Wrath of N'kai

by Josh Reynolds

  “Excuse me?”

  She jabbed the pen upwards. “The mural. Is that a meteorite?”

  The clerk nodded cheerfully. “Indeed it is, ma’am. The one that fell just west of here in June of… 1882 or thereabouts?” The clerk turned to the office. “Milo, you’re the historian,” he called out. “June of 1882?”

  “Gardner Meteorite,” Milo said, peering out of the office. He was a fresh-faced lad, dressed in a crisply pressed bellhop’s uniform. “Fell on the Gardner farm, just a mile west of town. Hence the name.”

  “How intriguing,” Alessandra said, as she accepted her key from the clerk. “And whatever happened to it?”

  The clerk frowned, and Milo coughed. Pepper, standing at her elbow, said, “Way I heard it, the thing melted away. And took the farm with it.”

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t know about that,” the clerk said as he looked at the register. “Milo, help Miss – oh my – the countess, I mean, with her bags.” He simpered slightly. “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do for you, countess. We at the Independence pride ourselves on our old world hospitality.”

  “I certainly will,” Alessandra said. She glanced at Pepper, who was staring at her goggle-eyed. “What?”

  “You’re a countess?”

  “Did I not mention that?”

  “No!”

  “Well, one doesn’t like to brag. Remember, tonight at eight. Do not be late.”

  Pepper gave an awkward salute. “I’ll be out front, like I said.” She spun on her heel and slouched away, hands thrust in her pockets. When Alessandra turned back, Milo had finished stacking her luggage onto a wheeled rack.

  “Ready, ma’am?” he said, dusting his hands.

  “Countess!” the clerk corrected, sharply.

  Alessandra nodded. “Lead the way, Milo.”

  “Don’t mind the boss,” Milo murmured, as he wheeled her luggage towards the elevator. “He’s easily impressed.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Depends on the tip.”

  Alessandra laughed. Milo called for the elevator. As they waited, she let her eyes wander. Something tugged at her attentions, and she turned.

  Someone was watching her. She could feel it. Not Whitlock this time. She gave the lobby a surreptitious once-over, wondering if it was some dogsbody of her clients. But if that were the case, how would they have known she was here? Unless, perhaps, they’d followed her from the station. Given Pepper’s driving, that seemed unlikely.

  She saw no obvious observers. But when the elevator opened she stepped into the car with no small amount of relief. “You all right, miss?” the elevator operator asked. He was an older man, somewhat incongruous in his pressed uniform.

  “A bit tired,” she said.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. This is the finest hotel this side of Kingsport. Ain’t that right, Milo?”

  Alessandra stifled a chuckle as Milo rolled his eyes. “That’s right, Clancy.”

  Clancy patted a wooden panel with obvious affection. “Eight stories, ma’am. Bigger than any other building in Arkham. Hotel Miskatonic, over on West College Street, used to be the tallest at five, but we got them beat. Made the owner fit to be tied, way I heard it.”

  “Really,” Alessandra said, only half-listening to the attendant’s rambling.

  “Oh yeah. There was a whole big to-do about it in the Advertiser. Real war of words, you might say.” He grinned at her. “And then the Gazette got involved, and the mayor and…” he paused. “The mob,” he continued, in a stage whisper. “Protests, whole nine yards. We’re living in interesting times, you betcha.”

  “Yes, I can see why that might be considered exciting.”

  The flow of anecdotes paused, but only for a few moments. “Really though, I’d wager this is the most modern building in Arkham. Tip-top, up-to-date, latest electrical generators. Even this elevator is brand new.” Clancy gave the control panel another affectionate pat. As if in reply, the elevator juddered slightly. The lights dipped, for a couple seconds. He leaned close to the panel and murmured to it, as if it were a restive horse. He gave her an apologetic smile. “Still a few jitters. She’s learning, though.”

