The glass lifted itself by degrees. His head pounded, and the rest of them stared. Their eyes were round, even Grosvenor’s. Every time he did something like this, he had the satisfaction of seeing these assholes, every single one of them, turn into big-eyed children staring at a movie screen.
Except this was real.
The tumbler floated obediently within range. His hands softened, and he curled his fingers around the chill, delicate glass. The whiskey slopped a little, but he had poured a small shot just for that reason. It made no difference. Every man in the room was reminded of what he could do—and that his skills, while considerable, were only a shadow of the old man’s.
Peter Cavanaugh considered the point carried.
Smooth Sailing
Emily squinted at the screen. The damn columns just wouldn’t add up, no matter what she did to them. “That’s not right,” she muttered, and tapped at the keyboard.
Her cellphone, set to her right an inch from the office phone, vibrated. Probably May, saying where the fuck are you? They had all planned to pregame at Butler’s Yard before rolling over to Gloria’s to get into costume and set up the party, but the spreadsheets were just not behaving. The reports were due in Funke’s office next week, but she couldn’t make them square. Everyone involved had double-checked their data—or so they said.
It was irritating as all fuck.
Her familiar cubicle, with its ruthlessly clean walls and the whiteboard mounted precisely level—upcoming due dates in red marker, tasks in green, and the thick satisfying lines of black slicing through the three most recent victories—was soothing. The only hint of relaxation was a volunteer from Hannah Greer’s airplane plant, dangling over the left-hand wall. The angle of the long, cordlike tendril holding the tiny spiky mass of new plant life reminded Em of ikebana in a catalog, so she let it be.
Hannah had seemed surprised she didn’t want it clipped off. I just thought, since you’re so neat…
Well, yes, a tidy office meant a tidy mind, but a single damn seedling wasn’t going to throw her off her game. Besides, Hannah was very sweet, and just a little anxious. She would probably mourn the damn plantling, or stick it in an atrocious pot and present it to Em as a gift. Which would clutter the desk, and that Em did not want.
She tried the numbers again, this time merging two reports. The discrepancy showed up in red, again, and either someone hadn’t entered the payouts correctly or—
A faint shuffling noise warned her, breaking her concentration completely. Em braced her hands on her desk and rolled her chair back sharply, as if she planned to get up. The rollers hit something soft, there was a bark of pain, and Em gained her feet in a lunge, whirling to see Brett the blond office Lothario grimacing as he hopped on one shiny wingtip-clad foot.
She’d rolled right over said wingtip. Served him right—he was always sneaking around wanting to “massage your shoulders, you know, just being friendly.” Em herself had warned the new girl two cubicles over about him.
“Brett?” She tried to sound surprised. “What on earth were you doing?”
His big blond meaty face creased itself up like an old man’s, and he had turned red. “Oh, just…” He hopped a bit, leaning against the cubicle wall, which was not meant to support that kind of weight. Em found herself hoping it would buckle and dump him on his ass. Someone should really tell him that pastel ties were a no-no; it wasn’t the nineties anymore. “Just coming to… It’s quitting time, Em.”
Well, it wasn’t like she was going to get any more work done. “That’s awful nice of you to take time to tell me.”
“Yeah.” He set his foot down and grimaced afresh. A few cubes away, someone coughed, loud in the hush, and Em realized it was a lot quieter in here than usual. Everyone had bugged out early, either to get home before the drunks were on the road or to become one of said zigzagging drunks. Or maybe even to get some free candy; she would bet Henry Howison, the senior office admin, dressed up and went out masquerading as a kid.
God knew he was short enough.
“Well.” Brett tested his foot with exaggerated care. “So what are your plans for the weekend?” His wide white grin was practiced, his dental plan probably magnificent, but Em had noticed the smile rarely reached his cold blue eyes. He was always asking if he could bring someone coffee, but none of the girls in the office said yes.
Not more than once, anyway, since afterward he acted like you owed him the biggest favor in the world. A latte was definitely not worth that shit. And those shirts of his, ironed and starched but all the same, blue with white collar and cuffs. All he needed was red suspenders to turn into a caricature.
