Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck

by Anders Rauff-Nielsen

“What the hell are you playing at?” Blake yelled as he advanced towards Dæth.

  “Excuse me?” Dæth replied.

  “This isn't what I signed up for! And you goddamn well know it.” Blake reached the sitting area and Dæth rose from his seat.

  “SIT DOWN, Mr. Beck!” Dæth bellowed. Blake felt like he had run into a brick wall. He stopped, collapsing into the chair, and when he regained his bearings, Blake was no longer in control. “Now you will keep your seat and speak only when spoken to. And I promise you that you will never again get away with speaking to me in that tone.” Blake lowered his eyes. “I take it that you have been talking to Mr. Ferre, as I can see no other cause for such behavior as you have just exhibited.”

  “Yes, and I'm sad to say that he had many interesting things to tell me. Things I should have already known and not have learned from Him.”

  “Mr. Beck! There is nothing he could have told you that you should not have been able to figure out by yourself, considering that you have half a mind and are not scared of the truth. I take it that he took you to the catacombs?”

  “Yes,” Blake replied.

  “Then let me ask you, what did you think happened here? You have chosen to serve the ruler of Shades, the caretaker of all departed souls. I am sure it is not news to you that only some of the souls move on from here, which leaves most to linger in Shades.” Blake nodded in silence, but found enough strength and courage to look Dæth in the eyes as he did. “Now what did you think would become of these billions of souls that have died through the ages? They have been judged to linger here, sentenced to contemplate their wrongdoings forever. This is their sentence, meted out by the powers that be, and our job is to make sure that each one gets what he deserves. You know this! And Mr. Ferre has simply shown you the natural execution of these judgments.”

  “But I didn't think . . .”

  “NO! That is exactly the problem. You didn't think. Instead you come barging in here out of place and out of order. Now your job is to hunt those who seek to undermine the order of the worlds. Mr. Ferre and his ‘children’ seek to subvert and corrupt that which we are here to protect, and for that reason – and that alone – you will hunt down him and his abominable offspring.”

  “But Mr. Ferre is right that he brings peace, and McCoy even said it himself when he talked about the Grey: ‘Destruction offers them a peace which we do not see fit to grant them.’”

  “But, nothing! They devour both souls who would go on from here and souls who deserve the punishment they are given.” Of the two of them, Dæth was the only one who heard the light footsteps approaching the closed lounge doors. It was perfect, he thought. “Let me remind you that you have sworn to serve me and my purpose. Now, you will either serve and be thankful, or you will join those sad figures in the catacombs. I will see to that,” Dæth said just before the lounge doors swung open. Blake turned his head to see who it was, grateful for the interruption. “Now, Mr. Beck. Allow me to introduce my wife, whom I believe you have already met,” Dæth said with a satisfied smile. “This is Marie.” Blake couldn't believe it at first, but as he caught Marie's eyes and saw the tears welling behind them, he knew it to be true.

  “Mr. Beck,” she said in a low voice, frail as glass and on the verge of breaking as she curtsied, slightly lifting the skirt of her white Victorian walking dress. Blake found himself unable to react.

  “Where are your manners, Mr. Beck? I am sure that you are aware that it is only polite to get up and greet a lady as she enters the room.”

  “Of course,” Blake stuttered in a low voice, rising from the chair a beaten man. Then he walked over to Marie. “Marie. Congratulations,” he said as he gave her a kiss on each cheek.

  “Blake. Don't,” she whispered, fighting to keep from crying.

  “I hope you will be very happy,” Blake lied as he stepped back to his chair. He burned with anger and hurt, but at the same time, he felt the poor relief of knowing that nothing would ever be able to hurt him more than this. Then he sat down and looked away.

  “I can see this is a bad time,” Marie said, trying to pull herself together. “I will leave the two of you to your business and await you on the terrace, my dear.” She still had the French accent that Blake had found so irresistible in life, which cut at his heart, even now.

