The Shambling Guide to New York City (13 page)

“I mean, of all the people who die, only a tiny percentage are made into constructs. And of humans, only a tiny percentage are introduced to the coterie. What are the odds those two would intersect?”

Morgen grinned at Zoë’s discomfort. “Gwen, I think you distracted her.”

“What?”

“Zoë wants to know what you eat, as a death goddess.” She settled back and grinned, enjoying this a bit too much for Zoë’s taste.

Gwen’s eyes grew wide. “Oh! Oh, my dear, don’t worry. I feed off the life force of the dying. Dying humans give off an air of desperation that sustains my kind. It doesn’t hurt them at all. All I need to do is sit in a crowded area and that’s my lunch.”

“But how do you know who’s dying? Are you talking about cancer or something?”

“Cancer, heart disease, AIDS, but I can also get a sense of who’s about to be killed in an accident. But really, the moment you’re born, you begin dying. I could eat comfortably on a room full of healthy children and they wouldn’t even feel fatigued. And as for how I know, I’m a death goddess. It’s my nature to know.”

Zoë shifted in her chair and tried to focus on the horror of the morning, not the horror here at lunch. Morgen leaned forward and looked at Zoë with eyes the color of a Pacific-island bay. “Go on. You know you want to ask it. Come on!”

Zoë made a face at her. “And you must feed on social discomfort?”

Morgen laughed, a beautiful bubbling sound. “No, I’m just obnoxious. I eat plants, preferably water-grown. And fish. I’m insatiable at sushi restaurants. I could blow a week’s wages on one good night. And don’t change the subject. You want to ask her when you’ll die.”

Gwen focused briefly on a pale young woman sitting at a table nearby, and then gave a satisfied sigh. “Oh, she wants to ask, Morgen, she’s just afraid of the answer. Don’t worry, Zoë. I won’t tell you.”

“Well, if you can diagnose stuff, if I get hit with cancer or AIDS, I’d appreciate you telling me.”

She smiled. “I think that’s better left to your physicians. Now
back to the matter at hand. You’re sure our new guy is made of your boyfriend’s head?”

“Ex-boyfriend, and yes, I’m positive. He even has a picture of my ex in life behind him on a shelf.”

Morgen rounded on Gwen. “Yeah, I noticed that. Creepy. What the hells is up with that? Do constructs always keep pictures of the people who they’re made of? An homage or something?”

Gwen frowned. “I admit I don’t have a lot of experience with constructs. But it seems a little odd.”

Morgen thought for a moment. “Was your ex a fun-hating prick as well, Zoë?”

“Not at all. He always told bad jokes and gave me tacky gifts, kitsch that you get in airports—spoons that say ‘Denver’ and snow globes from LA. He was a good guy; we didn’t even have a big breakup. College ended, and we just sort of drifted apart. And seeing him this morning was almost a bigger shock than finding out that people like you two exist.”

“I guess you need to do some research on constructs,” Morgen said, sucking on her straw. “Then you might better understand Wesley. Maybe
you
can tell us why he’s such a prick.”

Zoë shrugged. “What about the little issue of him being my dead boyfriend?”

“I wouldn’t recommend rekindling that flame,” Morgen said, thinking. “Constructs are creepy bastards. Even by our standards. How does his personality get created, anyway, Gwen?”

Gwen raised her hands in an “I surrender” gesture. “Why am I suddenly the construct expert?”

“You’re a death goddess,” Zoë said. “And they’re made from dead people. Of everyone here, you’re likely to know the most. Do souls get plucked from the underworld when a construct is made? Or is it a new one? Or a shadow of an older soul?

Gwen shook her head. “I know very little about them. I just
know that he doesn’t have any kind of soul that I could feed off of or usher into the underworld.”

Zoë sighed as they fell into silence. Gwen began people-watching—or feeding, Zoë assumed—and Morgen finished attacking her glass of water. Zoë looked at her companions, a part of her brain still disbelieving this whole thing, and said, “I guess I have to go talk to Phil. Maybe he’ll know who created Wesley and I can start there. I’m not wrong in thinking it’s a weird coincidence, am I?”

