The Book of Lamps and Banners

by Elizabeth Hand

  Ahead of us, Lyla had stopped to check her mobile again. I looked at Gryffin, then lowered my voice. “Look. Tindra’s developing that app—it’s why she wants The Book of Lamps and Banners. She thinks the book is actually a code, like a beta version of what she’s working on.”

  I half expected him to laugh. Instead he cocked his head, musing. “Well, it makes sense, kind of. Back then they didn’t have scientific language for metallurgy, or winemaking, stuff like that. I’ve seen fourteenth-century manuscripts filled with pictures of severed heads being boiled in pots, dragons and burning towers, people chopped to pieces. It looks like a depiction of a murder, but it’s actually an alchemical recipe for extracting base metals. The Book of Lamps and Banners predates that, but it’s entirely possible that it contains its own visual language. Like a secret code that only a very few people would understand.”

  We both glanced to where Lyla stood gazing at her mobile. “What if it really was written by Aristotle?” he said. “It could change our understanding of everything we know. It might contain not just ancient knowledge, but forgotten knowledge. Things we never knew. Maybe things we wouldn’t want to know.”

  My neck prickled as I recalled Tindra saying almost the exact same thing. “Then why the fuck did you sell it to Harold and not a university or museum?”

  “I messed up. I got greedy. The longer I had it, the more I looked at it…all I could think about was how much it might be worth. But then I got nervous about hanging on to it—it seemed like bad luck, like…”

  “‘The stuff that dreams are made on.’”

  “Or night terrors.”

  Chapter 26

  Victoria Embankment Park was nearly empty, trees and outbuildings shrouded in fog. A few dog walkers strolled along the damp pavement, charges straining at their leashes. A man lay stretched out on a bench, carrier bags full of clothing on the ground in front of him.

  Otherwise the park seemed deserted, except for a lanky figure in a black watch cap, black leather jacket, and battered biker boots, pacing in front of a large statue.

  “That your friend?” asked Lyla.

  I said nothing. As the three of us drew closer, the figure looked up. He took a drag from a cigarette, tossed it onto the grass behind him, and fixed me with a cold stare.

  “Surprise,” I said.

  Quinn started toward us. “What the fuck, Cass?”

  Gryffin shot me an alarmed look. Ignoring him, Quinn gripped my arm.

  “Hey!” Lyla called out.

  I raised my free hand. “It’s okay.” She halted beside Gryffin as Quinn pulled me behind the statue.

  “What the hell are you doing, Cass?”

  I stared at his face. One cheek was badly bruised. Blood trickled from a puncture wound on his chin. “Jesus, Quinn—what happened?”

  “Nothing.” He gestured angrily toward the others. “Who are they?”

  “She’s the bodyguard for the girl who bought the book. Lyla. That’s Gryffin.”

  “Gryffin? The guy you fucked? Why’s he looking at me like that?”

  “You’re looking the same way at him.”

  Quinn gave a sharp laugh. “This is like that club nobody wants to belong to if they let you in. Only the club is you.”

  I reached to touch his chin, but he took my wrist and lowered it.

  “I ran into some friends.”

  His voice dropped. “Listen to me, Cassie. Your guy got nailed in Hampstead? I checked around and came up cold. Out-of-network killing. It was no one I know, and no one that anyone I know knows. My guess is it was a simple robbery. Or someone had a beef with your guy—owed him money, deal gone bad, who knows.”

  “Gryffin says that’s not how the book business works.”

  “The fuck does he know? Maybe he killed him. Oh, wait—he was banging you in the wine cellar. So scratch that.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now nothing. If it’s a professional hit, forget about it. We do not want to get involved. If it was an amateur, they’ll catch him.” He pulled me close. “You better hope they don’t catch you. You and Mister Rogers there must’ve left prints all over—once they dust it, that flat is going to glow like it’s radioactive. But I do have a line on a couple people interested in that book, if we can find it. Serious money, Cass.”

  I touched the puncture wound on his face. “Who did this?”

  He laced his fingers with mine. “Someone who’s sorry. Don’t worry about it.”

