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Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Science Fiction and Fantasy Novels

Page 334

by White, Gwynn


  On the other hand, the presence of the corresponding street names spray-painted above each of the intersecting passages greatly aided their movements. The big, blocky letters had faded from years of neglect but were still easy enough to read in most places. There was no guesswork required as they made their way toward the courthouse, at least as far as how to get there. What they would find waiting for them once they did… well, that was another question entirely.

  But not for much longer.

  “Here,” Cato said, pointing up at the name painted above the passage. “Apgard Street. The courthouse should be two or three blocks up this way.”

  They were roughly a block away when, through the gloom, the shapes of several figures began to clarify themselves. They were bulky and short: too short to be gargoyles, Cato thought, until he realized they were kneeling around something. Whispering to one another. Praying, perhaps? No, the cadence was off. It was too clipped, too aggressive. Straining his ears to listen, he could just make out parts of what was being said.

  “—thought you said… knew how to… this thing.”

  “I do! …got wet or something …too damp… here—”

  “Hurry up and… no telling… have left—”

  “—think I’ve almost… Yes! See? See? …it goes!”

  Something sparked in the darkness ahead, and in that moment Cato knew what Crius and his men were up to. “Bomb,” he hissed to Hank and Wexell. “Hank, you hang back here. Wexell and I will distract them.”

  “We will?” Wexell hissed.

  “You will?” Hank echoed.

  “Yes. Hank, while we’re doing that, you get to the bomb and defuse it. Whatever it takes, no matter what. Got it?”

  “Got it. I don’t like it, but I got it.”

  “Neither do I, buddy,” Cato said, squeezing Hank’s shoulder. “Now, let’s un-light this candle.”

  On Cato’s signal, he and Wexell surged forward, abandoning all pretense of stealth as they covered half the remaining distance and brought their weapons to bear. “Crius, this is Spectors Cato and Smiley,” Cato called out, hoping the sewer’s poor lighting would obscure the fact that Wexell was standing in for Hank. “Put out the fuse and surrender yourselves or we will open fire.”

  Crius seemed unfazed by the sudden wrench their appearance had thrown into his grand plans. He was the only one, though. “What should we do?” his second asked, a note of panic obvious in his voice.

  “Go,” Crius said in reply. “Go and join the fray. Fight with our strigoi brothers and sisters. Show them what it means to be a Wargoyle! These two, I shall handle personally.”

  “But, Master—”

  “Go!”

  Ultimately, his minions did as they were told, melting into the sewer’s shadows and leaving Crius to face the wrath of Ryen Cato by himself. And, boy, was Cato feeling particularly wrathful today. “He’s going to rush us and use his wings for cover,” he whispered to Wexell. “The second he unfurls them, tumble forward and hit him in the back with everything you’ve got.”

  “Got it.”

  Lifting his voice, Cato said, “You’ve got ten seconds, Crius, or so help me, my partner and I—”

  Cato hadn’t even finished the sentence when, exactly as he’d predicted, Crius wrapped himself in the protective cocoon of his wings and rushed forward. The fleeting sight was truly terrifying, Crius covering the distance in a matter of seconds before he was upon them. The temptation to fire was overwhelming, yet, somehow, Cato managed to hold fast against it.

  “Now,” Cato said, and he and Wexell dropped their shoulders and tumbled forward as Crius unfurled his wicked wingspan.

  The scrape of one of those wings against the stone wall was nearly deafening, at least until both Cato and Wexell started to unload on its owner with their service weapons. The booming reports echoed throughout the tunnel, their smoky discharge hanging heavy in the stinking air. Crius writhed and jerked with the impact of each shot, though somehow he remained standing until nearly the last round. Finally, he crumpled to the stone walkway at his feet.

