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“I’d knew you’d show up again. Just my damn luck.”

     “Language, Abe, language.” Silas crossed the office and sat down. “A man your age should know better.”

     Peter Abernathy harrumphed and crossed his arms over his chest. His spectacles glinted as he looked at the young man. He was trying to evoke a commanding air. It wasn’t working. Silas could taste the old man’s apprehension. The detective also noticed the protective charm sticking out of Abernathy’s shirt. Silas smiled at the sleepiness nights he must have had worrying about the lich.

     “What’s with the arm?” the old man asked. “You tried skateboarding again?”

     “I’ll have you know, Poppin’ Fresh, I’m an excellent skater.”

     “What do you want?”

     “I come with good news,” Silas said. “You can unclench. The lich is dead.”
     “So, you got it done. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

     “I was busy.”

     “Are you absolutely certain he’s dead?” Abernathy asked.

     “Yep,” Silas said. “Not something you can forget.”

     “How were you able to kill him?” he asked.

     “I’m not giving you a play-by-play,” Silas said. “Just know it wasn’t easy.” He tapped his cast.

     Abernathy studied his face. After a moment, he relaxed.

     “Fine.” He unclasped the talisman from around his neck and tossed it into a drawer.

     “Is that all? I’m a busy man.”

     “Your Monte Cristo can wait, Abe. I have more.”

     With his good arm, Silas reached into his satchel. He retrieved a bundle roughly the size of a football, wrapped in newspaper. Unceremoniously, he dropped it onto the desk.

     Abernathy gawked at the parcel. “What’s this?”

     “What do you think?”

     Adjusting his glasses, the old man scooted forward. Slowly, he peeled the paper away. His eyes bulged as he got a look at the thing. With both hands he picked up a seven-headed leopard made of black stone. Light refused to reflect off its surface. It seemed to suck it in like a black hole. Awe washed over the old man’s face. Silas thought he saw a tear trickle down his cheek.

     “It’s more beautiful than I remembered,” Abernathy said.

     “Beautiful? I can see why you never married.”

     Anger flashed over the man’s face. “You said you didn’t have it.”

     “Whaddaya know, I was wrong.”

     “Are you really just giving it to me?” Abernathy asked.

     “Come on, Abe,” Silas said. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

     “I see,” the old man said. “You want money. That’s fine, it’s what I promised.” He took out his checkbook. “Will ten thousand be enough?”

     “Yeah, ten’s good–no. No money,” Silas said. “Not everything’s about money.”

     “Silas, I’ve known you your whole life,” Abernathy said. “You’re just like your father. And neither of you were generous.”

     “Maybe you didn’t know Henry as well as you thought,” the detective said. “I said I’d get you the stone. Here it is.”

     Abe nodded his approval.

     “Care to tell me what’s so special about it?” Silas asked.

     The old man smiled like a viper. “No.”

     He ran a hand across the statuette. His fingers traced the intricate patterns etched across the leopard’s back. He rotated it in the air to examine every angle. A shiver of joy passed over Abernathy.

     “Should I leave you two alone?” Silas said.

     Abernathy set the stone down. “What about Henry’s collection? It’s now incomplete.”

     “It’s my collection now,” Silas said. “I can do with it as I please.”

     For a moment Silas detected a glimmer of jealousy in the old man’s eyes.

     “If you’re satisfied with the cat, I’ll be going.”

     “Thank you, Silas.” Abe reached across the desk and offered his hand. Silas took it. “The Beast Stone will be the centerpiece of the new Society of Muninn.”

     “You’re bringing it back?” Silas asked.

     “Yes,” Abernathy said. “Of course, you’ll have seat at the founder’s table, if you’re so inclined.”

     “I’ll chew on that.”

     Silas escaped the office. He didn’t relish the thought of Abe actually liking him. The old man waved to him as he disappeared behind the door. With unusual speed, Abernathy raced to a chest on the other side of his office. Unlocking a drawer, he took out a cell phone. There was only one number in it. It rang for a minute before someone answered.

     “It’s me,” Abernathy said. “I have the Beast Stone.”

     A voice on the other end spoke, fast and excited.

     “Yes, yes, I know,” Abe said. “We have all of them now. We will begin as soon as possible.”

     Silas made his way downstairs. He stopped at the receptionist in the lobby and tried making conversation. It didn’t go well. He strode out of the building, casting a final glance at the facade. He knew something was supposed to be happening, something he didn’t quite understand. Crossing the street, he approached a car sitting quietly on the corner.

     It was a 1975, four-door Bentley. It was a dismal creature. The silver paint had turned gray. It sat lower than any car should. The iconic hood ornament had long ago wandered off. Silas bought the beast to commemorate his partnership with Hannah. She had not been impressed. Walking over to the driver side, he slapped the roof.

     “You said to wait twenty minutes, right?” he asked.

     The window slowly rolled down. “This car doesn’t even have power windows,” Hannah said. “I have to turn a crank, like an animal.”

     “Oh, what a burden” Silas said. “Can you focus on the job?”

     “You could have just come back to the car to wait,” she said. “You don’t need to be in the building for it to work.”

     Silas paused. “I knew that. So, is it working?”

     He stuck his head through the window to get a look at the computer in her lap. Several complicated-looking windows were open, the largest showing a sound file. A pair of expensive headphones were connected to the device and draped around Hannah’s shoulders.

     “I’m getting something,” she said, pulling the headphones up. “I can hear everything going on in Abe’s office. Where did you stick the bug?”

     “Under the lip of his desk,” Silas said.

     “Did he see you?”

     “Not a chance. He was too busy ogling that statue. Get anything good yet?”

     “He made a phone call,” she said. “Said something like, ‘We have them all now.’ What do you think that means?”

     “Dunno,” Silas said. “We’ll have to look into it. I want to find out just what Abe plans to do with that stone. And if it’s something I’ll have to stop.”

     “The sound’s a bit muffled,” Hannah said. “Wish we could’ve planted a camera.”

     “One felony at a time,” Silas said. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t find it and call the cops.”

     “The bug’s battery will be dead before he can trace it to us.”

     He crossed the front of the old sedan and climbed into the passenger’s seat.

     “You really learned this stuff in college?” he asked Hannah.

     She nodded, a little sheepishly. “It wasn’t course material. But it’s little tricks like this that can give you an edge on a story.”

     “Bit of a gray area, though, ethically,” Silas said.

     “Tell that to paparazzi.”

     She slid the computer onto his lap as she fumbled with the keys.

     “Aren’t you glad I convinced you to get this equipment?” she said. “This’ll make case work much easier.”

     “Yes, you’re very smart. Shut up.”

     “Your plan was to dress up like window washers and scale the building.”

     “It’s worked in the past,” he said.

     “Where, Mexico?”
     She turned the ignition and the Bentley belched to life. Black smoke chugged out the exhaust. The seats vibrated like unruly motel beds. They had to shout over the engine.

     “I can’t believe you bought this,” Hannah said.

     “I got it for you,” he said.

     “Why didn’t you get a new car?” she said. “Something nice. Not a British-made, Titanic on wheels.”

     “The Titanic was British,” he said.

     “Only helping my argument.”

     “This car’s got a lot of personality,” Silas said as she shifted into first gear. The behemoth lurched onto the street, emitting a series of high-pitched whines. It squealed as they pulled into the intersection. The light turned green and the Bentley stalled. A chorus of horns assaulted them as Hannah tried to coax it back to life. Silas pointed a finger at her.

     “Not one word.”

END

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Hannah was floating. Everything was black, save a trickle of light, far below her. Somewhere, far away, she heard a voice. Something else was in the darkness. She felt it try to touch her. Its anger was like a rolling tide. Rising higher and higher, she thought it was going to crash down on her. Instead, it shrank away. Hannah felt herself pulled back, out of the darkness. There was noise and blinding light.

     The first thing she noticed was the bed. It was much too comfortable. Sitting up, she felt the world rock uneasily around her. Hannah squinted. Everything was blurry and white. A television was squawking in the corner. Computer monitors beeped by her head. There was a plastic clamp pinching her finger. Hannah pulled it off and threw it across the room.

     “Ever the compliant patient.” A tall, attractive woman in scrubs appeared. She picked up the pulse oximeter and wagged it at her. “This isn’t a toy, Hannah.”

     “Nice to see you too, Liz,” Hannah said.

     “Give me your hand.”

     “I feel fine,” she said. “I don’t want to wear that.”

     “You’re in my hospital, you do as I say.”

     “Oh, it’s your hospital, now? You’re going up in the world.”

     “Hand.”

     “When did I get here?” Hannah asked as she stuck out her hand.

     “Two days ago,” Liz said. “They wanted to bring you to Maimonides. Like hell, they would.”

     “Have I been out the whole time?”

     “Yes,” her doctor said. “I’ve checked up on you as much as I could.”

     “God, what’s wrong with me?” Hannah moved around a little. Her muscles were sore and she had a headache. But nothing felt broken or oozing.

     Liz busied herself with the machines beside the bed. “Just a few bruised ribs. The rest is shock and exhaustion.”

     “Oh,” Hannah said. “Well, that’s good.”

     “Yep. Looks like we don’t need this anymore.” She ripped the IV from Hannah’s arm.”

     “Ow! I guess you’re pissed.”

     “Yes I’m pissed,” Liz said. “The last time I saw you, you were being carried into my house by some strange man. Then you run off without an explanation. Finally, I get a call from the police as they drag your carcass in. I don’t know what’s going on.”

     “Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Hannah said. “I didn’t mean to run off. Should’ve left a note, or something. And, I didn’t mean to take your good jeans.”

     Liz looked away, covering her face with a hand. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. You forget there are people who care about you, dummy.”

     Hannah stared at her bed sheets. She tugged at a loose thread. “This was more than a story, Liz. But you’re right. I was thinking about myself. I didn’t realize how my actions would affect you.”

     Liz looked at her, surprised. “You’ve never said anything like that before.”

     “Maybe I’m growing up, a little,” Hannah said.

     “A little.” The doctor pointed across the room. “I brought some clean clothes. Do you need help getting up?”

     “I think I can manage.”

     Neatly folded on a table were Hannah’s belongings. Sitting on top of the clothes was a thick manila envelope.

     “What’s this?” she asked.

     “I dunno. That Silas person left it for you,” Liz said.

     “How is he?”

     Liz shrugged. “He’s fine. Broke his arm. Too bad it wasn’t his mouth. He was hanging around here the first day, but I shooed him off.”

     Inside the envelope was a stack of paper. A Post-it read, “Thought this might help your article. S.B.” At the top of the page was written, “The Brides of Ozryel. Case No. 268.” It was Silas’s detailed notes on the entire investigation, starting with his examination of Emily Lisbon’s apartment. It was over forty pages long.

     “Anything interesting?” Liz asked.

     “You can say that.”

     Silas sat in his armchair. At his feet was Barnabas, asleep like a stone. The detective’s arm itched. He couldn’t scratch it, on account of the cast. Currently, he was thinking of implements that he could fit under the plaster. This prevented him from paying attention to the short, gnarled man sitting across from him. He had been talking for twenty minutes. Silas heard none of it.

     “What was that, Leonard?” Silas shook himself out of his reverie. “You were attacked by a hobgoblin?”

     The man shook his head. Light bounced off his incredibly thick glasses like strobes. “That was last week.”

     “Then what is it?”

     “You haven’t been listening?” Leonard asked.

     “Sorry, Leonard. Scratch that, I’m not sorry. If you have a real problem, take it to the police.”
     “And tell them what,” Leonard said, “that I’ve been the victim of a time-traveling experiment?”

     “Oh, God.” Silas rubbed his temples.

     “It’s true. It explains everything.”

     “Leonard, you’ve been coming to me almost every week for five years,” Silas said. “Not once has anything you’ve told me been provable.”

     Leonard gesticulated with both hands. “That’s because I only just stumbled upon the truth. But you’re smart, doc. I know you can get to the bottom of this.”

     Silas stood up and grabbed the man by the arm. “I’m not a doctor. And I think it’s time you sought a professional.”

     “That’s what my mother keeps saying,” Leonard said.

     “No it isn’t. She’s been dead for ten years.”

     Silas managed to drag the surprisingly light man to his front door.

     “You have to help me, Silas, I’m a client.”

     “I maintain a policy of refusing service to anyone,” Silas said. “I’m enacting that policy for the first time.”

     “But I’ve got proof.”

     Silas stopped in front of the door and turned to face him.

     “Show me.”

     Leonard pulled out a weathered piece of newsprint. The date was 1894. He held it up to Silas, pointing at a grainy photo of Times Square.

     “See that little boy?” he asked.

     Silas squinted. “You mean the out-of-focus newsie a hundred feet from the camera?”

     “That’s me!”

     “Here’s the door,” the detective said.

     Silas opened it. Standing on the other side, hand raised to knock, was Hannah. He smiled.

     “Oh look, my four o’clock is here.”

     “But it’s only two,” Leonard said.

     “So, what?”

     With his good arm, Silas pulled Hannah into the foyer and swung Leonard out. The man was still holding up the newspaper as Silas closed the door on him. He pressed his back against it for good measure.

     “Who was that?” Hannah asked.

     “Eh.”

     “Got ya.”

     Silas led the way back into the living room. “I take it Liz the doctor has given you a clean bill of health?”

     “Got a few bruises, that’s all,” she said. Hannah stopped at the fridge and took out a Mexican orange soda. She popped the lid off on the counter edge and squeezed passed the Narnia-like wardrobe. The brown dog raised his head at the sight of her, walking over to give her hand a lick.

     “How’s the arm?”

     He rapped the cast with a knuckle. “Still there. It’ll be fine in a few months. Makes it hard to write, though.”

     She took a swig of her drink. “You need a computer.”

     “Can’t type. What good’s a computer?” he asked.

     “There’s such a thing as dictation software, Merlin.”

     “There is?” He paused to consider the wonders of technology. “What brings you here?”

     “I wanted to thank you for the case notes,” she said. “They helped a lot.”

     Silas returned to his chair, a book already in his lap. “You finished the story?”

     “Finished and sent it off,” Hannah said. “The Daily liked it. Getting a lot of hits.”

     He made a hmph noise as he flipped through The Mating Habits of Burmese Gibbons. “Looks like you’re well on your way,” he said.

     “I didn’t mention, everything,” she said. “Doubt people would believe it. Don’t think I would.”

     “People reject anything that doesn’t fit into their worldview,” Silas said.

     “But the paper was eager to learn about the missing women. Got me to interview Emily. She’s recovering by the way.”

     Silas nodded, but said nothing.

     “They’re pretty curious about you,” Hannah said.

     “Is that why I’ve been getting so many calls lately?” he asked.

     “They probably want to interview you.”

     “Ugh.”

     Hannah took another drink of her soda, before realizing the bottle was empty. She set it on the fire bench and sat down. “My memory’s fuzzy about what happened. At the very end.”

     “Not a surprise,” he said. “Just be glad the psychic link didn’t cause permanent damage.”

     “It’s not like I want to remember everything,” she said. “But what happened after the mirror broke?”

     Silas closed the book. “Daragon was destroyed and everything went tits up as his pocket dimension unraveled.”

     “What about me?” Hannah asked.

     “What about you?” he asked.

     “For a few seconds, I was somewhere else.”

     “Were you? Last thing I remember, some SWAT guys were dragging us both out of there. McClelland was at the park on the other side with EMTs and the lot.”

     “Do you have any idea what happened to me, in those few seconds?” she asked.

     “Only you would know for sure,” Silas said.

     Slowly she shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

     “Then it’s probably for the best. Not every memory is worth keeping.”

     “Maybe.” Hannah looked at her feet. She was almost unable to say the next thing. What she really went there to say. “What do I do now?”

     Silas closed the book. “What do you mean?”

     “You know what I mean,” she said. “I can’t go back to my normal life. Not after this. How I just go on living like everyone else, knowing all that’s out there?”

     “You can’t,” he said. “Things happen and you’re changed forever. Sometimes for good, sometimes for bad. At least you made it out alive, right?”

     “How do you do it?” she asked.

     Silas looked at Hannah, a level of sincerity in his eyes she had yet seen.

     “I rest in the fact that, with every case, I’m one step closer to the truth.”

     “What truth?”

     “Of everything,” he said

     “I guess I don’t have the luxury,” Hannah said. “Seeing as how this was my one and only case.”

     “Too bad.” He went back to his book.

     “You know,” she said, “I could help you out, if you had more tough cases. I could learn more, myself. You said you needed extra hands.”

     “Maybe,” the detective said. “I could use a permanent assistant. Organization isn’t my strong suit.”

     “No kidding.”

     “But what about your career?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be chasing down leads?”

     “The Daily wants more on you,” Hannah said. “I could send them something from time to time. That is, if I was around to see it.”

     “Killing two birds with one stone, huh? I assume I’m suppose to compensate you for your help?” he said.

     “How’s twenty dollars an hour sound?” she asked.

     “Is that a lot?” he asked.

     “You can afford it,” Hannah said. “I read up on your dad. Looks like you inherited more than just his artifacts.”

     “I have a feeling I’m going to regret this,” Silas said.

     “So, it’s a deal?”

     “It seems so.” He cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted. “Mrs. Plonka!”

     “What are you doing?” she asked.

     “Need a dog sitter. We have a case.” He pushed himself out of the chair.

     “Right now?” Hannah asked.

     “They were expecting me an hour ago.” He pulled a coat out of the wardrobe–a new green one–draping it over his shoulder.

     “Why the delay?” she said, following him from the living room.

     “I was waiting for you.”

     “Shut up. You didn’t know I’d come,” she said.

     “Of course, I would.” He looked back at her, smirking. “You’re an hour late. I had to spend time with Leonard. But come on, I got something to mark the occasion.”

     He trampled down the steps like a child, Barnabas right behind. Hannah stood at the top of the stairs, listening to him batter Plonka’s door. She closed the apartment door behind her and started after him.

     “Better not be a dead body. Again.”

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“We’ve been that way already.”

     “I know, I just wanted to look again,” Silas said.

     “We’re getting nowhere,” Lang said. “Five more minutes and we’re pulling out.”

     “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “The way back is probably closed.”

     The steps leading from the park had spiraled down endlessly, until Silas and the police reached a network of tunnels. Burrows, the detective called them, as they looked like holes made by giant worms. All the passages ended at empty rooms. One had a few bones in the corner. Silas assured everyone they were too old to be anyone they knew.

     For the fifth time, he passed an opening in the tunnel wall. It wasn’t a passage, more of a shoot large enough for a person to fit through. He had ignored it because of its small circumference and the fact it was most certainly one way. Eventually, he stopped and shone his light into it. He thought he saw something at the bottom, something more than gray dirt. Returning the flashlight to his bag, he started to climb in.

     “Whoa, what are you doing?” Lang asked.

     “This is the only passage we haven’t checked,” Silas said.

     “Where does it lead?”

     “I dunno, but it’s better than standing around here with you.”

     He dropped down the hole and was soon exploring the new room. It didn’t take long. Silas called up the shoot.

     “You better come down here.”

     “Why?”

     “Just do it!”

     The entire team gathered uncomfortably in the tight room, the roof only half a foot above their heads. In front of them, a dead man slumped across a table. Silas stood over him, using the butt of his Maglite to lift the head.

     “Ugly son of a gun,” he said, nodding at the shriveled nose and half-melted eye balls. “Must’ve hurt.”

     “Another one of those… husks?” Lang asked.

     “This guy looks worse,” Silas. “Like a mummy. I’d say he’s a real undead. Or was.”

     Officer Esposito gestured at it with his gun. “What happened to him?”

     “The ol’ knife in the stomach trick,” Silas said, pointing at the weapon on the table. He inspected a cart of surgical tools. “Looks like he was in the middle of a procedure. Ugh.” He stepped away from a broken jar. A puddle of green liquid was working its way through the cracks in the floor. “Don’t step in that.”

     “What is this place?” Lang asked.

     Silas was busy sifting through clothes on a shelf cut into the wall.

     “Operating room?” he said. “These clothes must have belonged to the kidnapped women.” He felt relieved when he couldn’t find Hannah’s clothes among the others.

     “Is this our perp?” Esposito asked.

     “I wish,” Silas said. “But if Daragon had died, this whole place would have collapsed.”

     “Collapsed? With us in it?” Lang said.

     “I told you not to follow me,” Silas said.

     “No you didn’t.”

     “Are there any signs of your partner, Ms. Rhodes?” Esposito asked.

     “I don’t recognize these clothes,” Silas said. “But you can bet this is her handy work.” He proded the corpse with his flashlight.

     “You think she did this?” Lang said.

     “She’s a scrappy one,” he said. “And I’d fight like the devil to get away from this guy.”

     One of the officers found the door leading from the room.

     “Bar’s been pulled back. She probably went this way.”

     Walking in single file–Silas and Lang in the lead–the team left the room. Lang kept a hand on Silas’s shoulder. She gripped him tight. He wondered if the cop was clutching him to rein him in, or because she was afraid. He heard her curse close to his ear, slapping her flashlight against a leg.

     “Battery’s already dying” she said.

     “No. It’s the darkness,” he said.

     “What’s that suppose to mean?” Lang asked.

     “Darkness isn’t the absence of light,” Silas said. “It’s an actual substance. You know how light travels in waves? It’s because darkness pushes back, forcing light to move around it. The real surprise is that we see anything at all.”

     Silas stumbled back as candlelight appeared a few steps ahead of them. A great black wall made of faces blocked their path. The SWAT looked around them, but saw beyond the lampstands’ circles of light. Eventually, they turned to the stone faces staring at them. Silas could hear the officers back up.

     “What am I looking at?” Lang asked. She was the only one beside Silas.

     “Just a wall,” he said.

     “That’s not just a wall,” she said. “That looks like a the gates of hell.”

     “Theatrics,” Silas said.

     “You don’t expect us to walk through that thing?” Esposito asked.

     “Yes I do,” Silas said. “Can’t be the first scary door you’ve walked through, officer.”

     “I didn’t sign up for this,” one of the cops said.

     Silas faced Lang. Even she looked afraid. She took a breath and turned to her team.

     “We didn’t come this far to quit. We’re going in.”

     The SWAT team followed Silas through the gaping mouth. Their flashlights were as good as useless. Darkness crowded around them like bodies on the subway. Voices, just on the edge of hearing, were whispering to them. Silas held his breath, forcing his feet forward. The dirt floor changed to stone. Tiny orange lights popped into view all around them. The officers murmured.

     “Hold tight everyone,” Silas said.

     They were inside a mausoleum. Candles sat in crooks, dripped wax down black stands, and lined the floor. Somber gray angels stood guard behind nine tombs. Four were on one side, four on another, the final at the head of the room. The lids were shaped to resemble the men and women inside. Written across the far wall were the words, “Mors In Victoria.”

     “Do you know what that says?” Lang asked Silas.

     “Victory in Death,” Silas said.

     The rest of them stayed back as he examined the first coffin. Its plaque read, “Christopher Morgane, 1911-1935. He Was Not Worthy.” The next was similar, “Amanda Crenshaw, 1899-1935. Her Crimes Will Live On.” He reached the one at the front. It read, “Laura Daragon, 1917-1935. Hers is Perdition.” Silas ran a hand over the coffin.

     “We meet again, Laura.” He looked back at the cops. “This was his wife. Only eighteen when he killed her.”

     “Are they gonna pop out those?” Lang asked.

     Silas shook his head. “No. These are his trophies.”

     Putting his Maglite away, Silas picked up a candle. The wax was warm and thick; it took both hands to hold it. He walked over to archway at the end of the room and stuck his head out. He examined the ground. There were flower petals, dirt, and snatches of grass.

     “We might be heading outside,” he said, looking back at the SWAT team.

     Lang nodded and they crossed the room toward him.

     “Take a candle,” he said.

     “Our flashlights are just fine,” she said.

     “They haven’t worked up until now,” he said.

     “Doubt a candle will do any better.”

     Silas left the room first and descended a hill. His feet slipped against loose gravel and slid halfway down. He only stopped when he forced himself to fall backwards. Happy he didn’t drop the candle, he set it down and stood up. Still slipping on stones, he called to the cops.

     “Look out, that first step’s a doozy.”

     There was no response.

     “Lang. Where are ya?”

     He picked up the candle. There was nothing but darkness up the hill. Silas was sure they had been behind him when he left the room. But there was no sign of Lang or the SWAT. He tried to climb back up to find them, but the gravel refused to cooperate. Loosing his balance, he careened down the hill. He slid to the bottom, the candle flying from his hands.

     Silas got up and started walking. There were trees. But not real trees. Someone had tried very had to make them look real. Dark trunks rose up infinitely into the sky, no tops in sight. A moon hung quietly in the sky. It looked flat, like a prop. In the distance he saw a line of mountains. The image struck him like the backdrop of a stage play. He arrived at a clearing and a familiar house. It was black with a silver roof that sparkled in the fake moonlight.

     Crow’s Peak reborn.

     The front door swung open. Golden light spilled out. Silas took the bait and entered. It wasn’t until door closed behind him that he heard Beethoven’s Piano Concerto Number 5. Silas followed it through the house into the study. The room was larger than the one he had investigated, and painfully bright. It was elegantly decorated, with couches, a silver serving station, and Persia rugs. On the wall was an enormous mirror.

     Sitting behind a piano in a corner was a lean, handsome man. His eyes were closed as he played. As the concerto reached its zenith, he stopped. He smiled at the detective. His eyes were emeralds.

     “Hello Silas.” His voice was rich and lilting. “My name is Alexander Daragon. I’m so happy to finally meet you.”

     Alexander slid out from behind the piano. Silas quickly appraised him. Every detail was perfect. He had soft, chestnut hair, complete with spit curl. He wore a checkered vest over white shirt and bow tie. His smile was disarming. As he passed in front of the mirror, Silas noticed there was no reflection. He realized nothing in the room was being reflected. He filed that away.

     Alexander stood in front of him and offered Silas his hand. He didn’t take it.

     “Where’s Hannah?” he asked.

     “What, no witty rejoinder?” Alexander said. “I was hoping for some of that trademark wit.”

     “You’re a fop. Where’s Hannah?”

     Alexander smiled again. He still held out his hand

     “Don’t be rude, Mr. Black,” he said. “You’ve come a long way to find me. Might as well be cordial.”

     “You don’t know me,” Silas said. “I’m never cordial.”

     “That’s where you’re wrong. I know you very well.” Alexander crossed the room to the serving station and poured himself a drink. “Ever since you started this case, I’ve been watching you. You’re a fascinating specimen. Intelligent. Clever. Always with a smart remark. I was dying to see what you’d do next.”

     “I’m no lab rat,” Silas said. “I don’t appreciate being studied.”

     “Hmph,” Alexander said. “Ironic, isn’t it? The man who wants to know the secrets of the universe distains being studied? How unacademic. What would your father say?”

     “You don’t know my father,” Silas said.

     “I told you, I’ve been watching you,” Alexander said. “I’ve learned quite a bit.”

     “Not possible. I protect myself from pervs like you.”

     “Oh, but you left one critical keyhole open,” Alexandar said. “Hannah. I’ve watched you through her eyes, listened with her ears. You didn’t really think that necklace would stop me? I’ve been with you from the very start, Silas.”

     “This doesn’t go any further until you tell me where she is,” Silas said.

     “Oh relax, she’s right over here.”

     Alexander sauntered to a chair and turned it to face him. Hannah was curled up, unconscious. Silas ran over to her.

     “Hannah? Hannah, can you hear me?”

     “Please,” Alexander said. “Don’t pretend to care about her, now.”

     “What did you do to her?”

     “Nothing. She’s asleep. Shock has finally caught up with her. She’s strong, I’ll give her that. Perhaps I was wrong not to choose her.”

     “This looks worse than sleep,” Silas said.

     “You should be happy I let her sleep.” An edge came into his voice, for just a moment. “Do you know what she did to my surgeon? Revenants with medical experience aren’t easy to find, Silas. But come on, your pet is in one piece. Let’s talk.”

     He offered Silas a glass of something.

     “I don’t drink,” he said.

     Alexander smiled. “It’s not alcohol. It can be whatever you want it to be. You are no longer bound by your tiny world, Mr. Black. This is a domain of the mind. My mind. I will it, and it happens.”

     Silas took the glass but didn’t drink.

     “Do you know what I do to creatures like you?” Silas said. “Suffice it to say, they end up a pile of goo on the floor.”

     “You’ve never met anything like me.”

     “That might be true, but this only ends one way,” the detective said.

     “So, you’re going to kill me, that’s all?” Alexander asked. “You’re given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and you throw it away?”

     “What opportunity?”

     Alexander’s eyes grew wide. He waved a hand across the room. “Look where you are, Silas. Think about everything you know about me. Aren’t you the least bit curious at how this is all possible?”

     “Not really.”

     “Don’t lie, Mr. Black. It’s unflattering. You were only interested in helping Hannah because of what you could learn from her condition. The condition I caused. It was a golden opportunity. Hands-on experience with the supernatural. Now, you’re at the source.”

     “I learned from the error of my ways,” Silas said. “Hannah’s a friend, not a test subject.”

     Alexander looked at him sideways. “Sure, she is.”

     “Why would you want to tell me anything?” he asked. “I’m you’re enemy.”

     “Oh, give it a rest,” Alexander said. “You will only die if you try to stop me. So, might as well make the obvious choice.”

     “And what is that?” Silas asked.

     “Ask me,” the man said. “Ask me anything you want to know.”

     “Alright. For starters, where are we?”

     “I’d hoped you would recognize it,” Alexander said. “You’ve been here before. Although, in your time, my beloved Crow’s Peak has lost its splendor. I did my best to restore it.”

     “Where are we really?” Silas asked.

     “You already know, my boy,” Alexander said. “This is a pocket dimension, if you will, outside the limits of time and space.”

     “And how did a crude magician like you manage that?” Silas said. “Last the world heard of you, you were being gunned down by the National Guard.”

     “You can be quite rude when you want to be, can you?”

     “Call it a defense mechanism.”

     A tinge of anger colored Alexander’s face. “You are wasting your time with jokes.”

     “No, I’m not.”

     “From this sanctuary, I will unravel the fabric of reality.”

     “Is that why you’re kidnapping women?” Silas asked.

     “They are a part of my grand design,” Alexander said.

     “Killing them?”

     Alexander’s face grew drawn. “Medicine isn’t always pleasant, Silas. But it’s always for our benefit.”

     “What kind of medicine did you give to Emily Lisbon?” Silas said. “Cuz trust me, she could’ve done without it.”

     “What happened to Emily was unfortunate,” Alexander said. “I truly wanted to help her. But, as in all great undertakings, there must be sacrifices.”

     He ambled across the study and stared into the fireplace.

     “I know what you must think of me, Silas. But I’m no monster. Everything I do, I do for a reason.”

     Setting his drink down, Alexander looked over at Silas. His eyes were wet with sorrow. Shoulders slumped with the burden he carried. He let out a sigh as he rubbed his hands together. All in all, Silas thought it was an excellent performance.

     “Do you want to hear my story, Silas?” he asked.

     “It doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere.”

     Alexander drained his glass and sat by the fire. He motioned to a chair nearby. Silas groaned, but walked over and sat down.

     “It begins when I was a child,” Alexander said. “I was a runt and had a hard time making friends. So, as you can imagine, I spent much of my time with my nose in a book. Through them, I could escape my troubled little world and visit King Arthur’s court or the sands of Arabia.”

     “You were a bookworm,” Silas said. “Big deal. Many have gone through worse.”

     “You don’t understand what it was like growing up in my time,” Alexander said. “Society praised strength, virility. A sensitive child who loved books was little more than an outcast. In time, my desire for another world grew stronger. It wasn’t long before I discovered men of like mind. Crowley, Rasputin, Flamel, they became my mentors. I made it my life’s work to surpass them.”

     “They say you should choose your role models carefully, Alex,” Silas said. “But I guess that’s a moot point, by now.”

     “I learned a great deal. By the time I reached manhood, I had power. Real power. But society had no place for me. So, I formed my own. I drew others to me. My disciples. Together, we founded Dawn’s Ridge.”

     Alexander got up from his chair and ran to a bookshelf. He retrieved a roll of paper and spread it out on the table in front of Silas. It was a map. Streets, buildings, and a town hall were sketched out in a hollow beside a mountain. In the corner was written, “Dawn’s Ridge, Est. 1930.”

     “Beautiful, isn’t she?” the dead man said. “It was a beacon of hope in an ignorant age. Many flocked here to escape the Great Depression. I believed our town would become a template for the new world to come.”

     “Didn’t turn out that way,” Silas said.

     “The people that came refused to accept our ways. They poisoned my disciples. Even my closest allies lost faith. When I confronted them, they reported me to the government. Claimed I was starting a rebellion. What was I supposed to do but retaliate?”

     “You justify what you did to those people?”

     Alexander stood over him, his face black with rage. He took a breath and tried to compose himself.

     “You do not understand. My legacy was crumbling. What would my mentors think? My only recourse was to punish the backsliders. And that is what I did, even in my own house. But that didn’t stop them. Soldiers took the town and killed me.”

     He returned to his chair and sat down.

     “Would you like to know what they did next?” he said. “They left me to rot in the mountains. But not the townspeople, oh no. They were buried with honor in the valley. They even renamed the town to ‘Barrow Hill’ after them, to completely scrub away my influence.”

     “I wondered why the massacre had been covered up,” Silas said. “The government wasn’t trying to cover its tracks. They were erasing you.”

     Alexander ignored him. Holding up his empty glass, he stared at the refracting light.

     “Death is an enigma, Silas. It’s not at all like you imagine.”

     “I don’t imagine,” the detective said.

     “There are no pearly gates waiting for you. Just… darkness. A part of me was still on the mountain, rotting into the soil. The other was spreading out across the void. All my knowledge, my memories, were slipping into nothingness.”

     “But you ended up here,” Silas said. “Ninety years later. How?”

     “The story isn’t over, Mr. Black,” Alexander said. “As my essence was fading away, he found me. As a reward for my devotion to the ancient ways, he granted me a new life. He returned me to my body and gave me powers I once could only dream of.”

     “Are you saying Ozryel brought you back?”

     “Do you not believe in him?” Alexander asked.

     “No,” Silas said.

     The man spread out his hands. “I am living proof that he exists.”

     Silas bobbed his head back and forth. “Living’s a bit of a stretch.”

     “You’re missing the clues, detective,” Alexander said. “There was knowledge I could not discover on my own. Secrets of the Hyperboreans, the Atlanteans, the ancient peoples who ruled in the beginning. Once they governed kingdoms beyond description. Technology we’ll never know. It drew the gods to this tiny world. Some the people worshiped, others they feared.”

     “What does this have to do with you?” Silas said.

     “Ozryel was the Prince of the Dead,” Alexander said. “He welcomed mankind into the afterlife. Wise men served him but the foolish feared him. He was overthrown and his kingdom decimated. That’s why there’s nothing for us when we die; we destroyed it. For his troubles, Ozryel was imprisoned.”

     He leaned forward and stared at Silas, a wild fire in his eyes. “Ozryel waits in the endless dark. He found me, gave me this sanctuary. I’ve been chosen to restore his kingdom.”

     “Why have you been kidnapping people?” Silas asked.

     “Ozryel’s prison is too perfect,” he said. “He cannot leave it bodily. But together we found a way to give him a new body, one that will dwell in this world. He just needs a vessel.”

     It came at Silas all at once. The clues finally fit into place. The kidnappings. Emily’s mutations. Even the poison he found in the caves. It made him sick. “You need a womb.”

     Alexander smiled. “I disseminated fetishes throughout the city, to mark potential mothers. The magic granted me access to their minds–the psychic link–so I could prepare them for their eventual departure.”

     “I was right. You were wearing them down, emotionally and mentally,” Silas said.

     “Breaking their resistance,” Alexander said. “Removing anything that would impede Ozryel’s incubation. He must inhabit their minds as well as their bodies.”

     “That poison I found in your operating room…”

     “Held the seeds of Ozryel,” he said. “Should the perfect vessel be found, he would take root and form a new body within. In time, he would burst forth, a new creation for a new age.”

     “Of course, you haven’t found the perfect vessel yet,” the detective said. “Have you?”

     “I had high hopes for Hannah,” Alexander said. “But she has proven herself unsuitable.”

     “I’m sure she’s just broken up about that.”

     “Don’t you see this is for the greater good? Image what we could learn from a being like Ozryel. We would master life and death, time and space. The universe would be our open book.”

     “You’ve really drunken the Kool-Aid, Alex,” Silas said. “There is no kingdom to conquer. Ozryel lied to you.”

     “You are a stubborn man, Mr. Black,” Alexander said. “How could you refuse such an opportunity?”

     “Whatever Ozryel is, it’s not a god,” he said. “It doesn’t have the power you think. Death is inevitable, even for you. If you bring that parasite into this world, it’ll just mean the end of it.”

     “He will come back. You’ll see.” Alexander’s face contorted. He stood up and paced the room, keeping his back to the detective.

     “As I see it, you have two choices. Try to stop me and die. Or join me.”

     “Join you? You’re crazier than I thought, Daragon.”

     “I have all the answers you seek,” Alexander said. “I know things you will never learn in books. What’s more, we can learn from the master together. It’s everything you ever dreamed of.”

     “Why would you offer me all that?” Silas asked. “Do you really think I’d accept?”

     “Yes. I see it all over you,” Alexander said. “You’re searching for a book that cannot be read. For secrets that are just out of reach. You can be the end of my kind, or revive us. We all can see it, Blackghoul.”

     “Don’t call me that,” Silas said.

     “I can answer the questions that have been haunting you for years,” Alexander said. “The truth about your father. Your family legacy. Even why you mother died. Just join me.”

     Silas was angry. It wasn’t the first offer of its kind he’d heard. For just a moment, he considered it. Every question answered. How much was that worth? He looked up at Alexander. He was smiling. That did it.

     “Daragon, I would rather die than let you help me.”

     The smiled fell from Alexander’s face.

     “Well, then. I guess that about wraps it up.”

     Crow’s Peak erupted. The white-washed walls splintered as the study broke collapsed. Lamps toppled over. The piano rattled off a sequence of incoherent notes before crumbling. A serving cart dumped its liquor to the floor. Hannah’s chair evaporated and the woman fell to the ground. Silas caught her.

     “What’s going on?” she said, her eyes slowly opening.

     Silas looked around. “I have no idea.”

     Alexander was laughing. His eyes bulged out of his head; his body spasmed. His elegant clothes turned to rags. Skin peeled away, exposing dried muscle and bone. Eyes like rotted grapes rolled inside black sockets. Smoke ringed his feet as he floated in the air. Daragon pointed a rotted finger at them. His voice sounded like scraping chains.

     “How do you like my sanctuary, now?”

     They huddled in the middle of a dark cathedral. Onyx pillars towered over them. The floor was dark and shone like glass. Stairs rose from the center of the room to a plinth. Daragon floated over and stood on it. Behind him was an open coffin, its lid propped up like the back of a throne. Haning behind it was a curtain of shadow.

     “Hard to say,” Silas said, “I think I preferred the house.”

     Daragon swooped down, wrapping them in smoke.

     “The time for talk is over, Blackghoul. You’ve spurned my offer. Now you and your pupil will suffer.”

     He sent them sprawling across the hard floor. Silas bounced a few times before coming to rest against the wall. He crawled over to Hannah.

     “Still alive?”

     “What do we do?” she asked.

     “Remember what I said about fire?” he said.

     “No.”

     “Worth a try.”

     Daragon’s voice echoed through the tomb. “Comfort yourselves while you can. Soon you will be begging for death.” He raised a hand. “Allow me to introduce to you the women you couldn’t save.”

     A murmur floated through the chamber. It was soft, like the sound of someone waking. Quickly it became a chorus of wails. Shadows detached from the walls. Misshapen figures in tattered gowns limped, crawled, and scurried toward them.

     “No,” Hannah said under her breath.

     “These were not strong enough to receive Ozryel’s gift,” the lich said. “Pitiful creatures. Aren’t they lovely?”

     Hannah screamed as the first woman reached her. Gray hands grabbed her arms. The woman’s face was bloated and green. Black eyes blinked like blind fish. Silas and Hannah tried to break free, but the corpse brides held fast. They dragged the two of them up the stairs to the plinth.

     “Is this what you’re going to do to us?” Hannah asked, nodding at the women.

     “You will not be so fortunate,” Daragon said.

     He motioned and the maidens followed. They walked behind his throne to reach back of the platform. The shadows folded back. An enormous mirror hung in the air. Nothing was reflected in the glass, save a murky fog. Bowing his head in reverence, Daragon reached out to it.

     “Come Ozryel, Angel of Death!”

     The fog parted. Something appeared in the distance, large but far away. It moved quickly, filling the frame. At first, Silas thought he saw spiny, featherless wings. They moved and he realized they were myriad legs extending from a massive bulk. A cluster of eyes flared red. Across the crablike thing’s back was a white stain that resembled a human skull. A pincer reached out and tapped the glass. The sound rung through the tomb like thunder.

     Daragon shouted in rapture.

     “Reach out my lord and punish the unbelievers. Make them pay for their–“

     Thunder filled the chamber. It was coming from the other direction. There was a set of doors at the front of the tomb. Someone was banging against them. The bolt split as the SWAT team stormed the room, hauling a tree trunk as a battering ram. Dropping it, they moved into strike positions along the walls.

     “Good a moment as any.”

     From within his coat, Silas pulled out the flare gun and shot Daragon. The lich erupted into a ball of fire. The maidens shrieked at the blinding light, fleeing into the shadows. Silas grabbed Hannah’s hand and ran down the steps. Before he could reach the bottom, he felt himself rise. He let go of Hannah’s hand as he spun around.

     “You dare defy me?”

     Daragon floated over him. The fire had burned what was left of his flesh, leaving a charred skeleton. Black tendrils wrapped around the detective, suspending him in the air.

     “You will be the first to die.”

     The lich’s head snapped back as a bullet ricocheted off it. Silas heard Lang shout as more rounds hit Daragon. He roared and lunged for the officers, releasing Silas. The detective dropped to the ground, landing painfully on his arm.

     The lich’s cry stirred up the corpse brides. They emerged from the darkness to assist their master. Lang’s voice rose above the chaos as she belted commands to her team. Silas rolled over and cradled his arm. Shock was keeping it numb, for the moment. Hannah ran to him and tried to pick him up. The pain came screaming.

     “Thank you, I’ll just stay right here,” he said.

     “What do we do?” she asked.

     Silas was breathing heavy. He spoke through clenched teeth.

     “We need to destroy Daragon’s phylactery,” he said. “It’s the thing that’s keeping him alive.”

     “But what is it?
     “The mirror. It’s his connection to Ozryel,” Silas said. “Ozryel gave him his power. We destroy the mirror, we destroy everything else.”

     “How are we supposed to do that?” Hannah asked.

     “Daragon has to touch it,” Silas said. “The power going from Ozryel into Daragon and back into the mirror will overload, like feedback from a speaker.”

     Hannah looked up. Daragon was swooping across the tomb, descending on SWAT.

     “That’s not an option.” A few feet away, Silas’s satchel lay, spilled open. Lying beside a few trampled books was the fetish.

     “How about the that?” she said, nodding to the doll.

     “Close enough,” Silas said.

     “I’ll get it for you.”

     Silas shook his head. “You gotta do it.”

     “But–“

     “I can’t move,” he said. “You need to do it fast, while he’s distracted.”

     “What if I screw it up?” she asked.

     “Look around you, kid. Things can’t get much worse.”

     “Silas–“

     “Hannah.” He gripped her arm. “I know you can do it.”

     She stayed low and ran. Scooping up the fetish, she climbed the steps. Silas moaned as he propped himself up on his good arm. The woman shrank as she reached the top of the plinth. Hannah held the out the fetish in front of her with both hands. A roar echoed overhead. Silas turned to see Daragon flying toward her.

     Crawling pitifully slow, Silas grabbed at his bag. Flares spilled out. He made a vain attempt at loading the gun with one hand. Looking back at the plinth, he saw Daragon closing in. Hannah threw the doll as black mist wrapped around her. The fetish flew from her hands and hit the glass, sending a soft thud across the tomb.

     Silence fell. The mirror rippled like water. It exploded. Wind rushed through the tomb. The corpse brides dropped, lifeless. Daragon was knocked out of the air. He cried in agony as his body crumbled. His arms shriveled and rolled up. His legs cracked and were sucked into his torso. His head snapped back, the skull compressed at the sides. It looked as if he was being pulled through an invisible hole. With one final croak, he was gone.

