“So,” Farrokh said, leaning back in his antiquarian armchair and intertwining his fingers. “For Robin’s sake, your head will remain attached to your shoulders today, Alex.”
“You have my gratitude,” Doom nodded in absolute seriousness. If it hadn’t been for Joe, he might have stood a chance of getting out of the Abyss alive, albeit by paying a heavy toll in blood (mostly his own). But…Joe was there to ruin whatever bloody chance he had.
Gribovsky, looking on high alert, sat down by his side and relaxed at once. The sofas of the Royal Boot where Farrokh entertained his personal guests were famous for their comfort.
But the lieutenant was right to tense up—Alex had to admit that. Every dark predator in the club was lying in wait. Literally.
Vampires, fangs bared, squinted at the smell of human blood as it hit their special olfactory receptors. Alex tried to recall exactly were those receptors were, but he couldn’t. He’d spent dark creature anatomy at school (if Follen could be…could have been called a school) studying his favorite subject: spell construction. That’s how he spent almost every class.
Following the vampires, the werewolves, their eternal enemies, started to rise from their seats. Both fractions were civilized inside the club. At least, as civilized as either of them could be with an eternal enemy in sight.
Some werewolves had hair stirring on their heads and arms, a sure sign of an urge to transform into their animal form and start hunting.
But neither the vampires nor the werewolves were close to being the greatest threat awaiting mortals in the dark. There were other creatures, far more sinister and powerful, if fewer in number, who also turned their eyes (and more) on Gribovsky.
The prey can always sense the hungry predator’s stare.
But Gribovsky was apparently unused to being the prey.
“So, what brings you to our club this wonderful evening?” Farrokh thanked the waitress with a nod. She was a young girl with snow-white skin, night-black hair, sky-blue eyes, and a pretty doll’s face, her uniform stylized to resemble that of a past century governess but with a distinct sex shop touch.
The fishnet stockings were tight around her springy hips and long, slender legs.
She looked almost as good as the strippers (if you can use the word “good” to describe female embodiments of sex appeal and sensual desire) if not for…
Another damn “if not for.”
Her neck was wrapped with a white kerchief, two distinct red spots showing through it.
Some club visitors whose purses were full of (literal) gold needed a fresh product. That made the girl and her glassy eyes as repulsive as she was alluring.
“Shit,” Gribovsky swore and reached for his gun. Alex grabbed his wrist.
“If you move, we’re both dead,” Alex hissed through gritted teeth.
“Damn you, Doom. She’s a mortal. I swore to protect her with my life and—”
“But not mine,” Alex interrupted. “Not with my life, Lieutenant. Plus, she isn’t alive anymore. Several vampires have tasted her blood recently, so she’ll become a ghoul at best soon. A mindless low-class undead creature.”
Gribovsky ripped his hand free and swore filthily.
“I know what a ghoul is,” he snapped before retreating into the labyrinth of his mind.
That was when the club music changed. The electronic strokes gave place to viscous blues that gradually transformed into a fast, rhythmic, but still smoky jazzy funk. A male voice and a female voice sang a duet.
Neon lights were replaced by archaic stage lights, cigarette smoke by cigar smoke. The elaborate illusionary clothing the dancers were wearing changed from gleaming mini dresses to flowing pieces in 1930s fashion.
“Still hate vampires, Alex?” Farrokh struck a plain match, lighting a fat cigar. “They hate you, too. If I remember correctly, you destroyed one of the Lord’s family.”
“The Shadow Court acquitted me,” Alex said again. “On all counts.”
“Oh yes. The only court that ever acquitted Alexander Dumsky.” Farrokh’s light smile was more predatory than anything the vampires, werewolves, and other night monsters could muster. “How did you get off the island, wonder kid?”
Hearing the last two words, Alex shuddered. His fingers clenched into tight fists, knuckles turning white.
I can’t let him get to me with a simple provocation like that.
Flowing over their heads was a piano melody. A melody far too familiar to Alex.
It’s impossible not to recognize a recording of your own performance.
