The Mysteries of Holly Diem (Unknown Kadath Estates Book 2)

by Zachary Rawlins

  I remember noting the heavy stock before I shoved the card in my pocket. I remember picking up Madeleine’s discarded mechanical arm, and shoving it beneath my jacket. That’s about it.

  I must have stumbled home from the Night Market. The Cats of Ulthar promised me an escort, but what assistance could they have provided to a delirious man on his way home in the early morning?

  The dawn broke above the nearby hills as I turned onto Leng Street, my head aching as if someone were pulling my hair. The silver key was weighty in my palm; the tarnished gate of the Estates loomed like a monument. My key turned in the lock, ungreased hinges complained; the sky spat out occasional bursts of rain, as if it occasionally forgot what it was supposed to be doing. I wanted to die, or to sleep.

  There were a hundred thousand stairs between my front door and me.

  9. The Bespoke Girl

  The gaunt curves of her hips, the rise of her cheekbones. Restless fingers, nails gnawed to the quick and stripped of paint. Warmth, permeated with anticipation. The relentless progress of the clock and the possibility of dawn; a question existing only as long as it goes unanswered.

  I’m not normally one to ascribe significance to dreams. As far as I’m concerned, dreams are basically the equivalent of the weird programming you find on obscure cable channels in the early morning – the space needs to be filled with something, so who cares if it makes sense?

  In this case, though...

  It had been a long time. I couldn’t remember a single dream, since my arrival in the Nameless City – but then again, I have been plagued with a transient sort of insomnia, spending the night drifting ambiguously between sleep and wakefulness. The last dream I could remember was of the Nameless City – in a middle-of-nowhere chain motel, during the persecuted months between the Institute and Kadath.

  This was different.

  ***

  Burgundy carpet compressed slightly beneath my feet; if I focused, I could hear the fibers rustle. The air pushed gently through the hall, motivated by a powerful air conditioner, sterile with notes of cleaning solution. I passed doors at regular intervals, but knew somehow to ignore them, until I located an imposing slab of varnished mahogany with Yog & Sothoth inscribed across it in gold inlay. The doorknob was an intricate Deco affair, the brass polished and bright.

  I let myself in.

  Madeleine Diem’s lawyers waited on the other side, the office so dim I could hardly make my way to the chair in front of the bulk of their impossibly oversized shared desk. They were dressed in layers of robes, embroidered with metal thread and accented with smoky, unfamiliar stones, faces shrouded with chainmail veils. They were little more than shapes in the dim illumination provided by a green-glass antique lamp, but the shapes were wrong.

  “Good evening, Preston Tauschen of the Unknown Kadath Estates, formerly of...”

  “Don’t say it,” I snapped. “Mr. Sothoth, and Mr. Yog, right?”

  They nodded in sequence. Mr. Sothoth did most of the talking, with a voice like a swarm of wasps, while Mr. Yog scratched away at a piece of parchment with a quill pen, pausing occasionally to dip the quill in his mouth. The pen emerged dripping in a viscous liquid, and the parchment hissed and whimpered when he wrote.

  “As you say, Mr. Tauschen.” Mr. Yog opened a lovely ebony and cherry wood box, and offered me a selection of cigars, snuffs, pills, and powders. I declined. “Allow me to apologize for intruding uninvited, but the matters we wish to discuss are time sensitive.”

  “It’s your dime, I guess. Let’s hear it.”

  “I appreciate your brevity, Mr. Tauschen. One of humanity’s most admirable traits.” The chainmail shifted, and I got the disquieting impression that his jaw had multiple joints. “I will endeavor toward such expediency. Let me ask you this, Mr. Tauschen – what would you require, in return for your neighbor – one Yael Kaufman?”

  “You must be joking,” I moaned. “Do you want her legs, too? They aren’t even that nice or anything.”

  “Aha.” Mr. Yog’s voice was flat and metallic, like water laced with granulated aluminum. “Competition.”

  Whatever else Mr. Sothoth was, he was certainly a lawyer through and through.

