As for the hoarse woman's voice, it must have come from the room behind the half-open door.
In the meantime, the python had disappeared in the doorway.
"Nicole? Come in, girl," she heard.
This voice was totally different—deep and velvety. It definitely belonged to a woman.
Timidly, Nicole started along the hallway. Then she spread her shoulders and continued more resolutely toward the door. She pushed it and entered.
A dull lamp under a torn lampshade added its weak light to a few candles that struggled to illuminate the room. The room seemed to be in desperate need of a spring cleaning. Nicole's eyes hurt from all the clutter. A small, round table in the center of the room groaned under the weight of a dangerous-looking knife, three piles of thick books, several half-burned candles in bronze candlesticks, a human skull with a ruby instead of one of its eyes, a coffee pot, five cups, a dusty wine bottle, a large pitcher, a stack of colorful cloths, a bunch of dried herbs, a modern-looking plastic timer . . . and dozens of other things.
Glass jars and test tubes crowded the nearby cabinets, shelves and chairs. You couldn't see the walls for all the ritual masks and pictures of unearthly landscapes next to a deer head, an enormous-looking glass in a silver frame, and a heavy antique clock.
No wonder it took Nicole some time to make out a small woman in a plain gray-blue dress sitting in a heavy armchair by the table. It had to be Martha the Medium, her hair falling onto her shoulders in thick auburn waves. The woman's face looked young, and still, it seemed to belong to an ancient hag. Her skin was smooth but pale, but her eyes . . . with their vaguely observant gaze . . . .
The woman looked Nicole over. "So! Who do we have here? Don't be shy, girl. Come in and have no fear. I don't bite. You can take a seat over there." Her hostess nodded at the only chair, vacant but for a marble head whose features mirrored Martha's face.
"And the snake?" Nicole ventured. "Where is it?"
Then she saw it. The python had slithered onto the top of the dresser and was now coiling up, making itself comfortable.
Nicole sat on the edge of the chair and forced her gaze away from the python. She looked at the woman, suddenly realizing where she'd seen this pale skin, these bright lips and hazy eyes. A doll—a wax lady doll.
"No need to fear Uroboros," the little woman added from the depths of her armchair. "You have other things to beware of."
"Yes, er . . . thanks," Nicole said. "And . . . Uroboros, is it?"
Martha nodded at the python, who flashed his eyes in acknowledgement and began nibbling at his own tail.
"Interesting name," Nicole said. "So what was it you said, Ma'am? What is it I should beware of?" For some reason, she couldn't force herself to call the woman by her first name.
Instead of replying, Martha leaned forward and peered at the girl. Nicole froze, gazing into the depths of her eyes. For a while, both sat unmoving, staring at each other. Nicole felt as if she were falling down a deep, dark well, faster and faster. Then Martha sat back, and the illusion was gone.
"That's weird," the Medium said. "Very weird."
"What is?" Nicole asked.
"You must be very careful here in the City. I've no idea where danger can come from. I can't see a single sign of it. I don't think I've ever seen such a closed aura as yours in all my 200 years here. Your future seems to be encapsulated. It looks as if it's wrapped in a cocoon."
This was funny. Whenever Nicole went to bed, she liked to wrap the comforter around herself, imagining she was inside a cocoon. The idea had brought her peace and comfort, lulling her into sleep.
Only then did it dawn on her. 200 years? This woman was two centuries old? Impossible. But if not . . . how old was she, then?
"I'll try and read your fortune," Martha said. "It might give us some clues about your future."
Hearing this, Uroboros raised his head and seemed to stare at Nicole with some interest. Martha rose, looked around the room, and sat back down.
"Same thing again," she said. "Can never find anything."
"What is it you can't find?" Nicole had a look around, too. It would be quite a job to find anything in this mess.
"Nothing," Martha said, annoyed. "Same thing every time. They tear the place apart, they move stuff, they lose my things or misplace them . . ."
