Back From the Undead (7 page)

“They mostly stay indoors here, except at night,” Charlie says.

“Why?”

“Because a popular gang initiation is to catch a pire outside during the day, and see how many times you can slash open his daysuit before he catches on fire.”

“Ah.”

We head for an area called Gastown, the oldest part of the city. When I’d visited Vancouver on my own world, I’d spent an afternoon there; like heritage districts in many cities, it had been spruced up into a tourist attraction, with old brick buildings now housing upscale restaurants and souvenir shops. Red cobblestone streets, an enormous steam-powered clock, and turn-of-the-century gaslit lamps completed the picture.

Well, the cobblestones are still there, as are some of the buildings—though in much worse condition, and a lot filthier. The gas lamps have been replaced by the harsh orange glare of sodium vapor, and many of the lots are either weed-filled and fenced off with chain link, or hold only a burned-out husk of crumbling brick and charred wood. To my surprise the steam clock is still there, though obviously nonfunctional; as our car creeps past, I see that it’s only a shell, the empty interior visible through a missing access panel. Even the hands on the clock face are gone.

It’s no worse than many neighborhoods I’ve been to, but it hits me harder than I thought it would. It’s because I’ve been here before—well, been to a version of it, anyway—and now it feels like visiting a place after a natural disaster has swept through, a hurricane or an earthquake. The landscape’s familiar but everything’s been damaged, torn down, swept away.

The disaster here, though, isn’t a natural one. It’s a wave of crime and drugs, of violence and corruption. Inner-city decay as bad as a case of gangrene, feeding on greed and poverty, desperation and indifference. I don’t need to see the compounds the warlords live in to know they’re just as opulent and decadent as this place is squalid and grim. That’s how it always is.

Gastown was the original settlement that sprang up around the port, the place where the longshoremen and merchant marine would go to spend their hard-earned paychecks. Bordellos and speakeasies would have lined the streets in those days, maybe a few gambling parlors or opium dens. The oceanfront is visible through the buildings, only steps away, but there’s a set of railroad tracks and at least two razor-topped fences between here and there.

The only people out and about seem to be the drunks, junkies, and hookers, all three of which seem to favor the non-hairy look. I remark on this, and Eisfanger informs me that the baseline human form burns fewer calories. I reply that we also look a helluva lot more attractive in fishnets, and he concedes the point.

The hotel we’re booked into is called the Royal Arms, and the only thing royal about it is the castle-like security. No moat, but we have to buzz through two separate doors to get inside, both of which are heavily armored. There’s also a big sign on the first one stating that illicit activities are not allowed and will not be tolerated, which I understand to mean the rooms are not available by the hour.

The lobby is old and dusty and features furniture that might actually qualify as antiques if they weren’t held together with duct tape and baling wire. The clerk, a droopy-eyed pire who looks like he hasn’t been outside in a few decades, signs us in and takes an imprint of my credit card. We’ve got three rooms on the top floor, the third. Charlie takes the car around to the underground parking, while Eisfanger and I grab some luggage and head upstairs.

The place isn’t as bad as I thought it might be. Old, tired, and dingy, sure, but it’s clean and doesn’t stink. The rooms are larger than I would have expected—built when cubic footage was cheap—and the radiator in mine gives off a nice warm glow. Charlie shows up with the rest of our bags and announces that the parking lot is fairly secure, even has a lem guard.

“Haven’t seen too many of those, either,” I say. “Lems, I mean. Do the gangs do terrible things to them, too?”

“It’s not that,” Charlie says. “There are plenty of lems here, but you don’t see them on the street much. No reason for them to be there.”

“Guess not. They don’t get high, drunk, or laid, and that’s about all this place has to offer.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I hear the local ballet company is to die for.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Plenty of things here to die for…”

*   *   *

We get settled in, and then I call the number Stoker sent us and leave a message. I don’t tell him where we are, just that we’re in town and ready to meet.

And then we wait.

I clean my gun. Eisfanger leaves to grab some takeout, and Charlie goes with him for backup. They’ve been gone all of ten minutes when my cell phone rings.

