“If,” she says to me, “by some miracle you do manage to get your hands on it first, put it back in the case quickly.”
“Why?”
“Only someone with our kind of strength can safely hold it without its case. See those sigils branded into the wood? They’re there to encase not only the razor but also its aura. Without them it is out there now shining like a lighthouse. Put it in the box and you will seal it off. Then, and only then, will everyone in town be safe.”
As if I need more motivation to find Bruce. I have to be grateful to Moira for the warning, though. “Thank you,” I say sincerely.
“Go with peace and speed,” she answers. “And take good care of my little Whippoorwill. Gone, but never forgotten. Isn’t that right?”
The last words come from Moira, from the chorus, and from my right. I look over, surprised. Claire claps both hands over her mouth, eyes wide in shock, looking like a child being menaced by the boogeyman. Perhaps, in a way, she is.
“Come on, Claire,” I say, turning away. “It’s past time we leave.”
Claire doesn’t move. She’s staring at the fire, at the dancers. At Moira.
“Claire,” I say, gently taking her by the hand. She starts, breaking her gaze away, then turns and hurries back up the path with her head low. I follow, then look back.
“In the interest of fairness,” I say, “I have to tell you, there’s something new in town. Something really big and really nasty. Big enough to tear a man to confetti.”
“We know,” she says.
“You know?”
“It landed shortly after the Cleave, as you call it. It’s something, all right. Primal, vicious. And damn powerful in its own right.”
“It wouldn’t be here by your invitation, would it?”
She looks disappointed. “I thought you knew us better than that,” she scolds. “Wholesale slaughter isn’t for us, Ian. We prefer to be more… theatrical.”
The eye that is still bathed in firelight flashes. The tiny golden spark leaps free from her iris, a tiny sun that glitters in the storm and casts every single raindrop’s kaleidoscopic reflection over her beautiful, glistening form. Then it’s gone and her body drops back into half-lit gloom.
I trudge up the path, get in the Jeep and start it up, cranking the heat to the max. Claire sits staring, taking deep breaths. She’s humming a little melody under her breath, pretty enough but unremarkable, until I see her clothes are drying out as I watch and her strawberry hair becomes less sodden by the second.
“Don’t suppose you could throw a little bit of that my way before I catch a cold,” I ask as I back out of the parking place.
“Sneeze,” she answers. A second later she huffs with impatience and began humming again. By the time we reach the road I’m a great deal more comfortable, though not entirely. My hair is still as wet as ever, and my clothes refuse to fully dry. Probably the continuous exposure to my body prevents her magic from working to its fullest extent, but it should hopefully be enough to keep the flu at bay. When we get to the road I stop the Jeep and turn to her.
“Thanks,” I say.
“It’s nothing,” she lies, looking off into the night. “I learned how to do that when I was five.”
“No, I mean thanks for helping me. I won’t pretend to know what it cost you to come here. I just know that without you I’d still be back at that house sitting on the lawn.”
She chuckles, somewhat mollified. “You’d have made it here somehow.”
“In a few hours, and tonight a few hours might mean lives.”
“So, what next?” she asks.
“Were you serious about staying with me?”
“You reminded me back there how much I owe you,” she says. “The Rule of Three. You saved my life when you got me out of that place. I owe you three lives in return.”
“You don’t owe me…”
She whips around to face me, eyes flashing in a way that reminded me unsettlingly of Moira. “I do. Tonight I helped you fight the vampires. That’s one. I still owe you two, so forget it, Doctor Jones. I’m your goddamn partner.”
I don’t point out that the vampires couldn’t have hurt me, thus shooting down her argument. Then again, they might have distracted me enough for one of the wolves to do the job. So, who’s to say she isn’t right? Plus, she has to be given points for the Indiana Jones line. Either way, it looks like I have a partner for the time being.
I turn left on the main road, heading back into town. “In that case, we’re going to go see the devil.”
Seven
In Superstition Bay, the devil has a corner office.
