The Book of Lazarus

By Steve Kuehn

A terrible curse has robbed Dallas Drake of his memories. He recalled being a painter, possessed some skill with sorcery; even recollected his time in the American Civil War—an officer assigned the grim duty of returning zombies to Hell and bringing peace to the dead. But when Judgement Day arrived, he’d forgotten the sacred texts and could not recall how to save mankind from damnation.
Christ had returned to earth and a great darkness covered the land. Preparing for his Father’s divine return, the son of God searched out the last copy of the Book of Lazarus, the cursed and forgotten book of the Bible. For Lazarus had been dead four days and had witnessed many things. Lazarus knew the truth about God.
Dallas Drake and the Seven Pilgrims must travel the Paths of the Dead. For mankind needs an antichrist to stand against the Lord of Heaven and Hell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665574235

Steve Kuehn

Steve Kuehn is the author of numerous science fiction novels. Born in St. Louis, Missouri in 1970, he has travelled much of the United States and the world, making his present home deep in the heart of Texas. Over the years he has worked as a writer, editor, executive chef, fitness trainer, artist, college tutor, disc jockey and farm hand. He doesn’t own a TV, but has a couple of good dogs and a refrigerator full of beer.

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© 2022 Steve Kuehn. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/21/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-7422-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-7423-5 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.

CONTENTS

The Lovers

1     Farrar

2     The Paths of the Dead

3     The Wind of Fortune

4     Athena

Michael Harvester: A Child has Arrived

5     Memories of Magic

6     The Holy Ghost

7     The Princes of the Dawn

Michael harvester: The Human Soul

8     She-Life-in-Death

9     The Talisman

10   Iron and Silver

Michael Harvester: The Christ

11   Hell Awaits

12   Saint Lazarus

13   Durango Dog

Michael Harvester: Blood Sacrifice

14   The Words of Lazarus

15   The Black Castle

16   The Iron Horse

17   The Quick and The Dead

18   The Seventh Seal

19   The Door Between Day and Night

Michael Harvester: Abaroth

20   The River of Kalb

21   Of Angels and Fire

22   The Mark of the Beast

23   The Tombs of the Damned

24   Abaroth

God is Dead: An Epilogue

For

Angie Prieto

Two Pisces racing upstream,

Forever and ever it seems.

From the River Styx to the Apocalypse,

Trapped in this waking dream.

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THE LOVERS

Humanity turned its back on the Lord and scattered themselves to all corners of the Earth. In time, the people transformed Chaos into Peace, harnessed Fire for its Light. And finally, gazing inward, Humanity gave birth to the Leviathan. Such audacity, Humanity believing it could wield such power. Terrible was the Lord’s wrath. Furious with jealousy he returned to earth.

-The Book of Lazarus

Chapter 4 verse 35

Southeastern Colorado

March 21, 1852

T hey were on their own.

Dallas Drake prodded cold ashes with a booted toe before scooping them, hand trembling, into a small cloth sack. He didn’t know why he needed the ashes. Perhaps it was intuition, or a memory forgotten—the same clairvoyance had sent him and his betrothed fleeing into the mountains three days earlier.

He scanned the gloomy snow-covered slope finding no movement among the trees and rocks, but with his mind he sensed Captain Samael and his Federal agents closing in from the mountain pass above. Too close, they were closing in.

Purple dawn spread above the woodlands to the east. While snow had fallen in the night, covering their tracks, those Federal mind-trackers could still locate them if they weren’t careful. Drake hurried to the old cabin, pushed open the broken door and roused Seven from her sleep.

We have to get moving.

She woke in an instant, clutching the crucifix strung about her neck. Are they...?

"Not yet. But I sensed them up in the pass. Half dozen Feds, the captain. And the Mother."

Seven scrambled to her feet, shedding straw. She sensed them, too. A Moonchild, she sensed most things—including the absence of the book.

"Where is...?

I burned it.

I hadn’t read past…

Damn that book, he cursed. It’s done enough damage.

Frightened, they hurried down the mountain’s eastern slope. Indian territory spread as far as eyes could stare, and while last fall’s Fort Laramie Treaty had produced a great deal of fanfare, this was still Arapaho and Cheyenne land, and a treaty was just a piece of paper. Drake carried three pistols stolen from the fort armory and kept them looped through a bandolier across his chest. The troubling question—what are three shots against Federal Marshals and Indian warriors?

