Black Blood

by John Meaney

  “A wraith? That's somewhat… outside my area of expertise.”

  “Then you've nothing to bargain with, ma'am.”

  “I just want to know how Lieutenant Riordan is doing. Nothing more.”

  “The only person who knows that is Donal himself. Your … interest is not in his best interests, is it?”

  The old lady looked away.

  “Damn you, Viktor Harman.”

  “Ma'am, I don't think—”

  “Don't worry, that wasn't a curse. You may be right. You also know where to contact me, if you find you need my help.”

  “Help in what way?”

  “You look big and scary, Viktor, but there's a mind behind that frightening face. You know what the Unity Party is up to. People like the lieutenant may soon need all sorts of help. That's when you pick up a phone and call me. Good enough?”

  Viktor looked down at the Grauser in his hand, then tucked it into the shoulder holster where it belonged.

  “Yeah. Good enough.”

  “And good luck to you.” The dark window started to rise. “Andre, I'd like to go home now.”

  “Yes, missus. I mean ma'am.”

  Viktor saw the beginnings of a smile on her face before the window closed, forming a curved black mirror in which his own reflection was distorted.

  “You look after yourself, Andre.”

  “Yeah, Viktor. You too.”

  Andre ponderously climbed back inside the limo, started it up, and drove slowly down the street. Viktor watched it go, took off his shades, and pocketed them, then headed for his front door. He took out his keys with his left hand, keeping his right hand under his coat, on one of his Grausers. Nothing in the environment was triggering an alert in his subconscious, but these were weird times.

  He entered without problem, and scanned every dark room in the house before using the bathroom, fetching a pint glass of squealberry juice from the old refrigerator, and carrying it into his bedroom. There, he lit three purple candles—their scent helped him unwind—before undressing and climbing into bed. A fat volume sat atop the coverlet, and he opened it, laying aside the wormskin bookmark.

  The book was called Resurrection Code: Toward a Theory of the Undead Mind, and it was written by Professor Blaustein of Donner -heim University. It was also required reading for several of the most prestigious doctorate programs in the Federation.

  Viktor took a sip of juice, turned back a few pages to check the chapter title—“Recursive Metatemplates and Their Boundary Conditions”—before returning to the place where he'd left off. He checked the time on his alarm clock, shrugged, and then commenced reading.

  At four A.M., Donal was exploring a room in his apartment, a room that he'd scarcely been inside. In a small chest of drawers, he found bundles of soft, dyed mammoth wool in a dozen different colors, along with knitting needles, a just-started scarf of burgundy and silver, and a knitting-algorithm, printed in purple on flimsy paper, that indicated how the scarf-knitting was to proceed.

  Laura. Something else about you that I never got to learn.

  It was nothing that Donal had ever watched or thought about, but the instructions were mathematical in a way that reminded him of his brief stint in Artillery School, and it wasn't as if he needed to sleep. There might be more useful ways for a zombie to pass the nighttime hours—but what the Hades, no one could be serious twenty-five hours a day, nine days a week.

  He picked up the needles and wool, read the algorithm through once more, and then tried to follow the instructions.

  It took seventeen minutes to get the rhythm going, and two minutes more to decide that however much amusement he might get by taking his knitting into the task force office, it wasn't for him. He threw everything back into the drawer.

  Then he went back to his bedroom, pulled out the brushes and moth-oil from the bedside cabinet, and sat down on the bed with his Magnus in his lap. He stripped the weapon quickly, then carefully, calmly, began cleaning.

  At five A.M., Harald came awake atop a thin mat on the floor of his large, near-empty bedroom. Rolling to his feet, he padded to the bathroom, and came back drinking a tall glass of water. Then he reached into a bowl of flower blossoms, plucked one red petal, and placed it on his tongue. He stood still, eyes closed, allowing the petal to dissolve.

  When it was done, he began to move through a complicated warm-up routine. During his time in the Marines, the High Command had brought in Zurinese meditation masters to improve the concentration of long-range-penetration and sniper units. Those masters had taught, among other things, several series of static, difficult physical postures. Afterward, the PT instructors had evolved their own dynamic forms, flowing from one posture to the other in continuous chains that took their troops to new levels of agility.

