The Metropolitan

As night descends on Woonsocket, Rhode Island, Nicole Collins prepares to met the mysterious figure know only to her as The Metropolitan. It is an odd meeting to say the least as her hairdresser, the enigmatic Madam Vadoma, first suggested it to her. As Madam Vadoma has explained, there exists within New England a secret society of ancient outré aristocracy – and it was highly advisable that Nicole show her due respects, as a representative of the infamous Collins family by meeting with their intermediary The Metropolitan. Only, since that initial conversation, events have dramatically changed and Nicole now has other reasons to see the Metropolitan. Just as there are others now who are interested in seeing her . . .

Cue Music, Opening Sequence: [www.youtube.com]

Act 1: The Metropolitan
Woonsocket is not the best place to spend the night Samantha Brooks begins to think, as she drives past weatherworn houses and boarded up discount stores, fast-food joints and seemingly endless faded wooden billboards advertising clam cakes and chowder. Dusk is giving way to night. Off I-22, through the city of smokestacks and abandoned mills, the lofty church-steeples and the brick corpses of factories that where long dead before even this latest economy nightmare, Sam checks the Mapquest directions she’s copied from a computer at the Boston Library. The Blackstone River looks foul at this time of night – most likely smells even worse.

She drives on through the city and sees the neon sign now just ahead – up on the right, just past a Mapco. Samantha pulls into the motel parking lot, frowning slightly at its decay and blatant display of prostitution, “Damn, I’m getting spoiled, used to think of places like these as luxurious” she says to herself.

She parks the Ferrari awkwardly, wincing as it lurches to a stop. As she clambers out of the low car she notices two prostitutes walk past her giving her a glare. Samantha closes the door and looks around not certain she should even leave the car – turn her back on it, long enough to even walk over to the office to find out which room Nikki is in, else it would be stolen. While not Nikki’s Ferrari, it could easily pass for the one in the bottom of the bay.

“Yah?” The bald desk clerk asks.”

“Collins, Nicole Collins, which room she in.” Sam asks, leaning on the counter so that she can keep an eye on the Ferrari.

“’Nice cah.” He says.

“Yeah, isn’t it?” Samantha looks at him, “And it had better look just as nice 15 minutes from now. So, Collins, you got a room to go with the name?”

“Whose ahsking?”

She flips an old Detroit PI license – which isn’t hers, but a copy of one of the detectives that worked for Blackjack. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

He looks at her, glancing less at the license than the eye-patch and the plaster cast. “My-ht be in ah Room 2. “

Once out of the office she moves gingerly, the plaster on her improvised cast still bit damp. She walks over to the weathered blistered, whitewash door and knocks lightly, “Miss Nikki?”

Nikki hears Sam’s voice; she opens the door, “Sam?”

Samantha seeing Nikki, hearing her voice, breaks into the first smile in she has had in she really couldn’t remember, “Miss Nikki!”

“Oh, Sam it so good too see you,” Nikki says stepping of the door. Samantha notices she has her purse and keys in hand. “Are you alright!’ She closes the door and steps closer and touches her cheek, “I was so afraid of that damned Portal of Rhy’s.”

“D**ned tea sucker.” She says a hand going to her ribs.

Nikki touches the cast, “I am so sorry. What did that d**n thing do to you?”

“Not sure it was like he threw me off a building or something . . . into some frickin cave,” her brows creasing trying to remember.

“It is all my fault, “Nikki says, “I should have never taken you into Pickman’s studio.” She reaches up and brushes strands of hair from her face.

Samantha momentarily blushes, “No it was mine, for lighting the d**n thing on fire . . . although – actually, it was that d**n Rhyaad who ignited it – so if it’s anyone’s fault – if you want to blame someone, then let it be him and not you.” Samantha tells her and then smiles, “And, if it helps, Rhyaad’s arm came off,” she snickers.

Nikki tires to suppress a smile, “His arm came off?”

“Mhm,” Samantha nods yes, “Of course I didn’t get to see it actually flopping around or watch it get put back on . . . . . He had it sewn back on before I woke up. But I really wish I had had the chance to slapped him with it”

Nikki runs her fingers back through her hair, “I do hope that teaches him not to use alien technology in the future.” She looks at her seriously now, “Are you well enough to go somewhere with me?”

“Of course,” Samantha says happy now to be with her wherever she wants to go, “ umm, just to let you know, I got us a car . . .”

