Doyle considered his answer. “I trust we’re all full of unexpected surprises.”
“But does the writer possess his detective’s supernatural powers of detection, eh?” Tyson added, punctuating his question with an unnecessary slap to Doyle’s back.
Doyle took a step away. “Certainly not,” he demurred.
“Rubbish, man,” Houdini said between sips of his martini. “He’s better.”
“Nonsense. No more martinis for you, Houdini.”
“Show them, Doyle; don’t be an old hen,” Houdini said cheerfully.
Caleb smiled. “Yes, please. That would be fascinating.”
“Well, as I see there’s no escape . . .” Doyle searched for a target, seeming to judge each possibility with a surgeon’s precision, before settling on Tyson. After a few moments, Doyle said, “You just ate a caramel apple.”
“How did you know that?”
Doyle pointed at Tyson’s vest. “Because you’re still wearing most of it.”
Houdini grinned. Caleb applauded, and Tyson tried—without much success—to clean himself.
But even as Doyle had been surveying Tyson, he was still aware of the rest of the room. And he suddenly realized that he, too, was being watched.
The man stood by the window, dressed like a sheik, with a black head-cloth wrapped to cover his nose and mouth, revealing only dark eyes filled with a naked malice. The man held no food or drink, and no one spoke to him. But his look was so intense that Doyle averted his gaze, wondering if he’d intercepted a glance intended for another. But it took him only a second to realize the look was directed at him. Doyle’s eyes swung back to the window, but the sheik was gone.
“Abigail?” Doyle whirled around, nearly spilling his martini.
“This is boring,” she said.
But Doyle’s mind was elsewhere. Reflexively, he drew her close, putting a protective arm around her shoulders as his eyes searched the party once more.
34
THE GAY YET muted roar of the party echoed across the grounds, but the glow of the candles and torches spread only so far. Most of the estate was cloaked in shadow—ideal for Marie and Lovecraft as they crept across the wide, sloping lawns and past a series of fountains enclosed by walls of trimmed pines. The only mark of their presence was the gentle clanking of Lovecraft’s leather briefcase. They took cover briefly when voices sounded close by, but it was only the parking attendants sharing a cigarette and gossiping in nasal Brooklyn accents. Marie and Lovecraft crawled on all fours behind a wide pine tree, and waited until the attendants returned to their stations. Then they lunged to their feet and sprinted toward the dark northern portion of the mansion.
Marie saw no dogs, no security personnel. The grounds were devoid of life. No crickets chirped, no frogs buzzed. It was the house. Marie could feel its malignant energy, like a riptide beneath calm water. It infected everything. The trees were rotten at the core, and any bird nests within those branches were empty—and had been for decades. But a spiritual cancer of this magnitude could not blossom off a single event. No, this house—these grounds—were drenched in several centuries’ worth of blood, cruelty, and despair.
Lovecraft’s touch shocked her back to the moment. He pointed at a second-floor window. They stood at the side of the house, beside a rose trellis thick with ivy. Marie nodded, understanding. She took hold of the slats of the trellis and pulled herself aloft, wincing as her fingers caught on thorns and splinters impaled under the soft flesh of her palms. As she reached the second-story window, she chanced a look down. The lawn was fifty feet beneath her. Lovecraft looked frail and ineffectual as he slung the satchel around his shoulders and grabbed the trellis, shaking it so, it nearly dislodged Marie.
Marie hung on grimly. Below her, Lovecraft dangled and swung, his briefcase still clanking. His feet scrambled for purchase and the leaves rustled loudly under his desperate hands. Marie swallowed and prayed as Lovecraft lost his footing and slid down the trellis, only to save himself at the last minute. He nearly lost his satchel completely, almost spilling his demonological instruments all over the lawn. By the time his sweating, pale face lifted to meet hers, Marie was livid.
“Next time, jus’ kill me,” she hissed. “You got the grace of a dog wit’ one leg.”
Lovecraft could not respond; he was too busy gasping for air. Marie just shook her head and turned to the window. She tried prying, pushing, picking the lock, but finally she simply popped her elbow through the pane, reached in, and turned the lock. The window slid open. She wormed her way inside, then crouched down on a soft rug, surveying the terrain. White sheets covered the furniture like death shrouds. It was a spare bedroom—unused. Marie rose and pressed her ear to the door. Then, hearing nothing, she turned back to signal to Lovecraft.
