The councilman stalked closer and with his advance came a new cloud of smoke that surrounded us completely, fogging the room and cutting oxygen into a fraction of what it once was. Our group backed away from the intruder, inadvertently cornering ourselves and making an escape impossible.
His eyes swept over our group, almost instantly narrowing on Dustin, and a wide smile slipped onto his face, "There you are."
Lumiere flattened his hand against Dustin's chest and shoved him backwards, causing Dustin to stumble over another pile of books before slamming against the wall. Lumiere blocked view of him with his own body, a shield made of flesh and bone and fury, "Stay away from him, bastard."
Councilman Tucker didn't notice how Lumiere's voice grated like rock against steel. His smile only grew and he held out a hand how one would normally offer help, but in this moment his only offer was less than death but significantly more than pain if we dare not comply, "Come on kiddies, don't make this harder than it has to be." His fingers curled, "Hand over the boy."
Lumiere stepped closer to Dustin and his voice growled lower, "Over your dead body."
The councilman laughed, "If only I were so fortunate."
From behind Councilman Tucker, three more men emerged from the smoke. They flanked him on all sides, awaiting orders, and their presence set us all on edge. Brandon most of all. One of them recognized him and humphed disapprovingly, "We ought to leave sir, I smell a rat."
"Then stop sniffing your own ass." Brandon responded smoothly. He stepped in front of our group and gave a slight bow, from what appeared to be muscle memory rather than actual respect, "Uh ... hello again, Councilman Tucker-"
"Do not address me!" The councilman's unexpected shout caused us all to jump and Brandon scurried backwards, nearly trampling over Bernard while trying to save himself from the hostility in this man's glare, "I hate the way my name sounds when spoken from the mouth of a traitor."
Brandon bowed lower, "I understand, sir. I just wanted to-"
"To be plain, I honestly do not care what you want. We are here for only one reason and that reason is currently braced against a bookshelf with a small, useless guard separating him from myself. Now, if you are done wasting my time, I suggest we move this conference outside," Councilman Tucker waved his hand around his head, "The air is getting a bit thin."
My mind was slow to process his proposition, I was will snagged on the phrase 'we are here' ...
Meaning the Count is here.
Somewhere.
"Move along." Councilman Tucker snapped his fingers and the men surged around him, starting forward as a single unit, in step and marching to the call of their master. They stopped just in front of us and motioned for the door, silently ordering our exit.
None of us moved and the men grew impatient.
One of them grabbed at Corinth. Dustin shoved himself to the front and smacked the man's hand away from his cousin, "Do not touch her, pig."
"Then lead her out," One of them advised, "Before I throw her out."
Corinth pulled Dustin back while Lumiere sauntered to Dustin's side in case further assistance was needed. Bernard and Brandon remained at the back of the group, on my either side, farthest from the altercation, each for their own reasons.
"Coincidentally, we were just on our way out." Dustin shifted Corinth to his other arm, the one farther from the man, then he urged her towards the door with his eyes trailed on those of the man who tried to grab his cousin, "We need to put out the trash."
"They are so yielding." Councilman Tucker watched us closely while we followed behind Dustin who led our group towards the door, "It is quite extraordinary how they listen to you."
"Keep that in mind when I tell them to kick your ass." Dustin remarked.
A crack appeared in councilman's smile.
Dustin kept a hand on Corinth's back, Brandon and Bernard guarded them both from where they stood just behind, and Lumiere fell back to help me walk through a progressively growing limp from my injured leg. We trekked in front of the councilman, each of us keeping a wary eye on him to monitor for any movement, and as we passed I saw the kitchen in full flame behind him.
The windows beyond were just as bright.
Through those windows, I had clear view of outside and I saw that it was not only the kitchen that was on fire. The house itself had been set aflame. All around, small fires ate away at the wooden foundation and they licked higher, eating more, with every passing second.
So that is where all the smoke was coming from and why it entered so quickly, seemingly from everywhere at once. They were going to burn the house down, there would be nothing left; Bernard's books, his pictures, the rooms –
– Dustin's room –
The photograph ...
It was stupid to be so concerned over something so materialistic when lives were at risk. It was nothing more than a piece of glossy paper with color and ink that just so happened to form an image.
An image I can't seem to get out of my head.
But it did not actually contain any memories, it did not hold any emotion or produce any warmth. It was a cold, dead, soulless object that will be erased from existence after tonight and without it's presence in this world, nothing will truly change. The world will continue on without notice of one less photograph in a distant house, on a forgotten windowsill.
It does not matter.
Yet, when I thought of how it would burn – curling at the edges as heat invaded, slowly decimating those smiling faces until it was charred beyond recognition, stealing their identities and leaving craters where joy once reigned – well ... it made me sad.
More than sad.
It broke my heart.
Were there any other photographs of that moment? Was there any other proof that these people were ever happy, even if it were only for a short while?
Could I let something so untainted be destroyed?
Could I let that moment be forgotten?
We were escorted towards the door like prisoners on death row, and we passed by the staircase. At that precise moment, I made a split decision that I would surely regret later but in that instant, I did not care.
