“You know I’d never stand in your way, sir, but…she seems like a nice girl.”
“I am sure that she is, Thompson.” Hesha reflected for a moment on the tone of his retainer’s statement, and went on carefully. “Vegel and all that went with him are dead, Thompson. You are looking for replacements for his team—a driver, a plane, a pilot and crew. I am in need of an art historian…as well as a replacement for Vegel’s other capacities.”
“Which other capacities…sir?
“I’m not sure yet, Thompson. There are weaknesses to her; under the right circumstances, they could be made…strengths our organization does not currently possess. But she need know no more of our real business than Alex, or the agency, or Patterson’s.” They drove in silence for a time, and the master spoke again, speculatively. “For that matter, Thompson, you might wish to consider whether you would care to replace Vegel in that capacity yourself.” Thompson said nothing. “Think it over carefully, of course. You have been with me long enough to know that it is hardly an unmixed blessing; and you have seen firsthand what it can do to others. Of course you would have to change the nature of your activities, and I know you enjoy your work at the head of the security team as it is. But do think, and let me know whether and when you might wish it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And soon, Thompson. Keep in mind what happened in Atlanta. We are passing through dangerous times, and a ‘living will’ might be a good idea.”
Friday, 25 June 1999, 11:12 PM
A studio apartment in Red Hook, Brooklyn
New York City, New York
The black sedan glided smoothly to a halt at the entrance to the old warehouse. Streetlights were rare, there was little traffic, and though a few lit windows shone in buildings on both sides of the street, the rooms were sterile. Blue-tinged fluorescent bulbs burnt late and coldly for janitors and night guards; desk lamps warmed small patches of overtime for corporate slaves.
A tall, broad, grizzled figure in a loose-fitting raincoat left the shadows of a fire escape. He approached the right rear door of the car, waited for the locks to click open, and climbed in without a word. The locks clicked back, and a touch of the tension left his creased, red face.
“Good evening, sir,” Thompson said. He nodded acknowledgment to the man behind the wheel, and added, “How’re you doing, Asp?”
“Never better, Ron,” said the driver.
“Report, Thompson.”
Ronald Thompson took a small flip-over notebook from his raincoat pocket. It was a habit, from his time as a cop; from a memory of what an ideal policeman was supposed to be. A younger Ron Thompson had found that, in this world, the reality was less than ideal, and walked away from a dirty job in search of something…cleaner. Now he sat in the back seat of a monster’s car and felt no remorse as he laid a young woman’s home bare before his master’s eyes.
“Here’s the layout. Door, a little closet and walk-in space. Open kitchen; counter and stools here—but it doesn’t look like she does much entertaining. Library starts here; there’s an iron rolling-door behind the bookshelves; probably from the warehouse era, probably why she keeps her books over it. Library runs into office, which runs into living room—there are books everywhere, though. This area is raised up a step, and full of your kind of stuff—antiques, I mean, sir. Her workshop, I assume. Bathroom facilities walled off here. Bedroom curtained off here.” He stopped, and said meaningfully, “This entire outer wall is windows, sir.”
From the front seat came a sniggering chuckle. “I guess you won’t be staying the night, then, boss.”
Thompson shot a scornful glare into the rear-view mirror. Hesha ignored the Asp completely, and the detective went on: “Weapons check: Usual assortment of kitchen knives. Further collection of little blades and awls in the workshop. Lots of small, heavy grenadables. No real guns; there’s a flintlock in the shop next to a xeroxed article on stabilizing wood found buried in peaty soil. Non-operative.
“There are,” he sighed, “a hell of a lot of spray cans and flammables. She’s not a smoker, though; no lighters anywhere. Electric stove. Matches, candles and that sort of thing on a bookshelf in the office area, but not many. Fire shouldn’t become a problem.
“I found out why she has no address; she sublets the loft from Rutherford House. The paper on the place was a little convoluted. I snapped a photo for Janet, on the off chance you’d be interested.”
“Thank you, Thompson.”
