The girl stormed across the castle grounds, headed straight for the gate, only to be stopped by the crossed halberds of the guards. They screamed in shock as their bladed staves became snakes. Alerted, the archers dropped the portcullis, but this stopped in its descent as the girl gave a flick of her wrist, then walked under it without a worry of being crushed.
Seeing this from his balcony, the King said nothing. He had made the announcement some time ago: We had had enough of old men with pointed hats and starry cloaks who gave vague advice but never wisdom, who promised the vanquishing of enemies but vanished in times of danger.
This young lady heeded the call. The King had found Their new wizard.
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Oliver Derby watched the strange pair from the window of his home, wishing he could hear whatever it was they were discussing. He had hired Korbin Halvorsen at the suggestion of a university colleague, but had no idea the strange man would bring in another, shorter, possibly stranger man. This unexpected addition made him clutch the curtains until he saw them, arm in arm, walk towards the boarding house. He turned away then, leaving a sweaty palm print on the curtain.
The kitchen, the room furthest away from the window, offered him no solace. He made a cup of coffee and sat at the oak kitchen table, contemplating his future. He found he was unable to concentrate, the consequences of his actions ricocheting off each other, bouncing against the walls of his conscious. Before he knew it, it was dark outside. He rose to return to the window, dreading he would still be able to see the boarding house.
Before he parted the curtains, though, a husky voice spoke behind him. “Oliver Derby, I presume?”
Oliver jumped at the sound. Someone was sitting in his father-in-law’s Astoria Grand chair. Dwarfed as they were by the seat, Oliver still recoiled from the invader. “Who are you?”
The lamp next to the chair flared to life, blinding him. As the burst faded from his eyes, he saw the small individual in the worsted gray suit that had accompanied Korbin. Pale, with a button nose and with a pixie haircut that hadn’t been in style with his students for at least a decade, they did share the smile with the worst of his classes’ smart asses. “I’m Aggie McPherson, spectral analyst. Korbin brought me in as a consultant after your wife disappeared. But this isn’t about her, is it Oliver?”
The invader’s throaty voice unsettled Oliver further. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Is that really what we should be talking about, Oliver?”
“You’ve broken into my home. I’ll call the police.”
The figure lifted one hand from the chair to gesture to an antique rotary phone on a short pedestal close by. “Go ahead.”
Repelled by the idea of moving closer to the stranger, Oliver reached into a pocket for his smartphone. Before he could dial, though, McPherson added, “We can ask them why you haven’t filed a missing person report on your wife. That should make for an interesting conversation.”
Phone in hand, Oliver stopped. He knew the tone of blackmail. “What do you want?”
The playfulness in the analyst’s voice vanished. “I want what I’m being paid for. I want to know why what was a lovely green space in your courtly neighborhood suddenly sprouted a 19th century boarding house.”
Oliver let the hand holding the phone fall. “That’s what I want. That’s why I hired Korbin.”
The stranger arched a meticulously plucked eyebrow. “Aren’t you worried about your wife, Anne?”
Oliver fumbled his words, pushing out, “Of course I’m worried about Anne, I just meant – “
“I know what you meant.” The invader leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You know what I’m worried about? Why would Oliver Derby, resident historian at Slakterquay’s Azoth University not know his wife was related to one of its most infamous figures?”
In the dim light of the room, Oliver only babbled at this new heap of information. The stranger continued, “The answer is, of course, that you did know. You knew when you sent her in there.”
“I would never – “
They cut him off. “What I can’t figure out is how a professor pays for a house in South Slope. Then, what, you’ve got two, three kids in school? Nice ones too. Schools, that is, not your kids.
“And Anne doesn’t work. I mean, unless you count making herself a nuisance at HOA, PTA, and city council meetings.”
In the dim light the stranger made a show of looking around the finely furnished room’s hardwood floors, Persian carpet, and antique clock. “So how do you afford it all?”
