THE END IS THE BEGINNING
Who will mourn for the orphan, Richard Blaine? Will any speak words over his unmarked grave?
THE END IS THE BEGINNING
“One of the lessons of history isthat nothing is often a good thing to do and always a clever thing to say.”
– Mr. Morton
The walk to Mr. Morton’s diningroom was not a straight-ahead sort of endeavor.
The rows of books grew misty,nebulous with threats of unseen attacks, filled with low growls of hunger aboutto be appeased.
The landmarks by which Itraversed the carpeted aisles were forbidden tomes that even I was not foolenough to peruse.
The iron-bound King in Yellow;the cursed Kitab al-Azif; the Gospel of Abelard (its only copysupposedly burned in 1121);
the Manichaean Texts; and finally, the SibyllineOracles erroneously thought to be still deep within the secured vaults ofthe Vatican.
By the time we reached the Doorthat was not a Door (don’t ask me to explain lest your sanity be frayed),
thesun was smearing the sky with its bloody fingers as it sank into the grave ofthe black horizon.
A bit melodramatic I know butthis was Samhain’s eve and a foretold cursed one at that.
The roof above the librarytingled with the memories of spring rain and rustled with the echoes of softsnow falling from rare, crisp December nights.
Silent as the rise of mercury ina thermometer, we slipped into the threatening darkness beyond the Door thatwas not a Door.
Up high from the far rightcorner, words danced from the shadows, “Has Horus fled from the battlefield sosoon?”
“Seems like,” I whispered back.
“Good,” came the light reply.“The Master grows bored.”
“There are worse fates,” Igrumbled, not meaning to be overheard.
“As you will soon find out,”laughed the soft reply as it faded into ever-receding echoes.
Miss Mayfair shot me a darkglance. “You take a girl to such nice parties.”
I shrugged. “You wanted to come,remember?”
“That was when I was young andfoolish.”
“That was only days ago!”
“I’ve aged since then.”
“As I have listening to thisdrivel,” snapped Sister Ameal.
The encroaching darkness slowlyebbed like low tide in Hell.
And appropriately at thatthought, one familiar figure stepped into view.
Marie Laveau.
I shivered.
There was a doom in the air,death on the chill wind, and no sure road to safety tonight.
Or just like every other night atSt. Marok’s. But this one felt even more so than usual.
Marie Laveau was wearing what I calleda “head-kerchief” just to irritate her.
It was actually called a tignon.
A tignon is a series ofheadscarves or a large piece of material tied or
wrapped around the head toform a kind of turban resembling a West African gélé.
She almost spit her words. “Leaveit to you come in the back door.”
I smiled to match the temperatureof her eyes.
“Yes, the servants’ entrance. You’re familiar with it I hear.”
“I would curse you, but youalready curse yourself by coming here … for a wretched Grunch!”
Helen murmured, “Call no one wretchedfor whom Christ died.”
Marie hissed like an angry cat. Ialmost expected her to hump her back.
“Won’t they miss you at CongoSquare?”
She smiled wide. “I want to seewhat the Grey Man does to you tonight.”
As Miss Mayfair studied me with aworried look that almost carried weight, I said, “I’m rather curious myself.”
Marie Laveau turned to SisterAmeal. “Ain’t you got no words for me, nun?”
“Why waste words on someone sofoolish as to never listen to her life?”
Marie wheeled about in a swirl ofblack skirt and white clenched teeth.
I was about to start after her, whenthe world blurred about us.
Abruptly, we were standing beforethe long oval table of Mr. Morton.
I smiled, “Impatient, are we?”
Morton stood slowly and regally.Dressed like Lord Byron, frilly jabot and everything. His thick blond haircascaded to his wide shoulders.
The Mirror of Enigmas burned inmy inside jacket pocket. I saw It as the undead thing it was.
“I preferred the Lord Byron look,”I said to wipe that smug smile off its face.
It smiled exposing fine white,filed teeth.
“One of the lessons of history isthat nothing is often a good thing to do and always a clever thing to say.”
I shrugged. “No one has everaccused me of being clever.”
The man to Mr. Morton’s right laugheddeep. I recognized him. Jacques St. Germaine.
How was a vampire able to sitwithout harm in the presence of Miss Mayfair?
He laughed deeper, “Dans cettemaison, tout est possible.”
Sister Ameal bored cold eyes intohim.
“Not everything is possible in this house, Count. A sow’s ear will neverbe a silk purse in this accursed abode.”
The nun flicked a glacial look tothe finely dressed woman I recognized from a history book as Delphine MacartyLalaurie.
It stated that she had died inParis on December 7, 1849.
The elegantly dressed womansneered, “Les insultes des tueurs ne me dérangent pas.”
Sister Ameal sneered back, “ThoseI was paid to kill were not bound in chains, Madame.”
I noticed Dapper Dan ease intothe chamber as if he were not supposed to be here.
What was going on?
Mr. Morton shrugged. “Chained?Unchained? Slaves are still chattel to be used at the owner’s discretion.”
Dapper Dan’s face flinched as ifit had been slapped. “The freedom to fight back means a great deal to those deprivedof so much.”
Mr. Morton glared at Dapper Dan. “Sheepdo not have the right to growl like wolves.”
Things were about to go to Hell …literally.
Though not prone to prayer, I feltthat now was definitely the time for it.
‘Great Father of Us All, protect him!’
Morton hunched over as if stabbedand glowered at me. “You dare! Here, you pray! Here! You dare!”
Dan – I would no longer denigratehim with “Dapper” – stood tall.
“Yes, he dares. I have watchedhim all his life dare to stand between the weak and those you call wolves.”
He pulled himself up even taller,and I could have sworn his white “Mark Twain” suit glowed.
“And with my death, I dare, too!”
I had never seen him watching me.
You never know who’s watching.You could be encouraging, inspiring, and motivating so many without evenknowing.
I wasn’t worth dying for.
Well, I would stand between theultimate wolf and a noble “man” though few would call him that … but me.
Mr. Morton sneered, “Blaine, doyou know what they will say over your unmarked grave?”
Dan said softly, “Well played.Any who knew him will say ‘Well played.’”
Helen Mayfair cried out, “Oh,dear, God!”
Everyone at the table leapt outof their chairs as their bodies smoldered as if about to burst into flames. Theyall fled the dining room.
Even Mr. Morton, whose body wasactually flickering in flames.
Sister Ameal rasped, “Turn around,Richard Blaine.”
With all the thrill of facing afiring squad, I turned around.
Dan was nowhere to be seen.
Only his glowing white suit,empty as if he had been ….
“Translated,” hoarsely spoke MissMayfair as she continued:
“By faith Enoch was translatedthat he should not see death. And wasnot found, because God had translated him: for before his translation he hadthis testimony: he pleased God.”
I studied Dan’s empty suit forlong heartbeats and finally murmured, “Well played, Dan. Well played.”
“The real miracle is the love thatinspires it. In this sense everything that comes from love is a miracle.”
– Helen Mayfair
