“So, Zephyr Hollis, you’re a well-known community figure. Who do you think is responsible for unleashing this horrifying drug?”
I looked back at her, incredulous. Didn’t she see what was happening in here? “Who the hell do you think is responsible, Lily? The archduke of Prussia?”
A door on the opposite side of the room opened, letting in three more police officers. They each had a gun in one hand and a billy club in the other—clearly they weren’t taking any chances with the situation. And neither was I.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please move to the back exit. We are clearing the station.”
At first, no one listened, but a few intemperate smacks from billy clubs got their attention. Much as I abhor violence, I was grateful for the distraction. As the mob moved sluggishly toward the doorway, I saw just enough room for Lily and me to edge along the back wall to the side door.
“I’m not leaving,” Lily said. “This is a scoop—”
“Fine, then scoop it from the doorway.”
I stood up, grabbed her notebook and dragged her along behind me. Two shots, loud enough to make my ears ring, cracked the air. A shower of plaster fell onto my hair and shoulders. Lily shrieked, but she wasn’t the only one.
“I said get back!”
“Take the bruxa!” The voice was male, but I couldn’t see who owned it. I could, however, finally see the unfortunate vampire who had started this latest mess. She was pressed against a deputy’s desk on the far left wall, frantically hitting anyone who came too close. Her skin was ash-gray and pulled so tight over her swollen joints I imagined I could hear them creaking. And yet I doubted she had been more than twenty when she turned. She needed blood, that much was obvious. The police officers surrounding part of the crowd looked at each other. One of them shrugged.
“Please leave the building. No humans or Others are permitted at this time.”
A man dressed in dust-caked dungarees lunged forward to grab the vampire’s arm. She cursed and jumped away with inhuman speed. He was left with a torn bit of her sleeve; she now stood on the desk. I stared at the police officers, waiting for them to take the vampire and shoo the crowd away. But when someone else lunged at her, they stayed back.
“What are they doing?” I asked, unable to believe what I was seeing.
Lily put a hand on my shoulder. “Letting them take her, I think.”
To do what? Rip her limb from limb before feeding her pitiful exsanguinated corpse to the stray dogs? “Oh, fuck.” I handed Lily back her notebook.
“Go through that door,” I said, pointing to the one a few feet away. “Don’t you dare follow me. If you wait, you’ll get your damn scoop.” One way or another. VAMPIRE SUFFRAGETTE DEFIES LYNCH MOB or MORON SQUASHED LIKE BUG IN POLICE HEADQUARTERS? I gave Lily a shove in the right direction and then launched myself at the crowd. They let me pass fairly easily, I’m not sure why. Maybe the grim expression on my face, or the silver blade I’d taken from beneath my skirt. I came upon a police officer a few seconds later.
“Don’t you dare let this mob take that woman!” I yelled, loudly enough that few people paused to listen.
The man winced and wiped his forehead as though I’d spit on him. “She’s no woman. And you try reasoning with these folks. Now get back.”
He shoved me behind him and I stumbled to one knee. Several pairs of feet kicked me in the shins and ribs before I managed to stagger upright again. More gunshots cracked the air, but this time I couldn’t even tell if they came from the police. Several people were lunging for the vampire, who just barely eluded them. This couldn’t go on for much longer. She might be faster, but no vampire that weak and desperate could evade a mob of bloodthirsty humans for long.
Well, just how stupid are you, Zephyr?
“Bastards!” the woman yelled. “Bastard police! You’ll let them do this!” Someone rocked the desk.
Very, very stupid.
I let out a roar and shoved my way forward, pushing and stomping on anyone in my path. I didn’t hesitate; I jumped onto the desk with the vampire and prayed that she wouldn’t choose this moment to retaliate against her attackers. She didn’t. She just stared at me. “Help?” she said.
I nodded and waved the knife at the crowd.
“Look at her! She’s just like you. She has nothing to do with Faust and what happened last night. If you kill her, it’s simple murder. But since some of you seem to have left your moral compasses at home, I’ll make it simple. It’s definitely murder to kill me. I’m still human.”
