Starfall

By Leo Stableford

When the Nottinghamshire alchemist Thomas Rempstone, cuts a deal with Mait' Carrefour, voodoo god of dark magic, on behalf of the Horned One, an ancient, twisted spirit from Britain's dark past, the consequences promise to be dark and serious business.

Rempstone, steeped in hubris, doesn't understand what he has unleashed in the soil of his native lands. Papa Legba, Mait' Carrefour's counterpart, knows that Carrefour's schemes cannot be allowed to bear fruit.

Nottinghamshire being a long way from Haiti, Legba finds himself limited in the way of resources. Pulled into the emergent chaos is Dillon, a reluctant houngan with ambitions in the restaurant trade, and Carrie, a barmaid who just wishes she could escape her life.

The battle over the old, dark earth, and the mysterious spirit who has chosen the Horned One as her adversary, will change the lives of spirits and mortals alike. The participants revealing a dark mystery that stretches from the Roman Empire to the present day. A mystery centred upon a nightclub known as STARFALL.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leo Stableford
• Release date: Oct 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370737086

Leo Stableford

**REVIEW COPIES** If you plan on reviewing one of my books then you can have a review copy for free. Please contact me via my website www.leostableford.com and I will arrange to mail you a copy of requested books. **BIO** Leo Stableford was born in York in 1975 but left before having a chance to remember it at all. In his youth he lived in South Wales and Berkshire. When he grew up he lived just about everywhere south of Stoke-On-Trent at one time or another. He studied drama and education, much against everyone's advice, and Information Technology, which seemed to make everyone very happy. He has spent too much time in the philosophy and psychology section of Swiss Cottage library, he reads too much into action movies, comic books and video games, he writes articles about them sometimes. He lives in South Wales with his wife, his son and his dog. He has tried to stop writing but always falls off the wagon.

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The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and all other legal entities depicted either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Starfall

by Leo Stableford

For My Wife, Suzanne.

Who has been waiting for this

for some time.

About The Author

Leo Stableford was born in York in 1975 but left before having a chance to remember it at all. In his youth he lived in South Wales and Berkshire. When he grew up he lived just about everywhere south of Stoke-On-Trent at one time or another.

He studied drama and education, much against everyone's advice, and Information Technology, which seemed to make everyone very happy. He has spent too much time in the philosophy and psychology section of Swiss Cottage library, he reads too much into action movies, comic books and video games, he writes articles about them sometimes.

He lives in South Wales with his wife, his son and his dog. He has tried to stop writing but always falls off the wagon.

Prologue: Mait' Carrefour

Jacmel, 2006

Thomas Rempstone had lived a long life. Although he was not used to either, he knew when to be polite and when to be patient.

Desperation had brought him to Haiti. His frustration at being dragged away from his library and his research deepened the nausea he had felt since his arrival. He leaned a little heavier on his cane. The stink of the world invaded his senses, it made him feel sick and dirty.

Increasingly Rempstone felt more affection for death and the dead. Solitude, darkness and silence provided him the relief of simulated oblivion in an existence that had become a constant sensual assault. He had not been able to secure the necessary clearances to bring his sarcophagus into Haiti for the short stay he had planned. Nowhere in his hotel suite was completely free from modern noise, odour or light. At least the island remained far enough behind the times in some of its further reaches that he felt the grip of this era's paranoia loosen slightly.

Being a man of a particular time and a particular age Rempstone felt uncomfortable dealing with black people. Not because of the Vodun, that was after all what he had come for. He realised his mental disquiet arose from foolish, persistent remnants of his upbringing. Childhood fears and follies clung onto the brain tenaciously, however hard one tried to wipe them away.

Rempstone prided himself on being a champion of the rational beyond all else, he was no cheap sorcerer, no mystic or medicine man. He was not so narrow minded to consider himself a man of pure science. He was a noble thing now reviled. Thomas Rempstone was, and would always be, an alchemist.

Alchemy had brought him to seek audience with the loa Ogoun and ask for his advice. He was not prey to intellectual modesty, so he was relishing his notion that what the natives called loa were what Dee and Kelley had referred to as angels. Rempstone had already begun to regard the idea as an indubitable fact. There wasn't much in the way of written authority in mankind's libraries to support such a notion but Rempstone had always maintained a healthy disregard for authority.