Reflexes caused my body to lurch for the stairs before anyone realized I had broken away from the group. I took the first stair, then the second, two by two until I was flying towards the second floor. Shouts erupted somewhere below me and Dustin called after my fleeting figure but I was already halfway up the staircase then sprinting down the hallway without hearing a single word; only the blood rushing in my ears and my heart pounding in my chest. My leg slowed me down but not enough to be caught and I slammed through the door at the end of the hallway, locking it behind me, just as footsteps began thumping in pursuit.
I snatched the photograph off the windowsill and stuffed it into the pocket of my shorts, making absolutely sure it was secure and would not fall out in the coming moments. I knew what would happen next and I knew it was going to be painful, but the serenity of this room seeped into my skin and calmed my initial fears. One last gift by a room that knew it was about to be demolished.
No matter what punishment I face, this was the right decision.
Because however this night ends, Dustin is going to need something to remind him, not of what life is but what life once was and what it can be again. This photograph, and only this photograph, will bring him healing peace when these chronicles come to a close.
That alone is worth risking my life.
Footsteps grew louder, floorboards wailed just outside of the room from the weight of an undesired guest, then the door flew open and wood splintered around a damaged doorframe from where it had been kicked in. The culprit wasn't the councilman as I had been expecting, only one of his goons, which was both a relief and a concern.
"Dumb bitch, where did you think you were going?" He asked while snidely gesturing around the empty room that soon developed a sporadic flicker from the light of early flames now in full blunder just outside the window, "Please tell me you were you planning to jump, that at least would have been entertaining to watch."
"Oh no, you thwarted my plan and caught me." I laughed nervously, "Shucks mister, you sure are clever."
His smile dropped at my overwhelming sarcasm and he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the hallway, "Go, that way, now. The others are waiting for you. Don't you know a bloodbath can't begin without all of its attendees?"
I shuffled towards the door, "Hmh ... must have missed my invitation in the mail."
He snickered, "Your boyfriend was the only one invited, the rest of you are his special guests."
I braced myself for what was to come, already knowing it would hurt immensely, and I reminded myself that keeping quiet would at least refrain from making matters worse. But as I passed in front of the man and heard his small breath of a smug laugh, I felt words gurgling up my throat before I was able to solidify my silence.
I have never mastered the art of holding my tongue, and though I usually get myself into further trouble, I hardly ever regret doing so.
A sly smile accompanied my tantalizing promise, "For the first party game, it will be entertaining to watch Dustin kick your ass."
He roughly planted his hand on the back of my head, "I would like to see him try."
"It will be hard to see anything when your head is rolling across the floor."
Despite his confidence, he knew my threat was not without merit and his fear caused his fingers to dig painfully into my hair. Then he chucked me forward, too hard and too fast for me to catch myself, and I hit the floor hard where my every bone rammed against wood and sent shocks of dull collision through my body.
Above me, the man was laughing, "You're right, these party games are fun." He latched a crushing grip around my wrist and yanked me forward, dragging me back down the hallway towards the stairs, "I think you are overestimating your boyfriend. After we have our way with him, he won't be able to save himself, let alone any of you." He pulled harder out of spite, "And he sure as hell won't be rolling my head anywhere."
The tension in my wrist continued to grow, causing ligaments to strain and tendons to weaken. The taste of iron flooded my mouth after having to bite my cheek to keep from yelping when he yanked especially hard, "Didn't you see what Dustin did to your buddies in New York?" The man's step faltered and I knew I had hit a nerve, "Did it give you nightmares? I bet it did, and it should."
The man hauled my body up, setting me on my feet directly in front of him, "Somehow, I'm not too worried. I think Count Marx has a few plans for the boy before our party comes to an end."
Then kicked me backwards, down the stairs.
Gravity wrenched me down with incredible, and painful, speed. I must have hit every edge of every stair on my way down and the air was punched from my lungs when I hit the bottom, drawing a prolonged wheeze from my empty chest. Muscles contorted without oxygen and I curled inward, contracting involuntarily, to dull the pain slinking down my spine.
My assailant lightly skipped after me then reclaimed his hold on my wrist and continued to drag me outside long before I managed to catch my breath. Even if I had, there was no oxygen to take in. Fire from the kitchen had advanced into the living room, gnawing on everything in sight and masticating the furnishings I once thought were so homey.
The man threw open the door and heaved my body onto the porch, then down another set of stairs into singed tuffs of grass. Outside, cold wind whipped at my cheeks and it stole the fresh air from my lungs just as I was beginning to regain my breath. Without the crackle of fire against wood, other sounds reached my ears and I easily recognized the commotion from previous experiences.
Across the yard, a safe distance from the inferno blazing through Bernard's house, I found my friends fighting against those who tried to restrain them.
There were many more people out here than there had been in the house. Most of them were engaged in detaining my friends except for a group of men off to the side, admiring the fire without care for the chaos erupting just behind them.
When we were closer, the man above me shifted his grip into my hair once again and he pulled me onto my feet though I could barely stand with my leg in constant deterioration. His hand clawed through my hair from the crown of my head to the nape of my neck and ripped free clumps by the roots as his fingers traveled. I screamed when the first handful blew away in the breeze.
