by John Meaney
*Xalia?*
*It's got me.*
A long, thin thread worked its way among the sprouting new bars of the overlaying labyrinths. It was Gertie, extending herself to reach Xalia—or trying to.
In a moment of clarity, Xalia understood what Gertie was doing, and why. She remembered the way Gertie joked with Donal and how Donal had not shown any hesitation in accepting a freewraith as a task-force member.
Damn it, Xalia liked Donal, but if he was in league with the enemy . . .
*Gertie, I'm here to gather evidence against Donal Riordan.*
For a second, the extruded portion of Gertie's form withdrew, like a blind snake slithering backward from an electric shock.
Then she extended back into the ever-tightening labyrinth, questing, and after a moment Xalia understood that there was no sense in telling Gertie to get out of there. It would be quicker to show her how bad things were.
Xalia extended herself until her form impinged on Gertie's extrusion, wraith coexisting in the same space as wraith, just as two more crescent horns slipped inside her body. She howled, broadcasting agony along frequencies and energy fields unknown to humankind.
Gertie's form—such parts of her as Xalia could sense—throbbed and flared with shared pain as the cutting hex blasted along her own paranervous system. In the distance, a scream sounded.
*Now will you for fuck's sake get out of here, Gertie?*
After a hundredth of a second, Gertie's reply rang inside Xalia's paranervous system:
*This is my damned building, and no one does this to me!*
Then Gertie's form began to glow with a concentration of energy such as Xalia had never experienced before.
Donal, meanwhile, had the telephone number that he needed, the second link to Commissioner Vilnar's office, but with no hope that it could be offered as evidence in court. His technical expert, Kyushen, sat in shocked silence, unmoving, while stretcher bearers carried out the unmoving dwarf.
The dwarf's condition, if nothing else, made the evidence invalid.
It was not true death but a Basilisk trance, unbreakable according to every diagnostic Kyushen had run. Legally, such deep catatonia was death. No one in Tristopolitan legal history had ever awakened from a Basilisk trance.
Kyushen stared into nothingness.
“You feel bad.” Donal watched the stretcher bearers leave and the iron door swinging shut behind them. The displays that had flared so brightly earlier had faded to a few small, minimized, and dimmed-out ghosts. “And you could probably use your own instruments to change how you feel about that . . .”
Kyushen looked up.
“. . . but you shouldn't,” continued Donal. “Because you have killed a man, and you don't get over it, you don't accept it—you just live with it.”
“But I didn't mean to—you know.”
“Yes,” said Donal. “But it was always a risk, and we both knew it.”
Kyushen began to shake. His skin was pale, and this was the aftermath of shock. Donal watched the fit of shivering take hold of him.
“Relax,” said Donal. “Don't fight it. Let it pass through you . . .”
Kyushen closed his eyes and moaned.
“. . . because this is natural. Afterward, you will be okay.”
Some of these words came from Donal's subconscious, from the mesmeric trance the police mage had taken him into after the first fatal street shoot-out that Donal had been caught up in. Donal had killed three men, not just one, after Fredrix's throat exploded in gouts of scarlet arterial blood.
Donal had watched Sergeant Fredrix Paulsen—the nearest to a father Donal had ever known—gasp and shrink as his eyes grew opaque, and that was it: nothing left of the man save fuel for the reactor piles.
Two minutes later (though it might have seemed much longer than that to Kyushen), the shaking fit began to fade to a tremble and finally was gone. Kyushen slumped.
After a moment, Donal left.
Xalia screamed, rotating like laundry in a dryer, twisting in and out of reality as Gertie dragged her through tiny closing apertures of pain. Scalding agony defined the tightening labyrinths as Xalia's wraith form was ripped and torn.
Yet she remained essentially intact as Gertie's cunning use of power and topology took both of them through the fatal hex defenses, back to the perimeter. And then they were outside, basking in cool solid stone. Above them, the outer defenses roiled and burned.
