The Shotgun Arcana Page 19

  Raziel laughed again. He walked to Biqa and knelt on one knee before the sitting angel, leaning in close to his face.

  “Explain myself? To you? Very well … old friend.

  “You see, Biqa, what I discovered in the wars was that I liked killing, maiming. I loved it. I loved that my creator gave me a purpose, and that purpose is to slaughter. It thrilled me, it made me feel like the Almighty understood me, loved me so much he gave me wars and rebellions to slake my thirst for blood, for murder; that he created this whole charnel house, this joke of a world, just for me.”

  “You’ve lost your way, Raziel,” Biqa said. “Perhaps it was the skull; it may have influenced you.…”

  “Influenced me,” Raziel laughed, looking into Biqa’s dark, calm eyes with his own brilliant, shining blue ones. “Biqa, I was made to be the skull’s guardian, its master. I felt this way before the Earth was even forged. I felt this way from the instant of my creation. What things do you think the Almighty was whispering into my ear all those countless eons? Words of endearment? Of joy and peace and love? No. He dipped his tongue in the blackest blood and he whispered to me of slaughter, of death, of torture and atrocity. That is your creator, Biqa. He built this entire lovely, lovely playground so that he could tear it apart, abuse and neglect his toys and listen to the terrified screams of the monkeys as they tried to understand. And only I was capable of comprehending that desire, that uncontrollable urge to control, to destroy and to feed on terror.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Biqa said.

  “Really?” Raziel said. Only a few inches separated the two angels’ faces now. They bore into each other’s eyes, their inhuman wills clashing like sabers. “Well, if what I am doing is so abhorrent, so against the Almighty’s plan, then why am I being allowed to do it, Biqa? Why isn’t He stopping me? For that matter how can I even exist as I am, unless I was created this way by Him? And why would God make a bloodthirsty angel unless He intended him to be. I am part of His grand design, as much as gravity, or the flowers, or disease. Or you, sweet, dark Biqa.”

  Biqa said nothing and Raziel smiled his perfect smile.

  “Can’t answer that one, can you? My ‘cult,’ as you call it, is made up of humans who are created in my image—they have hungers, fantasies, which must be fed. They are artists in pain, fear and slaughter. In short, they are like me and I am their god. And the skull is my Holy Grail, can’t you see that? That is why I was tasked to stand watch over the mortal who crafted the power in the skull, and in time, his remains. I’ve even figured out why the Almighty wanted me to stand over the mortal, and, trust me, it had nothing to do with moral outrage. It was fear. God fears the skull. It all makes sense to me now, Biqa. I wish you could see but I’m afraid you’re just too stunted in your vision. Your morality limits your comprehension. Beings such as us should strive to be less myopic.”

  “All I see is a petty, egotistical tyrant,” Biqa said, standing. “A servant who thinks himself a master and has set up his own pathetic excuse for a religion to justify his madness, and his own treason. I’m taking guardianship of the skull. You are no longer fit to protect it … Ray.”

  Raziel’s smile dimmed. He stood, resting his hand on the hilt of his saber. He slapped Biqa on the shoulder, good-naturedly.

  “Of course, old friend. Keep the skull. Keep it safe in your little empire in the dust,” the golden angel said. Bick stood and opened the door. Zeal’s smile faded and his blue eyes burned.

  “Keep it for me like a good servant, until I come for what is mine.”

  Bick shut the door. The thought of Ray Zeal, what he represented and why he was allowed to exist was a shard of troubling doubt buried deep in the angel’s mind. He also felt a trickle of something he tried to push away seep into the core of him.

  Bick was afraid.

  The World (Reversed)

  Twenty-one years later …

  November 20, 1870

  Nevada

  “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” the woman said as she strode into Malachi Bick’s office on the second floor of the Paradise Falls as if it belonged to her. She was a beauty, to be sure: short, lithe, exotic with long black hair, falling in ringlets far below her shoulders. She was dressed in a loose tunic, pants and vest of green and black. The Scholar was with her, Bick noted, dressed in his usual workingman attire and vest, cudgel in hand. The fact that his men downstairs were not all over the two indicated that they had already been dealt with. Bick rose and turned to his guest, who was sitting in one of the high back chairs before his desk.

