Hold The Dark m-3

by Frank Tuttle

  “Good,” she said. She sighed, with relief this time, and for the first time she looked tired. “So we’re still friends?”

  “We are. I don’t blame you for not telling me, first thing. You didn’t know me then, hadn’t had a chance to succumb to my mannish and worldly charms.”

  She laughed. I rummaged in my pocket, brought out the silver comb. “This turned up last night,” I said. “Ever seen it before?”

  She took it, eyed it critically. “Never. It’s a bit gaudy. Where did you find it?”

  “Martha’s dresser,” I replied. “In a junk jar. Her brothers hadn’t seen it before.”

  “It doesn’t look like anything Martha would buy.” She handed it back to me and frowned. “Where did she get it?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think she bought it herself. But no one knows who gave it to her, or when.”

  Darla bit her lower lip. “The Park. It had to be the Park.”

  I pricked up my ears. “Why the Park?”

  She smiled an impish smile. “If you wanted to meet a girl, where would you go?”

  I shrugged. “I just stand still and young ladies flock to me in doe-eyed droves. Why don’t you tell me how lesser men find hearts to break.”

  “The Park.” She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Strolls through the flower gardens? Benches beneath the whispering oaks? Lazy afternoons watching the sun?”

  I frowned. “And?”

  “It’s a good thing you met me when you did. Let me spell it out for you. Martha lived with four scowling behemoths in a Balptist neighborhood. She worked with women in a house guarded by the Hoogas. She went three places-work, home and the Park.”

  I shook my head. “Interesting. Maybe I’ll hire you as an assistant. Mama can read her cards and you’ll do all the thinking and I’ll be able to sleep in, emerging only occasionally to collect fees and issue directives to the Watch.”

  “Don’t you dare ignore me. I’m right. If Martha Hoobin met someone who gave her a tacky silver comb, she met him in the Park. Did I mention she stopped feeding the birds about two weeks ago?”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Well she did. Maybe she stopped going because she didn’t want to see her comb-gifting gentleman friend anymore.”

  “I’ve heard crazier things,” I said. It did make a sort of sense.

  Ice-pawed rats ran up and down my spine. Eleven names looked up at me from the paper on my desk.

  That’s the thing about the Park. It’s handy for just about everywhere-and just about everyone.

  Darla saw it on my face.

  “I knew it,” she said. There was no triumph in her tone. “The Park. It had to be the Park.”

  “Might have been.”

  I stared at the list.

  Twelve women. All gone, I imagined. Just like Martha.

  Down on the Square, way past the dark, empty Park, the Brass Bell clanged out nine times, then paused, then rang once more. Curfew had fallen and the dark.

  Darla shivered.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said, rising. “You’ll be having company soon.”

  A wagon rumbled up, stopped at my door. I rose too, beat Darla to the door, opened it enough to see that it was Hooga, his breath steaming in the chill.

  “She’ll be right out,” I said. “And I thank you, for seeing her safe.”

  Hooga snorted. His horses-two shaggy mad-eyed Percherons-stamped at the cobbles and sent up sparks with their hooves and chewed at their iron bits.

  Darla came up beside me, took my arm. “You promised you’d be careful.” I put my hand on hers.

  “I did,” I said. “I keep my promises.”

  “You’d better. After all, you promised to watch over me too. I think I like that, Markhat. You watching over me.”

  “I think I like that too.”

  It had been a long time. Before the War. Before I’d gone away, and come back someone else. There were things I’d forgotten, things I never thought I’d remember.

  But when she leaned closer, so did I, and we kissed. She was warm and her hair smelled of flowers and we held each other until Hooga grunted. She darted away and was gone.

  I leaned on my doorframe and watched them go. Hooga flung a thick brown ogre blanket over her. She waved once and vanished beneath it.

  She’d pressed something in my hand, just before she’d gone. It was a scrap of paper, and it bore her address.

  “I’ll be seeing you,” she’d written, below it. “Bring the wine.”

  I lit a pair of lamps and waited for midnight.

