A Glass Half Empty

Charles Andronicus Curwen was a name that interested him greatly, yet scant lips, if any, would utter the name out loud. Not out of fear, no, but out of ignorance, of that Crow was certain. He had described him as a scholar and a sawbones to the woman, and much like with most things related to the craft, he had not been altogether sincere. Curwen was a man of many talents and though a sawbones he had been, Crow failed to mention a far greater underling truth—that Curwen had pledged fealty to the Kaldr. It’s this truth the Red Baron had imparted on that faithful night beneath the musty chambers of K1. Scribbled on a piece of old parchment, which they so hastily burned after memorizing its contents, was the name that Crow obsessed over during his constant struggles with insomnia while aboard the Lusitania merchant vessel. He pondered the nature of Curwen’s long trek along Sovereign’s Road and his foray through the Outskirts, consumed with the minute details he had learned from that damnable scroll. Thinking about it more, it was not what he had read that was most crucial, rather what held a higher importance were the omitted facts, as they underlined the implications of it all.

Crow trotted up the muddied main road of the Outskirts, past the wooden cloister with its singular bell tower and cascading shadow, past the tannery at the junction that spewed a rancid sweet miasma, and then past the moldy wooden stalls that made up the lower bazaar. It was there that he noticed a large rowdy throng pouring toward the square, yelling profanities at some unknown victim, all the while chanting strange, almost songlike utterances; and like most blood frenzied crowds, one could feel the tension floating in midair, the anxiety reaching an almost nauseating crescendo. Some poor sod is about to meet the Gods. Crow hastened his stride as he held nothing but contempt for the proceedings about to follow. He snubbed public executions like the byproduct of coin exchanging hands that they were, thus refusing to be part of a rabble left to revel in the aftermath—a meaningless concert of emotions and barbaric principles. All in the name of justice. Or some such.

At last he stepped through the doorway of that place he called home for many a sleepless night, and as always an all too familiar scent of urine and cheap wine greeted him as he creaked the door shut. The Belladonna was as charming as he remembered, with its bright crimson drapes overflowing above its unwashed windows, wholes patched by an unsteady or drunken hand. Crow couldn’t help but recoil at the evening hubbub of rowdy sailors raising bubbling tankards at the lascivious undulations of girls half their age, as it distracted him from his singular purpose. He sat in the opposite corner, choosing one of the empty divans, seeking shelter from the noise behind the large cerise curtains and lavish pillows—one of the few things he enjoyed about the place.

“What’ll you have?” Her voice was dull with fright as her eyes darted anxiously from one corner to the next, no doubt searching for her master’s gaze.

“Aqua vitae, in a clean mug.” He felt the need to emphasize the last part with a slight grimace, still his monotone voice betrayed no glint of emotion.

There were bruises about her left cheek, bulging out in a blackened mess, while her lower jaw hung low and bloated. Katerina’s movements were restless, blundering from one table to the next, her right hand fumbling with a motif embroidered scarf that obscured the marks he had left upon her not so long ago. She rushed back with the drink, ignoring the groping and the snide quips thrown at her by patrons as she passed by, slowly fading into a viscous, never-ending haze, that gurgled out of the many hookah pipes.

“Your drink…” As she stooped over to reach for the table, Crow grabbed her by the arm pulling her closer.

“You’re being watched this very moment.” His tone was calm and impassive, yet his eyes seemed transfixed on something beyond her silhouette. “Do yourself a favor and play the part if those bruises are to be your only keepsake.” He hissed that last part, with the slightest hint of a threat in his voice.

She lay next to him trying her best to look the part of a willing and seductive harlot despite the pain in her lower gut where the scars had yet to mend.

“Do you have it?” He leaned in closer, all the while grinning as if she had offered herself to spend the night, and as she nodded, a strand of hair covered her ruined cheek making him grin with delight. “Then what are we waiting for?” He said out loud, but just before leaving the comfort of the pillows he downed the swill she had brought him with a brash gulp, an obvious ruse meant for prying eyes.

As Crow entered that all too familiar guestroom he had a slight déjà vu of the night they had first stepped on those creaky battens, her back turned, still oblivious to the looming peril. The candles flickered in the draft as the door squeaked shut, though this time she was facing Crow, one eye buried underneath that blackened mess while the other twitched spasmodically in a frightened stare. She took a step back losing her footing, but mid-fall she used the nearby table as leverage to thrust her back against the wall. Crow crept forward through the shifting blackness, his stride seemed demonic almost, as the circling shadows bridged the void between them. She produced a parchment from her bodice and with a gasp, her gaze paralyzed in a terrified stare that avoided Crow’s silhouette altogether. He snatched the paper from her pale slender fingers and examined its contents with an eagerness akin to that of a predator facing a long awaited prey. He recognized the seal used to bind the paper as that of the local governor: John Alexander of house Kuza–a boyar rumored to have ties with the Theotian tribes of the far west. The letter mentioning Shaw by name, while Curwen's appeared four paragraphs in.

“My lord, may I leave?” Her tone was faint, reduced to a mere gutted whisper.

Crow frowned, annoyed by her impudence, though it was this new revelation that vexed him most, as it seemed to obfuscate matters greatly. There were four pieces on the board now and the boyar was the greatest and most dangerous of the three, excluding Crow. He glanced back at her with distaste and reconsidered her wretched plea. Deep below the substrata of her subconscious lied a hint of hope, an inconvenience if she was to be the obedient pawn he desired. First came hunger, then disgrace. He unbuckled his trousers.

“Get to work…” 

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Author's note: This is an ongoing project with future releases planned as soon as I can get to writing them.

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