by DD Barant
“What?”
“For dragging you out to this event. You look a little overwhelmed.”
“No, just outnumbered. One to ninety-nine, remember? And frankly, tonight’s representative sample didn’t give me a lot of hope for the survival of the species.” He blinks. It takes me a second to realize I’ve actually shocked him. “Oh, I get it,” I say. “Human beings are a little bit of a sacred cow. Once you’ve wiped out their population you have to elevate the cultural status of the survivors—we’re Noble Savages now, right? Who knew vampires and were-wolves had political correctness?”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “We can get a little sanctimonious, especially at events like this. At least our hearts are in the right place—even if they’re not beating.”
“I applaud the intent, okay? And I actually had a pretty good time. I like Brian and Sherry.”
“Good. I was hoping you’d get along with them.”
And then there’s one of those pauses. You know, the loud kind where you can hear the question hanging in the air that neither of you is willing to actually spit out. If I were to do so, it would probably sound something like this: “So, Brian’s a drunk and an artist—good for him, there’s at least two things he excels at. Oh, and stealing women from powerful immortal pires with movie-star good looks—the pire, I mean, not Brian. He looks more like the kind of guy you’d find working the bar at a really good Irish pub and how the hell did you lose a woman like Sherry to him?”
Yeah, I said it out loud. What a surprise.
“He’s human,” Cassius says. “I’m not.” His voice is carefully neutral—not sad, not angry, not anything.
I slide over on the seat. He turns to look at me. I put one hand on his chest, hesitantly. “No heartbeat,” I say. “No pulse, no breath. You don’t excrete sweat or used food. Your hair doesn’t grow, and neither do your fingernails. You don’t shed dead skin cells. Anything else?”
“Only a few centuries’ worth.”
“That’s a lot of living. Which I think makes you more human, not less.” I move my hand from his chest to his hand. “All the things you don’t have are just biology. All that living you’ve done, that’s what makes you human—that’s what makes you a person. You didn’t spend all that time sleeping in a coffin and hunting nubile villagers at three AM, did you?”
“Only on long weekends.”
“Well, everyone needs to party now and then.” I squeeze his hand. “Look, I wasn’t sure what to expect from tonight—but I get the feeling you’re deliberately putting some of your cards on the table. I can tell you genuinely care about the welfare of human beings, and it’s more than just guilt over what you’ve done in the past. Sherry gave me a little glimpse of your past, and… and my possible future. Right?”
“I wasn’t trying to manipulate you, Jace.”
I take a deep breath. “No, you weren’t. You knew I was smart enough to figure it out and once I did we’d have this conversation and now we’re having it. Up to speed?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I can feel another one of those pauses building up in the air, but this time it’s not about what to say next and I don’t think I’m quite ready for that, so I say, “Tell me about Sherry.” Maybe it’s not the smartest thing to say, but I’m a cop; when in doubt, ask for more information.
“Sherry. We were together for eight years. I never quite got over thinking of her as a fling.”
From any other guy, that would sound immature. But this is an immortal I’m talking to, and he’s being honest; to him, eight years is a summer romance. “So it wasn’t serious?”
“I wouldn’t say that—it was fairly intense. But toward the end, she was starting to think about… joining me. I wasn’t ready for that, and I don’t think she was, either. I was the one who introduced her to Brian.”
“Ah. Think you did the right thing?”
“I don’t know. Ask me in fifty years, after she’s dead.”
There’s anger in his voice. Not at me, though. “Why put yourself through this if it hurts so much?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m an addict, Jace.” He still sounds angry, but there’s a trace of black amusement in there, too. “There’s a great deal of power in firsts. The very first time I loved a human woman as a pire, it consumed me. We were together for seventy years. I think that at the end, I hated her as much for dying as I loved her. I swore I would never put myself through such a thing again. I lasted nearly a decade before I broke my word.”