“I have business to disc—”
“Mr. Farrokh,” someone interrupted Alex, who instantly summoned the lilac fire around his fingers. To interrupt a full-fledged black wizard, you had to be either a madman or…
Standing behind Alex was a group that included vampires, werewolves, a few high-level undead creatures, and even a lich looking like a skeleton encased in skin. Out in the streets, they cloaked themselves in illusions so powerful that they could only be penetrated by the lenses law enforcement wore. Ordinary people were unaware of the kind of monsters that roamed the city at night.
“My hospitality only extends to members of our society,” Farrokh answered the unasked question in a calm, flat voice. “Including exiles.”
“Good evening, Alex,” one of the vampires said, flashing the red-hot coals of his eyes.
“And a warm sun to you, bloodsucker.” Doom turned his back on the vampire pointedly.
No predator can tolerate someone turning their back on them. A sapient predator, their sense of superiority fed generously by the media long before the Prophet and the Magic Lens, even less so.
Alex could only guess how many young and stupid girls had been dinner for the monster.
“You…”
Alex tasted copper on his lips, a sure sign that an aggressive vampire was close.
“Just give me a reason, bloodsucker, and you’ll follow your brother.”
Someone hissed. It wasn’t like a cat or a snake; the sound was much higher pitched, casting a mental fog on anyone not used to hearing it.
“Enough,” Farrokh said. “Viscount Jeremiah, wait to collect your blood debt until you’re outside.”
“Sure,” the bloodsucker replied with a bow. “As the respected Ferryman wishes.”
Farrokh paid no heed to the apparent offense, his welcoming smile remaining on his face.
“Hey, wha—” Gribovsky swallowed the remaining words as the air was knocked out of his lungs and strong hands jerked him up by shoulders, sending him flying off behind the sofa. “You want to dance, you fanged pumpkin? I’m all your—”
The sound was cut off. Alex couldn’t see what was going on behind his back, but he had a strong guess that Gribovsky was engaged in a sort of entertainment very uncommon at the Abyss: a brawl.
“Why did you have to destroy his brother, Klaus?” Farrokh sighed. “If you’d sent Jeremiah himself to dust, I probably would have even let you keep your club membership.”
“Klaus was no better.”
“He wasn’t, no, but he owed the club two hundred coins.”
Alex almost choked on air. Two hundred coins. The heritage of the entire Follen School that he’d managed to retrieve from ruins was just one hundred Abyss coins.
How was it even possible to spend that much of the club’s internal currency?
“Did he exchange them for credits?”
“For the night’s sake, Alex. The last person who tried that trick is still at the bottom of the Pit.”
Doom shrugged.
The Pit was another tale from the crypt. The literal crypt.
“Here’s…” Coming over to the table, Valerie froze before setting the tray of drinks down. Flying across the table at that very moment was Gribovsky, flashing a black eye and a bloody gap-toothed smile. Strangely, his left shoe was missing. And he had some broken fangs clutched in his fists. “…your Russian tea.”
“Thanks,” Alex said.
“Your friend’s doing well.” Farrokh puffed out a dense cloud of smoke.
“I can’t see from here.”
“He just threw Clive O’Shaughnessy over his back.”
“The Irish werewolf?”
“Exactly.”
“He really is doing well then.”
Doom took the glass, stuck out his little finger the way Robin had taught him, and took a sip of his tea. It was a bit sour and tart. Ever the perfect drink.
“So, Alex, what do you…” Farrokh tilted his head to the side just in time to avoid a broken chair leg that otherwise would have hit him in the ear. “What do you want?”
“You already know, Farrokh.”
“Do I?” the club owner asked in surprise. Crossing his legs, he sat back in his armchair. “Maybe so, but your partner could die while we ask our rhetoric questions.”
Alex shrugged.
“Oh, so you’re not really that attached to him. Does Alex Doom ever get attached to anyone?”
“That has nothing to do with what I’m here to discuss.”
