Black City Saint

by Richard A. Knaak

  “You didn’t ask him, did you?” she finally muttered.

  “No.” I thought for a moment more. “He used his hoods to send a message. He wants me to go to the Institute.”

  Claryce caught her breath. “Well, you won’t, obviously.” When I didn’t reply, she leaned closer. “Nick . . .”

  “I’ll be going, yes.”

  Ignoring any possible reaction by the other people in the drugstore, she forcibly turned me to face her. “You know it’s a trap. You know that.”

  “I do.”

  I couldn’t blame her for the expression crossing her face when I said that. We’d just barely finished being chased after my discovering who it was who toyed with me. Now, despite all that, she saw that I still intended to walk right back into the jaws of danger. Of course Oberon planned a trap at our next meeting.

  And what Claryce couldn’t understand was that my knowing it was a trap was in itself one reason why I had to go.

  CHAPTER 8

  There were only two exhibits of consequence going on at the Art Institute. The first revolved around dolls. The second was the Thirty-Eighth Annual Exhibition of American Paintings and Sculpture. As I could not see Oberon playing with dolls—unless they contained the trapped and screaming spirits of his enemies—I decided that the latter was the choice.

  It’d been too late in the day to go to the Institute, and Oberon would’ve known better than to expect me to meet him there at night. He offered a public place so that I’d feel safe enough to come even if I knew that he had something up his sleeve.

  Not for a minute did I think that Oberon had wanted such a meeting in the Trib Tower. That encounter had been designed to do just exactly what it had done; Oberon had wanted to take my measure, both during the actual event and the pursuit after. He had never expected that his assassins would be able to slay me. They’d been expendable, just like the hoods using the shadow magic to attack us in the Delke home.

  With no choice left to me yesterday, I’d finally surrendered and brought Claryce to my home. She had given no sign that she’d ever been there, which had answered the question as to who had left her business card there. I’d said nothing about that to her.

  Her exhaustion had also given me the opportunity to guide her directly to the bedroom she’d be using and prevent her from seeing what hung in the living room. Once I’d had Claryce situated, I’d hurried downstairs and removed the painting.

  The dragon had laughed at my antics the whole time.

  After more than an hour of sharp discussion, I’d managed to convince her not to come with me today. The house was the only place she would be safe. Whatever agent of Oberon’s who’d left the card had not been able to cross the threshold. Oberon would’ve never let such an opportunity pass if it had been possible.

  The cabbie dropped me off a block farther south on Michigan Ave. Fetch wasn’t available to me, but the black bird perched on a streetlight near the corner across from the Institute. I gave it only a brief look, then strode up to a shoeshine stand that gave me a view of my destination.

  The elderly negro greeted me with a wide smile. “Shine, suh?”

  I nodded. He gestured for me to have a seat. His worn clothes were a contrast to the fine suits and fancy dresses passing by. He bent by my feet and got to work while I studied the Institute for some hint of threat.

  “Goin’ to see the art, suh?”

  I could’ve done like many probably did and simply ignored him, but I still remembered the Nubian warriors I’d met during my original lifetime. “Thought I’d do that. Ever been in there?”

  He briefly looked up at me. “Me? Yessuh! I try to go at least once a year. Just been there not too long ago. Go to some other places, too, though not so fancy as this one. At one of those I saw a fine painting by a man called Motley—man just like me. The Octoroon Girl, it’s called. Real good painter, that Motley. He studied here at the Institute’s school, you know, just like my boy’s doing now.”

  Impressed as I was at this unexpected side to the old man, the black bird chose that moment to caw from its position. I stared closer at the entrance to the Institute.

  “William Delke” stepped out of a black Duesenberg, whose door was held by the same Irish thug who’d harassed the soda jerk. Oberon said something to the goon, then paused to survey the area.

  I made no attempt to hide and wasn’t at all surprised that his sharp eyes quickly caught me. Oberon smiled and although he wore a human face I recognized that smile. Fortunately for me, Oberon could not see the shiver I felt.

