by DD Barant
The first impression I get is utterly mundane. City street, lots of buildings, businesses, cars. People walking down the sidewalk, driving past in Toyotas, Fords, Chevys. No bats soaring overhead, no howls echoing off the concrete. But there is something. . . .
It’s the air. It smells, I don’t know, wilder somehow, as if there were animal musk and wet moss underneath the car exhaust and damp asphalt.
I hesitate for only a second outside the car—I’m not going to run, where the hell would I go?—then get in. Charlie’s already started the car, and pulls into traffic before I even get my seat belt on.
I look over at him. He stares straight ahead.
“So,” I say. “Golem, huh?”
“I prefer the term ‘Mineral-American.’ ”
“Oh. Sorry. Uh, I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me—”
“You’ll be told everything at the briefing.”
Right. Golems aren’t big on the small talk, I guess.
I stare out the window as we drive. I start to notice details that would have me questioning my sanity back home—here, they confirm it. Restaurants with names like the Severed Artery or the Happy Leech. Vehicles with heavily smoked windshields and windows. People walking down the street wearing gloves, goggles, face masks, and hoods—no exposed skin at all. And what can only be more golems, with the same shiny skin as my driver but colored white, red, brown, or yellow. I glance over at him and say, “I thought go—uh, Mineral-Americans would all be yellow.”
“Different grades of silica. Sometimes artificial color is added.”
“Why?”
“Job designations. Clerical, manual laborer, hazardous worker. A few others.”
I study him a little harder. Up close, I can see the grainy texture of the black sand beneath his thick plastic skin. “What’s the job designation for black?”
“Enforcement.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to.
Something lopes past us, way too fast. It leaps onto the hood of a cab, goes sideways off the door of a delivery truck, and disappears around a corner. I don’t get a good look at it—I get the impression of short gray fur, a streamlined body, long arms, legs, and snout, and a vest of Day-Glo green. I think it was carrying some sort of bag slung over its shoulder.
“Damn couriers,” Charlie says.
A sudden thought strikes me. “Charlie, where are we?”
“Grant Street.”
“No, I mean which city?”
“Seattle. Space Needle’s right over there.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “You have one of those where you come from?”
“No, we all live in grass huts. Big pointy building scary.”
He glances at me. His almost expressionless face creases ever so slightly around the mouth, in something that might one day—with careful care and feeding—be called a smile.
“Uh-huh,” he says.
The FBI office I work out of is in St. Louis. I’ve been to Seattle once before, but don’t know the city well—which is probably a good thing, as I’ll have to unlearn most of what I know anyway.
We don’t drive far. A few minutes later we’re pulling into the underground parking of a large concrete structure, with the monolithic impersonal architecture of a Federal building. Security seems a little lax to me, but maybe they have some kind of protective voodoo I can’t perceive.
The lot’s filled with government cars, lots of Crown Vics and boxy sedans. We park and head for the nearest elevator.
“Got any helpful advice?” I ask as we’re waiting for the doors to open.
“If the Director invites you out for a drink,” he says, “say no.”
The elevator lets us off on the twenty-third floor, in front of a security checkpoint. Two large frosted glass doors set into a bare concrete wall, with two of the scariest-looking guards I’ve ever seen posted on either side: both are lycanthropes, but they bear about as much resemblance to Dr. Pete as a professional wrestler to a jockey. The one on the right has jet-black fur, yellow eyes, and a muzzle big enough to bite my head off in one snap. The other one’s fur is a reddish orange, and while he’s shorter than his partner, he makes up for it in width. His biceps are as thick as fire hydrants and look about as solid. Both wear chain-mail suits, stainless-steel links covering them from wrist to neck to ankle, leaving their heads and clawed extremities bare. Spiky tufts of fur bristle here and there between the links.
There’s some complicated hand motions from the red-furred one, which Charlie responds to. “Yeah, hi, Tony. This is Consulting Agent Jace Valchek.”
The black-furred one makes a few gestures of his own.
