The Darkest of Dreams

by Emigh Cannaday

  The lead undertaker had escorted her away, leading her into the ballroom, which was filled with chairs and tables and more than enough food. She walked through the crowd in a daze, noting the wafts of incense and hundreds of candles lighting up the chandeliers, and the bright white and cobalt blue of a priestess’s robes as she lead a small group in a solemn prayer. Someone handed her a piece of ‘Love and Sorrow cake,’ making a point to tell her that it was called this because it was typically only served at weddings and funerals. It was also bad luck not to eat any of it on those occasions. Annika wasn’t hungry, but she found herself returning for a second piece just in case there was any truth behind the superstition.

  The next day she stood beside Runa with the rest of her husband’s relatives around the family plot, which was situated on a clearing on a bluff marked by a massive white gravestone. Worn by weather, it overlooked the river and the home and the pastures below. She’d watched as Finn’s heavy wooden coffin was lowered into the ground in a space next to his grandmother’s remains. Recalling the tragic circumstances of her death, another round of tears had forced their way to Annika’s cheeks. Another round still managed to push itself out of her when the first shovelful of dirt struck the rich red wood.

  Now Annika was hiding with Runa in the conservatory, where both of them were curled up in their black dresses on one of the soft chaise lounges. The painting of Talvi and Yuri had been taken down and replaced with a large mirror, only to have it and all the other mirrors in the house be covered with sheets of white cloth.

  “Why did they do that?” she asked, pointing to the space where the painting had hung for the past hundred years.

  “Do what? Cover the mirror?” Runa sniffled and wiped her red nose with a handkerchief before going on. “When someone dies and their soul leaves this world, it leaves an empty space that needs to be filled,” she explained in a weary voice. “That empty space is more likely to be filled with evil than good, and there’s nothing that demons love more than preying on those who are weak to begin with. A household in mourning is an ideal place for them to take up residence.”

  “If they weren’t already residing here in the first place,” a male voice huffed. Annika looked up to see Nikola had joined them. Having no mourning clothes of his own, he’d been given an old suit from when Finn was an adolescent. Unlike the rest of the Marinossian family and their visitors, the druid’s amulets and talismans were exempt from the customary ban on wearing jewelry while in mourning. Anything more than a wedding ring was considered to be a boastful expression of vanity, which was looked down on during the mourning period. With his amulets resting against his black clothing and his dreadlocks pulled back with a black ribbon, Nikola looked like a movie star that transcended time and space. He also looked as tired as Annika felt, and she was glad that all the mirrors were covered up with sheets.

  “What do you mean by that?” Runa asked him. “Do you think demons are living in the house?”

  “If they aren’t living here now, I think they were recently,” he countered. “Have you been inside Finn’s chambers since the…er…since…lately?”

  Runa’s big brown eyes widened as she shook her head.

  “Of course not!” she hissed in revulsion. “Have you?”

  “A few times,” he admitted, much to Runa’s disapproval.

  “Why would you do such a disrespectful thing? It’s a hallowed space! It’s awful enough that so many peace officers and detectives have rifled through everything he owns. I know they took things that belong to him. And now you say that you’ve been poking around up there as well?”

  “All they took was evidence, which they can only keep until the trial is over,” Nikola pointed out. “They were looking for the same thing that I was—some kind of clue as to why he attacked Talvi.”

  “We all know why he did it,” Runa argued in a ragged whisper. There was a brief silence where Annika could feel Runa’s eyes resting on her back along with Nikola’s, but she continued to stare out the window instead. She’d spent the past week being looked at in the same exact way; in scorn and ridicule and pain. The weight of the guilt incurred by those judgmental stares was slowly crushing what remained of her resolve. Nobody said it out loud, yet she knew exactly how they felt. If Talvi had been the fire that burned down the mighty oak tree that was Finn, then it was Annika who’d doused him with gasoline and handed his assailant a box of matches. Her role as the catalyst in his death hadn’t exactly gone unnoticed by the media or the villagers, let alone her friends and family. Instead, she felt it constantly. They knew perfectly well that there was more between her and Finn than she was letting on, and they were willing to bet it involved Talvi escorting them home from Paris. Even if they asked for answers, it wouldn’t change the circumstances.

