As Long As The Red Earth Rolls

They will come back -- come back again -- as long as the red Earth rolls.

He never wasted a leaf or a tree. Do you think He would squander souls?

--Rudyard Kipling,

The Sack of Gods

1412.A

Madison "Mads" Daines, born September 3rd, 2005, Savannah, Georgia

Generation dsct. Adelaide: 22nd

Age: 20

Blood Type: AB -

Eyes: Green

Hair: Brunette

Expected height at maturation: 5'5"

Life expectancy: 86 years

Father: Edward Flores, dec. March 13th, 2005

Mother: Clover Belmont, sixteenth of the Beauregard line. See File 1389.B

Current location: Brooklyn, NY

The read out was paper-clipped to a manilla folder, along with a recent photograph of Madison jogging through a tree-dappled park. A pale hand set it atop a stack like many others, far away from the target, on the corner of a great mahogany desk in a dimly lit office space.

Her file went on. It was detailed, complete, and extensive. It knew more about her life than she ever would: expected interests; likely college suitors; schedules; hobbies; skills; genetic predispositions, both negative and positive; traits specifically sought--others, unfortunate side effects; medical records, from vaccines to sprained ankles in her youth; blood work; genome; psychological profile.

It was all there. The Duchess was nothing if not thorough.

Of course, it didn't end there. Madison was not a hands-off project for the Duchess who made her. She had come so far, this pet project of hers. The naive little girl now a young, blossoming artist, brimming with potential. She was attending the Pratt Institute--against the Duchess's best attempts to dissuade her--though her future, at least according to her professors, was bright and going to go places.

If only she knew what places the Duchess had in store for her. Would she really be so excited?

Madison stopped in the middle of Fort Greene park as the sky dimmed from the orange of sunset, out of breath from running. Sweat trickled down into her sports bra and along the small of her back as she leaned forward, hands on her knees, dark ponytail hanging off her shoulder.

The burning in her chest made her feel alive. Invigorating, and addictive -- she would never call herself an addict. Not out loud. Drugs and alcohol were not really her thing. The pain in her thighs, though, the fire of the lactic acid? Intoxicating. She originally started running for cross country and track back in high school. It would look good on a college application, and then she fell in love with it. Now she runs every day.

Running was her escape. Pain was her escape. Some people thought her art was an escape. They were idiots. Art was staring into a mirror and seeing every ugly thought inside yourself. Running was a way to keep them out of reach.

Thinking about college applications made her eyes lift towards the buildings that hid the skyline of Manhattan behind them. She has been accepted across the river, at Julliard. She shook her head softly at the notion, still breathing hard and relishing the sting in her lungs. While the violin came easily to her, it was never her true passion. Painting was a passion. Drawing. Creating something from nothing. The violin was always something her parents had pushed--an obligation.

I'm tired of living for others.

Thoughts interrupted by someone whistling from behind her at the view. She shook her head and tapped her smartwatch before her fingers plucked at the bottom of her bicycle shorts, tugging them down and snapping them against her lightly sun-kissed thighs before she bounced off again at a healthy jog. She ran out of the park to the beat of the music in her earbuds.

They were a welcome tool. It let her pretend she didn't hear the catcalls, the 'hey, baby momma's, the 'your body, my choice' shouts she'd endured before. She ran down the block, a sense of creeping dread continued to tease the edge of her senses, but it was beaten back by the thrum of the music. The beat of the bass. She sprang from foot to foot waiting at the crosswalk. Her ponytail swayed with each pound of a dainty foot.

"You lookin' thirsty girl, how 'bout I get you something nice to suck down?" Somebody grabbed her arm.

Madison jerked her arm away. "Fuck off," she growled. She felt for her pepper spray, reassured by the pink cylinder's presence clipped to her waist. The cross-walk sign lit up, and she took off across the street. Someone honked.

There was commotion behind her. She was halfway down the block when something grabbed her ponytail. She yelped, and the world spun as her head was wrenched back and she was being slammed head first into a dumpster.

"Bitch, what did you say to me? I know you didn't tell me to 'fuck off.'" She could barely move. There was numbness, and pain, and the person was standing at the entrance to the alleyway she was thrown into.

God, the pain.

