#mbb25

He eyes me first—I’m used to it, being Chinese—and then eyes Arthur, and warms. Brightens. His whole smile lights right the fuck up, sparkling. “Arthur.” This guy’s got an accent, a hell of a burr.

Arthur just holds up the book. “I’m here to make a trade.”

“Is that all?” says the priest, as if he’s sure Arthur means something else.

“Information for this.” Arthur’s brusque, speaking between clenched teeth. Sharp. But I study faces—I gotta, to know when the bad thing’s taking over—and Arthur looks guilty to me. “That’s all.”

What the hell did he drag me into?

“Please come in.”

That’s gotta be Scottish or something. Sounds like old Mrs. Douglas two floors below me.

“We don’t need to come in,” Arthur says, even sharper. “You have the information I want, or you don’t, and if you don’t, we’re leaving.”

At we, the priest looks my way again. And I…

Something washes through me, over me. A dark magic I don’t know, a god I haven’t felt before, but it’s like mud in my stream, like the memory of sweats and fever-dreams, every nightmare-terror that’s ever got me worrying I’m doing the wrong thing, or not doing enough, or sure I somehow damned my brother by being too slow or maybe am damning him now by meddling too much.

Things this fucking stranger can’t possibly know.

“Mister Parker,” says the guy. “You are welcome here, as one who does good.”

Sure. Okay. All right. I am about half a hair from fucking bolting.

“Cut the bullshit,” Arthur says.

“No harm will come to you,” says the priest like a vow.

“Do you got a name, or do I just get to make one up?” I say.

He smiles softly. “Oscar. Please. Come in.”

Arthur swells like a pissy bullfrog.

“I will not answer you on the steps,” says this Oscar with a firmness of his own, steel hidden under black wool.

Arthur ain’t the kind of guy to obey. Neither am I. We both step inside, anyway, fuck if I know why.

I’m sick from that nightmare-feeling, that memory of ill dreams. It’s wafting off this guy, somehow. What the fuck. “You did not prepare me for this,” I mutter to Arthur as we walk down this dark hall.

“Shh,” he says.

Oh, he knows he fucked up. Asshole.

The hall really is dark, emphasized by the bright light from a room up ahead to the left. Indistinct portraits hang on the walls, almost near enough to brush my shoulders; they’re people, I think, all of them staring straight ahead and grim, but something about their eyes… something… something’s so damn wrong.

What fucking god is this?

I guess the light is sort of a beacon designed to herd us, because it sure as fuck does. I feel like I can breathe again as we step into the kitchen, and it looks so normal. The window faces south, so the room's full of sunlight. Blue and green linoleum line the floor in happy little squares and symbols, like those hexes the German immigrants use. There’s a couple pots with mint and basil on the window sill. It smells like fresh bread.

And I can’t stop shuddering, the sides of my vision gone shadowed, like my nightmares fucking chased me out of bed.

Oscar walks past and gestures to the table, then puts on a pot of tea. “Please sit. We will conduct business cleanly as possible.”

So I guess I’m doing tea with a cultist after all. Fuck me.

Arthur looks real torn, but sits at the tiny table. I sit across from him and give him the biggest what the fuck look I got to give, but no, he won’t look at me right now, nope.

“What is in the book?” says Oscar, his back to us, who’s doing pretty good for a guy with only one grabber.

“You know what’s in it,” says Arthur.

“No,” says Oscar, turning around with teacups and some little cookie things, which he places between us as he returns to the stove. “I know what used to be in it. We both know that isn’t the case anymore.”

I look at Arthur.

Arthur lifts his chin like a stubborn asshole. “It’s still valuable.”

“To his people, perhaps. I’m not entirely sure what you believe my Lady can do with it.” The teakettle whistles—that was real fast, I’ll be honest—and brings it over. “Unless, of course, it was an excuse to come.”

His people? Lady? Arthur…

“Listen, you fuck,” Arthur starts.

Oscar looks at him, and even though that expression isn’t aimed at me, it damn near knocks me back. It’s so full of meaning, and sorrow, and knowing, and forgiveness, and judgment, and a million other things he shouldn’t be able to project, but he does, and I don’t know how Arthur’s bad dreams go, but I’m pretty sure they’re wrapped up in all of that.

Yup. Arthur shuts right up.

“She would welcome you,” says Oscar, low.

“She can fuck herself,” says Arthur.

“Someday, you'll come,” says Oscar, his voice a little rough.

Yeah…

Charlie? You were so off-base I don’t even know what to tell you. This guy don’t belong to the King in Yellow. He’s just wrapped up in everything that makes Arkham sick. What is he, some kinda god-nip?

“No, I won’t,” says Arthur. “Last chance.”

Oscar sighs. “May I see it?”

Arthur hands it over without getting a guarantee or nothing. I guess he meant what he said about this guy being sort of honorable.

Oscar places it on the table so he can look through it. The pages are blank to me; there’s sort of a dark, shifting shadow over them, like mother of pearl in darkness, and I can’t see nothing. Not without my mask. Which… I don’t even know if I can put it on again after this.

“I see,” Oscar says quietly. “And what do you seek in exchange?”

“The whereabouts of a little boy,” says Arthur. “I think the Cult of Dagon took him.”

Oh, shit.

Oscar frowns. “They do not meddle with children, my son.”

“Tell that to Obed,” says Arthur with a snarl.

“Obed Marsh?" I say. "The guy who got fucking bombed on Federal Hill?"

Oscar looks pained. “You and I both know that man was a twisted wreck who couldn’t even figure out whom he was serving.”

“He was a cultist,” says Arthur the same way someone might say guy who eats babies.

“He created a cult named for Dagon, but thought he was sacrificing to Cthulhu,” says Oscar in a reasonable tone. “The man was deranged. Neither of them wanted him.”

Gods can not want willing people? I’m just gawking now.

Arthur’s got his stubborn on. “They like deranged.”

If this was me, I’d say, then what does that make you, but Oscar isn’t me. “Son,” he says softly, “they like truth.”

“Truth!”

“Truth. True self. What you call madness is merely freedom. What you see as servitude is a joy, a response, an action of choice and passion. Those who twist it can no more bring blame to the gods than those few who murder can bring blame to all mankind.”

Damn. I mean… I know it’s bullshit. Madness ain’t freedom. Slavery ain't love. But something in those words fucking… calls to me.

I hate that it made sense somewhere deep inside, and I got a bad feeling it put down roots. I don't want this. Arthur, what is going on? I hug myself, like some dumb kid, shuddering.

"This will help," says Oscar, pouring.

Fuck it. Fuck it! I slurp hot tea, burning my mouth, and only then can I finally fucking speak. “Arthur’s got a point. Those few choose a shitty god who takes people, and hurts them, and ain’t worth the devotion you say.”

He looks at me again, and by fuck, I wish he hadn’t. “Your brother chose to stay,” he says.

My face goes fucking numb.

Arthur stares at me.

I stare at Oscar.

Yeah. Okay I’m done. Just like that, I’m done, or I'm going to start screaming and never stop, maybe throw his table through a wall as a finale. I stand.

“Parker,” says Arthur. His eyes say sit down.

My heart says flip the table and maybe set it on fire. My brain says ask how in fuck does the priest know. “And you know that how?” I say to Oscar.

“I know nothing. She knows,” says Oscar.

“This Lady. Who the fuck?”

“Last chance for the trade,” Arthur interrupts, like he don’t want that answered. “We’re not here for your lies.”

