Written By: Decater Collins
Madam Chantal’s stood like a dream at the top of the hill, with a vague framework and a shaky foundation. When viewed from a distance, the whole structure appeared like it could come tumbling down at any moment. Perhaps that was just the heat refraction.
“Are you sure it’s safe inside?” Chris Klein wiped the sweat off his brow as hesitated near the side entrance. He wasn’t asking about the soundness of the edifice.
“No one’s ever died in there, if that’s what you mean.” Carver opened the door and waited for Klein to screw up his courage. He’d enter eventually. The people who came to the house did so precisely because it wasn’t safe.
___________
The lobby at Madame Chantal’s, while reasonably warm, smelled of hay and blood. The previous proprietor had attempted to mask the scent, which she considered pedestrian, with a lavender concoction that only served to irritate Carver’s allergies. He never understood her desire to hide what business they were in with aromas and pseudonyms. It reminded him of his last gig.
Klein almost gagged on the odor. Carver let him finish his coughing fit before he continued.
“It’s important that you obey each of the rules. Refusal to do so will lead to immediate expulsion.”
The rules were emblazoned into Carver’s memory, to the point he often recited them in his dreams:
Rule #1 Never make eye contact.
Rule #2 If you can’t see a creature’s eyes, don’t look directly at it.
Rule #3 Tell no one about what you’ve seen here.
Klein nodded is head in acknowledgement.
“But even more imperative is that you listen to your guide at all times. His word is the gospel as far as you’re concerned. Now, once you hand in your cellphone, you’ll be ready to begin.” Carver gestured towards the desk, where forbidden objects, including all communications devices and cameras, were stored while patrons were within the establishment.
“I heard that there might be a secret room, one that most guests have never seen. I’d like to start with that one.”
“If there were such a room, you’d have to arrange for a private visit. And it would cost considerably more than the standard package.”
Klein reacted as if Carver had smacked him across the face.
“Money is not an issue, like it might be for you. I want to see the secret room.” Dealing with the wealthy was horrible enough, but when you combined money with fame, it made for an almost intolerable combination.
“Take it up with the Madam after your visit if you like. But your guide’s about to leave without you.” Bruce was waiting by the entrance curtain with two pasty gentlemen in their middle years. Carver grabbed Klein by the arm and practically shoved him in their direction. Like most of the house’s clients, he was shaking underneath his bravado.
“You’re positive I won’t be in any danger?” he whispered.
Carver knew what Klein wanted to hear. “You were in danger the moment we set foot inside.” Klein’s eyes went wide with a mixture of fear and titillation. “But don’t get out of line and nothing will happen to you.”
After all these years, it was still the sexual excitement of the clientele that disgusted Carver the most. He instinctually reached for his necklace, but found it was hidden under his clothes. He instead settled for putting his hands in his jacket pockets.
___________
As far as anyone knew, there never had been a Madame Chantal, although there might have been a time far in the past when the house had actually been run by such a woman. The current owner was named Madame Lynch.
She was sloped just like the house and both of their edifices had been worn by the accumulated decades of smoking and sin, the only difference being Madame’s dress was newer and a lot more revealing. Her white curls frizzled at their ends, the lines around her eyes were black with makeup, and her teeth were unnaturally white. And yet, she was the most beautiful thing in the whole place, though Carver did his best to deny it. Repression was one of the traits that still came naturally, even after so many years.
“You were giving Master Klein a hard time.”
“He’s too young to be here.”
Madame Lynch shook her index finger in Carver’s face. “I’ve been telling you, we need to attract more young people. It used to be fashionable to visit Madame Chantal’s.”
Carver shrugged.
“What would you have me do, huh? Do you think feeding these beasts is cheap?”
“You’ve always said they’d be better off dead.”
“So would you, Carver, but you still get feed. Besides, people want to see them. If someone is going to profit off of them, it might as well be me. Now make sure you treat Master Klein with respect and give him a show.”