  “We require the totality of Yael Kaufman, Mr. Tauschen.” A momentary hesitation, perhaps a deep breath, though I saw no sign of respiration in either. “Including both legs.”

  “Why?”

  Mr. Yog made a barking noise, which I just assumed was equivalent to laughter.

  “Your concern surprises me.” The inhuman lawyer sounded worried for my mental state. “Does it truly matter?”

  “Maybe. Why do you want her?”

  “We don’t,” Mr. Yog offered, sucking on his quill. “The client.”

  “Precisely,” Mr. Sothoth agreed. “We have no personal stake.”

  They were toying with me, and I didn’t appreciate it. I decided to take a more aggressive approach.

  “What does Madeleine Diem want with Yael Kaufman, if not her leg?”

  More of the barking noise. I honestly wanted to strangle both of them.

  “I believe I understand the confusion.” Mr. Sothoth buzzed indulgently. “I am not privileged to disclose our client’s identity, but I can assure you that we are not working for Miss Diem in this capacity.”

  “That’s a pretty subtle distinction.”

  “Nonetheless. Our firm represents multiple clients, Mr. Tauschen, on retainer. In this matter, we represent an anonymous client with an interest in one Yael Kaufman. After some observation, it seems to us that you are well-positioned to assist us.”

  “I see.”

  Mr. Yog tormented parchment while Mr. Sothoth studied me with black eyes.

  “If I may add, without offense, then you also seem to have the moral flexibility necessary for collaboration.”

  “Ouch.”

  “No offense meant!” Mr. Sothoth protested shrilly. “Such flexibility is laudable. Transactions are so much easier when conducted with humans who understand the nature of things, Mr. Tauschen.”

  “The nature of things?”

  “Every interaction is a transaction, Mr. Tauschen,” the lawyer explained, folding his hands over the misplaced bulk of his abdomen. “The imperative is to maximize the return.”

  “Honestly, I expected something a bit more sinister.”

  “Malice is beneath us, Mr. Tauschen. We admire practicality. Our interests are our client’s interests. We desire nothing, aside from payment in full for our services. And a successful outcome for our client, if possible.”

  “In this case, your client wants Yael.”

  “Just so, Mr. Tauschen,” Mr. Yog rumbled, working away with his quill. “Our client insists that price is of no object. A fallacy, surely, but situationally beneficial.”

  “Are you offering money?”

  “We can provide payment in any currency that you desire; material, or otherwise. Our resources are substantial, Mr. Tauschen, and many owe us favors. Name your desire, and we will do business.”

  “Why Yael?”

  The barking noise, again. It was getting on my nerves.

  “Why indeed?” Mr. Yog murmured.

  “Our client made the request,” Mr. Sothoth explained. “What more is needed? Have you become emotionally entangled in Miss Kaufman’s wellbeing, Mr. Tauschen? That would be most unfortunate.”

  “You aren’t the only interested party.” I smirked, leaned back in my chair, and kicked my legs out fully. “I’m considering options and weighing offers.”

  “As far as compensation…”

  “That’s important,” I interrupted. “I can’t set a price, though, unless I know what you have planned.”

  They exchanged a look with their cockroach eyes.

  “Desire,” Mr. Yog intoned, “and obligation.”

  “Are you certain that you will not consider remuneration in lieu of explanation?” Mr. Sothoth’s whine was really starting to get to me. It seemed to emerge from within my frontal lobe r
ather than my ears, and the buzzing made my eyes water. “We are positioned to be most generous, Mr. Tauschen.”

  “I’m sure. We’ll get to that. Particulars, first.”

  Another silent conference.

  “We will need assurance of your confidentiality, Mr. Tauschen,” Mr. Sothoth said, the chainmail in front of his face dripping with what I hoped was saliva. “The issue is naturally sensitive.”

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Sothoth leaned back in the chair, and emitted a long, strangled sound, a mockery of a sigh.

  “Very well. Are you familiar with the details of Yael Kaufman’s personal history, Mr. Tauschen?”

  I hesitated. The question was an obvious trap. If I were to admit my ignorance, it would give the hideous lawyer greater license to deceive. Bluffing would be dangerous, though.

