Arkham International: Shadow of the Drowned City – Chapter Five: Mexico City

Arkham International follows some familiar faces far from home in the aftermath of the events of The Drowned City. If you’re new to the series, find the first episode here. This week, the adventure continues, south of the border…

CHAPTER FIVE: MEXICO CITY

by Josh Reynolds

“I haven’t seen Sanford in months,” Valentino Rivas said, as he trimmed his cigar. “He might be dead, as far as I know. Frankly, I hope he is. I never trusted him, and I certainly didn’t like him. And I’ve never met this – what did you say his name was?”

“Tillinghast,” Trish Scarborough said. “Randall Tillinghast. An antiques dealer, from Arkham, Massachusetts.” They sat on the stone veranda of Rivas’ new home in Xochimilco, near Mexico City. The house had once belonged to some Spanish aristocrat, now long gone. The veranda overlooked one of the ancient canals that ran through the area, and an evening mist had settled on the surface of the dark water.

“In case you missed it, we’re not in Arkham,” Rivas said, lightly.

“But you were,” Roland Banks interjected. “In fact, you were involved in the disappearance of Mr. Josef Meiger, among others. He was a fellow member of the Silver Twilight Lodge, wasn’t he? That was big news.”

Trish frowned at her companion’s tone, but knew Roland was just playing bad cop. A few years previous, Rivas had been involved in certain events that had gone into a redacted file, that had then been – surprise, surprise – lost. Carl Sanford had been involved, and several people had been killed.

“Old news,” Rivas said, though his cheerful expression darkened somewhat. “And something I’d prefer not to relive, if you don’t mind.”

“We’re not here to open old wounds, Mr. Rivas,” Trish said, smoothly. “Though, we would like to ask why you left Arkham so suddenly.”

Rivas lit his cigar. “Given recent events, I think I made the right decision, don’t you?”

Roland leaned forward in his chair. “It’s the timing we question, Mr. Rivas.”

“Call me Tino. Everyone else does.”

“Tino,” Trish said, glancing at Roland. “You know how it goes. We’re just crossing t’s and dotting i’s. We’re not accusing you of anything.” They’d practiced how best to approach Rivas on the trip down. Most of the Lodge’s membership were either dead, or had decamped for parts unknown after Sanford’s disappearance.

They’d questioned a number of witnesses to the disaster, as well as several individuals with ties, however faint, to Randall Tillinghast and through him, the Pilgrims of the Drowned City. The Silver Twilight Lodge was an obvious point of connection. Tillinghast had been at odds with Sanford, and their spats had been nasty, for all that they had been private.

When Sanford had vanished, Tillinghast had started to draw a new web of influence, with himself at the center. Some members of the Lodge had thrown their loyalties to the Pilgrims of the Drowned City, using their influence to– well, nobody seemed to be altogether certain just what they, and by extension, Tillinghast, hoped to accomplish.

Rivas’ name had come up in a conversation with one Erynn MacAoidh, as well as a detective named Luxley. Both claimed that Rivas might know something about Tillinghast’s whereabouts. Given that he’d left Arkham only a few weeks before the flood, Trish and Roland had figured him for a good bet to have some answers.

Only now, it seemed that Rivas knew very little. Or maybe he just had no interest in talking to a pair of strangers who’d shown up on his doorstep unannounced. She didn’t blame him. They’d had little enough luck in Arkham; someone was doing a good job at hiding Tillinghast’s tracks, as well as covering up the involvement of the Pilgrims of the Drowned City in whatever had happened.

Unfortunately for her and Roland, their superiors were only too happy to play along. Not long after they’d arrived in Mexico, she’d gotten an encrypted telegram from the new director, ordering her to cease her investigations. She’d refused. To say her new boss wasn’t going to be happy was an understatement. But Trish was past the point of caring. Something was going on. And she intended to find out what, if only to prove to herself that what she feared hadn’t yet come to pass.

Rivas studied her and Roland through a cloud of cigar smoke. “I wish I could help. I really do. But I left all that nonsense behind in Arkham. Secret lodges and cults and witches… not conducive to a healthy life, if you ask me.”

“We agree there,” Roland said. “But according to one of your former Lodge-brothers we know that you met Tillinghast at least once. He was invited to a gala at Sanford’s residence right before Meiger’s disappearance. He had an argument with Sanford about something – a real barn-burner of a set-to, from what we hear. You don’t happen to know what it was about?”

Rivas was silent for a moment. Then, “Carl cheated him, somehow. Or maybe he got caught trying to cheat Carl. Hard to tell with those two.” He sat back. “The thing you have to understand is, well, they’re loco. Crazy, you know?” He gestured to his head. “In a quiet sort of way, I mean. Men like that have a hole in them, and it can never be filled – not with money, or love, or power. The more you shovel in, the deeper the hole gets. Look around you – this is enough for me. I have a home, good food, cigars… the rest of my money goes to good works. I neither need nor want more than that. But Tillinghast, well, he’d drown the world if he thought it’d buy him even a moment’s contentment.”

“How poetic,” a new voice intervened. “I’d have just called him a grasping fool and left it at that.” Trish turned as a slim figure stepped onto the veranda, accompanied by one of Rivas’ staff. “Have I come at a bad time, Tino?”

Rivas didn’t look at the new arrival, his attention on his cigar. “Not at all, Thorne. I was just helping Agent Banks and Miss Scarborough with some inquiries regarding recent events. I like to do my part, you know.”

The newcomer laughed. “Oh yes. You are a true Samaritan, Tino.”