It grew behind her eyes, across her head. Her head was so warm. She reached up with a shaky hand, gingerly touching her forehead. It was sticky and wet. She pulled back to see red across her fingertips. So much blood.

Weakly, she crawled away from the figure above her. She tried to fumble for the pepper spray, but her hand couldn't stop shaking. It was slippery with blood.

"Now, don't think I'm going to let you get out of here without an apology, girl. You gotta

show

you're sorry." There was a chuckle. "And we're about to be alone, real good, just the two of us. Right?"

But they weren't alone.

A wolf prowled among the lambs while the shepherds slept nearby.

Madison was its project, its magnum opus.

A favored doll.

She was stumbling up onto her feet, but a hand shoved her back down, her shoulder hitting the brick wall. "Nah, I like you more on your knees."

She looked toward the end of the alleyway, blocked by the man, and then the other way where the shadows seemed so thick she could almost touch them. The shadows seemed foreboding. Dangerous. They served another master. And like them, they preyed upon the lost little lambs. Shadows almost seemed to reach out and touch her, to stroke along her body as she brushed by and leaned against the wall.

"Please--"

"--I believe she told you to 'fuck off'." The voice clipped through the air from behind the man. Feminine, strong, downright

regal

. There was a gloating amusement to it, but also an icy warning. Madison thought there was an accent, but her head was hurting too much to place it. It was a voice she felt like she knew, or wanted to.

"What? Hey now, I was just telling the little lady here to be respectful! Then she ran off and tripped into the dumpster."

"Yes, let's talk about respect," the voice commanded. Madison felt her hot blood in her eyes, it stung. She tried to squint, to see what was happening, but couldn't.

"Look at me. Yes, good. You have disrespected so many people, haven't you?"

"Y-y-yes," the man spoke again, but now his voice sounded strained and uneasy, like it was being dragged out of him.

"You feel so much shame after all that disrespect. They disrespect you, and you feel small. You disrespect them, and feel even smaller. It's a never-ending cycle. You know there's only one way to stop it. You know what it is. So go home, tell your mother you're sorry, take the stairs to the top of the building, and jump off it."

Silence, and then slow, sluggish footsteps were moving away from Madison. She choked back a relieved sob, and then the click of heels approached and a slighter figure now towered over her. Madison could only see the glossy patent heels and black pants as she tried to wipe away blood from her vision.

"I would have done it myself. I am quite hungry and heavens, do you smell incredible--but that would cause a scene, and we don't want that for you, do we, Mads?" There was a sigh, and a pale hand extended down to her. "Now let's get you up. Let me take a look at this."

Madison let herself take the hand, so soft and cold, yet strong as she was hoisted fully to her feet.

"Tch. What a mess." A single finger came under Madison's chin, tilting it up under an inspecting gaze. She got a glimpse of a beautiful angel with golden curls and haunting eyes void of color. An indescribable yearning swelled in her. She was like... out of a dream, or some distant memory of one; like the nostalgic feeling of a warm summer sun.

"Lean in." The hand swept from her chin to around her neck, pulling her head down. Something cold touched the gash on the top of her head, and she cried out. "Shh, shh." The voice was muffled against her hair. The angel kissed her wound, bathed in it. A tongue slid across the torn scalp and beckoned it to heal closed. But that... that wouldn't make sense. This was all wrong. She should have run.

The pain lingered, a dull, nauseating feeling, but her skin wasn't stinging like it had been. And then before she realized it, most of the blood on her face was being wiped away by a cool, wet cloth. It was a cloth, right? It wasn't her tongue... no, that would be too much. Had a stranger really just licked her face? Her hand reached up and tentatively touched her temple, finding it cool and clean.

"Do you know where you are, Madison?" The angel sang. It was a voice she wanted to dive into.

"I'm here... with you." Madison answered, voice almost dreamy.

"Yes, well, and that is where?"

"Brooklyn. I-- I go to Pratt... I do art..."

There was a derisive little snort. "And your home is?"

"It's... uhh.. my address? I think--" Madison felt the world spin around her again, and letters and numbers tumbled around in her head. She would have fallen over if not for the firm hands that grabbed her shoulders.

Holding her close with one arm, a thumb lifted to the woman's own mouth and then to Madison's, a thick warmth was smeared across it.

