Midnight Taxi Tango (22 page)

I wonder, briefly, how that would go: ghost versus evil death roach. Then I find out: Mama Esther hollers. It's a terrifying, guttural thing. I'm pretty sure my liver and spleen are on the verge of rupture when it's over. Her wide-open mouth takes up the whole upper part of the library. Then her giant ghost hands come crashing down from either side of the room. The roach guys have enough time to be startled, and then they explode, utterly obliterated between Mama Esther's giant palms.

It sounds like four bodies hitting the pavement from ten stories up. Shards of bone clink against the glass windows along with the singular wet splatter of entrails and blood exploding across the room. Thousands of crinkled roach bodies lie motionless in the puddled gore.

“What . . . the fuck . . . was that?” Rigo gasps.

I'm the first one standing. I hadn't even realized that I fell, but—I feel alright. I don't seem to be bleeding from any orifices, so that's a plus. “That was Mama Esther.”

“Can we bring her with us?” Rohan says.

“If only.” I stumble toward Rigo and Gio. They're both sitting up, dazed. “You okay, cuz?”

Gio nods, but he looks more shaken than I've seen him since his return. Rigo stands, and we both help Gio up. “We have to go,” I say. They start getting themselves together, sidestepping the giant splatter in the middle of the floor. “Mama Esther?”

She appears above me. “Did I scare you, child? I hate fighting.”

“I'm okay. And you saved our lives! I'm sorry we can't stay to help you . . . clean up.”

“Don't worry 'bout that, dear. Did you find everything you need?”

“Yes,” I say. “But it's worse than we thought.”

• • •

Five minutes later we're barreling up Bedford in the Crown Vic. Rohan is still picking roach guy innards out of his goatee.

“Drive faster,” I say as I wrestle my hair into some semblance of a bun and then secure the whole situation with pins and a du rag. It'll have to do; I'm pretty sure we're all about to get wet.

“I am,” Rohan grunts. “But we also need to not get pulled over and whatnot. Makes things more difficult, if you know what I mean.”

“Don't you have PD bought off, or whatever it is you guys do to get away with shit?”

He shoots me a look that lets me know I've crossed a line, so I settle back and watch Bed-Stuy fly past.

“What are we telling Carlos?” Gio asks.

“He was right,” I say. Rohan screeches around a corner onto Myrtle Ave. and zooms toward Bushwick. “The Caitlin thing is a setup. But not the kind he thinks. They're not trying to kill him. They need him to kill Jeremy and Caitlin and someone else I haven't figured out yet.”

“That's my kind of setup,” Rohan says. “Anything that involves those two getting got, I'm with.”

I shake my head. “You don't get it. It's not about them. It's about the roaches. Jeremy and Caitlin are just the conduits. They're . . . they're allowing themselves to be used. And that includes being sacrificed so that the roaches can live on. In another body.”

“Whose?” Rigo asks.

“I'm pretty sure it's gonna be Gregorio,” I say. “And . . . Carlos and Sasha's twins.”

Rohan drives faster.

Carlos

G
arrick! Tartus!”

I'm sitting on the steps of the Ferns' creepy safe house in Bushwick, smoking. Pretending that a thousand pinpricks of fear aren't doing the wave inside my gut. Pretending to be the indomitable badass I'm supposed to be. Those two perfect pudgy, brown faces surface in my mind and I shake them off. I can't get caught up. Sasha's worried eyes—what did Ol' Ginny show her that frightened her so damn much?

I hate not knowing shit.

I shake my head and pull my unimpressed mask back on. The ruse is both for my own sake and Caitlin's. I can't look all freaked-out when she shows up.

If she shows up.

If I'm not just sitting here waiting to die. Seems unlikely. Why drag me all the way out here to murk me when she could send her baby demons to murk me any ol' place?

Or try.

“Garrick! Tartus!”

The old ghost hangs in the air beside me like he's suspended from a clothesline. His sad bulging eyes gaze out into the night. His bottom lip quivers. Tears still stream steadily down his cheeks. I shake my head, pull long and
deep on the Malagueña, and sigh a smoky mountain toward the sky.

“Garrick!”

“I get it, man!”

“Tartus!”

“Garrick Tartus. I know. I'm happy for you.”

If she doesn't show soon, I'll have to figure out a plan B. Go in myself and try to find Jeremy and off him? Seems iffy. Iffier even. Riley and Squad 9 should be lurking around the premises, hopefully well the fuck out of sight.

I stand, stretch, exhale more smoke.

“Garrick! Tartus!”

I shake my head. “Garrick fucking Tartus.”

“Oh, just ignore him,” Caitlin says. She strolls up the block looking cool as can be, a bodega coffee in one hand. I wonder if her chill is a ruse like mine. If so, it's overplayed, considering the circumstances.

“You seem pretty calm for someone about to have her brother killed.”

She shakes her head. “That's my defense mechanism. Been doing it since I was sixteen. I'm terrified.”

I study her tired face, frayed hair. Try to picture her radiating with joyful light instead of worn-out and prematurely sullen. Doesn't take.

She sips her coffee. “You ready?”