  “I am sorry our chat has been interrupted, Emily,” he said. “I believe I’m taking an unexpected business meeting. Perhaps I could call upon you later at the Imperial?”

  Emily Bright stood and regarded the dark woman and the giant bearded man who accompanied her. Emily had been afforded a chance to rest and settle in at Bick’s new hotel. She was in a clean, comfortable blouse of cream and a black skirt that fell to her booted ankles. Her hair was loose and draped her shoulders.

  “I’d like to stay, if I might,” she said. “I’m keen to see the inner workings of the man who owns Golgotha.” She looked at the woman who now leaned on the edge of Bick’s desk, smiling. “I know you.”

  The woman looked Emily up and down, dismissively. “I doubt, that, dear,” she said. Emily was unperturbed.

  “You’re from San Francisco,” Emily said. “I’ve heard rumors of some esoteric society you’re mixed up in, the coven la nan deyès a siren? And something about purchasing spy balloons from the war? I saw you in the city once. They call you the Queen of the Barbary Pirates. They call you a few other less flattering names, too, not to your face, of course … dear.”

  Bick smiled at the exchange. He sat down again behind the desk and gestured for the two women to sit in the chairs. They did. The Scholar stood beside and behind the dark woman’s chair.

  “You reputation precedes you, Black Rowan,” Bick said. “This is Miss Bright,” he said, nodding toward Emily. “Only recently arrived in town. We were catching up. How may I be of service to you?”

  Rowan held out her hand and the Scholar dropped a small cloth bag into it. Rowan tossed it across the desk to Bick, who caught it easily. He opened it and dumped a thick pile of currency and heavy gold and silver coins onto the desktop. Bick looked at it and then back to Rowan.

  “And this is what, exactly?” Bick asked.

  “Your cut,” Rowan said. “You’re the house, so it’s a straight fifty percent of the cream straight off the top.”

  “My … cut,” Bick said, looking at Rowan and then to the stone face of the Scholar. “Of the profits from the Dove’s Roost. My business, my property. I see.”

  “There has been a change in management,” Rowan said. “I’m in charge of the Dove’s Roost now. I’m in charge of what happens to any public girls anywhere in Golgotha now: freelancers, saloon girls, camp followers, crib ladies, all of it. I’m having talks with Mr. Wynn, Half-Guts Mitchell, the Nail and Ch’eng Huang to explain to them as I’m explaining to you.

  “I’d enjoy watching your talk with Huang,” Bick said. “And what exactly are you going to explain to all of us, Lady Rowan?”

  Rowan leaned forward in her chair, her eyes narrowed and focused on Bick’s, and even he was drawn into her gaze.

  “These women, they are under my auspice and my protection,” she said. “The Scholar and Ham will continue to do their jobs and you, as the owner of the property, are entitled to a handsome cut of the profits, but I own this trade in Golgotha now, not you. Those women are now like craftsmen, protected by a guild of sorts—mine.”

  “You working for her now?” Bick asked the Scholar. “So much for your much lauded loyalty, it seems, Mr. Quire.”

  “No, sir. I still am currently in your employ,” the Scholar said. “Miss Rowan’s machinations were unknown until she sprung them upon me. I defended your business interests to the best of my ability, Mr. Bick, and I was soundly defeated by the
lady, a most humbling experience, I can assure you. When I awoke, the situation was explained to me much as it was just explained to you. I am here today to give you this.”

  The Scholar removed an envelope from his jacket and handed it to Bick. Bick took it, but didn’t open it.

  “My resignation from your employ,” the Scholar said. “If you refuse to accept it, I will continue to act as your advocate to the fullest extent of my resources, Mr. Bick, and will even move against Miss Rowan to kill her, if you wish it. Words are all we have in this life to mark our passage through eternity. My word is my bond and I break it for no one. Currently, as your advocate, I would urge you to accept the generous terms being offered to you.”

  Bick looked at the Scholar and smiled. “I apologize for impugning your honor, Mr. Quire. You have been a loyal and exemplary employee. You are relieved, sir.” Bick slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket.

  “Thank you, sir,” the Scholar said. He turned to Black Rowan. “I am currently without employment and would be honored to accept the position you have offered me.”