Carver never argued with Madame Lynch. As much as he hated this job, he needed to be here.
___________
One of the rituals that Carver had refused to let go of was reading the newspaper every day. In between arrivals, when nothing more than his presence was needed, he liked to arrange himself in the corner of the sitting room with that day’s paper and a glass of hot water. He preferred not to talk to anyone and the paper helped to ward off unwanted questions.
For the sake of appearances, he made a show of reading the local crime and obituary pages. But his real interest lay in the human interest stories, tales of redemption, of overcoming hardships, of second chances. A single mother who has started her own business selling stay-cold lunch bags. A recovering drug addict who has found a way to help others avoid the same mistakes. A local gardener who convinces businesses to fund him as he beautifies low-income homes. The Monitor was full of such features.
Carver often imagined that his own story might one day grace the pages of the Monitor. He liked to think that he would appear in one of the upbeat features. An ex-priest who continues to help the damaged souls who need his guidance the most.
It was more likely he’d appear in the local crime statistics. The only question was whether he’d be the victim or the perpetrator.
___________
Shouts came from the hallway. Carver folded his newspaper, took one last sip of hot water, and headed towards the commotion. His moments of solitude rarely lasted more than a few minutes at a time.
The majority of altercations at Madame Chantal’s involved an unruly patron getting out of hand. Not even the fact they had stopped serving alcohol years ago was enough to prevent tempers from flaring. Too much testosterone mixed with adrenalin was Carver’s opinion.
Normally just his presence was enough to calm a situation before it escalated into danger. At a burly 6 foot 4, Carver had gone years without actually having to get physical with anyone, especially not the pampered politicians, entertainers, or socialites who frequented this place. It was just another one of Carver’s dichotomies. He never really had liked violence, but his job required using the threat of it to keep people in line.
As he opened the door to the show rooms, the shouts were coming from the contact room. This was where patrons could actually mingle with some of the tamer attractions. The raised voices did not seem angry, but rather alarmed.
Bruce came rushing up to him. “One of the patrons got scratched.” Carver didn’t understand why Bruce was so unnerved if, as he said, it was just a scratch.
“How bad is it?”
“Just come.”
The show rooms were all off the main hallway of Madame Chantal’s, each kept behind a strong iron portal that locked from the outside. The doors generally remained closed except when patrons were inside. At this early hour, three of the rooms were occupied, but the loud voices coming from chamber number 6 left little doubt which group was in need of his assistance.
“It wasn’t my fault, Carver. They’re all supposed to be checked before they leave the lobby.”
Bruce continued to mutter unintelligibly about how he shouldn’t be blamed, but as they entered the chamber it immediately became obvious to Carver what had the guide so upset.
Each standard tour involves no more than four patrons, along with their guide and two security officers. These latter were there to act as a calming presence for the patrons who might otherwise have a tendency to panic in the presence of the beasts, but in reality were there to keep the patrons from misbehaving.
Carver immediately noted that Mr. Jackson, the county coroner and a regular patron of the Menagerie, was being attended to by one of the security officers. The exhibit area was already empty and the doors shut, meaning the beasts had been pulled back into their night enclosures by the handlers. Jackson had what was indeed a very small cut in the palm of his hand and he was trying to assure everyone in the room that he was fine.
“I just tripped is all. Really nothing but a scratch.”
Meanwhile, the other security officer held Chris Klein tightly by the scruff of his collar and was trying to seize something from the patron’s grasp. Carver now understood what the commotion was all about.
Without waiting for an explanation, Carver strode right up to Klein and cuffed him in the jaw with the palm of his hand. It wasn’t a particularly sharp blow, but it surprised the celebrity enough, who had probably never been manhandled in his life, that he stumbled backwards and grabbed at his face, dropping the object he had been struggling over.
“Why did you hit me?”
“The rules were quite clear. No cellphones allowed.” Carver held out his hand and the security officer handed him Klein’s contraband phone.