Oscar looks genuinely hurt. “You know I don’t lie.”

Arthur must. He looks stubborn and mad, but he drops his gaze.

“I can tell you Dagon’s people did not take him,” says Oscar. “I can tell you the answer is much nearer than you think… and you’re going the wrong direction. Keep the book, Arthur. It isn’t worth much to me, but here is a thing worth much to you: you’re being lied to.”

Oscar isn’t looking at me. There is nothing at all giving me away here. I still feel like I’m in a damn spotlight.

Arthur frowns. “By whom?”

Oscar finishes his tea, hot water be damned, and stands. “We wait for you, she and I.”

“Have fun with that. Fucking useless.” Arthur stands, scowling. Oscar touches his arm, and Arthur goes still. Such fucking guilt for a moment, face down, before he turns to face the priest. “What?”

“You bear no blame for my decisions, Arthur,” says Oscar softly. “My choices are my own, and for once in my life, I no longer carry regret.”

So many things cross Arthur’s face that I can’t possibly interpret or keep track, and before anything else can happen, he bolts. Fucking flees. Bangs out of the kitchen so fast that his coat flaps open and hits the kitchen doorframe on the way.

Oscar looks at me. “You have a knot to untangle, son.”

How does he know?

Because you’ve dreamed it.

That voice wasn’t my thoughts, and it’s right. This Lady knows dreams. Oh, gods. Oh, gods…

I’m shaking. “I don’t think I can.”

“Try. He deserves honest treatment.”

Then what do I deserve?

Damn it. I can see Oscar means it. “Might just go Gordian Knot on this fucker instead.”

“Cutting the knot can work,” says Oscar, “but it risks dropping all that is carried to a disastrous crash.”

I stare. “Who the fuck are you?”

“A priest,” he says, “who lost his way, and was found by an unexpected shepherd. Go on, now. He’s probably worried I kept you, or something.”

I bark a laugh because he’s right, Arthur would think something like that, and then I’m going, not running, though I can feel the seeped-in nightmares of this place like tea with the bag left in way too long, gone bitter and cold in a mockery of better times.

"Because I know some of it already," says Arthur, not looking at me. "I knew you knew Luke was magic."

Fuck.

Okay. Okay. I need… I gotta do this carefully. "How?"

"I know people. I could tell."

Fuck fuck fuck. "Yeah. I did. All right? I didn't want you to know I knew."

He looks up, sharp. “Why?”

Nice and careful. Walking this like a tightrope covered in fucking ice. “I know my brother got taken, and not by a human. I saw it happen. I need your help to get him back.”

He sits up straight, frowning. “What do you mean? What did you see?”

I have never spoken of this in detail. Never said all these words. Never risked ending up in Bedlam like he did. Not even Charlie knows the whole story—not from me, anyway.

I got to. If not now, when? “We were… just sitting. Talking. Nothing… it was about nothing. I tried, but I can’t remember what we were saying before he was gone.” The tears fall. I don’t try to stop them. “There wasn’t no warning. A… rip, like, the biggest towel in the world tearing, only it hurt, made my vision go all strange, and I couldn’t… hear anything for a minute. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t in time.”

I know that’s not why.

I drag on the cig, staring at the ground. “I look up, and I’m blinded. There’s a hole. Right in our kitchen. Blazing golden, shapes I couldn’t… all wrong, a city I couldn’t see. And black tentacles…”

He takes the cig. Needs it.

Nobody’s got what I need. I lost it all with Luke gone. “They reached through like you’d pull an apple out of a barrel. Grabbed him. He shouted my name.”

My throat… so tight.

”Your brother,” Arthur says softly.

”I wanna say it was so fast. That he did something, so I couldn’t move in time. That’s not true. It took him, and didn’t even rush, and I stood there like…” Teeth clenched, jaw hurting. “Like a fucking moron until he was through. He shouted for me. My name. Reaching… I tried, but I tried too late.” One fucking shaky breath. “The tear disappeared just as I reached for him. My fingertips touched his, Arthur. Then he was gone.” I cover my face. 

“Parker,” he whispers.

“It’s my fucking fault. I froze.”

”It wasn’t your fault.”

”It was. He’s in Carcosa, Arthur. That’s where.”

He makes a choked sound. Leans back. Leans forward. His cheeks go red. 

I think he hoped it wasn’t. Wanted it not to be the King. “Fucking hell,” he growls. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

”I…”

”Your brother is in trouble, and you’re dicking around?”

And I’m in his face. “I’m not dicking around! I heard you had a particular set of skills, okay? That you can face the occult and come out winning. If I could get him back myself, I would, but I can’t, because I ain’t enough, but you’ve done things, they say you stood up to some god, that you know enough that people respect you and monsters fear you, and if anybody could get him back—”

Suddenly, he cups my face, resting his forehead against mine, and all the anger hisses out of us both like a slashed tire.

We’re both breathing hard. Cigarettes and stress, souls bleeding and staining each other. Are we gonna fight? Kiss? What?

I can’t take it. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry.” His hands are warm on my wet cheeks. “He screamed for me, and I froze. I froze, Arthur. I couldn’t save him. The god took him, he was gone, and I couldn’t save him, and I know what I saw, and if I was wrong about you and I just told you what I saw, you’d just think I was a crackpot. I had to be sure I could trust you. Okay? I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

We’re both quiet for a minute. He lets go. Takes a drag. Offers me the cig.

It’s more than a cig. It’s a fucking olive branch. I need it. My hands are shaking. “Shit,” I mutter. "I'm sorry."

“I killed my daughter,” he says, and every fucking inch of me turns to dirty ice.

“What?” I whisper. He’s going to tell me. He’s actually going to tell me.

“This book,” he says, holding it by the spine like it’s slimy, and he drops it. It hits hard, bouncing down the stairs, sprawling at the bottom all crooked, pages bent.

Neither of us move to pick it up.

“It held part of the King in Yellow,” he says.

I leap to my feet. I… I just gotta…

I’m pacing in front of fucking Father Oscar’s brownstone, kicking rubble, puffing like a damn bull. Shaking the tingles outta my hands.

Arthur waits for me. He’s puffing on the cig. Watching.

I go back up the steps and sit next to him. I don’t know what to say.

“I told you about the ritual and the portal,” he says.

“Yeah.” I don’t even sound like me. Fuck.

“This book is from that ritual. Long story. Not important how I got it. What matters is I took it home.”

My brow knits. “You… took it home?”

His sigh is slow. Heavy. Fucking aged. He closes his eyes so tightly, and the reddish sunlight almost hides the tears at the corners of his eyes. “I took it home. I thought it might be… I don’t know, a roll call, or something. Information. More to investigate. I didn’t think it would be dangerous. I didn’t open it; I was too tired, and it was held closed with some kind of strap. So. I took it home.” He swallows. “I had a daughter.”

Oh, gods. My breath’s quick, shallow.

“My wife died giving birth to her, but Faroe… my baby girl… she was my whole world.” His voice catches. “I’d never… ever have let anything harm her, but I brought her death to the house.”

“Arthur…”

He holds up one hand. “Don’t, or I can’t.”

I go quiet.

Eyes still closed. “I wasn’t thinking. I was stupid. She was three; pure curiosity, just… you know how kids are. So bright. So perfect.” He exhales, sharp, takes it back in.

Silent. Let him talk. Remember to breathe (I can't).

