In Absinthia Read online

  “People can get real strange when it comes to unrequited love,” Scanlon noted. “And you saw Arabella Postlethwaite. Beautiful girl, the toast of Absinthia. Before Jasper Wittrock got together with her, he was a nameless guy in the chorus. That might be worth killing for.”

  The old cop laughed. “You’re forgetting one tiny detail, Doctor Watson.”

  “What?”

  “What about the other four bodies packed in ice over at the morgue?”

  “Yeah,” the blond cop concurred. “What about those?”

  “Maybe…” Scanlon said, rubbing his chin, deep in thought. “Maybe Wittrock only wanted us to think it was the Ripper. The two of them argue—he kills her. Maybe it was even an accident, but when Wittrock realizes what he’s done, he strings her up and rips out her insides to throw us off the scent.”

  “It worked so well,” the older cop joked. Before their conversation could go any further, the waitress brought their coffees and they walked out toward the theater.

  As soon as they were gone, Phoe clutched Cage’s hand tight. “Do you think that cop is right? That Jasper Wittrock is the killer?”

  Cage shook his head. “Definitely not. There’s no way. Even if he was trying to use the Ripper as a cover for his own crime, Wittrock was on stage for the last aria. He would have to have killed her, disemboweled her, and hung her from the fly system in twenty minutes. Not to mention that he was wearing a different costume when he ran out after the screaming started. So, he wouldn’t have had time to change. But the police are desperate to pin the murders on someone. I sent Maurice a message today and he said that the IU is starting to freak out a little. Apparently, a serial murderer is bad for tourism.”

  As Cage continued babbling on about Maurice and criminal investigation, Phoe was watching the crowd across the street. It had thinned out considerably, most of the people becoming convinced that the police weren’t going to carry the ruined corpse through the front doors. Only a few truly faithful oglers were left.

  But there was one Phoe hadn’t noticed before. One who stood out from all the rest. A tall man in a dark coat stood on the edge of the crowd. A plume of smoke encircled his head from the cigarette perched between his fingertips. When he lifted the cigarette to his lips, Phoe was blinded by a beam of light that bounced off his fingers.

  “Cage,” she half whispered, leaning in close. “Who is that man?” She tried to be unobtrusive as she pointed toward the strange figure that had appeared in the crowd. “Was he there before?”

  Cage stared, his vampire eyes flashing. One advantage of his vampire DNA was the heightened visual acuity, especially at night. “Not here,” he said. “But somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “The alley behind the pension. Last night.”

  Cage grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the table. She stumbled as her bustle nearly took the chair with them.

  They hurried out into the street and started across. The tall man was standing in the shadows, obviously trying to keep himself hidden from the policemen that were milling around. When he saw Cage and Phoe coming toward him, his eyes flashed and he took off in the opposite direction.

  “You there. Stop,” Cage shouted. He pulled Phoe into the street and around the corner into the alley. Immediately he began pulling his boots off and tossing them into one of the alcoves carved into the side of the building. “Hurry, Phoe. We can’t let him get away.”

  “Cage, we said we weren’t going to do this.” She stood there watching him disrobe with her hands planted firmly on her hips.

  “What?” he asked, throwing his jacket down.

  “Get involved. Shift into strange creatures. This is our vacation. I thought we were supposed to relax and have fun.”

  Cage winked. He looked ridiculous standing there in his underwear and top hat. “Some people have fun differently than others.”

  “My dress will be ruined,” she said miserably. “I really liked this dress.”

  “I’ll buy you a new one. I promise.” His words trailed off in a growl as his head elongated and his skin split down the middle. It fell away in a flash, leaving an enormous gray wolf behind. He barked once and pawed at the ground before turning and running off in the direction of the tall man.

  Phoe sighed and shook her head. “I hate him.” She looked around to be sure no one was watching before she willed herself to shift. She’d become much better controlling her shift, but it still wasn’t anyone’s definition of pleasant. Before the flames, there was always a tightening of the muscles that forced her extremities outward, then a rush of heat that felt as if every cell in her body had suddenly ignited. She didn’t have time to be afraid as her body burst into flames, then put itself back together as the large firebird.

