by John Meaney
Two blocks farther on, at the corner of 57th and 984th, he found an accident scene, cluttered with emergency vehicles, strobes pulsing. A limousine was tilted at a strange angle, its roof and front end smashed, a lifeless, half-severed arm dangling through the driver's window. Across from it was a boxy van, its rear partly crumpled, whose side proclaimed Bertelloni's Bakery: Like Your Grandma Used to Make.
Was this what the bones had sensed?
A long black ambulance was driving up, its wings firmly tucked into its side. Behind the crashed limo stood a large purple golem, surrounded by uniformed cops. From the glass spilled across the pavement, and the crumpled roof, it looked as if the officers had used the golem to turn the car right way up.
As Donal neared, the golem's blank face turned toward him. There was no other reaction.
“Police officer.” Conscious of his black running suit, Donal held his badge high. “Lieutenant Riordan.”
“Hey, Lieutenant,” said one of the uniforms. “We're just clearing a TTA.”
“And I was just jogging past.”
A terminal traffic accident was routine, unless you were a rookie—like the young-looking cop vomiting over a drain right now. A female officer was closing her notebook. She'd been talking to a white-uniformed zombie standing by the bakery van, presumably the driver.
Donal walked toward them.
Beside the woman, a large-bellied officer with buzz-cut gray hair said: “Freakin’ zombie. You believe all what he just said?”
“Yeah, Frank. Why not?”
“Because—Hey, who are you?”
“Lieutenant Riordan. What did the driver say?”
“Um.” The female cop, whose name badge read Officer Cordoza, opened her notebook, but didn't look at the pages as she said: “The van driver reports a white wolf, a big one, running straight across the street. But it didn't make him swerve, he said. It was the limo that lost control.”
“A wolf,” said Donal. “White.”
He knew FenSeven and the other deathwolves at HQ. Every one of them was dark.
“Yeah, exactly.” The pot-bellied cop spread his hands. “Who's the icicle trying to kid?”
“Oh.” Donal looked at him. “You mean, he's one of those freaking zombies?”
“That's just what I…”
The cop's voice trailed off. He stared at Donal's face.
“Frank,” said the woman. “You are such an asshole. Sorry, Lieutenant.”
“It's all right. So who was in the limo?”
Neither Officer Cordoza nor her partner, whom Donal mentally labeled Potbelly Frank, tried to correct Donal's use of the past tense. The wrecked limousine contained only corpses. That was why the black ambulance was cruising to a halt. Their role would be to remove the deceased, once the officer-in-charge gave permission.
“You taking over?” asked Cordoza.
“Not me. Who's in charge?”
“Sergeant Tsatslinx, sir.”
“How do you spell that? Never mind. Let's take a look.”
Common sense said this was an accident; therefore, none of his business. But it was the most unusual sight around, and Donal was up here at street level only because the bones below had detected something.
“Hey, Lieutenant.”
“Sergeant. I was just out running, so don't mind me.”
“You want to take a look?” The sergeant beckoned to the golem. “You. Command: remove the nearest rear door of the limo, now.”
Without a sound, the golem moved forward, took hold of the door with its huge three-fingered hands, crumpling the metal further, then ripped the whole thing free. Then it stepped back and stood in place, arms hanging down, the door still dangling in its right hand.
There was a small gash in its other hand, in which lilac fluid glimmered.
“One moment.” Cordoza made her way over to the ambulance, leaned inside the open driver's window, then came back with a small packet in hand. “Here we are.”
She ripped open the packet, pulled out a long strip of what looked like gray fabric. Several drops of viscous, fluorescing lilac blood dripped from the golem's hand. Then Cordoza laid the fabric strip across the wound. It immediately stopped bleeding.
“Another freakin’ good deed.” The muttered words floated from the direction of Potbelly Frank. “Who does she think she is?”
Cordoza's expression tightened, but she just checked the dressing, then turned to the limousine. Sergeant Tsatslinx was already peering inside. Donal kept back, not wanting to take charge.
