The only person besides Doom himself who could touch it without getting grossly cursed was Father Vinsens.
Alex would have long since been feeding the worms or fish if it hadn’t been for the priest.
With work-weary, calloused, and knotted fingers that never would have been mistaken for a regular churchman’s, the former gangster retrieved a cigarette from the pack. But all he did was close his eyes and wave it slowly back and forth under his nose, breathing in the tobacco aroma. With a dreamy smack of his lips, he handed the cigarette back to Alex.
“Almost ten years, wonder kid,” Vinsens said somewhat tragically, “since I gave those things up. If it weren’t for little indulgences here and there, I’d have started again a long time ago.”
“Still get the craving?”
Father Vinsens wrung his hands together and turned toward the nearest intersection. It was messy, with battered streets and mangled sidewalks. A crooked, unsteady streetlamp blinked on and off. Dark, then light, then dark again.
“Everyone craves what comes easy,” the priest replied. Even a fool would have realized he wasn’t just talking about smoking. “What doesn’t take the effort of trying to do the right thing.”
Alex looked over at the streetlamp, too. The first and second floors of the building facing the church were occupied by the police station, the third and fourth by High Garden’s best brothel.
It went without saying that the officers of the law working there were the wealthiest in the whole city.
Which law did they serve?
Alex suspected that it was the law of the concrete jungle.
“I wish someone could tell me what’s right and what’s wrong.” Alex retrieved a cigarette, too, lighting it with the lilac fire on his thumb and taking a pull.
Father Vinsens sniffed at the air dreamily.
“I thought you’d smoke less after jail.”
“Are kidding me? There’s absolutely nothing to do down there but play poker for tobacco or smoke it. Well, that and reading.”
“I remember you smoking a pack a day before jail. How much do you smoke now?”
Turning thoughtful, Alex estimated how much he spent on cigarettes and reached a sad conclusion.
“About two and a half.”
The priest shook his head in disappointment.
“And that’s when most quit, the rest moving over to those electronic things.”
“Electronic stuff instead of real tobacco? That’s like giving up sex for masturbation.” Alex winced and knocked the ashes off into the trashcan by his side.
“Agreed. But hey, wonder kid, I have a feeling you’re alone contributing every tenth credit to the tobacco companies’ revenues.”
Alex smiled. Father Vinsens smiled back at him. They sat like that for a while.
“What will it be this time?” the priest asked at last.
Doom ran a palm in front of his lenses to summon the payment system interface and transfer 29 credits to the priest’s account.
“Roses, daisies, and lilies. She liked that combination.”
“For that amount, the bouquet will be—”
“…five times as big as usual,” Alex nodded. “I’ve missed several anniversaries.”
Father Vinsens nodded in reply.
“You need help, boy,” he said suddenly, more a statement than a question.
Immortal Vinnie was, again, the only man in the world who could address Alex as boy without earning himself a mortal enemy for the brief and painful rest of his life.
“I just need a drink and a fu—”
“Don’t quote Robin to me, wonder kid,” the priest interrupted. “You know he got all that stuff from me.”
Doom inhaled again. The streetlamp kept blinking on the periphery of his vision, a sign the brothel was closed that night.
The cops must be keeping the hookers for themselves.
“You grew up, Alex. Got tall. Skinny, though that’s probably all the state-served foods. But that’s all on the outside. Deep down, you’re still the little boy who wasn’t stopped by not being able to enter this building.” The priest pointed behind him. “He wanted to go in, and that’s what he did. He risked his life just because he wanted to. He wanted to throw himself against everything. Absolutely everything. Because that was easier for him. You haven’t changed at all, boy. Still doing what’s easier, not what’s right.”
Alex snorted.
“I’m a black wizard. We always do what’s easier. That’s written in our destiny.”
“Written? By who? Who can prescribe what a man can do, leaving him no choice? Can you tell me their name, boy?”
Mirroring the other man’s gesture, Alex pointed behind him at the church steeple with its massive shiny brass cross looming against the overcast sky.
“Oh, wonder kid,” the priest said with a sigh. “I don’t think he ever prescribed anything to anyone. We’re all completely free to choose how we live our lives. Trying to make the world a bit better than what we found it or—”
“Die trying to stop the damn fairies,” Alex interrupted, “when no one asked you to do that.”
Vinsens’ eyes gleamed. Not with anger, but with deep sorrow.
She’d been fourteen.
Her parents died in a house fire. In the dead of night, no one had hurried to answer a call from one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in High Garden.
The whole family perished with the exception of the little girl,who miraculously survived the inferno. The cops who showed up the next morning found her covered in cinder and ashes. The ashes of her family.
They washed her clean, gave her some water, and brought her there. Not to the church, although it had already been around for quite a while.
To the blinking lamp.
She was only fourteen, but the cops didn’t care. If it hadn’t been for Father Vinsens stepping in, then…then…
Alex clenched his fists.
If it hadn’t been for the priest, Miss Elisa would never have come to St. Frederick’s Orphanage, finding her home at the church.
She was buried right there next to the ashes of her family.
In the holy ground.
Where Alex couldn’t visit her grave to tell her how he was doing.
