Carver Heights followed a straight course for a kilometer and more, before reaching the base of Prospect Hill, which towers over the last of Iram’s pillars, on the eastern edge of the city. The trains do not reach this neighborhood, which is exactly the way the wealthy residents prefer it. Gated communities clung to the skirts of Prospect Hill, turning fenced and alarmed backs on the remainder of the city, while Carver Heights narrowed and began the long climb to the crest of the hill.
The homes on Prospect Hill were ancient even by the standards of the Nameless City, where more than a century is required to be considered noteworthy, and resplendent with obvious wealth. The architectural was done in a style reminiscent of a Germanic version of Colonial, with half-timber construction and aging masonry. On the western side of the street, the residences were bank houses, snugged into the hillside to moderate temperature and for protection from the elements. The road climbed steadily, offering spectacular views of the city, the black waters of the ocean, the dry mountains to the north, and the empty vistas of the Waste to the east, lapping at the crumbling edges of the Nameless City’s furthest suburbs. I had to stop several times, my abdominal muscles cramping around the pair of stab wounds.
The homes were, by and large, inhabited and intact, though most could have done with paint and minor repair. There were few lights on and no one on the street, but that was more a product of the hour than a lack of residents. The small gardens and courtyards lining the road had suffered from decades of neglect. A few trees had thrived despite the conditions, towering above two-story buildings, swollen trunks bursting from the confines of their allotted planters and encroaching on foundations, untrimmed branches scraping walls and blocking rain gutters.
As I walked, the rain let up a bit, becoming more of a heavy mist or a light drizzle, depending on the moment. The droplets swirling in the halo of the streetlights would have been pretty, had my fingers and toes not been so numb. My throat was raw from the cold air, and I wished I had accepted Yael’s offer of a scarf. The homes grew larger the higher up the hill I went, beginning with stately old manors, followed by small-scale mansions. Decorative masonry gates were accented with metalwork flourishes and dormant gas lanterns.
The moonlit view of the immense bay the Nameless City sat upon was startling – choppy waters reflecting the halogen lamps of the dock; blinking red lights indicating the positions of container ships and more exotic vessels; the unhealthy green glow from the Nameless City’s underwater sibling, pallid and extraordinary towers surfacing occasionally in the valleys between waves. The cobblestones were fractured and loose from wear and erosion, and I had to go slowly to avoid rolling an ankle.
The road surface was skewed by years of run-off, the slope barren excepting a few hardy shrubs and clumps of feathered grass. I had no trouble picking out the strange forms of the antique wind vanes that crowned the majority of the homes in the brilliant light of the moon. Depictions of the undersea city were rendered in massive stain glass windows, peculiar symbols and signs engraved in the masonry and ironwork.
The summit of the hill bobbed in and out of sight, between Widow’s Walks and tin chimneys. Somewhere nearby, the dull tolling of leaden bells, reminding me of the lateness of the hour. I was surprised to hear footsteps on the fractured cobblestones, and readied myself for potential trouble.
I relaxed as soon as I made out the figure approaching me. Elijah Pickman maintained an aloof demeanor regardless of the circumstance, but I prefer to think he felt the same way. Elijah was heading downhill, and making great time despite the darkness and the moderately treacherous conditions.
“Hello, Elijah!” I offered him what I hoped was reassuring nod. I wouldn’t want to bump into me unexpectedly and late at night, after all. “Terrible weather, huh?”
He gave me a quizzical look, as if I were the suspicious character.
“Terrible indeed, Mr. Tauschen.”
“Didn’t expect to meet anyone up here, especially not at this hour. Prospect Hill is pretty out of the way…”
“I live here, Mr. Tauschen,” Elijah explained evenly. “I rent rooms at a house just a bit up the hill.”
“That’s pretty inconvenient,” I pointed out. “Why do you live so far from school?”
“The adjoining neighborhoods are…not to my taste.” He looked a little green, actually, as if maybe he was sick to his stomach, or something. “My family has been in the Nameless City for some time, Mr. Tauschen. We have deep roots, here. This area is…familiar.”