  Cato and Wexell shared a sidelong glance, as if daring each other to believe that victory could be this easy. It wasn’t. Cato was just getting to his feet, about to check on Crius’ condition, when the gargoyle swept the spector off his feet with one flap of those mighty wings. The tip of the wing barely caught him, and yet the force was enough to send him to the ground with a groaning oomph. He was dazed but still conscious; he could hear Wexell scrabbling backward on his butt and dry-firing his weapon, as well as the amused laugh that was met with.

  “Tsk, tsk. Out of ammo, Spector Smiley? Such a pity.” Crius dragged a leg behind him as he closed in on Wexell, clear evidence that at least one of their rounds had found its mark. Then he stopped abruptly, staring down at the prostrate officer before him. “Hmm. Curious. You are not Spector Smiley.”

  “No, but I am,” Hank said, pressing the muzzle of his shotgun against the back of the gargoyle’s head. “The bomb’s been defused, Crius. Now, let’s just see those hands, and we can all get out of this stinking hole.”

  “Very well, Spector. I shall comply.” Crius slowly lifted his hands, almost conspicuously so, drawing attention to them.

  Hank was so focused on their ascent that he didn’t notice Crius shifting his weight ever so subtly. Cato tried to call out, to warn his friend, but it was too late.

  With a sharp, downward twist in place, Crius threw his shoulder up against the bottom of Hank’s weapon. The shotgun barked too late, sending an errant blast sparking off the ceiling as it left Hank’s grip. The weapon landed well out of his reach, skidding across the walkway and into the water as Crius fell upon him.

  Even with the shotgun, Hank would have been at a distinct disadvantage; without it, he was as good as dead. Crius closed his meaty hands around Hank’s throat. Another few moments, and it would all be over.

  “Is this satisfactory, Spector?” the gargoyle growled above him. “Can you see my hands now?”

  As Hank tried to gurgle out a response, a shuddering impact rocked them both. Hank gasped and sputtered, taking in great lungfuls of the befouled air as Cato and Wexell again threw themselves at Crius, doing their damnedest to overpower and pin him to the ground.

  A couple of yards away, Hank was wheezing and pushing himself to his feet. The moment he caught his breath, he hurried over to add his weight to the fray.

  “That’s it,” Wexell said. “Hold him still…”

  “Don’t let him get free again!”

  “It’s over, Crius! Give up!”

  “Never!”

  It was then that Cato realized they had no choice. They might not be able to convince the gargoyle mastermind to submit, but that wasn’t the only way to stop him from fighting.

  “The water,” he said to the others. “Drag him to the water!”

  Crius roared defiantly in response, the sound of it nearly bringing his captors to their knees as it echoed off the stone passageway. He flexed and thrashed and beat his wings against Cato and Smiley with everything he had left, desperately trying to free himself from the hold they had on his limbs, but it wasn’t enough.

  With Wexell’s help they dragged him slowly, inexorably toward the disgusting water flowing between the walkways. When at last they reached its edge, Cato and Smiley threw all their weight against him, holding him in place while Wexell straddled his broad backside and pushed his head toward the water. Even then, he continued to struggle, the veins in his neck popping dramatically from the strain.

  “Anytime you want to get his head under the water would be just peachy, Wexell!”

  With a roar of his own, Wexell smashed his elbow down upon the back of Crius’s skull, then again and again. The third strike did the trick, and the gargoyle succumbed long enough for Wexell to plunge his head beneath the surface of the murky water. With that, the struggle resumed anew, but only briefly. Crius’ strength had all but fled him; what little resistance he had left to offer was shor
t-lived and purely instinctual, his brain and body rebelling against the sudden absence of oxygen.

  Finally, Crius succumbed to his fate. His limbs and wings went slack and his body stilled as the three men lay sprawled across it. Even the veins in his neck disappeared, receding beneath the skin. All that remained following the struggle was the sound of the water lapping lightly against the stained stone.

  Still, they took no chances. Wexell held Crius’ head below the water for another full minute before he dared to relax his grip.

  Together, the three men stood, helping each other up to admire their handiwork.

