Black City Demon Page 7

  Gatekeepers . . . came a familiar, haunting voice in my head.

  Strike it down! Strike it down! demanded the dragon.

  “Shut up. . . .” I eyed the hooded form. This was no Wyld, unless things in Feirie had gotten a hell of a lot worse than I could’ve imagined. Yet, this creature also shouldn’t have existed. I’d seen it—him—tortured and executed by Oberon after he’d been sent—as the other before him—to hunt down his former liege.

  “So she had a spare, did she?” I finally commented. “Twin brothers or just cut from the same cloth?”

  He hissed angrily, but dismissed the energy he’d been gathering. He also shrank a bit, although still topping out over seven feet tall. As that happened, he stretched open one side of his cloak.

  Instead of his body or just darkness . . . a sinister woodland scene revealed itself.

  She ordered . . . when you were faced . . . she would speak with you. . . .

  I didn’t have to ask who he meant. He was a servant of Her Lady, queen of Feirie. A sentinel . . . a special enforcer that Kravayik had called a Feir’hr Sein. Kravayik, once a deadly soldier of the Court himself, had spoken of the creature with great respect, explaining that the name loosely translated into Hunger. I assumed that was short for “Hunger for Death” or something just as dramatic. Feirie loved its titles. Still, that meant I was facing a creature far more deadly than the usual Wyld.

  It also meant that it’d hardly been the murderer of the young couple.

  The Nilssons. . . . I reprimanded myself. At least give them their due in death. The Nilssons . . . they’re the latest ones you’ve failed. It was a bad habit I’d developed over the centuries, too often trying to forget those I met as soon as possible so that I wouldn’t think about the fact that they’d eventually join the thousands I’d known before who were now dust.

  Trying to forget . . . but never actually forgetting. I had a list of sins, of lost lives, longer than the years I’d served the Gate.

  “She’ll have to wait her turn,” I finally answered. “I’ve got more important things to do . . . and if you aren’t what I was hunting, I’m done with you.”

  The sentinel didn’t like that. He hissed again, then shook his cloak. The dark woodland scene rippled, but remained. She will be obeyed!

  “She’s not my queen.” I tightened my grip on the sword. It was possible that he was immune to its abilities, but I doubted that. Her Lady had created it with her former mate in mind.

  My continued disrespect for his queen proved almost too much for the sentinel. He started to lunge toward me.

  I brought Her Lady’s gift up, the point at his chest. “Easy, Lon!”

  He pulled up short, what little I could see of his inhuman expression more puzzled than furious. I realized that in the heat of the moment, I’d used a name on him. Yes, I’d flippantly called him by that of the great actor, but he reacted as if I’d actually marked him by his true identity. Names were power in Feirie, but generally only able to be wielded by the mightiest of the Court, specifically Her Lady. That was why I and most who knew of the queen called her by the title I did, as opposed to actually using her given name—Titania. Even mentioning her true name was to risk her attention.

  The sentinel wavered. She must be obeyed. . . .

  “I’ll speak with her when I need to. If you want to be any use, you can tell me right now why you’re here. They were dead when you arrived, right?”

  To my surprise, he readily answered, Yesss. . . .

  I hid my relief. There’d remained a slight concern that the Nilssons had somehow gotten into the middle of Her Lady’s cleansing of her domain of the unfaithful. “So how long ago did you arrive?”

  In the dark of this previous night.

  Not that long, then. I doubted that there was anything the enforcer could tell me. “You found no one or nothing here? No Wyld . . . especially tied to Oberon?”

  The creature shifted slightly at mention of his former liege. Even in death, it seemed Oberon had some power. Her Lady wouldn’t have an easy time eradicating that fear.

  There is the smell of end time. . . .

  “End time.” That was an old Feirie term for what humans called “death.”

  The Nilssons weren’t of Feirie, though. I hoped that they were where, from the looks of the cross on the wall across from me, they believed they’d go if they’d been decent. “Tell me something I don’t know, Lon. I want to find this Wyld that did that to them.”

