The Deception Dance (24 page)

He flinches and looks back at the closed door. “Something to do
with that? Do that? What do you
mean
? We found her that way;
there was nothing we could do.”

“That is your story, is it? I’ve had enough. Stop it.
Stop lying. I know your secret Nicholas.” Even though I’m
yelling, I back up to the spotless white wall.

He walks toward me. His face is so kind and innocent; his expression
just screams: ‘trust me.’ No wonder I was so completely
taken in. I’m not falling for it anymore! Not buying them
bringing back an almost-dead Chauncey as
coincidence
, not now
that I know better, not now that I know what they do for a living.

He reaches out.

“Do. Not. Touch. Me.” I step farther along the wall.
“Andras told me what you are.”

He jerks like I struck him. “Really?” He meets my furious
fearful gaze with a sneer. “What
exactly
did he say I
am?”

“A killer. That’s your job, that’s your secret:
that you kill, maim, and torture...”

He lets out a bitter laugh.

“Then tell me it’s a lie. Tell me Andras lied. Tell me
that there is some other explanation.” I mean to sound scathing
but sound more as if I’m pleading; begging Nicholas to clear
his name.

“It’s more complicated...”

“No, it’s not. It’s a yes or no answer. Are you a
killer?”

“Not in the way you think I am...”

I throw up my hands, two open palms toward Nicholas. "You killed
Mrs. Trandle... you or Stephen, killed her..."

"No! What?" Nicholas closes the distance between us in one
quick step and gently but firmly grabs my wrist. “Andras didn’t
lie, he can’t lie. But he never, ever tells the complete truth.
And I didn't kill Mrs. Trandle. Where did you even get
that
from?"”

“Let go of me...” I yank away from his grasp but his
strength resisting me is startling. A killer’s strength. But
for some reason I'm still not as terrified as I should be; his
angelic mask is so hard to see through. As if, even though I know
he's bad (a killer), my body still doesn't believe it; doesn't do the
fight or flight thing, or any of the reactions it should when faced
with a murderer.

“No. Please, Raven. Wait. Let me explain. I am a killer...in a
way, but I only ever kill demons or those who work for demons.”

My eyelids stretch toward the white tiled ceiling and my arm’s
resistance fails. I inhale sharply but my breath catches as a bubble
in my throat unable to be sucked in or released; after a few dizzying
suffocating seconds I cough. It’s been a long day; I’m
not hearing things right. I wheeze out, “What?”

Nicholas speaks with slow, deliberate clarity, “Demons, Raven.
That’s my secret, my family’s work, we hunt and kill
demons.” He raises his free hand to caress my cheek.

I just stare, not even ducking away. Did he actually say
demons
?
Like
The Bible
,
God
and
angels
kind of '
demons
'?
Is he insane? He travels around killing people he
thinks
are
demons? This is worse than I even imagined. I swallow.

He steps in closer. “I’ve wanted to tell you, so many
times in the past few weeks. I...” he leans forward, as if he’s
going to kiss me, but shakes his head and straightens before touching
my lips.

Head flat against the wall I say, "Nicholas, I can believe that
you think the people you kill are demons, but demons don't...”

“They do, they exist," his tone isn't angry or pleading,
it's matter-of-fact, as if I'm the crazy one instead of him. He
continues, "Please, there’s someone who will explain
everything to you...my grandfather. Let me take you to him.”

I really should be scared of Nicholas, he obviously is…
delusional; but for some reason I still can't muster fear. Instead,
the tension drips out of me. Slumping against the wall, I say, “But
I can't ...” I lick my lips and glance around trying to clear
my mind and form words on why I can’t leave. “Chauncey
is... hurt. I can’t leave her. This isn't the right time for
your, um...demons stuff, Nicholas. We'll figure this out later ...”

“No, Raven, Chauncey isn’t the only one who’s
dying; my grandfather could go at any moment. It is...” He
pauses to inhale through his nose and close his eyes with the exhale.
“It is his dying wish to speak with you.”

I shake my head. "Dying wish? That doesn’t make sense.”
Nothing
makes sense.

“It will.” He uses his hand still clutching my wrist to
lead me down the hall, I don't resist. We walk through the emergency
waiting room, out the hospital’s sliding glass doors toward his
car.

