by Martha Wells
That was interesting as hell. I placed it on the landing next to him. Then I pocketed the .32, checked to make sure the goon was still breathing, and crept up the final flight of stairs.
The fire door was not locked. Useful. I opened it an inch and peered outside. There was a long, carpeted hallway, soft indirect lighting, some framed art. No people. No alarms, either. I left the stairwell and moved quickly and silently along the hall. There was only one door at the end and it was a very heavy slab of oak that Boots had told me had a steel core. The walls were also reinforced. No one was kicking that door in or using a sledgehammer to punch through the walls. A brass plate was affixed to the door at eye level.
THE DREAMLAND CONSERVANCY.
I bent close to the door and sniffed. Smelled wood, smelled metal, smelled the oil they used on the hinges. Not much else. So I dropped to a push-up position and sniffed at the bottom, but I struck out. The door had a rubber gasket along the frame that formed a tight seal, and the petroleum rubber blocked out anything from inside.
I got to my feet. There was a keypad mounted to the left of the door. Oliver Boots had provided the code but I sniffed the keys before I punched them.
Which is when I smelled something weird.
Incense.
Temple incense. Same kind. Fairly fresh.
I stepped back from the door and considered the possibilities. One was that one of Bohunk’s men had tried to fudge his way past the combination. Another was that they had the combination and had already gotten inside. Maybe they were waiting for me in there. Other options suggested themselves, but I dismissed them as absurd.
The door remained shut and unhelpful. The guy I’d decked was still bleeding in the fire tower. Someone was going to find him eventually.
What was it Boots said? We have found our champion.
“Fuck it,” I said.
And punched in the code.
The little red light on the keypad flicked over from red to green and the door lock clicked. No alarms rang. I pushed the door open and then faded to one side in case someone was in there prepared to shoot.
I waited.
No shots.
I went inside very quickly, moving left and ducking down behind a heavy armchair in the reception area. There was no one behind the desk, so I crossed to the glass door that led inside. Opened it. Expected to find cubicles or a set of offices with maybe a shared hall or common waiting area. That’s not what I stepped into. It was a huge room with a high ceiling and tall, arched windows. No desks, no office equipment. The floor was made of rare polished marble that seemed to swirl with smoky grays, pale pinks, deep purples and inky blacks. Rich tapestries hung from the wall between each of the windows, and the embroidery was alive with representations of monsters and gods. There was something that looked like a stone altar, inlaid with turquoise, carnelian and lapis lazuli, and trimmed with filigrees of gold and silver. Set into the stone wall so that it bisected the stone altar was a heavy wall safe.
I was alone in the room and everything was still.
But everything was wrong.
-8-
The first thing I smelled was incense.
Yeah, that kind of incense.
And we’re not talking trace amounts left behind by Bohunk or one of his goons. Sticks of it stood fuming in brass holders that had been placed on marble pedestals. There were maybe a dozen of them positioned around the room. The curling smoke filled the air like writhing snakes. Instead of electric lights there were braziers—actually goddamn braziers—filled with burning coals.
I looked around and said, very clearly and distinctly, “What the fuck?”
My words echoed strangely in the empty hall and lunged back at me in odd and meaningless shapes.
Nothing was currently making sense. Once again I nearly turned around and left. Bohunk and his thugs could have whatever this was. Oliver Boots had freaked me out pretty well when he was in my office, but now that I was standing in his office I was lost. I mean… what was this place? Definitely not an office.
Was it a temple? A church?
The creatures depicted on the tapestries were strange. A goat-headed monster who rose like a giant above a mass of worshippers whose bodies were torn and broken. A fish-god rising from the deeps as if in answer to the prayers of the people in a crooked church perched on the craggy lip of a sea cliff, yet the very arrival of the invoked god brought with it a tsunami that was poised to destroy the entire coastline. Another was a gray blob of a thing that looked like it was covered with festering sores. There was a giant spider with a human face, and something that looked like a pterosaur standing on a field of ice. One of them looked like a zombie but had webbed feet and eyes that burned with coal; there was a monstrous black goat around whose twisted legs clung hundreds of its deformed spawn. And there was something that looked like a gelatinous creature with innumerable humanlike eyes and mouths within its black mass. Others were less clearly defined—glowing orbs of light or darkness, or creatures that were shown to have one shape in half of the tapestry, but as they passed through a wall or dimensional veil, they changed into something else equally horrific.
A few of those images tickled a memory in the back of my mind. I hoped—even prayed—that it was a memory of some book I’d read or a monster movie I’d seen. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt more like a much older memory. Something conjured from the primitive fears of the lizard brain. And even though the tapestries were cloth and metal wire and silk thread, they repelled me. I did not want to draw any closer to examine the images. No sir, not one step.
Instead I turned and ran over to the altar. I wanted to get that relic and get the hell out of this weird-ass version of Dodge.
The stone altar was split to allow the safe to be built into the wall. Each side of the altar was ten feet long, with a flat top. There were thick iron rings set in the four corners of each side.
