It was late. The office was dark, save for the dim, yellow circle of light thrown off by the desk lamp.
Kurtz was very still. His eyes were closed, hands steepled under his chin. He looked like a man praying. He was not.
Several sheets of paper were spread out on the desk in front of him, their surfaces filled with slanted, close-knit writing, spattered with ink stains and crimson blots of what looked like blood. Paragraphs were interspersed with shadowy sketches of pale figures and cryptic, crudely drawn maps.
The phone rang, an old fashioned metallic trill. Kurtz did not move, but his eyes slid open, like those of a crocodile hearing the sound of approaching hooves.
He picked up the phone on the third ring.
"Kurtz speaking," he said.
He tilted his head slightly to the side.
"Commissioner, I appreciate you returning my call- despite the hour. I hope you understand what needs to be done?"
He traced one of the etchings on the paper in front of him with a single, manicured finger as Santa Somabra's police commissioner babbled excuses into his ear.
"I- we- understand the difficulties involved, Commissioner, that's why
we backed you for the office over the Nyctari's preferred candidate. Over the Syndicate's candidate. You were a man our community of clients and investors could trust in difficult situations. Now we are trusting you to handle Officer Kennedy for us, Bloodbloom connections or no. Or do
I have to handle this matter myself?"
A smile flickered over his mouth as he listened.
"I thought not," he said, "I don't much care how you resolve this issue, Commissioner, and I don't much care if this trash-heap-of-a-city's blood suckers, whore mongers and drug peddlers throw a collective fit, as long as Kennedy and his little friends are no longer in a position to act against our interests. If you're so afraid to confront the mafia, don't.
See what happens."
Kurtz hung up, green eyes returning to the papers in front of him.
"Francis Cain," he said softly to no one in particular, "You don't what you've found. What you're fucking, even."
A grin broke out across Kurtz's face. He picked up the phone once again and spun the dial.
"This is Kurtz, of Barrow & White. I'm calling for Madame Roquelaire," he said, "Occupied? No, no need to disturb her, just tell her I'm calling with an update regarding our recent arrangement. That I have something here she'll be very interested to see."
- The Afternoon Previous -
It had been a herculean task, but she had managed to conceal the bruises, scrapes, and wounds under layers of makeup and clothing. She had tried, truly, to dress up going as far to make sure that her stockings weren’t torn, her skirt wasn’t skimpy, her shirt didn’t have any weird stains, her cardigan wasn’t burnt, and her boots were clean from the grime of her rumble with Vengeance. However, as she walked past the prima donnas in pantsuits that lined the financial district smoking cigarettes or taking late lunch breaks she couldn’t help but feel underdressed for her meeting. At the very least, she felt that she didn’t appear professional—although, at the very least she no longer appeared as if she had crawled out of the gutter. Valorie paused in front of a reflective mirror, looked at herself, and frowned.
I look like I’m trying to start a glee club or go door to door to tell people about my lord and savior, not offer my services as a fucking necromancer, she thought.
But it’s too late to pin some dead crows to my shirt.She tossed her cigarette in the street as she crossed it, quickening her pace ever so slightly as the little green man started blinking out of existence. Valorie didn’t even look up to admire the building's classical architecture. A piece of gum was already in her mouth as she popped out her headphones and pushed through the rotating doors, stepping into a tasteful lobby with high ceilings, marbled floors, and slate walls. She felt butterflies swell up in her stomach as she approached the front desk; a sharp, shapely young lady looked up at her and smiled. Valorie was about to mention how Cain had sent her here, but the woman spoke first.
“The Firm has been expecting you,” she said and gestured. “Take that elevator to the top floor.”
Valorie nodded dumbly and followed where the woman had pointed. As she called for the elevator, the young necromancer felt eyes on her. The lobby, however, was empty, and looking over her shoulder she could see that the woman at the front desk was absorbed in something on her tablet.
