Deadtown d-3

by Nancy Holzner

  “Big whoop,” said Tina. “A letter of protest. The mayor’s being so not fair. I think we should crash the stupid blood-bag parade.”

  “Tina, don’t talk like that,” I said. “You don’t want to risk being picked up by the Removal Squad.”

  “What could they do? If few hundred of us showed up, they wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

  I shook my head. “Not a good idea. Not this close to the election.” God, I thought, I sound like Kane.

  She shrugged. “You’re probably right. Well, I’ll see you when I see you.” She walked stiffly to the door—a little stiffer than usual. I hoped she hadn’t overdone it in our swordplay. With her hand on the knob, she turned back. “Were you telling the truth before—when you said somebody tried to kidnap you?”

  I nodded.

  “So you really turned into a panther and all?”

  I nodded again.

  “Good, I’ll have to tell Jenna. She said she saw you last night walking down Winter Street, and you were wearing a garbage bag. She thought you’d gone all insane or something.”

  From the sofa, Juliet laughed, sounding more like a squealing teenager than a seductive vampiress.

  “Well, now you know the truth,” I said, pushing Tina out the door.

  Ten minutes later, when I opened the weapons cupboard to load up my duffel bag, I realized something was wrong. The sword of Saint Michael was missing. Tina had stolen it.

  23

  CALLS TO TINA’S SCHOOL AND THE GROUP HOME WHERE she lived produced nothing. She hadn’t shown up at school, and her house mother hadn’t seen her since four in the afternoon, when she left to come over to my place.

  I didn’t have time to hunt her down. I had to get to Lucado’s condo—and I couldn’t be late. Not after what had happened last night. But without the sword of Saint Michael, was there any reason for me to be there?

  Stop it, Vicky. I couldn’t afford to think that way. When the time came, I’d have to face Difethwr, regardless of how I was armed. I just hoped, now, that the showdown wouldn’t come tonight. Tomorrow I’d find Tina and get my sword back. Not to mention give her a good chewing out. If she ever did anything like this again—ever—she could forget about studying with me. I wasn’t sure I’d even give her that much of a second chance.

  If I had to fight Difethwr without Saint Michael’s sword, there might be no second chance at all—for Tina or for me.

  From the weapons cabinet, I chose two swords: another falchion and a cutlass, which had a slightly shorter blade. I needed to try each of them out to see which felt better, but I’d have to do it at Lucado’s place. No time now. I packed them in my bag, then grabbed a taxi and told the driver to floor it to Commodore Wharf.

  He did, and we got there at two minutes to seven. I ran into the lobby, expecting to tangle with Rosie the doorman again, but tonight a different guy was on duty, one who actually looked like a doorman instead of a hitman. He checked the list, nodded, and called Lucado to let him know I was on my way up.

  Lucado was waiting for me at his door, in a bad mood. “Well, good God—you actually decided to come to work,” he said.

  “Nice to see you, too, Frank.”

  “I’m busy tonight. So don’t bother me.” Judging by the smell of his breath and the way he slurred his words, he was busy getting drunk. None of my business. I didn’t want to sit around chatting, anyway. “I’ll be in my study,” he said. “Long as you leave me alone, you’ve got the run of the place.”

  “Okay,” I said, heading for the living room. “Have fun.”

  Falchion in hand—my left hand—I made a quick sweep of the condo: living room, hallway, kitchen, up the stairs to Frank’s bedroom and the guest room, and all two and a half bathrooms. Roxana’s amulet stayed clear and colorless. Back downstairs, I stood outside Frank’s study, shifted the sword to my right hand and, left-handed, pressed the amulet against the door. Nothing. As I returned the sword to my left hand, my right arm passed a little too close to stone, making it a pink so pale it was almost white. I hoped that tinge of color wasn’t enough to affect the scrying mirror. No point in putting the coven on the alert when it was just little old me.

  “Um, hi, witches. Everything’s okay,” I said, just in case.

