The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  My options were limited. I needed to somehow trick the bastard into letting me inside. I considered bribery, but I was running out of the money August had loaned me. Forgery might work, but the doorman was clearly not an idiot, and I didn't have a way to forge credentials anyway. A direct assault passed through my mind and was pushed away like dust in a windstorm. He was twice my size, and I was already wounded; it would be a suicidal charge.

  So I found myself sitting across from the Hotel Arcadia, staring at the hustle and bustle of the entrance, and wondering how I would ever get inside when my answer came. Literally. It arrived at the entrance, rolling to a stop on fat rubber wheels. It was enormous, stretched out, bigger than any cargowain I had ever seen. While the driver was clearly visible in the cockpit, blackened windows hid the occupants in the rear.

  A motor coach such as that, in a city like Lovat, was the epitome of extravagance. Few roads curled between the levels, and those that did were usually choked with pedestrians or impassable from years of neglect. It was possible that this coach hadn't left Level Seven in hundreds of years. Which made its use that much more excessive.

  The driver, a short human in a smart uniform, stepped out and crossed behind it, pulling open a door at the rear of the vehicle opposite of where I stood. A plan burst into my mind like a gunshot.

  Edging forward and keeping myself low, I came up to the door on the left side of the coach, listening as the riders each exited in a nice line. I slowly undid the latch. Only two of the passengers remained inside: twin boys spending most of their energy trying to push past one another to follow their siblings and parents up to the open door of the Hotel Arcadia. I slipped in behind them, leaving the door behind me open.

  The father—a tall, lanky man in his early sixties—handed a wad of lira to the doorman and began making small talk. The two boys I shadowed finally came to an agreement, bounding from the stretched motor coach as I slipped out behind them, apologizing to the driver who had almost shut the door on me. He stared at me with confusion and began to speak, his voice growing louder behind me as I hurried my pace, careful to stay with my adopted family, my ticket inside.

  If the doorman noticed me, he didn't say anything. He was probably too distracted by the rich guy chatting him up. I passed through the passage and into the lobby unmolested.

  The acquisition of the lift token was easier. The girl behind the ancient counter didn't even look up, just slid a plastic disk at me with an annoyed sigh and went back to her novel.

  Jamming the token into the slot, I hoped it would break the mechanism inside to allow anyone to use the elevators freely. Damn the hassle of the tokens. Sadly, it didn't seem to have an effect. The shiny doors slid open and I stepped inside, punched the floor button marked fifty-one, and let the slow ride fuel my anger. The last time I had been in this elevator, Wensem had been standing next to me, but now I was alone. Alone with my thoughts.

  There was no paycheck to pick up at the end of my ride, no hope for a warm meal afterwards, no month off exploring Lovat's culinary treasures as I had planned. This was a much different visit. This time it would be just me, Peter Black, and my arsenal of questions.

  Samantha and Hagen hadn't been pleased with my decision. Hagen thought I was being rash, and Samantha had agreed, adding that a violent confrontation wouldn't help my cause. Before we had all turned in for the night they had warned me of the dangers. I was convinced last night, but my mind had spun. I hadn't slept. Questions kept snapping through my mind, and by morning I had stopped caring about the risks. I was convinced that Black was just as involved as his godson.

  Keep a distance between yourself and other travelers.

  "Travelers" in this situation could be Black. I didn't care. It was worth the risk. If Peter Black wanted a war, he was going to get one, and I was going to bring it to his doorstep. I wasn't going to be threatened. I was the type of man who would stand before my aggressor. I wanted to meet the individual who was playing with my life, look into his eyes, and tell him that we were onto him. We were circling, hunting him, and we weren't afraid of him, his umbra assassin, or his devoted army of thugs.

  "What if you're recognized?" Hagen had asked me. "Your face is all over the city."

  "Then I run, I hide. I've been running since this whole damn thing started. I can do it a few more times if I have to."

  Hagen had just stared at me, confused.

  "Eventually you won't be able to escape," Samantha said. "Your luck will eventually run out. You've seen how tenacious his followers have been, attacking you in the middle of the day, during a police raid, walking into Hagen's shop."

