by Greg Chapman
“I was once a surgeon.”
“No shit?” Niles said with surprise. He bent to one knee and began to mop up the blood with his shirt, only to decide the effort was pointless.
“Yes and quite a good one at that,” Vorn said as he sewed. “I worked in a hospital—as a thoracic surgeon.”
“So how did you manage to fuck that up?”
Vorn threaded the needle through the vein wall and out the other side then repeated the process, but his eyes were not as good as they once were. He would have killed for an operating theatre microscope at a time like this.
“Let’s just say that I began to dabble in things outside of the medical domain,” he said before surveying his work, watching and waiting. Soon the flow of blood broke through the makeshift dam. “Well, that does it then.” He tossed the needle into the sink.
“What does?” Niles said, staring at Bryce. “Is he dead?”
“No, but he soon will be unless I do something. And we may still require Mr Colton’s services.”
Vorn rummaged through Niles’ meagre first aid kit. He picked out a thick gauze bandage and moved to Bryce, opened his mouth and stuffed it firmly between his teeth.
“What are you doing now?” Niles said, his nerves rising as Bryce’s head began to loll about on his shoulders.
“Take hold of Mr Colton’s head,” Vorn said. “He is going to experience considerable pain.”
Niles gripped Bryce’s head as gently and firmly as he could. Vorn produced his black leather bag from nowhere and the mogul couldn’t help but notice how much it fitted the former surgeon, despite its obvious ancient appearance.
“What have you got in that thing, Vorn?”
“A quick fix,” he said. “I’d prefer to do something a bit cleaner, but this is a matter of life and death.”
Vorn opened the bag and removed a glass vial from inside. He held it up to the light and Niles could see it contained a grey powder, so thick light was unable to shine through it.
“What is that shit?”
“Ash,” Vorn said.
“Ash?”
“Yes, the ash of a cremated demon.”
Niles’ face suddenly matched the complexion of his hired gun as the concept crossed his mind. Thankfully, Bryce shifted trying to rouse himself from his opiate-induced stupor and it was enough to distract Niles from the dark thought.
Vorn opened the vial and held it over Bryce’s bleeding arm.
“Is it going to stop the bleeding?”
“Just hold him.”
The ash sprinkled out in a short shower of particles. On contact with Bryce’s wound the ash ignited, bursting in a great spark of white flame, a wave of intense heat quickly followed it.
Bryce’s eyes came open with the force of retracted shutter blinds and his scream threatened to shatter the mirror. His arm and the wound were completely immolated. He raged against the terror of it, his brain performing the natural intended act of recognising intolerable pain. Vorn leapt onto Bryce’s chest and pinned him down.
“It will be all over in a moment Mr Colton—just stay still!”
The flame soared at least two feet above Bryce’s arm, reaching an intensity as high as the bounty hunter’s gagged screams.
Then the fire was gone, leaving a trail of smoke and the stink of burned blood and flesh in its wake. Vorn stared down to see the wound had been cauterised, replaced by a black charcoal scar that ran deep to the bone. He climbed off Bryce and assessed the ash’s handiwork.
“Perfection,” he said.
Bryce pulled the gauze from his mouth and grabbed the occultist by his cloak, his eyes glazed over with sheer fright.
“What the fuck…did you do to me!?”
“I’ve saved your life, Mr Colton.”
“You’ve burned me…I can’t even move it!” Bryce couldn’t contain his shock and turned away from the disfigurement.
“I’m sorry Mr Colton, but I had little choice—you were bleeding to death. The Kasarch Ash has sealed the wound and you will live.”
Bryce let him go, and trembled. “How the fuck…can I do the job if I’ve got a dead arm?”
Vorn put the stopper in the vial of Kasarch Ash and placed it back in his bag.
“Well, truth be told Mr Colton, there are some fringe benefits of being healed by Kasarch Ash. Your arm might feel dead, but that’s only because it no longer belongs to you.”
“What?” Bryce’s gazed at his outstretched arm, recoiling as if he wanted to be rid of it.
