Nightshades

Nightshades

Blood. Does it bear the mark of past experience? Is it a doorway to recalling the passion, and the hate, the vengeance and the love of another life?

The Sea of Loraine breaks through the rocks, bringing with it a curling fog. Whistling, the wind wisps around the spires of St. Gwyneth, leaving with them the secrets of the mysterious metropolis: those of high-rollers and politicians. The cathedral’s flying buttresses extend over the lower levels of the city like limbs of a spider protecting the slums. A shadow is cast upon the broken; a veil the sainted lady pretends is secret. Nights under the widow? A nightmare for anyone wandering too far away from the light the casinos and galas so graciously offer. In a city kept secret, one thing’s for certain, if you’ve made it to St. Gwyneth, you’re in the wrong place.

Snow falls upon the cobblestone wetting the rocks as a carriage passes through the 8th Precinct. Through the glass, the moonlight illuminates the deep valleys of a man’s skin, crow feet leading to wary eyes; a characteristic of a man who’d witnessed the horrors any sane man won’t speak about. He peers into the cracks and alleys of the widow to be met by the scowls and displeased looks of those shivering next to trash-born bonfires. The coughing of the cold and clattering of the carriage ascents into the metropolis.

Towering above the slums, the clock tower strikes midnight, a beautiful hymn resonating in the twilight. The man smiles. His carriage has arrived at what the locals might call, The Fourth Circle.

“Your stop, Sir.” The cab driver says, torchlight revealing a marbled eye.

With a nod and a slight tip of his hat, the man extends a coin to the driver and exits the cab. Greeted by the scent of petrichor, the man adjusts his woolen coat before dipping into his front pocket to retrieve a cigarette. With a quick flick of the lighter and long drag of the tobacco roll, he continues along the road.

Passing Belmont St., the guest is greeted by the gentle hum of a fluorescent sign enriching the stroll to the theatre entrance. Alducina Opera House. Tapestries drape across the masonry presenting Maestro Sebastian De Leon, the famed musician from Bel Ria.

Reaching into his vestige, he pulls from it a ticket embroidered with silver leafing. It is Our Honor to Grant Admission to the Henry Harbinger for Tonight’s Performance. Receiving a stamp from the attendant, Henry follows a velvet carpet down the hall. The marble floors and intricate archways lead to a grandiose staircase. Guests line the balustrade, each clothed in lavish attire. Balcony 2 Seat 4. He reads before entering the auditorium.

Henry reaches the balcony as the maestro takes his place at the rostrum, the crowd standing to their feet to greet the Bach of Bel Ria. The lights dim and the curtains open revealing the orchestra.

Following an applaud, a black man speaks from the cover of the darkness, his embroidery shimmering under the light of his cigar. “Mr. Harbinger. I’m glad to see you’ve made it in time.” He says in a deep tone. Uncrossing his legs, the man presents a hand from seat three. “Durand.”

“It’s a pleasure.” Henry shakes the man’s hand and sits in the chair beside him. His voice sounds worn from many sleepless nights, the resonance of a seasoned city slicker.

A steward rolls over a cart of liquors, and Durand gently moves his fingers through the selection. “A fan of the arts?” He gestures to the opera house before raising a glass to his inspection.

“When my means can manage my appetite.” Henry laughs. “But from time to time I’ve let temptations get the best of me.”

Swirling the decanter, a crimson splash is seen against the glass. “You and I, both.”

“Wine, I presume?”

“Of sorts.” Durand smiles; a tooth seemingly out of place. He pours the sanguine spirits. “Care for a glass, my friend?” He laughs before placing the rim to his lip.

“I appreciate the offer but I’ll be sticking with what I’ve got. Whiskey always seemed to satisfy my tastes…” Henry says, pouring his flask and raising a glass to the councilor. “Cheers.”

“Indeed,” Durand says before finishing the glass with an expression of ecstasy. Still looking to the orchestra, “Your target, the one the lower levels refer to as Sam Dubois, has been operating close to my territory. As you may have guessed, this has displeased me and the other members of the council.”

“Is Sam the type of don to roll with lackeys and pack heat?

Handing a sealed letter, “In the envelope, I’ve noted all known details and the last heard whereabouts of this elusive rodent. Expect a few hired hands but nothing serious. Resources aren’t what we fear with this creature.”

