“Simple questions. Remember that she no longer perceives reality like we do,” Dasson warns me urgently when I stand up, “and she’s not obliged to answer, nor tell the truth.”
“Inla? Inla Feltu’Atheron?” Uncertainly, I try and break the ice. The Lich’s eyeballs seem to shine when I pronounce her name. The ghost, however, doesn’t have a reaction at all. Impatiently I bite my lip and try a different approach.
“Who murdered you?” I ask in a firmer tone.
She moans, her voice wracked with pain, and tears appear on the tortured faces of Screech’s three servants, who have reappeared in their positions. The suffering of death is the only emotion Banshees are able to perceive in their position, straddling the two worlds. It is simultaneously torment and delight for suffering souls, who are among the most powerful entities serving the necromancers.
“Tell me. Tell me who murdered you.”
Inla lets her arms fall down by her sides and reveals the utter despair on her face. As I suspected there is no visible sign of her trauma, which proves that it was inflicted after her death. That bastard coroner.
“Finally mine very heart was wrenched by he who brought me into the world. Father, l honored him, verily he revealed himself a wily traitor.”
Inla’s father? What’s the father got to do with it?
“Why did he do it?”
The spectre bursts into non-stop wailing, and is imitated by the other three. Screech nibbles on some metaphorical pop-corn and enjoys the show. Moanings from beyond the grave make my flesh crawl.
“Twice over the flesh was slain! He deceived me with words of love. Heavy was the mighty fist which snuffed out the tender bud, suffocated Spring that snowy Winter may survive. The secret he fears may be revealed, ‘tis almost safe.”
“What secret? What are you talking about?”
I shall talk no longer of such matters, for ears are deemed unworthy. The wishes of those who deny the extreme embrace shall causeth doom for many, some of whom deserve not such ruin.
“I think she’s referring to our… well, our host,” decrypts the alchemist in my ear, but the necromancer certainly isn’t the type to get all hot-headed. If he did pick up on the provocation, he isn’t showing it.
“What made you age so quickly before you died?” I ask, changing the subject.
“The days are long and sully, the body when lived untrue. Thou is fooled to believe escape is thine when thou dost take and blaspheme, take heed, such tricks will be judged by the mists of eternal slumber.
“Erm… yes…” I scratch my head a minute and narrow my eyes into slits. The image is shaken by a tremor, there isn’t long left. Knowing that it was her father who killed her is important information, but having evidence would be better. It goes without saying that the word of a corpse doesn’t hold up in court. Accounts obtained by means of black magic can be distorted by the evil within the spell itself and so they aren’t reliable, according to the elves. And the judicial system holds their opinion in high regard, for some strange reason. Not that you can understand an awful lot of what dead people say when they talk.
“Tell me something that will prove that it was him, so you can rest in peace.”
“Too difficult, Lieutenant” whispers Dasson.
Oh for fuck’s sake!
“He who I hold dear to my heart treads a path fraught with danger and lacking in succour. Gilder be his name, mine soul beckons him, even from this inky darkness, he shall bring thee relief. Give us peace. Come hither forthwith, for the shadow of the dark slayer doth fall upon him.”
Oh heavens, I’m so moved. I’ve got to find Gilder, and that will give me ‘relief’. However I now know that the elves are after him, and many of his actions are starting to make sense. The escape plan, first, and the abandoning of the tickets, second. It’s too dangerous to go to Nexus, it’s full of security cameras and they’re definitely on the lookout for him. It was probably Gilder who sent me the contract, shit. We’ve been thrown together in this unstoppable race to join Inla underground, two martyrs against the world. Fuck, why the fuck did I have to get mixed up in this fucking mess!?
The image of Inla flickers again and starts to dissolve. I worry that I might have wasted the last few seconds of communication with my worrying, the heart-rending wailing of the Banshees in the background certainly didn’t do much to boost my morale either.
“Wait!” I call her back, clinging on the hope that an intelligent question that will solve everything will pop into my head. Maybe it’s just as well she doesn’t obey, otherwise I’d look like a complete idiot. The lighting which dimmed unnaturally during the apparition, returns to its original intensity.
“Satisfied?” asks the shrill Lich. “So that’s what this is all about, the murder of that elf. And it sounds like a juicy story about family perversions.”
He sticks his tongue out. Obscene.
“We can go now.”
“First there’s the matter of our favour.”
Oh yeah. The fucking favour, like I’ve got nothing else to do.
“I would consider the favour returned if tomorrow your cousins at the MetroPo searched a warehouse on the 90/7. I know you’ll find twenty or so stolen cars there, I would really like them to return to their rightful owners.”
“Wiping out the competition, eh, Screech?”
“I do my duty as a citizen,” sneers the rattle. “Constanzo will see you out and give you the address. Sure you wouldn’t like to stay for a cold drink?”
A Banshee materialises at his side holding a tray with two cocktails decorated with a coloured paper umbrella. The Lich picks one up, it freezes in his hand and he offers it to me.
“Maybe some other time…” says Dasson as I drag him away and cut short any further procrastination.
