by Darren Shan
“Believe. Paucar Wami was real and is real again. The villacs used him to lead the Snakes. I stepped in on the understanding that I was to replace him, but he’s still hanging around. He’s to blame for this mess. I had nothing to do with it.”
“This is bullshit,” Wornton growls. “How can this other fucker give orders if you’re in charge?”
“I’m not in charge,” I sigh. “Paucar Wami is. The Snakes rally to the image of the assassin. I’ve assumed his image, so to that extent I control them, but since the real Wami looks just like me, he can obviously step in when I’m not around and issue conflicting orders.”
Wornton raises an eyebrow at Frank. “You buying any of this shit?”
Frank nods slowly. “Ford explained some of the situation to me before sending me over. I can’t say I understand it all, but he’s telling the truth about Wami.”
“So why isn’t the other guy here?” Wornton asks. “If he’s the real leader, why aren’t we talking to him instead of this pretender?”
“Paucar Wami doesn’t talk,” I answer softly. “He kills. To most intents and purposes, I control the Snakes. I’m the one who can get us out of this mess. Strike a deal with me and I’ll do all in my power to call off the renegades. But if you charge in, I’ll be helpless. You’ll give the villacs what they want — a war — and regardless of who wins, we’ll all suffer.”
Frank clears his throat. “What guarantee can you make? If we hold off, how do we know the priests won’t use the real Paucar Wami to send more Snakes to attack us?”
“I can’t make any guarantees,” I tell them honestly. “I’ll do all I can to curtail the Snakes but I could fail. If I do, the city goes to war and it will be horrendous. But if I’m not given a chance, we’re definitely screwed. It will be a war of the villacs’ choosing and they’re the only ones who’ll profit in the end.”
Frank lets out a long, uneasy breath and shakes his head thoughtfully. Wornton eyes him, smirking, then studies his nails as if they’re of far more importance to him than this meeting.
“The longer we wait,” Frank says, “the stronger the Snakes will get. If we’re to attack, it should be now.”
“The Snakes shouldn’t have hit you until they’d established a stronghold in the east,” I counter. “The normal rules don’t apply here.”
“What do you think?” Frank growls at Wornton. “Or do you plan to sit there all night, paring your nails?”
Wornton puts his knife away. “I never trusted a colored man before, but this one’s different. He wants to keep the blacks in the east, which is what we want too. Our reasons are different, but as long as our aims are the same, that’s what matters. Eugene has final say, but I’ll advise him to leave things be, at least for a couple of days. If Jeery can prove he’s in control, fine. If not…”
“Frank?” I ask.
“I don’t want to wait,” he mutters, then sighs. “But if the Kluxers are willing to hold back, I’ll discuss it with Ford. I can’t make any promises, but I think he’ll grant you a stay of execution.”
I let my head fall back and smile at the sky through the holes in the roof. I’ve done it! I’m not out of the woods — the Snakes have to be recalled, and I have to think of a way to stop others from obeying the orders of my father — but I have time to play with. I can go on from here and…
The self-congratulation dies prematurely as I spy a shadowy figure on the rafters. It’s too dark to be sure, but my gut tells me instantly who it is, and I guess what he’s here for.
“No!” I scream, leaping to my feet and whipping out my.45. Before I can target him, he drops and knocks the gun from my hand. He rolls away from me and rises smoothly. Turns and grins, his luminous green eyes sparkling with twisted delight. I dive after him as Frank and Wornton struggle to their feet. He waits for me to close and throws a lazy punch. I ignore the fist — not enough power to harm me — but then his fingers fly apart and dirt sprays from his hand, into my eyes.
While I’m momentarily blinded, the real Paucar Wami kicks me in the stomach and I crash backward. I’m up again a mere four or five seconds later, but that’s an eternity to a killer of my father’s caliber.
