The Resurrection Pact (Winston Casey Chronicles Book 1) Page 16

  Ezrin stepped in between me and the leader, never losing her smile. "General Grekk. Good to see you."

  The mouth moved as Grekk replied, "Queen Ezrin of Zorr. I will have words with your dog."

  Grekk's pals closed ranks and a crowd began to form. A hooded referee stepped forward but remained silent for the moment.

  "Lord Wynncase will decide if he will receive you, General."

  "General Grekk," I began, projecting my voice in the way instructed. "I am honored more than insulted. Your reputation has a life of its own among the Fidelphi and – might I say – you and your group look absolutely amazing."

  "You will answer for your attack on General Asq, Lord Wynncase."

  "And he will answer for his attack on The Realm. Are you here to challenge me?"

  All the lizard men gurgled and chuffed in a disturbing chorus I took for laughter. Grekk settled down first and leaned in to me. "A warning. Asq has many wives and many offspring and even more loyal soldiers. Your head is worth a sea medal."

  Ezrin whispered, "One of their shells."

  I got it. "Thank you, General. I hope Asq finds justice."

  "We shall see. Tomorrow night."

  With that, they march off into the disappointed crowd that had gathered hoping to see combat. The referees melted back into the scenery.

  "Tomorrow night," I asked Ezrin.

  "Asq and Qixji Nor – his wife – are being tried at the Council Assembly tomorrow night. Don't worry about it." She told me to not worry about it in a way that made me worry about it.

  After another half-hour of awkward introductions and character speeches, Ezrin touched my arm. "We have another engagement, my lord."

  I thought we were done for the night, but when I got out of the bathroom in my suite, I found a set of new, hip clothes on the bed. "One more appearance," Ez called from the sitting room.

  ~

  The Out-of-Character parties were as energetic and dramatic as the others. Ezrin led me to one and pushed me to mingle on my own, her logic being that people would be less likely to recognize me in regular clothes, slumped posture and shuffling walk. Ezrin herself changed the way she walked and wore a less flattering jacket to hide her hourglass waist and a casual pair of black slacks. She looked as I suspected I might see her across a food court nibbling on a salad while reading a style magazine. I stopped staring when a server offered me a beer from a tray. It gave me something to do with my hands.

  It took me several moments to adjust to the rhythm of the room. Suspended lights scanned the room with pink, green and blue beams as a disco ball turned at the center of things off in the distance. While I expected something posh and elegant to contrast the promised debauchery, the reality was more a cheap 80's music video with high black drywall covered in neon paint partitioning the larger warehouse floor.

  The wall of noise coming from tower speakers created a physical obstacle at the perimeter of the main room, driving me deeper inside and past young men and women of various shapes and hues dressed to impress.

  Everyone eyed the new guy. I felt over-dressed and out of place in my black slacks and gray shirt. Still, there were inviting smiles from both men and women as I slowly cut through the crowd, taking in the smell of musk, perfume, and champagne. These were the exo-planetary bodies at the outer reaches of Alan Horus' personal solar system; people who stood around because they wanted to see and be seen, to be Alan's art circling the outside of his universe. There was no way to hold a conversation at eighty decibels and while following the currents and odd tow, so they swayed and they strolled around the room, catching eyes and gravitating toward the next pretty thing, embracing and swaying together until something brighter caught their attentions. Well-dressed and undressed partiers ducked behind walls and around corners with one another and servants in their familiar white robes emerged with trays of booze and fruits. After watching the crowd cut a path for the servants, I decided to follow one through toward the center. Even so, the server moved quick and her wake closed up quickly behind. I had to keep close to avoid getting stuck in the herd and moved into their orbit clockwise around the room.

