by S. H. Roddey
“Ne me tuez pas…” he repeated, begging me for his life. Don’t kill me…don’t kill me…don’t kill me.
I cornered the sniveling creature against the wall where he tried to make himself small and unassuming, all the while pleading for mercy. Should he be who I expected, I would show him none. Even if he wasn’t, I didn’t feel particularly inclined to be lenient tonight.
“Où est la Fraternité?” I asked in response, pulling him up by the neck of his robes and pushing him back against the wall. The fabric fell away, revealing a frightened young man with a series of jagged, pink lines down one side of his face. Claw marks. She put up one hell of a fight after all. He shook his head at me and sniffled.
“Non, non, non, non,” he chanted, leaning heavily back to support his weight. His ruined leg dangled awkwardly to the side. “Ne pas Fraternité.”
No Brotherhood.
I pulled the coin from my pocket and held it up to him. His eyes went wide with confusion, and he shook his head.
“Ne pas Fraternité!” he repeated. He clasped his hands in front of him—half in prayer, half to beg—and would likely have gone down on his knees if he could stomach the pain. “Non, non, non…s’il vous plaît…non!”
Damn.
In my experience, no man lied when in the throes of such excruciating pain as this one. A predator he may well have been, but he was not connected to the beasts I hunted.
As much as I wanted to tear him apart, I refrained. Instead, I let him fall back to the dirty street, kicking his injured leg as I turned away. The sound of his scream echoed down the road behind me.
Chapter 3
I took a room on the south bank of the Seine under the name of Schmidt. The innkeeper scarcely acknowledged the atrocity of my face as he happily accepted my coin.
“How long will you stay?” he asked.
“A week, at least,” I confirmed. “Perhaps more.”
“Are you here for business or pleasure?” He offered a tentative smile as he placed the money into a box beneath the counter.
“Business…of a sort.”
He nodded and passed the key across the counter. “Room seven. Third floor.”
I took up the key and turned for the stairs. His daughter glanced up at me only for a moment before returning to her duty of sweeping the floor. Twice after that she looked back, her mouth falling open as she took in my size and the scars crisscrossing my face and arms.
Upon entering the room, I pushed the single chair under the door’s handle and crossed to the window. The third-floor placement of my quarters afforded me a mostly unobstructed view of the cathedral and the city behind it. As I stared out at the sprawling, urban landscape, I grew restless, uneasy. I wanted more information, but Luke shared nothing. My trust in him waned as did any faith in my ability to end this new nightmare.
So, I watched. History taught me to remain vigilant or risk the wrath of frightened mortals. Back and forth between the window and the door, I kept watch through the night, anticipating an attack that never came. At least Paris seemed a bit more civilized than many other places I’d visited over the years.
I began to walk the streets of Paris on the second day, learning the landscape around my temporary home. My anxiety grew as I took in block after block of…nothing.
I slept on the third night, but my dreams taunted me with bloody images from my past: the atrocities I’d committed, the horrors wrought upon my body… When I woke at dawn, I did so with such unrest that I struggled to focus on my reason for being in Paris at all.
My experience with the Brotherhood left me with vast knowledge of their movement patterns and habits, and the yawning urban landscape gave me multiple options. They favored out-of-the-way places most men would never go for their dark deeds: dank crypts, abandoned warehouses, and condemned structures. Paris offered many of each.
Luke said they were here, that they’d come with a woman capable of wreaking havoc on this world. Thus far I’d met only one who matched the description, but even my raining down bodily harm on the young man turned up a dead end.
I began my search on the Isle de Cite, in the area surrounding Notre-Dame Cathedral. The empty buildings were exactly that—empty. None of the cemeteries held vaults or crypts large enough to accommodate a cult.
I moved west into the far reaches of the city and turned up nothing. No signs of a cult. No more disappeared children. Nothing of value. I found the same as I moved south, through the neighborhoods of aristocrats and the wealthy upper classes. Nothing in this area showed signs of the Brotherhood, either.
My spirits rose as I moved east. There were very few places for the Brotherhood to hide, even in a city this large. Surely I would come across something. I searched gardens for hidden doors and empty structures for signs of life. Again and again, I found nothing, and the last of my optimism vanished. The cemeteries—those with underground vaults—turned up nothing but a few used candles and some old footprints.
The more I searched, the more I began to wonder if Luke’s information was, in fact, reliable. Perhaps his American nemeses chose to stay in America. Or perhaps they moved on to another city. For all I knew, they weren’t even in Paris.
I tried to tell myself that Luke would not lie to me…but he already had. My faith in my friend was failing. Quickly.
The only other plausible option I could think of was that the Brotherhood was watching me. I’d traveled the whole of Europe, eliminating them coven by coven, and had yet to find them so far ahead of me. Luke had hinted that this new lot was American… Perhaps their customs were different from the old country. That thought only served to frustrate me more.
I searched the final crypt in Pere Lachaise cemetery—a memorial garden filled with crypts and vaults perfect for the Brotherhood’s underhanded activities—and found nothing but a used candle and a bunch of wilted flowers, a token of affection from a loved one.
