The Elite

The Elite by Lily DeVille.

Raymond Beddows surveyed his fellow writers in the crowded room; his eyebrow slightly raised in a condescending expression. These people regarded themselves as authors, some published, some not. He, however, considered himself a literary genius. With eight best sellers to his name, and many articles published in a variety of quality magazines, his confidence in his career as an author was unchallenged. Being of average height and build, he was nevertheless a man who stood out in a crowd, with a shock of neatly trimmed silver grey hair, and a matching moustache and goatee beard, which had been trimmed to a precise neatness, he was immaculately dressed in an equally grey suit and a silk blue cravat, which reflected his deep blue eyes, allowing a mere respite from the otherwise grey countenance.

Across the room sat another gentleman, this one lanky in appearance with black hair and piercing brown eyes. He watched Beddows intensely, recognizing that supreme confidence, verging on arrogance. Gracefully, he raised himself from his chair and made his way over to the object of his fascination.

“Quite a gathering,” he commented to Beddows.

“Indeed, and no doubt some of them can write,” came the reply, accompanied by a smirk.

The lanky man chuckled as he surveyed the babbling crowd around them, each one hoping for a lucrative deal with the various publishers mingling in the throng.

“The name is Dr Michael Dante,” he reached out his hand to his new acquaintance, who looked at the offered hand momentarily before deciding to shake it.

“Raymond Beddows,” he responded.

“I know, I have read your books, their success is to be commended.”

“Thank you. You yourself are an author?”

“I am, though historical, rather than fiction. I belong to a group of writers, all published and extraordinarily successful. We have formed a… mutual appreciation society… for want of a better term, to support and enjoy each other’s literary gifts. I feel you would be an ideal candidate for membership Mr Beddows.”

“Really? I tend to be a solitary creature; I work best on my own.”

“Even so, while we all write on our own, the camaraderie and mental stimulation we receive from like-minded writers is beneficial. It is good to have discussions with people who will challenge and tax our ideas. Being a member of this group is also of great advantage, not only financially, but in the important contacts we have, and the esteem in which we are held.”

“Where is it that you meet?”

“At Lindley Manor, which has belonged to the nobility since the sixteenth century.”

“And do you allow anyone to join this group?”

“Certainly not! Membership to our society is by invitation only, and all current members must agree to the initiation of any outsider. It is only for the elite amongst writers.”

“How do you think your fellow members would respond to my being considered as a potential candidate for membership?”

“Highly favourably. They have sent me here tonight as their representative, to invite you to join us tomorrow night, so that you may be considered, and if suitable initiated into our ‘family’.” Mr Dante handed him a business card, which was embossed with the emblem of the group, showing a black dragon on a silver background. The inscription was in Latin, which stated ‘Fraternitas usque ad mortem’, meaning Brotherhood until death.

Beddows refrained from admitting to the man that he was ignorant of Latin and simply took the card. The Lindley Manor address was on the back, though there were no other contact details, such as telephone numbers or e-mail addresses. He felt it might be advantageous to his already blossoming career to meet these people.

“What time should I be there?”

“Come for eight o-clock, you may dine with us.” Dante replied with a smile, then moved away, giving Beddows no time to ask anything further.

Having become bored with the gathering, and in no need of finding a publisher, Beddows drove home and again considered the invitation. To join an elite group of writers could only be of benefit to his future publishing prospects. He was not a rich man, having grown up in a family who were labourers, industrious workers who had to struggle to survive. His modicum of success had allowed him a more comfortable existence, but he was convinced that he was destined for much more. Perhaps this elite group were what he had been waiting for. After all, most of the literary greats had also been members of small, close-knit groups of friends, which had in turn stimulated them in their creativity.

The following night he drove down the long drive to Lindley Manor. He surveyed the imposing manor house, which seemed to loom out of the surrounding darkness. There were a few lights on, but it still seemed eerily dark. Parking his car, he made his way to the front entrance, feeling a little ill at ease when he realised there were no other cars in sight. Perhaps they were parked in garages elsewhere. He pulled the chord for the doorbell, which reverberated with a clanging sound. It took a while for a response, and he looked in surprise at an aged man who had opened the door. Appearing to be at least eighty years old in appearance, he was the quintessential model of a traditional English butler.

