Wrath of N'kai

by Josh Reynolds

He glanced at her as she sat down. “You are late.”

  “Only fashionably. Have you ordered a drink?”

  “For me.”

  Alessandra frowned. “Hardly chivalrous.”

  “I discarded chivalry, among other useless affectations, a long time ago. Besides, I understand you are a woman of particular tastes. I thought it safest to leave the decision to you.” His smile was sharp and unsettling. The sight of perfect teeth always set her on edge. It spoke of money and vanity – but also pragmatism. He had not fixed the scars that pitted his cheeks or the badly healed break in his nose. Just his teeth. Alessandra adjusted her initial evaluation of the man, factoring these new observations in.

  She signaled a waitress and gave her order. When she turned back to Zamacona, his attentions were on the stage once more. “I found your letters promising,” she said. “But I’m not convinced.”

  He did not look at her. “And yet here you are.”

  “I’m certain there are locals who could do the job just as well, and for half the price.”

  “But not with your degree of… expertise.” He took a sip of his drink. “It is not your skill as a thief that attracted my employers. Rather, it is your choice of target – such as the private library of the Comte d’Erlette, a few months ago.”

  Alessandra’s drink arrived and she thanked the waitress without looking away from Zamacona. “You know about that?”

  “We also know about the theft of a particular grotesquery from the cathedral of Vyones two years ago. And the pilfering of a certain copper ring, crafted in the shape of a serpent, from a house in Mayfair a month after that.”

  “That was a tricky one,” Alessandra said, taking a cautious sip. Then a slightly longer one. “Took me two weeks to prepare. I had to get a job as a chambermaid.”

  Zamacona ignored her commentary. “We also know that a number of individuals, including the aforementioned Comte d’Erlette, have made it known that there is a reward for your apprehension, by means fair or foul.”

  She tensed. “Yes. I had heard rumors to that effect.”

  “More than rumors.” Zamacona gave her a lazy smile. “As you can see, we know a great many things, countess. We even know about that night in the Rue d’Auseil, when your parents died…”

  Beneath the table, Alessandra opened her clutch. “Did you bring me all this way to threaten me, Mr Zamacona? If so, I must say you are doing a poor job.” Her fingers found the shape of her Webley, but she didn’t retrieve it. Not yet. “I would expect any halfway competent underling in your line to be capable of compiling a semi-decent curriculum vitae.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed his features. “I could tell you about it, if you like. We could call it part of your payment.”

  “No, the money will be more than satisfactory, thank you.”

  “You are a singularly incurious woman.”

  “In my experience, people who hire thieves prefer them to be incurious. Now, get to the point. You want me to steal something. What, where, when and who from.”

  Zamacona was silent for a few moments. Then he sighed and leaned forward. “The exhibition,” he said. “You read the news clipping we sent?”

  “I skimmed it.”

  “These men… found something. It does not belong to them.”

  “There’s a saying Americans are fond of, about possession being the law or some such.” She took a sip of her drink, paused and took another sip. It had been difficult to acquire proper alcohol since coming to the United States. This was the real thing, and she intended to savor it.

  Zamacona gestured sharply. “Our claim supersedes theirs in all the ways that matter.”

  “Then why not try to acquire it through legal means?” she asked, genuinely curious.

  “How do you know we have not?”

  “If so, obviously you failed.” She saw a flash of something in his eyes as she said it. Anger – real anger. It was clearly a sore spot for him. She filed the thought away for future reference. “Else why turn to me?”

  “I am beginning to wonder if we made a mistake in that regard.”

  She smiled. “No. You didn’t. You want me to steal a mummy, then.” She paused. “Or perhaps just the mask? It looks valuable.”

  “No,” he said, harshly, slamming a palm onto the table. “Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to remove the mask. It is sacred. Your hands are not fit for such a task.” His eyes blazed with righteous fervor as he said it, and she knew he meant every word. Heads turned towards them, and then hastily away as they caught sight of Zamacona’s face. Alessandra took another swallow of her drink, allowing him to compose himself.

