The Stairs and the Doorway by Eric Dodd

Our Guest Short Story comes to you from Eric Dodd. Make sure you have a warm blanket and all your doors and windows are locked before reading.

The Stairs and the Doorway
by Eric Dodd

I don't feel like I'm a nosy person. No more nosy than the next guy. I just have what my Ma would call an unhealthy amount of curiosity. I was the kid who climbed to the top of the big oak in the back yard, just to see what was in the crows' nest. I was the kid who dug a hole in the back yard so deep that I hit groundwater because I was convinced there was a cave under our house, and I wanted to see it. To see.

My folks aren't dirt poor, but they're pretty close. They're part of that missing middle of America, the people who work forty hours a week until they die, with no savings to speak of. I got my first job at a horse stable when I was fourteen. It didn't last very long. I knew I needed to get a job, because I knew we needed the money, so I bounced around for the next few years, washing dishes, waiting tables, until I graduated high school.

Pop was really tough on me about college. He never went -- nobody in his family had -- so there were a few fights about where I would go after school. It was a huge shock to me when, just after graduation, he drove me down to the Uni. He'd been classmates with the Dean and they'd come up with an arrangement where I'd get a full scholarship, provided I made good grades and worked for the University.

I never felt like a scholar. In high school, I kept my head down and did enough to get by, pulling off B's and a few C's. I wasn't interested in learning, because learning wasn't interesting. Uni was different. I took mainly core classes, math-English-history-science, but they were fascinating. For one thing, nobody cared if I showed up or not. It was entirely up to me to succeed, so I did.

In exchange for my education, I worked security and did some light maintenance duties. Maintenance was a no-brainer. I've always been handy, and most of the fix-it jobs were the type that could be solved with a liberal application of WD-40, or elbow grease, or both. Security was a different story. Security gave me super powers.

The job itself was pretty easy. I got a uniform, a badge, a flashlight, and Ma gave me some keychain mace for my birthday. No, I didn't get a gun -- they weren't allowed on campus anyway. I worked mostly nights and weekends, and doubles during long holiday breaks. I was to walk around the full campus twice in a night, checking the labs, computer center, and library. The rest of my time was pretty much my own.

There were two other guards, Jake and Al, but they worked different shifts from me. We had "overlap nights" on Wednesday nights, where we'd get together for about an hour to discuss any major events or changes. There might have been some beer at those meetings, but I'm underage, and you can't prove anything.

Jake worked mostly dayshift, and Al worked swings and some overnights during the week. Jake was a younger guy, training to be on the local police force, so he took his job pretty seriously. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure Al mostly slept during his shifts. Al was two years older than dirt, so he deserved his rest.

Remember that bit about super powers? My first night on the job, Al gave me a huge keychain with about a thousand keys on it. It weighed nearly five pounds, and was secured to my belt with a heavy-duty metal chain. “Don’t lose that keychain, kid,” Al said. “You got the keys to the kingdom right there. Any door that don’t open, you don’t want to go in it.”

My work hobby, the thing that kept me awake on those long cold winter break nights, was exploring. I made it a point, every night, to open some door that I'd never opened before. I started in the new section, where the library and computer center were, opening each room, each closet, making a map in my head of where everything was. Some nights I might explore two or three rooms. Some nights I might not have time for anything more than an odd, out of the way broom closet.


The Uni is actually a pretty large campus, for having a full student body of only twelve or thirteen hundred. It was built as a Methodist college in 1896, and became state-owned in the thirties. There were three main sections. The 'Old School' housed the Administration offices and a few unlucky classrooms —unlucky due to the lack of central heat and air, and the three-story building had no elevators. The 'Labs' were a Brutalist horror of poured concrete slabs and tiny windows, built back in the 70s when buildings that looked like Soviet radiators were in style. The "New Library" was steadily losing its "new", built in the late 90s boom, and made in that unique red-brick-and-glass style like everything else during those years.

When I think back to those early days, those days before, I think how stupid I was. How naive. I should have thought about winter. I should have thought about the solstice.

By December of my sophomore year of college, I had cleared every room in the New Library. I had opened every door, checked every closet, and had a good mental map of the whole building. It was, ultimately, pretty unimpressive. I found no buried treasure, no secret stash of missing computer supplies cached in a forgotten closet. I did find a small, sweaty stack of bad porno mags in a supply closet in the basement level. “Wicked, Wicked Cowgirls.” Who was I to judge?

December is a slow time for the Uni. After the mad rush of Finals, the campus was suddenly deserted, the remaining few staff seeming lost. The buildings stood silent, and dark, in the thin winter breezes. We had a steady series of snowstorms, but none bad enough to close the campus. I made sure the sidewalks were clear and the entryways salted, and otherwise tried to stay indoors.

Besides, I had the ‘Old School’ to explore.

The main ‘Old School’ building, Downing Hall, was a four-story V-shaped building. It had no elevators, tiny stairwells, and was only exempted from ADA compliance due to its “historical importance”. It had no air-conditioning, save for sporadic window-mount units that were only permitted to be installed on the rear of the building, so as not to spoil the building’s historic charm. The building’s heat came from a massive, ancient boiler in the basement. As far as I knew, Al was the only person who knew anything about the boiler, and he must have kept it in good shape, because I never heard of any complaints about it.

I spent the second week after Finals Week poking through the top floors of Downing Hall. I didn’t have a lot of time for exploring every night, as the snow gave me more than usual upkeep chores, but I made steady progress. I discovered a small room in the attic on the Left Wing that must have been an old Dean’s office, complete with a beautiful antique desk and wardrobe. I checked both, thinking I might find something “historic” to give to the Dean, but the wardrobe was empty save for a moth-eaten wool scarf, and the desk’s contents were limited to a few old newspapers and some tax forms from the 1950s.

