Rhapsody
Lyn Nichols
The blue light shining on the stage dimmed as the last chords of the music faded. The stripper held her final pose--hips thrust forward, legs spread wide, head tossed back, arms reaching skyward--until the last of the light and music trailed into darkness, then, grabbing up her discarded costumery, she slipped off the stage.
Desultory applause followed her exit. Grant clapped his hands a few times then signaled for the waitress to bring him another bourbon and Coke. It had been a waste of time to come here, he thought as he fished a five out of his pocket and set it on the table. John had said there were a few terrific dancers here--dancers that could do justice to his music. He hadn't seen any he'd let near his stuff, and doubted he would. Not here. Not tonight.
The stage lights flashed through a rainbow of colors and then went completely dark, casting the stage in deep shadow. Grant looked up, his weary attention caught by the momentary shimmer, curious despite himself. Slowly, a red light bled onto the stage, spotlighting a shapeless black form standing still at center stage.
The form remained motionless as the red light pulsed, each strobe slightly brighter than the last. The dancer, draped head to foot in a flowing black robe, seemed to pulse with the light. Grant was startled to realize that a deep bass beat--like a heart throbbing--accompanied the pulsing light.
As the beat of the music became louder and the dancer's movements more pronounced, the background chatter within the nightclub died away. Grant sat up, intrigued, as the dancer's robe slipped from her head to her shoulders to her waist. Long white hair swirled around her body as a flute wove itself into the heart-throb bass. Her long, lean back swayed and Grant recognized the tenor call of a clarinet.
As more instruments found their way into the music, more of the dancer's body was revealed until the robe lay like a black puddle on the stage floor behind her feet. And still, she only swayed, her hair writhing around her hips and waist, as the tension in the music, in the room, rose.
A crash of drums, a blaze of flashing lights. The music and the dancer came to life. Grant was transfixed. Every sound, every movement was joined; never had he seen music brought to life so well. He was seeing the music, hearing the dance, feeling both in the deep heartbeat that continued to throb at the core of the composition.
With an effort, Grant pulled himself from the hypnotizing effects of the music, lights, and dance to concentrate on the dancer. He reached for his drink, surprised to find the waitress had brought his refill without him noticing. He looked back at the stage, sipping. The dancer was almost completely naked, only a g-string covering her mons.
The music teased him, hauntingly familiar and yet, not. What was it? Who was the composer? The notes took unexpected turns, racing up the scale when he would have expected them to hold, flats and sharps sneaking in where they shouldn't have fit, and yet did, perfectly. Interesting. Compelling. Maddening. And the dancer matched the music perfectly.
He forced himself to ignore the music and look at her.
She was tall and lean, and so very, very pale. Milk white, bone white, death white. She moved with the boneless grace of a predator, sliding through the music as an owl slips through the night or a shark slides through water. Her sinuous movements threatened to pull him into the music's spell once more and he blinked, narrowing his vision only to her face as it appeared and disappeared again under the flowing mass of her white hair. The only colors on her were her lips and her eyes and her fingernails. Lips and nails so very red, eyes so very black.
Grant studied her, watching her movements, measuring her against the music without allowing himself to be swept away by their mating. Long, long legs. Narrow hips. Breasts that he would have thought too small for a stripper. Everything about her suggested strength and frailty, heat and ice. Life and death.
Without warning, lights and music vanished, leaving the stage a dim cave once more. Only the throbbing beat and the pulsing white of the dancer remained. Grant grabbed the table edge as she seemed to collapse upon herself, then disappeared into the inky black.
I have to meet her, he thought. She's perfect. She's the one to dance my Impulsion. The only possible one. No one else could possibly bring its every nuance to life. She has to agree. She has to.
Grant stood, almost upsetting the small cocktail table in his haste. He ignored the two burly bouncers that watched him as he pushed his way to the bar. He was used to their reactions. Big men were an occupational hazard for them, and Grant was bigger than most men. He reached the bar and signaled, catching the bartender's attention.
"That girl, the dancer with the white hair. Who is she? What's her name?" he asked.
"The last one?" the bartender asked, pouring a shot of tequila into a glass. Grant nodded. "That was Silka. She's something else, isn't she?"
