Lost in the Shadows

by Kyra Wheatley

  When Mike heard the growling and the shriek coming from behind the houses, he knew Albino must have caught the girl.

  As it happened, Mike was walking toward the Red Rose Cafe with three of his men, Greene and two others whose names the Inquisitor didn’t remember. When the growling repeated, they came running.

  They skirted the cafe. A soft, reddish glow was radiating from its wide windows. The cafe emanated the smell of hot wine and warm cinnamon buns. Mike could hear eerie voices and the soft sound of playing cards slapping on the table. Wine glasses clinked, and still, he could see through the windows that the cafe was empty.

  “There he is.” Greene pointed at City Hall, where Albino was bounding along the wall of the building, clutching the girl in his front paws. A man was running toward him, trying to block the werewolf’s way. His gun glistened silver in the moonlight.

  “Gumshoe!” one of Mike’s men gasped.

  They ran across the square, but once they’d passed the cafe, the City’s pressure grew, choking their throats and making their legs leaden. Mike had it better than the other three, who immediately began to pant and wheeze, the sound of their boots growing heavier and louder against the paving stones.

  Mike glanced in their direction. He had to catch Albino by himself. If he didn’t, the one was as good as dead.

  “You need to head him off from the left,” he ordered.

  Without stopping, his men exchanged puzzled looks. “But, Inquisitor,” Greene started, “he’s just turned the corner to your right—”

  “He might go around City Hall and come back. So you go left to cut him off. I’ll go right.”

  “Yes, sir,” Greene barked and turned left, shouting to the others, “Follow me!”

  Mike kept running toward the City Hall corner where he’d just seen Albino, Gumshoe and the girl. His associates were keeping to the left, increasing their distance from him. Their breathing grew more and more strained. Every step across the square must have been a struggle for the Shadow’s servants.

  “Inquisitor,” Greene shouted. “What do we do if Albino comes out right in front of us?”

  “Just stop him,” Mike replied. “Don’t let him kill the girl. You can’t trust a shapeshifter to follow his orders.”

  He didn’t specify how exactly they were supposed to kill an enormous rampant wolf who could take people’s heads off with his razor-sharp claws and fangs as long as a human’s thumb. It was their problem now. Mike’s objectives were different. He had to outrun Gumshoe and catch up with the werewolf before he killed the girl.

  Albino would have no scruples about doing it. His orders must have been to bring the girl back alive, but by now, he was little more than an animal—a huge, angry beast oblivious of his human past. He’d keep dragging the girl along for a while until hunger and the desire to kill took their toll.

  Twice, Mike had very nearly caught up with them, and both times, he’d ended up lagging behind. The square was by then far in the distance, and so were his associates. For a while, he didn’t have to bother about them. He was now running through the maze of riverside streets and going off road as he leapt across ravines and cracks in the pavement.

  Soon, the sidewalk ended in a dirt path. Mike stopped and listened. He could barely hear Gumshoe’s footsteps. As for the werewolf, he seemed to have disappeared.

  Mike closed his eyes and laid a hand across his forehead, covering the scar. He stood, motionless, as the scar was filled with a green glow, sending the decaying light down his fingers, enveloping his wrist, then sliding onto his face, turning it into a radiant mask.

  Mike snatched his hand away and opened his eyes. He ran to his left and leapt over a decrepit narrow gate that led into a neglected little garden. His heels tapped on the wobbly footbridge as he crossed a black-water ditch and descended to the river.

  The moon’s reflection rippled in its waters. A dirt street traced the river bank past little gardens in the houses’ back yards. The opposite bank sank into the mist, revealing nothing but a few flickering lights. Two of them moved.

  Albino staggered along the riverside street.

  He stooped under his load, carefully stepping on his hind legs, clutching the one to his chest. His eyes glowed crimson. An enormous tongue hung down from his half-opened jaws. His fangs gleamed in the moonlight. Saliva was dripping from his quivering muzzle.

  Mike walked toward him. Albino growled. The girl in his hands didn’t move, one of her arms hanging listlessly. Albino growled louder, a hungry, greedy growl. The last drops of human nature had left him during the chase. The werewolf had orders to deliver the girl alive, but now, he viewed her as his prey and was prepared to tear her apart.

