Jazz Age Cthulhu Page 4

  ***

  Helen stood in the ruins of an alien city and felt she was home. She didn’t know why. She knew the broken buildings around her were not of her native world and she didn’t care. This was still home. A man grasped her by wrist and pulled her towards a doorway. His grip hurt, but the pain was familiar and welcome. Just as he was. They stepped through the doorway from one realm into another.

  Now they stood in her bedroom—once familiar but now aberrant—it was no longer her home. She pulled away from him, looking for the doorway into that other world. Again, the dark-eyed man gripped her wrist. This time, it was a light touch, caressing, as he drew her towards the foot of her bed. She allowed it to happen.

  With the practiced movements of a man used to undressing a woman, he pulled her coat off her shoulders and let it puddle on the floor at her feet. Then, he slid his hands up over her sides, taking her dress with it until she allowed him to pull it off over her head. This mere mortal of a man acted as if he owned her, she who was the portal to the next age. She could not let this insult stand without retribution.

  Naked as she would never have been in front of this man had it been any other circumstance, she stepped to him, tilting her head up for a kiss. As he complied, gripping her behind the neck, she pulled his ceremonial dagger from his belt and stabbed him in the stomach as many times as she could before he lost his grip on her and fell backward onto her bed. She watched him choke, gasping for breath, as he bled out on the duvet.

  Helen opened her eyes and realized that the choking noise was coming from the next room. It wasn’t a dream. She fought her way out of the bed. Everything was harder that it should be. Her head was fuzzy, her limbs heavy. She felt drugged. Stumbling to the doorway between her bedchamber and dressing room, Helen blinked at the figures within. It took a moment to realize what was happening.

  Pria was strangling Grace.

  The smaller Indian woman had a knee planted between the nun’s shoulder blades and she was pulling backwards with all her might. The horrible choking sounds from Grace had lapsed into a deadly silence.

  “No!” Helen rushed the pair of them, knocking Pria off of the supine woman. Pria rolled to the side and bounced up, light on her feet. Grace didn’t move. Helen pulled the braided cord from Grace’s neck. “Please, please be well. Please.” She shook Grace’s shoulder. There was no response.

  Pria laughed; it was the sound of madness. “That traitor won’t be helping you, anymore. I knew her for what she was as soon as she entered. She didn’t remember me, but I remembered her.” Her mirth shifted to anger. “I should kill you where you kneel for what you did to Hemaraj. It was his right to watch you and you murdered him.”

  Helen shook her head. “I didn’t.” But she knew she had. The dream-memory had shown her the truth. She could still remember the rightness of the blade plunging into flesh. She stood and backed away. “Get away from me.”

  “Oh, yes, malkin. Right away, malkin. As you wish, malkin.” Pria’s normally soft, polite voice was filled with sarcasm and malice. “Oh, wait. My takur, my true master, wants you brought to him. That’s what will happen.”

  “You can’t. You won’t. Mister Sorin will stop you.” Helen took another step backwards towards the door to the hallway.

  “Mister Sorin is dead.” Pria rushed her, knocking her into the wall. Stronger than she looked, Pria grabbed Helen by the hair and slammed her head against it.

  Helen cried out and grabbed Pria’s arms. Pria screamed in pain, jerking back. Helen realized the hand with the scar had burned the maid. With instinct born from desperation, Helen pressed her scarred palm against Pria’s forehead. With a scream of agony, Pria’s body bucked twice and she dropped to the ground.

  For a moment, Helen was afraid to move. Then she nudged her former maid with a foot. Pria lay still. Feeling safe enough for the moment, Helen hurried back to Grace’s side and turned her over. It was harder that she thought it would be. Suddenly, Helen understood what the term ‘dead weight’ really meant. Grace was truly dead. From her bulging eyes, protruding tongue, and the livid rope mark dug deep into her neck, there was no denying it.

  Helen felt through the nun’s robes until she found the hidden dagger and sheath. She removed it, putting it to the side. Then she looked for the small silk pouch that held the warding coin. Helen had just found it when John crashed through her sitting room door. Helen brandished the sheathed dagger before she realized who it was.