  When he’d recovered, she said, “Noted.” She took a piece of hotel stationery from her clutch. “This is where I’m staying. Penthouse suite. You are paying for that, by the way.”

  Zamacona took the paper but didn’t look at it. “We are aware of your choice of lodgings. When will you do it?”

  “The opening gala for the exhibition is tomorrow, at the Miskatonic Museum. You will acquire tickets for me, so that I might take stock of what awaits me, and plan accordingly.”

  “When?” he repeated.

  “A day, maybe two at the most.” She finished her drink and set it down. “I am a thief, but not a stupid one. I do not throw myself into situations without first assessing them.”

  For a moment, Zamacona looked as if he wished to argue. Then he stood. “I must confer with my employers. You will wait here.” He stalked over to the bar and spoke to the bartender. The latter brought out a telephone in a glass case.

  “He must be a big shot, if they’re bringing that out.”

  At the words, Alessandra blinked in surprise and looked down. Pepper grinned up at her, from where she crouched on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Alessandra hissed, equal parts startled and annoyed. She hadn’t even noticed the younger woman approach.

  “You told me to buy some spaghetti.”

  Alessandra stared at her. Pepper’s grin faded. “Fine. Watching out for you. This is a rough joint.” She peered over the table, eyes narrowed. “Lots of trouble in here tonight.”

  Alessandra took in the neat tables and well-heeled patrons. “Yes. Positively barbaric.”

  “You don’t know who runs this place.”

  “I do, actually. A family called the O’Bannions.”

  Pepper goggled at her. “You know the O’Bannions?”

  “Not intimately.” She’d never had the bad luck to cross paths officially with the gang. But she made it a point to learn what she could about the local criminal element – it often saved time later. The O’Bannions were the largest of several bootlegging outfits with an interest in Arkham, and she intended to steer clear of them if at all possible. “Regardless, while I thank you for your concern, I hired you to drive me – not be my bodyguard.”

  “Look, you don’t know Arkham, countess,” Pepper said. She ducked down as a waitress glided past, heading for the bar. “Say, get me a drink, would you? All this crawling has made me thirsty.”

  Alessandra frowned. “Get your own. I’m paying you enough.”

  “I’m not even supposed to be in here. Not after last time.”

  Alessandra decided to let the comment pass. “How did you even get in here?”

  “I know a guy. He let me in the back.”

  Alessandra waited for her to elaborate. Pepper didn’t seem interested in doing so, however. Alessandra sighed. “I assure you, I am capable of taking care of myself. So, thank you for your concern, but – go.”

  “But–”

  “He is coming back. Go. Now.”

  Pepper muttered an obscenity and scrambled beneath a nearby table, vanishing under the tablecloth. Alessandra shook her head and looked up as Zamacona sat. “Well?”

  “Your terms are agreeable. The ticket will be arranged and waiting for you by tomorrow morning.”

  “Excellent. And my fee?”

  “As you requested, half is wait
ing for you at your hotel. The other half will be wired to your account when the task is completed to our satisfaction.”

  “Prompt as well. You might just be my new favorite client.”

  “If all goes well, we will never see one another again.” Zamacona pushed himself to his feet. “We will contact you when the task is done.”

  “I am sure you will. Are you not staying for the rest of the show?”

  “No.” Zamacona smiled. “The music is not to my taste. But stay. I took the liberty of opening a tab.” He sketched a bow and departed. Alessandra watched him go. He moved smoothly – like a dancer, or a swordsman. She’d had a fencing tutor as a girl who’d moved like that. Quick and graceful. Zamacona was a dangerous man, no two ways about it. The sooner this affair was concluded to everyone’s satisfaction, the better.

  But in the meantime, the music was good and the drinks were paid for. She waved to a passing waitress. “Another drink. And put it on Mr Zamacona’s tab, please.”

