Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (7 page)

“Mason?”

“Did you find it?”

“No—wait, just wait!”

Henry jabbed his hands above his head—nothing. He felt along the edge to the right corner (empty) and then to the left, where he touched something cold and metal. His fingers closed around the barrel of a pistol and Henry allowed himself to breathe again.

“I found it! Pull me out!”

Henry felt hands grab his ankles and he was yanked backward. When his waist reached the opening, a hand appeared into which Henry shoved the gun. A few more clumps of dirt fell into the box and then the avalanche stopped. Henry pushed forward, awkwardly twisting his body in order to fold himself back around and out of the opening. As he scraped along the bottom of the box he felt something else slide past his arm. Once free of the coffin, he got to his feet and peered over the top of the hole. He could just see Mason and Hugh examining the pistol. They appeared to be having trouble deciding on a target.

Henry ducked back down and reached into the darkness, finding what he was looking for on the first try. It was a small, leather-bound book about six inches tall. It had a strap tied around it and a worn symbol scratched into the front that appeared to be a bird. To Henry it looked like one of the crows that lived in Astoria year-round, although the neck seemed proportionally too long. Henry untied the strap and opened the book to the first page.

Everything changed.

Henry felt safe. He was suddenly free of the fear and worry that had plagued him, from both his reclaimed memories and the uncertainty of the present situation. Warmth flowed through him, filling him with a vitality that was both new and familiar at the same time. This was the feeling that had sustained him throughout the dig, perhaps even pushed him into action.

Henry focused on the page. It was blank. He flipped to the next and found a rough circle drawn around a smaller circle filled in with black ink. Henry touched the small black spot and felt a tingle in his finger.

“Mine.”

Henry flipped another page and found handwritten words filling every inch of space on both sides of the spread. He held the book aloft to catch more of the lantern light but found he didn’t recognize the words—not all of them. There were English words, and some he thought were French and possibly Spanish, as well as a few he didn’t recognize at all. There were more on the next spread and, of course, the next. Henry let the pages flip freely, finding the same dense collection of handwriting on every one.

It was magic.

Henry knew it, as sure as he knew he would read and reread every word in the book until he understood them all.

Henry flipped again, more slowly this time. There were notes, randomly scattered among the pages, scribbled between lines, and in the margins, in a hand different from the rest. Someone else had tried to decipher the language but had not gotten very far.

Henry would do better.

He turned back to the beginning of the book, but the loud crack of a gunshot caused him to clamp the cover shut.

Henry peered out of the hole to see Mason taking aim at a grave marker about thirty feet away. He fired, putting a second chip in the stone. He glanced at Henry, then quickly fired four more shots at his target.

Henry scrambled out of the hole, only to find that Mason had turned the pistol on him.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think?” Mason said, thumbing back the hammer.

“Wait, don’t—”

The hammer snapped into place, but the weapon didn’t fire. Startled, Henry took a step back, lost his footing in the loose soil, and slid back into the hole. He landed on his feet and then fell into a sitting position. Mason appeared above him, holding the pistol.

“Wrong color,” he said, holding the weapon so Henry could clearly see the dark brown handle.

“That’s not his gun,” Henry said. “That’s not what was buried with him.”

“I gathered, which is both good and bad for you. Good in that you didn’t just get shot, but bad because as soon as I reload, I’m going to be needing a reason not to try again without the target practice.”

“I saw the old man throw the gun into the grave, the red gun!”

Mason looked to his partners. Hugh shrugged. Charlie shook his head.

“I found this in the coffin,” Henry said, holding up the book. He hated the idea of giving Mason the book—of the man even
touching
it—but it was his only play.

“What is it?”

“It’s a book full of spells, I think, and other things.”

Mason finished reloading the pistol, held it for a moment, then shoved it behind his belt.

“Toss it here.”

Henry started to throw the book, hesitated, then set it on the edge of the hole at Mason’s feet. Mason kept an eye on Henry as he bent to pick it up. He flipped through the pages, stopping every so often to stare at the text.

“What language is this?”

