Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck Read online

  “No, Elijah. That will be all and I shan’t be calling upon you further this evening. So, I bid you a good night.”

  “Thank you, sir. And the same to you both,” Elijah said, giving a small bow to excuse himself.

  “May I ask how the meeting went?” Harlan tried again once Elijah was out of the room.

  “Of course – It went well, I think,” Dæth said with a smile. “I am glad to say that it seems that we were one step ahead of Mr. Ferre this time around and our Hunters have managed to make quite a killing, so to speak.”

  “I'm relieved to hear that, sir. And I gathered from Butler that your wife has returned sound and well.”

  “Yes, but sadly she shan’t be joining us tonight, as she has retired to her room – tired from the long journey.” Dæth picked up the crystal glass, holding it in his palm for a while before raising it and taking a deep breath through his nose, savoring the nuances of the olfactory experience. Harlan took up his glass, as well. Dæth raised his glass in a toast, catching Harlan's eyes. “Let us toast to victory and a happy death.”

  “To victory and a happy death,” Harlan replied.

  II

  At first, Blake couldn't make out what the bloody hell had happened. Had he fallen asleep? In that case, he had been having a very disturbing dream in which he had killed himself on the toilet. He thought about it. It could have been a dream – it made sense. But in that case, how had he ended up in the back room of what, judging from the view through the open door, appeared to be a New York City diner closed down for the night? As he came to, he tried desperately to get the pieces of the puzzle to fit. However, no matter how hard he tried, the pieces didn't fit because it wasn't a dream and he wasn't in New York. Blake got up from the floor of the back room where he had found himself lying between industrial sized jars of mayonnaise and various crates of foodstuff that didn't require cold storage. He slowly made his way into the diner, half expecting to run into a waitress who had stayed behind to close up and who would throw a hysterical fit and go for some kind of blunt instrument under the counter, intent on knocking the burglar over the head. To his great relief, nothing of the sort happened. He walked through the diner, undid the lock on the front door and walked into the street. That was when he began to realize that something was definitely off and that this was not New York. At least not any New York he came from. While the many black London taxis driving by could reasonably be explained as being some kind of image renewal scam decided upon by Europhilic politicians, the presence of a half-finished Eiffel Tower, illuminated by thousands of small light bulbs and located about half a mile down the road from him, could not as easily be accounted for. This was all too much, and despite having a dreamy recollection of having drunk a whole bottle of whisky not that long ago, he decided that he needed a drink. He noticed a bar across the street claiming to have live music every night. “They'd better not serve me a full night of some bikini-wearing teen pretending to sing and trying to draw attention away from the fact that she can't by way of anatomy,” he thought to himself amidst the many questions of “how, where and why?” that filled his mind. Walking across the street, bewildered and uneasy, he eyed a big blue neon sign above the entrance to the bar that said “Kingsland.”

  The club was filled with groups of people sitting at small round tables, drinking, talking and enjoying themselves. An elderly gentleman wearing a black suit and shirt was setting up on the stage and he hooked up his black western guitar to an old amp just as Blake entered. “That's more like it,” Blake thought as he made his way over to a vacant table in the corner, bent on keeping as much to himself as possible. He had only just sat down when a waitress came over.

  “And what can I get you, sir?” she asked.

  “Just a beer – whatever you fancy, as long as it ain't light,” Blake replied. She nodded, turned and headed for the bar. Though it didn't take more than a few minutes before she returned with a pint of pale ale, it felt like hours in Blake's mind. His mind desperately fought a losing battle to make sense of it all, but there seemed to be no way he could win. Blake took a drink, almost emptying the glass in one, leaving only a mouthful of beer at the bottom. A man wearing a tight-fitting black robe and leather belt stepped up to Blake's table as he drank. None of the other patrons seemed to notice the man. He appeared a fit and rather anonymous middle-aged man at first glance, but as Blake let his eyes linger on him for a couple of seconds, the man seemed somehow slightly blurred. Blake decided that it had to be because of the alcohol.

