Heritage (The Slendervale Series Book 2)

by Sean Mannette

“Guess they thought of that.”

  Cold, clammy skin encircled his hand. Adam jumped back, knocking over his stool, to the giggles of the woman. From his left, unseen to him, the bellhop had grasped the orange juice bottle in his hand. All of Adam’s positivity, his mirth, vanished staring into the lifeless yellow eyes.

  Bartholomew stood unmoving, staring into Adam. Resentment boiled under the surface, and something shifted underneath his skin. Adam jerked his hand back with a start, breaking eye contact.

  The bellhop deftly replaced the bottle, either unconcerned with or used to the reaction. The stool at his feet was beginning to feel hard against Adam’s ankle, but he didn’t want to stoop to upright it. Struggling to find the courage to speak, Adam opened his mouth but was silent for a short, tense moment.

  “Wh-Whiskey. Neat.” He stuttered out. The bellhop moved his hand slowly behind the bar, out of Adam’s view, never turning his face away. Adam continued to stare straight ahead, too afraid to meet his eyes again. Time slowed as Bartholomew continued to move. Finally, his hand reappeared and he flicked a coaster onto the bar. Next thudded a small bar glass, followed by a torrent of whiskey. It was the sloppiest pour Adam had ever seen, including any of his benders. Flecks of whiskey pooled in small puddles on the bar, and soaked into the coaster. It would have been funny if it was happening to someone else.

  Bartholomew poured himself something else, a thick, viscous liquid. The two sipped for a moment in silence occasionally punctuated by the inhale of the cigarette-smoking woman.

  “My wife. I understand she checked in about two months ago.” Adam said. The bellhop nodded slowly, his grimy hands clutched around his drink.

  “I took her bags.” He replied simply. Adam floundered for a moment, trying to think of what to say, where to begin.

  “Did you see anything strange?”

  There was a low sound, like gravel being swept. The bellhop was chuckling.

  “All kinds of strange things here, Mr. Church. Especially at night.” Finding little help in the statement, Adam flushed and tried to start again.

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  “Who?” The bellhop was smiling sardonically.

  Adam, finally gaining the courage to look into Bartholomew’s eyes, growled out, “My wife.” The bellhop was still smirking, staring at Adam with his sadistic yellow eyes.

  “She didn’t talk to us much. Spent most of her time in the bar with the other guests. Said something ‘bout a story she was writing, but acted more like she was on vacation.”

  Vacation. The word rung in Adam’s ears. He could almost see Susan now, her spirit evoked in the dimly lit hotel bar. She trotted around the tables in her fun-loving, clumsy way, with a full smile on her face. He watched her collapse into a booth in a shaded corner, helping herself to a stranger’s drink with a quick welcome and that fiery aspect which delighted in mischief in all its most innocent forms.

  With a gulp he drained his drink, and rose in a single motion. He started toward the lobby. His spectral wife cut him off, arm-in-arm with a different man, laughing drunkenly. She pressed the fingers of her hand against his broad chest to sturdy herself. Adam strode past her, the ghosts of her laugh echoing in his ears. He closed his eyes, for the briefest of moments. Adam tried to steady his breath and banish her in the blink.

  Imagination under control, Adam marched past the sleeping desk clerk on his way back to the elevators. He waited impatiently as the elevator fell toward him, turning over his key in one hand. When this had exhausted itself, after a second or two at most, he switched to bouncing one of his legs. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity the doors of the elevator slithered into place behind the elegant gold-toned gate.

  Without a sound, both slid open to admit him, and just as silently enclosed him in steel. With an angry, unfocused jab he punched the button for the sixth floor. Adam stared resolutely forward with his jaw clenched as the elevator soldiered silently upward. Suddenly, he smelled her. A light breeze of coconut and apricots washed over him. Fearfully, Adam turned his head. There they were, his wife and the stranger, panting heavily in a corner of the elevator.

  I’m in 607, Susan whispered into the ears of her shadowed stranger. Adam let out a low, pained moan, like a wounded animal, as he watched his wife hook her hand into the waist of the man’s pants.