I nodded, even though it didn’t feel much that way to me.
Then again, I live in the Empty District, in a witch’s house, surrounded by abandoned buildings.
“I see.”
“What are you doing here, Mr. Tauschen?”
Was there a hint of accusation? The glare of the moon off his round glasses made it difficult to study his queasy face.
“Running an errand,” I said, with a grin that could have meant anything. “For Holly.”
“I see.”
He frowned and inclined his head, clearly hinting that I should explain myself more fully. I waited and said nothing, letting the silence do its work.
Elijah must have known that trick, too. We stared at each other in the dark like idiots for longer than I would care to admit.
“Very well.” He adjusted his crimson tie unnecessarily, tugging gently at a perfect Windsor. Water was beaded lightly across his beige overcoat, and speckled the lenses of his glasses. “I have business of my own to attend to, Mr. Tauschen.”
“Hold on, Eli. You’re tutoring basically every girl at the Estates, right?”
For some reason, I derived a petty joy from teasing Elijah.
“Yes. With the exception of Sumire, who has already graduated. And, Mr. Tauschen, I do prefer Elijah to Eli…”
His tone was flat, his posture rigid, almost as if he was standing at attention.
“Of course you do. Who wouldn’t? Anyway, I won’t keep you long,” I lied, with an unwholesome smile. “I have to ask, though – which one of them is it?”
He gave me a confused look, but I wasn’t buying it. Elijah was too smart to miss my jab. I decided another was in order.
“You know what I mean.” His expression suggested that he did not – and he was, at least, mildly annoyed. “Which one of them do you like, Eli? Who are you crushing on?”
“Crushing on?” He looked genuinely puzzled for a moment, and then his face darkened. “Mr. Tauschen, what are you implying?”
“Imply? Nothing,” I scoffed. It may seem like I was being a dick – and I probably was – but it was for the kid’s own good. “I said it right out loud. You’re barely more than a teenager. There’s no reason for you to volunteer to tutor a bunch of girl geniuses unless you have a thing for one of them.”
His jaw worked from side to side.
“Are you making fun of me, Mr. Tauschen?”
“A bit. And call me Preston, please. There’s no need to be so formal.”
“As you wish. In any case, my personal affairs are none of your business.”
“Of course. I just think you might be a little over your head with this particular crew of young ladies.”
“I am a tutor. The rest is simply your imagination.”
“Speaking of imagination…that story you told Yael and I the other day. I wanted to ask you…”
“I apologize.” Elijah brushed past me with the confidence of an older – or bigger – man. I had to give him a certain amount of grudging respect, even if I was tempted to break him in half on general principal. “I have an engagement, for which I am already late. Have a good night.”
“You too, Eli. We’ll catch up another time, okay?”
I watched him leave, just to make a point. Then he turned the first of the many curves and disappeared from sight. The tapping of his polished leather shoes on the stones took a little while longer to die out.
I shook my head, and turned to finish the long march to the top of
Prospect Hill, and the cul-de-sac which crowned it.
***
Prospect Hill was old. The observatory at the top was prehistoric.
There’s a lot to unpack here. Let’s start from the beginning:
Two more curves, another dozen houses, and the street petered out into a private gravel drive, raked smooth and circular. In the center of the drive, a mossy stone well was capped with a near petrified wooden lid. Scores in the stone and disturbances in the gravel around it told me that this well saw regular use, like maybe the municipal water system didn’t make it this far. I had no idea who could be drinking from it, but there was only one building at the end of the road, surrounded by withered reeds and grasses, dying elm trees and long-dead oaks.
An observatory, neutered.
A dome the equivalent of five lacquered stories atop a stone pedestal, with a meter slit in the side of the dome where the telescope would have slotted. There were grounds and signs of ancient tillage, likely gardens meant to sustain the staff. Compared to the rest of the neighborhood, it was in remarkably good repair, aside from the missing telescope.
