by E.J. Stevens
“Jenna Lehane,” I said. “I’m looking for the doctor.”
“That would be me, Benjamin Martens” he said. “Here, have a seat.”
He moved a pile of gauze pads from a chair and nodded. Rather than take the offered seat, I blinked at him owlishly.
“You’re Doc Martens?” I asked. “Like the British TV show?”
“Like the steel-toe boots,” he said, casting a significant look at his feet.
He was wearing combat boots with the telltale yellow stitching around the sole.
“Isn’t that kind of lame to be wearing your namesake?” I asked.
“You want a boot in the ass, girl?” he asked.
I snorted and shook my head, taking the offered seat across from his desk.
“No thanks,” I said.
“What can I help you with?” he asked. “Feeling sick from traveling? Peeters said you’d be flying in from the States.”
“I’m fine,” I said. I sat down and leaned forward, putting my hands on the desk. “I’m here about Celeste.”
“Dubois?” he asked. “What’s wrong with her?”
I raised an eyebrow, wondering just how a doctor could miss the signs of her addiction.
“She’s using Mandragora,” I said.
He waved his hand and leaned back in an old, wheeled office chair that was practically upholstered in duct tape.
“Madrake isn’t poisonous to witches,” he said. “If she wants to smoke the witch drug on her own time, I don’t see the problem.”
My lip curled, baring my teeth. It was an expression I’d picked up from Jonathan. Spend enough time living with a werewolf and some things were bound to rub off.
“It’s a problem,” I said, biting off the words.
Celeste needed help with her addiction before she lost her powers, or got someone killed. Letting her use recreational drugs was beyond irresponsible. If we didn’t do anything to stop her, we might as well hand her a sword and tell her to kill herself, and take out a few of our brothers while she was at it.
“What do you want me to do about it?” he asked with a sigh.
“Call her down here, drug her if you have to, and keep her here until every trace of Mandragora is out of her system,” I said.
“And how am I supposed to get her down here?” he asked. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re a bit short staffed. I’m just one doctor, and she’s a powerful witch.”
“She’s a young woman who’s stoned out of her mind, and you’re a goddamn combat trained doctor with the resources of the Guild at your disposal,” I said. “You’ll think of something.”
I would have offered to help, but I was pretty sure that tossing a stranger into the mix would only make the situation worse. Plus, regardless of the fact this post was working on a skeleton staff, there were other Hunters available to help out. Hunters that Celeste might feel more at ease with.
“And what am I supposed to do with her once she’s down here?” he asked.
“You have everything you need right here to keep her calm and comfortable,” I said, nodding my head at the row of beds.
He threw his hands in the air in an “I give up” gesture and I sat back in my chair.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good,” I said. I licked my lips and glanced at a metal door along one wall. “Now that’s settled, how about you show me the morgue.”
“Why?” he said. “There’s nothing in there, nothing but empty metal drawers.”
“Isn’t that where you keep the bodies?” I said. “I’m working the serial murder case. Examining the bodies could go a long way in determining what kind of threat we’re facing.”
“The bodies aren’t there,” he said, shaking his head. “They’ve all been incinerated.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, but he just shrugged.
“I was following policy,” he said. “You don’t like it? Take it up with Master Peeters when he gets back from Brussels.”
I ground my teeth, but nodded curtly. Nothing I could do about it now. Railing at Martens wouldn’t bring the bodies back, and I’d already pushed my luck with the good doctor. If I wanted his cooperation, I had to know when to back down.
There was no question that I’d need his continued cooperation. He’d be in charge of autopsying the body of every victim we fished out of the canals. And make no mistake, there’d be more bodies. No one would be safe until this monster was caught.
I just wished I had a lead on what kind of creature we were up against. I sighed and reached out my hand.
“Without bodies, I’ll need to look over your autopsy reports,” I said.
He shook his head.
“Everything was in the case file we sent you,” he said.
“That’s it?” I said. “That file was pretty slim.”
“You know as much as I do,” he said. “If another body comes in, I’ll give you a call.”
“You do that,” I said, letting my hand drop to my side. I gave him a hard look and headed for the door. “Later, Doc.”
I knew that busting his balls wouldn’t further my mission, so I forced my breathing to remain steady and strode out the door. No sense wearing myself out in a pissing battle with Martens.
I’d save my energy for the monsters.
Chapter 12
“Knowing your adversary can mean the difference between living and dying.”
-Jenna Lehane, Hunter
There was one more place where I might find answers. The Hunters’ Guild groomed its members to be skilled fighters, but it also valued knowledge. The Guild had archives that rivaled the Vatican, filled with secret histories and encyclopedic catalogues of the supernatural.
While there were large central archives for the most delicate documents, each guildhall had its own small library. After a few wrong turns, I found the door I was looking for. The door was engraved with the image of a Hunter fighting a horde of monsters, a scroll in one hand and a book-shaped shield in the other. It symbolized how knowledge could be used as a weapon against our enemies, and how it could also shield us from danger.
