Renfield doddered forward, placing one of his hands against the door. It was a light, polite thing, but still carried with it the essence of a threat.
“Of course,” he began. “Mr. De La Poer is not requiring that you pay any of the amount that is owed. However we are required to keep a running number, in case of the need for swift action in the event of a breach.” The lines sounded rehearsed, and registered as an annoyance that the front desk clerk was trying to get rid of.
“Well, that's great for you.” Ubasa remarked. She was about to follow up with some advice on what Francis De La Poer could do with his numbers when she stopped suddenly, startled. The shadows had definitely moved behind him. She smirked a knowing smile at the darkness.
“Francis knows there is nothing to worry about. The contract will stay valid until I pass, gently in my sleep.” The way she said the words was light, almost a retort.
“We are well aware, Miss Ubasa.” The front desk clerk started. “However we felt that it was prudent to remind you that if you were to break your contract, this amount would be owed to him the moment you broke it. If it was something that could be proven until after that gentle sleep, but had happened before you laid down your head, then you would still be indebted to Mr. De La Poer.” He finished this exposition with a knowing smirk of his own.
The words were enough to throw cold water on their conversation. Madam Ubasa had heard more than enough. She pushed the door shut, firmly, against the outstretched arm of Renfield. She could feel a resistance when she first started, but it was quickly overpowered. Renfield hadn’t actually fought her over it, but Ubasa sensed that subtle reminder that he could have. He meant to worry her that maybe, one day, he would be able to.
Madam Ubasa returned silently to her waiting cards. Several minutes passed as she drew cards silently from the deck, setting up a new game. Every so often she would shuffle a single card, or groups of cards around, but mostly she found herself staring dully at the board. Each time she caught herself, she gave a frown and shake of her head.
Finally, after several minutes of this, she cursed quietly and sat up from the table. Madam Ubasa scooped up the deck of playing cards and deposited them into a drawer at the counter. Then she shuffled into the living room, her slippered feet making little noise as they swished across the heavily carpeted floor.
After lowering herself into one of the overstuffed leather chairs, she opened up a wide drawer in the top of the coffee table. The drawer stretched nearly the length of the coffee table, housing many dividers that separated it into easily-accessible compartments. Four sleeves of different kinds of tea bags lined the compartments in the bottom right hand corner, while a thin leather volume occupied the bottom left. The middle was divided into even smaller boxes, each with only one item apiece. Small bags of herbs, glossy and rough stones, bits of shining metal, and dried-up old flowers occupied each of the compartments, along with one rectangular velvet pouch.
It was this pouch that Madam Ubasa pulled from the drawer, before placing it on the coffee table in front of her. She loosened the drawstring on the bag and pushed her hand inside, removing a deck of cards which were the ancestors of the playing cards she used in the kitchen.
The deck was formed of 78 cards, rather than the more traditional 52. They were longer than the other deck, and held more artistic images than their modern counterparts, especially in those cards that diverged from the standard deck. Madam Ubasa blew air, quickly and with intention, on the palms of each of her hands. She rubbed them together, the motion reminiscent of a worker about to do heavy labor. She shuffled the deck quickly and efficiently despite her aged hands. This done, she paused for a moment, muttering over the cards.
“Sic abscondita sunt revelari,” Ubasa said, her words heavy with intent. She placed the cards on the coffee table, drew several to arrange in a cross shape, then a few more in an arc around this. The tarot spread complete, she began to flip over the cards, reading them to herself.
“The Fool, dignified. Our question. The beginning, foolishness, and eccentricity.”
“The Hanged Man, inverted. The crossing card. Sacrifice, light into darkness.”
“Ace of Swords, inverted. What is seen. A new conflict.”
“The devil, dignified, what is unseen. Chains, bondage, and servitude.”
“Temperance, dignified. Our recent past. Balance, moderation.”
“The Magician, dignified. Our near future. Wisdom and power. Cunning. Business transactions.” Ubasa paused, momentarily confused.
“Four of Swords, inverted. Our stage. Isolation, stagnation, and weary truce.”
“Five of Swords, inverted.” Ubasa clucked her tongue. “The coven. Strife, infighting, and toxic ambition. I might as well just glue you to that spot.”
“Three of cups, dignified. Our hopes. Abundance, fulfillment, peace, and harmony.”
“Overall outcome...” She froze for a long moment when she saw the card. “The Tower. Inverted. Chaos. Destruction. Revolution. Rule by Fear.” She let it fall back to the table, gazing over the full spread.
They were in a relatively similar place to where she had placed them at the beginning, but it was plain that the further into the reading Ubasa had progressed, the less precise her movements had been. By the end, she had dropped the Tower onto the table, partially obscuring the Three of Cups card. She drew a shaking hand toward her mouth as her eyes darted about the spread in fear.
The lights in her room seemed to dim. She looked toward the door. It loomed, sinister in her eyes, as though threatening to burst in on her at any moment. She could feel the malice in the shadows, and knew that it threatened to overwhelm her. Ubasa grabbed a foil packet from inside the coffee table and marched briskly into the kitchen.
