Chapter 42
CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO
LINCOLN
A pproximately two hundred and eighty years ago, deep in a forest cave, four cloaked men gathered in a circle surrounded by torches, in what would then become the Order of the Shadows.
The clergyman, the mason, the burgess, and the scribe.
After years of hardship, famine, and disease, they believed that darkness was the only way to find light. The scribe stole a codex from a historical archive in a small town by the sea in Italy and brought it with him across the ocean in search of a better life.
Before he left, he slipped an ancient text into his satchel—its paper brittle with age and smelled faintly of dust and time—believing its origins lay in the lost city of Babylon. The scribe believed in miracles; he believed history had a way of repeating itself and by following the steps of our ancestors, it could lead to a path of enlightenment
He spent years learning to decode the ancient book, then finally read it cover to cover. Within the confines of these pages, he found solace in the divine words that bestowed upon him a resolute and magnificent pathway forward.
He spent months rewriting these words in English and scribbled them in his journal. That journal would then become the one and only copy of The Shadow Codex.
The scribe was tired of his friends’ suffering. One day, a particularly cold and dreadful day, he walked into a candlelit cavern and placed a tin on the wooden table. It was a dreadful year with scarce crops and dangerous townspeople in constant feud with their neighbors. People were poor and were dying of sickness and starvation.
Grasping his codex in one hand, the scribe told his friends to put all their coppers into a tin.
The clergyman, renowned for his fondness for whiskey and attraction to the younger girls in town, chuckled, his cheeks rosy from ale. “Why would I do that, you fool?” He slammed his mug on the ground, shaking the table. “What are you up to, Matteo?” The pin-nosed burgess and the soot-faced Mason both laughed along with him.
Matteo calmly placed the book on the table and said in his thick accent, “I have found a new path forward.”
The clergyman picked up the journal and flipped through its pages, his face growing dark. “What is this, Matteo?” He looked up at his friend. “This is blasphemy. Your soul will be damned to hell by writing such heathen words.”
The scribe Matteo, although not as revered as his friend the priest, was gradually gaining prominence in the town after building a library, which would soon become Kinsmen College, and eventually Kinsmen University. He would later be the most prominent figure in town history.
With confidence, the scribe replied, “Next week, I will return with this tin, and the pot will grow. Then you will see what I am saying is true.”
The clergyman chuckled, thinking his friend had gone mad. He decided, however, to go along with it to prove to all his friends that Matteo Vital had no place going against the church. Each of them, one after another, placed a coin in the tin and gave it to the scribe.
A week later, they met again to drown their sorrows in ale, but the scribe arrived, looking dejected, as the money in the pot had not grown.
They mocked Matteo and used their remaining coins to get drunk, and Matteo left, promising the next time he saw them, he would make the coins grow.
Weeks passed and things worsened. The flu, having already menaced nearby towns, had reached the village of Kinsmen, causing deaths among the young and old.
A year later, the scribe walked into the bustling tavern, on a particularly dark night. He placed the same tin on the table in front of his friends, and their eyes widened with greed. The coppers, as Matteo promised, had indeed doubled.
“Impossible!” exclaimed the clergyman, with a glimmer of hope and greed.
“The dark god smiles upon us,” explained the scribe. “He showers us with his blessings, while your god leaves us sick and impoverished.” The clergyman couldn’t deny what he was witnessing, even if he didn’t fully comprehend it.
Coppers don’t multiply on their own. So where were they coming from?
They didn’t know Matteo was insane. He heard voices and saw the god’s shadowed face through the ancient trees encircling the area.
He was also a thief, stealing from the young people who were flocking to town to study at his school to learn a more secularized way of life.
The god spoke to Matteo and said that by offering a sacrifice to him, their money would continue to grow and ironically, more young people would come to the town to learn.
The clergyman, who had lost his only daughter, couldn’t ignore the fact that, despite his devoutness, he did not seem to have his god’s favor.
Christianity was failing him.
The following week, the scribe’s tin reappeared, augmented with additional coins, and Matteo claimed to be the voice of the dark god who was smiling on them. He opened the codex and started reading passages that detailed the steps required to become one of the chosen children.
Eventually, the four men pooled what little money they had, trusting their friend the scribe. Each week, the scribe brought back those same coins, plus more, and handed it out to his friends and spewed his rhetoric, convincing his friends of a new way.
One fateful night, they entered a solemn pact, a sacred blood oath, vowing that the first sacrifice must be made.
And so, mere days later, the enchanting wife of the scribe ventured into the cave on the outskirts of town, unknowingly walking to her own demise. From the tales I’ve been told, she was a youthful soul, barely reaching adulthood when this tragedy befell her. Yet, despite her tender age, she had already brought three precious children into the world before meeting her untimely end.
The children of Matteo Vital.
The scribe hid these coins in a trust within the area he administered at the small school he founded. Eventually, this small school grew, and his office became the department of psychology at Kinsmen College.
No one knows the existence of this trust other than those involved, and to this day exists in a fund only accessible by those in this department.
The trust grew with each passing year; the school growing and the trust growing exponentially as each student unknowingly paid for it with their tuition.
Trusts are binding, trusts are law, and trusts are forever.
The interest compounded, and grew for two hundred and eighty years, creating one of the richest endowments in the world. The town flourished under their watch, and they became the wealthiest people in the region.
The scribe waited—as scribes tend to do—biding his time, planning and plotting, wanting more for himself. Scribes, by nature, are very patient people. Matteo waited for his friends to kill their wives in ceremonial debauchery, then he poisoned their ale, weakening them before he slaughtered them, leaving their bodies to rot in the forest.
