Authors: Gilliam Ness
“I’ll just close my eyes for a second until he gets back.”
Amsterdam, North Holland.
It was night when the private
jet landed in Amsterdam. Christian had slept the entire way. He emerged from the executive cabin to find his two escorts standing on either side of the door, their arms crossed over their chests officially.
“I trust you had a good flight, Christian?” asked one of the men.
Christian walked past them as if they did not exist. He was a prisoner. He always had been. Bending to look out the window, he felt a distinct pang of hatred surface somewhere in the back of his head. This was his hometown, and he did not know what he hated more, the city or his father. The mere thought of the man filled Christian with bitterness and scorn.
The plane came slowly to a stop beside a waiting limousine, and Christian, familiar with the mechanism, opened the hatch in time to see the motorized staircase pull into place. Before it had come to a stop he had already stepped onto it, making his way off the plane and into the car before his two escorts had time to follow.
“Take me to my family residence,” he ordered, closing the car door as the two men hurried down the steps toward him.
“Now!” he barked.
The car sped off instantly, leaving the two men behind on the tarmac. Christian lowered his window, feeling a flow of cool, Dutch air wash over him. It was a familiar smell that he deeply despised. It was too fresh, too clean, and it smacked of the forward-moving mentality characteristic of the Netherlands. He lit a cigarette and passed a hand through his greasy hair.
The Antov family estate was located in the outskirts of Amsterdam, its manicured grounds, majestic stone walls and shining copper rooftops sending an instant message of power and affluence. How long these buildings had housed his ancestors, Christian did not know, but if he was sure of one thing, it was that his family was much older than the stately Napoleonic residence; much older indeed.
“Take me to the west entrance,” he ordered, “and call ahead to have a bath prepared for me. I want a bottle of red wine and Eggs Florentine waiting for me when I’m done.”
“Very good, sir.”
The car rolled down the long drive that led into the grounds, its wheels rumbling over the uneven cobblestones. Christian lit another cigarette.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll be dead when I arrive.
* * * * * *
“Your father has only just awoken,” said the desiccated old butler. “Your timing could not be better, Master Christian. Please follow me.”
Christian passed through the large oak doors to find his father lying within a great bed in his darkened chambers, a battery of nurses surrounding him on all sides. A bearded doctor was bending over him, his patient’s limp wrist held in his probing hands. The doctor looked up in time to see Christian enter the room. He shook his head gravely, and for a moment a feeling of relief sparked in Christian’s heart.
Is he already dead?
His hopes were soon dashed when he saw a brittle arm dart upward, its bony hand clenching the doctor’s shirt and pulling him in with uncanny strength. Christian watched the doctor’s face as his ear drew close to his patient’s mouth, noting the change in his demeanor as the words were said.
“Everyone out,” whispered the doctor to his medical staff. “The Baron wants a word with his son.”
Christian remained motionless at the threshold, a knot tightening in the centre of his chest. In a matter of seconds the entourage had flowed past him, closing the doors behind them and leaving him alone with the man he most hated in the entire world. An instant later a deep fear was welling up in Christian, conjuring the specters of childhood abuse, and reminding him of his despicable and worthless status.
The room was dimly lit now, the majority of the light having vanished when the doors had been closed. It was a massive chamber, the distant walls and towering ceilings dissolving into the gloom on all sides. The only thing visible was the four post bed; a dais like structure encased in hanging textiles and ornate cushions the colour of dried blood.
Christian stood there silently, frozen with a fear that had been nurtured in him since infancy. He could hear the scratching hiss of his father’s breath, and his knees felt on the verge of giving way. It was all Christian could do to remain on his feet. Real or imagined, his father’s customary psychic assault was working its way into his brain, and it was doing so with an unprecedented intensity.
All power is based in fear. Fear must be maintained at all costs.
These were his father’s words; words that had been drilled into Christian for as long as he could remember, and they now filled his head with the power of a swelling ocean. He had always felt his father’s malicious presence, but never before had he experienced it with such clarity. What had always been vague and hidden was now suddenly visible.
“Come,” came the hiss, and like a lamb being led to slaughter, Christian obeyed, his hatred giving way to a silent plea for mercy.
“Father,” he whispered, arriving at the bedside.
The sight he witnessed was ghastly, and he fought back a desperate urge to flee. It had been more than three years since he had last seen the man, and the transformation that had taken place in that time was nothing short of demonic. There before him, lying amidst the finest silks in the world, was the grey and wasted form of what could only be described as a lizard; a reptilian corpse that somehow still lived.
“You need not fear me any longer, my son,” said the beast of a man in a dry whisper, “for now that you have learned fear, it is you who shall be feared. You will know power the likes of which no other man has ever known.”
Christian remained silent at first, the implications of such a promise filling him with dizziness. It was only after a few seconds had passed that a full comprehension of his true identity struck him. He was no longer a misfit. He was an Antov, and this would soon be his estate.
Christian swayed on his feet. Along with this sudden realization came an unobstructed awareness of his father’s repugnant presence in him. In that moment he realized that it had always been this way. Since his early childhood, Christian’s father had infested his body and mind. The problem was that Christian had never known any other way of being, and as such, the violation had always been undetectable. A reactionary rage flooded into Christian, erupting in a murderous fire.
“Get out of me, you filthy piece of shit!”
Christian heard the words escape from his lips like venom; words he would never before have dared to utter. He spat on his father’s face.
To Christian’s utter surprise he saw a dry smile appear on the beast that lay below him, the last of its tentacles withdrawing from his psyche as it began to die.
“Nautonnier!” cried his father suddenly, expending the last of his strength.
Christian bent forward despite himself, a look of disgust contorting his features as he strained to hear the words that followed.
