The Skin of the Gods, Page 2

  “My partner knows. He’s in London.” Harold was looking sick; the blood from his face was draining.

  “I need a name damn it what’s his name?”

  “The Soul Collector,” said Harold wishing he had not heard his words.

  “Now you’re just rambling. You’re a stupid fool.” Harold started to drift off to sleep. “Wake up,” shouted Paul shaking him violently. “Where is this Amulet?”

  “I’m not supposed to say.”

  Paul drew his fist back ready to strike and stared deep into his wide eyes. “Tell me and tell me now.”

  “It’s hidden,” Harold leaned forward spewing foam, ale and food from his mouth onto the floor.

  “Let’s get out of here before William wakes up and gets mad at us.” Paul lifted Harold to his feet and steered him to the back exit.

  It was a fifteen-minute walk to Harold’s residence. He stumbled often and needed to rest slumped on the cold cobbles. During this walk Harold unwittingly told Paul more details of the Amulet and its strange healing properties. He mentioned the pact he had formed with the Soul Collector to protect the Amulet. He explained the Amulet was an ancient relic from Egypt, which contained other mystical properties. When asked about its location Harold would only repeat, “It’s hidden.”

  When asked where it was hidden? He would fight the effects of the drug knowing that he should not tell. It took all of his will power and internal strength but he knew he had to fight. As the drug wore off he continued to fight. Every fiber in his being was fighting the effects of the drug knowing he had sworn to keep this secret. When pressed he would raise his finger to his lips making a shushing noise. “It’s in a safe place.”

  Earlier when the drug was potent Harold had told Paul about the special powers the Amulet possessed. He described its origins, its journey, and how his family had protected it for generations. Paul required one missing piece of information. He needed to know where the precious Amulet was hidden. Paul knew if he had the Amulet it would make him powerful and irresistible. Claire would be fawning over him. He had to have it. He had to have her. He could see a more prosperous life ahead of him. He would do anything to get Claire. The very thought of them together spurred him onwards.

  Heaving under the strain Harold dragged his feet along the cobbles. He could not support his weight and relied on Paul to sustain his forward motion. He hung on as best he could with his strong arms but his legs were numb. His head swirled and he felt sick again. Paul staggered forward trying to support Harold’s body weight and his own. They managed to ascend a steep incline with a couple of stops for rest. Drawing closer to Harold’s residence the moon broke through the thick cloud cover illuminating the narrow cobbled street ahead. The shadow of a large figure loomed through the hanging mist. At his side the outline of a dog could now be seen. As the pair staggered forward the looming figure approached. The dog raised its hind end and lowered its snout. The dog’s top lip curled upwards baring its teeth and snarling at the approaching pair. The snarl was accompanied by a low menacing growl. The fur on the dog’s neck had raised and he was in a combative stance.

  “Quiet Dusty, take it easy boy.” The alert Beagle heeded his Master’s command but remained vigilant. His eyes focused on the emerging shapes stumbling closer through the mist. He sensed something was not right and he was not going to be caught off guard.

  “Is that you Master Harold?” Jackson was the trusted head servant of Harold Armitage. His family had served the Armitage household for four generations. Jackson rushed forward to support Harold’s weight and looked at Paul with dark piercing eyes. Dusty stood guard ready to pounce when needed.

  “It was a good night; we all had way too much to drink. He fell in the pub and hit his face on the edge of a table,” said Paul convincingly.

  “Thank you for bringing the Master home. We’re in your debt.”

  “It was the least I could do for a dear friend.”

  “You’re too kind Sir. We’ll take him to his quarters immediately. Thank you for your generosity.” Jackson supported Harold’s weight effortlessly and carried him quickly into the house. Dusty sized up Paul before turning and following Jackson into the house. Paul turned and briskly walked away shielding his face throughout the brief exchange. Paul beat a hasty retreat but could not get the thought of the powerful Amulet out of his head.

  Had the truth potion worked or had it made Harry delirious? Was the Amulet the ramblings of a drugged up drunken fool? If the Amulet was hidden how could he get that power? It would certainly help him win Claire’s affections. His other answers seemed truthful so why would the Amulet story be false? Paul could not recollect his journey home. His mind was so preoccupied with the powers of the Amulet. He needed to have it at all costs.

  When Jackson, Harold and Dusty entered the house all was calm and the night staff had retired. Jackson had decided to wait up for the Master and of course what Jackson did Dusty followed. Carrying him into the servant’s kitchen Jackson gently placed the Master of the house onto a wooden chair. He lit a couple of oil lamps and placed them on the table. He looked at his Master’s swollen face covered in purple bruises. His right eye was starting to close from the swelling. His left cheekbone looked scratched and bruised. He was awake but obviously drunk. This was highly unusual. The Master never got drunk and would never throw his fate onto the charity of others.

