Into the Shadows (12 page)

At that moment, I was anything but
appreciative. "Well, you sure did your homework, didn't ya?" I
asked sarcastically, although a small part of me was glad to know
that no one had to worry. "But it wasn't you, was it, Mr. Merritt?
I doubt you're too modest to take credit. I mean, seriously, a
humble hemoholic?"

I thought that term might piss Barnabus off -
and I wanted it to - but instead he laughed, the prick. "I haven't
heard that one before. And no, I did not instigate the efforts made
for your safety."

"Fine, who's pulling the strings?"

He grinned; it was still spooky. "A friend of
your family, Mr. Beck," he answered. "You'll see him soon enough.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have other chores to attend to." He
stood and reached for the door. "There are some supplies in those
bags to make your time here more comfortable. Good night."

I was just about to ask who the hell Barnabus
was talking about when he quickly went through the door. I only saw
darkness beyond it as he left. In the bags were toiletries, plastic
cups, cleaning supplies, some jugs of cola, a stack of dog-eared
books, a few clothes, and two bottles of Jack Daniels. The last
thing I found really surprised me: in a nice silver frame was the
photo of my brother Al.

WINDOW

For a long while, I stewed in silence. Anger,
confusion, shock, pangs of despair; I was supposed to be with my
Doyenne. Instead I was taken from her and thrown in a dark, dirty
prison cell. Barnabus and Pedro had taken me for no good reason I
could think of. I had no idea where Sarah was, or if she was even
alive. I first thought that the successful kidnapping came at a bad
time; if Evan or Dominic were still alive, they could say what
happened. Then I came to suspect that Barnabus wanted them to
know.

Dawn came slowly and weakly through the grimy
windows. I kept the blanket around my shoulders and went to look
outside. The window sills were deep, with old spider webs in the
corners. The glass behind the bars was thick - I assumed
bulletproof - and streaked with dirt. I was on the second floor of
some old commercial or industrial building. About fifteen feet
across from me was a uniform, two-story red brick wall. I looked
left and right and only saw a littered alleyway. It wasn't exactly
picturesque.

While I was checking out the dismal scenery,
I heard the squeak of metal. Looking over my right shoulder, I saw
something lying on the floor in front of my door. Two wrapped deli
sandwiches had just been pushed through an inward-swinging panel
that was set into the base of the door. It was too small to even
stick my head through, so it gave no hope of escape. The sandwiches
were good, though.

I submitted to the idea that I wasn't going
anywhere for a little while. I set out the carpet scraps like throw
rugs, made myself a drink, and worked up the courage to clean that
scary toilet. There was no way in hell I was going to sit on that
thing before it got a scrubbing. Hell, the whole room could have
used a bleach bath, but I had my priorities.

While I procrastinated, I rubbed my chilled
arms; the sill was cold when I was leaning on it. Making the best
of the situation, I set the cola on one of them to cool down. Since
there was nowhere else to set or hang Al's picture, I cleaned out
the cobwebs from the other sill and propped it in the corner. If
only he could've seen me then. It was better that he couldn't.

An hour later the toilet was clean, and I
managed not to vomit the whole time. Exhausted, I cranked the space
heater and crashed; my sleep habits were so screwed up. I woke to
the squeak of that door flap. Boxes of oatmeal and pop tarts, plus
a plastic bowl and spoon, had been delivered. I was at the windows
again a while later with a bowl of cold apple and cinnamon oatmeal
in my hand, absently taking bites while I stared at the darkening
gray sky above the building next door.

I glanced over at Al's picture. I wanted to
look away, but couldn't. I studied the look on his face; a familiar
grin, a sly 'I-know-a-secret' smile. His hair was lighter than
mine, but we both had the same blue eyes - our mom's eyes. Al was
happy in that photo. For the thousandth time, I hoped he was that
happy just before he wrecked his car all those years ago, that he
left this world smiling.

And then, damn it, the waterworks started. I
wasn't crying for Al that time; I'd cried for him enough when I was
eleven. The tears came, along with the body jolts of trying not to
sob. I cried for my mother, who died in pain. I cried for Bill and
Rodney, and other Marine buddies I'd lost. I cried for Craig and
Dan, who both went down hard. And mostly, I cried for myself.