A level below, on the building’s fourth floor, I found two dozen small, empty classrooms. In my handyman mindset, I checked the windows for loose glass panes, and for water or rodent damage. I fully expected to see rat-droppings, or at least some insect damage, but I found none. The second and third floors were much the same, except the rooms on the rear of the building were air-conditioned and thus actively used for classes when school was in session.

The main floor was Administration, and included the Dean’s office. I thought it wise not to snoop around in my boss’s office, or in Payroll, so I skipped a lot of these rooms. I made my way to the stairwell to the basement, used my superhero keychain, opened the heavy door and went down.

The basement of Downing Hall was different from that of the New Library. For one thing, it was a lot more cramped. The hallway was narrow, and the ceiling was low, with doorways leading off at regular intervals. I checked every room, flipping the old two-button switches to ON, using my flashlight on the dark corners. I had carried a few packs of spare light bulbs — the fancy new CFC bulbs — in my satchel, thinking to replace any that had burned out, and save the environment while I was at it. The little rooms mostly contained junk — spare desks, filing cabinets full of forty- and fifty-year-old papers, old holiday decorations, and so forth, lit by naked hanging bulbs.

I’m not an imaginative kind of guy. I guess I’m pretty smart — I’d made straight A’s in my college courses. It never occurred to me to be scared. I didn’t think, “I’m alone in a creepy old basement.” This was my place, my job, my hobby, and it all seemed so normal.

By the night of the 20th of December, I had made my way to the boiler room. The furnace was a massive monstrosity of iron and rivets, pipes and gauges. It was hellishly hot in that room, and equally loud. It was, however, neat and very clean. Al kept it that way, because he said “a clean boiler lets you get more shuteye.” The furnace had been converted from coal to gas at some point, but the soot had stained the walls of the room, and the old coal chute still opened in one of the corners.

I had no intention of giving the boiler room more than a glance — I’d been there dozens of times, and there was nothing to see, just a workbench and the furnace itself — when I noticed a small door to the back and left behind the furnace. “That’s weird,” I thought to myself. I had never seen that door before. But then again, I had never stood in that particular spot, beside the workbench, and I had never really looked.

The door was smaller than a normal door — maybe five feet tall, painted in the same non-color drab grey-brown of the walls, and was made of metal, just like the other doors in the basement. I went over to the door, and touched the handle.

I think the body knows sometimes when things are wrong. Have you ever had that feeling, like you’re being watched? When you know you’re totally alone, and nobody can see you, but you feel eyes on you? Have you ever gone left instead of right, because you got a feeling that you just shouldn’t go to the right today? It didn’t work that way for me. When I touched that doorknob, nothing felt any different. My head didn’t hurt, my neck-hairs didn’t stand up, and I didn’t hear an inner voice saying, “Don’t do it!”

The doorknob turned, but the door wouldn’t open. I looked more closely, and saw a small keyhole. I checked my magic keychain, and found three possible matches. Struck out on the first two, and the third worked, of course. Of course.

The hinges squealed like they hadn’t been used in a long time (decades.) My handyman instincts noted it. “WD-40,” I mumbled. I hauled open the door and stepped through, into another small, cramped hallway. The light switch worked, and the single bulb blew with a crack! “Dammit!” My hackles did raise then. I flicked on my flashlight, and quickly swapped out the hallway bulb with a new one. I looked around, and saw this hallway was narrow, straight, and ended a few yards away at another door.

That door opened easily, onto another stairway. “What the hell?” I said. Nobody had ever mentioned a sub-basement for this building. The hairs on the back of my neck were still standing out. I shook it off as nerves from the blown bulb, and walked to the stairwell. It was a standard stairwell, and looked pretty much the same as the others in the building. I walked to the bottom, and met another door. I pushed through it, to see another long, narrow hallway, with doors leading off to either side at regular intervals.

The first door to my left was unlocked, and opened fairly easily, onto a storage closet. There were stacks of late Sixties-era books, a few desks, and a decaying mop in its bucket. The door across from it was unlocked, but did not open so easily. I hauled the door open to find a larger room that looked to have been used as a classroom. There were desks, a blackboard, anatomical diagrams, and posters on the walls. Everything was covered in an inch of dust, and appeared to have not been touched in a long time. “Why would anyone put a classroom down here?” I mumbled to myself, “How would they even convince students to get down here in the first place?” I remember thinking, at that point, that I must have somehow discovered a back way into the other wing of the V-shaped Downing Hall. “Maybe this is where the old Science classes were held, before the Labs were built.”

I moved on to the next set of rooms. They were both classrooms, abandoned, dust-covered, and mostly empty. So were the next pair, and the next. I saw a total of twelve disused classrooms in that hallway, and a small breakroom, complete with a lonely coffee pot. I also found two small restrooms. I didn’t spend much time checking them out, as the lights didn’t work and I didn’t feel like replacing those bulbs. I found myself getting slightly nervous — I was in a strange section of the campus, and I was working alone that night. In the back of my mind I just couldn’t truly justify the existence — the waste — of a whole floor full of unused classrooms.

When I got to the end of the hallway, I met another steel door. I opened it, and saw another stairwell. I was fully expecting this stairwell to go up, to connect to one of the other main stairwells in Downing Hall. The stairs only went down.

This was the point, I remember, at which I began to get scared.

“No way. There’s no way these stairs go down. How would anybody get down here?”

“Here. Here. here,” the stairwell echoed at me.

I should have checked the time. I should have been concerned with finishing my rounds. I should have been hungry for lunch. I should have run.

I started to climb down the stairs.

