And they could fly, too.
One of the three jumped up into the air and stayed there for several moments, doing fly-bys around Kubo. It was a shrieking dive bomber made of pure concrete, and its every movement promised of punishment. A hit from one of those arms or legs would be like getting struck by a wrecking ball.
Shots rang out. I watched as Kubo played target practice with the flying monstrosity, and though he was a good shot, connecting with three of his four rounds, the bullets had precious little effect. They struck the stone body, knocked a little dust, some gravel from it, but couldn't penetrate it fully.
The other two gargoyles also took flight, the three of them circling the SUV like stony buzzards. Joe gave the striker on his Zippo a spin, and from the sparks that burst forth he summoned up a wild flame. Rising like a burst of lava from the lip of a volcano, Joe aimed his lighter at the nearest gargoyle, which was reaching out towards him to deliver a slash with its granite claws, and bathed it in flames.
The gargoyle gave another of its shrieks, but seemed unfazed by the fire that now covered its body. It did a few more circuits around us with its fellows, the stone that comprised its body holding onto the bolus of flame but not succumbing to it.
Great. Now one of the damned things was a flaming cannonball diving at us from above.
“Get back,” ordered Kubo, rifling through his jacket pocket for his paper seals. The Chief always carried a stack of the things with him, spells he'd prepared ahead of time. Once he'd found the right seal, he could utilize it by tapping into his will and uttering the necessary incantations. Trouble was, he couldn't really leaf through his papers with the three monsters flying at us. A single blow from one of those things could easily kill him. And Joe, too.
That was where I had an edge.
See, when you've got a demon's heart in you, death simply doesn't take. Since joining up with Gadreel, I'd had my body cut to ribbons, had been shot and stabbed. I'd run the gamut of pain, only to crawl back from the brink every time.
It was going to hurt like hell, but I could take whatever these stony bastards could dish out.
And then I could reciprocate.
Balling my fists, I felt my heart leap in my chest. The skin actually trembled as the muscle kicked into overdrive. Adrenaline shot into every quadrant, made my muscles go taut, filled my brain. “All right,” I muttered, spitting on the ground. My caustic spit ate a nickel-sized hole in the concrete. “Let's see what you've got.”
Kubo rolled back, ducking behind the SUV as the flaming gargoyle swooped down at him, claws raised, like a giant bird. Joe had pocketed his lighter, and ran straight into the SUV just as a second gargoyle touched down on the roof and left behind a pair of monstrous dents. The vehicle lurched to one side as the creature pushed off, taking flight once again.
The third gargoyle set its sights on me and sailed down like a missile, its jagged visage all teeth and pointed tongue.
With all the strength I could muster, I crouched down and buried my heels in the ground. The concrete beneath my sneakers cracked as I sprang into the air, fist cocked for a hard jab. I met the gargoyle an instant later. Or, I should say, he met me. I felt his claw graze my side, then felt the thick, stony appendage crunch through ribs. The breath left my lungs as pain tore through my abdomen. The creature's punch ended somewhere within my guts, its rocky fist buried between my spleen and small intestine.
That was when I threw my counterpunch.
The roar that left my throat was raw, impossibly loud, and was enough to leave my target temporarily stunned. Before it knew what hit it, I'd struck it straight-on in the face, my knuckles going to work on its chiseled countenance like a jackhammer. The stone spiderwebbed, gave way like an eggshell, and burst a moment later into a cloud of grey dust.
I fell to the ground with what remained of the headless gargoyle, its arm still deep in my abdomen. The gargoyle landed first, its body cracking and its limbs falling apart, which left me to bleed out on a pile of jagged rubble. I coughed through the dust, clutched at my gaping gut.
And then I stood up.
That was one down.
Kubo was still running from the flaming one, had ducked around the back of the vehicle to have a look at his seals. He didn't have enough breathing room to work his spellcraft. The minute he stopped to pick out the right slip of paper, the thing was upon him. The other one was flying overhead, eyeing us and taking the occasional jab at our ride. The poor SUV was dented, its windshield cracked. I hoped the guys at the Veiled Order were up to date on their insurance.
