The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  "I paid for it."

  "I realize that, and I'll do what I can to explain what I found, but I feel like I should stress the dangers here. We're walking on perilous ground."

  "You've followed the stories. I'm already in trouble. If you found something, I want to know. I need to know. I didn't..." I leaned closer. "I didn't kill those people. I've never killed anyone. I wouldn't. I couldn't. I didn't touch them, but whatever this is..." I tapped the patch, "I'm involved."

  He nodded and glanced around, more beads of sweat formed on his brow, his voice quieted even more. I had to strain to hear him. "The symbol isn't Pan's. It's a symbol of Pan, but it's not Pan's. Do you understand the difference? It didn't decorate his temples; it was adopted, by someone else, in his name."

  "I follow."

  "I found a few books on the cults that sprung up after the Aligning. I believe Pan's flute is the symbol for an organization that refers to itself as the Children, maybe Pan's Children. I'm unsure of their connection to Pan, but they use his pipes as their symbol."

  "So who are they?"

  "Depends on what you want to believe. A club. A fraternal organization. A fanatical sect of Hasturianism. A cult. Everything I found was spotty, but records for the Children go back at least several hundred years.

  "Early accounts were innocent enough. Feasts and festivals, that sort of thing. An offshoot, a minor deviation of the original organization. Sort of like the Reunified Church before the Aligning."

  "So what happened?"

  "Something changed. The early accounts were typical silly stuff: snake handlers, candles, incense, trying to raise the spirits of the Firsts, rumors of sacrifice in dark basements."

  "Sacrifice?" I asked, thinking of the bizarre way Doctor Inox had been murdered.

  "Nothing concrete. Those type of rumors come up often; most of the time it's just the writings of nervous people who see a demon behind every bush."

  He ate another bite.

  "Sounds dark," I said.

  "Maybe I am just jaded. If you deal in religious artifacts for as long as I have it'll make you jaded towards this sort of stuff. Rumors of sacrifice are typical in old, dead religions. There were eras where whole civilizations were fascinated by the occult; writing books and making objects focused on it. You don't see it crop up so often nowadays."

  "So these Children are in Lovat. Why? Why are they here?"

  "Well, that's just it. They shouldn't be."

  "Shouldn't be?"

  "They were wiped out almost two centuries ago."

  "Wait, wiped out? What? By who?" I asked.

  "Well, I have two accounts. One account is a rival sect: Black's Children. Probably a reference to the black goat name. The other is the Hasturians. I'd presume it was the latter. It seems the Children got brasher. They were trying to do more than call the spirit of some First. It seemed they were trying to bring one back from the dead. Resurrection. Dead rising again. Valley of dry bones. Dangerous stuff. We're not talking rumors of sacrifices. We're talking murders. Actual murders. In broad daylight. In public places. Public figures. All as some sacrifice to bring back this mythical figure. Went so far as to kill people in front of the authorities. Killing the authorities. They'd mutilate the bodies. Cut away bits and pieces. Acts of horrific terrorism. It started scaring the public."

  I thought about Thad's lips, Fran's ears, Doctor Inox's hands. These butchers were after my friends. "Unfortunately it sounds familiar. I'm not sure how much you know, but the three murders involved missing body parts."

  Hagen visibly shuddered.

  "They left that out of the monochrome report," he said, pushing away his plate and turning an odd sheen of green.

  "Who were they trying to bring back? Which First?" I asked.

  Hagen looked around and shook his head nervously before whispering, "Some documents said it was Hali, some claimed it was some great mother figure. I never could peg down a name. It was all vague. Old texts. Dead languages.

  "In those days the Children were still tangentially connected to the Hasturian church, and the Hasturian priesthood didn't take kindly to these associations. The priests branded the Children's practices heretical, and a hefty bounty was placed on all their heads." He paused and looked up at me seriously. "It supposedly worked. I couldn't find any more mentions of the Children after that incident." He tapped the patch. "Until now."

  We both stared at the patch in silence. Pan. A black goat. A cult called the Children. Bizarre murders. An ancient god worshipped by an ancient culture at the center of it.

