by George Mann
“Wasn’t it magnificent?” said Astrid. “To think, a device built a hundred and fifty years ago can still do that. Do you see now how those statues must have been brought to life?” She was pacing up and down in her workshop, buzzing with excitement. “The alchemical principle is exactly the same.”
Gabriel found himself grinning, despite everything. Her enthusiasm was infectious. “Yes, I see it,” he said. “But the things it said—what did they mean? They sounded pretty ominous.”
“As above, so below,” said Astrid. “It was referring to the hermetic principle I told you about. But then it repeated the maxim backwards: so below, as above. It’s a warning, especially when it’s coupled with what it said about the ‘Empire of Greed’ being ‘refashioned’ to suit the purpose of the gods.”
“The Empire of Greed—that’s Manhattan, right?”
“I can’t think of a better description,” said Astrid. “That’s what we’ve been building here, isn’t it—the capitalist utopia, the land of possibility.”
“And by ‘refashioned’…?”
“So below, as above,” repeated Astrid. “The Circle of Thoth intend to reshape parts of Manhattan to reflect the heavens. ‘The heavens shall soon align, and the world shall know the wrath’, etcetera, etcetera. Think about it. They’re trying to bring back the ancient gods by mirroring the architecture of the heavens. They’ve already succeeded with Sekhmet—it sounds as though Thoth is next.”
“And then we shall know his wrath,” said Gabriel. “That doesn’t sound like a whole bunch of fun.”
“Not if he intends to level Manhattan and rebuild it as his new domain on Earth, it doesn’t,” said Astrid. “There must be a structure somewhere, a place where they intend to channel Thoth’s power into another vessel. The museum?”
“Possibly,” said Gabriel, “although I didn’t see anything fitting that bill. There’s a colonnade, some statues, and the tomb of Sekhmet.”
“It must be somewhere else, then. That’s the key. Find that, and we have a chance of disrupting their plans before they manifest Thoth.”
“And Sekhmet?”
Astrid smiled. “This time I really do need you to take off your shirt.”
TWENTY-ONE
“So, he’s still alive, then?” said Donovan. He was flicking ash into the dregs of his cold coffee, in lieu of the ashtray, which was overflowing and had started to present something of a fire risk. He’d have emptied it, if it hadn’t been for the storm of chaos that had erupted in the aftermath of the previous night’s attack. Or, he supposed, maybe he wouldn’t have. It was a good excuse, though.
It was long past lunch, but he hadn’t managed to eat yet, and he was starting to get grouchy. It had been weeks since he’d last managed to head to Joe’s for his favorite pastrami sandwich. When this was over, it was the first thing he was going to do, and damn the waistline.
He ditched the end of the cigarette and immediately lit another, hoping it would help to suppress his burgeoning appetite.
“Barely,” said Mullins, who was sitting on the other side of the desk, also smoking a cigarette. He’d been trying to cut down, but recent events seemed to have somewhat interfered with his plan. “The doctor says he won’t survive another night. Too much internal bleeding, apparently. Half his organs were ruptured when that Enforcer hit him.”
“Right,” said Donovan. “We’d better get down there, then. I’ve got some questions I want to put to him before he shuffles off this mortal coil.”
“You’re not likely to get much out of him,” said Mullins. “He’s dosed up on morphine, and he doesn’t seem to be in the mood for talking.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Donovan. He wasn’t a particular fan of strong-arm tactics, but the cultist wasn’t to know that. A well-placed threat had loosened just as many tongues for him over the years as a sharp fist to the gut.
“Hospital, then?” he said, getting to his feet. He tossed Mullins the car keys. “Here, you’re driving.”
They left the bustling office, traversed a couple of flights of stairs, and quit the precinct building via the main entrance, where workmen were hurriedly erecting wooden scaffolds in order to repair the damage. The roads were going to take longer to repair, and for now, traffic was being rerouted around the block. Donovan could still see patches of sawdust clinging to the asphalt were the cultists had landed, bursting like water balloons filled with blood and bones. The memory of it made him shudder. Maybe he’d have to pick a new spot for his meetings with Gabriel; the roof wasn’t going to feel the same again after what had come to pass.
