The Spinoza Trilogy

by Rain, J. R.

  But first we would be entertained by the land’s finest performers while we ate, drank and were merry. I was rarely, if ever, merry.

  While chicken and lamb and ribs were served, while tankards were refilled and cleavage spilled, a steady procession of performers took center stage. First up was a young man on a beautiful white horse. Arabian, I assumed, since the kid was dressed like Aladdin, complete with a jeweled turban and puffy pantaloons. He and his horse performed a mesmerizing series of impressive tricks, which involved a lot of bowing and prancing.

  More drinks were served. Plates were cleared.

  I nursed my Diet Coke and continued scanning the arena, looking for anything out of place—until I realized the whole damn place was out of place.

  A falconer was next, and he and his raptor put on a brief but impressive act. The bird of prey swept low, circling around and around the stadium over the ducking and laughing crowd, and finally pounced on a tattered, stuffed mouse tossed by the falconer himself.

  More acts followed. A court jester. A dance troupe. More horse acts, and when the dishes were cleared, the lights went out again. The drumming returned. Even louder this time. More fake smoke appeared out of fog machines, and now four horsemen roared into the area to the frenzied delight of the crowd.

  What followed was, admittedly, an exciting display of swordsmanship, jousting and all manner of medieval hullabaloo. The jousting was spectacular, even if the wooden poles were cut away for easy breakage. And in the end, after much pounding of hooves and shattering of lances, as the vanquished knights were dragged out of the arena by their humble squires, one knight remained. He stood in the center of the arena, breathing hard, holding his sword proudly while his section—the blue section—cheered wildly. My own Green Knight, sadly, had been the first to die. A mace to the head. Tragic.

  The Blue Knight bowed and his section roared enthusiastically...that is, until the lights dimmed ominously, and a low, rumbling drum filled the air.

  The crowd fell quiet. I would have fallen quiet, too, had I been making any noise. I did, however, sit forward on my creaking bench, elbows digging in the scarred table, looking down over the low railing to the arena below.

  And waited. From offstage, I heard shouting and fighting. Metal clashing against metal. Curses sworn. Medieval curses, mind you. I waited, sipping on my tankard of Diet Coke.

  And, in a surprise twist, a man burst into the arena—just as coincidentally the drumming picked up its pace again. The man was dressed all in black—and rode a black horse. The same black horse I had seen earlier. I was sure of it.

  The crowd gasped and a few children screamed. A loud, menacing laughter filled the air. More people gasped. I might have heard a chicken bone clatter onto a pewter plate.

  The man in black leaped from his horse, rolled once, and came up to his feet before the Blue Knight. The Black Knight drew his sword from a hip scabbard.

  The Blue Knight, who had been soaking in the praises from his adoring section, looked a little put out. After all, the Black Knight was literally raining on his parade. Well, the Blue Knight, fresh off his latest combat victories, was no chump. What ensued was a fierce swordfight, to the delight of the crowd. The Black Knight even went after the Blue Knight’s squire. The young guy looked truly terrified, springing to his feet and dashing through the arena. Good acting.

  But the Black Knight wasn’t above using tricks and deception. He threw sand in the face of the Blue Knight, pulled his tunic over his head, spun him around comically, and then drove his broadsword deep into the Blue Knight’s heart…or perhaps between his inner arm and ribs. Either way, the Blue Knight was very, very pretend dead.

  The Black Knight raised his sword triumphantly, circling, while the blue section showered boos upon him. The Black Knight, whose face was covered completely, seemed to revel in the boos.

  At that moment, the spotlight shifted to an area where the King and Queen of the realm had been dining at one end of the arena. The king and queen stood.

  “Who art thou, foul knight?” inquired the king, his angry voice booming over the speakers.

  The man in black strolled casually below the king, looking up. He still wore his mask. “I am the rightful king, my lord.” I noted the contempt in his voice.

  “Guards!” shouted the king.

  And then the arena went black.

