The Shadow Arts

by Damien Love

  “Ah!”

  The door opened, revealing a skinny man in his seventies, almost drowned by a shapeless blue cardigan and well-worn overalls. A black beret that had known better times sat back on his head. Tucking the cigarette behind his ear, he threw open his arms to embrace Alex’s grandfather.

  “Albert,” Alex’s grandfather said, after he had disentangled himself. He indicated Alex. “Voici mon petit fils, Alex. Alex, meet Albert, the greatest mechanic left in all France.”

  Alex held out his hand but was engulfed in a serious bear hug. He staggered as Albert released him and waved them through into a small yard made smaller by teetering mounds of scrap: creeping heaps of tires, exhausts, engine blocks, and other unidentifiable components in varying degrees of decay.

  As they entered, cats scattered in every direction and assumed precarious perches, watching them suspiciously. In one corner, the bright remains of two pinball machines stood lopsided beside the rusted skeletons of two ancient cars propped on bricks, and a low, hulking shape covered by a rain-spattered blue tarpaulin. Along the back wall, garage doors stood pulled back to reveal a large workroom. Albert disappeared inside.

  In the middle of the yard, incongruous amid the junk, a long, low car shone blackly, all curves. Alex knew it was old, but it gleamed as though it had just rolled out of a showroom. A Citroën DS, 1961 model. Spoiling the brochure image, a fat, one-eyed white cat lay sprawled on the hood, showing off its belly while squinting disdainfully at them. Part of one ear had been bitten away.

  “The Goddess,” Alex said. “Harry’s car.” Seeing it without its owner gave him a chill.

  “Well, yes and no,” his grandfather said. He scratched the cat gently behind its mangled ear. “Bonjour, Simone. To be precise, this is Harry’s new car. Or will be, once we get him back and give it to him. Be a nice surprise for him. Albert here, eh, sourced it for me. He’s just been souping it up to Harry’s rather particular specifications. Harry’s old car’s over there.” He gestured idly with his cane at the shape beneath the tarpaulin. “He crashed it in Germany, when they got him. I had it hauled back. Albert can cannibalize it for spare parts. If there are any useable parts left.”

  Alex approached the blue shroud and lifted a corner. A scruffy ginger tabby appeared by his side and leapt softly up, curious to see. Alex winced at the smashed remains beneath. He had always been told his father had died in a car accident. Beyond knowing it supposedly happened in Germany—as, it seemed, had Harry’s wreck—the details had been left vague. Now he knew why. But looking at the torn and twisted metal still sent something echoing through him.

  “Harry was in there? When it happened?”

  “Hmmm? Oh. Yes. He was being chased. Then he got stopped. And then they got him.”

  The cat jumped down and padded away, unimpressed. Alex let the sheet fall back. “Where is he now?”

  “Still in Germany. The south.” After a moment his grandfather added darkly, “The Black Forest.”

  Albert reappeared, carrying a half-empty bottle of red wine and two glasses. He gave one glass to the old man, then pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spat it toward a small, oily mound of thick springs on the ground. Splitting the last of the wine between the two glasses, he raised his own in a toasting motion, then stopped, lifting a finger.

  “Ah.” From his cardigan, he produced a scratched tin and proffered it to Alex, who frowned as he read the greasy label: SINGER SEWING MACHINE OIL.

  “Oh,” Albert muttered, taking it back. “Pardon.” After a moment’s more searching, he pulled from another pocket a small bottle of fizzy orange, handing it to Alex with a nod.

  “Bon.” He raised his glass again. “Salut.”

  “For friends not here,” Alex’s grandfather said. Taking a sip, he paused, closed his eyes, then beamed. “Oh, well done, Albert. The ’82, is it?”

  They began a conversation in French that Alex could not follow, beyond realizing from their gestures that the subject swiftly switched from the apparently excellent wine to the car. Albert muttered and gesticulated at the vehicle while the old man squinted and hummed, kicked tires, and asked the odd question. Finally, Alex’s grandfather gestured toward the springs on the ground.

