For just a moment, everything stopped. For just a single fleeting second in time, the room was calm. The inhabitants were not rivals, the chains were silent, and the lingering resonance of a simple command drifted directionless throughout the surrounding space with no more peril than gentle rain on a warm summer night.
Then a series of shattering glass erupted.
And that gentle rain became a hurricane.
One vial, then two ... three ... and four. Each of the vials were lifted from the safety of that carefully constructed tray where they were so securely placed, and then pitched at the floor.
Shards gleamed, liquid spilled, and just like that ... the cure was gone.
"What the fuck?!" Dustin thundered. He pushed away from those holding him and dove forward to inspect the broken glass vials that now lay on the ground. Empty, useless, completely eradicated. He sifted through the remains in sheer panic, as if he could somehow salvage the contents before they disappeared into the cracks between the floorboards, "Marx! I went through hell to get those!"
"Hell is entirely relative, perception of what is considered hellish changes from person to person." The Count interpreted calmly. He promoted someone to guard me while he strolled towards Dustin on a cheerful stride, "For instance, what your ancestor did to mine was hell. This sickness I have been living with is hell. And now," He stopped just behind Dustin, "What I am about to do to you will be hell."
Dustin slammed his closed fist down onto the shards of glass, "This is what you wanted, this is what you told me you wanted!" He jumped onto his feet and shoved at the Count with both hands, "You son of a bitch, I almost got myself killed getting you those vials!" His eyes flicked towards me and the violet behind his lashes was mauled by mountains of despair, "You promised you would cure Sadie if I got you those damn ingredients!"
Count Marx steadied himself and smoothed his shirt, mumbling under his breath as he went, before responding, "You're right, I did tell you that. And all this time, no matter how questionable my actions ever became, have I not been a man of my word?"
Dustin was fuming, breathing hard and fast, shaking from anger and speaking through gritted teeth, "How do you intend to cure anyone? You destroyed the goddamn ingredients!"
"No, I destroyed the vials!" The Count yelled back, a minor break in his composure, "If you would stop acting like a child, maybe you would realize that the ingredients of the cure are safe."
Like flame from a spent candle, Dustin's rage vanished and was replaced by a disastrous amount of surviving hope, "You still have the ingredients?"
"No, I do not." The Count slapped a hand onto Dustin's chest, enough to make Dustin stumble back. The Count's palm resided directly over Dustin's sigil and his fingers twisted into a claw, "You do."
Dustin knocked his hand away, frustrated once again, "Have you actually lost your mind or are you just not listening? I don't have the ingredients, I gave them to you when I got here and we all just watched you order their destruction."
"What you heard, was me ordering the destruction of four glass vials." The Count informed, "The ingredients for the cure were not in those vials."
"For the love of –" Dustin ripped his fingers through his hair in disbelief, "The ingredients for the cure were in those vials, you asinine prick! I took them directly from the Crypt itself-"
"Inside of those vials was the curse bestowed upon my ancestors." Count Marx planted himself directly in front of Dustin, so close that their rapid breaths collided between them as their altercation intensified, "The ingredients for the cure ... were in the goblets."
Painful contractions skipped through my heart.
"In the goblets? You mean, the ones I drank from?" Dustin looked towards me again and I saw his face go pale, "No, that isn't right. Whatever was in those goblets almost killed me."
"A sick joke left by your ancestor to be sure the only person who could distribute the disease was the same as the one who could distribute the cure, for only a direct descendent of the King could have drank from those goblets without dying."
Dustin desperately sought refuge from the Count's ridiculous claims, "But I did die. Lumiere and Doc had to-"
"You didn't die." The Count clarified, "You were incubating."
Beside me, Lumiere mumbled inaudibly, "That's why ... the epinephrine didn't work."
The Count abruptly grabbed Dustin by the neck and yanked him closer, "The instant you swallowed that liquid, it was ingested and absorbed into your body. The part that almost killed you was courtesy of the ingredients being mixed and activated by the ink in your tattoo. The change in color of your ink signifies its completion." Using one hand to choke Dustin, he used the other to trace the lines of Dustin's sigil, so carefully, "You are ready to be harvested now."