He’s got that faraway look in his eyes, memories who-knows-how-old playing inside his head. “Love and death, Jace. The most powerful cocktail in the world, and the most dangerous. And it seems to have become my drink of choice.”
For once, I don’t have a wise-assed reply. I know what he means, actually; what he’s describing happens to more than just vampires. It can affect doctors, soldiers, nurses, cops, EMTs, firefighters… anyone who deals with death and hormones on a daily basis. Nothing makes love stronger than the knowledge it could be taken away from you at any moment—that’s what a pire in a relationship with a human has to deal with, and the longer-lived the pire, the more pressing that knowledge becomes.
“I’ll make you a promise right now,” I say. “You’re never going to see me in a coffin. I’m either going to do my job and go home, or I’ll outlive you. Deal?”
“And if you can’t? If you wind up stuck here?”
“If that happens, I guess I’ll join your little club and turn all bitey. Beats sprouting hair every month and going back to eating meat.”
“I can’t imagine you—”
“Deal?”
He hesitates, then smiles. “Deal.”
“Okay, then. Now drop me off at home, will you? I’ve got work in the morning.”
The limo drops me off at my front door. I should get some sleep, but I’m still wired from caffeine, the aftereffects of the booze, and what just happened—so I hit the Net and do some surfing instead. I want to learn a little more about the golem manufacturing process and the specific type of animist magic used; Dr. Pete and I need to talk, and I want to be prepared.
The spells themselves deal with transferring the life essence of animals to a malleable mineral receptacle—usually clay or sand, but with variations that range from peat to iron filings. I’m reading an entry on animating early clay golems when I run into a paragraph that stops me dead: The enchantment that brings life to earth is a simple one. It has been endlessly refined since it was first cast, but the elegance of the original spell has never been surpassed. Its format has been adapted to many other uses in almost every area of magic, including energy enhancement, food production, and computation. Some theorists predict that it could even be adapted for such far-flung uses as dimensional travel—though most admit that would require a knowledge of the underpinnings of the spell that only the original caster would have. Of course, some people believe he’s still alive…
I stare at the screen. It’s telling me that the person who used golem-related magic to whisk me here can only be one man.
Ahasuerus.
EIGHT
My talk with Gretch will have to wait. Charlie calls me at 3:00 PM, waking me out of a sound sleep, and tells me he’ll pick me up in fifteen minutes. Another Bravo has turned up dead. By the time he arrives I’m more or less awake, dressed, and mobile. I climb into the passenger side of the car and say, “I don’t care if we’re on our way to look at the dismembered corpse of the pope, I want coffee.”
Charlie hands me a paper bag. Inside are a large coffee and a lemon Danish. “You’re welcome,” he growls. When I’ve got enough down my throat to feel human again, I ask him where we’re going. “Docks. Body was found in a boathouse. Cassius says this one makes the last one look normal.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Wonder if there’s any point in eating the rest of this Danish.”
“You better. I spent a buck eighty-five on it.”
“Rea
lly? Guess I should start calling you Rockefeller.”
“I buy you breakfast and that’s how you repay me? Bad puns?”
“Thanks, Rockefeller.”
“Next time you get decaf.”
“Oh, that’s a decision you’ll regret.”
It’s a typical Seattle day, overcast with chances of increasing grayness. The boathouse is down in Shilshole Bay, an area that’s mostly private marinas. We pull into the parking lot of one that seems more low-rent than the others, the slips crowded with live-aboards and older boats. The boat house is at the far end, behind a dry-dock area fenced off with chainlink. Two thrope officers are guarding the gate, sipping coffee from paper cups and looking bored. We flash them our IDs and they let us past.
The boathouse is made from weathered gray wood, but the door is steel-cored and has an almost brand- new frame and hinges. It’s ajar, so we can enter without touching anything. Inside, the floor becomes a dock, ending about halfway down the building’s length. The walls extend into the water another fifty feet or so, the structure opening at the far end into the bay. There’s a wire- mesh gate on a track across the opening, currently closed.
