by Skye Knizley
“Ms… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Levac said.
“Oh dear, forget my own head next,” the maid said with a smile. “Peggy. Peg Tanner.”
“Ms. Tanner, thank you. Can you tell us how long you have worked for Mr. Blight?” Levac asked.
“Three years going on four,” Peg replied.
“Don’t you think it’s odd you’ve never met your employer?” Raven asked.
Peg shrugged. “I used to think it so, yes. But after a while you get used to the steady pay and relaxed atmosphere and it just doesn’t matter. Most days it’s just me and Noir during the day.”
“Have you ever met anyone else?” Levac asked.
“Yes, I couldn’t care for this all by myself,” Peg laughed. “The groundskeeper comes and goes as needed, as does the driver. And then there is Grace, the night keeper.”
“Grace,” Levac said. “I assume she’s met Mr. Blight.”
“Many times. She’s sort of in charge of things. As I understand it, she’s been with the Master for many years, even travels with him when he goes out of the country. He has a house in Spain and one in Romania, I believe.”
“Do you know where we might find Mr. Blight today? I can clear my schedule for the day if it will help,” Raven said.
“I don’t know where he might be. He only uses the house on occasion. I always know when he’s been in, his bed is a mess each time, but I never know beforehand.”
Raven saw the amusement in Peg’s eyes and smiled. “He was here last night?”
Peg smiled. “I assumed that was why you were here, Ms. Storm. The Master spent the night last night, his bed is a mess. I think he has nightmares, poor old soul.”
Levac smiled and scooted forward in his chair. “Could we have a look around and perhaps leave a card for Mr. Blight to call when he comes in? Nothing important you understand, but it’s a beautiful old house and I’m a fan of gothic architecture.”
“Of course, Detective, we’ve nothing to hide. I’m sure Mr. Blight will help you with your inquiries when he returns. Just ring any of the intercoms if you need me on your adventure. And mind the northern third floor bedroom, the door sticks something dreadful in the winter.”
Raven stood and turned toward the hall. “Thank you, Ms. Tanner, we won’t be long.”
The first floor consisted of six rooms, the smallest of which was larger than Raven’s whole apartment. Most looked as if they hadn’t been occupied in some time with the exceptions being a large library nestled between the dining room and what looked like a small recital hall. Here there were books lying on reading tables, an ashtray full of pipe ashes and a discarded man’s overcoat lying over the arm of one of the three brown leather sofas. There was also the smell of blood. Raven followed the scent to the coat, which she picked up and examined carefully. The hem was covered in thick, dried blood that smelled the same as what she’d encountered at Kryptorium.
“This guy was there last night,” she said, going through the coat’s pockets. “I’m certain of it.”
Levac was taking photographs of the open books. “How can you tell?”
“The blood has a special kind of stench,” Raven said.
“We can place him at a club that burned to the ground,” Levac said. “Do you think it’s enough for an arrest warrant?”
Raven shook her head and tossed the coat back on the sofa. “It’s thin. We might get the warrant, but have nothing to make an arrest stick. And if this guy was there last night he’s probably a vamp. Locking him up for murder is iffy, at best. Sooner or later he’ll escape or worse, turn the population into his childer.”
“Then what do we do?”
Raven stepped behind the desk and began flipping through a stack of papers. “If he’s the killer, we arrest him and hand him over to Mother. Trust me, anything she does to him will be far worse than anything our own legal system can think of…”
She trailed off and pulled a sheet of paper from the pile.
“What’s that?” Levac asked.
“Guess who does the security for this place?” Raven asked.
“Not Titan?”
Raven raised the piece of yellow paper and tapped the Titan logo. “The very same. It gets better, the system was signed for by Tosh Vann a few weeks ago. Peg signed the payment agreement.”
“The coincidences are just piling up,” Levac said.
“If I believed in coincidences. Did you find anything?” Raven asked.
