The Martian Falcon (Lovecraft & Fort) (5 page)

‘The question is, Mr Fort: what happened to the ninth book?’

‘The NCPE must still have it.’

‘Indeed. And why did they see fit to keep it?’

‘That’s another question.’

‘A question to which it may be worth seeking an answer, don’t you think?’

‘Mr Lovecraft…’

‘Yes, Mr Fort?’

‘Call me Charles. You’ve got yourself a job.’

CHAPTER 5
The Big Toothpick

Johnny Sanguine adjusted his black silk necktie in the mirror and smoothed his eyebrows with his tongue. He regarded the pale, lean, handsome face, the broad forehead, the finely-chiselled alabaster cheekbones, the deep brown-blackness of the almond-shaped eyes above the perfectly-proportioned nose, and smiled. His crimson lips parted to reveal glistening, pearl-white fangs.

While it was true that to human eyes, vampires cast no reflection in mirrors, vampires could see themselves perfectly clearly.

And Johnny Sanguine liked what he saw.

His tongue, long, thin and ten times more prehensile than a human tongue, inched outward again and curved back to caress his fangs; slowly running down the length of them, taking in the smooth, graceful curves and pausing at the needle-sharp points.

‘Admiring yourself again, Johnny?’ said a female voice behind him, low and sensual, like ambergris-scented smoke.

Sanguine’s smile faded slowly, tongue withdrawing, red lips closing over fangs, sheathing them once more. ‘What’s not to admire?’ he asked quietly, his eyes finding hers in the mirror.

While Sanguine’s eyes were nearly black, those of Rusty Links were almost luminous in their tawny magnificence, and the deep red of her long hair complemented them the way a sunset complements late-autumn leaves.

She joined him at the mirror, looked squarely at his reflection, and reached with her left hand to stroke the back of his head. ‘Not much.’

He gazed at her reflection for a long moment. She wore a white blouse beneath a charcoal-grey jacket and skirt and high heels. Her black silk stockings made her long legs shimmer like quicksilver.

‘What do you want, Rusty?’ said Johnny Sanguine.

‘It’s here,’ she replied.

‘The Falcon?’

‘The Falcon.’

Johnny Sanguine turned suddenly from the mirror and glided to the centre of the drawing room. When he turned to regard Rusty Links once more, the feral smile had returned to his lips. ‘Finally!’ he said.

Rusty looked around the room at the fine antique furnishings, the heavy velvet drapes flanking the windows, the crystal chandelier that hung like a thousand frozen dewdrops from the gilded ceiling rose, and said: ‘It’s going to look great in here, Johnny.’

‘More than that, sister,’ Sanguine replied, his grin growing yet wilder. ‘It’s going to get that diesel-powered bastard thrown in jail. With him out of the picture, I can expand into Chicago. Nothing can stop me. You wanna come along for the ride?’

Rusty returned his grin. ‘You know I do, Johnny.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Bring it in!’ Sanguine shouted.

The door opened, and a male vampire entered, carrying an object which had been carefully wrapped in pale chamois leather. Sanguine indicated a Regency writing table between the two tall sash windows. ‘Thanks, Carmine,’ he said. ‘Put it there.’

‘You got it, boss,’ Carmine said, and placed the object on the table. ‘You need anything else, boss?’

‘Nah. Beat it.’

Carmine nodded and left the room.

Sanguine approached the object and slowly unwrapped the chamois, revealing the statue.

The obsidian from which it had been fashioned five million years ago glinted and glistened with a strange mineral life, as if the light playing upon the folded wings and the feathered breast and the great, beaked head were sliding down to the table top instead of reflecting the way light should.

Johnny Sanguine and Rusty Links looked in silence at the Martian Falcon. The Falcon looked back at them.

‘So beautiful,’ whispered Rusty.

Sanguine ran a long-nailed finger from the top of the statue’s head, along its beak to the exquisitely-carved feathers upon the breast. ‘It almost looks alive,’ he said. ‘Look at the eyes, how they shine… like there’s something behind them.’

He leaned over and peered more closely into the Falcon’s obsidian eyes. As he did so, Rusty took a couple of slow paces back towards one of the sash windows. Without looking behind her, she placed a hand on the latch, undid it, and slowly and silently raised the window. A breeze, warm and slight, entered the drawing room.

Sanguine did not notice.

‘Have the zombies been taken care of?’ he asked, his gaze still held by the Falcon’s.

‘Yeah. They’ve been deactivated. Now they’re just dead men again. They were left in the alley behind the Algonquin, like you ordered.’

‘Good. Once that security guard from the museum recovers, he’ll be able to ID them. That’ll put Capone well and truly in the frame.’

