The Mysteries of Holly Diem (Unknown Kadath Estates Book 2) (5 page)

“I will.” He prolonged the handshake excessively.
“Give me some time, Preston.”

I got the feeling that he was moved by my confidence. I
let him enjoy our friendly little conspiracy.

***

I walked the girls home, and then took a nap while April and Yael
attended a tutoring session with Elijah, under Kim Ai’s watchful eyes. I was
still exhausted from the party, and zoned out on the couch.

It was nearly dusk when I noticed my phone blinking,
and discovered that April had left me a pair of messages. The first text
informed me that she would have dinner downstairs with Kim, which meant my
dinner was likely cup ramen, unless the girls devoured my stash during the
party. The second warned me that April would spend the night at Sumire’s, a regular
practice adopted in the last few months. I still wasn’t sure how to feel about
that, which was probably April’s intention.

I showered and shaved, taking my time in the steam and
hot water, trying to clear my throat and lungs, looking for relief from my
persistent cold. I felt moderately abandoned, and envious that April was likely
eating Kim’s excellent cooking. I fired off a terse confirmation, dried my hair
and dressed, and then headed to the roof for a breath of fresh air.

Solitude isn’t much of a commodity in the Empty
District, but the garden our neighborhood witch maintained on the rooftop might
have been the nicest place to find it. Holly visited in the early morning, to
water and fuss over roses and mites, but that was it. Sometimes I found Lovecraft
napping among the ferns and potted palms, but not this evening, which caused me
a brief and surprising fit of regret.

The wind was coming in off the water, biting and
chilly. Clouds swallowed the stars, hiding the moon behind a high-altitude halo
of refracted light. The marine layer hadn’t yet rolled in, so I could still see
the sparkling lights of the waterfront of Innsmouth, along with an unearthly
glow from within the deep waters of the bay. Banks of rain clouds hovered over
the choppy water of the open ocean, promising to hurry inland at the first
opportunity.

I watched the lights of the city for hours, until the
dark arrived fully and I started to shiver, and then decided to head back down.
I nearly collided with Elijah Pickman on the other side of the trestles of
jasmine and morning glory, among the dormant roses. He stood in front of a
drawing pad mounted on an easel, a pencil in one hand and another tucked behind
his ear, lost in concentration.

“Evening, Eli.”

He jumped and squealed girlishly, seizing his drawing
and clutching it to his chest before turning to meet me with a ferocious glare.
The anger subsided quickly, once he realized who I was, but I was surprised to
have seen it at all.

“Good evening, Mr. Tauschen,” he said meekly. “I
didn’t know you were up here.”

“Hope I didn’t surprise you,” I said gleefully,
clapping him on his narrow shoulder. “What are you working on?”

He hugged his drawing pad as if he didn’t want me to
see it.

“Sketching,” he explained hurriedly. “Ideas for a new
etching, based on the architecture of the Kadath Estates, and the Empty
District.”

“Huh. April told me you did art, so I get that much –
but how do you sketch at night?” I gestured out at the nearly universal
darkness of the Empty District. At last count, Leng Street has only four
functioning streetlamps, two of which are on our block. “Can you even see the
buildings?”

“I arrived shortly before dark.”

“And then?”

“I hold the scene in my mind’s eye, Mr. Tauschen.
Shadow is no obstacle,” he said, tapping his high forehead. “It’s a gift I
inherited from my great grandfather.”

“I suppose. How’d you get up here, anyway?”

“I finished tutoring Miss Ersten and Miss Kaufman
earlier, and thought that I might borrow the garden to draw. Miss Diem has not
objected, on previous occasions.”

“I bet.”

The kid seemed nervous, and he was sweating prolifically,
given the child of the evening. Behind his glasses, Elijah’s eyes were
bloodshot and tired, and I got the feeling that he could have used a week or
two or makeup sleep. Carter pushes these kids awfully hard, sometimes, and not
everyone is invulnerable.

“What are you doing in the garden, Mr. Tauschen?”

“Nothing in particular, Eli. Staring off into space.”

“A time honored tradition,” he said approvingly. “That
reminds me of a story…oh. I apologize. My stories annoy you; isn’t that right,
Mr. Tauschen?”

I shifted guiltily.

“No, that’s not it. You caught me in a bad mood the
other day, that’s all. Don’t take it personal.”

“I shan’t.”

His tone made it abundantly clear that Elijah had
taken it personally. April’s goofy, stuck-up tutor was angry with me. I almost
laughed in his face.

“Okay, then, Eli. Hit me with the story.”

“How generous. Not to worry, Mr. Tauschen,” Elijah
assured me coldly. “I won’t take up much of your time.”

I gave him an impatient smile.

“The story concerns an artist, from a family of
artists.” His voice was high and tense, his pronunciation exact. “From his
birth, he was destined to inherit the legacy of generations of creative output,
an artistic tradition whose founder is lost to history. Looking on the work of
his ancestors – paintings of the Underworld and the feeding of the ghouls; stained
glass windows utilizing hues unknown to this world and invisible to the human
eye; statues of such remarkable realism that they required restraints, just to
be certain.”

The boy seemed lost, staring out at the Empty District
as if the dark were no obstacle.