     The tomb quickly began to follow. It shuddered as the floor crack in two. Rocks and dirt rained down on the surviving SWAT officers. Silas forced himself to stand. Lang shouted at him. He ignored her and ran up the stairs. He searched for Hannah. She was nowhere. The detective stood beneath the empty mirror, calling her name. The plinth slid sideways and he fell into darkness.

The post Black Days, Chapter 19: “A Long-Awaited Story” appeared first on Tales of Maora.

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They rode without speaking, the garbled noise of the cabbie’s radio filling the silence. The map on the divider screen revealed they had reached the edge of Brooklyn. It was sad place. Buildings with boarded-up windows read “No Admittance.” Not a person, not even a car, was in sight. Silas told Hannah this was once the center of a booming steel industry. He was wrong. That was Pittsburgh.

     The cab rolled up beside a graffiti-covered wall. Trees reached over it, dropping black leaves onto the sidewalk. From the car they could read the letters above a gate, “Grayfriar Field.”

     “Charming,” Hannah said, not wanting to imagine what lied inside the gate. Silas shoved her out of the taxi as he paid the driver. The cabbie was glad to leave. As he sputtered away, Silas and Hannah approached the park gate. He stuck a finger in the keyhole of a padlock.

     “How do we get around this?” he said.

     Hannah examined the wall. Bricks jutted out at awkward angles. Putting a foot on the bottommost brick, she started to climb. She shouted at Silas to follow her, scrapping her fingernails against the old wall. Out of breath, she reached the top. Swinging her legs out, she searched for a way down. Staring up at her, on the other side of the wall, was Silas. He reached out a hand.

     “Lemme help you down.”

     “How did you get in?” she asked.

     He held up the padlock. “Rusted. Came apart in my hands.”

     “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

     “I wanted to see if you could make it,” he said. “Great job, Spider-girl.”

     Hannah dropped onto Silas, boots first.

     “Was that really necessary?” he asked as they got up.

     “Yep.”

     Shaking the leaves from their clothes, they looked around. They were under the shade of gloomy maple trees. Only a glimmer of streetlight made it over the wall. A stone path led from the gate into the heart of the park. They followed it and were quickly swallowed up by darkness.

     “Flashlight?” Hannah asked.

     “Lost it in the sewers,” Silas said.

     “What did you bring?” she asked, poking his bag.

     Silas laid a protective hand on it. “I brought the fetish, a few granola bars, and some light reading.”

     “Why?”

     “You can always use some extra energy,” he said.

     “How are we going to see?” she asked.

     “I got this.” He pulled out his Zippo and flicked it open. The small flame could only light up his face.

     “God, you’re lucky I’m here.” Hannah turned on the LED flashlight on her phone. It lit a small patch in front of them, nothing more.

     “Oh, that’s much better,” Silas said.

     Guided by Hannah’s light, they explored Grayfriar Field. It was more wilderness than park. Old, ugly trees glowered down at them. They seemed to disapprove of the intruders. Images of the angry trees from the Wizard of Oz came to Silas’s mind. Benches occasionally appeared along the path, covered in weeds. The silence was thick. Nothing crept in the shadows beside them. Even the wind had fallen dead.

     “I’d actually like to see this place after a snowfall,” Silas said. “Bet it’s beautiful.”

     “I doubt it,” Hannah said. “What are we looking for?”

     “Stuff that shouldn’t be in a park,” he said. “Magic circles, bonfires, desecrated tombs.”

     “Please be serious,” she said.

     He looked over at her. “I am.”

     The path curved through the ancient park, gradually sloping downward. It ended at another wall. It was huge, Hannah’s light could only give them a sense of it.

     “What do you make of that?” Hannah asked.

     Silas ran a hand over the wall. He tsked. “This shouldn’t be here. It’s as if it fell right on top of the path.”

     They walked along the wall and found an open doorway. It led to an open-air room sectioned off into stalls. Silas stepped into one of them.

     “This is a stable,” he said, coming back with some hay.    “Horses. In Brooklyn?” Hannah asked.

     “Pretty common, a hundred years ago.” He rubbed the hay between his fingers. It crumbled. “These haven’t been used in a while.”

     They left the stable through a door in the rear wall. Rising up before them was the remains of a massive structure. Even with much of it in a tumbled heap, it was three stories high. Passing through an archway they entered a meeting hall. Holes in the ceiling let in starlight.

     Silas shook his head. “This doesn’t feel right.”

     “Ya think?”

     “I mean this building’s not supposed to be here,” he said.

     “Come again?” she asked.

     “Just look at it. It’s completely out of place. Do you get me?”

     Hannah gave the room a good look. “Not really.”

     “It’s old,” Silas said. “Much older than the park around it.”

     Across from them was a row of iron-barred windows. Silas ran over and peered through. On the other side was a courtyard. Climbing what was left of some stairs, he reached a second level and tried to get a better look.

     “Anything interesting?” Hannah asked.

     “I think I can make out a pattern in the flagstones,” he said. “Should give us a clue. If I can only get closer…”
     The wall he was leaning on broke and Silas fell into the courtyard. Hannah scrambled up the steps, only making it halfway, and shouted. It was a long minute before she got an answer.

     “That hurt,” Silas said.

     “Are you alright?”

     “I’m gonna be sore in the morning,” he said.

     “How do I get over there?” she asked.

     “I wouldn’t recommend my method.”

     “I’ll look around.”

     He heard her climb down the steps and move away. Silas turned his attention to the flagstones.

     “There’s definitely something painted on these stones,” he said, taking out his lighter.

     Backing against the wall, he tried to take in as much of the floor as he could. Through the cracks and missing pieces, he made out a figure with a skull face. Spiny, featherless wings stretched out from its back.

     “I’ve been seeing you a lot, lately,” Silas said. “I think I know what’s going on.” He looked up. “Hannah? Fall down a well?”

     He was answered by a scream. Silas shouted her name. He took a step forward, unknowingly avoiding fingers that reached for his neck from behind. Spinning around, he caught the arms of a husk as it lunged for him. It pushed him to the ground. The gray creature sat on top of him, its sticky hands fighting for his throat.

     Silas shoved a knee into the husk and rolled out from under it. He ran for the door. The husk caught his foot and he flew sprawled across the room. A wet groan filled the air as the creature pounced. Silas found a heavy stone and swung. The jagged edge caught the side of the husk’s face. It fell back. Silas hit it again. Blood and ooze squirted from its head.

     Silas shouted Hannah’s name again as he found a corridor. Turning corner after corner, he got no closer to finding her.

     “Are these walls moving, or something?”

     He called to Hannah, telling her to get out of the castle and find higher ground. He arrived at an opening. It looked familiar. He was back at the courtyard. Blocking his way was the husk, its face caved in and dripping.

     “Well hello, darling,” Silas said.

     In two bounds it covered the space between them. Silas was already reaching into his coat. The husk didn’t see the spark of the lighter until it was too late.

      Hannah found a crack in the castle wall and tried to squeeze through. A guttural noise echoed up the passage behind her. Something was loping down the corridor, its misshapen shadow dancing against the stone. Taking a breath, she pushed. A hand clamped on her wrist before she was clear of the castle. A crooked face poked through the opening. She smashed her phone into it and it let go. Hannah didn’t wait to see what it would do next.

     She avoided the path and hid under the ample brush along the hillside. Trees provided dark, inviting cover. Hannah hugged the dirt as rhythmic panting moved up the path at the bottom of the hill. A few minutes passed before she was willing to move again.

     Keeping away from the path, she crawled. She stayed low, her hands and knees growing wet and numb from the cold dirt. She thought about going back to find Silas, but the image of the husk kept her moving upward.

     At the top of the hill, the trees thinned. In a clearing were three neat rows of nine stones. On them were words, too faded to read. Hannah knew they were headstones. At the head of the small cemetery, she saw it. It was head and shoulders taller than a man. Perfectly white, almost shining. The familiar beady eyes were enormous orbs of black.

     It was a giant statue of the fetish.

     It was smiling at her, as it always did. Its smug fixation on her radiated at that size. Hannah felt the statue watching her. She expected it to open its huge mouth and talk. Keeping her eyes on it, she backed toward the other end of the clearing.

     A shape jumped out of the darkness. It caught her by the neck. Hannah screamed, but only made a whimper. She clawed at the husk, but it only tightened. It dragged her to the fetish. The earth was vibrating as the statue slid back, uncovering the hole in the ground. Hannah dug her heels into the dirt. She swung her arms. It was useless. She felt herself falling into darkness.

     Warm air brushed her face. Her mouth tasted like dust. Something scuttled over Hannah’s body. Claws poked questioningly at her skin. She tried to swat the thing away, to discover her arms and legs tied to a table. Before the creature reached her neck, it was shooed away. Someone else was there.

     Hannah tried to look around but could see little other than the scarred ceiling and red walls. A fire bloomed to life to her left. A torch bobbed up and down toward her. Slow, shallow breaths broke the silence. A man appeared. His emaciated, ashen face moved close to hers. The nose was shriveled up; only a stump with nostrils. Goggles hid the eyes, but yellow lights danced behind them. A thin mouth parted into a smile.

     The gaunt man did nothing as Hannah screamed. He waited until her voice grew hoarse. Sticking his torch into a ring on the wall, he began to examine her. Bony fingers prodded Hannah. He felt the glands at her throat, pressed on her abdomen, even squeezed her thighs and calves. He nodded to himself, crooking an ear as he tapped various parts. Hannah struggled to get free, twisting against the ropes. This did not perturb him. They only cut into her skin.

     Seeming satisfied with his examination, the man smiled at her again. A cloud of stale breath hit her. He turned away from the table. Hannah heard him rummaging through heavy, metallic objects.

     “Are you… him?”

     The man returned to face her. He looked confused.

     “Daragon?”

     He grunted and shook his head, returning to his table.

     “Who are you, then? One of his minions? What are you doing?”

     He said nothing as he returned, his hands full. Tucked into his belt was a long knife. In his hands was a ceramic jar. He removed the cork, releasing a fecal smell. Hannah gagged. He pointed at her mouth and made a drinking motion. She shook her head. The man smiled, pointed at the knife, and moved a finger across his neck. She got the message. He pulled on a surgical mask.

     Clamping a hand onto her chin, the doctor tried to pry her mouth open. Hannah clenched her teeth, refusing him. The jar tipped over her mouth. A drop of yellow-green liquid touched her cheek and sizzled. Hannah fought the urge to scream. The man grew impatient. Shoving a finger between her lips, he scraped her gums. For a moment her teeth parted. The jar entered her mouth.

     The doctor laughed as the liquid poured in. Hannah held her breath, using her tongue to stop the poison from going down her throat. Removing the jar, the man leaned in close and watched. Hannah spat the liquid into his face. It stuck to his skin, hissing like acid. The doctor screamed as the goggles melted into his eyes. Pulling at his apron, he tried to blot his face. His voice filled the room as he dropped to the floor.

     Hannah waited until the man stopped making noise. She lifted her head. Laying across her stomach was the knife. It had been dislodged from his belt when he fell. Twisting her left hand under the ropes, she grabbed it. It cut through the bonds easily. She was about to climb off the table, when the doctor tackled her.

     He pinned her down, holding the jar near her head. If he could not get her to drink, he’d crush her skull with it. Closing her eyes, Hannah pushed the knife into his stomach. It felt like cutting into a piece of meat. Things popped and ruptured inside the man as she pulled it through his chest. The doctor dropped the jar and screamed. Hannah rolled off the table as he slumped over. Blood spread out like a shadow under him.

     Hannah leaned against the wall. She retched, forcing all of the poison from her mouth. A queasy feeling ran up from her stomach, making her dizzy. It was a long time until it subsided. She searched the room. Carved into the wall were catacomb shelves. They were filled with women’s clothing. Hannah found necklaces, rings, and wallets. She put on her own clothes and looked for a way out.

     Hidden in an alcove was a door shut with a bolt. With both hands, she opened it, discovering a murky passage beyond. Using the doctor’s torch for light, she explored the tunnel. It was narrow and descended gradually. Warm air wafted over her. She ran a hand along the wall to the right, the rough surface offering a little assurance. There was no sound, not even an echo from her steps.

     Eventually the wall fell away and Hannah found herself in an open space. She took a few steps, sensing something nearby. A row of lampstands bloomed to life. Rising before her was a wall of black stone. Giant faces were carved into it, each frozen in pain and fear. In the center was the largest. It glowered at Hannah with vivid eyes. Its gaping mouth formed a doorway, through which she could see nothing.

     Wind blew through the mouths, carrying with it voices. Groans, low and moody, swirled around her. Hannah turned away from the wall. The groans became a chorus. Her torch went out as the wind increased. She was pushed forward, into the black maw.

     Silas was mad. Not the least reason was he lost his favorite greatcoat. He left it smoldering in the castle hallway, where a charred husk lay, clutching what remained of it. Also his assistant was missing. Shivering, he hugged the left wall of the corridor until he found a way out. He shouted for Hannah, despite knowing the noise would probably draw more of the creatures. He arrived at a crack in the wall. Sticking out were the feet of a comatose husk, bits of smartphone scattered in the grass around it.

     He picked up the shell of the phone and looked it over. Silas had paid enough attention to know it was Hannah’s. Dropping it, he plunged into the park. He searched for footprints in the thick dirt. There were none. At least, none made by Hannah’s size seven boots. Leaving the path, he followed a tell-tale line of crushed weeds up the hill.

     Halfway up, he stopped. There was a distant rumble, like thunder rolling in from the sea. But it was coming from beneath him. Suddenly the many hypotheses he had formed about the park was narrowed to one. The ground shook. Silas began to worry. Running the rest of the way, he reached a small clearing at the top of the hill.

     Neat, brown headstones gathered in rows. Silas looked over them, wishing he had charcoal and some paper. He tsked when he discovered the statue. A giant symbol of what started it all, glaring at him like a deranged demigod. He wrestled with the competing desires to study the thing or blow it to smithereens. But something more pressing grabbed his attention.

     He picked up a branch, he took out his Zippo. Holding it out like a weapon, he set it ablaze. In the trees surrounding the clearing were at least three husks, huddled, waiting. By the time they reached the ground and were bounding toward him, Silas was waving the brand.

     The creatures hissed and kept their distance. The sound reminded Silas of cockroaches. One of them took a step forward.

     “Don’t try me,” Silas said. “Trust me, I really want to kill you.”

     The loose skin of the husk’s mouth pulled back. Broken teeth stuck out at all angles, dripping with black spit. The creature was smiling. It was one of the more hideous things Silas had ever seen. The husk took another step. Its head exploded. Shots filled the clearing and the remaining husks were cut down. A SWAT team stormed the graveyard. Their riot gear and assault rifles glinted against high-powered flashlights.

     Silas was on the ground. He had ducked after the first shot. One of the SWAT officers grabbed him by the armpit and pulled him up.

     “Nice moves, Black,” the officer said. “You learn that at Oxford?”

     “I’m not dead, am I?” Silas said. “Are you gonna remove that mask, Vader, or am I supposed to guess?”

     She removed her hood and goggles. Detective Lang smirked at him.

     “Aren’t you a little small to be a SWAT?” Silas asked.

     “Veteran SWAT, pal,” she said, pumping her chest.

     Silas wiped dark blood from his face and hair.  “What are you doing here?”

     “Hannah texted Detective McClelland with the name of this park,” Lang said. “We tried to call her back, but got nothing. I didn’t take any chances.”

     “Evidently,” he said, looking at the small army. “At least we know assault rifles work on them.”

     “Do you mind telling me why you didn’t notify us on what you were doing?” the police detective asked.

     “We were just looking around,” Silas said. “Didn’t expect trouble.”

     “How’d you find this place?” she asked.

     “Got a lead at the Golden Saucer.”

     “You got in there?” she said. “When were you gonna tell me that?”

     “We can argue later,” he said. “Seriously, I’m looking forward to it. But there’s bigger problems.”

     “Obviously. Where’s your partner?”

     “We got separated,” he said. “I followed her trail to this clearing.”

     Lang turned to the SWAT team, who were looking over the dead husks. “Alright, fan out. I want every inch of this park covered. Esposito’s team stays with me.” A portion of them broke off down the hill. One of the officers approached Lang and Silas.

     “We’ll find her,” Esposito said. “Ten minutes, tops.”

     “Don’t be too sure,” Silas said. “There’s something fishy about this place. It feels… fuzzy.”

     “Please make some sense,” Lang said.

     “This isn’t your run-of-the-mill haunted park,” he said. “Another dimension is pushing through it into ours. Happy?”

     “No.”

     “There’s a castle down there. Centuries old. It leaked through from another place and time.”

     “Explain better,” Lang said. “So that normal people can understand.”

     Silas put his hands together as he searched for the right words.

     “There is a way of crossing vast distances of space by butting one end up to another. Imagine folding the sides of a map together, so that California and New York were touching. You could just step from one side to the other.”

     “That’s what you think’s going on here?” the police detective asked.

     “Sort of,” he said. “You can do the same thing with two periods of time. Or two dimensions. Someone’s done it here and  Hannah has been taken over to the other side.”

     “That’s hard to swallow,” Lang said.

     “Look around you, detective,” Silas said. “Nothing about this case has been easy to swallow. But it gets worse.”

     “I’m not surprised.”

     “Few people know how to properly bridge two dimensions together. I know of only one who could do it safely; he runs a nice antiques shop. If you don’t know how to do it right, both sides crash into each other like ships in a storm. The bridge, so to speak, it splintering. Other dimensions are breaking through.”

     “What does that mean?” Lang asked.

     “This park is an unstable portal across time and space,” Silas said. “If it isn’t closed, it might suck the whole city through.”

     “To the other side?” she said.

     “Or somewhere in between, or nowhere at all. I don’t want to find out, really.”

     “Then we gotta haul ass out of here,” Officer Esposito said.

     “Not without Hannah,” Silas said. “And not without dealing with Daragon once and for all.”

     The ground moaned like a whale. It shook, shifting the headstones and knocking the cops off balance. Lang was the first to recover.

     “Where is he?” she asked.

     “Where he’s been all along, on the other side,” Silas said.

     “How do we get to him and close this thing?”

     “The portal entrance must be nearby,” he said. “Hannah was in this clearing before I lost her tracks.”

     “What would it look like?” Lang asked.

     “I’m hoping something obvious,” he said. “Like a big hole.” The SWAT looked around, dubiously expecting to see a door floating in the air.

     “My money’s on the big guy here.” The private detective pointed at the statue.

     Lang took a step toward it. “I’ve seen that before. The doll we took from your apartment.”

     “Made by the same psychopath. It’s a marker to the other dimension. We just have to move it.”

     Lang barked at her officers. “Boys, you know what to do.”

     A trio of large, imposing SWAT rushed the statue. Silas dove out of the way as their combined strength, and crowbars, rocked the stone back and forth. In no time it was on the ground in pieces. Beneath it was the opening. Silas peered inside as the cops joined him.

     “Great, more sewer diving,” Lang said.

     “No,” Silas said. “It doesn’t go down, just looks that way.”

     Lang turned back to her team. “Radio McClelland. I want everyone but us to pull out of the park. If Black’s right, nobody’s safe here. Keep the surrounding blocks cordoned off. Esposito and I will lead the team inside.”

     She looked at Silas. “Okay, what do we do?”

     “You’re asking me?” He turned to face the half-dozen officers. They were staring at him. Their faces were calm, almost resolute. It was as if they trusted him. That was new.

     “We go in,” he said. “Rescue Hannah, and the other victims. We blow up Daragon and close this bridge.”

     “You’re not going down there like that,” Lang said. “Get him a vest.”

     “And a coat,” he said. “I feel like you should have gotten me one by now. Also, I’ll need something else.”

     “You’re not getting a gun,” she said.

     “Just let me see your supplies.”

     A large canvas bag was brought over. Silas searched it, finding a Maglite, which he stuck into his satchel. His eyes lit up as he found another piece of equipment.

     “Oh, no,” Lang said. “You’re not getting a flare gun.”

     “It’s very important I have this,” Silas said, “and some refills.”

     “Are you ready?” she asked, her impatience boiling at the surface.

     The ground lurched again. Silas, Lang and the SWAT team walked over to the portal.

     “Ladies first?” Silas said.

     The police detective put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be right behind you.”

     He smirked as he pointed his light into the hole. Black steps dropped down endlessly.

     “Alright everybody, hold onto your butts.”

The post Black Days, Chapter 18: “Rabbit Hole” appeared first on Tales of Maora.

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Hannah stood in front of Emily’s bed. The woman was motionless, the slow blips on her monitor the only sign she was alive. Hannah considered speaking. She wasn’t sure if it would do any good. There was so much she wanted to say, for the woman’s comfort and for hers. Hannah figured it would only make Emily feel worse. As if sensing Hannah’s indecision, she stirred.

     “Emily?” Hannah said. “Emily, can you hear me?”

     She stiffened at the sound of Hannah’s voice. Slowly, she motioned for Hannah to come closer.

     “Are you in pain?”

     Emily continued to beckon her.

     “I didn’t say this before,” Hannah said. “But you’re right. He’s in my head too. How did you do it? How did you escape?”

     Emily’s lips moved. Hannah leaned forward.

     “What did you say?”

     Emily squeezed Hannah’s throat. She stared at her with black eyes. Her voice was thunder.

     “MY RETURN DRAWS NIGH.”

     Hannah woke up with a gasp. She put a hand to her throat. For a minute, all she could do was breath. She was in a parked cab. It was night outside. Popping open the door, she climbed out. Eventually, she remembered what happened. After an all too short break, she and Silas took a cab to some corner of the city. She must’ve fallen asleep on the way.

     The neighborhood was shut down for the night, except for one store. A man she assumed was the cab driver walked back to the car. He looked at her and nodded.

     “He went in there.”

     The awning was unreadable. It’s greasy windows was still covered in decades-old circulars. She saw no shoppers inside. But in a corner of the door was stuck a foil decal. A yellow bowl overflowing with noodles and chop sticks.

     “The Gold Saucer?”

     An electric chime rang as she opened the door. A teenage girl was behind the counter, occupied with her phone. Hannah tapped the counter to get her attention.

     “I don’t know how to put this, but… I’m looking for a club?”

     The girl looked up at her just to roll her eyes. Putting down her phone, she beckoned Hannah to follow her. They passed through the convenience store to reach the back wall. It was wallpapered with fliers. She motioned for Hannah to knock.

     “You want me to knock on the wall?”

     She rolled her eyes again before walking back to the counter. With no other options available, Hannah knocked on the wall three times. It reverberated like a hollow drum. A door opened up, all on its own, revealing a staircase.

     Once upon a time, the back rooms of many New York stores had been co-opted by organized crime. They were combined to form impressive spaces for their various activities. Hannah had thought it was just a legend. To date, this was the third secret room she had discovered behind a New York establishment. This one proved to be the worst.

     Old black and white posters covered the walls. They had words like “Bad Brains” and “Misfits” above pictures of men with long hair and ratty clothes. She felt the music before she heard it, an erratic bass line and drums. Acrid smells wafted up to her as she reached the bottom landing.

     A set of doors thrummed with the music. Only after walking through did Hannah see the bouncer. A five-piece punk band was on a stage to her left, destroying their instruments. Immediately in front of them was a crowd that fought more than danced. The rest of the hall was filled with tables and chairs, most of which were upside down.

     Hannah pushed through the mob. She ducked to avoid a man and woman careening through the air, pulling at each other’s clothes. She couldn’t decide if they were fighting or making love. A trio of booths lined the wall. In the last one sat Silas. He was staring at a chess board. Across from him was a small, shriveled man. Hannah swore his skin was green.

     Silas reached out and moved one of the chess pieces. He sat back, waiting for his opponent’s response. The goblin held a finger over the black king, one of the few remaining on the board. Four white pieces surrounded it. He moved his piece, only to move it back to its original place. He did this several times. He scowled as he examined the board. Silas folded his arms. Hannah watched his mouth as he said, “Checkmate.”

     The small man flipped the board, sending the pieces into the air. He pointed an accusing finger at Silas. The music came to a stop. Silas picked up a little horse that fell into his lap. Closing it in his fist, he leaned over and slugged the man. His head bounced against the booth. Before he could retaliate, Silas had him by the coat. Dragging him from the table, he threw the man like a rag doll.

     His tiny body sailed over the bar at the back of the club. Patrons moved aside, drinks in hand, as the man flew by. A bartender laughed as he wiped out a glass. The man was barely on his feet when Silas grabbed him again. Hannah’s ears were ringing, but she heard Silas shout.

     “Fair and square, that’s what we agreed. Fair and square.”

     “You cheated, kar’raq,” the man said.

     “Then we do this the hard way.”

     Silas knocked his skull into the bar. The man yelped and cradled his head.

     Hannah grabbed Silas by the arm. “What the hell are you doing?”

     He seemed to notice her for the first time. “Oh good, you’re awake.”

     “Who is that guy?” she asked.

     “This is Bolag,” Silas said, pushing the little man back with a knee. “Bolag the Terrible. Or Bolag the Tiny. Or Bolag the Snaggletooth. He’s got a lot of nicknames.”

     “Are you trying to kill him?” Hannah said.

     “Bolag is being stubborn,” Silas said. The man called Bolag got back up. Silas slapped him in the face. “He agreed to tell me what I needed to know, so long as I beat him in chess.”

     “You cheated!”

     That got Bolag a foot in the chest.

     “But why are you hurting him?”

     “This is how things work down here,” Silas said. “In case you didn’t notice.”

     He swept a hand over the chaos that still writhed around them.

     “I’ve noticed. This is the Gold Saucer? What kind of place is this?”

     “This is a few steps from hell, girl,” Bolag said, his words a little slurred.

     Silas slapped him again. “Did I say you can talk to her? Now I’m done asking nicely.”

     He let Bolag go. The little man slid to the floor. He stood ungracefully, shooting a wad of blood from his nose. Picking up a leather cap, he returned it to his lumpy head.

     “Over here.”

     Silas and Hannah followed him to a corner of the room. He sat, bow-legged, on a crate of beer. They bent down to listen.

     “So, what do you want?” Bolag reached into his coat, pulling out bags of colorful powders. “I got it all.”

     “We’re not here for drugs,” Silas said.

     The man looked at him, confused. “You’re not?”

     “No, I said ‘information.’ Do all your customers beat you for a fix?”

     He shrugged. “Thought you were jonesing.”

     Hannah looked at Silas. “This is the guy that Emily meant?”

     “Do you see any other green men?” he said.

     “Hey, don’t be rude. Me mother always said I was lovely.” Bolag smiled, proving his mother wrong.

     “Yeah, you’re gorgeous,” Silas said. “I want to know about the fetishes you’ve been selling.”

     “Fetishes? What is this New Orleans? The people around here only want one thing. And it ain’t fetishes.”

     “I know you were selling a certain fetish,” Silas said. “Little wooden man with black eyes. You were probably told to sell them only to women.”

     Bolag snorted. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

     “Do I need to rough you up some more?” Silas said.

     “Go for it, my skull’s felt worse,” Bolag said. “You’ve got nothing on me.”

     “This is serious,” Hannah said. “Those fetishes have been used to kidnap women.”

     “Whoa,” Bolag said with a chuckle. “Not my racket. You women are too much trouble.”

     “You don’t care that you’ve been implicated in the disappearance of almost a dozen women?” Silas asked.

     Bolag squinted. “You’re not with those cops, are you? Tried to bust in. Never got it passed the grocery store. Stupid pigs think they can go anywhere they want.”

     “Okay, Bolag,” Silas said. “If you’re not going to play nice, I’ll have to find another way to make you talk.”

     “Threaten all you want,” Bolag said. “Cops can’t touch me. Nobody above ground even knows I’m alive.”

     Silas smiled at the man. It wasn’t his usual smirk. “Who’s talking about cops? I know other kinds of people. People I’m sure you don’t want to meet.”

     “Like who?”

     “Aylith comes to mind.”

     Bolag’s face turned a paler shade of green. “How do you know that name?”

     “Doesn’t matter how, does it?” Silas said. “What matters is, I’m sure the Tree Widow would love to meet someone like you.”

     “You couldn’t.”

     “One phone call,” Silas said. “That’s all.”

     Bolag swallowed. His eyes darted from Silas to Hannah.

     “I didn’t kidnap nobody,” he said finally. “I want to make that clear.”

     “We don’t think you did,” Silas said.

     “But, yeah. I sold a few of those fetishes.”

     From the bag at his side, Silas produced the fetish. He shoved it into Bolag’s chest.

     “Like this?”

     Bolag handled the doll for a moment and tossed it back.

     “Yes. But I only had a few. Half dozen, tops.”

     “Where did they come from?” Silas asked.

     A queer look came over Bolag’s face, as if he was trying to decide to tell the truth.

     “Fell off a truck,” Bolag said.

     “Try again,” Silas said.

     “That’s the truth,” he said. “I like to lurk around stores during deliveries, snatch up anything that looks valuable.”

     “You’re lying,” Hannah said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

     “I bet you can see a lot more on your back.”

     Before the goblin could regret those words, Hannah had him by the neck. Bolag screamed, but his voice was drowned out in a new surge of music. Silas calmly followed Hannah as she dragged the man into a supply closet. He closed the door behind them. Hannah kicked Bolag like a soccer ball into the back wall.

     “Dammit,” he said, trying to get up. “You’re psychos.”

     Hannah reached into a box on the shelf. Without thinking, she launched a bottle at the man. It smashed above his head, showering Bolag with glass and beer.

     “Crazy!”

     Hannah threw a few more.

     “I have been attacked. Arrested. Almost drowned. Almost possessed. All because of those dolls.”

     Pulling the empty box from the shelf she threw it at him. “Tell me where you got them or I’ll make you half a man!”

     “In your case, Bolag, that’s one fourth a man,” Silas said.

     Bolag flinched as the box smacked his head.

     “Ugg.” Beer was dripping down his shirt. “Nothing’s worth this.”

     “Wanna change your story about the truck?” Silas asked.

     The goblin raised his hands in surrender. “Listen, I had no idea what he was going to do with those dolls. I assumed he was from the Otherworld, otherwise he couldn’t have found me. But you gotta understand: a guy like that you just don’t say no to.”

     “Daragon,” Hannah said.

     Bolag cringed. “Don’t say his name.”

     “Daragon, Daragon, Daragon,” Silas said.

     “Keep your voice down,” Bolag said. “You don’t trifle with a lich.”

     “You know his name,” Silas said. “You know he’s a lich. But you didn’t know what he was up to?”

     “I assumed it was big,” Bolag said. “What with those husks running around.”

     “What are husks?” Hannah asked.

     “You know, those creatures in the sewers,” the man said. “I’m sure you’ve seen ’em. Used to be homeless people. Underground is lousy with the bastards these days.”

     “You mean the shamblers,” Silas said.

     “They’re called husk,” Bolag said. “Liches make ’em. Like undead puppets. Homeless are perfect patsies, they’re already near dead.”

     “I prefer my name for ’em,” Silas said.

     “No, ‘husk’ is much better,” Hannah said.

     “Call them what you want,” Bolag said. “After this, they’ll be coming for me. Can’t betray Daragon and get away with it.”

     “We’re going to stop him,” Silas said. Bolag responded with a snort.

     “How many women did you sell these to?” Hannah asked.

     “I don’t know, four or five,” he said.

     “Remember selling one to a blonde woman?” she asked. “Skinny. On a date?”

     “I don’t remember everyone who walks through those doors,” Bolag said. “But yeah, that rings a bell.”

     “Where’s Daragon?” Silas said.

     “He didn’t leave me a calling card,” Bolag said. “He found me.”

     “You must’ve met somewhere,” Silas said.

     “I got word that someone wanted to speak with me,” Bolag explained. “We met at night. Never saw his face, just a voice in the darkness. He wanted me to move some product. Said to only give them to women. ‘Give?’ I thought. If I’m gonna move these things, I’m gonna make some money. But I agreed and the fetishes arrived the next night.”

     “None of that sounded strange to you?” Hannah asked.

     “Girl, look at me. What do you think?”

     “Where did this meeting take place?” Silas said.

     “You don’t wanna go there,” Bolag said.

     “Yes I do.”
     The little man sighed. “Abandoned park. Some out-of-the-way part of Brooklyn. I think it was called Grayfriar Field.”

     “Why there?” Hannah asked.

     Bolag shrugged his narrow shoulders. “His idea.”

     “You showed your face above ground?” Silas asked.

     “It’s not an ordinary park,” Bolag said. “Has an eerie aura about it. Even the gangs keep away. Just my sort of place.”

     “We should take a look,” Silas said to Hannah. “Thanks, Tattoo.”

     “Shove it up your ass,” Bolag said, still having trouble standing up. Hannah offered a hand. He flinched, realized she was trying to help, and took it.

     “Sorry about all that,” she said. “I dunno what came over me. I’m just stressed. And the music. Everyone else was fighting.”

     “Don’t worry about it. It’s the energy down here.” Bolag took a roll of paper towels from the shelf and dabbed himself dry. “Just close the door on your way out.”

     They survived the walk through the club to the stairs. The doors closed behind them and Hannah felt sane enough to speak.

     “What was that guy?” she asked.

     “Bolag,” Silas said.

     “You know what I mean.”

     “One of the Outcasts,” Silas said. “Call him whatever fairy tale name you like. On this continent, there’s precious few places for them to hide. They all end up underground.”

     “Didn’t know they emigrated,” Hannah said.

     “They didn’t all have a choice.”

     “So what was all that talk of, what did you call her, the Tree Widow?”

     “Aylith,” Silas said. “Ancient demon that feeds on magical creatures that stray from their homes. Sort of a bedtime story they told to their kids.”

     “And you know how to contact a thing like that?” she asked.

     “Course not,” he said. “But Bolag didn’t know that.”

     “I can’t believe I attacked him like that,” she said.

     “Neither can I.” He gave Hannah a sidelong glance. “Holding that in for a while, huh?”

     “It was the music,” she said. “What about you?”

     Silas laughed. “Oh doll, that was nothing.”

     They reached the store and the hidden door slid back into place. Immediately, the music from downstairs disappeared. They passed the girl at the counter, who didn’t look up to wish them a good night. Outside, the air felt cold and damp. Snow threatened to fall.

     “We should tell Lang and McClelland what we learned, right?” Hannah asked. “We’re a team now.”

     “They refused to hire us,” Silas said.

     “But it could be dangerous.”

     “You’re safer with me than with them,” he said. “Besides, we’re just looking around an old park. We’ll call Rocky and Bullwinkle if we need them.”

     “I don’t think that’s smart,” Hannah said.

     “We can handle it,” Silas said. “Look how well we did with Bolag. This’ll be a piece of cake. We just need to find this park. I’ll check an atlas by at the apart–“
     “Found it.” Hannah held out her phone proudly.

     “Hmm. Maybe I should get one of those,” he said. “I recognize that area. Not a long ride.”

     Silas waved at the cab driver, who started the engine. He climbed inside, leaving the door open for Hannah. The cabbie began to complain about having to wait all night. As Silas argued with the man, Hannah stepped out of view. Pulling up McClelland’s number, she sent him a text. She only managed the words, “Grayfriar Field,” before Silas hollered at her to get in. Stashing her phone, she climbed into the taxi before it could rumble away.

The post Black Days, Chapter 17: “Bullying With Friends” appeared first on Tales of Maora.

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“This is all your fault,” Hannah said.

     “Me?” Silas said. “I’m hurt. Wounded, even.”

     Hannah leaned over her chair toward Silas. It was difficult, given she was handcuffed to the armrest. “This is the second time I’ve been in handcuffs since I met you. Do you want to know how many times I’ve been handcuffed before this?”

     “I wanna say three.”

     “Zero!”

     Silas tried to point at himself, forgetting he was also cuffed. “I didn’t slap them on you, Thelma. Thank Detective Hot Pants McGee.”

     “She wouldn’t have had to, if you didn’t insist on riding in the ambulance,” Hannah said.

     “They could’ve used my expertise,” he said.

     “They’re paramedics, I think they had it covered.”

     Silas blew a raspberry and slouched in his seat. He hated hospital waiting rooms. Not because of the proximity to germs or the overwhelming sense of sadness and loss. They were just so boring. A TV in the corner was blasting some sitcom they only air at three in the morning. The canned laughter grated against Silas’s spine. He scanned the room. A few orderlies mulled around a coffee maker. There was a nurse quietly filing away papers. The rings around her eyes were noticeable even from a distance.

     Opposite him was a row of vending machines. Squinting, he tried to make out what was inside.

     “Is that a Baby Ruth?” he asked Hannah.

     “I dunno,” she said, not looking up.

     “I think it is. You want something?”

     She looked at him, then at the machine. “How are you going to get over there?”

     “Watch and learn.” Silas yanked the armrest with both hands. With a pop, he dislodged it from the chair and slid his handcuff free.

     “Cheap hospital chairs,” he said, tossing it to her.

     “Why didn’t you do that earlier?” Hannah asked.

     He shrugged. “Wasn’t hungry.”

     Hannah pulled at her arm rest. “Help me do mine.” 

     Silas waved a hand. “Can’t. That chair looks new.”

     He sauntered over to the vending machine, ignoring the stream of curses coming from his assistant. Hannah wrestled with her armrest. It gave, slightly. She struggled to push the handcuff through the small opening, pinching her fingers in the process. Keeping her back to the cops by the front desk, she walked over to the machines.

     Silas’s finger hovered over the buttons. Carefully, he pushed B-5. Nothing happened. He kicked the machine. That didn’t help. Placing his hands on it, he tried to rock the candy free. A voice from the nurse’s desk mechanically asked him to stop. Hannah stepped between him and the machine and slipped a dollar into the cash slot.

     “Candy comes out when you pay for it,” she said.

     “It was about to fall.” He nonetheless reentered the code and pulled out the candy bar.

     “Now that we’re free, let’s see what the fuss is about.”

     Hannah followed him from the waiting area down a bleak, not well-lit hall. People in flower-printed scrubs ran back and forth passed them. Silas and Hannah were forced to moved as a gurney rolled by, surrounded by shouting people. Hannah turned her face so she didn’t have to see the person on it.

     “Do you think we could get a few of those?” She pointed to a doctor who was wearing a surgical mask.

     “Didn’t peg you for a germophobe,” Silas said. “He finished his candy bar and was licking his fingers.”

     “I’m not,” she said, watching him in disgust. “Your hands are probably covered in Ebola.”

     “Meh.” He gave the empty wrapper to a not-so-appreciative woman in pink.

     “It’s almost morning. We haven’t even had time to change.” She sniffed at herself. Her clothes had dried, but the stench of the sewers was overwhelming. “I’m amazed they haven’t kicked us out of the hospital.”

     “Trust me, they’ve smelled worse.”

     They reached a door flanked by two officers. One of them nodded as a cadre of doctors went inside. Attempting to slip in with them, Silas followed.

     “Not so fast.” An officer caught Silas by the arm and pulled him back.

     “I need inside,” he said.

     “Authorized personnel only.”

     “I helped rescue that woman,” he said.

     The cop folded her arms. “Weren’t you handcuffed in the waiting area?”

     Silas hid his hands behind his back. “Let’s not focus on the past. I need to speak with Emily.”

     “We should just go back,” Hannah said.

     Silas turned to her. “We need to see her when she wakes up.”

     “You think she will?” she asked. “She seemed pretty out of it when they brought her in.”

     “She has to recover eventually. But I’d feel a lot better about it if I was in that room.”

     He walked over to the policewoman. “You know, Mel. Can I call you Mel?”

     “No.”

     “You have amazing bone structure. Those cheeks, wow. You hardly look like a man.”

     Hannah covered her face.

     “I mean, because of the uniform,” Silas said. “It’s not very flattering for a woman. Especially one of your girth.”

     Before the officer could get Silas into a headlock, the door opened. Detective McClelland leaned out and gestured at Silas and Hannah.

     “Come on.”

     “What makes you think you can flirt with cops?” Hannah asked as they went inside.

     “Got us in, didn’t it?” Silas said.

     “No, it didn’t.”

     McClelland removed their handcuffs as they took in the scene. Voices mingled with the sound of beeping machines. Silas managed to part the crowd of medical staff around the bed. Emily had been washed and dressed in a hospital gown. Her hair was pulled back to make room for a breathing tubes and various sensors.

     “Well,” Silas said. “I’ve seen worse.”

     Her skin was green. Ulcers covered her face, running down her neck, all the way to her arms. A nurse stuck a needle into a boil, extracting yellow pus.

     Hannah suddenly felt sick. The room was moving counter-clockwise. She collapsed into a chair. Her throat burned and she fought the urge to vomit. The strong scent of antiseptic didn’t help. Breathing through her mouth, she closed her eyes until her head settled. McClelland was standing over her.

     “You okay, kid?” he asked.

     She had trouble speaking. “I… didn’t notice she looked like that when we found her.”

     The cop snorted and shook his head. “Poor kid. You can wait outside if you want.”

     “I just need a minute,” Hannah said. “What have the doctors found out?”

     “Are you sure you wanna talk about this?” McClelland asked.

     “Just tell me.”

     “She’s stable, more or less. Her temperature is around ninety-nine and they’re monitoring her vitals.”

     “What about the… boils?”

     “They don’t know,” the police detective said. “Could be a severe allergic reaction. They’ve already taken samples of the discharge to the lab.”

     “Has anyone contacted her family or friends?” she asked.

     “She’s got no family in the area,” McClelland said. “We’ll reached out to her coworkers, find her friends.”

     Their attention was drawn back to the bed. One of the doctors was shouting at Silas. He had taken the medical chart.

     “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The doctor yanked the chart back.

     “I’d like to know Emily’s condition,” Silas said.

     “It’s serious,” the doctor said. “And I don’t need unnecessary people in the room.” He cast an angry glance at McClelland. Reluctantly, he stepped between the doctor and Silas.

     “Doctor Wilson, this is Silas Black, private detective. He and Miss Rhodes helped rescue Emily.”

     “Congratulations,” the doctor said, “but unless they have medical degrees, I don’t want them in here.”

     “You said Emily might wake up soon,” McClelland said. “I want Silas here when we speak with her. There may be a few things he knows that can help.”

     “I said if she wakes up,” Wilson said. “For now, he stays outside.”

     “Don’t you want to hear my diagnosis?” Silas asked.

     “Not really.”

     He gave it anyway. “The patient is covered in lesions. They could have been caused by a chemical reaction, burns, or allergies. But my opinion says otherwise.”

     The medical staff stopped what they were doing to look at Silas.

     “And what is that?” McClelland asked.

     “Ms. Lisbon has been exposed to a mutagen,” Silas said. “Something that altered her genetic makeup.”

     “A mutagen?” the doctor said. “What kind?”

     “I have to do all the work for you?” Silas said. “Figure it out for yourself.”

     For the second time that night Silas was about to be in a headlock. Dr. Wilson and his staff converged on the detective, intent on ejecting him from the room. The wave of violence was thwarted by the appearance of Detective Lang. She pierced the air with a well-practiced whistle and pushed through the angry mob.

     “What the hell is going on?” she asked.

     “I want these people out of my room,” the doctor said.

     “I need everyone to leave, except my team.”

     Dr. Wilson took a step toward her. “Detective–“

     “Is there anything you need to do right now for the patient?” she asked, leveling her eyes at the man.

     “No, but–“

     “I said out.”

     He handed the chart to McClelland and marched out of the room. His staff followed, giving Silas questioning looks. The only people remaining were the police detectives, along with Silas and Hannah.

     “So, we’re a part of your team?” Silas asked.

     “Don’t push it.”

     Keeping her eyes on Silas, Lang walked over to McClelland and took the chart. She glanced over it for a second, as if she understood the jargon, before putting it back on the edge of the bed. Silas assumed she did it for show. She looked at Hannah in the corner.   

     “What’s wrong with you?”

     “Nothing.” Hannah stood up and joined the group.

     Lang sat beside the bed. “Any chance she’ll wake up tonight?”

     “Doctors said she might,” McClelland said. “They took her off the sedatives, hoping she’ll come around on her own.”

     Lang stared into the unconscious woman’s face. “Can anyone tell me what the hell she was doing in a sewer?”

     “The kidnapper was keeping her there,” McClelland said.

     “That means he’s down there,” Hannah said.

     “Great, were need to search miles of sewer and subway tunnels,” Lang said.

     “Units are sweeping the tunnels near where you found her,” McClelland said. “MTA and DEP are on the lookout for anything suspicious.”

     Silas stood at the foot of the bed. His eyes were glued to the victim.

     “I don’t think he’s down there,” he said.

