Ah, but what was a marauding bear doing in a Brooklyn apartment? Explain that.
Nevertheless, doubts about her sanity recurred on occasion, and this was one. Even if the damned thing were real, it would drive anybody crazy.
Flicker.
“Damn it,” she said, determined to keep walking no matter what.
Flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker . . .
That city again, the city of impossible buildings, the New York of alternate reality, a city of spires and perches, with doorways half a mile in the air, a metropolis of avian beings, a place that did not, could not exist, flickering in and out of existence, flickering like some old silent film grinding through a hand-cranked projector. She remembered her father taking her to Coney Island . . . in the old Penny Arcade there were still nickelodeons consisting of cards with a single frame of film printed on them. You cranked the machine and the cards came up one by one. The faster you cranked, the faster the action went and the faster the flickering became. This was as if someone had shuffled two stacks of cards with different scenes. A frame of one was followed by a frame of the other, and so on.
The shifting of realities took on the action of a stroboscope; the flickering speeded up and became almost blinding. She had to shield her eyes in order to walk. Even the pavement changed beneath her feet, from ordinary concrete to some shiny obsidian substance. But she walked, more determined than ever. She was going home, and that was all there was to it. Damn Greek choruses, damn strange birds, damn shifting realities. Damn all.
Yes, but where did she live in this city?
And where did that Greek temple come from, speaking of choruses?
Well, it looked something like a Greek temple. Sort of. It had columns, very high ones; it also had friezes, basreliefs, and all the rest of the architecture, all distorted somehow, bent through a geometry that was not even non-Euclidean. It was just damned weird.
She walked across a street of paving stones like black mirrors and mounted the steps in front, steps that went up at least two stories. She climbed steadily until her legs began to ache, but kept climbing, her footsteps echoing.
At least she reached the floor of the temple and walked through a forest of columns before coming under the distant roof. The columns, long, fluted, and slightly oval, continued for a stretch, then gave onto an open area. She stopped and took in the huge statue standing in the central area.
It was a statue of herself in full Witchblade regalia.
She stared at it for an interminable period, not comprehending, not able to process the data her eyes were feeding her. Gradually she became aware that she was not alone in the temple.
The Chorus stood arrayed at the foot of the statue. Slowly they all turned to face her, and she regarded them questioningly.
“What do you want?”
To worship you . . .
It was an answer she did not want to hear. She looked up at her own image. The statue was of heroic proportions, a massive figure of silver and gold with glints of other precious substances, perhaps but not limited to onyx, amethyst, and amber. The statue had wings sprouting from a riot of swirls and other metallic flourishes. Jewels sparkled everywhere. The base was inlaid with semiprecious stone in eye-catching arabesques. There was an alien nature to the thing, imparted not by the subject of the work but by the artist. This was not the work of a human artist; this was the work of a being not human at all.
“I’m flattered,” she said to the Chorus. “But no, thanks.”
She turned and walked out of the temple. No one tried to stop her.
She did not have to descend the two-story stairway. Once out from under the roof of the temple, New York flickered back into existence, and she was on the sidewalk.
She knew where she had to go and it was a long walk, so she hailed the first cab that came by.
Maybe her luck was changing, she thought. The damned cab actually stopped.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Sophia pushed buttons on the telephone while Baba sat by the window, looking out. Sophia looked back at her.
“It’s the only thing we can do. The only justice.”
Baba didn’t move her eyes from the setting sun. “How much will it cost?”
“A lot of money. Can you think of money now? He was your grandson.”
“You never cared for him. Only his money, his position, his power.”
“I loved him. He was my husband.”
“He had other women.”
“That means he wasn’t my husband?”
“So,” said Baba, “you will take up his business.”
“Why not? A woman can’t run a business?”
“It’s man’s work, this business.”
“You’re old-fashioned,” Sophia told her. “Mind your own business.”
“I do, I do. Everyone thinks I want to meddle. I don’t.”
“Then shut up. Hello? Mr. Strauss? Oh, I wish to speak to him. Yes. Yes. Very well. Please tell him that an old friend, Sophia Kontra, wishes to speak with him. I’m calling long distance. Yes, an old friend. He knew my husband.” Sophia turned again. “They’re getting him.”
“How much are you paying the telephone company for this call?”
“Who knows?” Sophia said testily. “Who cares?” She waited patiently. Then: “Hello? Mr. Strauss? This is Sophie. Yes, it is. How nice to hear your voice. Thank you, thank you . . .”
“It’s not a good thing, this,” Baba said. “It’s an evil thing we do.”
Sophia went on talking.
The view from a Central Park West apartment is spectacular. The park spreads out like your own personal enchanted forest, and from penthouse height the derelicts, addicts, and gangbangers could be munchkins for all you are concerned.
At night, the park seems the dark domain of dragons and demons. Living in New York is made easier by a rich imagination. It also helps if you’re just plain rich.
