The Shadow Arts

by Damien Love

  Alex was doubtful in the extreme. The plan didn’t seem particularly solid, but he couldn’t tell whether it was because of his grandfather’s “fog on the brain,” or his usual recklessness. He glanced again at the drab château. The bleak afternoon light gave it a menacing aura, like a place waiting for bad things to happen. Birds were singing in the trees above. He wished they would shut up.

  “But then what? We don’t even know what this painting looks like.”

  “Ha, well. Decent point. But we’re not going to learn that sitting here. I’m rather hoping it might all make itself clear once we’re inside,” the old man whispered, raising the binoculars again.

  “So, essentially,” Alex said after a moment’s more processing, “the plan is: break in and see what happens.”

  “That’s the idea. Improvise. Now, let’s get moving.”

  Alex made no reply. He was more concerned with the enormous dog staring at him from the shadows beyond his grandfather’s elbow.

  It was a German shepherd, so large that the top of its blocky head came almost to Alex’s chest. It regarded him silently with sad dark eyes set in a black mask of fur. As Alex took a reflexive step back, the dog bared its teeth. Alex’s movement caused his grandfather to lower his binoculars and look down at him. His eyes widened.

  “Ah, don’t make any sudden movements, Alex, there’s a good chap.”

  “What?” Alex spun around, to be met with a discouraging bark from another, even bigger dog at his back. These eyes were reddish brown, highly intelligent, and not friendly.

  Noiselessly, five more dogs of the same breed and powerful build emerged from the bushes, surrounding them in a hostile, growling circle. Alex saw his grandfather’s fist tightening around his cane.

  “Any plans forming,” Alex whispered, “about how to improvise our way out of this?”

  “Well . . .” his grandfather began grimly, but the tension in his voice suddenly shifted into bright cheerfulness as he glanced off into the trees. “Well, I suppose we just do what the lady says—”

  “What la—”

  “Hello!” The old man raised a hand in a wave, then dropped it as the dogs reacted by closing in as one.

  “Good afternoon!” a deep, cheery, English-sounding female voice called back. A second later, its owner came striding into view. Slim, just a little shorter than Alex’s grandfather, she wore a long, loose, charcoal-colored coat with a hood hanging down. Straight hair fell in a shoulder-length swoop of dark auburn flecked with silver. Alex guessed she must be in her late-fifties. She smiled pleasantly and held a shotgun pointed in their direction.

  XXV.

  KINGDOM

  “Lovely day.” Alex’s grandfather beamed. “Apart from the rain. Out walking the dogs, were you?”

  “Not really.” The woman grinned back. “We came out especially to meet you two.”

  “Well, isn’t that wonderful,” the old man burbled brightly on. The largest dog was now sniffing his hand. The rest stared fixedly at Alex.

  “Beautiful animals,” his grandfather continued. “Well, it was lovely to meet you all. I suppose we’ll just be on our way, then.”

  “Oh, please.” She lifted the shotgun, just slightly. Her smile remained, but the gleam in the brown eyes was sharp and edgy. “I was going to invite you up to the house for a chat.”

  “Oh, we’d be delighted! After you?”

  “Before me, I think. Guests first. I insist. And keep your hands where I can see them, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Come on then, Alex.” The old man raised his hands and strolled off across the lawn. Alex hesitated, reluctant to uncurl his fist from the toy robot in his coat pocket. He clenched it tightly, frantically trying to get his thoughts together in order to access the power. The woman stooped to lift the Gladstone, grunted as she felt the weight, then motioned him sternly with the gun. He let go of the toy and lifted his hands.

  As they marched toward the house, Alex was intensely aware of everything around him: a smell of rain and wet earth; the noises of grass then gravel under his feet; the complicated patterns of the curious melody his grandfather was whistling quietly through his teeth as he walked ahead; the panting of the dogs prowling beside the old man, ears pricking up at his tune; a sudden dampness of fur and the solid muscle beneath it as the animal on Alex’s right brushed against his fingers; the swish of the woman’s coat; the sense of her shotgun at his back.