At the sound of my pain, Dustin released the man who's neck had been pinched between his hands, and he whirled to find me with frantic eyes that only darkened once he found where I was being assaulted.
"Oh you foolish King, look what I have." One hand was still buried in my hair while his other hugged provocatively around my stomach, under my shirt, too high and too tight. His laughter whooshed against in ear and my skin crawled when his lips brushed against my cheek, "I've got your rider."
Dustin charged forward in a blind rage, "If you don't get your filthy fucking hands off of her-"
The man's hold in my hair tightened and he snapped my head sideways with just enough force to pop something near the top of my spine. I screamed again, numbing paralysis bursting throughout my body, starting near my joints, tingling along my nerves, and debilitating the distal parts of my fingers and toes.
Dustin planted his feet to halt his approach and threw his hands into the air in surrender, eyes barred wide and coated with terror, "Okay, okay! Just stop!"
The man nodded at the mayhem still happening behind us, "Tell them, too."
Dustin barely glanced over his shoulder, "Stop!"
His booming command cracked the earth and everyone froze as soon as it was released from Dustin's mouth. Lumiere let go of the man he had been beating with already bloody knuckles, Brandon backed away from the body crumpled near his feet, and Corinth rammed her knee into her victim's groin one last time before she let him drop. Even Bernard obeyed and abandoned the two men slumped on the ground with their arms bent in abnormal directions.
They rejoined Dustin but he was focused on me.
Only on me.
"That's what I thought." The man grumbled. He walked us forward, only enough so he wouldn't have to yell to be heard, "A rabid dog should always be muzzled, and from now on you will obey our every command. Or else," He pulled my head farther to one side, irritating already sore muscles and causing me to whimper, "She will die."
"Alright, jackass. I get it." Dustin held his hands higher, palms up, "Just don't hurt her."
The man slid his hand out from under my shirt and released some of the pressure on my neck, providing sweet relief to my straining muscles, "See, I can be civil ... when I want to be."
Dustin eyes never left mine, "Let her go."
"No." The man answered flatly, "Our orders are to keep this one."
His orders? From who?
Oh ... no.
Hell no! I will not be bounced around like a beach ball just because Count Marx instructed his fanboys to do so, and I sure as hell will not be used to control Dustin. I am not his collar, I refuse to be his weakness.
Screw this guy, and his orders!
While he was still preoccupied with degrading Dustin, I propelled my head into his face and used the back of my skull as a battering ram. Immediately, he wailed in pain and clutched both hands to his face on instinct.
Dustin rushed forward to finish him but before the man recovered, I spun around and buried my fist into the side of his face where it cracked additional bones and caused the man to drop like dead weight into the dirt. Pain sparked through my hand from the force of my punch but it mostly fueled my adrenaline and dulled my pain. I spit on his motionless body for good measure, then turned away from him and left him bleeding, and unconscious, in the dirt.
Dustin had nearly reached me but slowed when my retaliation began and now he stood in awe, arms at his sides, eyes even wider than before, and head cocked to the side, somewhat horrified but also intrigued, "What the hell ... was all that?"
"Thing have changed since you left." I mumbled, reaching for his hand and towing him away from the man in case he somehow found the strength to rise again. Dustin's hand felt heavy in mine, still stunned by what he just saw, and I had to pull harder to get him to move through our collective limps, "I'm not a damsel in distress anymore."
Dustin was somewhere behind me, following along slowly, and I heard morose pride in his voice when he whispered, "You never were."
Once we were close enough, Lumiere hooked an arm around my shoulders, "I taught her that."
Corinth gaped, "What? No you didn't, I taught her that!"
Dustin was still bewildered, "Actually, I'm pretty sure I taught her that."
"Who cares who taught her? The girl can throw a punch, awesome." Brandon chided, "That will come in handy since we still have to deal with them."
Most of the men around us were either knocked out or rolling on the floor. Regardless, none of them were in any condition to fight. Which meant, only the group by the burning house remained.
"There is only eight of them." Corinth said beside me, "Where is the ninth?"
"Never mind that." Brandon snapped, "We have to get Dustin out of here."
Bernard swallowed loudly, "There's no time."
The first of the group turned, then the next. One by one, each of them pivoted away from the fire to face us and the last was a face I recognized with terrifying certainty; even in this thick darkness chased away only by firelight, even with half of his face veiled behind an eyepatch.
"Hello again, children." Count Marx greeted happily. He tucked his hands loosely into the pockets of his slacks and carried a small handkerchief in the breast pocket of his button down shirt, an attire one would expect of a business meeting rather than an ambush. The Count stepped forward in front of his group, asserting his dominance to us as well as his comrades, and nodded at the fire behind him, "Enjoying the show?"
Bernard's mouth dropped open while watching his house fall to ruin.
The Count chuckled deeply, "My apologies, Bern. I had no intentions of including you in this transaction, you suffered enough when your brother went through it. But unfortunately, your nephew dragged you back in and my patience has worn quite thin."
Dustin stepped forward as well, a piece to parallel the Count, "What do you want?"
The Count bared teeth in his smile, "There's my boy! I have missed your company. It has been – what – almost two days?"
