by Anton Strout
“What are you doing here?” I whispered, pulling her close so no one could hear.
“Good to see you, too,” she said with just a touch of bitterness. She lowered the mask a tiny bit. “Jesus. You think because your precious Department didn’t invite me, I couldn’t get in here? I’m not wrapped up in this whole evil thing anymore. I came here looking for answers and to prove myself to you, Connor, and the Inspectre…hell, the whole damn Department.”
I was going to argue, but I stopped myself. The truth was I was glad she was there. Jane had been getting screwed over by the Sectarians this whole time and she had every right to be here.
She nodded toward the female Napoleon who had just walked away.
“Flirting, are we?”
“Yes,” I said, brandishing false pride. “And Ido think the Emperor of France was quite taken by me.”
“Oh really?” she said with a playful squeeze of my arm. “And what makes you think that?”
“Well, I haven’t been thrown into exile yet, have I?”
She groaned. “I’m going to check the crowd for any of the hardcore S.D.L. folk. I mean, everyone here is working for Darkness pretty much, but I want to make sure all the key players are present and accounted for. Try not to get exiled or married while I’m gone, okay?”
She raised her mask back to her face. I watched the sway of her dress as she moved off into the crowd, and I pushed any thoughts of desire from my mind as I scoped out the room. There was a curious lack of museum staff present in the wing, but I guessed that the funds from the Sectarian Defense League and the Surrealist Underground combined had bought them a significant blind eye to tonight’s proceedings. I felt sick to my stomach. The D.E.A. could have never been able to swing an event like this financially. Hell, we probably couldn’t afford anything in the gift shop.
After a quick circuit of the room, I spied Faisal by the temple entrance. He was talking to a group of men and women, every one of them dressed as Dalн. Faisal himself was dressed as Don Corleone (minus the added bulk) with his hair slicked back and colored gray.
I made my way toward them, hoping to catch a part of their conversation if I could. Were this the movies, I would have arrived just in time to hear,“And now, gentlemen, allow me to reveal my secret plan, my evil scheme that will unleash my wrath upon the world.” Instead, when I got closer, I spent several minutes not understanding a damned thing Faisal was saying. He was doing a dead-on Godfather impression, mumbling his way through the conversation unintelligibly. His cronies nodded and laughed as if they understood every word, but I was pretty sure it was just a lot of ass kissing. I was frustrated, but I had to admit he was really quite good at Brando. Connor would be jealous.
Eventually he excused himself and broke from the pack. As he stepped to the podium before the temple entrance and adjusted the microphone, the room quickly settled down. The costumed crowd made a strange montage awash in azure light and I wished someone would capture it in paint and add it to the museum’s collection. I could imagine it selling next to copies of dogs playing poker and velvet Elvises.
As the head of the Sectarians gazed out over the sea of people, he looked pleased.
“Mmmdies nn’ gnnndlmn,” he started, then stopped. He reached in his mouth, produced two wads of cotton, and dropped them behind the podium. “Ahh, much better!”
A light chuckle rose from the crowd. I looked around for the rest of my team but none of them were in sight. Faisal adjusted the mike once more and continued.
“Ladies, and gentlemen,” he repeated, cotton free this time. “I’d like to thank you all for coming out tonight. I realize a lot of you would prefer to be sitting comfortably at home watching ritual sacrifices on HBO9, but I promise you…this will all be worth it. Tonight,la famiglia, I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
Another round of laughter for Faisal and another round of not seeing my people in the crowd for me. Maybe costuming ourselves had been a bad idea. Shadower Division had disappeared entirely, which wasn’t a surprise given their specialty. It was just them doing their job well.Too well.
I worked my way across the room, careful not to move too fast and thus attract attention. I stole a glance toward the temple. Faisal was clutching the sides of the podium and his face looked solemn as the last of the crowd’s laughter died.
