Herald of death

Ethan was sitting at the Grand Foyer's piano, playing Gymnopédie. He was learning the music before his tutor came an hour later. He pressed a key too hard, and the note came out too sharp, clashing against the languid melody. He knew how to play it, but his mind was elsewhere. He was angry. His father had come back from a trip to Africa earlier this week and had planned to go to Cairo the day after tomorrow. It wouldn't be so infuriating if he hadn't locked himself up researching some stupid artifact.

They had had one dinner together. Ethan had been expecting to discuss his recent achievements. He had a victory in a regional fencing tournament to reveal alongside his first dan in karate. Hell, he had hoped he would receive the same congratulations as every year for being, once again, the Dux of his class.

His father had spoken only of some researcher who'd reached out – never pausing long enough for Ethan to say a word.

The gate's doorbell rang. Ethan froze mid-phrase, still resting on the key. He wondered who it might be until he heard the sound of hurried footsteps descending from the second floor. His father walked through the main corridor, passing the door to the Grand Foyer without a glance.

A minute later Ethan saw his father welcoming his guest, a tall man with long black hair and a beard. Usually, Ethan's father's colleagues were unhealthy men who looked older than they were. But this man seemed built like an athlete under his brown suit. The sound of his steps betrayed his weight, painting him as a strong man. They were talking but not loudly enough for Ethan to discern words. Before he could think of interrupting, they were climbing the stairs toward Ethan's father's desk room.

'Maybe he'll have some time once they are done,' Ethan thought. He turned back to the piano and resumed playing. After a few notes, his focus was shattered by laughter coming through the window. He stepped towards it to see a duo of men in black suits waiting next to a car. 'What archeologist has two bodyguards accompanying him? He must be famous or rich.'

Ethan tried to remember if he had seen the man before. He recalled the exhibitions and conferences he accompanied his father to and the articles he read but couldn't place him.

'I could just ask,' Ethan thought. He walked through a side door to enter the kitchen and filled two mugs with coffee to make a pretext.

Hot drinks in hand, Ethan climbed the stairs to the second floor. As he approached the desk's door, he could hear his father's voice.

"I'm glad that Dr. Alexander was able to refer me to you," Ethan heard his father say. "It has been in my possession for eight years, and you're the only historian who seems to know anything about it."

"It has been eons since I laid eyes on this item," the visitor said.

"Really?!" Ethan's father asked. "My research led me nowhere; this language doesn't correspond to anything ever recorded. Where have you seen an item like this?"

Thunder erupts from behind the door. For a moment, Ethan didn't understand what he'd heard. For an instant, he thought something heavy had fallen over. But the sound was too sharp, and he realized that it was a gunshot. Then came the smell – a thickening, acrid scent that crept through the door.

"Dad?" Ethan's voice barely escaped his throat, too small to be heard by anyone.

Heavy boots stepped towards the door.

Ethan backed away, heart pounding, every instinct screaming at him to flee. He looked towards the stairs and froze. The man would go this way. Ethan's breath caught. He went the other way and hid behind a corner.

As soon as Ethan peeked back, he saw the man who shot his father leaving the study. Fire followed him and climbed the walls to engulf the ceiling. Framed by the flames and smoke, the bearded giant looked like a devil. He glanced at Ethan but didn't seem to see him before going in the opposite direction, towards the stairs.

Ethan moved towards the desk room, but the heat seared his lungs and skin, forcing him to shield his face and step back. The inferno roared, and a blast pushed him further back. The desk room's door collapsed, fanning the flames as it crashed onto the ground.

Ethan stumbled back, covering his face with his arm. The air burned his throat. He could hear the groan of beams in the walls. He tried again to move toward the study, but the heat drove him back. His father was in there – had to be – but the fire was already crawling across the ceiling. The hallway lights flickered and went out. The smoke thickened, turning the world black.

Ethan coughed hard. He turned, dizzy and half-blind, searching for a way out. He ran away from the flames, his pulse hammering in his ears. As he reached the second set of descending stairs, he found them already engulfed in flames. He didn't ask himself how the fire had appeared there and ran to the nearest window.

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He reached it and threw it open. A blast of cold air struck his face, mixing with the suffocating heat inside. Below lay the gravel court surrounding the manor. It was a long fall; he could only hope it would end in the hedge at the manor's feet.

The flames behind him were closing fast, licking the frame of the door he'd just passed through. He gritted his teeth and vaulted the window's sill. He fell for what felt like an eternity until his feet touched the hedge's edge. It spun him forward, propelling him away. He fell hard into the gravel ground, hands first, but reflex took over, and he rolled over his shoulder.

A searing pain lacerated the side of Ethan's arm an instant before he heard the gun. He recovered into a crouch to see his father's killer climbing into a black car's backseat. He was pointing at Ethan while ordering a bald man in a suit. That man was holding a pistol aimed at Ethan.

