d’Holbach followed Schuler’s instructions, getting in on the passenger’s side. There was a bullet hole in the vinyl seating and several holes in the door paneling. There’d been a tremendous battle over this car, sometime this morning. It might be quiet around Tammany Hall, but this was concrete proof that an occult war was starting in New York.
Schuler shut his door and started the vehicle. The radio was tuned to static and turned down low, almost inaudible. He pulled into gear without even looking at the Baron, without even looking at the street. It was as if he wasn’t there, as if the entire car was little more than an unconscious action, like breathing, like digestion. Schuler was listening to the whole world.
They U-turned in the intersection and ran the red light in both directions. There was a civvie’s car coming down 14th, but Schuler made no rush to avoid it. Nothing he could do this close to Tammany would catch the attention of secular police. The Hall’s secular shadow cast darkness across the park square and surrounding blocks, and the eyes of authority couldn’t penetrate the gloom. The friendship of the political machine, however weak it might’ve become, was still vital to police business in Manhattan.
The consequences of this rapid capture could be dire. While the Baron knew the Zombie’s presence would do a lot for his safety, nobody else outside Tammany would share his confidence. Their logic would be simple. The longer he remained in New York’s custody, the more likely it was that he’d hand over the Cat o’ Nine Lives.
Malik and Heckhaus would believe in the Baron’s failure. They’d trust that the only option left was to abandon the artifact or commit to open conflict.
In an occult war, who would win? With men like Schuler or Slavic artifacts like the Apples, occult forces had the undeniable advantage in assassinations and small-scale urban combat. However, prestige was quickly exhausted, and Langley’s secular forces were trained to defend cities and resist armies. If one of them made a move for the Cat, how would the war end? How would it be framed in the secular media? Somewhere in the thicket of possible answers rested the tiger of nuclear armageddon. If not today, then someday, it could wake at the smell of American and Russian blood. Once the Bolsheviks had the rest of the artifacts, conflict with Langley was inevitable, even planned. The tiger would roar, and all the threats and posturing of the Cold War would turn into a thunderstorm of bombs.
The only way out was to escape Tammany Hall quickly.
Schuler was the main reason that they couldn’t leave.
The Baron opted to reason with the Diviner, even if it was unlikely to succeed. “Meister Schuler, did you know that the Russians are fighting to see whether or not the Cat lands in Orthodox hands?”
“No,” Schuler said softly. “I’ve never cared.”
Schuler’s indifference was hard to fathom, but the Baron rolled with it. “I understand that attitude, but it’s important. If the Cat doesn’t end up in Orthodox hands by the end of today, we’re one step closer to nuclear war.”
“Makes sense,” Schuler said.
“So you believe me then? I’m trying to return the Cat in order to prevent conflict.”
“You don’t have to soften the blow,” Schuler said as they pulled onto 17th and drove along the face of Tammany Hall. “You want to stop the end of days.”
“Great. Then you know why I need to take the Cat and go.”
Schuler shrugged. “It’s not my problem.”
The Baron was taken aback. “Schuler, you believe me?”
“I do.”
“But you live in the same shadow of the bomb.”
“When it’s my time to die, I’m ready,” Schuler said. “What I ask myself is, do I think you’ll stop a nuclear war from happening?” He glanced at the Baron, flashing the copper of his frames through the light of a passing streetlamp. “And I answer, no. War is inevitable. The end is near, so I ask myself, what is it I value in these last years of life?” Schuler smiled, focusing on the Baron and leaving behind his reverie with the chorus of the gods. There was a sharpness to his eyes now—a specific attentiveness to detail, revealed in the way he moved. “Focusing like this gives me a headache, Baron. It makes me sick, after a time it makes my limbs shake. I have to lose focus to feel good again, to hear the music. It’s a taste of heaven here on Earth, when I lose focus—but Baron! When I’m listening to the divine music, I forget to eat. I forget to sleep. I need others to care for me. I need room and board, and nobody in the world will give me those things and my freedom at once… except for Boss Tweed.” Schuler turned away, but he didn’t zone out this time. He looked for the turn to the lot alongside the Hall and took it. “They say I’m a madman, and they’re right. I’m mad as a hatter. It keeps me healthy in man’s twilight.”
“You won’t save the world for your own pleasure?”
Schuler laughed dismissively. “Baron, please! Be reasonable. I’m not an evil man, but I am practical. I can’t save the world, but I can live all my days with all my heart.”
“You can save it. More than anyone.”
“No, I can’t. I’m not an army. I’m not a government or bomb. I’m a man. I channel the divine music because I am a tool of the gods, and they direct me hither and thither.” He wiggled a hand like a fish swimming upstream. “That is what I do. Unlike you, I am in their grace.” He pulled into a parking spot. “You make a misery of your final years, you know.”
“These aren’t my final years,” the Baron said.
“You’re going into the Hall with the Cat,” Schuler insisted. “If you have some chain of logic where this is a loss and nuclear armageddon hangs from the end, I think you can call it now. It’s already over.” He shut off the car. “I’m sorry, Baron.”
“You’re Nero fiddling while Rome burns.”
“There weren’t any fiddles in Rome,” Schuler corrected.
“Another reason you shouldn’t aspire to be him. Let me go.”
“You’re a man in the riots, throwing cups of water at the Circus while she burns.” Schuler opened his door. “You’re not leaving. Boss Tweed will want to see you immediately.”
The lot wasn’t officially for Tammany Hall alone. It was the next address up, pay to park. Despite this, the watchman on post didn’t rise from his chair. His head tipped up from his book in his booth, recognized Schuler, and dropped back down to read again.
Sunrise was maybe an hour out now. The streetlights around Tammany were shining on the first scraps of pedestrian traffic in this area, professional men and women at the extreme ends of corporate America. CEOs, CFOs and sundry other officers of finance were up early, an alphabet soup wrapped up in expensive tailored suits of black or grey. Clerical workers, secretaries and human computers filtered between them, readying themselves for the mentally rote but vital processes of sorting numbers, of turning the crank on the economic machine.
It’d be some hours yet before politicians, lawyers, and criminal contacts finished their breakfasts and came around the Hall to barter for territory, money, and control.
The Baron exited the car and followed Meister Schuler south along the face of the Hall. It was a three story building, dark red brick trimmed in white marble and smooth grey Tennessee limestone. Small, shallow arches rose over every window and door, and the Hall itself was capped with a large semicircle of brick and stone, which rested over a half-eye of window glass. It was easy to imagine someone standing on a high ladder, looking out of that dark shimmering surface at the world below.
If the Baron hadn’t seen the interior twenty-five years ago, he would’ve believed that Boss Tweed still spied from that perch with a jaundiced eye. Truth be told, it was just a high window to let light into the titular meeting hall at the building’s heart.
That hall was not where they’d be going.
The Zombie was standing outside the door beside Enzu Guerra, the enforcer whose arm was still in a cast and sling. “He got here ahead of us,” the Zombie called, gesturing to his new companion.
Schuler skirted around Enzu, not rudely ignoring him but already sinking back into his relaxed semi-fugue. He wasn’t losing his identity or forgetting himself, but the outcome was eerily similar. He hummed and passed through as if everything else were decoration.
Enzu stepped forward to shake the Baron’s left hand awkwardly. His salt-and-pepper beard was mashed to one side, the tip crooked left as if caught in a permanent gale. He’d slept on wet hair and woken up without time to preen. “d’Holbach,” he said, “is it true?”
“Is what true, Enzu?”
“Zeddie says you need to deliver the Cat o’ Nine Lives to the Russians.”
If the man was friendly to the Zombie after such violence, he was either cowed or unshakably brave. Enzu appeared to be the latter, so the Baron repeated the facts for his consideration. “If the Orthodox faction loses the ikon, Stalin’s Bolsheviks win a security payout of one Apple of Perun and the Lazy Woman. That’s the short and long of it.”
Enzu squinted, an unfocused glare at the future. “Easy assassinations,” he judged.
“That’s right. It’ll be war if they ever bring their weapons to bear on American resources. Stalin will have a third of the Slavic arsenal today, who knows how many tomorrow.”
Enzu scratched his beard. “Who have you been fighting with then?”
“Members of the American Communist Party. They’re a fifth column for the Bolshevik faction.” The complications could wait for the boss. Enzu only needed enough to know that the Baron was the “good guy.” They could pretend yesterday’s violence was forgivable because of the Baron’s good intentions, and Enzu might act as their ally on the inside. Support was a rare luxury in the lion’s den. The Baron would let a man into his confidence to have it.
“Jesus, so this Soviet business is the truth.” Enzu looked grim.
“Mostly true.”
“You got to tell General Osman about this,” Enzu said.
“He will,” Schuler muttered from the open double doors. The desk guards inside were picking up phones, making calls. “I’ve brought him to talk with the triumvirate.”
“Just tell them what you told me, Baron,” Enzu said.
“They’ll want to take the Cat,” the Baron said, “There’s no way they’d give it up.”
“I know, I know. But you have to give them a chance. They’re smart men, Baron. You’ve just got to convince them that it ain’t worth the cost. You got to persuade them, please.”
“We’ll try,” the Zombie said.
The Baron smiled congenially at Enzu. “Talk to me after our meeting with Tweed. All right?”
“Sure, Baron.” Enzu gave him a brief, lazy salute. “Good luck.”
The Baron followed Schuler through the doors with the Zombie right behind him. Once the doors closed, the Zombie pulled the Cat out of his pocket and gripped it tight in his left hand. There was no hiding it, but there was also no doubt that taking it would be a tussle with the world’s oldest murderer.
“Scratch any calls to security,” Schuler said to the desk guards, “Call the old man’s club. The Chinaman is our guest today. No complaints.”
“Yes, sir.” The guard hung up the phone and redialed.
“Tell them the Baron is here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not Chinese,” the Zombie complained.
“Are some of them secular?” the Baron asked quietly.
“Both,” Schuler said. He guided them into an elevator at the side of the lobby, but didn’t enter with them. “I’ll follow you up. See you there.”
The Baron couldn’t fault the man for being security conscious. He wouldn’t be able to dodge the Zombie in a tiny box, so he sent them up alone.
The elevator doors shut, leaving them in a momentary privacy. The Zombie made a quick comment. “We have no leverage here.”
“They don’t have much leverage either,” the Baron noted.
The Zombie opened his hand and looked at the Cat. “It’s their home turf.”
“The artifact is in our hands. Schuler knows he couldn’t take it from you.”
The Zombie grunted. “They might threaten you for it. We can’t actually do anything to any of these men. If I kill one of them, you’re a dead man, and they know it.”
The Baron shrugged. It was true, but it wasn’t worth worrying about. “I didn’t want you to kill anyone anyways. We’re minimizing the body count.”
“Yeah.” The Zombie closed his hand around the ancient artifact.
They stepped out into an office hallway with egg-shell walls and baby blue carpeting. This was the secular business of Tammany Hall. Offices were labeled with names and titles, several of them with emeritus attached. It was a true nobility. Executives and directors were kept on the payroll long after they’d stopped serving the political machine, and union dues were fed like roughage into their insatiable wallets. It was a shameful bureaucracy, old and bloated. Without the occult core, the secular organization would’ve collapsed under its dead weight.
“Care to guess which elevator Schuler will take?” the Zombie asked. “I could whack him like a mole. Cave his skull in and call it a morning well spent.”
“None,” the Baron said. “Listen carefully. None of the others are running.”
After a few seconds, a stairwell door opened further down the hall. Schuler waved them over with a drunken stagger. “To the north, towards Hyperborea.”
They followed the Diviner down the hall towards a grand pair of intricately carved oak double doors. The ornate brass handles stood above a pair of multicolored tassels. It was a design stolen from the Orient, a mimic of an ostentatious temple door.
“Most of the nobles are out today,” Schuler muttered, “on account of the weather. Cold, uncomfortable atmosphere, smelling of yesterday’s gunpowder.” He sniffed deeply. “But I feel the age of the triumvirate.” He pulled open the doors. The crimson carpet was immaculate. The cultured smells of cigars and cocktails faintly spiced the air. Something delicious and fatty had been fried in cast iron, a servant’s kitchen preparing breakfast for the masters.
They stepped inside, and Schuler shut the grand doors behind them. There were so many rooms here, spreading off the main hall. Lounges, pool tables, parlors, bars—and televisions. From one spot, the Baron could see more of the boxes at once than he’d seen in a TV dealership. Nearly every room contained one of the glassy, dark machines. He’d once read that there were no more than fifty-thousand televisions in North America, and three-fifths of them were in New York City. NBC was here. The New York cult was here. Considering the prevalence of sets in this temple, the Baron wondered if there wasn’t a connection between occult wealth and the growing secular media empire. Tammany Hall was technically sacred ground, but there was no rule against technological wonders. In a home of the gods, they watched television.
Schuler led them deeper, beneath metal chandeliers and around corners strengthened with elaborate wooden trim. The lights were low but persistent. A man might rest in any of these windowless rooms, collapsed on an armless couch while pretending that the furnace heaters and dim lamps were thick coals in fireplaces, smoldering straight till dawn.
Then they reached the end of the main hall, passing an empty secretary’s desk to reach the heart of the temple. There was a step up to the last door, which Schuler opened first.
It was a central courtroom, a place to stand before the triumvirate. Closed gates barred the steps up to a raised semicircle and a judicial bench staffed with three ancient men.
The triumvirate shifted, glaring down at their guests. They were seated in three grand, blood red chairs with high backs, thrones of wood and velour. Behind those chairs were simple doors, one breaking left, one breaking right, and one going directly back. These were the entrances to the personal apartments of the occult leaders, all three too old and too infamous to return to the secular world.
Tremendous shelves crowded the walls between their seats, burdened with stacked bottles of liquor and wine, rising in Incan tiers to the ceiling and organized by color and clarity to form a cloud of grim darkness around the center and a crystal lightness to either side.
Around the backs of the room were rolling carts stacked with food and clean plates, a buffet of rich aromatic meats and fruits, dry and heavily seasoned or wet and swimming in juice, capable of standing for hours without losing their intense flavor or delicious texture.
Cabinets with further liquids stood beside them—fruit juices, sodas, syrups and medicinal tinctures of bitter plants and fouler chemistries. At the very bottom stood jars of powders, pills, and other sundry highs and lows. Dishes were scattered across the bench, left casually for someone else to collect.
“Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach,” said one familiar voice.
The man on the left had a broad, flat, clean-shaven face, mildly asymmetrical, as if his head was slightly turned aside and he was looking past the Baron even when their eyes met. He had short, curly storm-grey hair, shallow lines, and a nose that was broad and long, projecting down and not out. It might’ve been smashed in a fight more than fifty years ago, when his day job was burglary and armed robbery for the mob. He wore stately robes of shimmering royal purple, closed along the front with a line of matte black buttons.
“High Oracle Gagliano,” the Baron addressed.
Gagliano had officially died in ‘51, but in truth he’d permanently retired to this hidden place in order to rule over his occult flock. He was the religious leader of the world’s largest cult, the shepherd of a New World empire, and the adjudicator of the nobles who would inhabit this place on better days—when there wasn’t a rumor of Soviet attack. His primary responsibility was to be the Oracle of Oracles, to hear the greatest tasks given to distant lands and to dispatch elite cultists to snipe them or aid in their completion. Otherwise, he presided over internal conflicts within New York territory, deciding based on testimony who would be allowed to earn the prestige for a particular task or redistributing that prestige if it was won by the wrong man.
“Atheist, you’ve brought a lot of hell to my city,” said the man on the right.
He was muscular and thick, and not running to fat like the other two members of the triumvirate. He bore a tremendous full beard, snow white but thick and glossy. It cascaded onto his expansive chest, covering up any medals that might be decorating his uniform. He clearly tailored his health with prestige—his hands were blemished like overripe fruit, yet his eyes and build suggested a young sailor’s vigor. He’d wished for the vitality to seed his favored son—he was too old to bed a woman otherwise. His family even shared the same tendency towards body hair, though the old man’s tailoring was tidier and covered up both sleeves and collar. It was only the immenseness of his white mane that suggested how heartily his hair grew.
“I’m not responsible, General Osman, but I’m sorry.”
The senior Osman was a centenarian, the second member of the New York cult to extend their lives at the expensive ratio of three units of prestige to one unit of restored youth. His responsibility was to lead the military might of New York. Vassal cults were bound by one law—might makes right—and General Osman’s command was mightiest of all. Even in far distant Europe, his missionaries arrived with the demand to submit or perish. Those who paid the tithe to New York were spared the rod. Those who rebelled were crushed, burned and scattered by Osman’s forces, up to and including Meister Schuler if the conflict was extreme.
In turn, those who swore loyalty were protected. If an enemy sought to conquer vassal territory, no defense would be fiercer than the “White Lion’s roar,” as Osman called his occult retribution. New York’s Cult was a feudal system and a protection ring; Osman was a warrior-prince and underboss.
“You have the Cat o’ Nine Lives,” said the eldest at the center.
This pear-shaped man was dressed in a 19th century business suit, roughly adorned and roughly tailored yet made from fine materials. His bowtie was in a shameful state, but this studied sloppiness was a deliberate defiance. Tradition didn’t rule this man. He defined tradition. Even now, he was sloppily bearded and half-bald. Even now, he lived with a perpetual squint of exhaustion and a ruddy complexion. Time had ravaged him, even as prestige had dragged him back from the brink of death again and again. This year, he was almost one hundred and thirty, and purging his body of cancers, inflammations, and other maladies had cost the cult dearly.
But if not for him, where would the cult be? What purpose would it have? Who would hold the center by sheer authority and the raw will to order atrocity and pillage mercilessly? He’d faked his death nearly three-quarters of a century ago, escaping from Ludlow Street Jail when it became obvious that the government would no longer parley with him or honor any bargains offered to his name. He’d stolen too much for too long to earn any forgiveness from that world, so he’d sunk into this one and lived in this place since the twenties, never stepping outside to see the sun.
“Boss William Magear Tweed.” The Baron bowed slightly.
Altogether, these men ruled from the throne. They were the shadow behind New York, defining its occult purpose and crafting policy with absolute authority. They delegated much to others, trusting that the best administration ran itself as smoothly as any industrial machine. They were the engineers of human organizations, the reason that Tammany Hall was still a meaningful name. This place was once renowned for a marvelous ring of corruption, a democratic party machine. Now, it was the rotten heart of an occult world power.
Author’s Note:
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The Baron considered escaping the temple, but without the Zombie by his side, the thought was nothing more than a passing fancy. He took a seat just outside the perimeter of the assembled soldiers and waited while they distributed envelopes with marching orders. These had been typed out overnight in a war room deep within Tammany Hall. Now they were sending thousands of armed men into the streets of one of the largest cities on Earth.
After distributions were complete, the Oracle resumed his place at the podium. He called out calmly, “Gentlemen, your attention, please!”
The murmuring masses of the cult stopped, paying heed.
Maurice spoke clearly and firmly. “We’ve pulled strings, so no cops will patrol before six. You’ll move into position on foot. Don’t take taxis or public transportation. Conceal your weapons in bags or coats until you’ve reached your posts. If a given post is inaccessible or vulnerable, report back here before sunrise. We’ll track the holes in our coverage, and move to fill them. If you have any questions, come to me. Deployment starts at the half hour mark, so finish your preparations now. Good luck, gentlemen, and gods, grant us grace.”
“Grant us grace,” echoed many at once.
Several cultists went up to the podium and reviewed their instructions with Oracle Maurice, hashing out their concerns. The Baron waited, straining to overhear any important details, but he found little that wasn’t already obvious from the premises of this morning’s deployment. Enemies could be anywhere, so be ready for the worst.
The Zombie returned to the temple about five minutes later. He bee-lined for the Baron and knelt in front of him to confer in private. “Phyllis is on her way with Marco. They’re heading to his mother’s house, and she’ll put them on a train to New Jersey.”
“Glad to hear it,” the Baron said. “Did you update her on the situation with Schuler?”
“Yeah. She took your suggestion. She’ll make a few calls.”
“Good. Any idea who?”
“Other Artemisians, some Cosa Nostra contacts. Even Andrey Malik. The idea is to encourage someone to spring us from Tammany Hall, or at least draw away its security.”
The Baron raised an eyebrow. “Malik? Could be out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
The Zombie furrowed his brow. “I hate that expression.”
“Really? Why?”
“You can roll out of a fire. Frying pans have walls.”
“It’s not that literal…” The Baron caught himself. “Forget it. Did she say anything about Heckhaus?”
“Yeah. She wants to avoid him.”
“Smart.”
The Zombie smirked at that judgment. “She’s smarter than most of the jokers we’ve ever met. I trust her, and you know that’s high praise.”
“The highest, excluding the Pact.”
The Zombie upgraded his expression to a cheerful smile. “I admit, I like what she’s doing. No matter what, I’m seeing you out of this city, and extreme distractions will make that much, much easier. Malik is the only extreme option we really have.”
“Yes, but—ah, shh.” The Baron fell silent as a few cultists skirted past his table. Ten minutes were up, and the first New York deployments were packed up and finally leaving. They clumped together in groups of two or three, clutching street maps and scraps of paper with addresses typed on them.
All over New York City, similar deployments would be occurring. The Baron could only assume the greatest density would be across Manhattan and Brooklyn, near sites of public transportation, major streets, and various New York occult resources.
Tammany Hall would be especially well guarded.
Once the cultists were out of earshot, the Baron whispered quickly, “We shouldn’t wait around for Schuler to arrive. Oracle Clare doesn’t know he’s coming. We could go.”
“What do you mean, go?” the Zombie asked.
“I’m saying let’s officially surrender and ask for a ride to Tammany. We might get on the road ahead of the Diviner. Leave him behind. Keep the Cat away from him.”
“Why would that matter? He’ll just follow us to Tammany.”
“Our goal was to get Marco out safely, right?” The Baron kept parsing over the scattered cultists, hoping that nobody was actively listening in. “We’ve done that, and Maurice was willing to let him go without any questions because I’m still here. Now we need to buy time until Phyllis has our distraction ready. I don’t think we can avoid Schuler all day, but we can definitely avoid him for now, make a mess out of things. What do you think?”
The Zombie huffed. “What’s the point?”
“What do you mean?”
“We planned on seeing Tammany for a reason, right? Schuler included. We’re showing them that the Cat is in my hands. Grabbing their attention.”
“Right, but that’s my point. We already have their attention. They think we’re part of some secret war, and Marco and Phyllis are leaving scot-free. We don’t need the quick surrender after all. We can go to Tammany while hiding the Cat.”
The Zombie shook his head slightly. “There’s still value in going with Schuler, isn’t there?”
“I’m just trying to be adaptable.”
“Look, I’m loathe to admit this, but Schuler’s feelings matter.”
“They do—”
“If we skip out on him, he gets angry. We can’t afford to fight him if we’re going to reach Denisov before five. I say we take it easy. Wait for Phyllis to work.”
The Baron nodded once, ceding the point about Schuler. “Yes, we can’t afford to fight him, but we can delay his success, right? We can sit with New York for hours before they know anything is wrong. Schuler is the only way they’ll detect the Cat’s presence. We can hide it.”
“But why bother? He’ll catch up to us eventually.”
“You don’t know when information might make a difference. Imagine that CPUSA attacks someone across town, and they draw Schuler into a fight.”
“I’m imagining it. So what?”
“If that happened, the Cat could go undiscovered until Phyllis’s allies showed up to spring us.”
“Or until Malik shows,” the Zombie muttered.
“Exactly. So let’s surrender to the Oracle now. If Schuler catches up, nothing changes, and we’ll wait for the distraction. But if he doesn’t? We might escape without tipping our hand to Tweed. They might not even chase us.”
“Hmm. I guess.” The Zombie stood tall, looking at their surroundings. About half of the soldiers had filtered out. The streets would be especially dangerous this morning, now that the cults were bringing their armies to bear. A moment later, he squinted down at the Baron.
“What is it?” d’Holbach asked.
“I’m just thinking. If we sit around in New York custody, Heckhaus might think we’ve lost the Cat. He might come for us then, even if New York doesn’t know.”
The Baron winced, a sharp moment of recognition, then let out a pained sigh. “Right. Right.” He’d almost forgotten about the National Guard exercise. Heckhaus had a lot of secular firepower at hand. “Listen, I don’t think we can control Langley’s mood, but we should definitely try to keep off the radar until we make our move to reach Denisov. Don’t you think?
“I do… wait.” The Zombie smirked. “You want to stay away from Schuler and avoid upsetting Langley?”
“Yeah.”
“What if we just tried running for it? No Schuler, no capture from New York.”
The Baron blinked. “What? Run from here? There are soldiers.”
The Zombie glanced around; nobody was nearby. “No. After the surrender, on the road. When New York ships us to Tammany, we bail from the car.”
The Baron gasped in understanding—then sighed again. Sometimes, by thinking very hard, he could become the dumbest man in the room. He’d been so bent on social manipulation and political power dynamics that he’d missed the straight road to freedom. “Better to never step into a cage if you can remain free. Fine, you win. We’ll break out en route if possible.”
The Zombie grinned so hard that his face would hurt, if not for his invincibility. “Standard jailbreak, okay? Intimidation, threats, then opportunity.”
The Baron chuckled. “That’s hardly standard. Only works because I’ve got you.”
“And I’ve got this.” The Zombie slid a hand into a pants pocket and pulled out Marco’s little Swiss army knife, flashing it to the Baron before dropping it back into hiding. “Call us a ride. I’ll be ready.”
The Baron stood up and yelled to the crowd. “Can anyone take us to Tammany? High Oracle Gagliano won’t want to be kept waiting. We should probably go!”
“Hold your horses, Baron!” the Oracle shouted, looking up only briefly from his work.
d’Holbach walked over to Maurice’s podium and inserted himself into the small crowd of soldiers at its foot. “Maurice, please.”
The Oracle glanced up, flashing his irritation at the Baron. “What?”
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be. It’s not about commanding you around. We need to report to Tammany. Really.”
The Oracle huffed and pointed at a young, thin man with a suede jacket and a book bag slung over his shoulder. “Mason, you brought the car?”
“Yes, Oracle!” Mason said, casting his boss a quick salute. “Sure did, sure did. No problems, ready to go. Free to drive.” His voice carried a beatnik’s drawl, an affected laziness that was more style than inactivity, but it was double-speed. All things considered, he was acting especially chipper for someone awake before dawn.
The Oracle gestured towards the exit. “Pick a man with a Tommy and escort the Baron to Tammany. You can drop the soldier at his post when you make your next delivery.”
Mason saluted again. “That might be after dawn, sir. Late, you know?”
“If that happens, stay at the hall until we can give him new marching orders.”
“Yes, Oracle. Can do. Can do.” Mason had thin hair, thin eyes, thin skin traced with pale green veins. He swiveled around, looking for a soldier to accompany him.
It occurred to the Baron that this thin man was probably cramming down pep pills to work long hours. The amphetamines wore you down, or at least kept you up too long and moving too hard.
“I’m out back,” Mason said to the Baron. Then he walked away, calling out, “Decker! You’re with us!” A glance back to the Baron. “Follow, man, follow!”
A soldier with a Tommy responded to the call, falling into line behind Mason’s jittery footsteps. The Baron and Zombie trailed at the rear, and as a group, they crossed the temple towards the exit. On the way, the Baron evaluated the new threat in front of him.
This armed soldier, Decker, was typical of his kind, a country boy from upstate New York who’d fled the Adirondacks for the fields of France and Germany and had come back exhausted. Stubble peppered his cheeks, yellow teeth lurked beneath chapped lips, and shoulders sagged, as if he trudged beneath a permanent burden. Mason’s order didn’t mean much to him. It was all the same, whether he sat in some booth or rode shotgun back to headquarters.
The Baron had seen these cases in every great war, and they’d been given every diagnosis and treatment under the sun. The war had stolen a bit of their humanity, deprived them of the most basic comforts, and dulled them to pain and suffering until only fits of passion could revive them. The only consistent cure was time, and there hadn’t been enough time for this soldier. The Baron marked Decker as someone who’d have to be controlled in a fight.
The Zombie was scowling. He must’ve sensed the same risks. He’d probably aim to sit behind Decker, where he could strike easiest. Whether or not they could disable the soldier neatly would depend on their relative locations in the car.
Down the stairs, through the bookstore, out the front, and around the building. They reached a four-door sedan in the back alley. It was a pre-war model, heavy, creaking, and as dark blue as the ocean depths. The soldier opened the rear doors for the Baron and Zombie, and they sat down on cold, cracked leather seats.
The Baron sat on the left behind the thin man, Mason. The Zombie sat on the right behind the fatigued soldier, Decker. Doors shut, the car rumbled into life. Clutch, gears, and a touch of gas, and they rolled slowly through the side alley before emerging onto 8th Street.
Tammany Hall wasn’t far from here. In an objective sense, they’d have to act quickly, so the Baron launched immediately into the first step of the Zombie’s favorite jailbreak routine.
First, intimidation. “Do you know who I am?” the Baron asked. “Just curious.”
Mason glanced into the rearview mirror. “Yeah, you’re the Atheist, I know you. I’ve read about you in the lady’s book, yeah. You’re crazy, right, let a bunch of people die at Salem.” Amphetamines had clearly pushed Mason off-kilter. He was already talking too much.
“That’s right,” the Baron said. He wouldn’t have characterized the events of Salem as “letting” people die, but it wasn’t worth hashing out whose responsibility it was. People died when the Zombie fought on the Baron’s behalf, and that was that.
“I don’t know you.” Decker patted the stock on his Tommy in his lap. “But I think you’re gonna stay calm and quiet.” He cast a tired glance back at the Baron. “Ain’t that right?”
“Ignorance like that can get a man killed,” the Zombie said plainly.
Decker shifted in his seat to look behind himself, and a flicker of harsher emotion passed over his baggy face. “A Nip, talking about ignorance.”
“I’m not Japanese—”
“Shut it, Nip,” the soldier said, and he began to shift back, as if interrupting the Zombie had established dominance.
“Cool your jets,” warned Mason, casting a wide-eyed gaze at the soldier. “We don’t need fighting. Not with these two. Nuh-uh.”
“Whatever,” Decker muttered.
Second, make threats. The Zombie slipped the Swiss knife out of his pocket, thumbed open the blade and said, “You turn your back on me like I’m a civvie.”
“You are one,” Decker muttered.
“Ha! You aren’t stopping a scrap. You’re starting a row.”
“What?” the soldier asked gruffly. “I’m armed, Nip.”
The Zombie leaned forward in his seat. “Turn around or I’ll knife you, asshole.”
Decker lifted his Tommy off his lap.
“Just cool it!” Mason shouted, slamming both hands on the steering wheel.
The soldier lowered his weapon back to his lap, grimacing at the driver. “Will you calm down?”
Mason took one hand off the wheel long enough to slug Decker in the arm. “Fuck off, dippy! That’s the Zombie!”
“Stop shouting!”
“Look here!” the Zombie called. When the soldier glanced his way, the Zombie ran the edge of the blade across an eyeball, eliciting a quiet gag of disgust from Mason, who was watching in the mirror.
“That a circus trick?” Decker asked.
“Nah, man, he’s invincible, invincible!” Mason said urgently.
“What?”
“That’s the Salem killer, man!”
“Him?”
“You just saw it, man!”
“What—the eye thing?”
The Zombie interrupted their argument: “I’m very real, and very dangerous. Why is this even under discussion?”
“Just treat them well,” Mason insisted. “We’ll be all right, just… well.”
Decker grunted with frustration, keeping his focus on the driver. “You know, my brother wanted me to make a wish for my temper. That’s why he got me into this cult. He didn’t say those stories were real.”
Mason twitched his shoulder. “Well now you know!”
“I thought Apostasy was like the Bible or something.”
“Look again!” the Zombie cried, and when the soldier looked, he pushed the tip of the blade into his nostril and stretched his nose as far as it could go without bending the metal.
“God fucking damnit,” Decker cussed. “Will you stop being weird?”
The Zombie drew the knife down his face, slowly dragging the edge into the folds of his skin, tracing the grooves of his heavy sneer, his sharp display of killer intent.
“You should apologize,” the Baron said calmly. “He’s murdered men for less.”
“Yeah, whatever. Sorry,” the soldier muttered irritably. “I know the stories. Sorry.” He faced forward, as if avoiding the Zombie’s glare made it a little less real.
Now both driver and guard were off-kilter. The Baron only needed one more thing before the Zombie could spring them from this momentary prison—an opportunity. They were heading down 14th Street, and there were at least three stop lights between here and Tammany.
If one of those lights brought the vehicle to a stop, the Baron could safely bail. He hadn’t buckled up. The door wasn’t locked. It’d be little more than a second to freedom. He’d run while the Zombie disabled both threats and potentially the car itself.
The Baron checked his watch. Radium dials formed a vertical line, 6AM. There was a little street traffic right now, but very soon, the roads would fill up and the sidewalks would flow with pedestrians of every size and shape. Within the next few minutes, hiding in plain sight would become far, far easier.
They breezed through the first stop light, but it flipped from green to yellow at the last moment. The second light, further ahead, was still green, but it’d turn yellow soon, then red before they arrived. That’d be the spot. He lightly snapped his fingers at the Zombie.
His friend took notice. He switched grips on the little knife, made eye contact with the Baron, and then eyed the soldier in the seat ahead. It was a question.
“Where?” the Baron silently mouthed towards his feet.
The Zombie patted his right shoulder and arm. Disable the shooting arm.
The Baron shook his head. While it’d be advantageous if Decker couldn’t shoot, both New Yorkers were in the right state of mind to hesitate or even surrender. Being aggressive would trigger the soldier’s fight or flight response, and flight wasn’t an option.
With a subtle frown—barely visible in the pre-dawn gloom—the Zombie folded up the knife and returned it to his pocket. He didn’t like the Baron’s orders, but he understood that doing the right thing was often risky. Though the Baron walked beside a violent and evil man, they could work together to minimize the spread of unnecessary misery and pain.
The destination stoplight loomed, streaked out in the windshield glass. Twenty meters to a full stop, and Mason eased the brakes, slowing down. Headlights cut across the middle of their vision; a dark sedan was accelerating towards the intersection from the right.
“Speeding before sunrise,” Mason muttered, judging the other driver.
When the new car hit the intersection, it swung sharply left, locking its brakes. Tires shrieked against the pavement, and it fishtailed and slewed into their lane, turning to face them head on.
“Fuck me!” Mason yelled, slamming on his own brakes.
The onrushing car matched the motion, screeching to a halt in front of them. In their own headlights, they could see a windshield of sea-green glass, cracked from end to end from a gunshot. It was a CPUSA vehicle, battletorn from some earlier conflict.
The Zombie flipped out his knife.
Mason tried to shift into reverse but hit neutral and gunned the engine. Tires rolled forward slowly. Not a stable situation, but no time to wait.
“Go,” the Baron ordered, and he threw open the rear door.
“Where?” Decker started.
“Fuck ‘em!” Mason yelled.
The Baron jumped out of the car and into a full blown sprint towards the intersection.
Union Square Park was on the northeast corner, filling the entire block bordering Tammany Hall. Once upon a time, it’d been a common site for worker rallies and other public displays of the political machine. Here and now, it was two hundred yards of open plaza surrounding a claustrophobic grove of dense trees. In this stretch of open medians and broad intersections, there was no closer cover. The borders were all medium-rise office buildings and tenements, forming an unbroken brick-to-brick wall. It was either the woods or the open street.
The Zombie stepped out of the car with an open blade brandished.
