Realistic or Modern An Invitation [lillymity]

[clostridium]

Many people claimed that they found rolling hills and forest vistas peaceful, but Etienne Bernard, on what he swore was his third pass through this same featureless stretch of woods, could not accept that anyone actually believed it. There was something uniquely unsettling, he thought, about the quiet, the isolation in a place like this. Etienne was at his most comfortable in a crowd, where he could decide to be seen or invisible according to his preference. To be the only living soul in sight was a burden that led to introspection, a more terrifying fate than any wannabe murderer.

As he passed what had to be the same tree for the fourth time, he felt a wave of panic so severe that the corners of his vision fizzled black. Only two things stood out clear in the haze of his mind: he did not want to die, and he was not in any state to be driving. He seriously considered whether he should stop when he broke free of the woods and his car emerged into a clearing. He was so relieved to see a building that he let out a high, cold laugh as he pulled in close enough to tell if this was the place. In an incredible stroke of luck, he had finally arrived. He staggered out of his car and slammed the door, closing the hem of his embroidered silk robe in the gap, then having to yank it back open, gather up the fabric fluttering around him in the wind, and slam it again.

Well…he supposed this place had been what he wanted. He needed something out of the way, with a head detective who was not a member of fashionable society. His “friends” would certainly recognize any such person. After all, he could hardly pass a week without being regaled with the latest story of theft or infidelity exposed by Crenshaw or Hope, to whom his social circle seemed to turn at the slightest provocation. No, this was a project that would rely on secrecy if it was to succeed. One among the eleven people closest to him had tried twice now to kill him, and the third time was supposed to be the charm. How brother would tell him he was a superstitious fool - but then, his brother was one of the guests at each party where an attempt on his life had been made. Blood was supposed to be thicker than water, but the story of Cain and Abel was told for so long for a reason.

Despite the late hour, Etienne beat loudly at the door, then let himself in. He looked a bit of a mess; everything he wore was ostentatiously expensive, but his matching silk trousers, dress shirt, and robe looked more like pyjamas than proper clothes to anyone not embroiled in his Bohemian social scene. There was an art to dressing, to be sure, but the true challenge was always in feigning insouciance about one’s own wardrobe, and that of others. When it came to pretending not to care about things, Etienne prided himself in his skill, but even that had been tested of late.

When the man gained entry to the foyer, he muffled a cough, then peered around at his surroundings. It was a little bit too quiet for his liking. The proprietor had a taste for dark curtains and heavy oak furniture, the kind that spoke to reliability rather than undue expense. For the first time, Etienne felt a fluttering of doubt about his plan. Could someone who did his work all the way out here possibly hope to blend in at the sort of dinners he threw? More importantly, if this was what he could afford, was he any good? No - he would trust in the intuition he had relied on when he was less impaired. This was a good idea. It had to be. He had no other choices, after all.

After a cursory look around the place, he found the door to the office, which he shouldered open, talking at a million miles an hour even before he had laid eyes on the occupant.

“-you simply must help me, I’m afraid that - well, afraid is dreadfully melodramatic and a bit gauche, so it is not the proper word, I would just say that I am concerned that I am going to be killed, and I would really like to take you into my employ to put a stop to it, as it has been a serious strain on my sleep, my business, my personal life, my—you must understand, I am not a dramatic sort of fellow, I do not tell tales, you know—you see— I…I just need someone reliable, and you came so highly recommended, so if you—well, you’ve caught me at a moment where I really am desperate to take…you know, to hire you.” The man’s words were frenzied, with all the logical progression of a train crash as sentences collided with one another as they tumbled out of his mouth. He was very slight and of moderate height, with black hair that was just a bit shaggier than was socially acceptable and an indeterminate accent that tinted his words. To an experienced detective, damn near every word he spoke seemed likely to be a lie, but there was one thing in his voice that was unmistakably real: the fear.

 

[lillymity]

The office smelled like cheap whiskey, stale cigarettes, and regret. Adam had never been much for interior decorating, which was obvious from the way his desk was cluttered with old case files, an ashtray overflowing with half-smoked butts, and a battered typewriter that hadn’t seen fresh ink in weeks. The whole place looked about two bad choices away from being condemned, but he didn’t mind. It kept away the kind of clients who expected their private detective to have a polished manner and a clean conscience.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face as he considered the latest sorry bastard to hire him. Some rich sap in the city who thought his wife was stepping out on him. Predictable, boring. He’d already tailed the woman to some swanky restaurant uptown where she’d been dining with — get this — her own damn sister. The case would wrap up fast, which was good for his wallet but bad for his patience. He hated these domestic jobs. They always ended in tears, and he wasn’t getting paid enough to care.