"Taste." The command made her lick her lips, then pulled between her teeth and sucked on it as the flavors of days in a flower field, cuddling beside a fire, and kissing in a thunder storm all ignited across her tongue. She opened her mouth for more, knowing another taste might reveal some truth of the world she deserved to know.

"No. No more. That should do enough to keep any brain swelling at bay, but still have a concussion, Madison. I am going to get you home."

Madison wasn't sure how they made it to her apartment complex. She didn't remember giving her address. Or the key code to get inside. She didn't remember much, though. Everything was still a bit foggy. She fumbled with her key and opened her apartment door, staggering inside.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" The voice mused from behind her, so innocently melodic. So charming.

"Yes, please... I'm sorry, come in."

The angel followed her inside, and locked the door behind them. Madison turned back in hesitation, something buzzing in her mind--a distant warning that she shouldn't let strangers into her home. Their eyes met and it was all she could see. She fell into them, toward the soulless black depths at their centers.

"Take a shower and get cleaned up." Whatever she was worried about was forgotten as she went to her shower. The hot water was soothing, and she finally stopped shaking.

A little niggling thought at the back of her mind, buried under the fog told her this wasn't supposed to be happening.

I'm not special, just an ordinary girl with a bad headache.

The water turned off; the last pink trails of it swirling down the drain as she kept her head bowed. Begrudgingly, the shower ended and she stepped out. Someone stared back at her in the mirror that wasn't her--not quite, not truly. An alien face met her own and the doppelganger recoiled as she jumped back.

Slowly, Madison leaned forward against the counter, investigating the little upturn to her nose and the heaviness of her bottom lip with a turn of her head. Eyes searched the emerald green that mirrored back, the only difference was how her left eye's white was red with burst blood vessels. The strange sense of an uncanny valley faded as she poked at her own cheek.

I'm going crazy, aren't I?

Just like her biological mother had. Madison had found her mother a few years ago. Her adopted parents weren't keen on it, but Madison had always been headstrong. Her mother was in a mental health facility, and had been since Madison's birth.

Paranoid Schizophrenia, that's what she had been diagnosed with. The doctors said its onset was triggered by the stress of labor. Their treatments didn't really help her birth mother, merely locked the women in the shell of her past self and in a perpetual drug-induced daze.

Perhaps it was the thought of that fate that made Madison wretch into the toilet-- that or the concussion. Either way, by the time she cleaned her mouth her pajamas were waiting for her, neatly folded on the counter. Slipping into them, her hair still damp, she lightly pad back into the main living area with slow, unsure steps. Maybe just an empty room and a locked door were waiting for her.

She wasn't so fortunate.

There was that grey-blue gaze again, waiting and watching. Surveying her. Not as the men on the streets did, as a piece of meat. But instead as a prized, priceless piece of art.

Her

art, and with it a sense of familiarity--and intimacy that did not seem wholly unreasonable. This exotic, gorgeous blonde woman in a dark suit and deep red blouse looked over her own petite form in the draping, clinging blue pajamas. Flattering, feminine, but not lewd by any means.

"You saved me," Madison whispered. "You...knew my name." She tried to sound strong, but her heart began hammering in her chest.

"Yes, Mads." Those awful, sensual lips curled into an inviting, smug smile. "I know a great many things about you."

"You knew where I lived. You knew how to get into my apartment." Madison couldn't stop the rising tremble in her voice, squeezing her throat. Her nails bit into her palms. Again, something told her to run.

"

Madison

," that devilish tongue called out to her, commanded her. She didn't speak to Madison, per se, but to a part of her, something deep inside her. Her words were meant to be listened to, and followed. Perhaps it was a part of that eerie aura of calm that radiated from her. Coercive, suggestive, the faint exotic, unplaceable accent tantalizing and full of promises. "You should go back into your room and go to bed. Forget this night happened."

Madison stared for a moment, then her body turned, and she walked back down the hall. It felt so strange. Worse than the concussion. At least with that she didn't know she had lost control. This was different. Soon, she was in her bedroom, and steps were following her down the hall.

