(Continues from In-Depth Trouble)
I twisted trying to break his hold o’er me.
I should never have pursued this story.
But damned ennui got the better of me.
And foolish me, I charged off destiny’s
path in search of savory diversions
to quench the hunger eating this version
I inhaled abrosia—fresh baked bread mingled with melted cheese—and my taste buds cried out for a bite. But three things happened at once denying me a flaky treat. Jerking to the right, I dodged the shadows streaking toward me, and the dagger stuck to my hand swung down severing the old man’s invisible hold on me.
One of my attackers dropped a croissant oozing cheddar cheese onto the street. A cyclist smashed it. In New York, nothing’s sacred. I ground my teeth, but my molars phased through each other.
“Get him,” said my suit-wearing nemesis and his flunkies, a pair of winged shadows, dove at me.
I ran tossing questions over my shoulder. “What’s so important about this knife?”
“It’s an heirloom, and I’d like it back.”
This hunk of metal and gems was an heirloom? Maybe it was but whose heirloom? It belonged in Dracula’s boudoir, or in the pocket of some other macabre figure. After rounding a bend, I stopped and stared at the dagger. If this thing was so important then why had the killer left it at the crime scene?
Before the question could echo, scenes flickered in the polished gems running down the dagger’s flat. Each was a window into someone else’s death. One caught my eye, and I saw the girl. Her misery dripped onto my tongue tasting tart-sweet and fruity like a dessert wine.
Backing up, I phased into a brick wall. This time, the knife went with me. Footsteps carried the old man past my hiding spot and the two shadows trailing him. Their lashing tails and horned heads hinted at who I was ultimately dealing with—a being priests and Sunday schoolers feared.
~ ~ ~
For OctPoWRiMo, 31 poems in 31 days–all part of one story. Watch me do it.
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