Morok

Chapter III. Crème Caramel

Gorenski always found the concept of death comforting. His remarkable acceptance of the inevitable end never scared him. But neither did the unprecedented length of his life. Had nature taken its course, Gorenski would have died centuries ago-probably in the depths of the icy streams on the outskirts of an unknown town where he first came into his power. But defying nature was the art he excelled at.

When Gorenski shot back, spinning in the whirl of autumn leaves, his opponent gasped. The bullet hit him in the neck and remained lodged deep inside the tissue like an arrow's head. Gorenski always aimed for necks when shooting, and this time was no different.

Approaching the body with deliberate slowness, the doctor watched his secretary whisper a prayer and close the deceased's eyes before crossing himself. A bead of sweat rolled off Broniec's forehead, disappearing in the curl of his neck, covered by auburn hair. From a distance, he looked like Fra Angelico's depiction of Saint Augustine during his conversion - an image of humility and grace.

Perhaps his deceptive vulnerability inspired Gorenski to paint his secretary more often than others-a fragile porcelain doll of a man with the stubbornness of a donkey. When Gorenski's art was not created in blood and sinew, nobody saw it. Thus, Kazimierz never knew how Doctor Gorenski envisioned him-or he never remembered, even if he looked.

Whatever the case, Gorenski always arrived at the same conclusion: Morok was a cruel trickster who granted power by taking the desired away. Gorenski understood Morok. After all, he had always believed humans were made in the gods' images to defy and overcome them.

Nimble and quiet, he approached Kazimierz, who rose to his feet beneath the crooked oak tree. Glancing at the dead swine on the ground, Gorenski addressed his secretary with his usual calm politeness. His pulse was once again steady, and his heart was no longer numb.

"You should have prepared him, Kazimierz, before sending him after me." He paused, examining the body with its glassy eyes and limp arms. "Don't blame yourself too much. Acceptance of imperfection promotes a healthy mind."

"You've accused me of trying to kill you before." Kazimierz froze, his face white and his hand still checking Spiegel's pulse. "You can't know. I did not...."

"Of course you did. You sent him after me." With matter-of-fact practicality, Gorenski looked around to ensure no one followed them to the forest or overheard the shots. "You only hoped that Herr Spiegel would not ambush me too soon. If I had to accuse you, I would lay blame on your impatience."

"Why would I send someone to kill you now? I've tried so many times already. To no avail."

"That you have. But circumstances have changed. Or so you believe. Perhaps there is a new possible Curator in this world whose Talent is unnervingly similar to mine." Gorenski chose his words with precision, gleaming more from his secretary's strained pose than Kazimierz would have liked to believe. "Since you are a resourceful young man, you placed your bet on my possible competitor - even if out of spite rather than calculation. You believe I am losing my grasp and, therefore, can be removed. Given your remarkable impulsivity, your actions are understandable."

"You're extrapolating." Kazimierz pursed his lips.

"I always am. Reflection helps contain one's impulses. It would do you good."

"Contain one's impulses? You killed his sister because she harmed Ice. I am certain your beloved cat would have survived without your interference."

"Perhaps, but hypotheticals do not interest me in this case. All that matters is that she hurt my cat and exhibited swinish behaviour that warranted retribution."