Incubi

Chapter 5

“Don’t worry about your bags,” Khoronos said. “Gilles and Marzen will bring them up later. Let me show you around.”

Veronica and Ginny followed their host in. Further contrast dismayed them: the interior couldn’t have been more opposite of what one would expect. Khoronos was obviously a man who saw some principal purpose in contrast. The inside looked more colonial than anything else, or antiquarian. Lots of heavy paneling and stained, ornate trim. Lots of antiques. In the living room was the largest fireplace Veronica had ever seen.

Khoronos’ white suit seemed to project luminescence into the dark room. “The locals, I’m afraid, think that I’m quite eccentric,” he regarded.

“We’re all eccentric,” Ginny said.

Khoronos half smiled. “Perhaps, but maybe we’re dismissed as eccentrics only because others lack the courage to follow their hearts. We are not understood; therefore we are condemned. In truth, we’re not eccentrics at all.”

“What are we, then?” Veronica inquired.

“Superior.”

This rather pompous conclusion hung like static before them, as did Khoronos’ wraithlike smile.

“The will to create is what made the world, not logic, not reason,” he said. “Without the will — and the challenge — to create, free of the structure of what we call conformity, there would be nothing. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Ginny said.

“I don’t know,” Veronica said.

An equally large colonial kitchen came next on the tour, a pantry, and a palatial dining room. All these things compelled Veronica to continue to wonder. This huge place, all this room — what’s it for? They stepped through French doors onto a deck which overlooked the backyard. Trimmed topiary and hanging plants surrounded a large swimming pool. A tall fence and outer trees filled the entire yard with shade and quiet. Ginny was stunned, but Veronica remained more curious than impressed.

“Are you married?” she asked.

Khoronos laughed. “Heavens, no.”

“I only meant that—”

“What does a single man need all this space for?” Khoronos finished. “I don’t need it, but I can afford it. ‘Faith bestows treasure upon the faithful.’”

“Old Testament?” Ginny guessed.

“Indeed.”

“You’re saying faith made you rich?” Veronica couldn’t resist.

“Faith in my broker, Ms. Polk.” He laughed again. “I was being facetious, I don’t feel guilty about being rich.”

More pomposity. At least he was being honest.

Up the heavily banistered staircase, a single long hall seemed to be all that composed the upstairs. Poshly framed paintings lined the walls, but Veronica didn’t recognize any of them, nor their styles. Had Khoronos painted them? Maybe he pursued an interest in artists out of an artistic failure on his own part. That would explain a lot.

“Your bedrooms are sparse, but you’ll find them comfortable.”

Hers and Ginny’s were identical and side by side. A small bed, a nightstand, and a tiny dresser. Bare white walls and drab green curtains. Each contained a bayed morning room and balcony. In Ginny’s was a desk and a Smith Corona typewriter. In Veronica’s was a painting table, some blank canvases, and a box of supplies.

Veronica and Ginny only looked at each other.

“My only requirement is that, during your stay, you create something,” Khoronos informed them, “on a day-to-day basis.”

So that was it. Khoronos was just a proverbial patron of the arts. At once Veronica felt like a unique prostitute.

“But I don’t mean that you must create something for me,” the man countered. “Quite the opposite. I want you to create something solely for yourself.”

“That’ll be easy,” Ginny said. “I’ll write a porn story.”

“As you wish. Create whatever your heart compels. Passion is born of the heart, correct? That’s what thrills me. Particularly what is born of a woman’s heart.”

Is this guy for real? Veronica thought.

“But there’s one thing else, it’s very important. Whatever you create, I must ask that you show it to no one until it is finished.” Khoronos extended his hand. “And now I’d like to reveal a bit of my own heart.”

He took them into the last room.

Jesus, Veronica thought.

The room was windowless. Its walls, ceiling, and floor were heavy plate mirrors, projecting their images infinitely into a bright silver demesne. A wire chair faced a TV and VCR. Several tapes sat atop: The Lamia, The Seeker, The Woman in Black—all films by Amy Vandersteen. A wire stand contained all of Ginny’s novels. Veronica gasped when she looked up. Hanging on the front mirrored wall was Vertiginous Red.

“This is where I pursue my compulsions,” Khoronos said.

Veronica felt a sudden heat rush to her head, like mild shock. Khoronos stood in the center of the silver room, vivid in his white suit. His long grayish hair seemed to sift, and the gleam in his eyes revealed him now as something more than a rich man with misguided interests. He was a preceptor, a guide. He looked messiahlike in his thousand reflections.

Veronica and Ginny could only stare.

“I’m certain we will have an enlightening time together,” the man bid. His hands splayed before him. “We all have our quests, am I right? We’re looking for something that is greater than what we actually are. That is the reason I’ve asked you here. To help me find what I’m looking for and, hence, what I am. In return, I will do the same for you. I will help you discover what you really are — what you were really meant to be.”