The Hollow Crown
Chapter One
The Antic Sits
May 1991
Bucharest, Romania
The letter, once read, was commenced to the flames and thereafter he sat a while, nursing a glass of Corvina, watching as black ink bled in thick clots down paper, browning and crumpling, like a leaf in autumn. Then, just to be thorough, he jabbed the withered remains with an iron poker until they broke apart and were scattered across the corpses of pale coals and charred logs.
"Fuck," he declared to the room aloud, his eyes wandering from the gilded photograph that occupied the prize position on his desk, to the oil paintings and saintly effigies hanging above the hearth. "Fuck."
He then proceeded to kick a footstool to mild success, shiny Valentino leather denting against polished mahogany. It had the decency, at least, to stagger over towards the Persian rug, but the pulsating throbbing in his index toe told him he was an idiot, and a probably a drunken idiot to boot.
My Uncle was a drunkard, though men called him a holy fool. Was not that not what he had heard, from the horse's mouth no less? Yet if he was recalling such things, smiling at such things, then he had not drunk enough. Not nearly enough.
He drained the rest of the glass in a single gulp and then picked up the phone. It was time, though as he dialled the number, he could feel pitiless gaze of long-dead martyrs watching him from the walls.
"Sir? Sir?" called the voice of his personal assistant, pushing him forcefully out of his reverie.
"Gavril," he murmured hoarsely, his fingers worrying the gold band stretched across his skin. "I need Gavril to bring the car round." I need Liora. I need my wife. Where is my wife?
"The car, sir?" repeated Anya. She was probably one of theirs.
"Yes. The car," he said impatiently, "As soon as possible. No. Immediately. Can you manage that?"
"Yes sir. As you wish sir," said Anya coolly, and if she sounded offended by his venomous demeanour, then she was at least, very good at hiding it. The line snapped dead and he hung up the receiver. In the time it took for the phone to ring again, he had already poured another glass and was halfway through drinking it.
He was too restless; his blood was bubbling in his veins; his insides felt like a can of coke that had just been shaken up by a five-year old on Prozac. Adrenaline. Insanity.
Perhaps it was contagious; a virus that had spread through his system, brought on by too many long, feverish nights; too many gunshots fired; too many black body-bags laid out over muddy fields.
Maybe it had been resting in him his entire life and was only now raising its drowsy head; a cancer sleeping in his blood, ready and waiting to mutate; a recessive gene to which he had fallen victim.
When Gavril rang with the car, the obnoxious noise nearly had him reaching for his revolver. The car, he told himself, it's just the car. He shrugged on his coat and tucked the revolver into the inside pocket. As he stepped out of the office, it was Anya herself who greeted him in the hall. Anya Polanski. Or at least that was what the file handed to him two years ago had said. According to her resume, she was thirty-two years old, single, Polish and a graduate of the Dimitrie Cantemir Christian University, with an outstanding degree in Public Relations and Marketing.
If it was a lie, then God alone knew what she was or where she was from. When he met her at the bottom of the stairs, she was holding his hat in her hands, and offered it to him with one of her usual vacant smiles.
"It's raining outside, sir," she said brightly, brushing a strand of blond hair from out of her eyes, "Monsoon weather. Are you sure you don't want to wait until morning?"
"I'm quite sure," he said, accepting the hat. It was the one his brother had bought him five years ago after a trip to London. He had considered throwing the damn thing into a furnace but that would be quite as pointless as asking Gavril to plough the Bentley into the canal.
"As you wish. If anyone phones, what do you want me to say?" she asked.
"I'm at the Franz. I won't be back until later. Have them leave a message."
"Your Mother…"
Damn that woman. "I am indisposed. Tell her whatever lie you find most convenient." She won't believe a word of it. Yet she was hardly going to bestir herself from Athens in the next four hours. I sincerely hope. One never knew.
"I will do, sir," said Anya, her lips twitching, "and if her Highness should call?"
Liora. He closed his eyes but he could feel his brain banging against the inside of his skull, as though seeking release from its fleshy prison. Ah Liora. Will this please you now? Would it please him? Damn them both. Damn me. Damn me.
"Tell her where I am. Have her call forwarded on to my suite." He would far rather speak to Liora than his mother. He owed Liora that much. And there was still time. I am clutching at straws; might as well pray for snow in the Sahara. For blood out of a stone.
"Of course. Well…have a nice evening sir. Try not to drown. You might want a snorkel for getting back," joked Anya, flashing him a grin that reminded him somewhat of her.
For a moment he felt positively ridiculous for doubting her; soft-spoken Anya with her bedraggled hair and tulip-shaped earring; quick-witted Anya who would go out to Starbucks for him, who knew exactly how he took his tea, and where to find the best quality of wine; saintly Anya, who seemed to unpick the tangled mess that was his life, and structure it into something that resembled normality.
She deserved better, he knew, and he had never quite realised how fond of her he was. Perhaps it was the wine speaking. He pecked her on the cheek on his way out. It was definitely the wine speaking.
Liora. Liora. Liora it whispered, Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.
Outside it was indeed pissing it down with all the enthusiasm of a Scottish spring. The raindrops fell and flickered in the lamplight like dying fireflies sinking to the ground. The wind nibbled at his neck and toyed with the fastenings of his cravat, whilst his hat attempted to cede independence from his head with all the vicious effort of an American blue coat.
Burly old Ivan approached him, trying to wrestle an umbrella to life, whilst little Gavril appeared to be clinging to the Bentley door in an effort to remain upright. He clambered into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him as Ivan blustered in through the adjacent door, grisly grey hair plastered to his ruddy cheeks.
