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B a n s h e e [JakexKyra] |
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“I saw a woman in our room last night.” Jake Amidio half-shut his eyes in contentment as his girlfriend’s fingers threaded slowly through his hair, absently combing out the tangles that edged that thick, straight mop of black-as-pitch hair. Kyra arched a brow, shifting about uncomfortably as the baby gave her another good, solid kick. If she knew, for a fact, that Jake didn’t play football, she would have accused him of passing on his insanity for the sport. As it was, she could blame no-one but Mother Nature, and that grated horribly on her frazzled nerves. What on earth had possessed her to agree to this? Had she taken leave of her senses or something? “What was she like?” She turned her attentions to the conversation, certain, that, if she kept dwelling on the fact that the baby was due next week, she wouldn’t be able to overcome the urge to wrap her hand around Jake’s throat and throttle him. “Huh?” Jake opened one large, foreign eye, and stared at her blearily through jade-green irises. His mouth, full and lushly sensual, shifted into a thoughtful pout as he said, almost warily “She had long, black hair and white skin. Oh, and I think she was a ghost. She didn’t look like one… It just felt… odd. Cold. I think I’ve seen her before.” Kyra paused, her fingers stilling in Jake’s hair. She bobbed her spiky-haired head slightly to the right; her eyes, currently hidden behind yellow contact lenses, widened slightly. “Ghosts… aren’t unusual here in New Orleans. In this house. But, I’ve never heard of this one. Maybe you saw a banshee instead.” “Aren’t those bad news?” Jake rolled onto his front, unable to resist rubbing his lips gently over the rounded bump of her stomach, unable to stop the slight, slight smile from curling the edges of that kiss-my-a** mouth. Kyra was having a baby. His baby. One they’d made together. One they’d raise together. For a person who hated the larger portion of the human race, Jake actually adored kids. They struck some deep, primal chord in him, stirred a softened instinct, and if it was up to him, he’d have as many kids as he could. Though, he’d probably have to devise a new way to get Kyra to agree to the next one. She had a soft heart, but she was no fool, and she wasn’t going to fall for the same old trick twice. “Uh-huh.” Kyra resisted the urge to shiver when his mouth brushed her skin, when his fingers slid up her thigh to slowly rub soothing circles on her stomach. “Banshees are heard singing before someone in the family dies.” Jake’s brows winged up. “Do you believe in that sort of thing?” Kyra’s grin was Sunday-morning lazy. “I’m Irish, baby. Of course I do.” “But you’re not worried.” “Sure I am.” Lazily, Kyra reached over to cup his chin, and leaned closer, her lips just grazing his as she spoke. “But I’ll take my chances. Banshees only attack if it’s something or someone well past their expiration date.” Aware of the baby, Jake pushed himself up on his hands, and met her lips with his own. Her lips parted invitingly beneath his, the kiss switching from an innocent rub to hot and wild and full of mindless need in an instant. It had been that sort of kiss, he remembered fuzzily, that had led to the creation of the baby. On a low sigh, Kyra ran her hands slowly down Jake’s back, feeling ropey muscle ripple beneath her long, pianist’s fingers, revelling in the texture of smooth skin, the clean scent of soap that mingled with another scent that was uniquely and totally his. Her eyes glowed with dreamy, good-natured lust. Her mouth curved up as she pulled back, shifted completely beneath him to n** at the thick pulse beating in his throat. A moan leaked out into the air, the source of the noise unintelligible. His legs languidly tangled with hers, his hands anchoring in her spiky hair as though she were a sturdy life-line in a wintry sea. And she saw, just for a moment, she saw blood and death. The room practically stunk of that scent, of that evil, evil scent. And there was loss, a wicked, burning fist of it squeezing her heart. There was pain, a single, silencing slash across the throat. And she heard, clear as a bell, the first notes of a beautiful, wailing symphony, a sound of heartbreak and tears and grief. And she was back in her own room again, safe as can be, with Jake blinking down at her like he’d just woken up from a deep sleep. “Ky….?” He asked uncertainly, and was about to bob his head down when Kyra clutched at his hand. This pain was new and horrible, dredging out inside her body in a single, dizzying wave. If it had been up to her, she would have curled up tight into a sphere, but the bulge of her stomach disallowed it. The rain, which had been pattering softly on the window, seemed to bang like fists. The wind, a demonic howl through the trees, seemed to rise through shrieking point as Jake hurriedly pulled away, and felt something click. Kyra was having the baby. Oh, god. What were they going to do? There was no doctor to look after her, no midwife to help her with that stupid breathing thing they went batty for in the classes. There was no-one. And then he remembered. Kyra’s mother was a doctor. She’d help. She had to help. “I’ll be right back, babe.” He slid off the bed, and gripped the edge of the table when his legs threatened to bow out from underneath him. He turned his head, looked at her, at those big eyes glazed over with pain, at the way she held herself, rigidly, into a ball, at the way she was trembling, and hoped to God she’d be alright.
