Vintage Memories

Chapter Thirty-Three (Part Two) "Votive Truth"

Angel definitely needed help getting downstairs, but he didn't ask.

With deliberate, painstaking steps, he descended the winder staircase as if it were made of ice. In a perplexing, metaphysical way, this manor was like meandering through the halls of an ice castle—a maroon-walled, dark wood-floored ice castle.

It was a well-decorated, neatly maintained house. There was a massive taxidermy mount of a hellish beast, with the broad, clawed stance of a bear; the jaws and scutes of a plum-colored alligator; and the spiny dorsal of a fish. Paintings portrayed scenes of chaos and devastation with such masterful strokes and vibrant colors, they were oddly beautiful. Exotic souvenirs told of their owner's wealth, his underworld odysseys, and yet it all seemed empty. As if coated in verglas sheathings of glacial objectivity, everything came across as superficial and unwelcoming. They were props. Resplendent but unsentimental. Not a speck of dust, but not an ounce of homestyle warmth. The doors could've been fakes for a film set, for all he knew; in lieu of rooms, leading to brick walls or voids at the end of space.

Votive candles were stationed through the corridors with careful measure—on console tables and chairs, one held in the taxidermied beast's open mouth. And was there a smell to them? The dark complexity of bourbon mixed with sweet, austere vanilla? The scent came and went like a playful wight, beckoning him to hunt it down.

Angel didn't linger; he didn't explore; he didn't dare stray from the footpath of burgundy carpet runners and votive light. Rather, he shambled along, shunning the curiosity that festered in his gut. How did he know where to go? He had found the staircase with no trouble at all, as if by migratory instinct.

The left of the stairs opened into the foyer, where through a wide doorway, he narrowly saw into the candle-lit kitchen. Alastor had his back to him, nurturing a pot at the stove. His suit coat was still missing. Shirt sleeves were still casually rolled to the elbow, taking the edge off his lofty profile.

A spiced-savory aroma overpowered the whiffs of sweet-bourbon candlewax, and it was appetizing. Hunger waylaid Angel on the stairs. His stomach gurgled and cramped. He shuffled down to the last riser when the overlord finally turned from the simmering pot.

"Look at you go," Alastor remarked, coming to the staircase. His comment was jaunty and sportive. Black hands rose with good-natured plaudits. "Most would be utterly debilitated in a state half as bad as yours. Yet, here you are."

"Yeah... here I am," Angel rejoined. Learned to heal fast...

Alastor's crimson eyes burned intensely in the votives' pulsating light. Whether intended or not, it had a shrinking influence on the battle-weary sinner. Angel felt as miniscule as an actual spider, the walls and furniture soaring above him. He shuffled back a step, stepping outside of this preternatural bending of reality.

Alastor did the same, allowing him room to pass. "What I have cooking isn't much. No four-course dinner at the Ritz. Still, it's hearty and nutritious."

"Thanks." Angel grabbed the handrail with his upper left hand, the baluster in his lower left, and came off the stairs.

He stumbled, his overwrought ankle caving under misplaced weight, and shouldered the wall. A twinging domino effect of pangs and stabs branched throughout his body. Angel crouched, cussing out his anguish until it subsided. Alastor didn't chide him for his language. Instead he held an arm out, offering himself as a crutch.

"I'm fine," Angel barked and tottered unaided to the kitchen table. Its right side abutted a wall beneath a lengthy window. Drawn curtains brushed against his shoulder. A single candle lit the rectangular stretch of pinewood.