Obsidian Blues

by J. S. Miller

  I rounded a corner and found myself in a lobby. Behind the counter, a large, sweaty man sat reading a magazine. He glanced up, eyed my enormous handgun, smirked, and went back to his periodical. I must have been mistaken. This clearly wasn’t the den of ill repute I’d taken it for.

  Our group stumbled out into a crowded street. All around us, signs had been glued up like playbills on Broadway, each one describing some good or service you never knew you needed. Most of them pointed arrows in the same direction, toward a place called Cobblestone Road. If the old man at the gondola station was right, that’s where I’d find The Parish. And my friends.

  “Stay close,” I said. “And try not to draw attention to yourselves.”

  We walked among the brownstone buildings and black iron gates. We were in Astoria, all right. Oddly familiar yet profoundly alien, it was a photocopy of a collage of Earth, as if someone had broken down Ford trucks from different decades and used the parts to build a flying saucer. My companions looked about as comfortable as a pod of dolphins in the Sahara Desert, but I pushed onward, trying to exude confidence I didn’t feel.

  We followed the signs to Cobblestone Road. The broad main street was lined with tents under which vendors hollered about wares and customers perused them. Many of the people resembled plain old humans, but others, well … it went beyond a pair of horns or a dusting of peach fuzz. Large, insectile animals skittered past on chitinous legs. Humanoid wolves roamed on their hind legs, dressed to the nines. A giraffe-man in a leopard print blazer stilted by, tipping his hat to anyone and everyone. And those were just the ones for which I had rough points of reference. But they all went about their business, so I tried to mind mine. The hospital workers also managed to hold it together. They were hardened Arclight Security professionals, after all.

  Suddenly, a sound so familiar it nearly broke my heart rang out across the road: the twang of a banjo. Someone was strumming an instrumental version of House of the Rising Sun.

  I followed the melody and eventually saw a sign squeaking above a set of old west saloon doors. The letters charred into the wood spelled “The Parish.”

  Pushing through the crowd, I stepped up to the building, pausing for a moment to adopt my best gunslinger swagger before sweeping aside the big batwing doors.

  The room was dim but warm, the way bars sometimes get when filled with too many patrons. A mantis man wearing rumpled tweed and a pork pie hat sat on a small stage near the entrance, flicking its front legs over the music-making parts of a makeshift banjo. Dozens of the city’s strange denizens were singing, dancing, and indulging in the other favorite pastimes of the severely besotted. Off to my right was the bar, behind which a half-dozen barrels sang their siren’s song. Pint mugs hung from the walls and ceiling, and small electric lamps made the room glow like a postcard sent from simpler times.

  The man behind the bar peered at me over round-rimmed glasses. He looked normal, albeit thin and a bit bookish, like a librarian who’d been forced to tend taps. I waved my party toward an empty table and approached the bar. Claire shot me an irritated look I did my best to ignore.

  “I was expecting a church,” I said to the taptender.

  “You found one, brother,” he responded with a hint of a Southern accent. “Name’s Max. Can I interest you in one of our lively libations? We have a wide array, starting with—”

  “Looking for a couple of friends, actually. They’re a bit … unusual.”

  “We’ve got unusual to spare, my friend.”

  “One’s a dog made of rocks and the other’s a robot.”

  “Oh,” he said, eyes widening. “It’s you.”

  “That’s true,” I said, narrowing my own. “I am, in fact, me. Question is … what’s that mean to you?”

  Instead of answering, he flagged down a serving girl, a pretty young woman who just happened to have insect antennae poking out of her strawberry blonde hair, and urgently whispered in her ear. She nodded, making the antennae sway gently, then set down the tray and hurried off.

  “Listen,” I said. “I know alchemists probably aren’t part of your everyday clientele, but this is getting—”

  “You might want to keep your voice down, brother, and follow me,” he said, glancing around the room. Most of the patrons hadn’t overheard us, but those who had were fixing me with glares that didn't exactly scream “let’s be friends.”

  “Yeah, OK,” I said. “Lead on, Padre.”

