Burned, p.25
Burned, page 25
Her engagement ring, I thought, but are you Mom or an imposter with that makeup and those clothes?
She waved.
I looked away, punching the cop in the face again and forcing him into the back of his squad car with his buddy. Screw the not-Mom.
“Officers Salvadore Donatello and Carl Vicks, you’re coming with me.” They were a lot quieter unconscious. Bruises turned purple, then yellowish, and started to fade. If they weren’t somebody’s thralls, they were missing a great opportunity. Either way, they were hiding something, because they looked and smelled like normal humans. I’d made three thralls now, and I thought I should be able to tell if these guys were thralls, but I wasn’t getting anything. Maybe I was doing it wrong. Even with Uncle Percy’s glasses on my face, I didn’t see anything to explain the healing.
His words appeared in a golden script across the lenses. I’ll check again when we have more time, but I don’t see any magic.
“This is so wrong.” Evelyn put a hand over her eyes.
“Start the car, Deputy.”
“We’re not going to kill them, right?” She opened the driver’s door. It had slammed shut in the struggle.
“I’m not allowed to kill them.” I handcuffed Sal’s hands behind his back and slammed the rear door. “Duh!”
“Greta!” Marilyn shouted as she darted across the street between cars. “Greta! Wait!”
“Go on ahead.” I shut the passenger door, which hung open, the window shattered where I’d punched through it and dragged Carl out of the vehicle. “Take them to my place. I’ll catch up later.”
“You’re the boss,” Evelyn said as she pulled away.
Marilyn met me at the sidewalk. I don’t think she noticed Chthonic and Warcry watching her, one from the alley and the other from a nearby parking deck. Nightwish was even harder to spot, mixed in with the hopefuls waiting in line to get into the Iversonian.
“What’s going on?” I hugged Marilyn begrudgingly. Mom or not, I still liked her, loved her even, maybe. She was familiar, and a person who’d always tried to be nice to me, cared for me—unless she’d misled me about being Mom.
“Were those cops?” Her eyes searched mine, and I wondered what she hoped or feared to find there. Her eyes widened in an expression of . . . something.
“Maybe.”
“Please don’t be cute, Greta.” What did that look in her eyes mean? I’m better with negative emotions than positive ones, for the most part. Compensation comes in the forms of other people’s reactions or by monitoring subtle changes in pulse and pupil dilation. Reading Marilyn should have been easy, but my fundamental confusion about her status and mine added to the existing difficulty in a way I don’t think I’d experienced since my first few years of undeath.
“I wasn’t.” I ran my hand along her throat, closing it just enough to feel her breath and pulse together beneath my palm. “I don’t know what they are. They used to be cops, but I don’t think they are who they say they are, so I’m going to question them.”
“Does Eric know what you’re doing?”
“I don’t know.” My left hand went to my pocket, and I traced the edges of my badge through my jeans as my right hand felt her false mortality. “I’m the sheriff, though. So I can do what I want.”
She’s learning, Uncle Percy wrote. I see things hanging in her soul matrix already: weapons, some sort of armor. The Iversonian is keeping his word to your father; he’s teaching her. But I don’t see a tithing cord or soul tap. It’s surprising.
“Greta . . .” She pulled away from my hand, and I fought the urge to tighten my grip and not let her go, to cling to that illusion of normal life. Hers, I mean. I didn’t know how to feel about an i-Mom-mortal.
“Sorry.” I jerked my hand away as if I’d been stung by a wasp. “I like to feel your heartbeat and your lungs moving air. I’m glad you’re young again. Is the Iversonian nice?” Are you fucking him? I shifted to put her upwind of me and sniffed for man smells but found only the scents of sweat and alcohol and cleaning products that I expected if she was being faithful to Dad.
“If you want,” she said reproachfully, “we’ll go rent a room, and I can strip down so you can get a really thorough whiff.”
I would have liked that, but I didn’t think it was a real offer, so I apologized again. I still don’t like to apologize, but Mom or not, I like Marilyn. She deserves an apology sometimes, too. She understands me better than anybody else.
