Business at the front, party at the back, my friend. I laughed, as much out of nervousness as anything, and Falconer frowned. He drew himself up to his full height and turned to face me.
“What’s interesting?” I asked, fighting the urge to stammer. I didn’t want this dirtbag knowing how intimidated I was of him and his lapdog.
“The fact that you, my young friend, really should not be here.” He took a step toward me, and I took an involuntary one back to maintain the gap between us. He smiled at that, seeming to read my mind, and that made me feel angry at myself for showing even a hint of weakness.
“Mind telling me where here is, exactly?” No harm in trying, I figured.
“And why should I?”
“Because you Brits are supposed to be all about manners, and it would be the polite thing to do.”
Falconer seemed to ponder that for a moment, looking vaguely ridiculous standing in the middle of a muddy open grave wearing nothing but a filthy robe. Finally, he reached a decision.
“Very well. Simply because it pleases me, you understand.”
I nodded. Not that I’d necessarily trust a word that came out of his mouth, but you never knew, I might learn something if I kept my own mouth shut — or as shut as someone like me could ever manage — and just listened.
“Here is really two places, young man…the first of which is, of course, the interior of my own mind. It is a construct comprised of my own memories, if you will.”
“So it’s not real?” I prompted.
“Not strictly, no. But then again, what is real?” Falconer was clearly warming to his theme now. Like every single James Bond villain, he loved the sound of his own voice. “It has no material reality, that I will grant you. But it is as real as any fragment of memory can ever possibly be. These events, such as they are —” he swept out a hand to encompass the hut, the treeline, and the form of the Dark Man hunched over as he finished feeding upon the helpless copper — “were once very real indeed.”
“So all of this actually happened?” I was intrigued, despite myself.
“Oh yes. Can you guess where this little melodrama took place?” He raised his eyebrows encouragingly, inviting me to take my best shot. All right, I thought, I’ll play your little game. For now.
“Somewhere in England.”
“Splendid!” he clapped his hands together gleefully. The Dark Man didn’t so much as look up, his face still enveloped in light while his prey withered away in his grip. “You are absolutely correct. This is England, and the year is…was, 1692. A most remarkable year, as I remember it.”
“Good for wine?” I jabbed, but he fired a shot right back.
“Well, not so good over in the Colonies, where your ancestors were quite happily hanging men and women for witchcraft in a bijou little hamlet named Salem.”
Nice comeback, I had to admit to myself. The Salem witch trials were one of America’s deepest, darkest, most shameful periods of history, when ordinary, everyday men and women could find themselves on trial and executed just because one of their neighbors (or even a total stranger) claimed that they were a witch. We’d read about it in school last year and it seemed ridiculous in the twenty-first century to learn that just a few hundred years ago, people had been so scared of one another that they would convince a judge to have their own friends and family members executed on charges of witchcraft. Hell, the whole stupid mess had gotten so far out of hand that they had even killed dogs because somebody had claimed they were witches’ familiars! The whole thing was completely nuts.
“Yeah, not exactly our finest hour,” I admitted, stealing a line from his fellow countryman Winston Churchill. Now he had been a kick-ass kind of guy.
“Indeed not,” Falconer agreed civilly, “and nor, to be fair, was it ours here in the mother country. For you see, we were no strangers to the persecution of witches and warlocks etcetera ourselves.”
A light bulb pinged on over my head.
“And that’s what was happening here?”
He nodded and held his arms out to either side as if to protest his innocence. “Yes. I was just a humble practicioner of the magick arts, you see. Nothing more…at least, not then. Nowadays it is a different story, but I was young then, and wanted only to be left alone while I advanced my craft.”
“Just a humble practitioner,” I repeated, then added, “who sleeps in a shallow grave outside his own hut?”
Falconer shot me an annoyed glance, but finally conceded, “Well, perhaps not quite so humble.”
“So what were you?” I pressed. What I really meant was: what are you? The more I knew about this douchebag, the better my chances of rescuing Becky would be when I woke up. Whenever that would be…
“Something older and more powerful than you can possibly conceive of, Deadseer.”
“That explains a lot. Usually, the older something gets, the worse it starts to stink.”
He took a step toward me threateningly.
“I would be a little more careful in my choice of words if I were you.”
I wasn’t going to cave and take a step back.
“Well, you’re not me. You’re so much freaking uglier.”
Falconer smiled like a predator eying up a potential victim. “Beauty, as with so many things, is in the eye of the beholder. And you have such pretty eyes…” He reached out a hand toward my face, and this time I did flinch.
The slap that knocked his hand away took us both by surprise. Even more so because it was delivered by a young Indian girl who stepped in between us and shielded me from Falconer’s pure creepiness.
“You will not touch him.”
“Lamiyah!” I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to see anyone in my entire life. “What—”
“No time.” She grabbed my hand impatiently, and with a wave of her hand, we were gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Daniel, are you alright?” She took a knee and reached out to me with a glowing blue hand, caressing my cheek gently. Her skin was cool but not cold when it brushed against my face, which I found pretty comforting. “Has he harmed you?”
