Hallow Point (14 page)

Nuts to that. I been around too long to fall for it. Ain’t
nobody
capable of making all
my
troubles go poof.

It wasn’t the only magic I felt, though. Behind the song was something else, something faint and lingering, like old cigar smoke. Whoever my songbird was, she hadn’t picked this building by chance. Spear or not,
something
with genuine mojo had been here recently, though it was up and gone now, and I couldn’t figure why it mighta been here at all.

Well, I’d work that part out later. First, I hadda face the music.

I followed the tune, yeah, but fast, at a hard run, wand at the ready. Dust and spores kicked up behind me in a filthy wake. Webs flexed, stretched, and fell apart, never meant to hold back anything resembling the L&G or the meathook holding it.

Shabby door up ahead. Old wood, rotted and sagging, rusty hinges, screws hangin’ onto the frame mostly through determination and habit.

Didn’t need the mojo for this one. I just turned a shoulder into it. Didn’t even really break stride.

Big open room that stank just like the hall. Old, stained sheets flopped like lazy ghosts over decrepit chairs and a table or two. Whole room was lit by a soft, somehow aquatic glow, not coming from any lamp or bulb or even magic gewgaw that I could see.

In the middle of it all, a couple danced. Slow, graceful steps, old steps, nothing you’ll find cutting a rug today.

And shoot my hat off and call me a dandelion if one of the pair wasn’t Four-Leaf himself!

You remember how Franky was on the bad end of a broderick when I first dug him up during the Ottati gig? Yeah, that ain’t exactly an uncommon occurrence. Franky got himself beat more’n your average bongo.

This time, though, he’d caught something worse than a few bruises from a thug trying to collect his dough.

He
looked
normal. Wrinkled suit so cheap it mighta actually cost less than my socks. Couple gold necklaces hanging off him, ’cause Franky
always
had something gold. It’s the leprechaun in him.

But his peepers were nearly as round as the glasses in front of ’em. Glazed as a doughnut and focused on what I hadda guess was the twenty-second century. Oh, yeah. Take it from a guy who spends a lotta time plucking the strings in other people’s heads, they don’t come much more entranced than Franky was right then.

I was a bit more concerned with his partner, though.

I could talk about her slim, exquisite features, the gams that’d make a man long to be a stocking, the snow-white dress, all that. But those ain’t the important details.

No,
those
would be the radiant blond hair—held in place by a gleaming silver comb—that still sluiced water everywhere, even though the rest of her was dry; and the green fire in her eyes that, I realized, was the source of the room’s lighting.

Rusalka.

Call ’em what you want. Siren, river nymph, nereid, mermaid… They’re all the hell over. Little different, one culture or family branch to the next, but all basically the same shtick: hypnotize passersby with song and/or dance, then drown ’em and suck up their life essence in the final bubbles.

Nasty twists, the lot of ’em.

’Cept this
rusalka
wasn’t looking to drown Franky, not this far from the river. My guess? Once she figured she had him well and truly wrapped up, there’d be a few questions.

About a spear, probably.

I glared at her, and she at me. Gotta admit, to an outsider, her glare probably looked a lot more intimidating. Green fire and all.

She spun, swaying the wrong way and breaking the rhythm of the dance to put Franky between me and her. The poor lug stumbled, almost toppling completely but for her grip on him. He was still pretty well under, though. Guess she’d already been working him a while.

I circled the other way, stepping around or occasionally climbing over the furniture, keeping a close watch on the dame, trying to draw a bead that wouldn’t risk hitting Franky with whatever magics I threw at her.

Her voice rose, shifting from the breathtaking melody into a sustained, high-pitched note. Sharp, piercing. I clutched at my ears—didn’t even mean to, just instinct—and I was actually pretty surprised that they didn’t come away bloody. Someone was hammerin’ a chisel into both sides of my noggin. Thinking was an uphill battle, if you wanna call Everest a hill.

I dunno what it was—maybe a mirror in a nearby room, or some tableware leftover someplace, but I heard glass tremble and crack. Oddly muted, though. Guess my hearing wasn’t gonna be up for a lot more of what she was dishing out.

So, fine, Mick. Don’t think. Just
do
.

