Chapter 14
The marquee reads CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS.
No door fee this time. The place still smells of smoke, and the twisted metal skeleton of the lighting scaffold still clutters the stage. I head to Gabriel's office, find the light switch, and rummage through his files for any information on Blanche, my heart dancing inside my chest the whole time. Every minute could be Marie's last. For all I know, she may already be dead. I try not to think about that as I pillage the desk drawers. It takes a few minutes, but I finally locate Blanche Brassiere's employee file. Her real name is Blanche Robins, and there is an address.
I take the file and run back to Marcus' carriage. He races away from the curb and swerves in front of another driver that hurls profanities at us. He stops outside of a two-storey brownstone building that would cost far too much for a nightclub singer. I double-check the address—it's correct.
-
I tell Marcus, "Wait here."
It wastes valuable time, but I skulk up the garden corner to a side window for a peek. The place certainly seems empty. A lamp is on in the living room. Through lace curtains, I see a low-backed couch and a fireplace. Over the mantle hangs a picture of Blanche. I take out my revolver and mount the steps to the front porch. I try the knob. It's locked.
I assume the back door is bound to be locked, and breaking a window would still make noise. I decide Marie's best chance of survival is for me to get her out as quickly as possible.
I take a step back and drive my foot into the door, just below the knob. The door crashes in, splintering the frame. I step into the dim interior of Blanche's front hall with my gun raised.
-
I am reminded again of the last house I broke into, where I ended up in the basement, chained to the ceiling. This time, I check every shadow and try to watch my back. There is nothing of any importance on the bottom level. The kitchen is clean, and the living room houses a collection of photographs. Most of them are of Blanche, but there are some of the rest of the girls. All of them are provocative shots from their performances. I clear my throat and head up the stairs.
A landing at the top presents me with three doors, the first being her bedroom. I toss the mattress and riffle her drawers for anything of value. I find nothing but a collection of shoes and laced undergarments. The second door is the bathroom. I am about to open the third door when I notice noises coming from inside. It's a scratching sound, like nails on wood. Large nails.
I pull out my revolver and peek through the keyhole. There's something large and hairy inside, like a sort of dog. I believe there may be more than one. Carefully, I try the doorknob. It's locked. I'll have to kick the door in.
-
It takes two kicks to splinter the door open. What I see inside will forever haunt my dreams. Spiders—huge ones! They are the size of bulldogs with coarse, black hair and spindly legs and mandibles and eyes... I scream like a small girl and sprint to the bathroom as I hear the scuttling clawed legs of the spiders pursuing me.
I slam the bathroom door shut just as the first spider thumps against it.
More thumping. They are either hungry or very angry. I presume they are not seeking for me to pet their bloated, hairy abdomens.
Marie is in danger, you idiot. Pull yourself together! I think to myself. Fighting my fear and revulsion, I ready my revolver and crack the door open. As big as they are, the spiders are not as heavy as I am. Although they savagely beat against the door, they cannot force their way in.
Keeping one foot wedged into the bottom of the door, I shoot down into the spiders through the crack. It makes me think of an arrow slit of a castle. I have to reload once, but soon enough, I have three quivering, curled up spiders in the hall and several holes in the floor.
As I compose myself, the spiders begin to sizzle and smoke. Soon, there is nothing left of them but three small piles of ash and the smell of sulfur.
Guardians from another world, I realise grimly.
Well, at least I disposed of the guardians effectively. That could have gone a lot worse.
I leave the bathroom and enter the spider room.
-
What should have been a second bedroom has been transformed into an occult studio. Mystical symbols and incantations cover the walls. The carpeting has been ripped up, and a giant pentagram covers the floor. A long table holds black candles, chicken feet, jars full of mandrake root and a host of other spell ingredients. There is a podium with a book open on it, the pages old and yellowed. Pictures of the burlesque troupe, with incantations scribbled over them, are tacked to the wall. The room smells like melted wax and incense. I stalk around the outside of the pentagram for a closer inspection of the book.
It's leather-bound and heavy enough to make a decent door-stop. Most of the pages are falling out and crumble under the slightest touch. The script is barely legible, written in an ancient language that looks vaguely Middle Eastern. Whilst it isn't impossible that Blanche holds a PhD in ancient Arabic, I'm willing to bet she has the translations around here somewhere,
I find what I'm looking for on the long table. Next to a stack of handwritten pages is a used and abused textbook, Aramaic Text and Translation, Volume 1.
There's nothing like a little light bedtime reading.
