I slipped out of the clean, comfy sheets and discovered I was naked. I checked myself for any injuries other than the ugly green-and-blue bruise on my side. The old bod was still getting by, covered in tattoos and scars, my meat biography. For a fella of my advancing decrepitude, I was holding up okay. I was still cut like Iggy Pop, hold the heroin; still had all my hair, it was falling down to my shoulder blades, and the majority of it was still black. Still had most of my teeth, but not for lack of trying.
I looked out the window and saw endless, perfect green. A verdant lawn worthy of the Elysian Fields. I was either dead and in the wrong place, or the guest of someone who could afford to have his vast grounds manicured on a daily basis. I drank the better part of the pitcher of water, sat on the edge of the bed, and lit up a cigarette.
Whoever had me didn’t want me dead or at a disadvantage. They had gone to some time and trouble to patch me up. That sounded to me like a job, so I stood up and checked the closet. My clothes were all there, cleaned, pressed, and perfect. I pulled up my jeans, put on socks and boots, and slipped on the shirt. My wallet was on the shelf above the clothes. Everything was still in it, about two thousand in cash; it should have been considerably more, but I chalked that up to my binge, not theft. There was also a bunch of credit cards, and an ID, all in names that weren’t mine.
I gathered up my smokes and lighter, tried the door and found it unlocked, and walked out of the bedroom, buttoning my shirt as I did. The house was old; it smelled of well-oiled wood and was a little stuffy with heat. I walked down the hall past numerous doors and came to a foyer at the top of a grand staircase. I had an excellent view of a series of stained-glass mosaics that were capturing the afternoon sun. It was some of the finest glass work I had ever seen. The colors and the designs shifted and flowed, and I suspected there might have been a bit of subtle enchantment at work in the overall effect, but if it was, it was some of the most subtle working I had ever seen. The scene depicted was a beautiful autumn forest, alive with leaves of garnet, fire, umber, and salamander. A sun and moon presided overhead, circling each other in phase-dances of life, death, and rebirth. Tall, slender beings, cloaked in colors that put the leaves to drab shame, stood at the center of it all, their skin lustrous like diamonds, their eyes, trackless night. Above the mosaic was a family crest I recognized. I realized who had me, and something long-buried writhed in me, thrashing like a hungry eel in my guts.
“Ah, Mr. Ballard, you’re awake. Excellent.” The voice was Irish, gentile, and belonged to a man at my six. He was in his late sixties, maybe early seventies. He had a full head of white hair, thinning a bit on top, and a wrinkled, ruddy complexion with prominent laugh lines. I liked him almost instinctively; I think that was the point. He wore a suit and tie with a simple apron over them. “I’m Carmichael, sir, Mr. Ankou’s butler. I trust you are feeling better than when you joined us, sir?”
I laughed. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks. Sorry for the mess. I reckon you had to clean that all up, huh?” Carmichael kept smiling.
“Think nothing of it, sir. It reminded me a bit of earlier days here, when the house was a bit more lively and boisterous.”
“Well, I don’t care to have anybody clean up my messes for me,” I said. Someone cleared their throat. It was Cheekbones, in another tailored suit, this one charcoal gray. He looked good, GQ good.
“Your history would suggest otherwise,” Cheekbones said. “You seem to leave messes wherever you go and seem to have little care for the consequences to others.”
“Mr. Burris,” Carmichael said, “I was about to notify you that Mr. Ballard is up and about.”
“Thank you, Carmichael,” Burris said. “I’ll take him down to Mr. Ankou.” I nodded, waved bye to the butler, and followed Burris down the staircase.
“Where am I?” I asked, as I lit a cigarette. Burris kept walking.
“An estate outside London,” he said. “You are a guest of the Ankou family.”
“‘Honor above,’” I said in a trilling language that didn’t have its origin upon this earth. Burris looked over his shoulder but kept walking. “That’s the house motto, isn’t it?” I said in English, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“It’s more than a motto,” Burris replied in the same language. It sounded like water babbling over stone. “Someone like you wouldn’t understand.”
Burris took me through the manor. I walked past a parlor with ancient Middle Eastern tapestries adorning the walls. In the room, an old, blind Egyptian with ram horns growing
