by J. E. Cammon
He kicked against a wall to turn a corner and barreled into someone’s back; Vic’s back—the toss of her hair and the smell told him it was her—which solved half the problem. She hit the floor hard, but still managed to elbow him while flailing.
“Vic, Vic, it’s me,” he said rapidly. He was still on top of her, but he tried to give her enough room to turn over. She struck him hard in the ear with the butt of her gun. David’s vision filled with blue spots.
A man, his back exposed, was moving towards them up the hall, working a rifle. There was the snarl again, and then an explosion of light traced the shooter’s silhouette. Something beyond the man smelled awful.
“We have to go,” Vic said through clenched teeth, pushing at him.
David pulled himself up, eyes wide, ears listening. Vic stood up too, but she was having trouble breathing and standing erect.
The man with the rifle was panting and bleeding as he took a moment to lean up against the wall. He sagged like he wasn’t going to get back up, and then he collapsed. When he fell, parts of the creature came into view. Pieces of it looked like it could have passed for a member of the home, but in between each limb was a scraggly line of what looked to be staples and suture.
“We have to go, now,” Vic wheezed, grunting with severe pain. Her eyes glazed over as she gripped David’s shoulder tightly.
“I think it’s dead,” he said, staring at the creature.
Vic’s breathing was at the forefront of his mind, but David could also hear little noises elsewhere. He parsed through them, and confirmed Vic’s next words.
“There’s another, I think,” she forced through gritted teeth. A quivering hand, with blood running down it, reached into her holster for another clip, which she eased and then slapped into her gun. David put a hand instinctively around her waist to try and relieve some of her weight. She put a hand on his chest and pushed him away.
An aggressive growl signaled an attack and David lowered his center of gravity. Vic slipped into what must have been years of training and pointed her gun straight forward then swiveled, bending her arms, as she addressed the opposite end of the hallway.
David moved forward, listening, and accepted the charge with his arms held out in front of him. This creature was larger, slick with liquid that smelled like blood mixed with something else. The carpet buckled and tore as David lowered his weight even more and then surged forward, striking it in what he imagined was a waist-like area. It tumbled over him, landing hard on its back. David hopped a bit into the air, bringing his foot down on its face.
Vic stumbled around the corner, swinging her pistol. David waved wildly, hoping not to get shot. She leaned against the wall in a fashion David saw before, taking a free hand to wipe a streak of blood across her face. David caught her, stepping over the first creature and the dead man. His hands searched her torso for injury and a safe place to support her. She moaned in pain, pushing with her legs, but they were failing her. David was waiting for her to say something; hoping, really.
He was hit with the realization of what the other smell and all the minute sounds he heard really were. There was a ticking just behind him, at his feet, and a few yards distant. The two creatures fell completely silent, and promptly exploded.
A moment before it happened, David let Vic collapse, and he landed on her for the second time in as many minutes, shielding her as best he could. He was still waiting for her to say something. Hoping, really.
Chapter Twenty-One
It all happened at once, but Nick couldn’t help but hear the music before he saw the scene. One stimulus was visual, the other audible, and the latter was overwhelming enough to stagger him. Standing in the doorway of the storeroom, he put his hand on the jamb to steady himself. An instant before touching the wood, he realized it was his injured hand. Shock and awe followed the lack of agony. The music was filling him with something so unlike pain there was room for little else.
Nick was looking into a modest combination of kitchen and bar. A scant few patrons were outflanked by glasses and tumblers that ranged from empty to full. Nick meant to sweep his gaze from left to right, but he went no further than the musician playing, the one responsible for the crashing swells of rhythms and tones.
Beyond the bar, at the back corner of the room, was a very short stage, no taller than maybe a handful of inches. On the stage stood a massive piano a distinct shade darker than night, and playing it was a man. A light overhead warmed the scene with a pale glow, and that was all. That was everything. A crowd was gathered in front of the stage, and yet Nick could still see the player, impossibly. The music was secondary to the feeling it produced, waves palpable enough that everything was visibly vibrating smoothly; their pulse pushed through his skin, not just his ears. Nick felt. His heart synchronized with the tempo, a leisurely rhythm that skated effortlessly as if on a slight decline. He was distantly thankful it wasn’t too fast, but the worry was blown backwards, out and away from him in the same mode as everything else. Nick was reaching out, arms outstretched towards the pieces of himself that were flung free like in a storm wind. It never once ceased to be pleasant, though ominous.
Once all of him was gone and he was emptied, Nick was buoyed, as if flying, like an empty, bowl-shaped leaf on invisible currents. Then he began to fill. The process was not slow. The silken string that connected all the notes like a weaving, winding train, every tone in its place, whipped gently at him. Then a chord the size of dreams, a wave pushing out of the brightly dark instrument, climbed to the ceiling and smothered the entire room in something Nick could only describe as a vision, yet there was no visual component. Nick felt, and the feeling filled him.
