Deception of the Damned

by P C Darkcliff

  “There must be something I can do,” Jasmin said stubbornly. “You said you can hear wild boars whenever the Emissary is near. I’ve heard them, too, and so did my husband. Just before he died, Sid even drew a picture of a terrible head in the snow, which must have been the likeness of the Emissary. It means that the Emissary has been creeping behind me for at least six months. It could also mean I was predestined to set you free.

  “And you know what? There’s a lore about a witch in our family who had a baby with King Rudolph. What if it’s true? What if Anath is my ancestor? Perhaps I’m destined to succeed where she failed.”

  Hrot lifted his head in surprise. “Anath had the same eyes as you. And perhaps you are her descendant. But she had enormous magic powers—and even they didn’t save me.”

  “I’ll find a way to help you,” Jasmin insisted. “But there’s something I have to do first. I guess no one has found Varbanov’s body because I haven’t seen any police around here. He must still be in the bushes below the outer wall. Please, come and help me find him.”

  THE ROCKS HAD BROKEN Varbanov’s limbs and pounded the back of his head into a pulp. His cell phone was in two pieces. The screen and the back cover were smashed, and the battery had fallen out. The SIM card was still in its slot, however, and it seemed intact.

  Jasmin took the card to the cavern and inserted it into her cell phone. It worked. And just as she’d hoped, all Varbanov’s contacts were saved there. Her heart beat wildly as she selected “Panzer.” She had rightly guessed that neither Panzer nor Renard had been arrested. And since she had no reason to trust the police again, she’d decided to improvise.

  Panzer answered on the third ring. “Finally, Boris! Where the fuck have you been?”

  Jasmin took a deep breath. “Varbanov is dead.”

  “What? Wh-who are you? What happened to Boris?”

  “That doesn’t matter.” She tried to sound cold-blooded. “He’s gone. But if you want to blame someone, blame your so-called friend Renard.”

  “Wait a second! Are you that bitch Jasmin?”

  “You must wonder how come I survived and Varbanov died,” she said. “A defenseless girl against a big corrupt cop with a gun and a tracking device. I won’t tell you what happened. But I can tell you that you might very well be next in the line.”

  “Are you trying to threaten me, you little bitch?” Jasmin was glad to hear a tinge of fear in his voice. Unnerved men would believe anything—and do anything to save their necks. “What happened to Boris?”

  “Do you know why Renard really wanted to get me killed?” she said instead of an answer, hoping to unsettle him even more. When he didn’t reply, she continued, “And do you know what Renard had been before he became a police snitch?” Jasmin held her breath. Everything depended on Panzer’s answer. She assumed he didn’t know that Renard was a former Angel.

  Panzer was silent, which she took as a confirmation. “So you don’t,” she said, hoping it was true. “By the way, are Satan’s Axers on good terms with Hells Angels?”

  Panzer only growled.

  “I thought so. If Varbanov could speak, he would confirm that the Angels aren’t that fond of the Axers either.” Jasmin winced as she waited for Panzer’s reaction. She needed him to believe it was the Angels who’d killed Varbanov. It was a long stretch, but she was desperate.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Panzer boomed. “Where’s Boris?”

  “Let’s say that Varbanov died because he trusted Renard—just as you do. I’ll send you a link to a few Google Drive files, Panzer. And I suggest you read them carefully, as it could save your life.”

  “What the fuck are you saying?”

  “Read the files, Panzer. Unless you want to end up like your friend Varbanov.”

  Jasmin ended the call with a trembling finger. As soon as she got her hands under control, she connected her cell phone to a mobile hotspot. She sent Varbanov a link to her Google Drive, where she still kept all the evidence that Renard was a former member of Hells Angels. Then she took out the SIM card and threw it into the bushes.

  VARBANOV’S BODY WAS found on the following day. The police combed the Ruins for a week, but then they dropped the case. Although she was relieved, Jasmin hoped Panzer wouldn’t find out they considered Varbanov’s death accidental.

  The summer was in full swing, and the surrounding woods and towns teemed with tourists. Jasmin found a job in a hostel in Turnov, which was always fully booked.