Oliver prepared the usual smokescreen for his shame. “We’ve done very well with some investments – “
Accustomed to people accepting this polite fiction, Oliver was unprepared for the stranger’s laughter. “Oh, Oliver, you realize no one buys that line, right? I’ve asked some of your nicer neighbors. They all know your living off your wife’s family fortune. Slakterquay wouldn’t be the ‘Paris of the Pacific Northwest’ without the Clark’s involvement in timber and cattle.” The invader crinkled their nose as if they could smell the old slaughterhouses by the river.
Oliver felt his blushing might glow in the dim light. “How do you – “
“Here’s what I really can’t figure out, ” the analyst interrupted again. “Why would you endanger the goose with the golden eggs? I mean, if your wife disappears, you’re the very first person the police are going to suspect.”
Sweating, Oliver didn’t really think before he answered. “I didn’t send her in. She insisted.”
“And you couldn’t stop her.” The smokiness of the stranger’s voice lifted into a lilting amusement. It made Oliver wish he could smash one of the room’s vases into their face. “So why summon the house at all?”
“What are you talking about?
McPherson leaned back into the chair, steepling fingers together in front of their smile, white even in the amber glow of the lamp. “Well, according to the few neighbors I spoke with Anne wears the pants in the family. Not surprising, considering the power imbalance in your relationship. Your students probably call you a cuck?”
The stranger continued over Oliver’s protests. “But bringing back the house wouldn’t do anything about that. It might get rid of Anne, but then, one way or another, you’d lose access to her family’s fortune. And if you could keep that and not have to deal with Anne I imagine you’d have done it years ago. So you needed something the house could provide.” The stranger paused, hair shadowing their face in the dim light. “You needed the same thing Jeremiah Naugle wanted. Gold.” Raising eyes to the ceiling, they continued, “Or money, I guess. Which is so much more boring than gold. I’ll never understand that change.”
McPherson brought their eyes back to Oliver. “But why not use your wife’s abundance?” A shadowed hand pointed a finger at Oliver. “You needed money and you couldn’t tell Anne why.” Fingers snapped before returning to point. “You’re being blackmailed.”
Throat dry, Oliver was barely able to croak before the stranger stood up and said, “So which of your students have you been fucking?”
Blinking the sweat from his eyes, Oliver could only think to respond, “How do you know all of this?”
The stranger laughed lightly as they stood from the chair and stepped closer, causing Oliver to back against the curtains. “Oh, come now, that was a short leap. What’s the most likely thing a college professor is going to get blackmailed for?” Two feet from Oliver, the stranger’s violet eyes wandered along with her words, “Although you lot at Azoth U tend to get up to some strange things, so maybe that’s more of a leap than usual.” The eyes snapped back to Oliver. “But you’ve already admitted as much.” McPherson poked him in the chest. “Out with it.”
“I – ” Oliver stopped, unwilling to commit his sin into the air.
The stranger fluttered their eyes in a fashion that was unsettling in how disarming it was. “Boy or girl?”
“Girl.” Oliver quickly corrected himself, “A young woman.”
“Oliver.” McPherson said his name as if they weren’t strangers. “This is going to take all night if I have to drag it out of you. And I have a strange suspicion we’re running out of time. At this stage, it’s possible you may only get out of this with a divorce.” When Oliver still didn’t speak, they continued, “You know, instead of prison.”
“Her name was Etenia.” The proposition of incarceration popped the name out of him.
“Was? Is she dead?”
“No.” With a grumble, Oliver added, “I just haven’t seen her since she went into the house.”
McPherson crinkled their nose as if a particularly foul smell had crawled into the room and died. “So this is bigger than your sex tape.”
“It would seem.”
“You’re not sure? Well, I don’t blame you if you didn’t watch it.” The stranger shrugged. “But you watched enough of it to know she has the vantage of you.”
Oliver slumped against the curtains, wishing their billowing would swallow him whole. “Etenia had been the only person to show real interest in my work in I don’t know how long.” He sighed, hating the whine in his voice, so similar when he fruitlessly expressed unhappiness to his wife. “We spent hours discussing Slakterquay’s history, prehistoric till modern, going over everything from fossils to land grants. I thought she was as fascinated by it all as I was. So much so she took me to her bed.”