Strangely, he thought of Scarlet, and this feeling wasn’t blown away like all the other thoughts. It breezed past, flitted around him, and swallowed him as the waters rose. It became Nick, and he wanted it to both stop and never end; he felt like a man dying of thirst and drowning. She was moving close to him, sailing with an incomprehensible speed, and yet never reaching him. If she ever did finally arrive, Nick knew he would be content and die. He reached out for her, and she responded, as she did from the very beginning, with fire and ice and the steel of a beautiful dagger. She pierced his outstretched hand and he cried out.
Nick was still standing in the same spot, though this time with his sweaty, stitched, and scarred palm staring up at him. His vision blurred from the pressure of moisture pushing up out of his eyelids. Nick blinked and watched the brief rain of tears dapple the ugly stitches. He was breathing hard and his heart was racing—painfully, he realized. He sagged against the doorway and the scene came back to him.
It was the same as from before, except the crowd pushed in a bit on the man, all of them swaying in the same rhythm. Nick recoiled a bit, not wanting to be pulled under again, but being aware of what was happening seemed almost enough to avoid the effect. He could almost see the music pressing in on him, pushing. He responded by moving into the room and up the bar, away from the piano.
He backed into a man-shaped wall wearing the clothes of a bartender. Nick spun around, looking at the worn bleach-ringed t-shirt and up into the man’s eyes. They were slightly larger than normal, dangerous looking, like mouths set into his face, empty and waiting. The man didn’t bark anything; he just stared down at Nick, who stepped around him, keeping his original mission at the forefront of things. By the time Nick negotiated a position on the customer side of the bar, he was in a full sweat and all the old pains were coming back, discomfort spilling out of his stitches.
“You look like you need a drink,” a voice said. It was musical and disturbingly harmonious.
Nick wheeled and found the man from the piano standing before him. He was eerily the same height as Nick, and was standing a step too close. Nick made some noise that he knew expressed his dismay, surprise, and disorientation.
“It’s not doctor-pres
cribed pain medication, but it works.” The musician proffered a glass. That the man could hold anything, and he didn’t even notice, scared Nick even more.
The stranger’s face was perfectly symmetrical, carefully chiseled bones gently stretching beneath toned skin. Every part of him looked crafted with every other part held firmly in mind. His pupils were black, and there was no evidence of any other color in his eyes. He tilted his head to the side just enough to make his hair fall perfectly into place, each strand moving independently. Delicate fingers rattled the glass, and the ice within sounded like bones.
Nick realized the glass was inches from his face. He grabbed at it with his right hand, squeezing his injured hand around it. He winced, and took the opportunity to step backwards.
“Thanks,” he couldn’t help but saying. He looked into the cold glass. It contained a white liquid, smooth like everything about the place, and milky. Thinking was coming slowly to him, so he forced his thoughts. “I, uh…you…who are you?”
Nick looked at the musician’s shoes instead of his face. They were immaculate, fashioned in a way to represent their cost without being flashy. Nick’s gaze worked its way up. The stranger wore a simple black suit, a white shirt, and black tie. His survey went too quickly, and suddenly Nick was looking into the man’s eyes again. He brought the glass up to his face and drank, hoping that it wasn’t poison.
“They call me The Count,” the musician replied. His voice implied the capital letters without being ostentatious about it.
With his head tipped backwards, not looking at the stranger, Nick could concentrate more on the effect of the man’s voice instead of its quality. In a moment of clarity, he was flying backwards into a host of readings and lectures. As his head came back forward, Nick felt an underlying sense of terror. The surprise was that it was a surprise.
“You’re Nicholas,” the man said. He was able to pick whichever ear to talk into, each of his words having the quality of an intimate whisper.
The drink seemed like a trap, because Nick didn’t stop drinking until he was finished and the glass was empty of everything except a white film and the cubes swinging forward against the curve of the glass.
“What are you?” he blurted out. The new tactic was to use language as a blunt weapon, smashing at the illusions.
The musician’s eyes rolled up and to the right as if he was hearing something. “With respect to you?” He eased into the reply like in a comfortable chair. “A good Samaritan.” Nick’s terror returned. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
The man stepped forward, back to his original distance, and Nick felt the glass leave his hand. He stepped backwards, instinctively, and tripped into a booth. Nick adjusted himself so he was at least sitting and not falling. He tugged on the logic waiting at the entrance of his thinking. It said if the musician had cause to kill him, he wouldn’t save him. He probably meant to use Nick. When Nick looked up again, the musician was sliding easily into the opposite side of the booth. Nick swallowed, ignoring the pleasant aftertaste from the drink.
“Thank you.” Nick clenched his teeth in frustration. He had no control over who saved him.
The Count made an elegant gesture of scratching one of his fingers. “You don’t need to, really,” he conceded. He pulled his hands off the table and shoved them into his pockets, shrugging. “You wouldn’t have died, but your older friend seemed convinced you might.”
