He slid the glass window open, sniffing the air. Perfume. Alcohol. The theater must have just let out, releasing its hordes of drunkards all too eager to aim a kick at the last Underkin. They had no idea what power Habbad now wielded, what he could bend and break within their minds. If Kreed allowed it he would make an example of just a few. Habbad fantasized about replacing a few of their memories with waking nightmares, or syphoning off their best qualities into their most bitter rivals. Kreed, however, held every citizen of Costas in the highest regard, serving each of them as if he had nothing better to do. For now Habbad would satisfy himself with a simple, traceless act of rebellion.
He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, and a sticky indigo ball no larger than a raindrop appeared. He leapt from the window and landed as soft as a shadow on a slate roof across the street. Following a pack of raucous voices, Habbad crept to the edge, finding his target. A man, broad-shouldered and handsome, walked arm in arm with his sweetheart. There were others, but Habbad only had eyes for the cocky man. The man bragged to his group, showering himself with accolades and exploits of his work in the soul fly harvesting business. Apparently he’d just fired half his staff for not exceeding this month’s demands. Habbad rolled the spell a little larger. This man’s head was so big he would need an extra dose. Taking aim, Habbad flicked the spell down to the idiot.
The spell collided with the bridge of the man’s nose, startling him as it flashed into a vapor and seeped into his eyes. He looked around for the source, but the spell was already well underway. Habbad scuttled back, jumping to the next roof as he laughed to himself. Under his spell the man would gradually lose his ability to create memories. They would leak from him before they could collect, like a barrel with a rotten bottom. But the second part of the spell would be the sweetest. The gaps in his memory would be filled with an overwhelming urge to defend himself, taking every word and gesture as an act of aggression. If Habbad were very lucky, he would read about a drunken murder in tomorrow’s paper.
Setting his sights on to the taller buildings, Habbad skirted the main thoroughfares and scaled his way towards his destination. He would set aside his concerns over Kreed’s lesson. Instead, he would move onward in his search for power, which didn’t entirely deviate from Kreed’s orders. He would indeed find a second thrall, and this one would change everything.
After an hour traversing the rooftops, Habbad craned his neck, gauging the height of the building he was about to scale. It was a flashy luxury apartment that only the most affluent could afford. Habbad scurried from window sills and up drain pipes, working his way steadily up the skyscraper with the mirak’s agility. Kreed himself had a room here, or rather the entirety of the two uppermost floors. Habbad was never allowed up there, and while his Hunger demanded to know why, he stopped several floors short. Swinging himself from a marble gargoyle, Habbad sailed into the open window of his destination. He had never been in Florien’s home, but he had talked with and known the doctor well enough to deduce where he lived. The stench of shrikeshard dust and alcohol confirmed his deductions.
Habbad landed on a plush fur carpet, making as much noise as he could. The lump in the bed made no reaction whatsoever. It continued its unsteady rise and fall, spewing horrible smells from the night before. Habbad checked the time. It was near midday, a little early for Florien to rise. He knew the doctor needed all the sleep he could get. Habbad busied himself with a lengthy perusal of the apartment. Florien was a reclusive, bottled-up sort of man, never revealing too much. Other than the time he spent at work, stitching and swapping body parts like a mechanic, the doctor shut himself up in his apartment nearly all the time. There were not-so-quiet rumors however, that the doctor would indulge and revel to such excess that some thought him indestructible, or perhaps chosen by Kreed. Habbad knew the reason behind these rumors to be nothing more than Florien’s mastery of pharmaceuticals. Continuing his tour, Habbad found crushed pills peppered over every table, and shriveled bags of shrikeshard littering the floor.
There was one odd thing about the apartment that Habbad’s train of logic couldn’t reveal. Scattered throughout all the opulent sculptures and expensive gadgets were the most horrible paintings Habbad had ever laid eyes on. They looked as if a child had been left unsupervised for a moment in front of a canvas, just long enough for a vague mess. Whoever the artist was either didn’t care for the craft or lacked the eyesight to know what everyday objects looked like. Conversely, however, the canvas and oils themselves were of the highest quality. The materials were equal to what one would find in the most prestigious galleries. Habbad was at a loss, and the unanswered question gnawed at him like a dog scraping at a long-clean bone. There was something to those paintings.
