Geist, p.17
Geist, page 17
“Nothing we can do, huh?” Leng slurred, stirring his absinthe. “He wins?”
“I understand your concerns,” Thaddeus said. “And considering we are ‘off the clock,’ I feel it appropriate to speak candidly, if I may.”
Leng watched the sugar melt. “Go for it.”
“I too have doubts of our order’s efficiency,” he muttered. “However, you must not let such venial thoughts lead you to darker places. Edgar may be a licentious wretch and the existence of Yoshiwara a blight upon our city. However, given his ownership of this sodom and its necessity to the peoples’ lowest instincts, removing him is not feasible.”
Leng rolled his eyes. “This isn’t about moral hygiene.”
“Vengeance is not an option for us—”
“Tell that to Brendel,” Leng snapped, “or Torquemada, or the bitch in the high castle herself. Wake up, Thaddeus. We’re cogs in a machine. Expendable. Why else do you think I got conscripted? Because I sure as fuck didn’t ask for this. I’m not martyring myself for a cause I’ve never believed in.” He gritted his teeth. “Ever since I’ve ‘joined,’ my reputation’s been torn to shreds. Edgar’s stolen everything from me. The rights to my scripts, my stills, even….”
“Even Fukuhara,” Thaddeus finished. “I am not ignorant of this.”
Leng glared at his superior. “Really now?”
“The duties of an inquisitor are more than piety. The implications of our vows are paramount to the order. However, I digress. You care not for such things.”
Leng raised his glass. “Finally catching on.”
“Therefore, consider the following,” Thaddeus continued. “Your romantic rival, one of the richest and most influential entrepreneurs of our time, has ‘stolen’ your harlot. He also owns Yoshiwara as a company town, complete with a private security force and deep financial roots in the Imperial Senate. Where we are currently drowning your sorrows. And your plan is to murder him yourself? This is, objectively speaking, the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“Gee, thanks. I feel so much better now.”
Leng didn’t remember leaving the bar, let alone parting ways with Thaddeus, only the eviction notice taped to his door. It wasn’t a surprise. Picking open the padlock, Leng shambled inside the hovel. Legal papers lay strewn about. The apartment was a gin-stained mess, devoid of color and personality, save for the occasional folder or condom wrapper.
Been a while since she was here.
Leng collapsed on the futon. He’d left the TV on, lacking the effort to finish the stale beer, staring at the eleven o’clock news as the spins hit harder than usual.
“And so,” the anchor said, “courtesan and film actress Himiko Fukuhara is taking an indefinite hiatus from her work at the Yoshiwara Studios. Rumors say that she is eloping, betrothed to renowned chocolatier and philanthropist—”
“Fuck off,” Leng slurred, clicking the remote.
He glanced out the window upon the dancing lights of the Sunset Pagoda. Leng imagined her with Edgar. Her lips pressed against his, stroking his dyed ginger hair. The whore was bought, and Leng was a naive fool. A filmmaker turned jackboot, castrated of all credibility.
His codec vibrated. Leng answered the call.
“Who the—?”
“Leng,” said a familiar voice, mechanical yet human. “I am calling to ensure that you’ve returned home. It has been a grueling week for you.” He sighed. “I regret my choice of words at the den of iniquity. You have my sympathies for these hardships.”
“Thanks, Thaddeus, but…I’m fine.”
“Lying to an inquisitor is a sin,” he sighed. “Know this. I am here for you. Should you need my counsel or even a shoulder to lean on, I will answer.”
“Heh. Doubt you’ve got a lot of experience with this.”
“That I do not. However, I wish you well, and….”
“And?”
“Be safe, my friend.”
Leng hit the END button, sprawling across the futon with a sigh. He stared at the popcorn ceiling, counting polyester stars in its pale sky, somehow seeing her face in the patterns as his mind throbbed with poison and hate.
Edgar. You cuckolding piece of shit
Leng was stranded on an island of apathy. Alone. Not even film brought him joy. Fukuhara was the one thing that gave Leng purpose, and she had chosen a life of luxury over him. His eyes fell upon the revolver by the nightstand. He pressed its barrel against his skull and clicked the safety off, palms sweaty. Life wasn’t worth this, and yet he lacked the motivation to do anything. Even to pull the trigger.
