Black City Saint

by Richard A. Knaak

  The suit was empty.

  I didn’t need to get close to the second to know that it was the same. I also had no doubt that somewhere else in the Institute two sets of armor were now missing.

  “But when I came in . . . Nick . . . I saw them move!”

  I grimaced at a thought that I’d been trying to ignore all this time. “What else did you see?” When she didn’t answer, I stared hard at her. “What else?”

  To her credit, Claryce didn’t pull her gaze from mine. “You—there was some—I couldn’t quite focus on you, even when I finally ran up to you. I only knew that you were struggling with something . . . something inside.”

  She hadn’t seen the transformation. I couldn’t remember retaining any control at all over my treacherous companion, but apparently some part of me had or else this entire building would’ve been in ruins.

  Still, she’d seen enough and yet she hadn’t run away. In fact, even if Claryce wasn’t aware of it, she’d not only saved me, she’d very likely saved much of the city.

  Eye wouldn’t have done that . . .

  We both pretended that he was telling the truth. It was one of the ways we kept the necessary truce between us going. It didn’t serve the dragon to have anything happen to me if he had no control over the body. He valued what little existence he had as much as I did, and I knew that he always hoped that someday he would finally and forever be master of his fate.

  For the sake of both realms, I hoped that never happened.

  Once again, Claryce put a comforting hand on me. Only then did I notice that my pulse had resumed pounding harshly. Her touch quieted it and allowed my thoughts to clear more.

  I glanced toward a window. It was night. The only lights on in the Institute were those focused on the area around which I stood. More questions popped up.

  “How’d you get inside?”

  “The doors were open. I pulled at one. That’s all.”

  “And there was no guard anywhere?”

  She pursed her lips. “No . . . I was too worried to think about that. I just knew I had to find you. I saw the signs for the exhibition, then heard noise coming from here.” Claryce gestured at the suits of armor. “I came in just when you—when you—”

  “Took them out.” I heard a noise outside that sounded too much like a distant police siren getting closer. Somehow, I doubted it was going to pass the Institute. “We’re about to have company. Let’s get out of here before that happens.”

  We encountered no one on the way out. I wondered about the guards, aware that Oberon wouldn’t blink an eye at killing them just to arrange whatever this was supposed to be.

  And that was a question burning within me as harshly as the flames the dragon had let loose on the animated suits and the painting. I was missing something again. I knew one reason that Oberon might’ve not actually tried to kill me himself; if he wanted the card, he had to guarantee that he’d have access to it. Oberon knew that I’d have put it where only I could get it and no amount of torture on his part would’ve drawn that knowledge or support from me. He’d tried torture on me the last time, if for different reasons. He knew better than to try again.

  So what had he been up to? What didn’t I remember from the moment he arranged the scene with the false Claryce and the malevolent painting to the time when the real one came to my rescue?

  The sirens blared louder as we exited the Art Institute, which meant they were much nearer, too. I steered Claryce in the opposite direction.

  We had barely gotten around the corner when I heard the flutter of wings. A familiar sight alighted on a lamp.

  I was very interested in what the black bird had to say, but now was not the time. Without alerting Claryce, I tipped my head to the side, indicating it should move on. The exile fluttered off without so much as a caw.

  A block away, I hailed a taxi for us. We kept silent while the cabbie drove, but I could see that Claryce had several questions of her own. I knew that more than a few of them had to do with the vague glimpses she’d had and what that had to do with my earlier hints of my blood mixing with that of the dragon when I’d slain him. This night, she’d seen a bit of what that meant . . . and I had no doubt that it frightened her more than she let on.

  Good . . . my undesired comrade hissed. Let her be frightened . . . let her run far, far away from us . . .

  Be quiet! Still, I found myself in part agreeing with him. If Claryce ran . . . and ran far, far away, as he’d said . . . then maybe at least that curse would be avoided for once.

