Nicholas Vials: The Case Of Michael Vials

Emberline was walking prissily toward the tall silhouette of the building where she had stayed. Each step she took reminded her of the shame and heavy regret of living freely at Elena's house. She did not want to live as she was living, but she was left with no choice.

Over the last several weeks, she had been turned away from more jobs than she would like to admit. The last few days, her desperate attempts fueled her self-pity, being told that her services were not even needed as a cleaner. She would arrive tired from work and immediately go to an agent, who would recite to her new places where work might be available, followed by a few daunting remarks about her current position.

"Why would a nurse such as yourself be in need of work outside her field?" he would question, each time striking a chord with the prying nature of his words.

She felt a tug at her chest even at the thought of having to hear another question regarding her career, her thoughts suddenly occupied with Nicholas. The words he had said to her, the gentle reminder that she was not out of sight, nor was she sly. The streets were unusually quiet, the chill in the air biting at her exposed skin. She barely noticed the figure trailing her until a firm hand grabbed her arm and yanked her into a shadowed alleyway.

"Hey!" she protested, twisting to face her assailant, but her voice caught in her throat as she recognized the face before her.

“Keep quiet,” the figure hissed, glancing nervously over their shoulder. Their face was partially obscured by the hood of their coat, but the urgency in their tone was unmistakable. “You’re being followed.”

Emberline’s heart raced as she struggled to make sense of the situation. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Officer Wilkes replied tensely. “If you are nearly as smart as you first seemed, you will comply with the law, Emberline Sterne.”

---

Nicholas Vials.

He felt eyes on him wherever he went. He felt as though he was a walking wanted poster. His paranoia only served to prove him right as he found himself observing the odd behavior of the townsfolk, crossing his path and dispersing as if crossing his path brought a black cat's bad luck.

Nicholas was not superstitious. He did not believe in ghouls or werewolves. He did not believe the world was conspiring against him, nor did he want to believe it, but he simultaneously wished he had no reason to look at everyone in such a manner. His only wish was for everyone to look away, find another, find a better distraction. But they did not. They stared in amusement as if the man before them had done something heinous, and everyone was aware of his crime.

Or perhaps he only felt that way because he had actually done something heinous, and then made everyone aware of it. There was no way to tell.

Nicholas would soon quietly slip into an alley, making sure no one had followed him into the outskirts of the town, before he entered the woods, where he had once stumbled into, hoping to escape a few bandits he had lost a bet against. He still remembered the day as it happened; sometimes he imagined the day so vividly, he felt blood trickling down his temple, but even he was aware of when he was trying to trick his senses.

Nicholas moved through the dense woods, the trees leaning in as if silently watching over him, their branches clawing at him like fingers. The cabin appeared out of the evening fog. For a cabin that had been abandoned for decades, it had done better than most modern structures. His boots creaked on the porch as he pushed the door open, revealing the hall, which was lit only by the dim sunlight pouring in through the cracks between the wooden planks. Nicholas felt a warmth that was otherwise never present. It was almost instinctive to check the room beside him, where a small chipped door hung loosely.

Inside, Henry sat hunched over a table, his back to the door. He was counting a stash of money with the precision of a man who had done this many times before. At the creak of the hinges, Henry stiffened, his hands faltering mid-count. He snapped his head toward Nicholas, his sharp features caught in the flickering light of the oil lamp. In one swift motion, he swept the money into a leather bag and stood, his movements guarded.

“Back so soon?” Henry’s voice was low, but it carried a dangerous edge.

Nicholas raised his hands, palms outward, as if to ward off suspicion. “You don’t need to hide it,” he said, his tone even but his eyes sharp, tracking the bag Henry now held like a shield. “I’m not here for that.”

Henry scoffed, reaching into the bag and pulling out a handful of cash. He tossed it toward Nicholas, the bills fluttering like dead leaves before scattering across the floor. “Take it,” he said curtly. “Buy yourself something nice, preferably a brandy.”

Nicholas didn’t move, his eyes flicking from the crumpled money at his feet to Henry’s face. “I wonder what pays that well,” he said, his voice tinged with reluctance.

“I paid you for your silence, not for you to run your mouth,” Henry gestured vaguely at the scattered bills.

“If I cared for it, I’d be on my knees—”

“Then what do you care for, Nicholas? Why do ya waste my time with pleasantries if you do not want anything?” Henry asked, his tone telling cautionary tales. He was frustrated, Nicholas could tell, but he did not care for his mood at that moment.

“I want answers, nothing more.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Henry, his focus deeply unhindered. He was still counting the money in his mind, trying to remember the last number he had.

“I am not sure,” he breathed, as if his words bore heavy on his heart. “I am confused. There are things that do not make sense to me. If I try to find all my answers, I should be sure to go crazy from delirium. If I do not pry, I should be sure to go crazy from the suspense. I should be as honest as I can be, Henry. I want honesty from you.”

For a moment, Henry just stared at him, the tension between them as thick as the woods outside. Then, with a grim set to his jaw, he muttered, “Maybe it’s better if you stay confused.”

“Do I take it you do not want to be honest with me?”

“Honesty is not what one can afford among friends, not anymore. No man has such luxury,” said Henry as he turned his head back, leaning into the table and continuing his counting.

His words had an impact on Nicholas—not because he believed him, but because, subconsciously, he had vowed to prove him wrong.

"Speaking of luxury—" Henry's voice caught in his throat. He turned to face Nicholas, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, barely landing on the man who leaned so casually against the doorframe. "What became of the money?"

Nicholas shrugged, his tone as light as the smirk playing on his lips. "I’ve got the key. Haven’t found the right time yet."

Henry let out a slow exhale before turning back to the table. His head dropped onto his forearms, the wood cool against his skin. "And when, exactly, will you find the right time?"

Nicholas didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. "That’s my concern," he said. "Yours is moving the money. Whatever it is you need it for."

"The protest," Henry murmured into the crook of his arm. He lifted his head just enough to glance at Nicholas again.

"Right. That."

Henry straightened. "It’s important. Quinton’s set a date for the strike—"

Nicholas cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Without it, they’ll have nothing. Yes, Henry, I get the picture."

Something in Nicholas’s easy dismissal made Henry’s jaw tighten. Henry ran a hand through his unkempt hair, the weight of the conversation pressing on his chest. The table beneath him felt steady—sturdier than he did at the moment.

"You always seem to get it, yet here we are. No closer to solving anything."

Nicholas leaned against the doorframe, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I told you, Henry. Timing. What good is a lock if you can't find the right door to open?"

"Philosophy won't feed the families out there," Henry shot back, though his voice was thin, his energy drained. "The strike means something to them. They’re holding on by a thread, Nick. They can’t wait for you to pick the right poetic moment.”

Nicholas’s smirk faltered, just barely. He straightened, letting his arms fall to his sides. "I know what’s at stake. Don’t think I don’t. But rushing this will ruin everything, and then where will we be? Worse off than we started, that's where."

Henry pushed himself upright, his palms flat against the table, steadying himself. "And if you wait too long? You think Quinton will keep waiting on you? You think the people will? They’re desperate now. Another delay, and I won’t be their ally—I’ll be their enemy."

Nicholas sighed, long and slow, and finally nodded. "I’ll get it done, Henry. You’ll have what you need. Just give me... a little more time."

"Time," Henry repeated bitterly, shaking his head. "It’s a luxury none of us have, Nicholas."