The safe was massive, one of those huge old-style bank-vault doors that stood eight feet high. It had a big spoked wheel and a smaller combination dial. As I inched closer I saw there were designs carved onto the face of the altar, and those designs continued onto the metal surface of the vault. It was a very subtle but highly detailed landscape that showed a series of mountains rising in steps, each larger than the other. Waves crashed against the steep walls on one side, but between the mountains on the other side was a lush valley filled with strange trees bearing no resemblance to anything I recognized. A burning sun hung in the sky, but also representations of several moons and of distant worlds, some with rings like Saturn.
I knew what I was seeing was an artist’s interpretation of the Dreamlands, that strange dimension created by H. P. Lovecraft for his story cycles. This whole room—this church, I suppose—was dedicated to a genuine belief in such a place, as well as in its strange gods and other creatures whose celestial designation I couldn’t label.
A voice in my head told me to hurry. The rational part of my brain insisted that I make tracks because someone was going to find the guard I’d suckered. But that lizard brain whispered the truth. This room scared me.
Yeah, even a guy like me.
I reached for the combination dial and began turning. The code was simple. Eight to the left, fifty-one to the right, eleven to the left. But the second I touched it I snatched my hand back and stared at my fingers as bright red blood welled from a thin cut. There was blood on the dial, too, and I had to shift to allow the firelight to sparkle on the razor-sharp edge of a splinter that had been gouged from the dial.
“Fuck,” I snarled, sucking the blood from my index finger.
Careful not to cut myself again, I entered the code. The tumblers clicked.
Click.
Click.
Click.
And I heard a sound deep within the mechanism. Not a click this time. It was different. Weirder. Almost organic.
Like a sigh.
Sweat broke out on my face and ran in lines down my cheeks.
I
grasped the big wheel and, as instructed, spun it counterclockwise one full turn.
Another of those deep sighs.
And then the door shifted. Moved, almost as if pushed. Even so it took a lot of effort to pull that door open. It must have weighed three tons. The hinges squealed as if they were in pain and as the whole thing opened, trapped air inside blew out. It felt strangely moist and warm. Like breath.
Jesus Christ. Just like breath.
It smelled of rotting fish and salt.
I gagged and turned away for a moment. Sweat stung like tears in my eyes.
Hurry, screamed the voice in my head.
It took real effort to turn back, to pull the safe open the rest of the way, to step inside.
There wasn’t much within the vault. A polished block four feet square that looked to be made from volcanic rock. On top of that was an envelope. Nothing else.
I burned five seconds just staring at the envelope. My name had been written across the front in flowing script.
“Oh, shit,” I said aloud.
I picked up the envelope. It was heavy and expensive stock, unsealed. I removed the card from inside, leaving behind a bloody fingerprint. The card had a note written in the same elegant hand.
Thank you for being our champion.
Your courage and sacrifice are appreciated.
It was right about then that I heard the laughter from outside.
-9-
I dropped the card and whirled around, rushed to the vault doorway and gaped at what I saw.
The chamber outside was no longer empty. Several of the tapestries had been pushed aside to allow concealed doors to open. Figures emerged from the shadows. At least a dozen of them. Men and women. All very tall. All with intensely black skin. All wearing white silk robes. All of them smiling big smiles that showed lots of white, white teeth.
And directly in the center of the room, thick arms folded across a massive chest, stood Israel Bohunk.
He was laughing.
Everyone was laughing.
Except me.
-10-
“Sam motherfucking Hunter,” said Bohunk as I stepped out of the vault.
I said nothing.
Every single one of the black-skinned people looked like Oliver Boots. Even the women. They were all the same height, same build.
“Feeling stupid yet?” asked Bohunk.
“Pretty stupid,” I agreed.
Bohunk was really huge. His skin was that weird gray and he looked like you could break baseball bats off of him without raising a welt. His forearms were as big around as my biceps, and his biceps were insane. I’ve dated women with narrower waists. I bet his chest, fully expanded, was six feet around if it was an inch. Guy was a fucking brute. And he had that big, ugly bucket of a head.
He also had a Glock in a clamshell shoulder holster.
“I heard you had at least half a brain, Hunter,” he said, “so I’m kind of surprised you didn’t figure this out.”
“Must be one of my slow days,” I said. A line of cold sweat was running down my spine and pooling inside my tighty-whities.
“Have you figured it out yet? You know what’s going on?”
“I know I’ve been fucked.”
“Are being fucked,” he corrected. “Present tense. This isn’t the happy moment where we let you in on the gag and we all have a good laugh.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that,” I said. “But I didn’t get the CliffsNotes on this, so help a brother out. What in the chartreuse fuck is going on?”
“Trap,” he said.
“Yeah, pretty much figured the whole ‘trap’ part. What’s eluding me is the ‘why’? If you’re in on this, then why hire me to sneak in here and get the relic?”
One of the tall weirdos detached himself from the crowd and walked up to stand next to Bohunk.
“Boots?” I asked.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hunter,” said Oliver Boots. “We are so very delighted that you could join us.”
“First,” I said, “let me just say—and I mean this in the nicest possible way—go fuck yourself.”