  But at that moment, Claryce set her hand on mine, set it there and briefly squeezed. I looked deeper into her eyes and knew that there was no chance whatsoever that she would leave.

  And I also knew right then that there was no chance that the curse would let us be this once . . . which meant that the woman next to me was still destined to die.

  CHAPTER 9

  Claryce lay asleep on the couch, so exhausted by her worry for me and the events that followed that she barely had time to sit down before drifting off. She wasn’t a weak person, but she’d had to accept a lot that would’ve been too much for most normal folk.

  That gave me the chance to respond to the tapping at my back door. I peered outside, then opened it. However, rather than step back and let the new arrival inside, I walked out.

  In the dim light of the moon, the black bird perched atop the branch of a twisted oak in the backyard. It fluttered off the branch and alighted on my arm.

  “Well?”

  “Saw him! Saw him!”

  “Oberon. I know. What else?”

  “Two manlings.”

  I sighed. Sometimes, it took patience to glean the information I needed from Feirie exiles. It wasn’t that the black bird didn’t want to tell me everything it had witnessed; it was just that, like so many of its ilk, it had its own unique manner of speech.

  I tried a different tack. “When did he leave? How long after I entered?”

  “Fourth hour down. Fourth hour down.”

  Down. That meant four hours after the noon sun. To a creature of Feirie, that was the closest thing to keeping track of time.

  Four hours . . . Oberon had spent a lot of time in the Art Institute. Just exactly what he’d been doing all that time while I’d been trapped by the painting, I didn’t know . . . and that worried me more.

  “Did you follow them?”

  “Followed them, yes! Followed them long!”

  “Which way?”

  The black bird stretched a wing. I was both relieved and bothered by which way the creature pointed the feathered appendage. Oberon had headed in nearly the opposite direction of where Fetch and Kravayik were located. I respected Feirie’s former lord enough to believe that he had at least some inkling where the card was, even if he couldn’t directly take it. I’d sent Fetch to Kravayik more as a precaution than because I’d believed that Oberon had discovered some special means by which to get past the safeguards. Still, I’d expected more from him than this.

  And again I asked myself, What is he up to?

  Questioning the black bird further gained me only one more useful piece of information. Oberon had not headed back to whatever he used for his lair but had instead continued on well into the North Side. There, his car had parked in a dark lot next to another car, from which had stepped out a human better dressed than Oberon’s guards but to the black bird clearly of the same ilk. The exile was maddeningly vague in its description—all humans looked more or less alike to it—but had noticed with its exceptional nocturnal vision the long scar along the right side of his neck.

  That alone was enough to identify Oberon’s new companion to me as George C. “Bugs” Moran . . . and it was also enough to cement my suspicions that perhaps Hymie Weiss and the Schemer were on their way out as bosses. Oberon didn’t deal with lieutenants. It was very likely he was even maneuvering things so that Moran would take over the North Side soon. Moran’s violent and erratic manner well-matched the dark insanity of
Feirie; it was possible that the Irishman had a touch of that world in him.

  I thanked the black bird and let it fly off to wherever it called home in this world. Stepping back inside, I saw that Claryce still slept. Leaving her be, I went into the other room and called Kravayik.

  “Who speaks?” he asked on the second ring.

  “Me. All quiet there?”

  There was a slight pause that gave me the heebie-jeebies—another expression I’d apparently picked up from Fetch—before Kravayik eased my tensions by replying, “Yes . . . on the rare occasion when he stops talking.”

  I exhaled. “Tell him he can leave. Also that I need him tomorrow at first light.”

  “I will gladly tell him both, Master Nicholas . . . and with gratitude to you in mind for the first part . . .”

  “The gratitude is mine, Kravayik.”

  He said nothing. The connection broke, Kravayik no doubt eager to inform Fetch that his duties were at an end for this evening. Kravayik was the only other being around whom Fetch had a voice. For the shapeshifter, it was a rare chance to speak to someone who also knew Feirie well. For Kravayik, it was simply a long headache.