She needed tea: chamomile, to calm her nerves. The door still buckled inwardly in her sight, under the weight of her anxiety. She removed the top of the foil pouch. As her shaking hands readied the hot water for her tea, she resolved to quiet the fear that was stirring in her breast.
Francis was a dangerous man; he had proven that many times since she had known him. Still, the checkered history they shared was always marked with a grudging coexistence, perhaps even codependence. She poured the near-boiling water into a teacup, the bag already tucked safely inside.
“Adam,” She whispered into the steam that blew off the top of the cup. It floated onward at the exhale of her breath. Adam was the key, but her gamble was fated. Involving herself with him was the only way the cards had shown her an out. Adam was also the start of a course that could lead her to her own destruction, of that the cards were certain.
“Adam.” She whispered again, her voice carrying the steam with the syllables. Madam Ubasa had lived through much in her life. Hippies and the beginning of the Civil Rights Movement were still fresh in her mind. The marching she had done and the heroes who she had seen rise tall were beckoning her. Ubasa was strong, gifted, and far-seeing. She had lived her whole life fighting for every piece of what should have been hers by right. She was not one to succumb to failure by mediocrity.
“Adam Alexander Church.” She whispered, commanding into her tea. The steam marched off the mug, seeking him out with her words. Ubasa watched, a small smile of a job well done on her lips, as the steam curled away from her and toward the door she had found so frightening only moments earlier.
He was the force upon which Francis' hopes were pinned. Ubasa was confident that if he could be shifted a degree or two, the iceberg that was Adam Church could be avoided entirely. Humans, she knew, were emotional, constantly doubting beings. They rarely moved in a straight line; instead they bounced to and fro like a tropical storm. In order to shift his course she needed something that would distract him. Ubasa smiled a self-assured smile. Involving herself this way meant getting her hands dirty, but Ubasa believed she could keep all the dirt in the garden. She would need to set a new destination for Adam, a new target so he could safely pass her by. Ubasa had the perfect target alread
y fixed in her mind.
♖♖♖
Adam sat, polishing off the last of his dinner with a swig from his fifth drink. He hadn’t been able to eat much since he had checked into the Tower, but he had been more than a little self-congratulatory over his progress that evening. Feeling full for the first time in weeks, he barely refrained from humming to himself joyously. There was still far too much to do. Gillman was still out there.
Something shifted in the air. It seemed to Adam that it smelled lightly of flowers, and he half-turned his head to the considerably more intoxicated Lily before dismissing it as a bad idea. Inviting another conversation was exactly the last thing he wanted to do at that moment, with exactly the wrong person. He endeavored to glance around the section of the bar he was facing, more or less. No one was acting out of sorts, and he saw no regal woman heralded by the sweet perfume. Instead, the dimly-lit bar of the Tower held more of the appearance of a shady Prohibition-era den.
As soon as it had come, the scent disappeared, lost to the ether. Adam rose from his chair. He didn’t need to follow that scent to its rosy source; he needed to bring Gillman to justice, and in order to do that, he needed to find out who was doing Gillman’s dirty work. He had a pretty good idea of who that might be.
His suspicion settled momentarily on Bartholomew, the bellhop who had tried to insinuate that Varro had been sleeping with his wife. But the bellhop was sadistic, and willing to say anything to provoke him. Adam began to wonder again if Varro had made advances toward Susan. The bellhop wouldn’t have seen anything else, and the whole thing could have been a trap for her. Someone had to have gotten Susan out of the Tower and delivered her into Gillman’s hands, and now Adam was beginning to think that Varro may have been that person. The appearance of his wife’s shirt alone should have tipped him off, Adam thought.
Adam slid off the stool, his shoes landing softly on the carpet. He just needed to make his way up to Varro’s room, and figure out how to get Varro to answer his questions. He felt a brush against his shoulder and whirled around to find himself staring into the glassy eyes of Lily. She looked for just a second as though she were afraid of Adam leaving.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” The distinct lack of slur, combined with how much she had to drink that night, made Adam all the more astounded at how far gone she had been the night they’d met. She gazed upward at him at an angle that served to emphasize her large, green eyes. Adam was momentarily caught off guard, looking at her like that.
“I just came for dinner.” Adam gave a smile that he sincerely hoped was disarming. Forcing himself to raise his eyes, so as not to stare at the curve of her neck, he spoke to the empty air over her head.
“Well, I knew that,” The way she danced that secret dance of hers drew Adam’s eye. Lily had a fistful of skirt in each hand and was slowly pivoting back and forth. It did little to convey an image of perfect innocence.
“Right. So… Goodnight.” Adam raised the volume of his voice at the last word, as though he were addressing a small group of people.
“Where, Adam?” Lily reached out to stop him from turning around. It was a small gesture, a touch on his arm, but Adam was startled she had made it. “What’s so important out there,” she said, nodding to the exit into the lobby, “that you would be pulled from here?” There was no mistaking her tone, which was far too frank for Adam’s liking.
