Midnight Monster Club

by Gerhard Gehrke

  So now the viscount was here for an audit of Diregloom’s morals, and Angel was expected to help his aunt make a good showing to avoid trouble.

  He massaged an aching arm as he kept up with his aunt and her guest.

  Angel had only been on the island for a month. He had quickly discovered the game rooms and brothels, pleasures harder to come by in any of the mainland’s counties, where such things were prohibited from operating out in the open. And while his own mother and father, a countess and count, had reluctantly sent their second son off with a full purse, his allowance hadn’t lasted the first week.

  Diregloom had club owners who would loan a young man silver until his luck changed. For a few nights, he thought it had. But then disaster. More loans. More busts. His cards never came up. And then the lenders sold his debts to Red Eye.

  The arm-twisting that Red Eye’s thug had given him was only a taste of what was to come if he didn’t pay.

  His entourage of companions who had accompanied him from home didn’t have enough to come close to covering the debt. Aunt Claudia’s gold watch would have squared everything. But then that damnable girl had taken it. They had been searching all night for her, and now his friend Victor was missing.

  His head was pounding as he listened to his aunt give the viscount the grand tour of her castle, wending through chamber after chamber on their way to breakfast.

  The silk room, the silver room, the gold room, the hall of armor, the sword collection, and the room with the stuffed animals, whatever that was called. Then they arrived in the clock room.

  Aunt Claudia strode to a tall wall clock three times the height of a man. The massive timepiece was made of pewter and featured veins of inlaid fine silver and mother of pearl that ran up its panels in flowing floral lines. The long hands turned on a smooth round face of polished mirror set with blue gemstones. It must have weighed a ton.

  An internal pendulum ticked off the seconds.

  “This piece was designed by Florendo Freitas of Altea. It took his shop ten years to build it. It’s said to be the most accurate timepiece in the world. I use it to make adjustments to our grand clock tower at the church.”

  The viscount nodded politely. Angel stifled a yawn.

  “A trained attendant tends to it daily. I had a second clock of similar stature on order, but unfortunately, Florendo has perished. I await reports on which of his apprentices will assume the role of master. Such a loss!”

  Dozens of resplendent clocks filled the walls. Their hands were in perfect synch with one another.

  A long display case occupied the center of the room. There, under the glass, were Claudia’s prize watches.

  Angel’s mouth was dry and it wasn’t from the wine hangover. He had taken the jeweled watch from the case, judging it to be the largest of the bunch. There were enough other timepieces that he had hoped the gold watch wouldn’t be immediately missed.

  How was he to know it would be the featured trophy in his aunt’s upcoming tournament?

  Claudia’s fel steward Rochus had almost caught him in the act. The greenskin had dared confront Angel and his companions as they had busted into the display case. Thinking quickly, Angel had wrapped the watch in a piece of paper from a nearby rolltop desk. He’d told the steward he was taking a broken watch to see if he could fix it as a gift to his aunt.

  If only they had murdered the steward.

  At least the display case glass hadn’t broken. However, once she opened it Claudia would discover the lock was damaged.

  “These are my cherished prizes,” Claudia said. “The precision, the inner workings, each part having its place within the timepiece. I’m presenting my favorite as the grand prize for the upcoming tournament.”

  The viscount leaned over the display case but showed little interest. “Yes. Your blood sport, which has so many talking and brings the duke’s subjects here by the droves. You believe encouraging such violent entertainments won’t corrupt the spirits of those who dabble in them?”

  “Why, no, I don’t. I believe there’s a certain catharsis to what we do here. In fact, the latest rounds of catacombs will be my largest spectacle. I’ve expanded the playing area and added new rooms. I’ve planned monsters and challenges which will test the skills of the contestants and provide an event that won’t be forgotten.”

  “You cater to base desires which undermine the duke’s law.”

  Claudia sighed. “The duke’s law stops at the shores of Bahia. Come, viscount. Let me show you my centerpiece. Surely you can admire its beauty. Perhaps you will see what the possibilities are when our people set their sights on a prize which doesn’t have to wait for their passage into heaven.”

  Angel stepped before them, hoping he was sufficiently blocking the view of the case. “If you’d allow me, Aunt Claudia? If I’m understanding the viscount’s objection, his concerns should be allayed. On the surface, the games of Loom Island might seem frivolous. Gold prizes and sport of this nature do cater to a certain cupidity. But the hundreds of visitors aren’t the serfs who work your farms. They’re other nobles and highborn, most of whom have little to do with their accumulated wealth.”

  The viscount sniffed. “It’s offensive.”

  “It’s profitable. My uncle the duke controls the harbors. He also possesses the largest fleet. Imagine if the duke’s own ships were given exclusive contract to ferry visitors to and from the island? I have drawn up figures for just such a proposal. Instead of sailing direct, it would require attendees from other dukedoms to travel to Bahia first before their voyage here. This would mean they’ll be spending money on accommodations in Bahia while waiting for their boat.”

  “You’d have the duke take part in this endeavor?”

