The Devourer Below

by Charlotte Llewelyn-Wells

  With that, he leapt on Holsten, bearing him to the floor. The pistol clattered away, out of reach. Holsten was big and strong, and Drew was little more than a scarecrow of flesh and bone. But his teeth were sharp, oh yes, and his nails were thick, and he was hungry.

  Oh so hungry.

  Labyrinth

  Thomas Parrott

  It was half past five when Joe Diamond heard the package come through the mail slot on his office door. Way too late for normal delivery. It hit the ground with a light smack, not much weight to it. For a moment, a shadow lingered against the frosted glass of the inset window, then it was gone.

  The private eye came to his feet slowly. He already had one of the Colts in his hand. The metal of the grip was warm from where the shoulder holster kept it close to his body. Some people might have called that level of readiness paranoia. Those people hadn’t seen the things that Joe had seen.

  Joe made his way to the door. He unlocked it with a click and pushed it open. The hallway was empty. Whoever had dropped the package off had left in a hurry. The other offices were dark. Sensible people had gone home for the day.

  He shut the door and locked it again. Only then did he return the 1911 to its holster. The package was in a manila folder. It rustled as he picked it up, a collection of paper inside. He carried it over to the desk and spilled the contents across the stained wooden surface.

  The sun was sinking below the horizon. The last few rays were divided by the blinds on the window, scattering them across the items. Pictures and documents. Joe nudged through them with a frown. The photos were sharply divided. Most of them were of a young woman. She was olive skinned and dark haired. It was the expression that caught him, a mix of fear and exhaustion. She’d been scared for a long time.

  The papers were police reports. Most of them were about the woman. She was an exchange student at Miskatonic University, named Nadia Leandros. She’d come to the city police multiple times begging for help. Something was harassing her, she said.

  Something. Not someone.

  Joe poured himself a finger of bourbon into a glass that hadn’t been washed in too long. He sat down at the desk and set to absorbing all of this with his full attention. The police hadn’t listened. How could they? The reports read like madness. Shadowy figures at night that dissolved when confronted. The sound of wings beating at her windows. Whispers from the drain of her sink. They dismissed her as a kook.

  Someone had obviously thought otherwise. They’d brought it to the right place. Joe had seen a lot in his time. Too much to dismiss such things out of hand. There were things that went bump at night, and they were getting bolder by the day.

  He turned his attention to the rest of the file. The difference was like night and day. The picture this time was of a stiff on a slab at the morgue. A man in his mid-fifties, if Joe was any judge. The body’s skin was mottled strangely, but there was nothing conclusive to indicate how he’d died. The coroner’s report called it natural causes.

  Joe snorted as he read the rest of the notes. He didn’t know of many natural things that made a man rot from the heart outward. There were pictures backing that up too. As if the insides had been dead and exposed for a month longer than the body itself. Joe knocked back the bourbon and sighed.

  Something was circled on the picture: a birthmark on the back of the man’s neck. A circle surrounded by dark tendrils, like a black sun. Joe flipped back to the pictures of the woman. Sure enough, she had the same mark. It was on her collarbone, only visible in one shot.

  Joe drummed his fingers on the desk. There was only one sheet of paper left, a cursory police report on the man’s death. The victim hadn’t lived in Arkham for very long. He’d moved here only a few months before his death. The document included notes from conversations with his coworkers and neighbors. They spoke of paranoid behavior, of isolation, and of the impression of inescapable fear.

  It wasn’t as obvious as a one for one, but whoever had sent him this information was trying to paint a picture. That much was clear. A haunted person with a mark who ended up in the graveyard down by French Hill. Another person with the same mark, plagued by dark visitations. Do nothing, and she might end up in another cheap coffin.

  Joe had never been good at doing nothing. He had a nose for trouble and a collection of scars to prove he never learned. That said, he was no one’s fool. If one of the horrors that plagued the Arkham countryside was rearing its ugly head, he was better off knowing what he was up against.

  There was no more information to be had from the file. If he wanted to find out more, he was going to have to hit the streets, and he thought he knew just where to look. The files at City Hall wouldn’t be of any help. He needed sources more esoteric. Sources like the books in the library up at Miskatonic U.

  Joe stood and pulled his trench coat on. It was getting on towards the end of fall and there was a chill to the night air. He propped his fedora on his head and swept out the door with purpose. If Nadia was in danger, time was of the essence.

  He hurried through the streets of Arkham. The colorful splendor of sunset had given way to the gray of evening. A few especially enterprising bats swooped through the twilight for an early meal. Lights were coming on throughout the city. Many in the city had adopted electric lighting, but a few still made use of candles or gas lamps. All of them shone warmly through their windows, comforting reminders that he was not alone in the world.

  Soon Joe reached Orne Library on the university campus. It was three stories of weathered granite. The silhouette of gargoyles stood out against the windows overhead. It was an architectural oddity, reminding Joe of nothing so much as the bastard child of a bunker and a cathedral. A lamp shone above the doorway, as if to guide late readers on their way in. Joe had only recently started coming here for research. It was usually restricted to students and faculty, but he had a friend on the inside.

