally invisible wall. His head slammed off it; a deafening crack inside his skull, lights behind his eyes the only thing he could see. That cackle, a hundred cackles, shuddered not just through his head, but through his veins.

“You can’t take me,” he mumbled through the confusion. Something wet dripping down his neck, in his hair. It was hard to concentrate on anything else. He shivered, and the icy hand—three times the size of a normal one—pressed harder against his chest. His lungs groaned under the pressure. “We have a deal.”

Stale autumn wind on his cheek: We have a new deal. We take back what we gave you. We give it to the new boy.

Tim’s awful fucking smile.

A cracking in his chest, but not of bones. An invisible barrier gave way, a shock to his soul that wracked his body. The hand pushed through, grabbed at him inside, then drew out his self.

He saw his body in the dark as it dropped to its knees, then fell. He couldn’t even scream.

Tim curled around himself, leaned against a ramshackle stone. The air wasn’t as cold anymore, but he still shivered. He could hear Them inside, eating, still hungry. There was no enjoyment in Them, just ravenous emptiness.

He should have left, but he was frozen. His face felt wet, but he didn’t think he was crying. He just sat, staring at the picturesque mausoleum in the dark and hugging his knees to his chest, reciting snatches of things he’d read over the last week in his head, trying to find the one that would save him. Tennyson was no good anymore, but neither was anything else. And then there was the shuddering feeling he got every time Shakespeare appeared.

When they were done, he heard that voice in his head—the one from last night, cold and silver. You may take him back. We are finished.

The wall before him shimmered, knotwork blurring. Elliot stepped through, looked right through him with electric eyes. Something dark and viscous trickled down his forehead, from his shining hair. His fine, full lips were an appalling shade of gray, chalky skin stretched too tight over high cheekbones and forehead.

Tim’s vision blurred.

Would you like some of what we took from him, or something else? Charm magic, perhaps, to counteract your… defects?

Tim choked a little. “I don’t want anything.”

A moment of silence, a ripple through the air. Confusion.

Tim forced himself to his feet, retrieved his pack. Movements stiff, body numb. He avoided looking at the still-beautiful thing that used to be Elliot. “And I don’t want him back. He’s yours.”

It was important to have standards.

The first few steps were the hardest. Past the oblong stone they’d photographed, past the cigarette butts they’d pressed into the ground. Toward the angel with the crumbling wings and the weathered rocking horse, the weight of his camera bouncing reassuringly against his back.