It was probably an act, but a cute one.
“With that handled,” Dawes said, taking a half-full bottle from a desk drawer, “what can I do for you?”
He motioned with the bottle hospitably, and I nodded, masking my reluctance. From the same drawer, Dawes produced two wide-mouthed glasses intended for brandy.
“Information, Prof. One of your associates.”
He winced as he filled each of the glasses with two fingers of dark amber, twelve-year-old scotch. It wasn’t to my taste, honestly, but it seemed the polite thing to do.
“Do call me Ian, please.” He handed me a glass and then sat gingerly on the creaky chair behind the desk. “Which of my colleagues are you interested in?”
I found a chair that didn’t accommodate a pile of books and took a seat, sipping the Scotch sparingly, out of politeness. I’m not much of a drinker, but I am sensitive to social obligation.
“Not one of your colleagues,” I said, rolling the damp glass between my palms. “An associate. A peer, I suppose.”
The Professor raised an eyebrow. I got the feeling he was enjoying this.
“The owner of the Kadath Estates,” I explained. “Holly Diem.”
His eyes widened and he set his glass aside. To his credit, however, he didn’t just throw me out on my ear. Caution was required, nonetheless. There was every chance that this would make it back to Holly.
“You have piqued my curiosity. What do you want to know?”
“Holly’s business. Whatever it is. I wanna know.”
Whatever the personal crises my request precipitated, Dawes recovered quickly. He finished his Scotch, straightened his royal blue tie, and got back to business.
“Why?”
“You probably know that I do the odd job for Holly,” I looked for a place to set my largely untouched drink. “You may not be aware that she has taken to employing Sumire in a similar capacity.”
That last part was my invention, but it seemed safe enough.
“This work,” Dawes said uneasily. “It involves violence?”
“Sometimes. By accident, rather than design, for the most part.”
“Still…”
“Yeah. I don’t like it either,” I lied. “C’mon, Ian. You must want to know what your landlady has gotten your students involved in.”
Dawes took a sheet of paper from a desk drawer, and a rose-gold fountain pen from his breast pocket. He wet the nib with his thin blue lips, and proceeded to jot down notes.
“The question stands, Preston. Why does it matter to you?”
“That’s hurtful.”
“Oh, come now.” Dawes’s eyes were unclouded and full of good humor. “Do try and be honest.”
“I like to cover my bases,” I explained, embedding a nugget of truth in what would become a mass of lies. “Holly has done me all sorts of favors, but I don’t know the first thing about her. Nothing at all.”
“Clearly,” Dawes said solemnly, scratching away at the paper. “Otherwise, you would already be aware that merely asking that question is a dangerous proposition. Holly has kept her business private for years, and secrets do not keep themselves.”
“Are you saying...?”
“Not at all,” Dawes said, glancing from his expanding notes to shake his head. “Nothing so inelegant. I merely suggest that Holly Diem should not be taken lightly.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“I don’t understand why you would feel threatened by our host. Whatever she may be, it should be clear that she isn’t an agent of...whomever. I can attest that she is no friend to the Outer Dark. Also, she is...undeniably beautiful. What could she have done to excite your suspicion?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Ian. Let’s see. She calls herself a witch,” I said, counting off my points with my fingers, “nobody knows who she is, or where she comes from, what she does for a living, or how she came to own the only occupied building in a completely abandoned neighborhood. Everyone is afraid of her, but no one knows why. It must bother you. Listen – none of us can remember why we came to the Estates in the first place, right? We all showed up with a letter assuring us that arrangements were made and a key, and not a clue why or how.”
Dawes blinked and nodded reluctantly.
“Don’t you find that suspicious? She owns the building. Do you think dear Miss Ai selects the tenants? Ridiculous. Holly is in charge, particularly of important matters. For all we know, we live at the Estates because Holly invited us.”
The ghoul folded his hands thoughtfully. If he could have gotten paler, I suspect he would have.
“That is a disquieting notion.”
“Isn’t it just?”
He rubbed his temples and sighed. Ian Dawes is a nice guy, despite his dubious dietary and lifestyle choices, and I felt bad awakening his suspicions. Whatever came of it, his relationship with Holly would never be quite the same. We do what we must, however – or I do, anyway.
“I will admit to unease with my ignorance.”
“You’ll look into it?”
Dawes appeared to consider it; then he stood and offered me his hand solemnly. I stood and then we shook, the whole ritual forced, his hand as cold as the grave where he acquired his meals. There was a more squeamish time when I might have flinched from contact with a ghoul, but the fact of the matter was, they were a normal part of the Nameless City.
“I will.” He prolonged the handshake excessively. “Give me some time, Preston.”
I got the feeling that he was moved by my confidence. I let him enjoy our friendly little conspiracy.
***
I walked the girls home, and then took a nap while April and Yael attended a tutoring session with Elijah, under Kim Ai’s watchful eyes. I was still exhausted from the party, and zoned out on the couch.
It was nearly dusk when I noticed my phone blinking, and discovered that April had left me a pair of messages. The first text informed me that she would have dinner downstairs with Kim, which meant my dinner was likely cup ramen, unless the girls devoured my stash during the party. The second warned me that April would spend the night at Sumire’s, a regular practice adopted in the last few months. I still wasn’t sure how to feel about that, which was probably April’s intention.
