Ill-Met By A Score of Chandeliers (Peter Parkman)

[Therese Lenoir (DELETED 5697)]

The smooth marble lines of the sculpture coiled and wound in on themselves, a primal and bestial embrace frozen forever in milky chrysalis, with the woman's stylized head arching back, lips just about to part. Despite the cool permanence of the medium, Therese Lenoir fancied she could feel the statue pulsing with life, could almost see veins beneath the surface of icy stone skin. The curving masterpiece begged to be touched and she felt a flighty desire to indulge it, which she only forced back through a respect for the artist and her own lack of gloves.

"What do you think?"

"I think it's remarkable," Therese said, turning to face the person who had asked the question. "The obvious surrealism is offset by the influence of ancient Eastern techniques, but the key is the simplicity of the execution, all one continuous movement."

"I'm glad you like it," the man smiled and extended a hand. "I'm Edgar Rossi. I am the sculptor."

"I know," she replied. "I could tell by the crinkles around your eyes when you disagreed with me."

"Not disagreed, no. Once art is put on display, no meaning the artist intended is more important than that which is found in the mind of the audience," said Rossi.

Therese's smile opened and she laughed, a free, light sound at odds with the cool, almost diamond precision of the look in her pale eyes. "I quite agree," she said, stepping closer to the artist. She moved to lay a hand on his arm and she thought she could feel his pulse quicken beneath her fingers. So. This could be the beginning of an interesting evening. Much more interesting than she had anticipated when she accepted Cherilyn's offer of attending that evening's art auction and charity dinner.

She looked up into dark eyes, prepared to say something charming and elusive, and paused. From the corner of her vision, a peripheral ghost of movement flicked across her consciousness. A form, familiar. A face, more so. Someone she had not seen for... how long had it been?

Therese turned, half-certain that when she did, it would have been a trick of her eyes, the odd movement of light upon a mirror, perhaps. But it wasn't. He was there, looking very much the same as he had on the last occasion they had met, which had been months - years?

She could remember the taste of the espresso and creme de menthe aperatif, could remember the exact shade of lipstick she had worn staining the white porcelain cup. She could remember the asymmetry of Lily's head cocking to the side as their conversation heated from friendly disagreement to the kind of passionate interplay one could only truly trust with a good friend. She remembered that Lily's husband, unlike the then-boyfriend flanking Therese, didn't seem uncomfortable at all with the tense turn of the conversation, as if he could sense a lack of danger.

But she couldn't remember how the evening had ended. She could remember that was the last time she had seen Lily, though. Lily or Lily's husband, until today. Until across a crowded room and all those other cliches caught up with them.

And now, the slight electric undercurrent of danger hissed around the interstices, played at the edge of her mind. Now, she brushed that feeling aside as easily as she brushed off the man who had intrigued her only seconds before.

"Excuse me," she said, executing a slick three-quarter turn that would not have raised an eyebrow in a dance contest, and headed in the direction of the ghost in the crowd.

"Arthur!" she called, her practiced voice effortlessly cutting through the din.

[Peter Parkman]

Charities often sought Peter’s patronage. Not because Peter himself was an upstanding citizen whom everyone in town knew, but mainly because of the businesses that he ran. The Animal Rescue didn’t make much money. The shelter was home mainly to stray dogs and cats—pets that had been abandoned. There were a few wild animals that sometimes got injured due to the city’s tendrils encroaching upon their habitat, or generally due to the cruelty of humanity. Peter kept a few vets on staff, and ran a volunteer program for those who wanted to come and administer basic care to the animals—cuddlers, he called them. Preparing the timid creatures for life in human company.

Peter also curated and edited an historical journal. It was this publication that added credence and prestige to his charitable work at the animal shelter; it heightened him as a man of historical understanding. On the side, he also sourced and refurbished rare and antiquated books. And why not? When doing historical research, tomes were often uncovered. And what else could he do with them? He had always been in the habit of rescuing books, too, as much as he was in the habit of rescuing animals.

