“Demitri, Willkommen.” Said the collector, strutting from his black castle, dressed in all black leather and far too much gold, sunglasses on at night and the deadest smile conceivable. ”Schon dich zu sehen.”
“Yes yes, Gutenberg to you too, you dickless waxed melon, who knows well that I don’t speak a word of German and never will.” Demitri smiled playfully.
“You have not aged a day.”
“Strange to say I could comment much the same.”
“All this walking keeps me young and fit, I have such a large home you see?” he flexed, both literally and verbally with his bald head glimmering in the moonlight. ‘Come come, join me. I so rarely have guests, and much of my collection goes so very unseen. What a shame this is.” He said cheerfully, yet without cracking the faintest hint of a smile. He waved him along with hands darkened by tattoos, spirals and runes from knuckles to wrist, merging into a black ring that vanished under his black leather shirt sleeve.
“You have not even noticed my companions.” Demitri said loudly, following him with a brisk walk as Jack and Vicki followed while Gizzy laid back.
“Ah!” he scoffed. “Surely not as interesting as you, dear Demitri. Your servants may attend if they remain silent.”
“This is my wife…” he said, stopping the collector in his tracks, before he turned with a hint of curiosity in his gaze.
“And these servants are part of a trade you may find interesting.”
“There it is… there it is, Demitri. I knew you would not come to this house unannounced, merely to say good evening and share some wine. So… which am I meant to find so shocking… your gifts or your bride?”
“The bride goes where I go, and the gifts are not free. I do hope you find them more interesting since they are for you, and you can afford them. Meet Jackson Greene, son of The Dead Roman… and HIS wife.” He said as Gizzy removed their hoods and tugged on their shackles, holding up the tusk with her other hand.
“Oh, now this is special. You know, I was hoping to get you alone and kill you, Demitri, both for the insult of showing yourself here uninvited and because you would look splendid in one of my display rooms. But now you truly are, officially, invited and welcomed.” He nodded, silently belly laughing without a grin or smirk.
...
Demitri and Gizzy sat at a black marble table, carved with skulls and rose bushes as the collector placed his predictably… polished black leather shoes on it while eating an apple loudly.
“So… you bring me playthings and a very rare tusk. What is it you want so badly that you must bribe me with such things?”
“Well, truthfully, I do not know. The tusk may be for myself and the playthings the payment for your artistry on it. All I know is that Esmeralda and myself were on our way to other affairs and we came across a battered ship with a distress call. Upon finding the one and only son of the Roman with a freshly collected tusk, so coincidentally close to your home… I assumed they were on their way here with it. I was unable to pry much information from them, truly, I do not care. But they both have value, and we have history and I do not believe in coincidence, so what does fate wish to reward me with? A carved chalice from the great artist in exchange for a few new pets, or both gifts in exchange for something you can convince me is worth them both?” Demitri asked.
“Well, that is a strange but not shocking proposal from you. A riddle and a mysterious game of fate and luck. You have not changed at all. But this wife… no this is unexpected. She is special. In fact I would love to give her a tour of my collection as you… relax and enjoy the hospitality of my servants. Wine and food, the finest, have your fill.”
“And I simply wait here while you stroll through the manor with my lovely bride. Now that has an aura of mistrust that I find suspicious.” Demitri said, genuinely feeling a bit of rivalry and jealousy.
“And that is why I have demanded it. You distrust me, I distrust you. You make me uncomfortable around my valued collection of the beautiful death, so will I make you uncomfortable with yours. Now Demitri… surely she is not so easy a prize to have or you would not boil with hate at the suggestion of it. Do you not trust your wife around me, or is she so delicate that a mere human poses such a… scary threat to her.”
“Now dear, let’s not insult our host before we negotiate our prices. That’s bad business and bad form entirely. You can manage a few minutes without me, and I would love to see the collection. Vicki… bring my coat and follow. I may need you to carry something later.” Gizzy said politely nodding and following him as Demitri fumed alone and waited for food and wine with Jack in shackles, and Vicki bowing her head and obeying.
