A hesitation; and an order not to think about a thing until he was at the house.
A loud sigh to compete weakly with the thunder, and he hurried through the first floor rooms, making sure the windows were locked, the draperies drawn, before taking up coat and hat and heading for the kitchen.
Still humming as he pulled on his gloves.
Leaving the overhead light burning so he wouldn’t come home to an empty house.
Then he decided to bring the bowl with him, to show them, and explain, and force Jeff into the truth. So he took it from the study and slipped it into a deep pocket on the inside of the coat, returned to the kitchen and assured himself he was right.
Throwing open the door and swearing at the rain that drenched him within seconds.
He ran for the stable and laughed when the roan backed deeper into its stall. “A rotten night,” he agreed as he calmed it with a word, stroking its muzzle, scratching it behind the ears. “But we have things to do, my friend, and this time you’re not deserting me. I’ll be damned if I’m going to walk home again.”
The roan snorted.
He saddled it quickly before it could protest, and mounted it smoothly, led it to the door and showed it the storm.
“See?” he said, patting and rubbing its neck. “Nothing to it, pal. You just get your feet wet and everything will be fine.”
The horse shied at the first strike of lightning, but John urged it outside, then prodded it into a trotting the animal soon changed to a fast canter. He didn’t protest; he was just as anxious to get back under shelter as it was, and he kept his head low as they rode down the Pike, watching nothing but the road ahead until they reached the Avlock gates.
He swerved in then, and the roan galloped to the portico where a manservant was waiting to take the reins. John thanked him, the man smiled and was immediately pulled off his feet when the horse started for home. It was several minutes before the two of them were able to get the animal back under control, and several minutes more before John was convinced it would be securely stabled for the night.
Then he knocked on the door, one hand anchoring his hat, and made a great show of entering. blowing warmth on his hands and shaking the rain from his shoulders, when Betty answered.
“Only for you,” he said, handing coat and hat over to a maid. “Only for you, my dear, would I be dumb enough to go out on a night like this.”
But her smile was sickly, and his own smile became a frown as he took her arm above her white gloves and led her off to one side of the center hall.
“Problems?”
She shrugged. but the red on her cheeks he knew wasn’t rouge.
“Sterling,” he guessed.
“He wants me married.”
“All right,” he said, glancing into the living room where he heard low voices. “So get married.”
“He wants me to marry Jeffrey.”
“Jesus.” He held her at a distance. “Is that what tonight’s all about?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.” Her eyes glittered then with unfallen tears. “The bastard. I marry Jeff. you see, and then he owns it all. Then dear Sterling buys it from him, and . . .”
He hushed her with a finger, offered her his arm, and they stepped into the other room, where Sterling was at his post, Vera on the couch, and Yasfiera Bey in a wing-chair, laughing quietly at a jest.
“Where are the others?” he whispered as Vera rose to greet him, her smile polite and her offered hand limp.
“You’re the first,” Betty whispered back.
“John,” Sterling greeted expansively, stepping off the hearth to shake his hand. “Good to see you! What a horrid night, don’t you think? I’m surprised you were able to make it.” He looked to the front window. “I have a feeling Howard and Sydney aren’t going to show. Can’t blame them, though, can you? Beastly storm. Rotten. Care for a brandy?”
John watched him perform his hostly duties, suspicion strong in his expression, which Avlock studiously ignored. Then he took a seat on the couch facing Vera’s, and Betty sat beside him.
“So, John,” Sterling said, “I suppose my lovely sister-in-law has told you the good news?”
Khirhal Bey tipped the bowl again.
And whispered the second name.
Sydney cursed the perverse behavior of his tie, finally yanked it off his neck and threw it on the floor. He had half a mind to change his plans and not go. It was bad enough his waist fought him every step of the way as he struggled to put on his trousers and shoes; now his fat fingers were betraying him as well, making him out the fool, making him helpless.
He grunted.
He retrieved the tie and within seconds had it perfect.
“You shouldn’t think, “ he told himself as he picked up a hair brush. “The thing is, Syd, you can’t think about it, or it’ll muck up.”
A touch of powder to his neck; a touch of scent to his jaw. A whisk that took the lint from his lapels and brocade waistcoat, a check of the gold pocket watch to be sure it was right.
Thunder that shook the house.
He grinned at the lamps burning on every table, thinking of the poor fools who had electricity, and were most likely ready to sue everyone in sight because the storm had probably knocked out the power. That sort of aggravation was not for him. Bad enough the railroads were being struck left and right, and his investments threatened the longer the strikes lasted; he wasn’t going to complicate matters by bringing in something he couldn’t control.
He stepped back from the mirror and turned around, looked over his shoulder and tugged at the jacket’s hem.
“Not bad for lard,” he said with a rueful laugh, and picked up a silver-headed cane from the bed and hurried downstairs, where he made sure the fire was still burning properly in its place, the lamps were still filled and lit, the back and veranda doors locked and barred. Then he decided he would warm himself with a small brandy.
He had time.
The carriage wasn’t scheduled to arrive for another fifteen minutes.
He had time.