That was then.
Days turned to weeks. When Fukuhara had turned up dead, the others weren’t far behind. In hindsight, Thaddeus was as short-sighted as ever. Maybe a well-timed bullet could’ve prevented the whole tragedy. As of now, Leng had no right to carry out Edgar’s execution. Victor needed to move on and was far more worthy of deciding the culprit’s fate.
It’ll be his choice, that’s the important thing—
Leng’s thoughts were severed by a roaring engine. Back in the courtyard, he was blinded by light, dodging a motorcycle as two figures dismounted, bolting towards the lobby.
“Got the memo, I see,” he wheezed.
“Where’s Victor?” Charles asked.
“Still inside. Yuko’s gone.”
Beatrice gripped her sword’s hilt. “And you left him there?”
“No, I’m waiting for him.”
“The hell is wrong with you?” she roared. “Do you have any idea what’ll happen if he gets to Edgar? We had to pry Victor off the bastard!”
“I’m in no place to take this from him. His loss. His choice. And if you guys wanna talk about selfishness, telling Victor how to cope is about as—”
Shit!
Charles grabbed and lifted him by the collar. “Cough it up! Where’re they holding him? We’re not playing around here, Leng.”
“Fourth floor, rehab, 633. M…might wanna hurry.”
“Then lead the way.” Charles shoved him ahead. “You know the hospital better than us. Don’t worry, we’ll be right behind you.”
Leng knew better than to object. However, the lobby was a threshold to a medicated nightmare, reeking of brimstone and cheap cleaner. The walls wept with crimson bile, as bandages over wounds, as malignant growths lined its plaster. Working the elevator was impossible, but the halls were different than he recalled as if the asylum had twisted itself into a labyrinth of anguish. No daemons stalked its wards, and yet the dread was suffocating. For every staircase scaled, the stronger that stench became, as did Leng’s unease.
Didn’t expect this.
“Up ahead,” Beatrice said. “Victor?”
Leng caught a silhouette marching against the darkness. He recognized those coattails, flowing like tattered banners on a bloodstained battlefield.
“Dude,” Charles shouted. “Wait—!”
A collapsing ceiling silenced him, blocking the path with a pile of debris and pipework as the silhouette took a sharp left. Beatrice tugged the stoner back, and Leng led them down an alternative route. Fire and brimstone aside, Victor was growing up.
#
Victor jerked open an iron door, slamming it against the plastered wall. Edgar was on all fours, crawling like a toddler, reaching for an open window, tranquilized yet hardly tamed. A warm gust wafted into the suite while a bed with feather pillows stood ajar in place of a cot across from a television larger than the door. Clenching his fists, Victor recognized the twitch of Edgar’s eyes as the patient skittered away in terror.
“It’s not what it l…looks like,” he stuttered.
“Then what is it? She’s dead. You killed her.”
Edgar clutched his skull. “No, I didn’t. I couldn’t—”
“I was there, Dollmaker. But I’m not giving you any more satisfaction.”
“D…doll—? No. You can’t be serious. I mean, yes, b…but I was trying to save them!” he blathered. “You understand, right? They need salvation.”
“Say that again, and I’m breaking a limb.”
Victor stared the culprit down, disgusted by his blue-tinted beard and powdered face, feeble attempts to mask one’s aging. Edgar pressed his back against the wall, breathing shallow and short as Victor caught his own reflection in the patient’s eyes.
Pathetic excuse for a man.
“Although,” he continued, “I have to give you credit. Not only are your murders unprovable, but you’ve turned Yoshiwara into your own hunting ground.” His voice dripped with venom and hate. “Why it’s so fucked up, the word ‘phantasmagorical’ actually fits. How many did you kill? How many can you even name?”
“S…stop it.”
A screech of static interrupted them. The television sparked on, screen ablaze with white noise. Instincts of vengeance boiled to the surface like corpses upon a war-torn shore. Edgar tried to speak but couldn’t manage a word. Victor clutched his ears as a presence tore at his mind. Then came the fumes, stinging, blinding him with foul sulfur.