  Mike’s heart sank. Have I really—he shook off the unwanted thought. Impossible. I’m Mike Ciaretti, Inquisitor to the Shadow. I have no human sentiments left.

  Once he was a couple of dozen paces away from the werewolf, Mike stopped and said, loud and clear, “Leave her and go.”

  The creature dropped the girl to the ground and stood over her, growling, protecting his prey, which made him so much more dangerous.

  Slowly, Mike drew a sharp knife from its sheath on his belt. It resembled a surgeon’s scalpel with its narrow, pointed blade.

  The knife was made of plain, untreated steel. A toy weapon like that would make any of the Shadow’s servants laugh. And as for truly powerful creatures—like shapeshifters, disciples or the underground folk—it couldn’t harm them any more than a paperclip. Still, it was a weapon, a threat, and that caused the werewolf to tense up.

  Clutching the knife in his lowered right hand, Mike outstretched the left one, turning it palm up and, drawing his fingers together, pointed them at Albino’s chest as if his hand was a blade.

  “Leave,” he said. He didn’t add anything else. Words had no meaning any more. From that moment, actions decided everything.

  The enormous white werewolf raised his head to the moon shining bright in the black sky and howled. The girl lay sprawled at his feet. His howling embraced his hatred for humankind, his anger and fury, his pain and his frustration. Then he dropped onto all four legs and charged along the narrow dirt road at the motionless man.

  Mike didn’t move. The werewolf careened toward him, his claws digging deep into the earth and raising mounds of black soil. Mike’s left arm kept pointing at the beast. His right one hung listlessly at his side. Glistening with rage, the wolf’s crimson eyes came closer with every second. And still, Mike remained motionless until the very last moment. Only when a mere meter’s distance separated him from the monster did he act.

  Like a bolt of black lightning, the Inquisitor slipped aside, avoiding a powerful paw. He jerked the knife up while keeping his other hand down. The knife’s sharp point cut through his own left wrist.

  Blood spurted out in a sparkling emerald-tinged crimson jet. The knife didn’t stop until it had cut through the skin all the way down to his palm. Mike now stood to one side of Albino, who had accelerated so much, there was no way he could stop in time.

  Mike stepped toward the werewolf and let the knife go. The bloodied blade left a dull, greenish trace in the air as it pierced the beast’s ribs, burying itself to the hilt in Albino’s side.

  Not trying to retrieve his knife, Mike sprang aside. His unbuttoned jacket flared around him as he froze not three paces away from the beast, clutching his left wrist.

  Green muck oozed from the werewolf’s wound. Albino collapsed and started rolling on the ground, leaving a shimmering greenish trace in the air. The werewolf gave out a howl that soon turned to a whimper. He rattled and wheezed in agony from the pain surging over his body.

  Rearing up, the beast made one more faltering step and collapsed into the river. He flapped around, raising a cascade of spray, then started paddling away, still whimpering, leaving a watered-down greenish trace in his wake.

  Mike took off his jacket and hurried toward the girl sprawled out on the ground. She stirred and groaned weakly.
r />   Gumshoe stopped and cast a glance around. The chase had taken him to the riverside quarter, a confusing maze of back streets, blind alleys, dark nooks, crannies and backyards. Despite his load, the werewolf had run too fast for him. Gumshoe had made a couple of chance turns and almost thought he’d lost the beast when he heard him growl over to his left.

  Gumshoe pointed his gun up and lunged at the sound. He slid through a low archway, crossed a backyard overgrown with grass and forced his body through a hole in the fence, finding himself on a narrow dirt street. One side of it was lined with houses’ backyards, and the other opened onto the river. A fragmented moon reflected from the rippling water. A tall, thin man dressed in black walked along the riverbank away from Gumshoe. In his arms, he held Nicole. There was no sign of the werewolf, but Gumshoe could hear splashing coming from the river. Soon, the sound stopped, replaced by sniffing and stomping. When the sounds died away in the distance, he raised his gun and aimed it at the tall man’s back.

