“How did you know—?” I rolled my eyes and gave my forehead a slap. “Duh.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t divine that particular bit of information,” he said with a chuckle. “I know your puppy ran away because Scratch came knocking at my door in search of him. By the by, I was curious as to whether the rest of the prophecy has come to pass.”
“What do you mean ‘the rest of it’?” I frowned. “I thought it had already come true. You know, the part about the woman-forged army freeing the beasts.”
“You mean ‘rise shall a fire-born army forged of woman to the bestiarii free,’” the oracle said aloud in a stentorian monotone loud enough to make other shoppers look in our direction. “That was but a portion of what I divined. The rest goes as such: ‘Drown will the streets the usurped in blood no mercy for his flesh show. From two will be one turned three. The hand is in the mind.’” As he recited the remainder of the prophecy, our fellow pet owners began casting sidelong glances at us as if we’d escaped from a loony bin.
“I don’t know if it’s come true or not,” I replied with a shrug. “But I’m pretty sure I’d remember streets full of blood, so I’m going to say it hasn’t. But to tell you the truth, I haven’t really given it much thought.”
“It is the nature of prophecies that one often does not remember or understand them until it is almost too late. That is because Fate resents attempts by mortals to pierce its veil, and is always trying to snatch back its mysteries by clouding the minds of man. But when the time comes, Apollo willing, the words of the prophecy will come to you, and you shall understand their meaning.”
As I turned to go, leaving the old oracle to his shopping, a thought suddenly crossed my mind. “Mr. Manto . . . how can you tell the difference between a dream and a vision?”
“That’s a good question,” he said, tapping his upper lip with a bony forefinger. “In my experience, dreams come from within, and are triggered by something you have experienced or are concerned about. They are the result of your subconscious speaking to you, using symbols that hold special meaning for you, and the outcome of which you control on a certain level. A vision, however, comes from without, and you have no power over when it begins or ends, or the symbolism it uses to communicate its meaning. Dreams are often a rehash of things that have gone before, while visions give insights as to things yet to come, or attempt to reveal knowledge otherwise hidden from you.”
“Does it mean anything if I see dead people in these dreams or visions?”
The oracle raised an eyebrow. “Have you lost anyone recently? A family member or close friend, perhaps?”
“I know three people who have died in the last week or so, actually. One of them quite horribly. I barely knew two of them—but, yes, I would call them friends.” I then described what I had seen in both of my dreams. When I’d finished, the oracle nodded sagely.
“It makes sense that your friends were capable of talking directly to you the first time, but incapable of speaking in the second,” he said. “The longer the dead are departed from the material world, the harder it is for them to speak directly to the living. When they try to do so, it usually comes out garbled. That’s why most people have to use a spirit medium to communicate with those who have been deceased for more than a couple of days. Tell me—were you prone to such dreams before you moved to Golgotham?”
“No, never.”
“Very interesting. When we first met, I thought perhaps you had a touch of the uncanny in you. Many artistic types do, you know. That’s why people like Picasso, Mozart, and Fellini were fascinated by Kymeran culture—it resonated with them. It’s also why humans with abilities such as mine—oracles, mediums, dowsers, and the like—have made our homes here. Being surrounded by magic strengthens our gifts. My powers are far stronger here than anywhere else I ever lived, including New Orleans. And that’s saying something.”
“That’s all very interesting, Mr. Manto—but what does it mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious, my dear?” the oracle replied, blinking his rheumy eyes in surprise. “You’re being warned that whoever murdered your friends is trying to kill you, too.”
Chapter 25
“Are you sure he wasn’t tripping when he told you that?” Hexe said with a frown. He was seated at the desk in his office, poring over an old manuscript for hints on banishing demons.
“No. But would it make any difference if he was? You know him better than I do.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “Aloysius comes from a long line of oracles, and is exceptionally gifted. That’s why my grandfather allowed him to move into the basement, fifty years ago. He said all Witch Kings need an oracle, and there wasn’t one better than Mr. Manto. I know my mother still consults with him now and again, as well. If Aloysius says Quid, Gus, and Bayard were murdered, and all by the same person, then it must be true.”