  Darla had been right, of course. My caller, the mysterious E.P., would be of one of the halfdead Houses, if not halfdead himself. He’d all but announced this with the note.

  I wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of playing host to vampires after dark, much less inviting them in. But I’d had ample time to summon the Watch, show them the letter, even invite a half-dozen of them along for our midnight meeting. And while the Watch might wink at most crimes, a violation of Curfew law that said vampires couldn’t enter dayfolk dwellings uninvited would bring the city across the river and into the Heights as a torch-bearing mob. I doubted that mayhem was E.P.’s intention.

  I thought about Ronnie Sacks and House Avalante. I’d decided that E.P. would probably be wearing Avalante’s crossed swords as the Big Bell clanged out midnight and someone knocked softly at my door.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “E.P.,” said a voice. He was speaking softly, loud enough for me to hear, but not so loud as to be forceful. He pronounced his words carefully, like a schoolmarm was listening. “Evis Prestley. I believe you are expecting me.”

  I rose. “It isn’t locked.” Not much use locking doors against vampires who could haul them right out of their frames with two fingers. “Come on in.”

  He did.

  He was halfdead.

  I fought to keep my smile. He glided inside, closed the door gently behind him, took a single step away from it, and then came to parade rest, his gloved hands clasped behind him at the small of his back.

  I nodded toward the client’s chair. “Won’t you have a seat?” My voice didn’t shake. Much.

  He nodded, moved and sat. He hadn’t spoken, and I gathered he was refraining from speaking largely to avoid showing me a jawful of fangs.

  As I understand matters, that gesture passes for rare high regard among the halfdead. I made myself take a breath, and I sat as well.

  We just looked at each other, engulfed in an awkward silence. I took him in as quickly as I could. He was short, a full head shorter than myself, and thinner. Neat short black hair combed up and back from a widow’s peak. Skin the color of new dough. Small thin nose, as white as a fresh-peeled potato. Eyes that had been blue while he lived and were still blue but obscured by a white glaze that made them look like dirty marbles.

  He wore rich man’s black-black pants, black shirt, black vest, knee-length black coat, all tailor-made and custom cut. A pin shone on his lapel-the crossed swords, in silver, of House Avalante. His collar was high, black gloves covered his hands-he’d taken pains, I gathered, to conceal as much of his dead pale skin as possible.

  “Evis Prestley,” I said. “You sent the list of names.”

  “I did,” he replied. His mouth, when he opened it, was white, and his teeth were wet and sharp. “And in doing so I fear I caused you insult. Mr. Sacks was told to deliver it to your office and return to the House. He was not instructed to follow you. The House offers its apologies, as does Mr. Sacks.”

  “Accepted. And by the way-if Ronnie is the best tail you’ve got, you’d better get out of the business.”

  He smiled with his mouth firmly closed. “We at Avalante value initiative. Mr. Sacks was attempting to impress us. A pity he didn’t choose a venue more suited to his talents.”

  I nodded. I was breathing a little easier. If he was going to bite, I figure he’d have done so by now. Maybe it was his voice, too-nothing weak about it, but I kept
expecting him to start lecturing me in the finer points of antebellum architectural history.

  I noticed him squinting, decided I could show off my manners too.

  “I can turn down the lamps, if you want. I didn’t think of it earlier.”

  Evis shook his head no, reached into his jacket and pulled a pair of dark-lensed spectacles out of his breast pocket. “No need.” He brought the glasses up to his nose, peeped over them with his dead man’s eyes. “If you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” I said. He put his glasses on. I was glad his eyes were covered, and he probably knew it.

  “I didn’t come here to talk about the bumbling antics of Mr. Sacks. We share a common goal, Mr. Markhat. We’re both looking for Martha Hoobin.”

  I frowned. “I thought as much. Mind telling me why House Avalante cares what happened to the Velvet’s star seamstress?”

  He sighed. “All I can tell you, Mr. Markhat, is that the House wants to see Martha Hoobin returned to her family, safe and sound and soon.”