...
“You two truly hate each other, don’t you?” Gizzy asked.
"Ah, hate is such a childish word for it. I admire what he is, but not WHO he is. It seems a waste to have such power and immortality and yet so little depth of character and tastes. And yet, he surprises me with you.”
“Should I be insulted?”
“On the contrary.” He huffed “You are a rare item to collect, I am amazed you would be caught by someone like him, below your class.” He said, for the first time almost grinning.
“Who said he caught me? Am I not allowed to be a collector as well? I collected the man you never could, and brought you several rare finds. You should see my trophy room. The black and gold would be familiar, the playthings hopefully more interesting.”
“And now I understand the truth. Demitri did not come here with you, you came to me and brought him. Was he uncomfortable at the suggestion?”
“Very. But I have expensive tastes and the fortune of a very fresh tusk. I simply could not decide if I wanted it carved by the famous… the infamous artist, or if your intriguing collection might contain something I want even more. I had to see it for myself. Demitri wasn’t persuaded, he simply did as he was told. Sit… stay. Good boy… Fetch.”
“And that is why he sits at the table and waits, and why you will see my collection. I do not collect in order to brag to the weak of my wealth. I collect to impress the highest caliber with my grand vision.” He said leading her along as Vicki stopped, letting them walk ahead a moment. She noticed a woman in a black wedding dress. The strange thought entered her mind that the collector never mentioned a wife, and she turned to rejoin the pair to find the door in front of her now locked.
“Shit.” She muttered. “Well, now what?” Vicki said wandering the way she came and stopping again, noticing a dead end hallway branching left and right, rather then before when it went only straight through. “Jack… where you at?” she hollered.
The women in the black dress crossed the doorways in front of her and she followed, finding her tending to a fireplace. “Hey, I somehow got lost.”
“Sit. Have a drink.” the oddly familiar voice behind the dark veil said.
“I actually have to tend to my master.” She said.
“They are not to be bothered by us at the moment. Have a drink.”
“I’m dizzy enough already without getting drunk…” she said smelling the air and realizing the pitcher was human blood. The bride poured the thick red liquid into a very ornately carved ivory chalice, reaching out.
“You are weak, you need nourishment.” She said in a strangely motherly manner. Vicki’s eyes turned slightly red for a brief moment as she licked her lower lip and bit down slightly, tempted but hesitant.
...
Jack and Demitri sat silently while figures in dark clothing brought food and wine like ants, silently moving in unison.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“I loathe waiting.” Demitri said as one of the hooded servants broke from the line and stepped through the light, revealing a rather unusual mask. Tarnished old steel with a once high polish and years of rust pitting buffed away gleamed in the contrast. A pair of raised horns flowed from the metal forehead where the servants hair and hood was tucked behind. A large smile of iron nails like a sinister caged grin decorated the mask, and the pair of eyes behind the mask were milky white and so faded you almost didn’t notice the pupils at all. The strange creature stared silently, sitting cross legged as if to pray, or to prey.
“Hello?” Demitri asked, “Did your master cut out your tongue, or are you merely silent to add rudeness to your already insulting glare?” he added. No reply. He turned with annoyance to see Jack was missing. When he looked forward again the strange silent one was basked in smoke, the room fogging up slowly as every silent exhale breathed more smoke from under the hood. He noticed the black stone ledge was covered in a thin later of moisture and the black fabric clinging as if soaking wet. He rolled his eyes with annoyance, drawing a sword from his side as he clearly prepared for the trap. More insulted than concerned."Is it your own wish to die, or your master’s orders?” he asked the figure, which was dripping wet and smoking from the sleeve wrists and ankles.
...
Jack opened a heavy wooden door, made of walnut, oiled, and worn rounded by hands and time. He stopped and questioned why he was standing outside at all, not remembering why he got up from the table or when.
