Blood and Sand
Chapter One
The wafting stench of a thousand rotting corpses assaulted Peter Stewart long before he reached the point where pavement met sand. In the moonlight they lay, a million shiny jewels glistening by star light as birds flew off with great chunks of flesh and bone. He edged Nellie into a crack between two other beach goers and threw her into park. No need to put the top up, it never rained in August.
Peter new his sister Martha would already be on the sand examining the corpses and thinking about lunch.
“What a minute!”
“Yes?”
“Martha?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“His sister’s name is Martha Stewart?”
“Is there a problem?”
“Have you lost your mind? There’s a real Martha Stewart and she’s pretty famous. She might not appreciate you using her name like that. I think I have her cookbook around here somewhere.”
“Is that all you have to offer?”
“Just change it; and no ... knew is spelled with a K, dimwit.”
Peter knew his sister MARY would already be on the sand examining the corpses and thinking about lunch.
“What about that?”
“Lunch?”
“Yes, I’m a bit peckish, you?”
“I could nibble. You want me to get it, I assume.”
Stan Ranier watched his girlfriend Emma Filbert drift into the kitchen and extract last night’s chicken from the ice box. She made exquisite chicken salad with pecans and cranberries in a poppy seed dressing. He drooled on his shirt as the thought crossed his mind.
“Can I get a bit of rye cracks with that?” he asked.
“I suppose,” Emma said. Stan thought of her tearing white flesh from bone, separating the fibers and pinching lengths into bite size morsels. She never used knives, instead preferring the feel of the meat on her skin.
“Hurry it up, I’m famished!” said Stan. Of course, he was jibbing her and she knew it and liked it. It aroused them both to push their buttons and when mixed with food, the recipe usually resulted in a wasted afternoon gnawing on each other’s bodies rather than slapping keys and forming phrases.
“Will you hurry up!” he spat again toward the clanks and clangs emanating from the only other room in the apartment.
“Keep your pants up, I’m coming, I’m coming,” she whispered just loud enough that Stan caught the tale end, which caused his pants to shift somewhat expectantly. She emerged plates in hand and dropped lunch in his lap, watching his expression with glee.
“What’s this?” he asked, understandably curious since the plate held no chicken salad with cranberries and pecans and poppy seed dressing but instead sat a tiny cake and one sorry candle tilting off to the right, unlit and formerly burnt.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Emma wailed as she danced and spun through their tiny two-room apartment, flinging chocolate frosting on windowsills and on their cat, Bitsy.
“You remembered,” Stan challenged, stubbing his thumb into the side of the muffin and sucking it clean of frosting.
“I did, and more,” she corrected. “I shopped.” Out came a long, thin box wrapped in foil and secured with a twist tie. She offered it to Stan with a bow, as Guinnivere would have offer Excalibur to Arthur, then plopped it onto his lap. He examined the wrapping while feigning a stronger interest in his cupcake. “Any fire to light it?”
Her smile dimmed some at the question, “Unfortunately, no, sorry.”
“It’s okay. We won’t have to wake Mrs. Martle with the smokies then.” The detectors alarmed at the slightest provocation launching the building’s octogenarian landlord pounding into the halls toward the door of the offending tenant.
“Well? Open it.” Emma prompted while balancing herself on the sofa back mimicking Bitsy’s usual nighttime posture. Stan knew the game and played it well, the rewards for which he hated to miss.
“Maybe we should finish up the chapter first,” he said, setting the parcel down and reaching for the writing tablet. “I left Peter in an awful straight.”
“Not even!” She launched. “Open it or you don’t get what comes next, the operative word being the noun.” Emma’s eyes twinkled when she spoke dirty, even in total darkness, which was always a bit of a mystery to Stan. He hoisted the thin package from the sofa noting its weight. For a moment he felt it move, so slightly he thought it imagination, then it moved again and he nearly dropped the box.
He hadn’t noticed that Emma was now sitting directly to his right and level with his eyes, so when he spun around they nearly punched noses. She moved not an inch, staring deeply into Stan’s eyes and crooned, “Open it, open it now.”
Stan could not refuse if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t. Ripping the foil through the ribbon, he launched the lid to the back of the room and upturned the box. The contents slid onto his lap and lay there wrapped in velvet and braced in chain mail.
“A sword? You bought me a sword?” He exclaimed, not recognizing his own voice.
“It’s a dagger, actually, a Claymore specifically.” Emma threaded her hand up between Stan’s thighs and lifted the ancient weapon from its scabbard, her long fingers caressing its hilt; its blade casting reflections as it sliced the air.
“Don’t you like it?” she asked brushing the blade along Stan’s pulsing neck.
“You know I do,” he admitted. “But you’ve never bought me one before. I thought you thought I already had too many swords?”
Emma chinked the dagger into its scabbard and leaned back into the sofa. “I know. There was something about it. I found it over at Willard’s.”
“Willard’s? You went to Willard’s?!” That got Stan’s attention. Willard’s Pawn and Trade was on Boston’s southeast side and miles from the nearest rail. Emma would have had to pass through drug infested neighborhoods on foot to get there. “What were you thinking?!”
“Don’t start. Something told me to go there. I didn’t walk. Jesse took me,” she admitted bluntly.
“Jesse? Oh.” Six foot five, 250 pound Jesse Filbert was Emma’s personal bodyguard and also her brother. The steam left the room and Stan returned his gaze to the dagger, at which point he recalled it moving, but decided not to mention it to Emma. He lifted it and tested the weight with both hands, finding its tipping point and balancing it on his knuckles. He contemplated tossing it but decided not to risk the throw until he knew the outcome. Emma could be hurt if it deflected toward her.
Stan took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through his lips, making a slight whistling noise. “Its extraordinary, Em. I love it!”
He spun the point to the rear and dropped the blade to his side as he moved on his girlfriend to thank her, as a man should. They lost the remainder of the afternoon to love.
