Grey October (East Hollow Chronicles)

by Charlotte Munro

  ‘Bring it with you next time I see you.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘You kept the ring on you, didn’t you?’ I nod at his words, so he continues, turning upon his heels, motioning towards the door.

  ‘Keep that on you, I’ll collect it soon.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Real soon.’

  Ding. Ding.

  He’s gone. And once more I am left feeling like I have stepped into a dream, eyes hazy like a reverie, skin peppered with goose bumps from his touch. I string up the medusa talisman, looking at the glow of her blue eyes.

  ‘Charlie.’ I call back, looking down at my hands, sifting through the fifties in my hand. Counting them, I realise that it is the same wad of red notes he had given me in the envelope. I roll my eyes, chuckling to myself, making my way to the back room, kicking a few of the letters as I go.

  ‘I think we’ve made our best sale of the day.’

  Evander –

  The four post bed squeaks and whines, the old mahogany wood grain splintered in parts, creaking beneath my weight as I roll onto the silken sheets. The hot breeze, of brimstone and decay, flits into my room from the doors to the balcony; it toys with the curtains pulling at them and causing them to look like a waterfall of shimmery black velvet. Another gust blows in and knocks the paperwork and notes on my bureau. Scattering the across the floor in a frenzy.

  A sigh weakens my body, a long breath that disperses all of the knots in my shoulders, the ridges in my arms. Taut muscles now ease from tension, but my mind still ticks and turns, still moves at a faster pace, even if I lay back on my bed, head propped up against the multitude of cushions. My hands knot with one another, subconsciously my fingers run along each raised ridge of every ring, the pentagram, the skulls, the Sigil of Baphomet. The dark spells of destruction etched into a couple, whilst for plain vanity reasons the bands of silver knotted with brass, feel slick compared to the worn edges of the others, as I run the edge of my finger over them, thoughtfully.

  I hear voices, disjointed and faded in the hall outside of my room; servants scurrying to and fro, carrying trays for the many noble residents here. My guess it’s Kaiser’s family’s servant; his worn eyes probably closing, trying to catch a few seconds of rest whilst pounding the hallways with Kaiser’s favourite blood buns; his father probably is paying Dagon extra favours to have them baked and sent to the castle.

  I turn to my side, flopping just on the edge of the bed and letting my arm dangle. How did I get into such a disarray? Everything was simple, laid out in front of me, so easy for me to do, to accomplish. All I had to do was do what I do best – but no, Ellison hasn’t fallen for that charm, that allure. She’s fallen for something else, or falling; I cannot tell. Both are the same. Both show within their eyes, all glassy and dilated, all thoughtful and faraway. And within their chests, their bodies; their heartbeats pounding against their ribcage, their pulse racing through their body at an electrical pace.

  My hand flops back from the side of the bed and rummages in the depths of my jean pocket. Nimble fingers find and unfold the envelope, running along the creases I had made when I folded it quickly back at the antique shop. My fingertips run along the neat small writing. Charles Beaumont. The store’s address above a worn little stamp and postal ink. I inhale, bringing the envelope to my face. It smells of must, it smells old and worn, yet the sweet scent of cherries. Cherry air freshener, to keep the shop from smelling as antiquated as its goods. I breathe in another long, hearty breath. I can just catch her scent, a sort of floral rose and lavender. Of sweetness and spice.

  I run my fingers along the edge of the envelope; it’s a slightly worn and faded off white. Thick and almost card like. The handwritten address makes it feel more personal; a receipt, a letter from an old lover… I’m not sure. I flick it onto the bedside table, just in time to hear a rapping at my door.

  Distinctive against the wood; a knuckle tap, again and again. I know who it is.

  ‘Father.’ I call out, leaning up from the softness of my bed, throwing both legs over the side. Into a more respectable position to see to a King. Laying back with disregard, it passes my mind, but I think it better to acknowledge him for who is he first and then as my paternal figure. Plus I have something to ask him and wanted to remain on his good side; how very rare that is.