Besides, he reasoned, there was little point in being modest when he was well aware that he knew far more than any given occult luminary on the topic of their chosen field of expertise. Dee and Kelley may have transcribed some spiritual lexicon, the Vodun Houngan may worship their loa but Rempstone had done far more. Rempstone had gone further still. The spirits had touched Thomas Rempstone and had left their various marks upon his flesh.

Rempstone had the spirit hunger. To satisfy it he had come to Port Au Prince four days ago and trekked over land to the South in hopes of gaining the favour of a loa. Rempstone's lack of modesty allowed him to presume that the loa would answer his request.

What he hadn't prepared for was the length of the liturgy. There had been two days of preparation, the people had set up the altars and ritually prepared and cooked fowl and other foods. Food for the gods. Prayers were recited, the topic of the service discussed almost constantly for the whole period.

The process was grounded in the material, unpleasantly earthy, matters conducted this way always roused Rempstone's sickness. A matter of bad earth had rendered him into this shadow that he had become. Poisoned soil had turned a proud hunger into a spiritual need that had to be satisfied regularly in order to keep him walking and talking. Despite this, the evidence of living and breathing spirituality that surrounded him here turned something in his shrunken, petulant stomach. It caused his slug-like guts to writhe and shift constantly inside his body cavity.

The only response he allowed himself to muster was to be polite and to be patient. Once he had what he wanted the other things he could be would be permitted to come to the fore.

The service began with a series of Catholic prayers and songs in French, then it moved into a litany in Kreyol and African langaj. Rempstone understood from his research that this went through all the loa honoured by the house. The service would soon move into a series of verses for all the main spirits of the house; the Priye Gine or African Prayer.

Rempstone managed to concentrate through most of this. It was difficult, he was on the giddy cusp of vomiting, even though he had not taken a proper repast since New York. He hadn't wanted to be delayed by inconvenient questions on his way off the island.

The second round of introductory songs began, saluting Hounto, spirit of the drums. The insistent rhythm and vague nauseate delirium sent Rempstone's mind wandering.

He had enjoyed Egypt far more. It was a shame that Seth was either dead or so dormant he could not be reached. Rempstone was sure that he would have enjoyed a greater rapport with Seth. In India he had found himself less certain of Lord Yama and his reservations were well founded. Although available, and amenable, the spirit was too weak to be of any particular use.

If Rempstone had any concerns regarding this Haitian endeavour they centred around a fear that the service would end as his experiences in the Australian outback had. The antipodean earth had suffered Thomas Rempstone never to return to its shores. Until Rempstone had dealt with his current problem he wouldn't give it the satisfaction. Whatever dwelled in the soil of the outback was ancient and wise, it disagreed strongly with Thomas Rempstone. The word of the vast and terrible spirit of the outback ensured that Rempstone would not be able to return there before his powers had been fully restored.

The loa, he reflected bitterly, were his last hope. He had avoided Haiti for a long time precisely because of the very vigour that now made him reel with its heady combination of rhythm, scent and noise.

The drum was a heartbeat but its virile pounding did not create sympathy with the weakened sparrow twitching in Rempstone's chest. The fires filled the air with earth to remind those present of their flesh, but Rempstone felt infected by it, not fulfilled. The songs were the announcement of life. Only the living sang and the noise in Rempstone's head rattled: a consciousness without vitality. He felt the music like wedges of cotton wool being stuffed into his head when it was already filled with the spirit hunger.

If this didn't work, Rempstone mused, he may go mad. He may finally give into the craving. He may fall into the same trap that had taken Animus the Bone Eater all those years ago. He did not look like a man who would have to be taken out like a rabid dog, foaming at the chops and with a gullet full of still warm flesh. In spite of appearances to the contrary he wasn't so far from it, of that he was painfully aware.

At last the songs for all the individual spirits were sung, starting with the Legba family. Papa Legba Atibon was the master of the crossroads, he had to be hailed first. Rempstone understood that as the songs were sung spirits would come to visit those present by taking possession of individuals, speaking and acting through them.

Indeed one of the houngans present danced towards Papa's broad straw hat, his cane and his pipe, placed on one of the altars. Rempstone would have to wait for Legba to pass through so that he could converse with Ogoun. Ogoun's altar had been set up at Rempstone's request (a request given more weight with the addition of a sizeable currency exchange). A machete and a bottle of rum awaited the loa's approval.

