The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  My eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. She had the upper hand. I tried to move as quietly as possible. Creeping along the wall, one hand on my makeshift weapon, the other flailing about looking for obstacles.

  Even if I lasted long enough for my eyes to adjust, I wouldn't be able to see her. Naked, the umbra was living shadow, invisible in the dark.

  I stepped carefully, my eyes useless in the inky blackness. I expected an attack at any moment. I swung the spiky instrument before me like a stubby sword, my trajectory and awkward slashes never powerful enough to do any real damage.

  "Behind you," came a whisper in my ear, the heat of her breath hot on my neck. It spooked me. I spun, swinging the makeshift dagger around. Catching only air.

  "It was you. You killed Thad, and Fran, and now Doctor Inox."

  She chuckled, almost pityingly, and I rushed to the spot, striking out but hitting nothing. Feeling a breeze as she fled.

  So close.

  Umbra are as solid as you or me, they just appear formless. So my striking out was as dangerous to her as her razor would be to my throat. They can die just like the rest of us, if you can find them.

  I waited.

  I tried to remember more of my rules of the trail.

  You have more than one sense. Use them all. Listen.

  I kept one eye on the lit doorway leading to the alley and tried to focus on noise. If she stepped in front of the doorway I'd be able to see her, and if I could see her, I could strike. She was physical, I reminded myself, she made footsteps, she made noise.

  Nothing.

  I could hear my heart beating.

  Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

  She made noise. I focused on sounds beyond my own heartbeat.

  Then, the soft padding of bare feet on tile. Just to the left of Doctor Inox's corpse. I crouched low. Tried to blend in with the shadows as well as the umbra could. I had heard stories that umbra could see perfectly in the darkness.

  Time passed. Another soft step. Again from the direction of the corpse.

  I held my breath.

  Then it happened.

  A naked silhouette of a woman appeared in the doorway.

  I rushed. All my speed and anger burst forth, and I covered the five steps between us in moments. The instrument in my hand pierced her body even as I pushed her through the door and outside into the alley. Throwing my weight into the half-stab, half-tackle assault.

  She cried out in pain and I heard her razor clatter across the pavement.

  I pulled the sharp instrument out of her shadowy leg and growled, "For Thad," and stabbed again. My second strike was unsuccessful.

  The umbra woman kneed me in the crotch and clawed at my face simultaneously. My third strike went wild and I heard the instrument snap. I rolled to one side, pain exploding where she had struck me. She rose and stepped back.

  "You stabbed me," she gasped.

  I rolled so I was looking up at her. Black shadowy blood seemed to leak from the wound in her upper thigh. It reminded me of the idling smokestacks on the city's monorails belching soot into the air.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. I looked away from her for a split second. The police. Again. She must have called them. That's what she was doing when I walked in. Setting up another scene. Another murder to pin on me. When I looked back up, she was gone, her razor lying in the dirty alley.

  I groaned and sat up. Shaking, I stood. I couldn't remember the last time I had been in so many fights. This was getting ridiculous. My arm protested. My ribs ached. A sharp knot had formed above my crotch that made me huff for air.

  I stumbled back to the doorway and flicked on the light, blinking at the sudden illumination.

  The ghastly murder scene still remained, though now it looked all the more horrifying. The sharp pool of blood had been disturbed by the cat-and-mouse game between the umbra and myself. Bloody smears and footprints covered the floors, the walls.

  My own hand prints. Smaller ones. Most likely the umbra's. I looked down at myself. I was covered in blood, Doctor Inox's blood. This was bad. If the police arrived, I'd be locked away forever.

  I fled, heading north, toward the harbor. A few cephel heads bobbed from openings that led into the blue-lit level of the Sunk, their big eyes watching me as I hurried toward the nearest monorail station.

  Witnesses.

  Great.

  I instinctively looked at my wrist to check the time, realizing my watch was still missing. It had been taken along with my money. It probably ticked away in some plastic bag in Lovat Central doing no good to anyone, especially me.

  I wondered how much longer I'd need to wait before I called Hagen.

