Club Tartarus, ????
“You are not very good at this game, Caesar.” Isabella flipped the worn playing card to reveal the jack of spades. “You’re supposed to be following the queen, not the loathsome jacks.” She gave him a friendly grin and set the three cards back in their row.
“It is pronounced Caesar, and I can assure you, Caesar has the eyes of an eagle, and the wit of Minerva.” He sat across the table from Isabella, arms crossed over his shimmering breastplate. Caesar sighed and pulled another bag of gold denarii from his side. The coins toppled to the table like singing rain drops as Isabella met his gaze.
Playing three-card monte with historical figures was one of Isabella’s favorite pastimes between her shifts at Club Tartarus, especially a mark as wealthy and naive as old Julius was. A version of him would stumble into the club every few weeks; seeking the “wisdom of the oracle” or the intercession of fate or some other foolishness. Isabella would indulge him, betting her gift of foresight against his Roman gold in various games of “chance.” Too bad he never seemed to grasp the idea that there is no such thing as chance for a woman who can see the future.
Isabella chuckled to herself and leaned back. It was a normal night at Club Tartarus, or whatever passed for normal for a place like it. The club was packed with people of all description; werewolves howling and writhing to the driving beat of heavy drums, a minotaur ordering a flight of wines from the camazotz sommelier, and a collection of nearly catatonic Victorian occultists surrounding an absinthe fountain. Some of Caesar’s soldiers stood watch at the bar, drinking from goblets and speaking with the half-giant bartender, Erik.
Erik had his ax on the bar, proudly displaying its ice-polished sheen to the legionnaires. Strangely, Mr. Powers appeared to be absent. He must have been down in his office, tending to whatever strange business he kept in the lower levels. The jingle of another bag of coins brought Isabella back to the game. “Caesar shall empty the vaults of Rome if need be. Tell me, oracle, what is the meaning of my Calpurnia’s vision?”
Isabella smiled again and nodded towards the cards. She raised the queen of hearts from its center position and waved it in front of his hooked nose. “Watch the queen as she makes her way around the royal court, and tell me once more what Calpurnia said.”
Caesar bowed his head, revealing a patch of bald skin between his laurel leaves. He did not move his eyes from the table as he said, “Last night she dreamt she saw my statue, which, like a fountain with a hundred spouts, did run pure blood. She dreamt that graves yawned and yielded up their dead.”
His voice faded as he droned on with the list of omens. Calm, darkness washed over Isabella’s mind as the entire club drifted into the shadows. She sucked in a breath as a halo of blue-indigo light ringed her perception. Muffled gunfire hummed through her muted mindscape. Smoke and blood filled her nostrils. Mud squished between her sandaled toes.
Isabella tensed, her body coiling in on itself as the noise, smell, and sensation evaporated the penumbra, leaving her standing shin deep in viscera-stained clay. Faceless figures clashed all around her, driving bayonets into formless hearts and bashing mindless skulls into yellowed-fragments. Some of these shapes were orderly, dressed in soiled uniforms, but the others were monstrous, wicked things with distended bellies and grasping claws.
The grotesque creatures surged around her, slamming into the soldiers, but paying Isabella no heed. They were a hive of skittering, stinging insects, washing over everything in their path and leaving only desolation in their wake. This was no battle between even forces, it was a massacre.
Everything around her exploded with light and sound as the ground shattered around her. Clouds of dirt and shrapnel pummeled Isabella and vaporized both groups of combatants. Isabella shrieked and fell into the sucking mud of no-man’s land, her head ringing from the roar of the artillery shell punching a hole in the Earth. It did little to slow the advancing horde.
She scrambled back on her skinned palms, her breath stuttered through her wheezing chest. The next wave of monsters clambered toward her, trampling each other with the reckless abandon of mindless bloodlust. Isabella couldn’t stand, her wrists were stuck in the muck and mire. Panic filled her mind as she tried to find any way to escape.
As the teeth of the first shadow closed on her face, a blade of white light sliced its head free from its body. The swarm froze for only a moment, as a glowing figure veiled in silver stepped between her and them and offered her a hand up.
He was hazy, the details of his face concealed by the intense luminosity, but he was comforting. Something in his stance assured Isabella that this was a fight they could win. She took his hand and rose from the mud. The man turned his gaze to the creatures but before the battle continued, Isabella was back in Club Tartarus.
Caesar stared at her, one narrow brow perched on his forehead like the eagle he mentioned earlier. He had a finger on one of the three cards. “Caesar chooses this one.”
Isabella shook her head and smiled weakly. She flipped the card over, revealing the queen of hearts he had been seeking all night. “Look at that, Caesar. You finally found her.”
“As if there was ever any doubt. I have conquered this game as I did the brutes in Gaul.” Caesar punched his fist into his breastplate. “Now, you will render unto Caesar the truth which I have traveled this many eons to find.”
“You’re going to be stabbed to death by your friends.” The familiar voice of Anson Walker answered Caesar before Isabella was finished collecting herself. Isabella turned to face him, finding that everyone in Club Tartarus was doing the same.
