by Mike Resnick
“Only after a battle to the death,” vowed the leprechaun.
“That suits me fine,” said Mallory.
“It's a deal,” said the leprechaun. “I'll take the cat thing, you take the ugly little bloodsucker.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The battle to the death,” responded the leprechaun. “If she wins, you get to examine the corpse. If he wins, you apologize to Phil and Herbie and promise to go home.”
“You got it all wrong,” said Mallory. “The battle to the death is between you and me.”
“What are you talking about?” shrieked the leprechaun. “I can't indulge in battles to the death! I've got a wife and three kids and a mortgage and car payments and…”
“Then step aside,” said Mallory.
“I'll tell you what,” said the leprechaun. “My cousin Vinny gets out of stir in February. If you could just go home and come back then, I guarantee he'll be happy to battle you to the death, as long as he gets choice of weapons. And since he only weighs fifty-seven pounds, I think we should make you carry extra weights on your shoes or your sword arm or something.”
“Forget it.”
“Where's your sense of fair play?” demanded the leprechaun. “What kind of fiend are you, Mallory?”
“An impatient one. Felina, if he doesn't stand aside, he's all yours.”
The cat-girl grinned and displayed her claws.
“Quick question,” said the leprechaun. “Are prostate problems contagious?”
“I don't know. Why?”
“'Cause I gotta go to the bathroom!” he said, racing off.
Mallory walked over to Rupert's body, but before he reached it a middle-aged man in a white lab coat appeared. He had wild unruly hair, even wilder eyes, and a stethoscope, which struck Mallory as an extraneous instrument in this particular place, hung down from his neck.
“You're the pathologist?” asked Mallory.
“Maximillian,” he said, extending an ice-cold hand. “Maximillian Mabuse, late of Vienna, Berlin, Paris, Prague, Budapest, Bucharest, and Great Falls, Montana.”
“Dr. Mabuse,” said Mallory, frowning. “I think I read something about a Dr. Mabuse somewhere.”
“Lies, all lies, spread by enemies and jealous colleagues,” said Dr. Mabuse. “Besides, she said she was seventeen.” He turned to Rupert Newton's body. “Now, what have we here?”
“I need to know what killed him,” said Mallory.
“Society,” said Dr. Mabuse promptly.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Dr. Mabuse shrugged. “I don't know. But it sounds good in interviews and usually buys me a few seconds to come up with my next answer.” He turned Rupert's head to a side and studied the bite marks on his neck. “He was definitely turning, but he hadn't joined the undead yet. Another bite or two and he'd have been indestructible.”
“Really?”
“Well, that's a generalization, of course,” said Dr. Mabuse. “Actually, there are one hundred thirty-seven known ways to kill a vampire, and that doesn't include being eaten by piranhas or succumbing to untreated social diseases.” He continued examining the body. “No bullet holes, no knife wounds. Clearly he hasn't been gored by a rhinoceros. I wouldn't entirely rule out sunstroke, but it has been cloudy for the past week.” Suddenly he ran his hands over Rupert's head. “Ah!”
“You found something?” asked Mallory.
“One hell of a dent,” said Dr. Mabuse, leaning over and studying the wound. “Yes, this young man was clubbed with a blunt instrument.”
“Any idea what kind?”
“I just told you: the blunt kind.”
“Thanks,” said Mallory. “What happens to the body now?”
“The morgue will hold it for a week. If it hasn't been claimed or walked away on its own power by then, we'll dispose of it.”
“How?” asked McGuire, trying to hide his eagerness.
“It'll be claimed before the time is up,” interjected Mallory.
“Hey, Doc,” called an orderly from about thirty yards away. “Come on over here. We got a real stinker for you. Six arrows in his chest, a hatchet in his back, two bullets in his heart, and he keeps claiming his wife poisoned him.”
Dr. Mabuse left to attend to the corpse in question, and Mallory headed toward an exit, accompanied by Felina and McGuire.
