“Do you still love, Vera, Duke?”
“With all my heart,” he said.
“But it’s different?”
“It has to be. Love is different for a lot of people. It has different meanings, definitions. That’s why people have such a hard time with it and break up so easily. It’s because everyone has their own idea of what love should be. What love is. And there’s only one kind. One kind that matters. One kind that stands the test of time.”
Newt looked at his partner for a long time. “What kind is that, Duke?”
“The selfless kind. And both of you have to have it. It can’t be one-sided. Otherwise, you have one person giving and the other one taking. It doesn’t work that way. You both have to give. There are times when it won’t be possible for one of you to give. Things happen. Life gets you down. But that’s when the other has to step up to the plate. You’re not in a relationship to get something out of it for yourself. You’re in it to serve the other. I don’t mean submission or anything like that. Doing what you're told or bossing each other around. I mean, you know their needs, you provide what you can, emotional support, love, care, selflessness. It’s never about you. That’s the trick. When you put the needs of your spouse before you, it’ll come back on you in ways you never dreamed of. When you’re both in it to serve the other, you create a little thing called magic. But you both have to have the same approach. When you’re both doing it, it’s a beautiful thing, Newt. You make sure your kids see it, too. Because you have to lead by example. Then they’ll know what to look for when they’re on the search themselves. They’ll know what it takes. You teach by your actions. That’s how kids learn. You teach your wife the same thing. She teaches you. Together, you learn and grow, and your love goes into a place you never imagined, never thought existed. But you’re living. You’re alive in ways you didn’t think you could be. You’ll realize how dead you were without it before. It’s a gift, Newt. Don’t take it for granted.”
Newt stood staring at his partner for a long time. He had no idea what to say. He had no idea Duke was that kind of man, let alone, that kind of husband. He was in awe. His respect for him grew as he stood and listened.
“I never knew you were so philosophical,” Newt said. “So deep, Duke.”
“I’m not. Anyone with half a brain can see what’s obvious. That’s just the way it is. And there’s plenty you don’t know about me. Now, let’s find this blasted hound and put an end to this nightmare.”
Duke started walking. Newt hung back. He put his hands in his pockets.
“Duke?”
The man turned. “Yeah?”
“Thanks for giving me something to strive for, to look forward to . . . with Amelia.”
Duke looked at him. “I don’t mean to run off a bunch of stuff you already know, or sound like the latest relationship advice. It’s all clichés and melodrama. It’s hard, but I’ll tell you, it’s worth it. I can’t imagine life without Vera, and I don’t want to. Just remember what I said. You put yourself last. You come last. It goes against the grain, against what culture tells you, but I’m telling you the truth. And you believe it. She’s the first one you should be thinking about. And, if you’re the first one she’s thinking about, then get ready. Cause that is a recipe for joy. Real joy. Then you’ll run into some funny moments. Moments you’ll never forget.”
“Funny moments?”
“You’ll try to outdo the other. It becomes a game. You trip over your own feet trying to make it special. You’ll see. You probably already have.”
“I’ve never heard you talk this way before, Duke.”
“It’s no big deal. Kids are in college already. I don’t try to just put away the bad guys, you know?”
“I can see that,” Newt said, grinning.
Duke had the flashlight out. They were walking down the alley again.
“Does Vera worry about you, Duke, doing this kind of work?”
“All the time.”
“Amelia’s brought up the same thing. It’s not as safe as owning the bookstore. How does Vera deal with it?”
“She prays,” he said.
“Does that help?”
“It does for now,” Duke said.
They kept walking. Duke stopped.
“What is it?” Newt asked.
“Listen,” he said.
There it was—the flutter of wings. Big wings. The sound was loud.
“That doesn’t sound like a bunch of small bats, Duke.”
“No. It sounds like one big bat.”
In answer, something large settled on the fire escape. Duke shined the light. It was huge, the size of a gargoyle, perched on the rail.
It was looking right at them.
—
“Why do I get the feeling we’re looking for more than just a hound?” Newt whispered. “Or more than one hound? Or something that isn’t a hound at all? Are you getting that impression, Duke, with what we’re looking at? I can’t tell what it is.”
Duke looked at his partner and frowned. He couldn’t tell what it was either. His brows came together under the fedora. It was shading his eyes. Quite frankly, Newt didn’t want to see his eyes. The whole thing had been bothering him for two days. It felt like it had been going on forever. Muncie, for one. Exhaustion was catching up with them. Adrenaline kept them going. Especially now. They would be up all night. Or until the entire city was amok with monsters. Or portals. Or gateways. It was getting ridiculous. Stupid Macky with that stupid book. How could anyone be so dense?
They stood staring at the thing without moving. Duke pulled out his gun slowly. He couldn’t tell what the thing was, but it wasn’t a hound. He took aim, found a spot directly in the middle of the thing’s chest, and fired. The shot was loud.
“Shut up down there!” someone shouted. “You want me to call the cops?”
“What’s going on down there?” another voice squealed. “People are trying to sleep!”
The thing cocked its head. It looked at them still.
