Chapter #18Two Chases by: Seuzz   Carefully you edge your way to the French windows that open into the library and rest your fingers on the handle. You feel a shock but ignore it as you silently pull the doors open. Then you are inside the library.
You are reminded again of how uncanny the room is, with its ticking clocks and loosey-goosey geometry. But you put your feelings firmly behind you and tiptoe over to Blackwell's table.
There are half a dozen books piled up, and a sheaf of notes. You twist your head to peer at the latter, but are rewarded only with a jumble of symbols. You pull some of the sheets back, disclosing only more symbols, but running along the top of one page is a single legible word: Essentia.
You frown and turn to the books. It is too much to hope that the Libra is there, though your ability to use the first seven spells without the book means you are more interested in robbing Blackwell of its use than in using it yourself. You carefully lift their covers to study their title pages; but most of them simply launch into hard-to-read text without preamble. But one of them does have a title page, and its title chimes with the word you saw in his notes: De Essentia.
You pick it up and tuck it under your arm. As you do so, you feel a prickle at the back of your neck. You turn.
The vampire-cyclops monkey is staring at you.
There's no other way to characterize it. The thing is always unnerving to look at, and it always gives the impression that it is watching the room and its occupants. But at this moment the feeling is so intense that you expect to see it shift on its pedestal.
Something in your spirit cracks, and you run back to the French door.
It is closed, and the handle will not turn.
You lick your lips and try again. Still, it will not budge, even by a micrometer. You release it, and look back over your shoulder nervously. Can you make it out the front door without being seen?
Then out of the corner of your eye you catch a movement. The handle has jiggled. It twists, and the door slowly opens. But though you have the light of the library streaming out from behind you, it opens into inky darkness.
You can only be reminded of the blackness that engulfed the workroom door on the night that you ... that you ...
Probably you should run the other way. But you got through it once before (didn't you?), so you duck your head and charge into the nothingness.
There's a horrible chittering sound, and a snicker-snack like metal. Things, sharp things, like blades, brush against your bare arms. Blindly, frantically, you run on, faster and faster, feeling the soft ground give beneath your feet. Hard things bark at your shins, but you keep your footing. You weave and topple, and you lose all sense of direction, and then something solid smashes into your face.
You look up and around. You are in the garden, and you've run face first into the wall.
A hard light suddenly reflects off the wall, and you turn to see that the library lights have blazed on. You sprint off to the side, hugging the wall, until you come to the front gate. It won't give. A rustle, like leaves or thousands of wings, rises behind you, and you flee again. A small white building—the mausoleum—looms, and you duck behind it.
You sag against it, facing the wall, which glows faintly in the light. Sounds of pursuit die away at first, and then you hear the crunch of feet on grass. They walk about, deliberately, then pause. More steps, closer, and another pause. They move off in another direction, and pause. A very long pause. Then they retreat until they are no longer audible.
You would sigh in relief, but now something even more horrible appears.
Shadows on the wall in front of you. A long limb with a claw-like hand. The limb bends, and bends again, and you gape to realize it has two elbows. Another limb appears. And whatever is casting those shadows is behind you, and reaching for you from both sides of the mausoleum.
You hurl the book over the wall and leap after it, pulling yourself up. A hand with a grip like iron seizes your ankle, but you pull and strain against it, lifting yourself to the top of the wall. For a moment, as you raise yourself, you lose your balance, and the thing almost pulls you back down. But you kick with the heel of your free foot, and connect with something yielding. There is a snarl; the thing lets you go; and then you are over the wall.
Pausing only long enough to scoop up your prize, you sprint back to your car.
* * * * *
You drove off quickly, to avoid any possible pursuit, until you got closer to town, and then you pulled up next to a tract house and leaned against the wheel until your nerves mostly stopped vibrating. Whatever the thing was back at the house ... Well, now you've got another grudge against Blackwell, for not telling you about it. Though maybe that is part of the design. If you knew what it was, it might be easier to face.
And then you examine yourself. You fully expect to find gaping wounds in your biceps, blood, and flesh hanging in ribbons. But you've not even any scratches.
So, you've escaped, intact, and you've even scored a prize. You just hope it's not of the booby variety as you drive back to the motel.
The lights are on in the office and in a couple of the rental units, but there are no other cars except for Shabbleman's green Corvette. You don't park in front of your unit, though, since it seems better to not suggest which unit goes with the car you've stolen. You trudge back across the open lot, skirting the empty pool, with the De Essentia in your hand.
And as you step up to your door with the key, the book begins to prickle in your grasp.
You've no idea why you react as you do, but with a sudden instinct you jump away from the door and run off toward the street. You hear the door swing open behind you as you run, and a voice shouts something unintelligible. You don't look back, though, but instead dash out around the office and into an alley. A chain link fence looms and you clamber over it. Too late you realize that the trash dumpster on the other side has its top open, and you tumble in.
But maybe that proves your salvation. From inside the container you hear running footsteps and the rattle of the fence; heavy footfalls then announce that the pursuit has dropped to earth just outside your hiding place. You hear panting, and two voices speak.
"A tree could have heard you breathing, Frank," says one.
"Oh, bite me, Joe," says the other. "He probably saw you through the window."
"The curtains were closed," the other voice retorts. "You were right next to the door. Maybe he smelled you. Don't you Mediterraneans ever bathe?"
"When we get back to the room I'll let you lick me clean."
Though the words are harsh, there is no malice in the voices.
"Well, we must have the right place," the first voice sighs. "Something warned him off, and all ribbing aside, we definitely had the drop on him."
"It was a good plan, Joe," the other says. "I wish I'd come up with it."
"Just a variation on the ambush you pulled on the relic-traffickers back in Santiago, Frank. I only crib from the best."
"Thanks, man." The second voice sounds quietly flattered. "I'd slip you some tongue but I only love you like a brother."
Who are these guys?
"Well, fuck," says the first voice with a sigh that yet manages to lack any suggestion of despondency. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Golly gee whiz and Mary Mary, quite contrary. Hokey smoke and gosh darn it to the barbecue grills of heck."
"Careful, Joe," the other says, and there is a severe warning in its voice.
"Alright," says the first voice, sounding genuinely contrite. "Let's check out his pimp-mobile and then, I dunno, pick up a whore for the night. Saving a soul would be just the thing to cheer me up after a long night running around with our cocks flapping in the breeze."
Again, footsteps fade into silence.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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