They passed by the main hallway, Aenea stood there, her heels against a lion statue. She was talking to someone, with that stern voice before she passed them a glance. "The others are busy, or gone away." She said. "Busy? You'd think they'd make time for your father's death to answer some questions." Dion said. "My siblings don't trust you. Especially now that Salome's had time to spread her rumors. God knows what lies she's told about you two." "It doesn't matter, we'll talk to them eventually. Is there anyone available?" Apollo asked. She looked down for a while. Her head shaking left and right, nodding, arguing with herself it seemed. "One of my step-brothers, the oldest son. Yeah, he's available. I don't know what you'll get out of him." "Was he here during the murder?" Dion asked. "Yes," "Then he's a suspect," Apollo said. "Alright," She gestured towards a hall, towards a door, an elevator and the floor to take. "He's a bit of an eccentric though." She had told them too late, when they were already inside the glass elevator, with the button pressed to the drop. It felt like fate, as they came down a few floors and their stomachs felt the harsh gravity. This is what destiny feels like. The doors dinged, went open and the lights dimmed from within, in the corners of the elevator. I want to vomit. ♣ They walked to what appeared to be a simple room, with nothing to it but a few ferns and couches. But beyond the walls, the parchment-colored walls, was the swelling and booming of noise. There was a door frame, pictures of impressionist art, life-like statues, all nudist portrayals. Two silk drapes hung from the door frame, they shook from the noise, vibrated. Both of them vibrated. Dion was the first to walk. Apollo followed him into darkness. What looked immediately like absolute darkness was a deceit. Apollo felt the lights of a disco ball drag across his face. It was warm. The whole room was filled with this warmness, with the wild light and coloration like a Jackson Pollock. Stars, everywhere, among the darkness, erratic and blurry. He felt his eyes go lazy. Mesmerized. Dion stumbled. Apollo shook out of the hypnotism and went further inside, tables were set everywhere. There was a bar, lit with blue LEDs, displaying a wide assortment of tonics. Whiskey and tequila, mostly. They saw their reflections mirror each other into an endless dimension. It was a house of mirrors and horrors and all they could do was follow the noise, and approaching closer to the bar, follow the discreet laughter and conversation. They saw the back of someone's head, sitting on an L shaped sofa. They neared and turned to face the man sitting down. It was a reflection. The man was behind him. He moved. Apollo ducked. His eyes, blinded. He saw the black spots, like grainy film. His hand cut the light in front of his face. And the man, once sitting down, stood laughing. They had followed the reflection, only to be blindsided by the fool. "Turnus Wolfe." Apollo groaned. Dion was still rubbing his eyes. Turnus Wolfe, like Aenea had explained, was the eldest of the sons. He came from the first wife of Thomas Wolfe Jr. which made him peculiar, as being the true runner-up to the legacy and being the person who knew Thomas Wolfe Jr. the best. Turnus stood, letting the picture develop in his camera. A square photo spat out from his instant-camera. He waved it in the air like a flag and shot it at Apollo. Apollo caught it, looked at it. It was a picture of Dion and Apollo shocked and wide-eyed like an elk. He stuck it in his pocket and faced the man. He was supposed to be in his late thirties, but he looked young. Extremely. He looked their age, a young twenty year old. Acted like it too, with his flailing and dancing and lax stance. He wore a blazer with nothing underneath, he had in his front breast-pocket a card. A lucky Seven of cloves, face out towards the world. A piercing on his nose, a small ring. Behind him, a stripper - a transsexual girl who looked solemn, whose pale complexion made her appear a ghost in the dim room. He took another picture. This one was for himself, and this time they were prepared. “There's no beauty in you two,” he sat and leaned back to a roundtable-style couch. A pole was laid in front, where the stripper spun and danced and flashed herself. Not as trashy as Apollo expected, more burlesque, with hints of novice choreography in the movements. “Turnus Wolfe,” Apollo repeated opposite Turnus, who sitting down, appeared short. His whole body sunk into the seat. “Hello. Hello,” Turnus waved, though there wasn’t much of a distance between them. “You’re the detectives sent to look for my father's murderer, I’m guessing?” “Yes. We’re just trying to get by and figure this thing out.” “That’s great. The death has been quite a shake and I expect it to worsen as the days go on. Like a bad earthquake." He snapped at the girl. "I’d like to be nothing but helpful, if not to save myself from the howling bitch.” "Salome?" Apollo asked. "So you've met her." He set the camera down. The stripper climbed down, disappointed almost, and walked towards the bar to fix drinks. “Isn’t she lovely?” Turnus observed her stride with an unhinged fetishism. Though not exactly a lewd look, Apollo couldn’t find a hint of lust in his stare. It was more of a curious stare, like naturalist observation. His forehead forward, his fingers on his chin, his eyes narrowed. “I can't call anyone lovely whom I've never even