“I got one too – of course, we have to be rather careful in it . . . “

Samantha looks at her, “Nikki Collins! You stole a car?”

Nikki frowns hoping that she hasn’t been overheard.

“Well—you won’t have to worry about taking it easy any more,” And Samantha holds up the car keys in her hand.

Nikki looks now to see in the parking lot a black Ferrari, “My car!”

“It’s the same model,” Samantha says with a smile, “Same color – same option package – I do come with connections.”

Nikki takes she keys as Samantha hands them over to her proudly and Nikki suddenly reaches out and gives her a hug and a very passionate kiss, “I Love you!”

Samantha nearly faints in the kiss and in hearing Miss Nikki say that she loves her- “I—I love you too,” she breathlessly answers.

“Hey you two! Looking to have a party?” One of the prostitutes making her way from the parking lot asks.

Samantha trying to recover her composure quickly retorts, “Are there going to be balloon animals?!”

Nikki’s blue eyes flash, “Honey, we are all the party we need.”

Samantha grins slipping an arm around Nikki, smiling at the prostitute to gives them a pout and steps away.

They walk over, hand in hand, to look at the car. Nikki steps over and rubs a hand atop it, “Want to go for a ride?”

“Sure.”

“I’m sorry I have to go to Providence.”

Samantha, shivers slightly, having lost her jacket to a hobo on the train, as she looks over the top of the car, “Providence?

“No,” Nikki suddenly says, “maybe you should wait for me – here.”

“No, no – let’s go to Providence.”

“You are sure?”

“Sure.”

Nikki opens the car door and gets in. Sam settles in beside her as Nikki starts up the high-performance engine. Sam looks over as is very happy to see the look on Nikki’s face as she sits there listening to the motor. As Sam pulls the seatbelt and clicks it into place, Nikki shifts the car into gear and wheels it over to a black Impala convertible. Nikki opens the door, leaving the motor running, “I will be back in a moment.”

Samantha watches as Nikki walks over to the Impala, opens the trunk and takes out a black nylon bag and carries it over to the Ferrari. Samantha opens the glove box and pulls out the title paperwork and continues to fill it in. She watches as Nikki opens the front of the car and puts the large bag into the trunk of the car.

Once back into the car, Nikki sits a moment at the wheel, listening to the motor and then shifts the car into gear and they are off.

Nikki drives into Providence. The streets are fairly deserted at this time of night. She pulls to a stop along the curb in an old historic area of the city.

“Angell Street,” Samantha says looks at the deserted street.

Nikki steps out into the crisp night air.

Samantha steps out with her, shivering with a bit more than just the air.

“I really don’t know what to expect here, Samantha.” Nikki says as she looks down the darken street. Oddly, there is suddenly no traffic at all. The traffic light at the further intersection seems to Nikki to have been red for a very long time. She looks at the dark storefronts of the renovated offices. A small side street ahead seems narrow – very reminiscent of a Boston street.

“Samantha, I understand that the place we’re going to is connected to a lot of New England’s more arcane history.” Nikki says as she moves to the front of the car.

Samantha looks over the Ferrari’s cold black roof, “Okay . . . “

‘So, I want you to be very careful here – and please, watch what you say.” She opens the front trunk lid, “ I hear they expect a lot of respect here.” and she reaches in to unzip the black nylon bag. Samantha, arms crossed against the wind watches now as Nikki removes an Ithaca 37 pistol grip, pump shotgun. Sam smiles – it is a nice piece of serious firepower. Nikki opens a box of shells and stands loading the gun, then slips extra shells into her coat pocket.

“So, what is that for?”

Nikki loads the chamber, “I hear this gets a lot of respect also.’

Samantha’s smile widens. She’s beginning to like this Providence Nikki.

Nikki closes the trunk and gripping the shotgun by the pistol grip, slips it under her long wool over coat.

Together they walk down the sidewalk, and turn on to the small side street. There is only a single low-pressure sodium streetlamp illuminating the narrow street. They walk to the address Dr. Sabine had given her and Nikki knocks on the door.

“Do you have an invitation?” A young male voice asks.

‘Yes,” Nikki’s fingers refresh their grip on the shotgun.

“Who delivered it?”

“Dr. Sabine,” Nikki says to the door, looking over to give Samantha a reassuring smile.

There was a moment of silence, “So, what did he say?”

“He said the Five of Cups.”

