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Chapter 47. Dead!
by Antonio

He had no idea why he was bothering with the locked box, on tonight of all nights.

"Why not break it open with the hatchet?" somebeast had asked. His weary mind was unable to recall exactly who had made the foolish suggestion. Aras? The wolverine's colossal head could not have been filled with only air; he was smarter than that. Thalliv, perhaps, although, maybe it was…

Whomever had made the misinformed suggestion, they had failed to notice the particular shape and make of the device. There was clearly some sort of safeguard designed into the box to prevent forcible entry; knocking upon the metal and listening proved that there was a compartment within the box. This combined with the design proved that there was some sort of vial of fluid that would burst upon the lock being pried open, ruining whatever clue was inside. Or perhaps there was flit that would strike tinder, igniting the contents and injuring the beast who dared to break the lock. Antonio couldn't quite tell. Besides, he did not have the hatchet anymore.

After finding a good place to work, one without so much visual noise, he set about examining the box. No visual clues on the surface that he could discern. No bumps on the outside of the box, no openings save the lock.

Antonio sighed. He hadn't the faintest idea why he was doing this. But he knew he couldn't leave it as it was.

It's crooked. he thought. I can't just leave her there like that. Her arm is-

"Anybeast wanna say…anything?" said Aras.

Antonio shuffled his footpaws, then spoke. "Miss Sybil was…a most valuable asset to the group. She will be missed."

Nobeast else said anything. At least Antonio hadn't heard anybeast else say anything. He was focused on the hole, the grave. And how her arm was crooked, how the cut that spread from one side of her neck to the other was malformed. The grave was all wrong, too. There was no symmetry. There would be no sleep tonight, Antonio knew, not with all of these glaring errors staring at him.

Rea spoke in what was presumably her native tongue. It was incomprehensible babble to Antonio, made worse by how she muttered every syllable so that nobeast could understand. Burial rites, more than likely.

And then she howled.

It was near a B-flat, only just, off-key as her voice was. He could not stop thinking about the howl. He longed for a pitch pipe or an instrument with which to correct her tone.

Dirt was shoveled over Sybil, over the corpse. That was no way to shovel dirt. "Haphazard" could not even accurately describe the way they threw the earth upon her. One had to evenly spread the dirt before moving on to the next layer. He should correct them right now, explain to them how a proper grave was dug.

Antonio did not move. He stood, staring at a crooked arm, while dirt was shoveled unprofessionally over a corpse, and an imperfect B-flat drilled into his head.

Perhaps a drill would work. Antonio looked about the room. The trouble was, their current housing offered nothing in the way of hardware. There had been enough of it at Castille's dwelling, however. He had taken up residence in some sort of a storehouse, making good use of the tools there. The bastard.

"Castille!"

His voice hurt him. Excellent, another pain to add to the list. His legs ached, his lungs ached, his chest ached, his head ached and now his throat ached. Five aches. At least it was a good, square number. Two more and he might have been more upset.

He knew he was in here. That smell was curdling the air.

A shadow moved to his right. Glass shattered and metal clacked against wood as Antonio upturned the table, spilling it towards the shadow. Nobeast was there. Antonio turned around to see a gaping hole in the ceiling, revealing the night sky, moon blazing half-full in a cloak of grey-blue clouds. Castille must have exited from that hole and Antonio attacked his shadow. The stoat turned to leave, the nights breeze warm on the back of his neck.

His elbow connected with warm midsection. Fur brushed against his shoulder as Castille doubled over. The night was cold; it was only Castille's breath that had been warm.

The axe arced dull silver in the air, missing as the sable ducked, countered with a punch to Antonio's midsection. The stoat exhaled, tensed his muscles, rolled into the impact. He brought the axe back around. Wood collided with skull. The resounding vibrations were enough to shatter a wrist, but he still held onto his weapon. A kick sent Castille staggering backwards towards a window.

Castille was nothing more than a disorganized, hulking ink blot silhouetted in front of the window. Even through the lack of light, each and every one of his physical faults were highlighted perfectly. Antonio feared he would increase his growing headache by staring at the macabre collage of a beast crouched before him.

"Did you a favor," he half intoned, half chuckled as he teetered over the windowsill. Antonio walked closer. "One less sloppy urchin for you to deal with."

The hatchet flew through the air in an awkward, unrehearsed arc, again striking only air as its target plunged over the side and into the jet dark.

"He's…he is gone. I am coming down," he announced at the top of the stair. Contrary to what he expected, nobeast was watching the stair in anticipation of a foebeast descending. They were instead all gathered around the table at the center of the room.

Antonio approached the mob. He did not have to ask but an answer was provided all the same, from a tear stricken Rea.

"Sybil…Sybil's…"

The candle had blown out. Gads, was everything so unreliable around here? Shoddy floorboards, beds misaligned from the walls, pictures hanging crooked, a severe lack of centering and symmetry of placement of the door handles. One should not expect perfection from a whorehouse but there were standards of living to follow.

