Free The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars Page B

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third, I turned the water off and leaned forward with my knuckles
on the vanity as I stood there dripping into the basin.
    The phantom pain in my groin had faded away,
but the sense of arousal had only grown stronger. It was still
distinctly feminine, however, and was as odd to me as it was
pleasant. Of course, it also made me feel terribly ill.
    “Gods, Gant…” I muttered to myself. “Just get
the hell out of here while you’re still sane.”
     
    “Gant?” her honey dipped drawl floats into
my ears. “So that’s who you are.”
    I am still standing at the basin, and I know
the voice has come from behind me. Without bothering to dry my
face, I pick up my glasses and slip them on then turn to look out
into the main room.
    She is perched on the edge of the bed, on
the side nearest me. But, she has changed. Her hair is dark auburn
and piled atop her head in a soft swirl reminiscent of a long ago
era, which matches the high-necked Victorian dress she now wears.
What I see of her face is stern, and far more oval shaped than
before.
    She is seated next to the headboard, and I
can still see the man sprawled out behind her. He appears the same
although there seems to be far more wounds on his body than there
had been before.
    She flickers like a frame jumping on a movie
at the theater.
    Her hair is once again fiery red and long.
She is back to being a scantily dressed mirror image of my wife.
She uncrosses her legs and re-crosses them in the opposite
direction, stretching one out as she does so. She smoothes her
stocking carefully then regards it with little emotion.
    “Damn,” she says, her voice flat. “A
run.”
    She still hasn’t looked in my direction, and
I begin to think that perhaps I was simply hearing things. I begin
to turn away.
    “Where are you going?” she asks.
    I stop and furrow my brow.
    “Yes, I’m talking to you, little man,” she
continues, still without looking at me. Instead she seems to be
intent on the items she has piled on the small table next to
her.
    “Me?” I ask calmly.
    “Yes, you.”
    “How? You aren’t even really here.”
    “You tell me,” she counters. “It’s your
vision, now isn’t it? Ah, there it is…”
    She smiles and holds up a scissors-style
cigar cutter.
    “Right now I think I would prefer to believe
you’re a figment of my imagination,” I tell her.
    She shrugs. “If you want to believe
that.”
    “You left it up to me.”
    She counters with a question. “Yes, I did.
But you aren’t that stupid, now are you?”
    “No.” I shake my head. “Unfortunately, I
don’t suppose I am.”
    She giggles. My answer is
obviously amusing to her. Canting her head to the side but still
not looking in my direction she says, “You belong to her don’t you?”
    It is a statement as much as a question,
however, I ask, “Her who?”
    “The her who is taking what is mine,” she spits. “Felicity,
I believe is what you said.”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking
about.”
    She carefully trims the end
from a cigar then sets it alight. Silence flows between us as I
watch her. A thin stream of blue-white smoke comes from between her
pursed lips as she blows on the glowing tobacco and inspects to see
that it is burning evenly. Placing the lit end in her mouth, she
then exhales slowly through it, sending a cloud of pungent smoke
billowing from the end. I know all too well that she is “smoking
it” for her Lwa .
    After a moment she pulls it from her mouth
and rests it on the edge of the table.
    Again, there is a theatrical flicker, and
the stern, auburn-haired woman is in her place.
    “You’re lying. I think you do know,” she
says as if there had never been a lull in the conversation.
    “Why do you think that?”
    “Because you feel it.”
    “Feel what?”
    She finally looks up at me and smiles
thinly, her dark eyes piercing. Reaching to the side, she takes
hold of the victim’s hand. He is securely bound so he is unable to
pull away, but a horrified