Feast of Shadows: Feast of Shadows, #2

By Rick Wayne

One part mystery. One part savagery. Three parts magic.

Years ago, driven by greed, men penetrated the last soft places on earth. Out of the clear-cut jungle—out of nowhere—a man appeared, eyes rimmed in blue. The last shaman. A man who could make magic.

Across five stories, five victims of the inexplicable narrate strange encounters with an enigmatic titan, a man without a past. Caught in his decades-long battle with an unseen foe, each is given the power to alter human history—or end it forever.

To the White of the Bone (cont.)

A mangled body floats to the surface of a reservoir with nothing to distinguish the victim save for a binding knot branded under her tongue. The case is routed to the NYPD's resident occultist, an uncompromising homicide detective whose history of unusual and uncertain results has left her career in shambles. Dodging an inquiry into a fatal shooting and pursued by a homicidal witch, she contemplates a devil's bargain to stop the killer, who just may be the Lord of Shadows..

The Song on the Green

One by one, the children of an upscale Pennsylvania neighborhood are found crippled and catatonic, their minds seemingly vanished. As the panicked community searches in vain for a human predator, they neglect the only witness, an eight-year-old boy with a menagerie of strays, who is left to stand alone against the very creature that hunts him.

Bright Black

After carelessly killing an innocent, a beautiful aristocrat is cursed with eternal youth. Forced to endure as waves of friends and loved ones wither and fade around her, she wanders the ages in search of meaning—from the wars of Napoleon to the Victorians in India, from the Great Depression to the collapse of the Iron Curtain. Recruited as a spy in an occult war, she soon tires of blood and loss and retreats to a small village in the mountains, where an accident reveals missing memories and the ghosts of her past rise to remind her that the mistakes of five lifetimes are not so easily fled.

Part urban fantasy, part magical whodunit, FEAST OF SHADOWS is a five-course occult mystery and the most devilish meal you'll ever read.

The complete epic conundrum is available in two parts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Wayne
• Release date: Nov 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393423539

Rick Wayne

Rick Wayne is a cretinous mass who's dissected a cadaver, climbed the Great Wall, jumped from an airplane, designed sampling systems, swam naked in the Mediterranean, and felt the blast of a terrorist's bomb, although not in that order. When he's not vomiting words, he's planning his next adventure. He can be found at RickWayne.com.

Book preview

Contents

Title

Interactive

Le Menu

(L'Entrée) To the White of the Bone

25 OCT 18:39

27 OCT 21:44

29 OCT 02:53

29 OCT 07:02

31 OCT 23:20

01 NOV 01:01

01 NOV 04:18

Undated

(La Salade) Song on the Green

First Part

Second Part

Third Part

Fourth Part

Middle Part

Sixth Part

Seventh Part

Eighth Part

Scary Part

Last Part

(Le Plat Principal) Bright Black

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

(Le Dessert) Archeology of Five

Title Page

Start

T Minus: 052 Days 17 Hours 46 Minutes 11 Seconds

Illustration - Codename: Nomad

T Minus: 052 Days 17 Hours 09 Minutes 22 Seconds

T Minus: 051 Days 21 Hours 03 Minutes 43 Seconds

T Minus: 051 Days 19 Hours 51 Minutes 04 Seconds

T Minus: 051 Days 01 Hours 12 Minutes 25 Seconds

T Minus: 050 Days 15 Hours 31 Minutes 36 Seconds

T Minus: 050 Days 13 Hours 59 Minutes 47 Seconds

T Minus: 050 Days 13 Hours 12 Minutes 38 Seconds

T Minus: 050 Days 12 Hours 46 Minutes 19 Seconds

T Minus: 049 Days 05 Hours 00 Minutes 00 Seconds

Continue the Adventure

Credits

FEAST OF SHADOWS is interactive.

This story includes a number of digital extras linked directly from this e-book. Readers can easily find the full collection online at:

RickWayne.com

You can start with the soundtrack to this book.

[Just click here]

Everything I owned that might defeat a wizard sat in the box at my feet. I lifted it and set it on the table.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and the sun was shining outside, but there were no windows inside Sully’s, my second-favorite dive bar, and the room was soaked in a permanent smoky dusk. Sully’s was a holdover from the days when you didn’t want your churchgoing neighbors to know you were backsliding, the kind of place that didn’t care if you broke the city’s no-smoking ordinance. I sat in a booth at the back and carefully lit a cigar. I’d handed in my badge that morning and had been dodging calls from Hammond and my brother ever since. I can only imagine the one called the other. After taking a puff to make sure it was lit, I opened my box of tricks and took out the round ampules of holy water, tied together on the same length of cord like a string of grenades, and set them on one side of the table. I took out the giant salamander claw, dried and crisp, that dangled from a leather strap looped through the flesh at one end. I set it by the ampules. I took out the Coptic cross and the shiny avian bezoars and the brass pentacles, like coins, and all the rest. Soon, the box was empty. I looked at it all laid out neatly on the round table. I moved the wax voodoo doll to one side. Next to it, I put the broken wand, which tapered neatly at the tip. The bottom end was splintered—frayed like a cut rope. I removed the talisman from around my neck and set it with them.

That was it. Those three. The rest were either frauds, mysteries, or, like the holy water, nothing useful in a battle with a wizard. I took another drag from my cigar.

Fuck.

I put the talisman back around my neck and was replacing the rest in the box when a man walked in from the back. The place was dead, which meant I would’ve noticed him anyway, but he certainly stuck out in his tailored overcoat and vest. He stopped at my table. He had pomaded hair.

Nice tie pin, I said. It was blood ruby.

Thank you. He unbuttoned his coat, draped it neatly over the back of a nearby chair, and moved it so that he sat facing me.

Do I know you?

Not at all. He was serious. Very serious. But we have a mutual acquaintance. She may have mentioned to you that one of us would be coming.

Granny.

I exhaled smoke, which blew in his face, but he didn’t flinch. He simply reached into the pocket of his coat and removed his own cigar, which he lit by pressing against his bare palm. After a moment, it began to smoke.