  He stopped in the foyer to hang his hat but kept his coat. The interior of the library was a drafty maze of bookshelves. It struggled to stay heated at the best of times. Besides, it was better to not go flashing his guns at people for no reason. It had a way of spooking folks.

  “Detective,” a familiar voice said behind him. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

  Joe turned with a genuine smile. “Miss Walker. How are you feeling?”

  Daisy Walker returned the smile. The blonde librarian tugged her sleeve down to better conceal the bandages that swathed one arm. “I’d feel a lot worse if you hadn’t been there that night.”

  The memory surged up. Ghoulish claws tearing at the barricaded door. Unearthly shrieks echoing on the night air. His smile died as quickly as it had risen. “We got lucky. That’s all.”

  “People like us have to make our own luck, detective.” Her green eyes searched his face. “This isn’t a social call, is it?”

  Joe shook his head. “No. I need information.”

  Daisy glanced around. “That kind of information?”

  “Yeah.”

  She motioned for him to follow with a tilt of her head. They headed over past dusty shelves to where a table sat. An electric lamp was nearby but it was dark. In its place a single candle in the center cast a dim glow.

  “Atmospheric,” Joe remarked dryly.

  Daisy gave him a look. “We have a hard time keeping the lights on after dark. Candles are more reliable for some reason.” The librarian looked around one more time. Satisfied no one was nearby, she motioned to him. “What is it?”

  Joe produced the pictures from his coat pocket. The girl and the body. Anyone else, he might worry about their reaction. He knew Daisy had seen worse.

  She leaned forward and took the pictures in with a keen eye. “The birthmark.”

  “Got it in one,” Joe said. “Seen anything like it?”

  Daisy frowned. “I saw something similar all too recently.” She clenched the hand on her w
ounded arm, as though the ache had redoubled.

  “Damn,” Joe whispered. “The same cult? The same… thing?” He stopped short of saying the name, but it itched in his brain just the same.

  “Same entity? Maybe. Same cult? No… I don’t think so. The symbols aren’t quite the same. Besides, those aren’t brands or tattoos. These people aren’t cultists. They’ve been marked since before they were even born, somehow.” She locked eyes with him, expression dark. “Claimed.”

  Joe tapped his finger on Nadia’s picture. “The girl is still alive, so far as I know. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  Daisy plucked at her lip thoughtfully. “You know, that birthmark is familiar for another reason now that I think about it. It’d be a heck of a connection, but…”

  “My credulity strains a lot further than it used to,” Joe noted wryly.

  She arched an eyebrow. “Is that so? Wait here.”

  Daisy turned and disappeared into the stacks. When she returned it was with a sizable leather-bound tome. She heaved it onto the table. Joe leaned forward and blew the dust off the cover. He flipped it open to the first page. The title was printed in an older style, elaborate and decorative.

  “The Labyrinth: The True Tale of the Darkness Below Crete,” he read aloud.

  Joe looked up at her with a frown. There was a twinkle of mischief in her eyes now.

  “Tell me, detective. Did you pay attention when they covered mythology in school?”

  •••

  Sebastianos vomited over the side of the ship for the umpteenth time. There was no relief in the act. It did nothing to ease his nausea or make the world stand still. All it did was wring out every muscle in his body and leave him a sweating, gasping mess. It was pointless misery.

  In that way it was a microcosm of this entire voyage. The Athenian sank against the side of the railing with a helpless wheeze. It brought Sebastianos around to face the source of all his troubles: the man standing at the very bow of the ship. He could have been a figurehead on the ship, so stoic and so beautiful. As though a statue had come to life, as though a god had stepped down from Mount Olympus.

  Theseus, son of King Aegeus and heir to the throne of Athens.

  That prime specimen deigned to drop his eyes from the horizon to look at Sebastianos instead. “You would think you would run out of things to throw up at some point.”

  Sebastianos managed a sour smile. “It is truly a miracle of the ages, your highness.”

  Theseus stepped over and offered his servant a hand up. “Come, on your feet, man. We will pull into the port at Crete before you know it, and this trial will be over.”

  Sebastianos accepted the grip and let himself be pulled back up. “That is less comforting than it might be.”

  Theseus clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up. You are not part of the tribute. You should have nothing to fear.”

  “Nothing save bringing a father word that his son is dead,” Sebastianos said. “Nothing save losing a friend. And for what?”

  Theseus turned back to the horizon with a frown. “I do only what must be done.”

  “That’s not true, and you know it. You don’t have to be here. They would have chosen someone else.”

  The prince glanced at him. “Someone like you?”

  Sebastianos paused. “Perhaps.”

  “And how is that fair?” Theseus asked.

  “Lots are drawn. Every young person in the city shares the risk–”

  “Everyone except for me. What is so different? Anyone they choose is someone’s friend. Someone’s son. For twenty-seven years our people have mourned their lost loved ones.” Theseus took a deep breath. “It has to stop. I know I can stop it.”

  “How?” Sebastianos demanded. It was a frustrated blurt as much as anything. None of this conversation was new. They’d had it a dozen times or more. Theseus had shown irregular patience for Sebastianos’ directness, born of long years of service long since turned to true friendship. It helped that Sebastianos was of noble birth himself, honored to be placed at the prince’s right hand.

