Black City Saint

by Richard A. Knaak

  I didn’t have any more choice. Each time I entered a building, it seemed to be to set off a trap by Oberon. Third time hadn’t been the charm, but maybe fourth—or fifth, I’d lost count—would be. Maybe this time I’d turn things on him. Maybe.

  Let me show you . . . he offered. I declined it for now, not wanting Cortez to see the dragon’s eyes if I could help it.

  There was no sign of his auto, but he’d probably parked it out of sight. I crept to the door Doolin had entered, then carefully opened it a crack.

  A gunshot rang out.

  It only took me a moment to realize that it hadn’t been fired at me. Either someone had shot at Cortez or Cortez had fired first. Either way, I was left with no choice but to rush in.

  The first thing I saw when the door swung wide was three stiffs sprawled on the floor near the distilling equipment. One of them I recognized as the guard who’d come across me on the initial visit. Drying blood pooled around them, while a pair of pistols showed they’d at least had a chance to try to shoot back.

  I smelled Doolin’s part in this. At Oberon’s behest, he’d come here earlier, gunned down Capone’s boys, and then arranged so that Cortez would come here. If they’d kept an eye on Cortez at all, they knew he often worked alone. That still didn’t explain why he’d try to raid a barrelhouse himself, but this being Chicago probably at least two of his superiors were on the take to both gangs. It only took one command to make a supposed raid into the removal of a detective who was already undesired by most he worked with.

  Even as I entered, more shots were fired. These came from nearer by. I saw Doolin and his hoods working to pin Cortez into the far corner of the room, away from any of the doors.

  Doolin was too far away to reach with Her Lady’s gift, but not the dagger. The smaller blade didn’t have to be blessed to deal with an Irish gunman, just sharp. I switched to it and readied a throw.

  Unfortunately, one of the other shooters took that moment to reload. As he did, he glanced back at the door and saw me.

  “Watchit!” The half-loaded forty-five pistol came up at me.

  There was no choice but to change targets. The dagger went flying at the thug. It caught him in the throat just before he could fire. His twitching finger pulled the trigger, but the two shots he managed before hitting the floor dead went wide.

  I focused on Doolin again. He grinned, his position already shifted so as to keep me from trying anything from a distance. One of the other gunmen jumped around a barrel and began firing at me.

  Despite Doolin’s grin, I couldn’t help thinking that this didn’t look like a trap for me, after all. Unless Oberon had some even more devious plan in mind, Doolin had come here for Cortez and Cortez alone. Naturally, that didn’t mean that he wasn’t eager to take me on as well. He pumped off three quick shots my direction.

  His aim was barely better than that of the dying hood. It was enough to force me to a kneeling position but no more. I could only assume that Oberon chose Doolin for talents other than shooting, such as torture.

  Barely had Doolin fired than someone forced him to duck by sending a shot his direction. As Doolin vanished behind the barrels he’d chosen, Cortez followed up with another shot at one of the other gunmen. It missed, but it drew attention back to the detective and bought me a moment.

  I drew Her Lady’s gift. Although meant for Wyld, it was also good for easily slicing open a barrel full of hooch that I immediately turned toward the nearest thug. The bootleg whiskey spilled the direction I desired. I pretended to pull out a match, which was all the gunman I was toying with needed to scramble farther back.

  It’d been my intention just to use his certainty I was going to set the whole place ablaze to keep him distracted for a critical moment. What I’d also done, though, was apparently put him right where Cortez could get a good shot. The goon sprawled forward as one well-placed bullet from the detective caught him squarely in the back.

  Even with two of his boys already down, Doolin didn’t seem the least upset. I found out a moment later why when two more gunmen broke in from the door to Cortez’s left. One of them had a tommy gun and started spraying shots at Cortez the moment he saw him.

  Fortunately, just like with O’Donnell, having a tommy didn’t mean the gunner knew how to use it right. Most of the bullets hit well above and to the left of the detective and, when the thug tried once more, the weapon jammed.

  Cortez tried to fire off another shot, this one at the hood with the tommy, but the gunner’s companion opened fire with his pistol, forcing Cortez to shield himself again.