“Don’t panic, Mr Colton, the ash has saved your life and given your arm a new…level of usefulness.”
“Jesus Vorn, will you stop with the fucking riddles,” Niles said. “What have you done to his arm!?”
Vorn gestured to the arm. “Mr Colton’s arm is now imbued with the remains of Kasarch—a demonic creature that was cremated in hellfire for treason.”
Bryce swallowed, Niles swore.
“Kasarch now lives—in part—within your arm, Mr Colton. His power now rests in your right hand. You are the right hand of Hell. A most valuable asset to have don’t you think?”
And Bryce Colton, feared bounty hunter, fell to the floor.
Later Vorn found Niles in his bedroom, freshly showered and dressed in a crisp new suit. Despite outward appearances, the billionaire had been unnerved by the evening’s proceedings and only jumped with a start when the occultist knocked on his door.
“Christ Vorn, you scared the shit out of me!” he said, his hand shaking slightly as he straightened his tie.
“My apologies,” Vorn entered Niles’ room, admiring the plush dark grey carpet hugging his shoes, the Matisse on the wall above the king-sized bed. Envy abruptly began to get the better of Vorn and he had to be extra careful when he sinned, no matter how small.
“How’s Bryce?’” Niles said. “I think the poor bastard’s lucky to be alive.”
“Undoubtedly, but he’s resting now. The shock will allow him to get some rest at least.”
Niles shook his head in disbelief, visualising the bounty hunter’s flesh burning.
“Why do you do it, Vorn?”
“Do what exactly, Niles?”
“Play around with this…voodoo rubbish.”
Vorn stopped at Niles’ drink cabinet and eyed off the half-full bottle of Glenfiddich scotch.
“Why does any man indulge in things he shouldn’t?”
Niles smirked at Vorn’s subtle quip and went to the cabinet to pour himself a drink that the very same bottle of scotch.
“Alcohol isn’t the same as witchcraft, Vorn—and besides, at least I know my limitations.”
Vorn nodded and walked across the room to the window. Outside a golden harvest moon cast its ethereal light on Niles’ decadent garden.
“It’s a hobby I don’t really have much control over anymore. It’s no longer my choice to follow its path. I’m simply dragged along it.”
Niles sipped his drink. “You’re looking for a way out aren’t you?”
Vorn turned. “No—”
“You can’t bullshit me, Vorn. I’ve known you for a long time—well, I don’t have a clue who you really are, but I know you’ve been getting in deeper and deeper as each month goes by. Every time I see you your gifts have grown, your little black bag even fuller than before with your vials and potions.’
“The same could be said for your basement, Niles.”
Niles swallowed the rest of his scotch and poured himself another.
“That’s true, which brings me to the subject of our latest prize—that thing downstairs. We’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s always been treasures, or puzzle boxes or talking statues—never a living, breathing beast.”
“Yet, it’s not my first encounter with such monsters and certainly won’t be my last. Still, its level of intelligence and instinct is fascinating. I want to know more about it.”
“Did you get it to talk then?”
“In a manner of speaking yes.”
&
nbsp; “Well, let me have it then.”
Vorn wanted to choose his words carefully. Niles’ desires for the occult occasionally rivalled his own, but his needs were for money, not power.
“There are more like him in a city underneath our own.”
Niles put down his glass. “Where?”
“We’ll need the beast to lead us to it, but I suspect it will be in the vicinity of where I found it in the first place. But let me ask you Niles, why are you so interested in this creature when it carries no financial value?”
The billionaire turned his gaze from him. “They…might have priceless artefacts in their city.”
“They’re little more than beasts, Niles, savages—they probably still use stone tools.”
Niles gave Vorn a sideways glance. “Then what’s the interest for you Gerhard—how do they help you save your soul?”
Vorn flinched. “I beg your pardon?”
“Anyone who has the ash of a demon in their pocket has been playing with fire. I mean, what in God’s name happened in that bathroom Vorn? I’ve never seen you perform any act like that before.”
