Geist, p.15
Geist, page 15
“W…we’re still bringing him in,” Charles said.
“Didn’t you hear a word—?”
“Of course, we did,” Beatrice yelled. “But we’re not gonna feed Edgar to the Inferno. We need to end this. The right way. Leng can take care of the legalese. Let’s go.”
For a moment, Victor felt a twinge of shame. Daemons were bound to man’s shared fears and repressed thoughts. Chaos that could be tempered into power through wisdom and truth. But to him, Edgar was a daemon in his own right. Unworthy of forgiveness.
“Fine,” Victor said, hoisting Yuko’s arm over his shoulder. “You can carry him.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Devil’s Hour was not yet over. In the relative safety of the Sunset Pagoda, Victor kept Yuko on her feet, trudging past his own spasms and pain. Her legs were functional again, but speech and sight eluded her. Not a lamp shone in the darkness, nor was a single bartender or bouncer on the clock. The carpet was sticky under Victor’s boots as the theater screens glowed against erotic figures; he kept moving to the lobby, past the saloon doors.
She needs medical attention. Now.
In the cold night air Leng stood in the street, fiddling with an empty box of smokes, keeping watch on Beatrice’s motorcycle. “Faster than I expected, but—” His eyes bulged in sudden alarm. “Oh, shit! She doesn’t look too good. Got her okay?”
“Is the hospital open?” Victor asked. “After the surge?”
“Alchemilla? Well, y…yeah. They have on-site urgent care, but they’re mostly a psych ward, and tin cans aren’t exactly their specialty.” He paused as if choosing his next words carefully. “You know, wires, cables, synthetic skin? I don’t think they—”
“Think or know? I don’t have time for speculation.”
“Fair point.” Leng took Yuko’s other arm as the streetlights flickered. “Still, we need a lift. Where’re your friends? Did you drag Edgar back yet?”
“Close by, and yes.”
“Sweet,” Beatrice called. “Bike’s still here. C’mon, put the perp on back.” She gave a whistle. “Victor! You too. Bring Yuko over.”
Leng paused. “Is that a good idea? Not seeing a sidecar—”
“Shut up and move!” she snapped.
Victor hesitated to put Yuko next to Edgar but stifled his unease. It was pointless.
To him, inaction and hesitation were what got her there.
“Goddamn,” Charles heaved the limp chocolatier. “Heavier than he looks.”
Victor didn’t recall helping secure the injured, only Beatrice’s parting words.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her. Meet you there.”
With that, she drove towards the south end of High Street as fog closed in, swallowing the bike and its passengers. A radio buzzed to life. As the surge ended and chaos waned, Yoshiwara reverted to a mundane state. Victor couldn’t feel his stomach, though he wanted to vomit. Unable to see or hear, save the murmurs of Charles and Leng, he took a few shaky steps towards the hospital, almost remembering how to get there.
“She’ll be okay,” Charles lied. “Not sure about you, though.”
#
Alchemilla Asylum was a modern specter in a medieval world, a house of marble, its garden a graveyard of sanity and happier days. Four stories of therapy offices, live-in treatment, and medical storage, all cataloged in meticulous order, windows tinted and shut. Though dismal, like a greyscale afternoon, the grounds were well-lit. Beatrice’s cycle was parked askew across the street before the emergency entrance as the creaks of rusty gurneys reached Victor’s ears.
Leng tugged at the iron gate. “Definitely unlocked.”
“Sweet,” Charles said. “And they’ve got an emergency ward. Hard to think, though. We were just here, what, three hours ago? Been a long night.”
“Longest night of my life,” Victor muttered.
Past the trimmed hedges and through the front door, Victor followed the signs from reception to suicide watch. The air was stagnant, tasting of lemon-scented cleaners underpinned by bodily waste. Every hallway seemed identical, save for the number of doors and an occasional window. Victor tried to dismiss it as paranoia, but the staff eyed him oddly as if he was a new patient being escorted by two concerned friends.
“Paging Doctor Cronenberg, line one,” a nurse called over a loudspeaker. “Paging, Doctor Cronenberg, line one. Thank you.”
Probably bleeding a little. Splatters on my coat don’t help.