Warlock. You can always tell. They have a kind of sheen.

What do you want?

His cigar smelled a lot better than mine.

My acquaintances and I are not good people, he said, taking a puff. But our chief concern has always been the conjuring of money. The spells we’ve built to do that on an industrial scale are large and complicated and took decades to construct. He rolled his cigars in his fingers and examined it. As such, we do, on occasion, stoop to baser behaviors, but only to protect what we’ve built. He paused. Usually.

You have a point?

Yes, and I’ll get to it. There was a man who came through the city last year, a government bureaucrat.

Someone I know?

I doubt it.

What about him?

He disappeared.

Shame.

Yes. Left a wife and daughter behind. Atlanta, I think. Then, last summer, a young Chinese immigrant came into possession of a very rare artifact, an artifact so old and powerful that it has been used at least twice to conquer most of the known world.

You don’t say?

"It was weak from long isolation. Its magic has to be . . . charged, if you will. The quickest way to do that is to feed it souls." He stressed the word.

Are you suggesting someone fed her to this thing?

Oh, I’m suggesting more than that. He took another puff and leaned toward me and whispered. I’m suggesting that she helped plan it. Her own murder. Then sat by idly as it was carried out.

So, she was enchanted, I drolled. So what?

Hmm. He sat back again. "I don’t know how much you’ve learned in your adventures. The self-taught always have a surprisingly odd mix of knowledge, so forgive me if this is known to you, but enchantments and illusions don’t convince people to see what isn’t there, or to shroud what is. Only the casting of darkness can do that. Rather, they convince people to see what’s there as if it were something else. You’d be hard-pressed, for example, to find a single sane person who would say that murder isn’t wrong. The question is always what counts as murder. If a soldier shoots someone, it’s patriotism. If you do, it’s manslaughter. If I do, murder. If the government takes your money, it’s taxation. If anyone else does, it’s theft. In both cases, exactly the same act has taken place. It’s simply a matter of interpretation."

What does this have to do with the girl?

"I couldn’t tell you what convinced her to help plan her own murder, but clearly she didn’t see it as murder. She saw it as sacrifice, just as the government bureaucrat I mentioned didn’t abandon his wife and child. But he left them all the same, I suspect for what he thought was a very good reason. The fact is, most people are unreliable narrators, even of their own lives. If you had walked up to these two people before the fact and asked them to do exactly what they later did, they would’ve thought you were crazy. And yet . . . the world unfolded such that they did exactly what he wanted them to, swearing all the while that they did it of their own volition."

He?

The warlock smiled.

It made my stomach turn.

"So, what is he after?" I asked.

I think he blames the world—the modern world—for the death of his people, the loss of his village, of everything he knew and loved, of the plight of the earth, who was his lover.

"His lover?"

I suspect he wants to send us all back to the Stone Age, or some silly thing. Who knows, really? Unfortunately, with the artifact in his possession, he has the means to do exactly that. Of course, without modern methods of production, the food supply will rapidly dwindle, as will the supply of medicines. Even if by some miracle they are eventually restored, whatever crisis he unleashes will precipitate an unprecedented global catastrophe. Imagine how many will die before a new equilibrium is restored.

You talk like the world is a market.

"It is. That’s exactly what it is, Detective. But I can see you’re skeptical of me, and you have every right to be. So consider this. My acquaintances and I profit very handsomely from the current state of affairs. Why would we do anything to upset it? It’s very hard to get rich off the labor of others when there are no others. Why would we be throwing spells at you?"

Spells?

I played dumb, but I knew what he meant. I couldn’t say with certainty that a spell had been cast, or that if not, something else entirely would’ve been discovered on that VHS tape. But that’s what magic is—the power to unfold the world as you will.

Let’s say, he went on, that you manage to survive this round. How long until he targets those you care about? Not just your brother, but the good Detective Hammond, who is going to walk through that door in exactly six seconds.

What are you suggesting? I can’t exactly put a gold bullet in this guy’s head like Granny did to one of your bookkeepers.

Yes. An unfortunate business. But nothing that concerns you.

Yet, I accused.

The door opened. The light from outside turned the interloper into a silhouette, but I would’ve recognized that block head anywhere. Hammond pretended he didn’t see us and took a seat at the bar.

The chef has no shortage of enemies, the warlock explained. The problem is, he’s too well protected. Not just the marks on his hands but his sanctum. It’s a fortress—a fortress from which he emerges only when it’s auspicious. He leaned toward me again. It can’t be attacked from without. You learned that the hard way. But from within, all one would have to do is break the seal. Something as trivial as a baby sledgehammer would do the trick. Poke a hole in his defenses and the whole thing comes crashing down.

I blew smoke at my companion again. And then your people will do the rest, is that it?

Oh, not my people. We don’t do that kind of thing. But we’ll absolutely see that it’s done. You can count on that.

And what makes you think I can get into this so-called fortress?

"That’s the clever part. It’s built to stop people like me and my friends, who have a certain . . . stain. Whatever else he is, he’s an arrogant fool. He’s not worried about the rest of you. There are minimal protections against—" He stopped.

A smed? I asked.

He smiled.

Cute.

But you must understand, Detective, you’re only going to get one chance. And you’ll have to move quickly. Right now, he’s letting his spells work their effect. I can see them swirling around you, like smoke. Your only hope is to strike first. Get in, break the seal, and get out. Once he’s gone, his magic will collapse. Your career will return. Your relationships. You’ll even solve the Sacchi case, I imagine. Everything will go back to how it was. How it should be.

He waited for a moment like he was expecting me to say something.

That it? I asked.

He reached into his pocket, removed a thick set of neatly folded papers—blue architectural plans, it looked like—and slid them across to me.

What’s this?

A gift. To cement our good intentions. We’re not asking you to trust us, Detective. We’re willing to back up everything we say. These are the blueprints for the sanctum, which dates to the 19th century. Some very interesting architecture.

That’s a historic building, I said. I had already checked.