He takes Wornton first. The Kluxer has slipped out his knife and jabs at the assassin, keeping his cool, using his free hand to grab his chair by a leg, using it as a shield. Wami kicks the chair from Wornton’s hand, leaving himself open to attack on his left. Wornton seizes the bait and drives his knife at Wami’s heart. Wami shimmies, grabs Wornton’s forearm and rams an elbow into the Kluxer’s jaw, thrusting his head back, snapping his neck, dropping him to the floor, where he groans, alive but helpless.
Frank has drawn a gun, which he fires several times in quick succession, opting for volume over accuracy. Wami rolls across the floor, inches ahead of the bullets. Frank carries on shooting, getting closer each time. I wipe dirt from my eyes and start forward, scrabbling after my.45. Then Frank stops firing. I assume he’s out of ammunition, until his arm drops to his side and his pistol falls to the floor.
“Frank?” I pause, eyes flicking between my friend and my father, who’s come to a rest. “Frank, are you…?”
He turns slowly and the handle of the knife sticking out of his chest comes into view. “Al?” he says dully. “I think the fucker’s killed me.”
I stare at him, appalled. The fingers that were holding the gun rise and clasp the knife. He starts to pull it out, grimaces, drops to his knees. “Killed me,” he whispers, then collapses — dead.
I stumble across the room, ease Frank’s fingers off the knife and press them to my chest, as though I can extend my heartbeat to his and bring him back to life. “Sorry, Frank,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean for it to end like this.”
I’m dimly aware of Wami working on Hyde Wornton, finishing him off. Out of the corner of my eye I see him rip out the Kluxer’s tongue with his bare fingers. Wearily I turn away.
I don’t think about revenge. It’d be pointless. Even on the off chance that I got the better of my father, what good would it achieve? Weld and Wornton are dead. Any hopes of a peaceful outcome have been shattered. This means war, bitter and bloody, and neither Tasso nor Eugene Davern will stop until all the Snakes — me included — are dead.
Wami concludes his business with Wornton and stands, wiping his hands clean. “I would have liked to work on him longer,” he says, “but time is of the essence.”
“You bastard,” I hiss, not looking at him. “Frank was my friend.”
“That is why I killed him quickly. I am always thinking of you, Al m’boy.”
I close Frank’s eyes, extract the knife and lay his hands over the hole in his chest, covering it discreetly. “You’ve pushed me too far this time. What makes you think I won’t fight to the death?”
“Actually, I think you might,” he answers. “Part of me thrills at the prospect. It has been many years since I tested myself against a worthy opponent. But the priests would surely destroy me if I won, and I am not ready for my final demise. So many countries to visit, so many people to kill. I hope you have enough sense not to force the issue, but if you attack, I will meet your challenge fairly.”
“Tell me why you did it.” My fingers are tight on the handle of the knife.
“The villacs told me to. The final part of our bargain. I am free now, to leave and torment the good people of the world as I please.”
“But why? What’s in this for them? They want to control the city. How can they if chaos is raging and their Snakes are annihilated?”
“The Snakes will not be harmed,” Wami chuckles. “You are clever, Al m’boy, but not clued in. The priests wish to run the whole of the city, not just the east. They must create an army greater than the Troops and the Kluxers. That could not happen if the Snakes remained in the east — it would merely lead to a three-way standoff. Now that their lieutenants have been slaughtered, Tasso and Davern will send in their forces for revenge, but the Snakes will disappear. The priests will lead them underground, leav
ing only the common folk for the invaders to attack.”
“They’ll take it out on them,” I mutter, seeing it now. “They’ll kill hundreds of gang members and any others who get in their way. But that won’t be enough, so they’ll wage war on each other.”
Wami nods smugly. “The titans will meet on the field of battle and fight to the death. The Troops will probably win, but their losses will be great. As they try to recover—”
“—The Snakes will reemerge,” I cut in. “Recruit new members from among the embittered survivors of the east. Maybe forge alliances with allies of Davern, men prepared to go to any lengths to get even with the Troops.”
Wami smiles. “You take a while to catch on but move quickly once you do.”
“Those whoresons,” I growl, thinking of the villacs. “They don’t care about all the people who’ll die.”
