Tenebrae Manor by P. Clinen

who fell to the floor, weeping like a child. The demon laughed victoriously and shoved him back into the closet before moving to complete his exit of the room.
    “Deadsol….”
    Deadsol chuckled with great mirth. “What is it now, Bordeaux? Look at him! He’s not going anywhere! Did you see the fear in his eyes? It would pluck the very strings of my sympathies, if I were in possession of such things! I bid you good health.”
    Bordeaux turned his head from the departing demon to the closet. His mind raced away on the subject of what to do, red eyes looking down to see Comets the jester staring back at him indifferently.
    “Well, what is it, Comets?”
    Comets’ head tilted to the side but his expression was unchanged.
    Bordeaux shook his head at the imp’s folly. “Enough of his nonsense.”
    More than ever, Bordeaux felt the eager urge to return to his belvedere and waste a few hours on rest. Observing Comets barricading the cabinet doors with a stray oddment of firewood to the chagrin protests of Jethro, Bordeaux left the drawing room.
    In the halls the air was mercifully cooler, though the heat had become too much to endure once and for all. Usher, the ever-loyal vigil, stood and acknowledged Bordeaux’s presence with eye contact.
    “Enough for the while, my friend,” murmured Bordeaux.
    “Yes sir,” Usher replied. “Maybe you should sleep.”
    Bordeaux considered returning the offer in kind, before realising its impotent nature when applied to Usher. The stairs greeted him.
    “I am very weary. Goodbye, Usher.”
    “Goodbye, Master Bordeaux.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
    6: At The Summit
     
    Time is a most enigmatic phenomenon at Tenebrae - comparable to a stallion-hauled chariot, indifferent to the poor souls who become trampled under the wheels, balanced in turn by its cold absence and maligned cruelty. The grains slip through the neck of the hourglass with incredible briefness, leaving behind feelings of happiness and joy in the upper bulb, never to be revisited barring regretful reflection. And of the other direction - through the neck, to the present, where the hourglass becomes so clogged that time itself would appear to have halted its chariot altogether. It remains still as scum-skinned tarn, the languid revolutions of clock arms the only betrayal of life, cycling across the face of the clock as dragonflies over the stagnant swamp. These insects are the only vital giveaway to the presence of a future, its composition - be it bleak or promising, is unknown.
    Perched on a balcony overlooking the southern cliffs of the mountains, where a prominent spire looms atop as the apex of Tenebrae Manor like a ghastly, rusted blade, two shadows sit in a sombre assemblage.
    It is Bordeaux and Deadsol, brothers of the eternity, companions of the twilit melancholy. Bordeaux - a man of whim and reserve, of refined panache. The rascal Deadsol - cut of the same vibrant cloth, albeit with threads of mischief, of ravenous appetite for destruction. Time in its most mysterious nature has blurred the hours together, so that the haze encompassing has absorbed memory; how long had it been since this pair had met in the drawing room?
    The only conclusion one can be assured of is that it is now closer to Libra's birthday celebrations and their interrogation of the intrusive man ever further in the past.
    "The summer must end shortly," said Bordeaux.
    "End?" Deadsol replied. "Whatever does end in this place? It merely drips onward, down and down. Unending, my friend."
    "Hardly an optimistic response." Bordeaux procured a cigarillo from his coat pocket and ran two fingers down its rough side.
    "Will you do me the pleasure? Fine smokes, these."
    "My thanks but I have my own," said Deadsol, retrieving his own pipe as though drawing a pistol.
    Bordeaux clicked his fingers like flint, igniting a flame upon the tips, with which he lit both his cigarillo and Deadsol's pipe.
    His pipe lit and illuminating his face with its glow, Deadsol