“The artist looked upon all this, and despaired, for
his own work was less inspired. He dreamed of being able to create something
that would honor the legacy that was his birthright, but his work fell far
short of such lofty goals. Desperate for inspiration, he turned to his studio
of the oldest parts of the city, the buildings that had survived centuries and
seen too much. He poked through their ruins and basements, climbed to the roofs
and towers, looking for something that would inspire him. He found neglected
wonders and abandoned glories. And something else – a muse, for lack of a
better word, betrayed and shackled and deliberately forgotten.”

Elijah’s voice fell, as if he feared being overheard.

“The artist learned things, in that forgotten corner
of the city, listening to his muse spin tales of the city’s distant past, and
of the worlds that lie impossibly beyond the city, above and beneath.
Eventually, he told his muse of his dream, his desire to create something
beyond compare, something that would surpass even the creations of his
ancestors. His muse was sympathetic, and she told him of something that wasn’t;
something that could be, if enough was invested in its creation. She taught him
the arts required, to draw it across worlds and out of himself, creating an
image that would become the thing it represented – the Pallid Mask. A tool
designed to help one lose their way like an inverted compass, to grant
independence to one’s shadow, and to impart the sea cucumber’s secrets of
immortality. A mask that was both more and less than the face behind it, the
face it gradually came to replace. There were lessons within it, a wealth of
occult knowledge.”

“You’re getting a little abstract, there, Elijah,” I
said jovially, jarring him from his reverie. “Not all of us have art degrees, you
know.”

“Neither of us, as it happens,” he sneered, gathering
up his materials. “I apologize for wasting your time, Mr. Tauschen.”

“You aren’t going to finish the story?”

“To your great disappointment, I’m sure, no,” Elijah
said, with a wan smile. “I’ve had a sudden burst of inspiration – thanks to our
chat, actually.” He shoved his drawing board and folding easel under his arm,
and then took my hand and shook it limply. “Thank you for your inadvertent
assistance, Mr. Tauschen. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

“I don’t really get you, Eli,” I admitted, bemused,
“but you’re welcome.”

“At some later time, Mr. Tauschen, remind me to show
you my etchings,” he said, pausing at the top of the stair with a curious
expression on his face. “It occurs to me that you might be one of the few who
would understand them.”

“Sure thing. Good night, kid.”

He went clattering down the stairwell.

Despite the cold, I decided a walk was in order, and
possibly a snack. I stopped by the apartment for a coat and gloves, and then
hit Leng Street, aiming myself in the direction of Sarnath, and a pizza place I
vaguely remembered being near the train station. There was an edge to the
night, and I was restless, my mind moving in directions that made me uneasy. I
was so worked up that I didn’t notice how long I’d been walking until my feet
ached and my ears stung from cold.

I do not get lost. That’s not a brag – my brain
automatically compiles a map of my surroundings. The Nameless City offered no
shortage of ancient, maze-like neighborhoods and unfamiliar suburbs, and
eschewed the consistent use of street signs, but I had a couple years to make
sense of it all. There is simply no way that I got lost on my way to get a
slice of a pizza.

Nonetheless.

I stopped in the middle of the vacant road, and then
turned in a slow circle, looking at the rows of duplexes and brownstones that
lined street, the stately elms that uprooted the sidewalk and obscured the sky.
I scratched my head, scanned the horizon. I squared my shoulders, took another
score of steps, and then my resolve wavered. I turned around, and attempted to
retrace my steps.

I was fairly certain I remember making a left at the
bookstore, but after that…

Three turns later, and I was forced to admit it.

I had no idea where I was, and couldn’t even find a
landmark to reorient myself.

Cursing, I threw caution to the wind, trotting down an
alley an arbitrary direction, searching for signs or familiar buildings. I
thought I was in one of the residential suburbs that adjoin Sarnath – I was
almost certain I had never crossed the river – but saw nothing I recognized.

I made a left at a Church of Dagon, doing my best to
ignore the monstrous statuary, then another left, and then went straight at the
third intersection, hopeful of bumping into the river. I hit a dead-end
instead, and doubled back – or meant to do so. I couldn’t find my way back to
the Church, or find any landmark that I recognized.

Furious, I struck out in the opposite direction, and
immediately found myself befuddled by a tangle of alleys that all seemed to
emerge at the same barren park, no matter which direction I chose.

I recall turning a corner, and seeing something that
looked like a disembodied face, leering from the shadows.

***

Concrete against my cheek, cold through the soles of my shoes. The crashing
of the lead-alloy bells of the Church of Dagon like a rhythmic car accident.

A headache roaring in my ears, my tongue thick and
swollen. Soft light from behind firmly closed eyelids. Acrid smell of burning
garbage, distinctive reek of gasoline.

A damp stickiness coated the pavement. My fingers
stuck to each other and I had to peel my face from the concrete. My clothing was
wet and heavy, and now that I was aware of it, the metallic odor overwhelming,
a coppery taste lingering at the back of my mouth. Unmistakable. Afraid to open
my eyes, I instead searched my body with my hands, looking for injury, and
found nothing.

My mind reassembled itself by pieces, singular images
without context. Each impression hung at the forefront of my brain for an
indeterminate period, to be pushed aside for the next impression.

I forced myself to open my eyes, and took in the scene
with a sense of numb, but persistent horror. I lay in a large, irregular
pooling of blood, my torso blocking the drain inset in the pavement. The blood ran
extensively from a body situated on the next square of pavement, buckled from
seismic pressure and therefore at an incline. The body was slack and stiff and
vaguely malformed. I could not see the face, but there was no need.