“Who be there?! If you step in here I will kill you dead mudderfucker!” he shouted, causing the commotion to cease. D’Artagnan blinked his eyes, seeing shadows through the sheer curtains hanging in front of the foyer window and ran to the door to meet it. He looked around and saw nothing but large paw prints that were about seven inches long and five inches wide, plastered all of his perfect lawn.
“Damn dogs,” he said, getting back to the task at hand. Relighting the sage bundle he, he walked up stairs when a sudden dizziness hit him. He reached the bedroom and his senses went into overdrive. He could feel the energy of another man behind the door. D’Artagnan closed his eyes in disbelief, the faint smell of sex crept under the door which caused him to go into a fit of rage.
He kicked down the door and found a man drilling his wife missionary style. “Mudderfucker!” he shouted as he reached for his gun, and aimed. The man jumped up and Josie reached for a blanket to cover herself.
“Hey man, let's talk this out,” the man started to say when D'Artagnan released half of the clip into his head. Blood splashed across Josie's caramel skin; bits of brain dangling from her curly hair.
“Fuck you!” she shouted, as he grabbed her and threw her across his knee. He spanked her as though she were a six-year-old child, trying to wiggle herself free. He left bruises upon her bright colored skin and threw her on the ground when he finished. He pressed the gun to her forehead as he contemplated on pulling the trigger.
“Dis be me place of peace! I goes and saves de world while you gives me pussy away! And you bring dis here, mudderfucker, in me bed?! I should kill you hoe! I shudda killed you when you fucks wit me boy Lancelot!” he shouted angrily.
Josie stared at him emotionless as though she wanted him to pull the trigger; furthering his anger. She wasn't the most beautiful of the Blue Goddesses, but had a homely beauty which D'Artagnan liked.
“Get up and clean dis shit up! You tink I won’t fucks you up because of ya papa?” he shouted, pointing at the dead body.
“You won't do anything to me. You won’t risk war with the Gods of the Black Sea. You wanted me, you got me, now deal with it,” she said smiling. D'Artagnan slapped her.
She looked at him cross. Josie stood up and reached for a robe. “No. You do it in yer birthday suit. Everyting,” he said. D'Artagnan threw Josie a bucket of cleaning supplies and watched her get to work.
He lit a blunt to calm himself as he blasted his reggae music. He laughed as her ass jiggled from scrubbing the floors and would occasionally slap it. She stripped the bed of the sheets and comforter, washed the walls and headboard.
She started crying in the midst of cleaning up, only for D'Artagnan to throw a towel at her. “Whatcha crying for?” he would shout, taunting her further.
“Now get this piece of shit outta here mon,” he ordered, offering no help. He watched her drag the dead body down the hall and out the back door where she laid him on the ground.
She sat down to catch her breath, but D'Artagnan threw a shovel at her feet and demanded that she continue cleaning up. He sat on the back porch with his pipe and watched her as she shoveled butt naked in the middle of the night.
Josie started crying and throwing a fit as she was tired and humiliated. She quickened her pace to get it over with, but hit a thud. The shovel cut through the arm of a man; rotting and juicy. She began kicking the decomposing body in frustration of her discovery.
“You gotta pick anudder spot. Dats where you put de last one,” he said laughing. The couple went on like this for the next hour until she packed the last patch of dirt upon the primitive grave.
Josie was filthy. Blood and dirt covered every part of her. Heading for the door, D'Artagnan began spraying her with a cold water hose and she cried and shouted.
“Shut de fuck up! You wake de neighbors asshole!” he said, as he sprayed the last bits of dirt off of her. She stood like a wet puppy; crying and shaking from the cold.
D'Artagnan got up and went in the house, and as Josie turned the knob of the door and it wouldn't open.
“You tink you gonna sleep in me house tonight bitch? You gotta anudder thing coming! Sleep witchu boyfriend. Outside!” he shouted, closing the blinds.
Every door and window of the house was locked, and there was no way in. She threw a rock at the window but quickly remembered D'Artagnan's protection spell which a simple rock couldn't break through.