  “Make it two,” Pepper said, as she occupied Zamacona’s seat. She peered in the direction he’d gone. “Brrr. That guy gives me the willies.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Only that he left his tab open. Think they serve food down here?”

  Alessandra sat back and laughed.

  “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  Chapter Five

  Tickets

  Milo was still on duty when Alessandra approached the front desk the next morning. “Do you not have a home to go to, Milo?” she asked. “Or were you on duty all evening?”

  He shook his head ruefully. “Both, actually. I got a cot in the back, and two squares a day, plus tips. Lot of folks got less, these days.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Something I can help you with, miss?”

  “I believe there is a set of tickets waiting for me.”

  Milo nodded. “Oh yeah. Guy left those earlier this morning. I would have called up to your room, but you said you didn’t want to be disturbed.” He grinned. “Late night at the Clover Club, huh?”

  “A touch too familiar, Milo. But yes. It was quite an evening.” She smiled, remembering the night before. Pepper had proved a most entertaining companion. The young woman was no stranger to alcohol, though her attempts to sing had been met with resistance by both the audience and the staff. They had been summarily ejected from the club sometime around one in the morning and returned to the hotel somewhat worse for drink.

  Alessandra felt no ill-effects from her carousing. She often indulged on the evening before a job. It was a ritual, of sorts. A celebration of triumphs to come.

  Milo retrieved the tickets and handed them over with a rueful grin. “Boy, that’s going to be something. Wish I was going.”

  “Interested in mummies, Milo?” She studied the tickets, wondering how Zamacona had procured them so quickly. It was obvious that he – or more likely the people he worked for – had significant resources.

  “When they’re American, sure,” he said. “That’s got to be better than some old Egyptian bones, right?” He paused. “You had a visitor last night, while you were out.”

  “Oh? Did they leave a name, by chance?”

  “A Mr Whitlock.”

  Her smile faded. “And what did he want?”

  “Access to your room, mostly. Said he had something of yours he wanted to drop off.” Milo caught her look and gestured quickly. “Don’t worry, we got a strict policy against that sort of thing.”

  “Did he leave whatever it was here?” She wondered who Whitlock was really working for. If he was after the price on her head, he was going about it in an altogether strange way. She would need to warn Pepper as well, just in case.

  “Nope.” Milo frowned. “He wasn’t carrying anything that I saw.”

  “Of course not.” She held up the tickets. “What about these – who dropped them off? A tall man? Dark, well-dressed?”

  Milo shook his head. “Not even close. Short guy. Black raincoat. Slouch hat.” He paused. “I didn’t… get a good look at him. Something told me I didn’t want to either.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “You live in Arkham long enough you start to get a feeling about that sort of thing. Like maybe it’s better you don’t see something. You know how it is.” He shrugged again, apologetically this time. Alessandra understood. Pepper had said much the same. Every town, every city, had its own unspoken rules, from Paris to the nameless hamlets of the Black Forest.

  She slid a few coins across the desk. “Thank you, Milo. Keep an eye out for Mr Whitlock, would you? If he shows up again, do let me know.”

  Milo made the money vanish. “Sure thing, countess. You can count on me.”

  When she got back to her room, Pepper lay where Alessandra had left her. The young woman sprawled across the foot of the bed, fully clothed and snoring like a diesel motor. Alessandra nudged her but received no response. “Wake up,” she said, patting the young woman’s cheek.

  Pepper made an inarticulate sound and attempted to roll over. Alessandra sighed, caught the young woman’s ankle, and dragged her off the bed. Pepper yelped as she connected with the floor. “What? What is it?” she asked, looking around wildly.

  “Go home. Take a bath.”

  Pepper sniffed her shirt. “I smell fine,” she protested. “Wouldn’t be the first late night I’ve had, you know. Besides, nobody cares if their cabbie looks like hell.”

  “I am sure. Very well. Make yourself useful and go buy me a newspaper.”

  “Which one?”

  “All of them.”

  “Can I stop for breakfast first?”

  Alessandra raised an eyebrow. “Considering how much spaghetti you ate last night I am surprised you can even think of food at the moment.”

