by Graham Brown
“I… I wasn’t really going to write it,” he said. “It’s just a silly notion.”
“I think you should write it,” she said smiling at him. Her lips were pale like blue ice. Her teeth so white they almost blinded him.
“Whose side…whose side are you on?” he asked, unable to stem his curiosity.
“I think you know that, already,” she said. The image of Drakos came into his mind and he began to tremble with fear.
“I need you to think about something Mr. Faust,” she said, sliding her hands on either side of his head to keep him from turning away. “The Dark-Star. What do you know of it?”
He was startled. Her hands were like frost on his skin. And yet, he was mesmerized as much by her beauty as her powers.
“Hey!” A voice shouted. “What do you think you’re doing to that old man?!”
She glanced back just long enough to break the trance and Faust slipped free. He took off running again. Never looking back. He heard a scuffle and the sound of shattering glass and the loud metallic bang of a body being hurled against a dumpster.
By then he was around the corner and running the final block. Up ahead was salvation. The church of Saint Martin. She could not enter there, and if she did, she would be weak and blind like the blond one in Cologne.
He stumbled and crashed through the door knocking down a couple of tourists who’d made a midnight pilgrimage to the venerable building. He fell forward, crawling deeper into the refuge.
“Dr. Faust?” one of the monks asked. Saint Martin’s was run by monks who named their order The Monastic Fraternity of Jerusalem. They knew Faust well.
“Please,” he gasped. “Bar the door. I’m being pursued.”
As one of the monks helped him to a sitting position, another went to the door. “There’s no one out there, Dr. Faust.”
But Faust could see her in his mind, obscured by the heavy rain. And then he heard her as well. I will find you wherever you go, Dr. Faust, and soon, for I require what you know.
Chapter 17
Interlaken, Switzerland
“I will see Aldo Gruvaleu, now.”
Henrick spoke these words the way a commander spoke to a subordinate. The man and woman on the receiving end were not used to being treated this way.
“I’m afraid he’s not in any condition to be seen,” the man said. “Doctor’s orders.”
Henrick had come to the Lake District of Switzerland, to a Monastery for Spiritual Health and Well Being, owned and operated by the Catholic Church. It was a fancy description for an insane asylum. It bothered him. It reminded him of… the past.
“I don’t care,” Henrick said. “Take me to him. Those are my orders.”
As he spoke he laid his hands on the desk. The ring of the hunter sparkled on his index finger. The man stared at it. The woman ignored it. He knew of the order. She didn’t.
“Follow me,” he said.
As the grey haired man led him down a high ceilinged corridor, it echoed with their footsteps. Henrick had mixed feelings for the Swiss. The Swiss Guards were the only other force attached to the Vatican. That, and the Swiss penchant for hard work, order and the creation of wealth appealed to his meticulous side.
On the other hand they had a nasty habit of sitting out the world’s wars while safeguarding money deposited in their banks by both sides, traits he saw as cowardice and avarice. But worst of all, Simon Lathatch had been Swiss, and his stubborn unflinching manner had grated on Henrick for years.
“I warn you…” the man said, stopping at a door with triple locks, “…you may be surprised by what you see.”
“Open it,” Henrick demanded.
The man used the keys on his ring to unlatch all three locks, one at a time. Click, click, clunk.
The door opened to darkness. Henrick reached for the light switch and flicked it but nothing happened.
“He smashes the bulbs,” the man said. “We’ve stopped replacing them for his own good.”
“Hmmm…” Henrick said. “Is there a window?”
“Of course not,” the man said. “Here.” He handed over a flashlight and switched on one of his own. Henrick took both. “Leave me.”
“It may not be safe to be alone with him.”
“I said, leave!”
The man stood back and then stepped out. Once the door had closed, the locks could be heard turning again. Click, click, clunk.
Henrick walked into the dark unafraid of Aldo or anything else that might be there. He passed stack upon stack of notebooks piled up like towers in the dark. He opened one, able to read it by the modicum of light that came in through a narrow slit up high in the room.
The notebook read strangely.
Take them to the dark, take them to hell.
Yes bring them with us. Why should we go alone?
This is hell. We’re in it.
This is hell!
The next page held some fanciful drawing of an eyeless corpse and symbols that Henrick recognized as the markings of a clan of vampires. Page after page were marked with similar rantings.
“Madness,” he whispered, putting the book down. “Aldo?”
No response.
He walked in further. In the dark, huddled beneath a desk he saw a small figure rocking back and forth and writing vigorously. His lips trembled as he scribbled. Speaking words, alternating voices.
“To the death they hunt us, to the death.”
The next words were in Spanish and then what Henrick thought was Mandarin.
“Aldo!”
The young man looked out at him.
“What the hell is all this?” Henrick asked.
Aldo shouted something in a language that Henrick had never heard. In response, Henrick stepped forward, grabbed Aldo’s arm and dragged him out from under the desk.
Aldo tried to squirm away, but Henrick held him tight. From a pocket he pulled out the flashlight and aimed it at Aldo’s eyes. Aldo’s pupils constricted and he turned away.