‘It was a good plan, Johnny,’ said Rusty, her voice growing slightly deeper.

Sanguine did not notice that, either.

‘You bet your sweet ass it was, baby,’ he replied, still gazing with fascination into the eyes of the Martian Falcon.

‘Yes,’ said Rusty, as the tone of her flawless skin began to change, moving from alabaster to pink to crimson, ‘a very good plan. Nothing can stop you now.’

She raised a hand and pointed her index finger at Sanguine’s back; as she did so, the perfectly manicured nail grew until the nail varnish cracked and split and floated to the floor in red flakes.

The nail continued to grow until it was ten inches long. It had become as black as the Martian Falcon.

‘Nothing except me.’

She plunged the nail into Sanguine’s back, slightly to the left of his spine.

He gasped, pulled himself erect, turned to face her, his handsome features contorted in a spasm of fear, shock and agony. He would have screamed a curse at her, were it not for the fact that his throat was already turning to dust.

What happened next took a handful of seconds. Rusty Links closed her eyes and concentrated on the form she wished to assume. Her white blouse and dark jacket split apart beneath a surge of powerful muscles and unfolding wings; her skirt and stockings ripped open and fell to the floor as her pelvis expanded and her legs grew in length, bending with sudden new joints. Her dainty shoes burst like overfilled balloons as cruelly-taloned, three-toed feet spread upon the soft, deep carpet.

Johnny Sanguine fell to his knees and, in the final moment before his eyes turned to steam, looked into the hideous, drooling face of the foul red thing Rusty had become.

‘Sorry, Johnny,’ it said in a voice like an earthquake. ‘Someone else needs this… someone much more important than you.’

As the Vampire King of Brooklyn collapsed into a contorted heap of dust, the thing grabbed the Martian Falcon with a clawed hand, strode to the open window and squeezed itself onto the ledge outside. Then, spreading its vast bat-like wings, it took to the air and flapped away across the city.

CHAPTER 6
Crystalman

The thing that had been Rusty Links – that was
still
her – soared into the hot June sky, the muscles on its crimson back flexing and bulging with each flap of its black, membranous wings as it left the noisy streets of Brooklyn far below. It glanced once at the glinting spires of the city to the east, and then turned its course northeast across Long Island.

Flying high enough so that to anyone on the ground it would have appeared as nothing more sinister than a slightly odd-looking bird, it made its way past the towns and villages that dotted the island, past Garden City and Uniondale, Brentwood and Holbrook, out past Manorville and the Hamptons, only losing altitude at a point midway between East Hampton and Montauk.

It descended quickly towards a large estate surrounded by a high stone wall that was topped with wrought iron spikes. At the centre of the estate stood a gigantic Neo-Renaissance mansion with a three-storey tower at each corner and an elaborately turreted roofline. Modelled on Mentmore Towers in Buckinghamshire, England, which had been designed by Sir Joseph Paxton in 1852 for Baron Mayer de Rothschild, and constructed of pale ochre ashlar, this mansion was by far the largest and most impressive of all the great houses of Long Island.

Little was known about the man who owned the house, although rumours abounded concerning the source of his wealth. Some said it had come from oil, others suggested precious metals or commodities; still others opined that he was a European breakfast cereal magnate who preferred the Mediterranean to New York – hence the infrequency of his visits to his Long Island Shangri La. No one could agree on where his money had come from, but all agreed that there was plenty of it.

The one thing they did know was his name: Felix Carlton.

And about that, they were wrong.

The red, winged creature flew low over the immaculately-tended grounds surrounding the house and alighted on the flagstones of an elaborate stone portico, within which a heavy, iron-studded door stood closed and locked.

The glistening batwings folded upon the creature’s back and diminished in size, merging with the muscles, which were themselves already shrinking, returning to their former size and configuration. The skin of the beast likewise turned from hell-red to soft, smooth alabaster. When the transformation was complete, a woman, beautiful, naked and entirely human, stood before the door.

In her left hand she held the Martian Falcon. With her right, she tugged on the large wrought iron bell-pull. From the other side of the door, a tinkle sounded, faint as the bell of a ghost ship.

There was an electrical click, and the door unlocked. Rusty Links turned and smiled in the direction of the concealed camera. She knew this house well – the house and its defensive installations. She turned the handle, opened the door and stepped into a vast, empty entrance hall.

Her bare feet made no sound on the marble floor as she crossed the hall, heading for another door set in the flank of the colossal staircase that curved up and around to the minstrel’s gallery spanning the entire length of the room.

There was a heavy, lifeless silence which Rusty’s instincts told her extended throughout the house. No one was here, and the stark emptiness of the place, combined with the chill of the air made her shiver slightly.

