“I’d better answer that.” Claryce picked up the phone and put the receiver to her ear. “Hello?” She exhaled in relief, which made me relax in turn. “Oliver? No. I have those papers. Yes, you can get them tomorrow. All right.”
She hung up, then turned to a white oak table near the telephone. She thumbed through some papers there.
“What is it? What was the call?”
“Something mundane for a change. Just Oliver, a coworker from Delke. He’s handling some of the other matters they’re trying to clear up. Just wanted some of the papers I was given.” She rubbed her forehead. “To be honest, anything that speeds up finishing this I’m happy about . . . especially after Alexander Bond.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“No. Nothing so far. Don’t you worry. If he calls, I’m not going to see him without you.”
“You shouldn’t see him again. Period.”
A distinctive growl rose from Fetch’s direction. Claryce chuckled. I glanced at him. He had the decency to look embarrassed. The growl had come not from his jaws but rather his stomach.
“Ye said the two of ye were going to meet at Berghoff’s,” the shapeshifter muttered. “Was hoping for a bite from your table. . . .”
“Poor Fetch,” murmured Claryce with a slight smile. “Let me get a couple of things and we’ll go.” She turned the smile to me. “And I’ll drive. See that you do something about the Packard. You can’t go around driving with a windshield like that in this weather.”
“I’ll call Barnaby. I need to talk to him about something else, anyway.”
The smile faded. “His son?”
“I promised I’d see Joseph.”
She clutched herself. “God. Dunning. Poor man.”
“I hope you’re talking about Barnaby. Joseph doesn’t deserve your sympathy.”
“Oh, Nick!” Still, she didn’t argue. “I’ll be back shortly. Then we can see to keeping Fetch from starving.”
“Thank ye kindly, Mistress Claryce!” His tail swept back and forth at an enthusiastic pace. For someone supposedly starving, he was looking pretty fit at the moment.
I went to the telephone and gave the operator the number I needed. As I listened to the ringing, I noticed a piece of paper behind the table where the phone stood. Still waiting for Barnaby to answer, I picked it up on the assumption it was part of the work from Delke. As Claryce’d said, anything to permanently sever her ties with Oberon’s past was welcome.
“No one’s answering,” the nasal-toned female operator broke in. “Shall I continue to try?”
“For another minute, please,” I answered as I turned over the paper. “He sometimes takes a moment to answer.”
“Yes, sir.” She didn’t sound happy, but she let the phone ring.
She was probably even unhappier when I hung up on her. Behind me, Fetch growled. He didn’t need his heightened senses to see that I’d just been startled by something.
“Master—”
“Quiet, Fetch!” I stared at the paper, well aware that it was in Claryce’s clear handwriting. It was a short list of names with some information written by them. Three names, to be precise. One of them was her own, with her birthday and some basic facts about her life.
The other two names were those of Clarissa and Claudette.
Under each, she’d written their birthdays . . . and the days they had died. I’d not paid attention to one fact that she’d circled, and that was obvious when I looked. Maybe I’d been too close to the situation that I’d not seen what she had.
Of course, in many ways she was closer to what’d happened to both women than I could ever be. After all, they had been her.
All three women had been born on the twenty-fifth. The months were different, but the date was always the twenty-fifth.
It didn’t stop there, either. She had a place of birth for both herself and Claudette. Claudette Durand. Both had been born in Chicago, just as I knew Clarissa’d been and Claryce had rightly assumed despite a lack of information. That wasn’t the surprising part—or at least the most surprising part, considering what I’d already read. Obviously, she knew where the Gate had ended up. She’d jotted down the location, just off of Lake Michigan. However, after that, Claryce’d jotted down some numbers. It took me a moment to realize that she’d measured the exact distance not only from where she’d been born to where the Gate stood, but also the distance from where her two previous incarnations had been born to the portal, too.
All three were exactly the same distance.