Decker got out in front of him, immediately stepping up to control the situation.
The driver’s door opened on the CPUSA vehicle, and a man called out, “Baron, stop or die!” It was a voice with confidence, and one the Baron heeded immediately. He paused at the median, turning to face the voice, to recognize the dangerous man who’d found them.
This man normally wore an Anglican cassock; today, he wore black wool clothes and leather gloves. The eyes behind his lustrous copper frames were clear and steady. He didn’t smile. No cheerful cries rose from his throat. He was fully lucid and in control.
He also wasn’t visibly armed, and the Zombie was staring at him.
“Meister Schuler?” Decker called out. Even this barely-inducted cultist recognized the face of the most powerful man in their cult.
“Point your weapon at the Baron,” Schuler commanded. “Do not fire unless I have explicitly commanded it, or you will die.”
Decker turned nervously and sighted his Tommy over the top of the car.
The Zombie didn’t like that. He whipped his arm over the door and stabbed Decker in the arm like a viper’s strike to the tricep, in and out. Decker squealed, twisting around; the Zombie came around the rear door, caught the soldier’s face in his free hand and shoved his head back through the front door’s window. Safety glass splashed out of the frame, and the soldier slumped, terribly dazed, leaning against the open car door.
Mason was terrified. He threw open the driver door and flew for Union Square Park on wings of adrenaline and methamphetamine, leaving his vehicle in neutral gear. The sedan rolled forward, dropping the dazed soldier to hit the back of his head on the asphalt. Then the car ran up against Schuler’s parked vehicle, bumper to bumper, and stopped with a soft crackle of bent metal. Screaming like he was about to die, Mason had abandoned everything.
“Do you have a gun?” the Baron yelled to Schuler.
Schuler raised his left arm, and showed them a shoulder holster pulled far back, holding a black 1911. “I stole it this morning—with the car. Don’t make me use it.”
The Zombie seemed to hesitate, lowering his knife hand. Behind the door, he slowly turned the weapon over, settling the back of the blade against his palm. The point pressed against the base of his thumb. The blade was gripped tight between his fingers, with the handle out. The Baron could see it through the open car doors. It was a knife-throwing stance.
“I think we all understand the futility of resisting me?” Schuler called.
The Zombie raised and whipped his arm down faster than most men could react, but in perfect concert, Schuler calmly stepped to one side. The knife sailed down the street, barely passing by Schuler, and snapped when it struck pavement.
The Zombie didn’t hesitate or marvel at the dodge. If a Diviner could avoid an arrow by intuition of the human position, there was no hope of a thrown knife striking the target. His awareness of the environment was too absolute, fed into him directly from the gods.
That throw was about buying time for the real attack.
The Zombie charged the Diviner, sweeping in to punch him center of mass, an undodgeable blow from an invincible man. Trying to guard against the hit would only break Schuler’s bones. Yet the Diviner shied back while folding over the hit, grunting as the air burst from his lungs. For a moment, it looked like a solid blow—then Schuler rolled off to the right, immediately sucking in a breath and dancing back, light on his feet. One hit, no kill.
“Fucking slug!” the Zombie yelled.
“You know how this works!” the Diviner cried. “I hear the music of your miracle, and you can’t choose to change the tune. I won’t even throw you around, and I’ll still win!”
The Zombie raised his fists into a fighting stance. “You can’t shoot him without giving me an opening,” he said to the Diviner. “I’ll beat you down.”
“Strike me if you like. I’ll play harmony to your notes, mechanical man!” Schuler grinned. “Divine intervention can never kill me!”
The Baron was frozen with indecision. If he stayed, they lost, but if he turned to sprint, Schuler would absolutely harm him if not outright kill him, exactly as threatened. Of all creatures on this wide world, a skilled Diviner had the least to fear from the Zombie. Their past with Kaiser Abbas had proven this true. Abbas had taken hundreds of blows from the Zombie’s fists, and he’d always moved by intuition, forcing an exact method for the gods’ intervention. Against the Diviner, the Zombie’s invincibility would never produce a killing force. Every punch was soft.
This was hopeless, and he wasn’t even taking into account that the Zombie was an object, susceptible to prestige. Meister Schuler could launch the invincible man into a nearby office building like a catapulted stone.
The Zombie tried for a grab, fading right in order to back Schuler against the open driver’s side door of his car. Without looking, Schuler took an extra step left, jumped backwards onto the car, and rolled neatly over the hood of the vehicle. After coming to his feet on the far side of the vehicle, he bowed like an acrobat.
The Zombie gawked, then glared. If there’d been even a moment of hesitation, he could’ve nabbed Schuler and crushed him between his arms.
“I hear the whispers of the world,” Schuler said gleefully. “I heard the door behind me, saying no, no, I’m here, you can’t come through me.”
The Zombie cast a worried glance towards the Baron, then fixed his gaze back on his talkative foe. “I’m warning you, Schuler. Back off.”
The Diviner laughed. “I need no warnings, devils! I can hear you from a mile away. Even now, I hear the chant out of history, the Cat o’ Nine Lives. You were trying to go where I wasn’t, but I’m tuned in. You’re too loud on the bands. Despair, devils. Surrender!”
“Fuck yourself, asshole,” the Zombie said. He vaulted up onto the hood, a crunch of steel under his shoes.
“Going to jump?” Schuler mocked.
The Zombie charged across the vehicle.
Schuler didn’t even move to dodge. “Trip,” he said.
Something about the Zombie’s footing gave out. His left shoe came down on a frictionless stretch of car hood, and his foot flew out behind him, sending him forward into an awkward tumble off the vehicle.
“Slap!”
The air itself swept at the Zombie, batting him down to the Earth like a cat’s paw. The Baron could hear and feel the sudden gust of wind. The Zombie faceplanted into the asphalt, smashing it into gravel and forming the dent of a future pothole.
Schuler jumped, lifting his legs high.
The Zombie’s arm swept through the space where his feet had been.
Schuler took one step back as the Zombie flailed up at him, relentlessly kicking into the world to drive himself at his enemy, one foot crushing the wheel well, another jamming off asphalt, both arms reaching out to bend, maim, and strangle.
“Obstructed,” Schuler said, and using his right hand on the roof of the vehicle, he quietly vaulted over the struggling Zombie, just as the invincible man lunged across the ground. An instant later, the invincible man tore into the side of the vehicle with the ferocity and durability of a steel crocodile. Schuler landed on his feet in perfect silence, ignoring the vehicular violence, taking two light steps to clear some distance from the Zombie’s rage.
“Obstructed?” the Baron called.
Meister Schuler drew his 1911 and calmly aimed it at the Baron. He didn’t use the sight, but the Baron doubted a man who was that aware of his environment needed his eyes to aim. “Scales over his eyes,” Schuler answered kindly. “The gods understand what I mean. Now, surrender? Please?”
The Zombie rolled over on the ground, clawing at his face. There was a thin, opaque film over his eyes, fragile but concealing. It tore easily, and he blinked through fresh slits in the mask. “Fucker! What the fuck?”
“You aren’t a man,” Schuler said, keeping his focus on the Baron. “I may draw the world against you.”
“You’ll run out of prestige,” the Zombie said, pushing to his feet. “I’ll never stop.”
“After days, the struggle might exhaust me,” Schuler said, “but look! I measure your beloved Baron in seconds to surrender.” He wiggled his 1911 at d’Holbach. The barrel was a gaping hole that contained doom and destruction for nations and men alike. “Three, two—”
“We surrender!” the Baron shouted.
“Do we?” Schuler asked the Zombie.
The Zombie slammed his hands on the CPUSA car, banging in spans of the steel. One strike, two strikes, three strikes, four—
“Do we?” Schuler repeated loudly.
“We do,” the Zombie said, finally relenting on property destruction. His words were like a strong acid, sour enough to kill lesser men.
Schuler holstered the weapon and circled around the arrangement of the Baron and Zombie, coming towards the New York sedan that’d brought them to this battleground. The Diviner slid neatly over the hood of the car, and then peered through the passenger door, through the broken window at the soldier on the ground.
“Are we among the living?” Schuler asked.
“Yeah,” Decker croaked. He was sitting with his back to the thin running board, holding the stab wound closed with his left hand and blinking slowly. He was concussed after hitting the ground, and there was blood in his hair.
“Look at me, son.”
He looked up at Schuler. “Sir?”
“Do you want to keep working?” Schuler asked.
“Yes, sir,” Decker mumbled.
“Your head is healed. Your arm is healed. Mental problems, fixed for your loyalty.” He motioned the soldier to rise. “Get up. You’ll be driving the messenger’s car to the Tammany lot.”
Decker stood, taking a deep breath. “Thank you sir.” He touched the back of his head. “Still bloody though.”
Schuler laughed. “Take a shower later. Right now, work and feel better, son.”
“Yes, sir,” Decker agreed.
The Zombie walked over to meet the Baron while wiping his face down with his hands, seeking any scraps of the thin film that’d covered his eyes. “That was a new trick.”
“Yeah,” the Baron muttered, watching Schuler check through the New York vehicle.
“Think he invented it?” the Zombie asked.
“Oh yeah. That’s some fancy chemistry, pulling raw materials out of the air.”
The Zombie grunted. “I’ll bet you that the wish is expensive as hell.”
“At least you’ll know why you’re blind next time,” the Baron said.
“True enough.”
“Regardless, I don’t think we can beat him in the open. We’ve lost.”
“He knows we have the Cat too.”
“Yeah, I heard him.”
“Any plans then?”
The Baron breathed slowly, aiming to stay calm while thinking quickly. “We’ll go to Tammany and delay for as long as possible. Phyllis will make her move when she can. For all of Schuler’s posturing, I don’t think he’ll try to force you to hand over the Cat. New York would kill him for killing me in front of their leadership.”
Schuler approached but stopped a few feet away from them. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I must interrupt. Baron, you’ll ride with me. Zombie, you’ll run to the Hall entrance. Feel free to keep the Cat on hand, but do come. His life depends on your presence.”
“Are you threatening him?” the Zombie asked.
Schuler smiled. “I don’t have to. New York will be very unhappy, don’t you think?”
The Zombie closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “Where the hell is Enzu?” he asked. “He was supposed to be driving you.”
“I sent him on the first train back to the Hall.” Schuler started towards his stolen CPUSA vehicle. “There’s a war on. I found this, deployed on a city street!”
The soldier slammed the doors on the New York sedan and shifted into reverse, pulling away from the light fender bender. Only the CPUSA vehicle remained, with Schuler, the Baron, and the Zombie all arranged in the orange glow of the headlights.
Schuler pointed one finger across Union Park Square. “There’s your destination, Zombie. We’ll see you at the entrance.”
The Zombie gave the Baron one glance, then turned and sprinted for Tammany Hall.
“And then there was one,” Schuler said to the Baron. He opened the passenger door of his stolen vehicle and gestured to the seat within. “Please, have a seat. I’ll be your driver.”
Author’s Note:
We’re entering the third act of the book!
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“It’s magic,” the Baron muttered bitterly. He patted Marco on the cheek. The so-called gods were generous. There were no ironic punishments or accidental wishes. Even so, miracles could have such a terrible price. For the privilege of surviving multiple murders at the hands of others, this was Marco’s reward. A belly wound, torn stomach lining, and a future full of scars.
“You don’t believe in magic.” The Zombie removed his purple cardigan and wiped his knife and hands with the cloth, then draped it over Marco’s seeping gut wound.
“You know what I meant,” the Baron complained.
Phyllis offered the Cat o’ Nine Lives to d’Holbach. Her wrist trembled as if it weighed as much as a human life. What a terrible burden it was, lifted in a blood-red hand.
“Give it to the Zombie,” the Baron said.
She pivoted, and the Zombie waited like a platform to receive the prize. She dropped the Cat in his palm, and he laughed and slipped it in his pants pocket with the little Swiss army knife. To the Zombie, it was a trivial thing, a pale echo of immortality.
Then Phyllis kneeled beside Marco and gently kneaded her hands on the purple sweater, cleaning them a little. “How are you feeling?” she asked him.
The young man was pale and breathing slowly. “I’m not dying,” he whispered.
“People don’t struggle much when they’re freshly wounded,” the Zombie said. “The real pain starts when the infection kicks in, but we’ll clean you out and zip you up first.”
“You know—” He paused to swallow and clear his throat. “You know too much.”
“That’s because I used to be a murderer,” the Zombie said, “but now I’m a friendly murderer. Come on. I’ll get you up.”
“Lift carefully,” the Baron warned.
“So unnecessary,” the Zombie complained. He knelt and very carefully picked Marco up, one arm under his knees, the other around his back. Marco instinctually hung his arm over the Zombie’s shoulders. It was a smooth lift without any straining or effort. He could hold a static weight forever. “Comfortable, little man?”
“Uh—it’s bending my stomach a little.”
“Bear with it. I’ll keep you still.”
Marco blinked blearily, looking up at the man hauling him around like a fragile sculpture. “Huh. Touching you feels… normal?”
“Is that weird?”
“Yeah. You felt like a rock, last time you carried me.”
The Zombie grinned. “Just don’t move around.”
They left Jackson Square Park, abandoning a bench smeared with fresh blood. Spatters spread across the walk where it’d been slung like sweat. By sunrise, there’d be a crime scene report about one John Doe, an unknown victim of a violent assault.
As a group, they trudged through the pre-dawn darkness towards the block with the temple and the 8th Street Bookstore.
Marco closed his eyes and breathed a little deeper. “How do you two do it?”
“Do what?” the Baron asked.
“This is your job. It fuckin’ hurts.”
“Most of the time, it isn’t like this. It’s investigation, intimidation.”
“I get to scare a lot of people,” the Zombie said.
“We throw our weight around,” the Baron added. “We don’t sling bullets or drop bodies. If it was like this often, I wouldn’t be alive. Hell, civil society couldn’t continue.”
“People would call for your head,” Phyllis suggested.
“Like in the old days,” the Zombie whispered wistfully. “War in the streets.”
“Thank goodness it’s not,” the Baron replied before glancing towards the young man. “Do you know what my other job is, Marco?”
“No.” The young man’s answer was so vague, so terse. The pain must be rising up rapidly now. Attention was fading against the baleful intensity of that belly wound.
The Baron pressed on, trying to distract him. “I own real estate in Boston, but it’s all bad investments. They’re old buildings, last century—insulated with asbestos, every single one. Back in forty-nine, I read that the stuff can destroy your lungs. I’m immune, mind you, but I worry about my renters.”
“It’s costing him an arm and a leg to take it all out,” the Zombie said.
“Asbestos is bad?” Phyllis asked. “Where’d you learn that?”
“Military studies were done on ship builders during the war. The results are hush, hush right now, but it’s going to be big news, like the radium girls.”
“Huh,” Marco said, the universal signal of a young person who had no clue what was being discussed and was barely able to muster enough energy to feign interest.
“Their jaws fell out,” the Zombie said.
“Asbestos does that?” Marco groaned with disgust—or with pain.
“The radium girls,” the Zombie added cheerily. “They licked their brushes, and the radioactive paint killed their bones and their jaws rotted out of their mouths.”
“Gross,” Marco muttered, a barely audible word.
They crossed the street. Underneath the streetlights at the corner, the Baron stole a closer look at Marco’s pale, sweaty face. His grimace was set as if his muscles were pinned in place with needles. The bleeding was proceeding faster than he would’ve liked.
“Does your stomach feel full?” the Baron asked.
“Hurts a lot,” Marco said quietly.
“The Cat’s cavity?” Phyllis asked.
“Hurts… most,” Marco muttered.
“We’re almost there,” the Baron said. He suppressed the urge to tell Marco to stay calm. If the lady doth protest too much, that might clue Marco in to the facts. The Cat had left a ruinous mess in his stomach wall, and he was likely hemorrhaging heavily into his abdominal cavity.
The Baron stepped ahead of the Zombie and started walking faster. “Let’s hurry it up.”
“You ready Marco?” the Zombie asked.
“No,” Marco muttered.
“This is your best chance to say goodbye to us. There’s going to be a lot of shouting.”
Marco almost smiled through the pain. “That sucks.”
The Zombie laughed softly. “Tell me about it. But you’ll be all right, kid. I promise you. Murderer’s honor.”
They reached the entrance to the bookstore. The windows facing the street were lit with dim security lights, just enough to see the painted covers of the magazines arrayed on the shelves. The glass was clean, almost perfectly transparent. In the window of the front door, the schedule was hung. The store would open at 7AM on a Monday. The door was wood and glass seated in a frame and anchored to a brick recess. To get inside, it’d be easier to smash a window, but bringing down a large pane would draw a lot of attention.
“Can you smash the lock?” Phyllis asked.
The Zombie inspected the door carefully. “Not with my hands full.”
Phyllis exchanged looks with the Baron. “Do you want to put him down?”
The Zombie stepped closer to the door, inspected it to his satisfaction, and then twisted a little and toe-kicked the corner. The whole door rattled violently. He pulled back a little further and kicked again.
“You’re breaking the glass?” Phyllis asked.
“No.” He kicked a third time, the door banged like it’d been slammed, and there was a metal pang. He stepped back, Marco still laying in his arms, unmoved and unworried. “Yank it open now.”
Phyllis walked up, twisted the knob and pulled. The door opened easily. “What the hell?”
The Zombie nodded at an external bar latch on the back of the door frame. “They didn’t even use the lock. They just latched it from the inside and went upstairs, lazy bastards.” The Zombie nudged the seating of the latch where it’d fallen on the carpet. “Useless.”
“That’ll be the last easy step,” the Baron said.
They walked inside and Phyllis shut the door behind them. The bookstore was warmer, quieter. The half-height shelves were packed to the brim with Sunday’s delivery of books, and various hardbacks were displayed on stands, some bearing detailed renditions of beautiful men and women, others adorned in modernist, abstract illustrations of characters and symbols. These latter pieces handed focus to the title of the work or the author’s name, whichever a publisher thought would sell better.
Phyllis picked a green and yellow book off a shelf, went behind the cash register and sat down on a stool. She judged if she could read it by the dim light of the windows. “I’ll wait here,” she said. The temple was off limits to her. Even being found downstairs could endanger her life, but she might be able to spin a secular cover story from here.
“If someone finds you,” the Baron said, “tell them a European man took your son upstairs to meet with a doctor. When they ask who, give them my name. They’ll come running.”
“Just make it fast,” Phyllis said.
“Are you sure it wouldn’t be safer to wait across the street?” the Zombie asked.
“The Baron’s cover story makes more sense if I’m here,” she said, “and if I’m out on the street, CPUSA might find me. Down here, I’m at least hidden.”
“We’ll vouch for her if it comes to it,” the Baron said.
Marco’s head lolled back a little and he blinked at the ceiling. “Do I have a story?”
“You were stabbed by a Russian cultist,” the Baron said, “in Jackson Street Square.” He stopped at the temple entrance near the bathrooms in the back and tried the knob. Locked, but it wasn’t a particularly tough door either. “I’m going to kick this one in.”
“Go for it,” the Zombie said.
The Baron reared back, then kicked the door near below the knob with the full of his foot. It flew inward with a crack, spraying thin splinters onto the frayed carpeting. The thin latch had punched through the wooden door jamb without much effort. It wasn’t even reinforced with a metal plate.
Much like the well-worn stairs that lay behind it, it was a relic of cheap residential construction. Before Greenwich Village had become a thriving community of counterculture, art, and literature, it’d been a home for immigrants and low-class laborers like stevedores and construction workers. Before this had become a temple, it’d been a poverty-stricken apartment row.
The Baron marched up the stairs. The kick would wake the dead, but he’d deflect all anger and complaints by yelling about an injured boy. He’d demand the Oracle’s help. This was a bloodsoaked emergency, and cheap doors could be fixed later.
The Zombie followed him closely with Marco in his arms, heading up the steep stairs to a brief landing and a thin white door. At this final vestibule, the Baron turned the knob and threw it open into the great auditorium of the temple. It was at least a quarter of a mile long and fully lit, even at 5AM.
A man with a rifle flinched back from the swinging door. “Hello!” he cried with mocking surprise, and a crowd turned around to see their arriving guests. The noise of that movement was too loud, a unison of shifting cloth and scraping boots, all moving at once.
“Baron d’Holbach?” shouted the Greenwich Oracle from a raised podium.
The Baron had expected some pre-dawn activity, but even for the laboring class, this was the hour to rise, not the hour to muster for action. Yet the auditorium wasn’t empty. The Greenwich Oracle wasn’t asleep in a room near his desk. No, New York was already moving.
More than a hundred men were scattered across the floor plans of three buildings, many forced to stand for a lack of nearby seats, and they were armed to the man with rifles and SMGs of every make and design, a veritable armory of surplus gear from the war.
The Baron and the Zombie shared a look. No wonder the front door had been only latched, not locked. New York cultists were readying to deploy on foot throughout the neighborhood. There hadn’t been any buses or cars on the street—this company of occult warriors had spent the night at the temple, readied its armory in the dead of night, and were moving out to their posts before dawn.
Many men had half-raised their weapons at the sight of the Zombie. A tickling feeling crawled up the Baron’s spine, a sense of danger deferred. You couldn’t harm someone in a temple without ruining its sanctity, but there was a desire to threaten the Baron that suffused the crowd like electric charge. As the Zombie had suggested, he was one of their targets—but not necessarily the only one. You didn’t need an army to bring in one reasonable philosopher.
Into the silence, New York’s local leader, Oracle Maurice Clare, furious and as red-faced as his hair, shouted, “Is that blood on that boy?”
The Baron took a big deep breath, buying himself a moment to think. There was no way back. Only forward. Marco’s life depended on this. “Good!” he shouted back.
“What?” the Oracle asked. The crowd was staring them down.
“I’m glad you’re all here! We can avoid any stupid fighting and solve this now!” He strode forward and pushed his arms out ahead of him, sweeping members of the crowd aside. Hand on a Garand. Knuckles against a Thompson. Aside, aside, he pushed them, and the Zombie followed closely. There was a table. The people there picked up their weapons and moved out of the way, letting social momentum push them aside.
The Zombie laid Marco out on the table.
The Baron grabbed the purple cardigan and swept it back off the great weeping wound in Marco’s belly. The boy’s shirt was half-up, stuck to his skin with blood. “A Soviet cultist accosted us in Jefferson Square Park. This young man tried to help me and the Zombie, and he was stabbed for his trouble.”
There were hisses and mutters of disapproval.
“Quiet!” the Oracle roared. “Baron d’Holbach, what are you doing here?”
The Baron looked around at the myriad confused faces. He hoped that the Soviets—that yesterday’s fights—were the main cause for organizing on this scale. “I’m here for the same reason you are,” the Baron guessed, “there’s a fifth column out there.”
“There really are Communists?” a man asked beside the Baron.
“I’ll do the talking!” Maurice said loudly.
The Baron struggled to recall the exact excuse he’d fed the young Osman. “How much have you heard? I told Osman to tell you, but I never did find that dossier on the nobles.”
“Did Osman help you escape yesterday?” the Oracle asked, practically an accusation.
“What do you think?” the Baron replied, projecting utter certainty with flint and steel in his voice, sparking but not yet starting a fire of resentment. “He’s the son of Osman! He made a judgment call for the sake of New York herself!”
Maurice waved the Baron closer, drawing him through the crowd with a come-hither curl of his fingertips. “Baron, his loyalty isn’t in question, but your corrupting influence is.”
The Baron found himself five meters from the podium, looking up at the Oracle. “These interrogations are pointless. You need these men to quell the fighting in your streets. You aren’t here to arrest me—”
“Like hell we aren’t!”
“Oracle—”
“You’re going to Tammany Hall!”
The Baron acted exasperated. “Yes, of course! Do you think I would’ve marched into the lion’s den if I didn’t expect to meet the lion? This is more important than that!”
The Oracle tipped his glasses down and observed Marco slowly breathing on the tabletop. “Why is that boy here then? Mm?”
“I owe him. He saved my life, and I want to buy the prestige to heal him.”
“That’d be an expensive wish—”
“I can afford it.”
“Your story is ridiculous! The sun hasn’t even risen, and somehow, that dusty corner of a park—that fucking miserable scrap of dead earth—bore witness to violence between three men and a child? A boy who saved you, even when you have the devil himself on your side?”
“He was fast, and we were surprised.”
“And the Soviet stabber—is he a corpse in the park? Was he wounded?”
“No. He dodged after the failed stabbing. Completely gone.”
“Conveniently gone,” Maurice said, nearly spitting that last word. “This is a hoodwink, I can smell it. These rotten lies.”
“It doesn’t matter what you think,” the Baron said, choosing open defiance over any further inquiry. “One of your vassals is dying, and I want him to live. I’ll pay for him.”
“Your reputation isn’t sterling,” Maurice said. “Your checks might as well be paper.”
“My reputation is for morality, and my bank will back my checks. I will pay, and this boy will live because it’s right.”
Oracle Maurice tapped his fingers on his podium. He stared at the Baron, and the Baron stared back. “No,” the Oracle said finally, “I’m not healing the boy.”
The Baron’s gut filled with boiling bile. There was a lot he was willing to endure, but a religious leader couldn’t refuse to help someone. “Are you a monster?”
“I won’t be bullrushed in my temple.” Maurice pointed to Marco. “One corpse would be worth the integrity and authority of my office.”
“He’s one of your vassals!”
“We have countless vassals, Baron, and at least one of them dies every day. The question I should ask myself is, why would someone as important as you come back here, after running away, unless there was a very good reason?”
“His life is the reason!”
“I don’t believe that. Tell me why you’re really here.”
“There is no other reason.”
“Maybe you’ll tell Tammany.”
“Yes, fine, I’ll tell Osman, Tweed, and Gagliano in person. Just heal the boy!”
“We’ll wait first,” Maurice said sternly. “Once I get word from them, then I’ll heal him.”
“No, no.” The Baron turned back, rushing to the table where Marco was laid out, pale and waxen with blood loss. “Look, man! This is fatal! If you don’t heal him now, he’s going to bleed out!” He looked down upon Marco, whose eyes fluttered open. It was a terrifying thing to shout, but he met the boy’s gaze, and he nodded once. I’ll save you, he mouthed.
General muttering was sweeping through the crowd. Opinions were taking shape—about the Baron, about Marco, about Maurice’s stubborn refusal. Who was to blame?
Maurice was quick to glance around, to set terms that resolved the tension: “Listen! If the boy knows what you’re hiding, he can tell us, and then we’ll heal him.”
Marco turned his head to look at the Baron for approval or disapproval. The Baron did nothing. If he indicated that Marco had something to hide, Marco was doomed. If any of them admitted that they had the Cat, Oracle Maurice wouldn’t heal Marco until they’d given it up. They couldn’t acquiesce to these demands. They had to find another way forward.
“Put yourself in this young man’s position,” the Baron said, turning away from Marco and returning his attention to the Oracle himself. “Think morally, Maurice. I’m buying prestige from you. I’m paying for his life. If you were in his position, what would you think about the man who refused to heal him because of a petty contest?”
“I’d hate him,” the Oracle said from the high podium. “I’d fear him.”
“He shouldn’t have to fear you. You’re an Oracle. A peaceful leader.”
Maurice pulled off his coke-bottle glasses and looked at the Baron with bare, pale blue eyes. “Does this look like a peaceful assembly? You either started a war or stumbled across one in our sovereign territory. Which is it?”
“Stumbled. I didn’t start this fire.”
“But you blew on the flames, didn’t you? I’m placing guards across Lower Manhattan on General Osman’s orders. He’s convinced there’s about to be a Soviet assault on New York territory. Langley is moving the National Guard into town. Is that your fault too?”
“No. Langley has seen some of the same things I have, that’s all.”
“And what would those be?”
“It’s best if I tell Tammany directly.”
“You called me a leader,” Maurice said grimly, “but you don’t let me lead. You subvert my authority, as if we were peers and you weren’t a guest in my temple. Ask yourself, Baron. Am I punishing the boy, or am I afraid that you’ll play me for a fool? Don’t answer, I don’t care about your excuses. I simply can’t allow you, an outsider, to command me.”
“I’m not commanding,” the Baron said. “I’m buying, begging.”
“The price is more than money then. The price is information. Why do you want the boy healed? What’s so important about him that you’re willing to pay, after you let a police captain perish in the streets of Brooklyn?”
The police captain, which the Zombie had seriously injured, had been alive when they fled. “I didn’t let that captain die. His cultic associates killed him.”
Maurice scowled. “I checked the records. He was not a cultist.”
The Zombie clapped his hands together, hard, and the sound made everyone flinch in a momentary wave. “He made a wish to unjam his gun!” the Zombie called. “That dead police captain was a cultist! I will swear to it on the hidden names of all the gods!”
The Baron elaborated in the silence that followed: “He was a member of the US communist party, a fifth column fighter. He wasn’t on your record because he was inducted by the Soviets. Most of them were, if not all of them.”
Maurice frowned. “You still haven’t given me anything useful, Baron. You still haven’t given me an explanation for why the Soviets are here.”
The Baron could see he was on the losing end of this argument. The Oracle was desperate to establish dominance, and he had a crowd of followers who’d respect his decision. Not one of them was stepping forward or speaking out in Marco’s defense. He could bleed to death in front of them, and they’d accept it. Conquering the Baron’s will was more important. They weren’t here for the Baron, but he was seen as responsible. He had to give them a half-truth without contradictions, or Marco would bleed out on that table.
The Baron took a deep breath, settling his heart. “Fine, Oracle. Fine. Do you remember the ship scuttling task that Schuler was researching on Saturday?”
Maurice nodded once. “The Port Authority is still dredging.”
“Right. This young man’s father was Federico Barilla, who was the point of contact with all the men who died on that ship. Federico told him about the scuttle, relaying information from the survivors. Apparently, Janos Nagy was on board.”
That name landed like a stone striking a pond. A ripple of conversation again rushed across the crowd. Nagy was famous.
The Baron talked over them. “Nagy was responsible for the loss of life on the Paines, and I believe the Soviets aimed to eliminate the survivors and cover up Nagy’s attempt to snipe the task. This makes the young man, Marco Barilla, a natural target.”
The Greenwich Oracle put his glasses back on his face. “Is this true, Mr. Barilla?”
Marco projected as well as he could. “Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything the Baron left out of his account.”
“No, sir. My father told me about Nagy.” Marco swallowed, his mouth drying up. “I didn’t keep my lips tight enough. Letting the secret out got me stabbed.”
Internally, the Baron beamed. Marco might’ve saved his own life with that tidy little lie. He rushed to reinforce it in words, using his many years of experience to build out the tale. “We’d better hope that nobody in here is a member of the CPUSA,” he said loudly, “or we’ve just informed the literal fifth column that we’re onto them. We’re all targets now.”
Oracle Maurice frowned at the Baron’s upbraiding. “We’re armed targets,” he said, “under my command and loyal to New York. Even if one of these men was once a communist, he’s a New York vassal now. That’s servitude to our cause and our cult. For life.”
The Baron knew a fair amount about New York theology, and he was glad to avoid their inner circle. The last time he was in the city, he’d been called in for a lecture about Salem and the arc of history. He was hardly willing to listen to Maurice expound on similar principles now. “Fair enough,” he said. “Can I buy the prestige to heal Marco? He’s given up everything he knows, and I don’t want him to die for my defense.”
Maurice grunted. “We’re still taking you to Tammany afterwards.”
The Baron bowed slightly in deference. “I understand the need for a debriefing. I won’t struggle.”
Oracle Maurice stepped down from his podium. “Believers, if you’ll please be patient and keep Mr. Barilla’s company, I have a business transaction to complete with the Baron.”
“Yes, sir,” chorused several of the soldiers.
“Follow me,” the Oracle said. “The only public phone is at my desk.”
They walked a rolling aisle, up and down over the businesses below, always in the shadow of the countless tapestries hanging above. The Oracle’s steel desk stood with an open vellum book spread on its surface, a photograph of a beautiful woman turned out to the world with pride, and an inkwell at hand for writing. The Oracle’s direct line must’ve run out of his apartment and beneath the carpet on this hindermost platform. He opened a drawer and pulled out a rotary set, which he set on the desktop with a heavy clang.
“One moment.” This was a number the Oracle knew by heart. He spun the dial almost too quickly to follow. The Baron and the Zombie stood together across from him on the other side of the desk and waited. After a moment, it was ringing out.
A voice picked up on the other side.
“High Oracle Gagliano, please,” said the Oracle, “This is Maurice Clare. It’s a large buy. I’ll need his approval, and a re-up from our bankers tomorrow.” There was a reply. “No, he’ll be up. He was working with Osman and Tweed. Thank you.” He was transferred internally. After a moment, his face lit up—the Greenwich Oracle was engaged. “High Oracle, I’ve taken custody of Baron d’Holbach and the Zombie. He’s agreed to come to Tammany Hall for a debriefing.” Gagliano must’ve only spoken one word. “Yes, a peaceful surrender. He’s also making a large purchase to heal a young man. I just need your approval.” He smiled. “Yes, standard price. Gut wound. I should have enough, but I’ll get a detailed breakdown. Yes. A year of prestige at least. I’ll take a receipt.” He looked up at the Baron. “Baron, any medical details?”
The Baron answered quickly. “Stab wound to the stomach, four inches long, and a hemorrhaging crater in his lining the size of a silver dollar. The Zombie probed with his fingers.”
“Did you get that?” the Greenwich Oracle asked. “Thanks, I’ll put him on.” He shoved the base towards the Baron, then offered the receiver. “Gagliano wants a word.”
He accepted the phone. “Hello?”
“You’ve been looking into the murder?” asked the old mafioso.
Which murder? No, the Baron couldn’t ask that. There’d been too many since Saturday to be certain which he’d discussed with Gagliano. “I have.”
“Old Osman says the Soviets are out to kill him. That true?”
“Not exactly. They have a dossier on him.”
A grunt so wet that it sounded like a sputter of mucus. “Every fucking cult has a dossier on us. Why do you care?”
“Members of the former communist party have been killing the survivors of the scuttling of the John G. Paines. Yesterday, I managed to save one of their lives.”
“Really? Who?”
“Piazzi. The old frogman.”
“Oh, shit—Piazzi? Damn. Figures the lame leg would survive.”
The Baron said nothing.
“So some Russian-trained assholes have been killing the family?” Gagliano asked.
“Yes, Oracle.”
“Report to me in person. General Osman needs to hear this.”
“I will.”
“We’ll sell you the prestige for your vanity healing. Don’t waste time.”
“We won’t waste time,” the Baron said. He looked at Maurice.
“Good.” Gagliano hung up the phone.
The Baron hung up the receiver. His hand was off the phone for no more than a second before it rang again. High Oracle Gagliano must be calling back. He picked it up.
“Gagliano?” the Baron asked.
“Baron d’Holbach?” asked the happy, lilting voice of Meister Schuler. “I heard a hymn in the morning winds. You’re here, but to find you so easily…” He sighed, terribly pleased.
Without missing a beat, “Yes, I’ll write the check to Tammany Hall,” the Baron said, and he casually hung up the phone on the one man that truly frightened him. Schuler’s arrival was inevitable, but if they could’ve avoided him until they were in and out of Tammany Hall, they would’ve been mostly in the clear to deliver the Cat that afternoon. Now that the Diviner was aware of the Baron’s position. They’d have to face New York’s response to the Cat, and they hadn’t planned that far ahead in detail. It was time to think about how to escape from Tammany, if and when they were under arrest for hiding the Cat o’ Nine Lives.
