by Joel Jenkins
Eliza Feller was known for having cut the throat of one wealthy client while he slept, emptying his wallet, and burying his body in the stable. No one could prove it, of course, but everyone knew it to be the truth. Even as Rockwell recognized her, the face of Eliza ‘cutthroat’ Feller, whose body the kurdaitcha now possessed, began to ripple and transform, showing the skull-like visage of the demonic presence within. Dark waves of energy radiated, chilling Crow and Rockwell to the bone, while ice crept over Murderer’s bar, encroaching on the pit where the two gunfighters had chosen to make their stand.
“How fitting,” said the kurdaitcha, her voice like steel grinding against steel, “that I should find the two of you cowering at the very place where I was birthed into this world. It was here that the blood of Indian and white man mingled in a shaman’s sacrifice that brought me forth from the nether dark nesses, and it is here again where the blood of white man and Indian will mingle as I cement my place of power upon the throne of this pulsing earth.”
Now the cold seemed to leap upon them, rather than to creep, and their breath rose in icy particles. The kurdaitcha breathed out, and tendrils of cold whipped toward them, chill creeping into the center of their bones as the possessed prostitute approached them on frozen ground. As frost formed upon their hats and clothing, Crow and Rockwell reached for pitch-soaked brands and thrust them into the fire, so that they blazed forth with light, which refracted among the icy motes that hung heavy in the air.
Both Crow and Rockwell knew that they had only moments to act before they were subsumed by the elemental cold drawn forth by the kurdaitcha, and with ice cracking and sloughing from their clothing they tossed the brands at the tar-soaked teepees that formed a triangle around them. As soon as the flaming brands struck, they ignited the teepees and the tinder and dry wood which they had so carefully stacked inside, so that instantly three pillars of flame rose about them. The intense heat pushed against the pervading cold, melting the frost on the ground and pushing warmth into the limbs of the odd partnership of the Indian and the Mormon gunfighter.
The kurdaitcha threw up an arm to ward off the intense heat and the flaring brightness. Rockwell drew his Dragoon pistol and began to fire, hopeful that the heat might be so intense that the kurdaitcha might not be able to ward off the bullets as she had previously. The bullets lasted longer than before, and they drew within inches of piercing her skin before they shattered into shards. These shards peppered the kurdaitcha’s flesh, but they did not penetrate deep enough to do more than irritate the kurdaitcha to even greater anger.
She shrieked out curses that were ancient before even the ancient of days and his wife Eve first trod the hallowed paths of Eden. She pushed out a hand and a cone of cold projected, battering Crow as he drew forth his blessed eagle-butted Colt Peacemaker. The marrow chilled within his bones. It was difficult for Crow to even wrap his hand around the butt of his pistol, and so this was far from his fastest draw; in fact, it was probably the slowest draw he’d ever made since he first strapped on a gun. Still, he managed to level his pistol and fire a bullet. It pierced Eliza Feller’s upraised palm and traveled down her forearm, lodging in flesh and bone. The gun shot was not enough to slay Feller, but to a kurdaitcha the bullet from the blessed gun was as a poison.
She spat out an oath in some demonic tongue learnt from the frothing, flaccid lips of monstrous things better left unimagined and clutched her shattered arm to her bosom. With great deliberation and clumsy fingers, Crow managed to pull back the hammer of his pistol, hoar-frost still clinging to the metal despite the raging pillars of fire which formed a protective barrier around them, and he pulled the trigger again. This time the bullet pierced Eliza Feller’s breast and she fell with a shriek that carried upon it the kurdaitcha’s departing essence.
The kurdaitcha did not attempt, this time, to enter the bodies of Crow or Rockwell. Instead it fled across the frozen waters, to the body of a Sydney Town rifleman who drew close to the opposite shore, drawn by the spectacle of ice and flame, bullets and blood. Despite the roar of the flame and the roar of the outer river, which had not been turned to ice, he was within earshot of that scream, and the kurdiatcha rode those sonic waves into the body of the rifleman, whose body spasmed as she entered and took control.