It’s coming up as a private call, number blocked. I answer.

“Jace,” Stoker says. “You came.”

“You knew I would.”

“I did,” he admits. “But I’m not playing you. I don’t expect you to take that at face value—but try to remember what happened the last time we met.”

“You did your best to kill everyone I know.”

“Well, yes. But it was only a bargaining tactic.”

Which, weirdly enough, is true. “Won’t work again. I had that chronal spell thing nullified. And you know that sooner or later I’m going to take that damn sword away from you.”

“True. Because it’s already happened in the future and will have happened in the past. Don’t you love time-travel magic?”

“Not even a little. What’s your point?”

“That I promised not to kill any of your friends if you let me go, and I’ve kept that promise. Doesn’t that get me a little credibility?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“And so is Mr. Aleph, I assume. How was the border?”

“Better than being force-fed rocks before being beaten to death with my own intestines. Theoretically.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. But that’s what it’s like for human beings here—even when they work for the NSA.”

Hang on. How does Stoker know I didn’t just flash my badge and sail right on through—is he even better connected than I thought? Was the whole ordeal with Delta just another hoop he wanted me to jump through so I’d empathize with him as a fellow non-supernatural?

No, that’s not it. I just forget how smart Stoker is, sometimes. Smart enough to deduce I might try to slip across the border incognito—which I’ve just confirmed. He knew what kind of reception I would get in that case, and that I wouldn’t miss a chance to grouse about the experience. Now he knows that I’m here and that I have no official backup. God
damn
it.

“The real hassle was waiting for them to process the whole team,” I say. “You’d think they could bypass a little paperwork for National Security, but cross-agency cooperation has a long way to go. You ever run into that in terrorist circles? One cell just
has
to prove its equipment is bigger than another’s?” I hold my breath.

“Nice try. I know you brought a shaman along to verify my story, but other than Charlie that’s all you have.”

“Interesting theory. Doesn’t make much sense, though. Why would I—”

“Jace, please. As much as you’d like to come after me with all the resources you could muster, it’s politically unfeasible. And while my own resources aren’t terribly robust at the moment, it’s not hard to keep an eye on a single entry point for a day or two.”

I curse silently. He
saw
us come across—or had someone else who did. Which means he knows exactly where I am
right now
—

“Calm down, Jace.” He sounds amused. “Yes, I know where you are. But if we’re going to be working together, sooner or later we have to establish a certain level of trust, don’t we?”

“I suppose.” I’d prefer a level that didn’t involve him knowing where I sleep, though.

“Look, we should meet. I’ll let you pick the spot, all right? The three of you and just me. Would that make you feel a little more secure?”

“I’ll get back to you.” I hang up on him, which might seem petty but in fact sends an important message: I can still walk away, anytime I choose.

But I won’t. And Stoker knows that, too.

When Charlie and Eisfanger come back with the food I tell them about the call. Charlie nods as Eisfanger unpacks Styrofoam containers from a white plastic bag; he doesn’t seem surprised that Stoker’s one step ahead of us.

“I know a place,” Charlie says. “Hard to set up an ambush there. We’ll make sure we lose whatever eyes he has on us first, then go scope it out, let him know at the last minute.”

Eisfanger hands me a pair of chopsticks and pops open a lid. He looks a lot more nervous than Charlie does. “So he knows where we are? Right now?”

“Sure,” Charlie says. “We’re on his turf.”

“And that doesn’t worry you?”

“Worrying is counterproductive. I prefer to direct my energies toward maintaining a state of caution instead.”

I open the container Eisfanger hands me. Black bean chow mein, with the noodles nice and crispy. It smells heavenly.

“It might have a little chicken in it,” Eisfanger says. “I told them I wanted it vegetarian, but I don’t think they believed me.”

“I’ll pick it out,” I say. “And Damon, you should relax. The fact that he’s letting us control the meet is a good sign—it lessens the chance of being set up.”