“Took you to her bed? Let’s skip the romanticism and catch up to modern times. Let me guess – there was one topic in particular that got her all hot and bothered.”
Oliver looked up from his shoes, nearly toe-to-toe with the stranger’s small, well-polished ones. “Yes. The Naugle Massacre.”
McPherson’s violet eyes pierced Oliver with disdain. “A word too late, but perhaps in your future, don’t fuck people turned on by tales of bloodshed.”
Oliver felt his face heat again as he admitted, “But I wanted to talk about it. No one else does. My wife doesn’t even allow me to teach it in class. The subject is verboten.
“But Etenia was as excited as I was about the legends. Yes, they’re apocryphal, but how could you not find it fascinating? A tale that your town is founded by homicidal maniac who made a deal with the devil?”
“The Devil?” McPherson’s increased skepticism sent Oliver to staring at his shoes. “Jeremiah Naugle didn’t have congress with the Devil.”
“No, he found something worse.”
The stranger cocked a snoot at Oliver. “You don’t know much about the Devil.”
McPherson grabbed Oliver by the front of his shirt and pulled him out of the curtains. “Or you wouldn’t be in this mess. But I think I’m missing some pertinent details. What was it about Jeremiah Naugle that got your Etenia all worked up? Specifically.”
“Well, that he had created the South Slope. It had once been a cliff of soft earth that Jeremiah Naugle had mined using hushing.”
The stranger released Oliver. “Hushing?”
“Hydraulic mining. A technique he had brought with him from California. He used hoses with high-pressure nozzles to pull water from the river and blast the cliff, stripping away the soil to search for gold.”
“Not an environmentalist then.”
“I don’t think the concept existed for Naugle. Only his gold. His flooding of the Saint Vilhelm River with sediment was noticed by the indigenous people who began attacks on Slakterquay. Something they had never done before.”
“Indigenous people? You mean the X’Komish?” McPherson asked, circling Oliver, urging him on.
“The X’Komish are more of a confederation of tribes that united after their genocide, but yes. The move wasn’t popular with the settlers, either. Their trade in furs and pelts depended on the river and access to the Pacific. Others had already prospected the area for gold and found nothing, so they thought Naugle was uselessly muddying up the river.
“He convinced some of the settlers, though, that gold moved what he termed “upstream,” flowing from the South Pole to the North and one such stream ran through Slakterquay.
“Naturally, most of the settlers already considered him mad, but the gold he spent from his California claim caused most to encourage him to stay and spend more.” Oliver gave a wry smile, something his students often enjoyed. “I suspect they may have been taking advantage of him.”
Oliver stood rigid, his eyes tracking McPherson each time she passed in front of him. “That would have surprised the settlers as much as Naugle finding his gold. But find gold he did, not by sifting through the blasted soil, but after he went underground. It’s said that his hushing uncovered a cave entrance and he disappeared into it for weeks. Everyone assumed he died there. Until he came out carrying gold.
“He reinforced the cave entrance and stopped hushing, focusing on his mine. Some of the settlers even began to aid him. Even after Naugle had stopped filling the Saint Vilhelm river with silt, though, the X’Komish continued their attacks. If anything, they increased in ferocity. So Naugle built his house on top of his mine. Made of stone to protect from firearms or fire, huge for its time, three-stories —
A slap on his ass caused Oliver to jump. “I’ve seen the house, Oliver. On with it, lover boy.”
Stuttering, Oliver turned to face McPherson, rotating to keep her in front of him as he continued. “It was said that the house appeared overnight. A local preacher hailed it as a miracle. It became something like a combination of a tavern, community center, and fort. There were also rumors that Naugle had used some of his gold to bring in sex workers from San Francisco.
