“So you do have information?”
“Yeah. But I can’t talk about it over the phone. Hampson was furious when some reporter rang his doorbell last night. If it got back to him I was asking questions …”
“I understand. Okay, when and where?”
“What is it now, ten thirty? Let’s make it noon. At the Hatch Shell. Nobody will be around on a day like this.”
That was for sure. The Hatch Shell was an outdoor stage beside the Charles River. No concerts there when it was below freezing.
“All right. Thanks, Daniel. I know it’s risky for you to help me.”
“Wait—can you hang on again?” Away from the phone he said, “Go ahead. I’ll catch up in two seconds.” A pause of a few more beats, then he was back. “I’ll see you at noon,” he said in a low, hurried voice. “There’s more to talk about than T.J.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s happened again.”
“It’s—Daniel, what do you mean? What’s happened?”
But he’d already hung up.
12
IT’S HAPPENED AGAIN.
Another zombie had been killed. That had to be what Daniel meant. I turned on Juliet’s TV, lowered the volume a few notches, and found Channel 10. A local talk show was on: A pastry chef was teaching the host and hostess how to make crêpes suzette. The chef used a lighter to ignite the dessert, and the hostess screamed and jumped back, laughing.
Not exactly an urgent special report on mysterious zombie deaths in Deadtown.
I flipped to the Paranormal News Network. Even though Sykes had promised Lynne Hong an exclusive, now that the story was out, PNN must be following up. A photo of Tina in her audition outfit flashed on the screen for a story about the new members of Monster Paul’s Zombie Freak Show and the free Paranormal Appreciation Day concert. But even though I watched through a complete news cycle, there was nothing on PNN, either. Or any other channel I tried. Nothing about T.J., and nothing about a second death.
Maybe I was jumping to conclusions. When Daniel said, “It’s happened again,” he could’ve meant anything. Something at work or with his ex, probably. Just because I was thinking about T.J. didn’t mean Daniel was.
Back on Channel 10, a spot for the local news listed the noon broadcast’s top stories. Still no mention of any zombie death or a police cover-up.
T.J.’s story hadn’t run. Who’s going to speak for him now? Sykes had asked. He’d tried. He’d risked his career to do so. And the response was resounding silence.
I muted the TV and looked up the phone number for the Channel 10 newsroom. When someone answered, I asked for Lynne Hong. “It’s about her zombie story from last night.”
The extension rang three times, and I almost hung up, figuring there was no point in leaving a voice mail. But then she answered.
“Lynne Hong.”
“Hi, I’m calling to find out whether Channel 10 aired your story about a zombie death in the New Combat Zone.”
“How do you know about that?” she asked sharply.
“I was in the Zone last night when you interviewed Officer Sykes. I didn’t catch the news, so—”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Vicky Vaughn.”
“Well, Ms. Vaughn, the answer is no. We didn’t air the story because there was no story.”
“But Officer Sykes—”
“Has been suspended due to allegations he assaulted a fellow officer. There’s no evidence to support his claims.”
No evidence. I’d hydroplaned across Creature Comforts through the evidence. And Hong was letting the story go.
“Did you actually investigate his claims? Or did you just take Hampson’s word for it?”
“Of course I investigated—or tried to. Sykes’s partner wouldn’t talk to me. I called Creature Comforts multiple times, but no one answered. The police department maintains that no zombie was murdered in the Zone. I can’t go on the air with unsubstantiated allegations from a suspended cop with a grudge.”
“A zombie did die in Creature Comforts. And there may have been a second death.”
“A second—?” Hong paused, presumably to grab a pen. “Who? Where?”
I hesitated. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t want to get Daniel in trouble. I wasn’t even sure what he’d meant. “I don’t know. It’s just a rumor.”
Hong made a disgusted sound. “I can follow up rumors. But only if I have some information to go on.”
“You do have information. What happened to T.J. isn’t a rumor. It’s real. Keep trying with Axel, the bar’s owner. He’ll talk to you.” I started to hang up.
