Dark Rain

by Tony Richards

  Maybe he was finally losing it. And perhaps he had the right. Seventy people. Damn!

  My own head had begun spinning gently again. I was relieved to get back out into the open air.

  A small crowd had gathered at the far end of the lane. People from the neighboring streets, a couple of them in their night robes. They’d come wandering cautiously across to find out what was happening. Their faces were indistinct, dim ovals in the flashing red light, their lips pursed and their gazes wide. Their heads kept on bobbing up and down. They were trying to spot something familiar, something they could make sense of. They’d probably had friends here. Their kids had, doubtless, played together. What was going on? was their collective thought. Matt and Davy were politely trying to make them keep their distance.

  Cass was back in the position that she’d first been, standing by her Harley. In the time that I’d been gone, her features had become so hard they almost had a sheen, like metal. Her mouth was a rigid horizontal slash. Her head kept moving around very slowly, side to side. But there was no suppressing the look in her eyes.

  When she saw that I was coming back, she quickly wiped a wrist across her brow. The fire in her gaze returned. She’s like that, most of the time anyway. Faced with adversity, however bad, she usually drops into a no-nonsense, ‘can do’ kind of mode. Solve the problem. Go back home. Save all the doubts and hurt for later.

  “They’ve got nothing, huh?” she asked me.

  I shook my head. And she grunted with annoyance.

  “Freakin’ Mayhemberry P.D.”

  “You’re too hard on them.”

  “I’m too hard on everybody. That’s ‘cause they deserve it.”

  She exhaled, and her lean, muscular body finally relaxed a little.

  “So, where do we go from here?”

  “There must be people living on this street who weren’t at home this evening. Probably don’t even know what’s happened yet. It would help if we could find them.”

  “Oh, they’re gonna love us, ain’t they?”

  And wasn’t that the truth.

  “They might have some insights. Otherwise? Hobart’s claiming that there are no witnesses. That’s never usually the case – there’s always someone.”

  Cass’s full lips puckered. I could see that she was coming round by this stage. Letting all the trauma go and getting back to her acerbic, hard-nosed usual self. It was a relief to see it, since I’ve relied on her for a good while now.

  “Legwork? You know how much I hate that? Do you realize how long it’s been since I’ve actually shot at anything?”

  What was the point of having all that firepower, after all, if you never got to use it?

  “Patience, Cass. Your time will come.”

  I’d been trying to put the all blood-drenched awfulness out of my mind, till this point. But my face had gone all sweaty again. I ducked it and rubbed at my lip.

  When I looked back up at her, Cass was studying me closely, with a rather keener gaze than she’d seemed capable of before.

  “There’s something else bothering you, isn’t there?” she asked.

  She knew me all too well.

  “We’re standing in the middle of a massacre, for God’s sake. Isn’t that enough?”

  Cass waited, folding her arms. There was something else, and she already knew it. The red lights of the nearby beacons flickered in her eyes.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to voice my worst suspicions yet. But it seemed that I had little choice, unless I lied to her.

  I struggled to gather my thoughts properly, difficult under the circumstances. Then …

  “I keep on coming back to motive, Cassie. And I might be wrong, but I get this hunch …”

  I knew the way that the really strong magicians in the Landing thought and acted, and it wasn’t like this. A brand-new power had been at work tonight.

  “First glance? Something simply went on the rampage here. Magic gone wrong, like Saul is claiming. But what if it was deliberate? What would be the point of that?”

  I gazed around another time.

  “It can’t be personal. Nobody can have a grudge against an entire street. Which leaves us what?” I asked her.

  She had become very still again. Then tipped her head to indicate I should go on.

  “Could it be whoever did this was seeing how much damage he could inflict? And whether anything could stop him? Flexing his muscles for the very first time?”

  “You’re saying we’ve a new adept?”

  “It could be that. I’m not quite sure.”

  She became deeply puzzled, so I summed the whole thing up.

  “I hope I’m wrong. But if that’s the case, this is maybe just some kind of trial run, someone testing us. And if it’s that, then I’d imagine he’s going to attack us again.”

  Which put a whole other complexion on the issue. Cassie took a little while absorbing what I’d said, her eyes becoming rather solemn.

  And then she snapped back to full alertness, obviously deciding that I might be right.

  “Okay, then,” she said, with a little more enthusiasm. “Let’s go do that legwork.”

  That was her to a tee. Face the problem. Do the job. Stop more innocents suffering the way that she had done.

  That’s what we’re really both about.

  We’d divided out the streets between us, and were on the point of setting off when another car appeared. It came entirely silently around the corner of Fairmont and headed toward us. Its big round headlamps dazzled us at first. But soon we could make out its outline. Recognized the vehicle immediately. Anyone in town would.

  It was a Rolls Royce, a classic 1968 Silver Shadow, its paintwork a bottomless midnight blue. Stenciled across it though – all over the car, in fact – were magical symbols in a variety of colors. There were ankhs and pentagrams. Pyramids with staring eyes in them. Spirals of the type you find in ancient deserts, and more hierograms than you could throw a shoe at.

