Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck

by Anders Rauff-Nielsen

“Oh joy! To hear such words from such a noble and pretty mouth.” His laugh made her even more furious. “What manner of abomination has made you capable of such words?”

  “YOU!” Teresa screamed, holding out the scroll case. The Earl's smile stiffened and faded like dew evaporating in the sun.

  “How did you acquire that?”

  “I took it off your lackey, who, mind you, is still obliged to obey me in our master’s house, whether or not he has sold his soul to you and your deceitful ways. And to think that I merely sought your written words out of jealous thoughts and fear that I might find that you had another.”

  “To find that out, you need not look in letters, but rather in my bed.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Teresa moved to slap his face again, but this time the Earl caught her wrist and forced her to abandon her endeavor.

  “How could you manage such betrayal and yet make yourself out to be so kind? How can a mind as sharp as yours find its way to betray your family like this? And me?” The tears began to run down her cheeks.

  “My dear. Are you really so naive? So slow, as to really not know why?” He looked at her with eyes that conquered what power was left in her, resigning her to be at the mercy of his words. “I act not to favor or betray, but to stay alive. You think I betray our family as I write Dæth and tell him what you have told me. You think I betray you, like you betrayed your beloved Bahij – and you ask me why? I act because I have to. I play dead! I play the part because it is what the play calls for. Where you act to ingratiate and further yourself, I act not for my own sake, but for the sake of the play. I play dead because it stops the hurting. I play dead to escape the boredom of eternity, and without the joy of that, I would prefer absence of existing as this would at least set me free of the boredom and trivialities of being. I have and never will take the spectator’s seat or that of the lowly actor! I direct my own play for the better story. Always. Like I have done now by telling Dæth of Bahij's discoveries and plans, allowing the suspense and tension to build rather than to dissipate by way of an uneven game. Like I have seduced you and guided you to my bed, making myself a rival to Bahij and thus making your relationship much more interesting than the passionless and unspoken affection you previously harbored – like that of an old married couple unable to speak words of love out of fear for the response.” He paused and looked at her beaten figure. “I play dead to best the trivialities and boredom of eternal death and to offer the better story – often at my own expense lest I be a hypocrite. You and all your fellows, whom you call our family, wander aimlessly from one feeding to another, postponing the inevitable and fleeing from the end rather than walking towards it knowing and smiling. You built a stage, but dare not act upon it. You claim to serve and uphold your precious principles and rules, yet in the darkness of the chamber, it takes nothing more than a simple prick to wrest your secrets from you. That’s all it took to lead you astray and turn you from the narrow path of honor and unto the beaten path of betrayal. You who claim to serve so easily betray, yet you accuse me in much stronger terms than you do yourself. I make no pretense of serving others than myself, and thus can hardly be said to have betrayed anyone at all.”

  “You liar! You said you loved me!”

  “No. I claimed to make love to you, an act that I find unlikely for you to deny to have taken place. I spoke to my lover, not my beloved. You listened to what you wanted to hear rather than to the words I spoke.”

  “You betrayed me and our family!”

  “No, I made you no promise that what you told me would be kept private. You betrayed Bahij, who in turn betrayed Him. I did not betray you, but merely by my act sought to make the possible consequences of your actions actual. I merely made sure that your betrayal carried weight and got to play the part it deserved. And that is also why you will never tell, for it will hurt both you and Bahij much more than I. For while you will regret your ways all the way to the gallows, I will dangle with a smile on my face, certain that I played my part to the fullest.”

  “I . . .” The hatred burned inside her, but she knew the battle had been lost.

  “My dear, I know you yearn for revenge, but let me tell you that you will not take it now. That would not be true to you. You will go away plotting, and only time will tell whether it heals your wounds or offers you the pleasure of a long-awaited vengeance.” She looked at him with the full fury of a woman scorned, finding a mixture of amusement and slight pity in his eyes, which angered her even more. She slapped him hard across the cheek, allowing her nails to rip at his features like the claws of a cat, and he did nothing to stop it.