After much digging through a cabinet he was sure was leaning at an odd angle thanks to a malformed base, Antonio procured a tattered box of matches from a drawer. It barely was a box. A box was not a box unless it possessed only ninety-degree angles; this one had at least one eighty-five degree angle. Or possibly an eighty six. Maybe an eighty-seven. Yet in this darkness, who could tell? With a flick of the wrist and friction that raised a shiver throughout Antonio's arm, he ignited the match. He jumped at what he beheld in front of him.

It is not even possible. Nothing of this magnitude on that surface is even possible

Whiskers pointed at odd angles. Fur clumped in messy gobs at all sides. Deep creases had formed in the brow, untidy, uneven. Antonio reached out to see if the phantom was real.

His paw touched the glass of the mirror. It was. His disheveled face contorted into something worse and he immediately set about repair.

The whiskers were taken care of easily enough, though he found it hard to control his quaking claws as he pinched and preened. Rearranging his facial fur was made nearly impossible by this sudden affliction. He could not do a single thing with his paws. Weariness had gotten to them.

It had never gotten to him before. Weariness had never gotten to him. Ever. But it had now, surely. Next was the hair upon his brow. His paws were more unstable than thin parchment in a typhoon. Wrestling both his nigh uncontrollable muscles, he smoothed most of the creases. He was done.

Except for his ears. They were crooked, he was sure.

Crooked? Had they always been that way? He would have noticed, surely…surely. Something like that wouldn't escape him. It was a new deformation.

Ears do not misalign themselves on a whim, he corrected himself.

They had to have always been crooked. Antonio clenched the sides of his head. But then, why had he not noticed? But then, why-

He slammed his fist down upon the dresser where it remained glued for a good while. The action pulled him out of the loop at least. Antonio concentrated on the box.

No hinges to remove, no way for him to pick the lock. He ran a paw across his left ear. No way to force the box open because it would undoubtedly damage what was inside. He felt the other ear. He simply did not posses the needed tools. Why, with a proper drill or auger or perhaps even a carefully maneuvered hammer and chisel, maybe he could-

His paws froze. He was gauging the height of his ears without even knowing it.

Fates knew he did not have enough troubles already, oh no, surely not with two, three of his own dead, one of the surviving members having tried to kill him previous and the other surviving member who clearly did not consider him to be enough of a leader to consult him before terminating their collective deal with Sarkeleyet. And his plans, oh, his lovely plans, were all going quite swimmingly. Really, how else could they go when they were so deep sunken in to their conception stages that he virtually had none, all those steadily built up before now eroded through by the winds of change. No, he needed his affliction to intensify right now, needed his practical madness to afflict him now, when every bit of him needed to focus on his goal, else he fail or perish. Why not another distraction? Why should fate not tear the carpet from underneath his feet, as so many a time ago?

Knocking at the door – two knocks, only two and not the standard three knocks – jerked Antonio's head at an odd angle. Away with them. Let him finish his work.

"Do come in."

The door opened. Ah, thought Antonio, the whore. Just who I need to see at such a time.

"I heard a racket from downstairs. Is everything quite alright?"

Infernal. Everything is infernal.

"Quite alright. I was merely unable to sleep and so ran into the dresser in my restless pacing."

The vixen nodded. "I see." She began to shuffle. Antonio knew what that shuffle meant. Any moment now, she would ask him.

"You seem troubled. Is there…anything you'd like to talk about?"

Antonio could feel a growth at the back of his throat.

There is nothing to talk about, positively nothing that words would solve. And even if there were, I would not want to share them with the likes of you. Now, be gone before I catch whatever diseases you have contracted from your harlotry.

"I am afraid that I don't – do not have anything with which to share in conversation, Miss Pearl."

Tell-tale signs played across her face. She would speak again, but would she hold her tact?

"All of us have had quite a day. It might help to take a load off your mind."

What would take a load of my mind wound involve you leaving me alone

Antonio smiled. "Thank you. I do confess that I am…rattled. And disappointed." He, took, kept his tact. "But I am afraid there is nothing specific about which I can speak."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry about Rea and Sybil and…and Dirano."

His eyes moved to the floor.

"As am I."

The silence played out amidst the odd shuffle from the prying vixen and occasional breezes pressing against the house. Antonio stayed still. He waited.

Just leave. Leave now. Let me alone

"Well, I wanted to make sure you were alright. After that little spat with Sheriff Bull…" She shuffled again, prompting a meek smile from Antonio's lips.

"I assure you that I am quite alright. Do not feel obligated to stay."

Yet, current trends what they were, she continued to hover over him, gradually decaying his patience until she finally said farewell and retired for the night, thank Fates.

Wide eyes looked at the box from a tilted angle. As his lids lowered, he could feel his lips purse as though he were about to give the object a stern speech.

You really are a poor excuse for a puzzle box, do you know that? Honestly, most come with some sort of a clue inscribed upon their hull, but you, sir, are entirely bare. No pressure mechanisms, no concealed buttons; nothing short of a key will open you and even then, what could you possibly have that would be of any help to anybeast?

The Brandy, he reminded himself. That fabled crimson swill of which they had heard so much legend and hyperbole. Three beasts dead for the concoction of a madbeast.

Only two. There had been only two who had really died searching for it. The third, she had been watching out for her comrade, not smart enough to run when she saw the signs.

