Darkness of the Soul (16 page)

You’ve
been
at
this
for
too
long.
Jumping
at
shadows.
She’s
just
a
girl.
The
name’s
a
coincidence.
If
it
was
Sheila,
she’d
have
tried
to
knife
you
already.
There was logic to that, but it didn’t help Damien any in solving his immediate problem.

Brokov’s voice, thick with sleep, passed through from the bedroom and into the tiny living room. “Damien? You still here?”

He passed smoke through his lips and answered her. “Yeah, still here. Just needed a smoke.”

The response that came back was just a series of “zzt” sounds, though with a faint tone of contentment. Apparently, not many of the men she brought home bothered to stick around.

He snuffed the cigarette, glancing up through the thick haze of smoke that surrounded him, squinting to see the glare of the clock’s display on the tiny VCR that sat atop Brokov’s tiny TV—apparently, space and size were big issues for her, since everything he’d seen so far looked like it had been made in miniature, except for the California king-sized bed. He tried to guess how long he’d been sitting out there. When he realized his eyes weren’t deceiving him and it actually
did
say 4:30
am
, he slapped his hand to his forehead and groaned. He hated when he lost time like that, and it was getting more and more common these days. He figured one of these times, he just wouldn’t come back at all.

The harsh splat of his hand hitting his forehead was apparently louder than he’d counted on, since more of Brokov’s sleep talk floated into the room.

“Coming,” he muttered, as he stumbled back into the bedroom and pulled the cool satin sheet over himself. Brokov rolled, laying her arm across his chest and smiling. He was picking up snippets of her feelings, like an untuned radio getting random samplings from high-power transmitters. He tried not to snoop deliberately, unless he had to, but what he was getting was harmless enough, just contentment and the simple pleasure of having a warm body next to her and flickers of what they’d been up to earlier.

Again, he was struck by the normalcy of the situation, just slipping back into bed after a smoke, trying to keep warm until daylight forced them out of the comfort of bed and into the harsh real world.

So thinking, he drifted back into sleep, and for once, it was mercifully dreamless.

Chapter
12
 

5:30 am, September 24, 1988

The
sun
is
coming
to
greet
the
citizens
of
Somakli,
and
while
most
welcome
the
reprieve
against
the
darkness,
one
young
woman
greets
the
daylight
with
sobs
rather
than
a
smile.

She
has
been
weeping
for
seven
hours
and
twenty-three
minutes,
by
Karesh’s
counting,
and
will
likely
continue
to
do
such
for
some
time.
The
stains
of
blood
all
over
her
naked
body
might
make
one
question
the
truth
of
her
grief,
however,
as
would
the
torn
body
that
lies
at
her
feet.
Karesh
has
watched
her
cry,
counted
the
minutes
and
the
slow
drip
of
her
tears
onto
her
husband’s
corpse,
studying
all
of
it
so
that
he
can
recount
it
to
his
master
later.

The
fact
that
she
is
the
one
who
killed
her
groom
and
feasted
on
his
flesh
as
though
it
was
a
finely
prepared
dinner
only
adds
to
the
amusement
felt
by
the
nascent
Warden.

“Come,
my
love.
Tell
me
again
what
he
tasted
like,”
Karesh
says
in
the
whispers
of
a
lover,
a
priest,
a
confidant.
“Tell
me
of
the
texture
of
his
sinew.”

Salia
looks
up
from
the
remains
of
her
husband,
a
twist
of
muscle
dangling
from
her
lower
lip
and
scrunches
her
face
in
an
approximation
of
a
smile.
“Like
the
cinnamon
sticks
they
gave
us
as
children.
Sweet
and
bitterness
together,
and
so
crunchy
 
.
 
.
 
.”
Her
face
twitches
again,
the
harlequin
corners
of
her
mouth
jerking
upward
in
a
macabre
grin
for
a
moment
before
dropping
again.

Karesh
nods,
advances
toward
her,
and
puts
his
hand
out
as
one
might
do
to
a
dog
with
an
unknown
temperament.
His
mind
flicks
out,
lapping
at
the
taste
of
her
soul,
drinking
deep
at
the
well
of
the
emotions
he’d
cultivated
in
her,
the
jealousy,
fear,
and
rage
that
he
had
stoked
to
a
fever
pitch
and
used
to
bring
her
to
this
point.
He
prints
the
flavor
into
his
own
spirit
so
that
the
talu`shar
might
enjoy
the
leftovers
later.
While
Salia
scrubs
her
face
into
his
hand,
thinking
that
the
smile
on
his
face
is
in
approval
of
her
actions,
Karesh
considers
the
scent
of
her
tears
and
how
much
acclaim
his
master
might
award
him
if
he
continues
to
bring
him
treats
such
as
this
one.

She
had
started
as
a
simple
experiment,
a
mere
flexing
of
his
psychic
muscles.
Even
before
he
had
taken
the
talu`shar
and
become
its
Warden,
he
had
been
capable
of
nudging
an
individual’s
emotions
in
the
direction
he
desired.
Stoking
a
momentary
irritation
into
a
raging
fire
that
would
consume
both
the
individual
and
the
target
of
the
person’s
ire
had
often
been
a
favored
game,
but
he
had
tired
quickly
of
such
simple
prey
and
had
moved
on
to
setting
more
complex
events
in
motion.
Salia
had
been
his
triumph.
Sexual
repression,
self-loathing,
religious
devotion
mixed
with
hatred
of
the
duties
required
of
her,
these
were
the
tools
he
had
been
given
to
work
with.

With
her
wedding
day
nearing,
Karesh
had
set
to
twisting
these
feelings,
binding
them
one
upon
the
other,
into
a
fierce
mental
knot.
That
task
accomplished,
it
had
been
simple
to
provide
the
blade
with
which
to
cut
it.
Violate
religious
taboo,
make
oneself
an
outcast
and
a
monster,
and
do
it
in
a
moment
that
was
to
be
reserved
for
passion.
It
had
almost
been
too
easy
to
tip
her
to
the
point
where
when
her
new
husband
had
come
to
take
her
maidenhead,
she
had
responded
violently,
biting
off
his
member
and
proceeding
to
continue
with
a
meal
of
the
rest
of
him.