In truth, he has more than that. He has, at least as far as the public sees, the entire penthouse complex of the Dominant Industrial Center to his name. Eight offices, three Peterbilt sized conference rooms, a multi-media suite as large as a movie theater, and even an executive health club complete with swimming pool. In reality, he not only owns that building but the three adjoining ones, though his name doesn’t show up on any of their tax rolls. He’s the owner of seven local businesses, and four more in Europe and Asia. He’s a Wall Street tycoon. He’s the reason Three Saints Hospital got the new maternity ward.
His name is Remy Danaher, and in reality, he’s much more than that.
He’s also the epicenter of supernatural activity in a town saturated with the supernatural. Since the day he returned to Superstition Bay he set about building his already substantial power base to almost unheard-of proportions with a careful eye towards avoiding drawing the attention of the Aegis to himself. In a very short time he has managed to put the entirety of the town he knows so well squarely under his well-manicured thumb. Those he can’t convince, he buys. Those he can’t buy, he threatens. In the end, after getting some measure of influence over nearly every being with a modicum of power he’d really started to work. That’s how he built his money and his power, growing richer in both with every day that passes.
“I’ve heard that the two of you avoid each other,” Claire says. I’ve been telling her a little bit about Danaher. Like a surprising number of people in the Grey, she knows next to nothing about him.
“Yeah. We’ve got history.”
“But neither of you talk about it.”
“How would you know? You and I don’t exactly hang out a lot.”
“If either of you did talk, don’t you think everyone in town would know it? Oh, we all know that you two know each other, but nobody knows how.”
I watch the wipers for a moment, debating what to say. It’s true that I rarely, if ever, mention Danaher. Our connection is… awkward. Finally, I grit my teeth and take the plunge. “He used to be an Envoy.”
“Ah,” Claire says as understanding dawns. “Just like you.”
“Nothing likes me. He was a very different kind of member than I was. He was their version of James Bond, with a full tool belt of magical weaponry and enormous amounts of mystical muscle. I was a useful freak.”
“Some people say you’re afraid of him,” Claire says quietly. “That’s why you don’t try to take him down.”
“Only a fool wouldn’t be scared of him,” I say. “Besides, it’d be a waste of time. Officially, there’s nothing to take down. Oh, I could go to the Aegis and tell them what I know, which isn’t really all that much. But the fact is he’s never killed anyone, as far as I know, so they wouldn’t put much effort into him. Oh, they might send someone (or something) to pry into his affairs anyway, but unless humans are in danger they Aegis usually let things sort themselves out.”
“Then there are some people say the real reason you won’t go up against him is that you’re friends,” she says.
I sigh. “Definitely not friends. It’s…complex.”
“You were both Envoys, huh? Did you ever work together?”
I squeeze the steering wheel so hard my knuckles crack. “Yes and no.”
“Why so mysterious? Did you ever work together? It’s a simple question.”
At five stories the Dominant Industrial Center isn’t imposing by city standards, but it’s the tallest building in town. Lots of glass, lots of steel. Very shiny. The steel is highly polished, but from a distance it looks dull and pitted. Up close you can see the charms and runes inscribed in painstaking detail, protective magics woven into the very construction of the building. I have no doubt that they don’t just run along the surface of the building, but that they go all the way through to the bedrock underneath the basement. Outside the double glass doors that lead to the lobby is an eight-foot-tall concrete sculpture of an ankh, the Egyptian symbol of life. Its presence baffles local artists and construction workers, as it had literally appeared there overnight with no signs of work ever being done.
I park in the lot adjacent to the building. The storm has spent the weight of its fury and has been reduced to a light drizzle, barely enough to coat the windshield. The ground is a sodden mess, though, and small currents flow freely down the streets, overpowering the storm drains and causing doomed little lakes to swell in the divots of the streets.
“Do me a favor,” I say. “Stay in the car.”
“Why? I can handle myself.”