“Maybe,” Farrokh drawled. “But—”
It was Doom’s turn to bend over in order to avoid getting hit in the back of the head by the shattered body of a young werewolf. Even without his guns, the guardsman was no fading lily.
“I’m still curious how the wonder kid came to be in the company of a guardsman.”
Chapter 36
Alex pretended (as well as he could) to be surprised at Farrokh’s insightfulness.
“Oh please, boy.” The old wizard knocked his cigar against the ashtray. “Coming here on Follen School memorial day was stupid. But bringing a guardsman here…cunning, smart, defiant. You do understand that if I report that to the Shadow Court, you’ll be hanged for treason and betraying the organization to its direct enemies?”
“But you’d show your own incompetence if you did that, Farrokh.” Alex held up his hands. “You have too many enemies to risk your position as the Abyss’ central division head.”
Farrokh inhaled, then leaned forward. The darkness clouded behind his back. It wasn’t some deceitful dark smoke used by charlatans to scare kids; no, this was true, primeval, original darkness. The immense space of nothing. A force eclipsing the stars.
“Are you calling me a coward, boy? Are you calling me unworthy of my power?”
“I’m calling you Farrokh ibn Amir Shaha,” Alex replied with a seated bow. “The Lord of a Hundred Genies. The Desert Jackal obeyed by the Worms guarding the Gate Beyond. The Master of Depth. The Lord of Black Sands and Bloody Waters. I know who you are. And you know who I am.”
Farrokh inhaled again and leaned back in his armchair. The Darkness behind his back vanished into the smoke from the cigars and fog machines.
“I heard what happened at the museum. A regrettable incident that brought too much attention to the organization.”
“Do you know who’s behind the mask?”
“You made too good a move, boy, to be as stupid as you’re trying to pretend you are,” Farrokh said, wincing slightly. “If I knew who that crafty bastard was, I’d be drinking my wine from his skull right now. No, I don’t know who the demonologist is.”
“So, he is a demonologist.”
“And a very strong one,” Farrokh nodded. “Much stronger than you or Robin… although you’ve already excelled our late friend in that art. I saw the recordings, Alex. That wizard-from-nowhere might be as strong as the Professor.”
Alex shuddered again. Small trickles of blood ran down his palms, betraying how hard his nails were pressed into the skin.
A broken glass jug of wine swished past, splashing the hem of Alex’s suit jacket with red. Somebody with broken arms came flying after it, but that was nothing compared to the storm of memories arising inside.
Alex managed to drive it away.
“The Professor’s dead,” Alex said in a dry whisper.
“He is.” Farrokh knocked his ashes off again, that time his move a bit more abrupt. “I was the first to make sure back then, Alex. The Professor is dead. But the one in the mask…”
“What?”
Farrokh said nothing, just tearing a piece off someone’s pants as they flew by to wipe the wine and blood off the table.
“I don’t know, wonder kid. I don’t know. But his style is so similar to the Professor.”
“No one has ever come back from there.”
“Name me a Shadow Judge who wouldn’t laugh at that.”
“The Professor wasn’t an Apostle. He was just human.”
“Maybe,” Farrokh agreed. “Or maybe we didn’t know enough about him. Not nearly enough.”
“If you’d known a bit more, Follen School might still be around,” Alex forced out bitterly. “And with it…”
He stopped short and sighed.
Doom knew his visit would reopen old wounds. He just hadn’t known how bad it would be.
“You want to ask why he took Poseidon’s Orb?”
“I’ve heard it has a different name.”
“Half-educates,” Farrokh shot back with a dismissive wave. “That’s the artifact’s real name.”
Doom just shrugged. He didn’t give a damn about the real name of the thing stolen by the unknown demonologist whose style smacked of the Professor’s.
Neither did he care about the artifact itself or why it was stolen.
He just wanted to find that wizard. Not for the Guard or for his freedom, but… If the Professor’s face was hiding beneath that mask, no force, demonic or angelic, was going to keep Doom from burning the old man’s accursed soul.
In memory of everyone who’d been buried in that thrice-damned cellar as cold bodies sacrificed on the altars.