The houngan lifted the hat, the voices of the congregation raised with it. The people knew that Legba drew near and Rempstone could feel it too, even through the soles of his good leather walking boots. If Rempstone knew anything he knew the feel of the spirits rising. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch. Something was here but he didn't know whether it would be like the earth of the outback or that of the Indian temple. Would it be angry at him? Or too weak? He didn't feel either thing coming from the earth but he had found himself in the wrong before.

The houngan wore the hat, picked up the cane and placed the pipe in his mouth.

The minute the lips of the man - a tall, muscular Haitian in early middle age - clamped around the pipe, he changed. He stooped, drew in, and instantly became far more intensely real. Rempstone recognised it. The spirit had arrived. A small dribble of saliva escaped from the side of Rempstone's mouth and he wiped it away. Whatever had arrived was alive and filled with power.

The singing became muted, down to a low chant, and Legba looked around at the crowd selecting a first initiate to address.

It came as no surprise to Rempstone that Legba fixed on him, but the gathered congregation were clearly uneasy when Legba called out to the strange white man.

You have no business being here, Legba said, addressing Rempstone.

I come with the greatest respect, Rempstone replied, stepping forward, polite and patient. I come from far away and bring offerings in exchange for counsel.

Legba approached Rempstone. The murmured chanting became almost a whisper. A small gust of wind made the torches gutter and then flame.

Rempstone found himself looking Legba directly in the eye. The clear brown eye of the houngan could not mask a soft hazel, bright lit eye, the spirit eye, Legba's eye.

You know very little of respect, Legba said dismissively. What is it you want from us?

I had hoped to speak with Ogoun, as I understand he is the great loa of politics and war, Rempstone said calmly. I seek advice on a tactical matter.

The spirit eye searched Rempstone's pale, muddy eyes, the lines of his face, the turn of his mouth.

And if I refuse?

Australia, Rempstone thought, Australia all over again.

I really have no wish to harm your people or your land Papa, he said softly. If I cannot get help, in return for good offerings, then so be it. I shall have to leave disappointed.

Well, then, leave disappointed you shall... said Legba, giving Rempstone a look that left no doubt as to the contempt the loa felt inside itself, like a living thing. He turned away, ready to dismiss Rempstone and move on, then he looked over his shoulder.

There was an exchange in a language Rempstone didn't know, it did not sound like any kind of Haitian dialect he had heard, in fact, it sounded somewhat Middle Eastern, although Rempstone couldn't be sure.

All he knew was that Legba was initially surprised and then angry, then something unexpected, Legba sounded apologetic, placatory, maybe bargaining, finally resigned.

Legba's head sank, then the houngan's entire body was gripped by some kind of spasm. He screamed as something came into him that did not settle gradually and gently, as Legba had, but seemed intent on being invasive and tormentative.

Chant! cried the new voice, deep and rich. Chant for the Lord of the Crossroads by Night!

In direct opposition to this command the chanting instantly stopped. In the silence all that could be heard was one voice mumbling the name 'Kalfu' to be instantly and urgently hushed by another, then nothing. The drums stopped. Everything fell silent except for the vague white noise of the wind through the torch flames and the sudden rumble of laughter that came from the houngan.

The children fall silent whenever Mait' Carrefour arrive at the party! he shouted.

Rempstone looked around at the faces of the initiates. They were suddenly cowed, concerned, pensive. As hard as they tried they could not hide their fear.

Mait' Carrefour swaggered over to Ogoun's altar and picked up the loa's rum.

I don't think that my cousin will be needing this tonight, you know, said Carrefour. He ripped the metal lid from the bottle and poured half the contents into the houngan's mouth. The clear liquid ran freely over his lips and chest.

Rum is a beautiful thing to taste when you got the lips and the tongue to do it, said Carrefour, grinning broadly. He had the stage and he knew it. He looked down and around picking someone out of the crowd. His eyes settled on a young houngan initiate no more than twenty years of age.

You know the face of Mait' Carrefour when it comes to call, eh young one? he said. Rempstone realised that this must be the unfortunate voice that had whispered 'Kalfu' a few seconds ago.

With eyes like saucers the young man stared back, struck dumb.

You wanna play with something that has a little more fire than these others have stomach for you come ask me, you hear? he said to the young man. You shouldn't be afraid to talk to me, I have a bad reputation but I'm willing to help a man as much as my brother Legba. Just, I don't think you need to be patronised, you hear me?