“You’re only looking out for your dad,” she acknowledged. “Here, put your head to my chest so you can have a good listen.” I did as she asked. “I’m not having sex with anyone, and I’m not dating anyone, and I’m not interested in dating anyone, not even your dad, until I sort some things out.”
It was the truth, and it earned her another hug. Maybe she wasn’t Mom, but she had so much potential to be Mom again, or still be Mom, that I couldn’t hurt her or be too mean to her.
“Okay . . .” I couldn’t call her Mom, though. It wouldn’t come out. “I have to go . . .”
“One thing,” Marilyn added. “That other vampire who was with you. That’s Evelyn, right?”
“Yes.” I clapped my hands, not knowing what else to do with them that didn’t involve claws, squeezing, or more hugs. “She’s my deputy, and her head comes off and then goes right back on again with no trouble. She’s Dad’s second cousin a few times removed, so technically, they could fuck and it wouldn’t be weird or anything.”
“Ha!” Marilyn brayed, then coughed. “They’re not, though, right?”
“Nope.” This was dangerous territory for me. Like the reason I’ve been trying to stay out of rooms with Dad and High Society vampires in them. I don’t like it when people deny Dad what he wants or what he deserves. My eyes flashed red, and the diamond from Marilyn’s engagement ring caught the rays, bent them, and refracted them as dots of red so that it looked like fireworks going off in her décolletage. “He only wants you, and you won’t let him have you.”
She sighed. “I guess I—”
But I was gone. I couldn’t listen to her anymore without wanting to hit her and open her up to see what needed fixing. Why didn’t she want Dad? What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t I cut it out and feed it to Talbot like a demon?
I met Chthonic, Warcry, and Nightwish three blocks over in front of Query’s Quick Pawn, and the three of us climbed into Nightwish’s 2000-model Cadillac. Parts of its metal body were rusted through, and the paint job was a muddle of blue and primer gray, but it ran. Nightwish drove while both Chthonic and Warcry squeezed into the back with me.
“I’m cold.” At once, they pressed against me, their body heat a shield against the ever-present chill. I excited them, but they didn’t have the same effect on me. I wanted to eat them, kill them, tear them apart, but then they wouldn’t be able to keep me warm. I’ve grown up a lot . . . I’m learning to take better care of my things. I will say this, though: Erections make damn good hand warmers.
“Turn on the radio,” I said, wanting noise but not conversation. “And stop moving around, you two. If I get anything sticky on my hands, I’m going to wash it off with your blood.”
“How can she just do that?” a whiny male voice was saying. “I was just out minding my own business on one of the nights when vampires are allowed to be out, and then the fucking sheriff and her lesbo sidekick are beating the hell out of me and dangling me off a rooftop. This shit never used to happen under Phillip.”
“Thanks for your call, Travis.” Sly Imp’s voice came in a beat later, with Gorillaz bed music playing underneath. Was that “Revolving Doors”? “What do you think, Void City? Does Eric Courtney need to rein in his daughter, our Sheriff of Slaughter? Hello, you’re in league with Sly Imp.”
“Yeah.” The voice sounded young and angry. “What the hell, man? E’rbody says Er’c is tough an’ all, but I ain’t seen him do shit that she ain’t done her damn self if it need doin’. We only have her word that he saved her at all. I think she killed Lord Fat Ass and gave her pops the credit cuz she got crazy daddy issues. Know what ah’m sayn’?”
Whimpers came to my attention from close by, and when I noticed the sounds were coming from Chthonic and Warcry, I let go, wiping my hands on their pants. “You two are lucky that’s blood.” Neither thrall spoke, eyes wide, looking straight ahead. For a brief second I played with the notion of resuming my grip and seeing whether their eyes would actually pop out of their heads if I applied more pressure.
Annoyed with them both, I climbed into the passenger seat and got out my cell. Four callers later, I could see my apartment building, and Sly Imp finally gave the number to call in again. While Nightwish pulled in through the automated security gates (using my code and parking pass), I dialed the number.
