Black City Saint

by Richard A. Knaak

  The ghost regained control of himself. “Nick . . . I only want to warn you! I was hoping to see you here sooner. There is most definitely something—”

  I saved us both further need for conversation. “The Gate’s been breached.”

  I stalked from the church. Behind me, I knew that Gaius Aurelius Valerius Diocletianus Augustus—the late Emperor Diocletian of Rome—stood gaping in horror. I was not proud of how I left him . . . but neither was I sorry.

  The walk, more than an hour long, did not help clear my head. I entered the gray Queen Anne house that functioned as my home and my business. On a rare occasion, I had to bring people in need or trouble somewhere, and so I had long ago established this location. It was one more old, reasonably well-kept house among others. My neighbors saw little of me and did not care. When we did meet, I greeted them and they greeted me. After that, the magic made them forget.

  They were far better off that way.

  Once, I had only believed in magic as a thing of evil, but over time I saw that by itself it was neutral. The evil came from those who wielded it for vile purpose, such as the shadow dweller. Such thoughts coming from me would have shocked many who had known me before my execution.

  The back of my neck throbbed, ever a reminder of that time. I felt his presence within me, silently laughing at the memories the throbbing resurrected.

  “You should think what that moment meant for you,” I said out loud.

  The humor vanished. Eye am tired. We must sleep.

  On that, I concurred. It had been three days since last I rested. There were aspects of sleep I did not like, but the need could not be escaped. I entered the living room, a place with furniture that would have impressed Mrs. Hauptmann for its age and condition, though perhaps not its style. Most of what the house contained was of a Mediterranean bent, and not all of it was from the same region. Much came from the east—Greece, Turkey, Lebanon, and more—and to the ignorant eye would have seemed to have been collected at random. Yet, in truth, each marked a place in my past, a moment of life gone so very long ago.

  I retired to a low, long couch with a curling, wooden frame upon which stylized birds had been carved. Falling onto the ivoried cushions, I let exhaustion take me away. I did not sleep on the upper floor and rarely even used it. The house was merely a rest stop, albeit one I had inhabited since the last was destroyed more than fifty years before.

  As I settled down, I readied myself for what sleep would bring. The dream had variations, but it was always the dream.

  I slipped into it within seconds, almost as if it and I were eager to embrace one another, when, from my end at least, the mere thought of it always almost set me to screaming.

  I rode a great charger across a field of wailing women clad in black tunics. The spear I held stretched to the horizon. The horse raced along and along, his sweat splattering the silver breastplate and kilt I wore. Even though I knew what was going to happen, still I rode with the greatest urgency. I had no choice.

  The sweat suddenly became blood. Blood everywhere. The women vanished, but their wails grew louder, more horrified.

  Diocles suddenly appeared, Diocles with his arms stretched in greeting to me. Now the blood splattering over me came from him and a figure in shadow behind. I knew who it was even though the face remained blank. Galerius. Always whispering in Diocles’s ear, warning him that his friends were his enemies.

  I tried to veer the horse toward the half-seen figure, eager to impale Galerius at the end of the spear. Yet the spear started bending to the side, and, no matter how I adjusted, it always turned another direction.

  And then . . . a single feminine voice screamed. At the end of the spear hung the limp, crimson form of a young woman clad in a regal white tunic. No longer on horseback, I ran to her, trying all the while to pull the incredibly long spear from her chest.

  The spear abruptly twisted in my hands as if alive. Now it was a long, brown-and-green-scaled tail, with a ridge running across the top. The strength of it flung me in the air. I flew up, then plummeted toward an abyss encircled by mountains with sharp peaks.

  But as I neared, the sharp peaks became teeth, the abyss a gullet. A hissing voice laughed at my feeble attempts to keep from falling within.

  Then, out of nowhere, Diocles swung a mighty sword that became Her Lady’s gift and cut off the head of the behemoth into whose maw I dropped. I tumbled onto a gray plain as the head rolled toward me. However, although once as huge as the steed I had ridden, the head shrank more and more as it neared.

