Black City Saint

by Richard A. Knaak

  I wasn’t worried about the ghost of an Irishman. “I’ll take care of everything. Just make certain he’s ready for me tonight.”

  “Of course. I appreciate this . . . and still appreciate what you did for . . .”

  “Never mind.” I uttered a quick goodbye and hung up before he could start repeating his immense gratitude for his son.

  Returning to the auto, I told Claryce what I’d decided to do. I expected her to reasonably protest that we had a few more important matters with which to deal, but she kept her chin high in thought and nodded. “It could be something like what was stalking me in William’s—Oberon’s—house, couldn’t it?”

  “Wyld come in myriad forms,” Fetch answered for me. “Some beautiful, many ugly.”

  “No talking back there,” I reminded him. We were still in too public a place. To Claryce, I replied, “It could be like that. It could be a number of other things. When I was given the task of guarding the Gate, that included seeking out those who dared breach it.”

  “I understand. We should eat before we head over there.”

  “Claryce . . . you need to stay—”

  Her eyes flared. “If you say one more thing about staying safe after what happened last time . . .”

  I surrendered. “All right. Just be sure to do as I say.”

  “I will. I can promise you that.”

  She agreed so quickly, and with such confidence in me, that at first I was simply grateful. Then, I remembered that I’d said almost the exact words more than once before . . . and not to Claryce. I’d said them to Clara. I’d said them to Cloette. To others.

  And each time, shortly after I’d said those words . . . I’d watched that incarnation die.

  CHAPTER 23

  I didn’t want to return to the main house, but when Her Lady’d had it recreated, she’d even somehow managed to restore my collection of news articles and other gathered info. While Fetch slept—always stiffly, I thought—Claryce joined me in searching through a number of stories relating to full moons. There were a lot of them, but, while that daunted me, what caught Claryce’s attention was something else.

  “The Chicago Herald?” She picked up another yellowed piece. “The Chicago Courier?” Claryce studied the date on the last one. “This says 1875 . . .”

  I didn’t say a word. She studied me, then went back to reading the articles.

  We didn’t find anything that’d give me a hint as to what Oberon might be planning. It’d been a shot in the dark, but the disappointment still took its toll on both of us. Claryce finally retired to a place on the couch next to Fetch, while I tried a few more collections.

  Only one caught my eye. I’d made it a habit to save everything that involved certain elements I could tie to Feirie. That meant even some of the odder stories, the small ones used to fill pages.

  Odd, Arching Lights Claimed Over Lake Michigan, the article read. It was short, simply telling about the claims of several people who said they’d spotted lights high above the waters near where they’d finished Burnham’s Municipal Pier just nine years ago. Police had investigated the rumors and found nothing. The claims had been written off as nothing.

  But I had the suspicion that those witnesses had seen something. I knew the location well, having visited it many times long before Municipal Pier and its four unbuilt brothers had even been a thought.

  These witnesses had caught a glimpse of the Gate.

  They’d only seen a hint of its majesty, but even that’d been enough to make them insist it was real in the face of public ridicule. Naturally no one else had noticed it afterward; only the pull of a full moon could blur the line between the two realms and thus also reveal for brief moments the passageway through from one to another.

  A particularly strong full moon . . . like perhaps would rise in three days. Less now.

  I was on the trail but couldn’t follow it anymore until tomorrow. I was exhausted and not thinking entirely clearly. With the couch filled—mostly by Fetch—I decided to lean back and rest in the chair for a few minutes until I could focus better.

  Naturally, I fell asleep, and naturally, I dreamed.

  The nightmare erupted as before, with me atop my horse charging at the dragon. In the distance, Cleolinda prayed for me. This time, Diocles stood watching from a partial arena, his thumb already down. I wasn’t sure which of us he meant, but I suspected it was me. Behind him stood a murky shadow I knew from other variations had to be Galerius.