“I’ve told you before,” someone shouted, “I am Edgar Munchausen! I don’t need ‘intervention.’ If you’re going to force me, fisticuffs it is, and—point that damn needle somewhere else! G…get your sticky paws off. I helped open this asylum, and I can,” his voice began to slur as if injected with a cocktail of anesthetic, “drive you to…bankruptcy….”
“At least we’re getting close,” Charles said. “Real close.”
Leng nodded. “ICU is the third door on the left.”
“Been here before?” Victor asked.
“No. I read the signs.”
The door was sticky with rubber against the tiles, and the waiting room was sparsely populated with concerned mothers and muttering sons. Beatrice sat near the desk, trying to feign calmness, leg shaking under a clipboard. Yuko and Edgar were nowhere to be seen.
“Update?” Victor asked.
“Nothing yet,” Beatrice sighed. “You’ve probably heard that tantrum, but they’re still assessing Yuko’s condition. Or, you know, trying to.”
Leng ran his fingers through his hair. “Need help with paperwork?”
“Feel free.” Beatrice handed over the forms. “You know the system better than us.”
He cracked a soft smirk. “I’ve had practice.”
Victor did not take a seat. Staring at the far wall, he waited until things moved forward, tuning out his friends for sanity’s sake. Paintings dotted the room, most of idyllic farmland or nature scenes—the sort of bland art found in a grandfather’s attic. Cracks lined the vinyl couches, some patched with duct tape, others at the mercy of restless fingers.
“On another note,” Leng said, clicking a pen. “It all adds up. Writing style, personal history, mental health record. Hell, even the old Upton place. Wish I’d seen it all earlier. Or listened to Thaddeus.” He cracked a bitter smile. “Never thought I’d say that.”
“So,” Victor said. “It’s really over?”
“Expecting more of a twist?” Leng said. “Most mysteries don’t have a grand finale at the end. But there’s always a man behind the monster.”
“Makes it worse, really.” Charles lowered his head. “All those deaths weren’t caused by daemons. That’d be too simple. Part of me wishes the Dollmaker was some, you know, slasher-type villain. In the end, it was a person.”
Beatrice did not reply, her eyes fixed on the floor.
“Will they keep him here?” Victor asked.
Leng scribbled something on the form. “Won’t be easy. Edgar doesn’t own the town, sure.” He gripped the clipboard. “What he does is keep it running. Independent from Holy Gothica. Without him, or at least his wallet, Yoshiwara wouldn’t exist.”
Victor’s resolve waned as he struggled to keep standing.
Leng handed the clipboard to a nurse. “They’ll keep him on suicide watch. After that, I don’t know what’ll happen. If I knew, trust me, you’d be the first to know.”
“So,” Charles scoffed. “That’s it?”
“I’m just telling the truth.”
“You’ll literally burn people at the stake,” Charles stood, towering over him, “but if a lobbyist gets in the way of justice, it’s all cool? Inquisition aside, Edgar murdered your lover in some love triangle that I don’t get and frankly don’t want to. And you’re gonna just sit back, twiddle your thumbs, and risk him walking? I won’t mince words, Leng. You’re a coward.”
Beatrice shot him a stunted look.
“Don’t you dare pretend to know my story,” Leng snapped, fists clenched. “I wouldn’t expect some washed up hipster to get it anyway. In case you’re too high to follow, this isn’t about Fukuhara anymore. I may be a lot of things—yeah, even selfish. I’m not a coward.”
“Is that why you ditched Thaddeus—?”
“Shut up,” Beatrice raised her voice. “Talking shit won’t fix anything. Sit your ass down like an adult and wait.” She glared at Leng. “Both of you.”
Just then, the door to intensive care swung open as a doctor of heavy eyes and olive skin marched into the lobby. Her lab coat was a shade too grey for Victor’s comfort. Her hair was tethered into a messy bun, lips stilted even as she spoke to the receptionist as if her left cheek was paralyzed. She took a stack of files, approaching the company.
“Thank you for your patience,” the doctor murmured. “I am Isabella Cronenberg, general practitioner and psychopharmacist, and you must be the ones who brought in,” she skimmed a long list of patients, “ah, yes…Yuko.”
