Darkness of the Soul (13 page)

“You want some coffee or something? Seems kinda disrespectful to just stand outside.”

Sheila arched her brow a bit higher. She added a playful tone to her voice while she knuckled him in the shoulder. “Oh, going to buy me some coffee? Is this a date now?”

Damien tried to repress a shudder; if this was what he thought it was, the concept of a date with Brokov was rated in his list of things he’d like to do somewhere above being dropped into the center of the earth and just below eating a rotten horse raw, but she didn’t—
couldn’t—
know. He kept his tone neutral as he shrugged and answered her. “If you want to think so. I just want something hot and black in me.” He feigned a grin, managing to appear genuine only with liberal application of his talents, but she laughed anyway.

“All right, Mr. Man. Then let’s have us a date.”

*      *      *

Karesh watched as others did, amused at their antics, how foolish they could be, unaware that the one so many of them were looking for was sitting right there, drinking alongside them and laughing on the inside. He wasn’t sure which he found more amusing: that he was sitting there, right in front of all these people who would gladly kill him if they could only lay hands on him, or that he was doing it and not a single one of them knew.

He was well aware that someone here—probably Drakanis, though it was possible someone else was like him in this way—was trying to pick him out, feeling the miasma he projected into the ether and trying to pierce it to the source. Such things didn’t worry him in the slightest, however. Many hunters over the years had tried their best to find him, and so far, none of them had caught him. Only one of them had even come close, and Karesh had enjoyed destroying him, had enjoyed it perhaps more than nearly anything he had done in service to his master, before or since.

He had watched as Drakanis and Parker slipped out, smiling at them in the manner of a normal person.

Just
curious
what’s
going
on.
Pay
no
mind
to
me.
Nothing
to
be
concerned
about.
He had felt a brief flicker of fear in his heart, just a twinge—
They
know!
—but it had faded quickly after he got a better look at their faces. Given the crestfallen look that both of them had, he doubted either of them knew much more than where the bathroom was, and even that was in doubt. There was nothing to fear from that corner; in fact, there was much to learn, as once they had left and he still felt the twitching at the edges of his mind, he knew he could safely exclude them from his list of worries. Even Drakanis, born to his task and his power, remained ignorant and unknowing, while someone else close to him somehow knew much more. Compared to Karesh’s power, however, this was like a cockroach attempting to assault a bulldozer. Apparently, the insect realized this, as a moment later, Karesh watched Woods and Brokov scurry out.

Interesting.
Which
of
them
is
it?
I
wonder.
I
hope
it’s
the
woman;
she’ll
be
so
much
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
tastier.

He could have sent his mind into theirs, sent his consciousness burrowing into whatever passed for their brains, rooting until he found the answer. To do such might be to give the game away though, and Karesh much preferred to play with his food.

He allowed his body and mouth to run themselves, moving about the room and saying his hellos and good-byes, ordering fresh drinks as he emptied them. He had long ago learned, even before coming into his power as the keeper of the
talu`shar
, to keep his mind occupied with things beyond what his body was up to and had spent many years perfecting the talent.

If asked, none of those he spoke to that night could have said they felt him to be distracted or in any way not paying attention, though in truth he was registering things only peripherally, as he considered how best to use the latent in his game with Drakanis. It would at least give him something exciting to do while he was waiting for apotheosis.

If
only
I
can
find
time
to
work
it
into
my
busy
schedule,
he thought with a smile that managed to appear properly sorrowful to the assembled mourners, but that might have chilled anyone who knew him well. Unfortunately, he had killed all such acquaintances years ago.
I
suppose
I’ll
just
have
to
make
time.

Chapter
10
 

9:30 pm, September 20, 1992

Damien
Woods—still
memorable,
still
someone
people
stop
to
talk
to—pounds
his
fists
against
the
wall,
screaming
at
the
top
of
his
lungs,
glaring
down
at
the
shape
on
the
table
in
front
of
him.
His
eyes
are
wild,
a
long
cry
from
the
placid
green-eyed
gaze
he
will
gain
in
later
years;
they
roll
in
their
sockets
like
those
of
a
rabid
dog,
and
white
scum
is
gathering
in
the
corners
of
his
mouth.

He’s
been
like
this
for
nearly
an
hour,
rabid
with
rage
and
grief,
unable
to
think
a
coherent
thought
or
speak
an
intelligible
word.
The
others,
those
who
had
led
him
down
this
broken
path,
had
fled
when
it
began.
It
would
be
years
before
he
saw
any
of
them
again.
Then
it
would
be
very
different,
but
for
now,
there
is
only
Damien
and
the
shape
on
the
table.

It
had
begun
simply
enough,
as
such
things
often
did,
but
before
anyone
had
noticed,
things
had
turned
very
sour,
very
fast.
That
had
culminated
tonight,
when
they
had,
in
typical
teenage
ignorance,
decided
to
try
to
summon
something,
call
up
one
of
those
things
named
in
the
books
they
had
thought
were
just
so
incredibly
interesting.

None
of
them
had
paid
for
it;
there’d
been
no
penalty,
no
harm,
no
foul
for
them.
Or
so
they’d
thought.
Then
they
had
come
back
to
Damien’s
place,
dispirited
and
wondering
what
they’d
done
wrong—nothing
had
answered
their
calls,
nothing
had
taken
their
sacrifices—and
chattering
about
it
as
they
came
up
the
stairwell
to
the
top
floor
and
the
shitty
apartment
Damien
shared
with
his
girlfriend.

When
the
front
door
opened
and
Damien
got
a
look
at
what
had
opened
it,
he’d
begun
to
realize
the
price
that
was
paid
for
playing
with
things
that
were
beyond
them.

Damien
had
been
expecting
to
see
Sheila,
probably
with
sleep
still
in
her
brown
eyes,
yawning
and
scrubbing
at
her
face
in
a
futile
attempt
to
wake
herself
up.
He
was
making
silent
bets
with
himself
on
whether
she’d
answer
the
door
wearing
the
jeans
and
T-shirt
he’d
last
seen
her
in
or
a
bathrobe.
He
tapped
his
foot
expectantly
and
waited
for
her
to
open
the
door
so
he
could
see
his
friends
in,
get
them
all
a
beer,
and
then
sink
his
fingers
into
her
hair
and
forget
about
the
rest
of
the
world
for
a
while.

What
came
to
the
door
wasn’t
wearing
jeans
or
a
bathrobe.
The
Sheila-thing
that
answered
the
door
came
naked,
though
only
the
criminally
insane
would
have
found
the
sight
erotic.
Her
body
had
been
twisted,
the
spine
bent
at
odd
angles,
her
shoulders
dislocated,
and
the
joints
broken
in
a
fashion
that
brought
to
mind
the
worst
nightmares
he’d
had
about
insects
as
a
child.
Her
face
was
a
mask
of
hate,
the
flesh
rotting
away,
the
lips
entirely
missing
and
thus
failing
to
conceal
the
mouthful
of
fangs
and
the
serrated
tongue
that
just
hours
ago
had
been
warm
and
soft
and
pink
when
it
ran
across
his
lips,
kissing
him
good-bye.