Black Blood

by John Meaney

  But suddenly they wheeled away, responding to an ultrasonic alarm caused by somebody bumping into a Third Corridor scanport. As they departed, the lone man moved fast, pulling hex keys from his pocket as he approached a tall display case. It took seconds to open the ensorcelled locks. The case revealed a purple velvet drape laid across a shelf; and on the drape, polished antique weapons shone. The back of the cabinet was dark.

  The big man pulled what looked like a black handkerchief from his pocket—and kept pulling, more and more fabric coming out, like a cheap conjuration onstage. Then the whole thing was free of his pocket, and he carefully laid the shroudlike fabric behind the weapons.

  He had perhaps twenty seconds before the bats returned.

  The man began to shiver. He undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt all the way, and pulled it open. He undid the front of his trousers, pushed them down. His skin was hairless, his chest devoid of nipples, his crotch smooth and featureless.

  Fifteen seconds.

  The next stages proceeded very fast. First, the man's face rippled like liquid. Then his face and torso split open vertically, from crown to crotch, forking to open down the front of each bare leg like a seam, the entire opening forming an upturned Y. There was a wriggle inside, then a small lithe man in a hooded assassin's bodysuit stepped out of the larger body, accompanied by a soft popping sound.

  The assassin's stretchweb bodysuit was saturated with shad-owhex. The cocoon he had exited was of flesh-pink animaskin, already sealing itself up to conceal its hollow—now empty—interior.

  Then the assassin pulled up the animaskin's trousers, while the an-imaskin's own fingers rebuttoned the shirt. A quick tucking-in and tie-knotting, and the animaskin looked like a functional human being once more.

  It was already turning to walk away when the assassin, moving with a gymnast's litheness, vaulted into the display case, and pulled the glass doors shut. For a moment, he watched the bulky animaskin heading toward the staircase that led down to the atrium.

  Three seconds.

  Behind the displayed weapons, the assassin lay down on one side, curled up to fit into the narrow space, and pulled the shroud over himself. Something shifted, and multiple hues rippled across the shroud. Then the colors settled into place, matching the purple velvet beneath the weapons and the dark rear wall of the cabinet, as appropriate.

  Zero.

  And the bats wheeled in, exactly according to estimate, passed along the corridor. Everything looked normal. The bats turned back, forming an overhead escort to the animaskin—so like a functional human being—that was walking downstairs.

  Meanwhile, under the chameleon shroud, the assassin let out a long, silent exhalation, descending deeply into trance. He would remain in this state for most of the next fifty-three hours. Until it was time.

  Donal avoided Gertie, and rode down with an elevator wraith who was nameless and rarely communicated. Impersonal hands pushed him onto the landing of −27, and then the wraith was gone.

  Maybe I should just go to the gun range.

  Daily practice had been part of Donal's life for years. But really, he only wanted to avoid the empty office space, knowing that the rest of the team had probably found excuses to be elsewhere. It had been a pattern since Laura's death.

  But when Donal stepped inside, he saw one person: neat white uniform shirt, chest ribbons, polished button-down holster. Commander Bowman smiled at Donal, but when he spoke, a strained harmonic caught Donal's attention.

  “I don't suppose you've seen Commissioner Vilnar yet?”

  “Actually, I have.”

  “Well”—with the taut beginnings of a smile—“you'll know you're going to be at City Hall, day after tomorrow. Hoo-hah and razmatazz.”

  “I'm looking forward to it.” Donal was focusing on the tiny eye movements, the tension in Bowman's stance. “What could be more fun?”

  “Maybe bullshitting a superior officer?”

  Donal produced a smile.

  “As if I'd do that.”

  “Huh.” Bowman gestured with a half-full coffee cup. “You want some coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Really? Someone told me you always—”

  “Well, you don't want to believe what people tell you, Commander. Especially”—Donal sniffed—“that Alexa Ceerling.”

  Anyone could see the tension clamping Bowman's shoulders.

