The Dark Path Page 6

  With no other option, the guardian had drawn his gun, and shot the girl through the head, shattering Empeth’s incantations. The young guardian had suffered unimaginable torments for weeks before being allowed to die. Even after death however, Empeth ensured his soul would never know rest, carving the ancient sign of The Four into his skull, expelling his essence and opening the gateway for a new entity to possess his form. With the mark on his soul mirroring the one on his dead body, the man’s spirit would be chained to Sordarrah for eternity.

  Priest knew all too well what they were facing. He had even tried to fight Empeth once. The battle had been decidedly one-sided, Priest only barely escaping with his soul still intact.

  “Dark Man–Vain–I realize this is very difficult for you to believe, but what I am telling you is the truth. The forces you will be confronting are not all human, and you must be made ready to face them. You cannot face them if you don’t comprehend what they really are.”

  “Can they be killed black man?” asked Vain.

  “Yes, but–” began Priest.

  “Then they will die,” vowed the Dark Man.

  * * * *

  The only information Priest had on the boy was his first name and the town he had originally come from.

  “Is this it?” Vain stared at the scrap of paper Priest had written the information onto.

  “That is all I know. I am truly sorry.”

  “So, you want me to look for a kid named Sebastian originally from Utah, but now he’s somewhere in New York City. Well that shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll drop him off tomorrow morning. Is nine o’clock okay with you?” Vain sneered mockingly.

  “Your sarcasm isn’t needed, Dark Man. I know what I am asking of you. But I also know you have the resources to accomplish it,” said Priest. “I do have this too.” Priest handed the assassin a weathered photograph of what appeared to be a small child on a pushbike.

  “Oh well, this makes all the difference. I’ll have him here at eight thirty instead.” Priest ignored the remark. “I thought you said you knew where the boy was,” said Vain.

  “I do. He’s in New York,” Priest offered lamely.

  “And how did you find out he’s here? You must have had more than this piece of toilet paper to know that much.”

  “I found the photograph in an old house in Utah. When I touched it his name came to me and the fact that he’s in New York City–somewhere. I also know he is in danger, the enemy is drawing near.”

  “I guess I should go now, unless there’re any more pearls of wisdom you wish to impart.”

  “I really don’t think I like you Dark Man,” murmured Priest sadly. “You spit in the face of everything I hold dear.”

  “Not many people do like me black man.” Vain grinned venomously, moving from the room. “Especially not those who meet me in person.”

  Without a word of farewell, Vain stalked from Chapel and disappeared.

  Chapter Six: Squirrel

  Gary O'Rourke had been a big shot. Fast cars, fast women, fast money. Every night was a party at Gary’s house and he had loved life.

  Quickly becoming one of the shooting stars on Wall Street, Gary developed into one of the youngest executives in his firm’s history. Seemingly incomparable when it came to predicting market changes, he had amassed a small fortune in only a few short years. Gary began to make riskier and riskier purchases on the stock exchange, netting ever larger profits. Along with his success came arrogance.

  He felt invincible.

  Everyone marveled at his successes. How could such a young man do so well in the market? Either he had excellent inside knowledge or fantastically good luck. As it turned out, he had a bit of both. Gary had informants placed all over the city in almost every major industrial company, granting him access to knowledge other people couldn’t even begin to touch. All of this was highly illegal of course, but Gary believed laws were made for poor people and not high rollers like himself.

  After all, he was untouchable.

  One day, Gary received information that had made even his mouth water. Global Technologies were going to merge with Pastrel Industries, creating possibly the most expensive amalgamation in history. Gary’s hand shook on the keyboard when he read the E-mail. Quickly checking the stock tickers on the internet, he almost passed out from excitement. Both companies’ stocks were breeching all time lows–he could blitz the market!

  The following day, Gary had poured his entire personal savings–along with quite a bit of money belonging to his clients–into the shares of both companies, walking away at the end of the day envisioning the riches he would amass in the coming weeks.

