Love Lie Winter

by Jukebox and thrall

(Note: This is part of the White Album. This story may be read on its own, but it will make more sense if you read "A Hazy Shade of Winter" and "Whiter Shade of Pale" first.)

"I know there's a convergence of names, dear," said Flora, "but I'm not actually anyone's fairy godmother. That was just a Disney movie...and not one of their best, either. If you know someone named Fauna or Merryweather, they might have a magic wand they can wave to make people appear out of thin air. I, however, don't."

Carly sighed. Flora's voice sounded tinny on the cell phone, but it had lost none of its acid wit. The last thing Carly wanted right now was acid wit. "I don't need you to i>find Abby," she said, trying hard not to sound as desperate as she felt. "I know exactly where she is." Oh, she knew, even though there was nothing she could take to the police--absolutely no proof at all, not even the evidence of her own senses. But Carly knew what an empty laundry hamper and a switched-off cell phone and a cold empty space in the bed where her wife had been added up to: that fucking bitch Dalila. She'd done something to Abby. Not murder, but something...stranger. Carly's mind pushed against the fog surrounding her memories of Flora's party, but she couldn't gain any traction. She couldn't stop picturing Abby in that fog, either, wandering around Dalila's apartment in a drugged-out haze while the other woman--

Furious, Carly banished the mental image. She couldn't share that idea with Flora, much less the cops. It sounded too crazy to anyone who hadn't lived through the last few days. But there was no way Abby would just vanish from her life without even so much as an "It's not you, it's me." Not the woman Carly married. She knew Abby too well. She didn't have enough evidence to convince another living soul, but she had more than enough to convince herself.

"Then why not just go there?" Flora reasoned. "I realize we're not long-time friends, Carly, but I could tell within minutes of meeting you that you're an exceedingly direct individual. If Abby's wandered off into the arms of some fashion model, why don't you just barge in after her and rearrange Dalila's face into something less photogenic? It's not what I'd do, but I can certainly see you doing it...and myself enjoying the gossip afterwards."

Carly grimaced. She had tried that, actually, but... "I couldn't get in, Flora. She's got a whole staff of stone-faced goons guarding the door. Well, okay, only two were guarding the door, but I knew the rest of them were back there somewhere. You saw how many of them she took to the party." She pressed a tired hand to her eyes. "Anyway, they said Dalila wasn't home and they hadn't seen Abby, and then they just clammed up. Completely. I left a message at the door, but I'm sure the bitch never saw it."

"Hmm, I suppose you're probably right," Flora paused a moment, and when she spoke again, there was a new tone to her voice. Something almost sly. "Well then, you'll need some other excuse to get into Dalila's apartment. After all, without my help, you'd be forced to resort to breaking and entering. And I'd hate to think I led you into a life of crime."

Carly resisted the urge to pump her fist. "Thank you, Flora," she sighed, then collapsed in a chair. She was too worried and heartbroken to feel excited, but this was the best news she could hope for, under the circumstances. If anyone could get her into a rich person's house, it was Flora Weinstein.

"Oh, I'm glad to help," Flora answered. Carly could almost picture her rubbing her hands now. "Anything to keep life interesting. And I do enjoy a bit of intrigue. There's so much less opportunity for that than for parties."

*****

Hanspeter leaned on his cane and reached for the bell with a groan. The words popped out of Carly's mouth before she even had a chance to consider. "Want me to get that for you?" she asked, then mentally kicked herself.

Herr Goedde shot her a scornful look, then leaned a little further and mashed the buzzer himself. He might not be able to carry his own equipment, but he that didn't mean he couldn't push a simple button. After all, he was a photographer. The kind Abby only dreamed of becoming.

Carly wouldn't have planted her foot so deep in her mouth if her nerves weren't stretched to the point of snapping. She hadn't been able to prepare for this, and that made an already-dicey situation even dicier. First there was Hanspeter, who became available only on short notice. Then there was the fact that Carly had no idea what would happen when Dalila's goons caught sight of her. If they didn't toss her out of the building immediately, that might mean something nastier waited for her upstairs. But even if it didn't, Carly wasn't dumb enough to think she'd find Abby just lounging comfortably on a divan, eating bonbons and waiting to be rescued. Then there was the question of how to get Abby out, once she'd found her. If Dalila were alone, Carly felt sure she could take her, but there was that whole pack of goons to consider.