“Whatever the truth was, it was there that Naugle convinced the men of Slakterquay to slaughter the X’Komish. Jeremiah handpicked a group of men and led them out of the house at midnight to attack the X’Komish seasonal settlement. They killed every man, woman, and child they could lay their hands on. Then they set everything ablaze.”
McPherson stopped pacing, a dark silhouette in Oliver’s peripheral vision. “Humans never cease to impress with their ability to murder one another.”
“Yes. And Naugle’s massacre was up there with the worst of them.” After a pause, he continued. “Only one man spoke out against the treatment of the X’Komish, a Spanish priest named Franco del Castillo. Castillo had been in Slakterquay longer than Naugle. His preaching on tolerance and overtures to the X’Komish had largely held the peace until the other man’s arrival. But gold was more powerful than the priest’s words and very few listened to him even when the fighting began. But then Castillo returned from town, having witnessed Naugle’s massacre, saying he had seen the murderers dancing in the fires of the burning village with foul-begotten things that moved like snakes with legs.
“He kept this up until he disappeared. No one in Slakterquay seemed to mind that much.”
“Of course not.”
“Naugle celebrated by taking a bride.”
Out of the darkness, Oliver heard the name of his wife’s ancestor. “Lillian Clark.”
“That’s right. A powerful family in Slakterquay, the Clarks worked with Naugle to expand the river docks to bring in more goods and equipment, eventually using the new infrastructure to begin shipping out timber, using the cleared land to grow grain and raise cattle. Pelt boats became barges, which brought in more money, which, in turn – “
“You’re losing the thread professor.”
“Well, with Naugle’s help, the Clarks continued to grow the town. Until Castillo returned.
“He did so without his clerical collar and in the company of X’Komish warriors that had been on long-distance coastal raids. They had returned in their ocean canoes to find their people slaughtered and Castillo ready to lay the blame at Naugle’s feet. Unlike the settlers, the X’Komish believed him. The presence of the creatures he described was the reason for the tribes’ attacks on the mine. They called them the Ogru Dem, which is interesting. It’s not a word with roots in the X’Komish dialect.”
“No, it isn’t.” McPherson floated into the room’s dim light, eyebrows drawn together and any semblance of mischief drained away. “In the beginning, the X’Komish were born in darkness, under the earth, created as slaves. They escaped and climbed to the surface emerging on the surface where the sun meets the sea. They’ve battled the Ogru Dem since the First People emerged to live under the sky. The Ogru Dem fight to drag them, and all people, back down.”
“You,” Oliver couldn’t keep the incredulous and condescending tone his students hated out of his voice, “believe all of that?”
“I’m not the one that has a ghost house on my block, Oliver.” McPherson’s tone changed his name into a synonym for ‘idiot.’ “What happened next?”
“The X’Komish warriors and Castillo attacked Naugle’s house. It was said that the fighting could be heard all the way to the river.
“Whatever it was, it brought Naugle’s house crashing down. Literally. Accounts state that Castillo carried a round stone into Naugle’s House, and shortly after, the house collapsed.
“Some say the stone was a seal of X’Komish tribal magic, other legends speak of Castillo evicting evil spirits. Whatever it was, the tales say the house was swallowed by the Earth.”
McPherson blinked, face without expression, which to Oliver was more unsettling than all of the games and clever banter. With an equally flat tone, they replied, “So it stayed until you went and fucked with it. What did you do?”
Oliver began to stutter a response until McPherson more forcefully repeated the question. He continued, “Shortly after I told Etenia the story, she began her blackmail demands. I tried to put some cash together, but it wasn’t nearly enough. I told her I couldn’t get it from Anne without her knowing and if I got divorced I wouldn’t be able to get any. She told me to get the gold from under the park where Naugle’s house once stood. I told her that was insane, that there was no gold, and she said she would be satisfied if I brought her the stone.”
Imitating his own disbelieving tone, McPherson replied, “And you went and dug the stone out of the park?”
