64.186.98.112

by Will Hindmarch and Christopher Kobar

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The dragon was born when she died. When Price killed her. It slipped out of her body with her blood and took off running through the streets of the city. It was a living thing now, just like the elders at the Order said it would be. It vanished into the asphalt and the orange lights of the city, so Price had to follow its tail to keep up with it. He caught sight of it when it doubled back to the crime scene — when the police found her body. He caught a glimpse in the newspaper — when her obituary was printed. He watched it stalk the pallbearers and circle around her house after the funeral. He followed it back to the streets, where it sniffed after the homicide detectives and ran with them as they flushed three low-rent hoods out of a crack house like quail from a dead bush. Price was there that night, when the detectives and their uniformed muscle climbed chain link fences to keep up with those hoods. The dragon was on their heels that night, breathing the fire of fear at their backs.

The hoods stumbled through an overgrown yard littered with rusted swing sets and crashed into the closed remains of an abandoned Catholic school called St. Anthony’s. Price crouched down on a dumpster outside the yard and pumped hot blood into his ears and eyes. A spot of blood wetted his nostril. The cracks in the school windows became clear in his eyes and the yard separated into a million tiny green swords. He could hear the echoing voices of the hoods inside now. Screams. Sudden, repeated and terrified shouts. The uniforms were coming up on the school now, slowly, with their flashlight beams like probing white lances in the dark. They didn’t hear the first screams, but they heard the last ones, when the hoods came charging back out of the school onto the points of the police lances. The dragon is insidious. It doesn’t just hunt, it lures and herds and traps its prey. It sometimes drives victims into its own lair. Or so the elders said. Price was seeing it now for the first time — the wyrm had lead them to its nest. “You have the right to remain silent,” one of the uniforms said. Price could hear her voice across the yard in his blood-warmed ears. “You have the right to an attorney.”

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The attorney was a second-hand cannibal. He drank the blood of his fellow man, but he didn’t have the grit to get it himself. It was served to him by a friend he’d known since law school, when they were both alive and their good looks had been boyish and real. They were fraternity brothers and roommates back then, sharing an apartment on the South Side near Hyde Park. The attorney was Dwight Holcomb. His friend was Edward Price. Now they divided the two halves of the day between themselves, seeing each other only in downtown bars during the talkative early hours after work, when Holcomb’s time turned into Price’s time, day into night. Holcomb bought Islay single-malt scotch by the glass for Price to smell and, sometimes, swish around. Price gave Holcomb mouthfuls of his blood in the marble-floored men’s room stalls of swank hotel bars. Holcomb brushed his hands through his hair in the picture-framed bathroom mirror while Price buttoned his cuff and licked his wrist near the door, as far from the mirror as he could get. “The uniforms confirmed their story,” Holcomb said over his shoulder. “Those guys wanted out of that school enough they picked jail over it.” “Sure they didn’t pick it over a pissed boss?” Price asked as he watched Holcomb make faces and scrutinize his five o’clock shadow in the mirror. “The cops I talked to said these guys aren’t the first. The uniforms don’t go in that school. Guy I talked to said their psych benefits aren’t that good.” Holcomb pulled on his ears. “I’m thinking of growing my sideburns back in.” “What were the words he used?” “The ‘banger?” “Yeah.” “He said he heard a voice, a kid’s voice. His buddy said he saw eyes open up. He said ‘in the wall.’ He said ‘the eyes were in the wall.’” Holcomb looked back at Price. “Is that something for the Order?” “I don’t know.” Price had been looking for something he could take to the elders at the Order of the Dragon chapter house, something that would get him noticed. “I’ll see what the Philosopher says.”

