The Lord of Misrule

27 -- Thwaite's Power

Nathan Brant was up and out the door in an instant, and Lusk almost knocked Steve out of his chair following him. Thwaite sat nearly static as Roger drew a pistol and moved to the window.

"What was it?" hissed Lusk once he was out the garden door. Brant stood ahead of him, in the middle of the lawn, staring at his surroundings with an almost feline intensity. His infamous commando dagger held tight in a hand while he ran his eyes against the surrounding trees and bushes that swayed in the night's gentle wind, his feet in a ready stance.

"The noise came from over by the window," Nathan said, "I'm certain of it! But he's not there now."

A planter had toppled dumping herbs on the cement. Another cracked, and a third shattered near the window. Dirt and smashed rosemary smeared into a footprint shone beneath the moon. The window was jimmied open a crack too. Enough to see by one eye and to hear what was being said within. Lusk kneeled—could see the back of Steve's chair and the spot where Roger leaned.

But there was no noise and no movement within the moonlit garden. Someone fleeing headlong into the trees would leave a considerable clattering—hints of a dark form in flight that were entirely absent.

"He's still near," said Lusk. "Hiding or crawling—Roger!" he shouted back to the door, "Bring flashlights!"

He came an instant later, and Mr. Thwaite followed, Steve too. In fact, Thwaite held him with an arm dangled around the hip.

"Please stay inside sir," said Brant. "We haven't quite fixed the nature of—"

"Silence!" hissed Thwaite.

Roger pressed a flashlight into Bogdan's hand, and then shrank back, behind Steve while Thwaite pulled out a medallion of his own from a pocket. Calm came over his face as he raised the metal to his lips, whispering. His eyes were aflame with a reptilian gleam.

With a peck Thwaite kissed the medallion, murmured something more, and blew a jet of breath out into the night air with rounded and reddened cheeks. Silence clung all around—the gentle wind gone—and then in the rim of woods and bushes that surrounded there came a clapping snap of air.

This gave way to the rising tiger-roar—in fact, it seemed to come from multiple locations as a long, high snarl before drifting to one spot—down low in the grass where burst to a roar as loud as life. A piercing scream followed and a figure shot out of a bush in a leap. Someone young, bald and wearing sunglasses and an oversized leather jacket.

"Fuck!" Alan screamed and then flung himself away from the roar.

Lusk reacted first and charged for him. Brant followed close behind. The kid was still staring at the bushes near him—trying to almost spider walk away in terror.

Might've gotten to his feet too, but Bogdan reached him and threw the first kick.

It crashed into Alan's elbow—he collapsed with another shout. Tried to roll onto his stomach, but Brant was upon him before he could, and planted another kick into his gut. Left him flat after a pained groan and Lusk lifted him by the jacket—the kid tried to worm out of it—but Bogdan threw him face-first into a tree before he could. Held him there.

"Fuck off you fucking pollack scum!" A new cut on his scalp left a red line down his face. Tears accompanied it, his sunglasses cracked and sagging.

Nathan smacked the back of his head, and his nose crashed back into the bark.

Bogdan ripped the jacket from him, saying, "I'm an Alberta boy, you little cunt!" before laying a hard blow into the kids lower back that made him groan.

"Never even been to Poland," added Lusk.

Roger's flashlight illuminated them, and Thwaite approached with Steve, whose face was contorted in anguish, and he moaned, "Oh God... Alan."

"Fuck you Steve!" moaned the janitor. Nathan's swift hand forced his face back into the bark, and he hissed, "Silence!"

Thwaite, however, grinned as he approached.

"It is time for you to learn why I require hair," he said with a glance at Steve.

"What were you doing out here?" Steve mumbled, eyes locked on Alan. "Why'd you have to follow me everywhere?"

"It is fortuitous!" said Thwaite. "You shall have a needed demonstration of the present order of things I suspect—Mr. Brant," Nathan's knife was already out and ready, "Bring me some hair from his goatee."

Thwaite reached out a pudgy hand and snatched the cracked sunglasses from Alan's face. "These shall serve too."

Lusk pried Alan's face back from the trunk while pressing the rest of him against it. Brant casually slashed the knife up his chin, catching the hairs that tumbled down. Alan hissed and whimpered—blood followed hair in a glob.

"Whoops," said Brant as he wiped the blade off on Alan's shirt, and then handed the hairs to Thwaite, who carefully placed them into a small bag and shoved them into a pocket.

"Lusk, Brant," he said. "You know what to do with him. Nowhere near here though. Make him walk a long, long way to find more humanity. By the time anyone finds him my demonstration shall be complete."

"Get us some rope," said Lusk with a glance at Roger, who nodded.

"One final thing," said Thwaite, who was eyeing the boy oddly—a sort of heated jerkiness in his eyes. Seemed to be staring at his whole body at once.

Then with a jerk he grabbed his ears, turned his bald head, and planted a forceful and lingering kiss on Alan's lips. Alan squirmed in Lusk's grip. Thwaite was chuckling and laughing in great husky bursts when he pulled his lips away—his eyes gone dark. He reached out a hand to Alan's bleeding chin and smearing the blood up and over his face—followed this with a hard slap that splattered it onto bark and turned from Alan.

"Steve shall be brought here tomorrow night," he then turned to the man he meant, who was staring at the ground, his hands writhing with remorse.

"Bring me the hairs of the intruder and the security guard," he glanced at Alan. "Or that too shall be your fate."

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1000 words.

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