I was suddenly bothered by the use of so much sage. It was almost as if Leighton was trying to mask something.
“Should I call you ‘Nick’?” he asked again. Downing the last of his whiskey, Leighton continued, “Or would you prefer ‘Georgius’?”
The dragon hissed. I nearly mimicked him. My hand went to my overcoat.
“Wait!” Leighton’s voice was loud, but firm. “I am no enemy.”
I kept my hand near my overcoat, but didn’t move it any closer.
The mobster leaned forward.
It was all I could do to not finish drawing Her Lady’s gift. It must’ve sensed something, because it stirred briefly. I wasn’t surprised by that in the least.
Ladykiller Leighton was an elf.
He’d gone to some degree of effort to hide that fact from the unsuspecting. There was a hint of greasepaint on his skin, turning the flesh into something more closely the color of human. He’d dyed his hair completely black to cover the green hint that would’ve normally stood out.
But even more important, I could see where someone had done their best to alter his ears to make them appear more human. A good third had been removed. The job wasn’t perfect, but with all the permanent injuries brought home after the Great War, Leighton looked just like one more unfortunate doughboy who’d not managed to come home completely whole. Compared to many, the elf’s mutilation was barely noticeable.
The sage meant perfect sense now. It wasn’t for me or any human being. Very few people would be expecting an elf in the first place. Leighton had gone through this trouble to avoid notice by Feirie, which I found highly interesting.
“Forgive me, Gatekeeper. I meant no theatrics. I’ve been considering this encounter for some time. Years in fact, but other matters continually raised their ugly heads . . . or came back from the dead, in the case of my former liege.”
There it was. He’d finally admitted it. He’d been one of Oberon’s followers, possibly the only one left of the ousted king’s core support that’d followed him into exile.
“I see that look,” Leighton went on. “Hear me out. I long ago abandoned his mad crusade to bring both sides of the Gate together, transforming both worlds into one . . . and eventually destroying them.”
“Found something more personally rewarding?” I nodded at his surroundings.
“This is the land of opportunity. I merely took that opportunity. What choice did I have . . . especially with Her Lady beginning her purge even back then? I certainly could not go back. She would have welcomed me back into the Court and then put my still-screaming head on a pole.”
I knew that he wasn’t exaggerating. Even those who could be proven to have had only a glancing link to Oberon were being hunted down in Feirie, which had made my task on this side much harder. Until I could find the path through which the refugees were getting into Chicago, things would continue to grow chaotic.
I made a note to find Lon as soon as I could. Sure, he’d been posted on the mortal plane some time back by Her Lady, but he apparently had some system of constant contact with his mistress. I wondered if that system was possibly tied to the reason more Wyld were getting by me.
Leighton sat quietly waiting. I grimaced. “What’s your real name? I’m not going to call you ‘Ladykiller.’”
I expected him to hesitate, names being power in Feirie. Instead, though, he set down his glass on a small mahogany end table and answered, “My human associates simply call me ‘Leighton.’ You may call me Laertes.”
“Laertes. Leighton. Cute. Similar so you don’t get screwed up by not answering when someone calls you.”
“Yes, that’s how it started. Now, I’m more likely to answer to my human alias.”
I finished my own whiskey. I didn’t drink much—not that I couldn’t hold more than most thanks to the dragon’s magic—but the whiskey had been welcome after so much trouble. I still had Galerius to worry about—
“Someone is after you,” the elf chose to remark at that moment.
I tensed. “Oh? Who?”
“You must have seen one of them already. If you have, you’ve seen all of them.”
My thoughts shifted to the pale man the sword’s power couldn’t touch. “Go on.”
“Pasty fellows. I think there are three. There may be more, but I cannot say for certain. I have no intention of nosing around too close.”
“Three?” I didn’t like the sound of that. Suddenly, I was reminded that Claryce only had Fetch with her. He was wily and strong, but I’d already seen how readily he’d been removed as an obstacle.
“That is my count. Came across one two weeks ago. Nearly froze me to death. Saw two others shortly after. Hard to tell the difference between them. They look human.”
“What would they want with me?” I asked, already suspicious that I knew, based on what had been done to Claryce’s building.
“I really can’t say. They’ve been creeping around places you frequent, including St. Michael’s.”
I eyed him. “And what other places do I frequent, Laertes?”
He clearly sensed the sudden edge in my voice. “Be at ease, Gatekeeper! I have no quarrel with you. Not only do I owe you much gratitude for the removal of my former king, but you are the chief impediment to Her Lady’s ambition! I only sought—”
“To nose around?”
Leighton—Laertes—leaned back into the shadows. “Only to ascertain things. I am not your enemy, Gatekeeper.”
“I’m not exactly ready to call you my friend.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. Consider our goals mutual.”
“For the time being?”
Laertes spread his hands, whether in agreement or some other response, I couldn’t say.
Burn him . . . burn him now . . .
No.
The elf tensed. “He doesn’t like me, either.”
“He doesn’t like anyone, including me.” I rose. “Thanks for the whiskey and the warning. Next time, just call.”
“There is one more thing.”
There was always one more thing. I hated one more things.