This stairwell was unlit, and appeared to be much older, and in much worse condition than the others. It was also longer. Much longer. After a few minutes of walking down the steps, I began to count them. At every twelve steps, there was a small landing, a turn, and another set of steps. Down. After ten landings, I reached another door. It was unlocked, and opened easily. The hinges squealed, and the echoes died like lost things in the dark.

I groped against the left wall for a light switch, and there was none. I checked the right, and the wall was equally smooth. I cast the flashlight around, but saw nothing. Nothing forward, nothing to either side, and nothing above. I snapped my fingers, listening for the echo. I may or may not have heard one. I slowly came to realize that the room into which I had entered was enormous, cavernous, possibly the biggest room I had ever physically experienced. I shrank back to the doorway for a moment.

“This room can’t be here,” I said to myself. I started to think about going back. But I also started to think about wanting to know what was in there. I took a step forward, and another, until I was walking steadily into the room. I kept a steady pace, counting my steps. I looked over my shoulder every few yards, using the light from the open doorway to orient myself. I walked, slowly, for a hundred yards, two hundred yards, until I saw a dim glow ahead.

The glow got faintly brighter and larger as I walked toward it. Another hundred yards, and another, and three more passed until I could make out a small dim light bulb near a door.

That door was of a different type entirely. It was huge, fourteen feet tall at least, and half again as wide. The surface was black metal, studded with rivets and bolts, mounted on huge hinges. Across the face of the door, graved into the metal, were words in some strange looping script that I could not recognize. Every surface was carved with that script, or with strange diagrams made of splayed circle-ended lines. In the center of the door was a large spoked wheel lock, and in the center of the lock was a tiny keyhole. Above the keyhole was a sigil, enclosed in three circles.

I looked behind me, and could not see the light from the stairwell. I couldn’t see anything at all.

I held the Superhero Keychain to the dim light, and flipped through the keys. Of course, there was one small, battered key that looked as if it might fit. I inserted it into the lock, and turned it. I heard a click, and a thud, and a sound from within the door like pouring pebbles. Or dry teeth.

I pulled the key from the lock, and grasped the spokes of the wheel lock. My heart was racing, and sweat was dribbling into my eyes.

I turned the spokes to the left, counterclockwise —widdershins, some buried memory in my head said — and kept turning, until the wheel stopped. There was another THUD and a CRACK, and then silence.

The darkness behind me no longer felt empty. In fact, it felt positively crowded, as if I had an audience, watching me. I stepped back from the door and flashed my light around. Still nothing. Dry empty floor. I turned back to the door, grasped the large cast-iron handles, and pulled. Nothing. I tried harder, putting all of my weight into the pull, and at the last moment, at the end of my strength, I heard another CRACK! and the door groaned open on a draft of cool, stinking air.

The smell was heavy, moist, and musky. I had a flash memory of my mother taking me to the zoo as a child, and the smell of the Cat House, with the lions. At the thought of the lions, I let go of the handles and stumbled back a bit. I carefully shone my light into the yawning black crevice of the open door. I saw a short hallway that opened into a small, cramped room. I saw a filthy, rusted metal chair. I saw bones. Small bones. I saw — or heard, or smelled — a form so black it seemed to suck in the light of my flashlight. I saw a black form rushing towards me, running towards me, filling the hallway, howling and laughing and speaking, in a voice that sounded like mountains collapsing.

I remember fangs, and words that turned my bones to rusted glass. I remember feathers, and a hand with too many fingers, jeweled with something unspeakable. And the smell, the stink of something long caged.

I remember wings.

I don’t know how long I wandered in the dark, alone under hundreds of feet of rock. There was no light. There was no way to judge time. My flashlight was dead, and my cellphone, and even the small specks of luminescent paint on my cheap wristwatch were dark. There was something wrong with my right leg. It hurt, but I couldn’t see enough to find out why.

I kept hearing my audience, there in that cavernous room. I screamed at them. I felt one of them touch my face, and I threw my flashlight at it. The flashlight bounced and rattled and became still, somewhere that I was not. Something laughed, later. I raved and screamed but didn’t throw anything else.

I found the doorway after hours or days of crawling.

There were no lights in the stairwell.

After years of climbing, I crawled into that first forgotten hallway. I sliced my fingers on the crushed remains of the light bulbs I had packed in my satchel. I crawled down the hallway, and reached the next stairwell. I hauled myself up them, and finally out into the boiler room.

When I staggered out of Downing Hall, two full days after going in, it was into dim winter daylight and a full police presence.

Five people had been found dead on and around the campus. All had been brutally, savagely murdered, bodies splayed open, viscera missing. The teeth marks suggested a wild animal, but the murder scenes and body positioning also displayed a certain intelligence to them. There was also the writing, carved into the flesh when it was not yet dead meat. The cops wouldn’t talk about the writing.

The cops wouldn’t talk to me, either. Not afterwards. When they first saw me stumble out into daylight, covered in blood, they assumed I was the perpetrator. They quickly changed their assumptions when the medics pointed out the greenstick fracture, the dehydration, the concussion and the obvious shock. The cops asked a lot of questions, and I answered as best as I could. I told them about the door in the boiler room. They couldn’t find it. They showed me the bare smooth wall from where I had crawled, dazed and broken. My tracks stopped at that wall. Two cops tried breaking through the wall in that spot, only to meet old brick, and older earth past that.

The cops wanted to know where the long, black feathers came from, stuck to my clothes by dried blood. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. The cops, the medics, nobody, would look at me any more. The scars on my face, the deep, gouged-out writing, was not a sight that most would want to see. I was marked. Whatever I had let out, whatever had killed and eaten five people, and a week later six more, had marked me as a friend.

