The Shades of Silence

by Kyra Wheatley

  She began to experiment. From each source of sound, the glassy waves distorted the space, as if a ripple were flowing through the air. Nicole clapped her hands, and broad waves emanated from them. She stamped her foot, and fine, quick circles scattered from her heel. Yes, that was it—she was seeing sounds! Was the Mascara making that happen?

  Nicole returned to her table and experimented some more. She moved the cup, stirred the rest of the coffee with the spoon, tapped the fork on the edge of the saucer, clapped her hands, and even sang a bit. Each movement and each sound created a ripple effect. The ripples were overlaid, and the space was distorted with concentric circles. There were even ripples in her eyes. Her head spun from the unfamiliar feelings, and she was at a loss to understand.

  Finally, she collected herself and looked out the window. Valerie had left. Of course. She was so carefree, she just got bored and left to do her own thing, forgetting about her new friend. Nicole suddenly felt that she was completely alone in the enigmatic cafe, where trays appeared on a counter, as if on demand. She stood up, looked around, and listened attentively to the quiet of the Red Rose. She started to feel uneasy.

  The door to the kitchen at the far end of the room was ajar. Through the opening, Nicole could see steel tables, dishes, and an enormous stove. There were no servers, bartenders, or cooks. But there were waves splashing around the air in the kitchen—someone was moving.

  Or maybe it was Valerie. Perhaps she had walked around the building and entered from that side? Overcoming her fear, Nicole ran into the kitchen, but she saw that she was mistaken. The activity wasn’t here—it was coming from the outside, behind the wall. She merely saw the sound waves, even through concrete objects. Yes, that was right. After all, if a sound could penetrate a wall, the waves would also penetrate it, and if the cafe walls were very thick, noises from outside wouldn’t make their way in, and then she wouldn’t see the waves.

  Nicole hurried toward the emergency exit, tripping into corners. As long as she stood in one place and observed the sounds, everything was fine, but if she started to move, she got disoriented. The waves that each step gave off confused her, and she stumbled for no reason at all. Tears streamed down her face and her head hurt. Nicole accidentally brushed against the counter with the silverware, sending it clattering to the floor. Her vision was so blurred that she started to feel nauseous. She caught sight of the sink, lurched toward it, and began to wash the mascara off. It might be a good tool, but it was somewhat dangerous. She would need to work on getting used to its powers.

  Interesting—if water came out of the faucet, did that mean that there was a water tower somewhere? And the water was clean—so were there water treatment facilities? Or did something else circulate and treat it, perhaps magic? Nicole finished washing off her eyes and turned around. She no longer saw sound waves, so she didn’t know if someone was walking beyond the wall of the Red Rose. Not wanting to let the person slip through her fingers, she hurried along the corridor to the back door of the cafe.

  When she had crossed half of the corridor, she thought she sensed a movement behind her in the empty kitchen. Afraid, she sped up, deciding that she wouldn’t look for anything. She pushed on the door and, tripping on the high threshold, fell right into the arms of a man who was passing the cafe.

  It was Gumshoe. He had his arms around her, so she could feel his heartbeat. When she looked up, she saw that he was gazing directly at her. His arms held her waist a moment longer than was necessary, and then he let her go. Nicole took a step back.

  Gumshoe had forgone his raincoat and was wearing a brighter and more lightweight suit than the previous day, with a dark shirt and no tie. He was wearing his usual fedora, though. The holster strap was visible under the unbuttoned jacket.

  Both of them caught their breaths, and there was an awkward pause.

  “Were you in the cafe?” Gumshoe asked, taking note of her strange expression.

  “Uh-huh. You saw that I came out of it.”

  He squinted, shifting his eyes from her to the door.

  “Of course I saw, but I didn’t believe my own eyes. The Red Rose has been closed for a very long time—no one can go in. How’d you do that?”

  “I just walked in.” Nicole shrugged. “Valerie and I wanted to get something to eat, I saw the cafe, and I opened the door. But Valerie didn’t go in. She’s disappeared somewhere. Nice girl.”