The initiate stayed quiet. Mait' Carrefour took a mouthful of rum and then, with great deliberation, spat a solid stream onto the initiate's forehead. The young man's face was a mask of terror, this melted with the addition of a little disgust. Then, in a fine example of self-control, it returned to a neutral mask.

You feel angry 'bout that? Carrefour asked. It's your right. You got a right not to have rum spat in your face, boy. Carrefour can make sure you nobody's fool. Maybe you don't want to talk here. But one day, I always got an ear for a new magician, right? See you remember, Carrefour's watching you, boy.

The boy looked ready to faint but maintained a neutral stance.

Carrefour turned away, it appeared he was bored of the speechless initiate. The loa turned his attention back to the group. He looked over the other blank faces intently, searching for a sign that he apparently did not find. Eventually, with an air of reluctance, Carrefour turned his attention to Rempstone.

What for you want to talk to my cousin about some tactical this and that? he asked Rempstone.

Rempstone could see the spirit eyes in this one, wide and chocolate red, staring through pupils like pin holes. Rempstone had not read much on the subject of Mait' Carrefour. The references Rempstone had found had only ever mentioned the loa in passing. Rempstone understood that the loa was like a dark counterpart to Legba, he was surprised that Carrefour should take an interest in Rempstone's business at all.

It was a matter to do with my home, Rempstone said. There is a usurper sitting upon my master's throne.

People taking things that don't belong to them, don't you just hate that? nodded Carrefour, snakeishly affiliative. I'm willing to bet it's a woman too, am I right, brother?

Rempstone felt that twitching at the corners of his mouth. It might once have passed for a smile. He nodded, gently.

Ah, but you know Carrefour knows, said the loa, grinning, a white toothed rictus that gave the houngan the appearance of insanity. Carrefour knows all the gods, Carrefour is wise in ways that no one else is and Carrefour is generous enough to share.

Carrefour turned away for a second, sparing a wink for the unfortunate boy who had dared utter the name of the loa. Then he turned back to the business at hand.

You brought an offering? he asked Rempstone.

Rempstone nodded again and threw a small canvas satchel on the floor in front of the houngan. Carrefour picked it up and turned it over in his hands before opening it. He looked inside and then squealed happily.

The hands of a pilgrim! he shouted. This is a man who knows magic!

The faces around the church floor were stony but Rempstone could sense disapproval and disgust. They would not move or speak while Mait' Carrefour, or any of the other loa, were in attendance, but he wasn't so sure what might happen afterwards.

Rempstone was hoping to make a quick escape after this meeting. Max had the car a short distance from here and the flight was already chartered from Port Au Prince back to New York at daybreak. If these people caught him before he got away he doubted he would ever see England again. These people would not hesitate to rend Rempstone's limbs from his body if that's what it took to put the aged alchemist down. These people were not too proud to believe in monsters, they all knew what Rempstone was.

Knowing exactly how much discord he had sown, and delighted by it, Mait' Carrefour turned back to Rempstone.

You know what has power, brother, said the loa. So what do you need me for?

I don't know how to fight her, Rempstone said. I have no power from my master because she has taken his throne.

Carrefour's grin twitched at the corners, he liked this admission. He hung the canvas satchel from his waist before replying.

So you've come to me like a pauper going to the bank for a loan. If I help your master then I get a lot more than a pair of hands, I take it.

Name your price, said Rempstone. He could taste a resolution coming, there was more than nausea stirring in his stomach now.

I don't need to be naming nothing, brother, Carrefour said. The bank sets the rules.

Rempstone felt his insides harden a little. The spectre of disappointment and exile had not been banished yet.

I can't let you take my master's throne, and I can have only one master. Only my master can own my soul, he said.

I don't want you to give me the throne, or you or your soul, said Carrefour. But at this time I don't know what it is I do want, you follow?

Rempstone nodded.

Good, then I take it we have a deal... unless you want to cry and whine some more, that is, Carefour's tone was light but the jibe contained a subtle thread of contempt within it.

Rempstone shook his head, now was not the time to take offence: polite and patient.

Good, brother, good, Carrefour said. He took the canvas satchel from his belt and lifted it into the air. He spun, slowly, letting the light from the torches play over its smooth green surfaces. As the shadows and light played with the satchel the bag appeared to shrink, getting smaller and smaller. Its hanging strap changed from a long strip to a thin cord, until eventually what was held in the hands of the loa was no more than a leather drawstring pouch, the size of a fist.