  A young woman cut across my path on purpose, giving me a graceful three-sixty turn and a wink before disappearing between two hairless, pale boys engaged in a passionate grope. The girl reminded me a lot of Nadeim with her big, almond eyes and bright smile and I thought about following. Such was the gravity of the exo-sphere. You found something to hold on to and followed it through the mob. Eyes locked. Arms reached. Hands grasped. Bodies pressed together, mixing sweat and heat as limbs entangled. Two women met and kissed, each holding on to another person over the other's shoulder. Chains of physical contact spread into fences and I had to duck and lunge through a game of London Bridge before I found myself in the arms of a tall, athletic black woman in nothing but soaked, white cotton gauze.

  I made it to an invisible border past which none of the exo-planetary bodies ventured. The orbiting bodies stopped where the bank of fog began. This area of space served as a stage to a dozen dancers in leather and metal. Muscular, tanned men in black thongs and masks drove a path through the fog with three or more followers leashed and trailing behind through the chemical smoke. They didn't seem to be going anywhere in particular. With the sound from the speakers filtered through the herd behind, I could actually hear the music. The muscle-hoods were just taking their friends walkies to the beat of the Circle Jerks. I recall jugglers and clowns in leather harness suits because, of course there would be.

  "You new here, sir?" The male voice came from behind me as did the woman's hand on my shoulder. I turned to see an older, handsome couple in their fifties who I thought I might have seen on one of Claire's Do-It-Yourself House Flipping shows. They were alone as I was looking for a way to be recognized, well past their 9pm bed times.

  We exchanged hands and pleasantries noting how we all hate big, loud parties.

  The husband, Chet, looking like a retired marine DI with high and tight silver hair setting off his bronzed, leathery hide, was a former stand-up comedian from San Diego who was "in television". I asked if they did DIY shows and they laughed. "We wish!" Apparently, Chet was as bad with tools as his older wife Gina was at pretty much everything but clothes shopping. His words, not mine.

  Chet Holtz sold a pilot to NBC back in the mid-1990s, but it never went anywhere. While that played out, he performed as the warm up act for a bunch of sit-coms, getting the audience excited with a bunch of PG-rated jokes. He also acted in commercials until his kind of face stopped selling cars and homeowner's insurance.

  Chet spent a lot of his time directing his words to Gina's perfect tits. Gina, a former Playboy "employee" (she doesn't say Playmate, but she doesn't discourage Chet from saying it) was also an actor until she realized it was more lucrative and exciting to work in California real estate. Like a lot of women from southern California, she appeared to be the result of a eugenics experiment conducted by a marketing agency. This worked well for her relatively long career in cheap horror movies where she took a lot of showers, sunbathed, or danced with a pole before being eaten or dismembered alive.

  At 45, she became what casting directors called "unthreateningly attractive" meaning she couldn't attract young men looking to spank to rubber monster porn but would be great selling soap and feminine hygiene products (but not for straddling a motorbike fellating a giant beef sandwich, she was told), pretty enough to earn the attention of male viewers but not so that she would intimidate women in the American farm belt. Now in her 50s, her stylish horn-rim glasses hid the circles and crow's feet while black hair made her think she looked "more cerebral." And she more than took care of both of them by selling big houses to important people.

  Here in The Realm, Chet and Gina were Kras Bastrov and Vespar Vellum, very important people themselves. They were more important because of their status in the eyes of Lord BUS. Bastrov's pastures and estates rented to hundreds of mineral and goods farmers. He owned the land, rented to pe
ople who mined it or produced items that they could sell in the game. From farmers, ore extraction, blacksmiths and the supporting village businesses, Kras Bastrov had property estimated to be worth more than some quarter-million dollars in converted currency that generated a real income of over $70 thousand for him every year.

  "In real money," I laughed.

  "Gina's real estate and Vespar's virtual real estate make me a kept man, Casey. What I make here keeps us traveling the world. We might even open a production studio next year, who knows?"

  Vespar Vellum owned a small parcel leasing agency in-world offering rental properties to players just getting started in the game or unable to plunk down the hundreds of dollars in start-up and maintenance fees for a parcel. But, as she'll explain in detail, the real money is in prostitution.

