The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  Another mile passed. I was getting closer to the end of this trail.

  "You going to be all right?" I asked Mrs. Sardini.

  She nodded. "I was told to wait here until the police said I could leave. Detective Bouchard said he might have more questions."

  Bouchard. My heart rate jumped.

  "Bouchard is here?"

  Mrs. Sardini smiled. "He said he was looking for you. I told him straight, I said to him, 'I have known Waldo Bell for years and he had nothing to do with these killings. He doesn't have it in him,' I said. 'If you were half as valuable to Lovat as you like to think, you'd have realized that by now.' He didn't say anything, just frowned at me. He seems like an unhappy man and he smells of whiskey. He asked when I had last seen you. I told him it had been a few days."

  You never saw August's killers either. I thought, wondering if my gut was right and the umbra woman had killed August. It would have been easy for her to slip into Comings & Goings, Ltd. and kill August without Mrs. Sardini hearing or seeing anything.

  "I need to run. It's too dangerous here for me." I paused. What if the umbra returned for her? Mrs. Sardini was connected to me as well, and I'd hate to see the old woman killed on my account. "You should leave the city. Do you have family anywhere?"

  "I have a cousin down south in Destiny."

  "Go to Destiny. Stay a few weeks. It's too dangerous here right now."

  "But...my..."

  "Please," I pleaded, interrupting her protests. "Something's not right. As soon as the detectives let you go, pack up and take the first monorail to Destiny."

  "Okay, Waldo. If you think it's necessary."

  I nodded. "Don't tell Bouchard you saw me. Okay?"

  I gave the old woman a kiss on the cheek before backing out of the crowd. I hoped she would take my advice and actually leave the city.

  Elizabeth Sardini smiled a sad smile and nodded. "Your secret is safe with me. You let me know next time you're coming, and I'll make your favorite cannelloni."

  THIRTEEN

  Betrayal is an awful feeling. It can be something as simple as catching someone in a lie, or something far more complex like catching your girl in bed with a close friend. It eats at you like rot in spoiled fruit.

  I wasn't even sure what had happened with August and the Children, and I probably never would be. I was certain, however, that he had given my location over to them; it was the only way they would have found me. Had he sold out poor Doctor Inox as well?

  Why?

  His own death muddled my feelings. Hard to hate someone after they're dead. It certainly left questions unanswered. Still, Lovat Central wanted me and the Children wanted my head, and it all came back to August and our deal with Peter Black.

  A mixture of betrayal and pain was twisting around my heart like a python. I needed something to loosen it up. An ice-cold glass of vermouth sounded real good right now, maybe two. I wished I could have confronted him. It would have offered some sort of closure. Some answers. With August dead, I was left adrift, lost, stumbling through the trees and blind to the forest. I both mourned for him and cursed his name.

  But I couldn't even begin to deal with that tangle of emotions. Not right now.

  I considered my options. Returning to Bell Caravans was out of the question; with another murder the police would increase their search. I'm well-known in the caravansaras. If I returned to one of them I was sure I'd be caught.

  The wild-haired, scruffy bearded picture of me that had circulated with Thad's death would be all over the monochromes by now. Four deaths, undoubtedly pinned on me. A broker. A doctor. A merchant. A musician.

  Bouchard had to be livid. I pictured him shouting at slimy Detective Muffie, throwing paper cups of lukewarm coffee across the room. He would get his way. Patrols would increase. My old picture would circulate. They'd interview people who had known me. They'd stammer statements about never picturing me as a killer. Even with my clean-cut appearance, I knew that eventually—in a city of almost ninety-three million souls—someone would recognize me. It wasn't if, it was when. Just being in Lovat was playing with fire.

  Where else could I go? I needed to clear my name and I could only do that in Lovat. That would be my first step. Clear my name, then stop whoever was committing these murders. I worried if Bell Caravans would ever recover. Eighty percent of my clients came from August.

  Eighty percent.

  Too many.

  I could think about my business later. Name first, business later. I kept thinking about another one of my old man's sayings: "A man ain't nothing without his name."

