Face of Evil
Page 1
FACE OF EVIL
George Morris De’Ath
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © George Morris De’Ath, 2021
The moral right of George Morris De’Ath to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E): 9781800245846
ISBN (PB): 9781800246010
Cover design © Lisa Brewster
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Chapter One: Darkness on the Edge of Town
Chapter Two: Driven Desires
Chapter Three: Monster
Chapter Four: A Difficult Lesson
Chapter Five: Self-Reflection
Chapter Six: Reunion
Chapter Seven: Evil isn’t born it’s made
Chapter Eight: The Mask
Chapter Nine: Blood Stone
Chapter Ten: Nobody’s Fault
Chapter Eleven: The Sun’s Cold Rise
Chapter Twelve: Quiet Minds
Chapter Thirteen: Bed Bugs
Chapter Fourteen: In the Eye of the Beholder
Chapter Fifteen: A Fallen Angel
Chapter Sixteen: New Friend
Chapter Seventeen: Girl Talk
Chapter Eighteen: An Artistic Endeavour
Chapter Nineteen: An Early Christmas Gift
Chapter Twenty: Against the World
Chapter Twenty-One: Creature of the Night
Chapter Twenty-Two: Her Handsome Hero
Chapter Twenty-Three: Best Laid Plans
Chapter Twenty-Four: Cat and Mouse
Chapter Twenty-Five: Watcher in the Wings
Chapter Twenty-Six: Heart of Ice
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Winter’s Waltz
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Mother
Chapter Twenty-Nine: No Good Deed
Chapter Thirty: Spider’s Web
Chapter Thirty-One: Thank Goodness
Chapter Thirty-Two: A Deal with the Devil
Chapter Thirty-Three: Transference
Chapter Thirty-Four: Only You
Chapter Thirty-Five: ’Tis the Season
Chapter Thirty-Six: No Rest for the Wicked
Chapter Thirty-Seven: A Change in Plans
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Crying Wolf
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Broken
Chapter Forty: Heart of Darkness
Chapter Forty-One: The Perfect Crime
Chapter Forty-Two: Cruel Timing
Chapter Forty-Three: Blood Lust
Chapter Forty-Four: The Price
Epilogue
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
One
Darkness on the Edge of Town
Grim arctic clouds hang heavy in the night sky above Decanten City. The streets below are a blanket of white, except where spindly limbs of giant, dead-looking trees encroach upon them like arachnid legs creeping from the darkness, shivering in the icy wind. Perched upon these sinister branches, great flocks of ravens swivel their beady eyes, scanning the pristine ground for fresh prey.
Ravens are smart creatures; tactical, strategic, coordinated and, most of all at this moment, impatient. One of the horde spreads its inky wings and swoops low to drop the remnants of a previous meal near a battered aluminium trash can that has tipped onto its side. The chunk of flesh lands softly, staining the snow around it a deep crimson, and right on cue a set of curious whiskers peek from within the metal shelter.
The critter is cautious, but sees only the quiet of the street. The shadowy monsters teeter on the edge now, their blood burning, hearts screaming for the kill. Yet still they must be patient. Claws tighten upon branches as the sacrifice scuttles greedily towards the bait. Immediately another breaks cover, unwilling to miss out on the feast. Three, four, five, a flood of tiny bodies all bound together now at the centre of the trap. There will be no escape for any of them. Nightmarish wings swish and glide like merciless angels of death, snatching up the helpless prey that wriggles in their scythe-like talons, shrill cries of victory fill the air. The massacre is over.
A soft growl fills the night sky. At first the ravens don’t hear it, devoted as they are to their meal, but then the growl becomes a roar and suddenly the whole gory scene is bathed in blinding light. The birds flee in confusion, the sky momentarily littered with black-feathered fears as a rogue red sports car speeds by. The driver watches the creatures scatter. To her eyes, they seem more bat than bird. As they vanish back into the darkness, her attention reverts to the road ahead.
Slender fingers with perfectly manicured crimson nails flex atop the leather steering wheel, and a fine silver ring inlaid with a single flawless ruby, flashes beneath staccato streetlights. The hands release their grip on the wheel to sweep thick, expertly-bleached blonde hair from smoky eyes. It has been a long trip, but she is used to spending time alone with only her thoughts for company.
As the countryside eases gradually into residential territory, the black and white tapestry either side of the road is punctuated by twinkling coloured lights strung clumsily from windows and the odd tree, Santa or snowman bathed in their disco glow. They elicit revulsion, a full-body sickness that makes her physically tremble.
Her hand slips down to finger a delicate gold necklace that disappears into a white silk shirt beneath an intricately woven black jacket. It lingers for just a moment before being called sharply to action. A high-heeled shoe stabs the brake pedal as the woman catches sight of a well-weathered sign by the roadside. “Mortem Asylum” it reads, in broken letters. An adventurous smirk creeps across her glossy lips, rendering her pretty face momentarily childlike, impish. Mortem Asylum for the Criminally Insane, she repeats its full title in her head. The stuff of legends. And of nightmares.
