Dead mans hand, p.6
Dead Man's Hand, page 6
Mayflower seemed to linger, making certain Grimsby had seen the weapon.
He lifted his eyes from the holster to Mayflower’s face. “Who are you?”
“My name is Leslie Mayflower,” he said. “Some call me the Huntsman.”
Grimsby sucked in a sharp breath in instant fear.
“The Huntsman’s not real. He’s a myth.”
Mayflower said nothing, and it was the most convincing thing he could have done.
Grimsby had been told stories about the Huntsman by his mother. Sometimes they were to help him sleep. Other times, they were to make him behave.
The Huntsman was sometimes a hero and sometimes a monster.
But he was always a killer.
“The Huntsman—he has to be a myth.”
“I sometimes wish I was.”
Something in the man’s eyes told Grimsby that he wasn’t lying. Whether or not what he said was true, he believed it to be true. And he had a gun, which offered a certain layer of practical indisputability to his claim.
“Wh-what do you want?” he asked.
“Samantha Mansgraf.”
Grimsby frowned as confusion was mixed into his fear, creating a cocktail that was growing all too familiar. “Maybe you didn’t hear the news. She’s dead.”
“I know. What do you know about her death?”
“What? Nothing! Why does everyone assume I know something?”
Mayflower withdrew a photograph from his pocket. He held it out, revealing something that looked like impressionist art done in red and black on gray.
Grimsby took it and looked closely. “Is this a riddle or something?”
“You tell me. You did Auditor training. Read it.”
“Read what?” Grimsby began; then he looked closer. The lines had a rhythm to them, some kind of system. It took him a moment to recognize it—ogham, the old stone-writing method. He wouldn’t have noticed if Mayflower hadn’t said anything. “I—I can’t make it out. Been a while.”
“Two words. Kill Grimsby.”
Grimsby felt his body grow numb, aside from the thousands of needles that suddenly seemed to try to escape from his veins. “Wh-what?”
“Written in Mansgraf’s blood by her own hand with her dying breath,” Mayflower said. Then he drew his gun. The weapon looked old, like it had been forged in another century, in a time when the world was simpler and colder. “This is loaded with cold-forged, blessed-silver, hollow-point rounds,” he said. “It can fulfill her last request.”
Grimsby stared numbly at the weapon in the Huntsman’s grip. As frightened as he was, his brain fixated only on one thing. “H-hollow-point rounds?”
It hardly seemed the time for such a thought, but he was a little proud nonetheless.
That pride evaporated when Mayflower sighed and leveled the gun at his heart. “My partner’s dying wish was for me to kill you. Give me one good reason not to.”
Grimsby’s grip tightened on the sink as the world seemed to start spinning. He tried to say words in a heart-wrenching plea, but they came out less eloquently than he intended.
“I’m—uh—me—good! Grimsby?”
The room was growing dark. His head felt like it was spinning so fast that it might float away. It was all very inconvenient.
The Huntsman loomed over him, the barrel of his weapon big enough to swallow the world. Grimsby stared into its depths.
Then, suddenly, he was staring at the ceiling.
A moment later, he was staring at nothing at all.
SIX
Mayflower stared down at the unconscious punk in his tattered pink tutu and foam taco-shell wings.
Then he aimed his gun at the boy’s heart.
But it felt oddly heavy. He was surprised to find his hand was shaking.
This was the guy who had killed Mansgraf?
He shook his head. There was no way. He had seen Mansgraf torch fourteen men in as many seconds. She’d killed a revenant using the silver fillings in her own teeth. He once watched her strangle a vampire to death with its own severed hand.
And she’d been killed by a kid in a tutu? A kid wearing foam wings? A kid who had passed out at the mere threat of death?
It was impossible.
And yet her last words, written in her lifeblood, flashed before Mayflower’s eyes. Long, ragged red streaks in a script as dead as his partner.
Kill Grimsby.
Her last request. Why else ask if not to avenge her death? What reason could she have had?
He shook his head. Something was off.
He couldn’t trust his instincts, not like he used to, but they told him something was wrong. Very wrong. And this time he was inclined to believe them.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered. Things had just gotten more complicated.
He longed for the days when things were simply monsters and slaying. Black-and-white. But that was a long time ago. Now everything was more muddled gray. He was starting to think maybe it always had been; he just couldn’t see it.
Not until after Mary died.
He growled and shook his head. He had hoped to shake out the memories, but they just settled to the bottom of his mind instead, like shards of glass floating in a whiskey bottle.
He needed time to figure things out. But he didn’t have it. The Department already had an interest in Grimsby. It wouldn’t be long until they deciphered Mansgraf’s message themselves. Especially after the kid had blabbed to them about seeing him. If they took him in before Mayflower could find out the truth of things, he’d either never get the chance to avenge Mansgraf, or some punk would take false blame for her death.
This really complicated things, and he hated when things were complicated.
His pocket began to buzz. He holstered his gun and drew his phone instead, flipping it open and growling at the confounded device as he fumbled to press the button to answer.
“Yeah?”