Crow lurched to the perimeter of the flaming teepees and fired his last four shots. His aim was poor because he couldn’t force his frozen limbs to respond to his mental commands as well as he was accustomed. The first two bullets pocked the ice at the shore and the third broke a stone beneath the rifleman’s feet. The fourth shot, however, climbed high enough, and it penetrated the belly of the Sydney Town duck, so that he collapsed, letting go of his rifle, and clutching at his leaking belly. The wound would not be fatal for some time, and so the kurdaitcha remained tethered to the Australian criminal, her essence hovering and shifting above him as she attempted to bring her powers to bear against Crow and Rockwell.
However, as long as Crow and Rockwell stood within the perimeter formed by the flaming pillars of the burning tents, the cold could not overcome them. In fact, the fierce flame began to return warmth to their flesh, and feeling began to be restored to their numbed fingers.
“What happens when the Sydney duck finally dies?” asked Rockwell.
“The last couple of gunmen that she brought with her have fled,” said Crow. “They’ll be out of earshot and safe from possession well before he dies.”
“I’ve chased everyone out of my tavern and camp … for that matter,” said Rockwell. “They’d likely be out of hearing range anyway, but I didn’t want to take no chances.”
So, from within the safety of the triple infernos Rockwell and Crow kept a long vigil through the night until, finally, the Sydney Town duck died and the kurdaitcha let out a shriek upon which her essence burst forth, seeking for a body to inhabit. Crow and Rockwell felt themselves buffeted, as if by the very powers of Satan, himself, and for a few moments of despair they were exposed to the darkness of the kurdaitcha’s soul as she attempted to claw open their minds and enter their bodies, but then she dissipated like the morning dew before the sun’s rays, and fresh hope replaced despair.
Indeed, a glimmer of dawn began to paint the sky of the Eastern horizon, for their vigil had taken them through the darkest hours of night.
“Is she gone?” Rockwell hoisted himself off the earth where he had fallen.
Crow, likewise, pulled himself up from the earth where he had fallen at the terrific onslaught of the kurdaitcha. “I don’t feel her presence anywhere near. Perhaps she has been banished back to the nether realms from whence she came.”
“But will she stay there?” asked Rockwell.
Crow’s face was taciturn. “Until some other fool mingles blood in a sacrifice to bring her forth again.”
“I guess I’m going to have to face Brigham Young and tell him I’ve failed to bring back the tithing,” said Rockwell. “The church is in sore need of those funds.”
“Maybe we should go visit that diamond field I know,” suggested Crow. “It won’t be the tithing money you were sent for, but those diamonds could help build that temple in Salt Lake.”
Rockwell considered this for just a moment. “And this isn’t some wild goose chase you’re leading me on, Crow? Because I’m far too worn out to go gallivanting around California looking for some fool’s dream.”
“You held one of those diamonds in your hand,” said Crow. “Did it feel like a dream to you?”
Rockwell laughed. “When we ride together I’m never sure whether I should be believing the things my own eyes have seen. It all seems like dream; a very, very bad one.”
6
THE END
LONE CROW
The character of Lone Crow is one that’s been fermenting in my mind for over three decades. I thought it would be interesting to cast a Native American in the role of the gunfighter—a role that’s been traditionally reserved for characters of European descent. When Russ Anderson of PulpWork Pr
ess floated the idea of a weird west anthology I added another wrinkle, making Crow an occult investigator of sorts.
With these two elements in place, the adventures of Lone Crow began to explode in my brain, presenting themselves faster than I could write them. These stories have appeared in all of the How the West was Weird books, Six Guns Straight From Hell, Low Noon, Strange Trails, Gunslingers & Ghost Stories, and Showdown at Midnight. An anthology of Lone Crow stories entitled The Coming of Crow was published by PulpWork Press this year, as well
6
JOEL JENKINS - lives with his wife and children in the heron-haunted and bigfoot-bedeviled hills and forests of the Great Northwest. When not fending off feral bobcats or hirsute sasquatches, Jenkins composes weird tales by the flickering light of his hydroelectric-powered computer. For a complete listing of his various novels and collections visit JoelJenkins.net, sign up for his infrequent newsletter, and get free stuff.