Cassius is standing over the body, wearing the same suit he had on last night, with a London Fog overcoat on top of it. He looks up as we enter but doesn’t say anything. The vic is a woman. Her body is wrapped in bandages, like a mummy, up to her neckline. She’s sitting upright in a wheelchair, her hands on the arms.
What skin is exposed is a gleaming metallic orange in color. In fact, it appears to be made of metal—bronze, I’d say. What tells me that this is a corpse and not simply a detailed sculpture is the head—the top of the skull has been neatly removed, and placed in her lap.
Above her forehead, her brain has been cross-sectioned, sliced both horizontally and vertically into little cubes that someone separated from one another by an inch or so by impaling them with thin wooden skewers, producing a three-dimensional grid—an exploded diagram of thought itself.
“Her name is Lucy Barbarossa,” Cassius says. “Otherwise known as the Sword of Midnight.” I nod. “No sword, though.”
“No. We’re still searching her ship, but I think the killer took it.” I glance at the edge of the dock and notice for the first time that there’s something riding very, very low in the water. “Ship?”
“Submersible. Barbarossa was a smuggler.”
“Not surprising,” Charlie says. “In the comic she was a pirate.” I take a closer look at the gridwork brain. “Sixty-four sections.”
“Any idea what it means?” Cassius asks. “The answer to What is eight times eight?” I shrug. “I’m more interested in the transformation of the body. First copper, now this. And the wheelchair is obviously significant, too.”
“How about the bandages?”
I can’t help thinking of the wrappers, though none of them would be so boring as to use plain strips of white gauze. Still, it’s a little unsettling—and not something I’m ready to mention to Cassius yet. “No idea. Who found the body?’
“Marina employee. Found the door open and checked inside. Didn’t touch anything, called the police.”
“How do you know this is Barbarossa?”
“I just do.” He looks at me calmly, and I scowl back. Right. More government secrets. “Any chance this could be something else? Smuggling’s a dangerous business.”
“Black marketeers aren’t known for their artistic sensibilities.” He gestures at the brain. “Or whatever this is supposed to represent.” There’s all sorts of symbolism going on here, but I still don’t speak the language. “What did she smuggle?”
“Weapons, drugs, whatever paid the bills. She wasn’t choosy.”
“And the NSA tolerated this?”
“We let her make a living. Criminals aren’t the only ones with a use for a good smuggler.”
“Tell me about her weapon.”
“The Midnight Sword. Two blades with diamond-shaped tips, one shorter than the other, mounted one atop the other to mimic the appearance of two clock-hands pointing to twelve. Said to be able to cut through time itself, providing the wielder with the ability to move more quickly than normal or inflict wounds that vanish an hour later—even fatal ones.”
“Handy,” says Charlie. “A blade with an undo option.”
“Wait. So if the Sword was used on her brain—”
“It wasn’t—these cuts are surgically precise. But yes, if the Sword was used the brain could conceivably reintegrate—if the wielder knew what they were doing.”
“How about cause of death?”
“We won’t know until the autopsy. Eisfanger’s on his way to process the scene.” I walk over to the edge of the dock. I can see the sleek shape of a craft just below the surface, painted a deep blue, a small deck jutting up with an open hatch in it. Submarine technology was on the verge of mass commercialization in my own world, and every law enforcement officer I know was dreading it.
Homemade submersibles that skated along just under the surface were already widespread and hard to catch—a true sub that could go a few hundred feet down would be close to a ghost. I turn around. “That door looks awfully strong, and it doesn’t seem to have been forced. It’s possible she let her killer in. Or he could have come in via water—has that gate been checked?”
“Yes. It hasn’t been tampered with, above or below the water line. You think she was killed here?”
“Hard to say. There’s no blood, but the condition of the body might preclude that. If she was transformed first, she might not have bled at all.” Cassius nods. “It must have been an ambush. She would have fought, given the chance.”
