The Greater Darkness

by Eldon Murphy

  Geoffrey started to sit up, only to wince as his muscles protested.

  The blue eyes watching him from behind incredibly thick lashes briefly flashed with something that he wanted to call sympathy. Only the goddess before him made no effort to offer aid.

  "You're no doubt feeling a bit rocky. Especially considering the fact that you were all but running on empty there at the end."

  She tossed her stylishly-arranged platinum-blond hair and rose gracefully to her feet, the businesslike demeanor that she'd been displaying vanishing as she walked over to Geoffrey's bed.

  "So how does it feel, love? I mean, do you really not remember anything?"

  Geoffrey slowly shook his head. "How do you know that?"

  A sly smile accompanied the woman's response. "I know everything about you. I'm honestly surprised you can't remember me. After what we shared I thought some little memory of your beloved Venice would remain. I guess that part wasn't meant to be."

  Venice. Geoffrey rolled the name around his mind, half expecting some recollection to make its way up from the dark depths of his memory, but nothing appeared.

  Venice was closer now, inching his direction as if worried that a sudden movement would frighten him. As he took in the delicate features and youthful, perfect body, Geoffrey felt a momentary sense of incredible fortune. It seemed impossible that someone so gorgeous would not only know his past, but also be interested in him.

  The moment of perfection was ruined as Venice came within arm's reach of Geoffrey and he suddenly got a strong sense of wrongness. It was as if an errant breeze had wafted a subtle scent of decay past him.

  The impression lasted only a split second. Once it had fled Geoffrey could detect nothing wrong with the picture of beauty that was moving ever so slowly closer to his lips, but he couldn't shake the sense of unease. It felt like the lovely exterior Venice presented to the world had been peeled back affording him a glimpse of the real person underneath.

  Pulling back slightly, Geoffrey tried to sort out his thoughts, but Venice was sitting on the creaky bed now stroking his face.

  "Come now, no need to be so shy. I know you better than you can possibly imagine."

  When Geoffrey didn't respond Venice shrugged and then stood up. "Suit yourself, love."

  Pointing at a long bundle Geoffrey hadn't noticed before, Venice smiled. "I did bring you a present though, something that should warm your cold-blooded little heart. At least in your present state you're controlled enough we can give you a weapon without worrying who you'll decide to chop into little pieces."

  Geoffrey opened his mouth to snap back that he wasn't the killer Imastious was making him out to be, only to gasp as he got a strong impression that Venice was telling the truth. There was no way for him to know that she was telling the truth, but he somehow knew that she believed what she'd just told him. Who had he been that he'd thought nothing of killing random bystanders?

  As preoccupied as he was about the ramifications of what Venice had just said, Geoffrey was still able to catch the rest of her departing words.

  "Imastious left strict instructions for me to tell you that a continued failure to kill your assigned target will be punished much more harshly than what you experienced last night."

  Venice paused for a moment as if to let Geoffrey digest this latest piece of information. "I used to intervene with Imastious on your behalf, and I might be able to persuade him in your favor on some things still, but an attempt to do so puts me in no little risk of disfavor. That's a risk that I'm not willing to entertain for just anyone. You might give that some thought before you casually dismiss my affections again."

  Geoffrey remained motionless on his bed for quite some time after Venice's shapely body had disappeared behind the closing door, but no amount of thought illuminated his path in the slightest.

  The faintest stirrings of hunger finally pulled Geoffrey out of bed and into motion. The carton of leftover Chinese takeout did nothing to diminish the hunger. It didn't make sense, but it no longer surprised him. Once out of bed, it was only logical to shower and dress in one of the dark button-up shirts and the jeans that seemed to be the only things his closet contained.

  Apparently even the damned tended to have a bit cheerier outlook once they were up and moving.

  A short time later, Geoffrey found himself standing by the door holding the wrapped bundle that Venice had left. It seemed he had nothing to lose by opening it.

  It really shouldn't have been a surprise that the bundle contained a sword, not after Venice's comment about cutting people into little pieces, but the katana inside the layers of cloth took Geoffrey's breath away regardless. It was that exquisite.

  Without thinking Geoffrey whipped the blade through several strikes, and then stopped in amazement at how lively and perfect the weapon felt. Examining the sword, Geoffrey saw that the polish on the blade was superb, revealing the grain and hamon of the blade without becoming overly shiny. A hundred other signs, things that Geoffrey hadn't even realized he'd known about before that moment, all pointed towards this being a masterfully crafted weapon.

  How did he know all of these things? How many hundreds of hours of practice went into being able to handle a sword as if it were a natural extension of one's arm?

  Walking for several hours did little to calm Geoffrey's mind, possibly because the katana hanging at his side served as a constant reminder of exactly the things that were bothering him. He considered returning to the apartment and leaving the weapon there, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it, more because he didn't want to risk letting it out of his sight than because he expected to need it. Consequently, the katana accompanied him, hanging from the cleverly constructed harness that allowed him to hide the weapon under the dark trench coat that the weapon had been initially wrapped in.

  The sword was only useful for killing people, but it was still a piece of what he'd been and he couldn't bear to part himself from anything--even something this grisly--that might help put some of those pieces together.

