Wil iam Marsburg had not yet touched his own brandy, though he could have used it-he was chil ed to the bone. "No matter," Marsburg blurted. "I can only thank you, sir, for being kind enough to al ow me to prevail upon your hospitality as my host."

"Certainly." Herr Wagner was stil marveling at the fact that Marsburg had evidently arrived at his isolated doorstep on foot.

"I shal leave early tomorrow. I do not wish to put you out in the least." Marsburg wanted to say far more than propriety would permit-he wanted to interrogate the man, make him pay for his insolicitude, cause him pain, beat him, bind him and extract the answers he sought; that he valued more than his own life. And though Herr Wagner made a show of protest and offered him his house for as long as he required it, Marsburg knew he was being insincere. The German had wanted him gone as soon as his ident.i.ty had become known to him.

A servant showed him to his room. He turned into bed and slept fitful y.

He awoke in the morning to find his host as missing as was the book for which he had come. The valet, however, soon came howling into the drawing room in hysterics, screaming sacrilegious oaths in frightened German. Wagner was in his room, murdered; flayed like a beast and strung up by his limbs above the bed, dripping. Wil iam Marsburg could not stifle a shudder, knowing more than he would readily admit.

Police came to investigate and found nothing but the unspeakable realities. They instructed Marsburg to remain in Stuttgart until further notice. That night, if he had been unable to sleep wel the night before, he slept not at al .

In the morning, feeling on the edge of il ness, he arose for breakfast, courtesy of the late Wagner's servants. It tasted horrible. He knew, of course, exactly what he intended to do.

As soon as there was reasonable opportunity to take his leave, he dismissed the servants to quarters and began searching the house. He was not a man to be kept from what he wanted, especial y after having traveled through so much adversity. And he could not al ow himself to flee, though he could taste his desire for it, until he had at the very least satisfied a l.u.s.t far darker and more compel ing: his l.u.s.t for the book.

It was a dark day; the heavens seemed to mourn both the loss of the master of the house and the manner of his pa.s.sing.

Down long corridors, past hideous wooden gargoyles and demonic statuary, over creaking floorboards, he crept. He searched using only what daylight made its way past the shutters into the house. After hours of searching, only one possibility remained: the cel ar.

His breaths came in short intervals as he realized what he must do. He risked discovery by the servants as he exited the back of the house and stepped into the snow. Though only fine rays of sun filtered through the thick clouds, the light was focused on him, as if announcing his plan to the world.

He stepped lightly toward the side of the house, where a single heavy door was situated over the steps that led to the dankness of the cel ar. Brushing off a crust of snow from the frozen iron ring on the door, he heaved upward, snow sliding off noisily into a pile beside it. He glanced roundabout him and, seeing no one but the dog, descended quickly down the stone steps, al owing the door to close softly over him. It was like, he supposed nervously, being buried alive. He wondered offhand if that was what his own funeral would be like-with none in attendance, none to mourn his pa.s.sing but the dog.

In the stifling darkness , he reached his trembling fingers into the pocket of his greatcoat and found his sterling matchbox. He struck a match and it flared up, revealing the icy puffs of his breath, then a taper candle set on a ledge. He could not see much in the darkness beyond. He took a deep breath and tried to reject the overpowering idea that he would share Wagner's fate, only in slightly different gruesome detail down among the roots, stones, and mud.

He lit the taper and stepped forward cautiously into the icy darkness. It did not take long to look past barrels of flour and barley, jars of pickled beets, bottles of wine, toward a single wal with bits of plaster peeling from it.

He moved toward the wal , examining things closely on the way as he looked for clues. Behind a large barrel, he saw what he was looking for. There were cracks in the plaster in the shape of a square, where it was darker, fresher. He rol ed the barrel aside with his free hand and set the candle on top.

He ran his fingers along the edges of the cracks. The plaster was moist, crumbling off and smearing on his fingertips. He cursed the old German, so freshly dead. "He hid the book here for some selfish reason, no doubt," he whispered his abuses into nothingness. He wiped his grimy, sweaty hands against his clothes.

He searched for something to sc.r.a.pe the wet plaster from the wal , finding a stave from a whisky barrel. He looked around for enemies, deciding in the end that surely he had not been fated to get this close only to be struck down. He turned to his work and began to sc.r.a.pe the plaster away, revealing the lath boards beneath. As he stabbed at the crumbling wal and one of the boards broke, revealing a hol ow behind.

He broke more boards away and gasped. There, revealed by the light of his candle, was a dark chest. It was smal , about the size of a book. "At last!"

he hissed, then cursed himself for making so much noise.

He pul ed the box from its stealthy hole with a little effort and laughed in spite of himself. "This is it!"-he knew it. The bronze clasp gave way easily as he opened the lid. Inside was an antique book, hidebound. It was glorious, and he gasped again in worshipful awe. Once more he looked around into the edges of the darkness for sinister signs that the enemies he had made over the course of the last year of his life were awaiting him. His hands were dirty and sweaty, and he knew that he should not touch such a treasure with such hands... nevertheless he proceeded. His whole body shook as he reached slowly into the chest.

His finger grazed the cover and he shouted in shock, recoiling in horror. Eyes wide, he froze and cowered, shame-faced that the game was now over.

Or was it? He looked to the door, then back to the book in awe. "What is this?" His whispers licked the gilded edge of the book.