I picked a few pebbles out of my grievous abdominal wound. The ground was dressed in my gore, but as I studied the wound itself, I couldn't help but smile. The torn flesh was slowly closing, the borders of the wound moving towards one another as if in embrace. The layers beneath the dermis did the same, so that by the time the flaming gargoyle landed and took a swipe at me, I was practically healed.
The other gargoyle, the one who'd been flying around and making a mess of the SUV up to that point, got it into his head that he should help his buddy deal with me. The gargoyles appeared to be nothing more than rock-hard automatons, but in judging me the greatest threat, they'd gotten at least one thing right. They took turns swinging at me, their sharp, rocky wings flapping between jabs.
The fiery gargoyle had to go first. He was the most dangerous. Reaching through the flames that still raged all over its body, I thumped it in the chest, causing it to lose its balance. When its face was within striking distance of my foot, I reared back and gave it a kiss in the lips with the edge of my sneaker, Bruce Lee style. The sound of splitting stone filled the night as its head and shoulders burst apart into rubble. The fire continued to burn, but the stony bulk fell still as it met the ground.
From behind came a hammer-blow to the head. I was jostled by the punch, felt my eyes nearly spring out of their sockets. I staggered forward, trying to gain my bearings, and felt something sharp graze my forearm. A wing.
Momentarily out of breath, I gave my head a good shake. My sight finally stabilized, and I firmed up my stance. “You pricks just don't know when to quit, do you?”
The gargoyle loosed a harsh, open-mouthed shriek that made my ears ring. I wasn't sure whether it'd understood me, whether it had knowledge of anything aside from violence.
Thankfully, that was a subject I was proficient in. I spoke to it in a language I was sure it could understand. Catching one of its bulky arms in mine, I swung a forearm into its elbow joint, breaking the limb down the middle. Then, jabbing it in the chin, I circled around to its rear and kicked its right knee to pieces. The gargoyle took a tumble, smacking into the concrete face-first.
When it tried to get up, I spit in its face. There's something about demon spit that's highly acidic. It'll eat through anything. The monstrosity's head began to bubble away, leaving behind only a jagged stump when my loogie was through.
It was done. Ushering Gadreel back into the shadows, I shared with him a mental high-five. That's what I'm talking about, Gadreel! Top-notch. I think you just earned yourself a beer.
I turned around, wondering why it was that Joe and Kubo weren't patting me on the back, and found the two of them sprinting out of the SUV. “H-hey,” I chanced. “What's the matter?”
Kubo was the first to reply, in the form of a gunshot.
A pained cry rang out shortly thereafter. Then the sound of a body hitting the ground.
I walked around the SUV and got a look at what they were doing.
Ol' Enrique had made a run for it. He'd gone a pretty good distance before Joe and Kubo and managed to catch up to him. The shot had been clean, and as I drew nearer I saw that the bullet had gone in through the small of his back. Might've even severed his spine in the deal.
Enrique wept and twitched on the ground like a cockroach that hadn't been fully squashed, face-down. The color hadn't fully returned to Joe's face, but he dropped down to one knee beside the guy. “Shit, did you kill him, Chief?”
Kubo didn't have an answer for him. “You still with us, Enrique?”
Gasping, Enrique offered a tearful murmur in response.
“I think you're going to be OK. The bullet passed through. A good shot, if I do say so myself. You'll make it if I call an ambulance right now. But in order for me to do so, I need you to tell me one thing. Your bosses, the Kaminskys. Where are they?”
Enrique wasn't messing around anymore, and raising his head as best he could off of the ground, he replied. “They're on Hard Row. They operate out of Hard Row.” He groaned, his hands grasping at the pavement. “P-please, call 9-1-1. C-call someone, please.”
“Hard Row?” asked Kubo, giving the gun in his hand a little shake. “You sure about that?”
Enrique gave the best nod he could manage.
“See? Was that so hard?” asked Kubo as he sent a round through the back of Enrique's head.
Enrique's brains splashed out over the concrete, the splatter reminding me of ground beef and, subsequently, the cheeseburger I'd eaten before setting out on this wild mission. My stomach churned. “Fuck, chief... why'd you do that? Why'd you...” I gagged a little, turning away. Funny how I could look at my own innards during a fight, but the sight of some spilled brains was enough to make me queasy.