“The hell was in that wine?” he asked, seeing his breath in the night fog, noticing the yellow of sodium lanterns and the wet cobblestone of a rain soaked street. He realized the impossible, that moments ago he was on a small isolated night planet and now he was standing in the rainy alleyway of a town he knew too well. Even the smell of the rain had the strange plastic tinge only Amenthis had from condensation dripping off the plastic domes that covered the cities. He heard the footsteps of someone approaching and wished he had gun right now, he uncuffed his shackles and folded them around to expose a pair of locked karambit knives, the chain disconnecting as he prepared to fight the figure approaching him. He could see the gleam of the pistol in his left hand and the strange shape of the top hat silhouette as he passed the lamps.
“Hello Jack.” A voice that sent chills down his spine said. “You grew quite well. I always knew you would.”
“You’re dead.” Jack said to the voice of his father as the trenchcoated figure approached. The same swagger, heavy steps he remembered as a child. Even the brown lacquered cane he remembered tapping beside him. He watched the familiar pointed shoes step on the cobblestone, sagging it as if it were made of inflatable plastic. “You’re not real. You can’t break me that easily.” Jack said half confidently.
“Interesting, boy. You are almost correct. Just because I’m not real doesn’t mean I can’t break you the same.” He said before lifting the pistol and firing a shot, missing as Jack dodged and kicked the door to open it, rattling but barely moving it. he rushed his enemy, swinging with the knives and watching the figure effortlessly glide away from the blade. Dancing, he moved elegantly, as if to show Jack how little effort it took.
“Father wants your heart. I suggest you give it willingly and leave. Staying to watch will be far more painful.” The strange figure said, now with a different voice and gas mask now visible in the light, smoke rolling from it.
“Kinda hard to walk out of here without a heart, unless you’re Gizzy.” He joked, kicking the gun from his hand but taking an elbow to the face in the process.
“Walk away Jack, leave your heart behind.” He whispered, whistling a hunting tune as he drew a ten inch dagger from the cane, just like his father would.
...
Vicki sat nervously, holding the goblet of blood and raising it to her lips. Drinking slowly at first but gulping as she neared the bottom. She held it high, getting every last drop of addiction from it. Her eyes faded from dark red to a dark purple, her chest swelling with a heavy breath.
“Was it not satisfying?” said the bride. “The master’s blood is very unique indeed. Once you’ve had a taste, you can never go back to any other.” She said as Vicki felt her body paralyzed and unable to stand, let alone run. Like she was on autopilot, looking around and breathing, but unable to make movements she wanted. “But you are far from done.” She said placing down a bottle of black ink and a leather roll of menacing chrome tools. Vicki’s heart wanted to race, to run like the rest of her, expecting the ink to thicken and rise from the square glass bottle, strange memories of black tar flashing in her head that seemed like a dream of a past life now awakening. “Such fear, over such a trinket. What have you experienced, my love?” she whispered as Vicki stared at the motionless ink, suddenly realizing it was not the familiar pitch that she feared most, but rather another black substance they kept frozen in a jar.
...
Jack felt the sharp impact of the boot tips on his back and swung wildly to slash the Achilles tendon, missing by an inch as the figure stepped back, tilting its head and stopping Jack in his tracks as he stared down the barrel of the gun.
“I don’t want you dead, boy. I want you to choose. Stay and watch your heart die, or leave now and know it didn’t suffer.” The figure said before suddenly arching its back and letting out a grunt of pain. The gleam of a silver blade retracting from his chest shined in the alleyway. He fell, dropping the gun. Jack caught it, pointing it up at a rather bloody looking Demitri.
“That was not your father. It was an impostor.” Demitri said, raising his blade and showing the black streaks in the blood. “And I mean that in the worst way. There are several dozens in this house.”
“We’ve killed one before, several is a problem.” Jack said lowering the gun to heart-level. “how do I know you aren’t one of them?” Jack asked paranoidly. Demitri tossed his sword aside, opening his shirt and showing bare chest, a dark scar just under his sternum.
“Save that bullet, stab me and see if I bleed ink. I heal quickly, they do not. That bullet might be important.” He smirked. Jack scratched him lightly, noting the normal red color and examining the streaks on the sword in a nearly black, slightly purple, that never fully mixed with the blood.