Guest Short Story: "Too Much Luck" by Nicole Zoltack

For our second guest short story, Nicole Zoltack has given us her leprechaun story, "Too Much Luck." Enjoy!

"Too Much Luck"

by Nicole Zoltack

Diana Smithson was the luckiest girl ever. Her golden hair was never out of place, the boys all fawned over her, and she didn't have to study to get straight A's. In short, she was perfect.

But being lucky didn't prevent her from tripping over a rock and rolling down a soft grassy hill.

Diana brushed the dirt from her knees and started to stand when she saw it. She laughed and plucked the four-leaf clover. She twirled it in her hands.

"Good morning, lass."

Diana almost dropped the clover as she whirled around. "Who are you?"

A tall clean-shaven man wearing red clothes approached her. His hands were stuffed into his pants. He chuckled, and his belly juggled, reminding Diana of Santa, not that she believed in the jolly old elf. "I live down that a-way," the man said, nodding toward a small nearby cottage. "What are you doin' on me land?"

Diana smiled charmingly. "I was just going for a walk." Diana's parents had finally relented, and Diana had been spending the past month studying abroad in Ireland. She would be here for a few more months yet. Bess, her roommate, had a class now, so Diana had ventured outdoors by herself.

The man glared.

She backed up slightly. "I'll be on my way now."

"No."

Diana opened her eyes wide. "Excuse me?"

"You've taken something from me, and I want it back."

"But I haven't--" Diana remembered the clover in her hand. "Fine. Here's your clover."

The man snatched it back. A green light shimmered around him, and he shortened before her eyes, and a reddish beard grew on his face.

Diana gasped. "Are you a--"

"Leprechaun?" He sighed. "Do you know how many times I've been asked that?"

"But you're so short! And your beard." Diana had never believed in magic but now she wasn't so sure. She did believe in luck though, so it only made sense that she would happen upon a creature know for it.

Diana was careful to keep her eyes on the leprechaun. She wasn't about to let him out of her sight. It hadn't rained for days, so there were no rainbows nearby. Where else could his treasure be hidden?

"I see that look in your eye," he grumbled. "I won't be tellin' you anything. Now get off me land!"

Diana hesitated. The thought of a pot of gold was tempting, almost too tempting. But she thought she remembered that leprechauns were mischievous creatures, some even belligerent. She wasn't about to find out if one could be malicious too, and this little man, though he was comical as he hopped from foot to foot, looked ready to foam at the mouth. "Fine, I'll go."

The short man narrowed his beady eyes. "Just like that."

Diana nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry if I caused you any trouble." She turned around and started back toward Bess' house.

A hand on her shoulder startled Diana. She had assumed the leprechaun would disappear as soon as she had looked away, but he stood beside her. His eyes widen, first with alarm then great delight. "You've finally returned!" he cheered.

"Excuse me? I've never been here before, I'm from America and--"

The leprechaun danced a jig, still holding onto her. "You be one of the daughters of Fortuna."

"You must be mistaken." Diana jerked her arm back. "My mom's name is Rose. I don't know any Fortuna."

"Fortuna. The goddess of fortune."

Diana rolled her eyes.

"And luck."

Diana could feel the blood drain from her face. Maybe that was why she seemed to live a charmed life, why she was always so lucky.

And maybe she hadn't fallen down that hill by accident after all.

"No." Diana shook her head. "This is all a dream. I'll wake up in my too small bed back in Bess' house any second now." Diana closed her eyes and tried to will herself awake.

She opened her eyes.

Instead of seeing the house, or even green hills for that matter, Diana saw clouds. "Where am I?" Diana called out.

"It is time, my daughter."

The voice sounded within Diana's head, but no one else was there. Not even the leprechaun.

"I just want to go home," Diana said desperately.

Diana woke up then. She rolled over and stretched. A dream. It had all been a dream. She opened her mouth to call out to Bess when she noticed something on her dresser.

A four-leaf clover.

That melodious voice she had heard in that cloud place had said it was time, but for what, Diana didn't know. Suddenly, she didn't feel so lucky after all.

Author Bio:

Nicole Zoltack is obsessed with the Middle Ages so it comes as no surprise that her first novel is about a girl who wants to be a knight. She writes fantasy/paranormal, romance, historical, horror, YA… she refused to be boxed in by genre - she might get claustrophobic! She enjoys spending her free time with her loving husband and adorable sons, riding horses, collecting swords, and going to the Pa Renaissance Faire, dressed in period garb, of course! To learn more about Nicole and her works, visit her website at www.NicoleZoltack.com or her blog at http://NicoleZoltack.blogspot.com

Guest Short Story: "The Kalengu" by Christine Rains

We at Raven and the Writing Desk have decided to invite some guests to donate a short story or blog post to the blog. Our good friend Christine Rains has given us her story "The Kalengu." Thank you, Christine, and we hope everyone enjoys it.

THE KALENGU

By Christine Rains

The sack opened and I could see nothing. Yet everything spilled out. It rolled out with such speed and intensity, the fields lit up with green growth as if a light had been switched on.

             

There were gasps all around me, but I was silent as I looked up at Cyrill who held the sack. He hadn't said a word either, but I thought I saw sadness in his dark eyes as he released the energy. I wanted to ask him why his gift didn't make him smile, but Thierry laid a hand on my arm to direct my attention to him.

            

 “Did I not say I would take care of you and yours, cherie? The whole village will have food to last them through the dry season now.”

             

There were cheers from the villagers and I could hear my mother weeping with happiness. I didn't feel that same roar of joy and it made me feel guilty. Thierry hadn't used what I provided for him to buy food for the village, but he had used the Kalengu's magic.

             

Thierry laughed his booming laugh and turned to shake hands with my father. I refused to twist my head to look in their direction. It was all I could do not to flinch when Thierry laid his arm over my slender shoulders.