She screamed for him to open the door until her voice gave out, eventually falling to the ground, helpless. D’Artagnan was still tickled and walked into the kitchen for a beer when he stopped in his tracks.
A large black bear was in the kitchen with its head in the refrigerator, gobbling up all of D’Artagnan’s meats and cheese, leaving the vegetables.
“Black Bear! Whatchu doing?!” he shouted, and the bear stopped to look at him. Its eyes were feral and its teeth pushed through its thick layer of gums.
“Black Bear! Hold on mon! It’s me! D’Artagnan!” he shouted, when the bear pounced towards him. D’Artagnan stretched out his hand and levitated the bear with his Magia; looking confused as to why it was attacking him.
“Black Bear. Can you see me?” he asked, but the bear began screaming. It fought to get loose but D’Artagnan’s hold on him was strong. Josie pressed her ear on the door trying to hear what was going on, but it was no use.
It sounds like a….bear, she thought to herself, wondering if she was imagining things.
D’Artagnan’s eyes began to well up with tears and he opened the door to his basement, pushing the bear downstairs with his Magia. “I will find a way to make you whole again. But you be safe here for now,” he said, closing the door and sealing it with his Magia.
He looked towards the backdoor knowing he would have to find some other place to put the bear with Josie snooping around. He couldn’t trust her and letting her know of the bear could be disastrous.
Walking over to the mess at the refrigerator, he shook his head, cleaning up what he could. A lone beer sat in the back and he grabbed it. After releasing his worries, he had no problem falling asleep. Snuggling in their nice warm bed, he felt a sense of satisfaction knowing his wife was cold, wet, tired and curled up outside their backdoor.
***
Josie’s tough girl act eventually led to her crying herself to sleep; angrier at D'Artagnan than remorseful for her deeds. She had a reputation as being a serial cheater which was shunned even for a Contessa at the Blue Palace. She wanted to call one of her fellow BGs, but had fallen out with several of the Dakinis because she went after their husbands.
The other Knights often wondered what made D'Artagnan keep her around, but left him to his own negative devices. Especially since she made it clear she couldn't keep her legs closed to other men. Alas, Josie was not the only one with a heavy heart this night.
Dante the Seer paced back and forth, sweating from the creases of his forehead as he anxiously anticipated his ascension to the Upper Earth.
Hundreds of years had passed since he saw the sun in its full glory as his phobia of angels had grown out of his control. He laid out the finest of his dressing robes across the chair and waited for his earl grey tea to finish brewing.
The sound of footsteps upon the cobblestone walkway outside of his tower caused him to peek his head out the shudders of his window. Callan? he said to himself, as he was curious where the young man had been.
Dante grabbed his walking stick and waited until the young man was out of sight to begin his pursuit. He noticed small droplets of blood leading towards the fountain where Callan was leaned over throwing up.
“Good gracious boy. Have you been sneaking Centaur ale?” Dante asked aloud, keeping close behind him.
Callan stumbled and limped towards his dormitory as Dante kept a good distance from him, picking up a small piece of parchment.
As Dante began to read it, the words disappeared; leaving the seal of Ordo Magnum Opus. “Alchemists? What are you up to boy?” Dante thought, as Callan s
lammed the door to his room.
Inside, Callan shook with cold chills. He cried and rocked back and forth as blood rushed down his leg; mumbling. He pulled off his toga and nervously let his right hand trail down the crack of his buttocks, feeling the sore and bloody opening gifted to him by Solon.
Callan’s virgin mind was at war with itself as it toyed with the notions of pain and pleasure. Never before had he been touched, and felt something had been taken from him. The void filled him with anger, with shame, yet he replayed it in his mind, remembering every thrust.
Callan fell upon the floor and his body would twitch and convulse as he ached from head to toe. He took the book out of his satchel and burned it in the fireplace at the far end of his room.
“I hate you! I hate you! That is not what I wanted!” he shouted as he began to throw things around his room. Dante swallowed hard as screams came from the other side of the door. Two Dactyls stuck their heads out of their rooms to see where the noise was coming from. Dante motioned for them to pay it no mind, as he didn’t want anyone else involved in Callan's madness.