  “But what pushed Finn to become so violent?” Nikola insisted as he began to pace around the small room. “Every one of us agrees that it was completely out of character for him—you saw what he did to Talvi’s face with that bottle. The surgeon said his jaw was broken in four different places! Does that sound like something Finn would be capable of doing?”

  “No, but he was certainly strong enough. And you heard what Asbjorn said…” Her lip trembled and she swallowed hard. “He said Finn was threatening to hurt Talvi long before he came home. He said that in the past hundred years that they’ve known one another, he’d never seen such a dark side of him until this summer.”

  “That’s precisely my point. I think Finn was manipulated by something darker than himself to become so irrational. I’d barely taken two steps into his room and I heard the echo of pure black magic ringing as clear as a bell. Not only that, but I could feel it. And here’s another thing that I don’t understand,” he stopped pacing and pressed his mouth into an impatient frown. “What was he doing in possession of a druid’s knife? Those are meant only for rituals; using it as a weapon is meant as a last resort.”

  “I don’t know, Nik,” Runa sighed hopelessly. She gave up on her soggy handkerchief and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her black dress. “He liked to collect things from his travels. Perhaps the knife was a gift?”

  “A druid is required to take their vows before they can ever have one,” he asserted, and revealed a white knife tucked safely inside his jacket. It looked nearly identical to the murder weapon. “Wasn’t Finn an atheist?”

  Runa’s big brown eyes squeezed shut as she nodded.

  “He was,” she faltered as she fought back her tears. “Which means absolutely nothing. Just because you believe something holds great power doesn’t mean that he believed it did. That’s why he had no concern over keeping the black magic stones from the Pazachi’s wheel inside his personal chambers, let alone under his bed. He was supposed to be studying them, but he was busy with spring planting and all the chores here on the farm. He promised me that there was a protective charm on the trunk they were in, but what if the detectives are right and it broke? What if the seal on the trunk weakened just enough to let the evil spill into his room little by little? His parents said if he wasn’t doing chores that he was always in his room. If it was contaminated with such potent black magic, how could he have not gone mad?”

  “That’s precisely my point. If the stones drove him to attack Talvi, then where are they now?”

  “I don’t know, Nik!”

  There was an uncomfortable silence as she choked back a few sobs, and even Annika’s heart twisted in agony from hearing the pain in her voice. When Runa had composed herself, she tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder and sighed.

  “You heard the authorities. They said Finn needed plenty of money to pay for the case he was bringing against Talvi in the Court of Korvaaminens. If he lost, he’d be required to reimburse Talvi the cost of his legal representation. And if he won, then he would have enough money remaining to start over and make a new life for himself and…” her voice trailed off as she glanced at Annika. She took a deep breath and turned back to Nikola. “Why does it
matter where the stones are now? It’s not as if they could bring him back.”

  “I just can’t believe that’s all there is to it,” he lamented with a frown. He stepped aside to let a tall, clean-shaven elven man join them. The newcomer’s slim figure moved gracefully through the room, and even though he wore a black suit like all the other men under that roof, his black bow tie managed to make him stand out from the other guests.

  “In my line of work, I’ve found that the most obvious explanation is generally the correct one,” he commented while taking a gold cigarette case out of his pocket. Considering the gravity of the situation, he appeared remarkably calm.

  “Oh really?” grunted Nikola. “What line of work are you in?”

  “I worked in diplomatic relations with Ambrose at the Department of Justice quite some time ago,” he answered with a polite nod of his head. His short greying hair was combed back neatly; not a strand of it had fallen out of place. “That was before he was a High Court judge.”

