The Devourer Below Read online

  Arkham Horror

  It is the height of the Roaring Twenties – a fresh enthusiasm for the arts, science, and exploration of the past have opened doors to a wider world, and beyond…

  And yet, a dark shadow grows over the town of Arkham. Alien entities known as Ancient Ones lurk in the emptiness beyond space and time, writhing at the thresholds between worlds.

  Occult rituals must be stopped and alien creatures destroyed before the Ancient Ones make our world their ruined dominion.

  Only a handful of brave souls with inquisitive minds and the will to act stand against the horrors threatening to tear this world apart.

  Will they prevail?

  Also Available

  Arkham Horror

  Wrath of N’kai by Josh Reynolds

  The Last Ritual by S A Sidor

  Mask of Silver by Rosemary Jones

  Litany of Dreams by Ari Marmell

  KeyForge

  Tales From the Crucible edited by Charlotte Llewelyn-Wells

  The Qubit Zirconium by M Darusha Wehm

  Legend of the Five Rings

  Curse of Honor by David Annandale

  Poison River by Josh Reynolds

  The Night Parade of 100 Demons by Marie Brennan

  Death’s Kiss by Josh Reynolds

  Descent: Journeys in the Dark

  The Doom of Fallowhearth by Robbie MacNiven

  The Shield of Daqan by David Guymer

  Twilight Imperium

  The Fractured Void by Tim Pratt

  First published by Aconyte Books in 2021

  ISBN 978 1 83908 096 8

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 83908 097 5

  Copyright © 2021 Fantasy Flight Games

  All rights reserved. Aconyte and the Aconyte icon are registered trademarks of Asmodee Group SA. Arkham Horror and the FFG logo are trademarks or registered trademarks of Fantasy Flight Games.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover art by John Coulthart

  Distributed in North America by Simon & Schuster Inc, New York, USA

  ACONYTE BOOKS

  An imprint of Asmodee Entertainment Ltd

  Mercury House, Shipstones Business Centre

  North Gate, Nottingham NG7 7FN, UK

  aconytebooks.com // twitter.com/aconytebooks

  Running the Night Whiskey

  Evan Dicken

  They crept like rats in the night – two men Leo could see, and at least one he couldn’t. Normally, they would’ve never gotten past the shabby brick wall separating Leo De Luca’s apartment from the jumble of warehouses lining Arkham’s River Street, but he’d been up all night losing his bankroll to a gaggle of shysters in a backroom of the Nightingale Club. Leo had been cheating, of course, they’d just been cheating better. Last call had found him red-eyed and stumbling, his pockets lighter by the roll of C-notes he’d planned on turning into Miskatonic County’s newest still.

  Now, Leo lay stretched out on the threadbare davenport, mouth tasting of whiskey and stale Chesterfields, moonlight streaming through his open window. He considered drawing the curtains, but the tepid breeze wafting off the Miskatonic River was the only thing that kept him from roasting in the late summer heat.

  Boots scuffed on the alley outside. Leo was already up and moving before something heavy slammed against his door. Even in a fog of whiskey fumes, he had remembered to bar it – a habit left over from a childhood spent in the rougher outskirts of Biloxi. Unfortunately, Leo’s riot shotgun was leaning against the icebox in the kitchen, and his nickel-plated Colt 1911 lay buried somewhere beneath the pile of castoff clothes near the door.

  Leo snatched up the contents of the nearby coffee table and was moving before the next hit, gin bottle in one fist, a handful of loose change in the other. When the bar gave way, he flung the change at the man who stumbled through. The mug flinched as coins rattled off his face, earning a bottle to the skull for his hesitation. Gin and glass scattered across the floor.

  Bloodied, but still moving, the man swung a length of iron pipe like he was fixing to round the bases. Leo had been in enough scraps to know he wasn’t getting out of the way in time, so he stepped into the swing, letting the man’s arms glance off his shoulder. He’d have a helluva bruise the next day, but it was better than a leaky skull.

  Leo grabbed the man’s coat collar, gently but firmly guiding his unwelcome visitor face-first into the wall.

  There was a flicker of movement in the doorway.

  Leo threw himself back to avoid the downward arc of a baseball bat. He had just enough time to register relief that neither of his attackers had guns before the bat’s backswing clipped him in the jaw. The fact that whoever had sent these lugs to bum rush Leo didn’t want him dead proved little consolation as he crashed through his second-favorite chair.

  Boards creaked under heavy footsteps as the second attacker closed the distance.

  Leo kicked blindly toward the noise. The momentary glimmer of satisfaction he felt as his heel connected with the man’s shin was quickly eclipsed by dismay as the big mug fell on top of him. After that, it was all knees and elbows, the two of them rolling amidst clothes and broken glass. Leo did his best, but the guy on top was broad-shouldered as a longshoreman, with a face that looked like it had been hacked from bedrock.

  Granite-Face got ahold of Leo’s neck and gave his head a good wallop against the boards. It felt like the girls in the Nightingale’s dubious “chorus line” were tap-tap-tapping on his skull.

