Timothy had the vague impression of it being a live beast which stalked him. He took a steadying breath.
Father leaned forward; his blue gaze intense. The votive standing solitary on the podium before him flickered. Despite the chill that surrounded him, sweat gathered on Timothy’s brow with a threat to seep into his eyes. His glasses began to slip down the bridge of his nose and the orange light reflected off of them, hiding his gaze.
He would not move to wipe at the perspiration or push the frames back up to their rightful place. If he did he feared everyone would see the tremor. Another steadying breath. No other stirred the quiet. They waited for Father to speak. To ask the question that was on all of their minds.
Timothy broke the silence. His voice weak against the weight of it.
“I swear Father, I preformed the ritual correctly. I—”
Father raised a quelling hand.
“Then why,” he began in a voice that held calm and steady against Timothy’s quiver, “Have none of us shown any signs?”
“I-I-I don’t know sir!”
“This was your second chance. Your redemption. You have given me a weak daughter.”
Timothy could feel Susan’s shame shift around her as his own was, like a heavy cloak that smothered them both.
“You have allowed spies near enough to siphon off our secrets one by one—”
“Father, let me—”
“You were a gamble Timothy. You always seem to be.”
Timothy let his head fall, ready to take the rest of the verbal onslaught, but no more came. Silence once again reigned. He looked up to find Father gazing down on him.
“Need I go on?”
“Please Father.” A voice interrupted and Susan stepped forward. The clicking of her heels echoed off the walls through the dimness. Her Smile was in place, though it would do her no good here. “My husband said it was done by the book and I believe him.”
Whispering broke out in the room like wind blowing through dried leaves. It picked up and fell as Father spoke. “I will hear you, but I will accept no excuses.”
Susan gulped. Timothy hoped that he was the only one who saw it. The Smile was still fixated like a permanent snap-shot. He wished that she would change her expression. He hated this mask: the Smile.
“Maybe it takes time. We are meddling in old magic—changing the order of things, putting the seat of power in its rightful place: ours. We should be patient.”
If anyone dared to gasp they would have.
Calming breath. It had turned into a mantra for Timothy.
“Patience.” Father repeated as if tasting the word. He leaned back, out of the glow. “It is a virtue.”
Timothy felt some of the tension leave his wife’s body though he could not seem to grasp the same relief.
“Yet the transcript said nothing about it taking this long.”
“It didn’t say anything about how long it would take!” her voice rose and Timothy held his breath, mantra forgotten.
“We have heard your point.” Father paused and gave his granddaughter a penetrating look. “Since there is no evidence either way, we must look into his memories.”
“No.” Timothy’s voice came out as a cracked undertone. Not at all like the shout that had resounded through his mind.
“Father—” Susan took a step forward. The candle’s flame wavered and the shadows closed in. Susan hesitated, and in that moment the others surged forward to swallow her up.
Timothy no longer had anyone at his side.
“As you say.” Her words came from the darkness behind him.
“You shouldn’t worry,” Father said, looking once again only at Timothy. “If you made no mistakes—as you claim—you have nothing to fear. The pain is only temporary.”
The candle blew out.
Timothy followed one of his many brothers of the Core—Bryon, and Father from the room. He didn’t know where the rest of the Family went; away to their own separate jobs within the Core until called upon for another Family meeting. Readying themselves for a bedtime that would elude Timothy after this procedure for days. They were not needed for this part.
He took a deep breath. What of Susan? He wondered. Timothy told himself that she had gone home as well, safe with Aiva.
“Hallways and stairwells passed by and Timothy tried not to think of where they were going. Down, down, down. They entered a small room. It was sweltering, heated by a machine that stood monolithic to one side. Wires ran from the computer to a lounge chair situated in the middle. Timothy’s heart sped up. He never had dealings with the Memorable but had heard the rumors. Nothing about his apparatus had changed since its conception in the late 1960s.
“Please have a seat,” Father ordered. “I’m afraid that while the chair itself is rather comfortable, there is little we can do to ease the discomfort once the process has begun.”
Timothy bent his stiff knees. Bryon was already by the computer, his fingers clicking away at the keyboard. A small screen amidst the gray lit up to greet him.
Father sat down in a chair opposite Timothy with his cane held out in front of him. He said nothing more.
Bryon moved over and began hooking the wires to Timothy’s temples and neck with electrodes. They were cold against his flushed skin. The weight of the wires felt strange.
Before Bryon left Timothy’s side he clapped him on the back in pity. Timothy hadn’t expected more but even an empty reassurance would have been welcome.
The clack of the keys resumed their steady rhythm until too soon; “Ready Father.”
Father gave a simple nod, his blue eyes never leaving Timothy’s.
“I want you to remember when you made first contact with the target as a test run for the system.”
As Father finished talking Timothy’s eyes glazed over. His mind was reeling back to a different time, when he’d stood outside a hole-in-the-wall pub on that crisp spring night so unlike this one. He struggled to remember the bar’s name.