That was a problem for later though. Marco’s wound couldn’t wait any longer. The Baron pulled out his pocket book. “How much for the prestige?”
“One thousand.”
“That’s more than a third of a man’s income.”
“It’s less than a car for his life.”
The Baron pulled out his checkbook and filled out a check to Tammany Hall. In the memo, he wrote down his phone number in Boston and his first expected date of availability. There was a fair chance the bank would call him about the payment. His dark sense of humor was tweaked. If he died before Wednesday, he could rest easy knowing they wouldn’t get the payout. He handed the check over to the Greenwich Oracle. “We square?”
Marucie put the check in a desk drawer and stood. “Sure. If the check bounces, Schuler will find you.”
The Zombie laughed. “The only thing more reliable than his money is my invincibility.”
They left the desk and followed the undulating carpet road back towards the armed crowd. The Baron lagged back a little with the Zombie, then leaned in and quickly whispered, “Schuler knows we’re here. That last caller was him.”
The Zombie nodded.
“When you carry out Marco, tell Phyllis. We’re going to need help leaving Tammany.”
“Help from who?”
“Doesn’t matter. She can use her judgement, but if needed, she should feel free to tell our enemies that the Cat is involved. Make chaos if it’ll get us out of Tammany by noon.”
The Zombie chuckled. “I’ll tell her.”
The Oracle stopped and looked back at them from the peak of a rise. “What’s the wait?”
“I’m sorry. I was complaining about the price. Didn’t want to be rude.”
“You don’t have a choice,” the Oracle said.
“I know.” The Baron forced a gracious tone. “Thank you for your help.”
They followed the Greenwich Oracle closely, and the Baron resumed a fake conversation about raising the rent for six months on their active properties in order to recoup their costs. The Zombie was skeptical, arguing they’d push renters out of the market altogether. It was a dry, technical discussion, which the Oracle ignored.
Veterans of the last war were clustered around Marco, weapons hanging from straps and rifles laid over their knees, speaking to him as if he were a member of the same unhappy fraternity. In a way that he could never tell them, he’d experienced the terror and pain of combat, though sharper and briefer. The story he must’ve told them about the stabbing was realistic enough. They were whistling at their own tall tales and some of them had scars to share.
The Oracle stopped at the head of the table near Marco’s face and asked, “Do you want another scar? Or do you want a clean healing?”
“Make him clean,” the Baron suggested.
Marco looked around at the veterans, as if seeking their approval.
“You’re too young,” said a man in his early thirties, still young himself. “You don’t need big scars to impress a woman.” He scratched a raised cut along his cheek. “Maybe keep a couple though, huh?” A polite chuckle passed through the assembled men.
“He’ll have time to get new scars. Clean them up,” the Baron said. “Check the one on his forehead and those on his back too, while we’re here.” What he was really saying was, Marco, you shouldn’t have to bear the reminders of death and the pain of survival.
The Oracle raised his eyebrows slightly and folded his hands at his waist, but if he was truly suspicious about the sources of the other scars, his pensive posture didn’t show it.
“I’m going to make a series of small wishes,” the Oracle said. “Their specificity will discount their value. I should be able to remove the damage, but if I miss anything because you haven’t reported it, you’ll have to heal it yourself. These are my terms, Mr. Barilla.”
“Yeah,” Marco said quietly.
“First, your wounds. You have a belly full of blood?”
“I feel sick.”
“That won’t go away, so don’t complain about it.” Oracle Maurice scratched his nose and adjusted his suspenders. Once he was mentally ready, he walked around the table and inspected Marco’s wound up close. “Clean, smooth. Sharply done. Easier to heal.”
The Baron and the Zombie stood in silence and watched.
The Oracle raised one hand high. “Gentlemen, servants of the gods, faithful workers of the divine, heed my words! With each step, your labors will save a young man’s life. Sing with me now, and bless the road to his recovery! Behold the miracle of our deeds!”
“Behold!” the crowd echoed, inciting a New York ritual for a great wish.
The Oracle lowered his hand over Marco’s belly, not quite touching the short wound. “I wish the ulceration in your stomach wall was closed!”
A murmur swept through the crowd, barely audible to the Baron.
The Oracle breathed out. “How do you feel, boy?”
Marco closed his eyes and swallowed. “That hurts a lot less.”
“Again, then! I wish cuts in your stomach were cleaned and closed.”
Another recitation through the crowd, finally rising into an audible chant: “Grant us grace as we work, for we work to earn grace.”
Marco twitched a little, clenching his teeth.
“How does it feel?”
“They’re moving and sticking.”
“Good. I wish the cuts in your abdominal walls were cleaned and closed!”
Another chorus for grace, now louder and more fervent.
Marco winced, twitching his arms at his sides.
“Did that tug on your muscles?” the Oracle.
Marco nodded rapidly, reddening with strain.
“These are rough patches, boy. Try not to overwork them until they’ve had time to finish mending. Again—I wish the gash in your skin was cleaned and closed!”
This was the miracle the audience had been waiting for. With fervor, they chanted at once, “Grant us grace as we work! For we work to earn grace!”
Marco’s skin—weeping and clotted and curled down and inwards and drying up and bruised—began to clear. The mash of blood and fluid evaporated and sublimated, and there was a stench like rotten meat cooking over a fire.
“Grant us grace as we work!”
The dead matter was oxidizing perfectly and blowing away; nothing was created or destroyed. The gods were efficient, and even when mass had to be added to a body, it was believed to come from somewhere nearby, if not just the air itself.
“For we work to earn grace!”
The skin flushed and stretched. Marco squealed in shock as nerves branched and touched; blood vessels sought their partners and matched up old avenues through the flesh. Everything in his corpus cried out at the misery it had endured, including the shock of its resurrection. The crowd fell silent, closing in and staring with wonder. The cut began sealing itself up, briefly filling with fibrous scar tissue like crammed white cobwebs before the fibers shrank and disappeared. Everyone watched in rapt attention as the wound was reduced to a red line, then a pink line, and finally nothing at all. It was a real miracle.
Relief flooded Marco’s face as normal function was restored.
“I wish your membranes were smoothed and unbroken. I wish all the infectious vectors were removed, all the intestinal matter restored to its place.” Maurice touched the place where the wound had been, as if amazed at his own occult power and the mastery of the gods over matter. “Where are the scars you need healed?”
“I have some old ones,” Marco said.
“Where?”
He bushed up his bangs. The Cat had grown back some of his hair, but the scar on his forehead was hard to miss. “One here.”
Maurice touched it. “Gods, what happened?”
Marco took a moment to answer. “A rock to my head, a long time ago.”
“I wish this scar was cleared.” He watched as the spot swelled gently, forming a shallow lump, and then receded and began to dry within seconds. The scar tissue now rested on a blank patch of pink skin, which flaked away when he brushed it with his fingers. “Your hair will grow back eventually. Any others?”
Marco slowly rolled over. “A few on my back.”
Maurice pulled up the teenager’s shirt and goggled at the sight. “Were you burned?”
“An old car accident,” Marco said feebly.
“I wish these were cleared.” He pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re nearly done with the prestige you bought, Baron.”
“That’s fine. It’s enough.”
“Good.” Maurice reached down and helped peel away the broad sheets of scar tissue on Marco’s back, much like peeling loose skin off human feet. It was a medical impossibility, beyond any human science and grossly unfair in its expense and exclusivity.
The Baron knew this was vanity, but he couldn’t bear to let Marco live in discomfort and sorrow. Yesterday’s wounds shouldn’t haunt him for the rest of his life, he didn’t deserve it.
“Anything else?” Maurice said. “I have enough for maybe one small change.”
Marco looked at the Baron, asking permission for something. He feared that his words might reveal too much, but it was fast becoming clear to the Baron that the Oracle knew they’d told an incomplete story. The money was paid however, and the man wouldn’t stop healing now.
“Ask for whatever you need,” the Baron said.
“Do I have my left kidney?”
“What?” the Oracle asked, becoming instantly upset. “Why would you be missing a kidney?” To the Baron, “Just what the hell has been happening out there?”
“It’s news to me,” the Baron said, staring at Marco.
The Oracle was pissed. “Liar! You filthy fucking liar.”
“Don’t talk like that,” the Zombie said gruffly.
“Why not? He’s a liar.”
“You have to leave the temple sometimes,” the Zombie said.
The Baron raised a hand. “Don’t threaten him,” he said. “Oracle Clare, can you tell him if he has a kidney?”
“Gods no, you can’t wish for knowledge—”
“Wish for a little pain in his working kidneys,” the Baron interrupted.
“I can’t wish to hurt him.”
“Then give him the prestige and let him wish for it himself!”
The Oracle gritted his teeth, then said quietly, “I wish you had three days of prestige.”
Marco sighed, feeling the high of prestige wash over him. It was his first real acquisition. His skin flushed bright red. It’d only be that pleasant one more time, on the day that he completed his first task. The high was never that good again. No drug high ever was.
“I wish to ache in my working kidneys,” the kid said.
He hunched over on the table. The crowd watched the exchange quietly, judging it with silent, interested eyes. What did the Oracle think of this? What did it mean when the Baron brought someone in who was missing a kidney? What was the secret?”
“I can barely feel it on my left side,” Marco muttered.
The Baron’s heart fell. It made a terrible kind of sense. The remains of the kidney had been preserved, but they were mostly scar tissue now, just barely functional enough to work. That’s all the Cat ever did, for in the spirit of ancient thrift, it had been created only to do enough and no more. It sustained life and a modicum of good health with minimal intervention, and one kidney could be weak, so long as the other one was clean and fresh.
The Baron gave the best advice he could. “Marco, if it’s ever infected, you should consider removing it. The cost of regrowing missing tissue is prohibitive. Organs are doubly so. Even though they’re well hidden, they’re complex and large.”
Marco took a long slow breath. “Can’t I live with just one?”
“You can, but listen. There might be enough of a kidney left. Someday, you might heal it with a subtle wish, if it isn’t a large change. Otherwise… I’m sorry.” It wasn’t likely, but he couldn’t bring himself to deny the possibility. He inflicted the pain of hope onto Marco, he knew he did, but the knowledge that he was responsible in some way for Marco’s permanent injury was unbearable. Miracles only went so far in a scarce world.
“I’ll get over it,” Marco said.
With that judgement rendered, the crowd stirred. “I’m missing a few fingers,” said one middle-aged man with a peppery beard, who had lost half his left hand. “You’ll do fine.”
“I lost half my teeth,” said one young man, who popped a partial denture off his gumline with his tongue, then settled it back into place and smiled. “Never could afford to grow them back. It’d take too many years of prestige, and I got bills and groceries.”
He wasn’t alone, but Marco didn’t answer their camaraderie. It was a moment of mourning, and these New York soldiers, mostly hired guns and ex-military, were exactly the kind of people who understood. They cleared away from the table, and nobody offered to help him up. Marco would do it under his own power, forcing himself to rise despite his sorrow.
Even without the Cat, living took a bit of will sometimes.
“I’ll walk you down,” the Zombie said. “His mother is outside,” he said to the Oracle.
“Yeah,” Marco said, pulling down the blood-crusted shirt over his smooth belly.
“More lies,” Maurice muttered at the Zombie.
“Does it matter?” asked the invincible man.
“No,” the Oracle replied. “You’ll go to Tammany. That’s enough.”
“Good bye, Marco,” the Baron said, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but you should never want to see me again. It’ll be better for your health.”
Marco couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Goodbye, Baron. And thanks. For everything.”
The Zombie pushed ahead through the crowd, and they walked out of the room and down the stairs, out into the world, alive and free.
“You’ve got a lot to answer to,” the Oracle told the Baron.
d’Holbach grunted. “We’ll see soon enough.”
Author’s Note:
Thus ends arc 14~
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
Join the Discord to discuss the story and hang out with other readers!
Join the Patreon to support the story and access 4 weeks of early chapters!
The Baron led the Zombie, Phyllis, and Marco out of Foley Square a little after 5AM. Together, they walked south to Chambers Street, at the northeast corner of City Hall Park. A handful of taxis were dropping off the first wave of bureaucrats and paper pushers who worked there or in the Municipal Building, and they flagged down one of the drivers for a ride to Greenwich Village. On the way, they reviewed the final details of their plan in four discrete steps. It was simple to implement, fairly flexible in case of failure, and elegantly solved multiple problems at once.
First, they would extract the Cat just outside the temple. The process would be messy, and it’d cause a legitimate medical emergency. However, with the Cat hidden on the Zombie’s person, they wouldn’t have to worry about anyone coercing them to give it up.
Second, they’d bring Marco into the temple to be healed. In every occult community, many people besides the banker assisted with major transactions of prestige and cash. Dedicated treasurers were common, but Oracles often doubled as middlemen for especially expensive payments of either kind. Since most medical wishes were costly, the Oracle usually had the banked prestige and practice to efficiently heal heavy wounds.
Thus, they’d bring Marco to Oracle Maurice Clare.
Third, they’d pay for the prestige to wish for Marco’s health. Denisov wouldn’t be able to assist anymore, and Phyllis’s pool was effectively off-limits. The Baron would have to pay for it with a check, and though it’d put a serious strain on his liquid funds, there was an opportunity to make the money back and then some. If they succeeded, the promised payment from the Orthodox faction would cover their losses many times over.
Fourth, they’d have the Zombie deliver Marco back to Phyllis. She would get the teenager to safety. The Baron would remain behind in the temple, surrendering to New York before Schuler could find them. Then the Zombie would return to him, and they’d wait for a summons from Tammany Hall.
They had the means.
The Zombie was once a skilled barber, having removed bullets and other sundry from the Baron’s body during the Fall of Trust. Technically, he hadn’t been taught proper surgery, but he’d known how to pick a man apart with a blade, and he’d always had either the advantage of someone’s prestige or the Baron’s natural resistance to help him. Similarly, though to a lesser degree, the Baron himself was familiar with practical anatomy, having assisted real surgeons with field hospital amputations and the autopsies of murdered officers during the Napoleonic Wars. Either one of them could cut out the Cat with a good knife.
They had the target.
The Oracle of the 8th Street Temple, Maurice Clare, was emotionally invested in bringing the Baron under control. He’d be desperate, malleable, so long as that prize was in sight.
It was the safest place in Manhattan.
Schuler would be searching around major subway stations, beginning most likely near the Biltmore Hotel. By rushing to a secure New York location, they were likely to avoid Schuler’s early sweeps, and any CPUSA members in Lower Manhattan would be avoiding New York’s troops. Best of all, they could surrender and send Marco to safety before Schuler detected the presence of the artifact, and if it was revealed, the temple’s neutrality would briefly protect them. After that, the Baron and Zombie would face New York’s massive, organized response.
The cabbie, who’d remained silent throughout the drive, asked them only one question as they neared 8th and Greenwich. “Are you writers in the Village?” He was an old man, poorly shaven, wearing an ascot cap and too many layers of clothes in place of a jacket. To hear him take an interest shocked them all back to reality. This was still New York City. This was still a secular world.
Their conversation had been too abstract and absurd to be worth hiding from secular ears. Now it was being reflected back onto them. The cabbie was placing their struggle into a secular context. How would it have seemed to him, to hear them talk about these things with familiarity? Artifacts, temples, prestige, and oracles were all sensible terms with pedestrian meanings, and the jargon of the occult reflected them in funhouse mirrors. The semantics of the occult did not map to the cabbie’s. It was yet another reason that the secret of prestige was easily kept. Leaks sounded more like fantasy than fact.
“Sorry, sir,” the Baron said from the seat behind the driver, “We’ve been so wrapped up in our project. We were rude.”
“Oh, it’s fine. What kind of writing is it?”
“Film script,” the Zombie answered. “Ever seen Destination Moon?”
The cabbie’s tired face rose into a sunrise-bright smile. “Oh, I loved it!”
“Did you? We’re working with the producer.”
“It was beautiful, all color, and those props! Did you know the moon was kinda like the Bonneville salt flats? I used to spend the night out there, when I was a youngster.”
“I’ve run the flats,” the Zombie said, and he wasn’t lying.
“There’d be hundreds of us out there after the races. The girls and the beer, you bet! We couldn’t sleep on the speedway though, so we’d go out onto the lakebed with our firewood, and there’d be these cracks in the salt pan wide enough to fit your thumb. Just like the moon, big old cracks, and grey as far as the eye can see. It was something.”
“It was beautiful,” the Zombie agreed.
The driver was smiling after his ramble. Ignorance really was a kind of bliss. Before Marco had become a cultist, swallowing the Cat had been little more than a favor to a half-absent father. It would’ve been easier if it could have remained that way, an artifact lost to the ages, just as it was better that the driver now believed they were spinning yarns.
They paid the fare and the cabbie dropped them off north of the temple at Jackson Square Park. It was a barren triangle of land at the intersection of 8th and Greenwich Avenue, something they’d bypassed yesterday by going up the back alleys of the rows. This little squib of park was surrounded by brick residential buildings, all red and brown.
Once upon a time, plants had grown in the soil here, but only barren dirt greeted them between spreads of rusted iron fencing, a scattering of concrete benches, and a dry fountain. Hollow tree planters pockmarked the fence border every meter or so, reminding the neighborhood of its failure to remain affluent or influential.
Once the taxi had driven off, they entered the park—the most poorly lit stretch of terrain in the area—and laid Marco out on a flat stone bench. This would be their operating table.
“Do you still have that knife?” the Baron asked Marco.
“Jesus,” Marco swore. “Are you talking about my Swiss army piece?”
“I am.”
“Yeah, I still got it.” Marco reached into a pocket, found the little knife, and offered it to the Baron. “You sure this will work? I had trouble cutting a steak with that thing.”
The Baron nodded carefully. “Trust me. It’ll be sharp enough to do the job.”
“Yeah.” Marco closed his eyes and shuddered.
“Do you want me or the Zombie to do it?”
“Who’d do a better job?”
“Honestly, the Zombie would. He’s way better at cutting people open.”
“Then him,” Marco said.
The Baron passed the Swiss knife over. “You’re up, friend.”
“Thank you!” the Zombie said with relish.
“Are you sure we can do this in poor light?” Phyllis asked.
The Baron glanced at her, face half-shaded in the pre-dawn dark, far from any street lamps. “Don’t worry. He’s got a sense for this kind of thing.”
The Zombie opened the little knife and held it up to his eye, inspecting the edge. “I’ll slice you quick. Just tell me, where’s the Cat?”
Marco opened his eyes and propped up on his elbows. “You don’t know?”
The Zombie snorted with delight. “Calm down. I know where your stomach is.”
“Jesus, how could you not know where it is? Jesus Christ.”
The Zombie lowered the blade, frowning at the young man. “I know where your stomach is. I’ll just need your help for a few seconds first. We’ll find the Cat, okay?”
“Okay, okay.” Marco took a deep breath and laid back down. “Jesus, okay.”
The Zombie tilted the little blade around like an instructor’s baton. “The incision will hurt, but no more than being punched hard in the stomach. What I’m saying is, you won’t even have to scream. It just won’t be that bad.”
“God, how do you know that?”
The Zombie grinned. “The Cat is what will hurt badly.”
Marco looked at the Baron. “Why?”
“It’s not just floating around in your stomach,” the Baron said.
Marco’s eyes opened a little bit. Realization must’ve hit him. The Cat hadn’t moved the slightest bit since he’d swallowed it. It was anchored to the stomach lining. “Oh, fuck.”
The Baron elaborated. “We’ll have to reach in and rip the Cat out of its seating. That’ll leave a bleeding crater in your stomach. Our hands aren’t clean either, so we’ll be rushing to heal you before you bleed too much or catch anything.”
“How do you know this?”
The Zombie laughed. “Pulling the Cat has killed anyone who wasn’t healed, kid. That’s why we came here before cutting you open.”
Marco rubbed his eyebrows and groaned. He would’ve preferred not to know the mortality rate of the surgery they were about to perform.
The Baron elaborated with the explicit goal of calming Marco down. “Pretty much the entire Orthodox succession since the rediscovery of the Cat is a series of peaceful guttings followed by another leader swallowing the damn thing. There’s no affordable way to wish it loose, if it’s even possible to wish it out. It’s either magical surgery or death.”
“It’ll be okay,” Phyllis said to Marco. “I’ll take it out. My hands are small, and I can clear your stomach first.” She cleared her throat. “I wish his breakfast moved into his small intestine.”
Marco squinted, groaning for a moment as his stomach made audible squelching noises. “Oh, that is weird. I thought you couldn’t do something like that.”
“It counts as healing ahead of a surgery,” Phyllis said.
He shuddered at the thought. “Okay, anything else?”
“I’ll give you thirty seconds of numbness,” Phyllis added, “but it will hurt eventually.”
“Okay,” Marco muttered. “Okay.”
The Zombie tapped the open blade against his cheek, little blue-yellow flashes as it caught the early light of some distant window. “There’s a silver lining. You’ll be able to brag someday to your friends. ‘See this scar here? This was when I was stabbed with a spear.’ They’ll buy it.”
“When would I have been stabbed with a spear?”
“That’s the fun part. Make it up!” The Zombie reached for the hem of Marco’s shirt.
“Wait! How’re you going to get me inside the temple?”
“I’ll carry you. Kick down the door. Simple. Now stop stalling.” The Zombie pulled up the hem of Marco’s t-shirt past his ribs.
Marco took a deep breath, his chest heaving.
The Zombie traced a finger on the left side of Marco’s abdomen, in the middle just below the last rib. “Is it there?”
“Uh—no? I felt it, uh, a little to the side.”
The Zombie moved his finger in.
“Other way.”
The Zombie tapped Marco on the left side, a couple of inches below the rib. “Right there?”
“Yeah, I remember it burning. Right there.”
The Zombie pressed in gently a few times. “I think I can feel it. Baron? Hold his chest. Phyllis? His waist. Don’t let him move.”
They positioned themselves as directed, putting their limbs down over his body. The Baron could feel Marco’s heart thundering beneath his arms. “Calm down.”
“Don’t piss yourself,” Phyllis added.
Marco closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
The Zombie put two fingers over Marco’s belly, spreading them apart to stretch the tissue beneath his fingertips. “Marco, this is going to take a few cuts, then Phyllis is going to reach in with a couple of fingers and pull out the Cat. You’ll bleed a lot. Try to stay calm.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Marco said, absolutely not okay. He took a long, shaking breath, then blew it out slowly. “I’m ready,” he lied.
The Zombie gently touched the blade against Marco’s belly, the handle tilted far up. He would apply only a little of the edge, using heavy pressure. “Prep for the cut. Call it when ready.”
The Baron and Phyllis applied their full weight to Marco.
“Numbness for thirty seconds,” Phyllis wished.
“Start at will,” the Baron ordered.
The Zombie pressed in, then dragged the knife. Marco twitched, his limbs stiffened and shook, but the Baron squeezed the teen to the slab until his arms hurt. A sound emerged from Marco’s taut lips, a distant whine squeezed and compressed by force of will.
“I thought he was numb,” the Baron said to Phyllis.
“I lost the prestige,” Phyllis argued.
“I feel cold,” Marco said through gritted teeth. “And pressure.”
“No pain at least,” Phyllis whispered.
Four inches of belly skin were split open like fresh pork, pale pink and briefly bloodless. The Zombie gently tugged to see how deep the first cut ran, and bright red blood began condensing along the walls of the incision. “Dull blade,” he judged. “Four cuts total, maybe five.”
He put the tip at a steeper angle, pressed harder and pulled the blade as smoothly as a machine. A tiny squeal emerged from Marco. The Zombie was pleased with his handiwork. He pushed with his fingers and the wound slid open like a split glove, revealing a filmy membrane and the gristle of fat, the dermal gap already filling with the gentle accumulation of blood.
The Zombie angled the blade even steeper, but there was less pressure and less speed on this slice. Fat, membrane, and orange fibrous layers broke away at knifepoint like clipped elastic, but the real target was a marbled, bacon-like streak of abdominal muscle. The blade eased through thick, succulent muscle fibers, which twitched and contracted, practically ripping themselves in twain. The Zombie sighed at what he must’ve seen as poetic beauty, enjoying the accidental eagerness for the wounded tissue to rend itself asunder. Thicker, juicier arteries immediately gushed onto the bare metal, filling the chasm with thick fluid.
It was always uncomfortable to watch living meat under the butcher’s blade. Phyllis’s eyes were shut. Tears streamed down Marco’s face, even without pain. The Baron watched because he was responsible. Where the Zombie saw beauty, he saw an awful necessity.
The Zombie cut again, and the upmost layer of smooth muscle opened itself like a swollen eyelid, like a terrible toothless maw. He’d cut against the grain here. Below that, another layer was sliced along the fibers. The Zombie eased this deepest slit open with two bloody fingers. The beef-red meat, fatless and smooth, weeped eddies into the pooling blood. The Zombie balanced the knife briefly on Marco’s belly, then used a finger to sweep away all the fluid and sling it out onto the concrete.
Marco was huffing.
“Ten seconds,” Phyllis said softly.
“There.” The Zombie tapped a thin fatty layer, which slid over a thinner membrane below. Beneath his fingertips, a sac bulged ever so slightly into the relieved pressure of the open wound. “That’s the stomach.” He pressed down gently, and Marco suppressed a gag while folding up involuntarily.
The Baron redoubled his pressure, unfolding the teen. “Hurry.”
“I wish to add twenty seconds of numbness,” Phyllis whispered.
“Found it,” the Zombie declared. Blood flowed around his fingertips. “Cut five.” He turned the knife over backward, put the point directly above the bulging sac, and pushed down. Tissue split open eagerly; puffy pink folds of stomach lining fought to escape the pressure through the new wound. The Baron could detect the tang of dilute stomach acid mixing into the overwhelming bloody stench.
The Baron put a hand over Marco’s mouth, suppressing a terrified scream. “Shh,” he said, “shh, you’re okay. Breathe through your nose. You’re okay.”
Marco’s weeping was intense, but he nodded very slightly.
“Phyllis,” the Zombie said as calmly as an instructor. “The Cat is directly beneath the cut. Reach in, push your fingers under the edge of the statue, and pull very, very quickly, like you’re removing a bandage. You’re going to draw up his stomach lining, but if you’re quick, it won’t pull long. The more time you waste, the more this will hurt him.”
Phyllis forced her eyes open, tears streaming sympathetically, nose running, and with her right hand, she forced two fingers and a thumb down into Marco’s viscera. This was the spot where the stomach was close to the abdominal wall. It wasn’t even a deep or broad cut. The bleeding was objectively minor, the pain already completely managed, but the look on her face was of tremendous sorrow. She’d felt less remorse beating a man down with a pipe. She’d killed and felt less. Marco inhaled in a nasty way, and started to cough.
Phyllis’s expression hardened. She thrust her hand in deep, pushing out fresh blood in a splash over Marco’s skin, found something solid, and in one yank, she ripped out the Cat o’ Nine Lives with a wet, soft noise that the Baron hadn’t quite heard before, but instantly recognized as the whisper of tearing flesh.
Everyone winced but the Zombie, whose grin blossomed into a full body expression of triumph. “The Cat!” he shouted. “We have it!”
“Breathe!” the Baron shouted to Marco.
Marco turned his head and coughed up a stew-thick blend of blood and mucus, then took one gasp. He could still breathe. His lungs still worked. “Oh God.” His voice was ravaged, his body was quaking, but he was no longer trying to curl up around the damage.
“The pain will start in a moment,” the Baron whispered. “Stay still.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Marco said quickly. Then slowly at first, and with greater energy, he began to keen with rising agony. He’d survived worse, but the Cat was no longer able to sustain him with unnatural fire.
Phyllis stared at the object in her hands. It was a smooth black stone sculpture of a cat curled up to sleep, perfectly polished and no larger than a hefty walnut. Even after being pulled from the fleshy morass in Marco’s stomach wound, it was perfectly clean. Blood and mucus beaded up, slid away, and collected on her palm. It was always perfect, always clean, and the closest thing to immortality in a fallen world.
Author’s Note:
Whew. Marco is… free of the Cat, but not yet saved.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
Join the Discord to discuss the story and hang out with other readers!
Join the Patreon to support the story and access 4 weeks of early chapters!
The radio alarm clock in the safehouse buzzed at 4AM. The Baron was already up, but Marco and Phyllis were still asleep, even after ten hours of uninterrupted rest.
Last night, conversation had been kept to a minimum, and dinner had been a miserable affair of cold canned goods. No plans had been broached, nothing discussed. While the CIA bugs hidden in the room could only take recordings, they hadn’t risked any information leaks. Heckhaus was permitting them a lot of freedom, and if the Cat appeared on record, Langley would mobilize long before the Baron was ready to deliver the artifact to Denisov.
Suffused with the fog of exhaustion, they’d turned in early.
But before succumbing to sleep, the Baron had thought a little about Elizabeth, the Apostate. What was she doing with eternity? Did she risk losing it for a cause, like the Baron did? Was she still a practicing cultist somewhere outside of the West, thriving in the wider world? Or did she persist in some secular role, biding her time until she could re-emerge under a new name?
Questions had fluttered around his head like black moths. Did she want to meet him, just on principle? Was she curious about the Zombie? Did she dream of the true nature of the gods? In private places, did the gods’ secrets make her smile or bring her to tears? Did the knowledge bring her purpose or rob reality of any meaning? Could she tell him why she’d kept the secret? Was it selfishness and safety that motivated her, or had the knowledge been too destructive for mankind to accept? Had the knowledge threatened something more fundamental about prestige, or about reality itself?
Such questions had soon died for a lack of answers. Then nature had taken its natural course, and the Baron had slept.
Awake again, he rolled off his cot, turned on the closest lamp, and shut off the alarm clock. There was only one thing on his mind after almost eleven hours in a storage room underground. He needed to use the restroom terribly, and while there was a bucket and toilet paper in the safehouse, Marco had protested against their use. Thus, they’d all waited.
“I’m awake,” Phyllis declared.
“Me too,” Marco echoed.
The Baron was pulling on his socks and tying his shoes. “We’re leaving. Now.”
Phyllis was sore and slow, but she rose inexorably like Frankenstein’s monster revived. “I need to pee,” she complained. “Marco, hurry up. I can’t hold it in any longer.”
Marco raised one arm and winced. “Oh Christ. That hurts.”
“What hurts?” The Baron pushed off his cot and wandered over to the teen. In the Baron’s experience, impact injuries caused a great deal of soft tissue damage, and severe inflammation was often delayed by at least a few hours. By now, Marco ought to be suffering the full effects of the car crash—anything and everything that the Cat hadn’t fixed.
“My ribs. My left shoulder.” He tried to bend a leg. A sharp breath. “My knees.”
“Not your back?”
“I don’t think so. My neck is really stiff.”
“Were you hit on your side?”
“My left side.”
Phyllis sorted over a shelf and pulled a couple of pill bottles. “Give him some Saridon?”
“Yes.” The Cat would’ve handled any dangerous internal hemorrhaging already. An A.P.C. painkiller might help him walk under these conditions.
“Are you up?” a man shouted through the safehouse door.
The Baron felt a spike of panic, then a delayed recognition. “Zombie?” he shouted back.
Phyllis gave Marco a couple of pills. “Swallow these.”
d’Holbach turned the knob by the dim light of a single lamp, and the press-button lock popped open. The Zombie was standing outside in the gloom, wearing a royal purple cardigan and other finery. “Good morning, friend,” the Baron said. “Been waiting long?”
“Only about five hours.” The Zombie glanced into the safehouse. “All persons accounted for? Heckhaus sent me this way last night.”
The Baron raised a hand for silence. “Can’t talk here. Heckhaus arrived before us.”
The Zombie grinned and gave him a big thumbs up.
Phyllis lifted Marco up into a sitting position with his right hand. Marco made a pained squealing sound.
The Zombie’s face was a question.
The Baron answered, “Car.”
“Not gooshed?” the Zombie asked pleasantly.
“Not gooshed,” the Baron agreed.
The Zombie sniffed the air. “You haven’t used the restroom in here?”
“Don’t be a creep,” Phyllis said from within the room.
“You expected that?” the Baron asked his friend.
The Zombie smirked. “How many times have you and I been forced to lay low?”
The Baron looked back at the Artemisian. “You learn to ignore the smell.”
“It was the Napoleonic Wars!” the Zombie said cheerily.
“We need to use the restroom,” the Baron said.
The Zombie peered out into the dark tunnel beyond the safehouse. “Then let’s get going. I learned some things last night. Details later.”
The Baron called to Marco. “Can you stand?”
Marco wobbled up onto his legs, hand on Phyllis’s shoulder. “Yeah.” But he wasn’t spry. He was stiff and awkward on his feet, and his tentative first steps were slow and pained. He stumbled over to the Baron and laid his arm over the philosopher’s shoulders.
Phyllis quickly folded up the cots and bedspreads and collected their garbage in a paper bag—crusted tins and bloodstained shirts and jackets. The night before, they’d found a four-pack of white cotton t-shirts along with a first aid kit and medical supplies, and they’d changed into them. The Baron fit into his tee snugly; Marco and Phyllis were draped in their own. The Baron felt especially undignified now, having no opportunities to shave his face or scalp. He’d look more like a muscled dock worker than a noble.
“Ready? Lights out.” Phyllis raised the switch and cut the circuit to the safehouse. Everything plunged into darkness, the kind that excites the eye with a lack of stimulus, filling one’s visual field with purpling afterimages and noisy textures.
They shut the door behind them, and with their hands on the wall, they felt their way through the darkness back to a short tunnel, which led to the train platform. The last maintenance door opened out onto a stretch of darkness reflecting the slightest tint of green. The signal light lay beyond.
“What if we’d been locked in by the CIA?” Marco asked.
“There are plenty of tunnels we could take,” Phyllis said.
“Why bother?” the Zombie asked. “I’d just kick the door down.”
They reached the platform only a handful of minutes past 4AM. Nobody was around to notice them sneaking through the maintenance gate, and the last overnight train had already passed according to the schedules spread on the walls. Until the 5AM business crowd arrived, it was briefly an empty space. Phyllis trashed the cans and clothes, and they climbed out of the station. Unfortunately, there weren’t any restrooms installed at Canal and Braodway.
“Are we good to talk?” the Zombie asked. Overhead, the clouds from last night’s cold front were breaking up, and the brightest stars were visible in the gaps, just a few dotted here or there. The moon was down and only street lights were shining. A few cars slipped past, tires hissing against pavement, headlights bright and shied away from.
“Yes, but we need to hurry and get back off the street,” the Baron said.
“You have no idea.” The Zombie looked around, but there were no pedestrians standing at watch yet. “By dawn, I’m betting every station will have a New York cultist guarding it.”
“There should be a few bakeries just north of here on Broadway,” Phyllis said. “One or two will be open this early. We can buy something and use the facilities.”
When they reached the nearest open bakery, the teenager was ready to stop. It was almost four-thirty by the Baron’s watch, and the shop was unlocking doors to serve muffins and scones with butter and jelly. They greeted the middle-aged owner and his sons, then sat down at a table and drank cold water and ate a hot breakfast while they took turns using the toilet.
“You a family?” the owner asked Phyllis after she returned.
“Co-workers,” Phyllis explained, “It’ll be a long day.”
“Can’t say I approve,” the owner said idly, “now that the war is over.”
So he didn’t approve of a woman co-worker. Phyllis didn’t argue with it. When that kind of judgement was considered idle chatter, what could she say without starting a fight?
“She’s my boss,” the Baron said, needling the baker. “Pays an honest wage.”
The Zombie chuckled. “Got to make money somehow,” he muttered.
