Reet had heard his first stories about the Slayer from Caleb, but he hadn’t put much stock in them until one had actually shown up in the city in 1912, a decade after Reet arrived. But there hadn’t been a Slayer in town since the early 1950s.
The current one, though, whatever her name was—and Reet would pay good money to learn that piece of information—had been, as the saying went, bad news. In four years, she’d done everything she could to tear down Reet’s organization. Reet was unconcerned, however. He’d survived far worse than one girl in his time. He’d survive this Slayer, too.
Reet had taken many lessons from his time as a piece of property. One was how not to run a business. The Weldons had treated their slaves poorly, which had resulted in poor farming, which had resulted in less money for the plantation owners. That turned into a vicious circle, because that had just led to harsher treatment, which had in turn led to worse farming and even less money. Reet ran his business better than that, which was why, ultimately, the Slayer wasn’t a huge worry.
Still, there were times when the equivalent of a whipping was necessary. Hence the deaths of Izzy, Mikey, and Mikey’s elderly brother.
And, if necessary, this new British vampire.
Chapter Six
New York City
July 8, 1977
4:05 p.m.
On Friday morning Nikki woke up to the sound of dramatic music—not the muffled noise that usually came from the Gem, but the nearer sounds of the little black-and-white TV they kept in Robin’s bedroom. Frowning, she looked over at the alarm clock and was not entirely surprised to see that it, in fact, wasn’t Friday morning, it was late Friday afternoon. The previous night had been a long one, as a Fyarl demon had gotten loose on the Columbia University campus—apparently it was in the service of one of the psychology professors. Took Nikki forever to find something made out of silver to kill the thing with, and then she had to torch the prof’s bookcase to take care of his spell books. She didn’t get back to the Gem until well after dawn.
Bless his heart, Robin kept himself busy with his comic books, TV, and some cereal. Here in the heart of Times Square, the TV antenna could only get two stations clearly—channels 11 and 13. Mostly Robin watched the latter, which was the local PBS station, but late afternoons Channel 11, an independent station, showed reruns of Batman, Superman, and The Lone Ranger. Robin loved superhero stories because, as he put it, “They remind me of you, Mama!”
Still wearing the blouse and jeans she’d had on the night before, but in bare feet, Nikki padded into the bedroom to see Robin sitting on the floor, his back against the bed, staring up at George Reeves jumping out a window. A Defenders comic book was open on his lap. “What’s happenin’, baby boy?”
Robin looked up and leaped to his feet, the comic book falling to the floor. “You’re up!” He ran over and hugged Nikki’s legs.
“Yeah, I’m up. What you doin’?”
“Nothin’. Jus’ readin’ my new comic books and watchin’ TV. Mister Rogers went to the Land of Make-Believe again.”
Nikki smiled, glad that Robin enjoyed Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood—not to mention Sesame Street and The Electric Company—as much as he enjoyed the superheroes. She wanted her boy to have an imagination, and smarts. That was why she was so glad Crowley encouraged him. I may be the Slayer, but my boy’s gonna be more than that. He’ll be a writer or a teacher or something.
She and Robin sat and talked for a little while in the bedroom. Then they went out to the living room, where he helped her fold the bed back up into a couch. After that, he stood next to her in the kitchenette while she scrambled herself a couple of eggs—the last two eggs, as it happened; they’d need to go shopping some time soon—and brewed some coffee, fighting with the Mr. Coffee which never worked right. Throughout, Robin told her all about what was happening with the Avengers and Spider-Man and the Defenders in his comic books, and how Batman got out of the Riddler’s trap on TV. “But it wasn’t the real Riddler, Mama. It was some other guy that dressed like him—he looked like Gomez Addams.”
Laughing, Nikki said, “They just got a different actor, baby boy. It’s the same guy who played Gomez.”
“I like the other guy better.”
“Me too. So how’d Batman get out of it?”
Robin explained how the cliffhanger got resolved while Nikki ate her eggs and drank her coffee. By the time they were done, it was almost five thirty.
“Robin, I gotta go out for a while.”