Ethan jumped aside, behind the hedge that was smoking from the embers it had caught. He ran its length, hearing echoing gunshots and the impacts on the stone wall behind him. He turned around a corner and exited the hedge onto the descending ramp leading to the parking garage.

Someone was running after Ethan; he could hear the crunching sound of the man's shoes moving through the gravel ground.

Ethan opened the always unlocked door next to the sliding gate and ran to the end of the room where the cars' keys lay in a box. He grabbed those he knew and turned back to scan the cars.

'Glove box,' Ethan thought as his gaze fell on his father's truck. This was the car he came back from Africa with, and Ethan knew his father's habits. He grabbed the key and slammed it into the keyhole. Before he could turn it, he saw the exterior door open and the bald man entering.

The truck's windshield shattered, and a gunshot rang out in the underground car park.

Ethan dropped behind the door and opened it. He slid the glove box open and searched with his hand while staying low until he found cold steel. Bringing his father's pistol out, he dropped to the ground and pressed the trigger, aiming at the man's legs. It didn't budge.

More shots slammed into the truck; liquid began to spill from the front.

Ethan rolled to the truck's back wheel. He looked at the 1911 and brought the slide back to check the chamber; it was loaded. He turned it to see the safety and realized it was on. As he heard the man approaching, he clicked the small lever off and stood up.

The man didn't expect Ethan to have moved and was aiming at the front wheel.

Ethan fired before he thought – two rounds aimed at the chest.

The bald man stumbled, one knee buckling as red bloomed across his trousers. He fired his gun, spinning in his fall to face Ethan.

A third shot cracked – Ethan didn't think of pressing the trigger, but the tensing of expected pain made him.

The man pitched forward and fell face-first into the concrete floor with a thud.

The pistol slipped from Ethan's fingers and clattered against the ground. The ringing in his ears drowned everything. He stared at the man on the floor; he wasn't moving. Ethan's breath came in ragged bursts. His chest felt too tight, his body trembling uncontrollably.

The air smelled of burnt metal, oil, and ash. Ethan's throat tightened at the smell. He wanted to call his father, to shout, but his voice died in his throat, strangled by terror.

Heat came from the ceiling, descending upon Ethan like a trap. He pushed himself off the wall and moved to the next car. He climbed inside and started the engine while opening the garage door with a remote. The car roared to life, and he brought it outside its spot.

A roar of pain echoed in the room. The bald man stood up in the rearview mirror. He tried to level his gun, but his arm protested, blown out at the joint.

The garage's door was still opening, trapping Ethan with the man. He looked back again to see the bald man grasping the gun with his other hand. Ethan put the car in reverse and slammed the accelerator. It hurled itself at the man, throwing him back onto the ground before Ethan felt the body rattling against the car's underside.

Ethan slammed on the brakes. His heart was hammering in his chest. His breath caught in his throat as acid tried to climb out. He restrained it and moved the car forward, exiting the underground car garage onto the gravel court.

The second man in black was waiting outside, his gun leveled at the car.

Ethan lowered himself behind the dashboard and accelerated as hard as he could. He heard pings of metal on his side as the car hurled itself forward and slammed through the fenced gate. He turned by instinct onto the road before rising in his seat.

Ethan's hands clutched the steering wheel, slick with sweat. The car fishtailed across the narrow road, gravel spitting out from under the tires to clatter against the car's body. Ethan blinked, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if the road was straight or turning.

The manor behind him was a burning silhouette. The colors blurred into shifting stripes of orange and grey. Ethan tried to focus on the road lines, but they doubled, then split. His eyelids dropped, and he wouldn't remember the drive.

Ethan came back to his senses at a stop sign. He realized he had been waiting for it to turn green. Ethan felt something wet making his shirt cling to his side. He touched it with his hand; pain flooded his mind, and he writhed. His hand was marred with blood, his blood. The pain spread in his body, and more appeared from his cut arm and his back.

Night had fallen. Looking through the windows, he realized that he was in the city. He stepped out of the car and stumbled through the street until he crashed into the opposite building's wall. Looking around, he found no one, not a single person that could help him. He tried to scream, to call for anyone, but his lungs burned from the inside.

Ethan staggered forward, one palm dragging along the brick wall. There were no cars passing and no voices from the nearby flats. His vision swam in and out of focus. Streetlights bloomed into halos and dimmed again. He didn't know where he was; he couldn't remember how he drove there.

A row of warehouses stretched ahead. He staggered to the nearest door and hammered it with his fist. No answer. He tried again, harder, his knuckles leaving smears on the paint. If no one was inside to hear, someone else would from a nearby street.

He moved to the next door, but it opened before he could reach it. A girl with brown hair stepped outside and froze as she saw Ethan. She didn't say a word, but he could tell that she was terrified.

Ethan wanted to ask for help, but the last of his strength vanished, and he collapsed to the ground, knocking himself unconscious.