by Ty Drago
“How many of our people did we sacrifice to get this?” she asked D’Angelo.
“Only a hundred and fifty.”
“All worker caste?”
“Yes, mistress.”
The Queen nodded. Perfectly acceptable losses; a bargain really, when one considered the cost and difficulty involved in bringing even ordinary solid matter through the Rift. And an anchor shard was nothing like “ordinary.”
She handed the shard to Pierce, who accepted it without hesitation. “Keep this on your person at all times,” she commanded. “Guard it until we’re ready to use it.”
“With my life, Ms. Cavanaugh,” her assistant said.
She faced the Chief. “D’Angelo, I want you to send your best men to the prison to begin preparing it. I want the anchor shard in place and functioning by the middle of next week.”
“Of course, mistress,” D’Angelo replied. Then the fat fool bowed low, a Malum gesture of respect, as he departed.
I need to break him of that.
With Pierce watching, she went to the window and gazed down at the courtyard. Philadelphia’s city hall was an imposing structure, more fortress than office building—with a five-hundred-foot central tower that offered an impressive view. The base of that tower stood directly across from her office window.
Lilith visited the tower’s observation deck quite often. Perhaps she’d do so later today. Few tourists would risk the bitter winds this time of year, but the cold was not a problem for her. She liked the view. It sparked her imagination.
It was up there that her most recent plan had formed.
“The acquisition of the shard is an unexpected windfall,” she told Pierce without turning. “It means we can accelerate our plans. And the more aggressive our schedule…the more rapidly our people are able to infiltrate the layers of human government…the faster we can prevail.
“And the faster I can abandon this filthy world, mistress?” Pierce added.
“Exactly so. Unfortunately, it seems the Undertakers have developed a weapon to use against us. A lethal weapon. I need to understand more about it.”
Pierce replied, “I’ve already put the right brethren to work on it.”
He’d anticipated her. “Good work.”
“Thank you, mistress.”
“You’re excused.”
Pierce left her alone. She continued gazing out her office window, down at the scurrying humans in the courtyard, going about their pointless lives, huddled against the cold.
I’m going to kill you all. And I’m going to tear down everything you have ever built.
So far, this had been a fortuitous day.
Her desk phone buzzed. Pierce said, “Ms. Cavanaugh. You have a visitor.”
Lilith’s eyes fell to her daily calendar. It was noon, and her first scheduled appointment wasn’t until two o’clock.
“A visitor? Who?”
“Ms. Susan Ritter,” Pierce replied. “She’s the widow of Detective Karl Ritter. She’d like to talk to you about her son…Will.”
Will Ritter.
The Malum had a saying: “When the prey falls into your jaws, you don’t stop to say thanks or ask why. You just eat.”
“Please send her in,” Lilith said with a smile.
Chapter 13
Spitting Image
I’m not going to tell you exactly how we got Sharyn and Ramirez back to Haven. Frankly, I’m not real proud of it. We did what we had to do. Let’s just leave it at that.
Katie saw to the van while Helene and I rushed to the infirmary. There, we found Tom standing over his sister, who lay on the ambulance gurney. Agent Hernandez occupied the next one over, still heavily drugged.
Tom met my eyes. I’d never seen him look so worried. “How is she?” I asked.
“Still unconscious,” he replied. “What happened back there, bro?”
I told him everything, finishing with, “I’m sorry, Chief. If I’d moved faster…”
“Ain’t your fault,” Tom replied, sounding like he meant it. I felt relieved. “How’s your head?”
“Okay,” I said. And it was, more or less. At least the dizziness and nausea were gone, though I had a killer headache.
Tom turned to Helene. “Come here.”
She went to him, and he put his hands on her shoulders and examined her throat. The Corpse’s fingers had left huge bruises that had begun to turn purple. “Your throat hurt?”
“Yeah,” she croaked.
“Ian!” Tom called.
Leaning over Sharyn’s gurney was Ian McDonald. Ian was Haven’s medic, the son of a big shot Philly surgeon, who’d gotten the Sight and been forced to go on the run like the rest of us. He wasn’t a real doctor, of course, being only fifteen, but he was smart and did his best to do the job. The infirmary was crammed with textbooks as big as cinderblocks that were all about all things medical. Ian spent hours studying them. I didn’t envy the kid.
Ian hurried over and lifted Helene’s chin. “Still having trouble breathing?” he asked her.
“A little.”
“It’s swelled up some…inside…constricting your windpipe. Could be worse. If he’d pressed any harder, he might have done permanent damage. Lucky.”
“Yeah,” Helene whispered. “I feel lucky.”
“Go get some ice cream. Maybe a Popsicle. The cold’ll help with the swelling. And I’ll give you some ibuprofen for the pain. You’ll be okay.”
“I’m okay now,” the girl replied, pushing his hands away.
“Have a look at Will,” Tom said. “Got socked in the head.”
The medic fingered the lump on the back of my skull. Unsurprisingly, it hurt. “Ow!” I exclaimed.
“Skin’s not broke,” Ian reported. “Did you get dizzy?”
“Yeah,” I admitted.
“Still dizzy?”
