“You’re correct,” Neko granted. “But it’s peculiar—it almost seems as if the beast wished us to find the boy.”
“Beasts don’t have reason, so I doubt that was the case.” She lifted up the sheet that covered Remus’s lower half and alarm struck her chest, reverberating like a tower bell. His right leg, from the ankle downward, was missing. “Neko, look at this.” She pointed. “The leg.”
Neko’s eyes widened. “Damnation.”
“Do you think—?”
He held a finger to his lips, quieting her. “Let me have a look,” he said, and hovered over the body.
Snofrid peered over his shoulder, hoping her suspicions were wrong. The boy’s right ankle was missing, and the right ankle was where the Halo of a Spectral was located.
To her knowledge, Spectrals were spirit-like Inborns with the ability to possess living hosts. Once they’d fully possessed a host, a Halo would mark its right ankle. For a Spectral to possess any host other than a beast was frowned upon in Inborn society. If one had indeed possessed the human, Remus Leathertongue, the Chancellor would surely take out his wrath on the Inborns of Hollowstone. The more Snofrid contemplated her suspicions, the more obvious they seemed. Spectrals had possessed powerful human public officials, oligarchs and military leaders before, but this had ceased since the humans had determined that Stonewall Spells could block Spectrals from possessing their bodies.
“Neko,” she whispered, putting her head on level with his. “Do you think it’s possible a Spectral possessed Remus?”
“It’s not just possible, but likely. It’s also curious. Why didn’t the Chancellor protect the boy with a Stonewall Spell?” He glared at the corpse, his eyes condemning. “The Spectral deserved to die a far worse death than this. Minds are sacred, even human minds.”
“It was an Inborn that done it,” a man with scraggily orange braids and a massive, hooked nose announced as he stepped from the crowd. Snofrid took in the man’s freckled complexion and thought his lanky build resembled a stretching cat. He wore a white hazmat suit, which sagged off his shoulders, and a hairnet that made his head look cone-shaped. His Government Issue gasmask bore the chimera emblem of Hollowstone and his badge revealed his name was Fergus Dripper, the man who supposedly liked her.
“Get off my crime scene, Dripper,” Neko spat.
“Actually, it’s my crime scene.” Fergus puffed himself up importantly. “You’re a forensic pathologist so you shouldn’t even be here. I’ve already examined the body, before you even arrived I might add, and uncovered evidence of foul play.”
Neko spun around, black brows knitted. “The security cameras here aren’t working, so how do you have this evidence?”
“That’s confidential information.” Fergus widened his stance. “What’ve you found, Snowball?” he asked.
“I disagree that foul play was involved,” she answered. “Based on my analysis, I think a beast was responsible—a grinoire to be specific. But I’d have to run some tests to verify.”
“No need.” He rubbed her back appreciatively. “Like I said, we’ve already got our evidence.” Whirling around, he ordered his assistants to pack up the body.
Neko waved them back. “My inspection is incomplete.”
Snickering, Fergus aimed a crooked finger at Neko. The finger was on the end of a hand so dirty, half the crime scene’s evidence might’ve been crammed beneath its nails. “First come, first serve, Aberthol. But don’t worry, you won’t go home empty-handed. A bluecoat walked into one of them cannibal-worm nests while canvassing the forest. Poor bastard didn’t have a chance. And he ain’t got no family so…guess you’ll be cremating some sludge tonight.”
Neko watched him walk away, raising his blood kit as if to hurl it at him. “Go,” he told Snofrid. “You don’t want to be here when the Chancellor arrives.”
Snofrid didn’t argue. As she removed her boot covers and smock, she wondered why Fergus had been so evasive about the alleged evidence of foul play. Her heart caught in her throat at a thought. Maybe Fergus came to the same conclusion Neko and I did. Maybe he knows Remus was possessed by a Spectral. If her suspicions were correct, the beast no longer mattered. The crime would be blamed on the Inborns of Hollowstone. Suddenly thankful for Lycidius’s and Desya’s decision to move, she raced to the exit of the crime scene.