  Chapter 16

  I followed Father Barbrarian around the counter and along the back wall. He walked with a hint of a limp, the kind that’s barely noticeable until someone decides to move faster than they’re used to.

  He ushered me into a room lined with long black cloaks. I touched one, and the fabric felt clean and stiff, nearly unused. The taptender reached into a copse of black cloth near the back and flipped a switch. A door swung open, revealing a dimly lit stairway.

  “Do the daggers get their own room?” I asked.

  He chuckled.

  “That’s not half bad,” he said. “Mind if I steal it?”

  “Be my guest.”

  The steps wound down several flights before we reached a broad, steel door, the kind you typically see protecting bank vaults. He spun the wheel and pulled, grunting as the door swung open.

  The room beyond reeked of luxury. Leather armchairs, Bohemian tapestries, decanters of golden liquid. This was the office of an important man, but no one sat at the large desk at its center.

  To my surprise, the bookish little guy untied his apron, tossed it over an antique globe, and fell into the high-backed chair behind the desk, kicking his feet up onto the polished wood.

  “Man, I hate that thing,” he said. “But it does save on shirts. So what can I do ya for, my friend?”

  “Well … I guess you can start by explaining why you dragged me down here into your man cave.”

  He flashed a genuinely warm smile.

  “I brought you here because this conversation should probably remain private. Monsters roam the streets of our fair city, and they’d no doubt go to great lengths to learn the whereabouts of Alchemist West Muller.”

  My mouth dropped open. His eyes sparkled.

  “Yes, I know who you are,” he said. “But can you figure out who I am? Already gave you a hint, somewhat accidentally.”

  It was clear this man knew a lot — too much, even. More than most locals would, for sure. I ran through our conversation in my mind until stumbling backward over his name.

  “Say, Max,” I said. “Your full name wouldn’t happen to be Maximilian Fen, would it?”

  “Ding, ding, ding! It is indeed, brother. Glad we can reallocate the time usually spent on tedious introductions.”

  “Yeah, small alien world,” I said. “Arclight’s probably got search parties out looking for both of us by now.”

  “You think so? If that’s true, they can call off the dogs, because I have no plans to go anywhere except back upstairs to serve drinks.”

  “Can’t say I blame you,” I said, glancing around the luxuriously furnished space. “You seem quite comfortable here.”

  “And that is precisely why I wanted to talk to you. This city, Astoria — it’s my home now. It’s been good to me. And it’s in danger.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Well, a little birdie told me you’ve been nipping at the heels of the thing endangering it.”

  “Let me guess. Actual talking bird? I met one of those too. Tried to eat me.”

  His smile faltered slightly. I suspected he’d rehearsed this conversation, and it was not going according to plan. What can I say? I’m a people person.

  “I … let me start over, so this doesn’t seem quite so clandestine,” he said, reclaiming a bit of the lost smile. “This is my community now. These people and their security mean a lot to me. To that end, I make it my business to know what’s going on in my backyard.”

  “You’re a biologist, not a secret agent. Alth
ough, given our surroundings, it wouldn’t surprise me if you really had trained a murder of crows to spy for you.”

  He laughed, then picked up an ornate pen and started spinning it between his fingers in a way he probably thought looked totally cool.

  “This isn’t Tolkien, my friend,” Max said. “But you’re right. I was just a scientist back home. Then I came here and found science to be … unreliable at best. So I started watching other things. Not just how these people function, but what they do and why. It’s led to some amazing insights.”

  “Sounds amazingly creepy.”

  Fen let out an exasperated breath.

  “I’m not creepy,” he said. “I’m a small business owner. I’m a philanthropist. I was recently elected city treasurer, for crying out loud. I adapted, and now I have everything I ever wanted, but none of it matters next to my community. I don’t care about the wealth, the power, the—”

  “Women?”

  He paused, then leaned back in the chair, and the sly grin tiptoed back onto his face.

  “I’m man enough to admit I’m still working on that part,” he said. “This place isn’t exactly overflowing with genetically compatible candidates, as you may have noticed.”

