Black City Dragon

by Richard A. Knaak

  “You know what it is,” I repeated.

  “The Dacian Draco. The Dacian Dragon. That’s what it is, right?”

  “Claryce—”

  She slammed her cup down. “Damn it! Don’t keep thinking that by hiding things from me you make me safe! Think what happened with Will—Oberon! You told me most of what happened all those centuries ago, about you, the dragon, Cleolinda, and even Diocles!” Claryce blinked. “Have you talked to him? Does he know?”

  “I haven’t been to St. Michael’s in three weeks.”

  “You’re hiding this from him? Nick, he could be of help . . . and what do you have to fear? Diocles is already dead! He’s at no risk.”

  I didn’t respond to the last question. My situation with Diocles was a very complicated one, not least because he had been cursed to haunt me since his own death years after my own. We had finally worked out that he could not rest until I forgave him for the actual order to execute me. Galerius might have been the devil whispering in his ear, but Diocles had still willingly condemned a man who had once been his loyal servant and friend to death by beheading.

  Sixteen hundred years had not been long enough for him to earn my forgiveness. I’d been a man before I’d been made a saint, and I just couldn’t give him what he needed to finally pass over, no matter how little I generally desired his company.

  Claryce was right; I needed to question Diocles about this . . . but first I had to finally be straight with her.

  Impatience got the best of her though. “It is Galerius, isn’t it? This is his mark. It’s Gaius Galerius Valerius Maximianus Augustus you think is ‘lurking’ about, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, both relieved and worried about the fact that she’d picked up so much knowledge on her own.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Nick. Since you revealed to me what my fate’s been, I’ve scoured every history book I could find. I’ve researched the legend and looked for the truth behind it. Did you think I wouldn’t come across him in the process and wonder? The moment I discovered that dragon symbol in the records, I made it one of my top priorities.”

  “‘One’?”

  “I’ve gone beyond Clarissa and Claudette, although I’d still like to talk to Kravayik about Claudette since you never met her. I know something of Cleolinda, the me that started this all, even if you haven’t told me everything you could—”

  I shook my head. “Claryce . . . I’ve not held—”

  “You have held back. I understand. However, you’ve already hinted at there being several more incarnations.” She brought her hands together in a beseeching position. “Just how many? How many of me have there been? I need to know. A dozen? More?”

  I used a glance at Fetch to give me a moment to think, only to see him staring back with ears at attention. Even he had only known me since some time after the Gate’s arrival in Chicago.

  I returned my gaze to her. “There’ve been . . . more.”

  “Well, how many? Two dozen?”

  “I’ve met . . . thirty-one.”

  She was silent. I remained as still as possible.

  “Thirty-one . . . that you’ve ‘met.’”

  “Until I found out about Claudette, I assumed that I’d met every incarnation. Now, I realize I might’ve missed others.” I didn’t like some of the directions this conversation had not only gone but were very likely to go. “It can’t have happened very often, Claryce. Something always brought me to them. I have to assume that she was just an aberration—”

  No sooner had I said the word than I regretted it. Claryce’s eyes flashed and, with arms once more tightening around her, jumped to her feet. “Aberration. Aberration! Is that what I am, too? Or am I just the next in line? I don’t know which is worse to think about!”

  I got up. Fetch joined us on our feet but wisely kept quiet. I wished I had that option.

  And, of course, the dragon laughed loud and strong in my head, savoring my suffering.

  “You’re not that or next in line, Claryce! You’re different from them—”

  “You’ve met thirty-one and there may have been others! How different can I really be?”

  I started to reach for her, but a look she gave made me pause. “Claryce. It’s something that—”

  Fetch growled. I started to glare at him, only to see that he was now facing the door.

  “Stay behind me!” I warned Claryce.

  I heard the click of the revolver and gave up trying to give her orders. Right now, I wouldn’t have been all that surprised if she shot at any intruder through me.

  “What is it, Fetch?” she whispered.

