by Kevin Lucia
She’d thought the medallion repulsive. Ringed with strange symbols, in the center leered a gigantic eye surrounded by squiggles that she’d assumed were tentacles. Why anyone would send her such a thing, or how it could be thought a clandestine gift of passion, she hadn’t the faintest idea. She’d refused to touch it, called Reggie an idiot, and he’d stuffed it into his pocket and stormed out, after coming all the way into town to do her a favor by taking an old rug to the shop because she was too busy. She felt bad about that, but what could she do?
She sighed. It might be time to kick Reggie off, unless he gave her an absolutely fantastic reason why she shouldn’t.
That wasn’t impossible, of course. She’d forgiven him several times before, and she couldn’t deny her need for companionship. However, if it came down to it, she could do without him, because of her painting. Painting made her feel alive, made her feel like she could touch something more real than this world. Since her first brush stroke at age twelve, painting had consumed her life, and quite frankly … Reggie couldn’t compare. He knew it, too. Hence the fights.
Often, however, painting was difficult, sometimes frightening, especially when she painted her dreams and nightmares. In a moment crystallized in memory, she recalled the first time she’d dreamed of that dark hallway and door, and the painting she’d made of them. That hadn’t been so bad. It had been cathartic, even, because until now, the dream had stayed away.
Of course, there was also the painting from two months ago, one of such horrible purpose she’d thrown a cloth over it, pushed it in the corner, and forgotten it. She didn’t want to think about that, though. Not at all.
She sighed. Reggie would be a loss, but she could live without him. Painting, however, wasn’t enough. Things were changing. She needed more, and that was probably the real reason for the nightmare’s return. She needed something and was running towards it, but she had no idea what it was.
Yawning as exhaustion tugged her eyelids, Therese returned to the couch, lay down and wrapped herself up in the sofa’s cardigan instead of the sweat-dampened sheets. She fell asleep and dreamed of doors and hallways, and a painting she wanted to forget.
Friday Night
As Bach’s Toccata and Fugue wavered through the agency’s safe house in Belfast, Hiram’s well-oiled routine carried him through his fatigue. What little sleep he’d gotten had been haunted by the ever-more frequent nightmares of …
No. Not that. Not now.
Hiram briefly assessed the room. It smelled musty, with faded yellow wallpaper peeling in places and old, thin carpeting, but it looked acceptable enough. It wasn’t his Airstream trailer, his home, but it would suffice. As usual, most needs had been provided for. Dinner had been waiting: a serving of “Angels on Horseback,” which consisted of delicately marinated and stewed oysters wrapped in tangy strips of bacon, all placed on thick slabs of hot, buttered Irish Beer Bread. He’d enjoyed a chilled bottle of Pinot Noir with it. Though not absinthe, as a side it had served. Soon, however, he’d need to find some real refreshment.
He swept up the Webley from the clothes bureau, engaged the barrel catch and inspected the cylinder for debris, ignoring the spent shell—the suicide shell. Finding nothing, he spun the cylinder. When it stopped turning, he took a few cartridges from the bureau and loaded the remaining chambers except the one with the hand-scored round. Finished, he snapped the Webley shut and secured it in his shoulder holster. His personal satchel sat on the bureau also, filled with the mystical odds and ends he employed as needed: various mind-enhancing drugs, lime salt and chalk, pentacles and crosses, small vials of consecrated water, other alchemical materials.
He straightened and regarded himself in the bureau’s mirror. His bony, too-long limbs and lanky frame would never properly fit the suit he wore, his father’s suit, but still he adjusted his jacket with ineffective tugs on both lapels, then pulled at his waistcoat, trying to align the buttons with his belt buckle. Failing miserably, he shook his head and frowned at his reflection. Blue eyes stared back at thin lips and prominent cheekbones, set against a pallid complexion, but these features paled in comparison to his nose—an overgrown, hawkish mass.
“Bloody hell. I’m balding.” With his fingers, he vainly brushed loose strands of oily black hair over his receding hairline. Giving up, Hiram turned and approached a recliner in front of which sat a combination television/VCR. For this assignment, a tape had been left. He’d study then destroy it.
