Dark Shard 3. Black-Black House.

Tim Nakhapetov
14 min readJan 29, 2024

The Black-Black House stood on the very edge of the cliff. The rock, whose bald top it crowned, burst out of the boundless emerald sea of the forest like a dead man’s finger from the grave. This made the Black-Black House resemble a dirty, cracked fingernail.

Blown by all the winds, leaning in all directions at once, the House hung over the endless Sinwood forest, a lonely monument of despondency. Even the birds rarely flew into such a wilderness, did not approach the rock, and flew around it as far as possible.

Looking at this dreary sight, with half-collapsed balconies, rickety shutters, and rotten supports, one might think that no one had lived in the House for a long time or that some especially dangerous witch lived there. However, in some way, both of these assumptions were true.

***

Several thousand leagues from the Black-Black House and Sinwood, in the glorious gloomy city of Ek-Bura Sapana, Mistress Pafilo stood on the elegant balcony of her mansion, stretching like a cat, not in the least embarrassed by her morning nakedness. In her right hand, she held a crystal goblet with a drink of dubious deep burgundy color, and in her left, a black cane with a silver head shaped like a raven.

Grimacing, she drank her morning concoction in one gulp and casually but elegantly threw the glass out onto a busy street shrouded in thick morning fog. There was the sound of broken crystal and some selective swearing. Giggling, Mistress Pafilo gracefully turned around and walked away from the window, leaning on her cane and deliberately swinging her bare hips. She knew that they were watching — let them enjoy.

She suddenly felt very keenly how tired she was of this city, of her forced confinement in this beautiful yet terrible and disgusting metropolis. Very soon, she would get rid of her shackles, and then… Then this damned den of nightmares would become much, much cleaner and brighter.

Today, she had a difficult day and decided to put on her favorite outfit. Of course, in keeping with her profession, it was completely black, from lace underwear to a wide-brimmed felt hat. In addition to them, the set included a short dress, emphasizing and hiding precisely what was needed, a fitted cardigan, and high over-the-knee boots. A necklace with realistic pointed lugs carved from garnet crowned the gloomy but attractive image of the Lady.

***

She slowly walked through the city market, limping and leaning on a cane. It is difficult to say how she managed to maintain the elegance and grace of her gait, but nevertheless, the looks of men directed at her from all sides were very eloquent. However, everyone knew perfectly well who she was; therefore, they immediately averted their eyes as soon as she began to turn her slowly proudly raised head in their direction.

The Black Market of Ek-Bura Sapan was a rather strange place, as the whole city. Firstly, it spread over many blocks, hovering over the red tiles of the houses of the Old City. Secondly, it was thoroughly saturated with black magic, which was the essence of the city’s existence. It was the heart of the metropolis of nightmares, and as long as the market existed, the whole city lived and prospered.

Mistress Pafilo walked through a succession of twisted iron suites and thin bridges, passing by stained-glass shops, black tents, and multi-tiered air structures representing local magical supermarkets. But the further she went into the depths of the Black Market, the more ancient and dilapidated the surroundings became, and the less living and more uncanny creatures surrounded her.

Various smells now and then replaced each other, enveloping the Lady and forcing her occasionally to apply a scented handkerchief to her elegant, thin nose. At first, it was mostly a pleasant mixture of warm scents of spices, leather, and book dust, diluted with the sweetest smell of sweat, and unicorn dung that greeted the market visitor at the main entrance. But as she approached the center, the smells also changed — they became heavier, more oppressive, and suffocating. They seemed to be woven into a tight network, enveloping and dragging her deeper and deeper into the eternal fair of nightmares. Here, one could feel the viscous aromas of damp earth, rusty metal, and wet, rotting fabric. Mrs. Pafilo finally began to breathe freely — she had fallen into her native element.

***

The coven of Assassins Calcini met in one of the most remote and sparsely populated parts of the Black Market. With high probability, over the past hundred years, no random visitor has ever wandered here and never left here.

It is unlikely that anyone kept their secrets as zealously as a secret organization of assassins, hiding from prying eyes for three centuries in plain sight, in the heart of a densely populated city. Most often, if a person was not a member of a narrow circle of initiates, he could not independently contact the Assassins, no matter how much he desired. Sometimes, if they were genuinely interested in the order, they themselves found the customer, but more often than not, the poor fellow, wanting to get rid of a competitor or an annoying lover, was forced to resort to the services of other, less legendary killers, without any guarantee of a successful outcome.