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” I protested, as I flopped down in the chair opposite his desk. “We know who killed Quid. Those Sons of Adam assholes beat him to death on YouTube for the whole world to see. But those knuckle-draggers don’t seem to have the smarts to do something as subtle as arranging for Bayard’s hot shot. And ever since the riot, most Golgothamites have become a lot more sensitive to humans hanging around, so I can’t imagine these bozos being able to get close enough to Gus to throw him into the river, no matter how drunk he might have been. Plus, why would they go out of their way to take credit for attacking Jarl and Quid, but make Bayard and Gus’s deaths look like accidents? It doesn’t seem to be their style.”
“I agree,” Hexe said thoughtfully. “And what do they have to do with the demon? We’d originally assumed it was sent as retaliation for you being a spy. Dori’s claims that she sold the binding amulet that the demon dropped to a Kymeran with a KUP pin seem to confirm that suspicion. But if what Mr. Manto says is true . . . I just can’t see this Cain fellow paying to have a sorcerer summon something as dangerous—and pricey—as a Knight of the Infernal Court. And even if he did do all that, why would he sic it on a fellow human? Last time I checked, the SOA was in the Kymeran-hating business.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted with a sigh. “Maybe Cain knows me—or thinks he does, anyway. I told you that I had a funny feeling I’d seen his face before. Maybe he’s someone I went to school with. Or he works for my family in some capacity. But one thing I am certain of—all this has something to do with the favor I paid back to Quid. I never would have met Bayard and Gus otherwise. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. But it still doesn’t explain Jarl. I’d never spoken to him while he was alive, and the only time I’d seen him in the flesh, his face was pounded to hamburger. So how would I have known what he looked like in my dream if it wasn’t a vision?”
“But Jarl was attacked by the same people who killed Quid,” Hexe pointed out. “That’s the only connection we have. What was Jarl doing in your vision?”
“Well, some of it was kind of weird, like a regular dream. Like him feeding eggs to a dragon, for example.”
Instead of laughing, Hexe sat up straighter in his seat.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Does that mean anything?”
“I hope not,” he said grimly. “Dragons are the symbol of the royal family. We should visit Jarl’s widow, Ruby, and ask her a few questions to find out if there was a connection of any sort between her husband and Quid outside of their being attacked by the same men. We’ll need to bring a token of our respect for the departed.”
“You mean flowers or a wreath? It’s too late in the year for something from the garden, I’m afraid,” I pointed out. “But we can stop by a florist’s on the way.”
“Kymerans don’t use flowers to honor the dead,” Hexe said, stepping out into the backyard. I watched, perplexed, as he knelt down and dug about in one of the plant beds until he found a walnut-sized piece of rock. “Flowers die. Stone, however, lasts for eternity.”
According to the latest edition of the Golgotham Page
s, a comprehensive listing of the various sorcerers, witches, and other practitioners who offered their skills for sale, Jarl had operated out of his home on Pearl Street, located between Dover and Ferry Streets, near Pickman’s Slip. The neighborhood was composed largely of Kymerans and leprechauns, who lived in tightly packed tenement buildings within easy walking distance of the Rookery.
It was already dark by the time we arrived at Jarl’s apartment. Hexe pressed the smudged button on one of the call boxes outside the building, and was rewarded a few seconds later by a corresponding buzz from the front door. He swung it open, ushering me ahead of him.
The foyer of the tenement was cramped, with scuffed tile floors and an ornate pressed-tin ceiling that dated back to when whalebone stays were all the rage. Since Jarl’s widow lived on the third floor, and there was no elevator, we had to climb the unlighted staircase that penetrated the middle of the building. The steps were clad in marble, which had been worn down in the middle by generations of passing feet.
