Hold The Dark m-3

by Frank Tuttle

  “She’s in trouble, ain’t she?”

  I didn’t think he’d seen.

  “She is. Think hard. I’ve got to find this man, Mr. Varney. I’ve got to find him soon.”

  He fell silent. “When your lady came around, I tried to remember. Tried to think of something. I couldn’t. He was just a tall man. He wasn’t wearin’ no church robes, wasn’t wearing one of them big rings them bastards-” he spat toward the Hill “-wear. He wasn’t talkin’ funny or giving out foreign money. He was just a man.” He looked down at the ground. “But I been thinkin’, and I reckon there’s one thing I didn’t remember then that I do recall now. Don’t know if it means anything.”

  I wanted to shake him by the shoulders, but I didn’t. “Tell me,” I said, with my best warming smile. “Her name is Martha. She’s a nice lady.”

  He nodded. “It ain’t nothin’ he done, you understand,” he said, his eyes wandering briefly to follow a pert young nanny as she strolled past with a gaggle of shrieking tots in tow. “But it’s something I reckon he didn’t do. He’d meet up with your Miss Martha pretty near every sunny day, but he weren’t never here on Wrack Days. Not a one.”

  I must have frowned.

  “Damn, boy, you ain’t a Church man, are you?” laughed Young Varney. “Wrack Days. Wrack Days. Every other Tuesday. Them Wherthmore bastards have a extra sermon in the morning and can’t cast a shadow the rest of the day.” He cackled. “Don’t nobody pay no mind to Wrack Days no more but them Wherthmore masks.”

  Masks. Priests or acolytes. Anybody up in the ranks enough to rate a title, even if it’s not much more than “Hey, you.”

  My blood went cold. Acolytes might just have access to the rituals and artifacts of the Cleansings.

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “He weren’t wearin’ no robe,” said Varney. “Weren’t carrying no mask. But I reckon he a Church man, all the same. “

  “And you think he’s Wherthmore.”

  Varney shrugged. “I don’t think nothin’. Don’t go there myself. Stuck-up bastards. But they still hold them Wrack Days, and I don’t reckon nobody else does.” He shrugged. “Hell, it might be happenstance. I said it might not mean nothin’.”

  I let out my breath and found a smile. “It’s a good guess,” I said, digging in my pocket for another pair of coins. “I owe you this. You’ve told me more in the last few minutes than any half a dozen people over the last two days.”

  “I ain’t askin’ to be paid,” he said, stiffening.

  “I know that. I thank you. My lady friend thanks you. And I hope one day soon the young lady with the book and the sewing kit can come up here and thank you herself, but until then, take this. Never let it be said the finder Markhat takes up a working man’s time without offering something in return.”

  “Well, reckon that’s all right.” He took the coins, made them jingle in his pocket. Then he grinned up at me. “You keep them bags of feed, you hear? Your lady said she’s gonna bring you up here, after you’ve done found that seamstress. Said she’s gonna sit you down on that there bench and teach you robins from red-birds and trick you into marryin’ her.”

  I laughed. “She’d say that. Thanks for your time.”

  He picked up his cart. A tall blonde lady was passing by on the gravel walk at the bottom of the hill, and Young Varney set off after her with a single short “fare thee well”.

  I turned and went back the way I’d come.

  I had a sudden, overwhelming urge to join my brothers at Wherthmore in early evening worship.

  I sat on a pew, hat off, head down and watched the faithful come and go.

  Evis’s men-I’d spotted one on the street, another haunting the so-called Sin Room that lay, dark and hot, two doors down from the sanctuary proper-had scattered at my approach, leaving only the one true Markhat keeping vigil at the altar.

  The Big Bell pealed out two hours as I sat. Three red-masked priests had approached me, and three red-masked priests had retreated in confusion when I told them I was waiting for a personal visit from the Angel Malan himself. After that, they were content to leave me alone, though they did keep a careful watch on me from behind various pillars and through sundry folds of curtains.

  By then, I was feeling a bit sheepish myself. I hadn’t come to Wherthmore with any clear idea of what to do. I had, I suppose, been hoping that a tall, beak-nosed man in fancy black pants would show up, silver comb in one hand, bag of bird-feed in the other.

