Diamond Eyes - 7. Chapter 7

That night they dined on a simple meal of bread, grapes, cheese, and salted pork Mr. Fritz had brought with him from the Imperium Market. Earlier Vanus courageously ventured down into the cellar and discovered a wine cache that had been collecting dust, so they had wine with the meal. After a couple of glasses of wine and a day full of adventure, both the orphans excused themselves. Together they climbed the stairs.

"Do you find this all odd?" Jill asked ponderously when Vanus turned to go into his room.

"Very," he said. "It's like being in a very long, very vivid dream. Sometimes I'm not even really sure it's happening."

"It's happening. Because if it's a dream, then we're both experiencing it. In just a few hours this will all be yours."

"All of this is yours, too, Jill. This house is just as much yours as it is mine."

She bit her lip. "Van, what do you think is going to happen at midnight? Mr. Fritz, may the Seraphim bless him, hasn't exactly been very forthcoming.

"I have no clue. Maybe there will be bright flashes of light and the earth will start shaking beneath our feet, or an angel will fly down from the heavens to declare me the patriarch of the Kaufman legacy. After two days of this shite, I've learned it's best to just go along with everything."

"Are you scared?"

He thought for a moment but couldn't come up with a definite answer. "If I am, I'm not letting myself feel it."

"If you need me, come find me." She kissed his cheek.

Vanus didn't mean to fall asleep. He simply fell on the bed his mother used to sleep in and fell asleep. He jolted awake sometime later in a panic. Night had fallen by now and the shadows in the room was thick. He had the uncomfortable feeling of being in a place that wasn't familiar to him. Is it midnight? Did I miss it?

He stopped, searching himself. He certainly didn't feel different than before. There were no flashing lights, no angels tapping on the window, just darkness and silence. He was ready to leave the bedroom – his bedroom, he reminded himself, not his mother's bedroom or anyone else's bedroom – when he heard a strange creaking sound coming from somewhere close by.

Vanus stood stock still, listening. For a moment everything was silent.

Then he heard it again. It was coming from the next room.

Julian’s room.

He could hear someone rummaging around in there.

“Jill?” He called. Who else could it be?

The rummaging sound stopped. Someone was definitely in there. It could be Mr. Fritz, or it could be rats pillaging about for food. Or it could be an intruder. Heart pulsing in his throat, Van grabbed his dagger and slunk out into the corridor.

The door to Julian's room was cracked open. Someone had managed to unlock the door without the keys - the keys Vanus still had in his room - and let themselves inside. Whoever's inside, they broke into the wrong house, the orphan thought, gritting his teeth. Readying for a fight, he shouldered the door open, and charged inside, the dagger raised over his head.

There was no one else in the room.

He froze, eyes widened in astonishment. Someone was in the room, I know it, I heard them!

He stood in the dark, listening to the hoof-beat of his heart. His fingers relaxed around the handle of the dagger. The orphan's shoulders shook with silent laughter. What a fool I am. There's no one else in the house except for Jill and Mr. Fritz. He turned to leave the room. Had he not turned the exact way he had, he might have not noticed the reflective glint of silver in the dark or the open closet door.

He went to it, curious.

A strange box sat on the top shelf of the otherwise empty closet, the edges perfectly even with one another and sharp looking. Strange runes unlike anything the orphan had ever seen before had been etched into the side of the box. The runes pulsed with an ambient silver light that fascinated him. Slowly he reached for it with both hands. A voice in the back of his mind whispered a warning about what happened to orphans who touched things that did not belong to them, but the part of him that was attracted to pretty things ignored it.

He lifted the box from the shelf. It felt strangely light in his hands, not nearly as heavy as it should appear. He shook it to see if there was anything inside it. Nothing rattled around inside, but there was a strange thrumming sound that came from the object. He ran his fingers along the edge of the box only to feel a sharp sting. The edges of the box were thin enough to cut through flesh! The object fell from his hands. It hit the floor, bouncing end over end until it landed to a stop in the hallway.

Vanus cursed. Droplets of blood hit the carpet from where he'd cut himself. Clutching his finger, he moved towards the corridor.

Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock chimed loud enough to be heard. He froze once more, his back rigid.

It was midnight. It's my eighteenth birthday. I'm eighteen now.

A voice called his name from the corridor. It was unfamiliar to him and yet somehow, he knew who it was; it pulled at him like an invisible string. The box continued to pulse and hum, lighting up the darkness, but he was no longer interested in the damned thing.

Lord Charlie Kaufman stood at the end of the corridor. He looked as he did in his portrait, stone-faced and aristocratic in a black three-piece seat.

"You're supposed to be dead," Vanus said. Only his lips did not move. It was as if someone wired his jaw shut. Icy terror wiggled its way inside him like a black worm. This is a dream. It has to be. He's dead. He hung himself from the chandelier. Somewhere a clock chimed the arrival once more; the sound echoed inside his chest with a heavy thump, as if the true source was internal.

