III

The dictionary defines a succubus as a supernatural creature with an affinity for socially awkward behavior, or words to that extent. There’s a lot of other content about ‘devouring souls’ and ‘eternal damnation’, but you get the idea. The last, the very last thing you’d expect to find in twentieth century New Orleans would be a temptress out to eat a few souls. Still, I had to admit the definition came close to covering my impression of my latest paying client.

I mulled Emelia Korvas over in my mind as the bus trundled merrily along. Taking into account The Professor’s inferences, maybe she was one of those potentially dangerous hard-core collectors. Not that any of the collector’s mania made the slightest sense to me. Especially not when it came to statues of testy demons. I mean, there were a lot healthier things to collect, and most people make do with those without getting overly nasty.

I know a councilman who goes into raptures over postage stamps. Coin collecting also makes token sense. There’s just something special about money, no matter whose face is stamped on one side. But statues of little-known, bloodthirsty creatures? You had to be a few bricks shy of a load to go in for things like that.

Given the rundown nature of the surrounding neighborhood, I’d fully expected Jovanovic’s shop to be a weather-worn storefront with a couple of cracked panes in the front window and a few dusty knick-knacks posted strategically on display. I was, pardon the expression, dead wrong. It stood on a street corner, and looked like something out of a fairy tale. Imagine one of those ornate Black Forest cuckoo clocks, and you’d come damned close.

The wooden façade had been painstakingly brushed down with some sealant, so that none of the street grime that adhered to the other shops lining the street clung to it. Someone had also sunk what must have been a small fortune into commissioning all kinds of ornate woodwork trim to decorate it. The front door and broad display window were surrounded by heavy-relief scrollwork depicting bunches of grapes, a peasant’s wagon piled sky high in hay, and the usual Heidi trimmings. It was a little like taking an unexpected, free trip to the idyllic Alps.

Then I got a closer look at the detailing that had been added higher up, between the broad display window and the peaked roof. At that, I got that old, familiar unsettled feeling in my gut. Here, the decorations got contrastingly darker. There were a couple of hunched figures that I figured were probably trolls. These had red stones set into their bulging, carved eyes. Off to one side was another ornate detail that tickled a half-forgotten memory but which I couldn’t place for a minute. Then it hit me.

After I got back from the war, and before I finally settled in the Big Easy, I’d had a yearning to travel. That was normal, after spending the better part of a year in the trenches. I’d moved around a lot, but strictly in the ‘States. I’d put in a little time working as a farm hand in Oklahoma, spent six months in a cannery in Maine, and even tried my hand at looking for gold in California. Overall, it had helped me forget a lot of unpleasantness, but I’d wanted something more exotic.

One of the options I’d briefly considered, before I got a look at the price tag and my practical side took over, was Hawaii. The colorful literature the clerk in the booking office shoved in my face had looked enticing, and it definitely was exotic to the mind of a West Texas man. I could see myself settling down to sun on some distant beach to plan out the rest of my life.

One particular image that had particularly struck me was a painting of a squat, grimacing statue surrounded by palm trees. The helpful gent had explained that it was a ‘tiki.’ Not that he had the faintest idea what that was. It just was something the locals carved now and then and gosh, weren’t they rustic? I agreed, and let my eyes travel down to the price of the proposed tour.

The only part of the price I could easily afford was the zero at the end of the quote. As my budget pretty much limited me to wherever I could hitch a ride to, Hawaii was definitely very much out of the picture. The helpful man behind the counter had abruptly gotten significantly less attentive.

The central image of this weird diorama resembled one of those tikis in a particularly foul mood. Maybe someone had stolen its buried treasure or carved their initials on a family member. It definitely wasn’t something I’d have want to meet in a dark alley. Overall, the carved decorations gave me a funny feeling of disquiet. With some effort, I shrugged off the eerie impression and entered the shop. At least I started to.

Masaka abruptly materialized at my side as I was reaching for the worked brass knob. I hadn’t heard her approach, but then what was new about that? The question in my mind was how she’d known where to find me. I somehow couldn’t see her haunting this rundown part of the city. Looking delicate as a Chinese doll and dolled up in silk, she’d have attracted anyone looking to stage a quick holdup. Not, I suspected, that the result would have ended up being what they might have had in mind.

