The Last Page

“Hello, Caliph.” He wore tattered black. “It’s been a long time—”

The voice mulled stately, obsolete decorum with viperine cunning.

Caliph felt strangely unafraid. The sliver of citrus-colored light cut through Marco’s faded shroud. The arms of trees remained starkly visible, showing through his body. His face and eyes startled the gloom: waxen white set with dismal inky jewels. Marco radiated displaced malice.

“It is bedtime,” Marco said. He spoke as though reciting archaic poetry. “Bedtime for kings with a story for their end.”

A flurry of tattered black filled the air; Marco twirled and perched on a slumped headstone. He balanced impossibly, knees pulled up under his chin, arms dangling, eyes inapprehensible beneath the brim of his hat.

“Which amuses more?” he asked. “That your nursemaid was a dead king? Or that the two of us would talk long hours—both fearing that he might hear? And now the irony that we talk on . . . while he slumbers underfoot?”

“Why are you here?”

“To warn you of his return,” said Marco. “The teeth of his neglected ghouls clatter useless verses in the yard . . . poetry for soil . . . basking rhymes unripened by the moons.”

“What poetry? I don’t understand,” said Caliph. In his dream he was eight years old.

“They seek validation in your ears. Our master is coming back, young Howl—and with him comes the end of kings.”

Fear filled Caliph and burst through the dams of his control, cracking thick mental barriers erected from childhood as protection from the eldritch and profane.

In the dream, Caliph defiled the grave on which he stood, unhindered by the trivialities of range or barriers fashioned from zippers and cloth.

A steaming golden stream spattered across the headstone on which Marco perched.

The echo of the specter’s laugh resonated through the mountain woods, behind the crickets and across the Healean Range. He dropped from his perch, stood behind the carven stone inscribed with Caliph’s uncle’s name.

What have I done? Caliph thought.

Uncle will be furious.

Caliph lurched up in bed. His own sticky vapor cloying in the sheets. Cooling rapidly. He was mortified. Strange dark shapes blew around the room, shadows twisting from the open windows. He looked down at his arm with confusion.

The wound throbbed with his heartbeat.

Slowly, the realization of what had happened filled him with humiliation and loathing. Not just the bed- wetting, but the fact that he had let this happen . . . this wound. Cameron had told him about his uncle, charming a girl, using her blood to open the book . . .

He felt the aloneness. The exquisite rejection. An estranged and primal howl reverberated in the fleshy dark caverns of his chest.

Her pack was gone. His uncle’s book was gone. Sena was gone.

It butchered his emotions like one of those senseless bulbs of meat under Thief Town.

And yet . . . he had felt it coming.

Caliph gathered up his sheets and dragged them from the bed. He turned the knobs on the tub. Stammering hot water burst from the fixture. His body rippled with gooseflesh as the bitter residue cured across his skin.

It serves me right.

Against his better judgment he had trusted her. He had wanted so badly for the two of them to beat the odds, for her to suddenly evolve and legitimize his trust.

He might as well have committed a brandy-filled chocolate into the hands of a homeless sot with the charge to guard it with his life. It was his fault, not hers.

He sprinkled soap flakes from a box into the spluttering bath. His heart pitched and frothed between damnation and forgiveness. He struggled with motive. Was the book really so important to her? Even now he wanted a reason to absolve her, grounds to purify that final, puzzling, seditious kiss.

Smooth hard fixtures turned below his hands, strangling the supply of water.

He bathed, washed his sheets and hung them from the curtain rods to dry.

He could still taste the drug inside his mouth, feel its weight roll through his head like cannonballs.

She had taken her boots beneath the chair and the bottle of oil she used to perfume her hair.

Caliph opened a panel where the servants stored the linens and pulled out a stack of fresh sheets. Her other toiletries stood nearby. He thought of David Thacker in the dungeons, pleading for a second chance. He remembered Grume’s. The promises. He recalled that Zane Vhortghast had saved his life—several times.

Caliph flipped the mattress, snapped the sheet like a sail and let it float across, imagining Sena on the other side. He looked savagely at the empty space where she might have been.

“The wind blows . . .” he muttered, leaving the old Hinter proverb unfinished. His whisper fizzled with morose histrionic resolve.

The next day was hot. Shouts and growling clangorous sounds from the steelyards in Ironside hovered in a steamy haze coming out of Temple Hill.

A new warship was nearly ready. Caliph harbored suspicions that it would prove useless in the days ahead. Yrisl still promised an aerial assault.

Caliph could see streetcars and zeppelins from a parlor on the castle’s east side. Flashes of light from metal and glass flickered across the room at discrete angles, shimmering a moment, then vanishing as some wagon or whirling airship flung sunlight off its faces.

Despite the afternoon reflections, the air in the room cosseted shadows. Caliph nibbled pastries and canned fruit from a tray. He had draped himself on a plush chaise, feet up on a priceless coffee table, regarding the newly certified metholinate levels with unsettled scrutiny.

Air horns and steam whistles usually percolated through the urban effluvium beyond the window as barges and cranes fought to load and unload cargo along the wharves. But the docks today were silent, devoid of commerce.

Sigmund hadn’t commented on Caliph’s foul mood when the two of them had talked earlier that morning and finalized certain technical details.

The better part of Caliph’s thinking had gone into one outlandish plan. Everything else had evolved into half- hearted contingencies devised to prolong the inevitable if the main plan failed—which was why Caliph had yet to tell anyone how it would come together.

Caliph sorted through a stack of paperwork he had been ignoring for some time.

In addition to the restructured metholinate reports, it contained a paper authored by the red-faced Dr. Baufent who had performed the autopsy on the ichthyoid men in West Gate.

Unfortunately, the physician had written the report as though to herself—which meant that it often became far too technical for Caliph to follow. Loquacious jumbled sentences muttered about pathogenic mucin, photophores and dense high-impact skeletal structures.

Caliph tossed it aside as he remembered her with foggy distaste. Though he was curious about the creatures’ physiology, the digressive report deflated his interest.

With Vhortghast gone and all the other craziness of the past few weeks, Ghoul Court had not been raided. It was still on the agenda but the timescale had been moved back . . . intentionally . . . ruthlessly. The raid was now a critical piece of timing in Caliph’s war plan.

He massaged his eyebrows where a dull ache had begun to throb. He pushed hard into the bone, rubbing in circles before daring to lift the next piece of paper—his afternoon itinerary.

Kam 2, 561

10:00 Lunch & reports

10:40 Messieurs Stepney, N