The residents, in a bit of gallows humor, called it “The curse of Old Hallow.” It was a reference both to their town’s original name and its reputation as a place —no matter how fanciful and beautiful it seemed— for dreams to die, though they died with panache and the movie rights would sell for a premium. Audiences loved the irony.
The shadow of death loomed over the town both metaphorically and quite literally, as one observer noted. A dark cloud swirled with kaleidoscopic lights flashing from it. The lights pulsed and shone for brief moments before being swallowed again by the twisting winds as it hovered above Starcross Lake.
A figure stood on the balcony of the mansion, contemplating the outlandish mass only twenty or so miles from him. Yet despite a phenomenon that should have caused the streets to erupt in panic, no one screamed. There were no hysterics, nothing to indicate that the abyss had quite literally appeared and loomed above.
That was because so few could really see it.
They may have noticed a slight chill in the air, but it was fall; nothing out of the ordinary. The winds kicking up? The weather in Washington was always shifting since it bordered an ocean. That feeling of foreboding, the unholy thoughts that echoed through their minds and filled them with dark desires or a sense of dread that they could not truly calm down?
Paranoia; they had a lot on their plate.
The mental hoops that people would jump through to retain their sense of normalcy as the world was fluctuating around them were almost as admirable as they were idiotic. Though those were just symptoms, minor effects of the vortex they could just shrug off, it was another thing to see it; so few could. They didn’t have his eyes.
The figure withdrew into the mansion and walked the halls, dilapidated and worn with the years of neglect. After the suicide of the owner, no one was willing to buy and it faded into memory; another shining star snuffed out and left to the creeping dark. He found that to be a shame. It was quite comfortable to him.
He entered what was once the main show room, dimly lit by candles and lights hooked up to generators. A large stage stood vacant, and only half the seats remained. He walked onto the stage past large stacks of books, notes, and old maps that had been strewn about.
He took a seat on a repurposed theater chair and opened a leather-bound book that was leaning against its leg. It was a journal with pages upon pages filled with personal anecdotes and records. He opened to an empty page and began to speak.
“October 19th. The woman’s name was Victoria. She wore a flowing white dress, and had her long blonde hair tied back.”
As he spoke, his words were not written into the journal by any hand or pen; they just appeared. “She seemed the gentle sort, or perhaps at one point she was, before the Quintessence got ahold of her.”
He leaned back into his chair—it groaned with age—and rested his chin upon his palm. He closed his eyes and thought back. “A pity, really. She would have made a fantastic bride for the right man or woman. However, the quint always seems so attracted to the innocent, and, with the anomaly appearing now, more shall fall under its sway.”
From the front of the mansion he could hear a door open and the light pitter-patter of rain from a growing storm begin to fall. “I intended to give her a quick death. I had simply come to gather the Quintessence and make my way, but I could not seem to stop myself from…playing with such a unique toy. The moment I will always recall, until my new dream begins, is the moment where she returned to lucidity—that brief time as I drained the quint from her and her life was not yet extinguished.”
Footsteps could be heard just down the hall, approaching the theater room. He sat up and slowly closed the tome as he finished, “In fact, I would have to say it is my favorite moment of all. Out of all the others.”
A new member of the cast approached, clad head to foot in black except for a gray-hooded poncho. It came up to the foot of the stage, stopping just in front, and bowed to the occupant, who stood up from his chair, then crossed to the left side of the stage and descended the stairs.
“Good evening, sir,” said the hooded one in a monotone rasp, as it rose from its bow.
“Good evening, Leda,” he replied with a nod. He stood in front of her. She was unmoving, save for her index finger rubbing against her thumb—a nervous habit.
“Your creation was killed, Leda. Was your boast that it would have no issues in dealing with such an ‘unwitting manikin’ for my favor, or from your own idiocy?”
“Please accept my apologies,” she answered as she pulled her hood down, her auburn hair falling to the nape of her neck as she gazed at him with emerald eyes. “It was my fault that Raines’ son survived. I expected the doppel to entice and devour him. Apparently, the illusion was not strong enough. Then when he got his heirloom, he was much more…gifted with it than I had thought.”
The man walked around her as she spoke, contemplating her statement.
“You went through all the trouble of using a fresh sacrifice to create your little pet so that it would be realized instead of just a husk; admirable forethought. However, you did not think that he could possibly see through it, or that that the other Maleficuses would stand by him, or that he would be able to use the weapon his father passed on to him with any skill at all. Since you did not answer my question before, allow me to restructure the query so that you might understand it better.”
He turned back around and looked her straight in the eyes, his brow creasing with intensity. “Are you truly so laughably witless that you could not see any of these possibilities for yourself? Or is it an unearned sense of superiority due to powers you’ve only had for the same amount of time that it takes a child to learn to walk? Either way, you’re starting to lose your worth to me.”
“Then why don’t you try harder, instead of ordering me about like some dog!” Leda shouted. Then, with a prudent step back, she realized her mistake.
