The Tears of Nero (The Halo Group Book 1) by Jason Brannon Read Free Book Online

We’re nearing the dinner party.  Doesn‘t it smell wonderful?”
    When the figure turned away, Henry noticed they were standing at a door.  The masked figure opened it quietly, taking great pains not to make any noise.  A rickety staircase plunged through the floor into some dark place that loomed before him like a ravenous mouth eager to swallow him whole. 
    “Be careful,” the masked figure said.  “These steps are kind of steep.”
    “I’m not sure I want to go down there,” Henry said. 
    “All the answers are at the bottom.”
    Henry considered the oddness of this entire situation and realized that he was about to make a mistake.  “I think I’d rather not.”
    “But we're expecting you,” the harlequin reminded him.
    “The memory of Margaret's death is very painful to me,” Henry explained, turning away from the staircase.  “If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not rehash the past.  If you'll excuse me, I'll just head back the way I came.” 
    “That’s not really an option at this point,” the harlequin said, pulling a knife from the folds of his robe.  “Go down the steps!”
    “You really don't have to do that.”
    “Now!”  
    Henry eyed the blade and took a tentative step, walking ahead of the masked figure.  The harlequin slammed the door shut, pitching them into absolute darkness save for the meager light that came from his lantern.  Henry heard the rattling of a key being inserted into a lock and tumblers clicking into place.  He was trapped.  The harlequin stepped past Henry to lead the way.   
    “Who are you?” Henry asked as they navigated the rickety stairs.  “What do you want with me?” 
    “It doesn’t matter,” the masked figure said.  “For our purposes today, you may call me Seneca.  And don‘t worry, I really have no intention of using this knife.  I just have to make certain that you reach the dinner party at all costs.  The one I serve demands your attendance, and I’m not in a position to disappoint him.”
    Seneca.  The name was familiar for some reason, but Henry couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.  “Why have a dinner party in a place like this?” Henry asked.  “Why not some place nice?”
    “This house is exactly the kind of place for this kind of party.”
    “I don’t understand,” Henry said, resting his hand on the damp wall for support and guidance.
    “You will,” Seneca said, stopping at the bottom.  He fumbled in his robes for a moment until he found an envelope identical to the one that Henry had received bearing his invitation.  A scarlet “N” had been drawn on the front in fancy calligraphic font. 
    “I was told to give this to you before the party begins.  Maybe it will explain some things.  Maybe not.”
    Henry opened the letter with caution, hoping there wasn’t another picture of his dead wife inside.  There wasn’t.  Instead, there was a single sheet of neatly folded linen paper.  Henry read carefully as the hesitation in his gut began to transform into something nearer to full-blown terror.  
     
    “God knows everything.  God knew what Adolf Hitler would eventually become and all the deaths he would cause.  Why allow him to grow up and become a monster?  Why not afflict him with polio or crib death?  God also knew what I would become.  Why did He let me live?”
     
    Seneca peered at him through the mask’s eye slits, expecting the question that was poised on Henry’s lips.  Henry decided not to ask it.  He didn’t want to give Seneca the satisfaction.  At last, Seneca nodded and motioned toward a chair that was sitting all by itself in darkness.  “Please, have a seat.”
    Henry did as he was instructed and watched as Seneca quietly made his way toward the staircase that led back to the upper floor.  Henry peered into the darkness, straining his eyes to see anything that might give him a clue about what was going on.  The wild smell was much stronger down here,