Had anyone else heard it? He waited-for what felt like eternity-for the servants to come running to investigate. He shivered, feeling suddenly colder.

He looked down at the chest that held the object of his desire and considered. This had been such a simple little quest. So innocent. He could never have guessed at any of this. In fact, he felt smal ...and did not like it. Resolved at last, he reached down and closed the chest with malice.

He stood and regarded his situation for some time, running over his "choices" in his mind. What happened, however, was inevitable. He reached down, grabbed the little chest, and placed it inside his greatcoat.

He burst from the cel ar, leaving the door to crash down on its hinges, muttering profanities in his haste. The candle's flame was now the only life in the cel ar.

He walked straight into the house and very hastily packed his only bag, burying the chest deep inside. He grabbed his satchel, with its own newfound valuable contents, and rang for the valet. When he came, Marsburg informed him that he would depart "at once." Servants and footmen were soon scurrying every which way in the now heavily fal ing snow in front of the house. Marsburg looked on with impatience as the coach and horses were made ready.

He raced to the Stuttgart station and the soonest departing train to anywhere. He had taken that for which he had come.

The candle had been knocked askance by his frantic exit, finding a bit of cheesecloth, broken lath boards, dry timbers; and flames were spreading in the cel ar. Soon it would consume the entire house, leaving nothing but a smoking black crater.

But as Wil iam Marsburg took to the rails to fly away, his mind was ringing with a single deafening word; the word he had heard when his finger grazed the cover of the book: KREIOS.

London, England, 1977.

Wil iam Marsburg coughed so hard that his lungs felt lit by Hel fire in his chest. He was hunched in a large four-poster bed in a room not quite dark, but ful of the gloom of death.

He fel back in an exhausted heap and the pil ow accepted him with the warm softness of goose down. Marsburg had a ful head of white hair, and even on his deathbed he looked far stronger than he should have-not a day over fifty. Time, it seemed had been good to him, but now his life was precipitating away at an alarming rate. It would not be cheated, he surmised; or was it death that was the jealous lover?

A slender nurse came into the low-lit room silently. She had heard the coughing and placed a cool cloth on his damp forehead. His fever broke the night before but he knew he would not make it to the weekend.

Marsburg gripped her smal wrist, croaking out two words, then fel into another fit of hard hacking. "My... son!"

Ms. Naples shushed him and cooed in a soothing voice. He relaxed and lay his head back down, gasping at the air, seeming not to be able to get enough.

Ms. Naples turned and left the room to fetch his son.

Marsburg closed his eyes; the cool lids quenched his hot eyes. Had he been consigned to Hel ? Was this the precipice of his eternity? He hoped not, but deep inside the psyche where most feared to tread, he knew that he might very wel deserve the lake of fire.

England was in the throes of a harsh and long winter, and Wil iam Marsburg felt its desolation deeply. He remembered the time he first laid eyes on the Book. He could stil feel its presence! The voice was ever-present in the back of his mind even now-it was a disease of thought he had never been able to shake. Nay, indeed: he hadn't wanted that. And now that the finish actively stared him down... "Ah..." he sighed, and he could not shake the heaviness that haunted him. Perhaps he had been mistaken al those years ago. He stil heard it as if for the first time: KREIOS He shivered and pul ed the covers up around his neck, praying for death to come, for freedom from this burden.

The Book was in a safe place, but he had to make sure it stayed that way. No matter the cost, the Book was worth more than one man's life. He let a tear escape at the thought of his son and the long life he had yet to begin to bear. Now at the threshold himself, he began to understand Wagner's reluctance. "Oh G.o.d!" His plea was but a breath.

He turned as his son entered the large and wel -furnished room. Marsburg had done wel for himself. He was after al the master of rare antiquities. The people of England, the royals too, had enjoyed them. They could see it al , his entire col ection. But not the Book.

"Father." A tal wel -built man stood over him with pure black hair and a jaw thick and heavy. Many women had fal en for his eyes, the flame that resided there inside them.

"My son," It was a simple greeting but it brought more tears to his eyes. As he gazed upon his only son and saw what lie in wait for him, it pained him. "I have to tel you a story."

The son shook his head in protest. "Father, you need your rest, please..." His voice dropped off and Marsburg knew in an instant that this would be the last conversation he would have with his son.

"No, my son... I must tel you this story before I go. It is more important than anything you could imagine. You must listen and heed what I tel you." He struggled to a sitting position and his son pushed a few pil ows behind his back. The move was exhausting. His back ached and his mouth was dry. He gestured for the tal gla.s.s of water on the nightstand. His son handed it to him.

After a few sips, he began. His boy took a seat on the edge of the bed and looked sadly at him, feeling too that this would be their final moment together.

"I am an old man; much older than you think. I was born in July of 1856. It snowed in July that year... who would have thought it could snow in July! But it did. That was the day I was born."

Wil iam Marsburg began to weave his tale. The Book was secreted close by, perhaps five miles distant, in a chamber known only to him. It pulsed, supernatural protection and long life emanating to its guardian in symbiosis. Soon the guardianship would pa.s.s to Marsburg's son-he would have to decide if he would take up his father's mantle.

Even in that moment, as Wil iam began to fade, the Book began to cal to Jack Marsburg lowly, insistently: KREIOS.

Also by Aaron Patterson.

Sweet Dreams (Book 1).

Dream On (Book 2).

In your Dreams (Book 3, coming soon).

Airel.

Michael (coming soon).

19 (Digital Short).