truly met," Apollo said. "She seems nice, though." “Yes, she is nice. I met her, or rather, the man that would become her a year or two back, on the side of the road down the wide stretch of the I-94 in North Dakota.” he tapped the table like a piano. “She came from one of those Christian, nuclear homes, and it was so that she was destined to be born an existence too great for God. Her father was not kind to her...tastes. Being, soul. Whatever you'd like to call it. I, however, was more open-minded. Or perhaps she was just too seductive that day. Whichever, however, we've been together ever since. Which is good, I get bored easily and she still manages to make good conversation. " He turned to Apollo, sly and wry. "And even better sex.” Dion sat away, taking notes, as Apollo instructed. And he tried hard to avoid eye contact with anyone. “It sounds like you’ve been grooming her.” Apollo folded his legs. “I wouldn’t call that a healthy relationship.” “Groom? We're all groomed by some higher power. Nature or nurture, only fools believe otherwise. To be honest, I was a little easier on her than God. I gave her the room to mold herself, money can buy that kind of freedom." "Does she think of it that way?" He asked. "Yes, yes she does. I expedited the woman she was always going to be. God can be awfully slow with destiny, sometimes He needs a helping hand.” The stripper came around with three small glasses filled with a concoction that smelled of smoky bitters and cherry. “Thank you, Dorothy.” He brushed his hand against hers, smiling. The glass slid across. Another was aimed at Dion, who declined. Apollo took his share and combined them into one glass. "Alright, let's talk about your father," Apollo said. “My father!" He raised his glass to clank. No one but Dorothy did so. Turnus nodded his head and leaned back. Apollo sniffed. Coughed. Remembered. “Your father died two days ago in between the hours of eleven forty-three in the morning to twelve fifteen. There was a blackout, the murderer is suspected to have killed him during that blackout, which happened at exactly eleven fifty-nine, right before and during the clock strike. Where were you at that time?” “I was on the casino floor, flaunting my woman.” Dorothy sat near him, he brushed her shoulder. “Then we hit the roulette tables... We lost a lot, to be honest.” “Did you visit your father before that?” He wanted to check whether he was telling the truth. Apollo and Dion had both visited the camera feed booth. They had both seen the main hall camera (leading to the office and place of death) and had witnessed Turnus visiting his father. It was unfortunate that these were the only cameras available on that hall, it seemed like the kids really loved their privacy. “Yes, I did.” Telling the truth, huh. “About what? If you don’t mind me asking?” Turnus breathed deep and took a sip. He scratched his bony knuckled against the table. “He told me what he always tells me; that he could no longer sanction my buffoonery. That I was a mockery, a poor strutting son.” “And you said?” “I told him to fuck off.” He drank again. “I never liked him.” He really is honest. He could tell by the tweaks in his body, or rather, the lack of tweaks. Not a pinch, not a twitch, not a single nervous itch. “You never liked your father?” “Not for a single moment one. Hell, I'd say, I hated him.” He said, proud. “And I don’t mourn him. And. And! I’m pretty glad he’s dead, to be honest.” “Are you aware that you're nearly incriminating yourself?” Dion said, leaning further into their table from his little chair. “What do I have to hide? I did not kill him.” He set the glass down. “I wish I did though," They both felt cold. The scratching of pencil ceased. Dion stopped jotting and looked up. The candid words were too strange for the page, Apollo understood, but they still needed to be written. He nudged Dion, who shrugged his shoulders and kept writing. “If I may ask, why did you feel this strongly about him? Where’s that hostility stem from?” “Where does it come from? A level of consciousness I'm not even aware of.” He smiled. “It's something that's built up over the years and now I'm glad it's done. The man is dead, I'm happy.” Apollo shook his head. I need to redirect this before I lose track. “You’re the oldest, correct.” He looked down, to think almost. His voice sobered. “Yes. Yes, I am. Richter and I were born to the first wife of my father, Elaine. Elaine Wolfe.” He said. “We were his first experiments. His first mistakes, even." "He called you that, a mistake?" "Yes," “Have you always had a rocky relationship with your father?" "He was a drunk and I was his biggest failure. You do the math." "Who's to say you didn't hire someone from killing him by sheer spite? Do you have anything in your defense?" “Don't you have the camera footage? I can show you bank statements too, no expenses were taken out of any of my accounts. I was not there to kill him, and I paid no one to do it either. Like I said, if I was going to do it, I would have done it with my own hands. My darling, Dorothy, will attest to this,” Her nod was weak. Like a slave girl, like a mute. Apollo looked at him, the glass was nearly empty and he was wobbling in his seat. God fucking damnit. It's trash now. “Alright, alright. I believe you.” Apollo said, drinking himself. “Do you have any idea who might have done it?” Turnus giggled. He leaned forward. “Everyone.” He said. “Everyone wanted to kill