Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck Read online

  “A slight glimmer of uneasiness in your gaze gave you away, and I must say that as I found myself captivated by it, I could not help but notice.” Teresa’s sense of wonder shifted as she began to feel both uncomfortable and intrigued. “You had to disturb Him, something I know you would do only if utterly necessary and that – of course – sparked my curiosity,” said the Earl as the minuet called for him to give a bow and allowed Teresa time to respond.

  “Let us hope that it will not be that very same curiosity that becomes the end of you,” Teresa replied, hoping that her wit might put off the Earl’s questions, yet knowing full well that it wouldn't.

  “I am sure it will not,” he said, “and that is also why I wish to inquire more of you. Knowing you to be a true lady, I know that I can expect nothing but discretion of you.”

  “But what is it that you think I would have to tell you?” Teresa asked, curious to see where this would take her.

  “From the way our courteous friend found me to be a competitor, I am guessing that he has a fondness for you, milady – something which is understandable,” the Earl said. “Now, I myself am fond of many things about you – especially your loins, with which I hope to get further acquainted later on.” Taken aback by the Earl’s rude flattery, Teresa chose to ignore his last remark and tried to put the conversation back on track.

  “And thus you think he confides in me?”

  “Indeed – just as you will confide in me. If not now, then later when we are in bed. Just because we are dead does not mean that we should forsake lust or pleasure.” A short silence fell between them, softened by the tune of the minuet.

  “You are very confident, are you not?” Teresa ended the silence.

  “Yes. Confident that you will come to dislike me, yet feel a strange longing and desire towards me. For I am my own man and follow only as long as it pleases me and my endeavors – something all men envy and all women desire in a man,” he replied to her before finishing their dance with a bow and a last remark. “And then I will make you shiver and I will show you the dark corners of your soul that you have never dared enter before . . . even in death.”

  VI

  Blake had been underway for almost two days and had driven more than 1,500 miles. However, Blake felt like years, not miles, were the right way to measure distance in Shades. Trying to keep to himself as much as possible, he had made it through the Entrance and most of the Parted, each mile taking him further back in time.

  As the sun set below the horizon, Blake turned off the highway at a junction and headed into the downtown area of the large city he had reached. According to the map Virgil had given him, this was about as far has he could go by car. As he drove onto the city streets, Blake rolled down the window and slowed down the car. Looking around, he felt like the sole spectator at a play set in the seventies, played out by flawless actors with all the props built to immaculate perfection. But Blake knew that none of these people, with their bell-bottom jeans and Volkswagens, saw this as the performance it essentially was. Blake scouted for a place to park his car and found a vacant spot by the edge of a large park, the trees of which had just about shed the last of their leaves. He parked his car and got out, picking up his bag before heading across the street and into the park. Blake put on his fedora and buttoned up his coat as he walked, trying to make as little contact as possible with the inhabitants of the city. He walked along a park path until he reached the massive concrete wall that cut through the city and which was covered in graffiti protesting its existence. As he turned right along the wall, the last rays of sunlight hit the treetops and the street lamps lining the path came on. Blake kept walking as he pulled a thin paper binder from his bag. A small note on the front read: “For your crossing out of the Parted.” Blake opened the binder and found a number of official documents filled out and stamped to ensure his unhindered passage through any checkpoint in the city. After a quick look through the forms, Blake closed the binder and found that he had reached the edge of the park and the street that lay beyond it. “Gartenstraße” read a sign above the bakery that lay on the corner across the street. Blake looked to his left, and some thirty yards down the street he could see the wall that cut through the city, scarring the skyline. By the wall, he saw a small white building in the middle of the street, with a red and white painted toll bar ensuring that no unauthorized traffic came through. A tall sign next to the toll bar informed Blake that “You are leaving the American sector” in several languages. The baker was closing down his shop for the evening as Blake crossed the street and walked past. Heading towards the checkpoint, Blake couldn't help but notice the people he passed. Some were clearly on their way home from work, while others seemed on their way out to enjoy the city by night – but it was common to all of them that this was clearly just another night. But in his mind, Blake could hear Virgil's words: “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.”