  The sounds of swords clashing and grunts and men dying filled the air. I heard something else, too, something being wheeled. I sat forward. Somewhere, a child began weeping.

  And then the lights turned on. The Black Knight was now standing where the king once stood, next to his queen. The crowd gasped. Below, strapped to a slab of wood on wheels, a slab that was presently standing on one end, was a man in an iron mask.

  The Black Knight finally removed his own dark mask, shook out his long blond hair. He was, of course, the Green Knight. My knight, and my section of the arena went crazy.

  When the crowd had died down, the Green Knight—the rightful king, apparently, ordered the traitor to be taken away.

  The man in the iron mask made little or no movement. I assumed, like the rest of the crowd, that the man in the iron mask had been the one-time king, now imprisoned.

  Even from here, I could see the eyes sparkling behind the mask. Impossibly big eyes. One thing I was certain of: those weren’t the eyes of the king.

  Or the eyes of a man.

  A woman’s eyes.

  I was sure of it.

  The dutiful guards turned and wheeled the person strapped to the table out of the arena. To where, I didn’t know.

  But I was going to find out.

  Chapter Five

  I slipped away from my table, stepped over the crushed peanut shells littering the floor, and headed for the closest exit.

  The exit consisted of a longish tunnel, and behind me, the crowd suddenly erupted in a wild cheer. The cheer turned into chants, and everyone within the arena seemed to be having a grand time. Well everyone, that is, but the person strapped to the slab of wood.

  Those eyes...

  I picked up my pace and emerged from the tunnel, back into the main lobby. The bar was mostly empty, as were the coffee and gift shops. Workers milled around, no doubt waiting for the crowd that would soon be spilling forth from the packed arena. I didn’t see any security guards. No security guards was a good thing.

  The girl cleaning up the coffee shop smiled at me as I swept past her. I didn’t smile back. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I had smiled back at anyone.

  I headed over the drawbridge, and back toward the parking lot. The night was cool and the moon was full. Somewhere out there a werewolf was howling. That is, of course, if you believed in that sort of thing.

  I passed two security guards sitting in a golf cart. One was texting. The other was on his cell phone. Neither noticed me. I continued past them along a sidewalk that eventually led me around the building. There, I found what I was looking for.

  It was more than a loading dock, and it was a beehive of activity, with horses coming and going, all handled by medieval employees dressed in chainmail. Although I didn’t smoke, I knew that doing so provided a great reason to loiter. So I sacrificed my health, loitered near the loading docks, and watched the activity going on behind Medievaland.

  Yogi Berra had once said, “You can observe a lot just by watching.” I almost smiled at this. Then I thought of how my son had loved baseball, and a wave of guilt wiped any smile I might have had.

  I kept away from the squires or handlers—or whatever the hell they were called. As I smoked, I wondered idly if my client was somewhere among them.

  I next turned my attention to a big rig that had just entered. As it came to a stop next to me, I flicked away my cigarette and climbed into the rig’s passenger seat before the driver got out.

  “What the hell do you want?” He was a large guy with a graying ponytail and a handlebar mustache.

  “Sorry to barge in,” I said nicely enou
gh. “I just wanted to know if you could use some help unloading a little of that hay.” I held out a fifty.

  Handlebar regarded me with some suspicion, and I didn’t blame him.

  “You don’t need to know,” I answered in advance. I pushed the fifty into his hand. He shrugged and took it.

  The bales were deceivingly heavy. We worked silently, stacking them onto wooden slats. I studied the entrance as I unloaded the large, fresh-smelling rectangular bundles. Most of the squires had left by now, but there were a few hanging out by the entrance. I watched them watch who entered.

  Guards, I thought.

  I thanked the truck driver for letting me pay to help him—and approached the entrance. No one questioned me. Having observed me stack the hay, they assumed I was there on business. I entered, followed the aroma of horse, and soon found myself at the stables.

