Black City Saint

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Caught a glimpse of you at St. Michael’s last Sunday. It surprised me.”

  “You were there? Didn’t see you.”

  Before he could press on that, I countered. “Didn’t see your Maria and kids with you. Did they go to Our Lady of Guadalupe instead?”

  “You know it?”

  “I saw the Lady in your auto.”

  He chuckled. “Good peepers! You should be a cop . . . no . . . maybe not. Yeah, they went there. I was in the area so tried St. Michael’s. Very nice place. Too nice for me.”

  What Cortez meant was that he stuck out as much like a sore thumb at St. Michael’s as he did at the precinct. Still, he’d given me just the opening I needed for my main point. “But they’re building a new church by you, aren’t they? Or at least planning one?”

  “Yeah, they’re gonna build a nice one.”

  “I heard that something happened there, though. Something odd.”

  For some reason, that made Cortez immediately reach for his pack again. He didn’t answer until he had the cigarette lit again. “Yeah. The statuette. Made by a man from Guadalupe. Blessed, too, they say. You might’ve seen it in the papers . . . if you looked way in the back. Not big enough news for the Trib or the Daily News, you know?”

  I cocked my head in agreement. “Stolen?”

  “Yeah. Don’t know why. Only valuable to us. Me, I think it was someone who doesn’t like greasers. Mr. Alonso Perez mention it to you?”

  Now he caught me by surprise. “You know about him?”

  “Hey, Nick Medea! Who told him to call you? Well, actually, he said he kept seeing strange shadows after the statuette disappeared, ghost things. I remembered you and said he should try to find your number. Guess he did.”

  What he said made sense, but it still bothered me. Cortez’s suggestion could’ve easily set my new client to seeking someone who could help him with the supernatural, and the mention of shadows fit in with creatures from Feirie, but I’d never had someone come to me by such a path.

  “Well, I appreciate the business, detective,” I replied without missing a step. “I’m supposed to meet with him tonight.”

  “Hope you can help him . . . if you can help him.”

  I gave him a look of pretended outrage. “Don’t you believe in the supernatural?”

  “Oh, I believe in God, the Virgin Mary, Jesus, and the church! I also believe there’re some things I don’t know that might be floating around.” He took a long puff. “Just don’t know if you can help him.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” I responded with the same false indignation. I’d heard what I needed. Everything pointed to this being part of Oberon’s overall plan. There had to be some touch of Feirie involved in either the statuette or the making of it. I just had absolutely no idea what.

  “I know that. You’re straight, Nick Medea. One of the straightest.” He tossed the half-smoked cigarette to the ground. “How’s Miss Simone? Thought I saw her back behind you somewhere.”

  “She’s all right. Didn’t want her getting too close to this, in case they hadn’t cleaned up everything.” It wasn’t true—Claryce was showing herself more than able to handle things like this—but it was a good excuse to keep her from Cortez.

  “You ask her about the Delke house?”

  “She doesn’t know a thing.”

  The good detective crushed the second cigarette. “Maybe. I should really talk with her . . . unofficial, of course, you know? For her sake.” He started to grab for a third cigarette, then apparently thought better of it. “Maybe when she’s back at the house, she and I and you can do some more talking about Mr. Delke.”

  I was surprised to find out that Cortez hadn’t heard about the fire. In fact, considering the cause, I would’ve thought he would’ve contacted me about it. “Have you—”

  Cortez was still trying to shove the pack back into his jacket. Eyes and attention on that task, he cut me off. “Tried to stop by to ask you about a funny death I heard about, mug with two funny holes in his chest. Right through the lungs, you know? Known to be a two-bit embalmer—bootlegger—for the South Side.”

  “What would I know about that?”

  Looking at me again, he grinned. “Probably nothing. It was just strange, so I thought of you.”

  “Thanks.”

