Greywalker

by Kat Richardson

  I shoved it back to the limits. I shivered and found myself crying into Chaos’s pelt. Shuddering, I carried her off, crawled back under the covers, and hid from the ugly world.

  Monday morning Will met me at a café near the Madison Forrest House for breakfast. He greeted me with a more-than-friendly kiss and we sat at a table outside. I told myself the thin golden line around him was a trick of the cool spring sunshine.

  I smiled at the delicious quivers he sent over me. “When do you have to go to work?” I asked.

  “Closed on Mondays,” he replied, draping an arm over my shoulders, “and probably forever afterward, too, thanks to Brandon—who’s not returning phone calls and seems to be dodging some guys in dark suits, sunglasses, and grim looks.”

  I raised my brows. “Who do you suppose they are?”

  “I don’t know. Mikey spotted them hanging around. They didn’t bother to introduce themselves, and their cars had rental plates.”

  “He noticed that? Sounds like Michael could be a detective, too.”

  “I hope not. I’d rather admire your technique than watch Mike do it.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “Want to show me your technique?”

  I giggled. “Right here? Heck, no. What about Mike?”

  “Let him get a girl his own age. I’m not sharing.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “He’s fine. Thinks it’s funny. He’s in school today.”

  “Does that mean you have nothing to do?”

  He ran a finger along the curve of my ear and down my neck. “Mmm. I wouldn’t say nothing.”

  I shivered. “Unfortunately, I have things to do that preclude dancing the horizontal tango with you all day—much as I might like to. Or had you forgotten this is supposed to be a professional meeting?”

  “Spoilsport.”

  I poked him with a finger and made a face. “The curator will meet us in a little over an hour, so take a look at this and give me your professional opinion.”

  He glanced at the description sheet I offered him. “Without even looking at it, I expect that my professional opinion will be that it’s a piece of grot.”

  “It does make me rather suspicious of the client’s motives.” I was suspicious of Sergeyev in general, but I wasn’t going to discuss that with Will. “I need to know as much about it as possible.”

  “You think your client is up to something?”

  “Something doesn’t smell right, if you know what I mean. He said there was no rush, but he’s thrown an awful lot of money at the project and he’s shown up once, although he said he was in Europe the first time we talked. His check was drawn on a Swiss bank, but the rest of the packet came from London.”

  “I’m surprised it wasn’t an Irish bank,” Will commented. “The Swiss aren’t as reticent about giving out information as they used to be, and the Irish make them look like pikers.”

  “Irish offshore banks? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “It was on the horizon the last time I was in England,” he explained.

  “They’ve tried a lot of things to bring international business to Ireland. Most didn’t pan out, but you don’t need any special resources to be a banking power, especially if you’re willing to buck the bully tactics of the US and the EU and maintain absolute discretion about your customers.”

  “Really? You’re a guy of unknown depths, Mr. Novak.”

  “Yep. A diamond of the first water. Better grab me while you can.”

  I laughed. “I’ll consider doing that.”

  We ate and joked around some more, then headed for the museum.

  I parked the Rover in the gravel lot across the street. Will pulled his truck in beside mine. The house was forbidding, all its windows frowning and clouded through a thick bank of Grey. Even the glow of the nexus seemed to have died out. We crossed the street, but this time the gate was locked. I rang the bell on the intercom.

  A woman’s voice spoke from the box. “We’re closed on Mondays.”

  “Harper Blaine. I have an appointment with the curator.”

  “Oh. I’ll be right up.”

  A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman in a suit, heels, and corporate hairstyle appeared from behind the house. She took one look at Will and knew a kindred spirit. They chattered antiques the whole way up the drive.

  “Nobody cares about the national heritage here,” she declared as we reached the kitchen door. “You have to drag every penny of funding out of these bureaucrats’ hands as if it were their own money. They’d rather spend it on a new baseball stadium. Watch your feet. There’s a towel to wipe your shoes on.”

