Dybbuk
Chapter Four

He was somewhere unfamiliar.

It was dark, but there was a path. Wilc followed it through the dark wood. The path widened, turning from dirt to something hard and beaten until it finally smoothed out, forming into slabs of stone. Something snapped to his left. Crackling, quick.

Wilc turned.

Nothing stirred in the trees beyond him, not that he could see very far into them. He began walking again. The dry branches above him clicked and scratched together in a wind he couldn’t feel, but could certainly hear.

He picked up his pace.

The wood fell away, revealing a mansion. It was large and the only thing in clearing. There were no cars. No driveway leading away and through the forest.

Just the mansion.

The lights inside were the only ones Wilc could see. He looked back into the woods. It was oppressive. Dank. It felt like they swayed forward, pressing against him. Against his will, to go back. So he turned around, and walked towards the estate.

It was old.

It wasn’t the brickwork or style of windows that told him.

He could feel it.

The door was twice his height. Dark. Black. Made of wood, it looked like it had come from the leering forest. He needed to get inside, but he didn’t want to touch it. Didn’t want to rap against the dark wood or touch the tarnished golden knocker.

Turn.

Turn away. Wilc took a step back, he needed to leave. Leave this weird mansion and its forces behind before… before something bad happened. The door opened. A deep waxy light washed over him. His eyes watered from the sudden exposure.

A smell enveloped him. Sweet and pungent. Herbal. Sour, like some sort of berry and jasmine and cat piss. He gagged. Music drifted around him, back dropped by a buzz and murmur of too many voices in one place. The strings of violins and cellos played together, creating a melody Wilc thought he should know. Yet something wasn’t right. A cord out of tune. A note, slightly wrong. The pluck of strings and tap of wood vibrated through his ribs, hooking right through his lungs and sinking deep into his heart.

He relaxed, wondering why he hadn’t stepped inside yet.

Wilc blinked backed into focus. A woman stood in front of him.

She dressed in red, the front of her dress dipped in a sharp “v” stopping just above her navel. She worse a mask, but it was blank. No face, just a shield of porcelain white with deep cracks fissuring the glaze. A single delicate hand took a hold of his tie, playfully tugging him over the threshold.

The woman turned. The back of her dress was exactly the same as the front, dropping low to the small of her back. As she pulled him along, they walked among the guests. They were welcoming, touching, pawing at him. Wilc knew he should turn away. Should make this more of a struggle.

But he couldn’t.

He was helpless, trudging along after the woman in the porcelain mask. She wasn’t the only one. Other women wore gowns that shimmered and followed their every curve. Men wore tailored suits showing what real wealth can buy. Not a face could be seen, each one hidden behind a mask.

Was he at a ball?

He had to be.

Each mask was more elaborate than the last. Brilliant reds, rich indigos and yellowed ivories. Horns, feathers, beaks and tusks, gilded and painted in excruciating detail; like they weren’t even masks at all. The crowd parted, and he saw a familiar face.

She was shorter than the rest of the guests. Dark hair, determined stance.

Lina?

She was talking to a man, but Wilc was too far and the din of the party too loud to make out what she spoke about. The man she spoke to wore a black mask with single golden broken horn sprouting from its forehead. The mouth, forever cast in a grimace of pain. Or pleasure. Lina was taking, but the man put a finger over the lips of his mask and shook his head. He pointed up a flight of stairs.

Away from Wilc.

He pulled against his tie. The woman in the porcelain mask tugged and goaded him away from the stairs. Away from Lina.

Lina began working her way through the crowd and up the stairs.

Wilc balked, no, this way.

He tried to shout, but couldn’t.

Tried to pull, but he was too weak.

All the while, Lina prodded and pushed her way up, up until finally she was swallowed by the crowd as he was swallowed by the night.

Down the pathway of red lanterns he went.

In a garden filled with jasmine and thorns. The woman was gone. He was alone. His body still moved. One foot in front of the other he plodded, unable to stop. To turn around. Never before had he been so regretful miss Lina. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was always involved in the craziest Clarion had to offer.

He found himself wishing this was one of those times.

The lanterns led far into the night, to an iron gazebo draped in red linen. The discordant music and pungent smells followed him all the while.

Two men stood outside, their polished buttons and finely tailored tuxedos doing little to tame their golden masks. The chins long, mouth open in a roar. Two sharp black goat horns gleamed in the weak lantern light. The tailored guards pulled the curtains aside.

Wilc reached under his coat, for an old familiar weight that…wasn’t there. His holster, his gun. Both were gone as if he’d never had them. If he ever did have them. It was hard to know for sure in this twisted garden. He felt a tug at his chest. Like something hooked him in the rib cage and beckoned him forward. In the dim light of the covered gazebo, a man lounged on a couch.

“Why am I here?” Wilc demanded.

“To feed.” He answered.

“On what?”

The man laughed.

“You can’t keep me here.” Wilc threatened, “I’m an officer of Clarion City and—”

“She can’t help you.”

“Who can’t help me?”

“No one, not even that meddlesome exorcist.” The lights flared, then extinguished.

The man was gone. The party silent, along with the music.

Wilc was alone.

In the dark.

Except that he wasn’t.

Slowly, Wilc turned around. A figure stood behind him. Twice his height. Wide, muscular and shadowed. What other features it might have had, he couldn’t see. The warm breeze brought back the mixed smells of ammonia and jasmine.

Putrid.

“I have it,” the darkness said.

“Have what?” Wilc asked carefully.

The figured rumbled in a sickly purr. The sound made its way through the dirt and crawled its way up Wilcs skin; it caught like barbs under his nerves.

“What do you have?” Wilc repeated.

“You.” It whispered, then lunged at him.

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