Black City Demon

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Not a scratch.”

  Cortez rummaged in his coat pocket. Somewhere along the way, he’d already lost the unlit cigarette. The detective pulled out a pack of Luckys. He took one, then, as usual, offered me the pack.

  And as usual, I shook my head. Cortez put the pack away. He didn’t bother to light the cigarette, just kept holding it like the last.

  Cortez noticed me glancing at the cigarette. “Yeah, my Maria got on me for them again last night, but it’s hard, Bo! I figure if I just hold one it might be good enough, you know?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve told you what I know about the accident. Can I go?”

  “‘Accident.’ Hmmph.” The detective eyed the two policemen. “Yeah, I doubt much is going to happen unless you say more. We’ve got enough else happening, you know? Couple of small-timers rubbed out in their wagon. No hooch. Think they’re tied to the Outfit, which I don’t need. Happened just a couple of blocks from here. Some coincidence you were nearby.”

  That explained his timely appearance. It was possible it also, in part, explained my situation. Not that I was going to tell him that. Instead, I replied, “Guess I must’ve accidentally gotten in their path when they were fleeing the scene. Lucky me, right?”

  “Yeah. Lucky you. Better watch out for yourself next time, eh?”

  He’d surprised me with his easy dismissal of my near murder, but I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, as Fetch might’ve said. I quickly climbed inside the Packard.

  Cortez waved at me. “Hey, you get the windshield fixed quick, okay, Bo?”

  I nodded. I thought that finished things, but then the detective casually stepped in front of the Packard. He stared at the windshield once more, then came around to my side.

  “Listen, Nick Medea, you like strange things.”

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that.”

  Cortez chuckled. He put the unlit cigarette in the side of his mouth. “Not one of your ghosts, but maybe it’s close enough. Don’t know exactly what to call it. Maybe you should see it.”

  I hid my concern. “See what?”

  “You tell me . . . when you get a gander at it. Come by this station.” He pulled a card from the same pocket he’d tugged the Luckys. “It’s here.”

  The station was different from the one where Cortez actually had a desk. The detective was passed around wherever the higher-ups—especially those from the mayor’s office—had a problem they didn’t like. “When?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Not possible. Tomorrow?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Good.” Cortez started to turn away, then again came back. “Oh, Maria talked about you the other night.”

  I arched a brow. “Did she?”

  “Yeah . . .” His expression darkened. “She said she wanted to say a prayer for you. You. You two have never even met. Yeah, I’ve mentioned you a time or two, but it really struck me funny.”

  It was true I hadn’t met his Maria nor their two children, but I’d seen a photo of Cortez’s family recently. I remembered a petite, very attractive Mexican woman a few years younger than Cortez. I also remembered that she was supposed to be very religious. Maria apparently went at least twice a week to Our Lady of Guadalupe, a church arranged for the growing population of Mexican migrants to Chicago.

  “Thank her for me,” I finally remarked.

  “Yeah . . .” He eyed me differently now, as if mention of his Maria had sparked some other thought. “Yeah . . . see you get that windshield fixed, okay?”

  Nodding, I drove off.

  Fetch was at my side a moment later. I didn’t question how he’d done that. He was from Feirie. It was just his way.

  “All jake, Master Nicholas?”

  “I don’t know.” My abrupt encounter with Cortez’d raised a few questions, but those had to wait for later. Right now, I was concerned with what more and more seemed like a run-in with some remnant of Oberon’s gang. They’d been following me and knew what route I’d take. I could still see the pasty face, the half-finished features. Yeah, he could’ve been just one of many ugly mugs to be found in any of the gangs, but for some reason I didn’t think so. They’d planned something, but fortunately it hadn’t culminated into anything . . . not this time, anyway.

  I was pretty sure they’d try again, and that made a decision for me. Sure, I was going to see Claryce, but now for an entirely different reason. I’d been planning to just take a peek at Claryce, see that she was okay, and then turn my back on her forever. I’d figured that would keep her safe enough. Now, though, if any of Oberon’s followers were still active, I had to do a lot more. I had to convince her to make a very important decision.