  As Head of the Western Realm Comfort Guild, she takes 10% of every player who works for her in the game. Vellum is also an exclusive escort herself, commanding some of the highest rates from among the gentlemen of The Realm. While she never disclosed her actual earnings, her work in the virtual world was rumored to be at least middle-seven-figures before she stopped.

  They existed in two worlds. The Realm moderated its own content. If a player could not prove to be over 18 with an ID on file, he or she could not activate the Adult Oriented content. It just didn't exist. Every island is rated based on content and until approved, a third of The Realm exists as inaccessible or invisible.

  "Why are you here," I asked – meaning a party where people had no idea who they were or what status they held.

  "We love the adventure," Gina replied, missing my point. "But we not only make some money here, but we can play out our fantasies. Chet can be in New York on a commercial shoot and I can be home in L.A. but we both can visit a new world together, have sex on a beach, or go fight in a war! It's fun! How about you?"

  I shrugged. They never asked about me. They took me for just another newb who happened to be closer to their age and, perhaps, experience. "I fell into this by accident. I might want to speak to both of you later about setting up a homestead or something."

  Whoever stepped up behind me must have been important to Chet and Gina because they looked up in surprise and stood a little straighter. My importance to the moment evaporated.

  Ezrin took my arm and spun around my side. "Hey," she said. "I'm done here. You want to stick around or…?" She held the suggestion to get the hell out like a lungful of air.

  "Ezrin, do you know…" I gestured to Chet and Gina who were wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

  "Yeah, hey." She waved at them. "Gina and Chet. They sold Park his estate."

  "Hello, Ezrin," they stumbled over each other in greeting.

  Gina touched my chest. "My goodness. That means you're Lord Wynncase."

  I nodded.

  Chet looked between the two of us, then back to Ezrin. "Lord Wynncase!"

  Suddenly. I was somebody. Suddenly, I was Candace Hilligoss in the pavilion surrounded by silent specters turning, slowly turning, toward me with eyes full of hunger and bad intent.

  Suddenly, it was bed time and we made our escape.

  ~

  The first thing I learned about cosplay is that it is important to buy comfortable boots; never buy them online or have someone pick them out. After eight hours standing on concrete, it can mean the difference between slight discomfort and requiring a fucking chain saw to remove leather and wood from swollen feet and ankles.

  Ezrin crossed the room in heels, back straight, shoulders square, her voice low and regal, continuing our conversation from the elevator. I hobbled along pretending not to be in pain. "As I said, the women of my tribe are strong-willed. I require more than a young man content to simply rut inside me for a short time and be done."

  She strutted across the sitting room to the foot of my chair, gracefully dropped to a knee and placed a hand on each of my thighs. It was a vintage Hollywood close-up that still creates a tingle many years later as she whispered, "It is known of my culture that if a man cannot satisfy his woman before he himself is satisfied, the woman will Rage and kill her mate in bed. Some of the more rural villages will eat their mates out of contempt for their lack of virility."

  Ezrin rose to her full height and with hands gliding behind her back, she unfastened the clasps of her gown. It fell to the floor, exhausted. Apparently, the women of her clan wore no undergarments. And clearly many of their women defied gravity.

  "I, personally, cannot be assuaged until the shock of that tiny death takes me three or more times. If you climax before then, I.." She offered me a sympathetic glance that, in the moment I took to be both affection and fear for my own wellbeing. "I crushed my last lover between my thighs. He died days later in exquisite agony."

  "Good to know, though it's hard to tell sometimes if you're talking as yourself or the Queen."

  She stood at my feet, posing with a hand on one hip. The other smoothed the front of her poufy shirt as if to remind me what was underneath. She dipped down and toward me. My heart leaped as she moved in, the smell of her perfume billowing over me in the flash of wild rusty hair. I couldn’t help but gasp a little and earned the sly smile on her face as she stood back up holding her shirt and heels in her hands.

  "Good night, Winston."

  ~

  When I lay down, I didn't want to sleep. The scotch wasn't making a dent in my nervous energy.