“English. French and Spanish, too, and maybe some others.”

Mason looked at Henry and then back at the book. Hugh peered over his shoulder.

“What’s with the book?”

“Henry says it’s a magic book.”

“With curses and such?” Charlie asked.

“Spells,” said Henry. “Maybe curses, too.” Henry honestly didn’t know the difference, but he understood that the book held both. He didn’t know why.

Mason tried to read a passage but quickly gave up. He closed the book.

“You can read this?” he said, holding it up.

“Yes,” Henry said. “Enough of it.”

“Enough for what?”

“Enough to know that book is what made the Hanged Man the most dangerous son of a bitch to ever draw breath.”

Mason stared at Henry. From inside the hole, Henry’s eyes barely made it to boot level, but Mason was impressed by their intensity. The life he’d seen in the store was even more eager to live now that it had tasted the fear of death. Mason felt proud for giving the young man such an important life experience. Perhaps he would offer him more.

Mason held out a hand, which Henry grasped after a barely noticeable hesitation. Back on equal footing, Henry reached for the book before it was offered. This Mason noticed, but he still gave the man what he wanted.

“Still want to ride with us?”

“Yes,” Henry said, clutching the book tightly to his chest.

Mason grinned, put an arm around Henry, and then turned to Charlie and Hugh. “Boys, what do you say? We got room for one more?”

“You got a horse?” asked Hugh.

“I can get one.”

Hugh shrugged. “Fine by me.”

Charlie didn’t care for Mason’s sudden show of affection but doubted his opinion would matter one way or another. He smiled, more genuinely than he’d intended.

“Can you cook?”

“No.”

“Then you’ll fit right in.”

“It’s settled then.” Mason gave Henry a hard slap on the back, then turned his attention to the dead man lying on the ground at their feet.

“Sorry about the gun,” Henry said.

“Don’t be,” Mason said, pulling the pistol from his belt. “It’s a nice gun. Worth more than anything back in that shop of yours.”

Henry nodded.

“Besides, we got another prize, too.”

Henry tightened his grip on the book. “Oh?”

Mason motioned to the Hanged Man.

“Got us a famous dead man,” Mason said. “That’s worth something, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” said Henry. “But who would you sell it to?”

“The
who
I already know,” Mason said. “It’s the
how much
I’m interested in.”

4

The taste of blood lingered in the creature’s mouth, metallic and bitter. This was not the sweet nectar that had sustained it so many nights past. This claret flowed from within, bringing pain and the cold realization that death would come soon.

Beneath the city, away from the men and the stinging light they worshipped, the creature should have been safe. It knew this place, every twist and turn, every sunken alcove and watery passage. From here the creature could stalk its prey, strike quickly, and retreat to feed at its leisure. Any man who dared follow would never see his precious sunshine again.

“William Jacoby!”

The creature hissed as the words bounced off brick and stone, crowding the dark. The name was a lie, a thief of the mind, feeble and small, but always gnawing, biting. Many times the creature had feasted on the weak, but this one—
this name
—would not succumb. A dozen times devoured, but still it persisted.

And now it was given voice.

“Lieutenant Jacoby, I know you are hurt.”

The African was strong. Alone in the dark sanctuary of the underground, the man was nearly the creature’s equal. But he was not alone. A demon served at his side, quick and vicious. Twice it had bitten and both times the creature could not fight back—could not even see the demon. Hurt and afraid, it had fled.

No more.

The creature longed to feed, to taste fear that was not its own and swallow it like the rest. This man must fear. All men do.

“Please, William, I only wish to help.”

Lies! Devious, delicious lies …

*   *   *

“Jacoby is gone!”

The voice was wet and ragged. Andre Labeau tilted his head, listening for more. He didn’t wait long.

“I swallowed him whole!”

The creature cackled, no doubt hoping to cover the pain in its voice.

Andre dimmed the lantern in his hand and whispered to the darkness beside him, “Tunnel on the left. Hurt, but still dangerous.”

A shadow passed through a sliver of light and vanished into the black. Andre followed, moving as silently through the muck as his oversize frame would allow.