As she passed the news crafts, high-powered engines drowned out the tumult of conversation. Looking up, she spotted a windowless silver aircraft, much larger than any other present, signaling to land. Bluecoats scampered in every direction to get clear, forming orderly lines at a distance, and Stellar Ops units funneled toward the craft in a wedge formation.
Snofrid ducked behind a local news craft to watch. A logo of red roses entwining a black dagger was emblazoned above the cockpit, marking the aircraft as Chancellor Leathertongue’s.
The aircraft landed on a platform some ways off, its engine expiring with shots of steam from all sides. Two ramps lowered at the tail and a twelve-man private security detail filed out, their assault rifles leveled with the crowd. They formed a corridor with their bodies as a door slid from the fuselage and a ramp extended into their ranks. The main door popped open with a hiss, revealing a fat man.
A personalized blue energy shield was erected around the Chancellor like a second skin—not even a hellfire missile would make him miss a step. Inside the shield, his white silk suit glowed aquamarine. From the distance, Snofrid made out a waxed head and a fleshy, round face, one that was twisted in pain like a corkscrew.
Two of the Chancellor’s senior advisers, his press secretary and the President of Vancastle exited the aircraft after him, all wide-eyed and pale-faced. When the Chancellor galloped down the ramp, sobbing so hard that he stumbled several times, the crowds fell into shocked silence. In waves they backed away—slowly at first, but when the President of Vancastle gave the order for all unauthorized personnel to be arrested, they scattered like rolling marbles. Panicked cries gored the air. People plodded over one another, banging into parked cars and transports.
Snofrid fought through the uproar, trying to keep pace with the fleeing crowd. A steel-toed boot crushed her foot. She cried out, flexing her toes to ease the pain, and narrowed her gaze on the perpetrator: a bluecoat. She flashed him her visitor’s badge and then darted further into the crowd, searching wildly for Neko.
Ahead, more than half the crowd was dispersing in the direction of the Speedrail Metro Station. Snofrid followed until she’d wriggled into the clear. Her lungs felt fit to burst. She crouched behind a parked transport, heaving for air, and again swept the crime scene for Neko. He was nowhere. Aware that she couldn’t wait for Lycidius, she pulled out her phone and sent him a message:
Don’t come to the crime scene or you’ll be arrested. I’ll ride the Speedrail Metro and meet you at the house.
Fear fueled Snofrid’s steps as she sprinted toward the Speedrail Metro Station. The beast couldn’t have chosen a worse person to kill, or a worse day to kill him.
Machinegun Tag
Snofrid bolted toward the Speedrail Metro Station like a spider toward a fly. It stood on the corner of Melpomene Parkway in a gaudy spectacle of marble arches and dichroic glass windows. At six dizzying stories, the station’s elevated tracks sent bullet trains north, south, east, and west, whisking civilians to every part of the city.
She kept on the right side of the lobby escalator so as not to be trampled by the mad dash of people. Aside from extra security guards, nothing gave cause for panic; but their alertness mirrored her own. She wished she could get out of the city today, before authorities started pointing fingers regarding Remus’s death, but admitted that relocating so hastily wouldn’t be smart. It would look suspicious to the authorities if civilians abandoned their jobs and left Hollowstone the day Remus died. She just hoped the week would progress without too much backlash.
Tugging nervously at her sleeves, she rode the wave of people to the sixth-level ticket counters. After a ticket ven
dor had downloaded a boarding pass into her Tag, she, along with thirty others, were cruelly selected to undergo additional security checks. She sighed as a security guard directed her out of line. What had she done to give cause for suspicion? Maybe it was because she looked so restless. Either way, Hatred Day security lengthened simple tasks into exhausting formalities, making even an elderly monk lose his patience.
Snofrid quietly awaited the additional safety procedures while fishing through her satchel. Inside, jammed up against her pistol, was a silver box. She hadn’t noticed it earlier at the crime scene. Cracking the lid, she found a gold necklace with a drop-pendant, on which was inscribed a Swedish phrase. She frowned. Lycidius had mentioned Atlas was raised in Sweden. Thinking it likely the human had gifted her the necklace, she tossed it back into her satchel.
