Black City Saint

by Richard A. Knaak

  But somehow—and I couldn’t argue with Kravayik’s own interpretation in this case—a miracle had been granted to the former servant of both His Lord and Her Lady. Not only had he been able to freely enter holy ground, but a form of his magic abilities had remained.

  And that had only made him more invaluable to me.

  “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”

  He hesitated, then, “Someone of the Court has taken interest in the card. Is it Her Lady? Has she extended her foul reach here?”

  She’d done just that, but I chose not to mention her. Even more so than Fetch, Kravayik disliked both Her Lady and her former mate. As a member of the Court, he knew more than most what the two were like and saw Her Lady as no better. I could only scarcely disagree with him on that. At least Her Lady respected the balance between the two realms better than Oberon.

  “No. He survived that night.”

  I didn’t have to say his name. Kravayik recoiled in recognition, his features distorting more and losing some of the false humanity he wore so that he could exist among mortals.

  “His Lord? His foulness still stains this precious world?”

  “His name is Oberon,” I interjected, trying to sound more confident about matters than I did. “Oberon. He’s no longer lord of Feirie. He is not the Court personified, not the essence of its power!”

  The last was virtually a quote from Kravayik himself, uttered to me when first he’d come here as an exile. He nodded slowly, aware that what I said was true, but also aware that even as a refugee himself Oberon was a very, very dangerous force.

  “So . . .” His somewhat more human face reshaped. He pursed his lips in thought. “So . . . you need to see the card.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust your abilities—”

  He waved off my apologetic tone. “This is about Oberon. There is no precaution too great to take with him, Master Nicholas. If I have proven insufficient in my duties, I would know that as well!”

  I gave him an appreciative nod. Had I been born a creature of Feirie, I’d probably have been a lot like him. I respected Kravayik as I did few others.

  I took a deep breath. Kravayik blinked twice, the first time he’d blinked at all and a sure sign of just how anxious he was. The pair of us took up positions directly before the altar. We reached toward it with our right hands, his much longer and more tapering than mine. I whispered a prayer.

  A seemingly solid part of the mensa slid open.

  From within, a faint emerald glow arose. Kravayik gasped and muttered the Lord’s Prayer.

  With as little eagerness for this deed as he’d just shown, I stepped up and removed the Clothos card from its resting place.

  To the uneducated it most resembled a tarot card and with good reason. It was the basis for the first such decks, all of them pale attempts by the powers of Feirie to recreate what apparently could not be recreated even by His Lord. Those attempts had gradually spilled over into the mortal realm.

  The card was small, fitting in the palm of my hand. It had rounded edges trimmed in gold. I’d placed it face down—for good reason—which thus displayed for me an intricate pattern of leaves and branches, with the black silhouette of a snarling wolf in the center. The leaves were emerald in color and the source of the glow. The branches were silver.

  “It is . . . so frail-looking,” Kravayik muttered.

  “Yeah, it looks like it, anyway.” Neither of us had seen the card in twenty-five years, when I’d decided to reassure myself that no one had managed to move it since it’d first been placed in this small tomb. That last visit I’d not even turned it over, preferring not to risk keeping the card out in the open any more than I had to.

  This time, though, I all but felt compelled to look.

  “Master Nicholas! I’d not advise—”

  His warning went unheeded. Not since the last time I’d confronted Oberon had anyone gazed upon the face.

  Three cups greeted my anxious gaze. Three silver goblets. Each was held by a hand similar to Kravayik’s. A black liquid filled the three goblets. A constellation never seen in this world hovered over the cups.

  I knew from a thousand decks I’d seen over the centuries what the Three of Cups meant to most. Groups coming together for a common goal. Support and counseling. A score of other similar meanings and a few not so akin.

  But none of those meanings had anything to do with this card or any part of the Clothos Deck. What tarot cards attempted to do, the Clothos Deck did.

  Imagine if one could change the entire world—and everything else, for that matter—by simply shuffling a tarot deck and adjusting the cards drawn as needed. That only began to explain what the Clothos Deck was capable of.

  And with this single card—this card that was hardly the most powerful of the pack—Oberon had nearly obliterated an entire city and every living soul in it.

  As I held the card, I began to think of the good it could’ve done if wielded by someone not only expert enough but also of strong moral values. I wasn’t the best choice in that respect, but I couldn’t help thinking at that moment that at least I would’ve done better than many. With a little careful practice, maybe I could even—

  A hand gently took hold of my wrist.

  “You do not want it, Master Nicholas. It will only cause misery and grief for you, those you love, and everyone else . . .”

  I turned the card over, for once welcoming the sinister lupine shape on the back. Kravayik removed his hand. I took a deep breath, then set the card back into its resting place.

  The granite lid slid over the card, sealing it in. The solidity of the mensa reformed. There was no hint that the stone was not one piece.

  We stepped back together. I finally looked at Kravayik.

  “Thanks for that.”

  “I had the utmost faith in you, Master Nicholas, but felt a little encouragement would not be rejected.”

  I grunted. “Your faith in me was stronger than mine was.”

  “You are a humble man, part of the reason you are a saint.”