It was just too much to think about at once, so Carly didn't. She just let her nerves bear the load, fiddling and twitching until the speaker clicked. "Ah, Herr Goedde!" Dalila's voice trilled out like a cuckoo from a clock. "I'm so happy you to see you! Please come up." Carly heard the latch snap and took a deep breath. Then she shrugged the camera bag further up her shoulder and followed Hanspeter inside.

When they reached the elevator, the operator's eyes flicked over her for less than a second. Carly couldn't tell whether he recognized her or not, only that he didn't care if he did. He delivered his charges to the penthouse in silence, then returned to his little cage--like a dog shuffling back into its doghouse, Carly thought. She toyed briefly with the idea that he might live in there. Then the door of Dalila's apartment opened, and there stood the model herself, darkly radiant. "Herr Goedde, I've been so looking forward to meeting you that I decided to answer the door my--oh."

Her expression shifted from cheerfulness to startled distaste, then shifted again, and again, until Carly was completely unable to interpret it. "And Ms. D'Antonio. What a pleasant surprise to see you again. You've proved surprisingly resourceful, haven't you? Jumping in to carry dear Herr Goedde's bags, I mean."

Carly showed her teeth. "Well, I didn't have anything else to do, did I? But don't worry, I'm an expert at setting up shoots. I've had lots of practice."

"Of course you have," Dalila smiled. Then she cocked her head in thought. "You know, I really should have noticed this earlier, but you remind me of someone. Dear Dr. Coen was such a clever man, and so amusing...for a while, at least." She looked suddenly impish. "Please do come in, Ms. D'Antonio; I'll give you the grand tour. Oh, and you, Hanspeter, why don't you have a seat while I let my staff bring you some tea? You do like tea, don't you?"

The photographer opened his mouth to protest, but Dalila had already pressed him gently onto a sofa and chucked him under the chin. "There, dear, I'm sure you could use a rest after your tiring trip across town. Isn't that right?" Baffled, Goedde nodded and subsided.

Carly stared at him a moment, then let Dalila head her off down the hall. "It's a bijou sort of place," said the model, scattering the words behind her like rose petals. "But I do like it. I've spent quite a long time getting it just the way I want it. A place for everything and everything knows its place, you understand."

Carly trailed behind her, fists clenching and unclenching as she tried to decide whether the razors behind Dalila's words were real or just her imagination. She'd expected lies from Dalila, or anger, or a kick straight out the door; anything but this, really. If Carly had listed the top fifty ways she thought their confrontation might go, this wouldn't even have been number fifty-one.

Dalila led Carly through a bewildering profusion of rooms, babbling delightedly over every piece of art from tiny figurines to life-sized statues to Ming vases large enough to bathe in. Carly didn't even try to grasp everything Dalila told her; there was just too much to take in. The place was just one posh, gigantic maze. She tried to imagine how much time and money it had taken to turn an entire block of buildings into a single home, but she couldn't do it. She just kept thinking about Renata's words from the party: "She is always hungry for more." By that point, Carly could only make her fists unclench by reaching for a cigarette. She didn't think to ask if Dalila minded, but then again, she probably wouldn't have asked even if she had thought about it.

It didn't matter anyway. She'd barely got the thing lit before a butler appeared and whisked it silently from her fingers.

Dalila didn't seem to notice. "And this, of course, is my pride and joy," she said, ushering Carly into a room that didn't look much different from any of the others she'd seen: rich, fancy, and full of weird-ass art. But Dalila obviously thought it was special, and she was bursting at the seams to tell Carly why. "I wouldn't have the nerve to display my work publicly, but if you can't show your art in your own home, where can you show it?"

Carly looked around herself again, paying a little more attention this time. The room was full of costumed dress-maker's dummies, every one of them surrounded by that eerie, sinister aura of something that looks almost, but not quite, human. Carly tried to focus on the costumes--Dalila was chattering about which outfit she'd worn to what shoot, and who had designed it--but for some reason, her attention kept shifting back to the things' heads. They were just featureless cloth masks, but something about them put her on edge so badly that it was all she could do not to run screaming. "They're, um...interesting," she muttered, even though they weren't. Scary, yes; interesting, no. In fact, Carly didn't even understand how Dalila could call this shit her "work." It was just dresses on dummies. If that was art, then every Macy's window was a fucking Picasso. She pulled out another cigarette, hoping to take the edge off with a nicotine fix, but she hadn't even lit it before another butler nabbed it from her.