  “You have a problem with Detective Ceerling?”

  “Me? No problem.” Donal turned toward an area of blank wall. “Leastways, if you discount the body odor and the herpes, and the way she picks her nose. And did I mention she farts?”

  In front of him, the wall began to waver.

  “Hades,” said Bowman.

  A section of wall faded away, revealing an alcove in which a young woman stood.

  “I so do not fart, Lieutenant Riordan, sir.”

  “Not even in the bath?”

  “Never.” Alexa Ceerling turned to Bowman, wriggling her eyebrows. “Is he good, or what?”

  “Your evaluation is noted, Detective. Now get out of here.”

  “Yes, sir.” She poked her tongue out at Donal. “Lieutenant.”

  Then she left the office, with fractionally more hip sway than she needed to use. She was no gym rat, but fit enough. Donal and Bowman watched until she was out of sight.

  “Were you evaluating me?” asked Donal. “Or Alexa?”

  “Just gathering information.” Bowman turned to a desk and picked up a lilac sheet of paper, printed with blotchy dark-purple ink. “You didn't catch anyone leaving this around here, did you?”

  The leaflet read: UNDEAD MEANS UNALIVE, with a short rhetorical question underneath—What are they doing while you're asleep? Bowman screwed up the paper, and threw it aside.

  “No.”

  “Too bad. You might have straightened them out.”

  “I didn't notice any group's name on that thing.”

  “What the Unity Party's proposing is illegal, unless they succeed in getting the law changed. So forget those bastards, and tell me what you think of Detective Ceerling.”

  “Young Alexa?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. Her.”

  “I think she'll be the first female commissioner, if she puts her mind to it.”

  “Ah.” Bowman looked at the glass cube that had been Laura's office. “I think Commissioner Vilnar might agree with you.”

  “Has the Old Man been discussing an ordinary female D-Two”—Donal meant a Detective Grade Two—“with senior officers?”

  “No discussion.” Bowman gestured at the alcove that remained in the wall. “But how do you think Alexa Ceerling got the resources to create a spy-hole right here in the building?”

  “Good question.”

  “And I don't exactly know the answer.” Bowman's smile was upturned and momentary. “I think she's worth keeping an eye on, one way or the other.”

  Trying to make me suspicious of Alexa?

  “Does the task force have a future, Commander?”

  “I don't know,” said Bowman. “Would it really be better for you if it did?”

  “That's a strange question.”

  “What would you do if you weren't a cop?”

  “Hades. I haven't thought about it.”

  “You're rich now.” Bowman's gaze traveled to the discarded leaflet. “Assuming they don't get their way. But you don't need to work right now, any more than Commander Steele did.”

  “There's your answer, then.”

  “Look, she was dedicated to her career, but with Blanz in jail, the task force attained its objective, at least on paper. She'd have been facing reassignment now, just as you are.”

  “Cortindo is still free, Commander.”

  “Agreed, but if you're counting on the feds to help you track him down, you might have a long wait.”

  “Why? What else do you know?”

  “Less than you, probably.” Bowman propped himself against a desk. “But from what the commis
sioner has said, the ones you're after are likely to be on the other side of the border. And the feds don't reach that far.”

  “Which feds? Who runs the task force?” Donal felt a little stupid as he added: “Who exactly did Laura report to? Or should I say liaise with ?”

  “From Fortinium, a guy called Morrison. The feds’ local field office is not involved.”

  This was more than anyone else had told Donal. He wondered what it meant about Bowman's intentions.

  “If the task force continues”—Bowman pushed himself away from the desk—“would you be willing to head it up? You understand … ifit continues. No guarantees.”

  “I've less time on the team than any of the others. But I'll do it.”

  “Good. That's what I needed to know.”

  Donal laughed.

  “Maybe we'll both be reporting to Alexa Ceerling,” he said. “One of these days.”

  “I hope so.” Bowman frowned, staring at the door Alexa had left by. “I really hope so.”

