“Ghouls,” Whitlock said, his voice a harsh rasp. Alessandra glanced at him. He wasn’t unconscious after all. But he sounded as if he wished he was.
“No, Mr Whitlock – keep up. We are connoisseurs. We pay good money for our meals. Case in point – Ferdinand, the bell please.”
Ashley reached over and lifted a delicate silver bell from a tray set on an occasional table made from what appeared to be a crouching, mummified figure, its head replaced by a flat wooden tray. He rang it. A moment later, the far doors at the opposite end of the room opened. A group of servants, dressed in mock-Regency garb, with wigs and coats, entered the room, bearing a large platter between them.
From the other side of the room came the sound of voices. A group of men and women, perhaps a dozen in all, entered. Like Orne, Ferdinand and the guards, they wore oxblood robes, their faces hidden behind masks of crudely stitched leather. Orne greeted them with a wide smile. “Friends, welcome. The meal is set to begin.”
“What about everyone else?” Whitlock said. “There were at least thirty people at the party upstairs. They on the menu, is that it?”
“No. They are, by now, on the wrong side of my wine cellar. Those of my security staff upstairs will ensure that they come to no harm – and that no one notices our absence. No, tonight’s meal is one I have been waiting on for a long time…”
The platter was set on the table, revealing the withered form of the mummy, its contorted limbs pressed tight to its sunken chest, its grisly mask staring directly at Alessandra. She looked away, her stomach churning. “Is that what all this has been about? You’re going to eat the damn thing?”
“Of course.” Orne indicated the mummy. “We do not feast on the bodies of the poor and forgotten. We eat kings and queens. Pharaohs and priests.” He paused. “We eat sorcerers. To eat – to consume – is to take into oneself the power of the consumed.”
“And is that who he is?” Alessandra asked. “A sorcerer?”
Orne hesitated. “Perhaps. Someone important, at least, to be buried in such a way, wearing a mask of such peculiar quality. A high priest, maybe. Or a nobleman.”
“You sent Ashley to find him, didn’t you?”
Orne looked at Ashley. “I didn’t believe him at first, I admit. The idea of a hidden civilization stretching beneath the Midwest was… inconceivable. But Ferdinand is quite convincing. He showed me certain… artifacts he liberated from an old acquaintance…”
“Carl Sanford,” Alessandra said, flatly.
Ashley grunted. “Sanford is a fool. When I explained, he told me I was mistaken. But I knew better… and now, I will be privy to secrets beyond even his crooked wisdom.”
“By… eating it.”
“Oh yes,” Orne said, as his guests began to take their seats. “Would you believe that much of my fortune comes from buried treasure? I partook of the flesh of several notorious smugglers and pirates, and learned the secrets they took to their graves.” He tapped the side of his head. “All that they knew is now mine. History is an open book to me. To us.” He looked around. “We have all of us profited from the wisdom of the dead.”
“You’re mad,” Whitlock said harshly.
“Not mad. Educated. I learned at the feet of a master.” Orne smiled absently. “He was a brute, though a learned one. Self-taught, mostly. That copy of Regnum Congo out there was his. When it was turned over to the university library, I went to some lengths to… acquire it, for my own collection. He couldn’t read it, of course, it being in Latin. But he did so like the pictures.” He sighed. “A shame about the lightning. A bad end, no matter who you are. I am obliged to the old fellow, though I don’t know his name. He showed me much about the way of things, mad as he was. I took his lessons to heart – and built on them, as only an educated man could.”
“He taught you about eating people.”
“About why one might wish to do so,” Orne corrected, softly. “And I found other likeminded individuals to share those lessons.” He looked around at his followers, smiling beneficently. “Knowledge not shared is knowledge wasted, after all.”
“You’re a goddamn lunatic,” Whitlock said loudly.
“I assure you, I have no particular affinity for the moon.” Orne smiled at them. “Not that I expect my assurances to comfort you at this stage. Still, rest assured that there is historical precedent for the agonies to come.”
Alessandra snorted. “One can make that claim about almost anything.”
“Including theft,” Orne said, looking at her. He caught her chin, and forced her to meet his eyes. “You weren’t at the museum by coincidence. Someone sent you to steal our prize. Who?”