“Nice suit,” murmured the sergeant. “This guy was rich.”
He stepped back.
“I don't know, Sergeant.” Cordoza, hands on her hips, was frowning. “I sort of recognize him, but I couldn't tell you his name.”
Donal stared at the corpse. The features had been stretched and twisted. The expensive suit and shirt were soaked in glistening crimson, and the smell of feces and intestines was strong. Neither Cordoza nor Sergeant Tsatslinx appeared bothered.
But something was wrong.
“I'm just going to check.” Donal reached for the man's neck, as if to find a pulse. “I know he's dead, but—Shit.”
“What did you do, Lieutenant?”
Donal had withdrawn his hand. Slowly, he reached forward again. When he touched the skin, the dead man's features seemed to flicker. This time, he understood.
“Illusion,” he said. “It goes away when I make contact.”
“Huh. I recognize him now,” said Cordoza. “Can't tell you his name, but… It's Hardieson, that's right. My brother works for one of his companies. I've seen him speak at some annual boring dinner.”
Donal stepped back. The handsome youthfulness faded from the lined, dead face, and the hair appeared drier, devoid of luster.
Like Blanz.
This Hardieson had changed his appearance, just as in Fortinium Senator Blanz had assumed the identity of a politician called Will Sharping. But when Donal had grabbed hold of Blanz, his real features had snapped into place. Perhaps the same effect was operating for Donal now: negating illusion with a touch.
“It's not really a disguise,” he said mostly to himself. “More an enhancement kind of thing.”
“Ensorcellment?” asked Cordoza. “Cosmetic thaumaturgy?”
She showed no curiosity about the way Donal's touch canceled out Hardieson's illusion. Probably she assumed it was Donal's zombie nature that caused the effect; but Donal had still been alive when he confronted Blanz in Fortinium, and it had worked the same way then.
“I guess in business,” said Donal, “you might want to look your best, if you can afford the thaumaturgy.”
But he had a feeling that perhaps the dead man had been a mage in his own right. Yet in that case, shouldn't the guy have been able to avoid an accident?
One of the paramedics—gray-skinned and garbed in black—had stepped out of the ambulance, and was staring at the dead man.
“They gimme the creeps, them medics.” Potbelly Frank had drawn near. “Wouldn't want one touching me.”
“Right.” Cordoza glanced at Donal. “You get shot, Frank, and I'll just leave you lying in the road. No big deal.”
“Huh?”
But Donal was scanning the pavement now, ignoring the other cops. Perhaps over there—
“What's that, the Janaval?”
“Sure,” said Sergeant Tsatslinx. “The Janaval Hotel.”
It was a big tower, as big as Darksan, where Donal lived, and its gargoyles appeared centuries old, with eyes that glowered red. There might be the faintest of scent-traces in the air, but it was hard to tell.
Then it occurred to him that he was as much an asshole as Potbelly Frank, ignoring the most obvious resource of all. He walked over to the bakery van—Like Your Grandma Used to Make—where the white-uniformed zombie stood.
“You drive this van for the bakery?” said Donal. “I mean, for a living?”
There was a tiny movement of the zombie's mouth at the wo
rd living.
“That's right, sir. I drop off bread and cakes and also quality ingredients, like luxury flour, for those who like to carry out their own baking.”
Donal had no idea what the difference between luxury flour and the ordinary stuff might be.
“This evening,” the driver continued, “I'd just left the Janaval when the—incident—occurred. Three of my colleagues are working the night shift in their kitchens. Plus, they took delivery of various cakes and other desserts.”
“All right. What about—?”
“The accident? You've already noticed yourself, sir, unless I'm mistaken.”
“Noticed what?” said Donal.
“The paw prints on the road. Only a little damp, and almost evaporated. But add that to the lupine scent, and the traces are obvious.”
“Lupine.”