Sounding disappointed, Robin said, “But Mama—”
Giving her son a stern look, Nikki said, “Now what did I tell you, Robin?” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Mama has a mission. And the mission is what matters.”
Robin nodded quickly. “I know. I just—I was likin’ talkin’ to you, is all.”
“I know, baby boy, I know.” She ran her hand through his hair. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?”
“Can we go to the zoo?”
Nikki considered. “Maybe—if it doesn’t rain.”
“It’s not gonna rain.” Robin sounded as sure as only a four-year-old could. “Can we go to the Bronx Zoo? I wanna go to Wild Asia.”
“We’ll see, baby boy,” Nikki said. Ever since Robin had heard about the new Wild Asia monorail ride in the Bronx Zoo, he’d been eager to go. “I’m gonna go out and see what’s on the grapevine for the weekend. If we can go up to the Bronx, we will—otherwise, we’ll go to Central Park.”
His face lighting up, Robin asked, “If we go to Central Park, can we ride the carousel?”
“You bet.”
“Outta sight and dy-no-mite!”
Smiling at her son’s optimism, Nikki got up, put the dishes in the tiny sink, and then grabbed the phone off the wall. Dialing Crowley’s number, she said to Robin, “I just gotta check in.”
After one ring, Crowley’s distinctive voice said, “Hallo?”
“What’s happenin’, Crowley, it’s me.”
“Well, that’s rather fortuitous. I was about to call you to see if you’d managed to rouse yourself.”
“Hey, Fyarl demons are tough work.”
“Indeed. Though I was under the impression that it was silver that killed them, not fire.”
Nikki let out a breath through her teeth. “Be cool, Crowley, I didn’t have no choice—that professor cat was one jive mother—” She cut herself off, not wanting to curse in front of Robin. “He said he wasn’t sorry, and he was just gonna summon another one.”
“He really said that?” Crowley managed to sound outraged, angry, and surprised at the same time. Nikki figured that was something they taught at Watcher School.
“Yeah. Oh, but he said this time he’d summon one that’s more docile.”
“There’s no such thing as a docile Fyarl demon.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Nikki reached up into the cupboard above the sink and pulled out a glass. It was filthy, so she placed it in the sink and grabbed another one that was mostly clean, then filled it with cold water from the tap. “The cat didn’t listen, so I grabbed the Zippo he was lightin’ them stinky cigarettes with and lit up his bookcase.”
“That was very rash, Nikki. Do you know what might’ve happened?”
“I ain’t stupid, Crowley, I made sure the fire didn’t spread.” She took a sip of her water.
“It’s not that—certain grimoires react very badly to being lit on fire. You could’ve caused a horrible explosion or opened a dimensional portal or something. In any event,” he said quickly before Nikki could protest, “what’s done is done. Let’s move on. I’ve got news.”
Wincing, Nikki said, “Don’t tell me it’s St. Vigeous again. Last time, I was sore for two weeks from all the bloodsuckers.”
“That won’t be for a few months yet. I’m afraid I don’t have the specifics. I’ve just received a call from Detective Landesberg. I’m going to meet him at that diner he likes, and I’ll get the skinny, as it were, there.”
“Great,�
�� Nikki muttered, gulping down some more water.
Crowley sighed. “Look, Nikki, I know you don’t like the police, but Arthur—”
“You’re callin’ that honky ‘Arthur’ now?” Nikki was outraged. “He’s the fuzz, Crowley! He ain’t nothin’ but—”
“What he is, Nikki, is someone who’s led us to several of your most important missions. Remember those prostitute murders by that vampire with the Jack the Ripper fixation? We wouldn’t have known a damn thing about that but for him. Not to mention those nixies in Belvedere Lake, not to mention Darla—”
Holding up a hand even though the gesture was lost over the phone, Nikki said, “All right, all right, I dig it, Crowley, I dig it.” She didn’t want to hear any more, anyhow, especially if it related to Darla. That lady was a real sore point with Nikki. “But I don’t gotta like it.”
“I like not knowing about supernatural happenings until it’s too late even less. The mission, Nikki—”
“—is what matters, I know. I just got finished telling Robin that.”
