Fetch’d verified what I’d thought. I can’t say I was entirely pleased. Kravayik had a lot of questions to answer.
“All right,” I finally said. “You’ll be fine in here?”
“Yes.”
Best to slay him while he does not suspect you know, the voice in my head suddenly warned, lest he try to finish what he failed to do before.
He won’t do anything, I countered.
So trusting . . . it will be the death of us yet. . . .
The dragon faded back into the darkness within me. I fought to shake off the last bits of his distrust of Fetch.
“Be ye all right, Master Nicholas? Ye look like someone’s just stuck a shiv in your back. Is Kravayik behind the eight ball? Do we need to treat him as a Wyld?”
“No. No. Just someone who has a few secrets he needs to spill.”
“He’s a tight-lipped one, that Kravayik is. He won’t sing easily.” Fetch’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “If we need to take him for a ride, I’ll stand with ye, I swear.”
“You’ve been hanging around the speakeasies again, haven’t you? Never mind. Don’t worry about Kravayik . . . until I tell you to, all right?”
“Yes, Master Nicholas.”
I started to leave, then turned back. “Claryce and I are heading out to Dunning tomorrow.”
“Dunning.” Even though he was a creature of Feirie, the name still affected him much the way it had Claryce. “There’s a sorrowful place. Got a dark magic of its own, it does.”
I couldn’t argue. Whatever it was that permeated Dunning, it defied any name change or cleansing. Not all magic was of Feirie . . . and not all evil, either. After all, the mortal world had produced its own monsters in the form of men like Joseph, Galerius, and H. H. Holmes.
And possibly Dr. Alexander Bond, if he was either an acolyte of Oberon or the Beast of Chicago.
Claryce hadn’t moved in the time I’d been away, for which I was grateful. I returned again to the files. However, even after two more hours of steady searching, I was unable to find out much more concerning Holmes and his reign of terror. I knew that there was likely some tidbit of info somewhere else in my collection, but the trail’d gone cold for the moment.
I sat back, trying to decide what next to do . . . and promptly fell asleep.
Sleep was generally no respite for me. My slumber usually consisted of an unending series of nightmares, all revolving around the struggle that’d started everything. The dragon and I’d do battle again, with Cleolinda caught in the middle. Of late, she’d become Claryce, which only made the nightmares worse.
“Well, we just keep getting more and more intertwined no matter how we try to separate ourselves, do we not, Georgius?”
I blinked. I stood in the midst of a familiar, rocky terrain. Somewhere nearby, the dragon awaited me. Somewhere nearby, Claryce/Cleolinda waited to be lost or killed.
But right now, it was only Diocles and me . . . only not as I often dreamed him. He was not the monster masquerading as a man or the puppet with the shadow of Galerius constantly hovering behind him. He was Diocles as I knew him now.
“So, you’re now literally haunting my dreams? Is this some new afterlife promotion?”
The former emperor of Rome rippled. Yeah, this was no figment. This was Diocles in my head . . . as if my head wasn’t crowded enough.
He spread his hands in that apologetic gesture he’d used even after turning down my pleas to not go through with his bloody persecution of the young Christian faith. “There is no place I would rather avoid as much as your mind, Georgius. I know the demons haunting you. They haunt me as well.”
I couldn’t help it. Just hearing him talk about his suffering made my heart race with growing anger. “You haunt me because you betrayed me! You haunt me because you were a friend who listened to another instead of my counsel and went on a slaughter of innocents!”
Diocles—Diocletian—faded out of existence. My hope that he’d not return was crushed immediately. Despite his regal robes and trim beard, he looked very small at the moment . . . which at least gave me some slight pleasure.
“I can only again do as I have for every day for these past sixteen hundred years,” he muttered. “I have asked the Lord for forgiveness. I have asked the souls of everyone executed for their forgiveness.”
Diocles himself had finally found Christianity like so many others. When he knew he was dying. To me, that made his prayers that much more hypocritical. Throughout the empire, thousands had prayed for their lives and their souls as Galerius’s officers—under his dread dragon banner—had had them tortured and then executed. Young and old had been burned alive, drowned in the sea, or flayed.