The latter business was the reason why Peter was attending the auction. He had been approached months ago about the annual charity auction; the organiser had wanted to know whether Peter had anything he’d be willing to donate, and there happened to be a book in Peter’s vast collection that he knew would fetch a nice price, and which he could live without—so long as it was going toward a good cause.

The book was a 1931 edition of Ovid’s Metamorphosis. The etchings inside were all done by Pablo Picasso. The quality of the tome was excellent, given its age – hardcover, gilt edges, one of only one-hundred-and-twenty-five published editions.

Given that Peter was a control freak of the worst kind, he wasn’t happy packing the book up and sending it via courier. He wanted to deliver it in person, which he had done so the week before. There was a vague curiosity about who might buy the tome, too—he assumed they’d take good care of it, as he assumed it would be sold for a mint.

He stood by himself with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his grey slacks, admiring a painting hanging on a wall. The nature of it was dark – mainly greys and charcoals, deep black around the edges. In the middle was a figure, stark white and curled in an upright foetal position, its hands clasped behind its bony back. No face was in sight. Peter’s head canted to the side. Posturing? Submission? Or despair? Maybe all three. It struck a chord inside.

He wasn’t lost enough to immediately turn at the sound of his name, called clear and bell-like through the hubbub of voices, of low instrumental music, and the chink of wine glasses. It took a split second for him to realise it was the wrong name. Oh, so wrong! He should not have turned around. He should have pretended that he wasn’t who they thought…

… but as soon as he saw her, he knew there’d be no way to persuade her that she had the wrong man. Therese Lenoir. The breath rushed from his lungs. For the other half of that split second, the room spun. A chill fled over his skin as he was mercilessly dunked into the past. A past he’d tried to forget. He was no longer Arthur Pembroke. He was Peter Parkman, and it had to remain that way for security reasons. For another second he was frozen, stuck. And then suddenly, like a click of the fingers or the flicker of a light, the world rushed back in on him, roaring in his ears with one insistent demand: run.

Quickly, he turned away. He turned, and he started walking. The crowd parted for him as he slithered through them, turning sideways to squeeze between a large-bosomed woman dressed in bright florals, and a tall, wiry, grey-haired old man. Along the length of the wall, before ducking through a door into a quieter room. But it was a room with only one entrance. Only one exit. Surely, if he tried to get out he would run right in to Therese. There was no way to avoid it; he would have to confront her.

And so he ensconced his tall body into the quietest corner of the room. He paced the small corner like a caged lemur, his eyes wide and his shoulders hunched. And waited for the inevitable.

[Attire]

[Therese Lenoir (DELETED 5697)]

While Therese's vanity might supersede her sense of danger upon occasion, it did not generally stop her from thinking. Now, as she continued to glide across the room in the direction of her old friend, the wheels turned in her head, but the gears refused to click into place.

He had seen her, there was no doubt about that. He had seen her, and his eyes had shown a glint of recognition, and yet he had walked away - almost fled - without returning her greeting. He might have been retiring to Lily, in order to inform his wife that Therese was here so they could all reunite, but if that were the case, the rudeness inherent in not saying hello first and explaining all that would have been unlike Arthur. And as much as it might assuage her ego to believe it, Therese had seen the look in his eyes and she knew very well that was not the case.

The sharp stiletto heels of her high fawn-colored boots, shaped and buttoned in an homage to more sensible Victorian footwear, clicked rhythmically on the hardwood floors as she slid gracefully between art aficionados or around little knots of people engaged in conversation that ranged from the deep and poetic to the casually inane.
She stopped just outside of the room he had retreated into, considering other reasons for the odd movement on his part. A line from A Midsummer Night's Dream flitted easily through her head and elicited a self-mocking half-smile. There would be no erring Puck nor interfering Fairy King at the heart of this, though. This would be more complicated. A secret, perhaps? A surprise?