  “Excuse me, sir. May I join you?” the man asked.

  “Sure. Sit down,” Blake said. As the man sat down, the elderly gentleman on stage struck a chord to make sure that his guitar was in tune. The other guests started clapping. Then he began to play, filling the room with the heavy presence of a D minor tune. Blake shifted his gaze from the man on stage to the man in front of him. Then Blake raised himself off his seat and put out his hand to greet the man properly.

  “I'm Blake Beck. Nice to meet you,” Blake said, struggling slightly with the last sentence.

  “My name is Virgil and I know very well who you are, Mr. Beck,” Virgil replied.

  “How on earth – or wherever this is – do you know who I am?” Blake asked.

  “As I said, I am Virgil. I am one of the angels of death and I have been sent here to welcome you into Shades and help you find your place.” He paused, giving Blake enough time for his words to sink in, but not enough to reply. “Something which should be easy, as I understand you are a valued associate of Mr. McCoy and of Dæth himself.”

  “Then would you please start by telling me where the hell I am?” Blake said with mixed feelings of impatience and profound relief.

  “Certainly. You are in Shades, the world beyond the veil of life. Where every soul comes when it is time to leave life behind,” Virgil started. “Each and every soul steps into Shades where they bide their time until it is clear to the appropriate authorities whether or not they move on from here. Until they have been judged, you might say.”

  “So, this is purgatory?” Blake asked after a few seconds contemplation.

  “You might say that. Others have called it Limbo or Barzakh, but the truth is that they are all just different names for the same thing.”

  “I have to say that it is not like I imagined it.”

  “No,” Virgil paused. “It never is. But there is much more to Shades than this place we are in now. Right now we are in the Entrance, the place your soul was drawn to when you died, and it is filled with new arrivals like yourself,” Virgil said, trying to offer Blake the comfort of knowing that he was not alone in being newly dead. “To lighten the transition, the Entrance always resembles life. It has different areas matching the different lands and cultures of the world of the living. And like life, the Entrance is forever changing,” Virgil noted. “Now, most souls try to make do and just continue on as before until they go on from here – which is why this place is a lot like the world you came from.”

  “But you said that everyone is judged after coming here. I'm guessing that this means that some of us will be sentenced to remain here? Otherwise, it wouldn't be much of a judging,” Blake said.

  “True,” Virgil replied. “And that brings us to the rest of Shades which is divided into numerous areas, each of which has, at some time in the past, served as the Entrance. As time goes by and the world changes, the Entrance moves around. When this happens, the old area is left behind, filled with those unfortunate souls from the many cultures of that age who have been doomed to an eternity in Shades.”

  Blake drained the last mouthful of beer from the bottom of his glass.

  “For instance, you could travel to the Norman Dark and find the destitute souls from Europe around the year 1000. Or – as you will soon experience for yourself, as Dæth has requested a visit from you – you could go to the Empires of Industry, which is home to Dæth himself and millions of souls from the late 19th century.”

  Virgil to
ok his time before continuing, observing Blake who sat still and listened with the expression of a man who was desperately trying to make sense of it all. “In this way, Shades is divided into areas where souls of a certain age and culture have congregated and created societies as best they can – trying to hold on to what little they have: namely, the memory of life. A life they have been doomed to contemplate for eternity.”

  “So what? All these souls . . . they just get left behind and go on as before?” Blake asked, struggling to understand.

  “Well, not exactly. Most souls try to go on, but they can't. As time goes by, they begin to realize that all they are doing is merely postponing the inevitable and that this pantomime of life is all just an act. There is no meaning anymore.” Blake looked puzzled and Virgil continued. “Let me give you an example. You are sitting here drinking your beer, but unlike in life it serves no purpose. It won't get you drunk and you don't need liquids. You can't really die of thirst now, can you?”

