The Well of Many Worlds

by Luke Metcalf

  “Baelaar!” Mitchell muttered to himself, clenching his fists. “And I missed him by no more than half an hour.”

  “Who is he?” Sylvain clutched Mitchell’s jacket. His previous arrogance had drained away and his eyes were now wide with fear. “What did he do to me?”

  “Have you ever heard stories of vampires?”

  “Yes.” Sylvain laughed nervously. “But surely…”

  “Baelaar is a vampire. And now so are you.”

  “But… But…”

  “Baelaar is the leader of the Priests of Mezzor,” said Mitchell, watching as Sylvain took in and digested the news of his transformation. “They are a satanic death cult of vampires. Whenever there is a conflict in the world – a war – they work to tip the scales and cause a massacre. They will use any method that they need to as long as it is covert: bribery, strategic assassinations, hypnosis, sabotage, whatever they think will best increase the bloodshed. They never hold positions of power for fear of being exposed, but they lurk in the shadows and manipulate those who do. They are opportunists.”

  “So you are not one of the Priests of Mezzor?”

  “No,” Mitchell scoffed. “Not all vampires follow that fool. Some go their own way, and there is a group called the Niveus Gladius, The Order of the White Sword, that oppose them. Baelaar is the vampire who turned me as well, but there are more ancient ones than him.”

  “Are you part of this Niveus Gladius—”

  “No, I have no interest in their ‘noble cause’. We share some mutual enemies, that is all. However, in return for being trained as a warrior, I have agreed to help the Niveus Gladius acquire information.” Mitchell paused and stared at Sylvain who was listening with suspended breath. “Here is the most astonishing thing,” he continued. “The original vampire came to Earth from another world named Magella, apparently through some magical artifact called the Well of Many Worlds. He arrived here, turned a man into a vampire then returned to his own world, and that man then turned others and spread the vampire blood.”

  “Another world,” whispered Sylvain, eyes wide in awe. “I always suspected there was more…” His voice trailed off. Then his eyes refocused as he looked at Mitchell. “How many vampires are there?”

  “I do not know. My mentor believes there are less than a hundred in the world, although even he is not sure.”

  “What are our powers? Can we be destroyed?”

  “I cannot answer your questions now. Time is pressing. I suggest that you get as far away from the Priests of Mezzor as you can. They are a lunatic cult, deranged and deadly.”

  “But why did they choose me?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Fly, run and keep on running, or hide somewhere deep and dark where they cannot find you.”

  “If I am being hunted by supernatural beings, whether I grow wings and soar on high, or grow a fortress on my back and sink to the bottom of the ocean, I fear that I will either be plucked or shucked. Either way I am f—”

  “Enough. You may come with me. But only for a night, then I will take you to the Niveus Gladius, perhaps they will help you.” Mitchell stopped and stared at him.

  “What?” asked Sylvain.

  “That might actually be a good idea.”

  “What?”

  “You are coming to the Royal Opera with me, posing as my manservant. I found some information reading the mind of the Comtesse LeDuijou and…”

  “Reading her mind?”

  “Yes, I must attend the opera to find a certain person and I must not be noticed. In order to do that I must pose as a nobleman, having a manservant will help with the illusion.”

  Sylvain was restless, his eyes wide and eager. “When can we hunt? I can feel the hunger already burning inside me.”

  “Very soon.”

  “Might we find someone wealthy?” asked Sylvain. “I am in desperate need of some new clothes.” He tugged on his coat, still wet with blood, to show the tattered edges.

  Mitchell stared at him hard and long. “Sylvain, with intense concentration you will find you may read some thoughts in the minds of mortals in order to choose your victims wisely. The Niveus Gladius only hunt the scum of society… the murderers, villains, people who are guilty of heinous crimes and who are completely unrepentant. I must warn you, if you start killing innocent people, or join the Priests of Mezzor, they will find you and destroy you.”

  Sylvain shrugged. “I will abide by their law. Besides, hunting the evil members of society seems a superior form of fun. More sporting.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Yes, and they come in all shapes, sizes and classes.” He stood up and looked Sylvain up and down for a moment. “You appear to be around the same build as me. We must find you a new jacket.”

  “Excellent,” cried Sylvain, clapping his hands together.

  “Wait here.”

  Mitchell disappeared through a door into the palace, striding through the corridors until he found two men of approximately his size. Before they knew what was happening he had knocked both of them unconscious, dragged them into an empty room and stolen their clothes. He returned to the Mars Room a few minutes later.

  Once they had both changed, Mitchell held Sylvain by the shoulders and stared into his eyes. “Now, I want something from you.”

  Sylvain recoiled at the ferocious look in Mitchell’s eyes, reminded of his chilling encounter with Baelaar. “What is it?” he muttered.

  “If you ever see Baelaar again, or hear of his whereabouts or the whereabouts of the Well of Many Worlds you will inform me. You will not stop searching for me until you find me, do you understand?” Sylvain was taken aback by the snarl in Mitchell’s voice and the crimson flashing of his eyes.