  As Blake neared the checkpoint, he saw a young man in uniform standing guard by the toll bar, beyond which lay the no-man’s-land between the walls. From the checkpoint ran an asphalt road lined by barbed-wire fences, leading to another checkpoint at the foot of a tall concrete guard tower on the other side of the wall, about a hundred yards away. Behind Blake lay a city that, at a glance, seemed like most western cities in the seventies. In front of him lay the memory of the iron curtain.

  The young MP standing guard turned as he heard Blake approach.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said, letting his M16 hang down by the shoulder strap.

  “Good evening,” Blake replied, “Is this the right checkpoint to cross by foot?”

  “Yes, sir. Provided that you have all your documents in order.”

  “I believe I have,” Blake said, removing the binder from his bag and handing it to the MP.

  “So, where are you from, sir?”

  “I'm from New York. Well, at least that's where I've lived for most of my life,” Blake said.

  “You're kidding. Me too,” the young man said as he started reviewing Blake’s papers.

  “Really?” Blake replied, feeling that he had to.

  “Yeah. From the Bronx – and I can't wait to get back there when I go on leave next month. Get some real home cooking and then go to see the Knicks at the new Madison Square Garden. Can't wait to see it – they say it's huge.” He flipped over another page.

  “It's pretty big,” Blake said, trying to keep the conversation as smooth as possible.

  “You've been there?”

  “Yes. I went to a ballgame there a while back.”

  “It can't be that long ago. They'd just opened when I came over here for my first tour.” The MP looked up at Blake with a slightly puzzled look on his face.

  “No . . . I mean a couple of months ago. Just before I came over here myself,” Blake tried to save it.

  “Mmhhh,” the young man returned his eyes to the documents and left the conversation at that. “Well, it all seems to be in order,” he said after looking over the last couple of pages. Then he closed the binder and handed it to Blake.

  “Thank you,” Blake said as he placed the documents back in his bag.

  “You’re welcome. Have a nice evening, sir,” the young MP said as Blake walked past him and around the toll bar. From there, Blake walked into no-man’s-land.

  He traversed the walkway, which was enclosed by tall wire mesh fencing and bathed in floodlight. All around him, Blake could see the two cities that should have been one divided by concrete and barbed wire. He looked ahead to the tall guard tower at the end of the walkway. A searchlight pointed to the ground a short way ahead of him, the cone of light standing still as if it had forgotten what it was looking for. Blake walked through the light and through the checkpoint at the foot of the tower. He looked around to find a guard to clear his papers, but found no one. Th
en he looked back over his shoulder and saw the young soldier from New York standing guard by the checkpoint some hundred yards behind him. Blake walked around the white concrete tower.

  “Hello?” Blake called out, scarcely expecting any reply. Beyond the tower lay a small square lit up by the same tall light posts that kept the stretch of no-man’s-land illuminated. A couple of small one-story buildings lay around the square, dwarfed by the tall apartment buildings beyond it. As Blake looked around, he did not find a single soul, so he started walking across the square towards a street that headed west. On the corner he could see a small grocery shop occupying the ground floor of the six-story apartment building. It seemed to be closed down for the night. The streets were dead empty, and as Blake made his way across the square away from the wall, the sounds of the city slowly died out. As Blake walked past the grocery shop, he saw empty rooms through the street windows. There was nothing inside, yet he found that he had accepted the place as a grocery store simply because of the sign above it. That was enough. He walked through the empty streets, feeling how he had always imagined that it would be to visit the city of Chernobyl. As he walked deeper into the city, he found the buildings had even fewer details. After about half a mile, he walked around the corner of what was merely the relief of a building. There were no windows, only ledges. There were no doors, only frames lining where the doors should have been, with doorknobs and keyholes placed into the brick wall behind the facade. As Blake walked around the corner, he found the building was only a wall about a foot deep, like a theater stage set. Wild, uncultivated fields lay beyond it as far as he could see. Blake walked well into the fields before turning to have a last look at the city. From where he stood, it looked like a theater stage built for a play with no audience, only performers. It existed only to let those beyond the wall believe that there was an enemy to guard against, and so they would believe that there was a world beyond the iron curtain. “Perhaps,” Blake thought, “there is a different city elsewhere in the Parted where the souls of the Eastern Bloc have built their own memory, guarding against their own fears.” He started to feel the weight of Shades, realizing then how these souls would try to keep up the act for as long as they could, each decade forgetting and ignoring more and more details until one day they would stop and forever contemplate their wasted lives.