  The Duesenberg drove off. Another hood joined the first. The pair flanked Oberon and walked with him up the steps and inside.

  “All done!” the shoeshine man declared. “Not a painting, but pretty good art if I do say so muhself!”

  It was the best shine my shoes had ever seen. As I rose, I tossed him twice his price, which earned me another wide smile. The contrast between his grin and Oberon’s was night and day.

  “Thank you, suh! If’n you ever need another shine, you just come and see ol’ Michael!”

  The name made me hesitate. “Michael?”

  But the shoeshine man was already turning toward another potential client and didn’t hear me. I grimaced at my overwrought imagination and started toward the Art Institute. One saint wandering the mortal plane was enough of a stretch; two was an impossibility, even if I could’ve used the help of the archangel right now.

  The Institute was filled with art lovers of all types. The banners for the exhibition dominated. I headed toward the entrance of the exhibit.

  The Mick with whom I’d become familiar stepped in front of me. Tall as I was, he was taller . . . and much wider. He had a broad, flat, and ruddy face that reminded me of some of Galerius’s favored guards.

  “Hall to the right!” he growled under his breath. “Next to the third painting. Git goin’!”

  I went without a word, not caring whether or not he followed me or stayed where he was. Oberon was the only real danger here, and at that moment it occurred to me that his Feirie nature didn’t preclude the death of every human in this building should it further his purpose.

  I was so distracted that I didn’t see the dapper young man in spats coming around the corner. He accented our collision with a curse, then tried to shove me back. I shifted, letting his momentum take him stumbling into an oil of a ship on a churning sea.

  And as the young swell fell past me, I saw an amused Oberon watching the incident.

  I saw nothing else but the former lord of Feirie. While at our last encounter I’d retreated, this time I all but ran toward him. Each moment, I expected Oberon to slip away, but he stayed where he was, a glass of wine—a drink that should’ve had him cuffed and dragged off to jail—in one hand.

  Just before he would’ve been in arm’s reach, the same goon who’d sent me here blocked my way to him. No human moved that fast, but I saw nothing about him that said he was anything otherwise.

  “Close enough, buster.”

  “That’s quite all right, Doolin. He can come as near as he likes.”

  “Okay, Mister Delke.” Doolin slipped to the side, still not revealing the incredible speed with which he would’ve had to use to reach Oberon before me.

  Now there were only the two of us. Oberon took a sip of his wine, then offered me a glass of my own. No one around us noticed that the glass had not been in his hand a moment before.

  “Don’t bother worrying about breaking a quaint law. No one will notice our glasses,” “William Delke” commented as I took the glass. “A fine bouquet, for a mortal vintage. From one of my own vineyards.”

  I didn’t care to think just how vast an empire Oberon had created in the decades since his supposed death. For that matter, none of that empire mattered much; it was all part of the masquerade. Oberon had no care for mortal things, save that they furthered his goal of bringing Feirie—under his hand, naturally—back into dominance.

  The crowds continued to mill.
Vague conversations concerning this painting or that sculpture continually wafted to my ears. I tried to convince myself again that Oberon wouldn’t try anything with so many people around us and failed once more. My hand stayed near enough to the inside of my jacket, just in case.

  “And how is she?” he asked without a touch of malice, even though speaking of the one creature he hated more than me. “How is my precious and treacherous Titania?”

  It wasn’t as if I’d never known Her Lady’s name nor heard it used before, but there were few who did not fear using it. Her Lady had strong hearing and a wicked mind. Only Oberon, even as an exiled Wyld, dared speak of her in such a manner.

  “You should ask her yourself. I’m sure she’d be happy to have you at court.”

