The Gray Dolls

by

Justin Schmid and Ran Ackels

Return To Main Page

I

This nightmare began just last night, while I was visiting the cave mouths hidden in the wilds of Mount Royal. In Subterranean 15, as we called it, I found a doll, lying just to the side of the cave entrance, abandoned and forgotten. The doll looked old, centuries had passed since its creation. Only threads remained where the eyes had once been, the left arm was missing and its gender obscured in ruin. But, there was a red scrap, still affixed to its chest like a soldier's medal that struck me. Crouching over it, I could feel that this doll was one of ours and from the footprints around it, no more than a day had passed since it was left here. I quickly snatched it from the ground and looked about, straining my ears to catch the sound of a hidden observer's presence, but there was none. I ran from the cave, slowing to a casual gait once I reached the path, and escaped to the subway nearby with my prize hidden beneath my covering. At length I sat down to rest. I placed the ruined little doll on my knees and stared at it for a long time until the memories start shifting underneath my mind, like silt that has built up in a quiet pool. The memories flowed like smoke. . .

II

The smoke of the battle still hung over the field, concealing the bodies of the fallen. The Union Jack was raised to half mast over the French fort in honor of the victory and in remembrance of their fallen general. The screams of the dying had faded into laments for the dead and I awoke from my wounds in a small cabin, the smell of burning wood filling my nostrils. A young woman, of strong features and wretched appearance was tending to my wounds. She said nothing as she moved about the tiny cabin, applying bandages to my cuts and cleaning the wound that had pierced my chest.

I tried to get up and she gasped, quickly pushing me back down with more strength than I could muster. "Non, il faut que tu te repose," she whispered in my ear and I understood that she wanted me to rest. I kept my tongue, as I was English and she might worsen my wounds if she were to learn that.

But, as the day progressed, she tended to me, feeding me from her meager provisions and pouring me lager to dull the pain. I discovered that she had two daughters who worked the fields for her and kept her company. Though she said nothing of her past, I could sense that her husband was not returning.

By evening, my wounds had healed and my cuts vanished, but still she said nothing. I sought to leave, but without clothes did not dare arise from my resting place. Reading my desires, she brought over my uniform and I froze with fright. She must have known all along that I was an English soldier. Still, she said nothing, turning away to rummage in an old chest. When I had finished dressing, she showed me a doll and I realized who she must be – a Gray Doll; a servant of ours that nursed fallen members of my immortal family back to health since early times.

Though mortal wounds cannot kill us, we still need time and healing energy to mend our injuries. These women, often wartime widows or the poor and starving, are able to sense our kind and instinctively know how to heal us. Their souls are strong enough to give them supernatural gifts.

And, in the rare instances that a brother is slain, when his soul released by the ruin of his vox, they collect the remains – especially the soul stone that lies in our skulls – and return it to my people for proper rites of burial. In return, they are rewarded well.

A custom, started by some unknown immortal, involved the bestowal of a doll along with whatever reward was given, to identify the woman and her descendants as friends of the pride, or Gray Dolls as they would later be known. This doll was such an artifact.

"Je suis la princesse," she said, uttering the code phrase as ancient as the dolls, and I replied, "and I am the Prince," confirming our roles in this bizarre ritual. I then tore a scrap from my uniform and affixed it to the doll, leaving a record of my presence. I said nothing else but kissed her hand and left through the front door. A week later, she would discover a gem-encrusted necklace and gold coins in that same chest. It wasn't a lot for my people, but it was enough to make her and her daughters comfortable for the rest of their lives. Such was our thanks for the Gray Doll's services.

The memory evaporates, leaving me contemplating this old ragged doll. Some great-granddaughter of my savior had lost the heirloom upon which my shred of red uniform was still pinned. The need to rush to her aid welled up in me like magma from the core of the world. I picked up the doll and sped away from the scene, wondering where I would find her.

III

At the subway station, I waited for the next train, watching for suspicious auras around the people on the platform. An immortal's aura contains a special seventh layer, white as a newborn star. Some mortals also possess this cloak of soul, and with it uncanny powers. The crowd around me was dim with the muddy colors of normal mortal beings.

