The Last Ritual

by S. A. Sidor

  “Don’t know,” she said. “He never discussed art while we were together.”

  “I feel like we have some of the pieces, but we aren’t putting them together in the right order. There’s no money to be made at the Colony?”

  She shrugged. “If an artist sells anything, they keep the cash. It’s basically a charity.”

  Our steps carried us along River Street toward the docks. Soon we’d pass the Unvisited Isle, winding up on the West Street bridge, where I’d had my supernatural encounter. Ramshackle private residences yielded to warehouses and vacant lots. Fences and padlocks. Garbage dumped where no one cared to look: bags of rotten onions, paper waste, a collapsing pyramid of concrete chunks. In a mud patch, a French Provincial dining set waited for guests who would never arrive, unless they were ghosts. It reminded me of ancient ruins.

  “The Fairmonts might be profiting in other ways,” I suggested.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, maybe it’s a place to hide cash, or launder it through the foundation’s finances.” I wasn’t sure how closely Preston monitored the family business and its lawyers.

  “Now you sound like a muckraker,” Nina said.

  “What I’m talking about is buying influence. Making connections they couldn’t forge through legitimate channels. People like the Fairmonts pursue money the way roots seek water. My mother says they’re connected to everything happening in Arkham. Preston’s father is a big wig at the Silver Twilight Lodge. And Carl Sanford is the biggest wig of all. My father’s a member, but he never goes, as he is the crankiest curmudgeon in New England. Preston told me his father practically lives at the Lodge. He hounds Preston to get more involved, for the sake of their family business. Well, the Colony might be another tentacle of the Lodge reaching into the community. If they control the art scene, no one else does. They decide what’s popular. They pick the hot artists in town who get all the attention. Then again, it might be the infamous vanity of Arkham’s upper crust. Legacies and all that jazz. Or it might be a scheme we can’t even imagine.” I threw up my arms in frustration.

  “A scheme for what? Taking over the world with art?”

  We laughed at that idea.

  “Maybe old man Fairmont doesn’t want people making anything ugly associated with his fair city. Dragging down its reputation. That’s something my mother always says to me. ‘Alden, why don’t you try painting pictures that people want to look at. Beautiful things. Things that make everyone feel happy.’”

  “You don’t do that now, do you?” Nina linked her arm through mine.

  I thought about the paintings I had attempted in Spain. How an unnamable quality haunted their periphery, hovering just beyond the canvas, affecting every shadow and brushstroke.

  “Wait until you see my net blob.” Now the unnamable had moved into full view.

  “Not pretty?”

  I considered her question.

  “Depends on your taste, I guess. If you like vampires, ghosts, and ghoulies, then you might love it. Have you seen what the Surrealists are doing? Automatism is a technique they use. You create without thinking. André Breton called it the ‘Dictation of thought in the absence of all control exercised by reason and outside moral or aesthetic concerns.’ Pick up the pencil, or brush, or whatever’s at hand and draw… paint… just go. No plans. No authorial censor. The Dadaists did it too. You give up control. Chance takes over. The psyche shows itself, unfiltered. They’re trying to release the subconscious mind from its prison. Order brought us the war. Chaos might bring peace. I find it exciting. Much of their new work is astounding. There’s this fellow from Spain, Balthazarr, who’s transcendent. A truly modern explorer. Tapping the inner cosmos of human existence. Uncaging dreams, letting them run loose in the world.”

  She squeezed my arm. “Nightmares are dreams, aren’t they? I’d rather not meet mine when I’m awake. You know mediums and Spiritualists do the same thing. Open themselves up to the spirit world. They let entities pass through. I find it eerie.” She shuddered. “I don’t want to know what might be lurking inside of me.”

  “Well, I do.”

  From the twist of her lip, Nina was about to say something sarcastic, when she froze.

  “Is that your blob?”

  She pointed with her chin to a pile of fishing nets heaped on the docks. The streetlamp shone on them like a spotlight. It was as if a danger had crawled up out of the waters by its own power and lay asleep on the warped boards. A venomous snarl of sea snakes, perhaps.