  “Et l’autre?”

  “C’est chez Harry,” Albert said. The Frenchman produced the oil again, holding it up for inspection, then handed it over, along with a set of car keys, sealing the transaction with a formal crack of bony knuckles.

  Alex’s grandfather stood regarding the springs on the ground. With an air of resignation, he nodded and gave Albert a sad smile. Albert laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. The old man pushed the oilcan into his Gladstone, then tossed it inside the car, followed by Alex’s rucksack.

  “Alex, we’re off.”

  There came another round of hugs, followed by another scattering of cats as Albert hauled the main gate squealing open and Alex’s grandfather nosed the car into the street. The engine purred impatiently while he sat for a moment making sure the coast was clear, then they were moving fast.

  “Albert’s a little on the lugubrious side,” the old man said, “but he’s done a marvelous job here.” The Citroën hummed happily as they swung onto a busy road. Alex’s grandfather flexed his fingers around the steering wheel as if loosening a cramp. “Harry’ll be over the moon when he sees this car. Although I’m sure he’ll find something to complain about.”

  “Did you say we’re going to Harry’s office?” Alex said.

  “That’s right. Need to collect something. I want to check his place over before we head off, anyway. I’m hoping he might have left something useful lying around. Good at keeping notes, is Harry, and he’d made discoveries in recent days.” The old man frowned flatly. “Although it might have been better for him if he hadn’t.”

  VII.

  DON’T

  It was dark by the time they made it to central Paris and the terrace by the river where Harry kept an office. Streetlights flickered on as the old man drove slowly toward the door. He rolled past it without glancing around, pulling in some way down the block.

  Alex unclipped his seat belt and reached for the door as the engine cut out. A hand on his arm stopped him.

  “Not yet,” his grandfather said. He adjusted his rearview mirror and sat back, watching it. “Thought I saw something. Harry’s window.”

  Alex turned in his seat. The elegant street was empty. Fine rain made a champagne fizz around globe lamps. He picked out Harry’s doors, set behind a wrought-iron grille, then bent until he could see the third-floor windows above, dark and lifeless. Leather squeaked as his grandfather clambered around to join him looking back. They hunched side by side as rain spattered the rear window. At length, the old man gave a disgruntled sigh.

  “I was sure—”

  “There.” Alex had seen it. A stab of light across Harry’s office ceiling. “Could it be Harry?” Alex asked. “Maybe he got away and made it back!”

  “I rather seriously doubt that.”

  Another thin blade of light flashed. Then gone. The old man sat tapping his teeth with a thumbnail. He spoke as if sorting thoughts into order. “Must be them. They got Harry. They know he was on their trail. They want to find out how much he knows. Same as we do. So they’re searching the place. We could wait and follow them when they come out. But they might just destroy anything they find up there on the spot. Right, well, no two ways about it: I have to go up.”

  “You can’t go in there without knowing what’s waiting,” Alex protested, unconsciously speaking in a whisper. He glanced up to the window, mind racing. “Listen. You know where Harry is, right? Where they’ve got him in Germany.”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “Well, if that’s the tall man’s gang up there, or some of them, that means there are fewer of them guarding Harry, right? So why don’t we try to get ahead of them, just
go get Harry now?”

  “I’ve no choice.” His grandfather shrugged. “If Harry found out anything about the paintings, I need to see it, Alex. In case we don’t manage to . . . It might not be easy getting Harry back. Besides, there are other things up there that I need. So I’ll go around the rear alley. There’s a drainpipe I can use to get to Harry’s back window. I’ve had to use it before. Bit of luck, they won’t see me until I’ve sized things up. You stay here—”

  “I’m not sitting here while you go in alone!”

  “Need you to, Alex. Need you to watch the front. If they come out, play it safe, but try to see which way they go. I’ll be right behind them, then we can follow. If anyone else arrives and goes in, sound a blast on the horn to warn me up there. Got it?”

  Alex gave him a grim stare. “Got it. But I don’t like it.”

