“The transmitter that you wear on your head like a ridiculous hat,” Khalid snapped. “Can you not make it smaller?”
“The head-mounted transmitter was never necessary. The real transmitter is much smaller and located within the device.”
“What?” Khalid yelled.
“It was joke.”
The Baron
August 15, 1914
West 34th Street
Manhattan, New York
Polished limestone, artisan furniture with dark upholstery, and a medley of oil paintings ranging from Renaissance to Romanticism made Kasper Holstrom’s eighth-floor penthouse feel as though he could entertain Marie Antoinette at a moment’s notice.
“Nice place,” Khalid announced, looking at the far wall of curved windows that provided a breathtaking view of Manhattan in the midmorning light. Horses, cars, carts, and people scurried about like mindless ants among towering mounds of stone and steel. Warwick looked around, his mouth agape as he observed the massive mahogany bookcases lining the wall opposite the windows. The brilliant sunlight revealed the cracks in the countless leather-bound tomes that seemed to have resided there for decades. On either side of the bookcases were identical spiral staircases, the Victorian wrought iron leading to an upstairs mezzanine that wrapped around the entire living room. Hodges Abernathy studied the massive hearth and fireplace, made of large, rough limestone bricks, which protruded from the north wall. Upon the fireplace was an enormous black iron plaque depicting a muscular man with curling locks and a braided beard strangling, or possibly coddling, a baby lion. Etched in the background were two distinct rivers.
“Warwick,” the Baron said. “Please watch the door and ensure we are not bothered.” Warwick soaked in more of the room before he left through the narrow entrance to the white marble foyer. The foyer was just as impressive. It was littered with Greek statues atop column pedestals, statues that depicted nude men and women running, hunting, dancing, and even copulating.
“Khalid, scour the bookshelves. Look for The Epic of Gilgamesh,” the Baron instructed, looking at the figure on the iron plaque.
“Why?” Khalid asked.
“This is Kasper’s secret residence. All Architects have one. And do you know what resides here?”
“What?” Hodges asked.
“Secrets.”
“Where is your secret residence then?” Khalid asked, beginning to comb through the books.
“I have an apartment in Paris. Above the brothel I found you in. Now find the goddamn book. Kasper’s private notes should be here.” The Baron ascended one of the spiral staircases.
“Shouldn’t we just find his desk and look there?” Hodges asked.
The Baron spoke while climbing the stairs. “In the event something happens to us, we are required to leave clues so others may discover our private affairs. I assure you Mr. Abernathy, very few disciples have seen the inside of such a residence. You should feel honored.” The Baron made it to the mezzanine that traded polished limestone for wooden paneling. Around the mezzanine was a collection of Norse artifacts. Splintered bucklers, dulled axes, dusty pelts, smoothed but primitive skis, and even an assortment of elk-hunting muskets and shotguns that still looked useable. Everything was either hung from the walls or displayed on tables. Where the mezzanine met the east wall of windows, however, there sat a brass telescope atop a wooden tripod facing the city. Next to it, a small table with a palm-sized brass compass and a roundly sculpted clay pot with a curling, dead hyacinth plant.
Khalid continued to peruse through the books, pulling every other one out and throwing it haphazardly across the room.
“What are you doing?” Hodges Abernathy snapped.
“Looking for the book,” Khalid said. He threw another book over his shoulder, almost hitting Hodges. “Which is more than you are doing right now,” he sang.
“Must you be so destructive? Some of these books are priceless. Look. Look at this one!” He bent over and picked one up. “This one is copied by hand. It must be more than a hundred years old.”
Khalid threw another book. “Are you still upset that I slept with your wife?”
Hodges dropped the book and fumed with clenched fists.
“I told you, it was not my fault. She approached me,” Khalid lied. He found her that night on the bow of the ship. Offered her one of his Parisian cigarettes. The only one laced with opium. When Hodges returned to his stateroom, he found Khalid atop his limp bride, thrusting his body like some kind of exotic fowl in an absurd courtship ritual. And because it seemed his wife had run to the arms of another man, Hodges ran back to the Baron, who was still sitting in the main lounge sipping brandy. Hodges agreed to hear his proposal.
“Mind your tongue, Arab.”