  Unfortunately, shooting stars must all eventually burn out, especially those that burn the brightest.

  The news never came.

  Weeks turned to months and the stocks continued to drop, but Gary refused to sell, determined that the union could still occur and he would recover any losses he’d incurred.

  The merger never came. The golden boy lost his sheen. A business partner who had followed Gary’s lead leapt off a building. Gary leapt into a bottle.

  The years passed and the alcohol haze grew thicker in Gary’s mind. He woke up one day in the gutter of an alleyway and smelled himself. The stench alone made him want to retch, but he didn’t have the energy to roll over, so he simply closed his eyes and waited for the end.

  Voices awakened him from his death slumber a short while later and their words jolted his curiosity. Two men were talking about something that sounded vaguely familiar, and Gary listened on.

  “For God’s sake man, listen to reason. I couldn’t have squealed on the Bucelli family. I wasn’t even there when the last shipment came in, I didn’t even know about it!”

  Bucelli. Where had he heard that name? The sodden gears of his brain slowly ticked over while he tried to grasp the memory. Finally it came to him: Marco Bucelli! Pleased with his clarity even through his hangover, Gary momentarily lost his train of thought. Focusing his foggy brain once more Gary spoke up, “Are yew Mar-Marco?” he slurred to the man who had spoken.

  Startled by the voice, both men jumped. Suddenly Gary noticed the gun in the second man’s hand.

  “What do you know about Marco?” asked one of the men, expertly aiming the handgun at Gary’s brow.

  Gary had to think carefully before speaking, trying to remember where he had been when he heard the name. It had been a few days back and he’d been looking for loose change in the phone booths near West Street station when he’d heard the voice raised in anger.

  “Listen to me copper, I said it was going to happen and it did. Next time you better trust me when I tell you. I’m Marco Bucelli for crying out loud, and you still don’t believe me when I tell you one of the shipments is coming in. Now where’s my damn money?”

  Gary had left when Marco had shoved him onto the footpath and threatened to shoot him. That sort of thing happened more often than he liked and he knew when to move on. At least he’d found a five dollar bill at the entrance to the station. That explained the fact that he remembered the incident at all.

  “Hey you stupid squirrel-faced bastard, I said, ‘How do you know Marco?’”

  “He pushed me to the ground and said he’d kill me,” Gary pronounced tremulously.

  “Ha! Now, why’d he do that to you Squirrel?”

  “I don’t know. I was getting change from the booth beside him when he was talking on the phone; I think he spoke to a policeman. Then he got upset and pushed me over.”

  Gary had expected the gunman to laugh at him again, but now he was standing still, contemplating the words.

  “You’d better go tell your boss what’s happened.” The gunman waved his weapon at the other man. When the man ran off, the assassin turned the barrel towards Gary.

  “I wonder, Squirrel, how much more information is floating around in that drunken sponge you call a brain. What else do you know?”

  Gary quickly sobered, realizing his life might dep
end on the next words to leave his mouth. The click of the gun cocking sobered him even further.

  “People don’t worry what they say around me, I’m just a bum. I hear all kinds of strange things that happen around the city every day, but I also know when not to talk about them,” blurted Gary, hoping he’d been coherent in his rush to protect his life.

  The gunman silently pondered the drunken man cowering before him. “All right Squirrel, I’ll let you live for now and for as long as you prove useful to me. Any time you hear something interesting on the streets, make sure the news finds my ears first. You might just get a reward. For today’s effort, here’s ten dollars. Go get drunk.”

  “Oh! Thank you sir. But how will I find you?” asked Gary.

  “My name is Dante. Leave a message at Mason’s Lair with the bartender, Tony. Tell him you need to see me, but nothing more!”

  “Yes sir, you can rely on me. What message should I leave?”

  Dante thought for a moment, grinning nastily. “Tell him the Squirrel has been gathering some nuts. He’ll know what to do.”

