“Okay. Good.” I looked out the window at the low blanket of clouds covering the sky. “Is it raining? I guess you want the story now.”
“Yes. And no. Let’s get the hell out of this place first. Hospitals give me the creeps. Can you walk?”
Ashna went off and got the paperwork underway while I got dressed. My body was stiff and sore and I still felt a bit dazed, but I was able to get my clothes on, sign some forms, and walk myself out. A hackney was just dropping off a passenger at the curb so we hurried over, got in, and asked the driver for a breakfast recommendation. He took us to a place called Café Continente in Kensington. We sat near a window, watching the rain drizzle down outside, and ate omelets while I went over what had happened at the asylum. My recollection was foggy at first but the details came back to me as I told the story. Ashna listened, interrupting now and then for clarification. When I was done she sat back in her chair and shook her head in disbelief.
“Un-fucking-believable. He was screwing his own niece on the altar and then he was going to sacrifice her? To his goat god? That is seriously messed up.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking about Jutting’s face, overlaid with another face, spectral horns rising above. I hadn’t told her that part. I wasn’t sure I would ever tell anyone that part. I wasn’t sure I had even seen it. It had to have been a hallucination. The concussion playing tricks with my brain. “Yeah, very weird and, as you said, seriously messed up.”
“And then Dworkin just appeared? With a sword?”
“Came out of nowhere. He seems to have a talent for it. I was too slow.”
“Somebody clocked you with a flashlight. You could barely stand up.”
“It was a surreal scene.” I closed my eyes, remembering the flashlight beams bouncing around the chapel, Dworkin face down under a pile of guards, clutching Cellini’s grimoire to his chest, Victoria Butler collapsing to her knees at Jutting’s side and bringing a fist down hard on his chest, tears streaking her face. A strong feeling of fate had hung in the air—Victoria in her chiton like Electra mourning over the fallen Agamemnon. Maybe, in the end, Jutting’s whole life had been pointing to that moment. Pointing not toward the glory he sought but toward ignominious defeat. He had been a man who saw himself as the master of his own destiny, able to bend even gods to his will. Just the type to be brought down by fate in the end, hubris his fatal flaw.
“Well, you got it done.”
“We got it done,” I said, looking out the window again. “I need a nap.”
I fell asleep on the black leather couch in the living room of our rental, Belka sprawled on my chest and purring as if he had missed me. Maybe he did. Did cats miss people? I had no idea. Several hours later. I woke confused, climbing out of a dream—something about a windmill with a secret room.
“Coffee?” Ashna asked, seeing me stirring.
“Absolutely,” I croaked. Belka was still lying on my chest. I must have slept soundly, unmoving. He woke and meowed a complaint, shifting his bulk as I struggled to sit up.
“Some interesting items in the news,” Ashna said, delivering a steaming cup to me and sitting down on the couch with her phone. “Would you like me to read them to you?”
“Yeah, probably. My eyes don’t really seem back to normal yet. Little halos around everything. Sometimes there are two of you.”
“Okay. Here we go. From the Telegraph. Ahem,” Ashna continued in a newscaster voice. “Billionaire Real Estate Developer Morgan Jutting Dead Under Bizarre Circumstances. Detectives are investigating the stabbing death of billionaire Morgan Jutting. Mr. Jutting was murdered late last night while staying at one of his properties near Powick, Worcestershire. Police were called to the site by private security after an intruder broke in, disturbing a gathering of Mr. Jutting’s friends and associates, and apparently assaulted him with a sword. Mr. Jutting died from his injuries at the scene. The identity of the intruder has not been released, nor has the motive for his actions. Mr. Jutting, a former member of the United Grand Lodge of England, was known for his deep interest in the occult. Our reporter has learned from an anonymous source that the gathering was ritualistic in nature and took place in the restored chapel of the building which formerly housed Powick Hospital, a psychiatric facility. The identities of the other participants attending the gathering are not known at this time. Mr. Jutting had, in recent years, become increasingly reclusive and estranged from his family. Mr. Jutting’s niece, Victoria Butler, who was employed as his personal secretary and was present at the property when the crime occurred, has released the following statement. ‘My uncle had a great intellect. He was a man of utmost integrity and kindness who built great things. His extended family, friends, and close business associates will miss him greatly.” Ashna broke off and looked at me, raising an eyebrow. “That’s the young lady he was about to murder when Dworkin ran him through? There’s more but it’s just boring details about his life. I have another one to read you though.”
“Okay,” I said, settling back while Belka took over my lap. “Please continue.”
“Man Held In Murder of Billionaire. A United States citizen is being held after confessing to the murder of wealthy property developer Morgan Jutting. Lester Morehouse Dworkin of Philadelphia is being held in anticipation of formal extradition to the United Kingdom. Dworkin confessed to killing Mr. Jutting late last night but, according to authorities, has not yet provided a motive for the crime. Psychological experts have been called in to determine…blah blah boring.” Ashna broke off and fiddled with her phone for a moment.
“Do they have capital punishment in the UK?”
“Of course not! They just send people