I saw no immortals, but nevertheless raced lightning quick across the platform to reach the train on the other side just as it arrived. This train would take me downtown, into the heart of the city where the movements of an individual are nearly impossible to track. There I would begin my search for the Gray Doll with the help, I hoped, of one of my contacts in this hostile age.

I watched my fellow passengers with the trained eye of a soldier, noting every movement, every glance. They were only mortals as far as I could tell, but that meant nothing. With the great War coming, everyone was suspect in these times. As for immortals, plots amongst our kind spanned centuries and conspiracies often involved beings of all kinds. We were not alone in using humans, who we call twilights, either. The Terat, once our enemies, are infamous for their use of the dreams of Man to influence him in the waking world. The Terat are monsters that haunt the darkest fairy tale.

At the McGill station, I disembarked and a half dozen other people left with me. Once outside though, we scattered into the metropolis and I made my way toward a monstrous gray brick building built when this city was but a fort on the river. I still remember how it dominated the city then, separated from the outside world by a stone wall, somber in its solitude. I envied its inhabitants, their retreat from the wars and politics that surrounded them. I could understand these people, their desire to be apart from it all, but not truly alone. They found serenity in their isolation.

Now, there was no serenity to be found in this city, glass and concrete buildings filled the sky, cars littered the roads throughout the day and night. The flesh of the earth had been gouged out to build Man's fragile civilization. The sidewalks swarmed with a never-ending stream of people. A nearby church, lit by spotlights sat smugly atop a mall built under its foundations. These mortals spread everywhere on the island, up into the sky and down into the earth. How fortunate that the depths of sea, land and air are a peril to them, forcing them to depend on technology as brittle as glass.

I found the building as I remembered it so long ago, though now graffiti covered the gray brick walls that protected it from the ravages of the modern world. Inside, a single light shone on the third floor, differentiating itself from an otherwise lifeless building. Strict routines were observed by its inhabitants – all but one and if I remembered her well, that light would be in her room.

Moving through the shadows, I located a part of the wall covered in darkness and climbed it in seconds. This was nothing compared to the gargantuan cliff-faces travelers face in the deeps of the underworld. Once in the courtyard, I darted across the lawn from shadow to shadow, keeping my presence a secret not from the slumbering inhabitants, but from the fanciful enemies that plagued my thoughts.

Once against the rough wall of the building, I slid along it, seeking the most direct route to the beacon of light above. I opted to enter through a cellar door nearby, whispering to the lock to open and to never bar my way again. The door squeaked ever so slightly, imperceptibly to all but the most sensitive ears, nevertheless worrying me that any immortal watchers would be alerted to my presence.

Entering through the cellar door, I found myself in a musty room that held its secrets cloaked in absolute blackness. I was reminded of the underworld and the sense of disorientation some find at being entirely sightless. But, as the underworld was my home, so too was the darkness my comfort.

My vision burned through the dark like rays escaping a perfectly cut diamond. I saw the boxes and sacks that surrounded me. I knew I was in the storeroom and there would be a door ten feet away. I found it without difficulty and from there, I made my way through a dark corridor past another door into a staircase that led upstairs lit by dim night lights that I supposed were left on in case of emergencies.

The last time I had been here had been a different time, when this city was in its founding years, it needed a solid basis and our Gray Dolls needed a refuge in this strange land. I helped set up the convent on the premise that it provide medical aid to the colonists and assisting in the education of the young. This would be my last experience as a mortal before returning to my duties as an agent of the pride. Those years were hard but glorious, I lived in complete denial of my true nature, living as a woman whose dedication to God I thought to be absolute. I suffered as only a mortal could. But inescapably, my obedience lay in my people's ancient commands, more ancient than those of the mortal's Lord. It was a proud time for me nevertheless, as Sister Madelaine. But, she had to die and I had to return to my primary duties as a keeper of secrets and end that secret life. I was never the same again, but then no one ever is, are they?