Hiram sat awkwardly in the low-slung recliner and lit the Presbyterian mixture in his briarwood pipe. At least the agency had remembered to supply one of the truly important things. Now slightly more relaxed, he took up an old remote from the chair’s armrest, turned on the television, and pressed ‘Play.’ Static resolved into the smiling portrait of Mrs. Bothwell.
“Good evening, Hiram. I hope your flight was relaxing, and that all is in order. All your basic supplies should be there, though an additional shipment is still in transit. Never fear, it will reach you shortly.” The image paused, glanced downwards. Papers ruffled. When it looked up again, its kindly expression had sobered. “Last night, our analysts detected enormous spikes of electromagnetic activity in Belfast, Northern Ireland, which have continued into this evening. Since then, we’ve gathered some disturbing police reports. Five young women were slain last night, brutally killed—disemboweled, really—within a three mile radius of one another. One of them was found not far from you, in an alley off Patchett Street. No connections have been found between them except this: they were raised in either state homes or orphanages. Odd, but we don’t know what that means, yet.
“EM scans place the confluence somewhere in the University Quarter of South Belfast, the main campus for Queen’s University. There appears to be a talismanic element to this confluence. Thanks to an informant in the local PSNI, we learned that each victim was found with the following medallion.”
Bothwell’s face was replaced by said medallion. Hiram paused the video and studied the archaic symbols ringing its edges. In the center: a gigantic eye, ringed by tentacles. He clicked ‘Play.’
“After extensive research, we determined the glyphs to be either Sumerian or Early Babylonian. The findings are … disturbing.” Something cold bloomed in Bothwell’s eyes. Whatever she’d learned, it had unnerved her. “According to several ancient texts, most importantly the Necronomicon—on loan from Miskatonic University—the sigil represents an ancient god notorious for its hunger. Many stories call it a shapeshifter, changeling, manikin, false man. Other stories believe it an infestation or plague. It has many different names. Yog-Sothoth is one. The most popular, however: the Tanara’ri.
“All the texts indicate an extensive summoning ritual, but no particular artifact is mentioned. This makes things more difficult. The confluence’s source could be a talisman or a conduit. As such, a pocket EM scanner has been included in your supplies. I know you’re uncomfortable with technology, Hiram, but in this case, you’ll have to make do.”
“At least you didn’t send me a cell phone. Can’t stand those things.”
“There’s something else. Based on the stories, this creature has been summoned numerous times. Most often during war. Not long after, both sides mysteriously vanish from recorded history.” A pause. “The implications are clear.”
“Indeed. This could go to hell very quickly.”
“Your objective, of course, is to either find the summoning talisman and destroy it, or eliminate the confluence’s conduit, thus breaking the binding and banishing the Tanara’ri.”
Bothwell’s image paused on the screen. With a flash of insight, Hiram suspected the Tanara’ri hadn’t unnerved her as much as something else.
“One last note. We also detected faint quantum fluctuations at all the crime scenes.”
Hiram sat back. A chill crept up his spine. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Kali’s tit, please say you’re kidding.”
“We need to assume THEY’RE involved. We’ll ignore them
as usual, and hope they ignore us. However, be on your guard. They’re not to be trusted, no matter what.”
“Oh, hell. Hell, hell, hell.” Hiram leaned forward and covered his face. “Faeries. I hate faeries.”
“Please, Therese. Can’t we at least talk about it?”
“Reggie. We’ve been over this so many times.”
Reggie winced as he trotted through the cold wind. He didn’t have an answer for that, did he? It was just how he was built. When he looked in the mirror, he never measured up. Before, it hadn’t mattered. He’d nothing much to lose. Then came Therese. Suddenly, a steel mill jockey like himself was dating a beautiful college student and artist. At first it had been bliss, but lately all he could do was worry he might lose her to someone better.
The irony? He was driving her away.
“Please. Give me another chance. If we can’t sort it out, you can tell me to piss off, and I’ll go away.”