“You are expected, sir,” the old retainer addressed him, his voice croaky and weak with age. “Please follow me.”

Beddows was led into a large dimly lit room, where sat seven people, whom he presumed were the members of the small society.

“Welcome Mr Beddows,” Michael Dante greeted him, reaching out to shake his hand. “Please come and sit with us, we shall dine shortly. Let me introduce you to our membership.”

Beddows made his way to the empty chair and studied his companions for the evening. He believed them to be mostly in their forties, with two being older, as he was himself. Before Dante could say another word, the more mature lady introduced herself.

“I am Baroness Kirkbride,” she spoke with a voice that reflected good breeding. He smiled and nodded to her but noticed that her smile in response was lacking warmth, maintaining a cool and rather arrogant demeanour. She was dressed in an immaculate black gown with a lace bolero. Her face resembled porcelain, and Beddows wondered if she had indulged in too much plastic surgery over the years. Her steely gaze hardened as she looked disapprovingly at her guest.

Michael Dante then introduced Lord Anthony Burrows and his son Gordon, Lady Christina Woolsey, Patrick Rider, Erica Parks, Cornelia Lovell.

“This, my friends, as you are aware, is Raymond Beddows, the author of note.”

Beddows tried to recall everyone’s name but found he could remember only Baroness Kirkbride and Lord Anthony Burrows. The old butler ambled into the room with eight small glasses of sherry.

“A toast to new friends,” Lord Burrows lifted his glass in a salute to Beddows. The group partook of the fortified wine, each watching their guest closely.

A tinge of unease in unfamiliar company compelled Beddows to down his drink rather quickly, in the hope that it would steady his nerves. It soon had the desired effect. He studied the paintings on the walls but did not recognise the people in the portraits, nor the artists who had painted them.

“Are these all your family?” he enquired of the Baroness.

“They are all great writers who have enhanced our lives over the years,” she replied. “One or two have been related to us, as our lineage crosses over centuries.”

“Are you all, therefore, related to each other?” he asked further.

“Either through blood or marriage,” she explained. “But we are mostly bonded by our love of writing and great literature. I myself am an authority on birds, I have written and published twelve books on various birds and their genetics.”

“Interesting, do any of you write fiction?” Beddows enquired, looking at his companions, who were all elegantly dressed, their features fine and aristocratic.

“Indeed Lady Christina, Erica, and Patrick are authors of fiction. We have a good variety of talent here,” Lord Burrows, responded. “I myself write books on eighteenth century military campaigns. Several of my family have been officers who have fought in wars over the years.”

Beddows began to relax, and the conversation picked up. He realised that he was in the company of highly intelligent and academic people.

Charles, the butler, once more came into the room to announce that dinner was ready. The entourage made their way into the dining room where a long table had been lavishly laid out as if for a royal banquet. With bone china crockery, silver cutlery, and fine crystal glasses, Beddows felt a little under dressed for such an occasion. They dined on seven courses in all; each course exquisitely prepared with attention to detail. The wine also flowed freely, though Beddows initially refrained from drinking, as he intended to drive home that evening.

“Please don’t worry about that,” Dante responded pleasantly. “There are plenty of rooms here for you to stay the night, do enjoy yourself.”

Following a delicious meal, they returned to the parlour, where more drinks were consumed.

“Well, Mr Beddows, do you feel you can accept our invitation to become a member of our elite society?” Baroness Kirkbride asked.

“Is it though your group that you have found most success?” Beddows asked.

“Without our society we would not be where we are today.” The lady retorted, while the others nodded in agreement.

“And you believe I am a suitable candidate for membership?”

“Absolutely Mr Beddows. You are ideal for what we are seeking.”

“Then I would be honoured to join.”