“I will accompany you.”

I wanted to feel annoyed at what was, after all, an intrusion. I’d planned a fast in and out with maybe one or two questions, and then back to the office. Somehow, though, her being along for the ride seemed reassuring. I levered the door open and stepped aside to allow her to proceed me.

“Any particular reason?” I inquired in an undertone, as she preceded me.

The question, which to my mind was entirely reasonable, garnered no response. Her serene expression reflected no concern, annoyance, or any other emotion. I had half a mind to pursue the inquiry but, after a quick parting glance up at the carved grotesques above the doorway, decided against it. Masaka, as I’d discovered, never did anything on a whim. There was probably a good reason for her appearance. That would have to do by way of an explanation. Given my first impression of the place, it might be just as well that I had company.

I’d never actually visited an antique shop before, but I’d developed what I’d figured was a pretty good mental image of what I’d find there. There would be tables set up to display all kinds of tchotchkes, and probably a bunch of gilt-framed paintings on the wall. The shopkeeper would be a little hunched man in his sixties with thick glasses and an ingratiating way about him that belied a canny and avaricious mind.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

What I got seemed more like the inside of a modern drug store. There was absolutely no sense of organized clutter, and there were no gilt-framed overlooked masterpieces hanging on the walls. Instead, there were white-framed display cases lined up along each wall. Darned if he hadn’t put indirect lighting behind the glass front of each one of these, the better to highlight what lay within. Or, more to the point, what squatted therein.

Out of curiosity, I ambled over to inspect one of the cases. I was surprised to see what I had assumed to be white painted wood was actually porcelain-fronted metal. The cases must have been nearly air-tight. They also looked to have a peculiarly strong dual lock on each. Below the expected keyhole, there was a second, smaller one. I frowned at that. It looked as if picking my way into a case, if it came to that, would take considerable time. Never a good thing in the burglary trade.

Then there were the contents of the cases. So far, I hadn’t seen the object of my visit, but there were about a dozen equally disturbing things lurking behind the glass fronts, as I ranged along the wall. It was rapidly becoming evident that Jovanovic catered to a very specific clientele. This wasn’t your average ‘grandma’s favorite lamp’ kind of antique shop.

“Can I help you?”

It was a deep bullfrog of a voice and flat, with nary an intonation or accent. I turned to regard the speaker and got a considerable surprise. In light of his name, I’d expected to see maybe a Slav, but Javanovik looked more Oriental.

He stood maybe five six and was extremely muscular. Black hair was slicked down on his scalp though a couple of stubborn tufts defied whatever scented pomade he was using, to jut up at awkward angles. They vaguely reminded me of a devil’s horns. One aide of my mouth twitched involuntarily. Putting on my best ‘innocent’ face, I continued my appraisal of the man.

Though he wore his conservative blue suit slightly loose, his overall bodily contours were detectable. He might well have been a topnotch boxer in a previous life. But was now tending toward lard. Hard packed lard, but there was still the impression of an almost tangible decline. His eyes were concealed behind pale violet-tinted glasses. My overall impression was of a seedy individual who was trying to pull off an air of class.

Naturally enough, he was addressing Masaka and not yours truly. In my twenty-dollar suit, I was clearly too average to be of any real interest. I decided to sit back and see where this would lead, before putting in my two cents worth. I wondered what just she’d say in response.

Interestingly, as his bulbous head swiveled, I caught a glimpse of his eyes above the tinted lenses. They were of a somewhat familiar silver-grey. I briefly wondered if my client and he had some shared parentage. Maybe I was smack in the middle of a family squabble.

“I am looking for something unique,” Masaka stated in her usual controlled tone, “a figurine of a toboda. I assume you know what that is?”

Classic Masaka. No embellishments to trip her up. Just the facts as she wanted to present them. As I’d expected, the statement created a bit of stir in Javanovik’s distinctive eyes. For a minute, he looked everywhere but at Masaka. I could almost hear the wheels frantically turning in his blunt head.

