Book 2, Chapter 73 - A Dark Personality (1/2)

Chapter 73 - A Dark Personality

The gallant young man turned his glimmering eyes onto the Butcher. An easy-going smile touched his bright face. Everything about his face – from his eyebrows to his eyes to his mouth – was friendly and inviting. He was the very picture of a friendly boy next door.

But it didn’t blend at all with the dried blood and stringy meat that clung to the rest of him.

“What are you doing?! Hurry up!”

The Butcher didn’t know how strong his companion really was, but he had to have some skill if Frost de Winter chose him for this mission. Cloudhawk had to be close, the situation was dangerous, but the guy was simply taking his time like there wasn’t a care in the world.

“I do want to help you, honestly.” The young man offered a sheepish smile and bashfully scratched his head. With a helpless sigh he said, “But he wouldn’t agree. You’re exactly the kind of person he hates, and I’ve worked so very hard to keep him from killing you up to now. I really hope you understand.”

His partner’s confounding words sent the Butcher in a rage. “What ‘he’?! What the fuck are you on about!”

“He…” The first thing to change were the young man’s eyes. Their sentimental warmth vanished and a scarlet light rose behind his pupils like a ghostly fire had been lit deep within. Next was his expression, the contours of his face, his mouth – everything changed almost immediately. The man was the same man, the face was the same face, but the soft lines all grew hard. Friendly eyes became ferocious. All at once he went it was as though a bloodthirsty demon had woken up inside the angelic boy and changed him completely. His pleasant voice had changed, too, and now was grating to the ear – coarse and savage. “He is me.”

So fast!

The Butcher’s two-hundred pound body was flung into the air by a kick he hardly saw. He still wasn’t sure what was happening when a bone spear pierced right through his chest, pinning him to a tree.

He gaped, absolutely at a loss at the changing circumstance. This was unthinkable, how could this person change so suddenly, so dramatically? Why would he attack his companion without any rhyme or reason? Had he forgotten Frost de Winter’s orders?

“Ah! Free at last!” He looked down at his blood-soaked hands and a sinister chuckle rolled from his throat. He stretched and took several deep breaths, as though he’d been locked in a box for days and only just let out. He stopped over to pick up a dagger and began to play with it, tossing it from hand to hand. He slowly walked toward the Butcher. “You know, every time I see someone like you, so eager to lick the gods’ boot heels, I can’t help but feel… inspired. Artistic expression just fills me up, threatening to burst free. It’s a compulsion to create.”

The Butcher had no idea what he was talking about. He grabbed the spear jutting from his chest and winced and he tried to pull it free. “I don’t give a fuck what sort of freak you are! You just signed your fuckin’ death warrant! Frost de Winter will see you hanged!”

The blonde man didn’t answer. He stepped in close and with his dagger deftly cut a path along the Butcher’s face. He carved a circle – not deep, not large, but just right. The dagger split the bigger man’s flesh and traced a path until a patch of it fell away. An ear-piercing scream of pain served as musical backdrop. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Naberius [1] and I am an artist. Carving is my specialty.”

The Butcher continued to scream and struggle.

Naberius’ dagger continued its gruesome tour of the Butcher’s body. Like a skilled artisan he continued his work, absorbed in the process, inch by bloody inch. As flesh and muscle fell away his twisted expression was almost intoxicated. Before long the ground was covered in blood and meat.

The process was surprisingly quick, though the pieces were small. Still there was no crueler punishment.

In a testament to the madman’s skill he kept his victim conscious all along so he could feel every bite of the dagger. Agonizing torment ensued and he would not permit for the release of death. Not yet. He would keep his plaything alive so long as he was ‘inspired’, for as long as three days and three nights. Even when they were nothing but bone and organ his toys still lived.

An artist needed an audience, after all. Who better to appreciate his work than the source material?

Naberius liked to show his victims his masterful work with a mirror when he finished. The more they wailed, the shriller their cries, the more satisfied he became.

The Butcher earned his name, certainly. But this one… he was a true demon.

As he neared the two-hundredth pass of his knife Naberius shuddered, as though a shock had run through him. His dagger deviated ever so slightly, nicking an artery. Furious, he shouted at the wind. “Gabriel! [2] What are you doing? I haven’t completed my masterpiece – ‘The Angel of Bone’. Don’t even think of interrupting my work!”

Gabriel’s will was inside him, battling for control.

Naberius could play for days, so what recourse did Gabriel have? They didn’t have time for this, they were only still breathing because they were supposed to go to Hell’s Valley. If they were eliminated and returned home with their mission incomplete, the result would be their execution.

Two minds struggled over control of their shared body.

Cloudhawk watched the exchange from behind a tree. He witnessed everything, from the Butcher’s nightmarish mutilation to the struggles of the blonde haired man. Inwardly he cursed Frost de Winter for being a freak, but the ones he sent after him were just as insane.

The ugly one was mad for slaughter, rather straightforward.

The handsome one was a multi-personality psychopath. Typically he seemed gentle, even shy, but deep inside lurked a pitiless and foul spirit. It was more than just twisted thoughts, too, for when one or the other came out their abilities were different.

The dark one was much, much stronger than the normal man.

By himself the golden haired youth was no weakling, and paired with the power of the darkness he was a fearsome foe. His perception and psychic power was also formidable, without a doubt. If he had any relics Cloudhawk wouldn’t stand a chance.

He was a true monster.