Geist, p.12
Geist, page 12
At that moment, Yuko realized who the assailant was.
Blood splattered them both. She plunged her knife deep into his shoulder, again and again, until a chemical-splashed rag covered her mouth.
Oh, you c-cheap piece of….
Limp as a puppet without strings, Yuko sank into a screen of lukewarm glass, her body rippling through a hell-bound portal when a familiar voice pierced her ears.
“Hush now,” he cooed. “We’ll put you at ease soon.”
Drifting into static and darkness, Yuko saw a silhouette leering at her from the petrified reality. No earthly noise reached her as the Inferno swallowed her whole.
B-but…why?
#
Steam sprayed Victor’s rain-soaked face. He barreled down the narrows, following the ducts and drains, trying to navigate the labyrinth. Pale roaches skittered away from the dying lights as lude whispers echoed from the dead-ends. The bar signs were unreadable, the streets intersected in impossible ways, and every pebble seemed sharper than before. While Xanadu lay at Yoshiwara’s fringe, the city warped itself against Victor.
It fits too well. He has to be it.
When he turned a corner, Victor’s stomach dropped in shock. A caravan departed along the backroad to High Street, pulled by a pair of black iron stallions, trotting far faster than Victor thought possible. The driver glanced back, eyes wide with unmistakable mania.
Edgar!
Victor could not speak, words immolated by rage. His electro-staff, however, was still articulate. Without a second thought, he set its gauge half-a-notch below lethal. A bolt of plasma tore through the air, only to shatter a streetlamp, missing Edgar’s skull by inches.
“G…get back here, you fucking coward,” Victor screamed, his voice cracking as the carriage’s lights faded into the ashen haze. “Get—”
Something slammed against Victor’s back like a slab of spoiled meat, knocking him flat onto the cobblestones. The inquisitorial staff clattered beside him as a shadow loomed over him. Warm blood trickled onto Victor’s hand; a wheezing hiss confirmed his suspicions.
Victor raised his head. “Brutus. You too, huh?”
The hulk clutched his wounded shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding. His eyes were sharper than usual, locked in hesitation, perhaps out of fear. Brutus attempted a fighting stance, his fists bloated into tumors. After a grueling pause, Victor snatched up his electro-staff and dove to the side, resuming the pursuit of Edgar.
I don’t have time for this.
Chasing the stench of gasoline, Victor came to a larger avenue, only to lose Edgar in the stinging miasma. Brutus shambled, gaining on him. Innocent as the hulk was, Victor couldn’t allow anyone to get in his way. Gripping his sword’s hilt, Victor caught his breath. Brutus howled, leaping for yet another tackle. With a vicious spin, Victor slashed the hulk’s thigh open, spraying with a crimson shower. Brutus collapsed in a heap, whimpering at his feet like a child.
I should feel remorse, but—
Just then a gas-powered roar drew near. Brutus cradled his skull. A light fell upon Victor’s face; he sheathed his sword and lifted a pair of fingers, recognizing the rider and her passenger all too well. Twin tires screeched to a halt as Beatrice curved to the side.
“Holy shit.” Charles gawked. “What happened?”
“Edgar’s the Dollmaker,” Victor interrupted. “Yuko’s in danger. Brutus attacked me when I was after their carriage. No time for further explanations.”
“Get on,” Beatrice said. “Now.”
“Uh, o…okay,” Charles stuttered, stepping onto the street. “No sidecar this time, though. Figures you two’d go, but…. What am I supposed to do?”
“Make sure Brutus doesn’t bleed out.” Victor mounted the bike’s pillion, clutching Beatrice’s waist. “Get Leng if you need to. He might know a medic or—”
J…Jesus…!
Beatrice slammed into high gear, plowing onto the causeway. Victor’s heart pounded in his chest, keeping a firm hand over his electro-staff. Beatrice’s hair flowed like streaks of blue flame as she sped down the blacktopped roads parallel to the Great Gothic Railway.
“Knew this would happen,” she yelled, “and you’re welcome.”