I’d been told by more than one priest over the centuries that even a man who’d done what Diocles and Galerius had done could receive redemption if he was truly repentant. I don’t know what version of Hell or Hades Galerius suffered in, but I suspected Diocles could never receive absolution until I was willing to forgive him, too. Why else was he bound to me?
Still, sixteen centuries and I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook.
“Keep praying,” I snarled, adjusting my grip on the spear suddenly in my hands. I could sense the dragon stirring. As astonishing and unsettling as Diocles’s intrusion into my other nightmare was, he was still only a temporary distraction. My own curse was about to begin anew. Even had I wanted to talk of redemption to him, doing so was beyond both of us.
“Georgius—”
“Nick. Always Nick Medea to you,” I interjected absently as under me there suddenly arose a white stallion not at all like the proud but earthy animal with whom I’d ridden into battle against the dragon. “As in Nicomedia. As in where you let Galerius have me executed.”
Before he could answer, the thundering roar resounded through the land. I urged my charger on, leaving the emperor in the dust. I rode over a small hill, no longer even thinking of Diocles. There was only the dragon.
There was only death . . . again.
“Nick? Nick?”
I jerked away with such ferocity that Claryce stumbled back. My arm brushed several files to the floor. I heard the tap-tap of clawed feet on wood and knew that Fetch’d come to see what was going on.
Without thinking, I grabbed her wrist. Only then did I see that my hand was green and scaled. I looked up and saw from Claryce’s abrupt change in expression that it wasn’t just my hand that’d shifted form.
Take it back! I silently shouted. Take it back! I didn’t ask for anything!
Did you not? he coldly asked in turn. You keep declaring that, but still moments like this happen. . . . Yet, still he vanished inside me once more, taking with him all vestiges of his monstrous glory. I shook as I returned to normal. Chicago hadn’t needed someone like H. H. Holmes. I’d already set a terrible beast in its midst . . . and things were growing worse for some reason.
“Nick! Are you all right? Was it her again? What did she do?”
“It . . . wasn’t . . . her.”
“Not her?” Claryce glared in my direction, but not at me, I understood. “It was him, then. Damn him! If I could—”
I expected a mocking laugh to erupt from the depths, but he remained curiously silent. I’d noticed a few times that he might jest about Claryce, but when directly confronted by her, he seemed to shy away even though she couldn’t hear him.
I noticed a slight lightening of the darkness outside. I’d slept far longer than I’d realized. “What time is it?”
“Almost eight. It’s overcast, but the weather’s clearer than last night.”
A scent wafted past my nose, a pleasant scent that not only made my stomach growl, but made him stir with interest. He could only experience the world through me. In that regard, eating was one of the few sensations he enjoyed. Mostly, he stayed nicely quiet during meals—such as during dinner last night at Berghoff’s—but there’d been times, especially early on in our unwilling alliance, when he’d actually tried to supervise the order
of our meals. It’d been some of the few moments when we’d been at ease with one another.
Fleeting moments.
“I wanted to make some breakfast, then wake you. I asked Fetch to keep an eye out to see if you needed anything.” She gave him a dramatic stare worthy of Gloria Swanson. “And of course the moment I hear a noise and come out to see what’s happening, I find Fetch’s been sitting in the kitchen behind me the whole time. I’m hoping that when I walk back into the kitchen, I’ll find the bacon and eggs still where I put them.”
Fetch’s tail drooped. “The eggs are all there, Mistress Claryce.”
“And most of the bacon?”
“A . . . good . . . share.”
She sighed. “I’d better see what we’ve got left.”
I nodded my appreciation and didn’t bother to comment as Fetch followed on her heels even after having already purloined some of the bacon. Despite it being past dawn and I often staying awake for days with little repercussion, I nearly dozed a second time.