  “Same strange scent me and Master Nicholas noticed at a warehouse tonight. Some hood who gives me the heebie-jeebies. Pasty Airedale, he is.”

  “Is he human, Nick?”

  “I ran him through with the blade. It acted as if he wasn’t even there.”

  “Oh.”

  Despite what I’d just told her, I drew Her Lady’s gift. I was still curious whether or not a good slice from the sharp blade would do the trick where Feirie power failed. “Stand aside, Fetch.”

  He shifted, but did not back up. I went to the door and cautiously took hold of the handle.

  I flung the door open.

  Cold air flowed in, but nothing more.

  I hurried to the steps and rushed down to the street. There was enough light now to see for some distance, which made it all the more frustrating to find nothing but emptiness in either direction. No pale goon. No blue Oakland coupe.

  Fetch and Claryce joined me. Fetch sniffed the air. “Scent’s fading, Master Nicholas.”

  “How strong was it when you noticed?”

  “Mighty strong. Like standing next to Jack Dempsey and Luis Firpo after the full fifteen rounds, I’d say.”

  I remembered how the figure had faded away. Feirie magic could do that, and a few human casters had shown that ability, too, but both magics would’ve been subject to the sword’s powers. Whatever our visitor was, he didn’t fit either category.

  And whatever he was, he knew where Claryce was now.

  “Nick . . . what is that?”

  I turned. Claryce was staring at the side of the building, where the steps were. I tried to look where she was looking but saw nothing. “What is what?”

  She pointed with the revolver. “On the wall next to the steps! What does it mean?”

  “Fetch?”

  “I see nothing. Looks as pure as a Reuben just come in from the sticks.”

  Eye can show you . . .

  “Go ahead.”

  I kept behind Claryce to avoid as best as possible her seeing the transformation. She’d seen it, but it still left me uncomfortable revealing it to her.

  The world turned emerald. I focused on the wall in question . . . and still only saw the building as it usually was.

  “Well?” Claryce asked, peering over her shoulder.

  I managed to will away his eyes just in time. “Nothing at all.”

  “I am not imagining things! You really can’t see it?”

  “Describe it to me.”

  She studied the wall for a moment, then said, “One image, but three times. Each on top of the other. Silver cups. Old-fashioned ones. There’s a hand holding each one—Nick?”

  I must’ve let my horror at what she’d described so well show. Next to me, Fetch let out whine every bit strong as when he’d been suffering from the coat of ice.

  I still couldn’t see what she saw, but I had no doubt she’d described it correctly. Claryce had never gotten a look at the original source for the design apparently emblazoned next to the steps, but Fetch and I knew it well. So did Kravayik, who secretly stood guardian over it in Holy Name Cathedral.

  The Three of Cups. In this case, from more than a simple tarot deck. This design existed only on one deck, a Feirie creation by some ancient mad elf. It did not predict events . . . in the wrong hands it could not only create them but adjust reality to do so.

  Claryc
e’s home had been marked by a symbol of the Clothos Deck.

  CHAPTER 3

  I’d not talked to Kravayik since Holmes. I should’ve, just as a precaution, but since he knew to call me if anything seemed amiss, I’d assumed all was well.

  Now, I realized I might’ve risked everything out of spite.

  Claryce offered her phone, but I didn’t trust the party line at that moment. Instead, the three of us climbed into the Packard and headed down Wells Street to Chicago Avenue and ultimately Wabash, where the cathedral was located. Traffic was still light despite it being Wednesday and so we made good time. The only problem was that it was daytime. I’d rarely met with Kravayik in the daytime. He could pass for human at a distance, but close up others might notice his utterly black, much too large eyes, his almost complete lack of a nose, his elongated skull, and his so very sharp ears. Not to mention his imposing height combined with his narrow frame. No, in the daytime, he might look like a human from far away, but up close he still looked very much like what he was . . . an elf.

  A very deadly elf.