  It was a strange thing for him to say … or perhaps just a strange tone of voice to say it in. But he nodded to Donal then, and headed out of the room.

  Maybe I'll figure it out.

  Donal stared around the task force office: unoccupied chairs, desktops bare of paperwork.

  Empty. Just empty.

  Three dark saloons rolled along the gravel roadway, slowing to a halt as they neared Tiger Mouth Gate, the northernmost exit from Möbius Park. From this position, the dark trees hid the giant rearing skull of City Hall. An ectoplasma wraith drifted among the boughs, was lost from sight.

  Inside the three vehicles, no one spoke. In the backseat of the rear car, three men in dark suits sat unmoving, perhaps in meditation.

  There was a gatehouse, but the security person—or team; you could argue the nomenclature either way, because the usual concepts failed to apply—remained inside. It was a wise move, because the air around the three stationary saloons grew chill and began to wobble, then darken. Just because the cars were leaving, not entering, did not excuse them from being scanned.

  A large form that was mostly shadow manifested itself, curled over the lead vehicle, then passed down inside it. Reappearing, it moved on to the next car, and repeated the process. Then once more, checking the last car, failing to detect anything untoward.

  As the ice-ghoul sank down into the ground, allowing its material form to fade, it left the three cars covered in a thin, sparkling layer of frost. Each car's engine coughed before regaining power. Then the fanged gates opened, and one by one the vehicles rolled through.

  Once out on the main road, in the rear seat of the final car, two men turned to look at each other, then at the unmoving figure that sat between them. It looked more like a clothing dummy now than a real man. Animaskins functioned for a matter of minutes, and this one's hex had faded. Inert, it had caused no reaction from the ice-ghoul.

  “Phase One accomplished,” said one of the men.

  Up front, the driver thumbed a mike to transmit.

  “Infiltration successful.”

  “Good news. Return to Main Control.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the cars headed north along Talon Drive, their coating of frost began to evaporate. Behind them, no alarms sounded, no gargoyles rose into the sky, no wraiths burned with ectoplasmic fire. No police pteracopters came thundering down from above.

  It was a solid beginning.

  She shouldn't have expected the guys to notice her clothes, at least not consciously. Or perhaps they had treated her with more respect than before. Hadn't she'd just been joking with Donal and Commander Bowman as equals? The thing was, she had dressed in this dark-gray skirt suit and burgundy blouse for a reason.

  When Laura had been alive, to copy her fashion style would have been too much like brown-nosing. Now Alexa could think of nothing better than to emulate the dead commander's attitude toward work, maybe toward everything.

  Eight days ago, Alexa had gone to visit the only other female team member, or ex-member, now living at the edge of the city with her parents. Sushana was on extended sick leave, still attending rehab three times weekly, plus psych counseling from a local mage, helping her to overcome the trauma of being tortured and raped by Sally the Claw and his men.

  “You're standing more like a commander too,” Sushana had told Alexa.

  That had brought back memories of Laura, sobering them both.

  Now Alexa walked through the Surveillance Department, noting the transparent cables that festooned the place, the rows of monitors and lenses and prisms that enabled officers to track suspects better than before. One of the men, Sergeant Rob Helborne, was in conversation with a group of AE detectives, but he noticed Alexa and gave her a wave. As she waved back, she wondered what Anti-Ensorcellment were up to.

  Keeping track of other teams’ assignments was unusual, but Alexa figured that Laura used to do it, and had friends in every team—witness the way Laura had been able to call on Robbery-Haunting for help on the day Mina d'Alkernay was murdered. In that regard, perhaps Commissioner Vilnar was an even better role model. He had managed the metamorphosis from street cop to tough politician in a way that Alexa found astounding.

  The black iron doors opened. She traversed the threatening tunnel that could swallow a dozen people, and went through the inner doors where the ciliaserpents curled then extended, as if standing to attention. She was in Commissioner Vilnar's office.

