The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All - By Laird Barron Page 0,53
own children down the river, to avoid that final sweet goodnight.
Paxton wasn’t a liar, though. I studied him and his sallow, indolent affectation of plantation suzerainty, the dark power in his gaze, and beheld with clarity he was a being who had no need for deception, that all was delivered to him on a platter. He wasn’t afraid, either. I couldn’t decide whether that lack of fear depended upon his access to the Blackwood Boys, his supreme and overweening sense of superiority, an utter lack of self-preservation instincts, or something else as yet to make its presence felt. Something dread and terrible in the wings was my guess, based upon the pit that opened in my gut as we talked while the sun sank into the mountains and the shadows of the gibbering and jabbering gentry spread grotesquely across the grass.
“You said Augustus groomed Muybridge.”
“Yes. Groomed him to spread darkness with his art. And Father did, though not to the degree or with the potency Helios Augustus desired. The sorcerer and his allies believed Eadweard was tantalizingly close to unlocking something vast and inimical to human existence.”
The guests stirred and the band ascended the dais, each member lavishly dressed in a black suit, hair slicked with oil and banded in gold or silver, each cradling an oboe, a violin, a horn, a double bass, and of course, of fucking course, Dan Blackwood at the fore with his majestic flute, decked in a classical white suit and black tie, his buttered down hair shining like an angel’s satin wing. They nodded to one another and began to play soft and sweet chamber music from some German symphony that was popular when lederhosen reigned at court. Music to calm a bellicose Holy Roman Emperor. Music beautiful enough to bring a tear to a killer’s eye.
I realized Dick and Bly had disappeared. I stood, free hand pressed to my side to keep the bandage from coming unstuck. “Your hospitality is right kingly, Mr. Paxton, sir—”
“Indeed? You haven’t touched your brandy. I’m guessing that’s a difficult bit of self restraint for an Irishman. It’s not poisoned. Heavens, man, I couldn’t harm you if that were my fiercest desire.”
“Mr. Paxton, I’d like to take you at your word. Problem is, Curtis Bane had a card with your name written on it in his pocket. That’s how I got wind of you.”
“Extraordinarily convenient. And world famous magician Phil Wary, oh dear, my mistake—Helios Augustus—showed you some films my father made and told you I’d set the dogs on your trail. Am I correct?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” The pit in my belly kept crumbling away. It would be an abyss pretty soon. It wasn’t that the pale aristocrat had put the puzzle together that made me sick with nerves, it was his boredom and malicious glee at revealing the obvious to a baboon. My distress was honey to him.
“And let me ponder this… Unnecessary. Helios put you in contact with those women in Luster. The crones, as some rudely call them.”
“I think the ladies prefer it, actually.”
“The crones were coy, that’s their game. As you were permitted to depart their presence with your hide, I’ll wager they confirmed the magician’s slander of my character. Wily monsters, the Corning women. Man-haters, man-eaters. Men are pawns or provender, often both. Word to the wise— never go back there.”
Just like that the sun snuffed as a burning wick under a thumb and darkness was all around, held at bay by a few lanterns in the yard, a trickle of light from the open doors on the porch and a handful of windows. The guests milled and drank and laughed above the beautiful music, and several couples assayed a waltz before the dais. I squinted, becoming desperate to catch a glimpse of my comrades, and still couldn’t pick them out of the moiling crowd. I swayed as the blood rushed from my head and there were two, no, three, Conrad Paxton’s seated in the gathering gloom, faces obscured except for the glinting eyes narrowed in curiosity, the curve of a sardonic smile. “Why would they lie?” I said. “What’s in it for them?”
Paxton rose and made as if to take my elbow to steady me, although if I crashed to earth, there wasn’t much chance the bony bastard would be able to do more than slow my fall. Much as Blackwood had done, he hesitated and then edged away toward the threshold of the French doors that let into a study, abruptly