  "What's the Pan connection?"

  "I don't really understand that either. It's a loose association. I feel like it's the missing piece."

  "So what's our next step?" I asked.

  "Oh no. Oh no, no, no. If the Children are actually back, and it looks like they are, I'm out. I don't want to be involved with this. I don't deal with crazies. They were dangerous before, and they'll be even more dangerous now."

  I looked at him, thinking. "Is there more?"

  "I-I-I don't know. Look, I'm not interested in pursuing this investigation any further," he said. "I'm out."

  "Please, if there is anything else," I begged.

  "Look, I told you what I found out. You take this information and do with it what you will. If it were me, I'd leave Lovat. These people are either copycats or actual Children cultists. I don't know which is more terrifying. But I assure you either would be dangerous. If they're responsible for these killings and somehow they're pinning them on you, then they're smarter than I would've thought. I'm sorry, I hope you can find a way to get out from under this..." he paused, "... this shadow."

  The sight of the naked umbra flashed in my memory.

  Hands in the plastic bag.

  Wicked razor glinting.

  I shuddered.

  Hagen rose. "The most dangerous people are those who think they have something to die for." He rose, collecting the remains of his meal. "I wish you good luck. I hope this all works out. Be careful. Please. Don't contact me again."

  I watched him leave, wondering where this left me.

  TWELVE

  Pan.

  The name rang in my mind, echoing like church bells as I wandered the quiet streets of West Lovat. Something was there. Something in the information, in that name. I had to find it.

  Black Goat.

  The clues were there, somewhere, between the rituals, hymns, passages, atrocities of yesteryear, and the pagan celebrations in clearings of long dead forests. I gnawed at my thumbnail as I walked and thought.

  Pan.

  I bought some starfish marinated in sunflower oil, grilled, and served over seasoned couscous. The food was bland, dry, and overcooked, but still I ate. Exhausted, I felt the need to recharge. I ate as I walked, moving along a quiet, empty road on Level Four. I could smell the salty scent of the sea waft from behind me. The intermingling smell of fish, salt, and sodden vegetation.

  Black Goat.

  Why was that sticking with me? Why did that name linger instead of the Pucks and Pans?

  Hagen's report sat in my mind like caravan cargowains circled for an evening's laager. I mulled over it again and again counting the carts. Trying to see a connection. Trying to pick through the layers of information. Symbols. Names. Dates. Cults. Rituals. I couldn't see the forest for the trees.

  I'm no good at puzzles.

  As a caravan master it's my job to focus on the trees, know what's happening in the now for my clients. The journey is important, but the dangers of the present, each stage of the caravan, that's what I am hired to take care of.

  Something stuck with me, and it took a moment for it to rattle free.

  My clients.

  I felt a rush of adrenaline, like I was close to uncovering a critical piece.

  Slumping on a nearby bench, I set my meager meal next to me. Across from my perch a pair of rats fought over the remains of an old shoe. I rubbed my forehead. I secretly envied Bouchard, a detective, a man t
rained to see both the forest and the trees; how easy would this have been for him?

  Pan.

  I threw the paper cup at the rats in anger; starfish and couscous exploded outward. The rats scuttled away before returning to pick over the remains. Who was Pan to me?

  The Black Goat. There was something there. Something in that title.

  The Black Goat.

  Black.

  Black.

  The miles passed and the first stage of the journey was complete. I knew a Black—sort of.

  Peter Black.

  Partner at Wilem, Black & Bright. An employer. A client. The mysterious delivery. August's connection. The umbra calling me "Guardian." I did guard, in a way.

  The threads were there but they were tenuous. I felt like a tightrope walker in the middle of his act, out above the crowd, rope between my toes, standing on my narrow braided line of salvation. A simple yet precarious path.

  Could Peter Black have some connection to this?

  It was the only lead I could see. I tried to run through everything. It started with Thad—no—it started with Fran Nickel. Killed the morning of my arrival. Then Thad. Then the Bonesaw. I was the only constant, connecting each of the victims.