  “Soon enough. Soon enough.” Oberon continued to play his Delke persona perfectly, hiding the malevolent spirit that was his true self behind the businessman’s congenial face. “You know what I want. We can play this game a little longer or you can see sense and give it to me.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He smiled wider . . . and for a moment, a bit of Oberon shone through. The smile sent a shudder through me. “Come now. I’m only asking you to be fair. I gave you something of tremendous and rare value; I only ask that you reciprocate.”

  “There’s nothing you could’ve—” I stopped dead when what he meant finally hit me.

  Oberon took a step closer, the inhuman smile remaining in place. “You and I do share one thing in common. The feminine aspect of our lives has always been of a complicated complexion. Mine would see me dead . . . and yours continues to die . . .”

  I almost crushed the glass. “Leave her be, Oberon.”

  “So many times lost, so many times found, so many times lost again. I’ve come to know her this time better than in any previous. I can see what you admire. I doubt that she’d try to slit your throat like my darling Titania.”

  “She’s played her part for you,” I countered, trying to keep my blood from boiling. It didn’t help that my invisible companion had also been stirred up by Oberon’s close presence. I could feel him fighting to come out, but I kept him in check. “Leave her be now.”

  “But Claryce is so much more than merely a ‘part.’” Oberon turned from me, but not before indicating that I should follow. He walked toward a painting of a landscape. Pausing before it, the ousted lord of Feirie chuckled. “A bit of talent here, more than the artist knows, don’t you agree?”

  At first, I only cared about Claryce, not some picture. Only when Oberon continued to stare at it did I finally give the painting a second glance.

  And only then did I notice its hint of compression, its claustrophobic feel despite the wide, lush landscape it represented. This was not so much a simple forest but rather a place hinting of nightmare in each dark shadow hidden between the trees.

  It was Feirie, or at least a glimpse of it.

  “The Gate cannot keep the essence of both realms from touching one another,” my infernal enemy said. “You may be able to stem the tide, but that is all . . .”

  “We were talking about Claryce—”

  “We were. And here she is now.”

  I stiffened. He had to be jesting. I’d made it very clear that she had to stay at the house. I knew that Oberon had to be trying put me even more off guard.

  But still I looked in the direction he indicated . . . and saw her.

  Worse, I saw Doolin and the other thug coming up behind her. My hand immediately went into my jacket.

  “Now, now, my tainted saint . . . you should not have done that.”

  It was more of a warning than I would’ve expected from Oberon, and I could never be certain whether he was giving me a fighting chance or simply seeking to draw my attention from Claryce’s danger.

  Either way, when I turned to face him, Her Lady’s gift already half-drawn, it was to find the painting once more before my eyes. The moment the landscape caught my attention, I discovered that I couldn’t pull away. Worse, the mortal world began to recede from me, and the scene from the painting took on a reality that reminded me too much of my previous visits to Her Lady’s Court.

  And as the painting became my reality, I heard Oberon whispering behind me. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I knew that it couldn’t be good. I struggled to pull my gaze away from the forest—

  From the shadows between the trees emerged a pair of black-armored figures, with swords that reminded me too much of Her Lady’s gift. I had no doubt as to what their intent was, even before the first figure raised his blade.

  I brought up Her Lady’s gift in time to deflect his blow. The clang of metal against metal echoed so loud that I wanted to drop my sword and cover my ears. Yet I knew that I’d be skewered the moment that happened. Instead, I ignored the pain in my ears and lunged.

  As I expected, my foe backed away. That gave me the respite I needed to take a swing at his twin. I had no idea what sort of face I might find behind the visored helms. They might be human pawns, they might be Wyld. It didn’t matter in the end.

  The whispering continued unabated, growing so insistent that it threatened to take enough of my attention away that I’d soon enough leave myself open to one of the armored figures.

  Eye can help! Let Eye out!

  I had blades coming at me from opposite sides, the forest snaring me more and more in its false world, and Oberon’s mocking whisper in my head. My heart pounded and my body felt like lead. Even though I managed to parry both swords, I felt doubt filling me that I could last more than a breath longer.