“I was making dinner, and I guess she saw the book. Maybe he called to her. I don’t know. But she got that strap off. She got that book open. And one moment, I’m making spaghetti, because she really liked it with butter and a little cheese, it’s her favorite, and the next, there’s this laugh, this… this deep laugh, dark, an adult man’s laugh in my fucking house, and I grab a kitchen knife and run in because my daughter's out there alone with some stranger.”

His breath catches, stutters like a car trying to start in winter. My own is messy. Wet sounding.

Somehow, he keeps going. “It wasn’t a man. It was the King. He’d… he’d taken my daughter’s body.”

“What?” I finally breathe, whispered.

“She was gone, Parker.” He finally opens his eyes, looks at me, and they’re red from strain, and tears are pouring, just pouring. “She was gone. He was there, her eyes… solid gold, but that’s not what mattered. It was the look on her face.” He looks down, opens his palm as if to show with his empty hand that her soul had flown like a bird. “He’d erased her. She was sneering. Arrogant. And he… he hit me with a spell. Plastered me back against the wall, burning. Told me… just had to fucking boast, had to… told me this world was his now, and he… thanked me for her sacrifice.”

I cover my mouth, but my sob comes out anyway. I knew most of this. He don’t know I knew all this, but what does it matter? This thief, this cruel robber King, this unbelievable evil has ruined us both.

He doesn’t wipe his face. Tears drip from his chin, staining his trousers. “He played with me a couple of times. Let me scream for her. Dropped me so I could lunge for my daughter like there was anything I could do, then threw me back against the wall again. Laughing. Laughing. The room was changing. Carpet under her… his feet smoking, books warping, the piano strings snapping one after another like some fucking nightmare chorus. And I knew… I knew he’d… he was coming into more power by the second, like he was getting used to her body. I knew… the world was out of time. So…”

Oh, Arthur.

“So…” Both hands now, palms up, cigarette forgotten. “So I did the thing neither of us knew I’d be able to do. The next time he let me down, instead of trying to embrace her, to hold my daughter, like I’d been trying, I stabbed her through the chest.”

And now he’s just broken down. Voiceless, sobbing. Head down.

I don’t even know what to do. Hand on his shoulder. I don’t know.

“She stared at it, and I stared at it, and that fucker, he looked up at me with her eyes and said, all tiny, ‘Daddy?’ but then he laughed, Parker, he laughed, and the light left her eyes…”

And the people who found him screaming, clutching his daughter, not letting anyone near her, testified to his grief and his insane shrieking and nobody, absolutely nobody, thought he was in his right mind, so he went to the asylum instead of the electric chair. He did what no one should ever fucking have to do, and those assholes who judged him and committed him and shook their heads and tutted never fucking knew what he’d sacrificed to save their ungrateful lives.

I’m holding him. Don’t know if he reached for me or me for him, but I’ve got him, tight, and he’s sobbing into my shoulder, and I’m sobbing into his, and we’re a couple of fucking stooges out here on some god’s doorstep, wasted by our choices, trapped by our luck, and I’m still a liar, and what are we gonna do?

What are we gonna do?

I kiss his cheek.

Lingering. I don’t… even know why I take that risk.

Then he’s kissing me, and not on the cheek, deep and desperate, and he tastes like tears and tea and smoke, and somehow he’s pushing me back on the stairs and leaning in and we’re pressed to the railing as he explores my mouth with his.

Somehow I pull him to his feet. This is dangerous. We’re seen. No way we’re not, and if we don’t get out of here, the cops’ll get us both.

We stumble to the car, and he’s in no shape to drive so I take his keys and we go, and I don’t even know where we’re going, just away, out of here, away, and when I finally pull off by the side of the road, the tank’s nearly empty, and he’s crying again.

And then he’s gripping my dick through my pants, and kissing me so hard.

My elbow hits the horn, making me jump. We both laugh through our tears. We needed to laugh.

I’m hard, and he’s squeezing me under my zipper, and I got my hands on his ass. He gets the driver’s door open behind me, and I damn near fall out, and we both laugh at that, a welcome, stupid moment, like the eye of a world-ending storm, and I climb out and he follows me and then we’re in the grass under a darkling sky as stars begin to peek, and he’s straddling me good, grinding, his weight against me, hot and firm.

I don’t even remember how to blink.

“You want to do this?” he checks.

“I want to do this.” Still don’t sound like myself, but it ain’t a scared weepy thing now. This is like I’m a wolf, and he’s raw meat. “You want to do this?”

”I’m doing it, aren’t I?” he says with the same wicked smirk he teased me with earlier today, and I realize… he’d been flirting.

With me.

Nobody flirts with me.

I lose my mind and flip him over. Cover him, kiss his jaw, suck his throat. Avoid adding to the fucking bruises the Butcher left him—though I lick them real gentle, giving him with the kind of care he should have, painting him anew.

He cries out as I tongue his nipple, my hand in his pants, working him. He’s warm. Needy. I want our bodies together, and I sit up, ripping off my shirt while he works on my pants, and then I’m pulling off his, calling his shoes bastards for getting in the way (another rough laugh from him, and I’ll take it, like a gift), and then my skin is on his skin and my cock is on his cock and we’re just grinding, twisting, thrusting in the grass, and he rolls me over and takes a slow pace I don’t want.

I growl at him.

He bites my lower lip and grins. “Brat."

“Fuck, yes,” I say, and then he’s marking my throat, and all I can do is arch and give it to him.

Our cocks together in his hand is my whole world. I’m focused. Breathing. Fighting not to finish yet. I need this to last.

He’s making little noises.

I roll us over again, this time pinning his hips with my hands, and take him in my mouth.

I could hear him shout my name all damn day, the way he does it now. Parting his legs, letting me treat him right, letting me give him pleasure he should fucking have.

When he comes, I swallow it, take it, suck it all in so deep like I’m giving up breath for fucking Lent.

He rolls us over one more time, kisses me. Licking himself off my tongue as he works me with that clever cig-stained hand, and I don’t last long after that.

And it’s done. We… wow.

Wow.

Lying in the summer grass, under a blanket of stars and velvet black. Nothing but crickets around us, our breath, and the ticking of our cooling engine.

Eye of the storm. And nobody’s saying this means nothing.

Fuck. I… I want him forever. We shared something tonight, and I don’t mean spit. We shared our sins. That’s a kind of naked nobody who hasn’t done it can understand.

But I still lied. I got a feeling he did, too.

“Thank you,” Arthur whispers.

“Think I’m the one who thanks you,” I whisper back.

We’re just lying there. He’s on my chest. I’m barely soft yet. Our wetness cools on our skin. We’re exposed to the gods or whoever might be watching. I feel… wild, maybe. Like this is how it's meant to be, deep down. Fuck civilization.

Maybe Oscar was right about madness being free.

“We’ll get him back,” Arthur says, and the last of my erection dies.

I swallow. “You can’t promise that. He’s in the heart of that kingdom.”

“I heard Oscar.” His sigh… I feel it, pressing into me. “I know Luke might not want to come back, but it doesn’t mean… even if he did choose something insane like that, it’s not good for him. We’ll get him back whether he wants to come or not.”

Fuck me. But what comes out: “You forgive me?” That’s saying it wrong. I know it is.

“I understand you,” he says, which is saying it right.

I can live with that. I can deal with that.

We should clean up, go, get back.

I don’t wanna move.

Neither does he, and we lie here until the last pink fades from the sky, until Arkham is all lights and noise reflecting on the Miskatonic river, and when we finally bother to stand, clean ourselves off, laugh at the fucking grass everywhere, I dare to think maybe things will be all right.