"Who are you talking about, Ma'am?" Nicole wasn't sure she understood. "I don't—"
"Do me a favor and fetch the crystal ball, will you?" Martha interrupted her. "It may look crystal, but it's in fact woven from dreams, reveries and phantoms. It's a large ball that kind of looks crystal, you understand? It's kind of blue . . . has to be in that cabinet over there. On one of the shelves. Has to be."
Nicole shrugged and walked to a large doorless cabinet that took up the entire opposite wall of the room. So much stuff! How could she find the crystal ball in this warehouse of weird and wondrous things?
Nicole stepped back and looked up, inspecting the outside of the cabinet, when she noticed a clear blue sphere to her left, at the same level as her eyes. She reached out to take it—and the cabinet came alive. Several bright lights jumped off its shelves and scattered around the room, flying up to the ceiling. One of them danced in front of Nicole's face. A mischievous little face came through the light with two specks for eyes and a thin, curved mouth . . . a smiley. It was a real flying smiley!
The other smileys swirled around her, bubbling like a thousand blocked sinks, while this one glared up, sending a thin red bolt of lightning toward Nicole's head.
"Careful," the hoarse woman's voice said behind her—the same voice Nicole had heard when she'd knocked on the door of the House of Fate.
But the lightning didn't hit her. Something struck it halfway, dragging it down. The lightning hit the pendant on her chest.
The black gem flared up, swallowing the lightning, then spat it back out. The lightning split into several thin threads, hitting the smiley that had sent it and its friends.
All hell broke loose. The agitated smileys started flashing, bubbling and hissing. The one that had caused the commotion flared up, unhappy with its punishment. Bubbling and gurgling, it somersaulted back onto the shelf, where it splattered the wall and slipped down, leaving bubbles of light and some shimmering goo in its wake.
The other smileys flew every which way, taking cover until the shelves were quiet and dark once again.
"Oh yeah," the hoarse voice said behind her.
Biting her lip, Nicole gingerly removed the crystal ball from the shelf. It was unexpectedly light, as if made of down feathers. She walked back, set the ball on the table, and sat on the edge of her chair, trying not to disturb the marble head.
Only then did she raise her eyes to Martha and the python. Both stared back at her. Finally, Martha shifted in her chair and said,
"It's amazing how easily you controlled the poltergeist, my dear girl."
"It wasn't me," Nicole started. "It was—"
She stopped, realizing that her hostess couldn't have seen what had happened. Nicole had stood with her back to the table, hadn't she? And still, Martha seemed to know that it had been the pendant that had made the poltergeist flee.
The Medium was looking at it now.
"Where did you get it?"
Once again, Nicole felt she didn't want to tell anyone about Grandma and her pendant.
"Just found it in a box with some old junk," she said.
"So you don't know what it is, do you?"
"No. Just an old piece of jewelry. Why?"
Martha glanced at Uroboros and held out her small, pale hand. "May I?"
Nicole shifted in her chair, nearly pushing the marble head over. She touched the pendant—which was slightly warm—and said, "I . . . I'd rather it stayed where it is."
The woman's eyes glistened. She removed her hand and leaned forward, about to give Nicole a piece of her mind. Then she reconsidered and rose.
"Very well, then. I suppose I'd better make the ball work, had
n't I? Sit still and don't interfere."
With these words, she took the sphere—supposedly woven of dreams, reveries and phantoms—and placed it on a large steel plate on the edge of the table. She walked over to Uroboros's dresser—coiled up on top of it, he was still busy nibbling at his tail—and took a few vials and a gold bowl off a shelf and returned to the table.
Martha opened a vial and poured some shimmering yellow powder into the bowl. She unscrewed the top off another one and added a drop of white flame to the mix. With a wooden spatula, she scooped some thick white substance out of a tiny carved box and stirred it in.
Strange processes started in the bowl. Nicole couldn't get a good look from where she was sitting, but the mix bubbled, releasing tiny, shimmering flakes into the air.
Gingerly, Martha took the gold bowl with two fingers and lifted it over the crystal ball. Then she turned it upside down and jerked her hand away.