  Back in the living room, I tried the falchion, then the cutlass, then the falchion again in my left hand, making cutting and thrusting motions through the air. The falchion felt better balanced to me, more like the sword of Saint Michael. It was the same kind of sword, after all, except that its hilt was steel, not gold, and its blade a half-inch shorter. The biggest difference, of course, was that unlike the archangel’s sword, it wouldn’t burn with holy flame in the presence of a demon. And I didn’t know whether anointing its blade with sacramental wine would be enough to kill Difethwr. A lesser demon, yes. But a Hellion? I hoped I’d get Saint Michael’s sword back before I had to find out.

  I used Lucado’s kitchen phone to call around about Tina again. It looked like she’d skipped school completely tonight, and she hadn’t gone home. As much as I was furious with her for taking my sword, I also hoped she was okay. There are a lot of real nasties roaming around Deadtown—and Tina, really, was just a kid.

  The clock on the microwave read 8:02. It was shaping up to be a long night. I wandered back into the living room, feeling restless because I was so frustrated. It seemed like the walls were pressing in on me, imprisoning me in this condo. There was so much I had to do: find Tina, get my sword back, make up with Kane—or break up, if he really had tried to have me kidnapped. Most of all, I wanted to send Difethwr back to Hell. But I couldn’t make any of that happen right now. I was stuck here, waiting. Damn it all, I wanted to act.

  I wandered back to the living room, where I paced back and forth across Frank’s expensive Persian rug, burning off some of that nervous energy. If I kept that up, I’d wear a track into the rug. I looked around. Okay, if I couldn’t spring into action, there was always TV. The room held leather club chairs, a fireplace, a bar, a round dining table in the ell—my God, there was even a bookcase. So Frank did know how to read. But there was no television. It seemed un-American somehow.

  Then I spotted a remote on a table next to one of the club chairs. I went over and picked it up. It was a television remote, but where was the TV? I pressed the power button and heard a whirring noise behind me. I spun around, jumpy. The mirror over the fireplace was lifting to reveal a forty-two-inch plasma screen behind it. A clever disguise—I wouldn’t mind something like that to hide Juliet’s monstrosity at home. I pressed some more buttons. The screen moved out from the wall, and I could turn it to the perfect angle for viewing. Cool. I flopped into a leather chair and dangled my legs over the arm.

  It was set to a sports channel that, right now, had one of those superfake pro-wrestling shows on. I watched it for a few minutes. They threw each other into the ropes, did somersaults together; one flipped the other out of the ring. Did anyone really believe this stuff? It was so choreographed it was more like dancing than fighting. I flipped through the channels. Shopping. Click. An infomercial about time-shares. Click. Some cheesy science fiction movie from the 1950s. Click. Cartoons, cop shows, political commentary. Click, click, click.

  Two guys fighting on the screen. I sat up straighter to watch. Even though it was a movie—a seventies kung fu movie, from the look of it—the fighting looked real. More real than the pro wrestling, anyway. The combatants were fast, skilled, and graceful. And their eyes—each guy looked like he really wanted to kill the other.

  The plot was a simple one. A warlord had terrorized a village, and the hero was out for revenge, making a steady advance on the warlord’s heavily guarded palace. Nothing the warlord tried could stop him. The warlord sent his best warrior; the hero killed him. The warlord sent a troop of archers; the hero dodged their arrows and mowed them down. The warlord sent a seductive female assassin; the hero killed her, too. Increasingly panicked, the warlord gathered the best fighters in the kingdom. I
n a long fight scene, they attacked the hero hand to hand, with nunchakus, with swords. Nothing could slow the hero down. In the end, he killed the warlord.

  Nothing about the story was any different from a hundred other king fu movies. But it moved me. The hero knew he couldn’t set things right. He couldn’t bring back the villagers that had been killed or take away the survivors’ pain. But he could restore the balance of power. That was the problem: the warlord had all the power; the villagers had none. And it shouldn’t be that way. Power not held in balance would always lead to tragedy, to exploitation and abuse. Juliet was wrong in thinking that tapping into Difethwr’s power would be a rush. The Hellion’s power was excessive. It wasn’t in balance. It could never create or build up, only destroy.

