Bloodlines (The Guardian of Empire City Book 1)

by Peter Hartog

  “Maybe I’m just lucky,” I quipped.

  “Cut the crap, Holliday,” Mahoney snapped. “That doesn’t happen by chance unless there’s something else at play.”

  “Captain, you’ve been out of Empire City for years,” I countered. “And now, suddenly, you’re back and offer me a job, someone you barely know, but have obviously researched. And I’m supposed to just accept it?”

  “He’s got a point, Bill,” Deacon chuckled.

  Mahoney caught himself as if about to say something, then fell back in the chair. He looked older, as if the world had beaten the shit out of him, and then came back to kick him some more.

  “Tom, we need you,” he sighed. “Empire City needs you. If you’ve read the latest feeds, then you know what I’m talking about.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Deacon shift his weight.

  “The so-called vampire killing?” I asked, incredulous. “Even if I believed the story, it’s not my problem. Downtown Homicide’s handling it.”

  “No, I appropriated it an hour after it was called in,” Mahoney said. “The scene is clean. It’s SCU’s now, and I want you taking point on the investigation. You’ve got a gift that gives you something, an edge, an ability to see the truth for what it is. You can rationalize all you want about logic, doing the dirty work, following the leads. But there’s more to you than meets the eye, and we know it.”

  “It’s more than instinct,” Deacon added. “You’ve got a supernatural perception you’ve kept hidden from the other fucktards here. I’ve heard about your gift in other places, but ain’t never seen it myself, until I showed up this morning.”

  “Tom, I know this isn’t easy, but I need you to trust me,” the captain said. “Something happened to you the night Kate Foster committed suicide. We need to know what.”

  I chewed on that, weighing the possibilities. Denial would get me nowhere. And it wasn’t like they were wrong.

  So I decided to go with the truth.

  Chapter 3

  “After…rehab…and Kate,” I explained, choosing my words with care, “the world around me possessed a new clarity. I thought I was hallucinating, some aftereffect of the detox process that purged the chemicals from my system. One night, I noticed a woman sitting alone at the bar. As I watched, everything about her changed. Her clothes, her face, even her skin, as if a curtain had been drawn away to expose the truth.”

  What I said wasn’t entirely true. All rehab did was screw my head on straight enough to realize something more profound had happened to me when I used the glass on my wrists. I paused to gauge the reactions of both men. Deacon didn’t miss much with that glare of his. He could probably smell a lie like alcohol on my breath. They looked at me expectantly, so I plowed ahead.

  “This went beyond simple profiling and gut instinct. I somehow understood that woman’s intent and character as if it were laid out in a report. I tasted her addiction, right down to what she was hooked on, why she was there, and where she’d go if she couldn’t find it. Her emptiness left me cold. I left because the whole thing reminded me too much of Kate.”

  I let out a long breath, glancing at my wrists.

  “I’ve done the research,” I continued. “New Age religionists call it a third eye, referring to a window that opens up to a higher form of consciousness. I’ve been calling it the Insight because it feels right.”

  “A remarkable ability,” Mahoney said. “And you’ve solved cases because of it.”

  “You’ve seen my record, sir. But those investigations caused me problems. Sometimes, the Insight just didn’t work. I’d feel its presence lurking, but it remained dormant. Other times, the sensory overload was too much. I’d stay in my apartment with the lights off and stare into space while everything replayed over and over in my mind. I couldn’t unsee any of it. And the dreams are the worst. I’ve been sleep-deprived for I couldn’t tell you how long. Once I learned some meditation tricks, recovery became quicker, but not easier.”

  Deacon wore a small smile. My eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “I wasn’t joking when I said Reynolds didn’t have a soul.” I glared at him. “That thing I saw, whatever the hell it was, had eaten it.”

  “What thing?” Mahoney asked.