  We did as she suggested, leaving the mud on the towel instead of the parquet floor. She led us into the main hall and waved her hands around. “Gorgeous, isn’t it? It’s a damn sight better than it was when I came here. They had the interior all done in high Victoriana. Crammed with horrible gewgaws and junk, bad wallpaper, ugly, ugly colors. Totally out of period for this building.”

  “Then why did the museum acquire a parlor organ?” Will asked.

  “Oh, yes. That’s what you came for, isn’t it? There was an organ on the original inventory, but it was broken and the first curator threw it out. Come on. It’s upstairs. You can imagine what it was like getting it in here!” she added, leading us up the front staircase. Upstairs, she opened the door in front of us. “There you go. Awful, isn’t it?”

  A small sofa, chairs, and a needlework stand clustered around the hearth, as before, exuding their reassuring odor of age, must, and wood oil. Against the back wall stood the organ, outlined in gleaming red threads and writhing with vile, silent Grey snakes. Will pulled out the description sheet I’d given him and started studying it.

  I felt woozy and my heart sped up. I clamped down on the feeling, but the sense of seasickness remained, tickling away, and the room had become hazy and soft like the stink of rot no matter how I tried to resist it.

  Will read the sheet as we walked across the polished wood floor. Two feet inside the door, I felt sick. At four feet, my head was pounding with an instant headache of migraine proportions. I put my hand on Will’s arm.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  I lied. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel well.” I turned my attention back to the parlor organ.

  It was still the ugliest thing I’d ever seen and would have been even if it wasn’t cloaked in swirling energy matrices and sucking darkness like a drain. It had grown worse in just a few days. Clear vision in the Grey seemed to have come with Wygan’s “gift.” Storm-mist pulse around the organ and phantom faces leered and screamed in transient gusts of paranormal wind. Creeping horror played up and down my spine. I dragged myself a step closer to it, hating the proximity. A glowing tentacle struck out and slammed into my chest where Wygan’s thread was tied. I gagged and stumbled.

  I tried to bend the Grey and push it away. The tentacle rippled and sucked away the strength of my push. My knees folded and I felt the floor rush up as vision went black.

  Will grabbed me under the arms. “Harper!”

  The tentacle pulled on me, wrapping around my insides like a steel fist. I choked, “Get me out of here.”

  Will picked me up and ran out. He didn’t stop until we were outside, where he put me on my feet with the care of a collector placing a prized piece.

  “Are you all right now? Are you sick? Do you need a glass of water, a doctor…?”

  I slumped down on the carriage steps like a dropped sandbag. “No, no. I’m OK now. I just… I just need some air. Go back inside. I’ll be fine.” I could not face that thing again. It had drained my resources too easily.

  “Are you sure? We can go if you want.”

  “No, it’s important that I know about that organ.”

  Will sighed. “All right. But you’ll be OK till I get back, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  He gave me several glances over his shoulder before he was swallowed again by the doorway. I sat a whil
e, panting, and thought I heard something shrieking in the Grey. I felt better as soon as it stopped. I stood on loose legs and walked around to the front of the house.

  To my eyes, the windows of the organ’s den were dark. They neither shed nor reflected any light. The house that had seemed so pretty on Saturday now looked like something from a horror film, the stone-work overgrown with veins of fire and writhing Grey vines. I felt a scratching along the surfaces of my bones. I slammed a mental door against the persistence of vision and scurried back to my seat on the steps.

  I felt stronger by the time Will returned, smiling and chatting to the curator as they parted company at the door. She stayed on the porch.

  I looked up at Will. “Well?”

  He dropped onto the steps beside me, folded like a paper crane, and made a face. “Well… it matches the description technically, but…” He shook his head. “It’s not worth whatever your client’s put into finding it. A lot of the decoration is bone and ivory that’s… nonstandard. Modifications and repairs aren’t unusual for an item like this, but…” He chewed his lower lip and looked at the ground. “My gut says there’s something wrong. It doesn’t even play, really. The whole thing’s kind of unsettling. But it doesn’t matter, because the current museum board won’t sell.”