  “Then what?” Blake asked, beginning to follow what Virgil said.

  “At some point, most souls break and begin to neglect the act. Instead they start looking inside themselves, pondering the only thing that really mattered to them: their life.” Virgil paused. “As time goes by, these lost souls begin to look more and more inside themselves. As they retract, they start to neglect the daily act and the area they inhabit starts to decay, becoming more and more grotesque as their memories of life become more distant and distorted. In the end, sometimes after thousands of years, all that is left of these souls are merely inanimate shades of their own former selves left in a catatonic state of contemplation, forever burning in the fires of their own conscience.”

  “You said most souls?”

  “Well, yes. Obviously there are exceptions. There are those who do not just lie down beaten. Those who will not stay in their grave, so to speak.”

  “The vampires.”

  “Yes, the undead. The undead and then the few of us who serve Dæth.”

  III

  In the far corner of Shades lies the Gothic, homeland of the undead and the largest area in Shades outside of Dæth's control. At the heart of the Gothic lies the medieval city of Aquraa. Concentric city walls divide the city into quarters surrounding Aquraa Castle, Mr. Ferre’s castle, high atop the castle hill. The castle stands as a Gothic monument looming above the city like the cathedrals of old reminding the inhabitants of the supreme, omnipresent authority governing their deaths. Reminding them of Him, the first undead.

  The pale moon rose above the horizon, nearly full. It cast its light down on Aquraa to accompany the flaming lights of the many braziers, torches and lamps burning throughout the city. The moonlight shone through the tall stained glass windows of the castle's grand dining hall. It was as if the moon wanted to help illustrate the story told in the glass mosaics - the story of Mr. Ferre’s fall and rise. The light fell on Bahij Khaleel, Mr. Ferre’s most trusted adviser, as he walked across the hall towards Teresa Ammon, the designated lady of the house. In life, Bahij had been born just in time to see the end of the Islamic golden age and he had only been a small child when the Mongols laid siege to the city of Baghdad in 1258. This made Bahij a few hundred years older than Mistress Ammon, and one of the oldest remaining vampires in Mr. Ferre’s service.

  Musicians were getting ready to accompany the great feast of the nobles by way of lute, viol, flute, drum and song. When Bahij reached her, Teresa Ammon had just finished correcting the table-setting skills of one of the servants, wanting everything to be ready and perfect before more guests arrived.

  “Mistress Ammon,” he said, giving a deep, courteous bow.

  “Master Khaleel – a great pleasure to see you.” She curtsied, bowing her head slightly.

  “I know this may come as an inconvenience to you, but I must be allowed to see Him,” Bahij said with a grave voice.

  “And on what business may I say that you approach Him as he readies himself for the ball, wishing not to be disturbed?”

  “You may tell Him that I believe I have finally found the way back. That is all you need to say, and I will wager you what is left of my soul that He will thank you for the disturbance. Now please go, Mistress Ammon, and I shall remain here until you return.”

  Heeding Bahij's request, Teresa walked out of the hall towards the castle wing where He – Mr. Ferre – had his private chambers; it was a part of the castle no one but his most trusted servants and advisers were permitted to enter. What Teresa didn't notice in her hurry was the figure that followed her in silence, keeping at a safe distance. The figure belonged to the Earl, one of the noblemen of Mr. Ferre’s court. Having overheard the exchange of words between Bahij and Teresa, the Earl had taken an interest in the subject of their conversation and he had decided to follow Teresa. For he, if anyone, knew that knowledge is what allows you to be the author of your own story, while a lack thereof would resign you to the mercy of others, leaving you as a mere actor or even a spectator – something the Earl found to be most undesirable. He followed Teresa through the castle along the thick, cold stone walls that made the corridors feel like tunnels running through a mountain. On the walls hung paintings and tapestries, competing with beautiful marble statues for the attention of those who walked these hallways. The greatest artists of the world had created all these splendid pieces of art, some of which dated back thousands of years. While some works had been recreated in the image of artwork made during their lifetimes, the masters had created many of the pieces in death – offering a beautiful and profound finale to each artist's life’s work.