  “Y-yes, certainly,” he stammered.

  “Good, I have been hunting for them for nearly two hundred years.”

  “Two hundred years!”

  “Yes, shortly after he turned me the Niveus Gladius destroyed many of the Priests of Mezzor. Baelaar went underground for a long time. Any time a war started I went to its battlefields in search of him, but found only rumors.”

  “Does he hold the secret of the Well of Many Worlds?”

  “No one knows where it is. If you help me catch him or find the Well, then I will reward you with riches greater than anything you can imagine. Too many gold pieces for you to be able to count.”

  Sylvain stared at Mitchell as if trying to imagine that much gold. “Think of the parties I could throw with such wealth!”

  Mitchell stared at him. “Just do as I say.”

  Three

  Portland, Maine, October 2020

  Emily sat bolt upright, emitting a piercing scream. Brutally wakened from her struggles with the demon she was drenched with sweat. She had been clawing at its face, unable to fight free of its burning grip. Gasping for breath she stared wildly about her bedroom, trying to force the image of the demon’s face from her mind.

  “It was just a nightmare,” she whispered to herself, running a shaky hand through her sweat-soaked hair now lying cold and lank across her fevered brow.

  As her breathing slowed closer to normal she remembered the handsome young man with his hypnotic, glittering emerald eyes. How easily his eyes had overpowered her, taking total possession of her mind and body. The memory sent a hot rush of blood to her cheeks and she shook her head, stunned by the intensity and pleasure of the sensation.

  A crack of morning sun was shining through the gap in her curtains, reminding her that she was now safely back from that dark place. She began to feel as though she were herself again, as though it were any other school day. She tried to think if she had any homework to finish but found she had to summon all her powers of concentration to remember what had happened the previous day.

  As she forced herself to gather her thoughts, the reality of her father’s murder came crashing back to her. Her stomach chur
ned and her heart broke all over again. Waking up to this horrible reality was the real nightmare.

  Pulling herself together, Emily brushed her teeth, showered, dressed and went downstairs, absent-mindedly stirring a bowl of cereal, only half listening while her mother made funeral arrangements on the phone. She could tell her mom was finding solace in the rational, her mind grasping onto the rituals and traditions society created to deal with the abyss of death. She had not mentioned the desk to her and intended to keep her promise to her father.

  Emily couldn’t stop thinking about the way she had behaved the last time she saw her father as she drifted through all the rituals of the following days in a trance. First there was the visitation at the funeral home. Friends and relatives arrived in a steady stream throughout the evening to pay their respects – everyone dressed in muted colors, murmuring their sympathies, looking at Emily with sad eyes as they reminisced awkwardly about special moments they had shared with her father. Their words sounded distant and empty. She smiled politely and thanked them for their kindness but she just wanted the ordeal to end.

  Then came the funeral itself. It was as though the whole universe was in mourning. The heavy gray sky rained relentlessly down on them and by the time Emily got into the church her feet were cold and wet from the puddles she had been unable to avoid in the car park. Surrounded by a sea of faces she didn’t bother to focus on she allowed the sermons, the hymns and the eulogy to wash over her. Then the pallbearers carried the coffin out to the hearse, which they all followed on foot to the cemetery. Then the final words: “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” And at last, her father’s body was lowered into the grave.

  She tried to imagine him lying inside the casket, his hands folded over his chest; the same man who had twirled her around and around so many times when she was little, the man who had adored her. She felt as though she were all alone, with time moving inexorably forward around her. She couldn’t understand how the world could keep moving forward without her father in it anymore, everything continuing as if nothing had happened, nothing had been lost. It didn’t seem possible. Everything should have ceased at the same time as his heart stopped beating.

  Eventually it was all over and she and her mother were alone again at home, sitting together silently in the kitchen, both staring into space.

  “I want you back in school as soon as possible.” Her mother’s voice broke the silence, snapping Emily out of her reverie.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No, I’m not, Emily. I understand what you are going through and how difficult this is. Recovering from such a shock will take a long time, but we have to move forward and focus on your future.”

  “What, my grades? My career? Really? Does that really seem important to you now?”

  “Of course it doesn’t seem important by comparison to what you are feeling. But it is. Ten years from now you will be glad that you didn’t let this derail your school work.”

  Emily felt a ball of resentment welling up inside her. “You’re sick. ‘Getting on’ is all you ever think about. You don’t care about anything else.”

  “Well, that’s what life is,” her mother snapped. “I’m saying this for your own good.”

  Emily opened her mouth to retort but thought better of it. “I’m going to bed now and I’m not going to school for a couple days. You can’t force me.”

  She ran upstairs and slammed her bedroom door, locking it behind her. Stamping into her bathroom she checked herself in the mirror. Staring into her big royal-blue eyes and pale face framed by long chestnut-brown hair she hardly recognizing the slender girl staring back. She felt like a stranger in her own life, and in her heart she knew that her mother was right and there was no option but to carry on with that life.

