But I was here, trapped on a roof, neck-deep in a world of monsters, torture, and death.
“The fuck am I doing with my life?” I breathed.
It wasn’t a rhetorical question. I had kicked off the lethargy, the self-doubt, the ennui that kept me couch-surfing and doing nothing for months on end. That was a victory. But what was I doing with it? Assuming I survived to see daylight, was this really how I wanted to spend the rest of my life? Living by the gun, down in the nightmare underbelly of the world?
Was I capable of doing anything else?
A swarm of headlights flared on the access road, coming in hot. Philosophy class was over. I crouched down low and got as close to the rooftop’s edge as I dared.
A dirt-encrusted semi truck crashed the gate at sixty miles an hour, sending twisted metal flying in a shower of sparks. A pair of minivans in Calles brown and yellow—gunships, with the side doors yawning open so shooters could lean out and make the drive-by—were right on its tail, followed by a dozen Harleys. Their engines revved in a full-throated diesel shout.
The night crew answered with an air-splitting chorus of screeches. They raced from the shadows, swarming like ants, and my reinforcements answered with crackling gunfire. The darkness lit up with muzzle flashes like a fireworks show on the Fourth of July.
The motorcycles never stopped moving, roaring as they wheeled around and charged up and down the asphalt. One of Elmer’s creations pounced from the darkness. He landed on a rider’s back and dragged him down. The bike spun, out of control and crashing into a loading dock wall, while the feral creature pinned the rider down and ripped out his throat with its teeth. It raised its head to howl in a bloody-mouthed victory—and another biker streaked by, giving it both barrels of a sawed-off shotgun. The creature flipped onto its back, kicking like a dying bug, its headless neck ending in a stump of broken spine.
I caught a glimmer of white leather under the lamplight. It was Caitlin, her battle coat flaring out behind her as she darted into the building. Jennifer was out front with her crew; a razor blade glinted between her teeth. Her chromed .357 bucked in her hand, taking down one of Elmer’s men in mid-leap, and she slashed her blade across her opposite arm. Blood boiled from her wound, a glittering wet cloud, then hardened into a cluster of deadly crystalline brambles. With a single guttural word, the ruby barbs fired in a buckshot blast.
I whirled around as a door slammed open at my back. Fleiss had found me.
Clawed hands latched on to the sides of the doorway, heaving as she squeezed her rubbery, elephantine bulk through one glistening inch at a time. Her head was an Easter Island idol with oval slabs of black onyx for eyes, swaying on a leathery serpentine neck, and her legs bent on backward joints.
I slid one foot back, the white pebbles rustling under my shoe as I moved closer to the rooftop’s edge.
“I’ll jump,” I warned her.
Her squat feet thumped on the stony rooftop as she emerged from the door. Her head tilted, opaque eyes drinking me in.
“If you die,” she hissed, “good chance the mantle of the Thief will return to Marcel Deschamps. We have Marcel. Same outcome.”
My mind raced. I knew my cards would barely slow her down, and I didn’t stand a chance in a fistfight. Violence wasn’t going to win this one; I had to keep her talking, keep her off-balance.
“A good chance. You want to bet eternity on that? We both know part of the Enemy’s power is locked up in the Thief’s death. If I die here, tonight, without fulfilling the requirements and the Thief reincarnates on some other Earth…how long is it going to take you to find him again? A thousand years? A hundred thousand? A million? How about ‘never’? How will your boss take the news, do you think?”
Fleiss wavered. Her frog mouth quivered. “I won’t allow you to die here. Not like this. My lord’s will must be obeyed.”
She moved toward me, looming, and I stopped her with a single word.
“Why?”
The wrinkled skin around her onyx-lens eyes went tight.
“Why?” she echoed.
“Yeah. Why? You’ve been carrying a torch for that asshole for centuries. Why do it? What’s he ever done to earn that kind of loyalty?”
She looked like the question had never occurred to her before. She spoke slow, piecing her words together with justifications and twine.
“He is…everything. He is my lord. Therefore I must serve him. I was…I was created to serve him.”
“No,” I said. “You weren’t. He didn’t create you. I think you know that, deep down inside. I know that you know that.”