#

Charlie's in his usual spot when I turn up at the museum for work. No cig tonight; he's nice and quiet and unseen, like he ought to be.

"Hey," I say.

He nods.

Okay, weirdo.

He says nothing as I clock in, check the logbooks, do all the nightly shit. Finally, I decide it's my silence to break. “So is your last name Finley?”

“No. Dowd.”

Huh. Huh. Charlie Dowd. That's familiar. Why's that familiar? “Puts you in danger, telling me that.”

“Does it?” He lights a cig at last, now that we're safe in the museum.

"Sure. You gave me your real name like a moron. I can send your folks a Christmas card now and everything.”

He scoffs a little. "I trust you, fuck-nuts. What’re we even doing here, anyway?”

And I laugh, not planning to, just a surpised ha-ha, and he joins me, a smoky chortle I can taste. I think we're okay. It's a return to semi-normal. I can do this. “Well. Head’s up. Lester’s gonna come sniffing around again.”

“I know.”

"How do you know?"

He looks at me. "Because it's Arthur Lester."

Sigh. "Charlie. Listen to me. I know you keep shit close to your chest. That's fine. But this? This right here? Affects us both. If you know something about Arthur Lester, you need to fucking tell me."

He puffs smoke, taking his time. I wait. Fuck it, this needs done, and I won't walk away until he fucking tells me.

"It was after he got out of the asylum," Charlie says.

I hold my breath.

He puffs. Stares at nothing, far away. "I was working with my partner, then. Roland. We… we had our own gumshoe business, see? And we fell into this case—"

"Roland Cummings?" I blurt, because I can't help it. "That guy?"

He sort of stirs. "Yeah."

Suddenly hits me where I heard the name Charlie Dowd before. "I remember you. Your name. It was on the lease Arthur took over."

"Yeah." His smile is weak; it's a fading shadow of things long past, damn near forgotten, though it wasn't even that long. "So. We were on this case. Big thing; cults and shit."

I stare at him.

"Roland's wife… they killed his wife, kidnapped his daughter."

"What?" I whisper.

"I wasn't there when…" He takes a deep breath. "I'd gone to Egypt."

"Fucking Egypt?"

"We were on a case, and this big cult in New York… it…"

I wait. Come on, man. Come on. You're so close.

He takes a deep breath. "Let me start over. I'm fucking bouncing all over the place."

"It's okay, man. Take your time." Anything to keep him from clamming back up.

"I was a cop in New York. With my best friend, Noel."

So that's coming together. "Best friend, huh?"

"Grew up together. Then he died in the War. I lost it for a while, ran away from everything, which is how I ended up working with Roland. Then one day, we hear about this stone they unearthed in Egypt. Big deal. Really big occult thing. And we knew we had to get it before the Order of the Fallen Star did."

"Order of the Fallen Star?"

"Cult. Fucking dead now," he says like that's a sure thing. "What matters is I sent the stone back, then returned, and he was gone. Roland was gone. So was the stone. But worse… somehow, the King in Yellow was involved."

I go so still.

Can't move. Can't breathe. I stare at him.

He's not looking at me, or anything in this room. "He took me to the Dreamlands."

Oh, gods. I know what that looks like. That single glimpse through the hole the fucking King ripped in the air in my apartment—

"I thought maybe he wanted the stone, but he didn't. He wanted something else, and was sure I knew where it was, and I never even figured out what in fuck he was after or why, but he… he had… Roland, and he killed him right in front of me, and…" He stops.

My mouth is hanging open. "Shit. I'm sorry, Charlie."

Charlie breathes out real slow, controlled, like he's letting the air out of all his mental tires. "Listen. When I got out…"

Luke. "How'd you get out?"

"Not important now. I got out, and I needed to go after the fucking… I needed to do something. Something to push back, to fight. While I was doing that, I ran into Arthur, because we were going after the same thing: the Order. He was doing it because they'd been involved with the book that… you know."

"I'm beginning to think I don't know near as much as I thought."

"That's wisdom." He's not joking. "We dealt with the Order. Took it out. Cops involved. Big fucking mess in upstate New York. After that, we both came back here."

"Why? Why any of this? How'd you take out this Order? What happened?"

But he's done. He's just… done, and he's back to the present instead of muddied past. "Lester's got a real gift for seeing through lies in time.”

"Yeah, I know, but—"

"So this isn't gonna work. He'll figure out something's up with you pretty damn fast, if he hasn't already."

"Too fucking bad!" I yelled that.

He flinches.

Shit. "You know why I'm upset! The fucking King in Yellow? I told you about my brother. And this? You were tortured by the King, escaped from there, somehow, and you didn't tell me?"

He nods.

He says nothing.

That font has dried the fuck up.

"Damn it." I pace. I pull my hair. I clench my fists. "Damn it!" I slam my hands into the counter, breathing hard. "Why didn't you tell me any of this?"

"Because it's all connected, somehow, and I can't help but feel like this is fate," he says quietly.

"Fuck fate. What the fuck does that have to do with anything? What else are you hiding?"

He sighs. "When he comes here tonight, you need to be the one working."

"Yeah, no. Not taking a night off because you two had secret New York coffee time, or something." I don't even know what I'm saying. Is this jealousy again? Feeling betrayed becuase of all these revelations? Feeling fucking spooked because it is all connected, and it fucking can't be? "How'd you get out of the Dreamlands, Charlie?"

He sighs again. I swear, this conversation has fucking aged him. "Not in a repeatable way. I know what needs to be done tonight. I'm just not… eager to do it."

"What? You wanna wear the mask tonight while I play house?"

He very clearly does not want to. He also very clearly thinks he must.

"Oh, fuck me," I say, pacing again.

He’s looking at me. I can’t see his eyes in the gloom of this place, the museum big and tall and wide and dark, lights off because who the fuck needs them in here after ten p.m. "I'm willing."

Damn it. He's right: if I'm not here when Arthur shows up, this won't work, and we can't leave Arkham without a Phantom tonight. Too many people would die. “You gotta be careful. Something fucked up is going on. More monsters than usual. Cultists. Shit."

"I know."

"You sure about this, Dowd?"

"You adjusted to that name pretty quick."

"Of course I adjusted. You're you. I don't give a fuck what you call yourself."

He snorts. "Pragmatic."

"Whatever." This feels like it's spun out of my control so damn fast.

He sighs, looks off at nothing, at still shapes in the dark. "Someone's doing something bad, Yang. I know it. You know it. There’s some asshole trying to trick the universe into giving them things at the cost of other people. We've got to find him before he summons a host of shoggoths, or something.”

He is right. It's gotten worse lately. So much worse. “Just be careful. The Phantom’s things help, but you can still be caught. Hurt.”

“Yeah, I know that magic. I know what it can do, and its limits.”

Maybe the font's not fully dry, after all. “You do, huh?"

He shrugs.

“Damn it, Dowd.”

“This has gotta be done, and you can’t keep doing it if you get caught by some private dick, so I'm going tonight. End of story."

I sigh this time. I don't think he's gonna say anything else. “Sure, Charlie. Thanks, I guess.”

His smile ain’t great. It’s so… I don’t have words for this. No, I got it: it’s heavy. Lead. It’s got a weight, density, that the rest didn’t. Like a boot punching through one of those animated cartoons, wrecking the whole theater.

Shit. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah.” He sighs. Stubs out his cig. “I’ll try not to die. You try not to get caught. Arthur Lester doesn’t miss much.”

