The Devil Luce: A Shadow Kingdom Story: Shadow Kingdom Expanded Mythology, #2

By Samuel Morningstar

Luce believed all his problems were over after the first successful gallery showing of his paintings. He could hide in the art world, where his blue skin could be mistaken for the work of a tattoo gun, his ram horns considered a surgical enhancement.

But someone out there knows the truth and they will stop at nothing to herd Luce back to his tribe's destroyed sanctuary.

Secrets lay buried there, some thousands of years old that Luce's enemies are desperate to possess.

In the mystical, galaxy-spanning universe of Shadow Kingdom, "The Devil Luce" focuses on an unlikely hero trapped on a world where his people have been relegated to status of mythological demons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samuel Morningstar
• Release date: May 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370468188

Samuel Morningstar

SAMUEL MORNINGSTAR is an occasional rock singer / guitarist, has more black belt certificates than he has wall space to hang them on, and likes to scare neighborhood children by dressing in black and swinging swords in the front yard. He has a Master's Degree in Psychology, but has never worked a day in that field. He occasionally refers to himself as a mystic, as he believes that makes it more socially acceptable to wear a black cape in public. He lives in Kansas City, Kansas.

Book preview

The Devil Luce

A Shadow Kingdom Story

————————————————

Samuel

Morningstar

Erebus Publishing

www.samuelmorningstar.com

The Devil Luce

The Devil Luce stepped into the Stinson Art Galleria and time stood still. The mixed crowd of tuxedos, elbow-patched blazers, and denim skirts froze, as if posing for a group photo; quite unable to believe what they were seeing. Oh sure, they’d all seen the cover story in the New Yorker and read all about how Luce had transformed his body into a living work of art. But people were so used to seeing manipulated images that mere photos failed to do much more than draw casual, and often snarky, commentary. The man in the flesh, however, was quite a bit to take in. The magazine article had detailed Luce’s change; the hours spent under a tattoo gun, every inch of his born light brown flesh-colored navy blue; the dental implants and filings that sharpened his teeth; but the most impressive and eye-catching was the radical surgery to attach ram horns to the sides of his head, complemented by a mohawk of small white vestigial horns. The pain had been excruciating, all the more so because Luce had hinted a reluctance for numbing agents. The end result was a Christian’s worst nightmare, a devil walking the earth. Luce claimed to be of Arabic descent, a survivor of the war-torn regions in the Middle East. His family had died from a terrorist’s bomb. Luce had wandered and seen horrific things, before finally escaping to Europe. It was there, in a dilapidated Parisian apartment almost entirely bereft of furniture, that he’d first begun painting his nightmares; the bodies, the blood, and mixing them with monstrous fantasy. But the mere act of smearing paint on a canvas wasn’t enough to still the screams that still rang in his ears, so he’d begun to experiment on his own body, using his nightmares as a guide. His own suffering had eased his survivor’s guilt and given him a new lease on life.

It was a good story. Believable in these troubled times, full of mystery and pain. The journalist, one Mitzki James - a leathery skinned chain smoker who’d spent the majority of their time together croaking nostalgically about a one-time fling with Henry Kissinger - had transformed it into an inspirational piece, how one man had confronted his demons by transforming himself into one. Luce had allowed the bored staff photographer to snap three pictures, one of which became the magazine’s cover. He hadn’t anticipated that, but he probably should have. The media loved to display a weird artist, the stranger the better.

He had no phone and no computer - being wary of the ways electronic devices could be tracked - so the by-invitation-only gallery showing of his work was the only way for people to reach out. So they had, in droves. The owner, Barney, had whispered to Luce that his phone had been ringing off the hook for weeks. His voicemail had crashed twice. The showing was quickly turning into THE event to be seen at this year.

But standing now in the dead quiet Galleria with his head held high and shoulders squared, Luce wondered if an appearance had been wise. He resisted the urge to shiver from the icy air flowing from the vents; his body became heavy, drowsy. He wanted to take a step back and return to the hot night air, but he forced himself to stand still. For good or for ill, Luce lived in the human world now and he’d have to learn to put up with their predilection for artificially cold environments. The human inability to choose a consistent temperature was a metaphor for their hot and cold coquettish nature; they were as changeable as this planet’s seasons.