  But he didn’t. A few of the faithful shambled up to the prayer-box, knelt and dropped coins before ambling away. Priests came and went and peeped. Just after each time the Big Bell rang, someone behind the curtains struck a gong and read a verse of Church. Young Varney wasn’t there to translate, though, so most of it marched righteously past me.

  I sighed. Night was falling soon. Which meant Evis could be out and about, but unless he’d developed startling new evidence in the last few hours, he and his pale friends had no better idea where to go than I.

  I almost broke down and prayed. What good a prayer, though, when you only know half a dozen words?

  I was about to stand. About to stand, walk out and buy a bottle of wine and take it to Darla.

  At that very moment, a shadow fell over me, and I turned to meet the scowl of Father Foon.

  “Must you continue to defile this holy place?” he said, so soft I could barely hear.

  I glanced about, watched every other red mask and black robe in the building fade like noon-struck ghosts.

  “I came seeking guidance.” I stood. “When did you add that to your secret list of sins?”

  He took a step back. I hadn’t lowered my voice. I wasn’t going to.

  “How dare you-”

  “Heard that before. Wasn’t impressed then. Not impressed now.” I stepped out of the pew. “You’re big on prayer. Fine. Let’s pray together, shall we? Oh Mighty Hosts,” I intoned, in a near shout that rang throughout the empty chamber. “Take from me the wrath of Encorla Hisvin, who has been known to cook his victims from the neck down so quickly they didn’t know they were dead until they smelled the roasted meat. Spare me the pain of being skinned and boiled alive because I lied about a box of silver combs-”

  “Silence!” he shouted. “Silence, or I swear I shall cast your name to the devils!”

  “I’m not one of your flock. I neither covet your heavens nor fear your hells. Cast away. See if I care.”

  “Blasphemy!”

  “Stuff it. I’ve heard that all my life. Heard it from mean-spirited old goats who would drop a dozen souls to catch a single copper. Heard it and heard it and heard it. Well, I’m not listening anymore, Father or Hand or whatever your title is. I’m not listening, and my boss isn’t listening. You can yell blasphemy at him all day, if you want. See how much sweat it raises.”

  And then I saw it. Not just anger, but maybe, just maybe, the smallest hint of fear.

  I saw it, and I pounced.

  “Here’s the deal. I’ll be at a place on Regent, at midnight tomorrow night. A place that breaks Curfew. Ask around, for the name.”

  “I will do no such thing.”

  “I’ll be there at midnight,” I repeated. “I’ll have one beer. Maybe two. And if someone hasn’t come in and sat down and told me all about the damned combs, I’m leaving. Leaving, and going to see Mister Hisvin, and he can take matters from there. If it means dragging you and every red mask and every apprentice and every floor-sweeper in all five churches down to see him, I guess that’s what he’ll do. So this is the last time it’ll be me asking, Father. The last time I can offer a promise that Hisvin won’t lift a finger against the man who has the combs.”

  “Get out.”

  “I’ll do that.” I looked up at the soot-encrusted stained glass windows, at the angels within them struggling and failing to shine through the growing dark. “No reason to stay. Not in a place like this.”

  He opened his mouth again, but I was on the move, so he sh
ut it and stepped aside. “Midnight,” I said. “Or else.”

  “I shall pray for you, my son,” he growled.

  I stopped, turned on my heel.

  “If you ever call me that again,” I said, soft this time, “I’ll lay you out, flat and cold, mask and robe and all. You hear me?”

  I didn’t wait. I put my back to him, marched out and slammed the doors as I went.

  People got out of the way outside. Even the cabbie I hailed made with quick “yessirs” and “nosirs” and stayed out of my way.

  I leaned back against the hard plank seat and gulped in air. Where the Hell had that come from?

  I’d cussed in a Church. I’d threatened a priest-a body of priests-in public.

  I mopped sweat and looked at the sun and realized I’d never make a winery and Darla’s and get back to my office in time to wait in case anyone dropped by with a full confession. So I headed for home, the Angel Malan cold in my pocket, the word blasphemy ringing in my ears.

  Blasphemy. Maybe so, I decided.

  It is, after all, the single word of Church that everyone knows.