“Belonging to a wolf.” The zombie gave another near-smile. “I
was a languages professor before I died.” “I—”
“Don't need to apologize. This job gives me time to read.” Then, with a bleak glance toward Potbelly Frank: “While our kind still have jobs, that's all I need.”
“My name's Lieutenant Riordan. Anyone gives you any shit, get the female officer, Officer Cordoza, to contact me, if you can't do it yourself. Understand?”
“I understand. Good luck.”
“You're the one wishing me luck?”
“If you're hunting that wolf, you will in fact need it.”
“Huh.”
Donal turned away, then walked toward the Janaval, ignoring the looks that the uniformed cops gave him. The traces led this way….
Farther down the road, where traffic had stopped at a barrier, a car caught Donal's attention. Even as he looked up, the familiar finned, sporty silhouette moved, gunning its engine. The Vixen pulled out, hauled a U-turn, and drove away.
There's more than one Vixen in Tristopolis.
But not very many, that was the thing.
He rubbed his face, then returned his concentration to the fading spoor. Lupine spoor. The prints led to a brass-and-glass hatch set into the sidewalk. A quick route down to the basement levels?
But a uniformed doorman was already heading toward Donal, his gaze flickering, taking in Donal's frayed black running suit.
“Sir? Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” Donal held up his badge. “I need to get down there. Now.”
“Certainly, sir. Right away.”
Two blocks over from the accident, on 59th, the Vixen pulled to the curb. She knew Donal had spotted her, but didn't think he could be certain it was her, not some other Vixen.
On the sidewalk, a thirty-ish man in a good suit, looking disheveled from drink, lurched toward the Vixen. At the pavement's edge, violet steam rose from ground-level grilles.
“Nice car. I could … do with … one like you.”
Her headlights flicked on, glowing a dull, unsettling green that reflected oddly from the surrounding steam. From her engine box, a low subsonic growl enhanced the effect.
“Ugh.” The drunk staggered on. “Shouldn't … drink.”
The Vixen turned her headlights off and waited.
Five minutes passed before a faint, translucent outline of a hand rose up through a flagstone. Immediately, the Vixen's passenger door popped open, rising like a bird's wing to reveal the clean, unoccupied interior.
*Sorry … *
Slowly, slowly, Xalia's head and shoulders rose through the sidewalk. Then, still mostly submerged belowground, she moved as if through quicksand, tortured with pain, forcing herself onward.
When her insubstantial hand touched the sill of the open door, Xalia's image wavered, then grew denser. For a moment, she simply held on to the dark bodywork. Then she hauled herself out of the ground and into the car, where she lay curled on the floorwell.
*Pushed … too … hard.*
The Vixen's door descended and clicked shut.
*You … warned me. Should have … *
Xalia's form faded to a soft blue glow, scarcely visible to human eyes, had there been any humans to see. She said nothing more.
The Vixen put herself into gear, and pulled away from the curb. Within seconds, she shifted into second, increased acceleration, and shifted up again. She swerved past a boundwraith-driven garbage truck, wove between a purple taxi and a polished saloon, then floored it through an intersection as the lights went to red.
She hurtled through gaps no human driver could have seen, sped twice through crossroads against the lights, and within five minutes had a police cruiser on her tail. But that was irrelevant, because five blocks later she'd lost it, and three minutes after that she was turning onto Avenue of the Basilisks, accelerating hard toward Police HQ.
Screeching, smoke billowing from beneath her wheel arches, she came to a halt before the main steps, and howled her horn as she opened her passenger door.
Amber eyes glowed in the shadows near the steps. One pair, then five pairs became visible. The deathwolves padded toward the Vixen.
“Xal-i-a,” said the biggest wolf, FenSeven.
He turned toward his smaller companions, who nodded. They formed a semicircle, guarding the car, as FenSeven turned and loped up the steps.
At the top, the big iron doors were already opening.
In the task force room, Viktor tossed aside the folder he'd been reading. His feet were up on his desk, his chair tilted back. When he turned to look at the clock, the chair creaked but did not give way.