Something’s burning.
“My methods don’t matter,” Edgar hissed, voice distorted by chaos as if possessed by his own twisted desires. “I failed to save her. Because you got in my way. But you’re absolutely right. The law can’t touch me. Especially here. In my own town.”
Victor pried his eyes open, fixed upon a silhouette. “Maybe not, but I can.”
“Do whatever you want,” he continued. “You hate me because it ‘died,’ don’t you? It was never about such petty things. The puppet’s role came to an end. If you can’t tell a doll from a woman, what does that say about humanity?” He uttered a cruel laugh. “Life is a product to be consumed. Sin is the fat to be trimmed. Well, maybe not to you. You’re different, right? Incapable of my deeds. You can’t take a life. You wouldn’t dare. I’ve made a beast of myself, after all. You cannot stop me, Victor. I’m going to ‘save’ this city. One whore at a time.”
The screen sizzled off. When sight returned, Victor’s thoughts lost all cohesion; incinerated by the sweltering heat as flames rose to his fingertips, bathing the room in crimson light. He watched Edgar scuttle into a corner. Not a note of music played in Victor’s mind, not even the discord of the cacophony, leaving an abyss of silence and hate.
“M…make it stop,” Edgar sobbed. “I’m begging you.”
“Oh, I haven’t even started.” Victor lunged and tore Edgar up by the gown. “Yuko was just grist for the fucking mill.” He slammed the patient against the wall, ignoring the crack of wood against flesh. “Give her back, you son of a bitch!”
“S…stop,” Edgar wheezed. “Please!”
Victor gritted his teeth. “I bet that’s how they all begged.”
“W…what are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Don’t expect to leave in one piece.”
“They were going to kill her. I had to s—”
In a fit of sudden strength, Victor threw Edgar to the floor. There he lay, winded, wracked by spasms. Victor’s motions were almost involuntary as he stomped into the patient’s kneecap, splintering and shattering bone under his heel. He felt no joy from such cruelty, only a cold sense of justice and triumph, purging any remnant of shame. If anything, Edgar’s screams were annoying, like a pig that wasn’t slaughtered properly.
The irony did not escape him.
Victor dragged the patient by the hair, eyes fixed on the television. Darker thoughts swarmed his mind. Lost in vertigo, he shoved Edgar against the screen, ignoring every shriek and plea. It didn’t feel as Victor had imagined; the glass swirled, warm and smooth, until the daemons howled in unison, chanting for the sacrifice.
Seconds from justice.
The screen melted, revealing an endless throat of yellowed fangs. Victor pressed the madman deeper into the Hellmouth, inch by inch. Its serpentine tongues caressed Edgar’s scalp, mockeries of a lover’s touch, salivating over his terror.
Slowly, Victor began to understand.
When the Dollmaker came for them, he saw every victim for what they truly were. You can’t savor that with a gunshot or a knife in the back. Now, Edgar’s feeling the exact terror they did. Right now, in his last moments, it’s hitting him. Not just the disbelief that he failed. But shock, shame, and the finality of one more push. Murder is so intimate. In a way, I know him better than anyone else. Just as the Dollmaker knew all of those women. And yet—
“Holy shit, Victor,” someone gasped. “Stop!”
He jolted back to the present, gaze darting to a trio of friends. They stood by the doorway, gawking in horror. Victor didn’t know how to react, slouched over the maw, though his hold on Edgar weakened. Beatrice was speechless, and Leng dared not approach, but before he could so much as stutter, Victor felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t,” Charles said.
Victor remained stiff and still, although the presence of his friends was a visceral twist. Inaction was the catalyst that led to Yuko’s death, but here he stood, moments from taking a life in return. The question of death lorded over him like a monolith, its answers irrevocable. Victor let go with a shudder. Edgar collapsed in a broken heap on the floor, unable to crawl away, sobbing, gown damp with tears. The Hellmouth receded.