“Ms. Vaughn—wait, you said Vicky Vaughn? You’re the PA who pulled that vampire off a human a few months back. The story was on CNN. You never returned my calls. You’re some kind of werewolf, right?”
If there’s one surefire way to keep me talking, it’s to call me a werewolf. “No, I’m not a werewolf. I’m a shapeshifter, of the Cerddorion race. It’s not the same. Shapeshifters—”
Not that Lynne Hong cared. “That happened in Creature Comforts, too,” she said, talking over me. “What’s going on in that place?”
This time I did hang up.
A game show was coming on the silent TV. I checked the time and jumped. I had to pack. But first a shower. I turned off the television, grabbed my bathrobe, and headed down the hall. Just short of the bathroom, I stopped. Something seemed out of place, and it took me a second to figure out what it was. Juliet’s bedroom door was open—my roommate always slept with her door closed and locked. For the space of two breaths, I hesitated, then I stuck my head through the doorway. The coffin lid was open. I turned on the light and confirmed what I already knew. Juliet’s coffin was empty.
In the years we’d shared this apartment, Juliet had never stayed out all day. Not once. She wouldn’t disintegrate into dust or anything if she slept somewhere else—but she always said that nothing recharged her like returning to her own coffin each dawn.
Then again, she’d mentioned something about a new man, about going back to his place. Maybe she’d found another way to recharge her batteries.
Don’t wait up. J.
Weird chanting echoed through my mind, making me glance back at the empty living room. I shook it off, went into the bathroom, and started the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed and rooting around the back of my closet. I dug out my small duffel bag, tossed it on the bed, and unzipped it. Armfuls of underwear and sweaters and jeans went from dresser drawers into a tangled heap in the bag. I found my passport in a desk drawer and zipped it into the outside pocket. It was still current—a good thing, too. Last time I’d renewed it, the monsters were still in hiding. Now that we were common knowledge, the government required “paranormal status”—backed up by DNA test results—on passport applications. If Kane failed with his civil rights case, I might not qualify for a passport after this one expired. For now, though, it was easier for me to leave the country than to cross a state line.
I stared at the jumble of clothes spilling out of my bag. I had no idea what I’d thrown in there. Not that it mattered. I had a closet full of clothes at Maenllyd, and Mab would make sure my bathroom there was stocked with toiletries. What I really wanted to pack were a few of my favorite weapons—the bronze dagger with the mother-of-pearl hilt, a pistol or two. And the Sword of Saint Michael, since Difethwr was back. But then I’d have to check my bag, and those weapons were too valuable to entrust to airline baggage handlers. Mab had weapons; her collection was far larger than mine.
I stuffed a couple of wayward sweater sleeves into the bag and zipped it up. It was time to go meet Daniel.
IN THE LOBBY OF MY BUILDING, THE STRONG SMELL OF AMMONIA tickled my nose and made my eyes water. Two zombies, wearing jumpsuits with DIRTY JOB CLEANING stenciled across the back, pushed mops across the floor.
Clyde looked up from his Boston Globe. No News of the Dead for Clyde—he wouldn’t be caught undead read
ing that rag.
I greeted him. “I met the new doorman last night,” I said. “Nice guy.”
Clyde harrumphed. “Former doorman, you mean.”
“He quit?” That surprised me.
“Presumably. He deserted his post. Lord knows how long the building went unattended last night.”
Huh. Maybe Juliet had come home. Maybe she and her admirer Gary hit it off so well that the two of them ran away together. The idea made me smile.
“That wasn’t even the worst of it,” Clyde continued. “He left the lobby in shocking condition. Filthy, just filthy. I had to call in the cleaning company, and we weren’t on their schedule for today. They’ve only just arrived. I had to sit here for hours with a reeking mess. The smell was so horrendous I was forced to cover my nose with my handkerchief.”
Dread squeezed my heart with icy fingers. One of the zombies lifted his mop to dunk it in his bucket. Black slime dripped from the mop head in long strings.
Abandoning Clyde, I ran to the nearest zombie. “Did you find any brass buttons while you were cleaning?”
He kept his head down, straight brown hair hiding his eyes, and swiped up more black goo with his mop.
