by Greg Chapman
He had to find a way out of the situation Nero had put him in, some sort of bargaining chip when he met the King. The very fact he was an unknown—an anomaly—could save or damn him. He decided to wait, watch and think until hopefully, find a way to learn the methods of the Fleshers and save his hide at the same time.
Malik raised his hand and the group stopped. One of the minions pressed Thomas’ face into a wall and held him there. They kicked Nero and held him to the ground. Then, for a moment, they stood still, listening. Slowly, a rumble began to rise around them as another subway train rocketed by. When the din of the wheels on the tracks reached their crescendo Thomas observed Malik reach out and touch a brick in the wall; his fingers—his claws—seeming to pierce the stone itself. Malik clenched his fist and to Thomas’ surprise, a portion of the wall slid back to reveal a door.
Malik’s men hauled Thomas and Nero to their feet and shoved them through the entrance. The prince clicked his fingers and one of his minions ignited a torch with the flame of a cigarette lighter. The union of old and new technology intrigued Thomas. The light revealed another door cast from brass—the door of an elevator.
Malik opened the doors and ordered everyone inside. The elevator was just wide enough to hold them all, their bodies and the scent of their pulsing skins spreading in the confined space. Thomas breathed it in and fought the urge to feast. He cursed himself for having such horrid predilections—for wanting the flesh of his own kind, instead of humans. Malik pulled a large brass lever and turned to smile at Thomas.
“Going down?” he said.
The elevator groaned and lurched, but soon it was set free, like a boulder from a catapult, falling at an impossible rate. Seconds passed and Thomas had only caught his breath when the elevator came to a grinding halt. Malik flicked another switch and the doors parted, slowly revealing a foyer of stone, a rising staircase at its centre. Malik stepped out with his entourage in tow.
“I imagine Thomas, you are wondering where you are?” Malik said.
Thomas dared not to speak, instead he concentrated on the intricacy of the foyer, how it had been carved from the rock wall, detail upon detail. The steps of the staircase were made of gleaming marble.
“You are standing in the Atrium—the Great Hall of the Flaeschama—the Flesh Home.” Malik turned around to the staircase. “Up these stairs is the Sederunt—the Court of the King—my father, Gavenko.”
Thomas nodded in acknowledgement, but this only seemed to raise Malik’s ire. He strode up to him. His eyes pulsed with fire, his skin shone like porcelain; Thomas envied him for it.
“Does it not impress you?” Malik said.
Thomas stared back, unmoving.
“Speak!” Malik exclaimed, his minions ready to pounce in response to the outburst.
“It’s…amazing,” Thomas admitted. “It looks ancient.”
Malik swallowed back further rage. “Thousands of years old—you should show it some respect!”
“Of course,” Thomas said. “Please accept my apologies.”
Malik turned away from Thomas only to turn back again, his finger raised, his brow furrowed.
“How can you not know of this place—the Atrium—the Sederunt—even the King? Every Phagun is born and named here!”
Thomas searched the Atrium for an answer, but all he could see was stone and shadow. Within the stone, carvings of Fleshers hunting helpless human figures seemed to mock Thomas, and when he looked back to the Fleshers surrounding him, they all shared Malik’s dismay.
“I…don’t remember this place—the only place I do remember is the city.”
“The city?”
“Yes—I woke up in an apartment when I was a child.”
“Impossible,” Malik scoffed. “You’re lying or insane—or both. No wonder you were found in the company of fools.”
Thomas pushed out his chest. He’d had enough of Malik’s taunts—prince or no.
“I told you—I’m not a liar!”
Malik slashed Thomas across the chest with his claws, the skin film crumbling apart to reveal bone. Thomas fell to the floor in agony.
“Don’t you dare talk to me in that way, Flesher!” the prince roared.
“MALIK!”
The booming voice came from the top of the stairs, where a lone figure stood like a god. Malik immediately quenched his fury and stepped away from Thomas who was bleeding into the cobblestones.
“There is no bloodshed in the Atrium!” the figure recited. “All are judged in the court by the King. Do your duty Malik and bring the stranger to me!”