Still, she felt strangely uneasy, and actually jumped when the elevator door dinged to signal its arrival. Shaking her head at her own nerves, she entered the lift and pushed the button for the top floor. There was no slow, horrible muzak pumped through the speaker as she rode up the many floors, leaving her with just enough time to silently contemplate hitting a button to let her off on an earlier floor as she listened to the blood pumping in her ears. Before she could make up her mind, the elevator stopped and the doors opened.
She stepped forward into a softly lit, carpeted hallway. There were only two doors in the hallway. One led to an emergency exit, the other was at the far end of the hallway, and as Valorie approached she felt the air around her grow heavy. The door was crafted out of large, black oak. There was a single glass window set in the door. It was frosted so that she could not see through, with the words “Barrow & White” etched into the window. She grabbed ahold of the handle and, stopping herself from her usual behavior, knocked twice.
The door swung open immediately upon her second knock, and Valorie was greeted by a smiling man in a blue suit. His emerald pocket square matched his tie, and both matched the remarkable shade of his eyes. Shaved bald, heavy set in a neat, tidy way that gave no hint of fat or flab, he managed the rare feat of looking distinctive, even peculiar, without seeming ugly or distastefully odd.
"Hello Ms. Peirce!" he said, clapping well-manicured hands together, "So good of you to come. I am Kurtz. Please, please come in!"
She couldn't help but notice the whiteness of his teeth. It reminded her of that goblin, Gish. More importantly, it reminded her of the sorry state of her own teeth. She offered him a tight-lipped smile, trying to appear confident or polite and feeling as if she had failed at both. At least she had been able to fix her eyes, bloodshot from the cornucopia of drugs that had torn through her system, with eye drops—she would have felt ridiculous hiding behind a pair of shades, especially in front of someone who appeared to be so professional. She immediately felt that she had made a mistake by coming here. She knew Cain was trying to help her out, but god damn it, the man had a pocket square. Valorie didn't actually know what the purpose of the thing was, but she knew what it meant. A pocket square meant that she was dealing with someone way out of her league.
"Okay, yeah, thanks," she said, swallowing her gum but with hopes that it would take her nerves with it. "Nice to meet you."
"I appreciate your availability on such short notice. Unfortunately, our usual contractors could not be used for this particular task- which is rather, ah, politically delicate. Still, I am absolutely
thrilled to make a new acquaintance. The Firm is always on the lookout for...
rising talent. I hope our partnership will prove mutually fruitful, since the resources we can make available to an ambitious occultist are- I hope you will not think this mere braggadocio- simply unmatched, at least in this city," said Kurtz, leading his guest down a carpeted, wood paneled hallway and into a cozy office lined with bookshelves. A bank of gothic windows gave a fantastic view of the Somabran skyline.
Kurtz seated himself behind a heavy wooden desk and gestured for Valorie to sit. The painting behind him was just slightly too large for the room, depicting Cronos devouring his children. Blood and viscera dribbled from the titan's crooked mouth.
"Can I get you something to drink, my dear? Coffee, tea, something stronger?" asked Kurtz, "One magus of my acquaintance refuses to even begin work without a dram- or two, or three- of some liquor derived from a very rare fungus only found in the depths of the Amazon, and we both know, I daresay, about the drinking habits of our mutual friend Mr. Cain! It has never impaired his abilities in my experience, so please don't be shy."
Valorie pulled her eyes away from the violent painting and gave a knowing smile. She felt herself relax a bit more in her chair.
"I could go for something stronger," she said. Part of her wanted to inquire if he had any of that mystery mushroom drink. She had been told by one of her Rat friends about something called Ayahuasca, a hallucinogenic tea made from some vines or something, and wondered if the liquor was like it—perhaps a kind of absinthe that actually really caused you to trip. She refrained.