I shook my head. At least it didn’t hurt to do that—probably a good sign.
“How long did it last?” he asked.
“I dunno. A minute or two.”
“What’s that stuff all over you?”
I felt like I was being interrogated. “Corpse juice. Chuck stuck one of them while it was on top of me, and it kind of exploded in my face.”
The medic grimaced and looked carefully in both my eyes. Then he pulled my nose up uncomfortably and peered up my nostrils. “Swallow any of it?”
“Yeah,” I admitted, and my stomach rumbled a little at the memory. “But I puked it back up.”
At that, he almost smiled. “I’ll bet you did.” He turned to Tom. “He’s okay. Cadaver fluids are toxic, but it sounds like his body evacuated them.”
“How about his head?”
“A bad bump. Maybe a very minor concussion. He’s fine.”
Tom nodded.
“What’s going on with Sharyn?” Helene asked.
Ian looked at her, then at me, then at Tom, and then over his shoulder at the gurney. “She’s a different story. She’s also got a concussion…but hers is a lot worse.”
“What is a concussion…exactly?” I asked.
Ian replied, “Well, your brain kind of floats inside your skull…surrounded by fluid that acts like a shock absorber. That’s why just banging your head doesn’t instantly kill you. But Sharyn was hit harder than the shock absorber could handle, and her brain got knocked around. Will, yours only got knocked a little bit. No big deal. But Sharyn—”
“How much worse is it?” asked Tom, looking miserable.
“That depends. Without an X-ray…and somebody to read it…it’s hard to know. If she wakes up, she should be fine.”
“If?” Helene gasps.
Ian looked at Tom, who seemed to age ten years before my eyes. “Yeah. I’m sorry. If.”
<
br /> The Chief of the Undertakers slowly nodded. “Ian…will you stay with her?”
“All day and all night,” the medic replied.
“Thanks, man.” He visibly swallowed. “How’s Ramirez?”
“He’s okay,” said Ian. “I think the Corpses chloroformed him at first and then kept him out…probably with sodium pentothal. I don’t know when they last dosed him, but from the look of him, I’d say he’s going to be out for hours and—”
Then the guy on the gurney said something that froze us all where we stood.
“Karl?”
Hearing my father’s name sent a shock dancing up my back. With a gasp, I stared at Hugo Ramirez of the FBI.
And he stared right back at me.
“Karl?” he repeated. The word was slurred. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped again, going limp.
“He’s be doin’ that on and off for a while,” Ian remarked. “That’s the first time he talked though.”
Tom said, “Ian, I want you to move Agent Ramirez’s gurney into my office…and I want you to handcuff him to it.”
We all looked at him in surprise.
“Please just do it,” Tom said. “And…Ian…let me know when my sister wakes up.” That was the way he said it. Not if. When.
“Sure, Chief,” said Ian.
“And make sure Helene gets her ice cream and her pills. Helene, you’re off duty for the next eight hours. Rest up. I need you at your best.”
Helene looked ready to protest. But then she closed her mouth and nodded.
Ian called, “Amy?” And from a corner of the room, a petite blond girl appeared. She’d been sitting at an old wooden school desk, involved in some task. Inventory maybe? Patient records? Did Ian even keep patient records? In any event, the girl had been so quiet and her movements so slight that I hadn’t even noticed her.
“Yes, Ian?” she asked in a tiny voice. Then her eyes touched mine. “Hi, Will.”
“Hi, Amy,” I said. Then, as a matter of habit, I smiled at her.
Not many people smiled at Amy Filewicz. She’d had it worse than most. The Corpses had caught her early and had brainwashed her with the Pelligog, these disgusting ten-legged spiderlike things they imported from their native world. Once one of these spiders bores into you, your free will turns to mush. The Deaders had used them on this poor little girl, and then they’d sent her to join the Undertakers as a spy. In the days that followed, Amy killed one boy and almost killed me too before she was finally released from Pelligog control and rescued.
Now, despite the fact that she’d been used as a tool, her mind twisted, most of Haven still treated her coolly. They couldn’t forget the boy named Kyle, who’d died by her hand. Only Nick, the Boss Mom, and now Ian were really kind to her. Well, them—and Helene and me. We both knew what the Pelligog could do and how helpless you were against its influence.
Those spiders still made guest appearances in my nightmares.
“Amy,” Ian said, “could you take Helene to one of the first aid benches and get her ice cream for her throat and a supply of ibuprofen?”
“Sure,” Amy replied. “How many pills?”
“Eight should do it. Helene, that’s one every six hours until they’re gone.”
“Got it,” Helene said. Then, giving me a quick smile, she let Amy take her hand and lead her off into the shadows.
“How long has Amy been working for you?” I asked the medic.
“Her first day,” he replied. “Nick’s idea. He thinks she needs to get more involved. But it’s actually been pretty cool having her around. Never had an assistant before. She’s been doing some of the stuff I’ve never had time for.”
“Solid, Ian,” Tom said, a little distractedly. “Will…with me.”
Then he turned and left the infirmary. I gave Helene a final wave, pointed a worried look in Sharyn’s direction, eyed Ramirez nervously, and then hurried after him.
