I looked at Bethany and Philip. Bethany nodded. Philip cracked his knuckles, his expression unreadable behind his mirrored shades.
“They can go,” I told Bergeron.
Bergeron turned to his men. “Get back to your stations.”
“But, sir,” LaValle protested.
Bergeron didn’t let him finish. “That’s an order. I’ll be fine.”
The two guards began walking toward the house. Francisco stopped as he passed Philip. The baby-faced guard turned and glared at him, a silent challenge. His ego had been bruised, and the look on his face said he wasn’t going to let it go. This guy was more muscle than brain.
“Go ahead and take a swing at me, kid,” Philip said. “See how fast I put your face on a milk carton. Not a picture. Your actual face.”
“We’re not finished, you and me,” Francisco snarled.
“Francisco, that’s enough,” Bergeron interrupted.
Francisco glared at Philip one last time. Then he and LaValle stalked back to the house.
“You must excuse my men. I pay them quite handsomely to protect me from trespassers,” Bergeron said. The old billionaire sized up Philip like he was gauging how much he would go for on the open market. “A vampire, is it? Out in the daylight and working alongside humans? Well, I’ll be damned. The times really are changing. Now, how about you tell me why the Five-Pointed Star is spying on my home?”
Bethany slipped LaValle’s gun into her belt. “You bought a Thracian Gauntlet at the Ghost Market not long ago.”
Bergeron narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in trying to lie to you,” he said. “Yes, I bought the gauntlet. Please don’t tell me the Five-Pointed Star is working with the customs department now.”
“The gauntlet was used in the murder of an information broker named Yrouel,” Bethany said. “Did you know him?”
“Yrouel? No, I’m afraid not,” he answered, shaking his head. “But it’s an interesting name. Yrouel was one of the Hebrew angels. Pregnant women wore his amulet for protection.”
“This Yrouel was no angel,” I said.
“Killed with the gauntlet, you say?” Bergeron tapped his chin. “Yes, it’s quite possible. Quite possible.”
“What does that mean?” I pressed.
“There’s something you need to see.” Bergeron began walking down the hill toward the house, the tip of his cane spearing into the grass alongside him. “If you’ve come to take the Thracian Gauntlet away from me, I’m afraid you’re too late. Someone beat you to it.”
* * *
Inside his mansion, Bergeron led us through a hallway adorned with portraits and lined with cabinets full of fine bone china and antique silver and brassware. Overhead, crystals dangled like raindrops from lavish chandeliers, refracting the light back onto the ceiling in tiny rainbows.
“What do you mean someone beat us to it?” I demanded, hurrying to keep up with Bergeron, who was walking surprisingly quickly for an old man with a bum leg.
“Stolen, my good man, what else could I mean?” he said. “And if you and your friends will follow me, I’ll show you from where.”
He led us deeper into the house. The hallway seemed to stretch on indefinitely, leading us past countless guest rooms, studies, bathrooms, kitchenettes, music rooms, even whole other wings of the house. The mansion was palatial. It was also empty. A house this size ought to have maids, cooks, gardeners to maintain the hedges and topiaries outside. So where was everybody?
Finally, we reached the end of the hallway. Bergeron opened a polished rosewood door, and we passed through into the bottom level of an indoor atrium three stories tall. The walls, from the floor all the way to the top of the atrium, were bookshelves, each filled to capacity. The two levels above us had wraparound balconies sporting several doorways leading to other parts of the house. In the ceiling at the top of the atrium was an enormous stained-glass window. The image of an angel holding a burning sword stared down at us.
“What is this place?” I asked, astonished.