Eisfanger nods, his mouth full of deep-fried something, but his eyes still hold some apprehension. “Maintain a state of caution,” he mumbles around his food. “Right. Good advice…”

FIVE

Shaking whoever’s tailing us is a good idea, but I decide to take it one step farther; after we’re done eating, we leave the DeSoto parked and give the guy at the front desk some cash to have our luggage delivered to another hotel, then slip out a fire door, down an alley, and walk a few blocks before hailing a cab.

“We’ll get the car later,” I say. “For now, better if he thinks he knows where we are.”

The new hotel, the Clarion, is even more run-down than the last one, but its security is just as good. Iron bars on the windows, too, though I’m not sure if that’s to keep prowlers out or the residents in. I don’t know if it’s possible for thropes or pires to kill themselves by jumping off a tall building, but living in surroundings like these could tempt one to try.

The Clarion clearly has more long-term residents than the Royal did, and quite a few of them are lems. A group of four playing cards around a table in the lobby stare at us curiously as we check in. I can hear music playing somewhere upstairs, something jazzy with a lot of sax in it. The clerk, a lem wearing a faded brown suit, his fingers thick and heavy with peeling gray duct tape, tells us that pets aren’t allowed and there’s no cooking of food in the rooms. He puts us on the fourth floor, and then tells us that the elevator is “currently disabled.” From the cracked and faded look of the sign taped to the doors,
permanently
seems a more accurate prognosis.

We haul our bags up to our respective rooms, which are smaller, dirtier, and more cheaply furnished than our previous ones. The bathroom is shared and at the end of the hall, but it seems in pretty good condition. Probably doesn’t get that much use.

We unpack and reconvene in my room. There’s only a single bed and one table with a chair; I take the chair, Eisfanger perches on the edge of the mattress, and Charlie stays on his feet. He tells us what he has in mind for the meet, and then we strategize.

When I feel we have a workable plan, I send Charlie back for the car. The Clarion has an underground lot, too, so we can stash it there without worrying about it being spotted from the street—but not right away. To add another level of security, Charlie’s going to meet us at a different spot, away from our base of operations, and we’ll proceed to the meet from there.

Eisfanger and I grab a cab. “Where to?” the driver grunts. He’s a lem wearing a slouch cap, which seems to be a universal constant for cabbies no matter what world you’re on.

“Someplace nice,” I say. “Scenic, but not too far from downtown. A restaurant.”

He thinks for a minute, then says, “You been to the Harbourview Tower? Helluva view, good restaurant. Little pricey.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say.

Harbourview Tower turns out to be the tall, Space-Needley thing I noticed on the way into town. It’s got a glass elevator that crawls up the outside of the building and the obligatory rotating restuarant on top. It is, indeed, a little pricey, but I decide to splurge. We’ve already eaten, but coffee and dessert with a spectacular view sounds like just the thing to make me forget the grim little room I’ll be sleeping in tonight.

One interesting thing, though: The security here makes the Clarion’s look like a latched gate. A lem in a tuxedo—one of the white sand lems that seem designed for the service industry—runs two different wands over us, the first one obviously a metal detector, the second one more mystical looking. He finds my gun, of course, and politely asks me what it’s for.

“Sex toy,” I say with a straight face. “I go through a lot of batteries, too.”

If a lem could blush, I’m sure he’d look like he was made out of brick. “Please don’t take it out at the table” is all he says as he hands it back.

There’s a fee just to ride the elevator, but they deduct it from your food bill. The view is as impressive as I thought it would be; we can’t see the mountains now that it’s dark, but the bay is dotted with the lights of ships and the city itself glitters beneath us. Pretty. Almost as pretty as our waiter, a young man with a charmingly shaggy mane and an engaging smile that tells me he’s a pire, not a thrope—

Oh my God.

I’m so busy classifying him that I don’t realize who he
is
for a full second. And then it’s all I can do to keep from bursting out laughing. It gets worse when he introduces himself, which gets me a puzzled look. He does puzzled
very
well, which threatens to completely eradicate my last shred of self-control.

“Today’s specials are beef Wellington and ling cod served with an apricot reduction. Our soup is an oxblood bisque. Would you like a drink to start?”