“That’s it?” Leng asked. “You’re going to let him go? I’m sorry, didn’t he just murder Yuko? Didn’t you love her? If you can’t follow through, he’ll keep on with the ‘savior’ shit. Are you willing to live with more victims just ‘cause your balls haven’t dropped?”
“If I do this, I’m no better than him!” Victor roared. “And I didn’t love her, Leng. I do love her.” He clutched the entertainment center, shaking. “I can’t lose sight of that.”
“Maybe you haven’t noticed,” Leng scoffed, “but the city doesn’t give a rat’s ass about your displaced sense of ethics. There’s a reason I turned a blind eye—”
“Oh, I get it,” Beatrice spoke up. “You’ll ‘give’ Victor the chance to kill the culprit out of revenge, but you’ll berate him when he chooses not to?”
Leng seethed as a bitter quiet filled the room. Edgar clutched his shattered knee, whimpering in pain. There was no denying it—he was responsible for the kidnappings and Yuko’s death. However, could someone as spineless as Edgar murder his own fiancée and countless others? Regardless, Victor knew one thing for certain.
This isn’t what Yuko would’ve wanted.
#
The Devil’s Hour was over. Victor allowed himself to breathe, to feel. Fog had engulfed Yoshiwara in a pall of pea soup, but a few lights pierced its miasma. Beatrice shut off the ignition, locking her bike as Charles watched moths flock about the streetlamps. Victor’s friends stood on either side, silent in their vigil, reminding him of being escorted to the principal’s office by a squad of paraeducators. It had only happened twice, but schoolyard brawls always made him feel a little badass. It was the closest reference point Victor had to attempted murder.
“We’re not mad,” Beatrice said.
“I can never tell,” he replied. “Asperger’s and all that.”
“Hell, I’m not even disappointed,” Charles admitted. “In the end, you handled that pretty damn well. Not saying you don’t need serious therapy, but….”
Beatrice glared at him in disgust.
“Oh, c’mon,” Charles sighed. “Comedy’s how I cope with soul-crushing tragedy. For real, though. You wouldn’t have gotten shit out of revenge. Trust me.”
“That,” Beatrice added, “and we’re missing something.”
“Like what?” Victor asked.
“Later,” the stoner interrupted. “We need a couple of nights off. Don’t worry, though. Considering a fractured knee takes months to heal, you’ve extended his stay a fair bit.” He sighed. “Something stopped you back there, man. And it wasn’t me. Edgar’s guilty of many things, but we need to confirm the rest. Anything else would be lying to ourselves.”
Victor’s mouth ran dry. “We didn’t get this far with ignorance.” His eyes wandered about, watching Leng slink off towards Gin Lane, though he’d be back by happy hour. “And you’re right. I need time to process and grieve.”
“One more thing.” Charles rolled up a spliff, breaking his vow for the night. “Don’t hang out with Leng anymore. Well, not without us. He’s a bad influence.”
“Who isn’t down here?”
The Sunset Pagoda emerged into vision, exactly the same as Victor remembered it, bombarding him with bittersweetness. He paused, soaking in the sight, realizing that a life without Yuko was the reality before him. It was far from acceptance, and yet Victor felt a semblance of peace. He caressed the battered wooden doors and pushed them open, returning to the backbar, joining his comrades in depression.
Jerry slid them a trio of shots.
Rows of bottles shimmered against the hanging lights, whiskey and gin, all of questionable quality. The taps were rusty with misuse, labels worn, and kegs oozing with foam. Refrigeration was a commodity in Yoshiwara, and ice chests filled the gaps, cradling a dozen bottles of pilsner and other lagers. Sepia photos lined the walls, hallmarks of opening day and other achievements, such as “Top Seller of Victory Gin by Volume, No. #54.” Together, these blemishes and seedy memories wove a tapestry of comfort.
It was the only home Victor had.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Opera House lay in the shade of melancholy, though it was brighter than before. The chandeliers flickered with cobalt flame. Slowly its myriad of instruments breathed life into the concert hall. Victor never thought he’d be happy to hear such a forlorn key, and yet the piece soothed his sorrows through a tide of catharsis.
Music. God, how I missed it.