Hesha flicked the latches open, and as one, the three men left the vehicle. Thompson kept watch on the street; the Asp took a bottle, a package, and a raincoat from the trunk; Hesha accepted the items and turned to go inside the old building.
“Your time is temporarily your own. I anticipate being here at least two hours, but less than five. I will call. If your phone rings, Asp, you both should come back immediately, expecting trouble. If yours rings, Thompson, it’s a straight pick-up.”
Thompson took the keys and the driver’s seat; the Asp took the passenger side. Neither took themselves off guard until the intercom buzzer sounded, the little door to the warehouse opened, and the steel bolts had snapped safely into place behind their master.
Hesha paced slowly along the dimly lit corridor. His steps slowed at each door, and he read the names taped, tacked, or painted on them: Kelvin Photographic; Herlin, Inc.; Malay Imports; a row of ten doors labeled with the name of a law firm he knew, and marked “File Stores, 7” A-C, D-G, and so on.
He climbed stairs and made turns; he passed by the rest of the law firm’s alphabet. At the end of a bare metal catwalk he came to her door. A faded notice on the wall beside it informed him that these premises were owned by Rutherford House, and gave him a number to call in case of emergency or accident. There was no trace of light from within, and no sound. He tested the air before knocking—rust, turpentine, old paint, and grime surrounded him, but through the cracks around the jamb he could detect a trace of smoke. It was good sandalwood and frankincense, complex and not cheaply come by.
He rapped on the door with one knuckle.
On the other side, there was light—warm and relaxing light—and sound—faint strains of something Celtic—and Elizabeth, waiting for him in a dark-blue denim dress and a nervous smile.
She took the wine with thanks and exclamations at the vintage; to his instructions she propped it on the counter to breathe and to settle. She offered him a drink or something to eat; he declined politely, and drifted into what Thompson called the living room. He draped his raincoat strategically—near the center of the loft, easily reached from the sofa or the workshop but out of the way—over an old, walnut office chair, and put the package down on its seat. He made a point of gazing around him, to check his retainer’s report, to make his own assay of dangers and exits, and to seem to admire.
The windows that bothered Thompson by day were concealed by night; the same floor-to-ceiling curtains that walled her bedroom rolled down from the joists and kept the bleak city at bay. Hesha tendered his compliments on the apartment, and found opening to ask for a tour.
“No, wait.” Hesha laughed, and twirled a finger clockwise. “You have it upside down. Now it’s only backwards. There.”
Elizabeth steadied the package on what felt like its base, and slit open the packing tape with a razor blade. She peeled paper and bubble-wrap away like layers of onion, and was rewarded by a misshapen, unwieldy mystery still swathed in black velvet.
“Close your eyes,” said Hesha, and he slipped the shroud away from his prize. “All right, open them.”
It was inky-blue, and red, and jet black. It was perhaps sixteen inches tall, and might have been larger had it retained all its limbs, weapons, and trappings over the years. It was fierce, and it seemed to writhe in anger, and it defied with a monstrous grimace those who looked upon it.
Elizabeth stared at it, and Hesha watched her face change as she took in the details. First, there was the frank appreciation of an expert in th
e presence of the unusual. Her mouth corners twitched as her eyes flickered over the grotesqueries. She reached forward to touch the chipped tip of a broken ax, and her brows furrowed in doubt. Suddenly, her hand darted to the workbench’s side. A halogen light blazed into Hesha’s eyes, and he flinched away. “Sorry,” said the historian, distractedly. She swung the lamp and its attached magnifying lens into position over the raw edge. The Setite blinked back rage—the light stung him, and he lost sight of her face in the red miasma that hovered before his eyes.
Her voice spun through the fiery void: “Is this a trick question?”
He left her there, and walked to the kitchenette. The microwave blinked 12:01 just as he passed it. “No. You were thinking forgery?”
“I wanted to eliminate the possibility.” Elizabeth took up a pad, and began making notes. “Particularly after the spectacular build-up you gave the ‘puzzle.’ One of my professors tried that on me. Bet me lunch over it. I made him pony up steak and cocktails.”