My cheeks were wet and my eyes burned, but I
kept staring at the dull dusk through the bars and dirty glass of
that window and wondered if my Doyenne was thinking of me. I'd
never felt more alone in my life, and I hated myself for it.

VIGGO

I'm not sure how long I was on my own in my
prison before I had another visitor; a week and a half at a guess.
In the bleak confines of my room, the days and nights had started
to blur. More than once I remembered the offer from Realm for a
downtown loft, and then looked around me with a bitter laugh. I
cleaned the place up as best I could, but it was still just
polishing a turd.

Scrubbing kept my mind occupied for only so
long. After I ran out of things to clean, or attempt to, I had no
choice but to face the truth of my little dilemma. In the process,
my emotions got the best of me. There were bouts of depression,
fits of rage, and stretches of hopelessness. After a week or so, I
reached an unstable balance of acceptance and spite. As the
sunrises and sunsets crept by, I could almost feel the bitterness
and resentment and injustice of my situation darkening my moods,
staining them.

My sleep pattern became sleep randomness. The
TV managed to pick up two local stations, but not well; sometimes I
left it on just for the noise. The books were a small assortment of
Steven King and John Grisham paperbacks; they helped pass the time.
I daydreamed of Lady Le Meur, a bittersweet pastime. Whenever I had
pent up energy, I exercised and practiced my katas until I had
nothing left. I didn't trust the tap water, so I kept on a slow but
steady intake of Jack and Coke; refills thankfully came with the
silent grocery deliveries. That was the only reason I didn't stomp
on the hand that supplied me.

I was sitting on the couch one evening,
watching the grainy images of some European travel show on PBS. By
then, I'd gotten used to the shitty reception. The host had a
soothing voice, but I stayed awake because the show wasn't half
bad.

"Ah, Vienna," a low, rumbling voice said
somewhere behind me.

I shot off the couch with a yell, my drink
flew out of my hand, and I might have pissed myself a little. "You
asshole!" I bellowed. "Don't ever f -" My words got stuck in my
throat when I turned and saw who had somehow snuck into my room:
Vormund, the shadow man.

"I remember when I first passed through
there; it was only a trading village called Vindobona then," he
commented from back in the dark corner of my room.

I was busy trying to keep my heart from
busting out of my chest, so I didn't pay much attention to what he
was talking about. "What?" I asked while releasing a deep
breath.

He nodded at the TV. "Vienna; I can recall
nearly all of my visits there."

"Hey, good for you," I said as I slowly
regained my composure. Just like the first time he and I talked,
something about the big guy seriously spooked me. Unlike that first
time, though, the shape of him didn't pulse and flow with shadows.
Another small difference from the first time we met was that I was
angry and tired of feeling helpless. "Not that I don't want to go
walking with you down memory lane, but fuck you. I'm not feeling
chatty, so fuck you. I doubt you're letting me out, so fuck you. Go
away."

He stepped toward me, and I stood my ground.
The light from the TV let me see him for the first time. He was
taller than me by a few inches, and broad-shouldered but lean
underneath his dark overcoat. He wore a black turtleneck under it;
more contrast for his pale skin.

Then he got close enough that I noticed his
face and hands, and . . . holy shit. The flesh looked like parched
earth, hard and cracked all over. The hair of his thick eyebrows
was dull white and scowled over black eyes. I don't mean they were
dark; I mean his wide-set eyes were entirely inky black. He was
bald on top, showing more of that baked skin. Long, wiry hair the
same color as his brows fell back behind his large ears and down
near his shoulders. I managed not to scream.

He reached one of his long-fingered hands out
at me. I swung a forearm block to swat him away. It was like
banging my arm on an I-beam; no effect whatsoever. His hand grabbed
my neck. I struck again to break his grip, and again, nothing. He
lifted me off the ground like I was a bag of feathers. My false
bravado and my oxygen were both choked out of me.

"I understand your temper, Leopold," he said
deep and guttural while he looked up at me, "but I will not
tolerate your disrespect." His grip tightened. "Please do not make
me do this again."

