Last Siege of Haven

by Ty Drago

  But the Burgermeister did. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Spotted it when we were parking. It was in the back of one of those landscapin’ trucks. Catch!” She dropped the heavy coil down to me.

  It hit the water with a loud splash.

  I suddenly wondered what the Non-Seer people up there were making of this half-ass rescue?

  “Julie?”

  The girl still bobbed in the water, her dark hair soaked and her lips blue. She didn’t say anything, just shivered. So I grabbed the extension cord and wrapped it twice around her waist, knotting it securely.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “You already met Dave. And Sharyn’s one of the leaders of the Undertakers.”

  “What about you?” she asked, looking a little panicky.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” I promised. Then, I yelled upward, “Do it!”

  Julie didn’t rise out of the water—she practically rocketed. Dave Burger didn’t mess around when he rescued somebody. Within a few seconds the girl was up and over the railing. Half a minute after that the extension cord came down again, splashing a second time in the dirty river water.

  That was when people started screaming.

  Chapter 21

  WATER WORKS

  “Dave!” I called. “Sharyn!”

  But neither of their heads appeared over the railing. I took hold of one end of the extension cord and tugged on it. It didn’t budge, but it didn’t feel like Dave’s enormous hands were holding the other end of it either. Could he have tied it off on something?

  I couldn’t see anything that was going on above me, but I heard more screams, followed by the sound of running feet.

  So I grabbed the orange cord with my wet, half-numb hands and braced my sneakers against the slimy cement surface of the barrier wall. Taking a moment to find my balance, I started “walking” up the wall. This isn’t as easy as it sounds. In fact, it’s pretty freakin’ hard. But it was also part of my Angel’s training.

  One hand at a time. One foot at a time. Slow but steady. Too slow, given what I was afraid was going on up there. As I went, I considered calling up again, but decided not to waste my energy. If either Sharyn or Dave could have answered, they already would have.

  Had White Room Woman saved Julie and me, just to have Helene’s little sister get killed ten minutes later? That seemed crazy!

  And yet there was another Malite around somewhere!

  I kept climbing, trying to focus on what I was doing. Worry is your enemy in dangerous situations. Worry can distract you. Worry can kill you. The best thing you can do is keep steady and keep moving. Or, as Sharyn puts it, “What is, is. And what might be ain’t the same as is.”

  Okay, it sounds better when she says it.

  I reached the upper edge, my arms and shoulders burning and my heart trip-hammering. Keeping both feet wedged against the wall, I pulled myself high enough to grab the lower railing and peek over the lip.

  I saw a dead body.

  Oh no.

  It took all I had to get myself high enough to grab the railing and climb over it. My arms felt like a lead weights, their muscles like shifting sand. For a few precious seconds, I simply lay there on the concrete, which had been warmed by the early afternoon sun. Finally, painfully, I climbed to my feet.

  The body belonged to a woman, maybe forty.

  It wasn’t pretty. Malite-work, by the look of it.

  There was no sign of my friends.

  I could almost picture the scene. The two Undertakers had just managed to get Helene’s little sister up onto the walkway when the monster attacked. Probably Sharyn had spotted it first and gone immediately into combat mode. Either Aunt Sally, her crossbow, or Vader, her faithful wakizashi sword, would have come out.

  For his part, Dave would’ve shielded Julie, at the same time hastily tying the extension cord to the rail and tossing it over. Then, because they had no other choice, the three of them had run for it, somehow managing to stay ahead of the thing that chased them.

  The woman at my feet had probably been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time—and she’d died for it.

  Tomorrow’s “top stories” would make the national news. A lot of attention. A ton of attention, yet Parker didn’t seem to care.

  The rules have changed, Mr. Ritter.

  You changed them.

  Dillin … where are you?

  I scanned the grounds. In front of me stood the fake Greek buildings, all white columns and phony marble: the Water Works’ fancy restaurant.

  The place was the kind of empty that only panic can create. Soda cups and purses lay scattered where folks had dropped them after the thing had shown up and the poor woman had died. I could imagine the horror of it, the mothers grabbing their kids and running, the fathers shielding their families from what must have seemed like a waking nightmare.

  There were some people still around. A lot had fled as far as the nearby restaurant parking lot, where their cars had gotten jammed up in their hurry to escape. Others had taken off on foot, heading further down the road toward Center City, or up a staircase that climbed the granite cliff face across the street from the Water Works. Atop that cliff, the Philadelphia Art Museum glowed red in the afternoon sun.

  A few folks—either brave or too terrified to run—had apparently hunkered down in a nearby gazebo. One of them, a thirty-something dude in cargo shorts and an “I LUV PHILLY” T-shirt, stood up and hastily beckoned me, motioning with his arm as if to say, “Come here, kid! It’s dangerous out there.” His eyes kept scanning the sky.

  He was taking a risk showing himself and he knew it.

  There are good people in the world.

  That’s when I heard footsteps approaching at a run from my left and, for some reason, I thought: Dillin!

  I actually had a smile on my face when I turned in that direction—

  —and Parker grabbed me by the collar of my soaking shirt.