After 9/11, the structural plans for various historic landmarks around the city were removed from public view, accessible only by permit. The idea was to make it difficult for any would-be terrorists to pack one of the city’s many abandoned underground spaces with explosives, Guy Fawkes–style.

I would pay particular note to the hidden entry. Via the sewers. He stood. Good day, Detective.

He replaced his coat and walked toward the front door. He nodded at Hammond, who was sitting on a bar stool with his back to us. Detective, he said.

Then he was gone.

I finished my drink in one gulp, coughed once, and dropped the cigar into the glass. I left a twenty on the table—surcharge for the municipal violation—and grabbed my box. I set it on the bar and pulled out a stool.

There’s only so many places you go, he said.

How many you visit? I asked.

This was number three.

Huh. I didn’t think you knew about this one.

He looked around. Doesn’t look like I’ve been missing anything.

Yeah, it’s a shithole. That’s why I like it.

Hey, Sully called jokingly from the end of the bar. Careful.

Best damned shithole in the city, I said as he stepped away to clear my table and give us some privacy. Fred call you?

He nodded. Everybody’s worried about you, Har. Not gonna apologize for it either.

Yeah.

What’s in the box?

I slid it away. Just some things from the office.

Oh? Who’s the suit? He nodded toward the door.

Dunno. Didn’t gimme a name.

Seemed like you guys were getting on. What did he want?

What do rich assholes like that usually want from cops?

Hammond thought. To do their dirty work for them.

I nodded. Something like that.

Are you going to?

When I didn’t answer, he studied me.

What’s the word on the Sacchi case? I asked.

There isn’t one. Anything you’ve touched recently has been referred for review.

Jesus . . . That’ll take months.

He nodded solemnly. What’d you expect? The department’s gotta cover its ass. He glanced at the box. You’re not gonna tell me what that’s for, are you?

I didn’t answer.

After a minute of silence, he got a text. His phone buzzed and he took it out. He nodded sharply and got up from his stool.

That’s it? I asked.

Yup. Got a recital tonight. That was my reminder. He shrugged. I did my bit. I told Fred I’d talk to you. I talked. Not that I don’t know the answer to this, but I don’t suppose you’d want to come to the house? Recital won’t take an hour. The girls would like to see you. Been a while, hasn’t it?

He was doing what everybody does after they get spooked: deny it. Go home and pretend like nothing happened. It never lasts, but it’s where we all start. Including me. Couldn’t exactly be mad at him for that.

Rain check, okay?

Of course. He paused. Other plans, huh?

I bobbled my head noncommittally. Hoping.

Say hi to her for me. Then he turned for the door. He raised a hand without turning back. See ya around, Har. I’d say ‘don’t do anything stupid,’ but you’re already on a roll.

She had company. I could see through the second-floor window. I couldn’t tell who was there, but there were definitely two shadows, both female from the looks of it. I was across the street under a tree that was still clinging obstinately to the last of its leaves. It was raining, but not very hard—just enough to make everything damp, just enough to loosen you up to let the cold in. I pulled the flaps of my gray jacket around me tighter.

A man exited the building behind me and cursed. He stopped for a moment, like he was contemplating whether or not to go back up for an umbrella but then scurried off without. One car passed, then another. It went from dusk to dark. In the window, I saw the shadows stand and move close to each other—a kiss or a hug—and then move away. I swallowed hard. I turned my eyes to the bedroom, which had a small balcony that faced the street, expecting the light to come on. But the curtain stayed dark.

In the last few weeks, I’d called her twice, left one message, and sent a single text. I figured that was enough and let it go. Then, earlier that day, I received a cryptic email. I figured we’d messed around enough with electronic communication and decided I’d stop by as soon as I could. Only apparently she was entertaining. I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a blow.

I saw a petite brunette with dark, cropped hair and too much eyeliner walk into the small lobby. Kinney followed her down the stairs in a long, thin wrap. The couple said goodbye and the brunette walked down the sidewalk without noticing me by the tree across the street.

Kinney stood in the doorway, holding it open. The bright light from the entryway cast her head in silhouette. But I could tell she was looking right at me.

You may as well come in, she called.

I walked across.

I saw you had company, I said. I didn’t want to bother you.

She held the door open for me without ceremony. So you thought you’d wait outside in the rain? Like a stalker?

I just wanted to talk, I said.

Uh-huh. She started up the stairs.

I followed. She’s cute.

I think she prefers men, she said from the landing.

Really? Then why are you seeing her? I immediately regretted asking. It was none of my business.

That’s none of your business, she scolded, holding her front door open.

Her place was exactly the same, minus a new framed print hanging between the two front windows. I didn’t recognize the artist, but it was colorful, like everything else. Like her.

I took off my coat as she shut the door.

You know where it goes, she said, walking past me to the kitchen.

There was soft music playing, which she stopped. It was quiet. Stiff.

Your brother called.

Freddie?

I pulled a hanger from a closet stuffed with jackets and heavy coats of every color, including one of mine, which was wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic.

I thought his name was Martin, she called from the other room.

That’s his middle name.

I shut the closet and hung my wet coat from the door knob.

She waited for a moment. You’re not gonna ask me why he called?

I know why he called.

I sat on a stool at the bar that separated the kitchen from the living area. She opened a bottle of champagne. The cork popped.

Always the detective.

She never liked that about me.

Well, that wasn’t true. She thought it was sexy at first. What she didn’t like is that I couldn’t turn it off.

There were a lot of things I couldn’t turn off.

You look good, Kinn.

And she did, too. Her hair had the same permanent frizz that parted oddly and always hung in front of her eyes. She had a narrow jaw and barely any chin, which framed her face exactly how her perfectly round glasses framed her eyes. Her long, colorful wrap covered snug but casual clothes. I could see her figure.

Don’t. She held up a finger. You’re only in here because your brother said you were in trouble and you needed help.

That explained the email.