Kenneth Irons walked away from the window. For all that his imagination—as well as his stock portfolio—was one of the richest on earth, his mind was not on enchanted forests this night. His man had announced a visitor, one he knew well. He was ready to receive her any time of the day or night. He had directed his man to admit her forthwith and send her up.
He sat down in a chair in the picture gallery and waited among oil paintings of heroic women, former wielders of the Witchblade. Amongst his favorites was a portrait of Jeanne d’Arc. Joan astride a horse in full battle regalia. The best known of all the sentient gauntlet’s bearers and wearers.
The tall door to the study opened and Sara Pezzini stepped in. She was dressed, as usual, in what he regarded as rags. But on her even rags looked good. Her jeans were usually particularly tight and the T-shirt under her jacket was always undersize, allowing her feminine lineaments to come through nicely. She was tall, thin, well-proportioned, and had a face that could launch several navies. Legs up to the neck. Oh, those legs. And there were other parts of her that shaped up just as well.
He sometimes permitted himself the luxury of simple lust.
“Sara,” he said warmly.
“Hello, Ken. What have you been up to?”
“I’m always up to something. How has it been with you?”
“Up to my butt in alligators, as usual.”
“I envy those alligators,” Irons said with a grin. “Do sit down.”
Sara took a seat on a luxurious chaise. “My question wasn’t an idle one. Have you been up to anything supernatural lately?”
Irons looked surprised. “Why, what a question. What would bring you to ask it?”
“Strange things have been happening around the Witchblade lately.”
Irons had avoided looking at the bracelet since she had come into the room. Now he slowly shifted his eyes and took it in. It was in its quiescent state, taking the form of a simple bracelet. He had seen it in many configurations since he had unearthed the artifact in Egypt years ago.
&nbs
p; “What sorts of strange things?” Irons asked.
“Apparitions that do murder in fairly grisly ways. And another phenomenon. The intrusion of a very weird world on ours. This involves a few more apparitions.”
“What sort of world?”
“Like nothing I’ve seen before. I haven’t had a lot of time to think it through, but it may have something to do with the apparitions, and it might not.”
“That’s . . . helpful.”
“Okay, it’s not. They’ve got to be related, though.”
“All right. What forms do these apparitions take?”
“At least three kinds. One is for all intents and purposes a werewolf, or something like it. Another is a dragon. Another, related to the strange world thing, is a bird of some kind, and associated with it are humanoid forms.”
“Werewolf,” Irons mused. “Interesting.”
“Know anything that can connect up with that?”
“What’s the Witchblade’s interest been?”
“It’s interested,” Sara said. “But it’s not telling me what it thinks.”
“It wouldn’t,” Irons said. “It’s always been rather closed-mouthed.”
Sara laughed. “I guess you could put it that way.”
“I was being ironic. Let me think.”
“I have a connection. Lazlo Kontra was taken out by the werewolf. Lazlo Kontra was Romanian by birth. He has a Romanian grandmother who walked out of a Lon Chaney, Jr. picture.”
Irons brooded a moment. “So that’s why my sources were so confused on the method.”
“I’ll bet it didn’t sound like a mob hit.”
“No. Jobs of that kind are usually done with minimum mess, except on occasion. So Kontra was done in by this supernatural factor, whatever it is.”
“No doubt,” Sara said. “And I don’t have any ready explanation for it. Except for a crazy one.”
“What’s that?”
“A crazy nerd kid. Computer hacker. Brilliant kid, but a little odd. Messes with magic. But how he could be summoning monsters . . . what’s wrong, Ken?”
Irons had grown a subdued expression of concern. By the time Sara had spoken, it was gone.
“You know this kid,” Sara said.
“You really took me by surprise,” Irons said. “I shouldn’t be surprised by this time. You have a way about you.”
“Don’t try to snow me, Irons. The kid’s name is Merlin. Know him?”
“You’ve already guessed it. He’s been doing some work for me. Consulting.”
“On what?”
“That’s my business, Sara. Let’s say it’s a special project.”
“Anything to do with magic?”
“Not in the least. But now you tell me Merlin is living up to his name.”
“He admitted to a possible motive. He told me without a thought that he could be admitting to a murder. He claimed he didn’t intend for his victims to die.”
“Interesting, interesting,” Irons said, rather too abstractedly.
“I think you know the motive, too. I think you might have hired him away from Kontra.”
“I considered Merlin a free lance. Didn’t really give it a thought. Actually, he’s been working for me for a while.”
“I see,” Sara said, sitting back.
“If I gave him a motive . . .”
“I don’t think you did. I think it was between Kontra and Merlin, and magic was used to settle the dispute, however inadvertent the outcome was.”
“Glad to hear you don’t suspect me of contributing to this grisly business.”
“I’ve known you long enough to suspect that you had a hand in somewhere.”
Irons tried to look pained. “I’m hurt.”
“I also know that this whole business has something to do with computers.”
This also hit Irons from an unexpected direction. “Indeed,” was all he would allow.
“Yeah. Funny thing, the bird and the humanoid creatures came at me from out of my laptop.”
“They came at you?”