“Of course not,” Wami laughs. “Nor should you. Life is a game, and humans are the pieces on the board. That has always been your failing — you were never able to separate yourself from the common cattle. It holds you back, Al m’boy.”
Wami claps loudly, startling me. “I would love to stay and shoot the breeze, but the world calls. I do not know what the priests plan for you, but I imagine they are not finished. You might want to consider hitting the road with your dear ol’ pappy. In the unlikely event that the villacs do not ruin you, there will be many eager to string you up.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“As you wish.”
My father crouches, leaps, grabs hold of a low-hanging rafter and pulls himself up. “Wait!” I call before he vanishes forever into the night. There’s an itching at the back of my skull. I don’t know what it means, but I’ve got a feeling this isn’t as done-and-dusted as Wami believes. “Why are you in such a rush to leave?”
“The priests do not want me hanging around. They were clear on that point.”
“All the more reason to stay.”
“I do not want to anger them,” he mutters.
“But what if you could hurt them as they’ve hurt you?”
There’s a long pause. “You think you can turn the tables on the villacs?” he asks eagerly. He’s played along with them because he had to, but I know he hates the blind priests and would love to find a way to thwart them.
“I don’t have a plan yet, but I’ll work on one. Stick around a few days and I’ll cut you in on the action.”
“And if I do not want cutting in?”
I shrug. “If you don’t like the look of things, you can leave.”
Wami’s silent a few seconds. Then he reaches for the roof. My heart sinks, but lifts a moment later when he looks down again. “I will stay for three days. If you search for me, I will be found. But do not waste my time.”
With that he slips away, leaving me with the two corpses, on the brink of a total disaster, but with the slightest glimmer of hope at the back of my mind. Pushing regrets for Frank and fears for the future from my thoughts, I retreat to one of the small holding cells, immerse myself in darkness, and cast around desperately for a way out of this mess before the walls collapse and the vengeful hordes crash in around me.
3: deals with devils
My thoughts keep wandering back to Frank. I’ve spent the last decade living with death. I know all its moves and moods. But with a friend it’s different. I want to keep Frank’s corpse company, arrange for a safe escort to his family so he can be properly mourned. But this is a pivotal moment. I can surrender to self-pity and waste time on the dead, or focus on the living and maybe prevent the waves of bloody destruction from breaking over this city.
With an effort I fade Frank out and concentrate on the task at hand. I don’t see what I can do to counter the carefully laid plans of the blind priests — it’s insanely egotistical of me to presume I can outwit them — but a rage burns in my chest, filling me with self-belief. I agreed to assist them. For the sake of my friends and neighbors, I pledged myself to the villacs’ warped cause. As my reward, they set about wrecking that which we were meant to save.
Thinking ahead, I can imagine the conversation they have planned for me when the Troops and Kluxers invade. “This is bad, but it will be worse if we don’t intervene. We misled you, Flesh of Dreams, but you must stay true to us or chaos will rule completely.”
And the bastards will be right. If it gets that far, they’ll be the only ones who can quell the riots. If I don’t play along, they’ll hold the Snakes in reserve and let Tasso’s and Davern’s men do as they please. I shouldn’t have agreed to lead the Troops. That proved that I truly cared for these people. Now that the villacs have exposed my weakness, they’ll exploit it, do as they like and expect me to dance to their tune.
Maybe that’s what I can use against them.
My eyes grow cold in the gloom of the cell. Sending Wami to kill Frank and Wornton while they were in discussion with me was an act of contempt, an open admission that the priests believe they can use me any way they wish. Even if that’s true, they shouldn’t have let me know. The villacs are masters at masking their thoughts and feelings. This time they miscalculated and showed their hand. Maybe that one slip is enough.
I find myself focusing on the brace of corpses. On some level I think that I can use them, but I’m not sure how. When Wami dropped from the rafters and killed Frank and Wornton, I thought that was the end. Tasso’s and Davern’s right-hand men were slaughtered on my turf, in my company, while under my protection. Their bosses would have no choice but to come gunning for me and all who stood in the way. Invasion still seems inescapable. Except…
I scowl impatiently, then smile as the tumblers click into place. It was my turf. I invited them to the meeting. As their supposed protector, I’m the prime target.
