Death Draws Five wc-17

by George R. R. Martin

  “Climb up, lass. Let’s hit the road.”

  John Fortune held the cab door open. He wouldn’t look her in the eyes.

  “John,” she said softly, “we’ll talk later.”

  He said nothing. She brushed by him, feeling the heat of him.

  “You too, lad, let’s get rolling.”

  John Fortune swung up to the seat next to her. Bruckner engaged the gears and the truck started to roll.

  “Hey!” Ray shouted from the rear. “Don’t forget me.”

  The Angel could see him in the rear view mirror. He smiled, bent down to pick up the morningstars, straightened, and started to run toward the truck. He looks like an animal, she thought. A wild, untamed animal. The sudden thought worried her, but she knew that she had gone so far that she couldn’t go back. Not this time.

  The truck was rolling, but not fast. Ray caught up quickly, running easily. He had both morningstars in one hand and held out the other for John Fortune to give him a boost up through the open door. The boy reached out, their hands touched and Ray started to pull himself up into the seat. Suddenly, terribly, he screamed.

  The stench of burned flesh speared the air.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Peaceable Kingdom: The Angels’ Bower

  Barnett had conceded that Fortunato should have a chance to greet his son in relative privacy, so Fortunato was waiting alone for the truck when it rumbled to a halt by the Bower’s rear service entrance. It disgorged three passengers from the front seat, and took off again with a farewell blast of its air horn. The driver seemed to be in a hurry.

  Fortunato recognized all three. Billy Ray, of course. The woman who called herself the Midnight Angel. And his son. His eagerness at finally seeing the boy for the first time face to face was tempered by the realization that something had gone terribly wrong during the last moment of the rescue. He couldn’t bear, for the moment, to delve into their minds

  “He didn’t mean it,” the Angel said.

  Ray’s teeth were clenched against the pain shooting through his hand. He gripped it the wrist with his other hand.

  “I’m sorry,” John Fortune said worriedly. “I don’t know what happened. I couldn’t control it for a moment—”

  “It’s okay,” Ray said in a strained voice. “I’ll be all right in a little bit.”

  He held the fingers of his hand apart from each other as they curled in pain. They were burned so badly that their skin was black and flaky. Fortunato could smell the stink of seared flesh.

  “Ray,” he said, “are you all right?”

  “Yeah, fine,” Ray said shortly. “I should go get some salve for this burn.”

  “What happened?” Fortunato asked.

  “An accident,” Ray said. “I’ll be all right.”

  Ray was sincere in his attempt to ease the boy’s obviously troubled mind, but Fortunato could detect uncertainty in his voice and manner. Not for his own ultimate recovery, but at what really lay behind his injury. Fortunato only nodded.

  “Thank you for bringing my son back safe,” he said. He turned to the Angel, and nodded at her as well.

  “My pleasure,” Ray said.

  “Take care of your hand,” Fortunato told them. “We’ll talk more later.”

  “I’ll go with Billy,” the Angel said, glancing back at John Fortune, who was holding back with a worried expression on his face. “We’ll talk soon, John,” she said, but the boy only nodded.

  As they went by him, Fortunato could sense something was growing between the two of them, and he refrained from looking any deeper into their minds. He felt only gratitude for what they’d done for him. He felt as if he would be in their debt forever.

  He looked at the boy, and John Fortune looked uncertainly at him. He wondered what he should say. “Hello,” Fortunato finally said.

  “Hello,” his son replied.

  Fortunato could see himself in the boy’s features, in the golden tan color of his skin. But Peregrine was there, too, and it made him sorry for what he had missed over the years. Of what could have been his. But those years were over and done with. There were more to come, and those were the years which concerned him.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  His son nodded. “Mom showed me pictures. She said you were the most powerful ace ever, but you gave it up.”

  “Did she say why?” Fortunato asked.

  Fortune looked thoughtful, as if Fortunato’s question had put aside the fear and doubt that had been foremost in his mind. At least for a moment, anyway. “She said that you couldn’t pay the price of being an ace anymore. That the world weighed heavy on you, and you had to leave it behind.”

