Promise: Caulborn #2

by Nicholas Olivo

  I was just stepping out of the train station when my phone chirped out “Smaug’s Theme” from The Hobbit. “Hello, Cather,” I said.

  “Vincent Corinthos,” came the smooth voice from the other end. “It has been a long time since we’ve chatted. Are you free for a short visit?”

  Cather, a dragon living in human form, often served as an informant to the Caulborn. He was well connected to the movers and shakers in the Undercity, and the information he provided was almost always good. I checked my watch. “Yeah,” I replied. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “I shall await your arrival with bated breath.”

  I tucked my phone into my pocket and headed back down the steps into the train station. A hundred years ago, the Mass Bay Transit Association built the subway tunnels that make up the T’s lines. On paper, some of those tunnels were closed due to structural concerns or safety issues. The real reason they were closed is that there were a bunch of paranormals in the city that didn’t have a place to go, so Frank Allen, a governor with ties to the Caulborn, had closed down those tunnels and built the Undercity to house them. I walked down the train platform, passed a guy playing “Enter Sandman” on a violin, tossed a buck in his case, and proceeded to a battered metal door marked Employees Only. I held my badge up to the scanner, and the door clicked open a second later. Then I hustled down a narrow spiral concrete staircase lit by naked bulbs spaced out every fifteen feet.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I stepped out onto a train platform and took a breath of warm air. The platform before me was nearly identical to the one above, save this one looked new. The Gray Line, the subway that connected the Undercity to Boston’s known subways, didn’t have anywhere near the traffic as what was above, and the newness of the place was actually just a lack of wear and tear. Despite the fact that I was several hundred feet underground, the air was fresh and warm. A clever series of heaters and ventilation ducts ran throughout the Undercity, ensuring its occupants always had sufficient heat and clean air. I tucked my gloves into my pockets and looked around. A subway car straight out of the early 1900s sat on the platform. “Hello, Mr. Corinthos,” the conductor called out with a wave.

  “Howdy, Deke,” I replied as I stepped from the otherwise empty platform onto the train. “How’ve you been?”

  “Fine, fine,” he replied. His gray face was weathered and lined. I’m not sure what species of creature Deke was, but his purple eyes and six-fingered hands would’ve made him a freak in the world above. Down here, he got to drive trains, the thing he loved most in the world. “Important Caulborn business, sir?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye as one of his hands hovered over a red lever.

  “Nothing that important,” I said quickly.

  Deke’s face fell. “Another time, maybe.” Deke’s hand moved away from the red lever and pulled the plain brown one to its right. The train moved through the tunnels at a good clip, and after a few minutes, we pulled up to the Undercity’s platform. I thanked Deke and hopped out. It was like stepping back in time. The streets were paved with cobblestones, and while the streetlights that lined the walkways were electric, they’d been done to look like the old gas lamps from the early 1900s.

  I put my hands into my bomber’s pockets and began walking down one of the streets. I passed an apothecary selling alchemical ingredients, a bookstore advertising new scrolls, and a small grocery store with a two-for-one special on toilet paper.

  I caught a horse-and-buggy taxi and gave the driver Cather’s address. We clopped past brick apartment buildings four stories high, each decorated according to the tenants’ desire. Some were adorned with arcane symbols; others had shrunken heads strung from the balconies. The Undercity was a supernatural melting pot and was considered neutral ground by all paranormal citizens. Witches from rival covens could move about freely here without fear of attack. Vampires of different clans could put aside their differences, and werewolves from warring packs could swap flea and tick remedies. In short, the Undercity was a safe haven for Boston’s supernatural.

  While the Undercity does have its own police force, the Caulborn make it a point to visit here on a regular basis. Kristin Tanis, one of my colleagues, spends most of her time down here as a Caulborn liaison to the citizens and the police. Cather’d normally contact her first, but she’s on a special assignment in Oklahoma this week.

