by Jack Conner
“W-what is it?” Vallie said, huddling against Hastings, who sheltered her with a tremendous arm. The stands shook under them.
“It can’t be,” Stevrin said, though distantly he remembered Danny telling him about something similar that had happened yesterday. “Magnar with a stick up his ass, it’s an earthquake!”
More dust drifted down from the rafters. People screamed and began flooding out, some trampling each other in their desperation to escape. The fight was clearly over. The Smasher and the Widowmaker had joined the press of escapees.
Since Stevrin and the gang occupied the highest and most rearward seats, they climbed like monkeys down the scaffolding in the back and joined the press of people rushing from the building. Elbows hit Stevrin in the back and sides, and he cursed and elbowed back. At last he shoved his way free. Panting and sweaty, he turned back to face the Charnel House, and the others grouped around him. They stood perhaps fifty feet from the building. Harry looked pale, and Jack burped repeatedly, as if about to puke.
The Charnel House groaned. Metal rattled loudly, and one of the walls sagged in with a bang.
Something cold slithered up Stevrin’s spine.
Another wall collapsed. The people trapped inside screamed in terror.
Through the doorway Stevrin could just barely make out the huge forms of the Smasher and the Widowmaker trying to push the crowd forward, as if their mighty arms could do what sheer panic could not. Then, with a terrible squeal of metal, the whole thing collapsed. Aluminum sheeting crumpled, and the great building folded up and buckled.
“NO!” Stevrin shouted. He rushed forward, toward the doorway. Jack and Harry wrestled him to the ground.
The Charnel House, and the hundred or more people still trapped inside, fell into a crack in the ground, great sheets of aluminum folding up like tin foil and bodies rupturing like rag dolls stuffed with tomato juice.
Out of the rubble-filled hole, a tendril of yellow vapor emerged. Almost languidly, the vapor curled toward a group of panting escapees before they could get clear and enveloped them. They screamed. Stevrin couldn’t see them clearly through the smoke, but to him it looked like their skin began to boil. Bubbles seemed to ripple along their arms, over their faces. Howling, they sank to their knees.
Stevrin stared, feeling the world tilt around him.
Thick, clotted material that might be the victims’ brains drizzled out their noses and ears. Their eyes liquefied and ran like wax down their cheeks. Writhing in agony, they fell to the ground and twitched. Gradually they twitched slower, then slower.
The yellow vapor spread out, creeping toward Stevrin and the others.
They ran. When Stevrin looked over his shoulder, he saw more victims of the yellow gas, but the cloud was breaking up, dissipating. Nevertheless, he did not stop running, even long after he realized the ground had stopped shaking, even when he felt his heart would explode in his chest. He ran, and ran, screaming as he went, and the others ran along with him.
Chapter 4
They returned to the temple the same way they’d left it: by subway. The subway lines were new and still expanding, and Stevrin had heard that the engineers frequently stumbled across old, abandoned sewer lines, or underground smuggling tunnels, even ancient Qaran ruins or sections of the Below, so it was tricky going. The ground under Lavorgna had a life of its own, but Stevrin appreciated the convenience, even if rattling through the old dark halls, sometimes having to cross bridges that spanned subterranean abysses, unnerved him not a little.
Once in the train car, he and the others stared at each other, all white and shaky. The train rattled, and the darkness of an abyss pressed close and thick all around. They were the only ones in the car.
Jack was the first to speak: “What the fuck?”
“Their brains came out their noses,” Harry said, his eyes wide.
“All those people,” Vallie said. “Crushed.”
“It’s like the Hells have opened up,” Nimfang said.
“You and your hells,” Harry said.
Nimfang rubbed the place on his arm where the glowing tattoo of a giant predatory salamander coiled and stared at Harry deadpan. “I wouldn’t mock the devils, ijinu. They’ll come and eat your soul.” An orphan from Zanshin, Nimfang held odd religious beliefs.
No, Hastings signed, he owes THAT to me.
“Two quakes in two days,” Stevrin said, ignoring them. “And now with deadly gas.”