None of their wives birthed any more children before they died, and the ones that were alive died from the flu, leaving Matteo’s descendants the sole beneficiaries of the trust.
Overtime, and as generations passed, Matteo became that god. His children, and their children thereafter, sacrifice under his name. The children became the new Order, giving their sacrifice before moving on and bearing children of their own, keeping on with the tradition.
How do I know all of this? I don’t. It’s an educated guess based on historical records of the time, but isn’t that how all history is written?
Whoever survives tells the story.
Now, each one of their descendants stands in this very circle, bound to the scribe who demands blood and sacrifice.
My mother perished here, twenty-two years ago, at the hands of those who sought that greed.
What I witnessed that night should never have happened. I was an anomaly, as no child from a sacrifice should even exist. That night altered my brain chemistry and transformed me into the monster I am now.
I did not inherit this darkness; it was imposed upon me.
I am a new darkness—a new dark god—and I am about to take everything they have sworn to protect.
Every year, the interest from that trust moves to Dr. Garcia’s bank account, where she distributes the funds to the full members of the Order, including her family—some to Xander and some to me.
Talia Garcia is the guardian of that trust and controls this entire town. Everyone is in her pocket because she controls the finances.
Dr. Garcia, however, is getting quite old, frail even. Perhaps she only has a short while to live, and she’s relying on me to carry this legacy. Except…I’m not bound by that bloodline, even though that 600-million-dollar trust is about to become mine.
I stand back from that same circle two hundred and eighty years later. Images form in my mind of their younger selves, with solemn faces as my mother willingly walked into that circle.
In my arms, I hold Misty, who is wearing a hooded cloak. Her blonde hair peeks out from beneath the mask I placed upon her.
My brother scoffs nearby when he sees her. “He actually fucking did it,” he mutters.
Talia Garcia steps forward, raising her hand, silencing him. She looks wicked and old in her dark robes.
Talia Garcia— nee Vital —was once the strongest among us. Now, I believe Summer, who is hidden in the shadows, is the strongest among us. Summer watches as I carry Misty, who everyone believes is her, to a death ceremony.
There is no rebirth here; there is only death, greed, and insanity.
The scribe killed his wife and stole from his companions with no sacred purpose. He did it out of greed, preying on the weak in their moments of desperation, and knew his wife had eyes for the clergyman.
His insanity has been passed down for generations, manifesting in acts of murder. Once you experience it, there is no stopping it, as I have observed. And I am certain Summer carries that genetic trait, as did her father.
Talia approaches and kneels before Misty, her face concealed. She tilts her head as she beholds the blood on her fingers after lightly grazing the softness of Misty’s cheek before moving her fingers to the cut on her neck to feel her pulse.
Tonight, I’ve brought two women to the brink of death, and one I still need to bring back again. Misty is barely breathing.
She keeps her fingers on Misty’s neck for a couple of seconds before rising. Talia Garcia is a mastermind of chaos, manipulating events from a distance and has done so her entire life. She belongs to a completely different crazy. She is utterly terrifying.
Satisfied by the blood on her fingers, she disregards Misty and focuses her attention on me as she rises on her toes to reach for my face hidden deep within my hood.
“It’s done,” she declares loudly, so the entire circle can hear. She brings her lips to my forehead and presses a soft kiss, and I bow as a sign of respect. “You did well, Mikael.” Her voice is soft so no one else can hear the name she uses.
I smile tightly, my voice unrecognizable even to me. “My name’s not Mikael anymore,” I whisper back to her. “You cannot begin to understand what I’ve become.”
I blink and smile at her. The light from my torch reflects in her eyes. She observes me, her gaze flickering, but then she composes herself and stares into my eyes in fascination. Fear emanates from her, an emotion I know so intimately.
She exhales. “Of course. We will talk later.”
She steps back and turns to face the group, leaving Misty’s lifeless body in a heap.
Everyone’s heads are down, a hush falling over the cave as Talia takes center circle. “We have been summoned here tonight by a higher power. Our dark one requires a sacrifice from each of you. It is a small offering for the power and love He bestows upon us. Once you take a life, you are able to carry on with your existence. You have the freedom to marry, love, and support each other. However, it is important to follow the code, as we all belong to something sacred. Deviating from it will result in dire consequences.”
As we all learned from Xander’s mother.
“We are all equal; we are all his descendants, and we shall live in His image. Once I am gone, Lincoln will assume the role of the Guardian of the Order. He will wear the mask of obscurity and pass it on to whomever he chooses. He is the chosen one.”
Xander’s anger and jealousy radiates out of him. However, I did him a favor. This is not something he wants. He wants the parties, the money, and drugs; he doesn’t want this responsibility.
Everyone hastily leaves, except for Xander. He remains standing, observing as if he cannot believe he has lost control of what should rightfully be his fortune.
His focus is now entirely on the body everyone else believes is Summer. He hesitates for a moment, as if wanting to verify her true identity, but then he steps back and disappears into the darkness.
Only Talia remains, with Misty pretending to be lifeless on the ground, and Summer hiding close by, watching this all unfold.
Dr. Garcia studies me briefly and says, “Serve her to him.”
She shuffles away because Dr. Garcia can’t stand the next part—the part where we remove the eyes.
Misty remains motionless, almost like she is dead. I lose track of time, staring at her, waiting for the cave to empty, until gentle hands clasp mine.
“Let’s take her home,” Summer whispers.