Morok

Chapter I. Lemon Meringue

Taking people apart was a skill Igor Gorenski had honed to perfection. It was the only art he could leave behind, the only trace of his existence. To dissect a body, he would use his scalpel tucked away in the pocket of his suit jacket. To deconstruct a mind, he would rely on words and observations. His reactions were quicker, his eyesight was sharper, and his nose could discern scents from the other side of Vienna. Those were all gifts from the white fog of his homeland that drove others mad. Others. Not him.

Like swarms of black dragonflies, thoughts about his past occupied Gorenski's mind while he sat at his worktable with a glass of Champagne Krug Clos du Mesnil 1995, barely lifting his head from the papers. An intrusion was unwelcome but unavoidable. For a moment, he considered snapping the burly man's neck for stepping on the priceless carpet in his office with dirty shoes-later, of course.

For now, the tight line of his thin lips and pale complexion reflected nothing but the veneer of civilisation. He was calm as always, eerily so for someone who had witnessed a ragtag band with wooden bats in their hands break into his antique-filled Viena apartment.

His refined home on the first floor of an old Art-Nouveau building in the heart of Josephstadt hid as many secrets as its owner-a lean, aristocratically polite doctor with impeccably styled grey hair whose clever brown eyes concealed bloodlust beneath perfect manners. In his life, Gorenski had faced a fair share of deadly opponents, but these brutes were different. They were sent after him. For the first time in centuries, someone hunted him. Something in the air had changed, and he inhaled that shift, letting the scent of dying leaves and fresh wind invade his lungs.

Like well-trained hounds, the intruders came after his blood. Examining the muddy traces of their shoes in the corridor, Gorenski awaited their approach. Next to his leg, his cat, Ice, lingered, its silver-blue coat catching the last rays of the setting sun.

The lemon meringue pie was still in the oven, its zesty smell tickling Gorensky's sensitive nose. He had enough time to think. He always did. Patiently, gleaming everything he could from their grim faces, he wondered if curiosity was his fatal flaw as stupidity was theirs. One day, he would know for certain.

The polished businessman who led the gang was the type who thought he was unreachable, untouchable, and protected by status, money, and connections. Perhaps he was. Unlike Gorenski, he was a native Austrian with a flair for arrogance, like many born into privilege and historical prosperity. The henchmen, though, were soldiers of fortune and did not strike Gorenski as people brave enough to ask questions or have opinions. But breaking the doctor's bones - that was something they could do.

"I don't believe we've met." Gorenski's tone was even, business-like, devoid of fear when he spoke.

"We have not."

Strolling idly between Gorenski's office and corridor, the businessman's hand reached for a glass on the shelf above the stove. Shaped into a translucent tulip, the glass was a work of Rippl-Ronai, one of Hungary's most brilliant artists, designed for the Zsolnay Porcelain Manufacture, unique in its artistry, much like the one whose mind envisioned it.

"To what do I owe the honour of your visit?" Gorenski's steely voice was a warning - smooth and menacing.

The uninvited guest did not answer. Instead, he pushed the glass to the floor. Without batting an eyelid, the doctor sprang to his feet, darted past the henchmen and returned the glass to its place. Leaving the men aghast, Gorenski did not care whether any knowledge of his unnatural reflexes gave them an advantage. Even if it did, they were not clever enough to use it against him.

When he returned to the table, his deadpan expression did not give much away. Only someone familiar with his mannerisms would have noticed how his thin lips tightened. This time, Gorenski felt not the thrill of the hunt but cold anger-stifling and sobering at the same time. Those were always the same people-those who thought they could harm others because of the status and money they had never deserved. Gorenski knew them so well. And, unlike their other victims, he would not swallow insults and grovel. When others dreamed of retribution, he had the means to deliver it.