  The monorail hummed as it flew past various Third Level warrens on its way north. I was done telephoning and sending telegrams. I needed help. I needed my business partner. I needed Wensem dal Ibble.

  I shrank in my seat and stared out the window, hat pulled low, hood still up. I rarely went north. Humans congregated in central, south, and in West Lovat. The North wasn't for us; it was for the younger races.

  When the monorail slowed, a tinny announcer's voice said, "Reservoir. Doors open on the left." My heart skipped a beat. I had only set foot in Wensem's warren once before. Reservoir was a place for maero, maybe a handful of umbra, rarely humans. Keeping my head low, I shuffled off the monorail with the other passengers.

  A maero woman with narrow eyes and long white hair brushed against my shoulder. I mumbled an apology and mistakenly made eye contact with her. She blinked in surprise. I felt her eyes on me as I moved away from her, and when I cast a glance over my shoulder I saw her standing on the platform staring in my direction. I looked away and pulled my hat down lower. Had she recognized me? I decided I'd make this a quick visit. Check on Wensem and get the hell out of here.

  Reservoir was nice, but not in an annoying way, with its blue-collar atmosphere, simple maero architecture, and clean, quiet streets. A few umbra passed me as I hurriedly walked down the sidewalk, cloth wrapped around their limbs, giving them the appearance of ancient mummies wearing blue mechanic coveralls. It was hard not to react. They looked at me silently, their eyes glowing dots of blue and green. I relaxed a little; blue and green was good, unlike the eyes of my assailant in Doctor Inox's office. Her eyes were red-orange—red-orange and burning with hatred.

  I found Wensem's place wedged between similar buildings down Eighth Avenue. Gray, plain, and lacking adornment of any kind, the neighborhood was a reflection of prototypical maero architecture. Maero believed in utilitarian homes, without frills or decorations. They didn't build them as reflections of themselves. Homes were shelter and the construction reflected that: simple, clean, unassuming.

  The opposite of most humans. Despite looking superficially similar to humans, deep down, the maero were as unlike us as kresh or cephels.

  I kicked open the gate that surrounded a dead front yard and stormed up to the door. Notices of a missed telegraph delivery and my faded message from the switchboard clung to the door. I was on edge; seeing my face adorning posters along Level Three hadn't helped either.

  My knock was less than gentle. I pounded my fist against the plain steel of Wensem's front door. Boom! Boom! Boom! The knock echoed in the sparse interior.

  "Wensem! Let me in!"

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Nothing.

  "Wensem!"

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  "Wensem, open up!"

  "He's gone, son."

  I turned and saw a maero patriarch on the stoop next door. He looked ancient beyond belief, his face a map of canyons. He smiled an old smile as he rocked in a large rocker. He clutched a small sudoku paperback and a stubby pencil in his seven long maero fingers.

  "G-Gone?" I stammered. It was the best I could do.

  "Gone," he repeated with a nod. "Took his mate and that newborn son of his. Went to the hill country as per direction of the lama. Bonding ritual. Didn't say when they would be back. Though I reckon it'll be a week or so from now, maybe a bit more depending on how things go."

  Of course. The Bonding. A prim
al ritual passed down from family to family and ordered by the maero's lama when the timing was deemed right. A family surviving alone in the wilds without the conveniences of modern post-Aligning life. Their hands, their wits, each other, nothing else—this was the trial of the Bonding. The father would build shelter, provide sustenance; the mother would head the household, protect the family, and the child...the child would eat, and smile, and grow. I knew it was an important maero custom, I just hadn't expected it so soon. That's what Wensem meant when he said he would be unreachable.

  I stared in silence, my rage sputtering, lacking fuel. I pulled the missed notices from the door and stuffed them into my pocket. Better to not leave a trail.

  The anger washed out of me. I was exhausted. I was hungry. I couldn't keep up this rush of emotions. I think I forgave August in that moment. Dwelling on his possible betrayal messed with my head. It muddled me. I had to think clearly. I needed to keep moving. The look that maero woman had given me when I had left the monorail was making me nervous.