  Jackson looked down to his Master’s waist. A small gold chain attached to a gleaming pocket watch was still in place. He reached for his Master’s right hand and confirmed his gold ring was still intact. Jackson exhaled heavily; he was now content that his Master had not been robbed. The facial bruises did not make sense and heightened Jackson’s suspicions. Dusty lay on the floor watching the men. In his teenage years Jackson had relied upon his large frame and fast hands. He would earn some additional income from street boxing and bare-fist fighting. The bruises on his Master’s face resembled the injuries he would receive from being hit. It made no sense how he could receive this type of facial injury on both sides of his face from a fall into a table. Swelling could be seen around both eyes, cheeks, the nose, chin and neck. Something happened here and he was not being told the truth.

  Jackson decided to get the Master to bed quickly and without much fuss. He did not want to alert the live in staff to his Master’s condition. He carried him to his quarters and helped him get ready for bed. Jackson winced as his Master rubbed against an open wound he had received. It was an accident earlier that day but it resulted in a small painful gash on his left forearm. The Master threw up again wrenching his stomach contents. They reeked of a foul musty odor. Jackson made sure the Master was settled and sleeping comfortably before he did the final rounds and secured the house for the night. The live in staff were settled for the night and the house returned to normal. He listened to his Master’s heavy breathing and decided to remain with him this evening. He threw a couple of large logs onto the bedroom hearth and watched the dancing yellow flames caress their new companions. He slumped into a deep armchair next to the bed and quickly realized he was shattered. It was not long before the fully dressed loyal servant was crumpled in deep sleep within the large chair.

  Dusty watched the scene unfold still bright and alert. Satisfied any danger had passed he sniffed the air with his keen nose. He looked at the Master of the house breathing heavily in bed. He turned his gaze to his Master slumped and asleep in the chair. Dusty walked over to the stone fireplace and lay upon the thick woolen floor rug. Curled into a small ball, he soaked up the fire’s welcoming warmth. This was a treat. He was not normally allowed to sleep in this room. As he settled in for the night he could hear breathing and the steady rhythmic ticking of the mantelpiece clock. He could smell the fire but didn’t notice anything else unusual. His black eyelids became heavy as they started to close over his bright brown eyes. Morning would come soon enough for now it was time to sleep.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 2: Another Nightmare

 
; Haworth, West Yorkshire, England, Present day.

  The hallway looked old with oil paintings adorned with golden frames hanging in the darkened passage. The baseboards were made of wood and were wide compared to modern standards. It’s the little details that you notice when things look odd. Above the wainscoting, the walls were covered in a material that looked like rough cloth. He could not see any power outlets, plugs or phone jacks, in any of the walls. This house was old, clearly built in a simpler age. An old-fashioned oil lamp hung from the wall.

  He proceeded down the hallway. An overwhelming sense of stealth washed over him. He knew he must not disturb the remaining occupants. The sweat was running down his neck and he felt excited and hot. Every one of his senses seemed to be on edge. He felt like a powerful animal stalking its prey. As he crept through the house he started to hear a low droning noise. The faint murmur of a secretive conversation could be heard from the room at the end of the hallway. The conversation seemed lively but the men kept their voices deliberately low. You could hear two distinct voices but it was impossible to decipher meaning from the muffled sounds. The house was dark. The only light was emanating from an oil lamp hanging in the hallway. A soft light could be seen bleeding from a small room adjacent to the main reception corridor. The wooden floor creaked under foot immediately causing him to freeze and listen hard. Was he detected? Was there a break in the conversation? The soft murmurs of conversation continued in a steady pattern oblivious to the unwelcome noise. From the street outside the faint sounds of a horse drawn carriage could be heard passing over the cobbles.

  A soft noise drew his attention downwards to his right hand. He gripped a large knife tightly within his clenched fist. Even in the limited light the steel of the blade shone brightly towards the handle. The tip of the blade was dark. The tip was stained with blood. It dripped steadily onto the floor making a soft patting noise as the droplets hit the hard wooden surface.

  When the men stopped talking all he could hear was the thumping noise in his own chest. Some papers were rustled and the conversation resumed. He needed to get closer to hear the words. He needed to hear. A man was walking around in the small room. He could see a shadow on the wall ahead moving in relation to the light source. He inched closer to the door and withdrew quickly as he realized the man was just around the corner, the other side of the doorjamb.

  The man was carrying a brass candleholder in his right hand. He placed it carefully on a table close to the door. He reached for a bound leather book from one of the library shelves. It was tightly packed between other books and he needed both hands to extract the book. The side of the man’s figure could be seen from the reflection in a small dark windowpane.

  “I think I have a rare book here somewhere on Upper Egypt and what the Greeks call Lycopolis,” said the man standing in the library.