  The detective started to extend his hand to my shoulder, as if to give it a friendly pat, but suddenly withdrew it. Cortez probably wondered if I’d let our “friendship” go that far. After all, to many, he was still not much better than a negro. “Anyway, I better get back to the station and file this. Probably it’ll be lost after that, but I try.”

  I was happy to put an end to the conversation. We nodded at one another, and I turned to where I’d left Claryce.

  “Oh, hey,” Cortez called back to me from near his auto. “Meant to say. I stayed discreet when I went back. Don’t want your neighbors getting the wrong idea about me coming by again.”

  I hesitated, not certain I’d heard right. “‘Again’?”

  He opened the door. “Yeah. Last night. Came after dark so as not to be seen.” He tapped the brim of his hat. “I think about these things. I know how I look outside of my neighborhood, Nick Medea.”

  He hopped in without another word. I didn’t wait for him to drive off. It was all I could do to keep from running back to Claryce.

  “Did you find out what you wanted?” she asked when I reached her.

  “Too much.” At this point, I needed more than a taxi. Fortunately, I’d seen a Hertz Drive-Ur-Self nearby—still known by many as Rent-a-Car, even after the sale two years ago. The Model T was in fair shape and did well enough with speed, but each minute that passed as I drove seemed like one of the many centuries through which I’d already marched.

  As we neared where the house used to be, I slowed. Fetch, whom I’d told to come with us, pulled his head back in. “Shouldn’t we keep going fast, Master Nicholas?”

  “Not here and not for the sake of your enjoyment. Just keep in the back and keep quiet.”

  Claryce sat next to me, showing tremendous patience with the fact that, once again, I hadn’t explained myself. I’d had thirteen hundred years of only the dragon as my constant companion, with even those tragic reunions when Claryce’s earlier incarnations had been drawn back into my curse only brief interludes where I’d always kept my counsel from the one person to whom I could’ve spoken.

  Just before we turned onto the street where the house had stood, she dared grab my wrist. “Nick, can you finally tell us why we’re back here? What did Detective Cortez say? Did the police find something in the ruins?”

  Before I could answer, we came in sight. I immediately stopped the auto. Claryce, seeing what I did, gripped my wrist tighter. Behind us, Fetch whined.

  The firebombs had been tossed with expert aim. I’d known that even with the efforts of the firemen there’d be nothing left but ash. Oberon had wanted to make certain that I’d have no sanctum left to go to, that there was nowhere he couldn’t find me.

  Which made it all the more jarring to find that Cortez hadn’t misspoken. He’d been back here, all right.

  Seemingly untouched, the house stood before us.

  CHAPTER 14

  “How can it be standing there, Nick? How?”

  I didn’t drive closer. I could already sense something different about the house. There was no shunning on it. It was just one more house on the street.

  No . . . it still wasn’t.

  Show me, I ordered him.

  Claryce gasped and let go of my wrist. I should’ve warned her, but I couldn’t wait. I needed to verify my suspicions.

  Through the dragon’s eyes, I saw the truth. Outwardly, the house was the same, as if the fire had never happened. Only through the dragon, only through his emerald world, did I see the shadows saturating the house.

  Feirie. Whatever had resurrected my sanctum had done so with deep power from the shadow realm.

  So very kind of them . . .
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  There were few of the Feiriefolk who could possibly wield such might in the mortal realm. I’d thought it beyond Oberon even with what I’d seen of him already, but maybe I’d been wrong. The only other choice was no choice at all.

  As if reading my mind, Claryce asked, “Did Wil—Oberon do this?”

  “I don’t think so.” Try as I might, I kept returning to the one other force that could stretch its power so far into the mortal realm and do this.

  And behind me, Fetch let out another whine. “Master Nicholas . . . I smell her touch.”

  “She can’t be here, Fetch. You know that. If she tried to pass through the Gate, there’d be hell to pay.”

  “Isn’t there?”

  Claryce looked back at the shapeshifter, then to me. “Who are the two of you talking about?”