After glossing over a few books that looked as if they had never been touched, Habbad decided it was time to wake Florien. Jumping up to the foot of the bed, he drew upon his Wisdom, compressing a large volume of air into a needle point. He released the spell, jarring the room with a teeth-rattling explosion. Several paintings crashed to the floor.
The blankets continued to rise and fall.
Habbad kicked at the lump, raising his voice: “That is why you shouldn’t prescribe to yourself, doctor. If I meant you harm there would be nothing you could do about it. Not that you could stop me if you were lucid.”
The lump was utterly unresponsive.
“Let’s see if you can sleep through this then,” Habbad said, readying another spell.
An emerald web fell over the pile of blankets, tightening into a solid veil that squeezed every inch of the lump. Habbad crossed his arms, waiting. Before long the breathing became rushed and desperate.
“No!” Florien wailed, throwing the blankets off and shattering Habbad’s spell. His mouth gaped like a fish’s. With Fear etched over every line of his face, Florien dove for the floor, falling to his hands and knees as he sucked in as much air as his lungs would allow. Eventually he calmed himself, clutching his chest and leaning back against his bed.
“Good morning, Doctor.” Habbad smirked, standing above him on the night stand.
“What!” Florien bellowed, shooting across the floor and snatching a shoe, brandishing it like a weapon. His puffy eyes squinted up at Habbad before furious recognition lit in his eyes. “What is this? Get out of my apartment, Underkin!”
Habbad jumped down to the floor, striding over until he was standing in between Florien’s sprawled legs. “Don’t be rude, doctor. I’m a guest. Offer me food.”
Florien dropped the shoe, slapping his hands to his face and rubbing his eyes. “I don’t keep food in the apartment,” he mumbled through his fingers. “I never kept any food here. What do you want, Habbad?”
“I came to talk with you,” Habbad said.
“Well, I’ve nothing to say, not to mention I’m not fit to entertain guests.” Florien’s hands drifted to his stomach, holding it in as if it were about to explode. “Get out of the way.”
Habbad sidestepped as Florien scrambled to his feet, shooting like a wayward javelin towards the kitchen sink.
“Something from last night not agree with you?” Habbad asked, following him to the sink. “Try some foreign cuisine?”
Florien heaved and belched, a shaking hand wrenching the nozzles on the sink. When he finished he ran the water over his face and hair. Habbad tossed him a towel. Florien took it without a word and cleaned himself.
Dabbing his eyes, he turned his wobbling frame to face Habbad. “You woke me too early. I hadn’t slept off the nauseating effects of the depressants.”
“Perhaps you should learn to sleep without them,” Habbad replied. “For such a smart man you ought to recognize a crutch when you see one, or when you eat them by the cart-full.”
“The crutches I use are for good reason, and of no concern to you!” Florien spat, opening a drawer and pulling out a small balloon of shrikeshard dust. “What do you want?”
Habbad watched Florien as he stabbed the balloon with an ornate go
lden straw that he pulled from nowhere. Intrigued, he waited until Florien finished huffing the entire bag before he spoke. “I want to know about the person who made these paintings.”
“Why would you care about that?” Florien asked, rubbing his nose.
“These painting are the worst thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen two Devotions,” Habbad said, pointing to a glob on the wall that looked like dried meat stew. “Every single one was crafted without thought, without care. It’s as if whoever made them had nothing left of value, not even the time to put in any effort.”
Florien scowled. “Did you break into my apartment just to insult me? No, that can’t be the reason. You’ve never seen the paintings before, so why would they interest you? Wait, is this not the first time you’ve been here?” Florien’s white knuckles gripped the countertop, looking as if he were trying to tear it from the base.
“Calm yourself, doctor. This is indeed the first time,” Habbad said in a bored voice. “I didn’t know it until now, but I believe that these paintings are exactly the reason I’m here. What can you tell me about the person who made them?”
Florien’s anger turned to a sharp suspicion. “He’s a man under my employ. I value his work and pay him well for it. That is all you need to know.”