The Sederunt was even more immaculate than the Atrium; twelve great stone pillars rising to an ornate ceiling, marble floors stained with a pattern of black veins, a throne of unknown leather stretched over wood, flames crackling from a hearth carved into the floor. The expanse of the Sederunt and the emptiness of it only accentuated its majesty. Thomas couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of awe, and even more unsettling, a feeling of déjà vu. His gut stirred, not with the urge, but with pride.
Then he beheld Gavenko, the King, standing in the heart of the court, his gaze on Thomas almost tangible in the air. He had a heavy brow, casting a shadow over eyes twice as bright as his son’s; perfect skin—which made it difficult for Thomas to ascertain his true age—and long hair pulled taut into a ponytail. He too was dressed in a tunic, but it was truly fit for a king, royal red and flecked with concentric circles of some golden weave.
Thomas was led to the centre of the court to stand before Gavenko. He didn’t know whether to bow, kneel or prostrate himself. In Thomas’ mind, the wealth of decadence seemed so out of place for these…monsters. It was the king’s voice, baritone deep, which brought Thomas back to his senses.
“Your name?” Gavenko said.
“Thomas.”
Gavenko scanned Thomas, studying his face, his exposed and bleeding flesh film, but Thomas could tell the King was searching his own memories; Thomas hoped there was something there.
“I apologise for my son’s behaviour,” Gavenko said, flashing Malik a scornful look. “All Phaguns are welcome in my court—stranger or no.”
Thomas nodded. “Thank you, King,” he said.
“So,” Gavenko continued. “I know nothing about you Thomas—please indulge us.”
Thomas watched the onlookers and tried to conceal his indecision. How much should he reveal when he still couldn’t trust them? He desired to open up to them in the hope of learning who he really was, but he felt they were likely to slit his throat or banish him like Nero—he didn’t want to live like that.
“As I told your son, I don’t really know who I am. I woke up as an infant more than thirty years ago only to discover that I wasn’t…human.”
Gavenko listened intently and Thomas dreaded what thoughts were racing through the all-powerful King’s mind.
“I had to live off my own flesh for more than a decade until I found the courage to go out and hunt,” Thomas continued. “I…regretted having to kill, but isolation helped me with my emotions, somewhat. Then today while hunting, I came across Nero.” Thomas turned to see Nero cowering in the grip of two minions. “We fought and he escaped only to turn up in my loft later to kidnap me and bring me to the sewers. It was there we were discovered by your son.”
There was a long silence as Gavenko continued to gaze at Thomas curiously. Thomas could hear his heart pounding with trepidation until the King spoke with that clipped regal voice:
“What an incredible story that is Thomas,” Gavenko said. “It must have been terrible for you to be alone for so long.”
“I suppose.”
Gavenko stepped towards him and rested a hand on Thomas’ bare shoulder. There was genuine warmth there, but Thomas was more in awe of the contrast between their skins—Gavenko’s much paler, almost white, and imbued with purple crack-like veins against Thomas’ gloomy coral.
“Yet, I can’t help but wonder why you haven’t encountered us before if you say you
have been hunting in the city for decades?”
Visions of Stephanie tearing flesh from his back suddenly flashed in Thomas’ mind. They must have known her—perhaps she was amongst them right now, he wondered. Thomas felt it was too soon to reveal so much.
“That surprised me too—I guess I have kept to the outer reaches.” He glanced at the King, carefully choosing his words. “Sometimes I…would hunt animals—cats, rats, so as not to draw attention to myself.”
“Rats?” Malik chimed in, his face a grimace. “Disgusting.”
“Quiet Malik,” Gavenko said before turning back to Thomas. “Go on.”
Thomas looked to Nero. “I’m not proud of it, but in the end, it was only a matter of time before your people found me.”
Gavenko pulled Thomas closer. “You are our people, Thomas,” he said. “Don’t forget that. The Phagus tribe are a prosperous race, one of regimen and power. You belong to that fold.”