“So does this eliminate Draconis?” asked McGuire.
“Not necessarily,” replied Mallory. “Vampires have superhuman strength, too.” He looked at his undersized, balding companion. “Most of them, anyway. Maybe this one was just mad, not hungry. Maybe he was afraid the kid would expose him; after all, he's here as a poet, not a vampire. Who knows?” He paused and checked his watch. “It's almost a quarter to eleven. We'd better head over to the Garden and have a chat with Aristotle Draconis.”
“I suppose so,” agreed McGuire. “It's about a five-minute walk.”
“Good,” said Mallory. “That gives me a little time.”
“For what?”
“I've spent damned near an hour of All Hallows' Eve here and haven't turned up a thing, except that the kid wasn't bitten again. It's time to consult an expert.”
“On vampires or All Hallows' Eve or murder?” asked McGuire.
“Yes,” said Mallory.
They left the morgue and turned in the direction of Madison Round Garden, which was about half a mile away. As they reached the corner, Mallory stopped and looked around. When he found what he wanted, he headed off to his right until he came to a hotel with a series of enormous swords forming a covered path to the front entrance.
“I thought we were going to the Garden,” said McGuire, confused.
“We are, but like I said, there's someone I have to talk to first.”
“And he's at this hotel?”
“He will be.”
They entered the plush lobby, and Mallory walked right up to the registration desk.
“Good evening,” said a clerk. “Welcome to the Sword Arms, formerly the Tudor Arms.”
“Why Sword?” asked Mallory curiously.
“Old man Tudor lost his arm in a croquet accident and had it replaced with a three-foot-long sword blade,” answered the clerk. “Damned impressive, especially when he's wearing his old military dress uniform, the one with all the medals for valor in the Patagonian campaign. Just don't be standing on his left if he turns suddenly.” He smiled. “Now, what can I do for you? You look like a man who'd like a double single.”
“What the hell is that?”
“A double room with a single woman, of course.”
“That's not what I'm here for.”
“Well, for an extra fee, we could arrange a single room with a double woman.”
“I just want to know where the men's room is.”
“Oh,” said the clerk, pointing toward a door across the lobby and promptly losing all interest in the detective.
Mallory turned to McGuire as he began walking. “Bats, you got a cell phone?”
“Who would ever call a vampire after dark?” replied McGuire.
“Scout around the place and see if you can find one. I'll be in there,” he concluded, pointing to the men's room.
“What about her?” asked the vampire, jerking a thumb toward Felina.
“Let me worry about her. You just find me a phone.”
McGuire sighed and set off on his quest, and Mallory reached the door. He opened it, saw that the room was empty, and turned to Felina.
“Except for McGuire, no one enters. You got it?”
“Got what?” asked the cat-girl. “And is it good to eat?”
“Do you understand what I said?”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“Yes, John Justin,” said Felina with a happy smile. “You asked if I understood what you said.”
“Before that.”
“No one enters except McGuire.”
“Right.”
“Or maybe it
was: Except for McGuire, no one enters.”
“I'll accept that as a separate but equal right answer.”
“I knew you would.” She turned her back to him. “Skritch between my shoulder blades.”
“Later.”
“Okay,” she said. “I'll invite everyone from the lobby into the men's room.”
“Fine,” said Mallory. “And I won't feed you until June.”
“If I only invite half the lobby, will you feed me before we go to see Aristotle Draconis?”
“Let me put it in terms you understand,” said Mallory. “If you let anyone into the men's room except McGuire, you're fired as the office cat. You will have no home, no place to go, and no one to feed you.”
She counted on her fingers. “No home, no place to go, no food. That's three things I won't have.”
“Right.”
“What if I only let two men in?” continued the cat-girl. “Does three go into two? Or is it two into three? And how many lumps of sugar are left over?”
“I'll tell you what,” said Mallory. “Don't let anyone in and you won't have to do the math.”