  Returning to Claryce again, I considered waking her in order to enable her to go to her bed. One look at the peace in her face put a kibosh on that. Instead, I sat down in a chair facing her and, while searching in vain for any even subtle differences in her features, fell asleep.

  I woke to the smell of eggs, bacon, and coffee. The coffee scent was particularly strong. Claryce greeted me a moment later with a plate full of food and a mug of dark brown nectar. Coffee was something I’d developed a taste for since the fifteenth century, when I’d followed the Gate in the Kingdom of Kaffa, in what was now Ethiopia.

  “How can you drink that—that tar?” Claryce asked with slight amusement and clear distaste as I sipped the coffee. “I’ve never tasted something so thick and strong. I thought at first I’d ruined it. I would have watered it down for you, but I wasn’t sure if you would like that.”

  “It keeps me awake.” There was truth to that. My senses were already sharper than they’d been before the first swallow. “Thank you for the breakfast.”

  “I’ve done little enough so far. Glad I could at least handle this.” Her humor faded. “I still can’t get over yesterday, and I know a lot more happened than I saw.”

  I used another long sip as an excuse to keep from replying.

  She did not take the hint. “Nick, there’s a lot you haven’t told me, have you? You said that this Feirie was ruled by something—someone—you call Her Lady. If William—that Wyld—is so dangerous, don’t you think it might be worth the risk to ask for her help? I gather he’s not loyal to her, and, if he’s also a threat to her rule, then perhaps she’d—”

  “She won’t be a part of this. The sword is her only offering in this or any other effort, especially if he’s involved. It’s not that she doesn’t have her own ambitions in our world, but where he’s concerned, as long as he can be kept out of Feirie, she’s satisfied.”

  Claryce nodded, but she clearly had more questions. However, the one she asked next was not what I expected.

  “There was a picture over that fireplace. You can see hints on the wall that it was just taken away recently. What happened to it?”

  I was saved trying to make an excuse by a knock on the door. Claryce all but leapt at the sound and even I managed to let some of the coffee dribble on the floor.

  Setting the mug down, I rose. “Stay here.”

  “Nick . . .”

  Waving her to silence, I exited the room and headed to door. The knock came again, a little harder, this time.

  I peered through the narrow window next to it.

  An impatient Detective Cortez raised his fist to knock a third time. He let out a grunt as I swung the door open.

  “Detective. What brings you all the way out here?”

  He peered around the doorway. “Nice place you got here, Nick Medea! I think I was here once, wasn’t I?”

  I didn’t answer that question, reminded once again that Cortez had the odd ability to recall more about me than most people did. He’d actually been here three times. There was some hint that the shunning worked on him, but not to the extent it should’ve.

  “What can I do for you, detective?” I asked.

  He chuckled, but there was something serious hidden behind the sound. “Mind letting me in?”

  “Any reason?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not wanting folks to see a greaser on your doorstep? Had worse reasons thrown at me than that.”

  I shook my head. “You know me enough to understand I don’t think that way.”

  “So does that mean I can come in?”

  Peering past him, I saw only his auto. No other cop. “I’d think this part of the city was well beyond your beat, Cortez.”

  The detective no longer smiled. “If you won’t let me in, how about joining me at my car? Probably best, anyway. Wouldn’t want to bother your lady friend, you know?”

  I frowned at him, which was just the reaction he was looking for, I realized too late.

  “Quite a doll, she is,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Good gams, you know?”

  “Listen, Cortez—”

  He didn’t back down. “No. Listen to me, Nick Medea. We’ve gotta talk. You don’t want to do it in there, then we can do it by my car. Be better if it was inside, but we need to talk either way, you understand?”

  Whatever misgivings I had about Cortez, I knew him to be an honest cop, an honest man. He had something he needed to tell me, and I decided that it was probably something I needed to hear.

  “Your auto.”

  “Suits me, Bo.”