  “You work at the London embassy with Talvi, don’t you?” Annika asked. A mildly amused expression flitted into the man’s face.

  “Technically we were under the same roof, although I’ve never worked with him directly. I’m in the Department of National Security and he deals with mergers and acquisitions for the Imperial Trade Commission,” he replied without missing a beat. He extended a hand towards her but she didn’t reach out to take it. “Such a dreadful shame about what’s happened,” he said, and quickly slipped his hand back into his pocket. “I didn’t know Finn well at all, but Talvi’s nearly a nephew to me. I’m ever so sorry for your loss. I’m Cyril, by the way.”

  Nikola’s icy blue eyes narrowed in both curiosity and suspicion.

  “Cyril Sinclair? You’re the one who sent Talvi to Bleakmoor, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” Cyril nodded, and took a short cigarette holder out of the case. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the ghastly and appalled looks he was receiving.

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “To protect him, naturally.”

  “To protect him?” Nikola challenged. “That place is a nightmare! Only the worst of the worst criminals are sent to Bleakmoor. Why didn’t you send him someplace closer to his home while he awaits his trial?”

  “Because Bleakmoor has more solitary confinement cells than any other prison in the Empire. Being placed in one of them is Talvi’s best chance of staying alive long enough to stand trial,” he said with a courteous nod. “I can’t imagine you’d prefer to have him locked in a smaller prison with fewer guards where he’d be intermingling freely with all the other criminals. Surely you realize that his father helped place a large portion of them in there. He’d be dead the second they learnt his last name.” Cyril took out a cigarette and placed it in the holder, then slipped the gold case back into his jacket’s inner pocket. Stumped by the excellent point he had made, Nikola gave up on arguing any further. A toddler’s crying could be heard approaching, and then Hilda appeared in the doorway with a blonde little girl balanced on her hip.

  “Aww, why the tears?” Nikola crooned.

  “Violet’s upset because I won’t let her run around in the ballroom,” Hilda sighed in frustration. “Really, though…this is hardly the time nor the place to let her run wild.”

  “She doesn’t understand what’s going on, that’s all,” he replied, holding out his arms to take her into them. But the little girl wanted nothing to do with her father. She only buried her head in Hilda’s chest and cried louder. “Maybe we should take her outside and let her play for a while?” he suggested.

  “I’ll take her out back if you bring me a glass of wine,” Hilda offered. “She’s been so fussy that I haven’t had a chance to eat or drink anything at all. Not that I’m hungry…”

  “Take her outside and I’ll bring you something to eat and plenty to drink,” Nikola promised, and turned to leave the room. When he’d left, Hilda took a few steps closer to Annika and Runa while simultaneously making a point not to make eye contact with Annika.

  “Zaven’s looking for you,” she said over Violet’s cries. “Shall I tell him that you’re hiding in here?”

  “Please don’t,” her sister groaned. “I need a break from him. He’s so…attentive.”

  “You can’t avoid him forever,” she warned as she headed for the hall. “If you don’t like him as much as he likes you, just tell him and get it over with. You’ll only make it worse for yourself the longer you keep leading him on…and worse for him as well.” Ignoring the frown on her sister’s face, she shot a nasty glance at Annika before turning on her heel and walking away.

  Intrigued by the dramatic displays of mean girls and young love, Cyril raised an eyebrow yet offered no sage wisdom gleaned from his own life’s experience. Some lessons were meant to be learned the hard way, like the one he was about to impart upon Annika.

  “Might I have a private word with you?” he asked, focusing his gaze upon her.

  “I can find somewhere else to sit, if you like,” Runa offered, but Annika shook her head.

  “No, it’s fine,” she said, urging her to stay seated while she climbed out of the chaise lounge. “You’ve got a good hiding spot from Zaven. I’m not going to make you leave it.” She joined the distinguished older gentleman and stepped into the hall with him.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to rely on you to find a quiet place for us to speak, slunchitse.”