"Yes. Fantastic," Grant agreed, nodding. "I need to meet her. I have to talk to her."
"Not likely," the bartender laughed, pouring orange juice over the tequila. "Our girls are off limits." He dribbled grenadine into the juice and handed it to a waiting waitress.
"No," Grant said. "It's not like that. I need to talk to her."
"Sure, pal. That's what they all say."
The bartender moved down the bar to tend to another customer, dismissing Grant with a laugh. Grant suppressed the urge to slam his fist into the bar and muttered a curse under his breath.
"Hey." A female voice and a hand on his arm. Grant turned toward the source of both. "Dancers don't mess with the customers," a short brunette in cocktail waitress uniform said, her faded blue eyes desperately searching his face. Grant noticed needle marks on her arm. Her name badge said Brenda. "But I'll be off in an hour." She smiled a promise and exposed crooked teeth. Grant started to pull away, and checked himself, leaned toward her instead.
"Can you take a message to Silka for me?" he asked. She pouted and started to turn away. Grant caught her wrist. "I'll pay you ten bucks to take my card to her."
The little brunette eyed him over her shoulder before turning back and leaning against him, pressing her tits into his arm. "Silka's a cold bitch," she whispered. "Not like me. I'll treat you really good." She slid a hand down toward his crotch.
Grant caught her hand and folded a twenty into it. "Listen. All I want is for you to take this card to her." He paused and scribbled a note on the back of the card and held it out to her. "Please."
Brenda took the card and read it. "You're a composer?" She looked at him again. This time her eyes held dollar signs. "I can dance, too."
"Fine," Grant said, pulling another card from his pocket. "Call me tomorrow, and we'll set up an audition for you." He handed her the second card. "Now. Will you take my card to Silka?"
She stared at the card for a moment, then shrugged, accepting defeat. "Sure," she said. "I'll take it."
Grant watched as she threaded her way through the crowded club and into a hallway leading backstage. He glanced at the stage where a dark-haired dancer was up, peeling her glittery costume off to a recording of Santana's Black Magic Woman. Grant sighed and returned to his table.
He watched two more dancers and finished his drink while a third undulated to the Eagles' Hotel California. He was trying to decide whether to order another drink or just leave when a hand touched him on the shoulder. He turned toward it hoping, no, expecting to see the dancer, Silka, standing behind him. Brenda shrugged apologetically and handed him his card back. He looked at it. "I'm flattered, but no," was written in old-fashioned script across the bottom.
"I'm still available," Brenda purred into his ear. "And I'm off work now."
What the hell and why not? Grant thought, standing and swaying slightly. He pulled Brenda close and aimed for the door. Right now, the dancing he was interested in didn't take a lot of talent, and Brenda would suit as well as anyone. He could enjoy Aerosmith if he couldn't have Vivaldi.
"Hey." A female voice and a hand on his arm. Grant turned toward the source of both. "Dancers don't mess with the customers," a short brunette in cocktail waitress uniform said, her faded blue eyes desperately searching his face. Grant noticed needle marks on her arm. Her name badge said Brenda. "But I'll be off in an hour."
For the next three nights Grant sat in the bar watching Silka dance. Each night she danced to something new and different--a blues tune one night, hard rock the next, a reggae song the following night--and each night he was more convinced that she had to dance to his composition.
Impulsion was perfect for her. She was perfect for it.
Each night he sent his card backstage, begging her to at least listen to his music. Each night she refused him. And each night he took what solace he could find in the eager warmth of Brenda's well-used body.
On the fourth night, he didn't send his card backstage. When Silka finished her number, he left the club. He didn't go far; just around the corner where he could watch the stage door. He leaned against the side of the building and prepared to wait. If I can just talk to her, he reasoned, she'll change her mind.
An hour passed, and then another. Grant toyed with the idea that she had become an obsession. He laughed at the thought. No, his only obsession was his music, and finding someone who could make his music come to life was an extension of that.
Another half-hour ticked past and finally the stage door opened. Several people exited. Most of them turned toward the parking lot at the rear of the building, but Silka went the opposite direction. She wore tight blue-jeans tucked into ankle length high-heeled boots, and a lightweight, white jacket.
