Simeon took hold of the metal knob and turned it, pushing open the door. The atmosphere inside was immediately oppressive, as if there was a storm about to rage within the tiny confines.
Closing the door behind him, Simeon took in the appearance of the place: the walls covered with pages of religious texts, strange symbols painted in blood upon any surface that had remained untouched, magickal talismans hanging from the ceiling, candles burning before makeshift shrines to gods and saints known, and long forgotten.
And in the center of the room, sitting in the middle of a circle of protection drawn upon the rough wood floor, sat the shadow of a man.
Simeon was surprised at how bad he looked, the incident on Gunkanjima having far more of a devastating effect on him than the forever man would have imagined.
“Do I know you?” the man asked, his voice soft with weakness.
“We met briefly,” Simeon said. “On the island.”
The man’s eyes grew wide and filled with tears, before his expression changed and the evil spirit that resided within him reared its ugliness.
“Oh to be there again,” the evil spoke in a voice horrible and rough. “To be part of all that death—glorious; but I do not remember you.”
The man turned his body in the circle to face him.
“Come closer,” the spirit said, motioning with a finger that had become like a claw. “Maybe if I was to taste you . . .”
Simeon crossed his arms, unfazed by the evil entity’s teasing.
“You do not remember, for I chose that you not,” Simeon said. He showed the entity possessing the man the rings adorning his hands.
The spirit gasped at the sight of the two rings.
“But I know you, Constantin Malatesta,” Simeon said. “As well as the ancient thing that resides inside of you.”
Malatesta closed his eyes, his face lined from incredible strain.
“Please,” he begged. “You must leave at once; you’re not safe. Even with all this protection . . .” His eyes darted about the room. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep it contained.”
Simeon smiled.
“Contained?” he asked. “And why would you want to do that?”
Malatesta looked horrified. “Why have you sought me out?”
“I come with an offer,” Simeon said, picking up a piece of religious statuary from a nearby table. “I require someone with your skills.”
“Skills?” Malatesta repeated with a shiver, still attempting to keep the entity inside him from regaining control.
“A sorcerer,” Simeon said. “I have need of a sorcerer.”
Thomas E. Sniegoski, Walking In the Midst of Fire: A Remy Chandler Novel
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