  “I’d have you introduce a profitable business venture which will cost him next to nothing to implement. I’ve spent enough time at Bahia’s docks to know most of the fleet remains in anchorage. There’s been little pirate activity, we face no real threats. The boats and men are there, waiting. Keeping an idle fleet is a waste of funds. Imagine said fleet transformed into something lucrative. Perhaps Loom Island could also pay a fee for added patrols against potential raiders.”

  The viscount considered him with cold eyes. Angel recognized the look from his nights at poker whenever coins hit the table. There was interest there, veiled by stuffy priggishness.

  “We could set a formal proposal to paper for you to present, viscount. Assuming my aunt agrees to this.”

  Claudia wrapped her hands around the viscount’s arm. “My nephew is the shrewd one. He’s been such a joy to have with me. You’ll have to thank the duke for allowing him to stay.”

  “Duke Tito had no say in the matter,” the viscount said stuffily. “We heard of Lord Angel’s arrival here from a courtier. The duke was upset.”

  “Well, our castle tour is only beginning. Join me to the upper balconies. The views there are spectacular. And I hope you have an appetite.”

  Angel didn’t follow. He dabbed sweat from his brow. Disaster had been averted for the moment.

  His entourage was waiting in the grand hall. They stood armed and ready. They had been searching for the girl and then Victor all night.

  It was time to leave the castle and resume the search. Wherever the girl had gone, the watch had vanished with her and Angel needed it back.

  Chapter Nine

  DIGGER STOPPED THE cart near a small crowd. The group of fel men and women shifted in place as they waited in silence. Breath clung white to the air. They clutched gloves, bundles of tools, and parcels of food.

  The streets around them were lined with the cluttered apartments typical of where most fel lived.

  A distant bell clanged, which was answered by another nearby. End of third watch. They could move freely about the city.

  The crowd dispersed, most heading down Violet Avenue towards the factories. There they would toil until dusk. The hints of dawn shone in a deep red hue through the fog and rising smoke. The nearest factori
es’ furnaces were already belching smoke. This, mixed with the charcoal cooking fires in the stoves of the apartment dwellers, turned the air into a gray haze.

  No one paid Digger any mind. But more than a few gawked at Isabel.

  “That bright blue cloak of yours will have to go.”

  “It’s the only one I have.”

  “It’s attracting attention. A little too nice for this neighborhood.”

  He led her up a narrow side street, taking a few turns down familiar alleyways until he came to a courtyard where he parked the cart. The tenements above them obscured the sky. Lines of laundry hung between windows. A group of fel wearing boots and long-sleeved shirts came down a nearby stairway and hurried off.

  “What’s here?” she asked. “Every moment we waste gives the sheriff time to report the stolen watch.”

  “Most of the cops down at the stockade won’t show up until midmorning. The night shift won’t bother filing a stolen property report. The sheriff’s not technically part of Diregloom’s guards, so he’ll have to wait to start any formal paperwork. But I’m guessing that watch isn’t going to leave his pocket.”

  She appeared antsy but followed as he began to climb the steps. “Is this where you live?”

  “Thought it best if we wash up. Right now we look like gravediggers.”

  He led her to the fifth floor at the top of the tenement. The open corridor had apartments on one side. The railing sagged. A woman shepherded a pair of children out of the way and hurried to slam her door when she saw Digger coming.

  “Welcome to the dirty nickel,” he said.

  “Why do you call it that?”

  He chuckled. “Everyone does. The fifth floor has the cheapest places because of the stairs. And the factory smoke tends to cling to this level.”

  She hazarded a look over the railing. A crow landed near them. It bobbed its head and edged towards them until it was almost in reach. One of its feet was twisted and it limped as it moved. The front of its beak was missing. It cawed.

  Isabel’s eyes went wide. “Shoo!”

  “It’s okay. That’s Stumpy.”

  “You have a crow?”

  “No. But he drops by for scraps. Part of his beak is broken so he has a hard time of it.”

  “And you feed him?”

  “Yeah, I do.” He unlocked the door. “You coming in?”

  “I’ll wait out here, assuming Stumpy isn’t going to bite or bring me bad luck.”

  “Suit yourself. I have something you can wear instead of that cloak. I’ll be a few minutes while I wash up.”

  His small apartment had one shuttered window with no glass. His bedroll and a mound of clothes occupied most of the main room, along with a stringless mandolin he had rescued from a refuse pile a year prior but had never taken the time to see repaired. The bathroom featured a toilet and washbasin beneath a spigot in the center of a wall. He turned the tap. There was water that hour, for which he was glad. It only ran cold, but he was accustomed to it.

  After washing up, he found leather pants, a wrinkled but clean shirt, and a thick black cloak. He would have to hire his neighbor to do a load of laundry and clean the place. She might not speak to him, but she’d take his money.

  He opened the front door and handed Isabel a wool blanket. “Here.”

  “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Use it as a wrap instead of your cloak. It’s all I have.”

  She took it but looked at it suspiciously. Then she pulled her hood down and draped the blanket over her head and shoulder. “Want me to stoop and limp along behind you?”

  “If it helps you look less like a princess visiting the favela, then yes.”

  He locked the door and they went down the stairs. He maneuvered the cart out of the courtyard.

  “I thought you didn’t want to look like a gravedigger.”

