The Mysteries of Holly Diem (Unknown Kadath Estates Book 2) (27 page)

“Pressing matters? Such as collecting limbs from
innocent schoolgirls? Sumire thought you were a friend, you know.”

“She is more than capable of defending herself,”
Elijah said, his tone worked up and arrogant. “Without the Pallid Mask, she
might have defeated me. It was a sporting venture, I assure you.”

“That’ll be a great comfort to her, I’m sure. Where
did you get that mask, anyway?”

“I told you, or I tried to. My great grandaunt
facilitated a contact with the Outer Dark, and I made a profitable exchange.”

“If you think you came out ahead, then you don’t
understand the deal,” I said, all aloof and worldly-wise. “What’s that mask do
that makes it so special, anyway?”

“It causes travelers to lose their way, though that is
one of its minor attributes,” he explained, his voice as oily as a junk bond
salesman. “Better to show than to explain, I think.”

The darkness resolved. There was no blindfold, but
rather a murky blob of shadow, the room occupied by a darkness with an
oppressive tangibility. The dark rippled like an oil spill on the surface of a
stormy ocean, and in the center, a face smiled at nothing in particular. The
face belonged to Elijah Pickman, but it was also something more and much less
than that. The face was an expressive, animate mask, and the shadow in the room
radiated out from it like light from the sun.

Then Elijah stepped out of the shadow, a candle in his
left hand, and the illusion dissipated. He smiled at me in neighborly sort of
way.

“What is this about?”

He smiled at me.

“Art.”

“What?”

“Art, Preston.”

A repeat of his dreadful smile.

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“This is my studio, Preston,” Elijah explained,
lighting a couple of the candles on a centrally located candelabra. “A
basement, I’m afraid, so there goes the view, but it is on Prospect Hill
nonetheless. A grand old house, really, two centuries old and hardly changed at
all. A glorious place to create, even if one cannot see the city from a
basement.”

“Oh. Good for you, I guess.”

“I thought perhaps I would show you some of my
etchings,” he suggested, walking across the room. “You might learn something.”

The candlelight offered a rough picture of the room. I
was secured to a chair in the center of the basement, which was itself secured
to an ancient black iron wood stove, fortunately not in service. The room
itself was not large, perhaps five meters across, and short enough that my head
would have scraped the ceiling beams, if I could have stood. Arrayed about me
in a circle were a number of easels – thirteen, by my count – each concealed by
a sheet.

“You were serious about the etchings?”

“Oh, yes.” He looked confused. “Absolutely.”

“Not much of an art lover, I’m afraid. You might want
to save them for a more appreciative audience.”

“That won’t be a problem,” he assured me. “No one ever
cares for my etchings.”

I tested my bonds again, and again found no weakness
to exploit.

“Where to begin, where to begin…hmm.
The
Principalities of the Air
?
The Bespoke Girl?
Perhaps
The
Concordance of the Fifth Assembly
?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and
then snapped his fingers. “Of course! We will start with the first in the
series. You will recognize the subject matter; though the perspective on your
neighbors might seem a little…different.”

He strode purposefully over to one of the canvases,
and lit a candle on a stand beside the easel.

“Brace yourself,” Elijah suggested kindly. “You may
close your eyes or look away, should you wish. It makes no difference.”

He tore away the covering, revealing the modestly
sized etching beneath. I looked at it for a fraction of a second, and then
recoiled, shutting my eyes and averting my gaze. My chest heaved and my stomach
turned, my muscles flexing uselessly within the ropes. The bastard was right. I
could still see the damn etching. Blame the Azure – I did.

The style recalled the later works of Francisco Goya,
and also perhaps the darker creations of Francis Bacon. The etching was a
detailed rendering of an empty, featureless room. Every panel of glass in the
windows was broken; there was no other detail.

It was my living room at the Estates.

A figure lay across the floor of the ruined room,
posed like a crime scene. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that the figure
depicted was April, but perhaps my mind simply volunteered detail in detail’s
absence. My memory of the etching is fortunately clouded, but I recall the
figure as being indistinctly feminine.

The etching somehow also featured the thing that did
not yet occupy the room, but inevitably would. It was a collection of
disjointed images and impossible geometries; it ached like a cavity and
promised atrocity.

I whimpered, and then worse. The etching was visible
until Elijah restored the cloth covering to it. I slumped in the chair, a
shuddering mess, sweat running down my face.

“I’m flattered,” Elijah Pickman said, with a mocking
bow. There was something wrong with his face. It kept slipping. “Twelve more to
go, Mr. Tauschen.”

***

A red interval. Lost time.

The sunset was dazzlingly bright from the open
basement door, reducing her to a silhouette, the light filtering gauzily
through her ephemeral skirts and long sleeves, and reflecting off the brass
handle of her scissors in a manner that caused my mouth to water, filled with
the taste of pennies.

“I told you to come home for dinner,” she said
clearly, ignoring Elijah entirely. “You are so late, Preston.”

I smiled, or I tried to smile. The cold air stung my
cracked and chipped teeth, and bloody saliva leaked freely out of the corners
of my mouth. I wondered where in the hell she got her hands on those scissors.

“How can you be so mean?” She leaned her head against
the doorframe, sounding as if she might fall asleep. “I’m really angry.”

Elijah leapt to his feet. His glasses fogged with the
labors of his breath, and his clothing clung to him, soaked with sweat.

Poor guy. It looked as if he’d had a rough day.

“The manufactured cypher,” Elijah said wonderingly. “I
have a purpose for you, as well, but not at present.”

