by Gwynn White
At approximately 0930 hours, a strigoi blood bank was discovered to have been assaulted. All fifteen of the wights present, as well as the strigoi staff, were brutally and senselessly slaughtered. Evidence found on site suggests this to be the work of the Wargoyles.
Finally, at approximately 1800 hours, the Gargoyle Gjunta’s seeding ceremony, a holy and religious breeding event, was assaulted. The device used in this assault is commonly known among the wight community as a ‘solar flare,’ which was banned unequivocally as part of the Founders’ Pact and the Acts of Reconciliation following the Nothnocti Wars. The provenance of this attack is unknown at this time.
All of these attacks share a common falsehood: the blame (or suggestion of blame) laid at the feet of strigoi and gargoyle extremist organizations which are no longer active.
Per Erastes Ensanguine: “The Steelskin Slayers are no more, having long since been disbanded and disavowed, and anyone who suggests otherwise is attempting to fan the flames of division. I reject this line of reasoning entirely.”
Per Gragos Cairn: “I have heard it suggested that Hezekiel Stone was associated with the Wargoyles. This is false. Moreover, the Wargoyles are but a memory among my people. We, the Gargoyle Gjunta and the community it serves, categorically reject all extremist behavior of any kind, in particular among our own.”
Among his many achievements, the late Hezekiel Stone was also a champion of the so-called ‘strigoyle’ unity movement seeking to improve relations between our peoples. Having embraced that spirit, we the Undersigned are confident that none of these attacks were orchestrated from within.
Rather, we posit that these attacks were perpetrated by extremists from within the wight community masquerading as our own disbanded forces. What better way to sow discord in advance of the upcoming elections, when Mayor Zobbles is already polling below any candidate in the history of Meridia, no less?
As for our mayor, let it not be said that we deny his candidacy or its legitimacy. We do not.
Rather, we deny his ability to govern the city in the best interests of all who call it home.
Therefore, and until such time as Mayor Zobbles speaks out against the deplorable acts of violence marring the final days of his term, we the Undersigned have no choice but to call for his immediate resignation. Furthermore, we urge the wight community to come together and put forth a new candidate capable of representing all the peoples of Meridia during the coming election.
Today, our city stands more divided than at virtually any point in its long and tumultuous history. The time has come to heal. In that spirit, we stand firm and united. So say we, the Undersigned.
Erastes Ensanguine
Estat Corvair of Strigoi on Earth
Gragos Cairn
Kovar of the Gargoyle Gjunta
12
Cato waited until Gragos Cairn and his entourage had departed before bidding farewell to Detective Aziani. She was impressive, he had to admit. The way she had stood her ground with Cairn was the stuff of a legend in the making. Honestly, Cato might not have believed it if he hadn’t witnessed it with his own two eyes. Ann would have been proud as hell, but then she’d always had an eye for talent. He resolved to relate the incident to her; no doubt Aziani would be too modest to bring it up on her own.
When he arrived at PWD’s holding facility, Cato was whisked through its densely layered security thanks to his unique clearance level. The boxy facility was as much a fortress as it was a detention facility, in that it had been built on the outskirts of Meridia centuries earlier as part of the city’s defense grid. It had been repurposed several times during its lifespan, though it would take little refitting to see her stand in defense of Meridia once more. The only question that remained was whether that day would come sooner rather than later.
Inside, the holding facility had the air of a place just winding down after a period of whirlwind activity. Officers and other personnel were shuttling to and fro, returning chairs to their proper places and restoring order to unruly stacks of carbon booking slips. One unlucky soul on mop-and-bucket duty was scrubbing vigorously at a puddle of something foul in the middle of the receiving area. Cato gave the man and his mess a wide berth as he strode up to the reception desk, where he addressed the duty sergeant manning it.
“Spector Ryen Cato, Office of the Mayor,” he said, producing his credentials. “Here to see Crius Frenn.”