“I make it a point to never divulge the identity of my clients.”
Orne smiled. “Professional pride, is it? I understand.” He turned to the table and selected a knife, one of several sitting there. “I wonder how long that pride will sustain you, when I begin to flense the meat from your lovely bones?”
Alessandra tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong. “Going to add me to the stewpot as well?”
“Perish the thought. But one does not kill solely for sustenance. There are other pleasures to be had – ones we rarely get to indulge in.”
“Why steal it?” she said, desperately. Orne paused.
“What?”
“Why steal it?” she said again, hurriedly. “You found it, after all. What was the point of hiring Gomes, of staging a robbery?”
“He wasn’t the sole owner,” Whitlock said. Orne glanced at him, frowning.
“No, I wasn’t, more is the pity. And the less said about Freeborn and the university the better.” Orne shook his head. “I should never have involved myself with academia. It’s been nothing but trouble.”
“And of course, the original owners might come looking for it,” Alessandra said. She looked at Ashley. “Isn’t that right, professor?”
Ashley frowned. “Be quiet.”
Orne looked at him quizzically. “What is she talking about?”
Whitlock caught on. He laughed. “Someone killed the other investors. If that wasn’t you, you’re in trouble.”
Orne snorted. “It was Sanford who killed them, obviously. Don’t be fools.”
“Was it?” Alessandra said. “Because Sanford seemed to think it was someone else.” She laughed softly. “Did you tell him what happened, professor? In Binger?”
“Shut up!” Ashley snarled and struck her across the face. She leaned over and spat blood onto the floor.
“About the sabotage?” she pressed. “The deaths?”
“What about Jodorowsky?” Whitlock interjected.
Orne looked back and forth between them. “Who is Jodorowsky?”
“One of your pet thieves,” Whitlock said. “Someone tore out his throat.”
Alessandra shook her head. “Not someone. Something.” She looked at the mummy.
Orne stared at her. Then he lifted a flint knife from the tray and ran his thumb along the chipped edge. “Explain. Quickly.”
“She doesn’t know anything. She’s just stalling,” Ashley said. “It’s Sanford, it has to be. Whatever civilization might have existed in K’n-Yan once, there’s nothing there now.”
“I assure you, I am not.” She began to work at the knots that bound her to her chair, moving slowly so as not to attract attention.
Orne looked at the mummy. And then looked at the knife in his hand. He shook his head. “No. Ferdinand is right. Sanford and his fellow collectors of trinkets are not good at sharing. They think in the same way bootleggers do – they’ll not stand for any rivals on their patch.” He tapped his lips with the knife. “Or perceived rivals, at least.” He pointed the blade at her. “I never did ask you how your meeting with him went.”
“About as well as you might expect.”
Orne laughed, and several of his guests laughed with him. “Yes, my little joke. I wanted to tweak old Carl’s nose a bit. And I thought he might solve the problem of you for me.�
�� His smile faded. “But as ever, Carl surprised me.” He shook his head. “But with the secrets of K’n-Yan at our disposal, that will not happen again. The time of the Silver Twilight Lodge is coming to a well-deserved end, and Arkham will once more be in the hands of those best suited to guide it.”
Alessandra laughed harshly and continued tugging at her bonds. She had the knot in her hands. It was loose now, fraying. A bit more time, and she might be able to get loose. The question was, what to do then? Even if she got out of the room, escaping the house was unlikely. And what about Whitlock? She glanced at the insurance man. He’d been nothing but trouble, but she couldn’t very well leave him to die, tempting as it was.
Whitlock met her gaze, and something in his eyes made her pause. Her eyes flicked to his bonds, and she almost laughed. He had a razor blade between two fingers and was sawing away, however slowly, at his own bonds. Maybe she didn’t need to worry about him after all.
“Still, you provided some amusement these past few days. Running all over creation. Really whetted the appetite, you might say.” Orne turned. “By way of thanks, I thought you should witness the ceremony. It might give your final moments a bit of… meaning.”
“Or make them incredibly tedious,” Alessandra said, bluntly. Orne glared at her, and for a moment, she thought he might strike her. Instead, he smiled and shook his head.
