Page 109 of Violent Possession
“My wife died fifteen years ago,” he begins. “The kindest woman this neighborhood has ever known. When the leukemia took her, I wanted to close everything down. Throw every suit in the river. But she...” he pauses, “she made me promise I would continue. Because this place was about offering dignity to those the city always denied.”
I drink the tea, tasting flowers and trauma. My throat burns, but it hurts less than saying anything.
“The owner of this building... after years, he wanted to evict me to sell the land. I prayed. To God. And then Lucian came in here. Asked me to fix a button on his coat... and we talked. About the city, about fabrics, about flowers... and I told him what I wasgoing through. He listened to me talk about my debts, my wife, my fears. He listened for over an hour.”
Lucian. I drink the rest of the tea in one go. The warmth makes my eyes water.
“The next day, the building owner came to me. He apologized and offered me a twenty-year lease for the same price. Lucian never mentioned it again.”
I remain silent. It’s his signature. No visible violence. Just the weight of his influence, moving everything in a way no one sees.
“He’s a good boy,” Schmidt says, with a tenderness reserved for ghosts. “Sometimes, when I work late, I find a hot meal at my door. Other times, a roll of expensive fabric I could never afford appears in the shop. He... he takes care of his own.”
He glances at me over his cup for just a moment. I feel the urge to ask him if he knowswhereLucian gets the money for his blessings. But something convinces me that he knows.
I look at the old man and see the fear of what might happen if I reach Lucian. Of course, Schmidt knows more than he’s letting on—he knows Seraphim’s real name. He recognizes the currency of the underworld, knows that every debt is paid, sooner or later.
I put the cup down on the small table. “I need to find him,” I say. “Do you know where he is?”
Schmidt looks down, weighs his soul before deciding whether to give away another secret.
“I don’t know, my son. He never stays in one place for long.”
“But he has people,” I insist. “People he trusts, who are with him.”
The old man studies me, perhaps searching my face for a clue that I’m not just another predator hunting a saint. “Why are you looking for him?”
“Because...” I swallow hard. I don’t like the idea of lying to this old man, but I force a half-truth. “The person who’s huntinghim is the same one who’s hunting me,” I say. “And I’m the only one who can get close.”
He weighs my truth for a long time. Finally, he seems to make a decision.
“He trusted you,” he says. “I remember your name. Myrddin. The strong boy.”
The idea of Seraphim mentioning my name to someone else, after everything that happened, consumes me. I try to push the image away, but it clings to me. It’s an internal struggle, a battle between the need to forget and the inevitability of remembering.The strong boy.What does that mean? The idea of being reduced to a distant echo in his mind destroys me from the inside. It’s an anger directed at myself for still caring.
Schmidt gets up, walks slowly to an old cash register, and takes out a piece of paper folded in four. He hands it to me.
“What is this?”
“Read the back.”
The paper smells of mold and is covered in small rust stains. On the back, a name and an address are written in a nervous hand:
Cain. St. Jude. Thursday night.
My heart almost stops.
“Cain is alive?”
The old man nods. “Those who carry much guilt never die.”
I don’t know what to say. I stare at the paper.
“Give this card to the priest at St. Jude’s on Thursday,” Schmidt continues. “Tell him you have a donation for ‘Schmidt’s cause’. If Cain is in town, he will find you.”
I think of the last time I saw Cain. Of his blood-stained hands.
He was crying.
