The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  “Missed that time—so here’s another!” Mangallah stepped in and brought the knife down in an arc. Rick managed to get solid traction with his bare feet, and rammed backwards with all his strength to avoid the slash. As he did so, the back of his head struck the metal corner of a table. Already teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, the collision hurled him over. He speared into black, crashing waves, and knew no more.

  Chapter 40

  Marisela hobbled down the winding stairwell. Her eye was swollen shut and brush-stroked with yellows, blacks, and purples. In her left hand she clutched a bronze rail to steady her descent; in her right she squeezed the crucifix hanging around her throat. Monstrous voices echoed down after her, and she hurried along as best she could. Finally, she reached the bottom, and found herself in a large, octagonal room. It was lit by strange but captivating blue-flame torches that produced enough lumens to reveal an intricate design etched into the floor. It was a large rendition of the cuneiform symbol on Hommler’s ring.

  She spit irreverently on the design while passing over it, then limped into a high-ceilinged corridor. They’d find her soon—and she’d have hell to pay. The voices and running feet were drawing nearer; they had almost reached the bottom of the stairs. Suddenly, the corridor emptied into a huge room. Row upon row of what looked to be silver drums crowded before her. With no egress in sight, she squirmed between the cold metal objects and crouched low. One of the drums was larger than the rest, and featured a pulsing red light. Its beat was inconsistent, but steadily grew faster.

  The vampire bounded into the room, panting from the exertion. His lanky, atrophied body struggled with the cardio output required for his sprint through the castle as evidenced by his large gasps. The red light on the largest drum was beating rapidly.

  “Keedu!” he screamed behind him. “Fan out down here—send a squad to the catacombs, and another to guard the stairwell. I’m staying here to make sure she doesn’t enter the room of Usher.”

  “Master,” the acolyte entered with wringing hands, “how many troops should I assign to each squad?”

  “Decide for yourself, you fatidic fool,” he upbraided. “Wait, stand down. That won’t be necessary.” His eyes had caught movement amid the gleaming drums. “Marisela, I know you’re there. Please come out.”

  “No!” She stood up, deep in the arrangement of the peculiar objects. Just her eyes cleared the tops of the drums.

  “Marisela, you don’t know what you’re standing amid. Come out of there—now!”

  “I don’t care what it is—I don’t want to be beaten!” Her jaw quivered, and tears seeped from her healthy eye. “He beats me everyday—I can’t take it—I can’t take it anymore!”

  “Well, in that case I’ll make you a deal. If you come out now, I’ll stop Mictlan from abusing you for three whole days. But if you continue to cower back there I’ll tell Mictlan to expedite his sacrificial schedule and will feast upon your heart myself, this evening!”

  She gasped, and drifted further back into the metal recesses.

  “I’ll pull the little bitch out.” A woman entered and threw back the hood of her robe. Her gray head was shaved, and was the canvass for an intricate cuneiform tattoo. She prepared to shoulder into the array of metal drums.

  “The hell if you will, Astarta!” Hommler slapped the back of her bull neck. “Need I remind you where we stand—where she stands? This is the room of Usher! The last thing I need is you lumbering around knocking things over. We’re going to do things my way—we’re going to coax her out. Now leave the room so I can calm her down.” Hommler’s pulse began to normalize, and the blinking red light on the metal device seemed to track his cardiac rhythm.

  The woman shrugged her broad shoulders and trudged away.

  “Five days,” squeaked the girl. “He can’t beat me for five days.”

  “Five days? So be it. Now come out so we can go eat lunch and you can explain to me how you escaped your prison.”

  “And three meals a day—nothing disgusting—and I don’t want you to rip anything out of my mouth or take my plate away before I’m done.”

  “It would seem you have me over a barrel.” The vampire laughed ironically. “You have my word—for whatever paltry sum that is. Now step out from those drums, my dear. Delicately—delicately, now. That’s it—that’s it.” He coaxed softly, as his breathing normalized. The red light’s beat had slowed to a steady rhythm.

