The Martian Falcon (Lovecraft & Fort) Read online

  ‘In order to create a genuinely terrifying and convincing weird tale,’ Lovecraft replied, ‘one must first acquaint oneself with all manner of research into both scientific fact and occult lore. Only then will one possess the tools necessary for the composition of fiction which is both shuddersome in its implications and authentic in its background.’

  Oh, Jesus, thought Fort.

  ‘For this reason, for the sake of my art, if you will forgive the presumptuousness, I have made just such studies over many years.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said Fort, taking off his glasses and polishing them with his handkerchief. In spite of his caution, a tiny smudge of Penny’s lipstick found its way onto one of the lenses. He tutted and polished anew.

  ‘Yes, Mr Fort, it is. In fact, I would have to say that I believe myself to be just the man for whom you are looking…’

  ‘Do you always speak the way you write?’

  ‘I… I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  In spite of the man’s awkwardness, Fort found himself warming to Howard Lovecraft. He seemed so completely and utterly… inoffensive, not to mention polite; and politeness in New York City was about as rare as a plutonium sandwich.

  Fort finally got the lipstick off his glasses, put them back on and saw that Lovecraft was gazing in unabashed curiosity at the enormous bank of file cabinets. He glanced at his host and gave a quick, nervous smile.

  ‘Do they pertain to your cases, Mr Fort?’

  ‘Some. Most are what you might call private research.’

  ‘May I enquire along what lines?’

  ‘The same as my professional work: unexplained events, strange phenomena… weird stuff, if you like.’

  ‘Really?’

  Fort nodded. ‘In my spare time, I collect accounts of such things…’

  ‘Which things in particular?’ asked Lovecraft, leaning forward a little.

  ‘I’ve made a careful examination of pretty much every field of human enquiry – astronomy, biology, chemistry, sociology, psychology, history, geography, exploration, you name it – looking for the phenomena that don’t fit…’

  ‘That don’t fit?’ echoed Lovecraft. ‘That don’t fit into what?’

  ‘Our view of the way the world works – or should work. Put it this way: we know that the supernatural exists; we see it every day. Ghosts, zombies, vampires, demonic entities, angelic entities, spontaneous teleportation, strange lights in the sky, all the things that shouldn’t exist according to the rules of science, but exist nevertheless. Science is unable to explain them, so it ignores them. I believe that’s a narrow-minded approach.’

  ‘I would have to agree,’ said Lovecraft, ‘although science has been struggling towards a unified theory of the supernatural for two hundred years…’

  ‘And it’s come up with doodly-squat so far. It’s like Einstein and the unified field theory. You can talk about quantum mechanics, and you can talk about gravity, but you can’t talk about them together. It’s the same with the natural world and the supernatural world: no one can find a way to make them fit together. There’s a new paradigm of reality out there somewhere, waiting to be discovered, and science has given up on finding it.’

  ‘But you haven’t,’ said Lovecraft.

  Fort looked at the bank of file cabinets. ‘No… at least, not yet. But sometimes I wonder if I’m wasting my time. I’ve spent half my life in the world’s greatest libraries, collecting data from newspapers and scientific periodicals, not to mention the notes I’ve made on the phenomena I encounter in my day-to-day work. I call it the “science of anomalistics”, when I’m in a good mood.’

  ‘And when you’re not in a good mood?’

  ‘I call it damned data.’

  ‘Damned?’

  ‘Excluded. Ignored. A procession of the damned: livid and rotten. Battalions of the accursed, you might say. Things that don’t fit. Phenomena that shouldn’t exist, but do.’

  ‘But is it entirely true that science ignores such phenomena?’ countered Lovecraft. ‘Many universities have supernatural faculties: Harvard, Princeton, Miskatonic here in America; Oxford and Cambridge in England; the Sorbonne in Paris; the University of Buenos Aires in Argentina. There is work being done on the problem of the paranormal.’

  ‘Yeah, but like you said, that work’s been going on for the last two hundred years, and what have we got to show for it?’

