by Joe Stanley

part 3

But what a time!

He traveled to many great cities. He drank the sweetest wines, and took them from the lovliest of ladies. Oh, the countless ladies! They were a feast to sate the beastliest desires. He wore the finest clothes, and he found that they suited him completely. He slept in the softest beds. He had minstrels and poets and parties the equal of which he had never known.

By shrewdness, his wealth long outlasted any he had ever held…
…but only for a time.

As it ran out, he found himself slipping back into the filth of the gutter. His friends, who loved to drink his wine, had none to spare for him. The ladies, who loved him so tenderly, couldn’t even be bothered for a smile.

“Come back,” they told him, “When you’re rich again.”
Their laughter came in a chorus as he was escorted to the gate and cast into the muddy street, fouling what remained of his finery.

“I will!” he spat, “Damn you to hell! I will be rich again!”
But no one heard him from the street except the passers-by. How their stony faces condemned him without a word. Slinking off to some wretched place, he managed somehow to beg himself a room.

In that lonely darkness, he thought of days long gone. His regret troubled him.

“If only I’d taken more…” he thought aloud. He licked his lips, “…but there is more!”

In the darkness, he smiled and drifted off to sleep.
His dreams might have been troubling to some, but he reveled in the horror show. He saw Jaymes, at the top of the stairs, straining and clawing at the stone. He saw him rushing through the maze of corridors, searching for another exit. He was frantic to find one before the lantern went out. But it went out and he was lost in darkness.
All the while, Smythe laughed at his partner, the fool he had once called brother. Then, the dream took him again to a place where tears and blood, pleasure and pain were an experience like no other.

He woke feeling better than he had in ages.

The trip was long, and he savored the anticipation of seeing that place again, of plundering the wealth that awaited.

He stole through the dark forest, beneath the moon. He slipped through the trees like a shadow. From the top of the hill, he peered down upon the Count’s ancestral home. He gazed through its dusty windows to the emptiness inside.

Around it he went and found the grove. In the grove, the tomb loomed tall. The door, its seal still broken, he pushed open, heedless of the noise.

Within, the busts still condemned him, the angels still stood witness.

From his pack he removed ropes and a winch. With a match, he lit his lantern.

“Well Jaymes,” he spoke into the emptiness of the tomb, “I’ve finally come back.”

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