Deadtown (14 page)

Oh, please. All we needed was a waving flag and the “Star-Spangled Banner” swelling in the background. “Okay, Dr. Gravett,” I said, “you’ve made your case. As you can see, Gwen isn’t interested. The front door’s that way.”

Gravett didn’t move. She leaned forward in her chair, watching Gwen, who twisted her hands in her lap.

I stood up and stepped toward the researcher. “Out,” I said. “I’ll pick you up and throw you out myself if you don’t get moving. I’m not kidding.”

Gravett looked at me, a challenge in her eyes. Her expression suggested she’d like nothing better than a chance to witness my paranormal strength. After another glance at Gwen, she sighed and got to her feet.

That’s when Gwen looked up. “Wait. If you decode this genome, does that mean—” Her eyes shone. “Does that mean you could find a cure?”

“A cure?” I couldn’t believe I’d heard her right. “For God’s sake, Gwen, it’s not a disease. It’s what we are.”

My sister turned to me, her face cold. “It’s what
you
are. I’m not. And I don’t want my daughter to be, either.”

Gravett pushed past me to sit down next to Gwen. “Once we understand how the shapeshifter gene works, we may be able to deactivate it, yes.”

The wheels were spinning behind Gwen’s eyes. You could almost see her calculating how much time the research might take versus how much time Maria had left until puberty. I wanted to shake her, to tell her to let her daughter be what she was—Cerddorion or human.

The grandfather clock in the corner chimed five. Gwen blinked, looking like she’d just come out of a dream. She stood. “I have to start supper,” she said. “I’ll think about it, Dr. Gravett. I have your card. I’ll call you.”

Gravett stood too, smiling that damned smug smile, and Gwen walked her to the front door.

“Gwen—” I began when she came back.

“Don’t start, Vicky. Just don’t. I’m not going to discuss it with you now.” She pushed past me and went into the kitchen. This time, no banging sounds emerged. The silence was scarier.

I didn’t stay for dinner. Besides the fact that I still didn’t want to be introduced to Andy, the bad feelings between Gwen and me meant that this was not a good night to be sharing lasagna around the Santini family table. So I took a taxi to Needham Heights Station and caught an early train back to Boston. After the conductor punched my ticket, I sat and stared out the window. The light faded as we sped past graffiti-covered walls, gradually showing nothing but my own scowling face reflected in the glass. I was glad the light was gone, plunging Boston into the world of vampires, zombies, and other night creatures. The meeting with Gravett the mad scientist had put me in a bad mood. I was ready to kill some demons.

10

BOSTON’S NORTH END IS A WARREN OF NARROW, TWISTING streets lined with brownstones, mom-and-pop grocery stores, wholesalers, and some of the best Italian restaurants you’ll find outside of Tuscany. I drove down North Street and turned right on Lewis—the Jag whined in protest as I turned the wheel, then coughed a couple of times. Damn, I really needed to get that checked. I made a left on Commercial, which brought me to Atlantic and the waterfront. There it was, Commodore Wharf. I had to hand it to Lucado—he’d put up a good-looking building. Tasteful, even. Mostly brick, it rose ten stories and sported balconies, arched windows, and lots of glass. Modern, luxurious, but not out of place in Boston’s oldest neighborhood.

I parked in a visitor’s space and breezed past the doorman, who waved me through when I told him who I was there to see. The lobby was as classy as the building’s exterior: marble floors, dark wood paneling, leather chairs clustered here and there in conversation groups. Nice.

When I rang Lucado’s doorbell, it was a few minutes before ten. The door was opened by a massive chest with pumped-up pecs. At least, that’s what it looked like until I craned my head back to see the guy’s face. He was well over six feet tall, and he had the face of a prizefighter who’d won himself more poundings than prizes: beady eyes and a zigzagging nose that’d been broken in at least three places. Besides a too-tight T-shirt, he wore jeans and black boots. Strange uniform for a butler, so I was guessing this must be Lucado’s bodyguard.

“You the demon killer?” His basso profundo voice sounded skeptical.

“That’s me.”

“Lemme see some ID.”

I handed him my state-issued PA identification card. Its photo was better than the mug shot on my driver’s license, not that I cared what Lucado’s pet ape thought. He squinted at it for a long time. I was about to offer help sounding out the words, when he handed it back to me. Then he stood there, filling up the doorway, the Man-Mountain of Massachusetts.