  I sat and brooded. Mama Hog came and Curfew came and Mama Hog went. I listened for traffic on the street, and when it came I slipped my knife halfway out of its sheath and made sure my jacket wouldn’t get in the way.

  A carriage pulled to the curb, and I heard Halbert’s low voice say something, and Evis answered, and the carriage pulled away.

  I relaxed, crossed to the door, met him.

  “Good evening,” I said. “Come on in.”

  He smiled at me.

  “Why, Mister Markhat, one would think you’re glad to see me.”

  I stepped back. It’s been a bad day when vampires drop by and you’re pleased with the distraction.

  “I’ve been consorting with priests. It’s good to speak to persons who aren’t likely to consign me to Hell, for a change.”

  “I’ve heard about your conversation with the good Father Foon,” said Evis. He motioned to my chair. “May I sit?”

  “Please do.” I found my chair, and Evis pulled out his dark glasses. “So you know I dropped by Wherthmore.”

  “One of my men remained,” he said. I lifted an eyebrow. I hadn’t seen him. Perhaps Ronnie Sacks wasn’t the cream of the Avalante crop after all. “He conveyed your exchange to me. Most interesting. May I inquire as to the source of this sudden interest in Wherthmore?”

  I took in a breath. I trusted Evis, to a point. I realized that I even liked him, fussy black receipt books and fangs and all. But I was not going to mention Darla’s name. Not to him, not to anyone.

  “I met a man in the Park.” I sketched out Young Varney’s tale, omitting his name and occupation and Darla’s discovery of his keen eye for well-dressed young ladies. “So I figured I’d go to Wherthmore, see what I could shake up.” I shrugged. Let them think my outburst was part of some carefully planned stratagem. I didn’t know how else to explain it anyway.

  “Fascinating,” said Evis. He forgot where he was, bared his lips and rested a long black fingernail on the middle of his chin. “Brilliant, even. If the comb-cleanser is indeed of Wherthmore, he will hear. He will know.”

  “If he’s there.”

  Evis shrugged. “I think it likely he is. The staff at Wherthmore is larger than the other four churches combined. Too, the artifacts necessary for the Cleansing are currently housed at Wherthmore, and have been for the last two years.”

  I frowned. “I hadn’t known that. Wish I had.”

  “We found this out only today,” he replied. He looked up at me and remembered to close his mouth. “Statistically, your outburst was well chosen. The number of staff and proximity to the required artifacts suggest Wherthmore is indeed the base for the Cleansing of the combs. Especially since, if you say, the Cleansing itself is incomplete-even an apprentice based at Wherthmore would find it much easier to slip in and use the artifacts than anyone based at another Church.” He cocked his head. “Still, Mr. Markhat. Abusing priests in that manner-why, you’re likely to find yourself right beside me, in the Pit, one day.”

  I sighed. “Maybe. But I am more concerned right now that our rogue priest is making plans to pay us a visit.”

  Evis shook his head. “No, I doubt that the man you have described and the Cleanser are the same man. Indeed, my men have spent the better part of two days observing the staff of the various Arms of Inquisition, and I can tell you that priests and apprentices alike tend to be balding, corpulent men of an age far removed from our man in the Park.”

  I shook my head. “You’re sure of that?”

  “The artifacts I mentioned are potent ones indeed. Hair loss is common among the Hands. Our amorous Park fancier has hair.”

  I frowned. Evis bit back a smile.

  “Do not despair,” he said. “This Thin Man, as you call him, undoubtedly takes his orders from a priest, or from halfdead, or both. If we assume it is the Thin Man’s job to choose and entice the women, then he is the man we most want to meet, is he not?”

  “How do you know he’s the low man in the outfit?”

  “He does the out and about tasks. He is most exposed to scrutiny. And whether he knows it or not, he is the man his superiors will sacrifice, should attention be drawn to their activities.” Evis shrugged. “Call it a guess, if you will. But even though we may have brought terror to the priest and the halfdead, it is this Thin Man who will be sent to meet you. Because he is expendable. And, I suspect, because he is a fool.”

  I leaned back. I wasn’t comforted. “How many persons do you figure are involved in this group?”

  Evis shrugged. “Logistics suggest ten to twenty. Mostly halfdead.”