To my astonishment, Sly Imp himself answered. “You’re in league with Sly Imp.”
“No.” My voice shook. “I’m not.”
“Be that way, caller. I—”
“If you hang up on me, I’m killing you and everyone in your building.”
Sly Imp laughed nervously. “There are six different radio stations operating out of this one building, caller. And we have excellent guard demons. Gyre, run the mystic ID on this caller and let’s—”
Gyre, his sidekick of the airwaves, came on next. “It’s Greta Courtney.”
“What?”
“It’s the sheriff.”
Silence.
All of his listeners heard more dead air in that pause than they probably had in the last year of broadcasting.
“So glad to find out you’re a fan of the show, Your Slaughterness.” I’d shaken him, but his chutzpah was back. Faked or not, I liked the recovery.
“I’m not.”
“A new listener, then. I—”
“Find something else to talk about,” I said. Nightwish turned off the car and slumped down in the seat. She looked tired. “But stop talking about my dad.”
“Sheriff Courtney,” Sly Imp began, “surely you must understand the supernatural community’s interest in your adopted father.”
“Adopted?”
“Well”—Sly Imp was nervous again, clearing his throat—“I . . . assumed. You know what? Forget about that. What my listeners would just love is to hear your side of everything. Tell us your history with Eric Courtney and how you came to be our resident lawperson.”
“Do a lot of vampires listen to your show?”
“This is the most popular talk show in the greater Void City area,” he said. “I have a huge vampire and demon listenership.”
“Good.” I got out of the car and cocked my head; I couldn’t hear the two cops. “Tell them that my daddy is the biggest, baddest vampire in this town, and he will be treated as such. He will be respected and well treated or the perpetrators will answer to me.”
“Up close and personal?”
“Up close and ‘Oh no, I hope Greta doesn’t know the one secret way to end me forever, oh, fuck, she does. Ack. Thud. Slurp. Poof.’”
The night air picked up, blowing over me, and I luxuriated in it despite the perceived chill. This at least I could do. Dad kept stopping me from killing people I needed to kill, but I could threaten these people and make them respect him or pretend to, and he didn’t care about the difference. Dad is all about perception. If they seemed to respect him, that would be good enough for Dad.
“I have a bank full of callers that say otherwise.”
“One word,” I said, “and I’ll be listening for their voices in the night. They may be fine for a while, but eventually, I’ll find them or Fang will. Good night, demon.” I hung up.
“Caller, you’re in league with Sly Imp. Go ahead.” Nothing. “Let’s try line two, Gyre.” Nothing. “And line four?” Nothing there, either.
My smile grew large enough to qualify for lying-Grinch status.
“Sheriff Slaughterhouse has made her point, folks,” Sly Imp said. “Enough politics, but don’t tune out. Next hour I’ll have Rolfindorf Rottingham, the new power forward for the Void City Howlers. He’s a Norse werewolf. We’ll ask how he thinks the team is shaping up after all the recent changeups, and does the new coach, Carmen Samburro, have what it takes? Can a female hockey coach make it in Void City?”
My smile vanished when I saw Evelyn standing empty-handed in my apartment without the cops.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff.” She held out a note. “Captain Marx delivered it herself.”
Dear Greta,
Please leave the cops alone. You can help them. You can ask for their help; you may not hurt them. Otherwise, you’ve been doing a great job.
Love,
Dad
Damn. Thwarted again.
“What do you think?” I asked, aiming the query at both Evelyn and Percy (via his memento mori glasses, which were still on my face).
“I think we’ll have to explore another lead,” Evelyn said. “We’ll need to steer clear of anything involving people who may or may not be his secret thralls. Can you think of anyone or anything else we might try?”
I think you’re very close, my dear, Percy penned.
Maybe. I chewed my lip. “We got the names of those cops, though, didn’t we?”
“Yes,” Evelyn answered. I snapped my fingers, and my three thralls were at my side. “First,” I said, “I want you to turn into dogs so I can pet you, because it’s just occurred to me that you can. And second, we have the cops’ names. Now let’s find out who they are and what they mean to Dad.”