The other zombie came over. He was older and shorter than the mopping one. “Ricky’s a good worker, but he’s not too bright. He’s shy around strangers. Let me.” He touched Ricky’s arm and spoke softly. “Ricky, tell the nice lady. Did you pick up anything here?”
Ricky kept looking at his boots, but he quit mopping. He stood motionless for several seconds. Then he dug into his pocket. He pulled out his hand, closed in a tight fist, and held it against his chest. He glanced at the older zombie, who nodded. Then, all at once, he smiled and held out his open palm. Sitting there were three slime-streaked buttons.
“Shiny,” said Ricky.
It’s happened again.
I closed my eyes and took deep breaths to dispel the adrenaline that had my body on red alert. Nothing to fight. Nothing to flee—as much as I’d like to run out of here screaming. I opened my eyes again. “Clyde,” I said over my shoulder, “call the Goon Squad.”
Ricky’s face tightened in panic. He dropped his mop and clutched his fist against his chest, shielding it with his other hand. “You’re not in trouble, Ricky,” I said, making my voice gentle. “But the police officers will need those buttons as evidence. Here …” I dug into my own pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “This money is shiny, too. Can I buy your buttons?”
“Money?” Ricky gazed at the coins doubtfully, and I moved my hand so they’d catch the light. He tilted his head at his supervisor, who nodded. Ricky carefully placed the three buttons in my hand, then scooped up the coins. He held them out to his supervisor. “Shiny!”
Clyde hadn’t picked up the phone. I strode back to his desk and dropped the buttons on the blotter. “Gary didn’t quit,” I said. “He was killed. The same thing happened yesterday to another zombie in the Zone. Call the Goon Squad, now. Ask for Brian Sykes. No, wait.” I remembered what Lynne Hong had said on the phone. “Sykes has been—Um, he’s on leave. Ask for Elmer Norden.” Norden was a jerk, but he was as outraged as Sykes when those detectives cut short the Creature Comforts investigation. “No more cleaning until he gets here.”
Clyde stared at me, phone in hand. “But the lobby—”
“Is full of evidence. Don’t disturb it any more than it’s already been disturbed.”
“What if someone comes in?”
“This is more important than a clean lobby, Clyde. Anyway, we’re in Deadtown. Besides a few day-shift workers, everyone’s home sleeping behind blackout shades. Who’s going to come in?”
My question was rhetorical. But as if in answer, the street door opened. Lynne Hong, wearing her red parka, marched across the lobby, looking determined. Pretty brave of her to venture into Deadtown alone, even in the middle of the day.
“Ms. Vaughn,” she said. “I’m glad I caught you. I have some questions about our phone conversation.”
“I can’t talk now.” I was already late for my meeting with Daniel. “But I can tell you I was right. There has been another zombie death, and it happened right here. The night doorman is dead. His name was Gary, and that black stuff over there is all that’s left of him.”
Hong pulled a reporter’s notebook from her bag. “You said Gary?” she asked. “Last name?”
“I don’t know.” I nodded toward the doorman’s desk. “Clyde can fill you in. And Norden—Sykes’s partner—should be here in a few minutes. I’m late for an appointment.”
Hong started to protest, but I pushed past her and headed toward the door. In a clean corner of the floor, Ricky sat sorting his coins into piles. His supervisor stared at the pool of black stuff, rubbing his neck.
Poor Gary, I thought, pushing open the door. He never did get the chance to talk Shakespeare with Juliet.
13
AS I CROSSED BOSTON COMMON, THICK CLOUDS LOOMED overhead, threatening snow, but at least the cloud cover warmed up the day a little. If you call five or six degrees below freezing warm. The skaters on the Frog Pond didn’t seem to mind the cold. Bundled up in a rainbow of brightly colored jackets, hats, and mittens, they laughed and twirled and zipped around and around the frozen pond. Couples held hands. Little kids toppled over and got up again, standing shakily on their skates and waving away Mom’s or Nanny’s proffered hand.
