by Theo Rion
THE DEVIL AND THE RED RIBBON
by
THEO RION
TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com
Published by
TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com
An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC
Copyright © 2017 by THEO RION
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-68299-221-0
Credits
Cover Artist: Kristian Norris
Editor: Merrylee Lanehart
Printed in the United States of America
Part One
The Fool
Chapter 1
London, 1898
Clouds rouged by the rising sun clung to the sharp snowbound peaks of the mountains—purple, grey, blue granite wrapped in fluffy muffs. Air pierced with cold sparkled in the rays of the rising sun. Kurt looked at all this splendor from an imaginary spot above, the clouds swirling around him. Sitting on them, as if on an armchair, Kurt sipped hot tea with honey and raspberry. Once the mug was empty, it was immediately filled again upon his wishes. He admired the rising sun in the snowy mountains, and it seemed every second belonged to him.
“Mr. Rhein?” a voice echoed around him.
Unwillingly, Kurt left his thoughts, returned to his study and looked at the empty mug in his hand. “Please come in, Eliza,” he said, putting the mug on the table and adjusting his shirt.
“Mr. Rhein, there are some bills,” a young girl in an austere black dress and neat white apron said as she timidly entered the study. Looking at the young master, she blushed slightly and straightened non-existent wrinkles on the apron.
Kurt smiled imperceptibly as she handed him the envelopes. “Thank you, Eliza.”
“And,” she added hastily, ‘there’s a visitor.”
“Now?” Kurt glanced at the clock on the wall. “I didn’t make any appointment for this time.”
“Yes, but he’s asking for a meeting with you. He says, it’s very urgent.”
“Did he introduce himself?”
Eliza was confused for a moment and started to worry even more. “Um…he…he introduced himself. Oh,” she said and covered her face with her hands.
“Eliza,” Kurt said kindly. “Go ask the guest to wait a bit.”
Eliza nodded and hurried to the door, muttering on the way, “Archie…Artie…” She closed the door shaking her head.
Chuckling to himself, Kurt changed into a dark blue shirt, removed everything from his desk and opened the window. The cool air of London, of course, wasn’t to compare with the sparkling air of the mountains. Smiling at his reflection in the mirror on the wall, he took a second look at his framed diploma, hanging next to it. He’d graduated just five years ago and already he was so advanced in his practice.
He was just twenty-seven years old and already an eminent psychologist. However, psychology captivated him not for the acquisition of degrees and awards. Rather, he was infinitely drawn by the mystery of the human soul. He liked to watch people surreptitiously; had been doing it since school recording his thoughts in subconscious notebooks until he had a closet full of boxes crammed with notebooks.
He watched himself too, but it was others who interested him most. He treated them with the same respect and awe he gave rare books. They were, in fact, open books to him, ready for reading. He looked through them sometimes at a glance. His discernment and numerous works in the field of psychoanalysis and psychotherapy brought him awards, respect, and fame. But they didn’t make his practice less central in his life. Each new patient helped Kurt see another side of the human soul. It was an endless mystery, but the revelation wasn’t the most important part. The process itself was so fascinating it was impossible for Kurt to stop. He didn’t deny, of course, that there were lots of simple cases in his practice, but a certain number of rarities appeared, too. And he was proud of this. In his heart, he always hoped the next patient would be worthy of being added to this collection of rarities.
When a young man walked into the study, Kurt was already sitting comfortably in a chair opposite the couch, looking quietly at the newcomer through his glasses. This was the most exciting part. The first meeting. When you didn’t even know the person’s name or heard the intonation of his voice, something that could tell a lot in itself about an individual. It was like looking at a book’s cover until he or she sat down and began conversing.
But before all that, it was his first impression that told him what may lie inside the cover. Don’t judge a book by its cover? Drop that idea! It’s exactly what was worth taking a long at. No human can hide everything, no matter how hard he or she tries. Let it be a fleeting movement, but it will give away the secret that person is trying to hide. Sad but true. What you try to hide will be shown on your face. And that’s the point. Sometimes people try so hard that the effort becomes obvious. And it gives away secrets.
This visitor was young, tall, and blond. He was well-built and tastefully dressed, but there was confusion on his face—fright, excitement, shame—all given away by his constantly bouncing eyebrows. Their angled shape made his glance plaintive and begging.
Kurt was stung with disappointment for a second; the young man seemed too simple. It was written on his face, so there was no need to open this book cover, at least for the moment.
“Good afternoon,” Kurt said, standing up and walking closer to his guest. “My name is Kurt Rhein. And you are Mr…?”
“Tains, Archibald Tains. But you can call me Archie. Everybody calls me Archie,” he shot back excitedly. He briefly shook hands with Kurt. Archie’s palm was hot and moist.
“Please have a seat.” Kurt nodded toward the couch and sat back in the chair. He put his glasses on the table beside him.