On the third floor, I left the staircase and padded down a corridor lit in a similar fashion to the staircase. Though the air was slightly stale, there was a fragrance, not pleasant enough to qualify as a perfume, but nevertheless pleasing to the senses. I came nearer her room. Beams of light framed her door, the second to last on the right. I approached and stopped outside. Listening carefully, I heard nothing and began to suspect foul play. Perhaps an enemy waited inside, ready to ambush me. Perhaps Marie-Rose would be dead on the floor.

I knocked softly and after a few moments, creaking boards betrayed her movements and shadows stretched out from under the door as she approached. The door opened and her wrinkled face remained unchanged. "I knew you would be coming," she said. She didn't mean this night in particular, it had been several years since I had last contacted her, but she knew the time would come when I would need her help. The mother superior of the convent had been entrusted with our secrets of the dolls since its creation. This tradition had continued after my disappearance, and though I was the one who maintained the connection, the nuns never suspected my resurrection into this new form. Even after centuries of the same unusual visitor who knew them all so well.

IV

Sister Marie-Rose was dressed and fully awake, an open book titled "Holy Blood, Holy Grail" lay on her bed. She did not invite me in, but instead pushed past me and motioned for me to follow her. As we walked she remained silent. I contemplated the recent past, before the Purge, before the minions of the Beast cut down our mortal allies wherever found. She interrupted my reverie with short snippets of information. She told me of changing times, of declining numbers and rumors that the convent would be sold and they would be forced to move to a smaller building. The emotion in her words betrayed her anger, the betrayal she felt of the world around her. I could also sense a deeper questioning of her beliefs, the feeling of abandonment by the God she loved, and fear of her approaching death. I could give no words of comfort. Like the mortal's existence, so too were their constructs; no empire, no brotherhood, no sisterhood could withstand the ravages of time. Instead, I reminded her of the achievements her cloister had accomplished in its time, the wonders that owed their existence to her sisters and the invaluable aid she had given my own people.

"And, this is what I have come to see you for, Marie – the Gray Dolls."

The conversation ended at this point and we did not speak before reaching the basement where she led me past the storeroom I had passed through so recently to one at the end of the corridor. This one, locked, was marked "Biblioteque Privé". She opened the door and we entered. Without pausing, she turned on the light with the passing of her hand and I stopped suddenly, blinded temporarily by the light. As my sight returned, I saw a room filled with ancient books, years inscribed in gold on their spines and a dark brown table in the middle of the room, clean and bare. Three metal and cloth chairs were pushed up against the table. I thought for a second the room must not be used in these times, but then noting the complete absence of dust rejected that thought.

"What does the doll look like?" she asked. I removed it from my jacket and laid it on the table. She examined it closely, but refrained from touching it. Then without a word she disappeared behind a bookshelf that seemed to fade into darkness.

Immortals are always too concerned with absolutes. They fight for control of mortals and their institutions, not realizing the true nature of humanity. While we are definite and unchanging, humans are an indefinite lot, dealing more in uncertainty than certainties. This is no doubt due to their finite lives, which cause them to ponder the unknown that lies at their demise. I hold twilights in high esteem for their ability to deal in shades of gray. The sisterhood was one such shade; not truly allies of any single group, they act as independent chroniclers, for no motive other than simple devotion to their convictions. Sister Marie-Rose was one such individual in this wondrous edifice that had continued the tradition of tracing the lineage of our Gray Dolls. In a time when world-wide emigration is commonplace, such helpers are needed to keep track of the ancient order of women who have helped our kind since early times. It was a liability of our pride's workings that we should rely upon mortals to keep this information, such shades of gray would never be suspected by other prides and therefore the risk was limited, though undeniable.

"Yes, that would be the d'Auvers family," she spoke definitely amidst shuffling sounds, then she emerged from the darkness with a single tome, blood red with something I could not catch written in green along the spine. She pulled out a chair and sat, opening the book seemingly at random. I remained standing, impatience burning at my soul.

"Let's see, there was Pierrette who inherited the Doll from her mother in 1954, she already had three daughters, handing the Doll to her eldest, Yvette in 1973. Yvette did not marry, but she nevertheless had a child," disapproval biting at her words, "a single daughter, Marguerite, who received the Doll after Yvette passed away suddenly in 1987." At these last words I looked into her eyes. Had she known about the Purge, the time when the enemy rose up and slaughtered our twilight disciples? I had always been so careful to conceal the tragedy of this time from the order. We failed to protect them. The nuns only knowledge of something sinister was in my disappearance, necessitated in light of the events, which was never explained and they never asked. Perhaps sister Marie-Rose, perceptive woman that she was, had guessed the reason...