“No. I don't know a damn thing about what's going on. I don't know where we're going or how we're supposed to do this. I don't know anything about you. I am not ready.”

“Garrick! Tartus!”

Caitlin narrows her eyes at me. “That's fair. We don't have much time though—Jeremy is down there now doing one of his rituals, but he won't be for long. They're supposed to go out tonight on some mission. I stopped keeping track. I just know this has to end, Carlos. This has to end. It's gone on too long. Let's walk as we talk.”

I imagine her saying this to some coworker in the adoption industry: “Let's walk as we talk,” and then fast-strutting along a well-lit corridor in their Manhattan offices, files and photographs stuffed under their armpits and coffee thermoses in their hands, a whole world of data, names, geopolitical connections, and intrigue cluttering the air between them. I wonder if the agency has any hint about the monster that lurks in their midst.

“Alright,” I say. I can see any more delaying will shatter whatever delicate trust she holds in me. Hopefully Caitlin's lateness has given Kia time to find out what the fuck is going on. I try to imagine them barreling toward us in Rohan's Vic.

The street is deserted, another quiet residential block in Bushwick. I turn and follow Caitlin inside. Behind us, Garrick Tartus's ragged ghost hangs in the air and announces his name to a world that can't hear him.

• • •

“I need you to understand something,” Caitlin says as she leads me through a typical drab front hallway and into the kitchen, clicking on lights as she goes. “I know you know a thing or two about the dead.”

“You could say that.”

“I mean, working for the Council, of course. We deal with their dumb shit all the time, right?”

I don't like thinking about Caitlin and me as coworkers, but there it is. “Indeed.”

“So, you need to understand that the ghosts you're about to meet were all considered BRH status by the Council.”

“Barely Really Human?”

“Ha . . . That would make sense, knowing how the Council can be. But no: Beyond Rehab.”

“But . . .”

She stops in front of the fridge and holds up a hand. “I know. Don't think too hard about it. It's the Council. They were spirits that the Council, for whatever reason, didn't feel
would um . . . shall we say, play well, with the other ghost kids. I know I seem blasé about it, but remember this is my life's work.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Come,” she says. “Help me move this.” We edge the fridge to the side. A small wooden door waits behind it. Down a flight of stairs in the darkness, and then Caitlin flicks on a light.

Around me, a dozen or so small snarling child ghosts gnash their teeth; their sunken-in eyes dart back and forth. The room is long and immaculate. Children's toys lie scattered around, which somehow makes me feel sick to my stomach. I had figured on stumbling into a place more or less like this tonight, but still—I feel like a slab of steak in the lion's den, and all the lions are small, translucent, and rabid. Sorrow and fear flood me in equal parts. If things turn ugly—uglier rather—surviving will mean chopping down slews of already dead children.

Even if I win I lose.

“I know it looks bad,” Caitlin says. “But these ghosts wouldn't exist at all if it weren't for the work I've done with them. Council would've sent them to the Deeper Death a long time ago. Hell.” She chuckles. “They might've sent you to deal with 'em. So in a way, I'm saving you work.”

I don't even bother pretending this shit is in any way cool or funny. I can't. I'm not that good a liar. “How did you . . . train them?” I don't really want to know, to be honest. But I do.

She shakes her head, smiles. I think she's . . . proud? “Wasn't easy! Right, little guys?” I swallow a little bit of vomit. “They gave me plenty of trouble. Well worth it, though. Well worth it. You guys ready?”

A wretched smile arises from the throng. I take a step back, my hand gripping my cane-blade.

“Relax, Carlos. They do what I tell them.” Her smile stretches wide across her face; little crow's-feet appear beside her eyes. “So, look—there's no way Jeremy will fall to ghost hands. First of all, they know him well, and I'm not sure how they'd take to attacking him, reliable though they are. Second of all, he knows how to fight ghosts.” A chilling thought, but I just nod. “And anyway, we need them to handle the Blattodeons. Basically”—she opens a hatch in the floor and starts climbing down—“they'll run interference while we go in. The Blatts aren't particularly coordinated, but when they gang up on you, it's over. And,” she says right before disappearing into the darkness, “it's a horrible way to go, trust me.”

I shake my head. Panting and muttering, the ghostlings stream around me and vanish down the ladder.

“Carlos!” Caitlin whisper-shouts from below. “You joining us?”

• • •

Darkness and dripping water.

For a few breathless seconds, that's the whole world down here. That and the occasional pant or grunt from the host of killer ghost kids. My eyes adjust. Up ahead, a dim light shimmers over dark water. Caitlin nods at my cane-blade. “You might wanna have that ready,” she says quietly.

“It's always ready. Nothing for you?”

She sneers. “I hate weapons. And anyway, these guys are like the best bodyguards a woman could ask for. And loyal to a tee. Let's go.” I edge forward through the tunnel, stop when my feet reach the murky water. “Stay close to the right wall,” Caitlin says behind me. “The rest is deep and . . . occupied.”

I place one foot in the mire. It laps up against the top of my boot but no farther. That's quite enough. I step across, hear Caitlin follow. She slides past me and walks to the
opening at the end of the tunnel. There's movement up ahead—a rustling noise and shadows pass in front of the light.

