In Truth and Claw (A Mick Oberon Job #4)

by Ari Marmell

  I got no idea, and it never seemed to be the right time to ask.

  “All right, Mick. What precisely is it you need?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lookin’ hale and hearty, Four-Leaf Franky sauntered along with the evening pedestrian tides. He ankled his way down Halsted, smug as a cat in the cream. His gold shone, freshly polished, and even his glad rags looked as though they’d briefly shared a room with an ironing board.

  He exuded the kinda cheerful makes you wanna haul off and take a poke at someone. Waved at anyone who so much as glanced his way, shook hands with anyone who looked like anyone he mighta recognized. This was a man in love with the world, and he was gonna talk your ear off about every bit of it until you really, really didn’t.

  If he passed a bar, he put something back; passed a club, he cut a rug for at least a tune or two; passed a bookie, laid a few bucks on whatever there was to lay bucks on. The cloudy nighttime skies above, and the cloudy glowers all around, slid off him like condensation on a frosty beer glass.

  By the time he finally reached his more usual haunts, his steps—jaunty as ever—had started to wobble. Much as he’d been pounding down, any full-blood human woulda been completely over the edge with the rams. Probably wouldn’t have been able to form a sentence or stagger more’n a few paces. Franky, of course, wasn’t fully human, but he was still showin’ the early signs of begin’ well and truly lit.

  His story was startin’ to shift some, too. Now, when he explained why he’d vanished a while, he hadn’t been sick; now he’d gotten into a real nasty scuffle, one that put him down for days, “but you shoulda seen how bad the other Joes looked.” That got him sympathy, sure, but also his fair share of rolling eyes and ginks hiding their disbelieving scoffs in their cups. Anyone who knew him, anyone who’d heard of him, knew Four-Leaf Franky wasn’t exactly rugged.

  And when he got to his few real close buddies—the ones who, like him, weren’t strictly speaking mortal, or at least were wise to the unnatural—his tale got wilder still. “Attacked by a vampire,” he told everyone in a position to believe a word of it. “Tried to tear my throat out, but not me! Four-Leaf Franky’s not so easy to kill! Shook him off like a pesky puppy, sure as I’m standing here!”

  Anyone didn’t know better, it might almost seem as though Franky wanted the damned undead to hear he was out and about. As though he was darin’ them to have another go at him.

  Considering that the vampire who’d slashed him up the first time had been gunnin’ for him personally, had even tracked down Lenai’s bunk to try again, it ain’t so surprising that it took him up on that dare.

  It happened in another alley. Of course it did; this is Chicago, and none of the non-residential streets are ever completely empty, even after midnight. If you don’t have an office or storefront but want privacy to conduct some business—or tear the head off some cocky half-leprechaun and drink him like a milkshake—an alley’s really your only option.

  Sickly gray arms, desiccated and draped in tattered scraps, shot out of that alleyway as Franky sauntered by. They yanked him away from the light in less than a blink, hurling him back over fallen garbage cans, and the empty body of a real unfortunate bum, to crash into the far wall. Dust shook from the bricks and the old fire escape above rattled and creaked at the impact.

  The thing wearing some poor slob’s corpse twisted to face its prey, blood- and dirt-stained maw gaping to show broken, jagged fangs.

  And its prey picked himself up, dusted himself off, and faced the vampire in turn.

  Only it stopped being a “him.”

  “I suppose I should thank you.” The last of her clothes and flesh rippled as Ramona shed every trace of Franky and assumed her true form. And I don’t mean her usual gorgeous tomato disguise, I mean her true form: skin crimson as boiling blood, twisted horns, black and pitted talons, membranous wings that stretched and creaked, pressed up against both sides of the alley as they unfurled. The scents of the potent hooch and thick sweat of the bar next door, of the pedestrians and flivvers of the streets beyond, smothered beneath a choking cloud of sulfur.

  “We were afraid this might take days,” she continued, and her voice was thick, now, syrupy sweet and poisonous as hemlock. “Playing the buffoon for so long might’ve just about driven me around the bend.”

  The vampire had fallen back, jaw hanging slack. It snarled something that mighta been a question, if anyone coulda understood a word of it.