The cold, gloomy weather matched my mood better than theirs. I exited the Common, crossed Beacon Street, and turned left, passing tall, stately houses built of brick and stone, unable to blot out the images that pushed into my mind. A stub of finger wearing a ring. Three brass buttons streaked with filth. Pools of stinking black goo. I hoped Daniel had some answers.
As I turned right toward the footbridge over Storrow Drive, I also hoped I hadn’t missed him. I was ten minutes late, and it was the middle of a workday for him. A crazy workday, from what he’d said, with Commissioner Hampson up in arms. He was taking a risk to meet me.
It was colder on the footbridge. The icy wind from the Charles River smacked me full in the face. I narrowed my watering eyes and hurried across the bridge. From here, I could see a few lunchtime fitness fanatics running along the Esplanade. And a single pacing figure, his collar turned up against the wind.
“Daniel!” I shouted, but the wind blew my words away. I doubted he could hear me over the roar of Storrow Drive traffic, anyway. But he was waiting for me. I broke into a jog.
He was checking his watch as I puffed up to him. He saw me and grinned, his smile a sudden beam of sunlight in the dim day. He stepped forward, raising his arms like he wanted to give me a hug, but he stopped and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. His smile stayed in place.
I could’ve used the hug. Why was Daniel always so tentative around me?
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, then blurted out the question that had bothered me all the way over here. “Why didn’t you tell me the second zombie death happened in my building?”
Daniel’s smile melted into a puzzled half-scowl. That’s when it hit me: Daniel couldn’t have known about Gary’s death. Until I’d stumbled across the scene half an hour ago, Clyde hadn’t called anyone besides the cleaning company.
When Daniel had said, “It’s happened again,” he’d been talking about someone else.
We stared at each other, horrified realization dawning. “Who was killed in your building?” Daniel asked.
“The night doorman, Gary. He was new. But this is the first you’ve heard about it, right?”
He nodded. “I was talking about a Goon Squad officer. Brian Sykes.”
Oh, God, no.
A gust from the river slammed into me. Not Sykes. Not the one zombie who could walk away from a bleeding human. Not the guy who put up with an asshole partner and tried to do the right thing.
“I knew him, Daniel.” My voice shook. “I knew all of them.”
More than two thousand zombies lived in Deadtown. I was on speaking term
s with—how many? Maybe fifty, sixty? All three deaths were zombies I knew. I didn’t like those odds.
“You’re shivering,” Daniel said, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s walk.”
My feet started moving, but I didn’t see where we were going. What I saw was Difethwr’s hideous face, laughing at me in my dreams. Since its return, the Destroyer had appeared to me three times: in the dream where it destroyed my watch, in Tyler’s dream, and in my dream-phone call to Mab. Three visits from the Destroyer. Three zombie deaths.
The day darkened as another realization hit me. I thought back. Yes, it was true. In each case, the zombie who died was the last zombie I’d spoken to before I encountered the Destroyer in a dream.
I called T.J. to ask about my watch, and then I went to bed.
I spoke to Sykes outside Creature Comforts, and then I left the Zone and went to work in Tyler’s dream.
I introduced myself to Gary, and then I called Mab on the dream phone.
Shit. It was me. Somehow, the Destroyer had used me to zero in on each victim.
No wonder Mab didn’t want me to fall asleep.
I explained all this to Daniel, who listened without interruption, nodding from time to time. “When did Sykes die?” I asked.
“Between the time he talked to that reporter and the time his partner knocked on his door at about two thirty A.M.”
That fit. I’d been in Tyler’s dream until two. “Norden found him?”
“Yeah. He wanted to see how Sykes was holding up after the commissioner suspended him. When Norden discovered Sykes’s remains, he went straight to headquarters and tore the place apart. That’s how I heard about it.”
“What happened?”
“Norden got suspended. There’s talk of pressing charges against him.”
“Hampson has to open an investigation now,” I said. “A police officer has been killed.”
Daniel shook his head. “Not going to happen. He’d like nothing better than to dismantle the Goon Squad. He can’t because they’re the only ones willing to patrol Deadtown and the Zone. He’s probably hoping that whatever did this will wipe out all the zombies in Deadtown.”
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