Witchblade: Talons

by John Dechancie

  “Are you having trouble sleeping, Detective?” Seltzer wanted to know.

  Sara began, “As a matter of fact . . .”

  “We’ll try to be brief, so that you can get your beauty rest.”

  Flanagan, the man to Seltzer’s right coughed. “I don’t think we have to get into personalities,” he said.

  “Who’s doing that?” Seltzer wanted to know.

  “Let’s get back to business,” Flanagan said. “Ms. Pezzini . . .”

  “That remark could be construed as prejudicial,” Sara commented.

  “What remark?”

  “The one about beauty rest. Lawsuits have been brought on lesser grounds.”

  Flanagan fussed with his papers. “Detective Pezzini, are you threatening this board with litigation on the basis of a casual remark?”

  “Blackmail’s not going to get you anywhere,” Seltzer told her.

  “Does the term ‘hostile work environment’ mean anything to you?”

  Seltzer scowled. “Oh my God, a locker room lawyer.”

  “Please, Sergeant Seltzer,” Flanagan said.

  “Sorry. Do go on. By the way, Detective, you might want to be diagnosed for sleep apnea. It’s a condition in which—“

  “Sergeant . . .” Flanagan said with a warning tone.

  “Excuse me.”

  Flanagan cleared his throat. “Detective Pezzini.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Do you have anything else by way of amplification or comment, in addition to the report you filed?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “I’m quite sure.”

  “Anything you might have left out, however seemingly slight or inconsequential?”

  “I included everything.”

  “I see. Well, although it looks like a pure case of death by misadventure . . .”

  “That is what the coroner’s inquest found,” Sara reminded him.

  “Uh, yes. Yes, that is indeed what the coroner’s inquest—”

  “Which doesn’t have any bearing on the findings of this board,” Seltzer said sharply. “We are here to investigate any untoward event that happens in the course of standard department procedure and to look for possible culpability on the part of any department personnel who—”

  “I think,” Flanagan interposed, “we all know the purpose of this board. As I was saying, although it looks as if this case can be adjudicated in your favor, Detective Pezzini, the file still has to go to the committee for final disposition. At that time you’ll be informed of the committee’s findings and any action that might or might not be taken. Meanwhile, this hearing is adjourned. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Oddly enough, the day was brightening. Sunlight began to leak through heavy cloud cover.

  Sara said, “You’re welcome.”

  The concert hall was filled to about three-quarters capac­ity, for all that this concert was officially sold out. The empty seats were easy to explain: season tickets holders, high-rollers failing to show up and not deigning to let anyone else make good use of their ticket.

  Sara and Kontra sat together. Two bodyguards, Anton and Sergei, sat directly behind them.

  Good seats, Sara thought. Orchestra Circle, keyboard side. She would be able to see the piano soloist’s hands.

  The guest conductor, a diminutive Asian man whose name had beat a hasty exit from Sara’s mind, walked out from the wings to enthusiastic applause. He stood at the podium and waited. There seemed to be something amiss backstage. He turned to the audience and smiled a little nervously, raising a hand as if to say, patience, please.

  Presently, a tall, solidly-built man walked out and took his seat at the piano.

  “Damn it,” Kontra said. “This isn’t new kid. Who is this?”

  Sara’s mouth was hanging open. Could it be?

  Ian Nottingham?

  It couldn’t. See was seeing things again.

  She listened as the pianist struck spooky, mordant chords and sounded the same deep base note after each. After the chords rose to a crescendo, piano and orchestra launched like a great, black ship into a deeply moving, quintessentially Russian melody that took the Romantic to dimensions hitherto unknown. It conjured many things: earth-curving sweeps of land, the soil, the sky, endless weeping, romance, loss and remembrance—the spirit of a vast, tragic, solemn country, distilled in a heady musical draught.

  She really didn’t know why, but tears instantly welled in her eyes, and she fought to keep them from spilling out.

  “He was good, whoever he was,” Kontra allowed afterwards, over tea and cakes. “Did you like it?”

  “It was so . . . Russian,” Sara said.

  “Yes, Rachmaninoff. He was old Russia. A life for the Czar, big estates, complacent peasants, old money. He left after revolution and never came back. But he was true artiste. You said you think you know the pianist?”

  “Yes. I think so. But . . .”

  Kontra set his tea cup down. “But?”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  Kontra looked at her for a moment. Then he said, “You are strange woman. Beautiful, but strange.”

  “Thanks,” Sara said. “I think.”

  “I’m told you . . .” He stopped, seeming dubious about proceeding. “Well, I will say it. You are involved with some kind of magic.”

  Sara’s distrusting frown elicited an expansive gesture of apology from him. She asked, “Where did you hear that?”

  “I know a witch woman.”

  “What?”

  “Gypsy woman. Well, she isn’t gypsy. Actually, I think she has the blood. But she knows.”

  “Who is she, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “My grandmother. Baba is what you call her in old country. Old woman.”

  “And what does she do, look into a crystal ball?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t believe in such things. But she has the power to see where people can’t see.”

  “The future? Other places?”

  Kontra waved a hand vaguely. “She . . . sees things.”