  “She who rules Feirie now,” Fetch answered before I could stop him.

  “Nick, is that possible?”

  “Her touch is here, but that doesn’t mean she is. She can’t be.” I kept repeating that in my head.

  “But why would she do this?”

  Let us go inside and see . . . the dragon persisted.

  As much as I loathed it, I was starting to see his side. I finally drove up, stopping just before the property line. As I started to get out, I answered Claryce’s question as best I could. “There’s only one thing Her Lady fears . . . and that’s Oberon. This may be her way of helping me work toward the ends she desires.”

  It may also have been for a variety of other reasons, some of them incomprehensible by mortal standards. Her Lady was Feirie, and so all its dark and unimaginable nature was part of her as well.

  Claryce shivered, but then said, “I suppose we’d better go inside.”

  Of the three of us, she was the one most vulnerable, which made it more impressive that she managed to take the lead for as far as halfway to the door. I succeeded in getting ahead of her at that point, with a perhaps wiser Fetch taking up the rear.

  “This gives me the shakes, Master Nicholas,” he muttered.

  “Hush.” Taking a deep breath, I opened the door. That it wasn’t locked didn’t shock me. While in general I held a door open for a lady, this one time I immediately entered.

  With no one about the vicinity, I’d kept the dragon’s eyes. Through them, I saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. There was even a tiny crack in the wall near the front door that I remembered from before the fire. If I hadn’t seen the house going up, I’d have sworn that somehow the firemen had salvaged it.

  That was the power of Feirie . . . something that shouldn’t have been possible on this side of the Gate.

  “Fetch, how do you feel?”

  “Well enough . . . shouldn’t I?”

  “You feel different at all?”

  His ears twitched. “No, Master Nicholas, everything’s jake.”

  He still didn’t understand what I was talking about, and I decided to keep it that way. Better that he not start trying to experiment. If he showed any signs of transformation, I’d probably have to kill him before he tried to kill me.

  Other than the faint shadows in places where there should’ve been none, the house appeared to be exactly what it looked like. Nevertheless, my hand kept near the side where I hid the sword. Before this reconstructed sanctum, I’d only ever received one gift from Her Lady, and that’d been to replace the blade I’d had blessed alongside the dagger. It’d been worth the weapon’s destruction to end that part of Oberon’s plot, but I’d needed something more to confront some of the worst of the Wyld he’d gathered with him. Still, I’d accepted the new sword aware that it was a tainted thing. At the time, it hadn’t seemed to matter. Claryce’s last incarnation had already died, although I could never actually prove that it was directly due to Oberon.

  “Nick . . . what is that?”

  I looked up at where she pointed. One of the shadows lurked there, shifting slightly with each passing moment. I saw nothing about it different from the others—and then realized that Claryce shouldn’t have been able to see it.

  I decided to test her. “What do you think it is?”

  “It’s—I don’t see it any more. I thought there was a darkened area that . . . that seemed to be moving now and then.”

  She didn’t see it now. That was the second time I’d noticed her almost seeing something . . . or in the case of Diocles, someone. “Hints of her power,” I answered. “You may see them here and there.”

  They were more than that, just as her viewing them for even a few moments was more than it should be. I couldn’t recall any of her past lives sharing this ability.

  “Fetch, check the kitchen.”

  “As ye wish.” He slunk toward the back. It was probably the slowest and most reluctantly I’d ever seen him head toward a kitchen.

  By the time Fetch returned, we’d checked the rest of the first floor. He said nothing, merely shaking his head and looking relieved to be back with us.

  I eyed the staircase. “You two stay here.” Claryce opened her mouth, but I waved her to silence. “Stay here.”

  With each step up, I waited for Her Lady to spring her surprise. More and more, this felt like her touch. How she’d succeeded in bypassing the restrictions of the Gate, I still didn’t understand. It was opening a new and troubling path for me. One thing I’d always been certain of was that the power of Feirie had its limits here. In fact, that had been in part what Oberon had sought to accomplish in order to achieve his ultimate goal; he could only truly bring the two realms under his sway if he could strengthen Feirie’s magic here before that.