  The doors chimed open, and Adam found himself staring into a small group of curious strangers. An olive-skinned, statuesque man with high cheekbones in a form-fitting red shirt was flanked by a rather snobbish looking woman with dark hair and an even darker dress. Her eyes glinted cruelly as she quirked an eyebrow at Adam, her handsome companion settling for a subtle, “What the fuck, guy?”

  Adam bowed his head and charged through them, fighting the storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. The halls themselves pulsed in tune with the rush of blood he heard in his ears. It drowned out everything else: the sounds of the ice machine, the cries of passion coming from the other rooms, and his own footsteps. The sound threatened to overtake Adam’s very soul in its angry thrum.

  He fumbled with the key, clutched too tightly in his hand, and found himself on the verge of trying to break the door down. Finally the key slipped in, digging painfully against his flesh as Adam turned it in the lock and slammed the door behind him.

  The room looked exactly as he had left it. The covers on the bed crumpled as Adam sank into them and his tantrum.

  “Vacation!” He howled into the pillow, the sting of tears hot against his throat. The sheets were already balled up in his hands, and he pulled hard, straining them almost to the point of tearing.

  Suddenly he smelled her again, and he saw her writhing on the sheets next to him in ecstasy.

  Flying to his feet, Adam stumbled into the far wall, thudding against the hard glass of the window through the heavy curtains. Wrestling with the image playing out before him and with the constricting in his own breast, one question burned in his brain. Why?

  Susan had told him she was coming to the Tower to chase a story. Businessmen and politicians of notable rank throughout North Carolina as a whole had been known to frequent the hotel; it was also known to certain circles who operated on the darker side of the so-called New Age movement.

  His wife had come looking for a connection, an exposé she could write to show that the most powerful influences in her community were coming to meet in secret. Other such stories had been done, of course, exposing secret societies, college fraternities, and social clubs of being merely an excuse for backroom power-dealing, but there was nothing on the Tower. Not yet.

  She needed this trip for her career, and for their marriage. Sentiments had grown increasingly tense between the two of them, and Adam’s last failed business had only exacerbated the issue. A short time away to focus on her work was what she said they needed, to save their relationship. Absence and the heart, and so on; but she had lied. She had come to the Tower to get away from him.

  Vacation. The word boiled in Adam’s conscious with a pressure that was tenable. Of course she had finally left him. It was a miracle that it had taken this long.

  Adam flinched. This was a line of thought he had been trying to hide from. Anger began to turn, enveloped and colored by shame and regret. He had cheated on Susan three months earlier; or rather, he had been caught three months earlier. His latest entrepreneurial failure had really only been the icing on that cake.

  Anger reared its head again. The fury he felt earlier fought for survival, whispering to him that she had no right. Since the dawn of time, the insidious voice began, but was promptly interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Chapter Five

  De La Poer’s office on the 33rd floor descended into darkness as the sun slipped below the tall office buildings of downtown Slendervale. Francis stood near the large window in the southern wall, gazing out thoughtfully. He drank in the images of the city below him with his glass of scotch, conscious of the warm tingle spreading through his face; this g
lass was the last of some dozen he had finished since Adam left his office. Normally, he governed himself with more composure than to drink so much in one afternoon, but special occasions called for celebration.

  He had more than enough time before tonight’s ritual engulfed his attentions, and more than enough reason to celebrate. He had checked into Francis’ hotel; completely within his grasp. There were a few missing pieces, certainly, but the issue of the moment had been delivered, and there were signs that all would proceed fortuitously for him.

  The click of heels against the floor roused him from his trance, although he refrained from turning to face the intruder. Composure was necessary. Like the lion’s roar or a gorilla beating its chest, power was nothing more than a believable posture. Francis had sacrificed much for the power he now wielded. Wielding it effectively meant as few displays of vulnerability as possible, with as many hints and suggestions of might as he could drop. So he waited, silent and foreboding, apparently carefree at having his back left exposed to this newcomer.

