by Luke Romyn
Vain.
Of course I am vain. Why should I care about anybody else? What have they ever done for me?
Vain!
The cries were mercifully muffled now. Something warm and sticky splashed across his face and into his slack and drooling mouth. Tasted coppery.
VAIN!!!
“Poor little policeman is gone, I think,” said Piotre after slapping the man in the face a few times. “Oh well. Time to clean up.”
He stood and moved to the second room of the cellar, returning with a large container of gasoline. Unscrewing the cap, he proceeded to pour the contents around the timber-paneled walls of the room. He ignored the cement floor, certain the bodies would burn once the rooms above collapsed.
Once finished, he moved to the stairs and called for his brother to go. Viktor walked over to the senseless Martin and punched him one last time, knocking him backwards before following his brother up the stairs.
The match they dropped ignited the gasoline and the flames were already licking the walls as they walked out hooting with amusement.
* * * *
Get up, barked the voice.
“I can’t. I’m dead,” answered Martin.
Not yet, you’re not. But you will be soon you spineless bastard.
“I don’t care.”
Well I do. If your body dies, so do I.
“Who are you?” asked Martin.
I’m you, you gutless shit. The better part of you; the part that doesn’t want to die before I get the assholes who did this. But to do that I need you to GET UP NOW!
The roaring voice almost compelled Martin to move, but the pain felt too great and his burden too heavy. He craved death. He had failed them all and wanted an end to it. He welcomed his demise.
“Kill me. Please, if you can, just kill me.”
Silence. And finally:
As you wish, said the voice softly, almost sadly.
And just like that, Martin Roberts faded away. His vanity surged into control, erasing memories, fueling a vengeance he could not recall, but one he could easily name.
Romolov. He had promised they would all die. And in time they would. He did not know why, he only knew that they had to. He must kill them all to ease this nameless pain.
Vain had no qualms tearing loose the knife from the dead girl’s neck, managing to drag his still bound body across the floor to where she lay bloodied and battered. He cut himself loose and stood in the blazing room staring at the unfamiliar bodies and wondering what exactly had happened. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned and moved up the burning stairs, exiting like a wraith from a rear window, and into the dark.
* * * *
Vain became known in the underworld as the Dark Man. It took many years to perfect his killing skills, but from the start he displayed a seemingly paranormal ability to appear and disappear from the scenes of his slayings undetected. Not even the high-tech surveillance equipment that Markus Romolov installed throughout his home had caught more than a shadow of the man. Markus was discovered hanging from his balcony railing, strung up by the throat with his own intestines.
Markus’s death, the third in as many months, caused the crime family to get nervous. The Dark Man made no move to contact them with demands, and they had no idea who had employed him, so they couldn’t retaliate or use anyone to find out information. The only thing they knew for certain was that when the Dark Man came, death never lingered far behind.
It took Vain eight years to destroy the Romolov syndicate. In between his personal kills Vain undertook contracts for money. He managed to feed and equip himself with everything he needed, from a place to live, to the tools of his trade. Plenty of money remained, but he simply put it away and gave it no further thought.
He’d left Viktor Romolov until last. He did not know why, it simply felt appropriate to make this man fear his arrival the longest. Viktor tried to run, but the Dark Man tracked him to Chicago in a flea-bitten motel, living on heroin and sandwiches. When he arrived, the Russian had been doped to the gills, on the verge of dying from an overdose. Vain calmly revived him with a shot of adrenaline and stayed in the room with the man tied to the bed for two days before he began his work. He wanted his victim clear of anything that would inhibit pain.
Pain was what he deserved, and pain was what he would receive.
Vain moved more slowly with his torture of Viktor. Perhaps because he didn’t need any information, or simply from boredom–he never really knew. He did know that Viktor suffered in tremendous agony for the entire time and that felt exquisite.
During those hours–or perhaps days?–Vain tried to think of a suitable way for Viktor Romolov to die. He knew the man couldn’t take much more punishment and he wanted him to die by his hand and not from shock like Piotre had done when he’d gone slightly overboard. A most disappointing outcome, but at least it had provided the information that had brought him here.
Eventually it came to him. Vain went to the motel’s pool and searched the pump room, finally locating the chlorine he needed beneath a large bucket. Next, the assassin went to Viktor’s car and found a half-full bottle of brake fluid and a funnel. Satisfied, he returned to the room and checked the Russian’s pulse to ensure he was still alive. Finding a weak heartbeat and the man still breathing, Vain satisfied himself that the Russian merely slept and had not died. Slapping him awake, he whispered into his ear, “Wake up, little Russian, or you’ll miss out on all the fun.”
First, he ripped the stitches that had held Viktor’s lips together, leaving them bloody and raw. Before the Russian could yell for help, Vain forced the funnel into his mouth and began to pour cup-fulls of chlorine down his throat. The Russian began to gag and vomit, but enough of the powder still got through. Removing the funnel, Vain made to pour the brake fluid down his victim’s throat.
“Why?” Viktor managed to gasp.
The Dark Man paused momentarily before shrugging. “I don’t know,” he murmured casually, emptying the brake fluid into Viktor’s mouth.