She poured the rest of a bottle of red wine into her glass. I’m not sure I believed it actually, she admitted with a hint of regret. Not until I saw you skulking in the shadows. Since when does the mighty Harriet Chase skulk?

Sorry . . . I know I shouldn’t even be bothering you with this. I’m probably the last person you want to see.

She looked at me blankly. I’m not going to respond to that.

I looked down at the counter.

Wow, that didn’t take long.

Sorry. I looked up again.

That’s two sorries. She handed me the bottle of champagne and stood by the counter at a formal distance.

Okay, how about this? I asked. Thanks for letting me in. It’s really good to see you. And I don’t mean anything by that. I added the last part quickly. It’s just, it’s nice to see a friendly face.

So what happened?

Suspended.

She squinted in confusion.

Technically, it’s temporary, I explained. But odds are it’ll be permanent before too long.

She stepped closer. She paused, like she was worried about transgressing a boundary. Then she hugged me.

I hugged back.

I’m so sorry, she said. She sat on the stool next to mine. Your job is everything to you. She said it like she spoke from personal experience. I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do.

She pulled back and I rested my hand on the neck of the champagne bottle. I ran my thumb over the gold foil.

I don’t suppose you’d be up for a few drinks where we talk about absolutely anything else?

She reached over the counter for her glass and held it up. I touched the bottle to it with a clink and toasted her health.

You do look very nice, by the way, I said. I’m not just saying that.

She scrunched her nose like she was waiting for the punchline.

I took a swig. For a middle-aged dyke, I mean.

She smiled mid-sip. Bitch, she breathed into her glass.

And just like that, her eyes were warm again.

I could see myself flirting, almost as if watching through a two-way mirror. I knew I shouldn’t. But it felt like I was observer more than participant. It was always like that with Kinney. We had connected below the level of the brain, somewhere between the heart and the loins, and I never felt in control of myself around her. I never felt safe either, like being with her was circling the edge of a hole, and if I fell in, I’d never get out.

Thing is, part of me really wanted to fall.

She downed her glass and opened another bottle of red, leaving me to finish the champagne in my hand. We moved to the couch and talked long enough to finish both bottles and most of one more. It wasn’t long after that my lips were on hers. We hung like that for too long, waiting to see what the other would do. I felt her breasts. She kissed me more. I slipped my hand between her thighs. We pulled off each other’s clothes and rubbed our bodies together and moved to the bed. I took my time. We hadn’t had breakup sex, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to get the chance again. I made it count.

I woke up a few hours later when a car honked on the street outside. I pulled my slacks over my ass. I had no idea where I’d left my panties. I got my coat from the hanger and pulled it over my shirtless skin and sat on the balcony watching the rain, which had started falling in earnest sometime while I was asleep. I really wanted a cigar. But Kinney didn’t smoke and didn’t like me to. Just one more thing we’d argued about. So I sat with my back pressed to the brick while the splatter from the bouncing drops slowly drenched my cold feet and the cuffs of my slacks. As I stared at the ripples on the concrete, a pattern started to emerge, as if the balcony floor were vibrating to some imperceptible sound that could be revealed only by falling water. And it shifted, too, like a kaleidoscope. But there was a definite center, like a tunnel or gateway around which tribal bands turned.

I shut my eyes and felt my temple throb. It was out there somewhere. The wolf.

I could never say for sure that I’d been cursed. I could never say for sure that if I hadn’t been, the forensics guys would’ve found something else entirely on that VHS tape—something, say, related to the disappearance of Alexa Sacchi, as everyone had initially expected. I could never say that the outcome of my committee hearing would’ve been any different. But that’s how it works.

Sitting there on that balcony with cold, wet feet, trying not to look at the kaleidoscopic pattern in the puddle, I realized that’s how Kent Cormack must have felt in the days before the shooting, when his life was tumbling like pillars around him. Hammond had said he needed more guys that night. He was right, and we both knew why. We’d all heard the same rumors: that Cormack had been covering up for the Salvadorans, that he knew he was approaching indictment and had orchestrated the raid on his accomplices as a means of casting doubt on himself, and that he had intended to get shot—albeit not in the head—to create a plausible defense. If he was guilty of collusion, his lawyers would argue, why would he have undertaken a dangerous raid to bring the murderers he was supposedly abetting to justice, thereby getting shot in the process? It wouldn’t have convinced anyone on the force. But then, it didn’t have to. It only had to convince a doe-eyed jury, who would only see him bandaged and in uniform.

The problem was always time. When heat comes, as it had now for me, you have to be swift. For his plan to work, Cormack needed the gang to sacrifice a few smaller fish so the bigger ones could get away. I’m sure he agreed to keep quiet. I’m also sure the gang agreed to plant evidence around the house, supplied by Cormack, that cast suspicion on a different officer—someone like me. Anything to create a reasonable doubt. But then, I suspect neither Cormack nor his accomplices intended to stick to the bargain. I expect they each tried to double-cross the other. Cormack was shot with the intent to kill. He wore a vest that saved his life. The only reason no one had yet gone back to finish the job was because he’d been under guard at the hospital and IA was still watching his house—which was the real reason someone had called Lt. Miller. They didn’t want me mucking around and fucking up their investigation. I suspect fear of a reprisal by the gang, more than finances, was the motivation to get his family out of town in a hurry.

I wanted to believe the Salvadorans would leave the man’s teenage daughter alone. Brooke. That, more than any of the rest, was the reason I gave her my card. I knew Mrs. Cormack wouldn’t take it. And I don’t trust IA for shit. All I could do was hope Brooke would call if something happened. I owed her that much. She’d given me an absolutely vital piece of information—about her dad. There was no doubt in my mind that he, or perhaps his wife, had sent the VHS tape. A little revenge on the woman they blamed for everything going wrong. And everything had gone wrong. The Salvadorans, it seemed, had hedged their bets, called in a favor from someone back home, put an old-school curse on Kent Cormack.