A half-empty glass of whiskey sat on his desk, catching the dim light of his desk lamp. He reached for it, rolling it between his fingers. The radio in the corner crackled with some jazz number, all sultry horns and the kind of slow rhythm that made a man think about things he shouldn’t. Adam took a sip of his drink, let the burn settle in his gut. He was just about to consider calling it a night when the front door banged open.

Jesus Christ.

It wasn’t often that people let themselves in. Most folks knocked. Hell, most folks didn’t come at this hour at all, not unless they were desperate or drunk — or both. Adam didn’t get up. He just sighed, watching as the mess of a man came tumbling into his office like a nervous wreck in silk pajamas. The stranger looked like money, but the kind of money that had been living too fast and was just about ready to crash.

Then he started talking.

And talking.

And talking.

Adam took one slow blink as the words crashed over him like a goddamn hurricane. He caught the important bits — someone wanted the guy dead, he wanted to hire Adam, something about sleep deprivation — but mostly, he just waited for the man to stop. It took a while. The kid looked jittery, his hands twisting in the expensive fabric of his robe like he wasn’t sure whether he was meant to be standing here or running for his life.

Adam let the silence stretch for a long moment once the word vomit finally stopped. Then he exhaled through his nose, set down his drink, and ran a hand through his slicked-back blonde hair.

“Well,” he said flatly, “that was exhausting.”

He finally stood, rounding the desk with a slow, deliberate gait. Up close, the guy was even more of a mess — shaggy hair, expensive but ridiculous clothes, the kind of manic energy that suggested too many sleepless nights and maybe a little something extra in his bloodstream. Adam had seen his type before. Rich boys who played fast and loose with their own lives, never thinking they’d actually lose.

He leaned against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “So let me get this straight,” he drawled. “Somebody wants to kill you. You don’t know who. But it’s happened twice already, and you’re still alive, which tells me they’re either real bad at it or you’re real lucky. And now, instead of calling the cops like a sensible person, you’ve come to me. A guy you don’t know. Out in the middle of nowhere. To what? Solve the case? Be your bodyguard? Hold your goddamn hand?”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

 

[clostridium]

For a split second, Etienne’s features contorted into a mask of anger that didn’t quite seem to fit on his face. It dissipated into an even more pathetic expression than he had worn when he had crossed the threshold, like he was a dog the detective had struck instead of tossed a treat. His shoulders slumped, and he opened his mouth then shut it again, momentarily lost for words. Frankly, he had expected this low-rent-looking detective to trip over his own feet in the rush to take the case. Especially now that he was looking around the room - his own home was frequently worse in the aftermath of one of his many parties, but that was all part of the charm. This detective wasn’t winning customers with charm or neatness. Hopefully his work made up for it.

“I—am not certain that I like your tone, Detective. The police are not an option. If they caught the perpetrator, they would jail him— or her. But what you must understand is that these are the closest people in the world to me! When the culprit is discovered, I would like to resolve things properly between us.” Etienne almost continued, but his brow furrowed barely perceptibly for a fraction of a second and he diverted the torrent of his speech. He crossed his lithe arms across his chest. “Clearly, you think I’m a fool. But I’m not particularly interested in dirtying my hand with yours. In fact, I have a proposal. An invitation for you, if you can manage to pretend to be civil.”

Acid rose in Etienne’s voice, and he turned and snatched up the cup of whiskey from the desk, swirling it slowly at his chest like it had been his all along. His breath was already sharp with the scent of liquor, but his nerves were frayed and he wasn’t quite thinking straight. Up close, he was in rough shape. He was probably in his early thirties, with elegant features worn down by too many late nights and too much laudanum. His eyes were so dark that they looked black in the dim light, and they seemed to flit around as quickly and inconsistently as his mind. As if something unseen startled him back into motion, he looked the detective in the eye and took the remainder of the glass in a large gulp, then released a long hiss of breath like a deflating balloon. He let his eyes fall shut for a few moments, then continued.