He slapped her arm away with the same arm she was gently touching. The dull sound of flesh on flesh resounded a bit, at least enough to draw glances from the other patrons at the bar. It had been markedly harder than Adam had intended.
“Not your business.” He chided, determined to remain firm.
The expression on her face was marred by hurt, and Adam felt some guilt slipping through despite his best efforts. Wheeling away from her, he hurried out to the lobby, determined to get there as fast as he could. He paused at the front desk.
The front desk was empty. Standing on tip-toe, he peered over it, fearing the dwarf may have toppled down in some emergency, unnoticed. The desk was indeed empty. Adam nearly couldn’t believe it. He had seen the dwarf there at all hours of the day. He had foolishly begun to expect that the man never left the desk, but sat there sleeping for eternity.
“Just a moment,” called a voice from across the lobby. It was the clerk, hurrying toward him.
Adam stepped back from the desk and waved him off, hurrying toward the elevator doors with alacrity. They shut behind him with a soft, artificial ding. Adam punched a number on the panel. He was going to pay a little visit to a certain male model.
Adam gritted his teeth as the elevator rose, anxiety growing with every floor. Something flashed in the corner of his eye as it reached the top of its climb. Adam twisted his head, unable to glance at it again. The thrum of lights above him grew with the raging of his heart until it threatened to drive him mad. By the time the elevator stopped, he found he had no ability to calm himself.
The rage over what Bartholomew had said days ago was back. It fed this time on Adam’s suspicion that Varro was somehow involved with Susan’s kidnapping. Two very distinct thoughts battled in his head, threatening to tear his mind asunder: one urging patience and caution in his approach, and the other a vengeful demon caught up inside him. The latter spurred him onward, thrashing his heart into a fervor with its pointed tail. Adam’s footsteps grew louder and more rapid as he began to race down the hall.
The lights above him flickered, shadows drinking up the space with voracious hunger. In his rage, Adam was barely able to piece together a vision of the dark hall that stretched before him with the intermittent flashes of light. The sounds of his own steps muffled to his red ears, Adam slammed his fist into Varro’s door. The cold wood reverberated against the bottom of his closed fist. Silence followed the echoes, leaving nothing behind.
Adam knocked again, slamming the underside of his closed fist against Varro’s door in time with the fierce beating of his heart. The door rocked in its frame in response to his assault, but no sound stirred within. Adam stalked back and forth in front of the door like a hungry wolf. His eyes never strayed from the light penetrating the peephole, searching for any sign of movement or disruption. After several moments he gave up, eyes snapping around the hallway.
The lights stretched on both before and behind him, the area further back toward the elevators was still dancing in a mad rave. Adam had to find some place to deposit this rampant anger. He tried to calm the boil in his blood long enough to latch onto any scrap of useful information.
Anytime Adam tried to recall more, the smug face of Varro penetrated his thoughts. Hateful images that he had once banished returned with greater force as Adam battled with the memory of his absent foe. The absence was not impossible to explain, Adam knew, if he could only slow down and think.
Adam rushed off nearly as quickly as he had come, the shadows of the hallway flickering in the lights behind him. He hit the button for the elevator, and felt like screaming when the stainless steel doors didn’t open in front of him immediately. After what seemed like an eternity, the elevator arrived. Adam entered with a disgusted shake of his head. The doors closed, leaving him alone in the box.
Chapter Seventeen
Adam was swallowed by darkness. He must have recognized something in the gloom, because he felt that the surroundings were distinctly familiar. The stone beneath him felt warm, as though he had lain there a long while. Adam stood and spun in place, slowly at first, then gathering greater speed as nothing in the caducity jumped out at him. With a mounting fear he could scarcely describe, he stopped. Adam craned his neck upward a few degrees at a time, his shoulders rising in terrible expectation. The darkness above him stood as a solid barrier to his senses, but nothing burst forth.
Adam didn’t know what he had expected to see, or why he had expected anything. After a moment of staring into the darkness above him, Adam lowered his gaze. He was greeted by the hated visage of Varro.
“You!”
Adam bellowed, closing the distance between them rapidly. He felt anger replacing his fear, his exhausted heart hammering to keep up with the demands of his extreme emotions. As the rage gathered inside him, threatening to erupt into a deadly torrent of actions, Varro stretched out a flat, rectangular piece of particleboard.
“Sign here,” Varro stated in a bored monotone. He jabbed the board at Adam, and Adam realized that there was a pen dangling by a chain in the space below.
“Sign here.” Varro repeated in the same distant voice. On the clipboard in front of him there was now a sheet of paper describing the dimension and weight of a large package. Adam looked back up at Varro, not understanding. The silence that surrounded them was insufficient to express his surprise.
Varro tapped the knuckles of his other hand impatiently on the clipboard.
“You're Mr. Adam Church, right?” Varro made it sound like anything but a question. “Sign here.” He rapped his knuckles against the clipboard again, more impatiently this time. Adam, nodding his head, finally acquiesced, taking the form from Varro.
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