Gwen frowned, and for a moment her face took on the shadow of a leering dog skull. Zoë blinked. “My kind doesn’t really believe in coincidences. I’m not sure why someone wanted to freak you out with a construct made of someone you loved, but someone did this on purpose.”

Zoë shivered despite the warmth of the coffee shop. “Then I suppose I really need to talk to Phil.”

Phil looked up in surprise when Zoë stormed into his office and slammed the door behind her. “Zoë. Is there a problem?”

She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Did you plan this? Was it a mean initiation, or are you just trying to scare me into quitting?”

Phil frowned. “All right. What did Morgen do?”

Zoë shook her head. “No, not Morgen. She didn’t do anything. I’m talking about Wesley.”

Phil relaxed. “He’s not the most pleasant fellow, but he’s good at what he does. He comes with great recommendations. I’m sorry if he put you off, but I would find it hard to believe that he actually scared you. That’s not really his way of operation.”

Zoë gaped at him. “Are you kidding me? Do you seriously not know what I’m talking about?”

“Unless you’re upset about the fact you’re working with coterie, then no, I don’t.”

“Phil, Wesley’s made in part from my ex-boyfriend who I didn’t even know was dead. Specifically his head. So my meeting with him this morning was a little shocking.”

Phil’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious. The odds against that are astronomical.”

“You think? I’ve been thinking you did it to freak me out or make me leave.”

Phil leaned back in his chair, baffled. “Zoë, I’ve known you for a month. I’m taking a chance on you; why would I want to sabotage that?”

Zoë shook her head. “Someone wants to sabotage something, that’s pretty clear. Who created him?”

“I don’t know. It’s not something you ask. This is ridiculous, I can’t imagine forces at work to create Wesley to scare or hurt you.”

“Gwen said she didn’t believe in coincidences. I find it very hard to believe myself. It’s weird you don’t know who created him; that sounds important, like where you went to college. You could ask CR about the protocol behind hiring constructs and knowing their history but, oops, the construct
is
CR.”

By the end of this, Zoë was nearly shouting. Phil stood with surprising speed and latched his hand onto her shoulder. “Calm down, Zoë. This was totally unexpected, I am honestly sorry. We can talk to Wesley about this—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I don’t want to talk to him. He’s been pretty rude to me already. If it
is
somehow a weird coincidence, then this fact will just make him hate me more. And if it’s not, then I don’t want him knowing that I’ve figured something out. Besides, he doesn’t want me to talk to him until it’s to tender my resignation.”

He sighed and pulled his hand away. “So what are you going to do?”

Zoë set her jaw. “You wanted me to learn more about the coterie, right? I’m off to learn.”

He frowned and thought for a moment. “I may be able to help here.” He sat down and dialed a number on his office phone, putting it on speakerphone. The other person took a while to pick up, but he waited patiently. Finally the slow voice of Montel filled the room.

“What up, Phil?”

“We have a little bit of a situation, Montel,” he said. “Turns out Wesley is the construct of a zoëtist who may have it in for our new managing editor.”

“How do you figure that?” Montel asked.

“He’s made out of her dead ex-boyfriend.”

“Oh. Shit, that doesn’t make us look very good, does it? Are you sure she has no coterie connections?”

“No, I don’t know anyone except you guys,” Zoë said.

Phil tapped his fingers on his desk. “I’m beginning to think that there’s something bigger going on here. Have any visiting zoëtists been through here recently?”

Montel paused. “I don’t know of any,” he finally said. “Benjamin Rosenberg usually keeps up with that, doesn’t he?”

Phil winced. “Right. Listen, I’ll get in touch with Benjamin, you put someone on Wesley, see if we can find out some things about him.”

“Paul can do it,” Montel said.

“That’s fine,” Phil said.

“You really believe in this woman? A human?” Montel asked.

“Dude, I’m right here,” Zoë said.

