Geist intermezzo, p.2
Geist Intermezzo, page 2
CHAPTER TWO
It wasn’t long before Victor heard the symphony of his soul.
Spacing out of thought and time, he drifted back to that cornerstone of cosmos. Beyond the world of Holy Gothica, he sat in a plush chair, staring at the cobalt chandeliers of the Opera House. The curtains opened wide, revealing the silver screen of a theater.
Such was his mental sanctum, a concert hall of creation.
Somewhere in-between dreams and reality, the Music of the Spheres serenaded Victor, fresh out of his own composition. Upon the stage, the Impresario sat as a shadow against the projected countdown. Leering from a wheelchair, the phantom mentor clasped his wrists, fiddling with a deck of the Imperial Tarot, his grimace shimmering in the deep blue twilight. For he was not quite human, a gentleman of puppet-like stature, fresh out of a bleak fairytale.
He was the enigma behind Victor’s survival thus far. He, who had cursed the young man with a blessing of imagination, the power of geist.
“Welcome back,” the Impresario said. “You have triumphed over darkness, as another soul awakened. A dear friend who answered my truest calling.” He chuckled. “You have gained your first disciple on this messianic odyssey.”
The aria continued. Victor remembered the battle with the Ringmaster, in the depths of Charles’s hell. A friend in dire need, whom he’d fought with, side by side, against the darkness in one’s own heart. “So, you’re the one who awakened Charles?”
The Impresario chuckled, laying a gloved hand over the tarot deck.
“Your Charles faced himself, and absolved his innermost daemon. The daemon of envy.” He drew a card, revealing the Magician Arcana. “With such enlightenment comes awakening. Here, in the Opera House, the myriad facades of man’s psyche reside, waiting until they are summoned. And slowly but surely, they are stirring.”
Victor felt the velveteen rabbit in his coat pocket, remembering Dante, his “other self,” the guardian who fought alongside him, whenever the time was right. A piece of his very soul, born from a wish, molded by a love of literature, under the guise of a Venetian knight.
Such was Victor’s “gift.”
Then, with a singing chord, the Impresario’s card flashed as the astral image of Cesare was projected onto the screen. An angel in a straightjacket, bound by chains inside a psychedelic coffin, a reflection of Charles’s true self.
Victor’s brow furrowed. “So, you’re changing your mind?”
“After a fashion,” the Impresario said. “For I sense potential in your dear friends. A power in their souls. A power yet to be awakened. If they carry such a possibility, why not spark its light? And so, I will guide your friends along that path. To aid you on your journey.”
“What about Beatrice?”
“She has yet to answer such a call.”
Victor smiled, if only for a moment. “So, she really is alive.”
“Alive yet elusive. For now.” The Impresario looked away as Cesare’s image vanished from the screen, into the fogbound aether. “You still deny your role in this world.”
That comment made Victor wince. “And this is a surprise?”
The Impresario sighed. “No, but it is the start of a journey towards true salvation.” He looked away. “I cannot force anything upon you. I am but a vision and a memory. A relic of bygone joys. However, even I am beginning to question your ability to move forward.”
“Goddamnit,” Victor snapped. “Just why do you keep summoning me here? You know my answer is always going to be the same.” He shook his head. “I’m not a savior. It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that I can’t handle that kind of responsibility. Seriously, I’m not made for that.”
“May I reiterate, you made this world, just as your soul composed the Music of the Spheres. Does that not imply a degree of responsibility?” The Impresario cocked an eyebrow. “You are running away from the truth. Just as Charles had before you.”
“That was life or death. Very different.”
The Impresario gave a somber laugh, and the Music music began to fade. “There will come a time when you must embrace your role, or fade with all that is left of this world.”
And so, the Opera House blurred into the waking limbo.
“Till we meet again.”
#
A distant whistle pierced the cold, night air of Holy Gothica.
