The Wizards of Central Park West_Ultimate Urban Fantasy Page 18

  Leaving Marlowe downstairs, Eddie went up to his room, and undressed. He removed his shoulder harness, separated the magazine from his handgun and put it into the small combination lockbox bolted to the floor under his bed. Cerise had lit two candles on their dresser, the signal that they would make love.

  As he finished undressing, Cerise got out of bed and embraced her husband. She removed her robe, followed quickly by her negligee. She stood dark and proud in the dim light. Her body owned a few stretch marks, and her breasts sagged a little from her childbearing, but she was magnificent.

  He kissed her.

  “I did miss you,” she whispered.

  “Oh man, I missed you so much, baby.” He kissed down her neck to her shoulder.

  “So, I think I know what really happened last night,” Cerise whispered, a wicked, brilliantly white smile grew on her face in contrast to her ebony skin.

  Eddie froze. Busted.

  “What?” He kissed her again, as his hand moved to cup her left breast.

  She pushed him to arm’s length and met his eyes. “You were upset about Momma, went out, and got drunk. That’s why you fell asleep in the locker room.”

  Eddie tried to grasp this idea and push away the memories of the stone circle.

  “I just want you to know, I understand,” Cerise confided. “A man sometimes needs to do such things.”

  “Well, I—” Eddie started to say, but decided it would be better if he just shut up.

  “And you being a policeman and all, you couldn’t drive home drunk. So you slept in the locker room, and made up this whole story of how tired you were. Eddie, I understand, but please call me next time.”

  “Thanks, baby.” Eddie decided that agreement would be the fastest way to his goal, which now was more carnal than intellectual. “I promise I’ll call from now on.”

  She pushed him onto the bed, and with nimble fingers, pulled his undershorts off.

  She knelt over him and kissed him. “I want you to know, I’m here for you, sugar.”

  “I love you, Cerise,” Eddie said, and took her face between his hands, glad he could say something that he knew to be true.

  “I love my big, black man,” she said. “Now, you owe me for not coming home last night.”

  “How do you want me to pay?” Eddie asked, feeling her hand moving downward.

  “I’ll take what I’m owed,” she said as she kissed him. “Oooh, love me, daddy.” She lifted herself up and onto him, and in one slick move, pulled him into her body.

  Their lovemaking was fast and intense. They both sensed each other’s need, wild like animals, as opposed to soft caresses. They indulged each other, their bodies shifting positions and places—him on top, now her. They wrestled and tumbled, and flesh met flesh as a yawning chasm opened under them and they were swept away in a torrent of joined, gasped pleasures.

  Spent, they held each other tightly, until their bodies relaxed and fell into another abyss—the quiet cave of sleep.

  Eddie drifted off, sated and content.

  There was a noise.

  Eddie sat up in bed.

  The candles were burned out and gutted.

  He looked over at the clock by the bed, discerned the red numerals, which seemed to float in the lightless room.

  1:30.

  He had fallen asleep for about two hours. What woke him?

  Carefully, he got up. He didn’t want to disturb Cerise, who was turned on her side. He made his way to the hall to use the bathroom.

  He used the commode and because of years of spousal training, put the lid down. He rubbed his face as he headed for the bedroom.

  There was a sound downstairs.

  It was the same noise that woke him.

  Eddie froze, reached for his shoulder holster, which, of course, wasn’t there. This surprised him for a moment, until it occurred to him that he didn’t wear his gun to bed. Soundlessly, he made his way to the top of the stairs, and peeked down.

  Marlowe sat on the sofa bed and Eddie could feel himself relax.

  And yet, something was not right.

  Marlowe sat like a statue of the Buddha—if the Buddha wore plaid pajamas—cross-legged and straight-backed. And Eddie also noticed that large candles burned in two very tall candleholders.

  Eddie had no idea where they had come from. Then again, any one who can produce an entire wardrobe from thin air should be able to conjure a couple of candlesticks.

  Between his folded legs was a small pot that was filled with something that glowed a sickly green.

