The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  "How did it go?" I asked, my whole reason for being at their house in the first place washed away. "The Bonding I mean?"

  Wensem laughed. "When did you learn about the Bonding?"

  I explained, telling Wensem about my earlier visit and my meeting with his neighbor.

  The smile on Wensem's face betrayed his words. "Ol' Bridge can't keep his damned mouth shut, not surprising he blathered. Probably told half the warren."

  Little Waldo started to cry and Kitasha moved over to scoop him out of my arms.

  "He's getting hungry, I'd imagine," she said in her soft, almost imperceptible voice. "I'll feed him and leave you three to talk." She paused and looked at me. "Wal, you sure you're okay?"

  I nodded and smiled.

  "If you don't mind, I'll excuse myself as well. I'm exhausted, running around the woods with these two is hard work. It was good to see you, Wal, and nice to meet you, Hagen."

  "You too, Kit," I said, watching her disappear into a back room.

  "Nice to meet you," Hagen echoed.

  "I meant what I said, you look like hell," said Wensem, taking a seat in another empty chair. The sparse decor caused our voices to echo off the walls. Maero weren't much for decor, didn't see the need for it. "What brings you here tonight in such a panic? Don't think I didn't notice."

  "You read the papers? Heard the news?" I asked.

  Wensem rolled his eyes. "You ever have a kid?" He paused and chuckled, "One that you know about? I got back and went to bed. I haven't touched the radio or flicked through the papers. What is it?"

  Hagen interjected, "You're looking at public enemy number one, Mister Ibble."

  Wensem grinned, leaned forward, and rubbed his face with his massive hand. "First, it's Wensem, Mister Ibble is only if you want to be all formal. Second, there's no way Wal can be public anything, except maybe public glutton."

  "Hagen's right," I said. My voice flat.

  Wensem's laugh choked to a stop. He tilted his head and looked at me, his face twisting into displeasure. "What?"

  "There's been trouble. I was arrested."

  Wensem looked like I was pulling one over on him—probably from a life of me pulling one over on him every chance I could get.

  "After we split I went and saw Thaddeus. Wanted to sell those spectacles I picked up on the Big Ninety. He was killed shortly after my visit. Him and a bunch of others. A lot of people."

  The shock in Wensem's face was obvious. He hadn't been as close to Thad as I was, but he still considered the anur a friend. "Maybe you need to start at the beginning."

  I did, telling him everything that had led me to his doorstep. Wensem sat in silence for some time staring at an empty spot on the floor. I let him stew. Wensem was smart but he wasn't quick to act. Every motion of his was intentional; he thought out his actions six, sometimes seven moves in advance like a master go player. Where I tended to be more hot headed, Wensem was the slow burn. After a few moments Wensem looked up at me.

  His own eyes had faded over the years, looking more steel than bright blue. He shook his head. "How in the hell, Wal?"

  I shrugged.

  "I have a kid now. A son."

  "I know."

  "If August was alive, I'd probably kill him."

  "We don't know how involved August was, I'm not sure he knew what he was getting into," Hagen said.

  "Look, I just need you to corroborate my story. It should keep Bouchard and the police off my back. Even for a little while. It's impossible for me to move around freely."

  "Wal, I've been gone for two weeks. I can vouch for you with Thad and with the musician, but these others..." his voice trailed off.

  "There's something else," I blurted out, wishing I didn't have to.

  Wensem's features turned darker.

  "I think they're after you. It's connections to me. All the victims. I dated Fran. Was friends with Thad. The doctor helped me out. These were people I knew. Friends. Family. They need my heart, and two more—" I winced, "—pieces."

  "Feet and throat," said Hagen.

  "We're guessing from you and...Little Wal."

  Wensem rose, his eyes widening, and he ran his long fingers through his stringy hair as he paced back and forth through the room.

  "You needed to know. I couldn't have anything happen to Kit, Little Wal, or you."