For their part, I don’t think the Cormacks expected the tape would have the effect it did. I think it was just an attempt to cause me some discomfort, digging up the ghosts of my past. Every officer has them. Cormack would’ve known that. And he had both the skills and the free time to pursue a vendetta, not to mention enough gurgling anger to track down that tape. Whatever else he was, he was a decent detective.

Spells are like ocean currents. You can’t see them just for looking, and they can pass through each other without losing much of their potency. The columns of my life were tumbling, as they had for Kent Cormack. I had some kind of eco-terrorist wizard on my ass—or shamanic sorcerer, I guess. And a powerful one at that. I didn’t know how much time I had, but it wasn’t more than weeks. Probably just days.

Days.

You okay?

I opened my eyes and looked down at the puddle of ripples. I hadn’t remember shutting them. I’d been in a trance again. The pattern in the puddle was gone, along with my headache.

I turned. Yeah, I said. I’m good. I didn’t want to wake you.

She leaned against the metal door frame. She rested her head against it and studied me for a long, cool moment.

You can’t stay, can you? she said, more to herself than to me.

I can stay, I countered.

I don’t mean until morning. She smiled bittersweetly. And I don’t mean with me.

I squinted. I don’t understand.

This is how you get. When you’re on a hunt.

"A hunt?"

She nodded. It doesn’t have anything to do with anyone. It’s just how you are. When it’s all over, you come back and you’re here. Mentally. Emotionally. For a while. But sooner or later, you pick up another scent and off you go. I thought it was me for the longest time. That you just didn’t like me enough—to stay, or whatever. That’s why I . . . But that’s not it. It’s just how you are.

I looked at the rain.

What do people do?

Just let shit go, I guess. Go home to their families. Do what they can during business hours and let the rest of the world sort itself out.

Kinney saw my face. She smiled with pressed lips and went back to bed.

She wasn’t angry, I knew. She was disappointed. She was remembering how things were and realizing that she wouldn’t wake up tomorrow and find them any different, even though she wanted them to be. We can afford those kinds of fantasies when we’re young. Kinn and I weren’t young anymore.

I went inside and dropped my coat on the floor and laid down next to her under the covers. She shivered and recoiled.

Jesus, your feet are like ice. Aren’t you cold?

She was warm and I rubbed her hair and held on. She didn’t say anything. Part of her wanted to ask what was on my mind, but part of her wanted to set boundaries, to disentangle.

I was thinking about this time when I was a patrolman, I volunteered.

She was facing away from me, but I could see the corner of her mouth turn up into a rueful smile she tried hard to suppress.

What? I asked.

"Patrolman. She turned and propped her head up on the pillow with her hand. You always use the masculine with me."

Really? I laid back and looked up at the ceiling. I almost said sorry.

What happened when you were a patrolwoman? she asked.

We were quiet a moment.

I stopped this guy in a blue Chevelle, I said. "Had a pair of white racing stripes, like something you’d see on an athletic shoe. Nice car, though. Must have spent a lot of time on it. ‘Bout the same age as me at the time. Mid-20s maybe. He was driving a little erratically and I flagged him down. Had another guy with him and a girl in the back. Makeup. Real thin. Big hair.

"I approached the vehicle cautiously, like I’d been trained. I ran his license and insurance. I ran his tag. Everything checked out. He didn’t appear any more stiff than most folks when they get pulled over. He answered my questions straight up. Even called me ma’am. I thought that was funny. I let him and his friends go with a warning. I got the impression they were having fun. Goofing off a little too much, maybe. Hard to blame them with a sweet ride like that. So I did my bit for highway safety and I go to walk back to my squad car and I hear the Chevelle’s engine start and I lift my head to the little back window. I got the sense the girl was looking at me, watching me leave, so I was just gonna nod, but I remember thinking how the guys were always saying I looked like such a bitch all the time. So I made it a point to smile. Like, ‘Have a nice day,’ you know?

"The car pulled away just as she smiled back. It’s automatic, right? Whether you mean to or not, someone smiles at you and unless you’re pissed off or whatever, you smile out of habit or to be polite. I got to my car and I sat down and reported the outcome and started filling out the last of the paperwork and I saw that smile in my head.

"‘Pretty girl,’ I thought. Teeth a little uneven. But then not everyone can afford braces.

Then I realized, they weren’t just a little uneven. She was missing a tooth. And I don’t mean it got knocked out or whatever.

She lifted my lip then and looked at my missing tooth. She must have felt it when we kissed.

Rugby, I said.

She smiled and shook her head.

"Anyway, I was pretty sure it was a baby tooth, you know? She had a lot of make-up. And big hair."

Who wore big hair then?

"Exactly. Like she didn’t know what she was doing. I guess maybe I didn’t look that hard. You know me. Some girls really care about that shit, but I was too busy watching the two guys in the front. I’d been told over and over at the academy that you can never be sure on a stop like that when someone is gonna pull a gun or whatever. One moment, it’s just another routine—one out of so many you couldn’t even keep track. Two seconds later, you’re bleeding on the ground. And the girl was all the way in the back. Skinny thing. ‘Not a threat.’ That’s all I remember thinking. ‘Not a threat.’

"But afterward, I’m sitting in my patrol car wondering how old she was. And I’m picturing her face and that reflexive flash of a smile. Like a kid. And I’m thinking she couldn’t have been older than eleven or twelve.

"Now, she coulda been the guy’s sister. Or niece. Or cousin. Or the babysitter. Or whatever. I don’t know. But I shoulda asked. I shoulda looked at his reaction. I shoulda glanced at the friend. If I wasn’t sure about their response, I shoulda politely asked a couple follow-ups while I pretended to write the ticket. Coulda shoulda woulda, right?

"It’s shit like that that teaches you how to be a cop. A real one. That’s the day I learned that if you can’t worry more about the girl in the car than you do your own safety, then you shouldn’t be on the job. Guys who do need to be sailing a desk somewhere.

"Anyway, years go by. I made detective. I never thought about that day again. So many worse things had happened, I had no reason. Until I ran into him. The driver. At the courthouse. In the hall. As I’m walking out of a routine probation hearing, there he is. He was a little older. And thinner, actually. But it was him. No question. Turns out he’d had a hard stretch at Attica. Prison is hard on pedos. It’s probably the only time the sheer brutality of the place finds a positive outlet.