  “A fetch,” Deacon answered, his expression remote. “It’s a parasite, a shadow creature that feeds on the darkness in a person’s soul. Powerful negative emotions attract it. I’d reckon Reynolds did a bunch of dirty shit before he got hired at that firm. Once it latches onto you, it fills your mind with an overwhelming urge to misbehave. And you’ll keep on doing what you’re told until you’re gone.

  Takes consecrated weapons to kill them fuckers, too. Holy water, blessed bullets, that sort of shit. The bastards are hard to find, even when you know where to look. By the time you realize one’s there, you’re already fucked.”

  I shuddered. Wrestling with your inner demons was one thing. Having real demons using you as their personal soft drink was something else.

  “Cheer up, Holliday,” Deacon added with a grin. “I’ve seen all kinds of weird shit down in Birmingham. Far worse than some fetch.”

  “And we’re the guys to stop them?” I asked, wondering what was worse than the fetch.

  “Something like that,” Mahoney answered. “You and your Insight would help a lot of people.”

  “You’re right.” I fidgeted with my shirt sleeve, staring at the scars on my wrist. “It would. But I think the Insight’s also destroying my mind. I can feel it unravel sometimes. Strange visions, nightmares. So, yeah, I’ve got it handled, for now.”

  “I appreciate the personal cost, son,” Mahoney said not unkindly. “I’ve been there, and I’ve spent years working my way back. But Empire City needs you, Tom. We need you. You can remain at the 98th, wasting away your career, or you can take a chance and make a difference. The choice is yours.”

  A heavy silence fell between us, broken by the faint buzzing of the ceiling lights.

  How many times had I wondered this very thing? I contemplated my life before rehab, about a time when an idealistic and hungry version of me was more interested in furthering my career than doing the right thing. After I’d been promoted to detective third grade, I rarely considered the message behind the oath I’d sworn or the badge I wore. I didn’t care about the families I helped, or what their lives were like, or the damage caused by the criminals who hurt them. Innocence and guilt were just different sides of the same coin. Once those scumbags I bagged got processed, my responsibility ended. It had all been about the thrill of the hunt, and the glory that followed.

  When the corruption scandal came down on the department, my life turned inside out, and everything changed. Colleagues and so-called friends disowned me. My supporters were few and far between. My dad was no help, and both my mother and grandfather were long gone. Other than Abner and Leyla, very few people gave me the time of day. I never felt as alone as I did during those months. And then I met Kate at Wallingbrooke Rehabilitation and Recovery Center, but we know how that ended. I was a professional failure, adept at how little I cared about anything since then. And I’d been drifting through life ever since.

  “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing,” Deacon murmured.

  I let out a deep breath, unaware of how long I’d been holding it.

  “Sir, there’s a lot of fucked-up people out there, and most of them aren’t even criminals.” A sad smile played across my lips. “What’s a little more psychic scarring going to do to a guy like me? If it means catching the bad guy, I’ll do it every time. It’s why I became a cop in the first place.”

  For some reason, saying that made me feel better. I couldn’t tell you why, other than a renewed purpose now replaced the unease from earlier. I might be damaged goods, and I’m not proud of the things I’ve done, but this felt right.

  It felt real.

  It felt good.

  “So, I get to play a real homicide det
ective again with the under-the-table blessing of the mayor and the DA’s office, but they have plausible deniability for anytime I fuck up,” I mused. “When do I start?”

  A silver shield slid across the desk to rest in front of me. The sigil of Empire City was imprinted on it—the scales of justice held between two toga-clad women, one blindfolded, and the other bearing a curved sword pointed down. It gleamed with possibilities.

  I picked up the badge. A strange chill ran through my fingers and down my spine.

  “No number?” I remarked, turning it over in my hand.

  Mahoney smiled. “You’re off the ‘official’ books, remember?”

  “People will believe it?” I scratched my chin, regarding the badge dubiously. “What if someone calls it in?”

  “Let them,” he replied, and leaned back in the chair, his smile widening.

  “You’re the boss.” I shook my head in bemusement, wondering if I had missed some private joke. “What about my desk? I’ve still got a shit-ton of e-paperwork to complete for Flanagan. I’m just supposed to leave all that?”