The polite thing to do would probably be to wait here, to find another conversation and hope that Arthur changed his mind and said hello further down the line, when his business was finished. Curiosity would hardly allow for politesse in this situation, however. Therese smoothed the champagne-gold silk of her dress so that the panels beaded with amber and violet lay straight, instead of twisting a little on the bias cut as they were wont to do. Then she took a deep breath and followed Arthur into the small room.

As she opened the door she was immediately struck by three facts: One) there was no way out of this room other than the doorway that outlined her petite form. Two) Arthur's posture and body language, both like predator and prey at once, reminded her of a defender in a cage match, and the idea of transposing that idea on to the man she remembered was discomfiting enough to make her consider turning and leaving at that very moment. But then there was Three) His eyes. His eyes were the eyes that she remembered, except that they were older. Deeper. Brighter. They possessed a hint of something she had never witnessed before, something both alien and hypnotic.

She closed the door silently and took three steps further into the room, still far from his pacing figure. Softly she said, "What is it, Arthur? What's the matter?"

[Peter Parkman]

Instinct kicked in.

For so long, since before he had been sired, he’d had to hide his true identity. They did not live in some comic book world. There wasn’t the possibility of easily changing his features so that he didn’t even look like Arthur Pembroke. While he had paced he had wondered – why hadn’t they put him somewhere even more remote? But he had to concede – Harper Rock was pretty damned remote, especially the cabin that they’d settled him in. Maybe he shouldn’t be here. Maybe they’d put him in such a cabin so that he understood; he had to stay out of the public eye.

But so much had changed since he’d first come to Harper Rock. The secure job that he’d held was gone. He could no longer feel the sun’s kiss on his skin, or venture out on the weekend to buy an ice-cream and wander through the park with the dogs, to feel the warm air tickle through his hair. He couldn’t feel the warmth anymore, or the cold for that matter. Sure, on the surface he was aware of the change in temperature, but he could not feel it, bone deep. It didn’t make him sweat or shiver.

For all intents and purposes, he had died and had been resurrected. He has a sire who was centuries old. He had a trigger-happy ‘family’ who’d put him into a coma for a week or so because he himself had spiralled out of control, due to the fact that his medication did not work anymore. In the light of all that had happened, of all the things that had distracted him, it was hard not to assume his new name had consumed him entirely, and that Arthur Pembroke no longer existed. That old life was like a dream, now. Like something he’d read in a book, and retained in his memory only because the story had been poignant, and a little shocking.

But now here was a woman who recognised him, and Peter was jolted back into that past; the shock of it had him reacting instantly, survival instinct returning with that single crack of the whip. He launched forward to close the gap between himself and Therese, his larger hand covering her mouth.

”Sh. I’m not Arthur any more. I’m not Arthur. Don’t say that name,” he said, words garbled and rushed, the explanation lacking. A furtive glance was spared to survey the room. Two middle-aged women looked away as Peter caught their curious eyes. He immediately dropped his hand, as if Therese were a burning hot coal. His hands were shoved into his pockets.

”Can we go somewhere more private?” he asked, green eyes wide as he silently begged her not to question him right there. In public.

[Therese Lenoir (DELETED 5697)]

Therese felt, rather than saw, the movement that propelled him toward her, maneuvering him through adjacent space as if there was no distance between. She drew in a breath and before even she could release that breath he was there, his hand over her mouth even as words poured from him in a nervous muddle. She had never before been quite as aware of his height as she was now, as he towered over her, muttering words that made no sense to her in a distracted tone.

She could have tried to disengage, could even have tried to run. The crowd was her ally there, and anonymity the easier prerogative of the petite. If she were asked, on the next night, what single emotion it was that drove her onward, even as the Arthur who was "not Arthur any more," relaxed into a nervousness that she found just as disturbing as his earlier speed, if much more compelling in its vulnerability, she would not be able to answer with a certainty. Curiosity was a factor, definitely. Perversity, to continue when so many would have allowed him his secrets, or even have feared to be alone with someone acting so unlike the way the other person remembered them. Compassion was in there, as well. He seemed almost frightened now, almost lost.

