He stepped into the carriage, the air within immediately feeling heavy, thick with the unsaid. Volkova followed, sitting opposite him, his presence filling the enclosed space with an almost suffocating aura of power and scrutiny. The constable closed the door with a soft thud, plunging them into deeper shadow. The world outside, a fleeting glimpse of the quiet street under the pale dawn, vanished. The carriage lurched forward, its wheels beginning their rhythmic rumble on the cobblestones. Noir was now trapped, not just by physical restraints, but by a chilling, new understanding of the man who held his fate in his hands. He was going to Elias Thorne's residence, to face an expert, and his captor was someone who could twist reality itself.
The silence stretched for a moment, punctuated only by the clop of hooves and the distant, muffled sounds of the waking city. The gothic spires of the city's older districts, visible through the carriage window before they turned onto a narrower street, seemed to pierce the pale sky, mirroring the imposing structures from his vivid dream.
Volkova leaned back against the plush velvet seat, his gaze still fixed on Noir, unblinking. "Your 'childhood dreams,' Mr. Wilson," he said, his voice a low hum that seemed to vibrate in the confined space, "they are far more telling than you might imagine." He paused, a hint of something cold and sharp in his eyes. "You see, for someone of my Pathway, dreams are not merely fleeting images. They are a window. A subconscious confession, if you will."
He adjusted his dark coat, the fabric seeming to drink the meager light within the carriage. "I enter the dreams of individuals, Mr. Wilson. Not to simply observe, but to... explore. To search for answers. People are far more honest in their dreams, stripped of their conscious pretenses, their societal masks. Their fears, their true desires, their hidden knowledge – it all lies exposed in that malleable realm." His lips curved into a faint, unsettling smile. "And I have found that information gleaned from the dream world is often far more reliable than anything one might extract through conventional interrogation."
Noir felt a jolt, not of fear, but of profound, electrifying insight. He enters dreams. People are more honest there. The pieces of his nightmare, the premonition, the escape attempt, Volkova's uncanny awareness – it all clicked into place with horrifying clarity. This wasn't just about what Alder might have told them in a normal interview. Volkova had been in his dream, observing his reactions, his inner thoughts, his attempts at escape. The crimson moon, the chase, the reveal of Volkova as the driver – all elements Volkova had potentially orchestrated or at least influenced to test him.
But then, another, more crucial realization dawned on him, sharp and bright amidst the dread. Volkova only knew what Noir had shown him. What Noir's subconscious, reacting to the tea's strange effects and the immediate threat, had presented in the dream. Volkova knew of Alder's connection to Elias, of the investigation, of the three-day deadline Alder believed he had. He likely knew of Noir's desperate need to hide his true identity, hence the 'escape' scenario. But did he know of Thomas and Grace? Of the real circumstances of Elias's death beyond Alder's academic notes? Did he know about the tea? Or the core of Noir's original identity?
A calculated gamble. Volkova's information, as powerful as it was, was derived from a specific, manipulated context. Noir had to ensure that the dream's honesty was still his honesty, directed to misinform as much as inform. He had revealed his fear of capture, his cunning in attempting escape, but he hadn't revealed his true past, his true capabilities beyond Alder's assumed ones.
Volkova seemed to catch the subtle shift in Noir's demeanor, the slight tightening around his eyes as his mind worked furiously. "Most people, when I explain this, either scoff, or recoil in abject disbelief," Volkova mused, his voice laced with genuine curiosity now. "But you, Mr. Wilson, you seem quite... accepting. You were quite direct on the uptake. Usually, it takes a good deal of persuasion, or perhaps a demonstration, for the uninitiated to grasp the reality of the Path of the Nightmare."
Noir forced a weak, almost sheepish smile, hoping it conveyed a sense of long-held fascination rather than immediate, terrifying comprehension. "Oh, Inspector," he began, his voice a little softer, more contemplative, as if lost in thought. "As a child, I... I often had vivid, strange dreams. Dreams of incredible powers, of different realities where such things were commonplace. Perhaps it's just a scholar's overactive imagination, prone to fanciful notions. But when presented with such... tangible evidence," he glanced back at Volkova, allowing a hint of feigned awe into his expression, "it merely confirms what a part of me has always, perhaps foolishly, suspected."