  Wensem didn't speak. He shook with rage, fighting with himself to quell it. I could see Hagen pull back, unsure of what to expect. I knew we were safe. Wensem's temper was perfectly under control. He knew we weren't to blame for this, and he was just dealing with information overload. I held up my hand toward Hagen and nodded, he eased somewhat.

  "You have a gun?" I asked after Wensem had stopped pacing and slumped against a wall by his front door. He shook his head.

  I pulled the Judge from my coat pocket and held it out. "I picked this up. For you. I meant what I said, I've seen enough death. I can't have Black get to you as well. Take this. Just in case."

  Wensem stood and moved closer, reaching down and pausing, his seven digit hand hovering above the firearm.

  "Take it," I insisted.

  He reached down and gingerly picked it up.

  "Heavy," he observed.

  "Called a Judge," I began, pulling out a box of .45 slugs from my pocket. "The gun shop owner said it shoots both these and some kind of modified buck shot."

  "Bizarre."

  "I guess. The shells are .45s. They pack a big punch. Use it only if you need to. Don't let Lovat Central catch you with it either."

  "Is it hot?"

  I shrugged. "It wasn't cheap."

  "Is it clean?"

  "We were assured it was," added Hagen.

  "I'm not leaving you unarmed am I?"

  I shook my head. "We bought two."

  Wensem resumed his position on his chair. His emotions were clear again. His face was as placid as an alpine lake during a summer dawn.

  "I don't know when this will end," I admitted.

  "Do you need help?"

  "Maybe. I'm still trying to figure this out. I could use a good word in with Bouchard. I won't turn myself in, but it'd be nice to not be public enemy number one."

  "How dangerous are these people, these...Children?"

  Hagen leaned forward. "They've killed five. They've cut off body parts and walked away, pinning it all on Wal here. I'd say that makes them very dangerous."

  "Why pin the murders on him?"

  "I honestly don't think it was intentional, merely a side effect of Wal's involvement. It creates the perfect distraction. Wal is running around and the spotlight is on him not on the actions of the Children."

  I chimed in, "The Children are passionate but clumsy. I've thrown down with them a few times. It's the umbra you have to worry about. She's the real killer."

  "The assassin."

  I nodded.

  "We're going to head back to Saint Mark's tonight," I said. "Hunker down and lie low."

  "You sure it's safe?" asked Wensem. "You can stay here."

  I nodded. "I don't want to expose you and your family anymore than I already have. I'll try to figure this out, and if I need you I'll send a telegraph. For now stay alert and stay alive."

  "We will," said Wensem.

  "The cathedral has a telephone." I gave him the number on a scrap of paper. "Ring me tomorrow. Ask for Samantha Dubois, Hagen's sister. She'll connect you with me. We need to get some communication going between us. Make sure the other is okay."

  Wensem and I embraced and he and Hagen shook hands.

  "Pleasure to meet you, Wensem."

  "You too."

  "We'll talk tomorrow," I confirmed, and Wensem nodded.

  * * *

  I stepped out of the house and into the quickly cooling street. Hagen stood next to me and we both listened in silence as Wensem locked the door behind us. I didn't know what to think, confusion and guilt ran through my brain. I felt responsible. It was probably selfish, but seeing the kid that bore my name and
seeing the happiness in Kitasha's face and the sun-bright pride in Wensem's smile had crushed me. Visions of the shadow assassin with her red eyes danced through my head, waving that wicked, straight razor in figure eights.

  Hagen and I shivered against the night air. It may have been the dead center of summer, but nights in Lovat cooled quickly, a testament to the circulation built within the floors and ceilings of the levels. I pulled my jacket close and Hagen and I hobbled down the street toward the monorail platform.

  "Good people," Hagen stated.

  "You can see why I was worried. I love all three of them. Wensem is like my brother. I'd die for them, any of them."

  Hagen nodded in understanding but didn't say anything.

  "Here, hold up, let me catch my breath." I eased down onto an old bench and waited until my leg quit throbbing.

  "You okay?" asked Hagen.

  Nodding, I said, "I'm tired. This whole ordeal."

  He gave me a weak smile. "I understand."

