The Arcanum by Thomas Wheeler Page A

They were hunting him like pack animals, trying to lure him out of hiding. Old instincts took over: old senses, old skills that had been dulled over time by city life.
    Dexter concentrated on the wind, and when it flowed his way, he tried to read the scents upon it. But the moon caught on something steel in the playground, between the trees. Dexter feinted left then rolled right, rising up fast, ready to shoot.
    Then he spun southward again as a new volley of squeals threw his senses off. He couldn’t count the numbers. Three? Ten? He began to sense movement all around now, in every shadow, in every alley and doorway. A gleam of ruby eyes.
    There was movement behind him again.
    Dexter spun about and caught a glimpse of brown robes snaking up a tenement stairwell.
    More waited all around him.
    Dexter walked in a small circle, listening to them breathe.
    A twig snapped.
    Dexter swung his rifle around as two silver axes sliced the air.
    “Yaji-ash-shuthath,”
his attacker hissed as one of the axes bit through his coat sleeve, taking with it a chunk of flesh.
    Dexter fired wildly into the trees, sending dozens of pigeons fleeing across the moon.
    With his attacker too close now to shoot, Dexter used the rifle as a cudgel. The ax blades rang off the forged frame of the shotgun, striking sparks with every blow. Dexter spun around, throwing off his opponent’s balance, and caught him in the side of the head with the walnut stock. A shard of blue glass dropped from the attacker’s face and he stumbled away. Dexter’s hands were shaking as he searched for a shell in his pockets. He saw his opponent steadying himself, readying for another attack, and Dexter was suddenly aware of his own blood dripping from his fingers; he felt its stickiness beneath his coat sleeve. The wound was deep.
    He turned to run, but they were already upon him.
    They swayed forth from the stygian darkness, lithe robed bodies with drooping hoods concealing long faces with glowing red rubies instead of eyes. Thin stalks of wood, like beaks, substituted for noses. Clutched in their gloved fists were enormous scythes gleaming silver. Their heads bobbed, crowlike, and they seemed to communicate without language, though their breath gurgled through lungs thick with mucus.
    Dexter roared as they closed around him, the air hissing with the passing of blades. He heard three sickening thunks and a wet gasp.
    The creatures yanked their blades free of his torso, spraying the air with blood, then swooped in again like raptors. Dexter’s hands went to his punctured throat as his knees buckled. His eyes turned skyward, but the heavens were obscured by bloody hooks and staring ruby eyes.

16
    DOYLE LEFT THE Manhattan Club on Fourth and Madison Square in an ill humor. His breath stank of cigars and his chest burned from gulping several brandies. He wavered in the cold autumn air and tried to gather himself.
    “Need a car, mistah?”
    He turned to an unsmiling black man with penetrating eyes and a tilted top hat. Something was strung around the brim of the hat, something white. Doyle could not make it out. He stepped into the back of the Lexington sedan.
    “I’m headed to the—” He jolted back as the car lurched forward. “The Penn Hotel, please, and no rush.”
    The coachman ignored him. Doyle leaned forward, and saw that the objects strung about the brim of his top hat were small animal bones. A severed chicken foot dangled from the front mirror.
    Doyle frowned at the voodoo ornaments; his history with that religion was fraught. Among its highest priests and priestesses, he could name both hated opponents and beloved allies. And he feared it. He knew that voodoo was more than just religion. It was instead some mystical transmitter to a lawless universe of primal, passionate spirits, both beautiful and ugly.
    Doyle settled back into the seat and turned his thoughts instead to the matter of Lovecraft. Houdini’s refusal made his task all the more difficult, and