You need some magic, brother, said Carrefour, take some of mine, it's in the leaves.

Carrefour tossed the pouch down at Rempstone's feet. Rempstone took it and opened the top. There was a smell of dry spices, dead vegetables and a treble note, sickly sweet and rotten, the smell of decay. The withered bodies of a variety of leaves were curled inside.

Thank you, said Rempstone, but how do I...

Lean in, brother, Carrefour beckoned Rempstone. Rempstone stepped forward only partly because of his own will to do so. Carrefour embraced Rempstone close and put his lips to Rempstone's ear.

The loa whispered the secret of the leaves into Rempstone's head but all Rempstone could remember was that when he needed the leaves he would know how to use them. Carrefour let Rempstone go, still the loa smiled that dangerous smile.

So, do we have a deal, brother? I don't need your name in blood or nothing, but you need to spit and shake, easy now.

The loa spat onto his left palm and stuck out his hand. Feeling relief to be at the end of his quest Rempstone did the same.

The pair shook hands and the initiates stared on empty, vacant eyes not quite masking the fear and malice they bore for Thomas Rempstone and the dark loa who had offered him assistance.

Thomas Rempstone no longer cared about them, all he cared about was that at last he could go home to the mill and work on setting things back to the way that they should be.

Part One: Entropy

Chapter One: Cernunnos

1: Flowers Under The Skin

Nottingham, 2006

By the time Carrie reached the back door of the club she was so confused that her thoughts had disintegrated into an almost meaningless jumble. There were memories that were fresh like thoughts and thoughts that appeared to be so far away that they were no more than memories of rationality. The red of blood, of Ray, his throat torn out, as he bled onto the living room carpet, kept shifting into a bright yellow tone, the honey glow of the irises belonging to the wolf that had delivered the fatal maul. Then the yellow would deepen to red again and so the cycle continued; claw and throat, predator and prey, terror and death.

There were other fragmented thoughts, questions, recollections, fear, misery. She could not focus on any of them long enough to get past the eyes and the blood. Something had happened, too much, too fast, something fatal for Ray. Then, running, screaming through the early morning streets of Nottingham, fleeing for the only place that she would feel safe. Fleeing to Starfall.

She reached the door and pulled the keys from her trouser pocket. Given a task to do the horrific images began to fade. Carrie concentrated on opening the door to the night club.

As she fumbled at the bunch of keys on her key ring, her numb fingers searching for the one that would open the back door, she didn't dare look back, didn't dare lose focus. The wolves had chased her vigorously, hemming her in, forcing her towards her place of work and the nearer she got the slower they had become. As she had walked the last thirty paces through the silent, dark, morning streets surrounding Market Square she had known they were following, watching, skulking from shadow to shadow.

Just once it had occurred to her to turn back, the rebellious instinct battling its way through the fog that had clouded her mind. As she had turned away from her progress along the path she had found herself set upon she had heard a low, dangerous growl. The noise had communicated the fact that she wasn't being hunted. She was being herded. Slowly, cajoled by the growls from the shadows and the yellow eyes shining in the street lights, she had found her way onwards. She was being returned to Starfall.

She had stopped running after a terrified pelt across the Forest Recreation Ground. Exhaustion had plunged into a bath of fiery adrenaline, she had surrendered, faltered, stopped to catch her breath and rest her aching limbs but the beasts had not closed in upon their prize. After this brief respite she had alternated jogging and walking. Finally, dumbly, she had settled for a weary trudge, one foot in front of the other, as she followed the tracks of the tramway past the Arboretum and on into the centre of town.

She had not run for over two miles, despite this her breath was still too ragged to even gasp with relief as she gripped the handle of the key for Starfall's back door. The cold November air tore at her lungs as she fumbled the stout shaft of steel into the mortice lock. She felt the tumblers fall through the body of the key as she turned it slowly. Underneath the heavy metallic grind of the bolt drawing she swore she heard the padding of animal feet behind her. She imagined she could feel the merest whisper of hot breath across the back of her thighs.

The door swung inward smoothly, silently. Had Jason oiled the locks? It usually creaked and complained and stuck.

Something was wrong.

The growling sounded once more, somewhere behind her, not far enough away.

