"Jacob Cranston? Run of the mill thug-for-hire. Got a rap sheet as long as your tail, mostly petty stuff: enforcing, theft, harassment. Usually bailed out by someone else's lawyer. No family, still looking for friends. Why was Grace trailing him?"
"Harassment case. The client was a little sharper than usual."
Santry grimaced at my non-informative response. "And no theories why someone would try to murder him and pin it on you?"
I gave him a smug grin. "Glad you believe that now, but no. I'm surprised they'd think it would work. Anyone who knows me, knows I don't like filet minion."
Santry left looking wounded by my wit. The paddy wagon showed up to escort my shell-shocked guests to a nice safe prison cell, and the uniform returned to collect their gear. I took Junior's gun out back and blasted it to slag, then called the hospital. Fortunately, the ICU nurse, Lois, was a fellow parishioner.
"She's not responding to any treatment, and the poison won't leave her system. We don't know why. Dr. Sawyers is saying she's in a persistent vegetative state. He's contacting her next of kin to decide what to do next. I already called Father Rich."
I fought the urge to snarl in frustration. I was the closest thing to family Grace had, but they wouldn't accept a dragon as next-of-kin on the forms, so I'd put myself down as emergency contact (notice that no one called me) and listed her Mother Superior as next-of-kin. Mother Angela was wonderful with people and one of the best holy mages in the Church, but otherwise, didn't swim in the deepest of intellectual waters. I doubt she'd understand half of Dr. Thomas told her nor understand the implications of "persistent vegetative state."
It would take a day for her to travel from the convent to the Gap, maybe less if the Duke got involved. Suddenly, I had a deadline on this case that threatened to become literal.
No sooner did I hang up than another call came in. The caller ID said, "Anonymous." Probably a phone solicitor offering services I couldn't afford.
I should have been so lucky.
Instead a computer-generated voice operating at speeds no human would comprehend but a dragon could make out said, "Grace is almost out of time. We have the cure. Find us the Lance. Say nothing to the authorities, secular or spiritual. We will contact you." The call ended, too short for a trace.
I realized then I hadn't told Santry about the Lance. Now I couldn't, nor could I put anyone else on alert without risking Grace. But if it was the real one and it did get smuggled into Faerie....
I did the only thing I could do. I looked for that Lance.
Two hours of research later, the only thing I'd accomplished was putting a dent in the wall from twitching my tail in frustration. I'd discovered my client wasn't what she'd claimed to be—no surprise there—but I didn't have enough to know her angle on this game. I felt reasonably certain she didn't have anything to do with Grace's attack, but she hadn’t been particularly surprised about it, either. What was she hiding?
Naturally, she was not in her hotel when I came to call, nor was Cambridge. I bet myself that they were at the antiquities conference. I dropped by the conference center, but the security stopped me at the doors. I couldn't even pay to get in, legitimately or otherwise. They seemed to particularly object to my species being around their treasures.
I cased the area, and then flew a search grid around the city, trying to sniff out the Lance, the poisons that were killing Grace…anything that would help. So of course, the day had grown hot and heavy, with an upper high pressure front keeping in all the pollution and smells of Los Lagos—too many scents to sort through. The only thing I managed to find was one of my vandal visitors. He'd gone to church. That wasn't good news: the minister there believed all magic was of the Devil. Probably supported his crusade against the Faerie.
Another dead end.
The Cathedral was only a block away. Time to regroup.
It was quiet in the middle of the afternoon, with the lunchtime worshippers back at work. I knelt in the side aisle. Lord, you blessed me at the dawn of the Earth with wisdom beyond any mortal's. Thanks to St. George, most of that's gone now, but I'm not holding that against You. You and I both know what could happen if that Lance gets to Faerie, but Grace... Then I couldn't form any words.
What I wanted to do was howl, full throated and uncontrolled. I wanted Los Lagos—I wanted all the worlds, Mundane and Faerie—to know my rage against God and Man who conspired to bring me so low, to make me dependent on them, and then to make themselves so dear to me.
To make me so afraid that I no longer had what it took to protect them.