  “Only what I can see,” I said, with a confident grin. “And what she’s told me, of course.”

  “Surely, then,” Mr. Sothoth said wetly, “you are aware of…”

  I cut him off quickly, maintaining the image of composure, as if I negotiated with monsters in my dreams on the regular.

  “Assume that I know nothing,” I suggested. “It will make everything easier.”

  It was possible that I was starting to figure out their facial expressions, because I was sure the look they exchanged was sour.

  “As you say, Mr. Tauschen.” The chair beneath Mr. Sothoth creaked and groaned as he shifted. “Yael Kaufman was originally from Roanoke, once one of the principal cities of the Commonwealth of Virginia.”

  “Once?”

  “No longer.” Mr. Yog shook his heavy head. “Lost, as Carcosa.”

  “As my associate said,” Mr. Sothoth agreed shrilly. “The place is no longer.”

  “What does that mean? Was there a war or something?”

  “There were many wars,” Mr. Sothoth said, nodding. “It was not a war that brought an end, however. It was, in order – The King in Yellow, the Fifth Assembly, and then, finally, Yael Kaufman.”

  “You’re losing me, here.”

  “All you need to know is that Yael Kaufman was born unwelcome, in a world that belonged to the King in Yellow.” Mr. Sothoth droned on, and his voice made my teeth ache. “He is careless with issues of dominion and possession, however, and the Fifth Assembly, from the fungal seas of Yuggoth, took advantage of his negligence to establish a series of colonies along the Atlantic Ocean. In Roanoke, they were called Visitors, and Yael Kaufman’s family was intimately involved in their affairs.”

  This was certainly the most detailed dream I had ever had. Some of the details were familiar, but I couldn’t place exactly where I might have heard them before.

  “The King in Yellow may have been indifferent to territory, but it is royalty nonetheless, and demands tribute. The Fifth Assembly assumed control, and therefore also the responsibility to mollify The King in Yellow. Mercantile by nature, arrangements were made with the local population. A distrusted religious minority was assigned the burden of the tribute, along with privileges otherwise denied. Yael Kaufman is the eldest daughter of the oldest and most important of these families. As her grandmother before her, Yael Kaufman was selected as tribute to The King in Yellow.”

  I wasn’t sure if I believed any of it, but I was fascinated. Mr. Sothoth leaned forward, as if to emphasize the confidentiality of our conversations, and I could see a thick residue dripping from his metal veil.

  “At that point, Yael Kaufman had an older brother.”

  The past tense, again.

  “He was perceptive – an attribute the family shared. The details are frustratingly hazy,” Mr. Sothoth added, voice dripping with anger, “for reasons that are still elusive, but of this much we are certain – Yael Kaufman’s brother discovered her eventual fate, and elected to meddle. Although he was spectacularly unsuccessful in his attempt to save his sister, his disappearance indirectly prompted Yael Kaufman to save herself.”

  “That’s…believable. She’s a tough kid.”

  “You have no idea, Mr. Tauschen.” There was no shred of humor in those pitch-black eyes. “Miss Kaufman has looked into the face of The Outer Dark, and scoffed at it.”

  “That I don’t believe.”

  “Believe what you like, Mr. Tauschen. Human faith is immaterial,” Mr. Sothoth said. I wasn’t sure if he was making a joke. “The opportunity is there, nonetheless. Our client wishes to exercise a claim to Yael Kaufman, but prefers to act indirectly, through intermediaries.”

  I took a stab in the dark.

  “Like Neil, the friendly neighborhood drug dealer?”

  Mr. Yog and Mr. Sothoth stared back, eyes sparkling like polished ebony. I decided that if we were playing cards, I intended to shoot the moon.

  “What about Elijah Pickman?”

  Silence and eyes as empty and black as a starless sky.

  “Agents and Operators,” Mr. Yog offered, adding a few final touches to his long-suffering parchment. “All at play.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  That sound again. It must have been laughter.

  “Your client is that king you mentioned? The yellow one?”