Carrie entered the club.

It was dark inside, silent, dead, smelling faintly of disinfectant, sweat and alcohol. Had she really only left the place an hour or two since?

She closed the door and locked it again. It didn't feel as secure as it should have, five inches of solid oak and a gigantic mortice lock, eighteen months old. No wolf could get through that. Still...

She hurried up the back stairs emerging into the anteroom for the lower bar. A tap was dripping, there was music playing somewhere.

It wasn't Starfall music. It wasn't the sounds of Sunday Trance or Saturday Funky House, it wasn't Friday Classic Dance and Hip Hop, Thursday Indie, Wednesday Funk, Tuesday Playlist or the Monday Jazz Lounge; although this was jazz. It was ragtime jazz, skipping lightly on the air along with a greasy smell of burning meat and sweetened alcohol. There were lights on in the main lounge.

Her heart in her throat, not feeling for a second like she was safe now, Carrie emerged into the lounge. Sat in the corner, occupying a booth near the main entrance, was a woman dressed in red. Carrie hesitated.

Come on in, child, the woman called. Her voice was neither young nor old. It was rich but quite high, imperious. Carrie felt that she should not attempt to disobey this voice.

Carrie walked slowly over to the chair, almost as if she did not want to walk, as if her legs were moving themselves. The woman had a table laid out with meat and drink. She was not eating, she waited for Carrie to sit down.

A few feet from her place opposite the woman the two huge wolves who had stalked her all this way ran past Carrie to settle at the woman's feet. One was midnight black, the other a deep chestnut brown that shone, a vibrant bloody red, in the light of the club's rig. The red one had matted fur on its jaw where the blood from Ray's throat had turned the pelt gummy black. Carrie could still feel the electric heat of their ferocity. Now, sat at their mistress's side, it was contained.

Excuse my boys, the woman said, tickling the bloody one behind the ears. Sometimes their passion gets the better of their manners. The woman's voice was high, querulous and keening. An accent, not French but similar, twanged in her fluting tone.

Carrie did not know what to say, she did not know if she could speak. She sat and she felt, rather than saw, the woman smile. Carrie could not see the woman's face, it was shrouded by the brim of a broad red hat. A veil sat nested on top of the hat, it came down over the woman's eyes, burying the woman's face in shadows. All Carrie could see through the covering were small, deep brown freckles of light.

The woman's arms were thin to the point of anorexia. As her left hand fussed over the wolf Carrie was sickened to see the interplay of individual bones, tendons and muscles acting in concert as the woman fussed over her pet. The dress the woman wore was plain, washed out red silk, raw, wrapped tight around a thin, hard body, like a bright shroud.

You can call me Marinette, the woman said. These here are my boys. I had to send them for you. I wanted to talk with you, child.

You killed Ray, were the only words Carrie found herself capable of forming.

He'll be fine, child. Marinette said gently, soothingly. You don't need to worry. I wouldn't harm your man. That one knows how to love you like a man should.

He had his throat ripped out, Carrie said, she wasn't concentrating. She needed to regain the focus that had got her into the club. She needed to deal with the situation before her, she couldn't afford to slip into insanity, if she hadn't already.

If more men had less throats the world would be a prettier place, lovely, said Marinette, the woman's maddening calm did not help the situation. Would you like a chicken wing, chicken?

Carrie shook her head and looked over the table. There were two servers of chicken and two of pork, all the meats were heavily spiced and surrounded in an almost tangible odour, choking and cloying. There were also decanters full of various coloured liquors.

Marinette saw Carrie looking at the bottles.

Drink, darling? she asked, Carrie began to feel smothered by the thin woman's attention.

Water? Carrie said, not wanting to seem rude. Do you have any water?

You've had a bad night, child, said Marinette, dismissing the request for water. Take you some brown liquor, chocolate liquor brandy, make you warm.

Marinette poured Carrie a glass of thick, brown liquid from a decanter. She finished the pour, not spilling a drop, and held it out. Carrie took it intending to smell it and see if it turned her stomach. Instead she found herself putting the glass to her lips and swigging the drink down.

The liquid was sweet but it was also fiery, it did nothing to relieve thirst but it did coat her throat in a sticky film of gunk that set the senses see-sawing. She blinked, trying desperately to hold on to the small amount of concentration she had managed to muster but the brandy was already in her veins and the room swayed more the harder she tried to pull it together.