  But then, as had been happening too often of late, the nightmare took a new, twisted turn. Now, Oberon rode atop the dragon, spears identical to mine in each arm. Suddenly, he was the knight astride the noble steed while I was the foul wyrm. I tried to shout a protest at this change, only to have my words come out as a guttural roar.

  Oberon lowered the spears. I reared but for some reason couldn’t control my body. Instead of preparing for his attack, I wavered and left myself wide open to the spears.

  They pierced my chest with precision. I felt a shudder run through me . . . and then the dragon and I fell apart. Yet, while I bled from the heart, the dragon simply laughed and fluttered off.

  Soft hands reached for me. I looked up at Cleolinda, who became Claryce.

  “I hope he gets on with dying soon, William.”

  William Delke stepped up beside Claryce. He drew her to his side. “He’s been dead a long time, my dear. Just didn’t know it.”

  I tried to reach Claryce, but my outstretched hand crumbled. My body began to decay everywhere. I managed to crawl a few feet, only to collapse in a heap at their feet.

  Claryce laughed. William Delke laughed, his face reshaping to one resembling Kravayik’s.

  Claryce! I tried to shout. Unfortunately, my jaw lay on the ground, the bone already turning to ash.

  Slim, bone-white hands thrust from the earth. They first caressed my rotting face, then seized me by the shoulders.

  Her Lady’s deathly beautiful visage rose from the dirt. She pursed her blood-red lips to kiss me, as her voice echoed in my head.

  You’re mine at last, Georgius . . .

  And as she declared that, her eyes became the black pits that Oberon had left her sentinel. With impossible strength, Her Lady dragged me into the suffocating soil—

  Whereupon I finally woke.

  I straightened. Fetch still lay on the couch, albeit in a different pose, but Claryce was nowhere to be seen. Concerned, I leapt to my feet. The chair toppled over, the clatter startling Fetch awake.

  Rapid footsteps pounded above. They continued to the stairs.

  I met Claryce halfway. She eyed me with as much worry as I had for her. Her hair was fresh and she’d changed clothing, using the blouse and skirt we’d picked up for her on the way back here.

  “You’re awake!”

  She said it with such relief and wonder I immediately looked toward the nearest window. It was dark outside.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Nearly nine in the evening.”

  I’d slept an entire day. I knew I’d pushed myself hard, but this wasn’t like me at all. “You should’ve woken me up.”

  Her expression turned peculiar. “I did. You told me it was better for you to continue sleeping, then you shut your eyes again and didn’t move.”

  “She speaks the truth, Master Nicholas,” Fetch added from near the couch.

  Before I could ask her more, his voice whispered, Eye decided it was better you slept. All our strength will be needed when the Frost Moon rises . . .

  “What do you mean?” I blurted out loud, confusing Claryce and Fetch. “What about the Frost Moon?”

  It comes in the turning of the year from warmth to cold, when Feirie rises dominant. The better positioned the moon to the Gate, the stronger the pull to Feirie . . .

  We’d not had many conversations past a few words over the course of the centuries. The dragon’s explanation was one of the longest things I’d heard him utter. It was also one of the least promising
things.

  “You’ve never mentioned this Frost Moon before.”

  Eye would have, if danger had been present then . . . not all autumns bring forth a Frost Moon . . .

  I refrained from remarking that with Oberon around we’d known there was danger present days ago. The dragon saw time and the world differently than humans or even Feiriefolk did. I’d lived with that fact for sixteen hundred years, but it still took getting used to.

  Claryce joined me. “Nick, what is it?”

  I told her, then glanced at Fetch.

  “I knew not this Frost Moon, Master Nicholas, but mayhap only those highest in the Court did.” His ears flickered. “I do admit I feel a bit more strength than usual.”

  “How bad is this, Nick?”

  “I don’t know. In the long run, it changes nothing. I still have to prevent Oberon from succeeding.”

  She nodded. “I wish we could’ve done something when he had the gall to confront us near the police station.”

