Geist, p.11
Geist, page 11
Saul nodded, bangs flopping over his brow. He snatched the shot glass and stalked the bar like a blacksmith choosing a hammer or perhaps a vulture searching for carrion. Regardless, Victor watched the off-duty guitarist with hope. Not for the drink’s quality—rather, the promise of sweet oblivion. And so, step by step, he watched Saul’s “mixology.”
One shot of Motherfokker’s, and one shot of Five Year Lifeplan. Okay, deadly yet livable— Wait, is that 451 Sauce? Why is there a whiskey stone?
With a complimentary wink, Saul slammed the masterpiece in front of him, a double of crimson liquor, cloudier than a rain-flooded trench. No check or back. Even Victor knew what this meant. He gave it a sniff, only to gag at the curry-scented deathtrap.
F…fucking a!
Jerry and Saul stared at him, waiting. Victor stifled his disgust and “threw down” in a single go. It was a concoction of ethanol and nigh-volcanic spice. Throat blazing, Victor coughed and wheezed, but not a single drop trickled from his lips. When the fire subsided, he spat “the Rock” back into the glass, pounding his chest and raising a finger.
“N…never let me do that again,” he choked. “Please.”
“You’ll be fine.” Saul walked off. “Downed it in one go, right? Didn’t even try to bite the cube. Hungover? Sure. But the pain will make you stronger.”
“S…stronger?” Victor’s words tasted like copper. “What do you—?”
“Lemme translate,” Jerry interrupted as his brother descended the stairs. “Saul’s trying to say, ‘You’re one of us.’ If you’ve fucked up, he’d let you know. Trust me. He held your back against the de facto owner of Yoshiwara, right? We don’t do that for everyday douches.”
Victor was flattered, even if a tad guilty. He thought it odd how mere headspace could alter one’s perception of the entire world. If the Sunset Pagoda wasn’t his home, then why was he staying here? Victor smiled as pooling hot sauce melted into the ice.
“Glad to know where I stand,” he said. “Thanks.”
“There’s a little time before midnight.” Jerry started a pitcher until the tap sputtered with foam. “Cover your tracks and do your rounds. Got a bad feeling about this surge. I mean, feelings don’t have logic, but they’re still right sometimes.”
Victor stood up, sliding the shot glass aside. “Annoyingly so.”
The time for drinking and self-loathing was over as his wits returned. Jerry gave a nod of approval and left to open another keg. Armed with his sword and electro-staff, Victor pressed through the saloon doors as cold night air raked across his stubbled face.
#
The downpour was unrelenting. Victor wandered down High Street, knowing this neighborhood well enough. His boots sloshed in ash-spotted puddles; he kept his head low as city lights waned in the gathering dark. Hardly a soul was out tonight. Most of the regulars thought the Devil’s Hour was a conspiracy theory. The truth was not so simple.
Tonight’s surge will hit way harder than usual.
“You’re out late.” Leng stepped into vision, grinding a dead smoke under his heel. “Doesn’t take a detective to learn what happened either.” He lit and raised another to his lips. “I won’t pry. You probably explained it enough times for one night.”
“I could use a second opinion,” Victor said.
“What’s that?” Leng smirked. “Thought I was just a cynical misogynist—”
“About the Dollmaker,” he interrupted, heading to the East End.
“Hot damn. You’re all business tonight, arent’cha?”
Even at twenty to midnight, the back alleys reeked of rotten pork. Upton Tripery leered over the cobblestones; windows shattered and doors jammed, its sign swayed with the steam. The Dollmaker made his lair in that basement, but Victor knew better than to kick in the door. Shuddering, he slumped on an iron bench beneath the rusted canopies.
“So,” Leng sat next to him, “what’s up?”
“It’s about Edgar,” Victor said. “There’s a difference between hatred and thinking he’s behind it all. Still, how can someone run a city-wide conglomerate and be that obtuse?”
“He’s an idiot who thinks he’s a genius,” Leng replied. “Nothing’s more dangerous. It’s how Holy Gothica sank so low. Smoke and mirrors, and three shakes of faith.”