“Mayflower,” Finley’s slightly husky voice chimed over the tinny speaker. “I’ve got something you might be interested in.”
He grunted. Finley was a Department tech who owed Mayflower some favors. A lot of favors, actually. She had been the one who had given him Grimsby’s info from the Department files. She was a good kid, and he hated to cash in with something like this. She could get burned for it if she wasn’t careful. Maybe even flagged. But he had little choice. All he could do was try to settle this quickly.
“Spill,” he said, nudging Grimsby’s arm with his boot. The kid had some strange scars that marred his skin, like old, old burns. He seemed too young for scars so old. Somehow they had burned through his outfit, leaving it a mangled mess.
“I’ve scrounged up some footage of Mansgraf over the last few days. Nothing major, just street-cam vid.”
“And?”
“And there’s something missing.”
He waited. “Are you going to make me guess?”
“No, we’d be here awhile. In all these clips, she’s got a suitcase with her. Simple, black. The most recent one dates to maybe an hour or two before her death.”
He grunted and waited for Finley to continue.
“Well, there was no suitcase found at the scene.”
He frowned. “You think whoever, whatever got her took it?”
“Maybe,” she said. “It’s hard to say.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for it.”
“Les,” she said, her voice hushed, “there’s something else.”
“Tell me, Finley.”
“I—I shouldn’t be telling you this. Hell, I shouldn’t even know it myself. But I think it’s important.”
He waited quietly. He wouldn’t push her to give him the information. If it was as sensitive as she suggested, it could end her career to pass it along. Maybe worse.
“The Department has been trying to keep it quiet, but . . . Mansgraf had been black-flagged.”
“What?” Mayflower demanded. “For how long?”
Black flags were reserved for Department Unorthodox who had gone rogue. Top-priority security liabilities and threats. He had hunted down a few himself. Hell, so had Mansgraf. They were often an alive-or-dead kind of deal, and more often the latter than the former.
“Nearly two weeks. Department’s kept it real quiet.”
“Hell,” Mayflower muttered. This changed things. Again. If Mansgraf had been black-flagged, that would have made her hunted by both the Department and whoever got her. Assuming they weren’t the same party. She was on the run, with no allies, and God knew what on her heels.
She had been alone.
And she’d died for it.
He felt his teeth grinding before he realized he was clenching his jaw. She should have come to him. He could have helped.
Except he’d told her not to. They had been the last words he’d spoken to her. He’d made her promise to leave him alone, and she had. Even though it meant her death.
It was just one more death on his hands.
“Goddamn it,” he whispered, so quietly that he wasn’t sure he’d spoken at all. Mansgraf should have come to him, promises be damned. She’d needed his help, and he would have given it. Every damn time. Although maybe she didn’t because his help wouldn’t make the difference.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. The water-spotted glass was not flattering. When had he gotten so old? Hell, when was the last time he’d eaten? The man staring back at him looked like he was halfway through being embalmed. The Huntsman, the one some people still whispered about—he was nowhere to be found.
Maybe that’s why Mansgraf hadn’t come to him for help. Maybe she thought the Huntsman was already dead.
Maybe she was right.
Mayflower shook his head. Time to doubt later. Time to grieve later. Time to work now. “Do you know why she was flagged?”
“Not exactly. Something to do with an operation out in Salem. Some kind of recovery op. I’m working on the details.”
“Don’t,” Mayflower cautioned. “You’ve stuck out your neck far enough.”
“True,” she agreed. “So why stop now?”
“Finley, I don’t want you getting flagged, too.”
“I’ll be careful. If it makes you feel better, I can not tell you what I find. But I’m gonna dig until I find it, one way or another. I’ll die of curiosity otherwise.”
He shook his head. She was a smart kid. Too smart for her own good.
“Just be careful,” Mayflower said. “Keep me in the loop. If you need my help, you call.”
“Sure thing, Les. You find any leads of your own?”
He glanced down at the still-unconscious kid on the floor. He’d begun to stir but was likely still going to be out for a couple of minutes. “Unknown.”
“Well, be careful. You don’t want whatever got Mansgraf to get you, too.”
He shrugged, even though she couldn’t see it. “Maybe. Fin, one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“The Department is crunching the data from the scene, analyzing whatever they can, right?”
“Yeah. They’ve got a few dozen techs going through it now.”
“There’s a note in the blood. Any chance you can delay them figuring it out?”
She made a pondering sound. “What’s it written in?”
“Ogham. Old-school stone writing.”
“Yeah, I think I can misplace the reference directory for that particular script for a few hours.”
He had no idea what most of that sentence meant, but only one part mattered. “How many hours?”
“Say, until midnight? Anything beyond that might draw suspicion.”
“Do it. I need some time before they catch up.”
“All right. Be careful, Les.”
He grunted and snapped the phone shut. Little ever got done by being careful.
He knelt down and hauled the kid up from the floor to sit him against the wall. It wouldn’t do if he choked to death on his own vomit. Last thing Mayflower needed was another dead-end lead.
Or another dead kid, a secluded part of his mind reminded him.
