The Seals of Abgal

Part 1

I woke to pain. 

It felt like a burst of white-burning phosphor was tracing along the insides of my skull. It dominated my immediate world. I lay on the ground, inert, waiting for the worst to pass, praying for the fire to burn itself out quickly. It does after a while, to a degree. 

It took a few fluttering false starts but I managed to pry open my eyes. My vision was blurry. What happened? Where am I? The pain in my head kept pulsing. The cement was cold underneath me.  I couldn't move. My hands were tied behind my back, as were my feet. They felt like water balloons being squeezed. 

In front of me a wall of red brick spanned the field of my vision. Faded patches of white paint mottled the rough surface. Here and there the mortar had started to crumble in between leaving dark slits. I looked up and saw a row of ornate, flush mounted lighting fixed to a low-hanging ceiling. They cast a weak yellow light that barely divided the shadows. The fixtures seemed oddly familiar.  

I tried to shift my body to clear the cobwebs, to get myself thinking straight, but the attempt only exacerbated my agony and I sank back waiting for the throbbing to calm down. I noticed my legs were tied with nylon zip ties. I assumed my wrists must be too.

I counted to three and tried again. Gulping back a groan, I turned my head and rolled onto my right side. Exposed pipes and cables encased in steel-wire trays ran the length of the ceiling and disappeared into the shadows at the other end of the room. The pipes looked old, but well maintained and, again, familiar. 

I smiled to myself. I'm in the basement under my bookshop. I'm surprised how slow my mind is filtering the data. Still groggy, yes, but it's definitely my basement. Only, a tornado had ripped through the place. Everything that I had done, all the renovations to make this space a proper haven for my collection of antiquated books, had been made undone in a very brief period of time and in a very decisive way.

I heard voices and then a loud crash as something heavy fell to the floor. The tremor of it thrummed through me. I craned my neck trying to search for the source of the noise. A whiff of iron and dust and something moldy teased my nostrils. Something else too—something bilious and vulgar. It made me gag.

This must have attracted someone's attention, because I could hear footsteps, not loud, more like the dull squishy noise you get from rubber soles. There was an urgency to them and I turned to brace myself, not knowing what to expect, but I was slow—too slow. A heavy boot smashed into my face and for a split second the pain level increased tenfold before I mercifully slid back into the blissful indifference of unconsciousness.

I opened my eyes. Dried blood crusted the rims. I blinked a few times, but it's like someone kicked sand in my eyes. My head still throbbed, but the pain in my face trumped it. I could see a bulge on the bridge of my nose. The skin was broken and dark. Whoever had knocked me out had left, but for how long, I didn't know. Maybe they were gone completely. I tried to sit up. Painful, but not impossible. After a few draining attempts, I was leaning against the wall, exhausted. Gauging my memory for clues just revealed a jumble of images. It confused me more than anything else.  

How long have I been out? 

I needed to change my position. Using the wall as support, I pushed up with my legs. The rough surface grabbed at the fabric of my suit jacket, hampering my progress. I was halfway up when something entirely different hit me. It began as a sharp pinch in the chest, but quickly intensified. I held my breath, bracing myself, knowing what would follow and then it happened and I bowled over in agony as pain ripped through my body, growing fiercer still until its searing swirls engulfed me completely. 

"Not now! P-Please not now." The words spilled out as I lay on the floor on my side, squirming, knees pulled up to my chest and saliva dripping from my clenched teeth. I tried not to make a sound, but it was impossible and the moan forced its way up from the pit of my stomach, erupting in my throat.

As the first wave passed and some sense of now returned, the realization that I had to do something quickly fed into my mind. I couldn't allow my condition to render me this way. Couldn't allow it to dictate the outcome of the situation I was in. Had to focus on my breathing, on getting my heart rate down. It was the only way. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly, forcing the drumming in my chest to slow down and adapt to the rhythm of my breathing. I've done this many times before. After a while the soothing effect of it paid off as the thumping slowed down and with it the fire in my chest, reducing it to a dull nagging ache. 

I desperately needed my pills.

The episode left me weak, but it kicked my memory partly into gear because some images started to flicker into place. I remember helping someone at the counter. A man—a tall, pale man—in a trench coat and hat. Something sinister about him had set me off and it wasn't his apparel. He had asked for a book, which, of course, he would. Nothing odd about that. I remember going into my office and then nothing. I don't even remember being knocked out. I tried to recall the name of the book, but it was just a blurred shape to me, shrouded in mental smog. I got a feeling like I should know, that it was important. But I didn't and it was frustrating.

Whoever had dragged me down here had brought me to the wall opposite the stairway. The stairway leads out to my office which is situated at the back of the bookstore behind the counter. 

Slowly, I got back into a sitting position. The basement looked a mess. Volumes of old leather bound books of varied hues and sizes lay scattered across the floor. Some with their pages roughly folded, others torn. And then there were those that seemed to have been ripped apart, pages wrenched out and flung across the room, like an unfortunate Sunday newspaper mauled by a rabid dog. Some of these books had pages so fragile and brittle they would barely survive an aggressive flick. 

Bookcases were forced down, damaged and broken, like fallen warriors unable to protect that which had been entrusted to them. These masterfully crafted pieces of art had stood proud in silence, unharmed by the progress of time. Antique pieces handcrafted from Victorian Walnut, solid Hungarian Oak, and Portuguese Rosewood, all dating back to the previous century. It had seemed appropriate to showcase my collection in such grandeur. They were lavishly decorated with ornamental carvings, burled accents and engraved brass plates inlayed with a craftsmanship rarely seen these days. Panels of bevelled and stained glass protected the old books inside from the elements of time and unwanted fingers—until now. 

Whoever had tossed them to the floor so unceremoniously didn't care that they were destroying history made tangible. Glass shards and splintered wood were scattered everywhere like used-up shrapnel. The hinged doors and panels were ripped from the wood, and with such force that the metal hinges were bent and in some places, shredded. Some by the impact of hitting the floor and others, it seem, on purpose. All abandoned in tortured disrepair. Whoever had done this was either extremely pissed off or desperate, or both. 

Rage boiled in me at seeing this carnage. A raw palpable anger that pushed at my insides and took effort to control. I felt the slight tingle of perspiration forming on my forehead from the strain.   

As I took in the extent of damage, my gaze stopped where a nineteenth-century Liegeois bookcase usually stood. It too lay on the ground, exposing an old paint-flecked cast-iron safe built into the wall. A long time ago someone had painted it olive green, but time and circumstance had laid bare the original grey shell. The safe stood open, its contents on the floor in front of it.

So they had found it—and the key. 

Of course they would. No illusions there of anyone not finding it. The bookcase wasn't bolted to the wall in some makeshift attempt to hide the safe. It was merely pushed in front of it. The safe was an original fixture that I had decided to keep when we renovated the place. It didn't make sense to break it out. Undamaged and still lockable, it found renewed purpose here among its fellow brethren. Besides, the bevelled door reminded me of a retro fridge from the 60s and I liked that. It opened with an old ornate iron key and a metal wheel. The key had been around my neck on a thick silver chain. It now protruded from the keyhole in the safe door, almost arrogantly.

I heard muffled voices on the other side of the basement door and tensed up, involuntarily pulling at the bonds on my wrists. A cold shiver raced down my spine. I caught myself holding my breath. My heart thudded wildly in my ears. I waited. 

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