by Bryan Davis
His mother leaned close to him, as close as their vibrating bows would allow. As their strokes slowed, bending the music into a quiet refrain, she reached a rest in her part of the piece and whispered, “It is time for a very long solo, my love. Play it with all your heart.” He glanced up at her, his fingers playing on their own. A tear inched down her cheek as she continued. “I will join you again when the composer commands me.”
She backed away and lowered her bow. Nathan played on, closing his eyes as he reconstructed Vivaldi’s theme, building measure upon measure until the composer sang spring into birth, new melodies sprouting forth from earth’s womb in all their majesty.
His heart sang along. This was the best he had ever played the piece, but he was glad it would soon be time for his mother to rejoin him, an arrangement they had created a dozen weeks ago to showcase his talents. But when the expected note from his mother didn’t arrive, he flashed his eyes open, his bow scratching out a warped reflection of the notes.
Where was she? He laid his bow limply on the strings as he stared into the audience, scanning the dumbfounded faces row by row. His father’s seat was still empty. Now Clara’s was vacant as well. The auditorium seemed to swell in size, making him feel like a shrinking mouse, all alone up on stage with a toy violin and bow.
The onlookers buzzed with whispered words. Nikolai rose to his feet and pointed at a door to the side of the stage. “Your mother went that way Nathan.” He spoke in a kind, soothing voice. “Do you think she is ill?”
“I … I don’t think so.” Nathan cleared his throat. Now he was even sounding like a mouse. “She didn’t mention anything.”
A muffled pop sounded. Nathan flinched. What could it have been? A blown circuit? But the lights were all still on.
The audience grew restless in the awkward silence. The side door opened, and Dr. Simon walked to center stage. After lowering a microphone stand to his level, he wrung his hands nervously. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, his British accent now amplified, “please pardon the interruption. Nathan’s parents had to leave unexpectedly. We will have a short break and then hear from our guest pianist.” Shifting away from the microphone, he nodded toward Nathan. “Please come with me, and I will escort you home.”
Nathan stayed put, staring blankly into the performance hall. As the audience filtered toward the back, a loud “Excuse me!” sounded from his left.
Clara stood at the side door Dr. Simon had just entered. “I will take Nathan home,” she said.
Dr. Simon pushed his glasses higher on his nose, his eyes darting all around. “Well … I suppose that will be suitable.” His gaze locked on the room’s main entrance behind the last row of seats. Two men stood near the doorway, their arms crossed as they stared at the stage; one, a tall white-haired man with a thin, pale face, and the other, a man of average height wearing a navy blue blazer and khaki pants.
Dr. Simon tugged on his collar. “Clara, please meet me in the main lobby in fifteen minutes. I have some important information to give you.” His hands wringing again, he pattered off the stage and hurried toward the exit.
Nathan hustled to his tutor. “What’s up?” he asked, glancing back at Simon. “Everyone’s acting so weird!”
Clara yanked him through the doorway and into a dim hall. “Come with me!”
She led him briskly down the short corridor and flung open a door on the left. Inside, a steep staircase descended into darkness. Laying a finger on her lips, she set her foot on the top step and gestured for him to follow. Once inside, she closed the door and whispered so quietly he could barely hear. “While you were going up on stage, your father and Dr. Simon took off toward the exit in the back, so I followed.”
A dim glow from somewhere on the lower level gave them just enough light to see each other’s faces. Holding on to his elbow, she descended the creaking steps slowly and hurried through her words. “When I got into the foyer, I caught a glimpse of your father and Simon ducking into the hall, and I managed to stay close enough to watch them go down these stairs. I tried to listen from up here, but I could only hear violin music and a lot of whispering. Then I heard a gunshot.”
“A gunshot? Are you sure?”
“Positive. Right after that, Dr. Simon ran back up the stairs, so I ducked behind the door. I don’t think he saw me, so I just followed him back to the stage.”
When they reached the bottom, they came upon two open doors, one in front that led into darkness and one to the left, the source of the dim light. Carrying his violin by its neck, Nathan peered into the darker room in front. A glow from a hidden source revealed a system of large air ducts hanging from a low ceiling and a narrow wooden catwalk leading away from the door.