Hesha browsed through the cabinets. “Good for you.
This coloring is amazing.” She frowned down at the enlarged ax and arm in the lens. “Made me think it was art glass, to begin with. The carver was a real master.
“And why do you say that?”
“Aside from the fact that the physical surface of the piece is exquisite? Wine glasses are under the island. Rather dusty, I’m afraid. It’s the red. Look where he’s chosen to leave the red…it’s like an optical illusion. Seen from below—the figure is a warrior lording it over the viewer. He’s come home from the battlefield absolutely dripping blood from weapons, hands, and teeth. Seen from above—it’s a demon rising from the fires of hell. His arms and armor ripple with the flame, but the fight hasn’t started yet. It’s fascinating. And where the black is bluest, that’s where he’s designed metal trappings. I can’t understand how…”
Hesha washed the glasses, and poured for two. “What are the rules, Professor Ruhadze?”
“The rules?” He set her wine before her, and pressed his own glass to his lips. “For the puzzle…just tell me what you see. Make statements, and I’ll tell you if I know them to be true or false. Think of questions I’ve already looked into, and I’ll tell you the answers. Think of questions I haven’t looked into…and you get an A for the course.”
“It is carved from a solid piece of stone, except for this—” and she pointed to the white of the creature’s sole remaining eye. It had begun with three; two empty sockets beneath it attested to their former occupants’ existence.
“Yes.” Hesha pulled a soft chair into the workshop.
“The stone is chalcedony. Specifically, the kind of agate the jewelers call ‘apache flame.’”
“Yes.”
She sipped her wine, and said sharply, “It isn’t a modern artifact.”
“How are you sure?”
“Because,” she began, and went on decisively. He granted her the arguments, and the game continued for hours.
“Oh, damn.” Elizabeth held her head in her hands, and shook it.
“What’s wrong?”
“I had a theory,” she moaned, letting him refill her glass. “I had a perfectly lovely theory. And then I went and made putty casts of the sockets. And my theory’s ruined. I’m no expert, Hesha. I can’t place this blasted thing in a civilization, let alone a time or site.”
He put an arm over her shoulders, and pulled his chair closer. “What happened to the casts?”
“Look at this,” she said. “I used polymer putty—stable enough to get the shape of the holes and flexible enough to pop out of the sockets without damaging your friend here. And I didn’t need to.” She handed him half a putty eyeball. There was a small plastic dowel rooted in it as a handle. “Watch this.”
With thumb and forefinger, she twisted the remaining cast out of its seating.
“And I’ll bet you anything you like,” she said, touching the third socket gingerly, “that the last one—yes.” She handed him a small, pale stone—the white of the demon’s sole preserved eye. There was a hole in the center for the iris, which remained in the statue’s head.
“The whites screw into the sockets. There’s the stumps of irises broken off in these two. You can see the ‘negatives’ in the casts. The bases were black; I’d imagine that the ‘whites’ were red. Yours is the spirit eye; white with a red iris.”
She laid her head down on the workbench, cushioned by her left arm, and looked up at the inexplicable marauder.
“Find me a near-Indian civilization with the belief structure to give this thing three eyes and four arms, the warcraft to put those styles of weapons in his hands, the mechanical knowledge of even primitive screw threads like these as fasteners, and the tools to work carnelian like that—and I’ll tell you where he came from. I’m sorry, Hesha. I can’t even think of lost civilizations this poor devil could be from. Did the little man who sold him to you come from a spaceship?”
Hesha turned the burning lamp off. “No.” He stroked her hair away from her face, and pulled her to her feet.
“Have you had him carbon-dated? There’s black grime stuck in his mane and tail.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what happened when I tried.”
“Inconclusive?” she mumbled, drowsily.
“Something like that.”
Elizabeth stumbled down the step into the living room. She leaned heavily against the almond-painted column in the center of the apartment, and began to fall. He caught her, held her, and carried her behind the curtains into her room. Along the way, she tried to speak, and he closed her mouth by kissing her. She kissed back with a kind of sleepy surprise, and then he laid her out on the bed.