  And when it came to a stop only a few feet from me, it was now not only as small as my own . . . it was my own.

  I did then as I always did—awoke in a cold sweat. Every sensation in the dream had touched me a thousand times harder than in the waking world. I sat up on the couch and waited for my heart and my breath to calm. I was not consoled by the fact that my constant companion had also become distressed by the dream. I felt his quiet brooding, and on this rare occasion understood him well.

  My heartbeat began to slow. I finally noticed that it was just about dawn.

  I also noticed that someone was knocking on the door.

  I lived hidden among the other inhabitants of Chicago because I must be near the Gate and yet have sworn to prevent threat to others as much as is in my power. In order for me to be better able to perform my duty, what could best be called a spell of shunning had been set around my abode. It discouraged visitors or intruders of any sort. I received no mail, no packages. If I needed something shipped to me, it was sent to a local post office box.

  No one came to me willingly.

  Set me free . . .

  “Be silent,” I murmured, already rising. The knocking ceased. I strode toward the door and, risking much, immediately swung it open.

  There was no one outside. A black Lafayette coupe, far more stylish than the slightly older Maxwell Twenty-Five parked across from my house, drove by, but a quick glimpse revealed the occupant as the portly doctor living two blocks further. I knew he’d done work for Deanie O’Banion before—as Fetch delighted in putting it whenever the Irishman’s name came up—the “harp’s bloody bump off” at his flower shop. The good doctor now performed the same “off-duty” emergency care for the North Siders’ new trio of bosses, especially Hymie Weiss—a Catholic Pole despite his moniker and coleadership of the mostly “harp”—or Irish—gang. It was obvious immediately that the doctor had nothing to do with this odd visitation, but I still made a note to keep an eye on him. He was flaunting his extra wealth more and more and, if the police didn’t finally arrest him, one of the South Siders might decide he was fair game.

  It would not pay to have the war spread to my neighborhood.

  I had slept with my coat on—a necessary precaution—and so Her Lady’s gift was there for me if I needed it. I peered further outside, still seeing no figure. Just in case something saw past the shunning, the minimal landscape in front of the house had been designed to prevent most threats from hiding nearby.

  Glancing down, I saw what looked like a business card turned face down. Plucking it up, I read off the name.

  Claryce Simone. The name stirred something within, but I marked it as coincidence. The card indicated that she was an executive at something called Delke Industries. I had no idea what Delke was and did not care. However, Claryce Simone was another matter and not merely because it was still rare, though less so these days, to find a woman in an executive position. I noticed that the card was filthy on both sides, as if it had lain by the door for some time, maybe even been stepped on by me when I returned during the night.

  I did not believe in coincidence. This could very well be bait set by one of the Wyld, although I could think of none alive with such audacity. The only one who had tried to take me in my sanctum had learned to his regret that here was one place the Feiriefolk should especially fear.

  I took one last look around the neighborhood but saw nothing out of the ordinary. An elderly man steppe
d out of the house behind the Maxwell to retrieve his morning paper. A young blond woman in a waitress’s uniform, who worked at a diner three blocks down the street, passed my own dwelling without a glance my way. A perfectly normal neighborhood scene . . . if I hadn’t been part of it.

  Returning inside, I considered contacting Claryce Simone but decided a shower would do first. Setting the card aside, I dealt with washing away last night’s memories. The cold water soothed me and cleared my thoughts. By the time I was dressed, a light coat now taking the place of the longer, darker one I’d worn previously, I was better focused. I would call Miss Simone and—

  The candlestick telephone set on the small wooden table in the front hall rang.

  The telephone never rang unless someone had seen the advertisement, and they could only see it if something from Feirie had found its way to the mortal realm through the Gate and into their lives.

  I immediately snatched up the handset and brought the phone to my lips. “Hello?”