Gertie's words rolled through Xalia's awareness.
*So what point did you prove here today?*
Suffering delineated every movement of Xalia's discorporate being.
*What . . . do you . . . mean?*
*You were trying to accuse Donal Riordan. Implicate him.*
Xalia billowed, her wraith form still ripped, insubstantial inside the solid stonework of the building. Her ability to concentrate was gone; her communication was weak.
*Yes . . .*
*Did you get any resonance of a personality in there? In the energies of the labyrinth?*
Xalia twisted, trying to focus.
*Resonance?*
*Yeah . . . what kind of wraith are you, anyway?*
After a moment, Xalia drew enough energy into herself to be able to reply.
*Fuck off.*
Gertie chuckled.
*That's better. Now, as soon as you can work out whose flavor that was*—she meant flavor of resonance—*The sooner you can leave young Donal alone.*
*You like . . . him.*
Again Gertie was amused at Xalia.
*I like puppies too. Have you been in the deathwolves' den?*
If Xalia had had eyes, she would have closed them. Banter was too much. Everything still hurt.
*Don't . . . understand.*
*Young Donal's like a pet to me. You're like a neighbor's kid. And it's time you straightened out your own feelings about Laura Steele.*
*Fuck . . .*
*Well, you're a wraith, so maybe you shouldn't. Not with humans.*
This was too much. But the words that came next from Gertie were softer in tone, soothing, leading Xalia farther away from the burning labyrinth. The two wraiths began to sink downward, remaining inside the cool, solid, protecting stone.
*Come on, Xalia. There are groves and grottoes no one knows about anymore. Some have healing energies.*
*I don't . . . know.*
Gertie drew closer.
*Trust me. I can heal you.*
After a moment, Xalia replied.
*Yes . . .*
*Then come.*
Their descent through stone became faster.
* * *
Donal was in Laura's office. Laura had commanded the internal glass walls to darken so that she and Donal had privacy. They hugged and kissed, and she groaned when Donal ran his palms and fingertips along her thin blouse, across the silkiness of her bra, but they drew back from going any further.
There were too many officers and other beings in the building capable of sensing powerful resonances; lovemaking would have to wait until they were back in Laura's apartment. Donal blew out a long breath.
“Oh, Thanatos.”
“Yeah . . .”
Then Donal swallowed and looked at the now-opaque wall, as though there were something to see. He said, “I don't want to go, you know.”
“You don't want to visit a foreign country?”
Donal shook his head.
“I am scared shitless of flying, if you want the truth, but I can always get drunk. Foreign trips weren't exactly a feature of the orphanage, so I would like to go abroad. . . . That's not it.”
“I know.” Laura's voice grew small and quiet. “It's scary, isn't it? How fast things happen, like you and me.”
“Exactly.”
“You don't want to be apart from me, and that's good.” Laura gave a half-sad smile. “I feel the same way, love. But we both know you're going to Illurium because it's the only way to do the job.”
After a moment, Donal nodded.
“I guess. Listen, I don't want you in danger, but you could come with me and—”
“No, I don't think so.”
Donal rubbed his face. “Couldn't we make it a vacation for you, while I do the investigation work? I don't want you undercover—sorry, I know you're the boss—but we could set you up in a separate location. I'm good at shifting through alleyways without being tailed—”
“Oh, my beautiful man.”
Laura stepped close, laid the palm of one cold hand against his face—it felt deliciously soothing to Donal—and kissed him gently.
“What?”
“You treat me just like any other woman.”
“Well . . .” Donal smiled. “Not exactly like everyone else.”
“Ha. But that's the point.”
“Uh, what is?”
“What's in here.” Laura gestured toward her left breast. “I'm not like other women. People like me are carefully tracked wherever we go. I'm not even sure I'd have legal rights in Illurium.”
“Ah, fuck.”
Laura smiled beautifully.
“Whatever you say. Just as soon as we get home.”