  Lovecraft smiled. ‘I admire your ambition, sir. Perhaps you should write up your research in a book.’

  ‘I am, in my spare time. I call it the Book of the Damned.’

  Fort took in the smile and realised that he’d told Lovecraft more about himself than he’d intended. Suddenly, he felt like he was the one being interviewed. He should have been annoyed, but somehow he wasn’t.

  ‘What do you know about Mars, Mr Lovecraft – and the Martian Falcon in particular?’

  Lovecraft raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sudden change of direction. ‘Well… I know it was stolen last night.’

  ‘Yeah, you and the rest of the country. What else?’

  ‘It’s an artefact created by the civilisation that once existed on Mars, about five million years ago. We believe that the Martians became extinct as a result of catastrophic changes in the climate of their world – at least, that’s the conclusion drawn by the NCPE following their examination of the data gathered by the X-M expedition… although I have to say I’ve wondered about that, in view of the problems suffered by the crew upon their return.’

  Fort nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve wondered about that myself.’

  ‘And then there are the rumours concerning the hieroglyphs…’

  Fort regarded Lovecraft in silence for a moment. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘As a member of the United Amateur Press Association, I am in contact with a great many correspondents, from all walks of life – including those of academia. Many have commented on the failure to translate the hieroglyphs discovered in Cydonia…’

  ‘It’s understandable enough, though, isn’t it?’ said Fort. ‘There’s no Rosetta Stone on Mars – at least, none that was discovered by the crew of the X-M.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Lovecraft, leaning forward again, a sudden look of excitement animating his gaunt face. ‘That’s where the rumours come in. Some of my correspondents have speculated that the expedition may indeed have discovered something like the Rosetta Stone – or at least something which allowed the NCPE to begin proper translation work on the hieroglyphs found in the city… and especially those found in the chamber where the Falcon was discovered.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Fort slowly. ‘And you’re suggesting that the NCPE doesn’t like what the hieroglyphs say and have suppressed that information, right?’

  ‘Not me – my correspondents.’

  ‘But you think there might be some truth to the rumours.’

  Lovecraft shrugged. ‘One is forced to wonder why the crew of the X-M dropped out of the public eye so suddenly, amid suggestions that they were suffering from mental difficulties, and why the Falcon was the only artefact brought back from Mars that was placed within a lead-lined receptacle prior to its transfer to the Metropolitan Museum… not to mention why it was stolen. Now, I admit that there is no link between those questions and my correspondents’ speculations on the possible translation of the Martian hieroglyphs…’

  Fort held up a hand. ‘Okay, I accept that… but it’s intriguing nevertheless. Who are these correspondents of yours? What are their credentials?’

  ‘Their credentials are impeccable, I assure you,’ said Lovecraft, and Fort marvelled at his ability to convey simultaneously both enthusiasm and mild offense. ‘George Angell is Professor Emeritus of Semitic Languages at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island – my hometown, incidentally – and Dr Albert Wilmarth teaches history and fol
klore at Miskatonic.’

  ‘They sound like an impressive enough pair,’ conceded Fort, ‘but what makes them think that the NCPE has secretly managed to translate the Martian hieroglyphs?’

  ‘There’s one intriguing thing which set their speculations in motion; not exactly evidence, I must admit, but…’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I take it you listened with fascination to the dispatches from Mars during the expedition.’

  ‘Of course I did, along with half the world.’

  ‘Do you recall Captain Smith’s statement that they had retrieved nine samples of hieroglyphs from the city – the so-called rock books – and that they would be bringing them back to Earth?’

  Fort nodded, his fingers tapping impatiently on the desk blotter.

  Lovecraft leaned forward a little further on his chair. ‘And do you also recall how many rock books were transferred to the Metropolitan Museum for display to the public?’

  Fort’s fingers stopped tapping. ‘Eight.’

  ‘The question is, Mr Fort: what happened to the ninth book?’

  ‘The NCPE must still have it.’

  ‘Indeed. And why did they see fit to keep it?’

  ‘That’s another question.’

