Arcane

by Nathan Shumate

  “Well, that is…” Rowan said.

  “Hell, probably takes about eighty gallons to get Ms. Tacy cleaned off, right?” she asked. Rowan made a strange noise somewhere between a cough and a gurgle. He was probably afraid that what she was saying would somehow get back to Ms. Tacy. The hell of it was, he was probably right. She sighed and opened the burner access door. The flame of the burner was yellow.

  “Your air intake’s fucked up,” she said.

  “Oh. Is that something you can fix?”

  “Uh huh,” J.T. replied, and reached into her tool bag and pulled out a screwdriver. She wound out the lock screw and began to adjust the air shutter.

  “There seems to be a bit of tension between you and Ms. Tacy, if you don’t mind my saying,” Rowan said from behind her.

  “Yeah, you could say that,” J.T. replied.

  “But obviously she respects you.” He said it in a quizzical tone, as if he couldn’t quite imagine anyone not falling all over themselves in gratitude over that.

  J.T. laughed. “Ms. Tacy don’t respect anything human,” she said. “She thinks I’m useful, is all. Someone got my right to own firearms restored after I got out of prison. Someone who thought it might come in handy.”

  “Or perhaps someone who wanted you to be able to protect yourself,” Rowan replied. “I know she is grateful for the way you dealt with Ricky.”

  J.T. shifted the shutter, watching the color of the flame. “You know, Ricky gathered up quite a pile of corpses on his way up the coast,” she said. “Ms. Tacy knew something was up before he hit New York. She didn’t bother to warn me.”

  “Well, you, uh, aren’t precisely in the Society anymore.”

  “But here I am,” J.T. said. “Fixing a Society water heater. And there I was, cleaning up a Society problem. Like I said, useful. But like you said, I’m not in the Society anymore, no matter whose granddaughter I am.”

  ***

  Dr. Blake tightened the strap one last notch and straightened up. Sometimes Ricky was cooperative when it came time to change his bandages, but tonight something had him worked up. The straps creaked as Ricky tested them. He was stronger than he looked, something they’d learned a week back when he’d quite suddenly come out of the near-catatonic state he’d been in when they’d first brought him in. For a time, it had looked as though the gruesome wound that had cost him most of one leg would be mortal, but it seemed this Jane Temperance woman they’d called in to fix the hot water also knew at least the rudiments of stabilizing injuries. Ms. Tacy had been pleased when Ricky had been able to answer questions, but it had complicated things a bit, having him awake.

  “Easy now, Ricky,” Blake said. “Just going to change your dressing.”

  Ricky released a strange noise through his teeth. “You’ll all die,” he said.

  “Yes, I imagine so,” Blake replied mildly, arranging his gauze on the bedside table.

  “No, you… There’s something…”

  Blake waited a moment for Ricky to finish the thought, then shrugged and pulled back the blanket draped over Ricky. The door opened and he looked up. Mr. Wood came through first, stepping to one side to allow Ms. Tacy to lumber into the room.

  Ricky’s eyes had rolled around to take her in, and he seemed to shrink back into the bed. Occasionally, Ricky would remember that he was supposed to be a tough guy, or forget what he’d gone through, and start threatening Blake, sometimes even Mr. Wood. But he never said a word to Ms. Tacy unless she’d asked him a direct question, which seemed to indicate that he wasn’t completely insane yet.

  “Ms. Tacy,” Blake said.

  “Dr. Blake,” Ms. Tacy replied. She stepped closer and peered down at Ricky’s face. “When was he last shaved?” she asked.

  “Several days ago, I’m afraid,” Blake replied. He was smart enough not to let any annoyance show over being treated like a barber. “I’ll get to it as soon as I finish changing his dressing.” Ricky did look rather bad, with his stubble and greasy hair, although the fact that his skin had taken on a grayer cast when Ms. Tacy walked in wasn’t helping.

  “Wait a bit, I think,” Ms. Tacy replied. She turned back to Wood. “How long until our colleagues arrive?”

  It was an odd question. Ms. Tacy made the trip from Boston far more often than Mr. Wood did, after all. If Blake hadn’t known better, he might have thought she was nervous.