     “Of course, you don’t,” Lang said. “You have to take the most difficult position.”

     “Somebody’s got to, Amy,” Silas said.

     “Don’t call me Amy.”

     “It makes sense that Daragon’s men would use the sewers,” he said. “The tunnels run under the entire city and they can move around, unnoticed.”

     “Men? You mean those… things,” Lang said.

     “They were men,” Silas said.

     “What are they now?” McClelland asked.

     “Never seen anything like it before,” Silas said. “One mutated before our eyes. I call ’em shamblers.”

     “What’s a shambler?” McClelland asked.

     “Couldn’t think of a better name.”

     “I’d try harder.”

     “Anyway,” Silas said. “The sewers aren’t a great lair for a lich. They’re damp, unsecure, and too crowded.”

     “Then what was Emily doing down there?” Lang asked.

     “She could have gotten free,” he said. “Got lost trying to escape. We won’t know how until she tells us. And I don’t think we have to wait long.”

     They all looked at Emily. There was a flicker of eyelids. She tried to lift her head. With a moan, she pulled the breathing tubes from her nose. Silas leaned over to help. Lang started, but didn’t interfere. Emily coughed and took in a gulp of air.

     Lang shooed Silas back. “Ms. Lisbon. Emily. Can you hear me?”

     Emily slowly turned her head to look at the cop. Her voice was gravelly.

     “Yes.”

     “I’m Detective Amy Lang. This is my partner, Rick McClelland.”

     Emily looked at them, then at Silas and Hannah.

     “Those are… some other people,” Lang said.

     “Where am I?” Emily asked.

     “You’re at a hospital,” Lang said. “We found you in the sewers. Do you remember?”

     Emily stared at the ceiling. “I remember the water. It was cold… comforting. It was calling me home.”

     “Do you remember how you got there?” Lang asked.

     “I don’t remember,” she said, almost sounding embarrassed.

     “You’ve been missing for a week,” McClelland said. “We’re happy we found you, but we’d feel better if we caught the man who took you.”

     A noise rolled up Emily’s throat and bubbled out of her mouth. She was laughing. “You can’t catch him. You don’t even know where he is.”

     “Where is he, Emily?” Silas asked.

     She locked eyes with him. “He is inside of me.”

     She looked to the end of her bed, at Hannah. “He is in you too. I can feel it.”

     Reaching over, Silas turned Emily’s head to face him.

     “Focus on me, sweet cheeks,” he said. “The man who took you is more than dangerous. I need to know where he is.”

     “You’re not a cop, are you?” she said.

     “Of course not.”

     “Good,” Emily said. “The police can’t stop him. All they do is help his kind.”

     “Spare us the criticism, kid,” McClelland said. “Who kidnapped you?”

     Emily spasmed with laughter. Her bed shook as she tried to flail her arms and legs. The restraints prevented her from flying off. Silas leaned over and tried to look her in the eyes.

     “Emily!”

     The woman stopped. Tears welled up in her eyes. They poured down her face in great, heaving sobs.

     “Emily, please,” Silas said.

     “They took me,” she said. “Took me from my home. I was somewhere far away. They burned me on the inside.”

     “How did they burn you?” Lang asked.

     “He said I was unworthy. Left alone in the emptiness. They stopped watching me. I knew they were waiting for me to die. So, I slipped away. Into the darkness… until I found the water.”

     “You mean the sewer?” Hannah said.

     “What can you tell us about your kidnappers?” Lang asked. “A face? Anything?”

     Emily shook her head back and forth. “He is nothing. He is everything.”

     “You need to tell us something, Emily,” the cop said.

     “I’m just a shell. Just an empty shell. Let me die.”

     Silas raised a hand, begging Lang with his eyes to let him speak.

     “I know it’s hard,” he said to Emily. “But more women will be hurt if you don’t help us. You can make the difference.”

     She opened her eyes. The tears stopped.

     “Tell me about the doll. Do you remember it? A little wooden guy with beady eyes.”

     Her eyes lit up, just a bit. “My doll. You’ve seen my doll?”

     “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve seen dolls from all over the world, but none like yours.”

     Emily smiled again. “I got it on a date.”

     “Oh, yeah? A hot date?” Silas asked.

     “Not really. He was a loser. But the club was good. Played my favorite songs.”

     “You got the doll at the club,” he said. “They sold them there?”

     “A man was selling them,” she said. “No one was interested, but I liked the look of the thing.”

     McClelland snorted.

     “Did you catch the guy’s name?” Silas asked.

     “No.”

     “What did he look like?” he said.

     “He was a little green man,” Emily said.

     Lang sat back and sighed.

     “Anything else you can tell me?” Silas asked.

     “He wore a black cap,” she said. “And smiled like a shark.”

     “Do you remember the name of the place?” Silas asked. “The address?”

     Her head dropped back on the pillow. She closed her eyes. Silas thought she had fallen asleep, when her lips parted.

     “The golden bowl. There was a golden bowl.”

     “Can you give us anything more, Emily?” Lang asked.

     Emily didn’t speak again. Silas’s eyes darted to the monitors to make sure she wasn’t crashing. Carefully, he pulled the oxygen tubes back over her nose.

#

     “What was that all about?”

     Lang and McClelland loomed over Silas and his assistant as they sat in the waiting room. They were back in their original seats, though the cuffs were gone. Silas had a notepad out, scribbling in it with the stub of a pencil.

     “I’m gonna need a new book,” he said. “This one’s waterlogged.” He flipped the soggy notepad closed and returned it to his coat.

     “Did anything she say in there make sense to you, Black?” Lang asked.

     Silas groaned as he stretched out his back and legs.

     “Maybe. It’ll all depends,” he said.

     “On what?” Lang said.

     “On you hiring me.” He nodded at Hannah. “Us.”

     “You’re gonna pull that crap now, Silas?” McClelland said.

     “You were the ones who kicked me off the case originally,” Silas said, “jeopardizing Emily and the other victims. If you want anything from me, you’ll have to officially bring me back in.”

     “Or I can charge you for obstructing a police investigation,” Lang said.

     Silas smirked. “You were in that room, too. You heard the exact same thing I did. Asking me for an interpretation of what she said is consultation stuff. I’m not obstructing your case if I say no.”

     “Just give them something, Silas,” Hannah said. “Every second we waste, he’s out there. Isn’t this more important to you than money?”

     Silas looked at her. Surprisingly, he wasn’t annoyed.

     “Emily told us as much as she could, given her condition,” he said. “Daragon’s influence has left her traumatized, obviously. The fact that she was able to talk to us at all was a miracle.”

     “But was anything she said useful?” Lang said.

     “From what I can gather, Daragon lost interest in her. Whatever he wants from these women, she didn’t have it. He left her to die. But the kid’s strong. She escaped and found her way to the sewers.”

     “Or he let her go,” Lang said. “She did show up right as those freaks attacked us.”

     “You think he wanted us to find her?” Silas asked.

     “I don’t see what he would gain from that,” McClelland said.

     “I do,” Hannah said, casting her eyes to the floor.

     “What about this Daragon,” Lang said. “The man you think is responsible. Who is he?”

     “You’re not going to like this part,” Silas said.

     “I’m not liking any of this.”

     “We believe,” Silas said, gesturing at Hannah, “the kidnapper is an early nineteenth century occultist named Alexander Daragon.”

     “Who is most certainly dead,” McClelland added.

     “We’re back to ghosts, now?” Lang said.

     “Not a ghost,” Silas said. “A lich.”

     “A what?” she asked.

     “Zombie… wizard… thing,” Hannah said.

     “What am I supposed to do with that?” Lang said.

     “You listen to me,” Silas said. “The only way we can stop Daragon is to destroy him. We can do that.”

     “This is ridiculous,” she said. “A live human being is behind this.”

     “Have you not been paying attention, Amy?” Silas said. “We spent the night running from monsters. There’s a mutated girl in there, baffling medical science. What more proof do you want?”

     “I’m a cop,” Lang said. “I can’t take your word for it. Not without solid evidence.”

     “Once we find this guy, you’ll see,” Silas said.

     “That’s been our problem all along,” Hannah said. “We can’t find him.”

     “We got a new lead,” Silas said. “The little green man that sold the fetish to Emily.”

     Lang rolled her head in irritation. “That was the most confusing part of her story. She was at a club. Great. We don’t have a name or location.”

     “There might be a way to find out,” McClelland said. “We’ll search her apartment again, look for a receipt or flyer from this place.”

     “Spending time we don’t have,” Lang said.

     She took a step back, discussing with her partner plans for revisiting Emily’s apartment.

     Hannah looked over at Silas. “Do you think what happened to Emily is going to happen to me?”

     Silas paused for a millisecond before answer. “Of course not.”

     “Her mind is all scrambled,” she said. “If we don’t stop Daragon soon…”

     “We will,” Silas said. “You’ve been fighting him so far. Don’t count yourself out.”

     Hannah felt a little better. Rummaging through her sewer-stained bag, she found her phone. The screen was cracked, but it worked. She managed to open her emails and started searching. After a few minutes, she jabbed Silas in the side.

     “Ow, what was that for?” he asked.

     “I think I found something,” she said. “That golden bowl sounded familiar. A friend of mine who writes for the Times once told me about an underground venue. It’s behind a grocery store. The only sign is a decal in the window. He called it the Gold Saucer.”

     “Gold Saucer?” Silas said, looking into the air. “Sounds familiar. Do you have an address?”

     “Yeah. He sent it to me, asked me to meet him there. Think it was a date or something. I turned him down.”

     “I didn’t ask you all that,” he said. “You got the address?”

     “Yep.”

     “Good,” Lang said. She had been listening from across the room. “Let’s have it.”

     “You really think you can get into this club, Officer Narc?” Silas asked.

     “I have this.” She pointed to the badge around her neck. “I’ll get in.”

     “You’re gonna need our help,” he said.

     “Mmm, I’m thinking no.”

     “After everything I just told? You still won’t hire me?”

     The police detective took Hannah’s phone and relayed the address to McClelland. Tossing it back, she marched away, barking more orders. McClelland gave Silas a conciliatory shrug. Silas responded with a not-so-conciliatory hand gesture. Getting up, he took Hannah’s arm and led her out of the hospital.

     The Sun was breaking the skyline, bathing the city in amber light. Silas stood at the curb and tried to flag down a taxi.

     “Up for another trip?” he asked Hannah.

     “Hell no.”

     “If we leave now, we can get to this club before the cops,” Silas said. “Not that I think Lang will be welcomed in, anyway.”

     “I’m exhausted,” Hannah said. “I stink. And I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. I need a break.”

     Silas was visibly irritated. But he relented. “Fine. We’ll get some rest. Cops’ll bungle it up and we’ll pick up the pieces. We should go at nightfall.”

     “We’ll see,” she said.

     “If you’re not, you got Barnabas duty.”

     “I’ll be ready.”

The post Black Days, Chapter 16: “Emily” appeared first on Tales of Maora.

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Hannah massaged her temples. She feared she was looking at a full-blown migraine. Pain pounded her head like a hammer on an anvil. She rested against the wall, grateful for the support. McClelland and Lang were standing a few feet away, recapping the night’s events. Silas was staring at her. It was uncomfortable, given he was only inches away.

     “What?” Hannah asked.

     “What do you think you were doing?” he said.

     “‘Hey, Hannah, are you okay? Sorry, a man tried to kill you.’ That’s what a normal person would say right now.”

     Silas waved a finger at her. “You did something in the bathroom. You drew that guy to the diner.”

     She did her best shocked face. “How the heck did you know that?”

     “I’ve been doing this a long time, sister,” Silas said.

     “I thought I could, you know, use the link like before. Find out where that bar is.”

     “It’s not like the Internet,” he said. “You can’t search for anything you want.”

     “I realize that now,” Hannah said.

     “Even in the best conditions tugging on the link is dangerous,” he said. “I’m surprised something worse didn’t happen.”

     “You didn’t see the bathroom.”

     He crossed his arms. “So, did you get anything?”

     “No.”

     “Okay.” He walked over to the police. “If we’re going after this guy, we gotta do it now.”

     Lang looked at him; her face was not encouraging. “Nobody said anything about going into the sewer. We have a crime scene back at the diner. Possible injured.”

     “Every minute we waste up here, that freak is getting further away,” Silas said. “Catching him is necessary, you know, if you want to solve this case.”

     “What makes you think this has anything to do with the case?” Lang asked.

     “Isn’t it obvious?” Silas said.

     “No, it is not.”

     He turned to McClelland. “Yo, Louie Anderson. You didn’t bother to tell her what we discussed?”

     Lang looked at McClelland expectantly. He raised a hand. “I was just getting to that.”

     “Whatever. You guys can chit-chat; I’m going in.” Silas was already bent over the manhole.

     “Black, you’ll do no such thing,” Lang said.

     “Watch me.”

     “You’re not working with us,” she said.

     “It’s a free country,” he said. “Climbing down manholes ain’t against the law.”

     “Actually, it is,” she said.

     “Well, you’ll have to come down here and arrest me.” He shot a look at Hannah. “Coming?”

     Hannah looked at the police detectives. She looked back at Silas. He was already gone. Cursing, she chose the manhole. Lang’s voice followed after them as they descended. Light from outside disappeared quickly, eventually replaced by the dull glow of tunnel lamps. Silas splashed down first and started taking in the sewer. Hannah reached the bottom and stumbled from the ladder, bumping into him.

     He didn’t notice, too intent on examining the walls with a flashlight.

     “Where did you get that?” Hannah asked.

     “Forgot I brought it along.” He patted his satchel.

     “Got another?”

     “I’m not made of flashlights.”

     The walls were cracked cement coated with slime. They curved in an arch over them. The floor sloped in the middle, forming a rut that encouraged the flow of water. The lamps gave the place a red glow. It felt like the inside of an artery. Silas almost imagined a subtle lub-dub. Of course, the illusion was shattered by the overwhelming stench. They both opted to breathe through their mouths.

     “I never, in a million years, expected to be in a sewer,” Hannah said through her teeth. “I hate you, Silas.”

     “First time in a sewer is never fun,” he said. “But you get used to it.”

     “You’ve been in a sewer before?” she asked. “I’m not surprised.”

     The sharp clang of heeled boots on metal echoed down to them. Detective Lang made quick work of climbing down the ladder. The cop touched down and went for Silas. She stuck a flashlight in his face.

     “What the fuck is wrong with you, Black?”

     “Whoa. Nothing I did warrants that kind of language,” he said.

     “I can’t decide if you want to get arrested or killed.”

     “Neither,” Silas said. “I want to stop a kidnapper.”

     “McClelland told me the connection you made with the homeless man and this Daragon person,” Lang said.

     “You concur.”

     “You’re insane,” she said. “But even if you’re onto something, you can’t run through the sewers to look for a guy.”

     “Yes, I can.”

     “Do you know how impossible New York sewers are?” Lang said. “There are miles and miles of tunnels, not to mention the subway and utility junction points. We can search for days and get nowhere.”

     “But our culprit just came this way,” Silas said. “If we’re fast, we can gain on him.”

     “He could have gone anywhere, Black,” she said. “It’s hopeless.”

     “Look at this.” Hannah had taken out her phone and was using the camera LED as a flashlight. Pointing it to the ground, she illuminated a small, red puddle.

     “Still fresh. He must have gone that way.”

     “Ye of little faith,” Silas said to the cop. “I doubt he got very far with a GSW.”

     Lang was silent as she looked over the stains that trailed off down the tunnel. “That’s a lot of blood. We might be able to follow. Hopefully, we’ll catch him before he bleeds to death.”

     Lang followed the distinct trail down the tunnel. She pulled a radio from her belt and ordered McClelland back to the diner.

     “McClelland will deal with the situation above ground,” she said. “I’m taking point. Stick close and do what I say. If this guy is one of your… ghouls, you better have some ideas for stopping him.”

     “Ghouls?” he said. “What are ghouls? I never said ghouls.”

     “Shut up.” Lang looked at Hannah. “Do your best to keep him in line.”

     “Suuure.”

     The police detective’s flashlight cast a yellow glow onto the walls. She kept her gun out, poised in her other hand. Silas watched her, a few steps behind. He assumed police protocol required her firearm remain drawn. A part of him wondered, though, if that was just Lang’s preference. Their footsteps were muffled in the growing channel of water that ran down the tunnel. The trail of blood continued. It dappled the left wall and floor with red.

     “You know, I haven’t been in a sewer in ages,” Silas said. “Last time’s got to be London, at that party. Everybody got sepsis.”

     “Button it,” Lang said.

     “Don’t like my stories?”

     “I don’t want the perp to hear us coming,” she said.

     “Trust me, there are people down here you don’t want to catch unawares.”

     “Such as?”

     “The mole people,” Silas said.

     “Mole people?” Lang asked.

     “Small eyes, big ears, sharp teeth,” he said. “They’re becoming rare, but you don’t want to surprise them. Rule of thumb: always make noise in a sewer. The same with bears in the woods.”

     “Duly noted,” Lang said. “Now stop talking.”

     Silas settled down, for a few minutes.

     The ground dipped. Water was moving fast and thick. The sound was loud enough to drown out even Silas. The tunnel ended at a fork leading to two new passages. Lang motioned for them to stop as she approached the left one.

     “I see a doorway,” she said. “Must lead to the subway.”

     “Thank God,” Hannah said. Her knees were submerged in the water.

     “Odds are, he went this way,” the cop said.

     “I don’t think so,” Silas said, coming up behind her.

     “Why not?”

     “This guy’s trying to get away from people, not towards them.”

     “You’re guessing,” she said.

     “Course not, come look at this.”

     Silas led the police detective into the other opening. He pointed.

     “What does that look like to you?”

     Lang took a few steps into the passage. She could just make out a light coming from around a bend. It was flickering, like a campfire.

     “I’m sure the locals will have seen something,” he said.

     “Locals?” Lang said.

     “Mole people?” Hannah asked.

     “No, they don’t like fire,” Silas said.

     Taking the lead, Lang marched toward the light. Around a corner, they discovered an alcove, a few feet above the water line. A fire was blazing in a trashcan. Huddled around the drum were a half-dozen homeless. At the appearance of a police officer with her gun drawn, they began to scatter.

     “Hold it right there,” Lang said in a commanding tone. “Everyone against the wall.”

     “Stand down, soldier,” Silas said, climbing into the alcove after her. “They’re harmless.”

     He looked into their eyes. They were malnourished and jaundiced. But they were regular people, through and through. Silas opened his hands to show he was unarmed.

     “Sorry. We don’t mean to bother you,” he said. “Has anyone passed by? Big fella. Hurt in the arm?”

     They looked at the door at the back of the alcove. One pointed.

     “That way?” Silas walked over and inspected the hatch. Blood was smeared across the wheel. “He’s been here, Lang.”

     The police detective holstered her gun. “All right people, I need you all to head to the main passage. You’ll find a manhole not far away. There are officers outside that’ll help you find shelter for the night. It’s not safe down here.” Her eyes darted to the hatch.

     The group climbed out of the alcove as Lang walked over to Silas. Hannah stood by the alcove edge, watching the homeless.

     “Think they’ll take you up on that offer?” she asked the cop.

     “Probably not,” Lang said. “Most likely, they have other places to hide.”

     “They’ve learned not to trust the police,” Silas said. “Not a bad policy, if you ask me.”

     “Just get this thing opened.”

     It took them both to turn the hatch wheel. On the other side was a short ladder dropping to a new tunnel. It was rectangular with a deep rut in the middle for sewage. To the right was a wall with a sluice at the top. Greasy water trickled down into the rut.

     “You think that sluice is big enough for a person to crawl through?” Silas asked.

     “God, I hope not,” Hannah said.

     “He couldn’t have climbed up there,” Lang said.

     “Just eliminating the variables,” he said. He pointed in the other direction. “We go this way.”

     “I’ll take the lead.” The police detective drew her gun again. Silas was beside her.

     “No thanks for picking the right fork in the tunnel?” he asked.

     “Black, I have a gun.”

     The sewer held a straight course. Any signs of the homeless man had faded. The trail of blood was gone. The only sound was the incessant flow of water. When Hannah started nodding off, Silas and Lang stopped. She almost bumped into them, stepping back and shaking herself awake.

     There was a hole in the tunnel wall, not ten feet ahead of them. The cement had been torn away, revealing layers of dirt, concrete, and pipes. Someone was crouching inside it. Lang motioned to the other two to stay back. Keeping her gun raised, she took a step.

     “NYPD. Stand up and identify yourself.”

     The person didn’t respond. Lang shone her light, revealing a large man, hunched over, wearing ragged clothes. His sleeve was torn at the shoulder and his arm was soaked with blood. Slowly, he stood up. The trio stepped back. Leaning his hands against the wall, he bowed his head to vomit. The thick, wet sound echoed through the tunnel. Lang made a move to help. Silas stopped her.

     The man began to shake. He pulled off his clothes, exposing his slimy body. A sound came from him as his arms bent at unnatural angles. It was the sound of cracking bones. He screamed as his body was forced into a new configuration. Skin bulged as his limbs grew thin and extended. The scream ended with a croak as he slumped back down.

     Hannah barely whispered. “Is he…?”

     The ragged head jerked up. Black eyes gleamed in the flashlight. In one bound he was on Lang. Her gun went off like an explosion, filling the sewer with light and fury. Hannah covered her ears. Silas turned away to avoid the spray of blood. When it was all over, the creature was on the ground. Not much of its head was left.

     Silas whistled as he stepped over to the remains.

     “Nice shooting, Tex,” he said. “Didn’t want anything left of him?”

     Lang was breathing heavily. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t put away her gun.

     “Black blood,” she said. “He had black blood.”

     “Don’t think that’s blood.” Silas took a piece of brick and stuck it into the corpse. Pulling it back, he examined the tar-like substance sticking to it. “Maybe some kind of pus. The body’s full of it.”

     “What… what was that?” Lang asked.

     “It was a man,” Silas said. “Now it’s roadkill.”

     “But what did he into?” Hannah asked, not giving the body a close look.

     “I dunno,” Silas said. “Never seen anything like it. We’ve discovered a new abomination. How do you like that? What should we call it?”

     The women didn’t answer.

     “How about The Shambling Man? Shambler? Something with shambles? Although… it was really a jumper.”

     He was interrupted by the sound of barking. It echoed down the tunnel. It was answered by another set of barks. Silas moved away from the corpse.

     “Well, I suppose we overstayed our welcome.”

     “What’s that noise?” Lang asked.

     “Do you want to stick around and find out?”

     The three of them ran in the opposite direction of the noise. They picked up their pace when they heard sound of wet, slapping feet behind them. Silas stopped at the first doorway he saw and jumped inside. Lang and Hannah followed him into the room. The cop pushed her back against the door to hold it closed.

     “There’s no lock on this thing.” She moved out of the way as Silas dragged a crate against it.

     “Happy?”

     “Not really,” she said. “We can’t stay in here forever.”

     “Where are we?” Hannah looked over the utility room. There were shelves cluttered with boxes. A few drums lined the floor. The only way out was the way they came in.

     “Now would be a good time to try your radio, Lang,” Silas said.

     She checked the receiver at her belt. “We’re way out of range of anyone.”

     “Something was familiar about the sound of those things.”

     “Shamblers,” Silas said.

     “What do you mean?” the cop asked.

     “The sound their feet made against the ground,” she said.

     “Yeah, probably naked and barefoot,” Silas said. “Just like the one she shot.”

     “It sounded like the thing that broke into my apartment,” she said. “Even the groaning was the same.”

     Silas nodded. “That confirms our suspicions.”

     “What suspicions?” Lang said, annoyed.

     “These creatures kidnapped Emily Lisbon,” Hannah said.

     “Shamblers,” Silas said.

     “We believe they are working for the person behind all of the kidnappings,” Hannah said.

     “What makes you think that? And how are these things working together at all? Besides that, what are they?”

     “A lot of good questions,” Silas said. “But we should mainly focus on getting out of here.”

     The door to the utility room shook. Two sets of hands were pounding it like hammers.

     “We’ll have to fight our way out,” Silas said.

     “How?” Lang said. “I’m out of bullets.”

     “Give me a minute.” He searched the room, gathering a pile of rags. Tearing them into strips, he tied the cloth around three pieces of rebar. He pointed.

     “What’s in those cans?”

     Hannah checked a drum. “Some kind of grease.”

     “Perfect.”

     Silas dipped the rags into the liquid. He handed one to Hannah and the police detective.

     “What’s this?” Lang asked.

     “A torch. Keep the bright end away from your face.” Silas flicked on his Zippo and ignited the oil-soaked rag at the end of his pipe. With it, he lit the others. Pulling away the crate that blocked the door, he motioned for Lang to open it.

     “Are you sure this will work?” she asked.

     “Everything burns.”

     She opened the door. Two of the creatures tumbled into the room. Crawling like a spider, one dove at Silas. He held out his torch and let the thing crash into it. It shrieked as fire swept over it. Another, bone-thin with no skin on its face, swatted Silas’s torch away and pinned him to the ground. Lang came up from behind and impaled it with her torch. She dragged Silas clear as it burned to death.

     “If we’re done with this pointless adventure,” Lang said as she helped him to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

     They left the room and ran down the tunnel. Silas shined his light along the walls, hoping to find rungs leading to a manhole. The cop raced ahead of the other two, turning a corner. Her voiced echoed back, ordering them to follow. Lang was already climbing up a ladder to the surface.

     Silas offered to help Hannah reach the first rung. She shook her head, indicating she need to take a breath. Silas was anxious, but left her there and climbed up. Soon, Hannah placed her hand on the first rung. She paused. Something was bothering her. It was like a tick tugging at the back of her head. She moved back from the ladder and looked around. The tunnel was empty. But the longer she listened, the louder it got.

     It was a whimper, somebody muffling a cry. She ran down the tunnel, away from the manhole ladder. Around a corner, the ground sloped to met a current of water. Hannah splashed down and was running. She quickly found the end of the tunnel. The water dropped forty feet into an enormous cistern. The sound was like thunder. Hannah peered over the edge. The whimpering had stopped, but she knew someone was nearby. Moving back from the cistern, she saw movement in the shadows by the wall.

     “Who are you?” Hannah asked. “Were you the one crying?”

     The woman said nothing. She turned away from Hannah and walked toward the cistern.

     “I wouldn’t go that way if I were you,” Hannah said.

     The woman’s head bobbed from side to side. She paused when she reached the edge, watching the rushing water. Hannah moved over to her and offered a hand.

     “Please, it’s not safe.”

     The woman whimpered. It was a lifeless sound. She leaned over the pit with one hand on the wall. Hannah moved closer. The water was to her knees. She had trouble standing up against the current.

     “Take my hand.”

     The water surged and Hannah stumbled. She caught herself in time to see the woman go over the edge. Hannah jumped after her. Her hands closed around wet clothes. The weight of the woman pulled Hannah down with her. Someone grabbed Hannah’s feet was pulling her up. Her fingernails cut into her skin, but she did not let go of the woman.

     She heard Silas tell her to relax. He had an arm around her. Lang was crouched over the woman she saved, checking her pulse. Satisfied, she leaned back and shone her light into the woman’s face.

     “Oh, my God,” Lang said.

     “What now?” Silas asked.

     “This,” she said, her face pale with shock. “This is Emily Lisbon.”

Image by Barawolf

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McClelland licked his spoon before putting it back on the plate. He leaned back, the vinyl booth squeaking beneath him. Silas was still thumbing what was left of his meal, a dried piece of bread saturated with ketchup. He had no intention of finishing it. Hannah was beside him, cradling a cup of coffee. She didn’t eat. At the moment, she was watching the liquid swirl in her mug.

     They were at a diner somewhere in the outer boroughs. The dinner rush had yet to start, but it was emptier than a New York restaurant ever should be. It may have had something to do with the inclement weather. Darkness came early and traces of rain started to appear on the windows. The only noise above the radio was the clanging of dishes.

     “As much as I love a free meal, Rick,” Silas said. “Why did you bring us here?”

     “Who said it was free?”

     “I’m not paying,” Silas said.

     McClelland sighed. He sounded like a racehorse nearing retirement. “I brought you here because I need news, Black. I assume you’re still on the case.” His eyes darted to Hannah. “Or she wouldn’t still be with you.”

     Hannah looked at Silas. “You told him?”

     “Of course not,” Silas said.

     “I’m a detective, Rhodes,” McClelland said. “I can put two and two together. So what, the boogeyman’s coming for you too?”

     She nodded, eyes on the mug.

     McClelland groaned. “Dammit.” He turned back to Silas. “You have to have something by now.”

     “Fetishes like the one we recovered from Emily’s apartment are being circulated throughout the city,” Silas said. “I surmise they’re being used to mark the kidnapper’s victims.”

     “What else?”

     “Alexander Daragon,” Silas said. “He’s our guy.”

     The cop cocked an eyebrow. “Who?”

     “An occultist from the 1930s,” Silas said. “Did a very bad thing upstate.”

     “Why do you think he’s our guy?” McClelland asked.

     “Got evidence linking him to the case,” Silas said.

     “Real evidence, or your kind of evidence?” the police detective asked.

     “My kind.”

     “Peaches. So how old is he?” McClelland said.

     “Very. He’s dead,” Silas said.

     The police detective gave him a sour look. “How, then, is he behind it?”

     “You know being dead’s never stopped anyone before,” Silas said. “He’s come back.”

     McClelland sighed as he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “You’re telling me our perp is a ghost?”

     “No, lich.”

     “What am I supposed to do with that?”

     “You?” Silas said. “Nothing. This is my domain. We’re hunting him down as we speak. You could help on your end, though. Dig up–no pun intended–anything you can on Daragon.”

     “And what’s your plan?” the cop asked. “Can we arrest him?”

     “Don’t be silly,” Silas said. “We burn him.”

     “Sure,” McClelland said. “The NYPD regularly burns suspects.”

     “We’ve been down this road before, Rick. Daragon’s the kind of perp you just deal with.”

     “You think that’s even gonna work?” McClelland asked.

     “Everything burns,” Silas said. Hannah and McClelland looked at him skeptically.

     “If not,” he continued, “there’s another way. He’ll probably have a phylactery. It’s an object that bonds him to this world and gives him his power. We destroy that, it’s Bye, Bye, Birdie.”

     “What does a… phylactery look like?” McClelland asked.

     “Could be anything,” Silas said. “Won’t know until I see it.”

     “Do you have any idea where we should be looking?” the police detective asked.

     “It’ll be inside the city. That’s the best I can do for now.”

     Hannah pushed her mug away. “Whatever happened to that homeless man, Rick? The one from the station. If we could find him, we might find a way to Daragon.”

     McClelland looked at her, confused. “You mean the drunk that was bothering you?”

     “Daragon may be using homeless for legwork,” Silas said. “Makes sense. He can’t go around in public.”

     “You know, it’s stuff like this you’re supposed to tell me right away,” the cop said.

     “Did you hold onto him?” Hannah asked.

     “Gone in the wind,” McClelland said. “We let drunks sleep it off and let ’em go. Not like they have an address we can follow up on.”

     “At least keep an eye out,” Silas said. “I’m sure he’ll pop up again. Okay, I showed you mine. What do you have for me?”

     “We found the guy Emily Lisbon went out with a week ago,” the police detective said. “He told us they only went on one date. She took him to some dive bar.”

     Silas shrugged. “And?”

     “He said the only thing that stood out was when Emily bought a strange doll.”

     “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Silas said. “Did he say anything about who sold it to her?”

     “Couldn’t give a description,” the cop said. “Too dark and loud at the club.”

     “Got an address?”

     “Emily took him there,” McClelland said. “He couldn’t remember.”

     “This guy’s loads of help,” Hannah asked.

     “Emily might have written down the address,” Silas said. “Or have a flier or matchbook from the place. I need to get back into her apartment.”

     McClelland shook his head. “Hell no.”

     “If we track down the guy who sold her the fetish, he might lead us to Daragon,” Silas said. “We were close in Chinatown until your buddies interrupted.”

     “I can’t very well let you into her apartment after you’ve been kicked off the case,” McClelland said. “I’ll have my people look it over.”

     “That’s it?” Silas said. “You bring me here, prod me for info. Why? So you can take credit for my work?”

     McClelland stuck a finger in Silas’s face.

     “You really have such a low view of me, Black? After all we’ve been through?”

     “Recent history has clouded my judgment of you, Rick,” Silas said.

     The conversation was put on hold when the waitress dropped the check. Silas stared at McClelland. The cop snorted and took it, sliding out from the booth. Hannah got up from the table and went to the bathroom, just happy to be clear of the argument.

     It was a muggy room that smelled like rusted pipes. Hannah held her breath as she washed her hands. She rubbed her temples, vainly pushing back a headache. She caught her reflection in the mirror. Something was wrong.

     Her eyes were glowing. She pressed them shut and looked again. The reflections stayed in place as she moved, like two stars stuck in the glass. The same fuzzy sensation came over her as when she used the fetish at Silas’ house. It gave her an idea. Placing her hands on the mirror, she stared into her eyes. Reaching out with her thoughts, she tried to summon the location of the dive bar Emily had visited.

     Hannah expected the address to pop into her head. Instead, there was nothing. A wave of dizziness hit her and she grabbed the sink. The bathroom rumbled. Water gushed out of the toilets. The faucets turned into geysers. The mirror was vibrating. Hannah left before they shattered in her face.

     Outside, the diner was quiet. Silas and McClelland stood by the booth, neither speaking. Shaking the water from her clothes, Hannah started toward them. As she got close, she noticed a man by the counter. He was emaciated, his face caked in dirt. He wore a brown cap and layers of coats. The greeter was trying to kick him out in the most humane way, promising some food if he left. The homeless man looked ready to comply when he saw Hannah.

     He opened his mouth and a snapping, croaking noise came out. His eyes turned black. Pushing the greeter out of the way, he ran across the diner. Silas intercepted him. The homeless man leaned into Silas, sending him into a table. McClelland shouted at the homeless man. He got a chair shoved into his chest for his troubles.

     Hannah dove under a table. The man crashed on top of it. She crawled under the next table, desperately making for the door. People were screaming, some cowered under tables, others tried to get away. The attacker jumped onto the nearest table, landing on all fours.

     A chair connected with his face. The man fell as Silas pulled the chair back for another swing. He clasped Silas’s neck and slammed him against a booth.

     Shots thundered through the diner. A round grazed the homeless man’s arm. Releasing Silas, he bounded over a booth and crashed through the window. Customers continued to scream and run in all directions as the man escaped down the street.

     McClelland ran over to Silas. “You okay?”

     “You could’ve shot me!”

     “Fine, then.”

     The cop ran for the door, gun still drawn. Silas helped Hannah to her feet and they followed. Ambient shouts filled the street. They followed the sounds down an alley. In the distance, they saw the homeless man, back on two legs. He pressed a hand against his bleeding shoulder. Silas pulled ahead of Hannah and McClelland as the attacker disappeared around a corner. Silas reached it and stopped.

     McClelland came up behind him, flashlight paired with his sidearm. He checked the alley. It was a dead end, with no entrances or fire escapes. But the homeless man was gone.

     “What the hell?” Hannah said.

     “Here.” Silas bent down and pulled back a half-covered manhole. Around the opening were drops of blood.

     “Yeah, he went into the sewer,” McClelland said.

     Silas and Hannah looked at the cop. His phone was at his ear.

     “What are you doing?” Silas asked.

     McClelland shrugged. “What do you think? Calling it in.”

     “To whom?”

     “Me,” said another voice.

     They turned to face the lithe figure of Detective Lang as she marched toward them, gun and flashlight in hand.

     “Somebody better fricking bring me up to speed.”

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“I think the cops are following me,” Hannah said.

     “Paranoia,” Silas said.

     “It’s not paranoia if it’s true.”

     “That’s what every paranoid person says.

     “Seriously,” she said. “Liz and Tom called the cops and now they got a tail on me. I keep seeing the same black car everywhere.”

     “Oh, that proves it,” Silas said. “Relax. The cops have better things to do. And so do we.”

     They were walking down an unexceptional Manhattan street. Pre-War buildings were sandwiched between skyscrapers. At the end of the street was a heavily renovated building. There was something professorial about it, with the red brick and ivy. Contrasting were the art deco tapestries in the windows. Hedgerow lined the sidewalk, leading to the door. Silas grabbed it by its massive handle and pulled.

     “What is this place?” Hannah asked as she stepped inside the lobby.

     “Neo New York,” Silas said.

     It was more art gallery than lobby. There were marble floors, white-washed walls, and abstract sculptures. Misshapen wolves reared up on either side of a Lucite receptionist’s desk. A waifish creature with jet hair mindlessly tapped away on a keyboard. Silas walked up to him. The man ignored him. The detective rapped on the desk to get his attention.

     “Please don’t tap on the glass,” he said without turning from his computer screen.

     “I thought that was just for fish tanks,” Silas said.

     The receptionist looked at him deliberately. His heavy-lidded eyes were almost closed.

     “Can I help you?”

     “Moirai Enterprises?” Silas asked.

     Slowly, the man pointed to something besides his desk. A plaque on the wall listed the building’s tenants. At the very top, on the sixth floor, was a company called “Moirai Enterprises.” Silas looked back at the receptionist.

     “Do you know if Abernathy’s in?” he asked.

     The man glared at Silas, but he picked up the phone. Pushing a button, he immediately spoke. “Is Peter Abernathy in today?” He hung up once he got his answer. “Yes, but he’s not taking any visitors.”

     “That won’t be a problem,” Silas said.

     “Whatever, elevator’s to your right.” The receptionist returned to his computer and immediately forgot anyone else was there.

     Silas gestured for Hannah to follow him into the elevator bank. One opened, letting off a man in a frock coat and fedora. They waited for him to pass and got on. Silas hit floor six and the doors closed.

     “This place is like something out of The Fifth Element,” Hannah said.

     “Never seen it.”

     “What’s Moirai Enterprises?” she asked.

     “A business concern,” Silas said. “Part commercial, part philanthropic. That’s all I know. It’s run by Peter Abernathy. A very old and terrible man.”

     “I take it he’s not a friend?”

     “No. He was a colleague of my father’s, for a little while. They had a falling out over a club they attended. A bunch of historians fighting over worthless artifacts. Ridiculous.”

     “They both wanted the same… scepter?” Hannah asked.

     “No idea. They were friends once. Then friendly rivals. Then just rivals. Then enemies. Abe still hates Henry, even though he’s dead. Takes it out on me.”

     “Then what are we doing here?” she asked.

     “Unfortunately, we’ve got no choice.”

     With a ding, the elevator opened onto the sixth floor. Classical music followed them down the hall. At the end was a glass partition and a door. They entered a bright, sterile-looking waiting area. On the wall was written, MOIRAI ENTERPRISES in giant black letters. A receptionist’s desk was empty.

     Hannah looked around. “So…”

     A door opened on the other side of the room. A cluster of people walked out. They moved silently, oblivious to the newcomers. Their footsteps were in sync, almost robotic. Hannah wasn’t sure if they were breathing. A few of them were tapping on tablets. Once they reached the other side of the waiting area, another door opened and they disappeared.

     Hannah pointed after them. “What the hell was that?”

     “It’s best not to ask.”

     A tall, pristine woman appeared. She had blonde, almost white hair, pulled tight behind her ears. Her smart blouse and skirt were a shade of off-gray. In her hand was an enormous computer tablet. Upon seeing Silas and Hannah, she smiled.

     “Hello, welcome to Moirai Enterprises. My name is Luxa. How may I help you?”

     Silas studied Luxa carefully, looking for seams.

     “I’m Silas Black. This is my assistant, Rick Deckard. We need to see Peter.”

     Luxa tilted her head as Silas spoke. She was still smiling in a placating way. “I’m sorry, Professor Abernathy is not taking unscheduled visitors.”

     “He’ll see me,” Silas said. “Tell him who I am.”

     “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she said. It sent shivers up his spine. “But I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”
     “What’s ‘Moirai’?” Hannah asked.

     The woman called Luxa answered with encyclopedic fluency. “According to Greek mythology, the Moirai–or Furies–were the living embodiments of destiny. As the founder’s favorite classical figures, he named his organization after them.”

     “Listen Luxa,” Silas said, “I came all the way from Brooklyn to see your boss. Can you please just let him know I’m here?”

     The receptionist paused as she processed the request, the smile still on her face. “I will be back in a moment.” She turned and disappeared through a door.

     Hannah looked at Silas. “Who the hell is Rick Deckard?”

     “You’re hopeless.”

     After a moment Luxa returned. She gestured smoothly to Silas and Hannah.

     “Professor Abernathy will see you.”

     They followed her down a short hall. Luxa stopped at a set of doors, nodding for them to go in. At first glance, the office looked like the typical professor’s. There was the oak desk, bookshelves, and diplomas. But the chandelier made of bone was different, as were the animal-skin rugs. Beside the diplomas were a wolf’s head and witch doctor mask.

     Seated in a high back chair was Abernathy. He was leaning forward, his hands steepled over the desk. There was something unnatural about the way he looked. Silas chalked it up to a trick of the light, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the old man was coated in formaldehyde. His glasses glowed like a jungle cat in the dark. Behind them, beady eyes moved to and fro. He spoke, thin red lips moving like a doll’s.

     “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

     “Need information,” Silas said.

     “And you came to me? Surely, you have a library card.”

     “Got revoked,” the detective said. “Forgot to return The Bridges of Madison County.”

     Abe sneered. “It must be important.” He looked at Hannah. “Who the hell are you?”

     “I’m Hannah Rhodes,” she said.

     “What are you, us girlfriend?”

     Silas and Hannah spoke at the same time. “No.”

     “She’s my assistant,” he added.

     The old man rolled his eyes and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit. You have ten minutes.
     “Why thank you, Abe.” Silas sat down. “I must say your office is looking very fetching. Very Robinson Crusoe meets Hannibal Lecter.”

     “Silas, I do not have all day,” Abernathy said. “Tell me what you want so I can promptly reject you.”
     “Alexander Daragon,” the detective said.

     “Never heard of him.”

     “You answered a little too fast, Baldy,” Silas said. “I have a feeling you do.”

     Reaching into his coat, Silas retrieved the diary. Removing the library printout, he unfolded the picture of Daragon and slid it across the desk. Abe’s eyes were fixed on the diary. He picked up the paper, tsking as he looked it over.

     “What is this?” he asked.

     “Daragon and his chums,” Silas said. “Circa 1920. He was a big thing back then.”

     “I wasn’t even alive,” Abernathy said. “What does this have to do with me?”

     “It’s not about the party, Abe. It’s about the banner above them,” Silas said. “Look familiar?”

     Abe’s irate face lost some of its mettle. Concern was in his eyes. He scoffed and tossed the paper back at Silas.

     “What are you talking about?”

     “The symbol, Tiny,” Silas said, pointing at the image of the eye with wings. “The Soaring Eye. That’s what you used to call it. It was the symbol of the Society of Muninn.”

     “What if it was?” Abe said.

     “Can you explain to me why a group of magicians a hundred years ago was using the same symbol?” the detective asked.

     “If you had the same wits as your father, you’d know symbols can mean many things to many people,” Abernathy said.

     “And what did this symbol mean to you?”

     “It represented knowledge,” the old man said. “We were historians. Professors. We aimed to preserve the past through our collection.”

     “Oh sure, preserve the past.” Silas shrugged. “And achieve apotheosis,” Silas said.

     Abe chuckled. It was a grating sound. “Such a big word, my boy. Have you been reading the dictionary? Yes. It is the dream of all intellectuals to achieve apotheosis. Immortality. Whatever you want to call it. It’s simply ego.”

     “So you refuse to admit there’s a connection between you and Daragon?” Silas said.

     “There’s nothing to admit.”

     Hannah held up her phone. “Funny, I only see mention of this symbol on occult websites. They all say it’s a secret sign between fellow practitioners.”

     The old man glowered at Silas. “Who is she?”

     “Annoying right?” Silas said.

     Abe pressed his fingers into his temples and sighed. “Is this why you came here? To berate me over the past?”

     “I just want to know the truth, Rumpelstiltskin,” Silas said.

     “The truth? That is all we ever want. But the world is too big a place for truth.”

     “Save me the poetry and just answer my question,” the detective said.

     “Yes. The Society of Muninn practiced witchcraft,” Abe said. “Is that what you want to hear?”

     Silas waved a finger at him. “See, I can’t picture you codgers flying around on broomsticks. You need to give me more.”