He took her sandals off, and untied the sash of the dark-blue dress. She made no noise; the hour and the strong, drug-laced wine had overcome her. Hesha looked down at the quiet body, and studied her intently. After a moment’s deliberation, he lifted her up again, turned down the quilt, and covered her with it. Satisfied by the effect, he toed off his own shoes and strode noiselessly back through the apartment.
He took putty and made casts of the demon’s eye sockets for himself. He wrapped the statue into its velvet, plastic, and paper, and set the package by the door.
He went next to her desk—a modern creation of particle-board and laminates, not the heavy antique that stood empty in the studio area—and went through her papers. He pored over her dissertation notes, her address book, her finances. He found a box of old letters, and read with interest the sympathy cards on the death of her father; the venomous words of Elizabeth’s mother; the friendly correspondence of brother Paul and his wife, and nodded as the tone grew terse and strained over time. There were what passed for love letters; he gleaned what he could from them as well.
A small silver clock on the desk told him about the sun, and he collected the bottle and glasses. He rinsed the dregs and drugs from them in the sink. He took a flask from his pocket and poured away what little wine he had had to pretend to drink himself.
He found a small blue juice glass in the cabinets; a rubber band, pen, and scrap paper in a drawer; and plastic wrap in a rack on the pantry door. He flexed his left index finger. The claw hidden there slid forward in its scaly sheath, and with it he sliced open the topmost vein of his right wrist. A slow drop of red-black ichor welled up from the cut. Hesha forced his blood forward, and the thin stream filled the little glass quickly. The wound closed over.
He tore a sheet of plastic loose and covered the draught. In fine, small handwriting, he wrote Hangover cure on the scrap of paper and snapped it to the glass with the rubber band. He placed his blood on the top shelf of the refrigerator.
From his raincoat, he took a notebook. On a tom-out page he constructed a note. When he had finished, he brought it to the bedroom and propped it against the mirror. Elizabeth lay motionless, in precisely the position he had left her.
Hesha sat on the edge of the low mattress. He took her fingers in his,
and watched her face to be sure she knew nothing. He lifted her hand to his lips, and bit.
He drank from her quite slowly. He had hunted earlier, to sate the hunger, but this was better. Her blood coursed gently into him, and the warmth was sweet. He closed his eyes, and let himself enjoy the taste. It was a wonder…the difference in savor between mortals…that the blood should never pall…
The Beast stirred slightly, curiously strong. Hesha had long practice wrestling it, and was well fed—he fought it down. It twisted and turned on him; for an instant the surprise allowed a second duel; rare for the Setite. He knew it was too much to expect truce, but decades of disciplined tending and watchfulness had given him a little slack with the thing. Hesha beat it back again.
Uneasily, he took Elizabeth’s life from between his teeth, and licked the tiny wounds closed.
Something light touched his cheek, and his eyes snapped open—it was her other hand, reaching up to caress him. He dropped her wrist, startled, and stared at her as she moved—and kept moving, despite wine, drug, weariness, and the Kiss. She was asleep; she couldn’t possibly be conscious. He relaxed as she began to turn. She was only moving in her sleep, but she rolled into the sole sliver of light that came through the curtains, and her neck lay bare and pale against her dark hair.
The Beast stretched and roared, and Hesha scrambled to find his shoes in the dark.
He snatched up his overcoat and the statue, slammed the door behind him, and ran down the hall dialing the phone.
“Thompson.”
“Sir.”
“Baltimore.”
“Yes, sir.”
Saturday, 26 June 1999, 1:16 PM
A studio apartment in Red Hook, Brooklyn
New York City, New York
Elizabeth woke to the uncomfortable warmth of clothes in bed. Groggily, she threw off the quilt and sat up. Her mouth tasted terrible, her hair hung into her eyes, her dress was twisted around her, and her bra poked into her ribs. She planted both feet on the floor, stood up, and started toward the shower, shucking her dress and the rest of it along the way.
Clan Novel Setite: Book 4 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 4