“I would like you to accompany me to my next party so that you can uncover who is out to end my life. I need…if you blend in, if you come across like a real guest, you can discover what’s happening, and this nightmare can end. I need…I am not lucky, and they are not bad at it, they’ve very nearly succeeded and… I am at the end of my rope, and… I need to know that there is someone on my side. I need help. I…I need another drink.”

Etienne’s free hand rose to smooth back his rumpled hair, then returned, shaking, to his breast pocket to pull out a pack of Gitanes. He drew one out between two fingers, placed it between his lips, then glanced up at the detective and tentatively offered the box. Like his clothes and his car, his imported cigarettes were expensive, and particularly strong.

“Clearly, you smoke.”

 

[lillymity]

Adam didn’t move when the man snatched his whiskey. He just tilted his head, one brow arching slightly, unimpressed. Etienne talked too fast, thought too much, and clearly didn’t trust a soul in his circle. That part, at least, Adam could respect. You didn’t stay alive in this business if you thought everyone at the table had your best interests in mind.

“Right,” Adam muttered as Etienne finally trailed off and the silence settled again. “So what I’m hearing is: someone tried to kill you twice, you don’t want them arrested, and your solution is to throw another goddamn party to find your killer.“

He stepped closer, took the cigarette offered without breaking eye contact, and slid it between his lips with a casual motion. His lighter clicked open with a practiced flick, the flame casting flickering shadows over his sharp, unsmiling face. He lit the cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled a slow, heavy plume of smoke toward the ceiling. Only then did he speak again.

“You should be dead,” he said, voice low, gravelly. “So either your would-be killer’s got a poetic streak and wants to see you squirm…or they’re in no rush. Which makes them dangerous. Because that means they enjoy this. The planning. The failure. The anticipation.”

He stepped around Etienne and leaned against the desk again, tapping ash into the tray, giving the man a long once-over — his rumpled elegance, his scattered desperation, the black flicker in his eyes that suggested maybe he’d danced too close to the edge for too long.

“You’re right. I do think you’re a fool,” Adam said finally. “You’re wearing sleep like a funeral shroud, and you reek of fear and perfume. You trust nobody, and yet you want to throw a cocktail party with your killer on the guest list. That’s not strategy. That’s madness.”

He took another drag.

“But.” He paused, cigarette burning low between his fingers. “You’ve got one thing going for you: you’re desperate enough to be honest. Even if you dress your truth in silk and melodrama.”

He looked up, meeting Etienne’s eyes. His were a cold, unreadable gray.

“I’ll come to your damn party. I’ll smile and drink and pretend I don’t think you’re three-quarters mad. But I’m not one of your little society lapdogs. I don’t ‘blend in’ unless I want to. And if I get bored, I will leave before the third course.”

He took one last drag, stubbed out the cigarette, and exhaled with a sigh that might’ve passed for agreement.

“Now pour yourself another drink and tell me everything. Everyone who’ll be there. Who you trust. Who you don’t.”

A pause.

“And if this party’s got a theme, I swear to God, I’m walking.”

Adam settled in his chair again, getting a bottle out of one of the drawers and placing it firmly on the desk. Along with a new glass for himself.

 

[clostridium]

Etienne took a deep, unsteady gasp of breath and shut his eyes for a few seconds. He steadied himself, pressing his anxiety down to prevent it from spilling out in another desperate tirade. The detective was going to help him. That was what mattered. The man could be intolerably abrasive, as long as he was going to help him. He opened up the bottle of whiskey and filled each glass, hands shaking so badly that he sloshed a bit on the desk around them. He stared at the liquid seeping into the scattered papers, helplessly frozen in place. He was already completely out of his mind on a blend of alcohol and cocaine, not to mention the overwhelming anxiety that drove him deeper into the arms of both of those and more. After a pause, he used the end of his silky sash to mop it up, mostly pushing it into the floor. He held out his own cigarette, standing very close to Adam for a long moment as he lit his own cigarette off the end of the detective’s. Finally, he sunk into the chair in the corner of the room. With one hand, he clutched the glass of whiskey to his chest, and with the other he lifted the cigarette to his lips to take a drag. His eyes fluttered shut for a couple of seconds, and his hollow face almost looked peaceful.

“…If you get bored, Detective, I will have little reason to pay you. If you are bored, then you are not paying proper attention. …For your sake, though, costume dress will not be required. Although if you cleaned up a little, you could be a suitable Capitano to my Arlecchino. If you believe that you can get results while making absolutely no effort to look like you feeling…well, you are the detective. The professional…” Etienne raised a brow, pursed his lips slightly, and made a show of looking around at the shabby state of the room. “If that is the way you would choose to define yourself.”