     “I’m afraid I must disabuse you of your antiquated notions, Silas,” Abernathy said. “We were intellectuals, not pagans from a fairy tale. We searched for the meaning of life. Every artifact we found told a story about the history of the world. The occult is a part of that story. We would be fools not to pursue it.”

     “What did you do?”

     Abe smiled. It made him look like a very old snake. “Come now Silas, I can’t reveal all our secrets.”

     “Even my father?”

     The professor nodded slightly. “A pity he never bothered to tell you.”

     Silas’s face darkened. “Spare me.”

     “You brought it up,” Abe said.

     The detective looked down at the diary in his hands.

     “Then you must know something about Daragon. If you were researching the occult, he must have come up.”

     “Maybe I know a little about him,” Abernathy said. “But I have no reason to tell you.”

     “Why not?” Silas asked.

     “You have given me no incentive, boy,” he said. “Information, good information, is never free.”

     “You have enough money,” Silas said.

     “I’m referring to the Beast Stone,” the old man said. “You may not have it in your possession, but I’m sure you know where to look. You have access to Henry’s paperwork. Maybe he donated it to a university. Maybe he sold it. You tell me where it ended up and I’ll take the steps to acquire it.”

     Silas stared at the man. He never liked being in someone’s debt, least of all someone like Abernathy. “It might take time to track it down.”

     “I’m patient. But not forever.”

     “Fine,” Silas said. “What do you know about Daragon?”

     “I never met him,” Abe said. “His story, though, was a cautionary tale among people like us.”

     “I bet,” Hannah said.

     Abe cast her a glance that said she should no longer speak for the duration of their visit.

     “Daragon was a pioneer of the supernatural,” he said. “He started a movement, gained some followers, and built a commune or something in the mountains.”

     “I know all that,” Silas said. “Tell me about the massacre.”

     “Rumors spread that he was planning to overthrow the government,” Abernathy said. “Foolish notion, of course. Why overthrow it, when you can simply control it? But, some of his followers got scared and wanted out. To retaliate, he murdered everyone. Women, children, everyone. The National Guard had been sent to take control of the town. It didn’t go well.”

     “What happened after that?” Silas said. “How did he escape?”

     “Escape? Daragon didn’t escape. The soldiers killed him, right in his house.”

     “When was this?” Silas asked.

     “I’m not clear on the dates,” Abernathy said. “Around 1935, if I’m remembering correctly.”

     “How did he murder everyone?” Silas asked. “What kind of magic could do that?”

     “Daragon was a subtle man,” Abernathy said. “He didn’t send fire down to smite the backsliders. He drove them insane. The old boy mastered the art of preying on a person’s fear, anger, lust. You know, those raw emotions we little creatures have such a hard time controlling. They killed each other. It’s a terrible kind of magic, Silas. The kind true practitioners detest.”

     “Yes, you’re all so noble,” Silas said.

     “Daragon slaughters a whole town, just to be shot by the National Guard?” Hannah asked.

     “Girl, that is the first intelligent thing to come out of your mouth,” Abernathy said. “As I said, Daragon was subtle. He wouldn’t let something as trivial as death stop him.”

     “So he survived?” Silas asked. “How?”

     “It’s all speculation,” Abernathy said. “But if you ask me, Daragon could have become a lich.”

     “A lich?” Silas said. “Are you positive?”

     “It is only a hunch,” the old man said. “But Daragon wasn’t stupid. He knew his number was up. He’d find a way to come back, even if the soldiers got the best of him.”

     “What’s a lich?” Hannah asked.

     “A revenant,” Abernathy said. “Someone that’s returned from the dead. A lich is a powerful undead creature.”

     “Imagine a zombie,” Silas said. “With full control of its faculties and able to perform magic.”

     “Silas, why are you even asking about Daragon?” Abernathy said. “Where on earth did you hear that name?”

     “He’s been busy, Abe. Kidnapping women all over the city. For God knows why.”

     Abe straightened up in his chair. The expression of disdain fell from his face. It was replaced with full-blown fear. “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

     “I’m not. Not about this.” Silas held up the diary. “Case led me to Daragon’s old house. This was written by the man himself.”

     “And you dared to bring it here?” Abe’s voice grew rasped with panic.

     “It’s just a book, Abe.”

     “Do you understand what you’ve yourself gotten into?” the old man said

     “No worse than what I normally do,” Silas said.

     “No, much worse, you little idiot,” Abe said. “I saw a lich, only once. We were in Egypt, seeking the lost temple of Osiris. After weeks of digging, we uncovered the entrance. There, in the darkness, we found it. One of the guardians of the tomb. A lich. With just a touch it killed three of our number. Only by dumb luck did the rest of us escape. We sealed the tunnel with dynamite and never returned.”

     His eyes unfocused and he seemed to look off into the distance. “I watched their flesh sizzle. In a blink of an eye, they were bones.”

     There was an uncomfortable silence in the room. Silas sat up and cleared his throat.

     “Do you have any idea why a lich would be taking women?” Silas asked.

     “Are you even listening to me, boy?”

     “Of course I am, but this is my case,” Silas said. “I’m not going to abandon it just because it’s dangerous. The best I can do is close it as fast as I can.”

     “I can’t imagine what Daragon is doing,” Abernathy said. “All I can say is you’re better off staying as far away from him as possible.”

     “Your concern is noted,” Silas said. “And touching, in a creepy sort of way. But I’m seeing this through to the end.”

     “It might be your end.”

     “Not the first time.”

     “What else do you know about liches?” Hannah asked Abernathy. “Do they have, like, psychic powers?”

     The professor shrugged. “There’s no telling what they can do. Daragon’s power might be limitless.”

     “The spirit might be limitless, but the flesh is weak,” Silas said. “His body will burn like anything else.”

     Abe looked doubtful. “Is there anything else you want? I’ve told all know.”

     “I guess that’s it,” Silas said.

     “Then I invite you to get out of my office.”

     Silas stood up and made for the door. Hannah followed. Abe called as they entered the hall.

     “If Daragon has come back, you will warn me, Silas. Won’t you?”

     The detective looked back and smiled. “I have a feeling you’ll find out. One way or another.”

     As the door closed, Silas caught glimpse of the man rifling through a box on his desk. Something gold was in his hand.

     “That didn’t instill me with a lot of confidence,” Hannah said as they made their way to the elevator. “Daragon’s a lich? An undead wizard?”

     “It’s not as big a leap as what we already knew,” Silas said. “He can be stopped, no matter what he turned himself into. I just wish Abe had more to tell us.”

     “Do you think he wasn’t telling us something?” she asked.

     “Oh, definitely,” Silas said. “He wouldn’t show all his cards. But you saw his face. Abe has a reason to fear Daragon. If there was something he knew that could help us stop the lich, he would share it. Let us do the hard work.”

     They left the building and made their way down the street.

     “What’s our next step?” Hannah asked as they stopped at the corner.

     “We find Daragon,” Silas said. “There are only a few places a lich could be hiding.”

     “I hope this doesn’t involve grave digging.”

     “You never know. He’s staying somewhere out of the way, but with easy access to victims.”

     “An abandoned warehouse?” Hannah said. “Plenty of those by Gowanus.”

     “It would also have to be pulsing with arcane energy,” Silas said.

     “Huh?”

     “It’s not easy keeping a dead thing ‘alive.’ You need a strong source of magic to keep it animated. There are different sources, like spirits of children, trapped in dolls.”

     Hannah looked at him quizzically.

     He waved it away. “You don’t wanna know. Also ley lines, i.e.: magic in the earth.”

     “There’s one way we might be able to find him,” she said. “I can use the fetish again.”

     “No way, Evel Knievel,” Silas asked. “Not after what happened last time.”

     “We found Barrow Hill.”

     “And that was a glimmering success,” he said. “I’m not letting that happen to you again.”

     “It’s not your call, it’s mine.”

     “No, I have the fetish,” Silas said. “Besides , you’re in greater danger with Luther’s talisman extinguished.”

     “Then how do we find Daragon?” Hannah said.

     “We try more conventional methods,” he said. “Research the local ley lines. Dig up more on Daragon’s life. Hell, if we need to, we can get the cops to lend a hand.”

     “You can always talk to the one that’s been tailing me,” she said.

     “For the last time, Butch, you’re not being–“

     The light turned green. Silas stepped off the curb as a black sedan cut across traffic to block him. The driver door popped open and the square figure of Detective McClelland emerged. He looked at Silas and Hannah and nodded to the car.

     “Let’s go for a ride.”

The post Black Days, Chapter 13: “An Enterprising Old Gentleman” appeared first on Tales of Maora.

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Tom Redding sat up in his bed. He looked over at his alarm clock. It was two in the morning and his doorbell was ringing. He got up and crossed the bedroom, leaving the light off. Somehow, he made his way to the front door. His head was a ball of anger and grogginess. His hand went to the hall light switch. He stopped when his wife appeared.

     “It might be a burglar,” Liz said, peeking around the corner.

     “Ringing the doorbell?” Tom said.

     “You should get the gun.”

     “Woman, you know we don’t own a gun,” he said.

     “Wait! The baseball bat.” She disappeared into the bedroom.

     Tom rolled his eyes. Turning on the light, he opened the front door. The ringing finally stopped. Standing before him was a lanky man in a long, dirty coat. It looked as if he had been running through the woods all night. He had a wild look in his eyes that made Tom nervous. Most upsetting, though, was the unconscious woman in his arms.

     “What the hell?” Tom was having a hard time registering what he saw.

     “Wow, you’re huge,” Silas said, looking over the man in t-shirt and pajama pants. “Like a buff Sidney Poitier.”

     “Who are you?” Tom asked. “Is that Hannah Rhodes?”

     “Hannah?” Liz reemerged. She couldn’t find the baseball bat, ultimately deciding on an umbrella. Dropping her weapon, she ran to the door. “Oh my God. Tom, let them in.”

     Tom put an arm across the doorway. “First, tell me who you are and what happened to her.”

     Silas sighed, shuffling his bundle. Taking a deep breath, he quickly blurted out: “I’m Silas Black. Hannah’s working for me. We were on a case. She got hurt. You’re doctors. She’s getting heavy. Let me in.”

     Tom took Hannah. He carried her as if she was a small child. Liz was already checking her pulse as he carried her into the living room. Silas followed, shutting the door behind him. Tom gently laid Hannah on the couch. Liz put an ear to her mouth.

     “I can’t get a pulse, Tom,” she said. “I’m not sure she’s breathing.”

     “Hang on, babe,” he said. “You’re exhausted.”

     “I’ve done 2 AM shifts before. I know what I’m doing.”

     “Let me get our stuff and we’ll do this right.”

     “You should use a stethoscope,” Silas said. He had planted himself across the couch in an armchair.

     They cast him sharp looks. Getting up from beside the couch, Tom went back into their bedroom.

     “Nice place,” Silas said. “What does this run you, like five grand a month?”

     Liz stood up, hands on her hips. “What the hell happened?”

     “Can’t talk about it,” Silas said. “On-going case.”

     Liz’s face told him she did not accept that as a reasonable answer.

     Silas cleared his throat. “Got any tea?”

     “No.”

     Tom returned with a first aid kit, supplemented by some of his professional equipment. He took out a stethoscope and checked Hannah’s breathing. Liz watched for a moment, quickly turning back to Silas.

     “Talk.”

     “We were upstate exploring a house when Hannah passed out,” Silas said. “I tried to rouse her, but no dice. So I did what any normal person would do: I brought her back to New York so her doctor friend could treat her. Found your address in her phone.”

     “What kind of house?” Liz asked. “Was there mold, did she cut herself on metal, drink dirty water, hit her head?”

     “None of those,” he said. “She just fainted.”

     “You didn’t call 911 or get her to a hospital?”

     “We were in the middle of nowhere,” Silas said. “No cell reception. By the time I got back to civilized society, it was just as easy to bring her to you.”

     “You carried her all the way back to Manhattan?” Tom asked.

     “I found a ride,” Silas said.

     “How long has she been out?” Liz asked.

     “She’s been in and out for the last few hours,” Silas said. “I got her to walk for a bit, but that didn’t last. She’s been out cold for the last thirty minutes.”

     Tom removed the stethoscope and proceeded to feel Hannah’s throat for swelling. He took out a flashlight and shone it into her eyes.

     “I doubt her glands are swollen,” Silas said.

     “And how would you know that?” Liz asked.

     “I happen to have a little medical training,” he said. “Took a few classes in college.”

     “That makes you a doctor?” she said.

     “Of course, not,” Silas said. “Almost a doctor.”

     “So, if she didn’t get hurt,” Tom said, “why is she out?”

     “She could have been drugged.” Liz leveled a glance at Silas.

     “Don’t be ridiculous,” Silas said.

     “Shouldn’t be out for this long,” Tom said.

     “Well, it was quite the scare.”

     “From what?” Liz asked. “I told you to tell me everything.”

     “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Silas said.

     “Spill it.”

     Silas shrugged. “All right, fine. We met a ghost. Normally that’s not a big deal, a few bumps and scratches at worst. But this banshee tried a forced possession on Hannah. Your friend was able to fight it off, but the shock of the ordeal knocked her out.”

     Tom stopped examining Hannah to look at him. Liz crossed her arms, a look of disgust on her face.

     “You were both drugged,” she said.

     “I’m a detective,” Silas said, “specializing in paranormal phenomena. I deal with ghosts all the time. Listen, Hannah wasn’t the only one hurt. The damn thing tried to crush my larynx. Look at my neck.”

     He pulled back his coat to reveal red lines around his neck. Liz moved closer to him as if to inspect the marks. Instead, she shone a light into Silas’s eyes.

     “Get that out of my face.” Silas jumped up, swatting the light away.

     “Pupils aren’t dilated,” she said to Tom. “But he does seem high.”

     “I’m not high,” Silas said. “What I’m saying is true. I even work with the police. That’s why Hannah’s with me; this is her case.”

     “She said she was covering you for a story,” Liz said.

     “I’m sure she did,” he said. “The truth is, she’s being hunted by a kidnapper who’s using black magic on his victims.”

     “You’re not serious,” Tom said.

     “I’m always serious,” Silas said. “No, that’s not true. But I’m serious about this. Several women have already gone missing.”

     “Oh my God,” she said.

     “You believe me,” he said.

     “No.” Liz nonetheless sat down and put an arm around Hannah. “Why… why didn’t she tell me?”

     “She didn’t want you to worry,” Silas said. “And I told her not to. But I’m on the case. I will find this guy.”

     “Do the police know?” Tom asked.

     “They’re the ones who brought me in on the case,” he said. “Hannah showed up at the last crime scene. The irony is, if Hannah hadn’t been so eager for a story, she would never have gotten involved.”

     Neither Tom nor Liz was interested in irony at the moment.

     “Should we take her to the ER?” Liz asked her husband.

     “Her heart rate is normal,” he said. “She’s breathing. Don’t see any injuries or signs of concussion. I don’t want her sitting in an ER all night if she doesn’t need to. We’ll let her rest and see in the morning.”

     “Can’t you stick her with something?” Silas asked. “Pop her out of it?”

     “You think we have needs full of stimulates lying around our house?” Tom said.

     “I was hoping.”

     “She should come around on her own,” he said. “Looks like she needs the rest anyway.”

     Silas clapped his hands together. “You’ve got this well in hand. I’ll be on my way.”

     “You’re just going to abandon her now?” Liz said.

     “I’m not abandoning her,” he said. “You’re her friends, after all. I’ve only known her for…” he counted on his fingers. “Four days?”

     “Still, it seems like a crappy thing to do,” she said.

     The detective hesitated. “I… I know what I’m doing. She’d be better off with you. For now. Just be sure she doesn’t wander off on her own.”

     “How do we get in touch with you?” Tom asked.

     “She’s got my number.”

     He made a move for the door. “Wait, there’s something I need to do. You got any paper? Never mind, this’ll work.”

     Silas crossed to the kitchen counter where a pile of takeout menus sat. Retrieving a pen from his coat, he started writing:

     Dear Butch. I’m sorry. Forcing you to work on your own case was a mistake. The lure of studying what was happening to you was too much to pass up. But I see now it was wrong.

     Are you happy? I’m admitting I was wrong. Don’t get used to it.

     I put you in unnecessary danger by bringing you to Crow’s Peak. That was obvious, right? But don’t worry, I’ll close the case. Stay with your friends, I’m sure they’ll do a better job of looking after you than I have. You can always crash on my couch if you want.

     He looked at Hannah. She seemed peaceful as if she had just fallen asleep on the couch. Returning to the letter he signed, “Yours Truly, the Sundance Kid.”

     Folding the menu, he slipped it into Hannah’s bag.

     “Make sure she reads that when she wakes up.”

     Tom was blocking his path to the door.

     “I think we need to go over this with the police,” he said. “I’d like it if you were here when we did.”

     “Trust me, they don’t want to see me any more than you do,” Silas said. “Besides, I got a stolen car I need to dump into the Hudson.”

     “Let him go,” Liz said from the living room. “I want him out of my house.”

     Tom escorted Silas to the front door. The detective stepped out into the hall, paused, and turned around.

     “Any good Pad Thai around here?”

     Tom closed the door on him.

     Silas was feeling out of place. It was an unusual feeling. The fact that he was in a library made it worse. He always felt at home in libraries. But at that moment, he was staring at a row of computers.

     He was very out of sorts.

     A child was sitting in front of a computer. He was perfectly at ease. A woman, probably a librarian, was helping him. A thought flashed through the detective’s mind: she could help him. He dismissed it immediately. If he couldn’t use a computer on his own, what good was he?

     But it was too late. He had been standing in the middle of the room for too long. The librarian spotted him. Silas panicked. He looked for a free seat. There was one at the table to his right. He went for it. She intercepted.

     “Can I help you, dear?” The librarian wore a pink cardigan and horn-rimmed glasses. She smiled, tilting her head to the right.

     “I just need a computer,” Silas said.

     “I’m happy to help,” she said, broadening her smile. “What are you looking for?”

     “Just doing research,” he said. “I figured the Internet would be faster than microfiche.”

     “We don’t have those anymore,” the librarian said.

     “Damn.”

     “Wow, a smart-looking man like you, I’m surprised you don’t have a computer of your own.” She touched the side of his arm and winked. Silas had the feeling something else was going on, but it eluded his grasp.

     “It’s… in the shop.”

     She laughed. A little bit longer than the joke deserved.

     “Well, if you need anything, just ask. I’m Lucy.” She tapped the nametag on her sweater.

     “I think I can work the keyboard on my own.”

     Silas backed away from the woman and settled onto a stool. He watched from the corner of his eye as she walked away before focusing on the machine. From his coat, he produced the diary he had recovered from Crow’s Peak. Opening the first page, he typed “Alexander Daragon” into a search box. To Silas’s credit, he could type with both hands.

     Search results were slim. A newspaper article from September 1930 came up first. “Magnetic Leader Founds Mountain Town.” Silas quickly read it:

     Festivities abound today in the remote Upstate town of Dawn’s Ridge. After years of planning and months of labor, the town’s de facto leader, Alexander Daragon, has announced his experiment a success.

     Settlers from across the globe have flocked to Daragon’s side, in hopes of finding prosperity. Critics abound, most notably local New York politician Fiorello La Guardia, citing Daragon’s radical beliefs. Some have accused the town of a front for a new religion.

     Regardless, spirits were high during the event, which saw well-wishers from across the Tri-State area. Will Dawn’s Ridge overcome the challenges of the Depression and thrive when many others have failed? Only time will tell.

     “Huh,” Silas said. “Journalists do love using that phrase.”

     Besides the article was a photo. It had been scanned in from the original newspaper and not cleaned up well. A wooden platform was erected in the middle of a town square. Silas recognized the clock tower behind it. On the stage was a collection of well-dressed men and women. Standing behind a podium, his arms raised, was a man identified in the caption as Alexander Daragon. He looked pale, even in newsprint.

     “It started so well, huh Alex?” Silas said. “Too bad you had to ruin it for all those poor people.”

     The detective realized he was talking out loud. Looking to his right he saw the boy from before. He was staring at Silas.

     “I’m just… mind your own business.”

     Copying the name “Dawn’s Ridge,” he pasted it into the search box. No more articles popped up. He tried “Barrow Hill.” Still nothing.

     He returned to his original search and found another web page about Daragon. It was an old website called, Heralds of Hecate. The entry detailed Daragon’s early childhood to his rise through the occult world. A survivor of the First World War, Daragon embraced the teachings of famous occultists. He formed his society in the late 1920s. His only notable achievement was founding the town. The entry ended there.

     “His fans don’t even know much about him,” Silas said, again out loud. “How am I supposed to find him?”

     A grainy image accompanied the article. Daragon was younger and looked a little less crazy. He was surrounded by young people. They stood in a meeting hall, their dress distinctly 1920s. A banner hung behind them with the words “Corvus Oculum.” Raven’s Eye. Beneath the words was an image of an eye that sprouted black wings. Inside the iris was a pyramid. Silas searched for the print button.

     The sound of paper being spat out floated to him from somewhere in the room. Silas stood up and looked over the rows of computers. Not far away, Lucy the Librarian was helping another visitor. He ducked, running behind the computer screens, to fetch his papers. He bumped into several people.

     As he reviewed the printout, he tsked. It looked worse than it did on screen. But he got what he wanted: the banner was somewhat distinguishable, especially the symbol. Folding the paper in half he tucked it into the diary. He made his way to the computer lab exit and froze.

     Entering the library was Hannah.

     Silas slunk back. He hid behind a computer. It was being used by a child. The little girl gave him a nasty look. He gave it back. Hannah walked to the info desk and spoke with a librarian. Nodding her thanks, she started toward the computer lab.

     “Oh, just turn left or something,” Silas said.

     She didn’t turn left. Hannah entered the room. Silas crouched lower as she stopped by Lucy. The librarian looked Hannah up and down. It seems she was describing Silas to the woman. Lucy nodded and pointed in his general direction. Silas stayed low and moved back towards the printer. Turning a corner, he plowed into Hannah’s stomach.

     “What are you doing here?” he said after they got up off the floor.

     “Ah,” she said, rubbing her stomach. “I’ve come to talk to you about this.”

     She held up the note he had left her.

     “What about it?”

     “What do you mean, ‘What about it’? This is how you leave me? Dumping me on my panic-stricken friends with only a note to explain yourself?”

     She pushed the note into his chest, shoving him back a step.

     “And thanks for scribbling it on the back of a menu.”

     “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t use stationery.”

     “Why the hell did you just leave me there?” she asked.

     A sharp shh filled the computer lab. They turned to see Lucy, a finger to her lips. Silas raised his hands apologetically and turned back to Hannah.

     “I thought that was the best thing to do, considering what you just experienced.”

     “So, you’re kicking me off the case?” Hannah said. “Don’t you need my help, anymore?”

     “Perhaps,” Silas said, evasively. “But I think the risk outweighs the return.”

     “It’s been risky the whole time,” she said. “I was almost kidnapped, remember? My life’s been a nightmare since this began. My only shred of hope was that you said you can fix it.”

     There was a louder ahem from the librarian. Silas took Hannah by the arm and guided her to a less conspicuous corner of the room.

     “I’m still on the case, Hans,” he said. “But I think it’s better if you keep a safe distance.”

     “Why the sudden change?” Hannah asked. “What about all that, ‘I want to study you’ talk?”

     “Isn’t it possible that I’m putting your well-being first?” Silas said.

     “No?”

     Silas grunted and shook his head. Hannah was genuinely surprised when she realized he was being sincere. Her hands, which had for most of the conversation been at her hips, lowered.

     “Really.”

     “Yes,” he said. “And I didn’t expect you to stay with your friends forever. You’re welcome to stay at my apartment for as long as you like.”

     “Glorious,” she said. “I’ll keep sleeping on your couch until I get scoliosis.”

     “I’ll pick up an air mattress.”

     “Why did you have to bring my friends into this, anyway?” Hannah said. “Now they’re totally up my ass. You know how hard it was to escape their apartment? Thank God the hospital called them in.”

     “How did you find me?” he asked.

     “Mrs. Plonka.”

     “I don’t know why I keep telling her where I’m going.”

     “If I leave this case, it should be my decision,” Hannah said. “My life’s at stake. I’d like to be involved.”

     “You still wanna do this?” Silas asked. “Face ghosts, angry cops, and God knows what else?”

     “Not really,” she said. “But I’m not a quitter.”

     Silas smirked. “You’ll regret that, eventually.”

     “Still my choice,” Hannah said.

     “You know, most people can just fire their assistant, no problem,” he said.

     “You’re not most people.”

     “Touché.”

     Hannah looked around the computer lab, finally realizing where she was. “So, you don’t have a computer.”

     “I do,” Silas said. “Though, it’s seen better days.”

     He reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a computer mouse, the cord frayed at the end.

     “Geez,” Hannah said. “At least you’re trying. Found anything?”

     “I think so,” he said. “But come on, I’ll explain on the way.”

     Silas led her out of the computer lab. Lucy looked up from her desk, watching them as they left. A mixture of annoyance and longing played on her face. Hannah noticed.

     “What’s the deal with the pink lady?” she said.

     “Beats me.”

The post Black Days, Chapter 12: “Meet the Parents” appeared first on Tales of Maora.

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Silas took Hannah by the hand and together they found a way out of the barrows. They climbed back up the mountain and picked up the path they lost at the gorge. The night grew darker, the moon giving up and finally disappearing from the sky. Their flashlights only gave enough to see their next few steps. When they reached an open clearing flooded with starlight, it was like a sudden splash of cold water.

     Trees ringed the grassless patch of earth. They groveled before the old house like minions. It was a grotesque structure, grown only worse with age. The black facade sucked up the light. Silas assumed it had been three stories tall, before considerable sagging. There was no glass in the windows and all the shingles had blown away. The detective let out a whistle as he took a step towards it.

     “I already hate it.”

     Hannah was silent as she looked over Crow’s Peak.

     “This is it,” she said. “This is the house from my dream.” She cast her light over the upper levels. “There’s a balcony–used to be–where I saw him.”

     Silas looked at the place where she was shining her light. “Probably blew away. Place has seen better days.”

     Silas put a foot on the porch. The wood groaned like an ornery cat. Jumping the rest of the way, he landed in front of the door. Hannah decided to try the steps. Her foot broke through the first one. She pulled it free through a string of curses and clambered up the rest.

     The front door wouldn’t open. Silas leaned against it. That didn’t help. He took a step back, about to throw himself into it, but thought better of it.

     “Care to lend a hand?” he asked Hannah.

     Reluctantly, the journalist took her place beside Silas at the door.

     “How much of this job is hard labor?” she asked.

     “I’d say about thirty percent,” Silas said.

     “I think your numbers are off,” she said.

     “They usually are.”

     Eventually, they managed to force the door open. It fell off its hinges crashing into the foyer. The sound echoed through the house.

     “We’re in.”

     The entryway floor was once marble. Now, it was dust. A chandelier sprawled out across their path like a dead spider. The first-floor rooms could be seen through gaps in the walls. There was a sitting room, dining room, parlor, study, and kitchen. All decrepit and empty. Anything resembling furniture had turned to pulp.

     “Not that bad,” Silas said. “I mean, look at all the rooms.”

     “I’d pass,” Hannah said.

     “Not until we see the upstairs, dear.” Silas went to the staircase at the end of the foyer.

     “Those steps don’t look safe,” Hannah said.

     “Oh, they’re fine.”

     “And what do I do when you fall to your death?” she asked.

     “I want a poem read at my funereal,” Silas said. “Something from Ulysses.”

     Silas clambered up the stairs. To both of their delight, they were intact. Hannah eventually followed him. The walls on the second floor hadn’t rotted, requiring them to search room to room. Aside from a few somber chairs and the odd scrap of clothing, they were empty.

     “I remember my first haunted house,” Silas said as they worked their way down the hall.

     “This place isn’t haunted, is it?”

     “It was in East Rutherford,” he said. “Ghost of a farmer. Sour old prick. Not much of a Giants fan.”

     “What are we even looking for?” Hannah asked.

     “Anything that can tell us more about the kidnapper,” he said. “If he is the man from your dream.”

     “You don’t believe me?” she said.

     “I believe you,” Silas said, nodding. “But we need clues, intel. Something that can lead us to him.”

     “Think we’ll find his master plan just lying in a drawer?” she said.

     “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

     At the end of the hall was the master bedroom. Or what was left of it. A few flourishes were still visible in the architecture. There was still a bed. Its canopy was drooping with a heavy load of dust. A gray, rotted lump must have been a mattress. There was nothing else in the room aside from a wardrobe. Hannah checked it out. Silas stayed by the door.

     “Would you look at this?” he said.

     Behind the door hung a painting. The image was faded, but he could still make out the portrait of a man in a robe. He stood erect, his hands on his hips. The face was indistinguishable. Behind him, the artist painted a dreary landscape. Silas assumed it was supposed to be the old town and the surrounding valley.

     “What a shame,” he said, “nobody ever claimed the painting.”

     Hannah walked over. “I can see why.”

     “I’m sure it was nicer when it was new,” Silas said. “Oil paintings need to be taken care of. What does that look like to you?”

     “A mess. It looks like a mess.”

     “No, the frame.” Silas rubbed his hand across a nameplate at the bottom. The words were eroded, like everything else.

     “Is it ‘Bert Drogan’? Druper? Dragon?”

     “Dragon?” Hannah said. “What kind of name is Dragon?”

     “I dunno,” Silas said. “What kind of name is Bert?”

     After discouraging Silas from exploring what little was left of the third floor, Hannah returned with him to the ground level. They did a cursory check of the floor. Silas was inextricably drawn to the study. It was the smallest of the first-floor rooms. Bookshelves lined the walls, flanking a fireplace in the rear wall. To Silas’s surprise, a few books survived. He pulled them out, one at a time.

     “Crap. Garbage. Unreadable. This one’s been cut to hide a flask.” He held up the container to Hannah.

     “Anything good inside?” she asked.

     He unscrewed the cap. “Only fumes,” he said, tossing it to her.

     Finishing off the last shelf he walked over to the fireplace. “Well, nuts.”

     “Did you really want to read those books?”

     “Of course, not,” he said. “I was hoping one of them would trigger a secret door. This room looks three feet shorter than it should be.”

     “How do you know?” she asked.

     Silas held out his hands. “I eyeballed it.”

     “Okay, so if a book’s not the trigger, what is?”

     They both looked at the fireplace at the same time.

     “Start pushing bricks, baby,” Silas said.

     Standing on either side of the mantle, they checked the brickwork. Silas crouched down and stuck his head into the hearth. His voice echoed back to Hannah.

     “It’s always gotta be difficult.”

     There was a dull click, followed by a grinding sound. Hannah helped Silas out as the fireplace–chimney and all–rolled out from the wall. Behind it was a room only big enough for a table, stool, and wall shelf. On the table sat a tome and dagger. Silas looked them over.

     “La Poule Noire,” he said. “I think Napoleon used this grimoire. A lot of nonsense.” He carefully removed the knife from its sheath. “Replica.” He let it clatter on the table as he checked the shelf.

     “Hello, what is this?”

     A single, leather-bound book remained. Sealed away in that secret room, it was relatively intact and dust-free. Silas picked it up. He stuck his flashlight in his teeth to free his hands as he searched it. Hannah stepped over and offered her light.

     “What is it?”

     Silas dropped the light from his mouth. “If I had to guess, a diary.”

     “Whose?” she asked.

     He checked the cover page. “There’s a date. 1928. And a name. Alexander Daragon.”

     “Daragon,” Hannah said. The name sent shivers across her arms and legs. “You think that’s him?”

     Silas’s head slowly rose and fell. “Sounds better than Bert Drugan. He wrote some really weird stuff.”

     “Like what?”

     “Can’t make out most of it,” he said. “He used some kind of shorthand. Never seen it before.”

     “Maybe I can help.” Hannah reached over to take the book from his hands.

     The detective shrugged her away, bumping into the wall. “Your skin has destructive oils that’ll damage the book.”

     “And yours don’t?”

     Silas didn’t have an answer for that. “Just give me some light.”

     “Fine.” She waved her hands in an irritated gesture, casting the light all over the room. He moved her hand so it was pointed at the book.

     “This is a map of the town.” He turned the page. “And this is a spell circle.”

     Hannah squeezed behind him to see a hand-drawn circle with a star in the middle. Scribbles, what could barely be considered writing, filled the blank space around it.

     “What spell is it for?” Hannah asked.

     “Don’t know,” he said. “Could be for anything. Though, the doodles of skulls give a hint.”

     “What else did he draw?” she said.

     Silas flipped through the book some more. “What does that look like?” He turned the diary so Hannah saw the angel with featherless wings and a skull for a face. Below it men were bowed in worship.

     “Ozryel?”

     “You know it,” Silas said. “This guy wasn’t a half-bad artist. For a psychopath.”

     “I don’t understand,” she said.

     Silas turned awkwardly in the tiny room to look at her. “What don’t you understand?”

     “This Daragon lived when, 1928? He’s gotta be dead by now. He can’t be behind the kidnappings.”

     “That’s never been a problem, from my experience,” he said.

     “Then where is he, if he’s not here?” she asked. “What’s he been up to for the last ninety years? Why has he shown up now, kidnapping women?”

     “All good questions,” Silas said. “We’re getting closer. And we can learn even more, now that we have his name.”

     “At least we got something out of this trip and we can leave,” Hannah said.

     “Not yet, I wanna check the basement,” he said.

     “I didn’t see a basement.”

     “It’ll be outside. A cellar door.”

     “Why do you want to see it?” she asked.

     Silas looked at her, his eyes gleaming. “There’s always something in the basement.”

     “How about I just wait outside?” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be fine on your own.”

     “Don’t be ridiculous,” Silas said. “Splitting up’s the last thing we should do. Don’t you watch horror movies?”

     Beside the back porch was the cellar entrance. The doors creaked stubbornly as they pried them open. A smell of mold and soil wafted up into the air. Silas and Hannah shone their flashlights inside. Nothing jumped out at them. They took it as a good sign. Silas climbed in first. After a few minutes, his voice floated up to Hannah.

     “Well this is disappointing,” he said.

     It was empty. Depressions in the ground were the only clues that something used to be there. Hannah climbed down and stood beside Silas, feeling very relieved.

     “Okay, let’s go.”

     The detective sighed as he cast his light around the room. Something flashed back at him.

     “You saw that right?” he asked.

     “Uh,” Hannah said. “Yeah.”

     Hanging on the wall opposite them was a mirror. It was almost completely covered in dirt and blended in perfectly with the wall. Only a sliver of glass had survived to reflect his light back at them. Silas approached it and ran a finger over the frame. Sticking his flashlight in his mouth, he felt around it. It wouldn’t come off the wall.

     “Why would you hang a mirror in a basement?” he asked.

     Before Hannah could answer, a light filled the room. A woman was standing next to him. She was emaciated, translucent, her hair a tangle of weeds around her shoulders. A tattered gown was all that made up her form. At first, she didn’t notice the others. She looked into the mirror as if she could see her reflection. Slowly she turned and faced Silas and Hannah.

     “What are you doing here?” Her voice resonated through the cellar.

     “We are searching,” Silas said. “For the truth.”

     “Truth does not abide here,” the ghost said.

     “Truth is all around us,” he said. “You just need to know where to look.”

     She leveled her eyes at the detective.

     “Tell me your name,” he said.

     “Laura. Laura Daragon.”

     “You lived here Laura,” Silas said.

     “A long time ago,” she said. “I was brought here by my family. In exchange for a home in this country, I was made a wife. He was cruel to me.”

     “Who was he?” he asked.

     “He owned the town,” Laura said. “Owned the people. But they wanted to be free. So, he punished them. I tried to warn them, but he stopped me. I couldn’t save the people. My own family.”

     “Is that why you’re still here?” Silas said. “You’re punishing yourself for their deaths?”

     “He keeps me here,” Laura said. “I am his trophy, even now.”

     “Where is your husband?” he asked. “Where is Daragon?”

     The ghost refused to speak.

     “We can help you, Laura,” Silas said. “If you help us find him, you can be free.”

     “I can never be free.”

     “Laura,” Hannah said. “I’ve seen you before.”

     The dead woman focused on her.

     “I saw you in a dream. You were running down the mountain to warn the town. It wasn’t your fault they died. But there’s still a chance to make it right. You can find peace.”

     “Peace?” For a moment the ghost’s cold exterior softened. There was a touch of warmth in her eyes. Silas and Hannah got a glimpse of the young woman she once was. It flickered and went out.

     “There is no peace.”

     Laura screamed. The noise pressed at them from all sides. Silas doubled over as if he had been hit. Hannah tried to run back up the stairs but was frozen. Laura’s dead, spindly fingers reached out for her. Tendrils of ice crept up Hannah’s legs and arms. A look of pleasure was on the ghost’s face.

     “I feel the warmth of life again.”

     Brilliant light filled the cellar. Silas was on his feet, a soul stone in his hand. The ghost spasmed as it was pulled away from Hannah. The cold left her body. Laura roared at Silas. The stone burst and he was knocked into the wall. He held his throat as an invisible vice squeezed his neck.

     Hannah watched helplessly as the detective squirmed. He will be dead soon, a voice said in her mind. Shaking her head, she reached into her shirt. She pulled out Luther’s talisman. Focusing all her fear, anger, and pain at Laura, she pointed it at the ghost. The cross grew hot.

     The ghost release Silas and turned. She flew at Hannah but was pushed back. Screaming, Laura extended her long, probing fingers. Hannah felt the heat of the talisman fight back against the dead woman’s rage. With one last roar, Laura clamped her hands onto the talisman.

     The basement erupted. A wave of heat exploded from the talisman and engulfed Laura. She disappeared, her voice still echoing through the room. The air was knocked out of Hannah’s lungs. Her head swam and the ground rushed up to greet her. The cross, now charred black, fell across her chest as the world went dark.

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Fortunately for Hannah, they didn’t leave that night. They left the next day. Silas was good to his word and they visited her apartment to get fresh clothes. Her door had been replaced by her irate landlord. Hannah let Silas run interference as she gathered her things. This allowed her to both avoid the landlord’s questions and prevent Silas from snooping around her place.

     They left the city by train. It was late afternoon; the Sun was already dipping behind gray clouds. Wind whipped through battered evergreens that swayed compliantly. The Hudson River was a snake curving up the valley. The train rushed up its banks like a silver bullet. Hannah stared out the window, watching the landscape blur by. Silas had his face in a book.

     The rhythm of the train tried to lull her to sleep. She wanted to succumb to its charms, but she stayed awake. She might never sleep again. The thought that more dreams like the one she just had were waiting for her gnawed at her mind. It didn’t help that the short visit to her apartment was more painful than she had expected. What had always been a box looked like Paradise. She thought about the day she moved in. It felt like someone else’s life.

     Something bumped her leg and she was brought back to the train. Silas had kicked her, being too engrossed in his book to notice. She glowered at him, but to no effect.

     “What are you reading, now?” she asked.

     Silas tapped the cover.

     “You brought the almanac?”

     “This is another almanac. The Fisherman’s Almanac of Reykjavik Iceland: 1855.“

     “Don’t you read anything normal?” she asked. “Like a mystery?”

     “I don’t like mysteries,” he said.

     “You’re a detective.”

     “Exactly. I deal with real mysteries every day. What am I gonna do with a fake one?”

     “But what are you getting out of an almanac from 1855?” she asked.

     “Very little.” Silas closed the book and put it back into the shapeless sack he called a briefcase, retrieving an even bigger one.

     “You brought the atlas?” Hannah said

     “We’re traveling, Gulliver, of course, I brought the atlas.”

     “You need to get a phone,” she said.

     “I have a phone.” He patted his breast pocket which held his flip phone.

     “A real phone. With GPS.”

     “You’re lucky I have a grossly outdated atlas,” he said, “or we would have never found Barrow Hill. It’s not on your fancy GPS.”

     He pronounced GPS, gipseez. That grated Hannah’s nerves. Silas returned to the book, tracing a line with his finger from where they were on the Hudson to where Barrow Hill used to be. Secretly, he feared they’d find little more than rubble.

     “I think should have let Detective Lang know what we’re up to,” Hannah said.

     “Why would we do that?”

     “Shouldn’t we try to get along with the cops?” she asked. “We’re on the same side.”

     “You’d think that,” Silas said. “But she’s done nothing to prove it. No, I wouldn’t want her help if my hair was on fire.”

     “It’d be nice to have a little backup,” she said.

     “We’ll be fine without them,” Silas said. “Honestly, we’re better off.”

     Daylight was waning by the time they reached their destination. The conductor announced the stop. Berton’s Run, a speed trap of a town on the way to Buffalo. They watched the train rumble to a stop as the platform appeared outside. Silas returned the atlas to his bag and stood up.

     “This is the closest to Barrow Hill the train can take us.”

     “What kind of name is Berton’s Run?” Hannah said.

     “It gets pretty weird north of the Bronx.”

     The platform was little more than a wooden slab with stairs. There was a four-car parking lot and a sign that listed the schedule. That was it. Silas and Hannah crossed the lot and waited at the curb as another traveler drove away. Shifting the bag on his shoulder, Silas surveyed the area. He pointed down the only road leaving the station.

     “We go that way for a while.”

     After they had walked far enough to lose sight of the tracks, but not far enough to see Berton’s Run, he left the road. A rut in the dirt led into the trees. They followed it until they lost the daylight. Occasionally, Hannah noticed Silas checking a compass.

     “Are you sure this is the right way?” she asked.

     Before Silas could respond, the trees thinned. They found what looked like a road almost wide enough for a car.  They were shocked to see a jalopy appear. The pickup rumbled past as a pock-marked face glared at them from behind the wheel. The driver said nothing and disappeared into the trees.

     “Weird,” Silas said. He pointed to the outline of a mountain that was just coming into view.  “Look familiar?”

     Hannah shrugged. They continued up the road as evening approached. It looked as if they would be swallowed up in total darkness when light appeared. Not far down the road was a small house, beside a streetlamp. A sign announced they had reached Barrow Hill.

     “God, do people still live here?” Silas asked, eyeing the sign.

     The houses were plain-faced structures with flat roofs. There were no cars, save for a few ancient specimens propped up on cinder blocks. The town was unpleasantly quiet, even for the boonies. Silas watched Hannah as they entered the town. She glanced at the houses warily, as if they could reach out and bite her.

     “You okay?” he asked.

     She made a noise that wasn’t quite affirmative.

     “Good.”

     The curtains ruffled at a window. Silas thought he saw an old woman move out of sight. They proceeded down Main Street to an intersection. There was a single, blinking light. It was the closest thing Barrow Hill had to a downtown. Silas balanced on the edge of the curb as he looked around. A scratching sound came from around the corner. Spinning around, they discovered an old man in a cabbie hat, sweeping dust into the road.

     “Hello,” the man said. There was nothing friendly about the greeting.

     “Ja,” Silas said, raising a hand in salute. “This is Barrow Hill?”

     Cabbie Hat stood the broom up so that the bristles almost touched his face. He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

     Silas returned the nod. “Good. We–“

     “We don’t have a motel,” the man said. “The restaurant’s closed. You should move on.”

     He spoke slowly, haltingly as if the words were coming to him from a long way off. Silas studied him but could see nothing that could explain his behavior. He assumed the cap hid lobotomy scars.

     “We’re just looking for information,” Silas said. “What can you tell us about the town?”

     “You should. Move on.”

     “Do you know anyone that can actually help us?” Silas asked.

     The old man paused, seeming to process the request. Slowly, he turned his head and looked down the street behind them. Silas and Hannah followed his gaze. Only one store was open. A faint light seeped through the window. Silas looked back at Cabbie Hat.

     “Someone in there?” he asked.

     The man stared at him but said nothing. Silas leaned over and whispered to Hannah.

     “He must not understand English.”

     “He was just speaking English,” Hannah said.

     “Hey, at least I’m coming up with theories.” Silas waved at the man. “Okay, thanks for your help. You can go back to… whatever you were doing.”

     The old man continued to stare at them. Eventually, Silas and Hannah turned away. They heard the broom resume its monotonous dance. Walking over to the store they tried to peer inside. A sign above simply read, “General Store.”

     “General Store?” Hannah said. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

     “Uh.”

     Silas was looking at something behind her. She turned around to see a short man standing uncomfortably close. He smiled in a senile way as he rubbed his liver-spotted hands. His eyes were big and wet. Hannah jumped back from him. He giggled and scurried away.

     “What the hell was that?” she said.

     Across the street, an old woman was creeping past. She watched Silas and Hannah intently, stroking rosary beads.

     “I think this place is too weird, even for me,” Silas said.

     “We should go,” Hannah said.