“It is done, Nautonnier,” his father whispered. “The boy is ready.”
From out of the shadows Christian saw the figure of a brittle man emerge. His head was covered in a hood, but hints of the ancient face within could be seen in the lamplight.
“Behold, Christian,” the man hissed, removing a serpentine ring from his father’s finger and giving it to Christian. “Your father is dead. You are master now. Use your power wisely.”
Rome, Italy.
Gabriel awoke suddenly,
the only light in the room coming from the wood-burning stove that glowed warmly in the corner. The same person who had covered him in a blanket must have also turned out the lights.
“What time is it?” he whispered, looking down at his watch.
The dial glowed a bright blue in the darkness. 11:23pm. Gabriel sat up stiffly and made the calculations in his head. It took him quite a while. He was still half asleep.
“Let’s see. I got here at around six-thirty this morning. Finished breakfast by eight...”
He stopped short with a sudden realization.
“I’ve been asleep for more than fifteen hours.”
Rubbing his face back to life, Gabriel found his way to the end table and switched on a lamp. There was a note resting directly beside it. It was written in the calligraphic script of the Bishop, a little shaky, but still assertive and elegant.
I hope this note finds you well rested, my son. You have been through quite an ordeal. Please feel free to make yourself comfortable in
the guest room
. I will see you for breakfast at eight-thirty sharp.
M.D.L.
Gabriel put the note down sleepily. Had he read it more carefully, he would have understood that it was not his regular room that he was being told to use, but rather the guest room; a suite next to the chapel that had always been used for more prominent visitors.
Entering into the hallway Gabriel found it to be much colder than he had expected, and as he made his way along the dimly lit corridor he was suddenly taken by a desperate urge to urinate. With his bladder ready to burst, Gabriel rushed frantically along the corridor until he arrived at the door of his usual room. Here he would find a toilet, and with no time to spare.
He moved the latch slowly, not wanting to wake the sharp-eared Fra Bartolomeo in his chambers next door. There was no time to even reach for the light switch. He knew that just to the right, past the armoire, was the door to the bathroom. He entered into it without hesitation, finding the toilet and relieving himself in a single, perfectly executed motion. The relief that fell over him was encompassing, and he sighed fully and deeply.
“Twenty-four hours without a leak,” he muttered, reveling with satisfaction at the deep rumbling sound of his stream.
He threw back his head, smiling proudly at the musical quality of an accompanying note of flatulence. Feeling invigorated, Gabriel moved to the sink and proceeded to rinse his hands. It was there where he noticed that something was not quite right. Reflected on the tiles he could clearly see a dim light where there should have been no light at all. It was coming in from the bedroom outside, a fact that puzzled him greatly, considering there had been no lights on when he had entered. A feeling of dread suddenly washed over him.
“Shit,” he muttered, the last of his grogginess vanishing.
He recalled the Bishop’s note.
The Guest Room. Shit!
Turning slowly, Gabriel made his way to the bathroom door. It was ajar. Through it he saw that a lamp in the room had indeed been lit. Whoever was outside was clearly awake. He stood there without moving. Listening.
“Hello?” he said at last. “I think I might have just used your restroom.”
A young woman’s voice replied almost immediately.
“Yes, I believe you did.”
Her voice was calm and timid, her accent clearly Italian, but schooled in American English.
Gabriel was at a loss.
This is not good. There’s a girl out there and I just barged into her room, pissed in her toilet, and blew a massive fart to boot. Marcus is going to kill me.
He tried to think of what to do next, but no solution presented itself. She was clearly in her bed, so he could not just walk out, but he could not remain where he was either. His mind seemed to stall. There was an awkwardly long silence.
“Will you be staying long?” asked the young woman, clearly annoyed.
It took a moment before Gabriel could respond.
“No. I’m quite done.”
There was another long pause.
“You can pass through,” she said. “I am covered.”
Gabriel made his way out into the bedroom and froze. Wrapped in the blankets of his bed, the bed he had slept in since he was a boy, was the most stunning woman he had ever laid eyes on. The soft light of the bedside lamp made her look angelic, and her startled eyes were almost childlike. Thick chestnut hair fell over her shoulders in heavy ringlets. Gabriel swallowed hard.
“My name is Natasha,” she said carefully.
Gabriel was silent for a moment.
“I’m Gabriel.”
Her stern expression made him want to smile, but something told him to be careful. His eyes twinkled despite his best efforts.
“I’m sorry,” he said as sincerely as he could. “It’s just that I normally stay in this room. Bishop Marcus is like an uncle to me. I was half asleep.”
“I did not know that Uncle Marcus had a nephew,” she said, sitting up and eyeing him distrustfully. “And you would think I would know, considering that he is like an uncle to
me
.”
Gabriel was too unpolished for Natasha’s tastes. He had a shaggy, travel worn look about him that made her want to throw him in a bath. She sat up a little further still.
“And for your information,” she added, “this is the room where
I
normally stay.”
Gabriel’s mouth hung open. He was about to speak when a soft knock sounded at the door. A second later Fra Bartolomeo poked his head into the room.
“Natasha,” he whispered. “What is going on here? I thought I heard the voice of a man.”
He looked around.
“Gabriel!” he cried. “What are you doing in this young lady’s room? Have you lost your senses? This is completely unacceptable!”
“No, Fra. It was a mis—”
Gabriel’s words were cut short as the old Brother burst into the room. Reaching up he took hold of Gabriel’s collar and escorted him out with practiced agility. Fra Bartolomeo had long been a school master before his retirement.
“Please, Fra,” pleaded Gabriel as he was removed from the room. “I thought this was
my
bedroom.”