It just so happened that Mrs. Pafilo has long been closely associated with the coven, acting alternately as a customer and performer. However, she categorically refused to join the ranks of the Assassins officially, and the main reason for this was quite simple: a mismatch of views on style. Yes, the mercenaries wore floor-length black cloaks that caused genuine admiration. Yes, their light and strong armor fit perfectly on their trained bodies. Even their weapons, curved magical wands-daggers, caused Mistress Pafilo to experience some perverse excitement just from their appearance. But all this celebration of fetishistic splendor was destroyed by one invariable element of equipment, around which the entire cult of the coven was built — burgundy hoods that looked (and sometimes smelled) like oversized worn socks with lots of colorful patches. Each patch marked a completed order, and for the most experienced assassins, the headdress turned into something completely awkward and very much like a buffoon’s cap — and even that was better because at least it looked like a hat, and not like a patched sock.

Leaking through a secret door hidden between the most inconspicuous dirty shops selling all sorts of useful things like eyes, dried fingers, and hair from the ass of star trolls, Mistress Pafilo found herself in the semi-darkness of the main hall of the coven’s residence. Dozens of giant, colorful socks turned toward her at once, and the assassins waved to their freelance colleague.

“Hi, witch,” the Primate’s whisper passed through her spine with an unpleasant current and concentrated slightly below her back with a slight nervous vibration, “are you on business or just decided to visit old friends?”

“Hello, sock,” the Lady answered in an affectionate, almost unctuous, but absolutely insincere tone, “Yes, a little of everything. I want to pass on the order through you.”

“Again, with your machinations, granny. Well, as much as possible, the right word.”

“Well, my little sock, you know how difficult it is in our time for an honest freelance witch to take an interesting order officially. I promise this will be the last time.”

“Last time it was “the last time.” And the year before last, if my memory serves me right. Okay, Pafi, but this will really be the last time.”

“Agreed, dear,” Pafilo smacked the air in front of her, assuming that her invisible interlocutor was standing somewhere around there, “in fact, I don’t need much. A couple of papers on your stationery, the Putchmaker as a partner, and one Maybug.”

“Too much for our standard scheme, oldy. I disagree with this alignment by less than sixty percent,” the Primate said with annoyance.

“Well. Agreed. Fifty-two for you, forty-eight for me, and it’s about the sock,” Mistress Pafilo replied.

“Eh, Pafi, if it were not for my boundless and ancient love for you, like your ass without a prodigy, I would kick you in that very ass and put you out of here right now. But since this is really the last time, I agree. What amount are we talking about?” the Primate retorted.

“The ass sends a low bow for a compliment,” Madam said through her teeth with an affectionate threat, “we are talking about a charity project. If I may say so, no one pays for the order itself. But before you throw a tantrum, eliminating this goal is already a worthy payment. From the customer, I received a key to a certain house on a certain rock in a certain forest. And, what is most wonderful, everything in this house is ours.”

“Do you have the key to the Black-Black House?” in the voice of the Primate, barely contained excitement sounded, “and an order for the Witch of Sinwood? I understand correctly?”

“That’s right, dear, that’s right. We finally have a long-awaited opportunity to remove the curse from the city while earning some good money. As a witch with centuries of experience, I am sure we will find plenty of rare artifacts in the Black-Black House that will be useful to you and me.”

“I can’t believe it. Are you sure this isn’t a trick? Who is the customer?”

“Who the customer — I will not say. Corporate ethics, you know. But I unconditionally trust him. In addition, such magical energy comes from the key that its purpose does not raise the slightest doubt.”

“Well, Pafilo, if everything is really as you say, and we get rid of this old bitch — well, I’m ready to give you our two percent. The main thing — do not screw up with the Patchmaker.”

“Well, sock. We definitely will not screw up, believe me.”

***

A giant, green beetle with a chrome sheen chirped its mighty translucent wings so loud that it blocked out all other sounds. Beneath its lamellar belly, the boundless expanses of western Sinwood swept by — a boundless green ocean of coniferous trees, occasionally torn by bare rocks buffeted by cold winds.