  The hostel quieted after midnight, and Jasmin yawned as she sat at the reception area, waiting for the dawn to come and her shift to end. As usual, she would take a nap in an attic room reserved for employees, and then she would rush to the Ruins.

  Hrot had grown so dependent on her that it scared her. What scared her more was the strange emptiness she felt whenever she wasn’t with him. A pang of guilt bruised her heart whenever she realized that, as of late, she’d given more thought to Hrot than to her late husband.

  Her mind began to wander toward Hrot again when her cell phone rang and brought her back to the reception area. The display showed her parents’ home phone number.

  “Hi Mom,” Jasmin said as soon as she pressed the green button. She guessed it wasn’t her stubborn father, who’d been sulking ever since she’d decided to quit her job at the Gazette and stay in Europe indefinitely. It was Mother who always called, and it was Mother who had sent her money so that Jasmin could buy some clothes and other necessities.

  “Hi, my treasure!” Mother’s gentle voice made Jasmin smile and long for home. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  “No, Mom, I’m sitting at the reception desk,” Jasmin said. Then she realized that, although it was before dinnertime in Alaska, it was strange for Mother to call so late without knowing whether Jasmin was working or not. She asked, “Is everything okay? Is there any trouble?”

  Jasmin had often thought her phone call to Panzer had been a mistake. It was absurd to think he would ever believe her. And what if he told Renard? What if Renard mobilized his Alaskan bikers to take revenge on her family?

  “Is Dad okay?” Jasmin blurted out before Mother could speak.

  “As okay as he could be, drinking beer and watching TV.” Mother’s soothing voice calmed her down. “Everything’s fine, don’t worry. It’s just that I got a phone call from Sheila, your former boss at the Gazette. Says she emailed you some big news. And she wanted me to tell you to read it right away.”

  Jasmin wondered why Sheila hadn’t called her. Then she realized that, as she’d quit via email, Sheila didn’t have her Bulgarian phone number. Jasmin was about to ask Mother whether Sheila told her the news when the front door swung open. A portly, prematurely balding man in a sweaty polo shirt staggered in.

  “I forgot my room number,” he called across the silent lobby, flashing Jasmin an apologetic, drunken smile. She guessed from his accent that he was Dutch or German.

  “I gotta go, Mom,” she whispered into the phone’s mouthpiece. “Someone’s just come in.”

  “Alright, I’ll call you later, then. Love you!”

  Jasmin put the cell phone down and smiled at the tipsy newcomer.

  “I don’t even remember the floor number,” the man said, looking sheepish as if he expected Jasmin to tell him off.

  “We’ve got rooms on the second floor only, so that shouldn’t be a problem,” she said with a smile. “And I’m sure you remember your name, don’t you?”

  The man thought for a moment, and then his lips stretched into a victorious grin. “Of course I do!”

  “Then it’s not a problem at all. Just tell me your name, and I’ll look you up on the computer.”

  A minute later, the man was stumbling upstairs, his room key jingling cheerily in his hand. Jasmin opened her email inbox. The link Sheila had sent her was a Reuters press release. Jasmin’s nerves twisted in an edgy dance as she read:

  ALASKAN GANGSTER FOUND DEAD IN EASTERN EUROPE

  The body of a fug
itive biker has been found floating in Varna Lake in Bulgaria. Interpol has confirmed the identity of Graham Renard, the president of the Anchorage-based Machetes MC. Renard was sought by Interpol in connection with the murder of Sid Bierce, a professor at the University of Alaska Southeast. The Bulgarian police have arrested another biker, Simeon Borilov (a.k.a. Panzer), in connection with the murder.

  Before she finished reading, two pools of sweat had formed under Jasmin’s forearms. Relief was the fastest of the feelings and emotions that rushed for her heart. So Panzer had believed her. Or, more likely, he’d believed the evidence she’d gathered on Renard’s former life. She wondered whether Panzer had launched a preemptive strike, or whether Renard had died during a confrontation.