At first there appeared to be no reaction. Suddenly Viktor convulsed into spasms and opened his mouth to scream. Instead of sound, however, a great plume of smoke poured forth and his eyes bulged in pain. Intense heat spewed from the dying man before deep crimson froth dribbled out of his mouth. Several minutes passed before Viktor Romolov died. Once finished, the Dark Man calmly collected his things and vanished into the night.
* * * *
The man on the bed sobbed for the first time in many years. The memories returned to him in a torrent and the pain proved almost too much to bear. His strength had always laid in his immunity to emotions; now he knew he had been wrong.
He adored Angelique. Again he pictured the callous way he had wrenched the knife from her dead body and his spirit wailed with grief. His beloved Catherine, who had died in anguish because of his vanity.
After several moments he managed to regain his composure and glare with undisguised malice at the black man who had rekindled his torments so long locked away.
“Martin–” Priest began, but Vain quickly and maliciously cut him short.
“Wrong, black man, there is no Martin here.”
For the first time since the ordeal had begun, Priest looked flustered. “But, you remember now. There’s no point in denying who you are.”
“Your powers aren’t as strong as you think Priest. If they were, you would have known all along that Martin is gone forever. All you have done is remind me of the pain I erased along with his death. All you have done is fuel my rage.”
Suddenly Priest understood what the Dark Man meant, and he cursed himself for a fool. Tobias had been right; they couldn’t save this one. To save a person something good had to remain within them.
At first, Priest had thought Vain simply a shield Martin Roberts hid behind. Now he realized the Dark Man existed as a completely altered personality, almost a separate person who lacked any memory of the man he used to be. Priest had reminded him, however, and the world
’s most lethal assassin was now very, very pissed off.
Priest felt no fear for himself. He worried the Dark Man would become so enraged he wouldn’t listen to his appeal. If Vain refused to help them in their quest, all would be lost. Death at the assassin’s hand would seem merciful compared to the alternate finale.
Priest had hoped that in reminding the Dark Man of his past, the good part of Martin Roberts would resurface. Unfortunately, he’d greatly misjudged the situation. Martin Roberts had indeed died, though his body still walked and breathed. He had been the first victim of the assassin named Vain and possibly the most tragic. If Priest had succeeded in resurrecting Martin as he’d hoped there might have been a chance in the coming battle. Now there seemed none.
Priest collapsed into a chair beside the bed. He placed his head into his hands and wept.
“Why do you cry, black man?” whispered Vain malevolently. “Do you envision your death at the hands of the Dark Man?”
“No, Dark Man. I cry for the boy who will die because I have failed.”
A hint of emotion flickered across the Dark Man’s face, but it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared.
“What boy?” asked Vain strangely.
“What do you care assassin? After I am dead I’m sure there will be hundreds more innocent victims for you. Consider them instead.”
“Who is the boy?” Vain repeated.
Priest conceded defeat and appeared to crumple in on himself even further.
“The boy is the one I have devoted my existence to. He is the next golden light to arise from the darkness. I have searched for him my entire life and now that I’ve found him I am too weak to save him. He is the Avun-Riah: the child of rebirth–the one who would make things true. With the turning season he will die by the hand of evil and you–or rather Martin Roberts reborn with your skills–were to be my last chance to save him.”
Vain contemplated the words. Most of what the man had said made no sense to him, but he understood enough to know that a child would die. Little Angelique still seemed to be calling him, had been calling throughout the long empty years of death; her cries were all the more clear now.
“Who plans to kill the boy?” asked Vain.
Priest peered at him with teary and bloodshot eyes. A look of utter amazement lit his face like an explosion of fireworks and he smiled.
“You’re going to save him,” he said in disbelief. Not a question so much as a statement.
“Do not make the mistake of reading my thoughts too deeply black man. I still plan to kill you before I’m finished, and the images of that will burn your fragile little mind to cinders. Now answer my question.”
Priest quickly sobered and closed his mind to the Dark Man’s thoughts. Though his death seemed imminent, the knowledge did not frighten him. Without knowing the exact time or method, it felt more like a dull aching he had come to relate with pain and mortality, rather than a definitive incident or time.
The talents Priest possessed were far from precise. He could not predict the winning lotto numbers, nor could he determine the exact actions required to ensure the future might unfold the way he hoped. He likened his talent to steering a boat through thick fog during a hurricane, lacking compass or radar to guide his way. All he had was a single light in the distance winking in and out of view. His current predicament made these limits all too obvious, with the only light he could see, held by a merciless assassin. He took a deep breath before beginning.
“The people after the boy call themselves the Souls of Sordarrah. An ancient cult from the Babylonian era, they believe that if they sacrifice the Avun-Riah on a certain night of the year in the middle of a lunar eclipse, darkness will cover the Earth and death will stalk the planet in the guise of the demigod known as Sordarrah.
“Sordarrah was a fallen angel thrown down with Lucifer after the Great War in Heaven. Essentially he was Lucifer’s lieutenant, and from all reports an extremely nasty character. After the original war, it’s believed a second war occurred, this time between the forces of Sordarrah, and the armies of Lucifer for control of Hell. The second war has continued for thousands of years with no victor thus far. The Souls of Sordarrah hope to tip the balance in favor of their Lord by winning over the mortal realm for him, a feat Lucifer has never managed.”