“And do you know what that means?”

“There are five cups of blood, three are to be drunk and two are to be left as sacrifice.”

The lock on the door clicks and the door opens. A young man, no more than fifteen, sixteen at most looks at them, and steps back to allow them entrance.

The building was once an old paint and wallpaper concern back in the sixties. Since then it has seen one business after another come and go –it had appears now to have become a rather shabby storefront community outreach center, what with the worn and abused sofas, the scratched tables, the trash and soda cans that littered the scuffed hardwood floor, the out of date magazines haphazardly scattered across the furniture, an old jukebox standing hear a semi-circle of chrome and red vinyl rotating bar stools that had once belonged to a sofa fountain long since dismantled, as well as the man in the sunglasses, dark suit, and clerical collar.

The floor is built of two levels, the first being the entrance level, with two steps leading to the second. It is upon the second level that the man in the clerical collar sits behind the desk.

Beside him, Samantha looks at the railing of a staircase that slants down from a second floor loft, but the odd thing is there are no stairs – or at least none that she can see. Samantha’s first guess is they are really there – they are just invisible.

Nikki and Samantha step up the two steps to the second level – Samantha using all her will power not to run over and see if there are really invisible stairs.

“Be thou warned, and know thou this, . . . least thee readeth the work therein, for truly these words hath been writ for none save the mind so wedded unto Christ the Lord, in his Holy Spirit and unto all else, for verily these words doth bring corruption, and that which it corrupts, it shalt corrupt everlastingly, yea even, unto damnation beyond damnation eternal.” Says the priest behind the desk, upon which rest an open pizza box and an old book open now to a page with some very lurid depictions of women engaged in various acts of rituals of blasphemy. Samantha cocks her head to see – the text is in Latin.

“Tis written so that thou may knowest the truth of truths and the rightful face of evil,” Nikki replies as she steps forward, holding the Ithaca 37 with the barrel pointing down, “Olaus Wormius, 1228.”

“Wormius indeed,” he says, “Evil words for such a little girl to have read Miss Collins.”

“You are The Metropolitan?”

He cocks his head to one side, “I am.”

“You know me?”

“I do.”

“You know what I am?”

“Of course.” He moves his head awkwardly.

Samantha intently observing the priest, the man Nikki calls The Metropolitan, becomes aware now of how the man is sitting, the way he moves, the way he tilts his head when he speaks, the dark glasses – yes, the man is blind.

To test her theory she steps up close to the desk and waves a hand before him.

The Metropolitan sniffs at the air, “And who is the beautiful red-haired woman with you?”

Samantha blinks taking a step back off the third level.

“This is Samantha Brook, a friend of mine.”

The Metropolitan tilts his head and smiles, looking down at Nikki, “More than a friend.”

‘Yes.”

Samantha blushes and looks at Nikki, whispering, “How can he tell?”

“Eyes only deceive my dear.’” He replies. “You are known Nicole Collins as your father was known before you and your mother was before him. I have expected you.”

“And, which mother would that be?” Nikki asks.

“She who gave you birth.”

“And do you know what I want?”

“Yes. You wish the death of Edward Hutchinson, the one known as Count Andreas Petofi.”

Nikki nods and steps closer to stand near the edge of the desk, “And more.”

He raises his head, “And more?’

“I want the Snows also.” She tells him.

“The Snows.”

“For that, I need a sanction.”

“Yes. You would,” He agrees, “And so who else do you wish to kill Miss Collins? Me?” His hand motions now toward the shotgun.

“I’m just showing it to you now so you don’t have to think about it.”

“Deception, Miss Collins?”

“I have had quite a bit of it in my life.”

“Do you think it would be effective?”

“Umm . . . is there a bathroom?” Samantha suddenly asks rising her hand like a child.

He nods, “Yes my dear, behind me, to the right.”

Samantha steps to the side, not certain what Nikki is up to but trying to get ready to back whatever she intends, “Thank you papa.”

“I wasn’t really thinking about you father—“

“Any bad thing here – I am just telling you now, so later on you know, one reaps what they sow.” The Metropolitan tells her, “And so—who here do you think it would be effective for?”

Samantha moves behind The Metropolitan, taking note of the bathroom door – even as the front door of the building suddenly opens, as if on cue.

“I would think that it is possibly for me.” The voice is very hypnotic. Melodic. Nikki turns as she knows that voice, but she does not recognize the tall, slender, almond-skinned man entering the community center now with a massive bodyguard at his side.