  Rowan nodded. “Thank you, Scholar.” She turned back to Bick, who was unreadable, his fingers steepled and resting against his pursed lips. “And you, Mr. Bick, do you also accept my offer?”

  “I always like to know the motives of those I am getting into business with,” Bick said. “You are well connected and have many profitable endeavors on the coast and elsewhere in the world, so why come to my little corner of nowhere? Why inject yourself into my business?”

  Rowan sat back in the chair and crossed her legs. “It’s a pity you are not as invested in the details of your businesses as you are in your business partners, Mr. Bick. Were you aware that in the last two days, two of your loyal employees have been savagely murdered? One last night, found on the altar of St. Cyprian’s. They were murdered while freelancing for a poacher in your territory? The man’s name is Niall Devlin, but I’m sure you are more familiar with his nom de guerre, the Nail. He puts them out there with no protection and they are terrified to cross him or tell you for fear of your retaliation. They did it because they needed more money, and for that, they have been tortured to death and mutilated. You knew that, didn’t you, Mr. Bick? Perhaps that’s what you and the pretty Mrs. Bright were discussing when we so rudely interrupted.”

  Bick’s eyes darkened. Rowan felt as if a shadow had just fallen across her heart, but she refused to show this man weakness.

  “Did you know?” Rowan asked. “Did you give even a drop of golden piss about any of them?”

  “I didn’t know.” Bick said. “Did they have family?”

  “They goddamned do now,” Rowan said, her voice like a knife wrapped in silk. “I’ll look after them. I’ll deal with the Nail. I’ll deal with the man that’s hunting them and I’ll keep them safe and make as many of them as rich as I can.”

  “Why?” Bick said. “How do I know you aren’t someone like this ‘Nail,’ someone looking to move in and exploit these women, looking for profit?”

  “I talked to every girl at the Dove,” Rowan said. “Every girl in the street or the camps or the saloons, every girl I could find; and I gave it to them straight. They don’t want to work for me, I get them a ticket on the stage out of town and a week’s pay. They stay here and work around me, cut me out: I give them a first-class beating and the same ticket out of town.

  “You, Mr. Bick, have your eyes on the horizon. You haven’t spent enough time in the dirt. You don’t know how it feels to fall, to live in the shadows. Me, I have one business concern here and one business only, and I will tend my garden and take good care of my lilies and pull any weeds out by the roots.”

  “Very poetic,” Bick said, “but not really an answer. And you’d be surprised the falls I’ve experienced in my time, Lady Rowan. So I ask again. Why here, why now?”

  “I have my reasons for being in Golgotha,” Rowan said. “And they are mine. I hope you can understand, being a man who also enjoys the cloak of anonymity. So, do we have an arrangement, Mr. Bick? You don’t really want us to discuss such ugly unpleasantness as what happens if you say no in front of the lovely Miss Bright, do you?”

  Bick looked to Emily. “What do you think?”

  Emily stared straight at Rowan as she spoke.

  “I think that Black Rowan lives up to her reputation,” she said. “She is a pirate and an agency of lawlessness and chaos. I think that if I spoke something I knew was true and she repeated my words, I would doubt their veracity.”

  Rowan’s gaze remained fixed on Emily’s violet eyes. Bick was impressed by his daughter’s fearlessness. Emily returned her gaze to Bick.

  “However, what she says about the women, about looking after them, protecting them … I believe her in that. And it sounds as if they need protecting.”

  “Then we have an arrangement,” Bick said, rising. Rowan stood and extended her hand. Bick took it and kissed it. “Consider this a welcome gift to our fair town, for such a resplendent and capable woman.” He looked at the beautiful pirate and the darkness once again fell upon her heart, like a hand of ice had clutched it.

  “And if you decide to expand your business interests in Golgotha further, Lady Rowan, then we shall have that ugly, unpleasant conversation, I assure you. Please rouse my men downstairs on your way out, if you will be so kind.”

  Rowan, somewhat shaken, withdrew her hand. She and the Scholar departed without another word. Bick closed the door behind them.

  “Well, this is shaping up to be an eventful month,” Bick said to Emily.