  “I can’t be sure if that’s the blob I saw. Nets look alike. But it could be…”

  “We ought to make a closer inspection.” She took a few baby steps. “I can’t believe how nervous I am about a stinky ball of twine.” She edged up closer. But not very much.

  I found a boat hook, forgotten against the warehouse wall. “I’ll give it a poke.”

  Hesitation makes unpleasant tasks worse, so I strode up to the net and skewered it. Nothing happened. I stabbed harder, swirling the hook around for maximum damage.

  “Hey, you there! What d’you think you’re doing?”

  It was a night watchman. He must’ve spotted us from his post inside the warehouse.

  “What should we do?” Nina asked.

  The watchman was a hulking type. He was marching right for us. His boots boomed on the boards. He aimed a flashlight in our faces. It was a blinding slap across the eyes.

  In his other hand was a baseball bat. He was snapping it around. Quick wrist snaps that would crack a bone, knock loose a few teeth. My hand went involuntarily to my jaw. I liked my bones and teeth the way they were.

  “The hell you think you’re doin’? This here’s private property.” He snapped the bat.

  “Get ready,” I said to Nina. I hefted the boat hook like it was a javelin.

  “Ready for what?”

  I threw the javelin right at the flashlight.

  “Run!”

  There was a clatter, a meaty thump. The flashlight rolled away, casting its beam wildly on the stained waves. Colored orbs floated in my vision, the aftereffects of the light blinding me. Out there in the dark, the angry watchman was picking himself off the boards.

  “Why, you sonofa…” he began.

  I didn’t stick around to hear the rest. I ran for the warehouse. Nina was ahead of me. Inside the warehouse doorway, I could see the hut where the watchman spent his shift. A cup of coffee and an Adventure pulp magazine, his pushed-back three-legged stool. I waited to see which way Nina would dart.

  Left.

  She went around the corner of the facility, vanishing into the dimness between the buildings. If she was going left, I chose right for my escape plan. I hoped it would be an escape, because the watchman was going to exact his revenge on me, if he ever caught me. My legs pumped. Thighs burning. My overcoat flying out behind me like a cape. The watchman was puffing, chugging away at my back. Suddenly, he lunged for me – a wide hairy-knuckled mitt swiping at my flappy coattails. Luckily, he didn’t grab any material.

  My move knocked him off his rhythm.

  I veered close to the warehouse wall zipping by my left side. He followed.

  “Gaaahhh…!” He grazed his shoulder inside the siding.

  A shaft of brightness ahead: Main Street. Then I saw what I needed to get away from my pursuer. I slowed down a tick. Enough for him to think I might be hesitating, deciding which way I wanted to cut when I reached the roadway. He grunted, digging down for one last charge. And as he did, I rolled off smoothly to my right.

  He had no time to see the trash barrel.

  He ran full force into it. Can and man becoming one thing launched into space, then smashing down on the pavement. All the air blew out of the watchman in a low groan.

  Out of the corner of my left eye, I saw Nina emerging from the other side of the warehouse. I switched
direction and followed her up the middle of Main Street. She geared down so I could catch her, and we turned up Garrison, not stopping until we hit the campus of Miskatonic U. We collapsed on a bench outside the library. Trying to catch our breath.

  Laughing. Tears rolling down our cheeks.

  She climbed right up to me and filled her hands with my overcoat lapels. We were in the middle of campus, but the campus was deserted. Library closed. No one out but us.

  “He was going to kill you!” she shouted.

  “But he didn’t.”

  She kissed me.

  “You’re crazy,” she said. “Reckless man.”

  “I’m not the one who carries a stiletto in my sock.”

  We kissed again, longer this time. I reclined on the bench and she lay beside me.

  Nina propped her head on my chest.

  The air steaming from our mouths.