The sparkling cloud of the bowl's contents covered the ball and then disappeared. The ball darkened. Vague shadows clouded the inside of the crystal and dashed around, trying to break free. Nicole was dying to get closer for a better look.
Martha stooped over the ball, peering inside. The room froze in time, the hostess now a statue, Uroboros a motionless shape. Nicole didn't breathe for fear of disturbing the perfect silence. The shadows inside the ball moved, curling and merging, then falling apart.
Then something changed imperceptibly. The ball had grown black. With a loud pop, the shadows rushed out and escaped. The air darkened, the flickering candlelight shrinking, the lamp over the table fading. With a clatter, the ball burst.
Martha gasped and collapsed into her armchair. Uroboros twitched his head. Nicole blinked.
An ugly crack ran across the surface of the ball. The crystal had grown cloudy and not at all pretty. Looking at it gave you the creeps.
"You." Martha turned to the girl. Her face had grown old. Her chin had shrunk, and crow’s feet webbed around her dark-circled eyes. "I want you to leave. Now."
Her voice had changed, too. Broken and raspy, it had lost its velvety softness. "Out."
"But why?" Nicole stood up.
"You're danger."
"How dare you!" the girl gasped, indignant. "I haven't done anything to you. Come to think of it, I've done nothing at all. It was you who . . . oh, for crying out loud!"
Lack of understanding breeds anger—and now, Nicole felt she didn't understand anything at all.
"I don't care if you all live or die!" she shouted.
"The City's wrong side is seeking you. Its gaze follows you everywhere," Martha replied in a dull, detached voice. "You're being hunted by powers that one had better leave well alone. I have no intention of getting caught between you and them."
"The wrong side of the City," Nicole repeated. "The powers. What kind of nonsense is that? Surely, you've just made it all up."
"I don't make things up," Martha snapped. "I see things that others can't. It's all to do with the House of Crimson Windows. It's the Warp. I might try again later, but not now. Go."
Indignant, Nicole stomped her foot and turned to the door.
"The other door," she heard behind her back.
"Pardon me?" she turned around.
"The exit is through that archway over there. Down the corridor to the back door."
Nicole peered at the archway to the left of the dresser. She could have sworn that it hadn't been there before. Or had it? She ran a hand over her face and walked toward it, but stopped in front of it, muttering, "What do I do now? Where can I go?"
The question wasn't meant for Martha. Nicole spoke so quietly, she was sure her hostess hadn't heard her. Still, Martha replied from the depths of her chair,
"Go to City Hall. That's why I told you to take the back door. City Hall can give answers to one's questions, even unasked ones. It's not afraid of the Wrong Side and its powers. City Hall is the City's mouth. You just might find something out about your past and your future. Seek clues inside City Hall. Now go."
Nicole stepped forward and glanced over her shoulder. Martha shrank into her armchair, shrouded in shadows—the weak and helpless old woman that she truly was.
A long, dark corridor lay behind the archway. Nicole crossed it and pushed the back door. A man's voice said behind her, hoarse and deep,
"Don't forget to have a dose of youth potion with your milk."
Nicole slammed the door shut behind her and stepped into the night.
Chapter Six
Gumshoe crouched next to a motionless body. So—the dark ones. He'd heard about them before, of course, and even had caught a glimpse or two of them in the past. Still, he knew very little about them.
Martha and Train Attendant wouldn't tell him much about the dark ones. Even Cardsharp, the chatterbox from hell, seemed to avoid the subject. One thing Gumshoe was sure of: the dark ones had to be human. Not shapeshifters, neither spirits nor Disciples—just common human folk.
Gumshoe unbuttoned the dead man's black robe and saw that he'd been right. This was an ordinary human body dressed in ordinary human clothes. But what if the gray shirt concealed animal fur, a tortoise shell or even fish scales?
Gumshoe unbuttoned the shirt. Just a human chest. The bullet wound was right under the heart. He could still shoot. You had to give him that.