“Is she all right?” Victor asked.
“Are you her partner?”
“That’s him,” Beatrice spoke up. “Victor’s the boytoy.”
“I see.” Cronenberg eyed him. “You’d best follow me then. Only Victor, please.”
Down the corridor, Victor followed the doctor past the rows of padded cells. He tried to ignore the cryptic mumbles, focusing on the hall’s end. Counting the room numbers, dodging the urgent nurses, his thoughts were polluted by anxiety, struggling to keep up—
“How’s your evening?” Cronenberg asked.
“Fan-fucking-tastic.”
“Sarcasm.” The doctor kept her pace. “I understand. The past few weeks have been…hectic as well. You’ve probably heard, but our clinic’s discovered effective treatments for leprosy. A miracle, really. And we’re the only hospital worth visiting in the City Below. Astounding what an actual budget and freedom from ‘clerical’ input will do.”
“I understand,” Victor managed.
“Better than my patients,” Cronenberg said. “Not saying much, but— Anyway, about your ‘partner.’ She’s a special case. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Victor’s stomach dropped. “Her injuries?”
“Her anatomy.” The doctor turned a sharp corner, opening the door to room nine. “They don’t teach bionics in medical school. Though I wouldn’t call her conscious, you probably want to see her yourself. For peace of mind.” She jerked her head aside. “It’ll help, trust me.”
The room was dimmer than Victor had anticipated. Shrill rhythms of life support pierced his ears. Victor stepped inside, gripping the doorknob for support. Yuko lay on a cot under a beam of artificial light, the odor of burnt plastic wafting off her skin. Somehow she was still breathing, gazing at the popcorn ceiling, eyes vacant, her own body a padded cell. Cronenberg’s words bounced off Victor’s ears until he made out the term “catatonic.”
“You seem to be the closest thing she has to family,” the doctor continued. “Unlike most of our patients, her symptoms are not caused by substance abuse or malnutrition. Given Yuko’s…well, wiring, we do not know what the cause is.”
“Test results?” he asked.
“Inconclusive,” Cronenberg stated. “There’s enough similarity to human biochemistry that we have something to work with. For now, the best we can do is to administer treatments to alleviate her current pains. We’ll monitor her condition closely.” She sighed. “I would transfer her to Gotland General Hospital, but they wouldn’t do any better.”
Not big on bedside manner, I see.
“Regardless. If you have any questions….”
As he stood by the cot studying the flashing lights, Victor felt a lukewarm grip on his wrist. Yuko twitched and struggled, trying to face him as if trapped in a waking limbo. Her eyes were a maelstrom of color: green one moment, and crimson the next, fixed in lucid terror. She tried to speak, but no words escaped her lips, as if her vocal chords were fried in the Inferno.
Until she returned to her stupor.
Victor’s mouth was dry as he tried to understand this. To find something to cling onto, whether hope or wishful thinking, even if the truth lay in front of him.
“I’ll escort you to the lobby,” the doctor said. “She needs to rest.”
Back in the waiting room, Victor was greeted by the concerns and questions of his friends, though he couldn’t quite register the world around him. Charles laid a hand on his back while Beatrice and Leng discussed ongoing care with Cronenberg.
“Rest assured,” the doctor said. “I will call the Sunset Pagoda immediately if any changes arise. In general, visiting hours are ten-to-ten, but given the circumstances, I can make an exception for your friend.” She paused. “Your presence seemed to have a positive effect on her. However, this is a very complex case and, frankly, uncertain.”
Charles guided Victor to the door. “C’mon, we’ve done all we can.”
#
Victor lingered in the courtyard. His fingers buzzed in the cold night air, raw and pink, like uncooked pork yet to be tenderized. Charles kept his distance, fiddling with his rolling papers, leaned against a wall. The fog lingered well into the night, reeking of spoiled dairy, tingeing the streetlights with a swampish glow. The grass crunched under their heels as they paced about in mutual silence. Victor brushed his shoulder and sleeves, unable to discern ash from dander, overhearing the others inside, drawing nearer.
“One guard, no lock,” Beatrice said. “He got a luxury suite.”