“Give her up! We don’t want to hurt you.”
I laughed. “Well, I think that’s the point. You’re going to have to.”
My gamble seemed to be working. The almost palpable anger of the crowd was slowly turning to confusion. People murmured among themselves. Even the police lowered their pistols with looks of obvious relief.
“Hey,” said a woman close to the front of the crowd, “that’s that girl. The one who teaches night school.”
One of the police officers laughed. “Hey, vampire suffragette, sing us a song, why don’t you?”
“A duet!”
The police knew about my singing debut? I guess Horace made sure to pay off everyone. “I don’t give out songs for free, boys.”
A few people laughed, but most were letting themselves be pushed through the double doors, back onto the street. After a few moments I jumped off the desk and held my hand up to the vampire to help her down. Out of danger, she’d begun to shake so badly I thought she might crack her brittle bones.
“Th-thank you,” she said. Her accent was faintly Italian.
“How long has it been since you fed?”
She shook her head. “Tuesday. But, you see . . .” She looked carefully at me, and then drew the scarf from around her shoulders. When she pushed back the fabric, the problem was evident: a silver bullet, lodged beside her shoulder blades. Not enough to exsanguinate immediately, but enough to weaken her to death. Unless she got proper treatment, which certainly wasn’t going to happen at an Other-phobic police station or hospital.
“Who did that?”
“Someone in my neighborhood. I didn’t see who. They saw me walking and shot . . . I didn’t know what to do.”
There’s vigilante justice for you. Lily, having decided that the situation was safe enough to ignore my warnings, approached the two of us.
“Well, never a boring moment with you around, is there?” She grinned and then ostentatiously kissed her reporter’s notebook. “Gold, I tell you. Zephyr, you and I make a peachy team.”
I returned the smile. “And I’m sure your paper loves human interest stories.”
“What, sucker bites man? I already have plenty of that, thanks.”
“Oh no, how about man shoots sucker with silver bullet? A few tenements have organized themselves into armed militias. Silver bullets and itchy trigger fingers, Lily. Along with some definitive information about where Faust is coming from.”
Lily’s mouth twisted. “Why do I think I won’t be getting the better end of this bargain? What do you want for it, Zephyr?”
“Just take this woman down to the Blood Bank on St. Marks Place. Ask for Ysabel. if she can’t help her, she’ll know someone who can.”
“Wait, why can’t you do that? I’m not the do-gooder in this relationship.”
I took a step away and pulled Lily closer to me, so hopefully the vampire wouldn’t be able to hear us. “One of these tenement vigilante groups shot her a few hours ago with a silver bullet. Which can kill vampires in less than a day. I don’t have time, dearest Lily. I promised Nicholas—you know, the Turn Boy—that I’d meet him at noon.”
Lily sighed. “Fine. Deal. But you definitely have something solid about Faust and Rinaldo?”
“You know, I’m not sure it’s sound journalistic practice to plant information in your sources and then quote the sources for corroborating evidence.”
Lily let the corners of her mouth curve up into a cool, sup
ercilious smile. “What you don’t know about journalistic ethics could fill President Taft’s belly, Zephyr. And anyway, so long as you have fresh evidence . . .”
“I do. Just take care of her.”
Lily nodded. “I’ll see you later to night. Iris has finally convinced me to attend one of those ghastly meetings.”
She set off at a brisk pace, forcing the vampire to struggle to keep up with her. I shook my head. For a reporter, Lily had certain remarkable blind spots on her observational skills.
“Miss, sorry, we need to clear the station.” It was the police officer Lily had been interviewing. I looked around the station and realized I was the only civilian left.
“Wait, could you just help me with one thing?” Since I just saved your collective posteriors a few minutes ago. I didn’t say that part, but I raised my eyebrows high enough for him catch my meaning.
“Ah, right. What can I do for you?”
“I . . . um . . . I think I saw a little boy I heard went missing last Thursday. I’m wondering if anyone reported him missing.”
“On Thursday?” He shook his head slowly. “None that I know of. Now last night and this morning? About seven.” He shrugged.
