man making his skin appear blacker than ebony, his eyes pits of darkness other than a demonic gleam barely visible in his features.
“Where have they taken her?” he repeated, his voice low and ominous.
Watching this tall, muscular man in front of him, naked from the waist up with some strange necklace around his neck, his arms tensed loosely by his side, Baptiste felt a shiver of fear run through him. “It’s no good,” he began to protest, taking a step backwards. “You can’t help her. They’ll kill you—and heaven alone knows what they’ll do to her.”
Orfeo let out a vicious laugh. “You think they can touch me? I am Sousson-Pannan, who will drink up their blood. I am Baron Kriminel, condemned to death and passing swift judgment. I am Samedi, king of the dead. You think these men can touch me?” He spat on the ground. “I’ll ask for the last time, old man. Where have they taken her?”
Trembling, Baptiste fussed with his moustache. “Hades,” he whispered at last and then, raising his voice he repeated: “Hades. They’ll have taken her to Hades.”
Nodding, Orfeo looked back toward the street where the car had driven away. “Then I’ll go and get her back.”
As he strode away, Baptiste stared after him in amazement. “What? You think you can just walk there and find her? Are you really that much of an idiot? C’est sa Couillon !” The broad, powerful shoulders of Orfeo receded away from him, however, and after a few moments the young black man began to run, his strides becoming longer as he ran.
And he ran and he ran and he ran. He ran as his blood rose up like fire inside him, and he ran until he felt that his lungs were bursting. He ran through along the roads and through dank, dark alleys. He ran beside the hidden river and he ran across bridges and between houses where music filled the air, though none of it as sweet as the songs that Orfeo sang.
He knew where Hades was, though it was a place he had never entered. When, at last, he came to a standstill across from the large, blank walls of the nightclub, a fortress of dark stone, he almost collapsed for a moment, his chest feeling as though it would explode from his exertions. Midnight had come and gone and though the air was much colder now sweat ran down his chest and limbs, his eyes bulging slightly as he sucked in his breath, trying to calm his heart which hammered in his rib cage.
Before the doorway, which glowed with a diabolical red light, a line of people snaked along the sidewalk, eager to taste the sins of Hades whose name was picked out in shining purple above that gateway into hell. It was rumored that anything could be bought—and sold—in Hades, but until now Orfeo had always taken great care to avoid Earl’s lair.
At last the agony in his limbs began to diminish as the air eased into his arteries and muscles. Each breath was still a mighty swelling and falling of his chest but it no longer felt as though fire was being poured into his lungs. Glancing down, however, in the eerie purple glow Orfeo could see that the skin of his feet was patched with darker blood from the cuts he had received whilst running. Not that it mattered now.
His gaze fixed stonily ahead of him, he began to walk across the road to the doorway. Without looking either left or right, ignoring the cries and catcalls of the clientele seeking to enter the club, he pushed his way forward—and everyone, believing him to be some crazy black man out of his mind on drugs, moved out of his way.
All of them but for one. In front of the door stood a giant of a man. Though Orfeo was tall and powerfully built, this figure towered even over him, well above six and a half feet in height. He was dressed in an ill-fitting dark suit, and his skin looked sickly brown in the neon glow. His long, black hair was tied back, revealing a proud face that would have been handsome but for the old scars that puckered it. As Orfeo approached him, he did not move but stood
“Where have they taken her?” he repeated, his voice low and ominous.
Watching this tall, muscular man in front of him, naked from the waist up with some strange necklace around his neck, his arms tensed loosely by his side, Baptiste felt a shiver of fear run through him. “It’s no good,” he began to protest, taking a step backwards. “You can’t help her. They’ll kill you—and heaven alone knows what they’ll do to her.”
Orfeo let out a vicious laugh. “You think they can touch me? I am Sousson-Pannan, who will drink up their blood. I am Baron Kriminel, condemned to death and passing swift judgment. I am Samedi, king of the dead. You think these men can touch me?” He spat on the ground. “I’ll ask for the last time, old man. Where have they taken her?”
Trembling, Baptiste fussed with his moustache. “Hades,” he whispered at last and then, raising his voice he repeated: “Hades. They’ll have taken her to Hades.”
Nodding, Orfeo looked back toward the street where the car had driven away. “Then I’ll go and get her back.”
As he strode away, Baptiste stared after him in amazement. “What? You think you can just walk there and find her? Are you really that much of an idiot? C’est sa Couillon !” The broad, powerful shoulders of Orfeo receded away from him, however, and after a few moments the young black man began to run, his strides becoming longer as he ran.
And he ran and he ran and he ran. He ran as his blood rose up like fire inside him, and he ran until he felt that his lungs were bursting. He ran through along the roads and through dank, dark alleys. He ran beside the hidden river and he ran across bridges and between houses where music filled the air, though none of it as sweet as the songs that Orfeo sang.
He knew where Hades was, though it was a place he had never entered. When, at last, he came to a standstill across from the large, blank walls of the nightclub, a fortress of dark stone, he almost collapsed for a moment, his chest feeling as though it would explode from his exertions. Midnight had come and gone and though the air was much colder now sweat ran down his chest and limbs, his eyes bulging slightly as he sucked in his breath, trying to calm his heart which hammered in his rib cage.
Before the doorway, which glowed with a diabolical red light, a line of people snaked along the sidewalk, eager to taste the sins of Hades whose name was picked out in shining purple above that gateway into hell. It was rumored that anything could be bought—and sold—in Hades, but until now Orfeo had always taken great care to avoid Earl’s lair.
At last the agony in his limbs began to diminish as the air eased into his arteries and muscles. Each breath was still a mighty swelling and falling of his chest but it no longer felt as though fire was being poured into his lungs. Glancing down, however, in the eerie purple glow Orfeo could see that the skin of his feet was patched with darker blood from the cuts he had received whilst running. Not that it mattered now.
His gaze fixed stonily ahead of him, he began to walk across the road to the doorway. Without looking either left or right, ignoring the cries and catcalls of the clientele seeking to enter the club, he pushed his way forward—and everyone, believing him to be some crazy black man out of his mind on drugs, moved out of his way.
All of them but for one. In front of the door stood a giant of a man. Though Orfeo was tall and powerfully built, this figure towered even over him, well above six and a half feet in height. He was dressed in an ill-fitting dark suit, and his skin looked sickly brown in the neon glow. His long, black hair was tied back, revealing a proud face that would have been handsome but for the old scars that puckered it. As Orfeo approached him, he did not move but stood
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