  I reached the second floor untouched. The small hints of shadow continued to haunt the house, but I couldn’t find anything malevolent about them other than their very origins. I began to have some notions as to their purpose, a purpose that had little to do with me and more to do with that one thing Her Lady truly feared.

  My bedroom was just as I’d left it, even to the incidentals. I couldn’t help a smile, thinking of Feirie magic used to recreate such mundane items. So much trouble. I’d known that I—or rather, the dragon and I—were of interest to her, but not to this extent.

  As I entered the room I’d set aside for Claryce, I felt I had a good hunch about why Her Lady had gone to all this trouble for something that should’ve been so beneath her deadly presence. It didn’t stun me to see that there were more shadows in the upper corners of the second bedroom, either, nor that—

  “Nick?”

  Claryce’s voice didn’t come from downstairs, as it should’ve. Instead, it sounded very near the landing. Too near, considering I’d just come across the one actual alteration in the house and something I didn’t want her to see.

  The two-and-a-half foot by almost two foot painting hung prominently, so that anyone entering would see it immediately. It was hardly where I’d left it before the fire. Then, I’d stuck it down in the cellar, deep in a corner. By no stretch of the imagination would I have wanted Claryce to see it.

  Leonardo’d been known for his genius, but even more because of one particular painting he’d done. Her smile was recognized the world over.

  But what wasn’t so recognized the world over was the piece he’d done when he’d discovered just who I was. St. George and the dragon. He’d painted it in secret around the same time as Raphael had started his, and, while Raphael’s was hailed even now as a masterpiece, Leonardo’s wasn’t known to anyone because he’d given it to me the moment he’d finished it. With that eye for detail, he’d done my face perfectly, leaving no doubt who I was.

  And to make matters even more prickly for me at this moment, he’d also met Claryce’s incarnation of that time. Met her and knew her for the part the original had played.

  The moment I heard Claryce call my name, I ran to the painting and tugged at it. Fortunately, Her Lady or Her Lady’s servant hadn’t let their perverse Feirie humor hold sway, and the painting came away with ease. There was no choice left to me but to toss it facedown und
er the bed.

  “Nick! Are you all right? Did you find something?”

  I’d already managed to straighten up and turn her way. Standing in the doorway, she looked, without realizing it, almost exactly as Leonardo had depicted her. When he’d given me the painting—after her death again, it turned out—I’d been torn between keeping it and burning it. I’d finally found I’d settled on the latter when my hands refused to let go of the painting over the fire I’d set. Leonardo had also made the piece small enough that I could carry it with me wherever I went, although he probably wouldn’t have liked the way I’d removed it from the gilded frame and rolled it up to make it even more compact. Even despite the size, though, no one would’ve mistaken St. George or Princess Cleolinda as anyone other than myself and Claryce.

  And for more than four hundred years, I’d managed to keep it to myself, whether as a reminder or to just torture myself, I still hadn’t figured out.

  “I thought there was something,” I finally answered, “but I think it was nothing.”

  She peered up at the nearest corner, squinting as if not sure what she saw. “You’re sure?”

  That gave me an opening. “Just to be certain, let’s head back downstairs.”

  Claryce nodded quickly, her eyes still drifting to where the patches of shadow remained just out of her mortal view. I was still curious as to why she’d shown hints of noticing things she shouldn’t have been able to, but most of all, I was relieved to get her away from the painting. I still held out some hope that keeping her ignorant of her truth would help save her this time.

  It was a hope that was rapidly fading, though.

  Fetch wagged eagerly when we arrived downstairs. “She insisted on going up, Master Nicholas!”

  “It’s not his fault, Nick,” Claryce added.

  “For a watch dog, he’s not watching too well.” When he looked more upset, I shrugged. “It’s all right, Fetch.”