  The man passed the book to his colleague. He turned his back and provided the perfect opportunity. Licking his forefinger and thumb he reached around the door. The younger man was sat at a small desk. He was distracted as he peered into the book. He strained to read the text in the dimly lit room. The older man was standing with his back to the door blocking the line of sight. He pinched the wick of the candle with his wet digits throwing the room into darkness. A small amount of light pierced the room through the uncovered window. The room remained uncomfortably dark. The man turned his head as the candle extinguished.

  Within seconds he leapt forward and plunged the sharp blade deep into the back of the standing man. He grabbed the top of his victim’s shoulder with his left hand. He thrust the blade forward with pinpoint precision using his right hand. The flimsy material of a shirt offered no protection from the curved steel blade. The flesh carved easily as the knife entered his back. Warm blood seeped onto his hand as the weight of the man’s body pressed down upon the blade. He withdrew the blade quickly and the man fell instantly to the floor. He needed to deal with the other man. He needed to neutralize the last remaining threat.

  He could feel the adrenaline pumping through him and he was completely committed to his task. It was as if his mind was going through a series of preprogrammed steps. Kill the other man quietly and quickly. He needed to be efficient. He stepped forward faster than he thought he could and hovered over the darkened figure. Still in shock and acting confused the younger man cowered. He flinched to his left to avoid the blow. The library was a small wood paneled room that doubled as a study. Books were housed neatly on shelves and piled methodically on the wooden floor. A woolen throw rug provided a base for an elaborately carved wooden desk. A smaller table sat to its side. The walls were adorned with five carved animal heads made from wood. These ornaments were hand crafted and of high quality. Each animal head separated a set of wall cabinets that housed several shelves of books. The carvings added some interest to a section of paneling that otherwise would have been quite plain. The room had a small fireplace that was not being used. The library had one small window and used the same narrow door to enter and exit.

  The younger man seemed rooted to his chair acting confused and disoriented. He seemed partially paralyzed moving slowly. A downward blow was prepared to render the young man lifeless. He was trapped in an unfortunate position. At that angle the blow would inflict serious damage. He raised the blade to enter at the top of the man’s neck. He felt powerful with his eyes trained on the target area. The room seemed darker with the young man frozen in a state of panic. The blade was raised and ready to strike. The man turned his fear stricken face upwards as tears welled in his wide eyes. A strong force prevented him from delivering the fatal blow. A violent force gathered around his forearm. He suddenly felt searing pain. He could not say where the pain was coming from but it was enough to snap him back to reality.

  “Matt. Matt wake up!” shouted Beth violently shaking her fiancée. Beth continued to shake his shoulders but this was a bad one. Matt was covered in sweat his hair tangled. He was lashing out with his arms, clearly upset. “Wake up Matt. Please wake up; it’s just a dream. Matt it’s just a dream.”

  Matt sat upright in a movement resembling a spasm. He disconnected from his nightmare. “Jesus Beth what the hell’s going on?” Matt was scared, disoriented and confused. Beth reached for the light switch and glanced at the alarm clock. The digital readout announced it was only 3.30am on a Saturday morning.

  “Another nightmare,” moaned Beth. “What are we going to do with you Matt? We can’t seem to make it through the night these days.”

  “I’m sorry love that was a bad one,” said Matt rubbing the sweat from his face. Matt could still feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention.

  Beth held his hands and stroked them in a calming way. Matt had rough hands with hard patches of skin and calluses. He had working mans hands, rough and honest. “It can’t go on like this, you have to see someone. At least talk it out with someone. I don’t know if I can go on much further like this?” Beth walked into the bathroom and soaked a facecloth with cold water. She wrung the excess water into the sink before returning to bed and handing it to Matt. “What was it this time or dare I ask?”

  Matt flashed a look to indicate his reluctance to go into detail. “The same dream as before with the knife. It’s so vivid Beth. It’s like being in a horror movie but you’re right there. It’s graphic and I’m pretty sure it’s me doing the killing.” Matt rubbed the cold damp facecloth across his brow and down the front of his neck.

  “It’s getting worse isn’t it?” said Beth finally looking at Matt.

  Matt stared at the foot of the bed and had to admit that it was, “Yes. I’m dreading going to sleep these days. It’s frustrating, I don’t know what’s causing this.”

  “Once in a while we all get bad dreams. Yours started with one or two a month, now you’re doing this every night. You’ve got to get this sorted Matt for your sake. You look like hell with those bags under your eyes. I’m starting to fear for my safety too. What if you’re asleep and you turn on me with
out knowing what you’re doing?”

  “Don’t even go there,” said Matt unable to comprehend the thought.

  “Well I’m terrified. You hear about these things on the news all the time.”

  “Okay. I’ll go see someone first thing in the morning.”

  Beth leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “Thanks we’re going to get through this together I promise. You just need to talk it out. In the meantime I’ll hide the kitchen knives,” said Beth with a mischievous grin trying to lighten the mood. Matt threw the sheets to one side and stepped into his jeans pulling them up and snapping the belt tight. He continued to get dressed with some urgency.