Hannah was shivering by the time she got home. Six years and she still hadn’t gotten used to the New York cold. Not even the down jacket her father gave her was warm enough. Maybe her blood was too thin. Maybe she still pined for the West Coast and unconsciously refused to adapt. Either case, her fingers were blue and her teeth were chattering as she reached the corner where her apartment stood.
A door beside an old pharmacy led to her rooms on the second floor. Hannah felt claustrophobic every time she climbed the stairs to get there. Everything about her apartment was small. The doorway was narrow, the ceilings were low, and the bathroom was little more than a closet.
Looking over her kingdom, Hannah felt a pang of jealousy over Emily Lisbon’s apartment. How did a waitress afford something that size? Hannah lived in two rooms, one inside the other. The alcove that held a stove, mini-fridge, and sink didn’t count. The rest was a bedroom and tiny bath. At least she was still living in it; that’s more she could say for Emily.
There was noise coming from the apartment above her. The neighbors were of the soccer persuasion. There seemed to be games going on all day, every day. Instinctively, Hannah grabbed a broom by the door and pounded the ceiling. It was used only for this purpose. Never worked. Moaning, she closed her front door and shuffled into her bedroom.
Dropping her bag onto the bed, she rummaged for her notepad and phone. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Nine forty-five. Riding the train home ate up most of her night. Climbing over her bed, she sat down at the desk crammed into a corner. She flipped through her notes as a laptop booted up.
Hannah wasn’t a good reporter. She was still new and had yet to develop those instincts that could make her a force to be reckoned with. As a newcomer, she also lacked connections with the people who actually would buy her articles. Also, she bit her nails. But she was convinced that with this story, she would make her mark.
Looking over her notes, she tried to puzzle out Emily Lisbon’s disappearance. It was a case that everyone would want to read about. A string of missing women, the cops baffled, a bizarre consultant. Maybe she could pitch it to a magazine? These delusions of grandeur filled her head as she tried to hammer out a few pages.
Hannah looked at her notes, trying to think of adjectives to describe Silas Black. “Absurd” didn’t sound punchy enough. Nothing sounded right in her head. The man was a lunatic, she was convinced. On top of that, she was shocked the NYPD asked for his help. But she couldn’t explain away the fact that he did find the figurine.
She saw the tiny black eyes staring back at her. Hannah had tried to forget what happened at the apartment. She was stressed, after all. But she saw fetish whenever she closed her eyes. It was no longer a piece of wood. The figurine’s chest rose and fell like it was breathing. It opened its mouth and a long, black tongue lolled out. Hannah tried to focus on the screen. She shook her right hand, ignoring the lingering burning sensation.
Her phone buzzed. Hannah jumped, recovered, and picked it up.
“Oh my God, I’ve been dying to talk to you,” said a perky voice. “You will not believe the day I just had. Twenty new patients in the ICU and of course, Dar was nowhere. You remember Dar, right? The idiot who never finishes her paperwork. Anyway, I’m totally beat.”
“Yeah you sound terrible, Liz,” Hannah said.
“Forget it, I’m dead.”
“Sounds more exciting than my day.”
“What were you up to?” Liz asked. “Land any stories?”
Hannah’s eyes ran over her notes. “Found something. I dunno. A home invasion in the Bronx. Might be a serial thing. Checked out the crime scene myself.”
“Wow, that’s exciting,” Liz said.
“I guess.” Hannah spoke with the enthusiasm of a pallbearer.
“What’s wrong, can’t make a story out of it?”
“No, I got to make a story out of it,” Hannah said. “Got bills to pay.”
“Sounds like there’s a story,” Liz said. “Serial kidnapping, talk about clicks. Who knows, this could get your foot in the door with the Times.”
“Hmm,” Hannah said, unconvinced.
“Seriously, Hans, you’ve been busting your ass for years,” Liz said. “You work long nights, run all over the city, take whatever work comes your way. It’s time for your big break.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” Hannah said.
“But get it done ASAP,” Liz said. “Then we need to go out. We both need to let off some steam.”
“Is that your professional diagnosis?” she asked.
“Yes. We’ll do something soon. Get the gang together. Cause a ruckus.”
“Paint the town red,” Hannah said.
“Get as much done as you can tonight, but sign off early,” Liz said. “Rest, kid.”
“Okay, mom.”
“I’m serious. As your physician, I’m ordering you to do something to take the edge off.”
“Sure thing,” Hannah said. She turned to her computer screen and the document that sat there waiting. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Hannah tossed the phone onto her bed and returned to the keyboard. There was so much more she wanted to write. But the words didn’t come. Her eyes felt dry and heavy. She got up and closed the laptop. Almost tripping over her chair, she made her way to the bathroom.