  There was a brief crackle on the line, then . . .

  “Mr. . . . Medea?” a woman asked.

  “This is Nick Medea.”

  “My name is Claryce Simone.”

  It was fortunate that she could not see my expression. When she did not continue, I said, “Yes, Miss Simone?”

  “I saw your—are you really what it claims?”

  There was no need for me to ask what she meant. “I research the paranormal, if you’re referring to the ad. I assist people in deciding whether they have a potential incident or merely something mundane that they didn’t understand.”

  She exhaled. “Probably the last. I’m foolish for even calling you, Mr. Medea—”

  The woman was not aware that this call would not even be taking place if her problem was of a mundane nature. “Call me Nick, please, and don’t feel foolish. While I’ve yet to find a true incident of the paranormal, some of the actual reasons for what disturbs a client can be fascinating. This is an old building, I assume?”

  “No, not really. It’s not even mine. My employer, Mr. Delke—William Delke—actually owns it, but there was a fire involving my apartment and he was kind enough to let me use it until the repairs are finished. He’s staying at his office penthouse in the meantime.” She added the last quickly, as if thinking I might believe there was something untoward between them.

  I hadn’t even considered that. I was more interested in the place in question. A newer building. I found that odd. Those of Feirie were more drawn to older, darker abodes. “And Mr. Delke’s noticed nothing?”

  Another exhalation. “Not that I know. I haven’t asked him . . . Nick. I would’ve ignored it, but last night . . .”

  This drew more of my attention. Was there some connection with my confrontation with the shadow dweller? “What happened last night?”

  “I’d rather—I think I’d rather explain it when we meet. Do I come to your office?”

  “No. This is taking place where you live. With your permission, it’d be better to meet there.”

  She agreed and gave me the address. I knew the area, located on the Southwest Side. Five years had made a big difference in that part of the city. Since the race riots in Chicago right after the Great War and the fall of the Kaiser, the wealthy had begun to migrate farther from the city center, especially toward Claryce Simone’s temporary home. William Delke was apparently no exception to that migration.

  “We can meet today,” I suggested.

  “I won’t be able to until tomorrow night,” she said, in a voice that indicated today would have been very much her preference. “I have to take the train to Milwaukee for William’s business and I’ll be staying overnight there. I should be back by eight in the evening. Will that be all right? Do you charge extra for after hours?”

  “Since the paranormal tends toward the night, my regular hours generally begin once the sun goes down.”

  This brought a light laugh from her. “That makes sense. Will that be okay, then?”

  I assured her it was. We exchanged farewells. What I had not told her was that her short business trip worked better for me. Tonight, I would visit the address alone.

  Only as I prepared to leave the house for a few errands related to the night’s excursion did I realize that I had never asked Ms. Simone about exactly when she had stopped by my own house. The lapse bothered me as much as the fact that she had actually been here. I vowed to get a thorough answer when we met.

  The early October sky was overcast and the temperature was cool, a change from the oddly warm September. I welcomed both as I headed to where I would find a passing taxi. From there, I visited three antiquity shops where my sources had indicated that there were relics supposedly tied to Her Lady’s Court. I was always in search of those, both for possible clues to the whereabouts of any Wyld or as potential weapons against them. The first two shops turned out to have nothing but excellent reproductions, but the third held an item of interest, an oval clasp with the sign of the full moon inscribed in the middle. A series of runes bordered the clasp, and in some of them I could sense latent power.

  The price was high, but not too high. Centuries had allowed me to gather and maintain the funds I needed to perform my duty. I wasted nothing on lavishness. I had no need for anything but necessities.

  The last shop placed me near Claryce Simone’s temporary residence. I purchased a coffee from a local diner and added to it a seasoned beef sandwich topped with a pickled vegetable salad called giardiniera, bought from an elderly, heavily mustached street vendor who found it pleasing to speak with someone who understood his native Italian tongue so well. The sandwich proved a rare, pleasant respite, and I ate it slowly as I headed toward the address, with the intention of studying the structure in the light.