April started, as if she had just noticed Elijah. Her
bare feet left bloody tracks, her soles injured by the long walk from the
Estates, swaying from side to side with each unsteady step.

“April?” He laughed shrilly. “Is this a game? I know
you can understand me.”

He was wrong. April was far from understanding.

It is difficult to be certain were the damage April
endured at the Institute ends, and where she herself begins. Much of her
behavior is dictated by trauma, past and ongoing, and she leads a strictly
regulated existence in order to minimize the threat to herself or others. April
exists by a set of self-imposed rules, and my primary responsibility is to see
them implemented.

The most fundamental rule of April’s existence –
outside of the sanctified and warded confines of her home, she can never be
left alone. Not for a moment, at risk of a violent episode. And chances were
she had just completed a long, deranged march to the studio from the Academy by
her lonesome, a walk that must have taken hours.

I wondered how many bodies were scattered along that
route.

“April?” Elijah took a short step back, sounding a
little warier. “Where did you get those scissors, dear?”

An excellent question. My guess?

Holly Diem.

April stumbled further into the room, dirty bare feet
against fluid-splattered tile. One hand trailed along the wall for a balance,
and every third step threatened to send her tumbling to the ground.

“Pull yourself together, girl,” Elijah commanded
imperiously. “Let’s have a conversation!”

April hissed through clenched teeth, her face mostly
hidden behind a thicket of hair. She clutched the scissors perpendicular to her
leg, the rounded metal of the handle resting against the pleats of her skirt. I
wondered if she had dressed herself.

“April,” Elijah said, taking another step back. “How
did you find us?”

April didn’t answer, entranced by the scissors in her
hand, and the impending bloodshed. Her eyes were slate blank and her sweat
beaded on her skin. She stalked Elijah like a haggard cat at the end of a long pursuit.

It must have been Holly who told her about the studio,
probably while she was providing her with a sharp object in direct contradiction
to every instruction she had been given. Holly would likely argue that she was
doing me a favor, sending a deranged April off to the rescue – but then again,
Holly was perfectly aware that I never would have put April in so much risk,
were the choice mine.

I don’t know about you, but I was getting a little
tired of witches.

“Don’t take another step, April.”

Elijah bent and rummaged through a toolbox resting
beside his press and etching equipment, coming up with an échoppe needle as
long as his forearm. A quick feint to the body, and then Elijah sprang at her, the
point of the needle aimed for her throat. April ducked, and the needle
entangled itself briefly in her hair. The scissors were a metallic blur,
puncturing him rapidly in the throat, chest, and stomach. It was over before I
could blink, in a terrifying and frenetic portion of a second.

April darted away, while Elijah’s needle clattered to
the tile. Thick as honey, blood stained April’s hands, and dripped haltingly
from the scissors. She held them out in front of her like a fencer’s rapier,
the point tracking Elijah’s right eyeball. He shifted and stumbled, grabbing at
himself distractedly, uncertain which injury vexed him the most. He wore black,
so there was no obvious blood, but the palms of his hands were red where he
touched himself.

He opened his mouth, and made a strange, interrogative
sound. He adjusted his glasses, and then repeated the gesture a moment later.

“You were such an excellent tutor.” April slumped
slowly to the ground, her voice exhausted and shrill. “I really enjoyed struggling
with my studies.”

“I see I made a mistake, taking Preston first.” Elijah
came to rest against the far wall, still on his feet, but moving stiffly and
bleeding freely. “Are you certain that you actually understand the pluperfect
tense, April? I was truly fooled, then.”

“This is sad. Where will I find a tutor as handsome as
you?” April explained dully, putting a finger to his aristocratic jaw and
regarding it solemnly, like a breeder examining a horse’s teeth. “I had such
plans.”

Elijah coughed blood onto April’s chest, and then
shook his head apologetically.

“Staunch your bleeding heart,” he suggested, reaching
behind his head with shaking hands. “I am not entirely done with your lessons,
April.”

April hopped back, tracing a strange design with the
point of the scissors in the air between them, a ward invisible to all the rest
of the world.

“Your friends have enemies,” Elijah advised, fumbling
with something behind his ears. “Some carry more weight than others. I made a
deal with Yael Kaufman’s creditor, the King in Yellow, to create an exhibition,
a series of etchings that allow it access to the Nameless City. In return, the
King in Yellow gave me a gift from the Outer Dark. The Pallid Mask has seen a
million worlds and more, but none has survived the viewing. Perhaps the
Nameless City will be the exception, unlike Roanoke? On the other hand, perhaps
not. Would you like to see the gift the King in Yellow gave me, in return for
opening the way?”

April took another step back, and shook her head
solemnly.

Elijah laughed. The knot he had been struggling with
yielded to his determined fingers and his face slipped just slightly, revealing
itself as a mask. His regal features were static and rigid, as if they belonged
to a classical sculpture.

“It works well,” he said, his voice coming from behind
his immobile lips. “It is rather uncomfortable, though. This is always…”

The mask fell away entirely into his waiting hands.
There was nothing but animate shadow beneath, and looking at it hurt. April
faced Elijah stoically, blood permeating the white tissue of her eyes and
dripping steadily from her nose. The brass scissors glowed as if scalding hot.
I was fascinated; I wanted to die.

The mask in his hands was a bone-white, hideous
approximation of a human face, sculpted in a permanent leer or grimace,
depending on the angle.

“The Pallid Mask,” Elijah said, from nowhere and
everywhere all at once. “All it cost me was my face and my shadow.” He gestured
at the aching absence, the event horizon of his empty face. “And now I have
this
.
You cannot imagine how much better it feels. Your face is a cage, April Ersten.
Allow me to free you from it.”