Frustration turned to anger, and the urge to drive my fist through the head of any person to come within arm’s reach nearly overwhelmed me. The monster inside begged for release. Thirsted for blood. It had been far too long.
I walked along the darkened streets a block over from the Rue des Champs-Elysees, listening to the raucous music, catcalls, and general gaiety of the unsuspecting revelers. Had they known a beast such as I lurked just meters from where they moved about in drunken glee, I doubt they would have been so carefree.
But I did not give in. I kept my course, watching the shadows and silently taunting— hoping to provoke—another attack on my person. If they wanted me dead, it meant they’d grown reckless.
“Big man.”
The voice was so quiet I nearly missed it. I turned back to the empty street behind me, wondering if the voice had been nothing more than a trick of the wind. Shrugging it off as a machination of my overtaxed mind, I walked on.
“Big man.”
The voice was stronger this time, more real. I stopped again and waited.
“Do you fight?”
I looked around at the empty streets and deep shadows, but found no one. The sharp crackle of paper in the wind overhead drew my attention. I looked up as a tattered scrap floated toward me.
Fights for Money
5 Franc minimum bet
5 Franc entry fee to fight
Rue des Petits Champs — Montmartre
To fight for money? It had to be a trap.
The very idea seemed preposterous, yet I could not help but be drawn to it. The funds would certainly assist me in my travels, but to expel the fury boiling inside me in what could almost be considered a constructive manner?
Before I consciously made the decision to go, I’d changed course, turning back for the northern end of the city. Two blocks down, I slipped into an alley where I crossed the Champs-Elysees and made my way into the sparsely lighted area the locals called Montmartre. A hand-painted wooden sign greeted me, the bright colors welcoming in the darkness, or would have been if the area did not appear wholly aban
doned. Any sane individual would have walked away, but I—driven by my intense need to destroy—crossed over into the lumbering darkness.
“Big man.”
That voice again, insidious in its intent, crept over me. “Two blocks more,” it said. “Left. The door with the black drape over its lamp.”
I glanced up in time to catch a whisper of movement. Not enough to identify the owner of the voice, but enough to know I had not, in fact, completely lost my hold on sanity. The voice did belong to a person. One who followed me for several blocks without attacking.
I followed his instructions, the bloodlust running through my veins. The toxic combination led me up to a weathered, wooden door. I rapped hard against the iron bands across it.
A panel slid open, and a pair of beady eyes glared out, widening in shock as they took in my size and appearance. I held up the tattered flyer in my hand.
“Fight or bet?” the man attached to the eyes asked.
“Fight.”
“Back door.” A spindly hand appeared through the slot and pointed to my left. “That way.”
The panel slammed, leaving me in darkness again. I turned in the direction indicated and found a narrow alleyway. At the end was a door, and a small, weaselly man holding it open.
“Name?”
I paused. I hated that question. Nothing good ever came of the name to which I’d been born, yet now…now, it seemed appropriate.
“Frankenstein,” I replied after long thought.
“German?” he asked.
I nodded.
He nodded in return and stepped inside, allowing me entrance. As the door closed behind me, the space inside grew darker than the shadows on the street and more humid. The air smelled of blood and urine, and beneath the roar of the gathered spectators in another chamber hung the sound of someone vomiting.
“You fight before?” the stranger asked as we picked our way through the pitch.
“In a cage?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He laughed. “At least you are big. Should give the audience a good show.”
I followed the sound of his footsteps into a small, dimly lit room. Bowls of pink-tinted water and bloody rags lay strewn about the floor. Shredded clothing mingled with the rags, and several teeth—broken near the root and clinging to bits of their native flesh—crunched under my companion’s boots.
He turned abruptly, and I only just halted to keep from trampling him.
“Entry fee,” he said, holding out his hand.
I pulled several coins from my pocket and dropped them into his waiting palm. He bit them, nodded, and turned back.
“No shirt, no shoes,” he said, pulling open another door. The sound of crowd in the next chamber grew louder. “You fight next. Wait here.” He pushed through and the sounds of the fighting in the next room died away as the door slammed shut.
Five minutes later, a new face appeared as the door cracked open.
“You Frank?” he asked.
I nodded, cringing at the shortened version of my name. It sounded so vulgar, yet…normal. As if I could pass for an average human, my size notwithstanding.
“Come with me. Your turn to face the Beast.”
I followed him down a long hallway and into an open warehouse. Roughly a hundred men stood in a tight circle around a large, metal cage on a heavy platform. Gaslights focused through plates of thick glass illuminated the interior, where a man nearly my size punched a much smaller man in the face, throat, and chest. The smaller man, upon release, slumped to the ground and did not move. The larger man let go a ferocious and somewhat comical roar.
“Who dares take on the Beast?” he shouted, and the men outside the cage cried out in response. Two others dressed in black entered the cage. As one dragged the unconscious man away, the other raised his hands. The crowd fell silent.
“Another victory for the Beast!” he cried, and the audience responded with mixed shouts of approval and anger. “But fear not! We have a new challenger! From the depths of the German wilderness comes a monster unlike any you’ve ever seen…” He pointed toward me, and the crowd turned my direction as the unconscious man slithered past me in the arms of his handler. What cheers had begun fell away.