“I haven’t slept all night,” Archie said, only sitting on the couch briefly and then immediately standing up. He walked around the room, sat down again, and grabbed his head. “I’m sick! I’ve gone mad! You have to help me!”
“Please, calm down, Mr. Tains,” Kurt said, leaning towards him and looking gently into his eyes. “Tell me what happened, and I’ll tell you how I can help.”
Archie sighed several times and started speaking in a slightly calmer voice. “We haven’t been familiar for long. I don’t even know how it happened. These receptions are usually closed; they are for very rich people, and I’m, you know, not so rich. Not everyone gets a parents’ inheritance. And this suit and all of it, I bought only to fit in there. But it didn’t work anyway.”
Kurt was hearing Archie’s muttering, making little sense of it, but he didn’t interrupt him. After all, even the way a patient talks and what he talks about are important.
“First, we knew each other in absentia…well, I knew…I don’t know…I fell in love with him.” Archie covered his face with his hands.
Kurt turned his head, as if he hadn’t heard what Archie had said, and put on his glasses. “Fell in love with whom?” he asked.
“
With John…John Fenririr.”
Kurt didn’t know much about John Fenririr. They had never met in person, but the receptions in Fenririr’s house were known to the whole of London. However, Kurt didn’t run in those circles, preferring introspective solitude instead. Apparently, John was accustomed to spending his time with groups of people much like himself. He was rich, young and popular, and that was all Kurt knew about him.
“I know of him, but haven’t met him,” Kurt replied honestly.
“And you shouldn’t,” Archie sighed sadly. “He just mesmerizes people; it’s like people develop an obsession with him. Help me, please.”
For a moment Kurt carefully studied Archie’s face. “But you didn’t come here to ask me to rid you of your love for him, did you?” Kurt again took off his glasses and put them on the table.
Hearing this, Archie bit his lip and looked away.
“You don’t want to stop loving him,” Kurt surmised. “You want John to fall in love with you. And that’s why you need my help.”
Archie was silent for some time. “I understand that it’s impossible,” he finally muttered. “But I’ve read about you and your awards and merits…and I just thought…what a fool I am,” he said, hiding his face again.
Kurt felt sorry for the young man. He looked quite wretched and miserable. “Look, Mr. Tains, I don’t force people to love or hate someone; people aren’t puppets.”
“They are for John. Hence, I know this is impossible. I…I don’t know why I came,” Archie said and stood up.
“Wait, maybe I can help you with something. But for this, I need to see Mr. Fenririr to make my own opinion about him.”
Archie smiled sadly. “Believe me, you’d do better not to meet him. Thank you for your time.”
Archie left a few coins on the table and went out of the room. Kurt looked pensively at the closed door.
“John Fenririr…” he said beneath his breath. Kurt closed his eyes and found himself in the dark hallway that was formed by a row of cabinets stuffed with books all the way to the top. “John, John, John…” Kurt chanted. In this mind, a thin folder flew off the top shelf of a cabinet. He caught and opened it. “John Fenririr is a son of the influential investor, Sullivan Fenririr, who is now deceased. He’s about thirty years old. All his fortune is a legacy of his father. Every weekend he arranges pompous receptions, which can be accessed by invitation only. John is spoiled, arrogant, doesn’t do anything but waste money. I see…and Mr. Tains talked about obsession. But I’m sure Mr. Tains can be impressed easily. And still it’s interesting and worth looking into.”
The folder fluttered back to the top shelf.
Chapter 2
Silence can be noble. Kurt ascertained that whenever visiting Danee’s art gallery. In the first half of a weekday, there were only a few visitors, but during the weekend it was almost impossible to enter the gallery. Catherine Danee, the owner, had excellent taste and surprising flair. Often, paintings of completely unknown young artists, whom she’d discovered, became sensations in the art world. Kurt loved to come here and look at the paintings, going deeper, guessing among the riot of colors and in the elegance or abruptness of the lines the traits of the artist’s character—his mood. Among a group of pictures, he could accurately determine the picture that belonged to one artist, guided not by genre or technique, but only by the characteristic movements of the brush. They were unique as handwriting and gave their owner away.
But sometimes Kurt froze at the picture and immersed into it, detaching himself from the world. Some paintings were filled with warmth and light. Plunging into them, his heart beat with appeasement. Other paintings burned like fire, called for an action or screamed in pain, and Kurt liked to try these emotions by taste, to savor them, because human emotion was fleeting. Here it got caught in a network of colors, and you could study and enjoy it as much as necessary.
Kurt noticed a bustle at the end of the hall. Workers were engaged in changing a part of the exhibition, and next to them there was a tall, beautiful woman. Kurt recognized her immediately; Catherine was impossible to forget. Her face imprinted itself upon a man’s memory at first sight.
Kurt decided to approach her.
