Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  "And where will you take them?"

  "Sorry, but for the time being, that's on a need-to-know basis. The fewer people we tell, the less likely it is that we'll give the information to somebody who will eventually go nuts. But it's a safe place, and it's got medical facilities."

  "That's all very well, but some of these children shouldn't be moved."

  "We won't do it unless we're pretty damn sure they'll be slaughtered in their beds if we don't."

  Quitman grimaced. "All right, I understand. Our staff will need to accompany the children, of course."

  "Our doctors and nurses will be glad to have the reinforcements," Dunn replied. "But I suspect that at least some of your team will decide they need to get home to their own kids and families."

  "Possibly so," said Quitman. "I'll brief everyone on the plan, and ask for volunteers to stick with the patients for the duration. And pray to God that things never get so bad that they actually have to do it."

  "I'll second that," said Dunn, rising from his chair. "And now, unless you've got more questions, I've got other places to visit."

  When he exited Quitman's office, the aroma of blood assailed him again. It seemed even richer and more enticing than before. His head swimming, swallowing repeatedly, he strode down the hallway toward the elevator.

  He tried not to look into the rooms on either side of the corridor, but a particularly sweet strand of the blood scent wafted through a doorway and tugged at him. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a tiny black girl with plaited hair lying asleep in a private room. Her mouth hung open, revealing the gaps where two of her baby teeth had fallen out. A Raggedy Ann doll lay beside her atop the quilt. The werewolf halted.

  Why not, he thought, his shoulders beginning to swell inside his clothes, when it would be so easy? Just slip inside the room, close the door, snap the kid's neck, and eat his fill. It would be just one more mysterious atrocity, which shouldn't be a problem considering that he and his fellow conspirators were in the mysterious atrocity business.

  But unfortunately, it would be. When the Natchez cops came to investigate, Quitman would no doubt tell them about the FBI agent who might still have been hanging around the hospital at the time of the murder. He'd probably allude to the government's grand and glorious evacuation plan, whereupon the local law would inform him that as far as they knew, there was no such thing. Which would spoil the con job Dunn had given him.

  Forcing himself into motion, the Black Spiral Dancer told himself that he'd soon find some unfortunate human alone on the street. With luck, he could be chowing down in under fifteen minutes.

  Mike Fink stalked down the line of stripped and manacled Heretic prisoners. Most of the captives trembled, cringed, and refused to meet the eyes of the man who, since Montrose's arrest, had commanded the Inquisition in the field. Others held themselves still and expressionless. A few dared to glower at him, and one woman, a rather pretty one with big brown eyes, a pale, buxom body and curly black hair, snarled, "Jehovah will punish you for your sins, Hierarch."

  Fink jammed the muzzle of his Mag-10 Roadblocker shotgun under her chin, lifting her up onto tiptoe. He leered into her face, watching defiance wilt into fear, and then pulled the trigger. The darksteel shot blew her head into wisps of ectoplasm. Her body melted away in a cascade of black light before she could even topple to the ground.

  Fink's irregulars laughed raucously. Some of the other prisoners screamed and wailed.

  The former keelboat master frowned, a little puzzled by his own behavior. It wasn't that he regretted what he'd done, exactly. Even when he'd been alive a century and a half ago, he'd amused his drinking companions by shooting a tin cup off his woman's head, and if anything, he'd grown less squeamish about his entertainments since. On occasion he liked to ram an iron hook through a slave's body, shove him through a Nihil, and fish for Spectres. Or chain up a Thrall behind a barrier, with just a portion of his head peeking over the top, and have himself the ghostly equivalent of a turkey shoot.

  But ordinarily, when he endangered, hurt, or killed somebody outside of combat, there was some sport or joke to it. This time, there hadn't been, even though a number of the men had laughed. He'd simply acted on impulse, and the result was the waste of a woman who would have been a lot more fun to screw than to kill, and who would have fetched a handsome price from the slavers.

  Maybe Mother Prudence was right. Maybe the stress of spearheading the campaign against the god-lovers was wearing on him, at least to some degree. Much as he disliked consulting the Pardoner, partly because he sometimes had trouble remembering precisely what they'd said and done afterwards, perhaps he ought to call on her tonight.