Em half-turned, tapping in the save commands but keeping Brett in her peripheral vision. “Oh, I’ve got plans with the girls.” Nice and bright, not giving him any opening. “How about you?”
His grin faded a bit. “Oh, just beers, maybe at the Royal.” Which was the college bar out on Maroyda, not any place a grown adult should be drinking. His face fell, the picture-perfect illustration of lonely sad puppy.
So it was going to be the hangdog routine. Em wasn’t about to invite him along. When it came to interpersonal judo, Brett was a slimy but not really dangerous opponent. “Sounds like fun for you,” she chirped, waiting for the screen to clear and everything to close. She could go back to the spreadsheets on Monday. It bothered her to leave anything this unfinished over the weekend, but trying to concentrate while he was breathing on her was not a fun time, and she wanted to get out while there were still a few people in the office.
A few people who were not Brett Sandusky, thank you very much.
“Handing out candy,” Brett continued. “I bought a bunch.”
Maybe he was anticipating a few slutty-costume coeds at the Royal getting taken in by free candy and a splash of expensive cologne.
The screen finally, thankfully, cleared, and her wallpaper—a white-sugar beach in Hawaii, palms leaning over and the blue sea nice and calm—showed up before she hit shutdown. Em grabbed her purse and the bag she’d stuffed her costume supplies into, and prepared herself to run the gauntlet. “Nice of you.” She had to slide past him to get her peacoat hanging up at her cubicle entrance, and true to form, he didn’t step back to let her do it but forced her to squeeze by, her hip brushing his low-hanging knuckles. Thank God she was wearing the wool herringbone skirt today—if it had been anything thinner he might have “accidentally” run into her again. “Better finish up so you can get out the door too.” Her computer screen went blank, thank God, and now all she had to focus on was escaping at high speed.
“Yeah.” He followed her out into the hall. “Want me to walk you to your car?”
She glanced down the long hall at the bank of windows. It was almost dark outside, and probably raining too. Pasting on a bright smile, she told the absolute truth. “Oh, no thanks, Brett. I’m just fine on my own.” Her cell buzzed again in her hand and she glanced at it, hoping the dismissal was clear enough. “Have a good weekend!”
He watched her walk away, and Em tried to do so as stiffly as possible.
The first message on her phone was May. We’re going to Gloria’s early. Where are you?
The second was Steve. Drive safe tonight. Call if you need anything.
He wasn’t a bad ex-husband, Em reflected. She could have done a hell of a lot worse. He was even decent about the split. Sometimes Em even wished they had made a go of it, instead of just…
No, they couldn’t have made a go of it. Not once he’d opened his mouth that one night.
We could just leave.
Sometimes Em wished she hadn’t heard him say that. Or even wished she’d been the type of person to agree, but that thought only made her feel dirty inside.
Come to think of it, she also wished someone would punch Brett right in the balls. Her conscience was clear on at least one count, though; she hadn’t been that someone.
Yet.
She managed to reach the elevator without being acco
sted again, and from there, it was smooth sailing.
Seed Gentility
Gentility may have gone to seed in every other part of the world, but here it had its roots driven deep. The town’s historians all knew Peake’s End had been one of the first great houses built on the eastern rim of North America, and its great timbered skeleton was still in good repair. No dilapidation had been allowed to caress its walls or its stone foundation; modernity was only encouraged insofar as it buttressed what had already been built. There was no “updating” of its decor or its frowning face, and whatever concessions to technology had been made were hidden.
A shadow in one of the upper windows moved restlessly. Every other room was lit with golden electric glow—a profligate use of light—but that window, on the large central gable, held only a flickering glimmer. Firelight, and the bright point of a lit candle.
It was to that room Peter Cavanaugh trudged, smoothing his hands back through his dark hair. The slender, stiff weight against his lower back was not nearly reassuring enough, even if it poked him when he slouched. An age-blackened wooden door loomed in front of him, and he gave two mannerly taps.
