The Last Petharic

“What is it that calls for a celebration? The discovery of a hitherto unknown Botticelli? Successfully unravelling the complex tangle of Liszt’s La Campanella on the harpsichord? An unexpected meal happening to drop by? Yes, any of these treats is call for jubilation, but surely nothing warrants celebratory glee to the degree of adding to one’s family. And so on this most felicitous day, the children of Dunsany are giddy with glee. Who could have believed after all these years a young one, still wild with Father’s gift, would find his way to the fold.”

 “I want the boy,” Petharic rasped. He stood alone, without back-up, amidst two dozen of the ghastly pale creatures in a subterranean throne room deep beneath the catacombs. They had changed since he last saw them; no longer in loincloths, they now dressed as aristocrats from a previous century with gilded thread and puffy sleeves.

 “You want the boy?” Thomas asked. “Whatever for? What is the boy, but a common street urchin, to you?”

 Petharic drew the Colt and took aim at Thomas. A moment later he discovered a second change in the character of the creatures when every one present, save for the Prince of the Dunsany, drew a firearm identical to the one Petharic held.

 “Those are mine,” Petharic rasped without lowering his weapon. “I left them hidden in the catacombs.”

 “Along with a body—a fresh body, two or three times a week.” Thomas paused, cocking his head to the side. “Curious how each one was identical. I fear you are getting sloppy; the last one we found in a coroner’s wagon parked in front of the Gangplank while the driver was inside enjoying an afternoon ale.”

 “That was the last Petharic. There will be no more.”

 “Oh?” Thomas leaned forward.

“I killed Emerson Lighthouse, strangled him with my bare hands. He was the draw.”

“You’ve had a productive day,” Thomas smirked.

“I resuscitated him,” said Petharic. “He didn’t need to stay dead to break the cycle.”

“Impulsive and indecisive, yet somehow I still like you.”

“Where is the boy,” Petharic had not lowered his weapon.

Thomas rose from his throne. While Petharic was tall, Thomas stood a good head taller. Thomas nodded to the others who then without complaint lowered their weapons, Petharic did the same. Thomas smiled. “Follow me, we will go see the boy. He is pure as a newborn, his  temperament is not yet tamed—and may not be for years. He is with the ones we call the sisters.”