The Ouroboros Lock

by Mark William Chase

  Hissing under my breath, I stuffed the macabre object into my bag and glanced around, looking for the gun the thief had dropped. I did not see the weapon near the body, so it must have bounced under the sofa or into the ashes of the fireplace when it hit the floor. But no matter. The gun was not my own, so it would not implicate me should Corbin or a constable find it. Sighing, I stood, and stepped up to the mantel to take the Ouroboros Lock. The device was not really a lock at all, but rather more like a clock, with its wooden mantel case and central complication of brass gears and gleaming cogs engraved with occult symbols. Around the edge of the complication was a silver ring, molded in the form of a snake eating its tail—the ouroboros for which it was named—also etched with mystical characters. Nodding in satisfaction, I took the Lock from the mantel and stuffed it into my bag along with the shriveled human hand.

  With my bag looped over one shoulder, and the thief’s body thrown over the other, I hurried out the front door and headed straight for the nearby pond, if a pond that murky bog could be called. The reeds and underbrush offered ample avenues of escape, but more importantly, they gave me a means to dispose of the incriminating evidence produced by the nearly botched burglary. But just before I sank my victim in the bog, I noticed another strange artifact dangling out from beneath the bloody rags wrapped about the corpse’s head. The object was a talisman, I realized, a flat diamond-shaped pendent, cast in bronze with a wide-open eye engraved in its center. Although I had never seen a talisman exactly like this one before, I recognized it at once as an Oculus Malus, an Evil Eye, which by its virtue could both ward curses as well as invoke them. Unlike countless other folk charms, this Evil Eye was exquisitely crafted in meticulous detail, inlaid with ivory, jade, and onyx to accent its design, its jade iris carefully inscribed with some mysterious spell in an alphabet utterly unknown to me. Was this more of Mortimer’s handiwork? The only clue to its previous owner were the letters “A.C.L.” carved neatly on the back. Realizing that my lord might be interested in such a uniquely-stylized specimen, I yanked the pendent free and dropped it in my bag.

  Once I had committed the body to the mire, along with my burglar’s outfit, I drew a less conspicuous set of clothes from my bag and quickly dressed. I then hurried back to Voger’s manor under the cover of the moonless night, the bag with my spoils slung over my shoulder and the Evil Eye hung about my neck.

  “The Evil Eye suits you,” Lord Voger had said to me that very night upon my return. His plush leather armchair creaked as he eased back his considerable bulk, and he drew deeply on his fat cigar, his eyes fixed on the Ouroboros Lock. “You may keep the amulet as your reward, along with the usual dispensation for your services. Now go and get yourself cleaned up. Tomorrow, I want you to take this thing to Mortimer.” He waved dismissively at the Main-de-Gloire still lying next to the Lock on his desk. “If he wants it, gift it to him as token of my largesse.”

  My jaw clenched, but I gave no sign of my displeasure and did not voice my suspicions. As much as I disliked the conniving warlock, Mortimer did rank high among the sundry underworld associates loyal to my lord and his many illicit enterprises. If Mortimer had sent the other men to steal the Lock out from under me, I would need proof of his involvement and not merely the suggestion that sorcery had been involved.

  The next day I took the hand and took a Hansom into town, to “Mortimer’s Oriental Emporium”—a shop ostensibly specializing in imported Ottoman and Indian goods. He had no customers, and the creepy little wretch that helped Mortimer run his shop was nowhere to be seen. But Mortimer himself was as keen and clever as ever. I half expected him to dismiss the grisly artifact as a counterfeit curio, if for no other reason than to free himself from obvious implication. Much to my surprise, Mortimer gladly accepted the damaged Main-de-Gloire, even though it was missing two fingers, all the while with a twisted half-smile contorting his gaunt face. That grin had never sat well with me. It was as though he was privy to some secret knowledge that amused him to no end.

  “I will give you twenty pounds for the Oculus Malus,” Mortimer said, nodding to the talisman tucked neatly behind my shirt and vest. How had he seen it? The warlock must have sensed my unspoken question. “Don’t look so surprise, Macey,” he went on to say. “I can feel its power, you know.”