  In a way, Jasmin had become Renard’s murderess. But she couldn’t feel sorry for the man who had caused the death of her husband and destroyed her own life. At last, she was free to focus on saving Hrot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The days got shorter and shorter, and fewer and fewer people strayed into the windy and rainy Bohemian Paradise. When the sun hovered above the sandstone rocks for the last time that summer, Jasmin and Hrot were sitting by a small fire in the cavern. She was gazing into the flames; he was gazing at her.

  Hrot had never been this stricken with a woman in his whole life. He had worshipped Anath, but she was so mysterious and fiercely independent that his feelings for her were closer to awe than adoration. Jasmin was just as bewitching—and since she was nearly as wretched and starved for love as he was, his ancient heart erupted toward her like a dormant volcano. He knew he couldn’t even touch or kiss her, but the lack of physical contact made his love even stronger as compensation.

  As of late, Hrot had often noticed Jasmin looking at him with so much fervor it made him gasp. He wondered if it was merely compassion that had placed so much tenderness in her eyes. He knew she was sad, as she still hadn’t figured out how to help him. He dreamed of becoming a man of bones and flesh, and of spending the rest of his life by her side. Could she be dreaming about the same?

  The world outside the cavern plunged into murkiness. The cloudy sky ripped open like a giant ulcer and lashed the sandstone rock labyrinth with the heaviest downpour in months. Large raindrops pummeled the ferns by the cave’s mouth, making them swing and nod in the firelight. A gust of wind ran screaming into the cavern. The fanned flames grunted and squealed. Or had the sounds come from the outside?

  Blackness swallowed the cavern: the wind had brought a splash of rainwater that extinguished the fire. A bolt of lightning seared across the horizon. As thunder exploded above the infernal paradise, a slender figure appeared in the entrance.

  Jasmin shuddered. Even though the visitor looked like an ordinary man, the hatred she suddenly felt told her it was the Emissary himself. In the murkiness, the fiend’s pale face was the color of wet ashes. His leer made her sick. So did the veins on his thinly stretched skin.

  “Long time no see, fluffy chin,” the Emissary said to Hrot, who groaned and clasped his hands over his head as if the cavern was about to collapse. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to take you away. I’m here to make a deal.”

  The Emissary turned to Jasmin. “So you would like to save this wimp here? Then listen carefully, my beauty: if he hadn’t tried to cheat me, Hrot would have returned to his filthy tribe after a decade spent in the Renaissance. To break the curse, you’d have to travel to Hrot’s clannish times instead of him.”

  Jasmin thought for a while. Then she simply asked, “How long would I have to spend there?”

  The Emissary grinned. “I like you, Jasmin, and so it would be only a year. To humans, the magic portal only opens when the early darkness of the longest night diminishes the barriers between our worlds. You’d have to depart at this winter solstice and stay in Hrot’s village until the end of the following autumn when the portal opens again.”

  “But what would happen after that?”

  “Then you’d be free to return and resume your life in these times.”

  “And what would happen to him?” she asked, glancing at Hrot, who was still cowering like a frightened fox.

  “Hrot would be a free man the whole time you are in his times.”

  Jasmin smiled at the thought. She imagined Hrot leaving the Ruins and going to civilization. He would take a bath and cut his beard and hair, and he would wear clean, comfortable clothes. She had three more months to save up money for him and teach him the ways of the modern world so that he wouldn’t end up in a mental institution. But what would happen after his year of freedom was over?

  “Then he’d die,” said the Emissary, who had been reading her mind. “He would be destroyed and vanish without a trace. He would cease to exist on the following winter solstice, the moment you reentered the portal to return to the present.”

  Hrot lifted his head and stared first at Jasmin and then at the Emissary. The idea of a year of freedom seemed to have brought him to ecstasy. And the ensuing death would be a sweet end to his bitter life. “Don’t do it, Jasmin,” he said, but his voice was weak, and his eyes glowed as if he were running a fever.

  “I can’t let you linger like this,” she told him. Then she turned to the Emissary, who was already grinning. “I’ll do it.”

  The Emissary clapped his hands. “Very well, my brave beauty! You’ve got three months to spend with this wimp. After that, you’ll be mine. I’ll come for you at the winter solstice to lead you to the portal.”

