Book Eighteen

It

"We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict."

-Jim Morrison

Then

Rain poured down in buckets, bringing a scowl to the face of the man waiting before the metal door. Many people would have missed the sheet of iron embedded into the surface of the ridge. He, however, knew what the importance of that door what. Or, more specifically, what lay beyond the door. A small wooden box with ornate designs carved into its surface was clutched tightly in his hands as though the devil himself was inside. It might as well been the devil within, the man thought.

His knocks were finally answered by a young man with mussed brown hair and tired eyes. He rubbed his eyes and peered out into the rain, his dark eyes finally falling on the man holding the box. There was a worried edge in his expression as he recognized the other.

"You're late."

It wasn't a reprimand. Far from it, fear weighed heavily in the two words. They were an observation mixed with a silent question as to why it had taken so long. The man with the box shifted slightly, a gesture the younger man almost missed, as he tried to ignore the messy stitches in his arm. Part of him wondered if he should have thanked the Hunter for stitching up the laceration that had been there. Too late for regrets, the man decided.

"Yes, well, that is what happens when you have Men of Letters doing a Hunter's job," he snapped. "It took a good deal of negotiating to stop them from killing it altogether."

"Are you certain you should have stopped them at all? We aren't even sure of what it is. It cannot possibly be a good idea to keep it here."

The older man shrugged, "Orders are orders. It's a Hunter's job to kill and Man of Letters to study. The very reason we are keeping it is to study it in case there are more. Now, are you going to let me in, son?"

The young man grimaced, pulling the door open so he could pass by. He hated when anyone referred to him as 'son'. It was demeaning and impersonal, though he would never dare say those exact words aloud.

"I'm not your son," he muttered, his eyes downcast as the older man walked by.

All he received was a halfhearted grunt of acknowledgement before he shut the door. Whether or not the older gentleman would take his words into account at later times, he didn't know. He supposed it didn't truly matter. Particularly when the older man shoved the box into his hands roughly, causing him to jump and fumble with it for a second, before taking off his waterlogged coat.

"Don't drop the damned thing," the older man snapped, taking the box back and throwing his coat into his arms. "It took far too long to catch it to begin with. And you certainly don't want to face the thing."

The younger man wrinkled his nose at the damp and – was that viscous material clinging to it blood? – filthy overcoat in his hands. He wasted no time in tossing it onto the empty hat stand, mentally making a note to burn the offending article of clothing at a later time. The hat stand would likely need to be destroyed, as well, simply by the crime of association with the coat.

"What exactly does it do?"

The older man shook his head, "None of us are sure of what happened. It induces hallucinations, as best I can tell, particularly ones with ties to your memories. Each of us saw something different. Two Hunters died of heart attacks without even being touched."

"Any other casualties?"

"Not to any Men of Letters. A few Hunters had some nasty cuts, mostly self-inflicted, however."

"Better the grunts than the men with something above their shoulders."

The younger man stumbled back a few steps as a hand collided hard against the length of his face. His fingers prodded the stinging flesh carefully, his dark eyes wide in surprise as he looked to the older man. There was a hard expression on his lined face and a grim set to his lips.

"Do not disrespect any man who would put himself in harm's way for the good of others, be he a scholar or a soldier," he said, his voice hard and cold like steel. "The Hunters protect people in ways that we cannot. We are not above them in any way."

So the rumors were true, the younger man thought. He had heard tell of some older Hunters, after being wounded too gravely to return to the life, becoming honorary Men of Letters. It had been a difficult and ludicrous idea which he hadn't initially believed. However, he could almost see it as he looked closer at the man before him and noticed the little signs that marked him for what he had been. Out of the darkness of the night outside, he could see that the man couldn't have been older than forty. And yet his hair was mostly grey, the lines on his face much more prominent than they should have been, and a faint scar just above his lip that was too jagged to be from a knife. He bowed his head in shame.

"I apologize. It's late and my weariness makes me thoughtless."

"Most of us live on only a handful of hours of sleep a week," the older man growled. "If you can't handle the requisites of this life, you should check out and work elsewhere. This job has no place for those who cannot keep their wits about them at all times."

With that, the older man shoved past him roughly. He watched as the man continued down the library and to the hall which led down the stairs. It seemed he knew exactly where he was going.

"Where are you going to put it?" he called.

The older man stopped, turning to glance over his shoulder at him, "Somewhere where no one will stumble across it. Hopefully."