"Wh-Where to…"gasped Gavril from the front, emerging from the downpour, a damp sheen clinging to his olive skin.
"The Franz," he said.
Next to him, Ivan threw him a sidelong glance, his watery blue eyes crinkling behind those ridiculous spectacles. He could practically see the man inhaling, his nostrils flaring. Discretion was not one of Ivan's virtues, though at just shy of six foot eight, it was hard not hard to imagine why this particularly lesson had escaped him.
"Are you sure, sir?" he asked, his voice surprisingly soft for such a mountainous man.
"Yes. Yes, I am," he snapped. Ivan, unlike Anya, looked visibly wounded and exchanged a look with Gavril. The look did not reassure him. He'd seen Liora exchange enough looks with his mother to know what it meant.
Liora…his hands tugging at the limp remains of his cravat. The car purred to life, gliding around the corner away. He could still hear his heart gushing in his ears. Liora. Liora. Liora. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the seats. He needed another drink. The wine had not been enough for this.
"You seem uneasy tonight," remarked Ivan, withdrawing a boiled sweet from the pocket of his waistcoat. "Do you want a Worther?"
He accepted the sweetie and the taste of sour wine was washed away with smooth toffee. He did not bother wasting his breath to refute the obvious, but nor did he offer any further explanation. For a while, the only sounds he could hear was the thrum of the engine, the thack of rain pelting the darkened glass, and Ivan's gums sucking on honey coloured Worthers.
Some twenty minutes later they arrived. Gavril ushered him out of the car, curly hair dragged in all directions by the wind. Ivan followed him, like an obedient sheepdog policing the footsteps of its master, up the stony steps towards the warmth and comfort of the Franz Club.
The boy who greeted them in the foyer did not improve his mood, nor did the incredulous look of nervous awe on his face. If you start making a fuss, I'll take that name-badge and force it down your throat until it pieces your vocal chords, Laszlo Olaf.
"Oh! Shall I take your coat? Or your hat?" exclaimed the boy, his cheeks flushed with excitement, as he bounded like an overexcited terrier, yapping at their heels. "D-Do you want a drink? Or-
"-I'll be retiring to my suite," he interjected quickly, before Laszlo's enthusiasm caught the attention of the patrons drinking in the lounge.
"Of course sir. Right this way sir. Shall I have a drink sent up? Are you expecting company? Would you perhaps like something to eat, or-"
"Two scotches. On the rocks. No, no, I don't need led up. I'm quite capable of finding my way," he barked, mounting the gilded staircase. The boy seemed entirely unperturbed, in fact his face lit up as he folded the dripping coat over his arm.
"Right, of course. I'll have Klaus bring them up sir!" he cried, and then he scuttled away towards the cloak room, and then probably towards the kitchens so he could announce the newest arrival to the populous.
Most likely none of them would be all that impressed. The Franz Club was a petri dish for gentlemen of a certain class; ministers, ambassadors, civil servants, philanthropists, actors, singers, millionaires, billionaires; if you had the right name, you could have an armchair, a newspaper, and an impenetrable sanctuary away from the vultures of the media, waiting to fight for a scrap of your miserable carcass.
He had his own suite on the third floor. It was across from the Prime Minister's, and directly above the Hungarian ambassador's.
"Wait here for me," he told Ivan, as they approached the suite. Ivan seemed rather taken aback at the request, but nodded and took position outside the door. Ah Ivan. Not you. Never you. If only you knew.
He shut the door and found his hands were shaking. He was conscious, more than ever, of how heavy the gun felt pressed against his chest. How many years since he had felt like this? Five? Six? Ten?
He wandered over towards the window and drew apart the thick burgundy drapes. The monotonous curtain of rain did not abate any, nor show any mercy towards those unfortunate enough to be braving the streets that night. In the distance, the colossal form of Patriarchal Cathedral loomed, pale masonry illuminated by soft golden light. It was a Sunday. He wondered how many of the faithful had steeled themselves to say their prayers, or if they perceived the weather as some sort of holy trial to be tempered and conquered. Good luck, he could feel laughter bubbling on his lips. Good luck with your Jesu.
When the boy arrived with the Scotch, he found himself flinching once more, his fingers intimately acquainted with the whereabouts of the revolver's trigger.
No. He did not even want to imagine the headlines if he were to shoot an innocent usher. The boy might be a nuisance but he didn't merit a bullet to the head, nor the headache that was sure to follow him after. Though it might be worth it just to see…just to see their wretched faces when they realise they have to clean up another mess. And who knew, maybe they would clean him up to? I would like to see them try it.
"Here you go sir," said Laszlo, setting the crystal glasses carefully down on the desk. "Are you sure you don't want anything else? A paper? Cigar?"
"No. Nothing else. Thank you Laszlo," he said, and the boy was all smiles and freckles as he departed the room. Handsome boy. Maybe he had some girl he could rattle this story out to later. He picked up the glass, admiring the amber liquid sloshing against the sparkling crystal, before he mercilessly consumed it, as though it were water from the Holy Grail itself.
The other he left. Not long now. And he waited some more, until the sound of a phone shrieking lured him away from the window.
Five minutes later the sound of a gun being fired screamed out into the night, and outside the rain continued to fall as thunder trembled across the sky.
The phone lay off the hook. The line had gone dead.
So this story will be set primarily in the early 90s, meaning that at some point we will get teenage Integra, which could be interesting. Originally I wasn't going to include her much in the plot until later, but I've decided to introduce her earlier because I think the idea of exploring a younger Integra could be interesting.
Once again, please forgive the rewrite. Or if your new, ignore this completely. Regardless, please feel free to review and let me know what you think.
- MoonBlue22