  “Sorry, what was that?” Ramona asked. “I didn’t quite catch it. Why don’t you try a little closer?”

  Four sets of clawed fingers flexed, two throats growled sounds no human coulda reproduced, and two monsters— the risen dead and the so-called demon—threw themselves at each other.

  Ramona snagged the vampire’s wrists in her own fists. Half-unfurled wings brought her leap up short; in defiance of momentum, she stopped and twisted, yanking her opponent outta the air and slamming it hard into the building beside her. It rebounded off the wall, leavin’ a cobweb of cracks in the brick, and right back into her waiting mitts. This time she struck claws first, rippin’ handfuls of flesh and muscle from the vampire’s chest.

  I hoped, ears achin’ from the creature’s agonized shriek, that she remembered we needed to take this thing alive.

  Uh, so to speak. Not-dead, anyway.

  I guess I needn’t have worried, though. Even as it screamed, the vampire clamped its hands on her arms and hauled itself forward, sacrificing even more tissue to her hellish talons—like a boar impaling itself on a hunter’s spear to get at the fool who’d dared attack it. Its own jagged nails made a grab for Ramona’s face.

  Her left wing curled in, shielding her and knocking the creature away, but not before the nosferatu raked those nails down, and through, the thin leathery skin. Torn membrane fluttered, a grotesque pennant, and while Ramona kept the pain from showin’ in her expression, the whole wing drooped, twitching and flopping.

  The vampire picked itself up, dug a small ribbon of wing from under a nail with its teeth and sucked it down like a strand of spaghetti. For a long moment, the opponents locked stares. If this’d been the Old West, I’da half-expected to see a tumbleweed roll on by between ’em.

  Instead, it just started to rain again. And I decided the vampire was hurt bad enough for part two of our little ambush.

  First, the wand. I drew, aimed, and fired. No finesse, just as much power as I could channel through the dingus. I sucked away as much luck from the vampire as I could in the half-second I had, weakening his magics and giving myself a boost for what was to come.

  Then—speakin’ of cowboys and all—I started whirlin’ what I’d held in my other hand over my head like a lasso, and tossed it. Even through the rain, and even though the dead gink saw me comin’, the extra fortune I’d snagged was enough. It spun down from the roof, where I’d been watchin’ the whole shindig, and settled around the vampire neat and tidy as you please.

  “It” bein’ a string—an extra-long string—of garlic cloves, tied in a loop.

  Our target crouched, snarling, twisting in search of a way out. The loop wouldn’t hold it long; thing could pretty easily turn into a bat or into mist, or, hell, maybe even just leap high enough over it that it could cross the boundary. It was hurt, though, confused and surprised, and that probably bought us a few seconds.

  Still woulda been nice if it’d been hurt worse, though.

  I jumped down, coat flarin’ around me, and landed with a splash beside Ramona. Plan was to close in, hit it hard at once, her woundin’ it bad while I drained away the rest of its powers and its luck. We’d figured on that givin’ us enough time to put the screws to it, get ourselves a few answers.

  Mighta worked, too, if somethin’ hadn’t gummed it all up. Same thing that gums up near everything else.

  Humans.

  Yeah, you mugs.

  Maybe they’d heard the commotion, the vampire’s screech, even over the sounds of the city? I dunno. But a coup
le passersby appeared in the mouth of the alley, starin’ until I thought their whole heads might just pop.

  I wasn’t too worried about what they’d witnessed. Between the weather and the poor lighting, I doubt they could make out more of me’n Ramona than general shapes. As for the vampire, well, they’d eventually convince themselves they’d just seen a real skinny, filthy fellow—maybe a sickly vagrant. You’re all pretty skilled at self-deception.

  Except it saw them, too. Saw, and made eye-contact.

  Even through the creature’s dead, rarely used, dirt-and-clotted-blood-choked throat, its next words were crystal clear.

  “Kill them.”

  The poor saps charged, the hems of his flogger and her skirt sweepin’ up wet trash and mud. They weren’t swift, they weren’t strong—I doubt either of ’em had lifted anything heavier’n a spoonful of cereal, or fought anything more rugged than a head cold, in years—but it didn’t matter. Their faces were hollow masks, and if we’d let ’em, they’da done exactly what their undead master ordered.