  Marlowe had his eyes closed and chanted in that weird language the coven had used in the stone circle.

  Eddie kept to the shadows, and leaned against the wall. Marlowe was lost in concentration.

  Marlowe’s cantillation, though quiet, reached a crescendo, and the bearded man lowered his head, grabbed his cane, and made passes with it over the small, glowing cauldron. Mist began to pour forth. It was as thick as a cloud, and flashes of green luminescence permeated it like distant lightning. The vapor rose up above his head and began to coalesce. A shape became more coherent, and a figure emerged from the smoke. A face appeared, then the chest and arms of a young man.

  He was green and translucent, and reminded Eddie of the troublesome Bob. Yet, he could make out a profile and strands of the figure’s hair, making this manifestation appear more human than the ever-shifting Bob.

  He seemed far too young to have died, and Eddie searched the misty phantom for any signs of violent death: a slashed throat or a bullet wound.

  He couldn’t see anything from where he stood.

  Marlowe began to speak, very quietly, and Eddie leaned a little closer to try to hear his words. It was an exercise in futility, as he only caught a few “thee’s” and “thou’s.”

  Marlowe was using Oldspeak.

  The ephemeral figure moved his lips in response, but Eddie didn’t hear any sound. Marlowe nodded, as if he understood the spirit, then answered. They were having a conversation, with only Marlowe’s side being vocalized.

  However, the look on Marlowe’s face suggested that he was deeply troubled by what he was being told. The more the apparition spoke, the more distraught his mentor became.

  Eddie remembered what Marlowe had told him that one of his fields of expertise was communicating with the dead. Here in his own living room, Marlowe had conjured a ghost.

  But, whose ghost? And why did the old man need to speak to him now?

  Then all at once, the specter’s head shot up, as if he was pulled by invisible wires, and its color changed as if lit with an inner red light, the color of blood.

  The translucent shape burst into flames, and a strange, hot breeze passed through the room. The candles went out and one of the candlesticks toppled over.

  The mist that composed the spirit body dissipated.

  Marlowe grabbed his cane, which grew into its true form in his hand. He grabbed the small cauldron and leapt up from the couch with his staff aloft.

  Silence.

  Marlowe looked around, his eyes wide.

  He’s scared, Eddie thought, really scared.

  The old man crumpled against Eddie’s lounge chair, and sat heavily on the arm.

  Eddie quietly came down the stairs.

  Marlowe rose to his full height, his staff at the ready.

  “It’s me!” Eddie said in a hoarse whisper. “I’m unarmed.”

  “You saw?” Marlowe said, and returned to the chair arm.

  “Yes. What was that? And why were you doing it in my house?”

  Marlowe shook his head. “There was no danger. My research with Bankrock led me to a new idea. I conjured a spirit. One who is now cursed.”

  “So what did he tell you?”

  “He explained how Abraxas breached the barriers into this world. I know why the demon has gained so much power, and how he knew enough of potions to poison Trefoil.”

  “So tell me, how’d he do it?”

  Marlowe’s eyes grew dar
k. “A wizard is helping him.”

  Twenty-Four

  Mr. Yamasuto left the café named “Rain" on West 82nd Street, and into the cool spring night. He was warm enough, though he wore only a three-piece suit. The fabric was a beautiful gray wool, and his trousers were perfectly pressed. The tie matched his handkerchief as a flawless final touch to his ensemble.

  The bistro was the first floor of a restored brownstone, and its eclectic menu was designed for high-class, well-to-do patrons such as himself.

  “Get a cab for you, sir?” a doorman in a short black coat with many shiny buttons said from one of the buildings as he walked down 81st Street.

  “No, I am fine,” Yamasuto said. His voice carried an accent, but his diction was perfect. “My driver is meeting me.” He looked across the street at the American Museum of Natural History. From where he stood on the north side of the street, he could see the entrance of the Planetarium, with its huge windows and colorful planets glowing yellow and red under dark-blue lights.

  He continued toward the shadowy park beyond the safety of the street lights.