I showered and shaved, taking my time in the steam and hot water, trying to clear my throat and lungs, looking for relief from my persistent cold. I felt moderately abandoned, and envious that April was likely eating Kim’s excellent cooking. I fired off a terse confirmation, dried my hair and dressed, and then headed to the roof for a breath of fresh air.
Solitude isn’t much of a commodity in the Empty District, but the garden our neighborhood witch maintained on the rooftop might have been the nicest place to find it. Holly visited in the early morning, to water and fuss over roses and mites, but that was it. Sometimes I found Lovecraft napping among the ferns and potted palms, but not this evening, which caused me a brief and surprising fit of regret.
The wind was coming in off the water, biting and chilly. Clouds swallowed the stars, hiding the moon behind a high-altitude halo of refracted light. The marine layer hadn’t yet rolled in, so I could still see the sparkling lights of the waterfront of Innsmouth, along with an unearthly glow from within the deep waters of the bay. Banks of rain clouds hovered over the choppy water of the open ocean, promising to hurry inland at the first opportunity.
I watched the lights of the city for hours, until the dark arrived fully and I started to shiver, and then decided to head back down. I nearly collided with Elijah Pickman on the other side of the trestles of jasmine and morning glory, among the dormant roses. He stood in front of a drawing pad mounted on an easel, a pencil in one hand and another tucked behind his ear, lost in concentration.
“Evening, Eli.”
He jumped and squealed girlishly, seizing his drawing and clutching it to his chest before turning to meet me with a ferocious glare. The anger subsided quickly, once he realized who I was, but I was su
rprised to have seen it at all.
“Good evening, Mr. Tauschen,” he said meekly. “I didn’t know you were up here.”
“Hope I didn’t surprise you,” I said gleefully, clapping him on his narrow shoulder. “What are you working on?”
He hugged his drawing pad as if he didn’t want me to see it.
“Sketching,” he explained hurriedly. “Ideas for a new etching, based on the architecture of the Kadath Estates, and the Empty District.”
“Huh. April told me you did art, so I get that much – but how do you sketch at night?” I gestured out at the nearly universal darkness of the Empty District. At last count, Leng Street has only four functioning streetlamps, two of which are on our block. “Can you even see the buildings?”
“I arrived shortly before dark.”
“And then?”
“I hold the scene in my mind’s eye, Mr. Tauschen. Shadow is no obstacle,” he said, tapping his high forehead. “It’s a gift I inherited from my great grandfather.”
“I suppose. How’d you get up here, anyway?”
“I finished tutoring Miss Ersten and Miss Kaufman earlier, and thought that I might borrow the garden to draw. Miss Diem has not objected, on previous occasions.”
“I bet.”
The kid seemed nervous, and he was sweating prolifically, given the child of the evening. Behind his glasses, Elijah’s eyes were bloodshot and tired, and I got the feeling that he could have used a week or two or makeup sleep. Carter pushes these kids awfully hard, sometimes, and not everyone is invulnerable.
“What are you doing in the garden, Mr. Tauschen?”
“Nothing in particular, Eli. Staring off into space.”
“A time honored tradition,” he said approvingly. “That reminds me of a story…oh. I apologize. My stories annoy you; isn’t that right, Mr. Tauschen?”
I shifted guiltily.
“No, that’s not it. You caught me in a bad mood the other day, that’s all. Don’t take it personal.”
“I shan’t.”
His tone made it abundantly clear that Elijah had taken it personally. April’s goofy, stuck-up tutor was angry with me. I almost laughed in his face.
“Okay, then, Eli. Hit me with the story.”
“How generous. Not to worry, Mr. Tauschen,” Elijah assured me coldly. “I won’t take up much of your time.”
I gave him an impatient smile.
“The story concerns an artist, from a family of artists.” His voice was high and tense, his pronunciation exact. “From his birth, he was destined to inherit the legacy of generations of creative output, an artistic tradition whose founder is lost to history. Looking on the work of his ancestors – paintings of the Underworld and the feeding of the ghouls; stained glass windows utilizing hues unknown to this world and invisible to the human eye; statues of such remarkable realism that they required restraints, just to be certain.”
The boy seemed lost, staring out at the Empty District as if the dark were no obstacle.
“The artist looked upon all this, and despaired, for his own work was less inspired. He dreamed of being able to create something that would honor the legacy that was his birthright, but his work fell far short of such lofty goals. Desperate for inspiration, he turned to his studio of the oldest parts of the city, the buildings that had survived centuries and seen too much. He poked through their ruins and basements, climbed to the roofs and towers, looking for something that would inspire him. He found neglected wonders and abandoned glories. And something else – a muse, for lack of a better word, betrayed and shackled and deliberately forgotten.”
Elijah’s voice fell, as if he feared being overheard.