  The Corpse was fast, Royal fast, which was probably what had made me think Dillin, instead of trouble. I was off my feet in a heartbeat and out over the railing again a heartbeat after that.

  I expected him to drop me. In fact, my Undertaker’s mind was already calculating how I might be able to kick off the barrier wall, land in deeper water, and maybe survive. But he didn’t. Instead, he held me there, dangling helplessly.

  “Where is he?” he hissed in the dry voice that I generally associate with Type Ones. He was fresh and very strong.

  “Who?” I gasped.

  “Dillin! Speak or die!”

  These guys are always so freakin’ melodramatic. I mean, “Speak or die!” Who talks like that?

  “Hey!” someone yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”

  The guy from the gazebo suddenly appeared, grabbing Parker’s arm and reaching for me at the same time.

  “He’s just a kid!” the guy exclaimed. “He didn’t do this!”

  Parker growled and struck the man with his free hand, knocking him off his feet. In the process, he twisted his upper body, which pulled me closer to the railing.

  I took the opportunity to pull my out my pocketknife, hit the 3 button, and jab its blade deep into just the right spot in the Corpse’s triceps.

  His arm went limp and dropped.

  I grabbed the railing and vaulted over it.

  Parker spun toward me, his seemingly sightless eyes ablaze with fury. He tried to reach for me again, but his right arm hung at his side as if its bones had melted. Thing is: strong as he was, his stolen body remained human. I’d cut the nerve that ran from his shoulder to his elbow, and all the murderous rage in the world couldn’t help him move that arm. Not anymore.

  Of course, the dude had another arm.

  He came at me, moving fast. But I was ready. I ducked under his left arm and, as he went by, jabbed my knife into the tendons behind his right knee. Then, as he lost his balance, I rammed my shoulder into his side and se
nt him over the railing and down into the river.

  “Let’s see how you like it,” I muttered.

  The dude on the ground—my hero—looked blearily up at me. Blood from a broken nose covered the lower half of his face, his expression a mixture of pain and confusion. Parker wore a cop uniform, after all. First, this “policeman” had inexplicably assaulted me, and then I’d inexplicably stabbed and assaulted him, all in the aftermath of a flying monster attack.

  I started reaching for the guy—you know, to help him to his feet or something. But then a voice roared from somewhere below the railing. “Ritter! I will tear your limbs from your body and drink your filthy human blood!”

  “Get out of here,” I told the hero. “Run. Hide. He doesn’t want you.” Then, after a moment, I added, “And … thanks.”

  I ran.

  Chapter 22

  JOB INTERVIEW

  Tom

  “A job, young man?” Senator James Mitchum asked. “What kind of job?”

  “First of all,” Tom said into Jillian’s phone, “don’t call me ‘young man.’ I don’t like it. I’m the Chief of the Undertakers, at least for now.”

  A pause. “Of course. I apologize, Mr. Jefferson. Please forgive an old man’s prejudices.” It was a politician’s answer, humble and just “fake sincere” enough to be condescending. “You’re looking for employment?”

  “I’m looking for a new place in this war, a way to help the fight even though I can’t See the enemy anymore.”

  “And you think I’m the person to talk to about that?”

  “We both know you’re the only person,” Tom said. “You been runnin’ an operation all your own against Cavanaugh and the Corpses. Mostly, I’m guessin’, that op’s been about collecting intel … on them and on us. That sound ‘bout right?”

  Another pause. “That’s an accurate assessment.”

  “Well, Senator, I am intel. I know more ‘bout the war and the enemy than anybody else in this city. Anybody on this planet. More’n I’ve told Jill. More’n I’ve told even my sister. And certainly way more’n you.”

  “I see,” Mitchum repeated, though now his tone had gone from condescending to thoughtful. “You make some very good points, young … Mr. Jefferson. I could use someone with your particular expertise. What’s our next step?”

  “We meet,” Tom said. “But not just you and me. I want Ramirez there, too. And anybody else on your staff who knows about the Corpses and the Undertakers.”

  “That’s a small group. Agent Ramirez, of course, was the one who came to me with this terrible knowledge. I’ve only shared it with one or two of my most trusted staff members, and only because circumstances demanded it.”

  “Which is it?” Tom asked flatly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said ‘one or two.’ That ain’t good enough. Not with info like this, not with so many lives at stake. Is it one or is it two?”

  “It’s two.”

  “Then I need to meet with all four of you.”

  “When?”

  Tom took a long, measured breath. “Now.”

  The senator surprised him. “I’ll cancel my appointments for the remainder of the day. Fortunately for both of us, I’m not in Washington. Congress is currently out of session so, as is my custom, I’ve moved to my offices here in Philly. I can accommodate you very easily.”

  “How ‘bout Ramirez?” Tom asked. “He in town, too?”

  “He is. In fact, he’s on his way here for a meeting as we speak. So your timing is quite fortuitous. Now, my offices are located at—”

  “Not your offices,” Tom interrupted. “A neutral place.”

