The sound rose higher and higher until Alessandra thought her skull might split. She clapped her hands to her ears and looked away. She saw Whitlock tearing at the last strands of rope. He was pale, eyes bulging. As if he could not process what he was seeing. He lunged for one of the knives on the table, and his sudden movement caused the shadow to whip around. Something that might have been a maw opened, and darkly shimmering fang-shapes sprouted. It surged towards Whitlock, even as he turned to meet it.
Alessandra went low, sweeping her legs against Whitlock’s shins and bringing him to the floor. The shadow sprang over him to strike the far wall. Whitlock glared at her and she wondered if he even saw her. She heard a wet sound and turned to see the shadow bunching and boiling across the wall, reforming itself. Its tendrils carved steaming gouges in the plaster as it studied her through the flickering orbs she thought were eyes.
It paused, and she felt the world go slack about her. The pain in her gut became unbearable, and was joined by a crashing agony inside her head. She faltered and fell to one knee, her throat flexing as something squirmed up her esophagus and towards her lips.
She vomited shadows. They wriggled towards the greater mass. She felt hollow, empty – alone.
“Fool. Idiot.” Zamacona leaned down and clamped a hand on the back of her skull. “I should have seen – it was in you all along.”
“W- What?” she gasped, clawing at his hand.
“I thought it might be in the others. Hiding in them. Whispering to them. I tore them apart looking for it. But it was cleverer than I thought.”
Blindly scrabbling, her fingers found the fallen flint knife. As he dragged her into the air and made as if to dash her against the floor, she lashed out with the knife, driving the stone blade into his neck. Zamacona screeched like a wounded jaguar and flung her into the table. He groped for the knife jutting from his neck, and stumbled on the shrunken remains of the mummy.
The formless shadow enveloped him. Zamacona howled and flung himself backwards, flailing like a drowning man. He was shrieking in a language she didn’t understand. His dying – if he could die – wasn’t easy. The shadow stretched about him, as if he were the spoke of some hideous wheel. Writhing, night-black cilia speared anything that moved, human or otherwise. A sound, a hungry keening wail, threatened to burst Alessandra’s eardrums as she faced the writhing mass of darkness.
“Countess – move!”
She turned, and saw Whitlock hefting one of the braziers. She leapt aside as he hurled it like a spear, straight towards the shadow-thing. It went up like oil, shrieking and wailing. It lashed out, knocking over the remaining braziers, upending the table. Flames crawled across the hairy carpet and licked at the walls. The shadow-thing twisted and squirmed, seeking an escape from the light.
Alessandra was on her feet in seconds. Smoke was filling the room. If any of the cultists were still alive, she couldn’t tell. Coughing, she grabbed Whitlock by the arm. “Come on, we have to get out of here!” If the fire didn’t get them, the smoke would. For once, Whitlock didn’t argue.
They ran for the tunnel. As she reached the entrance, she stopped and turned back. The darkness rose up, crashing against the ceiling. It flailed like a wild beast, and then began to shrink in on itself. Then the fire roared, preventing her from seeing anything more. She turned and followed Whitlock out of the inferno.
Smoke already filled the cellar when they reached it. Whitlock took her arm as they fumbled towards the door leading to the house. It was open – hanging off its hinges. The hall beyond was a scene of carnage. Bodies lay broken on the floor, living-dead men worrying at them like jackals.
The creatures paused in their hideous repast when Alessandra and Whitlock appeared. “Shit,” he said, with some feeling. She nodded. There were too many of them, and without Zamacona to call them off, there was little likelihood of escape.
“Come, back to the cellar, we can go out through the tunnel,” she began. But even as they turned to go back, fire rushed up to greet them in a lashing flame that licked at the edges of the door. She heard the bottles in the wine cellar shattering. Whitlock pulled her back.