“Seriously, my brothers and sisters,” he said, “this has been a good year for Evil. We’ve achieved legitimacy through legislation, the Sectarian Defense League! A voice for the weary, downtrodden cultist to be heard in our government, and all it took was some hard work, the generous funding of our beloved hosts, the Salvador Breton Foundation, and a little spilt blood.”
The applause was deafening.
“Well, maybe more than alittle spilt blood,” he continued. “But hey, you can’t make an omelet without slitting a few throats. Am I right?”
The crowd erupted in laughter and once again I felt sick to my stomach. These were people who, despite the charm and charisma of their leader, relished the idea of sacrificing life in the name of their cause. Were I not terribly outnumbered, I would have done something stupid like rushing the podium.
“Your funding,” Faisal said, “has made it possible to finally have a voice in the real world. No longer will we have to meet in secret, hiding our identities. The Mayor of this Big Rotten Apple-an apple ripe for picking-will soon be under our control.”
This time there was an appreciative silence throughout the crowd as the weight of Faisal Bane’s words washed over them.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he continued, tapping his forehead. “How can we advance our cause, our most damnable work, now that we’ve got our foot in city hall’s door? Doesn’t overtaking the government cost money? Well, yes, quite frankly, it does. And tonight you will see what the fruits of your financial help, your seed money if you will, have bought us.”
Faisal paused for dramatic effect and then grabbed something off the top of the podium. All eyes followed his hand as he slowly raised it overhead. The object was instantly familiar to me. I had seen hundreds of them in the hidden room at the back of Tome, Sweet Tome. In his hand was one of the clay pots-the same kind Tamara’s spirit had been delivered to the office in.
“Ghostsniffing,” he said. There were triumph and pleasure in his voice. “This is our financial future, my friends. This is ectoplasmic gold, pure and simple. Sales from this substance will ensure not only our legislative future, but a substantial piece of the profit pie for all of you. For all of you investors, we’ve set up a mobile processing plant in the next room so you can see how the process works, and what your money’s going toward. There’s no sample like a fresh sample, and if you’re daring enough to try one-in moderation, of course-you’ll find they pack a certain…surreal…extra punch thanks to the very heightening power of your fish totem.”
Applause exploded and I watched as Faisal smugly rode the wave of it. After the crowd had gone on for far too long, he gestured for them to settle down. “My fellow workers…let’s just call a spade a spade, shall we? Myminions are busy in the next wing preparing those choice samples, but before we get to that, I’d like to bring up your leader, the head of the Salvador Breton Foundation himself. Here’s the man who made all of this possible. Get on up here!”
The costume party was the perfect way to keep most of the Sectarians and members of the Surrealist Underground anonymous. But even dressed as a swashbuckling pirate-maybe Captain Jack Sparrow-there was no mistaking the imposing figure of Cyrus Mandalay as he swaggered on stage toward the podium. He shook Faisal’s hand vigorously.
“Great to see so many of you in attendance,” he boomed out. “I’ve spoken to a lot of you individually tonight. I heard a lot of your concerns, and I know you haven’t seen me around much since the ‘incident’ at my bookstore, but rest assured things are going according to schedule. Thank you, Sectarian Defense League, for that. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say we’re looking forward mor
e than ever to a lasting partnership with our Sectarian brethren…and sistren.”
Sistren? I couldn’t listen to any more of this. Just seeing him made me livid. Somewhere in the crowd I knew Connor was beside himself with rage, probably being restrained by some of the Shadower guys. I needed to get out of this room, and I also needed to confirm the worst of my fears. There were only two exits from the room, and I pressed through the crowd toward the nearest one. I had a feeling that out of the “choice samples” of spirits that Faisal had picked for the demonstration, I knew at least one personally. Irene’s disappearance had been because she had felt something pulling at her spirit. I could only imagine it had been because of some arcane dog whistle tuned to a frequency that drew spirits into this trap. It was only a gut feeling that she was here, but it was a strong, nasty one. God help me if I was too late to do anything to help her or any of the other spirits selected for tonight’s Ghostsniffing demo.