In any case, the sisters here were spared the fate of so many others, and I always kept this piece of history a secret. But, Yvette, she couldn't have been a casualty, how would they have found her? Wouldn't they have taken the Doll? Why were there so many questions about these lives which were supposed to be under my care, how could so much happen without my knowing? I began to feel powerless under the crush of time.

As I sat in quiet contemplation, Marie-Rose picked up a phone and dialed. Under my guilt, I was vaguely aware of the conversation. She was seeking information about this Marguerite, sifting through her contacts. I turned the doll over and over in my hands, almost tearing it apart in my turmoil.

Hanging up the phone quietly, she rose from her chair and said, "I am told Marguerite became a coroner at the General Hospital, you can no doubt find her there. She has married, but has no children and she has not changed her last name."

I thanked her and left quickly, slipping into the storeroom again, abandoning her to the silence of the archives. Through the storeroom, I found an entrance into the underworld concealed behind the crates, built when it was constructed so many centuries ago. Past this entrance I found my way into the sewers filled with ankle high water. The path to the hospital was easy enough to retrace, as I knew it well from the old days.

V

Once under the hospital, I found the old entrance we had used in early times for investigations similar to the one I was embarking upon. This door, almost contemporary in design, was similarly concealed in the wall, though obvious to my sight. Listening on the other side, I heard nothing and entered, finding what must have been a janitorial room of some kind with its occupant sitting fast asleep at a cluttered desk. He stirred slightly at my presence and I froze, waiting for his breathing to return to normal before I moved again. I quickly passed through the room and found myself on the basement floor of the hospital, barely lit and barren of twilights.

I made my way up through the basement, using the stairs to reach the main floor. There, I inquired about "Docteur d'Auvers" from a receptionist who appeared more interested in the mini-TV she had positioned just out of my view on the side of the counter. Though she had turned down the volume very low, I could still make out the faint hum of the set. Distractedly she stated that "le docteur est occupé," and that I should return the following day. It was after two in the morning by this time and I could not leave this matter till then. I had to reach her, make sure she was safe. Lacking the ability to dominate twilights like some of my brethren, I instead demanded to see doctor d'Auvers, telling her it was a personal emergency. The receptionist's attention was momentarily distracted from her sitcom to give me a careful look and then called for "Docteur d'Auvers, à la réception" over the intercom system. She said it might take a few minutes and pointed to the waiting room.

The room felt small and cramped despite only one other person being present, an elderly lady curled up on one of the couches. She wore the garments of the poor and forgotten, no doubt allowed to sleep here by the receptionist out of compassion. I sensed pain and hunger in the lady's aura, dim now and clouded by the effects of sleep. Looking about, I noticed the receptionist had picked up the phone and was whispering hurriedly into it, eyes darting up at me from time to time. Before I could attempt to divine her words, she hung up, her eyes met mine and she quickly looked away, pretending to go back to watching the TV. I could tell though that her attention was now on me. This felt wrong. Something was happening and I wasn't going to be part of it. Rising suddenly, I marched over to the desk and said I would find the doctor myself and walked back toward the main set of elevators, not pausing to learn where she actually was, if indeed she was in the hospital at all.

She called after me, begging me to wait down here, that it would only take a couple of minutes, that she would be here any second. I pressed the elevator button, not turning around. A car pulled up outside and hearing the doors open and shut, I sensed two individuals approaching. The receptionist continued to beg me to return and then the door opened. I could see their auras, charged with seething black energy like the nimbus of a storm. Like dark angels, they swept into the room. I heard the shiny finish on the floor gasp as their feet touched it. Their passage left dull footprints burned into the gloss. I realized with a mixture of anger and some fear that these were not of my kind. They were servants of the omnipresent evil of the Sanguinary, the Beast who hunted our kind toward extinction. Their tainted souls ballooned up around them as they approached the receptionist.