Victor felt a metallic hand on his shoulder. His eyes jerked open to the Iron Sky and Thaddeus’s ebony face, masked by that respirator. Sheets of staff paper lay on Victor’s lap, scribbled with half-composed songs. He sighed, tucking them into his pockets, and ran a hand through his greasy black hair. Rising in groggy silence, Victor folded his collar up, feeling its moth-eaten fabric against his growing stubble. He grabbed his sword cane, Batsum, planting it against the cobbled streets, gazing across the shantytowns of Serfdom Two.
“How long was I out?” he asked.
“Less than an hour,” Thaddeus replied, voice gritty behind the tubes and knobs. “Regardless, it would be ill-advised to linger here.” He turned around, iron joints clunking under his trench coat. “No doubt the Inquisition will catch wind of our escape.”
“Surprised they haven’t already,” Charles yawned. “You know, for a totalitarian state, this place is kind of inconsistent.” He shrugged. “Then again, bread and circuses.”
Victor stared down the street. “We should get a move on.”
Ahead of the company, he passed by the dreary apartments of Serfdom Two again, where the air was stale with smog, and the people dour and mean-faced. To think, after everything, he was still trapped in this backwards world. Nothing had changed, except that he wasn’t alone. Not anymore. A high-functioning autistic, a wizened pothead, and an inquisitor in exile, all bound together through circumstance and commiseration.
Trapped in another world…. Searching for friends….
“Hey, dude,” Charles wheezed from behind. “Wait up!” He pulled his hair into a silver ponytail, adjusting his glasses with a sniff. His work boots clopped against the sidewalk as he reached for a spliff behind his ear. “How long until we reach Yoshiwara?”
Victor’s mind was elsewhere. He’d come too far to give up. Beatrice had to be out there. She and Charles were his last anchors to reality. Without them, he was just a lost boy in a nightmare with no hope of awakening. They were all he had left.
“We are almost there,” Thaddeus replied, sticking to the shadows. His breathing was slow and raspy as he pulled a slouch hat over his face. “Look ahead.”
Indeed, Victor beheld the outskirts of Yoshiwara.
The scent of hash wafted from the windows. The bells of fishing boats sang from the River Noir. Victor paused for a moment, listening to the ethnic peddlers playing their erhus with solemn care, soaking in the urban ambience. Meanwhile, the Sunset Pagoda rose from the near horizon. It was a tower of easterly design, windmills and absinthe bars clustered around its base, only a few blocks from the waterlogged harbors.
“Where did you say Beatrice was staying again?” Victor asked.
“It varies,” Charles replied. “She bounces around Yoshiwara. Got into some smuggling gigs and then…. Well, she joined the Powder Kegs.”
Victor watched a few rats scurry by. “I take it you two don’t talk often.”
“I’d be lying to say we’re close. We just keep in touch, you know?”
When they came to the red lanterns, a smile crossed Charles’s face. Even these streets were less crowded tonight, in a haze of low murmurs. Carriages passed them by, pulled by diesel-powered steeds. Victor kept his head low, avoiding eye contact as much as before. He glanced at Thaddeus, who remained stoic as ever, and yet, there was a different air about him.
“Are you okay?” Victor asked. “You seem distraught.”
“I never once thought of this place as a sanctuary,” Thaddeus said. “It’s odd, how all it takes to change a man is a single event. Truly, I have much thinking to do.”
As they passed by the peep shows and opium dens, Victor saw the golden lights of a theater on the horizon reading CINEMA with a vertical sign and red carpets. Victor smiled, welcoming the sight of something more earthly.
“I had no idea they played movies here,” he said. “Not in theaters, anyway.”
“Mostly escapist shit and propaganda,” Charles said. “Think of the ‘30s, but with way more religious ads. But I’ve seen some cool flicks down here.”
“We should go sometime.” Victor smiled.
He saw posters along the brick walls, advertising films such as, CABINET, and, M, all with minimalist artwork. Then, he heard a news clip from within the nickelodeon,
“And so, it has been confirmed by multiple sources that the 105th were massacred by a renegade inquisitor. The perpetrator and his acolytes are still at large and—”
“Slanderous curs,” Thaddeus muttered.