  “Don’t worry.” The old man winked, stepped out, hoisted his Gladstone over his shoulder, and headed off, quickly gone from sight as he rounded the street corner.

  Sighing, Alex turned to watch Harry’s office. Minutes hobbled past. He pulled out his phone. He’d had it switched off, a lesson learned during his last trip to Paris. Two messages were waiting, but he typed a note to his mum first:

  In Paris safe and sound. Helping Grandad get stuff ready for Harry’s surprise birthday. Loads to do! Be in touch soon. Love you. Say hi to Carl.

  He sent it, scanned the street in both directions for the hundredth time, then checked his messages. Something from David that morning:

  You OK after the weird biz? Meant to show you how to do that math stuff. Do it Monday. Guess who asked me for your new number? Sort of had to give him it. Ouch.

  Then one from Kenzie. Alex frowned. Kenzie used to send him regular greetings along the lines of you’re going to get your face smashed in, but that had all stopped. He read the message:

  Don’t.

  Just that. Sent only six minutes ago. Alex stared at the solitary word. Kenzie must have sent it before he’d finished typing. Alex dismissed it, put the phone away, and sat trying to mentally pace out each step of his grandfather’s journey. Around the building. Up the wall. Open the window. He must be up there by now.

  Alex looked back to Harry’s office. Nothing. The dark windows seemed charged with menace. A surge of dread washed over him at the thought of his grandfather up there alone. They already had Harry.

  It had been too long. He had to go up. He tried to compose a plan, but his mind felt stuffy and thick. He decided cool air might help and, after checking the street again, stepped out of the car, lifting his face to the rain. A metallic creak chilled his blood.

  One of Harry’s windows had been pushed completely open.

  Alex dropped into a crouch beside the car.

  Something was crawling out. Someone, in fact, Alex saw, as with stiff, awkward movements, the shadowy shape straightened to stand on the ledge along the building.

  A tall man in a long black coat, collar pulled high, black hat tugged low.

  Alex stared, frozen, helplessly fascinated. The figure up there seemed taller than he remembered, even larger than the ghost that jumped through his dreams.

  Dad.

  The word swelled violently in his chest without warning. Conflicting impulses were suddenly pulling him in opposite directions. With a wild lurch of resolve, Alex decided to stand and call out, make his presence known and let whatever would happen just happen.

  Then came a noise that killed that notion and rooted him where he knelt. It started low, a bubbling staccato, like treacle coming to the boil, then built to a high, keening howl. The crazed, curdling sound curled horribly around Alex’s spine.

  The tall man was laughing.

  The dark figure lifted his arms triumphantly, coat hanging like wings, as if he were some great black bat-thing perched there. Then, with a joyful shriek and a shuddering creak, he leapt.

  Alex flattened against the car as the tall man landed with a mechanical hiss in the road, ten feet away. His boots were huge. The complex spring apparatus around the heels glinted cold. His black coat moved strangely, as though things were seething beneath. Between upturned collar and tugged-down hat, Alex caught a glimpse of dark glasses.

  The man raised his right hand and whooped again as he considered what he held there. Something sharp. Sharp and dripping. Dripping something that looked blackish under the streetlamps but which Alex feared was really deep red.

  Alex tightened his hand around the toy robot in his pocket, tried forcing his mind out to it. Nothing. His grandfather had told him to honk the car’s horn if anyone went into the building. What was he supposed to do if anyone came out? See which way they went, so they could follow. That was the plan. If only he could persuade his legs to move.

  The looming figure abruptly crouched and jumped again, vanishing high into the night. He dropped dimly down some distance away, by the river walkway. Another leap, and he was gone. Alex stood shakily, pulse pounding his temples. How were they supposed to follow that? His eyes went from the black spatter on the ground to the open window above.

  Grandad.

  He sprinted for Harry’s office. He was inside and climbing stairs before he realized neither the security gate nor the doors had been locked. Alex threw himself on up to the third floor.