Now that he had arrived, and he had secured the detective’s agreement, even if it seemed tenuous, the first hurdle had been passed. He sipped his drink, and he smoked continuously at he spoke. It was a relief to sink into the buzzing in his head rather than confronting reality.

“…I’m not mad. I am…I nearly died, the first time. I was dosed with something, and I became very ill. The second, I…no matter, no. My guests, I…trust them all, as far as they can be trusted. They are the only people in the world who I care for, and who care for me. That is why all of this…why it is so painful for me. There are eleven, total. First, my…brother. Thierry LeBlanc. He resents me deeply, of course, but I do not want to think that my own brother would…he…is a financier, or he was. He is…struggling. Then there is Léonie - you know, the film star? Perhaps not, she tends toward experimental, artistic films.”

Etienne slipped his feet out of his slippers and tucked his legs up under himself in his seat. A little shiver ran through his slim shoulders and he took a gulp of whiskey to warm himself. He rubbed his cheek with the back of one hand and swallowed hard.

“Léonie, she is…capricious. She is a friend of mine, but when she is angry, she is very angry. It is difficult to tell when she is sincere and when she is acting. Then, James Greene. He is a novelist of some small renown. He is a bit obsessed with his own fame, but he seems generally harmless. His sister, Henrietta Blaine, is my spirit medium. She is…well, of course I trust her, but she was there. Her husband is a cowardly, lying little bastard - Henry Blaine. I mean—we are friends, but I am…upset with him, at the moment. Next, Irina von Dien, she is a society lady, sort of a…party enthusiast. Fabulously, ostentatiously wealthy. Her father is nobility, so she is the same. My friends in childhood, long before I came to this country, Kélian and Galatee. They are brother and sister. Miss Galatee is a reporter. Kélian, he loafs about at art shows. I have known them longer than anyone else; Kélian and I were in school together.”

Again, he took a second to pause. He spoke incredibly quickly, and he hardly seemed to breathe except for the moments when he stumbled over his words. He took a few long drags on his cigarette, and a bit of ash tumbled from the end into the floor. It escaped his notice. Many things did. His hazy, dark eyes drifted around the room, and he shifted in his seat. He was freezing all of a sudden, and he looked it.

“Polina Petrovna, she is a visionary poet in three languages. She lives with Augie, who is an incredibly talented painter, a Surrealist. Scenes of horror. Augie has a secretary called Jen, Jen Something, I’ve known her several years, but I admit I am unsure of her family name, and I could almost promise that she does not know mine! She’s incredibly efficient, a bit stiff, you know, but we’ve actually become quite close. And then there is me, and that is our part of twelve! Then - well, I have a butler, but Nelson would not try to poison me at a party. Or, rather…if Nelson had wanted me dead, I would have been killed a hundred times over, you know, if this makes more sense. Now, all of these people, I value them deeply. We have been through numerous ups and downs together, and I…it would destroy me to turn any of them in to the authorities. I cannot. I…God above, I cannot. I am…I just…I do not want to die, I…”

Etienne bit down hard on the insides of his cheeks and his body heaved twice, like he was coughing or sobbing, but he didn’t make a sound. He curled up tighter in the seat and swallowed hard, then took another drink of liquor, making himself cough.

 

[lillymity]

Adam watched him, silent and still, like a wolf who hadn’t decided whether the trembling thing in front of him was prey or problem. The detective didn’t interrupt. Didn't reach out. Didn’t soften. He let Etienne unravel until the man was a bundle of silk and bones and desperation, slumped in the corner chair like a broken marionette someone had dressed for a masquerade and forgotten about.

He lit another cigarette off the stub of the first and crushed the old one out with a flick of his fingers. No ceremony to it. Just a habit. One among many. Smoke curled around his face, catching in the low light as he listened to Etienne spill out his parade of suspects like a jittery medium reading off a list of spirits at a séance. Eleven friends. All with motives, all too close, all too adored.

Jesus.

The kind of party where someone tries to kill you, and you still serve the good champagne the next time.

Adam finally moved. He dragged his chair over from the desk and dropped himself into it across from Etienne, setting his cigarette on the lip of the ashtray. He picked up the second glass of whiskey, inspecting the slosh marks left by Etienne’s hands — on the paper and the desk — and took a small sip. A grimace followed. Not from the drink, but the weight of what he'd just heard.

