Black City Saint

by Richard A. Knaak

  I whirled around—and had what felt like Ed Healey crash into me. But even the Bears’ tackle wasn’t as heavily muscled as the giant that fell on me. As we crashed to the street, I heard a low curse in what I knew was Gaelic. A gloved hand tried to crush my throat.

  Fighting for breath, I twisted onto my back and reached up. Through the dragon’s gaze, I saw the grinning face of Doolin. I’d figured that he was strong, but not this strong.

  Let Eye free! Eye will bite his head off and swallow it whole!

  The temptation to let him take over was great, but I couldn’t help thinking that giving in would result in something far worse happening.

  Doolin squeezed tighter. That was when I finally felt the metal digging deep into my throat and realized he wasn’t wearing a glove but a gauntlet.

  I didn’t know what its use was, but it made me even more certain that I’d chosen right by not giving in to the dragon. However, that wasn’t preventing Doolin from crushing my windpipe. It was possible that the gauntlet was augmenting his already great strength, but either way, I only had seconds left before I suffocated or else he made a pulp out of my throat.

  Doolin was no simple bruiser when it came to fighting. He had his knee on my left arm and held the right one with his other hand. For many in my position, that would’ve been enough to determine the outcome of the struggle.

  But those many hadn’t spent lifetime after lifetime already fighting to survive against even more vicious opponents than Doolin. He’d pinned my arms but not my legs. I twisted sharply and managed to use the left one to shove him off me, in the process freeing a hand.

  Even then, though, I only bought a reprieve. Doolin’s grip on my throat loosened but no more.

  “Damned wop!” he growled, as he tried to squeeze again.

  I wasn’t sure if Oberon had told him I was a Roman or if Doolin just thought I was Italian since my skin was swarthier than his pasty flesh. It was possible he even believed I was part of the South Side gang. Whatever the case, his assumption seemed to fuel his attack, making me wonder about his past history with Capone’s boys.

  In his growing eagerness to throttle me, he failed to remember that one hand was free. I wanted to punch him in the throat, but the angle only permitted me to hit him in the side of the neck.

  It was enough to make him hack and cough and nothing else. He tried to shift to his original position.

  A hound’s savage growl filled my ears. I swore, not because I thought another creature was about to attack me, but because I knew that it was coming to my rescue despite my earlier admonishments.

  However, rather than falling upon Doolin, Fetch’s growl faded further down the street. I tried to see what was happening with him but couldn’t turn my head.

  Then, Doolin grunted and crumpled to my left. He wasn’t unconscious, but he was stunned. I marveled more that he could move at all when I saw the size of the broken brick Claryce still wielded.

  “Nick! Are you all—”

  I’d barely started recovering myself when Doolin shook off Claryce’s blow and grabbed for her. It was enough to stir me on. I grabbed for the gauntleted hand, hoping to tear the enchanted artifact free.

  The deadly short burst of a tommy gun echoed ominously from the direction Fetch had gone. Doolin swore in Gaelic again and threw himself off me. His heavy body bowled into Claryce.

  Her Lady’s gift was meant against the creatures of Feirie, but with Doolin wearing Oberon’s artifact, I saw no reason to hesitate in using the blade against the thug. It still wasn’t clear exactly what the glove did, and I couldn’t take the chance that it might be deadlier than he’d revealed so far.

  I reached into my coat.

  Doolin pushed himself to his knees, murder very much in his expression. He thrust a hand into his own dark coat for what I assumed was a gun—

  And immediately vanished.

  If he’d simply tried to shield himself from my sight, the dragon’s eyes would’ve still ferreted him out. My companion’s magic was an older, deeper thing than that of Feirie, which was why it’d proved so invaluable to me, despite its source. If Doolin had still been between Claryce and me, I would’ve had no trouble discerning that. Yet all I saw was the welcome sight of Claryce quickly bending down to help me.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, as she looked me over for injury.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Where’d that beast go?”

