by Anton Strout
“What in God’s name is going on in here?” Connor said softly.
I stooped over a girl in her midtwenties and moved her head from side to side gently, looking for bite marks. Despite the lack of vampires in a city like New York, I had no idea what else it could be. The girl seemed barely aware I was in the room. She looked quite gaunt, though physically unharmed. Connor bent over, scooped something up, and turned to face me. In his hand was a small clay pot, roughly the size of a tennis ball.
“Look familiar?” he said. “All those broken shards of pottery in the alley that night…”
“They looked strung out,” I said.
Connor handed me the pot. It was empty, but whatever had been in it had left a sickeningly sweet smell, like overripe fruit. A drop of opaque residue clung to the container’s lip. “What is it?” I handed the pot back to Connor, who slipped it into his coat pocket.
“It’s a residue left by the plasmic energy generated from the electrical impulses of a spirit when it’s been confined to a tiny area for too long.”
“Spirits are tangible?” In my dealings with Irene, I hadn’t been able to touch her, but it made sense that there must be some level of corporeality. As Connor had pointed out, she could sit on a chair or walk across a floor without constantly drifting through it.
Connor nodded. “Some spirits more so than others. Depends on their after-death strength. Like your Irene, for example. There’s not really an exact science to it, although I hear that Haunts-General is doing some fantastic phantasmagoric research in that area.”
“If these jars are here and the residue is here,” I said, “where the hell are the spirits?”
One of the bodies near my feet stirred, rolled over, and resettled on my shoes. I stepped back gingerly, careful not to disturb anyone in the process.
“That’s what I’m getting at,” Connor said. He looked sadder than I had ever seen him. “This is some serious stuff going on here, Simon. These spirits have been entirely destroyed by this group of junkies. They’re Ghostsniffers.”
I stared blankly at Connor.
Connor simply looked at me and continued. “The Fraternal Order of Goodness basically put a stop to this type of activity over thirty years ago, kid. Certain cultists and spiritualists became addicted to the momentary high experienced when a spirit passes through a living person. When an uncontained spirit passes through someone, no harm really comes to either party, unless you count the hair damage. Thing is, the spirits that were in these jars have been purposefully packed tight into containment. These addicts have been mainlining concentrated plasmic energy straight into their systems.”
“Sounds ghastly,” I said.
“Ghastly?” Connor said. “Christ, that’s an understatement. Just look at them! Even for Ghostsniffers, they look bad. Something’s amplifying the effect on these people like some kind of supercrack. Normally they’d have streaks in their hair, like mine, but they’ve gone totally white. Whatever is juicing things up is shocking out the pigment entirely.”
“Maybe the fish has something to do with this,” I suggested. “I mean, we asked Gaynor to point us toward the fish and this is what we find.”
“Maybe,” Connor agreed, “but we still don’t know the why of it all.”
I looked down at all the people lying around us. These had to be some of the sickliest-looking people I had ever seen. Not only were their eyes sunk deep into their sockets, it seemed like their very souls were sunken as well.
“This is bad juju, Simon. It’s a taboo practice even among the more hardcore cultists. It wouldn’t be so bad if the spirits survived the process, but it absolutely destroys them when they’ve been forcibly concentrated like this. We’ve got to figure out who’s been processing these spirits. Containing them, distributing them…it’s not an easy task.”
“You mean this isn’t just Cyrus’s doing?” I asked.
Connor shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” Connor said. “It’s too large a project. Look around. This is just a flophouse. There’s no equipment set up for this type of operation here. At the worst, it looks like he was running a Ghostsniffing lair, like one of those old opium dens.”
“I’m still going to hold Cyrus accountable when we catch up to him,” I said. “This is not cool. Not cool at all.”
I wished I knew what to do to help these pathetic souls, but this wasn’t my area of expertise at all. I pulled out my phone, but there was no signal. “Once we’re outside, I’ll call it in.”
“We need to get these people help,” Connor said. “Have them send a Shadower team to watch the store in case Cyrus comes back. Make sure they put someone on Cyrus’s apartment, too.”
I nodded.
“I’m sure Greater and Lesser Arcana would like to get their hands on some of these books,” Connor continued. “They’ll probably want to get one of their agents in here to run the store until the Enchancellors figure out exactly what to do with Tome, Sweet Tome.”
I looked down at the pile of near lifeless users on the floor. They were our first priority. Catching Cyrus would have to wait.
23
As expected, the Inspectre was disturbed by our find at Tome, Sweet Tome, but both he and Director Wesker seemed quite pleased to add the Black Stacks to their list of departmental acquisitions. Representatives from every division showed up, especially a large contingent of archivists from the Gauntlet. I spied one of their rank-and-file members, Godfrey Candella, grinning from ear to ear, despite the abominations that had happened there. He and several other agents chased a few eager-to-escape books around, scooping them into fishing nets.
At that point, there wasn’t much for me to do. Using my psychic ability over and over to track Cyrus had exhausted me, and I no longer felt of any use. I’d offered to try to use my power on one of the clay pots once it came back, but Connor’s face had gone white. “I would not recommend that, kid,” he said, stricken. “You might not come back.” Since there was no update from Shadower on Cyrus’s whereabouts and I had little expertise in dealing with a roomful of ectoplasmic nose-candy junkies, I quietly dismissed myself from the store and let those better equipped to do so work the scene.
