Darkness of the Soul

by Kaine Andrews

  If he was that close, why hasn’t he tried anything before? Damien knew the way his mind worked, which seemed more like a blessing as he watched other folks or pried into their minds, which he sometimes did without even realizing it. He knew that it might have just been self-rationalization, a defense mechanism kicking in to keep him from feeling too stupid and ignorant since he could fry his own logic. The talu`shar was close, and the things that dwelled in it weren’t stupid; they wouldn’t pick a servant who was impatient or idiotic. In a way, that’s a good thing, or I might have ended up in their camp, he thought with a chagrined smile as he blew another series of smoke rings toward the ceiling.

  One thing he did know, Warden of the talu`shar or just a grunt, the one certainty was that he was powerful; whatever else it had done to him and whatever else could be said about his natural talent, being elected the Disciple had made him one hell of a lot more potent. When he’d first started getting into it with Janus, so sure they were going to rule the world someday because they watched some bullshit movie and could speak some Latin, anything real had given him a headache, even just nudging a rearview mirror half an inch to the left. After waking up that night, he could yank a barbell across a room without even trying or crack open a person’s mind and find whatever he wanted with only a modicum of effort. Putting up something that could keep Woods out completely and also have lingering physical effects—like the vomit he’d left in Brokov’s bathroom when they’d ended up here, though the beer might also have had something to do with it—would probably kill him.

  His train of thought was broken by the sound of a toilet flushing. Apparently, Brokov had woken up with a little midnight message to deliver. The sound was so mundane—just so goddamn normal—that for a minute he was actually able to forget all the weird shit that had gone on, to put aside what he was really there for, and just live in the moment.

  Oh, that’s great, dude. Sitting here hoping for a message from the Great Beyond or whatever, and some girl flushing a rubber can make you forget about the potential impending apocalypse? Yeah. Your brain’s screwed on tight; we can see that.

  Damien grunted, shaking his head. He really wasn’t thinking straight, but that didn’t have much to do with the train of his thoughts. He’d just been running in Psychoville for so long that sometimes he forgot about minor things that went on in real life—not that he could ever have one, especially not with Brokov. He still wasn’t sure if she was just another vessel for Sheila, the original Sheila, waiting to try to fuck him up again at the earliest opportunity.

  You’ve been at this for too long. Jumping at shadows. She’s just a girl. The name’s a coincidence. If it was Sheila, she’d have tried to knife you already. There was logic to that, but it didn’t help Damien any in solving his immediate problem.

  Brokov’s voice, thick with sleep, passed through from the bedroom and into the tiny living room. “Damien? You still here?”

  He passed smoke through his lips and answered her. “Yeah, still here. Just needed a smoke.”

  The response that came back was just a series of “zzt” sounds, though with a faint tone of contentment. Apparently, not many of the men she brought home bothered to stick around.

  He snuffed the cigarette, glancing up through the thick haze of smoke that surrounded him, squinting to see the glare of the clock’s display on the tiny VCR that sat atop Brokov’s tiny TV—apparently, space and size were big issues for her, since everything he’d seen so far looked like it had been made in miniature, except for the California king-sized bed. He tried to guess how long he’d been sitting out there. When he realized his eyes weren’t deceiving him and it actually did say 4:30 am, he slapped his hand to his forehead and groaned. He hated when he lost time like that, and it was getting more and more common these days. He figured one of these times, he just wouldn’t come back at all.

  The harsh splat of his hand hitting his forehead was apparently louder than he’d counted on, since more of Brokov’s sleep talk floated into the room.

  “Coming,” he muttered, as he stumbled back into the bedroom and pulled the cool satin sheet over himself. Brokov rolled, laying her arm across his chest and smiling. He was picking up snippets of her feelings, like an untuned radio getting random samplings from high-power transmitters. He tried not to snoop deliberately, unless he had to, but what he was getting was harmless enough, just contentment and the simple pleasure of having a warm body next to her and flickers of what they’d been up to earlier.

  Again, he was struck by the normalcy of the situation, just slipping back into bed after a smoke, trying to keep warm until daylight forced them out of the comfort of bed and into the harsh real world.

  So thinking, he drifted back into sleep, and for once, it was mercifully dreamless.

  Chapter 12

  5:30 am, September 24, 1988

  The sun is coming to greet the citizens of Somakli, and while most welcome the reprieve against the darkness, one young woman greets the daylight with sobs rather than a smile.

  She has been weeping for seven hours and twenty-three minutes, by Karesh’s counting, and will likely continue to do such for some time. The stains of blood all over her naked body might make one question the truth of her grief, however, as would the torn body that lies at her feet. Karesh has watched her cry, counted the minutes and the slow drip of her tears onto her husband’s corpse, studying all of it so that he can recount it to his master later.

  The fact that she is the one who killed her groom and feasted on his flesh as though it was a finely prepared dinner only adds to the amusement felt by the nascent Warden.

  “Come, my love. Tell me again what he tasted like,” Karesh says in the whispers of a lover, a priest, a confidant. “Tell me of the texture of his sinew.”