He toppled through the window as quietly as a man in plate armor, then bumbled to his feet, stuffing strange tools back into his satchel.
“I’m fine; I’m fine,” he whispered loudly.
“Just shut up and get over here, ’fore you get us killed,” she hissed again.
The second floor of the mansion was as still as a tomb. Sounds of the party echoed from the distant east wing. Most suspicious was the relative sterility of the art and furnishings. This was the home of several generations of madmen—a family of devout Satanists—and yet there were no incriminating images of any kind. No paintings, no talismans, no questionable mirrors, no fixtures or crystals, no furniture that suggested even the most innocuous symbolism. The house guarded its secrets. And for some reason, this bothered Marie more than if infant trophy heads had lined the walls. It suggested maturity, discipline, and a darker heart than she liked to contemplate.
THE HOMBURG FLOATED past a dozen pairs of disbelieving eyes and performed a loop-the-loop in front of Doyle. It then sailed across the wide dance floor, with Houdini trotting alongside like a proud papa. His hands waved through the air, inexplicably dictating the flight of the hat. Whispers of delight murmured amongst the party guests. The homburg hopped from head to head, leaving a trail of startled laughter in its wake before settling with a final soaring leap onto the balding dome of Paul Caleb.
Applause resounded. This sort of performance cost ten dollars and was standing room only on Broadway.
Houdini bowed low as the whistles, laughter, and applause continued.
Paul Caleb removed the homburg from his head and made a mock attempt to levitate the hat, to no avail.
“A drink. A drink for this man,” Madame Rose shouted to the crowd as she pulled Houdini toward the bar. Her smile never faded but her voice dropped to a shaking whisper. “We have to talk. You’re in terrible danger.”
Houdini nodded to well-wishers, but answered her. “Where can we go?”
“Downstairs. To the wine cellar.” Madame Rose dropped his arm and crossed into a hallway, where she pointed to another door. “You enter through the kitchen.”
Across the room, Doyle smiled and sipped his Laphroaig, his eyes on Abigail, who sat against the wall, whispering to Isabella. Then he felt a presence behind him, a heavy gaze on the back of his neck.
A measured voice said, “As a child, I adored Sherlock Holmes. I believe I’ve read every one of his stories.”
Doyle turned around to face the sheik.
“You have your father’s eyes, Darian,” he replied.
“But not his weakness,” Darian answered.
“He wasn’t weak.” Doyle sipped his drink. “Only mad.”
Darian’s eyes flashed. “Oh, I am certainly that.”
“Which Holmes story was your favorite?” Doyle needed to buy some time as he strategized.
“There are so many to choose from. Something appropriate to the occasion, perhaps. Maybe
A Scandal in Bohemia
?” A mischievous gleam shone in Darian’s eyes. “ ‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.’ ”
“Very good. Word for word. However . . .” Doyle stepped closer. “ ‘I think there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge.’ ”
“You’ll learn quite soon about vengeance, Arthur. You and the young lady.”
Doyle reached out and clasped Darian’s wrist. “You’ll taste your own blood before you harm a hair on her head.”
Darian ripped his arm away. “I’ll leave you with a final quote, from
Hound of the Baskervilles.
‘In a modest way, Watson, I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task.’ ” And he turned on one heel and left.
Doyle swung around to check on Abigail, and instead slammed into Houdini.
“Whoa. Easy, Doyle,” Houdini cautioned.
“Darian’s here.”
Houdini stiffened. “Where is he?”
“He’s dressed as a Bedouin. I think we’ve misjudged him. He may hold the advantage tonight.”
“Madame Rose wants to talk.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
Houdini opened his jacket, revealing a pearl-handled revolver stuck under his belt. “I can take care of myself.”
“Then do it quickly, for I fear the trap’s already sprung.”
Houdini backed away, glancing from Abigail to Doyle. “Watch her.”
“I will. Be careful, Houdini.”
AS HOUDINI DUCKED through the crowd, Darian watched him. Watched and waited.
MARIE GENTLY SHUT the door to yet another bedroom, exasperated. “This gon’ to take us all night,” she whispered.
The third floor was vast. Lovecraft marveled at the forty-foot ceilings, the yawning length of the corridors, the enormous, gilded portraits of DeMarcus ancestors, their sinister eyes leering down at the intruders.