  “That’s right,” Deacon stated, the leather jacket slung over one arm. “As far as everyone at the 98th is concerned, Bill has unretired, and one of his first duties is to come here and shitcan your sorry ass.”

  “I thought I was being transferred?” I asked.

  “Transferred, shitcanned,” Deacon shrugged.

  I rose from the chair.

  “I guess I should go get my stuff.”

  “Not so fast, Detective.” Mahoney held up a hand. “There’s a couple more things you need to know.”

  “Such as?”

  “Sometime in the next hour, IT will run a system-wide diagnostic,” he explained. “When that happens, EVI will be updated with your new credentials, including all appropriate licenses and paperwork for your badge and your new sidearm. I also made some calls. The autopsy was performed earlier this morning. The Chief Medical Examiner is waiting on your arrival. At your desk is a bag. Don’t open it until you leave here. Inside is the dossier and personal effects for Vanessa Mallery, the victim. I retrieved them from Evidence before I came here. There’s also a couple of earpieces dedicated to a local private communication line in case you don’t want to use EVI.”

  He looked at Deacon and said, “Am I forgetting anything?”

  “His new peashooter,” Deacon answered. “You’ll be turning in your old badge and weapon before you leave. I reckon you’d prefer carrying in case something tries to eat you.”

  “Man, you sure are full of sunshine and rainbows, aren’t you?”

  Deacon returned my smile with a wolfish one of his own, an expression that never reached his eyes.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Is that it?” I asked.

  “For now,” Mahoney said. He stood up and straightened his jacket. “There’s a dead girl in the morgue, her throat torn out, and no trace of blood in her body.”

  He locked eyes with mine.

  “Get going.”

  Back at my desk, I scooped up my coffee mug and paused to give the empty space a quick once-over. Six years I labored here. Staring at it, I felt nothing. No attachments. No regrets. I was finally leaving Purgatory on my way to, well, somewhere else.

  “Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fail,” I said.

  “Come again?” Deacon asked.

  A black leather jacket lay atop a duffel bag on the floor. He donned it with a small, satisfied smile.

  “Measure for Measure,” I replied easily. “Shakespeare. He’s one of the poets of my soul.”

  “Right.”

  I grinned.

  “EVI, please reserve a pod for me,” I thought via the implant. “Time to visit the morgue.”

  I stopped by Flanagan’s office, but she wasn’t there. Several active holo-windows floated around her workstation – requisition requests to Supplies, a loss prevention survey detailing EVI’s power consumption, a department-wide report from Gaffney on another failed goldjoy raid, and one from HQ about my abrupt transition from the 98th. Flanagan was probably on the floor celebrating my departure. I dropped my old badge and sidearm on her desk with a satisfying thump.

  No one acknowledged me on my way out the front door, which was just as well. I hated long goodbyes, and I’m sure they did too.

  A moderate walk down a different corridor from the main floor led to an elevator. Up ten floors later, we were at the entrance to the ECPD Transportation Hub, an enormous multi-storied terminus housing dozens of pods for personnel, supply and prisoner transportation. Hanging platforms connected by steel and cable were arrayed in tiers around a central dispatch center. The whole thing was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  Everywhere, the sounds of industry filled the air. Robot-controlled hydraulic lifts hauled massive metal crates, while the electromagnetic plates beneath dozens of pods buzzed and stirred. Machinery moved or screeched to a halt, while whistles and shouts from sweaty EC Department of Transportation workers directed the flow. There was a sudden tension in the air, and a supply pod whooshed past us, exiting the Hub along its wide track in a windy rush. It was both art and science, a frenetic anthill made of steel and motion, and whose worker drones were orchestrated by Queen EVI’s virtuoso virtual command.

  After a quick thumbprint scan to an attendant’s pad for final authorization, we moved up to the second-floor platform. A dozen parked round-shaped transports resembling a centipede’s body segment idled, each bearing the silver ECPD shield and a black unit number. Each pod could connect to another via magnetic couplers, up to a maximum of twelve. I spied ours and led Deacon toward it.