He was handsome in a diabolical way, slender and tall with a brash swagger. His youthful face was betrayed by gray eyes that spoke of decades of pain. Anson wore a long black coat, with silver trim and held his dragon-headed cane loose at his side. The patrons of Club Tartarus formed a wide ring around him, some looking to the door for a hasty escape. Others armed themselves with bottles, chairs, and makeshift clubs.
Isabella never expected to see him up close again. In fact, no one had seen him publicly in almost a year. The last time Isabella saw him was a couple of years ago during his final stage performance, before he and his assistant decided to try their hand as crimefighters rather than entertainers. Anson smirked at her, setting a kaleidoscope of butterflies free in her stomach.
“Preposterous.” Caesar crossed the distance to Anson with surprising speed. He was aquiline nose to nose with Anson, his hand on the pommel of his sword.
Anson didn’t flinch. “If you don’t believe me, you can always ask her.” He pointed to Isabella. “Now get out of my face, or it won’t be a friend that ends you.” Anson brushed past Caesar.
“No one turns their back on Caesar.” Caesar roared and plunged his sword into Anson’s spine. The blade tore through Anson’s torso, spraying a cloud of black ash on the ground at Anson’s feet. Caesar pulled the sword free and staggered back, his mouth open in aghast horror.
His injury seemed to do little more than annoy Anson as he turned to face Caesar. “Really? I see where your pals learned their, ‘stab people in the back trick.’ I’m more of a melt people with magic kind of guy.” Anson’s eyes glowed white and the room vibrated from the hum of his power.
Isabella sprang forward and planted herself between the two men. “That’s enough. We don’t allow violence in Club Tartarus. Caesar, this is your second strike.”
Anson’s eyes returned to their natural gray. “I don’t think he knows what baseball is.”
“Don’t get cute with me, Mr. Walker. I’ll have Erik throw you out like anyone else who comes here to cause trouble.” Isabella looked to the bar where Erik stood with his ax hoisted above his shoulder.
“Cute is at the bottom of the list of words people would use to describe me.” Anson relaxed his shoulders and let his cane hang loosely once more.
“Caesar has had enough of this foolishness. Brutus, Antony, we’re leaving.” Caesar snapped his fingers and made his way to the door. His two legionnaires placed coins on the bar, nodded to Erik, and followed.
Isabella watched the Romans depart and sighed. Caesar’s departure did little to ease the tension in the air. She looked at the remaining patrons and noted their fear and unease at Anson’s presence. “Go back to your drinks everyone. I’ll make sure Mr. Walker behaves. Please have a round on the house to make up for this little misunderstanding.” Her offer seemed to have a calming effect on everyone but Erik, who suddenly found himself on the hook for a lot of drink orders.
“I’m sure Powers appreciates your powers of peacekeeping.” Anson sat in Caesar’s chair.
Isabella narrowed her eyes and returned to her seat. She wasn’t sure what Anson’s game was. He never came to Club Tartarus, despite being one of the few people who could come and go from the club with their memories of the experience intact. It was too dangerous for him. Rumor was that he had taken up the deplorable work of hunting monsters, something that made him even less popular than his Great Revelation. She was certain this had something to do with her vision.
Her foresight usually wasn’t so vivid or uncontrolled. Isabella usually had to focus intently to conjure the magic needed to see the future, but this came to her as an unsleeping nightmare, full and alive. The smell of blood still lingered in her mind. “What do you want, Mr. Walker?”
Anson leaned back and spun his cane beneath his palm. “I need your help, Miss Thorne. You saw something when I entered the club tonight. Tell me about it.”
“Usually people have to find the queen of hearts to get their fortune read, or make a donation.” Isabella didn’t want him to know how unsettled she was that he knew she’d already had the vision.
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. I sensed the magic, I know what you are.” Anson sat forward. He had an earnest look in his eye and the slightest hint of worry lines in his brow.
Isabella squinted at him. His arrogant air dissipated for a moment and she saw something that shook her to the core. Anson Walker was unnerved about whatever she’d seen. “You’re afraid of something?” The question was a whisper, mostly to herself.
“I’m not afraid of anything.” Anson looked away. “I just need your help finding some people.” He stood and pushed his chair in. “This was a dumb idea, I’ll do it myself.”
“No wait.” Isabella grabbed his wrist and locked eyes with him. His skin was cool to the touch and the unexpected contact sent goosebumps up her arm. “I did see something. I think it was the war in Europe. Two groups were fighting each other, but not soldiers. I think one group may have been soldiers, but the others were crazed creatures of some kind.”
“Zombies.” Anson pulled his arm away and sat back down. “There’s a group of necromancers in Galicia that I’ve been hired to eliminate.”
“Why do you need my help?”
“These sorts of wizards have some way of masking their presence from me. They can’t hide from a seer. You would make finding these bastards a lot easier on me.” Anson’s stare was inscrutable.
Isabella looked to Mr. Powers’ booth. She couldn’t just up and leave him, but this future could not come to pass. A swarm of feral undead with a cabal of necromancers to maintain them could be disastrous for the entire world. Mr. Powers had to understand that. “Okay, Mr. Walker. I’ll help you, but I have to let Mr. Powers know where I’m going.”
Anson smiled and produced a card from his pocket. “Of course, the last thing I ever want to do is upset Mr. Powers. Meet me at this address tonight at 8pm.”
She took the card in her hand and nodded. “Let’s go save the world.”