  It was all the confirmation I needed of the charm’s protective virtue. “If it is all the same to you, I think I will be keeping it,” I replied.

  Mortimer only broadened his grin. I had considered confronting him directly about the Evil Eye and the Hand of Glory, implying that I knew he was involved with the attempted burglary, but the warlock’s condescending attitude was more than I could abide. The last thing I wanted was for him to gloat over my appeal for his aid, and so I decided to find out for myself who the other thieves had been. Who were they? Where had they gotten the Oculus Malus and Main-de-Gloire? Were they working for Mortimer, or had they acquired the occult wares from by some other means? One of the thieves was still alive and likely hiding out somewhere, and my best chance to discover the truth of the matter was to lure him out and capture him for questioning.

  Over the next few months I began placing discreet inquiries with my more trustworthy black market contacts and various sordid establishments, asking if anyone knew anything about a “fabulous clockwork lock” purported to be unbreakable, or of anyone who might have been hired to steal such a device. When little came of that, I planted just enough information to suggest that the Lock was now owned by Lord Voger. Although no thief in their right mind would attempt to break into Voger’s manor to steal the Lock, one might if he had the aid of occult powers. Now that the Main-de-Gloire was back in Mortimer’s possession, and I had the Oculus Malus to protect myself from its influence, I had merely to wait and see if the accomplice of the thief I had killed—or any other one, for that matter—would prove foolish enough to make the attempt.

  Two more months passed until, one rainy, mid-April night, I was duly rewarded for my efforts.

  “There is a matter I need you to attend in Istanbul,” Lord Voger was just saying as we made our way into the upstairs drawing room of his manor. “An associate of mine in the import business has recently become the subject of a police investigation, and we need their chief inspector removed from the case. Permanently.” The baron chuckled to himself, patting his belly as he did. “You will, of course, need to make it look like an accident. If there are any other...”

  My lord’s words trailed off. Porcelain cups shattered on the floor, and I spun around just in time to see the old butler fainting before reaching the tea table with his serving tray. No sooner had he fallen than I heard another servant topple over somewhere down the hall, and the clamor of pans from the kitchen downstairs told me that the cook had succumbed as well.

  “What is this?” I asked, turning back to Lord Voger. But the baron, too, had been taken by the spell, first stumbling, and then collapsing to the floor. He was not dead, but lost to a deep, unwaking sleep.

  Whether it was the Evil Eye that protected me from the strange bewitchment, or the strength of my own superior will, I do not know, but chancing nothing, I clutched the charm through my shirt and dashed into the hall. My gun wasn’t with me—I had little need for it in Lord Voger’s house—and I hastened to my room, grabbing my prized Lefaucheux and running back to the balcony overlooking the manor’s marble foyer. I stood in silence for five counts of my racing heart, listening for any sign of an interloper. Although I heard nothing, the air grew thicker and heavier with every passing moment, and a clammy chill descended upon the manor. The Black Arts were at work here, of that I had no doubt.

  “Cursed be he who intrudes upon this house!” I hissed, rubbing the Evil Eye through my shirt. My fingers seemed to burn as I traced its intricately engraved contour; a rush of exhilaration surged through me as I savored the intangible forces emanating from the strange pendent. “May he suffer damnation without end!”

  I slipped quietly down the stairs to the fir
st floor, not stopping as I passed the unconscious maid who was just as spellbound as the others. A thump from the gallery seized my attention and I grinned. I have him now! Keeping to the shadows, I turned another corner and crept silently across the marble floor of the dimly-lit hall. The sound of clattering gears issued from the gallery, followed by a blinding flash of pure white light, not unlike the flash of light I had seen that fateful night in Corbin Guissant’s house. Realizing I was out of time, I whirled through the door, cocking my revolver’s hammer and bringing the gun up to fire. The thief moved to take the Ouroboros Lock from its place on the ornate table in the back of gallery, and thunder cracked from my pistol as I fired. I cursed, my quarry having twisted around unexpectedly, and the bullet had missed his skull by a hair. The thief dove through the doors on the far side of the gallery and I screamed, firing three more shots in the hopes of striking the intruder before he fled through the west parlor. Realizing I had missed on all four accounts, I took chase.

