by Kirk Zurosky
“He does smell!” the Doorman exclaimed. “He didn’t in Florence, but he does now. And it’s a familiar scent, but I just can’t place it.”
“Well, you were hanging on the door of Hades for half an eternity, so there is no telling what manner of death-dealing, deity-driven drama you saw, or smelled as it were,” I said. I didn’t know what was more startling—that the creeper was confirmed to be here in London, and looking to kill me, or that somehow sweet little Maria had known that the foul poison was seeping into the creeper’s very essence.
The Doorman seemed to have relaxed or, more likely, been distracted. “Tell me when you saw him last,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“Night before last,” said the Doorman. “He had been coming to the den for a few weeks prior, but always with the same hood and cloak he had worn before. I can tell you that is nothing new for this place, as some nobles simply do not want to be seen sampling the den’s wares. I didn’t know it was him. Hadn’t thought of him, or you frankly, in I don’t know how long.” He paused for a moment, and his jaw dropped open. Then he shook his head, clearing out whatever dusty old cobwebs had cluttered his thoughts, and continued. “So, for the first few times, I simply took his gold and let him pass into the choosing room. I thought nothing of it, until one day I heard a few of the girls talking about the smelly guy that just likes to watch, and it jarred something in this messed up mind of mine that took me back to Florence. I knew he was the man you call the creeper. Then, the next day it happened.”
The Doorman stopped talking and looked at me like I knew what had happened. Perhaps when he had fallen back on the door, he had knocked his brain more out of kilter—if that was even possible. “What happened?” I prompted him.
“He came up to the door, hooded and brooding as ever,” said the Doorman. “And he must have stood a little closer this time, or perhaps I just didn’t notice before . . .”
“Notice what?”
“His eyes.”
“What about them?”
“They are red,” the Doorman said. “So I asked him what was wrong with him, and did he have some sort of strange illness, because if he did, I could not let him into the house.”
“Red—like tired, really tired?”
“Nope, red like one of those scoundrels that used to smack me in my balls when I was pinned to Hades’s door.”
“So the creeper is a demon!”
“No,” the Doorman said. “I don’t think so. I know what a demon smells like—kind of a bad mix of brimstone and too much cologne.”
“So you have met Justice!”
“Aye, a few times,” the Doorman mused. “Bad choices have a way of making that happen, but what does that have to do with demons?”
“No, I mean the demon divorce lawyer,” I said. “Him. I meant him.”
“I mean maybe,” the Doorman shrugged. “But I am not sure what the difference is between the two. Aren’t you talking about the same thing—demon and divorce lawyer?” He scratched his head. “I wonder if I have ever gotten married . . .”
“Never mind,” I exclaimed. “So, the creeper has red eyes now and smells like something familiar, but you can’t tell me what.”
“That’s it—it’s a familiar!” the Doorman shouted. “He smells like someone’s familiar.”
“But aren’t witches the only ones that can have familiars?” I said, thinking back to the Winter Witch’s accursed pussy.
“Yeah, it could have been a witch in Hell, or a demon, or . . . I am sorry, I just can’t remember. But I do remember one thing.”
“What is that?”
“He looked at me with those scary red eyes boring holes into my skull, and said, ‘Tell Sinister that I will see him at the coronation.’”
“I will be ready for him,” I said, trying to look unconcerned, though I was very much so! “Well, until next we meet, best of luck trying to figure out who you are, and remember you are thus no different from anybody else.”
The Doorman smiled. “I am no different than anyone else.” He nodded, his eyes looking clearer than I had ever seen them. “I shall find my way. Good luck, Sirius Sinister, finding yours.” And with that he turned to take some more gold coins, and I walked slowly down the stairs of the Den of Angels, still looking cautiously for the creeper, and headed back to my inn.