“I have no idea, Alex,” Farrokh said with a helpless gesture. “But I kno—”
“Alex! Pumpkin!” Gribovsky fell over the back of the sofa. Bruised and blood-stained, he was strangling a green, scaly monster hanging over him. “You didn’t tell me this place was so much fun!”
He was jerked out of Doom’s sight.
“I know who can tell you more.” An archaic type, Farrokh retrieved a pen from his inner pocket, scribbled something on a napkin, and handed it to Alex. 16 7th Street, Simon Shulman.”
“Who’s that?”
“A good friend of mine,” Farrokh replied. “A dealer in antiquities. A collector of rarities. Of the same descent as you, by the way. I think you two will hit it off.”
Doom waved a hand. The napkin vanished in a flash of lilac fire.
“It was good seeing you, Farrokh.” Doom stood and turned around to appraise the battlefield.
Scattered furniture. Some broken, bloody fragments apparently used as improvised weapons. Bodies sprawled on the floor, tucked into armchairs, and hanging from ceiling beams, unconscious but alive (or undead).
Standing in a boxing stance in the very middle of the room, reeling, bloody, and bashed in all over, was Gribovsky. Some teeth were stuck in his right cheek, his left fist had swelled to the size of a hammer head, and his clothes had been reduced to blood-stained rags.
But he was still on his feet.
“Let’s go, pumpkins! Bring it!”
Surrounding him on all sides were opponents much stronger than the ones he’d already brought down.
Doom took a step forward. As soon as his right foot touched the floor, clouds of deep darkness billowed up from beneath it. It was just as creepy as the darkness spreading its wings behind Farrokh’s back.
“This light one is mine,” Alex said loud enough for everyone to hear. “Anyone willing to challenge me?”
One second ticked by. Then another. No one moved.
Doom grabbed Gribovsky and headed toward the exit.
“You said you know who I am and I know who you are,” said a voice delivered to Alex’s back by Farrokh’s magic. Hardly anyone but Doom could hear it. “You’re no fit for the dark, Alexander. No fit for the ba
ttles to come. You need to leave.”
“I can’t.”
“If you swear to leave Atlantis and live a good and peaceful life, I’ll remove your collar, Alexander.”
“Why?”
Silence.
Alex had almost reached the stairs descending into the well from the old horror movie when the final words wafted over to him.
“In memory of Robin and Anastasia.”
Doom stopped and looked back into Farrokh’s eyes. They were black, so black that the night was nothing but a golden dawning sky against them.
“Goodbye, Farrokh,” Alex said without moving his lips. The unconscious Gribovsky over his shoulder, he left the place he’d once thought of as home.
***
The darkness behind Farrokh congealed into a figure wrapped in a dark cloak. Its presence brought the taste of copper to the lips of those around him.
“Why didn’t you let me appease my hunger with that renegade, Ferryman?”
“Baron Lucius.” Farrokh smiled welcomingly but did not turn toward the second speaker. “Who am I to keep you from collecting your blood debt? Your son’s murderer was right there in front of you. But you did nothing. You let him leave.”
A clawed hand encased in gray skin reached for Farrokh’s shoulder but stopped halfway. However strong the Vampire Baron was, the Lord of Worms and Desert Jackal was out of his league.
“You were blocking my path to him, Ferryman.”
“You think so?” Farrokh put out his cigar in the ashtray and, dusting off his jacket, stood up. “I was just making sure my club didn’t share the fate of Follen School.”
“Are you afraid of that boy? You, the Desert Jackal?” The voice of the figure cloaked in shadow was mocking.
“I’m being called a coward again?” the ancient black wizard asked, his right eyebrow arched in surprise. The dark figure doubled up with a scream full of pain and humiliation, albeit just for a moment. “Begone, Baron. You’re banned from the Abyss’ premises for the next week. That time should be enough for you to figure out whether you should be afraid of Professor Raewsky’s best student, the best student of the wizard who destroyed a Supreme Demon when you were still wetting your bed.”
Dark Wizard's Case Page 20