“That’s the problem,” Victor objected. “An idiot couldn’t outwit the Inquisition and basically own Yoshiwara. Edgar’s smarter than we think. He’s hiding something.”
Leng shot him a confused glance. “Like what?”
“I don’t want to jump to conclusions,” Victor said. “However, the Dollmaker said that Yuko’s the next target. I broke into Xanadu’s theater to warn her. Given it was opening night, complications happened. Fast. I handed the letter over to Edgar, but….”
“Fatcat thinks he can ‘save’ her on his own?”
“So he says, but I don’t believe that’s all,” Victor said. “I’m missing something. Still, I know what’ll happen if my suspicions are right. If Edgar’s the Dollmaker.”
Leng neither grinned nor scoffed, eyes darting about as if tracing an invisible map. “Huh,” he spoke up. “That’s emotionally compromising. Can’t exactly give my professional opinion. Personally? If you can prove it, I know a place that’ll detain him. Well, hopefully.” He stood and turned back to High Street. “Don’t try anything too stupid, okay?”
No promises.
Once again, Victor’s thoughts were infected with anxiety, bordering on macabre obsession. He wondered what separated “real” heroes from the masses. Was it that idealistic sense of self-righteousness? Or was it the sheer determination to “get shit done,” even for the wrong reasons? Regardless, Victor knew what he had to do.
I guess that alone is enough.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Xanadu was not a mere escape. Even the truest of paradises had to be maintained through infrastructure and discipline, just as every factory needed fuel.
Such philosophy had gotten Edgar this far, even if industry warped its results.
Beneath the midways and neatly trimmed gardens, the chocolatier sat in his secondary office, swiveling in a velvet armchair. The brandy was gone, and opium had long lost its charm. Though he’d changed each lightbulb, the office was darker than ever. Not even the fireplace soothed Edgar’s shakes; the reek of burning ink filled his nostrils.
“What’s done is done,” he muttered to himself. “No use in dwelling on it.”
Burning the letter wouldn’t change things, but it would ease his paranoia. Brushing his curling beard, Edgar watched dander, and blue hairs flutter onto the desktop. He gazed out the window upon latticework and vats of molten metal, pistons, and pumps keeping rhythm like a pounding heart—the blast furnace of an Azoth reactor. Doctor Murdoch had granted him access to its patent, for which Edgar was truly grateful.
“One would think hazard pay would be enough.” He turned back to the legal papers. “Then again, I can’t really blame those unions. Murdoch’s generators aren’t exactly ‘state of the art.’ Excellent capacitors, but they do expel…strange fumes.”
Listening to the music, Edgar watched emerald flares rise and fall, processing the immaterial into power. Every drone was a note in a symphony, hypnotizing him with a sonata born of science. The clock ticked on, but his mind wandered to unwelcome places. Shogun was a pyrrhic success; new problems were uncovered, and the hunger set in—
Time’s run out, Edgar.
Slamming a hand against the ebony desk, Edgar tried to repress his appetites. Once again, the world seemed without color. Wonder and innocence were just masks he sold for a modest price; assorted faces and flavors of joy. Try as he might to wear them, they never quite fit, always sliding off, revealing his oddities for all to mock.
Are you beginning to understand? There’s more than one voice in your head, and I’m just as real as you. Perhaps more so if you’d only let me out a little more.
“That’s quite hard to justify. Last time, you caused quite the ruckus.”
Did Carew not have it coming? Or does “keeping up appearances” matter more than your own principles? You can’t save the world alone. No one can.
Edgar took a deep, shuddering breath. “T…then what do you propose?”
The voice of desire chuckled darkly. Frigid vapor burst out of a pipe, extinguishing the hearth. A desktop radio turned on of its own accord, preset to Yoshiwara Public Radio.
Edgar didn’t recall touching the dial.
I think you already know. Let me take the reins for tonight. Your false smiles and kind gestures didn’t save dear Himiko, and they won’t save her. This isn’t a matter of public speaking or tax-dodging. Release me from these shackles of doubt. I shall guide you.
“We both know where that road leads,” Edgar snapped.
So, you won’t even try? Even after coming so close?
