The lead man looked at him.
“I don’t know, sir. I swear it,” he said.
9
“It did seem to call to… call to me,” Ms. Avery Rice said, admiring herself in the full length mirror.
Lucy stepped forward, stroked the fine, pristine white hairs of the fur coat. From hood to floor, the extravagant garment covered every inch of the woman.
Lucy sauntered around Avery, eying the coat, her face.
“Tell me, Avery, has there been an… injustice?” she said, gauging her patron’s response.
Avery’s stomach tightened and she pursed her lips. She stared at Lucy for a moment, breaking that gaze as Lucy smiled back, unmoving.
“Injustice? Why, whatever do you mean? I have done nothing wrong. There can be nothing wrong with a woman pampering herself with fine things,” she said, drawing the full length fur around her more tightly.
Avery was not put at ease by Lucy’s smile, a smile which seemed to her a bit too smug and knowing.
“Oh, no, my dear. That’s not what I mean at all. To you?”
Avery kept up her guard, looking again at Lucy.
“To me? I—” she said, withdrawing her right hand from the warm pocket and touching her own cheek.
She watched as Lucy seemed to study her, look the fur up and down. In that look, Avery could not help but feel that the examination penetrated deeper than the outer garment.
“It’s just that… well, you were quite right, you know?” Lucy said, her smile softening as she caressed her shoulder. The touch sent a warm ripple down her back that Avery felt even through the fur.
“I was?” she said, other words escaping her.
Lucy moved behind her now, placed her face next to Avery’s, her chin on her shoulder. Both women stared into the mirror.
“You said it seemed the coat had chosen you, and I dare say, I know it to be true. All my patrons come in not knowing what they desire, only that the desire is there. It may sound silly to you, Avery, but I believe the coat called to you before you even entered my shop. When you arrived, it was just a matter of the coat making itself known to you. And now it has,” Lucy said, withdrawing and again standing off to the side.
Avery studied the woman. Not knowing what to make of her. She felt a familiarity with her that came from old friends, but she only just met her. She had never even been in LUCY’S FURS before, didn’t ever think of herself as someone who wore furs. Another feeling washed over her. Indignation, that anyone would ever try to deny her what she knew was her own.
“My sister tries to hurt me whenever she can,” Avery said, surprised at her speech, but feeling that it was a long time coming.
She watched for Lucy’s reaction, shock maybe, disapproval, perhaps. None of those emotions seemed to come. Instead, what she could only define as a certain knowledge played across Lucy’s face and it strengthened Avery.
“Yes, I thought so. Indeed. Avery, the coat you wear? It was designed by a woman of great skill. She made garments for all the betters of Eastern Europe. This particular coat, designed for a Duchess, a royal lady stripped of her finery, her position, her place by those who would take what was hers for themselves. Such pity did the designer feel for the Duchess, she crafted a fur of surpassing elegance and beauty. She became the envy of all who saw her. It gave her great power, power enough to claim again all she had lost, all that was hers. It is the reason I asked my question. It is the reason this coat has chosen you,” Lucy said, a look of awe on her face.
Avery could only stare at Lucy. A moment more, she closed her gaping mouth and looked again at the mirror, at herself in the coat of a Duchess. Words came to her and she did not hold them back.
“All that my family has earned, all the wealth that is my birthright, my sister squanders, takes from me and gives to another. I deserve this. This coat claims me. I claim it, as my power and my right,” she said, pleased with her own defiance.
Lucy smiled broadly. She uncrossed her arms and turned toward the back of the shop.
“I’ll bring you your receipt,” she said.
Coming out of the shop and heading down Main street, Avery’s confidence only grew. The coat did not seem heavy on her at all, felt like a mantle of greatness. She could tell people were looking at her, admiring her, wondering who she was, what they might do to gain her favor.
Up ahead, a woman, exotic, dressed like none she had ever seen. Her skin was brown, her eyes like pools. Avery saw the woman stare at her and basked in her attention. Now the woman approached and Avery smiled. The woman stopped, blocked her way.
Looking around, the street now seemed empty, felt like they were the only two people in the world. Avery went to speak, to inquire of the woman. Before she could, the woman produced a large feather, held it out before her. Images flashed in Avery’s mind.
A charity established by her father.
An endowment set up, the family fortune.
Her sister made executor.
Funds embezzled, those in need turned away.
A coat purchased.
Avery blinked, the images disturbing for their accuracy. The woman before her spoke.
“Weighed and found wanting. Your guilt hangs upon you.”
The woman’s face turned cold and it frightened her. She went to move away, but the woman struck. The pain intense as her hand gripped her heart, tore it from her chest.
Avery looked down, at the crimson spatter on the pristine white. In the woman’s hand her own heart, now on fire. Avery fell, her last thought the knowledge of her sins. Beside her in the street, the charcoal organ and a single ostrich feather.