  The house’s wooden doors stood open. Waiting inside, scowling up from an old and rickety-looking wheelchair, was a man with silver hair and a stern, square face. Clad in a heavy wool cardigan, he sat with a tartan blanket covering his legs. One glowering eye was ringed by a fresh, purple-black bruise. An old scar that ran through it stood out vivid white. The hand resting on his lap clutched a revolver.

  Without a word, he used the gun to nervily wave them across a hallway with a checkerboard floor into a large, wood-paneled room. The windows had been boarded up. A massive chandelier hung from a high ceiling, dousing the place in dusty light. The seven dogs swept in to take positions along the walls, sitting like sentries to watch whatever the humans did next.

  The room looked as though it had once served as a hall for banquets and dancing, black ties and bright ball gowns. Now it stood bare, with just a few melancholy pieces of furniture: a wall lined with bookcases that were three-quarters empty, save for more dust; two drab sofas angled shabbily around an ancient TV; several hard, ornately carved wooden dining chairs pushed against the far wall, looking bereft without the table they must once have accompanied.

  A plain table bearing two more shotguns, seemingly abandoned while being cleaned in preparation for imminent use, did little to brighten the atmosphere. A long, thin, padded case with a shoulder strap lay beside the guns. Alex felt he recognized it, but couldn’t place it.

  In a corner stood a well-stocked drinks trolley, toward which Alex’s grandfather was now striding with genuine interest. After scrutinizing it, he turned. The old man’s face betrayed nothing, but Alex caught a momentary signal from his eyes, flashing briefly upward above his right shoulder.

  Glancing that way, Alex noticed that the wall above the bar cart was patterned with faint rectangular patches where framed pictures had once hung. Amid all the empty spaces, one last painting remained: a depiction in oils of the same house they stood in, wreathed in mist on a moonlit night, trees bending in the wind. Staring at it, Alex had a woozy sensation of being simultaneously trapped inside the ghostly house in the image and outside of it looking in. He pulled his eyes away and tried to look blank.

  He was still desperately trying to think his way toward the tablet in the old robot in his coat, but panic was getting in the way, and he realized he had grown used to holding the toy as part of his ritual. He had a hunch the people with the guns wouldn’t react well to him reaching into his pocket.

  “How about,” his grandfather said, gesturing toward the drinks cart, “we all have a little glass of something, toast our new acquaintance?”

  The man in the wheelchair ignored him and rolled to the center of the room. The woman closed the door, dropped the Gladstone, then moved to stand close behind him, cradling her shotgun. They regarded one another in the piercing silence.

  “Just the two, after all?” the man finally asked. He spoke with a tense French accent.

  The woman nodded, then turned to Alex: “Here.” She indicated a place at her side. Moving stiffly, Alex did as instructed, then stiffened more as she lifted her gun and rested the barrel gently against his forehead.

  “Now,” she said, addressing Alex’s grandfather, “very slowly, remove your coat, jacket, and waistcoat and throw them to the floor there. Then empty your trouser pockets and pull the lining out.”

  For a moment, Alex’s grandfather hesitated. His eyes glinted coldly as he regarded the shotgun threatening Alex. Then, with a shrug, he obeyed.
Both coat and jacket hit the floorboards with heavy thuds. Turning out his trouser pockets produced coins, a folded handkerchief, a compass, and a set of keys on a small, luminous green keyring shaped like the head of Frankenstein’s monster.

  He held this last up with great seriousness for their inspection and squeezed it, producing a pattern of absurd rubber-toy squeaks that caught the dogs’ interest. Then he tossed the keys on top of the pile.

  The woman lowered her gun and swiftly patted Alex down. He stopped breathing as she took the toy robot from his pocket, but she only frowned at it, then him, before throwing it on top of his grandfather’s coat.

  The man wheeled to face Alex’s grandfather. “Where are the others?” he snarled.

  “Ah . . .” The old man shared a puzzled glance with Alex. “Not quite with you, old bean. Where’s wh—”

  “The others who tried to get into this house last night. The others who came prowling through my gardens a few nights before that. The man who was with you when you attacked us in the offices of Harry Morecambe—the tall man, who gave me this.” Whipping back his blanket, he revealed his left thigh, wrapped in a padded bandage through which a fresh bloodstain seeped.