“Forgive me,” the Impresario spoke from the aisle’s end. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. I am merely preparing for the next movement in our symphony.”
“I understand your concerns,” Thaddeus said. “And considering we are ‘off the clock,’ I feel it appropriate to speak candidly, if I may.”
Leng watched the sugar melt. “Go for it.”
“I too have doubts of our order’s efficiency,” he muttered. “However, you must not let such venial thoughts lead you to darker places. Edgar may be a licentious wretch and the existence of Yoshiwara a blight upon our city. However, given his ownership of this sodom and its necessity to the peoples’ lowest instincts, removing him is not feasible.”
Leng rolled his eyes. “This isn’t about moral hygiene.”
“Vengeance is not an option for us—”
“Tell that to Brendel,” Leng snapped, “or Torquemada, or the bitch in the high castle herself. Wake up, Thaddeus. We’re cogs in a machine. Expendable. Why else do you think I got conscripted? Because I sure as fuck didn’t ask for this. I’m not martyring myself for a cause I’ve never believed in.” He gritted his teeth. “Ever since I’ve ‘joined,’ my reputation’s been torn to shreds. Edgar’s stolen everything from me. The rights to my scripts, my stills, even….”
“Even Fukuhara,” Thaddeus finished. “I am not ignorant of this.”
Leng glared at his superior. “Really now?”
“The duties of an inquisitor are more than piety. The implications of our vows are paramount to the order. However, I digress. You care not for such things.”
Leng raised his glass. “Finally catching on.”
“Therefore, consider the following,” Thaddeus continued. “Your romantic rival, one of the richest and most influential entrepreneurs of our time, has ‘stolen’ your harlot. He also owns Yoshiwara as a company town, complete with a private security force and deep financial roots in the Imperial Senate. Where we are currently drowning your sorrows. And your plan is to murder him yourself? This is, objectively speaking, the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“Gee, thanks. I feel so much better now.”
Leng didn’t remember leaving the bar, let alone parting ways with Thaddeus, only the eviction notice taped to his door. It wasn’t a surprise. Picking open the padlock, Leng shambled inside the hovel. Legal papers lay strewn about. The apartment was a gin-stained mess, devoid of color and personality, save for the occasional folder or condom wrapper.
Been a while since she was here.
Leng collapsed on the futon. He’d left the TV on, lacking the effort to finish the stale beer, staring at the eleven o’clock news as the spins hit harder than usual.
“And so,” the anchor said, “courtesan and film actress Himiko Fukuhara is taking an indefinite hiatus from her work at the Yoshiwara Studios. Rumors say that she is eloping, betrothed to renowned chocolatier and philanthropist—”
“Fuck off,” Leng slurred, clicking the remote.
He glanced out the window upon the dancing lights of the Sunset Pagoda. Leng imagined her with Edgar. Her lips pressed against his, stroking his dyed ginger hair. The whore was bought, and Leng was a naive fool. A filmmaker turned jackboot, castrated of all credibility.
His codec vibrated. Leng answered the call.
“Who the—?”
“Leng,” said a familiar voice, mechanical yet human. “I am calling to ensure that you’ve returned home. It has been a grueling week for you.” He sighed. “I regret my choice of words at the den of iniquity. You have my sympathies for these hardships.”
“Thanks, Thaddeus, but…I’m fine.”
“Lying to an inquisitor is a sin,” he sighed. “Know this. I am here for you. Should you need my counsel or even a shoulder to lean on, I will answer.”
“Heh. Doubt you’ve got a lot of experience with this.”
“That I do not. However, I wish you well, and….”
“And?”
“Be safe, my friend.”
Leng hit the END button, sprawling across the futon with a sigh. He stared at the popcorn ceiling, counting polyester stars in its pale sky, somehow seeing her face in the patterns as his mind throbbed with poison and hate.
Edgar. You cuckolding piece of shit
Leng was stranded on an island of apathy. Alone. Not even film brought him joy. Fukuhara was the one thing that gave Leng purpose, and she had chosen a life of luxury over him. His eyes fell upon the revolver by the nightstand. He pressed its barrel against his skull and clicked the safety off, palms sweaty. Life wasn’t worth this, and yet he lacked the motivation to do anything. Even to pull the trigger.