“God has nothing to do with it, Niles,” he replied, his eyes to the floor in shame.
“I can see that, and I can see what it’s doing to you, but what about Bryce—seems like he’s in the same boat as you now.”
Vorn strode away from him. “Hardly,” he said. “He’s not on borrowed time like me—if anything time is on his side. I didn’t just save his life, I did him a favour. If you don’t mind Niles, I’d like to return to the most pressing matter—our guest.”
Niles sat on the edge of his bed and sighed. “You know what I want Vorn—will you help get it for me or not?”
“We could be walking into a trap,” Vorn said. “There could be hundreds of these creatures, all of them willing to devour us.”
“So, why should you be scared? And we’ve got Bryce now—he’ll protect us, won’t he?”
“Only to a point,” Vorn said.
Niles stood and glared at him. “Well, you’re going to have to do better than that Vorn. I’m not about to walk into a den of monsters without some sort of protection.”
“Then what do you propose?”
“You protect me—like you would protect yourself.”
Vorn laughed. “I’m not protected.’
“And I told you not to bullshit me. I know you have ways to protect yourself—spells or whatever—and I don’t want to end up as a meal for one of these freaks.”
Vorn paused. “There may be something I can do.”
“Good—”
“But I want something in return.”
“What my money not good enough for you?”
“Money is worthless, Niles—you need to realise that or one of these days it might just be the death of you.”
“Let me worry about that—now what the hell do you want?”
Vorn paused again and licked his lips. “The Book of Lost Names.”
Niles swallowed hard. “No, you told me never to give it to you!”
“You want protection—I want that book.”
“What for?”
“You know what for and you will give it to me, regardless of what I have told you in the past.”
Niles went to refill his glass. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice then.” Then he stared at him, fire in his eyes. “But I want to see proof my protection before we go anywhere.”
Vorn offered his hand and the mogul took it, a wicked smile on his face.
A very groggy Bryce Colton staggered back from the edge of Niles’ bedroom door and winced as a searing pain shot up his right arm.
He glanced down at the mutilated appendage, the blackened flesh tight, thick and deep. His hand clenched of its own accord and then flexed, alive and horrible.
His heart began to race, and he wanted to find a knife and cut the arm off, but then its flesh spoke to him and ordered him to be silent. Light-headed, he leant against a wall. He realized Vorn was wrong—he wasn’t the Right Hand of Hell—his body was its instrument.
19
The black pool reflected Thomas’ fears, the liquid was dead calm, devoid of any rippling, like a vast plate of ebony. It revealed Thomas’ physical nature, yet it promised to show him his soul if he dared to look.
All he had to do was dive beneath the surface. He felt Shal-Ekh at his side, the prophet fidgeting with a macabre excitement. Thomas no longer felt unsettled by the Stygma Flesher, rather he saw him as a teacher, the first Flesher ever to provide him with the truth he’d been seeking for so long.
“Once you submerge you will sleep and you will dream,” Shal-Ekh told him. “The dreamscape is different for each sleeper, it is the embodiment of what you desire. It will take you some moments to adjust to its glory.”
Thomas took in Shal-Ekh’s words, but he knew the experience—this intended experience—could not be taught with words.
“What about Okin—how will I know what he looks like?” Thomas said.
Shal-Ekh smiled and rested a hand on his charge’s shoulder. “He will find you. Remember he has been waiting for you.”
The black pool was mesmerising, before it was simply a comfort, but now it was a door that beckoned to be opened.
“Do I need to…make the markings on my skin?” Thomas said, hesitant.
Shal-Ekh took his arm. “The first time is the first time. Okin may speak to you, he may even show you a wonder. When he finally lets you awaken, you must tell us what he told you, so that it can be written down. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Then it is time.”
Monks came forward and removed Thomas’ shawl. They checked his skin for wounds and imperfections, but his flesh had been healed for some time, despite the fact he hadn’t fed for hours. Thomas wondered if the first dip in the pool had anything to do with it.