  “This is not the end of it!” she yelled in his face before leaving with the last word. The Earl stood still, looking down the corridor until he heard the outer door slam shut. Then he raised one hand to his cheek, feeling the scarring gashes that would undoubtedly leave her mark for prosperity and feeling his crotch with the other. He felt his member, half stiff and soon ready for more. Then he returned to his bed.

  CHAPTER 7

  - DO YOU LOVE ME? -

  I

  “Butler!” Blake hailed Elijah who was on his way down the hall to the servant’s quarters of Dæth's mansion. Carrying an arrangement of used china on a tray, Elijah stopped and turned and made his way towards Blake with a controlled, almost majestic, stride.

  “Sir,” Elijah nodded, discretely indicating that it was not due to a lack of will, but rather the presence of the tray that he did not make his customary bow. Blake produced a slightly crumpled piece of paper from his trouser pocket and placed it on the tray.

  “Elijah?”

  “Sir?”

  “Would you be so kind as to bring this to the lady of the house?”

  “Of course, Mr. Beck.” Balancing the tray in his left hand, Elijah lifted a china saucer and slid the note underneath.

  “And need I say that . . .”

  “Not at all, sir,” Elijah cut him off. Despite Elijah making every effort to maintain his professional demeanor, it was clear to Blake that Elijah found the situation uncomfortable and did not approve of Blake's affairs, nor his choice to involve Elijah in them.

  “Thank you. This is very important to me. I won't forget it.” Blake tried to smooth the waters.

  “Quite, sir. Now would that be all you require from me tonight, or may I be of further assistance to you?”

  “No, thanks. That's all.”

  “Then I bid you a good night, sir.” The words were barely out of his mouth before Elijah turned and headed towards the kitchen, leaving Blake to ponder how Elijah managed to carry a full tray of porcelain without even the slightest rattling. The house was quiet, save for the distant, delicate sound of skillful hands caressing a grand piano. Blake closed his eyes and listened. He felt the distant, dark tune envelop him from afar, the minor keys trying to pry open the lock on the deepest parts of his soul. Slowly and quietly, he walked to the coatrack and put on his trench coat before picking up his hat. He ran his thumb across the brim of the fedora, savoring the feel of the felt as if it was a lover’s skin. As he opened the door and felt the cold autumn winds invade the hall, he reverently put on his hat and walked into the darkness and away from the sorrowful ivory moans of the piano.

  In his note, Blake had asked Marie to meet him about a mile away on the moot hill that overlooks the mansion grounds. He had chosen to summon her there because he felt sure that it was a place where they would be far enough away from both prying eyes and overactive ears. As he walked across the lawns, he felt the first bite of frost. He saw the bony white moon with its frozen halo beyond the thin, wild brush strokes of clouds high in the sky, promising him a cold and sober night. He followed his shadow up the hill, and he sat down on one of the heavy boulders of the moot circle placed there ages ago by souls now long gone. “Probably to the catacombs,” he thought as he sat down, fastening his gaze on the distant lights of the rural village a few miles off. He sat there alone while the silvery stars crept across the sky, and
he felt the cold of the night etch through him. He saw lonely torches floating through the night as villagers gathered in the church. Those souls were still so close to life that they yet harbored the hope of redemption or even salvation. He closed his eyes for a second and found himself pitying them, and as the ringing of the church bells filled the night, all Blake heard were accusations. The rustle of cloth pulled him back, and as he got up and turned around, there was Marie standing before him dressed in the shadows of Victorian lace, cast in the light of her hooded lantern.

  “Blake.”

  “Marie.” He tried to find the words that he had rehearsed over and over again in his mind, but standing in front of her, he found none.

  “Why did you want to meet like this? I thought we . . .”

  “Stop!” He cut her off and stepped towards her. “I need to ask you to come back. To reconsider. To come to your senses because in every fleeting glimpse of your eyes, I see you struggling to be free. Fighting to let yourself love me.”

  “I don't.” She shielded herself.