And here he was getting out. Served a year. He claimed he never touched the girl—a different one. Not the one in the Chevelle. He claimed it was all the friend. And the DA couldn’t prove otherwise. Not from the physical evidence. Not from the girl’s statement. Not from her parents or anyone else. The friend got fifteen long. This dude got three years for felony child endangerment and was out after fourteen months.

I paused.

And in those fourteen months, he was raped. Repeatedly.

Her lips pursed.

Fuck . . . I ran my hands through my hair. I don’t know if he deserved that. I don’t know if anyone deserves that. All I know is, I shouldn’t have been so worried that day. I looked at her. I shouldn’t have been afraid.

I sat up. Our fingers touched gently. The tip of mine traced the tip of hers.

Is that what’s bothering you? she asked. Regret?

I shrugged.

Tell me.

"I dunno. I’ve been following this trail. Couple trails actually. Three different lines. Missing girl. Whole pile of dead bodies. They all converge on exactly the same place. Exactly. But this guy . . ." I shook my head.

What’s the problem?

I took a long deep breath and let it out. The problem is that the whole world is telling me not to go there. Everyone. Fred. Hammond. My boss. The department. Even this crazy old bitty I know. They’re all saying exactly the same thing, loud and clear: Drop it. Let it go. Move on.

She waited. What happens if you don’t?

I could get hurt. Or worse, the people around me could. I looked at her reaction.

She didn’t have one. And what happens if you walk away?

I thought for a moment. Same as usual. The guys in the Chevelle drive off again. And I let them.

Kinney put her fingers between mine. Sounds like you don’t have much choice, then.

I cut the city padlock and looped the chain around a hook on the heavy gate. I hung the broken lock through one of the links. There were no lights down there, especially at that hour, so everything had to be illuminated by the beam from the LED lamp at the crown of my forehead. I adjusted it upward before attempting the jump up the four-foot-high concrete slab, which was dry at the top but a little slippery at the sides. Down a short arched passage was a bolt-studded iron door with no handle. I eventually got it open, but it took some tugging. I had to drag it hard across the concrete in short bursts, each of which triggered a loud grinding noise that could’ve theoretically woken the entire block, even from the sewer. But I didn’t have a choice. I needed close to a foot before I could slip inside. Beyond was a vertical shaft that enclosed a mechanical lift, the kind that used to be common in the days before electric motors. A pair of long chain loops dangled. Pulling them turned a crank connected to gears that lifted the metal grate vertically along the pitted track to the top—albeit very slowly, and only with the assistance of counterweights that descended along a neighboring brace.

I looked up, but not before moving the beam of my headlamp to the side, just in case there was anyone at the top. The bolted, crisscrossing metal braces that secured the vertical track were all covered with a thin layer of dark brown rust, but they otherwise seemed as sturdy as the day they were installed. They didn’t budge when I shook them two-handed. Rather than risk the noise of the rattling chains, I turned off my head lamp and used the gear holes of the track like a ladder. I slipped my gloved hands inside and pulled myself up one step at a time. I’d like to say that, as I ascended that shaft, I was as confident as I’d been walking into that fifth-floor apartment several weeks before with only my wits and a necklace to save me. But that would’ve been a lie.

Down in that dark hole, my heart was pounding so loudly in my ears that I had to stop several times to make sure I wasn’t making noise I couldn’t hear over the sound of my own pulse. I had absolutely no idea what I would encounter at the top, nor even the category of fates that awaited me if I failed in my mission.

The room into which I stepped was completely dark but had the open stillness that suggested great size. I risked using the headlamp again but kept the beam pointed toward the ground on the lowest setting.

Whoa . . .

There was a full tree in there. Alive. The back wall was covered in shelving. At its base was a row of arched brick nooks that looked like they had been erected around the same time as the mechanical lift. Each was sealed with a gate, but not, it seemed, to keep people from stealing the objects inside. It seemed more like it was a prison—keeping the objects in. The arch at the very center was covered by a folding screen, as if whatever was in there was especially important, and I stepped toward it slowly, moving around the tree in a wide arc. I felt the talisman around my neck, just to make sure I hadn’t accidentally dropped it on the climb.

The screen had a peaceful scene, some kind of Asian design. A little bird sat on a branch sprouting tiny pink blossoms. I moved it out of the way with the barrel of my gun. I raised my lamp. The beam illuminated a skull. But it wasn’t a skeleton. It was a chair. A bone chair. It was locked behind the gate and chained crosswise. Tarnished copper hands held it to the floor as if the chains were lassos and the chair a bucking bronco. I stared into the hollow sockets of the single skull in the back, nestled between the undulating rows of vertebrae. Human vertebrae. The empty sockets stared right back. The eeriness of it captivated me for a moment. I felt like I was being hypnotized. But I didn’t realize my muscles were slowly relaxing until I had stooped enough to cause the heavy weight of my backpack to shift. I snapped to attention, stood straight, and removed the baby sledgehammer from the side strap. The tall windows were covered in all manner of arcane symbols. I stepped to the closest and raised my hand.

A voice resounded through the darkness like the hum of a didgeridoo.

Have you come to kill me?

I spun and drew my gun raised as the lights rose slowly, soft and warm—an entire wall of glowing panels behind the barren shelves. The baby sledge hit the ground as Etude Étranger appeared from the shadows wearing the craziest outfit I have ever seen. His face was covered in a wooden tribal mask, similar to what I’d seen on the walls at Dr. Caldwell’s, but unpainted and in a different style, as if from a different continent. Draped over his shoulders was a brightly feathered garment, like a heavy parka. He grasped a drum in one hand. His other was clenched into a fist, which he threw toward the floor before I could set my feet. The room shook violently and I stumbled.

Earthquake!

In New York??