  Alessandra raised an eyebrow, but chose not to take the bait. The last thing she wanted at the moment was to be drawn into a discussion on the probable gender of an elevator. She almost sighed in relief when the bell rang, signaling that they’d reached her floor. Milo opened the cage and helped her set her bags as the attendant wittered on, spilling historical tidbits by the handful.

  He was still talking when the doors closed. Milo glanced at her. “The stairs are quicker, if you were wondering. And quieter.”

  She smiled. “I will keep that in mind, Milo.”

  He rolled her luggage down the hall, and stopped before a door at the end. “Penthouse, as requested.” He opened the door and stepped aside, allowing her to enter first. The room wasn’t as big as some she’d resided in, but it was substantial enough. Three rooms, including an en suite.

  The large windows overlooked a park across the street, dominated by gray birch trees and stone pathways. Independence Square, she assumed. And beyond it, downtown Arkham. The rain had started up again, but the clouds had loosed their grip on the horizon. A pale gray pall hung over the town. She could even just about make out the dark ribbon of the Miskatonic, in the distance.

  “This will do nicely,” she said. She tipped Milo well, and he pocketed it quickly. After he had shown himself out, she set about unpacking in a desultory fashion. A set of men’s clothes, including a cap and a shoulder-holster for the Webley stayed in the bags, as did a set of handcrafted German lockpicks, designed to her specifications. There was a weighted sap as well, for when the pistol wouldn’t do. Also staying in the bags, hidden beneath a false bottom, was a handful of important documents.

  Letters, telegrams, private missives – the keys to her hypothetical kingdom. They all insured that she was paid promptly and on time. Her client list was large and varied; the sorts of men and women with too much money and little common sense to go with it. She demanded exorbitant fees and received them. And when she didn’t… well. That’s what the letters and telegrams were for. Not that she’d ever seriously use them. Blackmail was an ugly business, and rarely worked out the way one hoped.

  This particular set represented the entirety of her communi­cations with her client. He wished for her to retrieve something and was willing to pay handsomely for her services. He’d even paid her fare to Arkham.

  She picked up a newspaper clipping they’d sent. On it, the words GREATEST ARCHAEOLOGICAL FIND OF THE MODERN CENTURY were emblazoned in bold type. The grainy photo showed a group of men standing next to a wooden table.

  Atop the table, something long dead squatted, its withered limbs tightly bound, head slightly bowed, chin resting on a sunken chest. He’d died sitting up, whoever he’d been, and wore a carved mask of curious intricacy. Despite the haziness of the photo, the mask put her in mind of the squashed features of a toad – or perhaps a bat. As she studied the picture, she again felt a curious sensation – as if someone were watching her. Instinctively, she looked around the room, but saw nothing untoward. Not even a bird of ill omen at the window. She looked back down at the picture.

  A sudden chill raced along her spine and she hastily folded the clipping and put it away. She’d thought the dead man’s head had been bowed. But she’d obviously been mistaken.

  Instead, he was looking at her.

  Abner Whitlock tossed his bags down onto the rumpled bed and looked around the room with a resigned sigh. Hotel Miskatonic had seen better decades. The wallpaper was the color of regret and the carpet on the floor was as thin as his patience. Still, the room was dry, and his bill was comped. That was all a man in his line could ask for some days.

  Whitlock was an investigator for Argus Insurance, out of New York. Most of the time, he enjoyed his job. He got to go all over the world, from San Francisco to Shangha
i, on the company dime. He was good at sniffing out the client’s problems before they became the company’s problems, and the company showed their appreciation by giving him a big expense account and not asking too many questions. Usually, anyway.

  Not this time, though. This time, it was small potatoes. A favor for a friend of the board, and the company’s best man hired out like a rented mule. Whitlock wasn’t bitter, though. The smaller a job, the easier it usually was.

  He ran his hands through his hair and looked out the window. The Hotel Miskatonic looked out over West College Street, which was a stretch of nothing in particular. Arkham was a one-horse town if he’d ever seen one. That’s why this whole thing was so goddamn weird. A discovery like the one the company was underwriting ought to have made its debut somewhere bigger than Arkham. Boston, maybe. Even Kingsport.