When the former patriarch spoke, his voice was raspy, softened by melancholy. "Vanus…you are the staff by which our forefather, Azrael, imparts his will. Follow me and take all that is rightfully yours."

Then he turned and walked away.

The orphan had no choice but to follow. He could not scream for Jill or Mr. Fritz, because he could not open his mouth or move his tongue. He was under the control of a force more willful than he; perhaps it was the draw of destiny pulling him to the spot where he needed to be. But for Vanus, who had always valued his ability to make his own decisions, the experience was utterly terrifying.

He followed his uncle down the steps, with only the light to see by. The walls of Kaufman Manor creaked and swelled, breathing with a life of its own. Unseen voices called his name in a synchronized chorus: "Vanus…Vanus…Vanus…"

The double doors in the parlor swung open. Vanus had no choice but to follow his uncle out into the night. Tendrils of silent mist snaked around the property of Kaufman Manor. The fact Vanus knew for sure this was not a dream only made the experience more terrifying. Only the chill of the night and the throb of pain where he’d cut his finger on the mysterious box assured the orphan it was no dream. Something else was at work here and he was powerless against it.

The angel that guarded the manor was alive.

Slowly it turned its head to face him. Its eyes burned with violet fire, with life, fury, and compassion.

It knelt before him, holding out the staff. Offering it to him.

“Claim it,” said the spirit of Charlie Kaufman. “Claim all that is yours and know that you are exactly where you need to be.”

Vanus took the staff.

Something that had been inside him from the moment he was born, dormant but always there, awoke. Vanus fell to his knees, overwhelmed by the power that coursed through him. It seeped out of him in the form of violet lightning, digging furrows into the ground. He screamed in release; the experience was beyond orgasmic. His fingers tightened around the handle of the staff, seeking purchase, for something to keep him anchored to the ground.

When it ended, he wasn't sure how much time had passed. It could have been minutes, or it could have been days. He leaned on the staff for support, riding out the final waves of euphoria. He whirled around, remembering the statue. It was back in place, as if it had never moved. The only difference was the staff…it was missing. No, not missing.

Now it's mine.

The spirit of his uncle was also nowhere in view.

"Vanus!"

He whirled around to face the Manor. Jill burst out of the house, with Mr. Fritz struggling to catch up behind her. Their faces were pale with distress.

"There's someone…something in the house," Jill gasped. "A daemon. It's destroying things in the house."

Vanus pushed his will into the staff; he didn't know how he did it, but the knowledge was there. The staff was an extension of his will, and with his new powers nothing could stand in his way. Sparks of light shot from the end of the staff, spinning towards the night sky.

"Stay here, where it's safe," Van said.

His eyes burned with violet fire. "Neither of you can come into the house until I tell you it's safe, do you understand?"

"It's too dangerous to go in there by yourself!" Mr. Fritz sputtered. "You'll get yourself killed!"

His words fell on deaf ears. Van sprinted towards the house and did not stop until he reached the parlor. Once inside, he crouched against the wall behind an in table, staff resting against his knees. His pulse pounded in his ears. At first things were eerily quiet, then something shattered close by. It sounded like it was coming from the dining room.

"...where are you? Come out and face me!" a voice boomed, thunderous and full of rage.

The doors to the dining room crashed open and a hulking figure stormed into the parlor. The daemon’s height and build made the tallest of men seem small. Its shoulders were wide and its arms bulged with muscle, veins rippling beneath thick dark-red skin. It wore thick breast plates made of steel over a broad chest. Horns made of ivory poked out of its massive bald head. Its yellow eyes burned with rage. In a hand the size of two men’s heads put together; it carried a sword as long as Vanus was tall.

Van had never been so frightened in his life. This creature would rip him apart. Only the thought of Mr. Fritz and Jill waiting for him, helpless and afraid, kept him from bolting.

“I can hear your heart pounding in your chest like a jackrabbit’s,” the daemon growled. “You might as well come out and face my wrath like a man after what you did to me, Henry.”

Henry! Van’s eyes widened. He gulped. “My name is not Henry. My name is Vanus Kaufman, and I am the patriarch -”

The table beside him exploded in a shower of splinters and fire that threw Vanus several feet across the floor, rolling and bouncing. He landed on his shoulder. His ears rang with a thousand alarms. He shook his head to clear the grogginess. Fingers of black fear held him in his grip. Fighting to stay conscious he threw a panicked look back at his attacker.

The daemon stomped towards him, making the floor shake wherever he stepped, sword raised above his head. Vanus searched frantically for his staff. He snatched it up. Just as the sword was making the descent towards his head, he held it up. Steel clashed against steel. The daemon’s sword glowed with an inner fire, but then so did Van’s staff. It suffused a blinding light the same color as Van’s eyes.