THE STRIX SOCIETY
By
Josh Reynolds
“Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.”
-Christopher Marlowe, “Doctor Faustus”, Scene XIII
“The Strix Society,” Lord Curzon said, without preamble. “You know of it?”
“I dare say I know something. A strix is a flesh eating night bird and a harbinger of ill-omen from Greek mythology,” Charles St. Cyprian said. “And a society, well…self explanatory, what?”
“I did not come here for japes and mockery, sir,” Curzon said stiffly.
“No, I expect not. Fine, yes, I have heard of them. They are very much in my line, one might say,” St. Cyprian said, leaning back in his chair. He and Curzon sat across from each other in the large wingback chairs which occupied the oddly patterned Turkish rug before the sitting room’s cavernous Restoration-era fireplace.
George Curzon, The Earl Curzon of Kedlestone, and Foreign Secretary to His Majesty’s government, was an older man with a face like a dyspeptic eagle, who wore ill-humor-like armor. He was dressed fashionably, if slightly out of joint with current trends. For Curzon, Victorian black served for every occasion.
In contrast, St. Cyprian, almost forty years Curzon’s junior, was a slim man of olive complexion dressed in one of the finest modern sartorial creations to ever leave a Seville Row tailors’ shop and deign to live in man’s closet. He had been preparing for an evening out, when his guest had arrived and insisted on speaking, despite the lack of appointment. Still, when the former Viceroy of India showed up at one’s doorstep, demanding attention, one had best brew a cuppa and settle in for a chat.
“Your line,” Curzon repeated, chewing the words. “Yes, I suppose that’s right.”
St. Cyprian smiled. His line, such as it was, included the investigation, organization and occasional suppression of That Which Man Was Not Meant to Know…including ghosts, werewolves, ogres, fairies, boggarts and the occasional worm of unusual size…by order of the King (or Queen), for the good of the British Empire. Such were the duties and responsibilities of the Royal Occultist.
Formed during the reign of Elizabeth the First, the office of Royal Occultist (or the Queen’s Conjurer, as it had been known) had started with the diligent amateur Dr. John Dee, and passed through a succession of hands since. The list was a long one, weaving in and out of the margins of British history, and culminating in the Year of Our Lord 1920, in one Charles St. Cyprian and his erstwhile assistant-cum-apprentice, Ebe Gallowglass.
Gallowglass had already long scarped for her evening’s planned debauchery when Curzon arrived. St. Cyprian had been intent on his dinner reservations at the Savoy, and the company of the young woman he’d been intending to enjoy said reservations with, when the Foreign Secretary had arrived, plainclothes policemen in tow. The latter were even now outside occupying the stoop of No. 427 Cheyne Walk, like as not flicking cigarette ash into his nasturtiums as they tried to look inconspicuous. He’d cancelled his reservation, and the date, and gotten an earful over the blower from both the maitre d’ and the woman, respectively. He was trying his best not to let it color his mood, but it was a losing battle.
“I should hope so, seeing as you’re here.” St. Cyprian gestured airily to the sitting room around them. Pictures of former bearers of the office lined the walls of the sitting room, jostling for space with fetish masks and lurid artworks by Goya and Blake. Great bookshelves groaned beneath a library of occult works, as well as a century’s worth of accumulated bric-a-brac. Over the fireplace hung a xiphos; a double-edged, single-handed sword with a leaf-shaped blade. It was a family heirloom, supposedly brought over with Brutus and his Trojans, and St. Cyprian had used it to good effect more than once.
“Yes,” Curzon said as he looked around with a grimace. “I wouldn’t be, if I had any other option, you know.” He sounded as if he held St. Cyprian personally responsible.
“You’d be surprised how often people say that,” St. Cyprian said.
“No, I don’t think so,” Curzon said.
St. Cyprian chuckled and lifted the tea pot off of the rack in the fireplace as it began to whistle. He carefully filled two cups and handed one to Curzon, who accepted it gingerly. He sniffed it and took a sip. St. Cyprian took a sip of his own and said, “So, might one inquire as to why you’re here?”