The trees with their leering arms reach over the car as it turns down another deserted road, long and straight, ending in gates of speared bars flanked by stone angels. Caring maidens, she presumes, by intent. Guardians of the unfortunates within. Though now worn and filthy, their presence speaks more to abandonment. She shivers, without knowing why.
As gravel crunches beneath tyres, she passes a stone fountain overlooked by forlorn cherubs. It looks like it hasn’t worked in decades. She parks the car and checks herself in the mirror. First impressions are important, she knows, particularly when the people you meet have such high expectations. She reaches for a black leather bag on the passenger seat and retrieves a small, golden cylinder from within. With a practised movement she pops it open, twists the glistening lipstick into view and applies a fresh coat as she reviews the checklist in her head. Satisfied, she steps out, locks up, and makes her way towards the entrance. Even by night, the building’s sheer stature is intimidating. Its grand, gothic architecture exudes history from cracks in vine-covered walls like sweat from pores. Darkness, too. It has a malignant nature.
Some of the history she knows already. That this was the ancestral home of the Mortem family, and that part of the reason for its dilapidated condition is years of neglect due to their dwindling finances. But there is more here, much more, and she is determined that she will be the one to discover it, to lay it bare in black and white as only the great Lydia Tune knows how. The public expects nothing less from one of the world’s most famous authors. The latest and, perhaps, the last, as Lydia intends this to be her crowning achievement. The final act of her own story, wherein she will at last unmask the Face Of Evil. Whatever horrors lie inside this cursed place, she will be a match for them.
A distant howl triggers a shiver that travels from the base of her spine all the way up the back of her slender neck before settling back uneasily in her chest. Slowly her head tilts to look, not into the surrounding woods, but up towards the building’s highest windows. In her mind, the image of a man she has never met. Long, dark hair framing a handsome face set with sly, wolfish eyes. His shadow seems to loom out of the night sky over the building, a great and terrible presence. It is the owner of this shadow that she is here to see. Jason Devere. The Krimson Killer.
What little she knows about him she has read in the newspapers; descriptions of horrific deeds, the sickening stories of his victims. A young waitress found dead in a booth at the restaurant where she worked, her heart expertly removed and served on a plate in front of her. The Dimitroff twins, whose skin was flayed and switched one with the other. Millionaire property developer Randall Hunt, half buried in the foundations of a new apartment complex, his stomach full to bursting with pennies. And those, Lydia strongly suspects, were the lucky ones. The full extent of Devere’s bloody legacy is known to only himself, a situation that Lydia intends to remedy.
She leans into the heavy wooden door beneath an arched crown of thorns, the Mortem family crest. A blast of warmth hits her, not pleasantly, but as though stepping from an air-conditioned building on an unbearably hot day. Nothing is quite right here. Nothing is in equilibrium. Ancient light fittings bathe the foyer in a glow that is too intrusive to be intimate, yet too gloomy to be comforting. The interior is at once grand and beautiful and suffocating. The floor bleeds. The walls ooze. The ceiling drips. Everything feels oddly alive. Ancient family portraits follow her with cloudy eyes as she approaches the desk.
“Lydia Tune,” she states confidently to the woman behind it, who takes a moment to finish her scribbling before acknowledging the greeting. Her name tag says ‘Charlotte’, and everything about her seems washed out, from her mousy brown hair to her grey, almost translucent skin. Even the heaviness with which she finally lifts her head and the glassiness of her eyes. “I’m here to see Doctor Engel.”
“Ah, yes,” the woman replies. “Take a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
Settling in one of the hideous orange chairs in the reception area, Lydia’s mind begins to drift, picking apart all the little details she noted about the receptionist and using them to compile a profile. Early thirties, but looks closer to forty-five. Married, but probably not for much longer. Few relationships can withstand the emotional toll of a miserable job. She hates her job, but long ago lost the will to imagine herself doing anything else. Lydia checks herself. This isn’t a useful exercise. Charlotte, whoever she is, is not who Lydia is here to see. She needs to stay focused, keep a clear head. At times like this, having such investigative instincts feels like a blessing and a curse. She wonders if this is how it is for all gifted people, that their minds never allow them to fully rest.
Minutes pass, slow fans spinning high above causing shadows to dance in the corner of her vision. Focusing on them allows her to keep other thoughts at bay, at least temporarily, like a dam holding back a stormy river. But the dam is broken by the sound of footsteps clacking on the hard floor. Two sensible black shoes appear in her field of vision.
“Lydia Tune?”
Lydia looks up to find a woman with striking red hair, like flowing fire, framing the same tired expression as Charlotte, half-hidden behind thick, black-rimmed spectacles. Intelligent, practical, kind. World-weary yet still a touch naïve, with the kind of fragility that emanates from the soul. The figure slim, but hanging awkwardly from her bones. If she were a pair of shoes, she might be described as well worn-in.
“Yes?”
