West Berlin

1986

7:32 p.m.

A jewelry box rested on the nightstand, one embroidered with gold, rubies, and sapphires. When she opened it, plush velvet lining appeared, within the case three items: The scarab. The crucifix and a sunlight painted clam shell; all her most sacred treasures. She grabbed each item, stashed it in her knapsack. The lid creaked as she sealed it shut with eerie finality.

She slipped on a brown jacket, hopped in high boots, and heaved the backpack on her shoulders. Lyn smacked her lips, paused outside the door, and glanced at the mirror. She lifted a brow, swept aside a lock of hair covering her eye.

When she entered the scattered garage, she found Kalen sprawled on the floor snoring; a barren bottle of liquor in his hands. He slept soundly as she tiptoed over the sleeping giant. Chess hung in a corner, paying no heed to her. A coloring book as deep as a dictionary occupied her thoughts, and she earnestly colored the pictures within, occasionally breaking crayons and tossing them aside. Some piles of random detritus remained in her path, which she easily circumvented. The security exit, a few feet off, came her last obstacle. Or so she assumed.

“Ahem…”

Lyn froze. Shit…

She twisted back, caught Godfrey standing, arms crossed with an accusing glare. “Where are you going, Lady Lyn?”

“Out,” she said, voice curt.

Godfrey narrowed his eyes, turned beet red with anger. Lyn gulped and averted her gaze, started undoing the deadbolts and locks. Godfrey’s oxfords clattered against the oil stained floors. The last bolt unlocked, and she pushed against it, but felt it stop. Out of her peripherals, she saw a white glove that barred the door.

“You consider this is a good idea?” Godfrey asked. “I’ve raised you ever since you were sixteen — when Master Drake first brought you to the estate. I know when you’re up to no good…” Godfrey took notice of his demeaning tone, corrected himself. “... my lady.”

“I’m not some kid you can boss around anymore. Move your hand or I’ll move it for you…”

Godfrey sighed, backed away. “Well, I’m glad you picked up the master’s terrible manners… Could you at least tell us where you’re going — ?”

His words hit nothing but steel as Lyn stepped through, slammed the door shut. He could only listen to her footsteps pound against the concrete ramp outside. A car engine sputtered a moment, reviving itself as Lyn shifted gears, applied a steady amount of gas. Godfrey closed his eyes, waited till the sound dissipated.

8:08 p.m.

She drove through a checkpoint leading to the airport. Armed sentries stood watch in green U.S. Army fatigues with an MP band on their right sleeve. She paused at a chain-link gate, flashed the fake ID that came with Sullivan’s envelope. The man gave a sheepish glance, peered back at the ID. Lyn grinned, brushed a massive wave of hair behind her neck and winked.

The guard gave her the license, gestured to another soldier to slide the gate open. As she crossed, she noticed a sentry standing guard on the other side, an above average sized German shepherd at his heel.

Lyn formed a scowl, thought of the Nazi patrol that chased her in the woods with their canines. I fucking hate dogs…

She changed gears, sped up as far from the dog as she could. Verdant plains appeared, with tarmac runways running through them. Aircraft departed and landed, most nothing more than blobs in the dusk with blinking lights. Their wheels hit the runways, bounced and skidded, embedded lights illuminated their route towards the hangers.

As she caught more fields of turf, she spotted an overhang to her left. Beneath it several idle fighters, cockpits and engines stripped, all being maintained by fellows in red and orange jumpsuits. Buses scurried past her, most of them taxiing pilots to their aircraft. Roars of jet turbines permeated the air, powerful turbines blowing blades of grass.

A luxury jet settled in isolation at the end of the airfield. Sullivan lingered by it, somehow his golden hair and sinewy frame subsided any doubt in her. For once in his wretched life, he kept his word. She maneuvered the automobile and stepped out, Sullivan turned, watched her and smiled.

“I knew you’d come my sweet Lynda.”

Lyn blushed, faced elsewhere. He fondled the pearls on her necklace, and she pulled back. “I hate it when people call me Lynda. It’s Lyn…”

Sullivan tipped his fedora hat, pointed to the stairs attached to the aircraft entrance. “Melchior’s waiting for you.”

