Back From the Undead (8 page)

I try not to giggle. I know Eisfanger must be terminally confused right about now, but he’s used to not getting the joke—especially around me—and hides it reasonably well. “I think we’d like to see a dessert menu, actually. And bring us a couple of coffees.”

He smiles. “I’ll have the tray brought around.” He takes our menus and turns to leave.

I can’t resist. “One more thing,” I add.

He turns back. “Yes?”

“Are you by chance an actor?”

His smile is modest, but still very familiar. Sigh. “Actually, yes, I am. Have you seen me in something?”

“Uh … no.” That’s a lie, but a long explanation doesn’t seem worth it. “Your name seems familiar, though. I don’t meet a Keanu every day.”

He nods, glad for the attention but still a little disappointed. “Well, thanks for mentioning it. My agent must be doing something right … I’ll be right back with those coffees.”

When he’s gone, Eisfanger leans forward and say, “What was
that
all about?”

“The multiverse’s sense of humor. I wonder if I can get him to say,
I know kung fu
…”

*   *   *

Charlie calls when he’s downstairs. We go down to meet him rather than have him come up; he says he isn’t inclined to pay the elevator fee, but I get the feeling it’s his weapons he’s reluctant to part with rather than his money. We finish our coffees and I pay for them—and two slices of cheesecake—with a credit card. I could have used cash, but I can’t resist scrawling something across the bottom of the receipt.

Eisfanger reads it over my shoulder. “Take the blue pill? What’s that even
mean
?”

“Sorry. The Matrix can’t be explained—only
experienced
.”

“You are one weird date,” Eisfanger mutters as we get in the elevator.

Charlie’s in the DeSoto, idling at the curb. “Everything okay?” I ask, hopping in the front as Eisfanger gets in the back.

“No problems. Picked up our shadow, took him on a little tour of the east side. Lost him somewhere around Commercial Drive.”

I pull out my phone and call Stoker. He answers on the first ring.

“Feel safer now?” he says.

“Loads. You ready?”

“I am.”

He chuckles when I tell him where to meet us and what direction he should arrive from. “My, you
are
being cautious,” he says. “How soon?”

“An hour.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You better. I won’t wait there more than ten minutes.”

“Then I better leave now.” He hangs up. Again, not petty—he just wants to remind me that I don’t hold all the cards. He has something he thinks I want, and he can walk away at any time, too.

There are three ways to set up a meet like this. One is the public option: Surround yourself with a crowd, making it unfeasible to start any sort of mayhem that could injure civilians and providing you with cover if you need to disappear quickly. Better for criminals than cops.

Another is the isolated location. Someplace you can control the entrances and exits, hide surveillance and snipers, keep a lid on the situation. Better for whoever gets there first—but only when you have the support personnel, prep time, and intel to back your play. We’re a little thin on all three—Charlie’s a great resource, but even he can’t stand in for a federal agency.

So we go with option number three, a level playing field. And I do mean level—sea level to be exact. We’re headed for Boundary Bay Regional Park, which sits on a spit of land extending into the bay itself. It’s very close to the border—in fact, you can see the row of spiderwebbed poles in the distance, marching right off the beach and into the water. That’s an additional bonus, one there to keep Stoker honest, but the real reason we picked this location was the tidal flats. At low tide—which is in about fifteen minutes—the flats stretch for mile after muddy mile, a vast, soggy expanse of nothing. Even if you have your own private submarine or aircraft, you’ll be visible long before you arrive—and the proximity of the fence means you can’t use any sort of magic unless you want a Black Hawk helicopter swooping down on you.

We arrive by boat, a flat-bottomed skiff we rent at a nearby marina. It takes us a little longer than the hour I gave Stoker, but I’m not worried he’ll leave if we’re not there when he shows up. It’ll take him a while to walk across the flats, anyway, and I made sure he’d be the one slogging across them on foot.

We wait in the boat. It’s a calm, cloudless night, the half-moon above us bright and strong. The surf laps against the beach, competing with the distant pulse of a chopper, and the smell of wet sand and exposed seaweed fills my nose. I can see a spot of light in the middle of the flats, flickering as it sweeps side-to-side, getting nearer. Good; he’s not making any attempt to conceal himself.

