Stanley Solomon hurried to his room, telling himself he would not stop to look upon the painting that hung outside the door.
He had once been foolish enough to think himself immune to William’s temper. Stanley had known the man all his life, and had worked for his parents before him.
Eight years ago, alarmed at how corrupt William had become after donning Lucifer’s Ring, Stanley had tried to convince him that not all beauty needed to be captured to be appreciated. That painting people into pictures was wrong.
Legend said that the ring enhanced its wielder’s worst qualities – in this case greed, selfishness and insecurity. The Collector had rewarded Stanley’s candour with a painting.
He tried not to look, but he always did.
He felt a stab of pain in his heart as he looked into his wife’s beautiful eyes.
No one had ever returned from one of the Collector’s paintings, but there had to – had to – be a way, Stanley thought. That was the only reason to exist now. To find that way. To get his wife back.
Still, if he wished to ever succeed, he needed to stay useful to the Collector. And so, he pushed his feelings down once more and turned to the crate that had been delivered to his door.
Inside his room, Stanley prised the crate open and lay the books it contained upon the table.
One in particular had caught his attention back at the dig site. Most books this old were falling to dust, but this one seemed unnaturally intact. Small and light with gold binding, its pages were not brittle but soft, unstained and legible. The illustrations – sirens, Medusa, the gods of Ancient Greece – were still colourful and vibrant.
This book was clearly special.
A knock at the door startled him.
‘The Soul Collector calls you to attend,’ announced a guard. ‘Plane leaves in ten minutes.’
‘On my way,’ said Stanley. He tucked the book into his pack.
Ten minutes later, Stanley sat in his small room at the back of the Collector’s private jet, listening to the engines roar. William had a magnificent set of cabins in its belly, with plenty of things to occupy him, so he rarely visited Stanley in the tail section. Stanley would be left undisturbed while he examined the cover of the mysterious book, its title written in Ancient Greek.
Prophecies and Portents As set down by Damasos Anastos
Hmm, thought Stanley. Never heard of a soothsayer by that name before. He frowned, and opened the book.
Herein find a collection of vision in sequence, as told by Damasos to Isadora, under the light of a red moon.
Stanley read on. It would, if nothing else, be a good distraction.
First came accounts of earthquakes, floods and volcanoes. One foretold that a great mountain ‘in a land shaped like a warrior’s boot’ would explode and bury a city. Stanley frowned again – could it mean Vesuvius? Italy did look a bit like a boot.
He checked his notes: particle-scanning estimated the book predated the burial of Pompeii by at least two hundred years.
He continued, deciphering more passages that grabbed his attention.
One foretold a great plague borne by rats. Another seemed to predict the Industrial Revolution. There were clues about the Renaissance, and the conquering of the Americas. There was ‘a war in which humanity takes to the skies’ that would ‘end with an explosion in the form of a gigantic mushroom’. As he read on, Stanley began to think the book must be a joke, planted by one of his assistants. It was just too accurate.
Then again, he had run the particle scanner over it himself.
He turned to the next passage.
Misfortune will come as a man rich in wealth but not in soul will discover unearthly oddments that grant him power none should have. He shall suck his kingdom dry of beauty, and even daylight itself will not be safe from his thirst.
Stanley went to the door. No one was around. He returned to the book and, heart thumping, read on.
The world will suffer at his hands, yet hope remains. With the return of long-forgotten magic, slumbering spirits released from Purgatory will find new homes in human souls. The Golden Unicorn, the Minotaur and the Griffin will be born again as children of humanity. Only these three united in common purpose can fell him who seeks to triumph over all.
The more you take, the more you leave behind. This is where the Golden Unicorn will be found.
What was this? A riddle? Unicorns? Beasts of myth and legend? Surely not. But he had seen many strange things in recent years, things which he never would have believed in his youth.
Could this be the key to the Soul Collector’s undoing?
‘Stanley.’
William’s crisp voice startled him. He glanced up to see the Collector standing at his door. Did the man somehow know what Stanley had just read? Did the ring give him telepathic powers as well as everything else?
‘My, you look as white as an egg. Did you find something?’
Stanley glanced down. He wasn’t the best of liars.
‘What is it?’ William swept in to look at the passage over which Stanley’s fingers trembled. He frowned. ‘It’s all Ancient Greek to me. That’s why I have you!’ He slapped Stanley on the back. ‘What does it say?’
‘Something about Pompeii,’ Stanley mumbled.
A half-truth could help him sound believable. ‘Something might be buried there. I need more time to decipher it, these old books are not always clear …’
This old book was about the clearest Stanley had ever read.
‘Interesting.’ William sniffed and turned back to the door. ‘Well, I hate to interrupt, but we aren’t far off landing. Come, I want you to help me pick the best vantage to paint from.’
Stanley swallowed and closed the book, trying to seem relaxed. ‘Of course.’
As he followed the Soul Collector out of the cabin, he could not help but imagine a unicorn horn stabbing through the albino cloak into its wearer’s back.