The kicking of much ass could wait until I found out if Irene was here. If I was right, they were trying to force her into a clay containment jar, and it would destroy her like it had Tamara. I couldn’t let that happen again. I wondered for a second where Jane was, but I wasn’t too worried for her. She could hold her own, what with having been all evil and stuff. It was Irene that was most likely helpless if she had become caught up in these machinations. And as Zorro always knew, when in doubt, go for the girl in distress.
36
There were several S.D.L. guards throughout the room, and although they looked silly in their hokey Renaissance Faire garb, I took no chances, cutting a wide arc around them heading toward one of the doors.
As I closed on the doorway, the familiar scent of patchouli and cloves grew stronger in my nostrils. It was the same type of smell as the one Connor used to bind spirits with. My heart leapt in my chest, and by the time I actually stepped through the doorway itself, the air was sick with the smell. It was like being caught in a Dead Head’s hair.
The room was mostly dark and its architecture was generic in style but classed up by Greek columns on either side of the door. In the half-light of the after-hours world, I could just make out the banners of heraldry hanging high overhead in tribute to the Met’s permanent collection of arms and armor. Four mounted knights were on display as the centerpiece of the room, and the walls were lined with glass cases full of ancient armor, pole arms, lances, swords, and shields. Just thinking about the accumulated history surrounding me made my body quiver.
I was sure the majesty of such a display would have had even more of an impact on me if I wasn’t distracted by what was out of place in the room. At the far end, past the horsemen, several workers were operating a bulky mechanical contraption of some sort. It looked liked a cross between a Rube Goldberg device and one of those astronaut training gyroscopes, except this one had several wooden circles that twisted and turned around each other.
Closer to me were dozens of quasicorporeal forms. They floated listlessly within a smoky haze rising out of an arrangement of evenly placed casks along the west wall. I crept toward the haze quietly and luckily went unnoticed by the men at the far end of the room. Score one for dressing all in black!
As I approached the casks, their purpose became readily apparent as the familiar smell of patchouli hit my nose-the casks were full of the same substance Connor had given me a vial of at the Odessa, the very material he used to contain and control ghosts. The fumes rising from them kept the spirits floating above them contained. The cloud twisted and swirled, and I caught glimpses of the translucent bodies contained within. A constant low chatter of weakened pleas of tortured souls tore at my ears. It didn’t take long to pick out the distinctive lilt of Irene’s voice as I listened carefully, but it broke my heart to hear it. I had been hoping beyond hope, and against my instincts, that Irene wouldn’t be mixed up in this.
I stepped closer and suddenly Irene’s voice rushed at me with all the force of a subway car. Out of the mist, her face formed in the smoke. It looked drawn and pained, like that of someone who hadn’t slept for ages. Tears rolled down my face and soaked into the fabric of the Zorro mask.
“Irene?” I whispered. “Can you hear me?”
The form of her face nodded in response.
“How did you know it was me…?” I asked. The lighting was poor, I was shrouded in black, and what little showed of my face was shadowed by the traditional Zorro hat.
Her image grew more distinct in the mist and somehow she forced a smile.
“I would always know you, Simon,” she said, and there was kindness in her voice. The barest definition of fingers formed and the wisps of smoke brushed at my face. “You have an energy, an aura that’s wholly yours. Everyone does.”
This was a much different Irene than the one that had attacked me in my apartment. Connor wasn’t kidding when he told me about the rampant mood swings a degrading spirit could go through.
I chanced another peek toward the far end of the room. My eyes had finally adjusted to the light, and I could see the technicians unpacking hundreds of tiny clay jars next to the contraption. I could only assume it was a processing machine. Just then I noticed the wooden fish sat on top of it in a giant frame. I don’t know how I had missed it before-the damn thing was pulsing with a dull magical glow. There was no question that the totemic power of the Surrealist fish fueled the device. Faisal had made clear that it was the fish that gave the Ghostsniffing ectoplasm its extra kick. In the center of the processing contraption, a ghostly figure strained against invisible bonds that held him spread out across one of the wooden circles. I turned back to Irene.
