Published 2016 by Pyr®, an imprint of Prometheus Books
Black City Saint. Copyright © 2016 by Richard A. Knaak. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a Web site without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The characters, products, and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or existing product names is coincidental and is not intended by the author.
Cover design and illustration by Jacqueline Nasso Cooke
Cover image © Crocodile Images / Media Bakery
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Names: Knaak, Richard A, author.
Title: Black City saint / by Richard A. Knaak.
Description: Amherst, NY : Pyr, an imprint of Prometheus Books, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015037541| ISBN 9781633881365 (paperback) | ISBN 9781633881372 (e-book)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Urban Life. | FICTION / Fantasy / Historical. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3561.N25 B58 2016 | DDC 813/.54—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015037541
Printed in the United States of America
For my mother, who long championed this particular project
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
The old, black Model T touring car rumbling past the lone street lamp across from her house had seen better days, but it served the needs of the two young, gaily dressed couples heading toward the sounds of jazz in the distance. My client grumbled under her breath in German as a girl with dark, bobbed hair, obviously seeking her best to look like the actress Colleen Moore, leaned well out the back and waved our—or rather my—direction. With a glare at me, her beau snatched her back inside, and the jalopy continued on into the darkness.
“Noisy heap,” muttered a voice that fortunately the woman before me didn’t hear over the fading rattle of the Model T’s engine.
Instead, her mood already sour, my client peered down at the beast beside me, her dubious expression one that greeted Fetch often. “What is that?”
“Part greyhound, part wolf,” I answered. Not true, but with Fetch the best possible description for an impossible creature. Tongue lolling, Fetch sat. He wagged his tail, but none of his attempts set the woman at ease.
It was not exactly his fault, either. We—I—would not be here if her life had been as that of most people in Chicago. Difficult enough to deal with the trials and tribulations of dwelling in a city where the bootleggers of the North and South Sides were actively at war over territory, but to have one’s sanity questioned by neighbors . . .
Full of build, her sixty years marked by deep lines all over her face, it was easy to read in her eyes her frustration, not at the flapper and her friends, but rather at this latest intrusion into her home, which I represented. By this time, she had had at least two, likely three visitations by those claiming to be able to rid her of her “problem.” Psychics. Fortune tellers. Mediums. Charlatans who were all the rage these days. I understood full well that most, if not all, had left cheerfully, believing that they had made a good dollar off her paranoia.
But I knew better. Her distress could not have been a symptom of her imagination if she had finally seen the advertisement. No one saw the advertisement if they had not been touched by something from the shadow folk.
The woman frowned. It was clear that I did not look like her idea of the sort to solve her particular problem. My appearance was that of a clean-shaven man perhaps forty, no more and maybe something less, with short flaxen hair and a face with hints of a Mediterranean background that had initially likely raised a bit of concern I might have blood ties to Big Al’s mob. If she paid close attention to my eyes, she might see them as sea blue . . . or perhaps frost green. I chose not to let her stare at them for too long.
I was clad in a presentable suit and wore a long brown coat that well-matched the sudden turn in the late September weather. I had purposely left the coat open so that she would see I carried no weapon—or, rather, that I carried no visible weapon.
Evidently finding nothing in me that made her too uneasy, she said, “All right, Mr. Medea. You can come in, but that stays outside. My little ones won’t tolerate him.”
Fetch wagged his tail harder. He loved cats. They were his favorite meals when I did not keep him under a tight rein.
“He won’t come in with me, Mrs. Hauptmann.”
She squinted past us to the street. She was looking for a vehicle, especially one not suitable to be in front of her home, despite the fact that the neighborhood itself was clearly not what it had once been. Now the area, including Hudson Street, was becoming popular with a more flamboyant and raucous crowd, of which flappers were only the latest and in many ways least shocking members. However, there were still those like my client who held on tightly to their ways and their memories.
“As promised, discretion,” I said. It was one thing for wild youngsters to go barreling past, another for a stranger’s car to be in front of a widow’s house, even if only for business.
She pointed at the small black case in my right hand. “That all?”
“That’s all.”
“The last bunch, they toted in enough machinery to double my electric bill. Made quite a scene, too. I almost didn’t call you because of them.”
“They didn’t know what they were doing.”
Mrs. Hauptmann cocked her head to the side, the first sign that I had gained some approval. “True enough.” She stepped aside. “Please come in.”
Her tone gave some hint that I should hurry. I indicated to Fetch that he should lie down. Tongue still lolling, he obeyed like any well-trained dog, which he wasn’t.