  He shimmered the moment I used the name on him again. I frowned. It seemed he was really bothered by it, which only made me more determined to use it whenever he didn’t answer sufficiently.

  No Wyld . . . that Wyld has seen end time here and the essence carried away. . . .

  I had to digest that for a moment. Lon was telling me that his quarry and mine had not only died here along with the Nilssons, but that the remains had been dragged off. I had no sympathy for the dead Wyld . . . but who would’ve been hunting for him other than myself and this Feir’hr Sein?

  I thought about the corpse Cortez’d wanted me to see. Another dead Wyld. One of the Court, if I was correct.

  That brought me back to Alexander Bond. Dr. Alexander Bond.

  And then I thought of what we’d come across in the building where once a human monster as horrific as anything from Feirie had tortured and slaughtered innocents. The Nilssons hadn’t been cut up like either those long-dead victims or Cortez’s unfortunate Wyld, but they’d been killed with sadistic precision.

  One immediate question still hadn’t been answered. With the tip of the sword slowly swinging toward Her Lady’s enforcer, I asked him, “Who were you seeking here? One of Oberon’s servants?”

  Yesss. . . .

  It was like slowly peeling an onion to the core, something I didn’t have time for right now. “How powerful? Who—”

  A siren sounded in the distance. A police siren.

  I made the mistake of glancing at the nearest window. I quickly returned my attention to the Feir’hr Sein, only to find he’d taken that crucial moment to flee.

  I took his unspoken advice. Hiding Her Lady’s gift, I hurried out of the bedroom and down the steps. The siren was already too loud for my tastes. I’d no doubt that they were coming to the Nilsson house, maybe because of the noise raised by the shattering bed.

  Just as I reached the first floor, the siren reached a crescendo out front. I spun around to the back, leaping into the yard a few seconds later. From inside the house, I heard someone knocking on the door.

  I couldn’t take the time to worry about what some bystander might see. The dragon understood what I wanted. My legs bent at an angle no human could’ve achieved and propelled me over the fence.

  Fortunately, there was no one around when I landed. I pushed on immediately to where I’d left the Packard. The police would’ve come from a different direction. If I reached the Packard, I could be far away before anyone thought to examine the cars parked nearby.

  I almost feared that I’d find something amiss with the Packard, but other than the snow, she was untouched. I started her up and drove off as casually as I could.

  It wasn’t more than a mile before I knew I was being followed.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Studebaker that’d acted as a decoy earlier was now behind me at what the driver must’ve supposed was a safe distance. He probably didn’t know he was dealing with someone who could not only see well in the dark, but who’d been looking over his shoulder for sixteen hundred years.

  I turned south on Clark as if nothing was wrong. The Studebaker dutifully followed. The weather guaranteed that there wasn’t much traffic, but I wondered exactly what they had in mind.

  Then, I thought of the last time I’d been followed by them and realized I was probably being set up again.

  Logic dictated I take the route I did and follow it down to Halsted toward Saint Michael’s. I wasn’t certain how much time I had before the other car showed up, but it couldn’t
be long. They couldn’t have had more than a few minutes to plan this out. I doubted that they’d been waiting for me to check on the Nilssons, which meant that either I’d been followed out to Andersonville—which I thought unlikely—or they’d been watching for someone else.

  The image of Her Lady’s enforcer suddenly filled my thoughts. Maybe “someone” was the wrong term. Maybe they’d been on the lookout for something? Powerful as Lon was, he could be destroyed. I already knew someone was hunting down Wyld and not caring who else died in the process.

  As I pondered that, Foster Avenue came up. I instinctively turned onto it . . . and nearly collided with the dark blue Chrysler Phaeton coming from the opposite direction. I had no trouble recognizing the car this time despite it being one of the company’s first offerings. It wasn’t just stylish, but it was practical in both size and speed, the last something whoever bossed the three figures inside must’ve considered, too.

