Morok

Chapter II. Brioche

Gorenski knew his secretary had arrived based on the fresh and woody scent of his cologne. For a man as impatient as Kazimierz Broniec, untimely appearances were customary, but lips bitten to blood were less so.

Placing a newspaper on the table and brushing his cell phone away, Gorenski nodded to Broniec, whose hand clutched a paper bag containing brioche bread overloaded with sugar and cheap vanillin.

"Good evening, Kazimierz." When his secretary froze in the doorway, glancing at Spiegel, Gorenski continued. "Allow me to introduce you to Herr Spiegel. I am certain he is delighted to see you. Herr Spiegel, please, greet Count Broniec, last of his line."

Even now, in his starchy shirt with a black necktie and a coat billowing behind him, Kazimierz Broniec cut an impressive figure: almost as tall as Gorenski but with features less tarnished by age, suffering and violence, with hope beneath his transparent skin and emerald eyes. His most distinctive trait was his curly auburn hair. After all, that mop of autumn was how Gorenski found Lieutenant Broniec in the heap of bodies on the roadside. A long time ago.

Spiegel's incomprehensive mumbles were now tinged with hope. Sniffing out and exploiting weaknesses was Gorenski's bailiwick. But it was not malice that drove him, but endless, boundless curiosity.

Spiegel almost launched himself at Kazimierz, unable to contain his natural and pitiful desire to survive. "Please, help me. I'll pay you."

As always, Kazimierz looked down, remaining silent.

"He won't," Gorenski answered, his eyes still following the newspaper's coverage of Austrian politics. "He can't."

His service to Gorenski was the payment for Kazimierz's Talent, as the inability to leave any part of his creation behind was Gorenski's. Morok, the consuming white fog, might have elevated them above others but never gave them tools to circumvent the limitations of his reality. Gorenski was the Curator of the Archive, history's conduit, while Broniec served Gorenski and kept his records and his company but was unable to cause any harm to the person he was tied to. Tied against his will, as he had convinced himself over the last couple of centuries.

Obviously, Kazimierz preferred to tell himself this story so that he could ignore the darkness within him, blaming Gorenski's malign influence for everything. Whatever it was, Gorenski found certain twisted comfort and amusement in Kazimierz's presence: the man hated him so much that his loathing felt strangely akin to love—akin to something Gorenski once felt for his brother.

Over the years, he had not given up on helping Kazimierz discover his hidden potential for greatness, but the stubborn Polish officer resisted. Yet Gorenski was patient like a crocodile on the prowl. He could wait. Even now, he watched his secretary sneak the brioche loaves into his pocket and wondered why the man was determined to hide every impulse from him.

"Kazimierz can't help you, Herr Spiegel, although he may be inclined to. But you can help yourself."

"Don't listen to him. Do not." Kazimierz's clipped words and sharp, unnatural accent spooked Spiegel.

"He has no choice but to listen to me," Gorenski replied, sipping strong Asam tea from his cup. "If he lifts his finger, I will snap his neck. He has seen enough of my reactions to realize his destiny will be the same as the fate of his companions. He is a waste of human potential." Gorenski gave Broniec a small smug smile. "By the way, there is more of yesterday's brioche in the kitchen, Kazimierz. The one I make is infinitely more appealing to the senses than the buttered mass of dough mass-produced in the bakery around the corner."

Kazimierz ignored the comment and drew closer, forcing Gorenski to look up. This time, he asked in Polish.

"Why torture him? He has no chance against us. He's not Talented, not touched by Morok. He doesn't see the world as we do, doesn't know about the Archive." Kazimierz swallowed the last word, looking away. "He is not touched by our madness."