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Noel wakes up, knowing that it’s going to be one of those days. His head is pounding and he finds himself breathing through a mouthful of blood - the latter being an unfortunate side effect of the nightmares that plagued him. Well. It was less to do with imagination really. Memories would’ve been more apt.
He spits into the sink. Red swirls down the drain.
He washes his face next, cold water splashing out of the rusted faucet and running down his chin. His pupils are dilated in the mirror. His vision is blurred. His skin is as pale as ever and soaked in sweat. It’s a familiar sight - one he’d seen plenty of times before. Back then it used to be the aftermath of Meuse Argonne or the honeyed hue of a whisky glass. Now all he ever recalled was the black festering pools of the Dreamlands.
His throat is what grounds him.
He touches the bullet hole there. It’s scarred over but raw. The physical pain he could handle. It was the memories it brought with it that were worse - the gunshot, the fiery shock of realizing what had happened… then Arthur. John. The desperation on his face. The way the fear had filled those eyes. Through the haze of having his body pulled back onto the balcony, there was a part of him that already ached with loss.
But he couldn’t name the goodbye until they were already gone.
He hadn’t expected to live either.
He takes the razor with steady hands. He shaves, washes, and then puts on his shirt and tie. He loosens it so it doesn’t feel too much like a noose. The trench coat settles over his shoulders next, warm and worn, familiar with its smell of damp wool gabardine. Even with his hair combed and parted, he already feels the stubborn cowlick returning. A spring of hair falls right back over his eyes.
In the early rays of sunlight, it’s lighter. His eyes, he meant.
Less russet and more like a doe.
More like Finley’s.
He doesn’t linger too long on that. He never does.
He pulls the door shut behind him, the latch clicking firm.
He thinks about it every time he closes his eyes. It all happened so fast. He had rehearsed a dozen endings in his head, braced for the worst - and still, nothing could have prepared him. That creature. That being. That god in the monstrous skin. Noel could never have mistaken it for a man. The ruins of Collin’s head were a terrifying reminder of that. He’d never felt so helpless before, as time had frozen and pinned him into place like a moth in a glass case.
When the pressure released, he’d fallen.
Then he was somewhere else entirely, with only the echo of a harsh snap ringing in his ears.
Snow. Cold, knee-deep, and blinding.
Red rivulets spread around him, pooling stark against the white.
He remembered taking in the black shroud of the forest around him and the faint lights in the distance. Then clawing his way upright on a nearby tree, rough bark scraping his hands raw. He moved slowly at first, then faster as the faint baying of wolves became more distinct. It was only at the inn when he realized exactly where he was. The mining town. Addison. Just as Arthur had described it - barely a couple of hours ago, yet already a lifetime away.
Noel replayed those events over and over again in his head, restless, like a broken record stuck on a single awful chord.
“Head still in the clouds?”
McKenney’s voice cut through. Noel glances up to find the man sitting on his desk, knobby knees flared for space and a hawk-sharp curiosity in his blue gaze. The ceiling fan ruffles the papers - and that familiar mop of curls. A wave of fondness washes over Noel. “You know me,” he says. “Practically got rent due there, at this point.”
“Explains the vacancy sign. Could start charging interest.”
Noel snorts. “Well, add it to my tab.”
He sets the manilla folder down on the desk. “Chief sent me to give you this. He has a case that just came through.” Leaning in meaningfully, he tacks on, “One of the weird ones, right up your alley.”
Noel picks it up. He flips through.
He glances at the greyscale photograph of the harbour docks. It was of a man lying on the pier - dark jacket, slack-jawed and young - with rope taut around his punctured neck and limbs to show exactly how he died. There were empty holes where the eyes were gouged. What was even more striking was the symbol etched on the wooden planks beneath, deep enough that the blood pooled to form the outline. He imagined it far too easily; black in the moonlight.
“Hell.” Noel exhales.
“Close.” McKenney agrees, grim.
Noel stands. “I’ll go check it out. South end of the harbour’s quick enough to reach by noon. How bad’s the press?”
“Like usual. Pack of goddamn vultures.”
“They, uh, got eyes on this already?”
“Just about.”
“Great.” He sighs.
McKenney hops off the desk. Right before Noel leaves, the other detective pulls him aside. “At this point, I’m too frankly afraid to ask what it is exactly that pulls you to this kind of cult crap, but,” he hesitates, “you’ve got friends here, Finny. Be careful out there.”
Noel offers a small smile. “Aren’t I always?”
“Liar.” McKenney says, shaking his head. “But I’ll hold you to that anyway.”
Salt and brine nestle in his lungs. Beneath it, the phantom taste of blood. It’s soaked into the air, buoyed by the heavy breeze that rolls in from the sea. The pier creaks as he shifts his weight from one foot to another. The body’s still there. He suspected the reason it hadn’t been whisked away had a lot to do with the massacre at the Order. There was less push. Less people in power with their hands around the throat of the city.