“I can’t get them out,” Aldo whined. “I can’t.”
“Is that what this is all about?” Henrick said, waving at the notebooks scattered around. “A way to get them out of your head?”
“I see things,” Aldo insisted. “I see what they do. Horrible things… the evil they sow… murder, murder, murder, every night. I have to see it. I have to watch. I get no choice!”
Henrick wasn’t sure what to make of this. For the most part, he’d believed this was a fool’s errand, and came just to satisfy Messini, planning to get it over with as quickly as possible. After all, Aldo’s condition had been seen before in many who’d been on the front lines. Once taken over by a demon who was subsequently destroyed, the demon’s mind seemed to have the power to transfer its memories to the human it had taken control of. As if it was some last ditch effort to keep from being erased from existence. Most recovered in a week or two. Some remained depressed for long years, but Henrick had never heard of someone being incapacitated like this. Driven to utter madness.
Instead of pulling Aldo up, Henrick sat beside him. “What do you see right now, Aldo?”
Aldo stared into the light and his pupils dilated once again.
“He’s going to kill the one who offered to help. The one who acted with pity. He’s going steal his blood.”
“Who is?”
“I don’t know. He’s stalking him. He’s cutting a symbol into the wall.”
“Draw it.”
“I can’t see.”
“Draw it!”
Aldo grabbed his pencil and began to scribble. Half a symbol came out. But then Aldo seized up.
“Fire,” he said. “She’s on fire.” He began to shout in Spanish. “The hunters in Panama. She’s dying. Burning. She’s burning!”
The door burst open as Aldo screamed and two doctors rushed in with the grey haired man from the front desk.
“What are you doing to him?” one doctor shouted.
“I’ve done nothing,” Henr
ick said.
The doctors were on Aldo like a shot. One calmed him and whispered something. The other administered a drug.
Henrick ignored them and began walking around. He noticed some strange markings on the wall, where a dresser had been pushed away. He aimed his light and switched it on. There was something scribbled there. At first he couldn’t quite make out what it was, a smudge or a…
An odd thought came to him and he flipped the switch on his flashlight changing the bulb from regular to black. More writing appeared, like that from Aldo’s notebooks, but it was written with something other than ink. Henrick followed the lines which ran between various names and drawings. He recognized some symbols, a few names, and then he froze in horror.
“Out!” he shouted, switching off the light. “Everyone out!”
He moved toward them, pushing the doctors away from Aldo and grabbing the grey haired man by the shoulder.
“Get your hands off me!” the man shouted.
“This is ridiculous! We’re trying to treat the patient!” one the doctors said.
“You can’t—“
Henrick pushed them toward the door. “I’m the leader of the Righteous Fire, the Primus of the Holy Order of the Ignis Purgata, and by God I’ve told you to get out! Now leave!”
“Righteous Fire?” one of the doctors asked.
“Explain it to him,” Henrick ordered, looking at the grey haired man. With that, he shoved them into the hall and slammed the door.
Alone now, he stormed back to Aldo who was half-sedated and dragged Aldo to the hidden drawing on the wall.
“What is this?” he shouted. “What does this mean?”
Aldo’s eyes wavered in his head. He only stood because Henrick’s iron grip held him up. Henrick pointed to a symbol. “What is it?”
“Staff of Constantine,” Aldo said. “Given to the demon who calls himself Christian.”
“Yes,” Henrick said. “Exactly. And this?” he demanded, pointing to another note.
“The demon grieved for Simon.”
“What demon?”
“The one in the church.”
“You lie!”
“I saw it,” Aldo mumbled. The drug was now taking full effect, he was slurring his words. “Simon was murdered…”
“What did you say?”
“He was murdered. I saw it.”
“By the Nosferatu!” Henrick insisted.
“No,” Aldo said, sounding as if he were begging. “By… one… of the Hunters.”
Henrick knew this. For he’d killed Simon himself. Killed him for his treachery. But how could Aldo know? He’d been here in the asylum for several weeks before that and had never left.
“The demon put this in your head,” Henrick insisted.
“No,” Aldo said. “I saw it… through his eyes.”
Henrick was gripped with fear. He considered slaying Aldo right then and there. He could claim Aldo was possessed by a demon and had attacked him. The proof lay all about them. No one could doubt that. But then Aldo spoke.
“The demon was half blind,” Aldo said. “From the light and the pain. He didn’t see the hunter’s faces.”
Henrick’s hand had gone to his dagger. It was halfway out of the sheath. Cautiously, he slid it back in. It locked with a click.
“The light of the church,” Aldo said.
Of course, Henrick thought. In the church, the demons were all but powerless. He wouldn’t have guessed them to be blind, but it made sense—creatures of the night never see well in the bright light of day.
“It was too bright,” Aldo added. “He could barely see. He could barely hear.”
As the fear of discovery left him, a moment of clarity dawned on Henrick. He began to marvel at what he’d found. Here in front of him sat a miracle. A gift from God sent directly to him. Sent to help him exterminate the demons for all time.