Robin took that as his cue. “Hi, Mr. Crowley!”
Raising his voice, Crowley said, “Hallo, Robin!”
“He says hi,” Nikki said to her son with a little smile. Then back to the phone: “I’m gonna go hit the streets, see what’s cookin’ this weekend.”
“Very well. Keep me posted—we’ll meet tonight before you go on patrol.”
“You know it. Catch you later.”
Nikki hung up the phone and chuckled to herself. Crowley no longer objected to her hitting the streets. He used to, since he thought that the Watchers Council provided him with everything they needed to fight evil, but he soon came around. Her street contacts had proven to be at least as useful as whatever musty old books the Council sent over.
Robin parked himself back in front of the TV—by now The Lone Ranger had come on—while Nikki changed into fresh clothes. Someone knocked at the door as she finished tying her platforms.
She opened the door to A.J. Manguson’s smiling face. He raised his right hand to his forehead in a mock salute. “Reporting for babysitting duty, ma’am.”
Chuckling, Nikki said, “He’s all yours, sugar. Thanks.”
“No problem,” A.J. said as he came in. “Believe me, after dealing with customers all day, a friendly four-year-old’s a relief.”
From his bedroom, Robin called out, “I’m in here, A.J.! Wanna watch The Lone Ranger with me?”
Giving Nikki a pained look, A.J. said, “Great, more Westerns.”
“Blame your uncle, don’t go blamin’ me, Ayj.”
Laughing, A.J. said, “Yeah, yeah.” He looked over at the bedroom door. “I’ll be right there, Rob!”
Nikki put on her leather coat. “Crowley should be here round seven or eight to take over.”
“That’s cool.” A.J. brushed a lock of long blond hair out of his face and gave Nikki a worried look. “Be careful, Nik, okay?”
“Always am, sugar. Thanks again.” She headed out the door.
* * *
The diner had probably been rather nice when it was first constructed in the 1950s, but twenty years on, Bernard Crowley found it to be a dank, filthy, depressing place—though it was, at least, air-conditioned, providing relief from the heat and humidity outside. Most of the stalls, as well as the counter along one side, were filled with manual laborers, most from the various construction projects that were a near constant in New York even in these poor financial times. As he made his way to the back corner booth, he heard one of them sitting at the counter complain to the waitress behind it about Mayor Beame’s work-release program, designed to reduce prison overcrowding by giving convicts honest work.
“Read inna paper that most o’ these guys just disappear after they let ’em out.”
The waitress shook her head and cracked her gum. “S’crazy, that’s what it is.”
Bernard had to silently agree. Letting convicted felons out on their own in the hopes that they’d do honest work was as naive—he smiled—as thinking the next Fyarl demon you summoned would be docile.
“Glad you could make it, Bernie.”
Sighing, Bernard took the seat opposite Landesberg’s in the booth. He had long since given up trying to get the detective to call him something—anything—other than Bernie. “You so rarely call for me in this way, Detective, and when you do, it’s usually worth the trip.”
Landesberg chuckled. He hadn’t changed much in the last four years. His glasses were larger, with black plastic frames, following the style of the day, his curly brown hair had receded a bit, and he’d shaved the mustache after it started showing signs of gray. The remains of a grilled cheese sandwich were on his plate, four butts and one still-lit cigarette were in the ashtray next to him, and he was nursing a cup of coffee that smelled particularly foul.
The waitress had disengaged from her work-release colloquy and walked over. Her hair was in a beehive and frosted within an inch of its life, and she wore enough makeup to qualify as a full face mask. The nameplate on her blouse read DORIS. “Take y’order, hon?”
“Same as his.”
Doris nodded, not bothering to write it down. “Grilled cheese and coffee.”
“Er, no,” he said quickly, “just the sandwich. I’ll have a Tab to drink. I’d prefer something cold on this hot day.”
“No problem, hon.” She cracked her gum. “Cute accent. Where you from?”
“England, originally, though I’ve lived in New York for the past decade.”
Grinning, she said, “Always had a thing for Limeys.” With that, she went back behind the counter.
“Charming,” Bernard muttered.