Nathan took a step through the door on the left. A bare bulb in an old lamp sat atop an antique desk, illuminating a hodge-podge of items in the eight-by-eight-foot chamber — hard-shell suitcases, sports equipment, wicker baskets, ancient typewriters, and two unvarnished coffins, each sitting on a low table in front of a head-high, tri-fold mirror. He blinked at the odd collection. Were the coffins stage props? Maybe they had recently put on a vampire skit.
He took another step. As he closed in, a body in each box came into view, barely visible in the lamp’s weak glow. His legs suddenly weak, he stumbled into the gap between the two tables that held the coffins. Even in the dimness, their identities were unmistakable — Solomon and Francesca Shepherd.
Clara grasped his arm. Her mouth dropped open to speak, but she said nothing.
His heart racing wildly, Nathan could only clutch the coffins and stare at his parents. The bodies inside lay still, pale, and quiet. A dark blotch covered his father’s breast pocket, and a hideous cut ripped open his mother’s throat. Blood soaked her lovely gown, the same one she had so gracefully worn onstage only moments ago.
He shook his head and dug his nails into the wood, dizziness swirling his vision. “It … it can’t be …”
Pain streaked Clara’s voice. “It is.” She pointed at an ornate gold band on his mother’s finger. “Look at her ring. There’s not another one like it in the world.”
As a creaking stair sounded from above, a familiar British voice carried into the room. “Clara, I distinctly told you to meet me in the lobby. Coming down here was a big mistake.”
She looked at Nathan and whispered, “Dr. Simon?”
Nathan didn’t answer. He just bit his lip and drilled a stare right through the wall in the direction of the voice. If that creep had anything to do with this, he would —
“I intended to explain what happened here without exposing Nathan to this carnage.” Simon reached the landing and aimed a flashlight beam into the room. “It is most unfortunate that events have played out this way.”
Clara pointed a shaking finger at a coffin. “What do you know about this?”
“Everything. I arranged it. You see —”
“You what?”
“If you could understand the circumstances …”
Nathan raised his stiffened arm and pointed at his mother’s body. “They’re fake, right?” He felt a trembling smile grow unbidden on his lips. “They have to be fake.”
Dr. Simon let out a sigh. “I’m afraid they’re quite real. Their deaths are a most unfortunate —”
“You monster!” Clara cried.
Raising a finger to his lips, Dr. Simon glanced at the doorway and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Now that my plan has gone awry, I need to make sure that your accidental discovery doesn’t hinder our pursuits. I had planned for Nathan to join his parents, but if you continue shouting, we could all end up in coffins.”
Nathan pointed at himself. “You planned for me to join them?”
“In order to protect our secrets, Dr. Gordon and I decided —”
“Who cares about your secrets?” Sucking in quick breaths, Nathan balled a fist so tight, his fingers throbbed. “Just back off. I’m walking out of here, and I’m taking my parents with me.”
&nbs
p; Clara picked up a baseball bat. “You’d better not try to stop us if you know what’s good for you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Dr. Simon said, “but you have far greater obstacles to overcome.” With beads of sweat dotting his bare head, he nodded toward the tri-fold mirror standing behind the coffins. “We will soon have company, a man we must not rile. I insist that you remain silent and let me do all the talking.”
Nathan gritted his teeth. “Why should I do what you say? I’ll just —”
“Look in the mirror,” Dr. Simon said, pointing at the reflection. “You will see.”
Nathan stared at the crystal clear image — the three of them, standing in the dim props room, but two other figures had joined them, the two who had stood at the performance hall exit, the tall man and the guy in the blue blazer. Nathan swung his head back toward the door. The other men weren’t there.
Grabbing his mother’s coffin with one hand, Nathan wagged his head, trying to watch reality and the reflected image at the same time. Dr. Simon was just trying to distract him. The mirror couldn’t show —
Footsteps clopped along the hall above their heads. Nathan glanced up. Could the men in the mirror really be coming? Tightening his fingers around the neck of his violin, he flexed his muscles. He was ready. One way or another, he and Clara were going to make a getaway.
