Broken

by Kelley Armstrong

  So it was impossible. Even when I glimpsed a figure darting between the rigs in the southwest lot, and caught another whiff of that distinctive scent, I knew it couldn't--shouldn't--be him. But follow logic too far and it can lead right into the jaws of folly.

  Jeremy had asked me to wait for him or Clay, and I hadn't meant to ignore him. But after fifteen years of being able to walk through deserted parking lots without a spark of fear, I was ill-accustomed to needing an escort.

  Someone was following me, possibly hoping to cut me off when I was far enough from the service center, and from my male companions. At the very least, I should stop and wait for Jeremy and Clay.

  Yet, the moment they showed up, my pursuer would run. So I kept going slowly and concentrated on picking up some sense of Clay. No luck. I stopped to tie my shoes and scope out the playing field.

  Swamp to the right. A good place to throw my pursuer off-kilter, but the stink and the water would make tracking difficult. The field in front of me was too open. Behind it was a forest, which screamed "pick me, pick me." My ideal environment. But it was too far away, and I risked losing him on the trek across the open field. The parking lot had lots of places to hide, and that's where he was now. But the noise, the stink of diesel fuel and the possibility of bystanders would complicate matters. The best choice was also the closest--that thirty-foot-wide storage silo to my right.

  Rotten

  I WALKED SLOWLY PAST THE SILO, STILL STRAINING FOR A sense of Clay. When I reached the other side I felt that little twinge of relief and anticipation that told me he was nearby. As for where exactly he was, I had no idea. But he'd be looking for me.

  With a half-dozen strides, I was close enough to touch the silo, and I started circling toward the back. Quick steps pattered over the pavement--someone running across the parking lot, footfalls too heavy to be Clay or Jeremy, the slightly awkward clomp of one unaccustomed to silent hunting.

  I caught a whiff on the breeze, heavy with rot. On that same breeze came a more familiar--and certainly more pleasant--smell. Clay was getting closer. I smiled and picked up my pace to lure my pursuer farther behind the silo.

  The clomping footsteps sped up, closing the gap. Closing in fast. Waiting for Clay wasn't going to be an option.

  I spun around and found myself a hairsbreadth from being skewered by a butcher's knife. It was probably more like two feet away, but any time a knife that big is pointed at you it seems a whole lot closer.

  I roundhouse kicked...and flew off my feet as my new center of gravity took over. My foot barely brushed my attacker. The ground sailed up to meet my stomach. My hands shot out to break my fall, but I managed to twist around and find my balance.

  As I veered up, the man rushed me. I kicked again, this time low, snagging his calf and yanking. As he fell, the blade veered my way, but I skated out of the way--not nimbly or gracefully but unscathed. I pounced onto his back and he crumpled, arms flying out, knife pinging off the side of the silo and tumbling to the grass.

  A shadow crossed over my head, but I stayed where I was, on all fours on the man's back.

  "You want me to take that for you, darling?"

  "Please."

  Clay put his foot onto the man's neck and pressed down until he let out a strangled grunt. I recovered the knife--the sort that graces gourmet home kitchens everywhere, and rarely carve anything more than takeout rotisserie chicken.

  "Impressive." I gave it a trial swing and made a face. "Unwieldy, though."

  I knelt beside the man. It was definitely him--though he'd gotten rid of the bowler hat. He'd shaved his whiskers and changed into modern dress--ill-fitting slacks and a golf shirt that looked expensive enough to have come from the same house as the knife.

  He tried to stay facedown, but Clay booted the other side of the man's head and kicked his face toward me. Then he pressed harder on the man's neck so he couldn't turn away again.

  Sweat beaded on the man's forehead, but he only curled his lip. I adjusted my grip, lifted the knife, then plunged it down a handbreadth from the man's face. After a second, he opened his eyes. He stared at the knife, buried to the hilt in the ground.

  "Who are you?" I asked.

  He didn't answer.

  "Where'd you come from?"

  His lips pulled back, showing blackened teeth and the missing incisor I'd noticed the night before. "From hell."

  "Good," Clay said. "Then we'll know where to send you."