That was then.
Days turned to weeks. When Fukuhara had turned up dead, the others weren’t far behind. In hindsight, Thaddeus was as short-sighted as ever. Maybe a well-timed bullet could’ve prevented the whole tragedy. As of now, Leng had no right to carry out Edgar’s execution. Victor needed to move on and was far more worthy of deciding the culprit’s fate.
It’ll be his choice, that’s the important thing—
Leng’s thoughts were severed by a roaring engine. Back in the courtyard, he was blinded by light, dodging a motorcycle as two figures dismounted, bolting towards the lobby.
“Got the memo, I see,” he wheezed.
“Where’s Victor?” Charles asked.
“Still inside. Yuko’s gone.”
Beatrice gripped her sword’s hilt. “And you left him there?”
“No, I’m waiting for him.”
“The hell is wrong with you?” she roared. “Do you have any idea what’ll happen if he gets to Edgar? We had to pry Victor off the bastard!”
“I’m in no place to take this from him. His loss. His choice. And if you guys wanna talk about selfishness, telling Victor how to cope is about as—”
Shit!
Charles grabbed and lifted him by the collar. “Cough it up! Where’re they holding him? We’re not playing around here, Leng.”
“Fourth floor, rehab, 633. M…might wanna hurry.”
“Then lead the way.” Charles shoved him ahead. “You know the hospital better than us. Don’t worry, we’ll be right behind you.”
Leng knew better than to object. However, the lobby was a threshold to a medicated nightmare, reeking of brimstone and cheap cleaner. The walls wept with crimson bile, as bandages over wounds, as malignant growths lined its plaster. Working the elevator was impossible, but the halls were different than he recalled as if the asylum had twisted itself into a labyrinth of anguish. No daemons stalked its wards, and yet the dread was suffocating. For every staircase scaled, the stronger that stench became, as did Leng’s unease.
Didn’t expect this.
“Up ahead,” Beatrice said. “Victor?”
Leng caught a silhouette marching against the darkness. He recognized those coattails, flowing like tattered banners on a bloodstained battlefield.
“Dude,” Charles shouted. “Wait—!”
A collapsing ceiling silenced him, blocking the path with a pile of debris and pipework as the silhouette took a sharp left. Beatrice tugged the stoner back, and Leng led them down an alternative route. Fire and brimstone aside, Victor was growing up.
#
Victor jerked open an iron door, slamming it against the plastered wall. Edgar was on all fours, crawling like a toddler, reaching for an open window, tranquilized yet hardly tamed. A warm gust wafted into the suite while a bed with feather pillows stood ajar in place of a cot across from a television larger than the door. Clenching his fists, Victor recognized the twitch of Edgar’s eyes as the patient skittered away in terror.
“It’s not what it l…looks like,” he stuttered.
“Then what is it? She’s dead. You killed her.”
Edgar clutched his skull. “No, I didn’t. I couldn’t—”
“I was there, Dollmaker. But I’m not giving you any more satisfaction.”
“D…doll—? No. You can’t be serious. I mean, yes, b…but I was trying to save them!” he blathered. “You understand, right? They need salvation.”
“Say that again, and I’m breaking a limb.”
Victor stared the culprit down, disgusted by his blue-tinted beard and powdered face, feeble attempts to mask one’s aging. Edgar pressed his back against the wall, breathing shallow and short as Victor caught his own reflection in the patient’s eyes.
Pathetic excuse for a man.
“Although,” he continued, “I have to give you credit. Not only are your murders unprovable, but you’ve turned Yoshiwara into your own hunting ground.” His voice dripped with venom and hate. “Why it’s so fucked up, the word ‘phantasmagorical’ actually fits. How many did you kill? How many can you even name?”
“S…stop it.”
A screech of static interrupted them. The television sparked on, screen ablaze with white noise. Instincts of vengeance boiled to the surface like corpses upon a war-torn shore. Edgar tried to speak but couldn’t manage a word. Victor clutched his ears as a presence tore at his mind. Then came the fumes, stinging, blinding him with foul sulfur.
