Deadtown d-3

by Nancy Holzner

  “Hush, child.” She reached out and laid her hand on my hair. “It touched you; that’s all. The fact that you survived its touch should give you hope. Don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget the prophecy. You have Saint Michael’s sword. You’ve practiced with it. With these very eyes, I watched you grow in skill. You’re a demon slayer, Victory.” Her fingers felt like cool water on my burning scalp. “You know what to do.”

  “But I didn’t tell you. When I faced the Destroyer two nights ago—my arm . . . I couldn’t raise my sword arm against it. It’s like the Destroyer owns that part of me.” In my thoughts I added, It’s like the Destroyeris that part of me.

  The dream phone broadcast the unspoken thought to Aunt Mab as clearly as if I’d said it out loud. “You are not the Destroyer. The Destroyer is not you. Do not think that way, child. Open your mind, and you will see. I spoke the truth before: you know what to do.”

  The feel of her hand grew lighter, then misty. The room cooled and dimmed, until all I could see was blue and silver. Through the mist, Aunt Mab’s voice echoed: “You know what to do.”

  “I don’t,” I whispered. Then darkness washed over me, and I knew nothing else but dreamless sleep.

  I WOKE UP AT FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON WITH A STRONG sense of determination. Aunt Mab had said I knew what to do. Well, fighting was what I knew how to do, and whatever it took, I was going to learn to fight left-handed. If I had to practice every waking moment until my left arm became as strong, fast, and flexible as the right, so be it.

  What my left arm was now, mostly, was sore. I winced as I pulled on a sweatshirt, getting dressed for practice. Ow. I rolled the shoulder a few times and did some windmills, backward and forward, to loosen it up. In the bathroom, I pulled up my sleeve and rubbed some liniment into the muscles to soothe the ache. It helped some, but I really need to work on strength—aches or no aches.

  The living room was empty, but I heard Juliet moving around in the kitchen. I started pushing the furniture around to clear a space in the middle of the room. Juliet came in, carrying a mug of coffee. She stopped and stared at me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Ugh,” I grunted, pushing the sofa against the wall. When it was in place, I stood and surveyed the room. It’d do. “Clearing some space for a little sword practice.”

  She nodded, like it was a normal answer, and sat down on the sofa with her coffee. Juliet loved coffee—with lots of cream and about six teaspoons of sugar. Perfect way to ruin good coffee, if you asked me.

  She sipped from her mug, watching me as I went over to the cabinet where I kept my weapons and got out the sword of Saint Michael. It was a beautiful sword, a double-edged falchion with a golden handle and a twenty-seven-inch, razor-sharp blade. It was the sword I’d be carrying with me every night; my best chance for sending a Hellion back to hell. I slashed it in the air with my right hand, listening to the swish swish of the blade. Then I shifted the sword to my left and made the same move. Too slow. The blade made no sound as it cut through the air.

  That was the point of practicing: to strengthen my left arm, to make it quick and agile. As I’d done the previous night in Lucado’s hallway, I started the basic routine: cut, parry, thrust. I wanted to make these motions second nature to my new fighting arm. Cut, parry, thrust. As I got into the rhythm of the motions, I increased the speed.

  Juliet watched from the sofa. “You remind me of Jock,” she said.

  I laughed but didn’t pause in my motions. “No one’s ever mistaken me for a jock before.”

  “No, not ajock. Giacomo di Grassi. A fencing master I knew in Modena. That must’ve been . . . oh, around 1580 or so.”

  Okay, that made me pause. In fact, I stopped and stared. “You knew di Grassi? The guy who wrote His True Art of Defence?”

  “Is that what they call it in English? I like the Italian title better: Ragione di adoprar sicuramente l’arme, si da offesa come da difesa. Wordy, but mellifluous.”

  “Yeah, very catchy. Wow, I can’t believe you actually knew di Grassi. Aunt Mab made me spend two whole summers on that book. That’s one of his routines I was doing.”

  “I could tell. But Jock fought right-handed. It looks odd, using your left hand.”

  “It feels odd, too. Believe me, I’d fight right-handed if I could.” I explained how the demon mark made my right arm useless in the presence of the Destroyer.