Her train screeched to a halt on platform thirty-three a few moments after her final body scan. A dozen people bum-rushed open seats and were fired dirty-looks by disembarking passengers. Snofrid intentionally boarded last and settled into a position near the doors, in case there was an emergency evacuation.
Tension clouded the train car in whiffs of sweat. The passengers looked jittery, aggravated, or dog-tired. She figured that, along with Hatred Day norms, news of a high-profile crime had added to the general excitement. Remus’s identity hadn’t been made public, though rumors that the Chancellor had personally visited the crime scene had recently been confirmed over a live broadcast.
“Shut your damn mouth, Enzo,” an Italian man spat into his phone. He wore a tailored black business suit and his red face seemed to inflate with his words. “Just shut your damn mouth. Hematic guerrillas are killing civilians and you’re talking about bloody carbines. You’re just like the rest of the schmucks who can’t tell crap from pudding.”
“Dad, you’re not listening to me,” a wide-eyed girl in a plaid uniform sobbed into her phone. “He was in the sky-tunnels when the bombs went off. I don’t care what your stupid girlfriend says. I’m not going! I’ll run away before you make me!”
“Attention passengers, in the event of an emergency, an attendant will direct you to your nearest exit,” a young train attendant announced over the car’s loud speaker. He sported a traditional black uniform and his ginger blond hair was combed neatly in a side-part. “Remain calm and be advised that this train does not tolerate concealed carry firearms. Weapons must remain visible at all times. Thank you for your cooperation.”
The train jerked forward and Snofrid, failing to snatch onto a straphanger, stumbled into a middle-school girl standing in front of her. “Sorry,” she huffed.
“Not at all,” the girl assured, then rolled her eyes. “If you were a sweaty, old man, I’d have a word.”
Snofrid smiled. “And I’m sure he’d blush.”
“No doubt about that. I love your dress by the way.” The girl gave it a quick glance. “Carter and Roke?”
“Is it written on me somewhere?”
“Nope, I’ve got the eye. And I’m friends with most worthwhile designers,” she bragged, flipping her braids to one shoulder. “My mom works for Imperial Black.” Her phone rang and she propped up a finger. “Ooh, I have to take this one. Stay safe, fashion-sister. Crazy things happen on Hatred Day.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Snofrid spent the next few minutes scrolling through news articles on her phone and taking great pains to ignore the occasional gawker. Security cameras winked from every corner of the car, which allowed people to breathe easier; usually, criminals thought twice about breaking the law when the eye of the Bluecoat Headquarters was watching.
Except the Bluecoat HQ wasn’t the only pair of eyes watching.
During her routine scan of the metro car, Snofrid noticed a young man—probably in his early-twenties—staring at her. He stuck out so vividly, she couldn’t say how she’d missed him before; no one sat within five feet of him.
Her first thought was that he belonged to the Swangunners—the super-gang of ex-military who ruled Gehenna. He sat alone on a rear bench in the car, flicking ash from a cigarette. There was a foreign air to his appearance, largely due to his sandy complexion and refined, Grecian nose. With hard angled brows, light stubble and full chapped lips, he was an untidy sort of attractive; but his badger-grey eyes harbored a calculating flare. Hair as black as a thundercloud plunged to his shoulders, framing his face everywhere except above his left ear where a thick stripe was shaved. The quilted black jacket he wore was in novel condition—it looked pricy, in fact—and equally expensive biker pants stressed the ridged muscles of his legs. Clicking rang from the machine pistols, hand grenades and knives packed into his chest harness.
Unease turned its cold breath upon Snofrid as she stared back at him. The sleek metal tubes that contoured his breastbone, serving as air filters, were a trademark of the Swangunners; still more, the red band tied around his left bicep indicated that he was a gang Captain. Being war-veterans, Swangunners utterly despised her kind. Their hatred thrust them into all manner of violence when Inborns were found squatting in Gehenna; usually, after torturing and killing Inborns, the Swangunners decked their armor in their victims’ bones.
It was now that the look in his eyes registered. Like a beast observing its prey, he planned to do her harm. She retrieved the pistol from her satchel and backpedaled until her spine touched the wall.
