Raptor: Urban Fantasy Noir

by Bostick, B. A.

  “And there’s his gypsy knife thrower,” Ariel said. “That’s good news. I want to be sure both of them get on the train. As soon as everybody gets off at Zaki’s end I’m going into the house.”

  “That’s a pretty big troll,” Cassius said.

  Ariel pulled a dart gun out of her coat pocket. “You know what they say: The bigger they are . . ."

  * * *

  It was at least half a mile from the Hauptmann platform to the smaller one that accessed the mansion. It was nothing more than a large rectangle covered in early twentieth century tile backed by flaking mirrors mounted over carved stone benches. The Hauptmann’s probably spent very little time on the platform waiting for their private train to pick them up and take them to the store or their country house. Ornate gates closed off the stairway to the house, but they were open because the troll was still on guard and the only place that would support his gigantic butt was the three bottom stairs.

  Dingo and Ariel stayed close to the wall, walking single file on a narrow, cement utility ledge that ran along the side of the tunnel from one platform to the other. Ariel had cautioned Dingo to not make a sound. Trolls might be dumb, but they weren’t deaf.

  When they got to the bottom of the Tesslovich platform several rusty rungs provided access to its surface five feet above the tunnel floor. Ariel could hear the troll shifting his vast bulk as he whistled tunelessly through his teeth.

  Dingo’s foot landed on a stray track cinder making a sound like a twig being snapped. Both he and Ariel froze, which meant they could hear with perfect clarity the sound of the troll getting to his feet. It wasn’t a quick process. And if the swearing and farting that accompanied the move meant anything, the troll wasn’t happy about it. But he was still going to take a look.

  Ariel motioned Dingo to flatten himself against the platform wall where he wouldn’t be seen. She pulled herself quickly up the rungs, and stood on the tile, holding the dart gun behind her back in one hand.

  The troll came out from between the gates and stopped when he saw her. A lone woman wasn’t what he expected and he paused, his small brain confused by this anomaly. The troll was a good seven feet tall and at least four feet wide. His bullet head was a lumpy, hairless cylinder that seemed to sit directly on his shoulders without the benefit of a neck. His eyes were dark and beady. Small, ruffled ears were stuck to the sides of his head like some strange fungus that grew on logs that had spent too much time on the forest floor.

  “Hi.” Ariel said. “I guess I missed the train.” She pulled the gun around and shot him with a dart in the general vicinity of his invisible neck. The troll frowned.

  “Shit! Shoot him in the leg Dingo.”

  Dingo had his elbows on the edge of the platform holding Ariel’s crossbow. He pulled the trigger and the quarrel hit the troll just above one knee. The troll gave no indication it hurt, but it did get his attention. He bent over to pull it out and Ariel shot another dart into the side of his head and a third into the inside of a tree-like thigh, thinking there had to be an artery in there somewhere.

  The troll stood up holding the quarrel. He batted vaguely at the dart sticking out of his meaty temple, rolled his eyes toward heaven and promptly fell over on his face. A huge puff of subway dirt rose up at the impact and settled back down onto the tiles in a rain of dust and crushed cinders. Ariel put a hand over her nose and mouth while Dingo sneezed.

  “Shss!” Ariel hissed.

  “Are you kidding? Seismographs just went off all over North America and you’re worried about a sneeze?”

  “Upstairs! Now!”

  The door into the house was as open as the gates. After all, who was going to be able to sneak past a troll? The entrance to the subway stairs had its own little green tiled foyer where family and guests could leave their coats or take a last look at themselves in the ornate mirror over an antique Bombay chest. There was a porcelain umbrella stand that seemed to contain a riding crop, a number of canes and two Samurai swords. Ariel tossed one to Dingo who mouthed the word Cool as he admired the first six inches of its shiny blade. She pointed a finger to herself, then upward toward the second floor, meaning she would look for Bishop up there.

  Dingo nodded and made a circle with a raised index finger, meaning he would scope out the first floor and take out any possible baddies. Ariel traded him the tranc gun for the crossbow and put a finger to her lips. They were going to do this as quietly as possible.

