by C. E. Murphy
Hank grumbled, "Yeah, yeah," and edged farther down, until Rosie couldn't hold him anymore without risking her own perch. "It's okay," Hank muttered. "I'm almost there. There." His questing foot reached the ground and he stepped down.
Rosie sat up to rub her ribs, then took a deep breath and swung herself over the edge too, before the bruising decided it wanted her to stay in place. Hank guided her down, and she jumped the last few feet, landing in a crouch that twinged her ribs again. "Maybe we can go out the front door… ."
"Getting out should be easier. You can see where it's safe to climb, on the way up." He watched Rosie swing her arm and rub her shoulder until it didn't feel quite so stretched, then said, "Thanks," awkwardly. "You really are strong. I didn't think you could catch me."
"Never underestimate a riveter, library man."
The corner of Hank's mouth turned up. "I'll try not to again. Okay. I remember that there were some parts of the factory that weren't as badly damaged. If I were holing up here, that's where I'd go. You up for it?"
"Yeah. Just remember if we get a sense of them, we turn around and leave."
"I remember." Hank paused, looking around the wreckage. Old garbage had blown in and lay crowded into corners, rustling not, Rosie thought, with the wind, but with whatever lived and ate in them. Sunlight fell in shafts through holes in the walls and ceiling, even, in a few places, through unbroken windows so dirty they could hardly be distinguished except as slightly brighter squares in the walls. Dust, disturbed by their arrival, spun in the light as they walked through the factory. Once in a while Rosie heard a car outside, but mostly the burned building seemed entirely isolated from the rest of Detroit. She almost said, What better place for demons? out loud, but in the silence, even a whisper seemed like announcing their presence, and she kept quiet.
Hank stopped suddenly, just a few steps ahead of her. Rosie froze too, looking for what had stopped him, and then, realizing, trying to feel what had stopped him. Nothing at all, as far as she could tell, but he turned toward her with eyes just this side of scared spitless, and tipped his head back the direction they'd come. Rosie's own eyes widened in question and he nodded, hardly more than a shiver. She wouldn't have even seen it if she hadn't been expecting it. Heart in her throat, she turned and retraced their steps, glancing back often to make sure Hank stayed with her.
He did, but his spooked look didn't fade, even when they'd quietly scrambled up the same ledge they'd entered by, and he didn't speak until they'd scooted on their butts down the hill they'd climbed, and hurried in silence back to the car. Only inside it, with the doors closed and his hands on the wheel, with his gaze locked forward, did he say, "I can still feel them."
Rosie looked sharply toward the old factory. "I didn't feel anything. Are you—of course you're sure. What—what did it feel like?"
"Like you said." Hank sounded hoarse. "Like a hive. Squirming and writhing. I've never felt so many at once, so much emptiness. Purposeful emptiness. I don't know how to explain it. There must be dozens of them hiding in there, Rosie. Maybe more. Doherty was right. I don't know how I missed them. I've been by here a hundred times since I got home, and I never felt them."
"Get out of the driver's seat." Hank shot Rosie a startled look and she gestured at him. "Look at you. You're shaking. You're in no condition to drive, and I don't want to be sitting here talking about this. What if one of them goes by and senses me? Trade places with me. I'll drive us back to the library."
"Can you? That's a narrow fit, that alleyway."
"Would you be asking a man that question?" Rosie traded places with Hank, fired up the engine and pulled onto the street after a glance behind them told her the road was clear. A sleek Cadillac crossed the intersection ahead of them, and Rosie followed it with her gaze as she pulled up to the intersection a moment later. It turned at the Pennicott property driveway and a uniformed Negro man got out to open the gates. Hank took a sharp breath that Rosie echoed before gunning the Coupe and shooting across the intersection, leaving the Pennicott property behind.
Five blocks farther on, Rosie pulled over, shaking too much herself to trust driving if she didn't absolutely have to. "Hank, was that …"
"George," he whispered. "That was our driver, George. That was …"
Rosie worked her hands against the steering wheel and struggled to find the right words to say. "Look," she finally tried, quietly. "We know something's blocking your empathy. You've been past that old factory before, but you couldn't feel them until you knew they were there for sure. So something has to be blocking you, Hank. And I hate to say it, but …"
"But you think it's my father." Belief, worse than panic, settled into Hank's voice.