  The black stallion’s stall was the very last. As I approached him, I once again saw that he was no ordinary steed. He regarded me with an intelligence I didn’t think horses possessed. Hell, few humans possessed it. I heard footsteps and voices. The great black beast instinctively backed up. Equally instinctively, I jumped into his stall. I crouched in the front corner as the footsteps came nearer. Black Beauty ignored me and came forward nonchalantly. I could hear two men, apparently making their rounds for the night, talking together. They checked the padlocks on each of the stalls. When they came to ours, the horse didn’t so much as glance at me.

  “I’ll take care of it, no problem,” the first guy said. “The woman, now...you mentioned she’s becoming more of a problem?”

  “She is.” The second guy’s tone implied he had a little authority.

  Apparently they’d decided to chat just outside Black Beauty’s stall. Lucky me.

  “She’s attracting attention. People are beginning to wonder. Like that squire the other night. He said he was just curious, but I’m not so sure.”

  “And he’s one of us supposedly,” the first man said. “If so, why would he be asking so many questions?”

  “Damn good question,” said the second guy. “It may be too risky to keep him around, too.”

  The horse snorted next to me and moved a little closer in my direction. From my crouched position, the great beast looked, exactly, ten stories high.

  Anyway, the second guy continued. “We’ve kept her here as long as we could. But it may be time to get rid of her. After all, we don’t really need her, right?”

  “Right, although it’s been damn interesting.”

  At this, my stablemate neighed viciously and pawed his giant hooves. Something was spooking him, and that something was, undoubtedly, a smallish detective squatting nervously in the front corner of the stall.

  But the two men ignored the noise.

  “It has been,” the first guy agreed, “but what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll bring it up with the others.”

  “Will we all be able to be there? Whatever the decision is?”

  Black Beauty suddenly bucked, making contact with the back wall. I crouched further into my front corner. The two men were walking away now, their voices fading.

  “...it will be a joint decision, I’m sure...” said the first, and then they were gone, their voices fading with them.

  I quietly stood up and faced the huge animal. We observed each other for a moment, each unable to communicate except with our eyes. His belied trust. My gut told me they were talking about the woman I’d been hired to help. And perhaps my client. All the more reason to get to her—and the sooner the better. Even if I couldn’t free her tonight, I had to at least find out where and how she was being detained. Then I could form a plan.

  I waited a few minutes. I patted the horse’s great neck and pretended I knew what I was doing. He just stood there. He could have easily trampled me to death. Part of me wished he would.

  But he didn’t, so I hauled myself back out of the stall. I walked quietly, listening hard, and systematically searched for a way to the basement. Shortly, I found the service elevator—and a stairway down.

  The elevator wouldn’t do. Not at this time of night. Too much noise. No cover. My every instinct told me to take the stairs, which I did.

  The basement was dimly lit, and something told me there was danger here. That something came in the form of the hair standing on end at the back of my neck. I pushed forward, alert.

  Empty rooms, one after another. No storage or equipment down here. What the hell was this place? My defenses were up. Way up.

  I rounded a corner and stopped abruptly. Here, was a door with a padlock. Across the way, two men sat in another room, talking quietly and playing cards. I knew this was the room, but how to...

  Suddenly I heard a great ruckus from above. A horse stomping and whinnying. I knew it was Black Beauty. How I knew this, I didn’t know. But I was sure of it. I stepped deeper into the shadows as the men threw down their cards and raced past me. Soon, I heard their boots pounding up the stairs.

  I had no time to lose. I silently thanked the horse and pulled out my set of lock picks. Every competent detective has one. Thirty seconds later—an eternity in my mind—I slipped off the lock and opened the door.

  I was almost sorry I did.

  Chapter Six

  She was lying in the far corner.

  A shaft of light from the hallway behind me cast a rectangle of yellow into the room. If not for that, the woman had been lying in complete darkness.

  I stared, trying to process what I was seeing, until I realized there was no processing any of this.

  This...this was unimaginable.