  I managed to veer around, cutting so close there was also no doubt as to whether or not I’d seen the figure nearest to me in the backseat. The Schreck hood already had a gun out, but it wasn’t something as modern as Claryce’s Smith & Wesson. Instead, he readied an old Colt Peacemaker with a shortened barrel. I doubted it fired something as simple as lead bullets.

  He managed a shot just as I slammed on the gas. I heard a deadly thunk near the steering wheel as the bullet just missed my arm. Then, I was racing down Foster at far too great a speed for the slick street. I knew the Chrysler would follow, but turning around would cost them valuable time.

  An arm wrapped around my throat, an arm strong enough to all but pull me from the seat. The Packard slipped to the curb, bouncing hard.

  There’d been no one in the auto with me. I’d been able to see that when I’d climbed inside. I’d also been driving much too fast for anyone to jump in.

  A faint odor reached my nose as I fought to pull free while still keeping the Packard from crashing into a building. It was musky, old . . . and brought to mind the inherent scent of cemeteries.

  My attacker was strong, but not strong enough. I managed to peel away his arm while still using my other hand to steer. I couldn’t stop; the others would catch up, and I wasn’t sure what other tricks they might have.

  Sharp pain roared through my neck. The dragon echoed my agony. Without thinking, my foot slipped to the brake.

  The Packard shook as we stopped. The pain dwindled as what I realized was the point of some weapon or instrument slipped free of my neck. At the same time, I finally caught a glimpse of my attacker’s hand.

  It was as pale as the moon, not to mention long and sinewy, as if instead of fingers he had snakes at the end. Somehow, I knew that if I managed to see the face, it’d look just like Count Orlok’s.

  I’d never seen a Wyld or a member of Her Lady’s Court who looked like my unwanted companion, but that hardly meant that he wasn’t of Feirie. At the moment, though, what was more important was extricating myself from this before we drew a crowd. If that happened, I’d have to rely on luck.

  Yes! encouraged the dragon. Yes! Release me!

  If he thought I’d give him total mastery of me, he’d gone mad. I envisioned what I wanted and ignored his anger at not being fully unleashed.

  My hand changed, growing longer and narrower. Scales rapidly covered it. My nails grew into claws.

  With a strength now far greater than my own, I gripped his arm tight and squeezed. I felt bone break, followed by a rush of pleasure at the pain I assumed my adversary had to be suffering.

  But there was no cry from behind me. Instead, he twisted free and fell into the backseat.

  My foot slipped off the brake as I stretched back a hand to him. Still caught up in my bloodlust, I forgot about the street ahead and grabbed at the retreating arm. I must’ve let the Packard steer to the side again, for suddenly the auto bounced hard.

  In the midst of the bounce, I caught sight of the ghoulish hood pressed against the backseat. His one arm dangled, but he didn’t seem to care. Of more interest to my attacker was the short dagger with which he’d apparently stuck me in the neck. It was a peculiar blade, not flat but rather round, with an open point.

  I hadn’t seen a rondel dagger in over two hundred years. They’d been very popular in Burgundy and other parts of Europe four or five centuries ago. They’d been handy for penetrating armor at the joints, but had gone out of favor once armor had.

  The open point was something I hadn’t come across. I didn’t have a chance to see more of it, though, because my attacker chose that moment to fling some sort of dust at me. I did what came normally, shielding my eyes for that brief instant while still keeping one hand in front of me in case he lunged with the dagger.

  Nothing happened. The moment the dust cleared, I discovered that he was gone. The door was shut, and there was no way he could’ve climbed out, but he was gone.

  I hadn’t sensed any hint of Feirie magic, but that seemed the logical choice. I quickly peered out in time to see the Chrysler turning from me.

  In the backseat of the departing car, I saw my attacker. He stared without blinking at me until the Chrysler was at the far end of the block.

  Other vehicles began converging on the area. I didn’t wait for the cops to arrive. Forcing the Packard back onto Foster, I headed off. Rubbing my neck where I’d been stuck, I knew that before I headed anywhere else, I had to make certain that Claryce was okay.

  “Dear God, Nick! What happened to you?”

