Psychopomp

Every hall and room they pass through preaches the building’s size. Near its end they enter a domed chamber made entirely of Lanier Oak, its rich dark grain so full and marbled it absorbs the illumination of the diamond chandelier and sheds a fresh, candle-like alpine aroma. Full scale models and statues stand in nooks within the walls, in poses of thought, action, and pleasure. Furniture of velvet cushions and pine frames bid welcome at the room’s epicenter, just below the painted dome while further in at the end opposite the entrance is a grand desk of cedar timber.

Harvey leads them in with an attractive young assistant in tow, dressed in a blue pleated skirt and tight button-up blouse with delicate shoulder pads. “Daria,” he proceeds straight to his desk and takes his seat, “turn on the radio and fetch us a bottle of scotch. The Verde Mhyna, platinum graved.”

“Yes, Mr. Engels, right away,” she bows her head then twists on the radio before leaving. Smooth vocal jazz flows through the chamber in her absence.

“Platinum! Not silver! Sit, sit,” he waves his spotted hands at the seats before the desk.

Ewain and Anaxander do so, Anaxander lounging in his while Ewain sits straight and rigid. Even with his glove on, he feels a dense noxiousness emanate from the chair he sits in…the cold-cased heat of temptation.

“If she grabs the silver?” Ewain asks.

Engels twists the lamp on his desk on, then flicks a speck off its surface, toward the Psychopomp. “Let us hope she does not.”

“Yes, for your sake,” Still and focused Ewain remains, leaning upon his elbow as he qualifies the Trust the man is bound to now. The whole truth.

“The whole truth,” Engels repeats.

And nothing but the truth.

“And nothing but the truth,” he finishes with an amused grin, “May Detia judge me fairly.”

Daria returns, clutching in her two petite hands a crystal bottle given color by its fluid amber content. “The Verde Mhyna platinum, sir,” she extends it toward him, into the lamp light.

Quiescent, he takes the bottle and examines the metallic engraving etched into it, “Three glasses, Daria.”

“Just two, miss,” Ewain corrects, offering a look of sympathy when she glances his way.

Down his nose, Mr. Engels looks at him as one might look upon an ignorant child, “This, Psychopompos, is Mhyna. For nigh fifty years it aged in a fine Rhymarian oak barrel before ever entering this bottle. It is older than you are, distilled just before the Spring Storm when the Eye trembled and Antigonus Epimnas was still king. There is providence and majesty in this bottle, which I am offering you a taste of.”

The corner of Ewain’s mouth raises his mustache, “Which will make my refusal all the more impressive.”

“Absurd, more like. Your inclination, Krypteian?” his dark eyes swing lateral to the eased, beard-stroking man.

“I confess I lack the Psychopomp’s discipline. Quite the pitch you gave, Mr. Engels, to ingest history. A glass, indeed, for me, miss.”

“Two, then, Daria. Neat.”

With quiet discipline and a tense curvature, the young lady opens a drawer on Engels’ side of the desk. Inside are glasses bound by cushion and adjacent to them a silver barreled weapon. Her hands shake rigidly as she pulls out two glasses, unseals the bottle and pours it into the glasses, taking care that not a drop falls outside its crystal lips. Her two hands offer Mr. Engels his cup, and then do the same for Anaxander.

“The pitch was well versed,” Ewain says, “Perhaps one of many you practice to coax others that have sat in this chamber.”

Taking a sip of the scotch, Engels drifts upon its prestigious flavor with closed eyes for some time before opening them, “An accusation or a question?”

“An accusatory question,” the Psychopomp responds.

“Before you leave, Daria, bring me some pomegranate. Seal the doors behind you after. I will summon you if anything more is needed.”

Letting loose a bated breath, “Yes, Mr. Engels,” she bows once more, quickly brings a bowl of glistening purple-red orbs, and exits.

Chasing some of the seeds with the sweet singe of scotch upon his thin lips, Engels speaks, “Persuasion is an art, looked upon fondly by the Ichorians. I am an artist. Perhaps my talent can elucidate how it is both a Psychopomp and Krypteian visit me as a pair. I have not known members of your Orders to partner, much less for an obscure murder case, I presume, that befell our humble Ward.”

Anaxander hums with approval as he delicately sips from his glass, “Call it celestial chance, Mr. Engels. Two cosmic bodies, immovable and unstoppable, on intersecting paths collide and by force are together through the fruition of this task.” Another sip he takes.

“These girls you cast for these performances,” Ewain cuts straight now, “how do you find them?”

“I do not. My agents do. They walk about the Lower Quarters, beyond Gatea, and report to me any of interest, that are interested in the potential opportunity.”

“And the criteria to be of interest?”

