Back From the Undead: The Bloodhound Files

by DD Barant

  “Ah. Are you sure it’s the same—”

  “I was wondering about what you do here.” I interrupt him smoothly, politely, as if he hasn’t spoken at all.

  He blinks, then grabs the opportunity like a starving man reaching for a drumstick. “Of course, of course. Our primary business when we began was hemovore supply, but we’ve branched out considerably since then. We have multinational interests and many different projects in development.”

  “Such as?”

  “Real estate, banking, import–export, ranching … I can’t list them all off the top of my head. But the area we’re most excited about is TASS. I’m personally overseeing it.” He gives me a self-important smile, the most honest reaction I’ve gotten from him yet.

  “What’s it stand for?”

  “Technology Assisted Sorcerous Simulations.”

  “Sounds very high-tech.”

  “Oh, it is, it is! Our equipment costs are sky-high and so are the salaries I pay my programmers, but everything we have is bleeding-edge and top of the line. Considering what we’re trying to accomplish, it has to be.”

  I hide the frown that’s trying to escape. I was expecting him to bluff me, try to conceal what he’s spending on computer R&D, but he seems almost pathetically eager to talk about it—the reaction of a geek who’s intensely proud of what he’s doing and oblivious to anyone else’s lack of interest.

  I, however, am interested, and show it by leaning forward ever so slightly, wetting my lips, and widening my eyes. Subtle cues that’ll reinforce his ego and prompt more discussion. “You must be trying to accomplish something intriguing.”

  He beams. “Oh, we are. Normally I’d keep this under wraps, but I’ve been told it’s all right for me to show you. In your official capacity, of course.”

  Gretch must have leaned on him, or maybe whoever pulls his strings did. One thing’s for sure—the chief executive officer of a multinational corporation shouldn’t have to be “told” what is or isn’t okay to do with his own pet project. His role is clearly that of figurehead, with scapegoat standing in the wings and rehearsing its lines.

  “Okay,” I say. “Then show me.”

  * * *

  The lab is on the thirty-third floor. Half the room is filled with stacks of computing towers, row after row of them, what’s called a server farm. The other half holds desks with more mundane workstations perched on them, and there’s an immense flatscreen monitor covering one wall that looks like they stole it from a drive-in on another planet. Various techs in white lab coats study monitors, tap away at keyboards, or murmur to one another in small, serious-looking clusters. A working environment, populated by professionals. Mizagi bustles in like an excited dad at bring-your-child-to-the-office day. “This is our nerve center,” he announces proudly. “What we are doing here has never been attempted before.”

  “And what,” I ask, “is that exactly?”

  “We are building shrinespace.”

  I study the giant screen. It’s outlined by an ornate, red-lacquered wooden framework with a pagoda-style peak, similar to the little Shinto shrines I’ve seen in people’s homes. “And again—what is that, exactly?”

  “You are familiar with Shinto? With Kami?”

  “I know what they are, yes.” Shinto is the national religion of Japan, as well as being a major source of magic in Thropirelem. It works through Kami, which are spirits—not just the spirits of living things or supernatural beings, but spirits that live in everything: rocks, trees, rivers, weather systems, kitchen stoves, your underwear. Shinto magic is largely a system of negotiation, whereby you communicate with various spirits and get them to do what you want. A Shinto priest explained to me once that all these Kami are organized into a vast bureaucracy, with every little spirit reporting to a superior. When I asked him who was at the very top of the pyramid, he just shrugged. “I don’t know. Whoever it is, you have to get past a few million secretaries to talk to them, and I’m lucky if I can get the Kami in charge of properly working toilets to return my calls.”

  I nod. “So this is what? A virtual shrine?”

  Mizagi chuckles. “It is much more than that. It is a network of shrines, within a shared virtual space. We hope to have one in every home that practices Shinto, eventually. Instead of one or two shrines in a dwelling, this will allow you to access any Kami, at any time.”

  It makes sense—like going from a primitive telephone system with a single dedicated line to a global, interconnected web. “Sounds like a good idea. Why hasn’t anyone done it before?”