  I parked across from the looming Gothic building, staring at its great doors and the high walls, which I myself had contributed to alongside so many just three years after the Great Fire. I’d done it partly out of guilt for what I’d helped cause in allowing the dragon loose even for that short time and partly because I’d been about to commit an even greater sin using the cathedral itself. Even before Kra-vayik had made himself available by abandoning the Feirie Court and his duties as assassin for Her Lady just before the turn of the century, I’d already marked Holy Name as the only place in Chicago where I could safely hide the single card I’d retrieved from the Clothos Deck.

  “You and Fetch stay in the car. I’m going to go around to the back to see Kravayik.” The front door was not an option in the daytime. The clergy were vaguely aware that they had a caretaker, but that was as much as they were allowed to remember. Kravayik, a true convert to the church, continuously tried to amend for what he saw as a sin by being the most reliable, industrious servant they had.

  Claryce put a hand on my shoulder. “Nick. Be calm.”

  She wasn’t referring to the situation with the card. She was referring to the revelation during the hunt for Holmes that Kravayik had, in 1893, fallen in love with Claryce’s previous incarnation, Claudette. For over thirty years, he had kept that little secret from me, not to mention concealing Claudette’s very existence. She’d died that same year, a victim of Holmes back then.

  “I’ll be good. I won’t be long.”

  She gave me a hopeful smile. I stepped out of the Packard, let a couple of autos pass, then crossed just before another car came racing down the street.

  I turned around at the sound of screeching tires. A black Chrysler B-70 touring car with its distinct winged radiator cap pulled up right behind me, blocking my view of the Packard. Two surly hoods with broad, sturdy faces jumped out and flanked me. Both had caps pulled down low over their eyes.

  “Get in,” grunted one, who had an accent hinting at Polish.

  I heard a car door and knew that Claryce was coming after me. I made a decision.

  I rushed into the Chrysler. The two gunmen followed. I had a brief glimpse of Claryce, the revolver out, trying to decide where to shoot.

  “Move it!” I ordered the driver.

  Unaware of the danger they were in, two of my captors sniggered. Nevertheless, the driver did as I hoped. The Chrysler pulled away with another screech and raced down Wabash.

  One of the hoods leaned close to the driver. “Take the Upper Boul Mich.”

  The car made a few quick turns before ending up driving north on Michigan Avenue—known still by some, such as my kidnappers, by its old nickname from when it’d been Michigan Boulevard prior to the Great Fire. We took a few more turns from there and headed northwest on Clybourn. I thought we might be heading toward Bucktown, part of the city’s Polish Downtown, but the car abruptly turned off at a street I didn’t know into a nondescript neighborhood.

  Throughout the drive, I’d not been at all concerned for my safety. I’d neither seen nor sensed anything out of the ordinary. Once away from Claryce, I could’ve at any time taken all three without a concern. However, I was interested to see who’d gone through such trouble for a mere ghost hunter.

  We pulled up at what appeared to be a shut-down restaurant whose windows had been completely boarded up. I wasn’t surprised when the gunman nearest the two-story building climbed out of the B-70 and gestured me to follow. As I slid out, the second hood in the back exited through the other side.

  The moment the doors were shut, the touring car drove off. Both of my captors had their automatics hidden in their coat pockets, but the one to my right did a not so discreet gesture with the pocket to remind me what he held.

  “Around the side.”

  We went to a door there. Of course it wasn’t locked. I followed one hood while the other took up the rear.

  The transformation was immediate. We went from what looked like emptiness to a very plush little club. At the moment, only a wary-looking thug idly fingering the trigger of a tommy gun stood in the main room. He tilted his head to a set of steps leading to the second floor.

  As we climbed up to a door at the top, I heard the faint sounds of Ben Bernie’s rendition of “Sweet Georgia Brown” playing. The music ceased the moment the thug in the lead knocked on the door. At the same time, I smelled incense with a decidedly sage hint to it.

  Another goon with a tommy opened the door a crack. He eyed us, then glanced behind himself. “They’re here, Mr. Leighton.”