  The main entry hall was also tile but the stairway to the upper floor was carpeted in thick, red pile. Not a color choice Ariel would have chosen for the beautiful old Beaux Arts mansion, but she wasn’t a demon. Tesslovich also seemed to favor weapons over art. A fan of medieval pikes adorned one entry wall and a collection of ethnic weaponry hung from the wall next to the stairs. Ariel heard the distant Pfhuut of the tranc pistol followed by a thud, but she kept going. Dingo could take care of himself.

  The upstairs hall was clear as far as she could see, but it made a sharp right turn about halfway down the width of the house and she had no idea where that led. She stepped to the corner and took a quick glance down the adjoining hall. A bored looking demon with blue skull ridges and spiky ears, wearing a badly fitted tweed sports jacket and grey slacks was sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair outside a closed door.

  Bingo, she thought. Bishop was still alive. This was going to be a piece of cake, but stealth was still important. No way to tell if there was anyone behind other closed doors. She considered her weapons while she took another quick peek. Definitely the crossbow.

  Ariel swung around the corner and pulled both triggers, one after the other. One quarrel hit the demon in the ribs, the other in the side of the head.

  "What the fuck?!" the demon said, jumping to his feet. The feathers of the quarrel were right up against his blue skull, the metal point stuck out of his opposite ear.

  Ariel looked from the demon to the crossbow as if it had somehow malfunctioned. Downstairs, a gun went off. Then it went off again.

  "Ariel!"

  "Up here!" Ariel yelled. She dropped the bow and pulled both of her pistols. Stealth was out, artillery was in. She stepped into the junction of the two hallways. She could see in both directions so she pointed a pistol each way, one at the demon, one at the top of the stairs. There was a thump and the demon started to stagger down the hall in her direction. She shot him in the chest. He lurched back, looked down at the spreading green stain, looked at her, and fell over on his back.

  Feet thundered up the staircase. Ariel swung both guns in that direction. Dingo's face appeared above the top step.

  "Sorry," he said. "The housekeeper turned out to be a Wizek and I ran out of darts. Bottom floor's clear. Did you find Bishop?"

  "I think he's down the hall." Ariel stepped over the blue demon. His sports coat had fallen open. On his belt was a gold police badge in a leather clip. Ariel reached over and grabbed it, holding it up for Dingo. "This can't be good."

  "Is he dead?"

  Ariel shot the demon in the head just to make sure. "I think Bishop's in here.”

  She opened the door the demon had been guarding.

  The man in the chair looked up at the sound. The flesh around one eye was dark purple and the eye was swollen nearly shut. His lower lip was split down the middle and a stream of blood from one nostril had dried on his upper lip and chin.

  "Shit."

  "Lo El," Bishop said. "We've got to stop meeting like this."

  * * *

  Ariel’s feet made crackling sounds as she walked across the square of plastic under the chair. She slid out a gravity knife and slit open the tape holding Bishop’s arms, legs and torso. He tried to raise his arms, but settled for shaking his hands to get the blood flowing to his fingers again.

  “Can you walk?” She let the knife drop back into her sleeve. “We haven’t got much time.”

  “Ribs hurt and I think my legs are asleep. If you can get me upright I can probably get them going again.”
<
br />   Dingo grabbed Bishop under one arm, Ariel the other, and they both lifted him out of the chair.

  “Ow,” he said, tottering a little. He tried stamping his feet to get the circulation going. “Ow! Ow! Ow! Pins and needles!” Bishop hobbled over to the small lavatory, moving like a very old man, turned on the faucet and threw water into his face, rinsed out his mouth, and drank several swallows out of his cupped hands. When he came out Ariel helped him into his shoulder holster and jacket. He picked up his wallet and swept the change off the desk into his pockets.

  “One more thing.” He went over to the panel where Connie had gotten the knock-out drug and syringe. There were plenty of other pharmaceuticals to choose from. He began pulling them off the shelves onto the floor until he found what he was looking for.

  “What are you doing?” Ariel asked. “We have a train to catch.”

