The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [148]
Which is where he was now, on the opposite side of Patron's Way, making no attempt to hide himself. He wanted to be seen. Or maybe they would smell him first.
Either way, he didn't have to wait long. And it was interesting. Because when the Psychomatics stepped out of the Salon they arranged themselves in a line and stared straight at him through the crowd ― four of them, all fit-looking fucks with headscarves wrapped around their ― No, there were five ― a lithe little bitch who looked like a wastrel, hardly noticeable at all.
The Gutter caught her eye and grinned. She was the one. And all the time she stared straight at him.
Clearly, she had recognised him for what he was.
The Light That Never Shines had dressed herself in a skin that made her look as ordinary as possible. As she led the Psychomatics out of the Salon, she quickly assessed the crowd. Within seconds, she saw him.
"There," she said. "Across the street."
"The filthy one?"
She gave a single nod.
"Stop here," she said. "Stare at him. I want to get a measure of his reactions, see if I can work out a weakness."
She couldn't. He didn't give her time.
Instead, he grinned and vanished up a lane that led into the Cerebral District ― an interesting choice.
"The dog wants for us to follow him," said one of her companions.
"All right," said the Light That Never Shines. "Let's do what the dog says."
The Covenant of Ichor were an underground sect of religious fanatics who adhered to the belief that it was the role of women to moderate the predominance of their masculine counterparts with whatever ruthless or violent measures were necessary.
The Sisters of No Mercy had, on occasions, aligned themselves to the Ichorites on the pretext of being volunteer assassins who were sympathetic to the Ichorite cause. The Ichorites were in awe of the Sisters, and saw them, perhaps, as a physical embodiment of an ethereal female influence which, they believed, permeated every aspect of animal, vegetable and mineral existence.
"And who's to say they're not fucking right?" Little Sister had said.
"Fucking right," Big Sister agreed. "Even though they're fucking wrong."
But they weren't wrong about other things. They weren't wrong, for example, about where the Gutter had taken up his temporary residence in the City of Thrills.
"Interesting choice," remarked Little Sister when the leader of the local order told them.
"Very interesting," said Big Sister.
"But not a good one."
"No," said Big Sister, "not fucking good at all."
Little Sister turned to face the leader of the local order. "So, he killed the servitors and spilled their guts in the basement, right?"
"Right," said the leader of the local order. "The place is his."
"And now he's playing some game of chase with these fuckers from the Salon."
"Yes. It appears he's leading them to the Museum itself."
Little Sister looked at Big Sister. "What do you think, Sister?"
"I think he's fucking leading them into a fucking trap."
"Why?" said Little Sister.
"Because he's after someone."
"Who?" said Little Sister.
"Someone he wants to lead into a fucking trap."
"But," said Little Sister, "who the fuck would be dumb enough to fall for that?"
Big Sister smiled. "Someone who thinks they can trap him back."
"Someone like us?"
Big Sister nodded. "Someone very like us."
"But not as good."
Big Sister frowned. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."
The Museum of Darkest Arts was one of the most forgotten buildings in the entire city. To call it a Museum, in fact, was something of a misnomer. In truth, it was more a repository of disastrous failures accumulated over eons of artistic endeavour which had resulted, naturally, in its fair share of flops. Many of these flops had come to rest in the Museum of Darkest Arts, which had acquired its name more in jest than in earnest.
The building itself was largely obscured by the buildings around it, which wasn't a bad thing. Inside, it consisted of innumerable corridors, stairways and halls, all of which were bent out of shape