  “Two, maybe three hours,” Mr. Wood said.

  Ms. Tacy stared off into space for a few moments, brow furrowed. “I think you’d best fetch Temperance,” she said. Blake had just opened his mouth to ask why when the springs on Ricky’s bed squeaked loudly as he flexed against his restraints and began to scream.

  ***

  The screaming was muffled, coming from upstairs, but loud enough to make J.T. jump and scrape her hand on the burner door. She stood, and she and Rowan stared at one another for a few seconds as the screaming continued. The sound alone was enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but there was something more. A cold, nasty feeling that seemed to trickle down the back of her throat and settle in her stomach. She could tell from the look in Rowan’s eye that he felt it too.

  “Motherfucker,” she said, and crouched to root through her bag. She pulled out a pipe wrench and a screwdriver and followed Rowan to the door. He had drawn a pistol—a little Beretta, she thought. They made their way down the hall toward the stairs. Rowan checked her old room as she went by, and she took a look in herself, but it seemed undisturbed.

  The door above them opened just as they reached the base of the stairs. J.T. caught a glimpse of Wood’s face in the doorway.

  “Temperance,” he shouted. “Ms. Tacy wants you.” He suddenly looked up at something down the hall and swore. The door swung closed as he stepped away, and a moment later a series of shots ran out.

  J.T. exchanged a glance with Rowan.

  “Fucking hell,” she muttered and started up the steps.

  “Uh, perhaps we should wait—“ Rowan began.

  J.T. stopped and turned. “You know what’s coming, Rowan,” she said. “You want to sit down here like a rat in a hole, you can, but I want a little room to maneuver. Or has Ms. Tacy put in an emergency exit since I was here last?” She started up the steps again.

  The screaming had been going on without pause, muffled but loud and high-pitched.

  “Jesus, that’s Ricky, isn’t it?” she said to herself.

  “Yes, I believe so,” Rowan said from behind her. She glanced back to see him just a few steps away.

  “I guess you’d know what it sounds like when he screams,” J.T. said. She tucked the screwdriver into her pocket and reached for the doorknob. Ricky was a ways off, or had been fifteen minutes ago, anyway. Maybe whatever Wood had been firing at would go after him and she could just slide out of the house. The fucking water heater was fixed, mostly. She could send Ms. Tacy a bill. She took a breath and opened the door.

  The hallway was empty. She strained to hear anything that might indicate danger, but if there was anything it was inaudible over the screaming. She wondered why Ricky hadn’t run out of breath yet.

  “Where are you going?” hissed Rowan as she started toward the kitchen, ludicrously trying to whisper loud enough to be heard over the noise.

  “Out,” J.T. replied.

  “We should find Ms. Tacy, stick together,” Rowan said.

  “I’m walking around with fuck-all knows what coming and I’m packing a goddamn monkey wrench,” she said. “I’ve got a shotgun in my truck.” She didn’t say specifically that she was planning to come back once she had the gun, because she wasn’t sure whether she was.

  “Well, er…” Rowan said from behind her. She ignored him and walked into the kitchen, then stopped.

  It was standing there in front of the stove like it was making a goddamn omelet. It was always hard to get a good sense for what Old Ones looked like, or to describe them to someone else, because a human’s mind tried to force perception away as
a method of self-preservation. People in the Blue Candle Society, and other groups who tried to keep an eye on them, came up with nicknames for the kinds that showed up enough to make it worth it, even when they knew the real names of the things. The real names were in the Old Tongue, of course, which hurt most people to hear, and even more to speak. In some cases, no one even knew the real names anyway. J.T. didn’t know what this one was, but that didn’t mean much. She hadn’t made quite the study of these things that some had, and she’d spent a good chunk of time out of circulation.

  It had legs, she thought, but she also thought it wasn’t really using them, even though her brain told her it was standing upright. It was like a giant serpent, in a way, only with stubby limbs that almost seemed to just brush the ground rather than support it. Her eyes began to water before she could focus on it long enough to figure out whether it had anything that could be called arms. All she had was an impression of gray spongy flesh, half-concealing a horrible musculature.