“You’re lying,” she grunted. “All you do is lie.”
She took another ponderous step closer. Two more and she’d be close enough to grab me in those leathery, steel-cord arms and tear me to pieces. I held my ground, sensing the sheer drop at my back.
“I do lie a lot, true, but not about this.” The words of the Lady in Red drifted back to me. I recited them to Fleiss. “Once upon a time, nine beasts emerged from the Shadow In-Between. Nine of the Lady’s daughters, war-witches all, pledged to slay them. But they were tricked and led into an ambush.”
“Stop. Stop talking.”
“They were bound, trapped in the form of tools, their powers to be commanded by any man who wielded them.” I gazed up at her. “But the Enemy didn’t just wield you, did he? He knew he was about to be tossed into a prison dimension; his only hope was to store his magic in a reliquary, before his rivals could drain it from him, and give it to a servant he could trust. A servant who literally couldn’t think of rebellion. A servant who thought she was in love with him and believed he loved her back.”
“He does love me,” she hissed.
“Has he ever told you that?”
She halted in mid-stride, one stumpy foot hovering an inch above the pebbled rooftop.
“No,” I said. “He’s never said he loves you. And you know, deep down, you know it’s because he doesn’t. He never will. He’s not even capable of it. He twisted your memory, your mind, your body. He stole from you. He stole everything from you. But you can take it all back. You have a mother. You have a family that loves you, that really loves you. Let me take you to them. Let me help you.”
Fleiss stood frozen. Her face twisted in an agony of indecision, buried doubts and fears racing to the surface as she warred with herself.
Then her foot slammed down, turning the white pebbles to broken powder. She lunged for me, stampeding in, and lashed out one elongated arm. Her claws latched tight around my throat. My breath cut off and she heaved me off my feet while I kicked frantically at the open air.
“No more lies.” Her other hand clamped nails tight around my jaw. “I’m taking your tongue for a trophy.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” said the voice at her back, tinged with an amused Scottish burr.
Fleiss swung me around like a rag doll as she turned. Caitlin stood fifteen feet away, draped in her white leather coat, one hand casual on her hip.
“I’m fond of his tongue,” Caitlin said. “He’s very skilled with it.”
Fleiss tossed me aside. I hit the roof, landed hard on my shoulder and rolled into a crumpled heap. Coughing, I gulped air back into my aching throat.
“She means my witty repartee,” I croaked as I shoved myself to my feet.
“Oh. That too.” Caitlin wriggled one scarlet eyebrow. Then she tossed back her coat like a gunslinger, baring the coil of a bullwhip on her belt. “As for you…kneel and face judgment. Cooperate, and I’ll make it quick.”
Fleiss flexed her claws, ten knives of black iron. “I won’t be judged by the likes of you, demon. I answer to a higher authority.”
Caitlin curled her lips into a pleased little smile.
“Right here, right now,” she said, “I am the highest authority. But if you won’t die with dignity, I suppose we can do this the entertaining way.”
Fleiss bellowed as she charged. Her bulk thundered across the rooftop, kicking up a
cloud of flying pebbles and white dust. Caitlin broke into a sprint, ran at her, and leaped to one side as Fleiss’s claws made a wild swipe. Her boot caught the edge of an air-conditioning unit, and she used it for a launchpad, sending herself sailing at Fleiss heel-first. She drove a bone-crunching kick into the creature’s face and Fleiss staggered backward. One of the lenses over her distended eyes sprouted a spiderweb of cracks.
Caitlin didn’t have time to savor her victory. Fleiss was faster than she looked. She rallied, knocked Caitlin’s next kick aside, and shoulder-charged her. Caitlin landed hard on her back and rolled to escape the pile-driver slam of Fleiss’s foot.
I hurled my cards, one after another, a crackling swarm of magic-charged hornets. The pasteboard missiles sank into the blubber of Fleiss’s back and dangled like a porcupine’s quills. She wheeled around, slapping at them, and it gave Caitlin just enough time to jump back to her feet.
