Soultrapped

By Andrew Stockwell

In London, 1940, as the German Blitzkrieg rains destruction down in London, a bomb drops and destroys the makeshift laboratory of an aged sorcerer/scientist who calls himself Malcolm Schreck. In desperation, Schreck travels to the estate of a minor English lord with a tawdry interest in the occult. There, instead of knowledge, Schreck brings only danger and misery to both the lord and the common English pimp in his employ, Arthur Drake.

Taking an unusual interest in Drake, Schreck follows the pair as they make their escape to America. In a small Michigan town, fifty years later, both Malcolm Schreck and Arthur Drake will discover the true nature of evil and the terrifying price of immortality. With only two wildly disparate young men to aid them, Schreck and Drake resume their battle, and a new version of hell rises up in the quiet Midwest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543434958

Andrew Stockwell

Andrew Stockwell was born and raised in Michigan, where he has enjoyed a long career as a Surgical RN. In his spare hours, he enjoys spending time with his family and friends, reading great fiction and history, and watching old movies on TCM. Currently, he is working on the prequel to his debut novel Soultrapped, his first published work of fiction.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Drew Stockwell.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017910494

ISBN:      Hardcover         978-1-5434-3497-2

                Softcover          978-1-5434-3496-5

                eBook               978-1-5434-3495-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/17/2017

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Acknowledgements

To my father, Ronald, and my grandfather, John.

Still missed. Still with me.

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Chapter 1

There are many evils that can be laid at the feet of Adolf Hitler. So many, in fact, that at his final judgment, it was likely that he soon became inured to his own atrocities, both personal and directed, and merely wished to get on to his final destination rather than endure the recounting. If Hell were to be merely boring, he would have sooner entertained Russian soldiers than have swallowed his pistol and bit down on the cyanide tablet. After all, many of these acts he had done with much pride. They were done in service to the German people. Was it his own fault they had proven too weak to be worthy of him and so doomed him to this eternal fate? Such thoughts may have crossed his mind if ever he was given the opportunity to offer them as a defense.

And yet among these sins, still, the other evils he had unleashed had possibly escaped his notice. The summary being total, the Fuhrer may have heard a number for which he could not account. One such instance, for example, came after he failed to bring the Royal Air Force (RAF) down during what became known as the Battle of Britain. Hitler, in a common bout of bilious rage, ordered a bombing campaign against the civilian population of London. If he could not force the island’s military to yield through superior strength, he would do so on the backs of their people. Such suffering would cause the Brits to bend the knee on the grounds of humanity’s sake.

The bombing began on September 7, 1940. Luftwaffe bombers dropped their payloads onto the city and its outskirts day and night for a grand total of fifty-seven days. This, of course, was a terrible evil in and of itself—the destruction incalculable, the terror insurmountable—or so the Fuhrer hoped. The noble isle, under the leadership of the squat English bulldog, Churchill, again failed to bow. In fact, Britain gave as good as it got, returning the favor with its own bombing raids in Berlin. But back in England, as the British fire brigades sifted through the rubble and the sirens signaling the coming storms wailed into the night sky, something crawled out from under the cement and ash.

It was old, much older than its bent and black-garbed form appeared. It shielded itself well in the darkness from distracted and inattentive eyes, flickering in and out of sight in the raging flames. It tilted its head toward the sky and cursed the Fuhrer for his boorishness, for destroying the obscure and secluded warehouse that it had used, uninterrupted until then, to accomplish some fine work and study. Its second, a hulking brute, bald, and silent, clothed in a tattered brown suit, gathered up what supplies could be salvaged and loaded the boxes onto a dark horse-drawn carriage. The pair headed north, where the Luftwaffe bombers could not reach for lack of fuel. The carriage, draped in black, was pulled by two steady horses, their coats a striking shade of luminous gray. The brute took the reins as the wiry man in dark Victorian garb many years out of date climbed into the back of the carriage. With a grunt and snap of leather straps, the hooves sounded their way slowly through the rubble.