This time, Dalila deigned to notice. "You should probably quit anyway," she said. "Filthy habit. I'm sure it's cost you a girlfriend or two."

That was almost it right there. Carly could picture her hands wrapping around Dalila's throat so clearly that she felt like she'd already done it. She could even feel the bitch's windpipe giving way beneath her grip. It felt so sweet...but she had to calm down. Carly reminded herself that Dalila's goons would pry her off before she did much damage, that she'd be lucky to get off with a swift kick out the door, and that then she'd never find out what had happened to Abby....But the vision of bruises blossoming on that paper-pale throat crowded every other thought from Carly's head. Her vision reddened around the edges, and she had to take several deep breaths just to clear it.

Dalila pretended not to notice. "This is my newest piece," she said, her voice ringing shrilly now in Carly's ears. "I just know you'll love it." Carly couldn't even look at her by this point; everything about the woman was a homicidal rage trigger. Out of sheer desperation, she followed the pointing finger toward the nearest dummy. Anything was better than looking at Dalila herself, anything at--

Carly felt like she'd suddenly stepped into an icebox, her rage crystallizing into terror so suddenly that she might almost have cut herself on the edges.

This is what it feels like to walk into a horror novel,

she thought. Her mental voice was calm, but that was only because it was frozen inside a block of ice.

The dummy was just one of a dozen or so, with nothing to distinguish it in the eyes of a casual observer. It was dressed in a bronze and black flapper's dress, but they all had different costumes, and the uniqueness of each gave them all a paradoxical sameness. To anyone else, this would just be another stylish outfit on another uninteresting mannequin.

But Carly had run her hands over those hips a thousand times. She'd kissed every hollow of that neck, caressed those breasts, known that body so intimately that no amount of fabric could ever disguise it. The body had the stillness of death; Carly couldn't see the chest rise and fall with even the whisper of a breath; but there was no mistaking it. That was Abby under there.

The idea was absurd, impossible; and just for a moment, Carly checked herself. Sure, she thought, it looked like Abby, but...maybe it was a mannequin made to look like Abby? She took another look. Maybe...and maybe Carly was a refugee from Mars. Nervously, she reached for the mannequin's arm, which was cocked at a stiffly dramatic angle. It had a firm, fleshy feel, nothing at all like the limb of a stuffed dummy. And it was cool. Not cold, but cool, like skin that had been exposed to winter air for a few short minutes. Fighting a shudder, Carly slid her fingers down to the "mannequin's" wrist and around, feeling for the pulse-point. She couldn't find it.

Her stomach clenched like a fist. She hadn't though Dalila would murder Abby, but she had--and then she'd stuffed her like a doll! But no, even as Carly thought it, she caught the faintest glimpse of movement from elsewhere on Abby's body. Her nipples were tenting beneath the dummy costume. Tenting, as though at Carly's touch. She wasn't moving, she wasn't even fucking breathing, but Abby was turned on.

Carly dropped the wrist like it was a snake. She wanted to turn around and scream--whether in anger or fear she wasn't sure--but before she could say anything, common sense caught up with her. Whatever the hell Dalila had done to Abby, it wasn't normal, not even drug-and-kidnap normal. This was some kind of--oh fuck, just go ahead and think it--some kind of freaky voodoo-zombie shit. She turned to look at Dalila, and now at last she saw the truth behind the blatantly insincere gaze. Dalila hadn't just been mocking her; she'd given this whole tour just to get Carly into this room. She didn't want Carly to wonder where Abby was; she wanted her to know. The bitch had been toying with her, rubbing her face in her own helplessness.

At that thought, Carly's rage flared back to life; but she'd found her equilibrium now, and she knew better than to show her true feelings. Right now, they'd just get her killed. No, she had to bank the blaze for the moment, tucking it deep in the blackest depths of her shattered heart and letting it build there. Slowly. Carefully. Carly dropped her eyes and forced her shoulders to slump. "I feel sick," she mumbled. "I think I'd better leave now."

