No Tool
Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, although I wish I would… No profit whatsoever is intended.
"As a concerned citizen of Jaggonath I urgently appeal to our indifferent, undutiful authorities to end this unholy menace once and for all. Our homes and streets have to become safe again instead of offering hunting grounds for those hellish abominations who roam our city at night, choosing their prey from our beloved wives and daughters for their vile pleasure."
With a satisfied sigh the Honorable Judge Fisher put aside his pen and rubbed his stiff hands. The fire in the open fireplace in his bedroom had burned down to a weak glow, and to his dismay he felt the impending first storm of the approaching winter deep down in his old bones. The wind had already freshened up considerably, and the shutters rattled. Fisher shivered. He wasn't getting any younger, and it was due time to realize his ambitions.
If he was first mayor of Jaggonath more honors might follow, maybe a seat in the High Council or even a post at the ministry. Fisher had no doubts that he was destined for greater tasks than being burdened day after day with narrow-minded neighborhood quarrels, divorces and moronic petty criminals, and the population's increasing hysteria regarding the Lord of the Forest suited him well for his election campaign. The Hunter the stupid multitudes called the monster full of horror and awe, and Fisher snorted contemptuously.
Personally he couldn't have cared less about the fate of the young women who were foolish enough to stay outside after nightfall, but why not use the Hunter and the visceral fear of the citizens to discredit his political opponents? 'We use what tools we must.' Try as he might he couldn't remember which prominent Ernan had shaped this famous phrase, but he would be damned if he wouldn't use that spawn of hell and his nocturnal enterprises for his own devices.
A gust of wind howled around the house, stronger than the previous ones, and Fisher pulled his flimsy, tan dressing gown tighter around his narrow shoulders. Frugality was doubtlessly recommendable, but tonight he needed a glass of hot grog and some extra firewood. Cursing his aching joints Fisher got up and rang for his housekeeper.
When, after five minutes that felt like thirty, still nothing had happened Fisher was getting impatient. For about twenty years Janet had diligently fulfilled her duty in his household and had, if necessary, also warmed his bed, but now one could tell her age, and it was time to look for a replacement. The meager payment for her services certainly hadn't allowed her any savings, but as far as Fisher knew Janet had relatives in Kale, and if she wouldn't be welcome at their home there was still the workhouse for the poor. Fisher shrugged indifferently. He was, after all, not a charitable institution, and sentimentality had never been an option for him.
A renewed, more forceful pull at the bell still brought no response, and Fisher's mood was rapidly darkening from mere impatience to petulant anger. Had the lazy slut turned deaf all at once? Thinking about it he should have replaced her years ago with some hardworking and comely maiden. With winter looming there won't be a shortage for desperate, more than willing young women, and the judge decided not to wait until spring, but to look for a new servant the first thing in the morning.
His pleasant reverie, accompanied by a lecherous grin, abruptly evaporated into thin air, stopped by a muffled moan and an unsettling noise that sounded suspiciously like something heavy hitting the floor. Fisher pricked up his ears, his eyes wide with bewilderment. What the hell was going on downstairs? The judge frowned exasperatedly. Maybe the old hag had become sick, and he really could do without having to call a quack in the middle of the night, thank you, not to mention the fee he would have to fork up from his own pocket.
Another ominous sound assaulted his ears, a mere hint of movement, almost drowning in the fierce howling of the wind, but saturated with a stealthy viciousness that sent shivers down his lean spine.
Fisher froze with apprehension, all muscles tense. The old house had been the home of his family for generations now, and he'd been born in the same bed with the faded, rose patterned draperies that had been smiling at him invitingly a few minutes ago. He knew the cracking of the ancient woodwork, the creak of a floorboard in the hallway and the unnerving clatter of those loose shingles whose much-needed repair was postponed each spring until the onset of the first autumn storms reminded him of his neglect. None of these familiar, commonplace noises possessed that eerie aura of a silent, deadly threat wrapping its icy tendrils around him.
"Janet?" croaked the judge, his old man's voice weak and trembling, but there was no answer to his call. Summoning all his courage he seized a poker with trembling hands and cautiously opened his bedroom door. If this was an absurd joke played on him by one of his political opponents or a silly prank by some teenagers the delinquents were in for a nasty surprise. He had no intention of letting himself be intimidated so easily.
If, on the other hand, the trespasser was a demon his chances dropped significantly. Fisher had hired a supposedly competent sorcerer for an outrageous fee to Ward the doors and windows against demonic attacks, but on Erna there was no one hundred percent protection against the faeborn, a bitter fact that the human colonists had learned the hard way. Muttering an archaic Banishing through gritted teeth that his mother had taught him decades ago Fisher stepped outside into the dark corridor.
