Deathstalker 07 - Deathstalker Return

darkness.
    Exactly where he was leading them didn't seem too clear. He'd forgotten or disregarded that he had never been intended to be anything more than a puppet for Finn's will. The Angel of Madraguda wrote his own speeches these days, rambling apocalyptic sermons, and openly defied Finn's instructions. And there were rumors—dark, unsettling rumors—that not everyone who went in to see Angelo Bellini ever came out again.
    So the man had to go. He had to be put out of everyone's misery. And who better to do the job than his own dear brother? Well, half-brother, really. Same mother, different fathers. But even so, a brother was still a brother, wasn't he? He was still family…
    Tel finally came to the door to the outer office. He stopped there awhile, composing himself with several deep breaths, and then he pushed open the door and breezed into the outer office as though it was just another visit. Angelo's secretary nodded distractedly to him. She looked pale and unhappy, and the smile she gave Tel didn't reach her eyes. She looked… like a dog that had been kicked too often.
    "Hello,Marion ," said Tel, doing his best to appear as though he hadn't noticed anything amiss. "I'm here to see my brother. Is he in?"
    "Hard to say," saidMarion . "I mean, yes, he's in his office, but… he's not himself. He rarely is, anymore.
    You haven't been around for a while, so you haven't seen… maybe you can help him. He won't listen to me anymore. He won't listen to anyone, except… You've got to get him out of here, Tel. Get him somewhere… safe, where he can get help. He's done… bad things, Tel. And I can't leave. I'm the only protection he's got left."
    "Easy,Marion ." Tel put on his most reassuring face and voice. "It's all right, I'm here now. I'll take care of everything."
    He went over to the inner door, andMarion buzzed him through. The smell was the first thing that hit Tel as he entered Angelo's office. It stank—of old food and spilled drink, of rot and corruption—and clearly no one had opened a window in far too long. The room was dim and gloomy, with all the shutters closed.
    There was only one light on, over Angelo at his desk. He was sitting hunched forward, muttering to himself. Tel wasn't sure whether his brother even knew he was there. He walked slowly and carefully through the gloom, avoiding the darker shadows of pieces of furniture. The carpet seemed… sticky, under his feet. Tel could feel his heartbeat racing. All his instincts were yelling at him that he had come to a very dangerous place.
    His eyes adjusted to the gloom as he drew nearer Angelo's desk. The room was a mess. Nothing was in its right place, nothing had been cleaned up, and what looked like important papers were scattered over the floor around the desk. Tel did his best not to step on them. He stopped in front of the desk, and Angelo finally raised his head to look at him. He glared sullenly at his brother, making no move to greet him. His hair was long and shaggy, and his beard hadn't been trimmed in ages. His face had an unhealthy pallor, and his eyes had the dark dangerous glare of an old-time prophet. His hands were toying with a long, vicious-looking dagger, and Tel was suddenly very glad there was a wide desk between him and his brother. Tel looked away from his brother's disturbing gaze, and suddenly realized that what he'd thought was an ornament was in fact the back of someone's head. Tel moved to one side for a better look. It was a severed human head, with sunken eyes, its mouth drooping open in a never-ending scream of horror. It was mounted on a letter spike, and the blood around the base still looked wet.
    "What happened, Angelo?" Tel said steadily. "You run out of executive toys?"
    "Oh, don't mind him," said Angelo in a surprisingly calm and reasonable voice. "He was a traitor. There
    are traitors everywhere. Traitors and heretics and… But I make use of them. Waste not, want not, as our dear mother used to say. I was going to call her, only the other day, but… I talk to the head, you know, and it talks to me. God speaks to me through its dead lips, telling me His will. For I am His Angel, and He loves me dearly. I'm not sure how He feels about you, Tel. You were always very cruel to me, when we were younger. God's will is sometimes strange, and often downright disturbing, but who are we to question Him? Don't blame the messenger for the message, that's what I always say. If He wants people killed, He must have