Chapter six
When one faces death every day, one must learn to disconnect oneself from the emotional impact that comes with the job. When one is an Assassin, this becomes the ultimate tool for survival. Morgan Kinstol- known in circles as ‘Morgue’- learned this the easy way. For him, emotional detachment was just another tool of the trade. His first assignment as an Assassin was listed as a ‘church leader’, when in fact he led a suicide cult and used religion to scam millions from the victims of his misdeeds. Morgan remembered the case well. Remembered the look of total oblivion on the face of the conman as it diluted the madness that had controlled his life. Sometimes, the murder of one person can justify the salvation of the world.
The pictures on his cork pin-board in his office held memories. Men, women, children. The very first picture, up in the top right-hand corner, held the image of a young man. He had blue eyes and tawny brown hair, a thin face with an oval chin. On the back on the photograph, scrawled roughly in pencil, his name: Grant Z-C. His date of death: 13/3. Then, Morgan’s signature.
Sometimes, he reasoned with himself, the murder of one person can justify the salvation of the world.
This had been his ethos since he accepted this position. There was always a strange pride that came with being paid to murder, paid to destroy. It was a feeling of power. It felt like, finally, Morgan Kinstol was the one talking, and the world was paying attention for fear of his wrath. And yet, there were always bad apples. Bad apples that needed to be pressed, taken out of the basket before they could make the other apples bad. Bad apples were bad.
As the group of people gradually left the meeting room, Morgan remained seated until Loki- on failing to persuade Morgan to leave- had finally left. Still seated, he surveyed the small room. He looked up and searched the ceiling, saw nothing. He swept his eyes across the table, saw nothing. He stood up, turned and ran at the wall behind him, concentrated his energy on the one place he most desired to be... and crashed head-first. He stumbled back, his hands instinctively covering the top part of his head which had struck the wall. He blinked a number of times and saw blotches of colour obscure his vision. He took his hands away from his head and covered his eyes, sighed dejectedly. He uncovered his eyes and left the room, taking long, quick strides. He narrowed his eyes as he left the room, walked through the maze of corridors and came to his exit. He focused the energy surrounding him, and the wall shimmered away, revealing a small alleyway behind a nightclub back-entrance. Piles of rubbish, empty crates and the doorframe were covered in a thin layer of snow. Fat flakes were drifting in front of him as he stepped out into the cold winter. He felt the exit close behind him, and turned around to make sure. As he suspected, he was standing in the alleyway between the nightclub and the restaurant. No strange ripples between them. He smiled to himself as he turned back around and entered the nightclub through the back entrance, and ran into a security guard dressed in a black polo shirt with ‘Gemini Security’ written boldly on the front, black combat trousers and heavy boots. The guard wore silver-reflecting sunglasses and had his hair slicked back.
“Little cold to try the back, ain’t it?” the guard asked.
“I like a challenge,” Morgan replied, smiling knowingly.
The guard nodded and stepped aside, allowing Morgan access to the rest of the club. He walked through the backrooms and came to a door, which he opened and stepped through, to be welcomed by a barrage of flashing rainbow-like lights and a sudden explosion of dance music. Closing the door behind him, Morgan made his way through the crowds towards the bar. He felt people staring at him, but he shrugged it off, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being followed. Perhaps it was because, while others were dressed in outrageously flamboyant night-life fashions, he had donned an olive turtleneck and dungarees with a pair of well-worn mountain-suited boots.
Morgan eased his way through the crowds of people and took a seat at the bar, where the bartender eyed him up. She was a middle-aged woman with laugh lines around her brown eyes, pink lips and cherry-red hair styled into a modern style Morgan would expect of a twenty-something-year-old.
“What’ll it be?” she asked, smiling professionally.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” Morgan said, “but can you put a couple of olives in? I like things watching me when I drink.” He smiled and she chuckled, preparing the drink.
Morgan’s eyes wandered around the bar and casually observed the night-clubbers. There were a group of young women talking loudly against the music to a group of young men who appeared more interested in the cleavage the women’s low-cut shirts revealed than the conversation they feigned interest in. Morgan toyed with the idea of reading one or two of the young men’s thoughts, but decided against it. He received his whiskey on the rocks with olives and turned in his seat to observe the rest of the clubbers. He saw a young couple- barely out of their teens, he wagered- with chalky noses and a crazed look in their eyes. They were dancing erratically among the equally-crazed clubbers. Without warning, an explosion of colour crashed next to Morgan, landing with its top half over the bar and its bottom half kicking out from a short nylon skirt. The exploding colour was giggling uncontrollably as it righted itself and turned into a young woman dressed in an eye-aching combination of fluorescent colours. She shouted at the bartender who had served Morgan for a Manhattan. The bartender fixed the drink and, just as the young woman was about to pay, Morgan slid the money for the drink across and smiled at the young woman, then the bartender.