However, instead of her master lashing out in punishment for her outburst, he did something that puzzled her and yet still made her feel a fearful chill.
He smiled and laughed.
“Ah, there it is. That same passion and vile temper that piqued my curiosity all that time ago. I was beginning to wonder if they had all but left you. I personally see no use for someone who has no spirit in them; there is nothing to enrich and nothing to break.”
He reached inside a pouch that was clipped to his waist. He took one of Leda’s hands and placed a small glass cube in her palm. The black fog contained inside thrashed about wildly. Leda gasped as she realized what it was, and looked to her master in confusion. His smile never wavered.
“I shall give you another chance. You should take the time to consider your options, because the consequences if you fail again will be of a fatal nature,” he threatened, moving back towards his chair on the stage. Leda looked at the cube with trepidation as her mind raced with possibilities and fears.
“Now, you do not have to pursue the boy. You could take this opportunity to run away. With that power, I would have a hard time finding you, and chasing cowards is not the best use of my time.” Leda’s hand balled into a fist and, though her head was still downcast, she wore a look of anger.
“You could even use the opportunity to try and kill me. Wouldn’t that be fun?” he asked whimsically, sitting down and tilting his head as he watched for her reaction. “I guess you know how well that would end, so maybe not so enjoyable for you. Though if you tried, I would take much pleasure in your destruction. That would end predictably,” he assured her, and with a wave of his hand bid her farewell. “Leave and take your time to think. I want you to commit to your choice, no matter the direction you choose. I will be there when you execute it, one way or the other.”
Leda hid the cube away and gave a short bow. She left the theater silently and walked into the pouring rain of the storm.
The master knew she would not run. It was not in her nature, and after all she had done to gain her power and achieve her current
life, she would see herself as more of a coward than he would. The other option, attempted mutiny, would go as he predicted. He knew the extent of her power, since he had given it to her.
This left her with the opportunity to once again try and kill the son of Raines, her second, and last, chance. The master knew that the odds were certainly not in her favor even if she called upon all her power, but the gift he had just given her would make it more entertaining, at least. Then he could really see what Raines’ son was capable of.
The plans he had set in motion could still be stopped. Between the normal pests and curses of this town, with new Maleficuses arriving by the day and that sword finding a new wielder, there were many potential problems facing him as he moved ever closer to his goal.
He closed his eyes, and his thoughts once again returned to the abyss in the sky. He was so very close. These threats, new and old, could be studied, however. He could learn from them and of them. Then, like any good actor when dealt an unexpected fault or new line, he could adapt, rectify the problem and reach the climax.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sylas opened the door to his father’s home, water falling from him as tore off his clothes and laid Sevanouir by the fireplace. He headed to the bathroom, thinking of the day’s events—his whole perception of the world had changed less than twenty-four hours. He started the shower and climbed in, warming up from the chill of the stormy October air.
Izzy never returned after being asked to get him some water, but he had gotten a message that she and Roux would meet him tomorrow. Bo would join them.
He checked himself for injuries; no scars or bruising were to be found. Bo had told him the Ether that was now within him healed most moderate injuries fairly quickly, but that he was not invincible. His hand went to his damaged eye, a reminder of that fact. Funnily enough he felt no pain, though he was told that he might never see with it again.
Things could definitely be worse; he could be scheduled to be buried beside his father today.
He finished his shower and dried himself off, taking one last look in the mirror. He had gained a new outward look to go along with his new outlook: the snow-white hair he had gotten when he unsheathed Sevanouir and the bandages around his eye which would probably be replaced by an eyepatch soon enough. He wondered if Roux had any spare sunglasses, though he would probably make a fuss about Sylas stealing his look.
He dressed himself in black sweats and a grey nightshirt, then went to go make some coffee. He felt physically tired but his mind was racing. His father had stocked his favorite grind, a dark roast from a company in Seattle. He couldn’t help but laugh quietly; it was one of a number of small favors his father had done for him throughout his life.
He still did not know much about his father’s double life, but he was starting to get some context. Still, he could have told Sylas monsters were real, and that he was probably going to inherit a magical sword at some point.
He walked into the living room as the coffee brewed. The sound of rain colliding with the house was rather calming to him; the first real sense of normalcy today. As he walked past the saber, he stopped and thought for a moment. Bo had said that he and it were linked, and that with patience and understanding he could use it in ways that exceeded what he was able to do today. He wasn’t exactly sure what he did, or how he had done most of it.
Sure, he was a practiced fencer, but the way he moved and fought the doppel was beyond his capabilities He had moved faster, parried quicker, and could almost sense the monster’s moves before he made them. On top of that, why was he able to kill it when Roux and Izzy could only momentarily stop it before it regenerated?
The first he could possibly chalk up to Ether; Bo said that enhanced almost all the physical characteristics of the user. But stopping the doppel? Izzy said she could have done it, but that it was difficult and they could have had casualties. She said that Sevanouir was the better option. Could he be tied to its abilities? Not that he knew what those were at the moment.