___________
“The police will be here in less than 10 minutes. You all have two choices: be arrested, or escape through the back.”
The patrons quickly agreed they would all choose option B.
“Before you decide, the second option involves going through the monster pens. The police refuse to enter and so they have never discovered the secret exit. Needless to say, this way is dangerous and we can’t guarantee your safety.”
The patrons became silent. Carver recognized the look; they were calculating how big the scandal might be for getting arrested, versus the risk to their lives, or worse yet, their souls. The politicians and government officials always chose scandal. Ever since the mayor had been arrested at Madame Chantal’s last year (in a coordinated sting organized and funded by the opposing party) and survived the embarrassment to be reelected, the stigma no longer seemed as toxic.
Of course, surviving the scandal had also tarnished much of the luster that had at one time made the Menagerie so enticing. Less stigma equated less money, explaining why Madame Lynch was so eager to attract a younger clientele.
In the end, only Chris Klein, the teen heart throb whose entire career would be in danger were he to be discovered in the Menagerie, chose option B. Fitting, since it was his fault the raid was happening.
Once the altercation had settled down, Bruce explained what had happened.
“Mr. Jackson had been so startled at the appearance of the monsters, he stumbled and scraped his palm on the railing. It was an exposed screw. I’d warned about it before.”
“No one’s blaming you, Bruce. Get on with it.”
“Well, we all had our attention on Mr. Jackson, so no one noticed Mr. Klein had pulled out a phone and started snapping pictures. He’d uploaded a selfie to social media before we could stop him.”
The agreement between Madame Lynch and the local police department was very clear. She paid them a monthly stipend and they looked the other way, as long as the Menagerie avoided all media attention, traditional or otherwise. Advertising was to be done by word of mouth, which suited Madame Lynch just fine, as that was the best kind of advertising for an establishment like this.
The police department monitored social media closely for any slip-ups, because a raid of the Menagerie always meant extra, under-the-table revenue from bribes and hush money from the rich clientele. The cash hungry authorities would be here in less than ten minutes.
Carver was not surprised Klein would choose the more dangerous option but he didn’t like the idea of having to escort the actor through the pens. “Let me impress upon you that you must do exactly what I say at all times. You’re life will be in danger. If you disobey one of my orders, I’ll leave them to have their way with you.”
Klein shuddered. Carver hoped it wasn’t from pleasure.
___________
The monsters at Madame Chantal’s Menagerie of Wonder were housed in individual pens, each one shut off from its brethren, unless allowed into the breeding room. These pens were little more than concrete cells and, though they were protected by very complicated and expensive wards, the physical structures were themselves poorly constructed and completely unfurnished.
The occupants were intended to suffer.
The emergency exit ran through the dank corridor that connected all of the individual pens and then through the breeding area, into one final pen, which was unused except as the portal out in times such as this, when secrecy was prized over all else. And while the danger to Carver and Klein might have been remote, it was not outside the realm of possibility. Handlers were sometimes careless, wards could be broken. The staff at Madame Chantal’s was human and humans sometimes made mistakes. In fact, in Carver’s experience, they were defined by them.
“Take your shoes off.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want your footsteps to attract unwanted attention.”
Klein bent down to comply, then noticed that Carver was leaving his own shoes on.
“What about you?”
The truth was that there was no real reason for Klein not to be wearing shoes. The monsters were either securely in their pens or they weren’t, and a little bit of noise wasn’t going to make any difference should they be loose. The creatures didn’t use sound to track their prey anyway, but rather their sins.
Carver simply resented having to risk lives to protect the reputation of some amoral elite who thought the rules didn’t apply to him. By his way of figuring, Klein deserved a little humiliation.
“Take your shoes off or you can go back and explain to the police what you’re doing here.”