  “Of course they are,” responded a youthful, cultured voice. “Do let them in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Leighton. I had to admit, I was more intrigued. I knew my host now, although few beyond the cops and the mob knew the name. “Ladykiller” Leighton—no first name known—had links to both Capone’s Outfit and the North Side gang, the latter run by the trio of Bugs Moran, the volatile Hymie Weiss, and Vincent “the Schemer” Drucci. I’d run across Moran from a distance once or twice and considered him the true power, but everyone who could tried to stay out of the way of Weiss.

  Except for Leighton. He was known to deal with anyone. Rumor had it he’d negotiated a few deals and truces between the two sides. Cortez, my constant shadow from the Chicago Police Department, had once also intimated that Leighton had his own paid cops besides the ones beholden to the gangs.

  Stepping back, the guard opened the door. A wave of sage washed over us. As my escort and I entered, a young flapper with a short, brunette pageboy cut strode by us as she headed toward an undisguised liquor cabinet. She gave me a smile that was anything but sisterly. The long string of pearls that nearly reached the bottom of her very short skirt were clearly real.

  I couldn’t help giving her a second glance, but not because of her obvious beauty. At first, I’d thought her Mexican, like Detective Cortez, but then I realized that with her features she was more likely an Indian. Most of the original tribes of this region had long ago been shoved westward to reservations, but there were a few here and there who’d either willingly or, more likely, forcibly been integrated into white society.

  There was a murmur from the direction of Leighton. I peered into the shadowed portion of the room where another flapper—this one blond and pretty in the style of Hollywood—stepped away from a figure seated with legs crossed in a thick chair. The second girl joined the first. She whispered to her friend, then both quickly hurried past us to the steps.

  Leighton sat quietly in the chair until the pair had gone. “Please give Mr. Medea a chair.”

  One of my escorts obeyed, setting a matching chair in front of Leighton’s. My second companion prodded me toward it.

  Let me burn him . . . suggested the dragon, who’d been remarkably quiet until now. I didn’t bother to respond.

  “There’s no need for that,” Leighton reprimanded the gunman.

 
“Sorry, Mr. Leighton.” With a slight bow, the hood gestured toward the empty chair.

  I sat. Even now, I couldn’t make out much of the upper half of my host. He was dressed in a very expensive black silk suit with a forest green tie and spats on his shoes. I judged him to be in his very early thirties, which surprised me considering his lengthy reputation. He was narrow of build and not at all like most of the bootleggers and hoods I’d seen or met. Leighton talked like an aristocrat or a professor.

  “I’m told you are a ghostbuster,” he began. “Are you like Mr. Houdini, seeking out those who prey on the weak-minded with false sébances and such garbage?”

  “Not exactly. I prove to people that there’s nothing to fear.”

  Leighton chuckled. He still sounded very young for all his power. I didn’t wonder at his keeping to the shadows. Very likely, he assumed that the fewer folks who knew his face, the better for him. There were reasons why the police had no photos of Ladykiller Leighton.

  One of my escorts suddenly showed up at my side with a glass of what I assumed was whiskey.

  “Please,” my host urged. “Some fine whiskey from over the northern border.”

  I took the glass, but waited. The same hood brought a second, identical glass to his boss.

  “Thank you.” Leighton calmly took a sip. “There. Safe for you to drink, Mr. Medea.”

  “Call me Nick.”

  “Should I?” He snapped his fingers, then gestured to the door.

  I had to admit some surprise when all three of the hoods in the room departed without hesitation. Yeah, Leighton probably had an automatic on him somewhere, but considering my escort had never even bothered to frisk me, I could’ve just as easily had one, too. Yet they’d left me with their boss just like that.

  The mobster took another sip as he waited for the door to shut behind the last man. He then gestured toward me with the glass. I finally took a sip. It was fine whiskey.

  “I really thought I’d never come across something to satiate my thirst like what we had back home,” Leighton commented, “but this . . . this is ambrosia.”