The sergeant made a show of inspecting Cato’s credentials before passing them back. “Right this way, Spector.” He had the distant, removed manner of a museum docent operating on autopilot. Cato could sympathize; desk duty was among the most mind-numbingly boring duties one could draw. On the other hand, someone had to be available to give the old nickel tour.
The tour, such as it was, terminated in front of a heavy metal door. The guard consulted a chalkboard set into the wall beside it. “Let’s see, Crius Frenn, Crius Frenn, Crius—ah, there we are. Last cell on the right.” He produced a master key from his ring, slid it into the lock and turned the heavy tumblers. “Gotta lock up once you’re inside. Knock twice when you’re ready to come out.”
“Will do.”
The duty sergeant nodded, pulled the door open and allowed Cato entry. Cato had barely cleared the threshold before the door shut hard behind him, all but nipping the backs of his heels. The sound of the lock reengaging echoed through the door.
The hall ahead of him reeked of a warm, musky odor. It was lined up and down on both sides with dozens of cells, many of which were presently occupied by the gang of gargoyles who had attempted to compromise the site of the seeding ceremony. Cato strode confidently down the wide hall, ignoring the insults, threats, pleas, and random vulgarities coming from within the cells.
When he reached the end of the hall, he turned to face the cell on the right. “And so we meet again,” he said to its occupant. “Comfortable?”
“Ah, Spector Cato.” Crius regarded him through the tightly spaced bars, his mouth contorting into an amused snarl. “Do you really believe these cells capable of holding my kind? We could smash through these walls with little more than a few strikes of our fists.”
“You could do that, sure,” Cato admitted. He nodded thoughtfully at the prospect, sizing Crius up, and shrugged. “You wouldn’t get very far, though, at least if the couple dozen spotlights we have surrounding the building have anything to say about it. But by all means, give it a go. I’m sure landscaping would appreciate some new statuary. Could really class up the joint, you know?”
Crius sneered, clicking his jaws together in a gesture Cato was given to understand indicated annoyance. “Clever, clever. You humans, always so clever.”
Cato laughed, a chin-dropping chuckle, before getting straight to the point. “So, tell me, Crius, why were you so intent on taking over the crime scene? Something you wanted to hide? Someone, maybe?”
“What do you mean, ‘someone’?”
“So, you mean to tell me you didn’t know that Sinnestra Cairn was in attendance?”
It was a calculated reveal on Cato’s part, one that paid off in spades. The impact of that question was genuine, the surprise unforced and authentic. “What?”
“Sinnestra Cairn? Daughter of Gragos Cairn? Any of these names ringing a bell?”
“What of her? Get to the point.”
“She was there,” Cato said. “At the club and at the epicenter of the solar flare. The explosion basically erased her face, made it smooth as river rock. Shame, really.”
“You… you’re lying. You must be lying.”
“Afraid not, Crius. I watched Gragos pick up her broken cheek with my own two eyes. Heartbreaking shit. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that she came on to me this morning.”
Crius had just started to settle onto his haunches, apparently overwhelmed by the news, when Cato dropped that bomb on him. The gargoyle was on his feet again quickly, pressing his considerable bulk against the bars between them. “What? She would never!”
&nbs
p; “She promised she would make it very worth my while if I found and killed the people who assassinated Hezekiel Stone. Her words.”
“How dare you—”
“Can’t say I wasn’t tempted, honestly. Probably would have taken her up on it, too. I mean, if for no other reason than to notch the belt, right?”
Crius wrapped his fists around the thick bars separating them. They were nearly the size of Cato’s head, those fists, their grip so powerful that the bars actually groaned beneath the pressure. Still, Cato stood his ground. There were other security measures in place to assure his safety, he knew. That, and as a rule he wasn’t the type to give ground in exchange for a hard stare.
His better judgment asserting itself, Crius let go of the bars and stepped back. Turning away, he muttered a stream of coarse curses in his native tongue. Even with the language barrier, Cato realized he might have pressed too far.