The building rocked back to the tune of the drum, and I was jostled about. My feet shuffled on the heavy carpet as I tried to keep my balance. My hand clenched—it was automatic, a subconscious desire to hold on to something steady—and I pulled the trigger. But I wasn’t aiming and the shot went wide. It pierced one of the large windows behind the chef. His arm went up and the room dropped four feet, just like in the apartment with the witch doctor, and I fell to my ass. My gun bounced free from my gloves. I looked at it several feet away. I looked to my adversary, who had turned to face the window. With his back turned, I looked about frantically for anything I could use as a weapon. There was no shortage of objects in that place. I figured one of them had to be good for something.

I was about to get up when I realized nothing in the room had been disturbed. None of the artifacts in the glass cases had fallen. The leaves of the tree were silent. The half-finished glass of water on the counter was as still as ice. And yet, I had definitely felt the room shaking barely a moment before. It wasn’t me that shook. I knew that. Nothing had gripped me. I had been free to move and had even stutter-stepped back and forth as I tried to keep my balance. And yet, in that vast room, I was all that had tumbled.

The chef lifted his mask halfway off his head and shuffled to the tinted glass to peer through the tiny hole there. He had plush house slippers on his feet, as if he’d just retired for his evening pipe. He didn’t seem aware of me in the least, which gave me time to dig in my bag for the splintered wand. I thrust it toward him and one of the sinks in the circular counter behind me exploded in hot water. My hand seized and I dropped it, holding up the talisman instead, hoping whatever magic it contained was enough to keep his spells at bay while I attempted a retreat.

So, he said with his back to me. His voice was soft and resigned. It has come.

He set his drum on the floor, pulled off his mask, and touched the hole in the glass with the tip of one finger. Somehow, I could still hear the faint drum beat, like a whisper, calling to me. Or maybe it was just my heart, which pounded in my chest. My skin felt cold. For a moment I thought it was shock, but then I saw my breath billow from my mouth. The room had suddenly chilled.

Nonononono.

I was only halfway to my feet and scrambled back like a crab until my back hit the gate that held the chair. I saw the glass of water. It was no longer as still as ice. It was ice. I tried quickly to shake the vision from my head, but it was too late. The pain pinched my temple. I squinted. It felt like something was trying to squirm out of my forehead. I groaned. I couldn’t help it.

To my left, where the stacked-stone doors had stood, there was now a line of birch trees, the entrance to a thick grove. The tangled branches were capped in snow, which also covered the ground. I was sitting in it. The chef was standing in it up to his ankles. It seemed then as if he and I and the big tree and few random furnishings from his sanctum had been suddenly transported to the wilds of Alaska. I could see mountains in the deep distance, little more than a gray paper-tear at the horizon. I heard the wasps then, before I even saw them. A faint but insistent hum, somewhere between a buzz and a rattle, rose from the shadows of the grove. There were thousands, maybe more, infesting the trees. I saw paper nests in the branches and winged insects crawling from holes they’d burrowed in the trunks. Green leaves were falling to the snow, one every few moments, as if bitten cleanly at the stem.

To my right was a long, sloping embankment that ended at a distant rise. Perched at the top of it, so far away that I could’ve blocked the sight of him with half my thumb, was the giant wolf. His tail was up and one paw was raised, as if he had stopped in mid-flight to see if he were being followed. I could see the trail of footprints in the snow from where he’d dashed from the grove and up the shallow slope, where he stood watching me.

He calls to you, the chef said, his house slippers hidden under a drift. The bright colors of his parka seemed to glow against the pale bleakness of the snow, and I realized the sun was at the horizon, bright but still partially obscured by clouds. I had no idea whether it was dawn or dusk.

You can see it? I asked.

Of course, he said, turning to me. My eyes have been opened, as yours must be.

I heard the rustle of the wasps in the trees. More leaves fell. I looked back to the wolf. It was waiting.

The chef took a few steps through the snow in his slippers. I heard it crunch under his feet. He lifted the heavy parka over his head. The bright feathers rustled loudly and he dropped it to the ground. I could see his breath. And my own.

He calls to you, he said again. Why do you not answer?

I felt warmth behind me which quickly turned to heat. And not the pleasant kind. It was searing. I turned and scrambled away in fright through slushy, melting snow. Before me was a horizon of fire, mirrored above and below, as if one burning lake hung inverted over another. Something was in the gap beyond it. Something . . . terrible. Not terrible like the acts of a serial killer. Terrible like the voice that drives him to it.

And then it was over. The visions of fire and ice canceled each other. The distant drum stopped, and again I was on the heavy woven carpet of the chef’s sanctum. A green leaf fell. A real one. It broke free from the big tree and landed on the floor several feet from me. It was weak and wilted like three-day-old lettuce.

Man, when lit, there was so much to see in that place. I was facing the chair. I saw where the chains that ran through the metal loops in the stone slab glowed a faint red, as if the chair had been rocking back and forth with such speed and friction that the metal had heated like an oven coil.

I looked at the yellowed bones studded with irregular, handmade nails. What is it? I asked

What does it look like? he replied whimsically, as if amused.

It . . . well, like a throne.

It was awful. And magnificent.

And so it is. That is the throne of Bolochai, also known as Amaimon, prince of devils. Say the name.

Bolochai, I answered without thought. I turned to him. Am I supposed to know who that is?

He had moved behind the circular counter. His feathered parka was on the floor. I had been staring at the chair long enough that he’d wiped up most of the water from the exploded sink. I saw the wet kitchen towel crumpled on the counter top. He was grinding fresh spices with a mortar and pestle. I could smell them. Like the earth. He didn’t look up. Fucker was so calm. Like we hadn’t just been trying to kill each other moments before.

No, he said. But I wanted him to hear you say that. He turned to the chair. He is very arrogant. Hence the throne.

The chef dumped the powdered spice into a stainless-steel bowl as I rose on shaky legs and stood, perfectly still, like I was standing on a land mine. He sprinkled multicolored peppercorns into the ceramic mortar. They clinked as they fell.