  Assuming that she meant Doolin and not Fetch, I answered, “Doolin’s gone. In addition to the gauntlet, he had some sort of other artifact in his coat.”

  “Gauntlet? Doolin? Who’s that?”

  “Our friend with the eagerness to rip apart my windpipe. From the North Side gang. Did you get a look at him?”

  “I didn’t see anything at first except you slowly choking to death and clutching at the air above you. I thought there was something on top of you, but I couldn’t make it out clearly. I found this piece and made a guess where there might be a head. He grew clearer after I hit him, but I never got a good view of his face.”

  “Name Doolin mean anything? Someone around William Delke?”

  “No.”

  I hadn’t forgotten Fetch and the possible danger he might be in, but until now I hadn’t had the strength to go after him. Leaping to my feet, I ordered, “The diner’s still open. Go there—”

  “No! I’m not listening—”

  The screech of car tires resounded on the empty street. I grabbed Claryce and threw both of us toward the curb as a black Lincoln sedan barreled toward where we’d just been. However, those inside appeared not at all interested in us but rather the huge, four-legged shape racing behind them. No normal hound could’ve caught up with the swerving Lincoln, but there was nothing normal about Fetch.

  From the front passenger side emerged a gritty thug armed with a tommy. He fired at Fetch, but the lycanthrope dodged aside.

  “Keep back!” I warned Claryce. I reached into my coat, but not for Her Lady’s gift. Instead, from the other side I drew the silver-tipped dagger. I’d kept it with me since meeting Claryce for the simple fact I could throw it.

  And I did, aiming not for the shifting gunner but rather the front passenger tire. My aim was perfect. The blade sank into the rubber. I felt a little guilt using the blessed weapon so, but decided the guilt was worth protecting our lives.

  The tire exploded. The Lincoln spun in the direction of the ruined tire. The hood with the tommy retreated inside.

  The auto drove over a curb, onto a sidewalk, and against the brick wall of the building beyond. The force of the collision had to have stirred up everybody for the next ten blocks, but I didn’t care.

  Fetch leapt atop the wrecked vehicle. I came around on the passenger side, ready to draw Her Lady’s gift if I had to. I doubted Doolin was in the auto, but I couldn’t risk not finding out.

  Neither the driver, the gunner, nor anyone possibly in the back had emerged. They’d hit hard, but not so hard that someone shouldn’t have at least made a sound.

  “Nice work with the shiv, Master Nicholas.”

  “Quiet!” No one had as yet stepped out to see what’d happened, but that’d change soon. I needed to see the passengers, then get Claryce out of here.

  Grabbing the dagger from the tire, I peered into the passenger front. Two dim shapes lay still. There was no one in the back, which meant that, since I’d caught a glimpse of the gunner, I had to hope that Doolin had been driving.

  It’d been a faint hope at best, but naturally the other figure was too lanky to be Oberon’s hulking killer. I reached in, hoping to shake the thug awake and find out more . . . and then saw that the driver wasn’t breathing. Not only that, but up close I could also make out that his eyes were half-open, as if he were asleep.

  I immediately leaned in to take a second look at the gunner. He was the same. I touched the throat of the driver and felt a flesh so cold even I recoiled. The cold was something I’d come across only a couple of times and
both of those had involved the events before I had to set Chicago aflame. Those men had also been serving Oberon, though they hadn’t known it probably any more than this pair had. All they’d known is they were paid well by a man who knew what humans called magic and what was merely the nature of the high born of the Feirie Court.

  A siren sounded. No one had come out to investigate yet, and I had to assume it was because they thought a turf war had broken out between bootleggers. However, someone had been brave enough to call the police.

  “Take off, Fetch.”

  “Yes, Master Nicholas!”

  He bounded off the Lincoln and raced down the street in the direction of the safe house. I quickly rejoined Claryce, then hurried with her from the scene.

  We were three blocks from the scene by the time the sirens sounded as if the police had arrived. In this part of the neighborhood, people were far enough away from the danger to be emboldened to walk out onto the street and take a few steps toward the sounds. We mixed into the crowd, then turned toward where we could hail a taxi.