     “And waste our train fare?” he said. “No, let’s at least check this place.”

     Hannah nodded at the General Store. “Is it open or not?”

     Silas walked over to the door and gestured to the Yes, We’re Open sign.

     “These are the kinds of astute observations you need to make if you want to continue to be my assistant,” he said.

     “Noted.”

     The Barrow Hill General Store left much to be desired. Dust did more than hang in the air, it added its own special ambiance. Eclectic merchandise was for sale, from canned prunes to wool sweaters. A wet dog smell permeated everything. The floors creaked, even when they stopped moving. When they reached the shelf of stuffed squirrels, Hannah was ready to leave.

     Through gentle persuasion, Silas dragged Hannah by the arm to the back of the store. There was a counter with no attendant. Silas smacked the little bell beside the register. The shrill ring pinched their ears. Almost immediately, a woman appeared. She wore blue overalls and a faded lumberjack shirt. Long gray hair reached her waist. Glasses sat above her forehead. When she saw her visitors, she ran behind the counter and smiled.

     “Hello,” she said. “Welcome to my General Store. Name’s Bridget. Wow, we don’t get many visitors to Barrow Hill this time of year. What are ya, sight-seers?”

     The woman almost seemed normal. Her smile was certainly refreshing. But her eyes opened just a bit too wide. Again, Silas had the feeling she was summoning words from someplace other than her brain.

     “Do you get many sight-seers?” Hannah asked.

     “A few in Spring,” Bridget said. “Mostly nature photographers, off to see the barrows.”

     “There really are barrows?” Silas said. “In Upstate New York?”

     “Of course, silly,” she said. “That’s how we got our name. It used to be called something else, but I forget.”

     “What’s a barrow?” Hannah asked.

     “A burial mound,” Silas said. “I’ve only seen them in Britain.”

     “Oh, you’ll love ’em,” Bridget said with a wave of her hand. Hannah was sure she wouldn’t.

     “So, whatcha got in the bag?” the shopkeeper asked, her eyes going to the sack on Silas’s shoulder. He shifted the bag out of view.

     “Nothing.” His tone suddenly perked up. “Actually, we are sight-seers. We had planned to go hiking and found the town completely by mistake. Can you believe that?”

     “That’s hysterical,” Bridget said, slapping a leg.

     “I know,” he said. “We’re curious about it. It’s so quaint and out of the way, right Hans?”

     Silas looked at Hannah. He had a plastered smile on his face. Hannah’s eyes darted to Bridget, who was also watching her expectantly.

     “Yeah. It’s got old-fashion charm,” she said. “What do you know about it?”

     Bridget bowed her head modestly. “I grew up here, you know. My folks moved after the War. That’s W-W-II. This shop was Daddy’s until he passed away. There was a booming fur trade up until the late 1960s. Now, we’re mostly retirees.”

     “Do you know anything about the town’s early history?” Silas asked. “Before the war?”

     The woman jerked her head back and looked at the ceiling. Silas assumed she was thinking, but he wasn’t completely convinced.

     “Now, that’s a pickle,” she said. “I seem to remember the town was built a decade or so before the war. That’s all.”

     “What about the barrows?” he said. “There’s got to be a story about them.”

     “Oh, I’m sure there is, but I don’t know it,” Bridget said. “Never heard anyone talk about them. Rumor is the Indians made ’em.”

     Silas sighed and rapped his fingers on the counter. Bridget used the lull in conversation to offer some of her homemade venison jerky. She kept it in a glass jar beneath the counter. Silas took a sample. Breaking off a piece, he offered some to Hannah. She declined. She had no idea what venison was and did not want to find out.

     “Are there any houses outside of town?” Hannah asked. “Up the mountain?”
     “A few cabins,” Bridget said.

     “How about a big house?” Hannah said. “Like, three stories tall?”

     “Hmm, that reminds me of Crow’s Peak,” she said.

     “Crow’s Peak?” Silas said. “Who’d name a house that?”

     “I dunno,” Bridget said. “That’s what we used to call it. But I doubt it’s around anymore. It was rundown when I was a girl.”

     “Can we still get to it?” Hannah asked.

     “There’s an old road behind town hall,” the shopkeeper said, trailing a finger through the air. “Goes right up the mountain. Of course, I wouldn’t try it.”

     “Why not?” Silas asked.

     Bridget shrugged. “The bears, silly.”

     “You get bears this close to town?” Hannah asked.

     “This is Upstate, dear. We’re lucky if the bears don’t come knocking on our front door.” Bridget broke into a fit of laughter. The other two didn’t join in.

     “They’re hibernating this time of year,” Silas said.

     “That’s what they say,” Bridget said. “But I’ve been hearing things at night. Rustling. Growling. Could only be bears.”

     “Do you know anything else unique about the town’s history?” Hannah asked.

     Bridget put a finger to her lips and thought. “We had a jam festival, years ago.”

     “So, you don’t know anything about the massacre?” she said.

     “Good heavens, no!” the shopkeeper said. “In Barrow Hill? What on earth made you ask that?”

     “You never heard of it?” Hannah said.

     “I never heard cuz it never happened,” Bridget said. “This is a good and decent town. Maybe not as fancy as Poughkeepsie, but still.”

     “I don’t believe you.” Hannah leaned in and glared.

     “Stand down, Hans,” Silas said.

     “She’s just protecting her beloved town’s reputation,” Hannah said.

     “I don’t think I like you,” Bridget said. “Now, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

     The shopkeeper put away her jar of jerky and folded her arms.

     “All right. Thanks for your time.” Silas made for the exit. He had to come back for Hannah.

     Outside, the moon was trying to break through the clouds but was failing. Silas searched his bag as he moved in the vague direction Bridget had sent them.

     “You wanna give me some props for what I did back there?” Hannah asked.

     “For what, pissing off an old lady?”

     “Did you see the way she was floundering?” she said. “She knows about the massacre. A few more minutes and she would have cracked.”

     “A few more minutes and she would have put a shotgun to your face,” he said.

     “Don’t exaggerate,” Hannah said.

     “Hasn’t it occurred to you that if everyone died in the massacre, then nobody’s around to remember it?”

     Hannah had no rebuttal for that. “Still, I got her to tell us about the house.”

     “Way to go, Nancy Drew.” He tossed her a flashlight.

     “Are you sure about those directions?” Hannah asked. “I don’t wanna get lost on a mountain.”

     “I’m not asking anyone else,” he said. He looked past Hannah and froze.

     “What’s wrong?”

     Hannah stepped over to him and turned around. The street was filled with the elderly citizens of Barrow Hill. Somehow, they had crept up on them without a sound. Steadily they approached Silas and Hannah, intent on surrounding them. They looked back at the General Store. Bridget’s light had gone out and the open sign was gone.

     “What’s going on?” Hannah asked Silas.

     “Whatever the opposite of Children of the Corn is,” he said.

     Cataract eyes glared out at them from gray, fleshy faces. They were impossibly quiet as if their feet glided over the pavement. Some of them were carrying baseball bats, others actual pitchforks. Silas half-expected torches. A murmur rose from the crowd, a low, irritable noise. He backed away.

     “If I had to put a finger on it,” Silas said, “this is all your fault.”

     “It’s just a bunch of senior citizens,” Hannah said.

     “Two dozen of them, two of us,” Silas said. “I don’t like our chances.”

     “They not gonna do anything. Are they?”

     “Something is controlling them,” Silas said. “Something that’s not happy we’re here.”

     Hannah looked over at him. “You mean…”

     “Of course, I mean,” he said. “Him.”

     “What the hell are we supposed to do?” Hannah asked.

     “Leverage our physical advantage,” Silas said. “Run.”

     They turned and ran, slipping through the closing gap in the crowd. Shrieks rose from the townspeople as they chased after them. They were faster than Silas expected. Their limbs pumped with wild energy. Some dropped to all fours and charged like dogs. Silas looked back only once. Fire splashed across the pavement inches away. There were torches, after all.

     At the end of the road was the town hall. Hannah’s eyes instinctively went to the empty clock tower. Silas followed a path around the building, reaching a chain-link fence at the back. On the other side, the land rose to meet the mountain. The detective threw his sack over the fence, before hurling himself after it. He landed in a sea of brambles. Scrambling, he turned around to help Hannah.

     She bounded over the fence by herself, landing on her feet.

     “Now what?” she asked.

     Silas looked back to see the townspeople lingering a bowshot away from town hall.

     “They’ve stopped,” he said. “This is the way up the mountain. Are they afraid to go near it?”

     “I don’t want to think about what makes those things afraid,” Hannah said.

     “We’re gonna find out, anyway.” He turned to her and extended a hand. “It’s a little rough going from here.”

     Hannah stuck her light in his face. “Are you smiling?”

     “What? No.”

     “You enjoy this, don’t you?” she asked.

     “What are you talking about?”

     “Jumping over fences, getting chased by lunatics,” she said. “You like it.”

     “You’re talking crazy.” He reached out his hand again. “So, are we going?”

     She nodded up the path. “After you.”

     Years of overgrowth had effectively hidden the path. Silas did his best to crunch over the brambles with his boots. Hannah was close behind, sweeping her light from side to side. Soon, the town hall was lost behind them, the murmuring of the old people drowned out by the wind.

     “Let’s be honest,” Hannah said, “there aren’t any bears out. Right?”

     “Of course not,” Silas said.

     “Because I don’t want to have escaped a pack of, whatever those were, just to be eaten.”

     “I’m not wrong about their hibernation cycles.”

     “Then what was Bridget hearing at night?”

     Silas paused. He seemed to be listening. Eventually shook his head. “Best not worry about it.”

     The ground rose sharper. It became harder to climb, but the foliage was getting thinner. Freezing air rolled down from the mountain. Hannah was reminded, not for the last time, of her dream. This could be the very spot she saw the woman die. Overhead, the clouds thickened and the moon was lost. Silas stopped and cast his light around.

     “Why’d ya stop?” Hannah asked.

     Coming up beside Silas, she discovered the gorge blocking their path.

     “That’s got to be at least a twenty-foot drop,” Silas said. He was never good at estimating. It was more like forty.

     “Did we lose the path?” she asked.

     “Don’t think so, but it is the middle of the night and we’re climbing a mountain with flashlights. I’m surprised we’re still alive.”

     “How do we cross it?”

     Silas moved to the right, casting his light down a slope. “Ground looks a little better this way. Maybe we can find a way around it.”

     The ground dropped steadily as they searched for a way around the gorge. Silas feared they were moving away from their destination. This was confirmed when they reached a break in the trees and stumbled into a valley. The moon emerged for a moment, bathing the land in a silver glow. Rising from the center of the valley was a grade dotted with mounds. Mist clung to them like islands in a frothy sea.

     “We may have gone the wrong way,” Silas said.

     “Those aren’t–“

     “Yep, the barrows,” he said. “Bridget was right about one thing: there are a lot of them.”

     “Silas,” Hannah said.

     “Yeah, Cheech?”

     “Did Indians use barrows?”

     “Not like those.”

     “Then what are these doing here?” she asked.

     “I think I we know where the National Guard buried the townsfolk,” he said.

     “We should go back the way we came.” Hannah was already edging back towards the trees.

     “We went the only way we could,” Silas said. “We’ve got no choice but to cut through the barrows.”

     “But the house is up the mountain,” she said. “This leads away from it.”

     Silas ran a hand over the landscape. “We can skirt the barrows until we find a path back up the mountain.”

     She didn’t like this plan at all, but couldn’t think of an alternative. The mist rose like a tide to greet them. Silas grunted as his flashlight bounced off the fog. He turned it off. Hannah reluctantly did the same. The first of the burial mounds lined the valley floor. Silas tried to avoid getting lost among them.

     Hannah kept an eye on the trees that hugged the mountain slopes, while still following Silas. Her foot caught on something and she stumbled. She shouted for Silas to stop as she recovered. He didn’t reply. Hannah looked up to see only fog. She shouted his name again. No answer.

     Fighting the urge to run, Hannah started walking. She strained her eyes to see through the fog. There was no hint of the detective. As she searched for Silas, she stopped paying attention to the ground beneath her. She took a step and discovered it wasn’t there. Hannah dropped forward, sliding down a gravelly incline. Painfully, she came to a stop at the bottom of a hole, slamming against a stone wall.

     Her head was spinning as she stood up. Somewhere above her, a shadow appeared. Hannah opened her mouth to speak, hoping it was Silas, but a stab of pain took her voice. The shadow moved away. She cursed to herself.

     Blood oozed from her hands and face. Leaning against the stone, she searched her pockets for a tissue. From the corner of her eye, she saw a face. Hannah jumped back breathlessly, to discover it was carved into the stone. She looked at the vivid image of a skull, surrounded by flames. Below it were names and a date, 1935. It was the door to a barrow. She pressed a hand against the rock. It was vibrating. Putting her ear close, she heard something scrabbling on the other side.

     Gravel scattered in every direction as she ran back up the incline. Dirt clung to her hands and knees. She was panting for air. The mist swirled around her as she reached the top. Hannah turned to face the sound of someone running toward her.

     “Thank God. Silas, where have you been?”

     It wasn’t Silas. A shadow twice her height loomed over her. Yellow eyes gleamed in the dark as hot breath struck her face. She screamed. Someone grabbed her by the armpit and pulled her away. A burning piece of branch arched over them. It hit the thing with a dull crack. The ground shook as it moaned in irritation and lumbered away. Hannah stood to her feet to see Silas behind her, Zippo in hand.

     “What the hell was that?” she asked.

     His eyes were wide as he snapped the lighter shut. “Let’s just say a bear.”

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Ozryel is one of the names of the Angel of Death. It is found in Medieval, Hebrew, and Islamic writings. Translated as ‘One Whom God Helps,’ the name can also be rendered as Izrail, Azrin, Azriel, et cetera.

     Silas tsked and turned the page.

     As master of life and death, the figure is commonly depicted as a gatekeeper of the afterlife. Jewish mystics commonly associate Ozryel with the destroying angel who killed the firstborn of Egypt during Passover. Ozryel survived in popular lore during the Middle Ages when stories were carried to Europe from the Middle East.

     “Tell me something I don’t know,” Silas said, trailing his finger across the page. He began skipping sections until his eyes landed on: “Religious Practices Associated with Ozryel”.

     “Okay, lemme have it.”

     There are no popular religious practices associated with Ozryel. Jonius Publicus, a 5th Century historian, wrote briefly about a sect that offered sacrifices to an Ozryel-type deity. They were summarily imprisoned.

     “Crap.”

     Silas slapped the book shut. The noise was surprisingly loud. He glanced at Hannah. She was still fast asleep on his couch. With her arms sticking out at weird angles and her head over the armrest, she reminded Silas of a chalk outline of a body. He heaved the textbook onto the fire bench and reached for another. It was something he dug out of his father’s collection.

     There was only one entry on Ozryel. The sparse paragraph repeated most of what he already read. Opposite the text was a Doré-inspired picture of the creature. It was angelic all right, if angels had wings of bone. Ozryel floated over the world, its hands outstretched. On either side of it were the gates of Heaven and Hell. Its face was a cheerless skull. Silas was impressed and took out his sketchbook.

     A door slammed downstairs. Barnabas, Silas’s dog, lifted his enormous and let out a sonorous woof. Hannah sat up, almost falling off the couch. Immediately, her hand went to her neck.

     “Ah, what was that?” she asked.

     “Mrs. Plonka, I think,” Silas said. “She likes to slam things.”

     Hannah groaned. “What time is it?”

     Silas looked around the room. “I used to have a clock in here.”

     Searching her pockets, Hannah found her phone. “Eight o’clock? I’ve been out all afternoon?”

     “And evening.”

     Slowly her wits reassembled. She looked around suspiciously. “Where’s the fetish?”

     “In the box,” he said. “Haven’t had time to look at it.”

     “What’ve you been doing?” she asked.

     “Working on the case. Thanks for the help, by the way.”

     “How am I supposed to help you read books?” Hannah said. “Should I turn the pages for you, sir?”

     “Four eyes are better than one,” he said.

     “Two.”

     “Right.”

     “Learn anything?” she asked.

     “I’ve been searching every book I have for mention of Ozryel,” he said. “They all say the same thing.”

     “And that would be?”

     “It’s the Angel of Death.”

     “Is that all we’re up against?” Hannah said.

     “But few people ever worshipped Ozryel,” Silas said. “Not in any large-scale way. How could there be a high priest devoted to him?”

     “Qule could’ve gotten the name wrong,” Hannah said.

     “Not likely. The creature sells idols for a living,” he said. “No, there’s more to Ozryel than my books can tell me.”

     “Have you checked online?” she asked.

     Silas cast her an annoyed glance. “Why don’t you check online, smarty? Tell me how that goes.”

     Hannah opened her phone. There were fourteen new messages from Liz. Cursing, she got up from the couch, swayed a little, and called her friend. Silas put down his book and watched as she sidled into the kitchen. He flipped open the pizza box at the far end of the bench and grabbed a cold slice. Words floated back to him from the other room.

     “Yeah girl, I’ve been super busy… No, that detective I told you about… Shadowing him for a few days… What? My apartment is fine… Who told you that?… How does my landlord have your number?… It’s totally cool… Catch you later.”

     She bumped into the Narnia-like wardrobe as she made her way back to the living room.

     “Why is that there? It’s a fire hazard.”

     “I like it there,” Silas said. “Besides, there’s no other place it’ll fit. What did Liz have to say?”

     “She wanted to know what I was up to,” she said.

     “Nosy, isn’t she?” he said.

     “That’s what friends do, Black,” she said. “They express an interest in your life.”

     “Is that what friends do?” Silas said. “I thought they just gave rides to the airport.”

     “We normally talk all the time,” she said.

     “But you’ve been avoiding her.”

     “Yeah,” Hannah said. “You told me too.”

     “I just said you shouldn’t tell her about the case. I didn’t want word to float around about what we were doing. Could get back to the kidnapper.”

     “How?” she asked. “Liz would tell him?”

     “No, but he’s proven to have eyes in strange places,” Silas said.

     “Point taken. Ugg, my head is killing me.”

     “Well, you sleep like a monkey,” he said.

     “No, I had this weird dream,” she said.

     The detective put down his pizza and leaned forward. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

     “I don’t remember it,” Hannah said. “Kind of blurry now. Why? What’s so special about my dreams?”

     “Ordinarily? Nothing. But considering you have a telepathic link with our kidnapper, we should investigate.”

     “But Luther’s necklace was supposed to stop all that,” she said.

     “It’s weakened, but it’s not gone,” Silas said. “Your mind is extra open while you sleep. More receptive to magical forces.”

     “Is that a fact?”

     “Ever experience something in a dream that eventually comes true?” he said. “It’s not déjà vu. Well, it is, but now you know why. Needless to say, you’re vulnerable when you sleep. That’s why I sleep with a nightcap.”

     “Is it made of aluminum foil?”

     “Copper,” he said. “Now close your eyes and try to recall what you saw.”

     Hannah sighed as she closed her eyes. She took a deep breath. “I’m not getting anything.”

     “Focus on just one detail,” he said. “It’ll develop from there.”

     She really did try to remember. But the fragments of the dream slipped like watermelon seeds between her fingers. “I’m getting nothing.”

     “Maybe this’ll help.” Silas took out the fetish.

     Hannah pulled her legs up from the floor and leaned away from the fire bench. “Get that thing away from me.”

     “Hear me out,” Silas said. “We can try using the fetish to tap into your link.”

     “Why would I want to do that?” she asked.

     “You can relive the dream,” he said, “by using the same power that sent it. The fetish can boost the signal back to the kidnapper and you can pluck the dream right out of his brain.”

     “How do you know the dream was from the kidnapper?” she said.

     “Just a hunch,” Silas said.

     “No way,” Hannah said.

     “You promised to help me, this is how.”

     “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said. “How do I tap into anything?”

     “I’ll guide you,” he said. “It’ll be ten minutes, tops. If anything goes wrong, it goes back into the box.”

     Hannah was scrunched up in a corner of the couch, her arms wrapped protectively around her. The apartment felt like a laboratory and she was the rat. But short of running away screaming, she could think of no alternative.

     “What do you want me to do?”

     Silas set the fetish in front of her. It seemed to be brimming with glee. “Use the fetish as a point of contact to reach out to the kidnapper.”

     “How do I do that?”

     “The psychic realm is controlled by the mind,” he said. “All you have to do is think, and it’s done. With the added strength of the fetish, all you have to do is focus on the dream and it should come.”

     “And the kidnapper won’t blow up my head or something?” she asked.

     “Like I told you before, my apartment’s safe,” Silas said. “We can reach out, but he can’t reach in.”

     Hannah laughed at that. Lowering her legs to the floor she sat forward. Tentatively she touched the doll with her fingertips. The wood felt rough, but there was no shock of electricity, no disturbing sensations.

     “Still here?” Silas asked, studying her crinkled face. She nodded.

     “Pick out one detail you remember,” Silas said. “Focus on it. It could be a sound, an image, even a feeling.”

     Hannah’s eyes were glued to the fetish. She refused to look away, in case it decided to jump at her. Thinking back, she struggled to remember something from the dream.

     “I’m not good at this,” she said. “I never remember my dreams.”

     She thought back to just before she woke up. There was a feeling, a swirling sensation in the pit of her stomach. Hannah dredged it up like a pearl at the bottom of a well. The feeling grew. There was a noise, like wind through branches. She remembered a forest, with dark trees covered in snow. Silas’s living room started to fade. He said something, but it was swallowed up in the howling.

     For a moment everything was black. Hannah sat up, realizing she was sprawled across the forest floor. She was shivering. The ground was blanketed in snow. Staggering to her feet, she discovered the ground sloped downward. She was at the foot of a mountain. Another howl reached her. It wasn’t the wind.

     A woman was screaming. She ran down the mountain, stumbling, tripping, her dress snagging on the undergrowth. For a second she looked over her shoulder, her eyes wild with fear. Beyond the trees, at the bottom of the mountain, glowed a town. She would never reach it. Something wrapped around her legs and she rolled across the ground. A figure, cloaked in shadow, materialized over her. He forced her face into the dirt to muffle her screams as he stuck the knife into her back.

     The man trod over the dead woman. He turned to the town. Thunder rumbled and he scowled. He stretched out his hands to the cold night. It took him. Smoke rolled down the last legs of the mountain and entered the town.

     People were out. Despite the late hour, they had left their homes and gathered at the town hall. The square was filled with mothers and fathers, partners and friends. They had gathered to pray, gathered out of fear. A few heard the thunder, though the sky was bare of clouds. The bells sang as the clock struck twelve. The shadow descended.

     The people were given over to another mind. In their madness, they turned on each other. Men strangled their wives. Mothers cast their children into the fire. Skulls were trampled underfoot. Glass shattered and doors were kicked in. Even as soldiers arrived to restore order, their feet like thunder, the townsfolk wouldn’t relent. The troops were forced to turn their guns on the people to save themselves. Before the night was through, every citizen was dead.

     Hannah watched, helpless, as the town was destroyed. She was taken from the scene, and up the mountain. Hidden among the trees was a house. It thrummed with a life all its own. Standing on a balcony was the man in shadow. His mouth parted in a smile. He roared with laughter. The sound mingled with the voices of the dying, like a victorious refrain.

     Hannah was on her knees in the middle of Silas’s living room, clasping the fetish. She would not respond. He wrestled the fetish away and locked it in the iron box. The woman slumped over.

     “Oh God, I killed her.”

     Pulling her up by the arms, Silas shook her. He slapped Hannah’s face, first gently, then not so much. Her head lolled lifelessly. Silas opened her eyelids to see white. Propping her against the couch, he ran to the kitchen. Digging through boxes of takeout and a lifetime’s supply of Mexican orange soda, he found a very old dusty bottle of Scotch. Spilling a bit into the first cup he found, he went back to the living room.

     “Now how do I get you to drink this?”

     Hannah sat up, gasping for air. Her eyes fell on the glass of Scotch. Instinctively, she grabbed the whiskey and slammed it down.

     “Gah, that’s terrible,” she said.

     “Well, it’s been in the fridge for a while.”

     She was breathing hard. It took her a long minute to reassemble her thoughts.

     “Why am I on the floor?”

     “You sort of passed out,” he said.

     “And why does my face hurt?”

     “I slapped you,” Silas said. “A couple of times.”

     “Oh.”

     “Nothing personal. It’s what they do on TV,” he said.

     Setting the empty glass down, she climbed back onto the couch.

     “What did I miss?” she asked.

     “Looks like you were in a trance,” Silas said.

     “A trance?”

     “Like a waking dream,” he said.

     “Felt like it.”

     “It only lasted a few minutes,” he said. “Definitely under our ten-minute time limit.”

     “Felt longer,” Hannah said.

     “Did you see anything?”

     “I’d say so.”

     “Care to dish?” he asked.

     Hannah pressed her eyes shut. They were sore as if she hadn’t slept in days. Slowly she recounted the dream. Silas watched her as she spoke, studying the way she moved her face and hands. Something was different, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He made a mental note to study her mannerisms more carefully.

     “At midnight the people went crazy,” she said. “They killed each other. The soldiers had to stop them. There was no one left.”

     “As far as dreams go, that’s a doozy.”

     “It was him,” Hannah said. “I saw the kidnapper.”

     “You sure?”

     “Had to be,” Hannah said. “I felt him. The same thing I felt when I touched the fetish. That’s the man.”

     “Sounds like what you described happened a long time ago,” Silas said. “Judging from your description of the town, the clothes.”

     “How long?” she asked.

     “Have to pinpoint it,” he said. “What did the soldiers look like?”

     “They had helmets,” she said. “Not modern, though. Maybe World War II?”

     “And the uniforms?”

     “Looked like Boy Scouts,” she said.

     “National Guard,” Silas said. “Circa 1930s or 40s.”

     “It felt real, but it didn’t happen, right?” Hannah asked. “It was just a dream.”

     Silas looked at her pointedly. “There’s never been just a dream.”

     “When did the National Guard kill a town full of people?” she said. “Have you ever heard of that?”

     “No. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

     Silas pulled out his notebook. Looking over what he had on the fetish, he added what Hannah related to him in shorthand. Flipping back and forth between the growing number of pages, his mind sifted through the information.

     “We have a kidnapper associated with the Angel of Death, who years ago drove an entire town mad.” He was lost in thought until a bitter taste filled his mouth. He was sucking on the end of his pencil. Silas wiped his lips. They were black.

     “Why would he send me a dream?” Hannah asked.

     “Can’t be sure about that, for now,” Silas said. “Could be another attempt to overwhelm you.”

     “Well, it’s working.”

     “He overplayed his hand with this one,” he said. “We can dig around and find out more about this massacre. Could lead us right to him. Maybe that Internet of yours can help.”

     He looked up at Hannah. Her head was drooping. She stared blankly at a corner of the room.

     “You okay?”

     She jerked her head up at him. Her eyes were glassy. “Hmm?”

     “How ’bout we go for a walk?” he said. “Get some fresh air.”

     “I don’t want fresh air,” Hannah said.

     “Well the dog needs to poop, so let’s go.”

     The temperature had dropped over the course of the night. Cold air clung to their faces, sucking heat straight from their pores. Silas bundled up his greatcoat, flipping up the collar for good measure. Hannah let her coat hang open. She walked a few steps behind the detective and his dog. Silas pulled back the chain that was barely keeping Barnabas in check as he stared up at the sky.

     “Gonna snow,” he said.

     Hannah looked up. A gray veil hung across the sky. The air was thick with anticipation, but no snow yet. Distant noises floated down the street. They only added to the vacant feeling that hung over the neighborhood.

     “It’s too early for snow,” Hannah said in a detached sort of way.

     “It’s been known to happen,” Silas said. He was jerked to the right as Barnabas moved for the curb.

     “Should have brought a bag,” he said, eyes on the dog.

     “For what?” she asked.

     “Don’t worry about it.”

     Silas studied the woman. The haze was slowly lifting, but she was still miles away. Hannah stood in the middle of the sidewalk, her coat flapping in the breeze, shoulders slumped. Someone walked by and had to awkwardly move around her. She didn’t notice. For a moment Silas regretted making her use the fetish. He dismissed the thought immediately.

     “I was thinking we can run by your apartment,” he said. “Pick up some of your clothes? Should be safe. We’ll be in and out.”

     Hannah shrugged noncommittally.

     “I’m sure you’re tired of wearing Plonka’s stuff.”

     She seemed to not understand what he meant.

     “Ah, hey,” he said, “you never told me why you got into journalism.”

     “What?”

     “Yeah, tell me about that,” Silas said.

     Hannah shook her head as if the drowsiness was wearing off. “Um, I always wanted to be a journalist.”

     “Since you were a kid?” he asked.

     “That’s right. My dad was a photographer,” she said. “I spent a lot of time around reporters and bullpens. I guess it rubbed off.”

     “That’s very interesting.” The dog pulled Silas a few more steps down the block. “Tell me more.”

     “I saved up my allowance when I was ten to buy this clunky tape recorder,” she said. “To interview kids at school. I was always on the lookout for the big scoop.”

     “And that’s what you do now,” Silas said.

     “I guess. There’s always a lot of news, but they only want stories that’ll get clicks. That usually means crap. It’s pretty hard to do meaningful work.”

     “Yet you’re still at it. Not giving up.” He nodded. “I admire that.”

     “Why are you so interested all of a sudden?” Hannah asked. She sounded more like herself.

     “Isn’t this what you said friends do?” Silas said. “Get to know each other?”

     “We’re friends?”

     The detective shrugged. “Kind of.”

     “Okay. Your turn.”

     Silas cursed to himself. Had that coming. He looked at Hannah. There was that reporter’s gleam in her eye. Reminded him of an alley cat he once knew.

     “What do you want to know?” he asked.

     “Why do you do all this?” she said. “Put yourself in danger, just for strangers?”

     “It’s not about the danger,” Silas said. “It’s about the discovery. I’ve seen things, kid, you just couldn’t imagine. I want to learn as much as I can about the Universe. Isn’t that why we’re all here?”

     “You don’t need to be a detective to do that,” Hannah said. “Why take on clients?”

     His head bobbed from side to side as he thought about it. “One time, I went to Mexico,” he said. “For a case. Children were going missing from a town outside Juarez. Local authorities blamed wolf attacks, but I didn’t buy it.”

     “How come?”

     “There are no wolves in Mexico. One night I got a little carried away trying to blend in and drank twelve shots of tequila.”

     “Yikes, I didn’t know you drank,” Hannah said.

     “Not anymore. I woke up in a basement, chained to a radiator. There was another hand handcuffed to mine. It wasn’t connected to a body.”

     “Oh, God.”

     “Turns out a coven of body snatchers was taking the kids,” he said. “They spiked my drinks at the bar. The severed arm belonged to the man who hired me, a deputy sheriff.”

     “How’d you get out of that one?” she asked.

     “I don’t remember,” he said

     “Come on.”

     “Hangovers can do that,” Silas said. “But I did find the children. To see the joy and relief on their parents’ faces, it made the danger worth it. To live. In the end, that’s what it’s all about.”

     “What are body snatchers?” Hannah asked.

     “Sort of like crones,” he said. “Only meaner.”

     “So, which is it for me?” Hannah asked. “Are you only interested in me as a case study, or do you care?”

     “Does it matter?”

     “Does for me,” she said.

     “It’s getting cold,” Silas said, walking back up the street.

     Hannah watched him for a minute. The temperature had finally gotten to her and she pulled her coat closed. Reaching into a pocket, she found her phone.

     “It’s only nine?” she said. “Feels like midnight.”

     Silas stopped. He turned on a foot. “What did you say?”

     “Nothing. I just feel tired.”

     “Midnight,” he said. “In the dream, you said it was midnight.”

     “I did?”

     “Yes. You said it was midnight when the massacre began. How did you know?”

     “There was a clock,” she said. “The bells were ringing.”

     “A clock tower,” Silas said. “Like in a town square?”

     “Yeah, all the people were gathered in the middle of the town. The clock struck twelve and they went crazy.”

     Barnabas pulled on his leash, but his master did not budge. “A clock tower. A town in the mountains. Why does that sound familiar?”

     He looked up at Hannah, excitement in his eyes. She took a step back.

     “I think I got something.”

     Grabbing her by the hand, he pulled both woman and dog back to the house. Barnabas moaned as he was dragged from an attractive fire hydrant. He decided to conduct his business anyway as they ran.

     “I’m not finding anything online,” Hannah said.

     “I didn’t think you would,” Silas said. “A massacred town. The National Guard involved. The government would’ve covered it up.”

     “That’s too big to hide,” Hannah said. “There should be a record, somewhere.”

     Silas stepped out of his bedroom, a pile of books in his arms. “Not everything’s leaked to the public, Ms. Brockovich. Especially in the age before television or the Internet. I know that shatters your paradigm, but it’s true.”

     He returned to his chair and dropped the books onto the fire bench. Hannah lowered her phone and stared at them.

     “What’s all this?”

     “Almanacs,” he said.

     “Why?”

     “Before the Internet, there were almanacs,” Silas said. “If you wanted to know anything about the world around you, these were your source.”

     “So long as what you wanted to know was when to plant sorghum,” Hannah said.

     Silas stuck a finger at her. “Don’t be silly. Everyone knows you plant sorghum in early June. Almanacs also published oddities or stories of note from the local area.”

     Cracking open a large book, he started flipping through the pages.

     “Your dream reminded me of something,” he said. “An entry I read a while ago.”

     “In an almanac?” she asked.

     “Sure.”

     “And you remembered it somehow?”

     “I always file away important bits of information.” Silas tapped the side of his head. “You never know when they’ll come in handy.”

     “How do you know what bits are important and what bits are just trash?” Hannah asked.

     “That’s the tricky part.”

     He reached a certain page and smiled. Turning the book around, he showed it to Hannah. His finger was on a picture. It was the clock from her dream. The face was cracked and it tilted precariously from the tower, but it was the one. The caption below read: “Barrow Hill Clock Tower in Disrepair.” There was a short entry:

     The years have not been kind to the eclectic mountain town of Barrow Hill. After years of economic decline, it now faces the loss of its clock tower. The town hall has been in disrepair for a decade and the clock threatens to fall from its setting. A lack of funds prevents the beleaguered town from restoring it. Only time will tell whether or not it plummets to the ground below.

     “‘Only time will tell,'” Hannah said. “That’s what writers say when they don’t know how to end an article.”

     “Is that your clock tower?” Silas asked.

     “I can hardly believe it,” she said, “but it is.”

     “Then Barrow Hill’s the place,” he said.

     “Do you believe a town in Upstate New York was massacred,” she said, “and nobody knows about it?”

     “Like I said, it could have been covered up,” he said.

     “Can’t be.”

     “You know, for a journalist, you’re not very cynical,” Silas said. “The other reason no one knows is, for better or worse, sometimes things are forgotten.”

     “For worse,” she said.

     He pulled out another book from the pile. “But with the help of a very old atlas, we might find this Barrow Hill ourselves.”

     “You wanna traipse through Upstate New York in search of the scene of a massacre?” she said. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

     “Why not?” he said. “Best case scenario: we find vital clues about our kidnapper. Worst case: we’re attacked by hillbillies. Either way, put on your shoes.”

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Mei-Ling watched Silas and Hannah. Propped up on one of her lavish cushions, she looked like a queen surveying her subjects. The table before them was laid out with full tea service. She poured herself a cup. Silas and Hannah were required to stand by the door and wait. Slowly Mei-Ling finished tasting the tea and nodded to her attendant, who bowed and quickly left the room.

     Eventually, she got around to speaking to Silas. “Were you successful?”

     Silas stopped tapping his foot. “That all depends on what you do with the corpse on your roof.”

     Mei-Ling showed mild surprise.

     “This is the ghost’s body?”

     “It’s not a coincidence.” Silas invited himself to a cushion and poured a cup of tea. “Looks like he was killed and stuffed in the box. Bury the bones, give him whatever rites you think appropriate, and the ghost should be satisfied.”

     “Shouldn’t we call the police?” Hannah asked.

     Silas turned to Mei-Ling and smirked. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

     “We will take care of it internally,” Mei-Ling said. She looked at Hannah and, for the first time, her expression wasn’t one of disdain. “Please, have a seat.”

     Hannah sat down beside Silas. She poured a cup of tea to be polite, but only sipped it once. To her credit, she did notice it tasted better than the stuff upstairs.

     “Okay May, we took care of your ghost,” Silas said. “Let’s talk.”

     Mei-Ling’s face was unsearchable. “Tell me what you want.”

     “A woman was kidnapped,” Silas said. “A fetish was used to mark her. There are probably more of them floating around the city.”

     “You assume they are being moved through Chinatown?” Mei-Ling said.

     “Good place to move merchandise,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

     “If I knew items like that were being sold, I would put a stop to it,” she said. “I have a responsibility to this community.”

     “You can’t know about everything going on in Chinatown,” Hannah said. “Right?”

     Mei-Ling’s eyes darted over to her and back at Silas. “Let me see this fetish.”

     “Eh, well…”

     “Do you not have one with you?” she asked.

     “Cops took mine,” Silas said.

     A cloud passed over Mei-Ling’s face. “The police are involved?”

     “Women are missing, of course, they’re involved,” he said. “But I’m not working for them, so you can unclench.”

     “If the police are not paying you, who is?” she asked.

     “Nobody’s paying me,” Silas said. “I’m doing it on principle.”

     Mei-Ling laughed. It was a sharp sound, like a shattering mirror. “Do not lie to me, Mr. Black.”

     “People are in danger,” he said. “More will disappear if we don’t act. That’s always been my business.”

     The woman looked at Hannah. She seemed to guess the truth.

     “I would still need to see one of these fetishes,” she said.

     “Wait.” Hannah almost fell out of her seat. “I have pictures of it on my phone.”

     Mei-Ling extended a hand. Hannah fished inside a pocket for her phone. The woman took it and silently examined the photos. Her face slowly changed. It was like watching a pot of water reach a boil. She jabbed the phone back into Hannah’s hand.

     “I have seen that before,” Mei-Ling said, her face taut.

     “Now, we’re getting somewhere,” Silas said. “Where?”

     “One of the markets.”

     “Okay. On Canal Street?”

     Mei-Ling stared at Silas. “It is not customary to bring outsiders to one of these markets.”

     “I’m not an outsider,” Silas said.

     “You are when it comes to the Souk.”

     “Whoever’s selling these dolls is working for the kidnapper,” he said. “It might actually be the kidnapper.”

     “I will deal with this problem myself,” Mei-Ling said.

     “What? Why?”

     “If these effigies are being used as you say, then my community has become host to a terrible evil,” she said. “I cannot abide it.”

     “I agree,” Silas said. “But if you come on too strong, this vender could bolt. Please May, let me get a crack at them first. Then you can drive bamboo shafts under their nails or whatever you want.”

     Mei-Ling was silent. Silas feared he had gone too far with that last comment. Setting her teacup down carefully, she stood to her feet. Silas and Hannah followed.

     “Let us move quickly.”

     Chinatown was a cramped neighborhood, to say the least. With a total square mileage of two, it managed to fit in more than its space should allow. That was standard practice in a city as old as New York, but the neighborhood seemed to have a knack for making the most out of a small space. That made Hook and Ladder 1049 all the more unusual.

     From the outside, it looked like an old, abandoned firehouse. That was suspect enough; most fire stations were still in use no matter their age. The existence of an unused building in Chinatown–and a firehouse to boot–should have attracted even the mildly curious. But the people walking past were oblivious to the anomaly. Nobody paid much attention to Hook and Ladder 1049 and certainly, no one tried to get in.

     The massive garage doors seemed welded shut. Silas and Hannah waited by the corner, as per Mei-Ling’s instructions. They had watched the woman approach the front door. She didn’t knock or make any indication she was there, but it opened. Silas craned his neck to get a look inside but saw only darkness. There wasn’t even the hint of a doorman.

     “How much do you want a bet it’s empty in there?” Hannah asked.

     “Can’t be,” Silas said.

     “Maybe Mei-Ling’s just stringing us along,” she said. “She got us to help her out, and now she’s ditching us.”

     “I think I know the woman better than that.”

     “You sure?” Hannah said. “Dollars to donuts she just slipped out the back.”

     He shook his head.

     “You know her that well?”

     “She may not be my biggest fan,” he said. “But she wouldn’t renege. Not on me.”

     “How well do you know her?” Hannah asked.

     “Huh?”

     “How far back does your relationship go?”

     “A few years,” he said.

     “M-hm. And how would you define it?” she asked.

     “On life support,” Silas said.

     “But it was better in the past, you’d say.”

     “I’d say you’re barking up the wrong tree. Mei-Ling and I have always had a professional arrangement. That’s all.”

     “Now it looks like you have a null arrangement,” Hannah said. “Face it, she’s gone.”

     The little door in the firehouse opened. Mei-Ling reappeared. With a quick gesture, she summoned them.

     “Do you see how wrong you are?” Silas said.

     “Shut up.”

     “Follow my lead,” Mei-Ling said. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

     “So, I shouldn’t bring my blowhorn?” Silas said.

     She gave him a sharp glance before turning back to the firehouse. Mei-Ling stepped inside, then Silas, and finally Hannah. It was like walking into a wall of black. The light from outside didn’t make it passed the doorframe. Behind them, they heard the door close. Ahead, were the firm steps of Mei-Ling as she pressed further inside.

     “A little light would be nice,” Silas said.

     “Just keep walking.”

     “I have bad luck in dark places,” he said.

     He took a few more steps and the darkness was gone. They were inside the empty firehouse garage. A sad NYFD patrol car sat up on cinderblocks. Silas and Hannah crossed the vacant room to a door in the back. A large man covered in tattoos was standing guard. His bulging eyes watched Silas and his assistant skeptically. But when they got close, he nodded and held open the door.

     “I think we’re supposed to go that way,” Hannah said.

     “Astute, as always.”

     They went through the door. It was night. A crescent moon hung low, almost touching a line of trees. Silas and Hannah walked under an ivy-wrapped arbor. A rumble of voices greeted them. They stepped out into a large field and were greeted by a blast of light. Hannah was forced to shield her eyes. Fireworks were going off in all directions.

     “Welcome to the Sickle Souk!” greeted a man at the edge of the field.

     A large paper-mâché dragon floated in the air as they entered the bazaar. Jugglers on stills were tossing blades, fire, and fiery blades over the crowd. Tents honeycombed over an ever-expanding field of grass. Intermingled were tables and vendors the likes of which Chinatown could only dream. Hordes of consumers moved among the shops like bees.

     Silas got onto a nearby tree stump to look over the tents. There was no sign of the New York skyline, only pine trees bordering the Souk.

     “Where the hell are we?” he said.

     “If you don’t know, then I sure as hell don’t,” Hannah said.

     “This is new,” Silas said, turning in a circle to take it all in. “And it’s amazing.”

     “Where do we even start?” she asked.

     “It’s got to be organized somehow,” he said. “We should ask somebody.”

     “Where’s Mei-Ling?” Hannah said.

     “Gone again. That’s her M.O.” Silas looked around for anyone that appeared authoritative. It was difficult. Most of the shoppers were ordinary people. Some looked as confused as Silas and Hannah. The detective pin-pointed a figure near the entrance, a short man in a purple hood, dark tunic, and leather leggings. Silas waved at him.

     The figure bounded up beside him. “Hello.”

     “Do you run this place?” Silas asked.

     “Nobody runs the Sickle Souk,” the man said. “It runs itself.”

     “Okay. You wouldn’t happen to know where we could buy fetishes?”

     The greeter scratched his chin in thought. Silas noticed a neatly-trimmed goatee poking out from his hood. That was all he could see of his face, save for the glow of silver eyes. His skin was dark, with the same purplish tint of his hood. His fingernails came to delicate points.

     “There is a large collection of shops in the center square,” he said, pointing deeper into the market. “They sell toys, talking idols, and the occasional demi-god.”

     “You mean models of a demi-god?” Silas asked.

     The greeter shrugged. “Whatever you like.”

     Silas and Hannah pushed through the throng toward the center square. The largest tents filled the cobblestoned area. A seven-tiered fountain was in the middle, spouting water that shimmered like crystal. Silas approached a tent that wasn’t completely mobbed with customers. It sold jars of color-changing liquid. Oddly-shaped fetuses floated inside. The next booth had no merchandise. Its owner stood motionless, arms folded over his chest. A crowd was waving money. Each would get a turn at the front of the line, slap down their cash, and walk away with a look of satisfaction on their face.

     Hannah looked at Silas for an explanation. “Is any of this for real?” she asked.