Swirling his remaining scotch, Engels stares unyielding into Ewain’s cosmic eyes, “Beauty enough to stir the loins of an Ichorian, or at least the potential for it. Malleable. Eager. Talented. Good physical conditioning.”

“Among those candidates, one must have stood out,” Ewain keeps his intonation even, “auburn hair, eyes blue as Triton’s, sense of fashion beyond a Plebeian.”

Engels nods with recognition, “You speak of Norma Jean,” he finishes his glass, grabs more seeds, and pours another, “She did stand out, to say the least. Thought she was a Patrician trollop at first, so besmirched she had to wander the Lower Quarters to fill the space between her legs. Once I learned the truth, however, that she was a plebeian touched with the beauty of Iris herself, well, I had to have her here.” Engels recalls with grinning relish, “Quite comely, that one. Worthy of ballads…if not for that, then for her enthusiasm.”

“Explain,” Ewain’s even words redden with low heat.

How Engels speaks so willingly, imbibed with fuel of fervor, he recalls memory as though retelling it is experiencing the story again, “Oh, when I reached out to her for the first time, told her who I was, how I wished for her to join my theater and the doors that could open…. I must admit as a man of art I never before saw such palpable exhilaration. As if I asked her to embody utter bliss, the fulfilment of a dream, ha.” He refuels himself.

“Two, three times a week she came here, on time, early even. At first it was for lessons, practice, we had to teach her dance, presentation, acting. Despite her beauty she was still a plebe, after all, no more versed in the arts than a dog with rhetoric. For hours, she stayed after each lesson, looking for any critique, any feedback to improve herself. She even told me of her life, her mother, a shame to be sure. I felt pity for her but” Engels clicks his tongue and shakes his head, “An amateur, to be sure. Dance lacked fluidity, her acting could be stiff, and her presentation just crested above average but the looks, the innocence,” the last word he utters with prickling savory.

Ewain’s breath seethes in him as steam, his fingers upon his knee and the side of his face burrowing into his skin. “Control,” Art urges to him. “Control.” So, the young Psychopomp remains stiff, unmoving and unspeaking.

Again, Engels imbibes the regal Mhyna, “She had to be a centerpiece of a performance. People would remember her, desire her, come to see her again and again. I told her I would give her the part of Nyphone, but she had to audition for it first. How happy that seemed to make her, how she jumped up and down and thanked me. Then the next day, once I gave her the script, what a change there was. Where Morrius reveals her, ravages her, the girl said she did not feel comfortable with that part. Tried to imitate a concern for the modesty of a patrician woman,” he laughs and shakes his head, “It was and is a requirement for the part, of course, I made that absolutely clear to her. She would be behind a mask, under a wig so no one would ever know it is her.

“So, Norma Jean tried to audition, attempted the role,” Engels raises his glass in a mocking toast then kisses it evermore, “but when that part came and young Morrius moved to remove her lace, she stopped, could not do it. She cried and cried, apologized and begged for another chance, a different role. Begged even more when I told her to leave my theater and stop wasting my time, would not stop until I told her of something else she could do. I told her to change and meet me here.

“She was a little more composed, but still did not stop the incessant sobbing. I offered her some pomegranate to put her down” Engels pours himself another glass, nearly emptying the bottle, and ravenously swallows it all, “’You could not do the performance, but you can still reap one reward.’”

“Psychopompos,” Art calls to him, “control.” His partner no doubt feels the magma rushing through Ewain’s body, the enkindling in his chest.

“Once she was…calm,” Engels looks at Ewain, into his eyes and shows his teeth through a satisfied grin, “I ravaged her over and over on that couch,” he points to the furniture behind them, at the center of the chamber. “I took that sweet young virgin body for myself and ravaged it just as Nyphone should have been.”

Ewain jumps from his seat with such force it throws the chair aside, and he strides toward the vile, abhorrent creature in his sights.

“Psychopompos!” Resounds Art’s vibrations in his bones.

Engels reaches into the drawer, next to the cushions, pulls out the weapon.

In the chamber, the gunshot rings endlessly, its piercing crack caught in a loop that dissipates fractionally with each repetition.

Engels’ howl of pain follows as his hand reaches for the gushing, impacted flesh crater in his shoulder. Before even time can muster count, the Psychopomp kicks the man out of his seat and onto the floor, where he kicks the sidearm from Engels’ grip. Holstering his Keresta Hand Cannon, he stands over the creased man now.

Within Ewain fusion and fission seethe from the sight of the creature below, from the incineration of innocence as wood to coal, the cruel sacrifice of naivete as if a lamb having its throat cut with a serrated blade. “You deserve to suffer. In the hellfire of Tartarus, endlessly drawn and quartered, castrated, you will suffer.”

Blood seeps profusely from the shoulder into a spreading pool on the floor, “You will not kill me,” Engels coughs and tries to smile.

