Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck Read online

  Shades

  The Demise of Blake Beck

  a novel by

  Anders Rauff-Nielsen

  Author: Anders Rauff-Nielsen

  Cover: Anders Rauff-Nielsen

  First Edition published July 2016

  Published by Widowgrove IVS

  www.widowgrove.com

  ISBN: 978-87-998847-2-8

  Copyright © Anders Rauff-Nielsen 2016

  The poem featured in Chapter 3, II of this book is entitled “The Mistress. A Song.” It can be found in the public domain book: The Works of the Right Honourable John Earl of Rochester Consisting of Satires, Songs, Translations, and other Occasional Poems by the author John Wilmot.

  In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. This book is for personal use only and may not be re-sold or re-distributed. Thank you for purchasing your own copy of this book and respecting the work of this author and the many hours spent to create this book for you to read.

  CHAPTER 1

  - ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST -

  I

  It was late evening and the corridors outside Blake Beck's Manhattan office were empty. Apparently, everyone else at the CAC had lives to go to after work. However, Blake – the Director of Operations – was still there. Sitting in his chair, his back to the panorama windows and a spectacular view of New York from the 61st floor, Blake looked down at his mahogany desk. It was tidy, with only a small stack of papers, a Philippe Starck lamp and a single picture frame to disrupt the level landscape of the desktop. It mirrored the rest of the office, which was appointed with a mix of old hardwood and leather furniture, spruced up with carefully chosen elements of modern design. Blake leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath, his eyes fastened on the tiny envelope in his hand. It had come with the morning mail and he had repeatedly put off opening it, but now he was going to do it. He was all alone and it was time. Definitely.

  “More than twenty-five years with the agency and now this,” he thought to himself as he opened the envelope and took out the small rectangular paper package. The paper felt waxy to the touch. He unfolded the paper, revealing a single razor blade. He put it down on his desk before removing a small card from the envelope. In Gothic calligraphy, a skilled penman had written only a single word. “Congratulations,” it read. Blake looked at the card for a while before carefully inserting it back into the envelope, along with the razor blade, which he repacked in the waxy paper. “I guess there will be no retirement for me after all,” he thought, knowing full well that that ship had sailed long ago. His wall clock told him that it was almost eleven in the evening and his “word-of-the-day” calendar sported the September 15th slip. He ripped it off and threw it in the garbage can. For some reason, he had gotten out of the habit of changing the date in the morning when he got in, and instead he ended up doing it just before he went home. The word of the day was “ces-sa-tion,” meaning a temporary or final ceasing. He thought it typical, some sort of fateful irony. Of course the word of the day on this particular day would be a synonym for “end.”

  II

  At great speed, four black Frisians pulled a beautiful black carriage down the cobbled country road. A nearly full moon rose above the horizon, preventing the darkness from conquering the mild autumn evening. The sparse lights from a small village could be spied in the distance beyond the fields. The driver sat on a bench at the front of the carriage, holding the reins with both hands to control the galloping horses, with little need for the long whip that lay next to him. He was shielded from the rushing winds by a broad-brimmed hat and a long, dark woolen coat that made him blend into one with the carriage. In the stately red velvet interior sat Dæth returning home to his mansion. He was a handsome man and, as always, he was well groomed and impeccably dressed. He wore a knee-length black frock over a masterfully tailored suit of trousers, dinner jacket, waistcoat and a cummerbund – all tailored and embroidered to match the fashion of mid-nineteenth century Victorian England, the fashion of his time. A silver chain hung from his breast pocket, hinting at the presence of what could be nothing but the epitome of chronometers. Anything less would simply be out of place in his pockets. From outside, Dæth heard the sound of the whip cracking. “Fall,” he thought to himself, looking out the window at the passing landscape. “Even in life, I had an affinity for it. The trees changing their colors like a fire surging in flames of red and yellow, as if trying to fend off the coming winter’s chill.” He let the image linger a short while in his mind. “But inevitably, just as the fire dies out and leaves behind a pile of ash, the trees lose their battle. The leaves fall and it is time for darkness to envelop the land, at least for a time. Just like death inevitably comes to us all in the end, after a life of spring, summer and fall.” He felt it and embraced it. To him there was no sadness in death – not anymore. To him, death was simply a transition into something else. Into his arms, as it were. He was Death now and had been for more than a hundred years. And for many years, he and he alone had governed Shades. But it had not always been that way. When he had died himself, there had been many different Deaths in Shades, each serving their own deity and taking care of their own peoples. One of these Deaths had taken notice of him and, on seeing his potential, had taken him in as an apprentice. But Dæth's potential had been far greater than any had dared dream, and soon Dæth had found himself his master's better. In the end, he had taken over his master’s work and then moved to put all the other Deaths out of business. Over time, they fell one by one, as their deities found Dæth to be the better deal. And now there was only him. He was Death, governing the fate of all souls as they crossed into Shades from the world of the living. His angels of death welcomed all new arrivals to Shades, and his organization made sure that everyone was as comfortable as they deserved in the years, sometimes decades, it would take for their paperwork to go through with the departed soul’s appropriate deity or deities. Then, once judgment had been passed on a soul, Dæth's organization would transfer the soul to its appropriate afterlife or inform the unfortunate soul that he or she would be forced to spend an eternity in Shades. “For some spring will come again. For others an eternity of winter awaits,” Dæth thought as the rural landscape outside gave way to the well-groomed park that surrounded his mansion.