“Excellent,” Dante grinned.

“What is the initiation ceremony you spoke of Mr Dante?”

“Come with us, it is a simple procedure, simply to make an oath of allegiance to our little group, and to remain loyal to its members and to keep our confidences absolutely.”

The members proceeded to a tiny room where they all donned black robes, adorned with the insignia of the group in silver, resembling what was on their business cards. They placed a plain black robe on Beddows and led him into what looked like a small chapel, though it contained no religious icons or chattels within. The stained glass windows were colourful and gave the aura of a sacred and devout place. The group surrounded the newcomer in a semi-circle and Baroness Kirkbride stood before him.

“Do you Raymond Beddows pledge to remain loyal to the ‘Fraternitas usque ad mortem’, our society, to keep our confidences, to do what is required for the good of the group, and to refrain from taking up memberships of any other societies or groups.”

“I do.” Beddows promised.

“Give me your thumb,” the baroness held out her hand, and took Beddows’ hand, holding it firmly as she unsheathed a dagger from her robe and sliced down his thumb, letting his blood drip into a vial.

Beddows flinched and tried to snatch his hand back, but the lady held on firmly. Dante placed a hand on his arm, as if in reassurance and watched as blood flowed from the deep gash on the man’s thumb. He showed his own thumb with a scar, the remnants of his own induction. Feeling somewhat irked at what he considered to be a preposterous charade, Beddows hoped that the financial gains and fame he would acquire from membership of this small society would make it worthwhile. After all, what was a small scar when compared with success, financial reward, and access to powerful contacts.

Lord Burrows took the vial and poured the drops of blood over a container of what looked like ash. The container was silver and decorated with the emblem of the society. He lit a match and dropped it into the mixture where it burned with a blueish tinge.

“You are now a member of ‘Fraternitas usque ad mortem’, welcome my brother.” Lord Burrows held him by his arms and kissed him on both cheeks. All the other members came to congratulate him and assured him that he would bring great benefits to the society.

The members returned to the previous parlour, and they all spent an enjoyable evening discussing literature, ideas for their next books, and discussed other authors’ ideas. It was gone midnight when Beddows retired to his bedchamber, rather inebriated, and tired where he fell asleep quickly.

Before dawn he awoke, a strange feeling came over him and he turned over in his bed but found he could not move. A glimmer of light from the window showed him that he was no longer in the bedroom, nor indeed in a bed. He tried to sit up, but again was unable to move any of his limbs. Panic set in and he wondered what these new acquaintances of his had done to him. It did not enter his mind that the fault may be with his own body, or that there may be a medical reason for his paralysis. As his eyes accustomed to the dim light, he realized that he was looking down at the room where so many past writers’ portraits lined the walls. It did not make sense, why was he halfway up a wall, and unable to move. He desperately tried to call out, but his attempts generated no sound. He again attempted to move and continued to scream to no avail.

A little after dawn the seven members of the elite group made their way into the very same room. They stood and looked at the new portrait.

“He makes a fine figure for our collection.” Lord Burrows commented, his face showing some satisfaction.

“His essence was strong, I feel much revived.” Baroness Kirkbride smiled. “He was a good asset to our group. Your suggestion was excellent Dante.

“Thank you, I will find a new frame for our next member, when that is needed.”

“Excellent, but I think Beddows’ life-force will last us for a year or two, no need for us to become greedy, or people may begin to suspect that we are not what we seem, and then… well you know how nosey people become when matters cannot be explained.”

“Of course, your ladyship.” Dante looked up at Beddows as he gazed down from his portrait at the seven. “I am sure he will learn a great deal from us over the centuries, even if he cannot respond now that he is simply a shadow of himself.”

“I am certain he will. His sacrifice has been of great benefit to us. He will be remembered for time immemorial through his image. Not every author can say as much.” Baroness Kirkbride strolled from the room, followed by the others, leaving Dante alone, watching the painting. He grinned, imagining how angry Beddows must be to find himself aware of his destiny, yet unable to do anything about it.

The End