  “So why did you just let Black Rowan take over the Dove’s Roost?” she asked him. “You lost control of that part of your world now?”

  “The worst thing to do is let your enemies decide the battlefield,” Bick said. “I know where she is now and I know her plans in the short term, at least. If Rowan decides to stay here, then I will either control her or eliminate her. A shame, too, if I must. Lovely woman, a breath of fresh air, really.”

  “Eliminate? I don’t understand you,” Emily said, shaking her head. “You act like a villain but with your resources, your … abilities, these people should love you. You could make this desert into a garden for them,” Emily said.

  “No,” Bick said. “My powers have diminished considerably over my time here.”

  “But half of near infinite is still … godlike.”

  “I, those like me, we’re not gods,” Bick said. “We’re servants, agents, nothing more. This is your world, mankind’s world. We can’t, we shouldn’t interfere too much here; it’s not what all this is here for. I’m here to do a job, fulfill a duty. Did Caleb explain that to you?”

  Emily nodded. “Yes, he said you were tasked to guard a … thing, older than God, than time or even death … sealed away under the Earth. Caleb said its presence is why so many strange things happen in Golgotha, why the town attracts so many odd souls. He said that if this creature got loose it would destroy everything, everywhere.”

  “Last year, it almost did,” Bick said, “because I was careless, because I was too busy being human to do my job properly and because I trusted someone else to safeguard what I was entrusted to guard. My mistake was paid in blood, rivers of it, not the least of which was Caleb’s.

  “I’ve spent the last year making sure that everything in a hundred miles of here is nailed down tight, under my control, making sure I have something over everyone so that if I need to I can control or destroy any man, woman or child in this town, because I just might have to do that to make sure I never fail in my mission again.”

  “That’s horrible,” Emily said. “What of trust? You just said this world is ours … theirs? How can you say you don’t want to interfere in man’s destiny when you are clearly doing that here? If you clutch at something too tightly it slips through the crack in your fingers or you crush it. You don’t want either one to happen. You have to trust.”

  Bick shook his head. “I trusted in my Creator, have obeyed His words
to me loyally and for it. I’m an exile. I trusted men here to protect my secrets and defend this world. They fell to greed and weakness. They almost let the most terrible thing in all creation loose. I have met an angel that tells me God whispered horrors and nightmares into his ear since before time began. Is that my God? Is that the God who showed me mercy and love? How can that be? No, I can’t afford to trust, Emily. I have to control and, if necessary, crush.”

  “That is very sad,” Emily said. There was a brief silence before she spoke again. “Do you trust me?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Bick said. “I’d like to. It’s hard to believe in anything or anyone when you have heard God’s voice but can’t recall it, when you have heard the choirs of the Radiance, but Heaven is silent now.”

  “Well,” Emily said, patting his hand, “welcome to the human race. We trust every day and we have far less awareness than you do. Faith is dangerous, but hopelessness is death. We stumble about in the universe with a blindfold on and hope the powers that be don’t trip us.”

  Bick took his daughter’s hand, squeezed it.

  “I think I believe in you,” Emily said.

  “Well,” Bick said, “that makes one of us.”

  The Three of Swords

  The smoke from the fine home on Joseph Street in New Orleans led the intrepid volunteers of the Fireman’s Charitable Association to smash down the kitchen door on a Saturday in late October, 1870. Inside they found two black servants, former slaves, chained to the stove in an advanced state of starvation and showing signs of long-term torture. They set the fires in hopes of dying in them, to end their suffering.

  Upstairs the men of the FCA, and the local constabulary they had summoned, discovered an antechamber to Hell in the mansion’s attic. Dozens of servants, all former slaves, shackled to the walls and floor of the narrow, cramped, hot room. Some had been experimented upon. One woman was in a small cage, her bones broken and reset to resemble a crab. Another man had been the subject of a crude attempt to alter his sex—breasts and sexual organs taken from one of the women had been stitched to the man after his own genitals had been hacked off. Several of the victims had their hands sewn to parts of their body. Some died of starvation after having their mouths sewed shut. One woman had her arms and legs cut off and her skin mutilated to resemble the patterns found on a caterpillar. The ones that hadn’t died begged their rescuers to kill them.