When his wits are about him, anyway. “I’m no fuck-up.” That's a lie. Because I am. But what’s a guy gonna do by try?

He gets it. Nods. And then he dons the mask.

#

Not in a repeatable way. Can I get my brother back, or not?

I'd accepted that I could not. That I'd never see him again. Now...

Damn it, Charlie. Now, I can't think about anything else.

#

So I’m here when Arthur Lester, not smelling of sex or anything but public transport, comes snooping around my museum at fuck-o-clock in the morning.

Pretty wild, honestly, hearing a knock on those huge brass doors. Nothing in the human brain’s ready for it; just jumps to the idea it’s a ghost, or a demon, or some weird monster on the other side, though why in fuck would one of them knock, and it’s just more proof humans are stupid because we think things that make no sense.

“I’m not exactly supposed to host visitors,” I tell him, standing there in my uniform, which I know fits real good, trying to pretend I don’t know it does, telling myself posing for this guy is fucking stupid, what am I doing, but I do it anyway.

“I’m not a visitor,” he says in that crisp accent (which got real pretty when he was shouting, coming, but anyway). “I’m a professional, and you hired me.”

“Know what? You got a point.” And I let him in.

Museums are weird at night. I don’t care who in fuck you are, where in fuck you came from, you feel it when you walk through a nighttime museum unless your soul’s made of fucking wood. Something about thousands of years of humans doing and making and failing and dying and succeeding and creating, all laid out here in neat glass boxes as if anything that chaotic could be organized.

I swear to fuck, at night, you sort of get how gods feel. You get why they resent us. You get why they fear us. We’re weird, and so damn easy to kill, and yet we just keep persisting… and making spells, and magic cloaks, and finding new names to call them by, and ways to use their power. Look, I get it. I get why they hate us.

I think Arthur does, too. “Wow,” he says, kind of reverent.

I get the feeling this guy wouldn’t be this reverent in a church. “Welcome to my sanctuary.”

“Hell of a job.” He looks around, walking slowly. “Those mummies real?”

“Yeah. What we could get of them. Would you believe fucking English people ground them up and ate them in the Victorian era?”

“No.” He looks absolutely horrified. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“I’m not. We lost tons of mummies because of cannibals in England.”

“Shit.” More reverence now, maybe for the madness of mankind, as he wanders further.

Well, I’m security, aren’t I? I wander with him. Gives me time to not thinking about getting my brother home.

He’s quiet. That’s fine. It's his dime. He’ll talk when he wants. I'm doing a job here, so I check doors to be sure they’re locked, peek in the bathrooms, glance around the gift-shop. He keeps pace, watching me like I'm doing something nearly as interesting as mummies.

“So why here?” he says.

“The museum? Couple reasons.” This I can answer honestly. “I like learning shit, and a lot of this stuff isn’t available to me otherwise. They don’t let people like me into higher education, a lot of the time.”

He sets his jaw. It’s not a surprised look, but it is angry. “Fuck them.”

“Pretty much. So I'm here. Also, it’s at night. I don’t gotta deal with people—racialists or otherwise. No wife or kids, so nights are fine by me. It’s damned peaceful.”

“Do you want a wife and kids?”

Ha. “No."

He gives me a look I can’t interpret, then peers at a suit of armor like a happy twelve-year-old.

A staff room light was left on. I switch it off.

“I understand that,” says Arthur suddenly. "Finding peace in your work."

Really. “Yeah? You kinda picked the opposite job.”

“How so?” He’s studying this place, devouring little exhibit signs, admiring the high ceilings and elaborate displays.

I count off on my fingers. “Investigator. Means getting up in people's faces, the opposite of being alone and avoiding conflict. In fact, you seek it out.”

He looks right at me. “Do I?”

Yeah. He does. Arthur Lester is the kind of guy to rile the big asshole and take the black eye to ensure evidence is planted just right. I only ever saw him do it with guilty people, and I’m not mad about it. The last option if that fails is my role, after all.

“So I heard,” I tell him.

He grins, and my stupid heart skips a stupid beat. “You’ll have to tell me what you heard.”

“Well,” I decide to quote, “‘you're like everybody else. Some people like you, some people don’t, and some have no feeling about it one way or another.’”

And Arthur lights up like the fucking moon. “Dashiel Hammett?” he says with the kind of hope that comes with antidotes.

“Yeah,” I say. “The Thin Man. You know it?”

“Know It? I’ve read everything Hammett’s written!”

I'm lighting up like an idiot right alongside him. “Me, too! What about Chesterton?”

“I'm not a fan of his religion,” says Arthur sort of quickly like he's getting it out of the way, “but it’s hard to hate Father Brown.”

“I love Father Brown. First book I ever bought myself.”

He’s looking at me like I'm the one who wrote his favorites. “Which one?”

And suddenly I’m fourteen years old again, and my whole world is getting a fresh coat of paint. “‘If the devil tells you something is too fearful to look at, look at it. If he says something is too terrible to hear, hear it. If you think some truth unbearable, bear it.’”

“The Wisdom of Father Brown,” says Arthur quietly. “Gods, that brings back memories.”

“It made me brave.” I don’t know why I'm telling him this. “I needed that book, then.”

“Me, too.” And then comes this completely unfamiliar silence?

I don’t know how to quantify it. It’s so comfortable. It isn’t something that’s gotta be filled. We share it like some fine wine, smiling over the tops of our goblets at each other, in cahoots.

I wanna kiss him. I’m in trouble.

“Hungry?” I blurt to shatter that silence, to fill it with cement before it can sprout green.

“I could eat,” he says.

Disaster avoided. “Come on. I got some good soup, and I'm due a ten minute break, anyway.”

And as I walk him, bold as brass, into the staff kitchenette, I can’t help but think about the path that Father Brown quote put me on, and how I’m living a Hammett quote now regarding what I do in the darkness: you'll have your city back, all nice and clean and ready to go to the dogs again. I ain’t nearly as clever as the Continental Op in Red Harvest, but just now, I fucking wish I was. I’d be able to twist this whole situation, save Arthur, end the Butcher. Nobody else would get hurt.

I'm not smart enough. And as I share food with this man, who hits all my buttons and puts me in danger of wanting to save him more than I want to end Collins, I’m at least man enough to admit I don’t know what the fuck to do.

#

Time… time flies.

We start talking about books. We move on to talking about childhood, places we grew up, things we've seen. None of it is… none of it is too deep. Yet. We're both being careful, hiding real things, but I…

I don't want him to go.

Was this even about the case, anymore? Maybe. Maybe he's checking me out, and using friendship as a means. I don't fucking know. He don’t leave for a couple hours.

Hell, I’d be canned if anybody found out about this, but I don’t care. This was… this time just flew.

We talk. We laugh. Our voices bring life to these dead spaces, to echoey things made by hands long gone. He makes it all feel so bright. Fuck. I like him so much.

He’s long gone by the time Dowd comes back, which is what matters. I need to keep them apart. They know each other. Too fucking complicated.

So I tell myself, anyway, while I try to save Dowd’s life.

Dawn’s cracking the horizon and peeking between buildings when I get in at last.

I feel… so bad when I can't save them. It's worse than losing Luke all over again, because at least with these people, I tried. I didn't fucking freeze like I did with him.

Usually, I can save them. Usually. Not always. There was that college student a few months ago, fully taken over; she'd crawled up a fucking wall and stolen a baby from someone's home and was eating it, just digging in like a fucking barbeque. All I could do was end her quick.

