The Mysteries of Holly Diem (Unknown Kadath Estates Book 2) (3 page)

“I know. A great family tradition.”

“None of which explains why you are working at a
convenience store the day after your graduation,” I grumbled. “Shouldn’t you be
rich?”

Elijah’s face fell.

“My family has fallen on hard times, I’m afraid. I
attended Carter on scholarship, actually. Working at the convenience store
allowed me to buy books.”

Holly offered me a superior look as I winced.

“Eh. Sorry about that, Elijah. My fault. Grumpy before
coffee, you know.”

“That’s fine,” he said smoothly, not entirely
convincing me. “Where is April, by the way?”

“Asleep,” I said, shaking my head. “You wouldn’t
believe how much she sleeps.”

“That girl reminds me,” Elijah began, pausing to
invest a ridiculous amount of time and effort in clearing his throat, “of
another girl.”

“Imagine that,” I muttered.

“Shut it, Preston,” Holly said sweetly, elbowing me in
the side. “I want to hear the story.”

“This is a desert tale, from long ago.” Elijah sighed
as if he had been there, staring off into the distance with my eggs in one
hand, and the scanner in the other, flickering angular patterns of red light on
the chest of his jumpsuit. His stories always started long ago. “The girl’s
name was Dimah, for the rainclouds that annually marked the day of her birth. She
was lovely, like April, with indigo eyes that saw things that no one else could.
A timid child, whose family valued her oracular abilities, frequently called
upon to give her blessing to the caravans that crossed the desert. The Bedouin
would kneel before her in their robes and scarves, so Dimah could wet her
forefinger in her mouth, and use her saliva to trace the outline of the Yellow
Sign on both of their cheeks.”

“Gross.”

“Preston, listen quietly or wait outside.” Holly shook
her head at me. “Please continue, Mr. Pickman.”

He shot me a smug look before continuing.

“Despite her standing in the community, Dimah was
fearful, never leaving her house until nightfall; then she would dash, barefoot
and veiled, to the crossroads along the ancient highway, or to the high place
above the town, where the stones were carved with designs that had faded into
incomprehensibility centuries earlier. Some nights, she spoke to no one, and
accepted no entreaties, walking alone into the desert night, where the sands
moved without the aid of wind. Other nights would find her shivering on a
neighbor’s doorstep, ashen behind the gossamer fabric of her veil, desperate
for sanctuary from formless terrors that they dared not name.”

Personally, I’ve always wondered how the names got
around in the first place, if everyone was afraid to say them.

 “When the wind blew from the east, the whole of the
city locked their doors and barred their windows. They would sing, read aloud
from certain old books, or stuff their ears full of lamb’s wool, to block the
whistling sound that accompanied the east wind at night. That shrill whistle
would gradually resolve into words, should one listen long enough. Those who
listened too closely to the Whistler in the Dark would never been seen again,
disappearing without explanation. Dimah would cry out, sometimes, when the east
wind howled and rattled the windows, but no one had the courage to investigate.
After one such evening, when the Whistler in the Dark seemed to stalk the very
streets of the city, they discovered Dimah’s home destroyed, leveled to the
foundation, the walls reduced to splinters. The immaculate garden that
surrounded her home had been trampled by great and unnatural feet, leaving deep
circular imprints in the soil.”

Elijah stopped to scratch behind his ear, a distant
smile on his face as if he entertained by the story.

“According to the book, I read, Dimah was never seen
again,” Elijah offered cheerfully, shoving my groceries forcefully into a
tattered plastic bag. “Some children claimed that instead of the Whistler in
the Dark, when the east wind came in off the dunes, they heard Dimah’s voice,
begging them to come and find her. On occasion, the caravans who used to seek
her blessing would see her image in the distance, silhouetted by the light of
the swollen moon. Opinions varied as to whether such an occurrence was an omen
of good or ill, but it was certain that any caravan that diverted from its path
to rescue her would never find its way back home again.”

He finished bagging and shoved the results of his work
in my direction. I wondered exactly how many of my eggs he had broken.

“The Outer Dark is generous to a fault with their
gifts,” Elijah intoned, eyeing me gravelly, “And equally as committed to
collecting what is owed them. Those debts can be accrued by action, or assigned
by accident or design of birth. As, I suspect Dimah discovered for herself,
though the story is not specific as to her end.”

My hands trembled as I handed over the money. Elijah
looked as if he felt a little sorry for me.

“That is a problem with old stories in general,” Holly
agreed, oblivious to my distress. “Either there are no women in them at all, or
they disappear as soon as their service to the plot or protagonist is
completed.”

“Is that so?” Elijah sounded doubtful. “You may be
right, I suppose. Incidentally, Mr. Tauschen, your roommate April assisted me
in the translation of this story, which we believe to be the first adaptation
from the original Sumerian. Her insight was invaluable – her understanding of these
matters is unrivaled.”

The more Elijah spoke, the more questions I wanted to
ask. He had implied a dozen times what he had said, and all of it worried me.
What had April been telling him, during their closed-door tutoring sessions? I
didn’t trust myself – or Holly – enough to ask right now, but I made a mental
note to follow up later.

Holly tried to put the apple and can of green ice tea
she had selected on the counter, but Elijah waved her off with a courtly
gesture.

“Thank you, Mr. Pickman,” Holly said brightly, patting
his hand. “For the story, too.”

Elijah blushed and mumbled. As we made for the door,
he turned his attention back to the enormous old book he keeps propped behind
the register.

