Wrath of N'kai

by Josh Reynolds

  Welcome to Arkham Horror

  It is the height of the Roaring Twenties – a fresh enthusiasm for the arts, science, and exploration of the past have opened doors to a wider world, and beyond…

  And yet, a dark shadow grows over the town of Arkham. Alien entities known as Ancient Ones lurk in the emptiness beyond space and time, writhing at the thresholds between worlds.

  Occult rituals must be stopped and alien creatures destroyed before the Ancient Ones make our world their ruined dominion.

  Only a handful of brave souls with inquisitive minds and the will to act stand against the horrors threatening to tear this world apart.

  Will they prevail?

  To Sylvie, for the support, and to Elodie, for the distraction.

  Prologue

  The Shadow

  It slept.

  And in sleeping, it dreamed. These dreams were not true dreams, however, but rather flashes of memory. Moments in time, crystallized and left suspended in the blackness of its consciousness. As it slept, it analyzed every facet of these fossilized moments.

  It saw again the offered sacrifice, and felt the old hunger. Heard the chanting of the faithful – a sound it had not heard in years.

  It was the last in this place. It knew this, though it did not know how. It understood little about the world or itself. It had not been created to understand, but to serve. To watch and stand sentry through the long eons of geological waxing and waning.

  The one who had created it had slumbered in the deepest of deeps; lightless places, where the welcoming dark stretched forever. It had been born in the dark, and found comfort in it. There was too much light above.

  But the creator was gone now, as were the others like it. It did not know where, for it had not been allowed to follow. It had been left to patrol the long emptiness, and watch the dark for intruders. It did not know why, only that it must. So, it had prowled the dark, ensuring that the deeps remained sacrosanct. Inviolate.

  Then had come the chants. The prayers. Tiny sounds, filtering down from great heights. It had been drawn upwards, ever upwards, through abyssal canyons and red-lit caverns. Through the tumbled cities of those who’d once inhabited the depths and made obeisance to the creator, until something had put them to flight.

  It did not perceive their absence, save as a vague hollow in its awareness. They had been there, and now they were not. Soon, it might well have forgotten that they had ever been at all. But then it had heard the chanting. The old words, calling it up out of the comforting dark, into the hateful light. It remembered again, and wondered.

  Curiosity had compelled it more than any respect for the old rites. It had no understanding of the rituals of the ones above. They did not bind it, for it could not be bound, save by the will of the creator – or those of equal stature. Or so it had thought at the time. But it remembered the ancient days when those chants had preceded sacrifice.

  So it climbed up and up, until it reached the tumbled cities, and that which was built above. Another city, larger than those below, and built by another race. It did not concern itself with the differences between such folk. Those of the lower deeps had been cold-blooded and wise. These were warm-blooded and so noisy.

  It recalled an earlier time when these frail warmbloods had descended into the lowest depths. How they had screeched at the sight of it writhing in pain, pierced through by the horrid light they had carried with them. It had harried them up and up, as far as it dared go, chasing them back to their realm. Then it had returned to the safety of the dark, there to lick its wounds.

  They had hurt it, though they had not realized it. And it had hurt them in return. But now, they were calling to it, as they had once done in time out of mind. Up it crawled, stretching itself higher and thinner, trembling at the dim radiance that infested these heights. But eager… oh so eager. The higher it climbed, the more eager it became.

  It had been so long since it had tasted a sacrifice. Not since the days of the creator. It recalled now when the creator had departed. Not long after the warmbloods had descended into the dark with their stinging lights. They had come to find the creator, whom they worshiped, and in finding him, and his servants, had grown afraid.

  It did not understand fear, save in the most basic fashion. It feared light, because light caused pain. But the creator did not cause pain. So why then had they been afraid? Such questions slipped its mind almost as suddenly as they’d arrived. It had no use for the answers, at any rate.