The corridor was normally lit by a deck of fluorescent fixtures that ran the length of the ceiling, but the Menagerie had gone into high alert. Only the red emergency lights at either end were still on, meaning the visibility was low and they had to navigate by a single flashlight that Carver had taken from the small closet near the entrance. Madame Chantal wanted to discourage the police from snooping where they weren’t wanted, not that she needed to worry about that. The police were just here to make a quick score from the patrons. They wanted nothing to do with what was kept in the Menagerie.
With Klein in tow, Carver navigated their way down the corridor by flashlight. The pens, sealed by heavy metal doors, were all securely closed. Unfortunately, when they reached the entrance to the breeding area, Carver found it was also sealed shut and the lever was in the locked position.
“Hold on a second.” Carver reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone.
“Hey, I thought phones weren’t allowed.”
“Patrons aren’t allowed them because, as you just proved, they can’t be trusted to stay off social media. Now shut up while I get us out of here.”
Carver dialed a number, exchanged a few words, and then hung up.
“There’s another group that’s coming this way and they have the key. They’ll be here in a few moments.”
___________
It was hot inside the corridor. Although the entrance way and the lobby at the Menagerie were kept as comfortable as possible, bmost of the holding pens were unreasonably hot. Even waiting a matter of minutes was close to intolerable. Carver had already thrown off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. While Klein sat in the corner sweating, Carver stood alertly, twirling the crucifix around his neck, which was illuminated blood red from the emergency lights.
“They said you’re a priest.” Klein asked.
“Don’t talk.”
“I guess you’re not as tough as you like to make out.”
“You think being a believer makes a person weak? It takes a lot more strength than working in a place like this.”
“So you really are a priest?” Klein asked, his tone a mixture of incredulity and surprise. The tone a vegan uses to address a carnivore, or a carnivore uses with a vegan.
“I used to be. Now shut up.”
Carver took several steps into the darkness of the corridor, away from Klein and the light. He thought about a time in his youth, while still in the seminary, when he had taken a vow of silence. He didn’t speak for more than a year. He eventually decided that silence was useless in his line of work. What good was being closer to God if you were all alone?
Carver turned back and looked down at Klein.
“What do you think these creatures are?”
“They are monsters.”
“Not just monsters. They are demons. That’s why it’s so hot in here. Because even though they are kept in the Menagerie, their souls still belong in hell. You can believe or not, but it doesn’t change what they are.”
“Why are you here, then? If you’re a priest, you should be in a church somewhere, helping people.”
“I told you, I’m not a priest anymore.”
“Still, a place like this. It doesn’t seem like a place for a priest.”
“And where do you imagine a priest should be?”
“I don’t know. Someplace more hopeful.”
“Look around you. This is, literally, Hell on Earth. If you have any hope left after visiting here, then you are a fool.
A light could be seen coming down the corridor, a tiny red eye that gradually grew larger, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Is that them?” Klein asked. Carver said nothing.
Two figures emerged from the darkness. One of them, a strong burly fellow in a black suit, worked as security for Madame Chantal’s. The second figure was dressed in something like a white hazmat suit, but with thicker, padded material and nothing but a thin, black eye line to see out of.
“What is that?”
“Remember when you asked about the unspoken room? You’re about to see it.”
___________
The term menagerie originated in seventeenth century France, referencing the management of household or domestic livestock. Over time, it would primarily become associated with aristocratic collections of exotic animals. The 1782 Methodical Encyclopaedia defined a menagerie as an "establishment of luxury and curiosity."
Traditionally, a menagerie was associated with a royal court and was located within a garden, park, or monument space on aristocratic grounds. The collections were used to demonstrate the power and wealth of the nobility, as it was difficult to acquire and expensive to maintain rare and dangerous animals from far-flung locales.
During the Middle Ages, it had become the fashion for the sovereigns of Europe to house small collections of exotic wildlife. For example, Emperor Charlemagne had three menageries (though the term itself was still centuries away), at Aachen, Nijmegen, and Ingelheim. They held elephants, lions, bears, monkeys, camels, falcons, and other colorful birds. Charlemagne received many of these animals as gifts from rulers in Africa and Asia.