  “Stop,” Gumshoe ordered.

  The river splashed gently. The moon rocked in the waves. The man was walking away steadily without looking back.

  “Stop and turn around, or I’ll shoot.”

  He said it in a firm and decisive voice. The man stopped. Slowly, he turned around.

  “Inquisitor,” Gumshoe said.

  The tall man, young and olive-skinned, looked at him without saying a word. A scar pulsated on his forehead. Nicole didn’t stir in his arms. Gumshoe couldn’t tell whether the werewolf had injured her or if she was even alive.

  A black velvet jacket lay on the ground in front of the young man.

  “Lay the girl on the ground,” Gumshoe ordered.

  The young man sized him up and said in a quiet voice, “I won’t hurt her.”

  “I’ve got a silver bullet in my gun.” With every word, Gumshoe took a step forward. “I’m a decent shot. It’s dark here, but the distance isn’t so great. I’m gonna hit you right between the eyes. You think you can survive it, Inquisitor?”

  After a pause, the young man said, “I can kill you here and now, Gumshoe.”

  “So can I. Who’s gonna start?” Gumshoe gave him a crooked smile. “I’ll take three more steps, and then I’ll shoot. The discussion is closed. You have to understand I’m not joking.”

  “I’ve saved her,” said the Inquisitor. “You were too late.”

  Gumshoe took his first step. The young man didn’t budge. Second step. Nicole stirred in the Inquisitor’s arms, groaning quietly. Gumshoe raised his foot again. His finger tensed on the trigger.

  The olive-skinned man went down on one knee and placed the girl onto the ground, resting her head on a soft mound of grass. For a few more seconds, he studied her face. Then he stooped over her and kissed her on the forehead.

  He stood up. For an instant, the two stared at each other. Then the Inquisitor turned around and walked away. His left wrist was bandaged with his jacket sleeve.

  Without lowering his gun, Gumshoe strode after him. Twice, he was on the verge of pulling the trigger. But he reconsidered, allowing the Inquisitor to merge into the darkness.

  Gumshoe replaced the gun and crouched over Nicole. Her eyes were open. He lifted her head, slid his other arm under her knees, and rose. With a long sigh, Nicole clung to him, cuddling up to his shoulder.

  “You,” she said weakly. “I knew it.”

  Chapter Eight

  The sun shining in the window woke Nicole. Despite all the adventures she had experienced, she felt fresh and vigorous. She lay on a sofa under a checkered comforter. All of this—the sofa and the comforter—gave off an air of something comfortable and homey.

  She heard even breathing coming from the corner of the room. Gumshoe was sleeping there, his chin on his chest. His fedora and raincoat lay on a small table beside him.

  Nicole’s eyes rested on a small side table to the right of the sofa. It held a pitcher with a glass, and next to them were the gold-framed lens and the glass ball. When Nicole reached toward it, the sofa creaked, and Gumshoe woke up.

  He immediately stood up, stepped over to the sofa, and studied Nicole under the comforter.

  “I’m all right,” she hurried to answer his yet unasked question. “Not even dizzy.”

  “Still, you should stay here for a while.” Gumshoe sat on the edge of the bed, filled the glass, and handed it to her. “Drink this. This is water from the riverside well. According to Martha, it can heal a lot of things.”

  Nicole reached for the glass and felt Gumshoe’s hand linger over her fingers, just like it had done on the roof earlier that day. It only lasted a fleeting moment, then he removed his hand a bit hastier than normal.

  Nicole took a few gulps. The water tasted just like any other.

  “What happened?” she asked, handing him back the glass. “Outside City Hall. There was a huge … er … beast.”

  “A shapeshifter,” he explained. “A werewolf. And I’m pretty sure it was sent to apprehend you by the crowd you saw on the square when you’d first arrived.”

  “Did you chase it away? Thanks.”

  Gumshoe frowned and turned his gaze to the table. “This ball—did you find it at City Hall?”

  She leaned back against the pillows and nodded. The light in the window grew brighter. A bird chirruped.

  “Did you use it? Did it help you understand anything at all?” he asked.