She walked quickly, her high-heels clicking on the concrete sidewalk. Grant waited until she had reached the corner and turned before pushing away from the wall and following.
He followed her for twenty minutes as she moved steadily toward the downtown area. Not a safe place for a lady, he thought. Silka walked confidently, passing drunks and young punks without seeming to notice them. Grant was sure the only reason they didn't bother him was because of his size. At six-and-a-half feet and two-eighty, not many people were brave enough--or stupid enough--to challenge him. Why they didn't bother her, Grant couldn't imagine.
Silka turned another corner and Grant walked faster, afraid of losing her. He reached the corner and almost fell in his haste to stop. Silka stood half a block down, talking to a man. Casually, Grant crossed to the other side of the street and slowly ambled toward them, watching.
The man Silka spoke with lurched slightly and caught himself. He said something, and Silka laughed. Grant paused. Her laughter was like her dancing, sultry and dangerous. She laughed again and took the man's arm. He pulled her close, his hand sliding down over her ass before leading her farther up the block. Something like jealousy knotted in Grant's stomach.
Grant followed, frowning, as Silka let the drunken man fondle her as they walked the half-block it took to reach a cheap-looking, dirty motel. Grant ducked into a shadowed doorway across from them and watched.
The man laughed and pulled Silka against him, his hands disappearing underneath her light jacket. She laughed again and stepped back, shaking her head. She pointed to the lobby and made shooing motions with her hands. The man reached for her again, but she neatly sidestepped out of his reach. He shrugged, laughing, and entered the cracked-glass door as Silka moved out of the flickering light of the buzzing neon to wait.
Grant waited with her, hidden in the alcove across the street. He swallowed back bitter bile as he thought of that man's hands touching her body. Stop it, he told himself. She's just a dancer. She's just the movements you want for your music. She's nothing to you beyond that.
When the man emerged from the lobby, dangling a room key, Grant decided it was time to go home. And yet, he waited, watching as they crossed the parking lot and entered a room. Finally, he stepped out of the alcove, but instead of retracing his steps to the club and his car, he crossed the street and stared at the door they had entered. Room 3.
Without meaning to, telling himself he was crazy and would end up in jail if caught, he slipped into the weedy alley that ran behind the room they had entered. Their room was easy to find; it was the only one with lights on. He called himself a fool and told himself to go home, even as he knelt beside the window and peered inside. He was surprised to find that he could see the entire room.
The man wasn't in sight. Grant assumed he was in the bathroom. Silka had taken off her jacket. She wore a long-sleeved blouse with poet's sleeves. As Grant watched, she pulled something out of her small purse--a cassette player--and set it on the table. She dropped her purse beside it.
Grant heard the toilet flush and the man stepped into the room, wearing a smile, socks, and an erection. Silka smiled and pressed the button on the small tape-player. Grant recognized the lead-in to the Eagles' song, Desperado.
"C'mere, baby-doll," the man slurred, reaching for Silka. "Lemme help you outa all them clothes."
"I'm a dancer," Silka said, her voice deep and husky. She lightly pushed the man back until he sat on the edge of the bed. "Let me dance for you, first." She swayed as she backed away from him, her fingers playing with the buttons on her shirt. The man started to push himself off the bed, but something--a look from Silka, perhaps?--stopped him. He stared at her as she moved before him, slowing stripping her shirt off her shoulders. Grant grinned in sympathetic understanding as the man began stroking his engorged cock.
Grant was as drawn to Silka's dance here in this seedy motel room as he had been in the club. His own cock stirred with the first twinges of desire. He glanced at the man, expecting to see the same rapt fascination mirrored on his face.
He didn't expect to see an expression of terror.
Grant glanced at Silka, and then the man again. She had stopped dancing and was moving toward the man. He sat, motionless, staring, eyes wide with fear, as Silka approached. Her white poet's blouse hung from the waistband of her jeans.
As Silka leaned toward the man, his mouth opened as if he wanted to scream, but no sound came forth. Silka placed one hand on his shoulder and one on the side of his head, tilting it to the side and back. The man's hands twitched in his lap, clenching around his swollen cock.