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The Philosopher had a name. But the Dragons called her simply “the Philosopher.” She had the severe voice of a school marm and hands like bird feet. The first thing she ever said to Price was “Why?” She kept an office in a small, round room of the chapter house. It was a cellar room, but the brick walls and circular floor made it feel like tower to Price. She sat behind her desk, surrounded by waist- and shoulder-high stacks of newspapers and books with yellowed pages. The wall behind her was a layer of maps depicting Chicago as a grid of streets criss-crossed by lines like escapees from a mariner’s chart. The room was cold and wet like mold. “I’d like to look at the history of St. Anthony’s middle school,” Price said. A note from the Philosopher could get a Dragon into the Historical Society archives after hours, when a Dragon could make use of them. Price wanted a note. The Philosopher nodded. “The stories about St. Anthony’s are old ones, but I don’t know that any Dragon has ever given them a good look. You think they might suggest the location of a Wyrm’s Nest?” “Yes, ma’am. I hope so.” “Give it a look, then, Supplicant.” The Philosopher leaned forward on her desk. “I’m relieved to see you pursuing our Great Work, Edward. We’d been concerned that you would never move beyond your rank. If this goes well, you might be able to attract a mentor for yourself.” Her wooden chair squealed as she leaned back. “Tell the archivist your name and title. Are you going tonight?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Then tonight you are Inquiring. Tell the archivist that you are Inquiring.”

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The archivist was a wad of a man, like an oily rag. The little hair he had was grown long and splayed across his mottled head. He had wide glasses, stiff untamed whiskers and food on his face. He left a mark on the glass like a huge fingerprint when he leaned against it to get a look at Price. “We open at nine in the morning,” he said through the glass. “Mr. Laskowitz, I’m Edward Price, Dedicated and Inquiring Supplicant of Hunger,” Price said too loudly into the window. He didn’t want to shout but he wanted to be heard. Laskowitz squinted at him. His face was dubious but his hands were slaves to the Order — while he scrutinized Price, he unlocked the door. “Good evening, Supplicant,” he said as Price stepped in. “Good evening, Slave.” Price didn’t want to look at him anymore. He craned his neck to see into cases displaying World’s Columbian Exposition photos and an old policeman’s hat. “That’s not appropriate, Dragon,” Laskowitz spit back, locking the door. His eyes went to Price’s hands and throat. Price knew that look. Holcomb had that look. “I’m no Slave.” Laskowitz waggled a fat finger at him. “If anything, you should call me Mister Laskowitz.” He stomped off to a basement door and lead Price down the stairs. Both the filing cabinets and the filing system were historical relics. The ceiling of the room was made of metal pipes and the floor was painted cement softened by worn-out throw rugs. The shelves and filing cabinets were so close together that Price wedged himself against either side of an aisle to prop himself up when he found the articles he was after. St. Anthony’s caught fire in the 1970s. A child burned to death inside. The Tribune article reported a principal’s theory that the young boy had started the fire. The final straw for the school came later, though, when cleaning crews discovered things in the basement furnace room. Underwear, photographs. Though investigations suggested the things that happened in that basement happened between teachers, the school was scandalized and out of money. The following June, summer break started and never ended. That was it for St. Anthony’s. Price was folding the papers back into the filing cabinets when Laskowitz came over to do it correctly. “You here for the Kaga—“ “Kogaion. No, I’m here on my own.” Laskowitz grunted. “Mr. Laskowitz, do you know much about regency? About territory rights around St. Anthony’s?” “That whole neighborhood is spill-over feeding ground for the Nosferatu. Or was.” “So if I wanted to go poking around over there—“ “Scratch.” Laskowitz shoved the file cabinet door shut and grunted again. “You’d have to see Scratch.”