Oliver sputtered like a drowning man. “I didn’t have any reason to believe that the stories were real. The park was made a designated historical site, although nothing commemorates why. So, yes, I borrowed some equipment from the archaeology department and located the stone. I waited until Anne went out of town and then spent a night digging it up.”
“And the next day the house was there.”
“Yes.”
“What became of Etenia and her blackmail demands?”
Oliver felt shame seal his mouth shut until McPherson’s stare became so heated his skin began to burn. “She…she went in the house.”
“When did this happen?”
“I saw the house when I looked out the window the next day. Etenia was already standing in the park.”
The stranger’s tone became harder, pushing on Oliver. “You sure it was her?”
Oliver closed his eyes and nodded. “She turned and looked right at me before she went in. Her raven-hair and golden eyes are quite distinct.”
“Then your wife arrived home…?” McPherson trailed off, letting Oliver follow.
“She was furious about the house. Despite everything I tried, she insisted on going in to speak with the owner.”
McPherson scratched the space between their eyebrows with a manicured finger. “So you now have a house in your neighborhood that was built by a dead man who made a deal with the Ogru Dem. And you let your wife and your mistress go in.” In the dim light, the violet of their eyes burned. “You thought that was a good idea?”
“I didn’t let them go in!” Oliver moved his hands, trying to swat away blame. “I couldn’t stop them!”
The stranger sighed, exasperation leaking out in a long exhale. “Mistress is another word for master, Oliver. So you had a wife and a master. Now you’ve broken both relationships on the altar of Naugle’s house.” The inspector looked at Oliver again, this time with something like pity. “What did you do with the stone, you moron?”
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The travels of Marco Polo could have happened without purpose. Yes, trade and riches were at their center. Nothing more (which is to say nothing of value) would have come from Polo’s ventures, though, if the great Khan had not sat the young Venetian down and asked, “What have you learned of my realms?”
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The large, brightly colored homes of Slakterquay’s South Slope neighborhood stood in stark contrast to the gray sky. Pink hydrangeas ringed the small, well tended lawns and window boxes of tulips and bee balm fluttered in the autumn air, the mailboxes bright white near the streets’ black pavement. It looked like a place where children should be playing outside, dogs should be chasing balls, and respectful neighbors would be driving slowly to avoid harming such innocents.
None of these things were present.
There were two figures. One was tall and dressed in black from head-to-toe. The other only matched in that the figure’s hair was as black as the other’s dress. Slight as well as diminutive, the shorter one wore a tailored, wool suit as gray as the Northwest sky that hung over Slakterquay, with skin pale enough that it stood out against any color the neighborhood possessed. Both stared at a dwelling that looked like none of the others in the neighborhood.
Standing on the corner of Coves and Rattler, the house they observed was three stories of weathered gray stone, with patches of lichen and moss clinging to its face. Darkened windows spotted it at irregular intervals, the highest alone near its peaked roof. The eye bent around the house’s frame, as if gravity pulled the viewer’s gaze along the incline of the street.
“There’s no reason that house should have permits to function in this community,” the tall one on the corner said to his short companion. “It’s a business operating in a residential neighborhood. Technically, that’s only allowed with special dispensation.”
The short one stared at the boarding house intently, smiling like the devil. “And…?”
Korbin glanced at his associate, which mostly gave him a view of the top of her well-coiffed hair. He breathed a deep sigh and flattened out the front of his lapels, “McPherson, do you have to enjoy this as much as you are?”
Aggie McPherson continued to smile. “You don’t bring a spectral analyst to look at a boarding house because it’s operating without the correct permits. This place looks old enough that it could have been grandfathered in.”
Korbin countered, “I’ve checked the files down at the city clerks office. There aren’t any permits on record.” When McPherson only turned a cocked eyebrow at him, he continued with, “The house might as well not exist.”
The inspector pushed the hair out of her eyes. “And yet it does.”
Korbin took a long breath, knowing Aggie was relishing this. “Clearly. However, no one remembers it being here.”