"What do you want?" Dustin repeated, just as cold.
"Oh come now, don't you have any words of greeting for me?"
"Yeah, go fuck yourself." Dustin told him pleasantly. This drew a small laugh out of the Count, the only sign being a slight jarring of his shoulders. Dustin didn't notice, "I will ask only once more. What do you want?"
Count Marx lifted a hand to his mouth to hide how his smile persisted, "I am quite certain Bernard has already told you what we want."
Dustin didn't hesitate, "The cure."
Approval beamed in his sole eye, "Precisely."
"Well I hate to break it to you, but I don't have the cure. I don't know what it is or where to look for it." Dustin exhibited empty hands, "I don't have what you want."
"No you don't ... not yet." The Count implied with a mischievous grin, "But don't worry, we will come back to that." He started forward on a slow stroll, followed by the seven other men standing behind him, and Count Marx gestured to those in his group, "Tell me what you see."
Dustin humphed, "I see a bunch of old men who really need to find a new hobby."
The Count nodded along in agreement, "Unfortunately, we specialize in a very limited set of skills that really only apply to our current hobby. Torture is an art, Dustin. Perhaps I can teach you the trade, I have been looking for a decent apprentice."
Dustin spoke through grinding teeth, "Keep looking."
"I wish I could, but time is the one thing I do not have the luxury of. None of us do." Count Marx regarded his colleagues, "I'm sure you have noticed by now that we, as a group, are not as strong as we once were. Our eighteen year hiatus has taken its toll and we are fast fading."
The group behind Count Marx was comprised of men, ranging in age from early thirties to late fifties. Among them were Councilman Tucker and Councilman Matthews, the man who boarded the elevator with us during our escape. But I recognized no others, and I am sure that if I had met these men before I would certainly remember.
They are not the kind of faces you easily forget.
Each of them seemed ... deficient, in one way or another. One man was too thin, another was too hunched, and one leaned heavily on a cane with a silver skull handle piece. I did not see a single man who was not afflicted by some sort of impediment.
"Getting old is not a good enough reason to start killing people." Dustin said.
Count Marx touched two fingers to his eyepatch, "If it were just old age, perhaps we would have no need to kill. But that is not the case. What you see before you was not caused by age. You see, many centuries ago there was a great King-"
"We have already heard this story." Dustin intervened impatiently.
Count Marx sucked his lips inward, fighting off irritation from being interrupted. When his anger subsided, he continued on in a voice forcefully restrained, "If you have heard the story then you already know. Our ancestors were cursed with a disease, an awful biological mercenary, that is passed through the bloodline and inherited by our offspring."
"This awful sickness you speak of does not appear to hinder your," Dustin's leg twitched and his hand drifted over his stomach, "Extracurricular activities."
"The disease effects us all differently. For some, it's the ears." He pointed towards Councilman Mathews, "For others, it's the limbs." Two councilmen stepped forward. One walked stiffly atop prosthetics, a double leg amputee; the other man had shirt sleeves hanging vacantly by his side with no arms to fill out the fabric. Count Marx then reached for his eye patch, "And for some, my family in particular," He lifted the patch, "It affects the eyes."
Even in the darkness with significant space between us, I saw his eye that he previously claimed to have lost; illuminated by moonlight and glowing silver, opaque and milky, clouded, as though the iris and pupil had been lathered in glue and submerged under foaming water.
His daughter has those same eyes.
Which meant Evangeline inherited the disease, just as the Count said.
"You told us your mother carved it out." Lumiere interrogated, clearly annoyed at being lied to by someone he misleadingly believed to bare the same challenge as he.
"She tried." Count Marx tapped each of the scars on his face, "I should have let her take it, the damn thing is useless." He returned the patch to cover his eye once more, "From there, the health discrepancies only build: weak hearts, diseased lungs, bone problems. They are progressive from birth, some slower than others, but in the end these ailments are fatal. It is a long, excruciating death that our families have been victims of for thousands of years. Each of us have our own hell to endure and our children face the same fate if we cannot find the cure."
Dustin was not deterred by the Count's sorrow, "Karma is a bitch, isn't it?"
"Indeed." The Count nodded, "Every generation has paid for what our ancestors did. Countless innocents have been lost to these medical calamities. Why should we be punished for something that happened so very long ago, something we took no part in? The slaughter has to stop."
"I couldn't agree more." Dustin's brows drew together in disgust, "Have you forgotten how many of my ancestors you have slaughtered while searching for your precious cure? Do you know how many lives you all have ruined?"
"An unfortunate requisite, a necessary evil if you will. In order to stop the bloodshed, blood must be shed. That is just the natural order of our circumstance." Count Marx spoke so calmly of these matters, did he not feel guilty for how many generations of the King family have been obliterated in search for this cure?
Dustin's hands fisted, "Well the natural order is about to change, because there is no way, in heaven or hell, that I will ever help you."
"Are you sure?" The Count's eyes found mine.
"Unquestionably." Dustin concluded.