  Not everyone followed the routines rigorously, but many did. Harald had continued on a daily basis since.

  Exactly twenty-five minutes after beginning the flow, he had finished. Breathing normally, he carried his empty glass back to the bathroom, refilled it from the tap, and drank once more. Then he returned to his minimalist bedroom, carrying his telephone on a cord from the hallway, and placed it on the floor. He sat down beside it, folded his legs into lotus, and began to eat the remaining blossoms from the bowl.

  At 5:50 exactly, the phone rang.

  “Hello, Livitia.”

  *You knew it was me.*

  “You promised to ring at this time. I know how punctual you are.”

  Livitia was a freewraith assigned to Anti-Ensorcellment, usually working out of the 77th but with authorization to enter HQ as necessary. Harald had known her for two years.

  *Xalia's unchanged.*

  “Damn. What's going on?”

  *Gertie took her to a deeper level still, into what you might call a … cell, I suppose. Not a material cell, you understand.*

  “That's a bad sign, is it?”

  *There are strong healing capabilities, that's the good news.*

  “And the bad news?”

  *The fact that Xalia needs them. And using the deep places can be dangerous.*

  “Ah.”

  *Gertie allowed me to scan a little. Then she threw up thick barriers, shutting me out, along with any other nosy wraiths.*

  “And Xalia's hurting?”

  *Yes.*

  Harald listened to the strange harmonies singing on the line, trying to interpolate among Livitia's words, parsing the meaning of what she hadn't said.

  “Gertie's acting as healer, is that right?”

  *I didn't exactly rotate into this continuum yesterday. But even I don't know how many centuries old Gertie is.*

  “Uh-huh.”

  *Harald, I personally could not heal Xalia. Neither could my peers.*

  “But you think Gertie can.”

  *I don't know.*

  Again, Harald said nothing, as overflowing energies sang on the line.

  *What is it about a wolf, Harald?*

  “In what sense?”

  *Whatever she was working on.*

  “I wasn't working with her.” Harald thought about Viktor's guilt at allowing her to help him. But on what assignment? “I hadn't realized it was important.”

  Had something more than physical movement brought on Xalia's deterioration?

  *Perhaps it isn't important.*

  “Livitia, is there anything I can do? Me or any of the team?”

  Again, the swirling, random songs filled the receiver's earpiece.

  *I'm sorry. There's nothing.*

  And then, all that sounded was the buzz of a disconnected line.

  “Shit.”

  With blinding speed, the back of Harald's hand cracked against the flower bowl, sent it spinning across the room, spilling petals, bouncing off the wall when it hit. It rolled on the floor, and came to a halt.

  Harald, still in lotus, closed his eyes. He breathed slowly, concentrating on nothing else for twenty breaths. Then he opened his eyes, unfolded himself out of the lotus position
, and moved forward on hands and knees, picking up the flower blossoms from the polished floor.

  Cleanliness and discipline. In the end, they were all you had when the world turned into a shit blizzard around your ears, collapsing on everyone you cared for.

  At six A.M., Alexa sat down at her desk in the task force office. A clock work disk rotated up out of her desktop, then unfolded its claws, offering an orange envelope: today's mail.

  “Oh, is this for me?”

  Her smile was bright as she took the envelope. The claws folded up and the disk twisted back into her desk.

  “Well.” She put down the envelope and stared around the empty office. “Just me. Guess I'll put the coffee on.”

  She did that, waited until it was ready, then poured herself some. She used Donal's favorite mug. Or rather, what had been his favorite mug, before he—

  For a moment, a frown clamped her forehead. Then she gave a big grin.

  “Feeling good feels good,” she told herself.

  She carried the mug back to her desk, and sat down.

  “Looks like a memo.” She picked up the envelope. “Shame. Not a card from Skinny-Ass Riordan. Oops.” She giggled. “Tsk, tsk, Alexa. Bad girl.”

