Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck

by Anders Rauff-Nielsen

  “Hi, Blake. It's been a long time,” Marie said, her smile slightly labored. Blake wished that he could find a reply both profound and cool in nature. He wanted to say something that would somehow sweep her off her feet and into his arms, but nothing of the sort came to mind.

  “Marie. It sure is,” he replied, feeling awkward that neither of them had commented immediately on the fact that they had both died since they last saw each other. “Nice to see you. Come on in.”

  “Thank you,” she said, still tied to her French accent.

  “I have to say, I didn't expect to have you calling around – and I'm sorry you're dead, but it's really nice to see you!” he said and really meant it. It was nice to see her. It made him feel less alone, and despite all that had happened between them, the dream of them together hadn't died with him.

  “It's nice to see you too, Blake.” She tried her best to sound convincing, and fortunately for Marie, their mutual unspoken dream that this could indeed be a happy reunion made it credible. Blake led the way upstairs to the lounge and Marie followed behind him in silence. The record player had just finished the last song, and as they entered the room, the pickup raised itself from the vinyl groove and moved into its rest, breaking the silence between them with a mechanical click.

  “Have a seat,” Blake said as he walked over to his chair. Marie sat down in the armchair opposite Blake's, her eyes restlessly wandering around the room. “You want a drink, honey?” Blake asked.

  “No, thank you,” she replied. As Blake sat down, he reached for his glass and took a sip before relaxing into the leather armchair.

  “So,” he thought for a split second about what to say, “I'm sorry that I let us slip. Hell, I didn't even know you were dead, but then again, it's not like anyone knew to tell me.”

  “Blake. It wasn't all your fault. It was just too hard, too far and too long,” she said with half a smile, allowing him to give a slight nod of agreement.

  “You look great.”

  “Blake . . . Don't,” she said, returning her gaze to the floor and trying to keep a hold of herself. “I'm not here to find you, I'm here to let you go,” she said, the words cutting deeper into Blake than any blade ever could. To Blake, it was as if their breakup in life had been but an intermission, as he knew full well that an eternity waited for them: an eternity in which he had felt sure that they would somehow find each other again. He looked at Marie and was taken aback by the veil of sadness that shrouded her.

  “But . . .”

  “Blake, dear. Please do not make this any harder than it already is. We did not manage to make a life together, and I have come to tell you that we will not make a death together either. I need you to know this.”

  “Marie . . .” He tried to be more assertive, but his words were immediately dismissed by her eyes, the shake of her head and her words.

  “I need you to know that though we will both have an eternity in Shades, and – the gods forbid – we might even be forced to work together, I cannot go back. I need you to understand this.” She looked into his eyes, begging and searching for a glimpse of understanding. However, she found nothing of the sort. Instead she saw confusion, anger and the kind of desperation found only in the eyes of animals that are trapped and facing a superior enemy.

  “No! Now you goddamn well listen to me, Marie!” Blake yelled as he jumped up out of his chair. “You can't be serious. We let things fade because our times together were too rare and too far between, but look at us now. We are here now, together and forced to spend an eternity here. How the hell can these notions of too rare and far be relevant? We literally have an eternity to spend and I refuse to just sit down and let you pretend that you don't love me anymore. I know you do! And I never stopped loving you. You're right that in life we were both too busy and it was too painful to be parted over and over again, but now time is no longer an issue. We can make this work!”

  “But Blake . . .”

  “Dammit, Marie. Don't ‘but Blake’ this. There is only one reason why we shouldn't try to make this work now that we are both here. Hell, I have been walking around wondering when I would see you again since my death. I’ve been hoping that you would get to live a good long life before coming here, but I’ve been cursing each day of this eternity I'd have to spend without you.” He paused. “Now, if you don't love me . . .”