The sky brightened to tombstone gray, leaving Drake to wonder what God thought of their plight.

Past a row of snow-covered cairns, Seven broke the chilly silence. The Mother is wroth, she whispered. I can sense her anger even through the mountains.

The Mother is always angry. If nothing else, our escape has bought the fort and the other children a few days of respite. He looked about in disgust. All this shit over a Holy book. Perhaps they’ll all get themselves killed in an avalanche.

Seven stopped, stared at him, eyes large with fright. "Dallas, I sense murder in her heart."

Dallas turned. "Murder? No. I can understand hate. She may have developed rage over our disappearance. But murder? The Mother is not that … possessed."

Seven shook her head. No. I sense her intent to kill us. She must be close at hand for me to distinguish between mere anger and these …these dark intentions. Not possessed, she corrected, "but possessive. We belong to the Mother."

We do not belong to her. Or anyone, for that matter. Not anymore.

Murder? For borrowing a Holy book and reading it? Granted, the fort’s library remained forbidden, so it hadn’t been honestly borrowed. And forgiveness? Drake never sensed anything but contempt from his federal guardians, but never had he suspected they’d want to kill him or any of the other children.

Seven pocketed the hard cheese she’d been nibbling these three days. Wrapping a wool shawl about her dark hair, they started downhill again towards the Arkansas River, and God willing, Kansas.

By midmorning, sunlight dazzled the snow and looming mountains. Kansas continued as a mysterious rectangle memorized from a map tacked up on a schoolroom wall. Seven clung to his hand. Drake did not want her to sense his own fear. But, alas, there was no hiding emotions from a Moonchild. Born of blood and water, she knew the fear in his heart and squeezed his fingers tight.

What did we read in that book that instigated such a panic among the chaplains?

I already told you. And I will never repeat it again. You heard the Mother, any who possess such knowledge are marked.

The same answer. Remind me. No harm. Not even Captain Samael can get inside your head and see what you really know and feel, he told her. Not when you are coffin-minded.

You are so forgetful lately. Remember, they promised to summon someone who could break me, and open my mind.

Drake recalled something to that effect. Captain Samael was a monster.

All students read the Old and New Testaments, but it was the Book of Lazarus the Mother had caught them reading. Her reaction had been as alarming as the words written within the tome. So alarming, in fact, they had fled the confrontation, the forbidden library and hid.

The ensuing calamity had been frightening, driving the young lovers to flee with little more than the clothes on their backs. Three days later, feeling the sun upon their faces, the sense of freedom was worth the risk. Even if they died in the wild, they would die free and with one another. They sure as hell weren’t going back.

Upon waking that morning, Drake had left the abandoned cabin in search of berries along the south-facing rocks and stumbled across an improbable cluster of bright winter violets. He picked the flowers and made a bridal wreath before building a small, desperate fire to burn the stolen book. Now, he halted there on the slope, turned and gave her the wreath. He just wanted to see her joy and surprise.

Soon, I will make you a true bridal wreath.

"This is a true bridal wreath! she gasped. This is!"

She threw her arms around him and held him close.

If you say so, he said hopefully. I love you.

I love you, too. We can be married at the next town.

We will.

And they fled quickly down the mountain.

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They are on horseback, Seven spoke suddenly.

I’m sure they are. I would have liked to steal a pair of horses for ourselves, but no way of getting in and out of the stables without getting caught.

Late winter in Colorado, her hand felt understandably cold, but the dread filling her voice chilled Drake’s heart. I’m only saying this because they are drawing closer every hour. We may need to hide before they are upon us.

Heart throbbing, he stopped, eyes darting across the pine-laden hills below.

We cannot hide here, she insisted. We must use the forest for cover. All forests are haunted, you know. We can use the forest’s energy to mask our location. Sounding less certain, she added, "The Mother’s anger, the searching minds of the agents … they keep fading in and out, like music carried on the wind. I think they … or something is hiding their minds from us."

Drake’s stared upward. He not so much saw it but sensed a dark shadow circling Mount Sneffel’s ridged peak—a distant flap of wings and it vanished. Whatever it was, it was large. Too large. No eagle or a red-tailed hawk. Something was following them. Drake felt its chilling gaze upon him, then that too vanished.