“So,” he said, voice low, steady, rough as gravel. “You’ve got a dozen people under one roof, two murder attempts in, and every last one of ‘em is someone you’d die to protect. Literally.”

He studied Etienne, eyes narrowed, like he was trying to see past the bloodshot haze and sweat-slicked cheekbones to the logic hiding underneath all that affectation.

“You say you’re not mad. But that’s the exact thing a madman would say. And a coward. And someone who’s just realized he doesn’t know the difference between love and danger anymore.”

Adam leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette balanced between two fingers. Smoke wreathed his face.

“You don’t want the truth. You want someone to show up, make it stop, and not pull the thread that unravels your pretty little world. But I’ve got bad news for you, sweetheart.”

He took a drag and exhaled hard through his nose.

“If I do this, I will find out who’s trying to kill you. That’s not the hard part. People are sloppy. Secrets bleed out when no one’s looking. The hard part…is what you do after. Because I’m not walking into that party to make friends. I’m walking in to tear something open and see what comes out of it. And what comes out might not look anything like what you want to see.”

He finished his drink, set the glass down with a dull clink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’ll need a guest list. Written. With full names. What you know, what you suspect, what you’re lying to yourself about. I’ll need a place to stay, somewhere inside the estate. I don’t like being out of earshot when people get clever at night. And I want to meet the staff. Every one of them. Butler included. I’ve got no patience for ghosts hiding behind white gloves.”

He leaned back, voice softening just enough to cut a little deeper.

“You’ve got style, Etienne. Drama. But style doesn’t stop poison. And fear? Fear makes people stupid. It makes them drink too much, say too much, trust the wrong damn person.”

He looked him over — how small he looked now, curled up in the chair like that, shivering despite the alcohol. It was hard to imagine this was the same man who had burst through his door just earlier.

 

[clostridium]

Etienne deflated into nothing as Adam spoke. All his bombast evaporated into the air, and he was left staring glassy-eyed at the wall behind the detective, twisting the hem of his shirt between his fingers in the same off-hand that still held the smoldering butt of his used-up cigarette. His heart was hammering out an unsteady rhythm and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. The panic - among other things -that fueled him on the way in had left him behind, and he was laid bare for what he was: terrified and bereft of hope.

Because this was not the first time that he had been forced to consider what he would do when he knew. These were the only people who he had ever believed cared for him. If one of them wanted to kill him, the reason why - and he had to know why - would come up like a swallowed fishhook, trailing his guts behind. But the alternative was - what? To isolate himself and live in fear? To die? He couldn’t roll over and allow himself to die, and he couldn’t justify continuing to torture himself like this. He didn’t want to believe that any of this was reality, but he had little choice. He didn’t want any of this to be real. Maybe he was mad. Maybe he was a coward - but maybe he was something far worse. A paroxysm of something wild and vicious showed through on his face for less than a second as he imagined exactly what he might do if he got his hands on the person who wanted to destroy him. That, too, faded, and his eyes looked lost and dull once again.

“…At least I am stylish,” he mumbled. His eyes fell shut while he took another sip of whiskey, and he barely stopped the glass from slipping free of his grasp, jerking up suddenly in his seat as he caught it. “I can.. Yes, I can find you rooms at my estate. You can speak with anyone there, you…We can say you are…well, you are the detective. Tell me the lie, and I can tell it well. I can provide you with addresses to…tomorrow. You may call on anyone ahead of time, if…if you can do so discreetly, if you can put aside being all hard-boiled. We have…there are a few days to prepare. I scheduled before, I…j had another plan, and I scheduled it in the grips of that, but I realized that it was…well. I changed my mind. I…tomorrow, I can get you anything you ask for. I can show you the moving walls, the…all of the little things like that. I…can speak no more of this tonight. I cannot stand it. I simply cannot…not for a moment longer.”

The cigarette butt, no longer smoldering, tumbled unnoticed from between Etienne’s fingers and rolled away slowly across the floor. He shifted in his seat again, unable to find comfort while he was wadded up like a crumpled ball of newspaper, but much too chilled to move. His eyes moved across the array of files scattered throughout the room, and it was impossible to tell just how much attention he was actually paying. His bleary gaze finally settled back on the other man’s face.

“Detective,” he said after a pause, raw and uncharacteristically solemn, “please tell me…I have not trusted the wrong person, have I?”