Chapter Two—

DANCING IN THE DARK

The Warden's office is a small, square room with grey walls and a hardwood floor shined to perfection. The lights are fairly low, probably so the light doesn't reflect in the floor's sheen. There are no pictures on the wall, just an old tattered note in a glass frame written by his ancestor and founder of the Asylum, Amadeus Arkham. The note is almost illegible and is a scrap of his journal. At the back of the room—in front of a large window split up into squares by black lead— is a mahogany desk, varnished to look just as reflective as the floor. On it are files and papers, a phone and a computer. Jeremiah Arkham sits behind it looking dull.

"Come in," he said, looking at the door. As Deacons came in leading Carlyle the Warden feigned surprise. "Ah. You have a gift for me?" Deacons nodded.

"Yes, sir. Just arrived this minute. Should I wait outside, or—"

"Oh no. It's better you stay, I think. I've read his file and I know what he's… capable of. It's better you stay."

Deacons once again nodded and guided Carlyle into a chair in front of the desk with a firm grip on his shoulder. Arkham did not rise to meet nor even make much eye contact. Deacons had found on the ride to the Asylum that eye contact with Carlyle was indeed a very queer thing. When he looked into his icy blue eyes he immediately went rigid and sat upright, his own eyes bulging. There was a faint acrid taste in his throat and he found it difficult to swallow. Not to mention the coldness that engulfed his heart and travelled around in his blood. Carlyle had tilted his head and when he looked away Deacons felt normal again, if not a little nauseous.

"Carlyle, I—"

"Call me Flint."

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you." Arkham looked somewhat worried for his safety and shot a quick glance to Deacons who was prepping himself for an outburst. Flint's cold eyes suddenly caught the Warden's and for a moment he had total control. Arkham went bolt upright in his chair and made a short gasping sound, as if short on air. His face turned red yet his blood ran cold in his veins.

"Stop—" he choked. Deacons, recognising what was happening from his previous experience, put a firm hand on Carlyle's shoulder and squeezed a warning. Carlyle simply blinked and the Warden seemed to drop down into a slump. Arkham rubbed his neck with his and gave Deacons a quizzical glance of terror and confusion. He was too shocked to bring it up again. "Carlyle, let's cut to the chase here, shall we? I know the things you've done; I know why you've been committed to my Asylum. And let me tell you," he took a short break and took a sip of water from a tumbler next to his computer. "I find it disgusting. I've seen things happen in this institution which could kill a man with shock. I've heard of things even worse. But you…" he paused again, trying to grasp for a phrase strong enough to display his utter displeasure and contempt. "You've crossed a line. The things you've done to women, done to children for that matter! It- it makes my blood curdle."

"Thank you." Carlyle said coolly and in his usual monotonous way.

"Get him out of here!" the Warden barked at Deacons and turned around to look out of his large window. "And make sure I never have to see or hear from him again!"

Deacons could feel the rapture in Arkham's voice and swiftly pulled Carlyle to his feet and ushered him toward the door. Carlyle thought about staring through Deacons' eyes and freezing his soul but decided to leave the fun for later.