Dominance in Despair

Chapter 12

"Contract"


The fire crackled softly in the corner, casting shadows across the dark room, the warm glow splashing about the high-backed lounge chair. Despite the best efforts of the crackling wood, the dancing lights did nothing to make the room seem cold and gloomy, like a scene from a Charles Dickens holiday story.

The atmosphere was dominated by the chair's sole occupant. His bony, raspy fingers grasped the red felt arms of the chair, staring intently into the fire. He was dressed in a fine brown silk robe, a puffy red cravat covering his chest, restricted by a dazzling silver stickpin. His legs were covered by a well-pressed set of pinstripe pants ending in a pair of expensive-looking crocodile skin shoes.

His aging but fit face scowled as he absentmindedly traced the edge of his brandy glass as it sat on the end table next to the chair. His hard gray eyes remained fixed on the flames that warmed his face, taking a sip of his drink and setting the glass back down.

He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a single sheet of parchment, which appeared too old to be any variety of modern mass-produced paper. With a scowl, the man crumpled the sheet and threw it into the fire.

The fire crackled with delight as it graciously accepted the new fuel, like a dog accepting a treat.

As the ball settled on the burning wood, it began to fold out and straighten, resuming its original shape. The parchment, its black ink that formed the writing on it glistening in the inferno, sat quietly on the burning wood, unaffected by the flames that engulfed it.

The man sipped his brandy again, unsurprised by the document's failure to burn. He must have done this a thousand times, each time with the same result. When the fire dies down, he'll fish the parchment out, and it will be as cold to his touch as it was the first time he held it.

In all honesty, he just found the act of throwing it into the fire a little cathartic.

"You know, I never understood that about you."

The man glanced over his shoulder, a familiar young woman leaning against the side of his chair. She was dressed in a black business suit that seemed to melt into the shadows, the light from the fire disappearing into her short cut black hair. The flames flickered in her violet eyes with an almost unnatural glow.

"What I do is none of your business," the old man growled.

The woman checked her black-painted fingernails. "Not anymore it isn't," she coyly remarked to her hand, glancing at the elderly man out of the corner of her eye, like a child glancing at a bug before crushing it.

The man shifted uneasily. "What do you mean?"

The woman giggled, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. "Oh, you didn't hear?"

The man's silent glare was answer enough.

"Well think about it. You think a man your age and in your physical condition could fulfill the terms of the contract?"

The man stood and faced the woman, leaning on the chair arm for support. "The contract passed back to me when Robert died," he shouted in a raspy voice.

The woman stood, turning her back to the man as she walked away. "You think we need the physical contract to fulfill the terms? It's the modern age…all he needed to get started was an idea and a push in the right direction…"

The man looked on, the futility of the situation weighing on him as the young woman disappeared into the darkness beyond the flame's reach, her voice echoing from the ether.

"He may be the best in generations…my employer thanks you for being such a good father."

The man growled at the sarcasm dripping from her lips as he sat back down. "Damn you, Lilly…"

The man continued to stare at the flames as he picked up his phone, dialing a number.

"Gerald…It's Anton. First thing in the morning, I want a meeting with all of our corporate investigators. We need to find my son."

He hung up the receiver, watching the dying fire recede around the undamaged parchment.

"And damn you, ancestor, for cursing us all."


Paul leaned against the station wagon, the engine still running despite the pounding it took in the near-record pace it set returning to Springfield. He could see Marge worriedly talking to Chief Wiggum in front of his cruiser, but he couldn't hear what was being said. Her ragged form was little more than a silhouette against the flashing lightbar and headlights of the police car.

"Paul…is Maggie going to be okay?"

Paul looked down at Lisa, her voice piping up next to him. She wrapped herself tightly in her blanket, trying to protect herself from the bite of the cold night air more than her simple white cotton nightgown ever could, her bare toes curling on the freezing concrete of the driveway.

"I'm sure she will be Lisa," Paul said reassuring, his voice barely containing his anger. Someone was fucking up his plan, and he didn't appreciate it one bit.

He looked back up as he heard the car door slam, the police car moving off into the night as Marge walked up to the two, her ruffled dress clothes so disheveled they looked like they would fall to pieces with a strong enough breeze.

"He says that they're calling in a search dog, but that'll take hours," Marge said in a weak, quaking voice. "They tried to tell Homer, but they said they can't find him."

Paul cocked his head. "He's not at the bar?"

Marge shook hers. "No…no, and he's not at Barney's or answering his phone…"

Paul and Lisa stepped aside as Marge moved to the driver's door of the station wagon, pulling the door open. "I'm going to go see if I can get Homer to answer the door…Paul, please stay here with Lisa, okay?"

"But mom, yo-"

"Promise me Paul, you'll protect Lisa, okay?" Marge looked into Paul's eyes, her pleading gaze only accenting the pleading tone of her voice.

Paul only nodded as Lisa gripped his hand, drawing close as a cold gust sent her into shivers again.

Marge climbed into the car without a word and was soon a pair of tail lights disappearing into the darkness.

"Paul…" Lisa stammered. "You can't let mom go alone…"

Paul turned and smiled, cupping Lisa's cheek in his hand. She wasn't sure if it was his touch or the cold air, but she felt her flesh tingle as her body was flushed with heat.

"Of course not," Paul said. "Now, go inside and lock the doors. Only open them for me or your mom."

As Lisa turned and ran inside, Paul pulled out Marge's cell phone. A quick call later, a taxi arrived to take him to his destination.

From out of the corner of his window, a concerned Ned Flanders watched Paul leave in pursuit of Marge, peeking around the edge of his curtains.

"Something about him isn't right," he muttered to himself, unable to put a finger on the strange sense of foreboding he got whenever he looked at the young man.