  I nodded and lifted my hands in capitulation.

  “Listen, sorry for giving you a hard time,” I said. “It’s been a long day. I’m actually looking for a woman, too. You used to work with her, I think. Maybe your crows have seen her around.”

  “Apology accepted, brother,” he said, and the smile came back in full force. “Who is it? I’ll see what I can do.”

  I probably should’ve kept my mouth shut. Fen was looking for a girlfriend, and he’d worked with Elena before. The last thing I needed was a lovesick biologist turned alcohol tycoon tagging along. But I did need more information, and Fen had so much to spare it kept spilling out of his mouth.

  “Elena Volkova,” I said. “She was kidnapped.”

  The pen flipped out of Max’s hand and clattered across the desktop. His face paled a shade or two.

  “Oh, God,” he said. “Yes, she’s a friend. Have you heard anything else?”

  “Only that the kidnapper wears a freaky white mask and apparently isn’t working alone.”

  “Ah, yes … the monster I spoke of,” he said. “The locals call it the Outrider. I was hoping you had more information, as my sources only seem to bring back ghost stories. Is that why you’re following him? To save Elena?”

  “Just trying to help a friend,” I said, standing. “Listen, if there’s nothing else you wanted to talk to me about, I have a pretty busy schedule.”

  “I don’t doubt it, brother, but please, wait. There’s just one other thing. As you know, alchemists back home are, well … the world ignores them, at best.”

  I arched an eyebrow, and he raised his hands defensively.

  “Hear me out,” he said. “They’re powerful, to be sure, but they hoard their power and knowledge in vast halls and shun anyone from the outside world. Nowadays most people think the Royal Academy is just a society of old kooks who refuse to accept modern advancements. But here, in Astoria, claiming to be one can be … inflammatory.”

  “I noticed the looks. Why is that?”

  “Because they’re figures from myth, brother. These people have written entire sacred texts about alchemists. Tales of great sorcerers who brought miracles of technology and showed the masses how to receive messages from the gods.”

  “The radios.”

  “Yes, sir. But when the locals started calling it prophecy, some of the sanctimonious old fools tried to take it back. Others allegedly took their roles too seriously and tried to play gods themselves. Conflict ensued, though only stories of the war remain today. We do know that most of the alchemists were forced to depart. A few, they say, went into hiding. Either way, your order hasn’t had a visible presence in this world for centuries. Until you showed up.”

  I just stared at him. This was getting surreal.

  “So, to sum up,” he continued. “When you walked in here and announced your title, it was a bit like someone back home marching into a cathedral and saying, ‘Hi, I'm an archangel, and I don’t mean to be a bother, but if you hear some trumpets in a minute, don’t worry; it’ll all be over soon.’”

  As if on cue, a crash from above shook the tapestries and put an end to Fen’s monologue. His eyes fixed on the ceiling. The music from the taproom had stopped. Another crash came, followed by screams.

  “Shit!” he hissed, darting around the desk and hurrying for the door. I chased him up the stairs, and we burst from the coat closet at nearly the same moment.

  At the front of the room stood a figure so large it would’ve needed to hunch to enter had it not already busted through the door frame, tearing chunks from the wall in the process. Its face was an ugly, roughly hewn mask of bone. Tatters of gray fabric hung from its red scales, and each hand sported five shiny black claws. From one of them, the mantis musician dangled by his neck.

  “Alchemist,” the thing rasped in the menacing tones one expects from monsters. The lack of a mouth hole muffled the voice somewhat, but the word was unmistakable.

  “OK if I announce myself now?” I asked Fen. Before he could answer, I stepped forward. “Yeah, that’s me.”

  Every eye in the place turned my way, but I had better things to worry about than alerting the local lynch mob. Big Ugly tilted its head at me in that strange canine way.

  “Message,” it growled.

  “Drop that man … uh, tis … and I’ll listen.”

  The creature looked around as if it’d forgotten it was holding anything at all, then unceremoniously dropped the mantis. Mandibles clacked as he hit the floor, and I motioned for nearby patrons to help the poor guy. Then I looked back to the monster.