  The intruder burst through the back door and rushed into the rainy night, half-staggering, half-sprinting for the fence. By the time I was outside, he had scaled the palisade and had fallen clumsily into the mud on the other side. For a moment I thought I had him, but the sound of a return gunshot forced me to tumble for cover. I was up and running again a second later, and with an agile bound I leaped for the fence, grabbing the upper crossbar and flinging myself over. My boots hardly touched the slick ground before I was off again, following my adversary through the pelting rain as he scampered down Tappington Hill. A double flicker of lightning split the sky, and spotting the thief, I stopped to aim and fire. The bullet should have hit, but the Fates were against me this night, and the shot flew wild. I cocked the hammer and fired the last round, more out of frustration than any hope of hitting the thief, and the bullet was lost to the black and dismal storm.

  “Thief!” I screamed over a rumbling peal of thunder. “Fates curse you, you wretched thief!”

  The only answer was another distant gunshot cutting through the pall of darkness. I spat in disgust and combed my fingers through the soggy mat of hair plastered against my head. The burglar had escaped, but at least I had chased him off before he could steal the Lock. Even so, I prayed the fool would make another attempt, even as I pinched my face in a hateful sneer. How I longed to dig his eyes from their sockets!

  I stood for a few more minutes, sulking in the melancholic rain, then grudgingly returned to the manor to wake Lord Voger and inform him of the incident. I had just climbed back over the fence surrounding the estate, feet splashing down in the sodden earth, when I noticed an object the thief must have dropped in his panicked flight. I kneeled, pulling the object from the mud, and nearly dropped it again when I saw I was holding a severed human hand.

  The drizzling rain quickly washed the mud away, and I saw the distinctive waxy coating and candle stubs protruding from the thumb and three fingers, with the pinkie having completely burned away. My breath caught and my eyes widened in sudden recognition. Other than the fact that this Hand of Glory still had its ring finger intact, the size, color, and posture of the necromanced charm were exactly as I remembered them from the Hand of Glory that I had given to that cursed warlock.

  “Mortimer,” I growled, bitter disdain filling my mouth.

  Now it all made sense. Mortimer, along with an accomplice, had attempted to steal the Ouroboros Lock from Corbin Guissant’s house on the very night that I had chosen—likely in an attempt to frame me for the crime. I had arrived earlier than he expected, interrupting their burglary, and killed Mortimer’s accomplice. Mortimer himself escaped unscathed, no doubt aided by his reputed ability to change form and move swiftly in the night. But despite all his powers and precautions, he had dropped the Hand of Glory, implicating himself as sure as anything.

  Yet, despite the evidence, my lord refused to believe, and once I had returned the Hand of Glory to him, he possessed the means to attempt the theft once more. He bided his time for half a year, then, using the Hand of Glory, raided my lord’s manor to steal the Ouroboros Lock. Everyone within the manor was bewitched by the Main-de-Gloire’s spell, save for myself, thanks to the Oculus Malus, and I thwarted the theft a second time. Just as before, the fool dropped the Hand of Glory in his haste, leaving behind all the evidence I needed to prove the warlock’s betrayal to my lord.

  Or so I thought.

  “Don’t be absurd, Macey,” Lord Voger balked. I had returned and roused him to report what had transpired, but even showing him the Hand of Glory, he remained unconvinced. “Mortimer’s loyalty is as steadfast as yours. Besides, he was the one who told me about Guissant’s invention in the first place. Why would he do that if he planned to take it for himself?”

  My lips drew silent, my fists clenching as I push back against the anger roiling within me. To have my unfaltering devotion equated to the lies of that fiend was like a rapier through my heart. Moreover, I was certain Mortimer had told Voger of the Lock just so he could steal it out from under me, in the hopes that I would be caught and implicated while he made off with the device clear and free.