“I need to talk to Mr. Lucado before I set up.” I went to push past him. He didn’t budge. I shoved a bit harder. I might as well have tried to move the wall. Then I realized the game he was playing. He must have heard about how I’d half-crushed Lucado’s hand; now he wanted to test my strength against his. Despite his size, I could pick this guy up and toss him over my shoulder if I felt like it, but I liked to conserve my strength when I was on the job. Worse, tapping into my full strength could cause the demon essence to stir—not a good way to start a new acquaintance, especially when the guy was already annoying me. So I’d let the ape think he’d won. This time. I stepped back and waited.

After a second, he moved aside. I think I saw the shadow of a smile way up there in the stratosphere.

“Leave your bags here,” he said. I didn’t like to be separated from my weapons at work, but I could understand a bodyguard’s reluctance to let them in the house. Some clients are funny that way. The second bag was more or less empty; it was for packing up the Harpy carcasses after the job. I let both bags drop where I stood.

“Frank’s in the living room.” He jerked his head back, then sat down in the chair beside the front door and opened a comic book. I’m not sure, but I think he was reading Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Lucado must have paid his interior decorator a fortune. Everything about the place said “old money,” even though rumor had it that most of Frank’s money was of the freshly laundered variety. Oil paintings in gilt frames adorned the walls, antique furniture was placed in artful arrangements, and the Persian carpet under my feet looked way too pricey to be walking on.

In the living room, Frank sat in a leather club chair, holding a brandy snifter. He looked up as I approached. The scar nearly made me flinch. I’d forgotten how impressive it was. If shock value could be measured in dollars, that scar would be worth a couple million, at least.

“You shouldn’t be drinking, Frank. You’ve got a sleeping pill to take, remember?”

“A little nightcap won’t hurt.” He swirled the liquid around in his glass, then took a swig. “Besides, I told you—I don’t take pills.”

“You’re taking one tonight, or I’m leaving.”

We stared at each other, tension in the air between us. Neither of us blinked. Finally, Frank banged down his glass, brandy sloshing up the side.

“They don’t work,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Sleeping pills. They don’t work worth crap.” A shadow of desperation crossed his face, making the scar stand out like lightning at midnight. “Like I said, I don’t do pills. But these attacks—it’s been so damn horrible, I’ve already tried sleeping pills. I thought if I knocked myself out, I’d sleep through it.” His hand, resting on the arm of the chair, clenched into a fist. “Didn’t happen. They woke me up somehow, and it was the same as every other goddamn night.”

“Tonight will be different. I’ll kill the Harpies before they can get to you. You’ll sleep like a baby, and tomorrow will be a fresh new day.”

“A fresh new day. La-di-dah. You sound like a song from a musical.” He glowered at me. “I hate musicals.”

But he picked up the sleeping pill from a tray on the table beside him. He held the tablet between his thumb and forefinger, pointed to it with his other hand, and then made a big show of putting it in his mouth. He swallowed it, then washed it down with the rest of his brandy.

“Good boy,” I said. “Now it’s time for bed. That pill works fast. You’ve got about three minutes to haul your butt between the sheets.”

“Listen to her,” he remarked. Already his words were slurring. “Haul my butt. Nobody talks to Frankie like that.”

He got halfway to his feet, then collapsed back into the chair. Jeez, how many brandies had he had? I went over to check his pulse. He didn’t blink when I put my fingers on his neck. The pulse was a little slow, but strong and steady. He’d be okay.

In the front hall, I said to the bodyguard, “Your boss needs some help getting upstairs. Be sure you tuck him in nice and tight.”

I picked up my bag and got ready to work.

 

 

IT TOOK SOME CONVINCING BEFORE THE BODYGUARD would let me into Frank’s bedroom with my duffel bag full of weapons. He had real trouble with the idea that I was there to help his boss, not attack him. A two-pronged argument finally penetrated that thick skull: (a) if Frank had hired me to do a job, and the bodyguard didn’t let me do it, Frank would be pissed off; and (b) if I harmed Frank in some way, I’d still have to get past the bodyguard. I promised to let him check on Frank before I left, scout’s honor. He really made me say that, too—“scout’s honor.” No matter that I’d dropped out of Girl Scouts after Brownies. It seemed to satisfy him, so what the heck.