34
ERIC
I NEVER LIE . . . TO HER
No.”
“No?” Talbot held up the newest set of bills, watching me from across my desk. “If you don’t do something, she’s going to figure it out.”
“So what?”
“So what?” Talbot put down the bills and looked at Magbidion, who was sitting in the recliner I’d bought for the office but rarely sat in. Mags looked half asleep. “You’ve put that one through an awful lot of trouble for ‘So what.’”
“That’s true.”
Magbidion smiled. “I’m okay with whatever, boss.” His speech was slurred. “We can rest up and try again or . . . something.”
“No.” I knew it, and Magbidion knew it, too. This was a one-shot plan. If I screwed the pooch, The Plan or this version of it would never work again.
“You could try ordering her not to interfere.” Talbot leaned over the desk and took the checkbook from me. “And writing these checks yourself.”
“I think that’s the one order I could give her that she wouldn’t follow, Talbot.”
“I thought she’d do anything for you.”
“Anything except let me get hurt.” I powered down the computer and leaned back in my desk chair, watching him flawlessly fill out checks in my handwriting. “I could tell her to rob banks, kill women, children, and puppies, or even ask her for sex, and she’d probably go along with it, but can I get Greta to let some demon that I can’t fight beat the hell out of me? I don’t see that happening.”
“True enough.” Talbot looked up from signing my name. “I could always—”
“Not this time.”
“Mind if I write myself a big fat check while I’m forging sigs?”
“If you think I owe it to you, take it all.” Nervous, I got to my feet and started wearing a path in the carpet. My nighttime secret camped at the edges of my memory, messing with my brain. Familiar things woke memories that were prone—if I was too distracted—to turn into full-blown hallucinations.
“A cargo container shipped all the way from France on an otherwise empty sailing vessel, at vampire safety rates,” Talbot commented as he wrote a check for a particularly large bill.
“Garnier,” I said, using the code name for a being with whom I’d tussled back in Paris on my honeymoon. “Doesn’t come cheap. I gotta grab some air.”
“Go ahead, old man,” Talbot said. “Try not to get lost on the way across the street.”
“Yeah, right.” I stepped out into the hallway.
“Oh, and watch out for the weregecko assassins in the hall.”
“The wha?”
I looked up and marveled at the wonder and complexity of the universe. I knew there were all kinds of therianthropes, but fucking weregeckos? Six of them clung to the ceiling, bedecked in bandoliers of stakes and throwing stars, each wearing a dark-colored gi. The one closest to me looked for all the world like a giant version of the Geico gecko, but with leopard markings and all ninja’d out, his toes and fingers bending backward at strange angles as he clung to the ceiling in the hall. As he opened his mouth with a hiss, his tongue darted at my head like a thick pink blackjack.
I dodged left as throwing stars rained down from above and the geckos attacked.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
35
EVELYN
CHASING LEADS
Greta had her own ideas about research, but my methods needed neither thralls nor supernatural abilities. My ways were as simple and old as my mortal profession, even if the tech changed as the news media itself mutated and grew.
Sitting at Eric’s desk, I slid open the lap drawer. His passwords were there on a Post-it note, but I could have guessed them easily enough. They weren’t quite as bad as “password” or “123456,” but they were still things you aren’t ever supposed to use: Greta’s birthday, Marilyn’s birthday, Fang’s license plate—which says FANG.
Eric’s e-mails didn’t tell me much. He’d been corresponding with someone in Europe about demons. How their chains of command worked. How their power levels worked. What was the difference between a Nefario and an Infernatti? Was Magbidion right about someone called Lady Scrytha? There were other questions, too, about things called Soul Bonding and Soul Burn.
I plugged in a thumb drive, set his PC to making an archive copy of his e-mail, and wrote down his settings so I could set up his account as an alternate on my own PC. As much as I liked Greta (despite my better judgment), I wanted to keep the option of killing this guy.