  Then she undid the envelope, and pulled out the memo. It was dated yesterday.

  TRISTOPOLIS PD MEMORANDUM

  confidential

  Sepday, Hextember 37, 6607

  To: Detective Alexa Ceerling, badge # 7822

  Re: medical examination 38/06/6607

  Please report to Dr. T Gamarlov in medical room 17 for a standard medical examination, at 10:00 hours on Octday, 38th Hextember. While it is two months before the next round of Sergeant's Qualifying Exams is due to start, I am confident that you will check out.

  Regards,

  AVilnar

  A. Vilnar, Commissioner of Police

  “Signed by the commissioner himself.” Alexa folded up the memo, and placed it inside her handbag. “Arrhennius Vilnar, you are such an old sweetie. Interesting last sentence too. Think I'll get out of here, before any of the boys come back.”

  Inside her desk, she had several textbooks from her home collection. She pulled out the one entitled Three Stripes, First Time, a crammer for the Sergeant's exam that had been written by one of the officers who devised the syllabus. Ignoring the coffee she had just made, she grabbed her handbag and the book, got up, took another look around the office, and walked out.

  She wasn't sure why, but she knew it was a good idea to be away from her colleagues just now. For their own—

  “It's a lovely day,” she told herself.

  The first elevator was ready. As she stepped inside the shaft, she said: “Take me to the canteen, please. I've got some relaxing reading to do.”

  No reply came from the wraith, but Alexa ascended to the canteen level, and semi-materialized hands pushed her out into the lobby.

  “Thank you!” she called back.

  Grinning hard, she headed for the hot drinks table, and poured herself a cup of chocolate. Then she walked through the big, noisy canteen until she found a small table behind a pillar, tucked out of general sight. There, she sat down.

  Sipping her hot chocolate, she opened the book at page one.

  At seven A.M., Harald was on his Phantasm IV, chin close to the handlebars as they took a howling turn into Hoardway. In half an hour, the traffic would be too heavy for fast maneuvers; but now the motorbike, its bony carapace elongating slightly, drew closer to the road surface and poured on the speed.

  They were nearing St. Lee's Cross—long known as Sleaze Cross—where even now, with the night over, tired-looking prostitutes were standing at the corners, handbags at their feet. Here, Harald hooked a ninety-degree turn onto Behemoth Broadway, and sped up once more. Hoardway and BB formed an X over the mostly rectilinear grid of the city. A 135-degree turn took him onto Third Avenue, where the traffic would be lighter than on First.

  Knowing they were nearing the end of their run, Harald-and-Phantasm, acting almost like one joint organism—their neural patterns beginning to resonate—fully opened out, screaming at massive speed along the still-deserted canyon of Third, the great dark towers looming on either side, split overhead by a strip of purple sky. The motorcycle roared with pleasure as they took a turn at maximum acceleration, hurtled onward for two blocks, then screeched into First Avenue, Avenue of the Basilisks.

  Soon they were heading downward on a ramp that led deep be-lowground, to the subterranean parking caverns that connected to the minus-15th floor of Police HQ. The Phantasm slowed, calming down as they navigated past the pillars, through scanfields guarded by sociopathic flamewraiths looking for any excuse to flare up, past a fluttering horde of venomous strikemoths, and into the parking levels proper.

  They came to a halt in their usual bay, number 317, where Harald sat with his palms against the bony carapace for a few moments. The Phantasm's carapace was still warm from their run. There was communion and comfort here, but Harald had work to do. He swung his leg over, dismounting.

  “Take it easy.”

  Harald touched the handlebars, and the bike quivered once, then grew still. He looked toward the walkway that led to HQ, where FenNine and several of his pack were on guard. Somewhere inside, but Hades knew how many levels deeper, Xalia was undergoing an ordeal that no human could appreciate. He hoped to Thanatos that Gertie was going to be able to do something.

  “I've no idea what's happening today,” he added. “If I'm not back here by twenty o'clock, you might as well go home by yourself.”

  The Phantasm gave a brief flicker of its headlight.