The baker frowned, clearly offended but unable to pinpoint exactly what had been said to insult him. He left the table without another word, and they finished eating in peace. After everyone had relieved themselves, eaten a meal, and drank water, the Baron paid and tipped heavily with some coins, and they returned to the night-shaded streets.
“Where to now?” asked Phyllis.
“We need to review the situation,” the Zombie said.
“Foley Square is just a few blocks from here,” Phyllis suggested. “If there are a lot of spotters at the subway stations, we’ll be safer there on the benches. At least until sunrise.”
Foley Square’s central plaza was sparsely lit before dawn, but the edges were flooded with streetlights and high mounted lamps. They sat on benches circling the shallows of a former fountain. Some years before, that spot had been occupied with marble walls and copper statues, dribbling water like piss. The depression in the concrete suggested plans to install another fountain, if social and economic conditions finally turned in Foley Square’s favor.
Public works had recently ground to a halt there. The endowments and funds that filled public spaces with art were avoiding this park, avoiding the protests that’d haunted the trial on its periphery. This was in some sense the civic center of Manhattan, and Foley Square’s borders were defined by its municipal and federal buildings. They were towers of pale grey stone dressed with colonnades and entablatures, wrapped with fancy cornices and rakes, altogether dressed in the stereotypical costumes of Roman and Grecian temples.
To one side, the United States District Courthouse; to the other, the New York County Courthouse. Across the way, the New York Municipal Building. Most notoriously, at their back stood the Foley Square Courthouse, where the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York was held and the Foley Square Trial was conducted.
The lights were brightest there, beams crossing like interlocking fields of fire, casting kill zones onto the plaza ground. If guards had manned the gaps between the columns, rifles laid against their shoulders in silent threat, nobody would’ve questioned the image.
The central tower of the Courthouse rose over its surroundings like a standing castle, and its broad base imposed itself on the urban landscape like earthworks, covering more ground than any other building in the square. This was the court where an FBI case five years in the making had ended with the successful prosecution of twelve CPUSA leaders.
It’d been the longest federal court case in the history of the United States, starting in November of 1948 and continuing until October of 1949. The CPUSA leadership had been secular to the man; only a small portion of it had even been in direct contact with members of the Soviet Union. Most occult infiltration and KGB training had happened at lower levels within the party, where small time workers could be easily placed in war-critical industries and slipped the prestige to covertly sabotage industrial equipment and supplies.
Thus, the Baron had considered this trial ironically ineffective. The leaders under indictment were on record, favoring peaceful transitions to socialism, but they were charged under the Smith Act for “advocating the violent overthrow of the government.” Meanwhile, the actual fifth column threat had been armed and readied without interruption, mostly through the vehicles of existing criminal enterprises and small-time radical advocacy groups.
Three years had passed since the initial trials and its massive picketed protests, those thrumming thousands in the square. The foregone conclusion was to convict the CPUSA defendants, and the convictions were held up as constitutional in every court of appeals, including the Supreme Court of the United States. After that, many CPUSA chapters had dissolved and destroyed their membership rosters in order to avoid prosecution on a state-by-state basis, and the occult fifth column had scattered to the winds. Without a path for Soviet funding and support, it’d been the natural course.
Yet today, that column was easily pressed back into service because of these federal buildings and courtrooms. The greatest threat to rank-and-file CPUSA mercs wasn’t KGB blackmail; it was the raw, endless pressure of American authority, which brought its weight to bear to smother and suffocate communism and socialism in all its forms. They fought like mad zealots because they were afraid of being outed to their own nation.
This was the Cold War after all, and everyone knew the stakes were bigger than the planet itself. This was a pivot point for futurity; only one superpower could become a global hegemon, not both, and only if the whole thing weren’t put to the fire and scattered like ash.
The Baron rested upon the benches between Phyllis and Marco, and together, they listened to the Zombie, who laid out the details as he knew them.
Denisov was leaving through LaGuardia airport, so they’d have to reach him by 5PM that day, or they’d have to give up entirely. A little more than twelve hours remained until the deadline. Meanwhile, New York would be searching with overwhelming force. The violence and death surrounding the Baron had passed a critical threshold, and Schuler was being deployed to bring them back to Tammany. If they were caught as a group, Phyllis’s and Marco’s fates would be short, nasty, and brutish.
Two bullets would be spent, but there’d be only one body for the Cosa Nostra to bury. If Marco still had enough lives remaining, they’d know that he held the Cat, and they’d take him back to Tammany before killing him again and again. His corpse would cough up the ikon.
“We could flee,” Phyllis suggested. “There’s still time to get out of the city.”
“I’m not sure it’s worth risking it,” the Baron said. “We wouldn’t just evade New York. We’d piss off Heckhaus, giving up any chance at getting the cat to Denisov. Langley would probably start a secular manhunt, and they’d have enough firepower and organization to catch us. Once in custody, they’d gut Marco and lock the rest of us up for years.”
Marco squinted in fear. “We couldn’t dodge them like we did yesterday?”
“They’d siege any temple until you starved,” the Zombie said.
“You’re injured as well,” the Baron said. “It’ll be hard for you to run.”
“I still have a few lives left,” Marco said.
“How many?” The Baron counted them off on his fingers. “At minimum, you’ve been shot in the back, poisoned, and maybe asphyxiated on top of those two deaths. Then you were killed twice on the train, and one of those shots pulped a kidney. Egregious wounds can take multiple lives to heal. Say it healed the initial wound, the ruined organ, and the exit wound separately. It’s possible. Finally, you were hit by a car, and I honestly couldn’t tell if you died there. That’s between four and eight deaths by my count.” He folded and unfolded fingers uncertainly. “You have between six and two lives left, so the Cat might only save you once more. We just don’t know, and frankly, I don’t want to find out. I want to finish this without risking your life.”
“Is there a way to figure out the count?” Phyllis asked.
“No. The artifact was designed when you could just wish to know,” the Baron replied.
“I ain’t that hurt,” Marco said. “I ain’t crippled.”
“Yesterday was just CPUSA irregular forces,” the Baron said. “Today it’s Schuler and the New York cult that’ll come for us, and you’ve already died this many times. We have to cut you out of the equation, literally. Your life depends upon it.”
“So what? Do we go to this Russian guy right now?” Marco asked.
“Mm. No. The Zombie saw Russian special forces napping in the Secretariat building, and I can guarantee we’re not the only people who know about them. From a secular perspective, there’s already a minor crisis at hand, and the US government will be prepared to start—or end—an international incident at the drop of a hat. We couldn’t get close to the UN without tripping over their surveillance, and frankly I don’t want to show up in their reports. One mistake, and we could end up on a most wanted list for decades. The Zombie and I would have to flee the country.”
“Excuses,” Phyllis muttered.
“I’m just thinking about the facts. That’s all. They’re sending Schuler out to find me. Do you understand how bad that is? There’s no greater threat in the New York arsenal.”
“I was there,” Phyllis said gruffly. “I saw his bullshit.”
The Baron rubbed his palms together in the cold air. “If he even drives by, say a mile or so away, he’ll find us, and he’ll know the Cat is here.”
“Do you really believe in that awareness story?” Phyllis asked.
“I’ve seen it with two other Diviners,” the Baron said. “On the island of St. Helena. Kaiser Abbas used to tell everyone that the Zombie burned like a torch in the dark. He was aware of everything, just a little bit, but he was intensely aware of occult activity, and the Zombie was one constant miracle.”
“There were party tricks.” The Zombie grinned, eyes glassy and nostalgic. “I’d stand outside and he’d tell everyone which direction I was in, which hand I was holding up, and how many fingers I was showing. He was never wrong.”
“Napoleon thought the whole thing was a gag, a circus illusion.” The Baron shrugged. “It was proof for us. Kaiser Abbas was tapping into some kind of divine awareness.”
“You’re acting like we’ve already lost,” Phyllis said. “Schuler is just one man.”
“We haven’t lost, but we have to make realistic plans. Soon, New York is going to capture us. There’ll be nowhere to run to, and they’ve got the living occult equivalent of a mine detector. In our current state, we can’t stand up to them without risking your lives.”
“I can handle the risk,” Marco said.
Phyllis nudged the Baron with an elbow. “Stop dooming and just give us some gods-damned decisions. Or ask me to plan. Something other than worrying, please.”
“Fine. It may be time to go back to our original plan,” the Baron said.
“What’s that?”
“The Zombie and I take care of this alone.”
Phyllis gawked. “Do you remember the reason I came along?”
“I do,” the Baron said.
“You said I’d be safer following both of you around.”
“That was true yesterday.”
“What’s changed?” Phyllis got up off the bench and stood in front of the men. “Tell me, what’s different now, that you think it’s better for two instead of four to take on the world’s largest cult?” The Baron looked up at her in silence. “Don’t tell me it’s about stealth. That’s bullshit. Radio drama bullshit, and I know you’re thinking about it.”
He had been thinking about it, but it wasn’t the main reason. “I said you’d be a valuable target for CPUSA, and that’s not going to change until we’re done.”
“Then why go alone?”
“What’s changed is why you’re valuable.”
“What’s changed is your attitude!”
“Yes!” the Baron cried. “It’s true, and that’s the point. Yesterday, I thought we were going to win. Today, I think we’re going to lose, but only this battle, not the war. What the Zombie and I have that you don’t is privilege. You said it yourself yesterday. He’s invincible, and I’m protected by a death pact. More than any other cult, New York will respect that—but strictly!”
“Only the Baron is protected,” the Zombie said.
“Exactly, and I can’t extend the privilege. They’ll kill you without hesitation.”
“You wouldn’t try to save our lives?” Phyllis asked darkly.
“That’s not what I mean. The Pact is enforceable because it’s specific. It’s a compromise that nobody can deny because it’s absolute and clear. I don’t want you or Marco to die. If we’re captured as a group, they’ll use you both as leverage against our privilege. Alone, we can push back. With either of you around, we’ll have to listen to their demands. That, or they’ll take your lives.“
Phyllis huffed. Her silvered hair was blowing in her face, but she hadn’t kept any supplies in the safehouse to pin or shape it. She ignored a lock whipping along her nose and stared the Baron down. He looked back, capable as always of accepting silence without anxiety or fear. “You don’t look old,” she said harshly, “you look like a young idiot.”
The Baron ran his fingers over the stubble on his scalp. “I sometimes do.”
“Always,” the Zombie said lightly.
Their eyes remained locked until Phyllis snorted and suppressed a chuckle. “Did you practice staring with the Zombie?”
The Baron blinked when she called him out, and he finally broke his gaze away from hers, looking down at his feet instead. “Actually, yes,” he answered, after a moment of uncharacteristic embarrassment.
“That’s what he did,” the Zombie said. “We argued a lot in our early days.”
What the Zombie didn’t say was, he’d killed a lot of people back in Europe—more than the Baron had ever wanted to admit or acknowledge. It’d taken everything d’Holbach could muster to stare down his savior repeatedly and demand that he stop murdering for his sake. Often, the Zombie had said nothing, simply becoming angry and destructive. The only way the Baron could win those silent struggles was by failing to react, by refusing to budge. He’d once practiced his poker face on an invincible man tearing down the walls of a log cabin.
Marco spoke up. “So I can’t help you anymore?”
The Baron turned to the young man next to him. “You’ve already taken bullets for me.” He gave Marco’s shoulder a squeeze. “Not anyone could just do that, and I mean it. You’ve pushed through the pain of death by force of will. You’ve got willpower!”
“Yeah,” Marco said, his tone flat and unconvincing.
“No, really. You made a wish to dodge because you pushed your dead body to move. You endured the Cat o’ Nine Lives, and I was free to act. It’s never easy to admit, but I don’t think this would’ve played out nearly this well without your assistance.” The Baron looked up at Phyllis. “We’re running out of time though, and we have to adapt.”
“What’s the new plan then?” Phyllis asked. “Not just you—what should I do? What does Marco do? We can’t just walk away, not if we’re as important as you say.”
“You can’t,” the Baron agreed, “but we don’t have to wait around to be captured. We can dictate the location, the conditions—we can direct their attention wherever we choose.”
“What—we can lose in a controlled manner?” Phyllis speculated.
“Exactly. Lose the battle, win the war,” the Baron said. “There are only two crucial steps, really. We need someone to remove the Cat from Marco in a controlled setting. We need him healed and ready to go. Then the second step is for the Zombie to draw attention to the Cat.”
“All eyes on you?” Phyllis asked the Zombie.
The Zombie grinned. “I can protect anything.” He wiggled his fingers by the dim light of the street lamps. “Invincible hands.”
The Baron finished his argument to Phyllis: “Once New York is aware that I have the Cat, they won’t care about you or Marco. You could sneak him out, get him to his mother, and get them on the road. His life would be saved.”
“I’m not leaving the city,” Phyllis said.
The Baron raised his hands, then let them fall to his sides. This wasn’t an argument he could win, and even though he wanted her to flee the state rather than return to New York territory, his head overruled his heart. She’d survived a long time alone. She wouldn’t be doomed just because she stayed in the city. “Fine. Once Marco is with his mother, you can do what you want. I wouldn’t refuse your help, and I trust you to be careful.”
Phyllis finally smiled. “So you’ve squelched your pride.”
“This wasn’t about pride.”
She shook her head. “Don’t argue about it. You’ve reasoned it out haven’t you.”
“I have. If anyone can help, you can, and you’re a survivor.”
“But you’re unhappy.”
“I am.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Why’s that?”
“This is what the Apostate would’ve wanted her cultists to do.”
“Her book doesn’t ask you to risk your life.”
“It doesn’t have to. I wouldn’t be a cultist if I wasn’t willing to risk it.”
The Baron felt a little weight lift off his brow. “Yeah. Elizabeth didn’t really define the purpose of the Cult of Artemis. I think she just wanted to make a little space for women.”
“Well, this is what I’m doing with my space. For the world, and for the principle of the thing.” She rubbed her nose. “To avoid nuclear fire.”
Marco nodded very slowly. “I just want Malik to die.”
“Then I think we have a plan to make a plan,” the Zombie said. “Baron?”
The Baron sighed. “Fine.” And for the next fifteen minutes, they sat together, hashing out the steps between here and Marco’s survival, between this moment and the hopeful delivery of the Cat to Denisov’s hands, between events beginning today and a long future.
Author’s Note:
Went up on an off day due to a bonus chapter over on RR. Thanks for reading! <3
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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Deep inside the UN Secretariat building, past the offices full of Spetsnaz soldiers sleeping on cots, Malik led the Zombie and their entourage to the end of the hall, to a plain door coated in matte white paint. He cracked it open, revealing a tremendous Russian man—bearded and balding—who was openly displaying firearms inside an office of the United Nations.
This veritable giant was taller than the Zombie by a full head or more. The Kalashnikov hanging from his neck looked almost too small to handle, but his fingers were just able to fit in the trigger guard, just like the rest of the man was barely able to fit in the door. He gave them all a look then nodded after they passed his visual inspection. Then he stepped out of the way, revealing the room and the Zombie’s goal—a very tired man.
Denisov was seated in a lacquered wooden chair, writing freehand in a blank book. A desk lamp with a green glass shade spread a sallow hue across the work surface. The Lazy Woman hung over his tie, darkened with tarnish. A little golden apple rested in a fine metal mesh bag, chained and cuffed to his wrist. That smidge of security prevented quick deployment of the Apple of Perun, but it wasn’t useless in this state. Even through the mesh, it could be thrown with killing intent, and then nothing would be able to contain it.
Denisov raised his tired eyes from his scrawlings. His pompadour was a mess, the hair grease finally coming apart. “Ah, Zombie.” He set down his pen but didn’t rise. “How are you?”
“Curious, mostly.”
Denisov smiled. “Did you come alone with the Cat?”
“I was ambushed, but the Baron still has it in his custody.”
The old Russian cultist sighed. “Too bad. I thought you might come with it.”
“I wouldn’t choose to leave the Baron alone under threat.”
“Right, right.” Denisov tapped a pack of cigarettes at the base of his desk lamp. “Would you like another one?” He pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack and offered it.
The Zombie accepted it silently and stuck it in his mouth, then chewed on it. Malik stood behind him, waiting to see what would happen.
“Do you believe you can bring the Cat to me tomorrow?” Denisov asked.
“Will you be here?” The Zombie talked with his mouth full of pungent tobacco.
“Through the morning. I couldn’t leave without throwing the Apple though.”
By that, he meant he couldn’t leave whatsoever. The Zombie swallowed his cigarette. “Do you have anything more disgusting?” he asked.
“What?” Malik asked.
“By the window,” Denisov offered. “There’s a little cleaner and a cloth.” On top of a filing cabinet, someone had left a plastic bottle full of diluted ammonia and an unused cloth.
The Zombie opened the bottle’s screw top and took a deep, deep breath. It was spicy, delicious. It wouldn’t have the pleasant texture of popping open a battery cell, but the alkaline flavor would be purer, sweeter. He took a swig, then turned back to Denisov. “Fantastic.”
“Tell him,” Malik said.
The giant guard laughed at the Zombie’s antics.
Denisov tapped his fingers on an empty page in his book. “I’m being recalled to Moscow. It’s a direct order from Stalin himself.”
“And the Orthodox leadership,” Malik added.
Denisov couldn’t quite hide his frustration. A slight frown drew down the corners of his thin lips. “Their signatures are on the orders.”
The Zombie took a longer draught of the cleaner. “Do you have any vodka for mixing?”
“I’m not drinking tonight,” Denisov said.
“Too bad. When do you leave?” The Zombie guzzled down the rest of the ammonia in one continuous draught, filling the air with the acrid smell.
“My plane leaves tomorrow afternoon. Five PM, LaGuardia.”
“Under the guard and protection of the Spetsnaz,” Malik said triumphantly. “American Communist radicals have been fighting in the streets, claiming they’re under blackmail by the KGB. Viktor Denisov fears for his life, and by request to Stalin himself, he is being recalled to the safety of Russia before he is harmed by your misguided dissidents.”
The Zombie laughed. He had to admit, Malik was good at finding the angles and exploiting his advantages. The late departure suggested that the federal government was trying to sniff out the facts before they let a Soviet official leave the country on short notice, but it was unlikely they’d find a flaw with Malik’s story. CPUSA members picked up after today’s fighting could be pressed to confess, if only to bargain for protection against the KGB proper, but it was unlikely that any living mercenaries would be found. The men the Zombie had met in the streets had already shown they were willing to die for their families. They’d probably kill themselves if capture ever looked like an inevitability.
“I’m writing my testament,” Denisov said. “It’s a plea to the party.”
“For mercy?”
Denisov shook his head. “For good judgement. They’ll at least have an Apple. I’m asking them not to fight with the CIA, especially if the Americans end up with the Cat.”
“They won’t,” the Zombie said.
“You can’t win,” Malik insisted. “You’ve already lost before you even started. Even Denisov is giving up, now that he’s seen what we can do. You tell the Baron, he should surrender.”
The Zombie screwed the cap back on the empty plastic bottle and spun it around between his fingers. “I don’t speak for the Baron, but I’ve known him for some years.”
“Tell him. At least try.”
The Zombie ignored Malik and carefully balanced the bottle on top of his hat. He leaned forward very slightly and caught it while it fell. “Denisov, do you still want us to complete the job?”
“No,” Denisov said promptly.
The Zombie idly tapped the bottle against the knuckles of his other hand. It made a soft, drumlike sound. “You think the Bolsheviks should win? There’s a lot at stake.”
“I know too well,” Denisov said, “but look who is packed into this office.” He gestured to the giant guard, to Malik’s thickly-bearded minder, and to Malik himself. “Enemies all around. I’ve been fighting for control with a pen and a phone, and I’ve lost. I’m a prisoner here, and this is one of the strongest prisons on Earth. As Malik said, we’ve already lost.”
Malik was wiping his face with a handkerchief. “Tell the Baron, please.”
“Denisov, if the Baron put the Cat in your hands tomorrow, would you say we’ve won?”
“That’s not possible,” Denisov said.
“Why not? I’m here. The Baron is a smart man. He could get here somehow.”
Denisov sighed. “I can’t risk his life for this. Not to prevent some future conflict.”
The grin slowly returned to the Zombie’s face. “You mean, you can’t risk unleashing me on the world. I’m flattered.”
“You’re a menace,” Denisov said, “no offense.”
The Zombie bowed very slightly.
“The Baron is a good influence on you,” Denisov added.
“Yes, he is,” the Zombie agreed. “Preserving his life is very ethical, isn’t it? Greatest good for the most people? You want to lose because you think the chances of winning are slim.”
“They’re none,” Denisov muttered.
“Imagine it for me though. Just try to picture it. We hand you the Cat in the middle of this mess. Would you take it? Could you take it?”
Denisov sighed. “If I had the Cat—a terrible if, Zombie—then attempting to steal it from me would start an occult civil war.”
“It’s all imaginary,” Malik said in a quick, shaky voice. “You’ve lost. Both of you. For the Baron’s safety, please, promise me you’ll tell him to surrender. Hand over the Cat. We’ll cover this up, pay you. Whatever it takes—just stop struggling!”
The Zombie finally looked at Malik. He pointed at him with the bottle, lining it up like rifle sights. “I think I know the Baron’s answer.”
“What?”
“Think fast!” The Zombie whipped the bottle at Malik’s face. Malik flinched, hands up too late. The bottle bopped him. The Zombie came in nearly as fast and walloped him in the solar plexus. Malik spasmed and stumbled back.
The giant guard was shouting in Russian, but Denisov was already shouting at him.
Over them, the Zombie yelled, “That’s for the river!”
“You could have killed him!” Denisov roared.
The Zombie shrugged, rolling back over his heels. “I rolled the dice. The punch didn’t mash him.”
Malik was gasping, clawing at his chest, but clearly alive. The thickly-bearded minder was trying to help him to his feet, repeatedly brushed aside.
“What if he’d died?” Denisov yelled. “Think of the Baron!”
“We’d play it by ear!” the Zombie yelled.
“Do you know how long our cult can hold a grudge?” Denisov asked, not in anger but in desperate worry. The Zombie did know. The Soviet cult had been born out of the Orthodox cult, which was notorious for keeping extensive but cryptic records. They had never forgotten a slight, nor were they known to forgive.
Malik breathed in with a loud croak. “My chest hurts.”
The Zombie kicked the front of Denisov’s desk, drumming the wood. Everyone flinched. “Do you have enough prestige to heal someone remotely?” he asked. A second passed, and he quickly added: “Don’t think, just answer the question.”
“Gods no,” Denisov uttered. “I might ensure a safe surgery in person, but I’ve had to spend a great deal of prestige in the last twenty-four hours. You can imagine.”
“I wish I wasn’t bruising.” Malik straightened and relaxed. “Fuck.”
The bearded minder scowled at the expenditure of prestige but relented in his attempts to engage with Malik. For a moment, everyone was reckoning with the Zombie’s aggression.
“This isn’t over, and we haven’t lost,” the Zombie declared. “There’s your answer. Now, drive me back to the Wall Street Station, or I’ll break a few arms.” He glanced around the room—at the bearded minder, at Malik, at Denisov, and at the giant guard. “Any takers? I can squeeze a forearm until the ulna snaps like an overcooked wishbone.”
“I drive,” the bearded minder said in thick but serviceable English. “You don’t run.”
“Fine, lead the way.” The Zombie hesitated. “Actually, wait.” He turned and punched the top of Denisov’s hardwood desk, denting the surface with a satisfying crack of wood.
Denisov jerked back from the strike.
“Before I go, listen here!” the Zombie barked at the man who’d hired them. “You be damn ready to fight, even if you have to throw that fucking Apple. If the Baron brings you the Cat in his bloody hands, you will make damn sure you pull your weight and take it, or you’ll be the first to die. Do I make myself clear?”
Dismay passed briefly over Denisov’s face, lips bunched, eyes down, but he regained control and flattened his expression. “I would fight, yes.”
The Zombie waggled his hands in mock celebration. “Hooray, someone in this room still cares enough to try. It’s a real fucking miracle.” He turned to Malik, “Next thing you know, you might avoid fighting with Langley. Or do you want to spark a secular war?”
“Nobody wants that,” Malik said fiercely.
“Good. Get me the hell out of here,” the Zombie said to the minder.
On the elevator down to the bottom floor of the Secretariat, the Zombie asked a question of his temporary companion. “You’re from Moscow?”
“Da,” said the thickly-bearded minder.
In the long basement tunnel, leading to the underground parking, they were alone. The Zombie asked him next: “Would you kill Malik if he tried to kill the Baron?”
“Da,” the minder answered instantly.
They were circling down the ramps to the third level basement when the Zombie said, “You don’t think he’s going to kill the Baron. You’re just insurance, or he’d be dead already.”
“Da. He is good at job. Senior also.” He mimicked a lazy salute. “The word?”
“Officer?”
“Da. Of Soviet cult.”
They reached the level with the motor pool and checked out with a lazy night guard who only wrote down their names. There was a patch of dark sedans with green glass windows and diplomatic plates. Soviet vehicles. The minder had a full keyring, and numbers were stamped on the sides of the keys. He found the right number and unlocked the vehicle.
The Zombie said nothing, but quietly, he noted that the Baron’s theory about CPUSA vehicle rentals was partially disproven. CPUSA were swiping at least some of their vehicles from here, and chances were good that the stolen vehicles were hitting a chop shop after each use. Presumably, the Soviets were conveniently forgetting to report the cars as missing.
The ride back to Wall Street was calm. The minder played with the radio, skipping from station to station and grunting irritably at English radio dramas. He paused only to listen to music and variety shows. He was especially pleased when he found a woman singer—Kay Starr with her song Wheel of Fortune. The Zombie hadn’t taken to radio with the same enthusiasm as the Baron, but he’d heard enough popular music to recognize and loathe it. The minder on the other hand murmured along to the unknown words, comforted by a song he’d never heard before.
The Zombie was surprised that the minder wasn’t questioning him, as more experienced cultists often did when they thought they’d met the Zombie in a safe place. This man had been sent by Moscow, likely by Stalin himself, to ensure the Baron’s safety and thus their own.
“Nothing to say?” the Zombie asked.
The man spent a moment translating into English in his head. “What would I say?”
“What’s it like having no soul? What’s it like with no inner life?”
“Like nothing. I know this.” The words were assembled slowly, falling off his tongue in lumps like products off a line. “You are force of nature. Storms do not think. You do not think. But storms, we call angry. You, we call alive. We say it, but is not right. Understand?”
The Zombie folded his hands in his lap. “Very good.”
“Impressed? I know legend well. I fear you.”
“If I said I was impressed, would I be correct?” The Zombie appraised the minder with a serious glare.
The minder shrugged.
“My body is impressed,” the Zombie offered. “It imagines what you’re thinking. It considers these words before its mouth opens, but it’s still empty. No light inside. Nobody home.”
“Empty,” the minder echoed.
“The darkness rarely upsets the body, but if it closes its eyes and plugs its ears, it realizes that it’s forgotten the truth.”
“Da? Forget what?”
“There’s nothing there. The Baron once said, ‘You’re a shadow play put on for a blind audience.’ What do you think of that?”
The minder scoffed. “Complicated.”
“Mm. I’m not sure if he’s right. Sometimes, I think I’m not even an audience to myself.” He turned away from the stalwart minder. “So yes, I’m impressed. You compared me with a natural disaster, yet you aren’t cowering like I’m about to murder you.”
“Haha!” The minder grinned. “You, I treat like man.”
The Zombie grinned too. “I like that. It’s too bad, I might kill you tomorrow.”
The minder guffawed. “Zombie, such a legend! How often can you talk with the hurricane before it destroys you?”
“Once in a lifetime, I’d wager.”
The minder grunted with satisfaction, then said, “I fear you, hurricane.” He tapped his chest with a large hand. “Stout heart, I smile at storm, but I fear you.”
“It’s okay to be afraid,” the Zombie offered. “I’m a good reason to worry.”
The minder nodded once in agreement, but turned his attention away from the Zombie and back to the radio. The music was over, and a late night show was coming on. The minder turned the volume up, listening for the next five minutes or so.
Risque comedy routines were interspersed with cosmopolitan chats and interviews with celebrities. Incapable of following their rapid English chatter, the minder soon shut the radio off, and they drove in silence for the final mile. Then they pulled up outside of Wall Street Station and parked at the curb. There was little other traffic here. The engine idled.
The minder stared at the Zombie, waiting for him to get out.
The Zombie stared back, wondering if he could disturb the minder one last time.
He patted the shoulder of the Zombie’s chair. “Many thanks, Zombie.”
The Zombie smirked. “Really? Why?”
“You murder no person tonight. It was idiot plan to bury you.”
“Don’t thank me. I couldn’t find anyone by the Hudson. Not before I stopped seeing red.”
The minder shrugged. “Good luck then. Hope to never see you again?”
“Hope indeed.” The Zombie relented on this pointless social game, opened the car door, and hopped out, smiling one last time at the Russian minder.
The minder smiled back. “Good night, Zombie.”
The invincible man shut the door. A second later, the car pulled away, leaving him alone on a New York night. The station entrance was at 48 Wall Street, right in front of the towering Bank of New York building. It wasn’t exactly the busiest intersection at 10 PM, but the streets were open, and there should’ve been active train platforms underground. The subway train that CPUSA stopped should’ve been easily repaired, and the tracks weren’t covered in debris.
So where the hell were the cabs? Where were the passengers? There were a few cars parked along Wall Street, but someone always had a good reason to be skulking around these buildings late at night, usually for security. Shouldn’t the police be here, at least? The Zombie had killed people, guns were fired on a city train, and a tunnel had collapsed.
Why weren’t investigators pulling this place apart for clues?
A worried young man in a leather jacket came jogging up the subway steps, emerging onto street level. He had his face down and his hands buried in his pockets, even though it wasn’t that cold out.
“Hey, buddy,” the Zombie called to him.
The man paused at the top of the steps, raising his head to speak. “Sir?”
“What’s happening down there?”
“You ain’t heard the news?”
“No, man, no.”
“It’s nuts, I’m telling you. Half the platforms are cordoned off. Some psycho set off a bomb. The blast stopped a train and broke up an old tunnel. World has gone completely nuts.”
“What’s it coming to, huh?” The Zombie peered past him into the darkness. “Anyone working down there? I don’t see any fuzz out here.”
“They got a couple black and blue telling people to ride up to Fulton Street before getting off. I ain’t going north though, and I ain’t going to Brooklyn.” The man started up the stairs again. “I’m getting my car and going home. Have a good night, you hear?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” The Zombie stepped around the man and descended into the station. Finding the Baron would be a little like searching for a lost wallet. The first place to look would be the last place he saw him, down where the tunnel collapsed.
With luck, he’d recognize a sign or message from the Baron somewhere in the area—something snuck into the station over the last few hours. There weren’t any other prearranged meetup points except maybe the Biltmore, and that was much farther north than the Zombie expected them to run before going to ground. Might as well start here, then sweep outwards. After all, the Baron, Marco, and Phyllis had all dodged to a temple together. If they weren’t caught immediately, they’d have escaped and reached a safe house, probably the place Phyllis had mentioned earlier. If there was a trail to follow, it was more likely to start here than anywhere else, even if it was a little risky for the Baron to come back and leave a sign.
Risk—that was a funny thought. What did risk mean to an invincible man? The Zombie cheered up a little, considering conflicts with authorities and imagining how things could go wrong. If someone arrested him for interfering with a crime scene, New York would have to spring him from county lockup. Their frustration would be delightful.
He dragged his fingernails along the granite wall of the stairwell, irregularly chipping off miniscule specks of quartz like sand. He imagined officers shouting at him, trying to intimidate and outlast him late into the night. It’d be a chance to exercise his fifth amendment rights to exhaustion. Laughter boiled up out of his belly.
He reached the mezzanine, where shuttered shops and folded up newsstands were nestled in concrete cubbyholes. From here, multiple stairwells diverged down to many platforms deeper into the Earth. Brushed aluminum letters were bolted into the granite trimming above the stairs, and beneath any sign marked “Line 3,” bee-striped saw horses were strung together with yellow rope.
Nobody manned these cordons. Everyone would be turned away down at the platforms themselves. He stepped over the nearest cordon and started down the stairs.
“Who’s coming down?” called a husky voice.
“Just taking a gander!” the Zombie yelled down.
He turned at a middle landing towards the subway platform and saw a rotund man in an overcoat at the bottom of the stairs.
The coat was tied around the large man’s large waist with a sewn-in band, creating the illusion that it wasn’t holding the jacket onto him but instead strapping his body together. He carried a flashlight in one stubby hand, which he shone into the Zombie’s steady eyes. “Go on up!” the plainclothes cop said. “This is a crime scene.”
The Zombie didn’t even pause. He smiled and came down the stairs faster.
The rotund man flipped out his badge. “You don’t speak English?”
“What’s happening?” shouted another voice.
“Rich Chinaman won’t get back.”
The Zombie was nearly jogging, and the cop stepped aside, unsure how to handle someone who simply didn’t respect his authority but otherwise wasn’t presenting any threat.
There was a slouched old man with a milk-white mustache. He turned his own flashlight towards the Zombie. “Are you with the city like the other two?”
“Other two?” the Zombie asked innocently. He guessed that some other people were here, likely investigators from the New York cult.
“I’d say that’s a no,” the rotund cop muttered.
“I heard there was a bomb. Place is clean though.” The Zombie glanced around. There weren’t any signs of obvious messages written on the walls or floor. No symbols either.
“It was just up the tunnel,” said the old man. “Son, you’re going to have to show paperwork, or you’ll have to leave.”
“It’s fine. I’ll only be a minute,” the Zombie said, continuing to act as if he belonged here. He ambled along the station wall, looking over the benches and chairs for folded letters, fresh scratches, anything. It wouldn’t be subtle, but it would be cryptic. A message wouldn’t be worth much if he could miss it in the clutter.
The cops huddled together and talked in low whispers.
The Zombie was nearing one end of the platform and preparing to circle back when someone on a maintenance path shouted up to him: “Zed! Zed! Down here.”
“I heard him,” insisted a tremulous voice. “He’s always so loud.”
The Zombie stopped at the platform’s edge and looked down. The man at the fore was chubby-cheeked and bore a salt-and-pepper beard. He wore the same coat and gloves as yesterday, the tools of the criminal enforcer, but his right arm was wrapped to his fingertips in a surgical cast and held by a sling while the plaster cured. It was Enzu Guerra, the New York man from the clam bar on the East River Docks. He’d attacked the Baron to save the lives of his friends, and the Zombie had nearly killed him. At the Baron’s insistence, Enzu’s life had been spared; now that connection was coming back, to help or harm the Zombie in turn.
Behind Enzu followed an old, spry figure in a fresh cassock. Fine copper bifocals sat askew on his nose. Someone had shaved his face and brushed his hair, but it was already becoming mussed, and he kept bobbing his head to an inaudible rhythm, just out of sync with his footsteps, giving him an awkward, almost puppet-like stagger. Meister Schuler, the Diviner, was here, completely unharmed after all that tremendous violence at Red Hook.
The police officers came up behind the Zombie and crowded into his personal space. He didn’t react. There was a chance he could learn something from this.
“Mr. Guerra, you know this man?” asked the rotund officer.
“Name is Zed,” said Enzu. “He’s the son of a former IRT director, if I remember. What’re you here for, Zeddie? Did your father ask you to come here?”
The Zombie grinned, guessing that the “father” in question was a veiled reference to the Baron. “I wanted to see if there was anything to report back.”