“Yet, you don’t recognise me, and I don’t remember you?” Thomas reminded him.
Gavenko nodded. “That is true, but there are many of us scattered throughout this world. Not even I can keep track of all my Phaguns. But you are here now, and we will gladly show you the ways of the Phagus.”
“What if I choose not to stay?” Thomas said.
Gavenko’s eyes widened as if Thomas had physically slapped him.
“You must stay, Thomas. You are our kin. Besides, did you not just inform us that you have been alone?”
“And I’ve survived alone for this long—as I said, your people found me, not the other way around.”
The King’s stance shifted from relaxed to almost military; fire ignited the colour in his eyes.
“Nero is hardly one of our people, Thomas,” he said. “And it is you who saw fit to be alone.”
Thomas frowned, his anger stirring again. “I didn’t even know there were others like me until she—”
He saw the gathered had raised their eyebrows, even Nero.
“She?” Gavenko said. “I thought you told us Nero was the only other Flesher you’d ever met?”
“You see!” Nero interjected. “He’s a liar!”
“Silence!” Gavenko said, his voice echoing about the Sederunt like a death knell. Yet his gaze was the true sounder for order, his eyes could have set Thomas’s flesh alight there and then.
“You lie to my face—in my court! Your next words had better be the truth, Phagun!’”
Thomas clenched his jaw and swallowed; inside he chastised himself for his carelessness—his utter stupidity. The Phagun soldiers began to encroach upon the space around him, like jackals waiting for the moment when their bloodlust would finally be satisfied.
“I do not mean to deceive you, King,” Thomas said. “If anything, I am only trying to protect myself. It’s hard to trust anyone—especially my own kind—when each subsequent meeting involves threats and intimidation.”
Thomas’ words seemed to soften Gavenko, but not his son.
“How can we trust you when you spit lies in our faces?” Malik said. “Father, I say we question him now—he could be a shroud sent by the Stygma!”
Gavenko held up his hand as Thomas wondered who—or what—the “Stygma” was.
“Hold your tongue Malik!” Gavenko ordered, his eyes still on Thomas. “Yet Malik is right—how can we trust you when you are so willing to lie?”
“Well, I’m not a shroud—or whatever you called me—I am one of you, but I still don’t understand what that is. Perhaps if you enlightened me and showed me the world you claim I belong to and stop threatening me then maybe I might be more forthcoming.”
Malik was in his face. “And perhaps we will extract truth from you by flaying the flesh from your bones!”
Gavenko lashed out and struck his son across the face, sending him reeling and drawing blood.
“SILENCE MALIK!” he yelled. “I am the King! I rule in this court!”
Malik stared disbelieving at his father, hand to his face. He shoved his minions away when they went to his aid. Gavenko snarled at them all and they retreated. Thomas stood deathly still and silent, his heart set to explode from terror. Gavenko walked up to Thomas and stood face-to-face with him.
“If you ever deceive me again, I will throw you to the Lepers myself—do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
With that response, Gavenko turned his back on Thomas and strode out of the court, but he had one final order as he left.
“Thomas is free to roam among the Phagus, but let the outcast Nero be his escort. If Thomas breaks any of our laws, then they will both be executed.”
There was an audible sigh from Nero and Malik was eager to disapprove, but a simple glance from Gavenko to his son ended any possible tirade before it could begin. Thomas breathed easier. His victory may have been small, but it was one he hoped would grant him time. He needed to tread carefully among the long-lost world of his supposed brethren.
6
Niles Harper sat at his mahogany writing desk with a glass of twenty-five-year-old scotch in his hand, surveying his domain with a keen eye. Of course, there were the obligatory stuffed heads of beasts mounted on his wall and the hide of a lioness on the floor, but these were mere possessions that any multi-millionaire could afford. Below in the basement were a dozen cars: a ’62 Rolls Royce, a Bentley and a Lamborghini painted the colour of the rising sun, to name a few. In the attic a Manet and a Picasso, but these too were all for show.