In England, meanwhile, King John established a collection of animals at the Tower Menagerie in London in 1204, which included lions and bears. Henry III received three leopards as a wedding gift in 1235 from the Holy Roman Emperor. Two decades later, the Tower Menagerie was presented a polar bear from the king of Norway and an elephant from the king of France. Eventually, Elizabeth I opened the Menagerie to the public and, two hundred years later, it was eventually closed after several incidents where the animals had escaped and attacked visitors and Tower staff. The Duke of Wellington, Constable of the Tower, ordered the animals expelled and they were moved to their new home in the London Zoo in 1832.
The biggest rival to the British when it came to Menageries was, as with all other things, the French. Louis XIV constructed two magnificent menageries, one in Vincennes, and the other at Versailles. The collection at Vincennes housed ferocious beasts, which were organized into gladiator-style fights. Lions, tigers, and leopards were caged in the amphitheater and King Louis entertained courtiers and visiting dignitaries with bloody battles, such as one occasion in which a tiger fought an elephant to the death. The menagerie at Versailles was, by contrast, orderly and peaceful. The animals kept there were intended to augment the glory and prestige of the king.
The menageries were symbols of power in a time when foreign travel was difficult, expensive, and often dangerous. But for the animals themselves, the menageries were cruel prisons. The animals were caged, beaten, taunted, starved, forced to perform or fight, and, in general, quite miserable. That’s not to mention the forced breeding programs or other savage indignities they were obliged to suffer
The menageries were, as it turned out, just as barbaric 350 years ago as they are today.
___________
The unspoken room was perhaps the most talked about part of Madame Chantal’s Menagerie. Even visitors who couldn’t afford the entrance fee or didn’t have the right inclinations knew it existed. The whispers were that it was where you went to have your most decadent fantasies realized.
“So the stories are true?” Klein asked. “I knew it.”
Carver watched as the security handler guided his patron into the light. He hated everything about the unspoken room, what it represented, what it did to those who visited it, what it did to everyone involved for that matter.
But nothing bothered him more than the patrons who got excited by it.
“What took you so long?” Carver demanded.
Bruno, the larger of the two handlers, responded in a deep, gnarled tone. “He wasn’t fully dressed yet when the alarm sounded, and then we had to go through the back offices to avoid the cops. What’s he doing here?” Bruno pointed at Klein, who was trembling with a nervous excitement that disgusted Carver.
“It was his choice. He’s willing to risk it rather than face the cops.”
Bruno shrugged.
By now, the patron, invisible inside his protective suit, was gesticulating wildly, and attempting to pull off his mask. Bruno tried to intervene.
“Sir, sir, I need you to stop. You’ll break the seal, and we won’t be able to reclose the suit without returning to the dressing room.” But his instructions were ignored and, before they could get his hands in check, the patron had managed to unlatch the neckpiece and lift the headpiece off.
Inside, the patron was a middle-aged gentleman with unnaturally black hair. Carver recognized him immediately and sighed. His job had just gotten a lot harder.
“What are you doing here, Christopher?”
“Dad?”
___________
Joseph Klein. The richest industrialist in the entire country, known to fund the political campaigns of even the obscure, out-of-favor parties because he couldn’t stand to think there might be a sliver of the political process he didn’t have influence over. Debates raged in dark corners of the city whether Joseph Klein was feared more than he was despised. Such talk never saw the light of day because no one dared risk coming to his attention.
There was a story Carver heard once while listening to the confession of a parishioner. The man worked for Klein. Not as an executive or personal assistant. As far as Carver knew, the man had never even met Klein in person. He just worked as a line manager at one of his factories.