“My library,” Bergeron said, proudly spreading his arms. “The centerpiece of my home. These shelves represent lifetimes of book collecting, going back more generations than I can count. The sum total of centuries of knowledge, passed down from parent to child, from the very first members of my family down to me. Mathematics, history, philosophy, poetry, and yes, even some of the more arcane topics. Magic. Alchemy. Angelology, of course.” He looked up admiringly at the stained-glass angel above us. “I’m fascinated by angels. You might say they’re an obsession of mine. Did you know in early cultures angels and demons were the same? Twins, in a way. Both were terrible, unknowable forces that could either destroy or empower. And yet now we think of angels as our protectors, our personal guardians, and we think of demons as something to be feared and shunned. It’s strange, don’t you think? But of course angels and demons are merely aspects of our own nature. They always have been. It’s remarkable, the dualities we carry within ourselves.”
“Demons exist,” Bethany said. “They’re not just psychological archetypes.”
“Then perhaps angels do, too,” Bergeron said. “The universe is a vast place, full of infinite possibilities. Who am I to say otherwise?”
I looked up at the towering shelves of books again. Walls of hardcover spines stretched up to the stained-glass skylight. The angel reminded me of something I’d read in Calliope’s notebook.
“Have you ever heard of the Angel of the Waters?” I asked.
“I can’t say I’m familiar with the name,” Bergeron said. “But it’s rare for angels to be associated with a natural element like that. Usually angels represent emotions or states of being. Fear, loss, regret, anger.”
“You collect more than just books, though, don’t you?” Bethany said.
He nodded. “You mean artifacts. Yes, artifacts are something I’ve always been interested in. I have my genealogy to thank for that. Some distant great-great-grandfather was said to be a magician. Even though no one else in my family dabbled, his books were passed down with the others. The first time I read about artifacts, I was hooked instantly. Their beauty, the immense power hidden inside them, their very existence spoke to me on an aesthetic level. I was compelled to know more. To see one. To hold one. Now, if you’ll come this way.”
Bergeron walked to a door on the far side of the library. He took a key on a string from around his neck and unlocked the door.
“You’re the first guests I’ve ever let back here,” he said. “It’s a private collection, for my enjoyment alone. Not everyone is ready to accept that the boundaries of the world extend farther than they thought. Until magic comes out of the shadows and is universally acknowledged, I’m afraid collections like mine will have to stay a secret.”
Bergeron opened the door. On the other side was a small wing of the house that had been converted into a gallery. The walls were windowless, bare, unadorned slabs of marble. Along the floor, row after row of glass cases filled the room. In the aisles between the rows were plush leather couches, where Bergeron presumably sat and admired his collection on rainy days.
The rich weren’t like other people. I knew that. Yet somehow their eccentricities never ceased to amaze me.
A lone painting had been mounted on the wall near the door, covered with a heavy curtain. My curiosity got the better of me. I lifted a corner of the curtain to see what was underneath. I caught a flash of aqua blue brushstrokes before Bergeron pushed the curtain back down.
“If you don’t mind,” he said. “It’s a special piece I’ve commissioned, but it’s not ready for viewing yet. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you where I kept the Thracian Gauntlet.”
He led us down one of the aisles. The items on display inside the glass cases reminded me of the artifacts in Isaac’s vault. Bergeron’s collection certainly rivaled his. Like most of the artifacts I’d seen, the majority of these were weapons—swords, daggers, axes, maces, a crossbow whose wooden stock w
as painted with the image of a fire-breathing dragon. They all had spells locked inside them that made them more powerful, more dangerous. There were other artifacts whose purposes I couldn’t guess: a huge book with only four pages, each a thick stone slab etched with faded runes; a long, curving horn fashioned from a tea-stained ivory tusk and encircled with brass mounts; a clock in the shape of a pyramid that had strange, intricate symbols on its face instead of numbers.
Bethany stared wide-eyed at each artifact she passed. “My God, this isn’t a collection, it’s an armory,” she whispered to me, horrified. She turned to Bergeron. “How many artifacts do you own?”
Bergeron mistook her horror for admiration and smiled with pride. “There are nearly seventy in my collection now. I’ve been acquiring artifacts for some time. Ah, here we are. This is where I kept the Thracian Gauntlet.”
We stopped in front of the remains of a broken, empty case. Only the bottom and a small portion of its four glass walls remained, cracked and jagged at the edges.