  Time was becoming more and more precious.

  I thought about my options. I needed a change of clothes. I could loiter around Maynard Avenue, but that seemed foolish. I didn't know the north side as well as some.

  West Lovat seemed my best option. It was a highly elevated warren on the western edge of the city.

  A monorail ran from where I was to the warren's central area. I could go there. Keep low, and be far enough away from the city as to avoid trouble. "Go with your gut," my father's voice said, and my gut said West Lovat.

  I had seen the killer. She wasn't some punk clad in a red jacket. She didn't have the bars and circle symbol on her shoulder or tattooed on her skin. She was professional.

  The door to the old monorail opened and I stumbled inside.

  My body ached.

  I wanted nothing more than the end to this nightmare.

  ELEVEN

  West Lovat sits on an island apart from the rest of the city. Its lowest level starts about where Level Two ends and Level Three begins in Lovat proper. It's far enough from the rest of the city that it keeps crime low; it also tends to be quieter. As a result the warren has become kind of a haven for the middle class and serves as a bedroom community for the city.

  West Lovat.

  My new hiding spot.

  I leaned my head against the monorail window and watched buildings flash past. I felt sick, lost, and lonely. I was terrified. I had started to shake after collapsing into my seat. Too focused on fleeing, I had skipped buying a ticket. I hoped the conductor was feeling lazy and wouldn't pass through the car.

  Covered in blood, bruised and scarred, I was likely to raise anyone's suspicions. I saw a few posters with my old face plastered on them. Killer. Wanted. Bounty. Two murders.

  Flashes of the earlier events kept exploding in my mind like firecrackers. She had taken the doctor's hands. Her hands! Sawed them off and hung them on her hip like they were some kind of sick trophy.

  Overcome, I got sick on the seat next to me, my stomach ejecting my meager breakfast.

  The murder scene. Emotions high. Fight or flight. I hadn't really processed what I was seeing then. Now it all rushed in.

  Breathe. I told myself. Breathe.

  I tried to force my hands to stop shaking but the memory of Doctor Inox's corpse—the stumps of her arms, the slash across her throat, the sheer brutality of it all—kept crashing into me like waves. It was horrifying.

  The umbra had been so casual. The cock of her hip, the lightness in her honeyed laughter. That odd turn of her head. What had she called me? Guardian? What did that mean? I have never seen her before in my life. I could count the number of umbra I knew on one hand and a crazy, murderous vixen wasn't one of them.

  Her eyes. They burned into my mind. Twin glowing coals blinking from inky blackness.

  I shuddered. I got sick a second time, dry heaving. My bruised ribs complained.

  Breathe. I repeated to myself. Just breathe.

  A homeless kresh—the monorail car's only other occupant—moaned, looked down the car at me, and then rolled over, laying back down and falling asleep.

  Bells clanged.

  A recorded voice called out the stop.

  The monorail doors opened.

  We had arrived.

  Before the kresh could stir again, I wa
s gone.

  * * *

  A twenty-four hour pharmacy helped me clean up.

  The human pharmacist was wary to talk to the bloodied and dirty man standing in his shop. I pulled out a wad of lira, paid for my necessities and asked for directions to the bathroom. He grunted, nervously handed me a key, and waved a hand toward the back, careful not to make eye contact. That was good. I'd rather he didn't recognize me.

  I stared at myself in the dingy mirror and tried to settle my hammering heart. Blood covered my face, neck, shirt, and arms. I looked like a murderer. A damned mess.

  Circumstantially, I would have arrested me.

  Exhaustion was showing as dark circles under my eyes. The lines in my forehead and cheeks were more prominent. I needed a good night's rest. Preferably not in a pitch den, especially not one interrupted by the police, a crazed thug, or that umbra with her golden, glowing, coal-hot eyes.

  Was that too much to ask? A single good night's rest?

  I shaved, peeled off my old shirt and jacket, and washed myself in the sink. That done, I put fresh dressings on my gunshot wound, checking it carefully and hoping the stitches hadn't torn. They hadn't. Thank the Firsts for small blessings.