him.” “That isn’t helpful, I need someone specific, besides you.” “You don’t understand detective? Heart-eater?” He said. “We’re witches, mages, pact-bearers. Whichever name fancies you best. And we're greedy people, with greedy ambitions. Who wouldn't want my father's power? He could move mountains, you know?” Turnus drank again. "He could level everything into flat sands. He controlled the earth itself." "That's why your kind is vilified," Dion mumbled. "That obscene power and wretched soul. To sell yourself to the devil, any devil...that's damnable." "We're all damned," Turnus faced him. "What's your name again? Both of yours." "Don’t you know? We're all damned," Turnus faced him. Apollo snorted, Dion penned. "What's your name again? Both of yours." “I’m Dion.” “I’m Apollo, don’t sidetrack. Why’d you say everyone wanted to kill him?” “Want is a strange word. My father and I never got along and we despised each other, that was my source of contempt. But the others? Some of them downright worshiped him, and even with that, I still think they might have killed him. Because however much they loved father, they loved what they stood to gain from him even more..” He said. “The meeting that day, the day he died, we were coming together to discuss the next in line to inherit the company. The heir, so to speak and more than that, the curse and the richest and this high, lofty tower." "We've heard of your pact." “Oh?” He asked. "Yes, our deal with Mammon. Who sits atop the golden mountain, hoarder of wealth. Of course, I've never met him, none of us have save for father. It was a deal made long before any of us were born. Apparently, during the civil war but I question that. All I know is that it's always circled us, been around us, that pact." Apollo felt his neck go cold and rubbed it. Was that the thing I saw, that time through the portal in Hell? It must have been. That gross, flabby, hungry thing? “Ezekial Wolfe!” He laughed and clanked with Dorothy and drank. "My great, great, great, great useless grandfather. Damned us all. Well, shit," “I'm not good with this magic stuff," Apollo said. "But I can understand if it's so great and so versatile that someone might kill for it. Do you have any idea who?" "You're not good with magic? With Arcana? What are you, a monkey?" He said. "I thought you were a heart-eater, aren't all of you trained for this kind of stuff." "I prefer to get in close. Arcana never suit me." "Huh," He scratched his neck. "That doesn't mean you can run away from it. You see, we're all born under a star, each and every single one of us. And we all are favorites amongst those evil beings below. I'm sure you're someones favorite. As all of us are. Princes of Hell can be such petty and fickle beings, you know." He felt itchy. He kept remembering the Hyena, he kept remembering the feeling of smallness. Of manipulation, of the strings of the puppeteer. “All of us? Every man and woman?” “Since Adam and Eve made their stupid mistake, yes.” He said. “The witches or magicians or monks all have different names. We call it the umbilical cord, that strange connection between man and devil. Some people have a better standing than others. Some people speak to their prince. I've even heard of some people fucking them, ridiculous, ain't it?” He laughed alone. “Yes. Arcane comes from the circle and the prince and as such is geographical in nature. And the price for that power, from whichever debase plane of Hell, demands a high price. A large quote that might take generations to sate. Lord knows we're still paying...” “What’d you pay and what are your powers?” Dion asked. He put his pencil down to glare. “Me? None. I have no powers. No interest in them too, power demands responsibility and responsibility demands power. You really can't have one without the other.” He lifted his glass. His finger rubbed against it. One of the lights shone through, pink. He finished, then picked up his girlfriend's glass. Another gulp. “Responsibility, legacy, I hate all that shit. Too annoying. Who would want that kind of stuff?" He asked. "Insane people, that's who. It takes a certain narcissist to want the strength to push other people around." Dion sighed, relieved almost. He kept writing. “Too bad, too often witches end at the deep end of a long asylum hall. Witches are a different breed, I'm sure you know that. They live for the forbidden and hazard everything, sanity most of all.” "They? It seems you really want to distance yourself from these people. You're one step above from joining them, though, you certainly have the aptitude for it. I sensed it coming in." "You sensed wrong, I despise them and I want nothing more but to rid myself of this curse." “Is that why you hate your step-mother? Is she a witch? She really didn't speak much to that and it's not like I can trust anything she said anyway.” “Salome? That old bitch?” He twirled a spherical ice ball in his glass. "I'm not sure if she's a witch. If she isn't though, then I can't explain her insanity. She's got a nasty obsession with father." “What about Aenea?” “Aenea?” He looked surprised almost. "She's still around? I thought she'd be gone by now." “Why's that?" “She just seemed bored of the whole charade. I don't blame her." He said. "She didn't even come for the passing of the pact. She came for the corpse, like a damn coroner." “Why didn't she want to come to the ritual, I thought it was important." His cropped teeth flashed white against