Despite the smog, Beatrice caught up to the carriage, keeping to the outer lanes. Drawing her broadsword, she slashed at the tires; air shrieked from torn rubber. Meanwhile, otherly whispers echoed in Victor’s mind. He glanced over his shoulder, squinting past the smoke, as hideous shapes emerged from the shadows—daemons of the Inferno.
“Those are new,” Beatrice spat.
“Keep driving.” Victor raised his staff, trying to cast light on the shadows; the madness of the Devil’s Hour swelled and surged like a crescendo of psychosis. “I’ll cover your six.”
Even the railways contorted with the whims of chaos. Black ooze spilled from the surrounding ducts as the afterbirth of nightmares, vomiting up all manner of imps.
Waiting for the daemons to draw near, Victor set his gauge to long-range.
He squinted against the city’s distortion. The fiends took flight, swarming in a haze of fleshy wings and rotten plumage. Then came the squeals, more akin to shoats than cherubs. As the imps dove with claw and cloven hoof, Victor gritted his teeth and launched a volley of electrified aether. A fistful of imps burst into ash and cinders, bones clattering along the pavement, only to melt into pools of tarrish ichor.
“Now,” Beatrice yelled. “Jump!”
“W…what?!”
The daemons kept their distance, circling the motorcycle like ravenous vultures, just out of range. With a roar, Beatrice wrenched her sword free from another tire. She shifted gears, swerving in a desperate maneuver, dodging a stray spike by mere inches.
“Slowed the bastard down. Jump!”
The mechanical stallions sputtered with flames and fumes, engines overheating beneath suits of black iron. With a shudder of courage, Victor leapt to the carriage, gripping onto its roof. The coach screeched and turned, trying to knock him off.
Fuck-fuck-fuck!
Victor’s hold on the canvas was slipping as silver trinkets rattled in his face. Repressing a panic attack, he shut his eyes and swung down, slamming his boot through a window. Victor leapt into the cargo hold as shards of glass clattered onto the floor and saw—
Nothing?
No driver. No passengers. Nothing except a television in the backseat, cabled into the front engine, its screen churning like a sea of static and malice. His every fiber shaking, Victor crawled onto the driver’s seat, gawking at the dozens of dials. A blast of smoke stung his eyes as a steed’s head burst into flames. Without thinking, Victor yanked a lever at random.
Oh shit—
The next thing he knew, the carriage flew into the air, launched by an emergency ejection and kinetic force. Victor couldn’t even scream. Out of raw instinct, he rolled against the padded seats. The horses were let loose, legs shredding against the railroads, leaving a trail of sparks and blazing oil. Victor tried to grab ahold of something. Anything.
The carriage began to plummet. As the roof split open, Victor was hurled out the back. His ears rang with shock, deaf to Beatrice’s screams. The world slowed with his delirium until he felt something flutter out of his pocket—the toy rabbit. With the last of his willpower, Victor snatched it by the velveteen arm a yard above the pavement, uttering a name.
“Dante.”
Wreathed in a vortex of cobalt flame, the geist tore into existence, wrapping its cloaked form around him tightly, like a security blanket woven from its master’s determination. Together they skidded to a halt as Beatrice braked and slid to the side.
The long minutes blurred together in the wake of tragedy.
Victor’s eyes glazed over, watching the carriage make impact, erupting into flames, bombarding the causeway with shrapnel and splinters. Dante floated by his side, clutching its halberd with vigor until the danger had passed. Victor slumped to his knees, realizing what had happened. Trembling and heaving, he was numb to Beatrice’s hand on his shoulder.
“Victor,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”
“T…there was a TV in his trunk. Edgar…h…he’s…!”
Tides of nausea drowned his words. Beatrice walked to the coach’s wreckage and brushed aside metal scraps and glass. Eventually, Victor wandered to her side, hypnotized by the chemical blaze. Beatrice cracked open the glove compartment, shuffling through tax forms and moldy bits of takeout. From beneath the mounds of trash she uncovered a leather journal.
“Think we’ve found something,” Beatrice said, examining the smooth paper and fine binding. Turning to a random entry, she read aloud.
When God is dead. When prayers go unanswered. Where do we turn? The young perish and the old linger. The rotten steeples are gilded with fool’s gold. The starving masses feed on each other for survival. We wallow in our filth, like pigs at the trough, praying for a savior born of snout and hoof.
