Dusty from the lack of rain, the roadway leads a short distance to a
slowly curving wooden bridge. With its green painted rails and red waterproofed supports it could appear quite garish in the pastoral scene, but age and the elements have worn and faded it to the degree where it is as much a part of the landscape as any natural feature. Beyond the bridge a few dozen steps us a well-kept farm house with a short jetty pointing out into the river. Grand old trees stand behind. overlooking the countryside for miles and hiding the rest of the road as it curves gently behind them. Above, a sky riddled with clouds gives the impression of early afternoon, despite the directionless light.
"It's a picture all right," I say, looking at their hopefully intent faces. "But if you want a decent appraisal I suggest you try someone with an interest in this area - perhaps an artist?" My hint of sarcasm seems to elude them for the time being, and perhaps it's just as well if I want to continue playing this game they've invited me into.
"There isn't any psychic residue," Caitlin asks, disappointment edging into her expression. She really is very pretty, not exactly beautiful, but that elfin kind of thing that stops just short of being tomboyish, and she's a fair bit shorter than me. Reddish brown hair, big does eyes, 20 at the most. Shame she's bought in to the deep dark mysteries of the unknown guff so much. I see headlights reflected in those eyes at some point in the future and am unsure whether it's merely metaphysical or the situation will turn out to be more tangible.
"Nothing that I can detect," I say in an offhand way, realising that too much of an efficient tone won't sit well with my own appearance. Those of us who make do with nothing but tatty t shirts and army surplus leftovers can't really make the meerschaum sucking brigade's level of intellectual professionalism. Not that I've exactly thought of myself as a detective before, but I tend to have a knack for finding things out, so I figure why not?
"But you could if it was there, right?" Him I could do without; in fact, I feel tempted to smash my forehead into his bony little nose. I'd have to jump to do it, though. Damn being taken over at 16 before I'd gained my full height. 5' 9" is workable enough, but there are times when you just feel like you've missed out on the full deal.
"Sure, sure ... " I make like I forget his name and it's not that important anyway. Well, it isn't, to me.
"Stephen." A servile smile shows a few more signs of age on his clean cut face. About 30 in appearance, he fills out the stylish dark suit he wore to the club as if he were born to it. Tanned, slim, groomed, he seems to be everything I'm not.
"Mmhmm. Right." I grin at him slightly and see if I've gotten under that sun soaked skin at all. It appears not. These ghouls are just trained too well and respect or fear their benefactors too much to get angry over the studied insouciance of what appears to be an annoying kid. Bugger. So much for that game.
"Okay then. Your boss is away for a month or so and someone has broken into her home, a home you were supposed to be guarding with your lives, and exchanged this painting here for something worth rather a lot more?"
"A Constable, yes," nods Stephen, passing a hand through his blond hair and looking even more troubled. "I wouldn't like to put a value on it, but I imagine it would...'
I wave him to silence before he starts quoting numbers that make me sick, but I take a glance at the photo shoved under my nose and have to admit it's a nice painting. Art's a wonderful thing, it can move the emotions, get the wonders of creation coming back to you, cause new thoughts to occur, but it isn't worth anything like what some idiots want to pay. It disgusts me, but then a lot of things about people do, so I try to keep a lid on it as much as possible.
"Fine. Burglar alarm was untouched. You were on the premises and heard nothing. I don't see what she can have to say against you, really. It was obviously a very professional, well thought out operation - not as if you left the door wide open while you were off at the pub or something, huh?"
"Uh. No, we were in the house." Hazel and brown eyes glance at each other, by accident rather than design, and I see guilt flash between them, more starkly than the background level I'd assumed was just that of devoted servants having failed in their duties. Kinda sick, in my book. I know they're not related, but the blood they share tends to make me think of them as closer than most indentured types.. cousins at least. A few pheromone traces now begin to make sense. I haven't been at this long enough to jump to the correct conclusions the way the Sergeant or the boss man would have, but I'm learning.
"Okay. Upstairs, huh?" Pulling this sort of thing without the ability to blush is one great side effect of being what I am - before, I would have wasted the effect by obviously embarrassing myself more than anyone there, even if I didn't actually give a shit. Body pissing off mind for some unknown, subconscious sort of reason. I'm glad _that_ part of being a teen is all over, shame not all the rest is.
"Yes." She nods, and doesn't seem as appealing to me any more. Maybe it's my upbringing. Maybe it's just that I really never was any good with being a human being. Probably it's just 'cause I'm a sad bastard.