They talked it over, at first haltingly and then more fluidly, even heatedly, but none of them had an answer that made any sense, at least to Stevrin. Reynalt had said something strange was beginning to take place in the city, but all these things—abductions, quakes and gas—just seemed too disconnected from each other to be part of one overall event or phenomenon.
Stevrin remembered Tollie’s charge last night, remembered the looks Agatha and the doc had thrown at each other. Someone at the Divinity knew how to read the signs, Dr. Reynalt had said. Stevrin didn’t know exactly what that meant, but things had gone too far. For the gods’ sakes, the Smasher had died. If someone knew how to read the signs, Stevrin needed to know what they were—and he thought he knew how go about it.
The Divinity was hopping when they got back. Lights blazed from the towers, and music drifted across the lawn. The boys and girl slipped over the wall and passed through a servants’ entrance in the rear of the temple. Not wanting to be caught and ordered to do some menial task, they scrambled up the stairs of the Roost, all except Vallie, who returned to her room on the second floor. Stevrin started to go with the other boys, but he remembered his resolution and hung back.
“What gives?” Jack asked.
Stevrin gave what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. “Tell you later.”
He wheeled about and vanished into the temple.
* * *
Stevrin went directly to a grill in the wall of one of the side passages near the main parlor. Producing a pocket knife, he quickly went to work on the screws and popped the grill off. Before he’d even set the grill down, a mangy calico tried to dart into the opening. “Damn it.” He grabbed it and deposited it several feet away. “Go on,” he said. “Git.” It went, but not without an indignant raow. Finally, after crawling inside the duct, he carefully replaced the grill behind him, but did not screw it back.
Wriggling forward, his elbows and knees scraped the metal surfaces, causing the occasional squeal of metal, so he moved slowly to reduce noise. Previous experience sneaking about the Divinity doing favors for various Sisters had taught him hard lessons about how noisy these old ducts could be. He wormed through the tight little halls carefully, at times hauling himself inch by inch vertically, then slithering horizontally for a while. Soon he was sweaty and out of breath. Fortunately air moved swiftly through the duct, helping to cool him off.
At last he reached one of the vents in the parlor’s ceiling and peered down past the fantastically glittering electric chandelier to see the wealthy of Lavorgna mingle with the lower-classes, talking and drinking and smoking, while scantily-clad Sisters moved among them, serving wine, cigars, and draping themselves across any guest that wanted it. Expensive carpets covered sections of the hardwood floor, and rich men and lay men (and a few women) sprawled in antique armchairs. As Stevrin watched, a trio of Sisters took the stage along the east wall and began performing an erotic, teasing dance while black musicians from Tazlev provided the proper smoky atmosphere.
Stevrin, half choking on the dust in the ducts, watched the dance for awhile, then turned his attention to Madam Agatha. Tonight she sported a waist-length sparkly red jacket with a big black fur collar over a black shirt and pants. Her hat, too, sparkled redly and was trimmed in black fur.
As usual, she socialized with her guests, at times directing one to go with a particular girl, or boy, or consulting with a Sister in private about (Stevrin supposed) how to approach a particularly eccentric client. Stevrin saw her and Lila converse with foreheads almost touching; Agath
a explained something in whispers. At first Lila paled, then she colored and actually laughed. Stevrin saw her form the word, “Really?” Agatha smiled and nodded. Grinning, Lila strode over to a certain gentlemen, took his arm and ushered him down one of the halls.
Stevrin continued watching Agatha, his mind intent on his task. He’d been trying to figure out how to do this since Tollie’s charge the night before. He’d only thought about it in theory, not actually planning to put it in motion, but after tonight he knew he had to. He wished there was a better place to spy on the parlor than the vents, but if there was he didn’t know it. All the hallways in the area were too heavily trafficked, and guests and Sisters strolled across the grounds outside, precluding peeking through the windows.
For weary hours, Stevrin watched Agatha. The sweat dried on his brow, and his back and legs ached from having to stay in such an awkward position. At last, though, his efforts paid off.