  “The technology has only recently become viable. But the equipment is the least of it; the true challenge lies in negotiating the contracts.”

  I can just imagine. Take the world’s biggest civil service, give every employee supernatural powers, then try to work out a deal with each and every department head, with all the attendant political infighting and maneuvering multiplied times immortality. Yeah, no problems there.

  “Would you like a demonstration?”

  I can tell by the way Mizagi asks that he’s just bursting to show off his shiny toy, and I see no reason to disappoint him. “Sure,” I say. “Dazzle me.”

  He trots over to a particularly serious-looking clump of technicians and speaks to them in Japanese. They disperse like a grease bubble in water touched by a soapy finger, coming to rest at various computer stations. Furious tapping and rapid-fire Japanese fill the room, and the immense screen flares to life.

  It’s hard to tell what I’m seeing at first. A swirling golden mist with a disturbing amount of depth to it, like 3-D with an extra half-D tacked on.

  “Now,” says Mizagi, “who do we want to talk to?”

  I’m tempted to put in a call to the god of Caffeine, but she already holds the mortgage to my soul … and then an idea blinks into existence and nudges me in the ribs.

  “Actually, there is a little matter I wouldn’t mind getting some help with. Is there a Kami of borders?”

  “Oh, yes, certainly. Funado.” Mizag smiles. “In fact, I’ve been dealing with him quite a bit—this project, after all, will have to cross many international boundaries.” He nods at a technician. “Funado, if you please.”

  The technician nods back and taps away. The mist swirls away to the edges of the screen, revealing an Asian man of indeterminate age in a military-cut uniform with a peaked black cap and white gloves. He’s standing at the center of a crossroads in the middle of nowhere, back stiff and arms at his sides, looking much like a crossing guard who’s been the victim of a cruel prank and refuses to admit it. It’s not like I’m staring at a three-and-a-half-D screen anymore; it’s more like I’m looking through a window.

  Mizagi bows formally. “Ohayō gozaimasu, Funado-eu.”

  Funado inclines his head and replies, “Ohayō gozaimasu, Mizagi-san. How may I assist you?”

  Mizagi glances at me, a twinkle in his eyes. “I seek a boon for a friend. Agent Valchek?”

  “Uh, yeah. Hi. I had a little trouble crossing from the United States into Canada, and something—two somethings, actually—that were rightfully mine were confiscated. I’d really like them back.”

  Funado frowns. “Describe these items, please.”

  “Two martial arts scythes. Silver-coated retractable blades. Ironwood handles. In a custom case.”

  His frown deepens. “Such matters are delicate. Normally I would suggest you first talk to the Kami of weapons or of personal combat.”

  “Sorry. I’m not that well versed in the etiquette here—”

  One hand snaps up, like he’s telling an oncoming bus to stop. “In this case, I will make an exception. I cannot see either Kami being happy with a warrior being deprived of her weapons. These items were taken by a border guardian?”

  “Yes.”

  “For no legitimate reason?”

  “No.”

  “Then I shall rectify the situation.”

  It’s my turn to smile. I hope Funado “rectifies” Officer Delt
a good and hard, and doesn’t use lubrication. “Thank you.”

  “I wish you well until we speak again.” He waves his hand in a peremptory fashion and the golden mist swirls back, filling the window. A moment later that disappears and I’m looking at a blank screen again.

  “Impressive,” I admit. “You had him eating out of your hand. Can’t be easy to tame a minor deity.”

  Mizagi waves away my compliment, but I can tell he’s delighted. “Oh, I’m just the facilitator. Most of the actual negotiations are conducted by others with far superior skills.”

  That’s not hard to believe. “Must be tricky, making deals with supernatural beings. I mean, people can be swayed by money, but what do you offer a spirit?” I raise my eyebrows, meet Mizagi’s gaze, and hold it. A few seconds tick by.