  We didn’t. Ramona’n I knocked ’em down with as little violence as we could, and once that was done, it was duck soup for me to get into their heads and put everything right. But it cost us those extra few seconds we needed. Even as I dropped the gink comin’ at me with a quick poke to the gut, the vampire shrank, sprouting wings. I couldn’t do much but watch as an ugly, piebald bat took to the sky, fading into the night and the clouds.

  “Ramona!”

  She turned so that the alley wouldn’t constrain her wings, spread ’em wide—and staggered, wincing. The glare she turned my way wasn’t actually aimed at me, I knew, but at the wounded membrane. Still, I felt the heat along its edges.

  “I can’t. Not for another few minutes, at least. I… I’m sorry, Mick.”

  “Fuck!”

  All this for nothin’. No leads, no way to track the fleeing—

  “Now maybe you think is good time to accept my help, yes?”

  Varujan. Outta nowhere, again.

  “What’d I tell you about followin’ me?” But I didn’t wait for a response to that; I had far more immediate things to be steamed about. “You were watching. You coulda stopped it from gettin’ away!”

  “Maybe, yes, but why? We do not work together. Unless you say otherwise?”

  I really wanted to hit him. Or better yet, let Ramona hit him. How long had he been shadowin’ me, waiting for his opportunity? Hell, for all I knew, maybe he’d even sent this poor dumb couple into the alley, hopin’ this would happen.

  I didn’t like this. I trusted it even less. But you tell me what choice I had, ’cause I sure didn’t see one.

  “Mick,” Ramona began, “what’s going—?”

  No time. Never any time. Shit.

  “All right, Varujan. You run that bastard down and we got a deal.”

  “You are sure of this? I would not wish for misunderstanding.”

  “Go, damn you!”

  Again that horrible, crooked, rictus grin, and he was gone, a second bat flapping wildly and swiftly out of sight.

  Shit.

  Ramona stepped up beside me while I watched him disappear. When I finally uncricked my neck and looked her way, she was wearin’ her usual human—remarkable for a human, but human—form.

  “How’s the wing?” I asked.

  “What wing?”

  “I mean, don’t it still hurt? Uh, somewhere?”

  “Why would it? It’s gone.”

  I decided not to press.

  “So, Mick. Those details you told me you were skimping on, when you spun this whole story out for me?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Time to stop skimping.”

  “Yeah.”

  We drifted into the bar next door, not because either of us was lookin’ to dip our bills—me especially, since it ain’t as if this kinda joint was gonna offer milk, warm or otherwise— but because it felt more natural, and sure looked more natural to anyone ankling by, than jawing the rest of the night in an alleyway in the rain. The aroma of cheap fried foods was actually stronger’n the hooch, which seemed weird, since the alcohol had been the dominant smell outside. Maybe it just carried further.

  Whole place stared our way soon as we stepped through the door, and it wasn’t ’cause we were strangers.

  “Hey, doll? Maybe damp it down a little, huh?”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  The supernatural attraction she exuded dwindled to a dull spark. Lotta the folks turned away and went back to what they’d been doin’. More’n a few didn’t.

  Ain’t like she needed anything supernatural. Way she looked, way those mugs still looked at her, the natural attraction was more’n enough.

  I felt good about only sufferin’ the tiniest twinge of jealousy.

  We found ourselves a small table near the back, did a little mental nudging to “convince” the staff we had every right to be there even if we weren’t buyin’. And I told her all of it, every little event and detail that’d brought me—us—here, at the midnight hour.

  Well, not every detail. I didn’t spill much about Adalina. I mean, Ramona already knew a little about her, was wise to her bein’ something special. And yeah, we were gettin’ along famously, a real nifty change from the last months, but c’mon.

  Uh, this is also where I interrupt myself to remind you that I ain’t a bunny. Me’n Ramona, we had a lot of lies and betrayals and broken trust between us. I was still drawn to her, yeah. Not sure anyone with a pulse, human or Fae, coulda said different. But I wasn’t lookin’ to get, y’know, involved.

