Grimm and Grimmer Volume Two

by Matthew Sylvester

  When his body at last succumbed to sleep, he dreamed of a black-winged angel whose pale skin glowed like starlight. Her shimmering, silver-coin eyes alarmed him, but he could not look away, nor could he move. She straddled his hips, her weight upon him as surely as a real woman’s. Sharp little teeth lined both her top and bottom gums.

  I am locked away in darkness, she said, but I can see you. You shine like the sun. Let me out of my prison.

  Let me taste your light.

  ***

  Antonio fumbled about for his satchel and retrieved the book, blowing off a century of cobwebs and dust from its cover. In the pale blue light he strained to read the man’s script.

  He has made many enemies for what he did. We should have known it would come to this when her mother disappeared as inexplicably as she arrived, but he doted on the girl. It was his daughter, after all. Should we blame an innocent for her mother’s sins? Should he not have a chance to redeem himself?

  And of sins there were plenty, as we discovered when the girl came of age. This was no child. She is not even human.

  I prepared the wheel myself, with the assistance of my godmother. She was still put-out about the fact that no one listened to her warnings when the child’s mother first arrived at the castle. The sliver put the girl to sleep almost immediately, but nightmares still plagued the castle. She visited us, performed unspeakable acts upon us, and soon the kingdom began to rot from within, the life force drained from every living thing. She was growing stronger, even in her sleep.

  The spell was my idea. We will trick her into thinking everyone is dead. Besides, no other kingdom will have us. We have nowhere else to go. Perhaps someday one more skilled than I will know how to end her evil permanently, and rouse us from our sleep. Perhaps we will be forgiven.

  I am the last one awake. And I am afraid —

  Antonio closed the book. He looked over at the girl, asleep — just asleep, not dead. 'What dreadful things they write of you,' he whispered. Evil fled from beauty; it did not take up residence within it. Evil sought darkness and despair, but she was light itself. These were fables written to disguise the wickedness they had done to her.

  Antonio knelt beside the bed and folded his hands around hers. 'I will find the secret,' he murmured against her fingers. 'And I will make you my princess.'

  ***

  Lethargy weighed upon him like chains no matter how often he slept. Yet his body resisted the castle’s magic, convincing him more than ever that he served a grand purpose in the story of this lost kingdom. His words would complete the sorcerer’s tale.

  He dreamed of terrible things now, burning vistas of rape and murder, of daughters and sisters and mothers lying dead in crimson pools of their own blood, hands outstretched to plea for life. He dreamed of witches and ceremonies performed at the full moon, blood magic to avenge the butchery laid at their feet by a conquering king. They always suffered the most, the women did. He wept and begged the black-winged angel to take these images from him.

  Without windows he could not measure the passage of days. He had slept on the floor to regain a measure of propriety, but his back and limbs screamed in protest as soon as he woke. And there was another, unavoidable, matter with which to contend.

  He must have her.

  He felt it with a sudden urgency not unlike the need for water or air. If magic existed, this princess commanded it, and he was her willing apprentice. Antonio unlaced the bodice of her gown, and her small, coral-tipped breasts rolled free. Gently he pulled her arms from the flowing bell sleeves, then slid the gown down over her hips and legs. The contrast of her dark hair and white skin took his breath away. No painting, no sculpture, rivaled this beauty.

  This is wrong. You mustn’t. You are a prince.

  But she was not dead, no matter the impossibility of waking her. She was his prize to be won for defeating the briar, for repelling the somnolent enchantment that had befallen the kingdom. The spoils of war — and it had been a war as surely as any ever fought. He had earned the right to make her his.

  The prince folded her dress and tucked it beneath the bed before opening his breeches and parting her milk-white thighs. Her unresponsiveness frustrated Antonio, but he could not stop now, for despite her stillness her sex clenched around him. He reached forward to squeeze her breasts, and her nipples hardened beneath his touch. Antonio lifted her thighs, plunging deeper. She was soft, warm, and wet like a living woman. But her head flopped back listlessly, even as that greatest of pleasures shuddered through him and rippled outward into her.