Bergeron sighed. “I swear to you, I bought the Thracian Gauntlet as a rare curio, the crowning addition to my collection. Not as a weapon. I don’t use any of these artifacts. I don’t even know how. To me, they’re works of art, nothing more. If I’d known any of them would fall into someone else’s hands…” He shook his head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. I only had the Thracian Gauntlet in my possession a few days before it was stolen. As you can see, the thief smashed the glass and took it.”
“There must have been glass all over the floor,” Bethany said. “Who cleaned it up?”
“I did,” Bergeron said.
She raised her eyebrows. “You did it yourself?”
“Of course,” he said, puffing up indignantly. “I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, miss. I can still sweep a floor when I need to.”
“Sorry, it’s just that with a house this big, I would have thought you had a staff to maintain it,” she said.
“I do, of course, but they’re not full-time,” he said.
That struck me as odd. What kind of man lived in a house like this with no full-time staff other than security guards? That wasn’t the only thing odd about Clarence Bergeron. What kind of man had a collection like this but never showed it to anyone? A misanthrope who couldn’t stand other people? Bergeron certainly seemed eccentric enough. Or was it paranoia? He seemed eccentric enough for that, too.
“I have a cleaning service that comes twice a week, but they’re not allowed back here,” he continued. “I maintain the strictest security as far as this room is concerned. I know how dangerous artifacts can be. When this room needs cleaning, I do it myself and will continue to do so for as long as I can.”
“I’m impressed,” I said, glancing around. “It’s pristine.”
Bergeron sat down on the nearest couch, leaning the cane against the cushion beside him. “I come here every day, to sit and look at my treasures. And yes, I keep this place spotless. My treasures deserve no less.”
“So if the cleaning service isn’t allowed back here, who else has a key to that door?” Bethany asked.
“Only me,” he said.
“What about your family?” I asked. “Do they have access to this room?”
He shook his head. “I don’t have any family. I was married once, but…” He trailed off, sighing. “Time takes everything away from us, doesn’t it? Our health. Our mobility. The things we cherish. Not these musty old artifacts, of course. They’ll exist forever, until there’s no one left to admire them. No, I mean the ephemeral things, the things we’re only allowed to have for a short time.” He began coughing again and put his handkerchief over his mouth. When he was finished, he put the handkerchief away. “The only residents of this house are me and the security guards, LaValle and Francisco. No one else. I value my privacy, and my solitude. You understand, even if I rarely leave this house I still need security. There are plenty of people out there who would love to have me out of the way. People who resent my wealth, my standing.”
“Could any of those people have stolen the gauntlet?” Bethany asked.
He shook his head. “Impossible. They couldn’t possibly know where to find me. Very few people do. I made sure of that. This house isn’t even listed on any of the Internet mapping sites. No, if you want to know who I think stole the gauntlet from me, it’s those hucksters and thieves at the Ghost Market. Sure, the auctions they run are all supposedly anonymous. The bidders use numbers instead of names. All transactions are in cash, with nonsequential bills. The winner is responsible for transporting the item home from the auction himself. The Ghost Market knows how to cover its tracks diligently. The only way you even hear when the auctions are scheduled is through word of mouth. But if you ask me, they knew how rare and valuable the Thracian Gauntlet is, and they came back for it. They’re probably planning to sell it again once all the dust settles. Double their money. The only thing I don’t understand is how they stole it from me. There was no break-in. The perimeter alarm wasn’t even tripped.”
“We’ve got someone checking out the warehouse in Brooklyn where the auction took place,” I said, pulling out my phone. “I should call him, see if he’s found anything.”
Bergeron looked surprised. “How did you know about the warehouse?”
“Langstrom told us,” Philip said. “Although he took some … convincing.”
Bergeron shook his head. “Who?”
“Langstrom,” Philip repeated. “He’s a fence, a middleman for the Ghost Market. He buys stolen artifacts for the auctions. That’s how we found you. Langstrom gave you up.”