  "It's a risk I have to take," I explained. "I need to see him."

  They didn't understand. They wanted to remain at Saint Mark's, continue the research, build a case. To them, going after Black was foolish. Hagen felt it would drive Robby Wilem underground or expose us to Black, so we'd never be able to find either of them again. Samantha thought the connections were too thin; if we revealed too much, it would allow him time to prepare an adequate alibi.

  I argued about his arrogance, the brashness of the murders.

  "He's playing with us, like a cat with a mouse." They didn't buy it.

  The lift dinged as I passed another floor. My breath came out in hot puffs as I rose. As the lift moved closer and closer to the fifty-first floor my courage began to falter.

  What if Samantha and Hagen were right? What if this was foolish, what if there was an army of Children inside the doors of Black's offices waiting for me? What if Black used this visit against me? If he was connected he'd never lift a finger, would never do anything to clear my name. Now—so close to my destination—I was wondering if Hagen and Sam hadn't been right, if maybe I should have stayed at Saint Mark's.

  The lift made the decision for me as it slowed and opened its ancient doors.

  It was mid-morning, and being so high above the scrape and span, I found myself squinting at the bright, unobstructed sunlight that shone through the windows at the end of the hall. I stepped out of the elevator for the second time and made my way to the frosted door with the hand-painted letters that read: Wilem, Black & Bright.

  I took a deep breath, summoned whatever fragment of courage I could muster, and pushed the door open.

  * * *

  The same smartly decorated waiting area held the same square leather furniture. The same detailed etchings still hung in their extravagant frames. The receptionist still sat behind her richly appointed desk. Big wooden doors were set into the wood-paneled walls, leading to offices and hallways. One behind the receptionist's desk was marked with a golden plaque that read: "Peter Black, Partner."

  "Can I help you?" asked the receptionist. The bored dauger wearing the reflective mask with the cobalt blue sheen. She had her hair in a tight bun on the back of her head and wore a pant suit of cobalt that matched her mask.

  "Is Mister Black in?" I demanded.

  "Do you have an appointment?" she asked, cocking her head to one side like a spaniel.

  "Is he in?"

  "You'll need an appointment, sir."

  I pushed past the desk, seeing red.

  "Sir! Sir! SIR! You can't just barge in here like that. You can't—! Sir! I'll call security! I'll call, you'll end up in jail!"

  Ignoring her, I pushed open the heavy door that lead to Black's office. I was ready to face my antagonist: the man who had turned my simple life into a living hell.

  "Mister Black, I need answers and I need them now," I demanded, not waiting to see if he was inside.

  "Mister Black, I tried to stop him and—"

  "Where is Robby Wilem? What's your connection with him and with the Children? Who's the umbra who tried to kill me? Why me? Why my friends? Why you?" I fired off my questions like I was pulling the trigger of a gun; as my chamber emptied and the room grew quiet, I realized how loud my voice had grown.

  "He just rushed past me," said the receptionist from over my shoulder. "I can call security."r />
  "It's okay, Nancy," said a rumbly baritone as I stepped into the office. It danced with music. I had been expecting a cold impassive voice, a mastermind, not something like that.

  Peter Black sat behind a desk twice as big as the receptionist's desk, in a room twice as big as the waiting area. Expensive paintings lined the walls, ending in a huge floor to ceiling window that looked out on the archipelago and the distant mountains that grew from the biggest island in the chain. It was a beautiful office with a grand view, and it had the rare aroma of oiled leather, old wood, and fresh flowers.

  Peter Black was dimanian. Two horns sprouted from his temples and curled back through the white hair on top of his head. Bright green eyes regarded me with cool intelligence. He was handsome for an older guy, wore a sharp goatee that had at one time been black but was now stained with silver.

  Black smiled at me, a warm welcoming smile. He motioned to one of the couches that ran parallel to his own desk.

  "Please, Mister Bell, sit. You are Waldo Bell, right?"

  I was taken aback.

  "Mister Black, are you sure this is okay? I can call security," the receptionist offered.