Levac hefted the book he’d been flipping through. The tome was ancient, with a scratched leather cover and rusted iron facings. The words Liber-Damnatus were picked out on the cover.
“This was open to an interesting page. I took a photo for Aspen.”
Raven’s eyes widened. “The Book of the Damned.”
“The what?” Levac asked.
“The Book of the Damned,” Raven repeated. “It’s a sort of collection of vampire lore. Only three are known to exist, this makes four. What page was it open to?”
Levac flipped the book open and Raven moved to his side to look. The page showed a series of Stonehenge-like pillars set around a central font made of stone. On either side of the page were occult symbols that Raven couldn’t read, but recognized. Some of them had been left with their victim as well as the ones from the 1984 case.
“Can I help you?”
Raven looked away from the tome to see a tall woman with long dark hair and vibrant blue eyes standing in the doorway. She was wearing black jeans tucked into platform ankle boots, a red sweater and a long white scarf that almost brushed the floor. A silver ring decorated the center of her lower lip and made her look as if she was pouting.
“Who are you?” Raven asked.
“My name is Silver,” the woman replied. “Who are you?”
“Detectives Storm and Levac,” Raven said. “We’re looking for Balthazar Blight.”
“He’s my uncle,” the woman replied. “I believe he left for Shanghai early this morning. Who let you in? Do you have some sort of warrant or something?”
“The maid was kind enough to let us look around,” Levac said. “She didn’t know anyone else was home.”
“Well, I am,” Silver replied. “My uncle is not here and this is my home. Unless you have a warrant, I have to ask you to put down my uncle’s things and leave. I will have him call you when he returns home.”
“Do you have any proof this is your residence?” Levac asked.
The woman folded her arms over her chest. “Why?”
Levac spread his arms and looked sheepish. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we have to verify we were asked to leave by a resident.”
The woman paused for a moment then pulled a black wallet from her jeans. Levac opened it and showed Raven the Illinois driver’s license and Romanian passport inside that verified the woman’s name was Silver L. Daniels and she did indeed live at the address.
“Thank you,” Raven said. “We’ll be going, then.”
She motioned for Rupert to go first and she followed. When she passed Silver she stopped and half turned. “Just one more thing, Ms. Daniels?”
“Yes, Detective?”
“What does your uncle do for a living that he travels so much?”
Silver smiled. “He’s an antiques dealer. His shop, Parchment and Dragon is just north of Old Town.”
“Interesting. Thank you, Ms. Daniels.”
Outside, Levac leaned against the side of the Shelby and pulled a chocolate bar from his coat. “What do you think?”
“About what?” Raven asked.
Levac stuffed a piece of chocolate in his mouth and chewed. “Silver. Blight. The whole thing screams weird.”
“I think it means we’re doing something right,” Raven said. “I’d swear on my father’s grave that Peg was the only person in the house when we arrived. It had that empty feeling.”
“Me, too. And Peg seemed sincere.”
Raven put on her sunglasses and looked at the mansion across the stre
et. “That isn’t all.”
She looked back at Levac. “That woman. Silver. She had no scent.”
Levac worked at a piece of candy stuck in a tooth. “No scent?”
“None. I can smell you, the chocolate, the street, the snow, everything. I can even tell that someone is cooking chicken soup nearby. But Silver had no scent, as if she wasn’t there.”
Levac finished the chocolate and stuffed the wrapper in his other pocket. “What does that mean?”
“I’ve no idea. Come on, we have another stop to make. And you’re going to call Frost and ask him to put surveillance on this place.”
“Why me?” Levac asked.
“Cause he likes you. You’re a people person.”
NORTH SPRINGFIELD AVENUE, CHICAGO
1996
PARCHMENT AND DRAGON OCCUPIED A corner lot on North Springfield avenue, a small building with two street-facing windows on opposite sides of the single entrance. The sign over the door had been carefully painted to look like something out of the 1800s. In one window was an antique writing desk with a howling wolf carved into the lid; in the right was a rocking chair and a collection of curios dating back to the American west.