  “Not really. I’ve still no idea what’s going on, and—” Nicole leaned forward and took Gumshoe’s hand. “You must tell me. You’ve got to answer my questions, now. I need to understand.”

  He gave her a reserved smile, not even trying to reclaim his hand. “Very well, then. Ask your questions.”

  “This City, what’s it called? Has it been here before? Why is it the way … the way it is? And if you want to leave, how do you do it?”

  He spoke slowly.

  “No one knows its name. One thing we do know is that it once used to be an ordinary city in our ordinary world. Somewhere in Europe, I think. Then, something happened. Something changed it. Some old records mention the Warp. We’ve no idea what it’s supposed to mean. The Warp made the City what it is now.” Gumshoe waved his hand in the air. “It’s kind of pulled the City out of our reality and transferred it here.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Who knows? Now, the City is cut off from our time and space. Still, there are some secret passages left leading both to and from our real world. There must be some; otherwise, how would you explain all our new arrivals? Unfortunately, none of us knows how to use them. No, sorry, I think Collector did. But he disappeared a long time ago.”

  “How did you get here, then?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I was investigating a case. Long story, though. Some other time. You’d better sleep now.”

  “No, wait. I won’t be able to sleep if you don’t tell me more about it. So no one can leave the City, right? And what if you just walk in one direction without turning, or—oh no, you can’t. I see now.”

  “The mist.” Gumshoe nodded. “Our mist is much more than condensation in the air. It’s a particular substance, a force that has something to do with the Warp. That’s what the mist does—it warps reality. It displaces the streets and moves houses. It also breathes new life into ordinary objects, things you might find in people’s homes, on the streets or in shops. Some of them stay unchanged while others acquire new properties. Some objects merge, creating something totally new—we call them artifacts. There are also relics—fantastic things created by the City itself.”

  “And these dark ones, or whatever you called them? Who are they?”

  “We don’t know. There’s something—or someone—living in the part of the City separated from us by the wall of mist. Sometimes, it visits us. Other times, it sends its servants. Monsters like that werewolf could well be its creations, too … having said that, they might not be.”

  “And this force or whatever—does it live in the House of Crimson Win
dows?”

  Gumshoe shook his head. “I don’t think so. We know virtually nothing about the House. Some of us see it in our dreams. I know Martha does. Cardsharp says that the House can fulfill any wish as long as you find it and enter.”

  “That’s him. But what do you think?”

  “I haven’t come to any conclusion yet. And still, I think—I’m almost sure—that the House of Crimson Windows has something to do with the Warp. Enough now. You’d better crash out for a few more hours.”

  He stood up, but Nicole demanded, “No, wait. One last question. Didn’t you say that you’d gotten here from our reality? Already after the Warp, right? So when you came here, the City was already the way it is now. But how about the others?”

  “Martha used to live here before the Warp. And so did Landlady, the owner of the Mansion. A few others, too. None of them can tell you what the Warp is, if that’s what you mean. They say it all happened at a quarter past two in the morning, although they can’t explain now how they knew it. One night, something had happened that none of them could then explain or describe, something petrifyingly scary. When everybody woke up in the morning, the City was already as you see it now.”

  Quarter past two, Nicole repeated in her head. Quarter past two … .

  “Do new people arrive here often?” she asked.

  “Not really. Most of them soon disappear into the mist. But some do stay, like myself. Sleep now. The dark ones never come in the daytime. Besides, this house is near enough to the square, so it’s always been safe. I’ll keep an eye on them anyway, just in case. You’re on the third floor. I’ll be downstairs. Sleep tight.”

  He headed for the door, but stopped and turned to her. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? What for?”

  “I suspected you. I had no idea that the Inquisitor … never mind. Now sleep.”

  He left and closed the door quietly behind himself.

  Nicole lay in bed for a while with her eyes closed. She saw two faces in her mind’s eye. One belonged to the man who’d just left the room. The other was young and olive-skinned, delicate and brutal—the face of a dangerous man. Gumshoe had called him the Inquisitor and had averted his eyes when he said it. No idea what that could mean.