“Only one way out,” he grunted. She nodded and turned, driving her fist into the flabby features of one of the creatures as it dove at him. It fell, but scrambled to its feet. Whitlock was driven back against the wall by another. It snapped at him with blackened teeth as he fought to hold it at bay. Alessandra was unable to aid him. Two more of them circled her, murmuring to themselves.
“Countess! Duck!”
At Pepper’s shout, Alessandra dropped to the floor. She heard the boom of a pistol and one of her attackers spun with a wail. As it flapped at the wound, she spied Pepper standing at the other end of the hall, a pistol in hand. The young woman was pale, her eyes wide, but she took aim and fired again, and then a third time. Muldoon stood beside her, a rifle in his hands. He fired and worked the bolt smoothly, putting a round into Alessandra’s remaining attacker and then Whitlock’s. “Come on, both of you,” he shouted. “We’ve got to get out of here before this place goes up.”
Neither Alessandra nor Whitlock needed much in the way of encouragement. Together, the four of them made their way to the front doors. Smoke bled upwards through the floorboards as they ran. They were all coughing by the time they reached fresh air. Sirens wailed in the distance, and flames crawled up the foundations of the house.
Zamacona’s followers – those that remained – scattered into the night. One of the creatures, clad in black, stopped at the edge of the lawn and met Alessandra’s gaze. But only for an instant. Then it was gone, blending into the shadows. Coughing, she turned to Pepper. “I thought I told you to stay with the cab.”
Pepper shrugged and winced. “I must have misheard. What now?”
“That depends entirely on our friends here.” Alessandra looked at Muldoon and Whitlock. The latter sat on the pavement, looking away from the house, shoulders hunched, head bowed. Muldoon seemed less shaken, though not by much.
“What happened in there?” he asked, in a smoke roughened voice.
“An old debt was paid,” Alessandra said. “Are we under arrest?”
“No,” Whitlock said, without looking up. “Get out of here.”
Muldoon looked at him, and nodded. “We never saw you.”
Alessandra smiled, but it was a weak thing. She was tired. “And I was never here,” she said, turning to watch the fire rise up and claim the roof. She wondered whether it was still there, beneath the house. Trapped by the fire. She remembered her dreams. Remembered how small it had made itself in its cage of flesh and bone, all to escape the light.
She looked away, and tried not to think of it at all.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Leaving Arkham
Alessandra looked up as the bell over the door jangled, and Muldoon entered the diner. He was out of uniform, but still looked like a police officer somehow. She smiled and turned back to the window, and continued her study of the iron defenses of the university across the street.
It had been a long night, but a dreamless one. A relief, after the past few days. She did not feel rested, even so. She did not think she would until she left Arkham. “There you are,” she said, as Muldoon slid into the booth across from her.
“Sorry I’m late,” Muldoon said, placing a wrapped object on the booth beside him. “Whitlock didn’t want to let me out of his sight, but I distracted him with some paperwork.”
“Clever.” Alessandra sipped her coffee. After a moment, she asked, “How is he?”
“Beat up, but he’ll live.” He looked at her. “He… won’t talk about what happened.”
“No. I do not expect that he will.”
“What about you?”
“No.” She looked out the window. A faint streak of smoke still scarred the morning sky. Orne’s house had made a lovely light, as it burned. The fire brigade had managed to arrive before it spread to the neighboring houses. “I was surprised that you want
ed to meet, after last night. Surely the case is solved to everyone’s satisfaction.”
It would be hushed up. Not everyone had died in what they were calling a gas explosion, but those who’d escaped – or not attended – would be silent about what had happened. She doubted any of Orne’s special guests had escaped, but then again, there was no telling how far or how deep the tunnels stretched. Orne was dead, at least, and Professor Ashley as well. A great tragedy, according to the papers.
“Not quite.” Muldoon ordered a coffee as the waitress came over, and then tapped the brown parcel. “There’s a matter of… ownership to clear up.”