The man started by admitting he wasn’t always the best when it came to keeping his temper in check and was known to speak his mind. After a year of watching young men and women suffer long shifts for low pay and few benefits, with even the barest hint of dissent leading to termination, the man couldn’t stay quiet any longer. He complained to his supervisor that a man as rich as Mr. Klein should treat his employees better. He might have even used a choice word to describe the business magnate.
That night, the man received a phone call. It was Mr. Klein. His boss called in person to tell him that he was fired. It was well known that Klein took the time to personally fire every single one of his employees himself, rather than leave it to a subordinate. It was, he had been quoted as saying on more than one occasion, his favorite part of his day.
Carver had not been shocked by the revelation, as everyone in the city knew of Klein’s reputation, just saddened. It became worse the next day when Carver learned the parishioner had committed suicide. Apparently, Klein wasn’t satisfied with just firing the man, but had put out the word that none of his competitors were to hire him unless they wanted to face repercussions themselves.
This was the sort of man who paid to visit the unspoken room at Madam Chantal’s.
___________
“When you enter the breeding chambers, neither of you will now have any protection. A ward can expire without warning, and that means the only thing standing between you and one of those demons is a one-inch pane of glass and the hope they don’t realize you are there.”
“So we have to be quiet?” Chris Klein gestured to his bare feet, which only served to generate laughter from Bruno and the other security officer.
“Noise doesn’t matter. They can’t hear. They know where you are based on guilt.”
“My father has never felt guilt in his life.”
“Christopher, enough. I’ll deal with you when I get home.”
“You both need to shut up.” The Kleins, father and son, glared at Carver, but before another one of them could open their mouths, the ex-priest sidled up into the face of the elder patron.
“We’re all risking our lives just so you can avoid a little unwanted publicity, so I don’t want to hear it. I don’t work for you and I don’t give a damn about how much money you have or how well connected you are. There are some things that matter more than money, more than your reputation, more than your life even. Those demons aren’t after any of those things. They want your soul. And while I suspect you might have a long list of creditors already lining up for yours, I have one job, and that’s to make sure we all get through that room and out of the Menagerie without anyone becoming any more damned than they already are. Personally, I could care less about the pair of you. It’s just a job. But if at any moment you put me or my associate at risk, I’ll leave you in there to fend for yourself. And if you thought you knew what hell was like, I can assure you there’s no hell like the one of your own making.”
Not even Joseph Klein had anything to say after Carver was finished with his speech. With one final nod to Bruno, Carver turned and opened the door.
___________
The amount of light coming from the breeding pens came as a surprise. Unlike the dark corridor, this chamber was starkly illuminated by an expansive bank of fluorescent ceiling fixtures, so well lit in fact that not even the men cast a shadow. Everything was sharply defined, like in a surgical chamber, or a lucid dream.
The room, which at first glance appeared circular in design, upon closer examination was an oddly shaped polygon, with maybe 9 or so sides, all at slightly different angles and lengths. Two walls protruded from opposite ends for about 5 feet, marking an invisible diameter of the room that seemed to indicate two approximate halves. The off-kilter design gave everyone who entered for the first time a slight discomfort, even perhaps nausea, as they tried to make sense of their surroundings.
While the patrons adjusted to the light and the architecture, Bruno pulled a weapon from his holsters. It was shaped like a short, stub-nosed shotgun, but instead of an open barrel, it had dark red glass or plastic covering the opening, something like an infrared sensor. Bruno looked around nervously.
“We shouldn’t wait here.” His nervousness became contagious and the two patrons grew agitated, like animals before an earthquake.
As the group neared the center of the room, the patrons realized what had looked like an open chamber was actually split down the middle by a pane of glass that was held in place by the protruding walls. Just like there was no shadow, somehow no light reflected off the surface, no matter what angle you were looking at it. But when they got close enough, the patrons sensed a slight diffraction.