“We can save our reunion for later,” I whispered. “I’ve got to get you out of here now. You’re on the menu tonight.”
I had to free her, freeall of them.
I set about the task of putting the lids back on the casks beneath the swirl of spirits. As I moved down the row, I could hear Irene keening softly over the general wailing of the other spirits in the cloud.
“I’m sorry, Simon,” she said, her voice rising. “You must think me a monster after our last encounter. I simply don’t know what came over me.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “Shh. You’re just becoming more and more emotional due to your condition. It’s not your fault. Connor explained it all to me. Now it all makes sense. You and the sudden rise of ghosts turning up with memory loss…all of you were being mystically rounded up before you could cross over,harvested to be used in their sick twisted scheme. Some of you were apparently harder for them to rein in than they planned for.”
I was having trouble with the casks. The second of the wooden lids wouldn’t fit. I stripped my gloves off for maximum dexterity and wrestled it into place. Eventually it slid in, but only after I thumped softly on the top. I looked at the workers, but there was no sign of reaction from the far end of the room.
“When Faisal’s mediums captured me,” Irene said, “they told me what sort of person I had been in life. All the horrible things I had done…”
“None of that matters anymore, Irene. None of it. Who you were before, that’s all gone now, burned away. The spirit I first met, the person you are now, that’s the best part of you. That’s the part that needs to keep in control if I’m going to help you.”
Phantom hands caressed me as some of the smoke cleared and the restless spirits broke free of their confinement. I tried not to flinch at their cold touch, but they were making it hard to focus on what I was doing. Once again, my hair was in mortal danger, but I didn’t even care. There were at least ten more casks to cover, and it was only a matter of time until I was discovered. I wasn’t sure if I’d have to take care of them all, but suddenly I had bigger problems to think about.
The answer was only one more cask away. As I fit the next lid into place, the booming chuckle of Cyrus Mandalay sounded from behind me.
“Avast, matey,” he said in a mock pirate voice. He cautiously stepped toward me. “I should have expected some heroics tonig
ht. Leave a roomful of ghostly victims, and just wait for someone to try something. The question is, Zorro, who are you and how did you get in?”
“Well,Cyrus,” I said. I swung around with a flourish of my cape. “You can find out who I am if you can unmask me.”
I pulled the sword from my belt and hoped to heaven that the darkness helped it appear less plastic.
“I see you know me by name,” he said and smiled. Even in the half-light of the room, I could see the gleam of his sharklike teeth. That was a sight I didn’t miss from before he had gone into hiding. Back then I had actually thought he was a decent, albeit intimidating, guy. He had even had that section of the store for kids! It flashed in my head momentarily and it hit me. One image had always stood out in that children’s mural-the Daliesque turtle wizard melting a clock with his wand, an obvious sign of his allegiance to any Surrealist Undergrounders seeking him out-and I hadn’t put it together until now…
There was no time to beat myself up for making the connection so late in the game. I had pulled my sword and now Cyrus pulled a sword of his own, a cutlass, and I could tell by the metallic sound of it unsheathing that it was real.
“Be careful,” Irene whispered from behind me. I stepped forward in the hopes of keeping Cyrus the pirate away from the few casks I had sealed and he took the opportunity to rush me. He was unnaturally fast, and with one stroke he cleaved my pathetic plastic sword in half. I threw the remaining stump at him ineffectually, and in return Cyrus kicked me square in the chest. I felt something crack inside as I propelled backward, but I barely had time to register it. I spun myself to see where I was falling and braced for the impact.
Smashing through glass in the movies always looked effortless. The hero would run at it, leap in the air, and the glass would shatter on impact into a million pieces as he flew through it. I, however, stumbled forward toward an unavoidable collision with one of the museum’s display cases. When I hit it, I felt another crunch inside my chest before the glass itself finally gave way.