  The name had stuck and Squirrel discovered he had a talent for uncovering sources of information not previously known on the streets. He found it not dissimilar to the insider trading that had propelled him to the heights of Wall Street. Whether a spoken word in a bar or eavesdropping at a door, Squirrel quickly became known for providing a reliable source of news. At first this had made Dante seethe with anger, but he found the information Squirrel provided invaluable and found himself loathe to dispose of the informant.

  Eventually, Squirrel’s talent drew the attention of the Dark Man. Squirrel had only heard street corner innuendo about the man and had never been able to gather any real information regarding his appearance or background. For all intents and purposes the man called Vain had simply appeared from the bowels of the city to wreak havoc amidst the scum of the underworld. The scraps Squirrel collected had made him pray he never had the misfortune to meet the man.

  Tattooed within Squirrel’s hazy memory burned the day he woke up in his cheap hotel room to find a man sitting at the foot of his bed staring intently at him. Fear shot through Squirrel as he looked into the man’s eyes and saw the darkness residing there. Registering the silencer pointed directly into his face, he felt his bowels loosen, adding another stain to his filthy bedclothes, further fouling the stale air.

  The Dark Man seemed unperturbed by the stench, offering no reaction when Squirrel whined liked a cowering puppy and tried to hide his head beneath the bedding.

  “Come out from there Squirrel, or I’ll start putting holes in your beautiful linen.”

  Squirrel peered over the edge of the sheet to where the Dark Man sat motionless. Little by little he inched his hand towards the blade hidden beneath his pillow in the futile hope he could somehow survive this encounter.

  “If your hand moves another inch, Squirrel,” Vain warned quietly, “I’ll be forced to kill you and lose the information I need.”

  Squirrel swallowed heavily, wishing for the hundredth time he had started out life teaching instead of banking.

  * * * *

  Vain peered from the alleyway watching Squirrel make his way down the busy street. To passersby he appeared simply another bum looking for loose change or cigarette butts, but watching closely, Vain recognized the method to Squirrel’s movements. He would pause momentarily near groups of people and listen to what they were saying, all the while searching through the trash or picking something from the ground, avoiding notice.

  An interesting tactic. Very interesting since Vain knew that Squirrel had risen above his poverty. Although he had started his second life on the streets, the man once known as Gary had done well for himself since starting in the information distribution business. In the few months since his appearance, Squirrel had gained access to intelligence from almost all corners of the city through his network of informants. Everyone from the lowest hood to the kings of the underworld wanted Squirrel’s information, but they all remained ignorant to the fact that the same information also found its way to their enemies, sometimes at a lower price. None of them realized Squirrel was more than just a street bum. And Squirrel preferred it that way.

  But the Dark Man knew otherwise.

  Before he had contacted Squirrel for the first time, he did a little information digging of his own and discovered some things about Gary O’Rourke’s past: the banker, his success and subsequent fall from grace. The rest Vain had pieced together after following him on nights similar to this one.

  Tonight was different, though. Possibly the Dark Man’s most important meeting with Squirrel. He wanted to make sure everything was perfectly safe before proceeding.

  Waiting until he felt certain the informant wasn’t being followed, Vain moved up the fire escape of a nearby building. He proceeded across the rooftop until he reached the edge. Pausing for the briefest moment, he took a running leap, landing on the adjacent building’s roof, rolling on his shoulder to absorb the impact.

  Squirrel’s home: a rundown dump, housing junkies, crooks and ex-millionaire Wall Street bankers. Vain looked over the side, and down to Squirrel’s room three floors below. Previously, scaling the wall had proven virtually impossible, so this time he’d brought a length of rope which he now proceeded to unravel and secure. Rappelling down, Vain easily accessed the unlocked window, and waited patiently for Squirrel to arrive.

  Squirrel entered the room soon after, finding the Dark Man sitting in a chair with a gun pointed at his chest. His heart stopped mid-beat and he wondered what he might have done recently that could warrant this visit. He’d heard of the Dark Man’s slaying of the assassin Dante, but knew nothing about his movements since.