“She’s got experience. And there’s something hard about her,
something that makes her fit in with us. I can’t explain it,” Phil said, looking at Zoë. She fidgeted under his gaze.

“Going with your gut?”

Phil chuckled. “Guess so. OK, get Paul on that, I’ll get in touch with Benjamin next. Thanks, Montel.”

“Got your back.” Montel hung up.

“Sorry about that. For some reason he speaks better on the phone than in person. It’s faster to just call him,” Phil said.

“Who’s the Rosenberg guy?”

“He’s a zoëtist. But he doesn’t like other coterie, even other zoëtists. I don’t know how much he practices anymore. He also doesn’t like people dropping in on him unannounced, so we should call.” He fiddled with his cell phone, looking for a number. He then picked up the handset of his office phone, looking at Zoë as he hit the speakerphone button. “I’m not happy with where this is going.”

The publisher said dedications were not standard in travel books, but I told him to go suck on a hobo. We went through a great deal to get this book published, including dealing with the events on December 8, and I wanted two people memorialized for being instrumental in the creation of this book.

So, with love, this book is dedicated to Scott Andretti and Granny Good Mae. May they rest in peace wherever they are now.

A
deep-voiced man answered the phone. “Rosenberg-Caldwell residence.”

Phil grimaced. “Is Benjamin available?”

“Who may I say is calling?” said the voice.

He sounds like a graduate of Phone Etiquette 101
, thought Zoë.

“This is Phil Rand. I need his… expertise.”

The voice grew exponentially colder. “I will let him know.”

Phil put the phone on mute. “Benjamin’s husband is not as open to coterie as he is.”

“I thought you said Benjamin didn’t like coterie in the first place.”

“Exactly. Now imagine someone who hates us more.” Phil switched off mute. They could hear the two men talking in tense, low tones.

“Phil. Hello.” This voice was higher, more agitated.

Phil smiled. “Ben. Thanks for taking my call. I have a bit of a problem and it might be of interest to you.”

The man paused. “That is debatable. I don’t do much in coterie circles these days. It upsets Orson.”

“I don’t need to visit you, and I don’t need to bother Orson. I just need to talk to you.”

Ben sighed. There was a muffled sound as he put his hand over the phone. “Orson, honey, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

The deep voice floated back. “Is it…” He stopped, and there was a meaningful pause.

“Yes, but it won’t take long.”

A pause. “All right.”

“This had better not take long,” Ben said, and they could hear footsteps down a hall.

“He knows of your past, does he not?” Phil asked.

“He does, but he doesn’t like it cutting into family time. I try to keep them separate. What do you want?”

Phil shrugged and rolled his eyes at Zoë. Then he focused on the phone again. “I hired a construct last week to work for a new company I’m starting. I also hired a human. She’s coping with the coterie quite well, but when she met the construct, she said he had been constructed in part of her dead ex-boyfriend.”

Ben spluttered. “The odds of that—”

Phil interrupted. “Astronomical, I know. She’s understandably upset about it, and convinced someone is doing this purposefully. She only found out about us about last month. I didn’t ask any questions about the construct’s past in the interview, as I didn’t think I needed to know how old he was, or where he was from. He could do the job, it was enough for me.”

Ben’s voice was all business. “Did you hire the human first, or the construct?”

“Human.”

“And was this her first exposure to our world?”

Phil looked at Zoë, eyebrows raised. “You know it was!” she whispered, annoyed.

“Yes, it was,” Phil said.

“All right, let’s get this out of the way, why are you so concerned about a human? I don’t get really concerned about the chickens that hit my table. You’re not sleeping with her, are you?”

Zoë made a face. “What a prick! I thought he was human!” she whispered.

Phil waved her silent. “She has experience that I can’t find among coterie. We’re doing something new, and she fell into my lap, and managed to accept the reality of the world with surprising aplomb. But it’s a larger issue: if someone makes me lose this editor, they’re messing with my business, and therefore me.” His fangs elongated, making Zoë step back. “And that is a threat.”