  “Thank you, my darling. I shall be but a moment. Mr. Beck and I were just finishing. Is that not right, Mr. Beck?”

  “Yes,” Blake muttered.

  “Mr. Beck,” Marie said as she curtsied before turning to walk away.

  “Marie,” Blake replied, still looking away. As Marie walked out of the room, they sat without speaking, listening to the sound of her heels rhythmically tapping the hardwood floor. When she closed the doors, Dæth broke the silence.

  “Now, as I was saying, Mr. Beck. You will do the job you were chosen for without lament. Otherwise, I will not hesitate to take back the gifts bestowed upon you and send you away to face an eternity of remorse for the imperfect and impure life we both know you have led. And should you – against your better judgment – for but a second contemplate betraying me and joining Mr. Ferre, you should know this. The retribution which you would deserve would instead be visited tenfold upon her, and I would make sure that you would know it and never find peace.” He let his words linger for Blake to digest. “Are we clear about this, Mr. Beck?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now you will have to excuse me, for I have to attend to my wife.” Blake got up without a word and walked out of the room, angry and hurt. Halfway down the hall he found Harlan McCoy waiting for him.

  “Blake?” Harlan asked, probing the wounds and trying to figure out if Blake was in a condition to talk.

  “What!?”

  “I have to say, this was not your smartest move so far,” Harlan said, following Blake down the hallway.

  “What the fuck would you have me do? Have you ever met Mr. Ferre? And how come you didn't at least warn me about Marie? Is this amusing to you, as well? Because it damn well seemed to be to him.”

  “No. It's not, but you have to remember who we work for. I would gladly have told you about Marie if I could, but it would have meant my neck if I did. He didn't become death by trusting others, and he always makes sure that he is holding the reins. He has something on all of us. That's just they way it is – he's a business man.”

  “He's an asshole.”

  “Well, I understand you aren't fond of him right now, but he is your strongest ally and the only thing that stands between atonement and punishment, but nothing comes free. You know that.”

  “Yes, but I had hoped for a little respect.”

  “Respect you can and have to earn, and perhaps you may even come to merit his friendship over the years, but you need to know that it is not his job to be nice. It is to be death.” McCoy cleared his throat. “Now I am sorry that I was not at liberty to warn you about Marie, but it would have made no difference, it would just have given you more time to grieve.”

  “And perhaps would have allowed me to not be run over in there.”

  “Perhaps, but my bid would be that he would simply have taken a different approach.” There was a silence as they walked down to the hall, passing Elijah on their way out. “So, you were approached by Mr. Ferre, and I gather that you saw the catacombs.”

  “I did. And I didn't like it.”

  “I know, but you have to accept that this is our job. Those souls in there have earned their punishment in some way, and it is not our – nor Mr. Ferre's – place to offer atonement to them.”

  “But he is right that he offers peace to those souls, and he is right that the vampires feed less often on the living than they could if they wanted to.”

  “Blake, listen to me!” Harlan said. “You cannot let him get to you. His words are just as twisted as the words of anyone else, and he seeks only to corrupt you and further his own cause. For instance, no – you're right – they could feed much more on the living souls than they
do. But it is not out of morality or good nature. It is simply because no farmer will eat his crops before the seeds for next year’s crops have been gathered. Each fresh soul they eat in life is a whole family line that will never come to be, and like the farmer that might pick from the young sprouts occasionally, he will never reap his harvest prematurely. There is nothing good there, trust me! Mr. Ferre and his children consume the souls of others so that their own souls will not deteriorate – and that is all. Don't let him have you believe otherwise.” Blake nodded, wanting to believe Harlan's words. “Now Blake, I'm sorry to bear even more ill news, and I will refrain from placing blame and responsibility because I understand what you have gone through these last few days. Since last we spoke, we have found that the vampire buyer at the Christie's auction that you handled managed to switch the two manuscripts prior to the auction, leading us to buy our own fake and allowing the vampire to buy the real Flamel manuscript,” McCoy said. However petty it might be, Blake couldn't help but rejoice in the fact that Mr. Ferre had gotten the better of Dæth this time around.