  “Our firm works on retainer, for a variety of clients. In this matter, our client prefers to remain…”

  “There you go.” I wasn’t sure, but you play the ball where it lies, as long as someone’s watching. “Interesting.”

  The look they exchanged made me think my assumption was mistaken, but that could have been their intent.

  “Our time is short, Mr. Tauschen,” Mr. Sothoth said, examining a pocket watch taken from an interior pocket, his hand crowded with at least six fingers. “We must have an answer.”

  “You never answered my question. What do you want her for? C’mon, Sothoth. At least give me a clue. Fuck, Marry or Kill?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Yog nodded, pushing the parchment across the desk. “At least.”

  “Our intentions, Mr. Tauschen,” Mr. Sothoth said, nodding for me to take the parchment, “are irrelevant. However…”

  The parchment was incised with what at first seemed to be an immensely complicated version of one of April’s characters. The letters were carved deep in the fiber, and the paper around the lines was scorched and withered. April’s designs were spare and evocative, though, whereas this was baroque and malevolent. Just looking at it filled my mouth with the taste of rotten fruit.

  Mr. Yog said something – just a few words – in a language that turned my stomach upside down and filled my head with such loathing that I wanted to be rid of it.

  The parchment rippled in my hands as if it radiated tremendous heat. The lines of the characters blurred and then resolved. Things became entirely too clear.

  “Our client, and their intentions,” Mr. Sothoth buzzed. “Do you understand?”

  Every bad thing I ever experienced, every outrage I had committed, even the horrors of the Experimental Wards at the Institute faded by comparison to what I saw burned into the parchment. No art nor pornography could have been so graphic and sickening, so dedicated to perversity. The thing depicted – I had to assume that was the “client” – could not exist in a universe that contained a shred of kindness or decency. It was not alive, nor could anything like it have been born into the world. The scene depicted was hideous and cruel, and it broke something inside of me. I felt as if a liter of diesel had been poured into my skull and then left to congeal.

  There was only one living thing in the vision, a survivor of the crude and savage genocide implied in the hideous background. It was a girl, and it was very clear that she was not fortunate.

  I’m not sure exactly when I realized that, rather than depicting Yael – as I had assumed – the girl was someone else entirely.

  April.

  “Our client is insatiable,” Mr. Sothoth explained, tapping one of his many-jointed fingers on the parchment. “Its appetites are broad. Should you choose not to assist us with acquiring Yael Kaufman, we will instead
turn to your companion, April Ersten, for assistance. Do you understand, Mr. Tauschen?”

  I understood, though I was too entranced by the awful parchment to respond.

  “Our agents will be in touch in good time, Mr. Tauschen,” Mr. Sothoth buzzed. “Do sleep well.”

  ***

  Yael’s face was creased with concern, her thin fingers on my wrist, checking for a pulse.

  She really was a nice girl.

  I pretended to rally slowly, so as not to startle her. She relaxed when I started to move.

  “It’s stressful, knowing you, Preston.”

  “I know. Sorry about that.”

  “Are you okay? You look as if you’ve been lying here in the hallway for hours.”

  She was right, of course, but I didn’t notice until that moment. Then the cold concrete and the various matching aches and pains spread liberally throughout my body made the whole affair explicit.

  “Seems that way.”

  Yael’s nose wrinkled and her gaze was coldly analytical.

  “Dunwich said something about visiting the Night Market. Were you drinking there, or something?”

  Something about the disapproval in her voice struck me as hilarious. Yael made it clear she did not appreciate my reaction.

  “Sorry. No. Yesterday was a long day.”

  She frowned and studied me closely. Yael was trying to decide whether to tell me something, I realized, gauging my trustworthiness. It must be bad, I figured, if she was willing to consider it at all.

  “I heard.”

  “What? How?”

  “Dunwich told me.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “He also told me you were laying out here. Six hours ago.”

  “You left me here all night?”

  “I tried to get you to go to bed. You wouldn’t wake up,” Yael explained, looking as if she regretted it. “I couldn’t move you by myself.”

  “Huh.”

  “Yes.”

  I decided to verify something.

  “You know,” I muttered, with a stretch and a yawn, “I had the strangest dream…”