She went quickly through the door at the base of the staircase and along a short corridor which terminated in a set of double doors, made of grey steel and shut tight. She pressed a brass button set into the wall, and the doors hissed open to reveal a featureless cubicle about ten feet square.

As she stepped across the threshold and the doors slid shut behind her, a male voice, soft and gentle, issued from a hidden loudspeaker. ‘Welcome, Rusty,’ said the voice. ‘I see you’ve brought me a gift… how very kind of you.’ The voice chuckled, and Rusty Links shivered again.

*

With a slight judder, the elevator began to descend into the bedrock beneath the house. Rusty forced herself to breathe deeply and evenly, growing more and more uncomfortable in her nakedness. For ten cents, she would have changed back into her previous form and met her host on slightly more equal terms. Reluctantly, she shrugged off the temptation, since those terms would indeed have been only
slightly
more equal; and in any event, he had told her more than once that he far preferred her human form to any other.

She should have been flattered, she supposed.

For several minutes (which to Rusty felt like several hours) the elevator continued its descent. The only sound was the faint hiss of the lowering piston on which the elevator car was mounted. She held the Martian Falcon between her breasts, gripping it tightly, as if it might offer her some protection.

You don’t need protection
, she thought.
You can handle yourself… even against him
.

And then she thought:
Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that
.

Presently, the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open.

Although she had been here several times before, Rusty still hadn’t got used to the scene which greeted her. She doubted that she ever would. She doubted that she would ever want to.

The cavern was immense. Its ceiling, dripping with stalactites, was at least two hundred feet high, its glistening, roughly-mottled walls perhaps half a mile away, almost lost in the subterranean gloom. At the centre, upon a vast circular rug whose embroidered designs made her slightly dizzy to look at, were the furnishings of an elegant drawing room: leather sofa, wing chairs, tables bearing exotic and not-quite-identifiable ornaments, and freestanding bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes. The only things missing were the walls that normally would have enclosed such a scene.

Far off to the right, a vehicle constructed of strangely-curved metal components sat upon a single rail, which wound off across the floor of the cavern before vanishing into the semicircular mouth of a tunnel in the far wall.

‘A little mood lighting,’ said the same voice that had spoken to her when she’d entered the elevator. It echoed strangely in the vast space of the cavern, so that she couldn’t decide from which direction it came. ‘Romantic, wouldn’t you say? I thought it appropriate, given your current state of undress.’ The voice gave a soft, ironic laugh.

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Crystalman,’ Rusty said in a loud voice, forcing herself to smile. She stepped away from the elevator car, which had descended on its piston through a hole in the ceiling far above.

The voice laughed again. ‘Your confidence is well-placed, of course, since I care not for physical contact with either women or men. But you might have maintained the conceit a little longer.’

‘Romance is the last thing on my mind,’ Rusty replied. ‘Especially in
this
place.’

She caught movement in one of the wing chairs, which had its back to her. A figure stood up and turned to face her. It was tall, a little over six feet, and was dressed in black trousers and a black Nehru jacket. She could not see – had never seen – its face, for it always wore a featureless mask which appeared to have been fashioned from a single piece of smoky quartz.

‘I fail to understand your aversion to my home, Rusty,’ the figure said. ‘I have told you before that these Dero caves have been abandoned for centuries… and even if the Dero tried to reclaim them, they would fail.’

‘That makes me feel a whole lot safer,’ Rusty said sarcastically.

Chuckling, Crystalman held out a black-gloved hand. ‘Come, join me. I wish to see it up close.’

‘I don’t suppose you have anything for me to wear,’ she said as she joined him on the strangely-embroidered rug.

Crystalman wordlessly gestured to the sofa, on which lay a white silk dressing gown.

‘How thoughtful,’ she said as she handed him the Martian Falcon and went to put on the gown.

‘My pleasure,’ he replied, without looking at her, his attention fixed totally upon the statue. ‘It was very kind of Mr. Sanguine to steal it for us. It saved a lot of trouble. And to think his only motive was to eliminate Mr. Capone from his tawdry little plans for Chicago. I would have expected more from a vampire.’

‘Capone’s going to be mad, that’s for sure,’ said Rusty. ‘This might even start a war…’

‘I doubt it. Capone would rather settle this quickly and quietly, which makes a change for him. He doesn’t want this affair to escalate; that’s why he’s hired some outside help.’

‘What do you mean outside help?’ asked Rusty.

‘He’s engaged the services of a private detective, a gentleman by the name of Charles Fort, to get him out of the frame for the theft.’

‘Fort… I’ve heard of him. Got a bit of a reputation, good at his job.’

Crystalman shrugged. ‘He knows a little Magick, but nothing serious. A dabbler, rather than a player.’