  “Your mother,” Fortunato said, “is perceptive. And most kind.”

  It struck Fortunato for the first time exactly why Peregrine had been so protective, perhaps overly so. She wasn’t afraid so much of crazies out to kidnap him for gain or harm him for thrills. She was afraid of his very nature, afraid that the dynamite he carried in his genes might explode at any second.

  Looking at him you saw a handsome, easy-going boy on the verge of manhood. But if you knew his background, if you lived with it every second of every minute of every hour of your life, you knew that some day he was going to explode and most likely die. His genes were infected with the wild card. There was no doubt about it. Both his parents had it, so it was sure that he did. It awaited only expression, in many cases caused by some surprise or shock that would turn his card; then it would kill him.

  But he had beaten that, hadn’t he? His son had a chance for glory. He’d grabbed the one in a hundred chance to be an ace. But even so, turning an ace could be almost as great a curse as turning a joker, or drawing the black queen. The names of ace victims were legion, from the earliest days of the wild card on. Brain Trust. Black Eagle. Kid Dinosaur. The Howler. Hiram Worchester. Desperado. The list went on and on. Fortunato couldn’t remember all the aces who’d suffered because society eventually turned on them.

  That was why Peregrine had protected their son so fiercely. Fortunato saw it now. Seeing his son in the flesh for the first time, he knew why she did it. And he knew that, ultimately, she was doomed to fail.

  “I’d like to call Mom,” John Fortune said. “Tell her that I’m safe.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Fortunato said. “Do you want anything else?”

  Fortunato could tell that he held back something. Something he was afraid to or was unwilling to discuss with this stranger that was his father. Finally, he said, “I’m awfully hungry.”

  “Let’s get you some food, then. I have a suite in the hotel. We can order room service. Talk and get to know each other a little.”

  “Cool.” John Fortune smiled.

  Ah, Fortunato thought, the resilience of the young.

  “Mom told me about you,” John Fortune said, “as soon as I was able to understand why I had a different name from my Dad. But now that you’re here and all, what should I call you?”

  “Call me Fortunato, if you want. And I’ll call you John.”

  “Sweet,” John Fortune said. “Fortunato.” He tried it out, and smiled. He seemed to like the sound of it.

  Fortunato put out his hand. John Fortune reached to take it, then hesitated. It was clear that he was afraid, but not for himself. He was afraid that his touch would burn Fortunato, like it had burned Ray.

  Fortunato took his son’s hand it. He was prepared. His relaxed, smiling face didn’t change expression. But he was glad that he’d just taken on a load of energy. He built a wall, a buffer, between his flesh and his son’s. Otherwise, caught in the trap of the boy’s hand, his own hand would have cooked, would have burned worse than Ray’s. He released John Fortune’s hand, and together they turned and went through the hotel’s service entrance.

  “Are you going to stay in America for awhile?” John Fortune asked. He seemed to be totally unaware of the heat his body was generating. His skin looked normal, except of course for the for t
he glowing halo. It wasn’t flushed or even sweating.

  “Yes,” Fortunato said, the fear again biting his insides like a great viper. “Yes, I am.”

  He suddenly realized that his son might not have drawn an ace,

  after all.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Peaceable Kingdom: The Manger

  Usher went to the suite’s door, peeked through the peephole, and turned back to Nighthawk.

  “The gang’s all here,” he said, and opened the door. Contarini came in. His faultless suit had recently been faulted. He had grass stains on his knees. His white shoes were scuffed with dark Mississippi dirt. There was a bad tear in his jacket’s breast, and one sleeve had been partially torn free of its shoulder. His silk shirt was wrinkled, soiled, and sweat stained. He didn’t look happy. “It didn’t go well?” Nighthawk asked.

  Contarini shook his head wordlessly, and collapsed into the nearest chair. He scowled at the vinyl upholstery. “They have the luck of the Devil riding with them,” the Cardinal said.

  Usher and Nighthawk exchanged glances. “Naturally,” Nighthawk said. “What happened?”