  He pushes open the door, striding easily in; ageless joints move effortlessly, his chest puffed outward, his shoulders back. He swings the door shut behind him, resting a hand on the doorknob, checking that it is closed. As he turns around, I see him inspecting my room; his bright blue eyes trail my cabinets, checking to see if my weapons are still strung up neatly behind the glass. His eyes then move next to the bust of Medusa that sits proudly upon the mantle. The book collection left collecting a fine layer of dust within the bookshelves is what he looks at last, before taking a few more steps into my room.

  ‘Evan.’ He meets my gaze momentarily; it feels like looking into a glass mirror, of the future. I will look like him in a few years to come. Ageless black hair, slightly fading by the temples but still as stark and glossy as any youngster. The bright eyes that sit within the pale chiselled face. He turns at an angle and steps forward, his feet inaudible as they meet the carpet in front of my desk. I see him lean down slightly, eyes finding the open book on the desk, I notice his eyes twitch, he’s reading the passages on the page that I have left open.

  ‘Shakespeare.’ I say, resting both hands upon each knee, watching cautiously as he folds both arms across his chest before leaning back against the chair. His medallions glinting across the dark of his chest. Silver and metallic, it glints, the horns of red glimmering just as defiantly as I’m sure Satan’s do. A crown, spiked and etched in gold, sparkles against the silver backdrop of the oval medallion. His medallion of Kingship. Beneath that is one of the family’s crests. A medusa pendant, snakes coiling into her hair. His ringed fingers tap against his arm as he speaks, drawing my attention away from his jewels and back to him.

  ‘The Poet?’

  ‘The story teller.’ I correct him, drawing his attention back to me.

  ‘Alphie gave it to me – told me it helps with insight of the confusing world of human emotions.’ I’m only partly lying.

  ‘For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo – why is this underlined?’ his eyes draw back to the book, only to return to me with a slight crinkled brow.

  ‘Alphie must have; it might have relevance.’ Lie. I can be a master of fabrication, just like I can be the King of allure.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Evan—‘

  ‘I need to ask you something.’ I cut into his sentence, watching his face for any sign of anger, any slither of annoyance that passes over his distinguished features. Nothing. He does not boil, he does not stir. Simply rolls his shoulders backwards, easing himself.

  ‘And what is that?’ a connection is made, between us. Both of our eyes meeting. Yet I am the first to bail. I twist at the red pentagram ring, twirling it around my thumb.

  ‘Have we had any dealings with the Beaumont’s before?’

  ‘The Beaumont’s?’ he echoes me, slither of eyebrows knitting close to his eyes as he takes a step forward, towards the end of my bed, resting a hand against one of the mahogany posts.

  ‘Antique dealers.’ I add.

  ‘The Beaumont’s… the Beaumont’s…’ he turns around, walking a slight curve around the bed so that he is on the side where I am sitting. He does not join me though, just stands above, a looming shadow that casts a darkness over my gilded furniture.

  ‘Yes, we have. In fact, I have.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Charles Beaumont. Quite recently as well. An interesting old man…’ he pauses, looking at me with narrowed eyes; I have peaked his interest and in turn, he has raised mine.

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Old Charlie. He has a penchant for old things, for things with meaning… last year i
n fact, I had a deal with him.’ he takes a moment to look out of my door, leading to the open balcony. Catching his memory of the greying man. ‘Cancer is a terrible thing that affects humans. It just brings them to us even quicker. But old Charlie, he wanted a few more months of life, he had things to rectify.’

  ‘So he made a deal with you? His soul for…’ I start the sentence hoping he will finish it. I am not disappointed.

  ‘A little more time. And a few bits of jewellery – an easy trade.’

  ‘Our jewellery?’ I ask, lifting my hand and showing him the sparkle of the red pentagram ring, the glyphs on the side quivering with life. ‘This?’

  ‘Yes. Evander… what is the meaning of this?’ he asks, his eyes watching me, flitting from my jewelled hand to my face and back again.

  ‘So… he’s dying?’ a flash of the greying old man meets my mind; his jolly voice telling Elli to take a longer lunch break, informing her if he saw any good looking gentlemen.