  There were other symbols I could not identify at all, however. Some reminded me of snarling, fang-filled mouths. Of flying animals and creatures that had never been. Who would do that kind of stuff to a beautiful car like that? The world’s ultimate spoiled rich kid, that was who. So insane most of the time, so detached from reality, he treated most events – even ones as terrible as this – as though they were some kind of parlor game, like Clue.

  I could already feel my heart sinking and desperation setting in. Things were already quite bad enough without an intervention from the Master of the Manor.

  I waited till it had drawn up beyond a squad car. The back of the Rolls was empty, but the driver was there beyond the windshield, in plain view.

  You would have needed a white stick and a guide dog if you couldn’t see him. The chassis groaned when he got out. This was Hampton, Woodard Raine’s trusted flunky, and the only person living at the Manor – still human at least – apart from Raine himself.

  He took off his cap and gazed at me in a refined, distanced manner that just oozed contempt.

  Well?

  “Master Raine would like to speak with you, Mr. Devries.”

  He had a high-pitched voice for such a large man. And in terms of girth was, literally, as broad as he was long. A hefty butterball of a fellow. Raine had gotten him all dressed up, though, in a tailored chauffeur’s uniform of the same color as the car. There was a trace of perspiration at his collar, from his wattled neck. But otherwise, he looked the very picture of a stern and loyal manservant.

  Two more things stood out about him. His face, as round as a full moon’s, was lightly tanned, a pale teak color. And the guy was walleyed, one iris bright green, the other a pale yellow.

  I took a step forward, to make myself better heard. And asked him, “What if I don’t want to?”

  Hampton remained very still, those mismatched eyes gleaming in his flat pancake of an expression.

  “He wishes to discuss with you this evening’s …“

  The man loo
ked past me at the humble dwellings, obviously searching for the proper word.

  “Unpleasantness.”

  Which wasn’t it. That made me angry, and I wasn’t in the mood to bottle any of it up.

  “Man, he must be so upset,” I snapped. “He cares so very much about the ordinary people in this town.”

  There’s a big divide, you see, between the adepts, mostly born of Salem stock, and everybody else. And Woodard Raine epitomized it.

  Hampton let his head drop, peering at his shoes. He hated to hear his master being criticized this way. It occurred to me for a moment that perhaps I was being unfair. Could even Raine be unmoved by a tragedy like this?

  The chauffeur’s eyes were burning as he looked back up at me. But he managed to keep his tone reasonable when he piped up again.

  “Master Raine’s only concern – which I’m quite certain you share – is to get to the bottom of all of this. He feels a sense of duty, sir. An admirable trait, surely?”

  And then he waited for me to respond. I didn’t see what option I was being given. Raine might be a deranged flake, but he had an awful lot of power. Saw things that most other people simply couldn’t, except perhaps the Little Girl.

  I sighed and turned back to Cassie.

  “Looks like you’re getting all the legwork. You okay with that?”

  She made another grunting noise. I already understood how much she disliked me having anything to do with our community’s elite.

  “I’ll manage.”

  I hated leaving her alone out here. Knew how all of this had to be tearing her up inside. But choice can be a heavily-rationed commodity sometimes, in this quaint town of ours.

  The back door of the Rolls came open by itself, letting out a chilly gust into the mild night air. Me and Hampton both climbed in. There was no noise at all from the motor as it cruised back through the suburbs toward Sycamore Hill. Was that down to the fine engineering, or did this thing not even run on fuel anymore?

  But there was one sound that was irritating me. Hampton can be as oblivious to reality as his master, sometimes. And now, hunched over in the driver’s seat, his stout hands on the wheel, he was humming to himself. Snatches of show tunes. On a night like this.

  He kept on at it until I told him to shut the damned hell up.

  THREE

  Me and Dralleg sitting in a tree, w-a-t-c-h-i-n-g.

  Darn, it didn’t really scan. But the ragged old man smirked anyway.

  He was high up – maybe forty feet up – in a massive, ancient oak that spread its branches out against the night sky a block down from Cray’s Lane. Had a perfectly clear view of the whole scene from here. The black-and-white cars and the flashing lights. The goings, to and fro, of all these tiny-seeming mortals. He could see them. They could not see him, not even if one of them happened to look at him directly. He had made himself invisible. The furtive pleasure of the voyeur crept through every pore of his decrepit soul.

  The tree creaked around him, and its leaves fluttered in the gentle breeze like swarms of tiny wings. He was perfectly comfortable up here. Had been born out of the deep primeval woodlands of New England, after all, long before the place had even had that name. He could stay up here all night if need be, without the tiniest discomfort. The fact was, he had watched the very first humans arrive in the forest from a tall branch such as this. He’d gazed at them wonderingly, it slowly dawning on him what sport these curious, upright creatures might provide him with.

  The bulldog was nestled in his lap. It had a squint-eyed, drowsy look, as though it had been busy. Was a terribly ugly example of its breed. The thing looked even older than its master. There was nowhere on its body where its skin was not in thick, uneven folds. Its basic colors were brown and white, in blotches. Except the brown looked more like a dark fungus, and there were rings of black around its eyes.