Heart’s racing, they pounded down the snowy slope towards a stand of pine trees. Seven fell once as they rounded an enormous rock outcropping and Drake had to calm himself after yanking her back to her feet. Panting, they leaned back against the outcropping.

That thing in the sky, she gasped after a moment. "It’s smothering my mind. I cannot sense anything or anyone, now. Not even you standing here. That’s why the Mother and the Captain keep vanishing from the Leviathan."

Drake remained coffin-minded, locked tight against intrusion. They both had been careful to hide their minds, but now it seemed the enemy was too close. While their thoughts remained hidden, their location did not.

I’m not even reaching out, he said. Once at that abandoned prospector shanty, I reached out into the Leviathan and felt someone brush my mind. Just a cold touch and they were gone. But before I slammed my mind shut, I sensed their delight at having found me.

Seven gaped at him in horror.

Oh no, she whimpered. You didn’t tell me. The forest. We can rouse some spirits. Maybe even convince one or two to give us cover for a short while.

Startled, Drake drew a pistol and rounded on an approaching figure.

Just a farm dog hurrying up the slope to greet them.

A settlement must be close by. Possibly they could find help. They’d been held against their will since early childhood. Taken from their parents. Tormented. Especially the girl. These people, whoever they were, would surely help.

The small dog stopped a few feet away, tail wagging.

Where did you come from?

A smile creased Seven’s tired face. First one Drake had seen in weeks. He’s a farm dog for certain. And friendly.

Take us to your home, Drake tried.

The dog, a brown short-hair, sniffed Drake’s hand, licked his fingers.

Well, that’s hopeful.

Seven peeked around the rock outcrop. Hurry. They are closing in. They sense us. I can feel the Mother’s perverse glee.

The sun appeared, painting the snow with dazzling innocence. Spring’s first pattering of melting snow sounded from the trees. Tiny birds darted overhead.

Drake felt a sudden fear. They both did. A sense of impending death assailed them as an unseen evil drew near.

Seven clutched her crucifix, the bridal wreath vivid atop her head. God help us.

The dog darted ahead frantically glancing backwards, leading them towards a stand of ponderosa pines.

Drake pulled Seven along. It will be dark in those trees, he promised. We will be able to see the valley and the slope from there. I’d like to think I smell woodsmoke, too. A campfire, at least.

Seven squeezed his hand in alarm.

I feel waves in the Leviathan. Something powerful is upon us, she gasped. Drake felt the psychic chaos. Within the Leviathan, a human mind typically appears as a well, or a swirling drain spout—some deeper than others. But this presence was a raging whirlpool. A deep, dark one.

The farm dog spun suddenly, looked past them, barking in terror.

Drake rounded and spotted their pursuers strung across the slope. Captain Samael and his mounted agents closing in at a canter, raised pistols gleaming in the sun. The Mother, as well, both horse and coat black against the snow.

The Captain smiled beneath the brim of his white hat.

Hello, Dallas Drake, he called, voice cheerful as a freshly sharpened knife. I sincerely must ask, where is it that you are headed? This is not part of the arrangement we made with your beloved parents. Not at all.

Drake faced the Captain. Two of the agents, anonymous masks gleaming, circled around to head off any escape. Our parents are dead, he told Samael. You killed them. The Leviathan does not lie.

Captain Samael smiled, perhaps recalling their parent’s deaths and enjoying the memory. Search out all you want. Your powers are not nearly strong enough to reach your family. Besides, your magic is fading with age. Eyes cold as winter, he leveled his pistol towards the teenagers. These mountains absorb what magic remains within you, you see. It’s the iron ore, I’m afraid. It keeps you corrupted types in line. Keeps you free from sin.

You lie.

Oh, these two are full of themselves. The Mother rode up, scowling down her knife-like nose. "Full of secrets, these too. Do not hesitate to … punish them."

Seven stepped forward, alarming Drake. I have sinned, she said, small voice somehow ringing off the mountains. Mother flinched, backed her horse quickly away. Drake protested but Seven continued. I understand my sin and accept my punishment. Just spare Dallas Drake. He believes in his heart that his actions have been just.