  The girl emerged tentatively from the metal columns.

  “Are you going to go back on your word?” Her inquiry was accusatory.

  “I could—I normally would. But I think I would like to explore the notion of keeping my word, for once. You may have your five days—it will be a good opportunity to assess Mictlan’s obedience. You see, the priest wants nothing more than your continued agony. I’m curious to see how he’ll react to its abeyance.”

  Several hours later, Marisela had finished the last of a salad, hamburger, and a bowl of ice cream. She sat, cross legged and replete, on the flagstones before Hommler’s throne. She had pushed the silver plates, spotless but for a few crumbs, to one side. Painfully, she poured herself another glass of hot chocolate from a decanter. Her fingers had been battered so frequently that it was difficult to hold objects. But the warmth of the mug in her hand, and the sweetness of the chocolate in her scratchy throat, outweighed the discomfort.

  “So you see, Marisela, dynastic decay and decadence are central themes in gothic literature.” He was pacing before the expansive, stained glass windows. “Aristocracy, nobility, even monastic hierarchy—all are implicated at some time or other in my favorite tales as incubatory environments for Gothicism.”

  “Why do you like Gothic literature so much?” she asked.

  His eyebrows drew so close that they nearly conjoined. He pondered for a few moments, then snickered.

  “Because, I’m a Goth. I’m a Goth because ever since I can remember I’ve been drawn to darkness and supernaturalism. Speaking of which, how far have you progressed in the books I’ve assigned you?”

  “I finished the Poe and the Lovecraft. I’m midway through the LeFanu.”

  “What of James and Walpole, Blackwood and Hawthorne? Why aren’t you reading faster? Don’t you find your reading fascinating?” He glared at her from a distance, lips rubiate with blood.

  “No, no—I love them so far.” Her good mood sank. “It’s—it’s just hard to focus when you’re starving and in pain.”

  He walked closer and plumbed her brown eyes. Then he smiled, as if reassured.

  “Did you know,” he recommenced his didactic, professor’s tone, “that I’m a lonely man? I’m lonely because I have no one to discuss great literature with.” He stared into one of the braziers, and laughed. “I remember about a year ago I gave Swan the very reading list I assigned to you. He hated it. He especially detested the Lovecraft—for reasons you must be well aware of by now.”

  “Yeah,” she laughed, “I noticed there was marginalia hand written in that ‘Cthulhu’ story. Every time there was a politically incorrect word or idea there’d be this winding response in blue ink right next to it.”

  “Swan must have written that—I lent him the same copy.” He grinned. “What did he write?”

  “Oh, just all these words like ‘blasphemer’ and ‘heretic’ over and over again. One of his best ones was, ‘Mr. Lovecraft, you are loathed by Divine Color.’ As if the author could read it or something.”

  “That’s grand!” Hommler seized the dragon blade by his throne and unsheathed it with a metallic hum. “You see, my girl, I have used that fool as a vehicle for my political ascension. As I have used Gibbles and the rest. But there will come a day when they will be forced to acknowledge my autocracy or face my wrath. I grow weary of de facto power—I want de jure power as well. And it will come—mark my words, girl—I seized my power out of thin air and made it deathly tangible—its formal recognition by the world is imminent.”

  There was a kno
ck at the throne room door. Hommler tapped a button on a remote he carried in his robes and Mictlan, precariously carrying some large, multi-colored object, appeared on a pane of light.

  “Come in, priest. I see that you come bearing more gifts.”

  The doors swung wide and the guest entered. In his hands was a splendid headdress, avian with its multitude of feathers.

  “If you were a Greek, I’d begin to wonder about your intent. You can put it over there with the rest.” Hommler nodded to a dark corner of the room where a collection of Mesoamerican artifacts and decorative items had accumulated.

  But Mictlan proceeded directly to the vampire, fell to a knee, and held up the gift.

  “You are as my beloved son,” he intoned somberly.