A cheerful tenor rang out. “Enter.”
Peter schooled his expression and twisted the knob. The door stuck, but a gentleman never forced such things—he lifted slightly and applied the proper amount of force, and the hinges did not squeak this time, thank God.
The old man hated squeaking hinges.
“Ah, there you are!” He was in a good mood, maybe. The old man sat in his usual chair, his pale, effeminate hands laid along its arms. His ankles were not crossed, and he had changed out of his bespoke suit and into a smoking jacket, its velvet sleeves almost rubbed through around his sharp elbows. His hair was longer than a businessman’s should be nowadays, but he wasn’t in business. That was reserved for Peter, whose childhood had been spent in this cavernous pile. Getting the old man to agree to a heat pump instead of the fireplaces had been a chore and a half.
The old man didn’t have anything against progress, per se, but he did not like workmen about the house.
“Good evening, Grandfather.” The wooden floor creaked a bit underneath—the entire house was a symphony after sundown, groans and whispers in every hall. In his boyhood, there had been hot water bottles to keep his little feet warm at night, and the daily lessons. To step from the modern world of shiny black limousines and clunky but efficient computers into the hushed dimness of his grandfather’s house where teatime was strictly observed, ancient gas-lamps still sprouted from the walls, and leather-bound tomes older than America itself gave up secrets of the energies beyond human perception was…confusing, to say the least. Resolving those paradoxes had required a great deal of time and no little agony.
Those white, spidery fingers twitched against the brocaded arms. Even the first finger of the left hand, a withered stump, twitched a bit. “Good evening, Peter. I trust the ceremonies went well?”
“As well as can be expected.” To say anything else was to risk ire—a gentleman did not brag, nor did he complain. He crossed to the ancient sideboard, the decanters that were allowed a certain amount of dust—since the old man didn’t want a maid in here touching things—glowing mellowly. “The inner council is growing a little restive.”
“I trust you gave them a demonstration.” The old man’s voice was, really, very much like Peter’s. The inheritance ran strong. It wasn’t Peter’s fault that it had skipped a generation.
“I did.” And it had given him a blinding headache, one that still lingered, wrapping its bony claws around his nape and squeezing. “Theatrics are not gentlemanly, but what can one do?”
“Good boy.” At least the old man sounded amused. The amber liquid in the decanters was much less than it had been this morning, but that was no indication. In some cases, the alcohol could make working the invisible easier, lowering inhibitions and pushing aside the rational mind’s pointless babble. “I have been at the pendulum all day. It has changed hands.” Those flour-white fingers twitched again, as if they felt something malleable underneath.
Great. He’d never seen the old man so worked up. Maybe the ring would be found, just in time for Halloween. Had it been sold in a garage sale? Wouldn’t that be ironic—a supreme treasure of the unseen, locked in Grandma’s attic for years. It was a miracle the damn thing hadn’t been dropped into the middle of the Atlantic during passage.
Or maybe it had been, and Peter could look forward to his father’s fate—a punishment meted out as much for disbelief as for the unhappy fact of a rationalism that would not let him believe the old man’s darker mumblings.
“You’re thinking about your father.” The pleasant tenor shifted, grew darker. “He was weak, Peter. You are not.”
Asking himself how the old man knew was useless. There was no point in lying, either. “Yes.” A cautious answer.
But not too cautious.
The sharp, slim weight at the small of his back had grown a little damp. Or rather, it was his skin against the sheath that had done so. It wasn’t that his father had been weak. It was that his father had committed the Old Man to Larkhill, and that had been a major strategic and tactical misstep.
The official cause of Henry Cavanaugh III’s death was coronary thrombosis. Money spoke, even when a man was strangled by invisible hands and his wife suffered a breakdown, raving about the Devil. The entire episode had lasted six months, all told, and Peter had only been fourteen. In return for discretion, Larkhill accepted a generous charitable contribution—and Peter’s mother, who passed the rest of her short unhappy days sedated into near-catatonia because otherwise she would begin to scream until her voice broke and claw at her own face.
