Tales of the Unquiet Gods (3 page)

He closed his eyes to think. It had always gotten him in trouble: first in school, and later in the Corps. His drill instructors always yelled at him when he did that to come up with an answer. Well, they'd always yelled at him, period. Him and all the other recruits. But it helped then.

And it helped now. Without all the visual distractions of the living city, Tourn could hear the song again. She – it had to be, with that voice – was humming the same tune he'd heard during his flashback. Jaunty. The word came unbidden to his lips. It was odd, though.

As he opened his eyes, the busyness of his city crowded in on him again. But he could still hear her humming cutting through the dull roar, as close as if she stood next to him. As though she was humming for him alone. Which was double weird to Tourney: no woman had paid him more than a moment's pity and a fiver in longer than he cared to think about.

Somehow knowing which way to turn – he didn't question a lot of things anymore – he followed the unknown songstress. His long legs ate up the pavement, his strides filled with a confidence he'd thought long, long vanished.

Something – a feeling, a kind of sense he hadn't known he had – told Tourn there was danger somewhere. Ahead? In the future? Nearby? He didn't know, just that he had something to do, and it involved the music maker.

Diesel and gasoline fumes, the smells of the street vendors – hot dogs, kabob, pickles, and roasted peanuts, just on one block – wrapped their fingers around him. The ever-present hum of the city – power lines, creaks and clanks, the chatter of the numberless humanity – beat on his ears. But not his mind, not today. Maybe not anymore. Her humming slipped inside his soul and smoothed some of the jagged parts.

He caught sight of her, he thought. A ways ahead, maybe half a block. Slim and short, she wore a dark-blue wool coat. What he'd called navy blue before he enlisted and found that the Navy thought blue meant black. Squids. Shiny gray hat pulled down over long brown hair. She moved well. Really well. Graceful. She stuck out, actually. She seemed to be dancing down the sidewalk, not just putting one foot in front of the other. From the way she moved, she carried something in her hand. He couldn't see what. Whatever she'd played, he assumed.

Tourn looked above her head and saw the trees of Central Park at the end of the concrete
wadi
. His savior – for her music healed his battered heart in ways he didn't understand – came to the corner. She made the light and struck out across the suddenly un-busy street.

Tourn chewed a lip, conscious of a lot more than usual. Big black men following pretty white girls were in for a world of hurt. Especially if the cops found out. He didn't want anybody to get the wrong idea, especially if that idea lead to pain. Or incarceration.

He felt his side, where he kept his encourager. The crawling fear of living in the dark Down Below had gotten to him a while ago. So he'd found something to help. Two lengths of rusty rebar half again as long as his forearm. Sometime in the unknown past, for some reason, they'd been welded side-by-side. He'd wrapped the bar in wire, and then one end of it in duct tape to make a handle.

It made a handy club.

Holes worn in his big canvas coat made for a handy place to keep it. Out of sight. He'd taken care to grind down the jagged bits, too. He'd seen what happened to people who got scraped up by rusty steel and didn't get seen to.

Those unpleasant thoughts took him up to and across the busy street. He got honked at a couple of times, but that was just the taxis being friendly. Once in the park, he reacquired his mark. Her humming hadn't stopped once, though the song had changed again and again, and it was still as though she walked right behind him.

Only his sense of urgency was stronger. His hands were shaking. His teeth were almost chattering with it. He knew, without knowing how, that she was in deadly danger. Something nearby wanted to do evil to her.

Tourn forced himself to slow down. Running now, scooping her up and carrying her off to someplace safe wouldn't just scare the life out of her. It'd get him in the worst kind of trouble. That was kidnapping, after all.

He blinked, and looked wildly around. The sun slipped below the skyline, leaving the park in deepening shade. His apprehension ratcheted up. Soon, the young woman and her healing music would be in shadow. And he knew what waited in the shadows.

The old fear started to worm its way through Tourney's heart.

He could hear it now, the chittering, chattering susurration of their voices, just on the edge of hearing. They were close, much closer than he liked. And she just walked on, as though she couldn't hear anything.

The musician danced on, moving through the park as though in a dream. She still hummed in his ears, and that helped, but Tourn didn't think she had any clue of the trouble she was walking toward.

He was panting now: from reaction, from adrenaline, from knowing something was coming, but not knowing what. He looked around again, and it dawned on him that they were the only people he could see.

And dark was falling.

Something caught at his foot, and he stumbled off the paved path. His feet slid on the turf and he went down heavily. He'd swear something grabbed his foot and pushed. He rolled over, frenzied limbs flailing, head whipping back and forth. Something in the background noises of the city sounded like children laughing. Children with inhuman mouths, who pulled the limbs off insects to see them squirm.

He saw nothing out of the ordinary. No glowing eyes. No black figures. Central Park at twilight was eerie, devoid of people, though for all he knew, they were no more than a few hundred feet away. Shadows lengthened and deepened as the night closed its grip on the city. What should have been a peaceful, daily transition now pulsed with juddering menace.

The humming stopped.

Frantic now, Tourn heaved himself to his feet. He looked toward where he'd last seen the musician, but saw nothing. No young woman, case in hand, walking down the path. He pulled his encourager out of his coat, gripping it in one sinewy hand, and ran toward where he'd last seen her.

The humming had stopped, and he didn't know where she had gone.

Chest heaving, Tourney skidded to a stop on the spot where she'd been and whipped his gaze around.

There!

In the shadows under a footbridge a knot of figures struggled. What light there was gleamed on the musician's pale face. And in her angry eyes. A bunch of the creatures from Down Below surged out of the shadows. One of them latched onto her case and pulled.