  III

  Blake picked up the picture frame that stood on his desk. “Marie. Sweet, darling Marie,” he thought as he studied the photo like he had so many times before. It had been taken in front of Notre Dame on Île de la Cité in the heart of Paris. Marie was sitting on a stone ledge that framed a long bed of small green bushes on the square. She was posing. She looked absolutely stunning – her black hair flowing in the autumn wind and rays of afternoon sunlight illuminating the smile that had won Blake's heart. Her smile had a slyness to it, revealed by the way her lips curved a little higher on one side than on the other. She was utterly intriguing. Wearing a black skirt suit, she sat with her legs crossed, her long coat folded over her knees and her umbrella resting upright against her leg. The clouds on the eastern horizon were dark and promised a change of weather typical of autumn. It had been ten years since Blake had been stationed in Paris and had taken this photo. She had been working at the CAC Paris branch as one of the lead operatives and had been chosen as Blake's liaison on a cross-departmental assignment. A long assignment. He had been stationed in Paris for seven months, but it hadn't taken that long for Marie to capture his heart. It hadn't even taken seven days.

  Blake had been set up in a penthouse apartment in the Latin Quarter, just south of Île de la C
ité, with a view of the Pantheon on one side and Notre Dame on the other. The apartment had soon become their little oasis where they could escape the world and, for a short period, forget the fact that they had both chosen to go through life alone. If only for a little while, they could have each other and once again know what it was like to be close to another person. “Goddammit! I loved her,” Blake thought as he looked at the picture, feeling his body urge his eyes to begin watering – an urge that he soon subdued. They had walked around Paris pretending to be a normal couple by day. They had seen the sights, dined in small cozy cafés and returned to Blake's apartment to make love in the afternoon before getting a few hours sleep in each other’s arms while the pigeons cooed on the ledge outside the open window. They did it all so that their nights would make sense.

  The clouds had closed in on the city and the wind picked up. Marie shook her coat before putting it on in one clean, swinging motion. She opened her umbrella and took Blake's arm. As they walked off the square in front of Notre Dame and over the Petit Pont towards the Latin Quarter, the rain began to fall. Marie put her arm around Blake and pulled herself even closer to him, shielding both of them from the rain with her umbrella. They walked through the streets of the Latin Quarter saying nothing, savoring the sounds, sights and smells of Paris in the autumn rain. Outside the building that housed Blake's apartment, they stopped.

  “I just have to stop by the offices before we go out tonight,” she said. “Is it OK with you that we just meet at the club?”

  “Sure,” Blake said. “I'll see you there.” She gave him a kiss goodbye. It was a long and wet kiss, partly from the dampness of the air. Then she turned and walked away towards the metro, looking back only once to give him a wave.

  They had been hunting Vincenzo in Paris for months and he had continued to elude them. They had followed his tracks through the abandoned metro tunnels. They had followed their leads through museums, churches and bars, and they had walked the city streets endlessly. On several occasions their hunt had even led them to back-alley abattoirs where Vincenzo had disposed of those who stood in his way. This was something uncommon for his kin, as they usually left their victims in a quiet place, out of the way, where no one would find them for at least a few hours but preferably longer. This allowed one of their kinsmen to take over the body rather than having it go to waste by decaying, being buried or cremated, or – in the case of Vincenzo's victims – being dismembered and destroyed. The dead, soulless body was a valuable vessel for them, as this was what allowed them to travel into the world of the living once again. Of course, many retained their own body from life, but those who had been so unfortunate as to lose their own body were forced to take a new one. And it was much easier and a lot safer to take a soulless body than a living one. But for some reason, Vincenzo had taken to destroying his prey, perhaps to obscure the fact that he killed so many. Once Blake and Marie almost caught up with Vincenzo in an abattoir that he had recklessly used twice in a row. The girl’s body was still in one piece and several degrees above room temperature when they arrived. She was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, but it was hard for Blake to tell because her half Asian heritage somewhat concealed her true age from him. On her back, she bore a large tattoo of a white tiger guarding a lotus blossom. In life she had been very beautiful and gracious – it was obvious. But as she lay there naked, all grey and cold on the table amidst the saws and butcher’s knives, she was a horrible sight. Blake felt a memory struggling to surface and finally he realized that he had seen the girl before.

  “I've seen this tattoo before,” Blake said. “I saw her in a Montmartre nightclub, so at least now we know how he likes to feed. This wasn't business – this was pleasure!”

  “Mmmhh,” Marie murmured in agreement as she took her cellphone from her jacket pocket.

  “Are you calling the gatherers?”

  “Yes.”

  ”Good. Then let’s get out of here.”

  This had been the night before the photograph was taken.