  Over the next couple days she found that for half her waking hours she was immersed in a black cloud of sadness, pain, loss, and guilt. During the other half, however, she was able to escape into daydreams about the handsome young man from her dream. The memory of his eyes haunted her, filling her with warm feelings of pleasure and desire deep inside, making her heart race, her flesh tingle and her breath catch in her tightening throat. She would deliberately allow herself to drift into a hypnotic trance, thinking about those eyes, giving herself permission to forget her grief and to feel the pleasure and excitement.

  After two days she went back to school, knowing it was what her father would have wanted, but as she set off from the house she couldn’t imagine how she was going to get through the day. How could she force herself to pretend that everything was normal, when nothing was normal at all or ever would be again?

  Everyone at Dawson High had seen the news reports and none of them knew how to act around her. Everywhere she went, kids either stared at her, like she was some kind of freak, or pretended she wasn’t there, which she actually preferred a thousand times over the staring. Some idiots would whisper behind her back when she passed by, as though she was the one who had done something wrong.

  When her best friend, Cindy, spotted her in the hallway, she ran up and threw her arms around her, hugging her so tightly she could hardly breathe.

  “Oh my gosh, Emily, I’ve been calling you every day since the funeral.”

  “Thanks,” she gasped when she could get in enough air. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t call back – I didn’t know what to say. I just wanted to be alone to sort out my thoughts.”

  Cindy was the exact opposite of her. She had her whole life planned out, from what her wedding dress would look like to how she would design her first baby’s bedroom. Cindy was short with jet-black hair, wore glasses and was a straight-A student. She was entirely responsible and serious in contrast to Emily, who never even knew what she would wear the next day, much less what she wanted to do when she graduated high school.

  “I understand,” Cindy said, linking arms. “Listen, I gotta go to class but meet me in the caf at lunch.”

  “Okay.”

  She found it comforting to see the familiar faces of her group of lunch friends at their usual table in the cafeteria. She sat down with them, sheltering from the prying eyes everywhere else in the room. Beside Cindy was her boyfriend Chester, quiet, handsome, athletic, with his short, strawberry-blonde hair and hazel eyes. Like Cindy he was a straight-A student. On his other side was Bethany Denman, whose father owned a shipping company. As well as being from a rich family, Bethany was also beautiful and a school cheerleader. She loved spending her father’s money on clothes and was very stylish, sort of high fashion with a bit of a glamorous, Gothy pin-up edge to it. She drove a nice car, had a perfect figure and perfect skin. Despite all this, she was still popular with the other kids. The only thing she was lacking was a boyfriend because she had recently broken up with the son of a wealthy banker. Everyone assumed that she would end up with Tom Price, social god of the school and also newly single.

  “Have the police got any leads?” Chester asked, ignoring Cindy’s scowl as she tried to silence him. “Do they know who did it?”

  “No.” Emily shook her head. “But his store was broken into a couple nights before his murder and…” Emily paused.

  “And what?” Bethany prompted.

  “The killers wrote ‘The Blood Of The World Is The Blood Of The God’ on the wall of the apartment in my father’s blood.”

  “Oh my god, that is so creepy.” Bethany looked genuinely shocked. They all exchanged disturbed glances.

  “That is so messed up,” Cindy said. “Who does that? What does that even mean?”

  “Must have been some psycho,” Emily said. Tears welled up in her eyes and she fought to keep control. She really didn’t want to start bawling in front of the whole school.

  “Makes me think it’s some kind of freaky religious cult or Satan worshippers or something,” said Bethany.

  “The weird thing is that my father left me some old antique desk just before he was killed. I don’t think it’s worth any money or anything, but it had the words ‘Vadas As
ger’ then ‘demons’ carved into it and my father had written ‘Vadas Asger?’ on the back of the purchase record. But if it’s some weird cult, why would they want to kill my father?”

  “Maybe they just picked him randomly,” said Bethany. “I was watching that show, ‘World’s Most Sinister Satanic Cults’ the other night, sometimes these Satan worshipper freaks just pick a random person.”

  “But who or what is Vadas Asger?” asked Cindy. “Is it a place or a name or what is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Emily admitted. “I searched online and found that Asger is some old Nordic word or name that means ‘spear of God’ but no idea what Vadas is.”

  “Did you tell the cops?” asked Cindy.

  “Yeah, they don’t know what Vadas Asger means either.”

  “Are you sure the desk or something else he has isn’t worth a lot of money? Like that show where people bring in old stuff that they find in the attic and have it appraised and sometimes it’s worth a load of money and they had no idea it was?” Bethany said, leaning forward eagerly.

  “Yeah, I was thinking that could be why, when the thieves didn’t find it, they stole all his purchase and sales records, to see if he had ever had whatever it is they’re looking for and if he had already sold it to someone else. But I researched the desk and it’s pretty much worthless. It must have been ‘Vadas Asger’ they were looking for, not the desk.”