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The Lovecraft Affair, Chapter 5.
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Disclaimer
This is a work of amature fiction, no contravention of copyright is intended and no profit is made from this endeavour.
He was in his element - a glass of Champagne in hand, a beautiful
lady interested in everything he had to say, and surrounded by a
throng of cultured and titled "beautiful people" that had remained,
after the bride and "groom" had retired to their honeymoon suite,
to quaff expensive liquor while simply being seen. He *was* in his
element, but Napoleon Solo was anything, but comfortable.
He had never seen his partner so upset over beliefs that belonged
to an impressionable childhood; and during that wedding ceremony
-that...strange...wedding ceremony- if Illyya had been anyone, but
Illya, Napoleon would have sworn that behind the Russian's stoic
mask was sheer terror. No. Despite the tingle of ice-cold that
trailed down his spine, the senior UNCLE agent dismissed his
own irrational dreads. Illya's pique was from having to act out a
ceremony he had spent his life avoiding with a passion -nothing
more.
"Are you so certain, Brother?"
Napoleon blinked in disbelief as if the act would change what he
saw -or didn't see. His luscious paramour for the evening had
disappeared. In her place was a man -an old man- cloaked in
robes of white. "What the f... Where is--"
The man ignored the agent's outrage and confusion. "Are you
as blind to the darkness as you are to the Spiritual Light,
Brother? Your partner has need of you. Now."
A knife of sudden dread stabbed Napoleon in the heart and
the crystal champagne glass fell from his suddenly lax hand,
but when it shattered against the floor, the hard surface was
stained not in liquid of bubbling gold...but blood.
"Honey, are you all right?"
"What..?" The strange old man was gone and Napoleon's
lovely date had returned. Napoleon's wild-eyed stare went
to the floor -there, he saw a shattered champagne glass
and spilled champagne. Nothing more. "I..." He shook
his head, cold sweat beading up on his brow. "I have to
go. I'm...I'm sorry."
With that, Napoleon left as if the hounds of Hell were
upon his heels, ignoring the vague murmurs of consternation
around him. He didn't explain. He doubted that anyone
would understand if he tried. He *couldn't* explain.
Illya needed him.
Now.
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