  With everyone peering at what was happening with the tommy and Cortez, I charged toward Doolin. He now looked a bit concerned and fiddled behind the barrels. I wondered if his gun had also jammed.

  I kicked aside the first barrel . . . and Doolin jumped at me, both hands now wearing the familiar gauntlets. The grin was back on his face, and I knew he’d only pretended concern to draw me to him.

  I had no choice but to use the sword. I also had no choice but to stand there gaping as Doolin caught the sharp blade with one hand. What was more surprising was that he didn’t lose that hand to Her Lady’s gift. The gauntlet held the blade tight.

  Only then did I see the intricate scrollwork and the twisted tree markings I knew represented the Feirie Court. I suddenly understood just where the gauntlets had come from. They were Oberon’s.

  My memories of the Night the Dragon Breathed didn’t include Oberon wearing or not wearing the gauntlets. At the time, I’d been more concerned with the shifting Gate, the Wyld sent to rip me apart, the magic drawn from Feirie that was beginning to change the city, and, of course, the dragon. Still, I should’ve realized that any armor from the other realm would’ve had latent magic that could be utilized this close to the Gate. It surprised me that Doolin could wear them without becoming a twisted, inhuman thing . . . but then again, maybe inside he’d been like that even before Oberon found him.

  All that flashed through my head as I tried to pull Her Lady’s gift free while avoiding Doolin’s fist. I managed the first part but failed miserably with the second. The mailed fist slammed into my side, and I distinctly heard a rib crack just before the immense pain left me shouting.

  Doolin swung again, but I succeeded in swerving away enough to only let the knuckles graze me. Even then, the new agony proved nearly as intense as that from the initial blow.

  I slashed with Her Lady’s gift, but Doolin proved much more agile than I thought possible. He tried to snatch the sword away by the sharp edge, but failed.

  One of Doolin’s boys jumped up from my right and took aim. Caught between him and Doolin, my chances were slight.

  With a snarl, Doolin grabbed a barrel with both hands and threw it at the aiming gunner. The man barely had time to jump before the barrel landed in front of him.

  “The greaser!” Oberon’s pet hood shouted at the frightened gunmen. “Keep on the greaser!”

  The other hood wasted no time in evading Doolin’s wrath. The giant Irishman grinned wider at me. “Guess I get to soften you up a little sooner than he thought!”

  Other than he was speaking about Oberon, I had no idea what Doolin meant. I did know that the larger barrel he plucked up next probably should’ve been too much even for him, but Oberon’s gauntlets obviously had several abilities.

  The barrel came crashing down right where I’d stood. By then, I was back several feet. The whiskey I’d spilled now covered the floor beneath me, and if Doolin had decided to play the same game I had earlier—only in his case actually tossing a match—I’d have had to try to rely on the dragon more than ever.

  But Doolin only lunged forward, bringing both fists at me. I twisted Her Lady’s gift around and scored a hit on his unprotected arm. Oberon’s henchman went white—and then recovered so quickly that he nearly managed to seize the tip of the sword.

  He chuckled. “Gotta try better than that—”

  From somewhere there came the sound of shatterin
g glass. It was followed by a familiar howl. I couldn’t say how he’d done it, but Fetch’d found me.

  There was a shout and the rattle of the tommy. Bullets flew everywhere, probably as the gunner tried to get a fix on the lycanthrope.

  Doolin was no longer smiling, but he also didn’t look very concerned. I could see from his flexing fingers that he was imagining just how easy my throat would give if he got his hands around it.

  Another shot rang out. This one creased Doolin’s left cheek. He finally had the decency to look truly startled. I was startled, too, because not only had the bullet certainly not been a random shot from the tommy, but it also couldn’t have come from Cortez, unless he’d managed a truly magical ricochet.

  A second shot came within a hair of knocking Doolin’s cap off. He muttered something in Gaelic, then pulled back.

  “Nick! Over here!”

  If Doolin had been startled, so was I. The last person I ever would’ve wanted in here was Claryce, yet not only had she found her way inside—and somehow I was certain Fetch was in part to blame—but she was the one who’d fire two very good shots at Doolin.

