“Maybe this was used like dorm rooms for awhile. Maybe they lived here until they built something nicer,” Jim suggested as he pulled open another door with a screech of rusted iron and shone the flashlight in. A glob of spiderwebs and rust sprinkled down onto Jim's black hair and Meshach reached out and brushed it away before Jim lost it. Both looking in, they found what they had found in nearly all of them: a cot and dust.
“All quite true,” a scratchy voice suddenly responded from behind them.
Whirling around, Meshach’s breath hitched and a chill ran down his spine as he stared at the one illuminated in Jim’s flashlight beam.
“Shit,” Jim cursed unabashedly beside him.
The Hand of Death looked directly at Meshach, his blue eyes meeting his and though every primitive instinct in his body told him to look away, Meshach forced himself to not flinch.
They had heard all the stories about the Hand of Death for years, myths and urban legends for the most part. And honestly, Meshach had assumed them nothing but the exaggerated stories of drunken soldiers told around campfires. It was said that he was the immortal messenger of Death (or even an avatar of Death itself) that was given to King Malcom as a gift by Death. Apparently, to the superstitious inhabitants of the West, this made sense, seeing as they believed King Malcom was a god in his own right. The Hand of Death was thus the most feared assassin in the West, and reports of his gruesome deeds made their way even to the East. They said he had the ability to kill with just the touch of his right hand and that his eyes could see to your very soul. You could not lie to him and his very voice made the strongest soldiers wet themselves.
So, Meshach had been quite shocked to find that the Hand of Death was real and had been present often in the Throne Room during their meetings and conferences with King Malcom and the other delegates. After all the stories, Meshach had been quite surprised at his actual appearance. Meshach had been shocked to find him of only average height with a lean swimmer’s build and not possibly even 30 years old. He had expected him to be seven feet tall and covered in blood with nothing but gaping black holes where his eyes should have been from the way he was spoken of. But none-the-less, deadliness cloaked him and grown Eastern men and women who did not believe in gods or a personified Death fell silent and stepped away from his presence. Few met his eyes.
“Well, Lord Meshach, just the man I was looking for. And here you are, where you are not supposed to be,” the Hand of Death mused, continuing to look them both up and down. When he spoke, his voice was intriguing, a strange scratch to it. With a wave of his hand, the darkness pulled away. Suddenly light flared from one of the bare light bulbs hanging above them and Jim was able to drop the flashlight to his side.
In the light, a young boy was revealed standing next to William. He was an amazing contrast to the assassin, the assassin’s pale skin, blue eyes, and blond hair against the boy’s olive skin, brown eyes, and brown hair past his shoulders. He looked almost wild.
“We didn’t mean anything. We were just curious…” Jim tried to explain and Meshach would have laughed if it wasn’t for the fact that their very lives might just hang in the balance. They had just been caught snooping by the Hand of Death around the very Society grounds that they had been forbidden from trespassing upon. This man might very well kill them here and now. In any other circumstances, he would hold the belief that no man would kill in cold blood in front of a child. However, for all he knew, this boy was some sort of assassin apprentice.
The Hand of Death smirked. “They say curiosity can get one killed,” the assassin murmured and then looked down at the boy. “I will escort these two back to their rooms. You had better run on back. I believe you have a lesson with Kissy you’re about to be late for.”
The boy’s forehead furrowed and he stomped his foot, his jaw tight. He mumbled something in Northern.
“I think I can handle two Easterners, go on,” the Hand of Death replied, looking actually amused for just a moment. The boy shot a glare at Meshach and Jamison and then he took off at a dead run. The assassin turned back to them and tilted his head in an unheard of show of respect as far as Meshach knew. “If you would come with me?”
Meshach and Jim followed the Hand of Death deeper into the shadows of the hallways. He thought he and Jim would get whiplash, for as they walked, they couldn’t help but twist their heads back and forth to watch the play of light and shadow.
“You’re seeing this, right?” Jim hissed.
Meshach nodded as he looked over his shoulder once again. Even as he watched, shadows crept forward, throwing the hallway behind them into darkness till he could no longer see any of the doors though it had been lit just moments before.
“I keep telling myself it’s just sensors but….but sensors don’t act like this,” Jim hissed again. Meshach looked over at him and could see the goose bumps on his friend’s neck. Meshach understood what Jim was trying to say. It wasn’t that the light seemed to come and go; it was the way the shadows appeared to move.
Shaking it off, Meshach forced himself to focus on where they were going and the assassin ahead of them, who thought them so little of a threat he had his back to them. They came to a wider hallway and the Hand of Death stopped abruptly and turned to them.
“I have a proposal for you, Lord Meshach.”
Meshach swallowed again but this time the danger was not immediate, but rather the apprehension of what this man could possibly want to propose to him.
“I am listening….” Meshach trailed off, not sure what the proper way of addressing him was. He knew it was important, so much emphasis being put on names and how they were used and by whom in the Western Society. “Hand of Death.”
The man managed a small curve of his lips as if he were attempting a smile but didn't have enough practice. “It is customary to shorten it to just Hand. But you may call me William.”
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