“Reggie …” A pause. “Fine. Where should we meet?”
Reggie’s heart skipped. “Maybe Jimmy’s, down by Tiger’s Bay? If it’s too packed, we could slip out to that all-night place down the street—the Skylark?—and grab a bite.”
“Fine. I’m at The Hub, but I’ve no cash left. I’ll have to walk. Take me twenty minutes. You’d better be buying, boyo.”
“You bet. Thanks, Therese. You won’t regret this, I promise.”
“Sure. See you there.” The cell clicked off.
“Right, then …” he mumbled, disappointed by her abruptness. “Love you too.” He stuffed the cell into his pocket and wondered how to convince Therese to forgive him. The whole thing was his fault, really. If only he hadn’t acted like such an ass.
Reggie paused at an intersection haloed by the dull-orange glow of a street lamp. The thought of losing Therese soured his stomach. He wished that stupid medallion had never come in the mail. Maybe none of this would’ve happened. From his pocket he pulled the padded envelope containing the necklace and its charm. He shook it into his open palm. It felt oddly warm. Holding its chain, Reggie could see Therese’s point. Damn thing was ugly. Who’d send it to a lover?
As it swayed on its chain, an odd compulsion urged him to wear it. Why?
He shrugged. Why the hell not? He slipped the chain around his neck, the warm metal disk settling against his chest. He looked down at the manila packaging in his hands. Things were so much clearer in retrospect. If it had been a gift, wouldn’t it have been wrapped?
He kicked the curb. “Idiot.”
“Now, now. Why would such a sweet thing like yerself be talkin’ so?”
Reggie straightened. The silken voice came from an alley he’d just passed. Retracing his steps, he found a young woman leaning against a dingy red brick wall. She wore a ragged, buttoned up fur coat. Long, creamy-white legs ended in slut-red pumps.
She smiled and devoured him with bright eyes. Red lips smirked on a full face framed by thick, unruly brown locks.
“Uhm … hello. Who are you?”
The woman smiled, all white teeth. “Your dreams come true, love.”
Therese wobbled as she walked in the night. The Hub was far from the city’s center, and she felt conflicted: glad for the quiet, unnerved by her isolation. Her anxiety got the best of her and she quickened her pace.
It didn’t help that she’d downed three—four?—shots of Smirnoff with Cassie and her friends at some ridiculous club over in Chester. Then, of all the things, Reggie had called. Unbelievably, she’d agreed to meet him so he could plead his case. Sighing, she brushed several hairs back from her flushed but cold face. Maybe she should just go home, forget Reggie. He’d be upset, but he’d survive.
She kept walking. Life would be much simpler if she ditched. Of course, her life had never been simple. Why start now?
“S’a bleedin’ shame a young man like yerself should spend such a cold night alone.” The hooker cocked her head and raised a carefully penciled eyebrow.
Reggie paused. He’d never shagged a hooker before. “I suppose.” He stepped into the alley for a better look.
The whore lifted her chin, as if in subtle challenge. “Well? Anythin’ I can do to make the blues go ‘way?”
Guilt burned inside him, but Reggie couldn’t help staring. She looked striking, alabaster skin pearlescent, pouting lips full and generous. He felt disloyal, but his heart pounded. So did his pants.
“I dunno. I’ve never …”
“Well, I’ve plenty of suggestions, lolly. Loads.” She sauntered into the streetlight’s glare. She had high cheekbones, and under the fur coat lurked possibly the biggest breasts he’d ever seen. They rose and fell as she breathed.
She placed a hand on his chest and smiled, red lips shining. Almost like blood. Her hand felt warm. Waves of pleasurable heat flowed through him. He followed the hand’s movement down his chest with an entranced gaze, mesmerized as she unzipped his coat. She reached inside and flipped loose one shirt button after another. “I … wh-what would … it cost? I’m not flush, love …”
She pursed her lips, snagged his belt buckle and pulled him close. Her hot breath tickled his ear. “Not much, dear … just your bloody heart.”
