Skinwalkers

Chapter Eleven

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Chapter Eleven

A timid knock came from the door.

"Master Jacob?"

"Enter," replied the deep voice on the other side.

The door creaked open, and a portly man in a fine black suit and tie stepped into the room. He shuddered, and then immediately hoped his master hadn't seen. A butler in this house was to conduct himself in the proper manner at all times. Such has been the rule since the manor's founding, and the servants who broke it were seldom given second chances—or ever seen again.

Still, the shudder was only natural. The moment he stepped through the door, the temperature had immediately dropped at least thirty degrees. The fire roaring in its hearth at the far side of the room seemed to give off no heat whatsoever, and the portly man's breath rose from his mouth in small clouds.

"Jensen," his master greeted him. The old man was seated before the fire, his back to the door, staring into the flames with a focus so intense that the butler was surprised he'd even heard him knock.

"Master Jacob," Jensen said, giving a quick bow, "there is—"

"What do you make of this, Jensen?" Jacob motioned toward the fire.

"S- Sir?" the butler asked.

"So large. So bright. A catalyst of both creation and destruction. And yet..." He peered at it, leaning in so close that for a moment Jensen thought he would burn the eyebrows off his face. "And yet, so empty. Come closer, Jensen."

Jensen obeyed, even though every molecule in his body was screaming at him to run. He knew what his master was capable of, and he knew what sort of things he didn't tolerate. He came to stand behind Jacob's wheelchair, his customary place.

"What do you see?" Jacob asked, his voice soft and almost wistful.

"I see the fire, sir," Jensen answered. "Is there...something in particular you—"

"Yes, yes, but what is inside the fire?" Jacob cut him off.

"Inside?" Jensen echoed. "There is nothing inside the fire, sir. Not that I can see at any rate."

Jacob sighed, nodding his head with eyes closed. "As it ever was. As it shall always be, I fear."

"I don't understand," Jensen said, growing more confused—and thus more afraid—with every word out of his master's mouth.

"Never mind. What was it you came to tell me?"

"Ah, yes." Jensen straightened. "Master Jacob, a visitor has arrived for you."

"A visitor?" Jacob feigned surprise without looking away from the fire. "At this time of night? Well then, show him in."

Jensen bowed again and left, saying a silent prayer of thanks as he made for the foyer. A minute later, he returned, this time with a filthy young man in tow.

"Your visitor, Master Jacob," he said, ushering the newcomer in. He stayed in the hallway, ready to escort the man back out again, respond to any requests his master might have...or summon the cleaning crew, if the worst were to come to pass.

Jacob drew in a long breath through his nose without turning around. "Mmm, yes. Dennis, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," the young man said. "That's me."

He was dressed in a shirt and pair of pants that looked like they had been pulled out of a dumpster, and a ragged brown duster that had more holes than cloth in it. He wore no shoes, but his feet were black with dirt and mud. Jensen made a mental note that he would have to scrub every floor this disgusting transient stood on.