The chains that hold the chair, he explained as he worked, are bolted to the ground in six places, which form the hexagram. Two chains, each forming a triangle, facing each other. One to summon and one to bind.

I thought about my meager battle with the carrion ghoul. How did you manage that?

I didn’t.

I stepped to the gate. It almost felt electrified. I could feel the heat coming off the chains, which were dark but still smoking hot.

In the sixteenth century, Amaimon took the niece of the king of Poland, a spoiled girl with a wicked heart. She was easy prey, and well-placed to cause mischief. For decades, he lived in her castle slaughtering her maids and bathing in their blood, or drinking it outright.

The Bathory legend.

You’ve heard of it?

It was popular with some girls at my school.

He frowned like he had never considered such a thing. "That’s unfortunate. There was unimaginable depravity. The draining of children until their eyes were hollow and their hearts stopped beating in their chests. Amaimon preferred a warm bath."

He mixed the freshly ground pepper with some cut mushrooms and lit a second burner. I hadn’t seen mushrooms like that before, dark and shriveled, almost like prunes.

"The High Arcane ordered the king to remove the demon, but inside his keep, Amaimon was too powerful. He needed to be lured away under his own will.

History records that the Polish saint Stanislaus Kostka, whose father was Lord Zakroczym, senator under the king, died at the age of 18 in a monastery in Italy. He was canonized merely for being a pious youth. A bit odd, don’t you think? He glanced to me for the briefest of moments before turning to his work.

I shrugged.

In truth, Saint Kostka’s death was faked and he was inducted into a secret order established by The Masters to battle occult forces set loose by overzealous Protestant Reformers—who often failed to realize that gold-crusted altars were more than simple ostentation. In 1607, after a long career, Kostka led a team of warrior-monks onto a lower plane, what you might call a hell, and stole Amaimon’s throne. Kostka himself died in the raid. The remaining paladins used the stolen throne and a young nun—exceptionally beautiful, of course, and a holy virgin—to lure the narcissistic demon from his keep. But the paladins were wise. They set themselves as a diversion only. They knew the demon would not expect an attack at the hands of the young girl. And it was she who rose up when his back was turned. With training and courage and faith, she struck the heart of the devil and imprisoned him, sacrificing herself to lock him in his own chair, in the bones of the innocents he had slaughtered.

I looked at it again. I swear it looked back. Right at me. To my soul. It was watching us. It almost seemed pleased. I think it liked being talked about. I glanced between them, the demon and the sorcerer.

Why keep it?

He is sometimes useful. He shows me things, things that cannot be seen any other way. I let him on a leash and he retrieves them. Like a dog.

You’re antagonizing him.

Impossible. Demons are always angry. It is their defining characteristic. A demon is a sentient malevolence, born of cataclysm. He added a bowl of stock to his cooking mixture and then dry rice, a little at a time. Every few moments he would stir. He was so patient. But my use of the chair comes at great cost. Demons are ancient and powerful. A single misstep would free him. After centuries of confinement at the hands of those he refused to serve, I cannot imagine the suffering he would wreak in recompense.

Couldn’t you just trap him again?

The chef kept stirring, slowly, and he kept a steady voice. A demon is far more powerful than any mortal.

Then how—

A miracle, he said, anticipating my question. An impossible feat. Only a saint can perform a miracle, like the young nun whose thankless sacrifice history has not even bothered to record. Someone with proper training in the rites. Someone whose heart is armored by love—in her case faith, which is love of the divine. Someone ready to sacrifice themselves without hesitation, as she did, in order that people she’d never met and who would never know her name might be free from evil. The chef held up his tattooed hand with all five fingers spread. He lowered them one at a time as he spoke. Knowledge. Love. Courage. Wisdom. And above all, Compassion. These are the characteristics of the saint, who alone accomplishes the miraculous—overthrowing empires without shedding a drop of blood, or ascending to the moon to bring pieces of it back again.

I stood close to the counter and watched him work. He was so calm. So patient. I almost choked on my words.

You’re not the Lord of Shadows, I said softly.

He laughed, if you could call it that. He sounded like an asthmatic hyena. His broad smile stretched his odd-colored skin.

Is that what you were told? Of course. For each characteristic of the saint, there is an opposite, of which the Lord of Shadows is master. The opposite of courage is not timidity but false righteousness, just as the opposite of knowledge is not falsehood but—

Deception, I said, lowering my head.

Two more leaves fell. They were coming faster now.

Do not blame yourself. He has become quite powerful. He glanced to the window. More powerful than either of us, it seems.

He poured liquid from a bowl into a pot on a burner. The two of us were quiet a long time.

I didn’t know what to say.

He stirred the liquid and added whitish-brown grains—rice or maybe pasta. I sat down on the stool. There was a metal disk, like a manhole cover, in the floor of the circular work area. It was half-covered in fallen leaves. I’m certain it opened to the big hearth in the kitchen of the restaurant. If he stoked a bonfire below, the tips of it would just reach that opening. I looked up at the stained-glass dome in the ceiling directly above it. The segments around the circle, like the divisions of an astrological calendar, depicted seemingly mythological scenes—scenes I didn’t recognize.

Fire below. Heavens above. Mirrored glass facing out to the world, covered in powerful wards. Books to the rear, holding knowledge, holding down the chair. If you sat on it, the inward-facing mirror at the front would be completely obscured by the trunk of the tree, which was in the center of everything. Stone doors to the east. Secret door to the west. I was inside a veritable magico-spiritual fortress.

"Most servants of the dark believe that it is superior. That is why they seek it. But their leaders know the truth: Darkness is nothing. It is no-thing, merely the absence of a thing, the absence of light, and just as vulnerable. It takes only one powerful act to expel even a long-creeping evil. The seekers of the dark have tried, many times they’ve tried, to cover this world in their shroud. And each time a saint has stood to oppose them, often defeating them with the simplest of kindnesses. Unfortunately, it seems they have at last learned from past mistakes. This time they did not precipitate a battle. This time they prepared the way. In secret. I believe it is their hope that without a saint to