  Mummies were still big business, though Whitlock didn’t see the attraction. If he wanted to look at a stiff, he could just visit the local morgue. Other people didn’t seem to agree. Eventually, the find would wind its way to more appropriate venues.

  But for now, it was here, and that meant Whitlock was too. He stripped off his coat and loosened his tie. He had a few hours to kill before he met with the client and was officially on the clock. The trip had been long, and he was tired. He moved his bags and stretched out on the bed, uncomfortable as it was.

  Sleep eluded him, however. Hands behind his head, he stared up at the water marks on the ceiling and played connect the dots while he tried to remember where he’d seen the woman on the train before. It had been bothering him all day.

  He knew her. He was certain of it. She’d pretended otherwise, but he was good at remembering faces. He had to be, in his line of work. Maybe he’d met her at some function or other. This kind of thing brought the idle rich out of the woodwork in droves.

  He paused. “Vienna,” he said and snapped his fingers. That was it. Two years ago. Some jewels had gone missing during a fancy dress party and Argus Insurance had been on the hook for a wad of cash. He frowned. The case had been a funny one from the beginning. The jewels had been cursed – or so the owner insisted. Dyed in the blood of a hundred sacrificial victims or some such nonsense, everyone who’d owned them had suffered an untimely doom, that sort of thing.

  Whitlock hadn’t cared about any of that. All he’d wanted to know was how someone had managed to get in and out of a locked room without anyone the wiser and without using either the door or the windows. He’d never found out, though he’d eventually gotten a description of the thief – and a name to go with the face.

  “Countess Alessandra Zorzi,” he said, as the name slowly surfaced from the fog of memory. An alias if he’d ever heard one. The jewels weren’t the only thing she’d stolen either. She was a career-criminal of the worst sort. And now she was here in Arkham. It wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.

  Vienna was the only black mark on his record. He’d come close – but she’d managed to skate just in time. He wondered if she’d been laughing at him the entire train journey. The thought made him angry. “You won’t be laughing for long,” he muttered.

  He sat up and went to the window. Across town, he could just make out the tall shape of Arkham’s only other hotel. That was where she’d be. In Vienna, she’d frequented the best hotels, the best restaurants. It’d be the same here, he could feel it in his gut. A leopard didn’t change its spots. Why would someone like her come here, if not to steal something?

  And when she did, he’d be there to catch her red-handed.

  Chapter Four

  Zamacona

  “Here we are,” Pepper said, as she brought the cab to a less than smooth stop. “La Bella Luna.” She turned in her seat. “This is where you wanted to go, right?”

  “Yes,” Alessandra said, looking up at the Italian bistro. Like many such places, it wandered dangerously close to stereotype – wire outdoor furniture, sitting in front of a glass display window with the eatery’s name scrawled across it in gold lettering. Checked tablecloths, red upholstery and candles in green chianti bottles for the tables inside. As a Venetian, she found it vaguely obscene, in a tacky sort of way.

  “You know this place is as Italian as I am, right?” Pepper said.

  “I am not here for the ambiance, I assure you. Nor the food.”

  “They do make good spaghetti.”

  “I will keep that in mind.” She made to climb out, but Pepper stopped her.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? This ain’t a place for decent people.”

  “Thank you for your concern, but I will be fine.”

  “It’s run by gangsters,” Pepper insisted.

  “Many things are.”

  “Real ones!”

  “All the better. Authenticity is important. You will wait for me.” Alessandra paused. “Buy yourself some spaghetti, if you like.” Pepper muttered something, but Alessandra was already climbing out of the cab. Pepper’s concern was touching, if somewhat misplaced. She resolved to add a bonus on top of what she was already paying the cabbie – once this affair was concluded successfully, of course.

  She entered the bistro and was immediately struck by the unappetizing smells of garlic bread and tomato sauce. A concierge stepped immediately into her path. “Do you have a reservation, miss?” he asked, politely.