  “Okay. And she sees me.”

  “Yes. She says you are witch woman, too. Are you?”

  “No. I do wear this bracelet, though.”

  “I was noticing. I saw it when you come to hospital. I tell my grandmother. She saw it. She says it is demon thing.”

  “Demon thing.” Sara looked at her plate. “Well . . .”

  “That make it powerful. But you aren’t interested in power.”

  “I’m not interested in power. It comes in handy, though, I will admit.”

  “What does bracelet do?”

  “Not a lot. Oh, I meant to ask you. What happened to Anton and Sergei? When the concert ended, they weren’t around.” She also remembered that just before the pianist left the stage after his last bow, he seemed to look straight out at her. “When did they leave?” she asked.

  “They hate classical. They like to go out to club. That’s probably where they went. Meet women.”

  “Aren’t they your . . . protection?”

  Kontra shrugged. “You can’t have bodyguard all the time. It’s ridiculous. I’m not John Gotti. I’m not big shot. You think I am, but I’m not.”

  “Funny I didn’t see them get up and leave. Or hear them.”

  “The third movement is loud.”

  Sara reached for her purse.

  “You going?” Kontra asked.

  “I have to make an early night of it.”

  “Really. So sad. You let me take you home?”

  “No, I’ll get a cab. There’s someone I have to see.”

  “This late?”

  “Thanks for the concert. I really enjoyed it.”

  Kontra sat back and grinned. “No more than me. Good night, Sara.”

  “Good night, Lazlo.”

  The graveyard probably dated from New York’s Knicker­bocker era. All old graveyards look alike: weathered headstones, faded
lettering, grass grown to neglect, weeds. Foot markers covered with moss. Forlorn trees.

  Her father’s grave did not look bad. She had kept after it over the years, but it had been a while since her last visit. She bent to pluck a withered dandelion, threw it away. Then she stood and thought about the past.

  “Hi, Dad. It’s Peeps,” she said to the quiet air.

  Her father’s pet name for her when she’d been a kid. Kontra’s remark about her being a strange woman was probably true. No, it was absolutely true. When most girls tell their daddy what they want to be when they grow up, it’s usually a ballerina, a princess, a nurse, a teacher—whatever. But for little Sara it was . . . a policeman. A policeman. There isn’t even a good word for a policeman who isn’t a man. Policewoman isn’t great, and policeper­son? Ugh.

  The job never did him any good. The pay was lousy, and then you died.

  She bent her head. She hadn’t gotten over it yet, had she?

  No. Not yet. She hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen it, but she had never been able to rid her mind of the image of her father lying on the street, shot by an assassin.

  She had no idea how long she had stood there, con­templating her father’s grave, when she heard someone call her name.

  She turned. The man who had played the concerto was approaching her, his athletic figure limned in streetlight.

  “Ian Nottingham,” she said. “It was you.”

  “Sara. Somehow I knew you’d be here.”

  “You always seem to know.”

  He was still dressed in white tie and tails. A cape flut­tered in a sudden gust of wind, along with his impressive mane of hair. She wondered how he had arranged that touch. He had always had a flair for the melodramatic.

  “It’s getting to be our meeting place,” she said. “How have you been?”

  “Fine, keeping busy. Something’s up. Again.”

  “Again. Do you have any clues?”

  “I always have clues,” said Nottingham.

  “You pick them up out of the air,” she said. “I’ve al­ways wondered if it were an innate ability, or one you acquired.”

  “In a way, I’ve always been clairvoyant. But my various bouts of training have sharpened what paranormal skills I was born with.”

  “What’s your reading on the current situation?”

  “It is something very, very strange.”

  She walked to a nearby stone bench and sat down. “What do computers have to do with it?”

  “Computers?” Ian Nottingham said.

  “Something attacked me out of a computer.”

  “Whoa,” Nottingham said.

  “And then there’s this big bird.”

  “Big bird,” Nottingham repeated dully.

  “Not the one from . . . oh, never mind. Maybe we aren’t talking about the same thing.”

  Nottingham seated himself on the extreme opposite end of the bench. “I was only referring to a general sense of impending evil. This is what I’ve received. An intru­sion into our world of something very alien and ex­tremely exotic.”

  “Well, that sounds something like it. Whatever it is, it’s very interested in the Witchblade.”

  “Precisely. I’ve sensed a struggle for control.”

  “Control of what?”

  “Perhaps this world. Then again . . .” Nottingham looked off abstractedly.

  “Go on,” Sara said.

  “Have you ever thought about the world in which the Witchblade originated?”

  “Nothing specific about it ever comes to mind.”

  “But you have realized the artifact couldn’t come from our world. You do realize that The Wtichblade is an entity itself, and there are no entities like it on this earth.”

  “One of these days,” Sara said, “someone will tell me what the Witchblade really is, definitively, once and for all, no going back. But I’m not going to hold my breath.”

  “Have you ever wondered if there are other entities in that world?”

  “Sure.”

  “Furthermore, did you ever wonder if there were fac­tions in this other world who vie for its possession?”

  “You’re damn right I’ve wondered.”