Seven, he implored. "These people can go to hell. Don’t plead for forgiveness. Don’t grant them anything."

Samael continued impassively. You are both to be married. Not to one another, but according to the wishes of your parents, he lied. They were good as dead.

The book! The Mother screeched impatiently. "Where is this forbidden thing you took from us? Where? Where?"

Drake rounded on the Mother, one hand unconsciously pressing the cold lump of ashes in his coat pocket. Reading is no sin, he asserted. Why do you keep so many secrets?

The Mother hissed.

Captain Samael tilted his head back, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. I fear they have burned the book, he said, waving a dismissive hand. It is of no concern. I can extract the information from their minds at my leisure. He trotted forward, raising his pistol towards Seven. Alive or dead.

Drake shot Captain Samael.

The lead ball tore out the officer’s throat and spun him violently from the saddle. Bright blood pumped across the snow. The farm dog barked. More gunshots exploded off the mountains as the agents scrambled. Drake’s second pistol misfired. Hurling it away, he faced the attack. The third pistol caught on his bandolier as a ball screamed past his face. Finally he took aim….

Seven was shot.

The shot passed beneath Drake’s protective arm, crushed her chest, the impact hurling her away from him.

A masked agent loomed on horseback, white smoke gushing from the barrel of his pistol. Drake barely felt the kick of his own gun as the agent’s face disintegrated in an explosion of bone and white mask. He tossed the spent gun away.

Seven!

Kill him! the Mother screamed in terror.

Another agent road in from the left and shot Dallas Drake behind the left shoulder before turning his skittish horse and darting.

The shot drove Drake to his knees. Fucking craven ass, he sputtered, picked up one of the spent pistols and hurled in the direction of the fleeing agent. Shoot a man in the back, he managed, but the throwing motion had delivered the first jolt of pain from the deeply embedded ball. Dratted bootlicker…

It was over.

Dallas Drake scooped Seven into his numb arms, clutched her close in the reddening snow. Cold and limp, she whimpered.

I love you.

I’m sorry, Drake wept. I shouldn’t have brought you here.

Ghostly faint, No. It’s my fault.

"No. Don’t say that. Its these … bootlickers fault. They did this to you."

The Mother, satisfied the danger had passed, rode in just close enough to smile down at the wounded children. Gloating, the agent next to her frantically ramrodded another load into his pistol.

You could have had the comforts of home. You could have had God’s salvation, she scorned. Today, you will have none of that, I promise you. Judgement is upon you.

Drake stared into those wicked eyes. If I had another pistol… he promised.

The Mother paled, backed her steed quickly away.

Do not be mad, Seven begged him quietly. Not now. Not in the end. Just hold me.

Blood oozed into his ruined long, making breathing almost impossible. Overhead, the Paths of the Dead opened, and the Leviathan throbbed. White, inexplicable stars burned in the blue midday firmament. Seven grew still in his arms.

Drake did not know how much time had passed. A minute? An hour? The agents had spread out on the hill. Drake felt warmth on his face. A moment passed before realizing it was the farm dog licking his face, wiping away tears.

Drake patted the dog’s head.

Hey friend. I’m sorry you had to see this … but I’m glad you are here at the end. Now, go before you get hurt. These people are evil.

Thunder shook the mountainside. The sun beamed bright as ever, and from the sky a creature plummeted like a stone, catching itself on dazzling silver wings before lowering itself majestically to the snowy slope.

It strode straight for Dallas Drake.

A seraph, surely. Tall, angelic, and clad in sun-dazzled armor of white gold. Dreadfully handsome, graceful wings folding behind him, an almost imbecilic smile curved his red lips. Great power shook the Leviathan. This is the whirlpool they had felt earlier.

Odd, Drake thought angels couldn’t abide sunlight.

Help us, Drake implored it, Help us, please…

The creature only looked away.

Have they the book? the seraph demanded.

Mother stuttered. "I-I don’t know.

Captain Samael, an unmoving bloody heap, said nothing.

The creature stared through them, it’s angry voice rumbling thunder. "No. They have burned it. And they have read the forbidden passages. How is that they can read?"

The Mother wept. "It’s not my fault. The corruption was already upon them when the Captain brought them to me."

"And they escaped."