  “If Oberon was willing to meet me in the open, he had everything planned to make me regret any attempt to take him there and then. I tried once in the past. They counted those people among the victims of the Great Fire, but they’d been dead hours before.” I could still see the blank, staring faces, the awful agony that the searchers after the Chicago Fire had assumed were due to having been burned alive.

  Their real fate had been much, much more terrifying.

  Claryce’s frustration grew. “I just don’t understand this! If he’s so powerful, why doesn’t he just kill you? Why toy with you? Why toy with us?”

  I put what I hoped was a comforting hand on hers. “Oberon’s more limited than you think . . . and maybe than he even thinks. He wouldn’t have found a use for Moran and Weiss. It’s not that Oberon’s got little power, it’s that he needs to conserve it; he may’ve kept ahead of Her Lady’s servants—even brutally slain them—but each time he uses his abilities, it drains him. I see why he’s waiting for this Frost Moon . . . and why Her Lady probably is, too.”

  Small wonder Her Lady’d also been so reckless in her other attacks on Oberon. She knew as well as I did now that the stronger this particular moon, the more Oberon would be like his old self. His ruling self. Her Lady didn’t want that any more than I did.

  Thinking of Feirie’s power growing with the moon made me remember something else. “I have to leave. I made a promise to Barnaby about his friend . . .”

  She started to follow me. “Do you think this ‘ghost’ is so important right now? It hasn’t harmed anyone so far, it seems.”

  All Feirie grows stronger with the Frost Moon . . . the dragon remarked, in what he no doubt thought was a helpful manner but wasn’t.

  “I swore not to risk others. Besides, I’m wondering if this particular Wyld just might have some connection to Oberon.” It took tremendous effort for anything to cross the Gate without permission, even more to maintain itself and grow in the mortal realm. If they were sentient, they also knew they had to constantly hide themselves from my presence.

  “We go now, then, Master Nicholas?”

  “Now. Get in the auto, Fetch. I’ll be there in a moment.” I didn’t bother to ask him if he needed me to open the door for him; knobs were a simple problem for the lycanthrope, even now condemned to his current shape.

  I turned back to try to convince Claryce that she shouldn’t come with us, but she was already following Fetch. When I took her by her arm, she shook her head.

  I gave up and trailed behind.

  There was no traffic on the street. I summoned the dragon’s eyes, but the emerald world revealed nothing, either. Restoring my own eyes, I took the wheel and drove us on.

  The neighborhood we sought was populated by Queen Anne houses almost identical to those around mine. It was also as quiet a neighborhood as the one I’d chosen. Few houses had any lights on and those nearest our destination were black as pitch. On the one hand, I was happy no one would observe our coming, but on the other I hoped that didn’t mean that the possible Wyld inside had spread its influence beyond the single home.

  I was surprised to see an old Whiting Runabout parked in front of the house. After fifteen years, they were already becoming rarities. I’d seen that particular squared-off cowl only a few times and always with the same driver.

  “Wait here.”

  As I reached the door, it opened, and out stepped two elderly men who couldn’t have looked more different from each other than if they’d been the recently broken up Vaudeville duo of Gallagher and Shean. The relatively tall figure with spectacles was my client, a Mister Desmond “Des” O’Reilly. He looked as if he’d stepped out of some farm house. His look was one of befuddlement at the moment.

  The possible cause of his befuddlement was a short, round figure who would’ve been lucky if he managed five feet in height. A thick shock of white hair blossomed from his head in an unruly manner. He had a face that a bulldog would’ve admired, a face that hid as good a soul as his son’s had been troubled.

  Barnaby noticed me first. “Mas—Nick! I was just telling Bobbie it’d be better if he joined me for a pint—ur—cup of coffee at my house while you did your work.”

  “I don’t know about leaving the house to a stranger,” O’Reilly murmured almost sheepishly. “I know Barnaby vouches for you, but still—”

  “But still there’s no man more trustworthy than Nick here! I told you so, Des, and you can believe me!”

  As he tried to cajole his old friend, I noticed Barnaby catch Mister O’Reilly’s eyes. Barnaby didn’t even realize what he was doing, but almost immediately, Des became more agreeable.