I preferred weapons to dusty old books, but even I had to admit the importance of good intel. Knowing your adversary can mean the difference between living and dying, hence my visit to the archives.
I raised a fist to knock on the heavy, ironclad door, but it swung open, nearly knocking me off my feet.
“Celeste, girl, that you?”
A behemoth of a man stood filling the doorway. He stood over six feet and wore camouflage pants and a tight tank top that showed off his chocolate brown skin and rippling muscles. In other circumstances I might have found his size intimidating, but he was smiling wide, showing perfect white teeth. It was a nice smile.
I raised an eyebrow and crossed my arms across my chest, a wry grin on my lips.
“Do I look like Celeste?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said, waving a hand in front of his face. “You might be as ugly as a yeti, for all I know. Though, from what I can tell, you’re not nearly tall or smelly enough.”
I winced, taking in the pink scar tissue on his face and his damaged eyes.
He was blind.
“Sorry,” I said, glad he couldn’t see my burning cheeks. “I didn’t know. I’m Jenna Lehane.”
Out of habit, I started to reach out to offer him my hand, but thought better of it and, after a moment’s awkwardness, shoved it back in my jacket pocket.
“Ah, right, the visiting Hunter,” he said. “I’m Darryl Lambert, archive librarian. What can I do for you?”
A blind librarian? I tilted my head, examining the man. He would have been a formidable Hunter before whatever accident robbed him of his sight. But I wasn’t so sure about his skills in the archive.
“I was hoping for some information on local supes,” I said. “The nastier the better. I’m working a serial murder case, but the case file I received isn’t all that helpful. Neither is Simon Chadwick
, my liaison while I’m here.”
“Chadwick’s a Grade A asshole—if you’ll pardon my French,” Darryl said. “Come on in. Let’s talk.”
Darryl led me, with slow, measured steps, inside the archives, a labyrinth of bookshelves and wooden file cabinets. His lips moved as he walked, as if counting off our position. I suppose it was a bit like pacing off the distance to a target while in the field.
“So, is this a new gig for you?” I asked. I looked around the archives, trying to think of something positive to say. “Looks like a nice place to work.”
Darryl stopped walking. He turned to face me, brow furrowed.
“You’re not feeling sorry for me, are you girl?” he asked. His voice dropped low. “’Cause I don’t need your pity.”
“Um, no,” I said, swallowing hard. “Just curious, I guess.”
“Can’t fault you for that, I suppose,” he said. “Girl after my own heart.” He started forward again and waved a hand toward the rising stacks. “Archives are a good a place as any for the curious.”
“Isn’t it hard though,” I asked, frowning. “I mean, librarians have to be able to read and locate information. It must be tough. Seems kind of shitty of the Guild to stick you down here.”
“Where else you think they gonna stick me?” he asked. “You want me operating on you? Providing cover fire? No, I asked for this post. Always liked the archives, and everything I need to do my job is up here.”
He tapped his head.
“Good, then let’s get to work,” I said.
Chapter 13
“Hunting after a transatlantic flight probably wasn’t the wisest of choices.”
-Jenna Lehane, Hunter
It was late when I finally called it a night and left the archives. I’d doubted Darryl when he said that everything he needed was in his head, but the man hadn’t been bragging.
The librarian may have been blind, but he’d spent a lot of time down in the archives before his accident and he had a photographic memory.
Not only did he know where every document was located in those archives, but he could also recite passages from every book he’d ever read. Add to that the high tech gadgets he’d acquired for accessing the Guild’s central database and he did just fine.
Darryl was damned handy.
Too bad I still had no idea who, or what, was killing humans and dumping their bodies in the picturesque canals of Bruges. Too many monsters roamed Europe, with more than a dozen predators claiming territory in West Flanders. If I was going to narrow the scope of my investigation, and find the killer, I’d need to go out in the field.
Not that searching the city streets and waterways would be a problem. Thankfully, that’s where I did my best work.
I stifled a yawn and went upstairs to gear up for a night on the town, Hunter style. With so many Hunters attending the peace talks, there was no shortage of available rooms. I took one on the same floor as Celeste. I considered stopping by her room to see if Martens had managed to get the witch to the infirmary, but shook my head and continued down the hall. Celeste wasn’t my problem. For someone who’d been here less than twenty-four hours, I’d already meddled enough.
Once in my dorm room, I changed into a black body suit and strapped on a skirt made from strips of black cloth and reinforced leather that would protect some of my arteries without hindering movement. I added the garrote cuff bracelet, leather boots, and a black underbust corset. The corset’s boning was coated in iron and silver, but most importantly it provided support and protection to my lower back and internal organs.
It also had the added benefit of selling the impression that I was just a young, petite, Goth girl out for a night on the town. With that disguise in place, I could add the final element to my costume—my very sharp, very real katana. I wore the sword at my hip, in plain sight. In a city that promoted its connection to the past, I was willing to bet that walking around like I was a tourist ready for a Renaissance fair wouldn’t attract too much attention.