The galleria’s walls were white, to match the temperature. The ceiling was unfinished, giving the room a pseudo-industrial look with all the pipes and vents on display. Barney had intimated that most of them were fakes, chosen for their aesthetic appeal, rather than functionality. Luce could appreciate the desire to create beauty, to find some measure of control in a chaotic world by changing one’s environment into something pleasing to the eye. He had, after all, been doing the same since his escape from the fires of Sanctuary.

A hand clap, far in the back, rang out. It was joined by another, then another. The room exploded in cheers and catcalls. Amanda Weller squeezed his hand and dropped a wink from under her gold-band adorned braids. Her skin wasn’t as dark as Luce’s; it was rather a creamy mocha tone that peeked out from between dozens of brightly colored tattoos on her arms and shoulders. She’d worn a shimmering sleeveless white dress, an angel to Luce’s devil, an ethereal goddess straight from a Renaissance painting. She’d assured him a dozen times over the past few days that everything would be okay. His story had the ring of truth to it, his credentials able to stand up to scrutiny. But Luce had worried intensely, constantly pacing his art studio, quite unable to get any real work done in the days before the showing. Photos in a magazine were one thing, real-life quite another. Would someone stare at his horns and realize there were no surgery scars? Would a close study of his skin reveal the lack of brush strokes from a tattoo gun?

Stop worrying, my love. Amanda had said earlier that day, her Louisiana upbringing lightly touching each syllable. People will believe your story because they will want to. What is the alternative, after all? She was lounging stretched out like a cat, on a couch Luce had placed in his studio to allow her to watch while he worked with brush and paint. She often read while he fretted and worried over his canvas, devouring tomes of poetry, loathe to speak and break his concentration. She didn’t realize it, but Luce often noticed her mouthing the words to favorite verses, her beautiful ruby lips caressing each syllable as if placing gentle kisses on a lover’s forehead.

I don’t know, Luce answered, still pacing. I’ve been in hiding my whole life. Allowing people to see me, to study me, it’s so terrifying. What if they realize the truth?

And what truth do you think they’ll realize? She cocked her head at him, the almond eyes that he adored twinkling mischievously. You haven’t been around people much, Luce. They’re too self-involved to worry much about the intricacies of your background. We’ve seen the lady who had surgery to make her face resemble a lion, the man who tattooed scales all over his body and had his tongue split to make himself into a lizard. They’ll call you a freak. They’ll wonder why anyone would go to such lengths to make themselves appear inhuman. Dr. Phil will probably comment that you’re suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and need therapy, She smiled thinly at this, but only for a moment. But no one will guess at the truth, because it doesn’t fit into our worldview.

She rose, languid and seductive, and stalked over to Luce, placing her arms around him like a mother comforting an upset child. He was so wound up, he was trembling.

I’m scared. Luce said.

Don’t be, Amanda gently kissing the tip of a horn. For the first time in your life, you’ll be able to walk the streets without fear.

In New York? I could still get mugged.

Amanda laughed. That’s a normal fear, love. She glanced behind him. Frowned. Are you going to have that finished in time for the opening?

Luce glanced back at the painting in question. It was one of his larger efforts, an eight-foot-tall canvas smeared with blurry colors. The object of this painting he dared not define too clearly; he superstitiously feared the painting might possess some magic that would make it come alive. It depicted a naked man covered in blood. The man’s eyes and mouth had been sewn shut, but judging from the gore encrusted knives in his hands, that hadn’t slowed his murderous rage any. He was also clearly enjoying the slaughter if his blood-engorged erection was anything to go by. Even painted abstractly, the monster glowed with inhuman power, as if the subject himself refused to be diminished by the medium in which he was portrayed.

That’s not for the showing, Luce said. It was just… something from my nightmares.

Amanda turned away. I don’t like it. He’s too… real.