“That’s n…not it. I can’t watch…. Not again—”
The door opened with a sharp creak. Edgar spun around, gritting his teeth. Yuko stood at the threshold, a peacoat and thigh-high boots over her still-painted body. Her face was stoic, but her eyes were glazed and reddened as if she’d been crying.
“I thought I told you to knock,” Edgar managed. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m taking a sick day.” Yuko stepped inside. “I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
Edgar glanced about the office, unsure how to reply. “Why?”
“It’s Victor. I broke him and need to make it right.”
“Why?” he repeated. “He’s just a mooching brat—”
“Shut the hell up!” Yuko’s voice rose to a sudden shout. “You’ve mangled this enough. Trying to groom me into some brainless pair of tits, like a sculpture you didn’t mean to carve. Just so you can earn an extra grand while I ‘work my way up.’ Well, guess what? Money isn’t the only valuable in this shithole world. Victor might be worth it, a…and….”
Edgar tuned out her hysterics. She was a silly girl. “Shot through the heart,” as they said. Try as she might to be a “suffragette,” Yuko was naive in many respects. Unfit to be exposed to the true ugliness of mankind: insincerity, apathy, and worse.
“The first cut is often the deepest,” Edgar admitted, trying to watch his tone. “He’s sweet and cute, but it’s not enough. He’s young. Fragile. Like a stained-glass window begging to get shattered by some tramp.” He let those words sink in. “Is that not exactly what you told me earlier?”
“Don’t you dare twist that against me,” Yuko seethed. “I know damn well what I said. He’s also the only one to treat me like a person, let alone try.”
Edgar frowned, lips trembling. “You cannot deny your nature.”
“Why do you care?” Yuko’s eyes pierced through him. “You pay me well enough, but that doesn’t give you any right to dictate my life. You’re not my pimp—”
“Because I might be able to save you,” Edgar blurted.
“From what?” Yuko asked. “Oh, I get it now. I am Fukuhara’s replacement. Just another doll sewn together to soothe your guilt. Something to help you forget the pain.”
Edgar’s anger was rising. “Yuko.”
“Stop it,” she spat. “Don’t pretend that preaching ‘the virtue of selfishness’ makes you my savior. Actions are what matter, not your drop-out philosophy.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“All you care about is that dead fiancée of yours—”
Edgar’s mind went blank. His hand flew, striking Yuko across the face. Hard. When his vision returned, wrath melted to shock and remorse.
“I’m so sorry,” he stuttered. “I d…didn’t….”
In the midst of his blubbering, a metallic knee cracked against Edgar’s groin. He collapsed onto the hardwood floor, cringing and gasping in agony.
Yuko loomed over him. “Don’t touch me. Ever again.”
“P…please, wait! It’s too—”
Yuko slammed the door behind her. Edgar wasn’t the first to have hit her like that. Staggering to his feet, he reached for a lithium bottle, only to knock it onto the floor. The noise of shattering glass rang in his ears. Sedatives couldn’t sate the hunger now.
Edgar shut his eyes, trying to ignore the inner voice; to prevent those words from welling in his throat, let alone rolling off his tongue. And yet, for all his wealth and influence, Edgar knew he could never finish his mission. Not as he was.
Then release me!
The lights flickered out, one by one. Laying a palm against his face, he uttered a broken laugh, realizing how serious things were now. How close he was to utter failure.
“Very well,” he choked. “Direct my judgement.”
#
Victor sat on the iron bench clutching his electro-staff, lost in a bottomless sea of reflection. Tonight’s “storm” did not subside; its torrents rattled against the tin awnings, hissing like static over a broken speaker, and every strike of lightning cast new shadows.
There’s still time before the Devil’s Hour.
Such ambience was rhythmic, a metronome for his thoughts, keeping a semblance of pace and control. If he was going to accuse Edgar, Victor would salvage every bit of evidence he could. Though objectivity was wreathed in fog, he tried to hold accountability with the fleeting truth. Closing his eyes, Victor replayed a few fragments in his mind.
From the beginning. Again….