Each narrow landing had four doors opening onto it, and from behind them could be heard a jumbled mix of muted voices, loud music, and rattling pipes. The smell of Kymeran cooking was so thick you could literally see it coiling about in the uncirculated air like a phantom octopus. As we reached the second floor, we had to squeeze to one side to allow a nymph dressed in a Hooters uniform to hurry down the stairs.
The dead alchemist’s apartment was one that looked out onto the street, and was easily identified by the black crepe wreath hung just below the transom. Hexe knocked on the door and a few seconds later we heard the dead bolts being unlocked. The door opened a few inches and I glimpsed Jarl’s widow, Ruby, peering out anxiously at us. She looked even sadder than the last time I’d seen her. Her violet-colored eyes widened at the sight of Hexe standing in the hall. She gasped and quickly shut the door again. There was the sound of more unlocking, and then the door swung open.
“You honor our home, Serenity,” Ruby said.
The first thing I noticed as I entered the apartment was the bathtub in the kitchen. Wedged between an ancient Kelvinator and an antique woodstove, it was made of cast iron and had claw feet, like the ones in the boardinghouse. A large wooden lid covered the tub, converting it into a tabletop, across which was scattered a collection of beakers, crucibles, mortars, and pestles. The walls of the kitchen were lined with shelves on which stood numerous glass jars containing everything from arsenic to zinc. Just beyond the stove was a pair of pocket doors that sealed the rest of the living space off from the combination kitchen and alchemist’s laboratory.
“Madame Ruby, on behalf of the royal family, I would like to extend my sincerest condolences on the loss of your husband,” Hexe said softly, handing her the rock from his garden.
“Thank you, Serenity,” she whispered, cupping it in her hands as if it were a precious stone.
The pocket doors slowly rumbled open, pushed apart by invisible hands, revealing a large living space that seemed to serve as both parlor and bedroom. The far wall was composed of tall windows that looked out onto Pearl Street. A wind chime fashioned from bits of crystal hung from one of them, advertising Ruby’s job as a shaper of scrying stones. One side of the room had been lofted to create a sleeping platform, with an overstuffed divan wedged underneath. On the opposite wall was a modest fireplace set with green tiles. Judging from the other chunks of rock that lined the antique oak mantelpiece, we weren’t the first to come pay our respects.
“When is the funeral?” Hexe asked.
“It’s scheduled three days from now,” she replied. “It would have been sooner, but I couldn’t afford the barge to Necropolis until this afternoon. Your uncle was kind enough to step forward and pay the ferryman on my behalf.”
“That was . . . considerate of him,” Hexe said carefully.
“Please excuse my ignorance,” I interjected, “but wasn’t Jarl an alchemist? Didn’t that mean he could create his own gold?”
“That is a common misunderstanding when it comes to alchemy,” Ruby said with a sad smile. “People wonder why most alchemists aren’t rich. They don’t realize it requires a ton of lead to create a quarter ounce of gold. Besides, Jarl’s gift didn’t lie in transmutation of base metals. He specialized in producing the rare ingredients used in various potions, and dabbled in panacea and elixir vitae. His clients were other Kymerans—that’s why he didn’t bother setting up shop in the Rookery.”
“Madame Ruby, I am truly sorry to intrude upon you at this time, but it’s very important that I ask you a few questions about your husband’s business.”
“That’s all right, Serenity.” She smiled wanly. “If not for the aid you and Ms. Eresby rendered that night, Jarl would have died on the street. Ask me whatever questions you need to, and I’ll do my best to answer them.”
“Did your husband happen to know the favor broker Quid?”
“Yes, they knew each other,” Ruby replied, nodding her head. “In fact, Jarl had just repaid his favor to him.”
Hexe and I exchanged knowing looks. The connection between the others and the alchemist was finally becoming clear. “How so?”
“Jarl told me he could discharge the favor he owed Quid by drawing up blueprints for a piece of alchemical equipment for one of his clients.”
“Did Jarl say anything about what he was working on?” Ruby shook her head. “You know the code. ‘No questions asked; no stories told.’”