  I played through the last few days. My arrival in Lovat, the delivery of Black's cargo at the caravansara—from there I fetched my paycheck at Black's offices, then visited Thad. Moments after my visit, maybe right after, Thad was killed and from there…I had it. My cascade of problems flowed from that one pivot point; all trails returned to the delivery.

  And who had put me in connection with Wilem, Black & Bright?

  August Nickel. My friend. My business partner. A possible traitor. He had assured me of their honesty. Smiled, glad-handed, and patted my shoulder. The only one who knew where I was staying the night the maero assailant had attacked.

  I knew what I had to do, and I didn't feel good about it.

  * * *

  I took the monorail back to Lovat proper. Making my way past uniformed patrol officers, head down, cap screwed low, hood up. Another face in the crowd, another nobody. I saw more wanted posters with my old face and I was glad I shaved off the beard. The rain had returned. I marched down Second Avenue, turning onto Hinds, readying myself to face my old friend.

  August and I had met over ten years ago. I was working the shipyards and he was an assistant to a dimanian broker named Marius Nesbit. Nesbit had been a bit of a ball-breaker, and had liked sending August down to check on the shipments he had insured, making sure the stevedores handled his cargo properly. August showed up so often under Nesbit's orders that it wasn't long before he was coming out drinking with the roughnecks after a shift. We hit it off, and when I left the dock life for the road, August — now his own boss and a rising star in the commodities trade — had been incredibly supportive. He was quick to recommend my fledgling business to long-term clients of his own. He had always struck me as open, straight, and honest. Or so I thought.

  I had been betrayed, sold out for some promise of coin, business, something. I knew it, felt it in my gut, and the thought sickened me. The closer I got to Comings & Goings, Ltd. the angrier I became.

  It was the lights that slowed me.

  I stared at the gathering crowd. Humans, dimanians, dauger, and even a few cephels and kresh formed a tight pack that stretched across Hinds Street and blocked passage through it.

  Lovat Central police prowled the space beyond, shoulders hunched, clubs in hand, the officers looking eager for some fool to challenge their authority. I swallowed the lump in my throat and blended in with the rear of the crowd, taking in the scene.

  Stern-faced ambulance men loaded a bloody sheet into the back of a white ambulance fourgon. Police milled about, taking pictures and scratching down notes on old flip pads. Lights flashed red and blue, spinning in their enclosed plastic casings, reflecting off buildings, signs, and the glass storefronts. A stuttering rainbow of intermixing colors. The neon signs for "Comings & Goings, Ltd." and "Sardini Market" seemed extra gaudy.

  Mrs. Sardini.

  I immediately panicked. They better not have touched her. I'll kill them. I'll kill August. I worried for the old woman. I rushed forward, panic overcoming my trepidation. I pushed through the crowd.

  Did August betray her as well? Was she also dead?

  I melted into the crowd, trying to overhear discussions between pedestrians and police.

  "Waldo? Waldo, is that you?" came a creaky, old voice.

  I froze, looking around for the source.

  "Waldo," said the voice a second time.

  I looked down and saw Mrs. Sardini smiling a sad smile. Her rheumy old eyes were wet and swollen, her thin lips drawn and turned down.

  "It's just so sad. So sad. I'm sorry, Waldo."

  I tried to catch my breath and tried to slow my heart rate. I was grateful that she was okay.

  "Mrs. Sardini!" I said, nearly shouting.

  "Oh, Waldo," she said, wrapping her hands around one of mine. I wished she'd quit saying my name so loudly. "It's so sad. So sad. I'm so sorry."

  "What's sad? What happened?" I asked dumbly. But I knew. My stomach dropped.

  "Oh. Oh!" She said. "Oh, Waldo! You don't know? My poor boy. My poor, poor boy. I'm so sorry."

  I felt like I had been hit in the stomach.

  "Know what?" I wheezed. "What don't I know?"

  "August was murdered. Can you believe it? Poor August. Murdered! I went up to take him his lunch, right on the dot, one o'clock as he likes it. I saw him in his chair, and when I drew closer..." She let out a soft moan like air escaping a tube.