  Antonio collapsed beside her. Her body responded to his as if she had been waiting one hundred years just for him. He held the key; he needed only to determine where it fit.

  If his subjects learned of this, he mused, they would think their prince mad. And then, perhaps, he might be walled up as well. Even when he considered this fate — he would have to explain the deaths of his men somehow — he did not regret his actions. They had sacrificed themselves for a greater good, for he had defeated the briar and rescued its prisoner.

  Antonio kissed her slender fingers, placed the tip of each one in his mouth. His tongue glided drowsily over her index finger but met with something besides skin, something embedded in her flesh. He sucked at it, and a wooden splinter pierced his tongue.

  You are all the same.

  The haze in the room turned opaque, a whipped rose-petal fog so cloying that his head swam as nausea seized his stomach. The sheets rustled. He clutched at his head, and a scream rose up from his throat. The room faded from his sight. A flash of silver. A laugh, as sonorous and cold as a church bell.

  Dear gods, the nightmares . . .

  The End

  Matthew Sylvester

  Father of two beautiful daughters, Matthew has been reading and writing fantasy and science fiction since he first read the Hobbit at the age of 7. Currently he is working on the worlds of Shattered Lands and Faraway, adult steamfantasy and child’s steamfantasy. He is also working on a co-operative project with his eldest daughter.

  Matthew was also Features Editor, Technical Consultant and regular columnist for magazines such as ‘Fighters’, ‘Combat’, ‘TKD & Korean Martial Arts’ and ‘Traditional Karate’. These are the four leading martial arts magazines in the United Kingdom.

  He is also the author of the critically acclaimed ‘Practical Taekwondo: Back to the Roots’, which has been sold around the world.

  With regard to his martial arts background he has been studying martial arts since 1991. In 1995 he hosted Professor Rick Clark of the ADK and since then has been studying pressure points and their uses in the martial arts and on the street (initially as a Special Constable and then as a Door Supervisor).

  All of this practical hands-on experience means that he is uniquely placed to write fight scenes that are not only plausible but some of which are based on personal or anecdotal experience (although he must admit he has never slain an orc. Unfortunately.)

  So, do I have any thoughts on fairy tales?

  The Grimm stories are truly Grimm. They are, when you read them, pretty horrible stories. They usually involve kidnap, imprisonment, identity theft, torture, ransom and death. Just the thing to tell your kids at bedtime!

  Death's Messenger interested me because of the way the protagonist was able to not only help Death, but also to postpone his own death. When Death finally did come to him, he went with him, happy and pretty much on his own terms. That's what I wanted my protagonist to do. To live a full life, knowing that Death could literally be around the next corner, but not allowing that to affect his life negatively. He would live a life so full, that when it was his time, he would be more than willing to go to with Death, but on his own terms.

  Death's Messengers

  by Matthew Sylvester

  A shadow, something darker than a shadow, glided along the darkened corridor avoiding the pools of light from the overhead lighting. Not a sound did it make. So silent not even the rats noticed its pas
sage.

  Reaching door 101, the shadow solidified, almost as if a creature was stepping out of the darkness and in to the light, transforming from shadow to thing. It stood at over six feet, with the broad shoulders and narrow waist that suggested strength above the norm for the denizens of Bunker 1-3-5-Alpha. Covered entirely in a black one-piece suit, and with weapon holsters on every limb, night-vision goggles giving off a faint red luminosity, the thing appeared to be Death personified.

  Standing to one side of the door, Death flipped a cover on its forearm revealing a WristPA with a small touch screen. A datajack pulled from the top of the unit was quickly and silently attached to the keypad. Glove-covered fingers danced across the WristPA’s screen, selecting an app and entering choices. Twenty-digit numbers started to scroll up the screen and Death waited patiently.

  The door opposite was yanked open suddenly, a huge shape back-lit by the lights in rooms behind it.