  “My lord,” I said, gesturing to the Hand of Glory, “this is the very same Main-de-Gloire that I found six months ago at Guissant’s house, and which you had me give to Mortimer as a gift. It was dropped by the thief as he fled.”

  But Lord Voger just shook his head. “Mortimer is a merchant of occult oddities, both fraudulent and authentic. What did you think he was going to do with the Hand of Glory that we gave him? Stick it on a shelf in his cellar to rot? He obviously sold it to a thief, and whoever he sold it to used it to break into my house.” Voger planted himself behind his desk and drew a cigar from its case. He clipped off the end and stuffed the revolting thing into his mouth before lighting it. “Find out who is actually behind this break-in, track him down, and kill him. Now go!”

  I grimaced. If my lord refused to believe the practically irrefutable evidence I had shown him, I would just have to work harder to ensnare the warlock in his own larcenous game.

  “Yes, my lord,” I answered. Then I took the Hand of Glory and departed from his office.

  I rose early the next day to put my plan into action. Just before noon, I took a Hansom into town to confront Mortimer with the Hand of Glory. The rain had finally abated, but the sky was still bleak and gray as though the gods themselves had pulled a shroud over this forsaken city of dreadful night. Hooves clopped and wheels clattered along the worn cobblestone road, and I watched through the cab’s open front as peasant hovels and long-abandoned graveyards rolled by, soon giving way to the baroque towers, squalid tenements, filthy streets, and dark alleyways of the city proper. The last remnant of the Domitian Wall stood as it had two thousand years ago, a testament to the greatness of ancient Rome, and not far away rose the imposing ribs of the grim cathedral of Saint Anterus. It was Sunday, and I smirked at the solemn-faced sheep dolefully ascending the steps of that cheerless cathedral of hoary gray stone.

  The Hansom continued down Maywell Street to the end of the block, where stood “Mortimer’s Oriental Emporium.” To my astonishment, Mortimer’s shop was closed for the day—a great oddity indeed, for he always kept his shop open during his posted business hours. My first thought was that Mortimer had fled the city following his failed burglary, but on deeper consideration, I realized that such action would only serve to implicate him further. If he truly wanted to feign innocence, then his wisest course of action would be to carry on as usual. I could have broken into his shop and searched the premises attic to cellar—I did have a Hand of Glory with me, after all—but I had no way of knowing if Mortimer was inside or not. Worse, he had already demonstrated that he could sense the Evil Eye pendent that I wore, so sneaking up on him was patently impossible. And I was certainly not going to confront a master of the Black Arts without the protection of the Evil Eye.

  Instead, I followed a more prudent course of action, finding a concealed spot across the street to wait and watch his sho
p for a time, hoping to spot him either returning or leaving. Unfortunately, my furtive vigil proved to be as tedious as it was fruitless. I did not spot Mortimer at all that day, nor at any point during the night or the following day. I hired on three street goons to keep a discreet watch as well, not only to cover the back and sides of the shop, but also to fill in for me when I went to get something to eat from a nearby tavern or to catch a few hours of sleep. Being less than enamored by their surveillance abilities, I made it a point to be on watch as much as possible, but the second night proved to be just as fruitless as the night before. The stormy rains had returned, making the vigil all the more miserable, and sometime during the small hours past midnight, I finally resigned myself to a brief respite, a hot bath, and a fresh change of clothes back at Voger’s manor.

  My timing could not have been more inauspicious.

  The first sign that something was amiss was the empty spot on the table in the gallery where the Ouroboros Lock should have been. The second sign was Lord Voger screaming to know where I had been when the thief broke in a second time. The sting of my lord’s words bit sharply, but I did not flinch or show any outward sign of shame. I fully expected my lord to sentence me to the typical punishment dispensed to all who failed him—slow death by disembowelment—but he seemed to rein in his anger once his initial tirade was over. Perhaps he was less angry over the loss of the Ouroboros Lock than he was by the fact that someone had the audacity to steal anything from him, and perhaps he spared me knowing that I alone stood the best chance of finding and retrieving his pilfered property.