“Either way, I suggest you enjoy the show.” He turned to the mummy on its platter, and, wielding the flint knife with consummate skill, began to cut away at the wrappings that bound its bent limbs together.
The sound of it set Alessandra’s stomach twisting. She bowed her head and sucked in a mouthful of air, trying to still the roiling in her gut. But the sensation only grew worse. Orne narrated his efforts as he worked. His guests leaned forward, watching avidly, their gazes greedy and excited behind their masks.
“You’ll notice that unlike the other mummies we’ve consumed, this one is largely unwrapped. Its method of preservation is still a mystery.” With some effort, he removed the mummy’s mask, prizing it from the skull with a laborious grunt.
There was a wet sound, like a sigh. Alessandra felt something in her throat. Her stomach convulsed and she hunched forward, causing her chair to creak. Orne and the others looked at her. “Are you… unwell, countess?”
“She is afraid.”
The words echoed through the room. Orne turned, mouth open in shock. His followers rose from their seats about the table. Zamacona stood in the doorway, with several of his followers crouching at his feet. No one had heard him enter. There was blood on his sleeves, and he held the robed bodies of two guards slumped at his feet.
“And with good reason,” Zamacona continued, letting the bodies fall. The other guards turned, reaching for their weapons. Zamacona paid them no mind. He looked at Alessandra. “When this is done, you and I will continue our conversation from the other night.” His gaze flicked to Orne. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Orne. I had intended to visit you, in time.”
“You…” Orne said. He glanced at Alessandra. “Do you know what he is?” he hissed, his eyes wide with fear.
“I have some idea,” she said.
“I am the wrath of K’n-Yan,” Zamacona said. “And not a one of you will leave this house alive.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Wrath of N’kai
Zamacona unbuttoned his coat and shucked it as he strode into the room, tossing it to one of his servants. The shuffling figures of his deformed – his dead – followers spread out around him like eager dogs. There were six of them; lanky, ugly things wrapped in rags. “You will forgive me entering unannounced. The rest of your guards are… otherwise occupied.” As if to emphasize the point, a volley of gunfire sounded from somewhere above in the house, followed by a long drawn-out scream.
“What in God’s name…?” Whitlock began.
“Which god?” Zamacona said, lazily. He unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves. “Not yours, I think.” He fixed Orne with a level gaze. “Kill them. Leave the leader to me.”
Everything became very confusing, very quickly. Zamacona’s creatures leapt towards Orne’s guests with bestial glee, howling and gibbering. Men and women screamed in fear as dead hands clawed at them. Ashley squealed and went down behind Alessandra, a black-clad corpse chewing at his throat.
Zamacona himself snatched up Orne, gripping him by the throat. He slammed him onto the table and held him sprawled there. “I followed Coronado from Mexico, and into the mountains and prairies of the southwest,” he intoned. “We sought cities of gold, but found only shadows and death. And some of us – worse than death. I repented my sins, and was given a new life by great Zhothaqquah, whom men call the Sleeper of N’kai. Repent, and I will be merciful, little flesh-eater.”
Orne shrieked and stabbed at Zamacona with the flint knife. Zamacona hissed like some great serpent and slapped the blade from his hand, sending it skidding across the floor. It landed at Alessandra’s feet.
But she saw these things only from the corner of her eye. Her attentions were fixed on the mummy. It was twitching. Like a newborn, suddenly realizing that they could move. Clawed fingers groped at the air. Her stomach clenched with every twitch. “No,” she whispered. She heard Whitlock say something, but she could hear nothing save the shadows.
The mummy sat up, with a rattling groan. Zamacona turned, Orne’s limp form dangling from his grip. “No,” he growled. “No – the mask. Get the mask back on it.” Two of his servants darted towards the mummy, but it rose to meet them, swinging its legs off the table. Shrunken talons shot out, catching both dead things by the throat.
They spasmed and went limp, necks broken, black blood staining the mummy’s forearms. It dropped them and turned towards Zamacona. A sound like water going swiftly down a drain emerged from between the frayed lips. There were no words, and yet Alessandra understood its intent perfectly. Zamacona appeared to understand as well, for his snarl became that of a frightened animal. For the first time, she saw something that might have been fear in his eyes.