  He realized his troops were watching him expectantly, uncertainly, and felt a surge of anger. "What are you bastards standing around for?" he roared. "You know what to do. Figure out exactly what prisoners and other plunder we've got. Pick your shares—Johnny, you choose one for me—and deliver the rest to the Citadel. I'm going up there now."

  He put a fresh shell in the shotgun and shoved the weapon into the scabbard on his back, where it hung beside his ax. Then he turned and tramped away from the Inquisition's motley fleet of boats, now moored at the dilapidated docks, his guerrillas, and their captives. Some sentry upriver had evidently watched the victorious crusaders sail by, then alerted the Governors to expect them, because a flunky—the wraith of a lanky young man with a buzz cut, whose tank-top showed off the bald eagle tattooed on his left shoulder—had fetched Fink's white, scarlet-eyed spirit horse down to the water.

  Actually, the keelboatman still thought of Alexander as Montrose's steed, but he supposed his friend and erstwhile commander wouldn't begrudge him the use of the Phantasy. A wraith whom the Deathlords had no doubt executed in some excruciating fashion couldn't begrudge anyone much of anything. Scowling at the melancholy thought, he reached into the pocket of his jeans for an obolus to tip the hostler.

  Alexander shied, nearly pulling the reins free from the unwary servant's hand.

  Fink didn't know what to make of it. As far as he could judge, his movements hadn't been particularly abrupt, or otherwise alarming. "Take it easy, boy," he murmured, holding out his hand. "You know me."

  The stallion backed away again. The hostler grabbed the beast by the bridle, but even so, couldn't control him. Tossing his luminous white head, Alexander merely dragged the wraith along.

  Fink's muscles clenched in anger. He couldn't imagine what ailed the horse— he'd ridden him at least twenty times before—but by hell, he knew how to teach the rebellious creature who was master. He called on his Haunter Arcanos. Instantly the power rose inside him, like a vicious dog about to be unleashed on helpless prey.

  Sneering, the guerrilla captain raised his arm, and his hair stood on end. The air hummed, and smelled of ozone. Alexander struggled to escape the hostler. The servant shot Fink an anguished, imploring look. Clearly he had some notion of what was to come, and realized the electrical discharge would fry him, too. But he was too frightened of the notorious former outlaw to release the spirit horse and scramble away without permission.

  "Wait!" someone cried.

  Startled, Fink turned. Valentine, looking to the river man's eye absurd and somehow offensive in his new green sash and contemporary clothes, came trotting out of a shadowy side street. Behind him skulked a small, sharp-featured woman decked out in hippie regalia, with a flintlock pistol tucked in her tie-dyed sash.

  "I think I can calm him down," said the dwarf. "He knows me."

  "Mind your own damn business," Fink growled.

  "Think," pleaded Valentine, still advancing on the animal. "He's valuable, and if you zap him, you could destroy him."

  Much as Fink disliked the former jester, he had to admit he had a point. Alexander would be worth a fortune even in Stygia, where, according to Montrose, captured Phantasies were somewhat more common. Here in the desolate Shadowlands, the stallion was damn near priceless. And the Inquisitor even liked the beast, when
he wasn't acting crazy.

  "All right," said Fink, "take a shot." If Valentine failed to quiet the horse, he could barbecue the two of them together.

  Valentine eased toward Alexander, crooning endearments and reassurances. The stallion stopped trying to wrench himself away from the hostler and watched the little man approach. Eventually Alexander stopped trembling and lowered his head. Valentine petted him on the nose.

  The dwarf turned toward Fink. "Whatever was making him skittish, I think he's all right now."

  Fink felt an urge to cut loose with his magick anyway, just for the hell of it. Stifling the impulse, permitting his charge of mystical energy to dissipate, he walked toward Alexander. The Phantasy watched him placidly. For a moment, he had the odd fancy that Alexander had detected a difference in him, a difference that, had vanished now, or crawled back into its hole, but then dismissed the notion with a scowl. Horses were notoriously stupid and erratic. That was one reason he'd always preferred boats.