  “That’s not quite how it works,” I muttered. I eyed the altar, both admiring the handiwork I’d paid dearly for but also giving thanks that providence—or perhaps God above, as Kravayik believed—had given me such a guardian for it.

  “Is all as you expected, Master Nicholas?”

  “It is.” But it didn’t help me as I’d hoped it would. Still, at least I knew that the cathedral hadn’t been breached . . . so far. “There may be some visitors to the cathedral soon. Are you ready for them?”

  Kravayik straightened. “Though I may sin deeply for it, I will stand against any who enter.”

  “Don’t assume that since they’ll probably be human that they’ll be easy to take.”

  For the first time, Kravayik looked a bit offended. “I did not survive so long in the Court underestimating even the least of my rivals. I will take care. I promise.”

  He paused, considering something. I didn’t like when he considered something. It was never good.

  “I am reminded of a few incidents of late, Master Nicholas. I thought nothing of them. There have been such in the past . . . but now, with the knowledge that he is alive, they are perhaps of significance.”

  “Like what?”

  “Small accidents. Little things. Even the fire in the rectory. All with explanations . . . just as he would desire.”

  Kravayik still couldn’t bring himself to say Oberon’s name too often. “They might be something. Keep an eye out.”

  “There is one more bit of news. I feel I have failed you for not mentioning this, too—”

  “Forget that. What’s this news?”

  Still looking as if he’d betrayed me into the very arms of Oberon, he said, “Someone offered to buy the cathedral.”

  He had my full attention. “Holy Name?”

  Clearly sharing my astonishment, Kravayik continued. “They have made the offer twice. A very princely sum, I must say. The offer even includ
es an excellent alternative site, plus assistance with all building permits and necessities.”

  “Are you usually privy to church business?”

  “In my attempt to remain a humble servant, I am sometimes overlooked by my employers when even in the room. I fear I may have sinned in this regard, though.”

  “Do you happen to remember who the offer was from?” I asked, ignoring his constant concern. Though born of Feirie, it was likely he’d be accepted into Heaven long before me.

  “I did by sheer luck happen to see the first letter. It was from a lawyer named O’Rourke. It did not name the actual source of the offer.”

  The Irish moniker was enough for me to tie it to the North Side, which in turn tied it to Oberon.

  He did know where the card was . . . and apparently had for some time.

  “It is him, is it not, Master Nicholas?”

  “I think so. I don’t know how he found out. I didn’t think he knew, but he does. Still, he can’t directly take it . . . and that must drive him crazy.”

  It was another shock, another example of Oberon having spent the past fifty years building to this point. Yet I felt some relief in knowing that, despite everything, he hadn’t been able to get the card yet. “Let me know if the offer comes up again.”

  “If you ask it, I shall do it.”

  I started to turn, only to spot another vague figure near the image of Saint Peter. Kravayik said nothing, which meant that he didn’t see him. Few did other than me.

  “Such power in such a tiny thing,” Diocles quietly declared as I neared.

  Ignoring him, I looked to Kravayik one last time. “Be careful. Please.”

  He smiled as if I’d literally blessed him. “I shall be. I am grateful for your concern and all that you’ve done for me. Never in all my existence in the Court could I have imagined a world such as you gave me! A path that does not subsist on constant and eternal treachery, with only oblivion as the final reward!”

  It was a shortened version of the speech of gratitude he’d given me more than once since I’d saved him. “Get some rest, Kravayik. You’ll need it.”

  “I shall pray, yes.” For the exile, prayer was rest. Kravayik had gone from drawing his strength from the machinations of the Feirie Court to drawing it from his faith. Even after fifty years, he spoke with the zealousness of a new convert. “Good eve to you, Master Nicholas.”

  Kravayik drifted away from me, disappearing into the shadowy area from which he had emerged. As a caretaker, he had quarters in the cathedral, very spartan ones consisting of a bed, a table, and an icebox. Not needing to eat much—a few sips of broth and a cup of water every couple days—he saved most of his pay so that he could donate it to the church again. He, who had once reaped rich benefits from having the favor of the most powerful forces of Feirie was now more than satisfied with his current, simple life.

  Simple until Oberon’s return, anyway.

  I went from my admiration for Kravayik to my disdain for Diocles. I’d hoped he’d not show up here, but our infernal bond meant that whenever I entered a house of worship, so could he. He remained for the most part within St. Michael’s for the simple reason that it was the church with which I was most tied.

  “You can forgive that creature his sins despite knowing how he served the Feirie Court . . .”

  Despite having determined that I was going to ignore him, I stopped and answered, “There’s no comparison between Kravayik and you. Kravayik took on a transformation from what he’d been bred to be to something his realm couldn’t even comprehend.”

  He gritted his teeth, the let out a cry of frustration. “By God, Georgius! What must I do to earn your forgiveness? If I could reverse the centuries and prevent your execution, I would! You know that!”

  “I do,” I admitted, “but it’s not so simple.”

  “Then, tell me! What will it take?”

  “More than you can do,” I snapped.

  The late emperor swung at me. I’d never seen him so furious and wasn’t prepared to defend myself. Of course, I remembered how foolish we were both acting just before his fist went through me.