“Just a few mind games,” I grunted, struggling to get to my feet. I pushed both hands against the glass for leverage. “Speaking of which – what was that, just now?”
“You had the misfortune to receive a glimpse inside the mind of a very old soul. Old and extremely twisted, I am sorry to say.”
“The Dark Man...or Falconer?”
“One and the same,” she explained, watching with concern as I straightened up and massaged my temples with my fingertips.
“I don’t understand – how can they be? Falconer’s a living, breathing guy. The Dark Man is a spirit: I know, I’ve seen the way he moves, the way his body operates. It’s not a human body.”
“Yes, you are right about that,” Lamiyah acknowledged, “but remember, Daniel, that there are more things in Heaven and Earth…”
“Oh great,” I mumbled under my breath. “Again with the Shakespeare.” From the irritated look she threw me, I guessed that my guide had heard it anyway.
“The Great Bard was quite exceptionally observant, young man,” she lectured me, hands on hips. “I have taken the liberty of looking into Malachai Falconer’s past. What lies there is…let us say, quite disturbing.”
“I could totally believe that.” My eyes scanned the mirrors, hunting for the first sign of moment. All I could see were the natural shadows of the maze, but that could change at any second. “Can we get out of here? This place freaks me out.” Once we were out of the maze, she could chatter on to her heart’s content, but my frayed nerves were right on the edge after what the Dark Man had made me see in here.
“Of course. Come with me.”
I followed the young Indian girl as she made her way out towards the exit, not hesitating for even a second and never missing a turn or stepping into a dead end. Finally we were back out in the concession area, where customers could buy sodas and candy bars that were
kept inside a tall fridge, which stood next to a cash register. The ER doors were off to our right, and the long hallway that led to the lobby doors. Shadows moved at the end of that hallway, human-shaped shadows, and I really hoped that it was the Snare’s performers getting into position for the night ahead, and not the spirit followers of the Dark Man.
I could see through the glass doors that it was fully dark outside now, and could just make out a line of people snaking across the parking lot: customers were already queueing to get in, I guessed. A bunch of others were milling about in small groups, just hanging out and chatting to one another. There was lots of muffled laughter, some of it with a nervous edge, and more than a few screams – though whether of delight or genuine fear, I just couldn’t tell.
Letting out a breath I hadn’t known that I was holding, I asked her what the deal was with Falconer and the Dark Man.
“What you saw…no, what you experienced inside Falconer’s head was really nothing more than a very vivid memory, Daniel,” she began, “a window into events of his distant past.”
“But it was interactive,” I argued, “he spoke to me. And to you. And you spoke to me too. And to him! So how—”
“It is complicated.” Lamiyah held up a hand to cut off my objections mid-flow. “Let us simply say that when Falconer laid hands upon you, a contact was established between the two of you – a bridge, you might say – by which the two of you could transmit your thoughts psychically.”
“Like a Vulcan mind meld?” I asked hopefully.
“I have no idea what that is. Probably something from one of those ridiculous films that you are so enamored with?” she asked, exasperated. I flashed her a slightly embarrassed smile and nodded for her to go on. “Based upon the name, you may not actually be all that far from the truth, for a melding of the minds did indeed take place between the two of you.”
“That’s sort of awesome…and sort of disgusting.” If he could do the real-world equivalent of a mind meld, I’d better not let him pinch my neck. “So did he mean for it to happen? For me to see all that stuff? And how were you in there, if it was just a link between my mind and his?”
“As your spirit guide, Daniel, my mind is also psychically linked to your mind.” Which made total sense, now that I came to think of it. “As to his motivations, that’s a little harder to say. Falconer may have been as surprised as you were to find you present within his lucid memory.”
“He sure seemed surprised when he opened his eyes,” I pointed out, taking another look at the line of of customers outside. It was getting longer. My phone said that it was five minutes til seven, so the Snare would be opening in just a few minutes.
“I should imagine that that would be the case. But then again--”
“There you are!”
We both turned.
“Jessica! I thought F…I thought the Dark Man got you!” I corrected myself.
The goth girl looked genuinely pleased to see me, which was a far cry from the studied indifference she’d shown when I first met her a few hours ago. Her hair was mussed into a mess and she was sweating hard. Then again, if you had been stalked in a dark maze by the thing that had just come after us, I’m willing to bet that you’d be pretty frazzled too.
“Is that the one who took Becky?” she asked breathlessly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. I nodded. “I saw him dragging her away. I tried to go after them, but they…I…I was scared.” She seemed embarrassed, almost ashamed. “I saw his face and it was…wrong. Either that’s really good makeup, or he isn’t human.”
“Tell her that she has nothing to be sorry for, Daniel,” Lamiyah said quietly. “Falconer and his tulpa are both creatures capable of instilling great fear. None but the hardiest souls are immune.”