I cleverly replied with, "Gnnkh."

He nodded, lowered me to the floor, and
released me. Gasping for breath made me cough. I gave myself the
excuse of making another drink to keep my distance from him. Slowly
walking around the couch to the windows while rubbing my neck, I
cleared my throat and asked, "You're part of this whole thing with
Barnabus and Pedro, aren't you?"

"Actually, Mr. Merritt and Mr. Viera acted on
my request," he informed me. "This was my plan; I am the reason you
are here."

I poured a heavy shot of whiskey. "Okay, I
have you to thank." I topped my drink with cola and turned to him.
"Sometime I'll want to know how you slipped in here, but for now I
only have one question: what do you want, Vormund? Or should I say,
guardian
?"

He barely shrugged. "Of course, that word was
used to guard my anonymity; some of my kind might have coaxed the
truth out of you, and I currently do not want my presence known.
But that title, Vormund, also has some truth to it, as you well
know. My true name is Viggo."

I took a gulp and then asked, "Just Viggo,
that's it?"

"In the time that I was brought into the
night, surnames did not exist yet."
Holy shit
, I thought,
how old was that creepy bastard?

"One of the reasons I have come," Viggo
explained calmly, "is to simply introduce myself so that we will
already be familiar for the next time we meet."

"Next time . . . yeah, great. Look, thanks
for the info, but that's not what I meant." I took a deep breath,
trying not to lose my temper and getting another unwanted neck
massage. "I meant, what do you want with me? You helped me out at
the Everett mansion, and I didn't mention you or the kid with the
tote bag to anyone. We're even, so why the hell am I being held
here?"

"Leopold, I will not waste time trying to
explain it now. You are still in thrall to the Doyenne, so you
would not accept any explanations at this point."

I drained my cup and replied, "In thrall? If
you mean loyal, then yeah, I am. Kidnapping me and locking me up in
this shitty place sure as hell isn't going to make me change my
mind, either. You're wasting your time, okay? So just let me go,
man." I would've begged and pleaded with him if I had to.

"I apologize for this, but it really is for
your own good." Viggo then took a step over to the TV and turned it
off; the room went black.

I waited for a few seconds before I asked
what he was doing. Viggo didn't answer, so I carefully made my way
to the bedside lamp while my eyes tried to adjust, hoping like hell
that I wouldn't accidentally bump into him. I clicked the light on
and squinted, looking around the room without knowing what to
expect. Viggo was gone - not the first time I'd seen that
trick.

DREAMS

More time passed. To stop the days and nights
from blending into each other, I started keeping track of them by
making scratches on the wall with the empty air-freshener can.
Since when I first woke up in my roomy cell, my emotions settled
from a boil into a simmer of burning hate. Not that it did me any
good.

Hours were spent missing my Lady Le Meur and
hating Viggo. Both distractions were so stressful that they gave me
indigestion. It could have also been that log of summer sausage I
ate for a single meal, but I didn't want to blame food. To avoid
any more depression, I worked out, finished one book after another,
and kept coming up with ill-conceived plans of revenge. Without a
razor, I'd gone from having a goatee to a full beard; the image in
the cracked mirror looked sort of feral, which matched my mood. I
also started talking to TV shows just for some sort of interaction.
I was getting a little jumpy.

Early one evening, while I was lying on my
bed reading the last paperback, I had a disturbing chain of
thoughts. One of the characters in the book reminded me of Craig.
That brought me back to his wake, which still hurt to think about.
I remembered Gwen's ugly pantsuit. Then some little tidbits of info
that she'd told me came to mind, mainly the rumor of Realm
Management sending a kill squad after Everett. Craig, Dan, and an
innocent couple died that night. From what I knew, Lady Le Meur ran
at least part of Realm. So if all that was true, then . . .

No, I wasn't going to believe that. I trusted
Gwen, but maybe her sources were wrong for once. Maybe there was
more to the story. I felt sort of sick just having the thought.

I was just getting back into the book when my
prison door opened. Barnabus stepped in, looking as disturbing as
ever, and shut the door behind him.