  I had the cabbie drop us off two blocks from the safe house. Careful to avoid anything that put us in view of the bootleggers, I finally got Claryce to the temporary quarters.

  “How long do we stay here?” she asked, rubbing her arms from tension.

  “As long as need be. For tonight, I’ll sleep downstairs in the old shop—”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Why would you do that? There’s room here, and I certainly don’t want to be alone. This isn’t any different than your house was.”

  “Claryce, I shouldn’t have ever even allowed us to meet. Oberon used you as bait; if I’d let you be, he would’ve lost interest in you and tried a different tack. You would’ve been safe—”

  “Safe . . .” She stepped in front of me, so close that I could hear her breathing. Too close. “There’s more to this, isn’t there? There’s a reason I was picked by Wil—Oberon! What is it, Nick? What?”

  There was a fairly good chance she’d believe me, no matter how wild the story might sound. But if I told her about Cleolinda, if I told her about the other lives, the other hers, she might only see it as a reason to stand beside me even against Oberon. That would only guarantee her death.

  I couldn’t bear to watch Cleolinda die again, and I discovered at that moment that it bothered me even more that Claryce Simone in particular would perish.

  Arms now crossed, Claryce continued to await my answer. Instead, I strode over to the one bedroom and opened the door. “Better get some rest now. We may have to leave here before sunrise.”

  “Nick . . .”

  Still not looking her in the eye, I went to the Kelvinator. “There’s eggs, bacon, coffee, some fruit, and a few other things available. The stove works fine.”

  “I know all that already—”

  Now I looked at her, but not directly into her gaze. From my coat, I pulled the dagger. After placing it on the table in the kitchen area, I added, “You won’t need this, but I’ve left it just in case. Its presence alone should keep anything from entering, but this entire place is also surrounded by a shunning . . . A spell that turns away everything I don’t want here. I know it failed with the house, but this one’s been strengthened.”

  She reached for me. “Nick . . .”

  “With all that said,” I continued, fighting not to reach back. “I’ll still sleep ready below in case you call me.” I went to the door, ignoring her entreaties. “Sleep well.”

  “Nick!” Claryce called.

  I shut the door behind me and descended to the shop’s office, which, like the shop itself, had been abandoned with pretty much everything still intact. I’d left a blanket and some other essentials there. The dust wasn’t too bad, not for someone who’d slept in deserts much of his original life. I heard Claryce stomping back and forth—much harder than she needed to, even considering her heels—and felt renewed guilt at not having told her the truth. I was certain that I’d done the right thing, but I was also certain that Claryce did deserve the truth.

  I prepared my makeshift bed and settled in. My thoughts briefly turned to Fetch. I could’ve had him stay here as well, but I needed him to see what he could learn in the alleyways and other parts of the city. Fetch, Kravayik, and the black bird were hardly the only refugees from Feirie. To call the reigns of His Lord and, after that, of Her Lady harsh would be to make the understatement of all time. Feirie was a realm of power, and those with power worked to crush everyone they could under their heel. Chicago seemed to be following Feirie’s lead and not because of any taint spreading through the Gate from Her Lady’s realm. After so many centuries among my fellow men, I’d seen the evil that they could do, evil that the darkest of Feirie would’ve admired. That men could still find redemption and the path to Heaven was something that I readily believed in despite those bloody centuries.

  I leaned back, my head propped up by a second, smaller blanket. Claryce moved about for a few minutes more, then evidently settled down. I prayed that at least she would have a good night’s sleep; my last one had been the night before Diocles’s executioner had done his handiwork.

  The telephone rang.

  Along with the plumbing and other necessities, I’d left the telephone line live. Live, but with no outside connection.

  Naturally, I answered it. “Hello?”

  An elderly male voice with a heavy Mexican accent said, “I am looking for Mr. Medea.”

  “This is Nick Medea.”