  “Indeed. My party is waiting for me in the private dining rooms downstairs.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Right this way, ma’am.” He turned, signaling furtively to someone just out of sight. Alessandra, no stranger to such operations, smiled politely and pretended not to notice. The restaurant was an obvious front, if you knew what you were looking for. According to what little her American contacts had been able to tell her, Arkham was no stranger to the criminal element. The town’s position along the Miskatonic River, as well as its proximity to Boston and Kingsport, made it a potential hub for everything from smuggling to bootlegging.

  The concierge led her through the bistro, towards a door at the back. Ostensibly, this led to the kitchens, but past it there was a second door, deftly obscured behind a corner. This door opened onto a set of wooden steps, winding down. From below came the muffled sounds of music and laughter.

  “Soundproofed,” Alessandra said, admiringly.

  “Homemade,” the concierge said, tapping the back of the door. Burlap sacks, stuffed with newspaper and insulation, had been nailed to the wood. “Go on down. Knock on the door. Tell them Sammy said it was OK.”

  “And what if I didn’t?”

  “Then you would have a very bad night. Enjoy yourself, ma’am.”

  Alessandra started down, hiking up her dress to avoid catching it on loose nails or jutting bricks. The concierge closed the door behind her, momentarily plunging her into darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that there was a soft glow radiating from below.

  The glow proved to be an electric bulb shrouded by linen shade. In the dim light, she made out a reinforced steel door set into the damp brickwork. There was a spy-hatch at eye level. She studied the hinges with professional curiosity. Unlike the door, they weren’t reinforced. She ran a finger along one and it came away covered in mortar. She clucked her tongue softly. Someone must have been listening on the other side, because the hatch slid open with a loud clack. Alessandra stepped back.

  “Sammy says it’s OK,” she said.

  She heard a grunt of acknowledgment, and the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn. As the door swung in, the music spilled out. The soulful wail of jazz momentarily reverberated up the stairwell, before being trapped once more as the door was slammed shut behind her. The guard proved to be a sallow sort – narrow of face and frame, but dressed well, and visibly armed. He gestured and she spread her arms.

  As he gave her a somewhat thorough pat-down, she took in the scenery. At first glance, the Clover Club was the epitome of what the Americans called a “speakeasy”. More than a dozen circular tables occupied the floor in front of a small softly lit stage dec
orated with silver palms. Onstage, a torch singer crooned the latest jazz standard as a backing band played with stolid enthusiasm. In the corner, the bar was packed, its shelves sagging beneath the weight of bootleg alcohol.

  Across the room, she spied the entrance to the card room. The clink of poker chips and the shuffling of cards was audible, as was the occasional shout of joy – or groan of frustration. Through another aperture she caught a glimpse of some sort of lounge, with large leather couches and mahogany furniture, before someone closed the door.

  The guard stepped back, his no-doubt-arduous duty completed. He gave her a grin, and she smiled in return. Then, very deliberately, she dug the heel of her shoe into his foot. He gave a muffled curse and hopped back. Before he could respond, she was already making her way through the tables, hunting her quarry.

  The place was crowded, though not so much that it was claustrophobic. She recognized a few faces from the train station, she thought, as well as a few from the papers she’d read on the way up. She wondered if the exhibition had brought in much out of town business. The American current obsession with teetotaling amused her somewhat – from what she’d seen, more alcohol was flowing in places like this than ever before.

  Zamacona was waiting for her at a table opposite the bar. He was every inch the Spanish hidalgo his letters had made him seem. Tall and spare, with a face like the edge of a blade and dark eyes. His hair was fashionably slick, and his suit was expensive. But as she drew closer, she noted little incongruities. He was pale, as if he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. His wrists were thick, but his suit hung off him in places.

  Her first thought was illness. Men like Zamacona were forever tramping through malarial wildernesses on behalf of their employers. But his eyes lacked a feverish sheen, and he seemed perfectly comfortable in the sweltering interior of the club. He tapped a finger against the rim of his glass, watching the singer. His gaze was… flat. Interested, but not in the way one might expect.