  The darkness didn't have the naked menace of the night before. Instead it had a cold, lonely feel to it that was every bit as bad in its own way. The steady drizzle of rain and the late hour had served to drive nearly all of the city's occupants indoors, while simultaneously muting the sounds of the few hardier souls still about. As a result, it was almost possible to believe Geoffrey was the only person living in the desolate ruins of a once-great city.

  The cold had slowly seeped through the trench coat and now was becoming a pressing concern as Geoffrey started to shiver. How had his feet gotten so cold? The streams of water racing down each edge of the street were making steady progress on cleaning up some of the refuse that had been everywhere last night, but that seemed a poor trade for being so miserable.

  The shifting curtain of rain almost completely hid the buildings on the other side of the street, but Geoffrey suddenly felt compelled to cross the road. Making his way in the direction of the tugging proved to strengthen the feeling, and Geoffrey was soon standing in front of what appeared to be a church--if the term could be applied to a building in such an obvious state of disrepair.

  A pair of paper fliers, illegible after being exposed to the rain, hung from the doors, giving the impression that the church was open for business, as it were. A cautious touch revealed that the door was indeed unlocked, so Geoffrey quietly walked inside.

  Once inside it was immediately obvious that a funeral was underway. From what Geoffrey was able to see of the casket, the deceased looked like he was approximately Geoffrey's age.

  Other than hard wooden pews, the chapel didn't have many of the features Geoffrey expected from a house of worship. There wasn't any incense burning, the stained glass windows--if there had ever been any--had long since been boarded up, and there wasn't a cross or crucifix to be seen. The plain white plaster walls were clean, as was the dark, wooden floor, but that was about as much as could be said in its favor.

  As he completed
his survey of the room and its occupants, Geoffrey found his eyes drawn towards the man speaking from the heavily worn pulpit.

  "James was, by all accounts, a fine example of a man in most all of the respects that truly matter. In the course of preparing to speak these few words tonight, I talked with many who knew and loved him. When he was sixteen, he drove off two other boys who seemed intent on victimizing a young girl he didn't even know."

  Geoffrey spotted a vacant bench at the back of the room, one where he wouldn't have his back to any doors, and silently walked over and sat down.

  The speaker continued. "I don't have to tell any of you the kind of risk that act entailed in our city. Offended gang members have shot people for less. But God protected James, and he suffered no harm as a result of his efforts."

  Some tightly wound part of Geoffrey started to relax. The sound of rain falling on the roof wasn't loud enough to distract from the speaker, but the steady thrum seemed to echo around inside Geoffrey's head until it felt as if it came from all around him, especially from the people.

  "In our city--where education has become a sorry attempt at validating even those students who refuse to put forth a minimal effort to learn--James applied himself and graduated with honors, securing a scholarship to Fordham University."

  The thrum pulled Geoffrey's attention towards the front of the chapel where two women, one young, the other old, sat holding each other in a futile effort to calm their mutual grief, to quiet their sobs.

  "…most young men in this town drift from one woman to another, fathering children and then taking no responsibility for their education and care. James is survived by his wife of three years, that same young girl he saved years ago."

  The priest paused, seemingly gathering his thoughts. "Anytime someone is gunned down in a case of mistaken identity, it is a terrible day. James' death, the death of someone so essentially good, is nothing less than a tragedy."

  The grief pouring from the two women was so obvious, so intense, that Geoffrey imagined he could almost feel it. It pounded at him in jagged waves, beating in time with the falling rain.

  The words coming from the pulpit continued in the same measured, heartfelt tone that they had since Geoffrey entered the church, but he no longer heard them.

  Some part of Geoffrey longed to comfort the women, so much so that he imagined reaching out and smoothing away the harsh, bitter edge of their sorrow. Only that wouldn't be fair or right. They needed their grief, needed to go through the mourning process. Instead of oblivion they needed shielded a little from the extreme pain, just enough for them to begin to heal.

  The world spun away as Geoffrey focused on that one truth, the only thing that mattered in that instant.

  A gentle hand on Geoffrey's shoulder woke him some time later. Looking around in confusion, Geoffrey was surprised by his surroundings. What kind of hardened killer would allow himself to fall asleep in such an exposed place?

  It seemed more than a little amazing that Geoffrey had managed to avoid hurting the poor priest when the other man had startled him awake, but if he could refrain from breaking a priest's arm in four separate places just for disturbing his sleep, maybe there was still some hope for him.

  "Are you okay, my son?"

  The kindly, old face that looked down at Geoffrey belonged to the priest who'd been speaking from the pulpit.

  "Yes, I believe so; I just got very tired." As the words left Geoffrey's mouth, he realized it was true, or rather that he was very tired right now. He had been fine when he entered the chapel, but now felt exhausted.

  "May I ask how you knew the deceased?"

  Geoffrey wanted to bristle at the question, but something told him that the old man wasn't trying to pry.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't know him. It was raining outside and something seemed to draw me here. It was so peaceful that I stayed. I never intended to fall asleep." Geoffrey was surprised as he realized that whatever half-formed lie he had been considering telling the priest had just been preempted by the truth.