“Then what is?”

“I won’t be answering that question, Mr. Harbinger. Ensure his termination and a credit will be added to your account.”

Henry hides a displeased look, rising from the seat. “Understood. I’ll take care of your little problem for you. Just make sure the money makes it.” He turns to the archway.

“Not staying for the rest of the show?” Durand smirks, an applause resounding as De Leon finishes his fourth piece.

“As much of as a crime it may be, I’d rather get to work before people start talking.”

“A shame.” Durand shrugs. “But what would you expect from a gentleman with an acquired taste for whiskey.”

“I’ll take whiskey over whatever woe you have bottled up.”

Durand scoffs. “Suit yourself.” A jagged grin hides behind another filled glass.

“As men must do... Anyway, Mr. Durand, I’ll be taking my leave.” Henry says quietly, departing with a step.

“And I’ll be awaiting the good news.”

Henry follows the velvet carpet down the hall until witnessing an attendant collapsing on the ground in front of him. Vice-filled tulips crash onto the marble floor and the woman lays in a daze. Against his better judgment he decides to help; a sucker for a damsel in distress. “You alright, Miss?” He asks, bending a knee and laying a gentle touch upon the woman’s back, ashen locks falling over his fingertips.

Reaching for Henry’s arm, “I… I must have slipped.” The woman says, placing a hand to her forehead.

“Nothing the Alducina can’t afford.” Henry looks to the broken glass before helping the lady to her feet.

“Ain’t that the truth. Anyway, thanks for the lift.” She looks into Henry’s eyes.

Struck by emerald gems, Henry feels an odd sense of familiarity: an emotion the old bounty hunter doesn’t feel often.

An alluring smile gleams under the theatre’s torchlight, “See something you, like?”

Taking a short pause, “Something like a memory.”

“A memory, huh?” The lady laughs, a glint in her eye. “Do I remind you of someone you know?” She reaches down to grab the silver tray, shaking it dry of alcohol. “Maybe another beautiful broad you’ve helped to their feet...”

Scrunching his brow, “No… I wouldn’t say that.”

“Well I’m sure whoever she was, I'll take it she made quite the impression.” She smiles playfully.

Henry laughs. “There’s just something familiar about you that’s all.”

“Familiar? I don’t remember us meeting. Or did we?” She places a finger to her chin to think. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Count Elsberry, would you?”

“Count Elsberry? Do you really take me as the noble type?” Henry says sarcastically.

The crease of her cheek rises. “Maybe in some ways.”

“Well, for my sake, I really hope those are good ways.” Henry smiles through his eyes. “So, who do I have the privilege of helping to her feet?”

She presents her dainty hand to be kissed. “You may call me, Claire.”

“Well Miss Claire, you certainly don’t have the etiquette of your typical attendant.”

“Nor you the typical guest of the Alducina.” Claire winks, pulling Henry closer to listen to the whispers of stories running deep through the man’s skin. “Perhaps there’s more history between us than you know.” She says quietly, turning her head to the sound of footsteps echoing across the marble floors.

An old steward nears with a mop and broom in hand. “What happened?” He asks angrily.

“My apologies, Arthur. I seemed to have become faint and collapsed. Luckily, Mr.…” She turns to Henry.

“Dumont.” He nods.

“Yes, Mr. Dumont helped me to my feet. I’m terribly sorry about the mess.”

Turning to Henry, “Please excuse my subordinate…” Arthur says with an expression of dissatisfaction as he hands Claire the mop. “She’s a recent hire… And well, she’s yet to learn our standards of service.” The steward guides Henry away from the mess. “May I show you to your seat, Sir... or will the exit suffice?”

Henry sighs, looking over his shoulder to see the beauty sweeping glass. He sighs. “I suppose the exit will do.”

The liver-spotted attendant grabs henry’s arm. “Splendid. Right this way, Sir.”

They depart.

Many precious moments later, Henry finds his way back on the frigid streets of The Fourth Circle. The snow falls lightly overhead as he pulls the envelope from his coat. Among a list of addresses he reads, 37330 Edenhollow - Victor Romanov. “Affiliated with the Triune. And oh, has an acquired taste for St. Gwyneth’s finest wines… At least I can expect some consistency underneath the widow. Hopefully, he’s one for conversation.” He puts away the note before continuing along the path, the frost crumbling beneath the boon of his heel. Looking toward an addict laughing maniacally, Henry pulls his eyebrows closer, his lip curled at the pitiful sight.