  When it reached the city of the upper depths, it heard again the warmbloods’ song of fear. Light sliced the dark, as shrill sounds split the silence. It avoided both, climbing higher still. And there, perilously close to the sky of stone, it found them, clad in the raiment of those who worshiped the creator. The servants of mighty Tsathoggua, the Sleeper of N’kai.

  The sacrifice knelt at the edge of a cliff, clad in iron, marked with the sacred sigils. The warmblood struggled and made the fear-noises as it approached, but it was overcome by hunger and ignored this warning. Never before had the sacrifices shown fear. That this one did should have sent it fleeing back to the safety of the depths.

  But it was hungry. Very hungry. Thus, it persisted. It slipped about the sacrifice, and inundated it with gentle grace, as was tradition. It filled the dark places of the struggling warmblood, slipping into its flesh and tenderly devouring the soft things within. So distracted was it by its feast that it did not notice as the adherents erected a cage of light about it. When it realized its peril, it had no place to hide save in the meat-husk of the sacrifice – even as they had intended. It burrowed in, retreating as the bars of light closed about it.

  The adherents – the false adherents – spoke words it did not know, but understood nonetheless. Words of binding. Mnemonic chains to seal it away in the shriveled husk of the traitor-sacrifice. It made itself smaller and smaller, folding itself again and again, trying to escape the reverberations of those words and the light that grew ever closer. But it could not make itself small enough.

  In the end, it huddled in the hollow belly of the husk, compacted to the size of a seed. The husk shook as it was removed from the place of sacrifice and taken elsewhere. Someplace dark, but stifling. Someplace forgotten.

  It remembered all of this, reliving it over and over again in its long isolation. Trapped, it could do nothing else. Every time, it thought things might turn out differently. But they never did. It kept trying and failing. Trying and failing.

  Eventually, it went insane. The seed sprouted, stretching, filling, trying to burst the bonds of withered meat that held it. But the chains refused to break. It could taste the marks the betrayers had carved into the husk. They stung worse than light. Sigils of binding older than the world itself, and too strong for a mere servitor to break.

  Finally, exhausted, it slept.

  It slumbered until something woke it. The rattle of shifting rock. Muffled voices – voices unlike those of its captors, its betrayers.

  Then, it was free and rising into the hateful light. It squirmed down deep into the hidden places of its prison, where the light could not reach.

  And it waited.

  Chapter One

  Arkham

  Rain streaked the glass. Alessandra Zorzi inhaled softly, tasting a tickle in the back of her throat from the cigarette. Her tablemate droned on, something about insurance. His voice, accompanied by the rhythmic clatter of the train, was dangerously soothing.

  She exhaled a plume of smoke. “Fascinating,” she murmured. She stubbed the cigarette out on her plate, smearing ashes through the remains of a subpar hollandaise. “But if you will excuse me, my stop is coming up.”

  He stopped mid-sentence, a look of surprise – and not a little consternation – on his rou
nd face. He wasn’t bad looking, if a touch too American for her tastes, with close-cropped hair the color of ripe wheat and eyes like faded dollar bills. His suit was off the peg, but clean and brushed. He set his coffee down and gave a wan smile. “Of course. Sorry about talking your ear off.”

  Alessandra tugged on an earlobe. “Never fear. Still firmly attached, Mr…?”

  “Whitlock. Abner Whitlock.”

  “Of course.” She turned to leave the dining car and he coughed.

  “Didn’t catch your name,” he said, hopefully.

  She pretended not to hear him. A touch brusque, perhaps, but Abner Whitlock wasn’t the sort of man to waste an alias on. In her experience, that sort was few and far between. He didn’t call out after her, thankfully. Or try to stop her. Sometimes men couldn’t take no for an answer. That often led to awkwardness. One reason among many she kept a loaded British Bulldog in her clutch.

  The rain thudded against the roof of the carriage as she made her way to the sleeper car. It had been raining since New York. An inauspicious start, if one believed in omens. Alessandra didn’t, and anyway, she liked the rain. It reminded her of home. Of the stinging bite of the Adriatic and the soft sway of a gondola as it navigated the narrow canals.