The construction must have been a mammoth undertaking. I climbed the stairs to up the pedestal warily, studying the strange carvings and waiting for something to jump out at me. The swelled angle of the dome reminded me vaguely of the awful moon overhead, white marble glowing with reflected light.
At the top of the pedestal, there was a door leading into the dome. The door was one massive piece of dark wood. It absorbed the sound of my knock completely. There was no bell or knocker, so I beat upon the door and called out until I lost my voice. There were no neighbors to disturb, fortunately, but if there were any in residence within, then they had no inclination to open the door.
I retreated and concealed myself in the shadows in a nearby alcove. I waited the better part of an hour, but no one came, and no light shown from the windowed top of the lighthouse. Moving quietly, I returned to the door, and gave the knob a gentle try.
Nothing.
I gradually increased the force, but the brass fixture didn’t budge. I put my shoulder to the door, and then leaned, but the bolt held. From an inner pocket, I took a number of tools that are useful in the absence of a key. I took a moment to assure that I was alone and unobserved, and then set to work.
Thirty minutes later, I abandoned the effort. It was delicate work, as I wanted to avoid leaving any visible scratches, and the mechanism rebuffed me casually.
I returned the tools my pocket, said some choice words under my breath, and turned back down Carver Heights. I didn’t see any point in hanging around and freezing my ass off and I needed to get home anyway, in case April woke. Maybe Yael had better luck, down by the docks.
I suppose the walk down gave me time to think, but it had started to rain again, so all I was concerned with was getting home, and then warm and dry. The houses were even quieter than when I climbed up, as it neared midnight. There was another hour until the last train, which gave me plenty of time before I needed to be at the station, but I found myself hurrying nonetheless. Carver Heights wasn’t the sort of place that encouraged one to loiter.
I was tired, yawning as I came around the last bend. The lingering headache that nagged at me all day was starting to become more significant, and my feet were sore. The living room couch seemed to call out to me from a neighborhood’s distance away. I shoved my hands in my pockets, lowered my head, and picked up the pace, eager to be out of the intermittent rain.
Fingers locked around my wrist, manipulating the joint, demanding compliance. Before I could formulate a reaction, I was tugged into a narrow alcove at the back entrance to a swanky apartment building, my back slammed up against gilded marble paneling.
“Found you,” Jenny snarled, her skin was flushed and shiny with sweat, her oddly shaped eyes hideously bloodshot, pupils shrunk to pinpricks. “Happy to see me, fucker?”
7. Letters of Last Resort
The worst sort of telepathy. Artificial cherry and simple syrup, body temperature warm, lipstick, and damp cotton. Sleep populated by uncertain signs and the harsh music of the crows. Waking to the crude manipulations of a stranger’s hands.
The stone wall was frigid, chilling me through the synthetic fabric of my rain jacket, and the equally synthetic base layer beneath. Jenny’s breath was shallow and uneven, and beneath the scent of unwashed clothing and dried sweat, a faint odor reminiscent of paint thinner. She licked painfully chapped lips and studied me with the savage concentration of a predator.
“Jenny, come on.” I slowly raised my hands in a show of nonresistance. “Calm down, okay?”
A frown. Jenny looked away, and then shoved her hands in the pockets of her threadbare sweatshirt.
“I wasn’t happy to see you, you know? Bad timing, you showing up with Yael. You showing up at all.” She squinted at me, stumbling and intoxicated. “Told you to stay away. Why are you such an asshole, Preston?”
“Look, Jenny, let’s not do this right now. You’re wasted…”
“No shit.” Jenny sneered. “You think I’d like you any better if I was sober?”
“I know you’re still pissed about that stuff a couple years ago...”
“Just a little.” Jenny cocked her head to the side, and considered me like a butcher eyeing a side of beef. “That seem unreasonable?”
I considered trying to push past her, out into the street, where I’d have a few more options if things got physical.
