Anton Strout: Dead To Me

A light chuckle rose from the crowd. I looked around for the rest of my team but none of them were in sight. Faisal adjusted the mike once more and continued.

“Ladies, and gentlemen,” he repeated, cotton free this time. “I’d like to thank you all for coming out tonight. I realize a lot of you would prefer to be sitting comfortably at home watching ritual sacrifices on HBO9, but I promise you…this will all be worth it. Tonight,la famiglia, I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

Another round of laughter for Faisal and another round of not seeing my people in the crowd for me. Maybe costuming ourselves had been a bad idea. Shadower Division had disappeared entirely, which wasn’t a surprise given their specialty. It was just them doing their job well.Too well.

I worked my way across the room, careful not to move too fast and thus attract attention. I stole a glance toward the temple. Faisal was clutching the sides of the podium and his face looked solemn as the last of the crowd’s laughter died.

“Seriously, my brothers and sisters,” he said, “this has been a good year for Evil. We’ve achieved legitimacy through legislation, the Sectarian Defense League! A voice for the weary, downtrodden cultist to be heard in our government, and all it took was some hard work, the generous funding of our beloved hosts, the Salvador Breton Foundation, and a little spilt blood.”

The applause was deafening.

“Well, maybe more than alittle spilt blood,” he continued. “But hey, you can’t make an omelet without slitting a few throats. Am I right?”

The crowd erupted in laughter and once again I felt sick to my stomach. These were people who, despite the charm and charisma of their leader, relished the idea of sacrificing life in the name of their cause. Were I not terribly outnumbered, I would have done something stupid like rushing the podium.

“Your funding,” Faisal said, “has made it possible to finally have a voice in the real world. No longer will we have to meet in secret, hiding our identities. The Mayor of this Big Rotten Apple-an apple ripe for picking-will soon be under our control.”

This time there was an appreciative silence throughout the crowd as the weight of Faisal Bane’s words washed over them.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he continued, tapping his forehead. “How can we advance our cause, our most damnable work, now that we’ve got our foot in city hall’s door? Doesn’t overtaking the government cost money? Well, yes, quite frankly, it does. And tonight you will see what the fruits of your financial help, your seed money if you will, have bought us.”

Faisal paused for dramatic effect and then grabbed something off the top of the podium. All eyes followed his hand as he slowly raised it overhead. The object was instantly familiar to me. I had seen hundreds of them in the hidden room at the back of Tome, Sweet Tome. In his hand was one of the clay pots-the same kind Tamara’s spirit had been delivered to the office in.

“Ghostsniffing,” he said. There were triumph and pleasure in his voice. “This is our financial future, my friends. This is ectoplasmic gold, pure and simple. Sales from this substance will ensure not only our legislative future, but a substantial piece of the profit pie for all of you. For all of you investors, we’ve set up a mobile processing plant in the next room so you can see how the process works, and what your money’s going toward. There’s no sample like a fresh sample, and if you’re daring enough to try one-in moderation, of course-you’ll find they pack a certain…surreal…extra punch thanks to the very heightening power of your fish totem.”

Applause exploded and I watched as Faisal smugly rode the wave of it. After the crowd had gone on for far too long, he gestured for them to settle down. “My fellow workers…let’s just call a spade a spade, shall we? Myminions are busy in the next wing preparing those choice samples, but before we get to that, I’d like to bring up your leader, the head of the Salvador Breton Foundation himself. Here’s the man who made all of this possible. Get on up here!”

The costume party was the perfect way to keep most of the Sectarians and members of the Surrealist Underground anonymous. But even dressed as a swashbuckling pirate-maybe Captain Jack Sparrow-there was no mistaking the imposing figure of Cyrus Mandalay as he swaggered on stage toward the podium. He shook Faisal’s hand vigorously.

“Great to see so many of you in attendance,” he boomed out. “I’ve spoken to a lot of you individually tonight. I heard a lot of your concerns, and I know you haven’t seen me around much since the ‘incident’ at my bookstore, but rest assured things are going according to schedule. Thank you, Sectarian Defense League, for that. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say we’re looking forward more than ever to a lasting partnership with our Sectarian brethren…and sistren.”

Sistren? I couldn’t listen to any more of this. Just seeing him made me livid. Somewhere in the crowd I knew Connor was beside himself with rage, probably being restrained by some of the Shadower guys. I needed to get out of this room, and I also needed to confirm the worst of my fears. There were only two exits from the room, and I pressed through the crowd toward the nearest one. I had a feeling that out of the “choice samples” of spirits that Faisal had picked for the demonstration, I knew at least one personally. Irene’s disappearance had been because she had felt something pulling at her spirit. I could only imagine it had been because of some arcane dog whistle tuned to a frequency that drew spirits into this trap. It was only a gut feeling that she was here, but it was a strong, nasty one. God help me if I was too late to do anything to help her or any of the other spirits selected for tonight’s Ghostsniffing demo.

The kicking of much ass could wait until I found out if Irene was here. If I was right, they were trying to force her into a clay containment jar, and it would destroy her like it had Tamara. I couldn’t let that happen again. I wondered for a second where Jane was, but I wasn’t too worried for her. She could hold her own, what with having been all evil and stuff. It was Irene that was most likely helpless if she had become caught up in these machinations. And as Zorro always knew, when in doubt, go for the girl in distress.

There were several S.D.L. guards throughout the room, and although they looked silly in their hokey Renaissance Faire garb, I took no chances, cutting a wide arc around them heading toward one of the doors.

As I closed on the doorway, the familiar scent of patchouli and cloves grew stronger in my nostrils. It was the same type of smell as the one Connor used to bind spirits with. My heart leapt in my chest, and by the time I actually stepped through the doorway itself, the air was sick with the smell. It was like being caught in a Dead Head’s hair.

The room was mostly dark and its architecture was generic in style but classed up by Greek columns on either side of the door. In the half-light of the after-hours world, I could just make out the banners of heraldry hanging high overhead in tribute to the Met’s permanent collection of arms and armor. Four mounted knights were on display as the centerpiece of the room, and the walls were lined with glass cases full of ancient armor, pole arms, lances, swords, and shields. Just thinking about the accumulated history surrounding me made my body quiver.

I was sure the majesty of such a display would have had even more of an impact on me if I wasn’t distracted by what was out of place in the room. At the far end, past the horsemen, several workers were operating a bulky mechanical contraption of some sort. It looked liked a cross between a Rube Goldberg device and one of those astronaut training gyroscopes, except this one had several wooden circles that twisted and turned around each other.