Her face brightened. “Thanks, John Justin. That's your best idea all night. Well, since the last time you skritched me, anyway.”
“All right,” said Mallory. “I'm going into the men's room now. Remember: Don't let anyone in except McGuire.”
“What if it's Aristotle Draconis?”
“He's an exception.”
“I like exceptions,” said Felina happily. “What if it's Warren G. Harding? Or Tom Mix? Or Mary Queen of Scots? Or Jackie Robinson?” She paused. “Wait a minute. I'm just being silly.”
“You get no argument from me,” said Mallory.
“Mary Queen of Scots wouldn't use the men's room.”
“Just McGuire,” grated the detective.
“And Draconis,” she said. “Don't forget Draconis.”
“And no one else,” said Mallory, finally entering the men's room.
It was a large room, with a dozen sinks running down one wall, a dozen stalls on the opposite wall, and a row of urinals lining the back wall. The floor was tiled, and the walls were tastefully papered above a ceramic trim. Mallory paced the room impatiently for a moment, and then the door opened and McGuire entered.
“Here,” he said, thrusting a cell phone into the detective's hand. “Make your calls fast, and maybe I can stick this back in the old broad's purse before she notices it's gone.” A quick smile. “I'll keep the sawbuck that came with it.”
“Thanks,” said Mallory. “I'll just need it for a couple of seconds.”
“Phone calls take longer than that,” said McGuire.
“I'm not phoning, I'm summoning,” said Mallory, opening the phone and activating it.
“I'll bet the ten bucks I just stole that I don't want to ask the next question, do I?” said McGuire nervously.
“Probably not,” agreed Mallory. He looked at the phone, then carefully punched out G, R, U, N, D, and Y. “Thanks,” he said, tossing the phone back.
“Did you just call who I am mortally afraid you called?”
Before Mallory could answer, there was a flash of light and a puff of smoke, and he found himself facing a tall creature that stood a few inches over six feet, with two prominent horns protruding from his forehead. His eyes were a burning yellow, his nose sharp and aquiline, his teeth white and gleaming, his skin a bright red. His shirt and pants were crushed velvet, his cloak satin, his collar and cuffs made from the fur of some white polar animal. He wore gleaming black gloves and boots, and he had two mystic rubies suspended from his neck on a golden chain. When he exhaled, small clouds of vapor emanated from his mouth and nostrils.
“You have summoned me at an awkward time,” he said in a deep voice. He turned and pointed to McGuire. “What is that ?”
“Bats,” said Mallory, “I want you to meet the—”
“Can't!” said McGuire nervously, backing up to the door. “Big hurry! Gotta use the men's room.”
“You're in the men's room,” said Mallory.
“Some other men's room,” whimpered McGuire, feeling behind him for the door. He found it and pulled it open. “Any other men's room!”
He was gone a fraction of a second later.
“You'll have to forgive him,” said Mallory. “He's not used to being in the presence of Evil Incarnate.”
“I have explained to you time and again…” began the Grundy.
“Fine,” Mallory cut him off. “At least you don't deny that you're the most powerful demon on the East Coast.”
“Deny it?” said the Grundy. “I revel in it. And this, of course, is my busiest night of the year.”
“I find that odd,” said Mallory. “I'd have thought that on a night when every ghost and ghoul and creepy-crawly in the city is up and around doing your work for you, you'd be home relaxing, maybe drinking a beer and watching a football game.”
“Would you stay home if Flyaway was running?” shot back the Grundy.
“Touché,” admitted Mallory. “You know why I've summoned you here, of course?”
“Of course.”
“You know who killed the kid, also of course?”
“Certainly. Nothing happens in my domain that I am not aware of.”
“You want to make my life easy and tell me?”
“Making your life easy isn't part of my job description,” said the Grundy.
“Well, I had to ask,” said Mallory. He checked his watch. “I hate to kiss and run, but I don't want to be late over at the Garden.”
“You won't be,” said the Grundy, making a mystic sign in the air with his right hand.