  Havin’ her back in my life, though, havin’ her as a bona fide friend after all that’d gone down, as complicated as my life in Chicago seemed to be gettin’ over the past couple years? That woulda been just dandy. And if that went smooth enough for long enough, then maybe.

  Not now. But maybe.

  “So what—?” she started, then zipped her lips when a waiter or runner or whatever approached the table, askin’ if we wanted anything “else” and offerin’ us a bowl of peanuts. I told him to scram.

  “What,” she said again, pullin’ a deck of Old Golds outta God-knows-where, “do you suppose he wants with you?”

  I waited until she struck a match and lit her snipe before answerin’. “Believe me, I’ve been noodling on that a lot. He says he just wants my help diggin’ up the source of whatever summons called him here. Can’t blame him for wantin’ the dope on that, especially if he’s gotten wise that this magic, whatever it is, affects the spirits that become vampires. Nobody’s done that before, that I ever heard. So it could be he’s bein’ completely square with me.”

  “But you don’t buy it.”I swear the smoke wove a braid between her lips and each word. Can’t pretend she wasn’t absolutely fascinating, whatever my intentions movin’ forward were.

  “Eh, let’s say I’m renting. I got nothin’ but my suspicious nature—and the fact that he’s a walking corpse full of dark magic and a predator’s soul—to suggest he ain’t tellin’ the truth. But I’m sure as hell not gonna take him at his word, or let my guard down.”

  “Good. I’m glad you’re still being careful about who you trust.”

  I couldn’t for the life of me tell you if she honestly didn’t see the irony in what she’d just said to me, or was puttin’ on a fine show of innocence.

  “It’s too bad,” I said, and yes, it was a deliberate change of topic, “that Franky couldn’t see your performance. I think he’da been impressed.”

  She chuckled around the cigarette. “Especially since there’s never going to be an encore.”

  “You hated the role that bad?”

  “It hardly matters how I liked it,” she corrected me. “I think if she caught me spending any more time even thinking of Frankie, Lenai would actually try to kill me.”

  “Lenai?” If I was one of you, I’da been blinking enough to cause a draft. “Why?”

  Ramona stared for a moment, and then broke out into peals
of genuine laughter. It was a joyful, hypnotic sound. Half the bar turned to watch, and a lot of ’em lingered more’n they needed to (or than their companions were happy with).

  “Oh, Mick,” she finally said, dabbing at one blinker with a napkin. “You may not be human, and you’re a wonderful detective, but you’re still such a man.”

  “Wait. Wait, slow down. Franky? Lenai? Are you pullin’ my leg? There’s no way she—”

  The rest was gonna hafta wait. A low murmur spread like a spilled drink from the crowd nearest the door as a peculiar, ankle-height mist wafted in from outside. In and, soon as I pushed my chair back and stood, back out again.

  Well, guess it was preferable to him strolling in and letting everybody catch an eyeful of walking stiff. For one of the nosferatu, Varujan was downright subtle.

  Wasn’t sure I cared for that.

  I dusted, Ramona on my heels, pushin’ through a whole collection of conversations about the peculiar weather, chilly concrete, the unusual winds of the Windy City.

  Best to let ’em go right on thinking that.

  The two of us followed him back into the alley. A stray cat who’d moseyed in after the garbage hissed us his irritation, and then decided to hunt up dinner elsewhere. Once we were well back from the street, Varujan resumed his normal—ha—form.

  “I prefer the mist,” I said.

  “We—” was it me, or did the dead guy seem a teensy bit embarrassed? “—might have problem.”

  “That ain’t what I like to hear from anyone, bo. From a vampire least of all. Don’t tell me you lost him!”

  If this murdering undead bastard wasn’t even good for tailing one of his own…

  Or had he even tried? Maybe he’d let the other one go. Maybe they were pullin’ some sorta con job of their own. I—

  “I did not lose him,”Varujan snarled. Then, in a more natural tone, or as close as he could ever get, he added, “Exactly.”

  “Aw, for the luvva… How did you not lose him exactly, then?”

  “He did escape me,” the vampire admitted. “But his destination is close to where this happened. It must be. It is only way I… can lose him, if he drops into nearby building before I can tell which.”