  I nodded. “Ah, yes. The renowned altruism of the Great Houses. What’s next, Mr. Prestley? Going to ask to buy my office so House Avalante can build an orphanage on this very spot?”

  He laughed. I hadn’t expected that.

  “Good one.” He tilted his head down, looked at me over the tops of his shaded spectacles. “What would you say if I told you that the House is motivated purely by self-interest-but that even in that light, we want to see Martha Hoobin returned to her home?”

  “I’d say I might believe that. But I’m still curious, Mr. Prestley. What does a seamstress from the wrong side of the Brown have to do with your House?”

  “Nothing at all,” he said. “Directly. But indirectly-before I say more, Mr. Markhat, I’ll need to hire you. And as part of that arrangement, I’ll need to bind you to secrecy.”

  “I have a client. Ethel Hoobin.”

  “Take a new client. House Avalante has deeper pockets.”

  I pushed back my chair. “That won’t do. It’s time for you to go.”

  “Wait a moment. Are you telling me you’re refusing my offer?”

  “I’m telling you that. Now beat it.”

  He didn’t rise. “You’re as stubborn as I’d heard,” he said. “I don’t suppose a fat bag of coin would change your mind.”

  “I’m about to lose my temper,” I said.

  He smiled, remembered who he was with, covered his mouth with his hand, like I’d do if I yawned before a lady.

  “Sit back down. Please.”

  “I asked you to leave.”

  “And I shall,” he replied. “You may throw me out or hear me out. Which will it be?”

  I pondered that, shrugged and sat. He looked on, bemused behind his glasses.

  “My superiors have a somewhat simplistic view of mankind. They believe all men can be bought. They sent me here with twenty thousand crowns and instructions to enlist your services in our search for Martha Hoobin.” He leaned forward, elbows on my desk. “I know something of you, finder. I told them that you couldn’t be bought. They laughed. I shall be quite pleased to tell them they were wrong.”

  “Twenty thousand crowns?”

  “Twenty thousand,” he repeated. “All yours, if you would agree to accept it as a retainer with the agreement that we would obtain your services, and your secrecy, as a finder in the search for Martha Hoobin.”

  “I’m going to ask this again, Mr. Prestley. Answer, or get out. What does House Avalante want with Martha Hoobin?”

  Evis was silent. I felt his eyes upon me, felt a shiver go down my spine.

  “We want nothing with Martha Hoobin. What we want are the people behind her disappearance.”

  “And who are they?”

  He shook his head. “If we knew that, Mr. Markhat, I assure you that members of the House gardening staff would be dumping their dismembered corpses in the River about now.”

  “You think I know?”

  He shrugged. “Not yet. That’s the problem, Mr. Markhat. We’re running out of time, you and I. If one of us hasn’t found Martha Hoobin in the next four days, stop looking. She’ll be dead. Just like all the others.”

  I looked down at the list. “They’re dead.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “By whose hand?”

  He shook his head. “I do not know.”

  “Why four days? What happens then?”

  The muscles around his jaw began to move beneath his cold pale skin. “I cannot say,” he said.

  “What can you say?”

  “I can tell you about the other names. Prostitutes, all. From houses less prestigious than the Velvet. One has vanished each month, for the last eleven months.”

  “How-”

  “I cannot say,” he said. “No one looked, when they vanished. They had no family. Few had close friends.”

  “Then how do you know so much?”

  “The House has many interests,” he said. “We’ve been following this one for some time. With, I fear, little success.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “We both want the same thing.” He sounded tired. “If anything I tell you helps you find Martha Hoobin, you’re welcome to it. Maybe you’ll remember that we did try to help.”

  I wrestled with the concept of helpful vampires for a moment. Then I pulled open a drawer, found Martha’s silver comb, held it up.

  “Ever seen this before?”

  He lowered his shaded glasses, inspected the comb and handed it back to me. Then he reached back inside his coat-and withdrew an identical silver swan-comb.

  He put it down on my desk, beside the one I’d found. They were twins, down to the carving of the feathers and the color of the bristles.