McPherson chuckled, looking up and down at the block with its very fine homes, luxury cars in driveways. Korbin sighed, sensing the analyst calculate how much she could gouge from the homeowners for her services. Instead of talking terms, though, the diminutive analyst asked, “Anyone remember when it appeared?”
“No. It seems as if it’s always been there, but no one remembers seeing it when they moved in.”
“You say it’s a boarding house?”
“If we get closer you’ll see a small placard in a window stating rates. $1 a night.”
McPherson’s eyes brightened so that Korbin could sense it without even glancing at her. “That’s impossibly cheap.”
“Indeed,” Korbin agreed. “As you can imagine, it’s attracted all sorts of unsavory types. Strangers moving in and out of the neighborhood on a regular basis. Men the people here never get to know but live near their children before departing to parts unknown.”
McPherson turned a critical eye onto Korbin. “Are you saying that no one noticed the house until they saw vagrants moving in and out of it?”
Prepared to receive the analyst’s usual commentary on the human race Korbin equivocated. “I wouldn’t call them vagrants, necessarily.” McPherson laughed then, musical, like something one might hear from behind the bushes in a secret garden.
Before he could respond McPherson’s mouth snapped shut and she practically trembled with anticipation. “Korbin, you do bring me the very best strange. So who’s spoken to them?”
“I’m sorry?”
“This is a high class neighborhood, Korbin. The plot of land that house sits on is worth a small fortune. Surely someone has gone in to talk to the owner?”
Korbin glanced around at the quiet neighborhood, wondering what McPherson had deduced that from. “A few of the residents have. I understand a few realtors have as well.”
McPherson stared up at her taller companion, batting her eyelashes ridiculously, urging him to continue. “No one has ever noticed the fate of the realtors,” Korbin continued, eliciting a shrug from his compatriot. “The residents have come out, but…different.”
McPherson ceased her ridiculous mugging to find some empathy for the street’s residents. “Different how?”
Korbin paused. “Just…different. They’ve uniformly changed their mind about the boarding house, saying it’s a good thing. Unwilling to discuss it beyond that, but some of the wives have noticed their husbands sneaking back to the house at odd hours.”
“All husbands? No women?”
“Well, the first person to go in is a woman. Anne Derby. Her husband hired me.”
“Why?”
“She hasn’t come out.”
“Why hasn’t he gone to the police?”
“I don’t know. He seemed,” Korbin paused, then abandoned his attempt at diplomacy for the truth. “Afraid.”
“Of the house?”
“No. Of embarrassing his wife. Police showing up in South Slope to investigate a house no one remembers would cause a scandal.”
From her lower height, McPherson somehow managed to appear as if she were looking down at Korbin. He only lifted his shoulders closer to his dark head of hair in a shrug. “Or so I’ve been told.” He pointedly stared at a nearby home where a figure could be seen standing behind the curtains of a bay window.
Under that shadowed gaze, Korbin reflexively tightened as he felt Aggie put her arm through his and began to walk towards the boarding house. With his greater height he was able to stop her, but with what he found was a surprising amount of effort. “What are you doing?”
McPherson laid her devilish smile onto Korbin. “We’re going in, of course.”
“Why would I have brought you here if I wanted to go in?” Korbin attempted to remove his arm from the inspector’s grip. She held on with enough strength that forcibly removing himself would have cost each of them their dignity.
“Mr. Halvorsen,” McPherson said his last name with emphasis, “You wouldn’t let a slight individual such as myself go into a house filled with ne’er-do-wells, would you?”
“McPherson,” Korbin countered with his own intensity, “the residents contracted me to find a solution to their problem. I found you.”
McPherson waggled her eyebrows in a way that Korbin thought might have been meant to charm, but only added to her impishness. “Yes, you did. And as a part of the conditions for my services I’m going to require that you come with me.”
Korbin smoothed the ruffles McPherson’s grip had put into his jacket as a way of avoiding her gaze. After a moment, “Fine. I’ll assist for a percentage of your fee.”