Maintaining the discipline of centuries of covert operations, I diligently waited for the elevator, watching the reflections of the events behind me, of the receptionist pointing in my direction with great excitement and exaggerated motions. The man and woman, dressed conservatively in sleek black suits, did not pause to talk to the receptionist but continued on toward me. The woman held her arms akimbo. I could hear the sound of claws pushing through the flesh of her fingertips, curving like rapiers.

The elevator chimed its arrival and I caught a momentary look at my pursuers. A cold expression froze their faces as their bodies lurched into full-blown sprinting. I too sprang into motion, turning and racing for the staircase that lay four doors down and behind a doorway. I could hear their pounding steps as they raced after me, silently cursing my lack of speed. I shoved open the door so hard that it exploded off its hinges and leapt down two flights of stairs with thunderous landings at each turn, almost losing my balance on the last. Their own crashes and stumbles could be felt as they pursued me down the stairs. I heard an inhuman panting being shared between them, no doubt a form of communication. The light above cast their shadows on the wall next to me, shadows so horribly disfigured that the wall buckled as they slid along it.

Again, pushing my way through the basement door, I raced down the corridor, but this time past the janitor's door, through a plastic curtain separating the floor into two sections and hid behind a plastic bin. Then, as they came into view again, I waited for them to approach. I locked my hands into fists and grew, from each knuckle, a long serrated blade.

When they reached the plastic curtain, their black auras caused it to shudder as if caught in a gale. Seen through this thin membrane, they moved with utterly inhuman locomotion, having abandoned human shape now that we were isolated. I heard a dozen horrid sounds, wet, sharp and leathery emanate from them. These were Skin-walkers who devoured their living prey in order to pattern his body and assume his shape. They were walking libraries of form and mannerisms, receptacles who used DNA as blueprints for shapes in which to hide their hideous selves.

They stopped, seeming to sense my presence. The panting-speech passed between them again. The curtain began shriveling like a moth caught in a flame as their auras enveloped it.

I could hear the faint rustle of leathery flesh as one approached. Footsteps slowly advanced, then reaching the bin that I hid behind, they stopped and suddenly the bin flew into me, knocking me to the ground. Looking up, I the female thing. I was struck with how utterly unlike a human she appeared, even with a bipedal form and long hair that writhed like serpents. Her opalescent skin ate up what feeble light shone in the room.

I rolled myself to the side as her talons crashed down where I once lay, sending a plume of sparks across my field of vision. Jumping to my feet, I slashed out with my barbed hand and cut her wrist causing her to flinch. She circled her segmented tail and whipped it around to push me back against the wall.

The second creature passed through the plastic curtain now, consuming it with his exposed skin. Although possessed of the same evil, this nightmare was weaker, less disciplined. In its excitement, its body was unable to hold it's shape without reverting again to a new configuration. I decided to concentrate on him. Rolling under the female's claws, I kept going, knocking the man to his knees, then picking myself up. My bladed hand came down squarely in his back, jolting him with agony and paralysis. He dropped to the ground, convulsing.

The woman said nothing but turned and faced me, a fury burning in her huge, multihued eyes that I had not witnessed since the early days of the Underworld when droves and Peri fought for dominance of its expanse. This skin-walker had just realized what I was and now she wanted my head. But, though she burned with hatred, I could sense a hesitancy, as she knew what kind of fighters we Peri were and what skill I must possess.

She struck out with her thorned limbs, slashing madly at me. I dodged in vain as her claw crossed my temple, cutting me badly. I could feel the warmth of the blood already pouring forth, spilling like lava from a rent volcano. In defense, I stayed low and parried her attacks with my hand, hoping to regain some strength. We exchanged blows between long pauses where we searched out openings like jewelers inspecting a gem for imperfections. She fought well, but I was better and when she made a mistake, overreaching herself, I stepped in and pierced her through the heart. She fell forward and I twisted the blades grown from my hand inside of her. I embraced her for a second and then dropped her to the ground. A dark pool formed from her foul blood beneath her.