  “I don’t sleep,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I’m an insomniac. Have been since I was a girl living in Boston. That’s why I always liked going out to crime scenes with my dad. Bad things always seemed to happen to unlucky people at night. He couldn’t sleep much either. The house would be quiet, and I’d be awake, just hoping he’d get wind of some news. We could go and look. Find the story. Well, I can’t lay around nowadays. Knowing no one’s coming to get me so we can go see something sensational and exciting. So I take walks on my own. I look at the world asleep. Nighttime can be beautiful. The best time, really. Quiet, mysterious. It’s when I think about solving those terrible crimes in Arkham. I’ve visited all the crime scenes at night. By myself.”

  “Maybe you can show them to me, if you like. We can visit places together.”

  The skin on my neck suddenly touched a cold metal part of the bench.

  “You’re shivering,” she said.

  She opened her coat and closed it around us like a pair of wings.

  We stayed like that for a long time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a few weeks later, while enjoying a scrumptious white-tablecloth breakfast, that I confronted Preston with my knowledge of his involvement with New Colony. We were dining at the Harvest, the Silver Gate Hotel’s finest restaurant. This was the first time I’d ever visited the hotel. In terms of Arkham’s historic grand hotels, there are Silver Gate people and Excelsior people. The Oakes family had always been in the Excelsior camp. I’d seen the Silver Gate many times from the outside. The institution was, and is, a fixture in the city. How amazing that we’d never crossed paths before. I’d walked past the imposing façade always destined for another location. Passing by, often admiring the fine lines and impeccable profile from the street, I felt everyone I knew had been there before me. They all possessed a charming story of some unforgettable private party or a memorable night tucked away in one of the fashionable suites. But I had never partaken, not until this breakfast meeting with Preston. He must’ve chosen the restaurant and made the reservation, although I’m sure Preston never had to reserve anything in this town. He simply called up and asked for what he wanted, or, more likely had someone else call and use his name like a magic key to open any door, gaining access denied to the lower strata of the acknowledged social order – Those Who Must Wait. I was happy to approve of his choice.

  “You’ve been to New Colony?” He smiled and took a sip of his freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. “What were you doing there?”

  “Visiting Nina Tarrington,” I said.

  He showed no extreme reaction. A twitch in his right eyebrow, perhaps, as he swallowed. Nothing more. “How is Nina? Still a night owl?”

  “She is. You might’ve confirmed that yourself at your engagement party.”

  Preston nodded. He didn’t remark upon his previous denial of her presence at the fête.

  “What did you think of the place?” he asked.

  “The Colony? It’s fine, I suppose. The hallways are narrow, the rooms a bit gloomy.”

  “Artists do better when they suffer. Or so I’ve heard. My father poured a bundle into saving that relic. He wouldn’t shut up about the cost of the investment he was making. It was rat-infested, the foundation cracked and so on. That whole block of land wants to slide into the Miskatonic and float out to sea. Carl Sanford was the one who found it. They fixed it and turned it over to the bohemian set for fun. So Nina told you we’re involved, did she? Well, that’s true. For the good of Arkham. The Fairmonts have long held up their end of the bargain as far as local charitable causes go. My father always says we’ve made so many sacrifices.” He sliced into his steak; a little blood ran out onto the plate.

  “I’ve never known you to care about the arts.” I lifted my rye toast, pausing midair.

  Preston shrugged, chewed. A server approached with refills. He waved him off.

  “I don’t care for the arts, truthfully. I find my entertainment elsewhere. Thirsty?”

  His question surprised me. I had coffee, apple juice, and ice water on the table.

  “I’m satisfied.”

  Preston shook his head with mock sadness. “Oh, Alden. One must never be satisfied. It will kill you faster than anything.” He motioned the server over and whispered in the man’s ear. The waiter nodded and exited through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. “May I ask why you were seeing Nina? You have a growing interest in her?”

  “We’re fond of one another. Getting back to New Colony. What goes on there?”

  “Art? Who knows?” Preston dismissed the query. “I never interfere. Here we go.”