“That’s really kind of you,” Jessica answered before I could even open my mouth to pass the message on. “My name’s Jessica. Who are you?”
Lamiyah and I looked at one another, more than a little shocked.
“You can see her?” I asked at last.
“Of course I can,” Jessica said, sounding puzzled that I had even asked that particular question. She extended a hand, which Lamiyah took and shook once in that really formal manner she sometimes had. “My name is Jessica.”
“I am Lamiyah, and it is my very great pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise. Uh…stupid question, I guess, but here goes nothing. What are you?” She was looking my spirit guide right in the eye. To her credit, Lamiyah took it in her stride.
“It would be easiest if you thought of me as a spirit, although Daniel here far too often refers to me as a ghost.” Her nose wrinkled with distaste. Spirits didn’t like that particular word all that much, any more than they liked being referred to as dead or the departed. She had told me many times that they just didn’t like the connotations. In many ways, the people we thought of as ‘the dead’ were a lot more alive than most of us; after all, at least you didn’t see them wandering around in a daydream with earphones in, or going through life with their faces practically buried in the screen of a cellphone.
“A spirit? Cool.” Just like that, Jessica seemed to accept the fact that she was talking to a spirit: in fact, had just shaken hands with one. Which quite frankly was pretty cool, but now that the fog in my head was starting to clear, I was beginning to realize that we had bigger things to worry about.
“Uh, hey, I hate to break up the meet and greet,” I said apologetically, “but we’re running out of time. That creature – Falconer, whatever he is – has got Becky. We need to get her back.”
“No arguments here,” Jessica said brightly, obviously regaining some of her earlier bounce. “I always knew there was something hinky about that guy – some of the other kids used to tell creepy stories about him but most of us just blew them off. I guess they were true after all. Now I say we find that piece of crap and show him what happens when you mess with the Page clan.”
“I can get behind that. Sounds like he’s long overdue for a good ass-kicking.”
“One moment,” Lamiyah held up a cautionary hand. “Think back a little, both of you; think back to how you felt when you last saw the dark entity which accompanies Falconer when he so desires it.”
“Okaaaaay…” I said slowly, not sure where she was going with this.
“What did you feel?” the spirit guide prompted.
What did I feel? Terrified. I felt as though I could barely move. All the worst clichés from bad scary fiction had hit me all at once. My mouth went dry. My heart started racing, pounding in my chest like it was going to burst right through my breastbone and explode in my face. I broke out in goosebumps and a cold sweat, both at the same time. My hands had started shaking, and then the rest of me joined in with the shivering just a few seconds later.
“Afraid,” Jessica answered quietly for both of us. “We felt afraid.”
“And quite rightly so,” nodded Lamiyah. “It has nothing to do with a lack of courage on your part, either of you; it is simply the nature of this particular beast.”
That got my attention. “Beast? Come on, Lamiyah. You said you went back and checked out this guy’s past. Spill.”
“I will tell you what I know, and I shall do so as quickly as possible,” she replied, taking a deep breath, “but I must caution you: this will not make for pleasant listening.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I’ll try to tell it just as my spirit guide told it to us, but please remember that I’m not even half the natural storyteller that she is. Much of what I learned about the pathetic early life of Malachai Falconer was told to me after, when I met with Lamiyah on one of our shared dream-worlds; I only got the high points when the three of us were standing in the lobby of the Snare, getting ready to go and find Becky. Luckily for you, I can give you some more information now than Jessica and I had back then.
Hopefully I can do the story some justice, at least.
Malachai Falconer had been born in a little English vi
llage named St. Osyth, sometime around the tail end of the sixteenth century. According to Lamiyah, as a young dude, Falconer had been more interested in learning how to read than he was in playing with sticks or chasing the village girls, as all of the other boys wanted to do. (To be honest, I could totally relate to that part. I pretty much was that kid too, always happiest with my nose stuck in an SF novel; I don’t think I even spoke to a member of the opposite sex until I turned fourteen or fifteen).
Books were super difficult to come by back then, and also really expensive. It’s not like there were any paperbacks, and of course no digital books. In fact, owning books – even owning a book – was a status symbol, a way of saying “hey, look guys: I have disposable income!” to your friends and neighbors. Hand-written and leather-bound books were the bling of their day, I guess.
His mom had died in childbirth, which was pretty common in those days, so young Malachai was raised by his father, who was some kind of merchant. His father did okay for money, but drank away most of the profits; Lamiyah insisted that he had never gotten over his wife’s death, which had turned him bitter and blown up what, under other circumstances, might only have been a little mean streak. When he was wasted drunk, however, the merchant took the pain and frustration out on the only easy target around: his son.
He did it in the only way he knew how: with his fists.
The young Malachai suffered beating after beating, and went to bed with tears in his eyes and blood in his mouth practically every night. In the next room, his father cried himself to sleep for a totally different reason, with only the ache in his knuckles to distract him from the much deeper pain in his heart.
Last Halloween (The Deadseer Chronicles Book 2) Page 15