"Anything else taken?"
"Not that we can find. Just this substitution." Stephen must hear the distaste in my tone now, his heartbeat has shot up and he's sweating more freely. Their mistress must've given them a rather more glorious ideal of the vampire than the reality that I, at least, am. A traditionalist, I suppose. Good for her, amusing for me for the moment.
"Okay. Cool. Go about your business and I'll let myself out when I'm done.
I've got the number, so I'll ring you if anything comes up."
"We knew you would be able to help, Master, our Lady was effusive in her praise for your past services and trustworthy nature in keeping delicate matters private."
I'll sell almost any info if the price is right or it'll have amusing results, but they don't need to know that. "The name is Only," I say, sounding like a Mickey Spillane or Ian Fleming novel and cursing myself. "Now piss off and let me work."
There are no fingerprints on the glass frame of the water colour, not that I could make use of such were they present. It'd be simple enough to lift them, but without a database, assuming the perp's prints are even on file, they'd be pretty worthless. I'm not going to run around the city with an ink pad accosting anyone who looks suspicious, that's for sure. Too bad I'm a real person with no supercomputer that talks back, no government officials in my pocket, no awesome supernatural senses built up through hard work and dedication or even a captive demon to send out and do stuff for me. Just as well, tryhards piss me off and will continue to do so even when I've been around long enough to get some of that shit together myself. Annoying pack of... Where was I?
The backing of the picture does include a folded newspaper, so I have a year to go with the initials H.L.F. in the lower left corner of the painting itself. At the library I draw a complete blank, so either the artist is an unknown or my research skills have downgraded alarmingly. Either way, it would have been a very long shot to find a direct that way, anyway - unless, as I suspect, someone is playing games. Tomorrow night I'll see if I can't figure out some of the rules.
They will not die, they who watch the rest fall, whether by age, injury, chance or design. Surviving is not what they are about, merely a secondary result of the purpose that binds them each to the other through the centuries and beyond, a link few are even aware of. Not truly immortal they must fight for existence each night they walk, and yet this makes them more a part of what they do and what they strive for than those who lie beneath pyramids or skyscrapers or oceans and send naught but their minds abroad; thus they are almost as deadly, for they belong.
Currents and rips form between myriad plans and schemes and ideals. Minds unknowing what they do grasp purpose through naught but faith. I see Revenants and Sabbat Packs and information stored below London by the second Prince there.
Wizards die, their lives snuffed out one by one, their power turned against them. Those who flee are safe for the moment, but never can they return.
The changing breeds tear themselves apart, leaving few survivors. Storm crows gather themselves for final flight.
A once beautiful court lies in ruins, its past occupants shattered, lost and afraid, forgetting their true selves in the interests of safety. Amidst the remains one walks among the fallen bones and plays on pipes made of the same. He watches and waits.
There are other godlings and totem spirits. In the North a wild haired wanderer watches the serpent rise from its black lake and forces it to return through riddlery, charm and, most of all, luck.. A short respite, but an important one. In the South a creature that partakes of force of will above all else slays two insane grotesques that would herald the rising of the final dawn. His Pack is not as lucky as he, even trickery and planning have their limits, but he goes on alone to find a third of the beasts and ..
My tongue feels like I've been licking sandpaper when I wake, and coupled with the dull pressure behind my eyes I imagine it must be somewhat like a hangover. It certainly reminds me of the last time I caught the 'flu, not so many years back. Obviously one of those days again. Only shreds of the dreams remain, but it's enough to make me feel less than effusive as to the joys of the world. Burning eyes and people's heads being swallowed whole by something that looks uglier than any Nossie I've ever had cause to see without his Mask on aren't the sort of thing I want foremost in my mind. Sometimes the nightmares get a little carried away; it happens - I deal with it, but don't have to like it. Part of the curse, I figure - each to his own.
Having been in my bedroom for a fair while the painting is now easier for me to get a scent off. I know what the background smells in here are, so it's less of a problem to concentrate on the ones that don't belong. Old paper, solvents, the paint, dust.. most of it's pretty aged, but there's also the more recent odour of glass cleaner. Taking the pane out, I see that it's been replaced in recent years, and my tenderly seeking fingers find a few leftover glass chips from the original. In one corner a sticker has been removed and rubbed over with cleaner, very recently and rather inexpertly. At the right angle I can make out the remains of the shape and feel a burst of pleasure as I note that it's quite stylised; the outline is that of an altered chess piece, the knight.