  Salia looks up from the remains of her husband, a twist of muscle dangling from her lower lip and scrunches her face in an approximation of a smile. “Like the cinnamon sticks they gave us as children. Sweet and bitterness together, and so crunchy . . .” Her face twitches again, the harlequin corners of her mouth jerking upward in a macabre grin for a moment before dropping again.

  Karesh nods, advances toward her, and puts his hand out as one might do to a dog with an unknown temperament. His mind flicks out, lapping at the taste of her soul, drinking deep at the well of the emotions he’d cultivated in her, the jealousy, fear, and rage that he had stoked to a fever pitch and used to bring her to this point. He prints the flavor into his own spirit so that the talu`shar might enjoy the leftovers later. While Salia scrubs her face into his hand, thinking that the smile on his face is in approval of her actions, Karesh considers the scent of her tears and how much acclaim his master might award him if he continues to bring him treats such as this one.

  She had started as a simple experiment, a mere flexing of his psychic muscles. Even before he had taken the talu`shar and become its Warden, he had been capable of nudging an individual’s emotions in the direction he desired. Stoking a momentary irritation into a raging fire that would consume both the individual and the target of the person’s ire had often been a favored game, but he had tired quickly of such simple prey and had moved on to setting more complex events in motion. Salia had been his triumph. Sexual repression, self-loathing, religious devotion mixed with hatred of the duties required of her, these were the tools he had been given to work with.

  With her wedding day nearing, Karesh had set to twisting these feelings, binding them one upon the other, into a fierce mental knot. That task accomplished, it had been simple to provide the blade with which to cut it. Violate religious taboo, make oneself an outcast and a monster, and do it in a moment that was to be reserved for passion. It had almost been too easy to tip her to the point where when her new husband had come to take her maidenhead, she had responded violently, biting off his member and proceeding to continue with a meal of the rest of him.

  A fin
e experiment and a fine game, but the time for playing would soon be over. Karesh could already feel the song of his master spinning through his bones, calling him back. It wished to be transported across the oceans, to travel to the Americas, where the blood of its makers still flowed fresh. Soon, he would make the journey, and new games would begin.

  He rises, pulling his hand back from Salia despite her pants and mewls of protest, and shoves her face-first into the corpse.

  “Resume your meal, my pet. And forget.”

  Punctuating the words with a stab of his mental knife, he burns away the memory of his presence. She would remember only what she had done, not that he had been there to witness it. He considers it unfortunate that he would not be present to see her captured and punished, but the taste of her broken and perverted spirit would stay with him through the years to come, he is sure.

  Chapter 13

  4:30 am, December 14, 1999

  Karesh’s eyes opened slowly, the reverie of that old atrocity still one his mind sought when he needed peace or when he believed his grip on his destiny or the talu`shar’s might be slipping. That lovely game had been his favorite, and when he had shared it with his master, he had discovered that even the old Beast within the painting had not seen every possible form of depravity. Its pleasure with his game had been palpable, and his rewards had been great. But thinking of the past would prevent him from focusing properly on the future, or so he told himself, and thus he forced his mind back to the present.

  Karesh sat in the overstuffed hotel chair, staring at the horrid paisley pattern on the walls without seeing it, his nearly black eyes unfocused and seeing things that were happening elsewhere, as he picked up thoughts and images from places of far more interest to him.

  He had left the wake not long after the telepath had departed, thinking he’d known all he needed to. Returning to his rented accommodations, he had passed into sleep, hoping to catch up while he still could. The voice of the talu`shar had woken him in time, a pull on his will that he could not resist. He had risen from the bed, come to the chair, and then allowed his mind to drift. It had come to rest on Woods and Brokov, granting him the discovery that his mental bet had been wrong. The woman was in no way remarkable, and the man was far more than just a latent.

  He had watched through Damien’s mental eyes as the youth dreamed of his mistakes. When he came to the part where Damien was named Disciple, even Karesh trembled, for those of his ilk were rare indeed and nearly on par with one such as himself. The talu`shar had spent many years instructing him on its enemies, warning him of other beings of power who would attempt to oppose the opening of the path, and among those it had warned him of was the daeva Shurill, one of those responsible for the entrapment of the thing that lived within the talu`shar.

  Watch for those who speak this name, it had said to him, for the Disciples will seek always to block you. Those like Drakanis he didn’t spare much concern for; they were barely above latents in the scheme of things, and that was assuming someone bothered to explain their heritage to them—just another gnat that sometimes had feelings or knew what card was next in the deck. Those who were like this Woods appeared to be, however—those with raw power, chosen and then cultivated—even struck a chord of fear in whatever passed for his master’s heart. They had both the power and the will to cause serious damage to the plans of the talu`shar, and the Wardens who had not been slain by those who coveted their positions had always been put down by Disciples; only luck had kept the talu`shar itself out of their hands at times.

