Dark Seduction

by Jeffrey, Shaun

  He didn't know whether she meant it, but she had said it as though she did. Not that he could blame her. After all, he was meant to kill her. She would just be getting in a pre-emptive strike. Kill or be killed.

  He hoped she hadn't noticed the knife he slipped behind his back. Wished he had never got involved with any of this. He didn't know what to do. On the one hand, he had to kill a relative he never knew he had. On the other, he would die.

  He headed towards the caravan. He needed to save his own neck. He couldn't die. There were too many things he wanted to do with his life. Besides, he didn't know the woman, but with all the anger she seemed to have bottled up, it might be doing everyone a favour. Especially her. Yes, that's what it would be, a favour. He gripped the knife and gritted his teeth.

  He tried to convince himself it would be easy, but he knew it wouldn’t. Knew it would be hard, very hard. Only a cold-blooded killer wouldn't feel anything.

  She wouldn't go quietly, he just hoped it was swift. He didn't want her to suffer; couldn’t live with the guilt.

  A few local residents peered out of their doors and windows, watching the bizarre carnival procession. Zen wondered if they even realised the importance of the events about to unfold.

  He only hoped Melantha's followers would be too shocked to react.

  A flock of carrion birds circled overhead, squawking eagerly as if they sensed the impending bloodshed.

  The undertaker stood at the window of his shop, frowning. The gold lettering in the window read, Pain & Son, Undertakers. Zen walked past, absently heard the undertaker's door open with a jangle of bells.

  Melantha drew closer, her expression growing darker.

  Now or never. If he left it any longer, he might change his mind. Zen steeled himself; took a deep breath and ...

  An arm wrapped itself around his neck, choking him. Zen's eyes opened wide in surprise and he gargled as whoever held on started to pull him back, out of the way. Zen struggled to no avail, his assailant too strong or too determined. They passed through a doorway, and he saw Melantha ride by, her eyes momentarily fixing him with a withering glare before she looked away and spurred the horse on.

  The arm around his neck relaxed and Zen rubbed his Adam's apple to relieve the pain before turning to face his attacker: the undertaker, a gangly man with intense, dark eyes, a shock of black hair and a pale, corpse like complexion, as though he had spent too long hiding indoors. Although hard to estimate his age, Zen thought he must be around forty-five. Apart from a white shirt and a red tie like a bloodstain, he was dressed all in black, permanent mourning attire.

  “What the hell did you grab me for?” Zen shouted.

  The undertaker grinned; his pale face reminded Zen of the albino man.

  “You stupid idiot. Do you know what she's planning?”

  The undertaker smiled and shrugged. “Whatever it is, she’s assured me that I’ll benefit.”

  Zen couldn't believe what he heard. “You won't be around to benefit. When she comes back from where she's going, everyone's going to die, and that means you too.” He shook his head.

  “We'll see,” the undertaker said, seemingly unimpressed, his dark, beady eyes glinting mischievously.

  Zen wondered whether the man wasn't a little mad. Perhaps it came from dealing with dead people all the time. Perhaps he was desensitised. Zen wondered whether he interfered with the corpses; balked at the sick image of him feeling up a dead cadaver, getting his jollies from an unresponsive piece of meat. He shivered. Well, the stupid idiot wasn't going to stop him.

  “Get out of my way,” Zen said, striding towards the door.

  “I can't do that; I can't let you harm her.”

  Zen reached out to grab Mr. Pain by the shoulder to push him out of the way, but the undertaker moved too fast. He slipped away like a shadow, only to reappear in front of the door.

  “Pain by name, pain by nature,” Zen said. He looked around the room and saw an old desk with a blotting pad on it. Pictures scrawled in biro decorated the pad; grotesque faces, skulls, bodies in the middle of autopsies with organs falling out; a psychiatrist would certify the man mad from them alone. The only other things on the desk were a stapler and pens, which sprouted out of red plastic tubes like flower stalks. Behind the desk sat a brown leather chair and a shelf with a few books on it. To the side, a door that led to the back of the building, stencilled with the word PRIVATE.

