The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist #4)(55)

No living thing, but I remain, unbroken, purified darkness. I am the darkness and I am perfect.

What would you? Would you die?

Turn around. I am there, one ten-thousandth of an inch outside your range of vision. I am always there. I am the faceless thing you cannot name, the nameless thing you cannot face.

I am your abhorrent desire, the arms that embrace you, the womb you flee.

Do you begin to see? Do you start to understand? I will strip your skin with my teeth. I will drain your blood by pinpricks. I will grind your bones to dust with a pebble. I will pluck you apart one atom at a time.

Why do you pretend? You know what I am. Why do you not turn around?

The world will end in bloody light on broken ground, but I will go on and on, everlasting chrysalis forever splitting open.

Everything is a circle and a circle is perfect.

And these are the secrets.

Turn around.

Canto 3

ONE

The ocean is dark and still, the sky starless; there is no horizon.

A shaft of light violates the void, a sword thrust into the darkness’s heart that swivels my way, etching into my eye the afterimage of a colossus bestriding the harbor. A hundred feet tall, impregnable as a fortress, older than the foundations of the earth.

There is no darkness too deep, no storm too violent, no earthquake nor floodwater nor fire that the colossus cannot endure. It has bestridden the harbor for ten thousand years and will for ten thousand more.

The light draws close; the dark recedes. I feel the ship lolling in the gentle waves, drawn into the light.

And leaning over me, the colossus.

“Yes, it is Warthrop. Yes, you are back in our rooms at the Plaza. Yes, it is late—later than you may imagine. Nearly three o’clock in the morning, the devil’s hour, if you place faith in such things. This is the eleventh day of your impromptu holiday in the land of the Lotophagi. You are dehydrated and very hungry—or you will be once the nausea subsides. Not to worry; I’ve ordered up a full platter once the kitchen opens.”

“Eleven days?” I had trouble forming the words. My tongue felt as large as a sausage.

“Not the longest stretch anyone’s spent in an opium den.” He lowered himself wearily into the chair by the bed. He looked terrible. Unshaven, hollow-cheeked, his eyes red from lack of sleep, cupped in charcoal gray. He poured himself a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.

“How did you find me?”

He shrugged. “It was no complicated matter. Nothing that a dozen or so monstrumologists and half the New York City police department couldn’t resolve.” He sipped his tea, dark eyes sparkling above the rim of his cup. “My greatest concern now is avoiding another crisis: between the loss of T. cerrejonensis and you, I have used up all the favors owed to me.”

“I was not lost,” I said.

“I beg to differ. In fact, I am still not certain if you have been found.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“I didn’t ask for one.”

“I owe you nothing.”

He nodded. I was surprised. He said, “But I owe you something. An apology. You are quite correct, Will. You did not ask for . . .” He searched for the word. He waved his hand vaguely. “This. But here you are and here I am. Troy is in ashes and somehow you must find your way home, though I am not certain where I stand in the conceit—am I the mainmast to which you tie yourself or am I the faithful Penelope?”

I turned my head away. “You’re not Penelope.”

He laughed gently. “Well, good. I thought you were going to say I was the Cyclops.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“There is a bucket there beside the bed.”

I closed my eyes. The feeling passed. “Your analogy is flawed,” I pointed out to him. “I have no home to return to.”

He did not argue. “Of course, you are always welcome to stay with me.”

“Why would I do that? I am a burden, a hindrance. Everything was perfect until I came along, down to this latest instance.”

“Well, I shan’t pretend it has been the most congenial of arrangements. Ha! Besides tearing the city apart looking for the lost sheep, I have had to bury my surrogate father and make peace with certain elements of the criminal underworld.”

I looked at him. “And did you? Make peace?”

He set down the cup and rubbed his eyes, so hard his knuckles turned white. “Let us say the truce talks are still ongoing.”

“What is their price?” Then I answered my question: “Me. I am the price, aren’t I?”

He dragged his fingers over his cheeks, tugging down the lower lids. “The killer of their padrone and the padrone’s bodyguard are the price—but Mr. Faulk has vanished into the blue.”

I turned away again. He went on: “One thing in our favor is that Competello’s untimely demise has created a vacuum inside their ranks—they are as much concerned with who seizes control as with balancing the scales of justice. It buys some time, at any rate.”

“Time to do what?”

“My vote will be to move our Society’s headquarters to another city—preferably to another continent. Vienna, perhaps. Or Venice.” He grew wistful. “I have always been fond of Venice.”

“There are no more Camorristi in Italy?”