Alessandra looked at the parcel. From the size and shape she could guess what was inside. The mask the mummy had worn had somehow survived the blaze intact. The firefighters had stumbled across it somehow and turned it over to the police. She tried not to think about how it could have gotten somewhere accessible. “Oh?”
Muldoon was silent for a few moments. Then, “I know some things. Not a lot, but… enough. Enough to know when to follow something through, and when to let someone else handle it. In this case, I’ve done my duty and I’m finished. But I can’t leave this thing in the evidence locker. That ain’t safe enough. Maybe nowhere is.”
“So you’ve brought it to me.” Alessandra set her coffee aside. “I am flattered.”
“Don’t be.” Muldoon paused. “Whitlock still wants you arrested – though I think that’s more stubbornness than anything else. But there’s plenty of paperwork to keep him busy and a train leaving for Boston this afternoon.”
“Is that a hint?”
“A suggestion. Lucky neither the chief nor the sheriff are interested in questioning you. They just want all of this to go away, and I don’t blame them.” He looked at the package. “What do you intend to do with it? Sell it?”
“No. I do not think it is right to allow such a thing to fall into the wrong hands.” She frowned. “Maybe that is a silly thing to say, under the circumstances.”
“Maybe. But you’re right all the same. What’re you going to do with it, then?”
She nodded towards the university. “I made a call to Professor Walters this morning, after you contacted me. He advised me to turn it over to the university. Apparently, they have quite the collection of artifacts. The mask will be safe with them.”
Muldoon sighed and sat back. “I could get into real trouble if anyone found out.”
“So do not tell them.” She finished her coffee and set it aside. “Forget this ever happened. Forget what you saw. I intend to do the same.”
Muldoon was silent for a moment. “I have a duty,” he said, finally. “And I guess, so do you.” He passed her the mask.
Alessandra took it. “What will happen to the rest of Orne’s collection?”
“Most of it got burned up. The town will probably auction the rest.” Muldoon smiled grimly. “I hear Carl Sanford already put a preliminary bid in for the whole lot.”
“Of course. I wish him luck,” Alessandra said, as she slid out of the booth. She paused. “What about the rest of Orne’s… following? Some of them may have escaped. There’s no telling what they might do now.”
“That’s my problem,” he said.
She left money on the table and picked up the mask. “Then I wish you luck as well, officer. May your nights be quieter, here on out.”
Muldoon shook his head. “No such thing as a quiet night in this town. Believe me, I know.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Not all bad, though.”
Alessandra left him to his coffee and made her way across the street. The campus was quiet, and the library all but empty when she reached it. She made her way through the familiar tables towards the offices situated beneath the glass skylight. She’d paid little attention to it before, but Walters had told her to take the mask there. She spotted Daisy Walker, the librarian, moving to intercept her and stopped.
Daisy smiled. “Hello again.”
“Hello,” Alessandra said. Before she could say anything else, Daisy continued.
“Doctor Armitage is waiting on you in my office. Just go in.” She glanced at the mask and looked away. “Good luck,” she added, touching Alessandra on the arm. Alessandra nodded her thanks and continued to the office.
She knocked on the door, and heard a muffled invitation. Inside was a circular office that was mostly composed of shelves and books. An older man stood in front of one of the shelves, his back to her. “Doctor Armitage?” she asked.
“Ah, you must be Countess Zorzi. Harvey mentioned you might be coming around.” Armitage turned, his arms full of books. He was narrow and slightly stooped, with hair the color of iron, and dressed well for an academic. “You look like you’ve had a rather disagreeable night.” He set his burden down and gestured to a chair. “Sit.”
Alessandra did. She set the mask, in its brown paper wrapping, down on his desk. “Disagreeable, but successful,” she said. She paused, lighting a cigarette. Her last. She eyed the stack of books. “Doing research?”
Armitage chuckled. “You might say that. This used to be my office, you know. Miss Walker has done an admirable job since my retirement, and she’s added a few books to the reference shelf since I departed.” He tapped the stack. “And I wanted to read up on certain items before we spoke.”