Tourn's heart froze. Suddenly, he was back in that hot, dusty, deadly street across the world from the city. The musician struggled among black, hairy figures, all claws and glowing eyes, and around them, the ghostly forms of Sergeant Yves and Corp and the others wrestled with demons out of his nightmares. Tourney's mouth went dry and his world contracted to a point. The chittering in his ears was deafening.

The music player shouted angrily and swung a blow at it with her free hand. She connected! There was a flash of golden light and the thing just fell apart with a distant-sounding wail. The light jarred Tourn loose from his frozen reverie.

He wouldn't let it happen again.

All the figures in the shadows under the bridge stood stock still. For a moment only, and then two more of the black creatures pounced, pulling at the case. His songstress screeched and wrapped her other hand around her instrument case. Tourn saw something brilliant and golden tumble from her fingers.

And then he was upon them.

With an explosive grunt, he brought his encourager down on the back of one of the creatures. A hiss burst out of the thing, and it collapsed into a heap. Suddenly a dozen glowing eyes tracked on Tourn. He spun past the surprised girl and drove the end of his weapon into the head of one of the monsters gripping her instrument case.

He felt a crunch, and whatever it was flew into the wall, to slide twitching down it. And then the rest were on him. He swung his encourager and his fist, he kicked and punched, and tried desperately to keep away from their sharp-clawed hands.

They rushed him, piling on top as he fought to stay upright. Though none of them were much bigger than the girl, together they massed much more than Tourney. He sank under their weight, and felt their claws nipping through the layers of cloth he wore to score his sides and back. He flailed, crying out, feeling himself going down.

And then she started to sing.

Words in a language he didn't understand poured over him, lifting his spirits and strengthening his resolve. Her clear, soprano voice seemed to have some effect on the shadow demons, too. Their movements slowed and became jerky, almost reeling.

Tourn got his feet under him again and thrust down with his free hand. Something smooth stuck to his hand as he pushed his way to his feet, and as he struck out with his encourager, it left a trail of brilliant, golden sparks floating in the air.

The creatures shrieked in pain as he pummeled them. Each blow struck one down, some bursting asunder, some collapsing into bubbling heaps. Finally, there were no more left, just melting smears of shadow on the ground.

Tourn stood panting as post-combat reaction set in. It always had for him, and it never took longer than a few heartbeats. Everything shook, and he staggered sideways to lean against the wall. He drew strength from the concrete of his city, and slowly his breathing slowed, his pounding heart calmed.

Finally, he looked up into wide, blue eyes.

She still sang, and he couldn't tell what she was feeling. Anybody who'd just come through what they had, though, was probably pretty tough. He clamped his encourager under his left arm, came to attention, and saluted his savior as her song came to an end.

"Th-th-thank you, m-ma'am." The words always seemed so hard to force out. "Y-y-your s-song saved us. L-l-lance-corporal T-tourney Martin, at your s-s-service." He gulped. It was the longest speech he'd made in months. Maybe years.

"No, Lance-corporal," she said in that same clear voice, "your courage saved my life from the shadows, and for that I am in your debt. I am Melody Devreux, my hero."

Tourney became aware that something was clenched in his left fist. He opened it to see, and beheld a tiny golden coin. Snatches of the battle came back to him. A flash of gold as her fist connected with a monster, trails of sparks as he swung a length of rusty rebar.

"I-I-I th-think this is y-yours, ma'am." He offered her the coin.

Smiling, she gently closed his fingers back around it. She shook her head.

"No, sir knight, I think it should go with you now."

He nodded, feeling the truth of her words in the same way he had known to follow her. Certain, though not knowing why, he knew what to do now.

"I sh-should go."

"And where will you go, Tourney?" He felt concern in her words, but also acceptance.

Tourn gripped the gold coin tightly in his hand.

"I-I-I h-have things I n-need to do, Miss Melody."

She nodded. She tucked something in his pocket. Money, he thought.

"I'll be playing my fiddle in a little park a few blocks away, some days," she said. "I'd like you to come and listen."

He nodded.

"I-I-I h-hope I'll b-be able to, M-miss Melody."

She nodded, her blue eyes shadowed. He thought she knew what he was about.

They walked out from under the bridge, back into the park proper. He noticed the stars were coming out, which was extra strange in the city. As he walked away, he felt Melody's gaze on him.

Tourney Martin ran his fingers along his encourager where it waited patiently under his worn and tattered coat. He felt the edges of the bright little gold coin nestled in his fist, and turned his thoughts to Down Below.

He had some shadows to see to.

PART THREE

HEAL THYSELF

3

The back of Michael Runey's favorite head bounced off of Cinder Bella's bar on the way down. His vision vanished in the expected flash of light, customary when he took a blow to the head. After nearly a decade as a bouncer in the city, he'd gotten used to that. A few nights off and the contents of the economy-size bottle of aspirin in his medicine cabinet saw him through the worst of the headaches.

This time, though, the blinding flash brought a friend.

Mike - people, especially drunk people, seemed to like calling him Mickey, on account of his last name, ha ha - floated in an ocean of non-sound. It went right at home with his non-sight. Except.

He'd floated in the actual ocean a few times. He'd been down to the Shore in August once - got in a nice little fight there, too - and spent a chunk of time just floating on his back. The warm water held him up, and the summer sun beat gently down. With the sea in his ears, he felt so relaxed, so at home that he nearly fell asleep.

This wasn't like that at all. Right at the edge of hearing, a rushing, roaring murmur tried to tell him the secrets of the universe. He was dead certain that if he listened too hard, he'd scream his lungs out.