Vain stared blankly at Priest from the bed where he still lay shackled.
“What-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about?” He mouthed the words slowly, scorn dripping from every syllable. “Wars with gods in Heaven and Hell. Are you an idiot, or do you simply take me for one? Undo these straps now so I can choke you to death and piss in your mouth for talking such crap.” Vain looked away disdainfully.
“Whether you believe in Heaven or Hell is irrelevant Dark Man,” continued Priest with a note of irritation. “The result is the same. The Souls of Sordarrah will kill the boy with the coming of autumn unless you save him.”
Vain sighed and wondered if he would ever be the same again. Although he had never truly enjoyed his former life, it had been blissfully empty of petty things like emotion and conscience. Unfortunately, deep down, what Priest said rang true–regardless of the religious babble. He didn’t care why these people wanted to kill the boy. He didn’t care that Priest believed the youth was some Christ-reborn blah, blah, blah. He cared only for the child, and he knew that if he had a chance to save him he would try.
“Undo my bonds, Priest,” Vain said quietly. “Don’t worry; I don’t think I’ll kill you today.”
After a moment, Priest nodded and moved to comply. He undid the strap restraining the assassin’s right arm. Proceeding to the left, he instantly found himself choking in the vice-like grip of the Dark Man.
Vain drew Priest’s ear to his mouth and whispered, “Just don’t forget, black man, your death rattle will sound once this is all over.” He flung the man away from the bed like a rag doll, unfastening the remaining straps himself.
Priest lay stunned on the floor of the cell. It wasn’t so much the actions of the Dark Man that surprised him, but rather that he hadn’t anticipated them. All he had sensed from Vain had been empathy for the child. Even now, when Priest tried to probe the Dark Man’s mind, he could see only the faceless image of the boy. His powers seemed blocked, and he wondered what the assassin’s next move would be.
Vain sat unfettered on the edge of the bed, staring at Priest while he gathered himself from the floor. He appeared completely at ease, with no sign of tension in his being. If somebody walked into the room at this moment, they would find it hard to believe that up until this point the man on the bed had been a virtual prisoner in this white cell.
“Get up black man, and tell me everything I need to know.”
Priest took a few moments to compose himself before gradually recounting everything he knew of the Souls of Sordarrah. Existing in secret for centuries, the cult revolved around a man named Empeth. He had organized the group into a deeply hidden society of demon worshippers, following a set of commandments similar to those of the Catholic Church. Entitled the Plekshaw—roughly translated as The Words of the Demons—the edicts were carved into Pope John IV’s tombstone after it was stolen from Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome. The Plekshaw were also said to have been soaked in the blood of thirteen catholic priests who were kidnapped and forced to carve the ancient words before they were killed. Additionally, thirteen demonic rites were recited in an ancient language over the tablet before the speakers too were killed and drained of blood.
Vain looked on impassively while Priest listed the thirteen directives of the Souls of Sordarrah. Roughly translated from their original Romanian, the stone read:
The blood of the innocent must flow free.
The pure must be made to suffer.
Beauty must be unmade.
Hatred shall rule your heart.
Weakness must be destroyed.
None shall be spared to love, except to love Sordarrah.
Sordarrah is the only true answer.
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br /> Lust with the animals of Sordarrah.
Be joyful in the anguish of others.
Life is nothing without Sordarrah.
Kill the enemies of Sordarrah’s will.
The Avun-Riah’s blood must feed the altar of Sordarrah.
Sordarrah shall be reborn.
Priest went on to tell Vain how there had been no further account of the Souls of Sordarrah until they had appeared in Nazi Germany. By this time, Empeth had adopted a closely cropped hairstyle and a stunted square moustache. He’d not aged a day since rising to power in the cult, in fact it had been documented that he’d grown younger. He had managed to nearly conquer the entire world under his guise as leader of the Nazi party.
“Stop,” commanded Vain. “Now you’re trying to tell me this devil guy who roamed around hundreds of years ago was also Adolph Hitler. Do not try my patience black man. I have almost had my fill of your voodoo bullshit.”
“I am simply relaying to you what I have been told.”
“And who told you, Genghis Khan? Julius Caesar perhaps? Or maybe you’ve just been eavesdropping on other people’s thoughts for so long, you can’t tell your own fantasies from theirs,” snarled Vain.
Priest understood the Dark Man’s disbelief. He had struggled to grasp everything himself until the old Jewish man had made him probe his memories of the war. The Nazi death camps had been established as a means to find the last Avun-Riah, and they had worked all too well. Empeth had discovered that the child–it had been a girl that time–was a Jew. He had relocated the entire cult to Germany, and implanted himself into the Nazi party, not trusting the job to anyone else. Eventually Empeth had disseminated his beliefs into the entire German society, and they had slaughtered millions searching for the girl.
They had finally located her in the closing stages of the war. Empeth had almost completed the ritual when the girl’s guardian had battled his way into the compound. The ritual complete, Empeth had readied to deliver the final strike, an ebony bladed knife raised high.