  Annika’s throat began to swell shut at hearing her secret name. Instead of finding comfort that she could trust Mr. Sinclair, she could only think about the fate that befell those who used it to address her. “I’m still struggling to recall the layout of Ambrose’s home,” he added, motioning down the hall while using his cigarette holder like a baton. “I’ve only been here one other time, ages ago, and it was for a much more joyous occasion.”

  She turned to the right and motioned for him to follow.

  “Oh really? What was the occasion…sludoor?” she asked in a voice that honestly didn’t care. All she could think about was putting one foot in front of the other as they trudged down the vacant hall.

  “Anthea and Asbjorn’s wedding,” he said politely. “Seems like it was only yesterday, and now they’re about to have a third child. I say, time does go by rather fast, doesn’t it?”

  “Not fast enough,” Annika grumbled, and stopped in front of the arch that led to the kitchen. A crude wooden door had been hastily installed with a simple lock to keep the children from venturing inside. She slid the cold iron bolt to the side and invited Cyril to follow her though the door. As they stepped into the room, he sucked in a stunned breath at what he saw.

  Unlike the rest of the Marinossian home, which was built with beauty and craftsmanship at the forefront of its architect’s mind, nothing about the demolition zone of a kitchen was pleasing to look at. Every cabinet and cupboard had been torn off the wall, leaving huge holes in the plaster walls. The blood-stained tiles had been ripped up from the floor and hurled into one big pile of rubble in the center of the room, along with the remains of the table and the large kitchen island. The crimson-spattered curtains had been yanked from the windows, but even the plaster dust wasn’t enough to completely hide the stain of red or the scent of blood. Shelves had been beaten down with a sledgehammer that now lay on the remnants of broken dishes. Just like the family that lived there, the kitchen was completely gutted. The only things left intact were the enormous hearth, the stove, and the farmhouse sink with the old pump for a handle.

  “Dear god of gods,” Cyril hummed under his breath. “What in seven devils…was there an explosion of some kind?” The shards of glass and ceramic and crumbled plaster crunched underneath their shoes as Annika closed the door behind them.

  “No. Well, kind of. Ambrose decided that he couldn’t stand the kitchen anymore,” she said as she looked around. She’d heard the commotion as it happened, but seeing the evidence of his mental breakdown made the reality
of his pain even more palpable.

  “Say no more,” Cyril replied. He briefly held up his hand to signal that he didn’t want to hear any other details. Then he pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit the cigarette he’d prepared earlier for himself. He took a long puff, and when he settled his eyes on Annika’s he shook his head. His hand disappeared into his pocket, and when it reappeared he extended the gold case towards her. “Pardon my manners. I wasn’t certain if you were a smoker.”

  “Not usually,” she said, helping herself to a cigarette out of the case. He quickly lit it for her and then turned to take in all the damage surrounding the two of them. Annika took a drag and held it in her lungs for a few seconds before exhaling. The smoke was smoother than she expected it to be, and the heady buzz from the nicotine temporarily erased her pain as it flooded into her bloodstream. She took another drag, listening to the sound of the tobacco crackling, forgetting that she was at a funeral, forgetting the world around her, and forgetting that she wasn’t completely alone in that world. When Cyril spoke again, his elegant, soothing voice was almost intrusive.

  “I appreciate you finding a discreet place for us to speak. I wanted you to know that I’ve made arrangements with the Marinossians to escort you back to London when I leave tomorrow.” His words were a perverse blow to her senses.

  “Tomorrow?” she repeated. Her blue eyes were wide with both surprise and revulsion. “I’m not leaving tomorrow! Especially not with someone I barely know!” Cyril was unfazed by her instant rejection.

  “I understand your hesitation, slunchitse,” he calmly explained. “I know it might be difficult to comprehend, however, it’s for your own good.”