Marinette giggled, a high-pitched and unpleasant noise, like some kind of insane bird call.

That's better darling, you starting to see the world straight now. You starting to see things the way Marinette sees them. Then we be like sisters, you and me, darling child.

What do you want? demanded Carrie, angry, frightened. Who are you?

My sisters know how much a man loves them, girl, Marinette told Carrie. They know when he needs to see their insides like their outsides, they know when he got to tie her hands and cut their faces, they know a man wants to keep them. You know what it is to be possessed, don't you little one?

Ray, Carrie said and her head was filled once more with the image of the bloody hole in his throat. She started to sob. Nothing that Marinette said made any sense on a rational level but at the same time there was some distant part of Carrie that knew what Marinette was saying.

There was safety in knowing how insecure a man was, despite the danger in the knowing of it.

Carrie sobbed.

No need to cry, little girl, Marinette stroked Carrie's arm with her bony left hand. There was a woven gold band round her wedding finger. Tiny eyeteeth moulded in ivory, or torn from the mouth of some small animal, bit into Marinette's scrawny flesh at regularly spaced intervals. There was no blood but it appeared that you could not remove the ring without taking the finger along too.

Your man love you with all his big man heart, cherie, soothed Marinette, he gave you flowers before he went away, didn't he? Flowers beneath the skin.

That brought Carrie up short. Ray couldn't be dead, he couldn't be at home with no throat. The argument came back to her, they had fought. Ray had been drunk. He had stormed out.

He feed you with the precious seed, and you feed me with the little red drops, dear, Marinette insisted, not letting Carrie remember anything solid, anything real. You give me tears like diamonds and little jewels of meat for Marinette to stay strong.

What do you want? Carrie screamed. She had broken, the skeletal woman encased in a rough red shroud had succeeded in unbalancing her. For her own part Marinette was delighted.

Nothing but your shadow, cherie! she hooted back. There was the rustle of wings somewhere high in the lighting rig. A papery, greasy rustle and the scratching of claws on the metal poles of the crossbeams.

What? the question faltered from Carrie's lips, her head was spinning and she couldn't make sense of the past or the present any more. All she knew was that she wanted to get away from Marinette. She scrambled off her seat and fell to the floor. The wolves regarded her balefully but made no movement towards her.

You can go, child, Marinette said in a high, sing song voice. But leave Stella here. I have to talk to Stella, you know, because maybe Stella and Marinette got things to talk about.

All sense left Carrie's brain as she looked back up to her seat to see herself still sitting there. The other her was dressed all in silver, looked calmly pristine and munched happily on the raw bone of a chicken wing. She sucked the last morsels of skin and tendon off the end of the wing and swallowed them down her throat, barely chewing.

That wasn't Carrie Mansfield sat up on that chair, it was someone Carrie had forgotten, someone from a long time ago.

It was Stella, a friend in a friendless childhood, an alter ego in a troubled adolescence. If there was anything Carrie Mansfield couldn't deal with Stella Insane was more than capable.

Marinette leaned down to speak to Carrie.

Just you run along now, Carrie, girl, Marinette said. Why not put your skin flowers in some water, make them look pretty. I'm going to sit here and pass some time with Stella, if that's okay.

Carrie couldn't move, couldn't speak. She wanted to retreat inside herself and hide.

But don't you be getting high and mighty, Marinette warned her. You're not the only woman who gets flowers from her man, see?

Marinette moved the veil up and away from her face so the light fell across the angular shelf of bone and blood she called a face. Mad, round orbs of white jelly swam in circular sockets, pinhole pupils wrapped in blood clot irises. Every stringy muscle on Marinette's head was visible, red, painful, exposed and coated in a clear, dripping pus. White teeth grinned from a lipless mouth.

Man love me with flowers of flame, and flowers of pain, that burn me as a sacrifice pig, child! Marinette spat at Carrie.

Her heart thudding with revulsion and terror, Carrie awoke.

There was a second, the second that you're not sure whether you're drowning or not, Carrie could only remember the wolves, and Marinette and Stella.

Then she remembered Carrie, and Ray, and Starfall, the real Starfall. She remembered who she was and she groaned as she pulled herself from her bed.