This was the evil Hitler unwittingly released. He hadn’t created it, nor could he have created it. This evil existed long before he had ever drawn breath. But it was the Fuhrer who had drove it underground to England. Once again, the price of even the briefest of contact with humanity, and that, in the low form of Adolf Hitler, was a heavy burden for the old sorcerer. For the Fuhrer, the pursuit itself had likely been ordered and forgotten, along with many other casual dismissals of consequence. With this minor act, among his many other greater and well-known monstrosities, Hitler had created the impetus for an ill-fated alliance, one that he would be far too long dead to suffer the result of birthing but, nonetheless, one for which he could be held accountable.

This was, of course, of no importance to the pale, thin creature riding silently in the black carriage. He turned his black speck eyes down at an old and tattered leather-bound book as the sound of the hooves softened from the paved roads of the city to the cobblestoned and beaten paths of the English countryside. The book was plain and silent in his lap, yet it was filled with an old, forgotten language. The knowledge in this tome made it a prized possession for its owner, and he ran a long and withered hand across weathered pages, looking for a passage he was sure existed but had yet to find.

The bombings had doubtless created new circumstances, circumstances that required a sacrifice to his solitude yet again, and that fact did vex him. But he was in possession of certain talents for which payment could be implied to the right purchaser. And so north then, he resigned himself, to the estate of a minor lord. There, his needs could be accommodated for the present. It was only that he would have to prostrate himself before lesser characters that made his old guts roil. But it must be so that the final work could be accomplished. He closed the book and sat back and gave a silent, wordless command to Mr. Warren, his loyal servant, an unspoken desire to make the journey last a while longer than the distance demanded.

Thankfully, at the pace of the horses, the journey did take an excess of time. Dawn would come before they arrived, and Malcolm Schreck, as he had taken to calling himself for some while now, had little tolerance for daylight. It was not harmful, truly, merely unpleasant. His natural constitution took sustenance in the dark of evening, which came early and lasted long in the recent weeks of Hitler’s bombing campaign. It was provident then that Schreck and Mr. Warren found themselves deep in the woods, where the full complement of trees and low valleys shaded them from the blight of the overcast English sky. They chose such a place to rest the horses and for their own comfort.

Schreck had weeks before posted a letter in his own flourished hand as a reply to Lord Vaughn, as the gentleman still wished to be addressed despite the weakening of such titles in recent years, in case some event as the destruction of his current residence should happen to force a meeting of similarly interested agents. And Lord Vaughn had indicated in his own correspondence that he was such a similarly interested agent, though to what capacity Schreck hesitated to contemplate. Most men, Herr Hitler included, had not the experience or the fortitude to choose the path Schreck had long walked. Again, no matter, he told himself. The situation tasked it to be so. This was perhaps an avoidable nuisance for Schreck, yet it was also a rather obvious means to which he could be supplied with enough comfort to complete his work.

The response from Vaughn petitioning Schreck for such a meeting came quickly enough, considering the catastrophic interruptions overhead and the secretive manner of its passage. Schreck hoped the lapse in time since it arrived had not caused the invitation to be invalidated. As the day approached, he watched as Warren gathered woods and built the fire to heat water and some meats they had retrieved—an old routine, perfected in an old quarter of an old country, now utilized once again as Schreck set his mind to a much-needed rest. A damp fog had settled on the rising field as he again climbed into the back of the carriage to let the day pass quietly, the commotion of the heavy ordinance well behind them.

As dusk fell again, the two resumed the trek and not long after returned to a cobblestoned roadway that led to the estate. Gently, Warren charged the horses to lumber forward as the formidable walls of the main building began to loom before him. Large oaks guarded and obscured the structure, but before long, glass windows and chiseled stone faced them in the drive as electric lamplights flickered behind heavy curtains. Motor vehicles—large bulbous steel structures with rounded hoods and shiny chrome bumpers—were parked in a gravel lot to the right of the building. Warren ignored them as he passed. Such machines held as much interest for him as they did his master. They were of the new time. The smell of horseflesh and the rhythmic beating of hooves were all that he cared to acknowledge. He pulled the reins to halt the beasts at the stoned arch leading to the main door.

Here, Warren blurted out, his voice thick with the fact that it was so infrequently employed.

Schreck sighed in the back of the coach. His eyes closed under their heavy lids and dark brows as if to gather what strength as he may for a final exertion.