Fortunately, Claryce came back just seconds later with a cup of coffee. “Here’s that black ink you like to drink. I think you need it.”
“Definitely.” My taste in coffee went back to an encounter in Ethiopia—or Kaffa as I’d known it. That meant my choices tended to be a lot stronger than those of most drinkers in Chicago, who leaned toward Maxwell House, Hill Brothers, or some other contemporary brand. This morning, I was doubly appreciative of its strength. I had to go to certain enclaves in the city to find it, and it was worth it.
It still took half the cup before I began to feel like myself. By that point, Claryce’d returned with a plate of food.
“He left us just enough.”
“Are you sure? He didn’t follow you out of the kitchen. You might have to share this with me.”
“He’s been warned.”
The telephone rang.
We eyed one another.
“Kravayik?” she asked.
“Doubtful.” I didn’t waste any time. I knew it had to be only one of two things. Either my advertisement offering to help someone with their “ghost” problems had materialized before a client in need or it was Barnaby calling me about either the Packard or, more likely, when to meet him at Dunning.
I waited. When no one spoke, I finally asked, “Barnaby?”
“Shadows on the wall, shadows on the floor, shadows in my head . . . I can’t take so many shadows anymore.”
The line went dead.
I stood there, staring at the mouthpiece.
“Who was it?” Claryce asked. “Was it Barnaby?”
“No.” I hung up the telephone. “Not exactly.”
“I don’t like the sound of ‘not exactly.’ Not when we’re dealing with something like Feirie.”
“This doesn’t have to do with Feirie . . . at least, I don’t think so. This is much closer to home.” I picked up the phone again and gave the operator a number.
Claryce came up next to me. “Nick—”
The phone had barely begun ringing when someone answered.
“Hello?”
“Barnaby? It’s Nick.” I took a deep breath, well aware of how much what I was about to tell him might cut him deep. “I’ve just had a call from Joseph.”
CHAPTER 10
We neared the eight-foot-high iron fence of Dunning just before midday. The institute lay some twelve miles northwest of the actual city, but was included in its boundaries. Beyond the fence, the Gothic-style buildings erased any last vestiges of hope that anyone who knew the asylum would ever call it other than Dunning. The trees and foliage designed to give Dunning a sense of life and hope had become in their own way twisted to reflect the darker history of the establishment. Thousands had been committed to it over its eighty and more years of existence, some of them not touched by simple madness, but the ruthless results of their sensitivity to the magics of both this world and Feirie.
But if anyone belonged in Dunning, it was Joseph.
We turned off Irving Park Road and into the entrance. Eventually we reached the main building, where I saw that Barnaby’s old Whiting Runabout with its unique squared-off cowl already sat parked.
I parked the Wills, which I’d driven since I knew the way and Claryce hadn’t, then looked in the back. “I told you to stay at the house, Fetch. You sure you’ll be okay here?”
“Ab-so-lute-ly, Master Nicholas! I’ll be good here!”
I supposed it still beat racing through the streets and alleys. “All right.”
Claryce and I went inside. There was no sign of Barnaby, only a pensive-looking nurse at the front desk. I expected complications, but when I gave our names she merely handed me a paper to sign, then pointed the direction we had to go.
“No wonder he was able to get to a telephone so easily,” Claryce whispered.
“Not that easily. His room should’ve been well-locked. In fact, I don’t remember one instance when Joseph’s ever escaped.”
“Maybe he just never had a good reason before.”
It was something I’d been considering since the call. Before we could discuss it, though, I sighted a short figure pacing the hall ahead.
Barnaby Sperling stood five feet tall at best. A crown of wild white hair circled his otherwise bald head. He was a wiry little figure dressed in a simple brown suit that spoke of much wear. Barnaby wasn’t a poor man; in fact, he was pretty well-to-do, but he was also very frugal.
Our echoing footsteps made him pause and look down the hall at us. The defiant bulldog features twisted into an expression of hope.
“Master Nicholas—”
I cut him off. “It’s ‘Nick’ to you, Barnaby. Just Nick. Let’s put an end to this now. You’re not Kravayik or anyone from there.”