  Of course, with those memories came the realization that she hadn’t been home in years. She had been away from La Serenissima for longer than she had ever lived there, but it was lodged in her mind. The canals and bridges were an inviolate part of her mental map. Wherever she went, whatever she did, it was always there.

  She was still thinking of Venice when she entered her compartment. It was small, but more importantly, it was private. Thus, when she saw the face – pale and wild, staring – she reacted on instinct. She had the pistol cocked a moment before the discarded clutch hit the floor. It took only a moment for her to realize it was her reflection in the compartment window, distorted by the lights in the passage.

  She stepped inside, kicking the clutch out of the way, and shut the door. Leaning against it, she fought down the sudden knot of adrenaline. If a porter had happened along, or worse, one of her fellow passengers, she would have had some explaining to do. “Lucky little lioness,” she murmured. Her grandfather’s favorite term of endearment. It had stuck with her when most of his lessons had flown right out of her head.

  She uncocked the pistol and tossed it on the bed. Fingers trembling, she retrieved her clutch and the pack of cigarettes. The pack was decorated with scenes of exotic delight, but something about the way the dancers leered at one another repulsed her in a vague and inexplicable fashion. She extricated one and stuffed it between her lips, not caring that she bent it slightly. She lit it and opened the window, suddenly needing the feel of the wind on her face. It wasn’t a sea breeze, but it would do.

  The damp air snatched the smoke from the cigarette’s tip, and she blinked away errant raindrops. The clouds were like a spill of ink, and the sun was in hiding. She smoked her cigarette down to the nub and flicked it away into the rain. She closed her eyes, holding the last drag in her lungs for a moment before releasing it slowly.

  A knock at the door. She’d already reclaimed her pistol and taken aim when she realized it was probably just the attendant coming to tell her Arkham was the next station. She lowered the weapon. “Yes?”

  A muffled reply. She hesitated. “Thank you,” she said, erring on the side of caution. She heard the creak of someone moving down the corridor and relaxed slightly. She shoved her pistol back into her clutch, wanting it out of sight and out of mind.

  Marrakesh had left her jittery. She’d come close to being caught – closer than she liked. There was always a certain element of risk in her line of work, but having the French authorities pounding on the door to her hotel room at three in the morning was cutting it close, even for her. She supposed the esteemed Comte d’Erlette was still upset about the loss of his books.

  As they’d busted down the door, she’d gone out the window. It wasn’t the first time she’d done so, nor was it likely the last. The life of a gentlewoman thief was not for the faint of heart or the weak of limb. She had learned early that circumstances were to be endured, not controlled. One could not plan for everything, though one could easily go mad trying.

  She began the laborious process of packing. Her suitcases were mostly for show. There was nothing in them she would be broken-hearted about losing. Indeed, she’d abandoned more than one wardrobe in her career. Clothes were just things, and things could be replaced. Often with nicer things, depending on the state of one’s bank account.

  Right now, hers was in worse shape than she liked to admit in mixed company. It was an expensive sort of life. That was why she’d accepted her latest client’s offer. The theft of a few precious artifacts from a museum exhibition was easy money as far as she was concerned. All it cost was time, and she had plenty of that at the moment.

  There were worse ways to live. She could have been married, after all. While she quite enjoyed a good party, she could think of no darker hell than the same face staring at her across the table every morning.

  Her sisters had chosen marriage. They’d always been more upstanding sorts, with a keen appreciation for the largesse stability brought. On days like today, she couldn’t say that they’d been wrong. When it came time to retire, she might have to find her own doddering old Milanese dinosaur to woo, wed, bed and bury. Possibly not in that order.