  A kindly smile rewarded Geoffrey, almost as if the man knew he'd spoken the truth rather than the lie that most people would have responded with. "I also find this building peaceful. It was abandoned by the Catholic Church many years ago, but has served this community for quite some time since. It hasn't always brought people the peace they were looking for though."

  Geoffrey blinked slightly, wondering where the old man was headed.

  "James' wife and mother were devastated by his death. They seemed to find no peace upon arriving here. In fact, they seemed to worsen as the night went on, until the last quarter of the service. Somehow in that last half an hour they began to accept their loss; it was like something was shielding them from the worst effects of their sorrow so that they could begin the process of becoming whole again."

  The priest paused for a moment as if awaiting some response from Geoffrey, but the maelstrom of thoughts swirling through Geoffrey's mind precluded mere words.

  "What do you think caused that change, my son?"

  It wasn't possible. Geoffrey had just been pretending, imagining what he'd have done if he'd been able, but he hadn't actually done anything. Nobody could influence another's mind like that.

  "I don't know, sir, I'm afraid I was asleep while all that happened."

  A pair of weary brown eyes seemed to examine the depths of Geoffrey's soul. "I don't suppose I know either. However, you are welcome here whenever you feel inclined to come for a visit. It is always hardest for those who provide peace for others to find it themselves."

  Chapter 3

  Geoffrey tiredly wondered whether or not he should go home. He thought of the apartment as home now, but there wasn't any other place he'd rather avoid. The rooms had seemed to shrink as they'd come to symbolize just how little real freedom he had. He'd thought of leaving, of running away, or possibly of going to the police and reporting Imastious' attempts to have him kill the target. He had no resources with which to run away though and the police were likewise out as an option.

  If even a fraction of what Venice and Imastious implied about his past was true, it was much more likely that he'd end up in prison rather than Imastious. Not only that, but even if Geoffrey did somehow manage to convince the police to believe him, he wouldn't be able to tell them where to find Imastious.

  With an exhausted shrug, Geoffrey turned and started back toward his apartment, which at least served as a refuge from the sunlight that increasingly seemed to be too much for his eyes.

  A short time later, Geoffrey found himself standing before his door. As he pulled out his keys, he realized something was different. There wasn't any logical way for him to know that there was already someone inside his apartment, but he was somehow positive that there was someone waiting for him on the other side of the door. A flood of possible explanations flowed through Geoffrey's mind, but most of them didn't quite fit.

  The only thing he could come up with that made any sense was that there were subtle physical signs that had tipped him off which he hadn't consciously noticed. Something that an experienced assassin would notice, but which he no longer even knew to check for.

  Gripping the katana Venice had left him, Geoffrey debated whether or not to confront whoever was inside, only to hear a voice that had taken to haunting his dreams.

  "Do come inside, Geoffrey; we've been waiting for you for quite some time now."

  Carefully swinging the door open, Geoffrey saw Imastious sitting casually on the sofa once again. The empty, unblinking eyes watching Geoffrey made him feel somehow unclean.

  "What do you want?"

  For a second, Imastious didn't respond. Then, faster than Geoffrey's eyes could follow, the frail-looking man sprang from the sofa, grabbed him by the throat, and threw him into the wall next to the door with unbelievable strength. Geoffrey's ribs creaked from the impact. His head hit hard enough that he saw stars, but the more immediate concern was the fact that he couldn't manage to draw a breath, not
with Imastious' hand closing off his windpipe.

  "I have made some very unusual allowances for your behavior in light of your situation, in light of the fact that you have no memory of your true place in the world. Those allowances have been excessive. You will show me proper respect, or I will kill you."

  The vise-like hand holding Geoffrey didn't move in the slightest despite his furious efforts to free himself. As Geoffrey's vision began to fade, his panic subsided long enough for him to remember the sword hanging at his side.

  Releasing Imastious' wrist with his right hand, Geoffrey reached for his weapon. He drew it awkwardly, only to find his hand and arm somehow immobilized a split second later. Geoffrey directed the small tunnel of vision remaining him down towards his arm, expecting to find Imastious' free hand restraining him, but there was nothing visibly stopping him from completing the cut and chopping Imastious' right arm off.

  The last thing Geoffrey saw before passing out was Imastious' cold eyes staring at the katana with an intensity that was somehow surprising.

  **

  A sudden blow drew Geoffrey back from the abyss in which he had been floating. Apparently he was too slow regaining consciousness; Imastious cuffed him twice more before he was aware enough to croak out a protest.

  "I hope you've been suitably chastised for your impertinence. Unfortunately for you, this still leaves the rather larger matter that brought me here in the first place."

  The emotionless voice brought everything back to Geoffrey in a rush. He tried to flail, but silvery strands of duct tape cut into his wrists with each movement.

  "I would be more than happy to leave you in the solitude you have always desired--that you no doubt still desire--if you would simply complete a few small tasks for me from time to time. For one of your skills and disposition these tasks are trivial, but for whatever reason, you find yourself reluctant to complete them in the desired manner and in the proper time frame."