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Scratch arrived at the chapter house an hour late and seventy years out of style. He was a Dragon, ranked and unsworn, with slim ties to the Order. His heart, it seemed, was in the baser aspects of his Requiem — blood and talk. He wore it on his sleeve. Scratch came in a ridiculously cut black, but almost green, suit and a camel hair overcoat. A fedora capped off his fashions and clashed with his sickly white, filthy flesh. His skin was caked and dry. A wet moth stuck to his neck near his ear. “You Price?” he asked as he leaned into the Academy’s dark brown foyer. He seemed impatient. “Edward Price, Dedicated Supplicant—“ “Yeah, all right. I’m Scratch. Scholar, Terror, et cetera.” He stepped in and shut the front door behind him. Outside, rain was splashing down the cellar stairs and pooling outside the door. “Philosopher says you want to see St. Anthony’s.” Price frowned. “That’s right.” “That you’re looking for ghosts. A haunt.” “A nest, but I’ll take whatever I get.” Scratch sniffed. “Yeah you will. Shadow?” “I’m sorry? I mean, am I—? Yes.” “You have the sight?” “I... well, I’m unpracticed. But yes.” “Guess you’re all set to be disappointed by urban legends, then. Who’s your mentor?” Price didn’t want the conversation to go this way now. “Well, the Philosopher suggested you might be, Scholar.” Scratch just stared at him. Price could hear the rain rattling outside. “I don’t have a mentor right now.” “You and me both. Only I don’t really want a student.” Scratch plucked the moth from his neck and flicked it to the floor. “I’m just fine without a mentor,” Price lied. He was just fine without Scratch as a mentor is what he meant. “Great. Then we’ll just play house for a couple of nights, make the Philosopher happy and get on with our Requiems. I’ll show the little ropes I know, but you gotta make me a promise.” Scratch’s yellow-white eyes digging into Price’s face. The Nosferatu craned his neck forward like a vulture. Price wanted very badly to avoid promising anything. “What’s that?” “You don’t ever turn that sight on me. Not ever. I don’t trust that nonsense and you’d do well to second-guess it, too.” The were both quiet for a long moment. Finally, Price said, “All right.” Scratch nodded and opened the door again. “We go now?” Price asked. “No,” Scratch said, adjusting his fedora. “First we’re gonna buy a recipe.”

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The recipe-seller’s shop was a used bookstore underneath a converted warehouse building in Printer’s Row. It was packed tight with modern best-sellers and old-fashioned folios, stuffed under the squat brick building like papers shoved under a bed. It’s low, beamed ceiling and tiny aisles was a place for books, not people. Price and Scratch had to walk sideways and hold their jackets shut to get around in it. But it was exactly the kind of place Price wanted to find. It was easy to believe the dragon’s tail had passed through the shop many times. It smelled like licorice and incense. Framed etchings dangled on the walls. The recipe-seller was a friendly secret kept by Dragons and Acolytes alike. As they walked up to the little green door that lead into the shop, Price noticed a bit of Dragon graffiti — a serpent eating its own tail. Price caught Scratch by the sleeve. “This guy’s a Dragon, right?” Scratch yanked his arm away. “No. Kim’s mortal.” Price put on a poker face and Scratch rolled his eyes. “Calm down. He’s in on it. They say he’s a mage.” “Really?” “Probably bullshit. Either way, he does great work.” “That’s funny.” Kim was younger than Price expected, maybe thirty years old. He had Korean features but an English demeanor. His right side was held up by a metal elbow-crutch. He and Scratch whispered together a time while Price waited by the door. Scratch held a finger up to him — “hold on,” it said — before finally waving Price up. “Kim says he’s got a recipe for ghosts. Gets ‘em out of the woodwork. It’s not cheap, but Kim’s reputation is worth it. I say. You’re buying right?” Price looked at Kim. He was flipping through a card catalogue, ignoring the Dragons in his shop. Scratch drummed his fingers once. “Yeah, all right,” Price said. “Swell. We’ll take it, Kim. What are we gonna need to bake this cake?” Kim slid an index card onto the counter. It had been typed on both sides by an old manual typewriter. “Your ghost is a burn victim? You’ll need a fire. The book says you’ll get his attention with a fire,” Kim said in a London accent. Price held up a hand. “A fire? Wait a minute—“ Scratch waved him off. “It’s fine. I can play with fire.”