  “All right.” Harald started toward the walkway. “Let's hope today goes better than yesterday.”

  At eight A.M., Sister Felice got into bed. Her room was on the third floor of the North-East Tower, and quiet enough, though she could, like most Night Sisters, sleep even when there was noise. Now she curled on her side, twitching her nose, then relaxed. Her breathing slowed.

  After ten minutes, she sat up in bed, pulled her feet up close, turned around a full circle, then lay down on her side once more. For a moment she wondered whether she ought to live in the city, where she would have more opportunities to bump into interesting people, like a certain police lieutenant who worked out of Avenue of the Basilisks. But then there would be the twice-daily bus journey back and forth, and the ambient noise while she tried to sleep during the day. Night Sisters might be capable of sleeping anywhere, but here in St. Jarl's, surrounded by forest, there was a sense of calm that was only occasionally broken by banshee howls, or the soft, haunting cries of pterafalcons overhead.

  From somewhere outside the building, gravel crunched.

  “Now what?”

  It should have been a perfectly normal sound, nothing to prevent her relaxing into the refreshing sleep she deserved. But she sighed, rolled out of the bed, and padded to the window.

  “Visitors. Hades.”

  There were three of them, dressed in suits and expensive moleskin overcoats, carrying briefcases as they left their car. Perhaps they were a legal team, visiting a patient to discuss litigation regarding an accident. Except that they appeared hard-faced in a way that reminded her of Donal Riordan, especially when he—

  “Enough already.”

  She closed the drape, and returned to bed, climbing in and curling on her side.

  “Sleep,” she told herself. “Just sleep.”

  Her eyes closed, and her breathing slowed.

  At nine A.M., Donal was standing in the huge reception area of Police HQ. Beside him, Eduardo, his torso visible atop the massive granite block as always, was reading today's list of visitors.

  “Dr. Jyu, is that who you're waiting for?”

  “That's the man.”

  “Oh, I thought it must be some broad.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean the sharp suit, Lieutenant. How much did that set you back?”

  “Hades.” Donal shook his head. “I'm go
ing to City Hall this morning. Today's my big day. I get to shake hands with the mayor, I think.”

  “You're my hero, Lieutenant.”

  Donal couldn't think of a fast reply to that.

  “So where is Kyushen? I thought he'd be—”

  The big doors swung open. Kyushen Jyu stood there gulping, surrounded by deathwolves. They growled, turned, and went back down the steps. The doors closed behind Kyushen.

  “Er … morning, Lieutenant.”

  “Sign in,” called Eduardo. “Here.”

  He lowered a clipboard by a length of black string. Thanks to his … condition, he wasn't capable of leaning over far enough to hand things down directly.

  “You're a hemimorph,” said Kyushen. “Fantastic.”

  “What?”

  “The transition gradient is spectacular. The most interesting I've seen. Would you mind answering a few questions, maybe let me take a scan of—?”

  “Nice to see you, Kyushen.” Donal tapped the clipboard. “And the commissioner's dying to meet you.”

  “The commissioner?”

  “Just sign.”

  While Kyushen wrote his signature on the list, Eduardo looked down at Donal.

  “Hey, Lieutenant, apparently I got a terrific gradient.”

  “Everyone says so. I read it on the men's room wall.”

  “They can kiss my block.”

  “Uh-huh. Hang loose, Eduardo.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  “Come on, Kyushen. You're going to love this techie manual.”

  “It sounds exciting.” There was no irony in Kyushen's voice. “I mean, really fascinating.”

  From above, Eduardo laughed. “Have a lovely morning.”

  The big manual lay waiting on the desktop. Kyushen stared at it while Donal was introducing him to the commissioner.

  “Take my chair, Dr. Jyu,” Commissioner Vilnar said. “There's coffee on the credenza, sandwiches, and if you ring five-nine-nine-nine, someone will fetch anything else you need. And there's a private bathroom through that door on the side.”

  Donal smiled, realizing that Kyushen was barely processing the commissioner's words.

  “All right,” the commissioner continued. “Lieutenant, let's go.”