  “Yes, yes—what am I supposed to say again?” asked the vampire impatiently. “You’re my father?”

  The priest shook his head quickly.

  “Oh, yes, you are as my beloved father.” Hommler corrected. “Now, go put it with the rest.”

  Glaring at Marisela, the priest walked to the corner and gingerly placed his gift on the floor among the others.

  “Why did you feed her?” Mictlan demanded as he strode back into view. “I told you, she must fast before her sacrifice.”

  “Without nourishment she’ll die. Now, do you really want to tear the soggy, lifeless heart out of a corpse? Or do you want a nice, fresh, beating heart for your sacrifice? If you want the latter, we must feed her here and there.”

  “I want a nice, fresh, beating heart for my sacrifice,” he worded robotically.

  “Good,” said the revenant. “Then leave us—I’m discussing fine literature with the girl.”

  “All right. But send her to me within the hour. Her left knee has yet to feel my cane—I desire to hear her cries when it does.”

  “Not tonight, I’m afraid.” Hommler rested his hands on the pommel of his sword. “She gets a five day break—I promised her.”

  Mictlan’s face betrayed a quick calculation in his mind. “Fine,” he said. “That will merely postpone her sacrifice by five days.”

  “Yes. Now, be gone,” commanded Hommler. Eyes narrowed, the Aztec withdrew from the chamber.

  “All right, let us resume our discussion and pray for no more intrusions. Oh, by the way, do you happen to know why he’s showering me with these gifts?”

  “I’m a Christian, not a pagan,” she said. “I don’t know what their customs are.”

  Hommler frowned. “Too bad Teo’s dead. Perhaps he could have enlightened me. Oh, well, the simple fool is so impressed by my relationship with the gods, I suppose he wished to honor me. I asked him about it the other day, and he said he was bound to do so according to custom.”

  “Before we start the lecture again, I have a question.” She was emboldened by his pleasant mood.

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you treating me so nice all of a sudden?”

  He was silent for a moment as he ruminated a proper answer. “Aren’t I always nice to you?” he finally asked, coyly.

  “Yeah, right. Seriously.”

  “All right—I’m felicitous over the imminent destruction of one of your father’s army groups. You see, wily Guerrero divided his army in three. One army group is headed eastward through the northern U.S. toward Michigan and Illinois. The center army group is plunging through the central Midwest, and at the moment is nearing the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. The bottom army group is weaving through the southern states. I don’t know why your father divided his army in this fashion—it smacks of Operation Barbarossa, and we all know how that invasion concluded.”

  “Where are you going to attack?” she asked, her hands crunching into uncomfortable fists.

  “I’d like to respond with ‘everywhere.’ Fortunately, I possess a strong enough grasp of military tactics to understand basic principles such as concentration of force, duplicity, and the advantage conferred by defensive terrain. Your father is at the head of his central army group, and marches with the eagle knights, jaguar knights, and a solid backbone of regular army divisions. My scouts also report that two additional elite divisions unbeknownst to me march with your father—crack divisions outranking even the eagle knights.”

  “The Otontin and Cuahchicqueh.” Her eyes fell to the floor.

  “Yes. It appears your father is going all out. I anticipate he’ll be more prone to order frontal assaults due to his mood and timetable. That’s why I’ve entrenched the Order of Tiamat, and several divisions of the American army, in the Rockies. They’ll wait until army group center is bogged down in the snow and mountain passes, then rain down plasma hell.” The fiend grinned.

  “But my father is with that battle group!” she screamed. “Please, please don’t kill him!”

  “My dear, they invaded my country, what do you expect? It is simply a case of self-defense.”

  “Yeah, they invaded because you kidnapped me and are gonna kill me you smart ass. Well, I’ll tell you what—your soldiers are stupid. You think that Order of Tiamat is so tough just because they’re fanatical. But whatever advantage that fanaticism brings is outweighed by their awkwardness. They don’t have common sense, and they’ve got slow reaction time.”