  ‘A question to which it may be worth seeking an answer, don’t you think?’

  ‘Mr Lovecraft…’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fort?’

  ‘Call me Charles. You’ve got yourself a job.’

  CHAPTER 5

  The Big Toothpick

  Johnny Sanguine adjusted his black silk necktie in the mirror and smoothed his eyebrows with his tongue. He regarded the pale, lean, handsome face, the broad forehead, the finely-chiselled alabaster cheekbones, the deep brown-blackness of the almond-shaped eyes above the perfectly-proportioned nose, and smiled. His crimson lips parted to reveal glistening, pearl-white fangs.

  While it was true that to human eyes, vampires cast no reflection in mirrors, vampires could see themselves perfectly clearly.

  And Johnny Sanguine liked what he saw.

  His tongue, long, thin and ten times more prehensile than a human tongue, inched outward again and curved back to caress his fangs; slowly running down the length of them, taking in the smooth, graceful curves and pausing at the needle-sharp points.

  ‘Admiring yourself again, Johnny?’ said a female voice behind him, low and sensual, like ambergris-scented smoke.

  Sanguine’s smile faded slowly, tongue withdrawing, red lips closing over fangs, sheathing them once more. ‘What’s not to admire?’ he asked quietly, his eyes finding hers in the mirror.

  While Sanguine’s eyes were nearly black, those of Rusty Links were almost luminous in their tawny magnificence, and the deep red of her long hair complemented them the way a sunset complements late-autumn leaves.

  She joined him at the mirror, looked squarely at his reflection, and reached with her left hand to stroke the back of his head. ‘Not much.’

  He gazed at her reflection for a long moment. She wore a white blouse beneath a charcoal-grey jacket and skirt and high heels. Her black silk stockings made her long legs shimmer like quicksilver.

  ‘What do you want, Rusty?’ said Johnny Sanguine.

  ‘It’s here,’ she replied.

  ‘The Falcon?’

  ‘The Falcon.’

  Johnny Sanguine turned suddenly from the mirror and glided to the centre of the drawing room. When he turned to regard Rusty Links once more, the feral smile had returned to his lips. ‘Finally!’ he said.

  Rusty looked around the room at the fine antique furnishings, the heavy velvet drapes flanking the windows, the crystal chandelier that hung like a thousand frozen dewdrops from the gilded ceiling rose, and said: ‘It’s going to look great in here, Johnny.’

  ‘More than that, sister,’ Sanguine replied, his grin growing yet wilder. ‘It’s going to get that diesel-powered bastard thrown in jail. With him out of the picture, I can expand into Chicago. Nothing can stop me. You wanna come along for the ride?’

  Rusty returned his grin. ‘You know I do, Johnny.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Bring it in!’ Sanguine shouted.

  The door opened, and a male vampire entered, carrying an object which had been carefully wrapped in pale chamois leather. Sanguine indicated a Regency writing table between the two tall sash windows. ‘Thanks, Carmine,’ he said. ‘Put it there.’

  ‘You got it, boss,’ Carmine said, and placed the object on the table. ‘You need anything else, boss?’

  ‘Nah. Beat it.’

  Carmine nodded and left the room.

  Sanguine approached the object and slowly unwrapped the chamois, revealing the statue.

  The obsidian from which it had been fashioned five million years ago glinted and glistened with a strange mineral life, as if the light playing upon the folded wings and the feathered breast and the great, beaked head were sliding down to the table top instead of reflecting the way light should.

  Johnny Sanguine and Rusty Links looked in silence at the Martian Falcon. The Falcon looked back at them.

  ‘So beautiful,’ whispered Rusty.

  Sanguine ran a long-nailed finger from the top of the statue’s head, along its beak to the exquisitely-carved feathers upon the breast. ‘It almost looks alive,’ he said. ‘Look at the eyes, how they shine… like there’s something behind them.’

  He leaned over and peered more closely into the Falcon’s obsidian eyes. As he did so, Rusty took a couple of slow paces back towards one of the sash windows. Without looking behind her, she placed a hand on the latch, undid it, and slowly and silently raised the window. A breeze, warm and slight, entered the drawing room.