Lovecraft knelt on one of the many hundreds of priceless rugs and unlocked his satchel. He threw back the leather flap and dug around for a few moments. But what he ultimately produced caused Marie to wrinkle her nose.
“What you doin’ wit’ that t’ing, Howard?”
Lovecraft held out a withered, gray-brown, amputated left hand. The nails were long and chipped. An ax or sharp knife had chopped through the arm bone, leaving a grisly stub. Tendons, brittle as twigs, stretched to the swollen knuckles through the petrified fingers.
“The Hand of Glory,” Lovecraft said reverently. “Chopped from the arm of some thief in the fifteenth century. If enchanted properly, it becomes quite a useful relic. It should find us our—”
The fingers of the corpse hand suddenly curled on their own, and Lovecraft dropped it in shock.
Marie threw herself against the wall. “It’s alive!”
“No, it merely knows what we want.” Lovecraft smiled as he studied the Hand of Glory writhing on the floor like a hairless tarantula. Then the hand flopped over onto its back, fingers bent into a fist—all save the decayed forefinger, which pointed toward a door at the end of the hall.
“My word, it doesn’t always work this well.”
“Get that t’ing away from me,” Marie snapped.
Lovecraft plucked the Hand of Glory off the floor by its bone stub and walked quickly in the direction of the door.
“It’s guiding us,” he assured Marie. “It knows what we seek.”
Lovecraft and Marie, guided by the Hand of Glory, entered a two-story library. Thorton DeMarcus’s collection was impressive by any standard. Lovecraft would’ve liked to stay a month— a year, even. Scores of walnut cases held a selection of titles behind locked glass doors. Surrounding the balcony above were even more cases, containing what looked to be first editions.
Four large fourteenth-century tapestries hung from each wall, suspended between the cases, and there was an enormous oak table in the center, easily five meters in length.
A candelabra containing four long tapers provided the only light in the room.
And set in the middle of the table, beneath the candlelight, was a simple codex. Neither scroll nor printed text, it consisted of many hundreds of vellum leaves folded once over and connected with stitching. The dried leather enclosing it had long since cracked and peeled, but there was no doubt what it was. Before them sat the Book of Enoch.
Lovecraft licked his lips as he approached the table, freeing his satchel from around his shoulder. He plunked the Hand of Glory back into the bag as he set out a more delicate collection of instruments: pen knife, metric ruler, a small vial of clear fluid, a dropper, and vernier calipers. Then he removed his glasses and replaced them with a gemologist’s lens. He measured the thickness of the paper by pinching the vellum between the calipers, then with the eyedropper applied a tiny drop of the clear fluid to a frayed corner of the page.
“We ain’t got time for—”
“Quiet, for God’s sake,” he snapped.
His answer was a tremulous squeal.
Lovecraft looked up and pulled the lens from his eye. “Marie?”
Marie was as still as a statue. “That wasn’t me,” she whispered.
With a collective screech, four demons surged from behind the four tapestries.
Lovecraft gathered up the Book of Enoch as he scrambled up onto the table, with Marie beside him.
The demons freed hooks from their sleeves and slashed at the air. Lovecraft felt the wind from the force of their swings.
Their ruby eyes reflected the candles’ glow as they surrounded the table.
Lovecraft and Marie climbed to their feet, standing in the center of the massive table. Lovecraft clutched the Book to his breast.
“Do something,” Lovecraft demanded.
“You’re the demonologist, Howard,” Marie retorted.
“Can’t you call some rats?”
“There ain’t nothin’ livin’ in this house.”
A hook flew by, ripping Lovecraft’s pants leg.
In that instant, Marie grabbed the candelabra from the table, spun it around, and flung it in the face of the nearest demon. The creature staggered back, squealing terribly, its hood in flames.
Marie took the opportunity to leap onto the closest ladder and pull herself up to the balcony.
The rest of the demons lunged at the table as Lovecraft followed Marie’s lead, ungracefully throwing his body against the ladder. The strap of his satchel strangled him as skeletal hands pulled at his ankles.
Lovecraft screamed as he kicked at the squealing creatures beneath him, one arm wrapped around a ladder rung, the other grasping the Book.
Finally he was close enough for Marie to reach down and grab his collar, heaving him over the balcony rail.
Then they were both sprinting for the door, Marie in front, as the demons circled and squealed in frustration below.