“What did you do?”
“I have frozen time for the rest of the world,” answered the demon. “It will proceed as normal in here, between the two of us. For everyone and everything else, it has come to a halt until one of us leaves the room.”
Mallory studied the Grundy, frowning. “Why?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You've already said you're not going to give me the name I want, so why freeze time at all? Why not just vanish in a puff of smoke like you usually do?”
Suddenly the Grundy shifted his weight uncomfortably. “A whim.”
“Bullshit,” said Mallory. “You're a creature of pure logic. You don't act on whims.”
“All right,” said the Grundy. “As strange as it seems, given that we are mortal enemies and it is my destiny to kill you in the end, I find that I enjoy your company.”
“Should I be flattered or terrified?”
“You are the one person in the world who is totally unafraid of me,” said the Grundy. “That is part of your fascination for me.”
“Why should I be afraid of you?” responded Mallory. “Hell, I've even done a couple of jobs for you—the Quatermain Cup and that old Chinese guy with the pegasus.”
“I know,” said the Grundy. “No one else in the world would have done it.”
“Maybe you should try paying them instead of terrifying them.”
“It is my nature to terrify things.”
“I thought it was your nature to bring balance to worlds,” replied Mallory. “At least, I've heard that song and dance often enough.”
“It is,” said the Grundy. “Where I find order, I bring chaos, and where I find chaos, I bring order.”
“Sounds good,” said Mallory. “You ever actually found any order, or are you still looking?”
“You see?” said the Grundy. “That is another reason I enjoy your company. You keep me on my mental toes.”
“Why don't you thank me for all that by telling me who killed the kid?”
“That would contradict everything I am,” said the Grundy, almost apologetically.
“So you won't, or you can't?”
“I can't.”
“I feel sorry for you, Grundy,” said Mallory.
“For being the most powerful being within thousands of miles?” said the Grundy, sur
prised. “Why?”
“Because if I want to do something silly, or foolish, or boneheaded, I can do it. Even if it is clearly against my best interest, if I make up my mind to say or do it, I can. And that means I have more free will than you.”
“How can you, if I am the more powerful?”
“Power isn't everything,” said Mallory. “An elephant can kill a lion, tear down a house, pull over a tree—but can he peel a grape?”
“I shall have to give this some thought,” said the Grundy.
“Let me give you one more thing to ponder.”
“Yes?”
“You've said on previous occasions, and again tonight, that making my life easier, or words to that effect, isn't part of your job description.”
“That is correct,” the Grundy assured him.
“And you're all-powerful, right?”
“In essence.”
“Okay, who wrote it?”
“Who wrote what?” asked the Grundy, confused.
“Who wrote your job description?” said the detective. “Who's pulling your all-powerful strings?”
The Grundy suddenly smiled, the smile of a scientist who has stumbled onto a new and complex problem he can't wait to solve. “Fascinating! Thank you, Mallory.”
“Why not thank me by giving me the name?”
“You are the first human I have thanked for anything in nine hundred and fifty-four years. Isn't that enough?”
“Evidently you think so,” said Mallory. “But then, you're blinded by your nature.”
“I have enjoyed our conversation, John Justin Mallory,” said the Grundy, “and you have given me much to consider. I cannot give you the name you want—or at least, I don't know if I can or not; I shall have to delve deep into the ethics of it—but ask me any other favor, and it is yours.”
“You know my partner?”
“The fat one with gray hair.”
“The stocky one with gray hair,” Mallory corrected him. “She's assembled her trolls and is out hunting for Draconis and her nephew. One's dead, and unless she's on her way to the Garden right this minute, she's not going to find the other.”
The Grundy stared off at some fixed point that only he could see. “She is in Central Park, surrounded by a gang of goblins intent on robbing her.”
Mallory couldn't resist a smile. “Boy, have they got a surprise coming.” Then: “Can you get word to her that Rupert is dead, and she can claim him at the morgue?”