  “I don't,” she said, completely disarming him and leaving him to suffer in the silence that followed. Blake stopped and slumped despondently into the chair as if he needed something to hold him together and in place. Out of pure reflex, he took up the glass and emptied it as if the whisky would help. “Blake. I don't love you anymore, and I really hope you can find someone for you here in death.” Blake didn't respond. There was no need to. Marie got up from her chair, walked over to Blake and bent down to give him a light kiss on his forehead. A kiss that he returned with a slight shake of his head and crease of his brows, looking like a child kissed by a parent after a scolding. As Marie walked out the door, she looked to Blake who sat quietly, staring at the bottom of his glass. “Take care of yourself, Blake,” she said, getting the last word before walking down the stairs and out of the house. In Blake's mind, her last words were clouded and distant – as if spoken from a different world. He felt dislodged from his being as he fought to hold onto the reins of his fate. He barely registered that Marie had walked down the stairs and out the front door. He sat there for hours with the low static groan of his speakers as his only companion, wishing for something to put out the pain burning inside. He silently prayed that someone or something would just make it rain. As nighttime approached, he saw the sky darken and heard the winds pick up outside. As the rolling thunder broke the silence, he let the melancholy flood him, closing his eyes and listening to the wind’s dark moan. Then it began to rain.

  II

  “This is turning into the worst night of my death,” Harlan McCoy thought to himself as he perched on the back of his dapple grey stallion galloping down the cobbled road towards Dæth's mansion. The auction had seemingly been orchestrated to perfection, and last night he had toasted with Dæth to their success and to the performance of their newest Hunter, Blake Beck. However, by now it had become clear to McCoy that there was no reason to celebrate. A few hours earlier he had gotten word from Liam O'Hara, the Director of Operations of the London CAC, that something was amiss and O'Hara had requested the presence of McCoy himself in London – something which was very rarely done. McCoy had obliged and traveled to London in the falling darkness to meet with Liam O'Hara: a feisty, redheaded Irishman who had no renown for softening blows or sugar-coating the truth.

  “It's a right cock-up, sir!” O'Hara said as McCoy entered his office at the CAC London headquarters. “We received the Flamel manuscript late last evening and I immediately sent it down to the team working on deciphering the Voynich manuscript before I went home,” O'Hara continued, leaving no time for formalities.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, when I got in this morning, I was called down to the lab where I was told that the Flamel manuscript provided no legible cipher, and that there was a distinct discrepancy between the photos taken of the manuscript by our agents in Bath and the manuscript bought at the auction.” McCoy cringed his eyebrows as if to counter the slight hint of panic in O'Hara's voice. “Look at this!” O'Hara reverted his attention to his laptop, clicking the mouse pad to play a short film clip. It was a piece of footage from the surveillance camera in Christie's vault 3b showing a young, conservatively dressed woman with a dark A-line bob standing next to the Flamel manuscript. As the woman picked up the manuscript, clandestinely replacing it with another, McCoy felt a cold shiver run down his soul. “And there's more!” O'Hara fast-forwarded to show McCoy the footage of the young woman returning about an hour later and making the second switch. “They switched the manuscripts!”

  “I can damn well see that, you idiot!” McCoy bellowed, his feelings getting the better of him.

  �
��With all due respect, sir!” O'Hara retorted, emphasizing the word sir before releasing a torrent of disrespect. “Who the fuck are you calling an idiot? I'm not the one tasked with planning or overseeing the security of the Christie's vaults. I did my job, and to be honest, I think that I went rather beyond the call of duty acquiring these tapes and serving you this explanation in less than 24 hours!” Then he added another “sir” just to make sure that he disrespected McCoy respectfully. Knowing that O'Hara was right, McCoy let it slide. He didn't offer him an apology, but it was clear to both what the short silence that lingered between them meant. When his temper subsided, O'Hara broke the silence. “The girl that served us with our own fake was the buyer at the auction, but how and when they made the switch at Christie's King Street, I have no idea.”