As he moved Grimsby, the bathroom door creaked open, and a paunchy middle-aged man stepped into the restroom. He looked from Mayflower to the tutu-clad Grimsby, then back to Mayflower.
The man spoke like he was watching a particularly absurd scene from a play he’d never seen. “Uh, are you—are you mugging a tooth fairy?”
Mayflower arched a brow at him. “Bastard owes me thirty-two quarters.”
He then stepped over Grimsby and strode past the flabbergasted man.
Things were getting complicated. He needed to do some scouting.
SEVEN
Grimshaw Griswald Grimsby pedaled hard down the road toward his home. The Torque enchantment he’d put on the rear wheel of his bike assisted him, sending solitary green sparks skittering every few feet, but he needed to put his legs to work to ease his mind. Sweat soaked his skin, half freezing in the chill autumn air. His breath was hoarse and dry, but he wheezed onward without slowing.
When he had woken up from his encounter with Mayflower, the man was nowhere to be seen. He was uncertain he’d been there at all. But whether the Huntsman was real or imaginary, Grimsby had had little choice but to go back to work.
The evening shift at MMDFK had been miserable, but he had stayed even later than he needed to. He figured it would be better than sitting at home, his mind eating itself alive with worries. The bathroom toilets had never been cleaner than they were when Grimsby finished with them that night.
But now he had little recourse. No menial task to hammer his slowly building nerves into. The only thing waiting for him was the ride home to an empty apartment.
The gears on his bike suddenly caught, and he felt the skirt of his tutu rip away. In his haste to flee from the unusually insane day at MMDFK, he had forgotten he was wearing it. He skidded to a halt, nearly stumbling in the process. The churning of his Torque spell on the rear wheel grated hard against the handbrake, making the rubber squeal as green sparks ground out of the gears. He tried to dismount the bike, but the tutu was stuck, growing more so with each moment as his Torque spell tangled the fabric in the gears.
He growled and pulled at it more and more desperately, pouring in the excess energy that had been pooling inside him all night.
Finally, he tore the fabric free from the mechanism, his breaths coming out as wheezy, panicked sobs. Frustrated tears dampened his cheeks, making the cold air feel all the more harsh. He dropped the bike to the sidewalk, his spell making the rear wheel slowly spin. He ripped what strips of fabric remained of the tutu skirt from his waist and dropped them on the concrete. After the beating it had taken, what was left now looked like a wrestler’s one-shouldered leotard. A sudden gust blew the discarded strips away into the dark of the night. He felt a chill run through him, like cold fingers tracing his vertebrae. The feeling of being watched struck him as acutely as the wind.
He shook off the sensation and climbed back aboard his bike, telling himself to ignore the nerves, but when that failed, he used the feeling as an excuse to exert himself. He pedaled so fast that he would have been worried about getting a ticket if the worrying parts of his brain weren’t already working overtime. His legs pumped fiercely while the rest of him was just glad to have menial work to attend to, letting his mind go blank.
Twenty minutes later, he came to a sweaty halt just past Saul’s Sandwiches and dismounted once more. He sprinted his bike into the alley and fumbled desperately with the chain that secured it to the metal staircase, propping up the perpetually spinning wheel so it wouldn’t wander. Taking the stairs three at a time, he hurried to his apartment and managed to get the key into the lock on the third try. The door flew open wide under his frantic weight, and he fell inside, kicking it shut behind him. The cold tile of the kitchenette felt wondrous on his sweat-slicked back, and he let himself lie there, his chest heaving.
His heart was racing. It had been for hours, and it seemed hell-bent on continuing its manic pace. He stayed on the floor for several long minutes, giving his lungs time to get backlogged oxygen to his brain.
He climbed to his feet when his heart finally slowed to a reasonable rate. He tried to flick on the light switch but forgot his bulb had been burnt-out for weeks.
He groaned, rubbing at his suddenly pounding stress headache with his left hand. With his other, he pointed across the room. He reached out and felt his senses extend beyond the ends of his fingers. He fumbled through the cold emptiness until he found the thread he was looking for, like a single strand of a warm, dusty cobweb.
“Bind,” he muttered, urging the tiniest spark of his Impetus into the filament of latent magic. It flared for a moment, turning from a cobweb into something more like a guitar string drawn taut.
The lamp in the far corner of the room jerked forward an inch as the Bind rune on its drawcord was pulled toward its opposite on the floor, clicking the lamp on. The tiny spark of power ran out almost immediately, and the gossamer strand of magic snapped and withered away to nothing, letting the lamp settle back into its original position.
The warm light revealed his apartment in all its glory, if glory was a heavy mixture of empty take-out containers, half-empty plastic cups, and a floor carpeted with dirty laundry. He stared at the mess, almost surprised. This was the first time in a week or two that he had been awake enough after his shift to do anything other than collapse onto the couch and go to sleep. His place was even more of a mess than he was normally comfortable with.
He shook his head. He had bigger problems. Problems like the only person in the world he’d prefer to see dead had coincidentally been murdered. He was thinking of something more like heart attack or, more thematically, being crushed by a flying house. But not murder. And certainly not murder he was suspected for.