Dr. Simon folded the mirror, hiding its reflective surface. As he slid it behind a bookshelf, the door at the top of the stairs swung open, singing a low creak. He waved frantically at Clara, whispering, “Hide your weapon!”
As she laid the bat at her feet, heavy footfalls rumbled down the steps, drawing closer. When a man entered the prop room, Dr. Simon’s flashlight beam illuminated the emblem on the newcomer’s blazer — three infinity symbols in a vertical stack, close to each other so that their lines intermeshed.
Nathan took a deep breath. Bad guy number two would be tougher than Simon.
“Dr. Gordon,” Dr. Simon said, flashing a nervous grin. “You have come just in time. Where is Mictar?”
“He’s nearby.” Stroking his chin, Dr. Gordon scanned the room, first eyeing Nathan, then Clara before calling out, “It’s safe.”
More footsteps sounded from the stairs, slower this time, more like the tiptoe steps of a child rather than a man of any gravity. When Mictar finally entered, his thin pallid face seemed to hover over Dr. Gordon’s shoulder. With his slick white hair pulled back into a collar-length ponytail, he looked like a lost hippie who forgot to die of old age.
As Mictar gazed across the room, a half smile turned one of his hollow cheeks upward. “What have we here, Dr. Simon? I hope you have not acted too hastily.” His words echoed, though the room seemed to dampen everyone else’s voice.
Nathan shuddered. This guy seemed more like a ghost than a man, a walking corpse fresh from the graveyard. He gripped his instrument once again. Now he had three guys to get past.
Dr. Simon laughed nervously. “I wanted to wait for you, but they were getting suspicious. I had to make sure they didn’t run.”
As if floating along the floor, Mictar padded up to the coffins and leaned his tall body over the lifeless forms, studying them from top to bottom. “A bullet in the heart and a slashed throat,” he said, caressing Francesca’s colorless cheek. “This is lovely work, Simon. Did you do the deeds yourself?”
Folding his hands behind him, Simon raised up on his toes, blinking rapidly. “Of course. No one else knows of your plan.”
Nathan boiled inside. He watched for a good opening, maybe when at least two of the creeps had their backs turned.
“Is that so?” Mictar licked the end of the finger that had touched Francesca’s cheek. “Show me your palms.”
Dr. Simon lifted his hands. Mictar drew close and latched on to each of Dr. Simon’s wrists with his spindly fingers. After taking a long sniff of Simon’s palms, Mictar furrowed his brow. “I smell the blood of your victims as well as the gun’s residue, but the sweet aroma of residual fear is missing.”
Simon cleared his throat. “The Shepherds displayed no fear at all.”
Mictar nodded slowly. “Ah! I see. But your fear is now so strong, I would wager that even the ungifted can detect its odor.”
“Is that so unusual?” Dr. Simon jerked his hands away and wrung them more vigorously than ever. “Anyone who has seen your power would be frightened at your displeasure.”
“That is true of my enemies. My loyal friends have no reason to fear me.” Mictar reached into Nathan’s mother’s coffin and lifted her eyelid. “Her light is extinguished. They no longer have value.”
“No value? I don’t understand.”
Mictar pulled away from the coffin. “You disappoint me, Simon. I wanted her eyes while they still breathed the light, her eyes above any others. And I was hoping to keep at least one of the Solomons alive long enough to learn their secrets.”
Simon squirmed like a scolded schoolboy. “I didn’t know. I mean, if I had known, I would have —”
“You have no need to explain.” Mictar turned to Nathan and smiled, though his pointed yellow teeth revealed ravenous hunger rather than joy. “You have brought one of the offspring to replace what has been lost. An excellent gift, indeed, for he will likely possess what I wanted from her.”
Mictar’s gaze flooded Nathan’s body with icy shivers. As weakness buckled his knees, he braced himself on the side of a coffin.
