The Dark Path (4 page)

Especially pain.

Wallace had changed his name to Dante after his first paid kill. The victim had owned a print of “Dante’s Inferno” which ended up splattered with the man’s own blood. The name seemed somehow appropriate considering the Hell that encapsulated his life–the endless tedium of living amongst those who were no more useful than rotten fruit. They disgusted him, every one of them, and he wished he could destroy them all.

Everything would change once he had killed Vain.

Surely somebody in this God-forsaken town knew where his nemesis hid. Squirrel had proven a disappointment, and Dante had thought of killing him slowly to make up for his lack of information. His only saving grace had been the small morsel about the Marcello contract–that and the fact that Dante might need Squirrel for information in the future.

Even though he found the little drunkard repulsive, nobody knew more about the happenings of the underworld than him. Dante would use that information until the last of it dried up, and then he would kill him. Painfully. He could almost hear the screams now and hungered in anticipation.

A soft knocking at the door rudely interrupted his thoughts.

“Who’s there?” he asked roughly, drawing a wickedly curved blade from its sheath at his hip.

“Room service sir. We have your order of lobster ready.”

Dante had forgotten about the lobster. He’d called almost half an hour ago and felt his appetite returning. Peering through the spy hole, a pimple-faced young man stood expectantly with the tray of freshly cooked lobster.

“Leave the tray and go,” called Dante through the door while still watching for any sign of a trap.

He heard the clatter of the tray being placed on the floor and waited several minutes before eventually opening the door a crack and glancing down the empty corridor. He’d insisted on staying in the very end room for this precise reason, although at the time he hadn’t expected to leave before finishing the job.

Dante sheathed his blade and collected the serving platter before letting the door swing closed. Reaching out to place the platter on the bedside table he felt a cool breeze on the back of his neck.

“Time to die,” murmured a cold voice.

Dante whipped towards the sound, drawing his blade and preparing to throw.

A brief flash from the corner of his sight, and everything faded.

* * * *

Vain gazed at Dante’s corpse. Half of its face had disappeared–sheared away when the bullet exited through the cheek.

The assassin felt nothing. He had anticipated anger or perhaps some perverse sense of accomplishment having destroyed his hunter, but emptiness consumed him. This had long ceased to surprise him. Ever since his first kill it had always been the same. With emotions came memories, and the Dark Man knew that memories would bring him pain. It was better this way.

He wondered at the simplicity of it all. For such a notoriously skilled assassin, Dante had made two fatal errors. Although he had chosen a room on the topmost floor, he’d failed to notice the easy accessibility by way of scaling the outside wall and pushing through an unlocked window. A single shot through the head had finished him.

If only all my jobs were so simple.

Dante had been overconfident. He hadn’t believed Vain would come for him directly. Ultimately that had been his downfall.

That, and his weakness for crayfish.

Vain moved away from the still-twitching remains, exiting via the same route he’d entered. The body would remain undiscovered until the morning, but he still paused regularly, ensuring no one followed him. Eventually this paranoia paid off when he observed a dark shadow slipping into an alleyway behind him.

Proceeding as though he hadn’t noticed anything, Vain quickly ducked into the next alley and waited. Within moments, he recognized the silhouette in the passing crowd. Vain pounced, roughly dragging the figure into the shadows, out of sight from the evening’s revelers.

Reaching into his pocket, Vain looped his fingers into the spiked knuckle-dusters, hauling his victim further from sight. Even approaching midnight, the street remained busy. It would only take one curious idiot to ruin the entire thing, and tonight he wasn’t in the mood for killing tourists. Vain threw his captive against the brick wall, pinning a forearm across his throat.

Watching the writhing figure, surprise jolted Vain, finding not a man in his grasp, but rather a short, blond girl, no more than fifteen years old. She leapt and bounced helplessly against his hold, striving to free herself, all to no avail.

“Who are you? Why are you following me?” Vain hissed. The still struggling girl stared malevolently through her mop of blonde hair. Vain returned the dusters to his pocket, and cuffed the girl on the side of the head with his open hand.

“Who are you? Tell me now or I’ll cut out your ovaries and string them around you like a necklace.”

The girl’s eyes flashed with fear, but still she said nothing. Although impressed by her fortitude, Vain knew she had seen too much; she could identify him, and he drew the knife from his right boot. She was probably nothing more than a homeless kid looking to pick his pocket.  A quick and merciful death. Leave her presence here a mystery.

Vain adjusted his grip, and laid the blade against the young girl’s throat, preparing for the killing thrust. The girl ceased her struggles, and stared up into his eyes with a fear so intense he could almost taste it. He’d seen the look a thousand times before, but this time it seemed to trigger a memory buried deep within him. Another girl from another time, that same look on her face, but calling
him
for help. The recollection stung something deep within Vain, and he paused before looking at the girl a second time. For just a second the faces of the two girls blended together in his mind’s eye, becoming one and the same.

Vain released the girl, and turned away.

