Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  "And you knew that all along," said Gayoso, scowling. "That's why you didn't want the emissary to allude to Montrose by name. You thought that if the woman knew who was coming to fight her, she'd lose her nerve and run away. Why didn't you share this with me before?"

  "If she'd destroyed Montrose on the battlefield, it wouldn't have mattered," the Shadow answered glibly. "To continue: When Montrose saw Louise, he fell prey to a terrible rage. He wanted to torture and ultimately destroy the lady with his own hands. Had he done so, his Shadow might have annihilated his psyche. He could have become a Spectre on the spot.

  "But for some reason, he held back. Contenting himself with a less intimate revenge, he condemned her to torment at the hands of others. But even that expression of his hatred was enough to permit his Shadow to possess him temporarily. It knew from past experience that it couldn't compel him to commit suicide, or attack his own soldiers. Had it tried, he would have snapped out of his altered state of consciousness. But it was able to prompt him to a subtler means of self-destruction."

  "And what was that?" Gayoso asked eagerly.

  "Somewhere in his belongings," the reflection said, "you'll find a journal written in his hand, with his characteristic phrasing; although actually, of course, his Shadow penned it. You have to retrieve it quickly, before he stumbles across it himself."

  "That could be difficult," said Gayoso, frowning. "He has his cutthroats guarding his section of the Citadel." Then he smiled. "But he likes Valentine, and his people know it. They'll let the little toad wander anywhere he pleases."

  "Can you trust Valentine?" the Shadow asked.

  "Yes. I know he helped Montrose at one point, but only because I hadn't ordered him not to. He's capable of small impudences like that, but ultimately he doesn't have the nerve to sell me out. His position here is the only remotely pleasant existence he's ever known, and he's terrified of losing it."

  "Good. Then he can steal the papers. When he passes them to you, have a first- rate Harbinger and a detachment of Legionnaires carry them to the Smiling Lord as quickly as possible. Your problem will sort itself out in nothing flat."

  When he'd first seen it, by the light of day, Bellamy had thought the motel lobby—a rectangular room paneled in oak, with a host of glassy-eyed bluefish, channel bass, cobia, and pompano mounted on the walls—looked rather comical. But at one o'clock in the morning, with no one else in view and most of the lights extinguished, some of the trophies floating in the shadows appeared less like fish with dopey expressions than hideous reptiles escaped from an ocean in hell, glaring balefully at any warm-blooded life that wandered into view.

  No, they don't, Bellamy told himself firmly. Turn off your imagination, or you never will get any sleep. He took a drink from his can of Coca Cola, savoring the sweetness, and the pleasant burn as it went down. Then he strolled across the room and flopped down on a sofa in front of one of the bay windows.

  Beyond the glass, the branches of the pines stirred restlessly. The sailboats and cruisers tied up at the docks bobbed and lurched back and forth as if trying to break their moorings. Gray clouds like fists clenched above the black expanse of Lake Pontchartrain, occluding most of the stars. The causeway was a vague streak in the distance, fading away into the night as if it some disaster had obliterated the middle section.

  Bellamy grimaced. The thunderheads, the boats, and the bridge reminded him of the island city in his nightmares. He wondered if every sight he encountered from now on, no matter how mundane, was going to convey intimations of mystery and terror to him for the rest of his life.

  Something touched him lightly on the shoulder. He jumped, squawked, and grabbed convulsively for his gun.

  "Chill!" said Astarte. "Don't shoot, Officer, I surrender."

  Bellamy took a deep breath, trying to slow his pounding heart. "I didn't hear you walk up."

  "Apparently not," Astarte said. Her mocking grin gave way to a gentler smile. "I guess you couldn't sleep, either. Bad dreams?"

  Bellamy shrugged. "That and anticipation, I guess."

  She sat down beside him. The rings in her eyebrow, nostril, and lip gleamed dully in the faint illumination. Still, without her black lipstick and eye shadow, she didn't look as self-consciously pugnacious as usual. "Try not to let the dreams bother you," she said. "You don't know that you're seeing the City of Death, and even if you are, it doesn't have to mean anything. Marilyn says that different people see different things when they stare at the magic writing, and she's never been able to find any kind of pattern to it."