I slid knives into each boot and strapped an assortment of stakes, crosses, iron nails and other weapons into the lining of my skirt. I smeared a thick layer of faerie ointment onto my eyelids, blinking until the stinging subsided. Once my vision cleared, I went to the one dark window in the room and met my reflection with a feral smile of my own.
It was time to go hunting.
*****
At this time of night the city streets outside the central market square were mostly empty. I was alone except for my shadow trailing along behind me, and the specters that haunted the streets and buildings that pressed in from both sides.
The dead stared out from nearly every window, their eyes like gaping holes in their pale faces. I kept my eyes on the street, ignoring the human-shaped specters and the tendrils of mist-like ectoplasm twining around my boots, climbing my legs, and whispering in my ear. The sibilant hiss and moan, like a radio channel out of tune, set my teeth on edge.
The walk from the guildhall to the canal took less than five minutes, but it felt like I’d been running that gauntlet of the dead for days. I slid from shadow to shadow as I made my way down Carmersstraat, Blekersstraat, and finally St-Annarei.
I sagged against the wall of a lace shop when the buildings on my left and right receded to reveal a wide canal running north and south. Two narrower canals joined here, heading to the west and southwest.
Since taking this case, it was obvious that someone had been slacking on their paperwork. There was surprisingly little information about the victim’s bodies and the dump sites. I needed details, and that meant going back to the source. It was too early to tell where the actual murders took place, but the locations where the bodies had been found were a good starting point.
More than one body had been fished out of the water here. Whether that was a result of the geography of the canals or indicated the hunting grounds of a supernatural predator remained to be seen.
I inhaled deeply, ignoring the stench of mildew and decay. I needed to stay focused, keeping my attention on potential threats, but the presence of so many ghosts was taking its toll. I mistakenly thought that I’d built up a tolerance to the dead during my time in Harborsmouth, but my old home had nothing on Bruges. This medieval city was swarming with angry spirits, and it was giving me a headache.
I rubbed my temples, took another deep breath, and felt the pressure in my skull ease enough to regain my focus. Fatigue wasn’t helping. Hunting after a transatlantic flight probably wasn’t the wisest of choices, but every night that this monster, or monsters, remained on the loose, meant the potential for more dead bodies.
Those dead bodies would be on my head.
I lifted my chin and pushed away from the wall. No, I wasn’t going to let the people of this city, or the Guild, down. I had a job to do and, by Athena, I was going to do it right.
I swung over a metal railing and landed silently on a steep embankment. Keeping to the shadows, I crept down to the murky water of the canal.
The bodies had been found where they’d caught on the pylons beneath the nearby stone bridge that spanned the canal. I needed a better look, but I didn’t have access to a boat. Having to find an alternative route along the canal complicated things, but I had a feeling that asking Chadwick’s help in requisitioning a boat through the normal channels would cause even greater complications. I’m sure he’d like nothing better than to dangle a carrot in front of my face.
I’d just do things the hard way.
This looked like the best access point, but it wouldn’t be easy. The footing was precarious at best. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up in the canal—the same canal that was home to all sorts of potentially deadly predators. I needed to make my way along the canal and into the inky blackness beneath the nearby bridge, but there was only a slimy, narrow stone sill that ran here along the water’s edge, the foundations of buildings forming a moss covered wall that rose several feet above my head to the street level.
I maneuvered
onto the sill, standing on tiptoe and digging my fingers into tiny crevices where mortar had eroded over the years. Using the handholds for balance, I inched my way along the canal. Something dropped onto my head and I flinched, my foot slipping off the ledge.
I held my breath, my boot dangling an inch above the water, as a large, hairy spider scuttled across my face. I didn’t dare blink until the eight legged critter made its way down my neck and onto my left shirtsleeve. No sense pissing it off on exposed skin.
I had no idea if it was poisonous, and I didn’t want to find out.
Now that the spider was crawling down my sleeve, I let out the breath I’d been holding. Using the fingers of my right hand, I shifted my handhold and regained my balance. As soon as I had both feet back on the ledge, I shifted my weight to the left, holding myself steady with my left hand. I inhaled deeply, and as I exhaled I grabbed the spider with my right hand, and smashed it against the wall.
I wrinkled my nose and continued along the ledge until I neared a low, stone bridge that crossed the canal. The bridge reared up high over my head and I blinked into its dark, gaping maw, trying to make out the dim shapes ahead.
Using my feet to feel my way, I tiptoed over to a partially submerged stone platform. Water lapped against my boots and I closed my eyes, listening for potential threats. The arched cave-like space beneath the bridge seemed to warp sound, twisting the slap slap of water and skitter of tiny feet into strange sighs and echoes.
Muscles tightening in readiness, I drew a Maglite from a thigh holster, aimed it into the darkness, and set it on a shelf-like projection of stone at shoulder level. In one quick movement, I switched on the flashlight, strafed to my right, and drew my sword.
All I managed to do was startle a nest of river rats.
I sighed, slid the sword back into its sheath, and retrieved the flashlight. I scanned the arched ceiling, aimed the light at the damp floor, and began walking slowly, searching for clues in a grid pattern.