The car was parked a little way up the street—thankfully avoiding the destruction of the previous night—and Donovan walked round, climbing into the passenger seat. Mullins fired up the engine, and they purred away, trailing a column of thick black smoke.
He was hoping for some good news. So far, it hadn’t been a day for it.
He’d sent Parkhurst and another of the uniformed boys out to pick up Landsworth, but they’d returned empty-handed, claiming he wasn’t to be found at his hotel, or at the museum, and that the curator had claimed he’d not shown his face since the shooting at the parade the previous day.
The wheedling bastard was on the run. Donovan knew it. Their visit to the hotel had spooked him, and whatever Gabriel had said to him at the museum had only made matters worse. The shooting must have been the final straw, and he’d upped and made a run for it. He’d had Parkhurst alert all the ports, but in a city like this, if someone really didn’t want to be found, they could go to ground for months. Especially if they had powerful friends, and Donovan was certain that Landsworth was well connected to the Circle of Thoth.
He couldn’t blame Gabriel, not really. If it was Flora who was missing, he doubted he could have been so restrained. All the same, he cursed himself for not getting to the man earlier. His gut had warned him soon enough, and he’d played it cool, rather than trusting his instincts.
Nevertheless, the cultist in the hospital presented an opportunity. He’d had multiple guards posted on him all night and all morning, and they’d been careful to ensure there was nothing in the ward that he could employ as a weapon, against either the police or himself.
They purred through the bustling streets in silence. It was unlike Mullins to be so reflective. “What is it, Sergeant? Something’s on your mind.”
Mullins glanced at him, and then returned his eyes to the road. “I was going over what happened last night, sir, is all.”
“And?”
“And what, sir?”
“And what were your conclusions?”
Mullins looked uncomfortable. “Not so much conclusions, sir, as questions. I was thinking about the Ghost. You know I’ve had my concerns about him in the past.”
“I do.”
“And then, after what he did to help Florence Wu—I can see why you think what you do of him, sir.”
“And what’s that, Sergeant?” said Donovan.
“You respect him, sir. And so do I. His tactics might be anathema, but he gets the job done, and he’s on the side of the angels.”
“I’m sensing a ‘but’.”
“All I was wondering was… would we have so much trouble if he wasn’t around? I mean, does he attract them, the lunatics and psychopaths and supernatural stuff? Would the Reaper and those cultists have even attacked the precinct last night if he hadn’t been there?”
“He arrived afterwards, Mullins. Once the fighting had already started. I was up there on the roof having a smoke.”
Mullins glanced across at him. “Yes, sir. If you say so, sir.”
Donovan sighed. “You’re a clever sod, I’ll give you that, Mullins. Maybe a little lacking in diplomacy, but you’re turning into a damn fine detective.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And the answer is ‘maybe’,” said Donovan, lighting another cigarette and tossing his empty packet on the back seat. “Maybe he does attract them. Maybe the precinct wo
uldn’t have come under fire if he’d been somewhere else last night. But I look at it like this—he doesn’t create those madmen, or those things that lurk in the darkness. They’re already out there, drawing their plans. If it weren’t him, it would be someone else—maybe someplace else, true, but then someone has to deal with them. It might as well be us. He took a long draw on his cigarette. “And you’re right, his tactics sometimes leave something to be desired, but if we engage with him, if we work with him, then he can do things we can’t, get to the places we can’t go. There’s incredible value in that. Having someone we can trust on the outside, it brings perspective.”
“So you’re saying he’s worth it? He’s worth the risk?”
“I think I am, Sergeant, yes. I’m saying the city’s better off with him than without him.”
Mullins pulled the car to a stop. They’d reached the hospital. “That’s all right then, sir. Just so that I understand.” He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine died. “Let’s go find us some answers, then.”