One of the Sisters, Stevrin recognized her as Ria, approached the Madam and whispered in her ear. Agatha nodded once, sharply, then excused herself from the gentlemen she’d been conversing with. Swiftly, but not too swiftly, she departed the parlor, and Stevrin marked the direction she went.
He had to move fast. It was tricky work, slithering backward through the ducts, trying to keep quiet, but at last he made it. Just minutes after Agatha had left the rooms, he stalked through the hallways after her. She’d vanished in the direction of a wing reserved for the pleasuring of eccentric clients—not an area Stevrin knew very well, thank the gods. Sticking to the shadows, he wound down one hallway after another. Several girls came and went, some leading johns by the hand. Grunts and giggles issued from the rooms he passed. At one point he heard a whip crack. A naked girl with feathers in her hair ran past him, giggling, while a john in a horse costume (or at least its top half) chased her; he neighed and flailed his front arms/hooves as though he were a rearing stallion. His cock jutted out, a leather cord tied around its base, and bells jingled from the cord.
A couple of johns hung around one of the big circular divans, smoking cigars and bragging about their recent trysts. A fat tabby rubbed against one’s leg, leaving orange hairs, and Stevrin found himself wondering if the man’s wife would find those later.
Stevrin stuck to the shadows as he made his way through the wing. Agatha had to be somewhere. The halls grew less and less active as he went, silence draping them. This would be the perfect area. Here Agatha would send girls to entertain those she wanted, where the johns’ screams could not be heard. Of course, she seemed to do it in a different place every time, so she must have other procedures, too.
Keeping his back to the wall, Stevrin pressed on. Lights only illuminated this hall along a brief stretch, and after that—darkness.
Stevrin slipped into it. The hair prickled on the nape of his neck. One hand fumbled at his knife and brought it out. Sorry, Agatha, but if you jump me I’ll skewer you. Instantly he felt guilty about the thought—after all, she was all but a mother to him—but he didn’t take it back.
Ria hovered before the entrance to a certain side-hall, looking tense and wary—on watch, Stevrin supposed.
Observant as she was, however, Stevrin sidled along the wall and slipped past her. He’d had a lot of practice over the years. On the other side of Ria, the halls narrowed and shortened. Several small hallways didn’t seem to go anywhere. All was quiet.
Suddenly, sounds issued from the end of a certain hall. Wet, slopping noises, and strange words. They sounded as if they came from the throat of an elderly woman, and they were in some language Stevrin had never heard; they sounded, as Dr. Reynalt had said, ritualistic. Stevrin moved closer. He smelled incense, but it didn’t quite mask the distinctive odor of human feces. The ritualistic chanting continued. The voice grew more and more intense, the words faster and faster. Stevrin waited, letting his eyes adjust.
At last the speaker moaned, and the foreign words ceased.
“Yes!” she said. “Yes, finally! Let me see you ...”
Stevrin took a breath, steeled his nerves. “See what?” he asked casually, stepping forward into the open. He shoved the knife in a pocket but kept a firm grip on it.
“What—by the Mother!”
Agatha, naked as the day she was born, and looking wrinkly and horrible as Stevrin would have guessed, crouched like a hyena over the butchered corpse of a fat, hairy man. Stalks of incense rose from the dead man’s opened chest cavity, trailing up plumes of scented smoke. Agatha’s bare hands were plunged into the man’s guts, and her face had been screwed up significantly. Blood spattered her drooping breasts and folded wattles. It surprised Stevrin that such a skinny old woman could possess so many rolls of fat. They were all folded together like the sections of an accordion.
“Why, it’s—” she started. Some of the firmness returned to her voice, and she said, archly, “Stevrin James Corckrin, what in the name of the Sacred Hells are you doing here?” One of her bloody hands withdrew from the dead man’s huge belly and inched, quite surreptitiously, over to the equally bloody knife that lay nearby.
“You won’t need that,” Stevrin said. He pushed his own knife against the inside lining of his pocket, making the fabric bulge out.
She eyed him narrowly. Her hand edged away from the weapon.
“Knock it away,” he said.