  “Well, I don’t know about you guys,” Cato said between breaths, “but that’s officially the biggest piece of crap I’ve ever seen in the sewer.”

  “Yeah,” Hank agreed. “I’d say we’re definitely looking at a record-breaker.”

  Wexell shook his head, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Man, you guys are too much. You’re not hiring, are you?”

  That took both Cato and Smiley completely by surprise. Cato nearly buckled with laughter, then Hank, the two of them practically clutching at each other for support as the events of the last few days caught up with them. “You’ll be the first to know when we are, Wexell,” Cato said once he’d found his voice again, and he meant it. “In the meantime, let’s get up topside and see how the rest of the city is faring.”

  The fight had been fierce, easily the fiercest of any of their lives, yet they had prevailed. And while they were leaving the sewer far more bloodied and bruised than they had entered it, at least they could each exit under their own power. No one would be able to say the same for Crius Frenn.

  24

  The streets of Meridia were choked with the dead, but the city itself was still very much alive. From Tanglereave and Silverbreak Keep to Faust’s Bargain and all points between, the survivors emerged to pick through the wreckage and reclaim their city. The hours and days that followed were among the most challenging in Meridia’s history, but they were also proof that the city was greater than the sum of its parts. Countless acts of cross-species charity were reported, the survivors giving freely and lifting up one another regardless of community. For all that, though, there was no denying the schism that had been exposed by the failed coup and its accompanying purge.

  Whole families had been separated by the sudden explosion of violence. Some rejoiced to find their loved ones still among the living; others despaired to discover that they were all that was left of their line. Many had to endure the interminable unknown for hours, even days before they found out one way or the other.

  Among that last set was Ryen Cato himself. He had been pacing the floor of the office he shared with Hank for what seemed an eternity, still bloodied and reeking from their ordeal in the sewer, when at last Jeanine arrived, thundering down the stairs and practically throwing herself at her uncle. She recoiled almost immediately, then embraced him again in spite of his overwhelming ripeness. Only later would they come to realize that the succubus who had attacked Jeanine on the steps of City Hall was none other than Yasmina. Cato wasn’t too broken up over her death, given the circumstances.

  Ann was briefly hospitalized after the battle for City Hall, having aggravated her injuries during the tramcar chase and the battle that had followed. This time it was Cato who visited her, as much to thank her for looking after Jeanine as to check on her wellbeing. She would live, she assured him, then asked immediately about the state of the city. Cato just laughed, shaking his head in response. Vintage Ann.

  As for the city, the days that followed saw a sea change in Meridia’s already fractured political landscape. There was a movement afoot to force Zobbles to resign, though he remained defiant. There was also a second, smaller movement that had sprung up in its wake, Cato informed Ann, one whose backers suggested that she, of all people, should be the candidate to replace Zobbles.

  Ann agreed with the first, even if there was no proof that Zobbles was responsible, but she laughed off the second. Politics wasn’t her style, she insisted. Probably, she was right. And, anyway, there wasn’t enough time to reprint the ballots. If the people truly wanted her, they would have to write her in.

  Jeanine officially applied for the next year’s PWD training class, one of many inspired to serve their city after it came so close to falling. Cato had his concerns, of course, but he could find no reason to oppose her decision. By all accounts she was one of the heroes of the assault on City Hall, having stood her ground to fight for Meridia when so many others would have turned tail and run.

  In days past, he would have opposed her decision. Now, though? He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so proud of her. PWD would be lucky to have her among its ranks, he told her, earning a sudden hug that was much more sustained than its ripe predecessor.

  She was delighted, finally having realized the fulfillment of her dream to don the uniform of the city’s protectors, and he couldn’t have been happier for her. If nothing else, the last few days had illustrated how important her willingness to serve was. The department was reeling after the losses it had sustained during the failed coup. Who was he to deny them her service, or her the dream she had been cultivating since she was a child? He and Hank would need to get a new secretary, of course, but if that was the worst that came of her decision, Cato would find a way to live with it.