Silka's head dipped toward the man's neck, her mouth open to reveal long, sharp canines. A primal, visceral spasm of dread raced through Grant's veins as he stared at Silka's fangs. He tensed, wanting to pull away, wanting to run and run and run. But he couldn't. As Silka's teeth punctured the naked man's neck, strains of sweet eerie music, his music, wormed into Grant's head. The man jerked once and ejaculated, his come spurting onto his stomach, mixing with the blood that ran from his neck.
Grant watched, horrified, mesmerized, fascinated, as Silka fed. And as he watched, music, a new composition, built within his mind.
Grant crouched beside the window, his head full of the notes and slides of Silka's music as he witnessed her cool and deliberate murder of a drunken man. Several times, she stepped back from the man--eyes half-closed and a rapt smile on her bloodied lips--and danced, slowly and seductively, her hands running lightly over her breasts and ribs and the tight hips and thighs of her jeans. Then, she would feed some more.
Despite his terror, Grant felt himself hardening, savored the tight pull of desire in his groin. And still, alien and beautiful music poured into him. His hands itched for paper on which to capture the notes, his fingers flexed, straining for the keys of his piano, wanting to bring this beauty and fear into form. Instead, he rubbed himself, increasing the sharp pangs of desire and strengthening the lines of his music.
One last time, Silka lowered her mouth to the gashes in the man's neck and drank. The man was gray now, and limp, his eyes open, blindly staring. Gently, Silka lowered him to the bed and kissed his brow as his chest convulsed with his last gasping breath.
As she stood looking down on the man, Grant noticed the flush of color in Silka's white skin. She danced slowly to the strains of Carol King's Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? as she pulled her shirt back up and buttoned it, never taking her eyes from the dead man. Grant could see her lips moving to the words of the song.
Suddenly, Silka turned toward the window where Grant crouched. Her eyes--black in her flushed face--met his. Run! his mind shouted to his body, but he couldn't move. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and his heart felt like it would explode in his chest. He couldn't breathe! And still, Silka's song played in his head.
Silka licked the last of the blood from her red lips and smiled at Grant. It was a horrifyingly understanding smile. A chill of dread fingered Grant's spine as he recognized his own death in that smile. He pushed himself away from the window with a gasp of in-drawn breath, the cold air searing his lungs. Run! He scrambled to his feet and ran. He ran without direction or reason, shoving late night walkers out of his way and dodging cars as he careened across streets and through intersections.
And the music Silka had inspired played on and on and on.
Somehow, he found himself back at the parking lot behind the dance club. His side pinched painfully with every sobbing breath as he fumbled for his car keys. Every sound jerked him around, wide eyed, staring into the shadows. Finally, he got the car door open and threw himself inside, closing and locking the doors.
The dark interior of his Firebird wrapped him in an embrace of safety and security. He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes, willing his breathing to slow, his heart to stop its pounding, his body to stop its shuddering.
Music screamed in his mind, scales and chords he would have thought impossible before tonight.
As the first lemon-stained hints of morning streaked the sky, Grant started his car and drove home. He was eager to reach his piano, desperate to record the music that swirled and raged like a caged beast inside him. He would write, and then, then he would sleep.
And tonight, he told himself, tonight I'll look for a new dancer, someone to dance to Vampire's Rhapsody, Silka's song.
"You want me to dance for you." She stared into his eyes. He thought he could see a flicker of red--like flames--within the black. "You know what happens when I dance for a man."
Grant stood for a long time outside the nightclub where Silka danced before entering. He selected a table in the front, near the hallway leading backstage. In his shirt pocket, a cassette tape pressed against his chest. He could hear its twisted threnodies and convoluted chordings even over the loud blare of the club's speakers. A glass of scotch and melting ice sat on the table before him.
He hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, and the small amount of scotch he had sipped burned in his stomach. His body vibrated with exhaustion, exhilaration, and fear.
He knew he was crazy for coming, but nothing, nothing could have kept him away. Not when the music burned in his veins and his heart yearned to have it brought to life. Nothing, not even dying, could stop him from sharing this newest composition with her. This was the moment he had lived for. He knew without question that this was the finest music he had ever written, would ever write.
A shiver of anticipation raced through him as the lights on the stage dimmed and he felt the low doubled-thump of a heart-beat bass. A dark, robe-swathed figure appeared in the darkness and was gradually lighted in dim, pulsing red.