  “That's fucking crap and you know it!” He didn't mean to yell, but he did, drawing tears to her eyes. “Don't you tell me that you love him and that you don’t wish that we could spend eternity together – in Hell or not. It was clear as day when you walked in on Dæth and me. I know it. You know it, and he goddamn well knows it. And he is using it to keep both of us in line.” The words died out, leaving silence in their wake as her tears broke through.

  “I . . .” she started, but nothing more came. As she covered her face with her hands, the lantern fell to the ground, breaking the glass and extinguishing the fire. She sat down on the rocks. Blake walked over and sat down next to her, and after a moment’s contemplation, he put his arm around her.

  “Marie, I'm sorry.”

  “Why can't you just leave me be?” She looked up at him angrily before helplessly pounding him with her fists. “Why? You know it's too late. You just keep making it hurt more!” She sobbed as he grabbed her arms and held her tight.

  “Marie,” Blake said, feeling her slowly relax before he loosened his grip and left her to rest against his chest. “Marie, it's not too late. It never is. It just costs more. I know that I will spend an eternity here burning in the fires of my own conscience, and while I do, I know that being with you will offer me some relief. Your love will offer me the closest thing I will know to redemption and rest, and I hope that I may in turn offer you the same. That's the reason why I've come here.” She wiped her eyes as she sat up and looked at him.

  “No. You have come to doom me by asking me to make the choice I cannot.” He let go of her and got up. “By asking me to choose,” she finished.

  “Dammit, Marie! I'm not the bad guy here – he is! And you will never be free of him if you don't break free now! But even worse, you will never be free of your own fears. The same goddamn fears that kept us apart right from the start. Now is the chance to turn around and make it as right as can be!”

  “You don't know what you're talking about!” she yelled at him, getting up to make a stand.

  “Listen Marie. I'm sorry – I'm not here to fight. I'm not here to blame you, let alone to claim that I am without fault in this.” He stepped towards her. “I just need you to know that I love you and that I always will. And that I will face the fires of Hell willingly, as long as we do it together. Hell, I might even wear a smile!”

  “Blake,” she implored, never finishing her sentence as Blake moved in to kiss her. He kissed away her tears before letting their lips meet. They both allowed the kiss to linger as long as possible, and then she kissed him goodbye. A heavy silence broke out, wedging between them, until Blake spoke.

  “Marie, I promise you this. This will be the last time I ask.” He paused again and held her gaze. “Do you love me? Do you love me like I love you?” For a moment the words filled their world. Then she smiled a bittersweet smile and tilted her head.

  “I do . . . But I can't.” He looked at her, eyes narrowed and head slightly shaking, slowly peeling away any dignity she had left as he let his eyes bore through her. She felt herself shrinking and she tried to shield herself with a helpless smile that – if anything – only made matters worse. “Blake, I'm sorry.” She straightened her back and tried to regain her composure as Blake turned his back on her and gave her leave.

  “Don't excuse yourself, Marie. You've made no promises and I can't lay any claim to you. I simply offered you love and you turned it down.” He looked at the moon hanging low in the clear sky, all battered and mangled.

  “Blake . . .” She reached out to him.

  “Marie, don't,” he said, halting her advance.

  “I really am sorry,” she tried.

  “Marie . . . No more.” He lifted his hand into half a wave, shunning her while offering her a last goodbye at the same time. Neither of them said anything more. While Blake looked towards the dark horizon and listened to the distant chapel bells ring out, Marie turned and headed downhill towards the mansion, too busy with her own grief to notice the figure heading up the hill not a hundred yards away. She looked back at Blake through a veil of tears only to see his back against the ominous backdrop of the bone-colored moon. She wiped away her tears with an embroidered handkerchief, feeling like Sisyphus watching the boulder rolling down the side of the mountain for the very first time.

  Marie was well away when Blake turned around, thinking that he was alone. But rather than finding privacy, he found Harlan McCoy standing there resting one boot on a boulder.

  “So, are you done?” McCoy asked before licking the rolling paper and rolling up his cigarette.

  “What?”