  “Sir?” another doorman said as he passed. The man had observed the exchange with the doorman up the street. “The park—it’s late—are you sure you’ll be all right?”

  “I have been in New York many times,” Yamasuto remarked dismissively.

  He strode purposefully through Hunter Gate and into Central Park, his hand clutched around the small jade statue in his pocket.

  He carried himself with the confidence of a king. As he carried this artifact, he did indeed have nothing to fear.

  Haiku Yamasuto enjoyed the café and dined there on occasion, when, as part of his duties, he wasn’t called to one of the many other fine restaurants the city offered. Such was the life of a representative of the Japanese delegation to the United Nations.

  It was a position that carried much honor and respect, as well as many perks that he did not have in his native Japan. He had risen up the ranks over the years, until now he was the major policy representative for his homeland, and had a dozen people under him.

  The downside was that he was forced to attend so many of the laborious meetings at the UN building on First Avenue and 49th Street. That could be tolerated for the benefits.

  He now held in his hand the greatest boon his illustrious position had ever given him.

  Over the years, he took advantage of his diplomatic immunity and freedom from searches by United States Customs to bring over many beautiful treasures of his cultural heritage. He’d sold ancient statues of Shinto "kami" or "little gods" to a select group of collectors who made sure to keep their source a secret. Through such sales, Yamasuto had amassed a tidy fortune. His "retirement fund," as he preferred to call it.

  He found his latest acquisition only a month ago. While visiting Kyushu Island, he made a stop in the Miyazaki Prefecture. This lovely area was considered the location where Japanese mythology began. There was a considerable concentration of ancient sites as well as Shinto and Buddhist shrines.

  It was the perfect location to find collectibles of the sort Yamasuto’s buyers would pay dearly for.

  He visited an old man, an acquaintance, in his simple home. The elderly gentleman beckoned him into a small room with the enthusiasm of one much younger.

  “I have come across a rare find, Mr. Yamasuto,” the old man said, his teeth mostly gone, as he sat on a mat and uncovered a small bag.

  Yamasuto bowed respectfully. “I am honored you would share it with me.”

  The old man returned the bow, and pulled a piece of leather from the bag. He gently unrolled it. The moment the small statue glinted in the sunlight, Yamasuto was more than pleased.

  He was stunned.

  The energy around the object made it seem alive. He took it into his hand, and the jade, instead of being cold, was warm to the touch.

  He looked at the six-inch high figure. Its carved face and body were hellish in design. The face was human and wore a small, noble crown, but also a grin suggesting horrible pleasures. Down the body it became more demonic, and the feet that peeked out from the carved robes were the talons of a monster.

  “It appears to be an Oni,” Yamasuto said, referring to the evil beings from Buddhist stories. He turned the figurine in his hand. “Wait. It is not.”

  “You are wise, Mr. Yamasuto,” the old man said, a gleam in his eye. “It is far too old. It predates the arrival of the teaching of the Buddha to our shores.”

  “Can it be?” Yamasuto looked at the figure, his eyes widening. He paused, almost afraid to say the name. Finally, he whispered, “Amatsu Mikaboshi?”

  There was a silence in the room, as if time itself stopped.

  “You know the ancient legends.” The old man smiled and nodded.

  It was true. Haiku Yamasuto was an expert in Shinto mythology. Not that he accepted the belief in anything larger than himself, but he was knowledgeable about the artifacts he sought.

  It was the only way to be sure not to be cheated. Of course, he cheated his own government and the National Museum with his smuggling. But, he would be shocked if anyone suggested that the additions to his retirement fund could be considered common thievery.

  Yamasuto smiled, and looked down at the tiny statue of the Shinto god of evil. It would fetch a handsome price in America.

  The old man requested a tidy, but reasonable, sum. Yamasuto nodded and retrieved the necessary funds from a money belt he wore for such transactions.

  In America, he contacted several buyers, and even heard from one he did not know.

  He would not do business with strangers. And this one spoke oddly over the phone in a muffled tone. He offered a great deal of money, yet Yamasuto declined.