  I was almost there when a black Ford Runabout with the emblem of the Chicago Police Department pulled up just ahead. Even before the driver’s door opened, I knew who would emerge. Thus, the fact that he was Mexican—if a fairly tall one—and a detective did not startle me as it would have most others. The young detective wore a well-tailored gray suit that I knew his family had scraped their savings to purchase. His oiled, black hair was short and neatly parted on the left side. I knew that his brooding, narrow face was popular with women—not just those of his people—but Inspector Alejandro Cortez had eyes only for his petite Maria.

  “Nick Medea!” he cheerfully greeted me, as if we had not seen one another in years as opposed to only two weeks. “A small world, eh?” The Mexican pulled out a pack of Luckies, took one, and then offered the pack to me. “One from the deck?”

  Alejandro Cortez—“Alex” to his white superiors when they were not calling him “greaser” or worse behind his back—had no discernible tie to Feirie that I could sense, but more than once he had become involved in incidents concerning the shadow folk. I had tried to divine exactly why he so often turned up and could only surmise that the inspector was too good at his job.

  Someday, either it or his sense of justice in a department riddled with corruption would make Maria a widow.

  “Cortez,” I greeted him back, but with much less enthusiasm. “A little far from your precinct.” To his still-proffered cigarettes, I shook my head. “Thank you very much, Inspector Cortez, but no.”

  “Ah, Nick Medea. Always so formal. I ever tell you that you sound like my abuelo—my grandfather? He was always the gentleman, always stood stiff and proper, like you do even when you’re doing nothing at all . . .” When I only stood there in silence, Cortez blithely went on, “I’m on a special assignment for the mayor’s task force on crime, you know?” Not looking the least slighted for my turning his offer down, he slipped the pack away. Cortez had a habit of ending many of his comments in the form of a question, which often made those he was investigating underestimate his cunning. I was under no such misapprehension.

  I was also under no misapprehensions about his “assignment.” Cortez had been taken on along with a few other colored and ethnic
officers, to send into trouble spots where the chief of police did not want to waste those of a distinctly lighter skin tone. That made Cortez’s appearance here a more curious one. “They have you protecting the upper crust from your own, or is the Outfit making a move and the department needs every man?”

  He came around the back of the car to join me. Cortez did not know who or what I was, but in our last encounter he had come to suspect me to be more than a mere “ghost-breaker,” as he put it. The inspector had no idea what had actually happened below the old water tower, but he knew that I had been there and that things had quieted after I left.

  As he neared, the golden cross he always wore close to his throat glistened despite the overcast heavens. Unlike many who wore such decor these days, Cortez was deeply devout. It was the only reason I could divine for him recalling our meetings so vividly, rather than gradually forgetting them as happened with most. The shunning appeared not to work on the good detective.

  “I got to protect the whole city,” he responded, sounding a bit more serious and not at all put out by my comment about his possible reasons for being here. Cortez had no doubt developed an iron hide even before joining the cops, but I still found it astounding he had survived this long with so much against him. “The task force, they want me wherever I need to be, you know?”

  I pretended to believe him. He was here because something had happened that had the potential of disturbing someone of great influence. If anything went bad, Cortez was there to blame. If all went well, his superiors would lay claim to the success. Cortez was possibly one of the best men on the force, but no one above him—and pretty much below him, too—was going to admit that.

  I suddenly thought of Claryce Simone’s quarters, only a couple of blocks out of sight of here. More than ever, I doubted the coincidence of running into the good inspector here.

  “You usually wander more north, northeast of here, Nick Medea.” He often called me by my first and last name. I could not help feeling that he was a bit suspicious of whether or not I had been christened so. “Run out of spooks there, or were you just tired of the Cubbies losing again and had to get away?”