  Diocles glared. “If I am condemned to follow you until the end of days, I pray that Heaven grants me one time I can strike you solid!”

  “Not so penitent after all, eh, Your Imperial Majesty?”

  “More than you, Georgius!”

  “Nicholas,” I flatly reminded him.

  “Nicholas,” Diocles the phantom repeated with still-smoldering bitterness. “Nicholas. Well, Nicholas, I wish you nothing but the best in this endeavor. I know who you face. I know what he wants. I know you fear that she will be slain as the others were. I pray for your victory, knowing the magnitude of its importance . . .”

  “Thanks,” I managed as I stepped around him. “Go home now, Your Imperial Majesty.”

  He actually had no choice. Once I exited the cathedral, he’d immediately return to St. Michael’s.

  “Wait.”

  Although certain that I’d regret it, I looked back. “Well?”

  “Father Jonathan preaches a fine sermon, don’t you think?”

  In truth—a truth Diocles also knew—I’d hardly ever attended the good priest’s actual sermons. I preferred quiet reflection late at night, when I could be alone with my thoughts.

  “He gave an especially good one this last Sunday, Georgius. It certainly affected the Hispanian sitting in the last pew.”

  I hated games, whether they were the deadly, sadistic kind like the Feiriefolk played or the little jibes that were all that were left to the late, unlamented Emperor Diocletian. “What’s the point?”

  “He talked to Father Jonathan briefly after—”

  “Listening in to confessions? That’s a sin, I think.”

  “No confession. He walked up to the priest after the sermon. Thanked him for it, then asked questions. You know how cunning the Hispanians can be—”

  Hispanians. I’d paid little attention to the word, Diocles often describing modern groups by the regions of his former empire. The Irish were Hibernians. Hispanians were anyone of a Spanish tone, including even Mexi—

  I cut him off. “What did he look like?”

  Diocles gave a very detailed description. With so much time to kill and having already memorized every detail of St. Michael’s long ago, the dead emperor looked forward to the sermons not only for their value, but also because they brought new lives into his limited existence. Diocles could tell me much about the majority of Father Jonathan’s congregation, to the point that he sometimes sounded like a gossip. Whenever there was a new member, he was certain to tell me. If he’d said that the man had been anything other than Hispanian, I’d have ended the conversation there and then.

  But a Hispanian who asked questions . . .

  Even before Diocles finished, I recognized Father’s Jonathan’s latest addition as Inspector Alejandro Cortez. Even if I’d somehow managed to accept that Cortez had gone to St. Michael’s for the usual reasons, the question of why his Maria and the children hadn’t been along for the ride was one I doubted had a good answer. Cortez had found me in my sanctum; now it seemed he was looking into my interest in the church.

  Eye think he should burn . . .

  I let that suggestion remain uncommented on, instead saying to Diocles, “Was that the only time he’s been there?”

  “The only time.”

  “Let me know if he shows up again, whatever the day.”

  “As you wish, G—Nicholas.”

  His use of my current name was as much an attempt to get on my good side and hopefully someday gain his desired redemption as it was to help me, but it had been news I was interested in so I gave him a grateful nod. We’d be at each other’s throat’s soon enough again. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Cleolinda awaits you.”

  “Her name is Claryce.”

  He looked apologetic again. “I pray you save her this time.”

  I should’ve thanked him for t
hat, but we’d talked more than enough for my comfort. I couldn’t allow my bitterness against him to fade. I might then actually give him what he wanted.

  I wasn’t ready for that. Not now. Not even with the shadow of Oberon over me.

  Claryce and Fetch awaited me just outside the entrance to the diner. I’d told her to stay inside and suspected she’d stepped out for Fetch’s sake. After my conversation with Diocles, I couldn’t help stare at her anew. Yes, she was Cleolinda, but again I couldn’t help noticing the differences both in appearance and character that made her very much Claryce.

  And by the light coming from within the diner, I could suddenly see something else. I could see the shadow cast by Claryce, the lesser one cast by Fetch . . . and the third one just behind Claryce with no visible body to which it could be attached.

  CHAPTER 12

  Fetch must’ve noticed the subtle change in my posture. He snapped at Claryce’s skirt, grabbing up a good mouthful. Before she could protest, he jerked her to her left.

  It was probably the only thing that prevented the widening shadow hand from managing to grab hold of her waist.

  There were too many eyes around for me to readily draw Her Lady’s gift, but that didn’t prevent me from charging at the shadow. It withdrew the oversized hand and melted into the darkness.

  Eye will show you . . .

  Without interruption, the view changed. Darkness gave way to the emerald world. Now I saw the shadow and the direction it headed. Being what it was, it glided from the side of one building to the next. Unimpeded by a human body, it ran at a pace I was having trouble matching. Fetch might’ve done better, but if he knew what was good for him, he would still be watching Claryce no matter what she might order this time.

  The shadow man twisted around a corner. I kept praying that he wouldn’t simply disappear like the ones in the Delke house. All the thug to whom the shadow belonged had to do was pull off whatever Feirie artifact Oberon had given him and the trail would end right there.

  And then I wondered just why the hood didn’t do just that.