I don't know how long I was there, lost in my emotions, until I heard a tiny, "Excuse me?" I willed my face to lose its grimace and my eyes to open.
A sister stood beside me, her pale complexion and wide eyes making her look too young to have taken vows (in the Mundane Church, anyway). She was trembling slightly, and by the way her eyes flickered from me to the statue of Mary I was posed under, it was obvious she was thinking Revelation. Nonetheless, she had the grace, and the guts, to ask, "Is there any way I can help you?"
With that question, my anger washed away, replaced by weariness. "No, sister," I said, rising slowly as to not frighten her further, "there's only one who can help me now. Just pray for me. Pray for us all."
I headed to the Colt's Hoof. Some of my contacts should be there. Besides, I needed a drink.
The Roman Lance
"So what'd ya go and kill that guy for, Vern?"
I closed my eyes, poured the rest of my beer in my mouth, and swallowed. It was the third time in an hour I'd been asked that question, and yet no one had anything useful for me. If this kept up, I was going to abandon my quest for information and surrender myself to about five gallons of ethanol for a real binge. "I didn't, Lenny. Someone beat me to it."
Lenny was your standard low-class informant—did fewer drugs than he claimed, but nonetheless sold some to pay for his habit; on the edge of everything, but never actually in. Good ears, good eyes, good sense of self-preservation. He usually didn't give me information at the Hoof, but today, he seemed willing to make an exception, which meant the information he had was widely known. "Yeah? Well, there's some weird shit going on where you’re concerned. You know there's a price on your head, but anyone who offs you before the seventeenth is a dead man?"
"The seventeenth, hm?" That was the day of the so-called rally. "So who's after me this time?" I stuck some money in his jacket pocket with my tail.
"Don't know, fer sure," he said, sticking his hand in his pocket to count the bills. I knew he liked fives, neatly folded. "Some say it's the FFR. Some say the Unseelie crew is back. Some say it's some ferigners I ain't never heard of. Columbians, maybe. I know some red-headed chick's been doing the talkin'." He grinned; she must have spoken to him personally.
"Heard there's a lot of talk about a Lance," I opened. Charlie brought me another beer, my last of the evening unless I hit Eva up for expenses.
"Don't know about no Lance," Lenny said. "Do know the FFR's freaking that Hitler's coming back for them."
I almost spat out my beer. "What?"
Lenny told me the story. "Yeah. They are dead-freakin' serious, too. There's not like, any necromancers in Los Lagos I should know about?"
I was spared a reply when one of the customers by the door screamed.
Big Guns, his shaved head sweating, staggered into the bar. He banged into a table, upsetting drinks and eliciting more shrieks, and then lurched my way. As he got to the bar, he fell to his knees and handed me a package. The "FARISLAR" tattoo shone darkly against his pale knuckles.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I didn't realize... Stop them. Tell them I'm sorry..." He collapsed fully and I saw the swastika on his jacket back was saturated with his own blood.
"Call an ambulance!" I ordered and dashed out of the bar.
I'm sure everyone thought I was going after his attackers, but they weren't around. I'd have heard them. Instead, I headed down the street to the local shipping servi
ce. The world wanted to star me in Maltese Falcon; fine, but I was changing the script.
I got home, left messages for Cambridge Ramada and Eva Heidler, and waited for my mysterious caller. "I don't have the Lance, but I know where it is. I want the antidote and the murderers brought to me tomorrow morning or no deal," I told the person and hung up. I didn't need a trace. Lenny had told me who it was. I kenneled the dogs and settled down to wait.
I don't know if it was the beer or the stress or maybe the fact that I hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours, but I nodded off somewhere in the middle of the night. I woke up to the slap of meat hitting the concrete outside as someone once again drugged my dogs. I quelled my annoyance, and padded quietly (yes, dragons can do that) to the kitchen for a snack before my would-be attacker broke in. Didn't want to break my promise to Kel not to eat any suspects.
He busted in to find me by the table, gnawing on a large ham. "You're early, Weylin," I commented, feigning unconcern about the laser sight tickling my scales. "The Lance isn't here, and you won't get it if you kill me now; so don't make the same mistake your skinhead minions did. Sit down and wait; unless, of course, you don't have the antidote or the names of the murderers. In that case, you've got a couple of hours to fetch them for me. Otherwise, put that thing down and stay quiet, or you'll never see the Lance."