  He took hold of Alexander's reins. The hostler, still looking frightened enough to wet himself, had the Restless been capable of that particular bodily function, bowed and scurried away.

  Fink sneered at Valentine. "You're stupider than I thought, getting in the line of live when I've got a mail on and my Haunter powers all revved up."

  "I just didn't, want to see Alexander hurt." Valentine reached up with one of his stubby hands and stroked the spirit horse's shining leg. "Montrose really cared about him."

  "And you were such a good buddy to Montrose." Fink still didn't know that Valentine had stolen the Stygian's treasonous jffitimal to help Gayo.sc bring him down, but the dwarfs recent promotion had done nothing to allay his suspicions.

  Valentine's face twisted, whether in annoyance or guilt, the river man couldn't tell. "I guess I also stepped in because I wanted to get on your goaf side. So I could ask you for. a tavor."

  "Now that's a lot funnier than any of the lame jokes you Used to tell when you were dancing around in your little clown suit."

  "Please," said Valentine, "just hear me out. This is Belinda Talley."'

  The hippie edged forward, looking as. wary and nervous as pjogie often loi >ked- when meeting Fink for the first fim&Still, .she offered him her hand. "Hi," she said.

  "Evening," Fink said, taking her hand and leering. "I know that most of the real men m these-parts are away most .of the time, fighting the. Heretics. But even so, you can do a lot better than the rurjrfjEre. Hell, I could spare you an hoifior two myscll."

  "We do want some of your fiiSe," said Belinda, tugging her fingers ft-nin his grasp. "We need vour help. Do you know about Valentine's friend Daphne'"

  Fink rolled his eyes, "ffot this again. You aren't going to tell me that von were in love with the little, whore too?"

  The hippie's mouth/tightened, "No, Captain. I never even met her. But mv little girl, who entered the Underworld when I did, is missing, too."

  "Other Restless children have vanished,, also," Valentine said. "And we think we know why,1' Speaking rapidly, excitedly, he tried to vie each disappearance to a silent man in a blue mask and a long coat, whom he suspected of being a serial killer.

  Despite Fink's dislike for the little man, the story engaged his interest. It really did sound as it Valentine and Belinda might have sttimbled.onto something. And if some maniac was slaughtering children, that was Bather a shame. There weren't all that many kid ghosts to begin with, and without them the realm Of'the Restless would seem even deader, even more like a thin shadow of the world of the living.

  Still, it was none of his concern, and he sg-id as much. "My job is running the crUsade, not' policing the city. Tell Gayoso your story. He can order the regular Legionnaires to chase your man in the blue. mask. Fate knows, the gutless ha.sUiius amn'f good tor anything else."

  :"We did talk, to the Governor," Valentine replied. "He said he'sJJguk into it, as far as lie was able, bur it was petty obvious he doesn't really plan on doing anything meaningful." He hesitated as if reluctant to confide something embarrassing. "And then he gave me my new7 jula. It was like he was doing it to distract me tpam asking any more, questions."

  Fink frowned. "That's funny. Not that Gayoso, Shellabarger, and old lady D'uquesne have ever given much of a damn about people getting themselves kidnapped and murdered in Under-the-H ill, but still, you'd think the spie son of a bitch wSiild want to take action this time, if only K) keep himself from looking tike an asshole. He must know there's something about the notion of a child murderer that really punches people's buttons. And even if Gayoso doesn't care about his reputation, why would he want to stop you two fools from asking questions?"

  "We don't know," Valentine said. "We don't know how to find the answers, either. But you do. If you can catch Heretics all over the province, then surely you can flush out one maniac hiding right under our noses here in Natchez."

  "Of course I could," said Fink. "But like I told you, I've already got a job."

  "Don't you care about the children?" Belinda asked.

  Fink shrugged. "Not all that much. I've killed a few kids myself over the years. Never just for fun, but the notion of somebody else doing it isn't likely to ruin my evening. Hell, these are ghost children we're talking about. Most of them have been kicking around the Shadowlands for years and years. Some have adult minds, like Daphne, and maybe the ones who can't grow up aren't fit to survive."