"I'd take a vodka tonic. Or anything, really. I'm not terribly picky," she said, waving her hand dismissively as if it wasn't a big deal. It wasn't a complete lie. She did have strong feelings when it came to certain types of liquor, but she found it that being under the legal age quickly allowed her to swallow her opinions as well as disgusting shots of cheap tequila and whatever the fuck Jägermeister was supposed to be.
She felt her eyes drifting back to the painting, greedily drinking it in. She suspected that it was supposed to be intimidating in someway, but all it did was excite her. She saw flashes of Vigilance tearing through that girl again; could hear the melodic scream ringing through her ears. She turned away from the painting, staring out one of the windows. She felt the smile fade away.
She should talk, right? That's what business people do, isn't it?
"Fra—" She paused. "Cain only told me a little bit about you guys. I tried my own hand on researching your firm but, well, I couldn't find anything really useful. Just some bull, uh, stuff about art and antiques. I mean, I get it, nobody's going to go right out there and be like, hey man, we do, uh, uh,uh," she said, rolling her hands in an attempt to draw forth something shady sounding while still inoffensive. She couldn't. "Uh, whatever. My point is people generally don't look for a necromancer to help them pick out some artwork. I mean, unless the artist is dead," she said. Her voice kicked up a notch, her mind racing at the idea. "Man, could you bring back a Picasso or a Van Gogh from the dead? I mean, their body would be dusts and bones. I don't think skeletons would reanimate with enough dexterity to actually—" She shook her head and laughed quietly.
"What I mean is, what is it that the firm does, like, for real?" she said, softly adding, "If you don't mind me asking."
And why the hell do you need me, she thought.
"Armand," said Kurtz, depressing an intercom on his desk, "A vodka tonic for our guest, and- oh, it's early, but why not?- a glass of the Derleth merlot for me."
He drummed his fingers a moment on his desk, smiling quietly at Valorie, before speaking, "Art and antiquities are the lifeblood of the Firm's business. No
bull, I assure you. As an aspiring mage, you ought to recognize the power of the ancient and the exquisite. I just sold a thirteenth century copy of the
Mysteries of the Worm for thirty five million dollars to a collector in- of all places- Arkansas. We recently acquired the only known statue of Tiglath-Pileser IV, better known as the Gore Lord of Assyria. The bidding, my dear, will start at- well...you get the idea.
Nevertheless, you are correct that we do rather more than deal in the ancient and occult, which is why I've asked you here."
Armand entered the office with a tray bearing Valorie's cocktail and Kurtz's glass of red. He set the drinks down and left without a word. Kurtz tilted his glass to Valorie.
"To new friends," he said, taking a sip.
"Now, before we proceed, I must ask you to sign a, ah, non-disclosure agreement, of a kind," said Kurtz, producing a formal looking document from his desk drawer, "Don't worry, you're not signing away your -aha- soul, nor your freedom. You agree to keep the secrets of the Firm and not to work with the various disreputable factions who
think they run this city. In exchange, you will have limited access to our private archives, and the base pay for a job of this kind: $60,000. If you remain on retainer with us and we...find your services and skills up to the tasks we have for you, I can assure you that you'll earn considerably more than that. No more running around with...
Rats, nor unsavory police officials. You accept the jobs we offer you, when and if you wish to. You decline the ones you want no part of."
Kurtz pushed the form across the desk to Valorie. "The only catch," he said, "Is that you shouldn't cross us. Not once you sign."
"I understand," said Valorie, lifting her glass and taking a sip. "I'd never do a friend wrong."
Her head swam as she grabbed the pen. She was still trying to imagine what thirty five mill looked like, let alone how much sixty grand looked like. For a woman who never lived with more than a couple hundred dollars in her bank account at a time, it was all rather hard to fathom what she would even do with that money. Get a better apartment, perhaps, buy some designer clothes, save it? Her father had always talked to her about how she should be investing her money before she moved away. It'd be the smart idea, really, but another part told her that maybe it would be best for her to spend the money on a month-long bender, one final hurrah before completely going clean. Sixty grand could buy her a lot of party favors. No, no, that would be insane, and Cain had told her to stay away from that sort of stuff...but she did deserve a little bit of fun after this week. A reward for getting her shit together.