             

“Did you want to stay for the celebration, cherie? There will be a pig and they'll sing songs about my generosity.”

            

 “No, we can go back to the manor.” My voice seemed lost amongst the great whoops and hoots around us.

             

He reached under and tilted my chin up so that I had to look him in the eye. “Are you sure, Olivia? It will be a long time before you see your family again.”

            

It didn't matter. They had given me to him and celebrated it. “I'm sure.”

* * *

             

The trip back to Madagascar from the mainland seemed shorter than the one that had taken us to my village in Zambia. I had only been with Thierry for a few months after one of his scouts had discovered me. It had been my first trip back to see my family and it would be my last. I'd leave them to their green fields and flimsy Christian ideals.

             

They believed he was taking me to marry and the magically grown crops had been his wedding gift to me. I was sure that Thierry had no interest in women, though, but he let them think as they wished. It was easier for us all that way.

             

The trip to the island was also the longest I had been in Cyrill's presence. I had been with Thierry a few times when the sorcerer hung back in the shadows of the room. I'd never heard him speak. I only knew that he had generous lips and eyes that were so dark they seemed obsidian.

             

He made me uneasy. He never stared or did anything improper, but I could feel my skin crawl and the little hairs stand on end. I decided it was the least I should feel with a powerful sorcerer who could feed an entire village with an empty sack.

             

I was left on my own as usual once we were back at the manor in Morondava. I might have spent my time exploring the grand house, but there were too many men about and I was a young woman with no attachments. Though, even if I had a husband, it would not deter some men. It was safer to be in my room with the door locked.

            

I had a balcony that overlooked the sea. I spent a lot of time thinking about stealing a boat and running away. My skin was pale enough to pass as white and I could hide in South Africa. I had no desire to return to Zambia and the waters to the north were full of pirates.

             

The wind whipped through my long hair as if encouraging me to take the leap and run off into the sunset. Thierry would never suspect I'd do such a thing, his meek little Olivia. There was more fire in me than I let anyone see and I wanted my freedom.

             

A knock at my door reminded me that the manor's matron, Rosine, was bringing my dinner.  She was a kind crone and always gentle with me. I heard some men talking once below my balcony that Rosine was far younger than she looked. I think perhaps he was trying to convince his friend to try his luck with the matron.

            

When I unlocked the door, it wasn't Rosine who carried in the tray, but the Kalengu. My mouth fell open and I stood stunned for a few seconds until my senses came back to me. I closed my mouth and walked in, leaving the door open.

             

Cyrill set the silver tray down. Turning, he clasped his hands behind his back and regarded me with an unreadable expression.

             

Neither of us said anything for several heartbeats. I jostled my weight from foot to foot. I had to break the silence. “Thank you for bringing me my dinner.”

            

“I brought us both dinner, if you don't mind.” His voice was deeper than a volcano's rumble. It vibrated down to my very core. “I had yet to get to know you. I do make it my practice to know all in Thierry's employ. Sit.”

            

 He pulled out one of the chairs for me. I hesitated, glancing back to the still open door, and then sat down. My hands folded onto my lap and clutched the white fabric of my dress. “You are one of his bodyguard's, yes?”

             

He nodded as he sat down across from me. “I do several things for Thierry.” His long legs looked cramped under the small table. “I am Cyrill, by the way. I do hope you like lemon chicken.”  He lifted off the lid of the tray with a graceful sweep and set it on the far side of the table.

            

“Yes, I do, thank you. My name is Olivia.”

            

“I'm aware of that.” Cyrill placed fine china plates with our meal beautifully presented in front of each of us. I never noticed how fluid his movements were, but then again, most of the time I had seen him, he was standing still.

             

I caught myself rubbing my arms and willed my hands to stop. I wet my lips and tried to think of something else to say to him. “Your accent isn't like any other I've heard.”

             

Cyrill shook out his napkin and laid it across his lap. “No, my people, though few, have their own language. I come from the hills in Cameroon far from any elegance like this place. It's lovely here, no?”

             

“It is.” I did the same with my own napkin. Although I agreed it was a beautiful place, for me, it was only a pretty prison. I wasn't about to say that out loud to one of Thierry's men, though. The only education I've had were Bible studies, but I wasn't naive.

             

We ate in silence and it made my stomach clench up so that I could barely finish half of what was on my plate. I felt that he still rumbled even when quiet. It was not a sound, but a feeling that rolled over my skin.

            

Once he was done, he patted his lips and set his napkin on the empty plate. “I'm sure you're curious as to what I did today just as I'm curious as to what you can do.”

            

I wouldn't deny my desire to know what he could do. My heart beat a little faster when he mentioned what my family had deemed “the devil's curse.” Magic was an abomination, but not the sort that healed or fed them. I almost believed it, too, when Thierry told me what I could do with my talent.

             

I looked up at him. “What was in the sack?”

             

Cyrill's mouth quirked up into a hint of a smile. “Energy. Could you not feel it?” I shook my head and he continued. “Perhaps you have not the training for it, but with the sorcerers here that Thierry has gathered, you can learn to master your talents. I am one of the Kalengu.” His chin rose up with the name. I had heard him called that by some other men, but I didn't know the word.

            

“My people were banished to the hills of Cameroon long ago for not accepting Islam. We kept the old ways and we are still strong. I can take the energy from any living thing with spirit and transfer it elsewhere. The Kalengu have the highest honor amongst my people.”

             

And individuals like me are spit upon by my people.

            

“I had taken the energy from other crops and given it to the dying crops of your village.” He paused as if waiting for a thank you. I wasn't going to give it to him.

            

“What happened to the crops you took energy from?”