Where he couldn’t…couldn’t beg her forgiveness. For not helping her back then. For running away like a coward. Betraying the only one who had always been there for him. Who had always been kind to him despite everything he was, and had never been scared of him.
That’s why he handed two letters to Father Vinsens.
“Please read these to her,” he said. Then he stood up, tossed his cigarette butt into the trashcan, and walked off down the street.
“I really miss her too, boy,” called the voice from behind him. “I’d rather not miss you the same way.”
Alex turned the next corner and walked on until he reached a phone booth, probably the only surviving one not only in High Garden, but in all of Myers City.
The box inside smelled like ammonia and cheap alcohol. In cold or rainy weather, homeless people used it as their drinking spot or toilet. Sometimes both at the same time.
Transferring a few cents to the city account, Doom picked up the phone. A few signal tones, and…
“Gribovsky.”
“It’s Alex.”
“Oh, pumpkin, how did you get my state number? Is there something I don’t know about you?”
“I’m in the street.”
“In the street? Are you kidding me? This city still has phone booths?!”
“We need to talk.”
“Oh. You’re not exactly my type, pumpkin. Don’t get me wrong—I couldn’t care less if you’re male or female, but I never date people from wo—”
“Set up a meeting or whatever you want call it. With the smartasses, the whore, the Asian, and the Asian’s hoodlum.”
“The whore is what you call O’Hara? And why call the group in, anyway? We just brainsto—”
“I know wh
en and where the Mask is going to strike next.”
The clowning tone vanished from Gribovsky’s voice.
“I’ll pick you up in an hour at the Schooner,” he said in a deadly serious, metallic voice. “Don’t be late.”
Alex hung up, thrust his hands into his pockets, and plodded off toward the bus stop.
He hated buses. But he hated the cold even more.
Chapter 71
“We should’ve camped here.” Tossing a red Skittle into his mouth, Gribovsky winced. “I bloody hate the red ones.”
“Then why eat them?”
The Polish man faded suddenly. He literally faded, something that was anything but easy to accomplish with his red cheeks and hair.
He clutched the pack in hand and rustled it around for a while. Alex had gotten to know his partner’s habits, and that was something he always did when he was feeling nervous or had something unpleasant on his mind.
“Because if it weren’t the red ones, it would be something else,” he said without his usual sarcasm. In a long black leather trench coat, high military boots, and a Dead Clock T-shirt, not to mention his cut face, he fit in perfectly. “Not Skittles. And I like Skittles, not something else.”
Snorting, Doom lit up. Only the one cigarette remained in his pack. He hadn’t availed himself of the opportunity to replenish when he got back to the city, and he was facing the consequences of that misstep.
“I didn’t think you had that in you.”
“Had what?” Gribovsky asked, pulling himself away from his brooding.
“A philosophical side.”
“Who doesn’t get the urge to say something smart when they know they might be dead in a couple hours?” Gribovsky crossed himself, but…he wasn’t a true believer. At least not as true as Miss Elisa, Leia Perriot, Immortal Vinnie, or their kind. “Damn you, pumpkin. Small wonder you ended up such a gloomy character growing up around here.”
“You should see it in the summer,” Doom replied with a smirk.
“In the summer? Is that when you hang the entrails of dead bodies, bathe in the blood of virgins, and dance with the walking dead?”
“No, that’s New Year.”
They exchanged glances and laughed. Standing on a hill and resting their backs against Gribovsky’s tiny sports car, they peered down at the small valley among the creepy, leafless woods. In the middle were the ruins of an ancient mansion, once beautiful in its own way.
Follen School. The place where Doom had spent his best years.
Where he’d learned the meaning of family.
“Does it hurt?” Gribovsky asked.
It was difficult not to get what he meant.
“You’re asking me that now after two weeks?” Doom asked with a brow arched. “After bringing me here on my vacation, after us spending two weeks sitting on each other’s heads in that motel and working our guts out in this damn valley? I thought things were better with the Guards’ finances.”
“They are, of course,” Gribovsky nodded as he tossed a green Skittle into his mouth. “But the demon-fighting department is a hole that gets a trickle from the budget river. It’s like we’re pissed on with money by some pumpkin who takes a leak once a month at best.”
Alex snorted. That actually was funny.
“What are you doing there if it’s a hole of a department?” Doom asked.
“I was transferred when…hey, wait.” The Polish man threw his hands up. “Is this when we open up to each other since we’re facing a deadly threat? I tell you about the fuck-up that got me dumped into the Guards’ worst hole, and you tell me how you got caged?”
“Sort of. Yeah, I guess.”
Gribovsky squinted.
“You know, when the people in the old movies start talking about that stuff, one of them is about to die.”
“Totally,” Alex nodded. “You found me out—I was going to get you to open up so some demon would knock you off right where you stand.”
“Ha, sorry, pumpkin. You’re not getting rid of Lieutenant Gribovsky like that. By the way, are you sure the Mask is going to come here at the start of Samhain?”
“Positive,” Alex replied with another nod as he rolled his eyes. “Almost thirteen years ago, a baron demon from a fourth-century legion was summoned here and—”
“Easy, easy, I don’t know much about aristocracy.”
