Calling on your sins
You're here in my dreams
A desert place
I'm not alone
- Lacuna Coil

Tick-tick-tick-tick...

The Jackal drew his cane along the backs of the mirror as he circled them, chain whispering merrily all the while. In a gloved hand he held a business card emblazoned with three letters. He read this as he walked, ears pricked to listen for the captive of the circle of mirrors.

Ensnared, the seer sat, semiconscious due to the head blow, and soundless, due to the shrieking. She had raged against her reflective prison for some time, half hoping for some curious passer-by to hear, to intervene. None did. And so she sat, very very still, with eyes willed shut, locked between sleep and waking.

?I know you're awake in there, dear-heart.? He could turn such pet-names into the vilest of words with a simple caress of silver, but this was merely spoken sweet-toned. He tucked the card away into the breastpocket of his jacket. He had come to a pause where two mirrors met one another and spilled a handful of sand onto the unseen lines that marked a perimeter just beyond the mirror bases. A simple gesture, the sand spread out...a bridge, to keep the lines undamaged. The Jackal eased the mirrors smoothly aside and stepped within.

Awake indeed. Viki?s head lifted, in search again of the ticking card, replacement perhaps of a tapping cane? How similar their rhythm. But now was not the time for musing. The slopes of ears becoming ever more angular and tense as they fought to secure its sound, or at least hear what it was or from whence it came. But that latter talent was more Sight than hearing. Too, the walls spoke such strangeness, and the floor quaked with secrets of its own. Would she be delivered to the earth under her feet? This fear was sucked into her middle when the Jackal spoke, though still, she kept off-blue at bay, and did not dare look upon the mirrors.

But you are, under the earth. Beware the needles.

?The land of the Lover?? For the sand, came the hoarse little voice of the captive.

?Something like that...a piece of it. I hope you'll forgive me for that rude tap on your head. You were rather unruly, as was your little hound.? He didn't say anymore than that in concerns to the pup, but there was a certain dark undertone drifting in the air. He drifted within the circle, brushing his hand against the surfaces of the mirrors. Some responded in a decidedly fluid nature...rippling or stretching.

Fists tightened, locked to their trapped wrists, each of which showed signs of her struggling: rope burns like thick red bracelets, a shock to her pallor, but not so much to the inkings in black. At the mention of Jinx, the girl lunged forward, and was simultaneously pulled back, the bindings around her torso akin to a bungee chord.

?Blood-naut, you are, to him, to me. You should give back what was stolen, less have more wolves at your heels.?

?I'm seeing to the assessment of those wolves at the moment...? The Jackal crouched down before the girl in the chair, calm and at ease, examining her as he rested elbow on his knee, chin in hand. A vague smile of amusement for the thoughts that drifted in mind.

?You shouldn't struggle so...It was never my intention to harm you. I simply do not like my belongings vandalized.? And then he stood again, tall creature of such refined edges, adjusting the sleeves of the jacket.

Tension marred her brow in small creases, in the tight way her shoulders inched to her neck. Voluntary blindness continued, though he was so incredibly close. She made no move to surrender to those feral tendencies, no snap of teeth to the air at his face.

?And you would call those who weave in and out of such, belonging-to-you? I do naut think you handle so many faces very well. Though.. perhaps.. with strings..? Lids dared to lift half the way as she heard him rise. ?Borrow some of your strings.?

An ear flicked, but he otherwise seemed to ignore the statement. A cufflink sparkled in the dim light as the sleeve was tugged down. ?I am confused though... Why did you break my mirrors? I had done nothing untoward to you Victoria... I doubt we've even had more than a handful of conversations.?

?They were wrong. Doors, naut windows. And the frames fashioned by you or The Other?? A shiver for her own question, unrealized for the most part, as eyes fell in unison to the floor and her bare feet. ?And how many words did you give to the Word Keeper before taking him??

?Other?? There was a coaxing question in the tone of silver, and a dark brow lifted. ?Dear, those are merely my doorways...I know of no other that uses them. And I did not give him words, if you mean Cale by your Word-Keeper. He came to me.? The Jackal wore a brief smile and circled around behind the Seer. A claw upon the ink that showed on her neck, gentle tracery. He could be cruel, but now was not such a time.

?The majority of my doorways merely lead back to a single world..My origin, your lovers. We are looking for a doorway that might take your Word-Keeper home.?

?The one that.. the one..? Her lean lightend, though eyes remained transfixed on the floor, aqua taking no risks with the surrounding mirrors. The grazing claw was an intrusion, and an interloper of thought, but thought was usually so scattered for this one.

She continued. ?He took a train.? The Word Keeper, clearly, and a turn of her head to find him, to free her neck from his touch, though eyes kept to a path beneath. ?If it is One, then he must take his train back.? Confusion, though she tasted truth in parts, perhaps she caught him in a lie to the bookworm?