“I don’t get that kid,” I grumbled. “You sure he’s
okay to tutor the girls?”

“Of course!” Holly laughed. “He comes from an
excellent family. The very best sort of person.”

“Sure. If you say so.”

“I do, Preston. What’s the matter? Do you not like
Elijah?”

“No, he’s fine,” I lied. “Where did you find him in
the first place, anyway?”

“I’ve known Elijah since he was young. I sponsored his
admission to Carter,” Holly said, taking my arm. “And I know his family, as I
mentioned. Professor Dawes felt that April needed a tutor to help her with some
very advanced linguistics for one of his courses, at the very least…”

This was impossible, of course, given April’s native talent
for language, but she must have had her reasons.

“…and that Yael and even Sumire could achieve even better
results, if they received more attention in their weaker subjects than he could
provide personally.”

“Sumire’s already the valedictorian. What more do you
want?”

“I’m a demanding mistress, Preston.”

“Don’t I know it. What’s she going to do after school,
anyway?”

“I don’t think she is sure, yet, but something in the
workforce that makes use of her talents, I would imagine. I should try to help
her find something. Perhaps an internship?”

I grunted and thought it over. I frankly couldn’t
imagine Sumire as anything other than a schoolgirl.

“Preston? Do you truly dislike Elijah?”

“Not really. What does it matter?”

“The boy is a project of mine,” Holly admitted.
“Potentially. He has been living with his mother until quite recently, and
seems to have become obsessed with the study of the architecture in the
Nameless City. Strange, perhaps, but hopefully correctable.”

“The tutoring, then?”

“As much for Elijah as the girls,” Holly admitted.
“They can’t help but have an edifying effect on an eligible young man, surely?
They are all such charming young ladies.”

I shook my head.

“You’re always playing games, aren’t you?”

“Not to worry,” she said, squeezing my arm. “I won’t
allow him to get close to your April.”

“A solid policy for anyone. Remind me not to turn my
back on you, Holly.”

I meant it playfully, but she seemed taken aback.

“Whatever for?”

“Nothing really,” I said, with reassuring smile. “The
way you set people up – for their own good, I know,” I lied. “Gives you a
little bit of a dark side.”

“I don’t have a dark side, Preston,” Holly said, with
an insular smile. “I do have a shadow, however – everyone casts a shadow, after
all.”

***

I let myself in. There were two slumbering mounds of blankets and
pillows; April and Yael were both late-risers. The shower was running, so that
accounted for Sumire. I took the groceries to the kitchen and then set about
clearing space to cook. Judging by the dishes floating in the stew of dirty
water and spilled cookie dough in the sink, it was going to be a big job.

There didn’t seem to be any other volunteers, so I got
to work with a scrub brush and dish soap. Sumire slid in beside me with an
apron and an amused twinkle in her eye a few minutes later. Before I could
react, she looped the top around my neck, and cinched the middle loop behind my
back. The front of the apron was printed with a gigantic pair of red lips, with
corresponding text inviting the world to “KISS THE COOK.”

“What the hell?” I examined the apron while Sumire
covered her mouth to suppress laughter. “What is this?”

“Found it cleaning out the storage units with Kim,”
Sumire managed, leaning against the wall to catch her breath. “Looks good on
you. Very domestic.”

“You are so lucky that this is your party,” I said,
grinding my teeth at her giggling. “Keep that in mind.”

“Don’t be like that.” Sumire took a plate from my hand
and wiped it dry. “You look cute! I think you’d make a good wife, Preston.”

I grimaced and focused on pots and pans.

“Seriously. You can be my wife, as long as you’ll do all
the cooking and cleaning.”

“Please be quiet.”

Sumire bumped her hip against mine and grinned.

“You love it. I can tell.”

“You can’t tell anything.”

“Sure I can,” Sumire said, placing a pot upside down
on the drying rack. “Don’t lie, Preston. I have you wrapped around my finger.”
She held up her bandaged forefinger, for clarity’s sake. “Admit it – it would
be dull without me around.”

I snorted and added soap and hot water until bubbles
threatened to overtop the sink.

“People usually keep their distance from me. Why don’t
you do the same, Sumire? You seem like a smart young lady, otherwise.”

Sumire paused, elbow deep in a colander, thinking it
over. She wore flimsy red soccer shorts and a men’s T-shirt with a stretched
neck. Her black hair dripped with water from the shower and stuck to the back
of her neck, and she smelled of April’s rarely used oatmeal shampoo.

“I don’t know. Pity, maybe?” She dried off the last of
the plates. “I think I feel bad for you, Preston.”

“Nobody feels bad for me,” I growled, taking her by
her shoulders and pushing her gently from the kitchen, her ancient powder-blue
sandals slapping the linoleum. “How do you want your eggs?”

“Poached.”

I rolled my eyes and headed back to the range.

“You make everything difficult.”

I filled a large pot with water and set it to boil, overhearing
rustling and good-natured complaints as Sumire roused the girls. I held my
breath as she gently shook April into consciousness. I wouldn’t normally let a
civilian take that kind of risk, but Sumire claimed to be invulnerable, so I
figured April impaling her with a purloined fountain pen wouldn’t be that big
of a deal. This morning, however, Sumire coaxed April awake with a minimum of resistance.
As they finished straightening up and stowing the sleeping bags and pillows, I produced
four plates of eggs with toast – fried for me, scrambled for April, and poached
for Yael and Sumire. I collected two plates in either hand and walked out into
the living room.