* * *
The sight of the cultist in his hospital bed did little to alleviate Donovan’s notion that he was having a bad day. If he’d hoped to get much of any coherence from the man, he was going to be bitterly disappointed—the dying cultist was hooked up to an intravenous drip, strapped to the bed to stop him thrashing, and presently in a state that resembled a drug-induced delirium. He was rolling his head from side to side on the pillow and mumbling. His eyelids were fluttering, his hands squeezed so tight into fists that the nails had dug into his palms and blood was trickling down his wrists.
“See what I mean, sir?” said Mullins apologetically. “He doesn’t seem to be doing so well.”
“Nor would you if one of those things had tossed you across the rooftop,” said Donovan, and immediately regretted it. He altered his tone. “All right, but we’re going to have to try something. Fetch one of the nurses, would you?”
Mullins went out into the corridor and told one of the uniformed men they had on guard to track down a nurse. She appeared in the doorway a few moments later, looking flustered. “Look, this isn’t the only patient I have to deal with, you know,” she said haughtily.
“No, but I bet he’s the only one who might have information on the whereabouts of a kidnapped woman,” said Donovan. “So if you don’t mind, we’d appreciate your help in trying to save her life.”
The nurse looked suitably taken aback. “Well, yes, of course,” she said. “What do you need?”
“I need to bring him round.”
“He’s dying… Inspector?” He nodded. “He’s in excruciating pain, even with the medication. If we turn off the drip, he’s going to suffer.”
“Remember what I said—there’s an innocent woman’s life at stake. This man—he’s a killer. A cold-blooded murderer. Now, I know you have a job to do, and no one should have to die in pain, but we just need a minute to question him, that’s all. Then as far as I’m concerned you can pump him full of whatever you like.”
“Lead, preferably,” muttered Mullins.
The nurse nodded. She walked over to the drip and turned a little red tap. “There. I’ll be back in five minutes to turn it back on. He’ll probably start screaming in two.” She glanced at her watch, and left.
Donovan watched the cultist writhing on the bed, lost in the throes of his opiate dream. Whatever the drugs were doing for him, they didn’t appear to be offering much comfort.
“Did we pull a name for him?” said Donovan.
“John Doe,” said Mullins. “The boys are working on it, but his prints don’t seem to be on record, and obviously no one’s coming forward.”
Donovan nodded. He’d expected as much.
The cultist had stopped writhing now, and his face had creased in a confused frown. His fists opened, his fingers flexing, and then he suddenly sat bolt upright, thrashing against his bonds. His eyes were wide and staring, and fixed on Donovan. He opened his mouth, as if trying to scream, but nothing came out. It was one of the most horrendous things Donovan had ever seen.
“Who are you?” said Donovan, his voice level.
The man’s eyes widened. He leaned forward. Then he started whimpering. His wrists thrashed against his bonds again. Donovan reached forward, grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him back down onto the bed.
“I asked you a question,” he said.
The man’s eyes finally seemed to register something, flicking back and forth across Donovan’s face. He made a noise that started like a rasping cough, and as Donovan watched the cultist’s face crack into a pained smile, it became a dreadful, hissing laugh.
“Where is she?” said Donovan. “Where are they holding her?”
“You’re too late,” said the cultist. There were speckles of blood flecking his lips.
“Too late for what?” said Donovan. “The Circle is moving against the Reaper?”
“Sekhmet’s army awaits her. She will rise and clear the way for Thoth. Too late…” He trailed off, still laughing. “Too late…” He started to fit beneath Donovan’s grip, and Donovan released him, stepping back from the bed.
Mullins was at the door, calling for the nurse. She came running, pushing Donovan aside. She tried to clear the man’s airway, but it was bubbling with blood. “I hope you got what you wanted,” she said, with scorn, “because it’s the last thing he’ll ever say.”
“Then it’ll have to do,” said Donovan, standing aside as an army of doctors poured into the room.