I come to my senses and yank back my hand. “No, Nicholas, I
just can’t leave Chauncey and Linnie. I should be here.”

Nicholas, who had just stepped off the curb into the parking lot,
backtracks taking a step toward me. “Please Raven; this is your
only chance to know the complete story, the whole truth. And...”
he looks to the car. “If there’s any chance of saving
Chauncey, my grandfather knows it.”

“Wait, there’s a way to save her?” I step off the
curb.

He nods not meeting my pleading gaze. “Yes.”

I look over my shoulder, but make up my mind quickly and say, “I’ll
follow you, but I’m taking the scooter.”

Day Twenty-Nine
(continued again)

I hear Nicholas close the door, leaving me alone with the old man.
Since the first and only time I saw Nicholas's grandfather close up,
he looks as if he has aged twenty years. He manages to appear
uncomfortable in his resting position, as if simply living is a
tremendous effort. His four-poster bed dwarfs his sickly frame. The
room does not have the same hygienic death smell of the hospital;
instead in this dusty stuffy space death is as present as if the
reaper is lying beside the old man on his oversized bed.

I sit in a sky-blue wing-chair pulled next to him.

Nicholas’s grandfather’s eyes are
closed. I don’t want to be impatient with someone so feeble,
but, I’m running out of time. If there’s a way to save
Chauncey, it needs to be done now.

As patiently as I can, I prompt, “Nicholas tells me you know a
way to save Chauncey?”

The old man’s eye lids, like the thin membrane wings of a moth,
flutter open. “Did he?” The old man’s voice is
quiet, scratchy sounding, “Then my descendant spoke rashly,
you’re...”
he coughs
, “…friend is far
past anyone’s assistance.”

I start to stand up but he interrupts me, “It is too late for
your friend. I need you to stay and hear what I have to tell you.”

I gently tap the bed beside his hand on his light-blue quilt. “Sir,
I’m sorry, if there’s no way to save her, I need to at
least be there with her and my sister; I have to leave now.”

He inhales a ragged breath. “Please, Raven, this is my dying
wish.”

I slide back into my seat and stare at him.

He clears his throat. “I apologize,” he says, looking at
me, “It is difficult for me to be so near to you.”

Great
. Forcing myself to not roll my eyes, I nod as
courteously as I can.

He continues in a weak voice, “My name is Tobias Leijonskjöld.
I need to tell you about the third lord of Leijonskjöld Slot, of
the old castle, who lived five centuries past.” He clears his
throat. “The lord was a pious man who feared god, adored his
children but most of all loved his second wife. She was younger than
him; younger than even his oldest son, but this was common in those
days.”

His voice is so soft I lean toward his bed. His eyes are a milky
blue, like dirty ice, I wonder if he can still see.

He goes on, “His wife Elena was impulsive and what people now
say: ‘had a free spirit.’”
Cough
. “The
lord perhaps loved her too much, that is what his sons told him.”
He exhales and closes his eyes. I wait for him to continue but either
his body or his words seem to pain him too much for a few long
seconds.

“As I said, the Lord was a pious man who devoted his life to
the works of God. Satan resented the Lord’s faith and fortitude
and sought his downfall.”

My eyebrows raise as his history story turns biblical, but I don’t
interrupt him.

“Satan sent his most devious servant to the Lord. This scheming
servant, the Grand Marquis of Hell, had taken over the body of a
Magician who had summoned him. The Lord was deceived by the demon
Grand Marquis, he thought he was a traveling musician; the lord
welcomed him into his house. The Grand Marquis was named,
is
named Andras.”

Without meaning to, I make a high-pitched
sound.

He does not pause telling his story. “I
do not know if Andras made any attempts to ruin the Lord before he
met Elena, but he made none after. The Lord found out that Andras was
truly a demon the same day Andras left. But, Andras left with Elena.”

The old man rakes in a breath and hacks out a bout of crackly coughs.
When his coughing fit subsides he continues, “Elena left the
Lord a letter with her apology for a love that she could not
disregard or burry.” His hand shifts over his chest, he looks
almost as if he’s clutching at his heart.