  And if I failed to make her see reason . . . she might soon be lying next to Clarissa and Claudette.

  CHAPTER 4

  I needed the Packard to reach Claryce, which meant driving around with the ruined windshield. Fortunately, only one cop noticed it, but he just turned his back and moved on. I didn’t know if he was already on another call or thought I might be with Moran or the O’Donnells, the latter whose territory I’d just entered. Every gang had its share of beat cops on the take despite Mayor Dever’s promise to clean things up after “Big Bill” Thompson’s more obliging administration. It was possible I wrongly marked the officer, but more than five decades in Chicago had jaded me.

  I turned onto Sixty-Third and headed down to the six hundred block. I wondered why Oberon’d purchased real estate in this area. It occurred to me that I should’ve done more to clean up after his death, but I’d wanted to separate myself from Claryce.

  So much for that idea.

  I was only a couple of blocks away when a shiver ran through me. I didn’t have to ask myself why. The nearer I got, the more I remembered some thirty-plus years ago when the Columbian Exposition had been taking place. All the wonders of the world in one location, some had bragged outrageously. I wasn’t all that far from where the White City itself had been set up.

  Memories stirred. I’d gone to the World’s Fair, but not so much to see the sights. Spectacles like the exposition drew the Wyld, who used them to move around among the populace without notice. In fact, it’d been shortly after the exposition that I’d crossed paths for the first time with Kravayik. He hadn’t quite gotten around to converting to Christianity at that time, but the need for something to fill some hole in his existence had already been evident. I’d not met a Wyld—or in his case, a refugee from Her Lady’s Court—so eager to put Feirie behind him.

  The sun had already dropped so low that shadows covered much of the vicinity. A short building with empty storefronts lay across from where Fetch said Claryce would be. I parked in front of it, then headed across the street, Fetch tailing me. A sleek maroon Wills Saint Claire with a black roof sat parked in front of the address in question. I didn’t recognize it, but it looked like something Oberon would’ve picked up in his guise as William Delke.

  The building where Claryce was supposed to be was another commercial property, which meant I was able to spot her through the glass even before I reached the door. I almost turned and left then, but reminded myself about Oberon’s hoods. They wouldn’t leave her alone just because I did.

  Despite her fair hair—bobbed like the style growing more and more popular—her full lips and the wide, expressive eyes I knew to be chocolate brown hinted at some ancient Mediterranean ancestry. She was dressed in a long, dark skirt and silk blouse, the latter mostly obscured by a jacket set to match the skirt. As usual, she had her cloche hat snugly near her brow.

  Her attention was focused on a set of papers in her hands. I silently stepped inside, then cleared my throat.

  Claryce looked my way. I was heartened by the widening smile she first greeted me with . . . then hesitated when the smile became a tight frown accompanied by narrowed eyes trying to burn through me.

  “Nick . . .” she finally muttered. “I thought you’d forgotten all about me.” With a kinder expression, she look
ed down at my side. “Hello, Fetch.”

  “Mistress Claryce,” he immediately responded, his tail wagging much too merrily for my tastes.

  “Claryce . . .” I began.

  She tossed the papers on a plain, square table, the only furniture in the room. “You just left me alone. I tried to call you, tried to see you. You did nothing.”

  “I thought you were better off away from me,” I quickly explained before she could cut me off again. “I didn’t want you to—”

  She waited, but I couldn’t finish what I’d started. I didn’t want to remind her about what had happened to her previous incarnations, especially now that I knew about Claudette.

  “You didn’t want me to die, is that what you were going to say? Like Clarissa and the others?”

  I nodded.

  Her eyes continued to burn, but not as forcefully. “That is my decision, not yours.” Finally, she calmed. “Nick . . . Nick, you can’t just leave me be after what happened . . . and I’m not talking about William.”

  The moment she said the name, she winced. She’d known Oberon in his human guise as boss, mentor, and friend.