There was that little group of old folks in the park, playing chess until the sun dipped below the horizon, probably thinking they still had time to get home, but no, no, some fucking monster with too many arms punched through the back of all their heads, and by the time I got there, all of them were hanging in the air by the their skulls, chanting some god's name over and over in an attempt to summon it in the voices of the dead.

That one was bad. So bad. I had to cut everybody's heads off, and the thing that did it sank into the ground and got away.

Tonight was worse. I fought all night not to see my brother's face in the kid I killed. I can't fight it any longer, and I'm struggling real hard not to cry as I let myself into the museum.

Finley’s waiting for me. He's got coffee.

We stare at each other for a second before he lifts a mug for me. “You look like shit."

I bet I do. "Yeah. Gimme a moment." I put the mask, cape, and gloves all back in the display. There’s no muck on them, no sweat, no blood or nastiness that indicates they were used. Damned convenient magic, that.

“How many?”

I know what he's really asking, but I dance around it, anyone. "One got away. Took out three of them by that church on Federal Hill."

"Three? By Federal Hill?"

"Yeah."

He frowns. “That place has been fucked ever since they took Obed down.”

"To put it mildly." The government took did it. Was a whole operation, ending that guy's life before he could bring in whatever he was trying to bring in. They firebombed the joint.

"It's like echoes, or something," he says, frowning at nothing. "It's empty, but it still draws problems. Whatever he did, they smell it."

"Yeah. It's always bad around there. Maybe he left something there to be found."

"Maybe. He's dead, anyway."

"So's the kid I had to kill tonight."

He's not shocked. He picks up the first aid kit. I chug some coffee, then inhale sharp as I pull off my shirt; it's stuck to the half-dried blood, to the ragged edges of wounds. "If he did leave something there, maybe Blake will find it."

I snort. "May it eat him for his trouble."

"That isn't nice."

"Ha." I wince. "Fuck."

He makes a face at my side.

I haven’t looked. It’s bad, I know it’s bad. “Yeah?”

He sighs. “Fuck. We gotta.”

Fuuuuuck. “I really don’t wanna.”

“Well, this shit’s already getting infected. You wanna live to fight the bad guys?”

“Yes,” I grumble.

"Then it's the stone."

I don’t… like using it. Noel had it with him that first night, months ago, and I saw it heal him up from some real bad shit. It's healed me from some bad shit. I still don't like it.

It leaves a taste in my mouth that I didn’t know what it was until Finley told me to put one of those gold coins they got in boxes below the museum in my mouth. Gold. This fucking magic tastes like gold, and I don’t like that for so many reasons. Also… “How many more you think it can take?”

“Enough. Then we’ll find something else.”

Every damn time we use the stone, part of it cracks, or flakes off, or discolors. It wears the tapestry of scars I oughta have and don’t. When it finally falls to dust, or whatever it does when it breaks, I don’t know what we’re going to do. “You never even told me how you got this thing in the first place.”

He shrugs, holding it up.

Fucker. “You gotta tell me. Too many secrets."

Nothing.

“Noel.”

Instead of answering, he pokes my side.

I grunt at his touch. No manliness for me tonight. My side looks… pretty bad. The bruising, I could deal with, and there are no broken bones, but the nasty jagged veins of poison are dark and purple and grasping, already reaching up under my arm and down past my hip.

He holds the stone to the wounds. It's real magic. No flashiness. No sparks or fancy colors. The dark lines of poison just begin retreating, like someone's put a film in backwards. “Lucky it didn’t get your dick,” he says. “Or did it?”

“Don’t matter if it did, since apparently we’re using magic tonight. Yuck.” I smack my lips, trying and failing to get that taste outta my mouth.

“Coffee,” he says.

I sip more coffee while he concentrates, ending the poison, easing the danger, pulling me back from the brink. The cape and gloves protect me from a lot, but the shirts are just shirts. "Pity the Phantom didn't leave a whole damn suit behind."

"He'd probably still be working if he had one."

True enough. I glance down. He's about done; the black stone’s got purple cracks running through it now, messy and tangled. I shake my head. “I’m serious, Finley. I really want to know about this thing.”

He sighs and offers me more coffee, which I accept. We use ordinary first aid for the rest—scrapes, a few bruises, nothing a guy couldn’t get if he’s tough on tough streets. “Someday.”

“You been saying ‘someday’ for months.”

“Get used to it.” He folds the security uniform jacket over the back of the chair. “I gotta get going.”

“Get some sleep, man, before your shift."

“Who’d you have to kill?”

Shit. Well. I'll tell him. “Kid. Found a report card on him.”

“A kid? Shit.” He’s putting on his own uniform now—a cop’s. “I better get ahead of it.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t fucking thank me. There’ll be an investigation.”

“There’s always an investigation. It always goes precisely nowhere, which is why we’re doing this, and will do this, until someone shoots me in the back, too.”

He frowns. “That college student.”

“She was fucking eating a baby.”

“That old group playing chess.”

“You didn’t hear them. They were summoning something, hissing, bubbling fucking purple spit.”

“None of that was there when the bodies were found. I’m telling you, it’s adding up.”

“Then it adds up.” I throw my hands in the air. “Somebody’s got to do this. There’s no fucking choice!”

He sighs. “The Phantom got shot in the back by the people he was trying to save. I don’t want to see it happen to you.”

I know he's right.

I also know if it happens, I'm just paying for losing my brother the way I did.

I also know if I say that, I'll sound pathetic, so I don't. “Then that's how it goes. If that’s the price to pay, I’ll pay it. City needs someone, Noel.”

He goes real still.

I go real still.

He looks at me. “My name…”

I just stare at him. The ambient noises of the museum do their usual thing around us—distant air howling in the stairwells, creaks from various wooden exhibits that shift in humidity and heat.

“My name’s Charlie,” he said. “Real name.”

My mouth falls open. “What?”

He suddenly seems to think he said too much and he fucking goes.

“The fuck! Wait!” I run around the corner and he’s just fucking gone? Where the fuck… how’d he… This is the museum’s main hall! There’s nowhere to fucking hide! Door’s not open, gift shop’s closed… the fuck!

Charlie? Who the hell is Charlie?

All these months, and he's been living under some fake name? The cops know him as Noel Finley. Everybody knows him as Noel Finley! How in fuck did he get a transfer from the Big Apple under a fake fucking name? Why'd he tell me now?

He told me this when I mentioned how the Phantom went down. Shot in the back. Betrayed. He saying, maybe, he won’t betray me? I don’t know him well enough to know. Fuck. Fuck. 

That’s all I needed: more complications. I don't know what to do about this Charlie thing. I don't have a last name for him, either, so I can't go look him up.

How many secrets is too many secrets? This is why we can't take care of each other, you dick. Fuck. Noel. Charlie. Fuck.

And then I hear the last fucking thing I'd ever expect at five-o-clock-whatever in the morning: some asshole knocking on the museum’s front door.

It's a big sound, banging, bouncing around this place in crazy echoes. Makes it feel like those chanting dead old people, like sound where there is no life.

I don’t got time for this. I don’t got the brain power for this. What the fuck. They better have a real good reason to be here, or I am gonna punch somebody out.

So while Lester gets busy bothering people and taking focus, I get ready for the gig that actually brings in money. The Miskatonic Museum's my employer, and they pay me to walk around the place all night, doing absolutely jack-all.