Something’s burning.
“My methods don’t matter,” Edgar hissed, voice distorted by chaos as if possessed by his own twisted desires. “I failed to save her. Because you got in my way. But you’re absolutely right. The law can’t touch me. Especially here. In my own town.”
Victor pried his eyes open, fixed upon a silhouette. “Maybe not, but I can.”
“Do whatever you want,” he continued. “You hate me because it ‘died,’ don’t you? It was never about such petty things. The puppet’s role came to an end. If you can’t tell a doll from a woman, what does that say about humanity?” He uttered a cruel laugh. “Life is a product to be consumed. Sin is the fat to be trimmed. Well, maybe not to you. You’re different, right? Incapable of my deeds. You can’t take a life. You wouldn’t dare. I’ve made a beast of myself, after all. You cannot stop me, Victor. I’m going to ‘save’ this city. One whore at a time.”
The screen sizzled off. When sight returned, Victor’s thoughts lost all cohesion; incinerated by the sweltering heat as flames rose to his fingertips, bathing the room in crimson light. He watched Edgar scuttle into a corner. Not a note of music played in Victor’s mind, not even the discord of the cacophony, leaving an abyss of silence and hate.
“M…make it stop,” Edgar sobbed. “I’m begging you.”
“Oh, I haven’t even started.” Victor lunged and tore Edgar up by the gown. “Yuko was just grist for the fucking mill.” He slammed the patient against the wall, ignoring the crack of wood against flesh. “Give her back, you son of a bitch!”
“S…stop,” Edgar wheezed. “Please!”
Victor gritted his teeth. “I bet that’s how they all begged.”
“W…what are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Don’t expect to leave in one piece.”
“They were going to kill her. I had to s—”
In a fit of sudden strength, Victor threw Edgar to the floor. There he lay, winded, wracked by spasms. Victor’s motions were almost involuntary as he stomped into the patient’s kneecap, splintering and shattering bone under his heel. He felt no joy from such cruelty, only a cold sense of justice and triumph, purging any remnant of shame. If anything, Edgar’s screams were annoying, like a pig that wasn’t slaughtered properly.
The irony did not escape him.
Victor dragged the patient by the hair, eyes fixed on the television. Darker thoughts swarmed his mind. Lost in vertigo, he shoved Edgar against the screen, ignoring every shriek and plea. It didn’t feel as Victor had imagined; the glass swirled, warm and smooth, until the daemons howled in unison, chanting for the sacrifice.
Seconds from justice.
The screen melted, revealing an endless throat of yellowed fangs. Victor pressed the madman deeper into the Hellmouth, inch by inch. Its serpentine tongues caressed Edgar’s scalp, mockeries of a lover’s touch, salivating over his terror.
Slowly, Victor began to understand.
When the Dollmaker came for them, he saw every victim for what they truly were. You can’t savor that with a gunshot or a knife in the back. Now, Edgar’s feeling the exact terror they did. Right now, in his last moments, it’s hitting him. Not just the disbelief that he failed. But shock, shame, and the finality of one more push. Murder is so intimate. In a way, I know him better than anyone else. Just as the Dollmaker knew all of those women. And yet—
“Holy shit, Victor,” someone gasped. “Stop!”
He jolted back to the present, gaze darting to a trio of friends. They stood by the doorway, gawking in horror. Victor didn’t know how to react, slouched over the maw, though his hold on Edgar weakened. Beatrice was speechless, and Leng dared not approach, but before he could so much as stutter, Victor felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t,” Charles said.
Victor remained stiff and still, although the presence of his friends was a visceral twist. Inaction was the catalyst that led to Yuko’s death, but here he stood, moments from taking a life in return. The question of death lorded over him like a monolith, its answers irrevocable. Victor let go with a shudder. Edgar collapsed in a broken heap on the floor, unable to crawl away, sobbing, gown damp with tears. The Hellmouth receded.
“That’s it?” Leng asked. “You’re going to let him go? I’m sorry, didn’t he just murder Yuko? Didn’t you love her? If you can’t follow through, he’ll keep on with the ‘savior’ shit. Are you willing to live with more victims just ‘cause your balls haven’t dropped?”