No demonic abomination armed with fangs and claws jumped at him, but flickering candle light pouring from his library lit up the lower part of the stairway, and to his utter astonishment Fisher recognized the unexpected sounds of a bottle uncorked and some liquid poured into a glass with an inviting glug, followed by the soft rustle of not paper.
The judge relaxed visibly. Demons generally preferred their human prey's flesh, blood or pain instead of ransacking a library and enjoying a fine glass of wine, and simple burglars usually operated in a more secretive, stealthy way and could, in all possibility, be excluded under these circumstances as well.
There had to be a different explanation for the strange occurrences of the night. Given her age and her overworked appearance it wasn't very plausible that Janet was involved in an amorous affair, but nonetheless it was possible. Maybe she'd invited her lover, who was now reading his priceless books, a heritage from a distant cousin, while gulping down his vintage wine.
Rage replaced terror, and Fisher silently vowed to drive his employee out of his house that very night if his suspicions proved true.
His confidence boosted the judge surreptitiously descended the steep stairs, but stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the hallway. A weird, metallic odour assaulted his nose, strange, but yet familiar, and Fisher's nostrils flared while he stood still like a statue, testing the air in the manner of a terrified animal. Then realization dawned, and his eyes went wide with shock. Blood, the whole lower floor reeked of blood, the unique, revolting scent mixed with the foul stench of human excrements, a repulsive mixture at home on every battlefield, but utterly out of place in a peaceful home. Fisher barely managed to suppress a horrified whimper.
"Please enter, Honorable, and keep me company. The nights can be long and lonely at this time of the year."
Doubtlessly the voice of a man, smooth, cultivated and absolutely irresistible, its uncanny pull so overwhelming that Fisher's feet moved on their own account and carried him over the threshold of his study very much against his will.
For a short moment Fisher's brain simply refused to process the visual input. Then his jaw dropped, and the poker fell from his limp hand, landing on the polished wooden floor with a metallic clank that did nothing to wake him from his horrified stupor.
In stark contrast to his chilly bedroom a merry fire was burning in the fireplace, softly illuminating the valuable ancient manuscripts that had been pulled from the shelves and were crowding his alteroak table. The stacks of books were fighting for space with an open bottle of his most prized red wine, placed in convenient reach of a shadowy figure that fondly cradled an ancient, leather bound volume in its lap, the long, pale fingers browsing reverently through the brittle pages with amazing gentleness.
To Fisher's immediate horror the scholarly, placid tableau was observed by Janet's empty, staring eyes. Her severed head had been suspended by her long hair from the chandelier, along with the better part of her intestines, while the eviscerated carcass had been draped on the blood-soaked carpet in front of the fireplace, twisted like a broken doll.
"There should be more blood", Fisher thought in a daze. "Where the hell has the rest of her blood gone?"
His unvoiced question was answered in a rather grisly fashion when a silk-clad arm rose languidly, presenting a long stemmed goblet filled with an ominous red liquid that sparkled in the firelight like a precious ruby.
"Here's to you, Honorable. I hope you don't mind that I dared to season your delectable wine a bit. I'm a man of refined tastes."
The cold amusement lurking behind the pleasant façade was unmistakable, and Fisher felt the bile rising in his throat.
"You look pale. Are you sure you don't want to share a drink with me? A pity we can't invite your indisposed servant."
When the goblet was presented to him in a cruel mock offer the judge at last lost his fight and emptied the contents of his stomach over his felt slippers, heaving until his insides were dry. Completely exhausted he fell to his knees, weak with shock, and attempted to wipe the vomit from his chin with a shaking hand, but was stopped dead in his tracks by the soft hiss of silk.
Slowly, ever so slowly the leather-bound book which had been so ardently studied by the creature occupying his ragged, old, favorite armchair was lowered, and Fisher very nearly choked on his own breath.
Soon he would have to face the demon, and he remembered all too well the unnerving stories about beings so ghastly that their mere sight could transform a stout fellow into a babbling madman.
His pulse flying and panting with stark dread Fisher forced his body to move and rose to his feet, but managed barely a few staggering steps until he collapsed again, his chest torn apart by a pain so intolerable that he had no breath left to scream.
Darkness approached, drowning him like a tidal wave, sweeping over him and pulling him downwards him into its icy depths. The last thing Judge Fisher heard was a chuckle laced with such malevolence that it burned his ears like cold fire. The laughter of the damned, he thought, and then everything was still and black.