A few dozen men are around, each occupied with some manner of task. He recognizes a handful from the station. He nods at Josiah, standing guard, and exchanges a look with William, sketching out the scene with a deft hand.
Noel crouches close to the dead man.
The stench of rot hits him. He observes the rope burns and the knife marks. It’s serrated, sharp, and punctured erratically all over the abdomen as well. He pinches the sleeve and raises the right arm - there’s a cherry-red strip of flesh, the skin of the palm flayed and now desiccated in the sun. The symbol takes shape in his mind, the longer he traces it mentally - geometry that defies reason. It is a familiar stranger. Almost like an unknown word in a language that he already knew.
Without turning, he calls, “Any identification on him?”
He coughs. He swallows back the rasp.
A pair of boots stops by him. The officer with the tobacco-stained mustache looks down on him, blond thatch of hair bright in the sun. “None.”
“No witnesses?”
“None. The man was killed sometime in the middle of the night. Either there are no witnesses or none willing to step up, I’d wager. So far.”
“Maybe.” Noel says. Then, “Who found the body?”
“Some young woman. Came out for a walk along the piers,” he tips his head, indicating the boardwalk further inland, “and saw him lying from there, so she flagged down a dock worker. He went to check it out. The call came straight to the station after that.”
“Got her name?”
“Even better,” he says, “she’s still there.”
He follows the officer’s gaze.
“Dark hair, blue eyes. Wearing a cloche.”
A pause.
“I see her.” Noel stands.
She looks up suddenly, gaze landing squarely on him as he approaches. She straightens from her lean over the railing. Pale wrists disappear like the flutter of a moth back into the pocket of an ill-fitting coat. She sizes him up guardedly. Then she chews her lip and sucks in a long breath. “Yes, officer?”
“Detective,” he says. “But I never cared for formalities anyway. Just call me Noel.”
“Like the Christmas?”
He cracks a smile at that. “I suppose so.”
“Empty we go, and ill be-dight,” she hums, breath quivering, “singing Noel on a winter’s night.”
She falls silent.
“Must’ve missed that verse at church,” he says. “Fond of carols?”
“Fond of old things,” she says. “Less inclined to disappoint.”
“Gotta agree with you there.” Noel rests his elbows on the railing beside her. On the horizon, the sandy murk of the sea continues its quiet churn of turmoil. “What’s your name?”
“Samantha. And I suppose you’ve got some questions about the dead man right there.”
“You know him?”
“Not at all.”
“Was there anyone nearby that caught your attention?” He asks. “It could have been just a gut feeling or even a stray thought. Maybe something that - just for a moment - you realized didn’t quite fit in place.”
She thought it over.
“The birds.” She said at last.
“Birds?”
“I was watching them first. A pack of gulls in the sky. I’ve been here a lot, detective, so I thought it was a bit strange the way they were acting. They were flying in a spiral as if lost. There was also, um, the fighting? The gulls were angry. So angry. Biting and pecking each other. I even saw one fall out of the sky and into the water. I don’t think- I’m not sure it ever came out.”
“Where was this?”
She stares at him in surprise. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”
“No.” He says gently.
“It was right here,” she answers. “The gulls. Do you think- it was because of the body? It’s the only reason I stood here long enough to notice.”
“Could be.”
“Who was he?” She follows his lead, as he looks back at the dead man.
“That’s what I plan to find out.” He murmurs.
He holds out his hand. She takes it after a while.
Her touch is fever-hot.
He’s just about to open his mouth to thank her, when her grip suddenly tightens to the point of bruising him. He sees it then - the sudden vacancy in the hollow of her eyes. Her breath is shallow and he hisses in shock as an invisible heat begins to boil his palm. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge. As calm as he tries to appear, his heart is racing wildly. “Samantha? Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” She answers. Her voice floats, as lucid as a dream.
“What-”
“Someone’s knocking. I can hear it.”
“Who-?”
“Where,” she corrects. She releases him, reaching up to cradle the side of his face. Leaning in close, her burgundy lips brush against his ear as she whispers, “Can’t you hear him? He’s at the threshold. And he wants you to know this: some doors don’t stay closed.”
The fog fades.
She draws back. She blinks up at him, once.
A shy smile graces her face.
“It was lovely meeting you, detective,” she says.
“Likewise,” he says, throat chafed.
He lets her go. It takes a long time for his own breathing to even pretend at a facsimile of calm. The pounding in his head returns with a vengeance. The gurgle of the sea accompanies his thoughts as he walks back to the pier on unsteady legs. That’s when the officer from earlier waves him over. He says pointedly, “Detective, there’s a man here asking to speak to you. Claims it's urgent.”