  “Close the door and sit down, Squirrel. We need to talk,” Vain said quietly.

  Not knowing what else to do, the smaller man closed and locked the door before sitting on the corner of the bed.

  “The time has come Squirrel,” began the Dark Man. Squirrel began to sweat.

  If only he had become a teacher.

  “The time has come,” repeated Vain, “to find out how much knowledge is swimming around in your booze-soaked grey cells.”

  “W-w-what?” stammered Squirrel.

  “Tell me about the Souls of Sordarrah.”

  Squirrel’s mind worked furiously. At first he seemed relieved, but once the content of the Dark Man’s words sank in he felt his gut wrench in panic. The Souls of Sordarrah! He’d hoped never to hear those words again.

  Two men had approached Squirrel on the street one night and promised him money in exchange for a service. When he had pressed them about what the service entailed, they had swiftly changed their minds and moved off. Curious as always for a lead on street information, Squirrel had followed the men to Third Avenue where they had stopped to talk to another street sleeper by the name of Jim. After speaking to Jim for a few moments, the three had all moved off towards the harbor district near Pelham Bay.

  Still following at a discrete distance, Squirrel had ended up outside an old, abandoned warehouse with a low murmuring noise spilling from inside that sounded like chanting. The two men along with Jim had entered the warehouse, and Squirrel climbed onto the roof of a parked car to peer through a grime-smeared window.

  Inside opened a scene from a nightmare. Arranged in a circle around a black five-pointed star–a pentagram!–stood eleven robed figures, each hooded and faceless. The two men entered the room carrying an unconscious figure between them.

  Frozen to the spot with fascination, Squirrel had looked on as they had laid the figure in the centre of the pentagram before donning their own hooded robes and taking their places around the circumference. The chanting grew more powerful, but somehow quieter at the same time. Squirrel couldn’t understand any of the language, but the words Sordarrah and Souls of Sordarrah were repeated several times. The volume dropped to almost a whisper and the windows began to shake with a force that appeared to emanate from within the circ
le.

  Squirrel caught a glimpse of the figure from between the chanting robes, writhing in silent agony within the star of power. His body somehow seemed to be caving in on itself, almost like a vacuum was sucking him down through the cement floor of the warehouse–emptying... Jim!

  After an eternity, the chanting rose in pitch so suddenly that Squirrel thought he had been spotted. Enduring a moment of panic, he regained his composure and saw that the glass in the windows now actually bulged from the frames, so much so that he wondered how they didn’t shatter with the strain.

  Returning his gaze to the inside of the room, the figures had thrown their hoods back, revealing fanatical faces now shrieking their chants into the echoing warehouse. Where Jim had lain, there remained only clothing and a mess of loose skin. It appeared everything within the man had vanished, leaving only a shapeless shell behind.

  Dark, greasy smoke began to ooze from the centre of the pentagram, and that had been the last thing Squirrel witnessed before fleeing from the warehouse in terror.

  Now the Dark Man sat at the end of his bed, forcing him to recollect the Souls of Sordarrah. The two things he feared most had converged on him, right when his booze cupboard sat empty. Squirrel wondered if his brain would explode straight away or wait a few hours before shutting down from the pressure.

  Struggling to focus bloodshot eyes, the Dark Man sitting patiently opposite him, silenced pistol cocked and aimed at his chest, Squirrel sighed and began to tell his story. He left no part out, expecting death at the end for talking such paranoid insanity to the assassin.

  At the close of the tale however, he didn’t die. The Dark Man sat in silence in the chair opposite, staring impassively into his eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Finally he appeared to come to a decision and nodded slowly.

  “Have you ever heard of a man called Priest?” the Dark Man asked calmly.

  Squirrel pondered the name and shook his head. The Dark Man nodded again and began to rise from the chair.