“Bullshit,” Habbad replied, jumping atop the counter so he was eye level with the doctor.
Florien glared, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. “Prove it.”
Without turning away, Habbad whipped his arm back, pointing a gnarled hand at the glob of stew on canvas. The painting smoked and curled, turning soot black before falling from the wall in ashen flakes. Habbad kept his eyes locked on Florien, whose look of offense took a little too long to show.
“Does that bother you?” Habbad asked.
Florien’s eyebrows crammed together. “Arrogant little blighter. I long for the day Kreed discovers you are no different than any of your kind. Impulsive. Unintelligent. Breed like rodents. You are lesser beings. It won’t be long until the Underkin plague is finally wiped from the world.”
Habbad dove forward, wrapping his legs around Florien’s neck and yanking his face close.
“WHAT THE HELL? GET OFF ME! ” Florien’s hands wrapped around Habbad’s tiny arms, wrenching them. Habbad’s grip was unyielding, however.
“You can’t hide your shame from me, Doctor,” Habbad said, summoning the Fear needed to dive into Florien’s mind. It didn’t take long to find what he needed. Habbad twisted out of the doctor’s grip, landing back on the counter with a savage grin.
“Get out. Get out now. Kreed be damned I will kill you… using that foul magic on me!” Florien sputtered, opening another drawer and yanking out a sweeping, serrated blade.
“What’s that for? I thought you didn’t keep food here, Florien,” Habbad laughed. “You know a knife is of no use against me, even in your capable hands. You’ll need magic to kill me. Seeing as you’re about as magical as that bit of steel in your hand you may want to choose your words more carefully. I may take offense and choose to defend myself.”
Habbad’s eyes flashed green and Florien yelped, waving the knife as if it were trying to stab him. Sizzling, popping sounds came from the doctor’s clenched hand as he tried to release the blade. Smoke rose from his hand, filling the kitchen with the stench of burnt meat.
“Please! Let it go! My hand’s on fire!” Florien wailed.
Habbad watched with mild interest as Florien picked and yanked at the blade with his free hand, burning and cutting himself. He slammed his burning fist down on the counter over and over. Even his breaking bones wouldn’t release the scalding knife. Florien fell to the floor, weeping and defeated.
Habbad jumped down, landing on the doctor’s chest. He released the heat from the blade, but not Florien’s grip. “Ready to tell me about Dirken?”
Florien shook his head, crying softly. “Please, I’m begging you. He’s a good man. Beautiful family. Don’t harm him.”
Habbad grinned, flicking his fingers along the serrated edge of the knife. “How noble. Even a monster such as yourself isn’t without some redeeming qualities. Don’t fret doctor, your shame is safe with me, and so is dear Dirken. I won’t make him do anything he doesn’t truly Hunger for.”
Habbad took the lift down to the streets of the Cloud District, stopping at a bakery near the bottom to wet his throat and fill his belly. When Habbad mentioned he had just come from Florien’s apartment, the owner was all too helpful, hailing him a cab and foisting sweets and pies upon him. Eating at a proper restaurant while wearing a fine suit scratched his Hunger in all the right places.
The back seat of the cab was supple, yet firm. It was by far the most luxurious thing Habbad had ever sat on. He couldn’t decide if the best part was the feeling of high status, or the sour look on the driver’s face that plainly stated his disdain for carting around a mere Underkin.
The cab hummed to a stop outside the Wind district, a slummy trade port where all goods came in and out of Costas. Habbad forced a heavy tip on the driver, knowing full well that the man’s prejudice wouldn’t stretch far enough to refuse the money. The Hunger in the Man’s eyes told Habbad he would keep the extra money for himself and not share it with his coworkers, nor even tell his wife. He would tell her he was working late, then make a beeline for Florien’s night clubs in search of an outlet for his most basal desires. The fact that an Underkin’s money would make this all possible pleased Habbad to no end.
Hopping out of the cab, Habbad smoothed out the front of his crimson suit before striding out into the Wind district. The air reeked with the stench of briny fish, and every surface was somehow covered in a wet sheen. Habbad’s shoes clacked along, drawing the attention of the surly locals as he strutted through busy streets. Voices fell into hushed whispers as he neared and crowds parted for him. Could word of his importance have spread this far?