“If I do this, I’m no better than him!” Victor roared. “And I didn’t love her, Leng. I do love her.” He clutched the entertainment center, shaking. “I can’t lose sight of that.”
“Maybe you haven’t noticed,” Leng scoffed, “but the city doesn’t give a rat’s ass about your displaced sense of ethics. There’s a reason I turned a blind eye—”
“Oh, I get it,” Beatrice spoke up. “You’ll ‘give’ Victor the chance to kill the culprit out of revenge, but you’ll berate him when he chooses not to?”
Leng seethed as a bitter quiet filled the room. Edgar clutched his shattered knee, whimpering in pain. There was no denying it—he was responsible for the kidnappings and Yuko’s death. However, could someone as spineless as Edgar murder his own fiancée and countless others? Regardless, Victor knew one thing for certain.
This isn’t what Yuko would’ve wanted.
#
The Devil’s Hour was over. Victor allowed himself to breathe, to feel. Fog had engulfed Yoshiwara in a pall of pea soup, but a few lights pierced its miasma. Beatrice shut off the ignition, locking her bike as Charles watched moths flock about the streetlamps. Victor’s friends stood on either side, silent in their vigil, reminding him of being escorted to the principal’s office by a squad of paraeducators. It had only happened twice, but schoolyard brawls always made him feel a little badass. It was the closest reference point Victor had to attempted murder.
“We’re not mad,” Beatrice said.
“I can never tell,” he replied. “Asperger’s and all that.”
“Hell, I’m not even disappointed,” Charles admitted. “In the end, you handled that pretty damn well. Not saying you don’t need serious therapy, but….”
Beatrice glared at him in disgust.
“Oh, c’mon,” Charles sighed. “Comedy’s how I cope with soul-crushing tragedy. For real, though. You wouldn’t have gotten shit out of revenge. Trust me.”
“That,” Beatrice added, “and we’re missing something.”
“Like what?” Victor asked.
“Later,” the stoner interrupted. “We need a couple of nights off. Don’t worry, though. Considering a fractured knee takes months to heal, you’ve extended his stay a fair bit.” He sighed. “Something stopped you back there, man. And it wasn’t me. Edgar’s guilty of many things, but we need to confirm the rest. Anything else would be lying to ourselves.”
Victor’s mouth ran dry. “We didn’t get this far with ignorance.” His eyes wandered about, watching Leng slink off towards Gin Lane, though he’d be back by happy hour. “And you’re right. I need time to process and grieve.”
“One more thing.” Charles rolled up a spliff, breaking his vow for the night. “Don’t hang out with Leng anymore. Well, not without us. He’s a bad influence.”
“Who isn’t down here?”
The Sunset Pagoda emerged into vision, exactly the same as Victor remembered it, bombarding him with bittersweetness. He paused, soaking in the sight, realizing that a life without Yuko was the reality before him. It was far from acceptance, and yet Victor felt a semblance of peace. He caressed the battered wooden doors and pushed them open, returning to the backbar, joining his comrades in depression.
Jerry slid them a trio of shots.
Rows of bottles shimmered against the hanging lights, whiskey and gin, all of questionable quality. The taps were rusty with misuse, labels worn, and kegs oozing with foam. Refrigeration was a commodity in Yoshiwara, and ice chests filled the gaps, cradling a dozen bottles of pilsner and other lagers. Sepia photos lined the walls, hallmarks of opening day and other achievements, such as “Top Seller of Victory Gin by Volume, No. #54.” Together, these blemishes and seedy memories wove a tapestry of comfort.
It was the only home Victor had.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Opera House lay in the shade of melancholy, though it was brighter than before. The chandeliers flickered with cobalt flame. Slowly its myriad of instruments breathed life into the concert hall. Victor never thought he’d be happy to hear such a forlorn key, and yet the piece soothed his sorrows through a tide of catharsis.
Music. God, how I missed it.
“Forgive me,” the Impresario spoke from the aisle’s end. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. I am merely preparing for the next movement in our symphony.”