I finished them, quickly. Inside each, a black heart as beautiful as any amethyst glinted. I clutched the organs and ripped them forth. Severed from the body, the magical hearts could no longer keep time or physical reality from consuming their bodies. As each body disintegrated, a flood of escaping life-force rushed out like polluted air from a sewer. Darkness swirled like a cyclone, tearing the room apart at the passing of these two dark souls.

VI

I looked at my watch to see that barely five minutes had passed. This was hopefully not long enough for security to have been alerted had the receptionist thought that wise. I looked around, and seeing the service elevator, decided to use it. It came swiftly enough and was empty. I checked it over for hidden opponents and entered. I pressed the main floor button and when the doors opened again I found myself in a room filled with running washing machines and dryers. Amongst the stacks of clothing I found a clean hospital uniform and changed out of my bloodied clothes, transferring my possessions and taking the opportunity to grab some dressings for my wounds. My hand I allowed to lose its razor weapons.

I disposed of my old clothes in a garbage can and left the laundry room looking like an orderly. This time, I made my way toward reception and from a corner, I discovered the receptionist far down the corridor listening at the stairwell door, looking quite worried. She was one of their henchmen, probably paid to alert them to any strange visitors. I wondered about Marguerite. Was she an agent of the Beast, leading me into a trap. She could be as guilty of conspiracy as the receptionist. But, to what end? What could they want from me? My membership in the Bloodstone Order was a closely guarded secret kept even from my own people. How could an outsider know of this when my brothers and sisters did not?

I had to assume Marguerite was a hostile agent. Trust was a luxury that could not be afforded in wartime. Especially this war.

I opened the swinging doors quietly, so quietly that the receptionist who had now opened the door a crack was oblivious to the sound of my feet padding toward her. She was half-way into the stairwell when I reached her. I seized her in one motion, covering her mouth with one hand and grabbing her arms behind her with the other. Her body struggled against in vain. A swift jerk of my hands broke her neck.

I retreated the way I came, leaving the woman in her chair. Around the corner, I noticed names on the doors and began searching for Marguerite's, keeping an eye for further guards watching for immortal intruders. Only minutes later I had located it, passing only mortal nurses and insomniac patients who ignored my presence. Using skills learned in my many years infiltrating twilight domains, I gained entry to her locked office in record time and inside began searching for any clues of to her activities. Her notes, though meticulously kept, all detailed mundane cases without great interest to me.

I found a pay-sheet which listed her hours worked on a weekly basis for the last month and it showed that she kept a fairly regular schedule, arriving punctually at seven every morning and leaving at four. This would make finding her easy enough, but recognizing her from the hundreds of other women working at the hospital would be an impossible task. I would have to wait for her here, though I dreaded what might happen should she panic and trap me in this hole of an office. No windows, not even panel ceilings to escape through. I would have to chance it.

I cursed the minutes as I waited in the dark office, the previous night's incidents seeming distant and foreign as I contemplated their every detail. Had she left the Doll in a cave on Mont-Royal? It made sense as the hospital was on the other side of the mountain that formed the center of the city. Perhaps she had seen the Skin-walkers for what they really were, and left the doll in the caves as a signal to my kind. That assumed that she was indeed a Gray Doll, keeping the traditions of her mother.

I paced through the night. Soon enough, my boredom was such that I began searching the office for a hidden safe. I found it under a mat on the floor beneath her desk. Intrigued, I ordered the tumblers to fall into place, then lifted the round door up, revealing Marguerite’s hidden belongings. Most prominent was a file, which I eagerly perused.

This was no mundane medical case. Instead, it detailed a child brought in three days ago for horrible, multiple burns. I glanced at the photograph and caught my breath. This was no child, but an embryonic Skin-walker! It's body was covered with a membrane of what appeared to be dead skin, but in reality was a cocoon from which their kind emerged from the dream world into our own reality. This embryo was about to emerge from it's cocoon. Apparently someone had found it in this vulnerable state and had brought it into the hospital.