Enzu smirked. “There was a bomb. I’m sure you’ve heard. Your poppa got out of this business just in time though. I don’t know what his interest would’ve been here.”
“Nothing,” the Zombie said. “I looked around and found nothing.”
“You vouch for him, Mr. Guerra?” asked the old cop.
“Sure do,” Enzu said. “Ain’t gonna hurt to let him look around.”
“The devil himself stands before you.” Schuler cocked an ear to the open air. “They should know! But they won’t know much, no, no. What they know only helps.”
Enzu twirled his free hand in a circle and grinned at the officer. Crazy.
The cops laughed. “Why do they got you on Schuler duty?” the old man asked.
Enzu laughed with them. “It’s Tammany. You know DeSapio’s friends, right?”
Carmine DeSapio was the current secular boss of Tammany Hall. Despite his position, he wasn’t a cultist, and he spent little time working in the Hall itself. He approved the budget to room and board people like Schuler because his connections to Cosa Nostra businesses and Irish-American criminal rings came with a lot of strings attached, and nobody asked questions if the money flowed. That income was the blood pumping through the heart of the New York cult.
The rotund officer was sardonic. “They say the political machine is dead.”
Enzu laughed. “Right, Tammany is dead, and I’m the Pope. Help me up.”
The cops shuffled around the Zombie and helped Enzu and Schuler climb a short ladder up onto the platform. “You find any Pinkos?” the old man asked Enzu.
“Don’t get me started. It’s a wild goose chase.”
“They got that confession. Old guy with the broken arm, right?”
Enzu shrugged. “It’s all guff so they won’t send him up the river. No Communists attacked the subway. I mean, come the fuck on.”
“I heard he had a rap sheet from the thirties.”
“Union enforcement,” Enzu said. “I think he busted the place because he’s an anarchist.”
“Fuckin’ anarchy!” the old man complained.
“I’m not important,” Schuler interrupted, “but important men died today. So many gunfights, so many souls unblessed.” He started to quake very slightly and he made an unhappy humming sound, strained and dissonant.
Enzu scratched his nose with his free hand. “It’s getting late. Schuler will be up early.” He gestured at the far stairwell. “I’ll show Zeddie out. Just keep him out of the paperwork, alright?”
“Sure thing, Enzu.” The old man shook his hand.
“You coming?” Enzu asked the Zombie. “We should talk.”
The Zombie grinned. This lead was as good as any. “I got some time.”
They left. Enzu first, the Zombie second, and Meister Schuler third in line.
The Diviner didn’t seem aware of the dangers of invincibility. He patted the Zombie’s shoulder repeatedly, with some force, muttering things at him. “Devil,” he said. “Dangerous creature. You walk alone? You should be with your man. Devils-at-arms.”
Once they reached the mezzanine, Enzu stopped and Schuler started circling around the room, looking at the closed shops and stalls. He stopped at one, pulled a pen knife out of a pocket, and started scratching at the paint. “Michael Stuttgart was here,” he muttered.
“Who is Michael Stuttgart?” the Zombie asked.
“Guilty tomorrow!” Schuler shouted. He’d etched “Mic” and was still going.
“Does he believe in prophecy?” the Zombie asked.
Enzu shrugged. “Maybe, but the man is crazy. He does weird things and calls them micro-tasks, but we’ve tried detecting them with other oracles. Most of ‘em can’t be heard.”
“Windows of opportunity,” Schuler said, “are always brief.”
“Most of them can’t be real. That’s all I’m saying.”
“You earn a lot of prestige doing that?” the Zombie asked Schuler.
“We are well-rewarded,” Meister Schuler said, “for listening to holy music.”
“You think his work isn’t real?” the Zombie asked Enzu.
“Eh. Micro-tasks have to be real. He’s loaded with prestige. He’s just crazy too.” Enzu was watching the carving. “They make me take him out on real field work, but he draws attention. Makes it hard sometimes, you know?”
“Field work?” the Zombie prompted.
“Yeah. Like I’m trying to wax someone, but he’s got all eyes on ‘em, right? Then I get gutshot, and without a word, he puts ol’ Humpty Dumpty back together again.” He patted his stomach. “I can’t even feel the bullet.”
“Lucky,” the Zombie said.
“Yeah. I used to hate keeping care of him, but the man keeps me whole. I learned to like him, and I know he likes me. Good ol’ Schuler.”
“Has he been helping with that hand?”
“This?” Enzu waggled the injured arm. “I’d be laid out on morphine if it wasn’t for him. As it is, I’ll only have to wear the cast for a week or so. He was clear-headed in the hospital. Told me it’d take a week. I thanked him for it.” Enzu smiled, turning to face the Zombie. “Speaking of this hand, I should thank you for sparing my life. It took a lot of guts to let me live in front of those men. It was me or the Pact, and I respect that.”
The Zombie shrugged. “I didn’t spare your life. The Baron did.”
“Thank the Baron then. I’d thrown my life away, and he gave it back. I owe him for that.” Enzu snapped the fingers on his left hand. “So I’m going to give you a hint. It’s pretty clear you’ve lost him after the dodge. We lost him too.”
“Good.”
“All that fighting today worked Tweed into a lather. He’s got at least a hundred men looking for the Baron. By morning, that’ll be thousands—whole vassal cults.”
The Zombie grinned like he’d heard a joke. “Ooh, that’s a lot of people.”
“Tsch. Don’t blow this off, man. We’ll find him tomorrow, and then we’ll drag him down to Tammany to stand before the nobles. I guarantee it. It’s just a matter of time, so from me to you—if you know where to find him, tell him to finish his business and get out of town.”
The Zombie snorted, unimpressed. “It’s New York City. If the Baron goes to ground and doesn’t move around, there’s no way you’ll find him in six months, let alone one day.”
“Eh, come on, Zed. We’ll know where to look.”
“There’s too many spaces in a city this big.” The Zombie’s tentative plan was to find the Baron and stay in hiding until the Soviets started to move Denisov. While that’d leave them with a narrow margin of error and a moving target, it’d also be the most vulnerable time in Denisov’s schedule. At any other time, they’d have to assault the UN or LaGuardia, both incredibly dangerous targets swarming with secular authorities. Enzu’s warning didn’t carry enough weight to derail this sneak and strike strategy.
Enzu tilted his head over at Meister Schuler, who was almost finished carving “Michael Stuttgart’s message” across the face of the newsstand. “What about him?”
“What about him?” the Zombie echoed derisively.
“I’m taking him home for a nap, but he’ll be up before dawn, and I’ll be driving him around town. If he’s concentrating, he’ll sniff the Baron out. He knew you were coming from almost a mile away. It shouldn’t take long for him to check most of Lower Manhattan.”
The Zombie gritted his jaw. “Do you really think he can sniff people out?”
“The things he notices… Yeah. I believe it.”
“Should I kill him then?”
Meister Schuler laughed but didn’t turn around. “Could you kill me?” he asked loudly. “Can the devil defeat the priest?”
The Zombie thought back to the last few Diviners he’d met—focusing in on Kaiser Abbas, Napoleon’s pet, whom he’d tried to kill twice. “No, I suppose not,” the Zombie concluded. “It would be fun to try though.” He’d been temporarily blinded both times and caught under a collapsed stone wall the second time. Diviners were incredibly difficult to kill; they were full of magic, and he was merely an object to them. He might be indestructible, but he could be manipulated and moved in a way that no other living human could.
“I’ll look for the responsible parties later,” Schuler said to himself, “but it’s beautiful where the sun rises. They’ll throw the child over the chalky cliffs. Gorgeous all the way to the rocks.”
“That’s a great task in London,” Enzu said. “Nasty stuff, killing a kid.” He reached out to the Zombie. When the Zombie didn’t flinch, Enzu very carefully tapped him on the side of the arm. “Cheer up, man. Just find the Baron and get moving. It’s like Salem again, alright? You’ll leave and everyone will forget and forgive after thirty years or so.”
Why did everyone think the Zombie spoke for the Baron? He was the follower, not the leader. He was a machine of untouchable meat and bone, forever rolling downhill through the complex social landscape of real human beings. The Baron made choices and shaped the world. The Zombie reflected them, processed them, and protected them, but he never made them. That was the burden of having a soul, the burden of being limited and vulnerable, and it wasn’t his. Thank the gods, his responsibilities were simple and clear. Mechanical.
“I’ll speak with the Baron,” the Zombie said, “but I promise nothing.”
“Of course, of course. Thank you just the same.”
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, the Zombie left the station ahead of Enzu. The Diviner was still vandalizing newstands, and Enzu was gently trying to coax him into quitting for the night.
The Zombie emerged onto the street, no better off in his search, but slightly better informed about New York’s attitude. The violence and death must’ve unnerved them severely.
“Sir, are you the Zombie?” called a young man.
The Zombie whipped around, spying a bare-faced kid, no older than twenty, wearing a leather jacket. He was leaning against the corner of the Bank of New York, pale and hunched over. “Who’s asking?” the Zombie called.
“A man with a pistol paid me ten bucks to wait here for an hour and tell you where he was.” He pointed west down the road. “Out front of the Trinity Church, at the end of Wall Street.”
The Zombie felt a variety of violent reactions but subsumed them all to say one word: “Okay.”
The young man was anxious. “Sir, can I go?”
The Zombie waved him off. “Yeah, man, you can go.”
The young man took off at full sprint, heading east. The Zombie watched him, fuming silently. These mysterious messengers weren’t canvassing Lower Manhattan, deputizing citizens into guarding subway stations. They were clearly targeting their efforts, which meant someone had followed the Zombie here and knew he wasn’t planning on going anywhere else.
In short, the Zombie was being watched, and the people watching him understood the situation. Whether or not that boded well wasn’t relevant. The only right move was to learn.
The Zombie sprinted west down the street. Security guards smoking on the stoops of banks and financial firms shouted at him as he passed. He wondered how many urban legends would find their origins today. It’d be impossible to tell; the details would always mutate far beyond recognition. Still, the notion pleased him. Sometimes, secular culture needed a little wonder and fear. He would become their monster at the margins of the “real world.”
Trinity Church stood at the head of Wall Street, where it dead-ended into Broadway. It was the third building of the church, older than the Fall of Truth and still standing. Its Neo-Gothic style was defined by spiny, almost serrated decorations. Every arch was capped with a rising, barbed needle, which the architect labeled spires though they better resembled pikes. The hand of God, if brought down onto the church’s greatest steeple, would’ve been harpooned and caught, unable to rise without ripping flesh and notching bone.
The entrance was edged like teeth on a saw, broad and dull only because of scale. The wall surrounding the churchyard was the only thick and friendly stretch of the structure, opened in several places for brick paths. It curled around to touch the building on either side of the shallow steps leading to great bronze doors.
Last century, the church must’ve risen far above the surrounding city, calling all the faithful to come pray. Today, it was the shortest building on Wall Street, a diminishing presence which the Zombie found delightful. It so clearly symbolized the exchange of power that defined modernity. He slowed as he approached the church, crossed the street at a mere jog, and came to a stop at the foot of the Church steps.
In the shadow of the main doorway stood a tall figure, impeccably dressed and utterly relaxed, indifferent to the danger he’d called to himself.
“Heckhaus,” the Zombie said. “You called for your enemy… why?”
“Are we enemies?” Heckhaus asked, taking one step out of the shadows and into the diffuse orange glow of distant streetlights.
“You threatened the Baron,” the Zombie noted.
“That doesn’t make us enemies.” Heckhaus looked at his fingernails while he talked. “It just means that I’m opposing you. This is business, isn’t it? You’re here on a job?”
The Zombie laughed. “What’s your business then?”
“The Baron.” Heckhaus looked down, scrutinizing the Zombie carefully.
He refused to let Heckhaus have the satisfaction of eliciting a reaction. He would stare at the man as the Baron did, unflinching. Hell, he didn’t have to blink.
“Seems you aren’t interested in information about the Baron,” Heckhaus said.
Despite everything, that stupid little barb landed. “Fuck you!” the Zombie shouted. “Do you want to die?”
“Oh, so you want to know?”
“Tell me before I pull your spine out of your mouth.” So he couldn’t keep the same cool that the Baron did. Screw it. Intimidation always worked, even with someone as confident and fearless as Heckhaus. Threats also meant respect. Only worthy adversaries deserved hatred.
Heckhaus allowed a small smile of real satisfaction to adorn his perfectly shaven face. “The Baron is alive and well at Broadway and Canal Street. He’s in an old Artemisian safehouse. Step off the main westbound platform towards the signal light, then pass through a maintenance door and head left for a few dozen yards. It’ll be the first storage room on the left again.”
The Zombie felt relief settle over his shoulders, but he wasn’t entirely assured. “Why are you telling me this? What do you want?”
The SOG operative clapped his hands together. “What we all want, I suppose. Peace. The best of all possible worlds. I don’t know the details of what he’s doing. Do you?”
The Zombie lied without hesitation. “No.”
“Exactly, it seems that despite my best efforts, I have no clue what’s happening. When all is said and done, if you finish on schedule, it’ll be too late for me to decide if I should interfere, help, or hinder you. Don’t you agree? My report will tell the exact truth about my folded hands.”
Heckhaus’s bizarre dedication to plausible deniability was almost ritualistic in its awkward, roundabout traditions and repetitive phrases. The Zombie was impressed by its entrenched insanity—the painfully bureaucratic belief that the truth was fundamentally less important than what could be written on paperwork without logical contradiction. After all, the unspoken truth was powerless to hurt anyone, but people would kill each other over a written lie.
“I agree,” the Zombie said, because he knew the Baron must’ve already made the same deal with the devil. They must finish the work, return the Cat, and restore the balance of power—or face Langley’s wrath.
“Then head to your man,” Heckhaus said. “And good luck, Zombie.”
The Zombie flicked both birds at Heckhaus, then turned and sprinted away as fleet as the wind, north towards Canal Street. He didn’t need luck. He was fucking invincible.
Author’s Note:
I love Zombie chapters, ya’ll. 😀
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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After the Baron and Phyllis dodged, the Zombie had stopped deliberately injuring CPUSA soldiers. It wasn’t a kindness but a necessity. For each casualty made after the fight was over, he risked prompting someone to take revenge on the Baron.
While passing through the periphery of the failed ambush, the Zombie had suffered a couple of hysterical assaults from CPUSA members, but he’d yanked their weapons out of their hands and smashed the guns to pieces against the tunnel walls, leaving his victims sobbing and terrified but otherwise unharmed. The walk to the surface had been uneventful. It’d been at street level, coming out of the stairs, where CPUSA had made their move.
This was what the Zombie saw.
A late afternoon breeze blew across the mouth of the subway, a warm layer skating across a colder stagnation, never quite penetrating past the stalwart chill of the earth. Ahead, the afternoon spring sky faded towards the sun like an old robin’s egg, dimming from a soft blue towards a bleached white. The Zombie focused his gaze on the star itself, enjoying his unique capacity to see it as it truly was, through invincible eyes. Glare vanished, revealing a smooth bright disc, only variably flawed with dimmer sunspots.
He stopped to consider them for a moment. There was no rush to save the Baron now; after dodging, d’Holbach would arrive in a temple—neutral ground—likely at the 8th Street Bookstore. Retrieving him would merely take time, of which the Zombie had plenty.
So he idly counted the sunspots, comparing them in his head with yesteryear’s activity. There’d been a cyclical decline this winter, a slow sanding away of the magnetic burrs. He wondered if there’d be visible sunstorms this year, or if it’d remain calm until the next solar cycle.
Boots scuffled on pavement, a warning noise. The Zombie turned, expecting a fight with another mercenary or two. He could’ve reacted faster—he could’ve believed in their competence instead of their desperation. He’d been convinced that they were amateurs to the last. Instead, he was ambushed.
Two men with a blanket-sized, ruffled piece of tin roofing rushed at him, shouting simultaneous wishes: “Flex!” and “Constrict!” The details behind their words were hidden, but they’d become obvious with time.
The Zombie moved too late. He threw out a fist, hoping to punch through, and instead the tin swept about him like plastic wrap, sticking to itself and the Zombie with supernatural ease. CPUSA dropped the edges, and they shut around him under their own force. Constriction followed; the metal folded and crumpled with metallic pings until it squeezed his arms against his sides. He planted his palms against his waist, flexing his elbows outwards—that was the only resistance that he managed before the roofing congealed into its natural, hardened state, leaving him as snug as a cigar in a steel tube. He tried to fall, to shatter his new cage.
With shouts of panic, several mercs rushed to catch him, preventing any crash to the sidewalk. Once controlled, they bore him safely down to the sun-warmed earth. There, the back of his head rested comfortably against concrete, and the assailants revealed themselves, smiling and laughing with desperate relief.
“We did it!” one of them yelled.
“We fucking did it!” echoed another.
It’d been years since anyone had impressed the Zombie with such high-quality wishes. CPUSA’s two best cultists must’ve waited for him, honing their intentions into a weapon so fine that it could cut the Zombie from the world, holding him steady without threatening any injury.
They shouted their success into radios. “We got him! We got him!”
A reply came in Russian. It was Malik, terse and fluent, understood to those in charge.
“It was a long shot, but he was alone,” one of them bragged to another. “So lucky.”
A moment later, a truck pulled up along the curb. Men cried, “Heave!” and they hauled the Zombie into the truck’s bed with two men seated on the wheel wells to watch him. The Zombie’s nose and eyes were still free, but everything else—including his mouth—was wrapped tightly.
“Why isn’t he struggling?” asked one of the two watchers.
“Invincible,” guessed the other.
The Zombie wouldn’t struggle to release himself. It would take a while to break free, and if they noticed any flaws in their wrapping, they’d wish it away. Any escape would best wait until he was alone, able to move and act without any interference.
They drove him down to a marina-berth along the shores of the Hudson, and this time, they unloaded him in silence. They all knew what was coming, and dreaded the facsimile of drowning.
There were several sweat-soaked men on the deck of a fishing vessel, emptying sandbags into a deep wooden coffin. It was a powdered grain, very fine, almost like talcum powder. Carefully, mercs unloaded the Zombie from the truck, carried him over, and laid him down on the layer at the bottom of the coffin, face-up. Quietly, the sailors poured more sand over his chest. The light smell of sulfur and salt filled his nostrils.
“He’s still just sitting there,” one of them said.
“Quiet!” another man ordered.
“It’s creepy.” To the Zombie, “Blink or something.”
The Zombie said nothing. They were already terrified of him, and men with this much experience already knew his Pact with the Baron by heart. Once he was out of this mess, they’d fear him even more so because he didn’t resist. This silence would be remembered as eerie confidence. Nobody would call it resignation to fate. If anything, the speed of his return would increase his reputation.
“Please, I don’t want to pour sand in your eyes,” said a sailor.
The Zombie stared, eyes wide open, at the mouth of the sandbag.
“Get it over with,” said one of the other workers.
Powder cascaded down onto his vision, a brief brown cloud followed by a dark, soft pressure over his open eyeballs. Sand sifted into his nose but stopped a little into his sinuses.
After another minute or so, he felt a wash of cold against his face. They were dumping buckets of river water over the sand to pack it down. He didn’t feel any pain, nor the urge to breathe. He just held his breath, lungs strained to stay full without faltering, without end.
It took another ten minutes for them to fill the coffin to the brim. Then the pine lid came down, and he could hear them jamming down on Yankee screwdrivers. A gentle increase in pressure forced his arms a little tighter, but it equalized soon enough.
The Zombie didn’t struggle yet. On the abyssal canvas of sand, he fantasized about the faces of his captors as he held onto them, sinking together beneath the waves. He would pull each of them screaming into the depths of the Hudson, and bubbles would burst from their mouths like escaping souls. They’d suffered an equal cruelty to this crime, hugged to death while he smiled at them through bright blue seawater.
It was a satisfying distraction, but eventually he grew bored of the fantasy and started recalling scenes from the stories he’d read that day.
The Empire of Women in particular kept coming to mind. It was such a bizarre story, an accidental confession of the author’s deepest desires. Its erotic undertones seeped between the lines, lusting after a world with dominating and aggressive women, who ruled over men.
It entertained the Zombie specifically because it was alien to him.
He couldn’t remember feeling sexually attracted to anyone. Most likely, the wish to become invincible had stolen the capacity from him. It was often said that friendship lived in the mind, but love resided in the soul. In its distant place, his soul couldn’t love anything. Right?
Of course, the Baron speculated otherwise. He believed that the Zombie himself had asked for this eunuch’s life. An evil man had no common morality, yet he wasn’t necessarily an amoral creature; he could live by his own rules, choosing his own standards. Thus to the Zombie, some crimes were unforgivable, and sexual assault ranked highest among them, even now. It was a good theory, and kind. It matched the facts and implied a willful selection among evils, a preference amongst the kinds of suffering in the world.
Regardless, he considered this sci-fi story again. He turned it about in his mind like a gem, fascinated by its psychological facets. The author was desperate and unhappy. He’d written a story about rebellion against domineering women because he was unable to satisfy his lust for them. He’d shared it with the world in an unconscious, hopeless desire to connect with others. In his dreams, a female fan might call him up for a screw. Here in the real world, male fans would titter and masturbate, which the Zombie guessed was a fairly healthy response.
If he hadn’t been trapped under sand, he would’ve smiled at the irony. It’d been published in a magazine aimed at children and teenagers, fans of old adventure stories, yet its deepest themes and meanings were implicitly very adult.
It was maybe two hours later when the diesel engine rumbled into life, pushing out into the middle of the broad river. The Zombie’s coffin shuddered as they shoved it off the back of the boat. He hit the water with a lumpen sploosh, then sank rapidly to the bottom and stopped dead in the silt. The pressure of the Hudson added itself to his burden, but it hardly mattered at this point. The CPUSA had made too many mistakes to hold him for longer than an evening.
Of course, they deserved some credit for their research and technical skills. Given the legends surrounding the Zombie, this had been a genuinely clever idea. No containment would hold the Zombie forever, but several historical examples were known for their extended success, and this one didn’t require any bitumen or volcanism.
Specifically in the 10th century, the aging Emperor Zhenzong of the Song Dynasty had ordered the capture and containment of the Zombie for his support of the Khitans. They’d wrapped him in heavy, enchanted rope, dumped him into a reinforced chest full of powdered sand, and dropped him off a Chinese junk into the South China Sea.
Three and a half years had passed before he was sighted on record again, and by then it was too late to take revenge on Zhenzong, who’d died of disease.
Not that the Zombie actually recalled that experience, but the devil was in the details, and this devil would squirm out of today’s trap, using literal gaps. Whether or not he bothered to kill anyone for this indignity would depend on how long it took to escape. The Zombie fancied that fortune was smiling on everyone tonight.
Their first and foremost mistake was to leave most of his head out of the wrap. Maybe it was an accident, but it was more likely a misguided human instinct. Watching someone suffocate was horrifying. The number of people who could smother a man without qualms were few and far between. They’d even hesitated to douse his eyes in sand.
He didn’t rely on squeamishness, but he took advantage of it whenever he could. Now he’d be able to turn his head slowly, and maintaining the invincibility of his vulnerable neck under these conditions would require some extreme divine intervention.
Second, they’d wrapped him in sheet metal instead of rope. In the short term, it was a safer, smarter method, but it left small amounts of space around his arms and legs, which were mostly filled with water—not sand. This might give him enough physical freedom to really start squirming, and when he was being crushed but had room to move, his invincibility tended to ruin and render materials as hard as stone. Earlier that afternoon, he’d dug through the tunnel collapse like a mole in potting soil. The softer sand would take the hits better than rock, but he could shift until he hit the sides of the container, and once they broke, he’d be free.
Finally, they’d let him hold his breath for hours. While it would’ve been difficult to force the air out of him, enough hits with a sledge would’ve done the work. Now that he was down in the sand, breathing out would be more difficult, but either the air left through his nostrils, or he injured his diaphragm. The outcome would be predictably catastrophic.
One step at a time. He began with twitching. He relaxed, letting the dead weight of the sand and water settle on his skin. It felt like the world was bending in, falling in on him, crushing him, but he was denser still, like neutronium, like some impossible substance dug out of the thick heart of a dead star. When he was maximally pressurized, when everything was fighting to destroy his impossible body, he flexed as hard as he could manage. The world could not deny the will of the gods. He forced it back, however slightly, and the little spaces in the sheet metal were temporarily larger. The Earth would give way to him; he knew it in his bones.
Relax. Flex. Relax. Flex. Again and again. It wasn’t about shattering the box in a single blow. Stunts like kicking through concrete were lucky feats requiring room and repetition. In the worst cases, he could spend minutes hammering at a barrier before his invincibility was processed in a way that annihilated even part of his target. While snugly set in sand, there’d never be a need for such ludicrous, brutal intervention. The gods would only let him worry at the boundaries, briefly imposing impossible stresses before letting the material return to shape. Harder materials took more damage with every bend, and metal was especially sensitive.
Microfractures built up over half an hour. Permanent space grew around his elbows and hands. Now he slightly twisted his arms, barely bent his knees, and forced the coffin to audibly groan with every repetitive shift. Nature wished to pulp his moving flesh, rip his skin to shreds, break his joints and bones. He defied it with joy.
Somewhere along the right arm, the tin sheet ruptured very slightly, and sand flowed in through the gap. This caught his forearm in the sludge, but it made room somewhere else inside the coffin. A cavity was growing, and he could push towards it. It was time to move violently, to turn and break his bindings and force his hand towards the side of the box.
He relaxed again, then twitched and blew his breath out of his nose. The weight of a river refused him. The sand around him abhorred the space. The gods pushed back inexorably, and the sand around his nose bloomed away into a brief cavity of air. In response, the metal on his chest crumpled inwards, structurally unsound.
He breathed the air back in with a healthy helping of sand and water.
The metal wrapping rose on his full chest, then split open along one flank like an overripe fruit. The sand loosened around the fresh break, and his arm shot out about two inches into the mire before it settled, locked into the compressing mass.
That was an improvement. He thought about breathing in more material, but decided against it. The sand and water in his lungs were harmless, and they would eventually disappear into the same abyss as the trash in his belly, but eating or breathing in the contents of the coffin would take days, while he could force his way out in an hour or two at most.
A few more inches waited between his fingertips and the side of the coffin. Twitch by twitch, he could reach the rest of the way. Flex. Push. Flex. Push.
Over and over, the sand shifted around his hand. Eventually, he felt wood scraping against his straining fingertips. It was a splintery pine, swollen with water and soft. He was vaguely aware that the river was ice-cold, that he should’ve been half-dead of hypothermia, but as always, he was comfortable, paradoxically both part of the world yet apart from it.
In his half-shell of metal, he could shift whenever he breathed out. At the end of his right arm, straight fingers were ready to lance open the pine wall. Piercing it would be the easiest step. His arm would be locked in a straight line. He must be stopped, or the pine must give way. Reality had no other options. This was the verge of escape.
He breathed out. The coffin groaned around the bubble of sand, and he jerked his arm outwards, forcing his fingers into the pine. No response yet. He pulled a fraction of an inch back, then shoved forward again, and again. Meanwhile, he breathed in sand and water with each attempt, adding to the void in the coffin and the warping pressures on its walls.
The wood cracked audibly, and adrenaline surged through him, roaring at the sound of progress. Like the first snap of battle, it triggered memories of aggression and spilled blood. The dark nights of the Napoleonic Wars closed around him. Tireless, sleepless, he guarded, and men perished quietly at his hands. The Baron was unaware of the dead left in his wake, and if he’d had his suspicions, he’d kept them graciously to himself. Immoral behavior, the Zombie knew all too well, was tolerated during matters of life and death.
Living was worth any cost, and the Zombie would live forever.
One last thrust of violent intent, and his fingers tore through the wall of the pine coffin in a gush of sand. Following the sudden release of pressure, he flailed, slamming his limbs about wildly, churning everything into a cloud. The coffin disintegrated around him, and he clawed his way out onto the river bed, finally free of his wrappings and his containment.
His jacket had been ripped open by metal edges. It flapped around him like sheets of torn hide. His shoe soles flopped, half-loose and missing their staples. If there were any CPUSA on the berth, he would murder them. Drowning, beating, it didn’t matter. He’d need at least ten minutes to calm down, before this rush dissipated and was subsumed by civilization.
He swam tirelessly to the riverbank, sloshed up out of the water, and before he left the shallows, he blew sandy mud from his nose in two fierce jets, then gasped in a breath for one purpose and one purpose alone. “Fuck you New York!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
Nobody was waiting to die at the marina-berth. He scraped mud off his tongue and spit a couple of times. The flavor was far too bland. He ripped up a handful of semi-aquatic grass off the shoreline and shoved it in his mouth. The fresh flavor of dark, waxy, astringent stalks flooded over this tongue. He swallowed it, mostly unchewed, stumbled up onto the shore, and peeled off his shoes and socks.
Ruined clothes were awkward, and he wanted to run at a full sprint, up on the balls of his feet. He shook himself like a dog, scattering sheets of water, mud, and debris. It was a beautiful night to be alive, and an even better night to run like a bat out of hell.
So he ran, face to the wind. The lawn, the gravel path, and then concrete walks padded underfoot. Sometimes, these surfaces bore him up, impossibly rigid. Other times, they crumbled into sands and powders beneath him. Always, his feet endured.
He started somewhere in Riverside Park. The small berths for rowing and the natural shore weren’t common in Lower Manhattan. He was rushing across the doorstep to Harlem, almost one hundred blocks away from Greenwich Village, give or take ten.
The air hissed in his ears, dried out his jacket and hair. He vaulted a short chain-link fence and landed without even the slightest noise, momentum swallowed up by a miracle.
By the Zombie’s reckoning, there were two reasons that men didn’t run fast. They couldn’t put much pressure on their limbs, and they almost immediately tired of violent muscular twitching. Neither restriction applied to him.
He’d never clocked it, but he figured he was sprinting at a little over thirty miles per hour. It’d take him ten minutes or so to reach the Garment District. Pedestrians shouted invectives at his passage, swift like a windborne fury. Crazy. Drugged. Unreal. Impossible. What are you running from? Where are you going?
So many of them doubted their eyes at night. Underneath the streetlights, he appeared to move even faster, and passersby would stop and watch him until he vanished into the distance. They were witnessing the passage of a primitive god.
He tried to avoid changing direction too much, but he occasionally turned in broad arcs at intersections, cutting through traffic and eliciting an orchestra of horns.
The buildings rose higher around him as he ran south. It was a cloudy night. Cold air had blown in, a late spring front, not wintry but chilly enough to make the locals wrap in woolen layers. The wind was at his back coming out of the north now. He was reminded of the Mexican natives he’d met in 1909. They’d gotten drunk on fermented corn mash and run marathons through desert canyons. He’d chased after them naked, laughing and singing like a trickster from the barren mountains, occasionally shouting myths in English that they couldn’t understand. He wanted to sing and laugh now, to terrify the locals, but even more so he wanted a touch of anonymity. Until he knew the Baron was safe, nobody should know he was away.
The Garment District was a solid square mile where most of the fashionable clothes in the United States were either designed or produced. He slowed when he recognized the area by its shops and factories and rising offices. There were many bars here as well, but they were nearer to the middle of the district. He only needed to pilfer from the edge.
In the alley behind a row of shops, he found a rear door with a key-locked lever. If the Baron were around, he could’ve wished the lock open, but that wasn’t an option for the Zombie. He wasn’t a man, and he couldn’t carry prestige nor make a wish. If he’d had a paperclip and a screwdriver, he could’ve picked the lock with ease. Barring those possibilities, there was really only one choice. It was easy, not too loud.
He hammered the lever handle with his fist, really bringing his arm down hard. It popped loose after about a dozen strikes, and he wrenched the handle off, pulling out the guts of the tumbler lock. Then he took the end of the lever and used it to pull the latch back out of the jamb.
Most doors only stopped bad behavior because they were physical reminders that society was built on rules. They were barriers, solid expressions of stern disapproval towards any attempt to cross them. But much like a human face, a door couldn’t stop someone who had no regard for the social contract, a heavy tool or two, and the intent to bash things open. Breaking and entering was easy when your hands were as good as a hammer.
He rooted through the shop for a few minutes, swapped off his ruined clothes, and came out well-dressed. He dumped the old clothes in a dumpster out back, closed the door by pushing the latch into place with a finger, and started calmly jogging to break in his new shoes. The work of reluctant gods would ensure this happened quickly.
He’d stolen grey wool pants, a matching belt, and dark brown leather shoes. From the waist down, he was classic and conservative. It was his upper body that defied convention. A light blue dress shirt was worn underneath a bright purple cardigan sweater, the kind that a high schooler might use for a letter jacket. Only the bottom half was buttoned shut. The long, middle V of open chest framed a striped black and blue silk tie, and on his head he bore a grey bowler to match his pants.
These were royal colors intended for rich men who wanted to stand out in a crowd. The price tags on his new clothes had politely requested a fortune. Ruining them would be fun. Not that he wanted to dress like this all the time. He’d change back into a proper navy blue suit whenever they could return to the Biltmore. Tomorrow? A week from now? Hard to say.
Once he was sure the soles would flex without ripping up the shoes, he sprinted again. Likely he wouldn’t be able to find the Baron for many hours yet, but he could make good use of his time while he was in the area and reconnoiter their ultimate destination. 42nd St. ran through the Garment District’s north end. He could follow it towards East River Drive and United Nations Plaza, where Denisov should be waiting for the delivery of the Cat o’ Nine Lives.
Normally, it’d be a tremendous risk to show up at the UN—the very heart of secular power—but anonymity wouldn’t really matter tonight. Anyone who recognized him would already know he’d been thrown into the river, and they wouldn’t dare sic secular authorities on him in such a public location.
To be frank, keeping the occult secret was a universal duty, and the threat of punitive tasks was deeply respected. If the Zombie’s existence were accidentally revealed to the United Nations, the gods might send every cult on the Eastern seaboard after the responsible parties. They’d be happy to enact the divine wrath, likening their actions to karmic retribution. If someone endangered the secrets of the system, the system threatened them in turn.
Of course, the Baron had his own complicated theories about the system of prestige and its natural concealment. According to him, divine punishment was only a secondary cause for secrecy; the first and more important cause was apparently “Malthusian population dynamics.”
His argument went like this. A cultist farmed and consumed prestige like food, and they only inducted others when the population was thin and there were tasks that needed doing. Once the occult population was dense enough, growth petered off quickly because there wasn’t enough prestige to go around, and there was little incentive to continue inducting new members.
The rest of the Baron’s argument followed naturally from these historical and social forces. Even if you convinced a large population that the occult was real, nobody would bother to properly induct most of them. There’d be no benefit to investing the time.
By this logic, divine punishments were best seen as reinforcing existing demographic trends. They were never the source of them.
The Zombie found this all fascinating, even emotionally compelling. He thought about the ways it affected the common man, the economics of it. Scarcity and the involvement of money created a class of occult nobles, and so forth—but this all mattered in the same way that the Zombie enjoyed science-fiction stories. The words moved his body’s heart, but nothing else.
He was ultimately material, tied to the mundane Earth. He could no more partake of prestige than he could crawl through a smoggy Venusian jungle or orbit a distant star in the hull of a flitting starship. It was never his adventure; only someone else’s story.
The Zombie reached United Nations Plaza a few minutes later and circled once around the iron perimeter fence, slowing over a hundred yards to a stop beside the UN Library. The plaza itself was locked behind guard gates and vehicle check-ins, but the UN’s many buildings bordered the civilian streets at several points. The Library facade was three stories of beautifully clean, dark green glass. It connected through corridors to the recently completed Secretariat office building, which was thirty-eight stories of the same shining, almost opaque material. In turn, the Secretariat was mated to the Conference building—home of the Security Council—and lashed by long, low halls to the dome of the General Assembly.