  Jeremy rounded the silo, walking fast, then saw us and slowed.

  We spent the next few minutes interrogating the man. Who was he? Where did he come from? How did he find us? Why did he come after us? He wasn't talking. A more thorough "interrogation" was out of the question here, in midday. Finally, Jeremy eased back onto his haunches.

  "Let's see if we can get him someplace better." He looked around, then nodded at the swamp. "Down there."

  As Clay yanked the man to his feet, I stood, brushed myself off and turned to walk around the silo. A shadow leapt behind me, splayed on the sunlit side of the tank. I wheeled to see the man in Clay's grip, caught in midlunge, his gaze on Jeremy. I leapt forward to knock Jeremy out of the way, but Clay already had his forearm around the man's neck.

  "Try that again," Clay hissed against his ear, "and I--"

  The man wrenched forward, as if still trying to attack Jeremy, but so far away that Jeremy didn't even move. Clay jerked the man back, more warning than genuine effort. A sensible man would have felt that iron grip, seen how far he was from his target and noticed he'd lost his chance at a surprise attack. But he kept struggling, kicking and swinging. When his fist swung a little too close to me, Clay jerked him back, hard. A dull snap, like the crunch of celery. The man went limp in Clay's grip.

  "Goddamn it!" Clay muttered, teeth clenched to keep his voice down. "I'm sorry, Jer. I didn't mean--"

  Jeremy waved off the apology and took the knife as Clay lowered the body to the ground.

  "Standard self-defense advice," I said. "Never let yourself be taken to the second location. He knew we weren't taking him there for a pleasant chat."

  Jeremy nodded, then knelt and put his fingers to his neck.

  "Dead?" I said.

  "Presuming he had a pulse before." As he backed up onto his haunches, his nose wrinkled.

  "Smells pretty ripe, huh? Maybe it's just me, but I swear it's getting stronger."

  "It's certainly not getting better." Jeremy looked around. "We'll need to dispose of the body..."

  "Swamp's best," Clay said. "Unless you want him to take a little trip in the back of a transport."

  The man moved. I jumped forward instinctively, getting between Jeremy and danger. Clay stomped on the man's neck. His foot passed clean through to the ground.

  "What the--?"

  The body jerked again and this time, we saw that the movement was the man's body collapsing into itself like a rotting melon. There was a whispering crackle as the body stiffened and went hard. Then it just...disintegrated.

  "Huh, guess that solves the disposal problem." Clay watched the sprinkling of dust settle into the grass. "Wish all my corpses would do that."

  "Now is anyone still going to tell me he was just a normal guy?" I said.

  "Doesn't matter." Clay waved at the grass. "Threat eliminated...or disintegrated."

  "That's it? We just blow away the dust and go home?"

  "Far as I'm concerned."

  I looked at Jeremy. He finished wiping off the knife, then whipped it. The knife flew about a hundred feet before landing in the swamp with a splash. Perfect aim, as always.

  "Elena? I'd like you to follow his trail. Perhaps we can figure out how he got here...and make sure he came alone."

  That was easy. Not only did the taint of rot give it away, but his path went straight around the south side of the service center and into the front lot. He'd known exactly where I was.

  The trail led to the nearly empty northeast corner. Only one car was there--a burgundy midsize with
Ontario plates. As we drew closer, I could see red streaks on the driver-side window.

  "Don't slow down," Jeremy murmured as the three of us continued our "stroll." "When we walk alongside it, glance inside, but we'll keep heading for the road."

  We knew what we'd see when we passed the car, and we weren't wrong. A man's body lay stretched over the front seats, pushed down out of sight, his wide eyes staring at the roof, throat gaping open.

  "Keep going," Jeremy murmured.

  We walked to the road, then headed along the front of the service center.

  "Chauffeured at knifepoint," I said.

  "So it would appear," Jeremy said. "I was keeping a watch behind us, but I don't recall seeing that vehicle--or seeing it for long enough to appear suspicious."

  "Meaning he followed at a distance."

  "Doesn't matter," Clay said. "He's gone. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, time to go home."