For the second time that day, Noel realizes that he’s at a loss for words.
“Detective.” Oscar hesitates, then exhales. “Noel.”
He looked older. Far too much.
The black of his cassock creased with Oscar’s nerves - ever so often, he would bunch the fabric in his hand and then smoothen it out. The air between them felt brittle, like old paper on the verge of tearing, but Noel didn’t blame him. Grief had a shared edge to it. The priest hovers at the edge of the dock and Noel inadvertently thinks again, threshold, as he stands with feet planted firmly on solid ground instead of salt-crusted wood. The distant titter of gulls follows.
“Oscar,” he returns. “It’s been some time.”
The first thing Noel had done, after hitching his way back from Addison, was to seek out the priest. The desperation drove him, especially during those first couple of weeks. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that creature. And every time he opened them, he remembered that Arthur and John were just gone. He didn’t know whether they were dead or alive, or suffering through some fate worse than death. It was difficult to make sense of it all - given that all he had left was a hole in his throat, memories that felt more like a muddled nightmare, and an armless priest to attest to his sanity.
“Do you-” Oscar clears his throat. “Is there any new lead on Arthur?”
Understanding dawns.
“No.” Noel says, soft as though the breath’s been freshly punched out of him. “Not yet.”
“I think I expected that,” he says.
“You’re the first person I’d call.”
It’s a well-worn promise.
“I know. But that’s… it’s not exactly why I came here.”
“Oh?” He cocks his head.
“The body. I know who it is.”
Misery slides over Oscar’s face. He stands defeated like a pack of cigarettes crushed in one fist.
Noel reads him in an instant. He takes him to the side, guiding him with a light touch against the priest’s back. Oscar wobbles against him for a split second, before gripping the railing with his sole hand and steadying. He stares at the lapping tide for a good stretch of time, as it crashes over the white sands and bits of broken rock.
“Friend of yours?” He guesses.
“Someone I tried to help.” Oscar admits. “A wayfarer, if you catch my drift. One who recently found comfort in the church.”
“What do you know about him?”
“His name is- was Billy. He used to be an insurance broker, but took the ferry from Hoboken about two years ago.”
Noel re-evaluates his first impression of the dead man. Broker huh? That used to mean quiet money, at least before the Crash.
“Any next of kin?”
Oscar shakes his head. “No. It was just him alone.”
Easy pickings. Easy prey.
There’s something else the priest isn’t telling him.
“Oscar,” Noel says. “How did you try to help?”
“I found him a place to stay,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Food, sometimes. I’ll save you the effort of asking - he was sleeping at a small flophouse called Kenmore, just outside the Bowery.”
“I know the place. Looks like I’ll swing by later.”
Oscar says quietly, “I’m not sure you would find much there.”
“Why not?” Noel inclines forward.
“He was… running from something. I fear he may have gotten himself involved,” he hesitates, knuckles whitening, “with dangerous people. He came to me two nights ago. He was scared. Lost. And I saw in his eyes the same thing I have carried - a realization of the shadows lurking in the cracks of the world and the relentless nature of that evil.”
It’s Arthur’s voice that Noel hears in his head then - strained, breathless, and resonant with the gleam of sightless eyes. The hole inside of him aches.
Beyond this world, beyond the stars, exists places that one could barely imagine. Places with creatures and gods, forces that view us as meaningless insects. And yet, lavish in our misfortunes, wager on our misdeeds, laugh at our missteps.
“The cracks run deep,” Noel murmurs.
“He gave me something for safekeeping.” Oscar says. He reaches into the inner fold of the cassock, fumbling for a moment, before emerging with a small stack of folded paper. He slides it over. Noel picks it up, unfolding it to tilt towards the light.
It had a linen-quality to it. Sturdy. Thick.
Bond paper.
The contents were typewritten beneath an embossed letterhead - the labyrinthine shape of which Noel recognizes immediately. It’s the same as that scratched into the deck, beneath the husk of a dead man barely a couple of feet away; more pieces of geometry, defying reason. The rest of it… it is precisely like a contract. As Noel reads through the rest of the page in disbelief, the dead man’s signature gleams in the sunlight in uneven strokes of black ink.
I, Billy Anders, being of sound mind and broken estate, do hereby acknowledge that the World of Gold and Coin has failed me. I recognize that my debts are insurmountable and my credit is spent. Therefore I willingly enter into this covenant, granting it claim upon all futures and fortunes of myself.
In exchange for the erasure of my worldly debts, I pledge obedience, which may call upon me for service, sacrifice, or acts that defy mortal comprehension. I shall not question, shall not falter, and shall reveal nothing of the workings of the covenant to those outside its circle, under penalties unimaginable.