  “Too bad the Hellion isn’t on your side. Think of the power that mark could give you.”

  “Power?” The thought turned my stomach. “It’s the power to destroy; nothing more. This demon is threatening to annihilate all of Boston, killing as many people as it can. I wouldn’t want that kind of power.”

  Juliet shrugged. “Humans come and go. Cities rise and fall. After you’ve lived through a century or two, it’s not that a big deal.”

  “Well, I’m not going to be around that long, so it is a big deal to me. I’ve got to protect the things I care about.” I practiced an upward thrust. “I’ve got to avenge my father’s death.”

  “Now you sound like Jock, too. He was big on honor, vengeance, noble causes—all that sort of thing.” Her eyes went a little misty. “I was crazy about him for a while. I offered to turn him, but he said no.”

  “Really?”

  “He didn’t want to be undead. He said he’d lose his edge as a swordsman if he knew he couldn’t be defeated.”

  “Unless his opponent used a silver blade and got him through the heart.”

  “No one ever got near Giacomo’s heart.” She sighed. “Not even me.”

  She watched me for a few minutes, then said, “That’s not how Jock would have done it. Lead with the same foot you thrust with.”

  “You’re right.” I tried again, lunging forward with my left foot as I made a sharp thrust with the sword, then brought my right foot forward to make them even. “It’s hard doing it left-handed. It’s like trying to be my own mirror image.” I went through the move several more times.

  “That looks better,” Juliet said. The phone rang. “I’ll get it. Might be tonight’s dinner. He said he’d call.” She stretched across the sofa to pick up the receiver on the end table.

  As Juliet talked on the phone, I continued the move—thrust/lunge, step—then did the sequence backward to return to my original position. The trick was to get the movement so encoded in my body that I wouldn’t have to think about it. I tried again, screwing up the footwork. Damn. I felt like throwing the sword across the room. Who was I kidding? I’d be lucky if I didn’t trip over my own feet when I met up with Difethwr.

  Juliet had put the phone down and was sitting up again.

  “Who was it?” I asked.

  “The garage. Your car’s ready. You can pick it up tomorrow, but they close at noon.”

  The phone rang again. “Ah, this must be for me,” Juliet said, reaching over to answer it. But she spoke only for a moment, saying nothing more than hello and okay before she hung up.

  “That was Clyde,” she said. “You’ve got a visitor on the way up.”

  Before I could ask who it was, there was a knock at the door. I lay my sword on the coffee table and went over to answer. I’d barely turned the knob when the door flew open and a furious Tina flounced into the room.

  “Where were you?” she demanded.

  “Huh?”

  She pushed past me and went over to a chair, where she dropped the armload of extra clothing she’d been wearing to protect her skin from the late afternoon sun: baseball hat, hooded sweatshirt, scarf, gloves, sunglasses, even an umbrella. That left her with a pink T-shirt emblazoned with the word

  FLIRTATIOUS in sparkly letters and a baby-blue pair of low-slung jeans, along with sneakers that looked like astronaut shoes.

  She put her hands on her hips and glared at me. “Where were you yesterday? When we were supposed to go over my lesson?”

  “Lesson?” asked Juliet.

  Tina answered Juliet but kept looking at me. “Yeah, Vicky
promised I could be her apprentice. She promised to teach me about demon slaying. But obviously, she lied.”

  Oh, no. I’d forgotten all about quizzing Tina on the first twenty-five pages of Russom’s.

  “I’m sorry, Tina.”

  “So what were you doing?”

  “Well, let’s see—fighting off a kidnapping attempt and shapeshifting into a panther, for starters. I didn’t even come out of the shift until after ten. And then I was late for a job, so I had to rush over to the North End.”

  Tina’s bloodred eyes went wide for a moment. Then she rolled them. “Oh, please. You expect me to believe a lame story like that?”

  “You’re as bad as my client. How come nobody ever believes me? Ask Juliet.”

  Tina turned to Juliet, who smiled and held out her hands, palms up. “That’s what she told me. Unless she was lying to me, too.”