  “That’s a complex process,” Mizagi finally says. The first excuse of a professional who wants to deflect a question. “There are many, many—”

  “Of course, I guess there is a sort of spiritual currency, isn’t there?”

  “I—yes, I mean if you’re talking about energy as a medium, then in a sense—”

  “Souls.”

  He stops in mid-sentence. The room has gone quiet, in that way that happens when people notice a confrontation. Doesn’t matter whether or not you speak the language, when someone yells “Fight!” heads turn and ears perk up.

  “Negotiating an agreement is like getting the gears of two different machines to mesh together,” I say. “And nothing greases the cogs better than a little bribery applied here and there. Especially a deal as big and complicated as this one must be.”

  Mizagi bristles at the word bribery, right on cue. I’ve stepped over a line with that word, and now—according to the rules—he’s entitled to generate a little indignation, some outrage and denial and how dare you as a defense.

  But I’m not interested in a fair fight. While we’ve been talking I pulled up the photo Stoker sent me on my phone, and now I shove it in Mizagi’s face. “How about the souls of pire children, Mr. Mizagi? Think they might be a tasty incentive to sign on the dotted line?”

  He studies the picture. I see the flare of panic in his eyes as he spots the ring.

  “You—this means nothing,” he blurts. “I don’t even know what that picture is supposed to be!”

  “That’s your hand, wearing that ring.”

  “That means nothing. It’s a common design.”

  “Maybe. I can’t prove it’s you in this picture, not yet. But I will.”

  He recovers a little of his composure. “This meeting is concluded. I must ask you to leave now.”

  “Fine. But this is only my first visit, Mr. Mizagi. I tend to get less and less polite every time I show up.” I slip the phone back in my pocket. “Nice TV, though. Much better than the one you’ll have in your cell.”

  We leave.

  * * *

  “Enjoy yourself?” Charlie asks as we drive back to the hotel.

  “I did, yeah. Think we shook him up enough?”

  He shrugs, one hand on the wheel. “What’s enough? I would have been happy to pick him up by the ankles and give him a lecture on the operating principles of jackhammers.”

  “Alas, the pleasures of subtlety are lost on me.”

  “You, hurricanes, and earthquakes.”

  “Well, we rattled his cage. Now we see how loud he howls, and who to.”

  Charlie sighs. “You know, the next time I get a new suit I’m just gonna have a bull’s-eye sewn right on the back. It’ll save time and reduce confusion.”

  “Good idea. Get me one, too, will you?”

  I lean back in my seat and stretch. Too much tension in my shoulders and neck. Got to work more on teaching Galahad massage—right now he just kind of paws at my back in an enthusiastic but confused way.

  I’m actually pretty happy with how things went. Between the photo Stoker sent me and Mizagi’s reaction to it, this investigation has finally gotten off the ground. Something’s going on at Hemo, and it’s not kosher. It’s not even Jewish. In fact, it’s entirely unrelated to anything in the entire Judeo-Hebraic realm, and I’m not sure that’s even a word. Plus, talking to Funado-san has given me an idea about how to deal with my ammunition problem—

  And that’s when something slams into the car.

  “Not again,” Charlie sighs. Which is an astonishing amount of calm to display while our vehicle is executing a complete end-over-end somersault, but that’s Charlie. I’m just grateful I’m wearing my seat belt and not holding a hot cup of coffee.

  We smack down wheels-first, hard enough to bounce a couple of times—the DeSoto has great suspension.

  “That was fast,” I gasp. “We must have made quite the impression.”

  “Let’s go make another one,” Charlie growls.

  We exit the car on either side, moving fast and low. I’ve got my gun out. We’re on a side street a few blocks away from the hotel, bracketed by an on-ramp to a bridge on one side and a fenced-off impound lot on the other. No other traffic. Not a bad place for an ambush, really—unless you’re ambushing us. Then it’s a huge, huge mistake.

  I spot them as soon as I’m out of the car. A flashy red convertible is skewed across the lane behind us, a young Asian pire with spiky black hair and a bright yellow leather jacket standing up in the passenger seat. He’s got a cocky grin on his face and some kind of glowing green statue clutched in one hand. The driver of the car is slouched low, another Asian guy in wraparound shades.