I accept that I shall bend at the Ledger’s discretion; my name, likeness, and my memories may be transposed, repurposed, or obliterated to suit its ends. I shall carry no illusions that life shall remain as I know it. To the Faceless One - of a Thousand Masks! Messenger! - I shall remain to the end of my days and beyond as a faithful servant.
In witness of this binding, I place my mark below once again. May my pledge be remembered and my purpose fulfilled.
Alea iacta est.
“Lovely.” Noel says dryly. “Just perfect. And he signed it.”
“He was lost.”
“And people in desperation do unimaginable things,” he agrees. “Any idea about the Ledger it keeps referring to?”
“A society, from what he spoke of. He refused to speak much of it.” Oscar clears his throat. Then, “I made a few calls around after Billy left, and I think the front might be a lodge down at Ludlow. A contact of mine found that the building’s registered to a company called the Black Ledger. Now I know it’s hardly the only company in New York to have ‘ledger’ in its name, but most of them are accounting firms. This one just seemed more likely.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Noel says, smiling.
A pale flush dusts across Oscar’s face.
“That’s good detective work.” He teases, “Going for a career change, Father?”
Oscar chuckles lightly, “Thanks, but I’ll stick to saving souls for now.”
“You’re a good man.”
“Four-fifths of one.”
His smile fades. They’re both thinking of Arthur - and John - again.
“Oscar,” Noel says, “This is a great help. Thank you. Be careful, will you? If you do decide to get tangled up in this, just… remember you’re never alone. Call me.”
“I know.” He answers steadily. “And I could say the same for you.”
“He’d be proud, you know.”
Oscar stills.
“Arthur.” Noel says.
Oscar’s eyes water. A strange calm settles across his posture. He bids his farewell with, “Then I have faith that one day, he can tell me that himself.”
And for the first time in years, Noel thinks-
Amen.
Oscar’s intuition is spot-on.
Noel's access to police records grants him a steeper advantage - lists of addresses and filings hidden otherwise. He pores over the details; he takes notes and pins stamp-sized photographs to the corkboard in his brownstone room. The red string twirling between his fingers, he ties the evidence together as his mind works it out on the fly. Names. Dates. Rental contracts. Newspaper adverts. It is nothing extraordinary on its own, but together, a pattern starts to emerge.
The Black Ledger.
On paper, it names itself as a fraternal lodge for men ruined by the Crash. The man behind it? A businessman with his hands in too many pockets and a past as shady as a crook’s. Edgar Whitlock. Former heir to the Whitlock family dynasty, before being quite publicly disowned a while back. He’d disappeared off the grid in Chicago, only to resurface in New York sometime last year. His name could be tracked to the sales of several local businesses - newsstands, tailors, a meat-packing service, and even a small theatre.
Noel decides that it’s high time he pays a visit.
Tomorrow.
That night, he dreams he’s back in Arkham.
He recognizes the view out the window - a steep wall of mortar and brick, with a splotch of decay that he knew better than the back of his own hand. That’s the only familiar thing. Everything else has changed. The rug’s in the wrong spot. The bookshelves are new. He can’t recognize the tables either; polished wood gleams beneath stacks of papers and books, and on one, there is an adorned flower pot with white flowers arranged lovingly.
Lilies. The air’s thick with it.
He takes a step back, and accidentally onto a fallen notebook.
Curiosity wins. He picks it up.
He’s a few pages in, when he realizes what he’s looking at. It's a book of jotted poetry - in two distinct handwritings.
Eons were just grains of sand
Small and nothing, in my hand
I wore a crown but it was gold
And so all I knew was that cold
I cannot dream or live as you
As you are clay, and so I rue
That life is loss and I alone
Shall one day linger to atone
How I have fallen! With joy
I say this, not as a lie or ploy
For as surely as the stars align
I am yours, and you are mine.
I was my own, and you to yours
Yet I cannot fathom stepping back,
In time nor wish, only memory
Your voice that was my guide through it all
From the deepest ground to sea to eternity
The radio plays
as ever the days
drift gently by
Clouds stretched
beyond quiet blue
the field of dawn dew
The halo of a sun
the shiver-shine of stars
swallow the dark
And of this life, I wonder
if I can hold forever
these memories of mine
And of this peace, I know
that it is mine
It is mine.
It continues that way for a good while. He goes through lines of those intimate words, before he sees something that makes him freeze. He stares, stunned. After a while, a laugh bursts out of his throat, thick with disbelief and awe.
It’s your turn this week
The laundry’s done
All dried in the sun
There are only two coats
And you have taken mine
Take it in, before it loses its shine
This is my notebook
I allow you to look
And write with solemnity
Not your vanity
Fuck you, Arthur
Several parts are scribbled out, until-
John
At a loss for a rhyme?
Signed, martyr
Arthur
Fuck you
It’s my coat too
He laughs. He cries.
It’s a beautiful dream.
But he wakes up, and this time-
He remembers.