Duke had to have hit it. He was sure of it, but the thing just stood there. Was it a gargoyle of some kind, some giant, flying monster? He couldn’t tell. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it smiled. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
He fired again. More commotion and protests from people in the buildings nearby. The fog was thickening, the thing on the balcony more obscure. A pall descended on the city, muting everything. Duke was aware of a shift in the atmosphere, a warping in the air.
“Duke?”
“Yeah?”
“I think you missed it.”
The thing was still perched on the fire escape, looking at them. It hadn’t even flinched.
“I don’t think you can kill it with a gun,” Duke said.
“That’s gonna make this more difficult, ain’t it?”
Newt pulled out his gun as well. He fired.
“I told you to knock it off!”
“I’m calling the police!”
“We are the police!” Newt shouted back.
It looked like a gargoyle with huge wings. The shape was visible, a large shadowy bulk, but that was all. The eyes were glowing with a pale luminescence that reminded Duke of moonlight. There was a green glow coming from the collar around its neck.
“I think we should get out of here,” Newt said.
Duke nodded. “One more time. Together.”
Newt nodded. Gunfire erupted in the quiet night. The smell of gunpowder was thick.
“The police are on their way!” someone shouted.
The thing didn’t move. It sat there, staring at them. Did it smile?
“Duke?”
“Uh-huh.”
The thing on the fire escape rose to its full height. Wings spread. It took to the air.
Duke and Newt turned and ran down the alley.
—
“It’s the place I couldn’t get to. He forbid me. He wouldn’t let me down there.”
Macky had seen versions
of evil over the years. He’d seen it from mortality to things inhuman. It wasn’t the kind of thing you got used to. If you did, you were in trouble. Maybe that was the advantage you needed against it. He didn’t know. You didn’t want to befriend it. That was certain. And you didn’t want to get used to evil. When you did, it became a part of you.
What he was looking at wasn’t Amelia. Amelia was in there somewhere, or so he’d thought earlier when she’d spoken, but this wasn’t Newt’s wife. The thing talking to him didn’t stutter, but it was similar to Amelia in how it looked: black hair, fair skin, big dark eyes. For a second, as with Capshaw, he thought the Mad Arab had possessed Amelia’s body. That wasn’t the case. This woman was in control of every word. This was a different creature altogether.
“Tell me more, Amelia,” Macky said. He used the name to see how she’d respond.
Millie stared wide-eyed at the girl sitting in the wingback chair. She was curled on it, feet under her bottom. She had a blanket over her legs. Mr. Kalabraise had gone from barking to growling to making little noises in her throat. Macky gave her credit. Armitage and Capshaw stood on each side of Millie. The feeling in the bookstore wasn’t one he’d felt before. Something was here. A presence. Invisible. The orbs as well. The place was glowing with blue/green light.
“My name is not . . . Amelia,” the thing said. “She might be here somewhere. But it isn’t now. It’s too late. Yog-Sothoth holds the key. Yog-Sothoth is the key.”
“Why don’t you tell us your name?” Macky asked.
“Asenath Waite. My husband should be home any minute. I want to give him a close shave and a kiss.”
Macky had never been confronted with this kind of . . . thing. He wasn’t sure what he was talking to. Was it a demon, a woman, or a monster? Was it even human? He had no idea.
Asenath had a villainous look on her face. She had solid black eyes under arching eyebrows. The grin on her face never left, as if she were waiting for something to laugh at.
Knocking sounded at the front window. Everyone whirled around. There was a high pitched screech, a blur of something just moving out of sight.
“Amelia,” Macky said, turning back to the woman. “What just banged on the window?”
“If you call me by my proper name, I’ll tell you,” the creature said.
“Asenath, please,” Macky said.
“I can almost hear you begging,” Asenath said. “But not enough.”
Macky didn’t reply. He waited for her to continue.
Asenath inspected her nails. She smiled at Macky again. “I changed my mind. I don’t feel like answering your questions.”
“Come on, Dev,” Armitage said. “There’s nothing here for us.”
“What about those books you brought?” Macky asked. “Have you found anything yet?”
“Nothing that will help just yet.” Armitage said. “I think we need The Necronomicon. I know there’s something in there about rituals and incantations to close the gates. I might have found something to help with the hound, though?”
“Really?” Macky said, turning toward him.
“It’s a long shot, but maybe.”
“Keep up the good work, doctor.”
“Of course.”
Capshaw wasn’t reading. He was staring at the woman with something like revulsion.
Macky looked in his direction. “Unless we find another copy of The Necronomicon, we might be on our own.”
“Ah, yes,” Asenath said. “The Mad Arab himself.”
“Do you know where we can find the book?” Macky asked.
“A shame not to have one in this illustrious edifice,” Asenath said. She looked around, as if one might materialize any moment.
“Do you know where we can find it?” Armitage asked. “Where we can find the Mad Arab?”
“Abdul, no. You may not need it the way you think. You seem like a smart bunch. I’m sure you could figure out eventually.”
“What do you want?” Macky asked.
Asenath continued to grin. “I’m not sure I like the way you’re asking. Something always costs. What do you have to sell?”
“What do you want?”
“For starters,” Asenath said, looking at her nails. “My husband. In pieces.”