Joe stood up quickly, brushing flecks of grey matter off of his jeans. “Yeah, Chief. What the hell?”
Kubo reached down towards the dead man's pant leg, drawing it up and revealing a small tattoo. It was shaped like a shooting star, but the tail of the thing was a curious spiral. “See that?” he said. “I caught a glimpse of it just as he darted out of the SUV. It's no ordinary tattoo, that.” He pointed out the tail of the shooting star with the tip of his gun. “It's a brand. That coil on the end is a magical sigil indicating ownership. I'll bet you his bosses put it there. The little star just makes it look less conspicuous.” Kubo stood, straightening his jacket. “It's very possible that his bosses have been using that tattoo of his to track his whereabouts. Thus the gargoyles. He was too big a liability. Probably should have killed him sooner, except he wasn't willing to talk.”
I licked my lips, pacing around the dead man. “Well, what now?” I averted my gaze, looked over at the SUV, at the orange streetlight. The quiet had returned.
“Now, gentlemen,” replied Kubo, holstering his gun, “we're going to Hard Row.”
Hard Row. It was a rough spot on the cusp of Detroit. A former strip mall. The sort of place our mothers always used to forbid us to visit. Most of the buildings there were abandoned and inhabited by gangs, and those that still housed businesses were known fronts for illicit operations. It was a relatively small area, but it teemed with unsavory types. Even the cops avoided it, pretended it didn't exist. It was pretty much the perfect place for the werewolf brothers to run their human trafficking operation.
We made our way back to the beat-up SUV, the Chief surprisingly jovial despite his just having killed a man. Sticking the key in the ignition, he chuckled. “Well, would you look at that! She still starts up. A little rough around the edges now, but she'll get us to where we need to go. Now that's what I call a dependable ride.”
Joe glanced out his window, looking to Enrique's limp body sprawled out against the concrete. “Damn, Chief. Are you sure it was a good idea to kill him? What if... what if he wasn't telling the truth?”
Kubo peeled out of the lot and made a beeline for the main road. “If he was lying? Well, then I imagine the three of us are going to wind up fighting our way through a literal crowd of gangbangers only to be disappointed.”
I perked up from the back seat, frowning. “Yeah? And what if he was telling the truth?”
Kubo hooked a sharp right. “The same. Except, at the end of the rainbow, there'll be two werewolves waiting for us, besides.”
I gulped.
It was going to be a long, long night.
I'm going to spare you all of the consternation and hand-wringing I did on the way out to Hard Row as Kubo explained his plan to us. After our tussle with the gargoyles, you probably think it pretty silly that I'd lose my cool over taking on whatever riff-raff called that stretch of town home. I wasn't worried for myself, though. I was worried for Joe and Kubo.
The Chief's plan, which he set into motion pretty much the minute we left Enrique in the rearview, was pretty simple. He'd made a phone call, arranged for a truckload of Veiled Order foot soldiers to surround Hard Row. The strip mall would be given some breathing room; that is, there wasn't going to be some conspicuous display to draw the attention of the spot's denizens. They were just going to act like a safety net, something to pick up the Kaminskys should they somehow manage to slip from our grasp.
The three of us were heading into the thick of it, though, to seek out the two of them. Anyone who interfered with our hunt was automatically volunteering for a beating, and Kubo explained emphatically that we would dash in, go building-by-building if we had to, in order to capture the King Rats we sought.
Er, wolves. Whatever. You get my point.
That was all well and good, and I could see from the fiery look in Kubo's eye that he was all for leaving a trail of destruction in his wake, however I wondered if there wasn't some better way for us to strike at the heart of this trafficking operation, to search out its headquarters and drop in without warning.
Because, in case you haven't noticed, my two partners weren't exactly invulnerable. Me? I could take my lumps. Knives and guns couldn't do a thing to me. But Joe and Kubo were a different story, and if one of them got picked off by a trigger-happy gangbanger while we went door-to-door, well, it was going to be a bad time.