  It all drew her eye enough that she almost missed seeing Wood sprawled in a corner, covered in blood and looking like he’d been thrown there. Once she saw that she noticed the bullet holes. They were scattered all over the place, like Wood had been firing at random, and as far as she could tell the Old One itself hadn’t been hit. She’d seen that before—hard bastards who couldn’t aim a gun straight when it came time to actually shoot an Old One.

  She’d just begun to take a step back when it turned—except it didn’t turn, it was more like the top half of its vaguely tubular body rotated, giving her a better look at it. It narrowed further from the ground, making something like a head. It had eyes, she wasn’t sure how many, scattered around what passed for its face. And teeth, of course. They usually had teeth. Sharp, pointed ones in this case, though its mouth was horribly human-like otherwise, in its size and shape.

  The sight of it, and the feeling that flowed off it, made her freeze for a moment. Then, as she raised the pipe wrench, Rowan pushed past her. He held his Beretta straight out toward the thing as he spoke in the Old Tongue.

  “R’tyalay ithyhaga ghrhya!” he said. It was a nice try, and whatever he’d said made the thing flinch a bit, but then it began to answer, and its words made it clear that what Rowan had said was a crude approximation of the Old Tongue. He would have been better off just shooting it—servants of the Old Ones could sometimes be controlled by someone with enough skill, at least for a while, but most Old Ones capable of speech were too dangerous for that. The words that rang through the kitchen as it spoke made J.T. feel like her skin was being stripped off, and she only just managed avoid trying to cover her ears with hands that were still holding a wrench and screwdriver.

  The effect on Rowan was even worse, since the thing was talking to him. He froze, and the arm holding the pistol twitched violently to one side. J.T. wasn’t sure how it happened, whether it had something to do with the effect of the creature’s speech on her or not—but somehow one moment the thing was across the kitchen, and in the next it was inches away from Rowan.

  The whole body of the thing seemed to stretch and elongate, and its head lunged forward. The jaws were small, but they snapped three times in seconds, and blood spattered over J.T. and across the kitchen as they clamped and tore at Rowan. The Beretta spiraled off into the sink, with a piece of Rowan still attached to it, sending a pinwheel of blood up to spray across the ceiling. Rowan staggered off in another direction and collapsed against a row of cabinets.

  The Old One followed him. She still wasn’t sure how it was moving, whether it was somehow like a snake that had reared up or whether the stubby legs propelled it, but at least it was no longer looking at her or, worse yet, talking to her. She took a step back toward the doorway, glancing down at Rowan. He was covered in blood and not moving. He was probably dead already, but maybe he’d give her a few seconds of lead time while the thing did whatever it was going to do.

  “Fuck,” she muttered, and stepped in, swinging the wrench as hard as she could.

  It was like hitting a tree wrapped in a blanket. She was already ducking as it whirled, and she heard the jaws clack shut twice in rapid succession as she thrust the screwdriver at one of the thing’s thick legs. It seemed to work better than the wrench had, sinking deep into the creature’s flesh.

  She left it where it was, turning and coming out of her crouch into a sprint through the doorway. She heard a toothy click and felt the back of her shirt tear as she cleared the doorway into the hall, then she was running. She had no idea whether the legs on the Old One actually even did anything, so she couldn’t rely on the injury slowing it down.

  She hit the turn at the end of the hall so fast that she bounced off the far wall, and shot a glance back the way she’d come as she made the turn. It was coming fast, but wasn’t quite on her. She caught the impression that the thing was moving like a snake, but also using its legs to drag itself forward, and she thought the screwdriver sticking out of one of them might have slowed it.

  The grinding roar of Old Tongue hit her like an icepick in the back of her skull, making her stumble and nearly fall. The terrible thing about the language was the way that an understanding of it wormed its way even into the minds of those like her who avoided learning it. And once the understanding was there it couldn’t be ignored, whether it was insidiously driving you mad or hammering you with imperatives.

  She staggered, feeling the strength fading from her legs, feeling herself turning to obey whatever the thing wanted of her. Her knees were starting to buckle, but her arms still worked, and she hurled the wrench at the approaching creature.