He beckoned to Mullins, and they left.
They didn’t speak until they were in the car and Mullins had started the engine. “The ravings of a madman?” he said.
“I don’t think so,” said Donovan. “I think it’s about to start. Last night was a warm-up act. Tonight they’re going to show their hand.”
“Then where to?”
“There’s an apartment on Fifth Avenue, Mullins. I think you can imagine who lives there. We need to go and fetch him. We need to go and get the Ghost.”
“Very good, sir,” said Mullins. “I was hoping you were going to say that.”
He turned the wheel, and they pulled away from the curb, slipping out into the mid-afternoon traffic.
TWENTY-TWO
Save for the trees, Central Park was perfectly silent and still. They whispered to one another in the breeze, sharing secrets, singing a gentle lament. The Ghost didn’t know if the thought was comforting, or unsettling.
They were hunkered down amongst the boughs—he, Astrid and Donovan—watching the museum entrance, while Mullins waited around the corner with a select force of armed police officers. They’d been hand-picked by Donovan, who’d chosen only those men he thought wouldn’t balk at the first sign of anything… unexpected. This time, Donovan assured him, they’d been warned not to open fire on the Ghost if he put in an appearance, but to focus their attentions on the cultists. He hoped they’d been paying attention.
Of course, they had no real idea if they were correct in their assumption about the museum—that it would form a sort of nexus point for Sekhmet’s attack—but Astrid had argued that the tomb was the seat of her power, and that the “army” the dying cultist had spoken of was most likely comprised of ancient statues, shipped in from Egypt along with the exhibit and awaiting the call to arms. It made sense, and so here they were, camped out amongst the trees, waiting to see if anything would happen.
Donovan had found him at his apartment earlier that afternoon, having returned with Astrid to make preparations for the evening. He’d been in his workshop, constructing a pouch of explosive rounds for his flechette gun—the same kind he’d used against the Roman’s “moss men” over a year earlier, to devastating effect. He hoped they’d make a difference if they did encounter any further statues—or Enforcers—that night.
The appearance of Mullins had been something of a surprise; for well over a year now, the Ghost had strived to keep the identity of his alter ego secret from the man. Mullins had ini
tially taken a dim view of the Ghost and his activities—often citing him a criminal, as dangerous in his own way as the enemies he fought to protect the city against—but in recent months his attitude seemed to have softened, and he’d even come to see the Ghost as something of an ally. He’d barely batted an eye as Donovan had shown him into the Ghost’s apartment and the nature of the Ghost’s true identity had become apparent. He’d simply shaken Gabriel by the hand, taken one of Donovan’s cigarettes, and joined in with the ensuing conference.
Their stories, of course, had dovetailed, and whilst Astrid and Gabriel had remained sketchy on the details of their morning’s activity, it was clear both parties had come to the same conclusion—that the Circle of Thoth were about to escalate matters, and that the Reaper’s mob were not the only target.
Following the previous night’s attacks at the precinct, the police had already cracked open their vaults and gathered a number of hand grenades, which they’d issued to the armed officers, instructing them to be deployed only in the direst circumstances, and only then against enemies such as the Enforcers. The Ghost hoped they’d be enough—if Astrid’s fears were realized, handguns and batons weren’t going to stand any of them in much stead.
He sensed movement out of the corner of his eye, and squinted, focusing in on the museum steps. A single blue dot was wavering, skipping back and forth in a nervous fashion, like an errant fairy. He adjusted his goggles, increasing the magnification and boosting the sensitivity of the night vision. It was the baboon, scuttling about in the shadows, its electric eye gleaming.
“They’re coming,” he said, just as the museum doors blew out from the inside, and the blazing light of the goddess brought a false dawn to the street outside.
She slid out into the night, gliding on her ancient, mysterious winds, trailing ribbons of tattered bandages and wrapped in a halo of ethereal sunlight. She raised herself higher, arms outstretched by her sides, a warrior queen at the head of her army.