She signed without further hesitation. Even if they hadn't offered to pay her so much, she would've signed just to get access to what the man had referred to as their "private archives". As she set the pen down she felt a wave of anxiety rush over her as if she had just done something incredibly stupid, but it was gone the second she took a sip of her drink.
"So, since we are now documented besties, what exactly is a job of
this kind?" she said, leaning forward with piqued interest.
Kurtz swept the contract into a drawer which locked audibly as he closed it.
He stood, briskly circling around his desk and pulled a thick book, bound in black leather, from a heavy wooden box on his shelves. He set the tome in front of Valorie and retook his seat.
"That, Ms Pierce," he said, "Is a first edition replication of the
Blood Atlas of Akhmat Khan."
He sipped his wine, smiling, "I don't expect you have heard of it. Most people, even very learned occultists, have not, though I daresay there are a few vampires who would and could slaughter us both in an instant for even laying eyes on it."
"Huh, good thing it's day then," she said matter-of-factly. She noted how he had avoided answering her question. Still, since she was already, apparently, in trouble for even setting eyes on the cover of the book she decided that there would be no harm in being a curious cat and taking a look inside. Flipping through the pages, Valorie was greeted by a sea of tiny words compacted together in the sort of dense, impenetrable way older books always seemed to be. There were a few pictures as violent and as eye catching as the painting in Kurtz's office. Still, nothing instantly stood out to her that could justify a good ol' fashioned evisceration. She had to ask.
"What's its deal?" she said, jumping to the back of the book. "I know vampires are kind of pricks about everything, but this sorta just looks like an old book."
"The book is being quiet now, with me in the room," said Kurtz, "Sadly, I do not have a knack for communing with spirits- they usually seem intensely agitated by my presence, if not downright afraid of me! Quite mysterious, since I consider myself rather agreeable-no? Even so, I am going to step out in a few moments, and let you and the
Atlas become better acquainted."
He slid a piece of paper across the table to her, embossed with the letterhead of some place called The Rouge. The names
Samson Murolun and
De'Cahors were scrawled in elegant script across it in dark crimson ink.
"Give it these names. Ask it to show you where they are." Kurtz handed Valorie a pen and several sheets of blank paper.
"It may instruct you to write or draw- if so do not be concerned if you cannot understand your own scribblings. I...rather doubt you can read antique Turkic dialects." Kurtz said. He plucked a small dagger like a letter opener from his jacket and offered it to Valorie, "It may also require a blood offering."
Kurtz stood, buttoned his jacket and headed for the door. "Best of luck, Ms. Pierce! I'll be in the parlor, come fetch me when you're finished. Oh, and don't worry about getting blood on the carpet. This office has seen worse!"
And with that, he swept out of the room, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.
Valorie squinted at the note.
The Rouge. Sounds pretentious, she thought, setting it down and turning the tiny blade over in her hand. It looked ornate and was probably more expensive than anything she owned. Sighing, she set the knife down next to the note and scooted closer to the desk, looking at the thick leather tome. So she was supposed to, what, have a conversation with this? Part of her worried that this might be a test, that she was supposed to walk out of the room and chide Kurtz for thinking he could pull a fast one on her. She was supposed to say something with an air of haughtiness and perhaps a slight Shakespearean accent, such as, "The
Blood Atlas was created by
Ibak, not Akhmat, Khan," or, "A replication would not allow one to communicate through spirits," to show her knowledge of the occult. Truth be told, however, if that was the case then she sure as hell didn't know, and Kurtz hardly seemed like the kind of man who vetted people through such dishonest means. She'll talk to the book; worse case scenario she'd just look like an asshole. It wouldn't be a new thing.