Carver didn’t lead them, so much as he walked and the others followed. He headed towards a door that separated the two halves of the room, a sturdy steel affair in one of the protruding walls. Next to it was a bank of levers and controls. Carver stopped in front of the panel and turned to the others.
“Before we go further, take a good look at the other side. You see those cells?” Whereas this side of the room had nothing but blank walls, on the other side, each stretch of wall had a cell door and a dark window. It was impossible to see what was inside.
“That’s where they are prepared before they are released. Once we go through this door, those doors, and the wards that have been placed on them, will be the only things protecting you. That and Bruno.”
“What about you?” asked the elder Klein.
“I’m not here to protect you. I’m here to make sure nothing happens to Bruno. Now it’s important we move through the chamber as calmly as possible without drawing any attention to ourselves. The less emotion you feel, the better. That includes anger towards me, or towards each other.”
Father and son looked at each other resentfully.
“One of those cells is actually an exit, and that’s the one we’re headed for. Now are you ready?”
The two patrons didn’t respond but looked nervously at the dark cells.
“It’s not too late to turn around. But, if you want to escape, this is the only way. The police know better than to go past this door.”
The elder Klein seemed to snap out of his reverie. “Hurry up and open it. I’ve listened to your yammering long enough.”
Carver sighed to himself as he reached for the lever that opened the door. People never feared the right things.
___________
As soon as the door swung open, a wave of angry heat immediately swept over Carver and the others. It was a violent heat, the kind of heat that burrowed inside your head and demanded you acknowledge it. Joseph Klein, still inside his cooling suit despite the seal having been broken, was at least somewhat protected, but the others all braced themselves as if they were on the doorstep to Hell.
Carver motioned them forward. Other than the temperature, there was little difference on this side of the glass from the other. The room had the same clinical feel, with smooth metal surfaces and a faint scent of formaldehyde. Only the cells fortified along the walls and the raised altar in the center of the chamber marked the passage from one section to the other.
The four of them made their way slowly across the room, silent and alert, with Carver leading the way. The room was silent and, other than the heat, seemed benign.
Carver hated this room more than the rest of the Menagerie. This was where the worst things happened. Where captive demons were brought out and forced to fornicate. The staff called it the breeding room for that reason, though there could be no offspring involved. It was entirely for the amusement of the patrons, who paid entire salaries (not their own of course) to be a witness to these depravities.
The process was hard for Carver to watch, but every time he entered this room, he had to relive the spectacle in his mind. The demons forced out from their cells with blasts of cold air and holy water, prodded onto the altar, enticed to orgy with sugar and red meat. Sins on display, transgressions encouraged rather than prevented, immoral acts that implicated the observer even more than the perpetrator. Carver spit in disgust just at the thought, his saliva hitting the floor with a hiss.
Carver stopped in front of the portal, which on the surface looked like the other cells. But near the bottom, where the floor and the wall joined, a tiny lever nestled into a nearly invisible recess. Pulling it open would unlock the door, which opened onto a secret passage that led through an underground tunnel and out to a hidden exit in a narrow alleyway several blocks over.
Carver turned to Bruno. “You have the key.” Bruno switched his weapon to his left hand and fished into his pocket, pulling forth a thin, black rivet with peculiar groves running its length. He handed it to Carver.
“What’s that boy doing here?”
At the question from Chris Klein, everyone turned at once. Standing against the backside of the altar was a young boy, about 8 years old. He was completely naked. Whether he had been hidden there all along, or had just materialized of a sudden, was impossible to determine.
“Don’t look at him.” Carver demanded, putting himself between the boy and the rest of his party.
“He looks like he could be your son,” commented the younger Klein, unaware of the danger they were all in. Bruno, startled and afraid, raised his weapon and prepared to fire.
“Don’t,” barked Carver, grabbing the barrel of the weapon and pointing it to the ground, where a blast of cold emanated and reflected off the surface, sending shivers through each of them. “I’ll handle this.”