10
Not for the first time since he woke him, Doctor Slater called out to Ahkbar to slow down, but not for the first time, Ahkbar ignored him. With his aging companion trailing behind him, Ahkbar pushed his way through the crowd of Hemisphere citizens and throngs of press corps, toward the bright lights set up on the sidewalk up ahead. Just beyond the halo of stark light, other lights pulsed, the red and blue of police cars. Reaching the perimeter of yellow crime scene tape, a young officer held out his hands to the crowd, an attempt to hold them back. Ahkbar craned his neck to get a better view as Doctor Slater huffed up beside him, his breathing labored, his appearance still tussled from being pulled from his bed by his younger colleague.
“Ahkbar! Please, why have you dragged me down here in the middle of the night? I must insist you tell me what this is all about,” Doctor Slater said, his words coming between gasps.
Around the officer, Ahkbar could see an evidence tech closing his case. Off to the side, paramedics hoisted a gurney into their ambulance, the sheet completely covering the body beneath letting everyone know they would not be rushing to the hospital.
“It’s happening, Doctor Slater,” Ahkbar said, not taking his eyes off the scene.
Doctor Slater blinked at Ahkbar.
“What’s happening? What are you talking about, young man?” Doctor Slater said.
Ahkbar finally looked at Doctor Slater, a feeling of cold dread making him shiver.
“Ammit, Doctor,” he said, fear making the words feel thick on his tongue.
For a second Doctor Slater just stared back, his face a blank expression of incomprehension.
“Oh, pshaw, Ahkbar, don’t be ridiculous,” Doctor Slater said.
Ahkbar could feel his impatience rising at the old man’s doubt.
“Yes, Doctor Slater, it most certainly is! The news reported the body was absent its heart, that the organ was found adjacent to the body, burned, with… an ostrich feather resting on the chest cavity,” Ahkbar said, needing to swallow despite the sudden dryness of his mouth.
Doctor Slater worked his mouth, but no words came out. He looked from Ahkbar to the crime scene and back again. Before he could form a response, a man in a suit and trench coat approached the crowd of reporters. The press thronged together, microphones and recording devices held high.
“Here, see, it appears we’re g
oing to get some official word on the matter, and I doubt it will include any nonsense about free roaming killer mummies, Ahkbar,” Doctor Slater said, more self assured than Ahkbar felt.
“Chief Hammel!
“Chief!”
“Adlar!”
The flurry of shouts from reporters assaulted the chief of police as he approached. A frown on his face as he looked to the reporter who had called him by his first name. A few more waves of his hands and the reporters quieted.
“I am going to make a brief statement only. I will not be answering questions at this time. At approximately 1930 hours this evening, a single white female was found dead on Main street. We are just now beginning our investigation and have precious little to go on. Initial cause of death appears to be sudden cardiac arrest. As we get more information, we will clear what we can and provide it to you,” Chief Hammel said, turning away from the crowd.
Ahkbar felt confused. Beside him, Doctor Slater chuckled.
“See there, Ahkbar. Nothing more than a heart attack. Absolutely no connection to any fanciful story of demon goddesses,” he said, turning to go himself.
The reporters erupted with questions again, all thrown into the air with none discernible. One voice rose above the crowd.
“Chief! Isn’t it true that the victim’s heart stopped because it was lying on the sidewalk next to her body?!”
This brought the Chief to a stop. Ahkbar watched as his shoulders rose and fell in a heavy sigh. Seeming to resign himself to the question, the chief turned around and addressed the crowd.
“I don’t suppose I can divest you of that opinion, can I? It’s the story you’re going to print, so let me be perfectly clear. The nature of the assailant’s death was both extreme and violent. Honestly, like nothing I have ever seen before. The specifics of the murder require that we take the utmost care in our investigation—”
“So now it’s a murder, Chief?! A moment ago it was a heart attack!” the same reporter said.
The Chief looked around at the other reporters, all of them silent, waiting for some kind of answer.
“Yes. We are quite certain the assailed… the victim in this case lost her life to misadventure. But I must insist that it is too early to tell you anything more. The investigation is in its earliest stages,” he said, moving to turn away again.
Again the throng of reporters disgorged their questions.
“Chief! Is there any connection in this case to the recent theft of the Egyptian artifact?”
“Is there a supernatural element to this case, chief? Should the citizens of Hemisphere be concerned about another uprising?”
Ahkbar pressed forward, desperate to see how the Chief would answer. He gave a quick sidelong glance to Doctor Slater, some part of him pleased that he too had a real interest now.
“Now, hold it right there! That kind of comment is nothing but salacious! We have no indication whatsoever that this has anything to do with the recent theft, or that a member of the supernatural community had anything to do with either event. There is no threat of an uprising. The citizens of Hemisphere who are of the supernatural persuasion pose no threat to our fair city. They are upstanding members of our society and need not be feared in any way. We consider these two crimes unrelated. Any threats against any member of the row will be dealt with harshly. We have our best investigators on this and the peace will be maintained. Is that clear?” he said, offering a glare to the crowd.
Ahkbar felt the breath go out of him. Beside him, Doctor Slater turned to go.
“Come Ahkbar, you have your verdict in this matter. Let us allow the police to do their job,” he said, pushing his way back through the crowd.
Ahkbar watched the chief walk away. As the reporters dispersed, the one that called the chief by his first name shouted out a final question.
“Will you be bringing Emma Spaulding in on this, Chief?”