“Basically, an ultra-mega-super-duper demon was pulled here by its hair, one strong enough to reduce the whole city to mincemeat.”
“That was perfect.” The guardsman flashed a thumbs-up. “I get it now.”
“As I already told the major and his smartasses, this is the border between the realms of the living and the dead, heaven and hell.”
“Heaven doesn’t actually exist,” Gribovsky shot back.
No. He was not a true believer.
“Whatever,” Doom replied with a dismissive wave. “This is where that border is maximally penetrable. During Samhain, it’ll be as open as a sieve, perfect for summoning even a count demon from a fifth-century legion who’s strong enough to turn the whole of Atlantis into another Abyss.”
“That’s really strong.”
“It is.”
Gribovsky tapped his teeth on another piece of candy.
“Well,” he waved carelessly. “That’s a good enough reason for us to suffer through two weeks making a trap up here.”
Just then, the walkie-talkie under the lieutenant’s trench coat squawked.
“Nest to Red,” came the voice. “Nest to Red. Do you copy? Over.”
“Red to Nest,” Gribovksy replied, pressing a button. His voice turned solid metal again. “Loud and clear. Over.”
“Red, how are things? Over.”
“Red to Nest. It’s stable. We see the entrance point. The target is not yet in sight. Everything’s ready. Over.”
“Nest to Red. Stay ready. Awaiting the major’s order. Keep a low profile. Over.”
“Red to Nest. Got it. We’ll be ready. Over and out.”
Taking his finger off the button, Gribovsky clipped the walkie-talkie back onto his belt.
“That’s total crap, Lieutenant. Sounds like two crazy dudes on the phone.”
“It does,” the guardsman sighed. “But that’s the procedure. Everything we say is heard by forty other posts, not to mention the emergency response team.”
Alex glanced back at the ruins by the foot of the hill. There, surrounding what was left of Follen School, the cradle of black wizards, no less than a hundred guardsmen stood in wait. The mansion and the valley around it were shielded off with a bevy of spells and charms.
Doom had helped set up many of them. That was why the Guards got him a break from lecturing and brought him there along with the Pole. Every morning, they had to drive about fifty miles to the mansion from the nearest motel.
But driving wasn’t crawling.
On that infamous night thirteen years before, Alex had made the same journey on foot, trudging, crawling, and otherwise dragging his body through the dead forest to the nearest highway.
“Look! The parade is starting,” Gribovsky said, holding up his phone so Alex could see Myers City’s Central Boulevard on the screen. The parade was marching right down it. Thousands of people in costume. Large floats with people on them dancing and singing, with others on the heads and other body parts of giant monster figures.
The whole thing looked a lot like the Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, just with a major Halloween theme (the amount of skin on display was roughly comparable).
The parade was fenced off from the sidewalk by barriers and lines of cops shielding the spectators from the marchers with their backs.
Giant hot air balloons shaped like monster heads had been launched into the sky. Then came the airships—long out of everyday use in Myers City, they were only flown on special occasions.
“I’ve always wanted to see it,” Gribovsky said sadly. “Looks like I’m going to miss it this year as well. What a shame. The march is su
pposed to reach the Arena right when the tournament finale starts. It’s going to be an amazing show.”
“How far is the city?”
“About three hours if you ignore traffic rules. What does that matter? I wouldn’t mind leaving my post for the occasion, but we’d still be at least an hour late.”
“Three hours,” Alex said thoughtfully. “That’ll have to do. Two and a half till the next check.”
Gribovsky slowly shifted his gaze to Doom. The Polish guardsman was no idiot, and he knew what Alex was up to…it just too late.
Alex’s hand flashed a blazing seal and touched the lieutenant’s forehead. Going limp at once, the latter’s body fell into Doom’s arms.
“Fatty,” Alex groaned, easing the lieutenant to the ground. Gribovsky was still conscious; Doom wasn’t as good at casting magic sleep as the fae. “Sorry, partner. I’m a black wizard, so you’re probably going to have some nightmares.”
Alex straightened up and, using a few moves and a couple magic seals, picked the sports car’s lock. Climbing in the driver’s seat, he lowered the window.
“When you wake up, call the major and tell him to find the seal center. He should know what that means.”
Ignoring Gribovsky’s furious glare, Alex pressed the magic engine ignition button. When the magic crystal charge flashed full on the dashboard and the exhaust pipe belched the electronic sound of non-existent fumes, Doom planted his foot on the gas pedal and, twisting the wheel violently, raced off down the country road.
He had to cover a distance that normally took three hours to drive in no more than two.
“Music on,” Alex commanded. “Last Standing Rock-n-Rolla radio station.”
A couple moments later, the electronics-packed car found the wavelength he was looking for.
“…and now…” Doom was pleasantly surprised to hear the voice of the same DJ who’d worked the station many years before. “…I give you Bad by Royale Deluxe.”
“Always the perfect hit,” Doom said with a smile.
The car dashed toward the highway, leaving behind the trap Doom had set.
Not for the Mask.
The trap he’d baited for the Guards.
Dark Wizard's Case Page 38