Everyone had a good laugh about that. The crowd of weirdos laughed like crows. It was an ugly thing to hear. Bohunk had a deep bass rumble when he spoke but his laugh was a donkey bray, and he bent over and slapped his thighs.
Boots wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “I deserved that, I suppose.”
“You did,” I said. “Care to tell me why I’m here? If it’s not to protect the relic from ass-face here—” I pointed at Bohunk “—then what’s the what?”
“I told you. It was all about protecting access to the Dreamlands.”
“You said there was a relic…”
“Well, there is, but I may have misled you as to its size.”
“You said it was carved to represent the mountain Ngranek on the isle of Oriab in the southern part of the Dreamlands and…” My words slowed and stopped. I turned and looked at the altar and the vault door.
“Ah,” I said, “shit.”
“Exactly. This altar is the relic and the map which describes the access is one of our greatest treasures.”
I shook my head. “But you already have it.”
“We have the doorway,” said Boots, “and we know the way. Our problem is that the doorway is open and we want it shut. That is what we live for, protecting our world from those who would cross over from your world and bring with them their diseases and pollution.”
“You lost me around the last bend. Why not just shut the freaking door?”
“They can’t,” said Bohunk.
“Why not?”
“Because the Thule Society wedged it open.”
I looked from Bohunk to Boots and back again. “Huh?”
“Long story short,” said Bohunk. “There really is a Thule Society and they really are a bunch of assholes who try to steal anything with even the stink of magic on it. All sorts of shit. You wouldn’t believe what they’ve stolen over the last eighty-odd years. Can’t keep their lily-white hands off of other people’s shit.”
“Uh huh. And you are an upstanding defender of the righteous.”
Bohunk shrugged. “I never broke any laws that matter.”
“Mr. Bohunk has been a cherished employee for many years now,” said Boots. “He is a most efficient field operative. This entire operation was his idea.”
“You’re going to make me blush,” said Bohunk.
“If the Thule Society wedged open the doorway, why hire me to steal the map for how to…” I stopped again, shaking my head. “No, none of this makes any sense. If the altar is the map and the door’s already wedged open, then why the hell am I even here? Why is any of this happening? Are you fucktards planning on sacrificing me on that altar or some shit?”
“There’s that delicious word again,” said Boots. “Fucktard. So descriptive and useful.”
The others of his kind tittered.
Bohunk took a step toward me and I backed up. A nervous reaction, sure, but it was also the wolf inside of me wanting to make sure lines of escape were clear. Bohunk held up his hands, palms out in a calm-down gesture.
“First off, sport,” he said, “all this Lovecraft-Cthulhu-Dreamlands stuff? Crazy as it sounds, it’s real. I mean it’s all real. R’lyeh, the Mountains of Madness, the Necronomicon, Nyarlathotep, all of it. Real. Names were changed, sure, but otherwise this is all going on. Elder Gods, Outer Gods, Great Old Ones. Dude, the universe is a shit-ton bigger than you think it is. Worlds within worlds, worlds next to worlds. It can make your head spin. I mean… I used to have to drop acid to even think about this stuff, and my people buy into the whole ‘larger world’ thing anyway.”
“Your people?” I echoed.
“Sure.” He rapped his knuckles against his forehead. It sounded like stone banging on stone. “You think I got to look like this because of—what? Inbreeding? Having a crack-addict mother? A birth defect? Shit. You’re not the only supernatural motherfucker trotti
ng around and cashing in on the more lucrative aspects of his nature. No sir.”
I licked my lips. “Which makes you… what? A golem?”
“Do I look Jewish?”
“Um…?”
“Ogre,” he said, smiling with pride. “My whole family line is descended from Orcus, the Etruscan man-eating god. And, yes, before you ask, I do eat the occasional person. Only guys who fuck with me, though. And I cook them, because uncooked people are disgusting. I like a good rub to tenderize and bring out the—”
“Mr. Bohunk,” said Boots, interrupting gently. Bohunk blinked.
“Oh, yeah, sorry. Caught up in the moment.” He smiled at me. “Your people go back to Etruscan times, too. The Benandanti, the good wolves, am I right? What’d they call you during the Inquisition? The Hounds of God? Goody two-shoes werewolves? Kind of cool, I guess. Not as cool as Ogres or Nightgaunts and—”
“The hell’s a Nightgaunt?” I asked.
“Oh,” said Mr. Boots, “that would be us.”
His brilliant white smile broadened as he reached up and took hold of something on the back of his head. Then with a sudden jerk of his arm he tore off his face, his skin and his clothes. I heard a ripping sound that was suspiciously like Velcro, and then Boots flung aside his disguise.
Beneath it all he was still as black as polished coal.
But he had no face at all.
None.
Behind him and around us the others tore away their skins, flinging them to the floor to stand revealed as the monsters they were. These things, these Nightgaunts, had skin that was slick and rubbery. It looked more fake than their false disguises had. They had no mouths, no eyes, no noses. The only feature on their heads was a pair of horns that curled around so the tips pointed toward their otherwise featureless foreheads. They had long fingers that ended in very sharp claws, and thin wings that fluttered from their shoulders. Long barbed tails whipped back and forth behind them.
I said, “Oh shit.”