Her whip snaked free of her belt. She brought it down on the rooftop with a thunder-snap crack, and flames erupted from the brass grip. They raced down the leather like a gasoline trail, setting the whip alight. She swung it above her head, a blur that left a burning smear in my vision, then lashed it around Fleiss’s neck.
Fleiss clawed at the snare as it burned blue-hot into her skin and the air filled with the stench of sizzling, rotten meat. Caitlin ran past her, springing from air conditioner to air conditioner, winding the whip tight as she sprinted around the bellowing creature. Then she leaped, yanking hard on the line and driving both heels into Fleiss’s backbone.
Fleiss crashed down. She fought free of the whip, driving Caitlin back with frenzied slashes of her claws, and staggered back toward the far edge of the roof. The skin of her serpentine neck was charred black and weeping pus.
“Next time,” she snapped, “I choose the battleground.”
She dragged her claws through the open air in a vicious downward swipe and opened a rent in the universe. A black and starless void howled beyond the tear. The edges of reality flapped and rippled like canvas sails in the wind. I heard the faint sound of wind chimes, and the scent of roses kissed the night air.
“Stop her!” I shouted, racing in as I hurled another brace of cards. “Don’t let her—”
Too late. Fleiss dove into the void. It whipped shut behind her as the world repaired itself. She left nothing behind, nothing but the fading floral aroma, dissolving away on a stiff, cold breeze.
18.
Caitlin and I stood on the rooftop alone. Both of us panting for breath, battered but still standing. The flames of her whip died out, a few last sparks fluttering free and going cold, and she coiled the supple leather around her forearm before hooking it back onto her belt. She looked my way, paused, and wrinkled her nose.
“You’re, ah—”
“Covered in rotten garbage.” I glanced down at my soiled clothes. “Yeah. This was a really nice outfit, too.”
“It might be salvageable.”
I shook my head. “I like my dry cleaner too much to do that to him.”
Down below, the last few gunshots died out. The air filled with raucous voices and the rev of wide-bodied choppers. We might not have gotten our hands on Fleiss, but we’d still won the night. I only hoped my words had planted a few seeds under her skin. Maybe they would bear fruit later on. All the same, I knew better than to count on it. Life had taught me that when you show somebody proof that they’ve been conned, nine times out of ten they just dig their heels in harder.
“I would hug you, but—”
“Right,” I said. “I’m gross. I wouldn’t hug me either. Rain check?”
“Absolutely.”
“Don’t suppose you came across a creepy little guy on your way up here? Sixty-something, balding, wears an expensive suit that doesn’t fit him?”
“Didn’t have the pleasure,” she said. “The creator of the welcoming party downstairs, I take it?”
I nodded, moving fast for the stairwell door, and she fell in at my side.
“Elmer Donaghy,” I said. “Also, would-be emissary of the King of Worms. Once I catch him, he’s going to be my special friend.”
* * *
Elmer was either playing the best game of hide-and-seek ever or he’d seen which way the wind was blowing. He couldn’t be found, but we were tearing the place apart just to be safe.
“Grab those computers,” Jennifer shouted, sending soldiers in brown bandannas scattering in every direction. “Collect notebooks, tablets, anything that might have anything on it. This is the first Network front we’ve cracked, so we’re snatchin’ anything that ain’t nailed down.”
“How are we doing on time?” I asked her.
“Not great. These boys didn’t call the cops when the shooting started—for obvious reasons—but a good citizen called in a noise complaint. We got fifteen minutes, tops.”
“Hey,” one of Winslow’s bikers called out. He kicked a corpse, its blue overalls peppered with bullet holes, and pointed. “What should we do with these ugly fuckers?”
I took a closer look. The man’s mouth hung open, a dead roach lolling out between his blood-flecked teeth. I crouched low and studied the seam where it had been grafted onto the stump of his tongue. Elmer was nothing if not inventive.
“Burn it,” I said. “Can’t have civilians seeing this shit. Burn them all. On that note, anybody bring some extra Molotovs?”
Winslow swaggered over, shirtless under his leather vest, toting a canvas messenger bag over one shoulder. The bag rattled as he walked.
“How many you need?” he asked.
“Three ought to do it. Follow me.”