“No, I get you. It was a shitty thing to do, lying and all. I had to find April, though. Had to. I would have done anything…”
“Ha!” Jenny’s cackle was manic and off-kilter. “Knight in shining armor.”
“That’s me. Can we move past this?”
I watched her hands, not her face, waiting for the inevitable moment when things went bad.
“Sure,” Jenny said indifferently. “Where’s Yael?”
“I left her with you, remember? What’s with you and that girl, anyway?”
“Where is she, asshole?”
“I don’t know! You fucking saw her last, right?”
In a situation like that, your reaction was either instantaneous or too late, leaving no room for considerations such as who started it.
I thought I saw Jenny’s arm tense, and I immediately slammed the palm of my hand into her jaw, slamming her teeth together with the sound of mousetrap snapping shut. My left hand moved on its own, without any conscious intervention on my part. Jenny stepped forward, breaking my hold, and I responded.
She froze. We considered each other. My scalpel rested comfortably on Jenny’s windpipe.
The wind tore through the alley, rattling the dented metal door at the end, chilling me despite my escalating fever. The perpetually underdressed Jenny shivered and spat blood on the asphalt.
“Fine, whatever.” Jenny shrugged and rubbed her jaw, ignoring my blade to such a degree that I had to work pretty hard not to cut her throat. “You’re a dick, Preston.”
“You came out of nowhere. I don’t even know what you are freaking out over. What is it about Yael that rattles you so badly?”
I braced for hostility, but Jenny just sighed and kicked a discarded plastic water bottle from the pile of trash beside her feet.
“Long story.” She shook her head, and then blinked for the first time during our encounter. She gnawed industriously on her thumbnail, giving me a speculative look. “Hey. I know something you wanna know. Trade?”
***
“This…is someone’s house.”
Jenny rolled her eyes.
“Nothing gets past you.”
“Who’s house is this?”
Jenny blew a pink bubble, and then popped it.
“Stop asking questions.”
“What the hell? You dragged me along because you had something to tell me, and now I can’t ask questions?” I hesitated on the stoop of the grungy Georgian, existing in a haze of cigarette smoke and accumulated filth. “I have better
places to be, Jenny.”
Jenny popped her gum, and shrugged.
“Your call, asshole.”
She knocked on the door. I didn’t go anywhere.
Jenny had dragged me to one of the motley houses built along the first broad curve of Carver Heights, near the base of Prospect Hill. The community was gated, but the gate was unguarded and ajar, and the neighborhood behind it had seen better days.
“Real quiet. You sure your friends are here, Jenny?”
Jenny gave me side-eye.
“I don’t have any friends, Preston.”
She knocked again, this time really laying into the door. Her hands were a mess of bruised and abraded knuckles, with Band-Aids on several fingers. Her clothes were stained and dirty, and her hair was beginning to mat.
“Now you’re hurting my feelings. What’s that make Yael, then?”
Jenny stared straight ahead, chewing furiously, saying nothing. Footsteps from inside were followed by a racking cough and the clamor of bolt and chain. The door opened slightly, allowing a sallow punk rocker with a prematurely aged face to peer out at Jenny in obvious dismay.
“Hey, Neil.” Jenny snapped her gum. “Open up.”
“I don’t know, Jenny.” He wiped enflamed nostrils and squinted. “You got money?”
That cackle again, a joke that only Jenny got. The kid with the old face didn’t like it any more than I did.
“You know I don’t,” Jenny said gleefully, hooking a thumb in my direction. “Preston does, though.”
I muttered something unkind and stepped into the dim radius of the inadequate porch light. Neil didn’t appear to like me very much, either.
“I don’t know you.”
“That’s right.” Neil had a real issue with cold sores, I was noticing. There were a dozen of them scattered across his face, among the scars of many more. “You don’t.”
Neil looked me over, and it was obvious he didn’t care for what he saw. Given the circumstances, it was hard to hold that against him.
The Mysteries of Holly Diem (Unknown Kadath Estates Book 2) Page 12