For the moment, however, there is nothing more for you to do.
I am certain the subject will initiate the next phase on his own and you have but to follow along.
And, dear girl, do remember...you are to acquiesce to his every desire. His every desire. Without exception, or I shall know of it and whereupon our contract will be immediately and irrevocably severed.
In such a case, and in accordance with the aforementioned contract, I wish to remind you that all previous payments will revert as debt owed to me and in one manner or another, you will pay...and dearly. I promise you.
With My Most Distinguished Salutations,
The Journeyman
The other envelope was densely packed with fifty dollar bills. One hundred portraits of Ulysses S. Grant stared back at her as she fanned them out.
But, the color seemed strangely faded. Sara bent closer before jumping back in surprise.
Each and every one was stamped with the year 1929. Gooseflesh tingled down her arms once more as she slipped the bills back into the envelope.
Suddenly, she felt dirty and went to wash her hands in the small sink in the corner of the room, but first she placed the envelope of cash in the mini fridge on the floor; not just on a shelf, but in the tiny freezer. If she could have, she would have preferred burying it somewhere outside instead. Somehow she felt that would have been more appropriate.
Hands freshly washed in scalding hot water, Sara came back to the letter and that was when she finally noticed.
The writing was in the same looping script as on the exterior of its envelope. Not by ballpoint pen, but rather something like a calligrapher’s pen.
She had no difficulty, in fact, imagining a fluffy white plume penning the scrawling words upon the paper.
But, the worst, the very worst of all was the color of the ink. Not black, nor deep indigo blue.
It was of a rusty brown color and in places where it had dripped down and been only perfunctorily blotted, it remained slightly wet.
And blood red....
~~~
A lone man crossed the threshold from one kind of darkness to another.
There was no sound other than the quiet chirping of crickets and the rustling of other tiny beasts that roam the night.
He slipped through thick leaves, humid with the night’s air. Deep greenery surrounded him on all sides. Trees of various essences, some even tropical, stood all around him and gave silent witness as he lifted his face skyward.
The moon hid herself behind the clouds, refusing the man and his desire to see her, to feel her gentle light upon him while his own private forest sheltered him from the harsh reality of his existence.
The rich odors of plant growth so dense that it could have dated to antediluvian times wafted in the calm night air and allowed nothing of the city below to penetrate.
For the man stood upon a great glass encrusted tower that rose like a spike toward the heavens and the overgrown garden surrounding him had been birthed by the hands of man. The last three floors of the skyscraper were devoted to a space open to the sky and the riot of leaves and wild growth had begun as blueprints upon paper.
But the wilderness cares not for men, nor their orderly plans. In time the natural world had imposed itself in the most unlikely of places and that the tower top held the apparent chaos of nature itself while so many floors below, the world of modern finance and industry believed itself an indomitable and orderly master; well, the irony of it was to the man’s greatest pleasure.
With a groan, he shrugged off his simple white shirt and his massive form glistened in the darkness.
As thickly muscled as the most devout bodybuilder, he shrugged his shoulders, rolling them, loosening them while his skin rippled with their movement.
And across the skin of his torso, black patterns criss crossed in every direction. Spirals of strange symbols interlaced along his ribs to an intaglio of darkness emblazoned over his entire body.
To the untrained eye, he would have appeared to be tattooed in an intricate tribal style. To a very rare few, a handful of learned occultists hidden away in obscure corners of the world, he would have appeared to be a living book.
For the symbols comprised ancient runes meant for one thing--a forgotten language destined to bridge the gap between the realms of the living and of the dead.
His skin rippled again, although this time it was not of his doing. Rather, it was the symbols themselves that shifted and seethed across his body.
And, with a sound that echoed in cavernous tones, a deep voice rose in the darkness.
“You seek to drown me out, Braze. There where each day the clamor of puny men hides you from me, silencing my council.”
The man did not answer and the twisting runes continued their serpentine dance across his skin.
“So hear me now and listen well. Ware the female. No good will come of her.