Frowning, she obeyed.
“And don’t yell out for Ria.”
“Is that all?” she said.
Stevrin nodded and released his knife. Cheaper than a real gun, he thought. Suddenly all the B-movies he’d watched down on Haverty seemed like good investments.
“Now,” she said, making an obvious effort to remain calm, “tell me just what the fuck you’re doing here.”
Stevrin took a page from her book. He produced a pack of cigarettes and with cool nonchalance went about the motions of lighting one. When it was done, he blew out a long column of smoke and smiled. “For a start, I’m making sure I don’t have to wash another godsdamned cum-soaked sheet.”
She stared. “You’re blackmailing me?”
He waved the question away. “We’ll talk about that later. For now I’d like to know what you’re doing.”
She sighed and rocked back on her haunches. Her drooping breasts swayed. Blood dripped from her jowls onto her breasts, then her thighs. “I’m a devotee of Sygra, Stevrin,” she said tiredly. “Have you ever heard of the Order of Sygra?”
“You mean ... the witches?”
“Don’t call us that. However, we have been underground for centuries, ever since the Vacard witch-trials. We’re not witches, but we’ve been called that too often. Now I have a question: how did you find out?”
He shrugged. “Wasn’t hard. When you whacked Tollie last night—hell, even before you whacked him—he stopped. Just the sight of you was enough to set him back. I think I knew right then. Here he was charging the other girls, but just one look at you coming at him, well, he must have some fear of you, right? It could only make sense if you were the last thing he saw before he died, probably comin’ at it out of the dark with a knife. Probably that knife.” He shivered. “And I didn’t miss those looks you and the doc threw at each other. When he saw the guts out, he knew, and I knew he knew. But I don’t get it. What the fuck’s up with the guts?”
“An ... ancient art of my Order.”
“Is this about readin’ signs? If it is, I aim to know what they are.”
She sighed. “Give me one of those.” He nodded and tossed her his cigarette. She caught it deftly, careful not to get too much blood on it, and put it to her lips. While she took a deep, steadying drag, he lit another.
“Reading the future, divining truth from the study of intestines, it’s a deep part of our lore,” she said. “The more important the truth needing to be revealed, the higher order of animal required.”
Stevrin processed that. He stared at her through the smokes of their combined cigarettes, as well as that of the incense. The shadows seemed to
darken. “So this truth is pretty important, I guess.”
“Very.”
“This have anything to do with the fuckin’ quake tonight, the weird gas, and all those disappearances lately?”
She stared at him levelly. “So you know about the quake. I just heard on the radio not half an hour ago. Strange business. But not completely unexpected.”
“Why? And what’s it to do with corpsy there?”
“A lot, I believe.” She sounded weary. “There’s ... there’s something wrong with the city, Stevrin. A ... a Presence. Something dark, something awful. Growing. Rising.”
He said nothing.
“The High Priestess of my Order has felt it emerging for some time now. It’s something new. All our dreams have been tainted by it.” She paused, took a deep breath. “Our High Priestess commanded us of the inner circle to investigate this thing, whatever it is. Investigate it, find out what it is, and stop it. So I chose the worst, the most brutal of the johns that frequent my establishment, the kind that beat my girls, and—well, you can see for yourself. I know I was risking the wrath of the Bosses, but I could think of no other way.” She looked weary. “I’m an old woman, Stevrin. I can’t exactly prowl the city streets looking for victims, can I?”
He almost smiled in admiration. “But how did you prevent the doc from Awakening them properly?”
She indicated something wrapped in a towel sitting on the floor beside her. Squinting, he saw a handle sticking out of it. “A hammer,” he said, nodding.
“I knew the blow of a hammer wrapped in a towel would be hard to detect, especially delivered after death. So I whacked ‘em on the skull—soft, but plenty.”
“Hiring the doc was all just a show.”
“An expensive show, unfortunately. But I had to do something to show the girls I was on it, and to make myself above suspicion. Shit, boy, I could use a drink.”
“That an invitation?”
“It is. But first I need a shower. Let Ria clean up this mess.”