The house looked to be well over sixty years old but renovated maybe twenty years ago, just after the turn of the century. There were a few hints of where the old gas lamps had hung, but whoever had installed the electric lines had done a good job overall. In addition, the crisp, clean interior—despite the three cats already coming to investigate the newcomer—spoke of the old German work ethic that the first settlers in this area had brought with them and that Mrs. Hauptmann vigorously maintained.
“Not allergic are you?” she asked, as two of the cats rubbed against my leg.
“No. I’ve had cats before myself.”
I went up in her estimation again. “They like you. They didn’t like
the last men.”
There was a sitting room downstairs that looked as if it had not changed since the house was built. The furniture was old but well-crafted and well-kept. The only recent addition was a wide, illuminated radio quietly set to WGN. The news announcer was reading about a bust at a speakeasy on the South Side. Someone had obviously not paid off enough local officials or else that wouldn’t have happened. Liquor flowed well in Chicago despite Prohibition, maybe even more so because of it.
“My Opa—my grandfather—came to this area with his family back in the Migration,” Mrs. Hauptmann informed me, as if everyone should know about the German Catholics who settled in the region in the decade or so before the Civil War. As it happened, I did know. “My father—he was Opa’s youngest—he moved us out about forty-five years ago to a place more north, but I always wanted to come back.”
“Was this your family’s home?”
“No, that’s gone. But this one’s close enough. When things got better here for a while, I wanted to come back to the neighborhood. My husband and I bought it, then he died shortly after.”
“I’m sorry.”
She gave a slight nod. “Basement’s through that door there on the right. Kitchen’s in back. Three bedrooms on the second floor.” She paused. “Attic entrance is in the hall between them.”
Of course, the attic was the focal point. Shadows and deep corners. Places to hide from the sun, from the mortal world. The basement might have been another choice, but I’d expected the attic in this case.
“I saw one window up front. Are there others?”
“One in the back. They’ve been sealed tight for years. Since before my husband passed—and don’t go telling me it’s him haunting this place. Some verrückt woman carrying around a glass ball kept insisting it was him, but what she described wasn’t my Klaus!”
I simply nodded agreement. “Will you be leaving?”
“Certainly not.” She crossed her arms tight to emphasize the fact that she would not let any stranger wander about her home without her being nearby.
I had assumed her answer already. “I must ask you to remain in one room on the first floor, then. Either the sitting room, or the kitchen, perhaps.”
“I’ll be in the sitting room, reading.” Mrs. Hauptmann gave me one last survey. “And I’ll be listening.”
She guided me upstairs, which consisted of three bedrooms and a bath. The ceiling door to the attic came into sight even before we reached the second floor. A metal cord hung from the door.
Before pulling the ladder down, I looked around my feet. The cats had stayed on the first floor.
“They won’t come up here at all lately,” Mrs. Hauptmann murmured, for the first time her stolid appearance crumbling. “I’ve come to sleeping in the sitting room more and more.”
“Tell me again what you’ve noticed.” I already knew what I now felt, and that gave me a much better understanding. Still, there might be another detail the woman had missed in our earlier conversation.
“It’s just a sensation . . . a feeling that something is creeping around, waiting, getting stronger.” Her gaze drifted off to the left and her tone grew softer. “This house was just out of the path of the Great Fire and so survived, Mr. Medea, but a lot of other things—and people—didn’t. Maybe it’s some of those lost souls. . . .”
I did not dispute her romantic notion of ghosts. It was not entirely wrong, but hardly right. Besides, what she sensed was no simple spirit. It had all the signs of something from the realm of the shadow folk . . . and that in itself was not a good sign.
That the woman could feel its presence marked her and explained why whatever it was had chosen her residence. The shadow folk were drawn to the things in this world that still had a touch of their old one. It was also the reason why she had not yet been taken by it. Through Mrs. Hauptmann, it was actually drawing strength from the other side.
Of course, before long, it would be strong enough to desire a more powerful conduit . . . and then it would deal with her.
“You lost two cats?”
Again, her facade cracked. “I even went up there and looked for them, but there was nothing.” She steeled herself. “I know those men and that woman before them thought I was some dithering old woman with too much of an imagination, but they took my money regardless! Psychics, my—” Mrs. Hauptmann caught herself, instead finishing with, “I expect better from you, Mr. Medea.”
I did not need a watch to know that it was near midnight. That had no significance for this situation save that night in general was best for what I hunted, but, like many people, Mrs. Hauptmann believed well in the witching hour, and that was to my benefit. “Then, I’d best go up there.”