“She doesn’t sign,” Charlie says.
Tony taps his own chest with one curving claw.
“Oh, yeah,” says Charlie. He fishes in the pocket of his suit and pulls out an ID badge. He hands it to me and I clip it on.
The black-furred one looks me over, then bends over and peers at my badge close-up. When his muzzle is about six inches from my face, he growls. It’s possibly the deepest, most threatening sound I’ve ever heard in my life, and despite the fact that I know it’s supposed to intimidate me, it still makes my breath catch in my throat and my pulse speed up.
I meet his blazing yellow eyes. Take a deep breath through my nose. “Nice,” I say. “Is that aloe vera? I would have guessed you were an oily, not a dry—but split ends are a bitch, either way. You use a cream conditioner?”
He stares at me. Blinks. Then straightens up and waves us through. As the doors shut behind us, I can hear Tony snort. Guess I have a bright future on the werewolf comedy circuit.
The office is large and busy, and I don’t get to see much of it; Charlie hustles me down one side and to the far wall, which is made mostly of smoked glass except for the wooden door. He pulls it open and motions me inside.
I recognize the interior: it’s Cassius’ office. The smoked glass wall is covered by wood paneling on the inside—I’m guessing it can be retracted into the floor or ceiling—and Cassius himself is seated behind his desk. A blond woman in a gray skirt and a high-collared white blouse sits primly on the edge of the leather sofa, hands clasped together on her knees. She looks like she’s in her mid-to late thirties, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She smiles at me with exactly the amount of friendliness a receptionist displays.
“Jace,” says Cassius. He’s replaced his tie with one of blue velvet, the same deep blue as his eyes. He seems older today than he was yesterday, and it’s not just because of what Dr. Pete told me; Cassius’ body language is different, his spine straighter, his shoulders back. I realize my initial surfer-boy impression was deliberate on his part, trying to make me feel less threatened. “I hope you’re feeling better. I apologize for the inept and negligent way in which you were introduced to our world.”
Junior partner in a law firm, I think. Bright, sharp, but still a little inexperienced. Just the kind of person you want to mentor, share your own insights with. “Save it. I know you need my help, and I know why. You want me to cooperate? I want our deal spelled out. In writing.”
“Of course.” He opens a drawer and takes out a document. “Your employment contract. The terms are very clear—they detail your salary, accommodations, and a generous bonus as compensation for the way in which you were recruited.”
“I don’t give a crap about any of that. When do I get to go home?”
“At the successful conclusion of your assignment.” He places the document on his desk and pushes it toward me. I stride forward, pick it up, and read through it. It’s surprisingly void of legalese, stating more or less exactly what Cassius just told me—except for one thing.
“This doesn’t define what my assignment is,” I say. “Just that it will ‘be deemed to be successfully concluded with the capture or elimination of the target of the mission.’ ”
“Yes. The person responsible for at least three murders so far. We believe—”
“What if I don’t sign?”<
br />
Cassius smiles at me. It’s a genuinely likable smile, and I wonder how many years it took him to perfect it. “Who said you have to sign anything? This is simply a description of what we’re willing to provide, if you cooperate with us. You’re free to turn us down.”
He’s good. He doesn’t bother threatening me—I can figure it out for myself. Homeless, broke, and alone, one of a tiny minority on a world full of predators. Good luck with that; I’m sure you’ll do great in your new career as entrée.
Still, they obviously need me. This may be the only chance for negotiation I get.
“I want my living allowance increased by fifty percent,” I say. “I’m not setting up shop in some cramped little walk-up. The abduction bonus gets doubled, and don’t bitch at me about your budget—I can tell you guys don’t do this kind of thing every day, and special projects always have deep pockets. And I want my gun back.”
He doesn’t argue, which irritates me. Instead, he nods, picks up a pen, and writes in the changes.
Then he hands me the pen.
I grit my teeth, take it and sign the contract. At this point, a signed document is probably better for me than for him.