He held Volkova's gaze, trying to project a facade of a slightly eccentric, academically prone individual whose personal dream-world had simply prepared him for the impossible. The truth, however, was far more chilling: the nightmare had exposed his vulnerabilities, but it had also revealed the terrifying rules of the game he was now forced to play. He had to be impeccable, a master of deception, not just in waking life, but in the realm of dreams as well. And his first act would be to navigate this carriage, and whatever awaited him at Elias's house, with every fiber of his being.
The carriage continued its rhythmic journey, clopping through the increasingly busy streets of the city. Though it was still early, the gas lamps flickered, illuminating the grand, gothic facades of townhouses and public buildings, their spires reaching like skeletal fingers towards the fading predawn sky. The air grew colder, the scent of damp earth mixing with the distant tang of coal smoke and the faint, ever-present aroma of the city's ancient stone. Two police officers on horseback rode parallel to their carriage, their presence a constant, visible reminder of Noir's predicament, their polished boots occasionally catching the faint light.
Suddenly, a sharp crack split the morning air, startlingly loud. A bullet whizzed past the carriage window, embedding itself with a splintering thud into the wood frame just above Volkova's head. The carriage lurched violently as the driver reacted, pulling sharply on the reins.
"Help! Someone... he stole my bag!" A hoarse, panicked shout echoed from the side of the street, followed by the clatter of frantic footsteps. A figure, cloaked in dark, ragged clothes, burst from between two narrow, high-walled buildings, firing another wild shot that ricocheted harmlessly off the cobblestones. The assailant, a desperate, shadowy form, immediately ducked into the maw of a dark alleyway, disappearing into the labyrinthine depths of the city's oldest quarter.
Chaos erupted. The constable on the left horse immediately spurred his mount towards the alley, revolver drawn. Volkova, his expression still surprisingly calm, though his eyes burned with a fierce intensity, moved with a sudden, fluid grace. He unlatched the carriage door with a swift click and stepped out, his hand already on the revolver holstered at his hip.
"Constable, stay here! Keep an eye on the door and the passenger!" Volkova barked, his voice carrying surprising authority over the ringing silence left by the gunshot. He didn't wait for a reply, instead moving with a controlled urgency, his own revolver now in his hand, as he strode purposefully towards the alley entrance where the assailant had vanished. His shadow, elongated by the early morning light, stretched out before him, a dark, consuming presence.
This was it. The chaos he had dreamt of, now chillingly real. Noir's heart surged with a mix of adrenaline and the strange, inexplicable grin that had graced his face in the nightmare. He couldn't help it; the unexpected thrill of the chase, the sheer audacity of the opportunity, was exhilarating. He was not meant to be a passive prisoner.
He didn't hesitate. As the constable on horseback strained to see into the alley, his back mostly turned, Noir moved. He quietly lowered the window on his side of the carriage, the old mechanism groaning only faintly. He slipped out, his bare feet barely touching the ground as he rolled, silent and quick, onto the dewy cobblestones. The cold bite on his skin was a welcome jolt, anchoring him to this new, real escape.
He didn't run towards the alley or the police, but rather sprinted in the opposite direction, hugging the shadows cast by the grand, yet dilapidated, gothic facades. He moved with a speed and agility that Alder Wilson, the scholar, certainly wouldn't possess, but which felt natural, innate to Noir. His eyes scanned the deserted street ahead. In the distance, perhaps a few hundred yards, he saw two carriages halted at a cross-section, waiting for a morning delivery or a change in the patrol. An opportunity.
He pumped his legs, ignoring the burning in his lungs, his gaze locked onto the two stationary vehicles. The first was a closed delivery van, sturdy and unremarkable. The second, a hansom cab, its horse patiently pawing the ground. Without breaking stride, Noir veered towards them. He reached the rear of the van, propelled himself upward with a powerful leap, his hands finding purchase on the cold metal roof. He scrambled over, his body moving like a shadow, then dropped silently onto the seat of the hansom cab, almost before the dozing driver had time to register his presence.
"Drive! Head for the city limits, and don't stop!" Noir hissed, pressing a handful of coins into the driver's hand, far more than the fare. "North road, as fast as you can. Your silence is worth double!"
The driver, startled but seeing the glint of coin, nodded, pulling the reins. With a creak of old springs, the hansom cab lurched forward, picking up speed, heading away from the police, away from Elias's house, towards the vast, open roads that led out of the city. Noir huddled low, peering back through the cab's small rear window. The police might have diverted their attention, but he knew Volkova. He wouldn't be fooled for long.