  'What the fuck do you think you’re doing?' the giant did not wait for an answer. With one step it launched a front kick, hands held in a high guard.

  Death sidestepped, brushing the kick aside with the outside of his right arm, slashing outwards with his left hand at the giant’s exposed ribs. The kick slammed into the wall, actually sending a deep boom along the corridor and causing dust to drift down from the ceiling.

  The outward slash met with a dropped elbow, forearm meeting forearm and driving Death down and forward, the momentum threatening to unbalance him, he had bare milliseconds to decide whether to go with it or try to regain his balance. A huge left hook from the giant decided it for him. Going with the momentum provided by the giant’s downward block, Death bent at the waist, placing his left hand on the ground and whipping his right foot up and over into a scorpion kick.

  A solid impact and a grunt was the only sign that he had hit his target. Normally a kick like that would disable, possibly even kill a normal bunkee. As the giant stepped into a pool of light, Death saw why it had not worked. A unit tattoo on the side of the giant’s head, a gasmask with crossed sword, told him all he needed to know. The giant was a freak, a genetically modified soldier and member of the 5th Claymore Guards.

  Pain exploded in the side of his head as a follow-up left hook slammed into his temple, sending him staggering away, arms raised in front to ward off any further strikes whilst he tried to gather his wits.

  A kick slammed into his chest, ribs breaking under the intense pressure. His suit flooded his system with painkillers, but not before a spike of agony prevented him from blocking the follow-up strike, a round house shin to his thigh. There was a wet snap and Death screamed as his thighbone broke. The suit immediately pumped more painkillers into his system, simultaneously inflating and going rigid around the top of his thigh. He rolled, going with the force of the kick in a desperate attempt to create some space. Coming to his feet he faced the giant across a gap of some six feet.

  'You’re a tough little fucker, I’ll give you that. Not going to help you though,' another kick-punch-punch combination followed the giant’s, forcing Death into a defensive dance. The blows were almost as fast as his wire-enhanced reflexes. Almost. He double-parried, slapping the attacks so that they missed by a hair’s breath. A narrow opening, but to someone such as Death, that was as good as sending an invitation and leaving your door open.

  A right rear elbow to the diaphragm sent air and spittle flying out of the giant’s mouth, whilst a left lead whipping elbow cut into behind the giant’s ear. With a groan, the giant collapsed to the floor. Death stepped in, kneeling with his right hand held high. A flick of his wrist, and thirty centimetres of poison-coated blade snicked out of the forearm sheath.

  The giant grabbed at his throat with one meaty hand, but was too slow to the stop the blade punching down. The grip tightened as the blade forced its way into the giant’s body. With gritted teeth the giant tightened his grip, punching Death in the head frantically with his other hand. Death just as frantically punched the blade into the giant, not caring where he struck as he fought to remain conscious, his ears roaring as the giant’s grip threatened to choke the life out of him.

  'Fucking prick.' Those words were the last thing he heard as the darkness descended.

  ***

  'Here, drink this.' At the sound of the voice Death opened his eyes. The relative softness beneath, as well as the worn sheets covering his body told him that he was no longer in the corridor. Pain in his throat, ribs and thigh told him that, miraculously, he was still alive. Dim lights flickered overhead as the bunker’s generators diverted power to priority systems. A young man stood over him, holding a worn-looking mess tin towards him. The smell of soup made Death’s mouth water

  'It’s fine, just fresh broth. I don’t have anything stronger I’m afraid, that bastard chemmer took all of my ration. Again. Fuck I’m glad you killed him. Don’t worry, he won’t be missed. He was retired out of the service a while ago. Couldn’t deal with working alongside us drones, so he took it out on the rest of us. No-one will miss him. Won’t find his body either.' The young man pushed the canteen forward again, 'It’s not often we get fresh meat, so make the most of it.'