  “Alexa. How are you doing?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  A black iron chair skittered across the stone floor, and gave a little dance on its four legs.

  “And how are you doing, Bert?” Alexa patted the chair's back.

  The chair curled its arms in pleasure.

  “Let's settle down.” Commissioner Vilnar sat in the big scale-covered chair behind his desk. “And talk about a little assignment that's far too trivial for you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  An assignment directly from the Commissioner of Police? After Laura's attempted arrest of the commissioner—not realizing that Eyes, Marnie Finross, was the hidden enemy—Alexa had gone to the vaults where the commissioner had dealt with eldritch forces to uncover the whereabouts of Senator Blanz. Then her role had been to drag the unconscious commissioner away from the vault when the session was over, to force healing fluid into his mouth, and to keep her own mouth shut forever regarding what she'd seen.

  But now, an official assignment, not just an impromptu assistant's role when no one else was available. A step up in her career.

  She sat down on the chair. It began to purr. She stroked its right arm, looking around the office. The orrery atop the stone credenza was new, but she was little interested in mechanical toys. A small bookcase on the other side of the room, containing black-covered volumes whose spines bore no titles, seemed to have acquired more books. She wondered if she would ever get permission to read them.

  “So.” Vilnar rubbed his bare scalp. “You know we expanded Customer Relations a while back? Renamed it the Customer Relationship Bureau?”

  “Um, yes.” Alexa didn't like the sound of this. “The mayor's office wants to improve our image with the public.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You're not suggesting that detectives should take a rotation through the call desks? The Customer Relations call desks?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Oh. Good. Sorry, sir.”

  “But I am suggesting that you spend some time there, Detective. On your own initiative, with no mention of me.”

  “Um.”

  “Just one shift, today. And another tomorrow, if you like, but no more. All right?”

  Alexa couldn't imagine volunteering to sit with Customer Relations for a minute longer than she'd been ordered to.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And you'll let me know afterward what you think.”

  So the commissioner wanted to talk to her again, to get her impressions and perhaps recommenda
tions. Maybe this wasn't such a bad move after all. The task force was currently, well, taskless until reconfirmed by the feds. And the feds were taking their time.

  “Absolutely. I'll get right to it.”

  She patted the chair once more. Then she stood up. The chair's arms drooped.

  “I'll see you again soon.” And, to the commissioner: “Thank you, sir.”

  Then she left, with the ciliaserpents around the door waving in time, as though sorry to see her go.

  Some ten minutes later, Commissioner Vilnar, who had been sitting like a carved block of stone, finally moved. He stood up, his blocky face serious, then slammed one hammer fist against his desk.

  “Thanatos fuck it.”

  The visitor's chair and several other items of furniture straightened up, unused to such language from Vilnar.

  “My apologies.” Vilnar looked at the chair. “I may have just fed Alexa Ceerling to the demons. I'm talking figuratively, I think.”

  Around the doorway, the ciliaserpents thrashed.

  “Troy will debrief her, and deprogram her if necessary.” Vilnar clenched his big fists, and his upper arms swelled inside the sleeves of his expensive suit. “I don't like to do it. She's sensitive. Insightful. But that's what makes her the best choice.”

  The ciliaserpents quieted. The furniture relaxed to normal configuration.

  “Shit.” Commissioner Vilnar stared at the black drapes, seeing nothing. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  Donal stopped in the deep subterranean foyer and sniffed the air: cordite, a hint of noradrenaline overlaid with other pheromones. Gunshots banged nearby. Smiling, Donal realized he felt at home.

  Shouldn't have left it so long.

  Since Laura's—since everything changed, he had avoided the firing range, just as he had stopped so many daily habits, including sleep. But he'd known straightaway that fitness needed to be maintained. Perhaps combat shooting was second priority, on the short list of things he had to work at every day.

  The counter in the reception room was carved from an off-white carapace, the shell of some long-dead giant scarab. Behind it, Brian, his skin pale-blue as always, was oiling a stripped-down Grauser.