Claryce’d made a not-so-crude drawing of the spot near the lake, then an arc running from one birthplace to the next. I shuddered, aware of what she was trying to do. She wanted to see if there were any other matches. She was looking to see how many times she’d died in Chicago.
Fetch let out a low, brief whine. I was about to tell him to quiet down when I realized he was actually trying to signal me.
“You never mentioned Claudette,” she quietly commented. Although Claryce was dressed to go, she made no attempt to retrieve her purse. She just stood there, waiting.
I paused, trying hard to figure out what to say to her. I’d hardly expected to discover this. “I didn’t know about her. I only found out recently. The other day, in fact.”
“She and Clarissa are both buried in Saint Boniface . . . and not too far from one another. I thought from that you—” Her calm broke for a moment as she swallowed hard. “—took care of them afterward.”
“Claryce.” I dropped the paper by the telephone and went to her. She was a strong person, but knowing she’d been buried at least twice was a lot to take in.
Without warning, she fell into my arms. I held her while she shook. She didn’t cry from what I could see, but she shook for more than a minute before recovering. By that time, Fetch’d stuck his cold nose in her left hand and tried to nuzzle her. Sometimes he forgot that he wasn’t a dog.
“I’m sorry,” Claryce finally said as she backed up slightly. “I thought I was over that after staring at it for more than a week. Last night, I wrapped myself in a blanket and drank a good portion of the last bottle of wine I got from ‘William.’”
Claryce hadn’t broken any laws with the wine. Prohibition forbade the manufacture, not the consumption, of alcohol. The wine Oberon’d gathered while he was William Delke had been collected before Prohibition in many cases. Claryce’d ended up with a few, thankfully.
“How long have you been looking into this?” I finally ventured.
“Since we finished with Oberon. I had a lot more time on my hands after you abandoned me.”
“Claryce—”
She suddenly kissed me. For a moment, I was able to forget everything except her.
Then, of course, the dragon chuckled. How sweet. . . . Eye always savor her kisses. . . .
I bit back a growl. He had only a limited sense of the outside world and mainly through sight and sound. I generally had to suffer the pain. I wasn’t about to share this brief pleasure with him.
Unfortunately, Claryce must’ve sensed something amiss. She looked up at me with a faint smile. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” Her smile widening—a little forcibly, I thought—she turned to Fetch. “I think we all need to get some food. I know I need to eat and poor Fetch must feel like he’s got a pit in his stomach.”
“I wouldn’t argue with a little bit of leftover corned beef, Mistress Claryce!” His tail swept back and forth.
“Nonsense! You’re going to have some fresh sausage, not some cold leftovers! You do like sausage, don’t you?”
His tail beat fast enough to launch a Douglas World Cruiser biplane. “They do have a swell garlic one! I’ve had some fine bits from the trash bins!”
“That’s all you need,” I countered. “Garlic and rat. A nice combination. You can use your breath alone against the next Wyld.”
He cowed, and although I’d seen this act before, this time I couldn’t d
o anything about it because his target was Claryce.
“Nick!” She gave Fetch a gentle scratch between the ears, giving him his victory where the garlic sausage was concerned. “We’ll see what we can do for you, won’t we, Nick?”
“So long as afterward he sits in the backseat with his head out the side.”
The telephone rang. I glanced at Claryce, who shook her head.
“Let me answer it, then.” Returning to the telephone, I picked it up. “Hello?”
“Ah! Master Nicholas! It is you! I thought so, but the operator said a different number. I decided to have her ring it, regardless.”
“Barnaby.” With the discovery of the paper, I’d forgotten about him. “I was calling about the Packard. It’s seen some damage, especially the windshield.”
“I’ll be happy to have it picked up, of course, but if I may, if you hadn’t called me, I would’ve been calling you a few minutes later. Yours was a timely attempt.”
“What is it?”
“I know we haven’t had a chance to get to Joseph, but I did manage to finally get some information on his visitor. I thought it’d be important to get it to you as soon as possible.”