“But I don’t know anyone named Langstrom,” Bergeron said.
“You’re sure? He’s got four arms. Hard to miss.”
“I tell you, I don’t know him,” Bergeron insisted, sitting bolt upright. “But that’s proof, isn’t it? The auctions aren’t as anonymous as we were told. They keep records on us. You said it yourself, this Langstrom fellow knew my address! But how could he know it? I never gave it to anyone there.” He shook his head. “I’m more convinced than ever. They must be the ones who took the gauntlet!”
I exchanged a skeptical glance with Bethany. If the Ghost Market really did steal the gauntlet back, why use it to kill Yrouel? What did any of this have to do with Calliope or Nahash-Dred? The pieces didn’t fit. I stepped away and called Isaac.
When he picked up, I said, “It’s me. Did you find anything?”
“No,” he said. His voice had a strange echo, as if he were standing in a big, empty space. “The warehouse is completely cleaned out. The Ghost Market did a good job of it, too. Made the place look like no one’s been here in years. They even replaced the dust on the floors. You’d never know anything happened here. But they couldn’t disguise the traces of arcane energy left behind. I can feel it. It’s everywhere, all around me, like the air before a thunderstorm. There were artifacts here. Hundreds of them.” He grew quiet. “We made a terrible mistake, Trent. We should never have stopped securing artifacts. We took our eyes off the ball.”
“We did what we had to do,” I said. “We all made the same choice.”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “These artifacts are dangerous in the wrong hands. Deadly. And there were hundreds of them here. Who knows where they are now, or what they’re being used for? We never should have stopped.”
“Quit beating yourself up,” I said. “Believe me, I’m the king of beating myself up, but it doesn’t get you anywhere. There’s only so much we can do. There are only so many of us. Everyone else, all the magicians and mages out there, they’re busy keeping their heads down. They’re too scared to get involved. We’re all there is.”
“Sometimes it feels like we’re fighting a losing battle, Trent. Whatever we do, it still isn’t enough.”
I looked down into the glass case in front of me. A serrated-edged sword rested on a metal stand. Rust covered the blade where it had tasted blood. Taken a life.
“I know
,” I said.
“You’re right about one thing, though. We’re all there is. And we’re not enough.” Isaac took a deep breath, centering himself. “I’ll canvass the area and meet you back at Citadel. Did you make contact with Clarence Bergeron?”
“He’s not our killer.” I turned to look at the old man sitting on the couch. He was still talking with Bethany and Philip, occasionally coughing into his handkerchief. “For one thing, he’s too old. For another, he only had the gauntlet for a few days before it was stolen. He’s pointing the finger at the Ghost Market. He thinks they stole it back from him after the auction so they could sell it again sometime in the future.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m not convinced, but it’s the only lead we’ve got. I’ll call you if we find anything else.”
I ended the call and went back to the others. Bergeron looked up at me from the couch.
“The Ghost Market has already packed up and moved on,” I reported.
“Of course they have,” Bergeron said, shaking his head. “It’s called the Ghost Market for a reason. Ask about it and it doesn’t exist. Look for it and it’s gone. Blasted criminals, all of them.”
“Yes, they are,” Bethany said. “But you knew that already when you engaged in illegal activities with them.”
He shot her a withering look. “What are you saying, that I deserved this?”
“No, but it does make you kind of a hypocrite, don’t you think?” she replied.
Bergeron’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t have to listen to this,” he said. “This is my home!”
He was angry, insulted in the way only the entitled bocame insulted when you point out that they’ve done something wrong. He was about two seconds away from throwing us out. I had to intervene quickly, so I distracted him with a question I’d been wanting to ask anyway.
“Mr. Bergeron, does the name Erickson Arkwright mean anything to you?”
“Hmm?” He looked up at me. “Arkwright? No, I’m not familiar with the name. But then, I tend to keep to myself. Why? Is he with the Ghost Market?”
Die and Stay Dead Page 14