  “Mister Sorin! Thank goodness. She told me … I thought you were dead.” Helen put the dagger down. “Pria killed Grace. She was supposed to take me to her master. I don’t know who that is, but I have my suspicions.”

  “What happened?” He stepped over to Pria’s body and hunkered down.

  “This.” Helen showed him her scarred palm. Then she picked up the dagger and the coin. “It killed her. I pressed it to her forehead. How did you survive?”

  “One of the house guards, Gopal, was a bit too interested in having me drink some tea. I pretended to drink and poured it out when he wasn’t looking. I assumed it was drugged, pretended to sleep.” John stood and came to her. “We fought. I won.”

  Close up, she could see he was bruised and there was a small cut above one eye. “I’m glad, but what now?”

  “Do you want to end this tonight?”

  She nodded, not certain of her thoughts, but did not want to sit back to do nothing. “Do you think we can?” Helen offered him the dagger and the coin.

  He took the coin and let her keep the blade. “I do.”

  “How?”

  “We let you be taken.”

  ***

  It was a good, if terrifying, plan. John, dressed as Gopal, carried an “unconscious” Helen out to the waiting motorcar. He carefully put her in the backseat and climbed in next to her. He tapped the roof of the car, but said nothing, keeping his face in shadows. As expected, the car drove to the Black Ram Club and parked in the alleyway behind it. As soon as it stopped, John leaned forward and gave the driver a sharp crack on the back of the head with his blackjack.

  John helped Helen out of the car. She felt less drugged and more frightened, but refused to let it show. The alleyway behind the Black Ram Club was surprisingly clean and clear of debris. Even the ever-present homeless that camped in such alleys were absent. A terrifying detail if you thought about it too closely. What had happened to them?

  “Are you certain you know what we’re doing?” Helen looked around, shivered, and huddled deeper into her coat.

  “I am. No one at the Commissioner’s Office will believe the supernatural aspects of this case. If we can, at least, close that doorway with these …” He held up the coin and her hand. “... then we have a fighting chance to convince the office that it was a sham cult and you were the victim. The Kumari family is powerful, but the Commissioner’s Office is more powerful and more interested in protecting the Keeling family.”

  She nodded. “Closing the door should stop whatever evil Grace saw from rising.” Helen grabbed his arm as he turned towards the backdoor. “But what if it doesn’t?”

  “Then we find another way.”

  ***

  The back door was not locked and they did not expect it to be. It opened on a long hallway with opened and closed doors on both sides. They passed a storeroom on the left and the large, dark kitchen to the right. Ignoring the closed doors, they headed toward the feeble light at the end of the hall.

  “I think it’s the grand ballroom. I recognize the furniture.” Helen leaned into John, feeling as if her voice echoed in the night’s stillness.

  John nodded, his blackjack at the ready as he crept along. They both froze at the sound of movement ahead. It sounded as if someone shifted. There was no sense of alarm, but there was the sense of expectation. Whoever was ahead was waiting for Gopal and his prize.

  As they passed the closed door on the left, Helen’s abdomen twisted in a sharp, sudden pain. Something angry and clawed was attacking her from within.
She gasped and stumbled against the door, unable to help herself as she went to her knees. John turned. “Lady Helen?”

  “Gopal? Pria?” Two figures appeared in the hallway entrance. When they saw John standing over Helen, they stopped. “Gopal, where’s Pria?”

  Helen looked up at John and they both knew his disguise would not last. She nodded to him, not sure what permission she was giving, but giving it nonetheless. When she looked at the two men again, she realized that neither man was Assamese but British. Her fury at this made the pain in her abdomen grow and she placed her scarred palm on her stomach. The pain receded, but did not disappear as before.

  “Stay here.” John turned from her and charged the men, who had pulled weapons from their belts. He yelled as he barreled one of them over and struck out at the other.

  Grabbing the door handle for leverage to stand, Helen found the door unlocked. On unsteady feet, braced against the doorframe, she opened the door, uncertain of what she would find. Unsurprised to find the Egyptian man standing there, she put her hand on Grace’s unsheathed dagger in her coat pocket.

  “You’ve returned to me.” His voice was soft and silky, enticing. He offered her his hand.