“Not like you at all, huh, Thorne?” Trish said. Thorne was tall, androgynous. Their accent was English, upper class. They dressed well. Better than Rivas and certainly better than Roland. She’d only met Thorne once before, at a party in Budapest. She hadn’t cared for them then, and really didn’t like the fact that they were here now.

Thorne claimed to be a member of an organization ostensibly known as the Red Coterie – or the Coterie, for short. The Coterie were esoteric provocateurs, pulling strings and making deals for reasons no one had quite sussed out. Thorne wasn’t as murderous as some of them, or as cryptic. But they made up for it by being annoying. Thorne gave her a smile. “I thought I recognized you, Miss Scarborough. How have you been?”

“I was fine until you showed up,” she said.

Roland looked back and forth between them. “Something I should know?”

“Nothing of import, Agent Banks, I assure you,” Thorne said, coming over to stand behind Rivas’ chair. “I was just coming over to discuss Tino’s membership in our little… club. As an associate member, of course.” Thorne patted Rivas on the shoulder. “You see, he decided to join the winning team.”

“And who would that be, the White Sox?” Roland asked.

“The Coterie,” Trish said. Thorne smiled.

“Yes.”

Before Trish could respond, there was a splash from the canal below. Loud. Close. Thorne looked past her, their expression puzzled. “Does anyone else smell that peculiar odor?” they murmured. “Like… brine and salted cod?”

Something heavy slapped down onto the railing of the veranda. A moment later, a dark shape rose up over the railing, shedding water from its monstrous form. It was a hulking, nightmare thing – equal parts fish, frog, and man, mixed together into something utterly alien. Bulging eyes fixed on them, and a wide mouth split open to expose row upon row of sharp teeth. It emitted a gulping croak and bounded over the rail in a single, sinuous motion.

Roland went for his gun. Trish already had hers out. She fired, trying not to think too hard about the nature of her target. She’d seen such creatures before, though never up close. First, in a Russian file, then later through a pair of binoculars. That had been more than close enough for her liking.

Her shot took the creature in the chest, and it spun to face her, webbed claws raised, seemingly none the worse for wear. It was ignoring Roland’s shots as well. It took a step towards her, and Rivas, on his feet now, snatched up his chair and broke it across the creature’s back with as much force as he could muster. The thing paused, then turned to study Rivas as if puzzled by his actions.

Thorne held up a hand and spat a single word. Light – cold, bright, and sharp – bloomed in the space between the newcomer and the monster. The creature screamed and covered its bulbous eyes as if it had been struck blind. “Now – take it now,” Thorne called out, as the monstrosity clawed about it blindly.

Trish and Roland emptied their weapons into the creature. Some of the shots must have hit something vital, for the thing gave a warbling cry and collapsed in a stinking heap. Roland circled the body, checking for any sign of life, his expression drawn tight and pale. “Is it dead?” Trish asked shakily, as she reloaded her pistol.

“I have no idea,” Roland said. He snapped his revolver shut and emptied the newly reloaded cylinder into the thing’s misshapen skull. “But I think that did it.”

“Deep One bulls take a good bit of killing,” Thorne said, absently. They dabbed at their delicate features with a handkerchief. “Stubborn creatures. Never know when to quit. Much like yourselves,” Thorne added, glancing at Trish.

“I left Arkham to get away from this sort of thing,” Rivas said. He looked down at the pieces of the broken chair in his hands and tossed them aside. He turned accusingly to Thorne. “You promised me that the Coterie could keep this sort of thing from happening, if I helped your cause!”

Thorne frowned. “We do our best, Mr. Rivas. But sometimes our best isn’t enough. Especially these days. But I don’t think our batrachian friend here was after you.” Thorne fixed Trish and Roland with an unsettling gaze. “Indeed, I rather suspect that it was following you two. You’ve annoyed someone very powerful – not to mention vindictive.”

“Tillinghast,” Trish said, looking at Roland.

Thorne nodded. “He’s a bad influence, that one.” They stuffed their handkerchief back into the pocket of their jacket. “Though what he hopes to accomplish by killing you, I can’t imagine. Maybe he just doesn’t like you.”

“And what about you?” Trish asked. “Awfully convenient, the way you showed up just now. One might think you were keeping tabs on us.”

Thorne gestured ambivalently. “We have larger concerns than a pair of terriers like you. The world is in a delicate place, Miss Scarborough. The Coterie is one of the few organizations in any position to keep it turning on its proper axis. Which is exactly what we intend to do, using any and all means at our disposal.” They paused. “Still, one does feel a certain amount of… responsibility.”

“Meaning what?” Trish asked, careful not to show her annoyance. Thorne talked at length, but said very little.

“Go to the Bodleian Library.” Thorne produced a pale rose-hued card from within their sleeve. “You might find answers there. Ask for a fellow named Nkosi Mabati. He’s not a Coterie member, but he is a… fellow traveler, you might say. Show him this card, and he might well deign to aid you.”

“The Bodleian is in England,” Roland said.

“Oxford to be exact,” Thorne purred. “Fine city. Fine college. I went there myself, in my tumultuous youth. I learned quite a bit during my time there. You might, as well.” They paused and looked down at the dead creature on the veranda. “Though I wouldn’t dawdle. Fish swim in schools, after all. Where there’s one, there’s bound to be several.”

Roland looked at her, his expression neutral. He knew enough to recognize when he was out of his depth. He’d follow her lead. Trish sighed. They didn’t have many options. Not if they wanted to find Tillinghast. They had to follow the trail wherever it led, and hope for the best.

“Oxford it is.”