Mrs. Pafilo and her silent partner settled comfortably in the cabin mounted on the back of the beetle and slowly sipped the viscous black tincture the Primate had given them for the journey. The conversation with the Patchmaker did not work out, but, however, it was not for eloquence that she chose him for this task. The Calcini coven included only the most experienced and talented assassins, but hardly anyone was as good as the Patchmaker. Even his name spoke for itself: not a single centimeter of clean fabric remained on his head sock — patches, symbolizing completed orders, covered the hood in several layers. Mistress Pafilo had worked with him not for the first time, and she knew what this already middle-aged but still dexterous assassin was capable of. He saved her life, rescued her from the most challenging troubles, and was divine in bed. Everything was spoiled, of course, by a giant sock, which the Patchmaker never seemed to take off and which hid almost all of his face, except for his eyes and mouth, but, on the other hand, the sock was only on his head…

The crooked finger of the rock with the Black-Black House on top appeared on the horizon just before sunset, when all of Sinwood and the distant mountains were painted in bizarre overflows of pale turquoise and fiery red tones.

Mrs. Pafilo and the Patchmaker immediately jumped up, their former relaxed mood gone. The witch hurriedly but carefully checked her amulet rings, and the assassin ran dexterous fingers over the daggers hanging at her hips, tightening the armor straps.

The beetle, slowing down, flew up to the rock, descended a little, and, buzzing and shaking, hovered over the stones in front of the porch of the House. Two shadows, slender and large, separated from the huge buzzing monster, and upon only touching the rock, they rolled into the withered grass. The armored aircraft immediately turned around and, giving a long signal, flew away, slowly descending until it disappeared among the thick coniferous sea below.

Pafilo and the Patchmaker carefully examined the small area in front of the creepy, crooked house, looked at each other, got up simultaneously, and cautiously approached the dilapidated porch. The witch felt the vibration of the air, powerful protective spells, so… frightening? familiar? exciting? Unable to make up her mind, she shrugged her shoulders, tucked her cane behind her back, and leaned toward the keyhole in the door.

She carefully examined the hole, from which dense clots of darkness oozed, entangling the House with a thin web of magical darkness. She felt the intense gaze of the assassin on her and diligently played her part. She slowly took out an old carved key from her neckline, carefully, as if it were a rare jewel, brought it to the keyhole, and with a short, sharp movement, she inserted the key into it and turned it.

Absolutely nothing happened. No fireworks, explosions, magical whistles. The old, dilapidated door opened with a sad creak, and from the dark opening, it smelled of mustiness. Mrs. Pafilo chuckled contentedly and stepped confidently into the darkness. The Patchmaker did not lag behind.

The interior of the Black-Black House was strange. On the one hand, there was a feeling that there had not been a single living soul here for many decades — there was a deathly silence in all the rooms, the kind that only exists in long-abandoned buildings. There were no signs of residents anywhere. No clothes, no books, much less any artifacts as promised to the Primate. The house was empty and bare, except for the good old furniture. On the other hand, there was not a speck of dust anywhere, as if someone had done regular spring cleaning here, and a modest dinner for three was laid out on a long massive dining table, with a decanter of dark red wine, fruit, and a cheese plate.

Mrs. Pafilo grabbed a handful of blueberries from the bronze bowl and greedily ate the large berries, smearing the dark juice around her mouth. She poured wine for herself and her partner into tall crystal glasses, took a sip, broke into an eerie smile, and gracefully sat down at the head of the table, carelessly throwing her cane on the table. The Patcher was confused, but after carefully examining the house, he sat on the edge of the chair opposite Pafilo, looking at her inquiringly. He, of course, did not touch the food.

So, in complete silence, they sat for a couple of hours. An awkward silence hung in the house, but neither the assassin nor the witch were in a hurry to break it. However, Mrs. Pafilo seemed quite comfortable, regularly pouring herself wine and helping herself to snacks. At some point, however, she apparently decided to break the long pause and said loudly somewhere in the darkness of the house:

“Come out already. Stop playing for time, darling!”

At first, nothing happened, as if her words just hung in the thick air of the Black-Black House. But then the darkness on the edge of the circle illuminated by the candelabra on the table began to seem to concentrate, to flow in dense clots, and a moment later, the naked Lady Pafilo stepped into the uneven light of the candles. The Patchmaker twitched but stayed where he was. Only his hand rested on the hilt of his dagger.

“Hello, long time no see,” Pafilo, who was sitting at the table and shaking a half-empty glass in her hand, affably waved to the newcomer.