Once he was gone, I set to work. Demon slaying is part science, part art, part ritual. First, know your battlefield. Frank’s bedroom was large, about sixteen by twenty. It was more spartan than the antique-filled living room—the only furniture was a king-sized bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and two slipper chairs. That was good. It meant there’d be less stuff in the way if the battle got complicated.

The carpet and walls were white; the furniture was black. Cushions and a couple of paintings added primary colors to the mix. The bed where Frank lay snoring was against the north wall; two closed doors occupied the west wall. I went over and opened each of them: bathroom and walk-in closet, both clear. The south wall displayed a huge painting, scribbles and drips of color on a white canvas. If anyone had been taking bets, I’d have put my money on Jackson Pollock. The slipper chairs were set side by side, facing by the east wall, which was almost entirely glass and overlooked the harbor. Must be an awesome place to watch the sun rise. There was a glass door on the right side of the window-wall, which opened onto a balcony. Frank had said that the Harpies, three of them, entered through the window, so this area would be my focus. The trick would be to nail all three Harpies without shattering all that nice glass.

I picked up one chair and moved it out of the way, over near the closet. I pulled the other chair to the side so I could wait in it and aim parallel to the windows, not straight at them. Surprise would give me an advantage of a second, maybe two. With any luck, it’d be three quick shots, three dead Harpies.

Time to prepare the equipment. I carried my weapons bag over to the dresser, whose top held a tray with a comb, pocket change, cuff links, and a wristwatch. I carried the tray into the bathroom and left it on the vanity. Back in the bedroom, I unzipped the bag, took out my rolled-up altar cloth, and spread it across the top of the dresser. A deep red cloth embroidered in gold, its symbols included swords (for Saint Michael) and harps (for Saint David).

I reached back into the bag, got out my automatic pistol, and checked the clip. All loaded up with bronze ammo. Bronze is lethal to demons, so all my tools—arrows, daggers, swords—were bronze at the business end. I got the silencer and screwed it in place. I wasn’t worried about waking Frank; with the magically charged sleeping pill I’d given him, I could tap-dance on his pillow and he’d just keep snoring. But I definitely didn’t want the bodyguard charging into the bedroom in the middle of a Harpy fight.

I placed the gun on the cloth and took out my dagger, the one Aunt Mab had given me at sixteen. It was a wickedly beautiful piece of work. Shaped like a cross, its handle was set with rubies and sapphires; its bronze blade shone dully in the light. Next was my backup dagger. This one was smaller and plainer, its curved blade etched with mystical symbols. I laid out the weapons in a row on the altar cloth.

As I reached into the bag for the vial of sacramental wine, my fingers brushed the pommel of my sword. Should I prepare that, too? It seemed like overkill. Swords were for bigger game than Harpies; I didn’t even know why I’d brought it. Knowing Difethwr was around had made me uneasy. But that was silly; I wasn’t out in Concord tonight. I was still in Boston, protected by the shield. I left the sword in the bag.

I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths, grounding myself. Then I murmured a prayer invoking Saint Michael, killer of demons, and Saint David, protector of Wales. I asked for their aid and assistance in dispatching these Harpies back into the ether. Amen. I unscrewed the top from the vial of the wine, which had been blessed by three sages of three different faiths, and touched a single drop to each weapon. The drop glowed; the glow spread, and for a moment each weapon shone like pure gold. When the glow faded, I was ready. I stuck the jeweled dagger in my belt and snugged the curved dagger into a sheath strapped to my ankle. I clicked the safety off the pistol and sat by the window to wait.

Lucado kept snoring, a weird combination of buzzes and snorts. The glowing green numbers on his nightstand alarm clock said 10:57. Soon, the Harpies would attack.

I dabbed some menthol cream into each nostril. I braced myself, then opened my senses to the demonic plane. Most people can’t perceive any demons besides their own. As one of the Cerddorion, I had the ability to step into the dimension where demons reign—and believe me, the demon-haunted world is not a nice place. The moment I tuned in, I was hit by a cacophony of shrieks and screaming, gibbering and cruel laughter. Colors dimmed, overlaid by a gray film of smoke and shadows. And the stench—a nauseating combination of raw sewage, rotting meat, sulfur, and sweat. The smell could knock you backward when it hit. That’s what the menthol was for.