She keeps the shotgun at her side – non-threatening . . . for now.

“Stephen.” The priest says. “And Mr. Meriwether.”

“Metropolitan,” they both answer.

Samantha looks at the two men entering—

“Sorry to say you are out on a rather brisk and snowy night, and so far from New York.”

Samantha stands before the bathroom door. Inside her coat pocket, she grips the solid comfort of her switchblade.

“New England is becoming a thorn in my side, Metropolitan, a thorn I may soon have to pluck.” The almond-skinned man says as he walks up the two steps to the second level of the building seemingly ignoring Nikki and the shotgun. “I do so want you to think about it.”

“Time Stephen, you of all of us know the infinity of time.”

“Here it grows short.” He says as the massive bodyguard stands passively, legs spread, hands clasped before him, looking idly at Nikki and the Ithaca.

And now, Stephen Alzis directs his attention to Nikki, “Ah, the wizard’s daughter.”

Samantha surmising that there is not any eminent danger now enters the bathroom.

“Yes, it is Miss Collins.” The Metropolitan says.

Samantha quickly slips back out of the bathroom, quietly, and begins working the lock on the door next to the bathroom.

Nikki rather languidly looks at the Metropolitan and then over to the tall man with the slight trace of mascara and the almond-skin and she knows she could just whip up the shotgun and kill them.

Samantha winces silently as the lock gives with a click.

She freezes, but no one seems to have noticed, and so she opens the door and slips inside.

“But you have already met.” The priest says.

Samantha wanders around the circular room, tracing her fingers along the shelves of scrolls.

“Ah yes—Paris.” Stephen Alzis agrees – only Nikki knows this is not Stephen Alzis.

Samantha feeling a strange irresistible urge, kneels down, biting her thumb, drawing blood, she begins to draw a strange yet familiar symbol on the center of the dais and for the first time in years she sends up a soft prayer, to who or what she does not know.

“There is some problem?” Nyarlathotep asks “Oh, I see that there is—“

And yet one more appalling piece of the puzzle of her life and death falls into place—one more endless revelation.

And Nikki’s sapphire eyes narrow.

Her fingers tighten on the pistol grip – and she is only seconds away from the finger on the trigger tightening as the barrel swings up and she feels the righteous recoil of the shell’s explosive discharge and she pumps the shotgun, a hot shell ejecting, and she fires again, and pumps, and the hot shell ejects, and again, and again. Almond-skin and blood and bone and brain matter splattering across the shabby furniture. Mr. Meriwether’s head exploding like an over ripe melon. The Metropolitan, rising from his seat, blindly trying to intervene as silver pellets, rip through his chest, and explode in a bloody hail against the wall behind him. Because it is night on a softly lit Parisian street . . . those she passes hurriedly stepping aside as she is dazed and confused and disheveled, her clothing on backwards. It had been raining earlier. It had been raining all day as if heaven knew what the night was to bring. And so, the street glistens as if paved with awkward diamonds lying among the cobblestones. She is stumbling away now – stumbling away from the terrible temptation to which she had succumbed in the luxurious townhouse of Marceline de Champeaux, who along with her companion, the much too handsome Joseph Salpêtrière, had played her – played on her obsessive desire to find her father, had used her to help them complete their incantation. Used her encyclopedic knowledge of the vile books she had read – used her to call down that which they could not control. That which she had in the end had to stand before and use even more eldritch knowledge to dispatch – so that in the aftermath she is cognizant of just how much those evil words have entered into her soul. We are what we have read. Sullied and unclean, the temptation serenade of that oh so sweet call of her awakening to the darken arts. It’s allure had been so strong. She was horrified at what she had done – what she had almost done – what she is capable of doing? When the voice, so soothing and calm, called from the café and the smiling gentleman sitting at the open-air table asks if she was alright – if there was anything he could do – a kind man with such a gentle, melodic voice, who offered her a glass of wine – who had so soothingly helped her with her seat, sat with her, calmed her as she slowly began to put the horror of the townhouse behind her –“And so, I can not help but feel there is something.” He eventually said. “Pardon me?” her fingers holding tightly her wine glass. “That there is something you want . . . very much – that you would risk anything to get. What is it? You can tell me.”

Oh God, she feels as if she wants to fall to the floor – wants to collapse because she recognizes now that it was him . . .

