Samael — Bryan J. McLean

FICTION: samae| | Bryan J. McLean

samae| i

.... at forty seven teréz körút, budapest, hungry .. may thirteenth, nineteen forty one ...

Isbol tramples down the stairs on a broken right heel.. shifting as silent as she can. The cover of night still handy at this late hour. The knife tossed and burried into some trash, her skirt and hair straightened. Its well passed curfew, and certainly patrol or the sentries will be smoking and waiting with their hounds leashed, and telling stories about polish hookers.

She turns down the emptied cobble stone alley and cautiously makes her return to a small apartment above a bistro, all the while scrubbing her hands precisely, and pulling on black wool gloves.

The patrol is thin and returning to her post is easy enough in the light morning drizzle... she carefuly climbs her studio stairs and closes her door with ease. she strips down, throwing every article of clothing into a bucket, scrubs it clean again, washes her hands and face four times, before checking her necklace and then passing out on her tiny cot.

....

"Isbol! " Duartes yells, " Isbol!! Are you listening to me?" She startles and nearly drops the note pad she is writing on..

"I pay you to take notes, not day dream as a seceratary! "

Smoke fills the studio where the tiny newpaper makes its editorial selections. Mister Duartes puts out a cigarillo and leans forward at his desk. "Did you get all that? Three Officers, each of their throats slashed visciously, with clean percision by the assasin.. "

Isbol starts to nod saying, yes, and just continues jotting words on the page.

Duartes grumbles, clearing his foggy throat before continuing,"This is an upsetting event for the army settled here, after such a peaceful and understanding transitional state the city has been going through. This is the same assasin suspected of eight political murders between Budapest and Krakow. Officials have tagged the same name, Samael, to this case, yet the suspect remains at large... Are you getting this, Isbol? I will not repeat this twice for you.."

" Yes, Mister Duartes, I'm not missing a single thing. I'll get this to Print right away, if thats what you want. "

The cheif journalist nods affirmatively before lighting another cigar, and waving her out of his office..

Isbol jots the final scribblings before heading towards the editors office with the article, calmly and coldly smiling down the hallway.