  His name came to her. “Ardeth Fehr.” She raised her scarred palm to him and was dismayed when he did not flinch away.

  Instead, he grasped her hand and kissed the back of it. “Such do not harm a man like me.” He pulled her into the room. “You need not fear me. I’m your one true ally now.”

  The room was filled with gold jewelry, stone jars, and statues. The treasure pulled Helen’s attention from the man before her. Something in here called to her. She retrieved her hand and looked around. All of it was familiar. She had seen this treasure before. She knew she must have seen this room the night of the gala.

  Her memory hinted at Hemaraj leading her around the room, telling her about each item. This gold goblet with the swirled patterned was used in a rebirth ceremony. That jar was filled with sacred unguents. This plate depicted a dedication ceremony to … Helen looked at the black swirling mass on the edge of the plate. It was not just decoration. It was … something.

  “I think you are looking for this.” Ardeth came up behind her. “Iä! Shub-Niggurath.”

  The alien words shook Helen to her core. They resonated within. Her stirring belly quieted. Turning, Helen saw the object Ardeth held out to her and knew he was right. It was an idol made from a green stone. She had not known what it was she was looking for until then. She took it in her scarred hand. It felt slick and moist as her mind opened up to her.

  ***

  Hemaraj pulled her through that impossible doorway into that other realm. Helen still fought again the knowledge that not only was magic real, she was about to be part of a ritual. Hands grabbed her from all sides, pulling and pushing her forward, across the broken ground to the center of the ruins. At the altar, despite her struggles and screams, Helen was stripped of her things. Nails scratched her skin as strangers pulled her out of her clothing. Her dress and coat were puddled at her feet as the rest disappeared into the crowd of pale and dusky faces.

  Then she was lifted up and placed on the altar. Hands held her down, gripping her arms and legs tight, while shackles captured her pinioned wrists and ankles. Even her neck was bound. All the while, the high priest watched with a smile and a gleam of madness.

  When the hands disappeared and the crowd stepped back, Helen stopped screaming, but did not cease her struggles until Ardeth came forward to stand at her feet. He raised his hands to pray towards the cave heights, that black sky marbled with violet and green. The alien words that came out of his mouth turned her stomach as she cringed from them. There was something about the sounds that should never be spoken by a human mouth or heard by a human ear.

  He paused in his prayer and the crowd of worshippers—for they could be nothing else—shouted, “Iä! Iä! Shub-Niggurath!”

  “Iä! Shub-Niggurath! She comes. She comes!” Ardeth was foaming at the mouth as he pointed skyward.

  Helen looked up and didn’t have the mind or will to scream, though she wanted to. The sky above her uncurled huge, glistening, black tentacles as a dozen yellow eyes opened to look into her soul. The tentacles quested for her and she closed her eyes to the sight of such size. It was too big to hold in her mind. Then a tentacle touched her and the universes opened.

  She understood everything, knew what was needed of her, and gave herself body and soul to the task. She was the portal. She would birth the warriors of a new age. There was a war in the heavens of this other realm and it was time to turn the tide. It was a relief to finally know her place in this universe.

  ***

  Her hand was empty, the idol gone. Ardeth stood before her. “You remember. You understand now.” He put his hand on her belly. “You know your importance. You know what you’ll bring into—”

  The nun’s dagger was out and flashing across his throat before he finished his sentence. The blade flashed again and Helen stabbed his unworthy heart. This man, this pathetic creature, who had needed to find a woman to do what he could not do, dared to touch her. She stabbed him again, then stepped back and watched as he clutched his throat, gasping for air.

  John crashed through the door, his eyes wild, blood smeared across his lips and chin. He looked around the room and saw the dying Egyptian. “Lady Helen? Are you well?”

  Helen nodded. She was better than she could remember feeling in all her life. She understood so much more and had to smile at this poor, dumb man’s lot in life. The look of concern was as endearing as it was pathetic. She crossed the room to him. “He attacked me.”

  “He’s dead now.”

  John opened his arms to her and she leaned into them. The warmth of his body comforted her even as she clenched the dagger tight. Smiling, she wondered how she could have ever been afraid of such a beautiful, deadly tool. It felt so right in her hand. How could it be anything other than it was. Just like her.