  “It was wrong of me,” I admitted.

  Claryce pursed her lips, then, “What’s happened now? What’s changed your mind?”

  I know my cheeks flushed. She understood I hadn’t come here purely because I’d missed her. She knew that there was some immediate danger that’d forced my hand. “I think some of Oberon’s hoods are still around.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” Not too far from the papers lay her purse. Claryce reached into the purse, then pulled out a blued Smith & Wesson M1917 revolver. I didn’t have to ask her if she could use it. I knew she could. “If they’re human, I assume this will work on them.” She frowned. “Are they human?”

  “Not certain about one of them.”

  Claryce slid the gun back into the purse. “Then I’ll just have to fire twice.”

  “This is nothing to joke about—”

  “No. It isn’t. Did you think about the chance there might be some of these hoods left when you decided to just vanish? Did you, Nick?”

  I’d slain a dragon and the king of Feirie, among a slew of other foes. Despite that, I couldn’t meet her gaze. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I’ve lost—you know why I did it.”

  “Oh, Nick . . .” Suddenly she was next to me, her hand stroking my cheek. “You’re not going to lose me either way.”

  She kissed me, and all my troubles vanished for a moment. Then, what I considered common sense returned and I stepped back. “Claryce, I—”

  “Forgive me. Have I come at an inopportune time?”

  Clearing her throat, Claryce stepped around me to a very pale, mustached man in his thirties, wearing a high-collared black suit and matching Derby hat, standing just inside the door. In his left hand he held a silver pocket watch. With the other he leaned slightly on a narrow wooden cane.

  As Claryce reached a hand to him, I looked down at Fetch, who cowered. I might’ve been distracted, but he at least could’ve given some warning we were no longer alone.

  “Some bloodhound,” I muttered just loud enough for only him to hear.

  “No, you’re very punctual, Dr. Bond,” Claryce responded to the newcomer.

  “Alexander, please. I said so on the telephone,” he replied with a cultured if somewhat raspy voice. He put the watch away and switched the cane over. Only then did he finally shake her hand. “A very definite pleasure, Miss Simone.”

  “And you can call me Claryce.” She turned to indicate me. “This is . . . this is a friend of mine, Nick Medea.”

  Bond smiled through his thick mustache as he extended his hand to me. I nodded and took hold. The doctor wasn’t the tallest man, but he had a strong grip.

  Bond smiled cheerfully. “A definite pleasure, also, Mr. Medea.”

  “Same here.” We released hands. His grip’d been good, but had a coolness to it.

  “Dr. Bond is interested in this building, Nick. He made an appointment with me last night.”

  “I’m looking to expand my private practice,” the doctor added, his attention now drawn to Fetch. “A fine beast. Not a wolfhound. Something more exotic, I’d guess.”

  He had no idea. “No, just a mixed breed.”

  “Really? He looks like a purebred to me.” Without questioning the wisdom of his action, Bond patted Fetch on the head. Fetch accepted the pat with a slow wag of his tail. He didn’t seem pleased by the doctor’s touch.

  “Shall we look around, then, Alexander?” Claryce asked. “I know you said you’d have limited time.”

  “Please.” He extended his arm to her. The pair walked off, talking. For some reason, I had a desire to break them apart.

  I must’ve started to act on it, because the next thing I knew something was tugging my coat, keeping me from another step after them. It was Fetch, naturally.

  He quickly released the coat. “Sorry, Master Nicholas,” he muttered. “Ye had that look. . . .”

  “What look?”

  “His look. Like when he wore your body when he double-crossed ye to Oberon. . . .”

  I frowned. He meant the dragon. “Don’t joke.”

  “I’m on the up and up with ye, I swear!”

  I gestured him to keep his voice down. He was dead serious. If I’d let the dragon take over for even a second, not just the good doctor but Claryce might’ve suffered.

  Without another word, I left the building. Fetch slipped out behind me. The last glimmer of light had vanished from the street, leaving nothing but shadows. For once, I welcomed them.