  “I will talk to them.” Theseus gave him a sad smile. “King Minos was furious, and perhaps he had a right to be. But he has had decades for his anger to cool. Surely he can see this for the madness it is now.”

  Sebastianos sighed. There was nothing more to say.

  They watched together as the hills and beaches of the island of Crete grew ahead of them. It had been a sunny day out on the open sea. That light gave way to overcast skies as they came closer. Cold rain misted down, joining the sea spray in a cheerless drizzle.

  Sebastianos pulled his cloak closer about himself. “This island is a cursed place.”

  Theseus laughed at that, a burst of genuine mirth. “Zeus be merciful. A little rain does not a curse make, old friend.”

  There was something more to it, though. Sebastianos could not shake the feeling. Twenty-eight Athenian youths had already been surrendered to Minos’ demands, never to return. The enigma of their fate had haunted his dreams ever since he had learned of Theseus’ plan to volunteer. Nightmares of darkness and terrible hungers beneath the earth.

  If anyone else had such premonitions, they did not share them with him. He was not the only one unsettled, though. A glance back at the rest of the ship showed him plenty of fear. The trembling and paleness of the rest of the youths sent in tribute was one thing, understandable enough. The wariness in the eyes of the rowers and other crew was another.

  They had arrived in the city of Knossos. Grand buildings loomed all around them, stone towers decorated with elaborate frescoes. Sebastianos could not help a disloyal thought: this place was grander by far than his home of Athens. Then the silence seeped in.

  Sebastianos would have expected a city of this size to be host to several trading vessels at any one time. Goods should be coming and going from their holds. Crowds could be expected; crews and merchants and city officials to tax the lot of them. Instead, everything was still. The only sound was the wash of the waves against their ship. Nothing moved.

  “Perhaps they cleared the harbor in anticipation of our arrival,” Sebastianos said uneasily.

  “Perhaps,” Theseus said. “One would think they would have sent someone to greet us in that case.”

  The Athenian ship pulled up to the dock to be moored. The crew hurried about their tasks, eager to be done and gone. Theseus glanced over the gathered people. None of the crew would look at him, Sebastianos noted. The other tributes, however, couldn’t take their eyes off him. He was their one slender hope.

  Sebastianos could see that settle onto his friend like an invisible weight.

  Theseus stepped forward. “All of you remain here. Sebastianos and I will see if we can locate our kindly hosts.”

  “Delighted to volunteer,” muttered Sebastianos as they climbed over the side of the ship. “Need I remind you that we’re unarmed? No weapons on the tribute voyages?”

  “Fortunately, we are not looking for a fight. Besides, nothing dangerous has happened,” Theseus pointed out. He flashed a grin. “Yet.”

  “You are exceptionally bad at comforting people,” Sebastianos said.

  “Not people. Just you.”

  They headed up the pier towards the city. The first few steps were difficult; it felt like the world was unsteady beneath Sebastianos’ feet. It took several seconds for solid ground to feel right again. Wood creaked beneath their feet. It was common for even a well-maintained port to show weathering. The sea was not kind to structures. This was worse. Entire planks had rotted through, forcing them to choose their steps with care.

  “Something bad happened to this city,” Sebastianos said.

  “I’m starting to believe you’re right,” Theseus said. “But what? We’ve received no word of disaster. There’s no sign of war.”

  Sebastianos shook h
is head. He had no easy answers.

  They walked among desolate buildings. The doors they passed were shut. Some were boarded over. A window hung open. Sebastianos stepped up to glance inside. All was dark within the house. Dust layered the sill. He thought he glimpsed broken furniture. There was something truly desolate about the sight. His already abused stomach twisted with unease.

  “Perhaps I could climb inside, see–”

  “No need,” Theseus said

  A tension in his friend’s voice made Sebastianos turn his head. The prince was staring down the street, expression grim. Sebastianos followed his gaze to a collection of dark figures gathered ahead of them. Had they been there before? It was hard to know. They were so still that he could easily imagine his eye skipping over them.

  They were garbed completely in black, no hint of other color to be found among them. Each stood like a blot of shadow against the gray light of the day. Their leader drew the eye. They were taller than both men anyway, and their headgear added to that. Black horns swept forward from an ebon mask that hid their face completely. The front of the mask bulged outward into a false snout. It reminded Sebastianos of nothing so much as a great bull, of the kind often sacrificed to the gods.

  “What in Olympus’ name…” Sebastianos whispered.

  Theseus stepped forward and raised a hand.

  “Hail,” he called.

  Silence was the only response.

  The prince cleared his throat. “We come from Athens with the tribute, as promised! I wish to speak to King Minos, however. I am Prince Theseus, and I hoped–”

  “Minos has gone below.”

  It was a sepulchral voice, deep and gravelly. It must have been the leader speaking, but if it was then the mask scarcely seemed to muffle them. Their words echoed down the empty street like rocks falling at the end of a mine shaft.

  Sebastianos’ mouth was dry as the desert. His hand reflexively dropped to where a sword would normally have been belted at his waist. He cursed again the rule that barred anyone from traveling this voyage armed.