  I didn’t think I looked that bad. I went to the mirror near her apartment door and eyed myself. I was more disheveled than I’d believed. There was also a nasty red mark on my neck from the dagger.

  “Is that painful?” she asked as she rushed from the room. When we’d parted, she’d given me her address and telephone number. Finding the apartment hadn’t been too hard. Claryce had evidently tried to locate one as close to Saint Michael’s as she could. While it made for convenience at the moment, I wished that she’d have chosen one far, far away.

  Fetch watched patiently as I tried to neaten myself up. By that time, Claryce’d returned with a towel and some pharmacy medical supplies. However, she stopped short upon seeing me again. “Oh, that’s right. Silly of me. I’d forgotten he could heal you.”

  “Hmm?” I looked back at the mirror. The wound was no longer visible. I could still feel the pinprick of pain, but my skin was good as new.

  “Thanks for finally getting around to it,” I muttered.

  For a moment, I saw his eyes staring back at me despite not having summoned them. Eye would not let anything happen to you. . . .

  I didn’t draw much comfort from the comment. All he meant was that my body, this shell, was of importance to him. He only existed as part of me . . . unless someday I slipped and let him seize control forever. He’d come close more than once, and I had faith he would try again if he saw the opportunity.

  “All copacetic, Master Nicholas?” Fetch asked with a tentative wag.

  “Not at all copacetic.” I pointed at Claryce’s purse. “You been practicing with that thing?”

  “I can hit what I aim at nine times out of ten. Will that do?”

  I grunted. “So long as number ten doesn’t get you afterward.”

  She tried to lead me to a cushioned chair, but I shook my head. I needed to stand right now.

  Claryce leaned on the chair, concern still coloring her expression. “Tell me.”

  I went through what happened, editing out the more grotesque details. I knew that Claryce would imagine them well enough even without my help. Her face darkened when I spoke about the Nilssons, and my description of my encounter with Her Lady’s enforcer brought a shiver.

  “I was hoping we’d not have to deal with her for a long time once Oberon was destroyed,” she commented after I’d finished.

  “Unfortunately, if anything, she’s encouraged. The Gate’s been more porous than ever.” I didn’t mention the refugee Fetch’d protected, but I caught him eyeing
me when I spoke of the Gate.

  Claryce didn’t look so much troubled now as she did frustrated. “Is the Gate always so much trouble? It seems like everything can pass through it at will despite your efforts.”

  I winced, but she was speaking the truth. There’d been periods throughout the centuries when the Gate’d suddenly seemed more like an open roadway rather than a treacherous portal few could breach. What I hadn’t mentioned to her since we’d first met is that the Gate had never been the same after the Great Fire. Not only had it finally fixed in one place, but it’d become just as we’d discussed, an unpredictable pathway through which at times it seemed the entire population of Feirie and Chicago could come and go, if they so desired.

  Even still, over the decades, I’d managed to maintain the crossovers to a minimum . . . or so I’d thought. Now I was beginning to wonder if Her Lady’s suspicions that Oberon had survived the Night the Dragon Breathed had contributed. With him dead at last, I now feared that a city already in the grip of a mob war was going to become inundated with the worst of the Wyld.

  She saw the change in my mood. “It’s going to get worse, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think this is just a matter of the Gate being open. There’s more.” I told her about the corpse Cortez’d wanted me to examine.

  “How much does he know about you, Nick?” she asked when I was done.

  “I’ve not pressed that point. He knows a lot of strange things happen around me. Most of the time, people forget. Cortez doesn’t.”

  “Is there a reason?”

  I shrugged. “None that I’ve found. He’s fairly religious. He and his Maria go to Our Lady of Guadalupe regularly.” I managed a chuckle. “She’s even prayed for me.”

  Claryce straightened. “Why would she do that? Does she know you well?”

  “Never met her.”

  “‘Never met her.’” She cocked her head. “Maybe you should sometime.”

  The phone rang. We both jumped. Fetch whined. When Oberon’d been alive, we’d had a few unnerving calls.