“Wait up,” I called.
Tom was walking really fast down the corridor in the direction of his office. The Chief’s back was ramrod straight, and he uncharacteristically ignored the hellos and questions about Sharyn he got from the kids we passed along the way.
“You okay?” I asked, catching up to him.
He didn’t answer me. Instead, he stopped outside of a particular curtain I knew well and pushed it aside. Then, as I followed him inside, he switched on the lights.
Finally, he said, “No, bro. I ain’t okay.”
The room was small. Like the rest of the Undertakers’ headquarters, it had brick walls, a dirt floor, and a low ceiling. The only light came from a bare hanging bulb, one of hundreds that the Monkeys had strung up throughout this old subbasement. What set this particular room apart was that while there was a cot, complete with pillow and blanket, no one lived here.
No one ever had.
This was Tom’s memorial to my father, Karl Ritter, the founder of the Undertakers. He’d been dead for more than two years, a victim in the early days of the war with the Corpses. At the time, Tom had set aside Dad’s old room at Haven, decorating it with pictures and mementos until it looked a bit like a shrine. My first day as a raw recruit, he’d shown it to me.
Except that Haven wasn’t this Haven.
A few months back, circumstances—me, to be honest—had forced the Undertakers to abandon the warehouse that had been their lair and move to this more secure if less comfortable headquarters. And Tom had moved his Ritter Memorial too.
“You added some pictures,” I said.
“Yeah,” he replied. His voice was always softer, more subdued in my dad’s shrine. “Found them in an old box of Karl’s personal possessions that turned up after the move. Look at this one.”
He pointed to a three-by-five of my father cradling a baby. My mother stood beside him. Both were smiling.
Looking at it, I felt that old familiar ache kick in.
Tom said, “I’m guessing that’s you in his arms.”
“Guess so,” I said, swallowing dryly. The shameful truth was that I didn’t visit this place nearly as much as Tom did. I sometimes asked myself why this shrine, which was managed and maintained with such love and respect by the Chief of the Undertakers, held so little appeal for me.
But, of course, I knew the reason.
Being here hurt.
“Sharyn’s gonna be okay, Tom,” I said.
“Is she?”
“Of course she is.”
“Ain’t no ‘of course’ about it, Will. Was Tara fine? Or Kyle? Or your old man?” He sat heavily down on the cot. “This is war, and wars got casualties. Soldiers die. And because…except for Karl…all our soldiers are kids, kids die. It happens, and wishing it didn’t ain’t gonna change it.”
“But Sharyn’s different!” I protested. “She’s—”
He silenced me with a gesture. “Sharyn’s tough, and if anyone can get through this okay, it’s her. But I’ve been doing this job too long to have any illusions about her chances. She’s my sister, and I love her. Losing her would be like losing my right arm. No…it’d be worse than that. It’d be like losing half of myself.
“But it can happen, bro…at any time. That’s war.”
I tried to come up with something encouraging to say. But Tom was right. As amazing as his sister was, she remained as mortal as the rest of us.
Instead, I asked, “Is that what you brought me in here to talk about?”
He uttered a small, humorless laugh. “Nope. I guess part of it is that right now, I need to be in here. And I kinda wanted you with me. You know what I mean?”
And I did. My father had been Tom’s father’s too—in a way. Karl Ritter had rescued Tom and Sharyn from the streets, kept them out of prison, and helped them find purpose in their lives. T
hen, when the Corpse Invasion began, he’d been their leader, their general, and their inspiration. His death had broken Tom’s heart as much as it had broken mine.
So why did Tom like coming into this room while I didn’t?
“The memories in here keep me strong,” he said, as if reading my mind. “Not just the personal memories…the times he spent with me. But all his past. Just knowing that he lived, that he was real, helps sometimes.” Then he shook his head. “That don’t make no sense.”
“Yeah, it does,” I replied. Then, “Tom?”
“Yeah, Will?”
“Why do you think Agent Ramirez said my father’s name?”
He shrugged. “Could be a coincidence. There are a lot of Karls in the world.”
“You believe that?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“He was staring right at me when he said it,” I pointed out.
“I know. That’s the other reason I brought you in here. I want you with me when Ramirez wakes up. I want you in the room when I talk with him. Just the three of us.”
I blinked. “What for?”
Tom smiled gently. “Look at that picture of your dad. The one where he’s holding the baby.”
I looked. The photo had to be a dozen years old—my father appeared younger than I remembered him but still recognizable. His shock of red hair, like mine. His green eyes, like mine. His thin, angled face and broad smile.
God, how I missed him.
“You don’t see it, do you?” Tom said, rising from the cot to stand beside me. “Ramirez did. Even as out of it as he was, he saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“You look like your dad, Will. So much so that it sometimes startles me. Lately, I’ll turn a corner in this cat-infested pit and see you and…just for a split second…I’ll think I’m looking at him. Gives me quite a shock.
“Used to feel that way right after he died. Even though I knew he was gone, a part o’ me still kept expecting him to come strolling into Haven…the old Haven…with that cocky smile on his face and quoting Mark Twain.”