  Leo drove a finger into Granite-Face’s eye, followed by a slap to the ear. He drew in a racking breath as the lug let up for a second, then twisted to feel around amidst the balled-up clothes. Something hard had dug into his ribs as they rolled across the floor, and Leo was willing to bet a case of uncut whiskey it wasn’t one of his wingtips.

  His fingers brushed metal, and he snatched up the Colt. When Granite-Face regained his bearings he found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

  “That’s enough.” Leo kept his voice level as he could manage. It was always best to look like you were in control, especially when you were very much not.

  The man raised his hands, leaning back nice and slow so Leo could scramble away. A glance to the door showed Granite-Face’s colleague still ensconced in the loving embrace of Leo’s front wall.

  He got to his feet, pistol never wavering. Things had been dicey for a bit, but all in all, it seemed like Leo had the situation in hand.

  Which made it all the more surprising when he felt the cold jab of a rifle muzzle between his shoulder blades.

  “Drop the Colt.” The man’s tone was calm, his voice vaguely familiar.

  “Mind if I set it on the table?” Leo asked. “Don’t want to scuff the finish.”

  “Sure. Anything for a pal.”

 
Leo laid the pistol on the table, slow and careful. The other two lugs looked to be straight bruisers, probably hired out of some Boston gin joint for a bottle of hooch and a few bucks off their tab. But the man with the rifle – the man Leo would’ve been looking for if he hadn’t been working off a night of heavy drinking punctuated by a mild concussion – he felt like a professional.

  “I know why you’re here,” Leo said.

  “Do you?”

  “Listen, you can tell Johnny V that I’ll have his cash in a few–”

  “Turn around.”

  Leo winced. It was never a good sign when a button man wanted to see your face.

  “I said turn around.”

  Leo turned.

  The man lowered his rifle to grab the front of Leo’s shirt. Expecting the worst, Leo was startled when the man dragged him close to plant a kiss on each cheek.

  “Corporal De Luca, you old booze hound, what the hell are you doing in Massachusetts?”

  “Donny?”

  He offered a sloppy salute. “Private Donald Alighieri reporting for duty.”

  Donny Alighieri was paler than he’d been when the Germans had shelled them at Apremont. The years had hollowed dark circles under his eyes and left a scattering of gray in his black mustache, but Leo still recognized the smile, made crooked by the long scar a German trench knife had carved from cheek to chin.

  “Christ, how’d you get mixed up with these goons?” Leo thrust his chin at GraniteFace, who was staring, open-mouthed, at the two of them.

  Donny shrugged. “I could ask you the same question.”

  “Why you jawin’ with this sap?” Granite-Face took a threatening step toward Leo. “He put Tony through a wall!”

  Donny placed a hand on the big man’s chest. “That’s enough, Phil.”

  “But Johnny V said rough him up.”

  “He looks pretty rough to me,” Donny said. “Why don’t you help Tony outside while the big boys talk?”

  Phil looked about to argue, but something in Donny’s expression seemed to settle the large man. He stomped over to pull a half-conscious Tony from the wall, glaring at Leo the whole while.

  Happy as he was to not have his face rearranged, Leo couldn’t quite summon any gratitude. Especially since Donny was still the one with the rifle. Leo settled for a level stare as Donny waited for Phil to drag his moaning partner out onto the street.

  “Sorry about all that.” Donny waved an absent hand at the wreckage. “Gotta keep up appearances.”

  “I’d pour you a drink, but I spilled my last bottle over Tony’s head.” Leo gestured at the couch. “Mind if I sit? It’s been a helluva night.”

  “Be my guest.” Donny pulled up Leo’s favorite chair and sat, rifle resting across his knees.

  Leo looked around for a cigarette, and, finding none, settled back into the couch with a sad shake of his head.

  “So you’re working for Johnny V now?”

  “Isn’t everybody?”

  “So why the talk?” Leo sighed. “Shouldn’t you and the two gorillas outside be fitting me for new kneecaps?”

  “Can’t two old army chums catch up a bit?” Donny asked. “Couldn’t believe when I heard you were into Johnny V for five large. What the hell happened?”

  “Prohis confiscated a big load I had coming down from Montreal, then they knocked over two of my stills. Next thing I know there’s G-men snooping around the Nightingale club.”

  “Golly, didn’t you pay them off?”

  “Course I did. Johnny V just paid them more. He’s always been keen to put the squeeze on us independent operators.” As it always did, mention of Johnny V made Leo want to bare his teeth. He’d had a real good thing going in Arkham until the self-styled “Baron of Boston” stretched his spirituous tentacles down the coast.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “I know we go back a long way, Donny, but I’ll tell you the same as I told the last three fellas Johnny sent by: this is just a setback.”

  Donny held up a hand. “I’m not here to shut you down, Leo – quite the opposite.”

  Leo blew out a long breath. “Is this the part where you rake me over the coals with some lowball offer to buy me out?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Donny laughed. “I’ve got a friend, runs a still across the Canadian border out near Coaticook. Strange fella, but he can really cook. Calls his stuff ‘night whiskey’. It’s black as tar and thick as molasses, but it’ll knock you down faster than Jack Dempsey’s left hook.”