It was two o’clock in the morning. Jake hadn’t been able to stop pacing for the last hour. He didn’t know what was going on in Kyra’ s room, but he knew it had to hurt; the screams were all but bouncing off the walls. And through that screaming, he heard singing, soft and beautiful and distressingly sad. He scowled. Now was not the time for Kyra’s mother to ******** sing, not when her daughter was in so much ******** pain and the life of their baby was being jeopardized. He sent up prayers. He refused the coffee one of Kyra’s cousins brought him. He didn’t need to be anymore wired than he was. And when the door swung open like a silent ghost, he couldn’t turn, not fully. He didn’t want to hear bad news, and what with such an impromptu birth, he doubted there would be anything good to report. Kyra’s mother was a tall, statuesque woman with a face of quiet beauty. Her hair, a bold auburn, was skinned back into a long pony-tail. Stray barbs exploded around her face like crazy straws. And she had the biggest, brightest smile on her face. “A girl.” Tiredly, Glenna scrubbed the back of her hand over her sweaty forehead. “She’s a beautiful young thing, Jake. You can go in to see her now, Kyra’s just resting.” Relief had his shoulders slumping, his lips bowing up, as he stepped through the doorway, and shut the door softly behind him. When he turned, however, he was met with a viciously-irate woman curled up in an old, patterned quilt with a bundle of pink in her arms. The murder in Kyra’s eyes made Jake decide, quite firmly, that he should stay on his side of the room, where he was out of reach. “You ******** b*****d.” She sounded as though she spoke through gritted teeth. In her arms, the bundle squirmed. Jake tried one of his signature grins. It usually worked on her when she was in a temper, but this time, she was seriously, and completely, pissed off at him. He could see it in the tight wind of her shoulders, the rigidness of her stance, the hot blood in her eyes. God, she was beautiful when she was angry, though that probably wasn’t the path to go down right now. Instead, he settled for edging closer, hands lifted in a gesture of peace. “Can I just see the baby?” “Sod off. You and your shagging c**k. I swear to god, I’ll slice it off if you ever get near me again.” “Awww, come on, Ky. It wasn’t that bad.” Clearly that was not the thing to see. Her eyes narrowed into ferocious slits, her mouth thinned out, as she pinned him with a long, lethal stare. “If I could get up” she said in a deliberately slow, deliberately calm voice “I’d kill you.” It was three-thirty in the morning. Kyra’s temper had finally dissolved just slightly enough to let Jake crowd into bed with her. Watching him coo and croon over the bundle of blankets and baby had done a good job of evening out the rest of her awesome wrath, and she rested her head sleepily against his shoulder as he moved close enough for her to do so. The after-shocks of the pain swam softly, sickeningly in her veins. Sometimes, a burst of anguish would take over her body, so suddenly, so ferociously, she thought she’d die from it. But then it would pass, and there was nothing more but the sound of the baby crying and Jake’s nonsensical babbles. They’d decided on Enya long ago. The name was perfect for her, Kyra thought now as she watched the little face, with eyes the sharp green of her father’s, watch Jake’s attentively, as though he were some sort of divine god. She looked very much like an Enya. “You should put her to bed.” Kyra’s voice was raspy from the strain of birth. She nodded over to a crib set in the corner beneath a window that overlooked the swamp, and watched him through sleepy eyes as he walked over, and set the baby down. A few more moments of babbling had passed before he was back in bed with her. She snuggled into him, and winced, partially, when his hand brushed across the underside of her stomach. Just the merest stroke was enough to have her weeping in pain. “Je t’aime.” She mumbled, sleepily. “I love you too, Kyra. Oh…I heard your mother singing.” He whispered to her, and planted a soft, sweet kiss on her temple. “During the birth. She’s got a bad-a** voice.” Kyra, whom was drifting off into a soundless, dreamless sleep, didn’t tell him that her mother had barely opened her mouth during the birth.
It was five o’clock in the morning. Jake had no idea what had woken him up from such a deep sleep, and he merely shook his head in irritation, and listened carefully for any sound of the baby sobbing. There was nothing at all. Nothing but the sound of that low, sweet singing. He turned to his side, expecting to see Kyra’s half of the bed empty. Expecting to see her at the crib, singing. But there she was, curled up like a prawn. Something about her didn’t strike him as being normal. She was so cold. Her lips were all but turning blue from it. He tilted his head down, to press a kiss to her throat like he normally did. And found no pulse. He pulled back, stared. The fatigues of birth had left a fine sheen of sweat on her face. Her lips were parted, just enough to look as though she were inviting a kiss. Her eyes were shut, and serene. Her cheeks were oddly colourless. “No… come on, Kyra… No, baby, wake up.” Desperately, he shook her shoulder. Please wake up. He prayed it. Wake up and yell at me some more. “Come on, baby, come on… wake up.. Kyra… Ky… Wake up…”
It was six o’clock in the morning, and Jake had never felt worse. The bright chirps and twitters of the birds had granted him a headache sharp enough and horrible enough to feel as though his head were being split open. But that was nothing, nothing at all, to how he felt at the moment. Kyra was dead. Internal bleeding, the nameless, emotionless doctor had said. The problem of birth. She died of natural causes. She hadn’t felt any pain. What the ******** did it matter? She wasn’t there anymore. She wasn’t there to help him raise their baby, there to laugh with him, to listen to his music, to ******** love him anymore. He couldn’t even feel her. He couldn’t even bare to think of her. It was his fault. He’d pushed her into the birth. He shouldn’t have done it. She’d be alive if she hadn’t had Enya. She’d still be alive… And he remembered something she’d told him just before the birth. ‘Banshees are heard singing before someone in the family dies.’ And he heard, like a heart-broken ghost, the melancholy wailing drift softly through the trees.
[ ~ Hope ~ ] · Sun Nov 11, 2007 @ 08:19pm · 0 Comments |
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