  The apartment buildings gave way to single-family houses as we moved farther from the center of the Undercity. These weren’t much different from neighborhoods you’d see in the suburbs, save that their “lawns” were comprised of lichen and fungus instead of grass. My mind wandered until we came to an imposing structure that looked like a castle turret. It nearly reached the ceiling of the city and was bigger around than most water towers. I paid the driver, hopped down, and approached the double front doors, which were protected by a heavy metal portcullis. This snapped up at my approach with a resounding clang.

  A copper-haired man with dazzling green eyes opened the door just before I could knock. “Vincent,” Cather said. “You made great time. Do come in.” Cather is about six inches taller than I am, and with the shoulders he had, he could’ve played football. He wore a laced up white dress shirt and a pair of dark slacks. An actual black velvet cape was slung over one shoulder, its lining as red as blood.

  I pointed at it. “You getting fashion tips from the vampires?”

  He laughed as he ushered me in. “Close. This cape actually belonged to none other than Mr. Bella Lugosi. It was a custom-tailored affair and planned for the next Dracula film, but unfortunately he passed away before it could be used.” Cather shook his head. “Terrible loss. The man defined the portrayal of cinematic vampirism. Hang on. I’ll drop this in the cloak room, and then we can get down to business.”

  The “cloak room” was bigger than my apartment. Capes, hats, and coats from time periods going back hundreds of years were neatly hung on pegs, hangers, and shelves. I’m sure Cather had worn some, but others were pieces from famous people. A wig from George Washington. Tom Baker’s scarf. A fedora worn by Harrison Ford during the filming of Raiders of the Lost Ark. I wondered what people would think if they knew Cather’s hoard was just a bunch of old clothes.

  Cather slung the cape from his shoulders onto a peg and led me from the room. We walked down a hall adorned with art from every period in history. Monet. Picasso. An early sketch of da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Cather took a left and we stepped through an oversized pair of wooden doors. The first few times I’d visited here, I’d wondered why all the doorways were fifteen feet high and wide. Then I realized they needed to be that big if Cather ever decided to putter around his chambers in dragon form.

  The doors opened into a sitting room. Fine high-backed chairs were pushed against the walls and end tables stood stacked atop one another. The scent of freshly turned earth hung in the air, and three large wooden chests were arranged in the center of the room. Their wood was rotting in spots, barely held together by rusting iron bands. There were bits of leather at the sides, which must have once been handles before they’d rotted away. Three massive padlocks the size of my fist were lying in front of the chests, their locking loops snapped. Neat stacks of gold and silver coins covered a plain table, along with some cutlasses, an old flintlock pistol, and a handful of jewelry. There were rings with rubies the size of my thumbnail and a necklace with a gold medallion that was the size of a hood ornament. A bottle of metal-cleaning solution and a handful of rags sat on one corner of the table.

  I whistled. “You raid the Pirates of the Caribbean set or something?”

  Cather grinned. “You’re not far off. I’ve had the good fortune of recovering several pirate treasures off the islands around New England.” Cather pointed at one of the chests. “That was from Kidd, this one was from Teach, and this was Quelch. There’s more out there, I just haven’t been out to collect the rest.”

  I pointed at another chest against the far wall. This one was newer, made of metal rather than wood, a
nd sported a swastika on its side. “What about that one?”

  Cather beamed. “Ah yes. There was a failed Nazi expedition to invade the United States during the early 1940s. A group of soldiers snuck into Massachusetts with this gold, but various calamities prevented them from fulfilling their mission. They brought this box of gold bars to fund their exploits, but it was sadly lost.” With such a huge, perfectly white smile, he could’ve been a Crest spokesperson. “Until now, that is.”

  I rubbed my chin. “How’d you find this? People have been hunting for these for centuries.”

  Cather’s green eyes gleamed. Dragons are born with an innate “treasure sense,” which allows them to scent gems, precious metals, and other forms of wealth. However, just as some humans are born deaf or blind or without a sense of smell, Cather was born without a treasure sense. So for him to locate three separate hauls like this in such a short period of time, he must’ve had help.

