Shadows Out of Time

He stopped a yard short of a brick wall that blocked the entire tunnel. Crowley knew he was still some distance from the original end, which had faced New York Bay. Somebody wanted this section double-sealed. Who? Why? And how recently?

He ran his flashlight beam along the edges of the wall, then turned it off, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

A faint green luminescence glowed in the lower left corner.

Crowley knelt closer. The light seemed to ooze from a gap in the cracked lip of a carved stone box. He ran his fingers over the unfamiliar symbols, as if reading Braille. When the fleshy tips started to go numb, he pulled back.

He tried to pick up the box, and found it was partially embedded in that wall. Removing a chisel from his left pocket, Crowley started chipping away. When he felt the box shift, he put away his tool and tugged hard with both hands.

He winced at the pain in his back and strained as the object resisted. Then it popped free.

The lid flew open, emitting a blinding flash of green light. Crowley slammed it shut at once. Whatever was contained within was definitely beyond the pale of mere saboteurs.

Behind him, a thin, cracking voice asked, “Was ist los?”

Crowley! Robert Suydam fumed as he stood on the curb at Atlantic Avenue, midway between Clinton and Henry Streets. He turned to hide his anger, though no one could see his face. How in the name of the Elder Gods did that fraud get connected to the U.S. government’s Bureau of Investigation?

Or was he? It seemed far more likely the eccentric cult leader had also somehow discovered hints of the ancient, alien artifact hidden below these streets. He probably slipped past the Bureau agents as a side-effect of the distraction spell Suydam himself had cast. Even a buffoon like Crowley, who gave serious masters of the dark arts a bad name, might occasionally stumble across objects of import. The old man was tempted to keep his distance. Let the fool destroy himself.

No. Such inaction might cost Suydam his own opportunity to obtain the precious artifact.

He boldly strode up to, then past, two government men standing near the jack-hammered entry. His long frock coat flapped. He waved his cane dramatically by its heavy brass grip, as if daring them to react.

Moments later, Robert Suydam was below street level.

Aside from an occasional glimpse of a distant flashlight beam, the tunnel was pitch dark. This was no problem for Suydam’s heightened senses. The Lustrous Triacontahedron was definitely located towards the south end. He could feel it.

He turned in that direction.

And collided with a thick-muscled teenager trying to slip past him.

Suydam grabbed the newcomer by the shoulders.

“Hey!” the lad whispered. “Get your meathooks off me.”

“Hey, indeed,” Suydam replied, releasing the boy. “You shouldn’t be able to see me. Who are you?”

“My friends call me Al. What’s it to you?”

“Friends are overrated, unless they’re in a jar. Al what?”

“Al as in that’s all you get.” Young Alphonse Capone was too street-smart to give this creep his full name. He regretted even blurting out his real first name. “Anyway, who the hell are you? You’re not with the Bureau.”

“Clever Al. Why are you down here, child?”

Eyes adjusting to the dark, the two figures could just make out each other’s faces. Even with his back bent with age, Suydam towered over the lad by several inches.

“I’m not a child,” Capone replied. Then, in a softer voice, his bravado cracking the tiniest bit, “I’m not sure. I just walked past those agents. I could have sworn they…”

“…looked right at you. I need to refine that spell. Make it more specific. Again. Why are you down here?”

The boy regained his composure. “I’m keeping an eye on that Irish guy. For a…friend. You?”

“The same, for myself. I suggest you leave me to it, boy.”

Capone tightened his jaw. “I keep my commitments.”

“You can follow your prey when he leaves.”

“That’s not good enough, old man. I’m supposed to find out what he’s doing down here, see if it has anything to do with…never mind what. Now, get out of my way.” The teenager started to walk around Suydam.

Barely moving, Suydam tripped the young man with the end of his cane, knocking him to the ground. Capone grasped the hem of the man’s cloak. Snarling, Suydam raised his cane in threat.

“If you touch my face,” Capone warned, his free hand feeling for the switchblade in his pocket, “you’re a dead man.”

Suydam lowered the staff. He was beginning to, not exactly like the boy, but to not detest him quite so much. “A truce, then. A deal, if you will. You continue to follow that man. Don’t hold back. Confront him. Ask him directly what he’s up to. His ego is massive. He’ll tell you everything you want to know, and more. Especially if you say you recognized him from the newspapers. His name is Aleister Crowley.”

“I know his name. I still don’t know yours.” Capone glowered through narrowed eyes at the shadowy, white-haired man. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

“Your distracting him will allow me to find what I seek.”