“Welcome aboard,” he says, tucking one set of the papers away in a drawer. I fold my own copies and jam them in a pocket. “Your weapon and laptop are being examined, but they’ll be returned to you shortly. First, I’d like to introduce you to some of the people you’ll be working with.”
He nods at the golem, who’s been standing motionless as a statue by the door since we arrived. “Charlie Aleph you’ve already met. He’s an Enforcement-class golem with twenty years’ experience. Served in the first Persian war as field artillery, decorated twice for valor. He’ll be your enforcer.”
“Right. Is he going to frisk me for crucifixes and wooden stakes, too? Look, if I’m going to work for you, you’re going to have to trust me—”
“I’m aware of that,” he says, and his tone stops me cold. It has that unmistakable ring of command, the one that says, I know exactly what I’m doing so just shut the hell up or suffer the consequences. I shut up.
“Charlie isn’t there to spy on you or keep you in line. He’s there to protect you, and inflict serious damage on anyone that gets in your way. He’s your weapon, not your babysitter. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“And this is Gretchen Petra.” He nods at the woman seated on the couch. “Gretchen will be your liaison with our intel division.”
The woman rises from the couch and puts out her hand. I shake it; her grip is strong and cool. “A pleasure,” she says. Her accent is British and cultured, and she looks vaguely amused. “Please don’t judge our world solely by David. A few of us aren’t complete bastards.”
I know I’ll be working with this woman, but I’m not in the mood to be gracious. “Oh? What are you, three-quarters?”
Her smile gets a little bigger. “Oh, heavens, no. No more than fifty percent, I assure you.” Her eyes actually seem, I swear to God, to twinkle. “Of course, the rest is pure bitch.” Her voice stays as soft and gentle as freshly laundered flannel. I think I like her.
“Good to know,” I say. “Can we start the briefing now, or do I have to sacrifice a goat or something?”
“No thank you, I just had breakfast,” Gretchen says. “Sir?”
“Go ahead.”
Gretchen nods. “Here’s what we know so far. There have been three killings. Each was recorded, using digital equipment. The recording of the first murder was uploaded to the Internet from the site of the second, and the second uploaded at the site of the third. Two of the sites were in remote areas with no readily available Web access; we don’t know why the killer went to the time and trouble to establish his own.”
“Who were the vics?”
“A researcher, a tour guide, and a waitress. Two males, one female. We’ve been unable to discover any link between them and think they may have been chosen at random.”
“No such thing. How were they killed?”
“That’s somewhat . . . involved. Three methods were used, all of them requiring a fair bit of planning. The first victim was killed by sled dogs—”
“Hang on. Sled dogs?”
Cassius clears his throat. “Yes. The murder took place near a small outpost at McMurdo Station—the victim was a government scientist.”
I stare at Cassius incredulously. “McMurdo Station? In the Antarctic?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing research on, were-penguins?”
“I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. It’s classified.”
Of course. This was the NSA, after all, not the FBI. “Okay, sled dogs. Go on.”
Gretchen continues. “The dogs were sedated, then had a coat of silver-based paint applied to their teeth. Once they were awake, they were exposed to a stimulant that drove them into a near frenzy. The researcher was placed into their pen and torn to pieces.”
“Silver. So he was a lycanthrope?”
“No, a hemovore. He survived until the dogs managed to separate his head from his body.”
“All right. Vic number two?”
“Australian tour guide, male, also a lycanthrope. Found locked inside a homemade iron maiden in the middle of the Outback. Are you familiar with the device?”
“I know what it is.” A close-fitting coffin lined with spikes that impaled the victim when the lid was closed, a torture device from the Middle Ages. “Silver spikes?”
“Blades, actually. But it was the design of the sarcophagus itself that was particularly cruel—the blades initially penetrated the victim’s skin to a depth of less than an inch.”
“Not enough to kill him, you mean. How did he die—bleed to death?”