  “Is it over?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “Good.” Blake knew it was, at least from McCoy’s point of view, but nevertheless, the remark annoyed him.

  “What do you want, Harlan?” Blake sneered as he put on his fedora and snapped the brim.

  “I want you to stop chasing skirt and focus on what you are doing. We brought you here for a reason and I need you to have a clear head. I need my best man on this and, unfortunately, right now that's you.”

  “So, spill it. What do you need me for?”

  “I need you to go to Kaizerheim in the Medieval. I need you to find Notke and his Danse Macabre, and I need you to make sure that the agents of Mr. Ferre don't get there first.” Blake pulled half a pack of delicately crumbled cigarettes from his trench coat pocket and lit one. “Can you do that, Mr. Beck?”

  “Sure.” Blake blew out the smoke, letting it fill the night air like a lone phantom, slowly drifting away. “Might as well.”

  II

  Bahij was sitting in a chair by Vincenzo's bed in Aquraa Castle when Blake cut down Astrid's body and sent Vincenzo back to Shades. As Vincenzo immaterialized behind the wavering curtains of the canopy bed, Bahij looked at him with a stern gaze, saying nothing until he sat up.

  “Well?” Bahij said, taking Vincenzo completely by surprise, leaving him little time to gather his thoughts and quench his anger.

  “I . . .”

  “Has Beck been taken care of? Or, judging from the look in your eyes, am I right in assuming that you have failed again?”

  “He . . .” Vincenzo wasn't able to find the words he needed because there were simply no words that would excuse him. But soon the silence forced him to admit his failure. “You are right. Beck has been neither defeated nor devoured as I had promised he would be,” Vincenzo replied in a vain attempt to somewhat redeem himself by taking his defeat as a man and admitting to it. Bahij let his failure dangle there for a while.

  “How is it that you keep disappointing Mr. Ferre and yet keep counting on his mercy and blessing?” Bahij asked, rising from the chair and turning his back on Vincenzo as he walked over to the window.

  “It was not my intention to disappoint Him or you, my lord.”

  “I care not for your intentions, only for your actions. Now get up!”

  “My lord,�
� Vincenzo said as he got out of bed and straightened up, standing with his back against the wall.

  “I have no more patience for you, Vincenzo! But our Lord is merciful in his love for all his children, so you will be offered one last chance of redemption – and one last chance for revenge.”

  “Thank you, my lord! I will not fail you again.” Bahij turned around and walked towards Vincenzo.

  “Well, only time will grant us the blessing of knowing if you will persevere. But know this – if you fail to do my bidding, you will be alone. He will revoke his blessing and you will be food to his children like all others,” Bahij said in a low, controlled voice, letting his eyes reveal the flaming anger Vincenzo would invoke should he fail Him again.

  III

  After her visit to Noah's Costume Rental, Astrid hitched a ride that took her all the way to a small town on the outskirts of the Entrance. From there she made her way on an old, battered bicycle that she found abandoned by a streetlight. Finally, she reached the dead end of the road where the souls of the Entrance halt their advance and the borderlands take over. She even made it beyond. She left the bicycle behind on the last stretch of asphalt and walked off into the uncultivated fields of the borderlands without knowing that it ought to be impossible for her – a simple soul, blessed with neither dark nor light magic. The sky whispered to her that she did not belong there, while the blades of grass clawed at her boots in a vain attempt to halt her advance, but it made little difference. Astrid walked relentlessly onwards and soon found herself in the Medieval without even knowing it. Days passed, wilderness turning into fields and paths becoming dirt tracks before she saw any sign of life. One afternoon, while walking along a track running between stubble fields and small congregations of trees, Astrid came over a hill and saw a small, rickety cart tied to a grey mule that was busy eating oats from an old leather feedbag. An old, slovenly man sat by the side of the road chewing through some dried meat and stale bread, which were softened by a dip into a mug of ale to let the man's remaining teeth chew the food. The man eyed her, but Astrid kept her pace despite feeling the weight of his gaze on her chest. As she neared the cart, the man yelled to her.