Stripping down to her underwear, she turned on the tub. She found a jar of lavender bath salts under the sink. Convinced they were left by a previous tenant, she poured them in any way. Hannah had no idea how much to use. She emptied the jar. The bathroom was filled with a heady scent. It turned her stomach. She sat on the toilet and waited.
The water rippled in rhythmic patterns. Hannah stared at it until the foam started to form faces. Large, bubble eyes looked back at her. Mouths like fish puckered, popping as they screamed. The faces crowded together. They frothed and boiled. Hannah could hear them wailing. She turned off the water, the tub only half-full, and stood up.
The room tilted around her. Hannah grabbed the sink. Slowly, the dizziness passed. Looking up, she studied herself in the mirror. Her hair clung to her shoulders like seaweed. Her skin was pale, too pale. A part of her wished she was back West. She was never this pale, even in October. Walking back to the tub she pulled the stopper.
Hannah put on some old sweats and sat on the edge of her bed. She grabbed the TV remote from the nightstand. Holding it out, she noticed how much her hand was shaking. She dropped the remote. She rubbed her hands together and blew into them. But they weren’t cold. Hannah went to the kitchen.
She found the old bottle of Bourbon from her dad. Spilling some into a glass, she took a swig. Most of the liquor made it into her mouth. The glass slipped from her hands as the room began to spin. It was much worse this time. Her stomach flipped. Whatever was in it, Bourbon and all was coming out. She reached the sink in time and slid to the floor when it was over. The voices were back. Far away, but clear. She pressed her hands to her ears.
Another sound crowded in. At first, she thought it was the blood in her ears. She let go of her head and heard it coming from the short hallway leading to her front door. Someone was banging, violently, relentlessly. A battering ram throttled the old door. She watched it shake with every blow. Struggling to her feet, Hannah took the two steps necessary to reach her bed before falling over.
Her hand was on her phone when the door burst open. Hannah hid behind her bed, holding her breath. Someone stepped into her apartment with wet, squelching feet. They were breathing slowly, taking long, phlegmy wheezes. Hannah heard them stop at the sink, sucking in the smell of Bourbon and vomit.
Noiselessly, Hannah slipped on her boots. Just a few inches away was the fire escape. But she couldn’t reach it without being seen. She froze as she felt a hand tug at her bedspread. From upstairs, a door flung open. One of the neighbors was shouting down to her. The intruder growled and bounded back to the door. Hannah made her move.
She threw open the window and rushed down the fire escape. As she hit the street, something like a bark echoed above her. She did not look up as she fled into the night, in boots and old pajamas.
#
Silas was annoyed. He sat in his favorite chair. The fetish sat across from him. He started by taking thorough measurements of the object. With a ruler and a scale meant for weighing food, he documented its dimensions. Silas wrote everything down in an enormous ledger he had found at a consignment shop. He debated taking a sample of the wood. That was decided for him, as no tool he owned could chip it.
After several hours of sifting through textbooks, grimoires, and online message boards, he was none the wiser. Silas had resorted to making sketches of the fetish, as a sort of diversion. When he was done with that, he made his way to the kitchen. A Styrofoam container of Pad Thai was sitting out. He had picked it up on his way home and forgot about it immediately. Fishing a fork out of the sink, he opened the box and started eating. He returned to the living room, mouth full of noodles. The fetish was gone.
“Now, we’re getting somewhere.”
Silas put down the food. He retrieved a baseball bat from behind the couch. Reaching the window, he pulled back the curtains. The fetish was on the sill, face turned to the glass.
“Are you trying to get out?” Silas said, tapping the window with the bat. “You don’t have any hands, Kemosabe. Besides, how do you expect to use the fire escape? That’s three stories down. You’d be smashed to bits. Then, you’d be smiling.”
The fetish, to its credit, did not respond. Silas tossed the bat aside and picked up the figurine. It still felt like a piece of wood with something heavy inside. There were no signs it was about to jump out of his hand.
“No more funny business, all right? Believe me, that fireplace isn’t for show.”
He set the fetish back on the fire bench that served as his coffee table. Sitting back down, he resumed staring at the fetish. He threaded his fingers, resting his chin on his knuckles. Soon, he was dozing. A noise roused him. Silas’s eyes went to the fetish. It hadn’t moved. He heard the noise again.
“Are you doing that?”
The fetish didn’t respond.
It came again. Silas finally realized someone was knocking at the door. Rising, he dumped the fetish into an ironbound chest, locking the lid. He worked his way through the kitchen, down the hall, and to the entryway. Unlatching the chain, two deadbolts, and a security bar, he opened the door.
A short man with a round head was standing in the doorway. He was wearing a black coat, black gloves, with a black bowler hat in his hand. Spectacles sat on the end of his nose, glinting in the light. Tucked under an arm was a jet walking stick with a femur-shaped handle. Silas knew it was a real femur. The man smiled in a placatory way.
“Sorry for the late call, but I was swamped all day.”
