Nicholas Vials: The Case Of Michael Vials

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, his boots scuffing against the floor. "You don’t belong here," he said, his voice quieter but no less sharp. "Whatever you’re looking for, it’s none of your business."

Her gaze flicked to the drawings behind her, then back to him. "What is all this?" she asked, gesturing to the walls, which had been scrawled upon. Her accusing finger pointed at each stain on the floor, every drawing on the walls. For a moment, she forgot she had trespassed, forgot even the danger. There was only the raw shock of what she had found.

Nicholas stared at her, his eyes narrowing further. Emberline felt as though all her strength melted under his gaze. There was a strange light reflecting off the sides of his eyes. His eyes were unusually easy to look at. Not rage, no—his eyes didn’t burn. They smoldered, like dying embers hidden beneath ash. Disappointment. It hit her like a blow, sharp and unexpected, as though she’d failed someone she hadn’t realized she was trying to please. Emberline couldn't look away. He seemed contemplative, melancholic, but not angry.

"This is my house," he said finally, his voice low and measured. "You are in no place to question me."

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Emberline let out a breath, a whisper of resignation. "You’re right. I just wanted—" She paused for air. "Some answers."

A flicker of something—was it surprise?—crossed Nicholas’s face. He hesitated. "I have questions, too." His voice dipped, softer, as though he were speaking more to himself than to her. He wanted to sound sour and cold. "Though I did not break into your house for them," he wanted to say, but something else entirely came out. "Though I don’t expect you to be honest with me."

"What questions?" she asked, the words instinctive, her curiosity overriding her better judgment.

He stepped closer, and for a moment, she thought he might reach for her. But his hands stayed at his sides, his dark gaze steady on hers. He wanted to correct himself, but he found it better to be honest. "Why are you here?"

Emberline didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned, her footsteps echoing as she crossed the room to the window—the one she’d noticed when she first stepped inside. The air was thick, the room damp, as though it had been abandoned for years. She pushed the window open, letting the heavy, humid air from outside press against her skin.

"You could see me from here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "When the policeman took me."

"I could," he admitted, his voice unreadable.

"You saw me, then pretended to step into the station by coincidence."

Nicholas’s lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. "You give me less credit than I deserve."

For a moment, the air between them felt like it might crackle.

"Then why?" she asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, the faintest brush of his presence sending shivers up her spine. His eyes, that strange, quiet melancholy still lingering in them, held hers.

"Do you think the world operates on coincidences?" Nicholas's tone was firm, as if he meant to degrade her, but even then, his voice could not rise beyond a whisper.

Emberline did not understand Nicholas Vials. He had no shell. She was sure Nicholas Vials was made as a tribute to porcupines—safe to approach if you stroked him in the right direction, but bristling with sharp quills if you didn’t. And right now, his words were piercing her like needles.

"You waited till dawn," she said, offended by the notion.

"I was hoping you would be released without my intervention."

This time, Emberline closed the distance, pleading for a better explanation. She did not know why it stung to be spoken to so coldly.

"You should not have come here, Emberline," Nicholas said, stepping back from her as if suffocated by the closeness. His dark hair, golden under the winter sun, turned pitch-black as he retreated into the abyss of the room.

"I did not come all the way here to leave," Emberline said, equally adamant.

She fully expected to be insulted, for him to turn against her. She expected an outburst, but he simply smirked, as though he had heard just what he wanted.

"You're quite—" he said, pausing to suppress a smile. "Headstrong."

"I am, unfortunately," Emberline replied, smiling for the first time before him. She had been called headstrong before; Aunt Joan had said it many times, her voice thick with resentment when she declared it. But for the first time, Emberline had heard it said in such a soft manner that she could not help but smile. And what a smile it was. Nicholas had never been taken aback by a smile before. Her joy had no pride. There was an ingenuousness he could never have imagined reading on anyone's face. He could only describe it in one word: beautiful.