Ahead, a curious-looking concubine blows a kiss to Henry. “Would you look at that Scarlet, an angel in our midst?” She says in an oddly deep tone, hips twisting toward the man.

“An angel?” Henry laughs. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

The woman grabs Henry’s arm. “Oh honey, you’re exactly who we’re looking for. And tonight, we’ll show you why they call this place Seventh Heaven… For a pretty penny of course.”

“I think you’ll have much more luck with the man over there. He seems to be more… accepting of life’s scarcity.” He points back to the addict.

“Suit yourself, sweetheart. If you change your mind, just come and see us.” The other woman says before scratching the hair on her leg.

He passes the brothel before turning onto Edenhollow.

Hanging from the façade of an intricate stone structure, a sign reads, The Burrowing Owl. “I guess this is the place.” Henry approaches a green metal door. He knocks and the screen slides open.

“Hissing and clawing and flying away, be a bird or a snake, or is it a drake. The finest liquors for a reasonable price. Welcome valued patron, what brings you to The Burrowing Owl this night?” Asks someone from behind the door.

“Well you see, my flask ran out and I’m looking to fill up. I heard this place might be able to accommodate.” The screen shuts and Henry listens as several locks turn and gears resound from within. The door opens.

A small, leathery creature with a white beard extends a clawed hand to Henry, urging him to come near. “I’ve seen many drinkers in my day, and well…” His eye magnified behind a monocle, “You wear the eyes of one who drinks to forget what he’s seen, not his shame; a characteristic of a man finding a brighter path.”

“I’m not sure what this brighter path is, but I’m certainly no robber or cut-throat. I’d just like to top off and rest for the night if that’s okay.”

The doorkeeper sighs. “Certainly.” He smiles with an expression of understanding, granting way to the guest of St. Gwyneth.

Henry passes the old man, descending the steps into The Burrowing Owl. He works his way through a sea of drunken patrons until reaching the bar. “Vodka on the rocks, please,” Henry says, placing a crinkled bill upon the bar top. “And room while you’re at it.” He places another.

The barkeep nods from behind the stick before turning to a shelf lined with expensive liquor.

“Stoli?” A patron asks, sitting on the barstool next to Henry.

“Of course.” With a lowered brow, “Just a little something to set the mood for the night.”

The man laughs, “I didn’t see you come in with anyone. Or have I missed something?” He removes his glasses to clean away the fog.

“Boomerang!” The barkeep slides a glass of Russian nap down the bar top to Henry’s hand, a key fastened loosely around the base.

“Your eyes serve you right. This old dog travels alone.”

“I could tell you were a foreigner…” The man takes a gulp from his glass. “But why on earth anyone would want to visit a city swallowed by crime is a mystery to me.”

Raising his glass to remove the key, “I’m not here for the sightseeing that’s for sure… I’m looking for someone. A man by the name of Victor Romanov. Have you heard of him?”

The pupils of the patron’s eyes become swallowed up by the white. “Vile Vic? Well, he’s definitely not the person you’d have a drink with…”

“So you have heard of him.”

“Heard of him? Everyone’s heard of him. But Victor isn’t the friendly type. If you know what’s good for you, you’d stay the hell away from that sadist.”

“And if I don’t know what’s good for me?” Henry takes another drink.

The man looks over his shoulder and scans the room. “Then you’d try Room 813. But if anyone asks, you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not one to kiss and tell.” Henry crinkles his right cheek. “I’ll be going now, but thanks for the help.” He rises to his feet, leaving his drink behind.

The patron gestures confusedly to glass.

“All yours.” Henry laughs. “In a city like this, I don’t know why the hell anyone would want to be sober anyways.” He approaches the elevator, the drum of the drunken patrons swallowing up his footsteps.