Yet another of his thousand masks.

“You!” The gun a holy instrument longing to be brought to bear.

“Yes?”

“You’re the one!” How could I have been so blind – she struggles not to lift the shotgun, as she now knows why she is what she is, “You did this to me!”

“I? I merely facilitated what you wanted” he says placing a palm against his chest, “You asked for your parents.”

How she struggles now not to lift the Ithaca. “Being a member of the undead facilitates that!”

Samantha clambers off the dais and pulls a scroll off one of the shelves.

He looks at her with those dark, dark eyes, and he smiles, and says much too sardonically, “Was there not a mother and child reunion.”

And he should have never said that as the shotgun does comes up – so quickly she is not even aware that it has risen.

Mr. Meriwether’s hand is a blur into his jacket as he withdrawals the Walther PPK/E.

The Metropolitan stands so quickly his chair topples over.

Nikki’s finger is on the trigger, tightening.

Mr. Meriwether’s PPK held steady at Nikki.

Nyarlathotep suddenly raises his hand to stop Mr. Meriwether, “Oh, you are much smarter than that? And what good will it do? A moment’s satisfaction for an instant oblivion.”

“Silver to the brain.” Mr. Meriwether says calmly.

“Whereas – I have given you, as the priest says, an infinity of time.”

Time? Time seems frozen.

“I never asked—” She trembles in anger. She so wants to send this alien, who would be a god, to his own oblivion.

Samantha reads the scroll, slightly confused and folds it, tucking it into a pocket.

“All those years of quiet contemplation,” Nyarlathotep continues, holding out his arms, “Reading, gaining knowledge, surpassing wizards and madmen – wanting to know what I know. What the necromancers dream to know! A wizard’s daughter – who will be greater than them all, “And he takes a step forward, and points at her, ”You more than anyone should know what it means to make a deal with me. I always deliver on my promises.”

“I never made a deal with you!” Nikki shouts and points the shotgun at him.

“No—I made a deal with you.” He says and takes another step forward, “You read of the abyss and I in turn read of you – I know what you are willing to become? I know what you are willing to do. And I chose you! AND NOW IT IS TIME FOR YOU TO UPHOLD YOUR END OF THE BARGIN. It is time little girl for you to maintain the balance.”

“Balance?”

“Orne and Hutchinson – they seek to undo the balance of things.” Nyarlathotep says. “I need these thorns plucked.”

“Miss Collins.” The Metropolitan suddenly interjects, “You must be well aware that this is a confrontation you can not win.”

She glances at him. The emotion inside her is overwhelming – rage and sorrow and futile frustration. Murdered by a whim – a malicious, evil scheme to give her she wanted – her parents! Setting in place a course of events that would lead to having her own mother . . . turn her— What a cruel, malicious bastard – that is if he were human. If human characteristics could even be applied to him–as he stand there and smiles.

And she stands in a stalemate as she knows the shotgun will have no effect.

Narrowing her eyes she gives way to the vampire to let it harden her – she will not let him see her weaken.

The Metropolitan looks over to Nyarlathotep, “She has come for a sanction.”

“She needs no sanction! Orne and Hutchison – they are mine and I have given them to her.”

“She wants the Snows.”

Samantha steps out of the altar room and relocks it silently.

“The Snows!” He asks.

“Yes—“ Nikki looks at him the shotgun still leveled at this chest, “To make a deal with me, you need to give me the whole bloody lot of them.”

The Metropolitan reaches out and up-rights his chair, and then sits back now “The Snows are protected by the Ghul.”

“And what of the Ghul?” Nyarlathotep asks. “You think they are of any concern?”

Samantha flushes the toilet and steps back into the main room acting as if she had just come from the toilet to see Nikki now standing now with a shotgun on the two men. The massive bodyguard holding his weapon steady on Nikki. Oh, what the hell did she miss? She goes straight for her switchblade.

“The Snows are in my book. They have been loyal servants –”

“And I mean to be done with them.” Nikki tells him.

“Why then the Snows?”

“Why then do you protect them – you protect no one, you do as you please. Are you not a god?”

“That is not an answer. Why does Nicole Collins want them?”

“They have fouled New England with their excess – they have failed to maintain their place, they jeopardize everyone in respecting no one.”

“You still have not told me the reason,” He tells her.

“Ummm, who is this?” Samantha asks as she moves further into the room and points at Stephen Alzis.