  It didn’t take long to find Cage. His white fur stood out in the darkness. She swooped down, the flames of her wings singeing the edge of his ear as she passed. The tall man ran up ahead. There was no need to hide or duck into dark corners. The man was well aware that he was being chased. Phoe could hear a strange whirring and a mechanical heartbeat.

  The tall man climbed an ironwork gate and jumped down into a darkened graveyard. The moonlight bouncing off the white stones blinded Phoe at first, but she dove between the bars and around the tall man’s head. He waved his arms, trying to swat her away and getting burned for his trouble. Phoe let out a screech and flew at him again. Close up, she could see that he was indeed a cyborg, but a sophisticated one. Whomever had designed this thing had tried their best to be sure he was as human-like as possible. His face, made of artificial skin, was pale, stretched over a body made of titanium. It had been the gaslight flame bouncing off his metal fingertips that Phoe had seen from the window before.

  Cage howled in the street behind them. Phoe was afraid that he wasn’t going to be able to get through the cemetery gates, but the wolf leaped over the fence with an unnatural grace. She dodged another swipe of the man’s hand, lashing out with her talons. In a miracle of dexterity, the man grabbed Phoe’s talons in mid-flight, pulling her down and throwing her body into a marble angel nearby. She let out a screech as she rolled over and over across the uneven ground, leaving a trail of weak flames behind her. Before her body was taken by the flames once more, she saw Cage descend on the man with a deafening roar.

  When Phoe regained consciousness, she could see the white wolf several feet away with his front paws planted firmly on the chest of the tall man.

  “Get this filthy beast off of me,” the man shouted. He writhed beneath the wolf’s weight, but Cage sat there staring down at him.

  Well, this was awkward, Phoe thought. The worst thing about this shape-shifting deal was that it left you with no clothes. She’d brought this problem up to Oliver many times, but as of yet there was no such thing as a clothing capsule that one could hold in their mouth.

  “In a second, but first you’ll need to answer a few questions,” Phoe shouted from behind the tombstone where she crouched. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the dates on the grave were ridiculous. The person buried in this particular plot would have to have been one hundred and twenty years old according to the epitaph.

  “Me? Answering questions?” the man asked. “Why should I answer any of your questions? This man turned into a large dog and chased me into a graveyard. I think it’s me that should get to ask questions.”

  Phoe stifled a chuckle. He had a point. “You should answer our questions so that the large dog currently on top of you doesn’t eat your face.”

  Cage growled for effect.

  “I’m a cyborg. Somehow that threat doesn’t carry much weight.”

  “Suit yourself,” Phoe replied. “But I’m pretty sure that my friend there could leave pieces of you all over Absinthia.”

  The cyborg gave a grunt of annoyance. Who knew that a cyborg could get annoyed?

  “Have it your way, then. Call it off.”

  Phoe kept to the shadows, moving closer to the cyborg as Cage backe
d away. He whined once and ambled over to where she stood, sitting at her feet. “You’ll have to excuse my attire, I’m afraid.” Phoe shrugged.

  The tall man stood, brushing off his coat. “My dear, I am a machine. Your nude body is of little consequence to me.”

  “I’ll try not to be insulted.”

  “I assume you’re going to tell me why you and that creature were chasing me.”

  “First things first,” Phoe stated. “What were you doing nosing around two Ripper crime scenes?”

  “No,” the cyborg answered. His glowing cybernetic eyes peered into Phoe’s. Suddenly, she felt as if she were the one being interrogated.

  “What do you mean no?”

  “That isn’t the question you want to ask me.”

  Phoe looked down at Cage. She was starting to contemplate letting him tear the cyborg apart. “Then what is it that I want to ask you?”

  “What you really want to know is if I’m the Ripper.”

  “Are you?”

  The cyborg scoffed and pulled his heavy coat off. He handed it to Phoe and looked away for modesty’s sake. “Of course, I’m not. Did you not see the woman? She was ripped from stem to stern and arranged like some kind of sick art piece. The person who did that would not be able to hide. The stench of the blood would be all over him. Not to mention the stains. Feel free to look over my coat. You’ll find no such stains.”