Dalila pouted prettily and stepped aside. "Oh, poor thing," she cooed. "It's funny, but this room does take people that way from time to time. I don't know what it is about dummies; they're just

things,

after all. Ah, well, let me get someone to show you the way out." She gestured, and one of the interchangeable goons stepped in between them, cutting Dalila off from Carly's view.

Right up until the moment she stepped out on the sidewalk, Carly wasn't sure she'd really be allowed to leave. After that, all she wanted was to get back in.

*****

What should you bring to a fight with a zombie voodoo priestess and her army of interchangeable goons? Carly wasn't sure, but hopefully it wouldn't matter. Hopefully, she'd be able to sneak in, grab Abby, and sneak out again without encountering a single other person. But just in case, she'd brought along the old expandable tactical baton she'd used in her bouncer days. It'd work in a pinch, she thought. After all, just because Dalila was (apparently) a zombie voodoo priestess, that didn't mean she was an actual monster. There were drugs that could do what had been done to Abby. Carly had seen

The Serpent and the Rainbow

, and she knew it was based on a true story. Okay, it was based

pretty loosely

on a true story. The point was that Dalila and her goons were just as human as Carly, and just as vulnerable to clobbering with a heavy steel rod...which, again, Carly hoped she wouldn't have to use.

Fortunately, someone had left a stack of wooden boxes and trashcans in the alley next to Dalila's building. They brought her almost to armpit-level with the fire escape, although a couple of the crates sagged alarmingly under her weight. Carly pulled herself onto the ladder before they could break, then scrambled to the top as quickly and as quietly as she could. There was bound to be some way she could sneak in from up here.

There was indeed. The window next to the fire escape had been broken recently, and no one had come to repair it yet. One of the harajuku gang had just taped some plastic over the hole to keep the wind out. Carly privately thanked the inefficiency of New York City contractors.

All the modeling money in the world won't bump you up past "sometime this month," bitch,

she thought, grinning. Then she pulled out the scissors she'd brought to free Abby from the dummy costume and used them to cut through the plastic. After that, it took her only moments to find the latch and let herself inside.

Carly found herself in a dark, silent loft dotted with a few low pieces of furniture. She didn't see or hear anyone, and there was nothing here to pique her interest, so she crept on into the central hallway. Carly hadn't seen this section on her earlier visit, but she recognized the style well enough. The hall was scattered with artwork and branched every few feet like some kind of modern-day labyrinth. In fact, some of the statues actually had bull masks on their heads.

Carly passed them as quickly as she could, keeping her flashlight trained low to minimize the risk of discovery. It took her several minutes to find the mannequin room, but she didn't run across a single goon. It was hardly reassuring, considering how many other things she'd found to make her jump--everything from a creaky floorboard to an unexplained breeze--but it was weird. Dalila had plenty of resources to guard the penthouse level--and plenty of valuables to make it worth guarding. So why didn't she? Something was wrong here.

Even as she thought it, something creaked behind her. Carly jumped and whirled, stabbing her flashlight beam into the blind white eyes of a statue. A perfectly ordinary, inanimate statue. She shuddered, then turned back to the entrance of the mannequin room.

Abby was easy enough to pick out, even by flashlight. Carly had traced every line of that body in darkness as well as light. She knew Abby's curves like she knew her own. Better, perhaps. She crept softly to the foot of her wife's platform, then reached up and patted her cheek. Abby didn't stir. In fact, she didn't even appear to breathe. Carly was heartsick but unsurprised. Clamping the flashlight between her teeth, she took the scissors in one hand and pinched the fabric away from Abby's face with the other.

The cloth was looser than she expected. All this time she'd assumed Abby must be sewn into the costume, but the headpiece pulled free as easily as a Halloween mask. Just for a moment, Carly's mind tossed out a warped image of herself in a *Scooby-doo* episode, but she didn't even have time to think of laughing. There was no ordinary human being underneath

this

mask; Abby's skin was even paler than the fabric had been. She was as pale as milk, as pale as marble. Even her hair was colorless, giving her an air of antiquity that was belied by her smooth, pale skin. Her sightless eyes stared straight over Carly's head, their pupils mere pinpricks in the midst of ghost-white irises.