  Magda fluttered helplessly about the Cardinal’s as if she couldn’t decide whether to shine his shoes, sew his clothes, or wash and iron his shirt, as he told him in minute and surprisingly profane detail what had happened, pausing to shoo Magda away when she’d finally annoyed him too much.

  Nighthawk sighed. “I guess they’ve beaten us now, for the moment. We’ll continue to keep an eye on them. The boy will be easy to spot. Perhaps you should return to return to New York, to rest and consider the next move.”

  Dagon and the Witness nodded in agreement. “That would be smart,” Dagon said.

  “No.” They all turned to Contarini, whose voice had taken on the chill of doom. “I want this farce ended. Now.”

  “Now?” Dagon repeated. “I don’t—”

  The Cardinal fixed him with a stare that quailed archbishops. “Not ‘now,’ literally. But as soon as possible. I want this ended. I want this Devil’s spawn in our hands. I want to return him to the Holy See, or, if that is not possible, I want him dead.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Nighthawk asked. This was the first time that the Cardinal had actually called for the boy’s death. The pressure, Nighthawk thought, was finally getting to him. “In this place? After all, Las Vegas is one thing—”

  “This place is no different!” the Cardinal blazed at him. “It’s a low class tourist trap for fat, comic book reading Americans. They have no clue as to the strength and tenacity of the Allumbrados!” He turned his bleak gaze onto Nighthawk. “Blood is not far from this… this disgusting fairyland. I want you to supervise him as he brings in all the obsequentes that we have. All armed. We’ll take the Devil spawn as soon as they’re all in place.”

  “If you drive Blood too hard,” Nighthawk said, “you’ll kill him.”

  “Let him die and be damned,” the Cardinal said. “His only chance at salvation is to die in Christ’s service, anyway. He should welcome the opportunity.”

  We’ll see about that, Nighthawk thought. He suppressed a sigh as he stood.

  “I guess this means we’ll have to skip supper at Loaves and Fishes,” Usher said.

  Nighthawk nodded.

  “Pity,” Usher said. “They have great grits.” He looked at the Witness, who scowled back at him. “You can’t really get them outside the South,” he said seriously

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Peaceable Kingdom: The Manger

  Ray was tired, but he could not sleep.

  His hand hurt, but it was bandaged and healing, as were all his numerous other wounds. He was jazzed as he always was after a fight, though it hadn’t been much of one. The Witness might have provided some real competition, but he’d been a disappointment. It kind of disturbed Ray when he screamed like a little girl. The trip through what the Brit had called ‘the Short Cut’ had been disturbing as well. Sure, he’d got to put a period to the career of Ti Malice, and that counted for something, but fighting spider-things wasn’t exactly his cup of tea. And although he’d suddenly gotten to know Angel a lot better than he had before, he couldn’t find her. She’d vanished after he’d gotten his hand bandaged, and the Peaceable Kingdom was one damn big place when you were trying to find a single angel in it.

  He paced his room. It was usually like this. The adrenaline took forever to leave his system, making him edgy and keeping him awake no matter how much he wanted sleep. He looked out the window of his room. Night had come to the Peaceable Kingdom, and he was back to wishing that he was just about anywhere else in the world.

  He started, uncharacteristically, at the tentative tap at his door, a single knock, unrepeated.

  “Who is it?” Ray asked.

  “The Angel,” she said quietly, barely audible through the door.

  He was before it in a moment, and opened it. She stood in the hallway, blinking, her hair mussed, her leathers dirty and sweaty, scuffed and torn, still wearing his shirt. She was beautiful.

  “Come in,” he said, and she did.

  She stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. “John Fortune is asleep,” she said. “Fortunato is with him.”

  “Good,” Ray said. “He okay?”

  Angel shook her head. “We don’t know. He’s frightened, exhausted. The Hand—”

  “What’s with all this ‘Hand’ sh—stuff?” he asked.

  “That’s his title,” Angel said. “The Hand of God.”

  “Jeez,” Ray said. “And to think I knew him when he was only the President of the United States.”