He hefted Orne’s body and flung it full at the mummy. It batted the body from the air with bone-crushing force, smashing it to the floor and trampling over it in its haste to reach Zamacona. It knew him, and hated him. Alessandra could feel that hate beating in her mind. It was like an open flame, only the fire was cold – so cold.
“Stop it,” Zamacona howled. “Restrain it, fools!” At his roar, another of his servants left off mauling Orne’s guests and leapt over the table onto the mummy’s back. The mummy staggered and fumbled blindly at its attacker. Zamacona avoided the stumbling melee and made for the mask.
She didn’t understand why, but Alessandra knew she could not let him get it. The knots at last came loose in her hands and she lashed out with her foot, catching the edge of the mask where it lay on the table and kicking it out of Zamacona’s reach. She scrambled to her feet as he swung towards her, his eyes ablaze with fury. “You,” he snarled. “You did this!”
She didn’t bother to correct him. Instead, she snatched up her chair and smashed it against him as he lunged towards her. Zamacona staggered back with a guttural yelp, right into the waiting arms of the mummy. It had dispatched its attacker and was now free to concentrate on the object of its hatred. Its leathery limbs snapped shut about him, and he howled like a wolf in a trap. Bony talons tore into his flesh as he tried to free himself.
His servants, those not preoccupied by Orne’s surviving followers, came to aid him. The mummy, moving swiftly for so fragile a thing, flung Zamacona towards them and turned towards Alessandra with a peculiar reeling motion.
Their gazes met and all went still and silent. It was as if there were only the two of them – one dead, one alive – in all the world. It did not speak, for the dead cannot speak. But it made sounds nonetheless. A hissing, gurgling wet sound. Like the hiss of a bat filtered through the guttural croak of a toad.
The sounds were meant to be words. Mayb
e they were, just not in any language she could comprehend. It seemed to realize this, for its shriveled features twisted into what might have been an expression of frustration. It groped vainly towards her, almost pleadingly. Its movements were stiff and clumsy, as if it were not in control of its own limbs.
And suddenly, she knew. Alessandra knew why she had stayed in Arkham, despite all common sense. This moment – it was all down to this moment and what came after. She felt a burning in her stomach and throat as her eyes flicked down to the floor, where the flint knife lay. Quicker than thought, she snatched it up and sent it whistling into the chest of the mummy as hard as she could.
The dead thing looked down at the blade and seemed to smile. Slowly it reached for the hilt and jerked the knife free, raising it over its head.
“No, do not let it,” Zamacona shrieked, though Alessandra could not say who he was speaking to. She watched as the mummy plunged the flint knife into its own chest again with a dry crackling sound. A puff of dust erupted as the blade went into the tattered flesh. Gripping the bone handle with both hands, the dead thing slowly drew the knife down towards its pelvis, cutting itself open in a grisly parody of ritual self-destruction.
Zamacona was screaming something that sounded like the words from her dreams, but they came too late. Whatever power the bindings carved into the husk had possessed, whatever power the mask had held over it, it had been rent asunder by the blow of the knife – whether hers or its, she could not say. The mummy flung the blade aside and grasped the edges of the bloodless wound. Then, with awkward strength, it ripped itself open, exposing the hollows within.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, a sound like rushing water – furious and swift. The dark within the corpse pulsed with movement, with life, and something erupted into the dim light of the room. It was like a streak of tar, or a splash of oil or perhaps a shadow. A blotch of dark that unraveled at great speed, darting towards Zamacona with obvious intent.
Reacting swiftly, he caught one of his servants and interposed them between himself and the thing. The creature thrashed and mewled as the shadow splashed against it, and enveloped it with frenzied speed. There was a sound like the cracking of tree branches, and the body fell twitching to the floor. The shadow rose like a rearing serpent, bulbous excretions forming along its length. Alessandra stared, unable to look away. They were eyes – or maybe mouths – or perhaps some other organ entirely. A sound like the whistle of a train engine rose from the trembling liquid shadow.
Wrath of N'kai Page 26