“Of course I brought him,” Simon replied. “Never let it be said that Flavius Simon leaves any task undone.”
Mictar’s rapacious smile returned. “You have spoken well, for your tasks are now complete. With the four adult Shepherds dead, I no longer have need of your services. The fewer people who know, the better. The seeds of interdimensional disharmony are best sown by the hands of the ignorant.”
Dr. Gordon grabbed Simon and twisted his arm behind his back, while Mictar glided closer and raised his splayed fingers. His cadaverous body seemed to become a shadow, darkening with each step.
Nathan heaved deep breaths, trying to keep from shaking uncontrollably. What was this … this thing? He slid between Clara and the shadowy phantom. “Just stay cool,” he whispered. “We’ll get out of here somehow.”
As Mictar drew within an arm’s reach, Dr. Simon thrashed. “Just give me another assignment!” he cried. “I’ll do anything you want!”
Dr. Gordon yanked Simon’s arm up toward his neck, freezing him in place.
“Anything I want?” Mictar covered Dr. Simon’s eyes with his dark hand and spoke softly. “I want you to die.”
Dr. Simon’s body stiffened, his mouth locked open in a voiceless scream. As Mictar kept his hand over his victim’s eyes, sparks flew around his fingers, and the two men seemed to hover a few inches off the floor. Simon quaked violently, while Mictar’s body gradually regained its light.
Nathan spread out his arms, shielding Clara. All he could do was try to protect his tutor. There seemed no way to stop whatever was happening to Dr. Simon.
After a few torturous seconds, Mictar pulled his hand back, revealing Dr. Simon’s eye sockets, now blackened by emptiness; something had consumed his eyeballs and left behind nothing but gaping pits. With the sickening odor of charred flesh now permeating the room, Dr. Simon collapsed on the floor.
Mictar took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The combination of fear and death is an aroma surpassing all others.” He turned to Dr. Gordon. “Collins and Mills stayed on guard in the hallway upstairs. Call them down. You will need help to dispose of all five bodies.”
Nathan cringed. Five bodies?
Gordon pulled a cell phone from his pocket and pressed a button on the side. “Collins. Get down here.”
Again tightening his fingers around the violin, Nathan whispered to Clara. “It’s now or never.”
Clara slowly crouched toward her bat. “You get the tall one.”
Nathan lunged and swung wildly at Mictar’s head. The wood smashed against his thin ch
eek with a loud crack, and the tightly wound strings sliced into his skin. The violin shattered into a dozen varnished shards, leaving only the fingerboard in Nathan’s hands.
Mictar fell against the wall, covering his mouth as dark blood poured between his fingers and dripped onto the floor. Clara bashed Gordon in the groin. He collapsed to his knees and let out a loud groan, his eyes clenched shut.
Nathan latched on to Clara’s arm and pulled. “Run!” They stormed out of the prop room, sidestepped a man with a gray beard as he neared the stairwell landing, and dashed through the other doorway into the dim air-duct room. Lowering their heads, they clattered along the narrow catwalk under a maze of interconnected duct work.
A muffled voice called behind them. “Don’t worry about us. Get them!”
When they reached the end of the room, a single bulb attached to the low ceiling shone on a gray double door that rose no higher than Nathan’s chest. He gave the door a hefty push with both hands. Although it bent outward a few inches, it snapped right back. He dropped to his bottom and thrust his feet against the latch. The wood cracked but didn’t give way.
Behind them, footsteps rattled the catwalk. Nathan kicked again. The door splintered and banged open, revealing a four-foot drop to a hallway below. He sprang to his feet, ducked into the opening, and dropped to the ground. Clara followed. Her white evening gown poofed out like a parachute as she bent her knees to absorb the impact.
Nathan pointed at a sign over an alcove opening just a few paces away. “A fire escape!”
They dashed into the short corridor that ended abruptly at a tall window. Nathan threw the sash open, letting in a blast of cool air. After stepping out onto the wobbly fire escape landing, he helped Clara through. Just as he pushed the window closed, Mictar’s henchmen turned into the alcove, the gray-bearded one drawing a pistol.