  It was already dark when they met up outside the nightclub Le Chat Blanc. Blake had been waiting in a small café across the street for about an hour, enjoying several cups of espresso and the fact that he had time to read the paper. Marie saw him through the large café window and tapped the window with one of her rings. Blake looked up from the newspaper and out the window at Marie. She had her hair in a long, single braid and was wearing a short black leather jacket, black leggings and a pair of Dr. Martens boots. Blake walked out of the café to Marie, leaving the waiter with a “merci beaucoup” and a generous tip. They walked together across the street and into Le Chat Blanc. Once inside, Marie made her way to the bar while Blake walked over to one of the dancers who stood chatting with a patron. Blake tapped the girl softly on her shoulder, provoking an annoyed and slightly hostile glare from the man she had been talking to.

  “Excuse me, miss,” Blake said.

  “Yes,” she replied, her pronunciation revealing that English was not her strongest suit.

  “I'm looking for one of the girls who works here. She's got a big tattoo of a tiger and a flower on her back. Is she here tonight?”

  “Fabienne?”

  “Yeah, Fabienne. That's right,” Blake replied.

  “No. She is not here. Maybe she is sick – she should have been dancing at seven o'clock.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “No. I'm sorry. But her friend is sitting right over there, maybe he knows about her. They left together yesterday.” She pointed across the room to a man sitting in one of the VIP booths that offered a perfect view of the flesh on stage. He was a stately looking man with a presence that couldn't be denied. His long, dark hair was combed back, and he had a slightly greying and perfectly groomed mustache and goatee, which made Blake think of Vincent Price in his portrayal of Cardinal Richelieu in The Three Musketeers. Even the man’s clothes had a slight air of olden days to them. The cut and style of his tailor-made outfit looked like a quaint mix of contemporary fashion and Italian Renaissance. Blake couldn't believe that he hadn't noticed the man the second he walked in, but he hadn't. They were somehow able to do that – the vampires, that is. They could stand out like a sore thumb, but still remain unnoticed until attention was called to them.

  “Thanks, miss,” Blake said. “I think I'll just go have a drink with my date, otherwise she might get upset. I'll catch up with him later.” Blake gave her a smile.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “I guess you won't want a dance since you brought a date?” Blake noticed that her companion flinched ever so slightly at her question.

  “No, thank you. Not tonight.”

  Blake walked over to Marie, who had easily gotten the attention of the barman and was already sipping a cosmopolitan.

  “I'm quite sure he's here.”

  “Where?” she asked, keeping her cool and focusing her gaze on the bar.

  “He's sitting in the VIP booth closest to the stage,” Blake said. “Once you take a look, you'll wonder how on earth you missed him.”

  “I think I'll just go and powder my nose,” Marie said as she hopped off the barstool. She gave him a kiss. Then she walked off to the ladies’ room in order to get a good look at the man in the booth along the way. They were right. It was Vincenzo.

  They left the nightclub and walked just around the corner to where Marie's yellow Citröen 2CV was parked. Marie picked up a slim aluminum suitcase that held the pieces of a high-powered rifle, designed for easy transport and quick assembly. Blake picked up his katana, which had been his favorite close combat weapon since the late eighties. He hid it in the folds of his grey trench coat and tipped his fedora hat slightly to one side. They were ready. This was the night they had been waiting for.

  They waited in the small café where Blake had enjoyed his paper and espresso earlier in the evening. At a quarter to two in the morning, Vincenzo left the nightclub across the street. He wore a long scarlet coat that draped him like a blanket
of blood flowing in the autumn winds. Blake and Marie tailed him at a distance, following him through the night streets of Montmartre, biding their time until they would finally be alone with him. Vincenzo turned up the stairs of Rue Foyatier towards the Sacré-Coeur Basilica high atop the hill overlooking Montmartre and the rest of Paris. Halfway up the stairs, Marie took Blake's hand. She pulled him in and gave him a peck on the cheek. Then, with a wave, she beckoned him to head up the stairs. He took off his hat and placed it on her head with a grin, and then continued up the stairway. He unbuttoned his coat as he walked, letting the hilt of the katana out into the moonlight. Marie knelt down and opened the aluminum rifle case. She took out the stock of the rifle, and less than a minute later she had the weapon assembled. She closed the rifle case, and with Blake's hat resting on top, set it next to the fence that separated the stairway from the dual tram tracks that ran up the hill. Then she jumped the fence with the rifle slung on her back, and she ran into the park that stretched down the hill from Sacré-Coeur beyond the tracks. By the time Marie made it across the tracks, Blake had reached the top of Rue Foyatier with a clear view of Vincenzo who was leisurely strolling along the white stone column railing of the viewpoint square just a little way down from the church itself. Vincenzo was looking out over the park at the evening lights of Paris, which were rivaled only by the light of the nearly full moon. No one else was there, save for sleeping pigeons.

  Vincenzo stopped and turned around, and Blake stepped out of the shadows, flinging his trench coat to one side, readying to draw his sword. They stood there in the dead of night among hints of shadow drawn by the cold moonlight and the lights of distant street lamps.