  I had few friends remaining in Lovat. Those who weren't killed were gone, and those remaining I could barely call friends. Staring out at the plain gray houses on Wensem's plain gray street, I tried to make sense of everything. I was out of options and I needed help. I began to run through who I knew in Lovat. Who I could go to for help, who I could trust. There was my company, but I hardly knew my crew off the trail and as their boss it was my job to take care of them, not the other way around. Dragging them into this wasn't right. There was an old professor from the university I knew, but we hadn't spoken in two decades. Mrs. Sardini was too old, and she had gone through enough. I kept returning to one person, one person who had more knowledge about the Children and this bizarre killing streak than I did, one person who had asked me to leave him out of this.

  Hagen Dubois.

  I had to go back to Saint Olmstead's Religious Antiques and see if Hagen would be willing to help me. If he refused, the least I could do was warn him of the danger he could be in, and of this weird connection that seemed to be linking me with the umbra's victims.

  Saying goodbye to the old patriarch, I headed back to the platform to take the monorail south. It wasn't far, and as I stepped onto the platform, a pair of trains heading in opposite directions slowed to a stop. I bought my ticket as their doors slid open. Riders poured out, filling the narrow space between the trains, and I stepped in line to board at the front of the train that would take me back to King Station.

  I glanced quickly over my shoulder, taking in one final look at Reservoir and its inhabitants.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  Down the platform, hulking like a bear on its haunches, stood Detective Bouchard. His dark eyes darted around as he studied the crowd. It was clear he had just stepped off the opposite monorail. Clearer still he was looking for someone.

  I had been made.

  I was sure of it now. Bouchard was here for me.

  Three more figures emerged from the monorail behind the detective. Two uniformed officers brandishing clubs, and an emaciated Detective Muffie, now sporting a thick bandage over his nose.

  I had to hide.

  I could feel my shoulder muscles tightening as I tried to make myself smaller. I hoped the crowd would protect me. I checked the line ahead of me and noted I was only five passengers away from boarding. So close. I pulled my hat down low and shuffled my feet. I was torn between pushing myself through the queue and avoiding a scene. Bouchard hadn't spotted me—not yet anyway—and I needed to keep it that way.

  Bouchard turned and marched down the platform towards where I stood, his long dun coat billowing behind him. I tried not to look. I tried to remain anonymous. This was too close. This was much too close. I needed to get out of here. Needed to hide. Needed to disappear.

  Instead I shuffled, moving with the queue. Slow but edging ever closer to the monorail. Four people ahead of me. Then three.

  The platform had grown crowded as people disembarked. Bouchard disappeared into the throng, but I could still see his swooping horns among the masses. They were moving in my direction.

  Carter's cross, had he spotted me?

  "Ticket, sir?"

  "I, er…what?" I said, looking up into the face of the maero conductor. He smiled weakly at me and held out a seven-fingered hand, "Sir, your ticket."

  Heart pounding, I quickly felt my pockets. Bouchard was closing in fast. He'd spot me, or one of his cronies would, if I wasn't on that train. I had to hurry.

  "Sir, do you have a ticket?"

  "Ah, here it is," I said with a smile, as I pulled it out of a back pocket and handed it over to the conductor.

  He looked and it, then at me, then punched the paper. "Thank you, sir. Have a nice ride."

  I moved into the car and collapsed in a seat near the window. I wanted to be able to keep an eye on the platform. Know if I needed to run. The train whistled and then began to roll. Outside, Bouchard marched past, his determined eyes avoiding my train altogether. He had missed me completely.

  I breathed out heavily. The muscles in my back relaxed somewhat. My hands began to shake so I balled them into fists.

  That had been close. So close.

  I was wary at the next few stops. Worried I would see an officer board and his head would turn in my direction.

  No cops came.

  I began to feel safer as more and more passengers boarded. I became anonymous in the crowd. No one paid attention to the guy who seemed to snooze in the seat, head down. My heart rate slowed as it became clear I had eluded capture. That had been damn lucky. I needed to be careful.