  I shut the door behind me and followed him, hoping all the while that Claryce would stay out of sight even if the detective did have a pretty good notion as to her being with me. That he had a misconception about the extent of our relationship was still something I was sore at him about . . . but that had to wait.

  “Hate this jalopy,” Cortez groused when we reached the vehicle. “A real hayburner, too. All I’m worth to those higher up, you know? Need someone for a dirty job? Don’t even let George do it, let the greaser! He’s expendable . . .”

  It surprised me a little to hear that bluntness. If Cortez had mouthed like this near a lot of people, his head would’ve ended up on a pole.

  The detective pointed at the passenger side. “Hop in.”

  I considered the fact that he might just drive off to the station with me in tow if I did as he said, but that didn’t strike me as something Cortez would really do. I got inside and waited for him to seat himself.

  He shut the door, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Gasper?”

  I shook my head. He took a cigarette for himself. After taking a puff, the detective eyed the view beyond the windshield. “Nice neighborhood. Really white.”

  “You got something to tell me other than that?”

  “I do, I do.” Still looking away, Cortez said, “I hear about this funny incident the other day. Gunshots at the ritzy house of a bigwig by the name of Delke. You ever hear of him?”

  “Some businessman.”

  “Some businessman, yeah. A real big cheese. Far as I hear, Delke wasn’t there. Someone else was, though, you know? Heard it from a good source, a real stool pigeon.”

  “What of it?”

  Cortez took another puff. “Funny thing is, there’s no report on it. Nothing. Checked it out carefully. Incident at a house like that and no one knows anything about it?”

  “Maybe this Delke doesn’t want the publicity. Maybe your superiors don’t, either.”

  “You’re not speaking bushwa there, Nick Medea. Been told to dry up more than once already, how about that? But you know, I can’t let it go . . . and I think you wouldn’t.”

  I still had no idea where this was going except that it was circling around me too much. “Probably not, if I was involved at all.”


  He grinned. “Now, I ain’t saying that . . . but there was another case that made me think about giving you a visit. Just to get your opinion, you know?”

  “What’s that?”

  “They fished a stiff out of the Chicago River. Penny-ante thug with possible ties to the North Side. Muscle mostly, but also good with a typewriter.”

  Cortez wasn’t referring to office work. The corpse he was referring to had been a hired gunman known for using a Tommy gun. Suddenly, I had a bad idea where the good detective was heading. “What would I know about a dead hoodlum?”

  “Well, not him personally, but you’re always into the spooky and strange stuff.” Cortez suddenly made the sign of the cross. “Real strange stuff at times.”

  I couldn’t argue with the last since we’d both there at the end of that older case. Still, I didn’t want him constantly linking me with bloody situations like that. “That was different. When I help people who claim they’ve got ghosts, I don’t expect murder to be involved.”

  The detective flicked his cigarette out the window. He muttered something under his breath, which I realized was a short prayer to Our Lady of Guadalupe, the patron saint of the new church planned for his neighborhood and one his parents had apparently followed back in Mexico.

  “Call that murder? I seen bootleggers shot to pieces by rivals that looked less messy. Still get chills thinking about it, you know?”

  “So what is it about this one that made you think of me? Was it that bad?”

  “Not so bad, but strange, you know? First, the guy, he’s missing a mitt.”

  I shrugged. “Only one? Don’t they sometimes cut off both and even the head, too, to keep the identity hidden?”

  Cortez reached for his pack again. “Yeah, and if they’d done that, I wouldn’t have bothered. Funny thing, though, only the one hand was gone and the stump . . . looked like someone tried to—what did the doc call it?—cauterized. That’s it. You know what that means?”

  “I do.” I also knew exactly what my connection was to all this, even if Cortez didn’t. This was the thug who’d lost his hand when I’d severed the one on the shadow. I knew the wound had been bad, but I also had expected it to be one he could survive, especially now that Cortez had mentioned that it looked cauterized.