“If I see you again, you
will
die.” The memory that burned in his mind gradually faded.

The girl stood her ground for a moment.

“GO!!!” roared Vain, and whirled back around at her. The waif quickly turned and sprinted down the alley and back out into the street.

Vain stood shuddering in the darkness. The force of his emotions shook him to his very foundations. A man accustomed to feeling nothing, the memories erupting from within him hit twice as hard, and eventually he had to sit on the alley’s cold cement to contain himself. Something was very, very wrong with the Dark Man and he fought to maintain his hold on what he perceived as reality.

Voices shot like arrows through Vain’s memory. A woman, calling out to him to save her. The child crying in pain. And through it all, blood—crimson and hot.

The assassin crumpled into oblivion.

The Dark Man awoke to an unpleasantly bright world.

Attempting to sit up, he found his wrists and ankles bound to the posts of an old hospital bed. Glancing around, he discovered he was no longer in the alley, but in a white room bare of anything besides the bed he lay on. Checking himself, Vain realized his clothes, boots and the weapons they had concealed were missing. Instead, he found himself dressed in what appeared to be blue flannel pajamas.

Pajamas? What the hell?

Vain brushed aside the issue and focused on escaping. Straps bound him, made of leather and securely fastened with chrome buckles. Boasting minimal padding, Vain dismissed his chances of breaking loose without some sort of tool. The room itself had only one entry point, secured with a heavy steel door.

There were no windows, and the walls looked to be made of solid concrete. In the corner of the ceiling, he spied a surveillance camera within a small cage, trained on the bed. Whoever had captured him had known what they were doing.

If his captors were enemies intent on torturing and killing him, why did they dress him in pajamas and place him on a bed? In Vain’s experience, dead men weren’t afforded such luxury. Even the straps binding him, although secure, were not painful or even uncomfortable.

The barred entry of the room opened and a large, dangerous-looking man entered, moving slowly across the room to stand beside the bed. Glaring up at his captor, Vain realized just how enormous the man actually was. Standing an inch or two below seven feet, he occupied easily twice the width of any ordinary man. His hands were like shovels and his face appeared to have been demolished with a bulldozer. Everything about the giant screamed of violence.

“Welcome, sir,” rumbled a surprisingly gentle voice, “Do you require anything? Some refreshments perhaps?”

Vain sought to retain his composure.
Just what I need, the Jolly Queer Giant. Maybe I’m in Hell.

“Where am I?” Vain asked coldly.

“All your questions will be answered soon, sir. In the meantime, can I get you something?” Still the same gentle tone, as though correcting a misbehaving child and not a cold-blooded assassin.

“Water.” The giant bowed and moved from the room, returning a short time later with a plastic bottle of chilled water with a straw attached. Vain cursed inwardly. He’d hoped for a glass that he might break, using the shards to cut his bonds, but it seemed his captors had done this sort of thing before.

Taking a long sip from the straw, Vain allowed the cool water to trickle down his parched throat. Once he had finished, the giant again bowed, moving from the room without another word. The entire situation felt very confusing. The point of capturing and imprisoning a man like him would either be to obtain information or to kill him. This set-up contradicted the assassin’s instincts; he couldn’t fathom why his captors were treating him so well. Upon his release however, not one of them would die easily for this insult, and for the next few hours, Vain formulated a plan that he would bring into effect the moment his hands were loose.

Death would reign in this white prison before the Dark Man left its walls, of that they could be certain.

* * * *

Priest stood and shook his head softly. His meditation had been disturbed by the Dark Man’s thoughts, seeping through the walls of Chapel and corrupting its harmony. Most people thought the Dark Man existed devoid of emotion, but Priest knew almost exactly the opposite was true. The pain within the man had sucked his emotions down to a place where no light could touch them, where they barely clung to life. No man could live in a vacuum however, and the Dark Man’s rage had filled the spaces the pain left empty; the man who remained now existed cold and without fear.

This controlled fury made the Dark Man an elite killer. His other emotions dwarfed by rage, he did not feel fear in the same way most men did. Nor did he face the distractions a working conscience could bring. His rage sucked everything else away, including his memories. Vain thrived on his craving for the next kill. Nothing else mattered. This subconscious drive came from a time in his life when he had been unable to kill, unable even to defend himself, and he was determined to never let that happen again.

Trying to contain his own fears, Priest looked up into the eyes of the giant named Tobias. Seven years ago this enormous man had come to Priest, still covered with dried blood, and begging for his help. Tobias had killed his wife and her lover with his bare hands, catching them together one afternoon when he had come home early.

His wife had laughed mockingly at the giant, telling him that hundreds of other men had occupied the bed they once shared. The memory of her face still haunted him.

Tobias had gone insane with rage. After bludgeoning the lovers to death, he continued through his neighbor, his landlady, and her cat. He disappeared for several days before finally heeding the call of Priest, and coming to Chapel for the help he so desperately needed.