  “Nice and not far away, I’d guess. So you just opened the door and went in? That’s interesting.”

  Gumshoe stepped toward the closed door and pushed on it. Then he tried to pull on the handle.

  “It won’t open.”

  “That’s impossible!” Nicole also reached for the handle and pulled on it. “You’re right. But how . . . it probably just snapped shut when I came out. There are locks like that—you see them in motels. It’s easy to open the door from the inside, but you can only open them from the outside if you have a key.”

  Gumshoe shook his head.

  “I doubt that. As a general rule, we can’t go in. What are you doing now? Let’s go.”

  He set off down the street, and there was nothing for Nicole to do but follow. Feeling his eyes on her, she turned her head. Just as he had done by the door of the Red Rose, Gumshoe was looking intently at her.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

  “This morning, I was thinking about what happened last night. And about our conversation before I left. I have the distinct feeling that you’re hiding something from me.”

  Gumshoe said this without taking his eyes off her. Nicole turned away. In fact, the night before and during their morning conversation, there was something she was keeping to herself. But she wasn’t lying outright. She didn’t want to lie.

  She took a few more steps, gradually making up her mind. Finally, she started talking. It was like stepping into cold water. She told him about the magnifying glass and the ball. But at the last moment, she decided not to say anything about Grandma.

  “And on it was written,” she concluded, “‘Find the Heart of Chaos. Three relics will help you, although I can’t tell you exactly where you can find them by the time you get to the City. Everything is so unsettled down here. The Child of Light will point you in the right direction. Only you can free the City.’ That’s it. I’m sure that’s what it said.”

  Gumshoe scratched his chin. He undid the top button of his shirt and rubbed his neck, as if there were a tight, invisible tie around it. Wishing to clarify, he asked, “So that was written right on the stand of the ball?”

  “No, on the photo.”

  “Who’s in the photo?”

  “Oh, a man and a woman . . .”

  “Who are they? Did you recognize them?”

  She suddenly realized that in essence, he was already interrogating her. What a . . . detective! It was too late to back off. There was no way for her to answer his direct question.

  Looking away, Nicole told him about her grandmother.

  “Grandmother!” Gumshoe repeated, amazed. “Your grandmother’s from the City? How did Alice in Wonderland put it? ‘Curioser and curiouser.’ So that means the message was from her? ‘The Child of Light will point you in the right direction.’ No, I don’t know what that means. Where is there a ‘Child of Light’ around here? You could talk to Martha or Train Attendant. They’ve been living in the City longer and know it better. By the way, how’d it go at Martha’s?”

  “She’s odd,” Nicole admitted. “No, everything and everyone here is odd, but she . . .”

  “Am I strange, too?”

  “Well, you . . . yes, all of you! You, and Martha, and that olive-skinned man who kissed me last night—you all seem like some sort of living shadows from my dream. I don’t mean that in a bad way,” she added when she saw the strained look on his face.

  Gumshoe straightened his hat with a tense smile.

  “You’re an unusual girl, too, Nicole.”

  “What are you talking about?
I’m as ordinary as they come!” she protested.

  He also found something atypical in the baggy sweater and old jeans. Yes, ninety out of a hundred girls were like her. Gumshoe suddenly stopped, grabbed her by the shoulders, and turning her toward him, looking intently into her eyes.

  “You’re the most unusual girl I’ve ever known. And I’ve known many,” he said.

  They looked at each other for a few seconds, and then he released her. They walked away from the cafe. An intersection lay in front of them, but it was not the one where Tiffany’s was. Nicole self-consciously fidgeted from one foot to the other, and trying to alleviate the awkwardness, she blurted out the first thing that came into her head: “And when I was at Martha’s house, I almost sat on her head—but a marble one!”

  Gumshoe raised his eyebrows.

  “A marble head? Oh, right, there’s one at her place. Stop!” he shouted, snapping his fingers. “Of course! But it’s broken.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Come with me! I think I’ve figured out the ‘Child of Light’ from your grandmother’s message.”