  “I'll try to be quick about it,” Mr. Pain said, smiling benevolently and revealing his yellow teeth.

  “Quick?”

  “Yes, don't worry. I can repair any disfigurement I cause so you can have an open casket and won't upset anyone when they look in.”

  “Are you mad?” Zen took a step back and raised the knife. His heart raced and he bit his lip. His legs went weak and he felt cold, the blood draining from his face like mercury in a thermometer.

  Pain stepped forward and laughed. He pulled a cosh from the inside pocket of his coat. He slapped it noisily across the palm of his free hand.

  “Get away from me,” Zen said, waving the knife. He wondered why an undertaker carried a cosh around in his coat. His hands shook almost as much as his legs, but the undertaker didn’t even bat an eyelid, never mind look scared.

  Mr. Pain flicked his wrist, the cosh a blur as it travelled through the air and struck Zen's hand. Instantaneous agony radiated along his arm. He instinctively opened his fingers and dropped the knife. He heard it clatter to the ground, but he couldn't see it as he shut his eyes and sucked air through his clenched teeth in an attempt to quell the pain.

  “Bastard,” he squealed.

  Mr. Pain laughed and struck out again, hitting Zen's wrist. It sounded like a dry wishbone snapping, the pain excruciating. Zen fell back, wished himself anywhere but here. He grabbed his wrist, shrieking at the resultant pain. It felt broken, as though the bone had splintered and now poked through the skin. He tried to caress it, but the pain made him feel sick.

  He opened and closed his fingers, testing to see if he could still move them.

  “You fuckin’ twat,” he snarled, backing around the desk to put a barrier between them. He tried to see if he could spot the knife on the ground, but Mr. Pain lashed out again, forcing Zen back against the wall.

  He felt the door handle sticking in his rear, and using his good hand, he reached behind him, found the handle and turned it. The door opened and he fell through, his injured hand hitting the doorframe as he tried to keep his balance. The pain felt incredible. For a moment, he almost passed out and he hit the ground trying to remain conscious, fighting to keep the shadows at bay.

  Although still dizzy, he didn't have time to lie around and he scrambled to his feet. Mr. Pain stood in the doorway, smiling and slapping the palm of his hand with the cosh, keeping time like a deadly metronome.

  There were a number of coffins in the room. Some of them leaned vertically against the wall, others were horizontal. One of the horizontal coffins sat open, and Zen backed towards it. He glanced down and looked inside, and wished he hadn't. A cadaver, face painted to make him look presentable, stared back.

  “I'm glad you've had a chance to see my work,” Mr. Pain said. “Now you know I'll do a good job. I take pride in what I do. It's an art, you see.” He advanced, slapping the cosh.

  “You're sick,” Zen said through gritted teeth. He fought to keep the shadows at bay. Could feel them waiting in the wings like a vampire, waiting to suck the life out of him. He had to resist. It would be so easy to succumb, a welcome relief from the pain and horror. But he knew if he did, he would never wake up; would be taking the big sleep.

  He backed around the coffin, his legs starting to rebel, going weak at the knees as though in league with Mr. Pain, as though they wanted him to fall. His damaged hand hung limp at his side, throbbing and sending shafts of white-hot pain along his arm as though on fire. He felt certain if he put it in a bucket of water, steam would gush out.

  In the distance, he heard someone
scream. Or was it him screaming, the pain now so intense he didn't know if he had lost control, now existing outside himself, distancing himself from reality, a safety mechanism as his brain shut down.

  Mr. Pain grinned, as though he could smell the scent of victory.

  Zen backed further into the room and noticed another door, half hidden behind a vertical coffin. He staggered towards it.

  Pre-empting him, Mr. Pain rushed forward, the cosh raised ready to strike. Zen began to fall, his shaking legs eventually giving out. At the last minute, his good hand managed to grab the edge of a coffin heavy enough to support him. He pulled himself upright, saw the cosh flying towards him and ducked to avoid it. He heard it hit the coffin with a dull thud, the last nail ...

  Bells jangled in the background – Zen imagined a choir of angels serenading him towards the pearly gates.