“Yes, but that oath died with Quid,” Hexe said gently.
“I really don’t have much information,” she replied. “But I do remember him being uncomfortable about the project. He said there was no sane reason for the device to be the size the client wanted.”
“Do you have any idea what sort of apparatus he might have been working on?”
“No, but I did accidentally walk in on him while he was at his worktable,” she said, gesturing to the covered bathtub. “He rolled the blueprint up, so I couldn’t get a good look. But whatever it was, it had a dragon’s head.”
“That freaky still I built for Quid’s client—that has to be the thing Jarl designed,” I said excitedly as we left the tenement building. “It makes sense. It was made out of copper, and it had a dragon’s head and a lion’s feet. That’s why the dragon I saw in the vision was copper. It still doesn’t explain why Jarl was feeding it eggs, though.”
“Eggs are a symbol of life, of fertility,” Hexe mused aloud, as we headed back in the direction of the boardinghouse. “They also represent creative potential. But the language of visions isn’t the same as dreams. What you saw could have any number of interpretations. When we get back to the house, I’ll use one of the scrying stones to look into your past. If I can get a glimpse of the ‘freaky still’ you constructed, maybe I can figure out its purpose, and how it’s related to everything that’s happened in the last week or so.”
“Are you going to call Captain Horn and tell him what we’ve learned?” I asked.
“He’s far more likely to take murder clues revealed in dreams seriously than your average police officer, but I suspect he’ll still need something closer to hard evidence to take action,” Hexe pointed out. “But at least he will be able to reopen the investigations into Gus and Bayard’s deaths. Someone went out of their way to make them seem unrelated, and I want to know why.”
As we turned the corner onto Beekman Street, a man suddenly stepped out of a shadowy doorway, blocking our path. He was dressed all in black, from his hoodie jacket to his steel-toed boots. As he raised a lit cigarette to his lips, I could see that his hand had five fingers.
“What do you think you’re doing with one of our women, Kymie?” the stranger growled.
“I’m not ‘your’ woman, asshole!” I snapped. “Who do you think you are to talk to us like that?”
“I am Cain, first among the Sons of Adam,” he replied, pushing back the hood to reveal his face. “And my brothers and I plan to teach this Kymie bastard to keep his filthy hands off human women.”
As Hexe put himself between me and the terrorist leader, I saw two more figures step out of the shadows behind us. They were dressed identically to Cain, save for the black ski masks hiding their faces, and all I could see were their eyes, which seemed to shine like those of wild animals. As they hefted their weapons, I saw Quid’s dried blood smeared along the tips and barrels of the bats.
Hexe spoke in Kymeran, raising his right hand to cast a stasis spell, like the one he’d used during the riot. There was a quick burst of light, like that of a flash camera, but instead of becoming a living statue, Cain merely laughed and blew a plume of cigarette smoke into Hexe’s face.
“Better check on lover boy,” he sneered. “I don’t think he’s all there.”
I touched Hexe’s forearm and he abruptly pitched backward on his heels, right hand still upraised. He was as immobile as a department-store mannequin, and about as easy to maneuver as I lowered him to the pavement.
“What did you do to him, you chuffer?” I demanded, cradling Hexe’s head in my lap.
“Nothing that he wasn’t trying to do to me first,” Cain chuckled. The amusement quickly disappeared from his face and he grabbed me by the hair, yanking me back onto my feet. “So much for your warlock fuck-buddy. You’re going to be partying with us now, bitch. We’ll show you how real men do things.” He tightened his grip on my hair until it felt as if my scalp was being torn free of my skull. As Cain brought his face close to mine, I could see his hair was going gray at the temples, although his features seemed oddly smooth and unlined, as if he had never laughed, frowned, or cried throughout his life. In strange counterbalance, his eyes burned with a focused energy composed of equal parts malice, exhilaration, and lust. It was like looking at someone wearing a mask.
Left Hand Magic Page 22