He didn’t question what I meant by “there.” He’d known of Feirie even before Joseph’d been born. “As you wish . . . Nick. And so this is Miss Claryce.” Barnaby held out one fairly large, leathery hand. Even though he had several employees, Barnaby didn’t shy from hard work himself. Not like his son. “A pleasure to finally actually meet you.”
She took the proffered hand. “A pleasure for me, too. I’m sorry we didn’t get the opportunity sooner.”
“And I’m sorry it finally has to be under these circumstances. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“What should I forgive? You’ve done nothing.”
Barnaby grimaced. “I’ve brought you to Dunning.”
With that, he turned to the door at his right. After pulling a key from his pocket, he started unlocking the door.
“Do they usually give relatives keys to the patients’ rooms?” Claryce asked.
“No,” Barnaby replied as he pushed the door open. “Not knowingly anyway.”
I frowned. Barnaby had sworn off the arts years ago. Still, I understood why he might prefer easy access to his son. Joseph was a case no doctor would ever be able to solve. All Barnaby could do was pray he could keep his son secure here.
Apparently, though, even that wasn’t entirely possible anymore.
He didn’t look up as we entered. He didn’t change his focus when Barnaby took a moment to lock the door behind us. All he did was stare at faint shadows made by the lone lightbulb high out of reach.
Barnaby stepped in front of us. “Son. Son? We’ve got visitors. Master Nicholas and a friend.”
I bit back a sigh of frustration. Maybe Barnaby’d remember another time.
Joseph sat quietly on the edge of his simple frame bed. Some patients weren’t even allowed sheets, but Joseph’d never shown any inclination for suicide or murder since he’d been committed, so eventually he’d been given a set.
While Barnaby reminded me of a bulldog, Joseph had a longer, oval face that I had to assume came from his mother, Emma. He’d been a good-looking kid once, with hints of Valentino features, but the crash’d left his nose broken and a pair of scars crosscrossing his face near his right cheek. The thick, blond hair he’d kept so well-groomed had been shaved off for
the convenience of his keepers.
He wore a simple brown pants and shirt set and sandals. I wasn’t sure his outfit was official Dunning wear, but I assumed anything out of the ordinary was due to some unmarked payment out of Barnaby’s pocket.
We waited a moment, but Joseph didn’t speak. He kept staring at the shadows.
On a hunch, I summoned the dragon’s eyes. Unfortunately, even then the shadows simply remained shadows.
But it did finally serve to get a rise out of Joseph. He still stared at the shadows, but also put a hand to his scarred cheek before saying, “The shadows here, the shadows there. My soul is theirs, his to snare.”
How poetic. . . . Have him do another rhyme. . . . There was that fanciful one we learned in Venice. . . .
“Quiet,” I replied under my breath.
Joseph giggled. “He’d like another rhyme, but there’s truly no more time. The moon is past, but its reach will last. The beast grows as the shadow flows. . . .”
Claryce and Barnaby looked puzzled, not having heard my conversation with the dragon. I stared at Joseph, wondering how he’d done that.
The dragon went a step further. Suddenly paranoid, he yelled, Burn him! Scorch him! He is a thing of evil!
I didn’t respond to his shrieked demands save to wonder about his abrupt insistence. When Barnaby’s son didn’t continue, I decided to step between him and the shadows he found so fascinating.
He tried to peer around me, but I compensated. Finally, Joseph settled down again. He stared in my direction, but not at me. It was as if he could see the shadows through my body.
I leaned close. “Joseph. You know us. You called me. What did you want to tell me?”
His gaze shifted slightly. I might not’ve cared except for the fact that he was finally looking at something other than the shadows.
Or was he? “Claryce. What’s behind me?”
“Just the wall.”
“Where’s my shadow?”
“Also behind you. It stretches from the floor all the way to the wall.”
Of course. Still, it was at least a change of sorts. “Tell me about the beast, Joseph.”
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