  “Of course. All this goes without saying. But perhaps the struggle is interworld as well as intraworld. There could be competing factions in other worlds who want the Blade.”

  “It’s one popular little item,” she said sardonically.

  “Okay, that’s occurred to you, too. But tunneling through from world to world is a fairly difficult proposi­tion. It happens neither often nor easily. With me so far?”

  “So far.”

  “Somebody’s making it easy for somebody. Now, you say you were attacked out of a computer. Are you sure it was an attack, or simply a probe of some kind?”

  “Could have been either or both.”

  “I’ve never heard of magic being done via a computer. But then again, there are prayer wheels.”

  “Prayer wheels?”

  “Well, same idea. A mechanical device that facilitates a supernatural end.”

  “I think I see what you mean. But why do you think magic has anything to do with the current situation?”

  “As far as I know, there are no technologies that can bridge the gap between the various realms of existence. Only magic can do it. Magic is merely the means of chan­neling energy from one realm to another.”

  “I think I see what you’re driving at,” Sara said.

  “What’s going on in your world now?” Nottingham wanted to know.

  Sara shrugged. “Not a lot. Weird thing happened the other day . . .”

  Nottingham waited.

  After a moment, Sara said, “Forget it. The thing I’m doing now is nosing around a Russian Mafia gang.”

  “Any magical element involved?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes, sort of.”

  “Then there’s a connection.”

  “Yeah, if you believe an old Romanian gypsy woman.”

  “Romanian?”

  Sara sat up stiffly. “Oh, no.”

  Nottingham laughed. “Romania.”

  “Transylvania,” Sara said. “But . . . but wait a minute. All that stuff doesn’t jibe with what’s been happening. I’ve seen no fangs, no bats, no coffins with soil in them. Birds, Ian. Birds. Or more accurately, one huge, honking bird. How does that tally up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Birds, computers . . . crime. Russians.” Sara let out a sigh.

  “Why won’t you tell me what happened the other day?”

  Sara shifted on the bench. “It was an impaling. Accident, a suspect.”

  “Impaling?” Nottingham said with some amazement.

  “Freak accident.”

  “Vlad.”

  “Huh?”

  “Vlad the Impaler.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sara said with some alarm. “Wait just a minute, now.”

  “He was not a vampire.”

  Sara’s eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise. “He wasn’t?”

  “No. That was Bram Stoker using an historical figure to create fiction. Vlad was possibly demonic, but he didn’t suck anybody’s blood. However, you wanted a Ro­manian connection . . .”

  “Wasn’t he Hungarian?”

  “Transylvania was then part of the Magyar empire. Vlad defended it against the Turks.”

  “I see. That helps, a little. Not much.”

  Nottingham stood. “You’re on your own with this one, Sara.”

  Sara stood up as he walked away. “I usually am. By the way . . .”

  “Yes?” Nottingham turned at the foot of the concrete path.

  “Nice playing tonight.”

  “Evgeny took ill,” he said. “I sat in.”

  “It was wonderful. You play marvelously.”

  “I’m rusty. Don’t get a chance to practice.”

  “You’re too modest.”

  “Thanks for the compliment. And remember something.”


  “Sure.”

  “Remember that the Witchblade is a manifestation in this world of something that we may not be able to un­derstand in its world of origin. That goes for any appear­ance of the paranormal in this world. What you’re seeing on this side may not be what’s on the other. Good bye, Sara.”

  He turned and walked away into the night, cape flut­tering theatrically.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Merlin advanced through the beat-up neighborhood cautiously. He knew a lot of people who lived here, but that was not necessarily a good thing. Not always.

  He turned a corner. All clear, so he upped his pace. The sky was blue-white, almost as bright as the sun itself. The Asian-owned convenience stores were open, and kids played on the street. The neighborhood was the worse for wear, but wasn’t a particularly bad one. Just poor.

  Merlin was feeling reasonably good until a blue Mercedes pulled up sharply to the curb and two familiar Russian torpedoes spilled out.

  “Yo, Merlin,” Anton yelled, running.

  Merlin ducked into the bar that presented itself as soon as he ran around the corner. He knew the bartender, who was bending over the sink. The rest of the place was lightly clienteled: two bar flies and three men at a table sharing a pitcher of beer. The place was dark and stank of spilled beer and splashed urine.

  “My man,” the bartender said to him.

  “Gotta go right out the back. You mind?”

  “Cops?”

  “No.”

  “White guys?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They ain’t comin’ in here.”

  Merlin hesitated. Might be better to stay put. The Russians didn’t like to hang out in this neighborhood. They usually wouldn’t follow anybody into a bar like this. But you never knew. And he didn’t like to be trapped in a place.

  “Thanks,” Merlin said, and walked through a door in the back wall into a storage room filled with stacked beer cases. The exit door was slightly open, leaking daylight. Merlin poked his nose out. Nothing happening.

  The alley was clear. Soon he got the notion that Anton and Sergei thought he was still in the bar and were probably watching the front. They weren’t altogether the brightest guys on the face of the planet.

  His cell phone burbled and he took it out of his pocket. He had e-mail, but judging from the address of the sender, he didn’t bother to open it now. It was just chat.