"That was his car, wasn't it? Your driver, and his car, and his property, and … wouldn't it make sense?" Rosie asked unhappily. "If anybody could do that, wouldn't it be your own family? And I'm sorry, I really am, but think about your dad, Hank." Her voice sounded small to her own ears. "Think how popular he is. How much people like him. If he's like you, a demon of—of empathy—"
"Music," Hank said clinically. "Demons who can affect emotion usually come from musicians of some sort. Music seems to have the most universal effect on our emotions. Not all of them develop that way, obviously, or there wouldn't be things like the ochim, but when they do appear, they're usually derived from musicians."
"The point is, if he can manipulate emotion, then doesn't that help to account for his popularity? Have you ever tried it?"
"Manipulating people's emotions for my own benefit?" Hank looked at Rosie coldly, then glanced away. "Not for my own benefit."
Rosie's eyes widened. "For somebody else's?" An unexpected smile split her face. "Did you help some friend get a girl, or something?"
Hank's voice softened, not in a good way. "No, Rosie. I more or less told you this already. How do you think I talked Detective Johnson into letting Pearl Daly go?"
"Oh. Oh! Oh, gosh, Hank. But darn it, that wasn't—that wasn't a wrong thing to do. It was a lot less awful than the mess I made trying to help her, if we're comparing monstrousness. Anyways, if it is your dad, doesn't it figure that you can't tell because he's a full demon and stronger than you? He could be masking this whole city. Could have been, at least, until you knew the truth for sure and got close enough to verify it. Your powers still work, Hank. Maybe you can't read him because he's your dad. Maybe—"
"If my father is a demon, Rosie, then what am I?" Hank's cool front broke like glass shattering, unrelenting pain in his features. "Did I get this power on the Front or was it always in me? He fought in the Great War, Rosie. That was more than twenty years ago. If a demon took him in Europe, then I've never known Harrison Vaughn at all! He died before I was born and my father is a demon. My blood is a demon's. I am a monster, if that's true. I am a monster, and I should turn myself over to Ex Libris for execution."
"That's ridiculous. If they're that closed-minded, you shouldn't tell them anything at all, but if you are telling them something, what they should learn from it is that just because you've got magic doesn't mean you're automatically evil. I'm not. You're not. Maybe they've been killing all the people who could help them, all these centuries. Wouldn't that be rich?" Rosie folded her arms under her breasts and glowered at Hank. "Either way, you're not going to go tell them anything right now, because whether we like it or not, there's a demon hive and whatever controls a demon hive in Detroit right now, and you're the only person who can possibly help me stop it, so I'm not about to let you go get yourself killed. Now are you ready to do what we have to do, or do I need to bust your chops some more?"
Hank turned his face away, but muttered, "I'm ready," sullenly.
"Good." Rosie turned the car back on. "We're going over to Jean's and we're going to figure out a battle plan."
TWENTY-FOUR
Jean looked awful when she opened the door, with her skin all sallow and her hair dry and frizzy. She let them in, though, even if her eyes were swollen and red, and
she made coffee while they told her about Doherty and the demon-infested factory. By the time Rosie had finished talking, some color had come back into Jean's cheeks, like the whole mess really did give her something else to think about. "So you want us three to go take on a demon hive? Hive," she added, almost under her breath, and shivered with enjoyment. "I like that. It's creepier than nest."
"The three of us can't," Hank said flatly. "Our only chance is to take out—"
"The demon king," Rosie said, when he couldn't. "Harrison Vaughn."
Hank shook his head, but he didn't contradict her. Jean poured everyone coffee and sat down with them. "Well, it shouldn't be too hard to draw him out, right? Hank just says, ‘Hey, Dad, come here for a minute,' and Rosie does her magic. I want to see it this time. I was too scared last time to really see." Her voice held a vindictive note that Rosie wished Hank didn't have to hear, but he only shook his head again.
"If it is Dad, there's no way he's going to let himself be drawn into any situation where he's at all vulnerable. The demons know there's a Redeemer in Detroit. They probably even know it's Rosie. Dad didn't get to the top of the heap doing business by not playing it smart."