The return journey is over almost instantly. A couple of minutes after putting on my hood I fall into a deep dreamless sleep. They have to shake me for a good while when we reach our destination. I rub my eyes and swallow repeatedly to try and cancel the bad taste in my mouth. The head killer, who I guess as being Constanzo, impatiently hands me a business card from the garage I’m supposed to search without even giving me the chance to wipe off the fine rivulet of dribble in the corner of my mouth. I’m still yawning when the van drives off and vanishes into the thin mist of the dark morning in the City.
“That was… powfa!” exclaims my partner. He’s a damn sight more lively.
“What?” I ask, furrowing every furrowable surface of my face, while I check the time on my mobile. Ten to six. Meaning, let’s see, what’s that, the third night running without coming into contact with a bed? Or the fourth?
“Powfa… you know, like ‘power’ and ‘fear’ in a single word,” explains Dasson. “I mean, it was some adventure, don’t you think?”
“You’ve got a fucking weird way of talking.”
“It might be normal for you, but I thought it was really exciting.”
“If you say so. Listen, it’s too late now for me to go bed. Why don’t we grab some breakfast?”
“Yes, why not.”
The alchemist’s aviomobile is forced to float low down so as to be able to follow my hunk of junk, an eagle with clipped wings forced to hobble like a lame turkey in a chicken coop. However, the traffic at six o’ clock on Saturday morning is pretty quiet. The short queue at the ramp exit is the perfect time for a quick refreshing snort. For the nectropite who never sleeps, the radio offers repeats of the comedy programmes broadcast during the week, packed with comical sound effects and jokes which only make you laugh if you’re high or stupid. Only the spot-on impersonation of the Mayor gets a chuckle out of me.
The gravel covering the ground in the clearing moans when the tyres crush it at the edges. Wonder who the dickhead was who thought it would be a good idea to put gravel down here. Aerisleida’s café is the only business in the area, still dark due to the inactivity of the other traders. She is sipping coffee behind the counter and looks a lot like she�
�d much rather copy the competition than beat it. As I get nearer I wave hello, she immediately waves back.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favourite cop. Already up and about at this time, Arkham?”
“Hi, Aeris. We’ve come for a spot of breakfast.”
“Good morning,” says Dasson, shyly.
“Hello there, sweetie. You found out you had a secret lovechild and you didn’t tell me?”
“Yeah right, we’re the same age, you know.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“Two coffees and two custard croissants, sweetheart. We’ll sit over there.”
“A jam croissant for me, please,” the archmagus corrects me.
I drop myself down like a sack of potatoes onto one of the plastic chairs in the vicinity of the immobile vehicle. In the past the cafè owner used to go out and about to follow her potential clientele outside the stadium when there was a match, when the factories opened in the morning and so on. Then some kid nicked off with all four tyres and she never had enough money to replace them.
“How come everybody knows you?” asks Dasson looking around him.
“Aeris watched me grow up. She used to have a real café in my neighbourhood, when I was a kid. Then her ex-husband pissed all her money away, and she keeps her head above water with this place. She makes the croissants herself.”
“Inside that thing? Does she sleep in it as well?”
“I have no idea.” I hunch my shoulders and then let them drop. She quickly comes over with two paper cups of steaming coffee and two warm croissants hurriedly wrapped up in paper napkins.
“Mm, good,” appraises Dasson, between chews.
“Listen, what did Screech mean with that story about death accompanying you?” At last it’s time to satisfy my curiosity, the real reason why I invited the alchemist for a coffee.
“It’s… well, it’s rather personal.” He deflects by blowing on his dark drink.
“Oh come on, it can’t be that bad. I promise it’s just between you and me.” This reticence is making me even thirstier for gossip.
“I just don’t want to talk about it, that’s all.”
“Are you involved in some dirty business, by any chance?”
“No, no, nothing like that…”
“Well what then?”
“Look, I’ve already told you that I don’t want to talk about it. I know exactly how you’d react, and I’d prefer not to have to do that, and that’s the end of it.”
“All right, all right, you keep your secret. Anyway, I still haven’t thanked you properly for helping me, so breakfast is on me. By no means did it cost as much as that day-glow lemonade you made me take, but there you go.”
“No problem. By the way, what’s the story with the dead elf?”
“Let me give you some sound advice, Dasson. When you get back to that fancy villa of yours in the rich people’s neighbourhood, make yourself one of those potions to forget and gulp it down quick. It’s the kind of story you’re better off not hearing, if you know what’s good for you.”
“And forget last night’s great adventure? Absolutely no way,” he protests, as well as looking like a teenager he seems to be just about as stubborn as one.
“Whatever, I warned you though.”
Once we’ve wolfed down our croissants, we sit in silence for several minutes sipping the filter coffee, drawing comfort from the heat emanating from the cup, which finally alleviates that penetrating icy feeling that still bothers my hand. In the end, the wizard informs the world that the adrenaline supply has officially run out by means of an emphatic yawn.
“I think it’s time I went to beddie-byes.”
“I envy you.”
“I had a good time, though. Give me a call if you need me for anything, not too lethal mind.”
Making friends is a lovely thing, particularly when they’re filthy rich.
“You bet.” We say goodbye with a handshake, but I watch his vehicle take off with a feeling of frustration because I didn’t find out what his secret was.
