The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (22 page)

The wind from it knocked the helicopter around like a kite in a storm. I don’t know how Belasco managed to keep us airborne, but I guessed he had gotten us far enough away from the bomb. When I opened my eyes and looked back at Paradise City, I saw nothing but the great pillar of smoke, rising upwards into a bulbous head as it spread out and blasted the resort town to pieces.

Weatherby waited until the ringing in our ears had died down. “Monstrous,” he said. “Weaponized zombie plagues. Atomic warfare. My family’s most depraved occultists could never conceive of this evil, not alone manufacture it on a national scale!”

“Way of the world, kiddo,” I replied.

“But there are still good things, right?” Henry Wallace asked.

I didn’t know what to say, but Weatherby did. The kid had lost his innocence a long time ago, right after seeing his parents shot down before his eyes by Nazi thugs. He didn’t want that to happen to Henry Wallace. “There are, my dear friend,” he said, patting Henry Wallace’s shoulder. “And there will always be good people to fight for them.”

“Thank you, Weatherby,” Henry Wallace replied, as we flew away from the smoldering, radioactive crater that had been Paradise City.

The graveyard around Castle Stein stretched into the distance, a seemingly endless field of tall, stately crosses, tombstones, angels and mausoleums resting on marble columns gone gray and black with age. All of the dead members of the Stein family, from decadent aristocrat to depraved occultist to pioneering mad scientist, found their final resting place somewhere under this dark earth. Stranger symbols than crosses marked many of the tombstones, along with careful carvings of the faces of the past Stein family, staring out with marked disdain at the living.

Walking among these tomb stones was a little boy, no older than eight years of age, with a roll of white paper and a crayon held gingerly between his thin fingers. He had dark hair, straight and short, and very bright blue, curious eyes between round spectacles. He wore a schoolboy uniform from a prestigious boarding school in England, with its dark vest, coat, tie and shorts, but seemed uneasy in it. There was a slight tremor to the way he moved, like he could fall to pieces at any moment. His name was Weatherby Ignatius Stein.

The little boy paused over one of the graves of his ancestors, an old slab that must have dated from the Renaissance. He looked around the tomb stones, through the rows of graves to the tangled, almost primal trees of the Black Forest beyond. “Oh, that’s interesting,” Weatherby said, his chirping accent a strange, hesitant mixture of German and upper class English. “I don’t think I have this one in my collection.”

He pressed the paper against the top of the ancient inscription, and began to make a careful rubbing. Some boys his age collected stamps. He collected the names of his dead ancestors. Every time he made one, he would ask his father, Dr. Wolfgang Stein, about their legacy, and receive a story more wonderful and bizarre than any that could be found in a book or cinema. “Our family has its legacy, my dear little one,” Dr. Stein would say, as he patted Weatherby’s head. “Even if we have nothing else, we have our legacy.”

“I wonder what your story will be, Viscount Wagner Vaniah Stein?” Weatherby asked as he finished the rubbing. “Were you a hero or a villain? Well, you can’t very well be worse than the villains who rule over us now.”

He was right. On the highest pinnacle of Castle Stein, which rose in a gothic tower high over the peaks of the Black Forest trees, the swastika-emblazoned flag of the Third Reich fluttered proudly. The Nazis had arrived a few months ago, and now fully occupied the castle. Weatherby didn’t understand the situation properly, but he knew his mother – and himself – belonged to a group that the Nazis didn’t like. If Weatherby’s father didn’t do what the Nazis wanted, something bad would happen to them all.

Weatherby finished making his rubbing and tucked it in his pocket. He looked up at the sky, gray and hanging over them like the flat blade of a sword. A few drops of rain started to fall down, and Weatherby stepped away from the tomb stones. He turned around and started hurrying back to the castle. His black dress shoes pounded quickly through the mud, and he soon reached the hallway leading inside Castle Stein.

He stepped carefully onto the flagstones, but then spotted a hulking form leaning against the wall, a cigarette burning in his mouth. The large man stepped forward, seeping out of the shadows to tower over Weatherby. It was Sergeant Morgen, one of Castle Stein’s occupiers. He was a large, brutal slab of a man, with dark eyes set in a square head. He wore a peaked cap and a rumpled dull olive Waffen-SS uniform with mustard stains on the death’s heads at the collar.

Sergeant Morgen let one of his hands rest on the heavy luger at his side. “Where are you going, boy?” he asked. “You getting out of the rain? The rats always scamper out of the rain.” He blocked Weatherby’s way, licking his thick lips with a large tongue. “And, often, right into traps.”

Weatherby bowed his head. He knew he had to be polite and kind to all people. His mother had taught him that well. He knew the Nazis were in charge of things now, and even if he didn’t like it, he had to recognize their authority. But he was never sure why he was making them angry. He was deeply afraid of Sergeant Morgen, a thuggish Nazi who enjoyed his job.

“I’m just going inside,” Weatherby said, trying to move around Morgen. “I’m sorry, sir, if—”

“Yes.” Morgen grabbed Weatherby’s shoulder. His grip was like iron, and the boy let out an involuntary yelp. “Whine. Beg. I enjoy it, little rat. I enjoy it so much.” Morgen leaned down, his head very close to Weatherby. The boy felt his heart beating, and blinked his eyes. “You know, your father is going to anger General Von Koch. And he will tell Colonel Vessler. And Colonel Vessler will tell me. And that’s when I’ll get you.”