     “I ain’t spending money to find out. All markets are about one thing: separating you from your cash.”

     One table was pinned all over with brown slips of paper covered with spidery handwriting. Hannah watched as the words moved. The lines of text shifted like marching ants. They became words she understood. She felt the urge to read them out loud. Silas pulled her away.

     “Hex paper,” he said. “The spell changes before you even finish saying it. Most people end up cursing themselves. This way.”

     They reached a large, round booth. The few people near it were backing away. Mei-Ling was there, shouting at a man behind the counter. He gestured passionately as he spoke, the words were lost on Silas and Hannah. Their conversation came to a halt when Mei-Ling noticed them.

     “What’s the word?” Silas asked.

     “None of my vendors know about your fetish,” she said.

     “That’s convenient,” he said.

     “They do mention a new shop,” Mei-Ling said, “that is selling idols of all kinds.”

     “Worth looking into,” Silas said.

     “Hang on,” Hannah said. “Even if this shop is selling the fetishes, I doubt Emily Lisbon ever came through here.”

     “Many people find their way here,” Mei-Ling said. “Even if they are not looking for us.”

     “Us?” Hannah said.

     Mei-Ling pointed to a tent on the other side of the square. Silas and Hannah recognized a few of her workers from beneath her tea shop as they loaded smuggled merchandise through a flap.

     “What does this new shop look like?” Silas asked.

     “It is a small tent,” Mei-Ling said. “Emerald, with a circle of stars hanging over the entrance.”

     Hannah’s gaze roved across the square. “They all kind of look like that.”

     Silas walked in a circuit. He had the firm belief that wandering aimlessly was the best course when you had no idea where to go. His eyes floated over the shops, not focusing on any one thing. He came to a break in the tents that led to a lane. Silas went down it. Hannah followed.

     Ignoring the constant cries of vendors, Silas reached the outskirts of the Souk. Stragglers lounged beneath the dark trees, eager to be left alone. A single tent, a good stone throw’s away from the rest, was hidden in the shade. It was made of a rich green material that looked like velvet. Hanging over its entrance was a cluster of stars. They tinkled gently as the flap was opened.

     “Anywhere else, it’d be pretty,” Hannah said.

     Silas looked at her peculiarly and stepped inside. The air was thick with incense. For the limited space, it was filled with items. Shelves were packed with figurines. More hung from strings. The very best were arranged on a table at the back. Silas recognized Hindu deities, creatures from Japanese folklore, and a few Precious Moments.

     Behind the table was a small, robed figure. He was hunched over, which emphasized his diminutive stature. A hood was pulled low over his face so that not even his eyes were visible. He was busy arranging items on the table, his hands moving too fast to be seen.

     “Howdy,” Silas said. “My name’s Silas. Whom might you be?”

     The merchant jumped back. Silas had the feeling the man was glaring at him.

     “Yes, hello,” he said in a low voice. “I am Qule.”

     “Hello, Qule. Do you sell fetishes?”

     “I sell all manner of articles,” Qule said. “Idols, totems, and yes, fetishes.” His hands darted to the table and came back up holding a gold statuette. “This one is twenty-four karats. The eyes are cubic zirconia.”

     “What’s with all the tentacles?”

     “You don’t know Cthulhu?” he asked.

     “No, we never met,” Silas said. “Listen, I’m looking for a wooden fetish. Resembles a man. He’s got this stupid grin and is clutching his legs. Got anything like that?”

     Qule was silent. He rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “Sounds familiar. I might have a few.”

     “Perfect,” Silas said. “May I see one?”

     “Not for sale.” He went back to arranging his figurines.

     “But this is a shop,” Silas said. “Why aren’t they for sale?”

     He wagged a finger at the detective. “Not for you.”

     “My money’s as green as anyone else’s,” Silas said.

     “No, no, only for–” The merchant looked up as Hannah stepped into the tent. She stared at the sea of idols. Repugnant would have been a good word for her expression.

     “Yes, yes, you may buy.”

     Qule ducked into the shadows and reappeared with something in his hands. Holding it up in the candlelight, he proudly presented a fetish identical to the one owned by Emily Lisbon.

     “Here, here,” he said, extending it toward Hannah. “You buy, you buy.”

     She took a step back. “No thanks.”

     “Wait a minute,” Silas said. “Why can she buy?”

     “Only to women,” Qule said. “That was instructions.”

     “Instructions? From who? Where did you get these?”

     The merchant lowered the fetish and looked at Silas. “Are you going to buy anything?”

     “No.”

     “Then get out.”

     “All right, I’ll buy this lovely elephant doll,” Silas said.

     “That is Ganesh,” Qule said.

     “I know. I’ll buy it if you tell me where the fetish came from.”

     The merchant seemed to be eyeing Silas up. Hannah took a deep breath, already regretting what she was about to say.

     “You know a lot about these things, right?”

     Qule turned to her. “Of course.”

     She pointed at the fetish, without looking at it. “What can you tell me about that one?”

     Cradling it in his hands like a child, he spoke. “Hand-carved from a solid piece of wood. Onyx eyes. Brings good luck.”

     “But what about the figure?” she said. “Who is it?”

     Qule stood the doll up on his palm. “This is the high priest of Ozryel, of course.”

     “Ozryel?” Silas said.

     “Ancient god,” he said. “Ruler of ten kingdoms.”

     “Where did it come from?” Hannah asked.

     “One score of fetishes arrived before the Wolf’s Moon,” Qule said. “Instructions attached on paper.”

     “Do you know who sent them?” she asked

     A clanging gong interrupted them. The sound of people shouting reached the tent. Hannah ran outside to look.

     “Everyone’s gone crazy,” she said to Silas. “What’s going on?”

     “I have no idea.” He looked at Qule. “What does that gong mean?”

     The merchant was busy dumping his figurines into a sack. He jumped over the table and emptied the shelves. Silas grabbed him.

     “Where do you think you’re going?”

     Qule screamed. He kicked Silas in the chest, knocking him into the table. Idols flew through the air as Silas collapsed to the ground. The merchant dropped his sack and ran out of the tent. Hannah ran over to Silas.

     “Are you okay?”

     “Bit my tongue.”

     They ran after Qule. The bazaar was in chaos. Customers and merchants were running into the trees, leaving their tents abandoned. Silas and Hannah fought through the confusion for the source of the panic. Charging up the center aisle was their answer.

     “Silas Black!”

     It was Detective Lang, flanked by a team of officers.

     “I knew they were following me,” Silas said. “We have to find Qule. Pronto.”

     They caught up with Qule as he disappeared through a hole in a tree. Silas shrugged at Hannah and plunged in. The forest and all its trappings were gone, replaced by the familiar cement walls of a basement. Silas followed the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing. He reached a flight of stairs and a boiler room. A few more seconds and he was in a kitchen. Short-order cooks were shouting in Chinese, pointing to a door.

     Hannah caught up with Silas as he ran through the restaurant; the customers looked as surprised as the cooks. The front door was still swinging as Silas burst onto the street. By the time Hannah reached the entrance, he had crossed the street and entered a park. He climbed a series of steps, tripped, and fell on his face. Hannah ran over and helped him up. He took a few more steps, heedless of the fact his chin was bleeding.

     “Where did he go?” Silas looked around.

     “I don’t see him,” Hannah said. The park was full of people, none of whom resembled Qule.

     “Great, he’s gone.”

     Someone shouted his name. They turned around to see Detective Lang and several of her officers. Silas spoke first.

     “What were you doing there?”

     “I don’t need to explain myself to you, Black,” Lang said. “What were you doing at an underground market?”

     She took a step toward him. Silas didn’t back down. An officer stepped in between them.

     “I was about to close your case,” Silas said. “There was a seller there with ties to the kidnapper.”

     “You’re not a part of this case,” Lang said. “I made that very clear.”

     “I was this close to getting answers when you interfered.”

     “What answers?” she asked.

     “The fetish you took from my apartment,” he said. “More like it was being sold at the market. It’s how the kidnapper got them into the hands of his victims.”

     “We examined that statuette,” Lang said. “It’s nothing.”

     “It’s the crux of this case,” Silas said. “It had power. Or didn’t you realize where we just were?”

     Lang pointed back from where they just came. “That was an old warehouse off of Spring Street,” she said.

     The private eye slowly shook his head. “Are you crazy? We were outside. It was nighttime.”

     “It’s obvious you have trouble separating fantasy from reality,” Lang said. “Now I’m telling you for the last time: stay out of my case. If you refuse to comply, I’ll lock you up for good.”

     “Might as well just do it.”

     Silas stuck out his hands, daring Lang. Hannah ducked behind a park bench and prayed not to be seen. The uniformed officers looked at Lang, waiting for her cue. Her eyes were fixed on Silas, fingering the handcuffs on her belt. From behind them came a commanding voice.

     “Leave Mr. Black alone.”

     Standing proud at the top of the park steps was Mei-Ling. Her eyes smoldered as she stared at the police. They turned to face her, more puzzled than upset.

     “Hello Yin Mei-Ling,” Lang said. Her voice was small and respectful.

     “I am glad you remember me, Amy,” Mei-Ling said. “It has been many years since we have seen each other. How is your father?”

     “He is well, fūrén. Thank you.” Lang bowed her head stiffly.

     Mei-Ling looked over at Silas, whom Lang had unconsciously stepped in front of. “Why don’t you leave my friend alone? He has done nothing wrong. In fact, he has been working with me all day.”

     Detective Lang marched over to the woman. She tried to exert her authority as an officer she spoke to the elder. Her words were quick and low. Lang gestured to her badge, to the other cops, and to Silas. Mei-Ling was calm as she responded, a stone in the middle of the storm.

     One of the cops snorted and leaned over to Silas. “What the heck are they saying?”

     Silas looked as if he had been struck by lightning. He glanced at Hannah, who could do nothing but shrug. After a few minutes, Lang came up for air. She walked back to the circle of officers. She mumbled something about canvassing the area and sent them away. They were confused but did as they were told. Lang followed after them to the street. Silas’ eyes followed, catching sight of Detective McClelland, standing outside the restaurant. He saw Silas and turned away.

     Mei-Ling walked over to Silas as Hannah came out from behind the bench.

     “Care to explain what just happened?” Silas asked.

     “No,” Mei-Ling said.

     “I guess I owe you one,” he said.

     “Yes, you do.”

     “What kind of damage are we looking at?” Silas asked. “For the market?”

     “Not as bad as you think,” Mei-Ling said. “The Sickle Souk will find another location. You won’t be welcomed back. They will blame you for leading the police to them.”

     “Just like Paris.”

     “What about Qule?” Hannah asked.

     “He may never return,” Mei-Ling said. “Not after such a scare.”

     “We got what we could from him,” Silas said.

     “I feel it right to say our business has concluded,” Mei-Ling said.

     Silas gave a mock salute. “Whenever you need me, call.”

     Mei-Ling smiled greedily. “I will.”

     She offered one of her hands and he shook it. Turning to Hannah, she bowed. Hannah, unsure of what to do, bowed back.

     “You keep strange company, Black,” Hannah said as the woman left.

     “You should meet my friends.” Silas winced as he touched his chin. Hannah led him to a water fountain and helped clean the wound with a tissue.

     “How do I look, doc? Can I still do ballet?

     “You need a Band-Aid,” she said. “But it’s fine.”

     “Thanks.” Silas took the tissue and held it to his face. “All in all, that was a productive outing.”

     “You’re joking, right?” Hannah said. “We’re no closer to the kidnapper.”

     “Oh, my dear Hannah Rhodes. Detective work is fraught with setbacks,” he said. “You learn to look on the bright side.”

     “You? Look on the bright side?”

     “Don’t sound so surprised,” Silas said. “Yes, Qule got away. But we learned a few key details we didn’t have prior.”

     “You mean that stuff about Ozer–what was it?”

     “Ozryel,” he said. “It’s a lead and I aim to follow it.”

     “I guess that’s more than what we had before,” she said.

     “Now you’re getting it.” Silas looked at the tissue and threw it away. “Plus, we weren’t arrested. I’m marking that as a win.”

     “What was up with Lang?” Hannah asked.

     “Yeah, I know,” Silas said. “Never met a cop that angry, all the time.”

     “No. Why’d she say we were in a warehouse?” Hannah asked. “We were clearly outside, with the moon out.”

     “Sometimes, people lie to themselves,” he said, “when the truth is too hard to face. I’ve seen it all the time.”

     “That’s ridiculous,” she said.

     “It’s a little quirk of human psychology,” he said. “When someone can’t handle reality, their minds quickly fill the gap with a plausible alternative. You see it all the time in paranormal work. Most people can’t handle seeing what we see, so they make something up that fits their existing paradigm. It’s called denial.”

     “How can anyone deny what they see with their own eyes?”

     Silas shrugged. “People are told ghosts don’t exist, monsters aren’t real, and you disappear when you die. It’s easier to stick to the lie than change. After all, you didn’t believe me, until you had no choice.”

     Hannah mulled that over. “I guess you’re right.”

     “Of course, I’m right,” he said, getting up. “Crap, I almost forgot this.”

     Silas fumbled in his pockets. Victorious, he pulled out a fetish from Qule’s shop. “Snagged it when he kicked me into the table.”

     Hannah stepped back as if the object was about to jump out of his hands. “Wonderful.”

     “I still got plans for this baby.” He tucked it back into his coat and started down the park path. “Ah, Columbus Park. Haven’t been here in years. Maybe we can catch a game of mahjong.”

     “Is that the way to the subway?” Hannah asked.

     “No idea.”

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“So, who was it?”

     “I dunno,” Silas said. “The cops let him go before I got out.”

     “And this is important to us, why?” Hannah asked.

     “The stuff he was saying, Lucretia. It wasn’t your average drunk talk.”

     “You spend a lot of time listening to drunks?”

     “I didn’t get this far by ignoring them.”

     “You should’ve heard the nut I met at the station,” Hannah said.

     Silas stopped marching down the street and turned back. “What nut?”

     Hannah shrugged. “Homeless guy next to me on the bench. Said something like, ‘You’re the one’ and ‘We’re coming for you.’ I don’t remember exactly.”

     “Why didn’t tell me sooner?” he asked.

     “He was just a homeless guy. I didn’t think it was important.”

     “He was drunk?” Silas asked.

     “McClelland threw him in the drunk tank,” she said.

     “You knew him?”

     “Yes, I’m popular among the homeless,” Hannah said. “He was crazy.”

     “Of course, he was,” Silas said. “But just what kind of crazy was he?” He looked away. “Could it have been the same man? Must have been, right?”

     “Excuse me, who are you talking to?”

     “And you’re sure he was homeless?” he asked.

     “He was dressed in newspapers,” Hannah said.

     “There’s something there,” Silas said. “I just can’t see it.”

     “Does this have anything to do with our case?” Hannah asked.

     Silas said something, but it was lost in a blare of car horns. He was crossing the street, ignoring the red light. Hannah ran after him, flipping off an irate driver. Street vendors leaned over their tables, waving cheap-looking merchandise. Once or twice Silas stopped and looked them over. After talking with the seller for a few seconds, he would move on.

     “Is this really the best way?” Hannah asked. “Checking every street vendor?”

     “I’m being selective,” Silas said. “Focusing on the ones with authentic-looking stuff.”

     “You think we’re gonna whoever sold Emily her fetish?” Hannah asked.

     “Like I said before: it’s Chinatown.”

     Hannah did her best to keep up with the detective. Silas moved through the neighborhood as if a map of it was tattooed on his hand. She wanted to ask him if he spent a lot of time there, but he wouldn’t slow down. The locals answered for him. A man popped out from a kiosk and offered Silas a free trout. As they passed a table full of toys, someone shouted. Hannah looked back to see a teenage girl take a picture of Silas’s back.

     He reached the corner of a busy intersection and stopped. Eventually, Hannah caught up.

     “Why don’t we check in there?” she asked, pointing to the store beside them.

     Silas looked through the window. “I see some antiques. Mostly Buddhas, but we could get lucky. Do you speak Chinese?”

     “No.”

     “Then we’ll wing it.”

     It was one of many shops they would end up visiting. They were all the same, colorful merchandise crowded on shelves and countertops. Silas looked over several hundred Buddhas and he didn’t know how many Lucky Cats. Mixed in with the traditional merch were posters of pop stars and knock-off Keurig machines. But nothing close to Emily’s fetish. Silas attempted to squeeze information from the store owners. When they pleaded ignorance, he pressed harder. This usually got them thrown out.

     “How many stores to go?” Hannah asked as they hit the curb for the umpteenth time.

     Silas sighed and scratched his head. He looked over the myriad storefronts that were visible from just that corner of Chinatown. The reality of their situation was setting in.

     “Lemme make a call.” He pulled out his phone and started dialing.

     “A call?” Hannah said. “Is there someone that can help us?”

     He shrugged as he put the phone to his ear. “I know someone in the neighborhood.”

     “We’ve been scouring Chinatown all morning when you had a friend this whole time?”

     “I wouldn’t call her a friend,” he said. “She’s not answering.”

     Another local recognized him. The man grabbed the detective’s hand and shook it vigorously. He spouted off a series of questions in Chinese. Smiling, Silas pushed the man away.

     “Are you famous or something?” Hannah asked.

     “Don’t be silly,” he said.

     “People recognize you.”

     “They’ve never seen a man so handsome in a greatcoat,” Silas said.

     “Yeah, that must be it.”

     He put the phone back to his ear. A voicemail message was playing. Silas waited for the beep.

     “It’s me, Silas. We need to talk. You’re not answering your phone, as usual. I’m just gonna stop by.”

     “A bit frosty,” Hannah said.

     “I don’t want to talk about it.”

     “What, is she an ex or something?”

     The horrified look on Silas’s face was answer enough. “Let’s get going. It’s a few minutes away.”

     “What is?”

     A few blocks later, Hannah got her answer. Nestled between a florist and a used video game store was a tea shop. A purple awning, adorned with Chinese characters, spanned the entrance. In the front window, a sign read, “Mei-Ling’s Tea Room.” Silas pulled open the door and they stepped inside. It was a small room, lined with shelves. There were a few tables and a counter. On a stool beside the register sat a young woman. She watched them.

     “Welcome,” she said with a smile. “How may I help you?”

     “We’re not here for tea, Lien,” Silas said. “Although, I think I’m out of oolong.” He looked at Hannah. “Do you like oolong? Cuz I can get some.”

     “Do I know you?” the clerk asked.

     Silas turned back to her. “You probably don’t remember me. Haven’t been around in a while. My name’s Silas Black. I’m here to see Mei-Ling.”

     A look of skepticism came over Lien’s face. “I don’t think she’s taking visitors today.”

     “May and I go back a ways,” he said. “She’ll be happy to see me.”

     Lien hesitated, but finally nodded and left the counter. Silas watched as she walked to the back of the shop and disappeared through a curtain. He leaned on the counter as they waited, drumming his fingers on the glass.

     “Seriously, if you have any tea preferences let me know,” he said. “I’m partial to oolong, but green is fine.”

     The clerk quickly returned. She looked uncomfortable.

     “Yin Mei-Ling does not wish to see you,” she said.

     “Did you give her my name?” Silas asked.

     “Yes.”

     “And she doesn’t want to see me?”

     “Yes.”

     Silas expelled an annoyed breath. The wheels of his mind were turning. “All right, we’ll have some tea.”

     “Sir–“

     “This is a tea room, isn’t it?” he said. “We would like some of your delicious tea.”

     Lien studied Silas for a moment. She put on her most professional face and escorted them to a table. Silas and Hannah sat down and she stood over them, waiting. The detective picked up a paper menu and took his time looking at it.

     “I think we’ll start with a pot of oolong, please.”

     He looked over at Hannah for confirmation.

     “Got any coffee?” A foot connected with her shin. “Ow, dammit!”

     “Oolong is fine,” Silas said.

     He watched Lien as she left the room. Hannah kicked him back.

     “Ow, I didn’t kick you that hard,” he said.

     “Why does it feel like there’s more going on than I know about?” she asked.

     “Because, there is, Watson.”

     “I’m guessing this woman doesn’t want to see you,” she said. “Why don’t we try somewhere else?”

     “Mei-Ling is our best shot,” Silas said. “If there are fetishes in Chinatown, she’ll know, or be able to find out.”

     “Why?”

     “Because it’s in her best interest too,” he said.

     Lien returned with a teapot and two porcelain cups. Silas thanked her and poured himself a cup, making a show of relishing his first sip. The clerk watched him for a moment, before returning to the counter. Silas nodded at Hannah to try some. She poured herself a cup and took a tentative sip. She sputtered most of it out.

     “God, this is terrible,” she said.

     “It’s stale,” Silas said.

     “Then send it back,” Hannah said.

     “It’s all stale,” he said. “This isn’t a real tea shop.”

     Hannah was mopping her face with a napkin. “What are you talking about?”

     “Just wait.”

     Silas looked above Hannah’s head. He saluted, leaning back in his chair. Hannah turned around and spotted the surveillance camera in the corner. It was pointed at them. She heard the rustle of paper and looked back at Silas. He was studying the menu.

     “Does anything look good to you?” he said. “I, for one, am famished. These dumplings look amazing. How about we split the soy milk quiche?”

     He looked back up at the camera and smiled. A phone at the counter ran. Lien spoke in a quick, low voice, glancing at Silas and Hannah. Eventually, she hung up and walked over.

     “Now, we’re getting somewhere,” Silas said.

     “Mei-Ling wants you to leave,” Lien said. “Or she will call the police.”

     Silas laughed. “Like she’d ever call the cops.”

     “Not your police,” the shopkeeper said.

     “Oh. Hannah?”

     “Yeah?”

     “Interference!” Silas jumped from the table and grabbed Lien. He threw her into Hannah and made for the curtain. Hannah watched the terrified shopkeeper tumble into her. Instinctively, Hannah wrapped her arms around the woman. Lien screamed as they both hit the ground.

     Silas passed through the curtained doorway. There was the sound of something heavy being moved. Lien wrestled with Hannah. She rolled over the journalist’s arm. Hannah let go and the clerk was on her feet. Hannah chased after her into the back room. A hotplate and a few dishes were on the floor. The wall was open, revealing a flight of steps.

     Lien shouted in Chinese and ran down the steps. Hannah followed. The stairs descended a long passage, eventually opening onto a warehouse. Workers in cleanroom suits were meticulously unpacking crates marked with an electronic company logo. Inside, though, were paintings, vases, and other priceless works of Asian art.

     Silas charged through the warehouse toward a door on the other side. Lien reached the bottom of the stairs and shouted at the workers. They stopped at once and looked at Silas. The ones closest to him pounced. He managed to shake off a few as they slipped in their cleanroom suits. Enough of the workers piled on and pinned him to the ground.

     Hannah stayed by the stairs. She wasn’t about to get into a fight with an army of what appeared to be antique smugglers. The room echoed with the sound of two dozen people shouting. A single voice rose above them. Immediately, the workers let go of Silas and returned to their stations. The detective was sprawled across the floor. Hannah ran over and helped him up. Getting to his feet, he wiped some blood from his face and smiled.

     Marching towards Silas from the back of the warehouse was an imposing figure. She was tall, with a lean, hard frame. Her long hair was braided, revealing smooth skin and piercing green eyes. Over her blouse and jeans, she wore a brightly colored robe. The woman was gesturing at Silas furiously, shouting in her native tongue. She didn’t need to be translated.

     “Calm down, Mei-Ling, you know I have trouble with Mandarin.”

     “How dare you enter where you do not belong.” Silas could almost taste the venom in her voice.

     “Not the first time,” he said.

     “I told you I did not wish to see you,” she said. “Are you incapable of listening?”

     “No, I just ignored you,” Silas said. “It’s been a long time. A visit was in order.”

     “You are a mule,” Mei-Ling said.

     “I’ve been called worse,” Silas said.

     “You must leave,” she said, casting a glance at Hannah. “With your concubine.”

     “Never been called that,” Hannah said.

     “Please listen to me, Mei-Ling,” Silas said. “After everything we’ve been through, you at least owe me five minutes.”

     “You are disrupting my business,” she said. “This a delicate operation. Your commotion might draw the attention of the police. It always does.”

     “It would serve you right, Mei-Ling,” he said. “I mean, honestly, smuggling goods from your homeland? When we first met, you were doing good in this town.”

     “I was robbing the Triads,” Mei-Ling said.

     “Good times,” Silas said. “And I always helped you when things got hairy. Remember Fai Hai, the demon monk? Remember the jumping vampires?”

     “That does not justify what you have been up to lately,” she said.

     “What are you talking about?”

     “You’ve been using my name around town.”

     Silas paused. “You saw the fliers?”

     “Yes I saw the fliers,” she said. “You have become quite popular around here.”

     He snapped his fingers and pointed at Hannah. “That explains it. Funny, nobody’s called for an appointment.”

     Mei-Ling smiled bitterly. “They are not interested in your help. They think you are funny.”

     “Huh,” he said. “Be that as it may, I only mentioned you to prove my track record. We made a good team, May.”

     “You did not stop to think how it could harm me?” she asked. “My rivals will try to use any information to make me look weak.”

     “I didn’t know you had rivals,” Silas said.

     “Everyone has rivals, Silas. Even you.”

     “If you had problems with rivals, I could have helped you.”

     She placed her hands on her hips. “I want you to leave.”

     “This is important, May,” he said. “Lives are at stake.”

     “Why do you think I care?” she asked.

     “Because despite this crime boss schtick you’re trying to affect, I know you’re still that girl from Canal Street, stealing cash to feed her family. An enormous family, I may add. Does your uncle still eat like a horse?”

     A shadow of a smile crossed her lips. “He is on a diet.”

     “That’s a weight off my mind. Will you listen?”

     “I will consider it,” Mei-Ling said slowly, “if you help me first.”

     “Quid pro quo. That’s the Mei-Ling I know. Name it.”

     Mei-Ling looked passed Silas and Hannah. Lien was still standing there, looking incredulous. Her boss spoke to her in Chinese and nodded to the stairs. Bowing, Lien flew like a dart back up to the tea room. Mei-Ling leveled her eyes at Silas and Hannah. She gestured for them to follow her as she marched to her office door. Hannah looked at Silas.

     “You’ve certainly got a way with women,” she said.

     “She agreed to talk, didn’t she?”

     They passed through an office, through a door into an alleyway. Mei-Ling led them across the narrow space between the buildings, to a door opposite the one they just left. She unlocked it and entered the empty apartment building. They reached the second floor and Mei-Ling stopped beside an open door. She waited outside as the other two went in.

     It was a one-room apartment, empty save for an antiquated coal stove. Soot on the walls let Silas know it had been used regularly. Windows looked out onto the street below. Greasy beams of light cast shadows on the floor. Silas walked into the center of the room. Hannah stayed by the door.

     “All right Ms. Yin, Whaddaya got for me?” he asked.

     “I bought this building,” Mei-Ling said. “But a spirit haunts this room. Its wails can be heard throughout the apartments. I cannot have people living here unless it is gone.”

     Silas looked over at Hannah. “You finally get to see a ghost.”

     “Oh, joy,” Hannah said.

     Silas rubbed his hands on the walls, getting covered in soot. Scooping up a handful of dust he tossed it into the air. It showered down, covering–among other things–Silas’s head and shoulders. He watched as it floated to the floor.

     “Should have called me sooner,” Silas said. “Something strong in here.” He pointed at nothing in particular. “Do you see that, Hannah?”

     “No.”

     “The dust is moving slower right here. It’s a cold spot. The moisture in the air is almost frozen.”

     Silas turned to Mei-Ling. “How often does it appear?”

     “Almost daily.”

     “Wow. Do you think we’ll have to wait lo–“

     A scream rattled the windows.  Silas was thrown into the wall. The air was knocked out of his chest as he slumped to the floor. It was a minute before he moved again. He opened his eyes to see a pale image of a man standing over him. It vanished quickly.

     “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath as he stood. “It’s angry. That much we know.”

     He found Hannah in a corner. Her head was between her knees. Silas ran over and forced her to stand.

     “On your feet, soldier,” he said.

     Hannah looked at him dumbly. “What the hell was that?” she asked.

     “What do you think, Einstein? A ghost.”

     “Enough with the nicknames, okay? I’m getting sick of ’em.”

     “I know you’re just saying that because you’re scared,” he said.

     Silas took out his compass and started moving through the room. “But seriously, ghosts are a piece of cake.”

     Hannah tried to regain composure by taking deep, cleansing breaths. She got a lung full of dust. “How is this a piece of cake?” she asked between coughs. “It threw you into the wall.”

     “It’s all relative,” he said. “When a person dies, sometimes a fragment of their consciousness is left behind. That is a ghost. All it wants is release. If we can help this ghost, it should depart.”

     “Good luck with that,” she said.

     “It’s the easiest thing in the world. Right May?”

     The doorway was empty.

     Silas snorted. “Typical. We need to communicate with the ghost.”

     “How are you going to do that?” Hannah asked.

     Cupping his hands around his mouth, Silas shouted. His voice bounced off the walls. He whistled, first random notes, then something like the Oriental Riff. There was no answer. Silas lowered his hands.

     “A ghost this angry should be easy to conjure. Maybe…”

     He turned to Hannah. She was white.

     “Are you okay?” he asked. “Cuz you look sick. Please don’t throw up on me.”

     She pointed behind him. Silas turned around. The pale man was inches from his face. It wore a long, tattered shirt down to its knees. The rest of its form faded into nothingness. Taking a step back, Silas raised his hand.

     “We come in peace,” he said in a clear, loud voice. “Tell me your name. I can help you.”

     The ghost spoke. Its voice was cold as glass.

     “What’s he saying?” Hannah asked.

     “I dunno. He’s Italian.”

     “Italian? This is Chinatown,” she said.

     “Used to be Little Italy.”

     “Why don’t you speak Italian?” she asked.

     “Because there are only so many hours in the day.”

     The ghost screamed. The noise shook them from the inside out. Hannah covered her ears. It did little help. Silas reached into his coat and took out a white pebble. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger he pointed it at the ghost. A ray of light shot struck the ghost. It moved away, wailing as if in pain.

     Silas pressed at it. The ghost shrunk down into a point of light and disappeared through the ceiling. The room calmed. Silas dropped the pebble and shook out his hand. The stone sizzled as it rolled across the floor.

     “Man, almost had it.”

     Hannah uncovered her ears. “Is it gone?”

     “No.”

     “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the stone. It had come to rest in a crook by the wall.

     “A quantum siphon,” he said, crushing it with a foot. “Also known as a soul stone. It can absorb the psychic energy that makes up a ghost. They’re extremely rare and expensive. And only work once.”

     “Why didn’t it work?”

     “Emotions are like fuel for a ghost,” Silas said. “The stronger the emotions, the greater its bond to our world. Our Italian ghost like a ball of hate.”

     “Now what?”

     Silas groaned as he stretched his neck out. “Try the diplomatic route, I guess.”

     He threw open a window and looked out. Cold air poured in as he climbed onto the fire escape. Looking back, he extended a hand to Hannah.

     “Come on, I’ll explain on the way.”

     Hannah took his hand and mounted the rickety apparatus.

     “If we can figure out this ghost’s unfinished business, perhaps it’ll depart on its own.”

     “Why are we on the fire escape?” she asked, following Silas.

     “Didn’t you see? It went through the ceiling. Angry or not, it’s leading us to something.”

     Passing the other floors, they reached the roof. Silas helped Hannah over the lip, being the one most experienced in scaling buildings. The roof was bare. Tar paper stuck to their shoes as they walked around.

     “Why the roof?” Hannah said.

     “I like to start on the roof,” Silas said. “Get some fresh air, take in the view. Although we’re a bit too low to see anything.”

     Silas ran over to a network of cardboard lean-tos. He pulled them apart, finding only the remains of a shanty town. He rapped on the air conditioning ducts, listening to reverberations.

     “So, where do ghosts go, after you help them out?” Hannah asked.

     “They don’t go anywhere. Ghosts are just pent-up energy. Like static electricity when you walk across a carpet.”

     “Is that all that’s left of us when we die?” Hannah said.

     “You’re missing the point,” he said. “Ghosts aren’t people. Where the real person went, who can say?”

     “Don’t you believe in an afterlife?” she asked. “I’d imagine, you of all people…”

     He shrugged.

     “With everything you’ve claimed to see, you don’t know?”

     “It’s a big universe,” Silas said. “Maybe we go to another dimension after we leave this one. Most people don’t create ghosts when they die. Where does their energy go?”

     Tucked in a far corner of the roof was a utility shed.

     “That’s odd,” he said as he tried the door.

     “Why?”

     “Why would someone put a work shed up on the roof? You’d have to come all the way up here every time you needed your tools.”

     “Ah, I see.”

     “Got a crowbar?” he asked.

     “Of course not,” Hannah said.

     “Then we’re doing this.” Silas threw his shoulder into the door. The wood only buckled. Through a tirade of curses, he slammed into the door until it reluctantly yielded. Silas caressed his shoulder as stepped inside. Immediately, he jumped back out and beckoned for Hannah to come over.

     “I need your help with the trunk,” he said.

     He walked back into the shed and climbed over the box.

     “Looks like one of your trunks,” she said.

     “No this is a Woolworth’s,” Silas said. “Mine are mostly Macy’s. Help me bring it into the light.”

     “You can’t lift it yourself?” she asked.

     “I would, but I think I broke my sternum.”

     “That’s in your chest.”

     “You’re a doctor, now? Just pull.”

     Hannah pulled as Silas pushed with his good arm. The piece of luggage groaned as it slid across the tar paper.

     “My mom used to keep Christmas decorations in a trunk like this,” Hannah said.

     “I doubt that’s what’s in here,” Silas said.

     Once the trunk was clear of the shed, Hannah let it go. Silas studied the clasp.

     “Could use that crowbar,” he said.

     “What crowbar?”

     “A crowbar always comes in handy,” Silas said.

     “Then why didn’t you bring one.”

     He pointed at her. “Touché. How are we going to get this open?”

     “Move.” Hannah pushed Silas back and shoved the heel of her boot into the lock. It broke off with a snap. She smiled at the detective.

     “Could have done that myself,” he said. He grabbed the lid with both hands.

     “Wait,” she said. “I don’t want to see this.”

     “We’ve come all this way,” he said. “You don’t want to see?”

     “It could be awful, right?”

     “Most definitely.”

     “I’m not ready for that.”

     She walked a few paces away. Silas waited until she was safely beside the air ducts, before returning to the trunk. He flipped up the lid, releasing a cloud of dust. Coughing, Silas waved it away and looked inside. Nodding to himself, he straightened up.

     Curiosity gnawed at Hannah. “So?”

     “Now, you want to know?”

     “Just tell me.”

     “You’re gonna have to see for yourself,” he said.

     Hannah marched back to the trunk. She looked inside. Dead bodies look worse than anything in movies and television. They don’t rot evenly; even a bare skeleton might have pieces of dried flesh still clinging to the bone. And there’s hair, the long, scraggly hair that keeps growing for a while. Of course, the smell is beyond description. It was too much for the reporter.

     She took a few uneasy steps away and threw her breakfast up on the tar paper.

     “Are you all right?” Silas asked.

     “Ugg mumm mum.”

     “Maybe you shouldn’t have seen that,” he said.

     She made a few choice hand gestures at him and walked back to the fire escape. “Good idea,” he said after her. “Tell Mei-Ling what we found.”

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The post Black Days, Chapter 7: “It’s Chinatown” appeared first on Tales of Maora.

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“Obstruction of Justice? This is a joke, right?”

     “Do I look like I’m laughing?”

     Detective Amy Lang wasn’t laughing. Her face seemed set in a permanent scowl. She stood across from Silas in the interrogation room. Her silky, black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. With her overcoat and blazer removed, Silas noticed her lean figure in white buttoned shirt and pants. The gun at her hip looked heavy enough to tip her over. He assumed she walked with a limp when no one was looking.

     “You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Black,” she said.

     “Comes with the job,” he said. “But first I’d like to know why I’m being charged with such an absurd crime.”

     “You took evidence from a crime scene.”

     “What evidence?”

     The police detective reached into the valise on her chair and pulled out an evidence bag. Inside was the fetish.

     “How did you get that?” Silas asked.

     “We recovered it from your apartment,” Lang said.

     “You broke into my place?”

     “Of course not, your landlady was happy to let us in,” she said. “She even told us where we would find you.”

     Silas leaned back in his chair. “Sounds about right.”

     “I’d like to know why you thought it appropriate to take key evidence from the scene of a kidnapping.”

     “I’m on the case,” Silas said. “I’ve worked on countless cases for the NYPD. Just look it up.”

     “I did.” She moved the valise and sat down. Taking out a large file, she dropped it onto the table. Lang deliberately opened the file and leafed through the documents inside.

     “In the short time I had getting acquainted with you,” she said, “I’ve discovered a disturbing history of you interfering in NYPD cases. Your file goes back years.”

     “Interfering?” Silas allowed himself a laugh. “I’m a consultant, sister.”

     “What kind of consultant are you?” she asked. “From what I can see, you have no credentials that make you an asset. You’re a private detective.”

     “I’ll enlighten you. I’m an Oxford graduate with degrees in History, Mythology, and Anthropology.”

     “That’s very impressive,” Detective Lang said. “And if the NYPD hired you for that expertise, that’d be fine. But all I’m seeing are vague references to ‘extraordinary circumstances.’ Care to explain?”

     “I investigate paranormal phenomena,” he said. “If an NYPD case smacks of the Otherworld, they call me.”

     “So, how many ghosts have you arrested?”

     “Very funny,” Silas said. “But statistically, ghosts are unlikely to commit crimes.”

     “Why were you given remarkable access to crime scenes, evidence, even witnesses?” Lang asked. “Normal consultants don’t have that kind of privilege.”

     “It’s necessary for my work,” he said. “I need to see everything.”

     “Then there’s the damage to private property,” Lang said. “Multiple disruptions to city services. A blackout. All of which were results of your work with the NYPD.”

     “You’ve failed to mention the seventeen murderers I helped put away,” Silas said. “Or the ten missing persons I found. How about my commendations? I’m not one to toot my own horn, but those should be mentioned.”

     “You still haven’t explained why you took this piece of evidence from Ms. Lisbon’s apartment,” Lang said.

     Silas tried to gesture, but it was difficult to do with the handcuffs.

     “I needed to study it,” Silas said. “There was the possibility that it matched a picture in one of my books, all of which were at my apartment.”

     “You couldn’t have taken a picture?” she said.

     “I also wanted to weigh and measure it.”

     “And did you find a match?” Lang asked.

     He reluctantly answered. “No.”

     “So, you haven’t provided anything of value to this case.”

     “I’ve been on it for a day,” he said. “Give me some time–“

     “I’m afraid your time is up, Mr. Black,” Lang said. “You’re off this case.”

     “You can’t do that. Detective McClelland–“

     “Is no longer taking point,” she said. “I’ve taken over. And I’ve decided we don’t need outside help.”

     “I’m just trying to keep this city safe, detective,” Silas said. “Like you.”

     “Do not compare yourself to me.” The look she gave him could’ve frozen alcohol.

     “Suit yourself,” he said. “There’s plenty of work out there for all of us. If you’d be so kind as to uncuff me, I’ll be on my way.”

     “Do you not understand how this works? You’re not going anywhere.”

     “Detective McClelland handed that evidence over to me willingly,” he said. “It was in his purview to do so.”

     “His superiors do not agree,” Lang said.

     “Be that as it may, I did nothing wrong,” Silas said. “So, unless you want me to call my army of lawyers, I suggest you uncuff me.” He raised his hands. It was a bluff, of course. Silas only knew one lawyer.

     “I think I’ll hold onto you for a little while,” Lang said. A shadow of a smile crossed her face. “That’s in my purview.”

     Hannah was sitting on the most uncomfortable bench on the planet. After just a few hours, her butt was pretty much numb. She tried sitting up, slouching, and crossing her legs. Nothing was an improvement. The fact that she was handcuffed to the armrest only made it worse.

     At one point, she tried to sleep. She was thwarted by the chorus of ringing telephones. The sound mingled with a buzz of conversation, radios, and the constant march of people going in and out the front doors. A busy New York precinct felt like a Russian train platform.

     It had begun to rain soon after they had brought Silas and her in. The storm continued for hours until Hannah lost track of time. She occasionally glanced at the officer guarding the door to the interrogation room. He opened it only once, for the woman who earlier that day announced herself as Detective Lang and arrested them. Even the burly guard looked scared of her.

     Hannah wondered about her predicament. Will this arrest go on her record? Did she even have a record? How will this impact her career? Could she blog about the experience? At least in a police station, she told herself, she’d be safe from whatever had broken into her apartment.

     Thunder boomed against the building. The station lights actually dimmed. In the dark, something plopped down beside her. When the lights returned, she discovered someone else on the bench.

     “Hell of a night.”

     Hannah looked over with the corner of her eye. She wasn’t sure what she saw. A heap of wet newspapers, garbage bags, and clothes were formed in the shape of a man. It took her a minute to realize he was homeless and those were his clothes. A web of gray hair covered most of his face. The stench of sewage wafted from him like waves of heat. He was staring at her, apparently waiting for a response.

     “Is it nighttime already?” she said, unsure if she should be engaging him.

     The man nodded. His head moved around loosely, like a bobblehead toy.

     “Never liked the rain,” he said. “Makes the city bleed like an oil painting. Know what I mean?”

     Hannah was convinced she shouldn’t have engaged him. She nodded noncommittally and looked away. The man settled back on the bench. He seemed to lose interest in her. Hannah started to retreat into her thoughts when she heard him stir. The man’s breathing slowed down. He sniffed the air in a long, deliberate gasp. She had heard that sound before.

     “It’s you.”

     Hannah squeezed herself into her corner of the bench. “No, it’s not.”

     “He’s been looking for you,” the homeless man said. Gurgling filled his throat until the words were almost lost. “He’s been looking!”

     Hannah reached into her shirt and touched the necklace. She looked at the homeless man. His eyes were pools of black. From beneath his clothes appeared a sticky, throbbing hand. Hannah squeezed the talisman. She felt a rush of heat move through her arm. The man’s eyes cleared. He seemed confused as he looked around.

     “Get away from her, prick.”

     A rolled-up magazine smacked the man’s face. He lurched back, eyeing Detective McClelland fearfully. The cop uncuffed Hannah from the bench and motioned for her to get up. She rubbed her wrist as she stood from the bench. McClelland walked back to his desk and she assumed he wanted her to follow. She gave the bench one last glance. The homeless man was snoring contently.

     McClelland nodded to a fellow cop, thumbing back over his shoulder. “Lewis, throw that joker in the drunk tank.” He reached a battered metal box that was his desk and sat down. Kicking over a chair, he looked at Hannah and pointed at it.

     “Sit.”

     She complied. “What’s this all about, Rick? Am I really in trouble?”

     “No, you’re fine,” he said.

     “Then why was I handcuffed to a bench all day?”

     “Sorry, it’s like Dresden around here,” McClelland said. “We kind of forgot about you.”

     “Wonderful. Can I go?”

     “You can, but I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

     Hannah sighed as she rubbed her temples. “Like what?”

     “Oh, I dunno, let’s start with why we found you palling around with Silas Black?” he asked.

     “Is that a crime?” she said.

     “Dammit, Rhodes, just answer the question. Are you still bothering him for a story?”

     Hannah considered telling McClelland the truth. But her faith in the NYPD had diminished over the last few hours. What McClelland had offered sounded like a reasonable lie, so she went with it.

     “I thought a day-in-the-life approach would be better for the piece,” she said. “Get a full picture of what Silas really does.”

     “I’m amazed he let you follow him around,” McClelland said. “How’d you swing that?”

     “I convinced him it was good PR.”

     The police detective watched her for a moment. “Sure, whatever. So, what were you guys doing at the bookstore?”

     “Silas was following up on the case,” she said. “The store owner was, like, an expert on antique stuff.”

     “And what did he have to say?”

     “I have a few questions of my own, Rick, like why the hell you arrested your friend?”

     “I didn’t arrest Silas. Lang did,” he said.

     “You were right there with her.”

     “It wasn’t my decision,” McClelland said. “Lang has some clout with City Hall and forced her way onto the case. She got wind of the fetish and demanded to see it. I had to come clean. She blew the whistle and got me in trouble with my captain.”

     “How bad is it?” Hannah asked.

     “All depends on how this case turns out,” he said. “If Silas’s involvement hurts our chances, then I’m in for it.”

     “Hurt your chances?” she said. “But he’s helped you before, you said it yourself. You were the one who called him.”