His true desire—his passion in life, was also on display, but few could see these particular trinkets, even for looking. Niles sipped his whisky, relishing the sting of it on his tongue and stood to make a path for a bookcase at the southern end of the room. On the shelf was all manner of literature—Wilde, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Chesterton, Poe, even Aristotle; all rare, all priceless, but they were only words to be read and rarely recalled. Beneath the books was something much more ancient and everlasting.
He reached out and gripped the spine of the 1720 edition of Paradise Lost by John Milton—not a first edition, but desirable, nonetheless. He slid the tome out from its resting place and felt the weight of it in his hand before opening it. Inside, the pages were blank. Any antiquarian worth his salt would have tossed the book on the fire, let alone pay good money for it, but this edition was more than significant because of its age.
“Gerhard Vorn,” Niles uttered into the empty room.
The pages of the book seemed to come to life, words springing onto the page:
Hello Niles, it has been a long time.
“Too long,” Niles said, seemingly to himself. “How goes the search?”
There was a pause before the next line flowed out in slanted serif text:
I am close now. There is symmetry in their movements, and they leave the faintest of traces.
“Can you find them or not?” Niles interrupted.
Patience, Niles—the path must be taken cautiously.
“I’m not paying you two hundred thousand dollars to be cautious. You were the one who told me about them in first place—why can’t you find them now?”
Niles, you cannot find these beings on a map.
Niles squeezed the book in frustration and his glass of scotch slipped from his fingers, spilling on the rug. He cursed.
“Fine!” he said. “Just let me know when I can send Bryce to you—understand?”
The next stanza came gently—in antithesis to Niles’s impatience.
Of course, Niles—you know I won’t fail you. You are holding my power in your hands after all—
Niles slammed the book shut, ending the conversation. He despised Vorn’s vanity, but he had to admit, he delighted in his resourcefulness. Vorn was right though, he’d never let him down, but Harper knew that fact had nothing to do with his arcane abilities. It all had to do with the fact that if Vorn did fail then Niles would have him burned at the stake for the witch that he was.
The Phagun city lay deep beneath the human world, like a mass g
rave of murdered corpses. Thomas could barely describe it. A kingdom carved from the stone the human race rested upon and the Atrium and the Sederunt were just the beginning—the doorway to an incredible world.
After Gavenko granted him leave, they took Thomas from the court to his room, a modest abode, not unlike his loft on the surface, but more antiquated. Stone walls and floors, polished smooth; a tapestry at his feet, depicting a lion clasping a wildebeest; a mattress of straw, upon a stone slab; simple accoutrements of a wash basin; and Thomas was even surprised discover a toilet, comprising a hole in the ground, connected to pipes. Sophistication was not entirely beyond the beasts.
Thomas paced the room and studied the pale ambient light caressing the walls. He touched the stone and felt its roughness on his fingertips; tool marks made possibly thousands, possibly even tens of thousands of years ago. In a way, his room resembled a cave—a lair, fit for a beast such as him.
Laid out on the bed was a tunic of grey wool and a leather belt. He picked up the belt and put it around his waist to test the size, the belt didn’t feel like cowhide and it didn’t smell like it either. The scent stirred the urge in his gut. Thomas looked at his skin film shocked to see that it was still yet to fully assimilate with his body; he had to feed and soon—but how when he was down here? Did the Phaguns hunt en masse, or were hunters sent out to provide for the rest?
“All Phagus are required to wear the garb of their tribe,” Malik said, appearing at Thomas’ door.
Thomas stood much straighter, but not out of reverence for the King’s son. Thomas reviled the callousness in Malik’s eyes, but he was determined not to let the prince impose his will upon him. He wasn’t just “another subject” to be pushed around. “So, you picked out my clothes then??’ Thomas said, meeting Malik’s gaze.
Malik let himself in and approached Thomas rapidly, his light feet virtually carrying him in the air across the room.
“I did not provide you the clothes,” Malik said. Then his eyes narrowed. “Don’t ever believe that I am your brother, Phagun. You are not yet welcome here as far as I am concerned—and neither is that traitor Nero.”