Weylin opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then pulled up a chair in resignation, keeping it well out of my range, even that of my tail. He refused food, but took an unopened can of soda.
It must have been later than I'd realized because I finished my snack and was just beginning to unnerve him with my Sphinx-like stare, when we heard a knock and Eva let herself in with a tentative, "Vern...?"
She was good. I'd give her that.
When she saw my other guest, her face went into an amusing series of surprise, confusion, and indecision, before pasting on a look of delight. "Vern, you found him!"
"Can it, Eva. He was never lost, and you know it as well as I. Sit down and stay quiet. We've got one more guest coming, and then I want the antidote, some names, and some answers, in that order. I'll give the Lance to whomever I believe the most."
"You have the Lance?"
"Not with me. I'm not stupid—look it up in the Yellow Pages. A penitent skinhead gave it to me in a bar. I'm sure one or more of you know that. I took the liberty of mailing it to myself. It should be here in a while, after our next guest arrives."
Soon enough, Ramada arrived without Junior, and I turned to my merry little party. "First off, who has the antidote?"
Everyone looked at everyone else. Finally, Cambridge spoke. "I do not even know the nature of the poison, but as I'd said earlier, I will ensure my client secures the best care possible for your partner. If there is a cure, you will have it."
"I'm not showing you anything until I see the Lance," Weylin muttered.
Eva just looked innocent and confused.
Two strikes and a maybe. "All right. Let's talk murders. What's the story with Cranston?"
"He was one of mine, I'm afraid," Cambridge said, heaving a sigh instead of his usual asthmatic snicker. "Problem with hiring the local help. He was supposed to put pressure on Miss Heidler here, show her the wisdom of relinquishing the Lance to my client. At the same time, he was supposed to be using his contacts to find young Weylin. I didn't expect Miss Heidler to turn the tables on us."
"Well?" I prompted Eva.
"All right," she looked at her hands, even now playing demure. "I didn't have the Lance. I didn't know where Weylin was. We got separated after..."
"After one of you killed Pointiers in cold blood?"
"It wasn't like that!" Weylin said. "He'd promised me the Lance. He'd brought it here for me. He even demanded extra money. Then he suddenly decided to renege on our deal, the little—" He swore in German.
Eva glanced up sharply and hissed, but it was too late. He’d confirmed my suspicions. If Lenny had known his information was so accurate, he’d probably have charged more.
I shrugged my wings, feigning nonchalance. "So you shot him. Fine. What about Cranston? Why make it look like me?"
Brother and sister exchanged bewildered looks. One of them was acting.
"Why risk killing for it?" I asked in my best longsuffering voice. "There are three known lances making claims to be the Lance of Destiny. You know this one's probably fake?"
"It is the real one! We have done the research: Pointiers and Eva and I. This is the Lance used by Longinus to pierce Christ, and which our—"
"Weylin, shut up!" Eva shouted. "He does not need to know!" Then, she turned to me, her eyes pleading and innocent. "Please, Vern, please. We are certain it's the real one; even more, those from whom we were stealing it know it's the real one. They're the real enemy here. And he's in their employ!" She pointed theatrically in Ramada's direction, but he only chuckled. "After what you told me, I know we have to spirit it away. I wish I had an antidote, I really do. But isn't it more important that we get the Lance away from here? I've been watching the news. I know there's a big Fourth Reich cell here. They're behind all that, too, don't you see? Help us, Vern. Help us get the Lance. We'll escape to Faerie, have it destroyed…”
Her solilo-plea was interrupted by a knock on the door. The courier, right on time. I took the package between my teeth so no one would be tempted to wrest it from me. "Pay the nice man, Eva," I instructed through my mouthful.
Despite her feigned tension, she managed to sneer, "Tuh!" but Ramada, chuckling all the while, paid the delivery fee and tip.
They gathered around the table as I ripped apart the packaging. They began ooh-ing and aw-ing at once.
"It's amazing!" Ramada murmured.
