Seven, eight ... Gonna stay up late (Rebekka Franck #4) (22 page)

Allan glanced
through
the crowd of people to make sure The Master
wasn't among them. He probably wasn't far by now, he thought, maybe he was
already here. Allan had never seen the Master in person, he didn't even know
his real name. Part of him was looking forward to seeing him face to face. He
was some kind of idol for Allan, well for all of them. And now he was coming
here to claim Allan's kill. But it wasn't going to be with Allan's consent. Not
willingly. Those were his kills and he had been looking forward to finishing
them.

Allan glanced at the stairs leading to the rooms
upstairs. He had to try and get away now. Besides people were beginning to get
hungry now. It was time for the appetizer. Allan planned to run upstairs, kill
the woman and cut her to pieces. Then bring the meat to the kitchen and prepare
it. No one had to notice anything and he would get rid of the woman. That was
part one. Part two was in the basement. The Armagnac-soaked girl and then the
foie gras. Allan shook his head heavily to try and keep the voices down. They
were screaming inside of him. They wanted a kill, they said. They needed the
blood, they craved it. Allan knew he had to obey the voices or they would never
leave him alone. They would keep yelling till he could take no more.

He had heard them the first time right after
Amalie was born. They told him to go to her, that she was going to take his
place, they had even warned him that he would be sent away. So he went to her
room and stood next to her crib, staring at the small, ugly, wrinkled creature.
The voices told him to kill her, to just put a pillow over her head and then
leave her. But he refused. He restrained himself so much he hadn't noticed that
he had hurt himself, that he had hurt his hand and was bleeding. That night the
voices tortured him for not doing as told. They screamed all night and from
that day on he promised himself to always listen to what they said, to always
do as he was told. It was the only way he could experience peace within. It was
the only way to shut them up. At least for a little while, at least until they
came up with something new for him to do.

Everyone at the party seemed to be busy and
enjoying themselves, so Allan thought it was time and walked to the kitchen. He
grabbed a knife and walked towards the stairs.

"Hey Allan where are you going?" a
half-drunk woman yelled behind him.

Allan closed his eyes, then took in a deep
breath before he turned and smiled. "Just checking on the appetizer,"
he said.

"Oh, sounds good. I'm starving," the
woman said.

"Well hopefully you won't be once this
party is over," he said and turned towards the stairs while the woman went
back to the living room. Allan had his foot on the first step when a voice came
up from behind him.

"Going somewhere?"

Allan froze. There was something in the way the
man spoke, something in his voice that let Allan know that it could only be
him
.

With excitement and thrill he turned and looked
at the man standing in front of him. He was tall and very muscular, just like Allan
had imagined him. And good-looking, of course. Excessively handsome.

"Fred Einaudi, I presume?" the man
said. He was flanked by two big men with bald heads.

Allan smiled. "You assume right, Thomas De
Quincey."

"One of your partying guests was nice and
let us in. I believe you have something that is mine?"

The two men stared at each other like dogs
before a fight. It was all in the eyes who was the strongest. It didn't take
long for Allan to realize he was defeated. This man had a glare that was even more
coldblooded than Allan's. So Allan caved first. "Right," he said.
"I was just going to get everything ready for you."

"We said alive, remember?" he said.
Allan stared at the two bodyguards standing behind Thomas De Quincey. They
glared at him, looking like they could swallow him in one bite.

"Sure," Allan said. "Make
yourselves comfortable. Go get a drink and I'll be right back."

Barely had he finished his sentence and added an
insecure laugh when Thomas De Quincey stepped forward and with one swift move
grabbed the kitchen knife from Allan's hand and plunged it in his side. Allan
bent over with a gasp and held on to the man's shoulder. The pain spread fast
throughout his body as Thomas De Quincey pulled out the knife and wiped it off
on Allan's clothes.

"Don't worry. I didn't hit anything
vital," Thomas De Quincey whispered. "You'll probably survive. But
now you know I mean business."

Allan moaned and gasped for air. His hand
holding the wound turned red with blood.

"Now go and get me my package," he said
and put the knife back in Allan's hand and pressed it against his chest.

Allan nodded, then turned and still while
holding one hand to cover the wound he ran towards the stairs.

I heard someone
in the hallway outside of the door and froze. Then there was moaning and a
fumbling by the lock before the handle turned downwards. The door opened and I
stared as Allan Witt tumbled in, his hand and shirt covered in blood.

In his hand he held a kitchen knife. Then he
stared at the computer and saw all the files I had opened. He walked closer and
glanced at the screen and looked at the article I had written called
When Greenland was supposed to be made Danish - the
forgotten children
.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"She was one of them, wasn't she?" I asked.
"Your mother? She was one of those children from Greenland."

Allan shook his head. "I don't have time
for this now ..."

"I wrote these articles, I know the story.
In Nineteen Eighty-Two the Danish government sent thirty-three children ages
six to ten from our colony Greenland to Denmark. They separated them from their
families to bring them to Denmark to make them more Danish. The plan was to
teach them the Danish language, Danish culture, Danish manners and have them
bring it back home to Greenland where they could teach their families and grow
up to be more "Danish." It was supposed to only be for a year but
something went wrong and only a few ever returned. And when they did, they
couldn't speak with their families anymore since they only spoke Danish and had
forgotten their native language. Those who never returned were adopted by
Danish families or simply taken in as hired help by rich people. Your mother
was one of them, right? That's why you have those features, you look like
you're Greenlander, but you're blond and have blue eyes. There is a reason for
that. Your father is the Prince?"

