Short Story Sunday: The Daughters of Lilith

Neville stood in front of a canvas which appeared to have been on the receiving end of so-called artistic angst: the smears disagreed with one another as much as the wine he was holding disagreed with his pesto pasta lunch. If only he’d known what the colours were; one could hardly appreciate art if one was “insensitive to red and green”, as the doctor said. He sipped the Shiraz.

 

“See anything you like?” Francine pecked his cheek.

“Not tonight, Francie. Colour blind. Remember?”

“Geez. I’m sorry, Nev. Still, I think you might find that statue of hipster Priapus tickles your fancy.”

“Shut up. I am completely confident about my manhood. Where’s that husband of yours?”

“Guzzling peanuts last time I saw him.” Her head tilted towards the door. “Oh, geez. I had better go and rescue him from his ex. Why is she even here?”

If he wasn’t on the beat like tonight, Francine was the only other reason Neville came to these galleries where, in his opinion, the mediocre grovelled and pretended it was creative expression. He preferred looking at Michelangelo’s Pietà: it was art he could relate to and the skill was apparent. So far all he’d seen was a study in dervishes, and he was dreading Francine’s video installation in the next hall. The last time he came, she made him watch her film of man in a giraffe costume urinating on a traffic light and explained that it had something to do with nature raging against the machine. If he’d had his way, Neville’s evening would have included company, better wine and oblivion. The Shiraz’s flavour didn’t seem to improve, so he took a deep breath and turned to the room; he was told she’d be here.

It was a habit he developed from being a cop, but Neville believed in something he called “sweeping”: taking visual cues from a location before deciding what to do next. He found that making it a game, where the only rule was to work from the ground up, helped him deal with corpses, bodily fluids and socialising.

“Can I help you?”

“Sorry?”

“You seem to have lost something on the floor?”

“No, er, thank you.” He swept his eyes over her: sandals, sundress, breasts and a blue shadow only he could see. Found her.

“Are you okay? You seem a bit flushed.”

He snapped into focus. “It’s the wine. I’m Neville.”

“Ellie, like the singer.”

“The singer?”

“Yeah, Ellie Goulding. That’s her song in the background. I think it’s an accompaniment to Francine Reid’s installation.”

He hadn’t noticed. “Are you an artist?”

“Me? No. A civilian. Actually, my friend Dax made this piece behind you. I think it’s terrible, but he’s all, ‘No, dahling, it’s a work of the heart!’”

Neville laughed until he spilled Shiraz.

“Oh, damn. My fault. Sorry. I think I have a tissue in my bag.”

She was already dabbing his foot when he remembered to protest. “I think you got the worst of it.”

“Next time, aim better. Dax’s work could’ve been improved with another splash.” She straightened. “So, Neville, what’s your day job? Since you obviously moonlight as a klutz.”

Neville leant closer. “I’m a cop.”

“Wow. No, it’s just... You look like Andy Samberg on Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Only hotter.”

“Thanks.” He imagined seeing his reflection and knew the colour blindness would make it beige, not red. But he felt red, and not only because of her comment.

“Why did you become a cop?” She persisted like a Brownie selling cookies.

“I tried the fire department but they didn’t like the fact that I was a lesbian.”

“Oh, ha-ha. So you’re a womaniser like virtually every other man I know. Big deal. There are worse crimes.” She laughed.

“I suppose.” Neville spotted a waiter. “How about I fetch us another drink?”

Once he walked away, Ellie opened her bag and plucked out a capsule. She consulted her mental checklist: single, shy, shambolic. Neville fit the bill. Using a coin trick her father taught her, she secreted the capsule in her hand. It was her last one. Pity Neville was so cute, and he had the smoothest skin she’d ever seen on a man. She might have been tempted to choose someone else, except that he did nothing to keep the conversation going; that killed all his chances. While she found it endearing when he blushed, she guessed he had the same response when Princess Leia declared her love for Han Solo. Pathetic little nerd. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. She placed the capsule in her cheek.