Laertes rose. He reached into his suit pocket. I trusted him not to be so foolish as to draw a weapon.
He tossed a small object toward me. Unlike with Lon, I decided to catch his offering.
It landed squarely in my palm. Laertes smiled at my quick reaction.
Smiling wasn’t even near the reaction I wanted to unleash. For just a moment, my rage matched the dragon’s eternal one. I’d expected what he was going to show me, but that didn’t ease the anger or the knowledge that I’d gotten both these pieces because he wanted me to know he was near.
Another Dacian Draco clasp. This one had a spot of something I assumed was blood.
“Where did you get this?”
“From an impetuous torpedo. He came for me, more the pity him. I will admit he came pretty close. This was on him. I couldn’t decipher its meaning. After all, it’s not the usual sort of gang emblem. I did a little research and found that it has quite an interesting history . . . attached to you.”
I squeezed the clasp tight. “When did this happen?”
“Hmm?” The elf rubbed his chin in thought. “Time does fly, but I believe it was back nearly seven years ago.” Laertes nodded. “Yes. That’s correct. I remember now. Summer. Just before the crash, in fact.”
I stiffened. “What crash?”
Laertes “Ladykiller” Leighton eyed me as if discovering me anew. “Why, the Wingfoot Air Express crash, of course.”
CHAPTER 4
Despite all he’d told me, I still didn’t trust Laertes enough to continue my business with Kravayik. I did trust Claryce enough to expect that she’d not wait with the Packard by Holy Name, which is why I had my escort—ordered by the elf to drive me wherever I wanted afterward—drop me off by a soda shop about a mile from her apartment.
We hadn’t become allies, but we weren’t at war with each other. A truce, that was all. Laertes had risked a
lot revealing himself to me, especially considering what Her Lady’s servants, like Lon, would’ve done if they’d found him. Still, at the same time he’d also put me on the spot as well. My own relationship with the queen of Feirie was one of necessity only. I trusted her almost as little as I’d trusted her former liege and husband. My interest in dealing with Her Lady began and ended with the Gate.
Once the B-70 drove off, I took a quick look around to see if there were any eyes on me, human or otherwise, then entered. A news broadcast from WGN was airing on the huge Art Deco—style Oper-adio portable radio set behind the counter, the announcer reporting on a meeting planned next month between President Davis and members of Congress concerning a crime bill. I doubted the bill would go far, as Davis was less interested in cracking down than Coolidge would’ve been had he retained the presidency back in the ‘24 election.
Going to one of the booths in back, I dialed the operator and gave her Claryce’s number. To my relief, she answered after the first ring.
“Nick?”
“It’s me—”
“Nick! What happened? Who were those men?”
“Nothing to concern yourself over. I’ll explain later. Fetch with you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” I exhaled in relief. “I’m going to have to ask you to drive to the safe house and stay there until I can get to you. Understood?” The safe house was the top of a closed millinery smack in the middle of Capone’s territory on the South Side. We’d utilized it during the struggle with Oberon but hadn’t been there since then.
“I’m not going to flee my home every time something happens, Nick!”
“Humor me just for today, please?”
“All right, but where will you be?”
“That depends on a couple of other calls I make. I promise I’ll see you by evening.”
“You’d better. Be careful.”
I hung up, for once grateful to Oberon and Delke Industries. As William Delke, Oberon had paid her well to keep her with the company. Delke Industries had paid her well, too. She’d understood why, but she’d taken it. It’d allowed her to not have to work anywhere else since then, which had proven handy. The situation wouldn’t last, but for now, I planned to make use of that bit of luck as much as possible.
I made another call, this one with trepidation.
“Yes, who is speaking?” asked a low voice with a heavy accent.
“You know who it is, Kravayik.”
“I await your command, Master Nicholas,” he responded formally.
I frowned. “Listen to me, Kravayik. What happened with Clau-dette doesn’t matter at the moment . . . and I don’t command you. Just tell me two things. First, is all well?”
He knew I wasn’t referring to matters between us, but rather the safety of the card. “All is well.”
I’d thought so, but it was a relief to hear. That left one question. “Have you seen, in any manner, a symbol resembling a dragon with a canine head spouting several tongues and maybe with the tail creating a circle around it?”
A pause, then, “I have seen this symbol. Not recently, though. I recall it because it is very striking.”
“When?”
This time, the pause extended much longer. “During the Exposition.”
I gritted my teeth. “The Columbian Exposition?”
“Yes. During my initial hunt. More comes back now. I required information. I was led on a false trail by a human servant of the Beast.”
He was referring to one of H. H. Holmes’s more colorful nicknames, one that had become known as well in Feirie as in the mortal world. Holmes had been feared even by Her Lady’s Court due to his dark machinations.
“So he wore a clasp resembling it?”
“No. A tattoo. Over his heart. I used it as target for my dagger.”
I didn’t push for more details. My thoughts were already swirling around. The Exposition and the Wingfoot. I suspected that, had I known to look, I’d have found some similar sign during the weeks surrounding the Great Fire.
Galerius hadn’t just suddenly come back from the dead. Galerius had been stalking me for more than a century . . . and maybe a lot longer than that.