‘How do you know he’s involved?’

Crystalman chuckled. ‘Because it’s my business to know these things.’ He produced a small magnifying glass from an inside pocket of his jacket and began to examine the Falcon more closely. ‘Magnificent!’ he whispered.

‘Do you really think it will work?’ asked Rusty as she crossed her legs and tapped at the air with her foot.

‘Don’t you think it’s worth a try?’ he responded.

‘That statue is made of obsidian – nothing more. That’s what the report said when the NCPE analysed it.’

‘And if it isn’t… if there
is
something more to it, if the implications contained within the hieroglyphs found in the temple are even half correct, this may be the most powerful object on the face of the Earth.’

Rusty shook her head. ‘The NCPE doesn’t think so, otherwise they wouldn’t have released it to the Metropolitan Museum.’

‘They’re fools.’

‘Really? They’ve got some pretty smart guys and gals working for them.’

‘And yet
some
of them are unnerved by what the hieroglyphs say, aren’t they?’ said Crystalman, who was still passing the magnifying glass slowly over the Falcon. ‘You said as much, when you returned from your infiltration of Cabo Cañaveral.’

‘Yeah,
some
of them, and their colleagues never pass up a chance to rib them about it. If the NCPE were really concerned, they’d have taken the Falcon back from the Museum.’

‘Not much chance of that now, is there?’ Crystalman chuckled.

‘I guess not. Which reminds me: I believe my payment is due.’

‘Of course. I’d almost forgotten. Over there.’ He indicated an attaché case standing next to one of the chairs.

Rusty stood up, went to the case and picked it up. Had she been dealing with anyone else, she would have opened the case and checked that the money was all there, but she was not prepared even to risk offending Crystalman.

‘Ten thousand, as we agreed,’ he said. ‘I would offer to have one of my men drive you to wherever you wish to go, but I don’t suppose that’s necessary, is it?’

‘No, but I’ll take the dressing gown with me. I think it suits me, don’t you?’

Crystalman said nothing, merely returned his attention to the Falcon.

‘You really don’t feel anything, do you?’ said Rusty.

‘I feel many things, my dear Miss Links… but not
that
. It was something I was simply born without, like a conscience.’

Rusty grinned. ‘There speaks the world’s greatest super-criminal.’

‘You flatter me. I merely follow in the footsteps of greater men: Moriarty, Fantômas, Fu Manchu… they are the real masters. I am merely their acolyte.’

Rusty looked at the elegant furniture standing so incongruously in this strange, dank, frightening place. She wanted to get out as quickly as she could, as always… and yet, as always, something made her want to linger. In spite of the fear even she felt in the presence of Crystalman, something made it difficult to leave. What was it? Curiosity? Admiration? The desire to see what lay beneath his mask – both literally and figuratively?

‘Why do you live like this?’ she asked suddenly.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said without looking at her.

‘Here, in this godawful cave, with the Dero still running around on the lower levels, who knows how close by? This furniture belongs in that house up there. Why don’t you live there instead of down here in the rotten bowels of the Earth?’

‘You’re restless today, Rusty,’ replied Crystalman quietly. ‘Why is that?’

She said nothing.

Crystalman sighed. ‘I could live anywhere in the world, but it suits me to live here. For one thing, this little hideaway of mine is utterly impregnable; for another, it amuses me to place a few of the trappings of wealth and comfort down here, in this harsh and ugly environment. It serves to remind me of how ephemeral such things are, how fragile; and because of that fragility, how worthless.’

‘You equate fragility with worthlessness?’ said Rusty. ‘That statue you’re holding is fragile, but it’s worth a hell of a lot to you.’

‘This statue has survived for at least five million years,’ replied Crystalman. ‘It survived the downfall and destruction of the entire Martian civilisation. I wouldn’t call that fragile. It’s as permanent as the cavern in which we are standing; it has known vast spans of time. The entire history of human civilisation is but a heartbeat to it.’

‘And you think there’s a reason for that: you think it’s because of what it might contain.’

‘Why do you think the NCPE decided against releasing the key to the decipherment of the Martian hieroglyphs?’

Rusty shrugged. ‘Probably because they think that to do so would cause more trouble than it’s worth. Who knows how many crazies would come out of the woodwork, bombarding them with questions, coming up with all kinds of whacko theories about Mars and the end of the civilisation there? They don’t want that distraction.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Crystalman. ‘They’ve kept the information to themselves because they’re afraid.’

Rusty sighed and shook her head. ‘Then why give the Falcon to the Metropolitan Museum? Why not lock it up in a vault somewhere?’

‘Perhaps they don’t trust their own people to leave it alone; perhaps they thought that the museum would be the safest place for it.’