In a tone so serious that Korbin knew he was being mocked, McPherson replied, “Haven’t the residents already paid you to find a solution to their problem? Couldn’t taking a percentage of my fee be viewed as a kickback?” She winked at him. “Wouldn’t that be considered a breach of your ethics?”
Korbin frowned, unhappy with this logic but unable to contest it. He straightened himself to his full height to make this as awkward as he could for this associate. “Very well.”
With confident strides Korbin led the way to the stone house as if this had been his idea all along. In truth, he was beginning to wish he had called Detective Fel instead of McPherson.
The front entrance was a solid wood door which had survived the weathering and scratches of age even if its paint had not. There was no doorbell, but a bronze knocker.
Releasing his arm, McPherson rapped on the door and, when that received no response, rapped loudly with the knocker. They waited.
“Well,” Aggie said in a huff, suggesting someone was being very rude. She reached for the doorknob. It was then that it cracked open and a small, yellow eye peeked from the darkness within the house.
“Oh, good afternoon.” The door swung open revealing the eye belonged to a stolid woman, blonde hair done up in a bun and sun wrinkles on her square face despite its paleness. Her slight frame was covered in a patterned dress under a sturdy apron. She smiled, the expression missing her eyes, which appeared as bright as the leaden sun that fell upon her. “My apologies. I was downstairs cleaning.”
Korbin paused on the doorstep, feeling he recognized the woman. In that silence, McPherson issued a warm greeting and stated, “We were hoping to find a room for the night.”
The woman rose up to a matronly stance and examined the inspector carefully. An uncertainty crept into her friendly tone as she said, “I’m afraid we only cater to single men in this house.”
“Of course,” McPherson replied, smiling still, but Korbin became aware that her demeanor had changed. McPherson was now feet instead of inches from Korbin. The woman’s eyes narrowed in an examination that Korbin was quite sure he would have wilted under, but the McPherson’s smile remained unchanged, her stance unshaken.
“My apologies. Please come in,” the hostess replied as she stepped back, opening the door wider to reveal a large foyer. Aggie led the way while Korbin paused at the threshold, struck by the oddity of the central room.
It was lit as if it was the darkest night outside, with several sconces throughout. To the far right was a stairwell that bent around the corner of the room to wind up and down to unseen levels. Next to it was a small, fixed desk, with a large registry on it that looked like it was acquired from an antiquing expedition. Aside from the desk, stairs, and door frames, the room was constructed of perfectly fitted, if irregularly sized, stones. The left side was only interrupted by a large framed picture of a man wearing a black frock coat and vest, atop which sat a large bald head pale as a fish’s belly, adorned only by a walrus mustache that the best it could to cover his face.
The portrait didn’t quite sit straight in its frame which, when combined with the bending stairwell, set the entire room askew. Entering the house, Korbin felt as if were walking at a slight angle.
The woman and her bun bobbed behind the desk where she picked up a fountain pen, hand resting over the large open registry. “How many nights will you be staying with us?”
McPherson craned her head, taking in the room in as she answered. “Just one night.”
“Delightful. Two rooms for one night then?”
The inspector’s eyes snapped onto the older woman. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
The sternness from before returned into the proprietress’s gaze, making Korbin hesitate in closing the door behind him. She stared directly at him, though, making him feel as if he had little choice. When the door clicked shut, she responded, “Lillian Clark.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Clark. And who is this fine gentleman on the wall?”
Clark set down her pen, a smile blooming from her wrinkles. “Jeremiah Naugle. He’s one of our founders.”
“Of the house?”
“Oh yes,” Clark tittered in a way that made her sound like a schoolgirl with a crush. “But I meant the city.”
“Interesting.” Aggie studied the portrait causally before adding, “I thought I knew Slakterquay’s history, but I’ve never heard of Naugle.”
Clark became ramrod straight, only bending her neck to find her pen again. “Well, these days, not everything that’s true makes it into the history books.”
McPherson snorted, worrying Korbin that she might be ridiculing Clark. Instead, McPherson agreed, “That’s certainly true. What was his contribution? To the city, I mean.”