“Believe me, I got that. I’m not even sure he’ll talk to me by myself. If someone else is with me I’m damn sure he won’t even open the door.”
“What makes you think he’s there at all? It’s barely five in the morning.”
“He always gets an early start.” I get out of the car. “If I’m not back in half an hour, go home.”
“You don’t want me to come get you?”
“If I’m not back by then, there won’t be anything left to get.” I close the door on her reply.
The front door is unlocked, to my surprise, the lobby within dimly lit by knee-high night lights. I was expecting to have to cajole (or, in the worst case, threaten) my way inside past night security, but through the thick plate glass I can see someone sitting patiently at a receptionist’s desk. I go in. Inside the air is crisp and cool, the air conditioning just a touch higher than comfortable in my still damp state. The doorman, a squat Cuban whose nametag labels him as Diego, stands formally and leans forward over the vast black and chrome desk with a wide, gleaming smile.
“Come in, Mr. DeLong,” he says, with no trace of accent. “Would you like some coffee?”
I’m caught off guard at being recognized. This is the farthest I’ve ever gone into one of Danaher’s properties.
“No, thanks,” I say, coming to a stop next to the desk. A puddle immediately begins to form around my sodden sneakers. My rain-soaked jeans are beginning to feel heavy and cold. “How do you know me? I’ve never been here before.”
“We all know who you are, and we’re to allow you entrance whenever you require,” Diego says. “Mr. Danaher’s orders.”
“His orders?”
“All Dominant employees have to memorize your picture, sir. We’re to accommodate you at any time, give you whatever you ask for. No questions asked.”
I chew my teeth for a moment, digesting this. If this kind of gesture had been made by almost any other being, I’d have felt appreciated. Coming from Danaher, I feel as if I was being managed.
“Thanks,” I say. “Then if you don’t mind, I’m going to go see him.”
“Enjoy your visit, sir,” Diego says. He bows expertly, returning to his desk and trusting me to find the elevators on my own.
The elevators are vast, lined with warm oak and mirrored panels, and mine moves so smoothly it feels like it’s not moving at all. I have just enough time during the ascent to take in my appearance – the clothes mostly dry but hopelessly wrinkled, the hair plastered, the wan skin. I look as out of place walking into the parlor of a Fortune 500 poster child as an alligator in a chicken coop.
The bells have just chimed gently when the elevator doors slide open soundlessly, revealing a spacious chamber of oak and glass. Everything is organized with machine precision – every surface gleams, every corner is straight. A prim, bespectacled woman with hair the color of burnished steel and eyes that are two shades colder is sitting behind an enormous crescent of oak and granite. I know who she is, though I’ve never had the pleasure of an introduction. Elsbeth Medford is the secretarial equivalent of Cerberus and is no less ferocious. She lords over the anteroom with dictatorial authority. She looks up as the doors slide open, perhaps sensing the rough insult of sneakers on the expensive carpeting, her expression drawing tight when she sees me walking in.
“Good evening, Mr. DeLong,” Ms. Medford says crisply. If she’s pleased to see me, she hides it well.
“Ms. Medford,” I reply formally. “I need to see Mr. Danaher.”
Even with her finely practiced secretarial skills, she can’t keep a frown from weighing down the corners of her mouth.
“One moment,” she says, her voice as cool as marble. She picks up her phone and punches three quick digits.
“Excuse me, sir. Mr. DeLong is here to see you.” She listens for a second. “Yes, sir.” She hangs up. “Go right in, sir.” My ‘sir’ is just one degree south of civil.
I give a nod of thanks as she presses a hidden button underneath the lip of her desk. A barely audible click signals that the oaken double doors are unlocked. Nothing in this building seems to make any noise. I push them open with both hands, leaving Ms. Medford to scowl at my back. I never could figure her out. She doesn’t have any eldritch leanings, as far as I can tell. Yet despite this Remy managed to find a secretary as evil as he is. Go figure.