Alessandra sat for a moment. “How much do you know?”
“Some. Enough to know that what happened was bound to happen. Enough to know that you might want to stay away from the Midwest for the time being. Oklahoma, specifically.”
She smiled and tapped the mask. “Professor Walters mentioned that you might be able to find a home for a certain objet d’art, should I acquire it.”
“I see.” Armitage adjusted his spectacles. “May I…?”
Alessandra pushed the mask across the table. Armitage carefully unwrapped it. He grunted softly and ran his fingers over the bestial contours, not quite touching it. He looked at her. “You know what this represents, I trust?”
“I know enough to know that it belongs somewhere safe.”
Reluctantly, he pushed it back towards her. “We do have a… special collection here, yes. I can’t speak for the university, but I doubt we can pay very much, I’m afraid. Nowhere near your normal fee, if Harvey wasn’t exaggerating about that.”
“He wasn’t. But… we’ll call it a donation, shall we?” Alessandra looked at the mask, and then up at Armitage. “The first of many, perhaps.”
Armitage frowned. “What do you mean?”
Alessandra stood. “Of late, I have begun to give serious thought to a change of career. I’m of the mind to take up a more socially conscious profession. One that benefits everyone.”
“I think I understand.” Armitage rewrapped the mask. “And I can say that should you wish to make further… donations to our collection, we will happily take them.” He paused. “I should warn you, however… such a change is not to be undertaken lightly.” He looked at her. “It will be dangerous. Far more dangerous than anything you might have done before.”
Alessandra smiled. “After what I’ve seen, professor, I think I am quite prepared.” Her smile faded after a moment. “And if not… well, I’ve always been a quick learner.” She turned to go. Armitage cleared his throat.
“For your sake, I hope so, countess. In any event, I wish you luck.”
Alessandra didn’t turn. “Luck is something I have never been short of, professor.”
Pepper was waiting for her outside the library, as Alessandra had known she would be. The girl looked up as Alessandra descended the steps. “Well?”
“It is taken care of.”
“Really?” Pepper sounded doubtful.
Alessandra paused and lit a cigarette. “I hope so. My bags?”
“In the cab.” She said it sourly. Her cab was sitting in a wrecker’s yard. The one she drove now had been borrowed from her garage. “What now?”
“Now, you take me to the train station. I might be able to catch the midday
train to Boston.” Alessandra looked down at Pepper. “As lovely as Arkham is, I think I have worn out my welcome.”
“Yeah? Shame. I was starting to have fun.” She smiled and then winced and rubbed her arm. It still pained her, and Alessandra knew the girl had her ribs bandaged beneath her shirt. She hadn’t said what had happened, but Alessandra could guess.
Alessandra hesitated. “You could come with me, if you like.”
Pepper stared at her. “Come where?”
“Wherever.” Alessandra gestured with her cigarette. “Out there. Away from Arkham. I could use the help, and you proved yourself singularly adept. I’d pay, of course. Not much, but more than you make driving a cab, I’d wager. Especially given the condition of yours, at the moment.”
Pepper turned away. She was silent for a moment. Then, in a small voice, she said, “You mean it?”
“I wouldn’t have made the offer otherwise.” Alessandra offered her a cigarette. “Think about it. I’ll be staying at the Copley Square Hotel in Boston for a few days. Wire me if you decide to accept my offer, and I’ll extend my stay until you can arrive.”
“Why?” Pepper asked, as she took a cigarette.
Alessandra lit it for her. “Why what?”
“Why make the offer?”
Alessandra sighed and sat awkwardly, smoothing her dress. “As I said, I could use the help. I need someone I can trust.”
“I don’t think I’d make a good thief.”
“I can teach you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Alessandra looked at her. “It is not an easy life, but it is exciting.”
Wrath of N'kai Page 27