The duo stepped into the club and Abby coughed as the smell of smoke stung her nostrils. It clung in thick clouds in the place and Eun waved away some of it, frowning as he gazed at the pseudo-historical interior. Given the trouble they’d had with Princess Femi, the reanimated Egyptian sorceress, none of Assistance Unlimited was too keen on mummies or their trappings.
“Is that our guy?” Abby asked, directing Eun’s attention to a booth on the far corner. Samir Ghamen was enjoying a meal with two other men and a very beautiful but sad looking woman. The men were talking animatedly, their fingers and lips dripping with grease, while the female in their company kept her eyes downcast.
Samir himself was a grossly fat man with a dark beard. He wore a turban adorned by a glittering ruby. He laughed loudly, an obnoxious sound that carried over the din of the club.
“That’s him,” Eun muttered. “Let’s wait outside. When he leaves, we can take out his goons and question him.”
Abby chuckled. “You always want to punch things. We can do this without a fight, you know?”
Eun crossed his arms over his chest. A pretty young waitress dressed like an Egyptian slave approached him but she turned away after receiving a glare. “You think you can go over and bat your eyelashes, then have him tell you where the torso is?” he asked Abby.
“I probably could,” Abby countered. “But you’re forgetting that I’m more than a pretty face. I’m a witch, too.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Abby reached into the valley between her breasts and her fingers came out with a small silver vial. She twisted open the lid and dabbed a bit of moisture behind each ear. “Grab a seat and enjoy the show,” she said, her lips parting in a smile.
Paul Magritte was a handsome man but his attractiveness was matched, if not surpassed, by his ego. Even now, as he dressed in a finely tailored suit, he admired his reflection in the mirror. He sometimes considered his lovers to be among the luckiest on earth: for they got to experience the pleasure of being intimate with him.
And his ego extended beyond his appearance. He also considered himself a genius and the most talented architect in the world. In truth, there was very little that he felt he could not accomplish — especially with his “friend” to help him.
After adjusting his tie, Magritte sauntered through his affluent home. He nodded politely at his maid, who blushed as they passed one another. He had not yet taken her to his bed but he would in due time. He was putting it off because women had a tendency to become obsessed with him and that affected their work — and the girl was particularly good at cleaning, so he hated to lose her. But he knew she desired him and he considered it almost cruel to not let her have a little taste.
A knock at the front door brought a smile to his face. A quick glance at the clock told him that his guest was exactly on time. He liked that. Punctuality was a sign of good graces.
Magritte waited in the study, one hand in the pocket of his coat and the other casually posed with a glass of wine in his hand. He timed it just so that his guest entered the room as Magritte was seemingly moving the glass away from his lips. He turned in mock surprise, setting down his drink and moving to greet the new arrival.
“Harold Grant!” Magritte boomed, heartily shaking the other man’s hand. “I was so surprised to hear from you. What brings you to Brussels?”
Grant gave a shrug of his shoulders and took a seat when Magritte offered it. He wasn’t quite as good looking as Magritte but he made up for it in a sense of confidence that exuded from him. Magritte found it utterly charming and always had, ever since they had first crossed each other’s path. There was something about Grant that made everyone — even Magritte — want to impress him. “I heard you might have an item in your collection that appeals to me. I was wondering if I might persuade you to sell it to me.”
Magritte sat down near Grant, their knees touching. “Are you talking about my sexual photographs?” he asked excitedly. “I recently came into possession of a series of photos of an American actress who is famed for her virginal portrayals on-screen. But trust me, she is anything but in these pictures!” Magritte’s eyes lit up as he talked and he leaned forward, lighting resting one hand on Grant’s knee in good humor.
“I’m talking about your magical relics, actually,” Grant said, gently removing Magritte’s hand from his leg.
“Oh.” Magritte tried to not look disappointed but failed miserably. “Most of those things belonged to Papa. I don’t deal with them much. I really only drag them out for parties.”
“I’m willing to pay you virtually anything.”
“Anything?” Magritte chuckled. “Well, that is intriguing. What item are we talking about here?”
“The Devil’s skull.”
The expression on Magritte’s face became frozen. He clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking but it was obvious that he had not expected those words to come from his guest’s lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered, trying to laugh it off. “Maybe you’ve got the wrong person.”
“I don’t think so,” Grant replied. Now it was his turn to lean towards the other man. “I know you have it. We can make this very simple if you sell it to me. You get your money, I get the skull… no one gets hurt.”
Magritte stood up, shaking his head. With a confused chuckle, he said, “Now you’re sounding like some American gangster.”
“I’m serious,” Grant said testily.
Magritte smoothed down his suit and frowned. “In that case, you should go. That item is not for sale.”
“Why? Because you’re using it?” Grant rose from his chair, advancing towards Magritte, who began backing away slowly. “Is that how you’ve made all those investments that always seem to work out, just so? And the unusual way that other architects who are up for the same jobs you want end up in terrible accidents? It’s a demonic force, Paul. It corrupts anyone who handles it.”
“How do you even know about it?” Magritte asked, fumbling in the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with trembling fingers.
“What’s more important is the fact that I’m not the only one who knows about it. The Germans are going to be here soon and they’re going to tear this place apart looking for the skull. Your best bet is to not have it at all. Give it to me.”
“I can’t sell it. It’s priceless! It’s my friend… without it, I’d be nothing!”
Magritte could feel the intensity of Grant’s stare and for the first time, he realized that something was different about the man. The way he stood, the voice he was now using… even the way the shadows seemed to cling to his frame… It was like he was becoming another man, right before Magritte’s eyes.
“What… what’s going on?” Magritte stammered.
Suddenly Grant was right in front of him, so close that their noses were almost touching. The power that radiated from Grant’s gaze was overwhelming and Magritte couldn’t have turned away if he’d tried.
“You’re a weak man, Paul Magritte,” Grant said in a voice that was so cold that it brought a shudder down Paul’s spine. “I hope that in your next life you find the strength to say no to your vices.”
Magritte gasped as something cold and sharp penetrated his midsection. He looked down to see Grant’s hand gripping a blade, the hilt of which was now protruding from Magritte’s own body. Grant yanked upward and to the side with the blade, opening up a fountain of blood that sprayed onto the expensive carpet.