?You know as well as I that the Nexus is far more fickle than that.? Dryly, though he obligingly removed the tracing claw, or at least it seemed obliging.

?You truly do fear these mirrors...? He'd been watching in curiosity the entire time, a scientist in his precision of interest. ?I wondered. Perhaps I shall take them away from you.? He merely looked thoughtful now, chin in palm, one arm crossed over his chest.

She sighed, heavy and heated breath, touch of his too-warm reminiscent of the Lover's own. She did not look upon his thoughtfulness, though his words seemed wrapped in thought and perhaps some hidden undertone. The seer could not guess. She was having a time of it trying to keep her wits about her in the presence of so many... hers. Little fingers uncurled from fists and gripped the chair arms.

?Away, way..? Echo and then some. And she fell quiet once more.

?As you wish...? The words were breathed warm against one of her slightly pointed ears... not unpleasant, no. Irrykin had his own scent, though it was more animal musk and desert spice. A wolf, a jackal, a thing full of thoughts, a crisp of silver. He drifted away to open a path through the mirrors to the room beyond, dark and nondescript. Sand-bridge was coaxed wider. He didn't release the Seer from her bondage...he lifted the chair with her upon it and carried it out.

Everything she thinks has
Shattered something there again
Nowhere can you look down
And find the piece in me
- Machine In The Garden

Minutes drift by on small wings, though the Jackal had heard her words drifting after him. He took his time, humming a countertune to the thinking silver muttering little notes into his ear, speaking things. He gathered a simple fare from the world far above where the Seer was kept.

And within Time's gentle march, she finds herself shift from fascination of fabric and hair to obsession, and hands, not fingertips, press to the tops of thighs, to the plane of her stomach, creeping over the outline of her young frame, as if to make an architect's blue print.

A drink...just water... meat, cheese, bread. Idle fare, although it all seems to be of expensive quality. It's...texture might provide some fascination, perhaps. A click of lock, the Jackal moved back into the room, watched the Seer's actions as if surprised, curious. Plate hushed to the table, and it was only paper. Useless things, little available as a weapon. One had to take care when allowing a captive free roam of a room.

Touch taken with?

?It is speaking..? She means skin or something just under, and delicate digits curl at their consecutive knuckles to peel cloth from her collarbone, and one hand climbs to map the area of her mouth, wet with soft, slow kisses, and a trail of tongue. Though, there is food now, something better tasting then only the two-dimensional promise of summer. Promises do not sustain life. Thus, she rises on bare little feet, and moves to the table and plate, taking up the offering with a shock of sensation, exploring each element in long, drawn-out tastes and chews. Cheese and bread balled as one. The meat was pieced apart, taken in small doses, like a bird might, mid-morning.

?Amvel.?

Here is the sentinel watching, withdrawn and wearing a smile of sorts, curious and undefined by specific emotion. ?How was it you and your friend came to find there were mirrors in room Seven?? A friendly question and he nodded his welcome to the word she spoke. How...familiar.

?Two. One fairy, one naut. I cannot be so small though. I told her that.? Free with words as she is so distracted, no, enchanted by the aftermath of taste. A spread of hands again to chart regions of her body, following trails of the Lover's ink.

?I see...But I am still curious...How did you find there were mirrors in the room? It would take a clever hand to get through the door.? A friend, curious about a particular adventure, although her brand of distraction was not unpleasant to watch. The Jackal had some propriety though. Business first, of course.

?When is a door naut a door?? She seemed to ignore his friendly curiosity, enraptured by a rush of warmth, the spring of fairy fever. It rivaled his too-warm in temperature and brought color to her cheeks. This change only encouraged her diversions, and not only did she draw her hands upon herself, the length of a leg, the bend of an elbow.. but to the furniture surrounding. Lightweight, convenient and benign, though still, texture was everything. She wandered.

?It is a mousehole. A fairy like a mouse.?

?Indeed... Then everything is your doorway.? But she had provided the clue, or a portion of it. A mouse, a lockpick... The Jackal was certainly unamused, but he was also patient, understood the nature of the Seer's distraction. He offered from a pocket a folded bluebird for her distraction, that distinct folded paper crackled, smooth-and-not texture.

She moved his way, not much like mouse nor bird but cat, lured by the call of the little paper beast. She seemed delighted, in fact, even quick to smile, and took the bird into both cupped palms, cradling it a while before giving it to flight. Fingers flapped where wings could not, creating the necessary muscle and joints for them. But, without wind, there was no hope of a very distant journey. Still, she was pleased at play.

A curl of claw was drifted to beckon the Seer, girl with a paper bird. ?I would like to hear about the mouse friend...?

Wouldn't the texture on those glove he held in one hand, suede and soft, be fascinating? Those were more part of the gesture than the curl of slate claws, which undoubted had their own strange smoothness. The chain insinuated that the Jackal was also a world of fascinating texture, whispered equally drugging notes at an infinitely distracted mind.