  “It doesn't really matter now, does it?” McCoy asked rhetorically. “What matters is the fact that Mr. Ferre has the real Flamel manuscript and now Khaleel will be hard at work deciphering the Voynich manuscript, just as we are.”

  “Yes, sir,” O'Hara replied. McCoy thought about the situation for a moment, realizing that there was nothing more for him to do there.

  “Keep up the good work, O'Hara, and let me know as soon as the Voynich manuscript is fully deciphered.”

  “I will, sir!” McCoy left O'Hara's office and hurried back to the animation lab in order to inanimate and return to Shades.

  McCoy rode in a furious gallop through the Empires of Industry in order to serve Dæth with the unpleasant news that the auction con had been a failure and that they themselves had been the ones conned. The white and grey coat of his horse glistened with beads of sweat as McCoy spurred it on up the long drive leading to the mansion. Summoned by the sound of the hooves beating the cobblestones, Elijah took his place at the bottom of the stairs in front of the mansion in time for McCoy's arrival. McCoy pulled back the reins, making the horse rear and shake its head wildly as it halted by the stairs. McCoy jumped off and tossed the reins to Elijah, leaving the horse panting.

  “Sir,” was all Elijah said, as always keeping up the formal facade. McCoy hurried up the stairs and into the hall. As he entered, Dæth walked out onto the upstairs landing and started down the stairs. He wore a pair of long, loose black pants beneath an embroidered scarlet robe finished with a black silk lapel. He held a black and white Meerschaum pipe in his right hand and his left hand trailed along the banister.

  “I was lying in bed much savoring the presence of my wife when I heard the sound of hooves on cobbles and decided to venture out of bed in the hope that you, my friend, were bringing me joyous news that you could not keep 'till morning.” McCoy looked up at Dæth and made an effort to compose himself to ready for the coming storm. “But, alas, reason has already dissuaded me that this could be the reason for your untimely arrival, for ill news does indeed travel faster.” Dæth reached McCoy and put his arm around his neck in what appeared to be a friendly gesture. McCoy found himself at a loss of words. “Harlan, my friend. Let us step into the drawing room and discuss the matters you seem so eager to get off your chest.” Together they walked the short way down the hall and entered the drawing room. Harlan removed his hat, looking around for a place to put it down before deciding to keep it in hand. “Now, pray tell,” Dæth said as he poured hot water from a samovar onto a helping of green tea leaves that he had already deposited into a porcelain cup.

  “Well, it's concerning the Flamel manuscript,” McCoy started.

  “Yes?” Dæth asked and sat down on the small lounge sofa, placing his cup of tea on the table in front of him. As Harlan searched for the right words, Dæth lit his pipe, puffing a few clouds of smoke to make sure the tobacco had caught fire. The scene reminded Harlan of a time in his youth when he had been forced to confess his misbehavior to the schoolmaster. He decided not to beat about the bush.

  “It seems the vampire buyer managed to pull a double con, sir.” As McCoy spoke, Dæth took a long, composed draw of his pipe before slowly breathing the smoke into the air. However, Harlan noticed only the slight creasing around Dæth’s eyes, his widened nostrils and the proverbial thunderstorm building in his eyes.

  “What?” Dæth asked, raising his head as if to enable him to look down on McCoy.

  “I am sorry, sir. It seems the vampire buyer somehow found access to our manuscript fake and the original manuscript in Christie's vault, and managed to switch the two prior to the auction.”

  “Are you telling me . . .?” Harlan could see the anger welling up inside Dæth, and he felt sure that it would come down on him like the wrath of God.

  “Yes. We bought our own fake and Mr. Ferre managed to acquire the real Flamel manuscript.” Dæth let him fry in the silence, breaking it only by taking another deep draw of the pipe. The crackling and fiery smolders of the tobacco were more threatening to Harlan than any hellish flame could ever be.

  “That is very unfortunate,” Dæth said as he blew out the smoke.