“Again, I am Algerian. A Berber, yes? Why does everyone think I am an Arab?”
“I don’t care what you are. I just . . . I . . . I cannot forgive her or your indiscretions, but . . . I just wished I had gotten a chance to say goodbye at least. See her one more time.”
“What can I say? You must have missed her. She must have been the first one off the ship.” Khalid actually told him the truth this time. In the early morning hours he threw the unconscious Mrs. Abernathy into the cold North Atlantic. Hodges had scoured the ship for her the next few days in search of her, but to no avail.
“You have something on your shirt, Hodges.”
Hodges looked down at the collared shirt that he wore with his gray suit, still wrinkled after being pulled from his luggage. The crisp white over his left breast slowly oozed crimson. “Damn thing hasn’t stopped bleeding.”
“Yes. It does that. That was once my stone, you know?” Khalid threw another book at him.
“Stop that. This instant!”
“Stop what?” Khalid threw another book.
Hodges picked up a book from the floor and hurled it, hitting Khalid in the back of the head. Khalid winced and his head with one hand and grabbed the next book from the shelf with the other. Khalid turned around, determined to smash the book into the newest disciple’s temple.
“Khalid!” the Baron shouted, unseen from above. “Leave Mr. Abernathy be and find my book.”
Khalid Francois glanced at the book he was about to use as a bludgeon and noticed the title in gilded font. “I have it!” he announced. Khalid perused the book. Midway through, a folded parchment floated to the ground.
“How did you know that was the book, Baron?” Hodges asked.
“The man on the fireplace,” he replied.
“Yes?”
“That would be Gilgamesh.”
“What now?” Khalid asked, unfolding the parchment.
“What does it say?” the Baron called.
Khalid read the letter to himself, translating every other word in his head. He summarized his understanding of the document. “He keeps mentioning ‘The Transcendence.’ He does not explain what it is, but says it is ‘very near.’ Apparently there is a doctor who—”
The Baron crashed his hands on the mezzanine railing, rattling the entire floor. “Impossible!”
“No, this is what it says,” Khalid responded.
“That bastard. That bloody bastard!”
“I really hate to be the one asking so many questions, but what exactly is the Transcendence?” Hodges asked.
The Baron replied. “That’s why The Council wants Kasper found. He is the key to their . . .”
“Key to their what?” Khalid asked, craning his neck to look up at the mezzanine.
“It is of no concern to you,” the Baron said.
Khalid turned toward Hodges. “Get used to hearing that.”
“Khalid,” the Baron continued, “Is there anything else on the letter?”
“No, just some number at the end.”
“What is the number?”
“One forty-four.”
The Baron left the railing and peered at the cityscape through the windows. His churning thoughts became whispers. “If the Transce
ndence is real. If it takes place. Then I have no future on The Council. If I help them find Kasper, facilitate this undertaking, then I have reached my zenith as Architect. I—all of us—will be enslaved to an immortal race. Gods on Earth. Those bastards. Those sodding bastards!” The Baron rubbed his forehead in frustration. “If I refuse to help them, then my own disposal is imminent, most likely at the hands of an Idimmu. Did Monomi know of The Council’s intentions? Is that why he left? Bloody bastards! All of them.” The Baron glanced again at the compass nearby and a sudden moment of clarity washed over him. “One forty-four,” he whispered.
He adjusted the compass on the table and found the heading at 144 degrees. He lined the wooden telescope accordingly and peered through it. At this height he saw only the brick veneer of a taller building. He tilted the scope up and saw nothing but blue sky. He tilted it down and saw a small flower cart attended by a young girl. Through the lens he could see her mouth move, most likely calling out to passersby about her wares. He looked closer at the cart. Red spotted lilies, pink and white sweet peas, and deep purple hyacinths. The Baron pulled away from the telescope and looked at the clay pot with dead hyacinths next to him. “Clever, Kasper. I’ll give you that.” He swiped the pot from the table and let it fall to the ground. Shards of clay, dead flowers, and soil scattered everywhere, no longer hiding the dirt-stained parchment. The Baron picked up the paper and unfolded it. He read it silently, his one eye opening wide. “No,” he muttered. “It couldn’t be. That’s just a myth.” The Baron looked up and ripped the paper in half. “But there are those who said The Transcendence was also a myth.” He ripped the paper into smaller shreds. And then smaller again. “Khalid!” he yelled. “Our investigation has just taken a new course.”