Once the monks had withdrawn, Shal-Ekh removed his own robe. He was like a statue of alabaster, shining white, ribcage pronounced, the torso incision like a groove worn by the winds of time.
“Are you coming with me?” Thomas said.
“I will help you submerge Thomas. The first time can be difficult for some. I will aid you in the transition.”
Thomas put his toes on the edge of the pit.
“Do you have to be tired?”
“No, the pool induces sleep—that is its sole purpose. Come.”
Shal-Ekh took Thomas’ hand as they scaled the slope down into the pit, the ash-like crypt earth caking around their ankles. Despite the disturbance their movements were creating, the pool remained still, like a sliver of skin on custard. Once they reached the pool’s edge Shal-Ekh stopped.
“I will enter first,” he said. “Then I will call you.”
Shal-Ekh slid one leg into the pool, his flesh stark against the liquid. The inky fluid enveloped his leg, clung to it the way oil would to an unfortunate seabird. He slid his other leg and pushed off the side, his hips and torso quickly vanishing in the murk. He floated out, the water up to his chin. He reached the centre of the pool and turned to face Thomas.
“Come in, Thomas,” he said.
Hesitation plagued Thomas and for a brief moment, he considered running away, but the pool was his final chance for revelation. He stepped into the pool and was surprised to find the liquid was warm, not cold like before. The calming sensation, its tenderness, flowed through his whole body and drew him in deeper. Soon he was wading in the pool’s embrace beside the prophet.
“What happens now?”
“Quiet,” Shal-Ekh said. “We must listen.”
The pair continued to tread water, but an observer would not have known because of the rigidity of the pool’s surface. Slowly, Thomas felt the liquid stirring beneath his feet, a swirling vortex rapidly increasing in size and velocity. With the vortex came a powerful sense of gravity and a multitude of voices, whispers.
“What’s going on?” Thomas said.
“Do not be afraid, Th
omas,” Shal-Ekh said. “Take my hand.”
Thomas gripped it and did not want to let go, the force of the vortex was relentless and on one occasion, he was pulled under the surface up to his eyes.
“Listen to the voices Thomas,” he heard Shal-Ekh say. “Listen to mine!”
Thomas tried to let go of his fear, but his survival instinct—the urge—struggled against the tide. He tried to focus on the voices and his guide.
“You need to let go Thomas, or it will rend you to pieces!”
Thomas closed his eyes in a bid to shut off the urge, he heard the pool and its murk calling to him and a deeper voice, much further below the vortex asking him who he was. Then Shal-Ekh’s voice broke through:
“Sleep Thomas—Okin is waiting!”
Then the Stygma prophet let go of his hand.
Harsh sunlight flared off the steel and glass of the human city and Thomas believed it had sent him blind.
He woke in the middle of a desolate street, completely uninhabited, there were no cars, just empty towers of steel and concrete. He got to his feet and was astonished to find he was once again dressed in a fine suit—the last suit he’d worn before his existence was torn apart by Nero.
Shal-Ekh had warned him about the power of the dreamscape, how it enhanced the sleeper’s desires and truly, the city was his deepest fetish. In fact, he’d dreamt of this same street before, yet in those dreams the street was teeming with potential meals.
So, Okin had brought him full circle, but it seemed, only to leave him wanting.
Thomas stepped off the street to the sidewalk and stopped to breathe in the city’s air. It reinvigorated him and inspired him to the purpose of the dream—to find the Great One.
But where could Okin be in a city without life? He started to walk north, the clack of his shoes echoing in the nothingness. Surveying each side of the street, Thomas noticed how clean the asphalt was; devoid of trash. He noticed the non-functioning traffic signals, the shop windows without mannequins and even the clock tower without a clock.
He had to think like Shal-Ekh. What had he told him—Okin would perhaps show him something? Was the nothingness the sign, or was it simply what it was supposed to be?
When Thomas reached an intersection, he checked the cross street, just searching for anything, but his line of sight traversed all the way to the horizon without even the slightest glimmer of answered hope.