  Teresa stopped at a heavy oak door and drew a deep breath. Then she knocked.

  “My Lord,” she said, uttering the words as loudly as she dared, secretly hoping that he might not hear her. “I'm sorry, but Master Khaleel has requested to speak to you urgently,” she addressed the still-closed door.

  “Come in, Mistress Ammon.” His reply came in a deep, calm voice that filled the halls. The door opened to Teresa and she walked in. The antechamber was dominated by beautiful stained glass windows set in the far wall, and majestic Gothic arches held the ceiling high above. A long massive table made to seat twelve on either side filled the room.

  Mr. Ferre stood before her wearing only a pair of black leather pants and a belt with a silver buckle. He was lean and muscular, with the powerful build of an Olympic swimmer. Judging only by his physique, one might have thought Him to be in his late thirties, but his grey eyes and weathered face, framed by a powerful jaw covered in dark stubble, told a different story. Despite having been part of the household for centuries, Teresa was always taken aback by his presence and gravity of being. His cold, calm gaze, his voice and his gestures clearly belonged to a being who had seen millennia pass and yet still remained unbroken. He carried himself like someone who had been around for aeons and had witnessed and embraced all the facets of mankind. He was like a mountain and she stood at his base. Mr. Ferre turned towards the heavy wooden cabinet that stood against the wall and picked up a crystal decanter by its polished silver handle. As He poured two glasses of the decanter's crystal-clear contents, Teresa couldn't help staring at the bulging scars on his back, one on either side of his spine where his wings had once been. Filling her with sorrow and despair, the scars told her of the fall, the birth of her race and of the wounds that would never heal. Only when He turned to face her, did she manage to revert her eyes.

  “A glass?” He asked, handing her one of the glasses, aware that what is but a moment and a slight gesture to the master is an eternal memory to the servant.

  “I . . . ,” she started, her faculties of speech failing her. “Yes, my Lord. Thank you.”

  “You are aware that I asked to not be disturbed,” He said before taking a sip from his glass, showing no discernible hint of emotion.

  “Yes, my Lord. And I am sorry . . . I would not have disturbed you had Master Khaleel not insisted upon it.”

  “And what, pray tell, would Bahij
want from me that could not wait but half an hours time?”

  “Well, my Lord, he simply bid me tell you that he believes that he may have finally found 'the way back.'”

  “Were those the very words he used?” He asked.

  “The very same, my Lord.” For the shortest of moments, his eyes betrayed Him and revealed to Teresa a longing for reunion, retribution and revenge that was so clear and determined that she could barely fathom it.

  “Teresa, my dear. Before you go and bid Master Khaleel to join me in my study, let us make a toast and drink together,” He said, raising his glass. “To what would you propose a toast?”

  “I . . . I would propose a toast . . .” She thought about it for a second, which seemed to her like ages. “To both the father and his children. To the understanding with which the father does what is best for his children, and to the love with which the child remains true and faithful.”

  “A fine toast indeed. To father and child!”

  “To father and child.” As they emptied their glasses, the Earl walked away from the door, making sure that he was neither seen nor heard.

  Bahij caught the eyes of the Earl, who entered at the other end of the grand hall. The two bowed to each other despite the distance between them – Bahij because he felt that he ought to, and the Earl because he was sure that Bahij expected him not to. As Bahij rose from his bow, he saw Teresa approaching.

  “He will see you now, Master Khaleel.”

  “Thank you, Mistress Ammon. Now, before I take my leave, I trust that I will see you tonight and I would ask to be allowed the pleasure of your company on the dance floor.”

  “We shall see,” she replied, her smile clearly stating that he would.

  Bahij entered the antechamber of Mr. Ferre's private quarters and, as He was not there to greet Bahij, he called out.