  “I am Juan Alonso Perez. I work with an organization that is seeing to the building of a church in South Chicago.”

  I frowned. The call sounded as if it concerned my “occupation.” If it’d come at the house, I’d have thought nothing of it. Here . . .

  “How can I help you?”

  “For now, we have a small wooden church serving our needs. It was finished only last year.” Despite his accent, Juan Alonso Perez spoke excellent English. “A good place. Much respected by the parishioners.”

  I could hear hesitation when he spoke about the church, which meant only one thing. “You have unexpected things going on at the church?”

  “Yes!” he immediately blurted, grasping at my way of describing the situation rather than admit the truth. “Unexpected things . . . such as you mention in your ad.”

  Everything about this call sounded as it should. The ad found those who needed it. Mr. Alonso Perez appeared to be one of those.

  But with the exception of Diocles, I’d never known anything to actually haunt a church . . . unless the ground was no longer consecrated.

  My duty to the Gate demanded I check it out, but I didn’t want to bring Claryce there with me just in case. “I’m rather busy right now. How urgent is this matter?”

  “Very urgent! I would ask you to come this night still, Mr. Medea, if I thought you would accept.”

  It wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to meet “clients” at hours even later than that at which I’d met Mrs. Hauptmann. Still, I wasn’t certain about taking on this particular case. Maybe one of the shadow folk had managed to infiltrate the church and make its lair there. I couldn’t be sure, though.

  I made a decision. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll—”

  There was a click on the phone.

  “Mr. Alonso Perez?”

  “I am here.”

  “As I was saying, I can come by tomorrow night. We can discuss this in more detail, then. Will that do?”

  There was a pause, then, “Thank you, that will do, Mr. Medea.”

  He didn’t seem inclined to continue, so I asked the obvious. “Where’s the church?”

  “9024 South Mackinaw Avenue. Our Lady of Guadalupe. Do you know it?”

  I had to credit myself for not sounding odd when I answered. “Yes, I’ve heard of it. Will you meet me there?”

  “I will.”

  “Sounds good, then.”

  “Thank you very, very much, Mr. Medea. Good night.”

  This time the click I heard w
as my new client hanging up. I dropped the receiver and thought. There was no telephone upstairs, so I knew that Claryce hadn’t somehow been listening. More importantly, the line should’ve only rung on its own if it was someone in true need. Everything indicated that Juan Alonso Perez was who he claimed to be.

  But I thought it very interesting that he represented the same church where Detective Cortez normally took his family . . . except when he was spying on St. Michael’s, of course.

  I slowly drifted off with that thought still playing around in my mind. Naturally, the dream started anew the moment sleep took over, and once again I fought in vain to keep Claryce alive from the dragon—

  Some sense of danger woke me just as my unconscious mind noticed the fact that the dream had altered exactly who I tried to defend. I knew that prickly feeling immediately.

  Oberon’s sentinel was back in the vicinity.

  I was fairly confident that it didn’t know we were here and that it was again investigating the bootlegging operation nearby. I was tempted to simply try to ignore it, but I suddenly felt concerned that despite the shunning it might yet notice something about this building.

  Slipping out of the back, I came around so that I could observe the area ahead. Without a word to me, my unseen companion shifted our gaze. In the emerald world, I got my first glimpse of what might be Oberon’s spy.

  All I could tell was that it had wings or something like them. It was perched atop a roof next to the building, apparently watching for any outside activity by Capone’s goons.

  I kept my hand near the inside of my coat but didn’t draw Her Lady’s gift just yet. Doing so might actually alert the shadow creature, which I didn’t want to do unless necessary.

  Something caught the observer’s attention. It fluttered to the ground in a strange way, almost more like a kite than a bird. I rethought the possible choices based on my previous encounters, but nothing similar came to mind.

  I should’ve gone back inside, but it was then that I caught a glimpse of a second and very different watcher.

  This one was nothing more than a black shadow, darker than the night in which it traveled. I wondered why Oberon needed a second watcher . . . then understood that this wasn’t one of his.