“Why are we here, again?” Frost asked.
“Benny Eggs says the guy who runs this place is named Blight,” Storm replied. “He might be the guy we’re looking for.”
Frost lit a cigarette and tossed aside the match. “You think this Blight character is a suspect?”
Storm shook his head. “No. Unless Church is controlling him somehow. But maybe this guy knows something useful, like who Church really is.”
“Church doesn’t exist, Mace,” Frost said. “He’s a fairy story dreamt up by druggies and vampire wannabes to satisfy your craving for a viable suspect.”
“You know that’s a load of crap, Frosty,” Storm said. “You were there. You heard what Barclay said and saw what happened to his body.”
“I don’t know what I saw, Mace,” Frost said. “The fire department said that building was so full of asbestos and angel dust we could have seen Unicorns and believed it. You killed the only suspect we had and put us at a dead end.”
“The suspect’s name is Church,” Storm said. “We just have to find him.”
Frost flicked his still-burning cigarette into the gutter. “Are we going to talk to this guy or not?”
He glared at Frost for a beat longer then jerked open the door and stepped through. Inside, the store smelled of old tobacco and furniture polish. Antiques from all over the world were placed in tableaus on either side of a central aisle. Storm led the way down the aisle to an office at the back lit by flickering gas lamps. An elderly man dressed in a frock coat, white shirt and black pants sat in a chair shuffling through papers. An old briar pipe dangled from his lips, spilling sweetly-scented smoke into the air. He pulled the pipe from his teeth and waved it in greeting, heedless to the embers dropped on his jacket.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he said. “A desk, perhaps? I have two matching desks from old Scotland Yard that would be perfect for you.”
Storm held up his badge. “Detective—”
“I know who you are, Detective,” the man said. “Mason Storm and Christian Frost of the Chicago police. Your reputation precedes you. What can a humble old man do for you?”
“Balthazar Blight?” Frost asked.
“Indeed, sir.”
“Were you at Club Purgatory last night?”
“You know that I was, Detective Frost, it’s why you are here,” Blight said. “Now hurry up and ask the questions. I’m an old man and haven’t got all day.”
“Do you know Marta Ardaelean?” Storm asked.
“I do, I helped her come to this country. She’s like a daughter to me. I met her at that wretched bar last night to see how she was getting along,” Blight said. “Afterwards I escorted her to the bus and came back here.”
Storm pulled a notepad out of his jacket and leaned on the counter. “She died last night. Murdered. Do you know anything about that?”
Blight paused and leaned back in his chair. “I know she is dead, Detective Storm. I was not involved. Perhaps if I had been with her she would still be alive.”
“What can you tell me about what happened?” Storm asked.
“Nothing,” Blight replied. “I heard this morning that she’d been murdered, that is all. She was alone. I should not have left her alone in the dark, but she insisted.”
“We were unable to find any next of kin,” Frost said. “Do you know if she had any family, anyone we could speak with?”
“No. No one but me. Her family was killed in an accident when she was young. I will make arrangements for her funeral,” Blight said.
Storm watched the old man’s body language. He could tell that Blight was deeply troubled by the girl’s death. A sense of responsibility, perhaps?
“Why would anyone want to hurt Marta?”
Blight turned away and set about relighting his pipe. “Why does anyone hurt another being, Mr. Storm? If there is nothing else, it is time to close. I’m not as young as I once was.”
“One more question, Mr. Blight,” Storm said. “Do you know a man named Church? Reinfeld Church?”
He saw Blight’s hand tighten around his pipe. It was for a split second, but it was there.
“No, Mr. Storm. Fair eve to you and Mr. Frost.”
Storm watched Frost weigh the option of threatening Blight, arresting him or letting him go. The man wasn’t guilty of a crime unless it was obstruction and he’d never make that stick. The guy was pushing eighty if he was a day, there was no way he was the murderer. But he knew who was.