the polka dot lights of red and blue and violet. The disco ball, propped on the high ceiling, came to a halt. “Why don’t you ask her?” He said. “She’s the one who hates us, not the other way around. I quite like her presence. She's rigid. Reliable.” Dion had enough and displayed it as much. His notepad shut loudly. The slurred words were grating against his ears. "What's his problem? Turnus hiccuped. He spilled a bit of his drink and laid back into his chair, before letting his body fall on its abdomen, length-wise across the sofa as if to pose for a painter. Apollo and Dion stood abruptly. Apollo looked back, Dion was already walking towards the door. He ran up to him, following him out. "What's wrong?" He asked. "We're not here." “I don't trust him,” Dion said. “And I don't know why we're not bashing his head in. He basically admitted to murdering his father.” “He admitted to hating him. Besides, I don't think he killed him. He doesn't have the strength for that kind of murder, I think.” Apollo said. “It's not like we can take him seriously anyway. His breath was absolutely horrible. A wasted shmuck.” In the background, Turnus laughed. The stripper kept mixing drinks, the glasses kept clanked. And the music, low and smooth, kept humming along. “What are we going to do then? Throw it all out?” “No, we’re going to look around and see how much of what he said is true. We’ll see what truth we can filter from the idiot.” “Still…he gives me the creeps. He says he's not a witch but he's the most degenerate person I've had the displeasure of meeting. Gives me the creeps, and the way he treats that girl...it's gross.” Dion sighed. He waited a bit in the hall before going towards the elevator, almost inviting Apollo. But Apollo kept still and silent, feeling the slow burn of the disco light in the back of his head. The velvet curtains rubbed against Apollo, they fell behind him and behind Dion. Back into the Egyptian harem camp, out in the middle of this desert. Turnus hollered. “Detective!” He shouted from across the room. Dorothy nurtured his body on her thighs, rubbing his now naked chest. “Detective!" He screamed out again. Apollo sighed and gave him his ear. "Have you ever heard of the dark star? Detective?” Apollo shook his head, feeling both his time wasted and annoyed that he had to obligate him anyway. “Yeah, I have. Some call it the black sun, right? Neo-Nazis use it here and there for imagery. Though it's a bit archaic even for them.” Apollo said. “That’s right. But do you know where it comes from?” “I’m not a Nazi historian, so no, I don’t know.” He crossed his arms, none of this was worth the space on the notepad. Let alone the space in his brain. “It's a myth. Or a truth, perhaps. That our lonely son once had a younger brother, did you know that? Millenniums ago, one sun was formed while the weaker, dwarf star was sent out, far away from this galaxy. To roam the empty space, to be cold. A dead, dark sun. The dark star, the heavy, envious dark star who waits and bides and hurls calamity upon us.” He grabbed hold of Dorothy's hand and gripped it tight. “The zealots from Dunwich have told me what I'm telling you now. That the great ancient reptiles before us died when the dark star willed it. That we will die, too, when it wills it. What a sight that'll be, when it sends its meteors and it's cosmic angst at us once again. When do you think the dark star will come for us? Do you think we deserve it?” He wasn't laughing. He was not wanton, shooting off his mouth. He was very serious, very focused, very narrowed on Apollo. Apollo stood, crossed arm. With nothing to say, nothing to add but to glare and try and understand the slurring words of the drunk. Is it a clue then? A brother? He thought. And what does he know if it is a clue? “Would you believe me if I told you that I don't believe in superstitions? It might seem strange, I'm a demon hunter after all. But there's a danger in believing everything paranormal. If you have your eyes set on one obsessive myth, it might blind you from the truth. So no, I don't believe in this dark star. There are enough strange, true things for me to worry about." He said. "The cultists of Dunwich lied to you, like any other zealot would. They live to lie, after all and lie to live. Take away their faith and they break up, like glass." "You didn't answer the question, Detective." He rose. "Do we deserve it? Death?" "Hmm," He felt his arm tingle. "Any species that can not survive and adapt deserves to die, yes. And will die, yes. That's as much a law as gravity, or two plus two is four." “A practical man then? You'll find out," He mumbled, frantic-like. "You'll see, there are some things reason can't figure. Some things that the eyes can't process. Some things that reduce brain to simple red-matter, Detective. You'd trust your logic like a God and believe me when I say, he'll disappoint you like one too." No further words were necessary. The elevator dinged. Apollo once more went through those velvet doors. He entered the elevator. Dion looked impatient, looking at his watch and tapping on his journal. Apollo looked past him, past the glass walls of that cylinder elevator, past everything and into the sun-fallen corrugated plateaus afar. It looked like a serrated blade, with each pointy mountaintop. A cold feeling swept across underneath his head, like a ghosts breath. He breathed deeply, and rubbed his neck. "Who's next on the list?" Apollo asked.