Silka saw him the first time she turned toward the audience; Grant could feel the power and heat in her gaze. The music in his soul played louder, drowning out all other sound. Silka's eyes sought his whenever her dance allowed. Grant's breath rasped in his chest, hot and heavy with fear and need. Finally, the lights dimmed and her dance ended.
A waitress came up to his table and handed him a folded piece of paper. He held it, his hands shaking, almost afraid to open it. As the latest dancer on stage made love to an invisible lover, Grant unfolded the note.
"Meet me at the stage door. Five minutes," the note read in Silka's familiar script. The signature was a stylized "S."
Grant refolded the note and slid it into his pocket next to the cassette tape. He finished his drink. Silence filled his mind. He tried to find the quiet terror that had been his constant companion for the last twenty-four hours. He tried to summon the music that was his reason for being here.
Nothing.
He pushed away from the table and stood. It was time. He waded through the press of people, blindly seeking the exit. Once outside, he rounded the corner toward the backstage door.
Silka stood under the street lamp, waiting for him. She wore jeans again, and boots, and a loose turquoise sweater that hid the supple curves of her body. Her hair was pulled back and held by a fuzzy turquoise band. Grant was struck suddenly by how young she looked.
"You are either very brave, or a fool," she said as he approached. Her voice was like the rest of her: husky, low and supple. Grant stopped and shrugged.
"A fool, perhaps," he said. His heart thumped in his chest. "Or a genius."
"You saw me last night. You know what I am." It wasn't a question. Grant nodded and suppressed a tremor of fear. "I should have killed you, you know." She shook her head and stared at him. "I don't know why I let you run."
Grant reached into his pocket and withdrew the tape he had made.
"This is why," he said, holding the tape out to her. He tried to keep his hand from shaking as she took it from him. Her touch was icy; it burned his hand.
"You want me to dance for you." She stared into his eyes. He thought he could see a flicker of red--like flames--within the black. "You know what happens when I dance for a man."
"I know." Grant couldn't take his eyes from hers. "Will you dance for me?"
Silka smiled and looked away. "Take me somewhere."
Grant led her to his car, a part of him curiously calm, another part gibbering and howling in mindless terror. He drove to his home, neither of them willing to break the silence between them. Grant glanced at her occasionally, but Silka kept her face averted, staring out the window at the passing buildings. He parked the car and opened her door. She followed him up the flight of stairs to his apartment, brushing against him like a freezing wind as he held the door open for her to enter.
Grant's apartment was an open studio, wood-floored, sparsely furnished. His piano sat silent in the corner, waiting.
Silka looked around as Grant flipped a switch. Soft white light illuminated the center of the room. She walked slowly toward the light, her heels clicking against the wood floor.
"I could make you like me, you know," Silka said as she pulled the band from her hair and shook it loose. She turned to face him. "I could do that instead of killing you. That's what you want, isn't it? That's why you brought me here."
Grant nodded. "But will you?" he asked.
"If I like your music," she said, pulling her sweater off and tossing it into shadows. "If I like it enough to want more." She bent and pulled off her boots, sent them sliding after her sweater.
"You'll like it. I promise."
"You would be better wishing I don't like it too much," she said, smiling that chilling smile she had given him the night before. "You should hope I don't lose myself in it and forget you aren't supposed to die."
Grant shivered at her words as he crossed to the high-tech recording equipment that rested beside the piano. There was no going back now. He took a breath and hit the play button.
"I'll take that chance," he said.
His composition, written for Silka's ears and his eyes, swelled and filled every corner of the room. She turned toward him, her eyes wide with pleasure as the music wrapped itself around her.
"This is mine," she whispered, her feet already moving to the subtle sub-themes hidden in the music.
"Dance for me, Silka," Grant whispered, unbuttoning his shirt and exposing his neck, already half-hypnotized by her movements. "Dance to my Rhapsody."
Copyright Lyn Nichols, 1995. All rights reserved. Originally published in the anthology Blood Muse, edited by Esther M. Friesner and Martin H. Greenberg, in hardback by Donald I. Fine, Inc. December 1995. This story has qualified for the preliminary Nebula ballot.
Dreams, Visions, & Nightmares