  “Damned skirt!” He grabbed another barrel and threw it in her direction just as she fired for a third time. The bullet hit the flying barrel, spilling some of the whiskey inside as the barrel soared at her.

  I didn’t waste a thought, leaping hard and putting myself partially in the barrel’s path. The lower end collided with my shoulder, the pain only tolerable because my ribs still throbbed worse from Doolin’s punch. The barrel and I landed in an awkward heap just in front of Claryce.

  A sharp whistle cut through the air and just enough into the fog of pain I was suffering. The gunshots tapered off into the distance.

  “Nick!” Claryce’s gentle hands touched my face, turning it to her. “Nick! Speak to me!”

  Let me help . . .

  I felt an abrupt surge of strength, an offering from the dragon. The agony subsided. I even felt the rib fix itself. Still, the aftereffect of his effort left me light-headed for a moment.

  Another pair of shots echoed through the building. I heard a mournful whine.

  “F-Fetch?” As best I could, I tried to rise.

  “No, Nick! You can’t push yourself so quickly!”

  She had no idea what the dragon’d done for me. It was no simple gift, either. Each time he healed me, he drained himself for a while. There wasn’t much left to him as it was, and when he did this, it meant that he couldn’t do anything else immediately if we were threatened further. It would’ve been different if he’d been the dominant part, if he’d been here now instead of me. Then, his full power, his full strength, would’ve been available to him.

  But that was something I couldn’t do . . . even with the recent change in the relationship between us.

  Despite Claryce’s protests, I pushed myself up. There was still a bit of light-headedness, but it faded quickly. I used that time to snatch Her Lady’s gift from the floor and return it to its hiding place.

  Claryce stared at me with concern and confusion. She had both hands on me. The gun she’d stuffed in her belt. I looked from her to the gun and back again.

  “I found it by that man—the dagger in him. I assume you did that.”

  “I did . . . and that’s not the question I wanted to ask. Where’d you learn to shoot?”

  She looked down. “I had a boyfriend. My first. He liked to hunt. He also wanted to be a policeman. I wanted to be with him, so I went with him when he took target practice.” Claryce managed a slight smile. “I almost got as good as him before Wilson brought us into the war and Mike decided to join up with the American Expeditionary Force. He died in France.”

  “I’m sorry.” There was something that nagged me about her story, but I forgot all about it as the gunshots and whining I’d heard before finally sunk in again. I grimaced and pushed past Claryce.

  “Fetch brought you here, didn’t he?” I asked, as I maneuvered around the barrels and the body. As I passed the man I’d killed I tugged free the dagger, wiped it on the hood’s coat, and put it away. I still couldn’t see any sign of Fetch or Cortez.

  “No. I saw him across the street when I got to the safe house. He looked like he was judging how to get inside. I just followed after him—”

  I didn’t hear her after that, because I’d finally gotten a glimpse of Cortez. He was leaning against the far wall, gasping for breath but otherwise looking little worse for wear. The detective still had his service weapon out and was staring to his left.

  And there, sprawled a few yards in front of him, three gaping wounds from that same gun expertly marking the furred chest, lay Fetch.

  CHAPTER 20

  Before I could stop her, Claryce ran over to Fetch. She cradled his head in her arms. Fetch’s tongue lolled and from where I stood I couldn’t see if he was breathing at all.

  Cortez looked from her to me. “Nick Medea! Why—why am I not surprised to see you? Tell me that!”

  I already had my story ready. “I had some of that info you wanted, but when I called the precinct, the sergeant said you’d left to break up this barrelhouse. I’d called to warn you that I found out someone’d set you up here . . .”

  He grunted. “Well, it sure wasn’t the dagos. They were already cold when I got here, you know?” Even though there wasn’t any hint of danger left, Cortez kept his gun out. He also continued to eye Fetch. “And what’s with el Lobo? I know I’ve seen that thing! It started to leap at me . . .”

  Fetch’d probably done so to protect Cortez, and it’d cost him. I needed to separate the pair as quickly as I could.