He poured himself a few fingers of Scotch and turned. The other chair set before the fireplace was newer, and not brocaded. A simple, stern, high-backed leather club chair, its finish gleaming mellowly as the fire leapt and collapsed on itself, a brief flash of gold. Peter settled himself gingerly and only then dared to look at the old man’s face.
The old man was smiling, and that was good. The pockmarks on his cheeks from childhood illness were barely visible in the dimness. The tip of his nose with the Cavanaugh bulb glowed a little, though, peeking out of the brocade chair’s shadow. “It will not be long now,” he said. “And when I have it again, you’ll see some wonderful things, Peter my boy. Such wonderful things. I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I should have done with it.”
Peter Cavanaugh restrained himself from remarking that hindsight was twenty-twenty. You could never tell when the old man would understand a modern turn of phrase and take offense. He’d been growing sharper of late, re-engaging with the world. Once or twice, Peter had come home to find the television in the billiards room on. Once to cartoons, a few times to CNN. Mostly, though, to the History Channel.
It was enough to make him wonder, and that was when he went looking for a weapon. A real weapon, one you could kill the unseen with, not anything so inelegant as a gun. Firearms wouldn’t work, Peter knew as much.
His mother had tried.
For now, Peter arranged his feet properly and smiled. “I never get tired of hearing you list wonders, Grandfather,” he lied.
The old man, mollified, began to speak.
Fresh Out of Ideas
Gloria had gone all-out, even getting a DJ. The throbbing noise was consequently too loud to think through, but at least in the smaller bathroom—festooned with cotton cobwebs and black guest towels embroidered with silvery skulls—there was a little insulation from the pounding.
“Brett wanted to come along.” Emily leaned over the sink; the eyeliner needed a steady hand and closeness to the mirror. “I’m sure he remembers you fondly.”
May’s grimace was a sight to behold. True to form, she’d come up with something great—everyone old enough to be here was old enough to remember Rainbow Brite, and the wig of yellow yarn was a stroke of genius. “Wish I had kicked him in the nards.”
> “Hah.” The rings sparkled just right, Em’s hair was behaving, and she’d finally found a shade of red lipstick that didn’t make the rest of her look yellow by comparison. A little glitter on her décolletage and she would be ready to go and get blasted and forget about the work week. The eyeliner smeared, but that was okay. You were supposed to look raccoon-eyed—it was part of the charm. Plus, Gloria had strung red Christmas lights all over her tiny house, so the light out there was a blood-colored glow, kind to every complexion. “Steve texted too.” There were lines beginning at the corners of Em’s eyes, no matter how much she moisturized. “Telling me to drive careful.”
“As if we’re not going to spend the night in Gloria’s bathtub.” May’s laugh, bright as a new penny, bounced off the mirror. She bent, adjusting her garters with fussy, delicate care. “He’s a nice guy.”
“Yeah. Just not husband material.”
“True that,” May agreed, loyally. She’d never asked why Em wanted the divorce, though she was probably dying to. “Come on, let’s go out and get hammered. Gloria said something about strippers.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” But her costume wasn’t going to get any better, and with May’s legs pretty bare to mid-thigh—Rainbow Brite had never worn fishnets, but some creative leeway was acceptable—nobody was going to be looking at Em. As usual. “Okay. I’m ready. Let me just put my bag in the bedroom.”
* * *
The red ring was irritating, catching on everything. The other one, glittering sharply even in the dim light, was actually comfortable, hugging her left third finger—the only one it fit, weird to feel warm metal there again—and not as heavy as it had first seemed. Three Solo cups of May’s Patented Jungle Juice later, nothing in the world could have brought Emily down, even when there was a hammering at the door and the strippers showed up. Waxed, throbbing manflesh was nice—there was even a cowboy one who was sandy-blond and stacked broad in the shoulder, just how she liked them—but Em had to retreat through Gloria’s kitchen because her head started spinning and if she was going to throw up, she really wanted to do it somewhere other than the living room.