           

“They died, of course.” Cyrill shrugged his shoulders. He pushed a little ways away from the table to give his long legs room before leaning back in his chair. I shivered and there was no breeze coming in from the open balcony doors.

           

“What you can do is very interesting. Most people like us have an element that is of one of the Four Primes, but not you. You, a simple girl from a small Zambian village.”

            

I felt a flare of anger in me at being called a simple girl. I bit the edge of my tongue and held it in. It was only when I let myself calm down that I glimpsed in his dark face an expression that said he didn't believe his own words. I cocked my head to the side, but it didn't help me read him any better.

            

“I've a small talent, truly. I hadn't thought it any use until Thierry directed me with it.” That much was true. It was fun to play with as a child, but once I was caught by my mother, I had to pray until my knees bled that I would be rid of the witch's curse. God would not suffer a witch, after all.

           

“Not small at all. You could be the richest girl in your country if you so willed it.” Cyrill laced his long fingers together, regarding me still with those onyx eyes.

            

“Money is not all that important.” I would live on the streets if only I had my freedom.

           

He picked up a fork and held it out to me. “Here. Let me see what you do.”

            

I didn't want to perform for him like a circus animal. I had to do as Thierry said on demand, but I was not under Cyrill's care. It also made me all the more uneasy that he wanted to see it. I shook my head.

            

“I can't do something that big. As I said, my talent is not so great.”

            

“Perhaps you need some more training to open you up to your full potential. You're young yet, Olivia.” He said my name like something sacred and I felt myself staring a little too long at him. My heart thumped so loud, I thought it had leapt out of my chest.

             

I yanked my eyes from him and reached out to pick up a silver napkin ring. “This is the average size for me.”

            

I held it cocooned within my hands and closed my eyes. I didn't really need to concentrate as much as I pretended, but it made for a better show and allowed me to say I could only do so much. I had never found my limit and I didn't plan on doing so. I called the glittering yellow to mind and felt my hands warm. It barely constituted a thought.

             

I let out a long breath and opened my hands the same time I opened my eyes. The ring was solid gold. “I can do any mineral that I know of, but Thierry, well, he likes gold.”

             

Cyrill reached out and his hand hovered over mine. “May I?” I nodded and he plucked up the ring. He examined it, even smelled it for some reason, before setting it down on the table with what I took to be an impressed expression. “You have the Midas touch.”

            

 “The what?”

            

His laughter was deep and quiet, nothing at all like Thierry's. “It's a Greek myth about a king who asked the gods to give him the gift to be able to turn anything he touched into gold. Of course, as with all gifts from the gods, it didn't work out as he had hoped.”

             

I could understand that part completely. I was also smiling. My little hairs were no longer standing on end. Perhaps I could find a sympathetic soul with Cyrill. I had no desire to learn anything more of my talent, but I assumed that he knew what it felt like to be apart from everyone else.

             

“Ah, but Thierry, yes, he would like the gold best.” Cyrill pushed back his chair and tidied up our dishes on the table, setting them on the tray. “It makes you extremely valuable to him and his vision of what he wishes to be. Just as I am valuable to him. You understand this, yes?”

             

My brows furrowed a little. I knew precisely why I was valuable to Thierry and his greedy ambitions. He already ruled the underground of a few African countries. He used not only terrorist tactics, but magical force as well. “I understand.”

             

Cyrill made a small noise and bobbed his head once as he stood up. He reached over and smoothed out the crease in my brow with the pad of his thumb. His touch was warm. He leaned in so that his mouth was by my ear and spoke in less than a whisper. “Perhaps if Thierry were deprived of your talents and mine, he would not bring such expressions to the faces of pretty girls.”

             

He gathered up the tray as he straightened himself out. He dipped his head to me. “It was a pleasure sharing dinner with you, Olivia. Perhaps we can do it again some time.”

             

I stood up, but I still had to look upwards to gaze into his eyes. “Yes, it was lovely, thank you.”

            

I escorted him to the door and we said our good nights. I locked it behind him and frowned again. What did he mean by that whisper? Was it a warning not to run off or was he letting me know that he was thinking of escaping just as I was?

            

I didn't know the man, and though I had relaxed some in his presence, I wouldn't deny that I still felt a dangerous edge to him. He was hard to read. Yet he had come to share the meal, listen to me and share with me his own story. He didn't seem to be fond of Thierry. I didn't know why he was working for him. Perhaps he had a story like mine.

            

I held on to that thought as I readied myself for bed. My fantasies of stealing a boat and escaping now included Cyrill. I felt braver even with the imagined thought of him by my side. I fell asleep and dreamed of freedom.

* * *

             

Cyrill shared a meal with me every other day for the next few weeks. I had planned on leaving sooner, but I grew to like his company. I liked to hear his laugh and listen to him talk. He was wise beyond his years and only ten years older than myself. Sometimes he seemed much older to me, but other times, he was a young man full of life complimenting me on my dimples or dress.

             

I worked for Thierry every day. He preferred to have me transform intricately worked metals into gold. The jewelry would sell for more that way rather than in block form. I made sure not to exceed the “limit” I put on myself, but I felt that I could do bigger pieces. I tried it with silverware in the privacy of my room one night and grinned at my accomplishment. I did, of course, transform it back into its original state afterward.

             

Rosine came in one morning with my breakfast after a particularly late night with Cyrill. She scowled at me and I had no idea what I had done to draw her ire.

            

“You watch yourself with that man, child. He'll do you no favors.”

             

I helped her strip my bed and fasten new sheets to it. “Cyrill has been a gentleman. I know some might think it improper for an unmarried woman to spend tim-”

            

“It has nothing to do with that.” Rosine snapped and tucked in my sheets with a fierceness I had not seen in her before. “You need to tell him to go away next time he comes. Don't be talking to him.”