Between this place and the Miskatonic University, this town's got all kinds of spooky shit in it. Rumor is there's spells protecting the museum, monsters hidden in the walls, ghost dogs that'll chase you down if you rob the place. Nobody's ever tried as long as I've been thre, so who knows? Between those rumors and the fact that being on the street at night alone sometimes means you don't come home, this ain't much of a target for villains.

That’s why the boss can feel secure when hiring just one guy to watch the whole place. Somebody's gotta be here, but if I'm out killing monsters in the Phantom's name, I can't be walking weird, empty halls with fucked-up echoes while Egyptian mummies and Aztec masks stare at me from behind thin glass. That's why I hired Noel.

Noel Finley has… some damage. Spooky damage.

Met him six months ago when we practically ran into each other trying to stab the same child-eating fuck in the East Park playground. Saved each other's life. I don't know him well, and he don't really know me, but a thing like that's guaranteed to build some trust. Well, he's not in great shape today. I can tell because he’s smoking outside, in the shadows behind the delivery gate.

The cig’s orange eye glowing in the dark tells me where his mouth is if I wanted to shoot it. He fucking knows better. “Finley.”

He jumps. Cigarette falls from his mouth and onto his shirt, so now he’s gotta spend a second cursing and making sure he’s not on fire.

Shit. He's really not okay tonight. “You all right, man?”

“Yeah. Fuck. Yeah.” He straightens. My eyes’ve adjusted enough that I can see his shape now, but not his face. “Sorry. Woolgathering.”

“Do that on the clock, will you?” I say, and open the door.

“Ha, ha,” he says, and walks inside.

On the clock makes sense. There’s nothing for him to do yet at the station; he’s a transfer from the Big Apple, and in Arkham, the cops gotta be tight-knit to survive the spooks. They don't know him yet, so he don't got a partner or assignments. When moonlighting for me, he’s on the only fucking clock that matters.

“The usual tonight?” he says.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. You’re doing what fucking needs to be done.” He means it. “Couple bits of news today. That researcher Blake is sniffing around again."

I sigh. "Yeah, he's been at the museum again, too. Fucking idiot."

"Think he's serious?" Charlie lights up again, puffing away.

"Fuck if I know. Bad things happen to people in this town, and if he's right that the Church of Starry Wisdom left some shit here for whatever god they worshiped, he's a moron to look for it alone."

"He is. They worshiped a bad one."

I look at him.

He don't offer a name.

Maybe that's good. "Like there are good ones."

His mouth twists into something I'd never call a smile. "Some are worse. Much, much worse."

"Keep 'em out of Arkham, then," I say, clenching my hands into fists.

"If that one came through, it'd be curtains for all of us. Nothing left, cord fucking snipped."

"If any of them came through, it would."

He changes the subject. "And by the way, speaking of morons, the department actually thinks Strong killed himself."

Fuck that. “What? Like hell Elijah Strong would kill himself.”

“I don't think so, either."

That was a big fucking mess. A senator hired Strong to find his daughter, who'd apparently been kidnapped by the Butcher. Except if you believe Strong—which I do—the senator wasn't even her father. He'd stolen her as a child and tortured her her whole life, and hired the Butcher to do the kidnapping in a wild fucking scheme for money or something.

Strong tracked the girl down, but when she found out the senator had hired Strong, she killed herself in front of him. So Strong went and killed the senator. I can't honestly say I'd do any different.

It landed Strong in jail, though. “He told the truth of what happened," I growl, clenching my fists. "He knew he did the right thing. No way he took his own life."

“Of course he didn’t. They’re too scared to admit someone might've gotten in there and done the deed.” Noel has no respect for coward cops.

Damn all these wicked people. "The Butcher will get what's coming to him someday." Sooner rather than later, if my plan works.

"Only if a damned meteor hits him."

Guess I'm a meteor, then. "Anyway. Usual shift tonight. I’m only planning on four hours."

“It’s okay if it goes over.”

I side-eye him. “Morning date fell through again?”

“Yeah.”

Me, I’m not so sure he has dates. Says he does. I say I do, too. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. She wasn’t honestly worth the trouble.”

“I know that flavor,” I say, because I’m pretending I’m into dames, and sometimes he does, as well. But I've seen his eyes when I change my clothes. I know. A real shame we ain't in no position to take care of each other. He's too damn squirrely for me. “Anyway, here’s the stuff.” I hand over my security belt, my skull-cracker flashlight, my keys. He’s still putting it all on while I grab my real outfit from the Phantom case, and like most nights, I take a minute to look at that mask.

I wish I could’a met this guy. Out there, taking on the crime other folks would or could not, doing crazy things, leaping buildings, cape fluttering in the air. I still think it’s shit the way he went down—shot in the back by our fucking cops, all because he was a vigilante, but really, because he was getting the guys they couldn’t. He went down saving their stupid lives, and all they cared about was their ego.

They never figured out who he was. Nobody ever identified him. I handle his outfit with reverence like it’s the fucking Holy Grail.

Noel Finley laughs his ass off.

Huh? “Oh, fuck you, what is it? What?”

“Nothing, Shakespeare. Just wondering how the weather is in jahlly old Eeng-land,” he says, as New York as anybody ever said anything.

Well. I mean. He's not wrong.

It's not my shirt. I go through too many of these things to stay under the radar. Can’t buy new ones—that’d leave a trail—so I steal them from the excess shit down below the museum. They got things in boxes down there you wouldn’t believe, all of it unsorted, unlabeled, just… hoarded, I guess. Ain’t like they’re ever gonna put some stupid shirt on display, so I use them.

This one's got criss-crossed leather holding it closed over my collarbone, and the sleeves are kinda billowy. I laugh, too. “Eh, what’re you gonna do?”

“Write a sonnet, apparently,” says Finley. “Anything else I should be aware of?”

“Yeah. Local P.I. named Arthur Lester might come sniffing around. I’ll need you to cover for me, if he does.”

He frowns. “Arthur Lester.”

“Yeah. Why? You know him?”

“I do.” Unreadable. Flat.

Shit. “Good know him or bad know him?”

“Just know him.”

I give him a moment, but he doesn't fill me in. Finley, I fucking swear… “Fine. So here’s the warning: his partner is Dennis Collins.”

He goes real stiff. Eyes huge. Steps back, like I’m gonna blow. “The Butcher? He’s partnering with the Butcher?”

"Yeah. He don't know."

"You don't know he doesn't know!"

"I do. Done my research."

Noel eyes me like I'm walking up the side of a volcano. “What the fuck are you getting into?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m into, Finley: the Butcher’s going down if it’s the last fucking thing I do.”

“It fucking will be. He knows your face now? Are you nuts?”

“No.”

He shakes his head. “You can’t take him down. Listen to me. He’s got a geas.”

“A…” I could not have heard that right. “What's a gaysh?”

He over-pronounces it. “Geas, geas, a fucking spell on him. You can’t kill him.”

Would explain a few things. “Since when?” I say, which ain’t the smartest response I ever gave anybody.

“Fuck if I know,” says Noel. “I saw him in the—” And he snaps his mouth shut with a click and just looks at me, like he’s daring me to ask questions.

"In where? In the where?"

Nothing.

Damn this guy. “He's killed too many people. I’m taking him down, Finley.”

“You can’t.”

“I think I can if I get close enough. That's why I involved Lester."

He shakes his head. “He gets into your mind. You hear me? He makes you think things, feel things. You can’t do it.”

That's… creepy as shit. “How in fuck do you know?”

He clams up again, stops like he hit a wall, like his brain just got punched.