He stepped aside. Before she could pass, a powerful force tugged her arm. Lyn suppressed a scream, curled a fist. Behind her loomed two men in fitted black suits; one appeared Caucasian, wore a porcelain mask resembling a fox; the other, coffee-colored skin and shaven head, wore a bird mask.

Beneath her attire, she perspired. They were so quick. I never sensed their presence. Those two aren’t human — !

“Lyn…” Sullivan said, “it’s a precaution, Ulysse — I mean Melchior, is very particular about these things.”

Lyn loosened her body, surrendered the bag, and allowed them to pat her down. They nodded to Sullivan when they finished their frisk and provided Lyn her backpack. She snatched it, stormed to the aircraft, but not before flipping them off. Obscurity occupied the jet lit only by dim lights installed in the hull and carpeted floors. A flight attendant greeted her in French, Lyn’s native tongue.

“Merci…” Lyn said. She’d forgotten the last time someone had spoken French to her. In the past thirteen years, she conversed in English or Russian; dabbled in German in her free time.

She followed the woman, passing a mini bar and seats so regal they could be described as ‘thrones in the sky.’ Twin sized beds attached themselves to the walls, partially concealed by privacy screens. They reached the end, a makeshift living room ornamented with fur rugs, taxidermied heads of big game and jagged sculptures. The aide parted a curtain, wasted no time leaving.

When she heard Melchior’s voice, she turned ashen; broke out in a cold sweat. “Lynda Valeska. Service number 01928-19912-LV. I am a monument to all your sins…”

The number sequence blazed in her mind, bringing with it a piercing pain. She collapsed, caught Sullivan behind her, expression blank, cinnamon eyes void. Numbers continued to implode her, she felt as if her skull would split. She clenched her jaw, dug fingers into her hair.

“You are the leaves bathing in the sun…”

The misery vanished. Lyn struggled to catch a breather. “I should have realized that Melchior was you — Ulysses…”

Ulysses clapped, emerged from the shadows, a cane in his palm. His eyes were thin like a snake with thick lips that stretched across his face and paper white hair. He wore a closed gray suit, black gloves and a fur stole over his shoulder.

He tapped her skull with the pole, poked and prodded at her face. Lyn prostrated herself, eyes focused on the carpet. Ulysses sauntered to a chair, took a seat as his helper poured a cup of whisky.

“Would you prefer a drink, my dear?” he inquired. “You are my daughter-in-law, after all. It really hurt me you never invited me to the wedding…” His remarks were flat, loaded with hollow rhetoric.

Lyn scoffed.

Ulysses sipped, winced as the smooth bourbon stung his throat. He grabbed a rag, wiped the blood from his lips, freed a hoarse cough. Sullivan hooked an arm under Lyn, helped her stand before guiding her to a chair across Ulysses. She stared outside a window in silent rebellion; a strip of dense vegetation in her views, close to it bordered a tree line.

“You should show more enthusiasm,” Ulysses declared, “we’re off to awaken Drake!”

Lyn grimaced. “You want me to wake him so you can kill him… I won’t — !”

Ulysses raised a forestalling hand. Sullivan propped himself on a wall, quaffed on whisky. “Miss Valeska… if I wanted you or Drake dead. It would have been done already. You assume gathering information under the guise of hunting bounties would distract me? I’ve known what you and your scant friends were up to all along…”

He chuckled, discharged another violent cough. His assistant returned with a platter, on it an assortment of pills. Ulysses seized a handful, downed them with water.

“As I was saying,” Ulysses said, “both of you are more useful alive. Drake is‌ my most precious little treasure — ”

Her mouth moved of its own accord and she snapped: “He’s not some damned object! You led me here to revive him… just to take him from me…” Her voice broke.

Ulysses and Sullivan exchanged a glance. The old man drew a breath. “I see why he chose you. Lynda Valeska, known as Lady Death. But yet, love blinds you, makes a beautiful fool of you…”

Lyn quelled her cries, sniffed. “Then I would willingly be a beautiful little fool… who loved and lost, rather than have never known him at all.”