“He will not,” Anaxander casually rises from his seat and places his empty glass upon the desk before coming around to behold the sight, “but I can, Mr. Engels. Very impressive, Psychopompos.”

“It was his own life he aimed to end,” Ewain kneels down, bringing himself closer to the reviling man, “His chance of besting one of us alone was already astronomical, two of us…non-existent.”

“Kill me, Krypteian,” Engels goads, “Go ahead. I am ready for it.”

“Psychopompos?” Anaxander draws the blued semi-automatic pistol from his gun belt.

Ewain takes a deep breath, trying to cool himself, slow his thoughts, numb his nerves. “Wait. After,” it angers him just to acknowledge it, “what happened? Did you have her murdered?”

“I…” Engels grunts, “I was not involved in her death!”

“What happened, then? What did you do?”

“I am already damned. I have nothing more to say to you.”

“What of the Funerary Box? We know you purchased a false one from the Boatman. What did you do with it?”

The back of Engels’ eyes quake, “I gave it to the whore for her mother, seemed the godly thing to do for a peasant.” he tries to grin. “You should have seen how touched she was. Genuine, innocent tears. Just like when she learned what I did to her.”

Furious tremors assume Ewain’s hands, “Did you have her killed?” He persists.

“No, I had nothing to do with that.”

Ewain moves his thumb toward the open wound. Suddenly his arm freezes in place.

“No, Psychopompos,” Art forbids, stymieing motor control. “We are not torturers. He deserves to suffer, I agree, but the Ichorians will attend that more aptly than we can. Our authority lies with the case.”

“We need the information,” Ewain growls.

“You will never get it from me,” Engels taunts, “are you trying to scare me?” He scoffs.

“We do, but there is another way. Perhaps more reliable. We can Extract it from him.”

His other hand upon his thigh, Ewain discreetly taps. Conflict.

“Yes. You being connected with the victim, empathic with her, we cannot have you evaluate his memories. But I can.” Never did Ewain hear his partner plead like this. “I can insulate you from his memories and sift through them myself. Trust me with this, Psychopompos.”

For moments Ewain glares at the man of his ire, the flesh nexus of his burgeoning rage. He should suffer, feel the pain he inflicted. A quick death, absent any earthly recompense seemed unfair…merciful even. Only the innocent suffer. He closes his eyes, wades on the words of his partner. “Okay.” Control returns to his arm and he retracts it, but he cannot yet retract his ire, “Do you know much of Dormancy?”

Engels only stares back at him, attempting to shield his welling fear by matching the terrifying furor in the Psychopomp’s fair face. “My blood descends from a line that walked once with the Ichorians,” he tries to growl, “closer to ichor than you will ever be. You end me, both of you will be the ire of many patricians, you-.”

Anaxander’s foot cuts the words off as it presses down on the man’s throat. “The man has one foot in the grave, and still, he insists on threatening us and anchoring himself with further damnation. Many of the Old Lines have ended, Mr. Engels, and many of them with dignity and honor. Grasp what little of that you can before your end.” He removes his foot.

Letting the Krypteian’s words settle with brief silence, Ewain begins, his voice menacing, “As a Patrician of means, I presume you never thought it a concern, but it will be your fate. Once your life is ended here, you will feel a sudden iciness as soul vacates this weathered and cracked vessel. A warmth will come over you briefly as your soul awakens on the Eye and dissolves into the Stygian to become part of everything and nothing. You will go into the Long Sleep, waiting for the ashes of a body that will never rejoin you. Ashes that will never touch Ashwood, go nowhere near the river’s currents. You will be Dormant just like the plebes. A Dormant’s integrity crumbles after six years. You will wake to nothing, be numb, blind, deaf, and dumb and crack into a thousand pieces. You will never be remade Beyond. Never walk the green meadows of Us-Tir. Never feast with the Ichorians. Never know peace again.”

He watches with discreet relish as the quiver of Engels’ lips betray him and beg in praying whispers for divine mercy. Ewain stands, “Mighty Ichorians, this man Harvey Engels has admitted to the violation of the soul of one of your children, admitted to Ashwood falsehood. In the name of Detia the Judge and Mykar the Executioner, I condemn this man to death. May his Dormancy be unending and unforgiving.” Ewain stands, “Krypteian, aim for his heart.”

With no word, Anaxander mechanically adjusts the aim of his firearm then fires.

In an instant, a fraction of a second, life vacates the body of Harvey Engels, drifting away with the smoke that sizzles from the pit in his chest.

“Leave me be in here, Krypteian. There is something I must do, and you cannot be spectator to it.”

“Do you intend to desecrate the dead?” Disapproval comes into Anaxander’s voice.