"Hey, uh, book," she said, uncertain how to start. "You, er, you come here often—Val, what the hell is wrong with..." She shook her head. "Hey book, open sesame." She gestured her arms wide, as if she was parting the Red Sea. "Hocus pocus. Presto! Sim sim sala bim. Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo? Shazam!" Her hands were now above her head; she caught her reflection in the window. "Abracafuck this is stupid," she said, dropping her hands. She grabbed the note and gave the closed book a spiteful sideways glance. "Okay, dick, I want you to tell me where I can find Samson," she slowed her reading, trying to find a way to pronounce the scribbled names, "Murolun and De'Cahors?" Nothing. "Oh come the fuck on, man, give me a break," she whined, grabbing the book and flipping the cover open.
She fell back in her chair as a wave of spectral voices tore through her mind. It was similar to the rush she got when a spike went into her vein, but without the fun follow up feeling of euphoria or the exciting intimacy and morning after feeling of stupidity that comes from sharing a needle. It was too much, way too much. She grabbed onto the arms of the chair, her eyes rolling back into her head as her body thrashed and arched violently.
No no no, shit shit shit. Hateful voices that sounded as they were playing backwards taunted her as she jerked back in forth in her chair, her leg kicking against the desk and sending the chair crashing to the floor. She continued to seize as the spirits tried to possess her body, foam spilling out of the corners of her mouth. Valorie couldn't help but think of how weird it was to see herself thrash about like an addict overdosing as she stared down from above. Shit like this should've scared her straight, but it didn't.
She heard herself bark threats at the spirits, something about knowing a priest, something about destroying their book, something about how she was in control and if they wanted anything then they would have to play nice, although she wasn't sure if it was something her body actually said as if flopped about on the floor or something she had just projected through her mind. Whatever the case, she felt herself sit up as her eyes rolled back into place. She wiped the mess from her mouth and stood up slowly. She picked the chair back up but didn't sit in it, propping herself against the desk as she grabbed the pen, pulled back her sleeve, and then quickly sketched some runes on her forearm. A healing spell, but a slow acting one; it would take a minute for its effects to go in. Just long enough for her to give the book a generous offering, but not long enough to make her feel faint. She slashed the knife across her wrist, wincing in pain as she set her dripping arm down against an open page. The blood was already absorbing itself into the ravenous ink.
The voices were speaking again; they were calmer, tamed. Her hand acted on its own, grabbing the pen and sketching like a madwoman on the paper Kurtz had supplied her. Her eyes glazed over again and her vision blurred, but she did not lose her body to the spirits a second time. She listened to the voices as they spoke in foreign tongues that she didn't know but could somehow understand. As her vision focused she could see from the orange sky outside that more than an hour had passed. Her hand felt cramped. The desk in front of her was covered in papers crisscrossed with unknown words and barely recognizable symbols. Several of the pages were covered in drawings of building and maps.
Valorie, who could hardly even draw a stick figure without fucking it up, looked in awe at the few pages that had nearly photo-realistic sketches of people on it. One was of a tall and thin man with long darkly filled in hair and dark eyes standing next to a woman with hair that was hardly even shaded to make it appear blonde. The picture was labeled
Samson & Clarice and it was accompanied by two other detailed profiles of their faces. Another one was labeled
De'Cahors, their hair smeared with her blood to create a dark red color. From the first picture Valorie couldn't tell a single one of them apart, but the accompanying profiles showed the small, minute differences between the family. Valorie looked over at the book. It was closed, and although the desk around it was stained with blood there appeared to be not a single drop on the binding or the pages.
She took a minute to collect herself and to verify that, yes, the ward Cain had taught her had sealed her wound. She stepped out of the office and made her way down the hallway, poking her head into each door until she found the parlor. "It's finished. No sweat," she said weakly, forcing a smile and pointing to her bloodstained sleeve. "Do you have, like, a towel or something?"
[collab with
@Atrophy]