I had a bad feeling. “What’d you find out?”
“Turns out, he came twice. Seems they somehow overlooked that little point when I asked the first time. I suppose it makes sense, since they thought he was one of them.”
“‘One of them’?”
“A physician. His name was . . . Forgive, I wrote it down.”
I thought I knew already. “Let me guess. Alexander Bond.”
“‘Bond’? No. Here it is. H. Mudgett. There was no full first name.”
H. Mudgett. “Any description?”
“No. I thought that curious, Master Nicholas. No one could describe him.”
So it still could’ve been Bond, though why he’d chosen a different alias when visiting Dunning, I couldn’t say. I wondered what he wanted with Joseph.
Barnaby cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but there’s something else and I should’ve told you immediately . . . but I’m still digesting it myself.”
I stifled my response, wondering what could be more significant than Bond’s—and I was certain it was Bond—visit to Dunning. “Spit it out, Barnaby.”
“It’s—it’s Joseph himself. He—he asked to see you, Master Nicholas. He actually asked to see you.”
CHAPTER 8
“Tell me more about Joseph,” Claryce murmured as we finished our meal and readied to depart. Under her arm, she’d tucked the package with Fetch’s sausage. The scent of garlic had already spread, and I’d warned her that her kindness was going to be something we both regretted.
I didn’t say anything until we were out of Berghoff’s and on to Adams Street. The weather had calmed, but it was still very cold. It didn’t bother me so much, but I could see that it was affecting Claryce more than she’d thought it would.
“Joseph Sperling is the only child of Barnaby and his wife, Emma, who passed away years ago. You haven’t met Barnaby—only seen him briefly at his friend’s house—but you know he owns a garage and services autos.”
“He calls you Master Nicholas, just like Fetch and Kravayik do. I thought that was a Feirie thing to do. Does he have some link to Feirie?”
“No. Kravayik got involved in the incident with Joseph and Barnaby, who’d just met both of us, heard him call me that. Barnaby’s done the same since, despite my asking him not to.”
“What happened to Joseph?”
“We were never actually certain. He and some others were supposed to use the Wingfoot Express dirigible for a spell related to the Gate, that’s about all I know. They were reckless, though. Instead of what they wanted, they nearly engulfed Chicago and part of Feirie in a fire worse than . . . than what we caused.”
She didn’t ask who “we” were. Inside my head, the dragon chortled at the memory. So glorious a flame . . . one of my greatest. . . . We should do it again. . . .
I didn’t reply, instead going on. “Joseph was at the nexus of the situation. I would’ve left him to die, but Barnaby pleaded with me to help his son if I could. I did as he asked. I still regret it.”
Claryce’s shiver did not have to do with just the chill air. “God! It’s been six years, but I still remember hearing about the Wingfoot. Those poor people! They said thirteen died that day.”
“It was more. There just weren’t bodies left of the others. Don’t weep for them, though. They were with Joseph. They got what they deserved.”
“Why? Just what all happen—”
“Where’s Fetch?” I interrupted, glad for a sudden and real excuse not to answer.
We’d reached the Wills. There was no sign of Fetch. However, from around the corner came a brief metallic clang, like something much bigger than a cat and entirely disobedient to his companions was feeding on the restaurant’s trash instead of waiting like he’d been told. A moment later, Fetch came bounding into sight. He looked so eager that I almost expected him to sit up and beg for the sausage. Considering he’d disobeyed my instructions, I was tempted to make him do just that.
Claryce was more kindhearted. She opened the package. “Here you go, Fetch! Enjoy!”
“Thank ye kindly, Mistress Claryce! You’re jake with me!” He thrust his muzzle into the package and snapped up the sausage.
“Take it into the alley,” I ordered him. Fetch had the ability to go almost unnoticed around people at most times, but I wasn’t too sure he’d remember to watch himself while he was ripping into the sausage.
“Yeth, Mathter Nicholath,” he managed.