  “Yes, sir,” said Harlan, reverting his gaze to the floor. He knew that there was no way this would be forgotten, and at some point this mistake would come back to haunt him. He would walk through death, perhaps for centuries, wondering how and when, and knowing that Dæth's hold on him was tighter than ever before.

  “Have you informed Mr. Beck?”

  “No, sir. Not yet.”

  “Don't. For now, let us get our bearings and figure out our next move before disclosing this any further. I hope that at least the deciphering of the Voynich manuscript is on schedule?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “Good. Then leave me to my tea and pipe and return when the deciphering is completed.”

  “I will, sir! And thank you for your time.” Harlan turned on his heels and walked to the door. As he took the handle, he heard Dæth's voice and turned around to acknowledge his master.

  “Harlan, when you return, bring me good news. You do know that I do not tolerate failure.”

  III

  The Earl decided to take a leisurely evening stroll, his instincts guiding him to the medieval Arabian quarter of Aquraa. He donned his finest walking suit and – cane in hand – the Earl walked through the Baroque quarter with a confident stride. He soon found himself at the gates of the Arabian quarter, which lay enclosed within its own city walls like the Arabian medinas of old. From there, it was no coincidence that he made his way past the home of Bahij Khaleel, halting by the establishment across the narrow street and taking a seat at a vacant table. The Earl felt certain that he would not have to wait for long before Bahij would pass by, as he knew that Bahij had been summoned to the castle. Sure enough, Bahij soon came walking out of the gateway that led to the courtyard of his mansion across the street. While it was unlikely that Bahij would fail to notice him, the Earl took it upon himself to be sure he was noticed. Still seated, he removed his feathered hat and gave Bahij half a bow, clearly not bothering to stand up.

  “Lord Khaleel! What an unexpected pleasure to find you here. Had I known that you were, in fact, not far gone but mere yards away, I should have offered you to join me on this fine evening!” the Earl called out. As Bahij eyed the Earl and steered towards his table, a stern look crept across his face and he allowed himself the slight relief of an unspoken sigh.

  “Your lordship,” Bahij greeted the Earl, not required by the nature of his turban to remove it in greeting. “And what, may I ask, brings your lordship to humble yourself to visit the land and time of those who have not learned the gracious and elevated ways of your European self?” Bahij inquired.

  “I sought to merry myself with the nature and features of your time, aiming to delve into the vices promoted by this particular part of the city, whilst hoping that I may also become ever more knowledgeable on that which puzzles me. I, myself, do not believe that I have come from a time of perfection, as you seem to have inferred, but rather from an imperfect pearl in need of yet more cultivation,” the Earl replied with a sly smile.

  “While I do indeed believe you to be
so full of your own merit that you would be able to fill a dozen more souls before any of them would reach a tolerable amount of self-regard, I do gladly grant you the fact that your origin was greatly in need of cultivation,” Bahij retorted.

  “As do I, my dear bête noire! On that we shan't disagree. Instead let us each pause in our endeavors and take a short while to debate the fate of our mutual interest, the dear Mistress Ammon,” the Earl said, looking Bahij in the eye and seeing hatred, desperation and a sliver of fear creeping into Bahij’s mind. It was like looking into the eyes of a rival lion whose pride was being threatened on its own territory, and the Earl knew then that Bahij had finally realized that they were equals.

  “What of her?” Bahij asked, staying both his hand and temper.

  “I assume that you, the great pride of our race and master of our Lord’s intelligence, are already aware that the delightful Mistress Ammon and I have enjoyed each other’s company on several occasions since the dance,” the Earl started, his tone of voice revealing that he enjoyed twisting the blade. “I should be greatly disappointed should I have misread your affection for Mistress Ammon and should you not have found it prudent to keep an eye on the preservation of our lady's virtues – something you seem eager to preserve. Now, whilst I rest assured in this, I am also certain that you have no witness to the fact that I should have behaved as anything but a gentleman,” the Earl said.