  Gumshoe strode down the street, and Nicole hurried behind him.

  The man who had once been known as Mike Ciaretti but who had long since gotten used to responding to the name Inquisitor was awoken by a door scraping. He didn’t stir. He just glanced quickly around the room.

  Stone walls, practically no furniture. The contours of a small table, dresser, and wooden armchair with a punishingly straight back could be distinguished in the cold, moist semidarkness. He had been so exhausted from the turbulent night and the scuffle with the werewolf that he had collapsed into bed without undressing. He hadn’t even locked the door, just kicked off his boots and pulled off his jacket. Now that he was awake, he immediately felt his cut palm throbbing. The blood-soaked bandage on it had dried.

  Mike slowly and carefully turned his head to the right. He figured out what had awoken him—the door was ajar. In the corridor behind it, a flame burned, and a thin silhouette cut a sharp outline against the background of the dim light.

  Mike instantly recognized her: Lilith.

  Apparently, she had just entered the room. She lurched forward without even shutting the door, pulling her clothes off along the way. Her body created a flash of white as soon as the black leather jacket and trousers fell to the floor. Lilith jumped onto the bed and straddled Mike. Cold palms rested on his shoulders, and when she leaned over, long, dark hair hid a thin face like a curtain. Starting to breathe more loudly and intensely, Lilith grasped his belt, and with a short cry, she yanked at it, unfastening it. Mike lay motionless, letting her have her way.

  After a moment, she arched her body, threw her head back, tossed her dark hair, and loudly cried out. She immediately leapt up, threw a leg over him, and sprang to the floor. She was always quick and decisive—too quick and too decisive, in Mike’s opinion. Still naked, she went over to the table, found a candle, and lit it. Mike’s eyes followed her sideways from under his eyelashes. Lilith gathered her clothes from the floor—a black shirt, narrow leather pants, and a jacket—and started to dress.

  She was slender, with black, shoulder-length hair, narrow, boyish hips, and long, thin legs. But she didn’t seem at all fragile—in the sinewy body, there was strength, and in the quick, bustling movements, there was a nervous aggression. Her fingernails were concealed by long, thin, black caps that were firmly stuck to her fingertips.

  Lilith stepped toward the bed. Her lushly made-up eyes twinkled in the darkness. Mike looked at her, but for some reason, he saw the one lying unconsciously on the ground at his feet.

  “Why have you come here?”

  These were the first words heard in the room since Lilith had roused him. Mike sat up and started to pull on his boots. Of course, he knew why she had turned up—not for the quick pleasure. You could say that was a secondary satisfaction for her. She had another motive, but he wanted her to tell him what it was.

  Lilith twisted her hair into a ponytail and smiled, revealing small, sharp teeth.

  “Master sent me. We’re going to catch the one.”

  “There’s no proof that it’s really her,” Mike said evenly, fingering the tightened tassel of the black bandage. “I didn’t have time to figure that out exactly.”

  “What if it really is her?” Lilith said, grinning. “Master’s really anxious about that. So anyway, we’re going after her.”

  Mike stood up and fastened his belt, which held his sheaths with a dagger, picked up a pitcher of water, and unhurriedly took a few gulps. He appeared calm, but he was feverishly pondering the situation. Lilith was excitedly pacing by the door. She was impulsive and overbearing and had no patience for objections or constraints. On top of that, she was cunning. She was one of the harshest Inquisitors in the Shadow’s retinue.

  “She’s somewhere by the square,” Mike said, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. “Next to City Hall. It’s daytime now—how will we be able to get near it?”

  Lilith dismissed his objection with a careless wave of a slim hand.

  “Weapon Maker is going to give us defensive robes.”

  “So we’re going to see Weapon Maker now?”

  “First him, and then right after that, we’re going after the girl. Come on!”

  Mike had other objections, but arguing would have been not only useless, but also dangerous. He might give himself away and give away that he had some sort of other interest in the one. So Mike just followed Lilith out of the room and slammed the door behind him without bothering to lock it. There was nothing inside that was valuable to him. In general, he tried not to keep anything valuable because the less you’re attached to, the less chance there is of getting hurt. Anyway, it was unlikely that one of the Shadow’s servants would enter an Inquisitor’s room without permission.