  I leaned against him, slid my hand under his jacket and shirt. As I felt the complicated topography of scars on his chest, I stiffened. Quinn looked down at me. “What is it?”

  “The guy who was murdered? Someone drew something like the Gripping Beast on his forehead.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When I found the body, there was a symbol drawn on Harold’s forehead in blood. I forgot about it till now—the Gripping Beast reminded me. It wasn’t exactly the same—”

  I snatched up some twigs from the ground, broke them into similar lengths, and crouched to arrange them on the sidewalk at Quinn’s feet. Three overlapping triangles, all the same size.

  “Like this,” I said. “It’s not that exactly, but close. Do you recognize it?”

  Quinn stooped to move a stick so it aligned more neatly with the others. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, dropped it, and scooped it up. I’d seen Quinn nod out, seen him bleeding after being pistol-whipped, watched him garrote a man with a guitar wire. But I’d rarely seen him genuinely disconcerted.

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  “It’s a valknut. An Odinist symbol, like the Gripping Beast. It’s big with the Brand.” I gave him a blank look. “The Aryan Brotherhood.”

  “The prison gang?”

  He nodded. “But Odinists, yeah, with them the valknut can be a religious thing. Remember Iceland? Like that. And sometimes a gang will use the valknut, too, especially in prisons. A lot of Odinists are just pagans—you know, like Asatruars. But some are definitely white supremacists.”

  “I saw a bunch of them in the Tube last night—they’re organizing some kind of Nazi march.”

  “That’s why all the cops and copters are out, dollface. Why the hell didn’t you tell me about seeing this on your guy Harold’s face before now?”

  “Too much other shit came down too fast.” I pointed at the sticks at our feet, triangles within triangles. “Do you have one?”

  “A valknut tattoo? No. Too many neo-Nazis use it now. Like I said, I’m not a believer.”

  “So what would it mean to someone who was?”

  He sucked at his cigarette, hollow cheeked. “Shit, I don’t know. I knew a guy was into it—an Odinist, not a Nazi. It’s something about being among the chosen, so when you die, the Valkyries recognize you and take you to Valhalla. But I’ve also seen it carved on a corpse, as a warning.”

  “Will the police know what it means?”

  “How obvious was it?”

  “Not much. By the time the cops got there, it probably just looked like smeared blood.”

  “Well, they monitor far-right groups here. The Defenders of Albion, Combat Eighteen—a lot of groups use symbols like this. But a neo-Nazi symbol won’t be the first thing the cops are looking for, if they’re investigating a stolen rare book.”

  Quinn tilted his head back as another helicopter droned overhead. “God, these fucking Nazis, they’re everywhere now. Cassie, how the hell do you get into this shit?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Quinn sighed. “Not at this point.” He tossed his cigarette and grasped my shoulders, turning me so that my back was to Gryffin and Lyla. He withdrew something from his jeans pocket and took my hand.

  “Here.” He hesitated before sliding something into my palm—a tiny bag of white powder. “I called in a favor. Against my better judgment. It was definitely more trouble than it’s worth.”

  I leaned into him,
opened the plastic bag, and scooped some powder into my pinkie nail. No telltale blue glitter or crystalline spark to indicate this was anything but low-grade crank. Not an awful lot of it, either. I ducked my head and inhaled, scooped out a second hit, and snorted it. It was like taking a blowtorch to my nostrils.

  “Jesus!” Tears streamed from my eyes as I closed the bag and shoved it into my pocket. “What’s that cut with, Comet?”

  “Probably.”

  Garbage or not, within seconds I felt a familiar hole blasted inside my skull. My entire body vibrated. I stared up through the yellow haze, waiting for the rush to fade before I spoke.

  “Thank you, baby,” I whispered.

  Quinn regarded me through slitted eyes, already regretting what he’d done. “You won’t thank me when they have to jump-start your heart.”

  I laughed. I was immortal again. And I didn’t need a camera—I saw everything the world had been hiding from me. Cracks in the pavement opened to reveal what lay beneath, a spangled map mirrored what was burned against my eyeballs…

  “Cass? Cassie?”

  I blinked. Quinn held my face in his hands, staring at me in concern. I grinned. “That’s pretty good shit.”