"I'm just like her, aren't I?" Madison wondered, even as she lay down on her bed. The knowledge she was the cause for her mother's madness had been heavy on Madison, and aged her in ways few other things could. She didn't know why her mind was folding in on itself towards those memories, but now the beautiful woman with golden curls leaned in over her. Cool knuckles swept down across Madison's cheek and jawline. "You aren't crazy, and neither is your mother."

"How-- how do you know?" Madison sighed, head falling back into the pillow. She didn't want to sleep. She didn't. But there was a pull at her mind to do it. She tried to blink it away, even as the woman was pulling her sheet and comforter up over her.

"I know you because I made you both, Mads." Something about that made Madison panic. There was a sour taste on her tongue and her eyes widened, but whatever anxiety it was quickly submerged under the soothing touch at her temple. "Don't worry. I am not going to kill you. I gave you life to

live

for me, not to

die

for me."

Madison couldn't stop her eyes from closing. Her brows knitted with a grimace.

I won't forget this night. I won't forget her.

"Death would be wasted on something so perfect," the voice murmured affectionately as Madison drifted off.

Madison awoke to a growling in her stomach and a throb in her head that pulled her out of her dreams. That was enough to tell her that no, not all of it had been a dream. She groaned and sat upright, looking at the clock. Surely, it wasn't the next night.

The whole day? That wasn't

... she shook her head and rose unsteadily. She had heard concussions could affect you, but hallucinations?

"Carbs, definitely." Madison tread down the hallway just as she had the night before, bare feet lightly slapping against the warm wood.

She froze at the end of the hallway. The living area was dark, but the large chair by the window that she liked to curl up in to sketch or read was occupied.

"You're," Madison licked her lips nervously. "still here."

The tall blonde woman was holding one of Madison's sapphic romance books, and eyes lifted with an arched brow. Then slowly, she licked her finger and turned the page. Madison suddenly wished she was that book.

"If I left, I'd need an invitation to return, so I thought it best to just stay," the woman said with curious amusement. "And you were supposed to forget last night."

"Uh, and then I'd just scream seeing Barbie in a power suit lurking by my window?" Madison rubbed her head where a wound should have been but there was none. "Thanks, I guess?"

"You wouldn't have. You wouldn't have even known I was here," the woman seemed entertained by Madison.

Glad I'm so amusing

, Madison thought indignantly.

"Why?" Madison insisted, her eyes catching the sight of red-soled heels laying discarded nearby. Pale, bare feet were tucked under the dark figure. The casual intimacy of it made her quake.

"You are willful. I admire that trait. Glamours do not affect you easily; much like your mother." The book was marked and set aside. "Now, come closer and let me have a good look at you." Her voice practically oozed through the darkness. A voice that beckoned to something deep inside Madison. Something she didn't know was there, until now. Words like talons, hooking into her. Dragging at her very being. As though ropes tugged at the backs of her knees, against the plush swell of her rear and the delicate sweep of her spine. Like a bug, hoisted towards a spider in its web she walked closer.

"What-- who are you?" Madison tried to sound resolute as she walked into the center of the room, but her green eyes couldn't hide the terror. Even still, she managed to stay collected enough not to hyperventilate. Willful, maybe. Stubborn, but not immune.

"So inquisitive. So many questions. Do you think knowing would make it less scary? Trust me; it won't." The woman rose from the chair fluidly. "I am your Duchess; I am your dream." Her whisper was a reward enough. It played Madison's mind against itself. She remembered then old dreams. A state worker had been concerned with them, blaming it on some early trauma. A counselor said it was part of her subconscious needing something stable. A reassuring strength, and a figure to fill a parentless void.

"Duchess..." Madison breathed, and she was close enough to notice the Duchess's rich floral, spicy perfume. That was not part of her dream. That was her, and her alone. A chill seemed to hang around the Duchess like a palpable aura, causing Madison's skin to constrict, goosebumps to rise. "That's not a real answer."

A mirthless smile tugged at the corner of seductively crafted lips. "Because, sweet Madison, the truth is delirium. A glimpse behind a curtain not meant to be seen. Knowing it, you'd forsake your ambitions, your goals, your life. All those things that make you who you are. You'd be consumed with what you cannot fathom, until it tears you from reality and you are nothing but a husk, sitting half-forgotten, until your daughter remembers she missed your birthday," she said, her tone hinting that she spoke not of Madison's future, but of her past.