  I dressed in clothes I had purchased in the pharmacy: a baggy white button-up shirt and a black canvas jacket with a hood.

  I was still exhausted, but cleaned up, blood gone, in fresh clothes, I looked better. I looked normal. It eased me somewhat.

  My jeans were still smeared with dark stains. More of Inox's blood. I really wished the pharmacy sold pants.

  As I left the pharmacy I asked the proprietor for a recommendation for a place to stay. He frowned, disapproval written across his thick features, before rattling off a few hostels and hotels. He also recommended a noodle bar and a shop down the street that had good urchin.

  I nodded.

  I wasn't planning on going to any of them.

  The way I figured it, the police were behind me and my hand prints were all over that scene. That alone would nail me. Who knows what the umbra had told them when she called it in. I most likely left a trail of Inox's blood; when the police caught up to my trail it would be nice to send them down a different road. I hadn't spotted a telephone in the pharmacy, but the guy behind the counter was obviously wary of me: he'd either be making a call after I left or sending a telegram.

  Welcome to West Lovat.

  * * *

  I awoke the next morning in a shabby little hotel room; it was almost noon. I had slept, by my account, at least eleven hours. No problem thanks to half a bottle of vermouth. No nightmares. No police raids. No thugs. No umbra killer.

  I felt better. Not perfect, but better.

  I checked out of the room and telephoned Hagen.

  "Hi Wal," said Hagen's voice through the receiver. "Glad you telephoned."

  "Find anything?" I asked, hopeful.

  "Y-yeah. I did," Hagen stammered, his voice drifting off. He sounded nervous. Silence poured from the receiver.

  "Well?" I asked.

  "L-look, I have to ask. Are you wanted? By the p-police?"

  Now silence came from my end.

  He stammered, "I s-saw your face come up on the monochrome last night. You shaved your head and cut off your beard, but the eyes were the same. Same as yours. I-I'm not an idiot. You're a wanted man, aren't you, Wal?"

  I didn't speak. I didn't know what to say, to be honest. How far could I trust this guy? Thad hadn't liked him, but Thad hadn't really liked anyone.

  Maybe that was a mark in this guy's favor.

  Hagen spoke again, if anything to fill the silence. "L-look, I don't believe you killed those people. I don't believe you killed Mister Russel down the road, the musician, or that Bonesaw last night."

  "Why?" I asked, finally speaking.

  "This patch. My research has turned up something. It's loose threads, pardon the pun, but I could give you something to g-go on. Look, I don't really want to talk about this over the telephone. Can we meet? In person?"

  In person? I thought about this. What if the police were using him? Bouchard was smart. On top of his game. If he had tracked me to Saint Olmstead it would have been easy to turn Hagen Dubois. Especially for a random client like me. Still, I really needed to know what he had found.

  I doubled down.

  "Yeah, we can meet. I'm in West Lovat. Right now? Should I come to your sho—"

  Hagen interrupted me, "You like aloo tika? There's a place over there. On the west side of the hill. Third Level. Er, I can't remember the cross street."

  "I do. I can find it," I said. My stomach rumbled at the mention of the potato croquettes.

  "It's on a busy strip. A nice public place. Should be safe."

  Should be safe? I thought. His concern with safety was worrying. What did he find?

  "Meet me there in an hour?"

  * * *

  It was busy, and very public. The shop was squeezed between two taverns that dominated the sidewalk. It had hardly enough room for two or three tables inside; a few other larger tables were scattered out front. A small speaker wailed the horn solo from the ancient Brother Miles tune, "I Waited for You." Fitting.

  I arrived before Hagen and watched from across the street as he arrived. I wanted to be sure he wasn't followed or working with Bouchard. Just covering my bases.

  The police can't catch what they can't find.

  Hagen arrived alone, wearing khaki pants and a faded blue jacket with narrow lapels. He looked like a history professor. It fit his role as an antique dealer.

  I watched from across the street as he ordered his food, took the little placard he was given, and found a seat out on the street in front of the restaurant.