  “Is that all?”

  Evis laughed. “I certainly hope so. Because, once we find them out, it shall fall to Avalante to kill them. Priest and halfdead and all.”

  “The Church won’t appreciate that.”

  “They’d appreciate being implicated in a vampire blood-cult even less,” said Evis. He shrugged, sighed and regarded me with a woeful expression. “I wish we had more time. I fear we rely far too heavily on surmise and assumption.”

  “It’s hare-brained, at best. But I haven’t got anything better. Have you?”

  He hadn’t. So we made our plans. He said he’d have people out of sight, but nearby. I agreed they’d need to be well out of sight-halfdead might accompany our friend, as well, and it wouldn’t do to frighten off any nervous callers.

  And then, for the second time that night, I sinned. Not blasphemy again-twice a night is a bit much, even for devils such as I-but deception.

  I didn’t mention Mama’s hex. I didn’t mention Ethel’s army. I didn’t mention my plan to go and get Martha Hoobin as soon as we knew the meeting place, with half the New People neighborhood in tow. I didn’t mention any of that despite the fact that I trusted Evis, or found his fanged schoolmarm manner disarming. But I couldn’t let myself forget that someone with a bigger desk than his might decide the whole matter was best solved by slaughtering the renegade vampires and then dispatching Martha Hoobin, sole survivor and living witness to a blood-cult whose very existence could topple all the dark Houses, one by one.

  Evis nodded, jotted notes and listened carefully to everything I said. And when he left, for the first time, he held out his hand, and I shook it.

  “We shall keep a man on the street,” he said, as he left. “In case you have rude visitors.”

  “Thanks.” I meant it. The name Encorla Hisvin would keep all but fools from bringing me mischief, but the world is filled with fools. A vampire on the stoop has stopping power few bulldogs can match. “Tell him to knock if he feels like playing cards. And ask him not to bite the neighbors-they deserve it, the ingrates, but half of them owe me money.”

  Evis laughed, and he was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  That night, I sat up, keeping halfdead hours while I waited for visitors. I whetted my Army knife until the blade was sharper than the
Dark Angel’s scythe, and I knew all the while if a pair of angry vampires marched through my door a dozen sharp knives wouldn’t do me a damned bit of good.

  I toyed with the idea of begging a crossbow and a brace of silver-tipped halfdead bolts from Evis. I pondered the wisdom of relying so heavily on his counsel and cooperation.

  But mostly, I whetted my knife and poked huge gaping holes in our plot to snare Martha Hoobin’s tall, thin abductor.

  Poking the holes wasn’t difficult. What if the man who showed up really didn’t know where Martha was? What if she were already dead, already buried in a shallow grave, half-awake, perhaps, gnawed by a terrible hunger that would soon drive her toward the light?

  What if Martha really had just left town, a small fortune in paper crowns tucked close to her breast?

  I put the knife down. Three-leg Cat drifted in, licked his good front paw and drifted out again just as the Big Bell pealed eleven times.

  Hours past my bedtime, and I wasn’t even yawning. Maybe I’ve been listening to Mama too much, I thought, because I began to jump and start at every pop of the walls, every creak and groan of the ceiling. Vampires on the roof. Halfdead ’neath the floor.

  Blood upon a needle, turning toward my door.

  I stood and paced, knife in hand, and turned my thoughts to finer things, Darla Tomas chief among them.

  Had it really been a day, since we’d kissed goodbye?

  Had I really been too busy to go to her house, even once?

  I vowed I’d remedy that, come tomorrow. I vowed I’d see her, halfdead plots or no. Bring the wine, she’d said.

  “I certainly will,” I spoke aloud. “Something with a fancy label. Something with a cork.”

  Only then did I realize what I felt hadn’t all been whorehouse mojo, that day I met Darla at the Velvet. No, it was an older magic, a magic that needed no cauldrons, no muttered words.

  I paced, I pondered and I planned. Yes, come tomorrow, Darla and I-we’d make mojo all our own, and let the wide wicked world be damned.

  Even so, my room got cold. Cold and colder and then colder still. I quickened my pace. I blew into my cupped hands. I cursed Rannit’s fickle springs.