“This one’s on me,” he said coolly, turning to the young woman.
The woman smiled and grabbed the drink. She downed it in one go, thanked Morgan, and then ran back into the crowds. Morgan should have felt rejected and used, but instead he shrugged it off and returned to his whiskey, which he had cupped in his hands and took occasional sips of. He inhaled the smell of the nightclub- sweat, booze, vomit, and clandestine sex.
The smell that built the world, Morgan mused, the smell that built the world.
And the smell Morgan was all too familiar with, even more so as he recognised his target from the photograph Thom had given him. Fluorescent red hair, a thin beard that ran down the chin, a nose ring and a tattoo of Sagittarius on his neck. Morgan motioned to the bartender and ordered a drink- a Daiquiri Rebel- for the red-haired man. Morgan reached into his pocket, pulled out and handed the money for the drink to the bartender, asking if he could see it before the young man received it. Morgan was handed the drink while the bartender tended to another customer. Morgan pretended to grab a cube from the closest dish- this particular nightclub had decided to place cubes of a sugar-substance mix in dishes on the bar- and held his hand over the drink, rubbing his thumb, forefinger and middle finger together. A fine red powder settled on the top of the drink. Morgan grabbed the red plastic stirrer and mixed the powder in, called for the bartender and the drink was being carried towards the young man. Morgan turned, watched as the young man’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise as he received the drink, laughed as he and his friends joked about who had sent it to him before the bartender indicated Morgan. The young man looked over and Morgan smiled charmingly, and the young man smiled back, turned to the bartender and soon Morgan had received a ‘thank you’ drink- a Man-Bear-Pig, apparently- from the young man. Morgan held up the glass and smiled a grateful smile. The young man turned back to his friends, taking large gulps of the Daiquiri, and Morgan set the Man-Bear-Pig down, finished his whiskey, ate the olives and gave the bartender a generous tip for her services. Morgan stood up, took a last look at the young man, and left the nightclub, stepping back into the winter. The fat flakes drifted down from a blackened sky. As he walked, Morgan tried to catch one on his tongue.
***
Matt sat facing Richard and Loki across a large, round table in a fairly spacious room. The room was decorated without pictures in frames, but the wallpaper was decorated with scenes of battle, pictures of men and women performing supernatural feats. Matt found one such feat- a woman breaking open strawberries and children coming from the fruit- particularly endearing. He found others- such as a Cyclops tearing the head from an eight-legged horse- less endearing. In fact, he felt watched by the wallpaper as he, his father and his father’s boss stared at each other from across the table.
“Why are we here?” Matt asked, breaking the silence.
To his surprised, Loki chuckled.
“Why are you laughing?” Matt asked.
“Oh, I’m not entirely sure Matthew,” Loki said with warm eyes. “Wouldn’t we all like to know why we are here? Why do we live a life that so, apparently, disdains itself for ever giving itself to us? Is there a point to being a tsunami survivor if all you know and loved has been taken from you?”
“Get to the point.” Matt said irritably.
“Matthew!”
“Calm, Richard,” Loki said, looking crossly at Richard. “He is here because of you, at any rate.” Loki looked over at Matt, who wore a confused expression.
“Come again?” Matt asked hesitantly.
“You are here because of your father.” Loki repeated.
“Why? What did he do?” Matt looked at Richard, worry knotting in his stomach.
Richard sat silently across the table, his eyes down and his fringe covering his forehead. He bit his lower lip and inhaled. He looked at Loki with pleading eyes.
“I can’t tell him,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m having trouble with it myself- and I’ve lived it. You tell him. Please.”
Loki regarded Richard, then looked sympathetically at Matthew.
“Decades ago, Matthew,” he said stoically, “research was conducted into the make-up of our genome.”
“I’m not here for a science lesson, am I?” Matt asked cautiously. “I already know about the HGP and everything, but-”
“No, this is not a science lesson,” Loki said, “the fact is, we have reason to believe that you are not human.”