  I used to like going to bed with some energy left. In the quiet dark, I could go over the events of the day and plan the next, work out things in my head. Working through things that way felt a little like counting sheep because I'd fall asleep taking ideas into my dreams and wake up sometimes with fully-formed plans in my head.

  Since the hospital, I hate it. I hate laying down with nothing left to do for the day. If I stay too long, I think back to the weeks I spent in bed unable to get out. I would dream of hospital fires and being left behind. I'd think about all the fun things my friends and coworkers were doing. Some nights, I'd hear The Shadows creeping through the halls of the hospital, stopping in at each ward, peeking into each room to see who was ready to go away with them and who they could snatch away in the night.

  That night in the hotel was different. I kept thinking about Ezrin. I thought about her freckles and her big blue eyes. I thought about her tiny waist and the erect, round bulbs of her nipples with very little of the flowery areolas. I thought about the neatly-trimmed square of red hair between her legs. And I thought about her razor-sharp smile cut between blood-red lips. Was it a dare...or a challenge? An invitation?

  My brain and body agreed that sleep would not be an option until that matter was decided. What is this new feeling? Why was my heart racing in my chest as these dark, lusty thoughts held my attention? Why, I was...horny. I'd almost forgotten how it felt to want someone after years of convincing myself that such desires would not end well. I could think of a hundred things I'd rather do than spend fifteen minutes grunting and thrusting into Claire's bored vagina. And I'm sure Claire's list was much longer. Whenever she did want to "get close", Claire's efforts did not come from some natural urge in her dusty plumbing but in an adage shared by her mother that a married couple must join in the Biblical act of Knowing lest their eyes and hearts stray...or some such aphoristic crap that Claire would recite to herself while locked in the bathroom afterward douching away my dead seed.

  I wanted to feel something good. A human touch, a kiss, feel warm breath and wet skin, a connection like the beach, but this time with feeling...with passion. In the quiet of my room and the smell of Ezrin's perfume still in the air, I wanted to seize her in my arms and learn just how serious she was about serving me.

  Freedom from consequence unleashes the true character within us. It was the temptation of the lie. The excuse of a role, the mutually accepted illusion of power had me thinking like the other people in this place. Another man, perhaps Alan Horus, would already be in there and inside her. The mask of our characters, I realized, was a pow
erful drug, almost like the thrill of being an anonymous stalker online, hiding behind an IP address.

  And I shut the idea out of my head and began assembling the puzzle of Aeternus in my mind. The people and the world, interconnected, created a truth that only Parker knew about and expected me to learn. And soon.

  ~

  I woke up following one of my dream about showing up for work naked with surgical tubes stuck to my head, check and wrists. It was a dream so frequent I had gotten used to apologizing to my terrified dreamscape coworkers and telling them to calm down, that the dream would end as soon as all the blood finished bleeding out the tubes. When it did and the moment of waking amnesia passed, I sat up from the sofa and walked over to the desk that had held "the magic book." I anchored it to the keyboard attachment, plugged in the mouse, and turned it on.

  I logged into my Realm account. With the sound muted, I didn't hear the expensive epic fantasy soundtrack accompanying the manly image of Alan Horus astride a two-headed war horse reared back and ready to lead an army into a battle out of frame. The hundreds of figures behind him in the distance represented the users and residents of the realm. Once the status bar completed its trip across my screen, the page went dark a moment before depositing me in my "Home" location - a little apartment like the one I sat in. Instead of a digital pad, my cheesy generic avatar held a fat hardcover book. I clicked on the book.

  Lord Wynncase, Courtier. My picture looked like something the police might circulate to find a bank robber. I don't know when they got it, but I'm sure Huan picked it specifically for its lack of flattery.

  The executive dashboard provided two worlds of information - the In-World realm where life consisted of pixels and vectors on a farm of servers scattered around the world and the Realm itself made up of members in the meatverse converged in Vegas for the event.