"We shall see about that." Count Marx shot me a blatant wink that unsettled everyone involved, then continued on as though Dustin had never spoken, "The cure requires a very careful preparation, with unbelievably rare ingredients found in only one place on this entire planet. The problem is that this place of which we need access to can only be opened by one person." His gaze festered from century old hunger, a different kind of appetite unable to be satisfied by food and famished by a different kind of starvation, "A person who carries the blood of a particular King in their veins."
"So that's why you need me." Dustin digested this new information with difficulty but hid it well, "Because I am the only one who can get you the ingredients for your cure."
"That is one of the reasons we need you." The Count said while wearing an untrusting grin that insinuated he knew more than he was sharing, "It was your ancestor, the King, who cursed my ancestors, the advisors. Only a direct descendant can open the King's crypt."
"This Crypt, that's where the ingredients for your cure are located?"
"Ironic, isn't it? Ridiculously patronizing, to be honest. Our only means of salvation must be given to us by the vary same bloodline that cursed us in the first place." Count Marx clicked his tongue with a shake of his head, "That perhaps is the most vexing aspect of this whole ordeal, we know where the ingredients are. We have known where they are for hundreds of years ... we just can't get to them." One last click, one last shake, "Not without you."
"If you know where the ingredients are then why haven't you demolished the crypt? Get a bulldozer and flatten the damn place." Brandon piped in, "Surely modern technology trumps ancient locks."
"That is not the problem, if merely getting into the crypt was our only goal we would have made our own entrance a millennia ago. But the ingredients are too precious to risk. We do not know for certain what is inside the crypt and if we force our way in, it might trigger a trap." The Count was gravely serious when he said, "The destruction of those ingredients is absolutely unacceptable, and we cannot afford to lose something so valuable."
Dustin pressed on, "Where is this crypt?"
"Where do you think?" The Count's eye narrowed on Dustin's chest, at a particular sigil outlined by barbwire with a steadfast T tucked safety into the middle, "It had to be somewhere no one would accidentally find or disturb it, a place that could withstand the passing of time without being destroyed by the elements. A place hidden from the world, from the sun and the moon, from all of existence."
"I asked for its location, not its description." Dustin scowled.
"The crypt, the crypt." Count Marx emphasized with a roll of his eye, "Use your brain, boy."
Dustin stalled for a moment, blinking hard from realization, "You mean ... the Tribe Crypt? In the graveyard at the compound?" No answer was given which was as good as any affirmation, "That's impossible. I have been into that crypt a hundred times and there is no ancient locked room, only bones and brick."
"It seems only fitting to bury the leaders of the Tribe in the same crypt as the man who started it all, don't you think?" The Count fixed eyes on Bernard, "The song, did you tell them?"
Bernard, who had been hiding at the back of our group since the appearance of Count Marx, shrank farther behind Lumiere and Brandon, giving only a meek answer, "Yes."
"Hail to the King, our souls we dare bring, dead men whisper no tales." Count Marx repeated, slowly and monotone, "Where else are departed souls brought?"
"The song isn't a warning at all." I felt my own head spinning, "It's about the cure."
"It is not just a song, my angel." Count Marx cooed with a smile he only ever wore for me, one that caused Dustin to step closer, "It is a set of directions."
Directions? For what?
"When the Council descends, all will end, to the tune of Death's sweet song." Bernard whispered this to himself, then spoke louder to his nephew, "It all ends with death. It ends where the dead are buried, at the crypt."
"Not as dumb as he looks folks." The Count chomped a laugh at Bernard who shriveled at the sound the way plants wilt without sunlight, "Our ancestors were a product of their time and back then, hymns were the best way to carry on messages and lessons to the upcoming generations. Each line of the song pays tribute to the crypt in some way but what you should really focus on are the last two verses. Pierce waiting flesh, entrance is kept, the skeleton butchers its marrow."
"Ink be the key, ink sets the soul free, and His sacrifice swallows tomorrow." Dustin finished, tumbling farther into the Count's twisted game and sinking deeper under dark waters, "So that's why my sigil is so important, why you were so strict about when and how I got it." His words were hallow, his stare just as empty, "Because my sigil is the key to the crypt, isn't it?"
The Count's smile crackled like kindling and burned like the hottest of flames, "That is part of it. Now listen closely and do not interrupt ...
"Over the years, decades and centuries, the gang has changed names a thousand times; leaders forfeit regulations, traditions shift with dynamically new generations, but the location has always stayed the same, always in that one specific place. The place where an ancient King crashed on the shores of the west coast after escaping from his kingdom across seas, the place where he nurtured a new community with his legion of knights that served him dutifully until the end, the place where he lived out the remainder of his days as far from his council of advisors as possible. The King was buried in that same place, along with the ingredients to the cure, in a crypt none can open, except for one who carries his blood.
"Our ancestors searched the earth until the end of their days. When they died, the task was passed to their children who had been cursed with the disease from the moment of conception, and then to their children after. On and on, passing the the curse through the generations as well as the hunt for our salvation. Eventually the crypt was found but it was, and is to this day, impossible to open without the King's blood. And so, once the crypt was found, it was deemed impenetrable and our ancestors began searching for a different solution to enter the crypt without risking the ingredients within.