The next day I walked up to Westminster Abbey with the Professor at my side. I kept pulling at the ceremonial robe I was wearing as a member of the Oxford delegation, and hoped it was not obvious that underneath I was fully garbed for battle. Soldiers milled all about, for once the abbey was full of its guests, down would come good King George I with royalty aplenty in their finest dress, escorting him for proper pomp and circumstance. Various noblemen and the aptly named Master of the Robes would carry his long train. Outside the abbey, I saw several uniformed soldiers and mercenaries dressed for fighting not celebrating. It seemed the king was worried about the rabble-rousers I had encountered a few days ago. Perhaps they would spy the creeper and inadvertently warn me of his presence.
I sighed as I passed a familiar-looking young soldier who winked at me at the door of the abbey. I had no idea where the Howler would be, having left that up to her and Contessa, and Oliver had not yet arrived. I realized as I took in the scene that all this overdone pageantry irked me. Many in this city were starving, yet after the ceremony, a great feast would be held, a true testament to excess. I made my way to my seat content in knowing the ceremony was hours away, and Cornelia would be one of the later arrivals. I dropped off the Professor at our seats, where she settled in with our delegation. I blended in with the rest of the early arrivals, who were making a big production of wandering up and down the aisles to be seen while they took in the majesty of the abbey.
Westminster Abbey was indeed awe inspiring with its intricately detailed ceiling stretching high above me, and impressive support columns. We were seated rather near the high altar, where the archbishop of Canterbury would be performing the ceremony. I took in the marvelously crafted floor in front of the high altar, astounded at the workmanship I saw. There was a myriad of different-colored stones, and what looked to be red and blue glass cut into all sorts of shapes. Circles, squares, rectangles, and more fit perfectly into the dark limestone floor, all in their own haphazard fashion, yet I found the patterns oddly orderly to my appreciative eye. Guarding the exquisite altar and almost daring me to set my heathen foot upon it were large statues of Moses, Saint Peter, Saint Paul, and King David. Never one to back down from a challenge, even a divine one, I stepped up on the altar, looking for anything suspicious, and was accosted by a young soldier.
“Sir,” he said, “I am going to have to ask you to step down from there.”
I looked at his slightly puffy cheeks, downturned nose, and sad eyes, and decided he looked rather like a beagle. I did not want to draw attention to myself, so I merely nodded and stepped down, and saw that this young pup was still staring at me. “Is there a problem?” I said, more a threat than a question.
“No sir,” he said, looking up and down at my robe. “You seem to have a lot going on under that robe.”
I saw him staring at the precise spot where my thunder crash bombs were attached to my belt. This fellow was one observant beagle! But I knew how to throw him off of my trail. I pulled out a book from my robe. “I am with the Oxford delegation,” I explained. “Would you think we would travel far from our home without that which sustains us?”
“Indeed, my apologies,” the soldier said. “But last night one of my comrades said he saw someone on the roof of the abbey, and, well, you know there are some that are not happy with our blessed monarch, as blasphemous as that may be.”
“On the roof,” I said, making my eyes as big and incredulous as possible. “Well that would be a feat. I think perhaps your old chum had a bit too much to drink, yes?”
The soldier no
dded. “Probably,” he said. “But I sense there is danger afoot, and since I cannot say that to my commanding officer without finding myself locked away for good, I need to protect our king myself.”
“So why are you telling me, an academic from Oxford, all this?”
“Because though you are an academic, you carry yourself like a man of action, not words,” the soldier answered. “And it is action that will carry the day today in spite of all the blusterous words that are about to be spoken.” And with that the soldier walked off, and I continued my tour of the abbey but found no traces of the Thief, or the creeper, which was all the more worrisome. I rendezvoused with Oliver, who had also found nothing, so back to the altar area we went.