I made my way back to the Lovecraft, but stopped by my desk only long enough to grab Jane’s journal. I didn’t want to do this, but the stakes were getting higher and higher. Maybe the journal would give me some insight into the Sectarian involvement in all this. I walked out to the coffee shop after deciding to forgo the office environment entirely for the comfort of an enormous puffy chair. The steaming hiss of the espresso machine did little to relax me while I waited for a coffee. I stared at the unopened book. Its cover was gilded with astrological signs. Tension mounted thick across my shoulders.
Hadn’t this exact sinister act, reading someone else’s journal, been the very thing Tamara had accused me of? The guilt was consuming. Was I really going to learn enough about Jane from what she might have written to help the investigation? Was I in a state of mind to deal with what I read? And why was I reading it here? Was I hiding away from the office environment as well as avoiding my apartment now?
I knew why I brought Jane’s notebook to the office, though. If Irene suddenly reappeared in my apartment, I feared how she would react to seeing me nose deep in another woman’s personal thoughts in her newly unstable state. I told myself I was doing the heroic thing.
I took a tentative sip of my newly arrived drink, and opened the book. I flipped through it, starting at the back and watching the blank pages slip on by until I caught the first sign of words, and I sought out her entry from last night.
Dear Diary,
Subject: Simon Canderous—Surveillance
Next time, definitely no thong on a stakeout. Stakeouts require prolonged periods of squatting. Had Faisal not sent me out in such haste, I totally would have worn something more sensible…or at least something that didn’t feel like it was trying to cut me in half lengthwise!
It is a
lonely dance I do here among the secrecy of the rooftops.
Manhattan is simply breathtaking at night, the sparkle of a million light flicking on and off across the cityscape like the fireflies back home.
Fireflies? Did I just compare Manhattan to fireflies??? Geesh. A bit of the small-town girl coming through, I suppose. Up here, I can see the individual lives carrying on around me. Here are all the stories of the city, tucked snugly into skyscraper-shaped containers. Through one window I can see a man playing joyfully with a child who can’t be any more than three years old. I can’t make out if it is a boy or a girl, just that the child seemed to be giggling madly as the father bounces him or her up and down…
Incoming call vibrating away. BRB, Dear Diary!!
Faisal AGAIN! I’m a little tired of his grumpiness. I hope that I didn’t come off sounding too eager to please. I’ve been working on my professional tone lately, aiming for what the Sectarians call “sinister amiability.” Don’t think I’ve got it down yet. Practice, practice, practice!
He sounded agitated, especially when I told him I just got here. What can I say? I got a little lost! Up here, everything looks the same without storefronts or street numbers. Thanks to resourceful me, Dear Diary, I used the lit-up spire of the Empire State Building as a guide to get back on track. Yay me!
I am now settled in across from Simon Canderous’s place to write to you, my Dearest Diary.
The curtains are drawn but I can see in through the cracks here and there. It’s two stories down and only allows for a partial view into Simon’s apartment. I looked over the edge just now, and a slight bout of vertigo hit me. Ick! A sudden gust of wind and I could imagine myself going over. Bad news, Dear Diary!
OMG! From what little I can see, Simon’s place is absolutely GORGEOUS. It looks totally swank and fabulous in an old-world way. It sure beats my tiny Chelsea place. Does the Department of Extraordinary Affairs pay their underlings well enough to live like this? Maybe I need to trade up!
Diary, what am I to make of this Simon fellow? He was a defensive meanie the other night over the departmental dinner we had.
I know I mustn’t rush to judgment on assessing him or this situation, even though Faisal and the Sectarians have convinced me how dangerous these D.E.A. members are. But how can someone that cute be dangerous? I can make up my own mind. I’m a City Girl now. Girl Power!
I hope first impressions don’t mean anything. When we first met, I think I came off as a bitch, but he was the one brandishing a bat at me! Back to work…BRB, Dear Diary!
I checked the safety on my gun just now and released it. Push aside the feelings, Janey. Don’t think. That’s not what the Sectarians pay you for. Just obedience.
I sure hope I don’t have to shoot anyone. I’d feel bad about that. Just like I feel bad about you—my truest of friends—that I’m already going to have to edit you down for Faisal’s report. Sorry!
Dear Diary, damn this thong! Something this invasive usually buys me a drink first!
Be right back…
I closed the book. I knew what happened next, of course. Director Wesker would answer for cutting her lifeline.
This was not the journal of someone committed to evil and the dark arts. A wave of optimism washed over me. This was the journal of a small-town girl transported to the Big City, a girl who seemed to be crushing on me. She could be turned to our side, a hot, perky version of Darth Vader.
I felt more ashamed than ever for having read the diary, but at least I hadn’t taken off my gloves and “read” it. I suddenly realized that I wouldn’t have been able to bring myself to do that—and that meant something. Maybe I didn’t want to know Jane on a psychometric level because…she was someone I was actually interested in, and I didn’t want to fuck things up preemptively.
