(no subject)

[misterbkeele.livejournal.com]

Date: April 5, 2003, night
Status: Private (Baraq, Ishtar, Primoris) (Complete)
Setting: Baraq and Ishtar's respective rooms; the Dreaming
Summary: A goddess and a demon share a nightmare, under Primoris' watch.


Barnaby lifted the lid of the steamer trunk and wrinkled his nose. He had been letting things go. With a gesture the stack of clothes was clean, but the musty smell remained; probably it had seeped into the wood. He left the trunk open, throwing the windows open for good measure. The night was chill but not uncomfortably so, and he slept in a bundle of sheets and comforter.

---

Memories are a haphazard thing, even in the best of times; you never recall them how they went. Like a broken clay bowl reassembled in not quite the right way. Dreams, now, dreams complicate matters even more.

The demon moved through the masquerade party, celebrating—what? The royal marriage? A newborn princess? A birthday? The nobility barely needed the excuse to splurge. He smiled and nodded at each person he passed. A woman wearing a frothy wig and a violently fuchsia half-mask dimpled back at him. Her skin was downy as a peach, and a white-tipped tail twitched under her skirts.

There was a heady scent filling the ballroom, too sweet, too cloying, and he needed to get out. He pushed his way through the crowded revelry, past the bull-headed footmen at the doors and the mouse-drawn carriages.

He never could stand polluted air for long.

Presently, he found himself in a different time and place, though still in France, still wearing the fancy-dress from the party. The trade in opiates had bloomed all over Europe, barely needing demonic encouragement. What wouldn't humans do, to themselves and each other? Still, here he was in one of hundreds of smoky little dens in the city, talking to one of his contacts in the business. If you didn't keep an eye on things... He shook hands with the smooth-faced dealer and left.

Now here he was, in the flat he kept his lodgings in while he was in Paris. There was a mustiness somewhere, which was strange—the furniture here wasn't that old, was it? He shook his head, bemused, and lifted a cup to his lips. The black tar dissolved into the drink smelled like vinegar and tasted of cut grass and liquorice.