Storm pulled his card from his pocket and placed it on the counter. “If you decide you know who Church is or where I can find him, call me. Day or night.”
“As you wish, Mr. Storm. Please leave.”
Storm tapped the counter then turned and followed Frost out into the Autumn wind.
“He knows something,” Frost said when they were back in the Shelby.
“For once I agree with you, Frosty. Radio in and ask Bloom to put a tail on this guy. I want to know where he goes and who he sees.”
“Then what?” Frost asked.
“I wish I knew, Frosty,” Storm replied. “I wish I knew.”
ACCESS ROAD, CHICAGO
PRESENT DAY
THE SUN WAS JUST DIPPING below the horizon when Raven parked her Shelby in the narrow lot outside Black Mast Shipping Company. Chicago Auto Shipping usually did business out of their Loop office, and for one simple reason. Most customers wanted a car moved from Point A somewhere outside of Chicago to Point B somewhere in Chicago. The job was easily accomplished with a tractor trailer for a modest fee. In this case, however, what was being moved was coming from the Netherlands and as such had been flown in by cargo plane. After a few hours’ worth of digging, Aspen had located the shipment at a cargo carrier’s warehouse inside the airport perimeter. The shipment had cleared customs two days before, but was still unreleased. Black Mast Shipping Company was holding it until Pepescu paid for it, which wasn’t likely to happen any time soon.
Raven stood outside the building, watching the company’s sign sway in the wind. The distant glow of the setting sun made it look as if the ship was being tossed about a stormy sea. It would have been an interesting effect if she hadn’t felt so odd. Her spine tingled with the strange chill she usually got when someone was watching her. She turned and surveyed the windswept field to their left and the access road beyond, but could see no one. For an airport the place was surprisingly quiet. But she couldn’t shake the feeling.
She frowned and followed Levac through the glass front doors where they were greeted by an older gentleman dressed in dungarees and a work shirt. He scratched his beard and smiled at the detectives.
“Good evening, I’m surprised to see anyone this late.”
Raven introduced herself and placed a copy of Pepescu’s shipping order on the counter.
“What can you tell us about this shipment?”
The manager, whose had the unlikely name Benjamin Briggs, put on his glasses and turned the paper around.
“Let’s see here now,” he mumbled. “Mm, Pepescu, yeah this is a subcontract from Chicago Auto. One of my pilots picked this up at an old airfield in Haamstede and brought it out. The guy still hasn’t paid for it and those pricks over at Chicago Auto have stiffed us on the deal.”
“So it’s still here?” Raven asked.
“Yep, it’s in the warehouse. Big as life and twice as ugly.”
Levac took the receipt back and slipped it into his pocket. “What kind of shipment is it?
Briggs paused and brushed his hair back with two calloused fingers. “It’s hard to say, exactly. Come with me, I’ll show you.”
Briggs stepped out from behind his desk and ushered the detectives down a wide corridor and into a warehouse that looked bigger on the inside than it had from the outside. Dozens of shelves down the right hand side held boxes and crates fresh off of international flights. The racks were so tall a special forklift was used to arrange the boxes by shape, size and country.
Along the left side were plastic covered vehicles, everything from a classic Lamborghini Miura to a modern Pagani Huayra and even what looked like a WWII era fighter plane of some sort.
In the middle of it all was an oblong wooden box, perhaps four feet wide by seven feet long. The dark wood had been rubbed and polished to a mirror shine and Raven had to look deep into the finish to see the dozens of minute carvings all over the face. Most she didn’t recognize, but she was able to identify a handful of pictograms similar to the ones she’d seen on the tower the night Xavier and his thugs tried to revive Strohm. Taken as a whole the box was hideous in the extreme with its leering skeletons, fire-breathing demons and ancient sigils.
“Have you been able to open it?” she asked.
“Not even interested in trying,” Briggs said. “Besides, it needs some sort of key that fits into the top and we don’t have one. I’d have to take an axe or crowbar to it and you’re looking at a three million dollar piece of cargo.”