One who will reap a bounty of fortune and flesh.
“First pestilence.” Beatrice turned the page. “Now famine, huh? Think I get the pattern—” Her eyes widened in horror. “Shit, listen to this,” she continued.
HIMIKO FUKUHARA
CHARLES GARNER
BEATRICE MORRISON
SALLY O’DULL
YUKO
“A list of murder victims,” she seethed. “Most are pretty recent. No mention of Ingrid, but….” Her fingers dug into the binding. “That son of a bitch.”
Victor paced around the dying flames, hatred battering his shield of sanity to its breaking point. While Yuko’s safety was the ultimate priority, he would not play the gentleman for her sake. Even if she never loved him, Victor had to protect her. Just then, something cracked under his heel, a small package wrapped carefully in ornate paper, a gift for a lover.
Did Yuko….?
Ripping the paper aside, Victor found a cassette in a splintered box, complete with a tracklist and title. He grimaced with grief and rage. If there was ever a time for violence, it was now. Victor kept a meltdown in check, recognizing the handwriting all too well,
A Mixtape Symphony for Victor in D Major
“Dammit, dude.” Beatrice snapped her fingers in his face. “I get how you feel, but we can’t give up. Not now. The Inferno’s waiting. You know the drill. Better than me.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” Victor cranked the staff’s gauge to lethal. “I’m going in.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Time was a malleable thing in the Devil’s Hour. An oddity that never relied on the understanding of men, allowing some to cover great distances and others no passage at all.
Victor had learned to accept that, feeling the tires roll over cobblestones.
Streetlights buzzed on and off while the Sunset Pagoda leered over the empty streets. He clung to Beatrice’s waist until her motorcycle braked to a halt. Victor leapt off the back, recognizing the north intersection on High Street, despite the thinning of reality.
“Dude,” Charles called, sprinting into vision. “Thought you crashed, man!” His hair flowed like a mane of dull silver, shades balancing on the tip of his nose. When he caught up, Charles wheezed, leaning against a roadside lamp. “D…did you catch Edgar? Is Yuko—?”
“No,” Victor stated. “They’re both gone.”
“Close shave.” Beatrice shut off the engine and tossed Charles the diary. “We made it, though. Victor was right. Edgar’s the Dollmaker, and we need to hurry.”
“One sec,” Charles said. “It’s about Brutus, and….”
The smog lifted for a fleeting moment as Leng emerged from the East End, head bowed, lighting a cigarette with the flick of a lighter, coattails flowing like strips of caution tape. His lips were stiff, eyes locked in deep thought. “Well,” he said, “I stand corrected.”
Charles stepped in front of Victor, trying to draw his attention. “Leng helped me dump Edgar’s pet troll at Alchemilla. The nurses should notice him.”
“Yeah,” Leng added. “It’s a good thing Charles found me. You really did a number. Haven’t seen lacerations that bad in a while. Gonna need a lot more than stitches.”
“Why’re you pitying the accomplice?” Beatrice snapped.
“Brutus was clearly a patsy,” Victor said. “Edgar left him behind, sacrificing his own brother to slow me down. It’s a damn shame. Brutus didn’t understand.”
“Insanity defense?” Charles asked. “Really, dude?”
“Guy’s a moron,” Leng said. “Like, medically speaking. Couple of years of leprosy and botched treatments will do that to anyone. That said, I don’t blame you, Victor. Not at all. You did what you had to do. Thaddeus would’ve been proud.”
Charles took a step back. “How can you be so calm, man?”
Leng lifted his smoke with a shaky hand. “Passion doesn’t solve crimes. Jumping to conclusions is why we still have witchhunts. You want the truth, right? Then try to think.”
Victor couldn’t even see straight, trying to tune out Leng’s ramblings. Such realism was a coping mechanism, an anesthetic of reason—a wonderful tool, but in the wrong hands could be a dangerous weapon, like the dissociation he clung onto with tooth and nail.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “How enlightening. Where’s the nearest TV?”
“Wait,” Leng said. “You’re actually going after Edgar? Now?”
“What else are we supposed to do?” she snapped.