  “Why not?” I asked. I looked back at the woman on the porch.

  She shook her head and called out, “It’s the only Tracher parlor organ they could find, and current policy won’t allow us to sell anything that matches original inventory. They’re freaking out over the idea of permanent reductions. Though after what Will said, I think we’d be better off without it.”

  I hung my head, worn out, and sighed. “I know it’s an imposition, but can I bring one more expert to look at it?”

  “Sure, if you think it’ll help. Especially if it covers the board’s butt.”

  “It’ll have to be after hours. This guy’s not available during the day.”

  “Oh. Well, get in touch with me and we’ll work it out. I’d like to hear we didn’t buy a screaming fake.”

  We both thanked her for her time and we left the museum. Crossing the street, I turned for one more look at the organ’s resting place. The ground seemed to roll beneath my feet as I looked a little side-ways of normal. The Grey snapped open, showing me an angry tangle of burning lines and shapes, boiling in a restless, sobbing mist. I jerked myself away from it, feeling a biting pain in my chest, and stumbled against Will. He held tight to my arm as we let ourselves out the drive-way gate.

  We stopped beside the Rover. “Are you sure you feel OK?” Will asked.

  “I’m fine. Probably just something I ate.”

  “Bull. We ate the same thing and I feel fine.” He noticed the hard set of my mouth. “You don’t want to talk about it.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He sighed. “All right. We’ll keep this professional. I’ll see if I can dig up anything about this organ. I got numbers off the action and case, and Tracher may still have some records I can start with. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Thanks, Will.”

  He looked me over again, shook his head. “You know Mikey’s going to grill me about you this evening, don’t you?”

  I gave a weak laugh. “Poor Will. Terrorized by a sixteen-year-old.”

  “Hey, there’s a sixty-year-old Jewish mother in that sixteen-year-old body. Mike’s not sure you’re good for me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I’m very bad for you. Very bad indeed.”

  “Mmm… very bad,” he agreed. He leaned forward and kissed me, nibbling my lower lip. He murmured against my mouth, “I won’t ask if you’re OK, ‘cause you’re just going to stonewall me some more if I do.”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  He sighed and backed off. “All right. But I will worry and you can’t stop me. Be careful, Harper.”

  “I will.”

  “No—” he started.

  “Yes, I know—you Will, me Harper.”

  He laughed. “You caught me!” He kissed my cheek this time and opened the Rover’s door for me.

  I got in and buckled up. He closed the door and watched me for a moment; then he backed away and waited for me to pull out of the lot before he started back to his own truck.

  I didn’t even get all the way through my office door before the client was in the office and normalcy was out.

  I was startled. “Sergeyev. You’re back.”

  “You have made progress to locating my furniture.”

  I sat down at my desk, buying time. “Yes, I have.” I put my mouth on autopilot as my mind leapt around like a terrified monkey. “I’ve seen the organ at the museum and it seems to match your description—”

  “Which museum? Tell the name. They must let me have it.”

  Some warning instinct in the monkey brain made me stall. “That may not be possible.”

  Sergeyev loomed over me, exuding a Grey reek and a flutter of colorless energy which didn’t surprise me. “You shall make them give it,” he demanded. “It is mine.”

  “No,” I answered, my voice going hard as my stomach flipped over. The Grey pressed like a weight on my chest. I strained against it and wouldn’t allow it to break through any further. “You may believe you have a moral claim, but the owners can’t be forced to sell.” “It is mine!”

  My words popped in the thick air like water on hot oil. “Not legally. I cannot work miracles. Can’t simply make it yours. I have to work within the law.”

  He ground his teeth, or I told myself that was the sound. “Laws of men! Who has more right to it than I? It is in every bone, every sinew. It is mine. You must loose it to me.”

  I glared at him, seeing his shape slip and firm again, silver and Grey. Fury burned over me. “Don’t. Push me.”

  He jerked his head back and glowered. “I expected better. You who can see the world should sympathize. I felt you and came for your help. But you are a silly, ignorant girl.”