  His voice was an excited whisper. “I have made the acquaintance of a group of individuals who can do the impossible, Vincent. They awoke my treasure sense. They enabled me to find these.” He took a deep breath, as if he were breathing in the scent of the coins. “They were so easy to find. I could smell the metal from miles away, buried under centuries’ worth of earth and rubble. It was marvelous; like a blind man who is finally able to see.”

  “Wow.” It was all I could think to say. This was nothing short of a miracle cure.

  “Oh, and that was nothing. Vincent, I’ve heard these people can reunite you with dead loved ones, can undo the mistakes of your past, or can even ensure that another party never welches on their end of a bargain.”

  “Strange that the Caulborn have never heard of these people. What are they called?”

  “Keepers,” Cather replied. “They say they call themselves that because they keep to the shadows, out of the spotlight. They trade favors for favors. I asked them for my treasure sense and they agreed.”

  “That sounds too good to be true,” I said. “What’s in it for them?”

  Cather looked sheepish. “We agreed that I would relinquish a third of all the treasure I found.”

  My eyebrows went up at this; that seemed an awfully steep rate to negotiate out of a dragon. Cather must’ve guessed what I was thinking, because he said, “Old friend, having two-thirds of a pirate treasure trove is quite preferable to having none of a pirate treasure trove, which is what I would’ve had otherwise. Besides, do you know how much treasure is buried out there? Kidd and Blackbeard and Quelch hid chests of the stuff in so many remote little coves and caves that it’s going to take me weeks to fetch it all. But that brings me to the reason I need your help, Vincent. I have a minor problem with ghosts.”

  That had come out of left field. “Ghosts?”

  Cather nodded. “When the pirates buried their treasure, they often murdered one or two of the crew and tossed their bodies atop the loot. The idea was that the spirit would protect the treasure until the captain came back for it.”

  “So you dug up the treasure, brought it back here, and now you’ve got pirate ghosts chasing you?”

  Cather grimaced. “Yes, something like that. The ghosts attack me every night. The damage they do is insignificant, but it is rather embarrassing to have human ghosts torment you. It’d be like if Petra had cockroaches in her kitchen; she’s still a fantastic chef, but that would tarnish her reputation. If I’m to show the other dragons that I’m truly one of them now, I can’t have petulant pirate poltergeists pissing on my parade.”

  “Did you practice that alliteration before hand, or did it just come to you?”

  “Vincent, I am serious. I need your help to exorcise these ghosts.”

  “All right,” I said. “I know some people who may be able to help. But why don’t you just ask your new Keeper friends?”

  Cather shook his head. “I’d rather not give up any more of my treasure, thanks. You and I are friends. Friends help each other.” He pulled a business card from his shirt. “This is the address that the Keepers gave me. If the Caulborn haven’t heard of them before, then you may want to check them out.”

  I tucked the card inside my leather bomber. “Thanks. I’ll do that. I’ll keep you posted about the pirate ghosts, too.”

  He grasped my hand firmly. “Vincent Corinthos, I am truly blessed to have a friend like you.”

  Back on the street, I phoned Megan. “In our recent nighttime graveyard exploits, did you notice any pirates?” Any one else would’ve made an innuendo-based comment at that. Not Megan Hayes.

  “I don’t think so. The undead we encountered were in period appropriate attire, of course, but none of them was the nautical type. As a rule, pirates were hanged and then tossed in paupers’ graves, not given proper burials. Why do you ask?”

  I filled her in on Cather, but left out the part about his new friends.

  “Interesting,” Megan said when I was finished. “I’ll run it by Herb, maybe he’ll be able to do something about them.”

  “I was just going to ask the boss to exorcise them.” Galahad XI, leader of the Boston Caulborn, was a former Roman Catholic priest who still wielded enough faith to banish any demon or vaporize a vampire. I doubted he’d break a sweat on the specters Cather mentioned.

  “No, no,” Megan replied quickly. “Leslie told me that Galahad has been under a great deal of strain lately. Let’s not bother him with something so trivial. I’m sure Herb can handle this lickety-split.”