  My anonymity narrowly retained, I took some time to mull over my current predicament, and I settled on three major things. First, I was wanted by Lovat Central for crimes I didn't commit and they clearly hadn't slowed their pursuit. Second, I believed these crimes were being perpetrated by some ancient and bizarre cult who called themselves The Children, lead by some creepy umbra woman. Third, this cult was being assisted; someone was pulling strings and covering up their actions and pointing the police at me. I was the scapegoat. My assault in the pitch den was too messy, my assailant too sloppy, the Children were clearly fanatics, not professionals like the Collectors. If they had really wanted to kill me, they'd have sent the umbra.

  I needed answers, motive.

  I needed to see beyond the trees.

  Killing without motive only works if the killer is completely and utterly insane. Everything the Children did smacked of purpose. They targeted specific people and took macabre trophies, presumably for some esoteric reason. This was different from the manic wildness of the random killing. This was a dark and deliberate evil.

  * * *

  A clock on the wall chimed two in the afternoon as I walked through the front door of Saint Olmstead. The ticking minutes sounding like cartridges dropping into the cylinder of a revolver. I moved among the shelves of religious bric-a-brac until I found myself face-to-face with Hagen Dubois.

  "I told you I didn't want to be involved," Hagen said before I was able to open my mouth. "I asked you not to contact me again."

  "Look, Hagen—" I began.

  "Look, nothing! I don't need to get mixed up in your shit."

  "There's been another murder. Another friend of mine," I spat. "I need your help."

  "Who? Who was murdered?" He asked, his interest piqued.

  "A commodities broker named August Nickel. A...a friend of mine...or he was, I think he may have been working with the Children. I think he may have sold me out to them."

  "By the Firsts! You think he was working with them?"

  "Yes, I saw a few of them at his office on multiple occasions. Look, I need help, but I am also worried you might be in danger. They've killed three of my friends, and a Bonesaw who helped me out. Someone I was hardly in contact with until all this began. I wouldn't think it'd be too much of a stretch if they came after you."

  "After me?"

  "Do you have somewhere you can
go? Somewhere safe?"

  "When did this happen? Mister Nickel's murder," asked Hagen, setting an armload of boxed candles down on the shelf. "When exactly?"

  "Sometime early this morning. Before light."

  He stared at me. Looking both tired and scared.

  "Hagen, I didn't mean to drag you into this, but there's some connection to me. There's some reason they're after people I know. I got no one to turn to, so I came here. I know you didn't want to be pulled into this...."

  "Mister Bell, I have a shop to run. I can't have wanted felons running in here every—"

  He stopped abruptly as the door behind me chimed.

  "Carter's cross," swore Hagen, taking a step back.

  I turned.

  An ugly human with a flat nose and almond-shaped eyes slipped around the door. His close-cropped hair exposed a lumpy head, and he had the thick neck and broad chest of a weightlifter. He sneered at us.

  "This your shop?" he asked in accented Strutten.

  "It is, welcome to Saint Olmstead's Religi—oh my..."

  The human grinned wickedly as he reached into his rust red coat, pulling out a straight razor identical to the one I had seen in the umbra's hand. He began to chant as he sauntered toward us, "We are the thousand young. The Children of Pan. We are the ushers of sta—"

  Not thinking, I lunged. Feeling my arm and ribs cry out as I crashed into the assailant, sending his knife spinning away. He grunted and I brought up a knee, slamming it into his stomach. He let out a wheeze. He pushed up on my chin with a palm and struck at my shoulder and chest with balled fists. My gunshot wound howled in pain and my broken rib cursed me.

  "Let....me...go..." he growled through clenched teeth.

  He was smaller than me, but solid. I lifted him and shoved him back down, a sickening crack sounding as his head slammed on the old tile floor. My assault was just making him angrier.

  "The razor!" I shouted at Hagen. "Get his razor!"

  "You're the Guardian!" said the attacker, his eyes growing wide. The ugly little man was slippery, and he wormed out of my grip and tried to crawl away. Leaping, I crashed onto his shoulders, forcing him back to the ground.