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Scratch waggled the bottle of lighter fluid over the linoleum floor. Inside, the classrooms still had books on the shelves, posters on the walls, and writing on the chalkboards. When the place was abandoned it was just left as it was. The principal or whoever just locked the door and tried to forget the place ever existed. Almost half the building, however, had turned into a flaking black mass in the fire. Smoke stains reach up the hallways like black hands. To find something that would really burn, Scratch and Price had to sort through the second-floor classrooms. When Scratch snapped open his Zippo, Price jumped. The spot of light from the little flame made the rest of the room darker. Scratch lit a chalkboard eraser on fire and tossed it onto the fluid-soaked teacher’s desk. It whooshed into a yellow brick of fire and the whole room lit up, orange and hot. Price and Scratch hadn’t spoken since they got inside. Price read the recipe card twice while he waited for Scratch to get the fire ready. For the most part, it suggested the appropriate way to speak so as to avoid offending a ghost. It also described how to spot a person possessed by a ghost. It also said that the ghosts of burn victims could sometimes be seen by firelight. But after a while, the desk’s fire weakened and Price got tired of pacing the room. He headed for the hall. “Don’t go out there,” Scratch said. “If we don’t see him in here, we’re not going to see him. Be patient.” “This isn’t working,” said Price. He leaned into the blackened hallway, his shoes sticking on the softened linoleum. Looking into the dark, he instinctually pushed blood into his eyes. “There’s got to be something in here,” he said to himself. “Just wait,” said Scratch. Without really meaning too, Price stirred the blood in his eyes again and flexed his vision, pulling the colors out the walls and the air. To his eyes, everything in the school began to smoke with a halo of light. When Scratch pulled his gaze away from the fire again, he found Price staring at him. His head moved like he was watching bugs in the air. “What are you doing?” Price stopped, looked away, then looked back at the fire. “I thought I saw something. In the fire.” “Show me,” said Scratch, pointing at the fire. Price stepped closer to it, stiff and hesitant. “It’s, uh, it’s gone now.” “What did it look like?” “A child’s face. It was... a child’s face,” Price lied. What he’d seen was rippling black lines growing out from the Scratch’s halo, like the black snakes Price used to light up on the Fourth of July. His sire had told him what that meant — he said it was the “bleeding out of a Kindred’s soul.” Scratch was a diablerist. “What did it look like?” “It was a, uh, white kid. A boy. Wearing a school uniform.” “Uh huh,” said Scratch. “Funny I missed it.” He walked over to one of the small, metal student desks. “Maybe it was my imagination.” “Maybe it was the sight, Price. Maybe it was—“ Scratch hurled the desk into Price’s back, knocking him against the burning teacher’s desk. The fire was resurrected in a flash. Price’s human grunt as he was hit became an animal shriek. He started to stand, to get away from the desk, but Scratch was on him, pinning him down with the legs of a student’s desk, like lion tamer. “Maybe it was your fucking promise, Supplicant!” Scratch hollered at Price and waggled his head.

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Price was gone. In his place was a burnt-black figure, oozing steaming blood and hissing behind long white fangs. Its eyes were sealed against the flames, stuck shut with burned blood. It flailed and kicked in a useless panic, until it got its feet flat on the ground. In a rush it pushed Scratch back with enough force that the student’s desk’s metal legs punched through Price’s burnt chest like it was plaster, dry and brittle. The Price-Beast pushed the two of them across the room to the blackboard, where half a lesson was still written out in chalk. Scratch snarled as his back his the chalk tray. He could see it in Price’s legs, though. He just had to hold out for another second or so. He summoned up sounds, any sounds, and shouted them over the terrified roar of his Beast. With a feeling like swallowing his guts, Scratch pushed his Beast back into its cage as Price’s corpse broke apart at the fingers and feet. Its shins crumbled into ash and its fingers turned to soot on Scratch’s coat. When he dropped the desk that held it back, it pulled Price’s flaking corpse to the ground. It dried and split apart, like burnt wood.

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The eyes appeared in the scale-like black burns on the wall. Two blue disks on clean white fields. The rest of the boy was charred black and bald. Standing against the wall, he looked like part of the building. Scratch supposed he was. “This probably does it, boy,” Scratch said. “What did I say? The stories can only get told for so long before somebody comes looking. Believe me.” Scratch stumbled to the door. “The dragon has a long tail. Others will come.” The boy lowered his jaw. A mouthful of wrinkled flame burned on his tongue.

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