I let out a slow breath, a little surprised at the depth of my disappointment. If no one had reported a missing child, then he could be one of hundreds of faceless immigrant children. Hell, he could even be indigent, for all I knew. I started to wonder if I’d ever find Judah’s family.
The air outside was shocking cold after the heated mash of bodies inside the station, but I kept myself warm by bicycling furiously the rest of the way to South Ferry. There were a few ships docked when I arrived, and the piers were loaded with goods and milling people. I elbowed my way toward a likely-looking police boat. An officer lounging on the dock looked up when I approached. He listened sympathetically enough when I explained that I was looking for a missing little boy, but offered me no more help than the officers back in the precinct office.
“Sorry, miss, but there’s a lot of parents and kids come to Battery Park. We don’t even know all the ones that work on the ships, let alone anyone else.”
Brilliant. “Would you say any of the ships here have particularly frightening horns?” I knew I was flailing, but I wouldn’t compound it by looking embarrassed.
He laughed, as well he might. “Frightening, miss? For a little tyke, maybe. But I wouldn’t know what. And none of the big ships dock here. You might try Chelsea.”
“I . . . I don’t suppose you’d mind . . . demonstrating? Your horn, I mean?”
He looked a tad uncomfortable, as though he were belatedly questioning my sanity. I gave him my brightest smile and he shrugged. “Eh, why not? Bill,” he called, to one of the men on the boat. “Give the whistle a pull, will you? Lady down here wants to know how it sounds.”
Bill obliged and I gave an involuntary start. Goodness, was that volume truly necessary? Still, it by no means seemed harsh or deep enough to frighten even a susceptible eleven-year-old at all used to the water. Besides, a series of docks like notches on a key went all around Manhattan. None of these seemed very child friendly, and all of them served thousands of ships. Maybe I could try Chelsea, but my shoulders slumped and I barely remembered to thank the officers before leaving. This felt like a dead end. I could only hope Judah remembered something else.
I had only twenty minutes left before my tutoring session with Nicholas. There were too many things I needed to know that only the leader of the Turn Boys could tell me: where they’d kidnapped Judah, how they planned to run Faust into the city, where Rinaldo’s lair was located.
Nicholas, of course, would kill me before telling me any of it. Which meant I had to trick him.
The inside of the Beast’s Rum was dark as a tomb, and nearly as quiet as one. Blackout blinds had been pulled over all of the windows, and I had to knock for nearly a minute before a shuffling, hooded vampire let me inside. The only sounds came from a few suckers quietly nursing bags of clean blood, and one muttering to himself in the corner. They looked miserable. I spared them my sympathy.
“Is Nicholas here?” I whispered to the one who had opened the door. He looked up and I realized, with a shock, that it was Charlie. He looked like he’d lost twenty pounds in the last twelve hours.
“In back,” he said, his voice a rough whisper.
“You look like shit,” I said.
He coughed. “Well. Faust is a kick in the balls.”
“Hope it was worth it.”
His beatific smile surprised me. “Oh, yes.”
I started to walk away, but he reached out to grab my shoulder. I bit my lip against a shudder.
“Be careful. He’s a bit . . . the Faust, you know.”
He seemed worried, insistent that I understand. But I wasn’t sure what I needed to know. That Nicholas was crazy? I’d gathered that already. Dangerous? I could handle it.
“Don’t worry,” I said, shrugging off his hand. “I’ll be fine.”
I bumped into a few tables before I found the door to the back room. A faint gas lamp illuminated the gloom inside. Nicholas sat on the floor, his back against the pile of ruined instruments. His skin was flushed with blood, but oddly pale beneath the blush. Faust with a chaser of Homo sapiens? I hoped the blood had been willingly donated, but I doubted it. His head lolled against his chest. I would have thought him asleep, if not for his glowing, open eyes.
“I won’t let you,” he whispered.
“Nicholas?”
“Please, not the cage, I don’t need it anymore . . .” He didn’t look at me, and something about his distant expression reminded me of Judah, hallucinating in Kardal’s palace. “There’s something in there with me. It roars, Papa.”