"How do you know all of this?" Dustin gasped through the Count's grip, "Not even Erie knew-"
"The Gatekeepers are thorough, Erie wasn't lying when she said they keep perfect records of everything. But let's consider a very important, and often overlooked, fact ..." The Count's manic smile fluoresced in the low light of this dungeon, "Who created the Gatekeepers?"
Erie's body drained of color and posture, she slumped against the wall lifelessly, "The Council."
"My ancestors decided to initiate a Gatekeeper to document and protect the records of our world, but the Gatekeepers have only ever been librarians." Count Marx squeezed tighter still, "We did not want them to grow a conscious and interfere with the trials of the King's curse. So we told them just enough for them to do our work for us when the time came."
Erie leaned sideways, against Brandon, who was fearfully watching as life was drained from his cousin. Erie whispered, "You used us."
"Do not feel special, my dear." The Count told her coldly, "We use everyone."
Dustin's coughs subsided as breath was lost, he clawed at the hand fastened around his throat but he couldn't force the Count's release. Dustin has sustained too many injuries in recent weeks and he has become too weak. His eyes were closing, his body was slowing.
Lumiere ripped at the chain preventing his freedom, "Let him go, you're killing him!"
"When ink runs red, salvation is near." Count Marx recited. He said it again, then a third time. He licked his lips while watching Dustin fade and brought his other hand to Dustin's neck, lowering Dustin to the ground as the last of his life threatened to depart, "Your ink has run red, the cure is in your veins, and salvation is indeed near." Count Marx pulled Dustin closer and growled in his face, "Salvation is finally mine."
Just as Dustin's eyes rolled back, the Count tossed him aside. Dustin dropped like dead weight and coughed roughly against the floorboards. His injuries from the gunshot and resuscitation restricted his ability to recover. His side bulged and retracted abnormally from his broken ribs, and his arms wrapped tightly around his midsection to splint his restoration
Erie blinked out of her stupor and nudged herself closer to where Dustin had collapsed. Brandon followed after her and the two of them leaned over where Dustin was huddled on the ground, still trying to regain his breath. Erie glared up at the Count and spoke without fear of his psychosis, "If you keep treating him like this, he will die long before you get your cure."
Count Marx backhanded her and this time, no Councilman dared condemn his behavior, "Thank you for your guidance, Gatekeeper. However, your assistance is no longer needed. I think I shall continue to do as I please. After all, him dying is not truly a concern of mine." The Count turned away while waving his hand through the air, and he ordered carelessly, "As for the other one, go ahead and kill him. Dustin will suffice and we don't need them both."
His words didn't register until movement was detected. Metal shined vibrantly just before gunfire blasted through the air. I shuttered away from the sound that seemed so much louder down here, but through the white noise now ringing in my ears, I heard a distinct thud. I searched through the mass of bodies between me and Dustin, desperate to identify the one that had fallen.
Through gaps between bodies, I could see Dustin where he still lay on the floor. He was holding his neck and rolling onto his side, but there was no indication of a bullet wound besides the one he sustained from Rosen so long ago.
Slowly, Dustin pulled himself across the floor and I saw his hands grip at the shirt of someone else. Erie sat beside them both, she was upright and unharmed other than the Count's recent assaults.
That means ...
"Don't try to get up, just lay still!" Erie demanded through a violently shaking voice. From where I was situated, I could only see black hair and a pair of bright emerald green eyes, wide in shock but dulling even as I watched. Erie pressed her chained hands over a bloody mess and a hiss of pain released, "I said stop moving! I have to keep pressure until the bleeding stops."
"It doesn't ... matter." I heard Brandon mumble from where he lay between Erie and Dustin. He glanced down at his chest and grunted at the amount of blood pooling around Erie's hands, "I won't make it that long."
He had been shot ... Brandon ... he was ...
"Brandon?" I asked quietly. Behind me Lumiere cursed and punched the ground. My legs moved despite their paralysis and I inched closer, little by little, as if I might reach him before the inevitable occurred, "Brandon!"