His breathing comes in sharp rasps that slowly subside. “Could
you help me sit, Raven?”

I’m not sure sitting is wise, but I help him. I fluff his
pillow, set it against the head board and aid in propping up his
body. “Can I bring you anything? Water?”

He holds me with his murky gaze, “No, just for you to listen to
me is enough.”

I sit back in the chair.

He examines my face with eyes that I’ve decided can definitely
see.

“Demons...” I prompt.

“Demons,” he says, sighing. “With the help of his
sons, the lord hunted demons, hoping that he could find his wife. He
was convinced that she had been tricked away from him, that she was
somewhere suffering. He dedicated his life to finding the damned that
walked this earth. For twenty years he heard no word of Elena. But
one day his son trapped a demon that had possessed the body of an old
woman and under coercion the demon revealed to the Lord that his wife
died.” A tear slides down the almost transparent skin of the
old man’s face.

I touch his hand again, hoping I can give him some comfort. His lips
turn up in a slight smile then drop with more tears, “She was
murdered by a soldier who had sold his soul to Andras. When a person
sells their soul they are marked by a demon, they are given the
mark
of the beast
; this marks them as ‘soul-bound,’ so
that when they die their soul is taken to Hell. The soul-bound
soldier sought to punish the Grand Marquis for not relinquishing his
soul, and he did in a most violent and terrible way.”

“The lord learned that after Elena's death, Satan had made a
deal with his Grand Marquis. Satan took Elena’s soul and kept
it in purgatory; he told Andras if he collected a million souls,
Elena would be given a new body and live again on earth.”

“The Lord dedicated his life to finding and killing demons. He
and his descendants stood against the forces of Hell that sought to
infest the earth. The lord was rewarded by God with a life more than
half as long as Methuselah’s.” His fingers wrap around
mine, they are as soft and insubstantial as feathers. More tears are
sliding between the ridges in his face.

I have a strange overpowering sensation in my stomach, a fidgety
gloomy feeling. I drop my gaze from his eyes, his piercing yet milky
eyes. I lean forward suddenly wanting to embrace the old man, to hold
him and tell him how sorry I am.

“I thought all this time I was waiting for Andras to be killed,
working so that one day he would be destroyed. But the day you walked
into my house I felt my body begin to die. I think, perhaps, I have
waited all these centuries for him to bring your soul back. And
now...” He closes his eyes and does not complete his sentence.

I don’t speak for an eternity, or perhaps just a second, I’m
not sure. The feeling, the inexplicable feeling of guilt (that’s
it,
guilt
)
,
clutches tighter around my center. “How
do you know that she’s me? Why do you think I’m Elena?”

“Do not you know that you are her?”

As much as I want to say: ‘nah, that’s just crazy talk,’
there’s a part of me that feels completed by this story, as if
I’ve been waiting to hear it. That part of me is jumping up and
down shouting: ‘Yes, I do, I know it!’ I don’t
respond; I don’t have anything to say.

“I didn’t need it to know, but the proof is in the mark
on your neck, his mark.” He coughs. “It was my wish to
tell you our story because the last time you did not know what he was
when you left with him. Perhaps this time, since you know, you can
make the right choice.”

My lip trembles. I turn away from his gaze but I can feel it on me. I
hold back a dry sob, how inappropriate sobbing at a strangers
deathbed. But there is nothing strange or foreign about this man; I’m
positive, as I knew from the first moment that I met him that I’ve
known him for a long time.

Then I remember, Chauncey. I snap my head up as the pieces of what
happened to her fit together in my mind; Chauncey disappearing with
those men, her tattoo or
mark
, her inexplicable beauty and
inability to see it, the madness, the letter, trying to cut off her
mark. “Chauncey is soul-bound. She sold her soul.”

He closes his eyes and gives an infinitesimal nod. “She wears
the
mark of the beast
.”

“Mark of the beast…?” I repeat. “So, she’s
not just dying, she’s being dragged into hell.”

“It was her choice.”

“You have to tell me: was it Andras that bought Chauncey’s
soul?”

“He...” he says, nodding slightly, “or his minions.
Raven, that is what he does. He is a Demon, he exists to do evil.”