“The artist learned things, in that forgotten corner of the city, listening to his muse spin tales of the city’s distant past, and of the worlds that lie impossibly beyond the city, above and beneath. Eventually, he told his muse of his dream, his desire to create something beyond compare, something that would surpass even the creations of his ancestors. His muse was sympathetic, and she told him of something that wasn’t; something that could be, if enough was invested in its creation. She taught him the arts required, to draw it across worlds and out of himself, creating an image that would become the thing it represented – the Pallid Mask. A tool designed to help one lose their way like an inverted compass, to grant independence to one’s shadow, and to impart the sea cucumber’s secrets of immortality. A mask that was both more and less than the face behind it, the face it gradually came to replace. There were lessons within it, a wealth of occult knowledge.”
“You’re getting a little abstract, there, Elijah,” I said jovially, jarring him from his reverie. “Not all of us have art degrees, you know.”
“Neither of us, as it happens,” he sneered, gathering up his materials. “I apologize for wasting your time, Mr. Tauschen.”
“You aren’t going to finish the story?”
“To your great disappointment, I’m sure, no,” Elijah said, with a wan smile. “I’ve had a sudden burst of inspiration – thanks to our chat, actually.” He shoved his drawing board and folding easel under his arm, and then took my hand and shook it limply. “Thank you for your inadvertent assistance, Mr. Tauschen. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”
“I don’t really get you, Eli,” I admitted, bemused, “but you’re welcome.”
“At some later time, Mr. Tauschen, remind me to show you my etchings,” he said, pausing at the top of the stair with a curious expression on his face. “It occurs to me that you might be one of the few who would understand them.”
“Sure thing. Good night, kid.”
He went clattering down the stairwell.
Despite the cold, I decided a walk was in order, and possibly a snack. I stopped by the apartment for a coat and gloves, and then hit Leng Street, aiming myself in the direction of Sarnath, and a pizza place I vaguely remembered being near the train station. There was an edge to the night, and I was restless, my mind moving in directions that made me uneasy. I was so worked up that I didn’t notice how long I’d been walking until my feet ached and my ears stung from cold.
I do not get lost. That’s not a brag – my brain automatically compiles a map of my surroundings. The Nameless City offered no shortage of ancient, maze-like neighborhoods and unfamiliar suburbs, and eschewed the consistent use of street signs, but I had a couple years to make sense of it all. There is simply no way that I got lost on my way to get a slice of a pizza.
Nonetheless.
I stopped in the middle of the vacant road, and then turned in a slow circle, looking at the rows of duplexes and brownstones that lined street, the stately elms that uprooted the sidewalk and obscured the sky. I scratched my head, scanned the horizon. I squared my shoulders, took another score of steps, and then my resolve wavered. I turned around, and attempted to retrace my steps.
I was fairly certain I remember making a left at the bookstore, but after that…
Three turns later, and I was forced to admit it.
I had no idea where I was, and couldn’t even find a landmark to reorient myself.
Cursing, I threw caution to the wind, trotting down an alley an arbitrary direction, searching for signs or familiar buildings. I thought I was in one of the residential suburbs that adjoin Sarnath – I was almost certain I had never crossed the river – but saw nothing I recognized.
I made a left at a Church of Dagon, doing my best to ignore the monstrous statuary, then another left, and then went straight at the third intersection, hopeful of bumping into the river. I hit a dead-end instead, and doubled back – or meant to do so. I couldn’t find my way back to the Church, or find any landmark that I recognized.
Furious, I struck out in the opposite direction, and immediately found myself befuddled by a tangle of alleys that all seemed to emerge at the same barren park, no matter which direction I chose.
I recall turning a corner, and seeing something that looked like a disembodied face, leering from the shad
ows.
***
Concrete against my cheek, cold through the soles of my shoes. The crashing of the lead-alloy bells of the Church of Dagon like a rhythmic car accident.
A headache roaring in my ears, my tongue thick and swollen. Soft light from behind firmly closed eyelids. Acrid smell of burning garbage, distinctive reek of gasoline.
A damp stickiness coated the pavement. My fingers stuck to each other and I had to peel my face from the concrete. My clothing was wet and heavy, and now that I was aware of it, the metallic odor overwhelming, a coppery taste lingering at the back of my mouth. Unmistakable. Afraid to open my eyes, I instead searched my body with my hands, looking for injury, and found nothing.
My mind reassembled itself by pieces, singular images without context. Each impression hung at the forefront of my brain for an indeterminate period, to be pushed aside for the next impression.
I forced myself to open my eyes, and took in the scene with a sense of numb, but persistent horror. I lay in a large, irregular pooling of blood, my torso blocking the drain inset in the pavement. The blood ran extensively from a body situated on the next square of pavement, buckled from seismic pressure and therefore at an incline. The body was slack and stiff and vaguely malformed. I could not see the face, but there was no need.
Sumire.
Judging by the brightening sky and quiet buildings around us, it was very early morning. I had lost hours, perhaps the majority of the night. We occupied an alley between rows of identical three-story buildings, each with a retail operation on the ground and residences above. The buildings were in poor repair, but clean and recently painted. The chemical odor of the nearby factories made me suspect we were somewhere in the main residential neighborhood of Sarnath, across the river from the Empty District, probably no more than a long walk from the Estates.
The Mysteries of Holly Diem (Unknown Kadath Estates Book 2) Page 4