Bitter and hostile, the seraph’s wings raised, spread spectacularly as the creature reached for a sword belted at his waist. Thunder rumbled as the blade cleared its scabbard—merciless flames churned from the black blade. With burning eyes, it advanced on Drake and Seven.

She lives, it stated. But only barely.

Numb and dying, Drake could only watch as the seraph drove the flaming sword into Seven’s limp form.

No!

Her crucifix flew, sizzled atop the snow a moment before sinking. The smell of violets and heartbreak filled Drake’s nose.

Devine sorcery blew his mind open. He clutched his soul before it could be torn from him.

The thing leaned in, smelling of sulfur, cold stars gleaming in the depths of its eyes. Drake felt its cold, fury searching his mind. Where is your magic, boy? the seraph demanded. What have you done with it? How could you have hidden your memories so thoroughly?

He is coffin-minded, the Mother screeched. Always secrets with that one. Always…

Shut up, cow, the seraph barked. "Somehow, he has expunged his memory. No one denies me! No one keeps their secrets from me! No one!" it thundered.

The creature straightened, raised its flaming sword.

Far away, through the miles of shock and despair, a great many pistol shots ricocheted around the mountainside. Eyes round with distress, the seraph slammed his sword back into its scabbard and spun away. White lights burned the sky above Drake as the Paths of the Dead swelled. Mother toppled bloody from her saddle. The agent next to her rounded his horse, but an unseen attacker gunned him down. Another masked agent wailed in its insect-like voice, clutching a bleeding knee before three more shots hammered the life out of him.

The seraph spun itself into a silver blur of wings and armor and vanished.

Where it had stood, a lone man approached. Black garbed, clutching a strange pistol in each hand. Enigmatic white light surrounded him, a ghost in a battered leather jacket not unlike Drake’s own. Drake felt disappointment as the stranger dropped to a knee before Seven. Too little, too late. Not a hero; not even a priest. Graying stubble dotted his grim jaw. Holstering a gun, the stranger put a hand gently on Seven’s neck. Where shadows dwelled beneath the brim of his black hat, Drake saw sadness. Was he family?

I’m so sorry, the stranger said in a cigar-rough voice. But I cannot undo this. She is gone. While death is not beyond me … I’m afraid life is.

A strange, sad thing to say.

Drake felt the strangers deep blue stare on him, and suddenly his soul was being pulled from him again. Inevitable. The Paths of the Dead stood open—the mystic white glow surrounded them, but Drake did not go to the Light. He felt a sense of crossing an impossible distance at terrifying speed, yet the world did not move.

Drake gasped. What is happening?

The stranger gave his shoulder a friendly grip. I’m not entirely sure. I believe what we are experiencing is some sort of … a paradox.

A great crash of thunder echoed across the mountains as the Paths of the Dead slammed shut. Paradox. I know that word. But Dallas Drake was not there anymore.

Not then, anyway.

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1

FARRAR

Northern California

February 28, 1885

H e had taken to calling himself Mr. Farrar—or just Farrar, as leaving off the honorific sounded more befitting of a modern painter from Chicago. Or so he believed. A borrowed horse bore him south from San Jose, through the towering Redwood Forest towards San Francisco. He dressed entirely in black to ward against the forest’s hauntings. Stars dotted the black web of branches overhead, serving as his only guide. It was a pleasant enough ride, and by and by, a salient breeze crept in from the Pacific Ocean, found him within those wooded corridors and caressed his graying beard before leaving. Owls hooted. The occasional wooden cross stood next to the path, studded with a hundred or more iron nails.

Unlike many places in America, here, the magic remained wild and strong. And apparently dangerous.

He reached out into the Leviathan, finding nothing but sleeping birds and small forest animals. Eventually, a weather-battered sign indicated San Francisco lay some miles ahead, a pentagram had been carved beneath the legend. By all accounts, this must be the right place.

Sighing, he prepared for polite company, stowed his revolvers in his shoulder bag along with his paint brushes. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people—he just didn’t care for these people.

His battered silver watch placed him at nearly seven in the evening. The gala would be starting already.

A startling, large cemetery crawled into view, marking his return to civilization. Further, the black Pacific Ocean, aglitter with starlight. Fog rolled in over the waters, reaching for the cliffs below. Only obligation drove him on, and soon the mansion materialized in the night.