  Something about the empty storefronts across the street caught my attention. Still not willing to risk going back inside but not yet ready to just leave, I crossed Sixty-Third to take a better look.

  “Master Nicholas—”

  “Quiet.” I stared inside one store, but only met darkness.

  Eye can help better. . . .

  He knew very well I really didn’t want his help right now, but the more I stared into the storefront, the more I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just stumbled onto something. Something too close to Claryce, too.

  “All right,” I whispered between clenched teeth.

  “Master Nicholas—”

  I shook my head. I didn’t need Fetch warning me about risking even a bit of the dragon’s influence on me right now. I’d had sixteen hundred years of struggle to teach me the dangers.

  The world turned emerald. The shadows—most of them, anyway—gave way. I tried the door.

  It wasn’t locked.

  The moment I opened it, I knew we’d found a lair of one of the Wyld. Its stench was strong. So strong I wondered just how long it’d been in this world. I thought about Oberon again and wondered if it’d followed him here when he’d first fled Feirie after being ousted by Her Lady. That would explain its nearness to the building Claryce was showing.

  Without another thought, I drew the sword and entered. I’d not sensed something this strong since Oberon himself. This Wyld had ties to the Court. That was worrying. Not all of Oberon’s high-caste supporters were accounted for.

  Fetch didn’t follow me inside. Instead, he was pacing around the building, looking for an alternate path inside. The store itself was walls, windows, and a wooden floor. However, there were areas in the corners that remained dark even through the dragon’s gaze. I dismissed one region as too narrow even for a Wyld to hide in, but the others had potential. There was a lot of Feirie energy residue in the store.

  A shadow darted by. A shadow with nothing attached to it.

  I’d seen things akin to it before, spells used by Oberon to allow his human pawns to do their dirty work while their bodies remained safe farther away. This wasn’t quite the same, though. This flitted along as if in a world of its own, almost like a ghost. But ghosts were rare . . . at least that was what I’d believed until the other night.

  I let my gaze follow the shadow’s path . . . but
tilted Her Lady’s gift the opposite direction.

  From one of the other shadowed corners erupted a towering black form. It swelled in size as it lunged at me, growing two pairs of arching limbs that reminded me of those of a spider. As I brought the sword around, I caught a glimpse of a long, misshapen face with two cold, ivory eyes.

  It nearly impaled itself on Her Lady’s gift, but managed to slither to the side at the last moment. Even then, the sword severed a piece of darkness from its side, a piece that faded before it could hit the floor.

  The Wyld had acted predictably, not attacking outright but trying to use distraction first. Those of Feirie generally didn’t have the guts—including those who literally had guts—to face a foe directly if they could help it. They played tricks, used deviousness. It didn’t mean that they were weak, though. The deviousness was just part of their nature.

  The Wyld spun around me, its limbs stretching wider, becoming more pointed. At the same time, the ivory eyes bore into mine, trying to snare my consciousness.

  I gave the dragon a moment of amusement, letting him show the Wyld just what lay behind our eyes.

  A hiss escaped my quarry. Any eagerness it’d had faded under the dragon’s baleful gaze. It had just confronted a power far older, far stronger, than anything in Feirie.

  Of course, it didn’t know that the dragon’s full might was forever tempered inside me. All it saw was something that gave its kind nightmares. That made it hesitate.

  I lunged.

  Her Lady’s gift came to life as it dug into the Wyld. The blade flared crimson. The moon stones glimmered.

  The hiss became a shrill howl. A portion of the Wyld ripped away, the piece quickly sucked into the magical sword. Once teased, Her Lady’s gift hungered for the rest of its prey.

  The Wyld surprised me by managing to retreat from the blade. Once so deeply wounded by the sword, most Wyld succumbed. I found myself both impressed and concerned.

  Without the ability to snare my consciousness, the Wyld couldn’t use a lot of its tricks. That hardly meant it was helpless, though. Despite its wound, it spread wider, larger, growing more limbs. As that happened, I felt the floor suddenly shift.