“Civilians,” the Swangunner called in a coarse, Lithuanian accent. He drew a machine pistol and instructed, “Clear a path or I’ll make one.”
Faces looked up from their phones, eyes popping, and mouths took to startled gasps. No one spoke. No one took defensive action.
“Move! That guy’s Lucian Lozoraitis!” someone screamed.
“Get out of my way!” snarled others.
A groundswell of terror rippled through the ranks. The cries started low before the train car tumbled into chaos. Citizens hurled themselves at the walls, shoving past one another to get clear of the line of fire. A column of people toppled to the floor. Yelling curses, their eyes wild and panicked, stragglers scrambled toward the walls and clung to them with desperate pleas.
“I have a baby,” a woman cried, cupping her child to her breast. “Please. Don’t shoot!”
“Your baby is not a shield,” the Swangunner informed, shunting through the packed train car. “Use him as such and I’ll shoot you for pleasure.”
“Stop!” the ginger blond train attendant barked, jumping onto a car bench. “Holster your weapon or you’ll face arrest.”
The Swangunner made a ‘tsk’ sound. “You speak these rules with such authority. But, like the civilians on this train, you don’t matter.”
He lifted his pistol and fired. A bang echoed throughout the space, sucking away Snofrid’s hearing, muffling fresh screams. The attendant’s head whipped back, sending a streak of blood and gore at the faces behind; people scattered as his body collapsed.
Snofrid hammered her fists against the doors until a crack formed in the glass. She didn’t understand why no one was choosing to defend themselves. Around her, people smacked into one another, pinning her to the door and trampling those on the floor.
“Let us out!” people sobbed. “Please! Open the damn doors!”
“I’ll pay you whatever you want, Captain Lozoraitis,” the Italian man in the business suit promised, using his own body as a buffer for a young boy. “Just don’t shoot anyone else! Please!”
Snofrid checked her flank at the sound of amplified shrieks. The Swangunner was less than an arm’s length away. His hand shot out like a viper and grabbed her jacket.
“Get off me!” She thrashed about as he dragged her toward him. “Let me—”
He drove her into the wall, whacking the air from her lungs, and then pinned her with his chest.
“Let me go or I’ll shoot you,” she coughed.
“No, mieloji. Drop the weapon or you’ll be the one who loses fingers this time,” he said, now speaking in a crisp Lithuanian dialect. Jarred
by surprise, she found herself as familiar with the language as she was with English, Russian and Japanese.
She dropped the gun, searching for an escape even before it struck the floor. The train sped thousands of feet above the city, so unless she jumped, she was a rat in a corner. “Please,” she started, also speaking in Lithuanian. “I won’t run away. Just loosen my wrist.”
“You performed this trick last time. I won’t be polite again, mieloji.” He tilted up her chin with the still-warm barrel of his gun. “My boys tell me Atlas Bancroft left Hollowstone, and, without his guns, you’re sadly unprotected.”
“You’re wrong, I’m protected,” she assured. “My brother is a—”
“I warned you,” he broke in. “Struggle and the pain will be worse.”
She flicked her eyes up at him, confused and angry that Desya and Lycidius hadn’t thought to warn her about this man. “Why? What have I done?”
His face darkened. “If you’re going to play this game, then Aušra will play too.” He tossed his cigarette to the floor—she noted the missing thumb on his left hand—and unzipped his coat pocket. Snofrid lurched back as he fished out a wriggling yellow viper and held it palm-up, until it coiled around his forearm. “You remember her?”
“Y-yes.” Somehow she did recognize the eyelash pit viper. It had a triangular-shaped head and a set of bristly scales over its eyes that could almost be eyelashes. She knew that the pit-viper’s bite was as painful as getting your hand slammed in a car door over and over again. This recollection was so potent that she was certain she’d been bitten before.
“Then you remember how painful her kiss is.” He held the viper’s fangs to her neck and spoke into her ear. “I’ll keep my dignity and you’ll keep yours, mieloji. This means you won’t insult me. We respect each other. It wouldn’t please me to take your life unfairly.”
Hatred Day Page 6