Searing pain jolted down the crown of his skull. It lasted but an instant and then he was outside the Samsara looking around and feeling completely out of place. It was a short building squeezed between two stout red brick offices. Some shingles from the hard hill roof littered the pavement, move looked ready to fall. Timothy stepped into the smokey atmosphere. No one turned to look at him, each preferring to cradle their own poison of choice. The booths were packed tight to the next, making the entire room feel small. As if the walls were inching in on him the moment he stepped through the doors.
This was an odds and ends place, off the map. Very few people braved a second visit. It was the kind of place where there were always new people looking for new things. Strangers lurking as ever quiet threats. The danger in the ambiance was implicit. The information Scott had given Father stated that the target was one of the few to frequent this watering hole regularly; after his shift at the museum.
Timothy sat in a booth situated in a corner that had a clear view of the exists and bathroom, just as he’d trained to do.
A busty waitress came up to him, notepad in hand. She was chewing gum and offered only a humorless expression. “Whatcha need?”
Timothy shifted his eyes to her. He was not allowed to drink on this mission. The stale smell of alcohol hung heavy in the air and filled his nostrils, making his stomach churn while his thoughts strayed to the ever-present phrase: Just one sip.
“A cranberry juice please.” He muttered.
She raised an eyebrow and walked off.
Minutes passed before the target entered to a warm greeting as the he sat on the counter. With his cream colored shirt that contrasted his darker complexion, and green sweater vest over slacks, he looked as out of place as Timothy felt.
His hair was a dark brown and cropped close to his head in coarse curls. Despite his misplacement, his sinewy body lounged on the stool in obvious ease. A much prettier waitress tended to him and the bartender sauntered over.
Timothy watched as the boy ordered and drank, talked and laughed with workers and other patrons. The previously low murmur interrupted as more people seemed drawn to the charismatic young man.
Lenka Mosa was from South Africa. He’d traveled to America for college and majored in art history. There was nothing outstanding in his family background. The father was a hard worker and the mother was only sometimes there.
It was the type of situation that most people would not be able to get out of, only fated to live out a replica of their parents lives. But it seemed as if any obstacles that rose before Lenka had disappeared, as if they had never existed. And now he was an intern at the local museum.
A voice traveled light as air across the lounge. His rich accent reached Timothy’s ears. He tried not to wonder about why the boy was laughing so heartily. After all, he was the one who would—
Lenka got up from the stool, causing the group that had gathered around him to mutter in disappointment. “Sorry guys,” he was saying with a chuckle as he put his money on the counter and weaved towards the door, “I got homework!”
Cold air drifted in and was cut off with a slam.
Timothy gave time enough for the group to disperse, heading for the bathroom and exit, some back to their own tables. He, too, got up and left; his job done for the night.
“Good.” Father sounded far away.
Timothy’s head pounded. Each pulse sent fire down his nerve endings.
“Timothy focus.” Father’s voice was firm and he grasped onto that. “Now I want you to remember that night.”
The man groaned.
“Go back to the fifth and final time you came into contact with the target.”
It was not dulled the second time pain raced down his spine.
He was there again. The dingy alley stand of piss and whiskey. He waited with his leg muscles cramping, his whole body tensed. Timothy’s pulse was low, each beat reverberating. He worked at keeping his breath even, shallow and silent.
He hated waiting, so when he saw Lenka’s shadow cross over the entrance to the side street, he wished it would go on. He almost gave himself away when the boy turned, his amber eyes scanning right over Timothy’s position.
Though it went against his training, he held his breath. His one and only chance came in the instant after that. The boy turned his back again and the Knife slid with surprising ease into the space between his shoulder blades.
The next few moments Timothy felt with all five of his senses. Give of skin, pull of muscle and the grind against bone. He grit his teeth, yanking the Knife out. Tension did not leave Timothy’s body and his breathing was still shallow and quiet. He watched as the boy bled out.
“Thank you for making this easy.” He startled when his voice spoke the words instead of thinking them. It was true though. He had imagined taking a human life would be more difficult than this.
Timothy settled back into the shadows to wait once again, keeping the thoughts of what he had done at bay. This time his heart pounded wildly, adrenaline hopping through his veins. His eyes widened as something immerged from the gloom surrounding the corpse, something he had only heard tales of. A Death. The body seemed to shift as the ghost rose from it. The silvery form raised its hand, and it reached out to take hold.
Timothy’s body froze for just a second. A dull roar cloaked all other sounds, but then he was moving. The Knife entered the Death with blood still warm on it. The spirit began to fall back into it’s once living vessel, dissolving as if mist.
He wasted no time, rolling up his sleeve to expose his forearm where an ink design lay intricately upon his flesh. There was no pain as the blade split his skin.
“Incant antum decorpus.” The pattern glowed for a moment; his blood seeming to boil away as the gash faded from existence, along with the dark markings of the sigil. Timothy felt nothing different from having done any of this. It was simply done.
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