The first breeding pit went up in a satisfying whump of flame. The roaches screamed. Their bleats filled the smoky air like a herd of dying sheep. I flicked a lighter and held the flame to a second rag-stuffed bottle.
“Hey, Jen,” Winslow said. “Next time you wanna rally me and the boys for a midnight run?”
“Yeah, sugar?”
“Don’t.”
I threw the second bottle in. Burning moonshine smashed across rotting garbage and set the next pit alight.
“Good news is,” I said, “according to Dr. Frankenstein himself, they’re having trouble making more of these particular monsters. With their breeding pits gone and their stock reduced to charcoal, we won’t have to worry about any bug infestations for a while.”
In theory, anyway. I knew better than to hope that we’d killed off the last of the roaches. Just like I knew that if Elmer ran when the shooting started, he didn’t run far. The King of Worms had dangled the perfect prize in front of the necromancer’s greedy, moon-shaped eyes, and to get it, all he had to do was put me in the ground.
Glass shattered, burning alcohol spattered against concrete, and the final pit went up in flames. Fire licked the open air, hot enough to make me sweat through my filth-encrusted clothes, and the acrid black smoke drove us from the room. We shut the sheet-metal door, leaving the chamber to cook.
The rest of this mission was a smash-and-grab. Anybody not running out to the vans with armloads of stolen records and hard drives, anything that might hold a stray clue, was on arson detail. By the time the first police lights swam into view in the distance, red and blue strobes cutting the darkness, Donaghy Waste Management was burning. Flames blew out windows and spat plumes of smoke into the cloudless sky.
I didn’t ask Caitlin if she could give me a ride. I knew she would, but I also knew how she felt about keeping her car seats pristine. Instead, I crammed into one of the loot-stuffed Calles vans with Jennifer. Shooters piled in, high-fiving each other, celebrating their victory. A few of them gave me weird looks and wrinkled noses.
“You are a little ripe, hon,” Jennifer told me.
I sighed. That was an understatement. At least I was alive, intact, and I didn’t have any alien parasites making themselves at home in my intestinal tract. I counted that as a solid win.
“Yeah, just drop me off at Della’s, and I’ll remov
e my odor from your presence. First order of business is taking these clothes and burning them.”
“And after that?”
“After that…”
Good question. I’d survived the night and escaped Elmer Donaghy’s trap, but he was still out there. So was Fleiss, and now that the Network had joined forces with the Enemy—against the odds, given that one of them wanted to rule the multiverse and one wanted to burn it all down—the danger had effectively multiplied.
“After that, I’m taking a shower,” I told her. “We’ll see how things go from there.”
* * *
I trudged into my apartment, a remodeled one-bedroom over Della’s Pool Hall on the east side of town, and stripped down on the doormat. My clothes went into an extra-strength garbage bag. So did the doormat, just to be safe. Then, just like I said I would, I hit the shower like an athlete at the end of a long, hard game. The hot water and steam coursed over my aching muscles, pounding the knots out, and I ran my fingers through my slicked-back hair.
For a second I thought I might find a stray roach there, a hidden stowaway. The thought made my skin crawl and I had to pat my entire body down again until the jitters went away, but I was clean. Cleaner by the heartbeat as the water and the soap foam did its work, scrubbing away everything but my sins.
The pulse of the water drove out the sounds outside. It blanketed the world in white static and gave me some time alone with my thoughts. I spent a couple of idle minutes indulging in the One Last Score fantasy. Everybody in the life knows that one. It’s the dream where you pull a single heist, the heist, then hang it up forever. The one where you take a score big enough to float you all the way to the end of the line. It always has a happy ending, sipping frosty mixed drinks on a beach in Mexico or maybe Bora-Bora, dipping your toes in the warm surf.
Everybody has that fantasy. Most of us even have a target in mind, that big fish we could hook if all the planets lined up just right. The thing was, though, I’d known a lot of professional heisters in my day. Some were still working; some landed in a prison cell or ate a bullet. A couple retired and took on semi-legit jobs, hanging out at the edges of the underworld. Those guys, they understood: once you’re in, you can’t ever get all the way out. The life calls to you like a siren song.
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