  Bellamy smiled crookedly. "You mean there's something about the paranormal, about her own dirty little magic tricks, that Marilyn doesn't understand? Hey, there's a shocker."

  Astarte grinned. "What a snotty comment. Just because she pumped you full of drugs, kidnapped you, and was going to brainwash you, that doesn't mean you shouldn't try to be friends with her."

  "That's what's sad," Bellamy said. "I don't hold it against her. Life has gotten so crazy that what she did doesn't seem all that outrageous or even particularly important. If I'd had any idea what I was getting myself into, I don't think I'd be here."

  "Yeah, you would."

  "Don't count on it. Every time something spooky happens, I freeze up for a second or two."

  "Like the rest of us don't?"

  "I guess you do, but I also feel my mind squirm. I think it's trying to crawl inside itself, the way it did on the night Waxman died."

  Astarte made a fist and punched him on the forearm.

  "Ow!" he exclaimed.

  "You aren't going to choke again, no matter what we run into," she said. "I know you're not, so just get oyer it and give me a sip of your soda."

  "Okay," Bellamy said, handing her the red and white can. She threw back her head and glugged down considerably more than a sip. He was surprised and discomfited to catch himself staring at the rhythmic pulsing of the muscles in her long, white neck.

  She dragged the back of her black-nailed hand across her mouth and handed the Coke back. He could feel from the lightness of the can that there was hardly any soda left. "I'm the one who ought to feel like a chicken," she murmured.

  Puzzled, Bellamy cocked his head. "Why do you say that?"

  "Daimler and Miss Paris were the answer to my prayers. But when he changed, I choked. And even afterward, when the shock wore off, I couldn't bring myself to offer myself again."

  "I had you pegged the first time I ever read your posts on Grailnet," Bellamy said. "You really are out of your mind."

  "Daimler showed us two faces," Astarte said. "How do we know which one was real, and which an illusion? Maybe he was testing my courage, the strength of my commitment, and I flunked."

  "I think your mom read "Beauty and the Beast" to you one too many times when you were a kid. Miss Paris had her bandages on when you first walked in, before you ever announced that you'd figured out that she and Daimler were undead." He marveled in passing at how easily he now used the corny, ridiculous term, a word he couldn't recall ever speaking before in his life. "And there was nothing illusory about the stink of her flesh, or those nits crawling around in it. She really was deformed, and I'm sure Daimler was, too."

  "I suppose," Astarte said. "Still, 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder,' right? Maybe they didn't seem ugly to each other, or to themselves. Maybe if they'd changed me, I would have felt like a goddess, not a cripple or a freak."

  Bellamy shook his head. "What is it with you? Why are you so hot to become a part of the paranormal anyway, especially after the gruesome things we've seen? You've never really told me."

  She shrugged. "I don't know if I can explain it. Except that lots of the time, life sucks. I don't mean the parts that make you mad, or break your heart. I mean when it's plastic and ordinary. You look at somebody you're supposed to love, or hate, and you don't feel anything, any more than you would if you were looking at a machine. Or you find yourself slumped in front of the TV, staring at some rerun that was shitty the f
irst time, but you can't find the energy to get up and go do something else."

  Bellamy smiled. "I don't think that happens to you very often."

  "It happens to everybody," Astarte said somberly. "Everywhere you look, you see people just switching off, wasting time, like they were going to be around forever.

  "On the other hand, sometimes you take a bite out of a peach, or hear a great song on the radio, or look at a robin redbreast outside your window, and your whole mind and body just lights up. And you think, this is it. This feeling of delight. This is the whole point of being alive. I've got to hold on to it. But you never can. It always slips away."

  "And you think that for paranormal creatures, it doesn't. Life is an endless series of highs without any lows."

  Astarte shrugged. "I figure that's why we call them supernatural. I'm not saying they don't ever feel grief or pain or fear. But at least they always feel something."