  “Never mind that, Cortez. You’ve got yourself a big story here. Shouldn’t you be getting this reported?”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . and maybe find out just where my backup’s supposed to be, you know?” As he spoke, we heard a siren in the distance. The detective gave me a wink. “Ah! And here come my compadres now, Nick!”

  “Maybe you better go out and meet them.”

  I wasn’t fooling the detective on that point and didn’t want to. Cortez cocked his head. “And it’ll all be nice and empty here, won’t it?” Before I could say anything more, he waved us off. “Go! We’ll be talking, right?”

  I gave him a noncommittal nod, which still was enough to satisfy him. Cortez pocketed his gun and stepped past Claryce and the prone Fetch without another glance. He was taking a big risk letting us go; if anyone spotted us leaving, it’d be on his head.

  The moment Cortez retreated outside, I bent down to Claryce and Fetch. Claryce looked up to me with fright. “Nick . . . he’s not breathing! I think he’s—”

  “Move to the side. Let me take him.” I was glad she obeyed without a protest. She’d not dealt with Feirie; she didn’t understand them.

  This should’ve been handled differently, but with the cops fast approaching—finally, where Cortez was probably concerned—I had to stir things to action.

  Fetch’s body was cold and stiff, and the fur was caked with his blood. He was even stiffer than I’d thought, probably in part due to the strange wound Fetch had suffered during his capture by Oberon. I wondered if I’d guessed wrong, but there was nothing to do but keep going as I planned.

  Drawing Her Lady’s gift, I gingerly brought its sharp edge to Fetch’s throat.

  Claryce, of course, didn’t like the look of things. “What are you going to do? You’re not going to cut off his head . . . are you?”

  Fetch’s body convulsed. He let out a low moan that I smothered with my arm. The convulsions grew stronger, more rapid. I pulled away Her Lady’s gift, the sword having done its work just by being very near. The powerful relic from Feirie had brought the lycanthrope’s own abilities closer to what they’d been when he still lived in the other realm.

  He let out a great heave, and the bullets Cortez’d pumped into him went popping out of his flesh. One clattered onto the floor just in front of a startled Claryce.

  Fetch started breathing no
rmally. His eyes opened. “Master Nicholas?”

  “Try to be a little more careful next time, will you? I wouldn’t put it past Cortez to carry silver, or at least blessed bullets . . .”

  “But he’s one of the buttons, one of the cops! I thought he’d see—”

  He cut off as the sirens grew very loud. I saw that Fetch’d recovered enough to stand and prodded him. He moved quickly, even more eager not to cross the police than I was. Fetch’d never been caught by the police or even a dog catcher, but he’d heard enough stories about the pound to make him never want to take the risk.

  Other than his stiff spine, he moved as stealthily as ever. He darted ahead of us as I took Claryce’s arm and led her away from the carnage. I’d have expected the cops to crash in by now, but Cortez was probably stalling them. Our relationship had changed a lot since the start of this, and I wondered how much I could avoid him knowing. For his sake and that of his Maria and the kids, the detective was better off remaining ignorant . . . if that was at all possible anymore.

  Once we were outside and well on our way to the safe house, Claryce finally asked, “What about Oberon’s men? Will they catch them?”

  “Since half of the Chicago Police are on the take with both sides, I doubt it. Even if Detective Cortez managed to pull Doolin in, he’d probably be out in the hour.”

  “They’ve got some of the best lips in the business working for them, Mistress Claryce,” Fetch had to add.

  “Their lawyers are good,” I agreed. “No more talk out of you, Fetch. You’re man’s best friend, remember?”

  He took the hint and returned to a more canine—and silent—persona. With everything going on nearby, we couldn’t be certain that someone might not overhear us. Not until we were inside the safe house did any of us say another word.

  Leaning against the table near the kitchen area, Claryce heaved a sigh. “I can barely even remember my life right before you,” she told me. “It seems more of a dream . . .”

  “And now you’re in a nightmare,” I added apologetically. “If I could’ve stopped Oberon from drawing you in here, I would’ve—”