Charity looked at him in annoyance. “I’m 23 years old. I was a bright but not particularly great student in school. Do you really think I’ve heard of something called The Necronomicon?”
“Fair enough,” he conceded. “According to the most trustworthy sources, it was originally called Al Azif, which translates as ‘the howling of demons.’ A mad Arab named Alhazred, who worshipped several dark gods, wrote the book after travelling far and wide to learn foul secrets. It was translated into Greek and then Latin, spreading like wildfire through the occult community. In the year 1050, an attempt was made by the Catholic Church to put the work to rest. Copies were rounded up and burned, however several slipped through and were placed into hiding and survived. For many years, it was believed that no copies of the original Arabic version remained… but now Meeks has come into possession of one. This book is indescribably dangerous! The mere study of it is bad enough but any attempt to master its secrets could prove catastrophic, not just for the student… but for the entire world.”
“So you want me to kill him… over a book?”
Goldstein narrowed his eyes. “It is not just any book. Did you not listen to me?”
“Has he done anything with it? Has he performed human sacrifices? Is he planning to blow up a church?” Charity stood up and dropped the newspaper clipping into Goldstein’s lap. “I’m not going to kill him based on some rumor you’ve heard about him owning a forbidden book.”
“It is not a rumor! I have sources that have—“
“Sources that you never seem to share with me.”
“I have told you… Since my time as Gravedigger, I have cultivated connections with many people, in my walks of life. Because when my time of penance was done, I still wanted to help! I still wanted to serve! And that is why I am with you, now. So that I can offer you assistance! I don’t want you wasting as much time as I did, trying to find leads. I can bring them to you!”
Charity took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Josef. I just get so… frustrated.”
Goldstein softened his expression. “I understand. Like you, I had lived a lifetime of sin. Neither of us were murderers or beyond redemption… but we had broken many laws, both moral and legal. To have a mirror placed before your very soul, to see how far down you had fallen… and then be told that you have a finite amount of time to correct it all….”
A smile touched Charity’s lips. It was so sweet that Goldstein lost his train of thought. This young beauty had not had an easy life and it had hardened her beyond her years. To look at her now, though, was to get a glimpse into the kind of person she could have been, had things done along a different path.
As quickly as that grin had appeared, it had vanished. When Charity looked at him, her expression was cynical and hard, as it usually was. “He’s keeping this book in his house, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s where I’ll be going tonight.”
“Don’t play with him. Just strike quickly and get away. That’s what you should have done with those men last night. Instead, you skulked about in the shadows until you heard their confession.”
“You have your sources, Josef, but I’m not ready to trust them — or you — 100 %. I do this my way.” Charity stood up. “I’m going to break into his house and have a look around. Besides, if he’s as dirty as you make him sound, I bet this isn’t the only pot he’s stuck his fingers into. We might need more information if we want to shut down his entire operation.”
Goldstein merely nodded as she exited the room. Taking a deep breath, he hoped that she could find a way to silence the anger raging within her.
If not, the next three years would be for naught.
Chapter III: Charity’s Life… And Death
Charity Grace had grown up in one of the most squalid sections of Sovereign City, an area known as Ferguson Point. Though her mother had sought to shield her from the truth, she’d eventually learned the facts about her birth. Her mother had been a woman of the night, a peddler of her own flesh. Catching the eye of a wealthy philanthropist, she’d become his mistress and eventually gave birth to a daughter. Fearing the effect this could have on his marriage and family, Charity’s father had abandoned the relationship.
The only proof of her heritage lay in the name given to her on her birth certificate: Grace.
Once she’d learned the truth, Charity had become obsessed with her half-sister, a girl named Samantha. She’d seen the girl in the Society pages from time to time, winning a tennis tournament or placing high in some academic bowl.
All of that, Charity realized, could have been — should have been — hers.
Eventually, she’d fallen in with a rough crowd, losing her heart to a roughneck by the name Mack Winslow. When she’d spilled the beans about her father, he’d taken it upon himself to launch a blackmail scheme. In the end, a man named Lazarus Gray had intervened, saving the Grace family from scandal.
Charity had been furious at the turn of events. Not only had her secret been used to harm others but also, Samantha had ended up as a member of Gray’s Assistance Unlimited.
After the death of her mother, Charity had been forced to make a difficult decision: Should she confront her father and beg for his assistance? Or should she find some way, any way, of fending for herself.
Given the fact that her father still hadn’t come looking for her in the wake of the blackmail scheme, she chose the latter.
Refusing to become a prostitute, she instead became a petty thief. She’d done well enough to find an apartment of her own but beyond that, life was a meager existence.
All of that had changed the night she’d broken into the home of Josef Goldstein. He had just moved into the Gibson Avenue area and, according to the moving men that she’d befriended, wouldn’t be actually occupying the place for several days yet.
If all had gone according to her plan, she would have had plenty of time to ransack the many boxes she’d seen carried into the home.
But life was never simple for Charity.
It had taken less than five minutes for her to get inside his house. Armed with only a small flashlight, she had moved through the darkened rooms. Now and then, she had stopped and opened a box, using a small knife on her person. The contents of the packages were enough to set her heart fluttering: expensive jewelry, lovely vases and silk sheets.
A sudden thought had occurred to her: why was Goldstein moving into this neighborhood? With this kind of money, he could have moved into one of the more upscale areas with ease. Maybe, she mused, the stories she’d heard about Jewish people were true: that they were skinflints.
In general, she didn’t buy into racial stereotypes. There were several blacks that lived in the apartments around hers and they were nothing like the minstrels that they were portrayed as in newspaper cartoons. On the other hand, the only Jewish person she knew was Mr. Stiller, who owned the local grocery, and he certainly embodied all the negatives she’d heard about his race.
Charity had stepped into the living room and stopped, letting her light travel up the fireplace and over the painting that hung above. It was a marvelous piece of work, though its subject matter sent a chill down her spine: a cloaked figure on horseback, a scythe held in one hand. It was Death, riding his black steed, with the souls of the damned writhing in torment along the sides of the road.
“A moving image, is it not?”
Charity had jumped, spinning about so quickly that she nearly dropped her flashlight. Her free hand had stealthily retrieved her knife from its place on her hip and she brandished it with obvious experience.