“Hey.” Victor turned to the man of iron, who clenched his iron fists. “We’re safe. Don’t let the lies get to you. Besides, there’s nothing we can do now.”
Thaddeus marched on, but said nothing.
#
When they came to the Pagoda’s doorstep, the bouncers recognized Charles almost instantly, as they stepped aside. Inside, it was far quieter—the regulars were either asleep or hungover. The billiard room was nearly vacant. A few women gathered around the back bar. Smoking cloves, they sipped at mixed drinks, whispering the latest gossip of Yoshiwara.
“Did you hear?” one said. “They say the Dollmaker’s still at large.”
“No more bodies since Jericho, though?” the bartender replied. “That’s a relief.”
“Who’s to say there aren’t more?” said another. “Some the Inquisition haven’t found yet. Maybe he’s just lying low. I mean, why would that psycho stop now?”
Because he didn’t.
Victor remembered it—not that he could ever forget. The Dollmaker was enigmatic, less of a serial killer and more of a force of evil. He preyed on harlots in the dark of the night. He fed them to the daemons behind the screens. And he hunted Victor and his dearest friends. A man without a face or motive, save for malice and misogyny.
Victor shuddered, knowing he was far from safe.
Shot glasses clinked together by the back bar. Edgar Munchausen sat by himself at a corner table, stirring an old fashioned. His face was dour and half-painted, like a manically depressed clown. Victor couldn’t blame him in the slightest. The candyman still pined over that pocket watch, staring at his late beloved’s image, a tear trickling down his cheek.
“I hate this place,” Thaddeus muttered.
Victor turned to rows of bottles behind the counter, ranging from Victory Gin to monk-brewed beers. Charles flagged the barkeep and ordered a pitcher. Meanwhile, Thaddeus pulled a few chairs over by the windowsill, cracking his iron knuckles, and Victor joined him. The table leaned to one side, a leg replaced by a bundle of broken cues.
“So…,” Thaddeus said. “In light of recent events, it is time that we explain to Charles what is happening. I believe you, too, could use a bit of information, Victor. This is no easy matter to understand. Let us indulge and reflect on our deductions.”
Charles joined them, handing Victor a frothy pint.
“All right,” Victor said, taking a swig of beer. “Where do we start?”
“One month ago,” Thaddeus began, “the first victim was found, Lady Himiko Fukuhara. Like all others thereafter, she disappeared for a time, only to be found impaled on a radio tower. These murders are, to this day, sporadic, without rhyme or reason. Most of the victims were prostitutes of Yoshiwara, but of late, the targets seem far more random.”
Victor nodded. “So, one month before I wound up here.”
“Beatrice and I descended about a month ago too.” Charles poured himself a glass of triple ale. “Does that have anything to do with it? Seems awfully coincidental.”
Thaddeus nodded. “The unifying circumstances of the murders are power outages. They often occur hours before the victims are found. The worst of these is called the Thirteenth Frequency, which allows the daemons to worm their way into our reality, if only for a time.”
“And they use the radios and televisions,” Victor added. “During the surges, those screens become portals to the Inferno, the realm of daemons, and so—”
“The killer throws them into the TV,” Charles said. “I think I follow.”
Victor glanced about the room. Pool tables were worn and stained, their finish faded, 8-balls scratched by years of poor shots—no doubt casualties of barroom brawls.
“Then we understand,” Thaddeus concluded. “The Dollmaker uses the surges and televisions as his method, leaving his victims at the mercy of the daemons, trapped on the other side of the screens. We also know something of his motives, which are strange.”
“Sin,” Victor added. “Think about it. Why else would he target hookers? Or use Charles’s own ‘envy’ against him? Maybe he thinks we’re heretics of a different sort.”
Charles nodded. “You might be onto something.”
“Regardless,” Thaddeus said, “the killer is also harvesting the Vitae of his victims—the soul stuff of men. And the soul is weighed down by sin. Perhaps the souls of outsiders are more potent for his cause? Perhaps he is using the ‘sinners’ as resources for a twisted purpose.”