  Of course, if the honorable comte ever caught up with her, she might not live that long. French aristocrats had distressingly long memories, and d’Erlette had deep pockets to go with them. That was why she’d decided to up stakes for the States for a year or three. Long enough for her picture to stop circulating through the cafes and souks of her usual haunts. Besides which, America was supposed to be a Land of Opportunity. And if there was one thing Alessandra Zorzi liked, it was opportunity.

  The train was starting to slow. She left her luggage for the porters and shrugged into her coat and hat. She took a moment to study herself in the en suite’s mirror. Tall and dark, with sharp features, wearing a cloche hat, short tubular dress, earrings hanging like fuchsias. Her stole was last year’s fur, but she doubted anyone in Arkham, Massachusetts, would be able to tell. She retrieved her clutch and gave it a fond pat.

  Another knock at the door. This time, she didn’t give in to the impulse to go for her pistol. “Coming,” she said, plastering a smile on her face. She stepped past the attendant with a nod, pressing a discreet gratuity into his hands. He beamed at her and tipped his cap. She wasn’t so flush with funds that she could afford generosity, but she considered tips to porters, pages and housemaids a necessary business expense – it often kept them from remembering her clearly when the police came around asking awkward questions.

  Outside the compartment windows, the station was visible. Bathed in a watery, orange glow, it was singularly unprepossessing – a crumbling castle from another time and place, looming over the dark, serpentine length of the Miskatonic. Further adding to this impression were the two great towers of stone standing sentry over the parallel tracks. Alessandra could imagine cauldrons of boiling oil being tipped over the parapets onto the invading barbarian hordes from Boston, Providence and Kingsport.

  The train gave a shiver and slid to a halt. She fell into line with the other passengers and paused at the door only to adjust her stole. It was warm for autumn, despite the rain. She joined the rest of the passengers awaiting their luggage. Zamacona wouldn’t have sent anyone to greet her. From what little she knew of her new client, he was as much a stranger here as she was.

  Not that she knew much about him at all. She didn’t even know how he’d managed to contact her – none of her usual connections had admitted to passing her name along. In her line, word of mouth was better than a business card. But most former clients were smart enough to ask permission before allowing a newcomer into their ranks.

  The name was unusual – Asturian, she thought. Or maybe Galician. Regardless,
she doubted it was his real one. Her clients almost always employed aliases, unless they were particularly foolish – or simply didn’t care. Frankly, so long as his money was good, he could call himself whatever he liked.

  Railroad bulls prowled the platform, trying hard not to look like undercover security men. She tensed, watching the nearest of them out of the corner of her eye. She’d been forced to flee through more than one train station in her time. If they were here for her, she intended to give them a run for their money. But none of them so much as glanced her way.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  She turned. Abner Whitlock smiled genially at her. He had his raincoat over one arm, and his hat in hand. A heavy carpetbag rested beside his foot. “I meant to ask earlier… you wouldn’t happen to be in town for the special exhibition, would you?”

  “And why would you think that?” she asked, suddenly alert.

  “No reason. It’s why I’m here. My company is underwriting it.” He grinned. “It sounds interesting, if nothing else. Imagine: an American mummy! Who’d have ever thought of such a thing?” He paused. “I’m sorry again, by the way.”

  “For what?”

  “Boring you to tears over breakfast. It was rude of me to monopolize the conversation that way. I didn’t even ask your name.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  He looked at her expectantly, his smile open and inviting. Whitlock, she suspected, was a man used to getting what he wanted. Though just what it was he wanted, she couldn’t say. There was some threat there, but it wasn’t the obvious one. Looking at him standing there, smiling, she had a brief impulse to stick her pistol into his belly and pull the trigger until she heard a click. Instead, she smiled prettily and turned away.

  She heard him grunt under his breath. Not an obscenity, not even a word – more like a dog’s chuff of surprise. As if she’d done something utterly unexpected. When she glanced back, he was gone, vanished into the crowd of departing passengers. She felt a flicker of relief. Men like Abner Whitlock were nothing but trouble.