Darkwalker: A Tale of the Urban Shaman (24 page)

Sascha Bylinkin fought not to whimper or weep. He leaned sideways against the bonds holding him to the chair, but could find no comfortable position. His balls ached, the fingers on his left hand throbbed, the two last fingers pointing at the ceiling like arthritic tree branches. One eye was swollen shut, and his lips felt the size of basketballs.

“
He’s tougher than I would have expected,” said Pyotr.

“
Or telling the damned truth,” said Boris. “Come on. You were there. He was with us the whole time.”

“
You were too drunk to notice if he slipped out. You are calling Katarina a liar?”

“
I know what I saw.”

“
So does she.”

Dimitri Prokanazov raised a hand. “Both stories cannot be true,” he said.

“
Unless,” said a raspy voice, “you have to deal with the oboroten.” Igor Prokanazov, Dimitri’s father, was still big of frame, though stooped by age. He leaned heavily on a stout cane. He shuffled further into the room, gestured at Sascha. “Let this poor bastard go. It’s not his fault.”

“
You can’t be certain,” said his son.

“
You think it’s all stupid legends and superstition? I’ve seen this before. A shapeshifter can look like anyone. Throw suspicion on whoever he wishes.”

“
If that’s true, we’re facing a dead end,” said Prokanazov.

“
Not at all,” said his father. “The oboroten can only copy the shape he knows. He must have gotten close to Sascha. Also, he knew your habits, knew which night you’d be away. Look for someone new, who has become close to you or your men in recent days. He will have been studying you.”

“
Ivan,” said Boris.

He had originally thought that Ivan Raskalov might become a regular identity, that he might eventually get papers for him and bank accounts. But he was tired of the Russian character. If he dropped it, if the fellow vanished after the theft of the ring, the Rusks might suspect Ivan, but so what? They’d never find him again, and there was nothing to connect him to Guardsman Caine. Still, his curiosity was great. He burned to know what had happen-ed in the wake of the robbery. Prokanazov had to be aware the ring was a cheap piece of junk. Surely he couldn’t believe that City Boss Crichton had ever worn the thing. But he would still be outraged at the violation of his sanctum, the killing of his cousin Feodor, the bodyguard Yuri.

Smiling, he walked to the corner of his room and picked up the ring from where he’d tossed it several nights ago. Yes, he thought, he should return the ring.

The Ivan Raskalov who entered the Romanov Thursday night was somewhat leaner and harder than he had appeared before. Shifting on the fly could be difficult, and he wanted a head start.

They were waiting for him, he could tell. The air in the bar prickled at his skin. Prokanazov’s boys were not subtle or deceptive. All the eyes that looked at him as he crossed to the bar were grim.

Sascha joined him as he ordered his usual. The bodyguard’s face was battered and swollen, his hand wrapped in bandage. “Ivan,” he said, with a patently false smile. “Nice to see you.”

“
What the hell happened to you?”

“
Little family disagreement,” said Sascha. “Sorted now.” He laid his good hand on Ivan’s shoulder, and Boris appeared on his other side.

“
Come along, Vanya,” Boris said. “Gospodin Prokanazov would like to meet you.”

“
Good,” he said.

At his side, claws were growing from his fingertips as they escorted him through the kitchen and into a back room.

The room was a storeroom, boxes and crates piled to each side. In the center stood a wooden chair, a small table next to it. On the table was a collection of instruments. He put a look of concern on his face, though he was smiling inwardly. It was obvious what they intended. There were several knives, some razor blades, a pair of pliers, a soldering iron, and a thing he recognized as a medical bone saw. On a crate nearby were a pair of manacles, several lengths of rope, and a small rubber ball with a cord threaded through a hole in the middle of it. It took him a moment to realize this last item was a gag. Of course they wouldn’t want the Romanov’s customers disturbed by his screams. He stopped, staring at the table of torture implements, and Sascha gave him a shove from behind. At that moment, he heard footsteps.

“
Ivan Mikhailovich,” said a deep voice.