I pick up the stack of papers. The top page is a spell to restore youth and requires the blood of four young women. The last of these women must be sacrificed at the stroke of midnight in a place of magical significance.
I glance at my pocket watch. It's 11:45.
-
Blanche has everything set. She needs the final sacrifice to turn back the clock and reclaim her lost youth. A handy trick, especially for someone who relies on their looks for a living. Who knows how many times she has done this already? Kill a few of her coworkers using what appear to be random accidents so she can turn back the clock twenty years, then move on to somewhere new and start again. That would certainly explain how she could afford the house.
But why the headline girls? Maybe it was jealousy? Perhaps, if she had to sacrifice some young women, she may as well take out her top professional competition? Or perhaps the ideal sacrifice is not only young but beautiful as well? These girls were headliners for a reason, after all. If beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder, better to trust the eye of the burlesque show vetting process than only your own.
Now that I have a good idea of the why and how, I need to find out where Blanche may have taken Marie to perform the final sacrifice. According to the spell, the last of the sacrifices requires a magically significant locale. Sacrificing women around the backyard barbeque doesn't do you any good unless you want to invoke a barbeque demon for that extra special flavour. Blanche would have taken Marie somewhere with a strong magical current, and I have fifteen minutes to find out where that may be.
I filter through the pages looking for something, anything that might tell me where they've gone. I find translations for death curses and several many other complicated spells, but no locations. In my frustration, I kick the podium, sending the ancient grimoire to the floor. Loose pages flutter through the air, along with something else.
-
I move loose pages aside with my foot and find a map of Roford. It had been folded and stuck between the pages of the spellbook. A location is circled in red ink.
Map in hand, I hurry back outside. The rain is coming down in horizontal waves punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder. I step up to Marcus and practically shove the map in his face. "Know this place?"
He leans back and plucks the cigar stub from his mouth. "Sure. It's in Thrittand Hill. It used to be a nice neighbourhood to live in, but that was back before you were born. Now it's a dump of crumbling houses."
"Anything peculiar about it?"
"Peculiar how?" He flips open his brass Zippo.
"Is there anywhere with a reputation for hauntings?" I suggest.
He touches the glowing coil to the stub of his cigar and exhales a sweet-smelling cloud. "Don't know about hauntings," he says. "But there is an abandoned cathedral. The place gives me the creeps just driving past. Suppose you'll want to go there next?"
"And quickly," I tell him.
-
Marcus speeds along wet boulevards and slews around corners. Rain lashes the wooden carriage roof. I try not to look at my watch, but I can feel the minutes ticking by, every second bringing Marie closer to her demise. The ride takes forever, and my mind takes the opportunity to show me all manner of terrible outcomes. Finally, the carriage slides to a stop, fishtailing along the rain-soaked street and throwing me into the opposite seat. Marcus uses the stub of his cigar to point to the right. "That's it."
I sit up and gaze through the pouring rain at the abandoned cathedral. "God Almighty."
"Don't think he lives there anymore, mate." Marcus pops the cigar back into his mouth.
-
The cathedral, built in the gothic style, is situated at the top of a bald hill. Crumbling spires thrust into the dark skies, and flying buttresses strain to support stone walls that buckle outward, ready to collapse at any moment. The majority of the roof fell in an age ago, and the stained glass is gone, leaving windows like gaping, black eyes. It may have been my imagination, but I think I can see a weak glow through one of those windows. A crooked finger of lightning illuminates the front, burning the image of the cathedral into my retina. A clap of thunder, loud enough to shake the carriage, follows.
"Got a plan?" Marcus asks.
I shake my head. "Not as such."
"Need backup?"
"I can't ask you to get involved," I tell him.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
That permits a wry smile from me. "You could drive back to the station house. Ask for constable Matt Thompkins."
"Will do." he nods. "Good luck."
-
I step out of the carriage into the pouring rain. Marcus turns around and makes his way back down the hill, leaving me soaked to the bone, gazing up at the gothic monolith. Maybe Matt will show up in time, but I can't count on it. I have a loaded revolver, an amulet that supposedly offers some protection, and less than ten minutes to save Marie.
I take the amulet from my coat pocket and slip the leather cord over my head. Despite the cold, the metal feels warm against my skin. A faint yet perceptible pulse hums through my chest. That's a good sign.
Ignoring wind and rain, I stalk up the hill with my revolver in hand and pause at the steps to the decrepit old cathedral. Leering at me from its perch is a stone gargoyle in the form of a demon with a long tongue and horns. A jet of water pours from his open mouth. It's now or never.