  It was too fat even for a bulldog, its face, between the hanging jowls, all deep distorted creases. Its protruding teeth were snaggled, razor-sharp. Unlike most of its species, though, its tongue never came lolling out.

  Something shifted every few moments underneath its skin. Ripples and bulges ran along its spine. As if a second creature was inside it, trying to get out.

  Its master rubbed its bulbous head with fingers like dried twigs.

  And continued to peer down, his eyes not even blinking. His left pupil – larger than the right – caught the flashing lights below and seemed to shimmer with a strange internal flame.

  Cops and more cops. He sneered with contempt. He had known their type, whatever they might call themselves, since these forests had first been populated. People who tried to interfere. Human beings who tried to stop him. They thought their badges, warrants, and the weapons that they carried gave them power.

  They were wrong. Had no idea what genuine power was. Hundreds of them down the centuries had learnt that to their cost.

  They were temporary. He was ancient and, so far as he knew, forever. Could simply swat them away like insects, any time he wanted.

  There were two people down there, however – not in uniform – who interested him rather more.

  First, the tall and slightly scruffy woman with her hair cropped like a man’s. When she’d first arrived, he’d thought she was a gawker. A civilian who’d noticed there was something going on and stopped around to watch. He’d quickly come to understand that she was more than that. She had purpose. Was dynamic, driven. Watching her as she scoured around the place was like staring at an acetylene flame, the heart of it penetrating, hot.

  She had vulnerabilities as well. He could sense them, almost taste them. And would use them if he could. That was his special skill, one he’d honed down all the centuries. The thing he always did the best. But she was a strong one, and he had to admit that.

  Then the tall, gaunt blond man had turned up. They obviously worked together. He was different from the woman. Just as driven, yes, but in his own far calmer and more solid way. There wasn’t so much fire about him, really. More … a rock, standing firm against a swiftly-moving current. He was powerful in his own way.

  He would have to keep an eye on these two. Perhaps … test their limits? They seemed far smarter and more resourceful than the cops.

  Would they even find, he wondered, the little calling card that he had left for them? Were they as clever as they looked, or simply trying to be?

  As for the rest of the town, the ragged old man was fascinated and amused. He’d wandered far afield since taking on a human body. It had been centuries since he’d been back to central Massachusetts. And in all those years of travel, he had never once come across such an unusual place as this.

  He’d really no idea such a community existed. They were in his business – yes indeed – of conjurement and the dark arts. Were stuck with it, it seemed. It was a path that they had no choice but to follow.

  And he’d spent so much time out on the road. Never stopped for too long in one place. But perhaps …? He considered the possibility. Might it be pleasant to settle down after all this wandering? Might he make himself a home in such a town as this?

  In which case, the inhabitants would have to get to know him. Understand what he was and bow down to him, yielding to his will. It was the natural order of things. They were merely mortal, after all. And he, despite his aged skin, was so much more than that.

  Below him, the large, dark, fancy car turned up. A manservant of some kind got out and began to talk. And here was something else he’d already detected. How strong exactly was this Woodard Raine?

  He continued staring, whistling a gentle, lilting tune under his breath. It was an old song of the Penobscot tribe. He’d learnt it a full hundred years before the first ships from England had shown up.

  The blond fellow got into the Rolls Royce and it moved away.

  In the old man’s lap, the bulldog seemed to notice that. It sat up, changed shape for the briefest moment, growing larger. For an instant, it was like a massive, green-eyed shadow. />
  Then it settled down, becoming merely a fat dog again. Made a snuffling noise, lowered its dense head, and began to lick at its front paws.

  Which were both caked with drying, sticky redness.

  Human blood.

  FOUR

  Sycamore Hill lies off to the west of the center of town, rising above the rows of lowlier rooftops like some vast carbuncle. Three of the streets radiating from the square, in fact, take you directly to the twisting, steeply rising gradient of Plymouth Drive.

  The Rolls began to climb along it after another while. I’d wound my window down a gap. The air became a little cooler, scented with the light odors of foliage. But it didn’t do too much to ease the mood that I was in. I couldn’t stop thinking about the scenes in those living rooms. All those severed bodies.

  There were grander houses either side of us the first half mile of the slope, sporting high stone porches and wrought-iron balconies, with expensive furniture glimpsed through the windowpanes. And then even those melted away, surrendering to open ground. Before much longer, it was high brick walls with spikes on top, and tall, neatly-manicured privet rows. Concealed behind them were the dwellings of the Landing’s elite. Judge Levin lived up here, as did Mayor Aldernay. There were various successful businessmen and women, who managed to keep on getting rich despite the limitations on this town.

  But it was old money that really set the agenda up on the Hill. There were families going right back to the Mayflower, the Raines principal among them. It was they who’d benefited the most when the Salem witches first arrived here. A few of the adepts up here are self-made, the judge himself most prominent among them. But most on the Hill were born to magic, had it in their blood, the descendants of those original refugees.

  I’d become a little fidgety in my seat, by this time. And it wasn’t just what had already happened. There are more spells conjured up here than in the rest of the town combined. Powerful transformations are a regular occurrence. That’s the thing about the rich, isn’t it … they have so much already, and they always want some more.