Yes was his only response as his gangly legs and buckled shoes swung to the open door. He exited to stand next to Warren, who dutifully held the door open like a proper manservant. Schreck rubbed his hands together as he looked up and around, surveying the mansion and the gray clouds that passed above its sharp peaks. He turned to Warren, who, in expectation, had Schreck’s black beaver hat already in his hands. Schreck took the hat in his long fingers and nodded his approval.

Stay close, Mr. Warren, he said in a velvet Eastern European accent. He donned the great chapeau, adding a full foot to his slender frame. I am not at all certain how we will be received. Schreck’s acknowledgment of this was merely admittance of the pair’s unusual appearance and of their reluctance in accepting the company of other men. Warren grunted his assent of this fact and reached back into the carriage for Schreck’s great leather bag. It was filled with as much of his supplies as its ample depth could receive. It also contained the old and heavy leather-bound book Schreck had been perusing during the journey. An average man would have strained to carry its weight. Warren took the curved wooden handles in one great fist and hefted it with little perceivable effort. At this moment, an older man with gray hair appeared in a traditional butler’s attire, a starched white bow tie covering his thin throat.

Sir, the butler said blankly as his eyes focused on Schreck, your carriage was spotted coming up the drive by a stable hand. May I state to Lord Vaughn who calls?

You may, Schreck replied. Malcolm Schreck. I believe your master is expecting me, although I gave no firm date for my arrival.

Of course, sir, replied the butler. We’ve had numerous visitors since the bombing began, though, I must say, you are the first to arrive by horse-drawn carriage. London must be pure hell.

Schreck stared coldly back at the man, studying his face with dark pinpoint eyes. Warren shadowed him close behind. He too showed an impassivity that unsettled the manservant. In this grand estate, sir, what could you know of London or Hell? Schreck asked.

The manservant ruffled a bit but composed himself quickly. Quite, sir, he said. I will inform Lord Vaughn of your arrival. Shall I have a boy take your carriage to the stable?

I prefer the carriage remain where it is.

May I take your coats then? The butler made as if to assist Schreck out of his garment. Schreck’s look hardened even more profoundly. As you wish, sir, the butler said as he drew his hand away from the strange man. If you’d like to sit for a moment, I will return presently.

Schreck nodded. This was as he expected. It was why he had deliberately avoided such encounters. Warren was all the personage Schreck found necessary. Should supplies be needed, Warren had little trouble in acquiring them, either through stealth or force, if needed be. And London, even with the blitzkrieg falling around them, had been an ample supplier of materials. Truth be told, the bombings had made foraging much simpler. A large haggard man groping through rubble was not as odd a sight as it may have been previously. Warren had even procured more sentient subjects whose disappearance could be accounted to burning buildings and fallen arches. But one of those damnable weapons had dropped too close, and now Malcolm Schreck was forced to solicit another to assuage his needs. Again, he cursed the Fuhrer. Damn that little fool.

Schreck squinted against the glare of the small room’s lights. A slight moment of thought and a gesture of his left hand took the liberty of dimming them to a more acceptable level. His skin was taught over the bony prominences of his pale cheeks and jutting nose. His dark hair matted against his skull from the weight of his hat. Many years under the shroud of darkness had totaled this effect. He was not an attractive man; he knew. And harsh light only made this more evident. He recognized it as a weakness. Men shied as much from him because of it. It made such occasions where he was forced to be in their company a very anxious time.

Eventually, the butler, James, returned. If he took notice of the newly darkened atmosphere or the fact that the man he had greeted at the door had sunken into the shadows, he gave no sign of it.

This way, gentlemen, he said, turning back down the hall. Schreck took note of floral arrangements that sat on small tables every forty feet or so as they wound left and right toward a set of steps leading down from the main floor. Roses and chrysanthemums brightened the hallway as they turned the first corner, and new lights from crystal chandeliers shone down upon him as he passed under. A woman’s influence was present, no doubt. It was yet another assault on his senses, keen as they were to this new ambience. Warren bent over for a large snort of the flowers as his heavy steps went by. An absentminded smile cracked the large moon face, only to drop suddenly as his master turned to look at him. Then after descending a wide set of carpeted steps and turning right down yet another hallway, in the middle of the final wall, a great black curtain hung ominously from the ceiling. A large gold rod and holder suspended it from the wall. From behind the curtain, music could be heard, and voices with some jolts of laughter mingled in the din.