"He wasn't afraid of me yesterday," Rosie said suddenly. "He asked when I wanted to start boxing lessons. He wouldn't have done that if he thought I was going to hurt him."
"But he might have done it to arrange a time when he could get you alone and kill you. Did you agree to anything?" Hank sounded both grim and hopeful, as if she might be providing a necessary answer to a terrible situation.
"No. Your mom couldn't believe he was offering, and I guess we got off track. I'm supposed to call him, though. About a job, either for me or Pearl."
"You want Pearl to go work for my father when you think he's Detroit's daemon rex? Why don't you just put her out for the crows to pick over?"
"Well, if he is, at least it's an excuse to talk to him!"
"Hank doesn't need an excuse," Jean said again. "Harrison Vaughn is just dear old Dad. Maybe you could just find an artist and sneak into his room and imprison him while he's sleeping, Hank."
Rosie sat back, sloshing her coffee. "That's a really good idea."
"Yeah, and what happens to my mother if Dad wakes up during that?" Hank shook his head again. "I'd rather separate him. Talk to him."
"And say what? ‘Excuse me, Dad, but are you an immortal soul-eating demon? Is it your fault Ruby and half a dozen other girls are dead? Did you turn your own mistress into a monster?'" Contempt dripped from Jean's questions.
Hank paled under the onslaught, but Rosie lifted her hands, silencing them both before he could retaliate. "Doherty said they don't step out of line, the demons. They do what they're told and work together or somebody called an ‘Enforcer' comes after them. Is an Enforcer the same as the king, Hank? Is that how they work? Because Doherty said the Enforcer had been out of town, and your dad's been here, right? Maybe that means—"
He shook his head again before she finished. "Enforcers are just that. Muscle to keep the rank and file in line so the daemon rex doesn't have to bother with those kinds of details. Almost all the high-level demons have some kind of Enforcer, sometimes several. With a hive this size, I don't know why there wouldn't be one on hand to take care of problems like Goode."
Hairs stood up on Rosie's arms as she thought about the Lincoln Continental they'd seen at the factory. "What if … I mean, Enforcers must be pretty tough, right? Maybe kind of high-ranking themselves?" At Hank's nod, she went on. "What if there was somewhere else it was more useful to have your Enforcer? Somewhere they could be useful to you, but could still be called back when you needed them? We thought it was your dad at the factory, Hank, but I know at least one other person has been driven around in a car like that this week."
Hank's jaw went slack. "Senator Haas. You think a US Senator is Detroit's Enforcer?"
Rosie smiled weakly. "It's kind of hard to tell, isn't it? Since I killed Goode, who might have been the reason Haas was called back. When did he get in?"
"Friday afternoon. He had meetings with Dad and—" Hank broke off, shaking his head. "I've known him for years. I never …"
"Got the sense he was a demon? But we know your empathy's not working right, and probably the closer you are to your dad, the worse it works."
"I didn't get any demon-sense off the car, Rosie. If it was Haas, Dad was with him. Or … or maybe it was just too far away, with this damn blockage."
"Does it matter?" Jean demanded. "Whether you saw Haas today or not, does it change having to get to Harrison Vaughn?"
"It gives us one more face to our enemy, and somebody else to go through," Hank said. "We can only take them on one at a time. There's just not enough of us to risk two of them, much less a whole hive."
"But you've done what the library men want you to, haven't you?" Rosie asked. "You've found the nest. The hive. Can't you call in reinforcements now? We don't have to move now, do we?"
"Ruby's funeral is tomorrow," Jean half-wailed, half-snarled. "I want this done by then."
"Jean …"
Hank stopped with her name, looking unhappy, and for the second time, Rosie said what he didn't want to. "It was never likely we were going to get it all taken care of by then, Jean."
"Then what am I supposed to tell her parents? Her Nan? That I'm real sorry she's dead and someday all the people responsible will pay for it? What kind of comfort is that? How can I look them in the eye and say that?"
"You can't." Hank's voice deepened with implacable sympathy. "For all they know, Jean, the man responsible is already dead. Rosie killed him in self-defense late Friday night. That you and I and she know more about the whole situation is no reason to take what comfort Ruby's family can get from that away from them. I'm sorry we can't offer you the same comfort as quickly, or maybe ever. There aren't many total victories in this line of business, Jean. If you don't like that, if you can't handle it, then you need to get out now, while you still can."