  “What are we talking?” Leo asked.

  “A quick jaunt up to Canada for two cases of the stuff. I’ve already got a buyer lined up.” Donny flashed his lopsided grin. “They’re willing to pay through the nose, twenty large. I figure we split it fifty-fifty, which gets you out of Johnny V’s pocket with some green to spare.”

  “What about Johnny V?” Leo leaned forward, interested despite himself. “What’s his end?”

  “That’s the beauty of it, Johnny don’t know nothing,” Donny said. “That’s why I came to you.”

  “So what’s the catch?” Leo asked. He’d lived enough life to know offers that seemed too good to be true usually were.

  “No catch.” Donny spread his hands. “If things go well, we might even be able to make it a regular thing.”

  “This ain’t some Chaplin movie, Donny.” Leo shook his head. “Some old army chum I haven’t seen for years shows up out of the blue to drop a golden egg in my lap? More like Johnny V wants me to save him the trouble of dragging my corpse into the sticks after he puts a bullet in my head.”

  “You wound me, corporal.” Donny nodded at the broken door. “If I wanted you dead, those two lugs outside would be happy to oblige.”

  Leo chewed his lip, considering. Apart from the loan, he didn’t owe Johnny V a red cent. And it wasn’t like turning down this job would put him in the mob boss’ good graces. At the end of the day, Leo had nothing but a fast car, a failing gin joint, and a mountain of debt to his name.

  He blew out a deep breath. “When do we leave?”

  “Soon as I can shake those two.” Donny hooked a thumb toward the street.

  “I’ll have the car gassed and ready,” Leo said. “Meet me at the Garrison Street bridge in two hours.”

  “There’s the ‘Louisiana Lion’ I remember.” Donny slapped Leo on the knee, then stood to leave. He made a half-hearted attempt to shut the door behind him, but only succeeded in pulling it further off its hinges.

  Leo scrubbed a hand through his hair as he surveyed the wreckage of his front room. The scuffle had left him too juiced to sleep, and just the thought of cleaning up made his head throb. Besides, if things went south on the run, a clean apartment would be the least of Leo’s worries.

  He knelt to rummage through the tangle of clothes for his shoes and hat, then retrieved his pistol and headed into the kitchen for the shotgun. Better to have and not need, and all that malarkey.

  Whistling, Leo stepped over the remains of his door. Despite the new bruises, he felt strangely pleased. Painful as the night had been, it seemed Leo’s luck was about to change.

  Speaking of luck – he wondered if there were any card games still running.

  •••

  “She really does purr, doesn’t she?” Donny gave the car’s dashboard an affectionate pat.

  “Studebaker EK Big Six, faster than any of those clunkers the bulls drive.” Leo checked the side mirror, frowning at the car behind them. They had left Arkham just ahead of the sun and driven north most of the morning, stopping only for a bit of gas and runny eggs at a hash joint just outside of Ipswich. Roads had been mostly clear, until the green Model T had fallen in behind them.

  “Whatcha staring at?” Donny started to turn, but Leo nudged him.

  “Use the mirrors.” Leo nodded
at the side view. “That Model T has followed us for the last three turns.”

  “Think it’s a copper?”

  “Might be the prohis,” Leo replied. “But they all drive black cars.”

  “What’s the matter if it is?” Donny chuckled. “It’s not like we’re packing any hooch.”

  “We’ve got guns.”

  Donny shrugged. “No law against that.”

  Leo sucked air through his teeth. “Just rubs me the wrong way, is all.”

  “You’re the expert.” Donny held up his hands. “If you wanna lose ’em, let’s lose ’em.”

  Grinning, Leo gave the car a bit more gas.

  The Model T kept pace, never drawing too close, but always staying barely in sight. Despite his anxiety, Leo couldn’t help but feel a bit of admiration for the driver. In the years since Prohibition, Leo had seen his share of tails, and this one was a pro. If he hadn’t known exactly what to look for, the Model T would’ve skimmed just below notice.

  He glanced at Donny, suddenly wary. “You sure you didn’t tell no one about this run?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “Let’s see how he likes a bit of flash.” Leo shifted gears, opening up the throttle. Had they been on twisting backroads it would’ve been more of a contest, but although the county road wasn’t paved, it was straight enough for Leo to really build up some speed. Within a few minutes they had left the Model T sputtering behind.

  “At this rate, we’ll be north of the border by sunset.” Donny let out a low whistle as Leo let up on the gas. “This is the life, eh?”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Leo nodded, keeping an eye toward the scattered pine and dogwood trees lining the bumpy country road. In this heat, the county coppers were like as not to be sitting back on a porch somewhere with their feet up, but the Model T had made Leo jumpy. He knew the backwoods roads from Innsmouth to Montreal better than any two-bit prohis, but it always paid to keep an eye peeled.

  “To think, just a few years ago we were squatting in that trench outside Epieds.” Donny gave a tilt of his head. “Now look at us.”