It’d been an hour since they followed Lieutenant Jacoby into the foul-smelling labyrinth beneath San Francisco, ten minutes since Andre had tussled with the creature the officer had become. He’d gotten the better of the beast, a murderous fiend responsible for the deaths of five men and seven women. Andre also knew the lieutenant to be a kind and generous man, one who was horrified by the monster he had become. This was why his onetime instructor had asked Andre to do what the man could not.

William Jacoby wanted to die.

Andre had resisted, arguing against such a cure until he could witness the transformation with his own eyes. Two nights ago he had and as a result a child nearly died. Tonight he would fulfill his old friend’s wishes.

Heavy, labored breathing came to Andre from the darkness ahead. A chest full of broken ribs might be enough to end the creature, but he would not allow the man trapped inside to suffer such an agonizing death. Andre believed Lieutenant Jacoby to be still alive, buried beneath the rage of his darker half. Each time he succumbed, his mind grew weaker. The physical transformation was traumatic, but it was madness that finally doomed the man.

“I can smell you, dark man.”

Andre stopped. The voice was close, barely ten feet ahead of him. There would be no retreat this time.

Andre brought the lantern to life, revealing the creature before him. It was shirtless, pale, and thin, its skin drawn tightly over sinewy muscle and bone. William Jacoby was not a small man, but, transformed, his features were unnaturally long, adding height and length, though not mass. Were it not for the low ceiling, the creature would have stood eight feet at least, its hands dragging on the ground.

The eyes, yellowed from the poison injected into them, protested the light, but soon found Andre. The creature smiled, revealing two rows of tall, bloodied teeth.

“Your friend is dead, voodoo man.”

Andre’s heart sank. If the creature could call upon the lieutenant’s knowledge, it had broken the man. Jacoby was gone.

“Goodbye, William,” he said, pushing his words through the mortal veil as he had been taught many years ago. The echo of his voice floated briefly in the air before abruptly vanishing with a
pop.
Andre brought his will to the creature.

“Prepare yourself, demon.”

The creature flinched back, its eyes darting about, searching for something in the black.

“You will not see her,” Andre said, moving forward. “She is too fast for you.”

“Lies!”

Andre lunged at the creature, driving his shoulder into a chest full of broken bones. The beast gasped in pain, but slipped free before being overcome. Andre struck again, this time with fists against the monster’s lower back, forcing it upright until its head struck the bricks embedded in the ceiling.

A wild swing knocked Andre back, giving the creature time to find its fighting stance. Rivulets of blood rolled down its cheeks as the beast turned to face the man who would surely kill it.

“All men are afraid,” it hissed.

Andre slid sideways, stalking the edge of the light.

“As are you.”

The creature lunged, but Andre was ready. He spun to his left, grabbing an outstretched arm and twisting until the creature’s shoulder dislocated. The beast howled and lashed out with its good arm, raking its claws across Andre’s neck, finally drawing the blood that propelled so much of its desire.

Overwhelmed by the scent, it couldn’t resist sliding a finger into its mouth.

“So sweet, so—”

Pain abruptly exploded across the back of the creature’s skull. It blinked back the light, trying to stay conscious, knowing the demon would come again. When it did, the creature’s right knee gave way, crippled by a foe it could not see or hear. The beast lashed out, flailing at the darkness in all directions.

“Show yourself!”

“I am here.”

The creature spun to see a young woman standing before it, a tiny thing, no larger than a child. She stood perfectly still and yet it could not see her clearly. Only her eyes revealed themselves, glowing brightly in the dark, beckoning the beast forward. They would keep it safe.

The creature reached out a bony hand, only to find the vision gone, evaporated, as if it had never been there.

“Don’t leave me!” it cried before a pair of massive hands cut off what little air still flowed to the creature’s crippled lungs.

Andre drove the beast into the shallow water, pressing both knees into its back. The creature struggled violently, but Andre held fast, letting his weight drown the abomination. In thirty seconds it was over. The creature was dead.