Allan sighed deeply. He was in obvious pain from
the wound. "Yes," he said. "But there is more to the story. The
Prince didn't take her in to be kind to her or to help her out. He took her in
because he and some associates from the Danish Movement wanted to do an
experiment. He knew no one would ever miss my mother. Her family was all
drunkards; half of them had shot each other. There was no one asking where my
mother was. My mother was only thirteen when they came up with the experiment.
I have all the files to prove it. That's how I learned. They're in the corner
over there," he said and pointed at a stack of folders. "I broke into
my father's office a few years back after I received the letter from the
Countess. I knew my way around the castle, since I was a kid there. I found the
folders in his safe. I knew the combination so it wasn't difficult. He always
used the same combination to everything. That's where he hid them, the files
that proved to me what kind of sick bastard he really is."

"He raped her, didn't he? I mean she had to
have been young?"

Allan Witt growled then whimpered in pain.
"It wasn't just a normal rape. He did it because he had a purpose. They wanted
to take all the young girls from Greenland who had come here in 'Eighty-six and
breed children with them. They wanted to make a new race, one that was more
like Danes, who thought and acted more like Danes and thereby they thought they
might solve all of Greenland's problems. They wanted to make Greenlanders with
blond hair and blue eyes and send them back to change the population in time.
That was their general plan."

"So they started with your mother?"

"Yes according to the records they tied my
mother up in my father's castle and then he raped her all night while the
others watched and took notes. They have it all written down in detail. I think
they just liked the thrill of watching her suffer," Allan said and smiled.
"Some people enjoy watching others in pain. They get a kick out of
it."

"So what happened? Where is your real
mother?"

"She killed herself right after my birth.
Or maybe they killed her, I don't know. They told me she committed suicide by
jumping out the window, but for all I know that might be a lie as well. I don't
think I even care anymore."

"Why didn't they send you back like it was
planned?"

"Something went wrong and they abandoned
the project in Nineteen ninety-two. The prince was stuck with me, but luckily
the countess whom he had just met, loved me and she was told she was
barren."

"But then she had Amalie a few years later
and there was no longer room for you at the castle."

"Well what do you know," Allan said.
"That's my story. We all have a sad little story to tell, don't we?"

Allan closed
his
eyes and exhaled. The woman was annoying him
terribly now. So were the three men waiting for him downstairs, waiting for him
to deliver the package. To be honest he didn't know what to do next. He hadn't
really thought it through. Should he simply deliver the woman as requested? But
he had promised him the Princess as well. Never said it would be alive though,
but now he wanted her alive. That was what he had said and he was used to being
obeyed.

Allan inhaled sharply through his teeth in pain.
The blood kept seeping out of his wound and his hand couldn't hold it back. He
banged the backside of the hand holding the knife against his forehead to think
more clearly. On top of it all the voices were screaming unbearably, demanding
a kill. Maybe he could deliver the woman, then go to the basement and kill the
girls? But that would leave him so unsatisfied. He didn't want the Master to
win, he didn't want to obey him. Maybe he could kill the woman, then go
downstairs and kill the three men? It was what he wanted the most, but it was
such a dangerous path to take. The Master had killed more people than Allan
ever had, he was known to be brutal, cruel even. Allan had admired him and read
his stories on the chat with great joy, indulging in every moment and aspect of
them. But it couldn't go on, could it? At some point the student had to become
better than the Master. It was time for someone new to take the lead. It was
time for Allan to shine and be admired.

The woman in front of him was staring at him as
he lifted the knife and approached her. He had tried to kill her so many times
now, he was beginning to wonder if he would ever succeed. He started wondering
if it was even worth it, if she was worth the trouble now that he had all the other
kills to make. But this woman had to be special since the Master himself wanted
her. It was a strange coincidence that they had both wanted her. Allan had
wondered a lot about that once he had seen the message from the Master with the
woman's name and picture. Why was she so special? Allan knew why he wanted her,
but why did the Master? Well the reason didn't matter. The very fact that
Thomas de Quincey wanted her dead was reason enough to kill her on his own.
Just to piss him off. To let him know who was in charge.

Allan stared at her as she walked slowly
backwards. He kicked the chair aside. She was yelling, telling him to stop, to
get out of here, but he didn't care. He wanted her dead now. He wanted to taste
her skin, to smell her blood. This was it. It was now.

He let go of the wound and reached out his hand
to grab her. She hit it, pushed it away, but it returned and now it was
grabbing her neck holding it tight and pushing her up against the wall behind
her. She was screaming and gasping for air. Just the way Allan liked it. He
lifted her till her feet no longer touched the floor. Her throat was so tiny,
so fragile between his fingers. He would only use the knife if he had to. He
preferred to strangle her, to feel the life ebb out of her just by the touch of
his own fingers. He was strong; he always had strong hands and a strong grip,
one that made people react when he shook their hand. Now he felt almost
supernatural. Like a god or better yet, a vampire. Yes, that was it, he felt
immortal, like he had the strength of the immortals.

But a kick too close to his wound planted by the
woman reminded him that he was in fact very mortal and very much in pain. He
groaned and bent forward in agony. Then the woman kicked him again, and again,
always in the same spot. It hurt like hell. Allan whimpered. Then he felt the
delightful feeling of anger rising, anger that gave him almost inhuman strength
and capacity.

He growled at her and tightened his grip around
her throat. Then he heard spurting sounds, the wonderful music of someone
choking and he closed his eyes to better listen and enjoy the last breath, that
exquisite sound of someone breathing for the very last time.