"It's beautiful!" Eva breathed.
“It’s ours,” Weylin hissed.
"It's fake." I declared.
They turned to me in surprise. I rolled my eyes. "You can't fool this nose. The blood staining the shaft? Not more than five hundred years old. The shaft itself is aster plantanoides. They didn't have Olmsted Norway Maples in the Roman Empire. You're looking at a bona fide copy—no power potential whatsoever."
Eva gave a small gasp. Weylin opened and closed his mouth several times, but nothing came out.
Ramada sighed deep within his throat. "A shame, a shame. Nonetheless, my employer is more interested in the historical content. As I am the one most likely to obtain an antidote, may I assume the prize goes to me?"
"No!" the other two shouted in desperate unison.
On cue, sirens began to wail outside.
"Actually, I think the police will have to decide that..." I said as uniformed officers burst into my lair, guns drawn.
Weylin swung his gun up, but I knocked it out of his hands before he could fire it. Eva, however, took the opportunity to grab the Lance and run. Unfortunately for her, she got as far as the locked back door. She only had time to look at the window which stood tantalizingly open from her brother's earlier entrance before I lashed out with my tail and pulled the Lance from her hands. Behind us, we heard the police struggle with Weylin.
"Wait!" Slowly, she pulled something out of her purse. "Antidote."
The vial shone dully in the light of the window. I was mesmerized, the commotion behind us forgotten.
"It doesn't matter if the Lance is fake; it's still worth a fortune. But you don’t care about that, do you? You have a greater treasure—your friend the nun. Give me the Lance; tell the police I'm an innocent bystander. I'm your client, remember? Do it, and the antidote's yours." She swirled the cloudy liquid temptingly.
And I was tempted. God forgive me, even when I knew she was a liar and evil to the core, I was tempted. And it made me furious.
She stepped toward me, only to jerk back in fright as my wings unfurled with a snap and I reared into my most aggressive stance. "Forget it, Eva Heidler—or should I say, Fuhrer-wanna-be Ms. Hitler?
"You did a great job covering your tracks, but like an overconfident hack, you forgot about you
r names. Heidler, a derivative of Hitler. And Weylin, son of the wolf, son of Adolf, which also means wolf? Your parents were as bad as Ramada's. You're the one the skinheads are planning the rally for. Were you going to use the Lance to inspire them to massacre?"
"I don't have to answer to you. I'm a human. I don't have to follow cliché." But behind her, brother Weylin was already spilling his guts about their glorious plan, interspersed with propaganda and insults for the "fairy-loving" coppers who were cuffing him as he ranted.
"Give it up, Eva," I repeated. "Give me the antidote. Right now, it's attempted murder. Do you want to make it Murder One?"
"Please! Make me a martyr. She's just fairy filth like you." With a snarl, she spun and threw the vial out the window. I heard it shatter against the dumpsters.
I roared and gave myself to my rage. I slammed the Lance on the ground, shattering it in my fury, then loosed a stream of fire and set it ablaze.
Eva screamed and threw herself at me. I knocked her aside. I heard Santry shouting, but his words meant nothing. I breathed fire upon it until even the stone floor cracked and crumbled. I breathed fire upon it until it was nothing but ash.
I breathed fire upon it knowing I had just killed my partner and my best friend.
When at last the fire in my belly and my heart had spent itself, I became aware of Santry's shouts. "What the hell were you doing? That was evidence!"
"That was a weapon. Haven't you heard the street buzz? The new Hitler was coming and he—or she—" I threw a nasty look at Eva. "—was bringing a weapon of Mundane magic to lead them in their cause. Get enough SS wannabes believing that Lance makes them invincible and you're got an army of single-minded fanatics who think they can't die. And that's just what would happen with a fake. I just did you a favor, Santry. I just did this whole damn world a favor."
I turned to Eva, "Because you know what, mein fuhrer? That was the genuine article. I lied."
With a scream, she launched herself at me. I swatted her Santry's way and turned my back on them both as she struggled against him. "I'm going to see Grace. Lock up when you're done here, Santry. I'll be by the station after..."
Greater Treasures: A DragonEye Novella Page 4
