He Who Walks in Shadow (4 page)

The darkest tomes speak of the coming of a man, one unlike any the people of this world have ever seen. At least, not for a very long time. A man tall and proud, with the face of a prince and the command of a king. The harbinger of a coming end, of an age beyond our own. Of the twilight of mankind and the return of something that ruled this world before. The one who wears the ring, the one who bears the mark, he of the Yellow Sign. I had reason to fear. For tell me, is there any other sigil that is a danger even to look upon? Is there any other mark of man that can bend the will and control the mind?

If the Oculus has returned, then the coming of the harbinger cannot be far behind. Alas, it seems the ancient writings regarding this man—if man he be—are correct, for turmoil and disorder have followed in the wake of the news from the east. The world has not been the same since the word came of the Oculus. Bloody conflict descended; famine and disease came with it. The Great War that interrupted our plans killed millions of my brothers and, indeed, my king.

I do not believe I shall ever have an opportunity to visit Siberia, and I am afraid that neither will you, if you delay. Even though it has been a decade since the event, I am certain that there is something to be learned from the wilderness of Tunguska, and it is even possible that the Eye remains there, waiting to be claimed by those forces of good who would banish the dark one again, holding shut whatever gate he seeks to open. One thing we can know for certain is this—we are not the only ones who seek the Oculus.

It is for this reason that I hope that your feet will walk where mine cannot, and your eyes will see what must remain forever hidden from mine. Perhaps one day, we can speak of what you discover there.

Finding your way will not be easy, but the White Army is strong in the east. Travel to Irkutsk, on the banks of the Angara River. The site of the event is far to the north, but there you will find a Colonel Rostov who has been told to assist you in any way you need. The pass I have included bears my signature, and it will provide you with safe travel through our territory, though, of course, I can guarantee you nothing if the Red Army is victorious.

I will understand if you see fit to forego this opportunity, but I fear for the future if you do. Until we meet again, my friend, I remain your brother in the light.

General Anton Denikin

It was grave news, indeed, and insanity to follow through on the General’s request. In the weeks after he posted the message, the men under his command suffered disastrous defeats at the hands of the Red Army. And while the Republicans held firm in the East, no one could say how long that tenuous grip would remain. Yet as he read the letter, I saw a look of resolve spread across Carter’s face.

It was a cold evening, and Carter had stoked quite a fire in the hearth. He sat down in a chair beside it, lighting one of the cigars that he seemed never to be without. I waited a good ten minutes before I interrupted his thoughts.

“So you mean to do it then?”

He arched an eyebrow. “I note a tone of disagreement. I am surprised. I understand that Siberia is rather charming in the winter.”

“Putting that aside,” I said with a grin, pouring a glass of brandy for each of us, “we’d be walking into a war zone. And I don’t know if you followed the
Times
these last few weeks, but the Republican cause is all but lost in the west, and the Red Army is pressing hard in the east. They can’t last long. We might arrive in Irkutsk to find this Colonel Rostov dead—or worse—and ourselves an enemy of the state.”

“Your logic, as always, is impeccable,” he said, taking the glass of brandy I offered. “Unfortunately, I don’t know that we have a choice. There are things intimated in the General’s letter that are grave indeed. I’ll need time to consider them, and I hope that you will give me your trust on this matter until I come to some conclusions.”

It was a request that Carter had made many times in the past. I had never refused him, and I would not do so now.

“But no matter what,” he said, his tone changing from introspection to command, “I believe we must know the truth of the rumors from Siberia, regardless of the danger. Call William. We will be needing him.”

Less than an hour later, William strode into Carter’s office, wearing the same smile he always bore. William had the exuberance and hopefulness of youth, and these were qualities the two of us, jaded by many battles against the dark forces of the earth’s forgotten lands, sorely needed.

I watched Carter’s eyes light up as he entered. “William,” he said, “thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Of course,” he said, turning to me. “Dr. Armitage, how are you tonight?”

“Fine, as always, my boy. I believe your father-in-law has a proposal he wants to make to you.”

“Yes,” Carter said, rising from his chair to shake the boy’s hand. “Have a seat, William, we have much to discuss.”

“Is everything all right?” he asked, taking my seat next to the fire while I poured him a glass of brandy.

“It seems that things are rarely all right,” Carter said. “It’s an unfortunate consequence of the knowledge we possess, but the burden must fall to someone.”

William nodded. “Of course.” I handed him the drink and he thanked me.

“First, I must apologize for mocking your choice to spend so much time studying Russian. We will be in need of your skills after all.”

“We’re going to Russia?” William asked, sounding understandably confused.

“It appears so.” Carter removed the letter from his pocket, handing it to the young man. Then we both waited as he read it. William let out a soft whistle and looked up at his father-in-law.

“I take it you think there’s some truth to this note.”

“I do.”

“I also take it you’ve been following the news from the region. There’s no guarantee we’ll find a friendly welcome waiting for us. This pass from your friend might end up being our death warrant.”

Weston nodded. “I wish I could say you were wrong. Dr. Armitage and I have discussed it, and we simply do not think we have a choice. If there is even the possibility of truth in Professor Denikin’s assessment, we must investigate. Nevertheless, I will not hold it against you if you decide to stay. This is not an assignment; it is a request. In truth, I am sure my daughter would prefer you declined.”

William grinned. “Rachel didn’t have a choice when she became a part of this family. I did. I knew what I was getting myself into, and I wouldn’t dream of letting you go alone. I’m sure Rachel will understand.”

For the barest second, Carter hesitated, and I even wondered if perhaps he regretted asking the young man’s assistance. He must have known as I did that William would never refuse him, no matter what the danger. But then Carter simply smiled and nodded. “Then it is settled,” he declared. “We leave tomorrow.”