“Well?” she persisted serenely.

The pause as he recovered his composure was so thick you could have cut it with even a dull knife. Javanovik shifted from one foot to another and raised a hand to straighten the glasses across the broad bridge of his nose. Or maybe to cover his expression. I noted one finger was slightly deformed. It was bent to one aide at the first knuckle and looked to have been badly burnt at some prior time. He had attempted to cover this by sporting an oversized gold-and-amethyst ring on the finger. Not a great strategy, as the ring actually focused attention on the damaged finger.

When the hand came down, he was again composed, though I sensed an edge of wariness behind his reply.

“Ah, yes. A very obscure fetish. I doubt there are more than two or three such figures in all the world. I am sorry. I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where you could obtain such a thing.”

Masaka remained on the attack.

“You are certain?”

Javanovik gave a theatrical shrug.

“Positively. Even if it were possible, the cost would be prohibitive, running well into eight figures.”

I decided this might be the moment to break in.

“So, you don’t know of any way the lady can get this…thing of hers?”

His attention reluctantly shifted to me. Javanovik manufactured an expression that was every inch the definition of ‘apologetic regret’. I doubted Bogart or Claude Rains could have done a better job of acting.

“I am afraid not, sir. Perhaps you would care for something similar? I have an exquisite two-hundred-year-old effigy of Yama, from Tibet. Or a lovely statue of Mahakala, the Great Black One? It is a particularly beautiful one.

I mentally nodded at the so-slight emphasis on that ‘sir.’ He had me pretty much pegged as a low-level flunky but as tolerating me s I was with Maska. Maybe she kept me around to fend off panhandlers do minor chores around the mansion. That show of attitude made my planned transgression all that much easier on my conscience.

“This…Mahakala,” Masaka asked, “was a particularly vengeful deity as I recall?”

Javanovik folded slightly at the waist in what I interpreted as being an attempt at a deferential bow.

“I see madam is well schooled on the subject. Yes. Most unpleasant.”

He positively grieved when Masaka left the shop without purchasing one of his eldritch horrors or exchanging further pleasantries. He’d probably expected her to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahhh’ for a while, then try dickering for a better price on an item or two. But that was Masaka. She wasn’t one for pretense or wasted effort. I suspected she’d gotten what she’d come for, though what that might be was beyond me.

“So,” I ventured, “what did we learn from all that?”

“You got an inside look at the shop, which is what I presume brought you there in the first place. I determined that the man is a fool with no significant knowledge of his wares. Mahakala is generally accepted as a benevolent deity.

“I won’t ask how you know that.”

Masaka flowed to a stop, her red kimono issuing a slightly sibilant protest at the sudden action.

“There is a distinctly disturbing undercurrent to the shop,” she cautioned. “Do you seriously intend to return there?”

Damn. She obviously knew all about the case, and she hadn’t even been into the office that morning. Once again, I wondered just who or what she was.

“Well, yes,” I admitted weakly. “I’ve already been paid nice retainer, and the landlord is threatening to set up housekeeping in my office if the rent is any later this month. It’s two weeks overdue, if you want to put too fine a point on it. So. yes, coming back at a more convenient time is definitely in the cards,”

“I would not return after dark,” she advised. “I sensed something very peculiar there.”

I cast an admittedly apprehensive glance back at the carved front of the shop.

“Well, for what I have in mind,” I admitted, “I pretty much have to. I don’t think I saw anything resembling a toboda, so he probably has the statue in a back room. If there’s a back door, I don’t think I’ll have to worry about anyone spotting me. There aren’t likely to be many people out after dark around here. And anyway, I tried for other options. I suggested to the client that she go to the authorities about the statue. She balked.”

“Predictably.”

I checked the street which, even close to noon, was nearly deserted. I swear I didn’t look away for more than five seconds, but when I returned my attention to Masaka, she was nowhere to be seen. In a way, her knack of appearing and vanishing without warning was as creepy as the things I’d seen in the shop. But given a choice, I’d stick with her familiar form of weirdness.

IV