            

I finished with my side and looked at her with a bit of wariness. “I don't understand. Are people gossiping about us?”

             

“People will gossip about whatever they want.” She made a dismissive gesture and came over to grasp my hands in her wrinkled ones. “Promise me you'll have no more to do with him, child.” She squeezed my hands harder and they hurt. “Promise me.”

             

I yanked my hands back with a whimper. “I promise.”

             

I had no idea why she was so fervent about it. Perhaps she didn't like Cyrill or maybe she fancied him for herself. If it wasn't for the way her eyes bore into me at the moment, I might have laughed at that latter thought.

             

Rosine nodded to herself and took my soiled sheets off to be laundered. I sat down to my breakfast alone to daydream of Cyrill and I on a boat free from Thierry's demands and overprotective matrons.

* * *

             

To my surprise, Cyrill was the one that brought me breakfast the next morning. I hadn't shared a meal with him so early in the day before. I was glad I was an early riser and was fully dressed when he knocked.

           

“I thought perhaps you would enjoy an outing today.” Cyrill sipped orange juice from a long stemmed glass. “I have some business I must do in town, but it should not take long.”

           

I was eager to get away from the manor. Thierry had taken me a few times to town, but I hadn't been allowed to wander and explore. I skipped what remained of my breakfast and sought out a pair of shoes to look nice with my dress.

             

“You might want to wear shoes that are good for walking,” Cyrill suggested and then lowered his rumbling voice. “We'll be going a long way.”

             

I froze for a few seconds. A long way? We had never discussed the things I daydreamed about, but when I looked over my shoulder at him, he gave me a single nod as if he were sharing my thoughts.  I knew he wasn't happy working for Thierry. He had talked fondly of his home and I said I would love to travel.

            

I could take his dark gaze to mean nothing else. I put on a pair of flat shoes with thick soles.  They were finely made and would last me a long time no matter if we were walking the town, through the hills or on a ship in the ocean.

             

Cyrill offered me his arm as we readied to leave the room. “You do realize, there's no turning back once we walk out this door.”

            

“I don't ever want to come back.” I replied in a soft but determined voice.

             

The Kalengu led me through the halls and it was at the front doors that we were stopped. My heart was pounding in my chest, but he was calm.

            

“Thierry wishes to see you both.” The armed guard motioned in the direction of his boss' study.

            

“Of course,” Cyrill said smoothly and did not blink an eye as he changed our direction.

            

I tried to convince myself that Thierry wanted only to remind him of his business in town.  Thierry liked things done in particular ways and would settle for nothing less. I had never seen him displeased with anyone, but I've heard the horrors the guards talked about underneath my balcony. No matter how well I had been treated, Thierry was not a kind man.

             

As we approached the study, another man was leaving. He flashed us a toothless grin and cradled a big clay pot against his body. I didn't need to hear the scuttling in it to know what he was: a Crab Sorcerer. They read people's fortunes by the tracks their crabs made in the sand in their pots.  Crab Sorcerers were common in my country and they were tolerated because many believed them to be frauds.

             

He cackled as he slipped by us and waddled off down the hall.

            

I was very aware of my sensible shoes as we entered the study. Thierry was seated behind his desk, fingers splayed across his rounded belly. Rosine stood to one side with her eyes on her feet.

           

“Close the door, Cyrill. I need to have a quick chat with our lovely girl here.” Thierry spoke in a nonchalant drawl. I thought I might faint on the spot.

             

Cyrill released my arm and walked back to close the door. The sound was loud and ominous.  He returned to take his place beside me, his hands behind his back.

            

“Olivia,” Thierry made as if to sing my name. “Do I not treat you well? Do you not have everything you could ever want here?”

             

“Yes, Thierry.” There was no other answer I could give.

            

“I'm glad that's how you feel.” Thierry leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk.  “Rosine here tells me you're quiet and clean. Both of us appreciate that. I'm sure you're concerned about an old woman doing all that cleaning by herself. But has Rosine ever told you how old she is?”

             

I shook my head and let my gaze flicker over to the matron. She hadn't looked up from the floor yet. She looked older than my grandmother. I knew it's rude to ask an elder their age, especially a woman.

           

“Go ahead, Rosine.” Thierry urged her. “Tell our sweet Olivia how old you are.”

             

Everything in the room was suddenly still.

             

Finally, Rosine let out a long breath. “I am twenty-five.”

             

There was no way I could hide my shock. The matron couldn't be that young.

            

“Ah, but it's true.” Thierry didn't smile, but I could hear it in his voice. “Now tell Olivia why your hair is gray and your skin wrinkled.”

             

This time, there was no hesitation from Rosine. She raised her head and shot a venomous glare at Cyrill. “It was him. He took my life's energy from me. He left me with only the last vestiges of it!”  She cursed in a language I didn't know and spittle flew from her lips.

             

Cyrill didn't show any reaction at all to her vicious accusation. He didn't look at me when I glanced up at him either.

            

“And tell her why your energy was taken from you?”

             

Rosine's hands balled up into fists and she shook with her anger. She managed to unclench her jaw to answer. “I tried to leave Thierry. I tried to run off.”

             

My breath caught in my throat and I made a small choking sound. The room spun around me, but I somehow kept steady on my feet.

             

Maybe Cyrill took her energy, but surely he would never do that to me. I wasn't running off on my own. We just had to get through this, convince Thierry that he had nothing to worry about, and then we could go to town to take the first boat away from here.