  “Thanks a lot.” I put my hand on Tina’s shoulder, but she shrugged it off. “Did you even read the first chapter?” I asked. “When I saw you the night before, you didn’t sound too interested.”

  “I read fifty pages. Go ahead; quiz me. Ask me anything.”

  “Okay. What kind of demons was I fighting in Mr. Funderburk’s dream?”

  Another eye roll. “That’s so easy. Inimicus somniorum, popularly known as Drudes, or dream-demons. Here’s their classification: kingdom, spiritus; phylum, malus; class, demonia; order, terrificus; family, conjuratus; genus, Inimicus; species, somniorum.” She ticked off the categories on her fingers. “Drudes feed off fear, taking the form of whatever scares the victim most, causing nightmares. They’re usually generated by the victim’s own psyche, although they can be conjured. Occasionally, other kinds of demons can enter the victim’s dreamscape by taking the form of a Drude.”

  “Wow,” Juliet said.

  I was impressed, too.

  “What do you want to hear about next: Eidolons or Harpies?”

  “No, no, that’s okay, Tina. I believe you studied. And I’m sorry I didn’t show up for the lesson.”

  “So let’s do it now.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got a lot going on at the moment.”

  “I knew you didn’t mean it.” Her eyes were accusing. “I knew you wouldn’t really teach me.”

  “I will. Especially now that I know you’ll study. But I can’t start today.”

  “Why not?” She looked around the room as though she’d just noticed it. “And how come all your furniture is pushed over there?”

  “Vicky’s practicing fighting left-handed,” Juliet said.

  “Cool!” Suddenly Tina was all smiles. “Can I watch?”

  I was going to say no. I probably should have said no, and sent Tina on her way. She needed to study demons for a full year before we moved on to fighting techniques—I’d studied books and books and more books for all those summers before Mab let me even look at a sword. But I felt bad about letting Tina down. Or maybe I’m just a pushover for teenage zombies with accusing eyes.

  “Okay. But stay out of the way.”

  I picked up the sword and hefted it. My left arm was less sore and, I thought, getting stronger. Because of our flexible forms, shapeshifters’ muscles are more responsive than those of humans. Results that would take a human six months of hitting the gym, I could get in a week. With each thrust and parry, I was getting a little stronger. And I was starting to feel it.

  I went through the routine again, slowly, explaining each move to Tina. Juliet offered some pointers, too, tips that “Jock”—the great Giacomo di Grassi (I still couldn’t get over that)—had told her more than four hundred years ago. Talking it through helped. My movements began to make more sense to me, and soon they were flowing almost naturally.

  “That’s a cool sword,” Tina said.

  “It’s called the sword of Saint Michael,” I explained. “My aunt gave it to me when I completed my training. Sort of a graduation present. It’s got a bronze blade—”

  “Because bronze is lethal to most demons.” Tina smiled, proud of herself. “I read that in the book you gave me.”

  “That’s right. And a golden hilt to represent purity of purpose. Before a battle, I prepare the blade with sacramental wine and bless it. When a demon appears, the sword bursts into flame.”

  “Awesome. Make it do that.”

  I shook my head. “Not here. It’d set off the sprinkler system. Anyway, it’s not dark outside yet. No demons around to light it up.”

  Tina seemed disappointed, then she brightened. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you pretend to fight me? I mean, you’re doing really great and all, but in real life, demons don’t just stand around and watch your moves, right? They, like, come right at you.”

  “Tina, it’s too early to—”

  “She has a point,” said Juliet. “Jock said more or less the same thing: Even the most elegant swordsman must be able to stand against an opponent, or he’s nothing.”

  I considered. It actually wasn’t a bad idea. When Difethwr’s master let it loose, that Hellion was going to put everything it had into destroying me. It wasn’t about to give me a handicap because I had to fight left-handed. I glanced at Tina, who was watching me hopefully. She couldn’t shoot fire out of her eyes (thank the gods), but maybe she could help me see and react to unpredictable attacks, blows coming at me from any direction. But Tina had zero fencing experience. And it really was too early to start her on swordplay.