  Angel closed her eyes, and Ray could see that suddenly she was on the verge of tears.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” he asked. “I didn’t mean anything. You can call him The Spleen of God for all I care. What’s wrong?”

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, controlling herself. “Nothing. Nothing. I’m just tired. The job is done. We’ve saved him from the Allumbrados. But...”

  “Yeah,” Ray said. “The job is done, but life goes on, doesn’t it?”

  Angel looked down at the floor. “I don’t want to be alone,” she said in a small voice. “I can’t be alone, any more.”

  “You don’t have to be,” Ray said. He came close, but didn’t touch her. He felt an odd sensation. For a moment he couldn’t identify it, then he realized that it was fear. He was afraid to touch her, he realized. Afraid of how she would react.

  “I meant to take a shower, to clean up, but I don’t have any other clothes—”

  Ray laid a finger softly against her lips. At the touch of his flesh on hers, his fear was suddenly gone. He smiled, but suppressed a relieved sigh. “You don’t have to apologize.”

  She finally looked at him. She had the darkest, largest eyes he had ever seen. They were two sad bruises in the alabaster of her face. “My mother never let me listen to music,” she said, seemingly irreverently, “except in church. She thought that music was the tool of Satan. But sometimes she’d drink, like that night she cut me, and listen to a records she had from when she was young. She’d listen to them over and over again. They were all scratched and hissing so you could barely make out the words. One of them had a song on it that said something like, ‘I’m afraid of the Devil, but I’m drawn to them that ain’t.’ I didn’t understand the words then, but I think I understand now why she listened to that song. I think I know what it means. I think I’m the same way as my mother.”

  She looked seriously at him.

  “I think you think too much sometimes,” Ray said, bending his head to hers.

  Unlike their first kiss, this one began soft, but didn’t stay that way for long. It grew in hunger and passion. Her mouth tasted so good that he wasn’t sure how she got out of her clothes or even whether she or he had taken them off.

  She was magnificent. That was all he could think. Her breasts were heavy and dark tipped. Her nipples were already erect. She moaned when he caressed them. Her
breath hissed inward when he took one in his mouth. Her hips were wide, her waist narrow and ribbed with muscle. Her thighs were lean and sinewy, the juncture at them dark and inviting. He put a hand there and she shuddered against his body. He trailed his fingers across her flat abdomen, tracing the path of the scar as it twisted upon her stomach.

  “It’s so ugly,” she said.

  “Nothing about you is ugly, Angel.”

  “You’re not just saying that?” she asked in a whisper.

  He bit her neck gently where it curved into the ivory strength of her shoulder. “Have I ever lied to you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, shivering as his kisses went up the column of her throat, “but you’d better not now.”

  They fell on the bed. She was already ready. It seemed like she had been for quite awhile now. She closed her eyes. “Thy will be done,” she said, and gasped when he took her.

  It was a wild ride. Ray had never experienced anything like it before. She was strong and eager and he didn’t last as long as he wanted to. He did have the pleasure of bringing her to at least one screaming orgasm before he succumbed himself and shuddered against her in what seemed like an endless stream of pleasure. They lay together, panting, and Ray shook his head.

  “I’ve never screwed like that before. You’re so strong. So hungry.”

  “I’ve never screwed before. Period.”

  “Well,” Ray said, “that was one Hell of a first try.” He leaned back on one elbow, but couldn’t keep his hands from the silken skin of her breasts. Their nipples puckered again at his first touch. “Did you like it?”

  She closed her eyes. “It was glorious.” She opened them and looked seriously at Ray. “When can we do it again?”

  He laughed. “With any other guy, it might take awhile. But, lucky you.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Don’t you know that one of my powers is regeneration?” he asked.

  Her laughter turned to groans of delight as his mouth closed over hers.

  The corridor leading from the elevator to Barnett’s sanctum was lousy with Secret Service agents, and the second string—Mushroom Daddy, Digger Downs, and that kid Secret Service agent whose name Jerry kept forgetting—were in the reception room with Sally Lou. She looked as cool and desirable as ever.