  Soft light filled the interior as we entered through the main hatchway. The transport boasted an infirmary, fire suppression, a small armory, and most importantly, a beverage dispenser. It contained enough space for two operators and six other passengers, although EVI did most of the heavy lifting. The pod was fabricated from the same spell-forged alloy that comprised most of the skyscrapers located downtown, as well as the massive exterior walls protecting the enclave. I’d heard the pod’s exoskeleton was strong enough to withstand heavy armament but had never tested it.

  You see, Empire City’s a big place in a very small world.

  We are one of fifty-two enclaves that house all that remains of the billions who once overpopulated Planet Earth. This, thanks to several coordinated, worldwide terrorist cyber-attacks, a bunch of nuclear catastrophes, and the pandemics that followed long before I was born. We’ve spent decades putting Humpty Dumpty back together again, with mixed and strange results. The world had become a very different place.

  The nuclear detonations weakened the fabric of reality and activated naturally occurring energy housed in stable nodes called Nexus Points throughout the world. They’d been present all along but were phase-shifted before the nukes exploded so we couldn’t see them. The concentrated energy they contained exhibited unquantifiable effects unlike anything our scientists and engineers had ever seen before. The energy provided cleaner and more reliable alternatives to electricity, gas, and coal, since there wasn’t much left of the latter after the world went to hell. Nowadays, Nexus energy powers our machines, heats our showers, turns our lights on, you name it.

  Scientists have since thrown out theories such as “spatial accumulations synthesized into a purer form” and “coalescence of multi-tiered quantum anomalies.” They figured that’d hide the fact they knew as much about Nexus energy as the next guy.

  Most folks called it magic, because the word just fit.

  And a select few, like Mark Madsen and myself, were somehow attuned to the energy’s frequency, allowing us to manipulate it in different and unique ways.

  EVI’s voice issued from the onboard speakers instructing us to buckle up. The hatch door closed, and off we went with a powerful thrust of electromagnetic propulsion.

  I considered the Dose article I’d read. Vanessa Mallery’s body had been reportedly drained of blood. Two eyewitnesses c
laimed a vampire did it.

  That last part had to be sensationalized media bullshit.

  Right?

  Images of the fetch danced in my vision, and I shivered. Mahoney was right. Downtown Homicide or the ECBI weren’t equipped to deal with a crime like this.

  Hopefully, I was.

  Chapter 4

  Deacon sat across from me in the co-pilot’s chair. He stared out the rain-streaked window as buildings, streets and other vehicles bled past. I followed his gaze.

  If the Transportation Hub was an anthill, then the island of Manhattan was a neon beehive. Gaudy blinking lights from hundreds of transmission towers and beacons competed with gigantic, multi-storied, high-definition holo-advertisements. Transit and municipal pods, far more efficient and durable than the old subway system, rode along massive winding tracks called Pathways, or ‘ways for short, that twisted and curved throughout the enclave, sometimes to dizzying heights. Below the ‘ways, ground automobiles and other transports rumbled along the grid of the original city. In the daylight buildings gleamed and windows sparkled, intense and bright. Traffic above and below flowed like blood through the arteries of some enormous mythological beast.

  A lot of things hadn’t changed since the nukes. At the heart of Empire City were the Five Boroughs. Many streets and neighborhoods still retained the character that epitomized New York City before things went to hell. This continuity kept those of us living here connected to the days when the United States was still fifty states. My hometown was self-sustaining, and boasted agriculture, fishing, hydroponics, animal cloning and vertical farming, plus all manner of synthetic foods. A democracy with elected officials, Empire City followed our own modified Constitution. Digital credits replaced most money, accepted as the worldwide coin of the realm, although gold and silver retained their value. There was commerce aplenty, and trade with the other enclaves, virtual entertainments, public services, hospitals, e-Sports, politicians, and trash collection.