This entire place was their destination. The Zombie was here to understand exactly what it’d take to get the Baron inside without risking interception by an occult enemy.
He walked back towards one corner of the plaza and shook one of the fence posts. They were no more than six inches apart, and each pole was about twice a man’s height and topped with an actual spearhead of painted iron. The Zombie could climb over them, but nobody else would dare risk impaling themselves like a medieval trophy. He could bend the posts to make room for someone to squeeze though, but that’d make a lot of noise and draw attention, and they’d be unlikely to reach Denisov before someone on the grounds arrested them.
Realistically, the Baron would have to arrive by car, which meant handing over IDs to a guard, or he’d have to walk in through a visitor’s gate, which would give CPUSA several chokepoints to monitor for his arrival.
Asking Denisov to meet the Baron somewhere outside the UN would be even less useful—he was under virtual house arrest, and there was nobody to liberate him. Denisov had hired the Baron and Zombie because he had no occult agents of his own, and it was doubtful that his secular staff could help him.
Coming here was the only current solution, and it was a bad one. Any cultists stationed in the UN would be actual Soviets—Malik’s servants, and effectively the enemy. Trying to fight through them would start an international incident, though its absolute scale and nature were obscured from the Zombie. He just knew in his gut that modern governments were bigger and vastly more capable than any occult organization. The money and power that flowed through them could literally end the world, and escaping one would require a cataclysm.
The Baron wouldn’t appreciate international attention. The Zombie wouldn’t appreciate it if it killed his friend. And the world wouldn’t appreciate the consequences that would come for them in the aftermath.
Boots stomped across plaza pavestones. “There!” shouted a man with a Russian accent.
The Zombie peered through the bars of the fence. “The vermin show themselves!” he yelled. Cultists might pull the reins of many major powers, but they were always parasites or symbionts to the secular government, never the state itself.
Malik and two other men were jogging alongside the Library towards him. They looked like they’d run a fair distance for fit men, breathing calmly through their mouths and lightly sweating. The moment someone had sighted the Zombie, they’d probably come running from Denisov’s offices in the Secretariat building.
“Holy hell!” Malik shouted once the Zombie was in earshot. “Are you insane? You run around the plaza like a cheetah, and every night guard throws a fit! They think we sent you to scare them, like some fucking supersoldier program!”
The Zombie grinned. “You’re staying at the UN overnight?”
Malik ran up to the fence and clung to the posts as if they were jail bars. He briefly pressed his wet face into the gap, pulled back as if shocked to confirm the Zombie’s audacity, and wiped his thin mustache with shaking fingers. “You monster! Deluded! Vile! You persist in denying us what we own!” His companions stopped beside him, one a thickly-bearded minder in a black suit, the other a bodyguard with a cleft chin shaved as smooth as glass.
“The Orthodox own the Cat,” the Zombie said idly. “Have you been binging?”
“What’s that?” Malik snapped.
“Cocaine doesn’t calm you down.”
“Pfah. I can’t risk sleeping. No thanks to you!”
The Zombie chuckled. “Are you afraid you’ll go home empty-handed?”
Malik straightened and took a deep breath. “I admit it!” His voice was strained. “This upsets the General Secretary. It upsets me. Do you think the Christian psychopaths running the Orthodox cult are going to rest on the Cat? They won’t, and they can’t run a government. Once they have the Cat, the Bolshevik faction is dead—murdered, all of us—but you don’t care! Why should you, you ignorant pig? You make the mistakes today, and our state topples tomorrow!” He was beginning to shout. “We bind the Warsaw Pact together! It is our peace! Communist peace! The peasants are free from nobles, from petty tyranny! Without us, Eastern Europe will shatter! We will be dragged into another ‘Great Patriotic War!’” His voice dripped with disdain for the term, but the arc of his high was still rising. He jabbed a finger between the fence posts. “You want to stop a nuclear war? Hand the Cat over to us! We’ll end this fucking war, we’ll take care of your fucking Langley! We’ll tear down your High Oracles and your Boss Tweed and then the real threat will be dead, all of it! We’ll be able to lock the Apples in a box and forget about them. Forget about the gods. Forget about this hell-cursed prestige. Forget, forget, forget!”
“You can’t bury everything.” The Zombie grinned as he scratched the inside of his ear. “I’ll still be here—the eternal reminder.”
Malik spat on the sidewalk. “Of course you are, of course! No box can hold you. Fucking myths! The only legend here is that you can be stopped. You’re a juggernaut, yes? Engine of destruction! I curse you for crushing dreams beneath your wheels!”
The Zombie leaned forward very slightly. “What if I rolled over this place, Malik?”
The man reeled in shock, then rolled back forward in a fury. “I would kill the Baron!”
The minders immediately began shouting at Malik in Russian. The thickly-bearded one grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. Malik began shouting back.
The Zombie raised his hand. “Don’t worry, boys! He won’t do it.”
They couldn’t understand his English, but Malik shook off the minders’ grip and scowled at the Zombie. “You can’t assault the United Nations. It’s the dream of world government. Would you oppose that? Would you? They’d demand your heads!”
“They’re welcome to try,” the Zombie replied, but his focus was on gauging the height of the fence. It wasn’t much compared to the walls and ramparts of the Old World, but gunpowder had long made the threat of retaliation into the best defense, and bombs had redoubled the irrelevancy of physical barriers. Much like doors, fences only had to be tall enough to discourage a man, not truly block him. They had to be a symbol of law, and crossing them must be trespassing. That was the most one could ask for—often enough.
The Zombie was different. He grabbed the bars of the fence with both hands, gave them a shake, and found them incredibly sturdy. Solid metal, reassuring.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Malik asked. His voice was even, but his eyes bulged alongside a vein in his temple.
The Zombie wouldn’t easily damage the bars. With only his arms, he reached high and tested his grip. The painted surface wasn’t slippery when dry, and he didn’t sweat.
“Don’t do it,” Malik warned. “Stay there!”
The invincible man pulled himself up with only his arms, hanging his entire weight from one limb at a time, lifting himself with ease. Smoothly, he scaled the fence.
“Jesus Christ, you fucking—” Malik stopped and slapped the clean-shaven guard on the chest. “Get on the phone! Keep this under control!”
The Zombie grabbed two sharpened spearpoints with his fingers, one in each hand, and hung from the top of the fence, grinning down at Malik.
The guard complained in Russian. Malik shouted back, then in English, “I’m in charge!” The guard sprinted off for the door, accidentally bumping into a steel trash can with his hip.
“Am I your guest?” the Zombie asked.
“Get down from there!” Malik shouted.
The Zombie yanked as fast as possible, slinging his body up and over the fence in a lazy half-flip. Malik cursed in Russian, covered his head, and ducked away.
The Zombie limply struck the plaza bricks like a side of beef.
Malik and the minder flinched like they’d expected a bomb to go off under him.
The invincible man laughed gaily from the ground. He stood up quickly and dusted himself off, though it was a cursory brushing.
“What do you want?” Malik asked him, glowering.
The thickly-bearded minder said something in Russian, including the name d’Holbach.
Malik nodded. “He says you must control yourself. The Baron would ask you to.”
“He would,” the Zombie agreed. “But I’m not a creature of choice, you know that. I’m a machine of impulses, a deterministic mind. You’ll make the environment in which I behave, so show me. Prove to me that I can’t walk in here with the Cat.”
“You?” Malik’s tone was a demand.
“Forget the teenager. Forget the Baron. With enough prestige, anyone can be healed remotely, but I can carry the Cat in the palm of my hand. What stops me?”
“Is this a trick question?” Malik’s disdain was palpable. “The Baron survives by your protection. If you ram the Cat in the door, I wouldn’t even have to threaten him. There are a hundred New Yorkers who remember Salem, and they’d die to spill his blood, if not for your senseless Pact. Turn your back? They will have him!”
The Zombie rolled his eyes. “The Baron would follow me.”
“His arrest should be enough of a threat.”
“Show me,” the Zombie insisted, “and be prompt. I haven’t threatened you; I haven’t intimidated you; I haven’t even leered at you. This is the nicest I’ll ever be, so show me.”
Malik glanced at his minder, asking a brief question in Russian.
“Da,” the minder said, “this way.”
“You’re our guest,” Malik hissed, overemphasizing the S. “Act like it, eh?”
“I’m a gentleman in a gentle world,” the Zombie replied playfully. “Lead on.”
They walked to the door of the UN Library, but Malik paused with his fingers on the handle. “Do you have an ID?”
The Zombie shrugged. “A driver’s license under a dead man’s name. It’s soaking wet.”
“In your wallet though?”
“Sure.”
“The guard post is just inside. If he asks, flash it, then shut the wallet.” Malik opened the door, and the Russians stepped through ahead of the Zombie. Malik’s bodyguard was standing there arguing with an American official in a black suit.
“Is that the Chinese acrobat?” the American guard drawled in a thick southern accent.
Malik was quick on the draw. “Have you explained this yet?” he shouted at his Russian bodyguard.
“Sir…” the American began.
Malik marched up to the guard’s desk and slammed his palms down on the oak barrier in front of it, making everyone flinch. “This man is a distinguished guest of the United Soviet Socialist Republics, and I’ve been told you Americans want to harass him because of his Chinese heritage!”
“Sir, with all due respect—”
“He’s a fucking American!” Malik shouted.
“Sir! There are reports of the man running wild outdoors!”
“He’s an acrobat!” Malik was sweating fiercely. The adrenaline rush of intimidating a man must’ve been acute under stimulants. “I’ve taken care of the situation. It is done!” He lifted his hands. “Prokofiev! Go tell Denisov our guest has arrived and will be there shortly.”
The Russian bodyguard jogged dutifully down the corridor and took the stairs.
“Now wait a goddamnit minute,” said the American guard, “you can’t bum rush my station—”
“Check his ID, write down his name, do the minimum. We are expected.”
The guard was seething, but he seemed all too familiar with Malik. He snapped and motioned to the Zombie. “Your wallet.”
“Of course, sir,” The Zombie pulled it out of his pocket and tossed it underhanded without looking. His attention was on Malik, who was nearly apoplectic.
The diplomat mouthed through clenched teeth: You!
There was a thump from the direction of the desk. “Is this wet?” the guard asked with distaste.
“It fell into the river,” the Zombie replied without looking.
Malik glared like a man ready to commit murder.
Having made it clear that the man’s orders were suggestions at best, the Zombie finally looked at the desk as the guard gingerly opened the soggy fold of leather.
The printed cardstock for the driver’s license of the state of Massachusetts was tough, but two hours underwater had done its damage. He carefully peeled apart the contents, tugged out the half-torn license, and read the faded ink. “Mr. Yee, replace this card as soon as possible.” He opened a log book and wrote down the name and address. If they looked it up in a Boston directory, they’d find it was the location of a restaurant. The guard stuffed it in the wallet and tossed it back. “Go on then.” To Malik, “And expect a request for a security report from your office. I will not be stormed because Denisov wants to drink with circus folk.”
“Fine,” Malik said. He started off, and the Zombie fell in behind him with a large grin on his face. They came to an elevator by the stairwell, and Malik hammered the call button. “Can’t come fast enough,” he muttered. The door opened with a chime, and they huddled inside a truly modernized lift; no elevator cage was necessary.
Only after the door shut did Malik speak. “We’re heading to the third floor. There’ll be another station and another guard, and you’ll need documents or an escort to pass. It’ll be this at every entrance, at every major exchange, and then there’ll be my guards at the Soviet offices.”
The Zombie shrugged once and said nothing. Malik would show him everything. He had to. Trying to hide his defenses would only prove to the Zombie that the Bolsheviks had a weakness to hide. If it was truly impenetrable, he could make that judgement for himself. UN security was problematic, but it might be worth trying to trespass regardless. They’d get caught, of course, but once in custody, they could name drop Denisov. The Baron could come up with a story—he was an excellent liar—and then Denisov could be called down to explain.
That’s if they could call down Denisov.
On the third floor connector to the Secretariat tower, they stopped briefly at a checkpoint. The guard exchanged a brief radio note with the first floor library desk. He checked UN badges from Malik and the minder, then waved them on ahead and went back to reading a comic book.
They took another elevator up to the twenty-sixth floor. “We’re entering a hallway full of ears. Don’t say a word, or Langley will hear you.”
This floor must’ve contained most of the offices of the Warsaw Pact nations. It was amazingly quiet, and the ornamentation was rich, inviting, like a palatial hall in the dead of night. Crimson wallpaper coated the walls. Soft polished wood spread over the floors. Billowing couches, thick leather chairs, and ashtray stands spread along the hall, offering creature comforts. Nevertheless, nobody came out of their rooms to enjoy a smoke with their peers.
Malik led them in silence to the end of the hall and knocked twice at a door. A Russian man opened for him, and they crowded into another, smaller hallway with simpler decorations. “We can talk here,” Malik said. “Zombie, would you come with me? I want to show you something.” He curled a finger, and the Zombie followed dutifully.
He cracked open an office door. Inside, in the dark, was a half dozen cots with young men sleeping on them. Buzz cut hair and thick arms told much of the story. Malik told the rest: “Spetsnaz, GRU, and Bolshevik to the man. Armed, both mundane and occult.” He closed the door and went to the next room. He cracked it open. Another half dozen were sleeping.
The Zombie grinned broadly. This was likely the full extent of the military forces Malik was able to sneak into the Secretariat. It was also a probable supermajority of all inducted Spetsnaz members in general, collected here to guard Denisov.
Malik was shaking while he shut the door. “We’ve got ten rooms full of soldiers,” he said. “More forces than you can fend off. The Baron couldn’t come through this place alive.”
The Zombie folded his hands at his waist. “Would you kill him to prevent the Cat from reaching Denisov? Really? Knowing what you know?”
“I would murder Denisov first,” Malik whispered, “and if the Baron didn’t give up the Cat, we’d take it off his body and throw you back in the river.”
“You won’t kill Denisov,” the Zombie whispered back. “You would’ve done it already if you could, but you can’t. Not unless you want Apples thrown in Moscow.”
Malik’s jaw clenched, and he squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them wide again. “Test me,” Malik whispered. “Take away my chance to live, and see if I care about the Pact.”
The minder was standing behind him. He barked something fierce in Russian.
“Threaten the Baron, and Stalin would order your death,” the Zombie said.
“Pfah! The government would fall anyways,” Malik pointed at the Zombie, “but your suffering would be centuries long. Don’t test me!” His hand shuddered, but the Zombie couldn’t read whether it was drugs, fear, or nervous anger. Malik closed his eyes again and swallowed loudly. “I wish I wasn’t so ill,” he rasped. Peace descended over his sweating brow. When he opened them, some of the redness was gone. “Come with me, both of you. Come. I’ll show you to Denisov, you godless dog. See if you think you can win, after you see his cage.”
Author’s Note:
Nothing can contain the Zombie forever.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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The cab ride south was brief, passing along the walk where they’d been sprinting only minutes before. Rolling by the CPUSA wreck, the Baron spotted a gaggle of NYPD beat cops standing around an empty vehicle. Marco was nearly lying down at this point, and Phyllis had her eyes shut. The cabbie spotted the same threats and drew his own conclusions, pulling his arms inwards and leaning low over the steering wheel.
He was guessing half-correctly that they’d been in the wreck, and he wanted no part—not even eye contact—with the police. It was the right attitude. The cabbie needed to believe that he couldn’t say a word to anyone about this.
For the Baron, this was a moment of immense strategic importance. No CPUSA merc remained with the wreck, and New York’s sedan and cultists were all absent from the scene. It was incredibly likely that the Oracle and his crew had successfully captured the CPUSA mercenaries and fled the scene. New York didn’t have to chase the Baron and his allies any further if they could simply interrogate the Baron’s enemies.
Sometime this evening, there was a strong chance that a CPUSA merc would crack, and New York would discover that the Cat o’ Nine Lives was loose in their city. They’d grasp that the Soviets were operating under their nose, and they’d mobilize their forces—a literal army of vassals, and their trump card himself, Meister Schuler.
But CPUSA mercs were stubborn, even suicidal. The Baron could expect some leeway, and if fortune favored them, they might escape the full wrath of the world’s largest cult for another day. The whole mess might vanish into a series of dodges.
He doubted they’d be so lucky. The cab rolled on.
The intersection of Broadway and Canal Street somehow managed to combine the worst of both roads. It was far from the glamorous stretch of theaters and shops that drew the nouveau riche to dine in the afternoons and enjoy plays and musicals in the evenings. It was also distant from the bustling neighborhoods of Chinatown and Little Italy. Sitting just south of Soho and north of Tribeca, it was a lifeless non-neighborhood of white stone office buildings, pale grey asphalt, and undecorated sidewalks slanting down to gaping storm drains. Beneath their feet, the actual canal of Canal Street still ran westward, draining off marshy groundwater and sluicing it away from the recovering slum of Five Points to the Hudson River.
They stopped at the nearest corner and got out. The cabbie sped off without a further word, abandoning them in this mass of concrete boxes over a century-old sewer.
“That was a lot of money for a short ride,” the Baron said.
“He won’t say shit,” Phyllis muttered.
“You sure? CPUSA and New York will be questioning the cabbies tonight.”
“I said, he’ll keep his mouth shut,” Phyllis replied, glancing around quickly. “We should get off the street. Come on. There’s a maintenance path off the station platform.”
They crossed the street and took the Canal Street station entrance, stepping down into the Earth along a single slope of rubber-coated stairs. A central railing divided them into upstream and downstream traffic, but nobody was coming up at this hour, if only because nobody lived here. For that matter, nobody was going down, because nobody worked here on a Sunday. Right now, fewer stations in the city were more desolate than this.
The station was minimal, hosting only a couple of small platforms with white tile walls and cheap bands of colorful, abstract mosaics layered across the surface. The ticket offices were at the far ends of the platforms, each having a poor view of the stairway. Phyllis turned right, led them down to a couple of steps at the station’s end, and pulled open an unlocked maintenance gate without any hesitation. They walked out onto a narrow, shallow extension of the rail platform. It had maybe two feet of spare room for people to walk single file, and twenty or thirty feet ahead, they could see a signal light glowing softly green at the head of a lamp post. The walkway ended at its foot, and there was a maintenance door to their right.
“This heads into the Canal Street access tunnels. There’s an old storage room that’s been cleared out and wired up.” The door had a new combination lock on it. Phyllis seemed to know the numbers by heart. She pulled it open and guided them in. Without the signal light or the diffuse illumination of the platform, they were swallowed up in the dark.
“Lonely,” Marco whispered.
“This is why it’s safe,” Phyllis said, her voice low but loud in the enclosed stone. “Put your hand on the left wall and walk slowly. It’s about fifty feet from here.”
In pitch darkness, they walked forward. The Baron followed Phyllis’s presence, that strange sense of full space that his other senses fixed into the dark. It was a poor substitute for vision, erratic and warped by the imagination, but it was real. Sensing body heat, maybe?
He could hear Marco shuffling along behind him. Having open eyes in absolute darkness was a strange experience. Random neurons fired, stimulating others to fire, creating dim hallucinations—not dissimilar to the moment of entering the temple sanctuary. Rolling rings of snowy, grey lines shrank towards the center of vision, as if he were falling backwards through a tunnel.
“Here it is,” Phyllis said. She pulled open a quiet door, a soft gush of air marking its passage. She stepped inside. The Baron followed. Marco shuffled in last.
“We’re all in,” the Baron whispered.
“Close the door,” Phyllis commanded.
Marco closed the door. It shut with a click.
Phyllis snapped a knife-blade switch closed. Two lamps came on in a large room at the end of a short hall. The lights were dim and yellow, but they were as bright as the rising sun for unready eyes. There was a stack of cots, shelves of food, a table and chairs, but their eyes could barely register any of it before they were inexorably drawn towards a single spot.
A man in a sharply pressed suit was seated behind the table, a tin of peaches neatly opened in front of him with a fork handle rising from the syrup and sliced fruit. He wasn’t eating, only waiting, and his eerie, empty smile silently told a story of victory. He was tall, broad-jawed, and built for combat. His shifting eyes measured them each in turn.
The Baron’s heart began to hammer in his chest. Phyllis was frozen up. All security was gone. In the best case scenario, they’d have to crawl all over the room from floor to ceiling, and they’d probably never find what they were looking for. Marco choked back a small sob of disappointment. He must’ve thought this man was a Communist—CPUSA or Soviet—but he was much, much worse. He was a member of the Order of the Cincinnati.
“Would you like to introduce yourselves?” asked the man cheerily.
“Everyone, keep calm,” the Baron said. “This is Robert Heckhaus, Special Operations Group. He’s from Langley, Virginia.” The Baron stepped around Phyllis and glanced into the near corners of the room. “Where are the rest of your men?” he asked.
Heckhaus laughed pleasantly. “One moment, Baron.” He picked up his fork and ate a slice of peach neatly, then set it down back in the syrup and talked only after swallowing. “They’re out in the dark, listening. They could be here very quickly, but for now, I’m at your mercy.” He pointed at Phyllis’s pants like his finger was a pistol. Bang, his thumb dropped like a hammer. “Heard you shot a revolver, cultist of Artemis. Got any rounds in the cylinder?”
“How did you find this place?” she asked. After dodging, she couldn’t have a gun; his commentary was either a test for information or a bit of mocking cruelty, which she ignored.
“Does a magician reveal his secrets?” Heckhaus asked.
“Are you a magician?”
The Langley cultist laughed even louder. “I’m more like a ghost, aren’t I?”
“You do haunt me,” the Baron said. He tried to imagine how Heckhaus had beaten them to the safehouse. There was a lot of evidence of their presence in Brooklyn. There was even reason to believe that the ruckus down here in Manhattan would’ve been widely known, at least among CPUSA and anybody who was watching them. For that matter, Heckhaus’s people might’ve spotted them after their dodge when they escaped the 8th Street Temple. There were lots of opportunities to pick up the trail and follow it, if he knew what he was looking for.
But why here? How did he know about this safe house? How did he get here first?
The Baron guessed at an answer. “You’ve got the Cult of Artemis mapped out in New York. They’re a radical faction, and you want to keep tabs on them. You heard we dodged into Greenwich Village and took a chance that we’d come to the closest safe house.”
Heckhaus’s smile expanded until it was genuine. “Very good, Baron. We’ve got the underground mapped to hell and back, and rooms like these are on our maps.”
“What men can do with a lot of time and money,” the Baron said softly.
“Only if they’ve got the zeal to root out communist threats.” Heckhaus forked another slice of peach and finished it off in short, sharp bites, slicing it to chunks with his incisors. “Luckily for the Cult of Artemis, they’re not communist, so we don’t care. Let them live.”
“Very progressive,” Phyllis said darkly.
“Ha, hardly! There’s not a woman in the Order for the same reason there isn’t one anywhere else. They’re impractical, hated!”
“By you?”
“By everyone else. The persecution of occult women is an endless assault on the Apostate in effigy. It’s foolish, of course. They should be lauding her genius. She rejected the values of the system and stole immortality from the gods!” He snatched at the air, as if trying to grasp the dim light in his hand. “She’s a role model, not a villain. Gods help any man of the Order who doesn’t learn a lesson from her example. We are here to win, and she was a winner!”
The admiration of a Langley cultist was surely aggravating to Phyllis, but she knew enough about Langley to know she shouldn’t argue the Apostate’s values with a fanatic. The Baron patted her carefully on the shoulder, but she didn’t respond. If the Baron’s support was appreciated, she still wouldn’t dare show it to Heckhaus. Weakness here could be fatal. He could only tell she was unhappy by her stance, her slumped shoulders. It was a reasonable reaction. A SOG operative was making himself at home in the center of her secrets.
The Baron decided to direct the conversation away from the Apostate. “So why are you here?”
Heckhaus snapped and pointed at him. “There’s been a lot of violence today. The stories I’ve heard are incredible. Shootouts, murders, big public wishes—all in New York’s playground. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were looking at the opening volleys of an occult war.”
“But you know better,” Phyllis said.
“I do,” Heckhaus agreed. “If this were a war, why, there’d have to be something worth fighting for. Something big. The kind of thing I could only trust the Baron would tell us about, since he’s such a good American citizen. Aren’t you, Baron?”
The Baron said nothing.
Heckhaus said nothing in turn.
They were both ready to wait in silence, and neither would break.
Phyllis cleared her throat and stood by the Baron in solidarity.
Thirty seconds passed in agonizing silence. It was such a pointless game, but the wrong move had very real consequences, and the Baron needed to ignore that question. Any admission about the Cat—on the record—could spell doom for them all.
It was Marco that broke first, likely drowning in his own adrenaline. “He’s been helping me,” he explained in a shaky voice.
“The son of the dead man speaks!” Heckhaus said. “How are you feeling?”
“Leave him be,” the Baron ordered. He glanced back at the teenager. “Marco, don’t answer any of his questions. He’s not your friend. He’s nobody’s friend. It’s all business.”
Heckhaus sniffed disdainfully. “Speaking of business, if you were called here to start a war, it’d have to be over something huge, something the Soviets want back. It’s not an Apple—I would’ve seen the damage. It’s not the Whistle—the body count is too low. Nobody would go to war for the Lazy Woman. What other artifacts are there in the Soviet arsenal?”
“I’m not here to start a war,” the Baron said.
“Of course not, but if you were, it would be the Cat o’ Nine Lives, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Phyllis answered quickly, “but this is about Cosa Nostra politics.” She looked at Marco. “His enemies are punishing the son for the sins of the father. I’d know. I’m the new dock boss for the crews around Red Hook.”
“There was a gunfight in Red Hook,” Heckhaus said, “so the story checks out, and that makes me glad, honest Injun. It’d be a disaster if this were a fight for the Cat.”
“Why?” Marco asked.
“Well, young man, imagine what would happen if it were the Cat. If I could confirm it, let’s say because the Baron failed to keep it a secret from New York, or he threatened to lose it to the Bolshevik faction of the Soviet cult… Why, Langley would have to step in.”
“Is it that important?” Marco asked.
“Yes. If it were official right now, I’d be compelled to slaughter everyone in this room and root through their guts for the prize. But it isn’t, is it? The Baron is handling an internal conflict between vassal cults. I don’t have to kill anybody, do I?”
“No, sir,” Marco said.
The Baron thought Heckhaus’s message was a little heavy-handed, but the point was well taken. It’d been far too easy to deduce what artifact was in play. Once anyone realized that the Soviets were opposing the Baron, they could connect the dots. Marco had been mortally wounded, shot in plain daylight, but within hours he was dodging into temples, and it wasn’t likely that the Baron had healed him. It had to be the Cat in his belly, and the Soviets wanted it back.
Since Langley was intimately familiar with the internal politics of the Soviet cult, it would’ve been obvious to Heckhaus that the Bolsheviks were making a play to recover what the Orthodox faction had lost. This all assumed that their intelligence networks didn’t pick up on the entire scenario from other sources. A potential shift in power made a lot of noise, and the Langley cult was tied into one of the world’s most extensive secular intelligence networks. The Baron never forgot that they were CIA agents with authority, even if their cult didn’t run the agency.
Heckhaus was giving the Baron a second warning. Permission was being given to finish the job. As long as plausible deniability was maintained, Heckhaus would stand aside and watch. The Baron almost admired him for his unwavering pragmatism, much like one might admire a predator for having bloody claws and long fangs. Heckhaus embodied CIA politics exactly. On the record, he followed every rule and law to the letter, promoting American ideals and loyalty above all else. Off the record, anything was fair game, and he would make unethical decisions or betray his ideals if he knew that he would win.
Nevertheless, this wasn’t an open agreement yet, and there was a challenge buried in Heckhaus’s story. He’d suggested that it’d be worth killing the Baron himself for the Cat, and that half-threat demanded a response. “Your hypotheticals are bizarre. If we had the Cat, there’d be no point in killing me and risking the Zombie’s retribution. It’s only powerful in conjunction with other pieces of the Soviet arsenal. It’s nothing more than a novelty, at least on a global scale.”
“We couldn’t win the Cold War with it,” Heckhaus agreed, “but that wouldn’t be the point. It’d be about denying the Bolshevik faction, about weakening the Soviet arsenal of artifacts. Funny that you mention the Zombie though. He certainly isn’t around. This would be the best time to kill you, down here in the dark. How long would it take for him to find you, do you think?”
Phyllis blindly touched the Baron with a hand. “I wish you had a half day of my prestige.”
He felt the value settle on him, the pleasure of prestige vastly overwhelmed by the crushing responsibility it represented. He had to save himself for the Zombie, even if it meant her death, Marco’s death, and the loss of the Cat to Langley.
If things went wrong, he had to live. But things hadn’t gone wrong yet.
Heckhaus pursed his lips. “That wasn’t necessary. This is a friendly conversation. I just happened to be in town, and I have a nose for sniffing out trouble, so here I am.”
“You happened to be in town?” Phyllis asked skeptically.
“You haven’t read about it? The papers are running paranoid, though I can’t imagine why. The New York Army National Guard is on a standard training exercise out of LaGuardia Airport.”
“You’re kidding,” the Baron said, “you’ve ordered in the National Guard?”
“Baron, please! I’m overseeing a training exercise. I didn’t order in anyone. This came down from the Department of Defense. They’ve had these plans on the books for years.”
“What plans?”
“We’re simulating a response to a Soviet invasion of the five boroughs.”
The Baron blurted out, “That’s ridiculous!” He couldn’t help it, the ruse was so incredibly thin. “We’re on the east coast, and the naval yards sail out of the Hudson.”
“You wouldn’t laugh if the Soviets started their invasion in Queens,” Heckhaus said. “The citizens of the United States are glad to know their finest are prepared for anything and everything. This exercise is only one of many possible emergency deployment scenarios, and thanks to our tireless planning, the National Guard could be mobilized anywhere in the continental forty-eight within twenty-four hours. Vigilance, my friend, is never ridiculous.”
Only a CIA agent could deliver a joke like that without a trace of irony. Langley was preparing to fight with the New York cult and the CPUSA using a secular army, and they hardly bothered to conceal their might, stretching what little plausibility they could muster over the elephant in the room while pretending it was well-hidden. If the Baron failed or lost the Cat, Heckhaus could strike the first blow of an occult war right here on American soil.
New York was surely aware of this secular threat, and they’d been receiving reports of the Baron and Zombie fighting in the streets. No wonder they were afraid. From their perspective, the situation was already escalating out of control, and they couldn’t divine a reason why.
Heckhaus ate another slice of peaches while his speech settled among his audience. Once he was finished, he pointed the fork at Marco. “Do you know why it’s important?”
“What is important, sir?” Marco asked.
“The Cat o’ Nine Lives. Do you know why artifacts are important?”
“Sort of. There isn’t anything else like it.”
“Not in the whole world,” Heckhaus said, “and there never will be again. Young man, how long have you been a cultist? Not long?”
“I made my first wish today,” he said.
Heckhaus stuck the fork deep in the tinned fruit. “Do you know the Fall of Curses?”
“Yes sir.” Marco did his best to recall what little he’d gleaned from the Zombie’s summary. “The gods changed the rules. No more artifacts.”
Heckhaus leaned back and told his version of the story.
Young man, it’s one of the great disasters of human history! Before the Fall of Curses, a wish could change an object. It could be magically blessed or cursed—permanently. The only risk was that the artifact, that investment of prestige, could be destroyed.
Imagine the logic of the ancients. Shatter a magic staff, and the power was lost. Smash a clay seal, and the demons were released from servitude. It only made sense. Artifacts could do terrible things, but only because someone could destroy them. It was insurance against abuse. Evil things weren’t cherished. Like men and all of their works, they were broken.
People protected their investments, of course. The Cat is nigh invincible with blessings, though it doesn’t compare to something like the Ark of the Covenant. And even artifacts like these were carefully guarded. Once one was out of your hands, it was difficult to defend. Opposing cults could wish for its location and crush it. Snap! Just like that! No more power!
Kings and generals found that frailty unacceptable, young man. They always demanded something better—a sharper sword, a stronger shield, a faster horse. We still think this way even now. Atomic bombs prove our nature; presidents and premiers want the power to turn cities into rubble and corpses without lifting a finger. Their coffers spill open, and we invent planes, mechanisms, and machinery—all to make mass murder simpler, more reliable.
Now imagine you’re an ancient king or a medieval general. You can curse an amulet to wither all the crops within ten miles, but someone will always find it and destroy it. You’ll waste your investment, so you ask your wizards to invent a magic bomb, a foolproof vehicle for a cursed property. You ask this again, and again, and your wise men all fail without exception. Do you give up? Do you believe there’s no hope in killing your enemies?
By the 14th century, the Vatican held that creating such an artifact was logically impossible. They argued that an artifact was a fusion of substance and form, inseparable and unchanging. If either piece was modified, the artifact was destroyed. They believed that an artifact could only be made from stable things, having permanence of both form and substance.
You couldn’t curse a fire. Nobody could bless water in a cup. The air you breathed could never be enchanted. Skin couldn’t be imbued with the strength of stone, and flesh could only be molded and shaped within the boundaries of nature. Wishes could target these things, but wishes could never permanently change them.
But there was a flaw in this thinking, which some very clever men noticed. This system of blessings and curses wasn’t perfectly rigorous. If you blessed a ship, you could replace every inch of its wood, plank by plank, and it’d remain an artifact the entire time. The presence of one particular plank or another was irrelevant.
Now you might think, why does this matter? Why is a spy telling me about the legal definition of an artifact? The answer is the critical insight. If there wasn’t a large degree of flexibility, no artifact could’ve survived for more than a fraction of a second. A single rub of a finger would’ve removed a few atoms, and the artifact would’ve failed. The rules must be flawed. With only a slight shift in philosophy, the cracks could be laid bare.
That shift came in 1310 or so. An alchemist, Paul of Tartan, argued that all metals were composed of two fundamental substances, mercury and sulphur. He was dead wrong, but his theory provided a framework. He thought mercury was fundamental, indestructible, and that every metal in the universe contained a fixed portion of it.
His theory implied that form and substance weren’t actually unified. Form was just the pattern—or the mix—while the fundamental substance was unchanging. Under this paradigm, alchemy was the reorganization of basic substances, rather than their transmutation or whatever other nonsense. Paul created a science of materials—however crude—which allowed him to identify objects by substance alone, not by shape!
Since Paul was a cultist, he took this to mean that one didn’t need a solid object to bless or curse. One only needed to have a clear idea of the substance to change. At the behest of a French noble, he prepared a flask full of mercury, and he explained this consequence to a Vatican audience of more than four hundred powerful cultists. The Vatican needed a weapon—just as strongly as we need the atomic bomb now—and he could provide it.
His argument is written in Apostasy, word for word. “The mercury in the flask would remain the same mercury no matter what transpired. It could participate in other forms, but it would remain itself even without form.” Do you know what that means? No?
Paul argued that he could curse the mercury itself, changing its properties. With the Vatican’s prestige, he did. The gods followed his logic and were forced to allow him to proceed.
By every measure of power, Paul was a winner. He cursed the mercury to dessicate plants that partook of it, then dumped the flask in the fields of a European kingdom. It was exactly the weapon every king and general had wanted for thousands of years. As a liquid, a fundamental substance, it couldn’t be shattered. As a liquid, it couldn’t be found. Paul supposed it would spread a few hundred yards, mix with local materials and remain there forever. He drew pictures of perfect little dead zones, telling the Vatican how they could target only the fields of the enemy while sparing their allies and friends.