“I’m Doctor Gretchen Engel, head of patient care here at Mortem. It’s nice to finally meet you.” She reaches out a pale hand and Lydia accepts it, pleased that this time her analysis will not be in vain. Doctor Engel is an important figure here, and the poor woman’s obvious fatigue may make her sloppy. This is knowledge that Lydia can use to her advantage.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Doctor Engel.”
“Please, call me Gretchen.” The words are accompanied by a smile, but not a convincing one. “If you’d like to come with me.”
Lydia stands, smoothing the creases in her jacket, and follows Gretchen across the foyer to an antiquated metal elevator that appears to hang in place like a birdcage. The doctor pushes a large, round button and the skyward arrow upon it illuminates. “Have you travelled far?” she asks automatically.
“From New York,” Lydia replies. There is no follow up. The elevator rattles to a halt and Gretchen heaves aside an accordion-like grate so that they can enter. She pushes an identical button to the one outside, but this one does not illuminate. Lydia wonders how long ago the bulb died, and whether anyone ever thought to replace it. “Have you worked here long?”
“Um,” Gretchen replies as the elevator begins to rise. “About… eight years?” Her brow furrows as she wrestles with what should have been a simple enquiry. “Yes, eight. Nine in February.” She seems somewhat taken aback by her own answer. Lydia is not surprised. Life gets away from so many of us, she thinks. A few seconds pass. “Have you visited a facility like ours before?” Gretchen asks, finally.
“Not… quite like yours, no.”
Gretchen raises an eyebrow.
“I mean,” Lydia hesitates. Flattery is a risky business. “Mortem is quite famous, as I’m sure you know.” She sees Gretchen’s lips thin. “For its standard of care, I mean,” she adds quickly.
“Amongst other things,” Gretchen mutters, eyeing Lydia. She knows why I’m here, Lydia thinks. Best just be honest.
“You do have some… colourful inmates. I mean patients.” She laughs, surprised at her own clumsiness.
“It’s okay, Miss Tune.”
“Lydia, please.”
“Lydia. I’m fully aware of Mortem’s reputation. But those days are behind us. This is a professional institution now.”
As the elevator slows, a piercing chime makes Lydia jump. “Goodness!” she exclaims. “Does it have to be so loud?”
“I guess not.” Gretchen shrugs. “It just is.”
Nothing in equilibrium, Lydia thinks again. Nothing here is quite right. She follows Gretchen down a narrow, dimly-lit corridor lined with abstract frescoes that hint at human shapes lurking like ghosts within the walls. They reach a door with Doctor Engel’s name stencilled in black on opaque glass that reminds Lydia powerfully of the front door of her grandparents’ house when she was a little girl. Gretchen fishes a small bunch of keys from the pocket of her white coat. “I have to tell you,” she says, weary fingers fumbling to fit the key into the lock, “we all felt a little honoured when we received your call.”
“Really?” Lydia is surprised. It isn’t an unusual thing for her to hear, but Gretchen doesn’t seem like the type who is easily impressed.
“Oh yes,” Gretchen says, finally fitting key to lock and opening the door with a click. “I’ve read all of your books.” Her red hair contrasts so sharply with the washed-out nature of their surroundings that it reminds Lydia of a cartoon. “I think The Masks We Wear was my favourite. It was so interesting and the descriptions were so vivid. I felt as though I could see everything so clearly, as if I were there myself
, you know?”
“Thank you.” Lydia blushes. This is the part of fame she enjoys.
They step inside a cramped office with papers strewn haphazardly over every surface. The walls are stained brown, and the windows are covered by blinds that Lydia thinks must be quite thick enough to keep out any natural light when the sun is out.
“Please, have a seat.” Gretchen gestures to a well-worn leather chair. It is surprisingly comfortable. “Is there anything I can get you? Coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Lydia’s eyes roam hungrily around the room, over the stacked papers and heavy steel filing cabinets, imagining the files within spilling their macabre tales like blood over the crisp, white pages of her book. Gretchen tosses the keys wearily on top of a stack of papers on her desk and half-falls into a threadbare office chair behind it as Lydia’s gaze settles on one drawer in particular. While all of the others are labelled with letters (A – F, G – K), this one bears no designation other than a small, red, circular sticker.
“To remind me not to use that one,” says Gretchen, reading Lydia’s mind. “The lock’s broken.” For the first time, Lydia thinks she sees something approaching a twinkle in Gretchen’s eyes. Maybe there is more to this woman than she supposed.
“Oh,” Lydia replies, a carefully weighted mixture of surprise and disinterest. She doesn’t want to come on too strong.
“Please,” says Gretchen, gesturing to a vacant chair across the desk. Lydia settles herself in it and clasps her hands over her bag, her ruby ring glinting strangely under the eerie, artificial lights.
“So,” Lydia begins, business like, “as I said on the phone—”
“Yes,” Gretchen interrupts, “I should be upfront with you, I don’t think this is a very good idea.”
“Oh?”
“I understand why you’re interested in Jason—”
“Professionally interested.”
Gretchen gives Lydia a cold look, and Lydia knows why. For all Gretchen’s fulsome praise of her books, only one of them wears the unmistakable white coat of a professional. I’m just a tourist to her.