“You wanna check me?” Jack asked.
“As much as I would love to play that game with you, I know an imposter once I know what to smell for. And if I am wrong, and you are one of them, then I’ll kill you later and slower for insulting me.”
...
Gizzy stood, staring at a truly baffling sight, mouth open in shock as she slowly panned through the tall room and counted the number of human skins that were stretched out and preserved like deer, dozens, all pale white and intricately tattooed. All female.
“Beautiful, is it not?” said the collector. “Such canvases of white, smooth and delicate.” He said as Gizzy lowered her fangs.
“Of course a bald German in leather would lecture me about the supremacy of white skin. I’m shocked to the core.” She sighed, watching the reflections for his position and angle for quickest attack.
“Now, let us not be so shallow in our assumptions. Whatever evil you are clearing thinking of me… I assure you it is not the case, and you are greatly underestimating it and its design. The fairer skin merely shows the ink more clearly. On a world without sun or day, the contrast is merely more attractive. You bring me a gift with alabaster flesh and a weak spirit, and you come as a spirit of iron with a bronze hue to your flesh. Pity they had to be separate, I would love your struggle and fight for a skin such as Vicki’s as the prize. But I will settle for both. Your spirit and her flesh.”
“Oh, you’re gonna get one of them, but you won’t like my fighting spirit after a few minutes," she said, eyes glowing. She turned and slashed with her claws and hit something hard as steel. Sparks raked from her nails even though she never touched his leather shirt. Some invisible barrier was in her way. He smiled. Gizzy now understood why he refused to smile before. A row of iron nails ran from top jaw to bottom, like a cage of teeth with no separation, a thin shell of white enamel that gave the illusion of teeth behind a nearly closed mouth, now very visibly inhuman.
“The fuck are you?”
“A collector, and an artist," he said, jaws still gnashed permanently together. He removed his dark sunglasses and showed a pair of milky white eyes under, faded pupils almost blended in from decades of darkness. He unbuttoned his tight leather shirt and opened it proudly, revealing a fully blacked out chest and arms, muscular and solid, and only on longer examination did she see the faint white lines of his sparse skin like tiny symbols left untouched amongst a wall of tattoo ink that covered like a second skin to the collar line and up to the knuckles on his hands, ending in intricate spirals and points.
“Someone likes their needles.” She said softly,
“Yes, the pain is excruciating but the reward is exquisite.” He said, circling like a fighter ready to brawl. Gizzy sniffed the air, her eyes rolling back and returning to their positions.
“Oh very interesting. Here I thought you just had a leather daddy fetish, but that treated leather smell does a fantastic job of covering up the distinct aroma of imposter blood. Does it protect you like armor, or just make you look fancy at the skinhead orgies?”
“Skinhead…” he chuckled. “Oh the lovely way that sounds, though you do not know the meaning or irony.”
...
Vicki sat in the chair, hands gripping the arms as she clenched and breathed heavily in terror, still unable to move and acting as her own restraints. The bride in black meticulously dipped the ivory quill and plunged the hair-fine tip into her pale skin, rhythmically and almost seductively. The word “stop” echoed in Vicki’s head in her own voice, unable to escape her mouth as the piercing feeling on the back of her neck slowly made its way in lines and spirals. Her eyes grew more purple, pupils lighter and milkier as her lips darkened and her posture relaxed, like falling asleep and fighting it.
“He is fighting for you. Tell him to stop and let go. A willing heart given makes a more powerful canvas than one taken by force.” She whispered.
...
Jack slashed his way through the hall, tearing ghostly servant apart one by one while Demitri casually strolled behind, severing the heads and slaying the ones following them. They cut their way through the candle lit halls, spattering red and dark purple blood on their clothes and skin. Jack felt his chest burn and grow cold with every moment passing as he struggled to breathe, pushing on through pure hatred and willpower. He could feel the slowing pulse of Vicki’s heartbeat like a compass leading him through the slow motion wave of cage-mouthed monsters. And then all at once, her pulse went silent.