He was terribly wrong—beautifully wrong! The weapon worked better than anyone imagined. It spread, drying up most of Europe’s crops in the middle of one of the four rainiest years of that century. When wheat harvests began to fail in locations as remote as Ireland, it became clear that Paul’s weapon was the opening horn of Armageddon.
History calls it the Great Famine of 1315. It killed a tenth of Europe’s population, and started the Fall of Curses. The gods offered a prize for killing Paul, and changed the rules to never allow the blessings or curses of anything ever again.
When the ‘good guys’ found Paul of Tartan, they diced him alive into dozens of tiny pieces. Bone chips and hamburger, boy, just out of spite. To punish him for power! Then they used the huge prestige reward to delete the mercury, destroying the artifact that was killing the crops. Do you see the lesson? Do you understand the true implications of this event?
Fine. I’ll tell you.
Artifacts are meaningless in a world with guns and bombs, young man. But prestige matters. With enough of it, a wish can delete anything, even an atomic bomb.
Heckhaus giggled like a schoolboy. This singular thought was his true joy. Enough prestige trumped nuclear weapons. Enough of it could win the Cold War.
“Jesus,” Marco said.
Heckhaus gave him the finger guns. “You said it! In any case, we come back around to the Cat. Old wishes are grandfathered in, so after the Fall, any and all artifacts became incredibly valuable. If the Cat were here, I’d offer to take it simply because no one man, even if protected by the Zombie, could conceivably carry it in safety. It’s that important.”
“Fortunately, the Cat isn’t here,” Phyllis said, speaking before Marco could respond. “I assume it’s still in Stalingrad.”
Heckhaus ignored her objection and spoke to Marco. “If you were in possession of it, no organization would allow you to hand it to their enemies. The escalation of force would be extreme, the resistance beyond deadly. The only way out would be to entrust the artifact to a cult that could defend it and protect you.”
“I don’t have it,” Marco replied.
“Imagine if you did, and I offered to help. What do you say?”
Marco hesitated, considering his response. “I’d do the right thing.”
Heckhaus clapped three times, slowly. “A politician’s answer. What is the right thing?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to figure it out.”
“If you had the Cat, you’d figure it out?” Heckhaus asked.
“If I had the Cat.”
“But you don’t.”
“No, sir.”
“Interesting. One last hypothetical, young man. Would you trust Baron d’Holbach to take care of the Cat, even if you died?”
No hesitation here. “If I had it, yes.”
“Why?”
Marco blinked, looked down at his shoes, and then looked up. “Trust is trust,” he said, pausing to swallow with a dry mouth. “And he has the Zombie.”
Heckhaus smirked and cast a gaze towards the Baron. It was a silent request for commentary, and this one was worth answering.
The Baron took one step forward. “I don’t expect you to have faith in me, Heckhaus. I can’t kill everyone here with my bare hands. You can. Unlike the rest of the morons at the CIA, you’ve trained for it. You work all day, every day, to become more dangerous. Yet I do have the Zombie, and that single advantage outweighs all your skills.”
Heckhaus tilted his head very slightly, a generous acknowledgement to a genuine compliment. “I don’t have any faith, Baron, it’s true. You’ve locked yourself into bizarre labyrinths of philosophy, and you use your secular, atheistic worldview to justify your bad behavior—your chronic opposition to the way of the world. You and the Zombie go around inserting yourselves like wrenches in the gears of civilization. Someday, you might break the machine.”
“I always aim to save it, even if you think otherwise.”
“Mm. Your aim is poor.”
“I’m usually the only one in position to take the shot. Not because I’m better, but because I’m independent. That’s scarce in the occult world.”
“Independence is overrated,” Heckhaus tutted. “What matters is actions.”
The Baron stared Heckhaus down. “If we had the Cat, I’d do what’s best for everyone, and I’d face the consequences without the threat of starting a secular war. It’s all hypothetical, but you know the advantage that only I would have—the Zombie is my failsafe.”
“The young man isn’t you.” Heckhaus barely even maintained the pretense.
“That doesn’t mean I’m a useless guardian.”
Heckhaus took a long breath, grabbed his fork, and speared two slices of peach, which he shoved into his mouth whole, messily, leaving syrup on his lips. He chewed and swallowed, and cleaned his face with only his tongue, almost reptilian in its spontaneity, like a lizard licking its eye. The little tin of peaches wasn’t quite empty, so he went back and picked out the last few scraps, shoveling them into his mouth like he was a child with dessert.
He chewed, swallowed, and sighed.
“Are you going to do something,” Phyllis asked, “or can we have our safehouse back?”
Heckhaus tapped the tines of his fork against the table. “I’m glad we had this talk. If anything interesting happens, Baron, just remember. We’ll be watching. We can help.” He set the fork down neatly by the tin, rose from his chair, and walked towards the hall. They split to either side to let him leave. He paused in the open door, light streaming out into the empty maintenance tunnel. “It’s a lucky thing. The Cat really wouldn’t be worth the incident.”
“If it was here,” the Baron said.
“Stay safe,” Heckhaus said. “I’ll tell the Zombie where you are. If we can find him.” He swept around and shouted into the dark. “Turn it out! Nothing to see here!”
More than ten flashlights switched on in the tunnel, held by figures in black suits huddling against walls. Various submachine guns were draped over chests, hanging from well-worn straps. Then Heckhaus slammed the door, and the vision of his personal army was gone.
“What the fuck was that?” Phyllis asked quietly.
“Don’t talk,” the Baron commanded. “He planted a bug in here, probably several. Just eat, relax, and put the day aside for now. There’s nothing else to do.”
“Thank God,” Marco said.
“Thank the gods,” Phyllis corrected.
“They had nothing to do with this. You saved yourselves.” d’Holbach looked at the others, who seemed too tired to respond further. Then he noticed for the first time that Phyllis’s fists were clenched. She’d been on the edge of fighting. He looked at the young man, bloodied and scarred. Marco’s knees were shaking. He’d been on the edge too—and the Baron couldn’t imagine what would’ve happened if he’d cracked.
Bad things, he supposed. Heckhaus hadn’t brought two full SOG teams underground just for personal protection. There were other ways this could’ve gone, because Langley was only tolerant. They were not their friends. They were nobody’s friends.
Marco started shaking so badly that he had to sit down.
It didn’t matter that the hour had barely tipped towards the evening. The day had been one long series of traumatic events, revelations, ill-omens, and threats by powerful men. They were each exhausted, Marco more so than any. After a few minutes of arranging furniture and quietly eating tinned foods, they each flopped onto a cot with varying degrees of grace, and released their steely claims to consciousness. They slept like the dead.
Author’s Note:
A close call with the CIA, but they are given a little more time to struggle onwards.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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“You want me to help her,” Osman had said, and so much implication had followed from those words, so many hidden hopes and dreams of being important and noble, of helping those who were powerful underdogs. A foundational understanding of the world had shifted in the neophyte’s heart. Women were as weak as David in the face of the occult world’s Goliath, but they had the will of the former and the potential of the latter. It was an injustice, and as the heir to an occult kingdom, he could aid them with his authority.
The Baron rushed to reinforce this vision. It wasn’t manipulative; it was authentic. The very same feeling animated the Baron’s own heart when helping Artemisians. “That’s right. I’m trusting you because you’re a good person. Someday, you’ll be more powerful than you ever imagined, just because of who you are. What you do with that power will change lives.”
“Yes, Baron.” Osman smiled despite himself.
“Today, you can prove that you’re an ally to an Artemisian. You can become a real Hound, just like the heroes in Apostasy. You only have to do two things.”
“Yes.”
d’Holbach ticked off one finger. “Tell Maurice and your father that we were searching for the corpse of a Soviet cultist carrying dossiers on New York noblemen. Tell them I could only entrust this information to a member of the New York nobility, like you. In the end, we didn’t find the files or the corpse. Simple enough?”
“Yes, Baron. I can do that.”
“Keep the story simple. Give less details than even that explanation. If you forget part of it, that’s fine, even good. If someone presses for more, tell them you didn’t have a chance to ask me anything. I was very taciturn.”
Osman smiled. “Easily done, Baron.”
d’Holbach ticked off another finger. “Second, you need to help me find this woman and a young man with large scars on his back and head. For either of them, name me, then Federico Barilla, then Andrey Malik. Repeat those names.”
“You, the Baron, Federico Barilla, and Andrey Malik.”
“After they recognize you as my messenger, tell them to wait in place. Then signal me, and I’ll come to you. With both of us searching, this shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. Keep on the watch out for subtle signals like doors cracked open. These are smart people. They’ll be looking to attract my attention.”
“What’ll happen after you reach them?” Osman asked.
“I’ll decide when I get to that point. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Baron. And uh… thank you for trusting me. Few, uh, few people do.”
The Baron grinned and slapped Osman on the shoulder. “You’re a real Hound already. Someday soon, you’ll know how important this was. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Baron.” He started towards the front door, then hesitated. “If Maurice stops me, do I tell him the story immediately?”
“No, tell him you’re working for your father’s interests and can’t talk with him yet. You’ll debrief after you’re done.”
“I can do that.”
Osman opened the door first. He looked up and down the balconies visible at this height. Nothing obvious was in view. The Baron walked out past him and started running down the open-air stairwell. Osman followed close behind.
Once they reached the bottom floor, the Baron sent Osman along the near row, and the Baron ran across the great chamber to the far side and started climbing again.
Halfway up to the third story, he spotted a door opening about halfway down the row. A teenager in ruined clothes stepped out tentatively. He was rubbing his forehead and had the beginnings of a beard and a much thicker mustache, visible even at this distance. It was Marco, at least several weeks older.
The Baron wolf-whistled. Marco leaned out and waved to him. The Baron pointed back at the wall he was beside. Get inside, he mouthed. Marco nodded and went back into the apartment he’d stepped out of.
The Baron doubled back, hit the bottom floor and simply kept running. Some of the New Yorkers lazing about the chamber took notice, but he said, “Nobleman business,” as a preventative measure, and no one stopped him.
It’s not like he could leave the temple in bloody clothes.
The Baron spiraled up to the apartment where Marco waited. He plodded across the catwalk, opened the door, and stepped inside. The young man was lying on the hardwood floor, limbs splayed out, eyes bleary but open. His clothes were long-dried. Sheets of clotted blood were cracked and peeling off the old jacket like a thin layer of lakebed mud. There were little flakes all around him. On his forehead, there was a dimple of fibrous scar tissue, resting neatly on a fully restored skull. “I’m so tired,” he said. “I barely want to move.”
The Baron shut the door and knelt beside the young man. “Nobody could expect more of you. It takes a lot of willpower to use the Cat.”
Marco closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “The skin on my back feels like leather. None of it stretches right anymore.”
“A wish could cure you, I think.”
He touched his mustache and muttered into his fingers. “It really happened. I made a wish, and I could feel the time I owed them. They took it from me.”
“Did you hibernate? They normally don’t grant a wish until your debt is paid.”
He opened his eyes. “I wanted the pain of death to go away.” He pinched his own cheek, twisted the strands of his uneven beard between two fingers. “I can’t even remember what it felt like to die.”
“Is that what you wanted?” the Baron asked. “To forget?”
“It was.”
“The gods don’t cheat you. They wouldn’t have granted a useless wish.”
“I know. They’re real.” Marco pushed up into a sitting position, shedding another little snowstorm of dried blood. “I knew I was dead, and I knew I could move. It was magic. Real magic.” He focused on the Baron. “That’s when I knew I could make a wish.”
“You saved yourself. Congratulations are in order, once we’re out of here.” d’Holbach offered a hand. “For now, let’s get up. We need to find Phyllis and go.”
The young man took it. “Just this morning, I never would’ve imagined.”
The Baron helped him to his feet. “You had the Cat in you. You survived death. I can’t think of a faster way to learn the occult instinct down to your bones.” He took Marco’s shoulder and turned him around. “Let me see.” There were several gigantic holes in his shirt and the Baron’s jacket, each opened onto broad shining sheets of horrible scar tissue. He reminded the Baron of an old burn victim.
“How does it look?”
“Like a giant scar. Take off my jacket and tie it around your torso. We need to cover them before anyone guesses where you got them.”
Marco did as he was told, using the sleeves to tie it across his sternum. It wasn’t a stable arrangement, but they didn’t need much time. The Baron adjusted the hanging cloth until Marco’s scars were hidden, and then they left the apartment and went down the stairs. When they reached the bottom floor, the Baron spotted Osman waving from the foot of another stairwell a couple of buildings down the chamber.
The Baron told Marco: “Over there. That’s the son of a New York noble. His name is Osman. Treat him with respect. He’s risking his life, and we need him.”
“Yes, Baron,” Marco muttered.
They walked over quickly. Osman, growing impatient, came to meet them halfway. A few beatniks and day laborers watched them from afar, but nobody seemed willing to rush the son of a noble and question him out of turn.
Once they were close, Osman whispered, “I found your lady friend.”
“Good.” Baron gestured at Marco. “Osman, this is Marco. Marco, Osman.”
“Glad to meet you.” Osman shook Marco’s hand quickly. “We should hurry. The Oracle already stopped me once. I told him you were trying to leave. He’s gone downstairs to catch you at the door, and Porter is waiting there with a few others.”
“Very clever.” The Baron slapped Osman on the shoulder again. “Let’s go.”
Watchful eyes followed them as they rose up the far wall. Osman opened a middle-story door, leading them into another lightly cleaned, hardwood floor apartment. It was almost identical to the last two, but the lights were on.
Phyllis was standing inside at the kitchenette, dipping her hands in a sink full of water and unmaking her tattered beehive hairdo. Her fairly short, slightly graying locks fell about her head in wavy pleats. The wrinkles on her face were deeper and more frustrated than normal, but there was still the echo of the young, serious woman that she must’ve been a decade or two before. She’d probably worked in Barilla’s factory back when it was first founded, and she’d leveraged that into a career of crime and prestige. Today, that career was threatening to fall apart.
“Baron,” she said gruffly. “I nearly had a heart attack when Osman came in here.”
“I can imagine,” the Baron said.
Osman smiled with pride. “I convinced her. I’m here to help.”
She nodded to Osman, then focused her attention on the Baron. “I don’t think dodging was the right decision. That cost me at least twenty percent of my stock.”
“Apostasy says you shouldn’t dodge,” the Baron agreed.
“That’s right.” She finished smoothing down her hair. “I don’t know this place, but I can’t see a way out from the balcony. Are we trapped here?”
“There’s only one exit in the temple chamber. We can’t take it.”
She wiped her hands on her cornflower blue blouse. “I’ll die here once they find me.”
“I won’t allow that.”
She nodded at Marco. “Welcome to the system of prestige.”
The young man seemed unsure if she was serious. “Thank you?”
“I’m glad the Baron found you before New York did. You might make it out alive.”
“You won’t die here,” the Baron agreed.
“You’re new?” Osman asked Marco.
“Yeah, it’s crazy,” Marco replied. “I got shot. Repeatedly.”
“I know! Look at that blood.” The young men easily slipped into amicably chattering, finally in the presence of someone even close to their own age.
Phyllis and the Baron ignored them, stepping closer to converse. “What’s your plan then?” she asked him.
“First, let’s get this prestige back to you.” He held out his hand. After a moment, she took it, and he wished, “All my prestige is yours.”
A feeling of emptiness hollowed the Baron, but the sensation passed quickly. There was no punishment in the act, only proof that the prestige was transferred.
Phyllis grunted, ignoring any warm feelings. She released his hand. “Listen, I don’t blame you for what happened, but I’m cornered in this temple. It’s only a matter of time.”
“I know—”
“If I can’t leave, I’ll just wish for the afterlife, then let them shoot the old woman that comes out of the sanctuary.” She seemed angrier by the second. “Promise me that you get the Cat back to its rightful owner. If I’m going to die for the world, it damn well better be saved.”
The Baron held up a hand. “One second, please. I think there’s a way out.”
“What?”
“Look at the window behind you. There’s a fire escape.”
“In full view of the street?” She turned to look. “We’ll get a lot of attention going down the face of the building.”
“Less than in here,” the Baron said.
She shrugged. “Fine. Do you know where we are?”
“This is the 8th Street Temple. It’s Greenwich Village.”
“That’s not so bad. Okay, I can work with that. There’s a safehouse in the underground about ten blocks from here. It’s in an abandoned utility tunnel. Stolen power, stolen water, a pile of tins knee-high.” She stepped to the window, squinting into the afternoon light. “Me and a few of the other girls in town have been paying into it. We usually hide there after sniping a task in Manhattan. If nobody is using it, we can stay there tonight and make plans for the morning.”
The Baron leaned in close behind her. “Can we tell Osman where it is?”
“Not really,” Phyllis said. “I shouldn’t even show you two.”
“The Zombie will have to find us somehow. Osman could pass along the message, and he is eager to help. I think we can trust him.”
“Fine.” She turned away from the window. “Osman?”
Osman snapped to attention, wiping away any smile. “Yes, miss?”
Phyllis nodded curtly like a pleased commander. “If you see the Zombie, tell him to go to Canal Street. Canal and Broadway.”
“Will do, miss. I’ll stay here this evening, if it’ll help.”
“It will,” Phyllis agreed. “Thank you, Osman. The Baron was right. You’re a good man.”
Osman smiled, visibly proud of himself. “You’re welcome, miss.”
“One more contingency,” the Baron added. “Tell the Zombie that if I can’t pick him up at Canal and Broadway by midnight, then he should go to the Biltmore and get changed. I’ll pick him up in the Kissing Room tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Baron,” Osman said.
“You need to get out of here and talk with Maurice. Feed him the story. While you’re doing that, we’ll be escaping without your knowledge.” The Baron went to the window and played with the slide latch. It was half-stuck with paint, but it opened.
“Good luck, man,” Osman said to Marco, offering him a handshake.
Marco accepted it. “Luck to you too, man.”
“Thanks again, neophyte,” the Baron added from the window.
Osman went to leave but paused at the door. “You’re welcome, Baron.” Then he departed, shutting it quietly behind him.
“Is that really the son of General Osman?” Phyllis asked.
“Yes,” the Baron said, “Surprising, isn’t it?”
“Very. I’m surprised he doesn’t want you killed.”
“His apple rolled far from the tree.” The Baron pushed open the window. The afternoon breeze blew in, bringing the surprisingly fresh smells of auto exhaust and raw dust into the stale atmosphere of the apartment. It felt as if the natural world was intruding on an unnatural, even hallowed place. He’d close the window once they were out.
“Are you good to run, Marco?” The Baron didn’t even have to ask Phyllis.
“Yeah. I’m alive.”
Phyllis chuckled. “That’s not what he asked.”
“I can move. The scars are just a little thick.”
“Can you tell if you still have a kidney?”
“What’s that?”
Phyllis patted her side. “A kidney. The shell blasted it to pulp. Think the Cat grew it back?”
“I don’t know.”
The Baron knew a bit more about the Cat’s function from prior contact with Janos Nagy. “Stuff grows back. Like your brain, your spine, your skull. It’s often scarred, but never gone.” Then he turned and stuck his head out of the window. The street below was clear. The New York posse would be waiting for him in the bookstore, since it technically wasn’t temple territory on the first floor. He pulled back in and said, “We’re covered in dry blood and people will be looking for me. This means no cabs, no buses, and no trains until we’ve cleaned up. Any ideas?”
“Steal clothes?” Marco asked.
“That’s stupid,” Phyllis said. “Baron, do you have any loose twenties? I’m clean enough. I can bribe a cabbie to drop us off at Broadway and Canal Street.”
The Baron sorted through his wallet. He only had one twenty left, and it was his largest bill. He held it out between two fingers. “This will pay for a little silence?”
“I can chat up a cabbie. We’re in Lucchese territory, and I’ve done business in the Garment District. I’ll name drop the last boss. He’ll know he’s helping an Anastasia mafiosa.”
“The cabbie will know the boss’s name?” Marco asked.
Her eyebrows raised. “Lucchese is the king of Manhattan, Marco.”
In his heart, the Baron agreed. There wasn’t a unionized worker or trade organization that didn’t know their Cosa Nostra contacts by name. Ever since High Oracle Gagliano had stepped out of the limelight and made Lucchese the official head of the local family, they’d been turning the entire borough into a unified criminal enterprise.
“I don’t know this area.” Marco was trying to excuse himself, but it was clear that he was hopelessly out of touch with Cosa Nostra politics in New York. It was no wonder that Barilla had assigned the dock to Phyllis. His son’s ignorance would’ve been sniffed out as weakness.
“Everyone in a union knows who is who,” the Baron said. “I’m going first, then Phyllis. Marco, close the window behind you?”
“Yeah, Baron.”
d’Holbach grabbed the sill and vaulted through onto the black metal fire escape. It was narrow, cheap, and old. The entire thing rattled but held fast onto the brick facade. He started down the steep steps. Phyllis hopped out behind him. Marco climbed over the sill, then yanked the window shut by its trimming. They spiralled down rapidly, reaching the end of the escape in less than fifteen seconds. The Baron grabbed the release on the ladder, but he didn’t drop it immediately. Once Phyllis and Marco were bunched up behind him, he gave instructions.
“When you hit asphalt, run north. The station is just past the Y-junction where the street merges with Greenwich Avenue. It’ll be a cabbie ant farm at this hour.” He tapped the release. “Once this drops, someone will recognize what we’re doing. I guarantee it. Ready?”
Marco gave him a thumbs up. Phyllis nodded.
The Baron yanked, and the ladder slid down with a metal squeal and a heavy bang when its feet hit the sidewalk. He swung over the top and climbed down fast, skipping every other rung. Phyllis joined him, nearly on top of his hands, and Marco followed just after her.
A tall, thin man was shouting outside the 8th Street Bookstore, just a few buildings south of their position. He raised his arm and waved at the people indoors. Already scouted.
The Baron waited until Phyllis and Marco were down, then took off at a full run. It wasn’t a sprint, but they didn’t have the luxury of jogging. Phyllis had good form and kept up easily. The Baron glanced back once to see Marcos keeping pace but slapping his shoes on the sidewalk—bad form from an inexperienced runner. His shins would ache.
“Will they catch up?” Phyllis asked breathily.
“Not without a car,” the Baron said between controlled huffs.
Marco said nothing, but his struggle for air was clearly audible.
The Baron glanced back at him after a minute or so. Their destination was only half a mile away, but Marco would be wiped long before they reached it. The Baron had the advantage of everlasting youth and the training of decades of fitness. While he couldn’t run a marathon, he could easily run three or four miles. Phyllis seemed naturally fit and would probably make a half mile in three minutes. Contrasted with them, Marco was sweating profusely.
“Just two minutes, Marco,” the Baron urged.
Marco nodded and kept running, even as his ragged breath suggested pain, like a growing stitch in his side or weak feet. Maybe the place where he’d had a kidney burst was inflamed, even after a few weeks of healing and physical rest.
A black pre-war sedan with clear windows came roaring up the far lane, passing them on the other side of the road. Even with a muffler, its engine rumbled and roared like a lion.
“New York has a car!” Phyllis called out.
“I’m not blind!”
The Baron watched it pull ahead of them, then swing about in a U-turn. It stopped in the street ahead, and four New Yorkers spilled out—Greenwich Oracle Maurice, the tall Gatekeeper Porter, a beatnik, and a thick old man who looked like a retired club bouncer. The Baron slowed. Phyllis came up behind him. The bouncer had a Tommy in his hands, more WWII surplus stock.
Marco stumbled to a stop a few feet behind them. The Baron glanced back. The teen had his hands on his knees and was panting. “You alright?” the Baron asked.
“I’m gonna be sick.”
The Baron turned away. “Just let it out.”
Marco responded by vomiting onto the sidewalk, dry-heaving with loud hacking coughs between retches. He sniffled and said, “Oh Jesus,” then vomited again. Whatever else it did, the Cat probably left Marco in a state of extreme exhaustion, and he wasn’t taking to running well.
A newer post-war black sedan with green glass windows pulled up behind the New York vehicle. The approaching driver leaned into his horn. After a few seconds, the New York posse broke gaze with the Baron and turned around to see what the fuss was about.
The Baron had a suspicion that CPUSA had just arrived on the scene.
A green-glass window rolled down, and a man shoved a revolver out of the window, immediately firing it into the air. The three unarmed New Yorkers hit the deck.
The thick man tried to fire his Tommy, but nothing happened. Someone must’ve wished to break it, and he hadn’t brought the prestige to fix his weapon.
Time to make another decision. The Baron sighted an access alley between them and the vehicles, leading into a back alley where the dumpsters for the neighboring row would be kept. “Off the main streets,” he commanded, pointing to the destination. “There, go!” He took off running. Phyllis joined him, and gasping for air, Marco followed.
The sedan with the green glass peeled out, swerved around the New York vehicle and its cultists, and rushed up the lane, heading towards them. Fifty yards out.
The Baron sprinted, going up onto the balls of his feet, feeling that one moment of free energy that would come before sharp exhaustion. His limbs pumped beneath him. He reached the alley corner first, stopped with a bounce, and turned to check on Marco.
Phyllis was focused, head down towards her feet. She flew past the Baron into the alley.
Marco was struggling to keep up.
“Move!” the Baron roared at him.
The enemy vehicle was thirty yards out. There wasn’t enough time.
Marco knew it too. Life or death—he closed his eyes and sprinted like only a young man could. Beyond the end of any rope, he nearly fell forward into an explosive, desperate run.
CPUSA gunned their engine, accelerating. A man in a black suit leaned out the rear window and fired a wild shot at the Baron. A magnum, something big. It didn’t hit anywhere close, but d’Holbach ducked instinctively and ran into the alley.
Phyllis went down against the brick. He slammed into it beside her.
Marco was still running towards them, reaching the alley corner. The car and the teen were on an interception course, somewhere close to the corner of the building.
Out of view, they heard a crunch as the CPUSA car jumped the curb.
“Leap!” the Baron yelled, an intuition more than a reasoned reaction.
Marco blindly followed instructions. He leapt up and towards the Baron.
Later, d’Holbach would reconstruct what happened in a conversation with Phyllis, but the moment of calamity was experienced as a splash of shattered masonry and the literal crash of a car. It must’ve been a maneuver stolen out of films; maybe the CPUSA mercs had reinforced the vehicle with a wish but failed to consider their own safety.
The sedan swerved toward Marco and rammed into the corner of the brick building, wrapping a length of its collapsing hood around the masonry; that slice of folding metal then caught the leaping young man like a catapult’s scoop and launched him just ahead of a shockwave of safety glass and shattered stone.
Marco sailed five yards, flipping once—feet over head—before slapping flat into the alley pavement and rolling to a stop.
“Fuck!” Phyllis roared, diving to the boy’s aid.
The Baron jittered to his feet, glimpsed towards the crashed vehicle itself. Its engine was dead, the windshield destroyed. Most of the force of impact had gone into the bricks. The CPUSA driver was visible but disoriented, breathing slowly. He’d probably cracked a rib over the steering wheel. Nobody else in the vehicle seemed to move. Blacked out, but not likely forever.
They needed to assess Marco’s condition and decide on their next step.
“Why are they all fucking crazy?” Phyllis raged.
Colored safety glass crunched underneath the Baron’s shoes as he turned his attention to the young man. “Are you okay?”
Marco was unfolding slowly, turning over onto his back. He looked up at the Baron and Phyllis with a poorly focused glare. “Did I die? It feels like I died.”
The Baron frowned. “I don’t know. The building took most of the hit. You jumped the bumper, and the hood tossed you. Stuntmen do that. You might be okay.”
“He could be bleeding inside!” Phyllis yelled.
“The Cat can cover that. It’s powerful.” The Baron took a couple steps towards the corner again, skirting around the CPUSA vehicle to check on the New York cultists. They were currently standing around their own sedan, yelling at each other about something. If there was ever an opportunity to escape, it was now. “It’s time to go.”
“Can you stand?” Phyllis asked Marco.
The teen moved very slowly and pushed himself up onto his knees. “The Cat is cold.” He very gingerly touched the back of his neck. “I’m sore all over.”
The Baron jogged over to him. “I’m sure you are,” he said, offering a hand. “Tell me if anything gives you a sharp pain, or if the Cat starts burning again.”
Marco rose to his feet, shaking, then winced and fell forward. The Baron caught him with his left arm. Phyllis rushed forward to support his right. Between them, Marco heaved onto the asphalt again, and again, and a third time. When his stomach stopped seizing, he was out of breath. “Shit,” he cussed.
“You can’t run anymore,” the Baron judged.
“We’ll move him,” Phyllis declared.
“Will they follow?” Marco asked.
“Hard to say. Let’s hope the wreck distracts them.”
“Put your arm over my shoulders,” the Baron ordered.
Marco slung most of his weight onto the Baron. Phyllis supported him from the other side. “Thanks, ya’ll.”
“Good to go?” Phyllis asked him.
“Legs aren’t broken,” Marco muttered. “I don’t think?”
The Baron took one step, and Marco and Phyllis followed his lead. “Just keep moving for now. Once you’ve caught your breath, you’ll be good to walk.”
They hobbled through the side alley into the brick-paved back alley between the rows. It was lined with open dumpsters from one end of the block to the other. Tomorrow was trash pickup, and bags full of plastic refuse, flattened cardboard, and rotten food were piled high in the bins, nearly overflowing in some places. Just nearby, a bag had fallen onto the ground and burst, spilling out trimmed fat, half-melted in the sun and swarming with spring flies.
Marco groaned in audible discomfort.
“Try to keep it in,” the Baron said.
Marco swallowed noisily and coughed, but he didn’t vomit again.
Phyllis was glancing around, understandably alert. “They’re incredibly desperate now.”
“Who? CPUSA?” the Baron asked.
“Yeah. They’re starved dogs fighting over the scraps.”
“The Soviets are putting a lot of pressure on them,” the Baron.
“Enough to make a man risk a car crash to clip Marco?”
“Maybe they thought they’d be able to plow through the corner and survive. Like the movies.”
“It’s still a damn stupid risk to run the boy down.”
“I hate ‘em,” Marco muttered.
Phyllis gave the young man a quick, gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry. We’ll be careful. Especially the Baron. He’ll be double careful, won’t you?”
“I’m always careful,” the Baron replied.
She chuckled. “Are you?”
“I sure am.”
“No, no, you aren’t. You’re too used to standing near the Zombie.” She reached past Marco and nudged the Baron’s ribs with a knuckle. “They’ve been that desperate all along, but now we don’t have the invincible man. They’ll put a few holes in you, even if it’s a bad idea.”
The Baron ignored the physical prodding. “That’s a fair warning,” he admitted, “but a lot of them ought to know the danger. The Zombie could do a lot of damage. He’s overthrown kingdoms before. He’d bring down all of civilization if it meant getting his revenge.”
“How do you know that?” Marco asked.
“Some old books,” the Baron replied.
“That one the woman wrote?”
“No. Foreign stuff. Different traditions. In a Chinese record, someone claimed the Zombie killed important members of the Xia Dynasty and led the razing of the city of Nanchao.”
“He killed a dynasty?”
“The remainder of a family, in retribution for the death of a man in the Battle of Mingtao. The rival Shang were already ascendant, but they solidified their power after that.”
Phyllis frowned. “This is why the Apostate is scared of the Zombie.”
“What do you mean?” the Baron asked.
“How could this end well? You’ll die someday, Baron. It’s just a matter of attrition.”
The Baron planned on living until everything changed, but arguing his weird eschatology wouldn’t put Phyllis at ease. It’d probably make her feel worse. “Maybe,” he said.
“If you’d never lived, the Zombie would’ve been a menace and a devil, but he wouldn’t have threatened countless lives with a Pact tied to your life.”
“Yeah.” The Baron licked his lips, wondering if this was a good idea to share, then deciding that Phyllis could be trusted. “Don’t repeat this, but sometimes, when we talk about this, the Zombie promises he’ll keep the body count low.”
“You’ve asked him?” Marco asked.
“I made him promise. Only the minimum to erase the memory of the criminal and no more. Still, I’d rather not test him. If I’m going to die, let it be an accident.”
“The Zombie should see it that way,” Phyllis muttered.
They walked for several more minutes, encouraging Marco to flex his legs and put weight over his joints. If he didn’t keep moving, he’d cramp up and inflammation would grip his tissues. Even with a dose of painkillers, he’d be stiff as a plank by morning. Whether or not he’d walk under his own power would depend on his condition this evening.
They hit the end of the row, came out another narrow gap, and stopped on the Y-junction connecting 8th and Greenwich Avenue. Phyllis scouted ahead a few steps, having far less blood on her clothes. The Baron stopped supporting Marco, testing if he could stand.
“No heat,” Phyllis declared as she looked back. “Let’s walk.”
And they did walk. The teen’s unsteady gait resembled a drunk man’s stagger, but it was fast enough to cover the last half mile in relative safety. The sun was low on the left, hanging just over the buildings. Shading their eyes, they wandered across the street and up the sidewalk.
A few onlookers saw them, stained in old blood and injured, but Phyllis walked ahead of them with purpose, looking grim, while the Baron smiled and seemed at ease. The physical fiction he told was clear and believable. They’d been hurt, but Phyllis was in charge of them, legally and otherwise. They were being taken with authority.
“Them boys alright?” asked a storekeeper seated out front of his shop.
“They’ll be fine,” Phyllis said tersely.
The Baron spread his palms to the man, an open gesture. “It looks a lot worse than it is, but we’re heading home to get cleaned up. Thank you for asking.”
“Nothing terrible happened?”
“We pulled a pie-eyed man out of his own disaster.”
“When was this?”
“About lunchtime,” the Baron said.
“We’re in a hurry,” Phyllis said tersely. “Keep up, boys!”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the storekeeper, “it’s just a rare sight.”
“We’re sorry to worry you,” the Baron added as they moved past their interlocutor. “We’re in a sad state, but it’s been a long day, and we haven’t had a chance to get right.”
“No worries,” said the man, “get yourselves home soon.”
“Of course, sir.”
They kept going up the block to the subway station at the next major intersection. The Baron suggested to Phyllis that they’d have to hurry. The next time a beat cop came around, the shopkeeper they’d seen would be relating the story and asking questions.
“I have the twenty,” Phyllis muttered. “We’ll be out of here in minutes.”
There was a Jamaican cabbie smoking the last stub of a cigar outside his cab at the corner of the block. Phyllis came up ahead of the Baron, but the cabbie seemed discouraged by the mere sight of them. He launched the cigar stub into a spiral of sparks and raised his chin, but before he could say anything, she called ahead, “Corallo will know you treated us well.”
“What are you dropping Corallo’s name for?” the cabbie asked.
“He was running trucks and cabs from here to the Garment District until last year. He said if I needed a ride after a bad job, pay well, tip better, and don’t ask for a long drive.” She pulled the folded twenty out of her pocket. “Now I know Corallo’s home number by heart. I could interrupt his Sunday dinner and have him call your boss’s boss, who’ll then call you, or you can make a clean twenty for taking us to Canal and Broadway.”
“That’s all?” he said. “Smells bad.”
“Yeah?” she asked.
“Yeah. You’re not asking much for a twenty.”
“We can’t be seen on the open street.”
He looked at the money warily. It was a tremendous amount of cash for an incredibly brief fare, but equal to his greed, the size of the bill also measured their desperation. A twenty said, this isn’t just a small time run. Something big and bad happened.
“Nobody will know to ask you,” the Baron said. “Are you on break?”
“I was,” the man said.