  “Oh, I see,” Alex’s grandfather said. “That was you at Harry’s the other night. Didn’t recognize you without your devilishly stylish masks. But I think we might have our wires crossed. You’ve made a mistake: yes, Harry is with us. But the others, we’re not with them—”

  “So what were you doing at Morecambe’s place together, then?” the woman interrupted.

  “Well, I could ask you the same thing.”

  “I think you’ll find this gives me first go.” She smiled, waggling her gun. “And what was Morecambe doing here with them the other night? Beyond prowling around the grounds looking to break in. Like you were again today.”

  “We caught you on the monitors,” the man in the wheelchair said. From his cardigan he produced a thick black remote control and clicked in the direction of the bookcases.

  With a grinding of gears, one section spun to reveal a bank of nine bulbous, 1970s-era televisions, stacked in a grid of three per shelf. The eight outer sets displayed a single dotted white line against a black background—it ran along near the top of the uppermost three screens, down the left and right sides of the TVs on the left and right of the second shelf, and along the bottom of the trio at ground level. In the center screen on the middle shelf, a large, pale, rectangular block flickered. Alex stared incredulously at the archaic assemblage, vaguely reminded of clips he’d seen of the earliest computer games. Pong. The name pinged oddly into his head.

  “My father’s work,” the man said with a hint of pride. “This alarm system monitors the estate’s entire perimeter.”

  “That’s fiendishly clever.” Alex’s grandfather sounded genuinely impressed. “And that’s the house in the center, there, is it? Isn’t that marvelous, Alex?”

  “Yes. It’s. Amazing.” Alex ground his teeth. The dog nearest him growled reproachfully.

  “It’s how we spotted Morecambe, the first night he tried to get in,” the woman said, watching the old man closely. “We went out with the dogs. And the guns. They ran. Left in two separate cars. We followed Morecambe. He lost us, but not before I got his number plate. It took me a couple of days and several favors to track him down, and then we thought we’d repay him the visit, to find out what he was up to. Which is when we first met you. We searched Morecambe’s place to try to discover how much he knew. But, as you know, we were interrupted.”

  “And you say you were attacked here again just last night?” Alex’s grandfather asked.

  “Enough. Who are you?” the man snapped. He aimed his pistol at Alex’s grandfather. The gun shook. The man wetted his lips and swallowed. “Who is this Morecambe? How did you learn the secret?”

  “Secret?” Alex’s grandfather wrinkled his nose as though trying to think. “Do we know any secrets, Alex?”

  “Please don’t waste any more of our time,” the woman said. Despite the lightness of her tone and the steadiness of her hands, she shared her companion’s anxiety. She directed the shotgun at Alex’s grandfather. “And please don’t think I won’t use this. I saw you looking at the painting as you came in.”

  “Oh.” Alex’s grandfather’s shoulders sagged. He ran a hand across his brow, looking suddenly utterly drained, defeated. “Game’s up, then. Ah, would you mind terribly if I sat down, my dear?” He gestured weakly at the dining chairs pushed against the wall behind him. “When you get to my age, the legs tire easily.”

  She narrowed her eyes, considering. “Fine. But talk. And don’t call me dear, or I might shoot you anyway.”

  “Thank you. Apologies.” He walked slowly across the room and sat heavily. “Okay. The painting. No point trying to deny it now. I confess, we are very interested in your painting.”

  He sighed and leaned far forward, rubbing wearily at his forehead. As he did, Alex saw him lift both feet slightly, bracing the soles of his boots hard and flat against the front legs of the chair he sat in. Alex realized the old man was still wearing his spring-heels.

  “You see, thing is—” Alex’s grandfather said. Then he rocketed across the room in a flashing gray blur.

  The force of his launch smashed the chair into a shower of splinters behind him as he cannoned headfirst into the man in the wheelchair, sending him rolling backward at a speed that knocked the woman to the floor. A deafening stray shot went off as the guns fell skidding from their hands and the wheelchair tipped over on top of her, leaving the pair struggling in a tangled heap.