Pressing a brass nodule upon the control panel, the folding gate opens and Henry steps onto the lift. Ascending to the 8th floor, he takes a drag from his half-burnt, hand-rolled cigarette, thinking about what type of character he’ll soon be acquainted with. Ding. He arrives. Stepping onto the wooden floor, he continues through a dimly lit hall until reaching Room 813. Just as he’s about to knock, he notices that the deadbolt resting upon the frame. I didn’t take Vic to be the one for dinner guests. Henry thinks, unholstering his revolver. Creeping into the dark room, he turns to a wax lantern burning near the window. “Anybody home… Victor?” He whispers, peering around the corners with his eyes focused down the sights of his handgun. Upon a shelf, a glass jar begins to shake as a blue wisp swirls within. The hairs upon Henry’s neck leap, sending a sorrowful chill down his spine. He gasps, trying his best to remain quiet in the mysterious abode. So this is what Durand meant by finest wines… What a sick sense of humor. Henry slowly removes the jar from the shelf, a doleful expression as he watches the frightened soul cower to the edge of the glass. A drinker of souls… The worst of mankind. Placing the jar on a nearby table, he steps deeper into the apartment, searching for signs of the warlock the city undeservingly gave a name: a privilege reserved for those deemed human beings. Catching a glimpse of a pale man lying atop a wooden desk, Henry approaches. “Victor?” He asks again quietly, lightly touching the necromancer’s fur coat. Limp, the remnant of the warlocks falls to the ground. “I guess Vic definitely didn’t stand for victorious.” Henry looks to a wine glass with lipstick near the brim. Lipstick? He thinks bringing the glass to his eye for a closer inspection. Suddenly, he hears a footstep behind him. Whack! Henry collapses to the ground and a feminine figure appears in his fading eyesight.

“Sorry I had to steal the show, big buy.” The mysterious woman whispers. Raising her wrist, “Aydrien, I’m going to need some help getting our friend back to base.” She says into a shoddily constructed communication device.

“Be right there boss. Just finishing this drink with Hector…” The device crackles.

“Nope. Get your ass up here! We don’t have time for that.”

“What’d you mean? You said we had all night.”

“Yeah well… I might have given the Ole Vic the Big Adios.”

“Damnit, Sammi…” Aydrien sighs. “We’ll be right there.”

Laying upon a damp cellar floor, Henry regains consciousness, hearing the echoes of Sammi’s voice in another room. In a state of delirium, he moves his arm to feel the restraint of a leather strap. “Shit… It looks like I’ve found myself in a bind.” He says softly, shaking his senses of, both, alcohol, and the matron’s blow.

Upon tender footsteps, the one the city refers to as Sam Dubois approaches the big-headed hitman. “You’re awake… Good. We’ll be needing that cat-like dependability.” Sammi says, baring a curl of hidden humor. Laughing, she turns to Hector. “Grab our friend some water, by the look of things he’ll be needing it.”

“You got it, boss.” The African adjunct leaves the cellar with a smile on his face.

“Claire?” Henry tilts his head.

“One of my many aliases.” A glint is seen in her eye. “Oh Henry, it’s been far too long.”

“Far too long?” Henry crinkles his brow. “We met at Alducina last night.”

“Then you’ve forgotten… A shame. Let me enlighten you.” Sammi pulls a knife from her boot, gliding the blade upon the palm of her hand. The blood begins to run through her fingers as she nears Henry. “Certainly not what you’d find in Durand’s cellars but I’m sure it’ll do the trick.”

Meeting the restraint of the sheepskin shackles, Henry twists, and turns. His lips sealed, he turns his head away from the crimson weep.

Forcefully, Sammi grabs Henry’s chin. “I’m sorry, my love… but we don’t have time to entertain your fear.”

The sanguine nectar drips upon his tongue and he winces. Henry’s body tenses and Hector removes the binds from the hook. Mind melting under the stress, he incurs the wrath of memory: the pain of many years passed. He writhes on the ground in agony, crying out for solace. Silence. His senses returning he rolls to his back, gazing at his captor. “Azalea?” He whispers.

A tear rolls down Sammi’s eye. “Ardyn…” She falls to the ground beside Henry, embracing him soulfully. Bringing his head to her chest, she lays a kiss upon a russet lock.

Speaking with only his heart, “I knew I remembered you.”

“Ardyn, I have waited… Nearly a century I waited for your return.” She holds tighter, kissing his neck.

Henry turns to his lover, placing a kiss upon her lips. “And you shall wait no longer, my flower.” With the warming touch of his love upon his palms, he rises to his feet and approaches a nearby mirror resting upon the brick. Steeped in guilt, his lips tremble. “To think I’d become as venal as those criminals…” He steps away, turning to Azalea, shaking his head in disgust of himself.