“You loved her, didn’t you?”
“And I thought she loved me. We were to make it official at the ceremony.”
An interesting way to go about it, Cato thought. But, then, who was he to judge? “For what it’s worth, I am sorry. Did Gragos know?”
“I do not believe so. And I would prefer to keep it that way, at least for the time being.”
“I can do that. In return, I need you to tell me what you know about the Wargoyles.”
“What about them?”
“There’s some speculation they’re active again.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Is it true what some are alleging? That Hezekiel Stone was their commander during the Nothnocti Wars?”
“See my previous answer.”
“Oh, come on,” Cato scoffed. “You and he worked closely, didn’t you?”
“Not as closely as you might think. The position of kovar dormanus is largely ceremonial. Hezekiel was a beloved but not especially gifted administrator.”
“Because he was a stone-cold warrior badass?”
Crius narrowed his eyes, and Cato immediately understood his faux pas. Stone-cold.
“Sorry. Poor choice of words.”
“Very poor. That said, I have no knowledge of his activities during the wars.”
“All right. Care to tell me about yours?”
“I was in my people’s intelligence service.”
Cato stifled a laugh in favor of raising his brows. “That, I find hard to believe.”
“Go to hell, Spector.”
“Sooner or later, probably,” Cato agreed. “Enjoy your stay, friend. And, sorry again about Sinnestra. Seriously.”
Cato had barely turned his back on the cell when Crius piped up again. “When will I be released?”
“How the hell should I know?” Cato asked back, though of course he knew full well that Aziani had no intention of cutting Crius loose until Ann was back on her feet. “I’m a spector, not PWD. Take it up with them.”
“No matter. The correction is already underway. It is now only a matter of time.”
“Uh-huh. Well, anyway—”
“Mark my words, wight,” Crius hissed. “Things will be different after the election. Your days as the dominant power in this city are numbered.”
“Yeah, I’ll take that under advisement. In the meantime, enjoy the accommodations.”
Everything was going sideways, and Hank had had enough of it. It was true, he was generally a live and let live, roll with the punches sort of guy. What was happening to Meridia today was not general circumstances, though. He had left Ann to convalesce hours earlier, but not before she offered some parting advice. “And don’t pull any punches,” she had said. “Whoever we’re up against won’t either.”
Which was exactly what Hank had told the PWD officers he had rounded up, using his spector badge and promising that they’d each earned a favor simply for showing up. Not that they needed the motivation after he mentioned the bedridden condition of one of their own. “You’re hearing it from me, but I’m telling it to you from your own Chief of Ds: ‘Don’t pull any punches.’ Are you all with me?”
“Yes, Spector!” came the unanimous response.
“All right, off you go. You all know your parts. Don’t speak until spoken to. I’m not kidding; one of you slips an errant word over the airwaves, and this whole thing could go up in smoke. Let’s not have that, all right?”
“Yes, Spector!”
“Right, then. Let’s do this.”
Twenty minutes later, they were already ten minutes overdue. Hank could feel the inexperienced officers getting antsy. These were the doorkickers, the street-level foot soldiers who valued shows of strength over patience and stealth.
“Everybody just hang tight a few more minutes…” Hank whispered into his radio. “You can only be so late when it comes to money.”
A voice Hank didn’t know came back, young and foolish: “What does that even mean?”
“It means shut up and focus, ass,” said the lead officer at Hank’s side, which earned him an approving nod.
The younger officer sighed, chastened. “Copy that.”
Moments later, the first spotter reported in. “Movement up ahead.”
“We need a visual confirmation,” the lead officer said. “Visual confirmation!”
“Hot Plate!”
“Second sighting?”
“Hot Plate here, too!” the second spotter reported.
The officer looked to Hank; Hank nodded.
“Roll it.”