  "No," I spat. "No. You don't. You don't. This is on me. I brought this down on all of us. Look, I'm sorry, Hagen. I'm sorry for you and I'm sorry for Sam. I didn't want to drag you into this, I didn't want to drag Wensem and his family into this, if I had known..."

  I could feel my eyes well up. Embarrassment flushed my cheeks.

  Hagen held up a hand, silencing me. "No. Play the martyr all you want, but this doesn't fall on your doorstep. This lies solidly at the feet of Peter Black." He chuckled. "Maybe his hooves."

  I laughed. The joke wasn't that funny, but emotions overwhelmed me and I laughed. It felt good. Honest. Real. I needed more of that right now.

  "Sam's pissed, isn't she?"

  "She doesn't like guns."

  "Think she'll forgive me? Forgive us?"

  "Us? I pinned this all on you," Hagen said with a grin.

  "Carter's cross," I swore. "Let's get back to St. Mark's. I'll see if I can't get your sister drunk on the sacramental wine."

  "You know you aren't too beat up for me to slap around," said Hagen, offering me a hand. I took it and he pulled me to my feet. "That is my little sister you're talking about."

  "You don't think I'd make a decent brother-in-law?"

  "I might kill you before Black does." Hagen laughed.

  We turned a corner and moved off of Wensem's street and into a darkened alley with dim lights. Holly crawled up the walls of buildings, the dim light and shadows making it look like it was moving. The air smelled of summer marigolds. A few rats scurried at our feet, eager to get out of the way. The plaintive, desperate howl of a tomcat echoed between the buildings.

  We moved slowly. Silently watching the silhouettes of the inhabitants through their lit curtains in the windows around us: shadow plays of mundane, yet strangely appealing lives. The flicker of monochromes in the homes that could afford them. The muffled sounds of radios playing jazz from those that could not. Good folk. Honest folk going about their business. Living their lives.

  We took the monorail to Frink Park, our attempt at being clever and following the advice of hardboiled detectives from the radio serials for losing potential tails. We moved away from the monorail platform and lost ourselves in an alley, winding our way through Broadway Hill's narrow, twisting streets.

  The food booths that had greeted me when I arrived in the city were closed. The lights were dim. The faint memory of the smell of cooked meat and grease was overwhelmed by the cloying scent of dampness. If this were a weekend, drunks would be stumbling about seeking purchase on one of the booth's stools; but in the middle of the week, in the late night or early morning, things were quiet.

  "I want this to be over," I admitted as we made our way down a narrow alley. My stomach rumbled as I thought about the food. Pierogi sounded good.

  Hagen smiled and placed a hand on my shoulder. A friendly gesture. Agreement. Companionship. I looked over at him, my own smile faltering as the scent of summer marigolds filled my nose a second time.

  It's a funny thing, detective serials. The truth is, despite our best efforts, we didn't know how to lose tails. We couldn't figure out how to be discreet. A wild-haired dimanian walking down a quiet alley with a hobbled up caravan master is hardly an inconspicuous pair.

  Hagen's face went from a friendly expression to one of dead surprise that sent a cold chill down my spine. My skin turned to goose pimples. I followed his eyes as he focused on something over my shoulder. I moved but was too slow to react.

  My world became blackness.

  A bag of dyed hopsack was pulled tightly against my face. I tried to see through the loose knitting, but before I could gain awareness, my crutch was kicked free. I dropped, landing on my knee—my hurt knee.

  I screamed.

  Everything seemed fuzzy, felt fuzzy. Sounds. Smells. It was as if I was underwater, hearing noises far above me. It felt like the cloying dampness—always persistent in Lovat—had flooded over me.

  Hagen's own shouts sounded distant. A gurgling, muffled choke as they ended.

  My knee burned fire as my mouth was filled with rough, choking fabric.

  TWENTY

  The weight of the hopsack was pulled from my head but it didn't do my eyes any good. It was pitch black, wherever we were.

  Time was muddled. I had lost track of it, lost track of everything. We had struggled against the invisible assailants but there had been too many and they had gotten the jump on us. Any chance I had to react had been ripped from me as pain flooded the recesses of my body.