  By the time the woman had jumped up, Alex’s grandfather had collected their weapons and the others from the table, and was in the process of casually pouring himself a drink from an ornate round bottle on the cart. Leaning the shotguns against the trolley, he lifted the bowl-like glass, sniffed it, sipped, and sighed contentedly.

  “Oh, unbelievable cognac, well done. Now—” he began.

  “Sic, Maia,” the woman said. The next thing Alex knew, he had been pushed roughly back against the wall behind her. The largest of the dogs stood on its hind legs with its huge front paws on his chest, pinning him there. It weighed more than he would have thought possible. Its mouth was drooling against his neck.

  “Guns back, please.” She smiled at the old man, extending her hand. “Or I’m afraid Maia will rip the boy’s throat out.”

  “Oh, I can’t imagine she’d do a thing like that. Splendid dog like her?” The old man twirled the pistol carelessly on one finger and took another unconcerned swig of brandy. “And anyway—” He muttered something Alex didn’t catch. One word, repeated seven times.

  “Grandad?” Alex said. The dog lifted its head until they were nose to nose. He caught the meaty flavor of its breath as it growled, long, low, and wet.

  “I’m absolutely serious,” the woman said. “One word from me and—”

  “C’mere, girl,” Alex’s grandfather said.

  The dog abruptly lurched at Alex’s face, licked his nose, then jumped down and padded to stand at the old man’s side. Alex’s grandfather whistled a brief snatch of a strange tune that Alex forgot as soon as he heard it. Silently, the other six dogs came from the walls, lining up in a loose arc behind the old man.

  “Sit,” he said, and, as one, they did.

  “How—” The woman said after an uncomprehending second. She stopped, staring at the dogs, then tried again. “How did . . . ?”

  “Oh, me and dogs go way back,” the old man said. Bending to retrieve his jacket and coat, he squeaked his keyring again. In response, the seven animals simultaneously lay down, flattening happily out on their bellies.

  “Just need to know the right name and the right tunes and the right tone of voice. I’ll teach it to you sometime, Alex. Now, listen,” he went on, smiling at the woman. “It strikes me we’ve all got off on
the wrong foot here. Let’s try again, and stop wasting time.”

  Setting down his glass, Alex’s grandfather hoisted the shotgun, spun it, broke it open, and emptied out the cartridges, dropping them into his pocket before tossing the weapon to her. She caught it one-handed, open mouthed.

  Unloading the revolver, the old man let it fall, deftly trapped it with his foot, then sent it sliding across the floorboards, where it came to a rest just in front of the man, who had righted his wheelchair and pulled himself back into it, clutching his thigh.

  “I think now’s the time for introductions,” Alex’s grandfather said. “This is Alex, and I’m his grandfather, and I’m deeply sorry about breaking your chair.” He raised his glass to the woman, smiling expectantly.

  “Kingdom,” she said, after a moment. She gave an involuntary laugh. “Evelyn Kingdom.”

  “Charmed. And you, sir?

  “Philippe de Metz.”

  “An honor.” The old man nodded and took another sip. “Now, are you sure you won’t join me in a drink while we sort this out? Alex, there’s ginger beer over here.”

  A few minutes later, they sat like opposing camps on the two sofas. Kingdom and Metz regarded them warily across an uneasy silence, trying to work them out. All four held glasses, Alex’s grandfather having poured everyone a measure and given himself a healthy top-up, but only the old man was drinking.

  “Your dog,” Alex said to Kingdom in an attempt to break the impasse. “Would it really have . . . ?” He traced a finger across his throat.

  “Maia? No,” she said, after a moment. She gave a shrugging smile, like she’d been found out. “She’s a big softy. Growling’s usually enough to stop anyone in their tracks.”

  Alex’s grandfather turned to Metz. “How bad’s your leg?”

  Several seconds passed. “It feels worse now than when he stabbed me,” the man finally muttered gloomily. He tugged the tartan blanket around his wounded thigh. “A huge man, and hugely powerful. I suppose adrenaline gave me strength to fight on at first. His blade went deep. Evelyn has stitched it as best she could. I don’t think there is too much damage, but it will be several days before I can do much walking. This wheelchair belonged to my grand-mère.” He nodded sadly to where it stood by the sofa. “The junk one keeps lying around an old house that has seen better times.”