We were less than a mile out, the landscape having changed dramatically into something more degraded than we'd hitherto seen. The buildings we passed, probably meth labs or low-key brothels, bore a tottering quality that felt somehow forced. Great care had been taken to make these abodes seem shabbier than they really were, to prop up the illusion of abandonment so that passersby wouldn't spare them a glance. As we drove, though, our beat-up SUV the only working car in view, I could see curtains in upstairs windows parting slightly, narrow eyes glancing out at us and taking note.
“This entire part of town is like a spider's web,” I muttered, shaking my head. “When you step into it, anywhere, the vibrations course throughout the entire thing. There has to be a better way, Chief. It's not like we can just knock on every door and ask the pimps and drug dealers out here whether they know the Kaminskys.”
Kubo leaned on the wheel, corners of his lips curled in a smirk. “Of course not. You think this is my first time out here? It's a labyrinth of old buildings. It all looks abandoned, but behind every door there's bound to be at least one gun-toting thug waiting for us. I've got something else up my sleeve.”
“What's that?” asked Joe.
“The Veiled Order has access to a lot of military-grade equipment. Night-vision stuff, thermal imaging tech, things like that. Our guys are already out here, scoping out the buildings and looking for any pockets of suspicious activity. We'll know where the threats are before we even leave the car.” Kubo looked back at me. “Unless you've got a better idea, kiddo?”
The plan felt clumsy to me, overly complicated. Why use a bunch of sophisticated technology to root around when we could utilize something simpler? “Why don't we just send Ernie in?” I asked. “He could literally walk from building to building, find the Kaminskys. Seems a lot easier, no?”
For the first time that night, Kubo seemed to thoughtfully consider my words. “Come to think of it,” he conceded, “that's not a bad idea.” He brought his phone to his ear and made another call. “Johnson, see about picking up Ernie again. Shuttle him over to Hard Row. I've got another job for him. And if he gives you sass, tell him I'll pay him double.”
He hung up just as we reached a number of other black SUVs idling along the shattered curb of a nameless street whose signage had long ago been lifted. Veiled Order commandos were crowded between
them, dressed in black body armor and shouldering beefy rifles. Kubo hopped out of the car and flagged a few of them down, letting them know that there'd been a small change in plans.
When he returned to the SUV a few minutes later, I asked him what we were going to do.
“Now, we're going to wait and see what Ernie finds,” he replied.
Ernie was a predictable spirit, his nightly wanderings taking him in a steady circuit around town. By day he took shelter in the basement of a shuttered bar, but by night he walked, and was always willing to earn a little extra silver. The Veiled Order apparently had a trace spell on him, so that they could retrieve him in a hurry whenever they required his services. In life, the old vagrant had done work for the organization in order to fuel his habit. Why he kept at it in death was hard to say. Maybe old habits were just too hard to break.
Joe drifted off in the passenger seat. I stretched out across the third row and nearly did the same when I heard a soft knock at Kubo's window. He lowered it and leaned out.
There was no one there.
No one we could see, that is.
Ernie's raspy laugh drifted through the air. Glancing outside, I thought for a minute that I caught the barest impression of his face, of his wide smile and rosy nose. “Quite the place, this,” he said, nodding towards the menacing silhouettes of battered buildings to the right. “It's crawling with roughs. One of 'ems a brothel, I think, judging by the things I was seein' and hearin'. I stopped to watch a little bit, just makin' sure I had my bearings right, and the stuff that went on in there, boy, it'd make your head spin! There was one room, I tell ya, where these two young fellas were going at it with this bird. She was likin' it, too, callin' 'em 'daddy', and her legs were up—”
If he'd been able to, Kubo would have slugged the ghost. “I don't give a damn about that, you old lech. Did you find our targets? The Kaminskys?”
“Ah, yeah,” replied Ernie. “They're in there, all right. The dead, you know, we can look beyond simple masking tricks, and when I peeked into one of them doorways, I spotted two big ol' werewolves chatting with some young fella about a bet they were makin'. Real gamblers, these two, I reckon.” He cleared his throat, let loose an invisible loogie, and then continued. “They were in a building near the back, pretty sure the number was 1134.”
Full Metal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Anthology Page 13