Matt felt like he had been slapped in the face, punched in the gut, and kicked in the groin all at one time, but he did something that he probably should not have: he laughed.
“Matthew,” Richard said sternly, “this is no laughing matter.”
This just made Matt laugh even more.
“It’s a shock reflex,” he heard Loki say to Richard, “his mind cannot comprehend the information it has just received, hence it must create distraction- laughter- in order to relieve some of that shock. Like tickling.”
“Ah,” Richard said uncertainly.
When Matt’s laughter had subsided, he said: “Sorry, sorry. I interrupted your story. What did you want to tell me?”
“As I was saying,” Loki said evenly, “due to the nature of this research, there is reason to believe that you are not human. The initial investigation was into the make-up of my kind’s genome, and, subsequently, the research took such a turn that we began to mix our genetics with human- or ‘mortal’- genetics. Your father was a result of this research.”
Matt regarded the looks on Loki and Richard’s faces. Despite his disbelief that he might not be human- and that Richard was the result of interspecies cross-breeding research- the looks he saw were of complete honesty, and regret.
“Why are you telling me this?” Matt asked, looking Loki directly in the eye.
“Perhaps you could tell us,” he replied softly. “You’re the one having nightmares, are you not?” Loki gave him a questioning look.
“How do you...” Matt trailed off. He was about to ask how Loki knew about his nightmares, but then he realised: Richard. He looked at his father with anger.
“I didn’t tell Loki anything.” Richard said defensively. “When Odin came over to... check you, he found some anomalies in your dreams which he thinks mean that you are being affected by my being your father.”
“No,” said an irritable voice from behind Matt, “that is not the case. At all!”
Matt turned around, and Richard and Loki craned their necks to get a better look as a bulky man with salt-and-pepper hair appeared by the door, next to a picture of a wolf being chained to a rock.
“Professor Mafuro.” Matt whispered.
“Mattia,” Odin sighed, “my name is Odin, and I expect you to call me this.”
“Brother,” Loki said with a slight annoyance, “how splendid of you to finally arrive.”
“As I recall,” Odin said coolly, “I was not invited to the first meeting, so you will forgive my being tardy.”
“Duly noted,” Loki grumbled.
“Please continue fratello.” Odin said.
Loki’s lips formed a snide grin.
“I’ll finish,” Richard sighed, “just, Matt, you had a dream that confirmed Loki and Odin’s suspicions- they’ve spent their lives looking for an ancient story which prophesises the coming of-”
“Jesus?” Matt joked.
Richard gave him a stern look. “No,” he said, “not Jesus- there are enough crackheads thinking he’s more likely to come tomorrow than the electrician as it is. The story Loki and Odin looking for is called the Ancient Fable, and from what they suspect, it contains information on the end of the world and, more importantly, angel-like creatures who will- or have been- born in the years before the end. Odin suspects that you are one of them.”
“Oh.” Matt said, unsure of how he should be feeling. On one hand, there was the possibility that his nightmares would be explained. He didn’t want to think about the other hand, or any other hands that might crop up.
“I understand how you’re feeling, Matt,” Richard said reassuringly, “I felt the same way when your grandmother...” he trailed off, his eyes drifting to the table.
Matt’s brow furrowed, and he felt sympathy for Richard.
“Grandma?” Matt asked, taken slightly aback that his voice sounded hoarse.
“Anora,” Richard said. “My... mother. She told me everything about my conception, my birth-”
“Stop!” Matt screamed, pressing his hands to his ears. “Stop it! I don’t want to hear it!”
“But you have to!” Richard reasoned.
“No I don’t!”
Matt stood up and fled towards the door, only to be stopped in his path by Odin’s bulky frame. He looked up at the Sicilian, feeling as though he had just made an enemy as he stared, frightened, into the grey-hazel eyes of Odin Mafuro.
“Mattia,” he said soothingly, “perché sei arrabbiato?”
“Non arrabbia sono!” Matt flared, tearing his eyes away from Odin. He felt ill as his stomach knotted itself. His throat felt warm and his stomach began to hurt. He feared that he might vomit if he didn’t leave soon. His head began to pound, he became dizzy, and a thin layer of sweat coated his palms and forehead.
“Seduta, Mattia.” Odin instructed.