Le Temps
, Paris (translated), 1 May 1933, Front Page

The denizens of Paris are living in fear today. A shocking crime of the most revolting and fiendish character that has ever taken place in France has been uncovered in the city’s Latin Quarter. Early this morning, the gendarmes were called to the cellar of a house in La Cour du Dragon, between Rue de Rennes and Rue du Dragon. What they found inside is almost too horrible to describe within the pages of this publication.

In the center of an otherwise empty cellar was a crude wooden platform, and on that platform lay the body of a woman, though the state of that poor creature was so horrible as to make ready identification difficult. She lay on her back and was entirely naked, her arms and legs bound and pulled apart in a sickening mockery of Leonardo da Vinci’s
Vitruvian Man
. Cause of death was impossible to ascertain, as any of the violations committed against her body may have been responsible for her final passing.

Her throat was slashed from ear to ear, and the cut was so deep that she was all but decapitated. But the fiend or fiends did not end their mischief there. Her ears and nose were missing, having been cut clean off. Moreover, the murderer’s blade had gutted the woman from throat to gullet. Her organs were removed and spread about the room, apparently in some pattern which the authorities refused to reveal.

In fact, the police have been tight-lipped about many aspects of the crime—one that rivals the worst of London’s White Chapel murders perpetrated by the infamous fiend known only as Jack the Ripper. But this paper has, through anonymous sources within the Prefecture of Police, uncovered details that should chill the blood of any Parisian.

According to our sources, the victim—whose identity may never be known—was a part of what can only be described as a religious ritual of the darkest and foulest character. Her organs were placed at the five points of a great, uneven star. Her heart was missing, having been burnt in a primitive altar placed at the head of the table on which she lay. And perhaps worst of all, the walls, floors, and even ceilings were covered in arcane and indecipherable symbols—all of which were written in the victim’s own blood.

Such stunning news will shake this city to its core, and it raises many questions. Is this the beginnings of a new and terrible religious movement in the Parisian underground? Who perpetrated this horrendous crime? And perhaps most importantly, was this an isolated event, or can we expect more horrors?

Le Figaro
, Paris (translated), 1 May 1933, Arts Page

Sad news today from the Latin Quarter as it seems that Henri Leroux, the renowned artist and perhaps the Quarter’s most well-known denizen, has taken his own life. Famous the world over for his strikingly macabre and gothic style, Leroux produced such iconic paintings as
L'abîme
and
Les Dieux Aînés.
But lately he had spiraled into a deep depression culminating in his tragic death.

According to witnesses, at around 11 P.M. last night, there was a grand commotion in the Latin Quarter, consisting of the frantic cries and unintelligible shouting of a man, the very same M. Leroux. He was observed running down the Rue Barrée—completely in the nude—and flailing his arms in an erratic manner. Those who tried to stop him described M. Leroux as violently mad and quite dangerous. Despite the efforts of various passersby, M. Leroux ran all the way to the Pont des Arts, where he was seen to utter one last horrible cry before throwing himself into the waters of the Seine. His body was recovered this morning.

M. Leroux’s death ends what had been a rather unusual chapter in the life of the famously eccentric Latin Quarter. In the last two weeks alone, five different young artists were admitted to various hospitals around the city, two in a completely catatonic state and three who reported suicidal depression brought on by particularly vivid and lucid dreams. The content of those dreams remains a mystery, though an anonymous citizen who is close to one of the persons in question reports that they centered on the end of the world.

Whatever wild and irresponsible imaginings were bred in the depths of the Latin Quarter, they seem to have affected M. Leroux more than most. His friends report that his already dark demeanor took on an even bleaker countenance in the weeks preceding his death and that he spoke endlessly and without bidding of his fear of sleep.

In any event, whatever the cause, the world of art has lost a true master. In this of all cities, he will be mourned and he will be remembered.

Personal Diary of Inspector François le Villard (translated)

2 May 1933

In the twenty-five years I have served as an inspector with La Sûreté Nationale, I have never seen the like of what I came upon in the Cour du Dragon last night. We were called to a small basement apartment in the Latin Quarter, within which we found a scene of such horror as any that heaven has ever bent above. A young girl—she couldn’t have been older than eighteen—was ripped apart as if by some beast, though what animal could render such carnage I cannot say.

The press—scoundrels all—have revealed much of what the poor girl suffered and the indignities visited upon her by whatever devil even now walks the streets of Paris. These vultures pick at her bones. They have no respect for the living, and even less for the dead. My only comfort is that they have yet to draw a connection between the death of the artist Henri Leroux and that of the young woman whose identity remains a mystery. Are they somehow connected? Perhaps. I find it difficult to believe that such bizarre events could coincide both in date and location and have no common thread to bind them together. Was Leroux involved? Was he somehow complicit? What compelled him to throw himself from the Pont Des Arts? Could it have been guilt for such a heinous crime?

It is impossible to yet know, though I hope that our investigation will illuminate the facts. For now, I am focusing my efforts on determining the origin of a phrase found carved into the skin of the murder victim, a piece of the crime scene that the press—despite the leaks within my department—has not yet brought to light.

In the skin above her left breast, in the flesh that would have covered her heart—if it were still within her body—three words were inscribed.
Il est ressuscité
—he is risen! The words chilled me, this mockery of the true faith, this blasphemy. And the implication shook me to my core. Could it be that a Christian had done this thing? Or could it mean something else entirely, something darker, something far more sinister? Of what foul rising do these words speak? And what dark power did this poor girl die to resurrect, what black ritual did her sacrifice complete?

I will have answers to these questions. I will find this girl’s murderer. That is my promise. That is my cause.

Journal of Henry Armitage

July 23, 1933

It was early this morning when Rachel and I boarded a flight bound for Berlin. It wasn’t long after we were in the air that she started to ask questions.