  “You know what’s been bugging me?” Hank asked on the third evening after the attempted coup. He and Cato were eating dinner at their desks, having ordered in from a chop house down the street.

  Cato lifted a brow as he swallowed a mouthful of deliciously greasy noodles. “What’s that?”

  “Who ordered that guy to bomb Faust’s Bargain? He didn’t have any affiliation with the strigs or the gargoyles. No one took credit.”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Cato said. “A thing this big, I think we just have to come to terms with the fact that we’ll never be able to completely wrap our heads around it. Too many moving pieces.”

  Hank nodded, picking at his vegetable stir fry. “Yeah, you’ve got a point there. Still, what kind of asshole bombs a call for unity?”

  “The big gaping kind.”

  “Hear, hear to that.”

  The two went back to eating, at least until a stray thought caught Cato’s attention. “Hey, did we ever figure out what happened to the father of that girl we rescued? Luca?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Hank said. “PWD fixed her up with a foster family. Her father turned up in the morgue the night everything went down. He was her only known kin. Montez Quintero, I think his name was.”

  Quintero. Cato repeated the name, holding a fresh bite of noodles just centimeters from his waiting mouth as he asked if Hank was certain.

  “Uh, yeah. I mean, pretty sure.”

  “Mother fuck me up and down the entire Red Lantern District,” Cato said, tossing what was left of his dinner onto his desk. He stood and pulled his jacket on.

  Meanwhile, there was Hank, still trying to grasp what he’d said to set Cato off. “What’s happening? What are we doing?”

  “Montez Quintero was a demolitions specialist in the war. Great at blowing things up, but to say he had a screw loose would be charitable. Care to take a guess who he served under?”

  “Son of a bitch,” Hank said, putting the pieces together.

  “My thoughts, exactly. Get your jacket. We need to go have a chat with our illustrious mayor.”

  * * *

  It took surprisingly little to break Zobbles. Hank and Cato had had several months to practice their good cop/bad cop routine, and by that point they had it down pat. Cato kicked things off by bursting dramatically into Zobbles’ office, all fire and brimstone, while Hank followed at a more leisurely clip. He left the doors open behind him, apparently unconcerned with potential eavesdroppers.

  “Jeez, I wish people would stop doing that,” Zobbles said, jumping slightly in his seat as the doors swung open and Cato strode inside. Only then did he seem
to realize the trouble he was in, though perhaps not why. Jumping out of his decadently appointed chair, he tried to put it between him and Cato. “What the hell? I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Cato, but I warn you—”

  Cato grabbed the chair by its back and sent it rolling across the office and into the opposite wall with a loud thud. “You’re the one who bombed Faust’s Bargain? You?Are you out of your mind? She was a Founder, Dolan. The first mayor of the city.”

  “Yes, but we all know that’s an honorarium,” Zobbles said, stammering nervously as he avoided the question. “I mean, she was never actually mayor.”

  “And yet, somehow, she was still a better one than you.”

  “All right, I’ve had just about enough of this. Hank, your partner is out of his mind! Get him off me.” When Hank proved less than eager to intercede on his behalf, Zobbles added, “Please?”

  “I could definitely help with that,” Hank said and tapped Cato on the arm. Cato took a step back in response, putting a bit more space between himself and Zobbles. “If you’re willing to play ball, that is.”

  “Play ball? What do you mean, play ball?”

  “Look, the good news is that no one was killed. A couple of people were lightly maimed, but I’m sure a generous donation from an anonymous Samaritan would go a long way toward helping them move on.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, and we’re going to need you to resign from office.”

  “Resign?” Realizing that they were making a bit of a scene, Zobbles squirreled away from the two spectors and hustled across the office to shut the doors. “Resign? Are you insane? I can’t resign now. I’m practically a shoo-in for reelection.”

  “Insane, he calls us,” Cato said to Hank. “The man who helped organize a show of unity, then bombed it.”

 

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