            

“Rosine was such a silly girl to try to run off. I was insulted. And who could blame me after showing her all the same hospitality I've been showing you, cherie?” Thierry's eyes focused on me and he smiled. It was hollow and chilled me to the bone. “Yet I'm a good man. I let her keep some of her life, but not enough so that she had the energy to run away again. You'd never run off on me, would you, Olivia? It would sadden me to have Cyrill take the life away from such a pretty girl.”

             

“Oh, no!” I squeaked. “I have a good life here.”

            

I wanted to cry. Not for Rosine, but for the realization that I didn't know Cyrill at all. Was he truly the same man who sat with me and talked long hours after our meals? Or was he a cold-hearted monster who cared not for the life he stole from others?

            

“You're very valuable to me, cherie. More so than Aristide or Rosine.” Thierry's tone carried no fond emotion. “Cyrill is like a brother to me. He and I have an understanding. He's loyal to me and I let his sister live here.” He looked pointedly to Rosine as he said so. “She's given the highest level of health care available for her frail old body.”

             

The horror of it all struck me. I felt tears in my eyes. I had thought Cyrill might be there because of some terrible thing like being blackmailed or bought as I had been. He spoke too fondly of his home to have left it willingly. Yet even if he was brought there against his will, he had committed an awful act in doing that to his sister. It was no wonder she hated him. I cringed away from him as if being near him would cause me to wither away, too.

            

That pleased Thierry and he leaned back, putting his booted feet up on the desk. “I think we're done here for the day. Go on to town and enjoy yourselves.”

           

“No.” Rosine muttered and then louder, shouted, “No!” She screamed and ran at her brother with a knife she pulled out of her apron. Her eyes were overflowing with madness.

            

Cyrill held up a hand and she made it within a foot of him before she crumpled to the floor.  Her already wrinkled flesh dried further and crinkled like paper. Her last breath was a shuddering rasp as the knife slid from her hand.

             

I took a few shaky steps backward, afraid I might faint and land on her body.

            

“How unfortunate.” Thierry stood up and came around his desk. He laid a gun on the top. I hadn't seen him pull it out. “The poor thing was getting more unstable these days, though. It seems as though your magic, mon ami, takes more from the mind than the body even.”

            

“I always thought it was the soul that suffered most.” Cyrill said. He was still holding up his hand.

             

“Mayhap it is,” Thierry replied in a thoughtful tone, but it masked the true intentions as his hand whipped out like a striking cobra to grab my arm. He yanked me to him and pressed the gun to my temple. Beads of sweat trickled down the sides of my face and I went absolutely still.

            

“Put your hands behind your back, mon ami. It seems you and I will have to renegotiate your terms of service.”

             

Cyrill's cheek twitched. He held his big hands out at his sides. “The girl has nothing to do with this. Let her go.”

             

“No, I think not. The girl has everything to do with this.” Thierry caressed my forearm with his free hand. “Do you know what Aristide and his crab told me this morning?”

             

“Some nonsense about your future.” Cyrill shrugged. No matter his calm words, he seemed to me like a tightly coiled spring.

             

“No, mon ami. Aristide told me of your plan to run off with this pretty girl. Maybe you like her company or maybe you like her special touch, hm?” Thierry pressed the muzzle harder against my head. “She's mine, Cyrill.”

             

I winced and instinctively raised my hand up to touch the gun. I was not stupid enough to try to yank free or move it. I didn't doubt for a second that Thierry would kill me. My hand trembled on the gun and my eyes met Cyrill's.

             

“Her company is fine and her face fair, but yes, it's her special touch.” The Kalengu drew out those last two words.

             

I almost shouted out with the realization of what he wanted me to do. I made sure to hold still as I changed the gun into gold. Thierry wouldn't know I could do something so large. All the metal, including the bullets and gun powder, was transformed. Cyrill was so good that I didn't even see the yellow reflected in his eyes.

             

Thierry laughed and his body shook mine. “I knew you were more like me than you liked to admit. Perhaps if you serve me well, I can lend her to you for whatever reason you may want her.”

             

“She's mine.” Cyrill growled and both his hands came up.

             

Thierry pulled the trigger and I cried out, but there was no explosion. He made a choked noise of surprise and then threw me to the side as he tried to tackle Cyrill. Thierry did not make it three feet before he fell to his knees, a withered old man.

             

“Cyrill,” he croaked. He tried to pick himself up, but didn't have the strength.

             

Cyrill reached over to grab my hand and pull me to him as he backed up to the door. “As you made me take my sister's energy, I have stolen yours. I left you with perhaps a week's worth of life and that is a mercy. I never wanted to be a murderer, but you have soiled my hands. I can redeem myself, but there will not be enough time for you.”

             

Thierry attempted to call out again, but his throat convulsed and he fell over. I gripped Cyrill's arm and gazed up at him. “He'll have us hunted down.”

            

“No. He'll try to find some way to live, but he will die.”

             

“Why don't you,” I swallowed hard. “Kill him now?”

             

Cyrill reached up and caressed my cheek. He bent forward and kissed the spot on my temple where the gun had left an indentation. “He has no soul for me to steal.”

             

I wasn't sure if he meant that literally or figuratively, but we were fast down the hall and out the front doors. There wasn't another chance for me to say anything more. As we walked to the car, I decided there wasn't anything left to be said about it. Cyrill smiled and opened the car door for me. I smiled the whole drive into town and paid our way on a ship with gold coins I made from copper.

Author Bio: Christine Rains is a geek, stay-at-home mom and writer. When she's not playing games with her son, she's playing games with her friends. She has four degrees which do not help at all with motherhood, but all that knowledge makes her a great Jeopardy player.

Christine has two novels published, ten short stories and one forthcoming. Her writing covers all genres of dark fiction, but she loves to lose herself in urban fantasy worlds most of all. Please visit her web site at http://christinerains.net/.