  There was a faint click of a cigarette lighter, followed by the crackling inhale of smoke. Clove cigarettes. The pleasant nutty smell mingled with the tobacco as the cloud dispersed throughout the room. One of the witches then. Francis couldn’t think of anyone else he had met who smoked the damnable things.

  “Adam.” The tone she spoke was inquisitive, though it purposefully stabbed at the nature of his musings. “He is here to ask questions. He may have started with your creature, but that won’t throw him off the scent for long. We need to act quickly, Francis.”

  Now he half turned toward her, only to reveal the devilish eyes and arrogant smile he had arranged on his face.

  “You are right about one thing, Regina. It won’t be long until he starts unraveling some truth.”

  Her mouth was set in a firm line, emphasizing the wrinkles on her chin. “Then we need to start tying up some loose ends, Francis. The little empty headed Traviola first.”

  Francis nodded slowly, as if mulling over her point. “Right. We should move quickly; anyone who knows anything about the wife. The model, that junkie whore he loves, Ubasa, and… You and your sisters. That should be enough to start with, anyway.”

  The mask Regina wore slipped for the briefest of moments. In the cracks a wrath so cold shone through that her gaze alone would have been sufficient to freeze any ordinary man. She replaced it almost immediately with obsequiousness, and possibly a hint of fear.

  “You’re right of course, Master. Where would the culling end? Still, we must do something, or we will have even more questions on our hands than she could ask.”

  Francis shook his head, turning back to the cityscape below him. He was silent for a moment, weighing the cost and profitability of information. Regina was a perilous creature if dealt with incorrectly. She was driven by sheer, naked ambition, but had enough sense to see something of her limits. She wouldn’t act to garner his ire, unless she thought he was on his way out. Of all the witches of his Tower, it was her he feared most, but she had also proven most useful. Finally he opted to reveal a choice few of his intentions, if only to prevent her from damaging his plans in her ignorance.

  “Her questions mean nothing. I could have silenced them in a dozen ways. But she brought him to me, and I need him understanding some little of what happened before he can be of use.”

  Francis could feel her behind him. The air itself seemed to move with the alacrity of her thoughts as she dissected his every word. He could feel her frustration when she determined that almost nothing beyond the scope of her untold orders was revealed to her.

  Regina turned, and started to go, but something gave her pause. She hovered, a trait Francis despised. He stayed silent, piercing through her normally strong facade of self-assurance, and drank deep the nervous energy that surrounded her. She may have noticed this siphoning from another, but not from Francis.

  He was an evolved predator. Silent, stealthy, and lethal. Above all Francis was a cannibal. His ancestors, and other lesser men, had taken what they had of life by violently imposing upon the lower species. Every breath they took was wrested by force from some mammal, fowl, or fish. Francis took all he had from men. He preyed on the sweat of his fellow men, putting them to work for him. He devoured their gullibility with his guile, tricking them with deals that seemed too good to be true. And when he felt the situation called for it, Francis sometimes took their lives, in defense of his own or to further his plans. Right now he was making a meal of Regina, something few living men could claim.

  “What am I to do then, if he makes inquiries?” Regina asked, tensely. It was the only question left to her, as Francis had anticipated, and it placed her further under his yoke.

  Francis turned at this, smiling in a way that didn’t seem to reach his eyes. He nodded to her, a salute to a fallen enemy, accepting her submissiveness with a confidence that suggested there was no other way for them to have proceeded.

  “If he comes to you with questions, send him back to me. Send him to Bartholomew, or my wife. Push him in circles while I work him over.”

  Regina nodded, eyes downcast. Francis knew he had behaved wisely, not showing her his neck. She had just enough information to effectively carry out his plans, but without even a hint of what he intended for Adam. The only way she could truly interfere with his plans would be to kill him. Acting out so openly would be the end of her, a fact she knew almost as well as he did. Francis was nothing if not adept at the twisted form of political maneuvering required by the Tower.