He might have been. My mother told me stories about him, called him Blankface. She had no other name for him. There were whispers of him butchering whole clans single-handedly. No one could escape him.

How could he hunt like that?

It was said that as an infant his eyelids and lips were sewn shut. Without physical sight, his third eye took over. He could see into the astral realm, could follow his prey by tracking their spirit. He hunted my people ruthlessly.

How would he eat?

He was some kind of energy vampire, feeding off his victim's souls.

Amanda shuddered. True story or just your people’s version of the bogeyman?

Luce walked over to the painting and stared at it for a long moment. Finally, he grabbed a sheet from a workbench and tossed it over the canvas, hiding the monster from sight. I don’t know. I think he or some version of him probably existed at some point. But my mother had heard stories of him from her mother, who’d heard about him from her father, and so on. He’d be nearly two hundred years old by now, at least.

Nothing to worry about then. You can probably outrun his wheelchair.

Luce laughed.

Anybody home? a voice sing-songed from behind them.

Grady strolled in. He was the only person outside of Amanda that Luce trusted with a key to the studio loft. He wore a pastel floral print shirt with the collar flipped up and hip-hugger jeans. Luce often admired Grady’s ability to combine bright colors into a pleasing palate. A lesser eye would’ve created a horror of clashing tints.

Did I interrupt you two lovebirds having an intimate moment? Grady said, with an over-exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows.

Amanda stepped back, scowling. You think just because you need sex four times a day that everyone is as frisky?

Oh honey, four times is a slow Tuesday. Grady said with a smirk. He glanced at a gold watch polished to an almost mystical glow. It’s almost 4:30. We need to get you two ready if you’re going to be fashionably late for the opening.

Still think I should wear jeans? Luce asked.

No, I changed my mind. You should do Friday night casual: dark slacks, shirt, blazer. You’re a devil, but a well-dressed one.

Gold chain necklace?

Grady rolled his eyes. "I won’t be there if you do that. Being a devil is one thing, being a Guido is quite another."

Amanda folded her arms. Luce is worried people might see through his cover story.

"Sweetheart, once people catch sight of me in my new red chiffon dress and Godiva wig, they’ll forget all about blue men with horns. I’ll be on the next magazine cover."

Luce and Amanda both laughed.

Besides, Grady continued. This event is turning into the Gala costume party of the year. People figure if Lucie can be a work of art, so can they, even if it’s just for the evening. It’ll be like Halloween tonight. You might look dour compared to what I’ve heard some people are cooking up.

It turned out Grady had been correct. Tonight, the Stinson hosted all manner of devil and demon. A tall man in back drew his eye, both from his height and from the tragedy mask he wore. Luce wondered if he’d brought a date wearing the comedy mask counterpart. Fairy wings stood out; devil horns were worn by many. Not everyone had come in costume, but enough had that Luce relaxed. He received handshakes and claps on the back with grace. At some point, he got separated from Amanda, but his moment of panic was cut short as he caught sight of her standing off to the side, sipping champagne, and smiling softly at him. Her presence warmed his cooling skin as if being wrapped in the embrace of the Goddess herself.

People did admire his unique attributes, but if anyone suspected his appearance was anything less than a creative fake, they didn’t say it to his face. Ironic really. If he’d attempted to pass himself off as a genuine non-human, a member of a tribe that had existed in the shadows since before human beings had started pounding out their history on clay tablets, no one would have believed him. He really would have endured the intense scrutiny he so feared; people would have scoured his background looking for evidence of fakery. When none was forthcoming, he’d have been captured and locked up in some government lab, as other members of his tribe were rumored to be (actually, given the human tendency towards vivisecting things they were studying, he’d probably end up in several laboratories). A story would be released to the press denouncing him as a clever con man and to the general public, he’d pass into memory.

But Amanda was right. Present yourself as a clever fake and humans applauded. There were humans that knew of his tribe's existence, but Luce wasn’t terribly concerned with them. He was, in fact, unique even among his own people and nearly unrecognizable to his people’s enemies. His skin was smooth, instead of scaly; brown pupils round rather than a slit. His people came in shades of red and green, more rarely bone white. Luce was, in fact, a child of the Goddess Babalon, a creature born once in ten thousand years. At least that’s what he’d always been told. In truth, he had no clue what any of that meant.