“It's late,” he said. “You want to go down to the range and let off a few? Or go get something to drink?”
“For me, it's late.” Harald looked up from the report he was typing one-handed, his steel-enclosed fingers looking like claws inside the compositor. “On the other hand, you got in when everyone else had finished a day's work.”
“True. You want a hand with that? A bit of help with the commas and shit?”
“I can manage. Also, it's confidential.”
“Even the big words? Maybe use a colon or something?”
“A colon? What, you're selling a constipation cure?”
“See, that's where you go wrong, Harald. If you paid less attention to toilet humor and more to—”
That was when a big, dark shape with amber eyes flowed into the room. Viktor's feet were off the desk in an instant. Harald was already standing, as if he'd teleported from a seated position.
“Need,” the shape said. “Help.”
“What is it, FenSeven?” said Harald.
“Huh.” Viktor could not have named the deathwolf. They all looked the same to him.
“Xal-i-a. Now.”
The last word was a growl. FenSeven turned and loped from the room, Harald right behind him, Viktor cursing as he kicked his chair aside and broke into a jog, following them.
At the elevator shafts, FenSeven leaped straight into number 7 without even checking if there was a wraith to catch him. Harald and Viktor looked at each other. Then they crossed to number 8, waited a second, and stepped inside together.
“Same floor as FenSeven,” said Harald.
Descending without another word, he and Viktor were already running when they came out into the ground-level lobby. As they sprinted across the polished stone floor, FenSeven led the way … accompanied by a glowing wraith-shape, Gertie, coasting at head height.
“Hey …” called Eduardo from the desk.
But they were already past him, through the open doors, and running down the steps. On the sidewalk, deathwolves were guarding the open door of a stationary Vixen.
“Hades.”
Then Harald and Viktor were on the sidewalk, panting as they halted. Xalia's near-invisible form lay curled up inside the Vixen.
“Shit. What are we going to—?”
Gertie drifted over them, and passed through the Vixen's roof, semimaterializing inside.
*Why did you let her go out?*
Viktor said: “She claimed she was all right.”
&n
bsp; Harald looked at him.
*She wasn't.*
“We knew she was injured a few weeks ago.” Harald's voice was soft. “But we thought she'd recovered.”
*Stupid.*
“Xalia was working on something with me.” Viktor rubbed his face. “She—I'm sorry. It was stupid not to double-check.”
*Not you. Her. Humans couldn't know.*
“Ah, damn.”
“How soon,” said Harald, “will she recover?”
Gertie billowed, rose up a little, then contracted and descended.
*She won't.*
“What?”
*Xalia is dying.*
Around them, the six deathwolves gave a low moan. Viktor shivered.
“Can't you help?” asked Harald.
*Help her die easily?*
“No. You know I meant—”
*You've no idea what you're asking.*
Harald ran a hand through his white hair. Beneath Gertie's glow, his unlined skin shone.
“Then there is something you can—”
*Stand back. Out of my way.*
As he retreated, Harald tugged Viktor's leather sleeve. They moved to one side, the deathwolves to the other, as Gertie's form brightened, pulsed, and brightened once more.
Still glowing strongly, she floated out of the Vixen, bearing the merest transparent outline that was Xalia—at least, all that remained of her in the human dimensions—and rose toward HQ.
Meanwhile, Donal had entered the Janaval Hotel the easy way, through the main doors and along plush corridors, accompanied by the doorman. Together, they stepped through a service entrance that looked like a section of wall, into a white ceramic stairwell. Donal went down first, followed by the doorman, and came out into the bright, white-brick expanse of the subterranean kitchens.
A chef was engaged in a discussion, or perhaps an argument, with his staff.
“—cinnamon in the cream, but less scarab dust in the dough next time, all right?”
“All right, Chef.”
“Alexei and Jean-Pierre, you make the dessert for Professor Doubchon tonight. That's the order for Room Nine-seventeen.”