“Reaching for me, and I think reaching for the Witchblade. Odd. It wasn’t particularly threatening, that time. On other occasions, the bird was a little different. It seems to have a grudge against me.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Irons commented. “How about the other creatures? The werewolf, for instance.”
“I beat it up pretty good.”
“Congratulations.”
“The dragon didn’t give me any trouble at all. But it killed Kontra’s gunsel. Burnt him to a crisp.”
“Ah, as dragons are wont to do, no doubt. All very, very interesting.”
Sara let out a breath. “Yeah. Like a massive traffic accident.”
“Right. You have to look, don’t you?” Irons said.
“Any ideas, Ken?”
“A few. I’ll let you know if any of them become coherent. They aren’t right at the moment.”
“Neither are mine. I can’t understand the bird thing. It seems unrelated. Whereas the werewolf and the dragons are definitely something some goofy kid would dream up. Or pick up from his environment.”
“His environment?”
“He was working for a Romanian. I mentioned the guy’s grandma. That also explain the Vlad connection . . .”
“Eh?”
“Another thing entirely. It doesn’t fit, not quite.”
“You have a puzzle here with rather disparate pieces,” Irons said.
“Sure do. And I think you do, too, Ken. Though you’re not admitting anything.”
“I don’t know what to admit. I’m as confused as you.”
She leaned forward and looked him straight in the eye. “You may be telling the truth. It’s hard for me to tell, most of the time.”
“Sara, that’s a roundabout way of calling me a liar.”
“Really,” Sara said, getting up. She began a casual tour of the picture gallery. It was not her first, but the depictions of her predecessors were an endless source of fascination.
Irons got up and followed her. “You know, I still claim the Blade as mine.”
“Never said it wasn’t,” Sara told him.
“Yet you’ll be walking out of here with it. You could call that theft, in a way.”
“You could. You won’t. We both know why I have to wear it. You can’t, and neither can anyone else. With the possible exception of Ian Nottingham. But he’s a special case.”
“True,” Irons said gravely. “Undeniably true. So I suppose our little agreement will continue.”
“Until we get to the bottom of the Witchblade’s mystery. By the way, I saw him recently.”
“Oh, you did?” Irons said brightly. “And how is old Nottingham?”
“Doing pretty good for a dead guy.”
“He always was resourceful.”
“That doesn’t surprise you?”
“What, that he’s keeping up appearances? Stout fellow, and all that.”
“Maybe I saw his ghost,” Sara said.
“Perhaps you did. I don’t know, and really don’t care to follow the careers of former employees. Once they go off the payroll, my interest in them ceases.”
“Yes, once you threw him out the window, you pretty much didn’t care where he landed.”
“As the old song says, ‘That’s not my department, said Warner von Braun.’ ”
“Tom Lehrer,” Sara said.
“You remember Tom Lehrer?” Iron said, mildly surprised. “You’re not old enough.”
“I have him on CD.”
“You’re a culturally literate heroine-goddess.”
“That’s exactly what the strange guys in the bird world think of me. They say they want to recruit me as their goddess.”
“They speak to you?”
“In a sense. That particular statement was extremely clear.”
“Extraordinary. You should be flattered. I was just thinking. Instead of headhunters, these people have godhunters?”
; “I wonder if there’s a signing bonus,” Sara mused.
“Well, good luck in your new career.”
“Not interested in the job. I have a job investigating homicides in the City of New York.”
Irons said, “Do you think that in any universe you could conceive of, let alone the City of New York, you could connect me with the death of Lazlo Kontra, or anyone else?”
“Sure. I could get the DA to believe that one of your employees did it.”
“By magic?”
“I don’t have to bring magic into the picture. No one would believe it anyway. All I have to supply is a motive, and you start to look like the gray eminence behind all the killing that’s been going on. Oh, your lawyers will protect you. You’ll get off, but your reputation . . . ?”
“I see what you mean. Nasty stuff, Sara. Why?”
“Let’s say I have a few scores to settle with you.”
“I’m crushed that you think me an enemy.”
“Ken, I think you’re up to something. I don’t know what it is, but I’d like to find out. I’m going to find out.”
“I see.”
“Good night, Mr. Irons.”
“Good night, Sara. Do drop in anytime.”
When she had gone and Irons had been left alone to contemplate, yet again, the pictures in his gallery, his manservant opened the door to tell him he had a phone call.
He walked to his desk. “Irons here.”
“Erwin Strauss,” came a familiar voice. “Forgive the late call.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“I have been offered a very challenging contract. It’s on the girl. Your girl.”
“Interesting.”
“I know your association with her. I have never quite understood the nature of it, but as you are the most powerful man in your city—you are, in a sense, the boss of bosses—I am notifying you of my intention to take the contract.”
“I suppose you don’t want to tell me who your clients are.”
“They are amateurs who don’t know what they are asking. They phoned me. Imagine that. Fortunately, I forestalled any mention of business and got in touch with them via a secure line.”
Witchblade: Talons Page 14