  Death sipped the broth, savouring the salty taste, chewing on the small pieces of soft white meat that floated in it. He took the brown bread stick that was offered to him, and dipping it into the broth, proceeded to suck the broth through it, softening the dry bread and making its taste resemble something other than sawdust.

  He ate in silence, the young man happy to leave him to it as he pottered around the small, uniform-issue bunk-room. Just as with all bunker issue rooms, this one was simple; a fold-down bed on one wall, a fold-down desk on the other with an entertainment module set within the desk, and another set on the wall. At the far end was the food preparation area, a simple microwave set into the wall, a sink, and a fridge for storing the issued rations. Storage for clothing and personal effects was set into the wall. For ablutions there were shared facilities where the bunkees could wash themselves and their clothing.

  His suit was carefully draped over the back of the one chair issued to the drone.

  It was drab and dreary living as a drone, but at least it was safe. Usually. Death called to mind his target’s face. With a sigh, he realised that the man who had surely saved his life, tended his wounds and protected him from the Rulers was his target. The man who had saved his life had to die.

  'Do you know what I am?'

  The man turned and smiled, 'You’re a Justice, sworn on your own life to take the life you’re contracted to. No matter how long it takes, you will achieve your mission,' he paused to laugh long and hard, 'and you cut the life from him good and proper!' he laughed again, slapping his thigh in joy.

  'No.'

  That one word cut the laughter short. The man straightened up and stared at Death, his mouth dropping open, 'What, what do you mean, no?'

  'I mean, no. No, I haven’t killed my target. The giant was an inconvenience, a distraction from my true target.' Death winced as he shifted on the bed. Bereft of the QuickHeal his suit would have provided, he just hoped that the nanobots it would have released before he was stripped to his birthday suit were working.

  'Who, who’s your target then? Who are you after?'

  Death sighed, sizing up the distance between himself and the young man, the target. He shifted slightly, testing his thigh to see if it would support him when he made his move. Stabbing pain shot through his body and he fought back a gasp.

  'It’s you.'

  'What?' The target’s mouth hung open, his eyes wide in shock. 'Why?'

  'Does it really matter?' He held out his hand, stilling the stammering and stuttering that was spewing from the target. 'I’m currently in no condition to carry out my mission. Plus, I owe you my life, something that I cannot and will not ignore. Therefore, I say this. First help me into my suit, it will heal me far faster than nature. Second, I won’t kill you now.'

  'Fuck you! You think I’ll be grateful to hear t
hat you won’t kill me now? You shit!'

  'Shut up and listen', the chill monotone of Death’s voice stopped the target’s voice as surely as if he was dead already, 'I will not kill you now. I will come for you in a few years. You will have three warnings, three signs as you will. Then you will know I’m coming.'

  As soon as the target started to draw another breath to reply, Death lunged. Ignoring the agony from his thigh, he knuckled-punched the target in the throat, sealing his breath and preventing him from taking another. A ridge hand to the side of the neck sent his blood pressure through the roof, knocking him out straight away.

  Death wiped tears of pain from his eyes and belly-crawled to his suit. Ignoring fresh stabs of pain, he struggled into the suit, sighing as soon as it sensed his purpose and pump painkillers into his system.

  ***

  The target struggled to his feet, his breath rasping as he tried to suck in air through his bruised throat. Panic drove every rational thought from his brain as he spun in a tight circle, looking for the man who was going to kill him. Nothing. No-one.

  Three messages. Three warnings. I’m a drone for fuck’s sake. What the hell am I supposed to do? Sit around and bloody wait for him to kill me? The thought of a life where he jumped at every shadow, where he waited for a shadow to slit his throat, was unbearable. He could not live with the fear that was coursing through his veins like stimjuice.

  Flicking on his entertainment unit, he scrolled through programmes, using the noise to silence the panicked voices screaming inside his head. He paused as an infopic appeared, perfect.

  ***

  BunkerMil Sergeant York strode slowly through the concourse, scanning the crowd as he made his way through the drones, saluting the odd secretariat manager. For five minutes now he had been aware of someone following him.