The central heating was grumbling as usual, that was reassuring. Some water in the tank was gurgling, a noise that meant 'home' to Carrie. Aside from these two sounds, expected and mundane, the house was silent. Weak November sunlight filtered in via a crack in the curtains. Carrie felt the pain in her arms and her head. The former caused by Ray, the latter no more than a by product of existence.

She regarded herself in the mirror, still dumpy, still mousey, still boring, still unspectacular, still in need of glasses or contacts to see anything with more detail. Not that she ever found herself in particular need of seeing things in more detail. She found less detail to be detail enough nine times out of ten.

She caught sight of the healthy red-purple bruise near the shoulder at the top of her left arm. She remembered Ray shaking her, hard. Then all she could think of was 'flowers under the skin' and that made her want to throw up. She distracted her stomach by tossing on a faded grey sweat shirt with a worn legend that had long ago given up legibility preferring to display: 'The An__er Is FUC_IF_NO N__ ___t's T_e Q____ion'

This done she approached the top of the stairs. Then she stopped.

Ray? she called down. Let him not be lying in wait, she thought. He was a fucker for that kind of thing. The worst was when she wasn't expecting it; he usually hurt her when he discovered her too confused or stupid to have prepared. If she called his name usually he gave it up. She wasn't going to let him hit her this morning without first warning him that she was capable of hitting him back. A proper adult relationship, she thought, and sighed, part sadness, part exhaustion, part self-hatred.

The whole tedious, stupid game made her nervous. Ray was not the most academic of men but he was vicious and cunning. She rarely felt in the mood for his brand of playfulness because the result tended to be that one or both of them ended up getting hurt.

She came down the stairs and into the lounge cautiously. It was empty, and still no more of a bomb site than it had been when she'd gone to bed this morning. The clock on the wall told her it was twenty past eleven. She'd managed to sleep five and a half hours, which was quite good for her at the moment. It also meant she had to be back at Starfall in a couple of hours.

Carrie peered into the kitchen but Ray didn't seem to be there either. He rarely went in the kitchen anyway, in case it made him gay, feminine or pussy-whipped she supposed.

The air on Carrie's legs was cold. She scooped up a letter from the council telling her to register for the electoral roll bundled together with a couple of bills and dumped them on the side table. Then she went back upstairs and turned on the shower.

When she went to the toilet and found bloody discharge between her legs she was once more forced to remember Stella Insane.

She had done quite well for the first ten minutes of proper wakefulness today. She'd managed to forget all about her imaginary friend from childhood. She supposed she was not alone in having such a friend. Neither the fact that the concept of Stella had stayed with her till this day nor the fact that the concept remained so twisted and sinister were things Carrie was proud of or happy about.

At five years of age Stella, just Stella, had first come into existence, Carrie's closest friend in frequent times of pain and sadness. The original Stella was sweet and cooperative and comforting, nothing like the new and improved Stella Insane that had come forth later. The original Stella had served no function other than to be some vaguely soothing presence for Carrie to whisper to in the nights. The first Stella had embraced the child Carrie while she was waiting for the pain to dull or the bones to heal. Carrie had always delighted in the notion that Stella existed and wondered how children who didn't have a Stella got through those nights.

That was, of course, back when she thought everyone had those nights. Before she had known that she was one of the chosen few.

Stella might have gone the way of all imaginary friends if Carrie hadn't grown up to be awkward and alone and friendless throughout her schooldays. Not that the separate entity Stella existed much past Carrie's eighth birthday. For a while Stella was no more than a friend who had moved away, someone who Carrie had used to be best friends with but who now lived in some far off place. On the infrequent occasions that Carrie had written in one of many diaries that she ended up burning to keep them from unwelcome eyes she had addressed the contents of each cathartic entry to Stella.

Each diary had found itself solemnly destroyed, because Carrie always confided to Stella her hatred for her daddy in the diary letters and they were, therefore, documents no one in her family should ever be allowed to see. Stella had not burned along with the profane pages because no real person had stepped up to replace her; the beatings from daddy hadn't stopped to release the need for little Carrie Mansfield to have a confidante.

Around eleven years of age the idea of the new and improved Stella Insane had first occurred to Carrie. Like Stella of old but not. Her more sophisticated mind understood that Stella Insane was hidden inside her; a part of Carrie Mansfield. A part that didn't care about beatings, a part that almost invited them. Stella Insane was a 'fuck you' to everyone who'd ignored Carrie Mansfield and it was Carrie Mansfield's way