  The waiter reappeared with a bottle wrapped discreetly in a towel. With a practiced twist he released the cork. A curl of smoke left the bottle like a djinn. He filled two champagne flutes and placed them on the table. Then he deposited the bottle in an ice bucket, draping the towel over it. No one in the restaurant noticed we were breaking the law. Or maybe they were used to it. The right last name and a pile of cash bought certain privileges.

  Preston picked up his glass.

  “To never being satisfied.”

  I clinked and we drank.

  “How’s Minnie?”

  Preston rolled his eyes. “She’s on the warpath about the number of fondues, or maybe it’s the size of the wedding cake. Possibly both.” He rotated his glass, focusing his attention on the bubbles. “I can’t keep track. But she isn’t happy. We’re thinking of moving up the date and having the reception here at the Silver Gate. Don’t ask. Nothing’s in stone yet. The Silver Gate always puts out a good spread. I’ll credit them that.” Preston tore away the towel and refilled our glasses. He seemed tipsy. I smelled whiskey on his breath when I arrived. Perhaps Minnie was right to be worrying about his mental state. He looked drawn, his eyes ringed and sunken. Was he still awake from a marathon night of cardplaying? “Let me give you a little advice regarding Nina.”

  I opened my mouth to protest.

  He raised his palm. “If you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.” Here, he made a puzzled face. “But does Nina ever worry you?”

  “How so?” I wondered where this conversation was heading. It didn’t matter to me what he thought of my spending time with his ex-fiancée. I was curious about his warning.

  “Nina has a vivid imagination. You’ve learned that by now. She likes to pretend. Gets you to play along. It’s intriguing at first, a fun game. But she takes things too far. She loses her perspective and can’t judge where the actual world begins. If you aren’t willing to follow her then she gets…” He waggled his fingers.

  “She gets what?” My voice was loud. I was perturbed by his butting into our relationship with his unwanted commentary. I scraped my chair back. Several heads turned.

  Preston leaned forward and whispered. “She gets serious. Do you know, she nearly ran me through with a sword? That girl knows her way around a blade. She’s a fencer. She can throw
knives, and make them stick, too. I’ve seen her do it.”

  “What’s your point?” If Nina knew how to defend herself, what did he care?

  “My point is that you don’t want her point between your ribs.”

  He smiled. I flashed to our college days, a pair of thieves watching each other’s back. My anger receded like the tide pulling back from a beach. Here I’d come to confront Preston, and instead I felt like he was challenging me, but not out of malice.

  “Thanks for the information,” I said. Preston was too tipsy to note my sarcasm.

  He refilled his flute. “If it all works out for you, I’d be thrilled. More for you?”

  “I’m good.” I covered my flute. Preston was drinking enough of the bubbly for both of us. I didn’t want to talk about Nina any more. I didn’t want Preston talking about her. But I wasn’t ready to let the topic of the Colony drop, especially because I had a favor to ask of Preston. I didn’t want his guard raised too high. I had to keep things friendly to succeed.

  “Nina told me you might be able to influence acceptances to New Colony.”

  Preston ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “I would hope so.”

  “I want in. Can you do that?”

  He acted surprised. “I’ll talk to my father. He’ll see things get done. It will be a step down from Oakwood. The Colony is little more than a glorified dormitory. Ahh… wait, let me guess. It gets you closer to Nina. See, you are playing her games.” He shook his head, baffled. “The two of you are very rich. You know that, right? You could live anywhere. Paris? New York? But if you want to play artists starving in the garret, who am I to interfere? Was this her idea?”

  “It was a mutual thought we had together.” But it wasn’t. Nina had presented the idea to me the night before my breakfast with Preston. I agreed because it solved multiple problems. I needed a new place to live, I wanted to be closer to her, and it aided our investigations. Yet I hated that Preston seemed to know my every move before I made it. Before I could stop him, he tried to refill my glass again. Champagne overflowed, fizzing down the outside of the crystal; a spreading stain darkened the linen.