James turned to them and said, A moment, sir, while I announce your arrival. The servant drew the heavy curtains to either side and opened one dark-brown rectangular door. Schreck bent slightly to peer into the room, but the butler’s narrow back obscured his view. The murmuring in the room quieted to acknowledge James’s presence.

James stepped forward and drew his right arm back to beckon the visitors into the room. Mr. Malcolm Schreck and associate, he said formally. Schreck instinctively took his cue and walked slowly into the opening to stand just beside James’s outstretched arm. He removed his tall beaver hat and placed it against his chest as he bent his bony hips forward in a quick jerk of a bow. He took an exceptional amount of time to survey the room. Ten to twelve men stood about the back of the candlelit space, smoking cigars and cigarettes in their dark formal wear. One, a rather large rotund man, around fifty years old, with a brown handlebar mustache and a heavy gold band around the third finger of his left hand, stepped forward.

Mr. Schreck? the man offered dubiously. This was the lord of the manor, Brendan Vaughn. He took a puff from his fat cigar and, with his left hand, removed it from his hair-hidden lips. Vaughn studied the figure of Schreck for a moment, attempting to reconcile the man before him with the image he had formed in his mind of a fellow occultist. His German friends had, before the unfortunate hostilities, made some mention of Schreck’s adherence to the theatrical, but they had not painted quite the full picture. Vaughn held out his right hand to Schreck as he approached the man. Schreck grimaced slightly and demurred from his grasp.

I do not wish to express discourtesy, sir, Schreck said, but I am not one who regards that custom as a necessary function of greeting.

The large man looked back toward his companions. He returned his gaze toward Schreck, looking him up and down a moment, and said, No matter. I’m happy to make your acquaintance finally, Mr. Schreck. I am Brendan Vaughn, lord of the house, and these fine fellows you see before you are part of the group I mentioned in my letter, the Black Orchid Society.

Schreck nodded his head and pressed his lips together in something of a smile. Gentlemen, he said as his survey of the room took scant notice of them. Instead, his dark eyes had focused sharply on the many female forms who were gathered about among the sofas and the bar tables. About half again the number of the men, they were all elegantly dressed and seemed to glow like angels in the darkness. But as Malcolm Schreck eyed them sternly, they grew noticeably flustered. They closed in together to form a larger group, all averting their eyes from his gaze. Warren took a step forward. Schreck thrust a hand back to halt him and inhaled sharply.

You have women in this society of yours, Lord Vaughn? he asked curtly. Your letter made no mention of women.

At that, another gentleman came forward. He was roughly of the same height as Schreck and thin with rather striking features for a man, although age had begun to diminish them. Light-brown hair swept back off a smooth forehead, and when he spoke, it was with the air of an educated English aristocrat.

The ladies are under my care, Mr. Schreck, he said. The man kept his hands firmly in the pockets of his dining jacket. Arthur Drake, at your service.

Schreck looked the man over. Under your care, he repeated, emphasizing each word short, cutting them off like a carrot on a cutting board. May I presume then that they follow your commands?

Commands? the man said quizzically. I don’t co—

Mr. Drake! Schreck interrupted sharply. He was becoming irritated. They serve some function here, no? You say they are under your care? Then they do as you tell them, yes?

Arthur Drake’s eyes narrowed. His right hand drew the impression of a fist in its pocket.

Schreck looked directly into Drake’s face for a long moment. Then Malcolm Schreck’s features softened, if it could be described as such. He let out a slight chuckle. That is not necessary, Mr. Drake, he said. Please forgive my ill manners. It is just … I would prefer the females not be present … for the demonstration I have planned. You see, I find them … a distraction. I am not practiced in such company. I fear it would affect my performance. I meant no disrespect to you or … your charges.

Drake seemed to consider this a moment and then took a quick glance in Lord Vaughn’s direction.

As you wish, Mr. Schreck, he replied as Brendan Vaughn stood, somewhat transfixed between them. Ladies, Arthur called out, still returning Schreck’s gaze, I must agree with our new guest. You are a distraction, a very pleasant one, but still … Drake turned toward the women, who seemed, as a group, to be relieved at the coming request. If you wouldn’t mind retiring to your rooms, he continued. I’ll be with you presently.