  “Yes . . . yes, I suppose you’re right. Will it take long?”

  “Long enough for us to have a good, slow drink,” Barnaby replied, glancing my way.

  I nodded just enough for him to see. If he was getting his friend out of the house, then Barnaby believed that whatever “haunted” the place was more than just imagination after all.

  “You climb into the Whiting, Des. I’ll just have a word with Nick before we leave.”

  Still pliable, O’Reilly obeyed. After a glance at the Packard, Barnaby turned to me. “You always come alone or with the hound, but there’s another with you. Is she like—is she like my son?”

  “Never mind her.”

  “As you say. I meant to be here to keep Des occupied, but I suddenly had the creepiest sensation, as if Chaney’s Hunchback stood behind me. I don’t mind telling you I decided there and then to make certain we cleared out for you.”

  “Probably a wise move. Give me two hours.”

  “You’ll have more than that. I brew a strong cup of coffee.”

  I didn’t reprimand Barnaby for his stash of bootleg whiskey. In his case, a little whiskey, even illegal, was better than some of the memories he carried.

  I waited until he had the runabout on its way, then returned to Claryce and Fetch. Claryce refused my final attempt to dissuade her from entering, but I did get her to promise she would stay in one of the open areas and not follow me into the actual room I had to investigate.

  Desmond O’Reilly’s home was cluttered but neat. Small knickknacks from the Emerald Isle decorated the walls and shelves. Photographs of some pretty grim male and female figures revealed the two previous generations of O’Reillys. I could see why any of them would’ve made for some nasty ghosts.

  But although ghosts certainly existed, I knew right away that what lurked inside was a Wyld. I could already feel it moving about, with a recklessness that almost surprised me. It either knew someone was coming for it, or it was so secure in its defenses it didn’t believe any mortal creature could sense it.

  “The cellar,” I muttered.

  Fetch immediately raced back outside. There’d been some outside entrance—either a door or a window—through which he could crash. He didn’t carry any items with him this time; I needed him for distraction and to keep the Wyld from fleeing if it saw that things were turning against
it.

  I handed the dagger to Claryce.

  “Don’t you need this?” she asked pensively.

  “Not as much as I need you.”

  I startled both of us with what I said. Before she could recover, I spun around and went to the cellar entrance. Even before I opened it, I knew that whatever lurked below was more deadly than what I’d found in Mrs. Hauptmann’s attic.

  Show me . . .

  The dragon’s world opened up to me, sending away the darkness and revealing every corner of the unlit cellar. I didn’t bother with the house light, the better to take my quarry unaware. It’d assume the darkness would benefit it, which might prove a fatal mistake.

  Not for a moment did I think I might confront some meek, frightened Feirie creature. Those tended to less ominous surroundings and never radiated a malevolence such as the thing in the attic and what I noted down here.

  I reached the bottom unmolested, which surprised me considering how furiously the Wyld’s energies radiated from the far left corner. I still couldn’t make out what it was, but I knew the glamour it cast about itself wouldn’t be able to last much longer against the dragon’s magic.

  I took another step and an outline began to form. Something spindly, almost like the creatures Oberon had sent to harass us in the alley. I doubted it was one of them, though.

  Whatever it was remained behind its magic, confident of its ability to mask itself from the foolish human before it.

  I saw no reason to prolong this. Its foulness was evident.

  Drawing Her Lady’s gift, I lunged.

  The glamour faded, revealing for the dragon’s eyes a thing with no evident eyes and a shape that was a parody of the sleek excellence of one of Oberon’s or Kravayik’s kind. The ruling caste of Feirie wasn’t above mating with other things simply for the twisted sport of it, rarely acknowledging any of the monstrous offspring that their magic might help spawn.

  I didn’t care if this was Oberon’s get or even one of Kravayik’s. It couldn’t have been on this side of the Gate for very long. I could sense its dark hunger and knew that Des O’Reilly had escaped from a terrible fate by the skin of his teeth.