The workers performed their job as she watched calmly and with dignity. Her age suited her amazingly! Kurt knew that she should be a little more than forty, yet she had a peculiarly womanly figure, radiating softness and appeal. And as a quality, it permeated her being—in her blue eyes, her graceful slow movements, sincere smile, and even in the way she stood. Kurt liked her a great deal, and he regretted there were no pictures created by her hand.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Danee. I don’t want to distract you, I just wanted to pay my respects and express my admiration for your gallery.” He bowed only slightly.
She accepted his compliment without affectation and coquetry, but with a calm warm smile, just as Kurt had expected. “Thank you, Mr…?”
“Rhein, Kurt Rhein.”
She shook his hand demurely. “I’ve heard about you, Mr. Rhein. You’re a psychologist, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I am.”
Meanwhile the workers had hung a picture and removed the covering sheet. Kurt glimpsed it first from the corner of his eye, and his attention was captured. He turned to look closely. It was a portrait of a young man, and at the first sight of the inexperienced critic, it was flawless but unassuming. Yet Kurt didn’t feel bored by it. The man’s eyes attracted him like a magnet. His look contained something animal like, as did the eyes of a wolf. Power and aggression were visible. Even fury. Kurt was surprised at first. He smiled and turned back to Catherine. “What an extraordinary portrait.”
“I’m exhibiting this picture of my son for the first time.”
“This is your son?” Kurt asked, surprised.
“No, not in the picture. My son is the artist, and this is the portrait of my stepson, John.”
“An amazing portrait,” Kurt said.
“I’m flattered, thank you.” A young voice made Kurt turn. The voice belonged to a young lad standing near Catherine. Kurt immediately noted their remarkable resemblance.
“So, you’re the artist?”
“Yes.” the young man nodded. “Philip.”
“Very nice to meet you. I’m Kurt Rhein.”
The workers moved to the other end of the hall. “I must go.” Catherine smiled politely and went after them.
“I never thought I would start my career at my mother’s gallery.” Philip smiled.
“Does that disturb you?”
“You mean the rumors about the patronage of my mother? As if I could avoid them, anyway.” Philip’s smile was surprisingly sincere and kind, just like his mother’s.
Kurt turned back to the portrait. “Are you so close with your brother?” He looked at Philip to study his face, noticing the rapid movement of the corners of his lips. He knew the answer before Philip voiced it.
“Not at all. Never were; we’re half-brothers.”
“I see.”
“And I see you’re wondering why I painted his portrait.”
“Why did you?”
“Because I hate hypocrisy. Everyone can see him like this, but they can never look closer. He entangles and fools them so quickly no one can resist him, and no one can look at him soberly. But, in his portrait, you can look all you want; he won’t besot you, and you can see what ugliness is hidden beneath the surface.”
“Well, it’s amazing,” Kurt said and grinned.
“You’ve never seen him before, have you?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“Then consider yourself lucky,” Philip said.
“Why? Who is he?”
“His name is John Fenririr.”
Hearing this, Kurt eagerly looked again at the portrait. Excitement spoke again in his blood. In Kurt’s thoughts, in his personal art gallery, the portrait of John Fenririr had been hung. He examined it with passion. A new mystery beckoned him.
“And
how can I get to meet your brother?” he asked, returning from his thoughts to move slowly with Philip towards the exit.
“Why do you want to do that? I doubt if you would like the kind of gatherings John attends.”
“No, not at all. I’m interested more for scientific purposes. Your brother is a very interesting specimen.”
“Oh…you’re Kurt Rhein, the psychologist?”
Kurt nodded.
“I wondered why your face seemed so familiar! Look, you’d better not deal with John. Nothing good is likely to come out of it.”
“Why are you so—”
“Angry with my brother?” Philip finished for him. “I’ve lived with him under the same roof almost all my life. Believe me, I know John. I saw how he treated my father, my mother, me and all the people around us. And believe me, since then nothing has changed. He only needs people for his own entertainment.”
“And that is exactly why I find him so interesting. Please, could you tell me how to get to his house?”
“You’re a stubborn one. You’ll need an invitation.”
“Can you get me one?”
“Yes, but beware. My brother has a magnetism no one can stand up to. First, you hear the siren song and can’t resist, and before you know it, it’s too late to steer your ship away from the rocky shoals.”
Kurt grinned. “Believe me, I have enough knowledge and experience to ward off any issues. Besides, I’m not captivated by idle curiosity. I need to help a patient.”
Philip sighed and looked incredulously at Kurt, who already knew what he would say.
“Do as you feel best. He has a gathering planned at his house, per usual, on Friday. Where should I send an invitation?”
Kurt dictated his address. “Good bye, Philip, I am very pleased to have met you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Philip said and smiled goodbye.
Kurt walked out of the gallery onto the street. Rain was just beginning to fall, but in Kurt’s inner art gallery, he stood in front of the portrait of John Fenririr, looking thoughtfully at his eyes. He could not wait to look into them for real. Would he see what he’d seen in his portrait? And this magnetism he kept hearing about…