?Eyes like the snakeskin. Beads.? She nearly hissed to illustrate, and killed the distance between them, the bird slower and slower still to flap its paper wings in her hands. Soon, it was abandoned entirely, and she stuck it into a pocket which was not so much torn. The look on her face said much: confusion crossed over the peaks of bone, titled her mouth and widened her eyes. She stared at him for a time, lifting small hands to capture a glove.

He gave a glove over to capture, something like a small creature all its own, so articulated and full of flapping movement. Fingers warm-warm brushed at the skin of her hand, the electric nature of claw-tips with a rumor of their sharpness.

Wasn't he quite a lot like his brother, quite like a sandwalker murmured the chain, worming its way after all those secret dances done in blood and sweat and heat.
?Mouse with black fur, wasn't it, little red eyes. I know him... he can be quite a nuisance.?

?Xas but he has too many words.? Could it be that she was not speaking with him anymore, but to the chain which chimed its secret language into her ear? Aware, but not. How ironic. She laced fingers with his own a while, transfixed, in part, by the tiny lines which zigzagged over skin. They seemed larger, suddenly, more knowledgeable, akin to crevasses in land. She teetered forward, via cliffside, staring below at some ravine, yet in reality, placed herself closer and closer to his grasp.

The chain was quite content to respond to the conversation, the Jackal listening to its language voiced to the Seer as she moved closer. It began comparing other things...similar and not, revealed that there were special silences in movements, and look the ink is the same in all places (does it not merit exploring?). A more persuasive fashioning of silver there never was... It obliged less with pictures and more with the ideas of sensation, pressing in even on those she currently felt. The ravine moved, as the Jackal brushed his desert-warm fingers along the back of her neck. Just the softness of fingertips, in this moment.

?Xas, and xas. But I do naut know why he did naut do so to my face. Perhaps he thinks it more pretty, though I like it there.? A flush to cheeks and a quick flutter of lashes once touch lay claim to her neck. Curls responded in lieu of more heat, an unnatural shine (but a trick of the light, surely).

She moved from the captured hand to take up his face, a brush of equal thumbs over the rim of his jaw, following ink to the skin beneath his eyes. ?Ahh but nau stars.?

Perhaps not stars, but a great deep warmth...sable, near-black. A movement of waters below sand, hushed the silver, especially when her fingers tapped against its electric nature. How cool-warm it was, a peculiar metal that mentioned other metals elsewhere. A sedate Jackal, his face beneath Seer-fingers, and he mirrored a movement along the thin highway of one of her collarbones (think of the wonder of his gentle hand there...) the chain said of things further south.

Sometimes I feel it burning
That deep and primal yearning
I feel it burn, burn, burning
I try live without it
But then I think about
Those fingertips, those fingertips, those fingertips
- Poe

Ground zero was The Room?s lone table. Sex and sweat were poured into the air.

?Not yet hungry one.?

And then, sucked dry.

Come this way, over to the bed.

Trembling, she moved, first to slide from the edge, and then for feet to land flat, without their shoes. She had left them.. somewhere.. perhaps ran free of them? Memory attempted to string itself together beneath the daze of drugs and silver persuasion, and of course, lingering ache.

?Domikai..? Small voice, one seer to another in a state of need and confusion, but feet continued their path to the bed, and not a pallet, but a cot.

Here, the chain spoke assurances, even as he guided her down on the bed, even as her legs were split wide, wide, wide... tied open to the frame. Soothing touches moved across the Seer's skin, caress of a palm here or there, a brush of lips. These tender things however, were dispersed amongst a finger or three slipping over the hot slickness of her entrance, spreading lust amongst sensitive flesh, claws across nipples followed by tongue and teeth as her arms were coaxed upwards. Irrykin wasn't overtly abusive in his methods... the straps set into the wall were wide and padded... but the Seer was still trapped in absolute.

Thoughts of shoes were soon retired once touch was granted to fleshy hills and valleys, or skin stretched over her more skeletal parts.. a hipbone, a collar.. She bent to his coaxing, shifting and lifting limbs where whey were to lie, where they were to be bound.. And perhaps the small pain of prior struggling resurfaced, but the sensation of padding dulled it, as did the drug, which clamored for more sensation - granted by a set of fingers, and sharpness.

She murmured half-lidded, and on her face, a smile, the twisted, wrong smile of an addict in dream, but a smile nonetheless.. There was love there, want, but love.

The Jackal smiled down at her, answer for answer. Undoubtedly the Seer saw what she wished, what the chain told her to see, though his smile was wolfish, hungry, gloating... all these things, and yet still vague enough, less expressive. Mask not unlike the sandman's.

Want this...? Silver murmured as he loomed over her.

And she did.