  “I’m a growing girl,” Pepper said with a grin.

  Alessandra snorted and waved her towards the door. “Go. And be quick. The exhibition is in a few hours. I want to get there early, if possible.” When preparing to commit a crime, it was always best to establish potential escape routes.

  “Scope out the joint, you mean?”

  “Something like that, yes. Go. I must shower.”

  As Alessandra showered, she made a mental list of things she might need. She knew that a visit to the local records office might be in order later. Blueprints were a vital resource in her line, and she took advantage of the hard work of others whenever possible.

  Today was just about information-gathering, about calculating the difficulties involved in making off with an intact mummy. It was a first, she had to admit. Mostly, the objects she stole tended to be small or easily portable. Books, statuettes, amulets, the sort of bric-a-brac that could easily be stuffed into a handy pocket or beneath her blouse, into a specially sewn pouch.

  This would be more difficult. Not impossible, though. More to the point, it was exciting. A challenge. Something she hadn’t had in a long time. Not since Vyones. Then, stealing a gargoyle had been much easier than she’d thought. Some falsified paperwork, a few hired workmen and a pleasant brandy with the bishop was all it had taken to get the thing onto the back of a hired truck and out of the city.

  She doubted that was going to work this time. She needed an in – a gap in security to slip through. It didn’t have to be large. Hopefully she’d be able to identify it at the exhibition this afternoon. When she got out of the shower, she pulled on a dressing gown and sat on the bed, still mulling over her options.

  She looked down at the floor where several newspapers from the previous day were scattered, including editions of the Arkham Advertiser and the Arkham Gazette. Each had a story on the exhibition – some were only a few paragraphs, but the two local rags had double page spreads. She’d spent the morning taking notes on the names of the known attendees; besides the usual local aristocracy, there were plenty of out-of-towners.

  She recognized some of the names as former clients – or targets. Men and women who haunted the edges of the demimonde. They collected scrap
s of esotericism: rare books and the like. A find like this would be irresistible to them. Both for what it meant, and what they might be able to get out of it. That was a possible angle.

  Alessandra paused, considering the pistol on her bed. She didn’t think she’d need it. As she made to put it away, however, she heard a creak from the hallway. The hotel was full of noises, and she didn’t think anything of it at first. When it came again, however, she stopped and listened. Straining against the background noise of the day.

  Someone was outside her door. Quietly, she rounded the bed and crept towards it, the Webley in hand. She could hear them clearly now – their breathing was labored. Raspy. It was suddenly stifled as she reached the door. As if they’d heard her coming.

  She paused, hand on the knob, thumb on the Webley’s hammer. Waiting. Her patience was rewarded by a creak. And then another. As if whoever it was, was moving off down the hall. She cracked the door but saw nothing. No one. But there was a curious smell on the air – one that was at once familiar and unsettling.

  Whitlock again, maybe. Or perhaps someone just confused about their room. She took a deep breath and looked at her hands. They were trembling. She felt as if she’d narrowly avoided some unforeseen disaster.

  Someone pounded on the door. She whipped it open without thinking, and Pepper jumped back, eyes wide, spilling newspapers onto the floor. “Jesus!”

  Alessandra lowered the Webley. “My apologies. You startled me.”

  “Startled you?” Pepper gasped, clutching her chest. “Why do you have a gun?” She stooped to pick up the fallen papers.

  “Everyone in America has a gun. I am trying to fit in. Come in.” Alessandra stepped back and Pepper bustled in, throwing her a wary glance. “Did you see anyone out there when you came up?”

  “No. Why?”

  “No reason.” Alessandra uncocked the Webley and set it aside. “You brought the papers. Good. See if they say anything about the exhibition.” As she spoke, Alessandra shed her dressing gown. Pepper turned away with a strangled yelp, trying desperately to look anywhere else as Alessandra got dressed.

  “You – ah – you got a lot of scars, huh?” the cabbie said, after a moment.