  A third pause. “Forgive me, Mr. Jefferson, but we’re all friends here, aren’t we? I don’t see any need for cloak and dagger—”

  “My whole life for the past three-and-a-half years has been cloak and dagger. Watchin’ my back is like breathing to me. The last time I met somebody in their office, I ended up fightin’ for my life. I want a neutral place.”

  “That sounds a bit paranoid. If you don’t trust me—”

  “I don’t know you, Senator. Given that, how can I even start to trust you?”

  A fourth pause. “Well, in your situation, I suppose paranoia might be considered a reasoned response.”

  Tom waited.

  Finally: “All right, Mr. Jefferson. We’ll play this your way. Where would you like to meet?”

  Tom told him.

  “When?”

  “In exactly one hour. Just me and the four o’ you.”

  “I’ll make it happen.”

  “Good. See you in an hour.”

  Tom closed the phone. He looked down at Jillian, who sat at the conference table, appearing small and guilty. “I’ll hang onto this for a while, if that’s okay,” he told her. “Might need to call him again.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’m … sorry, Tom.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I messed up. I should’ve told you about the thing with Senator Mitchum right away. I know that. But … it’d been so long since I’d seen you! Years! And, at first, the Undertakers just seemed like …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Kids playing soldier?”

  Jillian lowered her eyes—her beautiful eyes—and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Still think that?”

  Her gaze met his. “Maybe a little. Even so, I wanted to tell you. By the time I’d been here a week, I started practically begging the senator to let me tell you everything! But he wouldn’t let me.”

  “You could have told me anyway.”

  “I thought about it,” she said. “I thought about it a lot. But—”

  “But by then, you’d painted yourself into this corner: you couldn’t come clean without lookin’ like a liar and a spy.”

  She nodded. A tear traced a lazy path down her cheek. “Except now, you gotta see how much we can use his help! Without your Eyes, you’re as blind as he is! You have to get that! Isn’t that why you called him just now?”

  Tom didn’t reply.

  After half-a-minute of silence passed, she asked, “You want me to leave?”

  Leave, Jill? Tom thought in quiet misery. You were never really here.

  “What I want is to trust you,” he said. “But you’re a wildcard in the deck. A loose cannon.”

  This time, it was her turn not to reply.

  Finally, Tom told her, “I need to meet Mitchum and his crew in less than an hour. That means I got stuff to do.”

  She stood up. “You’re going alone?”

  He offered her a shrug. “They’re on our side, Jill. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Chapter 23

  THEIR FIRST FIGHT

  Lilith

  “You betrayed me,” said the Queen of the Dead, seething.

  “I’d make a poor traitor if I didn’t,” her former consort replied.

  They were in the Szash.

  It was a sort of psychic neutral zone, a place only Royals could visit. Here, they could talk without interruption—and without fear. For here, in this featureless world of the mind, Robert Dillin remained outside her reach.

  Lilith was somewhat surprised that he’d agreed to meet, even in this “neutral” place. After all, what did it benefit the prey to “discuss” things with his hunter?

  Especially when the hunter is me, she thought.

  “You know, of course, that your life is over,” she told him.

  “My life was over the moment you chose me as your consort.”

  “You bring shame to your family.”

  “Better than bringing your children into the world … honey.”

  The Queen of the Dead seethed again.

  “Tell me where you are. Where Ritter and the girl are. Do that and I’ll be merciful.”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll tell Parker to end your existence slowly.”

  “You mean you haven’t already? You m
ust be getting soft.”

  “You’re a fool! You could have fathered rulers! Queens! Kings! Now you’ll die as valueless as the humans you defend!”

  “Valueless?” he said, as if tasting the word. “I’m aiding the Undertakers, and that has value. They’ve bested you every time you’ve faced them. You know it. I know it. Our people know it. You’re less queen these days and more public joke.”

  “How dare you?”

  “I dare because we both know I have nothing to lose.”

  “I could take revenge on your family.”

  “That’s human thinking … honey. Family doesn’t mean to us what it means to them. It’s one of the ways in which they’re superior.”

  “Superior!”

  “Oh, far from perfect. But yes, superior to us.”

  “You’re a fool!”

  “And you’re repeating yourself. Anyway, I only accepted your Szash invitation because I wanted the satisfaction of throwing what I’ve done in your self-important face. Now that I’ve done that, I’m afraid I have things that require my attention.”

  “You will be found, Dillin! You will die. And then Ritter and his gang of street rats will join you by this time tomorrow!”

  No response.

  “Dillin!”

  No response.

  “Dillin!”

  Nothing.

  With a savage curse, the Queen closed the Szash.

  Around her, the penthouse apartment reappeared. As did Cole, who stood on the carpet near her desk, looking as calm and composed as ever, despite the continuing failure of his fellow Special.

  Worse: one of the Malites had been destroyed.

  The Queen of the Dead seethed some more.

  “Cole,” she said.

  “Yes, Ms. Cavanaugh?”

  “I’ve just met with my former consort. He still lives. So do Ritter and the Boettcher girl.”

  “Yes, Ms. Cavanaugh.”