  Harry’s door had been recently replaced and still bore only a bare gray undercoat of paint. It stood slightly open. Pale splinters of wood showed where the lock had been ripped out. Trying to quiet his breathing, Alex had a sense of eyes on him and looked up to meet the harsh glare of Marvastro, the fortune-telling automaton still standing guard in his glass cabinet outside Harry’s office.

  The machine had once promised him power, and power had come. But where had it gone? The penetrating stare gave nothing away. Alex swallowed and crept through the door.

  Inside, silence. His eyes adjusted to the meager light leaking in from outside. The room was large, with a high ceiling. Midway along the right-hand wall, the tall central window hung open. A stir of a breeze touched him.

  The last time Alex had seen this sales room it had been wrecked, with Harry’s stock of antique toys and mechanical curiosities trashed in a furious fight. A cleanup operation was still underway. Many of the display cases still had shattered fronts and held mangled toys in the process of being sorted. Chairs shrouded in dustsheets huddled against walls like he’d caught them playing ghosts. Boxes, ladders, and paint pots were piled in one far corner. In the other, a door hung ajar, offering a promise of rooms beyond.

  Alex weaved warily toward it between display cases. A noise made him flinch. A muffled thud from beyond the door ahead. He stopped, straining to hear. Another, louder thump. A slap. A muted grunt.

  Alex dived for cover as the door crashed open and something came flying through. He had a brief impression of a black-clad figure sailing backward and crashing into a set of shelves, tearing them from the wall in a clattering rain.

  “Uhhhhhhnnnn.”

  The voice was female. A flailing arm appeared from the wreckage and the figure hauled herself up: a tall woman, dressed head to toe in black, including a ski mask. The eyes behind the holes blinked dazedly. As she stood shaking her head, there came further crashes from beyond the door, and she was instantly alert. From a long, padded sheath worn strapped across her back, she drew a rapier sword. Thin blade ready, she dropped into a hostile stance and started for the doorway, a prowling, martial shadow.

  Halfway there, she stopped, then slowly turned to Alex, where he crouched by a display case. The large eyes narrowed at him. The head cocked to a confused angle. She took a step toward him, then was bowled off her feet as another black-clad figure came tumbling through the door, crashing into her ankles.

  As they went down in a heap, Alex’s grandfather came hurtling in, holding his cane horizontally between both hands. The second figure, a man, got up,
limped painfully backward, then, almost reluctantly, lifted his hands, a knife in each. He dropped into a hobbling, circling motion, feinting one way then the other, before trying a vicious swipe.

  Alex’s grandfather blocked the blow, knocked the knifeman’s hand aside, and drove his stick into his belly. As the figure doubled over, the old man hooked his neck with his cane and dragged him forward, driving his knee into his face. But completing this move, Alex’s grandfather stepped blindly on a vintage toy car that had been knocked to the floor. As his foot went skidding away, he fell backward, giving his assailant a chance to make a half-stunned lunge with his blade.

  With a reasonably ferocious roar, Alex launched forward, vaulting a cabinet. The black-clad man looked around, confused to find another combatant. In the same instant, Alex’s grandfather swung his left leg up in a blunt, arcing swipe that caught the man’s head and put him on the floor.

  Alex’s grandfather got up. The woman launched a kick that sent him sailing back out the door they had all come in through. Pirouetting on the same momentum, she dealt Alex a slap that knocked him just to the edge of unconsciousness. His head hit the floor with a jarring thud. Blackness fell for a second, then, panicking, he jumped to groggily face her, body fizzing with fear, shock, and adrenaline. The faint gray light flickered as his eyes fought for focus. There was a hissing on the air.

  The woman was helping her companion up, drawing his arm over her shoulder. Alex searched around in desperation. A broom stood propped against the wall. He grabbed it, then went at them, swinging crazily.

  The woman’s eyes rounded. She thrust her sword in Alex’s general direction but missed by a foot. When he raised the broom again, she swiped madly at the air by his side. He leapt back as she pulled a dagger from a sheath on her leg. She waved it warily as the pair backed out through the door Alex had entered, the man leaning heavily on her and clutching at his thigh. The woman’s staring eyes never left the broom Alex held before him.