  "It is okay," Black nodded, lifting a hand. "Please, Nancy, close the door. There's a good girl."

  He watched the receptionist depart before rolling out from behind his desk. I inhaled sharply. Black was bound to a wheelchair. A rust-colored blanket rested across his lap and slippers peaked out from under the blanket. He wore a suit jacket of deep green but beneath was only an undershirt. I watched as he rolled over to a bar that sat on the right of the office.

  "I'm afraid I'm not as spry as I once was," he stated, seeing my gaze focus on his wheelchair. "I caught a bandit's bullet thirty years ago. Can I get you anything?"

  He held up bottles of brown liquor.

  "I'm fine," I admitted, feeling surprised by his politeness. "I have some questions for you."

  He ignored me. "I had a friend once tell me, never refuse another man's liquor. He claimed it was bad for one's health."

  A threat?

  "Even at..." I checked the clock on the wall behind him, "...nine in the morning?"

  Black smiled and shrugged, rolling himself next to a small table.

  "I was hoping you'd say yes so I could pour myself one. Same friend also told me to never drink alone. Both bits of advice I try to live by. Yes, sir. Oh, by the way, I never got a chance to personally thank you for your work on the Big Ninety. The Syringa to Lovat run can be dangerous during the mid-summer melt. How were the mountains?"

  I studied Peter Black, trying to read him and coming up blank. I could describe him as bland, but that wasn't it. No, I'd say he seemed… genuine. Like what you saw in him was what you got.

  Doubt began to creep into my mind. Was I wrong? Maybe Black wasn't caught up in this at all. He didn't look like a First; he looked like a tired old dimanian. Pot-bellied and world-worn. Covered with wrinkles and liver spots, not blood. It wasn't what I had expected.

  "They...were, they were fine," I stammered, confused as to what to say.

  "I am sorry I wasn't around to greet you when you picked up your payment. I was in Destiny. Closed a few deals with a cargo captain. You ever seen the inside of a big cargo ship? They're a sight to behold."

  "No, I never have."

  "Well, they used to be a sight in Lovat. Ships today aren't the size of ships of legend. As big as a building, some claim, as wide as a city block. Cephels say their bones are common in the Sunk, but who believes a cephel? They tell tales taller than those legends of the Firsts." He paused, and seemed to size me up. An odd glint in his eye I couldn't place. "I'm a bit surprised to see you here. Was there something wrong with the payment? I trust it was adequate." He chuckled. "Did you get some forged lira? I swear those forgeries are becoming more and more common."

  I smiled, but stayed alert. "No, the payment and the bonus were both quite generous. I'm just a bit confused. I ran into some trouble and it made it difficult for me to come down to the Arcadia. I spoke with August—August Nickel—and he put me in touch with your gate, a Zilla? He said she would get me in touch with you."

  "Gate? Young man, I don't operate with a gate. That's outfit work."

  "You sure? August seemed pretty sure it was the best way to get ahold of you."

  "I think if I employed a gate, I would certainly know about it." Black laughed, then thought about the comment. "I suppose Nancy is a bit of a gate. Maybe August meant her; let me telephone him and we can sort this out."

  He made a move to roll back to his desk, but I leaned forward. "I'm afraid that would be impossible. August was found murdered in his office about three days ago."

  "Oh, dear me." Black grabbed his chest and blinked. "August? Who would want to kill poor August?"

  I studied his face, looked for a crack in the concerned façade. Black looked like a shocked old dimanian, his eyes watering, his mouth hanging open. Going in I had been so sure he was tied to this, so sure he was a part of this conspiracy. Then something, a twinkle in his eyes? A quick upturn at the side of his mouth? I wasn't sure if I had seen anything…but it was hard to shake the feeling I hadn't.

  "The police think it was that Collector Killer," I explained carefully. Waiting for a reaction.

  "That crazy from the papers?"

  "One and the same."

  "Oh, dear me," Black sighed. If this was an act, Black was very good. "Poor August. Poor, poor August."

  "Mister Black, I am here because of him, in part. He put us in communication, and all this crazy stuff has been happening since your delivery. First, the police are trying to arrest me, and they need you to confirm I was here and on the trail working for you—would you be willing to do that?"