We only have the two thick volumes of the yellow pages in Auckland, thankfully. I imagine it's going to turn to three before long, not that that has any bearing on my interest this night. After multiple checks through everything from glass bevellers through to glassworking equipment I come up blank. There's nothing using a knight figure, or even a chess theme, at least, not with an image like the one I'm looking for. I make a few notes, just in case, and let my fingers do the walking through the white pages this time. A tingle occurs when I discover Knightsbridge Antiques and sure enough, when I double check that outline, there is a little upward curved bit at the base that could be a bridge.
Despite the work it's taken this seems too easy. Leaving the painting may have been the act of a stupid foe, a calculated slap in the face from someone with more ego than sense or simply the bait for a trap. Still, it's not likely to be a trap that's been set for me. Whoever might be on the lookout for a vampiric businesswoman or a couple of late 20's/ early 30's ghouls is not going to expect a tousled haired mess of a teenager, I hope.
Nestled away in a small suburban block of shops, Knightsbridge Antiques keeps hours from after lunch till late, according to the flowing script on the window sign. It's now 8:30 and the place is indeed open, which helps me immeasurably - sending a trusted Renfield type to check things out can be difficult when the only one you have is a Labrador retriever. She's more trustworthy and probably as intelligent as any other ghoul, but her vocal range leaves something to be desired, and there's almost always a problem with dogs getting into shops unless I pull the 'poor blind young man' move, which would sort of defeat the whole purpose. A 'poor blind young man on fire' look is not one I have any wish to try out.
Inside is lit tastefully, showing a good deal of woodwork to its best advantage and glinting off porcelain figures, silver cutlery, crystal and other components of the varied grossly overpriced beautiful things. The air is still and smells of Silvo and Pledge as I breathe it in. These places always give me the impression of a library rather than the museum effect I'd expect and I wonder at what tales I could discover if I were to flip through the pasts of some of the items. Too bad psychometry isn't one of my little tricks.
There's no one behind the counter as I pad along the carpet, enjoying the feel of the luxury on my pare soles and toes, so I cough unnecessarily after taking a close look at the paintings gracing the wall. Nothing by HLF, but I do find the correct stickers in the same area as before. Good stuff.
"Yes sir. Can I help you?"
I find myself taken aback. There's usualy a period of scorn or worry at my appearance in places like this that I've fallen into the habit of using it to slip a few questions in before they even realise tehy're answering. The comfortably dressed, dumpy, balding guy who's no more than my own height and smiling like he actually means it has thrown me completely out of whack. "Uh. Hopefully."
He nods and waits politely. I manage to pull myself together and up the standard of elocution in my response. "A friend of mine bought a painting here some time in the past, a pastoral watercolour. I see the majority of your pieces here come from local artists, but none are presently from this particular one. I was hoping you might be able to put me in contact with him or her, if that's possible?"
"Certainly I can pass your name and number along. Not all of the people who show here are what you might call professional artists, and, of course, I'd have to ask before giving out any information. Whose work was it that you were interested in?"
I rattle off a set of initials out of thin air and watch where he keeps his address book.
"I'm terribly sorry, but I don't believe we've ever had any paintings by anyone with those initials. Perhaps your friend was mistaken?"
My studied look of annoyance and regret seems to work. "I suppose so.
Sorry to have taken up your time, Mr Knightsbridge."
"Not at all. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more assistance." As I turn to leave he smiles and nods. "Good evening."
"Catch you later." Dawdling, I see him enter his backroom hideaway again in the reflection from the mirrors and quickly open and close the door, letting the jangle act as evidence of my passing. Even as the bell's peals hang in the air I drop to the floor out of sight of any prying eyes and let my mind shift into that state of awareness where I can turn aside others ability to perceive me. With a long glance at the windows to the outside world I rise and move shadow like to the area behind the counter, my senses straining for sounds of motion behind the curtain to the rear.
Nice neat printing fills the book. HLF... F.. Fitzgerald, Howard L. No address, but a contact number. Looks like the white pages will get used again. I glance up at the windows again and catch sight of something that wouldn't be easily visible from any other part of the store. It looks a great deal like a photo I was shown yesterday of a missing artwork, only larger and, well, the real thing.
"What the hell?" I mutter. Then the realisation of the sound of the curtain to my rear shifting closed again intrudes on my baffled consciousness.