Charlie and I get out of the boat. Eisfanger’s not with us. We take a few steps up the beach, but stay near the shoreline.

Stoker trudges up. He’s in jeans and a black T-shirt that stretches tightly across his massive chest. He’s just as enormous as I remember, a giant of a man in peak physical shape. He’s got the flashlight in one hand and nothing else.

“Jace,” he says neutrally. “Charlie.”

Charlie’s been playing with a pair of steel-cored silver ball bearings ever since we came ashore, rolling them around in one hand. It makes a noise you can barely hear, but I know it well. Charlie can throw those ball bearings at just under the speed of sound, and he keeps an even dozen of them in spring-loaded holsters up either sleeve. His only response to Stoker’s greeting is to click them together one-handed, the sound eerily like cocking a gun.

“We’re here,” I say. “Let’s see your cards.”

He shakes his head. “You haul me out to the middle of nowhere and expect me to make my case? I wish I could, but it’s not going to be that easy.”

“Oh? Exactly how hard is it going to be?”

“That depends. What will it take for you to trust me?”

“You in a federal prison and me back where I came from.”

“I couldn’t give you that if I wanted to. I told you, Ahaseurus and I are quits.”

“So you say.”

He sighs. “You are still the most difficult woman—no, human being—I have ever met.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Do you know why I’m here, Jace?”

“If it’s for the clams, you should have brought a shovel.”

In the moonlight, his smile is a broad white slash across his jaw. “Because I’m sick of death. It’s all I’ve ever made, all I’m really good at. In your world, I could have been so many different things—but in your world, there wouldn’t have been any need for me. Here, I’m a product of natural selection, an animal specifically evolved to fit a particular environmental niche. And I don’t want to
be
that animal anymore.”

It’s a pretty speech, but I’m not exactly a dewy-eyed optimist when it comes to human nature. “So?”

“So when you reject death, what are you left with?”

“An undertaker with his hopes dashed?”

His laugh is the low rumble of an earthquake. “I really missed you, Jace. You’re not going to like this next part, but if you want proof, there’s only one way to get it.”

Uh-oh. “So spit it out, already.”

“Gertrude’s disappeared. So have the few possessions the other kids left behind, which she was taking care of.”

“How inconvenient,” I say coldly.

“But I have another lead. A member of a Triad who says he has information and is willing to speak to us.”

“So instead of a forensic examination of actual evidence you want us to take the word of a local criminal?”

Stoker shrugs. “Why don’t we listen to what he has to say, first?”

I glare at him, but I’m not ready to shut this operation down just yet. “When and where?”

“I can take you to him right away. He’s expecting us.”

*   *   *

We take Stoker with us when we leave. Between his weight and Charlie’s, I’m surprised the boat will still float. I operate the small electric outboard while Charlie keeps a baleful eye on Stoker.

“How are those swimming lessons going?” Stoker asks him. “You master the sinking-like-a-boulder stroke yet?” His tone is light, but it’s a warning shot all the same; Charlie isn’t built for an aquatic environment and Stoker knows it.

“Nah. These days, I just concentrate on finding a convenient flotation device and hanging on—you know, something like a big bag of meat. Doesn’t work too well, though; even when I get a really good grip, I still tend to go straight down. Good thing I don’t need to breathe, I guess.”

Stoker smiles.

We take the skiff back to the marina, then get in the DeSoto—Charlie’s forced to let me drive, while he sits in the back with Stoker. “Try not to completely destroy my clutch,” Charlie growls as he hands me the keys.

“Please. I learned how to drive on a stick. The clutch is that thingie that signals lane changes, right?”

It’s been a while since I drove a standard shift, but I only grind the gears a little and don’t stall it out once. Both the steering and the brakes are manual, but it lunges like a tiger when I hit the gas and rumbles like a contented kitten on the highway.

“Nice car,” Stoker says.

“Don’t even,” Charlie says. He can’t decide if he should be more worried about the killer sitting beside him or the nut loose behind the wheel.

And then I’m driving, and no one’s talking.