The women, all to a one, to Arthur’s unspoken pride, did not rush out of the back doorway to escape but, with orderly steps, left the smoke-filled room to the men, who stood at some distance from the visitors with their own looks of discomfort and unease. It would seem that they too had not expected an arrival quite like the one Malcolm Schreck and his hulking companion presented.

After the women had left, Schreck stepped toward Arthur Drake with a wry smile on his face, which Arthur found unnerving. I see they are under your care, Mr. Drake. You handle them well. And I must say the blade you carry just there—Schreck’s eyes went to the pocket of Drake’s jacket—is a display of wisdom I gather the rest of your … society is none too familiar. Again, I assure you it will not be necessary.

Brendan Vaughn stepped forward at this instant. I believe some demonstration was mentioned, Mr. Schreck. Since you’ve deprived us of our distractions, perhaps we may see what you have to offer.

Quite, Schreck responded. A table …, a small table is all I will require. He gestured toward Warren, who then lifted the bag as a table was set beneath it. Warren then silently stepped back away from it as Drake and Vaughn rejoined the rest of the Black Orchid Society among the living area.

Schreck looked at them all once again with what could only be described as bemusement. Gentlemen, he said, it has been made known to me that the Black Orchid Society is a gathering of men of standing here in England. It has also been reported that you have an interest in darker knowledge than perhaps your more formal education has prepared you to receive. Such work has been my entire life. I carry the scars of it throughout my journey in this world and the other.

With that, Malcolm Schreck reached into his large leather bag and removed the ancient heavy book from the opening. It fell loudly to the tabletop, and his long fingers gripped the edge and slithered down the pages to splay it open. Here, he said ominously, is where it begins.

Schreck’s voice, which had seemed low with an undefined European quality, now took on a deeper resonance. At times, it sounded Germanic and then, without warning, a guttural Latin. But it was a dark language none of the men in that room had heard before. It was a rather frightening sound to their ears. A couple of them took the nearest seat as if an illness had suddenly overtaken them, but everyone in the room was affected. Vaughn, Drake, even Warren, who had no doubt seen and heard such things before, stepped back with his eyes widened in expectation.

Suddenly, at the end of one of these unrecognizable phrases, Malcolm Schreck coughed forward a bluish-gray smoke from his throat. It fell forward with a thickness that threatened to encompass his entire form and began to emanate from the ends of his sleeves. He aged in that moment; his hair whitened, and bluish veins drew out on his marble face like a city map.

My god, Brendan! someone rang out. You’ve invited Spring-heeled Jack into the house! Spring-heeled Jack was the English boogeyman whom legend told accosted weary travelers in the dead of night. Jack had been known to belch blue smoke out of his mouth before he attacked. He had long been in danger of fading into obscurity in the modern twentieth-century world. Rarely was he used as a warning to small children to mind their manners and heed their elders. Malcolm Schreck brought all those forgotten childhood fears charging back with a sudden ferocity to the men in that room. They were perhaps the last generation of men to have heard this legend. The men of the Black Orchid Society, a ragtag group who fancied themselves modern-day practitioners of the occult, now made acutely aware that their real knowledge ended at the limits of their own feeble imaginations and even feebler theatrics.

But the demonstration was far from over. As the smoke grew in thickness, an electrical pulse emanated from it, and in its obscurity, a form began to take shape. In that heavy plume, a thing of some unknown origin appeared. It slithered at first with an unthinking purpose, for it, as yet, had no recognizable features. It was merely a cylinder of bumps and boils, which then bulged out slowly and singularly with huge effort. Great muscled legs then formed out of the cylindrical torso. A head and neck also birthed out from that grotesque body, and the face that appeared was a mush of teeth and eyes. It screamed out in either rage or pain a wordless fury but remained where it presented, head turning back and forth, teeth and maw jutting forward. The room itself seemed to shake in thunderous appeal of the beast’s presence. And then slowly, the thing turned its myriad of eyes toward Schreck’s audience. Someone there screamed in pitiful fright as the demon seemed to take a step out of its smoky cage and move toward them. Schreck may have called this creature from hell’s domain itself, but did he have control of it? Had he brought the beast here to this room or rather them to the beast? If unleashed upon them, what defense would they have? These men craved sin of a different sort; evil was a game to be played for a lark. Here was no lark. Here was evil in its basest form, and the puppeteer, if that was what he was, seemed oblivious to the danger. The room was now dark, and the doors of the hall seemed miles away and blocked from access.