“Can you find this demon?” Henrick asked. “This one who mocks us by using the name of our faith?”
“I…” Aldo said. “I can… try…”
But even as he spoke, Aldo’s legs buckled.
“Aldo… Aldo?”
Aldo went limp, his eyes rolled up in his head and he crumbled to the floor.
Henrick let him go and then grabbed a cup of water from the table and heaved it at the wall. The contents splattered over the surface in an explosion-like pattern. Without delay, he grabbed a towel and began wiping the wall in great, swirling circles, doing all he could to erase what Aldo had marked upon it.
When he was satisfied, Henrick dropped the towel and heaved Aldo’s unconscious form up over his shoulder. Carrying him like a fireman, Henrick stormed through the door and out into the hall.
The doctors sprang to their feet.
“What are you doing?” one of them asked. “Put him down.”
Henrick ignored them, striding past.
“Mr. Vanderwall, this is not allowed,” the grey haired man said.
“Where are you taking him?” the second doctor demanded to know.
Fools, Henrick thought. Even now they had the questions wrong. It wasn’t where he would take Aldo, but where Aldo would be taking him.
Chapter 18
Cologne, Germany
The city of Cologne was different from the last time Christian had been there. The trees were now full with green leaves, not brown. The flowers popped with brilliant colors beneath the streetlights.
As he walked with Kate he stared at the roses in the park. The dark, rich red color of one rose reminded him of wine. The yellow roses were so bright, he imagined that as the color of the sun at high noon. One day, he dreamed, he would see it again without being subjected to excruciating pain.
“Kate,” he asked. “Can you still smell? Have you lost that sense yet?”
“No, not completely.”
“Smell the roses for me.”
“You literally want me to stop and smell the roses?” she said, eyebrows up.
“Trust me,” he said. “If you don’t now, you’ll wish you had one day.”
She was impatient, pushy and a lot like him, he thought. And he wished he’d spent more time in the light before it went out.
Kate reached for one of them and happened to get her finger stuck by a thorn.
She pulled back. The blood that came forth was an orange, rusted color. It clotted fast. Kate looked at Christian. “What is this?”
“Your future. A few more shades of orange and you’ll be unable to go out in the light, unable to smell or taste anything.”
“Great,” she said.
“Hold on to your humanity as long as you can.”
Kate nodded. Christian knew she understood. “You think I’ll want to taste life again once it leaves me completely, once I’m dead?”
“We all do Kate. It’s confusing.”
“And you. Did you ever kill? Did you murder for a taste of life?”
“No.”
“How did you resist?”
He hesitated. “I guess I’d seen enough blood and dying before I ever became like this. People of this age can’t possibly imagine what it was like. A hundred thousand men on a field, hacking and stabbing and slashing at each other.”
She said nothing.
“If you want to resist, you either focus on something you love or something you hate. I hated the carnage. The waste. But if you have something you love, I’d choose that instead.”
She nodded. “My son,” she said. “He’s all I have left. My husband was murdered. That’s how I ended up on this case.”
Christian nodded. “Lock onto that thought and hide it; protect it deep down inside you where no one can find it. Don’t show it to the world anymore, not even me. They’ll use it against you if they can. They’ll get your own mind to lie to you. I know. Drake poisoned mine for years.”
Suddenly Christian felt something looking at them. He stopped.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. There was something there,” he said.
“Now it’s gone. Come on. Let’s get off this street. Faust’s place is only a mile from here.”
“Wait.” Kate bent down and sniffed the rose a final time. “They smell rich and warm with a hint of sweetness.”
A few minutes later they approached Faust’s building. A spiral staircase made of wood awaited them. An old time elevator with a gate that pulled across was on the far side of lobby. “We’ll take the stairs.”
“Why?”
“Elevators are traps waiting to happen.”
Up the stairs the two walked, keeping alert. At the top there was Faust’s flat. Number five, zero, one. Christian reached for the door, but Kate stopped him. “Let me do it.”
“Let you do what?” Christian said.
“Get us inside.”
“Give it a quick pull, the lock will break.” Christian said.
“And if we do it my way we don’t have to break anything.” She pulled out the tools of a locksmith, and the bolt clicked in seconds.
“Stick around,” She said. “I’ll teach you some more tricks later.”
She opened the door, and immediately both of their moods went south.
“Someone got here before us.”
The apartment had been ransacked. Books and photo albums littered the floors. Memories, personal effect were ripped from their place. Everything that was precious to Dr. Morgan Faust destroyed or discarded.
They moved through the room like sharks in the murkiest of waters. Slowly looking through every piece of rubble that was Faust’s possessions.
“There’s nothing here of value,” Kate said. “Whoever did this took whatever they were looking for.”
“I agree. The question is: do they have Faust or not?”
“They don’t have him.” Kate said.
“How do you know?”
“Because they wouldn’t do this if they had him.”
Christian felt that made sense. “So he’s gone into hiding. That’s going to make him very hard to find.”
“Maybe I can help,” she said. “I have a friend who owes me big time. A high up director at Interpol. He actually lives here in Germany.”
“Why would he help us?”