The L&G discharged, not at the
rusalka
and her meat-puppet, but at the cloth-draped furniture close behind them. Old legs creaked and then snapped as bad luck seeped deep into the wood, wiggling in through a smattering of rot. The whole kit’n caboodle collapsed, sliding and spilling sheets, a couple chairs, and a newly mangled table out onto the makeshift dance floor.

Wasn’t much, really. Slow as the furniture-avalanche was, graceful as
she
was, it was eggs in the coffee for her to dance through the mess even as it came lapping at her heels.

But it caught her off-guard, startled her, made her split her attention. For about the length of a hiccup, she clammed up.

My Oxfords sounded a lot like a typewriter, pounding against the floor as I took off. Quick as I was, I still almost blew the whole job. She’d caught her breath and kicked up that goddamn screech before I reached her, but by then it was too late. I don’t think I coulda stopped if I’d tried.

Pain lanced through my head, yeah—but then through hers, too. Haymaker to the button’ll do that.

She flew back, stumbling over the same junk she’d just avoided, blood pouring from a schnozz now more crooked than a politician’s smirk. Only sounds the
rusalka
was makin’ now were an ugly pained gurgle and a few grunts and gasps as she staggered over bits of broken wood.

No chances. I ain’t always sharp as I oughta be, but I’m no idiot. I aimed and fired, blasting power and luck from her aura while pummeling her with the pain she’d inflicted on me with her squealing.

She dropped, limp as—well, as a fish—flopped over the heap of broken furniture, and landed real still on the floor.

I shot her again, just to be sure. Much luck as I’d torn from her now, she’d probably impale herself on a broken table leg if she sneezed hard.

I turned at the sound of a mild
thump
. Franky was doubled over, one mitt against the wall where he’d caught himself. I’d seen guys hungover after being tight for four days straight who looked better’n he did right about then. If he’d gasped any harder, he coulda gone moonlighting as a vacuum cleaner.

All right, he wasn’t going anywhere. Back to our foreign guest. I wanted her to sing a few verses—uh, not literally—before I got into it with Franky. Figured she might spill something Queen Mob had decided to keep to herself.

Gotta say I was impressed with her gumption. She was struggling to stand, hauling herself upright on the broken furniture. What I at first took to be a low hum of some mechanical gewgaw or other from outside the building turned out to be coming from her, a sorta guttural ululation in the back of her throat.

She was using what she had left of her own mojo to try and gum up mine, or at least ward off the worst of the bad luck. Probably the only reason the whole heap hadn’t collapsed on her at the first tug.

Still, she didn’t have a lot left, and she knew I knew it. She saw me looking, socked me with a glare of pure, contemptuous hatred that somehow struck me as
very
Russian, and tried to run. More of a staggering limp, really, and I coulda caught up with one foot tied behind my back, but I hadda admire the attempt.

Yeah. Shoulda spent less time admiring. If I had, I mighta been in a position to do something ’bout what happened next.

Or maybe not. She was having a
real
unlucky night.

Basically, the
rusalka
sprouted a small flagpole, went briefly stiff, and collapsed bonelessly enough that I didn’t need to be a doctor to know she wasn’t getting up again.

I was at her side in a jiff, not that I thought I could do much. The spear sticking straight up from her chest was old, thick. A whole bundle of trophies or fetishes, bones and teeth and that sort, hung from right below the tip.

Yeah, I thought it, too. But no, I got wise quick that this wasn’t
the
spear, not what I was looking for. I didn’t feel any magic, any power, from this thing—or at least, none of its own, just some lingering traces it coulda picked up from its owner, nothing close to the aura I’d already sensed hanging around here. Also, I didn’t figure Herne woulda stuck around this burgh once he had what he wanted.

Oh, yeah, didn’t I mention? A glance in the direction the spear’d come from showed me Herne standing in the doorway opposite the one I’d come in through. Big and glowery and real unhappy-like. Dunno if he’d been following the
rusalka
’s crew, following me, or if he’d felt those same traces of power I had, but either way, he was here.

Just swell.

“They’re easier to put the screws on if they’re alive,” I told him. “Most dead folk don’t talk, and those that do ain’t friendly company. In case you didn’t—”

“I was aiming,” he growled, brow lowering even further, “for her shoulder.
Something
threw me off.”