Danaher’s office is larger than some hotel lobbies, an open floor plan taking up a full quarter of the top floor. Stepping in, the first impression one gets is that of glass. The only solid wall is the one that butts up to the foyer. The rest of them are glass from the waist up, overlooking the entirety of the Superstition Bay downtown area. Mammoth, iron-alloy blinds can be raised or lowered as the occasion (or the sun) demands. At the moment they are all open, thinning rivulets of water streaking down the thick plate glass. Occasional flashes of far-off lightning cast unearthly shadows throughout, overpowering the track lighting that expertly illuminates the cavernous room.
Curiously, I’m alone in that awesome space. Where did Danaher taken Ms. Medford’s call? I stroll the length of the room, taking in the sights while I wait with growing tension to be graced with Danaher’s presence.
Nothing in the room screams magic. There are no totems or fetishes, not a single testament to his affiliations. The room’s most prevalent sight are books. Racks and racks of books. The waist-high walls are lined with wraparound bookshelves and not one of them is empty. All of them are dictionary sized, bound in what I can only believe is real leather and embossed with real gold inlay. Nobody but Danaher knows what’s recorded in those books, though I’m sure there are several parties the world over who would do anything for half an hour with any one of them.
Framing the door I came through are a pair of statues ugly enough to be considered art. Each is a lumpy mass of rock hewn in a roughly human shape, each a full foot taller than me even discounting the thick, reinforced concrete block pedestals they loom from. Their stone forms are inlaid with hammered iron plates across the chests, thighs, biceps and heads in a crude approximation of Samurai armor, and each is holding a five-foot length of unpolished iron cradled across their folded arms. Modern art, I guess. It’s all over my head.
A door whirrs open behind me, nearly silent, admitting two figures. The first is a woman in a snug snow-colored jacket and matching knee-length skirt. Helen Jameson is in her early forties, auburn hair that refuses to accept a touch of silver. In a picture she’d be beautiful, tall and robust, but seeing her face to face is another story. Up close you can see the vile scowl in her jade eyes, the cruel turn of her flawless lips. She steps to the side of the door with military exactness, and then the devil comes into the roo
m.
Remy Danaher is barely recognizable as the man I’d once known so long ago. He’s wearing a rich charcoal suit that makes tailor-made look shoddy. His crew cut is chestnut shot through with iron, the exact shade of his thin rimmed glasses. The hair and the eyesight he could have magically fixed – he keeps them as is because he thinks they aid his public image. His spinal cord, though, has been damaged beyond the reach medicine or magic.
I’ve heard a thousand rumors about the details of the accident that anchored him to the wheelchair. He’d been dragged waist-deep to Hell after trying to invoke Satan himself (some rumors further added that he’d succeeded). He’d sacrificed his legs for spell components. He’d suffered a horrible fall while climbing a Tibetan mountain, after being violently cast out by the monks who lived there.
So many rumors. None of them even brushing close to the truth
Regardless of which rumor you hear, the end result is the grisly truth – a spine that has been shattered from abdomen to pelvis. The Aegis gave him intense magical intervention which kept him from dying, but no amount of magic can resurrect a ruined central nervous system. From that day forward he’s conducted his business from the confines of his chair.
“Marshal,” he says, his chair moving soundlessly under its own power.
Inside I sigh. I now know the direction this meeting is going to take. “Hello, Remy,” I say. I nod to the woman who hasn’t taken her hawklike eyes off me since coming into the room. “Miss Jameson.”
Miss Jameson stares down at me with all the warmth of an Easter Island statue. She stands at least six feet tall, almost two inches taller than me.
“You know,” I say casually, “I’ve been stared at by the best. Vampires. Werewolves. The Jersey Devil, once. But you could give any of them lessons.”
Predictably, she doesn’t smile.
“Ms. Jameson, would you please step outside?” Danaher’s words are a cold command. She finishes eyeballing me then, satisfied that the room was secure she leaves, the door closing behind her with nary a click.
Swim Like Hell: A Visit to Superstition Bay Page 8