Dustin placed his hands over Erie's and together, they kept pressure over the hole gaping through Brandon's heart, "Don't say that, you are going to be fine."
Brandon laughed but winced, and blood bubbled between his lips, "No. I'm not."
Dustin pressed harder, "Come on, don't give me that bullshit Brandon! You died on me once, you're seriously going to make me watch it happen again?" Blood gushed between Dustin's fingers, "This time, you have to keep fighting!"
A thin trail of crimson dripped from Brandon's mouth and traced scarlet down his cheek. He shook his head and let himself ease against the floor, "No ... no more fighting, Dustin. No more guns or motorcycles or gang wars." Brandon swallowed but it was difficult for him and his eyes filled, either from fear or from pain, and he released a long sigh, "I'm tired. I'm so tired of it all ... so no more."
"You're going to give up after everything we just went through? You rescued me from this place Brandon, and you have to live long enough for me to repay you for that! What am I supposed to do if you-" Dustin's voice cracked, "What am I supposed to tell Corinth?"
Brandon's chest sputtered from a damp breath, "Tell her I died." He frowned at the thought and it caused his eyes to spill, "She won't care."
"Yes she will! I know she will!" Dustin insisted. But even as his efforts continued, Erie gently pulled her hands out from under Dustin's and she sat back. Dustin stared at her incredulously, "What are you doing?! Keep holding him!"
"Hush. Let him go in peace." Erie whispered. She first said it to Dustin, then she repeated it to Brandon in a voice velvet soft and as soothing as wind through chimes. She gently ran her bloody fingers through Brandon's hair, again and again, calming him in this time of distress, "It is time for you to rest now."
Dustin gaped at her in horror but Brandon only smiled as best he could while his eyes began to drift. He leaned into her touch, seeking final comfort, "Thank you ... and ... I'm sorry."
Erie smiled warmly, as a mother would to her child, to keep him comfortable before his departure, "For what?"
Brandon's fading stare wandered towards Lumiere, "He knows ... he can tell you. And let him know that I am sorry. For what I did." His breaths became shallow, his words gurgled, "I'm ... sorry."
"Shh, be at peace." She cooed and placed a feather of a kiss against his temple. She held him tight to let him know he was not alone as he has been for most of his life. But in these final moments, whether by chance or by fortune, Brandon found himself in serene company that swaddled him and made him feel safe for the first time in so very long, "Be guarded in your journey, and greet Myra at long last."
Dustin was shaking his head, "No, I'm not going to let him die like this-"
"He is already gone." Erie told him quietly.
Dustin looked down at his cousin again, and hung his head.
Erie was right.
Brandon's eyes were closed, his chest still, blood stagnant, and heart silent. His head was rolled towards Erie's touch and she continued to comfort him even as he passed, "Peace and rest to this weary soul. Let him be welcomed by his wife and daughter, and grant him the calm he has so rightfully earned. Blessed be, Brandon King."
Tears stung behind my eyes.
From the moment I met him, I hated Brandon. He was rude, and arrogant, and pompous. He never thought for anyone other than himself, he treated us all like dirt; he mocked and blamed Lumiere consistently, he betrayed his sister. He was the reason we were brought to the Council, he was the reason I was tortured. And ...
He was the reason we were able to save Dustin.
We never would have known that Dustin survived if Brandon had not told us. We never would have been able to infiltrate the Council, rescue Dustin, and escape without his guidance. Brandon started this mission long before we knew there was a mission to be completed, he brought us all together again when we feared death had ripped us apart.
He was killed at the hands of an enemy, stolen from the Tribe, forced to pay off a debt he never should have been charged with, and then was tasked with watching his cousin die. His character was faulty and his life was sad; he has known nothing but loss and strife for years without end, and that grief turned him into a shell of a man with no purpose.
But in the end, Brandon King died with a smile on his face and he died honorably, with no regrets to keep him from an eternal rest he rightfully deserved. He may have been a rotten human being, but he betrayed and enraged gods of destruction in order to fight for his family.