“It was someone she knew, then. Someone she trusted, or at least didn’t fear.”
“Not necessarily. They might have gained entry through subterfuge—disguised as someone else, perhaps.”
“Who? FedEx? Someone delivering pizzas?” I shake my head. “She was a professional criminal, and I get the distinct impression she wasn’t a novice. She would have taken precautions.”
“That’s true,” Cassius says, though he seems reluctant to do so. “But that would seem to eliminate your prime suspect—John Dark.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard Cassius say his name. “Gretchen brought you up to speed on our visit to Silverado?”
“Yes.” He looks slightly uncomfortable. “I didn’t want to discuss it last night, in a crowded room.” Funny, I don’t remember the limo being crowded at all. “Then let’s discuss it now. First off—how sure are you that Wertham’s actually dead?”
“Utterly. I helped dispose of the body.” That’s three people who are convinced Wertham is a dead end. Of course, any of them could be lying.
“What can you tell me about Dark?”
“He’s… being looked into.”
“So you knew he was out there.”
“I can’t tell you everything I know about, Jace.”
“Including the existence of the guy I’m trying to catch?” He stares down at the water and jams his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. “John Dark’s situation is complicated. Until you talked to Silverado, I thought it impossible for him to be involved. Now… now I’m not sure.”
“Tell me where he is. I’ll make sure.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t. He’s disappeared.” I throw my hands up in frustration. “Terrific. Can you tell me where he was, so I can try to track him down? Or would you prefer I handle this case blindfolded? I have a nice selection of scarves at home.”
He puts his own hands up, palms out. “I’d prefer you concentrate on the case itself. I’ll take care of finding Dark.”
“Will you? Great, that makes me feel so much better.” Pires aren’t immune to sarcasm, but NSA directors are. “Good. Seeing as this is the second murder of a Bravo, I’ve been given clearance to contact and warn the others. Most of them have already heard.”
“But yo
u still won’t let me talk to them.” He doesn’t say anything, which is answer enough. I shake my head and stalk toward the door. Charlie follows me without a word. “Where are you going?” Cassius asks. “Eisfanger hasn’t even—”
“Eisfanger can send me his report. I’m going somewhere that I might actually find some answers, instead of more damn questions.” Back at the car I say, “I’m driving.” Charlie surrenders the keys without an argument. I lay a little more rubber than is probably professional leaving the parking lot, but I’m frustrated and there’s nothing handy to shoot. “We have a destination?” Charlie asks. “Or you just want to ram a few cars and call it a day?”
“I don’t know about you,” I say, “but I’m going home. And going to bed.” I light the candle Neil gave me and crawl under the covers. Despite how wound up I am, it isn’t hard to fall asleep—I really didn’t get enough rest last night. The candle smells like musty paper and fresh ink, with just a touch of really strong soap. It’s oddly familiar, though I can’t quite place it. It reminds me a little of the smell of the corner drugstore where I grew up, the one that had an old-fashioned spinner rack of comics. It’s taller than I am, and the colors on the shiny covers are all sharp and exciting. I pull one out of the rack and look at it; muscular men and women in skintight costumes are fighting monsters, shooting beams from their eyes and swinging from lines that don’t seem to be attached to anything. The title is printed in large, impressive script, but I can’t read it—it’s a mishmash of letters and symbols, some alien language I don’t recognize.
“Reading is unreliable in dreams,” Neil says. He’s leaning back against the pharmacist’s counter, still wearing his sunglasses but now in a long white coat. “Most people can’t read the same line twice; some people can’t read text at all. A few—usually people who read a great deal while awake—can read, but can’t remember any of it when they wake up. They simply remember the sensation of reading. Like going to a party where you’re sure you had a good time, but all the details are fuzzy in the morning.”
“So I’m dreaming?” It’s obvious I am, but somehow it seems important to ask the question.