  Just a little! my unseen companion roared. Let Eye out just a little!

  Just a little . . . I took the risk.

  His primal power rushed through me, filling my soul and burning it. I let that pain overtake that caused by Oberon’s whisper.

  The world of the painting took on the familiar emerald hue. I felt stronger, much stronger, while at the same time I also felt myself receding.

  I was suddenly wrenched from the painting. Bits of the Art Institute’s interior flashed across my gaze, but there was something wrong with them that I had no time to put my finger on. For that matter, I no longer even had any fingers—a strong pair of taloned claws were now held out before me. Where Her Lady’s gift had gone, I couldn’t say. All I knew was that more and more, the dragon held sway over our body.

  Claws raked across an armored breastplate, tearing through the metal like butter. A flash of black light burst through from the interior, but before I could see what that meant, the dragon had already turned on our second attacker.

  Our emerald world exploded into fiery crimson.

  I could just imagine what was left of whoever had donned that armor for Oberon’s cause. I felt no remorse . . . in fact, I savored the destruction. With the dragon, I eagerly looked around to see if Oberon or any of his other pawns had been foolish enough to remain near. Eye yearned for more destruction, more death. Eye thought about how nicely this mortal building would burn . . .

  And then she stepped in front of Eye. Eye’s first instinct was to melt her flesh, cinder her bones . . . but something held Eye back.

  “Nick? Nick! Look at me! Can you hear me?”

  Eye could hear her from a far distance . . . and so could I. Suddenly, the dragon and I were two distinct spirits again. I stared in fear at Claryce, so close to a force she was unaware was more than eager to brutally slay her.

  There was no sign of Oberon, Doolin, or the other thug. I didn’t really care. The dragon was the imminent threat and the awareness now of just what he’d almost done to Claryce was enough to make me fight harder to regain control.

  “Nick! What’s the matter with you? Speak to me!”

  The growing strength of her voice was evidence I was winning. I felt the dragon reluctantly slipping back into the abyss in the far recesses of my mind. He gave up the struggle with an abruptness that was both curious and of great relief.

  Gas
ping, I fell to my knees.

  Hands gently took hold of my left arm. I peered up at Claryce, whose expression only held concern for me.

  And then I noticed two other things. One was the smell of sulphur that always brought back memories of the night Chicago—and Cleolinda’s last incarnation—burned. The second was a silence around us.

  The Institute was empty.

  Well . . . not entirely empty. There were two still forms on the floor not all that far from me, armored forms with some vague resemblance to those I remembered emerging out of the Feirie forest in the painting.

  The painting . . .

  The second armored body wasn’t the only thing scorched by the dragon’s breath. The painting Oberon had directed me to was nothing but charred wood and paper. Not a glimpse of the landscape remained. Oddly, the dragon had focused his flame so tightly on the painting that there were only faint black marks on the panel behind it.

  I tore my eyes from the ruined painting, drinking in the much more pleasant sight of Claryce. Unfortunately, I couldn’t let it stay at that. “Where is he? Where’d he go?”

  “William—I mean that thing that looks like him? There was no one but you here, Nick! No one!”

  “No . . . you were here. I saw you.”

  She shook her head. “I only arrived here a few minutes ago. You never came back. I know you said to stay at your house, but I didn’t know what else to do and I kept worrying about you—”

  She suddenly flung herself into my arms. Before I knew what I was doing, I was holding her tight. Claryce didn’t say a word; she simply leaned against my shoulder.

  Over her shoulder, I caught a new glimpse of the armored bodies. They began to disturb me. I finally and reluctantly separated from Claryce so that I could look them over. They didn’t lay on the floor like the usual stiffs—to use another word Fetch loved—did.

  I kicked the leg of the one with the scarred breastplate.

  “Nick! What are—” She cut off as the lower half of the leg rolled away.

  Not actually the leg, of course. Just the bits of armor that made it up.