"They began with corralling living decedents of the King, both here and across seas, where they had been scattered across continents for their safety. Each descendant was forced to open the crypt and if they could not, they were killed and the next in line was tried. For years this cycle was continued and slowly the King family began to die out, until only one man remained. A man by the name of Bartholomew King, your great-great-great grandfather. He was able to open the crypt, the only one to ever accomplish the task. And what made him different from the hundreds of others, you ask?
"When he was young, Bartholomew vacationed with his family to the native land of the King. While exploring a historical site of castle ruins, Bartholomew was separated from his family and fell down an old well. During his fall, he sustained severe injuries and he used a rare type of plant found at the bottom of the well to stop the bleeding, inadvertently injecting particles from the plant into his bloodstream. The same plant was once used in the development of ancient ink because of the dark stain created by grinding the petals and the roots." The Count stalked closer to us. No, not to us. To Dustin, "This same ink was used during the time of the King, to bestow tattoos."
Oh my God ... the sigil is-
"Tattoos have been around since the dawn of time and when it was first being cultivated, the practice did not have most of the safety precautions that we have today. Because of that, often times people were inflicted with lead poisoning from ink getting into their bloodstream. I'm sure the King himself didn't even know that the tattoos he received as a child during his rites of passage, changed his blood quite significantly. Thus the reason most of his decedents could never open the crypt was because although their blood was of the same genes, it was not artificially influenced by ink as the King's was.
"Bartholomew changed all of that. From him we learned a valuable piece of information about why our efforts had failed up until that point. Bartholomew opened the door for us to move forward with our search, figuratively and literally. However, Bartholomew was also a righteous man and he knew the number of lives we had taken in the name of retrieving this cure. He decided that our search and our suffering must never end, to pay for what we had done to his family tree. So he locked himself inside of the crypt before the cure could be harvested.
"From that moment onward, many regulations were enacted to ensure the safety of the King family. After Bartholomew, who had only one son, the Council decided to enforce that the male lineage would be tasked with carrying the ink while the females were responsible for providing additional offspring in case more trials or experiments were needed. Every third son was required to have three sons and it would be the youngest of those three who faces the trials of the crypt. That way, if the youngest were to fail or be killed, there would always be two other brothers to carry on the lineage and hopefully, provide fruitful offspring for the next generation to someday open the crypt.
"Additionally, after Bartholomew, every King descendent was required to have been exposed to the ink of that ancient plant, before attempting to open the crypt. Eventually, it became easier to enforce exposure to this ink by requiring the gang sigil, an easy way to hide its significance by means of false pretenses as being nothing more than a tattoo of loyalty. The gang leaders decided all members would receive the sigil as additional security. But those of the King family knew the true purpose for it.
"After several more decades of tests and experiments, our predecessors made another discovery about why Bartholomew was able to open the crypt when so many others could not, even though they had been exposed to the ink. The ancient King's first tattoo, according to our records, was given to him as a child when he killed his first stag, which was a great honor back then. The particles from the ink incubated in the King for a long time before the cure was created, which most likely changed the King's blood more than we realized. Bartholomew fell into that well when he was a child and by the time he was called upon to open the Crypt, he was at the same age of the ancient King. And so, another regulation was decided. The ink must be given to the decedent well before their sixth birthday and they must attempt opening the Crypt before two decades had passed."
Dustin was beyond pale, "My sigil ... I got it when I was five."
The Count's eye focused, transfixed, on Dustin's tattoo, "Your grandfather was the first to receive the ink as a child but we waited too long to give it to him, and he was unsuccessful. But hope was not lost because two of his sons had already been born and his third was on the way."
"His third son." Dustin exhaled, "My father."
"Your father was our prime specimen, perfect in every way. As the youngest, it was his duty to carry on the legacy. So he was branded with the sigil as a child and we waited twenty years before we called upon him to open the Crypt."
Bernard, who was hearing this all for the first time, paired new information with what he remembered, "That's why you came for him."
"Regrettably, just before our arrival, war with another gang nearly killed your father and a blood transfusion was foolishly given to spare his life. But by saving him, they ruined his blood, and he could not open the Crypt. So the responsibility was passed onto his youngest," Count Marx curled his lip back in a half smile, half snarl, "You, Dustin. The honor was passed, to you."
"The night of a thousand corpses ..." Brandon muttered, "Our parents didn't trade Dustin for the safety of the Tribe. They were just ... following your orders."
"The night of a thousand corpses was our way of cleaning up messes, and it ended up being a perfect excuse to cover up our true intentions. Perhaps we would have killed the Tribe on that night, it certainly would not have changed anything if we had, but our main goal was to retrieve Dustin's father. When he failed to open the crypt, our sights shifted to Dustin and he just so happened to be at the proper age to receive his sigil."
Corinth dug her nails into Dustin's arm, "That's why you forced him to kill the Reaper."
"Dustin's father and his brothers were married to tradition, they would not allow Dustin to receive his sigil until he properly passed initiation by killing for the gang. A small price to pay that we were more than happy to accept. It was only fair and justified to allow Dustin to kill the man who nearly killed his father which led to the blood transfusion that ruined his father's blood and in turn, set Dustin on this very path. And now," The Count threw his arms out to either side in a wide gesture then took a low bow as if finishing a performance, "Here we are."