  He watched Mr. Pain raise the cosh for another blow and he knew this time, he wouldn't be so lucky.

  CHAPTER 23

  Mr. Pain smirked, his yellow teeth like sulphurous volcanic rock.

  Zen couldn't look away. A bulge in the undertaker’s trousers made Zen feel sick. The last thing he would see in this life was a grinning psycho with a hard on. Life sucked.

  The cosh began to descend; time seemed to slow down, everything happening in freeze-frame so he suffered in his last seconds. Before the cosh hit his head, he imagined the pain, the weapon leaving a canal in his skull that would need some serious repair work to make him look respectable for the open casket.

  He found his eyes drawn to the corner of Mr. Pain's mouth, watched a trickle of blood roll down the man’s chin. Where before time seemed to have slowed, it now seemed to have stopped. Mr. Pain stood there, the cosh still inches above Zen's head. No longer grinning, he cried, the cosh held motionless.

  Zen watched the lapel of Mr. Pain's coat rise up. When it had risen five inches or more, it fell aside to reveal a sharp blade that pierced the undertaker.

  “Don't just sit there,” Leo said, peeking around the side of Mr. Pain and withdrawing his sword, “We've got things to do.”

  Mr. Pain fell sideways and landed in an open casket.

  Zen couldn't believe it. He got to his feet and hugged Leo with his good arm. “Am I glad to see you,” he said, tears of relief flooding his eyes.

  Letting go of Leo, he walked slowly to the end of the casket that Mr. Pain lay half in and half out of, and using his good hand he pushed him all the way in before slamming the lid down.

  “Come on,” Leo said, sheathing his sword and walking away.

  Zen followed him back into the shop. He found the knife he had dropped, picked it up and then turned the sign on the front door to, CLOSED FOR BUSINESS before exiting.

  Outside, the high street looked deserted.

  “Melantha's entered the Shadowland,” Leo said, as if reading Zen's mind.

  “Then we're too late!”

  “I hope not, for all our sakes.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Melantha steered her caravan through the streets of the Shadowland with her clan at her rear; a strange procession in an even stranger land. The sound of the horse's hooves echoed between the buildings, a solemn metronome that kept time for the army’s steps.

  The streets were unnaturally quiet. She was used to hearing perverse creatures uttering supplications to the art of pain. Something wasn't right.

  She didn't like it.

  She heard footsteps going out of time with the horse's hooves, running. Moments later, Barrabas appeared beside her.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked. “Where are all the bengikano? The devils?”

  Melantha reined her horse in and surveyed the streets. “I don’t know,” she said. What trick were they playing now? She looked at the towering lighthouse, its intermittent beam like a vast, winking eye. The gabled houses lining the street leaned forward as if in expectation.

  She looked up at the caravan's façade and saw the hidden faces staring back, ghostly ancestors captured in the knots of wood, the hint of an eye, the sardonic slash of lips; features she recognised drawn in blood. Expectant faces that demanded retribution.

  A sound broke the silence: the papery flap of wings.

  Melantha looked up and saw small, winged creatures resembling rats, flitting between the buildings.

  Then the screaming started.

  She turned to look back at her people, alarmed to see the winged creatures attacking. She jumped down from the caravan, withdrew the knife from her skirt and ran to help.

  One of her clan speared the winged creatures with a sword, making a grotesque kebab; other creatures landed on his head and shoulders, nibbling at his ears. The man screamed, allowing a creature to attach itself to his tongue. He tried to rip the creature off, but it had latched on too tight and he tore his own tongue apart.

  Melantha grimaced. She watched the creatures swoop down, a kamikaze nightmare descending in black waves.

  A trap.

  Movement in a doorway caught her attention and a figure with bulbous eyes and spindly appendages detached itself from the shadows. It wove eerie balls of blue fire out of thin air and threw them into the fray, leaving incandescent flares in their wake.

  Melantha started towards the figure, but the flying creatures barred her way, circling her like a black whirlwind. She tried to exert her power, tried to influence the monster from afar, but the creatures disrupted her spell. She couldn't concentrate.