"You could have knocked, Mrs. Sterne."

'We're on a surname basis once more,' thought Emberline. Her smile did not falter, however.

"I like to make surprise entrances," she said, extending her hands in the air to mimic grandeur.

"You can like something and still not be good at it," Nicholas jibed, clearly taunting.

"You're one to talk," she replied, chuckling, her body easing. "I've yet to make an entrance with a bullet wound that’s sure to shock anyone."

"How awfully impolite of me to keep a guest standing," Nicholas said. Emberline didn’t reply. It had been a long time since she had smiled, and she did not become hasty with it. Nicholas cast one final glance at her before looking away. For the remainder of their conversation, he would not look up at her again.

"I don’t keep food here; I hope you are not hungry," he said, standing straighter as he grabbed the windows and shut them.

“I ate before I came,” Emberline said, though her voice wavered. She swallowed hard, remembering why she was here. Sergeant Wilkes.

The thought alone sent a shiver through her. A tight knot twisted in her stomach, and fear crept into her chest. Her hands felt cold, and she knew the color had drained from her face.

“What a pity,” Nicholas murmured, almost to himself. Emberline pretended not to hear.

“Nicholas?” she asked, his name tasting strange and unwelcome on her lips. “Vials,” she added finally.

“Hmm?” He turned to her, his calm demeanour unsettling like time meant nothing to him.

“What is all this?” Her eyes roamed the room, the unease in her voice unmistakable.

He paused, his expression sharpening. “My brother was murdered here.”

Emberline’s breath caught, her gasp echoed in the empty room as though voiced a hundred times. “You live where he died? Doesn’t it haunt you?”

Nicholas gave her a sharp look. “Let me correct you, Emberline Sterne. He wasn’t simply killed. He was murdered—here.” His voice dropped as he pointed around the room, gesturing at the walls and floor. White chalk circles marked specific spots. “There—his blood. Cleaned now, of course. And over there,” he pointed at another area, his voice rising with anger, “that’s where his body lay. His throat was cut with a knife so hot it sealed the wound as it sliced.” His tone turned cold, almost distant. “He died slowly. Agonizingly.”

Emberline forced herself to take a step further into the room. Her stomach churned as she tried to suppress the horror rising in her chest. And yet—somehow—part of her was fascinated.

“What does this mean?” she asked, pointing at jagged letters carved into the floor. Sira faseek.

Nicholas knelt beside the inscription, his fingers brushing lightly over the words. “He wrote this before he died." He paused, giving time to consider sharing this information "In his blood.” he said anyway.

Emberline shuddered but leaned closer, her voice whispering the strange phrase. “Sira faseek,” Emberline repeated to herself the phrase as if it had sounded familiar. She thought a little "Cera facile" she said in a rush as though she had raced to victory. "Will be easy"

"Quite fluent" he remarked.

"That I am, in spanish and latin as well" she said gleefully but Nicholas did not respond as if hed little boast went completely unnoticed by him.

He tugged at his collar as if to straighten it. “Inspirational words,” he muttered bitterly. “Spoken only by a killer,"

"How strange,” she murmured, her curiosity overcoming her fear. “That someone could kill so coldly. So calmly. As if they were comforting their victim. Even a butcher wouldn’t be so heartless.”

Emberline gave him a sharp, amused smile, a dark light in her eyes. “Does it frighten you, Nicholas? The thought of meeting the same fate?”

She held his gaze, waiting for him to meet her eyes. He didn’t. “Don’t you fear it?” she asked softly.

“I’d rather be buried,” he said with a shrug. “But it doesn’t worry me.”

“Why not?”

Nicholas’s voice turned thoughtful, his tone strangely distant. “The world is a burial shroud. Some are given final resting places. Others aren’t offered the luxury. I accept the gamble.”

“You’re horrible,” she said quietly, her smile fading into a worried frown.

“I’m trying not to be.” He turned away. His efforts, she thought, were clearly in vain.