The cement truck rolled slowly forward at Hank’s order. A local contractor had graciously provided the vehicle, even if said contractor technically didn’t know that yet. The vehicle moved ponderously at first, and Hank wondered if there would be time enough to cut off the tunnel’s entrance before the convoy passed through. The driver took notice of the slow pace and corrected it with a motivating thrust of the gas pedal. The cement truck’s engine gave a throaty rumble in response, and the truck lurched forward as the convoy approached.
The strigoi convoy skidded to an abrupt halt as the massive vehicle sealed off the mouth of the tunnel. The convoy attempted to double back, reversing and rolling backward, but the second half of the trap had already been sprung. Two unmarked PWD vans screeched onto the road, one from either side, their drivers arranging the heavy vehicles in a wedge formation that prevented the convoy’s escape. Sure enough, the convoy braked hard again, all three vehicles idling as their drivers no doubt exchanged frantic communications.
“Now,” Hank said.
At his command, several marked PWD vehicles rolled up behind the convoy, their lights strobing. Over a dozen officers emerged from their cruisers and moved quickly forward to form an armed perimeter around the convoy. Meanwhile, several more PWD personnel popped over the top of the tunnel, angling high-powered rifles down at the three vehicles.
With no way out and no other choice, the members of the convoy threw open its doors. The first to emerge were the strigoi commandos, rapidly forming a circle around the vehicles that was eight deep on both sides. Hank held his breath as they took formation, barely realizing he was doing so. He had warned his PWD backup what the vamps would do when they were cornered, and that no one should fire unless they were fired upon. He knew the strigoi, knew their tactics and how they would respond, and they had played it by the book, exactly as he’d expected.
The commandos were clad head-to-toe in a dark armor made of light, flexible ceramic body plates. It was a strigoi invention, one they claimed deflected and absorbed ultraviolet-based attacks, but so far no one had put that claim to the test. Even with all that armor, though, they looked different than usual. It was an intangible difference, one that came only with years of experience spent observing the strigs and their mannerisms. If Hank had to distill it into a single word, he’d say they were twitchier than usual. But why? Was it fear of a robbery come to fruition, or something worse?
Well, there was only one way to find out.
“Everybody, just take
it easy,” Hank said as he stepped into the ring of fire his trap had created. “This isn’t a heist. All I need is a word with the money man, Mr. Kaboc Melo.”
No response.
“Come on, folks. I know he’s in one of those vehicles. My guess would be the second, but I’d prefer not to go rummaging around for him.”
Still no response.
“All right, you had your chance. Here we come.” Hank took a breath, hoping this whole thing wasn’t about to go seriously south, then motioned for the ground team to advance on the vehicles.
They had barely taken two steps forward before the strig commandos assumed an even more aggressive stance. Here it comes, Hank thought, ready to pull his sidearm at a moment’s notice.
“Stand down at once,” came the call from the lead commando. “Either show us a warrant or prepare to be fired upon. This is an illegal action that we do not recognize. I say again—”
Hank was about to tell the commando to shut the hell up—with a bullet, if necessary—when a figure emerged from within the second vehicle.
“Spector Smiley,” Kaboc Melo said, shooting his cuffs as he stood and straightened. He was among the tallest strigs, standing several inches taller than Hank, with a lean, perpetually hungry look about him. “This is a show of force more befitting of your partner. Are you finally bending to his will?”
“Do you see my partner anywhere, biter?”
“Such language.” Kaboc affected a playfully wounded air. “No need to resort to base vulgarities. We’re all gentlemen here, are we not?”
“Stow it. We need to talk.”
“So I’ve been informed. I was headed back to Tanglereave with every intention of radioing you upon arrival. It seems that that will no longer be required.”
“Seems not. Take note, this is what happens when you don’t make yourself available for questioning.”
“Note taken. As for your questions, you may fire when ready.” Kaboc’s eyes flashed with amusement when Hank tensed involuntarily at the wording. Taking a look around at the bristling display of firepower surrounding them, he shrugged casually, almost coquettishly. “Oops. Poor choice of words.”
