The Dark Path (9 page)

Priest went on to tell Vain how there had been no further account of the Souls of Sordarrah until they had appeared in Nazi Germany. By this time, Empeth had adopted a closely cropped hairstyle and a stunted square moustache. He’d not aged a day since rising to power in the cult, in fact it had been documented that he’d grown younger. He had managed to nearly conquer the entire world under his guise as leader of the Nazi party.

“Stop,” commanded Vain. “Now you’re trying to tell me this devil guy who roamed around hundreds of years ago was also Adolph Hitler. Do not try my patience black man. I have almost had my fill of your voodoo bullshit.”

“I am simply relaying to you what I have been told.”

“And who told you, Genghis Khan? Julius Caesar perhaps? Or maybe you’ve just been eavesdropping on other people’s thoughts for so long, you can’t tell your own fantasies from theirs,” snarled Vain.

Priest understood the Dark Man’s disbelief. He had struggled to grasp everything himself until the old Jewish man had made him probe his memories of the war. The Nazi death camps had been established as a means to find the last Avun-Riah, and they had worked all too well. Empeth had discovered that the child–it had been a girl that time–was a Jew. He had relocated the entire cult to Germany, and implanted himself into the Nazi party, not trusting the job to anyone else. Eventually Empeth had disseminated his beliefs into the entire German society, and they had slaughtered millions searching for the girl.

They had finally located her in the closing stages of the war. Empeth had almost completed the ritual when the girl’s guardian had battled his way into the compound. The ritual complete, Empeth had readied to deliver the final strike, an ebony bladed knife raised high.

With no other option, the guardian had drawn his gun, and shot the girl through the head, shattering Empeth’s incantations. The young guardian had suffered unimaginable torments for weeks before being allowed to die. Even after death however, Empeth ensured his soul would never know rest, carving the ancient sign of The Four into his skull, expelling his essence and opening the gateway for a new entity to possess his form. With the mark on his soul mirroring the one on his dead body, the man’s spirit would be chained to Sordarrah for eternity.

Priest knew all too well what they were facing. He had even tried to fight Empeth once. The battle had been decidedly one-sided, Priest only barely escaping with his soul still intact.

“Dark Man–Vain–I realize this is very difficult for you to believe, but what I am telling you is the truth. The forces you will be confronting are not all human, and you must be made ready to face them. You cannot face them if you don’t comprehend what they really are.”

“Can they be killed black man?” asked Vain.

“Yes, but–” began Priest.

“Then they will die,” vowed the Dark Man.

* * * *

The only information Priest had on the boy was his first name and the town he had originally come from.

“Is this it?” Vain stared at the scrap of paper Priest had written the information onto.

“That is all I know. I am truly sorry.”

“So, you want me to look for a kid named Sebastian originally from Utah, but now he’s somewhere in New York City. Well that shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll drop him off tomorrow morning. Is nine o’clock okay with you?” Vain sneered mockingly.

“Your sarcasm isn’t needed, Dark Man. I know what I am asking of you. But I also know you have the resources to accomplish it,” said Priest. “I
do
have this too.” Priest handed the assassin a weathered photograph of what appeared to be a small child on a pushbike.

“Oh well, this makes all the difference. I’ll have him here at eight thirty instead.” Priest ignored the remark. “I thought you said you knew where the boy was,” said Vain.

“I do. He’s in New York,” Priest offered lamely.

“And how did you find out he’s here? You must have had more than this piece of toilet paper to know that much.”

“I found the photograph in an old house in Utah. When I touched it his name came to me and the fact that he’s in New York City–somewhere. I also know he is in danger, the enemy is drawing near.”

“I guess I should go now, unless there’re any more pearls of wisdom you wish to impart.”

“I really don’t think I like you Dark Man,” murmured Priest sadly. “You spit in the face of everything I hold dear.”

“Not many people do like me black man.” Vain grinned venomously, moving from the room. “Especially not those who meet me in person.”

Without a word of farewell, Vain stalked from Chapel and disappeared.

Gary O'Rourke had been a big shot. Fast cars, fast women, fast money. Every night was a party at Gary’s house and he had loved life.

Quickly becoming one of the shooting stars on Wall Street, Gary developed into one of the youngest executives in his firm’s history. Seemingly incomparable when it came to predicting market changes, he had amassed a small fortune in only a few short years. Gary began to make riskier and riskier purchases on the stock exchange, netting ever larger profits.  Along with his success came arrogance.

He felt invincible.

Everyone marveled at his successes. How could such a young man do so well in the market? Either he had excellent inside knowledge or fantastically good luck. As it turned out, he had a bit of both. Gary had informants placed all over the city in almost every major industrial company, granting him access to knowledge other people couldn’t even begin to touch. All of this was highly illegal of course, but Gary believed laws were made for poor people and not high rollers like himself.

After all, he was untouchable.