Reggie’s guilty lust disappeared. He pulled back and frowned. This had been a very bad idea. “What the …” His stomach lurched as a worm wriggled from the corner of the hooker’s mouth. “Oh, hell!”
She smiled and gulped it down. “Mmmm. Now that’s a fine treat, love.”
Reggie gagged. Maggots streamed from her mouth and wriggled from her nostrils. In his sickened delirium, he imagined them craning their heads and hissing at him.
She shrugged off her coat. “Give us a kiss!”
Reggie screamed at what he saw: a bloated body with oozing skin, swarming with writhing maggots. Thick tentacles squirmed under the jacket. Their tips licked the air …
Reggie tried to break free, but he was too slow. Fleshy ropes wrapped around his arms and legs. He flailed while It dragged him to an oily breast. Before he could scream again, a thick, eel-like tongue plunged between his lips and forced his jaws open. The smell of rot filled his nostrils and he gagged as worms poured down his throat. Thousands of tiny, hungry mouths ate at his insides.
As he died, his cell jangled Therese’s ring-tone.
Television off, Hiram rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Damn. Of all the things. Faeries. Bloody smug bastards. I HATE them.
The Faerie were neither of the corporeal nor of the Abyss. No one knew much about them, except that they were intimately connected to the Veil. Encounters had been few, uneasy and guarded. From their limited interaction, however, one thing seemed clear: the Faerie considered themselves vastly superior to humans.
“They treat us like bloody children. Shit. I don’t need this.”
He rose and circled the room. He couldn’t stay in. Normally safe house walls offered comfort. Tonight, however, they felt suffocating. Stopping at the bureau, he secured his Pritchard bayonet in its sheathe at his back and pocketed his father’s briarwood pipe. Perhaps a bit more of the Presbyterian and a walk would clear his head. Besides, he had an idea. Certainly Bothwell couldn’t be mistaken in her assessment of the confluence, but it wouldn’t hurt to confirm certain details. According to the tape, one of the crime scenes wasn’t far from here. Analyzing the scene might not produce anything useful, but it’d keep his mind off the Faerie. And Sadie …
No. Stop it. Right now.
He gathered the necessary materials from his satchel, turned and regarded the flickering candle on the bureau that paid homage to his cherished 8x10 of Jodie Foster. Not even her normally soothing profile could calm these frazzled nerves. The worst part? He felt so keyed up, he probably wouldn’t enjoy his nightly constitutional. A tragedy indeed.
He liked to think that, wherever she was, Jodie shed a tear.
Therese clicked her cell shut and sighed. Squirming on a rough, cracked-leather bar stool, she rubbed the charm on her bracelet to keep her han
ds from calling Reggie again. She’d gotten nothing but voice mail four times now. She couldn’t help thinking maybe he’d changed his mind and gone home. In a way she felt cheated. If anything, she should be ditching him while he called her every ten minutes.
She bit her lip, tapping the pitted bar with a fingernail. He was a free man, and could do as he pleased. She’d freed him, after all.
Licking dry lips, she wished she could afford another shot.
Teeth clamped on his pipe, Hiram forced himself to ignore the open sky. It helped that Belfast’s waterfront at Tiger’s Bay closed in tight around him. It maintained the illusion that he was boxed in, rather than out in the unprotected open.
Damn Faerie. They watched. Observed. Sat on their collective, pixie-dust asses while people died. People like Sadie. Sanctimonious, voyeuristic bastards.
Fatigue pulled at him. He should’ve retired for the night. Kali knew he needed the shut-eye. A deep part of him feared sleep, however. He knew the moment he closed his eyes, he’d again be tortured by nightmares of Sadie and his mother.
Sadie had died by his own hands. No matter how he’d been manipulated or used, there was no denying it. If they’d never met, or he’d never allowed her access, indulging her by accepting her attentions … perhaps she’d still be alive.
He pushed these thoughts away and glanced up at the street sign, saw he’d reached Patchett Street. Sure enough, across the way sat the alley in which one of the five girls had been killed. Yellow tape closed it off. Not watch-guards. Most likely, the local Police Service believed no more evidence remained.