  ‘He’s been dying for years, Evan. They all are. The human race.’

  ‘What about his shop?’

  ‘The antique store?’ my father raises an eyebrow, but remains composed. ‘He has no children. No heir. He never married. I don’t think he has many friends. Why are you so intrigued in an old man that will soon be joining us, Evan?’

  ‘No reason.’ The flashes of the kind, jolly, grey haired man fade out and I remember that my father was the first one who wanted to talk to me, so I give him my respect by standing up, resting my hands by my side.

  ‘What was it you wanted of me, father?’

  ‘Right. Yes. What I needed you for.’ He pauses, taking a quick scan of my room before meeting my face. It seems I have thrown him off kilter. But the prestigious Great King does not take long to get back to himself. ‘I am heading up with the other Great Kings, the President and the General, to see to this Angel business on Earth. The recruits up there have seen much activity as of late, and Our Greatness wants us to check on them.’

  Silence. Awkward silence fills the room. They’re doing what I said back in the beginning of the month; send the best. My father… he was one of the best.

  ‘I want you to take my seat. In my stead you will remain. It is only for a day. Think of it as practice.’ A smirk flashes over his lips before fading back to the normal, emotionless mask of my father. I simply nod, you cannot disagree with an arrangement already made. He takes a side step, touching the curtains with a stray hand, staring out from the balcony doors to the land below. All dry and red and fire-lit.

  ‘Father?’ I ask, joining his side and staring out at the same place he is – the Arena, all filled with many rows upon rows of recruits.

  ‘Evander?’ he turns his head to me, and I see in the quiver of red light from outside, his profile. The angled cheeks make him appear even younger than he is. To a human eye, he looks like anyone in their late twenties. But he has sat upon his throne since his own father, and that has been well over fifty years. It seems our family likes the commandment over the legions of war. And Satan is equally as pleased letting us stay in our place.

  ‘When is he due?’ I do not elaborate, but it takes my father a few seconds to realise who I am on about.

  ‘Charles? Not for another few weeks yet.’ He stops, hearing the door click off the latch and swing open. ‘Oh, Hello Alpheus.’

  ‘Beleth, sir.’ Alphie nods his head ever so slight, his eyes turning to me and then back to my father. I move forward, as does my father and whilst he talks to Alphie, I bang my head noiselessly against one of the wood pillars of my bed.

  ‘I was just on my way to join your father; I assume he is ready?’

  ‘He is always ready.’ Alphie’s lips twist into a smile.

  ‘Evan,’ my father’s hand braces my shoulder, his fingertips curling into my shirt, ‘I will talk more when I return.’

  ‘Good luck.’ I say. Perhaps I have spent far too much time on earth recently. Picking up their customs.

  ‘How human.’ but my father’s lips tweak into a broad smile, always fleeting, before returning to the mask of a king. He retreats my room and closes the door behind; him and doors. He must have reasons behind closing every door he comes across and checking twice. Interlopers and watchful eyes and ears. That’s why. A king’s paranoia.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask Alphie, he has taken to pacing towards my window and looking out at the legions of recruits in the Arena. His fingers raking through his dark brown hair, rubbing vicious circles in his temples.

  ‘Something’s wrong if they want all three Great Kings.’

  ‘You shouldn’t worry. My father, yours and Kaiser’s. They are the three greatest Great Kings Hell has seen. Satan himself has said just as much.’

  ‘Are you not concerned what it means, if Angels are starting to come down to Earth?’ he adds, his eyes are straining, his dark cavernous eyes flitting back to me.

  ‘I have my own concerns.’ I mumble, but he catches it and shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head.

  ‘You’re dragging it too long, Evan. By the time you bring her down here, I’d be surprised if they even know who she is.’

  ‘A year is not that long.’

  ‘It’s a lifetime for the courts.’

  ‘I’ve got it all under control.’ I reassure him, but even I do not believe my own words.

  ‘Maybe you should tell yourself that.’