Eventually, if pressed, she would admit that none of those was the reason. It was a puzzle that would have gnawed at her, pressing in on her until she felt no way out. She needed to solve the riddle of Arthur, how he was acting, what he had said. She needed to know what had happened in Toronto, and what was happening now.

She twisted her face up in a knot of put-on confusion - not her best move, but it should fool anyone still watching. "You're not... oh. I'm sorry, I thought... But no - his eyes were... he had..." She swayed a little, letting her weight shift to the edge of her heels as if she had had a few too many glasses of champagne, and forced her eyes out of focus. "Oops!" she said brightly as she hauled herself upright.

Impulsively, she twisted a hand into the crook of his right arm, easy enough with his hands in his pockets. She did not spare a glance for the others in the room who might have noticed something amiss. "You know something?" she offered conspiratorially. "I think I need some air."

Once they had begun moving, Therese said, very quietly under her breath, "There is a private balcony on the third floor, off of one of the VIP conference rooms. Or we could take a walk in the moonlight. Cherilyn assured me there would be fireworks this evening, and the bridge is always a nice place to watch them."

Every once in a while as they walked she would lean just a little on his arm, to keep up the charade, but he could feel the lightness of her grip, a fleeting snowflake of a touch, as if any moment she could spin away in a wind and be gone. She wondered if he would be relieved if she did. She wondered if this was entirely safe.

The thought sent a shiver through her, interest mixed with adrenaline.

[Peter Parkman]

Therese slips into character so quickly, so easily, like a fish sliding back into water. The sudden transition confused Peter, for a second, that even he’s a little convinced that she thinks she’s got the wrong person. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she decided to continue to roll with it – to continue to convince him, so that she could slip out of the room and as far away from this crazy person as possible.

That was one main difference, he supposed; Arthur Pembroke was a calm man. Arthur Pembroke was a child who’d suffered from OCD and who, over time, had communicated with many doctors until he had found the right one. Until the two of them had figured out, together, the best dosage of medication to be taken, to take the edge of the constant anxiety. To make Arthur appear to be a man completely in control of himself, and of his life. Underneath, he was only slightly numb, his brain always with that fuzzy edge to it. It made him easy to be around.

Now? Peter Parkman did not have a doctor. Peter Parkman did not have medication, because the medication did not work. The man standing in front of Therese was prone to anxious outbursts. Agitation was always quick on his heels. It would have been easier, if Therese had decided to let it drop. Instead, she slid her arm through Peter’s and was guiding them from the room. Was suggesting the private that they could go.

”Not the bridge!” Peter said a little too loudly. His voice was deep and resonant and when raised, it called attention. He cleared his throat and bowed his head, which was shaking from side to side. Not the bridge. Not the water. Nowhere near the water; he was deathly afraid of the water. Not to mention, the last time he tried to cross a bridge he was overcome with intense, excruciating pain. Like ten million knives trying to claw their way out of his skin; like being constricted by a demonic boa constrictor at the same time, thus keeping those knives inside. It hadn’t been pleasant. And so he went nowhere near water, or bridges. Ever.

Peter forced himself to take a deep calming breath; to straighten his shoulders. To regain some kind of composure. He pushed his fingers through his hair, which had grown to an odd length, but he liked it. And Jersey seemed to like it. So he wouldn’t cut it. Or he kept it that length, when he did. He nodded.

”Balcony, balcony is good. Plenty of fresh air up there,” he said, veering Therese toward the stairs. Stairs, because elevators could be tricky. There were always mirrors inside of elevators, and how would he be able to explain that one away?

He wanted to apologise for his outbursts. He wanted to apologise vehemently, but he couldn’t do so in a crowded room without his tone of voice giving the gossips a reason to tune in. And so he continued toward the balcony, taking the stairs two at a time, almost completely oblivious to the woman at his side—and that she might not be able to keep up.