The other councilman clapped and gave him praise to which Count Marx bowed again.
Dustin took a single step forward, separating himself from the safety of our group, "So you were planning all of this for an upwards of eighteen years but you had to wait until I died before setting it all in motion?"
Count Marx was unbothered by Dustin's outburst, still riding his high from a his enthusiastic audience, "We were going to wait even longer, to give you the full twenty years to incubate, but when word reached us of the progressively violent rivalry growing between the Reapers and the Tribe, we knew preparations must be made. Then we discovered Brandon had been killed and we stepped in to spare the King descendants from another unnecessary loss."
Mostly appalled and somewhat violated, Brandon hand drifted up to his neck and he questioned accusingly, "That is why you brought me back?"
"That is the only reason we brought you back." The Count's amusement grew ten fold when he saw how Brandon's entire body and soul lost life after finding out his resurrection had been decided only to avoid inconvenience, "If something unexpected had happened to Dustin, you and Corinth would be the last of the King descendants and a new line would be needed to carry the ink. We could not afford to let you die."
"Besides," Councilman Tucker chuckled, "I was in need of a servant, a role you fulfilled beautifully by the way."
Brandon swallowed.
"I met with Rosen myself in the weeks after Brandon's death, and it was quite clear from our meeting that he planned to kill Dustin." Count Marx shrugged, "I suppose we could have killed Rosen to save ourselves the trouble but it was much easier to let him do all of the work for us."
Dustin choked on disbelief, "You helped him plan my death?"
"Of course I did. I have a knack for murder, and yours was one of my best if I do say so myself. Once plans were put into motion, all of our pawns fell so nicely into place." The Count's entire face lit up, "We could not let Rosen kill you on his own terms, there would have been too many variables to take into consideration, too many ways it could have gone wrong. So I assisted the late Reaper leader in devising a plan on a set schedule with variables we could control."
He spoke as if it were an elementary school science project.
"We began with bombing the compound. I did not expect Donovan to die in the process but it meant very little considering he already had children. I will admit his death with unfitting but his usefulness had come to an end. My original plan was for Dustin to perish during that bombing, thus explaining how close he came to dying after being stabbed." The Count's stare grew darker, not by anger but by sickening interest, "However, despite all of my planning and careful calculations, there were still several variables we were unaware of. Primarily, we should have known Doc would save the boy but what we could not have foreseen – what we could not have planned or prepared for – was the interference of a young girl who gave Dustin something to live for."
His attention turned towards me and his stare clawed at my throat, strangling me from afar.
"An outsider, hiding amongst the Tribe with no status, no identity, and no membership, which made her practically invisible without being cataloged at the Gate." That same hunger returned to his gaze and it hit me painfully hard, "Once word reached us that Dustin had survived, we made plans to allow Rosen another attempt at killing him but to our surprise, we found out that Dustin had been arrested and some nuisance of a lowly lawyer was indicting him with several counts of murder, theft, trespassing, and ... kidnapping, in the first degree."
"You knew ..." I breathed out, "You knew all along."
"Taking Dustin would have been significantly more difficult if he were to die in jail. The only thing we could do was convince Rosen to speed his death along before Dustin was found guilty and given lethal injection. So we sent Brandon to discuss negotiations with Rosen when low and behold, the invisible outsider showed up yet again to save her dashing prince. And in doing so," Count Marx dragged a finger down his cheek, mimicking the tears swelling in my own eyes, "She delivered him to us on a silver platter."
"No ..." I gasped, "No I didn't ... I couldn't ... I never wanted-"
"Dustin was dead, or so you all thought, and ripe for the picking. So we collected him in secret, brought him to our domain, and nursed him back from the grave. From there, we monitored you all in secret. Then after Dustin awoke, proving to be less than cooperative, we instructed Brandon to bring all of you to us, to use you as blackmail. Although, Brandon's change of loyalty became something of a bother." Count Marx rose one hand into the air, "We will remedy that first."
His fingers snapped.
Movement exploded all around us. We had been so engrossed and preoccupied with the Count's story that we did not notice the trap being set. Those we had defeated who lay harmlessly at our feet, had risen from the ground and watched us mockingly while we listened with no notice of being surrounded. Now those adversaries leapt forward and my group was attacked from all sides, ripped away from one another and isolated. The same man who I punched into unconsciousness now stood behind me yet again, this time wrapping an arm tightly around my neck and keeping me too close to escape as I had previously done.
"Welcome back." He growled into my ear from where blood leaked down his face and stained his mouth red.
Corinth and Lumiere were also detained, Dustin had been forced to his knees where several men held him at a bow, Bernard knelt next to him with another pair of men holding him down, and Brandon had been flipped onto his back where his limbs were pinned.
The Count approached.
Brandon fought to free himself but his efforts were met with resistance and before he was able to, the Count stepped down on top of Brandon's hand, crunching bone below the heel of his boot, "I had such high hopes for you, Brandon. Never before has a King worked for the Council. You made history and you would have made so much more, if only you had been obedient."
Brandon struggled from where he was being held down and he locked his jaw to keep from yelling out in pain. Through clenched teeth he grumbled, "It was my pleasure to fuck up your plans," He added with a spit, "My lord."