     “Lang doesn’t see it that way,” McClelland said. “She thinks his work with the NYPD is suspicious. Was able to convince my superiors likewise.”

     “What’s she got against Silas?” she asked. “Other than his personality?”

     McClelland snorted a laugh. “She’s just made detective and feels she has to prove herself. My bet, she doesn’t want an outsider to show her up.”

     “And I’m guessing she doesn’t buy the paranormal stuff,” Hannah said.

     “Few people do,” he said. “So, as you can see, the faster we put this case to bed the better. Anything you heard at the bookstore can help. I doubt Silas will be very forthcoming after this.”

     “Isn’t he working with you?” she asked.

     “Hannah, we just arrested him for taking evidence. Of course not. Lang dropped him from the case immediately.”

     “Oh. All I can tell you is that we–Silas–thinks the fetish is a burial token. Some kind of religious thing. He was trying to find out specifics.”

     “Burial token? How does that help us?”

     “You’ll have to ask him,” she said. “If he’s willing to talk.”

     The police detective let out a heavy groan. “Peaches.”

     “Tell me something, Rick,” Hannah said, “is he really a big help?”

     “More than I’m willing to admit,” he said.

     “You’ve had cases with ghosts and goblins?”

     “I’ve never seen any goblins,” McClelland said. “But I’ve seen too much in this line of work to doubt anything. I can’t explain it all, but I know that kid’s helped me save lives. That’s all I care about.”

     A buzzing noise came from Hannah’s bag. She rifled through it until she found her phone. McClelland nodded and she got up and walked into an empty, much quieter, breakroom. The caller ID said: NYPD. Confused, she answered it.

     “Hello?”

     “It’s me,” Silas said.

     “Where are you?”

     “I’m still at the station,” he said. “This is my one phone call.”

     “Why are you calling me?” she asked. “I’m still here.”

     “What? Where?”

     “In a breakroom.” She looked through the door into the main office area. Silas, gripping the receiver of a payphone. She waved to him.

     “Crap, I wasted my call.”

     “How did you get my number?” she asked.

     “I rummaged through your phone when you were asleep this morning,” he confessed. “A lot of pictures of sunsets. Too many.”

     “So, there’s no such thing as a code of privacy with detectives?” she said.

     “Of course, not.”

     “What do you need?” she asked.

     “They might be keeping me for a while,” Silas said.

     “Are they pressing charges?” Hannah asked.

     “They got nothing. But they’ll keep me through the night, just to ruffle my feathers. Buzz Mrs. Plonka to get into my apartment. Apparently, she has no trouble doing that.”

     “Are you gonna be okay in here?”

     “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Not the first time I slept in a holding cell. Just hope it has Pay-per-View.”

     “I doubt it.”

     “That was a joke, Groucho. Have you talked to anyone here?”

     “Just McClelland,” she said.

     “Big help he’s been,” Silas said. “Get out of here as soon as you can. These guys aren’t on our side.”

     “We’re still after the same bad guy,” Hannah said.

     “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “This Lang’s got it out for me. She’ll pounce on anything. Watch what you say.”

     Hannah put her phone away and returned to McClelland.

     “Are we done, Rick?” she asked. “I want to get out of here.”

     “Yeah, we’re good.” He looked at her for a long minute before speaking again. “You know you can tell me if anything’s wrong.”

     “What are you talking about?” Hannah said.

     “I know we only have a professional relationship, barely one at that. You kind of annoy me, Rhodes.”

     “Are you getting to the point?” she asked.

     “If you’re ever in trouble, don’t hesitate to come to me,” he said. “I am an officer of the law. I care about helping people.”

     “Why are you telling me this, Rick?”

     “Whatever you’re really doing with Silas, just be careful.”

     All in all, the holding cell could have been better. It was spacious, sure. Silas didn’t have to share it with anyone else. The floor was clean and he had unlimited access to running water. There was even a toilet. But, in the end, it was still jail. The cops were kind enough to let him keep his greatcoat, seeing as how it was in the low Fifties. The pockets, however, had been emptied. Silas laughed, thinking how much paperwork the desk clerk had to fill out for his belongings.

     The door to the holding cells swung open. Silas listened to the rhythm of feet as they clomped down the hall towards him. Doc Martin loafers. Wingtips, if he had to guess. He even knew who was wearing them. Silas wasn’t surprised to see McClelland standing in front of his cell door.

     “Come to bust me out, copper?”

     McClelland shook his head. “No dice.”

     Silas sat up on the slab of metal that served as his bed. Three sides of the cell were solid brick, with the fourth being iron bars. He stared at McClelland.

     “Then why are you here?” he asked. “Come to gloat?”

     “Why would I gloat, Silas?”

     “Oh, I dunno. I always assumed, deep down inside, you wanted to see me in one of these.”

     “I’m not petty,” McClelland said. “I always valued your help.”

     “And yet, here we are. Or, better put, here I am.”

     “Silas, let it go,” he said. “You know as well as I do you’ll be out by morning. Sooner, if you bothered to call a lawyer.”

     “Then I assume you’re fishing for information about the case,” Silas said.

     “Maybe. There anything to fish up?”

     “Sorry to disappoint,” he said, “but I got nothing solid.”

     McClelland sighed. “You’re not saying that because you’re in there?”

     “You think I’d spoil a case out of spite?”

     The police detective stared at Silas, trying to make up his mind. “No, I don’t think so.”

     “At least your brain’s still working.”

     McClelland rapped his knuckles against the bars. He looked up and down the hall.

     “Was there something else, detective?” Silas asked.

     He shrugged. “Just wondering how your caseload’s been lately. Staying busy?”

     “Things have a way of finding me,” Silas said. “I’m sure I’ll find something to do.”

     McClelland nodded. “That’s good to hear. So, you’d probably be busy with other work, once you get out?”

     Silas leaned forward. “I can be. But then again, I can always keep my schedule open. Why are you so concerned?”

     “I’m not,” McClelland said. “I got plenty to worry about, myself. Especially this Emily Lisbon case. In fact, the sooner I can put it away the better.”

     “Uh-huh.”

     “I know I’d feel better, knowing there were other people out there looking for her,” the cop said.

     “Subtle, Rick.”

     “Just… keep your ear to the ground.”

     “It’s in the dirt,” Silas said. “Got anything for me?”

     Reaching into his coat, McClelland pulled out a sheave of paper. “We dug up everything we could on Lisbon. No family in the Tri-State area. Closest relative’s a great aunt in Arizona.”

     “Dead ends, then.”

     “We talked with her coworkers and friends,” McClelland said. “She spent most of the time at the diner; didn’t go out much. Another waitress mentioned she went on a date a week or so ago, but it doesn’t sound promising.”

     “Was she religious?” Silas asked.

     “No, why?”

     “Just wondering if she was involved in any pre-Christian cults,” he said.

     “Not that I’m aware of,” McClelland said.

     “Aside from her social life, there’s nothing of note?”

     The cop shook his head. “She was a regular, working-class gal. About a million of them in the city.”

     “That’s what worries me.” Silas took the papers McClelland stuck through the bars. “I’ll give ’em a once over. Twice, seeing as how it’s all I got to read.”

     He laid back down on the slab.

     “So, what’s the deal with Rhodes?” McClelland asked. “She doing a story on you?”

     “Of course, not,” Silas said. “I don’t photograph well.”

     “Then why is she following you around?”

     “Helping out on the case,” Silas said as he flipped through the report.

     “Out of the goodness of her heart?” the cop asked.

     “Looks that way.”

     “Listen, Black. Rhodes’s a good kid. She can be annoying, but she’s just trying to do the right thing.”

     “How do you know her?” Silas asked.

     “She showed up a few months ago,” McClelland said. “Sniffing around for stories. But I’ll tell ya, Hannah’s tenacious. She’ll go the extra mile for a cause.”

     “Maybe she’s doing it for her ego,” Silas said.

     “Just give Rhodes a break,” McClelland said. “Give her what she needs and let her go.”

     “Let her go?” Silas asked. “What does that mean?”

     “I know you, Black. Few people can handle your world. Hannah might not come out of it unscathed.”

     “She’s a big girl, Rick.”

     “Listen, you and I can handle trouble,” McClelland said. “We’re used to the chaos. She isn’t.”

     “You sound surprisingly paternal,” the detective said.

     The cop shrugged. “I’ve seen too many dead kids.”

     “I’ll file your comments under advisement,” Silas said.

     “Like everything else I tell you.”

     “She’s not the first person I’ve worked with,” Silas said.

     “That’s why I’m so worried.”

     Silas put down the papers. His expression wasn’t friendly.

     “Are we done?” he asked.

     McClelland nodded and slowly left the holding cells. Silas listened to the door close behind him before going back to the report. However, his reading time was cut short as the lights went out. Silas threw down the papers and ran to the cell door.

     “Lights out already?” he said to no one in particular. “What is this, Summer camp?”

     Silas felt his way to the slab and sat down. He contemplated going to bed, but he normally fell asleep sometime after 2 AM. Stretching his legs out, he leaned his head against the wall.  A noise from the next cell drew his attention. At first, he thought it was the usual labored breathing of someone sleeping it off. But the rhythm was aggressive. He could make out the low rumble of a voice. Someone was chanting.

     Quietly, Silas moved to the wall and listened. Whoever it was speaking in a garbled mixture of English, Latin, and a little bit of German. Silas made out words like “eternal,” “master,” and “black fire.” The chanting abruptly stopped. The stranger laughed.

     “You okay in there?” Silas asked.

     He took a sharp intake of breath. It sounded wet with saliva. “Who speaks?”

     “Just another inmate,” Silas said. “What they got you on?”

     “I did nothing wrong,” said the voice. “I only slumber until the coming dawn.”

     “So, what were you chanting?” Silas asked.

     “I speak the words of the ancient land,” he said.

     “Sounded like English to me.”

     “A harvest is blooming in the Black Year,” the stranger said.

     “Oh, the harvest,” Silas said. “Sure.”

     “The harvest comes when the heads are ripe. In the Black Year, all will be found, all will be lost.”

     Silas grew worried. The stranger was making too much sense. “Who told you about this harvest, buddy?”

     He heard the stranger run at the wall. Silas took a step back.

     “Across the void of the Otherworld he speaks. The Weeping Eye will know him. And the Master rides to victory.”

     “Who’s the master?”

     Slowly the stranger receded to the back of his cell. “All that is needed is the vessel.”

     Silas tried to get more out of the man. But there was no response. He moved back to his slab and sat down. He felt strange as if there was a heaviness in the air. The detective tried closing his eyes, but he sensed someone watching him every time. Holding his breath he listened for the stranger. Not even his breathing was audible.             Silas didn’t sleep that night.

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The post Black Days, Chapter 6: “Precinct 451” appeared first on Tales of Maora.

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It was a cramped part of Brooklyn, though that could be said of most of the city. The street was lousy with grocers, restaurants, and ethnic coffee bars. They were crammed together making the most of the limited space. Silas was tapping his foot, staring at the facades. He eyed one in particular. For the fourth time he checked his non-existent watch. Eventually, he looked up at the Sun.

     “It’s ten after seven, Icarus,” Hannah said.

     She sat on the curb, head bowed. Her voice cracked when she spoke. From the pile of Mrs. Plonka’s laundry she had chosen a t-shirt, long skirt, and baggy sweater. In her boots, she looked like a hipster on hard times. She sucked on the extra-large coffee she managed to grab on the way. The only saving grace were the sunglasses Silas had found in one of his boxes.

     “He should be open by now,” he said.

     They both looked up at the awning above the store. “The Lost Gallery,” it said in yellow on black. There was no security gate covering the front window, but it was too dark to see inside. Books were piled high behind the glass, interspersed with the occasional ornament or bronze globe. No puppets. Silas shuddered when he remembered his experience from a day ago. He put it out of his mind.

     “What are we doing here?” Hannah asked. “I thought we were seeing a doctor.”

     “We are seeing a doctor,” Silas said.

     “This is a bookstore,” she said, giving it another glance. “I think.”

     “We’re not going to the bookstore, we’re going through the bookstore,” he said. “And it’s an antique shop.”

     “What does that mean?”

     A light bloomed in the back of the store. Gradually, it grew, as if lanterns were being lit. The door cracked open and bells tinkled. Silas let out a snort of satisfaction. He patted Hannah roughly on the back of the head as he approached the store.

     “You’re late,” he said to someone now outside.

     A small man with dark skin and gray-speckled hair looked up at him. He was wearing a cardigan, scarf, and foggy glasses. A stack of books was under one arm, a large ring of keys in his hand. Pushing the glasses up his nose, he scowled at the detective.

     “A wizard is never late, Mr. Black,” the man said.

     “Oh, you’re a wizard, now?”

     “We can be whatever we want to be. With a little imagination.”

     “Thanks for that, LeVar,” Silas said. “But your sign says you open at seven.”

     “It is seven.”

     “Ten after,” he said.

     The man waved the comment away. Walking over to an empty display table beside the door, he neatly arranged his books. He took a step back and surveyed his storefront, going as far as looking through his fingers, director style. Silas rolled his eyes.

     The old man chuckled. “If I want to open my store ten minutes late, that’s my prerogative.” He looked up and down the empty block. “Not like we’ve got a line.”

     “We’re here,” Silas said.

     “I can see that.” The man’s eyes darted to the woman on the curb. “Is that her?”

     Silas tapped Hannah on the head again. She stood up, leaving her coffee on the ground, and turned to face them. Pushing the sunglasses into her hair, she smiled wearily at the old man. He smiled back, and offered a hand.

     “Hannah, this is Old Luther,” Silas said. “Luther, this is Hannah Rhinds.”

     “Rhodes,” she said.

     “Okay.”

     “Hello my dear,” Luther said. “How does this morning treat you?”

     “I’ve been better,” Hannah said. “I’m sorry, what did he call you?”

     “My real name’s Jabber Wock. Before that it was Autochthon. Before that I don’t remember. He just likes to call me old.”

     “You are old,” Silas said.

     “Don’t I know it,” Luther said. He turned back to the door. “If you will, follow me.”

     The store was a warm, creaking thing. Shelves occupied most of the space, filled with books the likes of which few libraries had ever seen. A narrow aisle went from the front of the store to the back. The floors were bright, polished wood that made a clunking noise as they walked over them. Chairs hid in corners, beside tables stacked with hardbacks. The place smelled like frankincense and old paper.

     Needless to say, Silas loved it.

     Mixed in with the books were antiques. They were gathered from around the world. Tin soldiers mingled with English nutcrackers. Globes of the New World stood beside maps of the Far East. On a wall at the back of the store was a lararium, shipped in from God-knows-where. Silas’s eyes darted around, on the lookout for anything new.

     Hannah was too numb from sleep deprivation to appreciate The Lost Gallery. Her dry eyes registered the old–no doubt valuable–books, but she didn’t show interest. Even the antiques went unnoticed. Later, she would remember thinking how much her dad would have loved the place.

     Luther spoke as he led them to the back of the store. Hannah, who took up the rear, couldn’t hear him. Silas nodded as the old man talked about his latest acquisitions: a replica wooden boat from the eighteenth century, a voodoo charm worn by a pirate king, and a canopic jar that completed a collection.

     “Just let me put some books away and we can get started,” Luther said as they reached a back counter.

     He flipped up the side of the counter and started sorting books. With the agility of a much younger man, he darted across the store, placing volumes onto shelves. Silas leaned against the counter, making a shopping list in his head. Hannah watched the shopkeeper in confusion.

     “When are we going to see this doctor of yours?” she asked.

     “You’re looking at him,” Silas said, nodding in Luther’s direction.

     “Doctor?” Luther said. “Silas, is that what you’re calling me these days?”

     “What else would you call yourself?” Silas said. “Don’t say wizard.”

     Luther scratched his chin. “I suppose, I am. People in need come to me. I offer advice and healing, when I can. Then yes. If you need a doctor, Miss Rhodes, that’s what I am.”

     Hannah nodded uncertainly. “There’s more to being a doctor than that.”

     Luther laughed. He went behind the counter and approached a back door. With a hand on the knob, he knocked three times. He listened, pressing his ear to the wood. There was a soft click. The old man nodded and turned the knob. On the other side was a corridor. Gesturing that they should follow, Luther disappeared into it. Silas took a step. Hannah reached out to stop him.

     “What was that all about?” she asked.

     “He’s a bit theatric,” he said.

     “A bit?”

     “Yeah, you’re lucky you work with such a level-head guy like me.”

     They entered the corridor, Hannah close behind Silas. At its end, a short flight of steps led down to a tunnel-like passage. The ceiling was low, Silas’s head almost touching. They saw Luther, far ahead of them. He had a hustle going. For a second, he paused and looked back.

     “Pick up the pace, folks, or you’ll be left behind!”

     They reached a corner. Silas turned it, reaching out for Hannah’s hand. She readily gave it. They turned another corner, then another. There was a sound like sliding wood planks. Hannah swore she saw the wall ahead of them move. Silas laughed. Finally, they caught up to Luther at a dead end.

     “Ah good,” he said, as they arrived. “Get close now.”

     Silas stood inches away from Luther. He nodded at Hannah and she pressed in too. Luther rapped on the wall, again three times. A panel slid open. Reaching in, the shopkeeper pulled at something. Another click and the wall, along with the floor they were standing on, spun in a circle. With a thoom they found themselves on the other side. Silas smiled at Hannah.

     “Put the candle back, am I right?”

     “What?” she said.

     “Never mind.”

     The air was damp in the new passage. If asked, Silas would have compared the smell to peat bog. Torches hung at regular intervals along the wall. They walked slowly, their feet scraping across the stone floor. Waiting for them at the end was a formidable iron door. Luther paused, patting down his sweater and pants pockets.

     “Now where did I leave it?” he said to himself.

     “Don’t tell me you forgot your key?” Silas said.

     “Hush.”

     “Lemme guess, it’s one of those medieval, skeleton keys?” Hannah said.

     “Oh, don’t be silly.” Luther pulled a plastic card from a shirt pocket. “It’s all digital, my love.” He waved the card over the door. There was a musical ding and it opened. Luther stepped inside the elevator first, waiting for the others to join him.

     “Where does this go?” Hannah asked as she entered.

     Luther pointed up. “Observation room. Otherwise known as my study.”

     He pulled a lever and the door closed. With a lurch, they began to rise.

     “But your bookstore’s only a story tall,” Hannah said. “It can’t have an observation room.”

     Silas turned to her. “Like I said, we went through the bookstore.”

     Hannah grumbled and rubbed the side of her head. “It’s too early for this.”

     After a few minutes the elevator came to a bumpy stop. Luther pulled the lever again and the door slid back. They entered a circular room with a domed ceiling. Windows comprised most of the walls, through which they saw a creamy yellow sky. The middle of the room dipped down and had several seating options, mostly cushions. At the far end was a cherry wood desk.

     “Make yourselves comfortable,” Luther said as he went to his desk.

     Hannah took one step off the elevator. She didn’t move. Silas patted her on the arm and pointed to a couch. She still didn’t move. With a sigh, he took her by the arm and led her to a seat. Her eyes connected with his.

     “Where are we?” she asked.

     “A bit hard to explain,” he said. “Maybe Luther can enlighten you.” He looked over at the old man, but he was busy rummaging through drawers.

     “Maybe not,” Silas said. “Let’s say we traveled a very long way in a short amount of time.”

     “More magic?” Hannah said.

     “No, just physics.”

     Before she could press him for a better explanation, Luther walked over. On a table beside the couch, he rolled out a long piece of blank parchment. Pulling over a stool, he sat across from Hannah. On his head was one of those old-fashion head mirrors.

     “What’s that?” Hannah asked.

     “You wanted a doctor,” he said.

     She smiled. “They don’t wear those anymore.”

     “Oh, yeah?” Luther put a hand on the device. “I still like it. So, what seems to be the problem?”

     Hannah looked at Silas for help.

     “Hannah has become entangled in one of my cases,” he said. “A kidnapping. We found a fetish at the crime scene. She touched it. Now she’s hearing and seeing things, and someone broke into her apartment.”

     “Mmm,” Luther said. “Kidnapper’s using a fetish? That’s new. What did it look like?”

     Silas described the doll to the antique bookseller.

     “Sound like anything you’ve seen before?” he asked Luther.

     “I’ve seen a lot of things. Did you bring it?”

     “Left it in a box at my apartment,” Silas said.

     “Why did you do that?” Luther said. “I could have examined it.”

     “I would have never seen it again,” the detective said. “You’d add it to your collection.”

     Luther winked at Hannah. “Probably.”

     “It’s obvious the kidnapper’s interacting with her in some way,” Silas said. “But you know more about psychic phenomena than I do, so let’s hear it.”

     The old man leaned in and looked at Hannah. He adjusted his head mirror so that sunlight bounced onto her face. She squinted.

     “Give me your hands.” Luther laid his hands, palms up, on his knees. Hannah reached out. Quickly he took her hands, pressing a thumb into each palm.

     “Keep your eyes open,” he said. “Sit up as straight as you can.”

     Silas watched as Luther examined Hannah. She looked very uncomfortable. It made him smile. As Luther continued, Silas walked over to the windows. Mist snaked by, blocking his view of the sun. It passed and he was treated to a view of snow-capped mountains. They encircled the observation deck, a ring of stone and ice.

     A cry of pain brought him back to the room. Hannah was leaning away from Luther. She was holding one of her hands, scowling.

     “What happened?” Silas asked.

     “He stabbed my hand,” Hannah said.

     “Just checking your reflexes, dear,” Luther said.

     Silas walked back to the couch. “It’s okay. Everything Luther does is for a reason.”

     “I think I’m bleeding,” Hannah said.

     “Lemme see,” Silas said.

     Tentatively, she opened her hand. There was no mark or blood.

     “I don’t understand,” she said. “I felt something.”

     “Of course, you did,” Luther said. “But it wasn’t physical pain.”

     He slid back and let out a sigh.

     “So, doc, what’s the verdict?” Silas asked.

     “There’s a bond,” Luther said.

     “A bond?” the detective said. “You mean a telepathic link? I didn’t think it was that bad.”

     “Wait,” Hannah said. “Bad? What are you talking about?”

     Luther nodded. “There’s a bond, between your mind and the mind of this kidnapper.”

     “It explains the voices,” Silas said. “And how he found your apartment. That’s amazing.”

     “Uh, no,” she said. “That’s not amazing. That’s terrifying. I don’t understand.”

     Luther raised a finger. “Allow me to illustrate.” Turning to the parchment on the table, he spread his hands over it. He did this for several minutes, each time pressing harder on the paper. Finally, he picked it up, shaking it out like an old Polaroid, holding it to the light.

     “Come close and you’ll see.”

     Silas and Hannah squeezed next to Luther, looking at the parchment. Slowly an image appeared. It was a silhouette of a head and shoulders, presumably Hannah’s. Around it floated dark splotches, like ink stains.

     “You see those?” Luther said.

     “Yup,” Silas said.

     “Those are stains on Hannah’s aura.”

     “Aura?” Hannah said.

     “Another word for your psychic field,” Luther said.

     She looked at Silas. “Can you translate?”

     “Everybody’s thoughts generate a field of energy around them,” he said.

     “A psychic bond between two or more minds allows their fields to intersect,” Luther said. “It enables the transmission of thoughts from one mind to another, which explains what you’ve been experiencing.”

     “And how this guy could find me at my place,” Hannah said.

     “Exactly,” Luther said. “Bonds are extraordinarily hard to form. Auras are very difficult to penetrate.”

     Hannah looked at Silas. “Think of an aura like a suit of armor over your mind. It’s meant to prevent this kind of thing.”

     “Unless you touch a wooden doll,” she said.

     Silas shrugged.

     “So, what do the spots mean?” Hannah asked.

     The old man looked grave. “That’s damage. The bond is hurting your aura, punching holes in it. It’s not severe, for now. But given time, it will get worse.”

     “What can you tell me about the link?” Silas asked.

     “There’s a definite downstream,” Luther said. “The person on the other end can send images, sensations, sounds.”

     “Can he read my thoughts?” Hannah asked.

     “He can sense you,” Luther said. “But I don’t know how much he can see or hear. If the link grows stronger, though, there’s no telling what kind of access he’ll have.”

     “Any clues to who this perp is?” Silas asked.

     “I’m not in the sleuthing business,” Luther said. “That’s your job. But I will tell you, a bond of this strength couldn’t have been made by an ordinary person.”

     “That much I worked out on my own,” the detective said.

     “My concern is with the long-term effects,” the shopkeeper said. “Few minds can handle prolonged exposure to psychic energy, much less a bond. Hannah’s mind will deteriorate for sure.”

     “Then how do I get rid of it?” Hannah asked.

     “Unplug the link from the other end,” Luther said. “That’s the only sure way. But in the meantime, I have something that should help.”

     Luther walked back to his desk. With a wave of his hand, the wall opened, revealing a myriad of card-sized drawers. Meticulously, he checked them. Silas watched with rapt attention. Quietly, he took a step toward the wall. The old man pointed at him without turning around.

     “Not another step, Mr. Black.”

     The wall slid back and Luther returned with something cupped in his hands. He sat down on the stool and motioned for Hannah to extend a hand. She did and something silky and cold slipped into her fingers. Holding it up, she discovered a silver chain with a cross.

     “A necklace?” she said.

     “A talisman,” Luther said. “Not a permanent fix, but as long as you wear it, the bond should be weakened enough to give you some peace.”

     “How does it do that?” Hannah asked. She eyed the simple cross dangling from the chain. “Just looks like a necklace.”

     “Silver is a pure metal, promotes unity and balance,” he said. “The Symbol of the Cross repels malevolent energy. Finally, it’s been blessed.”

     “Blessed? By a priest?”

     “Father Mallory,” Luther said. “A good man I once met on the Emerald Isle. Gave this to me, oh, a long time ago.”

     “Blessings and prayers emit their own kind of energy,” Silas said.

     “Just put it on dear,” Luther said. “You’ll feel better.”

     Hannah tapped the little cross and watched it twirl. Sunlight glinted off the metal, like fire encased in solid form. She slipped it easily over her head and tucked it under her t-shirt. Her skin tingled against it.

     “I don’t feel any better,” she said.

     “You will,” Luther said.

     She glanced at Silas. He was staring at the bit of chain visible around her neck.

     “Just how effective is this talisman of yours, doc?” he asked Luther.

     “Hopefully she won’t have any more visions or sensations. And the kidnapper will have a harder time finding her.”

     “It’s just…” He stepped closer to Luther, as if wanting only him to hear. “I was hoping to study the effects of the telepathic link.”

     The shopkeeper’s face creased with concern. “What do you mean?”

     Silas shrugged. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “You know, see how it works. Maybe I can turn it against the bad guy.”

     “I don’t think that’s wise, Silas.” Luther stood up, shaking his head. “You can cause irrevocable damage to her.”

     “Yeah, I agree,” Hannah said.

     “I don’t wanna crack her head open,” Silas said. “Just learn as much as I can. You know as well as I do how hard it is to study the paranormal. It’s not like any other science.”

     “It’s not science at all,” the old man said.

     “Regardless, I may never have a chance to observe this sort of thing again,” Silas said. “Just think what I can do with the knowledge.”

     “Magical forces are not to be trifled with, son,” Luther said. He tapped the image of Hannah’s blotchy aura. “Stick with what you know. You’ll catch this kidnapper. You’re a good detective.”

     “Could always be better.”

     Luther escorted them from the observation deck back to his store. They left as the first customer of the day walked in. Outside, the street had grown busy with foot traffic. Silas stepped clear of pedestrians as he bundled up his coat.

     “So damn stuffy in that place,” he said, wrangling his scarf. “Luther refuses to pump in fresh air, claims it might damage the books. He’s probably right.”

     Hannah pulled her sweater tight, to cover her chest and neck. She looked back at the store.

     “So, where were we, really?” she asked Silas. “You said it had something to do with physics.”

     “Do you know what warping is?” he asked.

     “No,” she said.

     “Let’s say we traveled to another dimension.” He started down the street.

     Hannah caught his arm. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that and not explain it.”

     “I don’t fully get it myself,” he said. “Luther keeps it a trade secret. One day I’ll have him explain it to the both of us.”

     “But it’s not magic?” she said.

     “No.”

     “Sounds like magic to me.”

     “Not everything about this job can be written off as magic,” Silas said. “Strictly speaking, ‘magic’ is the bad stuff. The stuff that hurts people. I refuse to use it.”

     “Really?” Hannah said. “Why not?”

     “You know all that hell you’re going through?” Silas said. “Magic.”

     “How about the necklace?” Hannah asked. “Is that magic?”

     Silas sighed. “Not everything can be easily labeled, Rhodes.”

     “Sorry, I’m trying to sort this out,” she said. “Do you think it’ll work?”

     “Luther wouldn’t have given it to you if it didn’t,” he said.

     “I guess this sort of messes up your plan to use me like a guinea pig, huh?” she said.

     “Don’t you worry about that.” There was that smirk again. “For now, we spend time doing good old fashion detective work.”

     “Where do we start?” Hannah asked.

     “The fetish, of course,” Silas said. “That’s our best clue.”

     “That’s our only clue.”

     “Yep.”

     “Maybe find out the connection between the kidnapper and burial tokens,” Hannah said.

     “That’s good,” Silas said. “But we may not find that out until we discover his identity. There’s another question, though, you’re not asking.”

     “What?”

     “Come on Spock, use logic,” he said.

     “Who?”

     “Oh, my God.” Silas rubbed his brow. “Think. Our kidnapper used the fetish to mark his victims. We know this because we found it at the last victim’s house. So…”

     Hannah shrugged. “I’m still waking up, dude. I need more coffee.”

     “How did a girl like Emily Lisbon get her hands on the fetish in the first place?” he said.

     “Could have been left on her doorstep,” Hannah said.

     “And she stuck it in her purse?” Silas said. “I think she bought it.”

     “She did collect a lot of kitschy crap,” she said.

     “And where,” he said, “in the City of Angels–“

     “That’s LA.”

     “–can you buy weird stuff?” he said.

     “Anywhere,” Hannah said.

     “Weird stuff like a magical fetish?”

     It took a minute, but the realization dawned on Hannah’s face. “You mean–“

     She was interrupted by the squawk of a police siren. A squad car pulled a wild U-turn and blocked their path at the crosswalk. Two more pulled up behind it. Silas and Hannah watched in curiosity as four uniformed cops got out and surrounded them. Doors slammed on an unmarked sedan as a familiar face broke through the circle.

     “McClelland?” Silas said as the police detective approached. “What’s going on? Got an APB on some donuts?”

     McClelland didn’t crack a smile. “I’m real sorry about this, kid.”

     “What are you talking about.”

     From behind McClelland appeared a woman in a dark suit and sunglasses. She was shorter than the other cop, severely thin, and taut as a bowstring. Her coat was open, revealing an NYPD badge around her neck.

     “Silas Black?” she said.

     “That’s what they call me,” he said.

     “I’m Detective Amy Lang. You’re under arrest.”

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The post Black Days, Chapter 5: “Old Man Luther” appeared first on Tales of Maora.

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“Well, well, well. Look who came crawling back?” Silas said.

     “What are you talking about?” Hannah asked.

     “Oh, I guess that doesn’t fit this situation. What are you doing here?”

     He about-faced and walked back into his apartment. Hannah stood in the doorway, waiting for an invitation. It never came. She stepped inside. His entryway was filled with cardboard boxes, stacked to the ceiling. Weaving between them, she entered something that was once a kitchen. Books were on every available surface. The only sign that food was prepared in it were the filthy dishes in the sink.

     There was something the size and shape of a fridge but covered in tapestries. Silas pulled back the cloths and opened it. He came back with two bottles of orange soda. He popped open one and took a swig. The bottle fizzed as he pulled it away from his lips. He looked at the woman thoughtfully, slushing the liquid in his mouth. Finally, he swallowed and nodded.

     “We can talk in the living room.”

     Between stacks of newspapers and a Narnia-like wardrobe was a space leading to the next room. Silas slipped through with ease. It took longer for Hannah. The room on the other side was claustrophobic. There was a couch and armchair, a long fire bench between them. Against the wall was a hutch with glass doors. Shelves took up every free space, packed to their limits with books. Hidden behind the couch was a treasure chest worthy of Blackbeard.

     Hannah heard the ticking of a grandfather clock, but couldn’t see one.

     Silas sat down in the armchair and stuck his feet under the fire bench. He stuck his bottle in a dent in the chair and picked up a carton of noodles. Doing a poor job of twirling some on a fork, he stuffed the wad into his mouth. He looked at Hannah.

     “Sit down, you’re making me nervous.”

     Hannah sat on the edge of the couch. She compressed her body as small as it could be. Her knees were glued together, hands in her lap. She looked over the room, not quite convinced she was there. Her eyes met Silas. He took a drink to clear his mouth.

     “You touched the fetish.”

     Hannah opened her mouth, then closed it. She opened it again. “How do you know?”

     “After we came back with the gloves you were different,” he said. “Uncomfortable. When I picked up the fetish you had a look of shock on your face, as if you were expecting something to happen. You stopped asking me questions. Didn’t ask McClelland for a statement. Finally, You got out of there as fast as you could.”

     “Didn’t think you noticed all that,” she said.

     “I’m a detective, Cheech,” Silas said. “Now tell me what happened.”

     Hannah took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The story came slowly, as if she was forcing herself to relive it. She started with the moment she touched the fetish, working her way to her home invasion. Silas opened his ledger to an empty page and scribbled notes. Once or twice he stopped her, asking about a specific detail.

     “The thing–the person,” Hannah said, “in my house got distracted. I think my neighbor was yelling. That’s when I climbed out the window.”

     “Fire escape?” he asked.

     She nodded.

     “Good thing your window wasn’t painted shut. You came straight here?”

     She nodded again.

     “How did you find me?”

     Hannah waved her phone at him. “Got your address off your website. You know you really shouldn’t do that; anyone could just drop in.”

     “Apparently. Have you called the police?” he asked.

     She shook her head. “Should I call them?”

     “You should report the home invasion,” Silas said. “Beyond that, they don’t have much of a bead on this case.”

     “Case? You think this is connected to Emily Lisbon?” she asked.

     “I thought that was obvious,” he said. “Or do you normally hallucinate and get attacked by dripping weirdos?”

     “So, the person in my apartment…”

     “Yes, it was the kidnapper,” Silas said. “Too bad you didn’t take a picture. Just kidding, you did the right thing getting out of there.”

     “What about the stuff in my head? The voices. Does that make any sense to you?”

     “I’m forming a hypothesis,” the detective said. “You know, this is actually pretty exciting. I never get to study a case as it’s happening. Normally, I show up after the crime’s been done.”

     “What are you talking about?” she asked.

     “Let me start at the beginning,” he said.

     “Please.”

     “The fetish was a trap.”

     “A trap?” she said.

     “Don’t interrupt. When you touched it, you sprung the trap.”

     “I don’t get it,” she said. “How does touching a doll spring a trap.”

     Silas shrugged. “It was magic. I said at the crime scene fetishes possess magical power. This one, apparently, casts a spell on a potential victim who touches it.”

     “Spell? What kind of spell?”

     “A trap spell. It marked you, so the kidnapper could track you down,” Silas said. “Must be a psychic link. It honed in on your thoughts. The same thing must’ve happened to Emily and the other women.”

     “What about the voices?” Hannah asked. “It felt like I was going crazy.”

     “Black magic does that to a person,” Silas said. “The spell was meant to disorient you long enough for this–thing–to find you.”

     “You expect me to believe five women were kidnapped because they touched a magic doll?”

     Silas looked at her matter-of-factly. “Yes.”

     “I’m too tired for this.”

     “Hey, I’m not the one hearing voices,” he said.

     “There has to be a logical explanation,” Hannah said.

     “Such as?”

     “Maybe the doll’s coated with drugs,” she said. “It seeped into my skin. But not yours, because you were wearing gloves.”

     “I’ve already examined its surface,” Silas said. “No drugs.  And that doesn’t explain how the kidnapper could track you down in a city of 8 million.”

     “We don’t know that was Emily’s kidnapper,” she said. “New York’s a dangerous place.”

     Silas folded his arms. “That’s one hell of a coincidence.”

     “I refuse to believe this was magic,” Hannah said.

     “Yet here you are.”

     “If magic’s real, why don’t we see it all the time?” she said. “Why isn’t everybody flying around on broomsticks?”

     “Ever try to ride a broomstick?” Silas said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

     “Come on.”

     “Want the truth?” he said, sitting up. “Magic gets its power through secrecy. The fewer people who know about it, the stronger it is. It’s called the occult not the, ‘Hey everybody look at this.'”

     It was clear from Hannah’s expression she wasn’t convinced.

     “You don’t have to believe me,” Silas said. “But your problem isn’t going away on its own.”

     “All right, if you’re the expert,” she said, “tell me how to fix this.”

     “It’s not like you can take a pill,” he said. “That I know of. I have to investigate this. Discover who’s behind these kidnappings. Then our buddies in blue can put him away.”

     “Okay,” Hannah said. “Get to it.”

     Silas smiled. “But, of course, I don’t work for you.”

     “What?”

     “You have to go about this like any other client,” he said.

     “What do you mean?” she asked.

     “Hire me.”

     “But you’re already on the case,” Hannah said. “For the cops.”

     He slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about my other clients. Strict code of confidence. If I’m going to do anything to help you, it’s an entirely separate matter. Good news is my rates are reasonable.”

     “I’m broke,” she said.

     “Oh? I thought you were a big-shot journalist,” Silas said.

     “Freelancer. Business is slow.”

     “You were pretty confident when you were needling me for info,” he said. “I’m sure your story would have made me look fantastic.”

     “You’re really going to leave me in the lurch because I ruffled your feathers?”

     “I’m not a monster, kid,” Silas said. “Maybe we can come to an arrangement.”

     Hannah narrowed her eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

     Standing from his chair, Silas paced in the small, uncluttered spot in the room. He looked at Hannah, an enthusiastic gleam in his eye. She got the feeling he was appraising her. She didn’t like it.

     “Your situation is very unique,” he said.

     “No kidding.”

     “What I mean is, you’re in the middle of a paranormal event,” Silas said. “It’s happening to you as we speak.”

     “Okay.”

     “We have an opportunity–or more accurately–I have an opportunity to study the phenomena as it’s happening. Not only will we catch the kidnapper, but I will be able to learn things that might take me years otherwise.”

     “I’d just be a test subject for you?” Hannah said.

     “Not the words I’d use, but sure,” he said. “I just want to observe what you’re going through. Find out exactly how the kidnapper is doing this. But it means you need to work with me.”

     “Work with you?” she said.

     “You’ll have to accompany me, listen to what I say, and follow my instructions implicitly.”

     “That sounds awful,” Hannah said.

     “It won’t be so bad,” he said. “You get what you need–not getting kidnapped–and I get help on the case. It’s a win-win.”

     “Sounds like you’re getting more out of this than I am.”

     He slumped back into his chair. “Otherwise, I charge six hundred dollars for the first two days. Then it’s fifty an hour, plus expenses. And there are always expenses.”

     Hannah let out an exhausted groan. She had a way of rolling her eyes that irritated Silas. Somewhere in a deep part of his psyche, a place he only occasionally visited, he questioned making the offer.

     “Fine,” Hannah said. “I’ll be your guinea pig.”

     “Let’s just call you my assistant,” he said. “Hell, if it works out, you might be looking at a new career.”

     He smiled at the woman. It was a smirk. She instantly hated it.

     “You’re doing this just to torture me,” Hannah said.

     “Don’t be so cynical,” Silas said. “I’m a man of the people. I live to help others. Now there’s a broom somewhere. You can start in the kitchen.”

     “Ha, ha.”

     “Worth a shot,” he said.

     “So, what do we do now?” Hannah asked.

     “Now, we relax.” With a foot, he slid the unopened bottle of orange drink towards her. “It’s from Mexico.”

     Hannah took the bottle but didn’t pop the top. “You don’t want to hook me up to electrodes or something?”

     “Sorry, I sold my electrodes to Doctor Frankenstein,” he said. “It’s late, we can pick up the case tomorrow. I’m guessing you haven’t eaten in a while.”

     “Uh no,” she said.

     “Yeah, you look terrible.” He stood up and sidled his way into the kitchen. “I have more noodles in the fridge.”

     Leaning back on the couch, Hannah tried to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy. Opening the bottle, she took a sip of the orange stuff. Setting it on the table, she turned to her phone. She scanned her list of contacts mindlessly, landing on Liz’s number. Silas reappeared, another Styrofoam container in his hands.

     “They’re cold, but noodles are better that way, right? Or was that pizza? What are you doing?”

     Hannah held the phone up to her ear. “I’m calling my friend. Crap, she’s probably asleep.”

     “Did you tell her what happened?” Silas asked.

     “No. I don’t even know where to begin,” she said.

     “You might want to hold off on that,” Silas said. “A case like this requires discretion. If she’s anything like you, she won’t believe it, anyway.”

     “I need to tell her something. I’ll have to crash at her place tonight.”

     Silas shook his head, his mouth full of food. “You can’t stay with her.”

     “Why not?”

     “The kidnapper found you at your apartment,” he said. “It’ll be no different at your friend’s.”

     “Why do you think that?”

     “He marked you,” Silas said. “He can track you wherever you go. That kind of black magic can only be blocked out in a place that neutralizes it.”

     “Oh sure, one of those places,” she said.

     “A church is a good spot,” he said. “But only a very old one. And only if it has a relic. You’d have to go to Europe. Only place I know for sure is this apartment.”

     “You want me to stay here? With you?”

     “It’s safe,” Silas said, waving his fork around at the room. “I’ve set it up like a paranormal black site. Arcane frequencies just bounce off it. Psychic interference.”

     “Do you have a spare room or something?” she asked.

     “No, the couch will do.”

     Hannah sighed as she rubbed a hand over a couch cushion. “This is my life.”

     “Look on the bright side,” Silas said, “it can only get better from here.”

     She doubted that. Leaning a little farther back in her seat, she picked up the container of Pad Thai.

     “What happened to the doll?” she asked.

     “Fetish. It’s in the trunk behind the couch.”

     Hannah sat up unconsciously. “Aren’t you worried about it being here?”

     “It was moving around before,” he said. “But that box’s iron. It ain’t getting out.”

     “Hang on, it was moving?”

     “I was hoping you wouldn’t land on that,” Silas said. “Nothing to panic about. Lesson number one: a common inhibitor to magical forces is cold iron. Demons, witches, your low-level earthen spirits, they’re weakened by it. Opinions differ on why. Box is lined with it, so the fetish isn’t going anywhere.”

     “Okay.” Hannah wasn’t entirely convinced. “Are there other kinds of inhibitors?”

     “Loads,” Silas said. “I’m sure I have a book on it somewhere.”

     “You were pretty insistent with McClelland that you needed to study it here. Have you learned anything yet?”

     Silas fished up his ledger from the floor. Pushing what was left of his meal aside, he opened it to his notes on the fetish. Hannah leaned forward. She was forced to squint as she tried to read the man’s handwriting.

     “I took basic measurements,” he said, running a finger over some scribbled numbers. “The only thing I haven’t determined is what’s inside of it.”

     “Why not crack it open?” she said. “I’d be happy to help.”

     Silas shook his head. “Stuff is tough. Probably reinforced by magic. It would do us no good, could even backfire.”

     “Did you learn anything useful?” she asked.

     Silas glanced up at her for a moment, noticing the intent look on her face.

     “I have a working theory about its origin.”

     “Lay it on me,” she said.

     “The fetish puts me in mind of burial tokens,” Silas said. “They were offerings buried with a dead person, sort of like gifts for the afterlife.”

     “You can take gifts into the afterlife?” Hannah asked.

     “I know, talk about an untapped market,” Silas said.

     She looked at the sketches he had made of the fetish. It somehow looked more gruesome in pencil. “Not much of a gift.”

     “It’s a symbolic gesture. The thought behind it counts.”

     “And what thought goes into giving someone a creepy wooden doll?” she asked.

     “Nothing nice,” Silas said. “A fetish like this represents the soul of the dead person. As if they were offering it as a gift to the god of their choice.”

     “Weird.”

     “Yeah.”

     “Which ‘god’ are we talking about?” Hannah asked. “And what’s his connection to this kidnapper?”

     “There have been over five thousand religions in human history,” Silas said. “All with their respective gods of the dead. I narrowed my search to those that used burial tokens. Still quite a few. I looked at fetishes from Europe, Africa, Asia, and even South America. Nothing matches Emily’s.”

     “You checked online?”