Farrar expected a spectacle and was not disappointed. California’s self-proclaimed elites spared no cost when entertaining themselves. The mansion, more like a castle, glowed with sunny electric lights, accompanied by a pair of grand watch fires blazing atop its crenelated roof. Wine-colored banners swirled along the road, and music followed, accompanied by aromas of the evening’s feast. Fine-dressed elites came and went beneath the castle’s columned entrance.

Avoiding the rows of gilded carriages, he directed his horse towards the stables and kitchen. A moment amongst the servants would do him good, before going inside and feigning elitism.

Kitchen doors threw bright light, boisterous urgency into the stable yard. An indignant woman screamed within, calling someone a Damn Cur! Drake felt sorry for the recipient of that moniker.

The screaming reached the back door.

A moment later Damn Cur fled the kitchen straight into Farrar’s path. An actual cur, or a dog, at least—smallish red-gold, clutching an impressive soup bone in his upturned snout. Farrar’s horse reared slightly, causing him to catch his balance. The dog turned to face his enemy, a woman in a high-necked dress, ivory and gold at her neck. The madam wielded a fireplace poker like a sword.

Come here and get what’s coming to you, she snarled.

Reluctant to drop his prize, the dog backed away, desperately seeking an escape. Low walls divided the kitchen yard from the stables, leaving him with few options.

I’m sure we can all eat well tonight, despite the absence of one soup bone, Farrar told the woman in his soothing voice.

She glared at him and shook her head. No. This time he gets the poker.

That’s a bit harsh.

She rounded. And who do you think you are?

Call me Farrar, if it pleases you. He doffed his black hat.

It did not please her. She raised the poker and advanced on the poor animal.

Terrified, the dog surrendered his dinner. Farrar dismounted with the quickness of a soldier. He seized the poker before she could strike.

"I said, that’s a bit harsh," Farrar spoke through his teeth, still clutching the poker.

The matron hissed at him. Unhand me. Who do you think you are?

I’m Farrar.

"You … damn…"

Farrar wrenched the poker from her fist and hurled it back towards the kitchen door. She glared at him.

I’ll hail the sentries.

I don’t care.

Farrar turned, picked up the frightened dog and placed the animal carefully inside a saddle bag. Big brown eyes watched gratefully as he mounted the horse. Making friends and enemies was always inevitable in social circles. Farrar disliked doing both for as long as he could remember.

At the stable a uniformed groom collected the borrowed horse. At this point Farrar had no idea how he might return to Texas. If he managed to sell a painting or two, he could afford to take the train. If not…

He stared down at the little dog walking beside him.

I’m allowed one guest this evening. But you probably don’t own a tie, do you?

The dog cocked its ears curiously and stared up at him.

Before leaving San Francisco, Farrar had chosen one of the longer neckties now in fashion. Now he retrieved an older, shorter one from his bag and shaped a respectable bow around the anxious dog’s neck.

There’s a respectable peasant dog, he said as he crouched to straighten the tie. I suppose we both will eat well tonight. Best meal all year. The dog licked his hand. What should I call you? Oh … how about Durango Dog? You like that? Of course, you do—all smiles, I see. Well, good. Let’s go.

The doorman greeted them beneath the grand entrance, nearly choking upon the introduction of his small, four-legged guest. His name is Durango. He swears the soup here is to die for.

Farrar wound a path through the wine-fueled crowd. Uniformed butlers tended long, burgundy-clothed tables heaped with food and drink. Paintings stared down from gilded frames. Marvelous works, Thomas Cole and Mary Cassett—originals, no doubt. True masters of the craft. Farrar suddenly felt like a peasant hack.

Marbled fireplaces puffed smoky pretentiousness.

Durango Dog tracked Farrar through the awful miasma of the elite.

Oswald Pacome, an ancient looking man extended a spotty hand, leaving Farrar no choice but to shake it.

Farrar.

Oh, the painter, the host burbled after a halting moment. His accent was French. Symbolism, is it? Out of Chicago, right?

Yes and yes, he lied. Farrar understood something of symbolism but had only been to Chicago once that he knew of.

On his black coat his host wore a commemorative medal from the Franco-Prussian War. Farrar thought to ask