Too much time, he thought then, as he took the first sip and shuddered at the burning that made him cough into a fist. It was on nights like this when he wished he had a wife. Someone who would fuss over him, to admire him . . . to convince him to stay home where he would have a better time than with that stuffy Sterling Avlock. There had been mistresses, on occasion, and once there’d been an engagement. But that had been when he was younger, and not ready to settle down.
Another sip, and he sniffed, put down the glass and walked over to the corner.
In the display case the jackal-headed man stared blindly at his stomach, and he opened the top. lifted it out, and held it across both hands.
Beautiful, he thought, bringing it closer to his eyes; age does you well, my friend, and a hell of a lot better than it treats me, don’t you think?
There was a loud knock on the door.
He looked at the clock on the mantel.
A second knock, more like a pounding, and he set the figurine back before crossing the room to the foyer.
“All right,” he called. “All right, I’m coming. Hold your horses.”
Grabbing up his hat and raincloak, he reached for the knob just as the door’s central panel splintered inward, driving him back with a shout.
A hand, an arm, swathed in grey cloth darkened by the rain, filling the house with a stench that made him gag as he stumbled away into the front room; a hand that gripped the wood and pulled it apart like paper, pulled the door off its hinge and threw it into the night.
Edmunds held the cane protectively across his chest while he fumbled for the telephone on the wall near the hearth. “I have a gun!” he shouted as the wind tore at the draperies, the rain covered the foyer rug. “I’ll shoot, I swear I will!”
He lifted the receiver and waited for the operator’s voice, muttering, “Come on, you old cow, where the hell are you?”
Then it stepped into the room, and th
e receiver fell from his hands.
“Jesus God,” he said, and threw the cane as hard as he could at the blackshadow coming toward him, pushing aside the couch, toppling a table whose lamp shattered on the floor and spilled flaming oil on the carpet.
“Jesus God,” he said again, and ran for the dining room. But his left foot caught the display case’s leg, and he stumbled sideways, turning, the case falling, the glass breaking, the figurine rolling across the floor into the fast-spreading flames.
The blackshadow reached down as Edmunds watched, and he could have sworn that it groaned as it picked up the statuette and held it over its head.
The couch began to burn, the draperies, the walls.
Edmunds shook his head in denial and opened his mouth to scream, but the jackal-headed man spun through the air and caught him on the temple. He moaned as he fell, blood blinding his right eye and running down his jowls; he moaned again when he hit the floor and rolled onto his back, eyes wide in disbelief as the blackshadow stood over him, its outline shimmering in the rising heat, the writhing light behind.
John, he thought, and thought nothing but a scream when the hand took his throat and lifted him to his feet, lifted him off the floor and held him high.
Weightless.
Legs thrashing.
Until it turned and dropped the fat man into the mouth of the fire.
Cab Planter stood in the middle of Turnbell’s office, smoking a cigarette he couldn’t taste, waiting for Dr. Gravell to get to the bank. He had already sent a loudly protesting Alden on to fetch John Vicar, and now he was sorry he hadn’t gone with him.
He didn’t like being here, not alone, not with the lightning playing tricks with the shadows, not with the battered body of the old man still bleeding across the desk; and not being able to turn away from what the old man held in his hand.
Impossible, he thought, and was relieved when the doctor came, took one look at Turnbell, and said, “You’d better get John, Cab. This is something he ought to see.”
I’m dead, Freddy thought; I’m dead, I’m dead. The rain fell into his open mouth, and he choked and rolled over.
I’m dead. I’m dead.
Thunder stoppered his ears.
Wind-driven mud slapped against his cheek until he rolled onto his back again, and sat up, grinning.
Not dead, he told himself, and cried out at the pain that stretched across his scalp. There was too much rain to tell if he was bleeding, but he remembered with the next peal where he was going, what he was going to say. And he jumped up, swayed, and broke into a shambling run, telling himself the pain was good because he wasn’t dead, he was alive, and Mr. Vicar would save him from the monsters in the storm.
Running from one verge to the other, calling Vicar’s name, falling against the wall that fronted Vicar’s house. He grinned. He fell through the gate. He fell against the door and pounded on it with both fists.
No one answered.
“Mr. Vicar!”
No one came to the door.
“Mr. Vicar!”
His head hurt, there were pictures of dark things in there, and he grabbed the knob and turned it, and stood dumbly when the door opened.
Wrong, Freddy, he thought as he stepped over the threshold; this is bad, you’ll get in trouble, you’re going to get in real bad trouble if you don’t get out now.
Then lightning flared and pushed his shadow toward the back, and he jumped farther in, one hand to his mouth, blinking away the rain that dripped from his hair. Finally staring at the paper the wind shoved to the floor.
Chapter 16
John smiled stiffly as Avlock prattled on about how wonderful the night was in spite of the storm, feeling Betty stiffen at his side whenever Jeffrey’s name was mentioned. Yasfiera, however, remained curiously silent, and several times he caught her glancing nervously toward the door.
“I wouldn’t worry about Jeff,” he said at last, his tone forcing the woman to look at him, eyes wide. “I have what he wants. In fact, I’ve brought it with me. He’ll be here sooner or later.”
“I do not understand,” she said in a low voice.