  My wounded knee, my ribs, even the gunshot in my arm had all had their moment in the spotlight, each a bright spot of pain flaring up in the darkness behind the musty scent that lingered in the hopsack. The pulls, pushes, shoves, pokes, kicks, and punches drummed against me as I was half carried, half dragged to this black abyss.

  My kidnappers didn't speak, but they weren't silent. A shuffle here, a gust of air there as a body breezed past, a muffled grunt from behind me, a hacking cough. I struggled, but my hands were tightly bound behind my back by a cord. The knot grew tighter, and I could feel my hands numbing. I tried to remember when I had been bound, but couldn't; my abduction was a murky tangle of memories.

  I tried to figure out my surroundings. In the distance water dripped, with a hollow ringing sound like the tolling of a clock. Nearer, the sound of boots crunching on gravel. Even closer was the sucking slurp as mud pulled at someone's heel.

  Through it all, I smelled the heady stink of vegetation, the cloying bouquet of dampness. I caught a brief whiff of something sweeter, but through the fog of my mind, I couldn't place it. A flower. Some sort of flower. Then it was gone.

  Lost, I was lost. Even with all these clues I couldn't get my bearings. That realization was devastating. It was like I was missing an essential part of what made me who I am. My sense of direction is a part of my trade, something I'm proud of. I lead with confidence and people follow. It's what makes me a good caravan master.

  But here...here...wherever I was, something was missing.

  I was lost, not just to the world, but to myself.

  Someone collapsed next to me, the loudest sound in this bleak, lightless void. Hagen, probably. He grunted and the sound echoed with a hollowness that seemed to absorb more than it reflected. My mind raced, trying to catch what had reflected the noise—brick, cement, stone? I couldn't be sure.

  "Hagen!" I said. "Hey Hagen. You okay?"

  No answer.

  "Shut up," someone ordered.

  Moving my head, I looked over my shoulder, hoping for some glimmer of light. Realizing how much I missed it, how much I normally took it for granted. In the blackest nights on the trail there is always light. Even down along the Sunk, the sodium lamps hiss and pop, keeping the lowest portions of Lovat lit. Here, it was impossible to tell. I didn't know if the walls were nearby or hundreds of feet away. I felt closed in, trapped in utter blackness. For all I knew I could be on Level Two or on Level Nine, hidden away in some windowless back room in one of the towers.


  It hit me like a runaway ox, what was missing from this scene. There was no way I was in the city—it wasn't possible. The dripping water had led me down the wrong trail.

  Even in its driest summer, Lovat is always dripping. There's always a leak, always a flood from somewhere above in the more elevated levels, but beyond those drips was always the buzz…and the buzz was missing.

  Caravaneers talk of the silence of the road, but it's a misconception, because the road is never truly silent. Even at its most still, in the early morning hours or late at night, the world still rushes with life. Grass sings with the breeze, branches sway and creak, cicadas buzz in hot passion, night birds call out claiming territory, and coyote packs roaming the hills howl telegraphs to one another.

  Lovat is also never quiet. It hums like some great hive. Something is always awake, either above you or below you. Traffic, pedestrians, pets, vendors, music, the sounds of millions upon millions of souls living together, stacked atop one another and always, endlessly, generating noise. It never ceases: a white noise. The city. Alive.

  Here in the black pit there was nothing.

  It unnerved me. My heart began to beat louder. I was somewhere else, and somewhere very foreign.

  This was wrong. This silence. This was very wrong.

  My panic increased. My heart thrummed in my chest, loud enough it was probably audible to whoever—whatever—was circling Hagen and me now. A hand pushed me back down as I moved to rise, struggling with my bonds.

  Laughter.

  It exploded in the silence of the space. Raw. Unabashed. Cruel.

  A red glow appeared in the distance. So subtle I could barely make it out. I blinked, my eyes trying to focus on the fuzzy glow, unsure if it was actually there. It glided in soft bobs toward me, increasing in brightness as it moved closer. As it neared, it separated into two distinct shapes.