Read Online Hold The Dark: A Markhat story by Frank Tuttle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frank Tuttle
Tags: Fantasy
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probably be wearing Avalante’s crossed swords as the Big Bell clanged out midnight and someone knocked softly at my door.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“E.P.,” said a voice. He was speaking softly, loud enough for me to hear, but not so loud as to be forceful. He pronounced his words carefully, like a schoolmarm was listening. “Evis Prestley. I believe you are expecting me.”
I rose. “It isn’t locked.” Not much use locking doors against vampires who could haul them right out of their frames with two fingers. “Come on in.”
He did.
He was halfdead.
I fought to keep my smile. He glided inside, closed the door gently behind him, took a single step away from it, and then came to parade rest, his gloved hands clasped behind him at the small of his back.
I nodded toward the client’s chair. “Won’t you have a seat?” My voice didn’t shake. Much.
He nodded, moved and sat. He hadn’t spoken, and I gathered he was refraining from speaking largely to avoid showing me a jawful of fangs.
As I understand matters, that gesture passes for rare high regard among the halfdead. I made myself take a breath, and I sat as well.
We just looked at each other, engulfed in an awkward silence. I took him in as quickly as I could. He was short, a full head shorter than myself, and thinner. Neat short black hair combed up and back from a widow’s peak. Skin the color of new dough. Small thin nose, as white as a fresh-peeled potato. Eyes that had been blue while he lived and were still blue but obscured by a white glaze that made them look like dirty marbles.
He wore rich man’s black—black pants, black shirt, black vest, knee-length black coat, all tailor-made and custom cut. A pin shone on his lapel—the crossed swords, in silver, of House Avalante. His collar was high, black gloves covered his hands—he’d taken pains, I gathered, to conceal as much of his dead pale skin as possible.
“Evis Prestley,” I said. “You sent the list of names.”
“I did,” he replied. His mouth, when he opened it, was white, and his teeth were wet and sharp. “And in doing so I fear I caused you insult. Mr. Sacks was told to deliver it to your office and return to the House. He was not instructed to follow you. The House offers its apologies, as does Mr. Sacks.”
“Accepted. And by the way—if Ronnie is the best tail you’ve got, you’d better get out of the business.”
He smiled with his mouth firmly closed. “We at Avalante value initiative. Mr. Sacks was attempting to impress us. A pity he didn’t choose a venue more suited to his talents.”
I nodded. I was breathing a little easier. If he was going to bite, I figure he’d have done so by now. Maybe it was his voice, too—nothing weak about it, but I kept expecting him to start lecturing me in the finer points of antebellum architectural history.
I noticed him squinting, decided I could show off my manners too.
“I can turn down the lamps, if you want. I didn’t think of it earlier.”
Evis shook his head no, reached into his jacket and pulled a pair of dark-lensed spectacles out of his breast pocket. “No need.” He brought the glasses up to his nose, peeped over them with his dead man’s eyes. “If you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” I said. He put his glasses on. I was glad his eyes were covered, and he probably knew it.
“I didn’t come here to talk about the bumbling antics of Mr. Sacks. We share a common goal, Mr. Markhat. We’re both looking for Martha Hoobin.”
I frowned. “I thought as much. Mind telling me why House Avalante cares what happened to the Velvet’s star seamstress?”
He sighed. “All I can tell you, Mr. Markhat, is that the House wants to see Martha Hoobin returned to her family, safe and sound and soon.”
I nodded. “Ah, yes. The renowned altruism of the Great Houses. What’s next, Mr. Prestley? Going to ask to buy my office so House Avalante can build an orphanage on this very spot?”
He laughed. I
“Who is it?” I asked.
“E.P.,” said a voice. He was speaking softly, loud enough for me to hear, but not so loud as to be forceful. He pronounced his words carefully, like a schoolmarm was listening. “Evis Prestley. I believe you are expecting me.”
I rose. “It isn’t locked.” Not much use locking doors against vampires who could haul them right out of their frames with two fingers. “Come on in.”
He did.
He was halfdead.
I fought to keep my smile. He glided inside, closed the door gently behind him, took a single step away from it, and then came to parade rest, his gloved hands clasped behind him at the small of his back.
I nodded toward the client’s chair. “Won’t you have a seat?” My voice didn’t shake. Much.
He nodded, moved and sat. He hadn’t spoken, and I gathered he was refraining from speaking largely to avoid showing me a jawful of fangs.
As I understand matters, that gesture passes for rare high regard among the halfdead. I made myself take a breath, and I sat as well.
We just looked at each other, engulfed in an awkward silence. I took him in as quickly as I could. He was short, a full head shorter than myself, and thinner. Neat short black hair combed up and back from a widow’s peak. Skin the color of new dough. Small thin nose, as white as a fresh-peeled potato. Eyes that had been blue while he lived and were still blue but obscured by a white glaze that made them look like dirty marbles.
He wore rich man’s black—black pants, black shirt, black vest, knee-length black coat, all tailor-made and custom cut. A pin shone on his lapel—the crossed swords, in silver, of House Avalante. His collar was high, black gloves covered his hands—he’d taken pains, I gathered, to conceal as much of his dead pale skin as possible.
“Evis Prestley,” I said. “You sent the list of names.”
“I did,” he replied. His mouth, when he opened it, was white, and his teeth were wet and sharp. “And in doing so I fear I caused you insult. Mr. Sacks was told to deliver it to your office and return to the House. He was not instructed to follow you. The House offers its apologies, as does Mr. Sacks.”
“Accepted. And by the way—if Ronnie is the best tail you’ve got, you’d better get out of the business.”
He smiled with his mouth firmly closed. “We at Avalante value initiative. Mr. Sacks was attempting to impress us. A pity he didn’t choose a venue more suited to his talents.”
I nodded. I was breathing a little easier. If he was going to bite, I figure he’d have done so by now. Maybe it was his voice, too—nothing weak about it, but I kept expecting him to start lecturing me in the finer points of antebellum architectural history.
I noticed him squinting, decided I could show off my manners too.
“I can turn down the lamps, if you want. I didn’t think of it earlier.”
Evis shook his head no, reached into his jacket and pulled a pair of dark-lensed spectacles out of his breast pocket. “No need.” He brought the glasses up to his nose, peeped over them with his dead man’s eyes. “If you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” I said. He put his glasses on. I was glad his eyes were covered, and he probably knew it.
“I didn’t come here to talk about the bumbling antics of Mr. Sacks. We share a common goal, Mr. Markhat. We’re both looking for Martha Hoobin.”
I frowned. “I thought as much. Mind telling me why House Avalante cares what happened to the Velvet’s star seamstress?”
He sighed. “All I can tell you, Mr. Markhat, is that the House wants to see Martha Hoobin returned to her family, safe and sound and soon.”
I nodded. “Ah, yes. The renowned altruism of the Great Houses. What’s next, Mr. Prestley? Going to ask to buy my office so House Avalante can build an orphanage on this very spot?”
He laughed. I
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