A clap of thunder brought him out of his head, and he noticed the sword in his hand. He hadn’t picked it up, and now he was standing on the other side of the room. He went back to place it next to the fire and then stood across from it. Slowly, he raised his arm and thought about the blade; how he used it in battle, and how it felt to wield it. This time, he saw it flash with white light and then appear in his hand. For a moment, he marveled at the blade and the event he had just witnessed.
“Huh, neat trick.”
He heard a small beeping noise; his coffee was done. He put Sevanouir back and made a cup before lounging on the sofa.
He remembered the wake and realized he would have to come up with a good excuse for leaving when all the family and friends had been there. They probably wouldn’t be happy that he appeared to have simply walked out, though honestly he would probably just say that. He wasn’t good with complicated lies, and the truth would probably make them not want to speak with him ever again. So maybe he should just tell the truth.
He turned on the television and flipped channels until he found a news show. He wanted to see if any part of tonight’s event had made it into a report.
“In Portland, a warehouse by the piers caught fire. Then the fires intensified as a cache of fireworks exploded when they were set off by the inferno. Firefighters were able to stop the flames before they spread too far, but, unfortunately several first responders died in the blaze. No one has been able to explain how it started, but arson has not been ruled out. Police have looked into security videos for potential leads, but all video seems to be corrupt and the evening security team has gone missing. Police believe they may have died in the attack, but no bodies have been recovered.”
The anchorman droned on, face blank as he delivered news of the tragedy in an almost humdrum voice.
This was followed by reports of missing persons: one, a man in his thirties, had gone missing after taking a run through the woods, and the second, a girl named Victoria Balan, was suspected of murder and had vanished the previous night. This was followed by the required footage of talking heads discussing how it was ‘so shocking,’ and how ‘she was such a nice girl,’ and ‘no one ever thought she could do something like this.’
Sylas began to wonder if people like him, Maleficuses, were responsible. Perhaps it was one of the many mythological creatures he used to study and research as a fun pastime. Now he knew they were quite real and probably wanted to kill, eat, possess, or infest him with their babies like a living incubator. As myths, they made for chilling tales to spook your friends and great inclusions in a supernatural guidebook; not so much when they are very real, and not so whimsical when you actually see one.
He suspected he was going to ask himself these things more often.
He then thought back to all the supposedly haunted places he had gone to in his life—the abandoned asylums, forests where people were known to commit suicide, and the roads that were walked by the dead at night. He had never seen anything extraordinary at these places; that was something he was frustrated with, and partially thankful for in some cases. He always felt there was something more to the world than he or anyone knew. The world was fantastical, sure, but there was always room for little eidolic joys.
Now he had seen that these things do exist. And since that he was not currently being chased by one, he was oddly happy. His work would be all the better for it, and he might actually be able to put that knowledge to use in the coming days.
The anchorman shared another report of a possible serial killer before lightening the mood with news of an upcoming music festival and the plans for the Ombre Fall’s Halloween party.
He turned off the TV and finished his coffee as he began to think of the future. He didn’t know how widely spun this web was, or how he, his father, and seemingly most of his friends fit into it. Who else was going to show up and admit that they were a part of this life of monsters, Ether, malefics, and the like, and had hid it from him?
; He tried not to linger on this for too long; it led to a damning train of thought. If his father had trained him more intensely, or if Sylas had just been there with him, would he still be alive?
He once again looked over to the saber, his mystical inheritance. Bo had tried to make it out to be a gift, but if this thing had been in his family for generations, and each user had to die to pass it on, it seemed more like a curse. He wouldn’t get rid of it, at least not yet. He wanted to know more about these people and his father’s part in all of it. He wanted to figure out why someone was after his father, and why they had tried to kill Sylas at the wake. He wanted to find those people, and he wanted revenge. If nothing else, the saber his father had given him would certainly be good for that.
He fell back onto the couch and closed his eyes. He found it funny that only a few days ago, he felt as if he honestly had no direction. He had a profession and was doing all right, but his relationships went to hell for the most part, and he had no vision for himself.
Now he at least had a true goal, though not the healthiest one. He was not exactly a nice guy; he knew that. Most people considered him to be a cynical bastard who usually used his smarts for insults, and applied brute force to most problem solving. He walked to the beat of his own drum; a good thing in most cases, but for many, it wasn’t a war drum. He was not a great diplomat or saint, but he did have a few bright qualities that only those who, for whatever suicidal reason, got close to him discovered.
For one, he would not allow a bully to run amok, not when he could do something about it; whoever was doing this certainly checked that box. They had killed his father and mutilated the body for kicks, as far as he knew, and they seemed to want to do the same to him and possibly to his comrades.
He was going to give Roux, Izzy and Bo an earful tomorrow, but he knew that they were probably just going along with Raines’ orders. While he might be angry with them, he was certainly not going to let anything bad happen to them while he was around.
Sevanouir: Rebirth (The Strange Tales of the Malefic Book 1) Page 5