Matt felt his feet lift from the ground as a chair seemed to materialise beneath him. He rested a hand on his stomach and tried to breathe.
“Odin, stop!” he heard somebody say- probably Loki, or Richard- with concern and authority. “You’re hurting the boy!”
The pounding in Matt’s head stopped, the dizziness faded and the hurt in his stomach dulled until he felt moderately normal. He blinked a few times and saw Richard, Loki and Odin circled around him, with a man he did not know. This man was tall, had matted brown hair, a thick layer of stubble, dark brown eyes and wore dungarees over a long-sleeved flannel shirt. This man appeared to be swaying as he stood. Matt looked down at the man’s feet and saw nothing unusual, but the man’s eyes appeared unfocused and he was blinking a lot.
“So kind of you to finally join us,” said Loki, looking at the man.
The man looked at him, blinked hard a few times, and answered: “Have you eve’ tried ta travel on an empty stomach?” The man had a throaty Scottish accent, which shocked Matthew. He had expected this man to have a Southern accent, like a Confederate.
“Perhaps unshowered, too?” Richard grumbled.
“Watchit, Amsterdam!” the man threatened.
“Oh, what’re you going to do?” Richard challenged, narrowing his eyes at the man.
“You forget who I am too of’en!”
“Ragazzini!” Odin barked. “Non ti combattere! Non! Ti! Combattere!”
Richard and the man looked at the floor. Richard had his arms crossed and the man had his hand shoved into the pocket on the front of his dungarees.
“That’s better!” Odin said, sounding annoyed but pleased all the same.
“Good to have you here,” Richard mumbled.
“Good ta be here,” the man grumbled.
“If the children are tamed,” Loki said, “then we can continue.” He turned to the man and motioned towards Matt. “This is Matthew Percival Amsterdam.”
The man nodded at Matt. “Nice ta meet ya,” he said.
“Matthew,” Loki looked at Matt and motioned towards the man, “this is Terrance Connell.”
Connell.
There was something about that name that felt familiar to Matt.
Connell…
“Nice to meet you,” Matt said cautiously.
“Better for me ta meet you, really,” Terrance said kindly to Matt, but glared towards Richard before looking at Matt, “You look so much like yer dear mam.”
“Thanks,” Matt said, trying to keep the solemnity out of his voice.
“I know how hard it is ta lose yer mam,” Terrance said softly. “Lost mine when I were, what? Nine? Ten? Gah! Well, around them ages anyway. Loved her ta bits. Had two sisters, too. Lost them both, an’all. Point is, I know what yer goin’ through, so don’t hesitate if ya want ta talk.”
“Thanks,” Matt murmured.
“You’ve upset him now!” Richard huffed.
“An’ you, by the looks o’ it!” Terrance said with a strange smile.
“Ragazzini…” Odin said, something in his voice sounded threatening.
Richard and Terrance immediately dropped whatever vernacular arsenals they had and each took a step back from the circle.
“That’s better,” Loki said under his breath.
Odin looked at Matthew with sympathetic eyes. “Mattia,” he said, “do not be afraid. Soon, you will understand everything. I just wanted to protect you. Originally, we thought you should not know, but then we realise how dangerous that would be. If you understand what happened in you father’s past, you may be able to cope with your future. You understand?”
Matt nodded, a lump forming in his throat.
“Bene,” Odin said softly. “Any questions?”
“Just one,” Matt said, his voice cracking slightly, “Do you really think I’m an angel?”
Odin smiled. “You look like an angel,” he said, “but we are not sure if you are. We must let some time pass before we know for certain.”
“How will you know for certain?”
Odin’s smile faded. He turned and walked out of the room. Leaving Matthew sitting in the chair, encircled by his father, his father’s boss and a man Matt reasoned to be one of Richard’s enemies. The door was behind them, and it opened. A young man around Matt’s age stepped in. he had grey-hazel eyes, brown hair and had a thin nose. He was wearing a yellow t-shirt over black jeans. Matt’s heart fluttered and butterflies danced in his stomach as Ryan approached him.
***
Ron was sitting up in bed, studying the purple letter that Hermod had given him.
“The great giants fell, the battle was won,
The war is not over, for we have only begun.
It is an eternal journey, a significant quest,
The warriors earn more when they expect less.
You will succeed where I have failed,
There is nothing more on a grander scale.
The war is ongoing, but you will fight,
Because, lying in you, is the evergreen light.