I returned to my seat and spied Cornelia in hers, and was about to go greet her properly, but thought better of it, not knowing if I was being watched, for already the abbey was beginning to fill with the attendees. Cornelia wore the Moon of Madrid boldly across her bodice, but the gems normal unearthly radiance seemed dim and subdued in the abbey, or perhaps it was the collective starbursts of diamonds of the king’s peerage clustered at the door. The coronation music started, signaling their entrance. I had never seen so much sealskin in my life—four spots on an ermine cape marked the wearer as a duke, three signified an earl, two and half were for a viscount, and lastly two for barons and lords. Likewise, the peeresses came separated in rank, not by bludgeoned seal but by length of their trains, and my observant eye quickly separated the duchesses from the countesses. I wondered how everyone was going to fit in the abbey as the line of nobility never seemed to end, which was probably what they intended.
I inhaled deeply, trying to scent the deadly poison of the creeper, but only breathed in so much perfume that I nearly choked. The royal ladies had not yet approached where we sat, but their cloud of powder and perfume was all around me. I saw the Professor nodding and bowing so much as she acknowledged and was acknowledged by a sundry host of lords that I thought she was going to fall over with the effort. “Professor,” I hissed. “Do you see anyone, or anything, unusual?”
Her attention was drawn to the archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Tenison, who had walked out to the high altar, surrounded by a host of lesser clerics and attendants. “Oh,” she said, “it won’t be long now. I guess we were wrong, and the Thief won’t be making her move. I mean, once the king is here . . . she wouldn’t dare . . . couldn’t dare . . .”
“She would dare,” I said. “That is just it. Again, dear Professor, do all these folks belong here?” As the peeresses filed by, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the statue of Saint Peter move, but then the Professor tugged at my sleeve.
“Oh, that girl’s hair is beautiful,” she said. “I don’t know her, but she sure is pretty.”
I saw a shock of white braided hair and a lithe frame passing right by Cornelia. I shouted out, “Cornelia, it’s the—” But a faint odor of death began the slow crawl up my nostrils, right as one of the peeresses tripped, going down in a heap in front of Cornelia, whose hands went to her chest, which was now empty, as the Moon of Madrid was gone!
“Sirius!” Cornelia screamed. “She took the Moon, and she is escaping! Get her!”
I leaped from my seat into the aisle, and the beagle-faced soldier instantly blocked my way. “Good sir,” he said. “You must take your seat. The king and the barons of Cinque Ports are about to enter.”
Over his head, I saw Saint Peter and Saint Paul had stepped down off their pedestals and were holding wicked-looking scimitars. “I am a man of action, soldier,” I said. “And those creatures mean harm to your monarch and all who get in their way. Move!” But I could tell that he and the assembled masses did not see what I saw. The smell of the black death grew stronger, and the Thief was disappearing with the Moon of Madrid down the hallway leading to the cloister. I had no time to lose and let the soldier pull me to the side, protesting all the while. The assembled perfumed and bejeweled mass was looking down at the entrance to the abbey, waiting for their king. The saints were running in my direction, but fortunately so was Oliver. So, with one strike to his stomach and another to his manhood, the soldier had seen enough action for the day and slumped to the floor with a groan.
“What in the hell are those things?” I exclaimed as Oliver ran up to me.
“Yes,” he said with a wry grin. “I think you have their place of origin down pat. I will turn these saints into sinners. You go after the Thief!”
I saw the scimitar-wielding demons approaching, and looked at the seemingly unarmed Oliver. “I can’t leave you,” I said, doffing my Oxford robe. “How are you going to fight them?”
He opened his robe to reveal a belt full of glass globes filled with different-colored wines. “Been coming up with some new vintages at the House of Indigo,” he said, grabbing a glass globe in each meaty hand. “No time like the present to find out if they will actually work.”
“And if they don’t?”
“I hadn’t thought of that possibility—now go!” Oliver said, pushing me toward the cloister and turning to face the demons.
Off I ran at full speed, trying to digest the events I had just witnessed. The Thief had waited until the last possible moment to strike, and her disguise was so good that I had failed to spot her. That would not have been a problem, but for the beagle-faced soldier and the demons. From behind me, I heard a shatter of glass, then another, and heard the demons screaming in rage, or in pain—I really couldn’t tell. I crossed through the cloister and said a little prayer that Oliver was all right.