“Neither do I, exactly,” he answered. “But I will. I assure you, I will.”
Avlock cleared his throat then, loudly enough to turn John’s attention. “As I was saying — ”
Yasfiera stood then, reaching behind her to grip the back of her chair. “Excuse me,” she said faintly. “I should like to . . .”
Immediately, Vera rose. “Oh, my dear, of course.” She took Yasfiera’s arm and led her to the stairs. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping the others. I’m sure Jeffrey will be here before long. It’s this storm, you know. It’s practically ruined everything.”
They listened to her babbling until it was too faint to hear, then Sterling sniffed and took a long pull at his drink. “A strange woman,” he said, nodding toward the stairs. “Foreign, if you know what I mean.”
“More foreign than you or I know,” John said, aware of the look Betty suddenly gave him.
“Damn right,” Avlock said. And said, “Damn,” again when someone began banging frantically on the door. He stomped across the room and vanished into the foyer, then yelled so loudly John scrambled to his feet and followed.
“Freddy!” he exclaimed, when he saw Jones struggling with Avlock to gain entrance to the house.
“Mr. Vicar!” the disheveled man cried. “Mr. Vicar, the leaves! The leaves! I remember the leaves!”
Avlock slapped the man in the chest. knocking him onto his back on the porch, and John ran forward, shoving Sterling aside and dropping to his knees. There was blood on Jones’ face, his clothes were torn and burned, and he snapped an order over his shoulder for someone to help carry him into the house.
“The hell,” Avlock said, but was prevented from slamming the door when Betty elbowed past him, took one look at Freddy, and called back into the house for the servants to come running.
Though Avlock protested harshly, Jones was carefully laid on one of the kitchen islands, still babbling about leaves, and groaning whenever someone tried to examine his wound. Finally, Betty gave him a glass of bourbon, most of which he dribbled down his chin; but it served to calm him, stop his weeping, and John listened to his story.
“The leaves,” Freddy said. “Mr. Vicar, I forgot to tell you about the leaves in the stone house.”
“What stone house, Freddy?” he asked gently.
“His,” Jones answered, and pointed at Sterling.
Ten minutes later, John strode into the living room and stood in front of the fire. The wind howled across the chimney mouth, drew the flames upward, made them dance, but no matter how close he held his hands to the fire, he couldn’t get them warm.
“John?”
A hand light on his shoulder, and he covered it with his own.
“John, what’s going on?”
But his explanation was interrupted when Jeffrey stormed in without knocking, hatless, face and coat dripping. He took one look at them standing before the fireplace and demanded to know where Yasfiera was.
“Upstairs,” Betty told him.
Isle took a step toward the staircase, and stopped when John said his name. “What is it?” he said angrily.
“The bowl. “
“It’s too late, John. I told you that before.”
“I have it with me. It appears that it has upset your lady friend.”
Isle entered the room without removing his coat, eyes in a wary squint. “I don’t think I understand.”
“Sakhtu,” he said then, and silently sighed when Isle’s face paled. “Oh, Jesus, Jeff, what have you gotten yourself into?”
“Nothing,” said Yasfiera Bey as she took the last step· into the foyer and came up behind Jeffrey. “Nothing he does not understand. which is more than I can say for you, Mr. Vicar.”
John passed a hand over his face, bowed his head for a moment. “Ceremonies,” he said quietly, feeling Betty stir at his side. “I don’t kno
w what kind, and I don’t exactly know what they involve, but there are ceremonies, aren’t there? And for some reason they require this bowl, and the statuette, and Thornbell’s scarab. It’s not gambling, is it, Jeff. You lied about that.” He stepped off the hearth. “I saw it, you know. I saw that thing the other night.” Another step, and Isle seemed to hide behind the woman without moving. “I know it killed Reskin, and Freddy’s aunt, and Jake Emmett.”
Isle tried and failed to sneer. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really?”
He pushed between them and went to his coat, took out the bowl, and returned to the fireplace without showing them what he carried. When he did, it was while he held it close to the flames.
“How much is it worth to you, Jeff, to stop me from dropping it?”
“My god, you don’t know what you’re doing!” Isle shouted, and started for him, stopping only when Yasfiera came after him and grabbed his arm.
“Don’t,” she said. “He will not do it.”
But her voice trembled, and she would not meet his gaze.
“It’s that so-called curse of yours,” John said then. “Something you saw on your last trip abroad convinced you that all this hocus-pocus was going to prolong your life. Something — ”
And he stopped when he saw the expression on the man’s face; it was fear, and it was hatred, and it was a cold and dark contempt that almost made him consign the bowl to the flames without another word.
Betty took his arm and hugged it.
They could hear Sterling in the kitchen, arguing with the servants taking care of Freddy.
“You’ve done it, haven’t you?” he said then, feeling pieces fall together, feeling horror cover them all. “You’ve brought that renegade priest’s body into the country, and you’ve brought it back to life.” He closed his eyes at the thought, at the impossibility, and opened them again when he saw the blackshadow on the road. “My god, you really have done it.”
The Universe of Horror Volume 3: The Long Night of the Grave (Neccon Classic Horror) Page 11