  “It could come in handy.”

  Groups of children were being led past, no doubt to workhouses where, if they were lucky, they might get more than one meal for the day. Residents were doing their wash in the running fountains. Even with the change of clothes, his neighbors avoided eye contact with him.

  “It’s like you don’t exist.”

  “They don’t know me, but they know the cart.”

  The broke-beak crow landed on a nearby overhang and cawed.

  “No crumbs for you now. Shoo.”

  It considered him with a glassy marble eye before lighting off to a nearby balcony, where it watched them leave.

  Violet Avenue took them away from the slums. He followed the route towards the main market square where his kind could freely buy, sell, and trade. The labyrinth of tents, stalls, and storefronts presented a colorful contrast to the gray squalor near his home. Merchants were opening for the day. The aromas of baking bread stirred his appetite. But no food seller would want him pulling up to their stall with his cart.

  Better a tanner stinking of chemicals or a sewage system worker than a halfblood fel who handled the dead.

  Fel worked and shopped side by side with pureblood. Some merchants would discriminate, but most wouldn’t turn away scrip. With the growing number of tourists from Bahia and the other dukedoms, this was changing, but not in this market.

  One street down was Stockade Square. Here were more upscale businesses. The stockade itself was a squat stone shoebox of a structure with no outside windows and an iron gate that led to an inner courtyard. The gallows out front were the prominent feature, with enough space in the open square for a large crowd. From there the main boulevard, Fountain Street, ran the length of the city up to the castle where Claudia the Second reigned.

  More than a few sellers had set up ad hoc shops from their wagons. A cook with a fashioned metal grill arranged on the back of his buckboard was roasting skewers of meats.

  “Char-coo-terie!” he bellowed.

  A gang of bedraggled city guards marched past and entered the stockade.

  “There goes the night shift,” Digger whispered.

  The meat seller made a sour face as Digger pushed his cart past. Digger led Isabel to an alley between a boot seller and a florist and parked the cart. From there they had a perfect view of the stockade.

  A trio of fresh-faced youths with clean clothes and neat long locks paused at the meat seller. Two of the young men had rapiers on their hips. They didn’t look too dissimilar from the man who had chased Isabel into the Dragon and Rose.

  “Tourists,” Isabel said.

  “Yeah. Weekend’s coming. Might be an announcement of upcoming catacomb games. Maybe a preview.”

  “It’s the new spring season. Supposed to be bigger than last fall’s.”

  “Oh? What have you heard?”

  “Queen Claudia wants to run a game every weekend,” she said. “And she’s planning to open the new waterfront this summer.”

  “The construction’s impossible to miss. Now keep your eyes peeled.”

  Stockade Square had its own growing tempo as the morning progressed. More vendors showed up. The square was a nexus of traffic heading every which way. Someone selling hot tea and cider set up next to the charcuterie.

  The gate guards weren’t the only ones in view. A few city watchmen wandered by in pairs, but they barely seemed to notice Digger and Isabel. A growing collection of tourists milled about.

  Digger left the alleyway to purchase two cups of warm cider. “Quite the crowd today.”

  “Aye,” the cider vendor said. “Tryouts here this morning.” His brow furled as he looked up at Digger. Digger ignored the man’s expression. He returned to Isabel and handed her a cup.

  She sipped and made a face. “Too tart.”

  “Maybe instead of looking for the sheriff, we can walk the market and find something befitting your delicate palate.”

  “Don’t be rude. It’s just that the apples aren’t in season and this has lemon in it.”

  “Go ask the vendor for a spoonful of honey. I’m sure a fussy fel like you will make h
is day.”

  Digger welcomed the warmth in his throat. The beverage staved off his fatigue.

  All the guards in view were pureblood. That hadn’t been the case a year before. Fel were still used for watch duty in fel neighborhoods, at least, and some during day hours. He had hoped to see at least one greenskin on patrol that morning, though.

  Getting to the sheriff wasn’t going to be easy. He questioned his own rationale for being there. If only he could get Monty out of the city, find a place, anyplace, where his brother would be safe. But he dismissed the thought. There was no such place for fel anymore. The sheriff would have to be dealt with. But he’d have to watch himself around this girl Isabel. She was more than an ordinary thief. No thief would risk their life going after a lawman like they were about to do.

  The florist on one side of the alley received a delivery. The small woman then emerged from the shop and began setting up her displays. She looked surprised to see Digger and Isabel but said nothing.

  “She’ll complain,” Isabel said.

  “Yeah. Wait here.”

  The florist retreated inside and Digger followed. The woman stumbled over a crate of baby’s breath as she backed up towards a rear curtain.

  He paused to smell a yellow rose among a prominent bouquet of orange and pink. “I’m here to place an order.”

  “Get out.”

  He untied his coin purse and jingled it. “I know there’s another shop over on Yellow Avenue. But my client prefers your arrangements.”

  The florist paused. “Your...client?”

  “Lost her brother just last night. Wants a wreath for the burial. Surely you saw my cart. Who did you think I was?”

  She took a moment to straighten her dress and apron. “It doesn’t matter. I do funeral arrangements. Tell me what you want.”