Weatherby shivered as the rain started pounding down outside. He didn’t hear the soft footsteps on the flagstones. “Unhand my child!” It was a familiar voice, courageous and kind, behind Morgen. Hannah Stein, Weatherby’s mother, hurried to Weatherby and Morgen, glaring hatefully at the Nazi. “You don’t have free rein to harm us yet, you brute! And you know what will happen if you disobey your superiors.”

Sergeant Morgen stood up, and Weatherby ran into the long arms of his mother. She hugged him tightly to her, and for just a little while, Weatherby felt safe. Hannah Stein was a slim woman, seemingly delicate, but with a warning of strength in her blue eyes. She had her son’s thin nose and blue eyes, but lighter brown hair. She wore a pale red dress under a short trench coat. Hannah was a modern woman. That was one of the many reasons why Wolfgang Stein loved her.

“It’s all right, Weatherby,” she said, and her son believed her. “Come along. There’s going to be a dinner – a very fancy one, and we must get ready.” She looked up at Sergeant Morgen. “You’ll be expected to be on your best behavior.”

Morgen shrugged. “But General Von Koch will be there, madam. And you know what he thinks of subhumans like you. Perhaps he’ll give me reason to forget my manners.” He approached her, his thick hands balling into fists. He was as angry as a petulant child who had lost a favorite toy. “And don’t worry, little boy. We’ll get to play again soon.”

Weatherby shuddered, and Hannah led him away. “He’s a beastly man,” she said. “I’ll complain to Herr Vessler. Perhaps he can arrange for the sergeant to be moved or transferred or something.” She looked down at Weatherby. “He didn’t…he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“I think he wants to,” Weatherby said, shaking his head.

Hannah and her son walked down the long empty hallway of the castle, to their rooms on the second floor. Castle Stein was an old structure, the gray stones of the walls covered with dust and large portraits of deceased family members. Suits of armor holding bladed poles rested in the corners.

“He wants to do harm to everything in the world,” Hannah whispered to her son. “They all do. But don’t worry, Weatherby.” She patted his head. “You mustn’t be frightened. Your father and I will never let you get hurt. I promise you that.”

“And Selena’s not present,” Weatherby pointed out. “She’s safe in America, at school. I think that’s a very good stroke of luck.”

“It certainly is, darling,” Hannah said. “Especially around Colonel Vessler.”

“What do you mean?” Weatherby asked. “He doesn’t seem like the worst of them.”

Hannah shivered. “He is,” she said. “In his own way.”

They walked up a spiral staircase, and came to the second story, where the Stein living quarters awaited them. A pair of Waffen-SS guards flanked the hallway, their rifles on their shoulders. They stared emotionlessly and Hannah held up her head and walked past them, holding her son’s hand.

They walked into Weatherby’s room. It was a cluttered child’s room, with shelves full of books stretching around a small bed, and toys littering the ground. Like everything in Castle Stein, they were old and handed down from ages long past.

Hannah started to straighten Weatherby’s tie and spectacles. Suddenly, her eyes blinked several times. “Oh god, Weatherby,” she said. “We should’ve run. You should’ve stayed in England. Oh god, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Mother…” Weatherby clutched her hand. “Please, I’m unharmed. There’s no need for you to be sad.”

Hannah nodded with a deep sigh. “You’re right, darling,” she said. “You’re right.”

There was a knock on the door. “Hannah? Weatherby? It’s Wolfgang. May I come in?”

“Of course, dear,” Hannah called, and Dr. Wolfgang Stein stepped carefully into the room. Weatherby beamed up at his father. Dr. Wolfgang Stein had his son’s dark hair, in neat sideburns and a goatee, and wore similar spectacles. Weatherby remembered the vitality his father once had, a kind of happiness just to be in the company of his wife and son. He remembered spending hours listening to his father’s stories of their family history, while they rambled around the grounds.

But now, Wolfgang Stein slumped his shoulders and looked at his shoes. He looked deflated, weakened, like there was somehow less of him there. But he still knelt down and embraced his son, then wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulder. He wore a rumpled Victorian suit, vest and tie.

Wolfgang offered his son a hopeful smile. “What’s that in your hand? Ah, a rubbing of the viscount’s grave? He possessed a rare cruelty, Weatherby. I’ll relate his regrettable and bloody story to you, if you’d like.”

“Morgen cornered him, Wolfgang,” Hannah said.

“Oh. God in Heaven.” Wolfgang closed his eyes. “This is my fault,” he said. “There must have been something I could have done. There must have been some way to put an end to their devilry, instead of working for them.”

“It’s not your fault,” Hannah said. “They’ll kill us, if we don’t do as they say.” She looked up at her husband. “Tonight, is—”

“The general will be there. Von Koch himself.” Wolfgang shivered. “I’ve contacted demons and ancient gods, Hannah, and I don’t know anything worse than him. He’ll want results. And I can’t give them to him.” He sat down on Weatherby’s bed, his hands resting on his knees. Weatherby hurried to his father’s side, anxious to comfort him.