  “All right,” I said. “Speak your peace.”

  It stomped forward, shaking the floorboards as its shadow poured over me. I tried not to flinch when it reached into one of the few remaining pockets on its destroyed garment, removed an envelope in a clenched fist, and dropped the crumpled paper at my feet. Glancing around uneasily, I plucked the envelope up off the floor and flattened it with my hands. It was clean white paper, sealed in wax. Refusing to take my eyes off Big Ugly for more than a second or two at a time, I ripped the envelope open, removed a folded sheet of paper, and read what was written there in neat cursive.

  Dearest Westley,

  I must say, your little chase has been invigorating. It’s been so long since anyone even tried. But, as amusing as it has been, I need you to stop. Now. If you refuse, Astoria will burn. And the charming fellow standing before you shall be my flint and steel.

  Best wishes,

  The Outrider

  The sound of rustling paper made me realize my own hands were shaking. This made no sense. Was I supposed to believe this cordial request had been written by the same cackling horror I’d encountered in those tunnels? By the same thing that had murdered and abducted without hesitation or remorse?

  “Let me get this straight,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control as I crumpled the letter back into a ball and tossed it over my shoulder. “I can either let your boss keep hurting people, or you’ll burn this place to the ground. The whole city. Little ol’ you.”

  The big galoot tilted its head to the other side. I stood there for a moment, considering my options. I needed to focus on what I knew for sure. The cold, hard facts. If I decided to leave, to continue pursuing Elena, these people would be in danger. Could one thug take out the entire city? After what I’d witnessed in the Arclight hospital, I’d wager at least a couple of square blocks. So my choice boiled down to whose face I could stand to see every time I tried to sleep. That of one woman I knew, or those of a thousand strangers.

  Another face swam into focus before my mind’s eye. It was Abigail’s, clear as if I’d seen her yesterday. Hair matted down against one cheek. Blood running over smooth, white skin. My hand settled instinctively on
the butt of my gun. Energy hummed within me.

  “See, your deal would be perfect if not for one thing,” I said. “When someone sticks a gun in my face, all it makes me wanna do is draw mine.”

  A throat cleared behind me, and Max Fen spoke up.

  “Maybe we should calm down, friends—”

  “It’s not here to make friends, Max,” I said, then focused again on the creature. “I don't know what your boss thinks he’s accomplishing here, and frankly I don’t give a shit. He’s a bully. He pushes people down just to make them afraid. I don’t get along with people like that.”

  Big Ugly kept staring at me with those pitch black eyes. It probably understood roughly two percent of what I was saying, but whatever, I needed to yell.

  “I’m not going to let you control anyone through fear. So here’s what’s gonna happen: I’m going to find your boss and drill a few extra holes in his head. Got that, asshole? Consider these threats returned to sender.”

  The bone mask seemed to look me up and down.

  “You,” it rasped. “Weak.”

  A sarcastic retort was forming on my tongue when I glimpsed a tall figure, almost as big as Big Ugly itself, slinking through the crowd toward us. Oh, great. The last thing I needed was some homegrown hero trying to tackle this two-ton side of kickass. But before I could react, the figure raised its arms, howled a savage battle cry, and lunged at Big Ugly’s back.

  Chapter 17

  “Tally-hooooo!”

  The attacker’s cry had been ripped from the depths of — wait, tally-ho? My brain crashed, rebooted, and noticed two things simultaneously. First, the tall attacker’s skin glinted like copper under the amber lights. Second, a large canine shape was crouching, ready to pounce, at Big Ugly’s other flank.

  Coppersworth and Glynda struck almost in unison. Obsidian teeth flashed like knives, and a fist with built-in brass knuckles flew at the craggy slab of bone Big Ugly called a face.

  An instant before impact, the monster dodged with such serpentine swiftness I missed the movement without even needing to blink. The only sign it had moved at all was the sound its feet had made: an odd, shuffling scrape, as if limbs that fast could also be too heavy.