  I turned to Juliet. “I don’t suppose you’d . . .”

  She shook her head. “Not me,” she said. “I might break a nail.”

  Yeah, let’s focus on the important stuff. I sighed. “Okay, Tina. We’ll give it a try.”

  The young zombie bounced up and down with excitement as I opened the weapons cabinet. “Wow,” she breathed as she examined the array of swords, knives, crossbows, and guns. “Where did you get all this stuff?”

  “Some of it’s been passed down through my family. Some of it I had custom-made in Wales. A few pieces”—I picked up an automatic pistol—“I got locally. The modern stuff, mostly. There’s a shop in Allston where you can buy all kinds of occult weapons. It’s mostly for witches, but the owner also keeps an eye out for gear I can use. He sold me the dream portal and the InDetect I use to find Drudes.”

  “You mean that clicking thing you point around?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Tina’s face lost its eager expression as I got out two wooden swords. I smiled, remembering I’d reacted the same way when Mab first taught me swordplay. “These are for practice,” I said. “They can’t do much more damage than a splinter.”

  “But I wanted to use that one.” Tina pointed at a huge claymore taller than she was.

  “Uh-uh. I don’t want either of us to get hurt.”

  “I can’t get hurt. I’m already dead.”

  “Yes, but if I slice your arm off, will you grow a new one?”

  “No.” She sulked for a minute, then brightened. “Okay, we can use the kiddie swords, I guess. It’ll still be fun.”

  And it was. Tina was a little stiff, as zombies tend to be, but she was a fast learner and put her heart into it. After half an hour, I was panting for breath.

  “Nice work,” I said. “You have a talent for fencing.”

  She beamed. “You sit down. Rest. I’ll put the swords away.”

  I gave her mine and flopped onto the sofa. The phone rang. “Ah, that must be dinner,” said Juliet. “I’ll get it in the kitchen.”

  Tina looked hopeful. “Did she order takeout?” I shook my head. “What, then?”

  “Don’t ask,” I said.

  Not only did Tina put away the practice swords, neatly closing the cabinet doors, she single-handedly moved all the furniture back into place—including the sofa, with me on it. Zombie strength could come in handy sometimes.

  Juliet came back in the living room. “Dinner at eight,” she said cheerfully. When she saw that the furniture was back where it belonged, she turned on the
TV. I got up, and she settled back into her regular spot on the sofa to watch the local news.

  “I’ve got to go to work,” I said. “And you”—I pointed at Tina—“need to get ready for school.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So when do I get another lesson?”

  “I can’t make any promises right now. I’m on a long-term assignment, and there’s a very nasty Hellion around that wants to kill me. Once I get those little matters sorted out, I’ll let you know. And,” I added, “it’ll be a book lesson. No more fighting for a long time.”

  “What’s a Hellion?”

  “Look it up in Russom’s. Chapter twenty-four.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell you all about it next time. Whenever that is. I hope it’s soon!” Tina’s face glowed, as much as a zombie’s complexion can. It was good to see her so happy. “Have you got any chips or cookies or anything? I’m starving.”

  I went into the kitchen and found some chips. Back in the living room, I tossed her the whole bag. She polished it off in about ten seconds—no wonder they don’t let zombies enter hot-dog-eating competitions—then started bundling up to go outside. It was nearly sunset, but zombies couldn’t be too careful when it came to sunlight.

  “Hey, look,” she said, pointing to the TV. “It’s about the parade.”

  On the screen, norm anchorman Tom Cody sat in front of a picture from last year’s parade—people in cheesy vampire and devil costumes or rubber masks of famous politicians mugging it up for the camera—as he began the story: “Ghosts and ghouls galore will march in Boston’s annual Halloween parade tomorrow night, but you won’t see any zombies.”

  The picture behind him changed to show a group of real-life zombies with a big red nosymbol slapped across it. “The court has turned down an appeal to issue Deadtown’s previously deceased humans a group permit that would have allowed them to enter a float in the parade. According to the mayor’s office, no permits will be issued for the previously deceased to leave Designated Area One at any time on October 31. The Council of Three has sent a formal letter of protest.”