Patrons asked about the inspiration behind the paintings and in this Luce could answer with some honesty. After his tribe’s sanctuary had been destroyed, he’d wandered through many a war-torn country in his quest for safety, traveling at night and hiding during the day. Countries at war were easier to hide in; bureaucracy was often in shambles. People ignored a lack of identification when the right amount of money crossed their palms. Fortunately, his horns fit neatly inside a hoodie. His people had developed an underground network to assist refugees and he made liberal use of it. But he’d seen much death on his journey and it came out in his art.

That was a death squad working in Kosovo, Luce told an elderly matron inquiring about a particularly disturbing canvas. She was decked out in white frills and reeked of sickly sweet perfume that didn’t quite hide the fact she rarely bathed. She leaned on a polished oak cane and squinted through her bifocals at the painting. Soldiers surrounded a young woman lying on the ground, gleefully shoving their bayonet-tipped rifles into her body.

They look so wild, crazy even.

They were little better than rabid animals, killing without thought or conscience, Luce answered. I was most fortunate they didn’t spot me.

Is that one wearing a necklace of human fingers? She seemed to be turning a light shade of green. She unconsciously reached up to finger the string of pearls hanging amid the fleshy folds of her neck.

Children’s fingers, actually, Luce answered, almost enjoying the small gagging sounds she made. I almost left it out, but I decided it was important that people understand what horrors are happening right now in other parts of the world.

Someone else pulled him away to discuss another work. People said over and over that the starkness of his visions was as refreshing as they were horrifying. A much-remarked piece showed a Mephistophelean warlord sitting naked on a throne, bushy hard-on reaching towards heaven, watching passively as a naked slave girl knelt at his feet and enthusiastically dined on the intestines of a dead enemy soldier. Luce only smiled wanly when asked if that had been an actual experience.

Four hours later, Luce was exhausted and the Galleria walls were filled with tiny SOLD signs. The majority had gone within the first half-hour. The Galleria owner, Barney, excitedly told him that owning an original Luce was fast becoming the IN thing among the jet set this season. Part of the appeal was in the challenge of finding an appropriate place to display the work. Luce’s visions of sex and death couldn’t be hung in the average living room or den. Barney whispered conspiratorially his theory that the paintings would find prominent positions in hidden sex rooms or perhaps private libraries filled with rare and forbidden tomes. Luce smiled at this. More likely, his works would end up wrapped in paper and tossed into attics, to be trotted out for the occasional peek, or forgotten completely. The art world was fickle and Luce knew his fame would be fleeting if he kept producing the same works over and over.

Strange to think these little pieces of his soul would be gone, never to return to his possession again. Barney had hired a professional photographer to record each piece, potentially for a coffee table book. But Luce felt no connection to shiny copies made of his work. His spirit was in the canvas, in every brushstroke, in the way the paint gave shape to his internal visions. He had no interest in reproductions. The original was all that mattered. But, to a certain extent, he no longer had any need for the paintings; they had served their purpose. They had served to purge pain from his soul; once the emotions had been spent, there was a certain ambivalence towards the work. He painted and moved on. Who knows what he’d paint once the losses he’d suffered over the past couple of years had subsided?

He’d think about the future later. Right now, he just needed to get through the night. The Galleria crowd was thinning now that the works had sold. Luce was slipped several business cards from people wanting to commission custom works. A short while later, Luce actually found himself standing alone, shoulders slumped, feeling satisfied.

I’d say you’re a hit, Amanda said, materializing next to him. What do you say we-

Mr. Luce.

They turned. The drab, gray suit addressing Luce from chest level peered up at him through large, round glasses. He fidgeted. Luce took him for the type to be more at home running numbers on a spreadsheet than hobnobbing with the art set, or perhaps one of those drab fathers who frowned on dancing and rock music. He wrinkled his nose like a rabbit to keep his glasses in