Leng held the door open. “Edgar won’t walk out. Not as long as I can help it. ‘Walter Munchausen’ isn’t my finest alias, but a white lie should buy us time.”
“That place has ‘for-profit’ written in neon letters. Judging by the staff, he’ll get off early for good behavior.” Beatrice slammed the accessibility button; the door yawned wider, almost knocking Leng off-balance. “Thanks for the forgery. We’ll take it from here.”
Victor tried to ignore them, but such words reopened wounds that had barely scabbed. There was no use in screaming into the void. And yet, he couldn’t wander into thought and song. Music gave no respite. Victor hadn’t the will to listen.
“That’s bullshit,” Charles said. “And if he gets released?”
“Okay,” Leng began. “Let’s assume Edgar stays locked up for life. The Imperium would liquidate all of his unused assets to pay back what he owes, driving Yoshiwara to bankruptcy. There’d be no third party to keep the district independent. In fact, it would be a cost the empress wouldn’t dream of paying. Nothing would stand between us and martial law.” His tone turned coarse and urgent. “Alchemilla would get assimilated into the Knights Hospitallers, the Sunset Pagoda would be outright demolished, and—you get the idea.”
“There has to be something,” Charles spat.
“Not overnight. And don’t push yourselves too hard. Yuko’s alive, isn’t she? The culprit is in a padded cell. You found out the truth.”
“The truth?” Victor scoffed. “Edgar’s sentence is minimal at best, even with faking a signature, and Yuko’s one step above comatose. ‘The truth’ hasn’t resolved jackshit.”
“Never said it was a pleasant truth.”
“That’s real comforting.” Charles rolled his eyes, lifting a handcrafted smoke. “I forget. Do you smoke? Got some extra kush. Consider it a thank you.”
Leng’s eyes lit up. “Can’t say no.” With a flick of a lighter, he lit the freebie and took a long hit, beginning to relax. “I must sound like a total asshole, but the city’s a cesspit. Why get your hopes up so high?” He glanced at Victor. “You know you’ll get hurt.”
“So I should just give up?”
“Well, if you put it like that….” With a bitter sigh, Leng stepped into the shadows, taking a shortcut home. “Anyway, I’ll be in and out for a bit. Lemme know if you need help.”
One by one, the lamps of the courtyard dimmed until only a cobblestone path to the curb remained lit. Returning to High Street, Victor propped his coat’s collar, shuddering in the slum-side chill, as Beatrice mounted her motorcycle.
“On that note,” she said. “I’ll meet you two back at the Pagoda. Tonight was a travesty, but let’s try to get some rest.” She turned to Charles. “Look after him, okay?”
The stoner nodded in solemn agreement; Beatrice hit the ignition and roared down the street, leaving them to mull things over. As Victor followed the signs to the Sunset Pagoda, the irony did not escape him, remembering the evening of their descent, when he walked with Charles to their favorite bar, commiserating over problems that seemed so petty now.
The Walking World was a dream in its own right.
“Saddest thing is,” Charles broke the silence, “Leng’s got a point.”
“Funny. I used to like him.”
“I can buy that,” Charles said. “Guy’s like me if I gave up on life. Cunning knows what he does and does it well but confuses being smart with being right. Not a smooth talker.” He shook his head. “The kind of douchebag Peter Lorre would play in some ‘30s flick.”
“You’re not wrong,” Victor chuckled.
“Glad I can make you laugh still.” Charles took a deep breath, folding a crane with his papers, though not very well. “You know why I gave that joint away?”
“I wasn’t paying much attention,” Victor admitted.
“Thought not,” Charles said. “There’s a time for a spliff. It’s not now.” He shuddered as if holding back tears of regret. “Not after sitting on my ass, getting baked, while you and Beatrice did all the legwork. Hell, I’ve been two steps behind you guys since Xanadu. And before that? I’ve scolded you about your taste in women and got my ass caught by that spider-daemon-thing. Those were my ‘great contributions.’”
Victor turned to face him. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t try to be nice, man. Denying this shit is what caused my daemon to emerge in the first place. Way back when. And I know it’s not about me, but fuck, it hurts! I just wish I’d actually done more. Maybe things would’ve turned out better.”