  There was a crack as it connected with the thing’s obscene mouth, and the speech stopped abruptly. J.T. turned and ducked through a doorway into a parlor. She hurdled a coffee table and sprinted through another door, then skidded through a turn down another hall. She’d gotten out of sight of the Old One for a moment, but she’d run out of house sooner or later. She needed to get to her shotgun, in her truck out front, but she was cut off now.

  There was a thud from the room she’d just left as the Old One knocked over one of Ms. Tacy’s pieces of antique furniture. She realized, suddenly, that she’d had a number of dreams like this, back when she’d lived in the basement—running through this house pursued by some horrible killer. The thought almost made her laugh.

  ***

  Dr. Blake paced around the room. Ms. Tacy had left a moment after Mr. Wood, and he’d immediately given Ricky a sedative, but it was having no effect as yet. The screaming was making him nervous, though with the feeling in the air, and the muffled shots that had sounded a few moments ago, he hardly needed anything else to make him jittery.

  The door opened and Ms. Tacy strode back in, looking around in irritation as if annoyed at the tardiness of Wood and Quinn. Whatever she felt, she didn’t bother to try to make herself heard over Ricky’s screams, but Blake was relieved to see her at any rate. She was carrying a black case, something like a large briefcase.

  “What was that shooting?” he blurted out, and was rewarded with a cold glare.

  “Most likely Mr. Wood encountering whatever has come to visit, judging from the fact that they were clearly .45-caliber rounds,” Ms. Tacy replied. “Beyond that, I don’t know.”

  That was more than Blake had known before, anyway. Neither of them mentioned the fact that the shooting hadn’t quelled the feeling in the air, which indicated a lack of success on Wood's part.

  Ricky at last began to trail off to whimpers, still thrashing weakly against his bonds, as the sedative took hold.

  “But what is it?” Blake asked.

  “Something that has come to finish him off, I imagine,” Ms. Tacy replied, tipping her head toward Ricky. “Or rescue him, perhaps. I had hoped that sending the book he was carrying to a safe place would settle things, but it seems that something wishes to see the man himself.”

  “We could kill him now,” Blake replied. Ricky would thank them, and the Hippocratic oath didn’t
apply to those who had given themselves over to the Old Ones, surely. Though even if it had, Blake was by no means certain that he could have stood up against the sick dread gnawing at his bones.

  Ms. Tacy shook her head slightly again, still wearing the distracted expression of someone listening for something. “Too late for that, I’m afraid. And I still require some answers from him.”

  Blake was terrified enough to tell Ms. Tacy that he intended to run, and to hell with what Ricky could tell them, but broke off at a loud thudding noise approaching them down the hall.

  Ms. Tacy smiled slightly, and Blake wondered if she was simply as insane as a few people whispered as she stepped to the door and opened it.

  It wasn’t an Old One that stepped through the door, however, but a young woman who Blake assumed must be Jane Temperance.

  She had a wild-eyed look to her, which was not all that strange—Blake had an idea he might look a bit wild-eyed himself. Despite everything, though, Blake’s first thought was surprise. She didn’t look like someone who could survive what Ricky had brought up from a swamp in Florida. She also didn’t look like the sort of person Ms. Tacy would have anything to do with, what with her piercings and strange hair. Then again, Ms. Tacy was nothing if not ruthlessly practical, and she cared more about what a person could do for her than anything. Jane was looking down at Ricky with an expression that was hard to read, and Ricky looked like he might start screaming again as he looked back, sedative or no.

  “Mr. Wood?” Ms. Tacy asked. “Mr. Rowan?”

  Jane looked up from the bed. “Wood’s dead,” she replied. “Rowan might just be fucked up. Whatever that thing is, it can talk.”

  There was a crash from elsewhere in the house as the thing looked for them, and Blake wondered how anyone in the room could possibly be holding a conversation.

  “Are you armed?” Ms. Tacy asked.

  “Of all the houses I could walk into, I figured I didn’t need to come here strapped,” Jane replied. “How the hell did it even get in here?”