The wolverine's mouth was agape to the point Antonio fancied he could hear a wind echo through the wide, dark space. Everybeast was not sure they had actually heard the news they had heard. Aras was not sure he had said what he had said. But he did not repeat himself. There was finality in that quiet as he stood there, nodding without moving in the way his eyes fell and shut.

Somebeast snorted.

"Shame somebeast didn't tell them not to go on that fool errand. Oh, wait…I did." The volume in the room grew without a sound being uttered as all eyes turned towards a smug looking Brull, sitting in his easy chair. "Told the marten, told the freak fox, told you," he pointed at Ikarus, "and I told you!" he concluded, pointing at Antonio.

Pearl blanched visibly. "Mr. Brull, I don't believe now is a good time for this..."

"Oh, I think now is as good a time as any," the rat sneered, lifting himself out of the chair and beginning pacing. "Isn't that right, Tony?" The stoat cringed at the improper use of his name, but there was no relenting undertone in the Sheriff's manner. "You go and tell everyone here how I came up to you and told you not to go on this damn fool quest and how it was a bad idea."

He did not want to hear this. "Sheriff, if you would kindly-"

"Would you kindly? Would you kindly?" the Sheriff mocked in a high pitched voice. "That's all I ever hear out of you, 'would you kindly'. Would you kindly cut your garbage manners?"

"Shut up."

The world seemed to stutter. Antonio thought he heard a gasp though not a single mouth within the room moved.

"Yes, shut up. Shut up because nobeast likes to hear the truth. 'Specially not high maintenance prats who are used to the world bending over and kissing their tail at the snap of their claws."

He was shaking now. "You are trying my patience."

"Aw, s'the matter, Tony? Plan not work out? Someone botch their grammar? Speck of blood on your pretty paws? C'mon, shove a stick up your rear and walk around like your better then every beast and act like Emperor of the World. Used to cheer you up. I know [i]I liked being talked to like an infant."

"Shut [/i]up."

"Let's hear it, sweet-heart, let's hear it. Say, 'Brull was right, and I was wrong.'"

He was not wrong, not about the Brandy, not about any decision he had made. He could not be wrong. Because if he was, then it was his paw on the blade as it fell upon his three comrades.

"Heck, you can even skip the first bit if you really want, but I've got to hear you say the other-"

Brull was on the ground. He was standing, his words freshly leaked into Antonio's ear and then he was on the ground. Brull was on the ground and Antonio's knuckles bled.

They were only just sore, rather. Rending flesh from paw with one blow was impossible. Yet with all the force behind it and the pain resonating through his paw and wrist…

"Mister Antonio, why'd ya-"

"Calm, everybeast be calm!"

Sombeast growled, was suddenly hit away.

"No. Nobeast lay a finger on him."

He thought about kicking Brull. He thought about ramming his foot so far into his face that he would physically be unable to smirk at him again. He did not do it.

Antonio said something to Brull before ascending the stair. He could not remember just what it was. Something about Brull's mother. Probably. After the climb he shut himself in the room he claimed on the second floor, sat upon his mattress and stared at floorboards. They were uneven.

They were still uneven, he noted as he exited his room. He contemplated returning with a hammer when his business was done before mentally striking himself. Take a hammer to those boards? Perish the thought! He would need a pry-bar for that sort of work.

Antonio paused at the top of the steps. Silisk's room was to his immediate left. He should not tell anybeast where he was bound, especially not Silisk. In the jungle he came close to death several times. One of those times was by the paw of one of his own – coil, rather. Antonio felt himself stiffen even then as he recalled her shuffling against his neck, that cold closing over his windpipe. She had but been a burden to his shoulders, had probably ruined his shirt from her constant moving upon it with her soiled scales, given him no information which he could now use and was a liability overall. He should tell her nothing.

Antonio pushed the door open. He made his presence known a good five paces from her least he startle the adder into consciousness and have her bite him. A small clearing of his throat combined with a weak stomp upon the floor stirred the sleeping serpent.

"Silisk?"

Though she lacked eyelids, a fact which still caused Antonio's stomach to churn, he could barely make out her eyes blinking back the transparent membrane that covered them in sleep.

"I am on my way to see Sarkleyet," he said.

"Why?"

"Aras terminated our agreement with him without our permission. By going back to him and apologizing for our…comrade's actions, I believe we may yet gain useful information on the Brandy as well as have access to more supplies."

"That was not what I was asking. Why, pray, are you telling me?"

Antonio stared at the floor. "We have a contract."

Silisk stared at him. She could see that there was something more. Thankfully, she was not vocal about it.

"Very well. I shall accompany you."

Antonio waited until she finished draping herself about his shoulders and upper body. Her coils did not feel so foreign or dirty anymore. With a nod, he left her room and descended the stairs.

Silisk had tried to kill him. But she did not. That was what mattered.

Seven beasts left Sarkelet's mansion several nights ago, together. Three were dead. Two ties were cut before they were barely even formed. One stayed at the back of his mind, even after he saw him hanging, alone. Of the living, one could not be trusted.

Two beasts left The Oasis that night and returned soon after. Together.