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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