Now what? I’ll get my coffee topped up while I try and fit the new pieces into the jigsaw.
I’m going to have to go into the fucking office, even though it’s Saturday and what’s more I’m supposed to be off work because of the beating I got from the Odas. But if I’m lucky, Fingeruphisarse will be snoring his head off at home, and I’ll be able to work in peace. Don’t ask me why I’m going into work when I could be at home cracking one off.
Why am I at work on Saturday morning?
The Federal Guard station still hasn’t started its morning ablutions when I get there. In fact, it looks like it’s still curled up under the bedclothes. The odd agent wanders around the vending machine and the computers like a dog searching for its master under the rubble. The sentry says hello, as vacuous as a cracked jug while I walk past his workstation on my way to the lift.
Only one of the desks is occupied when I go into my team’s office on the fifth floor. Pharrol stares at the screen but doesn’t see it, there’s a tall column of ash hanging off the top of the cigarette between his fingers, he must have forgotten all about it. His eyes pop when I materialise behind him and share his morning porn. The stars of the show are two girls, one white and one black, with extremely long tongues, they’re busy covering each other with a layer of saliva.
“Working hard I see.”
“Chief! What are you doing here?”
“What you should be doing, Ezy.”
“Mequire’s around, you know,” my colleague warns me while glancing around warily, “and he’s pretty damn mad about your report.”
I’m sure he is. I texted him a message saying something like “Uncovered a den of revolting freaks, if you want to know more about it, ask the cousins—doc says I need a week off, bye”. The fact of the matter is that the captain needs to get off my back, end of story. Fingeruphisarse is retiring in a couple of months so I don’t need to put up with him for much longer, I would appreciate it if he would be so kind as to start clearing up my future desk instead of acting like a scrupulous soldier up to the very last minute of his time here.
“So,” sighs Pharrol, “what do we need to do?”
“For starters, find out what we’ve got on Kart Nofym. See if anything comes up in the files and online. Then find out which rock the others are hiding under and haul them out, we’ve got a raid to do today.”
“Are you out of your mind? Gannon from narcotics had his retirement party last night, they’ll all be as drunk as—“
“Last night I worked my arse off. If I can work today, then so can they.”
“Don’t you ever sleep?”
“That’s right, I never sleep. Cut the crap and get busy.”
“Yessir.” Pharrol raises his hands, meekly. From a God’s point of view, none of my men (and that includes myself) would win the award for best cop of the year, but that doesn’t mean they are all useless layabouts. With the exception of Reinart and Lisande, I personally selected all the members of my team, and the success accumulated over the years, enough to silence the rumours of corruption and the threats of disciplinary action, only go to prove that my casting session was perfect. I clearly remember when I first met Ezy, still Inspector at the MetroPo with a full head of hair. I got myself a partner for life that evening.
I chew a piece of gum frenetically and produce that irritating noise people make when they eat with their mouth open. All smokers, sooner or later, go through a period in life when they convince themselves they have to give up cigarettes. Some say it costs too much money, some, after having coughed up their soul for the umpteenth time, suddenly realise that they have become health nuts, and finally, some are simply tired of smelling cigarette smoke wherever they stop for more than ten minutes. Obviously I wasn’t making any visible signs of progress in my venture, and the only effect of my New Year’s resolution was to replace one annoying bad habit with another.
Reinart is waiting for me, hands in pockets,
badge hanging of the trousers and is wearing the usual sunglasses with the blue lenses. The black tank top shows off the sculpted biceps and olive skin, the result of southern coastal origins, this gives her the look of a virago which is enough to squash any unwanted male attention. In addition as a way to reassure the casual observer of her already somewhat explicit sexual tastes, the sergeant is smoking a decidedly unfeminine cigar, the same brand as the ones Beron smokes. Sniffing the air, I succumb to my instinct and light up a cigarette.
“You told me to call, and I called you.”
The lesbian is somewhat resentful towards me. I haven’t done anything wrong, let that be clear, but she probably thought that when her old division was removed, she would have been promoted to Lieutenant. Instead a commissioner recently transferred from the MP stole the position from her without any warning, this newcomer was even approved by the higher echelons and was given reign to choose the elements of a new team.
“Do you know him?”
She shakes her head.
“I know his cousin. He saved my arse on duty once and in return he has asked me to save this one’s arse. So you’ve got to find a solution.”
“What happened exactly?” I ask, peeping behind her shoulders at a man staring at the ground with his head in his hands in despair. The car the woman is resting her toned buttocks on is blocking my view of the cause of all this emotion.
“See for yourself” She waves her hand towards the scene.
On the ground, in a pool of cerebral slop, lies a middle-aged man with the top of his head missing. Pharrol’s eyes are locked with those belonging to the corpse, glued together by fear. In any case, for one of the two, there’s history here.
“Hey,” I introduce myself. The agent jumps slightly, like a child who’s been caught by his mother with his dick in his hand.
“Easy,” Reinart reassures him. “He’s the friend I was telling you about. He’s here to help you…”
“That’s right.” I lay it on thick, too, before asking, “What exactly happened?”
Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets Page 16