  “Well if you aren’t the killer, then who are you? And what is your interest in this case?”

  “I’m a concerned citizen of Absinthia.”

  “No, you’re a cyborg of Absinthia. Cyborgs are only interested in those things which they’re programmed to be interested in.”

  “Touché, my dear. However, I’m probably not what you’d consider an ordinary cyborg.” With this, he opened the front of his torn shirt to reveal natural skin. There was even a small pentacle tattoo in the center of his chest.

  “You’re a hybrid,” Phoe breathed. She was practically in awe of him. She had heard about human-cyborg hybrids but had never seen one up close. They were a fairly new phenomenon. The ethical problems of using cybernetic parts to rebuild humans was a continuing debate on Earth. Some were of the opinion that using cybernetic parts, artificial skin, and nanobots for medical purposes was no more controversial than artificial limbs. Others were fervently against it, calling the hybrids abominations against God. Conservatives on Earth had managed to keep biomech so tightly constrained that people seeking that sort of treatment came to the colonies, and afterwards kept their enhancements a secret.

  “Don’t say it like that,” the cyborg scolded. “But yes.”

  “Sorry.” Phoe felt contrite. “I’ve never seen one before.”

  “That sounds so much better,” the cyborg deadpanned, rolling his eyes. “I am still human. Mostly.”

  “What do you mean, mostly?”

  “Never mind,” he replied. “We should get out of the street. I don’t think the colonial police will take too kindly to Others hanging around with hybrids in graveyards. And your friend will be needing some clothes soon, I would imagine.” Phoe stared down at Cage. He pawed at the ground and whined once more. She supposed that was as close to an agreement as she was likely to get.

  Phoe wasn’t sure how keen she was to trust this…whatever he was, but she finally nodded in agreement. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Shercroft Sigerson,” the cyborg replied. “And my flat is just around the corner. Two twenty-one B, Baker Street.”

  Eleven

  It turned out that around the corner meant ten blocks down the street and into a part of Absinthia that Phoe had not seen yet. In fact, most tourists hadn’t. Sigerson called it the “entertainers’ ghetto.” Meaning that it was where all of the people employed by the colony lived, apart from the tourists. The apartments were little more than a single room with bland, beige furniture, walls, and floors. A small holograph programming device allowed the resident to choose a pre-loaded décor program. Sigerson’s rooms were the stereotypical dingy Victorian flat that Phoe recognized from Sherlock Holmes mysteries. “So, you’re an employee of Absinthia?” Phoe asked.

  “Most definitely not.” He gazed at her expectantly.

  “Phoebe Ad—I mean, St. John,” she stammered by way of introduction.

  “Miss St. John,” Sigerson replied. “I came here as a tourist last year. Much like you and your—no.” Sigerson paused from pouring Phoe a cup of tea. “No, he isn’t your husband.”

  “What makes you say that?” Phoe asked.

  “You aren’t wearing a ring.” Cage answered for the hybrid. He made his way down the squeaking spiral staircase to the sitting room where Sigerson and Phoe sat by the fireplace. “Very observant, Mr. Sigerson.” He offered his hand. “I’m Macijah St. John.”

  Sigerson shook his hand and Phoe noticed that it was not a hand, but a mechanical claw. An instrument that could be quite dangerous given the right circumstances. “I’m surprised that no one else has noticed. And then, of course, there was the clumsy way in which you told me your name. I would assume that ‘Ad-I mean-St. John’ isn’t a proper name?”

  “How did you even know Macijah and I were a couple?” Phoe asked. She was somewhat miffed that their charade had been decoded so easily.

  “Ah,” Sigerson mused, offering Phoe her cup. “When Macijah leaped over the gate, he got to us when I’d grabbed your talons and heaved you into one of the monuments. Before, his focus had been solely on catching me, but for those few moments before you burst into flames, he paused to be sure you recovered. Only your lover would have sacrificed the upper hand that way. He also became more ferocious after.”

