( 1 )

D’Agosta groaned audibly, his body quivering with the unspent tremor of boredom that was rushing through his veins.

Some f*ck was making a scene at the airport...his airport, today. Probably some payback for Southampton...Why did they always send him on the local rabble sh*t jobs? He was a police officer, not a bellboy. He was Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta.

The ruckus had started when an old lady with a lethal-looking handbag had dragged this deathly, coat-cocooned guy with obscenely pale, feather-fine, oddly mussed hair through the turnstiles and...oh sh*t....   read more »

Proctor heard his name called as he was walking back toward the kitchen, and promptly turned in his tracks. The voice, quiet as always, came from the study. But there was just the slightest tone in that voice. Revealing none of the misgivings that had risen in the short distance between the rooms, Proctor pushed the door open and entered. “Yes?”

His employer sat at his desk, idly twirling a dry sprig of mistletoe between his long, pale index finger and thumb, occasionally brushing it thoughtfully against his chin. His eyes, normally a blue so faint as to almost appear silver, had a darker cast about them. “Proctor, do you remember the woman who gave me this mistletoe last December?”

“Of course.”

“Describe her to me.”

“Medium height. Athletic build. Dark brown hair, thick, worn loose but tucked behind her ears. Bright brown eyes. A scarf in shades of green and gold about her neck. Lined camel-colored trench coat and black leather gloves. Her slacks, visible beneath the hem of her coat, were black, as were her shoes. She carried no purse. She smiled at me, a very pleasant smile. The woman is quite attractive. I would place her age in her thirties.”

“And would...   read more »

“Charles? Are you alright?”

Charles DuChamp struggled against the blackness that had enveloped him with such sickening swiftness. He tried to open his eyes, but the pain forced them to stay shut.

The voice came again, more insistent, but also familiar.

“Charles? Charles?” A cool, dry hand touched his face. “Wake up, Charles.” The voice, soft, mellifluous, with a syrupy New Orleans accent, started to break through the fog that clouded DuChamp’s brain. A sudden surge of elation coursed through his heart when he finally thought he recognized the voice.

“Aloysius?” whispered DuChamp. “Is that you? I thought—.” He opened his eyes to stare at the man bending over him, and cold dread cut through him like a knife.

“I’m afraid not, Charles. Aloysius is otherwise…occupied.”

“Diogenes. B-b-but…you’re supposed to be—.”

“Dead? Such rumors have been greatly exaggerated, I’m afraid.”

DuChamp, his heart pounding in his chest, struggled to back away from Diogenes, but his limbs failed him.

“What have you done to Aloysius? I haven’t heard from him since—.”

“Since he went to Italy, six weeks ago? It seems my brother got himself into a bit of a tight spot. Lucky for him I was there to help.”

“Is he—?”

Diogenes laughed. “Oh, no, he’s fine. No...   read more »

There was a point during his convalescence in his brother’s questionable care, shortly after he’d come to realize in some sort of vague sense where he was and what was going on, when he woke to the feeling of careful hands on his left foot. He’d spent so long consumed by fever dreams and night terrors it was a moment before he was certain that he wasn’t sleeping. Eyelids barely open, he gazed down towards his feet. Diogenes was crouched there, slowly running his fingers along Pendergast’s insole, lips moving silently.

When they were younger, before Diogenes’ illness—for Pendergast still called it such in his mind, even though he now knew it had been something else entirely—he had allowed this frequently. Diogenes had been a student of anatomy even then, and had found his brother’s pale, nearly translucent skin a fascinating source of study. Pendergast, for his part, had been something of a hedonist even in youth, and had enjoyed the contrast between the heavy Louisiana air and Diogenes’ small, cool hands as they followed blood, bone, muscle, and nerves. Sometimes, after there parents had gone to sleep for the night, Pendergast would lie silently on top of his bedclothes, hovering...   read more »

Agent Pendergast looked out
His window at Dakota
When the snow lay all about
Pale as his own scrota
“How I hate the cold,” he hissed.
“What would be the harm
in taking leave of this foul mess
and going someplace warm?”

He invited dear Vincent
They boarded a cruise ship
Just a couple single gents
Avoiding winter's cruel nip
The ship sailed and Vincent paled
For he began to blow chunks
Pendy was consumed with guilt
And quickly packed their trunks.

He chartered a whirlybird
Performed a ship-air pick up
Vincent's fear was quite absurd
Dickens he did kick up
Twirled and kicked and screamed his way
From the deck to the bird
Pendergast was heard to say,
“Oh, Vincent, my word.”

Then the chopper dropped them off
In North Carolina
At their protests, the pilot scoffed,
“Nothing could be finer!
You don't want to see the snow
You want milder weather
This place here will do you fine
Stay with my friend Feather.”

They found Feather's humble site
Dark, and out in the sticks
They asked why she had no light
She lit all her wax wicks
Asked them if they'd like to dance
Trip the light fantastic
Vincent volunteered but he
Proved to be quite spastic.

Feather turned to Pendergast
“Hey, tall, pale, and handsome...
Let's have us a little blast.
You and I can dance some.
Tell your friend to take a nap
His strength...   read more »