Donal shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Laura laughed.
“All right,” she added. “We'll get some initial planning done for your trip. Harald's contacts over there will be invaluable—Where is he, anyway?”
“Haven't seen him for ages,” said Donal. “Maybe at the hospital with Sushana?”
“No, I just called there a while ago. Viktor's with her. I think he and Harald are taking turns to watch over her.”
“Good.”
Harald was leaning over his bike, accelerating hard as he retraced his route along the Orb-Dexter Freeway, knowing he was within minutes of potentially destroying Commander Steele's happiness. Laura Steele was the best superior he'd ever served under, his marine service included. When she realized that Donal was a creature of the Black Circle, she would be devastated.
But then Harald remembered Sushana's face, the evidence of things done to her by Sally the Claw and his men. Viktor had been closeted away with one of the hospital doctors for what seemed like an age before coming out with a dead look in his eyes and brackets of anger in the muscles beside his mouth.
Harald would make someone pay . . . make everyone pay, beginning with Lieutenant Riordan and not stopping until he'd taken down Commissioner Vilnar. He needed just one more piece of evidence. But he had always felt there was something wrong in Commissioner Vilnar's domain. Odd energies had flickered and resonated in the commissioner's office, just beyond the edges of Harald's marine-trained senses.
The Phantasm motorcycle leaned into a corner, took the bend while startling a finely dressed old woman about to cross the road, then straightened up and increased speed once more.
“Ixil Deltrassol,” Harald's unwilling informant Birtril had said. “He's an ex-army driver. Keeps to himself.”
Working in the embassy, unaware of the true nature of the Black Circle he ultimately worked for, this Deltrassol was probably a lowlife. He was a driver who scarcely ranked as a foot soldier in the extended army of morons and deviants (though their mid-rank officers could be real pieces of work: witness Sally the Claw) manipulated from above by unseen individuals.
But no one would dare to investigate their own police commissioner. If Harald had been halfway sensible, he wouldn't have considered it either.
They're going to pay.
It was Sushana who made the difference, Sushana who had always made the difference in Harald's sometimes bleak world.
Away from the ornate old town houses with polished brass railings, Harald slowed the Phantasm. They entered a pentangle fronted by former mansions long transformed into decaying hotels. There was a five-sided garden that was no longer safe to enter at night, not unarmed or alone.
Then he took the bike down a series of narrowing and darkening streets until the lights brightened once more, this time with garish blues and reds predominating. He was into an area that the old rich lady they'd nearly run over would be shocked to realize existed, only half a mile from where she lived out her grand existence.
A tiny chained demonic form fluttered its leathery wings over Sid's Scar Parlor, the curlicued rune-and-knot patterns across its body a testimony to One-Eyed Sid's considerable skill with a straight razor.
Here in Quarter Moon Alley, Sid's artistry was well known, but Harald remembered the days of his and Sid's youth, when they had run the streets in the same gang and Sid's use of the razor had been for more immediate purposes than fiscal gain or artistic recognition.
Or perhaps there had been a kind of artistry involved in the way Sid wielded the ultrasharp blade.
Slowing right down, the Phantasm mumbled with its engine close to idling as they slipped past the black multifaceted windowless building known as Nameless, past a betting shop, and past a nightclub whose failing business was driving it inexorably toward the status of hot-pillow house, strictly illegal in Tristopolis and always present.
Had there ever been a large city without prostitution? Harald had often wondered at the nearness between this and the Courts of Mercy, less than two miles away yet worlds apart. At least, any supreme judge caring to walk down Quarter Moon Alley to sample its facilities left his robes of office back at the courts.
Past the glowing signs of three more establishments on the right, Harald could see the ephemeral beckoning hand that came through the wall and hung above the sidewalk, inviting passersby inside. The See-Through Look 'n' Feel appeared classier than many of the surrounding nightclubs, but there was only one type of person who frequented the place. Some of them turned even Harald's hardened stomach.