  Sanguine did not notice.

  ‘Have the zombies been taken care of?’ he asked, his gaze still held by the Falcon’s.

  ‘Yeah. They’ve been deactivated. Now they’re just dead men again. They were left in the alley behind the Algonquin, like you ordered.’

  ‘Good. Once that security guard from the museum recovers, he’ll be able to ID them. That’ll put Capone well and truly in the frame.’

  ‘It was a good plan, Johnny,’ said Rusty, her voice growing slightly deeper.

  Sanguine did not notice that, either.

  ‘You bet your sweet ass it was, baby,’ he replied, still gazing with fascination into the eyes of the Martian Falcon.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rusty, as the tone of her flawless skin began to change, moving from alabaster to pink to crimson, ‘a very good plan. Nothing can stop you now.’

  She raised a hand and pointed her index finger at Sanguine’s back; as she did so, the perfectly manicured nail grew until the nail varnish cracked and split and floated to the floor in red flakes.

  The nail continued to grow until it was ten inches long. It had become as black as the Martian Falcon.

  ‘Nothing except me.’

  She plunged the nail into Sanguine’s back, slightly to the left of his spine.

  He gasped, pulled himself erect, turned to face her, his handsome features contorted in a spasm of fear, shock and agony. He would have screamed a curse at her, were it not for the fact that his throat was already turning to dust.

  What happened next took a handful of seconds. Rusty Links closed her eyes and concentrated on the form she wished to assume. Her white blouse and dark jacket split apart beneath a surge of powerful muscles and unfolding wings; her skirt and stockings ripped open and fell to the floor as her pelvis expanded and her legs grew in length, bending with sudden new joints. Her dainty shoes burst like overfilled balloons as cruelly-taloned, three-toed feet spread upon the soft, deep carpet.

  Johnny Sanguine fell to his knees and, in the final moment before his eyes turned to steam, looked into the hideous, drooling face of the foul red thing Rusty had become.
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  ‘Sorry, Johnny,’ it said in a voice like an earthquake. ‘Someone else needs this… someone much more important than you.’

  As the Vampire King of Brooklyn collapsed into a contorted heap of dust, the thing grabbed the Martian Falcon with a clawed hand, strode to the open window and squeezed itself onto the ledge outside. Then, spreading its vast bat-like wings, it took to the air and flapped away across the city.

  CHAPTER 6

  Crystalman

  The thing that had been Rusty Links – that was still her – soared into the hot June sky, the muscles on its crimson back flexing and bulging with each flap of its black, membranous wings as it left the noisy streets of Brooklyn far below. It glanced once at the glinting spires of the city to the east, and then turned its course northeast across Long Island.

  Flying high enough so that to anyone on the ground it would have appeared as nothing more sinister than a slightly odd-looking bird, it made its way past the towns and villages that dotted the island, past Garden City and Uniondale, Brentwood and Holbrook, out past Manorville and the Hamptons, only losing altitude at a point midway between East Hampton and Montauk.

  It descended quickly towards a large estate surrounded by a high stone wall that was topped with wrought iron spikes. At the centre of the estate stood a gigantic Neo-Renaissance mansion with a three-storey tower at each corner and an elaborately turreted roofline. Modelled on Mentmore Towers in Buckinghamshire, England, which had been designed by Sir Joseph Paxton in 1852 for Baron Mayer de Rothschild, and constructed of pale ochre ashlar, this mansion was by far the largest and most impressive of all the great houses of Long Island.

  Little was known about the man who owned the house, although rumours abounded concerning the source of his wealth. Some said it had come from oil, others suggested precious metals or commodities; still others opined that he was a European breakfast cereal magnate who preferred the Mediterranean to New York – hence the infrequency of his visits to his Long Island Shangri La. No one could agree on where his money had come from, but all agreed that there was plenty of it.

  The one thing they did know was his name: Felix Carlton.