Chapter #6The Lost Boys by: Seuzz   You growl to yourself. Fucked if you go out to see Professor Blackwell, and fucked if you don't. Whatever nonsense this is about will delay your meeting Christian and Howie and Andy--and Jerri, most of all--at the river for the cook out. But if you don't go, it will prey on you the whole time.
Well, maybe it will make a good story to tell them. A few miles down Farm Road, you take a slight detour toward the address the professor gave you.
* * * * *
It's a large stone villa, surrounded by a high wall, and set well away from any other habitation. The late afternoon light is slanting directly at it, so there are no shadows to give it contour or relief, and you have a brief but vivid impression that it is only a theatrical flat or façade: a fake thing that might fall forward, disclosing ...
You shiver. Must be memories of that "Myths and Magics" class making you think of grotty monsters lurking behind the villa.
You pass through the wrought iron gate and walk up a path toward the front door. Despite the deep, verdant warmth of high summer, the flower beds are empty and the lawn dead. A lone yew tree droops at the corner of the house, next to a stone gardening shed.
Or is it a shed? You do a double-take, and realize it's a mausoleum. You stop in your tracks to stare at the villa a little longer before mounting the porch.
The doorbell is nestled in the ravening jaw of a wolf's head. Rebuking yourself for your timidity, you bypass it to knock on the door. The sound is so muffled that you doubt anyone heard.
Almost instantly it opens. Your sense of the dramatic would expect a harsh creak, but the well-oiled hinges are silent.
But there's no one behind it. You crane your neck and look around. The foyer is entirely empty. Hair rises on the back of your neck.
Then you flush with anger. Fucking, melodramatic show off. Probably got it remote controlled. "Hello?" you shout into the house, keeping your feet on the far side of the threshold.
"Is that you, Mr. Prescott?" a voice calls from within. "Do come in. I am at the moment unable to let go of something."
You bite the inside of your cheek and step in. The door slams behind you. You ball up your fists, not from fear, but anger at the stupid theatricality. "Where are you?" you holler.
"The library," he calls back. "Up the hall and to your left."
Muttering under your breath, you march across a polished wood floor. The hall continues past a junction, with a broad staircase on your right and a tall, open doorway on your left. You step through the latter.
It's a very large room with French doors at the far end letting in plenty of sunlight. It needs it, for despite the high ceiling and many windows, it seems suffused with shadow. Tall bookcases line the walls--including the one with the doorway--and several heavy desks occupy the middle of the floor. A discordant ticking fills the air; it comes from a pair of grandfather clocks, set perpendicular to each other, in a far corner. The shelves are pierced with alcoves inside of which sit statues and stuffed animals.
The latter can't be real, though. No dog ever had three heads outside a fairy tale.
But the room is empty. "Professor," you call again.
A figure looms behind your shoulder. "Surprise," he says, and you've just time to take in shaggy golden hair and a wolfish grin when your feet go out from under you. A grip like bands of iron hauls you into mid-air and dangles you upside down with your arms flailing. Chin to chest, with your shirt falling past your face, you look up at your ankles. They are pinned together--you can't so much as rub your feet together--but there is nothing around them.
There is nothing to bind them, and nothing to hold you up.
Another face looms before you. It's upside down, so you can barely make it out, but this one has dark hair. "Bet you didn't expect to ever see us again, did you, Prescott?" a low, menacing voice says.
You just stare and blink, then crane your neck around to try to make his face out more clearly. All you can see is that he is pale and rather severe looking, and his dark eyes flash. "Who the--" you gasp. You kick at your invisible bonds. "The hell is this?"
"Yeah, it's a hell of a thing," the first voice says, and laughs.
"Potty mouth, Joe," the dark-haired one says.
"I meant it literally, Frank," the other voice says. The blonde face you glimpsed earlier appears behind the other. "Prescott's probably thinking he's now in hell." He laughs again. "But you're not, dude. You're just in one of its antechambers. You're in your boss's library."
Boss? "Who are you?" you demand.