"How courageous of you to disobey us and for your sake I wish your bravery was well compensated. But in actuality, your treason did very little to interfere with our plans. You all are still right where we want, perhaps in a different location but in the same exact position on our chessboard." Count Marx dug his foot deeper, "You are still kneeling before me, a sacrifice to our checkmate."
Brandon dropped his head against the grass, in pain and at a loss for words upon realizing his act of rebellion had only delayed the inevitable rather than stop it as Brandon had hoped for. Under the Count's boot, Brandon's hand balled but was soon flattened when Count Marx shifted his weight entirely onto the back of Brandon's palm.
"And now, to reward you for your heroic behavior." The Count twisted his heel one way, then the other, "Because all heroes," Cracking, popping, screaming, "Deserve to be rewarded."
Dustin was shouting indecencies and Corinth turned away with tears in her eyes just as the Count produced the same knife he had used to pierce my leg, the same knife he used to carve Corinth's mark, the same knife he used to litter hundreds of cuts upon Lumiere's body.
The Count bent forward, whistling to himself.
"Get the fuck away from me!" Brandon demanded, his voice cracked and terrified.
Several hands held Brandon's head steady while the Count pressed the blade against Brandon's cheek and began carving the same set of scars he wore on his face, onto Brandon's face.
Brandon yelled and thrashed and screamed, all the while that knife cut deeper and blood spurted in all directions.
"This is only a third of your punishment. The other two thirds were given a long time ago, by your wife and your daughter. Their death is on your hands and that is more punishment than I could ever hope to deliver." When he was finished, the Count sat back to admire his work, "There you go, now you always have a piece of me with you. To remind you." He pinched Brandon's jaw between a stone grip with blood flowing over his fingers, "Don't ever cross me again."
He threw Brandon away from him and rose to his full height, finally stepping off of Brandon's hand and leaving him rolling in pain, cradling his broken hand against his chest and stifling his face into the grass below him, not quite crying but making similar sounds.
Dustin crawled closer to his cousin, fighting the men who had difficulty holding him back, "What the hell is the matter with you?"
"He needed to be punished." The Count reminded, "You ought to be grateful I am not taking more than his hand and a few layers of skin."
"You ought to be grateful I can't reach you." Dustin informed monstrously, "Because if I could, your hand and a few layers of skin would only be the first things I take from you."
Count Marx spun around our group with dramatic flare, "I have to admit, you all have been the most lively bunch of King decedents. It was quite a challenge to care for Dustin without giving him a blood transfusion so we graciously thank you for making it so exciting for us. It has been a very long time since we had such clever players." The Count tucked his knife back into its holster and his attention befell a single poor soul, "But now, the time for games is over and we have a few messes to clean up ... don't we?"
He was walking towards Bernard.
Dustin threw himself into the Count's path, dragging all three of his captors with him, "Marx, you have done enough. Leave them alone, this is between us!"
"You are correct, my boy. No one else is of true concern to me except for you, but that does not mean I should spare the lives of gnats, does it?" Count Marx used his foot to nudge Dustin away then stepped around him, "In fact, I think I will enjoy what comes next."
Bernard was roughly situated in front of his house, still on his knees in beggars position, facing the Count who stood like a mountain in front of him. From there, Bernard watched his beloved house burn, the structure swirling in flames that licked miles high while it greedily devoured every happy memory he ever experienced here. The rooms left in waiting for their residents to return were nothing but rubble now, a pile of scorching ash to replace the warmth of distant, but better, times.
All of that joy and love, all of his attempts to redeem himself, gone in a matter of seconds.
One of the men who had been holding Bernard down offered an object to the Count who accepted it then stood beside Bernard with his arms folded across his chest, a gun now dangling from one hand, glowing bronze in the light of blazing wood, "A beautiful sight, aye?"
Bernard did not look away from his house, and a lone tear dripped from his eye, "No."
"I have never liked guns. They are too messy, too cold. Knives are different, you have to be close to your victim to use a knife, it makes it more personal. Which is why a gun fits your demise so perfectly." He moved behind Bernard in slow, taunting strides, "I have never liked you either Bern, but I have always respected your dedication to being worthless. You knew your place and you never tried to be something more." The gun rose, barrel pressed against the back of Bernard's head, and from where we were positioned behind the two figures, all we saw were their silhouettes cast into shadows by the raging fire beyond, "Any last words, Bern?"
Still Bernard didn't look away; on his knees, hands hanging limply at his sides, head tilted up to watch the flicker of embers melt with the stars until the sky became twice as full. Like a sinner at confession, his transgressions were admitted through inner repentance, known only by himself and the devil awaiting in angst for hell's newest arrival.
Dustin forced himself away from the men barely containing him and he inched closer to his uncle, even Brandon pushed past his pain to make way for Bernard. As he stared down his inevitable path, his nephews called to him, ordering him to fight back. Of us all, Corinth was closest. She wiggled an arm free and reached out her hand, tearfully begging for her uncle to take it.
Bernard listened to their cries and breathed in deep to quell his fears, "I just want to say-"
The gun fired.
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