I’d like to have taken Eisfanger, had him sweep Stoker for anything sorcerous, but I couldn’t put my entire team at risk; I needed to have at least one person in reserve in case things went off the rails. Stoker might have any kind of voodoo hidden up his sleeve, just waiting until we get far enough away from the border fence’s alarms before he triggers a spell. If this is a setup, right now is the most dangerous time.

But nothing happens. We cruise back into Vancouver, park at the all-night restaurant where Eisfanger’s waiting, and call him on his cell. He comes out to the parking lot carrying his shamanic tools in a brushed-aluminum case and does a thorough scan of Stoker in the backseat.

When he’s finished, Eisfanger gets out and gives me the news. “Okay. He’s got a few spells on him, but it’s all self-defense and stealth stuff. The only heavy-duty magic is a healing enchantment, but it’s one-use only. No tracking or eavesdropping bugs, no teleportation, nothing really lethal.”

I feel a little of my tension go away. I don’t bother saying good-bye, because it’ll be back soon enough. “So he really is alone?”

Eisfanger shrugs. “Near as I can tell. Which means he’s vulnerable—well, as vulnerable as a giant, genius-level psychopath with a lifetime of training can be.”

“Thanks. Head back to the hotel—I still want you as backup for as long as possible.”

“Sure.” He hesitates. “Uh, okay if I finish my sandwich first?”

“Get it to go.” I get back in the car.

“We ready to roll?” Stoker asks.

“As ready as we’re going to be, I guess.”

He gives me directions to our destination: Chinatown.

Being on the Pacific Rim, Vancouver gets a lot of Asian immigrants. Unfortunately, being the kind of town it is, it doesn’t always attract the best and brightest; more like the bold and bloodthirsty. Chinese Tongs and Triads abound, mostly pires, many of their members professional soldiers that have been around since the Boxer Rebellion at the turn of the twentieth century or longer. On my world the Boxers were mystics and martial artists who wanted to get rid of Western influences in China; here it was much the same, only the mystics also drank blood and many of the Christian missionaries they wanted to get rid of howled at the moon after saying their bedtime prayers. Not that the whole dispute came down to thropes versus pires; there were plenty of Chinese peasants who preferred wolfhood to batkind, and more than one Western expat with an allergy to sunlight.

The uprising failed in both worlds, with the Imperial Court dithering over whether they should support the movement or repress it, and an alliance of Western powers finally stepping in to stop the slaughter of their own people. Lems fought on both sides, but in the end the rebels were outnumbered and put down—though the success the Boxers enjoyed for a while spurred the creation of other secret societies in their wake. Some of those groups had less altruistic motives than saving Chinese culture, and a century later the hardiest of those organizations are still around; they specialize in gambling, prostitution, the drug trade, and the occasional murder or extortion to keep things lively.

“But one of the biggest cash cows for them,” Stoker says from the backseat, “is counterfeiting. Not just money, either—goods.”

“I know,” I say. “Designer clothing, name-brand electronics, furniture, toys—anything they can make cheaper and crappier.”

“Lems, too,” Charlie says.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am. Low-grade dirt mixed with the sand. Thinner skin, no quality control. Juice ’em up with the life force of a mouse, put ’em to work in factories. They have a life span of a few months, but half of them don’t make it that long—they’ll put too much stress on a seam and burst open. Spill whatever life they have left all over the floor, and the next lem in line will have to sweep up the remains. The leftovers get recycled, of course; wouldn’t want to waste good dirt.”

The car goes quiet for a second.

“Yeah,” Stoker says, his voice hard. “That’s exactly right. That’s the value these …
predators
put on life.
Any
life.”

“Unlike you,” Charlie says. “What with your newfound respect for it and all.”

“I never had a problem with lems,” Stoker says. “I killed pires, I killed thropes. Never golems.”

“You’re a real saint,” Charlie says. “How
lucky
I am to be in your presence—”

And then we’re in the middle of a firefight.

Literally. Bolts of fire blaze through my line of sight, like a meteor shower at eye level. It takes my brain a second to process the fact that I’m seeing flaming arrows flash past, but by then I’ve locked up the brakes and thrown the car into a screaming sideways skid. The DeSoto screeches out of my lane and slams into the side of a bus, bringing it to an abrupt halt. The passenger-side window and windshield shatter on impact, showering me with safety glass.