At the bar, Neville settled on sparkling wine. In his experience, women never turned down bubbles, especially when they came in liquid or chocolate form. He emptied the vial in his sleeve over Ellie’s drink and swirled. When he found her, she was standing at another of Dax’s atrocities. Show time.

“I hope the brut isn’t too dry. I feel like celebrating.”

          She clinked flutes. “What’s the occasion?”

          “It’s my anniversary.”

          “You mean your birthday? Congratulations!” She bit the capsule and kissed him, her tongue delivering the goods.

          “You taste like cinnamon,” he lied.

          Ellie slugged her drink. She was on the clock. “Do you think we could continue our celebrations somewhere private? I’m not a huge fan of snogging with an audience.”

Neville let her lead him outside. He thought he heard Francine calling, but it was hard to tell with the sudden rush of blood to his head. Ogden Nash was right: when seducing, liquor is quicker. She pushed him against a wall.

“I want you to close your eyes and count to ten.”

          “I thought we were just fooling around?”

          “It’s just,” she cupped his crotch, “that I have a surprise for you.” He should be knocked out by now. “Trust me, you’ll like it.” He should be comatose.

          “I love surprises.” Neville watched her eyes glaze. “Don’t tell me you are tired already?”

There were three of him. “Bastard.” Ellie slurred and stumbled.

          “By the way, I should have mentioned, I’m a freak of nature. I can’t digest poison; apparently I have enzymes missing. It was clever how you did it, though, with the kiss.”

She planted her hands on the ground, willing it to stop swaying. “Why me?”

          “Told you: I’m a cop. I work with the Supernatural Division. You’re one of the last few, right? The Daughters of Lilith, sent to seduce men and populate the earth with your demon offspring? And I’m willing to bet you’re now out of whatever you poured down my throat.” Ellie’s eyes rolled; he crouched and broke her fall. The phone in his jacket pocket buzzed with a message from his boss.

         

ALL CLEAR?

Neville tapped his reply and waited.

          GREAT JOB. SENDING BACK-UP.

After bundling Ellie into the ambulance, Neville slammed the door and, as was custom, tapped a signal to the driver so that he would know to leave. Thankfully, by that time the gallery’s car park was mostly empty and stray streetlights guided him to his Toyota. Francine had found him outside once the hubbub around the ambulance spilled into the gallery, but he fobbed her off with a story about his date collapsing and needing to accompany her to the hospital. In truth, he couldn’t face going back inside because he knew he’d have to lie to Francine about what had happened to Ellie and he’d have to lie about how the art inspired him; she wouldn’t take kindly to the idea that it inspired him to vomit.

Neville placed his key in the ignition and paused, deciding to check the glove compartment where he was sure he’d find the emergency stash. Bingo. He was glad his shift was over even though there would be paperwork waiting in the morning. The usual: more write-ups on the Daughters of Lilith to add to the tome next to his desk. All that was left for him to do was celebrate properly. With whisky. And it was the fastest way to get Ellie’s poison out of his mouth. He unscrewed the cap and upended the vessel. The metallic taste of the flask mingled with the Scotch as it burnt a path down his throat.

With any luck, he mused, Ellie was the last of her kind. He remembered his surprise when the police chief called him in on his second day and told him that he’d been reassigned to the Supernatural Division. “Your colour blindness gives you an advantage, Neville. You can see what nobody else can, and if you trust yourself enough to notice their blue shadows, I reckon you’ll be able to stop them before they hurt more people.” So that’s what he’d done for the last eight years, and he was the best in the force.

He swigged again. Ellie hadn’t even flinched when he told her it was his anniversary; she’d thought he meant his birthday. It was actually the anniversary of his first Lilith case: a waif with a murky shadow. Ellie had clearly been in the game longer than her – what was her name? Louise. Yes, Louise had been an acupuncturist and she’d tried to stab him with poisoned needles. It had been obvious when she insisted on wiping each one with cotton wool, ostensibly to disinfect it. He raised his flask. “To Ellie, Louise and the other Daughters of Lilith: happy anniversary.”