Ewain looks at the dead, at the essence-spewing hole, “I intend to extract the information he refused to provide. Nothing more, nothing less.”

From a pristine humidor on the desk, Anaxander pulls an aromatic cigar and sniffs it, “Very well.” Swishing the finger full of Mhyna left, the Krypteian takes the bottle and his glass with him, “The Warden’s Office will need to be informed of this anyhow.” A reverberating slam and click announce his exit.

“Psychopompos, I advise we zero your emotional profile now.”

“No, not now.”

“Your empathic responses are getting too pronounced. They are compromising your control. If we let this accrue further, which it naturally will, then the site will manipulate you.”

“If I numb now, right before we take on the case, I lose the connection to her, the understanding of her. The site will thrive off that, as well, Art. No zeroing,” the words punctuate with finality, then he pulls out the crystal-bladed knife. “If we use the card in the Mermera, the Mission will have to carve another one. I doubt they keep surplus here.”

“I will notify the Mission to prepare another one. By the time we return and are prepared for the site, it should be ready. We must do this if we want to know any more.”

By the corpse’s head Ewain kneels with knife at the ready. Grabbing it by its greasy hair, he positions the knife point as centered as possible upon the skull’s crown. It must pierce between the spheres of the brain, where a small jolt will go forth as sonar and return with as much neural and synaptic information as possible. With the propel of a breath, he thrusts the blade through the cracking bone into Engels’ brain.

Subdued tangerine lights flicker in the hilt, like lightning in dark clouds. The body twitches and rattles and from its lips usher fractured syllables. Ewain plants his hand over the corpse’s mouth and fights it for steadiness. Little by little the body loses its vestigial vigor and the lights their flicker until the nothingness of demise reclaims its spoils.

“If we do this here,” viscous blood clings to the blade on its exit, “without the Mission facilities, the recall will be lacking.” Ewain looks at the hilt, at the pulsing card extending from it. “Miss nothing, Art.”

“I won’t.”

Moving toward the wall, Ewain lowers himself to the ground and sits against it. He wants nothing to do with the regalia of the pharaonic room. The timely accruement within each piece, the possible sliver in their historical prisms that no doubt encapsulate a moment of contact with some innocent girl entering the den of a salivating predator taints it all for him.

When he inserts the card into the second slot behind his left ear, Ewain immediately closes his eyes and distills his concentration to one simple, profound duty: breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Fill the lungs to their capacity, exhale to their complete deflation.

No cue or pronounced signal tells Ewain when Art begins the recall, but he feels its initiation submerge him swift and sure. Below the ice, he and his brothers call the sensation, like sinking into glacial waters that freeze just as it takes the whole body. Blood vessels constrict, brain function declines, and thoughts no longer conduct. Breathing, the most fundamental function for the body’s sustainment, one which the body pilots if consciousness forgets it, becomes the sole connection for him to life.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

In. Out.

Art’s words arrive with a sudden flurry of warmth, charging throughout Ewain’s body and imparting residual tingles to his fingers and toes.

“He did not kill her or have her killed,” Art says in a low tone, as though he still processes everything he learned. All of it came to him from the perspective of Engels and even a Covenant Partner needs a moment to digest and dispense the feelings and parse it into the third person. “When the victim woke up after he assaulted her, he told her what happened and threatened her. Told her he would ruin her life, dismantle every opportunity she may ever have…if she ever spoke of what happened. After…after the victim left, he had her followed, wanted to be apprised of her movements: who she met with, if she tried to go to the Peacekeepers.

“He got the reports in this room, brief, terse letters. Met Miss Cornelia one day, sallied to some bar another, visited her mother, but that was the extent. He did not want to kill her, worried it could lead to him.”

“What of the box?” Ewain asks, ejecting the card from the slot and bringing it before him.

“Gave it to the victim once she told him of her mother’s condition, as he claimed. He wanted to bind her to him, appear ‘divinely gracious,’ as he put it.”

“And when she discovered its falsehood? Did she confront this worm?”

“I…didn’t see any memories of such. It’s possible the discovery was made after the assault upon her and-“

“She did not want to see or face him,” Ewain completes in a low voice, his gaze pivoting from card to corpse and back and forth. Like the stem of a match, he could so easily snap the card and a residual essence of Engels with it.

“Don’t do it, Psychopompos,” Art’s voice more conciliatory than reprimanding. Ewain never knew if a CP felt just the outermost sensations, the thermosphere of his senses. The sight of the eyes, sound of the ears, signals of the dermis, or if they knew the currents of deeper within, emotions, thoughts. He never felt a desire to truly know.

“There is no honor in it, and we can never divine the future. There may yet be information needed beyond the horizon. Let us speak with the victim’s mother, conclude our construction of her mental and emotional state, and embark upon the site.”