“Are we going to track down this Doctor Fatum?” Khalid asked, looking down at the parchment in his hand.
“No. We need to find a child,” the Baron replied.
“Any child?”
“No, a very specific one.”
“Where do we find this specific child?”
“A billiard hall.”
“Really?” Khalid asked.
“Your lordship!” Warwick cried suddenly. “Your lordship, these gentlemen claim to be with the police. I tried to stop them, but they insisted.” Warwick rushed to the center of the living room, followed by two bearded men. One was thin with piercing, ice-blue eyes and hair parted between his ears, and the other was rotund with a flat gray cap.
“Well, good morning, all. My name is Detective Larron, and my associate and I are with the New York City Police Department. We have recently recovered a great many items from a thieves’ den we raided. Items that belong to one Kasper Holstrom. We would very much like it if he could come down to the station and claim them.”
Khalid revealed his golden tooth with a snarling smile. He spoke in a refined French, “Un policier du nom de larron?”
Wage took a deep breath and politely asked, in not-so-refined French, if Khalid wouldn’t mind fornicating with a goat.
“What? What is it?” Hodges asked.
“Larron is French for thief,” Khalid said in English. “This man is not police.”
“Listen, I just need to know if any of ya’ll is Kasper Holstrom, and we’ll be on our way.”
The Baron looked down over the living room from the mezzanine. “Why don’t you first tell us who you are, Mister . . .”
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t ol’ One-Eye? What a coincidence. Oh, and it’s Captain. Captain Wage Pascal.”
“Ah, yes. Captain Pascal. I’ve only been in town two days, and already I’ve heard so much about you.” The Baron held up a finger. “You’ve caused quite a bit of trouble as of late.”
“Well, that’s what happens when people keep tryin’ to kill you,” Wage responded. “Now, which one of ya’ll is Kasper again?”
“I’m afraid you are out of luck,” the Baron said.
Wage took another deep breath, slowing down time, ready for the dance he was all too familiar with. “Yes, sir,” he said. “That’s what I figured. Let us commence with this morning’s—”
“Khalid,” the Baron said firmly, cutting off Wage.
Khalid pulled a revolver out of his coat and fired the first shot without aiming. Wage did the same, retreating with Ol’ Bill to the foyer. Bullets flew, all of them missing their targets. Khalid darted behind the far spiral staircase. Hodges Abernathy fumbled for his own pistol in his jacket pocket and moved behind one of the artisan chairs. Warwick dove behind the sofa. The Baron stoically watched the dance unfold.
“What do you say, William?” Wage screamed as he reloaded with bullets from his pants pocket. Another shot rang in, ripping the leg from a spear-throwing Greek. The statue fell to the ground and shattered.
“Catastrophic emergency plan,” Ol’ Bill yelled back, slowly pulling out the sawed-off shotgun from his pant leg. Both their backs were against the wall of the foyer that led to the grand living room. Between them was the entrance that was now a shooting gallery. Wage peeked around quickly and saw Khalid stirring behind the staircase. Wage’s shot ricocheted off the wrought iron with a twang. Khalid fired two shots back, destroying another statue. Ol’ Bill leaned in and fired a deafening blast into the living room, exploding a hole in the sofa nearby Warwick. Clouds of stuffing now whirled about.
Wage peeked around the entryway again. A bullet screamed above him. Hodges stood up behind his chair and shakily aimed his revolver. He pulled the trigger. Wage couldn’t tell if the bullet was a dud or the young man had forgot to pull the hammer back. Either way, Wage put two quick shots through his chest. Hodges dropped to his knees, and like a wounded animal, found a quiet place to die. He chose the inside of the fireplace behind him.
“One down, three to go, William,” Wage said. Ol’ Bill finished reloading his double-barreled shotgun and fired another blast, this time at the staircase. Although unharmed, the shot forced Khalid to the ground, where he fumbled his own revolver.
“Let’s make for the exit, Cap’n,” Ol’ Bill yelled. “I’ll cover you.”