Jean moved her hand violently, knocking her coffee cup aside. Steaming liquid sprayed across the table and floor, the cup breaking into thick shards when it bounced off the cupboard and landed sharply on the tile. Rosie's hand flew to her mouth, but Hank didn't so much as flinch. Jean stared at the mess, then leapt up and ran from the room, a bedroom door slamming a few seconds later.
For a moment neither Hank nor Rosie spoke. Then Rosie stood to pick up the broken pieces of coffee cup before finding a sponge and a mop to clean up the rest of the mess. Hank watched with disgust-tinged neutrality. "Why are you cleaning up her mess?"
Rosie, leaning on the mop, paused in disbelief to look over her shoulder at him. "How come you don't know this, mister empathic library man? I'm doing it because her best friend died and there's nothing she can do except get overwhelmed with feelings sometimes. Because I'm not a jerk, and I hope somebody would try helping me out if my whole life fell apart like that."
"Hasn't it?"
"No. Not like that. Not as bad as what she's going through." Rosie turned back to mopping, lifting the mop head to wring it out over the sink. "And even so, you are kind of a jerk, but you've been trying to help me anyways. So I'm cleaning up because she's having a hard-enough time without having to come back in here and see the stinky, sticky mess she made when she got reminded just how bad her heart is broken and how little she can do about it."
Hank turned his attention out the window. "You're a good person, aren't you, Rosie Ransom?"
Rosie shrugged. "I don't know. I try. Don't you?"
"Maybe not hard enough." Hank got up stiffly and came to stand beside Rosie, opening his hands. "What can I do?"
She handed him the dustpan full of cup shards. "Empty that and rinse the dishcloth before you wipe the cupboard doors down."
Hank did as he was told, the only sounds a clink of ceramic and the running tap water, while Rosie finished cleaning the floor and put the mop away. As she dried her hands, he said, "I keep it locked down as hard as I ca
n."
"What?"
"You asked how come I didn't know why you were cleaning up. I keep the power locked down as hard as I can. Being bombarded by everybody's emotions is exhausting, and a whole lot of the time, people get really upset if you seem to notice they're in turmoil. Once in a while, somebody wants to talk but more often, they're trying to be stiff upper lip about it, and noticing something's wrong doesn't go over well. So if I'm out hunting, or if it's something like trying to get Detective Johnson to let Pearl Daly go, yeah, I've got it turned up, but if I'm just hanging out, like here? I keep it under wraps as much as possible."
"Hank." Rosie pressed her knuckles against her lips, watching him finish up his chores. "Maybe keeping it locked down is part of why you haven't been able to tell there are demons in Detroit. Maybe you're stunting yourself."
He smiled thinly. "I like the other idea better. The one where I'm being blocked. Because I don't think I could live, open to everybody's emotions all the time."
Rosie sighed. "I guess I can see that. Look, I'm going to go check on Jean-Marie. You think about whether we want to go for Senator Haas first, or whether we can figure out some way to just make sure he's not around your dad when we confront him."
"Yes, General." Hank waved a salute and went back to his coffee cup as Rosie left the kitchen to go knock on Jean's door. It stood a couple inches open, so although Jean didn't answer, Rosie pushed it open farther, saying, "Jeannie?" quietly.
"He's a real piece of work, your new beau." Jean sat in the corner on the far side of the bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around a pillow, and her voice muffled in it.
Rosie sighed, said, "He's not my beau," more for form's sake than anything else, and sat on the edge of the bed. Jean had a beautiful built-in wardrobe opposite the bed, oak with detailed flower molding. A vanity had been carved out of its center, and lipsticks and kerchiefs and jewelry lay on the surface and were hung on scattered hooks and knobs on its walls. From the colors, at least two of the lipsticks had been Ruby's, and Rosie recognized several of the kerchiefs as Ruby's too. It seemed like she would be right back, like she'd only stepped out for a minute, with all those things still in place, and Rosie's chest ached. "He's right, though. There isn't any point in telling her family all those things."
