To Kill a King

3

You stared at him. Any words, intelligent or intelligible, were desiccated in the sudden dryness of your mouth. Your lungs seemed to shrink abruptly, not able to take in the air they needed. Goosebumps prickled your arms, writing your fear in a skinful of Braille.

Stephen laughed, a full bodied guffaw which turned your shock into surprise. Your wits gathered about you, returning from whence they'd fled. Idiot! Of course he was joking! You laughed too, doing your best to make it sound sincere. You believe you failed, but he continued to smile.

"The look on your face!" he said, stifling the giggling. "What a picture!"

"You had me going there, for a moment!" you said, emboldened by his mirth.

"Don't worry, the death will come later."

Again, the shock. Again the goosebumps playing dot to dot with your flesh. Again the breathless fear.

And again the laughter.

"Chill!" he exclaimed. "You're here to learn and I'm here to teach."

You smiled and nodded, hiding your shaking hands beneath the table.

"Are you ready?"

Nod.

"Are you sure?"

Nod.

"I need you to sign something," he said, laying a document on the table.

The paper looked aged, as if it wanted to be parchment but wasn't quite old enough. The writing was flowing and rich in flourishes, the style looking as dated as the page it was written on. You look at it, squinting slightly to try and discern its meaning. The words are in English, but the overly-ornate penmanship makes it difficult to decipher.

"What is it?" you ask. Not that it matters. You're willing to sign anything. You're here and you're not going anywhere until you have all the secrets he's willing to impart. If that needs you to sign some sort of contract, so be it.

"It's just something to say you'll keep what I'm going to tell you - and show you - confidential. You'll not discuss any of this with anyone. You're willing to do as I ask, without question."

"That sounds ominous," you said. The air in the room was heavy, expectant and charged with anticipation.

"Good. That's what I was hoping for. So, you agree?"

"And if I don't?" You had a flash of bravery in the face his omnipresent awesomeness. It didn't last.

"You know, the death thing."

"Of course," you said, forcing something resembling a snicker. You were aiming for more, but your aim was off by a long way. A half-hearted attempt was better than nothing, though.

"You agree? I need you to say it. And sign."

He was insistent, leaning in as if to pull your positive response from you even if it didn't want to go. You gave it a little push.

"I agree,"

"Excellent," he said, strangely relieved. "Sign, please."

This was all very formal and forced. You thought it would be more relaxed. His manner up until that point had certainly indicated as such. The way he was pushing this contract made it more like a business deal than a competition win. But, fine. If that's what it took...

"No problem. Do you have a pen?"

Stephen reached beneath the table again and pulled out a pe... knife?

"Use this," he said.

You stared at the long blade. The edge was fine, the whole knife looking like a thin sliver of metal rather than an actual cutting implement. The handle was plain, a simple wooden shaft, unadorned and uncaring of your confusion. At first, you couldn't understand what you being asked of. It was another joke, like saying he'd have to kill you. Wasn't it?

"Well?" he prompted, impatience apparent in his voice.

"What?"

"This is horror, right?"

"Well... yes..."

"So, if you're going to take it seriously, you have to show it. What better way than to sign a pact with blood?"

A pact? Wasn't that something you made with the devil? Stephen was the 'King of Horror,' but that didn't mean... surely he wasn't...

"Unless you'd rather not? You can change your mind, though you did already agree so not really..."

Your hand was already reaching for the knife, stopping just before touching it. You were being ridiculous. Devil? As if! He was a writer. A normal, though incredibly talented, author. This was part of why you so wanted to be like him. You were desperate for a piece of that talent. You'd do anything, you'd already decided that. If he wanted to add a touch of macabre theatrics, it was his creative privilege. Besides, you'd agreed. You didn't want him to kill you! You smiled in your mind, where his unorthodox actions had become less of an arrangement with a sewer dwelling clown and more of an over-acted play. You sighed and gripped the blade, wincing as it sliced into your palm. Rather than letting you open your hand, Stephen yanked the knife out, cutting deeper, making you cry out. You made to pull your arm back but he grabbed your wrist, holding it over the contract. The blood from your wound oozed out from between your fingers, running over his and falling onto the paper. Somewhere, you thought you heard thunder. The lights flickered. The paper seemed to sizzle in excitement at the touch of scarlet.

He let go of your arm and you held it tightly against yourself, fearful he might take it again. Your blood was suddenly precious, your hand throbbing with pain. You swore at him. He went to a cupboard above the sink and took down a first aid kit. You flinched when he reached for you but he scolded you.

"Come on. It's done now," he said. "You've agreed and signed. That's all I needed. Now we can get on with things. Let me clean you up."

Gingerly, you held out your hand, prepared for any signs he might harm you again. He didn't, instead taking great care to tend the cut. He didn't say anything until he was done and you were too stunned to speak either. You let him work, the silence hanging heavy around you like a sodden cloak you wished you could remove.

"There. Done."

You felt you should thank him. He'd inflicted the wound but had taken the time to try and ease the suffering he'd caused. How should you react to that?

"Come on," he said. "Sit down."

You hesitated. Part of you wanted to leave but your feet wouldn't move. Was this all a charade? Was he testing you? Making sure you were up to his challenge? You shook your head. He had to be. You were the Charlie Bucket to his Willy Wonka. He couldn't hand over the keys to the factory without making sure you were up to the task. You sat.

"Better?" Stephen asked. You nodded. "Good. Now, you're here to learn. I'm here to teach, but more than that, I'm here to give you something."