Golden boy laughs again. "Aw, he doesn't remember us, Frank. We must not have made an impression on him."
"Maybe if I made an impression in the floor with his head," the other one (Frank?) growls, "it'd jog his memory."
With a jerk you drop many feet, and your knuckles slam into the hardwood floor, but you stop before your crown touches it. Then you're lifted back into position. "Just a warning, Prescott," Frank says. "Don't fuck around with us."
"I can't--" You gasp. "I can't even make out your faces."
"You don't have to. Know anyone else who could--?"
"Oh, set him down, Frank," Joe says. "All that blood rushing to his head can't be good for the thinking processes."
You fall again, but more slowly, and can tuck yourself up as you hit. You bang your shoulder hard, though. You spin around and look up.
Two guys loom over you. They look about twenty years old. Frank is tall, and as he's naked you can see the muscles that bulge around his shoulders and chest and ripple down his abs. He has a thatch of dark hair, and his eyes glitter with menace. Joe is a little shorter, with a shaggy mop of golden hair and a wide grin that tugs hard at the corners of his mouth. He also looks strong, though he's wrapped in a huge red dressing gown.
You've never seen them before in your life.
Frank raises an open palm with fingers splayed. "I'll give you to the count of five to admit you remember us, and then-- Five. Four. Three."
"I've never--! Where's Professor Blackwell?"
Frank flushes deeply. Joe sniggers. "Ah, I must admit to having played a little deception on you, Mr. Prescott," he says in a deep, rich and very plummy voice. "But I intuited that under the circumstances you would be more receptive to a summons from the late professor than from us." He tilts his head and grins.
You clutch your head. Has the world gone mad, or is it only you? "I don't even know Professor Blackwell!" you shriek. "I only came out because that weird-ass phone call didn't make any sense!"
"If you don't stop lying, Prescott--"
"Hang on, Frank," Joe says. "It could be a fake."
"A golem, you mean?" Frank smiles, and that looks even worse than his frown. "Good. Then I won't have to hold back. Get those shears we saw in the kitchen."
"I mean it might not know any better. Prescott might have stuffed its head with straw, like you do with any good scarecrow, and left it behind as a dumb decoy."
"I suppose there's no harm in checking," Frank says.
"The fuck is--"
But something very strong, like a giant mailed hand, encloses your torso, and all the breath shoots out of you. You can hardly breathe, let alone struggle, as Joe bends to grasp your face. You twist away, and another invisible fist grabs your head. Joe's fingers play over your eyes and forehead, and he mutters to himself a bit before straightening up. "Nope," he says. "No mask, unless it's a special one."
"According to the calendar, we've been out of commission for five years," Frank says. "Lotta time for Prescott to have added to his tool kit."
Your brain feels like it's burning up. "I don't understand--!"
"Oh, I've had enough of this," Frank says. "I'm gonna find out what's harder, Prescott's bones or these bookcases."
"Before you do that," Joe says, "and I'm not saying you can't, let's try one more thing." He puts a cigarette in his mouth and crinkles his eyes; a red glow appears at the cigarette's tip. He blows out a stream of smoke and pats his pockets. "Fuck," he says with a small smile. "I left the matches in the other room."
You come very close to fainting.
Joe crouches beside you. "Time to play Truth or Dare, Prescott," he says. "You'll want to tell us truth."
"I'm trying, but I don't know--!"
"Shh!" He caresses the side of your face. "All you have to do is repeat after me. 'I'm going to tell you the truth'."
"That's what I'm--"
"Just repeat my words exactly. 'I'm going to tell you the truth'."
"I'm going to tell you the truth! If you'll just--"
"So tell us the truth now, Prescott." Joe strokes your cheek again. "You do remember us, don't you?"
"No!"
Joe freezes, and his eyes glint. He looks up over his shoulder at Frank. "Bullshit," the latter says.
"He took the oath," Joe says. "If he's feeling duress, it's your fault."
"Or he's had lots of time to work up protective spells."
"Let's just see what he has to say anyway." Joe turns back to you. But his face is a lot less merry. You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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