  Looking up at John, she reached a hand around his neck and lifted her lips to his.

  “Lady Helen!” John protested, but she shushed him before kissing him. She waited until he gave in to her power, gave himself over to her and the kiss, to stab him again and again. He had tried so hard. It was the only gift she could give him. The same thing she had given Hemaraj. Only this time, it was a gift instead of a reprimand. The gift of death and a kiss before the war came to this world.

  Helen stepped back as John crumpled to his knees, clutching his stomach. She watched the life leave his eyes as he toppled over next to the unworthy one before she turned to the wall with the hidden door. It swung open at her touch. Waiting there was one of the otherworld children.

  The dark young was taller than a man. Although it had three cloven hooves, it stood steady on the stairs. Its myriad of black tentacles wavered, grasping the walls as its slavering mouths gnashed the alien air. A single tentacle quested for her. Helen stroked it as it came near, soothing it despite the scent of blood covering her.

  “Shhhh. I’ve come back. It’s time to go home.”

  The dark young moved back and down the stairs as she stepped forward. Its tentacles caressed her as she came close. Together, they descended the stairs into the rest of her life.

  * * *

  THE LESSER KEYS

  ORRIN GREY

  OPENING BARS

  Jasper deWitt arrived in Kansas City at half-past-three on a Friday. He stepped off the train in Union Station and tried not to gawk around like an out-of-town rube at all the marble and chandeliers. It wasn’t that they didn’t have buildings like this in Chicago—they had plenty—but in spite of knowing better, Jasper had still been expecting a cow town, not the Paris of the Plains, as they were calling it. A taxi took him from Union Station to the boarding house just off 18th and Vine where he’d be staying.

  He didn’t have much with him, just one suitcase and a few hundred dollars in folding money secreted in various places about his person; a little in
his left shoe, a little pinned to the inside of his cuff, a little tucked into the lining of his bowler hat.

  The boarding house was big and white, and the front was full of windows.

  It had the kind of porch that you sit out on in the summer, and complain about the heat and the bugs. His room, when the lady showed it to him, backed right up against the railroad tracks, but that was okay. It just reminded him of home. And from the street out front, he could see the lights of the jazz district, so he figured he’d have at least a few good nights. Really, everything looked pretty good. Deceptively good. Standing out in front of the house after dropping off his suitcase and making sure that he looked presentable in the dressing mirror, he had to remind himself of the Sword of Damocles dangling over his head.

  It wasn’t that the memory was stale. Just a couple of days ago, he’d been back in Chicago, standing in Gerald Tyson’s big office above the club, shuffling his feet on Gerald Tyson’s expensive rug and drinking Gerald Tyson’s expensive Scotch, being told by that very man in no uncertain terms just what his fate would be if he failed in the job he was being assigned.

  “I want that band for my club,” Tyson was saying in his thick, phlegmy voice. “But I can’t get any traction by way of the usual channels, you understand? That town’s a goddamn quagmire. They don’t know how to play ball proper. So, what you’re gonna do for me is, you’re gonna go down there and you’re gonna find those boys and you’re gonna explain to ‘em that I’m givin’ ‘em a real good offer. I’ll double whatever they’re getting now, but I don’t want any entanglements, is that clear? They’re mine, exclusive. You make ‘em understand that’s best for everyone and you bring ‘em back with you. And Jasper? Don’t make me send anyone else.”

  Of course he was talking about the Lesser Keys. It seemed like they were all anybody was talking about. Just another jazz ensemble in a sea of jazz ensembles? Maybe, but the word was they were setting Kansas City on fire—and that in spite of the fact that they’d only play at one place, a roadhouse on the outskirts called Solomon King’s Mine. They were supposed to be good, damn good, but privately, Jasper didn’t think that’s what Gerald Tyson wanted them for. Privately, though he’d never say it to the big man’s face, nor to anyone else who might ever breathe a word of it in that direction, Jasper thought that Gerald Tyson just couldn’t handle the thought of anyone having something nice that he couldn’t have. He was going to take the Lesser Keys away from Solomon King to prove that he could.