A chair screeched against the floorboards. Victor watched Edgar shamble to the coat rack by the door. His eyes were glazed with despairing purpose, as if pretending not to notice them.
“However,” Thaddeus continued, “I think we can all agree on one thing—Beatrice is likely the next target. The Dollmaker has taken an interest in Victor, and outsiders in general.”
Victor shuddered, feeling a chill through the open window. He imagined what would happen if they failed. She’d be fed to her own daemons, only to be vomited out of that dark world, her corpse propped on a telephone pole like all the others.
“Then,” he said, “this killer is using psychological torture to harvest our souls?” He turned to Charles. “Why else would he have kept you alive for so long?”
“True.” Charles laid a hand to his chin. “But I overcame that ‘uber-daemon’ practically designed to kill me, and it turned into a geist.” He nodded at Victor. “Did you have to fight your own shadow too? I mean, now we pretty much have the same power and all.”
“No,” Victor replied. “I never did.”
A barmaid came to the table, serving a couple of pints on the house. The special tonight was cloudy and poor, or, as Charles called it, “Rocky Mountain piss water.”
“There are still many things we do not know.” Thaddeus laid a hand on his brow. “I, for one, still need to know the ultimate truth. How does this all relate to the Far Messiah lore?”
Victor said nothing. The idea of being a savior still made him uncomfortable. He did not know how to react, and thought it best to keep such doubts to himself. “All this makes me think there’s something else way bigger,” he said. “Something that has yet to come into the limelight.”
Charles shrugged. “I don’t pretend to know either. But I think seeking out the Powder Kegs is still our best move to find Beatrice. After all, she is a sympathizer, to say the least.”
“Is she now?” Thaddeus mumbled. “Tomorrow, I shall gather information as to your friend’s whereabouts. Perhaps those rebels indeed know of her.”
“Well,” Charles leaned back, sighing. “Pulling an all-nighter won’t help anyone. I’m pretty sure I still have a room reserved. Hell, I’m surprised I haven’t passed out by now.”
“Yeah,” Victor said. “Not a bad idea.”
The clock behind the bar chimed. It was one in the morning, and the bartender announced, “Last call. If you want your drinks, get them now.”
Charles chugged the last of his beer and stood up.
“I too will take a moment and breathe.” Thaddeus walked towards a pool table. “I could use some unwinding now. It has been a grueling day, and I—” His eyes bulged. “I.... I…. I…,” he stuttered, rummaging through his pockets. “D-dammit!”
“Hey, Tin Man?” Charles turned around. “You alright-a?”
Victor bolted to his side. “Thaddeus?!”
Thaddeus leaned against a chair, clenching his iron chest, shaking. Steam boiled from his respirator and he gave a muffled cry, almost knocking over the table. Thaddeus’s face turned a violent shade of purple as he rummaged through his pockets, pulling out a syringe of chrome liquid. He jabbed the needle into his neck, eyes glazed with shock.
“I…,” he wheezed. “I am…fine.”
“What was that?!” Victor’s heart pounded. “Do you go into cardiac arrest or something?”
Thaddeus nodded. “My suppressants. I…I forgot to take them…when we were caught up in all this. It has to do with my augments. Side-effects of my steel.”
“But we’re cut off from your laboratory now,” Victor said. “How are you supposed to get refills of that medication? I mean, I take it those are special—”
“You think I haven’t thought of that?!” Thaddeus barked. “I am no fool!”
Victor stepped back, seeing the fire in his mentor’s eyes.
“My apologies.” Thaddeus looked away, calming down. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you, Victor. Worry not. I will be fine.” He walked away, as if reassuring himself. “I will be fine.”
Victor watched him stagger down the hall, joints creaking as if rusted.
“Well,” Charles said. “That was…interesting.”
“Suppressants for what? That was never an issue before.”
“Who knows?” Charles shrugged, his face grim. “I doubt this place has a whole lot of modern medicine, anyway. Probably injecting himself with opiates.” He bit his lip. “There’s nothing we can really do. Unless you want to go raid the Royal Apothecary Society.”