To have seen three Skin-walkers in a single day was astonishing to me. They are mostly loners and fortunately not as numerous as us. Sooner or later many of them expose themselves for what they truly are, allowing us to kill them. Some are clever, though. Emerging from dreams, their temporary bodies would perish but for those they consume. Moving from one to another, they continue to maintain a grasp on reality, expanding their repertoire of shapes until they can blend into any situation at all. These are the deadly ones. Eventually they are able to develop a chrysalis, hibernate long enough to emerge as fully and permanently real. This accomplished, their dark powers increase a hundred fold, ranking them among the most dangerous predators in this universe.

I read the file quickly, feeling a wave of nausea at the prospect of a Skin-walker emerging from chrysalis. I was only cheered by the fact that Marguerite noted in the file that she did indeed understand the true nature of the "burned child", a tickling inside her head, as she called it. She also saw the other two Skin-walkers and knew that they were seeking the cocooned one, probably to protect it during it's vulnerable state.

The tone of her notes made it clear she was afraid she was in grave danger. A final small notation about her need to go to the caves of Mont Royal with the doll made everything clear.

VII

As my thoughts spun around the contents of the file, a key turned in the lock. I glanced at my watch and saw the read-out, 7:03:32. It would be her. She opened the door, and silhouetted against the exterior light, she appeared an angel. When she stepped in, I saw more of her. Like her great-grandmother, she had short black hair, a sharp nose and dark eyes. She dressed fashionably, but was conservative in appearance. In her left hand, she carried a brief-case and walked quickly inside, turning on the light and closing the door behind her in one well-rehearsed motion. I had left the Doll on her desk and she stopped when she saw it. I stepped out from behind the door and spoke softly, "Marguerite, I've come to see you about the Doll." She seemed about to scream, but didn't. I spoke again, this time whispering, "I am the Prince–"

"And I am the Princess," she finished and then paused. She looked confused, dropping her briefcase and sitting back against the desk.

"So you actually exist," she said as if both relieved and stunned, "My mother's stories, they never seemed real... like fairy tales... and I was the princess." She drifted off into thought, seeming not to believe her eyes, "I hoped you would come," she finally said.

"Always", I told her.

Then, taking the Doll from the desk and examining it closely she told me about her mother, about her childhood and the stories that she was told about the Princes who came when summoned by the Doll. She told me about how she didn't believe in it, her mother even doubted the truth, but for some reason, they kept the Doll. She told me about a necklace, with rubies and diamonds that was a family heirloom. She asked me if it was from my people, as the family tradition held it. I said it most likely was, we rewarded those who helped us. I jokingly asked her what she wanted as a reward. She said a million dollars would suffice and we both laughed.

For a time we sat in silence. She appeared to be preparing her statement, rehearsing it over and over again in her head, her eyes transfixed on the Doll. There seemed to be something she was hesitant in saying. I asked her to start at the beginning.

"A burned child came in three nights ago, found in an abandoned building in the old quarter," she recanted, as if giving a medical report. I stopped her and held up the file. She pushed her bangs out of her eyes and looked at me soberly.

"It's evil, isn't it?" She whispered.

I nodded. "A Skin-walker about to emerge into reality."

She clutched her arms around her own shoulders and walked to the window. The light of the streetlights slanted through the drawn blinds, painting shadow stripes along her. Dawn was starting to overtake the winter sky.

"I've always had the gift of looking inside minds", she whispered solemnly.
"At first is scared me, but mother taught me that it was a gift and how to control it. In my teenage years, I used it quite a bit, especially whenever I wanted an extra advantage. I used it to get through medical school because I found that when I looked into the mind of my professor, I could actually understand what he understood. No awkward words, trying to communicate a perfect thought, got in the way."

I listened quietly, knowing this was leading somewhere.

"But after I started practicing, things changed. I had to close my gift off. There were too many suffering minds in the hospital, filtering in and filling me with despair. I would have taken my own life if I hadn't. For the last four years I got on with life until finally I hardly missed what I had had to bury inside me." She took a deep breath and shivered.

"Until this came in", I said, waving the photograph from the file.

"Its thoughts were so strong, so malevolent." She turned and looked at me. "Would you believe I could actually see it's thoughts wrapped around it like some obscene placenta. It was a nightmare in the flesh. In the two days it was here, the suicide rate in the hospital jumped. They carried twenty people out the first day, thirty two the next. "

"Where is it." I bid sternly.

