He worked through the dawn and into the afternoon. The candles burned down to nubs. The only sign of time passing was a slight glow around his heavy blinds. He lost himself in a feverish, glittery delirium.
Finally, as night fell once again across the city beyond, he stood in aching silence and observed what had grown up out of his studio floor. Candlelight flickered upon the backs of the dead. Black thread like veins lay everywhere, up one seam and down another. Toothless mouths turned to wombs, gave birth to things unmentionable. Limbs reached up and clawed the sky in agony.
Ian retched into the drain as traces of old booze turned his insides out and left him shaking and sore. A hand wiped across his mouth left a foul-smelling, slippery trail. He stood and held the heaves in check. His camera was within easy reach. Ian fumbled for it, every pore tingling at the raw power of the thing, stomach lurching and rolling. He had never before had the feeling that he had captured what his mind had been striving to create; he had always felt empty, unfulfilled, as if somewhere along the line he had stumbled off track.
But this, this was perfect.
He took to the streets the following evening to work off the ache in his legs. He had slept like the dead for a full day and woke to a clear head. He had created something unimaginable. Pornography for the supernatural. Demons did not exactly orgasm, as he understood it. But the pictures set off an erotic reaction that was both frenzied and powerful. And the Taratcha always wanted more, however satiated they might seem at first. How he could create something that might satisfy them the next time around made his blood run cold.
Anna wouldn’t have understood any of it. He had kept her from his secret so far, but it was only a matter of time before she saw something.
Then there was the matter of his immortal soul. Ian had begun to sense the changes. Driving past the scene of a car accident, he would catch himself drooling a little, wanting to stop and run his fingers through pools of blood. The visits to the morgue were swiftly becoming less businesslike and more pleasurable, the sight of those lifeless, cold-blue limbs physically exciting him. Not such an unusual reaction, he reasoned, after so much effort and time spent in the company of such things, but nonetheless it was dangerous. He had never intended this to be his life’s work.
By full dark he found himself in an area of nightclubs and movie houses, neon lights blinking in and out. Twenty-four-hour peep shows beckoned from behind half-lidded windows. There were people of all sorts here, businessmen scurrying home in trench coats like roaches before the sun, hookers and transvestites, bikers, drug addicts with starved faces and bruises up their arms.
Sandwiched between a tattoo parlor and a sex-toy shop was a tiny wooden door with a sign above it that read GATEHOUSE. Ian ducked through into a narrow stairwell that smelled of urine and followed it down into dim silence. The stairs seemed to go down much farther than they should. The last time he’d been here was almost five years ago, when he’d first grappled with the details of his craft. The Gatehouse had likely saved his life then, and now with a little luck it would give him the key to saving himself again.
The place was like an oasis between worlds. Occult objects, books, and charms crammed the walls, alongside the latest scientific texts. Drugs of all kinds helped prepare the mind for new experiences. If you sat down at the table near the back and had your fortune read you might never get up again, for this fortune was real, and as so many customers had found, reality was often painfully blunt.
“So what is it this time?” The voice came seemingly out of nowhere. “Looking for demon repellent? A little soul patching? Or are you already too far gone for that?”
“Come out where I can see you, Frost.”
“Nervous, eh? Ah, you’re human yet.” A shadow flickered and a small, lithe form materialized from the back. It was difficult to say whether the wrinkled, hairless creature that came forward was female or male, or whether it had been hiding or simply appeared out of thin air. Ian chose to believe the latter, in both cases.
“I thought you would have come earlier,” Frost said. “I imagined you were dead. You’ve held up well, considering.” He stepped closer and peered into lan’s face. One clawlike finger reached up and traced the line of his jaw. “Though they’ve taken their toll on you, haven’t they?”
Ian nodded. “I want out.”
Frost chuckled. “We all say that.”
“I mean it. I’ve done it for the last time.”
“But you like it, don’t you? Or is that what you’re afraid of, that you’ll become like them?”
Frost had always had an unsettling ability to find the heart of the matter. He had his feet firmly placed in both worlds. Knowing someone had been there before was an odd comfort.
“Fowler’s lost already,” Ian said, surprised to find his voice shaking. “He wants me to keep going as much as they do. He gets off on it now. I can’t get rid of him.”
“You’re afraid he’ll come after you? Why don’t you just kill him?”
“I don’t kill people. And I’m not sure he wouldn’t just … come back.”
“I see.” Frost stood almost a head shorter than Ian, his skull moist and gleaming under the yellow light. There was no way of telling his age. His ears were curiously withered, and his face looked like a half-eaten apple. “He might at that. Unless you catch him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve heard of the tribes in South America that are afraid of cameras? Do you know why? They believe the camera has the ability to trap the soul. Not entirely true. But it can trap other things.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Taratcha are creatures of the night. They live off fear, the inability to see what might be coming. If you are able to photograph one, it will remain caught on film.”
“Forever?”
“Until such time as you choose to look at the prints.” Frost smiled. “They can get very angry at a trick like that. I’ll leave the details up to you. But it seems to me that it could be the answer you’re looking for.”
“Thank you, Frost.”
“There’s the matter of payment? Even otherworldly advice isn’t free.”
Ian handed over a wad of bills and turned to leave. Frost caught him at the door. “Ever wonder where things like that come from?”
“What do you mean?”
“Demons. Taratcha. The sort that you might call your customers.”
“I assumed they were once like us. In Fowler’s case, he’s a greedy bastard. I always thought he would change completely, given the time.”
“It’s something to think about.”
“Are there other things I should be thinking about?”
Frost shrugged. “I won’t tell you everything, that wouldn’t be fair. But I will tell you this: Be true to yourself. And be careful, Ian Quinn. They’re closer than you think.”
As he stepped around the corner near his building, a shape slipped from the shadows into the light of a streetlamp. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were avoiding me,” Anna said. She wore a white tank top and jeans that clung to her curves. She’d put her black hair up, loose strands curling down to kiss her neck. “I’ve been calling your cell and getting voice mail.”
“I turned it off,” Ian said. “Needed some sleep. And the landlord’s been looking for rent and I’d rather not talk to him.”
“You want to know how I found you. I knew you lived in this neighborhood and drove around a couple of blocks until I saw your van. It needs a wash.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Water’s off.” He shrugged. “What can I say, I’m a little behind …”
“Why don’t you come back to my place. I can cook you something nice, get you cleaned up.”
“I really should get some work done.”
“We need to talk, Ian.” She crossed her arms over her breasts and did not step any closer. “Come with me, please. I need to know what’s going on.”
Back at her apartment Anna busied herself in the kitchen while Ian stood under white-hot needles of spray, washing what felt like months of grime from his skin. He hung his head under the water and breathed slowly
