The black smoke of the fire trailed down the valley after me, blanketing the village with stripes of darkness. I ducked from garden to garden, hiding behind flower pots and under porch swings, staying out of sight as much as possible until I found my way to the main street. I wandered into a corner store and pretended to be engrossed with a display of cabbages near the counter. When the shopkeeper turned her back to help a customer, I plunged my hand into the “Pennies for the Elderly” jar and drew out as many bills as I could grab. Right now, I needed it more than they did.
The next stop was a thrift store across the road. I discarded my grey clothes in the changing rooms and walked out in faded jeans, a black t-shirt, and an oversized black hoodie. When they came to look for me they’d be after a girl wearing the grey clothing of a Dunwich inmate. I wouldn’t give them the chance to spot me.
I couldn’t do much to change my hair right now, but the hood would hide it until I got to my next destination – Zehra’s RV. I needed to know for a fact if she survived that cave-in. If she did, we could work together to bring down the entire Miskatonic Prep institution.
If not, I was on my own. What was fucking new about that?
But first, I needed to pay a visit to my jailer.
When Ayaz and I were working on our Salem project, I’d borrowed a library book about the history of Arkham, hoping it might have information about Parris and his home. It only had a couple of paragraphs about the house, but it spent an entire chapter describing the Arkham Grand – a fancy hotel on the main street. The book even spoke about the hotel receiving important guests while rich parents visited their children at Miskatonic Prep. It would be the only establishment in the town that Vincent Bloomberg would deign to stay in. I had a hunch he’d be in town for my lobotomy – he’d probably leer over my hospital bed during the operation, relishing his victory.
Not anymore.
And there it was – the Arkham Grand. I crouched behind a flowerbed, staring up at the hotel facade. The three-story building with the Georgian columns dwarfed the surrounding shops and diners. It looked a little worn around the edges now, the paint peeling in places, the windows on the upper story streaked with dirt. Like everything Vincent Bloomberg touched, it would eventually turn to ruin.
I slunk into the front lobby behind a small group of Chinese tourists wearing “We Love Massachusetts” t-shirts and ducked into the hallway before the bellman caught sight of me. In my thrift store getup, I looked more like a hoodlum than a hotel guest, and I didn’t want them to kick me out before I located Vincent’s room.
I was just pondering how to figure out where he was staying when a loud voice boomed from the lobby. “I want an espresso delivered to my room. And not lukewarm like it was last time. The standards in this place have slipped to an appalling level.”
“Certainly, Mr. Bloomberg.” The bellman sounded harried. “We’ll bring that for you right away.”
I peered out from the hallway. There he was – the man who’d tried to convince me I was crazy, who’d tried to have me lobotomized, who’d hurt his own son in a hundred unforgivable ways just to hold on to power that wasn’t even his. Trey’s dad stood in front of the reception desk, his suit immaculate, long fingers brushing through dark hair that caught crimson highlights beneath the grimy chandelier.
I peered closer. Was Vincent Bloomberg… going grey? The sweeps of grey above his ears hadn’t been there before. His face appeared older, too – more lines around his eyes, and his cheeks had a slightly sunken quality, like he’d been losing weight.
Hmmmm. Interesting.
I remembered last time I’d seen him, when he’d come to the school to complain to Ms. West about me, he’d seemed older then, too. I thought maybe it was just the harsh lighting in Ms. West’s office. But he’d aged another ten years since that visit – changes too drastic to have happened in only a couple of weeks.
Is it me?I assumed that the power the god gave to the senior Eldritch Club members not only gave them their influence over others, but it also kept them young. That made sense since the god had effectively stolen life from their children via their souls. Perhaps it gave some of that youth back to their parents. That sounded insane, but it made as much sense as anything else that has happened since I came to Derleth.
But now, for whatever reason, that power was waning, and Vincent wore that evidence in his cavernous cheeks and crinkled eyes.
Something… or someone... is disrupting the god’s power.
I wondered if, despite their efforts, my time in the Dunwich Institute had been hurting the god. Did a cosmic deity respond to psychological torture in the same way it did to physical? Apart from when I saw Trey, I hadn’t felt the god’s dreams – perhaps because of my distance from the school or the drugs they’d been giving me – but Vincent’s grey hair gave me hope that I was still influencing the deity in some way.
“And a copy of theNew York Times, one that’s not stained with sticky fingers like this morning’sWall Street Journal,” Vincent barked. He spun on his heel, turning toward me. I yanked my head back behind the column, but not before he strode with purpose in the direction of the hallway.
Shit.
His room must be on this floor. If he walked past me he’d be certain to recognize me. He had to know by now that I’d escaped. That was probably what he was so pissed about.
I spied a maid’s closet and raced toward it, yanking the door open and diving inside just as his footsteps approached. I buried myself in a pile of starched linen, peering out through the cracked door, my breath in my throat. He stomped by, so close I could have reached out and grabbed him. The thought gave me a perverse thrill, but I held back. I had something worse in store for him.
As soon as Vincent’s footsteps faded around the corner, I stepped out of the closet and crept after him, pressing myself up against the wall and leaning out just far enough to see him open the door to room 6. He slammed it behind him, theBANGshattering the silence along the quiet hall.
I ducked back behind the wall, my heart hammering. I looked both ways, and seeing no one else about, I stepped out into the hall, crossed to Vincent’s door, and pressed my ear against the thick wood.
I didn’t expect to be able to hear anything, but Vincent’s angry voice carried. “She’s not dead. We would know it if she was dead. So she must have escaped.”
There was a pause before he said, “I don’t need you to explain it. I don’t give a fuck about your excuses. I just need you to sort it out. Do what you have to do. I’ll make sure you’re shielded from any fallout. But Hazel Waite must be found. I’ll have my security team call you. They’ll set up a perimeter. She can’t have got far, but we need to make certain she doesn’t leave the state.”
More silence. He was on the phone, probably to Dr. Peaslee. My knee ached and the burn on my leg smarted like fuck. I adjusted my position, crouching lower, straining to hear more as the flame inside me licked at my skin once more.
The fire became an itch inside my skin, a desperate possession by my rage that sought release though the only possible avenue – burning Vincent Bloomberg to ash.
Soon. Soon. But first I need to know what he’s saying. I need to know if Trey and the others are in danger.