  VII

  The light of the low moon flowed through the open window, losing the battle to illuminate Teresa's bedroom where all remained mere silhouettes. The cold autumn winds pulled at the curtains of the canopy bed, as if seeking to draw them aside. Teresa and the Earl lay naked on the bed in silence among the shadows, both fully awake. He turned his head and looked at her. She was beautiful lying there with the moonlight caressing her black hair and white skin, the light blazing like a fire in the whites of her eyes. He breathed in, savoring the smell of her.

  “Now, my dear. Pray tell.”

  VIII

  Elijah Butler stood ready to greet Blake as he stepped out of the carriage.

  “Welcome to Dæth's mansion, Mr. Beck,” he said with a bow. Blake nodded, preoccupied by the breathtaking spectacle of the mansion, which was unlike anything he had ever seen in his life. The places Blake had visited in life that could be said to come close in their grandeur had all been museums and tourist attractions, with their air of past and pretense. Here there was no pretending, no staging of the past for the sake of the visitor. This was the home of Dæth, as real as anything Blake had seen in life. As he started up the stairs, he found Harlan McCoy standing halfway up.

  “Welcome, Mr. Beck. Your arrival has been much anticipated. I trust you had a pleasant journey?” McCoy said, his presence demanding Blake's full attention. Harlan McCoy was impeccably dressed, wearing a black suit, white shirt and a black tie, with a vest that was barely revealed by his unbuttoned jacket.

  “Sure,” Blake said, deciding not to go into details.

  “Good. Virgil usually does a damn fine job getting the new arrivals settled,” McCoy replied.

  “I'm sorry – may I inquire who you are?” Blake asked, trying his best to not be indelicate.

  “Oh, it is I who am sorry. Where are my manners?” McCoy replied. “I'm Harlan McCoy, one of Dæth's closest associates. You might call me his right hand in many affairs, but you will come to know me mainly as the one who deploys and instructs the Hunters.”

  “Oh, nice to meet you then, sir,” said Blake with added emphasis.

  “Likewise,” McCoy said with a smile, gesturing for Elijah to approach. “And this here is Elijah, but he prefers to be called Mr. Butler by the houseguests. He is Dæth's valet and butler, and he is chief of the household.”

  “Mr. Butler,” Blake said with a nod of acknowledgment.

  “Sir,” was all Elijah replied, as always bent on keeping up much more than appearances. Elijah guided Blake and Harlan up the stairs and into the hall.

  “Mr. Butler?” Blake asked with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Yes, sir. By both name and occupation.”

  “Oh, I see,” Blake replied, a great deal less confused about the butler’s name and title.

  “Will that be all for now, sir?” Elijah inquired, addressing both men at the same time.

  “Yes, thank you, Elijah,” McCoy replied.

  “Then I will take my leave to see to the preparations, sir.” As Elijah left, McCoy showed Blake up the stairs towards the first floor landing.

  “This way, Mr. Beck.”

  “Thank you,” Blake replied, his mind preoccupied with the eerie feeling of being back in time.

  They reached Dæth's study and McCoy knocked on the door.

  “Sir. Mr. Beck is here to see you.”

  “Harlan, come on in,” said a calm voice beyond the door. As Blake and McCoy entered the spacious Victorian study, they found Dæth sitting behind his desk. He raised himself off his chair slightly to give the men a courteous welcome. As he sat down again, rays of light from the setting sun shone through the garden windows behind him, giving him an angelic aura of golden light. “I bid you give me but a minute, and then you shall have my full attention. Pour yourselves a drink, if you please,” Dæth said. McCoy poured three cognacs and then they stood there in silence, waiting for Dæth to finish his work. Finally, he pushed the chair out and got up. Walking over to Blake, Dæth picked up a glass. “So, you are Blake Beck,” Dæth said, his gaze scrutinizing. “It is nice to finally meet you in person. Harlan has told me promising things about you.”