He turned. Dimitri Prokanazov stood there, staring at him with a cold glare. Behind him, Pyotr bolted the door that led to the kitchen. “I cannot tell you how much I have been looking forward to this meeting,” Prokanazov said. He did not step forward to offer a handshake. “Please, have a seat.”

“
I think I would rather stand, thank you, Gospodin Prokanazov.”

“
But I insist.” At a gesture, Boris and Sascha flanked him, grasping him by the elbows and shoulders. They would have forced him into the chair, but he braced himself, and their efforts produced no more result than if they had tried to move a stone statue. The two Rusks looked at each other in puzzlement. As Pyotr walked forward to join them, Ivan formed his right hand into the spearpoint position and drove it into Boris’ midsection, just below the sternum. His claw penetrated muscle and organs. Boris gasped, unable even to scream. Ivan pivoted, flinging the dying Russian into the approaching Pyotr, blood spraying them both.

Sascha stared in disbelief, then shook himself and went for his gun. The creature—no longer Ivan; he was morphing and changing into something else—slashed his throat with its bloody claws. Sascha collapsed, gurgling.

Prokanazov drew out a pistol, but the creature was on him before he could use it. His claws ripped through woolen suit and silk shirt, shredding Prokanazov’s bicep. Prokanazov screamed as the monster bore him to the floor, clapping a hand over his mouth, smothering the scream. His other hand ripped down the gangster’s left arm, leaving both arms now useless.

The monster that had been Ivan sat astride the crime czar’s chest, one hand covering the man’s mouth, though his scream had now become a whimper. The Russian’s feet beat a weak tattoo on the cement floor.

“
You thought I had something of yours, no?” the creature said in a raspy voice. “You are correct. And I have come to return it to you.” From his pocket he brought out the stolen ring, held it up before the mobster’s frightened eyes. “After all, it is worthless to me. How much did you pay for this trinket, comrade? Whatever you paid, you were scammed. This thing never belonged to Wendell Crichton. It’s nothing but a cheap souvenir.” He shifted his grip, forced the Russian’s mouth open, and jammed the ring down his throat. As the man began to gag and choke, the creature leaned close to him. “Perhaps you can get a refund in hell.”

20. WOLF

Of course, I had to sneak past Rok and Morgan. Normally I’d want them with me on this sort of thing, but they’d have tried to prevent me going out, arguing doctor’s orders. I slipped out and rode the elevator down to the first basement level, where the evidence lockup was located. The guard on duty there recognized me, apologized for his colleagues’ assault, and told me how nice the Harvest Blessing had been. I mentally gritted my teeth, smiled, and thanked him as politely as I could, impatient to get something of Mascarpone’s and go looking for some sign of her.

Rooting through the bin with her possessions, I selected a wristwatch that looked well worn and well loved, and signed it out. Took the stairs back up to street level rather than wait for the elevator. My head was still sore as hell, so I walked slowly and carefully. It took me a while to reach the tram overpass.

When I reached the overpass at Eighth and Alvarado it was after dark, but still much earlier than the time Suzi Mascarpone had been killed. The neighborhood was mixed residential and business, a bit heavier on the business side, most of the buildings adobe brick or limestone, none over six, maybe seven stories. The elevated tram line ran down a long stretch of Alvarado here, eastbound and westbound tracks spanning the wide street, before curving off to the east, to touch down again on the other side of Seventh Avenue, where the ground began to rise toward the city center. In the opposite direction, past Tenth, the numbers on the avenues would give way to names for a few blocks as they approached the waterfront. There were a few pedestrians, but the place looked pretty much as it would have then: The elevated tram line cast huge, black shadows over the roadways and alleys and empty lots it passed over. I hadn’t been walking particularly fast, but still I slowed as I came close to the site of the murder, the watch I had taken from evidence gripped in my left hand. I walked toward one of those shadows, then stopped, sniffing. Above the dank of the river and the stench of the nearby dumpster, there was a scent of... ginger. Mascarpone used a ginger-scented perfume. The watch seemed to vibrate in my hand.