The sweet, metallic scent of fresh blood assaulted me. Rage boiled. The blood spilled needed to come from my hand, not someone else’s. Then, the announcer continued his introduction over the top of the hateful litany in my head.
“Here he is—Frankenstein, the Monster!”
Rage erupted into fury. The once screaming mass of men remained deathly silent as they watched me pass. I pulled my shirt away and dropped it to the floor, revealing the tattered patchwork of my body. Expressions of shock and horror crossed their faces as I ascended the creaking steps into the cage.
The announcer slipped out and the gate closed. The Beast—a large, broad-shouldered Middle-Eastern man with a dark complexion and long, stringy black hair—showed the barest hint of apprehension. His dark eyes flashed in a mix of anger and fear. His thin lip curled to reveal yellowed, crumbling teeth. He smiled, then he roared at me.
“Shut up, you ass,” I said. His expression darkened, and adrenaline spiked through my system. I wanted him angry and reckless. I pushed more. “You all but killed that little man. Now take on someone your size. Try and hurt me.”
The Beast lunged. I moved slowly by design, allowing his fist to connect with my shoulder. The squelch of meat on meat echoing through the silent warehouse seemed to draw the spectators from their stupor. They cheered as I took two hard hits to the chest. Pain flared from the points of impact—this man was stronger than I anticipated—and I allowed my anger to intensify.
“Is that the best you can do?” I asked, offering my own half-feral smile.
He snarled and swung on me again. I caught his fist in my hand and responded with two sharp strikes to his face. I pulled both punches so not to send him to the floor. He shouted as blood spurted from his nose, coating my chest in red mist.
The burn of exertion in my muscles felt good. I wasn’t ready to give it up so fast.
Another pause stilled the audience, and I brought my elbow up to connect with his throat. The Beast stumbled back, coughing and gagging. I remained immobile, waiting for his next attack.
When he struck, it came across my jaw hard. Standing nearly as tall as me had its advantage, and the blow knocked me off balance. I stumbled, then righted myself and doubled him over with a punch to the belly. I caught him by the ears and brought my knee up to connect with his face.
I felt rather than heard the crack as his jaw fractured. The Beast pulled away, spitting blood and teeth onto the platform. The satisfaction of knowing I could best this man fueled me, and when he returned for another swing, I caught his arm by the wrist and brought my elbow down across it, snapping the bone.
He howled again, this time in pain, and the noise of the crowd intensified. I did not allow him to recover. I closed the distance between us and landed four hard punches to his chest, throat, and face. The last blow shattered his cheekbone, and the side of his head collapsed around my fist. The Beast went down fast, landing hard on the wooden platform and not moving again. Blood trickled from his nose, mouth, and right eye.
The crowd exploded in an ear-splitting cacophony of cheers and curses as the two men in black clothes entered the cage. One bent and pressed his fingers into the Beast’s throat. The crowd stilled.
He shook his head as he stood.
“The Beast is dead…” the announcer said, his voice a mixture of shock and awe. His mouth fell open as he looked from the dead man to me and back again. He shook himself, and the façade shifted back into place. “We have a new champion!” he shouted.
I looked down at the dead man as the announcer continued. I felt nothing. No happiness or contentment. No shame or remorse. When someone pushed a bag of coins into my hand, I only felt the weight of the money.
Chapter 4
I returned to
fight again the next night. The numbness continued, extending into every thought in my mind. At least when I was hurting people, I could feel something roughly akin to excitement or pain.
I took on six opponents in four hours and walked away with scraped knuckles, another eighty francs, and the satisfaction of knowing I’d found a way to contain the monster inside me. As long as I fought, the voices quieted. Those men who stood against me were much worse for the wear—one of which may have been hospitalized before I could wrestle my rage back into submission. I found great enjoyment in hurting these men, and amusement in allowing them to attempt to hurt me. The muscles in my arms and legs burned from the strenuous workouts, and I delighted in the stretch and slice of sinew as I moved. I also slept peacefully, a luxury I thought long gone from my life.
My seventh night in Paris—also my third in the cage—would ultimately put me on the path toward my goal. In my desire to exorcise the violent demons from my heart and head, I’d almost forgotten my reasons for coming to France at all.
After defeating four opponents—one of which managed to smuggle a weapon into the cage and leave deep lacerations across my arms and chest before I snapped his neck—I moved into the back room to wipe the blood from my body and dress myself.
As I struggled into my shirt around the still-bleeding wounds on my arms and torso, the coin I’d taken from the dead zealot fell from its place in my pocket. One of the men in black picked it up from the floor and turned it over in his hand. His face paled as he looked from the coin and back to me.
“Vicar…” he said, barely above a whisper, and fell to one knee as he crossed his arms over his chest in salutation. “You have arrived.”
I said nothing, primarily out of astonishment that I was not recognized as the monster who has disrupted so many of the Brotherhood’s activities over the years. He eventually rose from his prostrate position and dared a glance up at me.