  Now he’d pissed me off. “I am getting damned tired of being insulted by things like you. And nobody calls me ‘girl’ in my own office.”

  “You do not know with what you toy… girl.”

  My heart slammed around my chest like a basketball in a box and I kept smelling something like a whiff of harsh tobacco smoke. I was too mad to feel ill or to think clearly about what I was about to do. I held off my fear and revulsion in a cold, dark place and braced myself.

  “Really? Why don’t you show me?”

  He stepped back and raised one hand, as if catching hold of the air itself. The worlds began to vibrate and hum. I threw myself across the immaterial mist of the Grey, feeling the same cold scream rip through me as brilliance burned me away. I lunged up to my feet, my office swamped and throbbing with the mirror-mist and aglow with lines of light and force. The ache in my chest grew hot.

  Grey things trailing fire darted in and swarmed me, trying to cocoon me in their glowing threads. I struck at them, bending the edge of the Grey around me, and flung them back into Sergeyev’s face.

  “Get out!” I shouted, lashing my fists against the swarming Grey between us. A swollen blue arc spanned across my thrumming chest and arms, bowing outward as I raised my arms again and brought them down against the cloud of fiery creatures.

  I felt as if I’d smashed my arms against a cement wall which reverberated, then dissolved to gritty, unstable brick. Two masses of force collided between us, shook and toppled with a crack of thunder and a stink of burned sewage. Then it crumbled away, the flames dying in an instant. Sergeyev’s eyes glared at me though the haze and vanished. The world crashed back into its normal shape, thinly blurred at the edges.

  I collapsed forward, landing half in my chair and half across the desk. My forehead smacked against the blotter. My arms and chest ached and burned and I swallowed again and again, tamping down the urge to be sick. Broken glass tinkled in the hall and outside. I forced myself to breathe in and out with care, settling myself around the dis
sipating ache centered in the knot of Grey between my breasts. Cool air coursed over my back from the broken window behind me. In a moment—or maybe it was ten minutes—I looked up and saw a face peeping around the edge of my shattered door glass. The receptionist from Flasch and Ikenabi. I waved a flopping hand to her.

  She squeaked, “Are you OK? Sounded like an explosion out here.”

  “Uh… one of my clients… slammed the door pretty hard on his way out.”

  “Oh. OK. You sure you’re all right?” She probably thought I was crazy, or that my clients were. I expected I’d see their offices up for lease inside six months.

  “I’m fine. Honest. I just—I need to get the glass fixed,” I finished.

  She perked up at the thought of familiar action. “Oh! I know a board-up service. Should I… should I call them for you?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You would do that?”

  “Well, yeah. If you want.” A phone burred. She looked around. “Oh, no! Ohmigod, that’s my phone!” she exclaimed, dashing away.

  Alone, I slumped onto the desktop and tried to reorganize my brain. I was shaking. I felt torn apart and put back together with cheap glue and a lack of attention to detail. Everything seemed to ache or itch. My job was going straight to hell. But I didn’t know what else to do, so I shut off the gibbering part of my brain and did what I’d been trained to do: I made phone calls.

  I called the Danzigers and arranged to see them later—I had a lot of questions. Then I called Sarah, who said she’d talk to her brother as soon as she saw him and have him call me.

  Twenty minutes later, men with plywood arrived to fix my door and window until I could get the glass replaced. The office felt close and dark without the windows.

  In the new gloom, I picked up the Edward file and stared at it, resisting the work, aching all over. Unthinking, I reached up to rub the spot on my shoulder where Wygan’s claws had dug into my flesh. The skin felt raw and hot as a sunburn. I winced as my stomach curdled around my lunch.

  I’d been dancing in a minefield and was lucky to still have all my limbs. Alice scared me, but I understood what she wanted and how she wanted to use me to get it. As dreadful as Carlos was, I understood him a little, too. But Wygan I could no more understand than I could understand whales singing, and that frightened me most. I did not know what he wanted of me, but I suspected he was finished for a while.