“I do not understand.” Nick was feeling better, which he was quickly deciding wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
“Most people die like climbing up a slick cliff face. They do whatever it takes to get back up, gracelessly. It’s why it’s such a powerful exercise. Some people are burdened, others buoyed.” The musician turned his head to the side, and when his attention shifted, Nick felt suddenly like someone wasn’t standing on his chest. “You, Nicholas, had powerful hands lifting you.” Nick frowned. He wanted to ask whether those hands belonged to The Count, but asking that would make him look stupid, so he kept quiet. “Your older friend was unaware.” The musician turned his gaze back on Nick.
“What is this place?” Nick jumped to the next topic like the last one was a platform that just vanished. Mentally, he beat on the musician’s previous statement like the meaning was trapped in ice.
“It’s a place where travelers gather.” That shot out mechanically. It was a noticeably awkward gesture, which only pronounced everything else about The Count.
Nick felt a thought ease its way into his mind and yanked at it. Realization occurred a few moments later, and his host waited for the jerk of Nick’s neck as he glanced over at the bartender and every other person there. Nick didn’t feel any better, really, but he knew more, so that was something. He used his left hand to pat his pockets until he found Scarlet’s charm, and produced it.
The Count’s hand came forward, quickly but calmly, and pressed Nick’s palm onto the table, hiding the bauble’s display. “That won’t help you,” were his words.
It felt like being gently admonished by his foster mother, loving but with finality. The memory was bright and sunny, and Nick’s sadness and embarrassment were deep. He wanted nothing more than to shove the ugly thing back into his pocket.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out of him like the other social courtesies.
Gently, the musician removed his hand, but when the feeling vanished, Nick felt he was replete of the sensation of glass and metal against his palm. “It’s alright, Nicholas. We should, however, discuss the price. You can’t pay me if you’re dead.”
Nick swallowed, nervous. A different weight afflicted him then, a draconian thing, like the obligations of owing and paying. “Price.”
“The service was provided, necessary or not.” The Count put a hand up, neither confirming or denying that the charm was gone. “It isn’t due yet, don’t worry, but it will come. All debts come due, Nicholas.” Scarlet was in Nick’s mind, running around, slashing at things. “She’s on her way. You’ll come back. When you have time.” The musician smiled, something he never did. He had perfect mastery over it, like everything else. Nick couldn’t see his teeth, but even the small upturn of his lips was like the light over the piano; Nick had to look away.
He took a step out of the booth before he realized he was beginning to stand up. “I…” he began, forcing the words out of his mouth. “I don’t understand.”
The musician was next to him again, one of his hands at Nick’s throat. He suddenly felt cloth on his back and against his stomach, and underneath his arms. Nick looked down and found he was wearing a shirt. It was white, like the musician’s, pressed but not harshly starched. The Count was deciding whether the top button belonged open or closed. He settled on open, and Nick agreed, a wave of terror rumbling under his skin.
“Lovers should be lovers,” The Count said.
Nick felt as if he was back at the threshold again, pulling and pushing at Scarlet. For a moment, as he reached out to her, his own hand was different, elegant and perfect. The roots of Scarlet’s hair shone black, pushing the color along their similarly divine strands in a corona of red.
Pain came again, but instead of being in his hand, it shot to the core of Nick, folding his insides to nothing, and he came back. For the second time, the musician seemed like so much less than himself to Nick’s perceptions—he seemed hurt, and alone. Nick stepped around him, as if his feet knew something his mind was still confused about.
The door appeared, as if it was waiting for Nick to be ready to find it. Walking through it, he found the deeper darkness of foreboding night on the other side. Somehow, Nick knew without fail that the sun would soon rise.
Chapter Twenty-Two
At the prospect of meeting up with Scarlet before he was absolutely ready, Nick’s walking soon became running, which not long after became jogging. He tried not to care about the mysterious musician’s
words. He tried not to, but even in retrospect, the man’s words had a gravity that etched them into the mind. Jarvis was effortlessly terrifying, unsettling even, but Nick’s foggy recollections of myth and legend made him fear The Count more.
He poked his head around a street corner. He looked up, squinting at the sky. Dawn was coming; or maybe it was already there. After a moment, he determined that it was just a little past dawn, but that things were overcast. A storm moved in during the night, and Nick couldn’t identify its beginning or end.
He felt a bit more confident he wouldn’t be shot in the back, or the side, or the front. Zigzagging as he was, he determined swiftly that he had little idea where he was, and less idea of where he was going. Aside from what Nick hoped was alcohol, he had nothing to eat, and was still undecided about whether being unconscious counted as sleep. He bent over, using just the one hand at the last moment to rest on his knees; the other he bent at the elbow and rested against his stomach. The idea of just lying on the ground and resting a bit occurred to him, and just as quickly it was discarded.
He suddenly felt a sense of direction, like a vector. Nick stood up, again only using his left hand to clutch at his side. He thought he heard something behind him and sprung back into mad dashing. It could have either been cats playing with an empty bottle or red-haired death patrolling the next street—or something in between.
A street sign he awkwardly speed-walked by gave him recollection. While he never saw this portion of the street, the name was familiar. Nick looked left and right, trying to approximate which direction would take him home, a rough map of the city expanding in his mind. He decided at least having his car would be preferable. Home, then, became the focus.