The Baron pulled out his cigar case. He’d like to keep the smoke for himself, but the gesture was more important than his nicotine addiction. “Would you like a double claro?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Can I have the case?”
The Baron flipped it open and smiled. “Hell no.”
The cabbie laughed. With the left hand he took the bill and with his right the cigar. “Canal and Broadway, on my break. I went there to pick someone up. They tipped me a full twenty.”
“That’s a good story about a lucky man,” Phyllis replied. “A reliable, discreet cabbie will drive a popular cab. Listen, I work Red Hook for Anastasia.” She looked at the cab number. “I’ll remember you.”
“I won’t remember you,” replied the cabbie, opening the driver’s door.
Phyllis smiled and gave him a wink. “Good attitude.” She opened a rear door, ushering Marco and the Baron into the back of the cab. Then she opened the front passenger door and slid into the seat across from the cabbie. She gave him the silent nod, and the cabbie started the car. Once they were underway, the Baron allowed his shoulders to relax, Phyllis slouched and closed her eyes, and Marco breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Upon arrival, new conditions would reveal themselves, and the Baron would certainly have to make new decisions, but for the duration of the ride, they were mercifully safe.
Author’s Note:
Osman’s heart grew three sizes that day. :3
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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Despite the thunder and the storm of lead, Baron d’Holbach didn’t lower his gaze. Eyes focused on his friend, his weapon, and possibly his fate in this armed confrontation.
“Fine!” The Zombie charged and crashed headlong into the half-shattered windows, whipping his head through the remaining glass like a wet dog playing in the rain. Shaking it from his hair, he shouted into the darkness, both fists held high for all to see. “It’s murder!”
“Zed, engaging!” came several cries at once.
The Zombie vaulted out the window and landed in a crunch of gravel. “For every wound on the Baron, ten of you will die. You’re in luck, he’s not wounded yet!”
Several voices talked over each other, piling up to retreat somewhere out of view.
“Get back!” came the order from someone further up the train tunnel, a man with a bullhorn and strong lungs.
“Got one!” the Zombie roared.
There was a shout of fear, a useless gunshot, and the Zombie started laughing.
A man screeched, “Don’t, don’t, don’t—” The wooden crack of a gunstock against bone made the Baron flinch. Someone had been clubbed into silence with their own gun.
With their attackers momentarily distracted, the Baron squirmed across the rubbery red floor to Phyllis. “I’m getting Marco up,” he whispered.
“Collapse!” barked the man with the bullhorn. Instantly, the Earth itself obeyed with a thunderous clap of shattering bricks and ruptured bedrock, coming down from above. In pure reaction, the Baron covered his head, thinking that the train itself was about to be crushed, but when the ceiling and wall came down, they only swallowed up the space beside the subway cars, wedging bricks and stones between the train and the tunnel walls. The precision of the occult demolition was beyond impressive, especially considering the sheer mass that’d fallen. The Baron could feel its seismic settling as an infrasonic rumble in his chest and bones.
Through the doors to the next car, the Baron could see that one set of side-windows had shattered. A few loose stones were tumbling through them and over a row of seats; screaming passengers were fleeing away from the sudden collapse, towards the front of the train; but most of it was holding steady. With a single wish, they’d been isolated at the very back of the 2.
Was the Zombie still at hand?
d’Holbach had to risk a glance. He went up on his knees and peeked over the sill. The dim light of the railway car captured nothing but settling dust. Muffled voices shouted, “Two down, two down!” Replies followed, too quiet for comprehension.
The Zombie wasn’t on this side of the collapse, and there wasn’t enough panic in the distance. “They trapped him,” the Baron concluded.
“The Zombie is under that pile?” Phyllis asked.
“Not for long. He wriggles. The earth moves.” He raised his head further. “They half-blocked the tunnel they were coming from. Why?”
There was a shudder like moving mountains. A half-ton of stone was already making way for an invincible man.
“Zed, Zed!” shouted the CPUSA members on the far side of the debris.
“This doesn’t make sense.” The Baron looked back at Phyllis, who was on her knees patting the checker’s pockets. Her victim wasn’t dead after all—he was groaning with severe pain—but he didn’t resist her search and seizure of two spare shotgun rounds.
She grabbed the sawed-off, broke it open to eject two cardboard shells, and loaded what looked like plastic shells full of birdshot. “Can we just run back down the tunnel?” she asked.
“We can try…” The Baron trailed off. CPUSA’s plan finally clicked into place. He’d been off-kilter. He’d expected a siege on a train platform but received an ambush, and the Zombie had been drawn away, leaving them alone after all the civilians cleared the space.
Only two approaches remained. The tunnel behind them, and…
“The train,” the Baron muttered.
“They’re already on the train!” Phyllis echoed, coming to the same conclusion.
The Baron shouted out the windows. “Zombie, they have people on the train!”
Low cracks of smashing stone echoed off the tunnel walls. The Zombie had changed direction and was coming back over the top of the debris pile.
Phyllis cocked both hammers on the double barrel shotgun and slid down against the wall between two rows of seats, bracing the shotgun against the puke-green plastic of an end seat. She pointed it towards the front of the train. “Check behind us?” she suggested.
“Yeah,” the Baron agreed, sparing one last look at the fare checker—groaning but unmoving, bones shattered in both legs. “Keep me covered.”
Phyllis grunted, focusing on the connector doors.
Turning to the back, the Baron spotted Marco. The teen was squirming now but only from the waist up. The first shell into his back must’ve shattered vertebrae; little fragments of bone glistened wetly in the wound, and his legs were paralyzed.
Despite the severe injury, the Baron knelt and quickly rolled Marco up into a sitting position, leaning him back against the seats like a bloodsoaked sack of wheat. The second shot had punched straight through the young man, leaving an exit wound on his belly. Arteries were draining even now—rivulets pouring out of a hole—and the Baron’s fifty-dollar jacket had soaked up most of a quart of blood in less than a minute. This was bad—another two clear deaths—but nothing beyond the powers of the Cat o’ Nine Lives.
d’Holbach squeezed Marco’s shoulders, staring into his bleary, blinking eyes. “You’ll be able to move soon, all right? The Cat will help.”
Marco gurgled a reply, and a mixture of mucus and blood poured from his mouth.
Good enough.
The Baron darted for the back of the train, peeking out the inset window in the rear door. Dimly, two figures emerged from the darkness, passing through a narrow band of light.
“Shit!” Phyllis shouted, still facing the front. “Incoming, next car!”
The Baron twisted around, feeling trapped in a metal cylinder. Men behind; men ahead. He could see the new threat through the windows in the connector doors, running towards them and pointing at him. They couldn’t see Phyllis through those small windows, could they?
The Artemisian was still crouched at the edge of a row of seats, sighting down the barrels. Making a strategic decision, the Baron rushed for the same gap, dropping into the space behind her at the last second.
A man in a black business suit threw open the last connector door, and Phyllis fired a shot like a bark of doom. With a screech, the intruder dropped a Tommy and stumbled back into the previous car, physically cringing; his left hand and arm were peppered, full of bloody holes.
Chaos broke, many voices at once, too difficult to identify.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
At least two more armed gunmen were rushing through the next car, diving for cover, squeezing into narrow spaces just out of view of the open connector doors.
“Remember the Pact!” the Baron shouted, trying to dissuade another assault. He glanced back. Nobody was visible at the rear door. Not yet.
“Stay back!” Phyllis roared. “I have another shot!”
“Throw it down!” barked one of the gunmen in the car ahead.
There was an audible rustling of stone, and the Zombie slid down into the tunnel outside the car, stumbling into the light outside the windows. “I’ll scoop out your eyes if he’s hurt!” he roared, pointing past the train itself. He must’ve seen the soldiers approaching from behind the car; at this angle, the Baron couldn’t spot them directly.
“Zombie!” the Baron called, “I’m right here!”
“I wish it was unlocked!” shouted a man at the back of the train.
The Zombie took off like a shot.
The padlock on the back door snapped open.
The Baron twisted and dove for it bodily, managing to grab the lock and clap it closed again. There was one shake of the latch. The Baron flattened himself, face to the rubber floor. Three blind gunshots were taken through the door panel, searching for the lock.
Someone fired another revolver behind the train, likely at the Zombie himself.
An instant later, a scream of bloody murder cut through the air, echoing throughout the tunnel. A man was suffering intense, life-ending agony, and he didn’t stop screaming. Moment after moment, the Zombie somehow renewed his pain.
“You’ll live!” the Zombie roared sadistically.
Several shots barked out, and the screaming stopped.
A body hit the gravel with the distinct crunch of flaccid weight, striking in parts.
The Baron yelled towards the shattered windows, out into the dark. “Clear them off the back of the train! We’ll watch the front!”
“Fires the shell!” yelled someone in the front car.
The shotgun in Phyllis’s hands fired, scattering birdshot uselessly through an open door. “Fuck!” she cussed. There was no cheap counterwish for a wasted shot.
An older man with a Tommy rushed through the open connector, aiming his weapon.
Phyllis lobbed the useless shotgun at him.
He ducked to one side, then steadied his aim again—but with his finger off the trigger. “Surrender!” he roared. “Everyone, raise your hands! Surrender!”
Phyllis raised her hands.
The Baron joined her a moment later.
Marco burbled an answer, spitting up another stream of blood.
The older man with the Thompson twitched towards the teen.
“Stay calm!” the Baron shouted at their new captor. “The Zombie is right outside!”
The man with the bloodied arm leaned into the open doors between the subway cars. “Kill the woman!” he shouted, clutching his belly. His white shirt was soaked with fresh arterial red, still oozing out of a dozen holes in his hand, forearm, and stomach.
“Stop fighting!” the Baron yelled. “You can survive! All of you!”
A brief squint of hesitation. The older man with the Tommy—their captor—was experienced and leathery. He must’ve been a killer on the docks for a long time, probably a stevedore for even longer. He’d lifted crates under the sun. The idea of living longer appealed to him. “We only need the boy,” he said to the Baron. “You keep calm, and we’ll leave you be.”
“She shot me,” the injured man whined.
“I ain’t fuckin’ with the Zombie!” their captor shouted, never turning away from his new prisoners. “Fuckin’ Salem,” he muttered, eyeing the Baron. “I remember it.”
“You’re doing the right thing,” the Baron replied, angling to buy time, even if he didn’t know what he’d spend it on.
“Roscoe, get in here!” their captor commanded. “Take the teenager!”
Another uninjured CPUSA member ran through the door with a revolver. He was a pudgy fellow, all strength running to fat, and he was wearing suspenders, no jacket, and a white dress shirt. He took two looks through the car, saw the Baron and Phyllis frozen in surrender, and holstered his pistol at his waist. “Shit,” he muttered.
Marco turned his head up, looking at Roscoe with a glazed expression in his eyes.
“Jesus, he moved!” said Roscoe.
“Pick him up,” the older man ordered.
“Him? He’s meat, Bill. Dying.”
“He’s the target!”
Marco gasped, pulling in air, then let out two raspy words: “It hurts.”
Their captor—Bill—squinted with frustration, a fold of leathery intent. “Roscoe, he’ll start squirming soon. Pick him up and let’s go!”
Roscoe darted over to Marco, briefly balking at the young man’s wounds. The teen was awash in blood, oversaturating the Baron’s jacket like a dripping sponge. There was a pool of it spreading across the rubber beneath him, making the floor sticky. It was unavoidable. Roscoe knelt in front of the young man, grabbed him by the armpits, and lifted him up, trying to hold him away from his clean shirt. A useless act. Thick rivulets of blood streamed out of the gripped cloth, dribbled down Roscoe’s wrists and into the sleeves of his dress shirt, staining them a royal red.
Marco squealed wetly, bubbling blood between his lips. Agonies heaped upon agonies.
“Shit,” Roscoe muttered. “Fuckin’ heavy too.” He turned the teen around, getting behind Marco so he could drag him by the arms like dead weight.
The back door thumped like someone had shot it with a twenty-gram shotgun slug, solid and painfully loud. Everyone twitched.
“It’s the Zombie,” the Baron said, recalling similar sounds. “Stay calm.”
On the second try, the Zombie’s arm punched straight through the door panel. He found the padlock with his hand, shoved his index finger into the loop, and twisted until either his digit would break or the lock popped open. It snapped with a ping.
Roscoe was struggling to drag Marco off. The boy’s waistline sporadically twitched; even with a severed spine, he was starting to move his legs.
The older CPUSA man, Bill, lowered his gun a couple centimeters and watched the rear door, waiting for the Zombie to rip it open. It took several pulls before the hinges gave way, and the whole thing folded over and out, flung away into the darkness of the train tunnel.
The Zombie’s hands reached into the light, gripping the steel jamb hard enough to bend the metal around his grip. Then he launched himself up into the subway car, trailing a cloud of grey dust. His hands were caked in dark mud, mixed from shattered earth and the bloodspray of dying men. “They shot my hostage!” he shouted cheerily, bringing all the glee of a child playing games to a tense standoff of deadly significance. When nobody reacted, he clapped his blooded hands together, mimicking the Baron’s gestures. “Is the fighting over then?”
“We’re calm now,” the Baron said. “We’ve lost.”
“Fucking hell,” Phyllis muttered.
The old gunman, Bill, seemed satisfied with the tenuous peace. He unclipped a belt radio. “Traffic administration, this is the bus driver. We’ve recovered the passenger. Over.”
“Roger,” came Malik’s voice. “How’s the VIP? Over.”
“Treated without flaws. Zed present, under control. Over.”
“I can’t feel my legs,” Marco muttered. “I’m cold.”
“Fully immobilize the passenger and remove. Over and out.” Malik was gone, but for the moment he was heard, there was pure pleasure in his voice.
“I can’t feel them, but I can move them,” Marco said.
“You heard the admin. Shut him up,” Bill ordered.
“How?” Roscoe asked.
“Use your pistol.”
“I’m still alive,” Marco said, opening his eyes with sudden awareness. “I’m alive!” He started squirming in Roscoe’s grasp, legs kicking weakly. “Help!”
“Fuck it. Hold him still.” Bill positioned himself to one side of Marco, lifting his Tommy.
“Please, don’t,” Phyllis muttered.
The Baron wanted to close his eyes.
“Oh, fuck me,” Roscoe said, realizing exactly what Bill was about to do.
Bill set the stock against his shoulder and aimed the sights of his Thompson at Marco’s lolling head. “Lift his arms. Keep him still. I got it.” He focused, putting a finger over the trigger.
Roscoe grunted, yanking Marco’s arms up until his body weight was dangling. “Sit still!”
“Boy!” Bill snapped. “To me!”
Marco twisted his head to the left, focusing on the command. Without another word, Bill pulled the trigger, and the Chicago Typewriter wrote one bloody period on Marco’s skull, punching a bullet hole wide enough for a pinky into his forehead.
Marco’s eyes rolled back, and he shuddered and relaxed.
“For Christ’s sake,” Roscoe said, adjusting his grip. With a limp body, it was easier to hike up the weight and get his hands under Marco’s armpits again.
“What the fuck was that?” came the call from the next car up.
Just as Roscoe lifted, Marco started shuddering.
Roscoe gasped. “What the fuck—”
Ghastly words were shredded between chattering teeth, but even with a hole in his head, Marco spoke. “I-I-I, mm, I’m, ah, mm, a-ah.” With an impossible, Cat-borne surge of energy, he started flailing in Roscoe’s grasp, all limbs kicking and swinging, trying to strike the man dragging him away.
“Stop it!” Roscoe barked, trying to keep a grip on the teen.
One fist struck true, clapping Roscoe’s mouth shut. He dropped Marco flat on the rubber flooring and stepped back, rubbing his jaw in abject confusion.
Bill sighed. “Pick him back up.”
“Fuck’s sake, Bill! You already shot him!”
“It’s goddamn Cat o’ Nine Lives. Pick. Him. Up.”
From his place on the floor, Marco turned very slowly and saw the Baron. His young face was etched with agony. He was feeling fresh death three times over. “Alive,” he said in a voice like grinding glass. His eyes squeezed shut and tears ran down his cheeks, “Why the pain?”
Bill was losing his temper. “Roscoe, pick him up!”
“Let him surrender,” the Baron begged, unwilling to watch this torture any longer. “Please. He’s practically a child.”
The man with the injured arm came into the car. “What the hell is—” He stopped when he saw Marco on the floor. “Holy shit, is that the target? You shot him?”
“They’re fatal wounds,” the Baron said, “but he’s living through them.”
“Admin said to immobilize him,” Bill argued.
“Listen!” the Baron yelled, raising his voice. “You don’t have to hurt him! Stop shooting—let him surrender!”
“Why does cueball keep talking?” asked Roscoe.
At that comment, the Zombie finally moved from his place at the back of the subway car.
Everyone reacted, guns pointing, but nobody took any shots. They all knew who this was and what it meant to cross him.
“I’m not attacking you,” the Zombie said calmly, and though his voice was soft, everyone listened. “I’m ensuring the Baron’s safety.” He stepped in between the attackers and d’Holbach. “Simple as that, isn’t it?”
“We ain’t touchin’ the Atheist,” Bill said, spitting the name like a curse.
Phyllis looked up quietly at the Zombie, an expression of desperation that was essentially a question. The Zombie stared down at her for several seconds.
Then the Zombie sighed. “Phyllis, please step behind the Baron.”
She darted up and behind d’Holbach immediately, putting her hands on his shoulders, as if to hold him in place like a shield.
“Fuck it, Roscoe,” said the injured man. “Just grab the kid and let’s go.”
Marco opened his eyes, taking a loud, raspy breath, as if he’d been splashed with searing hot water. “It holds me together! Fire, sewing me together!”
Roscoe scowled but knelt behind Marco, getting his hands beneath his armpits again. “Stop twitching, or we’ll have to shoot you.”
As Roscoe lifted him, Marco moved his head, staring at the Baron. “Is this real?”
“It’s real,” the Baron said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all real,” Marco muttered.
Bill gestured with the barrel of his Thompson. “Hold him still. I’ll put in a few more in him.”
“Really?” Phyllis asked, aghast.
Bill sighted Marco again. Roscoe held his armpits, leaning away from the coming shot.
The Baron knew he should shut up, but this cruelty was absurd. None of this was Marco’s fault. He didn’t deserve to suffer. “Must you?” the Baron asked.
Bill paused. “I got orders, Baron.”
“But why follow them? Why kill him?”
Bill shrugged. “Why did your Zombie kill some of us? Why do we kill each other?” Questions from an old hitman—they mocked the Baron, the virtuous atheist.
“I can’t argue that in a sentence,” the Baron replied.
The older merc frowned, a fold of leathery cheeks. “I can. We kill because it’s easy.”
In that argument, the Baron saw a simplicity that some men mistook for conviction. No argument could stop this travesty. This member of CPUSA was committed to following his orders, even if it tortured an innocent man. “I’m sorry, Marco,” the Baron said. “I really am.”
The young man wasn’t in any state of mind to forgive. His eyelids were fluttering, but hearing his name brought him around just long enough to say: “A half-day of warmth. It’s real.” His voice was a mere mumble, already washing away to unconsciousness. “I’m warm.”
Bill took aim. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll plug you until you stop.”
In response, Marco jerked up in Roscoe’s arms, forcing his dead body to move. He shouted hoarsely, “I wish it didn’t hurt so much—” and was cut from the world in a thundercrack of imploding vacuum. Roscoe fell forward onto his knees, eyes closed, covering his ears by instinct. Teleportation was affordable in only one case. Go into debt, go to the temple.
Marco had made his first wish.
Split-second decisions followed. Life and death.
Assuming the worst, the Baron pushed the Zombie forward. “Go!”
It wasn’t clear if the Zombie was responding or already moving. His foot kicked down hard enough to rip the rubber flooring. Bill shifted, aiming at the new target, a well-trained twitch. The Zombie caught the barrel and collided; the Tommy ripped into the Zombie’s chest, unmoved from his iron grip as they tumbled forward through the open subway connector, into the next car.
Roscoe, on his knees, reached for his waist holster.
The Baron jumped up into a single step that ended in a hard kick to Roscoe’s chest, right where it met his throat. Roscoe let out a choked cluck, dropped his revolver and grabbed at his Adam’s apple, as if he could force himself to breathe.
The man with the injured hand was fumbling for the fallen Tommy by the doorjamb.
Phyllis threw her whole body forward, bringing the length of pipe up, over, and down in a long arc ending on the man’s head. The strike dazed the man and put him on his knees, slumping, falling. He’d be out cold for no more than a second, disabled for a handful more.
The Baron kicked the pistol away and shouted to Phyllis. “Pass it, then dodge! I’ll pay for whatever you lose, hard cash!”
“What about the Zombie?” She glanced through the door.
The Zombie was bending Bill’s arm back to break it.
“Leave him!” The Baron patted his left pocket. A dime in there. Close enough. Enemies were rousing. Fresh shouts echoed in the tunnel. “The dime is in my right pocket.”
Darkness fell over the Baron like all the lights shutting off in a warehouse with no windows. Afterimages of his vision faded into ghostly smears and fuzzed into color negatives behind shutting eyelids. The penny wish was made, and a half-day of debt was the Baron’s to live.
There wasn’t any sense of travel. His sanctuary was already around him, perfectly dark and almost perfectly silent. A soft shush filled his ears like distant surf. He was dimly aware of his body, splayed out on his back, still enduring the physical and mental pain of combat, but it was a dull and distant Baron that suffered from stress. In this dark, restful place, foremost on his mind was his debt. He could feel it like he felt prestige, a void of sensation so profound that it went beyond nothing and into the negative, becoming a presence again. Torpor was manifesting consciously, nevertheless timeless and thoughtless. Without a strong desire to rise, one passed through their debt unaware. Even if it was days of debt. Even if it was years. Even a lifetime.
“This too shall pass,” the Baron muttered, finally coming awake. His muscles were relaxed. Bruises and joints were sore, but they were recovering. It was unfortunate that the mind was maintained in a sanctuary with such perfection. Torpor was a blade that cut both ways, eliminating the mental passage of time and also the time of mental rest.
The door cracked open on its own. Sanctuaries connected themselves back to the world. The spaces where the gods kept you weren’t quite inside the temple until it was time to go. The room became visible. He was lying on a thick carpet. White walls surrounded him. Through the open door, he could see an empty apartment filled with afternoon sunlight.
He recognized the hardwood floors, sniffed a hint of old lemon cleaner. This was the 8th Street Temple in Greenwich Village. He nudged up onto his elbows, then felt a kick of prestige so profound that it knocked him flat on his back again. His head struck the carpet.
Phyllis had wished to pass her pool to him, and it was deep. Decades of prestige washed over him in a sea of accomplishment. Before transmitting prestige over a distance, she must’ve been close to wishing for the afterlife. At most, a few more years had separated her from forever, depending on the price that the gods had demanded for her salvation.
This was more prestige than any normal cultist would have. It was more than enough to spare a little for Marco’s sake, unless she had a principle or a reason for holding it back. Maybe the task that’d earned the bulk of it was especially foul, and using it on anything beyond the afterlife was like spending dirty money. Maybe she was just a good saver. If you didn’t spend your wealth on the little things, it added up to a fortune saved.
Maybe he was thinking about it all wrong. She’d already spared a full day across the two of them; she’d fought for them. Instead of quibbling over details, he decided then and there to help Phyllis. Once this was done, he’d buy the rest of the necessary prestige from New York, and he’d give it to her. She’d earned that much, fighting in an occult war that wasn’t her own.
The brilliant shine of satisfaction faded quickly. This prestige wasn’t a reward from any task, so the surge of emotions was brief. Nevertheless, he felt more awake now. More aware.
“Time to go,” he muttered, pushing to his feet and leaving the sanctuary. Wooden floors creaked in time with his leather shoes. Sunlight shone through stale but dustless air.
Once he was out in the apartment, the sanctuary door shut itself behind him.
Maybe a minute had passed since his wish had come true. He put his hand in his right pants pocket and pulled out the dime. He trusted that Phyllis had dodged without taking any serious wounds. If not, there was little he could do but find her body and carry it out.
Even if she was alive, she probably needed help. Marco too, assuming they all came to the same temple. They had to get out of here as quickly as possible. CPUSA would be sending people, if they didn’t already have a mole or two in the temple hierarchy, and if the New York cult found a woman cultist, it would only take one hardline zealot to literally hang her from the rafters. They’d reason it was never too late to prevent another Apostate, and thus another Fall.
He pinched a bit of crusty cloth on his shirt. It was dyed dark with Marco’s dried blood and layered with a few tough strands of membranous, shredded tissue. He looked at the caked blood on his hands and shoes. He probably had a smear or two across his scalp and face. He was otherwise only sore and tired, and he knew he was lucky to be in such fine shape. Unfortunately, even a little blood looked like an ocean to most people.
They’d take notice when he left the apartment. In turn, if he started searching other apartments on the third story, if he looked at other sanctuaries, New York cultists would know he was looking for someone, and they’d help him look. It wouldn’t be an offer, not exactly. For the safety of their temple, they’d want to know who else paid off their debt in a sanctuary. If possible, they’d record the responsible wishes in their record books, interview the dodgers and figure out why the Baron was bloodstained from head to toe.
He wandered into the apartment kitchenette and idly tried the sink. Cold water sprang forth. He washed his hands and face, bringing himself further into the world. He leaned down and drank a gulp, then shut it off. Nothing more to do here.
At this point, cleaning his shirt with a wish was far too expensive. Almost a year of prestige would have to be spent if he wanted to remove the egregious evidence. The only real option was to take control of the situation before anyone else could.
The Baron crossed to the front door, opened it onto the temple chamber, and stepped out onto a metal-mesh balcony. He was about three stories up, half-hidden behind hundreds of hanging tapestries. Far below but not far distant, a few young men could be seen playing cards at a table. Better to get their attention first; pretend to belong.
He leaned over the railing and bellowed down to them, “I need assistance!”
Someone glanced up at him. The ensconced lamps cast a soft underglow to the Baron, but there was more than enough light up here, even without a direct line of sight to the ridge lights. The brown-black stains on his shirt were recognized for what they were. A man threw down his cards and shouted back with cupped hands, “Who goes there?”
“The Philosopher!” the Baron yelled, “Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach! Before I can speak with anyone else, I need the assistance of neophyte Osman!”
“Osman? Why?”
“This concerns his father, General Osman, and I must respect the nobleman’s privacy!”
The man at the table signalled for someone to go. “Five minutes!” he shouted up.
The Baron checked his watch. Five minutes to the top of the hour. There were still a few hours until the shop closed, and Osman probably worked as a gatekeeper until five. Hopefully, he would be here. If not, the Baron would call for the Greenwich Oracle, Maurice, and try to work with him, though it’d be more difficult to persuade a senior cultist to help.
Soon after, Osman and the Oracle both appeared far below him, then started spiraling up the stairwell to reach him. Facing both was half a victory, half a failure. Such was life.
Once they were within earshot, the Baron hailed them, “Oracle Clare! Neophyte Osman! Thank you for coming on such sudden notice.”
The young Osman was better dressed today. His shirt was properly cut for his short stature, and his voluminous body hair was well hidden beneath a high collar. Maurice on the other hand seemed unchanged, wearing almost identical suspenders, pinching his face in the same sour manner and staring with broad eyes through coke-bottle glasses.
“Baron!” Osman called, actually shocked at his appearance. “What happened?”
“The reports from Brooklyn are true?” Maurice asked.
“Probably.” The Baron inspected his bloody sleeves. “What’ve you been told?”
“Murder, dead mafioso, three separate shootouts since this morning.”
“Practically a war,” Osman added.
“The Zombie killed a police officer?” the Oracle asked.
The Baron raised a hand to pause the onslaught of questions. “He injured him. Someone else killed him.”
“It doesn’t matter. Tammany Hall is throwing a fit. I heard Tweed call it a second Salem.”
The Baron lowered his hand and smiled wanly. “Nothing that extreme.”
“What the hell is happening then?” Maurice asked.
“I was in another gunfight—a fourth one. This isn’t my blood though.”
“You dodged? Where is the Zombie then?”
“He’ll catch up soon—and yes, I dodged because I was in danger. I can’t tell you anything else due to client confidentiality. Mercenary work.”
“You say that too lightly.” Maurice was scowling. “New York has trusted you as a rule. Now that’s in question. I’m being questioned for trusting you!”
The Baron shrugged as if this weren’t a dire report of dangerous political conditions. “This wasn’t my fault, but I can’t say more.”
“Do you know how much it’ll cost to cover for you? How many palms we’ll grease? How many souls we’ll fill with prestige?” Maurice squeezed his forehead between his palms. “Salem was a one-time event. You promised us, and we believed it.”
“This isn’t like Salem. Everything that happened is for a good cause.”
“Which is?”
“I can’t tell you until I’m done. I’m sorry.”
The Oracle breathed in through his nose, long and sharp, staring through his glasses with keen appraisal. “Do you know what I hear when you say that? I hear that you know something we should know. I’m hearing that Tammany Hall is right to call for your debriefing. Tweed has already asked for you to stand before the nobility and the High Oracle.”
“I’d have to refuse that request,” the Baron said.
“At this rate, when will it stop being a request and start being an order?”
The Baron could plainly see that this conversation was getting nowhere, and Maurice was no longer going to meet kindness with respect. It was time to be rude.
“Maurice, I didn’t call for you, and I’m not here to justify myself to New York. This temple is neutral ground, and I asked Osman to assist me.”
Maurice narrowed his eyes. He understood that this was a purely hostile relationship now. “Whatever message you have for Osman or his father, you can give to me.”
“No, I can’t. You’re interfering. If you don’t give us a little privacy, I’ll be forced to leave without doing very necessary, very important work that could affect the future of New York itself.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You don’t trust me, so I’ll be blunt. I’m not going to talk to you.” He pointed to the stairwell. “Get the story out of Osman after I’m done, if he doesn’t want to keep it a secret.”
“This is my temple,” said the Oracle.
“It’s your neutral ground, and I’m asking for equal hospitality, no matter what.” He pinched his nose. “Screw the fancy language. Get out of here, Maurice. Osman, come inside the room. I’m talking to you now.”
“Baron?” Osman needed a little more than a demand.
“This is important enough that I’m covered in another man’s blood. If you talk to me, and you think Maurice should know, tell him after.”
Osman glanced at the Oracle, who waved him off before pinching his nose.
“Yes, Baron,” Osman said. “I’ll make that call myself.”
The Greenwich Oracle was frustrated, but he knew when he was beaten and when to retreat. “You keep me apprised,” he said to Osman, “and you, Philosopher. You’ve got a lot to answer for. We can’t let you out on the street under these conditions. This is a fair warning. Try to leave, we’ll hold you outside the temple grounds until Tammany comes.”
“I understand.”
“You dodged, so the Zombie isn’t here. Don’t think you can run free today.”
“He’ll be here as soon as he can.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Expect to spend the night here.”
“Or else?” the Baron asked.
Maurice grunted, growing angry. “I want to be your friend, Baron d’Holbach. You shouldn’t want me to be your enemy.”
“I don’t.” The Baron reached back to open the apartment door. “Osman?”
“Yes, Baron,” Osman said, sliding past the Baron’s arm.
The Baron stepped inside and shut the door behind him, holding onto the handle.
“Baron?” Osman prompted the moment they were alone. “I have a question.”
“One second.” d’Holbach waited until he could hear the Oracle running down the steps. “He’ll be making a phone call or two.”
“Yes, Baron,” Osman said. “I imagine so.”
The Baron smiled. “Ask your question.”
Osman seemed vaguely anxious. “Why are you covered in blood?”
“I was saving someone’s life. He was bleeding very badly.”
“Did you save him?”
“Probably, but he was lucky. That’s a large part of why I’m here. He’s dodged. One of my friends came with him. They should both be in the temple, but I need your help.”
Osman frowned with genuine worry now. “Why? What happened?”
“There really isn’t much time, but I need to know something about you, Osman. What do you know about women cultists? They’re evil, right?”
“They’re all evil,” Osman agreed readily.
“Like I’m evil?”
“I didn’t say you were evil,” Osman corrected nervously.
“The stories you heard put me in the same categories as women. Correct?”
Osman nodded without saying a word.
“Or the stories you’ve read, maybe?”
Osman hesitated, and his eyelids twitched, revealing a wince that he wasn’t yet skilled enough to fully suppress. “No, Baron, I haven’t been reading anything.”
“Ha!” The Baron beamed his biggest smile at Osman, pushing past any impropriety with promises of fraternity. “So you’ve read Apostasy. Good, good!Where’d you find a copy? Tammany doesn’t keep one.”
Osman’s face fell with shame.
The Baron was quick to correct whatever fears were dancing through Osman’s head. “I’m not reporting you, neophyte. I’m praising you. That’s curiosity. Admirable.”
Osman raised his head. “Ah, uh…” After a moment, he seemed to reorganize his understanding, coming to peace with honesty. “Yes, Baron. My friend had a copy.”
The Baron’s continuing smile was no act. This was great news, and meant that Osman could be recruited to his causes. “Was it a fun read?”
Osman looked confused. “No—well, yes, but—I mean, it didn’t seem all that evil to me.”
“Good! This is a good sign! What’ve you been told though?”
“About women?”
“Yes! About women.”
“Women make bad cultists. They can’t be trusted.”
The Baron laughed. It wasn’t derisive. It was a friendly chuckle, shared between the master and the student, and Osman seemed relieved to hear it. “Have you ever wondered, if nobody will teach a woman about the occult, where women cultists come from?”
“Yes, Baron,” Osman said. “I don’t know how there’d be enough of them to induct each other.”
That was the first open, honest insight he’d heard from the neophyte Osman, and a sign of incredible trust in the Baron. “There aren’t enough for induction. They read Apostasy, and they induct themselves—all alone! Have you ever met someone who is self-inducted into the system of prestige?”
“No, Baron.”
“They’re incredible cultists, every last one of them. They’ve got a stronger will than the average man. They’re experienced, capable, and resourceful. They don’t survive long on the margins of this game unless they have the raw, genuine skill to take big risks and win big, understand?”
Osman’s eyes opened a little wider, a minor epiphany. “It’s harder for them.”
“Far harder. If a woman cultist is discovered, she has to give up her prestige or die. Sometimes both. Every time they talk shop with a man, it’s a massive risk. If one of them puts their trust in you, it says a lot about you, doesn’t it? It means that you’re stalwart and loyal, able to hold a secret. It means you’re better than all other men.”
“Yes, Baron,” Osman said dutifully. “My father calls them roaches, but I think I get it—why the book says you’re a Hound for them—the women I mean.”
“Yes. I’m a Hound of Artemis, and I work with women whenever I can. I’m sure you can guess where this is going?
Osman nodded slowly. “One of your friends is a woman cultist.”
The Baron nodded in cheerful agreement. “And?”
“And…” Osman paused for several seconds, eyes darting from side to side as he realized that the Baron was respecting him enough to let him think. He closed his eyes, considering the Baron’s true intentions, and with every passing second, he relaxed. In real time, the Baron could see the young man growing, choosing his own beliefs.
“And…” Osman finished, opening his eyes. “You want me to help her.” A statement, not a question. A recognition, not a repudiation.
Recontextualized by the system of prestige itself, women were raised up, worthy of the Baron’s respect, of a man’s respect. The neophyte wanted to help, to share in the pride of the skilled and strong.
Just like that, Osman was becoming a Hound of Artemis.
Author’s Note:
I sincerely love this part of the story. Belief isn’t enough, but the action of a new believer can change the course of lives. Osman believes in women now!
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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