As if suddenly aware of the rising terror of the occupants of the room, Schreck fell forward, clamping down heavily on the open book as the beast turned its eyes toward him, its intent toward its keeper pure and entirely malicious. It had laid eyes on its first victim.

Schreck’s upper torso suddenly collapsed on the book, and in that act, the smoke seemed to retreat upon itself as rapidly as it had been conjured. The beast then disappeared with it but not without echoing shrieks of rage. There was a stunned silence, except for a soft whimper from one of the members of the Black Orchid Society.

Schreck looked up, sweating profusely. If his age had been unaccountable before the demonstration, he now seemed as old as Methuselah; his hair frayed and gone white; his skin pale, dry, and wrinkled. It was a visage, only slightly less frightening than the one it had replaced. Schreck heaved breath after breath until finally, he calmed.

Arthur Drake looked toward Vaughn with a look of white shock. Brendan Vaughn returned the look and slowly began clapping his hands together. The other men unenthusiastically joined him.

Remarkable! Vaughn exclaimed. Simply remarkable, I must say! Bravo, sir! Bravo!

Schreck stood weakly, smoothed himself down his front, and stepped out from behind the table toward the group. Arthur Drake noticed that his face was ever so subtly returning to its former state, and his hair was also darkening as he approached. Whatever pains Schreck had gone through for his demonstration, they didn’t appear to have a long-lasting effect. Still, Schreck seemed somewhat winded, and he kept a few steps between himself and the group. Mr. Warren instinctively drew near him as Brendan Vaughn began to regain his own composure.

Wondrous! he bellowed. You must share with us these secrets you possess!

Schreck grimaced. This is a knowledge for which most men have no capacity, Lord Vaughn, he said haltingly. And I am, unfortunately, not well suited to the role of instructor.

Vaughn’s gaze took a downward turn at this like a child being told he was not worthy of a promised gift. In response, Schreck smiled as best he could. Although there are certain areas which I would be most pleased to pass on to a distinguished student such as yourself and your, um, colleagues.

Excellent! Vaughn returned. Now then, Master Schreck, you look as though you might profit from a drink. What is your pleasure?

Water only, if I may. I never drink, sir. And a glass for my servant, if it is not inconvenient.

Vaughn pulled a tasseled rope that hung nearby, and shortly, the butler, James, reappeared. Take Mr. Schreck and his assistant to the study, James, he said loudly, and give them each a tall glass of water. He turned toward Schreck. Mr. Schreck, if you don’t mind, our little group has a new discussion on the table. Would you excuse us while you refresh yourselves?

Malcolm Schreck bowed curtly, motioned for Warren, and followed James out of the dark room into the hallway. As the door closed behind him, Vaughn stared at the empty space Schreck had just occupied. The recent memory of what had occurred there seemed to affect him more now that Schreck was gone. It assaulted his senses and the senses of all the men there. Vaughn attempted to light his cigar, his hands visibly shaking. Arthur saw his struggle and steadied them.

My thanks, old man, Vaughn said. Did you see that?! He was almost giddy with excitement, faltering between the emotions of fear and wonder. This man, Schreck, was truly a conduit to the unknown. Following his path could lead to great power.

Arthur took a drink of bourbon. Yes, he replied. There was not much more he could add under the circumstance. He had seen illusionists and magicians before, traveling the circuits, both high end and low, to give a crowd of people a quick thrill. He knew the illusions as tricks and had never been fooled into thinking them any more than a clever use of distractions that caused a moment of inattentiveness so the illusion could work its will on the audience. This display of Schreck’s, however, was quite different. Did the smoke hide some projection? Could it have been produced from a sleeve or from the end of his trousers? It had just suddenly billowed out of him. Was the huge idiot somehow a part of it? Did he control the projection from where he stood back in the room? It didn’t seem that he had, yet Arthur and presumably the rest of the men had not paid attention to him once Schreck began speaking in that strange tongue. But most of all, the question that held the most weight for Arthur was how and why did the illusion, if that was what it was, take such a toll on Schreck?

The other men gathered around at the bar, all seeming to have some nervous sense