  “You don’t seem bothered by my or Macijah’s, um, abilities.”

  Sigerson shrugged. “I’m good with oddities. Particularly technological ones.”

  “That’s enough about us,” Cage interrupted. “How about telling us a little about yourself, Mr. Sigerson? I’m still not convinced that you aren’t a psychotic maniac.”

  “I’m not convinced of that either, Mr. St. John. But I can assure you that I had nothing to do with Arabella Postlethwaite’s demise. Or any of the others.”

  “Then perhaps you can explain why you keep showing up at the crime scenes?”

  Phoe smiled. Cage was always so blunt. When they’d first met, it was one of the things she liked least about him. Every time he spoke, she’d thought he was going to verbally annihilate her, but now that she knew him, Phoe appreciated his no-nonsense approach.

  “On the one hand, I’m concerned for the well-being of the populace, like everyone. On the other, I’m afraid that my consciousness does not allow me to resist the pull of the adventure.”

  “What do you mean?” Cage asked.

  “I came to Absinthia a year ago as a tourist, much like yourselves. As a lover of old Sherlock Holmes mysteries, I came as part of a grand excursion during which I would get to shed my real-life persona as a pharmaceutical salesman and enter the colony as the Great Detective himself.”

  “So, you’re telling us that you’re here in Absinthia playing Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Are you here in Absinthia playing a Victorian gentleman on his honeymoon?” Sigerson countered. He offered Cage a cup of tea and sat back in his chair. He crossed his legs casually and pulled a gold cigarette case from his lapel.

  “Honeymoons end,” Cage noted. “You’ve been here a year.”

  “Not by choice,” Sigerson said, lighting a cigarette and tossing the match into the fire. “I was in a bit of an accident.”

  “An accident?” Phoe asked.

  Sigerson nodded. “It wasn’t so much an accident as an attack. Clubbed over the head in an alley while investigating a staged murder as part of my excursion. Apparently while I was out, my attacker severed my hand and one eye, slashed up my body and tried to destroy my port.” Sigerson sat up and turned, pulling the collar of his jacket down to reveal a blackened hole at the base of his skull. Phoe absently rubbed t
he small port on the back of her own neck.

  “You were a victim of the Ripper,” Cage stated.

  Sigerson nodded. “It would seem so. Of course, when my attack happened, there had been no other crimes. They assumed it was a gang of thugs that came to the colony as tourists, acting out their own sick fantasy that left me for dead, missing a hand, an eye, and a good bit of my heart. Because of the damage, the port card I’d been given for the excursion was melded with my consciousness permanently.”

  “So, you’re trying to solve your own case,” Phoe guessed. “How terrible.”

  “Of course, the police have been less than cooperative.”

  Cage nodded. “I’m not surprised. They seem to be a rather ridiculous lot. But maybe I can pull some strings and get the IU in here with some actual agents.”

  “Sadly, that might do more harm than good.” Sigerson sighed. “Tuggingham is in the pocket of Derek Machine, they say.”

  “I would think that Machine would want to stop whoever this is,” Phoe said. “No good having a tourist colony if there’s a psycho killing all the tourists.”

  “Indeed, but Machine doesn’t play nice with the IU,” Cage offered. “As you well remember.”

  “Exactly.” Sigerson stood and began to pace the floor. Phoe could see why Sigerson was obsessed with Holmes. He looked like a living version of the old illustrations from the books. He was tall and thin with hawkish features and a hollow look. His overly large hands looked strong, but delicate, and his blue eyes were full of genius. Phoe thought that if she’d been here as a single person, she would have been all over him like a cheap suit, as Miss Ava from back home would say.

  “There is only one thing that is certain in all of this,” Sigerson said after several minutes. “Jasper Wittrock did not kill Arabella Postlethwaite.”

  “The man playing Don Ottavio, right?” Phoe asked.

  “Yes,” Sigerson agreed. “It was said that he and Arabella were having an affair but broke up suddenly last week. I’m afraid the gossip columns in the papers here are quite rabid.”