  Ellison –

  ‘I haven’t seen that young man in here for a while. Was I wrong about him? Is he not the good looking gentleman you are after?’ Charlie asks me, his voice is warm, like hot chocolate on a cold winter’s night. So welcoming and rich. He hovers just above me, a square jewellery box in his hands, his fingers look worn and gnarled against the etched outlines of swirls and embellishments on the box.

  ‘He hasn’t been in a while.’ I say, my voice lost in the cloud of dust as I pull out a few worn books, their velvet covers tarnished a little by cobwebs and marked by damp where they have been stored. I blow a few of the covers, wiping the side of my palm against the velvet grain, revealing the names. The blood red cover allows the gold lettering to stand out, only when I lift it towards the light.

  ‘A Grimoire of Dark Spells?’ I tilt my head up, gazing up at Charlie as he places the box in a small clear space on the cabinet, he flicks open the silver trinket box and as soon as he does, his warm eyes glow; a recognition clouds them as he dives his fingers inside and wraps them around the gold and silver.

  ‘Was that one with the other velvet bounds?’ he asks, still far more engrossed in the jewellery, plucking one ring from the inside he holds it up to the light and I catch a shimmer of crystal and red. The skull ring looks like it is crying tears of blood. It reminds me of Evan, which again reminds me of Charlie’s question. No, I haven’t seen him in a couple of days, not since he came in and bought the medusa talisman – which I reach for around my neck. It is not as warm as the gold, it feels cold, like ice against my skin.

  ‘Yes. Where did these ones come from?’ I inquire, placing the blood red tome on the floor and reaching for another; a pure black velvet cover, my fingers slip over the softness, running against the grain. There is no words on the cover, no indication of what it is, but there is a clasp on the side.

  ‘This one is locked.’ I muse, running my fingers over the silver clasp, the gnarled hook like claws holding the book shut; a single snake runs along the side, sort of like a foldaway binder. I purse my lips and sit back on my heels, looking up at Charlie and waving it at him.

  ‘You can’t sell this one if you can’t open it.’ I flick my finger against the parchment pages, I cannot even pry it open, it has been sealed well. Charlie’s eyes divert from his haze of silver and gold, back down to me, where he picks up the jewellery box and hands it to me. I take it with nimble hands and pull it into my lap.

  ‘It’s not for sale. Neither are these.’ His words are wistful, his eyes still glazed and faraway; he lifts his hand to cover his mouth as he coughs,
before brushing his hand against the black book, falling to his knees beside me, in a slow and mechanical movement.

  ‘I won’t be getting up again in a hurry.’ He jokes, but I see the tiredness in his eyes and the wrinkles that frame them. I feel for him, I really do. He has been my father figure, my grandfather like shoulder to cry on. He has been the one to give me a chance. I only wish I could repay him. Maybe Evan is right about paving my own road to my own dreams; the money in my box at home, did I really want the house Madi wanted? The antique bath with golden claw feet? The rose garden with all the colours I can find? No, that isn’t mine dream. It’s hers.

  ‘Why are you not selling them?’ it is no secret that Beaumont’s isn’t the busiest of shops in East Hollow, Charlie is barely scraping by. The only plus side is he does not have to pay rent; such a family run business that has been in his family for those generations, it had paid for itself, but still, what money passed through the cash register paid for Charlie’s home, my wages and buying other antiquities.

  My dream is to help Charlie, to buy half of Beaumont’s and invest as much as I can into these walls. Maybe I should have taken Evan’s envelope, if it could help Charlie…

  ‘I can’t sell what doesn’t belong to Me.’ he murmurs, reaching for the blood red book and brushing his fingers thoughtfully over the cover. ‘I acquired these last year. The same with all the darker artefacts.’

  ‘The medusa talisman, and those rings out front?’

  ‘Yes. They were not meant to be sold.’ He meets my eyes and I feel crimson colour my cheeks. Oh. I didn’t know. I lower my gaze but he forces me to look up with his chuckle.

  ‘That young man seems quite fascinated with them; they’ve gone to a good home.’ He says, eyes returning to the books in his lap. ‘I think he would be fascinated by these as well.’