  One of the flaming balls hit a man in the face and melted his features on impact, his skin rolling down his cheeks like thick custard.

  Another figure appeared, insubstantial as it shimmered like sunlight on water. It hopped among the warriors, almost unseen, delivering death with savage claws: Melantha saw a throat torn open, blood scattered like seeds to blossom on the ground.

  A woman ran from around the corner of a building, her body decorated with vicious looking spikes that skewered her flesh. She charged into the fight, spearing anyone in her path.

  Frantic to help her people, Melantha started hacking at the winged creatures, but there were too many of them. She tried to influence them, exerting her power, but they seemed unresponsive.

  She glimpsed the albino man through the melee, had seen him from afar many times while living in this godforsaken place. Multiple blades spun around his fingers, incandescent whorls of steel that appeared to be connected to him in an unnatural symbiosis of metal and flesh. His two cohorts stood at his side. The fat man wove his fingers and conjured wind from nothing, sending screaming banshees into battle, while the bald man opened his mouth impossibly wide and shrieked loud enough to pop blood vessels.

  The screams of Melantha's people competed with the bald man's vocal attack, but theirs were screams of pain. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  Behind her, she heard the roar of a shotgun and the resultant squeals as the pellets struck their target.

  She felt a momentary glimmer of hope. Her people were fighting back, the initial surprise and fear replaced by the resolve to win; to survive.

  A bloody figure stumbled through the winged birds. A woman, her face shredded like tissue paper, her clothes little more than rags. Her missing lower jaw left a gruesome set of upper teeth that gnashed uselessly at thin air. She collapsed to the ground, food for the strange little toad-like creatures that scurried out of the shadows.

  Blood and feathers coated Melantha's face and hands. Her arms ached, but she couldn't rest.

  Movement caught her attention, and she dived aside as the horse ploughed through the birds, towing the caravan in its wake. As the caravan came to a stop, the faces in its facade looked impatient.

  Without hesitating, Melantha climbed into the driving seat and took hold of the reins, urging the horse towards the melee.

  Something bloody fell from the sky and landed in front of the caravan, mewling in pain. Melantha put it out of its misery by steering the caravan over it.

  The buildings that crowded the streets were old
and lichen covered. Perverse statues of fantastic beasts adorned the high parapets. The sky, where visible, was an indiscernible grey. Wan light filtered from dirty windows, seeping onto the slick cobbled street like a cancerous growth. The air smelled fetid, contaminated by the inhabitants.

  She heard Barrabas emit a roar of triumph and she looked across to see he’d stabbed the spiked woman.

  Flames engulfed one of the buildings. Windows broke and tongues of flame tentatively licked the air before committing themselves to an all out inferno.

  A hunched grey figure ran in front of the caravan, and Melantha mowed it down; skin burst and bones cracked beneath the wheels. She looked across at the albino man, hoping to exert her power to influence, but he was gone. And so were his cohorts.

  Sporadic gunfire filled the air.

  That’s when Melantha realised it had been foolish to come back here. Anxious to make up for lost years, she’d thought she could exact revenge quicker by arming her clan with dark powers. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  She pulled on the reins to turn the horse around and spied the lighthouse towering high above. The jet-black door looked like a huge vortex. Melantha felt that if she looked at it for long enough, she would be sucked inside, but she jumped down and approached it anyway, choosing to enter of her own volition to show that she was the one in control. She grabbed the door’s large metal handle and pushed. The door, high at one end yet lower at the other, swung inwards on oiled hinges.

  Without hesitating, she entered. The quicker she could bewitch some inhabitants to help her clan, the better. Then they could leave this foul place and lay siege to the real world.

  She found herself in a large hallway. Staircases lined the walls. Some of them seemed to lead nowhere while others led to doors and passageways. A macabre chandelier of severed hands holding candles hung from the ceiling. Melting wax trickled over the fingers and dripped onto the parquet floor where it formed little stalagmites. The flickering flames emitted a pale light that failed to penetrate the dark passageways, but she headed for the nearest one. She knew the Shadowland was never what it appeared to be. Things changed.