Burlington’s corpse would embroil them in such legal mire that their efforts would be delayed. They grimly decided to leave the body at the office, and prayed no cleaning staff would stumble upon it until a report could be filed…but what would he say? What could he say? What could sever a man’s head so cleanly, and leave no bloody trace? Why remove the head at all?
Tell the police!
No, he countered himself. Not yet. I want to see.
It was exactly nine o’clock—Savoy checked his pocket watch to confirm—when a clattering of oiled wheels interrupted the silence. From an adjoining street came a black stagecoach with crimson trim, its driver wrapped in a robe and turban and heavy fur muffler. Four black geldings pulled with their mouths puffing steam, their iron-clad hooves cracking against the brick of the street. The coach rolled to a stop beside the park gate, and the driver descended.
“Is he here?” Savoy whispered. “I do not see him.”
“There.” Grant motioned ahead and to the left. “Someone.”
Savoy strained to see, and saw only muddled shapes. Soon the driver returned to his perch, flicked the reins, and the massive coach rolled away. Before Savoy could urge his horses forward they saw another shape: a shrouded hansom, materializing from the fog, following the coach as it rolled down North Metairie Road. The driver was a typical New Orleans cabby in his longcoat and top hat and whip, but there was no indication as to the identity of the passenger. When the black coach turned south, the hansom did also.
Savoy snapped the reins and the horses lurched forward. He kept pace with both vehicles, keeping well enough back. They left the park, down twisting streets where lamps flickered like sickly stars, the street checkered with light from tenement windows. Wherever the stagecoach turned, the hansom followed.
Savoy did his best to keep sight of them both.
***
“I know what plagues your family,” Kiria said, Reynard seated across from her, “because we are distant kin, monsieur . Our common curse began nearly three hundred years ago with Giorgio Basta.”
“I know of him,” Reynard said with distaste.
“Then you must know of his unholy pact to serve the Church, or thwart it, whatever tale you might have been told, and the price his children have since paid for his blasphemy. He was a prolific man, easy with his mistresses, and his blood spread. Two hundred years ago one branch, the Family Carlofé, returned to the Balkans and became Carlovec, and there we remained until great-grandfather relocated to South Africa seventy years ago. My grandfather joined the Dutch in their expansion to Kalimantan...then relocated to North Borneo once the British made their claim. We have been there ever since.” She knitted her fingers together. “We thought Basta’s blood all but spent.”
“You say your father is dying.”
“He is afflicted.”
“How can you know?”
“I know,” she said, looking away. “My grandfather was also burdened. It was thought such a curse had no cure, having come from Hell, but we Carlovecs are stubborn people. We defy the devil himself.”
“The Beast has no master,” Reynard said.
“Indeed,” she said. “Father maintained a stellar career despite his burden, but Basta’s Curse is destroying his health, his mind, his will to live. He has spent his life and fortune to find a cure; my grandfather spent his life in the same pursuit. Only recently did my father see progress. He is on the brink. When he learned there was someone else like him, another so afflicted, someone who had found the means to hold off his own curse—”
“Just how did you learn this information?”
“—He sent me to plead for your help.”
“I do not think it can be replicated,” Reynard said.
“Then come with me. Teach us. I would front all expenses.”
“You could afford me?”
“Father has done well for himself,” she said.
“Do you bear this
Tell the police!
No, he countered himself. Not yet. I want to see.
It was exactly nine o’clock—Savoy checked his pocket watch to confirm—when a clattering of oiled wheels interrupted the silence. From an adjoining street came a black stagecoach with crimson trim, its driver wrapped in a robe and turban and heavy fur muffler. Four black geldings pulled with their mouths puffing steam, their iron-clad hooves cracking against the brick of the street. The coach rolled to a stop beside the park gate, and the driver descended.
“Is he here?” Savoy whispered. “I do not see him.”
“There.” Grant motioned ahead and to the left. “Someone.”
Savoy strained to see, and saw only muddled shapes. Soon the driver returned to his perch, flicked the reins, and the massive coach rolled away. Before Savoy could urge his horses forward they saw another shape: a shrouded hansom, materializing from the fog, following the coach as it rolled down North Metairie Road. The driver was a typical New Orleans cabby in his longcoat and top hat and whip, but there was no indication as to the identity of the passenger. When the black coach turned south, the hansom did also.
Savoy snapped the reins and the horses lurched forward. He kept pace with both vehicles, keeping well enough back. They left the park, down twisting streets where lamps flickered like sickly stars, the street checkered with light from tenement windows. Wherever the stagecoach turned, the hansom followed.
Savoy did his best to keep sight of them both.
***
“I know what plagues your family,” Kiria said, Reynard seated across from her, “because we are distant kin, monsieur . Our common curse began nearly three hundred years ago with Giorgio Basta.”
“I know of him,” Reynard said with distaste.
“Then you must know of his unholy pact to serve the Church, or thwart it, whatever tale you might have been told, and the price his children have since paid for his blasphemy. He was a prolific man, easy with his mistresses, and his blood spread. Two hundred years ago one branch, the Family Carlofé, returned to the Balkans and became Carlovec, and there we remained until great-grandfather relocated to South Africa seventy years ago. My grandfather joined the Dutch in their expansion to Kalimantan...then relocated to North Borneo once the British made their claim. We have been there ever since.” She knitted her fingers together. “We thought Basta’s blood all but spent.”
“You say your father is dying.”
“He is afflicted.”
“How can you know?”
“I know,” she said, looking away. “My grandfather was also burdened. It was thought such a curse had no cure, having come from Hell, but we Carlovecs are stubborn people. We defy the devil himself.”
“The Beast has no master,” Reynard said.
“Indeed,” she said. “Father maintained a stellar career despite his burden, but Basta’s Curse is destroying his health, his mind, his will to live. He has spent his life and fortune to find a cure; my grandfather spent his life in the same pursuit. Only recently did my father see progress. He is on the brink. When he learned there was someone else like him, another so afflicted, someone who had found the means to hold off his own curse—”
“Just how did you learn this information?”
“—He sent me to plead for your help.”
“I do not think it can be replicated,” Reynard said.
“Then come with me. Teach us. I would front all expenses.”
“You could afford me?”
“Father has done well for himself,” she said.
“Do you bear this
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