My heart pounded. But before I could ask him what he meant, he raised his head. The fit had passed, what ever it was. He looked tired, but lucid.
His fingers beat an irregular tattoo on the dusty floor. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
He had never seemed more childlike, or more alien. “I told you, I need the money.”
I waited, but he didn’t seem inclined to move. After a moment, I shrugged and pulled up a chair from the table.
“Think you can get through the rest of the alphabet?”
“You know La Bohème? Musetta’s waltz? ‘Quando m’en vo’ soletta la via.’ ”
I was shocked. Imagine being made to feel like a rube by an illiterate vampire gangster. “I’m not really sure . . .”
He started to sing. If I’d been startled by his question, his voice nearly made my heart stop. I’d heard that the Italians would sometimes geld particularly talented boys right before puberty, and that the monstrous operation produced voices that were perfectly and eerily balanced between the falsetto of a boy and the tenor of a man. Nicholas’s voice was high as a boy’s, but somehow broader and richer. I had never heard a castrato—not even on a phonograph. A castrato voice, of course, had time to mature to adulthood whereas Nicholas’s had been frozen, but I imagined that the two sounds could not be dissimilar. He moved his hands, as though in time to an unseen orchestra. His eyes splashed light in the darkened room when he hit that soaring high note. Of course I recognized the song then. My musical tastes might run more toward Negro jazz than Italian operas, but it was hard to avoid such a popular, heartbreaking melody. He cut himself off abruptly toward the end of the song, a gentle vibrato morphing effortlessly into a harsh laugh.
He stood, cracked the neck off a smashed guitar and hurled it at the far wall. The strings whistled by my face, but I didn’t think he’d been aiming for me. Cold comfort.
“Papa loved that one,” he said. His breathing was labored for no reason I could discern. “But he never made me sing it.”
Back to troubled parental relationships, were we? Tread lightly, Zephyr. “Your papa . . . encouraged you to sing?”
He let off that harsh bark of a laugh again. I winced, expecting another projectile, but he held himself still. “Encour
aged. That’s a do-gooder word for you. You’d like some others? How’s about forced? Threatened? Oh, here’s a good one, tortured.”
Tortured? How do you torture someone to sing? But given Nicholas’s twisted expression and bright eyes, I was inclined to believe him. “No wonder you hate music,” I said.
“You only hate what you love.”
I sighed. Like Daddy yelling at me one minute and hugging me the next. “Parents,” I said, for a moment forgetting that I was talking to Nicholas, and not just a troubled boy, “are a great trial to us all.”
Nicholas took a few quick strides toward me and sat down on the other chair. “So, show me some letters, Charity.”
I reached up to turn on the ceiling light. He made a great show of groaning and shielding his eyes from the light, but he didn’t object. I wondered, as I wrote down the second half of the alphabet, why I felt so safe around him, compared to just yesterday. Did I really think he was less likely to snap and kill me? Or maybe it was as simple as knowing thine enemy. If I could predict his rages, there was less to fear. He had an even more difficult time concentrating today than he had yesterday, though I knew he was trying. I wanted to take pity on us both and give up, but I still had to implement my plan. I’d decided to represent the letters with the names of streets that he would be familiar with. And, conveniently, I planned to include as many streets in the vicinity of Judah’s attack as possible. It was a long shot, but perhaps with enough prodding he would say enough to give me a clue as to where he’d found Judah.
“So, L is for Lafayette or Leonard,” I said, writing the words down in large, round letters. Nicholas mouthed the word while following my pen with his finger. “Followed by M, which stands for . . .”
I let the ellipsis hang hopefully in the air for a few seconds. Nicholas looked up at me. “Morris?”
I allowed myself a small grin. “Yes, perfect.” Morris was a tiny street even farther downtown than Leonard or Catherine. Of course, his dredging it up proved absolutely nothing. But why would he pick a street so much farther from his normal area? Because something had happened there recently? I felt vindicated when he picked “Pearl” for P, “Rector” for R. But when we finally reached S, Nicholas balked.
Moonshine (2010) Page 15