Wage stuck his gun around and blindly fired three more shots. He emptied his shell casings from the cylinder and started to reload. “Sure thing, William. Let me just take one more shot at old One-Eye.” Wage leaned around the entryway again, standing on his tiptoes. He couldn’t see the Baron. Khalid had recovered his gun and slid behind another chair. Wage fired a shot through the chair, narrowly missing the Algerian before resuming his stance in the foyer.
“Time to move, Cap’n,” Ol’ Bill yelled.
“One more shot, William,” Wage yelled back, gripping Ol’ Snapper with two hands. He took another deep breath and nodded to his old friend and trusty sergeant.
And that’s when he heard another blast. Another shotgun. Not Ol’ Bill’s.
Wage arched his eyebrows. He looked toward the living room, then looked back at Bill.
Bill smiled. His teeth were red, holding back blood that bubbled up from his throat. “Sorry, Wage,” he uttered before another blast ripped through the wall and into his back. Ol’ Bill slumped over and fell to the ground, streaking the white wall with a wide crescent of blood.
“NOOOOOOOOO!” Wage screamed.
A shotgun blast roared through the wall right next to him. The debris from the wall and the exploding statue on the other side forced him to move. He ran for the front door, still open from when they forced their way in, and slid along on his back on the smooth marble floor. He heard the shots from Khalid’s revolver ring out. When he slid past the threshold, he turned to his stomach and fired every round he had at Khalid and the mezzanine, where the Baron stood reloading his shotgun. None of his shots reaching their intended targets—his position by the front door was too far away and was at an unfavorable angle.
Wage looked at his old friend once more. Ol’ Bill’s chest quivered as he lay on his side staring back at Wage, seeing only the piss-ant 17-year-old boy who he trained to be a soldier. Trained to be an o
fficer. He saw his oldest friend. He saw his only friend. He saw Wage as another son, who he also trained to be a man.
His last thoughts were of his wife Delilah and the ranch back home in Oklahoma. The unpredictability of life and the cruelty of chance. His brother, Jimmy. His sister, Ruth. Ol’ Bill Jr., his son who was taken from this earth far too soon. All he ever knew was order. In the saddle, he remembered the air warming, becoming hot, before cooling, and becoming cold again. Ol’ Bill’s body started to go cold.
Wage saw his friend’s eyes begin to gloss over, a milky glaze that he had seen on so many dying men’s eyes before. It wasn’t glorious. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t what little boys dreamed of when they imagined gallantly dying in battle.
It was cruel. And it was visceral. And it hurt like goddamn hell.
And then, Sergeant 1st Class William Macdonough—the soldier, the husband, the father, the poet, the gentleman, the friend—died.
Mink Callahan
August 16, 1914
Gartrell Taxidermy
New York, New York
Mink lay naked, her body drenched in sweat that ran down to the crisp white fur beneath her. The bearskin rug was massive, easily 10 feet long with a roaring head at her feet. It was the first time she had ever seen an actual polar bear, or at least the shell of one.
Quincey lay next to her on his back, eyes closed, arms crossed against his bare chest holding up the thin sheet that shielded them both from the chilly draft that flowed through his massive workshop, even in August.
Gartrell Taxidermy had a modest entrance off 86th Street in Manhattan. A prospective customer walking in would see only a small, maple-paneled sitting room with high, south-facing windows allowing ample sunlight. A couch and two chairs with a dark wood stain and forest-green upholstery surrounded a large oak desk. Above the desk and on the far wall, mounted on clay shelves painted to look like rock and tree bark, was a three-dimensional mural with perfectly recreated animals, a scene captured from the Rocky Mountains of Colorado and suspended in time. A snarling mountain lion with gleaming yellow eyes threating a scavenging fox. Above them, a medley of birds and squirrels cautiously watched from faux tree branches. To the right of the nature scene were large wooden double doors that looked more at home in a medieval castle. The doors led to the cavernous workshop where Quincey lived and worked. The doors were also wide enough to wheel out the largest of animals into the sitting room on the movable stage Quincey had built himself. He always added a touch of intrigue by draping the animals in a velvet cover and unveiling them in dramatic fashion.
Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Page 27