  I turned back to Jeremy. "It must be the letter, right? We did something with that letter last night, and opened a time hole into the nineteenth century--"

  Clay snorted.

  I turned on him. "Oh, sorry, is my explanation a little too far-fetched for you? The guy who turns into a wolf a couple times a week?"

  "I'm just saying--"

  "That there's a logical explanation. Sure. How's this? He's a mugger with retro fashion sense, and he was hiding under a sewer grate in Cabbagetown, waiting for a mark to wander past. That transformer fell, scared the shit out of him and he jumped from his hole and ran for his life. Then he saw us chasing him, realized we could identify him--by his serious BO if nothing else. He decided he had to take us out before we reported him to the police for sewage-hole trespassing with intent to commit robbery."

  "Yeah? Well, it's no less likely than 'he jumped through a time hole,' is it?"

  Jeremy motioned for us to resume walking. "I'll have to agree with Elena. A supernatural explanation is most probable, something connected to the letter. Presumably, he came through that time hole or portal or whatever it might be, and wanted the letter back."

  "And was somehow able to track it after he got away last night," I said.

  "None of which matters," Clay said. "Because only one guy came through that portal, and now he's dust."

  "True," Jeremy said. "With any luck, that's the end of it. But we'll need to make sure."

  Clay opened his mouth to protest, but Jeremy continued. "It will be a quick trip. We go back, we scout the area, make sure nothing else has happened and there are no traces of anyone else passing through. If all goes well, which I expect it will, we'll be sleeping in our own beds tonight."

  Soundbite

  WE MADE IT BACK TO TORONTO BY EARLY AFTERNOON AND headed for Cabbagetown.

  When I walked toward the crime scene, it was Jeremy at my side. Clay would keep watch.

  At the end of the street there were no obvious signs of trouble--no police cars, no ambulances, no fire trucks. Yet something was wrong. Residents were out in their yards and on the sidewalks, talking in pairs and trios. Gazes skittered up and down the road, and the clusters disintegrated at the first sign of an unfamiliar face, people making beelines for their front doors, as if suddenly remembering they'd left the kettle on.

  The cause of their unease? Probably something to do with the small swarm of journalists buzzing along the street. Across the road, a camera operator was getting setting shots, filming the other side of the street, the peaceful side, preparing for the "Today, in this quiet Toronto neighborhood..." intro. As for "what" had happened in this particular quiet Toronto neighborhood, I wasn't so sure I wanted to find out.

  I steered Jeremy toward a scattering of print reporters, all scouting for contacts and sound bites. We stopped on the sidewalk.

  "It looks like something happened," I said in a stage whisper. "Do you think it has anything to do with our power going out last night?"

  It took less than five seconds for a reporter to bite.

  "Excuse me. You folks live around here?"

  We turned to see a potbellied man in serious need of a hairbrush, razor, clothes iron and eye drops. I'm sure he cultivated that look--the rumpled newshound, always on the hunt, low on sleep, coasting on caffeine--but it was about fifty years out of date. Almost certainly not a representative of Toronto's journalistic constellations, the Star, the Globe or even the Sun.

  "We're a few blocks over," I said with a vague wave.

  "Did you know Mrs. Ashworth?" he asked, pen poised above his paper. "She lived right down there, in the green house. Old--older woman. Lived by herself."

  "I believe we met her at the barbecue last month," Jeremy said. "You talked to her for a while, hon, remember? About her roses?" He frowned at the reporter. "She isn't hurt, is she?"

  "No one knows. Disappeared this morning. And I do mean disappeared. Neighbor claims he saw her crossing the road and then...poof."

  "Poof?" Jeremy's frown deepened.

  "Gone. Just like that."

  We stared at him. He leaned back on his heels, relishing the moment.

  "She probably wandered off," I said, then lowered my voice. "We have a lot of...older residents here."

  The reporter scowled, as if he'd already come to this conclusion, but would really rather be writing the "poof" story than another sad tale of Alzheimer's.

  "Still," I said. "It is strange, coming right after those fireworks with the transformer last night." I glanced at the reporter and tried to look nervous. "There's no connection, is there?"

