VII - RoseRed

Ï Ï Ï
The attorney was a second-hand cannibal. He drank the blood of his fellow man, but he didn’t
have the grit to get it himself. It was served to him by a friend he’d known since law school, when
they were both alive and their good looks had been boyish and real. They were fraternity brothers
and roommates back then, sharing an apartment on the South Side near Hyde Park.
The attorney was Dwight Holcomb. His friend was Edward Price. Now they divided the two
halves of the day between themselves, seeing each other only in downtown bars during the talkative
early hours after work, when Holcomb’s time turned into Price’s time, day into night. Holcomb
bought Islay single-malt scotch by the glass for Price to smell and, sometimes, swish around. Price
gave Holcomb mouthfuls of his blood in the marble-floored men’s room stalls of swank hotel bars.
Holcomb brushed his hands through his hair in the picture-framed bathroom mirror while
Price buttoned his cuff and licked his wrist near the door, as far from the mirror as he could
get. “The uniforms confirmed their story,” Holcomb said over his shoulder. “Those guys
wanted out of that school enough they picked jail over it.”
“Sure they didn’t pick it over a pissed boss?” Price asked as he watched Holcomb make faces
and scrutinize his five o’clock shadow in the mirror.
“The cops I talked to said these guys aren’t the first. The uniforms don’t go in that school.
Guy I talked to said their psych benefits aren’t that good.” Holcomb pulled on his ears. “I’m
thinking of growing my sideburns back in.”
“What were the words he used?”
“The ‘banger?”
“Yeah.”
“He said he heard a voice, a kid’s voice. His buddy said he saw eyes open up. He said ‘in the wall.’ He
said ‘the eyes were in the wall.’” Holcomb looked back at Price. “Is that something for the Order?”
“I don’t know.” Price had been looking for something he could take to the elders at the Order of the
Dragon chapter house, something that would get him noticed. “I’ll see what the Philosopher says.”
Ï Ï Ï
The Philosopher had a name. But the Dragons called her simply “the Philosopher.”
She had the severe voice of a school marm and hands like bird feet.
The first thing she ever said to Price was “Why?” She kept an office in a small,
round room of the chapter house. It was a cellar room, but the brick walls and
circular floor made it feel like tower to Price. She sat behind her desk, surrounded by
waist- and shoulder-high stacks of newspapers and books with yellowed pages. The
wall behind her was a layer of maps depicting Chicago as a grid of streets criss-crossed
by lines like escapees from a mariner’s chart. The room was cold and wet like mold.
“I’d like to look at the history of St. Anthony’s middle school,” Price said. A
note from the Philosopher could get a Dragon into the Historical Society archives
after hours, when a Dragon could make use of them. Price wanted a note.
The Philosopher nodded. “The stories about St. Anthony’s are old ones, but
I don’t know that any Dragon has ever given them a good look. You think they
might suggest the location of a Wyrm’s Nest?”
“Yes, ma’am. I hope so.”
“Give it a look, then, Supplicant.” The Philosopher leaned forward on her
desk. “I’m relieved to see you pursuing our Great Work, Edward. We’d been
concerned that you would never move beyond your rank. If this goes well, you
might be able to attract a mentor for yourself.” Her wooden chair squealed as she
leaned back. “Tell the archivist your name and title. Are you going tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then tonight you are Inquiring. Tell the archivist that you are Inquiring.”
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