  I rolled my eyes. Lickety-split? Evidently being smitten by a necromancer put Megan into extra-chipper mode. “All right, Meg. But be careful around that guy.”

  I could hear the smile in her voice. “Don’t worry, Vincent. If he tries anything, I’ll just shoot him.” My partner, ladies and gentlemen. June Cleaver with 9mm pistols.

  I figured I had some time to kill while I waited for Megan to catch up with Herb, so I decided to check out these miracle-working Keepers.

  I caught a cab and went to the address on the card Cather had given me. I wound up in the theater district, not too far from the Charles Playhouse. Billboards featuring Blue Man Group stared down at me as I looked up a set of concrete steps that led to a boarded up building. Before I paid the cabbie, I confirmed the address via my phone’s GPS. This was the place all right. I tipped the cabbie five bucks and let my eyes relax. A little-known benefit to being born with a caul is that you can see through illusions and glamours. The world rippled and the building’s facade completely changed before my eyes. Now I saw a modern office building, the kind that’s made totally out of glass and seven stories high. Wow. The amount of energy needed to glamour an entire building was enormous. How was it the Caulborn had never heard of these people before?

  I’m not sure what I was expecting when I walked into the building. In my mind’s eye, I saw dimly lit rooms, the scent of incense thick in the air, and maybe the faint tinkling of some mystical chimes. So I was a bit disappointed when I found a simply furnished lobby with a tile floor. The chairs were the stock kind you’d find at a conference center, the low tables next to them were simple, yet tasteful plain wood. And much like a doctor’s office, all the magazines neatly arranged atop the tables were at least a year old. A young woman in a blue sweater looked up at me and smiled. “Good afternoon, Mr. Corinthos,” she said with a gleaming white smile. “Keeper Laras will be with you in just a moment.”

  I blinked at her. “How do you know who I am?”

  “We’re well informed here, Mr. Corinthos,” said a voice from my left. I turned to see a man in his mid-thirties in a blue suit approaching me, his hand extended. “Name’s Laras. I imagine you have questions; everyone does on their first trip to us. Julie,” he turned to the receptionist, “I’ll speak with Mr. Corinthos in conference room two, should anyone need me.” He turned back to me and gestured down the hall. “This way, if you would, Mr. Corinthos.”

  We walked down a plain white hallway lined with wooden doors. Each one had an unmarked, white frosted g
lass window. It was like walking down one of those corridors from the background animation in a Scooby Doo cartoon; every door was perfectly identical and the hall seemed to go on forever. After a minute’s walk, we stopped at a door that looked like all the others and Laras opened it. “How can you tell the difference between one room and another?” I asked.

  Laras’s smile was genuine. “You get used to it after a while,” he said as we stepped inside. The room was furnished with a plain tan industrial carpet, a round wooden table with two chairs and a couple of photos of the Boston skyline. The place was so lackluster that they seemed to be taking great pains to not have anything stand out. Given that they’d flown under our radar for so long, that was probably exactly what it was.

  Laras took the seat opposite me. “Now then. You asked how my receptionist knew your identity. I wish to put your mind at ease on that. I assure you that there is nothing nefarious going on; one of our clients mentioned that he’d passed on one of our cards to a friend of his and he thought you might be dropping by. Just the same, I’m sure you have other questions.” He extended his hand, palm up. “Please, don’t be shy.”

  “Cather tells me you gave him a treasure sense,” I said. “That’s like giving the blind sight. How’d you manage that?”

  The corners of Laras’s mouth turned down a bit. “Understand, Mr. Corinthos that typically we do not discuss the particulars of a client’s situation. Mr. Cather has granted us permission in his case, but just the same, in the interest of decorum, I will leave out the exact details of the procedure. Suffice it to say that we barter all manner of goods and services from beings all over the universe, including medical procedures. One such being knew how to restore a similar sense in a creature much like Earth’s dragons, and our physicians were able to adapt it for Mr. Cather.”