Fear Her Wrath II: Crucible of Glass

Chapter 10

You know the way actors move in silent films? That unnatural way they seem to speak with their eyes and hands instead of their mouths? Like Cesare in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, or Count Orlok in Nosferatu?

Maybe I've just seen too many old horror movies.

Anyways, the Piano-Tuner reminded me of that. He didn't seem to talk—at least, if whistling doesn't count as talking—but he was easy enough to read. His eyes said "I am about to murder you" just as clearly as any intertitles could, and the piano wire stretched between his hands made me suddenly anxious for the safety of my neck. I should have known Anselmo wouldn't be alone—not with the New Imperium this paranoid. He was a big enough fish to keep a freak as a bodyguard, and the Piano-Tuner—one of the first freaks to join the Montagnese payroll—was an obvious choice.

Before we start slugging it out, I guess I should describe him. The Piano-Tuner's real name was Conrad Imkamp—a dropout from the Dagover Institute of Music just across the river. He had aspirations of being a composer, but he discovered a higher calling after strangling a critic who gave his first symphony a less than glowing review. As for how he looked, well... you know that famous portrait of Beethoven where he looks like he's above to scrawl out the most pissed-off symphony in the history of 19th-century Romanticism?

Imagine that, but as a waxy death mask.

I had just seconds to figure out how I was going to defend myself. I felt around in my satchel for a pellet of knockout gas and turned my staff's voltage to maximum. In a single movement, I leapt backwards and threw the smoke pellet in front of me, hoping to stave off his advance and buy myself more time. The Piano-Tuner, however, employed a brilliant strategy that few of Marbrose's criminal types ever discovered: he held his breath. He emerged from the smoke like a maniacal demon, the same murderous look in his eyes. I swung my staff towards him, but he caught it effortlessly with his garrote. I threw myself backwards to free my weapon from his grasp, but lost my footing on the slick concrete.

I fell—hard—landing on my butt and sending my staff clattering across the ground. I threw another pellet of knockout gas and scrambled after my lost weapon. Behind me, Imkamp was still whistling; he hadn't lost his place in Night on Bald Mountain, which was far from comforting. I recovered my staff just in time to tangle it up for a second time in his piano wire. I was now on my back—the Piano-Tuner bending over me as he tried to yank away my staff. I was pulling as hard as I could, half-blinded by the pouring rain.

SNAP.

My electro-staff split in two. Now I had nothing to defend myself but my hands. I did manage two hard jabs to his face before the Piano-Tuner slipped his wire around my neck and started to pull. After that, I was too busy trying to keep him from strangling me to fight back. My fingers were slipping. Really, I was in a total panic. This was not how I imagined it ending for Nightwrath—slowly falling into darkness as my assailant whistled Mussorgsky's witches sabbath into my ear. But there was no escape. The Piano-Tuner's weird music whirled through my oxygen-starved brain like the demons dancing on the barren peak of Lysa Hora. I was screwed.

But... wait. What was that other sound?

I might have mistaken it for a bird—if we weren't in the middle of a city that didn't seem to have any flying creatures besides bats, pigeons, and peregrines. But, no. This was the haunting call of some kind of woodland bird—one of those cries you feel like you remember even if you're sure you've never heard it before.

Whip-poor-will. Whip-poor-will.

Ordinarily, that cry was a death omen—the otherworldly piping of an avian psychopomp about to carry off some departed soul to the realm of the dead. In the current situation, the soul in question would probably have been mine. But this was a different kind of Whippowil. The kind that came to your rescue.

I didn't see him at first, but I felt his shadow pass over me as he leapt down from the fire escape and landed on Conrad Imkamp. After that, I was too busy gasping for air to get a good look at him. All I knew was that I was safe, because the Piano-Tuner wasn't whistling anymore. I felt blindly around in the rain and darkness until I found the two pieces of my electro-staff. For some reason, leaving them behind was unthinkable.

Whip-poor-will. Whip-poor-will.

I heard a loud bang as my rescuer hurled the Piano-Tuner into the side of the dumpster where my grappling hook was anchored. Pulling myself to my feet, I got a good look at him for the first time. He wore a bird-like mask under his dark gray hood. In his left hand, he carried a long cane with a sharp, triangular hook at one end—like a shepherd's crook reimagined by an Art Deco sculptor. He moved with the grace and physical power of an acrobat. He was a little taller than I was—about Ben's height, but slimmer. He was also beating the crap out of my would-be murderer.

"H-hey," I said, testing my legs gingerly on the slick concrete. "Who are you?"

Instead of answering, he drove the blunt end of his staff violently into the face of the Piano-Tuner. The costumed freak crumpled into a bloody heap just a few feet from where Buffalo Mick was still dangling from his ankles. They were both unconscious.

"Um, thanks," I said, not really knowing what to say to this mysterious figure, and maybe remembering how things went the last time a freak in a mask decided to help me out. "What are you doing here?"

"Come with me," he said. His voice was deep and slightly raspy, but I could tell he was about my age or maybe just a little older. Realizing that my mysterious new friend obviously wanted to remain mysterious for the time being, I collected my grappling hook and followed him up to the rooftops. I was right to compare him to an acrobat. I could barely keep up as we sprinted through the downpour, putting Vice Mile as far behind us as we could. I know I talk a lot about "leaping over rooftops," but I was panting by the time we reached the relative safety of Brand Hill.

"So," I said as I leaned against a chimney to catch my breath, "you gonna answer my questions now?"

He titled his head slightly, which with his bird mask made him look like an inquisitive owl. It was almost... cute? Maybe that's the wrong word. Either way, it made me smile under my mask.

"You looked like you needed help."

"I did. Thanks."

"You should watch your back," he said. "Then I won't have to. It's a dangerous city."

"I know," I said. It was hard to tell with the mask, but... was he flirting? I tensed up a little at the thought, because I did not need another Psychosis in my life. But then...

"I'll see you around."

He moved to jump off the roof and make his escape.

"Wait!" I called. "You can't just—."

He stopped in the middle of climbing onto the ledge and looked over his shoulder.

"You'll see me around, doll. Trust me on that."

And he was gone. I ran to the ledge to try and follow him, but he had already vanished into the night. Whoever this "Whippowil" was, he was good. I tried to work out who he could be. There were other rogue freaks in the Fen—the Nihilist, whoever they were, being an obvious example—but this guy was new. I wondered for a moment if I had possibly inspired someone else to take up part-time amateur vigilantism, or if something more sinister was going on.

As if I didn't have enough mysteries in my life.

I noticed for the first time that I was cold, and soaked, and that I really wanted to get out of this costume and go to bed. I took out my phone to message Ellie, then set out for the Night Chapel.

One close brush with death was enough for one night.