Yeah, that’d be an extra dollop of extreme bad luck. Didn’t figure I’d mention that, though.

“Well, goody for us, we still got…”

I turned yet again, but there was no sign of Franky ’cept another door hanging ajar.

“Goddamn it, Franky.” It woulda just been a polite conversation, but now? Now I hadda be mean to him next time we met.

Principle of the thing, savvy?

“Maybe not. All right so we…” I began.

Not sure how to imitate the noise that spear made when Herne pulled it outta the stiff’s chest.
Schleeurchk!
maybe comes close.

Which woulda been unpleasant, but not alarming, if he hadn’t then started toward me, leavin’ a trail of spattered, dribbling blood to mark his path.

“Uh…” I said. “So, who leads the Wild Hunt right now? It was Gudrun last I heard, but—”

“You told me you had no involvement in this, Oberon. You told me you were not a competitor.”

“…but none of us really have any idea how you guys cycle in’n out, so—”

“You lied.”

I started backing away, not that I woulda had much success if I tried to run.

“Actually, I didn’t. I sorta got roped into this after we talked.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The spear dripped.

“No, really! I owed people.” I didn’t really want word of my deal getting around, but I wanted Herne’s spear in my heart a whole lot less. “They called it in over this. I can’t begin to tell you how much I
don’t
wanna be here.”

“Oh, no fear. I’m about to demonstrate.” He
did
pause, though. “Who?”

Sigh. “The local Unseelie. Eudeagh’s crew.”

A long, slow blink. Like a mickeyed lizard.

“And the fact you’ve debased yourself to serve the
Unseelie
—” Wow, but he could cram a lotta disdain into that one word. “—is a reason I should
spare
you? Your logic escapes me, Oberon. Pity you can’t accompany it.”

Somehow,
This isn’t my fault, taking it out on me ain’t fair!
didn’t seem likely to convince him. But…

“You’re better off with me on this, Herne.”

Again, the hunter stopped. I tried not to sigh with relief—I was runnin’ outta room for retreat. I took that halt as demand for explanation, so I explained.

“How many of the local Unfit do you know by sight?” I asked. “By name?”

“Few, being a stranger to Chicago. As you well know.”

“Exactly! You bump me off, Eudeagh’s just gonna send someone else. You’ll still have just as much competition, only you won’t know who to watch out for. Won’t know how to predict ’em.”

Truth was, I didn’t buy for a second that I was the only one the Unseelie had searching. No way they were gonna put all their eggs in the Mick Oberon basket. But so far as I
knew
, with genuine certainty, it was just me. So I wasn’t really lying or omitting anything, see?

“And,” I said more softly, “you won’t be able to count on ’em fighting even as fair as me. You know I got lines I won’t cross. You may not think much of where I draw ’em, but I got ’em. You think whoever else the Unseelie might send would say the same?”

“That… is actually a point worth contemplating.” The hunter lowered his weapon just a bit, and I almost sagged in relief.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll kill you
after
this is all done.”

Less relief-sagging. “Gee, thanks. Your kindness and generosity are truly boundless.”

“Don’t try me, Oberon. And do not
dare
cast me as the cruel one here.” He pivoted and started to walk away. “I’ve no idea what they hold over you, but the power you seek to put in the hands of the Unseelie is far more damaging than
I
ever could be!”

I’d caught up to him before he reached the door, and though I thought for a minute he really was gonna off me when I reached out to grab his arm, I stood fast.

“What power? What’re you talking about?”

Again, he seemed to sense that I wasn’t trying to pull anything. His blinkers stretched wide when he realized I really had no idea.

“They didn’t tell you what you’re seeking?”

I shrugged. “Old spear. Enchanted, one of the few remaining.”

“You…” I could
see
the thoughts chasing each others’ tails around his noggin, watched him consider not telling me, watched him decide otherwise.

“Gods, man, this is not some toy you hunt! Not some curiosity your Unseelie mistress wants for her collection.”

I decided to let that bit pass. I’d already known Eudeagh hadn’t told me everything, but this was starting to put me on edge.

“So, what? What
is
it, then?”