He turns to look at her “Oh, Mr. Meriwether is she not delicious?”

“She is and she is mine.” Nikki’s voice gone cold and hard.

He turns to look at Nikki with a mischievous grin.

Samantha glares at him.

“Ah, pity – she looks very tasty – do have a bite for me . . .”

The Metropolitan looks over to the almond-skinned man, “I do fear that Elijah Snow has begun to follow the footsteps of his sister Narcissa – they both have become much too unpredictable. And as old Arliss has failed to keep the tenants established with the Ghul, the relationship forged by Iscariot has since deteriorated, and most likely should have been severed with the apostate Lillian . . . “

Nyarlathotep looks at the Metropolitan and he goes silent.

Samantha steps closer to the desk as if she is interested in the open book. She looks at the pizza box and wrinkles her nose in disgust recognizing the brand – all the while edging closer if she has to use her knife.

“Why the Snows my dear Nikki, you still have not told me why?

“I want to see just how much you are willing to give up.”

“To not pluck my own thorns?”

“If you want me to do it for you.”

Nyarlathotep turns his head almost amused as he looks at her.

The priest looks back at Nikki, “With the Snows gone that would leave only one great family of the arcane in New England, I am sure you know.”

“Yes.” Nikki says her voice gone cold.

The almond-skin man looks to The Metropolitan with a wry smile, “Oh, she is the Wizard’s daughter.”

“You created her,” The priest replies.

“Yes, I did.”

And Nikki so wants to end this conversation—finger still on the trigger, knowing just how useless the Ithaca truly is . . .

“It is up to you, they have worshiped you, sought to re-establish the Starry Cult.”

“Which has become yet another problem. What say you Mr. Meriwether, should I betray my loyal worshipers?”

Mr. Meriwether shrugs, “I would say not since Mr. Iscariot have they been anything more than perverted failures.”

Stephen Alzis frowns, “So, what are you saying Mr. Meriwether?”

“If it were me, I’d say kill the motherf**kers.”

Nyarlathotep looks at Nikki, “You will kill Orne and Hutchinson for me?”

“Given the chance.”

“Well as it is me, I say –“ Nyarlathotep says as Stephen Alzis.

“—Kill the motherf**kers.” He finishes as Mr. Meriwether.

“You have your sanction, Miss Collins.”

“Please do not disappointment me, Miss Collins.” Stephen Alzis says and looks now to the blind priest, “Then if there is no further business needed of me, I shall be off to New York” He begins to walk toward the two steps leading back down to the first level of the building.

At the door, Alzis stops and turns to look at Nikki, “You and I Miss Collins – you and I . . . we’re going to shake up a few worlds.” He smiles, and then leaves.

“Why do I feel like I just attended a mafia meeting of the families?” Samantha says as she wanders over to the jukebox to see that songs are on it.

“You know she has power this one.” The Metropolitan says in a low voice to Nikki.

Nikki lowers the Ithaca aware that her hand trembles slightly, “Yes, I just don’t know what it is yet.”

‘Hmm . . .” Samantha says to herself as she turns and looks back across the room at the staircase that appears not to be there.

“It will come to her – and when it does, be warned, she may be more than you expect.”

“Do you know . . .”

He shakes his head no, “I only sense it.”

Nikki looks at her,

“Remember he is the cleverest of tricksters, Miss Collins. Do not trust him.”

Nikki turns back to look at him, “Like you once did?”

“Until tonight, I gather you did not know.”

“Just how much I have been a puppet on his stings? No.”

“For verily these words doth bring corruption, and that which it shall corrupt it shalt corrupt everlastingly.”

“I read those words when I was twelve – I now know what they mean.”

“If you do not fall into his temptation, you will become very, very powerful someday.”

Nikki looks at him sternly, “His evil is already inside of me.”

“Yes, we all have our own cross we eventually have be nailed upon Miss Collins.”

She nods and looks over at Samantha, “Samantha, we need to go.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Samantha, its just time to go.”

Samantha nods and walks over to her – her eyes still on the invisible stairs, wanting to know so badly if there are really stairs there – invisible.

“Miss Brook. When you feel the need, come back, the scrolls will be available to you at any time.” The blind priest tells her.

“Scrolls? What scrolls?” She feigns innocence.

“Go with darkness my child, and your friend also.” And he returns to looking at the book open on his desk.

End of act one — Continued in The Metropolitan Part 2