I heard a burble of voices, like a group of talking people approaching. Women’s voices. I could smell oranges and burnt hair, felt a buzz like a static charge run through me, and suddenly someone gripped my right arm and pressed something into my hand.

“
Take this,” the woman’s voice said in my ear. “There’s a killer out there on the streets, you know.” I turned, but there was no woman there, only the empty, darkening street. When I looked down, although I could still feel the polished wood and steel, my open palm was empty. I knew exactly what it was, that phantom object. I had held that folding knife with its rosewood grips, which now sat in the same evidence bin where I’d found the watch. I looked up as a tram clattered by overhead. I was staring, seeing my surroundings without registering them. I knew I was looking down the street, at the plascrete columns that supported the tram lines, and several blocks down, there were tiny figures crossing an intersection, but somehow it seemed less real than the high-pitched sound I was hearing like a ringing in my ears, the color of footsteps echoing in the empty street, the sound of the glowing, gray-orange sky above, the feel of the smooth-hard texture of the city night.

Then I was moving, a disorienting sensation, walking along a different dark street while also standing perfectly still, and I knew I’d contacted some piece of Suzi Mascarpone.

“
Well, well, what have we here?” a voice called out. I looked to my right, but could see nothing, though I could smell sweat and booze, and a hint of weed, mixed with a cloying, sweet aftershave.

I felt a hand grip my arm again, and a familiar voice said, “You’d best be getting home with no stops along the way.”

That one was Rainer Auden’s voice. Knowing what sort of thing must be coming, I focused briefly on my own body, my own world, hoping this wouldn’t break the connection, while I groped behind me for one of the plascrete columns of the tram line. As my hand found the cold, rough surface, I was grabbed from behind, a powerful arm coming around from the left. Every instinct screamed that my left hand should be shooting up to block, I should be spinning right, my elbow smashing the assailant’s face, but instead the arm encircled my throat with no trouble. Small hands with lacquered nails shot up to claw ineffectively at the arm for a moment, before one vanished briefly, to reappear with the folding knife. I felt a tearing pain in my abdomen, and a growl said in my ear, “Be pleased, oh, Lady, be pleased.”

The next few moments were a blur, a cacophony of screams and pain and blood, like being caught in a sensory storm, too many images and feelings rushing through me at once to pick out and focus on any one. It seemed to go on for years... Then...

Sitting. I was sitting on pavement. My back was against plascrete, I was staring at a dumpster fifty feet away in the open lot next to a decrepit building whose sign offered “Tech Repair.” There was a watch clutched in my sweaty left hand. I was breathing hard, as though I’d just finished a run or been sparring for a long bout. I sat there, getting my breath back, staring at the dumpster. Remembered belatedly to reach for my hara, that point of balance at the center of the physical body, just behind and below the navel. Focused my breathing there until I felt more balanced.

Gradually it came back. Suzi Mascarpone, member of the Harlot’s Guild, Marilynist, activist. That’s why I was here. She’d been killed on this spot, and I’d just felt that death. That’s what all the blood and pain and screaming had been. I wondered if I’d actually screamed aloud. Looked around to find the streets around me still empty. Well, mostly empty. At one end of the block a Latino guy was walking a dog. He didn’t even glance in my direction. I watched him disappear around the corner onto Ninth. If I had made any sound, it apparently hadn’t attracted any attention.

My head was pounding again. Strange: while I’d been in that fugue state, my head was about the only part of me not experiencing pain. I leaned against the column, closed my eyes, not wanting to do this, but it was necessary. I reached my senses out to the surroundings, searching for some sense of Suzi Mascarpone. There was nothing. The woman’s spirit had moved on, and it was likely her shade was gone as well. It happens that way sometimes: A shade will download its traumatic experience into a living human, and then it will dissipate.

Opening my eyes, I reached into my pocket and brought out a packet of tobacco. With shaking hands I dumped some out into a small square of paper, twisted it closed, and set it down on the pavement. Then I produced my lighter and set fire to it. As the tobacco burned, I chanted the Farewell to the Dead.