One day, Gary received information that had made even his mouth water. Global Technologies were going to merge with Pastrel Industries, creating possibly the most expensive amalgamation in history. Gary’s hand shook on the keyboard when he read the E-mail. Quickly checking the stock tickers on the internet, he almost passed out from excitement. Both companies’ stocks were breeching all time lows–he could blitz the market!

The following day, Gary had poured his entire personal savings–along with quite a bit of money belonging to his clients–into the shares of both companies, walking away at the end of the day envisioning the riches he would amass in the coming weeks.

Unfortunately, shooting stars must all eventually burn out, especially those that burn the brightest.

The news never came.

Weeks turned to months and the stocks continued to drop, but Gary refused to sell, determined that the union could still occur and he would recover any losses he’d incurred.

The merger never came. The golden boy lost his sheen.  A business partner who had followed Gary’s lead leapt off a building. Gary leapt into a bottle.

The years passed and the alcohol haze grew thicker in Gary’s mind. He woke up one day in the gutter of an alleyway and smelled himself. The stench alone made him want to retch, but he didn’t have the energy to roll over, so he simply closed his eyes and waited for the end.

Voices awakened him from his death slumber a short while later and their words jolted his curiosity. Two men were talking about something that sounded vaguely familiar, and Gary listened on.

“For God’s sake man, listen to reason. I couldn’t have squealed on the Bucelli family. I wasn’t even there when the last shipment came in, I didn’t even know about it!”

Bucelli. Where had he heard that name? The sodden gears of his brain slowly ticked over while he tried to grasp the memory. Finally it came to him: Marco Bucelli! Pleased with his clarity even through his hangover, Gary momentarily lost his train of thought. Focusing his foggy brain once more Gary spoke up, “Are yew Mar-Marco?” he slurred to the man who had spoken.

Startled by the voice, both men jumped. Suddenly Gary noticed the gun in the second man’s hand.

“What do you know about Marco?” asked one of the men, expertly aiming the handgun at Gary’s brow.

Gary had to think carefully before speaking, trying to remember where he had been when he heard the name. It had been a few days back and he’d been looking for loose change in the phone booths near West Street station when he’d heard the voice raised in anger.

“Listen to me copper, I said it was going to happen and it did. Next time you better trust me when I tell you. I’m Marco Bucelli for crying out loud, and you still don’t believe me when I tell you one of the shipments is coming in. Now where’s my damn money?”

Gary had left when Marco had shoved him onto the footpath and threatened to shoot him. That sort of thing happened more often than he liked and he knew when to move on. At least he’d found a five dollar bill at the entrance to the station. That explained the fact that he remembered the incident at all.

“Hey you stupid squirrel-faced bastard, I said, ‘How do you know Marco?’”

“He pushed me to the ground and said he’d kill me,” Gary pronounced tremulously.

“Ha! Now, why’d he do that to you Squirrel?”

“I don’t know. I was getting change from the booth beside him when he was talking on the phone; I think he spoke to a policeman. Then he got upset and pushed me over.”

Gary had expected the gunman to laugh at him again, but now he was standing still, contemplating the words.

“You’d better go tell your boss what’s happened.” The gunman waved his weapon at the other man. When the man ran off, the assassin turned the barrel towards Gary.

“I wonder, Squirrel, how much more information is floating around in that drunken sponge you call a brain. What else do you know?”

Gary quickly sobered, realizing his life might depend on the next words to leave his mouth. The click of the gun cocking sobered him even further.

“People don’t worry what they say around me, I’m just a bum. I hear all kinds of strange things that happen around the city every day, but I also know when not to talk about them,” blurted Gary, hoping he’d been coherent in his rush to protect his life.

The gunman silently pondered the drunken man cowering before him. “All right Squirrel, I’ll let you live for now and for as long as you prove useful to me. Any time you hear something interesting on the streets, make sure the news finds my ears first. You might just get a reward. For today’s effort, here’s ten dollars. Go get drunk.”

“Oh! Thank you sir. But how will I find you?” asked Gary.

“My name is Dante. Leave a message at Mason’s Lair with the bartender, Tony. Tell him you need to see me, but nothing more!”

“Yes sir, you can rely on me. What message should I leave?”

Dante thought for a moment, grinning nastily. “Tell him the Squirrel has been gathering some nuts. He’ll know what to do.”

The name had stuck and Squirrel discovered he had a talent for uncovering sources of information not previously known on the streets. He found it not dissimilar to the insider trading that had propelled him to the heights of Wall Street. Whether a spoken word in a bar or eavesdropping at a door, Squirrel quickly became known for providing a reliable source of news. At first this had made Dante seethe with anger, but he found the information Squirrel provided invaluable and found himself loathe to dispose of the informant.

Eventually, Squirrel’s talent drew the attention of the Dark Man. Squirrel had only heard street corner innuendo about the man and had never been able to gather any real information regarding his appearance or background. For all intents and purposes the man called Vain had simply appeared from the bowels of the city to wreak havoc amidst the scum of the underworld. The scraps Squirrel collected had made him pray he never had the misfortune to meet the man.