I’d been resurrected head and all and cast to the Gate’s location in Silene years before, but the passing of an emperor eventually always became news throughout Rome’s holdings. The graphic nature of Galerius’s doom and the hatred his reign had stirred up had guaranteed the story would have strong wings.
He’d supposedly died horribly, turning to God at the end only when his growing paranoia made him believe that the disease eating him up had actually been a divine punishment. He’d overturned the decree persecuting Christians and had actually had the audacity to order them to pray for him in return.
It hadn’t worked out well, I’d discovered. Galerius had died screaming shortly after, a fate well-deserved and, in my opinion, still too kind for him.
“All right,” I finally replied. “Keep careful watch on the card. When I can, I’ll come by.”
“I will permit no one to take it.”
“I’m counting on that.” I started to hang up, only to hear a sound from him. “What?”
“Mistress Claryce . . . she is well?”
“She is.” I hung up before the conversation could spiral out of control. It was reasonable to assume that Kravayik, who had met Claryce on more than one occasion, would be concerned about her. However, a part of me refused to act rationally, just as with Diocles.
I called another number.
“Yes, what is it?” a gruff older voice asked.
“It’s me, Barnaby.”
“Master—Nick—how can I serve you?”
I winced. Barnaby wasn’t from Feirie, but he’d dabbled in the arts when younger and had also confronted the Wyld before. He’d started using the same formal title for me after I’d helped him years ago. Only recently had I finally convinced him to stop doing it. I could see it was going to be a hard habit for him to break.
“Has anything changed with Joseph?” I inquired.
“Not from when last you saw him.”
“Besides you, has he had any visitors?”
“No. After what happened, I’ve kept track of any visitor my son might have had. No one’s come to see him at Dunning.”
County officials now preferred everyone to call the facility where Barnaby’s son had been committed the Chicago State Hospital, but those with memories longer than a decade and a half would always know it as Dunning. That is, when they didn’t know of it by some of its older descriptions, such as insane asylum or the more colloquial “tomb for the living.” I doubted it would stop being called Dunning for some years to come.
I decided to push on. “I need a favor. I need a lift. Can you do it personally?”
“I owe you so much. Of course I will.”
He took down the address and promised to be there as quickly as possible. I hung up and left. Outside, I took a look to see where best to wait for him. The theater across the street wasn’t one of the grand movie palaces designed by Rapp and Rapp, but it looked inviting in this weather. I hadn’t seen many movies since Claryce had entered my life, but the Clara Bow moving picture playing there had been showing for a couple of months now, which meant it had to be popular. I’d dis-covered a fondness for moving pictures; they allowed me to escape my curse for a little while. I’d also noticed that the dragon generally grew very quiet in the theaters, almost as if he, too, was intrigued by the images on the screen.
The theater would make a good place to wait for the dwarf. . .
I reprimanded him quietly for calling Barnaby a dwarf, although it was true that he was very short. In a low voice, I added, “No moving pictures today. It shouldn’t take Barnaby very long to reach us—”
I hesitated as a faint scent wafted past my nose, an unsettling scent I’d only recently come across. The dragon recoiled from it.
Laertes’s words came back to me. Three very pale men. Men, no
t elves.
Eye will guide you . . . .
He wasn’t referring to his vision. I shook my head. Too out in the open.
One would think you are ashamed of me . . .
I ignored his mocking tone and sniffed. Over the centuries of our forced merger, my own senses had expanded. My sense of smell was not as sharp as Fetch’s, but it was sharper than most people’s.
The scent was coming from the theater.
I didn’t like that. I could hardly have accidentally stumbled onto one of the figures. Very likely I’d been followed. Still, I wasn’t about to turn and run. I was more than happy to meet one face-to-face now that I had some little idea at least that they actually existed. I’d been taken by surprise the last time. This would be different.
The dragon chuckled darkly at my confidence.
I crossed to the theater and headed straight to the ticket office. The scent continued inside, so I paid for Bow’s My Lady of Whims and entered. The movie had already started, which meant that if my quarry was in there I’d have to search through a crowd.
There was no doubt in my mind that he or they would be expecting me. What I hoped was that they weren’t aware of the ways I could manipulate the dragon’s powers without actually letting him take over.
So nice to be needed. . . so nice to be appreciated. . .
Ignoring his eternal sarcasm, I paused.
Yes, it is in the place of viewing, he acknowledged.
I know. Keeping my hand near the opening of my overcoat, I forged ahead. Even before I entered, I could hear dramatic music being played by the theater pianist. The music drowned out all other sounds.
Clara Bow’s gigantic face greeted me. Although maybe twenty, she was already making a mark with her vivid expressions and style, which apparently had this crowd speechless. I took a few steps further in.
Eye can help you see . . . no one will know . . .
He had a point there. Go ahead.
His view became mine, a dark emerald world consisting of row upon row of people in rapt attention. All eyes focused on the moving picture and no one moved even a finger.
Or coughed. Or even seemed to breathe.
I glanced at the pianist.
Despite the continuous music, the woman at the keyboard sat as motionless as the audience.
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