     Silas rolled his eyes. “I have texts that date back to the Middle Ages. Books that universities wish they had. I don’t need to go online.”

     “You don’t have a computer, do you?”

     “I do. It just… doesn’t work.”

     “M-hm.”

     “Listen, when it comes to this line of work, you have to use trusted sources,” he said. “I’m not going to risk my life–or the life of a client–over a podcast.”

     “I get it,” Hannah said. “But why is the kidnapper using a burial token to mark his victims?”

     “He might be acting on behalf of his god,” Silas said. “Or, he could have found it on the street. There’s no way of knowing right now.”

     Silas closed the book and slide it aside. “What we do know is the kidnapper possesses magical power and shouldn’t be taken lightly. The fetish is just one clue. Tomorrow we’ll dig up more.”

     “I’m guessing that involves me,” Hannah said.

     “You got it. We’re going to visit a doctor friend of mine,” he said. “He’ll take a look at you.”

     “I have a doctor,” she said. “My friend Liz works at Presbyterian.”

     “I’m sure she’s wonderful,” Silas said. “But we need someone experienced in paranormal maladies. My guy can tell us exactly what’s going on in your head.”

     “What kind of a doctor does that?” she asked.

     “A very special kind.”

     “When can we see him?” she asked.

     “First thing in the morning.”

     Hannah drummed her fingers against the fire bench. The terror she had been feeling was giving way to mild anxiety. She chewed a piece of food. The Pad Thai wasn’t bad cold. It was terrible. She washed down what would be her last bite with a swig of orange soda.

     “How did you find a doctor like that?” she asked.

     “Just part of the job,” Silas said. “You meet people and keep tabs on them.”

     “How long have you been doing this?”

     Silas seemed annoyed at the question. He crinkled his face as he gazed up at the ceiling. “I wanna say ten years.”

     “And you went to school for it?”

     “No school teaches you how to be an occult detective,” he said. “But I do put my degrees in History, Mythology, and Anthropology to good use. Knowledge of religion and folklore goes a long way in this gig.”

     “You don’t have that many degrees,” she said.

     “It’s practically required coursework at Oxford,” he said.

     “Shut up. You went to Oxford?”

     “Don’t sound so surprised,” Silas said. “It was my father, Henry’s alma mater.”

     “You must have been there for years,” Hannah said.

     “No, the degrees were concurrent,” he said. “I had way more energy in my teens.”

     “Bull. Crap.”

     “Why would I lie?”

     “To impress me,” she said.

     “Why would I want to impress you?” A noodle was stuck to the side of his face. He didn’t notice.

     “I dunno,” she said. “Never hurts to try.”

     Silas shrugged and finished off the last of his dinner.

     “With all those degrees, why the hell become a… whatever you are?” she asked.

     “You never take off the reporter’s hat, do you?”

     “This is what people do, Black. They get to know each other.”

     He scratched his head with the butt of his fork. “Is that what people do? Huh. Well, you know that saying, ‘You don’t choose your career, it chooses you’?”

     “Detective work chose you, then?” she said.

     But that was all he was willing to say. Hannah felt the urge to press for more. She was entrusting her life to this man. The least she could do was find out more about him. But before she could say anything, he was on his feet.

     “Let me help you make up the bed.”

     He disappeared through a door, returning with an armload of blankets. Hannah took them and laid them across the couch. Silas stood in the middle of the room for a moment looking at her.

     “If you hear weird noises during the night,” he said, “don’t worry, it’s just the dog. He sleeps with me.”

     “What dog?”

     He turned to go back to his room.

     “Hey, I’m not sleeping with that thing in here.”

     Hannah pointed to the chest that held the fetish. Silas groaned as he dragged it into his bedroom. Hannah gathered up the remains of their dinner and threw them in the kitchen sink. She returned to a dark living room.

     She stood for a moment, listening to the tick of the grandfather clock. The room was cold, the kind of cold that seeps into the bones. Hannah rubbed her arms, remembering she was wearing old sweats and boots. Slipping out of her shoes, she dropped onto the couch and tried to sleep.

     Springs prodded her back. Hannah rolled onto her stomach, but it didn’t help. Sitting up, she turned on a nearby lamp. She snuck over to Silas’s bedroom door and listened. Something was snoring, but she wasn’t sure if it was man or animal. A nook led to the bathroom. Hannah thankfully made use of it.

     Returning to the living room, she searched Silas’s books. They weren’t remotely organized. She found cookbooks, Medieval texts, and encyclopedias. A thick book with a gold spine caught her eye. It said, Memoirs of Lucan Brown, Maneater. She passed.

     Sticking out from a shelf was a thin book. Hannah slid a finger into the crevasse and freed it. Embossed on the cover were the words: “Veritas E Evidencia.” On the first page, it said, “The Personal Record of Professor Henry Black, Anthropologist. 1963-1965.” The handwriting was a tight, flowing script that filled entire pages. They were entries of the professor’s daily routine. Hannah quickly lost interest. As she put it back, a square piece of paper fell out.

     It was a yellowed Polaroid. A man in a tweed suit stood beside a 1980s station wagon. His curled mustache and bowler hat were old fashion even for the time. Coming up to the man’s waist was a boy. His hair was an 80s mop top and he was dressed in a dirt-stained t-shirt and jeans. He smiled from ear to ear. Hannah wondered if she was looking at Silas and his dad. She noticed the man stood at arm’s length from the boy.

     It was dawn. Silas was already awake and sitting on the steps outside his Brownstone apartment. Only a few souls were out, fading down the street toward the subway. A great brown dog sat at the bottom of the steps, sniffing the air. His breaths curled away like small clouds. Footsteps echoed down the apartment stairs behind them. Silas grabbed a bundle beside him and jumped up.

     “Morning. You look like you could use some breakfast,” he said.

     Hannah was squinting as she stepped outside. There were creases on her face in the shape of a couch cushion. Her hair was wild.

     “Got any?” she asked.

     “No. But I got you some fresh clothes.”

     He held out the bundle.

     “From whom?”

     “Mrs. Plonka, my landlady,” Silas said.

     “I don’t think her clothes will fit.” She had only seen the landlady once, when she arrived the night before, but recalled she was shaped like a pumpkin.

     “They’re not hers, she has like five daughters.”

     Before she could protest, Silas threw the clothes at her. She was showered with itchy sweaters and torn leggings. The smell of cabbage and perfume filled her nostrils. Hannah gagged.

     “See anything you like?” he asked.

     “No.”

     “Too bad.”

Go to: Table of Contents

The post Black Days, Chapter 4 “Cold Pad Thai” appeared first on Tales of Maora.

Story by Adam Casalino

Beleran shifted in his saddle. A biting wind was pulling at the corners of the map in his hands. He would let the wind take it, all the same. He had long passed out of the king’s land. What remained of the road was a rough trail in the dirt. Only gravel and tuffs of dead grass lay beyond. The knight cleared his throat and spat as he looked at the land ahead of him. Dropping down from a cliff, were endless rows of gray hills. At the very end of his vision, he made out a sea of black trees and the faint hint of mountains.

                 “Oi.” He patted his horse. “How does this look to you, Atlas?”

                 The beast snorted and pawed the ground.

                 “I know,” Beleran said, patting the horse’s side. “I’d rather not be here. This land… it’s no friend to us. I cannot see a single dwelling. Not even a dirt hut.”

                 Atlas let out a low neigh. Beleran gave him a nudge and they descended the cliff. Great whisps of fog floated from the beast’s nostrils. Rain began to fall. The icy drops cut at Beleran’s. He pulled his hood tighter as they explored the hills. They reminded him of rising waves of water. He had only been out at sea once and it had been unwelcoming. In that moment, though, Beleran would have preferred it to the wilderness.

                 He cut through the tall grass, making a path toward the forest. Turning a large hill, he stopped short. Something was blocking the crossable space between the hill and a steep wall of earth. Beleran pulled back on Atlas’s reins and considered turning around. In front of them was something that resembled a human. Its form was hidden in a ragged cloak, gray like the world around it. The thing leaned on a tall, knobby staff, and on its head, masking much of its face, was a rusted helmet. Beleran noticed thick, scaly protrusions running down the stranger’s neck. It looked up at the horseman with suspicious, yellow eyes.

                 “What you be?”

                 Beleran straightened up in his saddle. “I am Sir Beleran, of the Shoreland. I travel in the name of King Marcelle, who rules one of the eight realms of Aleus.”

                 “Oh.” The sound was like a grunt. “You are a human, then? What are you doing out here?”

                 “My king has sent me on an urgent errand,” he said. “I am in search of the King Whose Name No Man Knows.”

                 “Ha. You are in trouble,” the creature said. “If you wish to find the secret king, you must travel into yonder woods. Few ever enter them and come out.”

                 “Why, pray tell, is that?”

                 “I thought that was obvious. It is cursed. Within those ancient woods still walk the fay. They were banished from the land, imprisoned, never to see the day again. You won’t find warm welcome.”

                 “Nevertheless, to the woods I must go, else I fail my mission,” Beleran said.

                 “Mayhap I have another solution for the wandering knight? One that would not prove so perilous. I can give it, for a price.”

                 “I am not interested in bargaining with you, wastrel,” he said. “I have tarried too long.”

                 “Is that how you would speak to a wild folk? Proud man. You will find no help here.”

                 “I grow tired of your bile,” Beleran said. “Move aside or I will run you down.”

                 “Aleus does not belong to you. You will not long survive in the wilderness.”

                 Atlas jumped back as the strange creature swung at him. Long appendages swept out from under its cloak. They thrashed the air, menacing man and horse. Beleran drew his sword.

                 “What devilry is this?”

                 The stranger held up its staff with both hands. “I curse you in the name of the ancient power. May the Headless God take you into darkness.”

                 “I will send him to you first.”

                 Beleran’s sword came down on the staff. He broke it, his downward stroke cracking the old helmet in two. The blade continued to slice open the creature. Its body collapsed in two heaps on the ground. A confused mass of writhing vines, covered in inky sap, spilled out. Beleran almost retched. He spat at the abomination. Spurring his horse, he leaped over the remains and left the ravine.

                 He kept his eyes alert as he moved through the hill country. The wind died down. It seemed the land had grown quiet. Beleran did not even hear the sound of birds when they reached the wall of trees. Their trunks were black with mold. Branches intertwined like crooked weeds. Atlas snorted and pawed at the ground. He took a tentative step back.

                 “Woah, Atlas,” Beleran said, gently tugging the reins. “We’ve come too far. This is not the time to shirk back. We must see our mission through, to the end.”

                 The knight had to bend low, his face almost touching the horse’s mane, to pass under the branches. He picked out a path across the forest, although it was difficult. Only traces of daylight came through the canopy of dark, green leaves. Beleran removed a torch from his pack. The fire was dim against the forest. It sputtered as Beleran held it aloft as if he was warding away the darkness.

                 Beleran frequently scanned the corners of his eyes. The ancient forest was chokingly silent. But there was movement, just beyond his sight. Atlas sounded and jumped to the right. Beleran was nearly thrown. He dropped the torch and pulled at his reins. Atlas calmed, only after the knight chided him. Beleran scanned the ground ahead to see what terrified the animal. Reluctantly, a ball of roots was retracting. They had snapped together without warning, like the jaws of a mouth. Only Atlas’s reflexes had spared them both.

                 He led the horse away from the thickest trees, to softer ground. They reached a clearing, the canopy overhead slightly open, revealing more light. The path seemed to split. To his right, the ground rose into a smooth, wide path. It led from the forest, into a meadow bathed in golden sunlight. To the left, the land dropped into a passage so dark, it looked like the mouth of a cave.

                 Beleran felt Atlas move toward the righthand fork.

                 “No, boy. I do not trust that way. It looks fair and welcoming. But we did not expect a welcoming road on this journey. We must take the path that leads deeper into the woods if we are to find the hidden king.”

                 Beleran could feel the horse’s discomfort. But Atlas obeyed as the knight led them to the fork on the left. The path was narrow. Tree limbs crowded on either side, like dead hands clawing at them. All light went out and the air was heavy. Beleran saw nothing but murky darkness. He felt a vapory mist sweeping over his face. Beleran struggled to breathe. A weight, like the world itself, was pressing on him. He gripped his reins. He felt a cry of terror rising up his throat.

                 He almost turned around, when they broke through the tunnel. The gloomy woods were gone. Beleran entered an enormous valley, surrounded on all sides by cliffs of umber stone. Far above them were the forest trees. Their dark leaves now shone like emeralds. Streams of crystal water fell from crevasses all around them, splashing down into channels and flowing out of the valley. Atlas crossed an ancient yet beautiful bridge.

As he crossed beneath an intricately carved arc, Beleran almost lost his breath again.

                 It was a city, but like none he had ever seen. Vaulted spires rose from the ground to form one palatial castle. The walls gleamed with silver and green glass. Through open windows, he saw people moving about. They walked slowly as if they floated over the ground. Beleran followed a road up through the city, until he reached a tall flight of steps. A small crowd had gathered around them. One of them, a woman, approached him. Her skin was white as ivory, with hair the color of wine. She wore a magnificently blue dress that reminded him of the sky. She gestured for him to get off his horse.

                 “Welcome to Val’eon, wanderer. Let me take the reigns of your beast. I promise he will find rest and nourishment.”

                 Her eyes sparkled like gemstones. Beleran noticed her delicately pointed ears.

                 “You were expecting me?” he asked as he dismounted his horse.

                 Another one approached, a man with long, yellow hair and a silver sword at his belt. “Our elder saw your coming from a long way off. He is eager to meet you and know your errand.”

                 Beleran followed the group up the stairs and through proud, crystalline doors. The hall he entered was alive with movement. The blissful strangers were in the middle of a feast. Groups of them were gathered in corners of the hall. Some were dancing. Others were drinking from bowls of a silky-looking liquid. Their attention was stolen by Beleran as he walked past.

The beings watched the knight with eyes that glistened like tiny stars. He passed the center of the room, where a massive bonfire burned green and yellow. On the other side was a large, tiered platform. Chairs were on each tier, each one more elaborate than the last. Men and women dressed in gold and white filled the thrones. They stared at Beleran. Some of their eyes were hard.

                 “Greetings, traveler.” The one at the top of the platform stood and descended. His hair was black as night. He wore a green robe, embroidered with twigs and leaves. Across his brow was a delicate band of gold.

                 “Are you the King Whose Name No Man Knows?” Beleran said.

                 “I am,” he said as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “But for your bravery, you may know it. I am A’atan. But my people know me not as king, but as elder. And what is your name, o’ man who walks among the ancient fay?”

                 “I am Sir Beleran. I serve King Marcelle, of the eight realms of Aleus. I have been sent on a desperate mission seeking your aid.”

                 “He seeks our aid?” A woman stood up from a throne and approached A’atan. “After he trampled our cities, burned our gods, and stole our home?”

                 “I have done none of these things,” Beleran said.

                 “Your people have,” she said.

                 “We tamed a wild and violent land,” the knight said. “My people labored and died to save Aleus. I will not hear slander against us.”

                 “You dare speak back in our court?” she said.

                 “I’ll speak back against lies. I’ve come for help, but I will not grovel.”

                 “Enough,” another elder rose from his throne and stood beside A’atan. “Sister Faleia, you cannot level the sins of all humans on our guest. He has braved our woods to seek aid. We must hear him.”

                 “I agree, Brother Kulen.” A’atan said. “Speak on, sir knight.”

                 Beleran bowed his head, giving him a moment to swallow his anger.

                 “Warships are sail from Krakia. In less than six days, they will cross the Inland Sea, reaching our shores.”

                 “Why should this worry us?” Faleia said.

                 “My country does not have the men to repel the invaders,” Beleran said. “Our soldiers are in the East, defending the border against Uglun. They have been summoned, but will not arrive in time. His Majesty sent me to you, our closest neighbors, in the hope you will help us defeat the barbarians.”

                 “We should help you in war?” Faleia said, her beautiful face crinkling in disgust. “Where was your kind when the fay warred against the Creeping Horde? Where were you when we took our last stand at the Well of Oblivion? Where were the kings of Aleus when the Faceless Gods crushed us and drove us away from the face of the sky?”

                 “I do not know this history, fair lady,” Beleran said. “We were not in this land, so long ago. Humanity is not your enemy, ancient fay. We do not wish you evil.”

                 “Yet you gladly cut down a stranger while you traveled the wilderness?” she said.

                 “That vile creature meant me harm,” Beleran said. “The world is better for its passing.”

                 “Would you do the same to one of us?” Faleia said.

                 “You make me out to be a villain,” Beleran said.

                 “Proud man,” Faleia said. “And foolish. Does it sting you that you cannot defeat this invasion alone? You cannot even protect your homeland. What a pity. Return to your hovel and let the Krakians take you.”

                 “Be still,” A’atan said. “You will not continue this maltreatment at my court.”

                 Kulen spoke. “You know full well, sister, that Beleran did not drive us from Aleus. Nor did any man. It was by our own folly.”

                 “However, are we so lost that we no longer care for this land?” A’atan said.

                 “We are safe in our valley,” Faleia said. “Why risk our people, for their sake?”

                 “The Krakians will not be satisfied with our blood only,” Beleran said. “If they succeed, they will cover every corner of this land. Our kingdoms have not disturbed your valley. The Krakians will not be so kind.”

                 “You speak the truth, young one,” A’atan said. “But our kind has never joined forces with humans. Although long-lived, we too can perish.”

                 “Would it not be a worthy sacrifice to protect the land you love?” Beleran said.

                 “You speak like a true knight,” the elder said. “I would be persuaded to aid you. Alas, there is something that hinders us.”

                 “We will gladly share the spoils,” Beleran said. “You may take as much as you want from the enemy, when they are vanquished.”

                 A’atan nodded. “There is something else. An evil power imprisons us. When the rest of the fay were driven from Aleus, we were allowed to remain in this valley. But we cannot leave it of our own volition. If you can destroy this power, the curse shall be lifted. And the spears of Val’eon will destroy the Krakians.”

                 “Where is this evil?” Beleran asked. “That I may vanquish it?”

                 “It sits atop the Frozen Chair,” Kulen said. “Beyond our wood to the North, on the Ivory Mountains. Through a cleft in the rock wall, you will find it.”

                 “The road will be dangerous,” A’atan said. “We cannot aid your journey beyond what we can give you.”

                 “I will do this if it means your help,” Beleran said.

                 “Do not be so quick to assume you will prevail,” Faleia said.

                 “How far is the Frozen Chair?” he asked.

                 “Not far,” A’atan said. “Less than a day’s journey. Rest now. You can be away by morning and reach it in time. If you succeed, we will make for your kingdom with all haste.”

                 Beleran was invited to feast with A’atan’s people. When night closed in, he was given a room with a warm bed. By morning, he felt as if he had slept for a hundred days. Atlas was waiting for him saddled. Even the beast looked miraculously refreshed. The fay gave him supplies for the journey. A’atan gave Beleran a silver sword. Kulen gave him a shirt of mail. A host escorted Beleran from the city to the edge of the valley.

                 “Follow the path before you,” A’atan said. “It leads into the mountains. Do not stray. Be wary of perils.”

                 Beleran patted Atlas as they climbed out of the valley. The path took them up a sloping series of steps, bordered on either side by cascading water. Soon the eerie light of Val’eon receded. Beleran found himself climbing a narrow cleft between sheer rock walls. Eventually, the land to his right dropped away and he could see the world beyond.

                 Far below him was the dark green sea of the old forest. Somewhere, hidden among the forbidding branches laid the fay city. The rolling hills surrounding it were bleak and gray. Beleran could only imagine what creatures lurched in that wilderness. Just visible on the horizon, was a smear of blue and green. The edge of Marcelian, his home.

                 A frigid wind swept over the mountain path. Beleran urged Atlas upward, drawing a fur cloak from his pack. He wrapped it tight around himself, though not removing the hauberk the fay lord had given him. Oddly, the metal shirt did not grow cold, even as the first flakes began to fall.

                 Soon, Beleran was pushing through drifts of snow. Atlas snorted and strained to keep his footing. The snow grew higher and higher and the horse grunted as he stomped through it. A sound mingled with the whistle of the storm. Beleran tried to study the mountain slopes that rose over his head to the left. Something was moving in the wind.

                 He drew his sword but did not see the enemy. A hard cackle floated over his head. A small, shriveled thing dropped down from the cliff. Beleran wrapped his arms over his face as it crashed into him. Sweeping out his right arm, he batted the creature away. Its cry echoed up at him as it fell down the slopes.

                 “What on earth was that?” Beleran said, looking back up. Atlas stomped the ground in anger.

                 More cackles filled the storm. Beleran stirred up Atlas. The horse tried to gallop through the thick drifts. Another creature jumped at Beleran. He stabbed it with his sword. Impaling the thing, he pulled it close to get a look. A round, ugly face spat at him as the creature died. Beleran shook it off his blade.

                 “A cave imp,” he said. “Blast me, I didn’t know they’d come up so high.”

                 The air was ringing with the irritating laughter. Beleran swung his sword at the imps that jumped from the heights above. There seemed to be no end of them. Atlas screamed as some landed on the road and attacked him. Their sharp claws and teeth dug into the horse’s flesh. Beleran cursed and cut away as many as he could. But more were pouring from cracks in the mountain. The knight shouted to his horse to move, as blood streamed through the air.

                 But there were too many. The beast was wild with fear as the monsters crawled over him. Beleran slashed like a madman, throwing the demons off the side of the mountain with both hands. He pulled at the reins to keep control of the raving horse. Atlas reared up on his hind legs as the ground in front of them was blocked by imps. They crushed man and beast. The tangled horde fell over the side of the mountain, into the darkness below.

                 Beleran did not remember the fall. He awoke, lying on a thick mound of snow. Looking around, he discovered he had fallen to a ledge below the mountain path. The snow was as high as his waist. It must have softened his fall. He checked his arms and legs. They were sore but unbroken. Beleran ran a hand over the mysterious mail shirt. He was convinced it had saved him.

                 He caught his breath when he saw the large, dark stain on the snow several yards away.

                 “Atlas? Atlas!”

                 It was impossible that the horse had survived the fall. But there was no sign of his body. The blood stain was smeared, with a line of red extended away from the ledge toward shadows. Beleran dropped to his knees. Some of those horrible creatures must have survived the fall. Or more might have appeared. They had dragged away the body of his friend. They left Beleran, content with the meat the horse would provide.

                 “They made off with you, Atlas. And for that, I live,” he said.

                 Cast to the side were the saddle bags and other supplies. Beleran salvaged what he could and slung the bags over his shoulders. Sticking out of the snow, like a fallen star, was the silver sword A’atan had given him. Beleran recovered the weapon. It was not cold, despite the freezing temperature. Returning it to his belt he approached the cliff.

                 “I have lost too much time,” he said. “And there is only one way to the Frozen Chair. Heavens above help me.”

                 Beleran began to scale the cliff. The rock was icy and slick, but there were enough crags for him to grasp. His thick, leather gloves protected his hands from the cold, but they made climbing treacherous. His breaths were labored, and his limbs burned. Sweat poured down his back. It was ice cold by the time it reached his legs. Errant howls swept over the mountain, forcing him to stop frequently. The sight of shadows, moving through the clouds, only made him angry.

                 “I will not be stopped again,” he said through gritted teeth. “If the messengers of the sky should try to stop me, I will only sprout wings to fight them.”

                 He did not know whether it was day or night when he reached the top of the cliff. An ever-present glow was on the mountain, and the veil of snow refused to part. Beleran threw himself over the edge of the cliff, landing face-first in the snow. Standing up, he found the wall of the mountain and allowed himself a rest. He soon resumed the path, on foot, to its very end.

                 A door was cut into the side of the mountain. It arched up to a point, like the entrance of a temple tomb. Beleran went inside, grateful to get away from the storm. He crossed into a cavern, glittering with ice. The walls and floor were coated in shining frost. Cold stalactites reached down like frozen fangs. Great mounds of ice dotted the floors. They reminded Beleran of subjects cowering before a king. Only when he got close to one, did he realize they had once been living creatures.

                 The object of their adulations stood at the back of the cave. An opening in the cavern roof let in a trickle of light. It illuminated a chair of blue ice. A series of steps rose from the floor to reach it. Seated on the throne was a corpse. Its skin was as white and translucent. A ring of diamonds crowned its forehead. From the dead face grew a beard, which reached down to its waist.

                 “This is the great Frozen Chair, that holds the fay captive?” Beleran asked. “Where is the evil that haunts this mountain? I have faced pain and death to come here. To bring justice for Val’eon.”

                 No answer came. Beleran climbed the steps and stood before the throne. The corpse did not respond when the knight approached it, but Beleran felt its eyes fall upon him. He drew the silver sword and held it out.

                 “The curse you placed on them imprisons you as well,” Beleran said to the dead king. “Let the prick of this blade end your suffering, as it ends the suffering of the hidden folk.”

                 With one thrust, he plunged the silver sword into the corpse’s chest. It was thick, like ice. Beleran put his weight against the sword. Slowly, it sunk into the dead torso. A blast of heat swept over him. The corpse wailed as it melted like snow in spring. The arms and legs evaporated and the torse faded into milky water. As its head slumped over, the lips turned pink and uttered their final words.

                 “Beware, o’ knight. If you lift the curse. The ancient fay will walk the world again. Care you bear their doom?”

                 An oddly-shaped orb emerged from the melting chest. It clung to the blade as the rest of the corpse vanished, falling to the chair. Beleran picked up the crimson, crystal-like object. It was larger than the palm of his hand and shimmered like fractured ruby. Within it pulsed a warm light.

                 “What must I do with this?” Beleran said aloud.

                 It seemed as if the crystal answered him. A picture formed in his mind. He saw the fay emerging from their valley. He closed his eyes and pressed on the image. Set Val’eon free, he said to the crystal. A rush of heat washed over Beleran. Quickly, he wrapped the orb in a scrap of cloth and hid it in his bag.

He descended the throne to find the mounds of icing melting into puddles. The sound of galloping horses swept over the mountain. Beleran slipped over the rising pool as he reached the exit. Standing on the mountain path was the fay elder and his retinue. A’atan’s face was beaming like the Sun. He was looking up at the sky. The clouds had parted and he took in a deep breath.

                 “Hail, good Beleran. You have lifted the curse and ended our eons of misery. As we have agreed, we make for your realm.”

                 “We must move quickly,” Beleran said. “I fear the Krakians have already landed.”

                 “Never fear, good knight,” Kulen said. “We will make quick work of reaching your homeland. Behold.”

                 The fay stepped aside so Beleran could see the wilderness below and the forest of Val’eon. The trees spread apart as a great host of riders rose out from the valley. Fay warriors rode atop dazzling horses that galloped over land and air. The cavalry flew over the open wilderness and was already reaching the king’s land.

                 “Take up one of our steeds, Sir Beleran,” A’atan said. “Ride with us as we crush our foes.”

                 The mountain exploded beneath Beleran. He rode on a horse that was lightning itself. It raced down the slopes close behind A’atan and his escort. The air was filled with thunder and shouts. Beleran felt a thrill as the ageless horses roared, finally free to fly after ages in confinement.

                 Beleran and the fay lords swept over the wilderness. In a breath, he was back in his own country. He did not need to tell A’atan’s forces where to go. The riders automatically turned South. They rode over villages and sprawling farms. Women and children ducked under wagons or rushed into their houses. Soon the fay host was gone, flying over the next homestead.

                 The land dropped in successive cliffs as they reach the Southern border of Aleus and King Marcelle’s territory. A foaming green bay lapped at rock-strewn shores. A small band of the king’s army gathered on the grass before the beach. Seven tall black ships moored in the shallows. Rowboats had been drugged up onto the land. Krakians encamped along the beach, spreading out from East to West like a cancer. Their ranks were thick as they marched up to meet the Aleusan force.

                 Death was all but guaranteed for the king’s men. But their commander lifted his sword, prepared to give the charge. The battlefield erupted with the shouts of the Val’eon. The flying host crashed against the shore, pouring like churning waters over the Krakians. Beleran was with them, letting his sword sing. The ancient warriors fought like madmen. Their spears skewered two men at a time. They seemed to revel in cutting down the invaders, whose ranks broke and scattered. Before the Sun set, there was no Krakian left alive. A’atan gave the order and fiery bolts sent their ships into the foaming waters.

                 “Never again will such a horde cross into the motherland,” A’atan said.

                 “We have won the day,” Beleran said, almost too amazed to believe it. He swept an arm over the Krakians’ now abandoned camps. “The spoils of our victory. As I promised, you may take what you wish.”

                 The elder looked over the tents that spread out across the shoreline. “Nay.”

                 He nodded at his commander and another volley of bolts set the camps ablaze. The Krakian plunder–supplies, animals, weapons, and all–was incinerated.

                 “I don’t understand,” the knight said. “You wish no reward for your labors?”

                 “The children of the gods have no use for the baubles of vermin,” A’atan said. “We will claim as our reward the land that was taken from us.”

                 “What do you mean?” Beleran asked.

                 The elder raised his spear. His warriors surrounded the king’s army, weapons drawn.

                 “You cannot do this,” Beleran said. “We made an alliance.”

                 “An alliance, with you? Are humans stupid as well as weak?”

                 “You would still be imprisoned if I had not delivered you,” he said.

                 “Fitting payment for robbing us of our home,” A’atan said. “Now free, we will rid it of your infestation.”

                 Beleran watched as his brothers drew close together to ward the attack. A’atan gave the word and they fell on them like lightning. The knight watched as his brothers died at the hands of the creatures he freed. From within his bag, he found the red, beating crystal he received from the Frozen Chair. It was flaring now, like the Sun at midday. Beleran clasped the rock and gave it another command.

                 A howl rose among the fay. They dropped their weapons and fell off their horses. An invisible, untraceable wind seemed to strike the warriors. Their bodies broke apart, swept away by the torrent. A’atan shouted, aiming his spear at Beleran. He never threw it. The elder, his horse, and his weapon turned into dust and were carried away. In seconds, the field of battle was clear of both enemies.

                 Beleran held the orb in his hand. Those soldiers who had survived the betrayal stood around him. Lifting the rock, he smashed it against a boulder. Somewhere, across the wilderness, he thought he heard the crashing of many falling trees. He paid it no mind as he turned and tended the wounded.

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     Hannah was shivering by the time she got home. Six years and she still hadn’t gotten used to the New York cold. Not even the down jacket her father gave her was warm enough. Maybe her blood was too thin. Maybe she still pined for the West Coast and unconsciously refused to adapt. Either case, her fingers were blue and her teeth were chattering as she reached the corner where her apartment stood.

     A door beside an old pharmacy led to her rooms on the second floor. Hannah felt claustrophobic every time she climbed the stairs to get there. Everything about her apartment was small. The doorway was narrow, the ceilings were low, and the bathroom was little more than a closet.

     Looking over her kingdom, Hannah felt a pang of jealousy over Emily Lisbon’s apartment. How did a waitress afford something that size? Hannah lived in two rooms, one inside the other. The alcove that held a stove, mini-fridge, and sink didn’t count. The rest was a bedroom and tiny bath. At least she was still living in it; that’s more she could say for Emily.

     There was noise coming from the apartment above her. The neighbors were of the soccer persuasion. There seemed to be games going on all day, every day. Instinctively, Hannah grabbed a broom by the door and pounded the ceiling. It was used only for this purpose. Never worked. Moaning, she closed her front door and shuffled into her bedroom.

     Dropping her bag onto the bed, she rummaged for her notepad and phone. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Nine forty-five. Riding the train home ate up most of her night. Climbing over her bed, she sat down at the desk crammed into a corner. She flipped through her notes as a laptop booted up.

     Hannah wasn’t a good reporter. She was still new and had yet to develop those instincts that could make her a force to be reckoned with. As a newcomer, she also lacked connections with the people who actually would buy her articles. Also, she bit her nails. But she was convinced that with this story, she would make her mark.

     Looking over her notes, she tried to puzzle out Emily Lisbon’s disappearance. It was a case that everyone would want to read about. A string of missing women, the cops baffled, a bizarre consultant. Maybe she could pitch it to a magazine? These delusions of grandeur filled her head as she tried to hammer out a few pages.

     Hannah looked at her notes, trying to think of adjectives to describe Silas Black. “Absurd” didn’t sound punchy enough. Nothing sounded right in her head. The man was a lunatic, she was convinced. On top of that, she was shocked the NYPD asked for his help. But she couldn’t explain away the fact that he did find the figurine.

     She saw the tiny black eyes staring back at her. Hannah had tried to forget what happened at the apartment. She was stressed, after all. But she saw fetish whenever she closed her eyes. It was no longer a piece of wood. The figurine’s chest rose and fell like it was breathing. It opened its mouth and a long, black tongue lolled out. Hannah tried to focus on the screen. She shook her right hand, ignoring the lingering burning sensation.

     Her phone buzzed. Hannah jumped, recovered, and picked it up.

     “Oh my God, I’ve been dying to talk to you,” said a perky voice. “You will not believe the day I just had. Twenty new patients in the ICU and of course, Dar was nowhere. You remember Dar, right? The idiot who never finishes her paperwork. Anyway, I’m totally beat.”

     “Yeah you sound terrible, Liz,” Hannah said.

     “Forget it, I’m dead.”

     “Sounds more exciting than my day.”

     “What were you up to?” Liz asked. “Land any stories?”

     Hannah’s eyes ran over her notes. “Found something. I dunno. A home invasion in the Bronx. Might be a serial thing. Checked out the crime scene myself.”

     “Wow, that’s exciting,” Liz said.

     “I guess.” Hannah spoke with the enthusiasm of a pallbearer.

     “What’s wrong, can’t make a story out of it?”

     “No, I got to make a story out of it,” Hannah said. “Got bills to pay.”

     “Sounds like there’s a story,” Liz said. “Serial kidnapping, talk about clicks. Who knows, this could get your foot in the door with the Times.”

     “Hmm,” Hannah said, unconvinced.

     “Seriously, Hans, you’ve been busting your ass for years,” Liz said. “You work long nights, run all over the city, take whatever work comes your way. It’s time for your big break.”

     “From your lips to God’s ears,” Hannah said.

     “But get it done ASAP,” Liz said. “Then we need to go out. We both need to let off some steam.”

     “Is that your professional diagnosis?” she asked.

     “Yes. We’ll do something soon. Get the gang together. Cause a ruckus.”

     “Paint the town red,” Hannah said.

     “Get as much done as you can tonight, but sign off early,” Liz said. “Rest, kid.”

     “Okay, mom.”

     “I’m serious. As your physician, I’m ordering you to do something to take the edge off.”

     “Sure thing,” Hannah said. She turned to her computer screen and the document that sat there waiting. “I’ll talk to you later.”

     Hannah tossed the phone onto her bed and returned to the keyboard. There was so much more she wanted to write. But the words didn’t come. Her eyes felt dry and heavy. She got up and closed the laptop. Almost tripping over her chair, she made her way to the bathroom.

     Stripping down to her underwear, she turned on the tub. She found a jar of lavender bath salts under the sink. Convinced they were left by a previous tenant, she poured them in any way. Hannah had no idea how much to use. She emptied the jar. The bathroom was filled with a heady scent. It turned her stomach. She sat on the toilet and waited.

     The water rippled in rhythmic patterns. Hannah stared at it until the foam started to form faces. Large, bubble eyes looked back at her. Mouths like fish puckered, popping as they screamed. The faces crowded together. They frothed and boiled. Hannah could hear them wailing. She turned off the water, the tub only half-full, and stood up.

     The room tilted around her. Hannah grabbed the sink. Slowly, the dizziness passed. Looking up, she studied herself in the mirror. Her hair clung to her shoulders like seaweed. Her skin was pale, too pale. A part of her wished she was back West. She was never this pale, even in October. Walking back to the tub she pulled the stopper.

     Hannah put on some old sweats and sat on the edge of her bed. She grabbed the TV remote from the nightstand. Holding it out, she noticed how much her hand was shaking. She dropped the remote. She rubbed her hands together and blew into them. But they weren’t cold. Hannah went to the kitchen.

     She found the old bottle of Bourbon from her dad. Spilling some into a glass, she took a swig. Most of the liquor made it into her mouth. The glass slipped from her hands as the room began to spin. It was much worse this time. Her stomach flipped. Whatever was in it, Bourbon and all was coming out. She reached the sink in time and slid to the floor when it was over. The voices were back. Far away, but clear. She pressed her hands to her ears.

     Another sound crowded in. At first, she thought it was the blood in her ears. She let go of her head and heard it coming from the short hallway leading to her front door. Someone was banging, violently, relentlessly. A battering ram throttled the old door. She watched it shake with every blow. Struggling to her feet, Hannah took the two steps necessary to reach her bed before falling over.

     Her hand was on her phone when the door burst open. Hannah hid behind her bed, holding her breath. Someone stepped into her apartment with wet, squelching feet. They were breathing slowly, taking long, phlegmy wheezes. Hannah heard them stop at the sink, sucking in the smell of Bourbon and vomit.   

     Noiselessly, Hannah slipped on her boots. Just a few inches away was the fire escape. But she couldn’t reach it without being seen. She froze as she felt a hand tug at her bedspread. From upstairs, a door flung open. One of the neighbors was shouting down to her. The intruder growled and bounded back to the door. Hannah made her move.

     She threw open the window and rushed down the fire escape. As she hit the street, something like a bark echoed above her. She did not look up as she fled into the night, in boots and old pajamas.

     Silas was annoyed. He sat in his favorite chair. The fetish sat across from him. He started by taking thorough measurements of the object. With a ruler and a scale meant for weighing food, he documented its dimensions. Silas wrote everything down in an enormous ledger he had found at a consignment shop. He debated taking a sample of the wood. That was decided for him, as no tool he owned could chip it.

     After several hours of sifting through textbooks, grimoires, and online message boards, he was none the wiser. Silas had resorted to making sketches of the fetish, as a sort of diversion. When he was done with that, he made his way to the kitchen. A Styrofoam container of Pad Thai was sitting out. He had picked it up on his way home and forgot about it immediately. Fishing a fork out of the sink, he opened the box and started eating. He returned to the living room, mouth full of noodles. The fetish was gone.

     “Now, we’re getting somewhere.”

     Silas put down the food. He retrieved a baseball bat from behind the couch. Reaching the window, he pulled back the curtains. The fetish was on the sill, face turned to the glass.

     “Are you trying to get out?” Silas said, tapping the window with the bat. “You don’t have any hands, Kemosabe. Besides, how do you expect to use the fire escape? That’s three stories down. You’d be smashed to bits. Then, you’d be smiling.”

     The fetish, to its credit, did not respond. Silas tossed the bat aside and picked up the figurine. It still felt like a piece of wood with something heavy inside. There were no signs it was about to jump out of his hand.

     “No more funny business, all right? Believe me, that fireplace isn’t for show.”

     He set the fetish back on the fire bench that served as his coffee table. Sitting back down, he resumed staring at the fetish. He threaded his fingers, resting his chin on his knuckles. Soon, he was dozing. A noise roused him. Silas’s eyes went to the fetish. It hadn’t moved. He heard the noise again.

     “Are you doing that?”

     The fetish didn’t respond.

     It came again. Silas finally realized someone was knocking at the door. Rising, he dumped the fetish into an ironbound chest, locking the lid. He worked his way through the kitchen, down the hall, and to the entryway. Unlatching the chain, two deadbolts, and a security bar, he opened the door.

     A short man with a round head was standing in the doorway. He was wearing a black coat, black gloves, with a black bowler hat in his hand. Spectacles sat on the end of his nose, glinting in the light. Tucked under an arm was a jet walking stick with a femur-shaped handle. Silas knew it was a real femur. The man smiled in a placatory way.

     “Sorry for the late call, but I was swamped all day.”

     Silas squinted at him. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

     The smile fell from the man’s lips. “You know damn well who I am, Silas Black.”

     “Abernathy?” Silas said, with a mock grin. “My goodness, how many years?”

     “Fifteen,” Peter Abernathy said. “Are you going to invite me in or not?”

     “You’re not supposed to let vampires into your home,” Silas said.

     “Don’t be cute,” Abernathy said. “I need to speak with you.”

     “Need is a funny word,” Silas said. “It suggests that I’m obligated to help you, just because you say it. The reality is, I’m not.”

     The old man tried to muster up some cordiality. “Come now, son, is that any way to treat your father’s oldest friend?”

     “Yes.” He was already closing the door on him. The walking stick shot out, jamming the door open.

     “I came all this way to see you, Silas. At least give me five minutes.”

     Silas moved back and allowed the man a few steps inside.

     “Just got back from Bora Bora,” Abernathy said as he removed his gloves and rubbed his hands. “It’s wonderful this time of year. Not like this abominable city. October and already forty degrees.”

     Silas crossed his arms as he studied his visitor.

     “You’ve aged, Abe,” he said. “And not well.”

     Abernathy cast him a sour glance. “We all grow old, Silas. Even the best of us.”

     “Is that what you call yourself?”

     Abernathy ignored the comment. “As you know, your father Henry and I were members of a club for collectors of rare, historical artifacts.”

     “The Society of Muninn,” Silas said. “My father founded it. You were just a member.”

     “We founded it together,” Abernathy said. “I’m sure you remember the many wonderful treasures we acquired over the years. Some we gave to the university, some we kept for ourselves. When Henry died, one of those items disappeared.”

     “Why are you telling me this, Abe?”

     “I’m sure you’ve seen it. It was an onyx statuette, about yay big, of the seven-headed beast from the Book of Revelation. A classic symbol of mankind’s penchant for rebellion. We called it the Beast Stone.”

     “Lovely,” Silas said. “What does that have to do with me?”

     “I have spent years searching for it,” the old man said. “The only logical conclusion is that it was passed onto you when Henry died.”

     “Then it belongs to me,” Silas said. “Do you expect me to hand it over?”

     “It never belonged to Henry,” Abernathy said. “It was Society property. I want it back.”

     “The Society disbanded when Henry died,” Silas said. “I don’t have to give you anything.”

     “Silas, I’m not an unreasonable man,” he said. “I’m willing to pay you for it. Just name your price.”

     Silas smiled. Leaning forward, he placed his lips near Abernathy’s ear. “Get out of my apartment.”

     The old man hissed. He glared at Silas. “Don’t be a fool, boy. Why keep something you don’t even need?”

     “And, pray tell, why do you need it?” Silas asked.

     Abernathy was reluctant to answer. “It has great sentimental value.”

     “M-hm. I doubt you want to sell it. You antiquarians could never part with your trinkets. So, what could it be?”

     “Speculate all you want. I’ve told you the truth.”

     “Speculating’s what I do best,” Silas said.

     Abernathy was growing impatient. “If you won’t hand it over willingly, I’ll be forced to use harsher methods.”

     “Oh? Like what?”

     The old man carefully put on his hat. He clapped twice and stepped away from the door. A shadow filled the entryway as a mountain dressed in men’s clothes pushed his way inside. Both Silas and Abe were forced to give him room. He had a box-shaped face that looked like a granite wall. His hands were bigger than Silas’s head. In one of them was a blackjack.

     “This is Gunther,” Abernathy said. “My valet. He’s not one for words, you understand. He likes to take a hands-on approach.”

     Gunther swung one of his mitts, backhanding Silas in the chest. The detective was knocked into the kitchen. Chairs and books were scattered across the floor. Before he could get up, Gunther was on him.

     “You have ten minutes to fetch me the Beast Stone,” Abernathy said. “Or Gunther will tear you, and this apartment, to shreds.”

     “I have cop friends, Abe,” Silas said.

     “I have more,” the old man said.

     A hand reached down and engulfed the front of Silas’s shirt. He was lifted off his feet, his head hitting the ceiling.

     “What is it going to be?” Abe asked.

     “I don’t have the stone, you old fruit,” Silas said. “I’ve never even seen it.”

     Abernathy walked over and looked into Silas’s face. “You’re lying.”

     “I can show you the will if you like.”

     The old man’s face twisted like a shrunken apple. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

     “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Silas said. “Now tell Lennie to let me go.”

     Abernathy turned on a heel and marched to the front door.

     “Come, Gunther.”

     The valet let go of Silas. He squeezed himself through the front door, closing it gingerly. Silas was sprawled across his kitchen table. There was definitely a fork stuck in him. Eventually, he got back up, dusted dirt and crumbs from his clothes, and returned to his living room. He was almost to his favorite chair when there came another knock. The detective groaned as he went back into the hallway.

     “What, did you forget your walking stick?”

     He opened the door. It was Hannah. She was dressed in wrinkled sweats and boots, her hair clinging to her skin.

     “I need your help.”

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