“Head to the house when you’re done. Wait there. You can find your way in. Do that.”
Rather than trying to speak again, the shapeshifter just nodded and rushed back into the alley. I took the empty package and threw it in a trash can, then joined Claryce in the Wills.
“Where to, Nick?”
“There’s a bus stop farther down Adams. I’ll take it from there.”
“You will not. I’ll drive you home or you can sleep on the couch in my apartment.”
It would’ve been easier for both of us if I’d just accepted her second offer, but I needed to get back to the house to check my files. I had a few hunches, but it might be hours before I found anything to back them up.
“The house, then . . . and thanks.”
She didn’t answer, instead just working the stick and driving off.
As we drove, I decided to probe about Alexander Bond. “Do you remember anything about your initial conversation with the doctor?”
“There wasn’t much special. He called up and said that he’d seen the ads concerning the properties. Delke Industries posted them in all the major papers, including the Tribune. He seemed especially interested in that location.”
That perked my attention. “He knew the area well?”
“I suppose he did. He talked a bit about the World’s Fair and the White City before we went on to arranging the appointment.”
I considered very carefully before asking the next question. “Did he . . . did he mention something called the ‘Murder Castle’?”
She took her eyes off the street just long enough to gape at me. “God, no! Is that something from your past? Is that what happened to Claudette?”
I started. I hadn’t even been thinking of Claryce’s earlier incarnations. “No. Nothing like that! The building we were in afterward. That’s where Cortez told me later it was originally located.”
“‘Murder Castle’ . . .” She shook her head. “No, I definitely would’ve remembered that. You mean it was across the street?”
“That’s what Cortez said.”
“Do you remember anything about it yourself? You were here then.”
“Only after it was over. I was on the hunt constantly then.”
Claryce had an odd look on her face. “This was what year? I can’t remember.”
I blurted out the answer quickly, hoping sh
e wasn’t dwelling on the fact that I’d not aged any since then. “It was 1893.”
“What, 1893? . . . Nick, that’s when she died. Claudette, I mean.”
It was something that’d crossed my mind, but I didn’t like to think that there was a connection. “You looked her up, didn’t you? Did it say how she died?”
She turned before replying. “I couldn’t find that. All I found was when she died and where she was buried. When was the fair that year, Nick?”
I rubbed my chin as I thought. “Seems to me it ran from middle of spring to sometime in October.”
The odd look grew more pronounced. “She died in that time period . . . and you say this Murder Castle existed during the fair.”
I hadn’t exactly said that, but I’d insinuated it well enough. I didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything.
We spent the rest of the drive in silence.
The weather’d worsened by the time we got to the house. The Queen Anne looked like many another home in the neighborhood. Fetch had wondered once why I lived here instead of some secret lair in the heart of the blackest part of the Black City, a much-too-appropriate name that’d first sprung up after the advertising debacle called the White City during the exposition. I’d told him that I’d purposely chosen a place beyond the shadowed regions of the city because it was the least likely place the Wyld would expect me to be.
After all these years, I was still trying to convince myself I’d told him something even remotely close to the truth.
“The first bedroom upstairs is yours,” I informed her when we entered. “You’re not going back out there tonight. I should’ve let you go straight to your place.”
“And I wouldn’t have listened.” She removed her coat. “You’re sure this place is cleansed of her?”
I couldn’t blame her for asking. “Let me go check, just to be cautious.”
“All right. I’ll go through a few papers for you.”
She knew about my collection and why I kept the clippings. I just nodded, then headed upstairs.
Leonardo’s painting greeted me as I entered the bedroom. There was no longer a need to hide it from Claryce. She knew it was me in all my Saint George glory facing the damned dragon in all of his . . . and with Claryce—or rather Princess Cleolinda—to the side of the struggle. Da Vinci’d done a masterful job, but unfortunately he’d made Claryce—well, the version of Cleolinda he’d met—and I look too much like ourselves. No one outside could ever view this work.
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