Heeding Florien’s directions, Habbad followed the main road down to the docks. Cargo ships bayed across the port, heralding the arrival of goods from other lands, or moaning a farewell as they set out to sea. A quick hop brought Habbad atop a thick wooden wall that kept the sea in check. Darting along, he quickly left the commercial district of warehouses and slaughterhouses. The torchlight gave way to polished gates and crisp lawns of the upper-class residentials. The rustic, boxy architecture gradually softened to a comfy neighborhood with clay-shingled roofs and walls of happy blues or yellows. He was getting closer. Hunger urging him, Habbad dipped into his Domina blood and bolted faster down the wall, dropping into a four-legged sprint. Before long the flashy mini-mansion of Florien’s memories came into view. The house stood alone on its very own pier as if to distinguish itself as a notch above the usual upper-class. Habbad followed the wall up to the crisscrossing framework of the lower pier, scaling beams as easily and quickly as walking up the front stairs.
Habbad sniffed the air and sharpened his ears with Wisdom. Dirken had to be in there somewhere. In this moment Habbad regretted not having put more of an effort into his lessons at The Sill. He recalled how one of the females could use Passion to detect the life forces of nearby creatures and people, a useful trick that had saved them from many surprises. Habbad would make do with his other skills, however.
Habbad sent a wriggling tendril of Wisdom into the latch of the back door, clicking it open while casting another spell to muffle his feet. He stepped into a darkened room. The smell of acrylics and wood shavings permeated the air. He couldn’t see well, but he didn’t need to. There was enough ambient noise for his sharpened ears to make out the corners of tables and clutter on the shelves. Habbad thought he could hear the steady drumming of a lonely heart dripping through the floorboards above.
Habbad took a deep breath, calling from the darkest reaches of himself and drawing upon his most foul memories. He filled himself with Decreath’s gift, bathing in the Fear until his blood threatened to freeze solid. Exhaling, he promised the Fear a fresh victim, one lonely and willing. The
Fear rushed from his mouth, filling the room with a noxious olive cloud. Closing the door behind him, Habbad darted from shadow to shadow, listening as his Fear searched every crack and crevice for a timid soul. Panicked rodents scurried and scratched beneath the floorboards, snuffing themselves dead before the touch of Fear. Habbad pushed the cloud out farther, but there was not a soul on the first floor. The Fear mixed with his Hunger, climbing and racing up the stairs. Habbad followed.
As he approached the landing of the second floor, a jerking terror caught his attention, like an insect caught in a spider’s web. Habbad pulled in the slack, attuning himself to the frightened creature. Shame. Worthlessness. Despondence. These were the qualities he needed, the hallmarks of a malleable soul. Habbad drew the shadows about himself, listening to Dirken’s every concern from the corners of the artist’s own mind. When Dirken’s perseverating thoughts began to loop back upon themselves, Habbad injected yet more Fear into the layers of the broken mind. Silent as a shadow, Habbad entered the room.
Dirken was curled up on a mauve sofa, wrapped in a laced blanket and shaking with empty sobs. The fireplace was lit, but only minutes from dying. Strewn about the bookcases and desks were pictures of Dirken’s family, their faces set in forced smiles that did not reach their eyes.
“Something the matter, Dirken?” Habbad asked, revealing himself at last.
“Gods above!” Dirken screamed, his whole body jerking as he pulled himself upright. He shot off his couch, backing away with one arm raised while the other searched blindly for a weapon. “Who are you?” he demanded, grabbing a fire-poker and swishing it about like a sword.
Habbad dropped his gaze to the floor, rubbing his hands. “I’m sorry to frighten you. I felt you crying from the street and thought I might come see what was the matter. I’ll leave now, Father Kreed is expecting me anyway.” Habbad turned to walk away.
“You!” Dirken cried. “I’ve seen you! You’re the Underkin that’s been scurryin’ about with Kreed! How’d you get in here?”
Saving The Dark Side Book 2: The Harbingers Page 32