  I waited until his food came and then I walked up.

  "Sorry I'm late. I walked here. Didn't realize it was so far," I lied.

  Hagen shrugged. "You getting food?"

  I nodded, and went inside. Ordered three of the potato croquettes. Taking my plastic placard, I returned to Hagen.

  "I'm eager to hear what you found."

  Hagen looked over his shoulder as he nodded. He slipped a hand into his jacket, pulling out my patch and sliding it across the table to me. He tapped it with a finger.

  "That is a symbol of Pan."

  "What?" I asked, confused.

  "Are you a religious man?" Hagen asked.

  "Not particularly."

  "Read much?"

  "No."

  He made a face.

  "Pan. It's a symbol of Pan," repeated Hagen, looking around. He was speaking in a low whisper.

  "What's a Pan? Outside of the kitchen."

  He shushed me and looked around. "Not so loud. Especially not now."

  "Sorry," I said, leaning closer.

  "Pan is a who, actually." Hagen explained, his voice soft. "A member of the pantheon of a pre-Alignment race of humans. Was a god, albeit a minor one. God of..." he rolled his knuckles on the small table, the spurs clacking across the wood, "...shepherds. The wilds. Things like that. Some scholars think he was associated with male fertility. Ancient humans had gods for all manner of random things. Lightning. The night. Music. Aging."

  "So this belongs to some god?"

  Gods were a dime a dozen in post-Aligning Lovat. They came in all sizes, big and small, fat and thin, old and young, angry and kind, and with them came all manner of worshippers.

  Hagen nodded and took a bite of fish, talking with his mouth full. "Yes, a god of a sort, as far as I can tell. He gets referenced a lot by many other names. Puck was a name that cropped up often. Sometimes I saw him referred to as The Black Goat. A few times he was called Cernunnos, though that seemed to fall out of vogue quickly, and once—" He pulled out a scrap of paper and studied it. "Once...ah, yes, bap-ho-met."

  "Wait, black...goat?" I asked, that name sticking in my mind.

  "Yes. Apparently this Pan was a satyr."

  "What's a satyr?" I asked, dumbfounded. Hagen was spewing facts like bullets bursting fro
m the barrel of a machine gun. I blinked, trying to process everything I was hearing.

  "Half-man, half-goat."

  "So, Lengish?" I had never been to the plains of Leng but I had heard stories of the goat men.

  "Of a sort, though I don't think the connections are anything other than a coincidence. The Black Goat name was fairly common, though not with the originators of the worship of Pan. It predated their existence, then returned to prominence afterward."

  "Is this Pan one of the Firsts?" I asked, wondering if he was one of the great old ones spoke of in legend.

  We paused as my food arrived and I bit into the potato cake, munching hungrily. It was bland but my stomach didn't care.

  After the waiter left, Hagen shrugged. "I don't know. Pre-Aligning texts are spotty. Tend to be more wordy and flowery than modern Strutten. It's hard to separate reality from fiction." He tapped the symbol. "Those bars represent a pan flute, or Pan's flute, a musical instrument named after him."

  Pan. Pan's flute.

  "So what's this symbol doing in Lovat?"

  He looked around again. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow. A bit of his wild hair clung to his forehead and his eyes flicked around. He was clearly spooked.

  "Where did you get this?" he asked, voice barely a whisper, his face deadly serious.

  "I told you I pulled it—"

  He shook his head. "No. No more stories. I understand you're trying to protect yourself, but I need to know, where did you get this?"

  I stared at the antique dealer for a long moment before answering. "I was attacked. Pulled it off the collar of the guy who attacked me, a maero. I had holed up in a pitch den to avoid the police, and he came looking for me."

  "Have you seen it before?"

  I nodded.

  "How many times?" he asked.

  I held up three fingers. "Three. Twice as a patch like this, once tattooed on a guy's neck."

  "Tattoo," Hagen mumbled. "Of course a tattoo."

  He nodded and ate in silence a moment.. He finally looked up and spoke, his tone grim. "This isn't the safest information."