  “Vicodin.” Bishop said pouring three white tablets out of a brown plastic bottle into one hand. He stuck that bottle in the pocket of his coat. “Amphetamines.” He dumped out two more pills from a second bottle, popped all of them into his mouth and dry swallowed.

  “When I was in Vice we used to call this a Suburban Speed Ball. Give me five minutes and I’ll be just fine.”

  Dingo was out in the hall pouring something white and granular into the demon’s chest wound.

  “What’s that?” Bishop asked.

  “Kosher salt. It’s been blessed by a rabbi and demons are allergic to salt. If this cop has nanites, we’re hoping it will help keep him dead.”

  “He’s a cop?”

  Ariel held up the shield she’d taken off his belt.

  Bishop looked closer at the body. “Hard to tell who he is, him being all blue and shot up, with an arrow through his head. Nice work, by the way.”

  Dingo felt around in the demon’s jacket for a wallet. “Says his name’s Sergeant Ralph Danziger, Missing Childrens Task Force.”

  “Yeah. I met his boss, Lt. Martin, a couple hours ago. He’s also a demon. The good news is he interrupted the mutant from poking me with small, sharp objects including his fists. The bad news is, he’s planning on framing me for kidnap and murder, then kill me as I try to escape. He was going to plant a couple of dead kids in the trunk of my car. I hope nothing’s happened to them yet. One was going to be the kid I was trying to find, Suzee Morgan.”

  “We need to get down to the tunnel.” Ariel hustled Dingo and Bishop down the stairs. “I was going to put you on the train to the compound, Frank, but you look pretty bad. You sure you can handle it?”

  Bishop squared his shoulders and twisted his neck to work out a kink. “I’m fine,” he said. “The drugs are kicking in and I wouldn’t miss this party for the world.” He looked at Ariel. “Those are the stakes, right? The World.”

  The three of them crossed the front hall into the small foyer that led to the platform. Bishop made a face as he caught his reflection in the mirror. Ariel pulled the other daiko out of the umbrella stand and handed it to Bishop. Just like Dingo, Bishop pulled the blade out a few inches to admire its edge.

  “That’s really sharp,” Ariel warned him. “You could lose a few fingers if you aren’t careful.”

  “Hey. I saw the Seven Samurai at least ten times when I was a kid. Used to practice sword fighting in front of the mirror with an old broom handle...” Bishop dropped the silk rope attached to the sword’s scabbard over his head so the sword would hang at his back. “I had some moves, and I’m sure they’ll all come back to me just before some demon with flames coming out of his ass bites off my head.”

  * * *

  Mouser knew something was up. People had been hurrying up and down the halls for several hours. Doors opened and closed. He could hear people talking in stressed voices. Orders being given. One time there was a serious scolding in a language he didn’t recognize, and the sound of a vicious slap. For an hour or more now there had been silence. Then he heard voices again. These were unhurried. Feet moved at a leisurely pace. Someone was explaining something. Murmurs followed.

  The door to the lab opened. The grey man held it wide, letting a group of six males and three females precede him into the room. They were all expensively dressed. The women’s ears, necks and wrists glittered with beautiful stones that brought out the color of their eyes and skin. Mouser could see they weren’t human. Although two women and three of the men maintained their glamour, the other five had dropped all pretense as to what they were. Two of them seemed to be bodyguards; one of the other three was obviously a very important person. Instead of Armani, he was wearing a long robe of elegantly embroidered silk with a high rolled collar. His dusky violet skin was stretched tight across abnormally sharp cheek bones. Yellow eyes topped a hooked nose with a jeweled circle piercing one nostril. The stones on the circle matched those in his ears. He seemed to acknowledge nothing that was going on around him, but was seeing everything.

  “So these are your failures?” He asked, walking up to the Plexiglas wall of Mouser’s cell. For once, Mouser was glad the wall existed. He’d never felt so close to being devoured alive just by the power of someone’s eyes.

  The grey man immediately stopped talking to another demon and moved quickly to his side.