Again, the Chief stopped and turned around. Seeing him return, the other reporters gathered in.
“Now you listen to me. Let there be no doubt about this. There is not a supernatural element to this case. As regards a certain Ms. Emma Spaulding, she is no longer a part of this police force. The fact that she chases down rumor and innuendo is her own business, but she is not part of this. You’re more likely to find her in a bar these days then anywhere near a real criminal investigation. Goodnight!” he said, storming away, more shouted questions ignored.
Ahkbar stood there, watching people leave. The police were not even going to consider what could be happening here. If they wouldn’t consider it, then there was no real way they could stop it. They needed to be convinced, but he could not do it alone. In a flash, he turned and chased after Doctor Slater, finding him sitting in the rental car passenger seat, waiting.
Ahkbar rushed up to the car window, gripping the door in both hands.
“Doctor Slater, please! We must tell them, make them believe before anybody else gets killed,” he said, staring at the side of Doctor Slater’s head.
Doctor Slater turned to look at him.
“Ahkbar, what do you think would happen if people started believing this story of a demon goddess unearthed from the sands? That we were the ones who brought her—unleashed her on the world again? It would be a disaster. Morally and otherwise,” he said, turning and staring ahead once more.
The Doctor’s comments confused Ahkbar.
“What else is there to consider but the morality, Doctor Slater? We have a responsibility—”
“The museum, Ahkbar! That is our only responsibility. It would ruin the museum. We would never recover,” he said, his words almost a hiss.
Ahkbar was aghast. He stood up and looked down at Doctor Slater.
“But someone has died. More might,” he said, his words sounding pleading even to his own ears.
Doctor Slater did not look at him.
“That is a matter for the police, Ahkbar. Not for us. Now, take me back to the hotel. Please,” he said.
Ahkbar stood there a moment longer before going around to the driver’s side and getting in. His only thought now, who was Emma Spaulding?
11
“As regards a certain Ms. Emma Spaulding, she is no longer a part of this police force. The fact that she chases down rumor and innuendo is her own business, but she is not part of this. You’re more likely to find her in a bar these days then anywhere near a real criminal investigation. Goodnight!”
Emma switched off the rebroadcast of the press conference. Adlar Hammel was an ass of the first order. More politician than cop who never missed an opportunity to grease the wheels of the machine as long as it was moving in his direction. She wanted to tell him he was wrong about her, that she was a good cop, a good investigator. Wanted to reach through the radio and choke him out. She looked from the radio, eyes full of rage, to the seat beside her and the brown paper grocery bag full of beer and bourbon. She had decided that boiler makers were the order of the day. The fact that she got the idea after having a few of them already at a bar took the rage right out of her, replacing it with self pity.
Gripping the steering wheel, she looked through the windshield at her trailer, it appearing as broken down and haggard as she felt. Even still, she always thought of herself as a good investigator, that Hammel was wrong about her.
Then why couldn’t you see what was right in front of you?
She told herself she was a good partner.
Then why is your partner rotting in Super-Max?
She looked to the radio, now silent. Hot tears filled her eyes and she knew Hammel was right. She was not part of the force. She was not a good investigator. She was not a good partner. A new resolve filled her.
“Yeah,” she said, grabbing the grocery bag.
She slammed her shoulder against the car door. It opened on the first try and she took that as a sign.
Fumbling for her keys, she only vaguely noticed the car parked at the edge of her lot. She took no meaning from this, didn’t care who it was
just so long as they didn’t get in her way. Another minute and she was inside her trailer, the door closed behind her. She looked around the place, seeing the mess, evidence of sorrows drowned but not yet dead. Her only hope, tonight would be the night. It wasn’t lost on her that this is how they would find her, but she was beyond caring. If she couldn’t even save the one person that meant the most to her she certainly wasn’t worthy of any kind of dignity on the way out. Collapsing onto her couch, she tore the paper sack away. She twisted the cap off the bottle and pulled the tab on the beer can. A quick puff and she blew the dust out of a shot-glass nearby and poured herself one right to the brim.
“Hello darkness, my old friend,” she said, holding up the shot and throwing it down her throat, her grimace and the harshness of the cheap liquor were cut by a long pull on the can of warm beer.
She quickly poured herself another and repeated the process. Midway through the third, there was a knock on the door. By the time she finished her fourth, the knock had become more strenuous and she decided it needed to be dealt with. She hauled herself up off the couch, pleased with the effect the boiler makers were having and that she was well on her way.
Throwing open the door, Emma stared down at a young man neatly dressed in khaki pants, a pressed white dress shirt, and blue blazer. He looked up at her through dark rimmed glasses.
“What,” she said, hoping to convey enough angst to dispel any notion of the man starting a conversation.
“Emma Spaulding?” the man said.
“Nope,” Emma said, moving to close the door.
“Some people in town said she lived out here, in a trailer… matching this… description,” he said, looking over the trailer, his distaste only barely masked.
Emma already felt this was taking too long.
“Yeah, what people might those be?” she said, shifting her weight to one leg, her hand on her hip.
The young man fidgeted a moment before answering.
Soul Eater Page 5