  The Emissary’s malicious laughter rolled into the cavern like a heavy boulder. A dreadful squeal echoed through the woods, and they were once again alone.

  THE EMISSARY HADN’T gone far that evening. He crept around the woods and slithered to the cavern again a few hours later when Jasmin had left for the hostel. He found Hrot staring into the cooling embers of Jasmin’s bonfire.

  “What have you come back for?” Hrot asked in a tremulous voice as he scrambled to his feet.

  The Emissary only smirked and grinned at Hrot’s uneasiness.

  “What are you doing here?” Hrot insisted.

  “You really pulled it off, didn’t you, fluffy chin?” the Emissary said instead of an answer. “Not only will you soon be a free man, but you’ll also escape torments in my realm—torments you fully deserve. On top of that, you’ve got a silly whore to go back to your lousy times instead of you.”

  Hrot winced at the insult. “Don’t call her that . . . please.”

  The Emissary laughed. “How do you think she will fare over there, fluffy chin?”

  Hrot bit his lower lip. He’d been asking himself this same question over and over for the past few hours. He recalled how much he had hated living in his village—even though he had never known anything else until he’d left. It was impossible to even imagine how much an outsider would despise the filth and brutishness that ruled inside the palisade. On the other hand, it was just a year, only twelve short months. And he hoped his family would ease Jasmin’s suffering as much as they could.

  “I know you’re thrilled at the prospect of your liberation, fluffy chin,” the Emissary said after a while. “But you’re not the type of man who could ever be completely happy with his lot, are you? You’re already thinking that your period of freedom will be way too short. And you’re pathologically scared of dying at next year’s winter solstice.”

  Hrot knew it was true. He’d been longing for death, howling and praying for it day and night throughout the endless years, decades, and centuries of his imprisonment. But now, when death was so near, it petrified him. The uncertainty he’d lived in had been harrowing, yet the fact that he suddenly knew when, exactly, he was going to die was equally disturbing. Soon he would be free, but instead of enjoying his liberty, he would spend every day counting down the time that separated him from death.

  Only a year, just twelve short months. And after that, he would simply cease to exist. Was it really all he was to get for centuries of torments?

  “If death scares y
ou so much, we could make another arrangement,” said the Emissary. “Now listen carefully, fluffy chin.”

  The Emissary talked for a long time. He talked in his sweet, resounding voice, and as a cloud killed the moonlight and obscured his evil, cunning eyes, he became even more convincing. As darkness deepened, however, those eyes began to glow, reminding Hrot of who he was dealing with.

  “I don’t want to hear a word more,” Hrot snapped. The fiend’s words had swept his mind with a storm of clashing feelings. “I don’t want to change the pact,” he continued, realizing with growing panic that he sounded terribly uncertain. “Besides, Jasmin would never agree to that.”

  “Who cares what that whore thinks?”

  “Don’t call her that!” Hrot shouted, too angry to be afraid. “She’s a brave, wonderful, and dedicated woman. She agreed to spend a year in my times, and it’s such a great sacrifice I would be scum if I asked her for more.”

  The Emissary shrugged his slim shoulders. “I’ve been watching this whore for a long time, fluffy chin. She’s a tough one, let me tell you. And she seems to be really fond of you, for some reason. I do think she would do anything for you. But if you don’t think so, we can make a few amendments to the pact and simply forget to tell her. You don’t really want to die in a year, do you?”

  No, I really don’t, thought Hrot, hoping that the monster wasn’t reading his mind.

  “That’s what I thought,” said the Emissary with a self-satisfied grin.

  “But I told you I don’t want to change the pact! I’m quite happy with the arrangement. And I love Jasmin, and I would never betray or sacrifice her.”

  The Emissary laughed. “Love over grave, how touching! I am offering you an escape from certain death, you fool. How could you possibly say no?”

  “Don’t waste your time anymore,” Hrot snapped. “I’m not even going to listen to you. Now, leave me alone!”

  The Emissary growled dreadfully enough to make Hrot cringe. “I won’t waste more time with you. But if I leave, I won’t be back until the winter solstice, so you’d better make your decision now.”