[Therese Lenoir (DELETED 5697)]

As they hurried along, Therese felt her quickening pulse respond not only to the electric edge of her nerves, but also to the exertion required in attempting to keep pace with her much taller companion. While the high-heeled boots gave her an extra few inches of height, they did not elongate the length of her stride, and she found herself having to half-skip in an awkward lurch at places to keep up.

Feeling eyes upon them, she appraised through heavy-lidded eyes a few expressions of interest, some of mild concern or amusement. Most of those who regarded them turned back away immediately, drawn back into some conversation or other of more interest than an intoxicated woman and her irritated escort.

His outburst regarding the bridge startled her, making her stop moving and stare up at his face, trying to read between the lines and the shadows of his eyes for some sign of what was causing all this agitation. She watched him forcibly return to a semblance of control and found herself wondering what drove that, as well.

It struck Therese that while she knew she herself could have escaped and while she had even used that knowledge (or at least that belief) to bolster her courage when she might otherwise have given in to her own lie and said she did not know the man who stood beside her, the same held true for Arthur. He must have felt he owed her some sort of explanation, she reasoned, or he could simply have pretended she was drunk or crazy, or both.

She let herself be dragged up the stairs with no protest, even when she fell further and further behind as his ground-eating strides made it impossible for her even to keep hold of his arm. "Right at the landing," she cautioned from a few feet behind. "I have the key somewhere."

Here, away from the press of bodies, the crowd's collective gaze, Therese found her composure harder to hold on to, and therefore found it that much more important to keep it. She climbed the last few steps on her own power, dug through her purse, past the pepper spray and collapsible baton, past a pack of cigarettes and a tube of lipstick, to the keys that inevitably found their way to the absolute bottom. She withdrew them all in a handful, discarded her home keys and car keys and unlocked the conference room door.

"After you," she ushered him forward with a facetious bow.

[Peter Parkman]

Peter was afraid.

He wasn’t afraid for all the normal reasons. He wasn’t afraid that Therese would harm him, unless this was all some kind of ruse. Unless she had been recruited and brainwashed by the very criminal family that had driven him away from Toronto. It wasn’t hard to think it was possible, right? She’d been Lily’s close friend. Lily’s family could have been keeping on everyone Lily ever associated with. They could have set their sights on Therese, knowing she’d be one of the most likely acquaintances that Arthur would allow back into his life.

But how did they find him? Had he let something slip? Had he not been careful enough? Had someone else seen him, someone who he didn’t see, who had reported back? Idiot, he thought. Why had he ever thought that these public events would be good for him? He should have stayed in the cabin. Should have stayed in the Asylum. Should never have shown his face. He should have remained a mystery, a man with no face who gave his charity away like it was nothing.

The door had been open for at least ten seconds, and Peter hadn’t walked through. He was terrified of Therese, not because she was physically threatening, but because of what she represented. Why had he come out in public? Because he was comfortable in his new identity; because he had sufficiently put his past behind him. But now here it was, slapping him across the face. Entering this room with him, this balcony. He was being forced to be alone with his past, and it terrified him. And he was a man who wore his emotion on his sleeve. There was no hiding it; no hiding the way he slipped past Therese warily, like she was the one who had him at gun point.

He went straight to the balcony. He wrenched the door open and gulped down the crisp, fresh air. He had to bite his tongue to keep from ranting, when she joined him. He leaned against the balcony’s rails and laid his head upon his arms, eyes closed tight as he tried to order the explanations and apologies in his head.

He didn’t have to worry. There was nothing that gave him away for what he was—a vampire. No longer human. That didn’t have to come into the equation. Only Lily. Only witness protection. That Therese could tell no one, and that she could not see him. She couldn’t be there – or he should go home. To forget she had ever seen him. But the words continued to stick, like half-dried glue in his throat. And no matter how much he swallowed, no matter how much air he tried to gulp, they would not budge.

A mild panic attack. That’s all. It would pass. He just had to calm himself. Calm. He stayed where he was, head bowed, sucking in air that he did not need. One of these days he would need to invest in a stress ball.