  “Failures, yes,” he said. “But we have learned important lessons from these two. Ironically, this one is a shape shifter. We had no idea when we picked him up off the street that he contained that little surprise. His animal form is nothing much: a common hawk, brown, boring. But when he shifts from human to hawk the mechanisms we implanted to control him completely disappear. It’s as if even this minor power of his is strong enough to cleanse his blood.”

  “And this one here?” The demon glided over to Susan Elizabeth’s cage. “Does this one change form as well?”

  “This one, My Lord, is even more of a puzzle. It’s usually so easy to take control of the small ones. Virtually like stealing candy from a baby.” The grey man gave a nasty little laugh which stopped abruptly when he noticed a twitch of annoyance from the demon. “This child’s soul will not come loose no matter what we do. Our best collectors have tried. And the nanites, they simply vanish from her blood. We do not know what this child is, but she could be very dangerous. After the celebration, they both will be destroyed.”

  “Leave us alone!” Mouser heard Suzee tell the demon. “You’re a bad, bad, evil man.”

  The demon leaned over to peer down at the defiant child.

  “My dear,” he said, mildly. “Your little brain cannot possibly conceive how astonishingly bad, bad, evil I can actually be.”

  - 11 -

  Yamazaki Kirienko looked down the long, Zebra Wood table that ran the length of Zaki Industry’s board room. He counted off the eight demons in his head so he would remember the names of each one. The exotic wood of the table had been waxed to a deep luminous shine that made its black stripes appear to float hypnotically over a core of deep purple heartwood. It had been outrageously expensive, but the cost was insignificant compared to the deal he would strike today.

  If the table was a deliberate distraction, the Hugo Boss suit Zaki wore was a calculated understatement. Compared to the demons sitting in the chairs on either side of him, he would be considered downright drab.

  The Lords of the House of Eight were resplendent in exotic gowns, silk robes and flashy designer suits. Each represented one of the eight most important demon families in the Northern Hemisphere. Between them, they controlled a hidden empire of vast power and influence. Their supernatural roots had not prevented them from moving with the times. Each had assets beyond measure. Together, they controlled corporations, commodities, heads of state; were advisors to kings, queens, dictators, and presidents, but they were still vulnerable to their own internal politics. The Eight had managed to maintain an uneasy peace within their familias while continuing to deal ruthlessly with outsiders, usurpers and traitors within.

  Nicolai Tesslovich sat to Zaki’s left. The demon lawyer was the architect of many of Z
aki’s corporate plans and ambitions, but by no means his friend. Zaki had no friends. He survived by his own twisted genius and ruthless ambition. Today, he was here to negotiate the deal of the millennium and he intended to walk away with much, much more than he intended to give. He knew The House of Eight thought they would get the best of him but, as always, he had created a scenario that would assure he won while appearing to not have thought through the implications of what he was placing into their hands.

  Greed, he thought. Demon’s believed they were much cleverer than men, but they were only more vengeful, sly and greedy. What they wanted was totally predictable: more money, more trinkets, more sex, more death, more souls, more slaves, more power. Zaki had seen this from both sides of the fence.

  “Your father,” Bezla, the violet demon asked. “Is he well?”

  Zaki’s father had been one of Stalin’s nuclear scientists. He’d been purged as an enemy of the state after a particularly self-indulgent bit of destructive exuberance. Luckily Zaki and his mother were already in Japan. He had dismissed any attachment to his father a long time ago.

  “He’s dead.” Zaki said mildly as if sixty-five years in the past was yesterday.

  “And your mother?”

  “An amazing woman, but only human, Lord Bezla. When her famous beauty faded away, so did she. Had she survived a few decades longer, I could have kept her alive and beautiful forever.”

  “Is that what you’re offering us?” Zovan asked. “Forever? We pure bloods are already immortal.”

  “But still vulnerable to a knife in the heart, a sword across your throat, or an exotic poison.”

  With this last comment, Zaki inclined his head in Alameil’s direction; she was renowned throughout the demon empire for both her beauty and her skill with poisons. Her only flaw in Zaki’s eyes was she favored Versace, a designer whose couture reminded him of Fredrick’s of Hollywood.