  “Hey! Bloodhound!” the guy with the statue yells. “My boss not happy with you! He want you say sorry!”

  “Sorry!”

  “Much better! We go away now, okay?”

  He raises the idol and a shimmery green wave launches itself at us. I dive to the side, but the wave isn’t aimed at me—it hits the trunk of the DeSoto, which promptly flips ass-over-teakettle once more, coming to rest on its wheels again about three car-lengths away.

  Charlie and I stare at it, then at each other.

  “A somersault ray,” I say. “Well, there’s something you don’t see every day.”

  “Oops!” the guy calls out. “Sorry! My bad!”

  “Kid,” Charlie says, “Your bad is about to get a whole lot worse.”

  Charlie’s arm blurs as he pitches one of his silver-coated ball bearings overhand. It smashes into the grille of the car, just below the hood ornament.

  “Ha! Not even close!”

  “Says you. Lets see how far you get with a cracked engine block.”

  The driver says something in Japanese. He doesn’t sound happy.

  “I guess we take your car,” Mr. Cocky says. “No more throwing.” He says something in a language that definitely isn’t Japanese, and the idol’s glow begins to pulse.

  “Jace,” Charlie says. “I can’t move. You?”

  I try. My legs feel like they’re rooted to the ground. My arms are rigid, locked in place in front of me. “Pretty much immobile from the neck down,” I report.

  The guy—he must be a shaman—hops down from the car to the ground. He saunters toward us.

  I really hate a guy who saunters.

  TWELVE

  “This is not good,” Charlie says.

  “Don’t be so negative. I may have overreacted—I think I can wiggle my toes.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? We’re saved.”

  Mr. Cocky—now Mr. Casual—stops right in front of me. “Mr. Zhang very unhappy with you leaving. Most rude. Now we go back and he lock you up in much safer place. Maybe stick you in soul jar, bury you somewhere. Yomi not seem so bad, then.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” I say, “since you’re the one that’s going there. Hey, Charlie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Know what else I can wiggle?”

  BLAM!

  BLAM!

  BLAM!

  BLAM!

  BLAM!

  “I’m gonna go out on a limb, here,” says Charlie, “and say the index f
inger on your right hand.”

  Mr. Casual is now Mr. Messy. He really shouldn’t have stood right in front of my gun like that, but I’m in no position to complain. The driver takes one look at us and bolts from his car, going full-were in his panic and running right out of his clothes. I let him go.

  “You all right?” I ask. My paralysis vanished as soon as the shaman went down.

  “Peachy. Next time I’ll take out the shaman first and the car second, though.”

  “Nah, it was the right move. He might not have lined himself up so nicely if you hadn’t zeroed his ride.”

  I look down at my gun sadly. “But it’s not all good news. I’m down to my last bullet.”

  “You didn’t have to shoot him five times.”

  “Yeah, I did.” I pause. “Well, maybe I could have gotten away with three. Or four.” I pause again and think about it. “Mmm. Nope. I was right the first time. I definitely had to shoot him five times.”

  “As long as you’re sure.”

  “Plus, all I could really do at that point was twitch, and once you start it’s kinda hard to stop.”

  “I know. I’ve seen you drink too much coffee.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Blasphemy. We shall speak no more of this.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I walk over to the body of the pire-shaman-gangster. The idol he was holding is lying in the gutter, and it’s no longer glowing. Ugly little thing, like a toad with too many eyes and an overbite. Carved from soapstone, looks like. “Think it’s safe to touch?”

  “Beats me. We should get Eisfanger to look at it.”

  “Yeah.” I pull out my phone. “We’re gonna have to fill out a ton of paperwork with the local cops, anyway. I just hope none of them is in Zhang’s pocket.”

  Charlie looks at me. “Or the Yakuza’s.”

  “Or are just corrupt and greedy and willing to sell me to the highest bidder.”