He never had a memory for faces, let alone anything of causal or social context. Spoken words and music, however, were almost impossible to forget. It was one of his few talents. Shuffling through his “library of conversations,” Victor found a dusty record in the corner; the audio was scratchy and worn, yet coherent for the most part.
Day One, shortly after meeting….
“Our strongest leads are still those chocolatiers,” Thaddeus said. “Edgar and Brutus.”
“Please,” Leng retorted, “being a little weird doesn’t make you a serial killer. Besides, Edgar’s been locked up in the candy-making business, especially since Lady Fukuhara turned up dead.” There was a long pause. “I’d know that better than most….”
With a wince, Victor skipped ahead a few minutes, ignoring Leng’s trivial comments. He almost saw the orphans and that horse-driven carriage, resuming at Thaddeus’s opinion.
“Something just doesn’t sit right with him,” the inquisitor said. “Remember, Edgar’s toys bear an uncanny resemblance to those masks. The ones found on the victims.”
That’s right, Thaddeus suspected him.
Adjusting the needle a few inches, Victor recognized the tapping of keyboards and purring cogitators. He remembered the Central Servitorium, the city’s administrative core, and the snippets of a tabloid from the lobby, or what he could paraphrase.
“Fukuhara had a torrid love affair with…. A known industrialist and chocolatier, one must raise the question…. Does he moonlight as…?” Shit, I forget the rest….
Slander was not enough to condemn Edgar. Victor tried to articulate what else troubled him, shifting in place until a metallic clink broke his concentration. Eyes opening as he sighed, Victor reached into his pocket and felt a half-forgotten trinket.
Oh, the old locket from—wait a second….
He flipped open the silver pendant, analyzing the photo of Fukuhara: painted lips, ivory skin, her resemblance to Yuko. Together they composed only a partial truth. His memory jolted to his first night at the Sunset Pagoda, where Edgar pined over a copy of this exact picture.
His was the same one. The one from the Dollmaker’s lair—!
Victor heard a familiar jingle in the distance; the hurdy-gurdy of a carriage. It was five minutes to midnight. He staggered to his feet, only to trip on the slick cobblestones, catching himself on the electro-staff. Panic warped into a mad frenzy as Victor sprinted down the street.
When the Devil’s Hour struck, daemons would be the least of his worries.
#
The Sunset Pagoda towered over Yoshiwara, a lone spire in a sea of urban jetsam. Yuko kept her tears at bay, navigating these sodden alleys. Though her synthetic flesh was waterproof for multiple reasons, theater makeup was not.
I must look like a train wreck.
Yuko tried to untangle her ratty hair, mascara trickling down her cheeks. Despite the shortcut, the Pagoda was over a mile away. Putrid water splashed against Yuko’s boots as EJO’s Greatest Hits skipped with the rising static. She tried not to dwell on Victor’s wellbeing, whether he was blacked out or worse. Yuko would need all her assets to win him back.
“Win?” Goddammit, what’s wrong with me?
If this was going to work, she had to approach Victor on his level, however “immature and fragile” it seemed. This wasn’t about pleasing the customer. Yuko had to be honest, not only to him but to herself as well. Checking her coat pockets, Yuko made sure the little package was still intact. Perhaps it would help Victor understand her affection a little more.
He’s not stupid. Not at all. Just face blind and lacking in social skills. Threw the present together last night. Didn’t want to give it to him like this, though.
Yuko’s mind froze in mid-thought. Collapsing in the wake of interference, her vision buzzed over white. Her sense of self spiraled down a vortex of short-circuits, every thought a moth drawn to the flame, only to be incinerated by obscene truths.
M…midnight? Already? W…way worse than usual…what is this?!
Slowly Yuko’s vision returned. She troubleshot her respiratory system, trying to quell the spasms. The city was grey and lifeless. Though barely able to stand, Yuko saw someone emerge from the smog, gathering speed, features masked by a heavy, hooded cloak.
“S…stay back.” She flipped a switchblade from her bootstrap. “Don’t.”
Before Yuko could move, the hulk grabbed her by the wrist, twisting with brutal strength. She caught a glimpse of a deformed face, jawless, drooping like molten wax.