He checked the dead man's pockets but didn't find anything worth a second look. Then his fingers felt a bulge in the robe's collar. Gumshoe took out a penknife and ripped the lining open. Within was a small, black leather purse. Something rustled inside. Gumshoe put the purse into his pocket. He'd check it out later.
The dark man lay on his back, his broad hood pushed to one side, concealing his face. Gumshoe drew the hood away. The dead man wasn't much in the looks department. He had thinning, cropped hair, a hollow face with sunken cheeks, and a sharp, bony nose with pale lips. Wonder why the others hadn't come back for his body? Had they really been in such a hurry? On his way here, Gumshoe hadn't seen a single black-robed figure. Where could they all be? Probably still searching the streets, looking for him and the girl.
He searched the body one last time but didn't find anything worth checking out.
Normally, the dark ones avoided this part of the City. Either they had no business here, or something scared them off. They were sometimes seen on the outskirts of the City. At other times, their long robes were reportedly noticed in the mist by the square. Train Attendant swore he'd once seen a tall, swarthy man with two enormous dogs straining at the leash. Wonder if he was the same as whoever had kissed Nicole?
The thought made Gumshoe frown. The girl was definitely hiding something. She could be the dark ones' associate, for all he knew—not yet a fact, maybe, but still, it was a high probability. How else could you explain all that hugging and kissing in the middle of the square? For some reason, he didn't like thinking about the scene, and not only because it showed her in a new light. Bewildered, Gumshoe realized that he just didn't like the memory of the girl being kissed by another man.
Nicole Stewart, damn it. Gumshoe always tried to be painfully honest with himself, so the thought caught him unawares. She was none of his business. His interest in her was purely professional.
Without even noticing it, he opened his tobacco pouch and started rolling a cigarette. Gumshoe had sent the girl to Martha, hoping for a short break that would allow him to think it all over and investigate the crime scene. Also, Martha could see in Nicole something he'd failed to find out. Speaking of, they must have already finished their little seance.
He heard footsteps and stood up.
Men in dark robes walked around the square and toward the old casks where Gumshoe was standing. Had they come back to their senses and decided to collect the body? There were at least ten of them. There was no way he could pick another fight, which meant it was time for him to go.
Gumshoe set his hat right and ducked a little so they couldn't see him from behind the casks. Stooping, he hurried towar
d the House of Fate.
Before leaving the square, he looked back. The dark ones stopped by the casks. It looked like they were collecting their friend's body. He should have thrown the corpse over his shoulder and taken it to Martha's. She could have studied the body and hopefully gleaned a few more things for him.
Not bothering to knock, Gumshoe opened the front door of the House of Fate. Knocking was pretty pointless, really. The door was either open or locked. When it was locked, no amount of knocking would let one in. But an open door meant you were welcome and expected. Martha had more powerful tools at her disposal than some ordinary locks and keys.
Two muffled voices came from inside the house, one hoarse, the other deep and velvety. When Gumshoe had crossed the short hallway and entered the room, the voices subsided. Martha sat in her usual armchair, her small hands folded in her lap. Uroboros was coiled up on the edge of the table next to a tall wine glass full of pink-tinged milk.
The Medium turned her rosy, sanguine face to Gumshoe. "You shouldn't have sent her here."
"Shouldn't I?" Gumshoe crossed the room and lit up a cigarette. "Why?"
He swept some fancy trinkets off a chair by the table, sat down, and drew deeply on his cigarette. Uroboros slid across the table closer to Martha. His thick, heavy body breezed across as if he were a delicate little snake, not a big old hulk of a python. Reaching the edge of the table, Uroboros coiled up and slithered onto Martha's shoulders, hugging her neck like a scarf.
"Where's the girl?" Gumshoe said.
Martha stroked the python. "I sent her to City Hall."
"I see. So what can you say about her?"
The Medium shook her head and pursed her lips.
"Come on, say something." Gumshoe raised his voice. "I saw her with my very own eyes when she appeared on that square, the one with dead bodies. The dark ones were there, too."
Hidden City: Lost in the Shadows (Book 1) Page 5