“Don’t you dare belittle yourself. If the world didn’t demand hired guns, they wouldn’t exist. And here we are, in the Fourth Circle of St. Gwyneth.” She begins to laugh. “As I said, we’ll be needing that cat-like dependability.”

Hector approaches Henry, presenting his tried-and-true revolver.

“I said cat-like!” Azalea quickly grabs the gun, holstering it upon Henry’s hip and sealing the latch. “If we’re to take down a kingpin…” She lowers her chin in sarcasm. “It’s probably best we take a less abrasive approach.”

Hector and Aydrien look at each other confusedly with a mutual shrug.

“Then what would you suggest?” Henry asks.

“As they say, violent delights have violent ends,” Azalea smirks, looking to the drops of blood upon the stone floor.

“Oh, and how I was wanting to stay for a performance.” He reaches in his vest for the Opera House admission. “I’m sure Durand will be happy to oblige.”

“And I still haven’t been paid by Arthur.” She beams. “It looks like the stars have aligned.”

The following night, Henry arrives at the Alducina. Tapestries now present a contemporary musician by the name of Ajal Bhishak, boasting a Sinful Symphony. Stamped by the attendant, he passes the luxuries of the aristocracy. Up the marbles steps, he ascends. Balcony 2 Seat 2.

“Mr. Harbinger, your return is most welcomed,” Durand says as Henry takes his place beside him. “Care for a drink?” He bears a sinister grin as the musician performs.

Henry laughs. “I thought you might ask.” He reaches into his coat, revealing a bottle labeled Sam Dubois. “A gift.”

“My, my. You shouldn’t have.” Durand inspects the bottle, blood clashing against the glass. “I presume our target has been taken care of?”

“Let’s just say she’s in a better place."

“She?” Durand places the brim to his lips

“It turns out your Sam was actually Samantha. Beautiful and deadly.”

The councilor looks to the stage and the symphony begins. “Well, so long as she’s met Cu Sith, and our problem has been taken care of.”

“And my problem?”

“Yes, yes.” He waves his hand indignantly. “Your account has been credited.”

“Perfect.” Henry looks to the theatre. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to give in to my temptations tonight.”

Durand laughs. “By all means. Should I have the attendant bring you another woe-filled glass of whiskey?”

“On the rocks.”

“My, my what a sudden transformation. I love it!” He cackles pressing a button upon his armrest.

A few minutes later, a familiar feminine figure arrives.

“Whi…” Durand begins to demand as Azalea pours the glass.

“Whiskey, Sir?” She presents the drink to Henry.

“Indeed. Thank you kindly, Miss.” Henry takes a sip, his eyes beaming behind the brim.

Suddenly Durand begins to choke.

“Durand, you’re starting to look a little pale… Should I fetch you a glass of water?” Henry asks.

The councilor tilts his head in confusion, a sensation of disbelief as reality begins to set in. “No. You wouldn’t dare.”

“Dare to do what?”

“You… you’ve poisoned me?”

“Not at all. You’ve done that yourself.”

Durand spits up black blood, his lip curling to reveal an ebony fang decaying as the trumpets bury his cries. “But why?”

“I dreamt of a city not ruined by the scent of blood, sex, and greed.” Henry looks to Ajal. “And for that to happen, you can longer exist.”

“A change of heart from a mercenary?” He tries to laugh, his lungs weakening. “Traitor!”

Azalea rests beside Henry in Seat 1. “You see Durand, resources are exactly what you should have feared. Not those of money and political power… Those worlds hold nothing but sadness and betrayal.” Azalea crosses her legs. “It is loyalty. It is love. It is everything you have never known.”

The vampire tyrant coughs, falling to his knees. “Pathetic… harlot.”

“And what does that make you?” Henry asks.

Durand bears a scowl, the life fading from his body. “A rodent…” He exhales, an expression of salvation as his spirit departs for the underworld. His body turns to ash and fades away with the overture of Bhishak. In divine response, the audience cheers, and the curtains close.

“Au Revoir.” Azalea places her hand in Henry’s, a comfort she has awaited for centuries. Peace at last.

Blood, it certainly remembers... the marks, the vices, and as light shining through the dark corridor of life, the love.

May we not forget.

FIN.