“It’ll be done with tonight?” Her voice quivered suddenly.
“Either there is nothing up there or there will not be when I’m through.” A simplistic reply, but it satisfied her.
“I’ll be waiting.”
I hesitated until she had descended, then pulled down the door and the ladder. A deep darkness greeted me from above. I looked around, found the switch for the attic that someone had installed in the hallway during some more recent renovation, then flicked it. To my surprise, the room above lit up.
Case in hand, I climbed up. A musty scent greeted me, as did another, more subtle odor. The cats would have noted it and been repelled. It was the distinctive smell of death caused by the shadow folk, a mix of decay, fear, and old magic.
Eye would see . . .
The voice came as a hiss in my head, a low, insistent echo. Not yet.
A sense of resentment flowed next, but I had dealt with it so long that it barely touched my thoughts. I turned my attention back to more immediate matters. The dweller was near, even though nothing yet was visible.
I glanced behind me at the window at the front of the house, then the one at the back. I could see only the top half of the second window, dusty boxes stacked up against the wall obscuring the lower part. The single bulb high above created small shadows here and there, but nothing that gave a hint as to my quarry.
I put down the case, then pulled the ladder up. The attached door slammed shut.
The light flickered out.
My hand was already within my coat. My heart pounded faster and a sweat spread across my forehead. I could see nothing, but I sensed something . . . everywhere. It closed in around me, seeking to emotionally crush my mind and rip apart my soul.
Now at last I understood what was hiding in the attic, feeding slowly, building up its strength. But to fight it, I had to see it.
Eye can show us . . .
He was aware that I would have turned to him for this, anyway, but it was a reminder to me that while I held sway over him, I could not do without him. Having a far more imminent situation with which to deal, I simply replied Show us . . .
The world erupted into a glittering scene of emerald green.
In what had been a tiny shadow to the right of the backyard window, a thing the size of a man but more like an arachnid, with too many limbs that ended in almost human hands, perched several feet above the floor. It glared at me with three orbs pale as bone and clacked a sharp beak together in both astonishment and rage that it could be seen despite its cover of darkness.
And perhaps what set the creature off a bit more was that it in turn could see the transformation of my own eyes from those of a recognized prey to something more narrow, more reptilian, more ancient.
More the predator than even it.
The sensation of fear and despair struck me harder, but faded immediately. I knew the emotions for what they were—false emanations.
My hand slipped free of my coat, bearing in it a small blade. Blessed in Constantinople well over a thousand years ago, the silver-tipped dagger had never failed me.
The shadow creature paid scant attention to the dagger, more inclined toward the case. From its mouth, strands of blackness shot forth and seized the black bag. Having no doubt observed my predecesso
rs—and laughing at their inability to notice it in the least—the dweller assumed that anything of true value against it would be contained within.
That was as I had intended.
I dove in toward the shadow as the tendrils pulled in the case. The dagger cut into the darkness, severing it as if it were truly of the mortal world.
The arachnid hissed. Words in a tongue older than man spilled through my thoughts, a curse cast upon me. It had as much effect as the fear but for a different reason. I was already cursed in a far more terrible way.
I swung for the pale orbs, the least protected part of this shadow folk. It was not one of the Wyld, but it was still a powerful enough being, especially after having built up its energies for so long. I suspected that the cats Mrs. Hauptmann could not find had only been a part of its diet and that there was a lack of birds, mice, and other small creatures in the vicinity of the house. The dweller did not have to leave its lair to draw to it those most susceptible to its magic.
The “hands” reached for me as I neared. The dweller intended to take advantage of my drawing toward it to engulf me. It sensed that the purity of the dagger, while anathema to it, would require me to bury the weapon deep more than once if I was to kill it before it tore me apart. I knew that it also could sense no other such dangerous weapons on my person. The case had been forgotten, too, the contents radiating no blessing or magic that might harm it.
I retreated from the grasping appendages. The tendrils of darkness shot forth, but again the dagger severed them before they could touch me. The shadow dweller scuttled forward, both of us aware that not only was the ladder door too cumbersome a thing to lower before the creature could reach me, but that the one window I could reach was too narrow for me to fit through.
Neither of us awaited Mrs. Hauptmann’s frantic rush to see what all the noise was above her. No sound escaped the attic, an early precaution set in place by the dweller when it had chosen this lair. I had assumed such a spell even before arriving at the house. In the deadly world of Her Lady’s Court, even a fiend so lowly as this would have to have skill at hiding its presence if it hoped to survive and thrive there. And in the comparably magic-depleted mortal world, that was doubly true.
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