  The stone corridor was lit by pale green balls in skulls with sawed-down tops set on high stands. They shone like dry wood, blurred and faint. Mike had heard that not only did these balls function as lights, but through them, Master could watch his servants—the loyal or the less-than-loyal ones.

  Maybe it was a superstition, but next to the spherical lights, Mike tried not to even think excessively. He caught up to Lilith, who was taking long, manly strides, and walked on beside her. She glanced over at him—they were nearly the same height. In the deathly light, she looked more like a dangerous underground demon than a human. Why did the girl wear so much mascara? The thin, pale lips opened, and a crimson little tongue swiftly wet them. Lilith said, “Master thinks that if she’s the one, it won’t be that easy to catch her.”

  The corridor wound and flowed into another, wider one. There were more damp stone walls, the skull lights, and the occasional door that was lined with wood that had darkened from the moisture. The quiet was broken only by the rustle of their footsteps and the occasional sound of a drop of water trickling from the vault.

  From the side corridor, a millipede as big as a medium-sized dog ran out, stamping its feet and wriggling its upper body. Opaque, chitinous segments rubbed together dryly, and the claws on its feet scratched at the stone. The insect monster was moving purposefully and efficiently. Its head held a smoking carbide lamp, and its body was encircled by straps that held a black leather load. It turned into a side corridor and scurried off on its business, the sound of its feet quickly fading into the distance.

  Advancing through the tunnels beside Lilith, Mike thought hard. Last night’s problem wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, it had become sharper than before. The dangerous situation had gotten out of control and was now a genuine threat to him. Of course, Mike himself was the cause. He had to serve the Master, the Shadow. He needed to capture the one for him. And he didn’t want to do that. Not for anything in the world did he want to allow the girl to fall into Master’s clutches.

  As he thought about her, Mike experienced an odd, long-forgotten feeling of warmth. When he was carrying her in his arms—protectively, like a valuable
treasure—he wanted only one thing: to shield her from danger. Mike vividly remembered her face. And her surprise when he kissed her. Master also needed this warmth. Either on his own or with help from the servants, the Shadow would suck it out of the one, tearing her body and soul to pieces. Mike couldn’t let that happen.

  But the last time, his adversaries were dim servants—a werewolf. Any way you looked at it, it was just an animal. Now, the role of partner, or rather, under these circumstances, the opposite—an opponent—was occupied by Lilith. Sneaky, suspicious Lilith, who smoldered with passion for him—it was a carnal passion devoid of any hint of sentimentality, a passion tinged with aggression and violence. She would betray him as soon as she got wind of the fact that he wasn’t indifferent to the girl who had appeared in the City the night before. How could he betray Lilith, this cunning, dangerous demon? How could he prevent her from seizing the one without giving himself away?

  Beyond, an aged gray werewolf roared as it walked past on its hind legs. He was holding the ends of two chains that were straining toward the collars of the black dogs that were walking behind him. The werewolf turned, tugged cruelly, and bellowed. The dogs snarled back. The two Inquisitors stepped aside to let him pass.

  They followed a slippery spiral staircase down to an underground floor that smelled of rusty water. A whiff of something dark and oppressive came from the side passage, and Lilith grabbed Mike by the shoulder, digging her capped fingers into his skin.

  “Wait, let him go by.”

  They stopped. A Disciple appeared from the passage. He was woven from living darkness—a billowing human silhouette. Shadows reached toward him. They rose from the ground and detached themselves from the walls, as snakes slither out of the cracks between stones. It seemed that this was the pain of those who had perished at various times in this underworld—the very breath of the darkness, the presentiment of death. The shadows fed the Disciple with strength. As he walked, the Disciple turned his face toward the Inquisitors. It was pale, with eye holes, and in passing, he aimed an icy look that made Mike’s forehead break out in sweat. He turned around the bend.