  Karesh broke off the connection as Woods slipped back into bed, satisfied that the Disciple had been unable to learn anything of consequence from his communion and further satisfied that the fool didn’t know enough to pinpoint him, yet. If things went as planned, Woods would never be able to mark him. A tragic accident was not too far in his future, Karesh wagered.

  He tried to focus his sight on Drakanis and was not totally surprised to discover that something was blocking him from such scrying. Karesh assumed Woods was up to something, trying to provide a bit of a blind for his champion, his martyr. Not that it would matter in the end, Drakanis was still too unaware and sorely lacking in the main factor he would need to wake up to what was going on: time.

  Karesh allowed his consciousness to drop back into his body. He leaned back in the chair, unworried when it creaked and the sound of nails bending reached his ears. He would be in a different room tomorrow and yet another the next day, so little things like broken chairs posed him even less worry than they did the average three-year-old.

  So sorry you won’t have what you need, dear Michael. You might have been a worthy adversary had you not wasted all this time with stupid moping. Perhaps I shall do you a favor and remove your heart before you die, so you’ll not be troubled by such pain in whatever darkness awaits you.

  He would do no such thing, of course; it had been explained to him, carefully and with great detail, precisely what he was to do with Drakanis, and at no point did death or release enter into it. The good detective had drawn a much less desirable card from the deck of fate, and the killer was most certainly not going to deny him the blessings the talu`shar wished to grant its enemy.

  Karesh rose from his chair, walked to the window, and looked out over the street. Despite the dim hour of the morning, many braver sorts still prowled the streets, and he took a special pleasure in tapping into their thought-lines, tugging at the information there and giving it subtle twists. Unlike many previous Wardens, Karesh had discovered in himself a particular talent for warping the desires of others, causing them to act on the darker thoughts and impulses that resided in every human soul, taking even the virtuous and turning them into beasts ripe for the slaughter.

  Those below him, crawling among the pawnshops, casinos, and twenty-four-hour diners were not very promising victims, however, and after a moment, he turned away, satisfying himself only by leeching away some of their vitality. These were already broken and would provide no pleasure for either his master or himself.

  That is exactly the problem in such a place. Far too few are truly innocent. While he understood this to perhaps be an exaggeration—some spark of innocence could be found in nearly anyone—he also knew that were this place not so tainted by shattered dreams and the rabid addictions that only a legal vice could provide, it would not be able to host the opening of the path. It was the very nature of this place that allowed the talu`shar so much power here; it was the reason it had chosen the place for the grand event.

  Karesh turned away from the window. He supposed he should be getting ready; his absence from work on this day might be noticed, and he had something to prepare for Woods. Still, he lingered a moment longer, drawing in the air around him, feeling through the ether for any sign of what was coming. The air gave him no response except for a vague feeling of anticipation, as if the universe itself was holding its breath, waiting to watch the outcome of these events.

  It will be a very messy one, he said to the winds of change. But all will be well in time.

  Chapter 14

  5:00 am, December 14, 1999

  Parker tried to stifle a yawn as he set the bottle on the table. His arm came up, and that was okay. He managed to cover his mouth, and that was okay too. It was only when he spewed vomit all over that hand and then knocked the precarious stack of bottles beside him to the floor in an explosion of glass and beer fumes that it was not okay.

  “Fuck, you’re drunk,” he muttered to himself before leaning over in the easy chair to let another letter to Ralph join the beer ruining his shag carpet. He wasn’t sure how many bottles it had taken him to get to this point or how long he’d been at it after Drakanis had left. Now that most of the bottles were shattered on the floor, it’d be impossible to tell for sure on either of those counts.

  Well, how the fuck else am I gonna think about any of this shit? It’s not like you ca
n sit there and sort through something like this with a clear head or anything.

  While that might have been well and true, it was probably just as true that trying to think of any aspect of a murder—or series of them—while under the effects of at least a case of longnecks was not going to produce much in the way of appreciable results either.

  He turned his attention away from the art deco and the smell forming on the rug and glanced back at the small glass table he’d set up in the middle of the room. He’d dragged it in from the garage. It had been rotting in there since Amanda left. It was some piece of crap one of her hippie friends had made for her—quite possibly even the one she had left him for. The thing was four feet high—four and a half if one counted the gargoyles perched at the corners. The overlong top made it just the right size to strew the contents of several police files across it, and the weird height made it good for pacing up and down along as he tried to make a time line of sorts.

  After hours of working at it, all Drakanis and Parker had been able to figure out was that their boy had been busy, assuming they could pin even half of this on him. It had been about the time they figured that out that Drakanis had decided it would be best if he took off for a bit, but Parker had kept drinking and kept going over it, almost obsessively, as if he could find the killer by sheer effort and will and cause him to strangle in the middle of whatever psycho dream he was currently having.

  From the pictures and files strewn over the table, Parker had put together something resembling a time line of what he thought the killer had been working on for at least the last four years, any further back and things got hazy at best. Closed files, statutes of limitations, and general bad paperwork prevented him from going back much further than that. Parker wasn’t overly concerned; he was pretty sure that their man hadn’t been in town for much longer.