  “I thought you were checking out on me.”

  I laughed again. “Uh-uh. Checking in.”

  “Christ. Maybe we should just split now, Cassie. I’ll figure something out.”

  He kissed me, hard. I closed my eyes, riding another rush, when Lyla’s voice cut through the rumble of helicopters and traffic. I turned to see her staring at her mobile in horror. Gryffin grabbed it from her, looked at the screen, then at me. Even from where I stood, I could see his face had gone pale.

  “Cassie, don’t,” Quinn pleaded. But I’d already run to pry the mobile from Gryffin’s hand.

  Chapter 27

  The screen showed a picture of a sleeping animal surrounded by underbrush. It was a few seconds before I realized the image was not a still frame, but a video clip: the animal’s chest moved very slightly as it breathed. Then it grew still.

  “What the fuck.” I glanced at Quinn. “That’s her dog. Tindra’s.”

  I played the clip again. The time stamp was barely two hours earlier. There was no indication as to where it was recorded.

  I looked at Lyla. “What is this? Who sent it?”

  “My brother. It came from Tindra, she forwarded it to him.”

  She took the mobile, swiping so I could read a series of texts:

  found book

  erik svarlight

  need help

  “Someone poisoned the dog?” I asked Lyla. She nodded. “But if the dog was with her, how could they poison it?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Gryffin frowned. “Who’s Erik Svarlight?”

  “Svarlight—it’s not a person, not necessarily. It could be a band or something.” I glanced at Quinn. “Look, I don’t know what it is. But I saw some white supremacists wearing Svarlight T-shirts, in the Underground. Swedish guys.”

  “Tindra’s saying this guy has the book.” Gryffin turned to Lyla. “Right?”

  “I told you, I don’t know! Let me think!”

  She strode toward a shuttered outdoor café, found shelter beneath its awning, and bent over her mobile. Quinn pulled me to his side.

  “Come on, Cassie,” he said. “This is done.”

  “Done?” The crank lit up my synapses like a sparkler. “It’s not done—she found the book! This guy Erik, he’s kidnapped her or something.”

  “Doesn’t sound like that to me.” Quinn watched Lyla, now frantically texting. “Do you know him? Erik whoever?”

  “No. But Tindra said he has the book.”

  “No, she texted found book. It doesn’t mean he has it.”

  I pushed at him in frustration. “Bullshit. He killed her freaking dog. She needs help.”

  “So she got herself in over her head.” Quinn touched his bruised cheek, scowling. “Why the hell do you care?”

  “The book,” I snapped. “Remember? You said you can find a buyer, we can get serious money. Now we have a line on where she is, so we can find it.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind, Cass. If she has the book, you think she’s gonna give it to you? And it doesn’t even sound like she does have it—this guy Erik does, maybe. And if a bunch of Nazis are wearing his T-shirt, he’s over there—”

  He pointed across the river. “At the demonstration. And if you think going there’s a good idea, you really are out of your mind. We’re pulling the plug on this.”

  He grabbed my arm. As I started to argue, Lyla came running back.

  “Victoria Park,” she said breathlessly. “Tommy just texted, that’s where he thinks Tindra and Erik are.”

  “I thought this was Victoria Park,” said Gryffin.

  “Victoria Embankment Park,” said Lyla. “Victoria Park’s in the East End. That’s where they’re marching.”

  She started back toward the Underground station. Gryffin watched her as another helicopter roared east into the haze. “I guess I better go, too,” he said reluctantly. “If there’s a snowball’s chance in hell my book shows up.”

  “Your book?” I retorted. “You sold it to Harold, and he sold it to Tindra.”

  “There’s a hold on the transaction.” He shook his head. “And why would a Nazi even want it?”

  “Why not? Everyone else does.”

  He turned and headed after Lyla, and Quinn tugged at my arm. “Cassie.”

  I twitched away from him. The copter’s drone grew into a thundering pulse as a man hissed my name in a darkened alley.

  Cass, Cass…

  A knife glinted in the man’s hand, and his arm extended toward me. I froze as a ghostly car cruised past, disappearing into the Thames beneath Hungerford Bridge.