I didn’t recall my walk home from the Lovecraft Café that night. I was far too wrapped up in what I had read to think of much else. But why was that old nervous feeling at the pit of my stomach working its way to the top again?
24
When I got home, there was no sign of Irene. It seemed odd not to have her there, but I couldn’t imagine where to look. Connor hadn’t given me any ideas either. I hit the White Room to center myself and it seemed to do the trick. I thought about calling Jane at her hotel to see how she was doing, but decided against it. I could be under surveillance if Jason Charles was really out to get me. Just after midnight I had decided that my only possible course of action was sleep when my cell went off. It was Connor.
“You awake?”
“Does it really matter?” I muttered sleepily.
“Good point,” Connor conceded. “Can you get out to Williamsburg?”
“Now?” The other night, when Connor called me to help him with that feral spirit in the alley, I had been looking for a distraction, but tonight I was exhausted.
“Trust me, kid, you’ll wanna be here. I’ve tracked Cyrus down.”
I sat up and started dressing immediately, sliding on jeans and a tee. “What? How?”
“Well, interrogating those junkies was no use. They’re all still totally out of it. But you know how there have been more and more of those disoriented spirits showing up? I did a few therapy sessions with some of them. One of them knew of Cyrus, even had an address where he said Cyrus hangs out a lot. Make sure you bring your bat. He’s got a lot to account for. Plus, it’s payback for making us look like assholes in the paranormal community.”
Connor gave me the address and I took a car service over the Williamsburg Bridge to River Street and North Sixth. River Street, aptly named for its location by the East River, had a spectacular nighttime view of the New York skyline. I stood marveling at it when I stepped out of the car until Connor psst end at me from the shadows nearby. I walked across the deserted stretch of Sixth and joined him. He pressed a finger to his lips and pointed to an old wooden industrial warehouse at the water’s edge.
“You think maybe we should have brought a task force or something?” I whispered.
Connor shook his head. “The Department already blew their budget using emergency funds just to get all those people out of Cyrus’s bookstore and take it over. Besides, I think the two of us can easily exact a little vengeance on a book nerd, even an occult one. Hope you brought your lock picks.”
I nodded. We crossed the street in silence, headed for the building. When we got to the door, there were three locks to work my way through. My biggest concern was busting one of the thin metal slides I was using, but after ten minutes I had successfully opened all the locks. Connor gave me a silent golf clap and I felt a swell of pride. It was disgraceful how much I craved his approval at times.
“The place has been dark for hours,” Connor whispered, “so either Cyrus goes to bed super early or else he’s not here.”
After I gave my eyes a moment to adjust to the low light pouring in from the city skyline, Connor and I headed up a flight of stairs set straight across from the front door. The upper floor opened up to a large loft space with floor-to-ceiling windows and the same spectacular view. The room itself was a mishmash of boxes, crates, and stands, all with one common theme—there were fish everywhere.
“One fish, two fish, evil fish, good fish,” I said with a low whistle. Every square inch of space was occupied by fish statues or artwork relating to fish. Most of them had been carelessly thrown around, but some of the pieces were hung on the wall with care. It looked like Cyrus was either a collector or else he had been searching in vain for a while for a very specific fish…the one from Irene’s apartment, I would bet.
I would never have guessed that there were so many potential forms of fish art out there. The most striking piece was a large silvery metallic fish that hung on display as a clear centerpiece for the room. “Ooh, shiny,” I said and headed for it. I pulled off one of my gloves to read it. Clearly something that ornate had a story to tell.
“Simon, don’t,” Connor said, when he spied where I was heading, but it was too late. I a
ttempted to trigger my power, but instead felt a swell of magical energy building from the fish and knocking me back. Instantly the shiny fish started glowing and arcane runes I didn’t recognize traced themselves out in fiery lines along its body, and then out along the warehouse’s floor and walls. Glowing lines began to crawl across the wall from one mounted fish to the next, until the flame patterns actually ignited the wood of the old warehouse. A building as old as this was built to burn, and already the heat was intense.
“Everything in here’s been warded,” Connor said, looking around. “It’s a trap.”
“Gah!” I shouted, disappointed in myself. “Can’t believe I fell for the old shiny object ploy. We deserve to be incinerated.”
“Speak for yourself, kid,” Connor said and ran back toward the stairs. As he tried to head down them, he slammed into an invisible barrier at the top of the stairs and bounced back. “It’s impassable. I bet this place is riddled with magic meant to mess with us.”
Smoke rapidly filled the room and I breathed in a big lungful of it. I looked to see if Connor was okay, but…inexplicably…he had turned into a zombie—skin gray, flesh hanging in messy strips from his face, dead sunken eye sockets, and a slack jaw that seemed to be hanging on his face by a thread. His clothes were in ruins also, his Bogey trench torn, tattered, and covered in blood.
“Meant to mess with us,” I repeated. I was sincerely hoping that Connor’s sudden transformation was simply a glamour caused by the nefarious, hallucinogenic smoke. Oh God, unless he’d been bitten the other night during the zombie extermination. “You don’t say?”