“My daughter is to be married,” Curzon grunted. “A fellow named Mosley.”
“Congratulations.” St. Cyprian knew the man in question by reputation. Oswald Mosley was the ambitious scion of Staffordshire landowners, and the youngest member to take a seat in the House of Commons. He was also, in the words of the honourable Freddie Threepwood, an absolutely perfect perisher. Given that Freddie had been kicked out of Eton and Oxford for various offenses, St. Cyprian thought he knew whereof he spoke, when he spoke of perishers, perfect or otherwise.
“He’s a bounder and a cad. He’s after her inheritance,” Curzon said, unknowingly echoing the honourable Freddie’s sentiments.
“My sympathies,” St. Cyprian said smoothly.
Curzon shook his head dismissively. “What do you know about the Strix Society, St. Cyprian?” he asked.
St. Cyprian decided to take the question seriously this time. “They’re fairly new, as these sorts of people go. They take their name from their president, Miss Helen Strix, late of Paris, before that Vienna, and before that Venice. She’s not British, though she seems to have had little difficulty in ensconcing herself in the welcoming swirl of London’s bright young things. Her society is made up of the mad, the bad, the peculiar and the crankish by all accounts. No one seems to know what they stand for, or for what purpose they gather, beyond wild parties and the like.”
“Mosley has apparently been seen in their company,” Curzon said. He hesitated, and then added, “They are, according to some, considering him for membership.”
“You don’t seem terribly worried, if you don’t mind me saying so,” St. Cyprian said, as he took a sip of tea.
“I do mind,” Curzon said. He set his cup down. “But you are not wrong. He is hardly suitable, but Cimmie…Lady Cynthia…is besotted with the ambitious little rascal nonetheless. And if he has fallen in with...the wrong sort, I wish to know about it.”
“Why not simply hire a detective, then? Plenty of that lot about, I’m given to understand. You can find them in practically every A. B. C. teashop and Piccadilly flat. I have that Blake fellow’s number, if you’d like.”
Curzon made a face. “That sort won’t do, and you know it.” His eyes were hard. “I saw...things, in my time in India and Persia. I won’t pretend to understand them, but I’m not the sort of man to deny what’s right in front of me. I got a sense for that sort of thing, and I feel it now.” He hesitated. Then, “You’ve heard the stories, I trust?”
“About the society or your son-in-law to be?” St. Cyprian asked.
Curzon frowned. “About the society, dash it!” He jerked forward, and began to cough.
His body shook, as St. Cyprian watched silently. Curzon didn’t look well, he thought. Drained, weak, and frailer than he ought, even for a man of his years and career. Curious, he made a stealthy gesture with the fingers of his free hand to ‘twang the cords invisible’ as his predecessor had called it. For a brief moment, he could see the psychical miasma which clung to his guest. He had seen something similar once before, during a particularly bad case involving a child’s doll house and the peculiar thing in its attic, and he shivered slightly.
“Yes,” St. Cyprian said. He set his cup aside. “Hard not to, given their propensity for the night life. They’re a wild lot; practically bacchanalian. There’s some talk of blood-red rooms and ancient rites and all that sort of tosh, but that’s not so out of bounds for such queer little clubs.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I know that they’re not open to applications. One must be invited to join, and sponsored. They’re looking for a specific sort, these Strix Society chappies, though no one knows just what that sort might be.” His lips quirked into not-quite a smile. “If your son-in-law to be has been invited, that doesn’t speak well for his character, I dare say.”
Curzon glowered at him for a moment, and then looked away. St. Cyprian felt a flush of pity. Curzon was a harsh man, in some ways. He was prone to defensiveness and blunt speeches, but that didn’t make him a bad man. He loved his daughter that much was obvious. He pulled a silver cigarette case out of his coat pocket, opened it, took one and proffered the case to Curzon. The latter took one and St. Cyprian scraped a match against the rough edge of the table to light it for him. Then he did the same for his own.