As I exited the abbey, my quarry was still in view. She must have taken a moment to ditch her robe and dress, which had allowed me to make up precious time. But I realized, as she stepped up on a stone wall, clad in black leather so tight that it made me whistle to myself, that she had waited for me to catch up. She held out the Moon of Madrid, swinging it back and forth like a pendulum, each swing mocking me, daring me to come closer, and participate in the hunt. She put the Moon around her neck and shook out her long, white hair. I decided the Moon paled in comparison to the rather heavenly globes that it lay between. She beckoned to me with one finger to come closer. She was a fox indeed, but I was no hound, more a tiger leaping from where I stood with an angry growl. I heard her giggle in excitement, and the chase was joined through the streets and across the rooftops of London.
She was fast, but I was faster. And the cocky expression on her face turned to one of concern as she redoubled her efforts to lose me. I had to admit she ran well, but I was closing in on her. She was strong, but I was stronger. She scaled a wall in three moves and sprinted down an alley. I cleared it in one and gained yet more ground. I could see where she was headed—London Bridge, a veritable logjam of people crammed on a road just wider than two grown men lying head to head with their feet touching the edges of the road. There was one lane in either direction, and many buildings lined the bridge, overlooking the water of the Thames. Since the Thief could not outrun me, it was her only hope to lose me in the mass of humanity pushing in each direction. But her gamble failed as two wagons had crashed into each other and collapsed in the middle of the bridge, and the way was utterly blocked by the snorting hogs and clucking chickens they had carried now set free.
The Thief turned to look at me, the wry grin wiped off her face as we stood now ten feet apart. “I believe you took something back there that does not belong to you,” I said, holding out my hand. “My friend would like it back.”
“I am sure she would,” said the Thief, fingering the Moon of Madrid where it rested on her chest. “But I’ve grown rather partial to it. I think I will keep it.”
I stepped closer, and now we were only five feet apart. So close, I could see how long her eyelashes were, and smell the soft clean scent of her perspiration as the breeze wafted it gently to me. Death was in my nostrils no more, she was indeed so full of life. “I am afraid I cannot let you do that,
and you know it.”
“But, Sirius,” she said, stepping to the edge of the bridge, “you owe me a Relic. After all, I gave back the Dagger of Dorje in the mountains to save you from the Rakshas. In fact, you do not owe me a Relic—you owe me your life.”
“True,” I said with a smile. I eased a bit closer, wondering why she had not changed her body to diamond and attacked me. She was still all soft curves and vulnerability, or so she wanted me to think. “I never did get a chance to thank you for that. One good turn does indeed deserve another.”
“So you are going to let me go then?” she answered, clearly surprised.
I was very conscious of my back and head being easy targets for a creeper’s arrow. I sidled to the edge of the bridge, and the chickens followed me, pecking at the ground at my feet, causing the Thief to put her hand across her mouth to stifle a grin. I looked down to the river water rushing between the bridge piles. Even I would have quite a fight surviving the watery deathtrap below. The Thief and I now stood a foot apart, so close I could reach out and take the Moon of Madrid from her, if she let me. “I didn’t say that.”
She nodded, her expression a mix of indecision and happiness. “I had forgotten how beautiful you are up close,” she said.
“I was thinking the same thing about you,” I said. “We appear to be at an impasse.”
Just then, the hogs scented something that spooked them and, snorting wildly, began stampeding in our direction, scattering the chickens up in the air, and a rain of feathers and bird poop spattered down all around us. It would have been oddly humorous but for the sharp twang of a bowstring. I realized fate was smiling down on me once again as the chicken fluttering in front of me was pierced through by an all too familiar black-tipped arrow and fell to the ground, smoldering as the black poison ate its way quickly through the chicken’s carcass. The smell of the black death was upon us as a second arrow and then a third winged toward us.