“Oh, that goes back a ways.” Pen in hand, Clark floated it above the registry’s pages as if tracing a route on a map. Korbin found himself watching it rather than his partner. “The South Slope wasn’t even a neighborhood when this place was built. This was just a lodge he built for communing.”
“Communing?”
“Yes. A decent place for men to come together: Trappers, miners, dockworkers. He even invited in some of the natives. A safe haven for all.”
“Natives. You mean the X’Komish?” Uncomfortable with McPherson’s invoking the name of Slakterqay’s indigenous people, Korbin turned to studied Clark’s reaction.
He saw the matronly sternness of her expression was replaced with a mild confusion that caused her to tap the pen on her chin. The gesture along with her laugh made her appear younger, as well as more familiar. “No, I don’t think that was their name. But he built this lodge to commune with them. Of course, that was a long time ago. Now his home serves as a humble place to give travelers a safe place to rest.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It is. Some people who stay here even say they dream of him.” Korbin blinked and found himself staring into Clark’s yellow eyes, the woman no longer behind the desk, but only feet from him. “Do you?”
Korbin took a reflexive step back. “Do I what?”
“Dream?” Clark asked.
Looking around the room, Korbin tried to locate McPherson, but answered, “I’m sorry, I seem to be out of sorts.”
“That’s alright, dear.” Clark took him by the arm and guided him toward the front desk. This close, he found her familiarity only increased. “Why don’t you sign in and we’ll get you someplace comfortable to rest.”
“Yes,” McPherson’s words caused her to reappear as if she had summoned herself. “Why don’t you? I’ll find other accommodations.”
Korbin and Clark spoke at the same time. “What?”
“I’ll need to find other accommodations.” McPherson spoke to Clark. “You said only single men stay here.”
Clark examined McPherson more closely, the features on her square face slowly arranging themselves into downward vectors. “My apologies. I didn’t realize.”
To Korbin’s increasing alarm, McPherson replied, “That’s no trouble. It happens all the time.”
Aggie shrugged while Korbin stared at her, trying his best to telepathically signal that her departure wasn’t welcome. He pulled himself from Clark to ask McPherson, hand on her upper arm. “Where are you going?”
“Oh, now Korbin, a big strong man like you should be fine.”
Korbin lowered his voice to nearly a hiss. “McPherson, I recognize our proprietress. She’s Anne Derby.”
The analyst pried Korbin’s hand from her bicep. “Then I guess I’ll start by letting her husband know we found her. Won’t he be thrilled?”
Thinking of the photo Mr. Derby had shown Korbin of his wife, it was difficult to think that he would be overjoyed by the news. The woman behind the counter appeared to have no recollection of who she was, but now that his mind had hit upon it, the resemblance was unmistakable. “That wasn’t our agreement.”
Aggie finished pulling his fingers from her blazer, looking irritated that he had wrinkled the costly fabric. “I’ll be back,” she reassured him.
And it almost did. Right until the door closed behind her and Korbin heard Derby speak from behind him. “Now, why don’t we get you signed in?”
The only warning was a long, slow susurrus, a wind whipping through the trees to rip leaves off and force birds to take flight. It did not abate, though, and forced Julie to push the hair out of her eyes before she could see the coming tornado.
She shrieked, in fear yes, but also so her brothers could hear her over the rising gale. The funnel hadn’t been there a moment ago and now it was and the barn would offer little protection. Julie imagined the cows flying through the air, like readying for a trip to Oz, but with her brothers thrown into the mix.
Tony would try to save the cows, lead them into the storm shelter. He would never make it in time.
Harry would try to save his brothers, arguing with Tony to forget the cows, wasting precious seconds. He’d waste his breath until the air was ripped from his lungs.
Gavin would try to save himself, hanging onto the barn until the tornado tore him away. He would never be strong enough to resist it.
Julie saw all of this before the tornado even touched the fields. She knew she would never see her brothers again.
