“Hmm… aniseed. Mint? If it was absinthe, it would have that licorice flavor, right Bruich?” Sam asked the slumbering cat. “I know, I know. It could be poison, right?” An unnatural urge to taste the liquid overcame Sam. It was almost magical, a surge of desperate surrender possessed him and even in his intoxication he felt a twinge of warning for the thrall of the substance. Sam’s fingers shivered and he felt genuinely wary of the power that gripped him. He was not one to believe in ghosts and demons, but if there were such things he guessed that this was what an encounter with their terrifying subjugation felt like and it was deeply unpleasant. For a torturous few minutes that stretched into what seemed like forever, Sam felt truly terrified to the peril of his soul at the hand of the supernatural presence that he inadvertently released from the vial.
A cold sigh fell against his forehead and cheek, provoking an unholy shudder from the base of his skull to the muscles in his buttocks. Hair stood on end over every inch of his skin and he felt his heart begin to slow, but his hands could not let go of the silver hell he played host to.
“Now listen up, Sam. You are just drunk, you silly son of a bitch. Snap out of it,” he said out loud to himself. In this he not only coaxed himself into a good bout of skepticism, but also imagined that whatever breed of thing had him by the psychic balls would think him ignorant enough to ignore and go away. Yet, it only tightened its grip on him, gradually spiriting him away to some otherworldly dimension right here in his own living room.
Everything, including his laptop, his beer bottles and his cat, remained the same and still he felt a world removed from it all, caught in some other time-space continuum while witness to this one. In his ears, a surreal hissing began, luring his lips closer to the mouth of the vial while his hands disobeyed him. The hissing got louder, even though there was no sound at all in his home, occupying the entirety of Sam’s mind as his hands lifted the silver artifact to his mouth, eager to quench his thirst and curiosity alike.
As the rim of the container touched his reluctant lips, Sam tried to scream, but no sound escaped him. It lifted, courtesy of his own hands, tipping to pour, when Sam’s cell phone ring tone split the silence in the room and freed him from the power of the spell. With a grateful cry of relief Sam threw the flask aside with repulsion, only too happy to be able to control his own actions again. On the screen, Nina’s name.
“I am getting rid of this fucking flask, Nina! It is evil!” he cried in a hoarse panting voice that alarmed the already nervous Nina on the other side of the phone.
“Listen Sam, put the flask away. I will deal with it when I get back. I just wanted to check in with you, because I need someone to know where I am, in case this turns bad,” she reported, sounding a little rattled.
“Nina,” he said calmly, “where are you?” It dawned on him that she was out on some fool’s errand, chasing after Val.
“I am tailing Val and she just pulled in at Denton House in Newington. Something’s up, Sam. I don’t know what exactly, but she is seriously shaken about something. I will be back as soon as I have found out what she is really involved in,” she said with a bit more restraint.
“Nina, wait for me to get there — for back-up. You cannot take on these people alone and you know it. My god, do you have a death wish?” he tried to reason with the obstinate beauty, but she replied simply that she was just going to speak to Val and all would be well.
“I am on my way,” Sam said, but Nina had ended the call halfway through his response and he was once more left alone in his quiet living room. He shot a hard glance towards the flask on the couch, a feeling of some intelligence coming from it, as if it were watching him, as if it would counter any precaution he would employ to remove it from its wicked power.
Chapter 15
Nina parked the 4x4 under the towering, dark trees just as the evening took on a coolness that announced the cold night to follow. Quite a distance away and well hidden from view, she watched Val enter the house and decided to play the supportive, concerned friend angle at first. Waiting to see what would ensue before she went to see her friend, Nina found that all was quiet at the house. About 50 or so motorcycles stood parked all around the house in the yard. She saw no models like the ones at the robbery, though. From a distance, she watched.
Four black vehicles approached the property not more than 20 minutes later. They made no secret of their presence and blocked off the entrance by parking sideways in front of the gateway. It was an odd thing to do, but they had reason to. From the last car in tow emerged a skinny bald man with a long black coat and leather boots. In his hand he held a walking stick, not for any handicap, but for his personal sense of style. He did not knock at the door, but instead motioned for his men to surround the place and mind the exits.
“Gunnar Joutsen!” he cried in the mild evening air, his voice remarkably strong for his frame. Nothing happened. Again, he called out to Gunnar and waited, impatiently tapping the end of his stick on the gravel in front of his feet. He looked up to the window where the curtains had moved aside slightly, but could not see anyone there, peering down on them.
The heavy front door opened and Gunnar stepped out. He was alone.
“State your business, I am eating dinner,” Gunnar roared at the intrusive nuisance with the stick.
“You are Gunnar?” Slokin asked cordially.
“I am,” Gunnar replied, “And you are trespassing.”
“You are the leader of The Brotherhood, correct?” Slokin said as he slowly walked closer to the large biker with the braided beard.
“No, I am the leader of Sleipnir Motorcycle Club. There is no ‘Brotherhood’ here. You must be mistaken,” Gunnar replied, growing ever intolerant of the asshole who had the audacity to park in front of their gate as if he owned the place.
“Listen, friend. Please don’t waste my time. I know who you are and you know I know, so let us not engage in childish games,” Slokin pressed.
“Listen, prick, I don’t know what you are looking for or what you are talking about, so I suggest you and your girlfriends pull out of here while you can all still walk!” Gunnar threatened in his robust voice, drawing the attention of his brethren. One by one, they emerged through the door behind him, immensely intimidating in their heavy biker boots and club colors.
“You can come willingly, just you, and nobody will get hurt. The Brotherhood knows the location of a place we are looking for. All I want is you, Gunnar, to come with us and show us where. It is not rocket science. It should be exceedingly simple for a man of your… intelligence… to point your finger, right?” the thin skinhead insisted, his words dripping with insult.
“Don’t patronize me, you little fuck,” Gunnar smiled coldly as he walked up to Slokin and grabbed him by the throat in a brutal grip that took the air out of Jasper Slokin’s trachea before he could utter another word.
“Are you deaf? I don’t know what the hell you are talking about!” With that he released Slokin with such force that the thin man fell to the ground.