Dustin scrunched Brandon's shirt between his hands, having to bid his cousin a final farewell for the second time, and he whispered so softly, "Selfish bastard ... you left again."
Count Marx looked down on Brandon's corpse with contempt. He felt no remorse, he felt nothing for the life he had just ended. He checked his watch impatiently, "Let's get started. Remove the trash and prep the boy."
Dustin's glare stopped anyone from approaching, "Do not touch him."
Not even the Count dare do otherwise.
Dustin stood and left his cousin in Erie's care, then he made way for where the Count was standing. The two men faced one another; equally powerful and equally feared, but one was disproportionately advantaged. And it was Dustin's voice that reigned with that advantage, "You killed him."
"Yes." The Count answered just as even, "I did."
"Remember that confession," Dustin said to him, so deep and unsettling that those closest to the pair backed away, "When I gut you like the pig that you are."
The Count's eye twitched, "Be careful-"
"No. It is time for you to be careful." Dustin stepped closer. He entered the Count's space and established authority so easily, so naturally, despite his injuries and his weaknesses. It was Dustin who held superiority and I realized, as Marx did, that it has always been Dustin who was to be feared, "Because when this all ends, I will take you to the grave with me if that is our fate."
The Count scrambled to maintain his control, "Do not threaten me, boy. I will-"
"I am not afraid of you, Marx."
That sentence alone destroyed the Count. Because his authority had nothing to do with power or skill or respect. He did not gain such status by acquiring it through ethical means, he cheated his way to the top. He maintained his position of power through forcing submission, by being feared enough to worship. So when that fear is removed, there is nothing to separate Count Marx from the millions of other men who are average and harmless.
Fear is all that he has.
Without it, he is meaningless.
The Count's face flushed deep red from humiliation and his hands balled into shaking fists at his side. He glanced around him in suspicion, suddenly doubting the loyalty of those under his lead. Dustin split a hole through the Count's armor and now he was trifled by vulnerability.
Councilman Tucker grew restless of the Count's unraveling control, because everyone knows an animal will lash out when backed into a corner. Councilman Tucker stepped forward, speaking quietly but quickly, to diffuse the situation before it escalated any further, "We must move along with proceedings. Strap the boy on the table-"
"No." The Count ground out. His embarrassment fueled his irrationality and his eye went wild from unstable judgment, "I have a much better idea."
Without warning, his fist clubbed against the side of Dustin's head and knocked him down, sprawling him onto his back. Lumiere lurched forward, as did I, but Lumiere's chain held firm and the man standing over me stomped down onto my leg to keep me from moving.
The Count ordered his men to hold Dustin down, on his back with his arms out to both sides. The other Councilmen frightfully watched as the Count disappeared into the darkness at the far end of the room, humming to himself.
From the shadows, I recognized the haunting melody of When The Saints Go Marching.
When the Count returned, he had a hammer dangling from one hand and a cluster of nails gripped in the other.
Councilman Tucker reached for his colleague, "Marx, this might be a bit extreme-"
"Shut up." Count Marx grumbled, and he passed by his fellow Councilman without being touched.
The Count rounded Dustin's body and buried the brunt of his knee into Dustin's chest to keep Dustin still.
My fear was enough to chase away the clutches of death that were so close to taking me, "Don't hurt him!"
"Watch closely, my sweet angel. You are about to see what happens when monsters decide to play." Count Marx lined up a single nail at the center of Dustin's right palm and beamed maniacally, "Are you afraid now, boy?"
Dustin's upper lip curled back, already aware of what was about to happen, but he did not cater to the Count's attempt at intimidation and Dustin said defiantly, "No."
"That will change." The Count promised.
Then he lifted the hammer high and swung down.
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One of my shortest chapters ever but the next one was just too juicy to break up, so I had to end it here ;)
Also, I want to wish a happy (late) birthday to @mahawartanya , technically it is still May 29th where I live so let's pretend I uploaded on time!
As always, please vote, comment, and follow me!
Thanks again, my darlings!
xoxo