"I faked a transfer of the burn victim to Victoria Hospital , then locked it in the morgue. I used another doctor's authorization for the transfer so it wouldn't be traced back to me, but I knew time was running out when I saw the other two---things."

"Other Skin-walkers", I said. "Young ones."

"Yes", she whispered. "Not all the way in our world, I could tell that. At first I thought they were government people, looking for the cocooned one. Then last night, when I was really tired I probed them by mistake and sensed what they were, and that they somehow sensed the cocooned one. I left the doll that night. It's a miracle you found it so quickly."

"Yes", I whispered. "But time is running out. Take me to it."

I kept silent and we walked to the elevator and descended to the morgue.

In the elevator we stood silent with other hospital staff, Marguerite exchanging pleasantries with those she recognized. It wasn't until we reached the solitude of the morgue that her fear resumed it's hold on her features. She led me to a drawer at the end of the room. There were a few slight dents in the steel door. I thought I could detect a slight rustling.

"It's in there." She whispered.

VIII

The nightmare unravels again in my delirious mind. Though it seems impossible, I realize I must have opened that morgue drawer. I remember all-consuming terror when my eyes fell upon what was coiled up in there, waiting, but I can hardly recall details of what I saw. Burning eyes filled with hate, that's all. They are like two poisonous moons hanging in the sky of my consciousness. No shelter from their burning.

I am dying. Half of my body is missing, eaten by the thing in the drawer. I feel myself slipping away. I am trapped in a ruined shell, for the poisons from the mouth of the Skin-walker will never allow this body to heal itself. And over against the clean white wall, the remains of Marguerite painted in long red strokes. Her face, peeled from it skull, draped over a large specimen jar. She has paid the price for serving me.

Soon, other mortals will come and discover me. They will wonder why I live despite my horrible wounds. They will see the puppet which used to be a living woman. Some might be sensitive enough to feel what has transpired here. Government agencies that do not exist will send their teams of investigators. I must end my own life before that happens. There is only one release now.

I touch my throat. Inside my throat, my heart made of crystal---the vox. When I end, my body will fade into dust from the centuries kept at bay, but my vox will remain, a prize for those who will discover it. Tears slip out of my eyes, quicksilver things that orbit my head and reflect the horror frozen in my face. My people will lose my vox and I will wander the ocean of the dead. It is a hard thing to contemplate, to fade away while someone holds the heart of your essence in their mineral collection or use it against your own kind.

The door squeaks open and I grip one my own exposed bones to bring myself out of my stupor with the pain. Suicide is difficult, but not at all impossible. With all my will I extend a sharp blade from my fist in the shape of an executioner's ax. I will have one chance.

The girl approaches. She looks around at the carnage with sadness, rather than abhorrence. This causes my heart to skip a beat. There's something---magical---about her. She looks to be thirteen or so, a child emerging into the flower of womanhood. She is wearing nightclothes, a hospital-issued gown. Carefully, her bare feet trace a path around the pools of blood. She never takes her eyes off me.

"I heard you" she says, a small voice. "In my thoughts, I heard you."

The blade that is my hand drops. I slump to the floor, all strength gone from me. My hesitation has cost me everything.

She kneels next to Marguerite’s body, tugging the ragged doll from it's stiff fingers.

I sob out loud.

Her face becomes disconsolate for a moment, filled with my own despair. This is when I realize that she is here, inside my mind with me. I squeeze my eyes to slits and look at her through the blur. A white nimbus of soul swirls around her, making her appear as an angel. Her soul flutters much like the wings of a dove around her as she strides toward me and again kneels. No strength to speak, yet I know she knows what I am trying to say.

"And I am the princess," she whispers, eyes filled with compassion. She brings back the blade of my hand over her shoulder, ready to strike me. Our eyes lock. In the face of my executioner I see understanding of what I am. A young woman has looked into the depths of my soul and has seen fit to help me. My angel of mercy. My gray doll. How can this be? Why would any of these mortals willingly set their feet to walk in our endless night? I close my eyes and listen to the last words of this lifetime.

"I will take you home", she says.

return to home page