That’s the flaw in the priests’ plan. By setting me up as leader of the Snakes, they’ve made me look more powerful than I am. As far as everyone else is concerned, the Snakes are mine and I’m using them to seize control. What if I could convince Tasso and Davern that there was no profit in this for me, if I could show them that I’m as vulnerable as they are?
The Troops and Kluxers fear and distrust me because they believe I’m in this for gain. Convincing them that I’m not couldn’t be easier. All I have to do is prove how little power means to me by revealing my true limitations. A sacrifice should suffice. I’ll offer them the head they most thirst for—mine.
The Snakes outside the police station are startled when I emerge lugging the corpse of Hyde Wornton, but say nothing as I dump him on the front steps and go looking for my motorcycle, a newly acquired model, same design as my original. When I return and strap Wornton to the back of the bike, the stand-in Cobra (Sard’s still trying to find the renegade Snakes) clears his throat. “Sapa Inca? Are you going somewhere?”
“Taking my sweetheart for a ride,” I grunt.
“Maybe some of us should accompany you. I can—”
“I go alone.”
“But I’m not supposed to—”
“Soldier,” I say softly, “I am giving you an order. Do you acknowledge a higher authority than mine?”
“Well, no, sir, but—”
“That is all there is to say.” I finish with Wornton, tug on him a few times to make sure he’s tied securely, then nod toward the station. “Remain on guard and allow no one in. Not even Sard if he returns. Absolutely not the priests. With luck, I will return in a few hours to make another pickup.”
“I don’t understand, Sapa Inca,” the Snake mutters.
“You are not here to understand. You are here to obey. Yes?”
He snaps to attention. “Yes, sir!”
I head west, taking the quieter streets. Bypassing the barricades isn’t a problem but the armed forces beyond pose more of a threat. Several times I’m sighted and ordered to pull over. Each time I accelerate and take unexpected corners, losing my pursuers, before tracking back on course.
With the diversions, it’s an hour before I pull up outsi
de the Kool Kats Klub. Dawn hasn’t broken, but the restaurant’s swarming with anxious-looking Kluxers. I spot a platoon of Davern’s soldiers unloading rifles from the back of a truck. Unleashing the body of their champion, I hold him lengthwise in my arms, like a groom carrying his bride, and stride up to the entrance of the KKK. Remarkably, nobody notices me until I’m almost at the door. Then a Kluxer spots my dark features and the body I’m cradling, and roars disbelievingly, “What the fuck!”
All eyes snap on me. Guns rise automatically and fingers tighten on triggers. Only one thing gives them pause — they’re not sure that Wornton is dead, and don’t want to risk wounding him if he isn’t.
“I’m here to speak with Davern,” I shout, nudging Wornton’s face closer to my chest, hiding his blank expression from his supporters. “Tell him Paucar Wami requests the pleasure of his company.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” the soldier says, but bolts inside the building, yelling for Davern. The Kluxers around me snarl and spit, muttering murder.
Eugene Davern emerges, looking fragile and stretched. I bet this was never how he planned it when he plotted his takeover. Davern surged up the ranks too quickly and landed far out of his depth. I’m also willing to bet he didn’t surge alone. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking during the ride over, and this all plays too neatly into the villacs’ hands to be coincidence. I’m sure the priests have been using the leader of the Kluxers, just as they’ve used me, to undermine the power of the Troops and open the city to a force of their choosing. If it weren’t for the innocents Davern would take with him, I’d be tempted to leave him to the mess of his greedy making and let him lead his men to defeat against the Troops.
Davern walks straight up to me, ignoring the warnings of his guards, and stares at the pale face of his second-in-command, noting the red marks around his lips where my father ripped his tongue out. “Is he dead?” he asks dully.
“Yes.” I drop the body with calculated disregard. It hits hard and rolls onto its back. There’s an angry, collective gasp from the crowd but I ignore it, focusing on Davern, the only one I have to worry about.