“Hello, witch,” the voice of the second Pafilo was muffled as if it was coming from a deep grave.

“Do you remember what day it is today?”

“How not to remember. I have been waiting for this day for three hundred years.”

“Amazing. To tell the truth, for the last hundred years, I have also been looking forward to our meeting.”

“So you would have come earlier.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t. Even I myself couldn’t break my spell, so I had to sit in this damn town and have fun as best I could. I tried everything, I think, but I was still bored.”

“Are YOU dying of boredom?” the muffled voice of the naked Pafilo, still standing near the table, trembled with anger, “I spent three hundred years in this damn house, and from all the entertainment, I had only thoughts about our meeting.”

“Yes, you’re out of luck,” shrugged the witch, “well, let’s not waste time. My dear Patchmaker, I entrust you with the most responsible task. Kill the famous Witch of Sinwood, remove the curse from Ek-Bur Sapan, and finally get the last patch on your majestic sock. I’m afraid, though, I lied a little to your boss about the loot… But after completing the order, it won’t bother him anymore.”

The old partner didn’t understand what was happening, but he had grown accustomed to implicitly trusting Mistress Pafilo after almost forty years of joint sorties. He slowly took out a dagger, as if reluctantly, stood up, and carefully began to walk around the table, approaching the naked Pafilo.

“No, fool, not her,” Mistress smiled tenderly.

***

The Primate had spent the last few hours in nervous excitement, pacing the office, eagerly awaiting news from the Patchmaker and Pafilo. When he heard a rattle and a roar, screams and crackling, he instantly ran up to the roof of the coven’s residence, where he had an excellent view of the city.

The Black Market crumbled. Like a giant octopus pierced by a harpoon, it writhed its cast-iron passages, falling in chunks of stone and metal onto the tiled roofs of the city below. The last to begin to crumble was the heart of the Market, the seat of the Calcini coven of assassins. The primate did not even have time to scream as the vast, soulless, and already completely dead carcass of the Black Market swallowed him completely.

***

Mrs. Pafilo stood on the edge of the cliff, distantly watching the Black-Black House scatter in the wind with myriad dust particles. Soon, there was no trace left of the creepy building. Well, many leagues away, her dark magic had ceased to work, and the city was freed from the curse. The marketplace fell, burying the disgusting, cursed bodies of the inhabitants with it. Her work here was over.

Mrs. Pafilo took a bold step into the void.

***

“And that’s how the famous Ek-Bura Sapana fell, the birthplace of the evil half of our demons?” I asked, taking a sip of gin from a dirty coffee mug, “Just like that, you waited, waited, and waited? How were you connected to the Black Market and the city in general? And what happened to this Patchmaker?”

Mara thoughtfully scratched her cheek on the disfigured half of her face with a long nail, then looked intently into my eyes.

“I’ve told you too much already, Demon.”

“Come on, you want to tell me yourself. You can do it without details, especially since it is already dawning,” indeed, behind the cloudy window of our kitchen, the impenetrable darkness has already begun to slowly but inevitably turn into a gray city color.

“No. Enough stories for today. You should know that I created the Black Market with my hands, unwittingly cursing the whole city and myself. Trapped in my own creations, divided in two by my own magic, I had to exist for centuries, waiting to be released. And yes, I just created a coven out of boredom. And yes, as you probably already guessed, now the remnants of this coven, having become the demons of Ek-Bur, work for Him and go after your soul. More precisely, according to your demon.”

“Brilliant, Mara. And what do you suggest I do?”

“Well, first of all, don’t even try to blame me. Otherwise, you will personally meet Mrs. Pafilo — and you will not like it at all, believe me. Secondly, there would be no coven — there would be others. But there is something I must tell you with full responsibility, and listen to me very carefully, boy. You have to make contact with your demon. You must become one whole, as once I could unite myself, albeit in this form. It will be painful, unpleasant, and hazardous. But only in this way will we get at least some meager chance to survive in the coming chaos,” issuing this heartfelt tirade, Mara tiredly covered her eyes with her palm. She sat like that for a minute, then slowly got up, kissed me on the cheek, and, limping, went to her room.

I was alone in the kitchen, with a nearly empty bottle of cheap gin and a crumpled hand-rolled cigarette. Dawn was breaking outside the window, foreshadowing another very important day.

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Tim Nakhapetov
Tim Nakhapetov

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