  With the Destroyer in Boston, it was up to me to restore the balance of power. Not because I was the best or even all that good. But because I was willing. And because, win or lose, I was the only one who could.

  The movie’s big battle scene had some interesting sword techniques I wanted to try. I turned off the TV and moved a couple of chairs to make room. I rolled up the Persian rug, then picked up my falchion. The sword felt good in my hand. My arm felt good, too—stronger, not sore. Concentrating, I played back the sword-fighting scene in my mind, then slowly started to follow the hero’s moves.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Lucado’s voice came from the doorway.

  “Practicing.” I didn’t even glance at him. That was good; left-handed fighting was going to require absolute focus. “Don’t worry, Frank. I’ll put the furniture back when I’m done.”

  “Well, watch what you’re doing, will ya? I’ve got some priceless antiques and shit in there.” He watched me for a second. I could sense him, feel what he was doing on the periphery, but I kept my focus on my moves. “Jesus,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Nighty-night, Frank.”

  He grunted.

  After I’d had a good workout, I put the sword away. Then, having second thoughts, I took it out again. Better to keep it close by. I was warm from practicing, so I opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony to cool off in the night air. I leaned the sword against the wall and looked out into the night. It was eleven o’clock on a Friday—the night before Halloween—and Bostonians were out and about for the weekend. An almost-full moon shone over the harbor, silvering the water. Sounds of laughter, music, and cars drifted up from the streets. When I looked to the right, I could see the North End’s waterfront, down to Christopher Columbus Park. Couples strolled, hand in hand, on their way home from romantic dinners at cozy Italian restaurants. I sighed. With Kane mad at me and Daniel out of the picture, I didn’t see any romantic dinners in my future any time soon.

  Watching the norms, I felt the strangest sensation that someone was watching me. It started with goose bumps on my arms, then built to a creepy, prickly feeling along the back of my neck. Gradually, like a movie scene fading in, I realized that I was staring into somebody’s eyes. Somebody who was standing on thin air, nine stories above the ground.

  I leaped backward, groping for my sword, and the figure came into focus. Putting my hand on my crazy-beating heart, I let out a sigh of relief. It was only a vampire. Had to be an old one, because they didn’t gain the ability to float or fly until they’d been dead a few centuries. Another minute, and I recognized him.

  “Good evening, Councilor Hadrian.”

  “You know me.” His dark eyes showed vanity, but not a jot of surprise.

  I’d never met Hadrian, but I did know him. Everyone in Deadtown did; he was leader of the Council of Three and top dog among Boston’s vampires. His photo was always on the front page of News of the Dead.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Awaiting your invitation.” As everyone knows, vampires can’t cross your threshold unless you invite them in. It’s one of the legends about vampires that’s actually true.

  “Gee, I don’t know, Hadrian. This isn’t my condo. Tell you what. I’ll invite you onto the balcony, but not inside.”

  “Hardly hospitable. But for now, it will do.” The vampire rose high enough to clear the railing, then slowly, gracefully, alighted in front of me. “Shall we have a seat?” he asked, gesturing toward the patio chairs arranged at the other end of the balcony.

  Hadrian believed he was the epitome of civilization. You could see it in the graceful way he sat, smoothing invisible creases from his four-thousand-dollar suit. You could hear in his accent—proper Bostonian tinged with something European—and in the soft modulations of his voice. You could almost taste it, because looking at Hadrian made you think of full-bodied vintage Bordeaux and foods like truffles and escargot, foods you’d always heard about but never tried. Everything about him screamed—no, make that murmured—culture.

  Only one thing was wrong with this picture. Hadrian ate people.

  Well, not anymore; not officially. Now he’d take his legally allowed pint and say thank you and goodnight. But as a three-hundred-year-old vampire, he’d sucked his share of human bodies dry. And I had a feeling that whatever Hadrian wanted, Hadrian took.

  He steepled his fingers and smiled that closed-lipped smile vampires favored. His brown eyes seemed to vibrate slightly. They made you want to lean in, look closer, and as you did, something in those eyes reached inside you, all the way down to your toes, and started to tease you out of yourself, slowly drawing you into those liquid depths.