  Belinda goggled at him, clearly horrified at his attitude. Her dismay amused him, but, to his surprise, it also brought a fleeting twinge of discomfort.

  "You could be right," Valentine said. "But I thought you didn't like Gayoso. We don't know what he's hiding. Maybe nothing, maybe we're reading him all wrong. But if he is covering something up, wouldn't it be fun to expose it?"

  "I have to admit," said the hulking keelboatman, "that's a more persuasive argument." He shot Belinda a grin. "I wouldn't mind screwing him over. Hell, if we made him look really bad, maybe he'd get himself arrested like Montrose did, or at least be dumped from command of the Inquisition. Not that I particularly want to answer to Shellabarger or Mrs. Duquesne, either, but it might be a step up. They might be a little more sensible in terms of how much they expect of me and my boys, and how much support they give us."

  "You'd also be carrying on Montrose's work," said Valentine. "You know he thought Natchez was facing some hidden threat. Something to do with a series of murders in the Skinlands, false Pardoners—"

  The mention of Pardoners made Fink visualize Mother Prudence's round, placid face, and then, as if she'd whispered a warning to him, he suddenly realized what Valentine was up to. The insight brought a pang of anger. "You miserable little freak."

  Valentine gaped up at him. "Excuse me?"

  "You thought you could con me into going against Gayoso," said Fink. Alexander squealed and tried to pull away from him, and, intent on Valentine, he let go of the reins. He could catch and punish the rebellious animal later. "Then you warn him I'm plotting treason, I get arrested like Montrose, and you get another promotion."

  "I swear by the Scythe and the Lantern," said Valentine, "that wasn't the idea at all. We just want you to help us look for the kids and the man in the blue hood. Nobody could call that treason in and of itself. I was just saying, if all the mysteries are tied together, then maybe by solving one—"

  "You thought you could trick me," said Fink. Roused by his anger, his Arcanos power stirred, and he allowed it to express itself as it pleased. The air grew suddenly cold, and tendrils of frost crept along the cracked, filthy pavement and the derelict buildings on either side. "Me, Mike Fink, the king of the Mississippi Damn your impudence!"

  Valentine backpedaled. Fink decided to give him a few steps, just enough to make him hope he might actually get away, and then pounce.

  "Please," said Belinda, lifting her hands in supplication, "you've got it all wrong."

  Fink sneered at her. "The next time I look over at you, Missy, you'd better be naked." He lunged, grabbed Va
lentine, and hoisted him into the air.

  Haunters drew their power from chaos itself. Thus, the effects could be somewhat unpredictable, even for an adept of the Arcanos. On this occasion, Fink was delighted to realize that the chill his magick had evoked had suffused his own flesh. When he shifted his grip on the writhing Valentine, he tore away clothing and skin which had frozen to his hands. He wondered if the same thing would happen every time he pulled back after thrusting himself into the hippie.

  He sank his fingers deep into Valentine's flesh. The dwarf squirmed even more frantically, but of course, puny thing that he was, he had no chance whatsoever of breaking free of the strongest man on the river. In seconds, his lips turned blue, and the first sluggish wave of shadow rippled under his dead-white skin. "Freeze, you little rat," the mercenary said. Belinda stood and stared, her features a mask of anguish.

  Rapid hoof beats clopped across the pavement.

  By the time Fink whirled, Alexander was already rearing, towering over even a huge man like himself. The spirit horse's scarlet eyes burned like bonfires. His front hooves were poised to batter his master to pulp. Fink fleetingly recalled how clever he'd felt, the day he'd decided to have the beast shod with darksteel.

  He lifted Valentine higher, using the dwarf as a shield. Alexander's hooves hammered down. One struck the little man in the chest, but the other hurtled past to smash into Fink's right shoulder.

  Fink reeled backward and fell, losing his grip on Valentine in the process, though scraps of cloth and steaming, evaporating ectoplasmic skin still adhered to his fingers. Moving with a precise grace that was almost dainty, the white stallion closed in on him again.

  Fink tried to draw his shotgun, but his arm didn't work. Struggling to focus past the shock of his injury, to maintain his control of his magick, he lashed out at Alexander with that.