“Don’t want to be that guy. But we can’t arrest someone like Edgar without a warrant. I mean, I still need to follow up on forensics. Among other things.”
“So what?” Charles said. “Should we just wait?”
“He’s not some lowlife gangbanger,” Leng said. “Edgar’s a high-profile guy. A celebrity. Trust me, I hate the bastard, too, but we need to handle this carefully.”
Victor pushed him aside. “Fuck off, Leng.”
The deputy trailed after him. “I strongly advise that—”
Leng reached for Victor’s arm. He spun around and grabbed Leng by the collar, catching a glimmer of terror in the deputy’s eyes. Dante’s presence burned in the back of his skull until Beatrice laid a hand on Victor’s back. “We’re wasting time,” she said.
Victor loosened his fists, shaking.
“A…all righty,” Leng stuttered, readjusting his tie. “Tell you what. If you catch Edgar, bring him over to the asylum. Can’t promise much, but I’ll keep tabs on Brutus.”
When Leng departed for Alchemilla, Victor’s eyes shifted to the Pagoda. Once inside, he led the way down the twisting halls, taking a left to the private showrooms. Pushing open a plush door, he saw a screen ablaze with latent power, glimmering like a damp oil painting.
“Good thinking.” Charles tried to smile. “Porno theater works fine. Business as usual. Do the dungeon crawl, beat the boss, save the boob-lady, and make it back for the last call.”
Beatrice nodded, turning to Victor. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Despite everything, Victor lingered on the breakup, replaying its record again and again when he, of all parties, had ended things. Whether by love or hate, he knew what needed to be done. Once more, Victor took a deep breath, diving headfirst into Hell.
#
Victor drifted beyond the screens, out of thought and time, into the Inferno born of humanity’s fears and darkest desires. A world of latticework, wreathed in sulfurous smog, buzzing with the interference of illusion. And yet, the skies ahead were veiled in a gentler haze. When the numbness lifted, Victor beheld a different kind of hell.
“Smells like cordite and regret,” Charles muttered. “Where are we now?”
“No idea,” Beatrice said. “It feels wrong, though. Even by infernal standards.”
Rising from the abyss, Victor saw a vast sea of trees; or trees they seemed to be. His eyes turned to the fogbound spires of summits unseen, towering over the forest. Victor recognized the symbolism all too well; a garden of impure life, and in its deepest glades, the path to heaven.
Dark woods of error.
A lonely gate manifested into existence. Composed of gnarled branches, it marked a trail into whatever horrors awaited the trio. Victor laid his hand against a scarlet-striped pillar, only to recoil in disgust; its sap was damp and glutinous, smelling of artificial mint.
“Shit!” Charles sprinted to his side. “Did it burn you?”
“N…no,” Victor replied. “It’s just…sticky.”
Beatrice gripped her broadsword’s hilt. “Sticky? What is this? Some kind of grimdark peppermint forest?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, you gotta be fucking with me.”
Beyond the gnat-infested arches, Victor heard the clicking of pinchers and buzzing swarms. Just ahead, he spied a handful of dolls dangling from the branches, each hung by the neck, black tears trickling onto sour-dusted grass. Victor shuddered, taking a step back, and read the words carved into the once-gaudy gate.
SACCHARINE WOODS
“Candyland?” Charles scoffed. “Kinda underwhelming.”
“Don’t let your guard down,” Victor said. “If Edgar’s one thing, he’s layered. And so is the Inferno. I think we all know what those dolls mean.”
Beatrice glanced aside. “Yeah, we do.”
Victor said no more, leading the way down the sugar-stained path. Candy-branched trees loomed over their course, oozing with black bile. He swore this place would rot the teeth out of his gums. Victor kept his wits close, trying to ignore the music of Edgar’s soul—a lounge lizard’s dirge, echoing from nowhere and everywhere alike.
“Okay,” Charles admitted. “This isn’t exactly Milton Bradley.”
Worst of all was the air, a soup of yellow-tinted misery. Victor’s thoughts crawled into corners of bitter memory. From paranoia in high school to the existential panic in Holy Gothica, he knew self-loathing all too well, disguising it as half-hearted narcissism. Once more, Victor remembered the truth—Yuko was one of the few to make him feel whole.