  “I have three more. All found among the belongings of…” He pulled the list around, pointed to three names. “Her, and her, and her.”

  “Notice anything strange about yours?”

  He frowned. “No. Why?”

  I hesitated. But he’d told me things, and I decided if I wanted him to keep talking I might have to open up myself.

  “A friend of mine tried to do her witch-touch act to it. Dropped it like a hot brick. Said she couldn’t feel that it had ever belonged to anyone. She said that wasn’t right, that she thought someone had put some kind of black mojo on it.”

  “We tried the same thing,” said the halfdead. “No one saw anything of significance through any of these-but they didn’t notice a lack of sight either.” He nudged my comb with a forefinger. “Odd. When did your friend try witch sight on it?”

  “Yesterday.”

  He nodded.

  “Ours were not nearly so fresh,” he said. “Hmm. Perhaps if the spell were cast to fade away…”

  “My friend said that was more than just street mojo. She said it was black hex. Sorcery.”

  “That would be significant, if true,” said Evis. He looked up suddenly at me. “I don’t suppose you’d allow me to take this away for further study?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d give me a receipt?”

  He beamed. “Gladly.” And I swear he reached back into that coat, pulled out a small leather-bound notebook and a gold writing pen.

  “Tell me something,” I said, as he scribbled away. “Were you maybe a lawyer, before?”

  He looked up, lifted an eyebrow. “Before I died and became a blood-thirsty halfdead fiend?”

  “I wasn’t going to say ‘fiend’.”

  He laughed. “I was a lawyer, yes. Before the War. Nevertheless, I wound up in the infantry. I took a Troll arrow at Potter’s Hill.”

  I sat upright. “Potter’s Hill? Summer of seventy-four? I was there.”

  The halfdead finished writing, signed the page with a flourish, tore the paper out of the book and slid it across the desk toward me. “There was a halfdead in our regiment. We’d spoken, become friends, of a sort. He saw I was dying, asked me if I wanted to-to take a chance.” He shrugged. “I do not recall my reply. Bu
t I woke up dead two nights later. Funny old thing, life.”

  I took the receipt. It was all there, neat and legal, one silver comb, on temporary loan for sorcerous inspection, blah blah blah.

  Potter’s Hill. Hell, he’d died right under my nose.

  “All right,” I said, tapping his comb. “One veteran to another. Mind if I keep this one to show around?”

  “With my compliments.” He slipped his notebook back in his pocket, and his golden pen. “One more thing, Mr. Markhat.”

  “And what is that?”

  “We are aware of you and your efforts. Others may be aware of these things too. Persons not as well disposed toward you as I and my House.”

  “I get that a lot,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll put two strings on my screen-door tonight.”

  He shook his head.

  “You need not waste time at the Velvet. We’ve done that already. Martha’s abductors were never on the grounds, nor were they in association with anyone employed there.” He raised a gloved hand when I started to speak. “Please, Mr. Markhat, accept this as truth. It cost us-dearly-and I am convinced it is accurate.”

  “So forget the Velvet,” I said. “That doesn’t leave me with much. Because the only other thing in her life was her home, and her brothers-and you can accept this as truth-they had nothing to do with this. Nothing at all.”

  He nodded. “We reached the same surmise.”

  I shook my head. “I still don’t understand any of this.” I sensed our conversation was nearly over. “But thanks, all the same.”

  He made a little dip with his head. “And thank you.” He rose, stopped, looked up at me like he’d just thought of something. “I have an idea.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I am forbidden to divulge the details of certain delicate matters to you. I am bound, by honor and oath, to obey this stricture.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do otherwise.”

  He grinned, put his hand quickly over his lips. “Still. I have several errands to run this evening, finder. I am hardly to be blamed if you follow me and perhaps draw your own conclusions as to the nature of my actions.”

  I rose too. “Forgive me, but trotting along behind you strikes me as a good way to wind up on the dead wagon in the morning. What if one of your friends mistook me for a common thief or a light snack?” I shook my head. “No, thanks.”