  "And that's seems so wonderful to you that you'd want to be one, even if it meant becoming evil?"

  "What's evil? Who are we to judge them when we don't know what they know, or understand what they understand?"

  "In a weird kind of way, you have a point," Bellamy began.

  Astarte grinned. "Hey, that's the first time you've ever admitted I might be right about anything. I feel all warm and squishy."

  Bellamy chuckled. "I didn't mean you were right, just that I understand how you feel. Since I got involved in this mess, I haven't known what to believe about anything. For instance, maybe I should forget about the Atheist and try to destroy Daimler and Miss Paris. They might represent a bigger threat to human life than he does. There's no way to know. I'm flying blind.

  "But I think we have to try to do the right thing, even when we're ignorant and Confused. If we don't, we really won't be any better than robots." He smiled at her. "Whether you realize it or not, you care about right and wrongs too. If you didn't, you wouldn't have jeopardized your dream to help me. You would have offered yourself to Daimler with no strings attached."

  She shrugged. "I never said I was consistent. You know what else is strange to think about? By this time tomorrow, ve may have our answers,"

  He nodded. When he'd checked with the New Orleans Post Office yesterday afternoon, he'd received a letter from Daimler. The message, written in an elegant Spencerian hand, had provided an address where the mysterious men from Lafayette supposedly stayed when they visited the city. "It's possible. You know, I still think it would be better if you didn't come with me."

  "Don't even try. I'm in, and that's that. Even if I didn't want to go, you need somebody to watch your back, and I'll be more use than any of the Arcanists, not that you could convince one of them to tag along anyWay."

  He had to admit, she had a point. In the final analysis, all the surviving occultists, even Marilyn, had the temperament of scientists or scholars, not daredevils or cops. On occasion, they did willingly place themselves in harm's way, but only when they believed they understood the nature of the danger and had taken appropriate precautions to protect themselves. They were more than reluctant to break into a strange building knowing only that it was occupied by people—or quasi-people— with ties to: the paranormal, who were apparently to blame for scores of disappearances.

  Bellamy didn't blame the Arcanistsfor their cautiott. He suspected that if he had had as much experience with the:supernatural as they had, he wouldn't be so reckless, either.

  "Okay," he said. "I just had to try to talk you out of it one more time."

  "I know you did," she said. "It's nice, in a Condescending, MOP kind of way. And it was nice; when you tried to save me from Daimler." She: put her arms around him and kissed him. The contrast between her warm, soft flesh and the cold, hard metal transfixing it was as arresting as he'd imagined.

  At first he kissed her in return, his tongue dancing with hers, his hands slipping, inside her leather jacket to caress her body. He couldn't help himself. But.gradually his sense of propriety reasserted itself. Extricating himself from her embrace, he shifted sideways On the sofa cushion, putting distance between them.

  "You want to go to one of our rooms?" she panted. "Mine's closer."

  Breathing heavily himself, he swallowed and said, "I'm sorry. I can't do this."

  She frowned. "Why not? You told me you were divorced. And I know you like me."

  "Yes," he said, wondering how she'd known it when he hadn't ever quite admitted it to himself.

  "It can't be the difference in our ages," she said. "I'm legal, and you're only a few years older than me. Is it my look? The piercings, and all that?"

  "No," he said. "The problem is that it wouldn't be professional."

  "You're kidding."

  "No," Bellamy said. "An FBI agent shouldn't get romantically involved with a fellow investigator, or anybody he meets in the context of a case."

  "Are you crazy?" she asked. "You aren't here as an official FBI guy, remember? You're poking around on your own. You're already breaking the rules, and anyway, I'm not going to rat you out to your bosses."

  "You have to understand," he said, "there's a point to this particular rule. It helps you stay sharp and objective."

  She sighed. "And you can't see your way clear to just relax and let go, even for a few minutes."

  "It wouldn't be for just a few minutes. If we went to bed, things would be different afterwards. The feelings I have for you would be stronger than they are already."

  "God, let's hope so."