When the night is young, you will proceed,
With your damned army to fight the Jötunn greed.
The silver ribbons lie in shreds, destroyed,
The ultimate monster, the fen dweller, is deployed.
The eternal journey, and ethereal cascade,
Begins here, now, at the coming of the Second Age.
Make no mistake, this is no inconvenience,
For their warriors fight for our cause with deviance.
Commence and succeed, young warrior.”
Matt does Literature Studies, Ron thought, could I get him to have his teacher analyse this?
It was a good idea, but Ron knew immediately that it would not work. His previous attempts with his father and his friend had failed. He didn’t know what happened with Richard, but Ron suspected that he wasn’t one of the ones who could read it, but he knew the letter existed. That gave Ron a little hope- perhaps there was a delay before the person was ready to read it, and Ron’s time had come earlier than Richard’s. Lincoln couldn’t understand the note, either. Actually, he couldn’t even see the note. It had just disappeared into thin air. That surely meant that Lincoln was not one of the chosen few who were able to read it. On the other hand, Ron hadn’t seen the note when it disappeared, either. Did that mean that there was something top-secret that Lincoln wasn’t meant to know? Or did Ron have to figure it out before he could show people who might- or might not- be the ones who could read the message? Did that mean he would have to lead some kind of army? Ron’s head hurt. He felt a tear run down his cheek. He blinked, realised he wasn’t crying. He figured that the tear must have been due to stress, or tension.
He kept staring at the message, his eyes hurting. Whenever the words began to blur, he worried that he might be losing focus of the words, until he realised that he just needed to blink or massage his eyes and the words would be focussed again. He looked at the clock- it was barely midnight, but it felt like four in the morning. Ron relented that he would have to put the message away until the morning, so he slid it under his pillow and lay down. He closed his eyes, sighed and, keeping one hand on the letter, concentrated on falling asleep.
When he opened his eyes, he felt like he hadn’t slept at all. His muscles ached, his eyes were heavy and his could feel his bones. He looked at his clock and read the time: 05:00. How was it five o’clock? He heaved himself into a sitting position on his bed, pondered trying to get at least an hour of decent sleep before he got ready for school. Instead, he decided to get up. He looked over at Matt’s bed and saw the rumpled covers. That was good- he would have some company while he was awake.
Ron decided that he would go for a run, since it was likely that the only people about would be people walking their dogs and people doing early shifts at their jobs. Ron took of his pyjamas and threw on some jogging pants, a t-shirt, his watch and trainers before grabbing his keys and leaving the flat. He descended the stairs and did some stretches. He set off at a steady pace, his breath fogging in front of him. He felt silly, having to restrict his strides for fear of slipping on the frozen snow. Nonetheless, in fifteen minutes he managed to get to the park, which was still closed. His initial plan had been to run through the park and return home, but he decided that running around the park’s perimeter would be just as good as running through the park altogether, so that was what he did. Within five minutes, his legs were burning and his chest was hurting from the cold air. His arms were numb, his face was turning red with cold and exertion. He stopped, bent over and took a few breaths to recoup his strength. When he had caught his breath, he stood up straight and looked at the sky.
It was black with a couple of weak stars. Ron remembered the first time he had come jogging here- he had nearly killed himself because he hadn’t stretched or warmed up beforehand- when he had seen the stars. He had seen Orion’s belt, the Big Dipper, the North Star and Castor and Pollux. That had been on a warm June evening on one of his first nights in London, when he was unable to sleep. He had gone running that night to burn of some of the restless energy that had been building up. Ron wondered if the Earth’s turning had anything to do with the stars, but decided against it. London was a big city- light pollution was bound to catch up during winter, for reasons better left unsaid.
At any rate, Ron was sorry to see so few stars today than he had seen on his first jog that warm June evening. He hated to admit it, given everything that had happened, but he missed California. He missed the United States. He knew that Matt had had a hard time at school there, and Kevin had had countless difficulties socialising with the neighbourhood children, but Ron had done quite well while there, not to say that living in London was holding him back, but he had felt at home in California. He had come to the conclusion that he preferred the warmth that California offered in contrast with the late-blooming summers of the United Kingdom.
Ron turned to run back home, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the raven sitting on the wall, challenging him. He stared back at it, fixated by its beady gaze. After a few moments, the raven broke eye contact and flew away.
No comments:
Post a Comment