Dante slowly pushed the door open and Callan was lying on the floor naked. His body was contorting, the sound of bones beneath the skin cracking and popping caused Dante to stand back. Callan rolled over on his knees and attempted to crawl to Dante, but a dark spirit came from within him.
“Oh dear,” Dante said, as it hovered over Callan's body. The spirit began to have sex with Callan, although it seemed to cause him great pain.
“No! Stop it! Not again!” he shouted, as the spirit had him pinned to the floor. Dante quickly left the room, meeting Calliope, his favorite student, in the hallway.
“Mr. Dante? Is everything alright?” she asked, looking concerned.
“My dear. That I cannot say. Just -- Keep your distance from our understudy will you?” he said, motioning everyone out of the hall.
Calliope looked back towards Callan's door but did as she was asked. Dante locked himself in the Owl Tower and lit a candle, praying that the spirit be led away from the Parthenon.
He placed the parchment on the table and laid his hand upon it. Dante's eyes began to roll to the back of his head as he allowed his gift of foresight to lead him to a path not yet traveled.
Dante found himself at Castle Panchrest. The hustle and bustle of the daily life of the Alchemical order was a far cry from the quiet halls of the Parthenon. Dante turned himself in all directions, taking in the sounds, smells and sights all around him.
Looking for a quick way out he started towards the door only for him to realize the students didn’t notice his ethereal presence. Dante laughed at his own paranoia, realizing he had entered the Astral Realm.
“So, this is Castle Panchrest. Not much has changed,” he thought to himself as he walked the carpet of the entrance hall.
He bowed respectfully at the colossal paintings of the past Grand Alchemists which his arms behind his back. “I don’t know why it is you have brought me here, but reveal the reason to my understanding,” he said, suddenly finding himself in a dark hall.
The smell of a sweet cigar froze Dante in his tracks as the booming of a familiar voice yelled on the other side of the door from which he stood.
“Baron! How dare you go back on your word! Our Order has never neglected the pact, yet you refuse to release my father!” a strong, Russian voice shouted.
Baron Samedi sat with his legs crossed in silence; the end of his cigar red with falling cinders. Solon took a sip of brandy laughing at the angry man.
“Pytor, the pact states that once all of the proper sacrifices have been made, that I will release Rasputin from his bounds. But I do not hold him for he is not dead, you see. Rasputin has not visited my halls so I have nothing to release.”
“You slick son of a bitch! How dare you double cross me!”
“Shh. Calm down. Rasputin is a guest in one of the seven prisons of which Solon here, has the key. You should’ve made the deal with him. If you want to be mad at someone, take it up with Rufus Sosius. He’s the one that chained him. Now then, if that is all Pytor, Solon and I have business,” Samedi said, as the doors opened on their own.
Pytor stomped off cursing in Russian, pissed at the revelation of the conditions of the pact.
“You seem nervous. Or am I mistaken?”
“You are mistaken,” he answered.
Samedi took a puff of his cigar as the pact appeared on the table sitting between them. “Read it,” Samedi ordered.
“I, Solon, son of Antipater of Herculaneum, by petition Samedi, High Lord of Purgatorio, Guardian of Malkuth and Master of the thirty-two paths, to raise the fallen founder, Hermes Trismegistus, to inquire about his knowledge of the missing formula of immortality, in exchange for the taking of the breath of life from he called Rufus Sosius the Elder. The petitioner is given six hundred and sixty-six years to see this pact fulfilled. In blood, this hereby certifies that the pact is true and binding, payable upon the requirement set forth or death,” Solon read, throwing it down on the table.
“Unlike most pacts that require sacrifices in greater quantities, your pact only had the requirement of one. Rufus Sosius. The terms were clear, you have had six centuries to see it done, and yet he still lives, more powerful than ever. But now that he is no longer a victim of the bloodlust, he doesn’t send me any souls. My legions used to swell by the hundreds because of him and his Knights. Now the souls trickle in every so often. This Council of Nine nonsense has created a soft generation of magicians; those who are quick to give hugs and slow to kill. Solon, you had one job, and you fucked it up.”