  A smug smile. "You never know."

  Jeremy rolled his eyes. "No, hon, there's no connection. A blown transformer and a missing elderly woman, just two random events, not uncommon--"

  "Plus, the woman in petticoats," the reporter said. "You did hear about that, didn't you?"

  "Petticoats?" I said slowly.

  "The cops got two calls last night, right after that transformer blew, people seeing a woman in petticoats running down the middle of the road. This very road."

  "Probably a lady in her nightgown, running out to see what the fireworks were," Jeremy said. "I hear it was quite a show."

  The reporter muttered something about a deadline, and stomped off to find a more receptive audience.

  We'd returned to Toronto to reassure ourselves of two things: that the bowler-hatted man had been the only "portal escapee," and that nothing else had happened as a result of last night's events. The possible disappearance of the elderly woman thwarted our hopes of a hasty resolution on the second count. And now a sighting of a woman in petticoats suggested we weren't going to have any more luck with the first. Something told me we wouldn't be sleeping in our own beds tonight.

  Jeremy and I spent the next hour discreetly scouting the area for a second trail with that distinctive rotting smell. Bad enough I couldn't change to wolf form, but having the area under media and police scrutiny made the search twice as hard or, more aptly, twice as large. Instead of scouring the road where the bowler-hatted man had appeared, I had to search all the perimeter streets, while trying to look like a restless pregnant woman and her doting husband out for a prolonged neighborhood stroll.

  We'd made it almost all the way around when I found a second trail. A woman's scent, mingled with rot.

  I bent and retied my shoes--a simple act that was getting increasingly difficult.

  "Definitely a woman," I said as I took a deep breath.

  "We'll pick up the trail after dark and find her, see what she can tell us."

  In the supernatural world, it's sometimes tricky to know who to call when things go awry. Take a portal. It could be magical, in which case we'd want to contact a witch or a sorcerer. Or it could be connected to the nether realms, and then it would fall under the jurisdiction of a necromancer. The last time we'd been peripherally involved in a case with a portal connection, Paige and Lucas had been in charge, and they'd turned to a necromancer. So we did the same, and called Jaime Vegas.

  We phoned from the hands-free setup in the
Explorer so Jeremy and I could both hear Jaime. Clay waited outside, standing watch.

  "Hey," she said when she answered. "Let me guess. You've got that other matter settled, and you're ready to work on my film." Last time we'd spoken, she'd been returning my message, ready to meet to discuss her documentary, only to hear that I'd made other plans in the meantime.

  "Mmm, not quite yet. Seems we ran into complications. Something you might be able to help with."

  When I described what had happened last night, she barely let me finish.

  "Dimensional portal," she said.

  "That common, huh?"

  A small laugh. "No, definitely not, thank God. But given the choice between that or a time tear, odds are way better on the dimensional. Time travel makes great fiction, but in real life, that's where it stays."

  "Pure fiction."

  The connection crackled, as if she was getting comfortable. "I wouldn't go that far. Never say never in this world. My Nan used to tell me stories about time tears, but even she said they were just that: stories. Anyway, you have the classic signs of a dimensional portal. I wouldn't go looking for horse-drawn carriages to start galloping through downtown Toronto anytime soon."

  "And what are the classic signs?" Jeremy asked.

  Silence.

  "Jaime?" he said.

  "Uh, Jeremy. Hi. I...didn't know you were right there. You're so..."

  "Quiet?"

  She gave a nervous laugh. "Umm, right. So, what did you ask? Oh, the classic signs. Well, zombies would be the big one."

  "Zombies?"

  "That guy you dusted." She laughed, more relaxed now. "I've always wanted to say that. You see it happen in movies all the time, but real life? Vamps don't explode in a shower of dust."

  "But zombies do?"

  "Er, no. Well, not usually. But any zombie I've ever met was raised by a necro. When a spirit materializes through a portal, you've got something a bit different. Probably shouldn't even call them zombies but...well, we have enough beasties out there without inventing new names. When a formerly-human entity manifests in the living world, we call it a zombie. You get that rotting meat stink, which is a dead giveaway...pardon the pun."