The harsh sea tossed about, dark waves seething. Down below, the quay was awash, salt water cascading. Hands numb from the fell breath of the blasting wind, Dumas fumbled for the shutters of the window, trying to drag them shut. They wouldn’t budge.
The Manor Retreat? No, the Fool’s Retreat. The thought flashed through his head, almost making him want to burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. He shook his head ruefully, watching the chaos of the raging sea. A storm the likes of which he had hardly seen before. What was that word, the sailors used? Hurricane. This must be one of them. The wind’s howl was persistent, deafening. The only sound that could break through it was the crash of wood on stone, as the hulls of the ships lashed against the jetties were slammed and battered again and again...
No one could last long in the path of this force of nature. The sheer power of it was overwhelming. The bitter cold and rain... blast it all, why wouldn’t the shutter move? With exasperation, Dumas tugged at it, shifting it only slightly. Bloody hell.
Suddenly, something caught his eye down below... there it was... brief, a shadow, a shape. No, lost it again. He squinted through the slashing rain. Yes, he was certain! A figure was making their way across the quay. What the devil are they thinking? They’ll be swept away into the sea in moments! Are they insane?
The figure, cloaked in a greyish, disheveled robe that could have once been white, difficult to tell in the squall. Large form... must be a man, Dumas decided. There was something unsettling in his gait, as if he couldn’t quite fit under the robe... Even more disturbing, the figure seemed to be making his slow way across the promenade by the quay, directly towards the Noble’s Retreat. Directly towards... him.
Bah, absurd! The figure would have no idea whom he was at this distance, even despite the sputtering fireplace in the room behind him. Yet... yet he continued making his slow progress towards the building.
Horrendous waves swept up from the harbor, crashing over the quay and onto the promenade with titanic force. The water hammered down directly in the figure’s path. Dumas shook his head. Surely, the man had been pulled into the sea...
But god above, no, there he was! Standing there, soaking. Unbelievable. The robed figure stood there for a moment, and shuddered, the water dripping off him. He continued on his way. A cold, twisted knot began to form in Dumas’s stomach.
Again and again the waves swept down, but each time, the man remained, undeterred. Moving closer, ever closer. Dumas pulled back from the window, a cold sweat breaking on on his brow, despite the freezing temperature.
“He’s coming, Dumas. They’re all coming.”
A female voice called out behind him through the sounds of the raging storm with startling clarity. He spun about, his hand groping towards his side, towards the sword that... wasn’t there.
She stood, outlined by the glow of the fireplace, her features silhouetted. But there was no mistaking that pale skin, almost alabaster in color. She wore a red dress, rich crimson. Rich blood. Black hair fell across her bare shoulders, a further contrast against her ivory skin and dress. Each color distinct, vibrant in their differences.
“You know what you want to do...” The voice said with sharp, yet tender sweetness, a tone that somehow both made Dumas’s stomach twist in further knots... and awaken an aching longing within his body.
He took a step towards the woman...
A dulcet laugh.
Then, sudden movement, the speed almost incomprehensible. Two lithe, darkly clad figures at his side, grasping his arms. Incredible strength, their grip freezing, sharp nails digging into his skin. Amused smiles underneath shadowed hoods.
That sweet voice again, the woman in red. “I don’t think you’re ready yet.”
The two at his side flung him powerfully back, launching him through the open window. For a moment he felt as if time had slowed, as if gravity was gone. The rain spattered against his face, cutting and cold.
He crashed to the cobblestones below, a sickening thud, blinding pain in his left arm, sure he had broken it. A drowning sensation, he couldn’t breath! Sputtering, he pulled his head from the cobblestones, gasping for air as he cleared his mouth and nose from the puddle.
“Do get up, Dumas.” Her voice again...
He staggered to his feet, his clothing entirely waterlogged. Blearily, half-blinded with pain in his head and water in his eyes, he gazed back up at the window. She watched him. A smirk, her lips red. A nod, beckoning him to turn around. He did so.
The figure in the dirty white robe. He stood before him, the rain dripping down his form, the water almost taking on a silvery light to it. Lightning flashed, immediately followed by the booming roar of thunder. The figure pushed back the sodden hood, revealing a helm. Glowing eyes glinting out behind the narrow slit, the metal looking startling clean, white and blue. Dumas felt the laugh more than heard it.
With a rasp, a sword was hauled from a scabbard beneath the figure’s tattered robe, the heavy blade gleaming as lightning flashed again.
Groping under his cloak, Dumas fingers searched desperately for the wooden stock of his flintlock. Dragging it out, he leveled it squarely at the man. A moment’s pause.
He pulled the trigger.
Not even a spark.
The stupidity, the desperation, the fear. “It’s raining, you idiot!”, his brain screamed at him.
Thunder rolled, the wind shrieked.
Her voice in his ears again. “Tut, tut. You must try harder, Dumas.”
The blade hacked down at him, through his shoulder, through bone and muscle and sinew, down through his lungs, through his heart. He collapsed on the cobblestones, the blood sputtering out, mingling with the rainwater, the saltwater.
Growing darkness...
Another voice, familiar as well. “I trusted you, mon.”
The cold spreading, engulfing him... slowly, painful, his feet tingling, his legs feeling as if pins and needles were pressed into each nerve.
The storming night sky, becoming dimmer, a silvery mist now creeping in, coming to claim him, take him, consume him...
“Snap out of it, Dumas! Stop it!”
The voice of a young girl drifted to his mind, calming, warming... Something stirred deep within himself. Again the voice, youthful, yet determined, strong.
Hold on, he told himself, hold on. You can do this. Do it!
Her voice again, firm, urgent.
“Dumas!”
He awoke with start, sitting bolt upright in the bed, the sheets strewn about the room. He looked about with bewilderment, startled over his surroundings. The finely paneled wooden walls, rich carpets, the fireplace... Two bottles of wine were discarded on the floor, a puddle of red soaking into the rug beneath the bed. The shutters overlooking the quay and the promenade were firmly latched. He breathed a shuddering sigh of relief. It... it had been so bloody real. He could have sworn...
An abrupt pounding at his door brought him back to reality.
“Monsieur, Dumas! As I have said before, your rent is due today! Ne comprenez-vous? Aujourd'hui!
Dumas cleared his throat. “Aye, I bloody heard!” He rubbed at his lips, cursing again as he spotted his nearly empty coin pouch on the dresser. He sighed, and called out in Dementlieuese.
“Donnez-moi un instant!”