  “So they also have all the information then?” Blake asked.

  “Yes, and we would imagine that they, like us, are well underway with the deciphering of the Voynich manuscript. We have managed to read parts of the manuscript and have found that it does indeed contain the instructions to the ritual of summoning a chosen soul between the worlds. The alchemists saw this as the source of eternal life. However, it seems that the leading Sol Niger alchemist, Bernt Notke, hid key information about the ritual in some of his other works to make sure that gaining full access to the ritual required more than just reading the Voynich manuscript.” Harlan paused for a second as he took his tobacco pouch from his belt and started rolling up a cigarette. “While we have not yet fully deciphered the manuscript, we have found that the ritual calls upon the power of three figures currently believed to be Christian saints. Exactly which figures has been intentionally omitted from the Voynich manuscript, but we have found indications that Notke hid the information in the altar he fashioned in the late 15th century for the cathedral in the Danish city of Aarhus.”

  “So I'm going to find that altar and name the figures for you?”

  “While we decipher the rest of the manuscript, yes. Seeing as we must expect Mr. Ferre to be planning a similar move, we've found it prudent to send one of the Hunters. So I'm asking you, if you're up to it.”

  “Sure,” Blake replied.

  “Then you will travel there tomorrow evening, and I have been told that there is a concert in the cathedral. This should give you a good reason to enter the cathedral at night, and once the concert is over, I'm sure you will find a way to stay behind.” Blake replied with a nod as Harlan opened the heavy wooden front doors. As McCoy stepped out into the windy autumn night, he tipped his hat and left Blake to his own private tortures.

  CHAPTER 5

  - VICARIOUS -

  I

  Astrid had agreed to meet her friends at Sofie's Parents, a small tea salon in Frederiksgade. It was the perfect venue for new mothers in need of a baby-friendly café and a cup of coffee. Seeing as one of her friends had recently fostered a new generation, they had agreed to meet there rather than in the café they had frequented for the last five years. It was an agreement Astrid had been rather reluctant to enter into. She hated the fact that things had to change just because other people incubated offspring. However, her subconscious self tried to tell her that she was being a hypocrite, that she would have encouraged the exact same change if she had become a new mother, and that she was just jealous deep down inside. Consciously, however, Astrid's mind wandered to a wholly different place as she sat down in the faux antique Rococo chair amidst babies, coffee and cake. She thought about the strange fact that so many places in Aarhus were named after someone's immediate family. There was Sofie's Parents, but also Pappa Eskild, a bar and music scene featuring upcoming bands. There was also the bodega Kurt's Mom, and the small drinking establishment Line's Grandma. It was as if the whole town was owned and run by some kind of secret underground menopausal mafia. She imagined them meeting in a dark, rundown warehouse on the docks – wrinkled old ladies, each older than the other – sitting at a long table with Pappa Eskild at the head of the table. She giggled to herself, but she was abruptly torn from her daydream by a young child at the table behind her who began screaming because there was a shortage of chocolate milk.

  “I'm just so glad that we could all make it!” said Tina who sat opposite Astrid, breastfeeding her young daughter.

  “Yep,” Astrid said before taking a sip from her granny-style teacup.

  “So, Astrid. Any luck?” Louise asked with a smirk, having recently ceased being single herself.

  “Sorry?” Astrid said, still wondering which sinister ploys the menopause mafia was plotting in order to take over the town – maybe even the world – through a series of villainous bodega and café franchises.

  “Have you gotten any lately? I mean . . . it would be about time, wouldn't it?” Astrid quickly and only semi-voluntarily swallowed her tea and looked around apologetically to see if anyone else had heard her indiscreet friend bellowing out information about her sex life or lack thereof, as fate would have it.

  “Uuuhmm . . . I . . .” Astrid said, rather concerned by the fact that she had gone so long that her status as single would now merit first priority at their biweekly reunion.

