Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [223]
There were rooms beyond that one, small corridors that twisted back on themselves, even a walk-in closet that had been made to house a Hunt Shoppe display. There were tools he didn’t recognize, and restraining devices that seemed better proportioned to human limbs than to any animal he had ever seen. There were traps of all shapes and all sizes, deadly and humane, and wax images demonstrating how some of them were meant to be used. There was a lot more art, and not only of animals. One lithograph, finely rendered, depicted the final showdown between the Selenzy Slasher and the police who ran him down; the bright red ink was particularly effective. Another showed the last moments of Karth Steele as he plunged through the southern swamps, the head of his latest victim still in his hands. Convicts and torturers, criminals turned prey ... he felt somehow unclean as he viewed their last moments on Erna, as if something voyeuristic had awakened in his soul that he would far, far rather pretend wasn’t there in the first place.
At last, with effort, he forced himself away from those pictures and through the next doorway. Beyond it was a small room, unmistakably outfitted as an office. He felt a wave of relief wash over him, as if he, too, had been fleeing from some unseen pursuer, and had finally, here, found sanctuary. Even the furniture was normal, and the only painting—a portrait of an attractive man hung over the small fireplace—was blessedly unthreatening.
The man behind the desk said nothing as he entered, but looked up at him and waited. He was pale of skin, dark-haired, and his sharp, angular features reminded the man of a predatory bird. His eyes might have been a human color—brown or gray or maybe even a dark blue—but in the hooded lamplight which was the room’s only illumination they appeared black, a limitless black that sucked in the lampglow and swallowed it whole.
“Forrest?” he stammered, finding his voice at last. “Riven Forrest?”
The man behind the desk nodded, and indicated a chair by his visitor’s side. It was a welcome offering, and he fell into it heavily.
“I’m Riven Forrest. And you are?”
He started to speak his name, then hesitated. Gods, this is crazy. He can’t help you if he doesn’t know who you are, now can he? “My name is Helder. Allen Helder.” He had to force the words out; beads of sweat were beginning to form on his brow. “I have a ... an unusual problem. I was told you might be able to help me.”
Crazy, crazy, crazy. If this man turns me in, then what do I do? The law doesn’t take kindly to this kind of thing.
But Forrest was utterly calm; his voice, when he spoke, was more suggestive of casual visitation than of secretive negotiations. “I’m familiar with your problem, Mer Helder. I believe we may be able to do business.” He leaned forward on the desk, steepling his fingers. “Why don’t you give me the details?”
He knew, the man thought wildly. He knew! That meant that the person who had given him Forrest’s name must have also told him ... how much? Oddly, the thought didn’t inspire panic,