Well, I tried. Fine. I got shit to do. “Okay,” I say.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. I guess it’ll work or it won’t. If it don’t, it don’t. Maybe I’ll at least weaken him, yeah?”

Noel shakes his head. That bitter smile again, twisted. “You know what? You just might pull if off.”

“Oh, now you’re backing me, huh?” I say, donning the cape, the white gloves, the white half-face mask.

“Yeah. You’re stubborn enough to beat your way through any fucking spell.”

My dry look’s buffered by this half-mask, but a guy’s gotta use what he’s got. “Sure. Of course, if I blow it, you’re up to bat.” That was sort of a joke.

He didn’t take it like one. “Fuck,” he says, and looks away, up, to nothing in the dark shadows of the ceiling. “I can try.”

“Come on, Finley, no need to make it sound like walking the damn plank.”

He eyes me. “Not funny, Yang. Not with what we got barking down our backs.”

“Fuck, you’re grim tonight.” I pat him on the back, pretending I ain’t just as grim. “You need a drink after this.”

“Yeah.” He runs his hand through his hair; don’t look like it’s been washed in a couple days. “Yeah.”

“I gotta go.” Mask. Gloves. Cape. Power flowing through me. Easing aches and pains. Making me feel strong and limber. All set.

“Go. I got this.” He flaps his hand.

“Thanks.” And it’s time for me and the only dame I’ll ever get inside: the night.

Took me the whole damn trolley ride to figure out why that smile made me feel weird. It was the smile you give a guy you fully trust. The smile you give a guy who’s proven himself, whose ass you can leave behind with all the keys and all the codes and access to your damn safe. That smile. For him. Fuck. This might be more of an uphill battle than I expected.

As it is, I think I might’ve fucked up on this case already.

Oh, I knew Luke missing would grab him. Lester’s got a real reputation when it comes to kids. He'll practically eat a damn elephant if he has to to help one. But this kid…

John Luke. I’m so fucking sorry.

I tell myself I’ll be fine if I don’t get that picture back. It’s not like I don’t know what he looks like. I mean, I ain’t seen him in… a long fucking time, but you don’t forget something like your younger brother’s face.

Lester’s a smart one. There’s a chance he might figure out that photo’s older than it should be for this, but I’m hoping he just thinks the thing’s sat in the sun, or something. Wear and tear. I need to get close enough to Collins to take him out, and that ain't happening unless I'm close to Lester. So. Too late to turn around now.

Lester turns to me, and that’s when I realize he’s got weird eyes. Maybe it’s because I was so busy focusing on Collins and then the lie about my brother, or maybe it's because all my spying was done from a distance, but I didn’t spot those eyes before. Blue-grey, nice color—except the left one is only half blue. The left half of his left iris is a strange yellow.

“Tell me about your brother,” says Lester with that soft tone he gets when kids are involved.

Back on target, Yang. “Smart. Real smart. Got bullied, he was so smart—usually the best grades in class.”

“You must be very proud.”

He’s got no idea. “Yeah. Real proud. He makes me look like a dummy.”

He nods like he gets it. “Your parents?”

“Dead years ago. Them and our older sister died in that tram crash of ‘21.” I shrug. “It’s been Luke and me for a long time.”

“So there’s no chance he’d have done the damage and run off himself,” says Lester real careful, like he knows that kind of statement could get a guy hit.

“No chance. Even if he was mad at me, he just don’t got that kinda thing in him. This kid…” I smile. I miss him. So fucking much. “This kid,” I say, my voice a little husky, “would chart out his path, save money from who knows where, pack meticulously, and do something nuts like make one big pot roast before leaving so I had something to eat when I got in from work. I’m telling you, Lester—he’s not the smash and run type.”

Lester nods. There’s pain on his face. I don’t blame him. I know what he thinks I don’t know about his kid. About what he had to do.

What he did don’t matter. What matters is he loved his kid, and things went wrong. Well, I love… loved… my brother, and things went wrong. So. I get it. “You okay, man?”

He startles a little, like those few seconds of silence were enough to suck him into a dark place. “Yes, of course. Why?”

“You look a little stressed, there.”

“Well.” He looks out the window. Arkham slides by in all its dingy glory, mismatched architecture, weird people with wide eyes, and a glimpse of Miskatonic University just beyond it all. “Cases where children are missing are always the hardest ones.”

“That I believe.” I don’t have to fake nothing. "Sorry, man. I don't know how you do it day in and day out."

He smiles. “I think I’m supposed to be encouraging you, not the other way around.”

“Maybe I wanna encourage you. You don’t strike me as a guy who likes to give promises he can’t keep, and I respect that.”

Arthur turns toward me sharply. Dunno what he’s looking for. I think he's seeing me differently than he did a minute ago. I match his gaze, and it ain’t quite challenging, and ain’t quite friendly, but it's open. What's he gonna say?

“You’re right,” he says.

Huh.

“This is our stop,” I say, which gives us a chance to stop eye-fucking and get on with it.

I don’t live in the best neighborhood. Kinda gotta expect that, really, but the thing is, I still like it. It’s old here, real old; buildings that should’ve burned down or been torn down, a so-called park that’s just a brown stretch where nothing fucking grows and kids play ball, a factory just past my block that stinks up the whole place but also provides income for most of us. And the people who live here, including me, love our home.

We keep it neat. Clean as we can. Repairs show up here and there, things the city wouldn’t fucking do, so we did. You’re poor enough, you go searching the trash dumps for stuff, and it’s amazing what you can find. Boring walls braced with gargoyles. Ordinary storefronts with one stained glass window. Fancy doors with fancy metalwork, classing up the joint. It makes for some mismatched wonder, but it’s got personality.

Lester’s looking around, cataloguing. I doubt he’s missing much.

“Here,” I say, using my key, and then we got four stories to climb. Lucky us, having the highest room. We got a view of the city, view over the river, view to the university. I’d sooner give up my left foot than lose this place. “Watch the glass,” I remind him, because that shit’s still all over the floor.

He’s careful as he steps over it, checks out our small table, our empty sink, the laundry strung up just outside the window, where I made sure to hang some of Luke's clothes, not just my own. It’s all neat and clean apart from the obvious break-in. The cookie jar lies where I left it, in pieces. A single dime sits in the mess, gleaming.

Lester is careful as fuck as he moves through my home. He don’t touch nothing with his hands; pulls a pen from his pocket and uses that to move the curtain, to lift schoolbooks and check inside them, to investigate everything.

I let him. I set this place up real good.

He finds my brother’s stash of peanuts. Finds all his clean clothing, folded neatly ‘cause we don’t got no closet. “Bathroom?” he says.

“Down the hall.”

And down we go, though what he hopes to get from the bathroom for the entire damn floor, I don’t know. He spends time in there, studying things I damn well wouldn’t put my face near. “Right,” he says, and heads back to my apartment.

I just follow, like I got nothing to hide. If only he fucking knew.

Lester sits at our little table. It didn’t take too long for him to come to the conclusion I wanted him to reach. “It seems strange you were targeted.”

“Yeah.”

His face is hard as a rock. “I’ve got some work to do. I’ll be in touch.”

I nod. "Lemme know what I can do. Anything. It's my brother."

He shakes my hand. "I will let you know." And just like that, he's gone, and I'm left in this place that had my brother's smile and laughter two fucking years ago, and has felt like a giant carcass ever since. 

If I spend some time crying at my kitchen table, it's okay. It's fine. 

Has to be fine. I gotta get some sleep, and then I gotta get to work, and it's all fucking fine.