  "What happened?" I asked, my stomach in knots. "Please, Mrs. Sardini, what happened to August?"

  The old woman shook from sobs. "He's dead, Waldo. August is dead. There was so much blood."

  She sobbed into my shirt.

  "I didn't linger; I went downstairs and picked up that telephone August had installed for me. I never liked the vulgar things, too loud, too brash. But I placed a call to the police immediately." She paused and then dropped her voice to almost a whisper. I had to lean close to hear. "They took his tongue, Waldo. His tongue! They cut it out. They cut it out!"

  She cried and leaned against me. Shudders running up and down her thin frame, a feather compared to the weight that now bore down on my shoulders.

  August was dead. It threw a wrench into my entire theory. If he had betrayed me, why was he killed? A coverup? Was he feeling guilty? Had he killed himself?

  "But … Mrs. Sardini, how did he die?"

  She stared up at me with eyes that had seen too many terrible things.

  "Ch-choked," she managed through tears. "Choked on his own blood. They held him down, forced his head back, and slit his throat…."

  The umbra...visions of her straight razor flashed through my memory.

  "How do you know this?" I asked.

  "The detectives told me. All I saw was the blood. There was so much blood. I dropped his lunch."

  I wrapped my arms around her, unsure what else to do. There was a hole in my gut. I had been livid with August a moment earlier, but now all I wanted to do was cry. Another friend. Another loss.

  August. Loud, boisterous August. Dead. It was heartbreaking.

  Mrs. Sardini heaved massive sobs into my jacket, and I tried to comfort her as best I could. August was like a son to the old woman, and she like a mother to him. He protected her, let her run her business practically rent-free. This loss would be devastating to her.

  I surveyed the crowd.

  Blank faces from Level Three pushed against the police tape and recoiled as the officers threatened with a few well-placed smacks. I looked up to the edge where Level Four ended and saw faces from a crowd staring back down, gawking at the investigation going on below them.

  I didn't recognize anyone. That was good. I was in the lion's den. Lovat PD officers were a heartbeat away. Clean-shaven, I felt confident it would take a well-trained eye to recognize me from the wanted
posters, but at any moment someone could spot me. I decided I shouldn't linger much longer.

  I was about to turn away and tell Mrs. Sardini goodbye when I noticed three figures in the crowd across the police line. A kresh, a human, and a dimanian. Wearing the rust red jacket of the Children, patches bearing the mark of Pan emblazoned on their sleeves. Pan's symbol.

  As a kid I remember read a book about famous crimes, where the writer—and I forget his name now—said that arsonists were often caught when they returned to the scene of a fire. Did murderers do that? Did they return to admire the chaos their brutal act created? The three Children stood near the police tape across the road from me, quietly laughing at jokes too distant for me to hear. Was the umbra also among the crowd?

  "Mrs. Sardini," I said.

  "Yes, Wal?" asked the old woman, pulling away and looking up at me.

  "You ever seen those three? Over there?" I nodded in their direction.

  She squinted in their direction and eventually pulled on the glasses that hung about her neck. "Who now?" she asked.

  "Those three. Over there, near the police tape. Between the buildings. Red jackets."

  She squinted again, and the moments ticked by slow as a cart in the mud. "Those boys? Of course, I don't know their names though. Friends of August and Robby. They rarely bought anything from me."

  "How often did you see them?"

  "Oh, they usually dropped in once or twice a week. Seemed like nice young men."

  "Did you see them earlier?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "I can't remember the last time I saw any of them. It was young Robby who came around the most."

  "Robby who?"

  "Robby...um, what was his name, Robby...Wilem. Yes, that's it. Robby Wilem."

  Wilem.

  Wilem, Black & Bright.

  "Wilem? Who is Robby Wilem?"

  "He's not over there right now. I don't know who he was; however, he had a similar jacket. I figured they were in a club together, maybe part of a jai alai team. He was the only one to introduce himself. Nice young fella, lots of tattoos—bit hot under the collar, though. He and August were always going at it."