  “It's a great pleasure to meet you too, sir,” Blake replied.

  “I am sure it is,” Dæth said without a hint of arrogance – to him it was undoubtedly a pleasure to finally meet death. “Did Virgil get you settled alright?” Dæth inquired.

  “Yes. Perfectly, sir. House, car and all. I think he made sure that I would have all I could want in life – well, in death, obviously.”

  “Not all you could want in death, but you will come to see that. For now, I merely wanted to greet you personally before your initiation.”

  “Initiation, sir?”

  “Yes. Tonight you will have your initiation into the ranks of the Hunters, and when the deed is done we will celebrate.” Dæth took a drink from his glass, closing his eyes for a moment as if trying to recall how a sip of cognac had tasted in life. “Tonight we will hold a veritable danse macabre, you might say,” Dæth said before McCoy rejoined the conversation.

  “Sir, I also bring word from one of our sources in the Gothic. Something I think would interest you.” Harlan unfolded a letter and handed it to Dæth.

  “Thank you, Harlan. Now let us see,” he said as he ran his eyes down the page, rapidly extracting the better part of the letter’s information. “Harlan, my friend. Once again, you have bested yourself. Now let us see if we can keep one step ahead of Mr. Ferre, thanks to his lordship,” Dæth said with a smile as he folded up the letter and placed it on his desk. His smile reminded Blake of the smirk of a conman who had just been handed a free con.
“Harlan, please look into the specific circumstances in the morning. And Mr. Beck,” Dæth said, pausing for a moment to give Harlan time to step behind Blake. “It is time for you to become one of us – and I must ask you – are you ready for this?”

  “Of course,” Blake said, reassuring not only Dæth, but also himself.

  “Good man! Harlan, will you do the honors and escort Mr. Beck downstairs?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Harlan replied as he pulled a linen bag over Blake's head.

  Blake was guided through the halls and down a long, winding stairway into what Blake thought had to be the basement of the mansion. When the bag was removed and his eyes adjusted to the light of hundreds of candles, the blurry shadows that lined the circular room developed into robe-clad figures. A rosewood veneer completely covered the walls, creating a warm, unbroken surface. On the floor, Blake noticed an intricate system of strange symbols and elaborate drawings. He looked around at the people standing by the walls, wearing dark robes and what Blake saw as grotesquely twisted, white porcelain Guy Fawkes masks. Four of the figures carried large brass trumpets similar to the ancient Norse lur but more delicate and adorned with elaborate patterns hammered into the brass. The door across from Blake opened, and Dæth walked into the room wearing a dark robe embroidered with countless small symbols and sigils in thin threads of silver. Dæth let a solemn silence linger a moment before he spoke.

  “Kneel before your death and master!” he said with a voice that could only have been rivaled in authority by the voice of Moses as he commanded the Red Sea to part. Even if Blake would have wanted to defy Dæth, he couldn't have. “You have walked through life and into death to be here in this congregation,” Dæth continued. “On this night you will leave behind all ambitions and vow to serve death in eternity – a deed that will be repaid with an eternity of life in death.” Blake was struck by the fact that he could almost feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest, although he knew that it couldn't. “Your soul will belong to death, and as you will wholly be a servant, you will be nothing without your master.” Dæth paused, letting the silence that followed underline his point. “As eternity will be granted to you by your master, so may your master take it away upon his pleasing.” Blake lowered his head. “You will serve as one of the Hunters: the eternal legends that hunt the scourge of the dark one until the final day of judgment when all will be resolved by powers beyond any of us.” Dæth rested his eyes on Blake, who sat kneeling before him. “You will bring final death and judgment to those who seek to avoid the death and judgment already passed onto them. In the dark war against the undead, you will be the spear point of justice and light. You will be an angel of judgment, and as you hear the trumpets sound, calling you to battle, you will rise from the ground to serve death.” In the distant corners of his mind, Blake could hear the elderly gentleman from the Kingsland bar in the Entrance still singing his song.