“Caitlin,” a shrill voice whispers. “I've been looking for you.”

Caitlin raises her arms. The ghosts break into a frenzied run, streaming past her into a wide-open chamber.

“Caitlin . . .” the voice sighs. “Why?”

Then I hear screaming. A tall figure shoves Caitlin out of the way, hurdles into the darkness toward me. My blade comes out. In the dim corridor, I can just make out the man's silhouette as he lurches forward and a hundred writhing shapes fling off him. Roaches. I'm about to spin and cover like Gio taught us, when the remaining ghostlings vault into the air, forming a shimmering spectral wall between myself and the Blattodeon. The insects slam into the translucent child barricade and suddenly slow, like they've been trapped in molasses. Then, one by one, they burst; tiny splatters of roach guts cascade in slow motion through the interlinking ghosts.

The roach man roars. He's skinnier now that his protective layer has flown off. The light glints off a stretch of exposed muscle framed by tattered, rotting flesh. He charges, tearing through the ghost wall, and catches my blade in a solid upswing across his chest. Up close, his face is worn down almost to the grinning skull. Just shredded rags of skin dangle here and there like evil laundry hung out to dry. His yellowed, feverish eyes glare out from mostly skeletal sockets.

For a second or two, he just stands there as thick, dark blood seeps from the gash I tore from his navel to his shoulder. When he drops to his knees, I lop his head off just to be sure. The last of the ghosts flush through the opening, and I hear Caitlin yell, “Jeremy, no!” and that high-pitched screaming again.

• • •

The tunnel opens up into a cavernous room. In the center, a raised platform looms over knee-deep dark water. Chains hang from the ceiling; at the far end, other tunnels lead off
into darkness. A few flickering industrial lights throw dancing shadows across the walls. About ten Blattodeons move toward me through the water, but the ghostlings are all over them, clawing away at their faces, sinking sharpened, shining ghost teeth into roach-covered, decaying flesh.

One Blattodeon tears a ghostling from his face, shreds it with three quick swipes, and then breaks into a run. Three other ghosts are on him in seconds. He slashes two out of the air as they pounce; the third latches on to his torso and seems to be burrowing into him. The roaches scatter into a swirl, and for a second he's just rotting skin on bones. Then they return, all of them landing on the ghostling. A howl rings out, and in a few seconds the tiny phantom is just a sprinkle of glimmering flesh, then nothing at all.

Caitlin is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Jeremy. I start to work my way around the edge of the cavern. Another Blattodeon breaks free from the ghostlings and stumbles three steps before two tiny writhing hands wrap around his neck from behind. He flings his arms outward and falls back, disappearing beneath the black water. A few seconds later, hundreds of shiny pink backs surface and swarm circles where he fell.

I keep it moving. Caitlin and Jeremy must be around the other side of that platform. Something long-armed and pale swings down from the ceiling at me. At first I think it's a fucking albino orangutan. But it's not; it's fucking Jeremy fucking Fern.

I don't know what the hell being the High Priest of Roachville has done to warp his body this way, but he barely looks human. I don't care to know, actually. I just want this over with. I leap out of the way, and Jeremy lands in a crouch.

That smiling boy from the photograph is just a faded shadow in this creature. Jeremy's mouth is a crusty, dribbling slash across his long face. His tongue hangs languidly out. His once-bright eyes have narrowed to slits over furrowed
dark patches. He lunges forward, spinning those spaghetti arms in a wild circle. When a ghostling charges out of the mire toward him, Jeremy destroys it with one slice of his long, gnarled fingernails.

These guys must've powered up with whatever magic allows my own blade to destroy spirit matter. I've never seen a living being do that to a ghost. He lunges at me, those long fingernails splayed, and I backstep just out of reach. Caitlin's nowhere to be seen, and I'm not sure if I should . . . One of the roach guys is on the platform behind me. I catch him out the corner of my eye, rearing back to hurl his swarm. I don't have time to sit here and pick roaches off my face. I decapitate him with a single cut. When I turn back, Jeremy's right up on me.

There's no room to wind up for a good swing. I thrust, catch him in the right side of his bare yellowish chest. We just stare at each other for a half second. Then Jeremy's gaze lifts to something behind me, and his long mouth creases into a smile. With both hands, I pull my blade upward, tearing through flesh, lung, and brittle, decayed bones, cutting Jeremy almost in half. He peels open, and a swarm of roaches bursts out.

They're bigger than the others, like small chitinous pigeons. They don't attack me though. They just flutter in a slow, awful mass toward the tunnel we came through.

And then they're gone.

And I hear laughter. Around me, the whole cavern has become still. No more fighting. The surviving ghostlings and Blattodeons stare at me. I turn, follow the sight line of Jeremy's final, grinning stare.

“You did well, Carlos,” Caitlin says. She's standing over the beheaded roach man. One of the roaches crawls along the side of her face and disappears into her mouth. “You did well.”

I shake my head. “It was a . . . setup . . .” Pieces fall into place and then back out. All this? A ruse? All those Blattodeons and ghostlings sacrificed . . . for what?