  She was propped against the far wall, arms suspended from chains. No, not any chains. Silver chains. They sparkled and caught the ambient light. Correction...barbed silver chains, digging deeply into her skin. Next to her was an empty plastic cup, with a little blood still in it. Her mask was indeed iron, but had been welded down the middle with molten silver.

  Jesus.

  The room was filthy, reminding me of a true medieval dungeon. The stone room was a perfect box. Ten by ten and humid as hell. A torture chamber, if I’d ever seen one. A place to be forgotten, where screams would never, ever be heard.

  Sweet Jesus.

  Who she was, I didn’t know. Why she was chained and bound and covered in an iron mask...I didn’t know that either. This was beyond even my own comprehension.

  And I’d seen some pretty wild shit.

  Although I was hardly an expert on the supernatural, I suspected there was something to the silver that dug into her skin and held the mask in place.

  A vampire?

  I’d seen my share of such creatures. Whether or not I truly believed they existed, I didn’t know. Part of me—most of me—believed they were nothing more than the wild conjurings of my grief-stricken mind. Still, I had seen things that defied logic. So much so that I had done my best to forget what I had seen.

  But this...there was no forgetting this.

  Ever.

  Whoever she was, she was clearly weak. Her head hung down, her arms suspended from chains. She could have been Joan of Arc awaiting her burning at the stake. She could have been any number of victims, awaiting further brutality at the hands of their tormentors.

  Her chest didn’t move. Nothing moved. Dead?

  Jesus. I was tempted to pull out my cell and call 911. Hell, call anyone. And tell them what? A woman was chained to a wall beneath Medievaland?

  A dead woman, I thought. She’s not breathing.

  I was just about to rush to her side when something amazing happened.

  She lifted her head.

  And looked right at me.

  Chapter Seven

  Amazingly, she pushed herself up to a sitting position.

  Despite the chains—and despite the fact that she was not breathing—she held herself with dignity. I moved forward, squatted before her.

  “Who are you?” I asked. No time to waste. I was thinking fast. Take her or come back with
a better plan? If we were caught, I had a feeling I wouldn’t be coming back. Ever. I’d be six feet under.

  “You should go,” she echoed my thoughts in an accented voice.

  I looked at the cup of blood before her. The cup of congealing blood. Blood that had been, I was sure, recently consumed. By her?

  Sweet, sweet Jesus.

  There was a bendy straw in the cup, the only way to feed her, I guessed, through a tiny hole in the mask in the mouth area.

  “Why are you being held here?” I placed my hand on hers just to be sure. Ice cold. I nearly recoiled but didn’t. She was either dead or a...

  A vampire.

  I’m dreaming, I thought. I’m not really here. Yesterday I was following a cheating spouse. A man who’d been secretly dating his boss. A male boss. Last night I was sitting on the balcony with Roxi, holding her hand. Her very warm hand.

  I’m dreaming, I thought again.

  No, whispered a soft voice in my thoughts. So soft that I could have heard it next to me. You’re not dreaming, friend. And you are in terrible danger.

  Dream or no dream, the eyes behind the mask suddenly widened and shot up behind me. I barely had time to react.

  I swung around, my right leg extended so as to hopefully trip whoever was behind me. It worked—for one of my attackers. The element of surprise bought me a precious second or two. I punched the one still standing, hard, but it did little damage. My punches rarely did little damage. My punches generally did a lot of damage. But now my arm rebounded as surely as if I’d hit a side of beef.

  Or something not human.

  The one I’d tripped was up in a flash. Too fast. Faster than I’d ever seen any man move.

  Because he’s not a man, came a thought. A thought, I was alarmed to discover, that was not my own.

  I searched the room for a weapon…anything. There were only the silver chains wrapped around the woman. I wouldn’t sink so low as to hide behind a chained woman. I glanced at her, and she gestured to the far corner. Nearly hidden in shadows was an old two-by-four leaning against the wall.