  He’d made the deal with one of the richest and most silent of his buyers. He only needed to perambulate across to Fifth Avenue to meet him. The peculiar energy around the artifact would easily sell it, better than any of the fanciful history he could recite.

  He smiled to himself again. Not a bad life for a man whose parents spelled his name with the kanji for “poem.” He’d always been a small child, and only an average student, but he’d succeeded well beyond his peers.

  Walking past the Delacourte Theater, he paused for a moment at the statue of “The Tempest.” Modern sculpture was not to his taste, but this artwork of an old man and his daughter, his cloak blown by the wind, seemed almost to move. What was it about this so-called wizard that caught the eye?

  A flash of light appeared within the theater. That was odd. Yamasuto recalled there was no performance of the New York Shakespeare Company this night. He’d let his mind wander, not a wise thing to do.

  He did not fear for his safety. He’d brought his small pistol fitted with a silencer; illegal, but if an attacker presented himself, Yamasuto could dispatch him quietly, then move on without having to deal with the police and their many questions.

  Yamasuto continued on the path, and discerned Belvedere Castle to his right just beyond Turtle Pond in the moonlight. He stopped and turned to see a figure follow him from the theater.

  Yamasuto’s eyes grew wide.

  The approaching man was obviously Asian, but he wore long hair and was dressed in a kimono and haori, with pleated hakama pants. His outfit was finished with an Obi sash around his waist and wooden sandals.

  What disturbed him was the fact that the man resembled the face on the statue in his pocket. Even to the detail of having a small crown about his head.

  As he drew nearer, Yamasuto noticed the entire outfit was in red with only a few black Japanese letters woven into the silk. Unusual for a man to wear. But even more peculiar was the fact that at his waist he wore a Katana, the classic sword of the feudal warrior.

  Now Yamasuto became alarmed.

  In his youth, his grandmother told him stories of avenging deities who assumed human form, as well as other shapes, to punish thieves and scoundrels. Even as a child, he’d believed such tales to offer little beyond a simple mor
ality lesson.

  But here was a figure who walked in an American park, swathed in garments of a bygone era. He carried a sword, and Yamasuto was nervous that there might be talons where his feet should be.

  “Haiku Yamasuto,” the figure said as it drew near.

  Yamasuto started, his eyes pulled up from watching the man’s feet. He became cold inside.

  It knew his name.

  “Who are you?” Yamasuto demanded in his native tongue. He gently reached into his jacket and touched the gun. It waited there for him, in the excellent holster that would dump it into his hand with one simple gesture.

  The figure smiled and held out his hand. “I believe you have something of mine.”

  Yamasuto stood stock-still for a moment, then his face broke into a smile, and he began to laugh.

  The red-garbed man stood before him unmoving.

  “Well played,” Yamasuto suggested, the smile tight on his face. “You pulled me into your fantasy for a moment. I must say, I admire your sense of the theatrical.”

  Someone knew of his recent acquisition, probably from his worthless assistant, Akio. Now they wanted to steal his prize.

  “You’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.” Yamasuto slowly brought out the pistol. He held it in front of him and circled the man, making sure to remain outside the reach of the sword.

  He hoped the man was alone.

  “Yes, I am alone,” the strange man said in Japanese. “I need no help to take what is mine from a lowly thief.”

  Somehow this man could hear his thoughts.

  Yamasuto continued to back away, his eyes on his opponent, who didn’t make a move toward him, just stood there with that evil grin on his face.

  He transferred the pistol to his left hand, and reached with his right into his pocket to grasp the jade statue.

  It was as hot as fire.

  He pulled his hand from his pocket with a yelp of pain.

  “Warm, is it not?” The strange man’s mouth parted to show two rows of pointed teeth. “I am glad you decided not to make this easy.”

  Yamasuto held the pistol in both hands and backed farther away, but the red figure only lowered his head to his chest. Yamasuto tried to decide the best course of action. Shoot him? Be done with it? No, let him return to whoever sent him with failure upon his shoulders.