Carver approached the boy. He was dark haired, with a flat nose and, once it was pointed out, did look like a younger version of Carver. He stared curiously at Carver as the ex-priest approached. Like everything else in the room, he cast no shadow.
“Don’t worry, I just want to talk,” Carver said calmly. He bent forward and whispered to the boy so that no one else could hear. For a moment, the boy’s face turned dark, with just the briefest flash of red from his eyes. But just as quickly, his neutral expression returned. He nodded, then walked away. Carver turned his back while the others stared at the small, naked boy as he ambled towards one of the cells. Just as he was about to run into the wall, Carver coughed, drawing everyone’s attention for just a moment. When they turned back, the boy was gone.
The others were too stunned to speak as Carver unlocked the portal and guided them out.
___________
Entering the passageway, lit only by red emergency lights and so much cooler than the breeding room, was a relief to everyone. No one had realized how heavy the heat had been until they were out. Sighs were heaved in relief.
“What was that thing?” asked Joseph Klein.
“That was a demon, sir,” explained Bruno. “They can appear in many different forms.”
“What did you say to it that made it go away?” asked Chris Klein.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“They listen to him. It’s because he’s as bad as any of them.” Bruno spoke with the same gruff tone as always, so it was hard to know whether he was joking.
“Let’s get moving. It won’t be safe till we’re outside.”
Carver started walking down the passageway and the others shambled after him. The tunnel gradually sloped upwards and each step cooled the air a little more. Chris Klein picked up his pace to be even with Carver.
“Why didn’t you kill that thing, if we were in danger?”
“They are already dead.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You ask too many questions.”
“I know why you did it.”
Carver looked down at Klein as they walked along. “Don't presume to know me.”
“You pity them.”
Carver kept walking forward intently. “Those monsters, they are damned for a reason. They deserve an eternity of punishment. And me obliterating one, besides losing us money, means it will be set free from its misery. They’d actually be better off, and that’s a mercy they don’t deserve.”
Chris Klein smiled and shook his head. “I’m an actor. I know when people are pretending.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t hate them, you think they can be saved.”
By now, the passageway had ended and they’d arrived at a staircase to the surface.
“That’s enough Christopher. Help get me out of this damn jumpsuit and then we’re going home.” While Joseph Klein was attended to, Carver climbed the stairs and made sure that there was no one around to see them exiting. It was important to Madame Lynch that this exit, which opened into a small alley several blocks from the hill that the Menagerie stood upon, remain secret.
The street was dark except for a single street lamp. There was not a soul in sight. The alleyway was narrow and the Kleins would have to walk several hundred yards to find a taxi.
While Carver waited, he heard the father and son arguing. Both were ashamed at being caught and so masked their embarrassment with anger. If he listened carefully, he could have heard their taunts and accusations, but he wasn’t interested. He’d heard the rationalizations plenty of times before.
They trio finally exited, Bruno bringing up the rear carrying Joseph Klein’s protective suit. Carver pointed up the alleyway. “That way leads to the main road. We won’t accompany you because it wouldn’t be smart to be seen together in public.”
“Tell Madame Lynch I won’t be paying for tonight’s session.”
Carver shrugged.
“Come on, Christopher.”
Joseph Klein started walking, but his son lingered a moment.
“I was right, wasn’t I?”
Carver looked down at the actor, recalling how satisfying it had been to smack him across his impossibly handsome face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And you’re an awful liar.”
“Don’t keep your father waiting. He’s already angry enough.” Klein flashed him a smile and turned after his father.
As Bruno and Carver headed in the opposite direction down the alley, Bruno asked, “What was that all about?”
“People like him, they are always trying to see the best in others. It’s because they don’t want to realize how awful they are themselves.”
“You’re the worst person I know Carver.”
“No arguments here.”
After they were gone, the alleyway fell silent again, except for the buzz of the single street lamp. Dawn would arrive soon, in the way dream slowly fades into reality every morning. With it, the heat would return.