  “Touche.” He rested his chin in the crease between his thumb and index finger. “But give me a monster any day that may be a bit ponderous but whose loyalty and bravery are unflagging. At any rate, your father’s troops will walk headfirst into all manner of fortifications—pill boxes, redoubts, trenches—all with criss-crossing lines of fire. They will await the same fate met by the two commando attempts to rescue you so far.”

  “What attempts?” She gasped.

  “The first time they tried glider troops and the second time they landed a helicopter in my courtyard. Those troops of mine that you’re so dismissive of handily foiled each attempt.

  “Guerrero and his men may be walking into my trap even as we speak. To hasten his pulse and ruin his tactical edge I transmitted a collection of videos to his email this morning of Mictlan beating the hell out of you.”

  “Daddy,” she whispered, as her face grimaced in tears.

  Chapter 41

  Laurence watched his cell mate languidly bat his eyes. “All right,” he tried to laugh, but felt awkward, “this is the second time in twenty-four hours I’ve watched you come-to after they kicked your ass. You losing your grappling skills or something?”

  “Where am I . . . am I dead?” he asked, almost hopefully. But then he strained his neck to see where the fluctuations in light were coming from—it was the same maddening bulb of the padded cell. And under the exertion of craning his neck to that angle he felt the weight of a thousand baby grand pianos crush down on his contused skull. Ripples of pain telescoped through his mind, and he groaned aloud. “Fuck,” he drooled out, and the saliva stretched and retracted.

  “Looks like he cut you pretty good there, Rick.”

  “Where?” The natural desire to clutch his battered head with his hands was almost unbearable. Yet he couldn’t move them—or could he? “Holy shit,” he laughed drunkenly, in pain, “the bastard cut some of the straight jacket. Looks like my pecs took one for the team but—holy shit—I think if I fidget enough I can get my hands out of this thing.”

  “Yes!” The attorney uttered from the corner.

  Rick pushed and pulled with all his strength, and was rewarded with the pleasant sound of rending cloth.

  “I can do it—but I’m too weak right now. I need time to rest and get out of this concussion stupor. The cut burns like hell but its nothing compared to my head”

  “Just so long as you can get it off by tomorrow night.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, Rick, the big man himself brought you here when your psych evaluation was over with and you were unconscious. He just threw your ass in the corner like a rag doll. Said he would have killed you but he decided that science had to be prioritized over his own desire for pleasure.”

  “So
what’s he gonna do?”

  “Said he’s going to cut us up then graft us together again, but with mismatched appendages or something. He said that since we double-teamed my wife’s boss he’d stitch us together or something.”

  “We’re dead.”

  “Yeah, so work on getting out of your jacket. At least that way we might be able to kill some of those fuckers before they put us down for good.”

  “Laurence, I like the way you think. Hey, what’s this?” Rick felt with his chin the metal face of a triangular badge pinned to his jacket.

  “Oh, I’ve got one too—they make you wear a blue triangle if they determine that you’re heterosexual. One of the presents you receive here.”

  Rick laughed. “My God. You know what, Laurence? If we ever get out of here, I’m gonna frame that fucking pin over my desk.”

  “Me too, man. Me too.”

  The two prisoners spent the coming hours steeling themselves for death, both for their own and that of others. When Rick slumped against the padding of the wall, his head felt like the soft, dented portion of a bruised apple. And it felt like that in multiple areas. The young father wondered if he could muster the strength in his arms and hands to end life. He prayed that he’d have the strength to kill at least one of them—preferably Mangallah himself. Though he noted with some disappointment that the man’s hideousness and stature charged his system with a slight but primal fear. He’d prefer to call it caution, but he was so tired of euphemisms that anything less than naked truth was repugnant to him. Face it, he was scared to think of that monstrous hand squeezing his brain. He was frightened of the gleaming surgical tools and the gray, insane walls of the room he had been in. How he yearned to be mentally adamantine—fearless. But, he noted with some reassurance, perhaps the capacity to fear was one of the measures of being human.