Authors: Erik Tavares

Tags: #werewolf, #Horror, #gothic horror, #vampire, #Gothic, #Genre Fiction, #Literature & Fiction

House of Corruption (40 page)

Behind them followed a faint, rising sound, like a wounded bird above the roar of the water—

A girl’s voice, crying in the dark.

From:
Duncan Barnett,

Commandant, Sandakan Constublatory

To:
Charles Vandelleur Creagh,

Governor, North Borneo Company

With personal grief I report the deaths of Sir Wilhem L. Carlovec and his daughter, Miss Kiria M. Carlovec. They perished in the destruction of their ancestral home at the headwaters of the Jebata. Early reports blame an explosion in the building’s boiler room. The resulting flooding dislocated the house’s foundation and led to total collapse. No remains have been recovered.

The monastery of Saint Dismas has also been destroyed, apparently by fire. The Archdiocese of Sandakan has no information as to the monks’ whereabouts. It is suspected they may have moved their missionary labors further upriver. I will continue the investigation.

There is no evidence this is an act of insurrection, though a local uprising seems to have voluntarily disbanded and may have no bearing on this tragedy. All those questioned confirm the explosion was an accident.

Three men last associated with Miss Carlovec have gone missing: M. LaCroix of New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S.A.; M. Mahonri Grant, U.S.A.; M. Savoy of London. No record within or departure from the country has been confirmed. I have ordered their arrest for questioning.

My long association with his family makes this a difficult conclusion. At such a time I am reminded of our frailty in this corner of the world.

Yours,

Duncan Barnett

C.I., C., Sandakan

Reynard leaned against the railing of the steamer
Nan Naong
, watching the eastern ocean as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Moist, salty wind made him squint as Davao City and the Philippine coastline faded behind the horizon. Eastward, the Pacific Ocean stretched endless and grey.

He wished he felt happy, truly happy. He was, in the least, content—their steamer was bound for San Francisco. His wounds were dressed and healing, his sister had been returned in good health, Savoy had enough bizarre stories to write another book, Mister Grant had certainly proven his worth, and yet—

And yet.

The Eng Banka had disbanded, freed from Lucinda’s influence. Carlovec Manor was a smoldering ruin. When Grant found him and Savoy shouting for help in the ruined basement of Saint Dismas’ chapel, there had been happy reunions...and the wait in the belltower until a fishing ship saw the smoke and stopped to investigate. They chartered passage and bid a final farewell to that accursed valley.

The Lord saw fit to allow me one last blessing
, Savoy said.
By the will of God, I purified both the source of Lucinda’s evil and the rushing flood. Nothing evil will ever emerge from that place again
.

Reynard touched his chest where the silver bullet had been, wondering if it had ever been there at all. Through the thick fabric of his coat and waistcoat and shirt and undershirt and skin and muscle he sensed the emptiness like a hollow sphere caught above his heart. The void left him thinking. Had he become a new creature?

The Beast is mine
, he thought.
It has to be
.

And yet.

He placed his hands at the small of his back, stiff, aching with too many recent wounds. He considered the task of restarting his business, reflecting on the grief that drove him to the ends of the earth. Perhaps it was time to change his life completely. Perhaps New Orleans no longer had any use for him.

“Renny?”

Lasha joined him beside the rail, a shawl close about her shoulders. The air was quick and warm, and gulls cried against the play of light. She smiled as if no fear had ever been her lot. She did not share much of her experience since her flight from New Orleans, and he did not press her, but he knew she had suffered. He smelled her dried tears at breakfast, saw the signs of nightmares and stolen sleep. He smelled the change in her scent when she lost her train of thought and began to remember.

What could he say?

“You are alone too much,” she said. “Mister Grant is challenging Arté to a game of Texas poker, and there is real money involved. We should help him.”

“Which one?”

“Arté will lose his shirt.”

“He can fend for himself,” he said. “You go.”

“Is there something I can do?”

“You can breathe,” he said, taking her by the shoulders, “and laugh, and dance, and behave yourself around our good Mister Grant. I wish I could bring more comfort.” He considered the sea again, uneasy, his memories drifting to the granite vaults of Metairie Cemetery. “You shall never again see such terrible things. I promise you.”

She embraced him, held him tight. She did so often since Carlovec Manor, and he did not discourage it. This time she pressed her head against his shoulder, and he was reminded when she was a baby and breathed in his ear and laughed for no other reason than she loved the sound of his voice. He wrapped his arms around her.

“I know,” she whispered, “and I am not afraid.”

His stomach tightened. She pulled away, brushing fluff and spray from the shoulder of his longcoat. “You will fuss over me worse than Eleanor,” she said. “I will never be allowed out of doors again.” She laughed and continued along the deck with a lightness—and a weariness—not expected from one so young. Perhaps she understood what she saw that terrible night in Metairie. Perhaps not. The day would come when he would tell her the truth.

But not today.

The moonless night combined sea and sky in equal measure until the path before the ship was a parade of stars. The air smelled of salt and smoke, and that brought the memory of a red cloak and black hair and lips, of a beautiful woman leaning against the rail of a ship. He thought of Kiria’s soft hand on his own, the smell of her tears against his shoulder, the telling of childhood stories in the dark. He thought of a life that might have been, a fantasy really, one as insubstantial as the foam upon the water.

“Renny,” Lasha’s voice came. She beckoned from a doorway spilling with light. “They are serving ice cream.”

“In a moment.”

She smiled and left. The door closed behind her.

Reynard considered the sea. Perhaps he could dive into that endless dark and swim, deeper and deeper, leaving light and warmth and memory, just to see how deep he could go. Perhaps it could smother his heart, and make him forget.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Though every effort has been made to remain true to the spirit of the era, timelines, locations, mythologies, languages and cultures herein, I claim creative license. Some characters are culled from actual persons in history or literature, but all specifics are fictionalized.

The indigenous peoples of Borneo and Malaysia enjoy a wide variety of dialects, and evidence of 19th-century native vocabulary, in all its diverse forms, is problematic at best. Chief sources include the Sabah State Library’s
Kadazan Dusun Dictionary
(2003) and Charles Hose and William McDougall’s curious
Pagan Tribes of Borneo
(1912). I also owe a great deal of thanks to Redmond O’Hanlon’s evocative
Into the Heart of Borneo
(1987).

Additional thanks to the New Orleans Historical Society, the insight and encouragement of fellow writers, supportive friends and family, and to all those who helped provide a glimpse into dark places yet to be explored.

For information about the author, additional content, and a glimpse into the office of Artémius Savoy, visit www.ValourDesigns.com.

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