  "Look, I've always tried to be the very best cop I could be. I've always given one hundred percent, without letting anything distract me. And that discipline has worked for me. It's helped me catch a lot of criminals. And because it has, I'm not willing to put it aside, especially in a situation where your life is on the line. I care about you way too much for that."

  She smiled crookedly. "I guess I have some options here. I could rip off my clothes or grab your crotch, and see if I could convince you not to be such a jerk. I could deck you. Or I could ask if there's a ride against you dating me after the case is over."

  "No," Bellamy said. "I don't remember reading that one anywhere in the G-man handbook."

  "Well, don't let it get your hopes up. I was just wondering. You had your chance." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't sit up all night," she said in a softer tone. "Try to get some rest."

  She stood up and headed out of the lobby. Her hips seemed to sway more than usual, as if she was exaggerating the motion to tease him. As he watched her blend with the shadows, he did indeed feel like the biggest jerk on earth.

  A rhythmic vibration shook the floor, so softly no mortal would have noticed. But Montrose perceived it without difficulty and even divined the source. A sizable company of wraiths was marching in step through the Necropolis.

  Puzzled, the Scot frowned. He made a point of keeping track of the agendas of his fellow Anacreons' Legionnaires. To the best of his knowledge, no large detachment of soldiers should have been heading out of or into the Citadel this evening. He decided to find out what was going on.

  Rising, he picked up his mask and pressed it to his face, strapped on his pistol and rapier, and wrapped himself in his voluminous mantle. As he fastened the silver collar clasp, he heard familiar footsteps pattering down the corridor outside.

  "Come in," he called. Valentine stuck his head, crowned with a green and yellow floppy-horned cap, through the office door. "Hello."

  "Good evening, Anacreon," said the dwarf. "Gayoso told me to tell you that a column of soldiers, from Stygia by the look of them, is coming toward the Citadel. He suggested that all four of you Anacreons gather at the front entrance to greet the commanding officer,"

  "That sounds reasonable," Montrose replied. "Which Legion is arriving?"

  Valentine hesitated, and then said, "If Gayoso knows, he didn't tell me."

  "Well, I suppose everyone will know soon enough," Montrose said. "But I think I'll indulge my curiosity and find out now.
If I fly up above the Citadel, I should be able to read their standards and banners. It's a pleasant night. Would you care to ascend with me? I promise not to drop you."

  "No," said the dwarf, almost too quickly. "I have to get back to Gayoso. But..."

  Montrose cocked his head. "What's troubling you?"

  "Nothing! I'm just.. .nervous this evening. You be careful." He scuttled backward, pulling his head and shoulders back through the door. His running feet clattered back down the corridor.

  I always am careful, Montrose thought. But tonight, I shouldn't really have to be. Gayoso isn't likely to attempt to assassinate me in front of a group of newly arrived Stygian witnesses. Shaking his head over Valentine's jitters, wondering if Gayoso had been abusing the small man, the Scot blew out the barrow-flame lamp, invoked his Harbinger Arcanos, and then strode through the cobwebs and grimy glass in one of the window frames.

  He allowed himself to drop for an instant, enjoying the thrill of free fall, and then soared upward into the cool air. The ugliness of the decaying city, blemished and distorted by the Shroud, gave way to the unstained beauty of the moon and stars. He felt a pang of joy, and a mad desire to soar up and up forever.

  Quashing the impulse, he peered across the Necropolis. Despite a lack of music or any particular attempt at ostentation, the Stygians were easy to spot. The column was climbing toward the Citadel from the south. The Hierarchs were wearing the same insignia and carrying the same black and scarlet flags as Montrose's original force, indicating that they were affiliated with both the Smiling Lord and the Order of the Unlidded Eye.

  In different circumstances, Montrose might have worried that his master had dispatched a new force under a new general because he was dissatisfied with his original agent's progress. But the Scot had scored such an impressive series of victories that he couldn't credit such a notion. Perhaps the Smiling Lord was so pleased that he'd sent additional troops to enable Montrose to extend the scope of the campaign. Or maybe he'd provided fresh men and a new commander so that his valiant deputy could return home and be rewarded for his efforts.