  He turned back to his window and away from Regina, who now understood that she was being dismissed. She left without another word, no doubt slinking off to the gaggle of witches in whom she could try to inspire the idea that she was in control. Francis almost snorted. It was important for him to keep a clear head, especially at this juncture. The pieces were beginning to come together, and it would be a most disastrous time to be backstabbed. Francis himself had taken the Tower at the time when he had led the witches of the Three Roads Coven. Since then he had always been watchful, anticipating betrayal from their ranks; and with recent events, it would be all too easy to accept overconfidence. Francis would have to be on his guard, even as he carefully brought his plan to fruition.

  He continued to gaze out at the city below, lost in thought until Bartholomew informed him he was needed in the basement.

  ♖♖♖

  The hallway showed no sign of disturbance through the peephole. Adam couldn’t hear anything menacing either, no matter how he strained. Yet someone had knocked, of that he was certain. The sound itself had filled him with dread, startling him out of the drunken emotional spiral prompted by the bellhop’s foul insinuations. Now Adam waited just inside the door, sickeningly tense. Moments ticked by, but no second knocking sounded. Adam’s heart beat wildly, driven by anxiety and fear. He raised his hand to the doorknob, his open eye nearly touching the peephole. Taking a deep breath to calm his shaking hand, Adam reached to grasp the door knob.

  Some invisible force resisted him, pushing against his hand. His breathing turned ragged and panicked. Unable to flee further into his room nor could he commit to grasping the knob, he grappled for control of his extremities. Sweat began to trickle down his forehead and the silence of the frozen moment roared in his ears. His heart thrummed in his ears. The purgatory of the stance was burning in the stiffness of his elbow. As the pain increased Adam resigned to grinding his teeth. Why couldn’t he move? He shut his eyes. There was nothing on this earth a man should fear, least of all that he couldn’t see. Adam forced his hand lower, gritting his teeth eyes and pinching his eyelids shut.

  The grave, chill metal of the knob seared his palm. He turned it, his instincts screaming against him, and the lock automatically clicked off, freeing the bolt. The door inched open slowly, Adam working against his tight muscles and the fear eating his stomach. Finally, the edge slipped the barest of inches free of the frame. Using speed as his courage, he leaned his face agai
nst the frame and forced his eyes to open.

  Burning light flooded Adam’s vision as the harsh incandescent bulbs glared in his eyes. They flickered rapidly in time with his own beating heart. The floor rolled beneath him, bucking from side to side like a sinister serpentine monster. He gasped through clenched teeth, staring into the empty space in front of him. Gritting his teeth once more, he set his shoulder against the frame and pried the door open further. The aura of menace that pervaded the hallway bled into the room. Adam thrust his head into the hallway, craning his neck left and right. Unbidden, the image of a sharp axe coming down on his exposed neck entered his mind. He snapped his head around, but no figure moved in the flaring lights of the hallway.

  Finally, Adam twisted his gaze downward to a small brown parcel, lying on the short hotel carpet. His mind writhed with fanciful notions of the horrible things it might contain. Anthrax? Some sort of carrion feeding insect? A bomb to blow him clear of his hotel room? A human heart?

  Adam stretched his foot out into the hallway clumsily, placing it in front of the package and bringing it into the room with an awkward reversed kick. Gritting his teeth, he slammed the door shut, clearing the fearful aura in the room in an instant. He gasped for relief with his back against the sturdy door, pausing to wipe the sweat from his strained face.

  The room steadied in Adam’s sight, but he still felt nauseous from the dance the hallway had been doing. What now? He glanced at the package on the floor. It contained none of the terrifying malignant energy he had been afflicted with before, but sat innocuous and unmoving on the floor. Adam gazed at it with suspicion drawn up by his earlier fancies. There was no label or address on the box to give a clue to its origin or the route it had taken to get to him.

  Adam sighed, doing his best to expel the tensions of the day he had faced. He drew a shaking hand up to his face and rubbed his eyes. Glancing once more at the brown parcel haunting his doorway to search for any sign or feeling of ill intent, he waited. After a few moments, when no terror burst forth or creeping madness threatened his mind, he gave up. It had been a long day, that was doubtless, and the stress of searching for his wife had come to take its toll.