—
“Dev, we’re wasting our time,” Millie said. “We should find Duke and Newt.”
“Never fear, Millie, my sweet,” Macky said. “The indelible private eye is hard at work with a promise of sobriety. But first, a drink.”
“I’m starting to feel you, Dev,” Capshaw said.
“The art society disowned him,” Asenath said.
“The art society?” Macky said, looking up. “Disowned who?”
“It’s all down in the basement,” Asenath said. “The paintings of Richard Upton Pickman. My husband. The man I long to disembowel.”
—
Macky had no idea there was a basement. Asenath pointed it out as clearly as if she’d lived here. The door was on the other side of the room. He had to pass a yellow couch, a coffee table, and a pillar of metaphysical books before he got there. Amelia’s Used Books was large. It was popular during the day when people could browse, recline, read, drink coffee, and nibble on the occasional pastry. The door to the basement was plain, drab, and simple.
“Dev, I wouldn’t go down there,” Armitage said.
“Why not?”
“Robert Upton Pickman is part of the Lovecraft Mythos. He was a madman. A mad painter. He . . . used monsters for his models. Married to one Asenath Wait, who eventually murdered him.”
“Ah, the truth comes out,” Macky said. “We’re in another story, in the middle, before the murder of Mr. Pickman?”
“It would seem.”
“My curiosity is burning like fire, doc,” Macky said. “There may be something there that will lead us to Amelia.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Armitage said.
He opened the door. Coldness crept up the stairs. The darkness was as black as pitch. He could barely see the bottom stairs.
Something else was noticeable—tangible negativity.
“Dev, please,” Armitage said.
Macky looked at him but didn’t say anything. The man was sweating.
Mr. Kalabraise had been a good dog up to this point, but when Macky opened the door, she let out a series of rants and barks.
Macky peered over the steps. Something moved into and out of sight at the bottom of the stairs.
“Dev,” Millie said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve had some bad feelings before, but nothing like this. Please don’t go down there.”
“I think Mr. Kalabraise agrees with you,” he said. “I’m not sure I have much of a choice, Mill.”
“I’m with Millie, Dev,” Capshaw told him. “That place is sending off some bad juju in the worst possible way. It’s making me think of the Mad Arab and writing those notes. It’s also making me think of Mike, God rest his soul. And the man I killed.”
“That was self-defense,” Macky said. “You need to quit giving yourself a hard time over that, but I’m touched by your concern.”
Mr. Kalabraise had quieted to a low growl. Asenath was chuckling.
“You guys stay up here and keep an eye on Mrs. Jolly over there,” Macky said. “Or whatever she wants to be called.” He turned to Armitage. “Henry, my friend, how would you like to join me in the crypt? Looks like the perfect playground for a couple of young boys. Whattaya say?”
The look on the doctor’s face said it all. Macky had never seen him so serious, pale, and white. He wasn’t smiling, and he wasn’t frowning. He adjusted his glasses, swallowed, and nodded a single time.
“I’ll help in any way I can,” he said. “Even if I don’t like it.”
Macky nodded.
“Dev,” Millie said. “Please, be careful.
Mr. Kalabraise barked.
“Let’s use that flashlight, Henry,” Macky said.
Armitage hand
ed it to him.
“We could use another,” Macky said, looking around. “Millie, do you mind looking for one for me?”
Millie ran toward the area divided by the curtain. She rifled through the kitchen in the back and managed to find a lantern. She lit it, carried it over, and handed it to Armitage.
“You’re earning your money now, Mill,” Macky said.
“What money?” she asked.
“Touché,” he said.
He started down, the steps aglow with light.
Asenath began to laugh.
—
Macky looked back to see Asenath. She was smiling wide.
“Be careful, Dev,” Millie said.
“You don’t have to keep saying that.”
“I care about you, you dunderhead.”
“She likes pet names,” he told Armitage, who was right behind him.
“So I see,” Armitage said.
Macky and the doctor started down. The light depicted a cold, dirt floor, an unfinished basement. The shadows moved, the lantern swinging back and forth. Something wet and amphibious was moving along the wall. Macky couldn’t see it, but he could hear it. In the pitch black, the orbs of Yog-Sothoth, the Lurker at the Threshold, began to glow. The screeching of rats sounded. Several ambled along the base of the wall.
Faces and figures materialized in the dark. They grew more defined as Macky shined the flashlight. Armitage gasped, holding the lantern. It took Macky a second before he realized he was holding his breath. Claws, faces, teeth, ghosts, misshapen anatomy, inhuman faces, appeared in the darkness.
Macky and Armitage stood in the middle of an art studio. Macky thought the faces were real until his eyes adjusted, and he noticed the easels and canvases all around. Hundreds of painted faces stared back at them like actual figures in the dark.
There were canvases, easels, portraits, some small, some no more than pencil sketches. Some by the dozens leaned against the wall. Tables, trays, paintbrushes, charcoal sketches, etchings, and tubes of paint lay all around—an underground studio of unholy manifestations borne from the imagination of a man soon to be murdered by his wife. Mouths so ghastly and inhuman, a scream rose in the back of Macky’s throat, but it refused to come out.
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