  I coughed and sat back, making him blink with surprise. “I’m a demi-human,” I said. “Vampire tricks don’t work on me.”

  He smiled again, this time showing a little fang.

  “Forgive me—force of habit. After a few centuries of seducing attractive females . . .” He shrugged.

  I’d bet his track record was pretty damn good. Hadrian was a little old for me—he looked like he must’ve gone vamp when he was about fifty, fifty-five—but he definitely had that sexy older man thing happening. A touch of gray colored his temples and shot through his neatly trimmed beard. He moved with casual elegance, and he had the kind of long, slim fingers that were made for bringing up goose bumps on naked flesh—

  Whoa. Maybe those vampire tricks half worked on demi-humans.

  I coughed again. “So what’s up?”

  “Juliet happened to mention that you were in the employ of my enemy. I wanted to see for myself.”

  “Enemy, huh? Good thing I didn’t invite you inside, then, isn’t it?

  “That depends on how one defines a ‘good thing.’ ” He smiled again. “I suspect that our definitions regarding the current situation might not mesh.”

  “Well, as you can see, yes, I’m working for Lucado. Believe me, I don’t like the jerk any better than you do. But a Hellion came after him, and I’m not letting it get away.” Aunt Mab’s voice echoed in my mind: You know what to do. I shivered, then glanced at Hadrian, hoping he hadn’t noticed. If he had, he didn’t let on.

  “You know that Lucado has contributed a significant amount of money to Baldwin’s campaign?”

  “Yeah, and Kane’s not too thrilled about that.”

  “No. I wouldn’t imagine he would be.” He leaned closer. “What I’d like to know is what kind of return our Mr. Lucado is expecting on that investment.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe he just doesn’t like PAs. Or maybe it’s you. If you get kicked out of the state, that’s less competition for him.”

  Like Lucado, Hadrian was a real estate developer. After the plague, the state had taken control of both the quarantine zone—now Deadtown—and the buffer zone around it. Hadrian was the developer for Deadtown; he’d made a fortune using cheap zombie labor to reconstruct the area, then leasing residences to PAs for high rents. It was a captive market, since PAs weren’t allowed to live anywhere else.

  Frank Lucado didn’t employ zombie workers—there was too much paperwork for norms who tried—so he had to pay union wages and carry workers’ comp and unemployment insurance, expenses that w
ould make it hard for him to be competitive if Hadrian was allowed to start bidding on projects outside of Deadtown. And to save money, Governor Sugden had proposed opening up state-financed construction projects to PA-owned companies.

  “Yes,” Hadrian agreed, “Lucado would undoubtedly prefer that I not compete with him. He’d lose. Presumably, he’s also expecting to get preferential treatment from Baldwin for government jobs. Has he mentioned anything else?”

  Hadrian was smiling, lips closed, as though he were just making pleasant conversation. Vampires rarely made pleasant conversation. He wanted something. “What’s your angle, Hadrian?”

  “My angle?” He shrugged, and there was something French about the gesture. “Know thine enemy, I suppose. I want a better understanding of the relationship between Lucado and Baldwin. Something there doesn’t feel right to me. Have you met Baldwin, by any chance?”

  I considered lying but didn’t see any reason to. “Briefly.”

  “What was your impression?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not inviting him over for dinner anytime soon.”

  He half smiled. “And what was your impression of the relationship between Baldwin and Lucado?”

  “They seemed friendly enough. Lucado joined Baldwin at a campaign event this morning.”

  “Yes, I saw that on television. The Liberty Diner, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded. Hadrian sat back, stroking his chin as though thinking.

  “That’s the thing, isn’t it?” he said after a few minutes.

  “What is?”

  “Don’t you find it odd that Baldwin has cultivated a friendship with your boss?”

  “He’s not my boss. And why wouldn’t Baldwin want to pal around with him? Lucado’s contributing enough to his campaign.”

  “That’s what surprises me, though. Lucado has a . . . shall we say ‘shady’ reputation. Baldwin has no qualms about being seen with him. Doesn’t that strike you as strange in an election as close as this one?”