Silas squinted at him. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
The smile fell from the man’s lips. “You know damn well who I am, Silas Black.”
“Abernathy?” Silas said, with a mock grin. “My goodness, how many years?”
“Fifteen,” Peter Abernathy said. “Are you going to invite me in or not?”
“You’re not supposed to let vampires into your home,” Silas said.
“Don’t be cute,” Abernathy said. “I need to speak with you.”
“Need is a funny word,” Silas said. “It suggests that I’m obligated to help you, just because you say it. The reality is, I’m not.”
The old man tried to muster up some cordiality. “Come now, son, is that any way to treat your father’s oldest friend?”
“Yes.” He was already closing the door on him. The walking stick shot out, jamming the door open.
“I came all this way to see you, Silas. At least give me five minutes.”
Silas moved back and allowed the man a few steps inside.
“Just got back from Bora Bora,” Abernathy said as he removed his gloves and rubbed his hands. “It’s wonderful this time of year. Not like this abominable city. October and already forty degrees.”
Silas crossed his arms as he studied his visitor.
“You’ve aged, Abe,” he said. “And not well.”
Abernathy cast him a sour glance. “We all grow old, Silas. Even the best of us.”
“Is that what you call yourself?”
Abernathy ignored the comment. “As you know, your father Henry and I were members of a club for collectors of rare, historical artifacts.”
“The Society of Muninn,” Silas said. “My father founded it. You were just a member.”
“We founded it together,” Abernathy said. “I’m sure you remember the many wonderful treasures we acquired over the years. Some we gave to the university, some we kept for ourselves. When Henry died, one of those items disappeared.”
“Why are you telling me this, Abe?”
“I’m sure you’ve seen it. It was an onyx statuette, about yay big, of the seven-headed beast from the Book of Revelation. A classic symbol of mankind’s penchant for rebellion. We called it the Beast Stone.”
“Lovely,” Silas said. “What does that have to do with me?”
“I have spent years searching for it,” the old man said. “The only logical conclusion is that it was passed onto you when Henry died.”
“Then it belongs to me,” Silas said. “Do you expect me to hand it over?”
“It never belonged to Henry,” Abernathy said. “It was Society property. I want it back.”
“The Society disbanded when Henry died,” Silas said. “I don’t have to give you anything.”
“Silas, I’m not an unreasonable man,” he said. “I’m willing to pay you for it. Just name your price.”
Silas smiled. Leaning forward, he placed his lips near Abernathy’s ear. “Get out of my apartment.”
The old man hissed. He glared at Silas. “Don’t be a fool, boy. Why keep something you don’t even need?”
“And, pray tell, why do you need it?” Silas asked.
Abernathy was reluctant to answer. “It has great sentimental value.”
“M-hm. I doubt you want to sell it. You antiquarians could never part with your trinkets. So, what could it be?”
“Speculate all you want. I’ve told you the truth.”
“Speculating’s what I do best,” Silas said.
Abernathy was growing impatient. “If you won’t hand it over willingly, I’ll be forced to use harsher methods.”
“Oh? Like what?”
The old man carefully put on his hat. He clapped twice and stepped away from the door. A shadow filled the entryway as a mountain dressed in men’s clothes pushed his way inside. Both Silas and Abe were forced to give him room. He had a box-shaped face that looked like a granite wall. His hands were bigger than Silas’s head. In one of them was a blackjack.
“This is Gunther,” Abernathy said. “My valet. He’s not one for words, you understand. He likes to take a hands-on approach.”
Gunther swung one of his mitts, backhanding Silas in the chest. The detective was knocked into the kitchen. Chairs and books were scattered across the floor. Before he could get up, Gunther was on him.
“You have ten minutes to fetch me the Beast Stone,” Abernathy said. “Or Gunther will tear you, and this apartment, to shreds.”
“I have cop friends, Abe,” Silas said.
“I have more,” the old man said.
A hand reached down and engulfed the front of Silas’s shirt. He was lifted off his feet, his head hitting the ceiling.
“What is it going to be?” Abe asked.
“I don’t have the stone, you old fruit,” Silas said. “I’ve never even seen it.”
Abernathy walked over and looked into Silas’s face. “You’re lying.”
“I can show you the will if you like.”
The old man’s face twisted like a shrunken apple. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Silas said. “Now tell Lennie to let me go.”
Abernathy turned on a heel and marched to the front door.
“Come, Gunther.”
The valet let go of Silas. He squeezed himself through the front door, closing it gingerly. Silas was sprawled across his kitchen table. There was definitely a fork stuck in him. Eventually, he got back up, dusted dirt and crumbs from his clothes, and returned to his living room. He was almost to his favorite chair when there came another knock. The detective groaned as he went back into the hallway.
“What, did you forget your walking stick?”
He opened the door. It was Hannah. She was dressed in wrinkled sweats and boots, her hair clinging to her skin.
“I need your help.”