  “Not that I should be one to judge because I know what it is like to be single, but my boyfriend and I . . .” As Louise started her monologue, Astrid gave a mental sigh of relief, glad that she was off the hook. While Tina was preoccupied with her offspring and Louise was busy talking, Astrid let her mind wander again. She thought about how nice it would be to have a boyfriend, if not for anything else than to get her friends off her back. She decided that she would do something about it, perhaps not today but no later than Saturday night, and with that problem solved, she moved on to the matter of her master's thesis. She was heading down to the cathedral later because she had promised the church servant that she would help out at that evening’s classical organ concert by showing people to their seats, helping out the organist, doing odd jobs and locking up after the concert. She figured if she headed down there directly from the café, she would be able to get in a few hours of undisturbed research time by the altar. By the time Astrid had decided on her plans, Louise had just about run out of air, thus allowing the others to enter the hitherto somewhat one-sided conversation. Although Astrid didn't really manage to or feel like influencing the course of the conversation, she sat there for an hour and a half drinking her tea, laughing, becoming embarrassed, and getting angry at and making up with Louise before it was time for her to head down to the cathedral. She made no big production of saying goodbye to her friends because she knew she would meet with them again soon, so she let a “Bye, guys! I'll see you later!” suffice. As she walked out of the café, she accompanied her goodbye with a short wave. Then she headed down the street, intent on enjoying the five-minute stroll to the cathedral. She walked through the streets of Aarhus, doing her best to not be bothered by the host of people who were walking far too slow and hindering Astrid’s usual pace. To her great annoyance, Astrid got stuck behind a slow-moving group of teenage girls who were walking side-by-side in order to uphold the naïve illusion that their friendship was, in fact, not hierarchical. However, not even this managed to ruin her mood. Once she reached Small Square, she decided to make a quick stop at the kiosk to quench her thirst and grab a sausage roll. Inside the kiosk, she took her place in the long line of people waiting to make their purchase from the rather inefficient young man behind the counter. While this annoyed Astrid to some degree, she secretly enjoyed the fact that once she had picked up her iced tea from the cooler, she had time to have a quick look through the tabloids while standing in line. Apparently, an elderly gentleman in Zealand had been shot by his own son, and a fisherman had fallen overboard and was presumed drowned. Off
icially, she despised the tabloids and their sordid stories and complete lack of respect for privacy, but for some reason, she had a hard time ignoring them like she had promised herself she would. Instead, she justified flipping through them and giving them a quick read by the fact that she never ever bought any of them, but merely read them while queuing, waiting in the doctor’s lobby, or perhaps when someone had left a copy behind on the train. After all, she didn't encourage the tabloid agencies by increasing their sales.

  “Are you buying that?” the young man asked Astrid from behind the counter, quite harshly bringing her back to reality from the dramatic family tragedy on Zealand.

  “Sorry? No, I don't think so,” she said and closed the paper before placing it back in the stand. The young man sighed, indicating both that he didn't care and that he hated his job, and then he lifted an eyebrow to inquire what she was having if it wasn’t the paper. “I'll just take this,” Astrid said, placing the peach-flavored iced tea on the counter. “And three sausage rolls,” she added a few seconds later, trying to convey that this was a spur-of-the-moment decision rather than the plan of a young woman who had no better alternative than to snack her way through dinner at her local kiosk.

  “Ketchup?” he asked, still not caring.

  “Yes, please,” Astrid replied as she ran her credit card through the terminal. Having gotten her rolls and iced tea, Astrid headed out of the kiosk and walked up Large Square towards the cathedral, making sure not to choke on her food from the inevitable giggling. As she strolled across the square, the bells chimed and the tower clock told her that it was now 6 p.m., leaving two and a half hours until the start of the concert. This was about the same time that Blake opened his eyes.

  Blake was quickly getting used to the more delicate aspects of reanimation, and he checked that he had full control over his body as the inanimation capsule rose to its semi-upright position. As Judith opened the door, Blake twisted his head from side to side, trying to loosen up his neck.