Van's muscles strained to keep the daemon's blade at bay. He lashed out with a desperate kick that knocked his adversary's blade aside long enough from him to flip backwards onto the heels of his boots.

Already the demon had regained his composure. He charged at the orphan, swinging madly. The blade hissed through the air. Vanus had no choice but to duck out of the way.

"I knew you were no, good, Henry!" the daemon snarled. "No wonder Vanessa's afraid of you!"

"I told you…" Van spat back. "I'm not Henry!"

Bolstered by sudden rage and the need to survive, Vanus thrust his staff at the daemon; the daemon also did the same with his sword. Two bolts of light met in the center, before ricocheting back at their senders. Van’s fear hardened into a sphere of purple light around him that absorbed the impact of his own attack. The daemon had no such luck. The impact sent him stumbling back through the doors into the dining room.

Van no longer felt the need to run. This creature had somehow gotten into his home and attacked both he and Jill; it clearly intended to kill him. He’d tried to get through to him and he was clearly beyond reason. Staff humming in his hands, he charged at the demon and leapt up. His foot connected with the demon’s chest. They crashed through the doors of the dining room. Vanus advanced, lashing out with a flurry of blows. The demon’s eyes widened in surprise. He had no choice but to back up onto the long dining room table in the center of the room. Chairs flew in every direction.

Vanus pursued the daemon, leaping up onto the table. He knew if he was going to survive this fight, then that meant he would have to defeat his opponent. If not defeat him, then disarm him. He moved quickly, pivoting and spinning. It seemed his body and staff were one, propelled by the energies that stormed and raged within him. He’d felt hints of the power before, like feeling a single drop of water splash against his skin. This was a river and the power was like a tide. A weapon, a force to be reckoned with, and it was his to do with what he chose. I will use that power to defend my home and the people I love! I will use it to live!

The daemon’s blade clashed with his once more. The strength of his blow drove the orphan back on one knee. The fear returned to Vanus, his death close at hand. The daemon was so…strong.

“You put me in that torture box, Henry!” the daemon roared. “And the whole time I’ve thought of nothing but tearing you apart limb for limb! And I’m going to enjoy it...I’m going to make up for every agonizing second you forced me to endure!” Something made of glass shattered against the daemon's armor. It wasn't enough to hurt him, but it did cause him to look away. Gasping, Jill backed away, the shattered pieces of a vase falling from her fingers.

"Jill, get out of here!" Van bellowed.

He lashed out with the staff using an uppercut that knocked the daemon's fiery sword from his hand. He pressed the bladed end against the daemon's throat threateningly. The daemon gaped at him, shocked. When Vanus spoke, his words rang with the power betrothed to him by Azrael. "I will tell you one last time, I am not Julian. My name is Vanus Kaufman, son of Vanus Kaufman, and you will yield!"

"You are not the son of Vanessa Kaufman!' the demon snarled. "If you knew her at all, you'd know she was barren. Kill me now, lest I rip out your tongue for lying!"

"It is not a lie, Guardian." Mr. Fritz staggered into the room, huffing and puffing. "In the name of the Imperium back down, or do you intend to kill the patriarch of the Kaufman legacy!"

The daemon looked from the lawyer's pasty round face to Van's. "It cannot be!"

"Look into his face, Daemon. Do you not see the likeness of Vanessa Kaufman staring back at you?" Mr. Fritz demanded in a strangely commanding voice.

Silence filled the room. Vanus remained tense, prepared to strike the demon again if he must.

"I see it now," said the demon. "You could be her ghost, but you also look like Julian…"

"And what of the staff he carries in his hand?" Mr. Fritz inquired.

"But I was always told…"

"Well apparently you were lied to, they were wrong, or his birth is a miracle of the Raphaim, but he is standing here, and he is the very patriarch you are meant to protect."

A deep rumble sounded from within the demon's chest. His broad face shifted from a miserable grimace to that of an apology. "My most humble apologies. There is no greater sin than a Guardian striking his patriarch." Like a boulder, he lowered himself to one knee. He lifted his arms, offering his sword. The blade no longer burned, but was that of regular steel. "Cleave my head from my shoulders so that I may serve an eternal exile in the Infernal Depths." He said the words as if there was grit stuck between his teeth.

Slowly the meaning of this morbid ceremony dawned on Vanus. He looked at Jill. She sat at the foot of the stairs, watching the spectacle with bloodshot eyes. "Are you hurt?"

"No," she said. "I'm just a bit shaken."

"Mr. Fritz?"

"I'm fine."

"Good news, daemon. You get to keep your head and your sword as long as you promise not to raise it at Jill or myself again. Otherwise, I will put you back in the box. Do we have an accord?"

The daemon blinked glared at him. His irises smoldered with uncontained hostility. Eventually he nodded, but it was not without great reluctance. "I give you, my word."

"What do I call you?"

The daemon cleared his throat. "You can call me Bazzelthorpe."