There was a purple taxi parked just ahead, and Harald pulled the motorcycle in behind it. The three young Zurinese sailors who tumbled from the taxi were laughing and half drunk, and Harald hoped that whatever adventures awaited them this evening, however sordid, there would be at least the illusion of happiness involved and no traumas to follow them through the rest of their lives.
But in this place, it could as easily be the flash of a blade or the glint of light from a spinning bullet case that would be the last impression to catch their confused awarenesses before darkness slammed in. They might never sense the fingers fumbling for their wallets and ID cards.
It happened here, and it had happened in the foreign ports that Harald visited as a young marine; it seemed to be the way of the world. For a second Harald considered flashing his own ID, his detective's shield, and warning them away, but they would only get in trouble somewhere else.
And then he remembered the state that Sushana was in, and the sailors faded from Harald's awareness. The Phantasm extruded one stand—tentatively—and that allowed Harald to lean sideways to check out the doorway of See-Through Look 'n' Feel.
There were four men standing there in deep-purple cloaks—the club's colors—and the largest of them was Stone. Harald had known Stone for a long time, and knew him only by that name.
The street moniker was accurate enough.
“All right,” Harald murmured to the Phantasm. “I'll be going in the front way. Let's just get you tucked out of sight.”
The motorcycle rumbled in agreement and rolled on, withdrawing its stand.
In a darkened alleyway strewn with broken crates and shards of blue and brown glass, Harald brought the Phantasm to a halt. As it extruded both stands and Harald dismounted, he saw a pale child with reptilian scales across his forehead.
The child looked about five years old but might be as old as eight if his diet was poor.
“Hey,” said Harald. “Could you do me a favor?”
After a second the scaly boy nodded. Harald dug inside his pocket and flung over a handful of nine-sided coins. The boy caught them.
“Keep people away from the motorcycle,” Harald instructed. “And I'll pay you more when I get back.”
A shimmer passed across the Phantasm's bony carapace. The boy's eyes widened.
“Yeah,” said Harald. “It's kinda for their own good.”
The boy grinned.
Harald grinned back. Then, gun held straight down at his side, he retraced his steps along the alleyway, heading back toward the club's front entrance.
Stone saw Harald coming a hundred yards away and stepped out into the middle of the sidewalk. He stood like some massive rock half-filling a strait. Passersby drifted past on either side, avoiding him subconsciously.
“Hey, Sergeant,” Stone rumbled as Harald drew close.
“Hey, Stone.”
“You gonna need that?” Raising one stone-encrusted hand, Stone pointed. “We expecting trouble?”
“I hope not.” Harald kept the gun pointed down. “But I like to be prepared.”
“You're not saying one of our clientele has been a naughty boy?” When Stone frowned, the flanges of interlocking granite that shielded his brow scraped together. “We got a classy establishment here, Sergeant.”
“That's right,” said Harald. “And I'm sure you want to keep it that way.”
“So who's the miscreant?”
“Miscreant?”
“What?” The stones shifted around Stone's grin. “Ya think I can't use big words?”
“You won't hear me say that, big guy. The miscreant is called Deltrassol, though who knows what name he uses around here.”
“Oh, that one.” Stone's grin widened. “He likes the ladies . . . insubstantial. Doesn't wrinkle his chauffeur suit, at least not from the outside, know what I mean?”
Harald knew pretty well what Stone was getting at.
“You ever thought about getting an honest job, Stone?”
“What, you mean like a police officer? Nice uniform, stroll the streets, nab perpetrators . . .”
“We don't actually call them perp—”
“Not since I taught you how to say miscreant, obviously.”
“Right.” Harald smiled at the thought of Stone in police uniform, studying interpersonal skills and criminology at the academy. “So where's our Deltrassol?”
“Top floor,” said Stone. “Right at the back.”
“Nothing but the best for our miscreants.”
“There you go, Sergeant,” said Stone. “You don't do so bad—”