Solon attempted to remain calm when Samedi reached out his hand, taking his soul. Solon screamed in pain and fell to the floor feeling lifeless and weak. Samedi laughed as he coughed and gagged, attempting to catch the wind that was knocked out of him.
“You feel, dead, do you not? That’s what having no soul feels like. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but, Alchemy doesn’t work without the soul does it? How can one be the head of an Alchemical Order and not be able to perform alchemy? What a problem. The knowledge you have acquired will keep you for some time, but you have sixty-six years of an extension to see this done. Otherwise, the soul is mine, forever. Each year that passes without your soul, you will become weaker, eventually withering into nothingness. Good luck,” Samedi said, disappearing.
Solon fell on his back, looking up at the gold trim of the elegantly decorated room; his eyes going in and out of focus. He could see the face of a young boy looking down at him, saying something that had become inaudible. “Are you alright,” were the words he could make out, and as his vision began to clear Cornelius was staring back at him.
“Mr. Dante, are you alright?” he asked, as Dante realized he had returned to his present self.
“Solon,” he said, rubbing his head, reaching for his glass of water.
“No sir, I am not Solon. I am Cornelius, Agrippa. I have come to seek your guidance, but if this is a bad time, I can return,” he said.
Dante took the parchment and tucked it under his sleeve, being unsure if he should bring attention to it.
“No, it’s alright. I don’t see many Alchemists here.”
“Nor do we see Dactyls on the Upper Earth. Not until today,” he started.
“Go on.”
“My reason for this visit is simple Mr. Dante. I just want to know why a Dactyl came to my husband’s chamber today.”
“I assure you Master Alchemist that is impossible. All of my Dactyls are accounted for,” Dante said.
“Are you certain? The Dactyl I speak of was short, with blonde hair combed to the side, of average build with an even less than average face.”
Callan, Dante thought to himself, but kept those thoughts to himself.
“If any Dactyl found their way to Castle Panchrest, they did so on their own accord. I have not authorized such a visit otherwise.”
Cornelius lowered his gaze, giving little trust to Dante’s words. He loo
ked down at the book on the table, flipping through it until he reached a page with Solon’s name written. Dante quickly snatched the book, stuffing it into his inner pocket.
“Forgive me, but those are my personal thoughts. Now if you don’t mind, I am tired and old men must rest,” he said, motioning for the door. Cornelius smiled, bowing respectfully and walked out the door. Dante took a deep breath, nervous as to why Callan would travel to Castle Panchrest.
His thoughts were interrupted when he felt something beneath his robes crawling on his skin. The black ink from the pact in his sleeve began to travel up Dante's arm. “Nooo!” he shouted, as he tried to shake it off. He threw it into the fire. It began to sizzle and squeal as if it were alive.
“That is no simple parchment. That is a contract. A dark contract, one that has taken him,” he said, as he began to weep.
9
Baby Dies and Hercules Takes A Bullet
Cornelius crept around the Parthenon in search for the Dactyl he met at Panchrest. His eyes looked towards Temple Salamanca and was awed at the masonry that surpassed his temple and home. Cornelius, unlike Solon, didn’t have much reason to hate the Magia apart from him being trained to do so.
Every story ever told at Castle Panchrest about the Magia were those which would make any man become an enemy, but that was of no concern to him at the moment. His heart was aching as he felt his fifteen-year relationship with Solon waning, and he wanted to know if it were due in part to Callan.
He sat at the edge of Deucalion’s Fountain, tossing a gold coin into the clear waters, staring at the reflection of his face. “Am I not beautiful to you anymore?” he asked aloud, referring to Solon distancing himself.
The reflection of a young woman appeared beside his and he shifted his gaze to meet it. “I think you’re very beautiful. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen,” she said, staring with wide eyes.
Knights of Enmity: The Barons Have Fallen (Descending Fires Book 1) Page 11