  I could tell, when I met you, Tindra whispered in my ear. Don’t you find that sometimes? That you just know?

  “Cass.” Quinn’s tone was urgent. “Cassie, come on.”

  The roaring in my head diminished to a dull buzz, a wasp trapped inside my skull. I took a few deep breaths, my jaw clenching as I struggled to speak.

  “I can’t just leave her.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t explain. Just…” I looked up into Quinn’s cold green eyes. “Look, I have to go. And we need the money.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the money.”

  “That’s not what you said this morning.”

  “This morning all this shit hadn’t exploded in our hands, Cass!”

  “We’re broke and here illegally.”

  “I can find work here.”

  “What work? Killing more guys for the Russians? You want to go back to prison?” I scanned the horizon above South Bank.

  “Cassie, baby. Nobody is going to find that book.” Quinn spoke slowly and barely above a whisper, warning signs that I ignored. “It’s on a plane to Miami or Moscow or Dubai or—”

  “It’s not. He has it, and Tindra’s with him.”

  “Who the hell are you talking about?”

  “Erik or whoever killed her dog.”

  I stared at Quinn, razor-eyed: the only way he was going to stop me was by force. I knew he wasn’t beyond that. But after half a minute, he let go of me. “Goddamn it, I should never have gotten that shit for you. You’re crazy enough when you’re not tweaking.”

  I punched his arm. “I’m not tweaking. Where’s Victoria Park?”

  “Near Mile End. The Tube goes right there.” He gestured toward the station entrance. “That chick Lyla, she seems to know what she’s doing. Try to stay close to her. Jesus.” He tugged at his watch cap. “I should have my head examined.”

  “Come with me.” My lips brushed his bruised cheek. “We can do it together. It’ll be fun.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen, baby. There’ll be cops all over. And I might run into some people I know, which would not be a good thing. If they start kettling, get the hell out. Your burner s
till got juice?”

  “I think so.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t lose it. I’ll call or text where to meet me later. You do the same.”

  He stared into my eyes, his battered face a reflection of my own. “Do you really want to do this, Cassie? It sounds like the crank talking.” He kissed my forehead and pushed me away. “Go fast.”

  I nodded and loped toward the station. When I glanced back, Quinn lifted a hand to me, turned, and walked off into the fog.

  Chapter 28

  I found Gryffin and Lyla waiting on the platform. Lyla didn’t acknowledge me, but Gryffin appeared relieved. “You’re here,” he said.

  I didn’t reply, just kicked at a discarded vaping capsule until the train arrived and we hopped on. Lyla stood by the door. Gryffin pointed to a pair of empty seats, and I joined him. As soon as the train rattled back into the tunnel, he turned to me.

  “Who the hell is that guy?”

  “None of your business.”

  “No, I mean it. Who is he? Quinn, right?”

  “Just shut up, okay?”

  “I’m not going to shut up.” His voice rose, and an old man in a white thobe glanced at us warily. “Tell me—”

  “I already told you—if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m getting off at the next stop.”

  “Okay, then just tell me what you’re doing with him,” he whispered. “He looks like a thug. He is a thug. He looks like trouble, Cass.”

  “He is.”

  “I thought you were cleaning yourself up.”

  “Because I got a haircut? Are you some kind of idiot?”

  “He gave you drugs, right? What was that, heroin?”

  “You really are an idiot. Heroin puts you to sleep. Do I look like I’m asleep?”

  “Tell me why you’re with someone like that. You’re smart, you could have a career again. This is like a death wish, Cass.”

  I said nothing. He lowered his head until it was barely an inch from mine. “Tell me.”

  My attempt at silence lost out to crank-fueled logorrhea. “Because he’s the only thing I ever cared about. Because when I met him we were seventeen and I couldn’t take my fucking eyes off him and after that I couldn’t keep my camera off him. We were together for a while, then he took up with someone else, and then he got popped for breaking into a pharmacy and went to prison and I never saw him again. I thought I’d go crazy and then I did go crazy. The floor dropped out of my whole fucking life and I haven’t stopped falling since. All this time I thought he was dead and then a few months ago he gets in touch and…”