  "I can do that."

  Relief flooded my body. At least a part of this ordeal could end. I'd have my name back.

  "You just need to call a Detective Bouchard. I have his number somewhere."

  "We could do it right now."

  I felt around in my pockets, realizing the number I had for the detective was written on a scrap of paper in the clothes the Reunified brothers had taken to be cleaned.

  "I seem to have misplaced it," I admitted.

  "I can call later. I have a few friends at Lovat Central. What were the other things you wanted to see me about?"

  "Well," I began. "August. Before he was found dead it seemed he was dealing with a cult who calls itself the Children of Pan or the Children, and it seems like they might be connected to you, and if not you, then your godson, Robby Wilem."

  "Oh?" said Black.

  "Yeah, in particular your godson."

  "Robby?"

  I nodded.

  "Robby hasn't been in Lovat in years. He left shortly after his father passed. Followed some mystic off into the wild. I haven't talked to him in ten, no, twelve years."

  I tried to get a read off of him. It was impossible to tell if the old guy was lying. I wondered if maybe Mrs. Sardini was wrong. If the three thugs she had pointed out to me weren't someone else. What had she said, "It was young Robby who came around the most."

  "You sure he's not in town?"

  "I-I mean, he might be," Black seemed to stumble over the explanation, "If he is, he hasn't reached out to me. You think he's connected to these cultists?"

  I spread my hands, and asked my next question. "You ever met or worked with any of the Children?"

  "The Children of Pan? Who is Pan?" He shook his head. "No. Never heard of a group with that name. Sounds silly. I'm in Rotary though."

  He chuckled weakly.

  "It's far from Rotary, I'm afraid. You sure you haven't heard of them?"

  "Young man, I am sixty-four years old and bound to this chair. My dealings are with tradesmen and their ilk, not cults. Damn the Firsts, at least not intentionally." He narrowed his eyes. "You're not one of them Purity Movement types, are you? I don't go for cults, but I think they should be left well enough alone. People should be able to believe whatever
they believe and practice what they want to practice."

  "I'm not with the Movement, no."

  "Good. Blight on our society. Spewing hate from that so-called church of theirs."

  I nodded, agreeing with Black. "I have one other question if you don't mind."

  "Mind? Why would I mind?" Black snorted. "My wife always asked me if she could ask me a question. Always got on my nerves. All the asking. Just say what's on your mind, son. Quit asking all the damn time."

  A wife. I tilted my head—could this be Cybill? Black stared back at me with his ivy gaze.

  "I didn't realize you're married."

  "Was. Was married. Forty-three years. Was hoping for fifty. Charlotte passed two years ago." He smiled sadly, holding up his left hand. A thick tattoo ran around his ring finger. Odd, usually dimanians got their tattoos removed when they divorced or when a spouse died, leaving a scar. Leaving the tattoo would signify he was still married. The old fellow touched the mark gingerly. "She was a gem of a woman, a true gem. Heart bigger than all of Lovat. You don't see that today, not anymore."

  He didn't strike me as some mastermind, but he could be lying. He had answers but they weren't solid. He hadn't spoken to Robby in years. He still wore a marriage tattoo despite being a widower. Those weren't solid leads. It was hard to see him as anything more than a tired old widower, wheelchair-bound, who spent his days playing at importing and exporting from his tower office. It was hard to imagine him ordering the murder of anyone, much less having the murderer cut away body parts. I had no idea where this left me.

  "Is there something else, or did you just come to grill me?" Black smiled, teasing.

  "I'm sorry, I was just confused," I confessed. "I'll leave you in peace. Thanks for this impromptu meeting. I hope this doesn't taint any future business dealings between us."

  "No, no, no, I am glad you stopped by. I really appreciate the work you and your company put in with my caravan. Wilem, Black & Bright will definitely be working with Bell Caravans again."

  Black leaned forward and extended a liver-spotted hand in my direction. I shook it, meeting his green gaze. He had a surprisingly strong handshake for an old dimanian.