[Therese Lenoir (DELETED 5697)]

This meeting, for all that it had taken place over a grand total of at most fifteen minutes, had already proved a roller coaster of emotions and doubts for Therese. Looking at Arthur and the way that his anxiety wore him, slipped over the ragged veneer of the man she had believed she had known, she could tell that it was worse for him. Part of her felt a swelling surge of protective instinct as she watched him, torn, linger in the hall before the conference room door. That part of her wanted to tell him never mind, it was all right, to go back to the party, to forget he'd seen her. She would be out of town in a few days any way, back on the road, perhaps never to so darken his pure features with fear again.

But there was another side to Therese, a less innocent side, a side more difficult to show in polite society. This cold iceberg of a maiden, who enjoyed the power she seemed to have over this man, bobbed slowly to the surface, playing on the curiosity of the other Therese, forcing her to consider the wisdom in leaving the mystery unsolved.

The two women, who were really one woman, watched as he crossed to the balcony, drinking in the cool air, visibly attempting to get his head straight. She closed the door and followed him, giving him a little distance by resting her back against the cold rail to his right. This movement also flanked him nicely, but she chose not to consider that into her calculations of her own actions.

She watched and finally, after seconds that filled with tension, rising between them like steam, it struck her. What was wrong with this picture - well, one of the many things that was wrong. Where was Lily? He wouldn't have come here without here. This was much more one of Lily's things than one of Arthur's, the way Therese remembered it. She and Lily had that in common - they both liked a good party. So, where was she?

Quietly, in a tone that tried its best not to be confrontational or judgmental, she asked. "Where is she? You're not - you're not here with someone else?"

Therese had a rather cliched "European" approach to affairs. They were really nobody's business except for the three or four people involved. She had never been in a serious enough relationship to consider her extra-curricular activities "cheating" but that didn't put on any sort of moral high ground. She only asked the question in the hopes that, if that was what was eating at Arthur, he would relax a little to have it out in the open.

[Peter Parkman]

There were so many thing that Peter was aware of, without being aware at all. The way Therese settled nearby, leaning against the railing; the way it calmed him, the non-threatening way in which she stood. Subconsciously, survival instinct was keeping tabs on her every movement. Although he looked to be in a position of supplication, every nerve was frayed and every muscle was tense. Anticipatory.

When the question came, it was not one that he expected. Had they covered up Lily’s death, somehow? No. There was a funeral. How was it that Therese had not been invited? How was it that she didn’t know? How long was it since Peter had seen Therese and Lily together? His mouth went dry. But he stood. He straightened his shoulders. And then he shook his head; there was a chair. A table. Maybe this was somewhere people came to relax during the day. The view would have been magnificent from up here, during the day. Even now, the breeze was refreshing. Sharp.

The soles of his shoes hardly made a sound as he took two steps toward the chair and collapsed down into it. The entire ordeal hadn’t even started, and he was already exhausted. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and his fingers knotted together in front of him. When he looked up at Therese, he looked up at her as Arthur Pembroke. How easy it was to slip back when in the past’s company. It was as if the last year and a half had never happened. As if Peter Parkman had never existed. There was a knot in the man’s heart that he ignored, for the time being.

”I’m here by myself,” he began. It wasn’t a lie. Technically, he was in the building by himself. Jersey hadn’t joined him. There was no need to mention Jersey just yet. There were trickier brambles to wade through, first.

”I’m so sorry, Therese, but she’s not here. She’s…” his voice cracked; this was why he had wanted to forget. This was why he’d shoved Arthur Pembroke in a box and hadn’t let him out for a year and a half. It was an avoidance tactic.

”She was killed. She… she died,” he said. He could have told her how. He could have told her when, and why he was here and not still in Toronto. He could have revealed everything in a rush; why she couldn’t call him Arthur, and why he was now considering becoming a true and real hermit. Better to let the first bomb explode, first. Better to wait until the dust settled to see how much the structure had cracked before sending in the rest.