“Not at first—the blades were positioned to miss the major arteries. But the victim was locked in the sarcophagus just before the rising of the full moon—the one time that lycanthropes must transform. As his body changed in size and shape, the embedded blades tore deeper into his flesh. Exposure to silver also becomes much more painful to a lycanthrope during a full moon; the resulting agony caused the victim to writhe uncontrollably, literally tearing himself apart.” Her voice is clipped and precise, a professional doing her job. “Then he bled out.”
“And the last one?”
“Took place on the island of Hokkaido, Japan. The victim was a hemovore employed as waitstaff in a blood bar in Sapporo, the largest city and capital of the prefecture. She was bound and suspended by her wrists, approximately twelve feet off the ground. A sharpened wooden pole was fixed to the floor beneath, one end inserted in her rectum. A pulley system transferred her weight slowly from her wrists to the pole. An extremely nasty way to go—the pole eventually emerged from her mouth.”
I nod. “Was the pole tipped with silver, or did it have silver embedded in it?”
Gretchen arches one elegant eyebrow. “Yes, there was a silver cap affixed to the top of the pole. Completely unnecessary—sharpened wood penetrates the flesh of hemovores on its own. How did you know?”
“He’s killed a vampire using animals and silver, and a lycanthrope by locking him in a coffin and impaling him. These acts are deeply symbolic. Killing a vampire with a wooden stake, even a really big one, doesn’t fit the pattern—there had to be some symbolic reference to lycanthropes in it somewhere. Where was the body found?”
“In a forest—a protected reserve, actually.”
“Let me guess: it has historical or cultural significance to lycanthropes.”
“Yes. Hokkaido is home to a species of wolf found nowhere else.”
I nod. “Okay. Antarctica, Australia, Asia. Obviously, he’s killing people on continents that begin and end with an A—keep a close eye on those places and I guarantee you’ll catch him. Can I go home now?”
Cassius ignores my joke, which almost makes me feel at home. Almost. “Gretch, take Jace up to the forensics lab. The physical evidence we’ve collected is there, plus Damon should be done
with your equipment by now. But first, I’d like a few moments alone with Ms. Valchek.”
Charlie heads for the door without a word. Gretchen gives me a sly smile on the way out that I’m not sure how to take.
And then I’m alone with my new boss. Again. I hope it goes better than last time.
“Jace,” he begins, then stops with a frown.
“I do something wrong already?”
“No. I did.” He sighs and gets up from his chair. “Look, I think we can both agree I pretty much blew the whole firstimpression thing. You don’t have any reason to like me, let alone trust me. But we’re going to be working together, and I do not want the work to suffer—because the work is saving the lives of innocent people. I know you’re professional enough to do that—I just wanted to let you know that I am, too.”
“All right.” I bite down on a half-dozen replies, which hurts; they’re all sharp and extremely bitter.
He looks at me for a second without saying anything. Maybe it’s the Urthbone, but for just an instant he looks incredibly, anciently tired; like he’s been fighting a war for centuries and just doesn’t give a damn anymore.
No, that’s not quite right. He still gives a damn, but it’s buried under so many years and so much psychic baggage that he doesn’t quite know where that damn is anymore, or what it’s for. My grandfather used to get that look when the Alzheimer’s started to set in, the frustrated groping for a word or concept that was tantalizingly close but had no handle to pick it up by; he had the eyes of a wounded little boy when that happened, and it always broke my heart.
“I’ll . . . do my best,” I say. It’s about as conciliatory as I can manage.
The look vanishes, and the Junior partner in the law firm is looking at me again. “I’m sure you will,” he says, and opens the door for me.
And just like that, we’re done. I walked into that office a prisoner, and I walk out an employee. The surreality of it makes me a little lightheaded, and I realize I don’t actually know how often I’m supposed to get a dose of Urthbone. I’ll have to check the first chance I get.
Charlie and Gretchen are waiting for me, and we head back to the elevator. Gretchen walks as if she’s strolling down a runway at Milan, all poise and elegance. Charlie stalks beside her like a pit bull straining against a leash. I wonder how I look to them—fragile? Alien? Hopelessly ignorant?