Landesberg picked up his cigarette and took a drag. “You get the coffee, you get free refills.”
“Hardly an enticement,” Bernard said dryly. “Besides, I prefer tea.”
“They have tea here.”
“No, they have bags of tea dust sitting in puddles of lukewarm water. I’ll stick with the soft drink.”
“Suit yourself.” Landesberg gulped down the rest of his own coffee, set the mug down on the saucer, and said, “Got something that might be up your alley. You know those two women who were killed the other night in the East Village?”
Bernard nodded. “Yes, I recall the news conference. The Fourth Estate wanted very much for this to be another Son of Sam killing, but your commissioner said it was unlikely. He neglected to elaborate, however.”
“Yeah, well, they try not to talk about that stuff too much. Anyhow, it wasn’t the forty-four killer, that was obvious from the start. Course, the Operation Omega guys are still crawling all over, just in case.” He took another drag on his cigarette.
Nodding in sympathy, Bernard said, “Of course.” Operation Omega was the task force the NYPD had formed for the express purpose of stopping the Son of Sam, thus far with a distressing lack of results. Indeed, were it not for the fear surrounding the Son of Sam, Bernard doubted that there would have been a news conference for something so—there was, tragically, no other word for it—mundane as the murder of two women.
Doris came back with a can of Tab and a glass full of ice in one hand, and a pot of coffee in the other. She placed the soda in front of Bernard and then refilled Landesberg’s cup. Bernard smiled up at her; she cracked her gum again in response.
After she walked away, Landesberg went on. “But no, these two weren’t killed with a forty-four—or even with a gun.”
“Let me guess,” Bernard said, as he pulled the tab off the can and poured its contents into the glass, “they died of exsanguination via puncture wounds in the neck at the carotid artery?”
“How’d you guess?” Landesberg let out a long breath. “I hate this crap, y’know? I like things that make sense. The stuff you and your girl deal with—”
“I can assure you, Detective, that vampires and demons follow a certain pattern and can be stopped if one has the right weapons. I suspect these two young women were simply overpowered by
an undead creature whose only way of surviving is to feed upon the living. There’s a certain Darwinian simplicity to it—the next link on the food chain, as it were. Vampires kill humans for the same reason that humans kill cows. To my mind, it makes a good deal more sense than a man who shoots people at random with forty-four caliber bullets.”
“You got a point.” He reached down and pulled a nine-by-twelve manila envelope up from the seat next to him. “Here’s a copy of the file.”
Bernard hesitated before taking the envelope. “You obtained permission to give me this?”
“Very funny. Maybe if you pulled that Interpol act from four years ago, I coulda done that. Nah, I just snuck into the copy room last night.”
“Thank you.” Bernard opened the envelope and let the tacky Xerox paper fall out onto the table in front of him.
Before he could look at them, he saw Doris approaching with his sandwich. He quickly piled the papers to the side, placing the envelope on top, covering their contents.
“Grilled cheese for the Limey.”
Favoring her with a smile, Bernard said, “Thank you.”
“Any time, hon. You need anythin’, just holler, okay?”
“Will do.”
She turned to Landesberg. “You okay, Artie?”
“Just peachy, Doris.”
Satisfied, the waitress beat a retreat, giving Bernard the opportunity to peruse the file.
As he flipped through the pages, Landesberg said, “We don’t have much. No sign of forced entry.”
“No, they would have had to invite him in first.”
“Forensics only got a couple o’ useable prints, and they all belonged to the vics.” Landesberg leaned back in his seat. “You know what’s driving me nuts? They’re lookin’ for a murder weapon. Coroner said the wounds on their necks are probably bite marks, but nobody’s believin’ that. And I can’t say a damn thing—I got enough of a credibility problem.”
At that, Bernard looked up. “You do?”
Smiling wryly, Landesberg said, “Wrong ethnicity. There ain’t enough Jews on the force to make a minyan. Hard enough to get taken seriously or get promoted—I start talking about vampires, they park me at a desk and find excuses for me to cash in my pension early. Hell, even if I was Irish or Italian, that’d probably still happen. That’s why I go to you.”
Blackout Page 6
