by DD Barant
We drive in silence for a while. “Charlie?” I say. “Salvatore said the bar was a place where ORs hang out. What’s it stand for?”
He hesitates, then says, “Original Recipe.”
Yeah. It’d be funny if my entire species wasn’t on the menu.
Ordinarily, taking that big a shipment of drugs off the street would make me happy, give me a feeling of accomplishment. Right now, it doesn’t seem to matter worth a damn. So I prevented a bunch of pires from OD’ing or passing out in a sunbeam—so what? They’re more likely to eat me than thank me. The ungrateful undead, that’s what I’m dealing with.
By the time we arrive back at the NSA offices, I’m in an ugly mood. We find Gretchen in the cafeteria, sipping a cup of Blood orange Pekoe and studying a laptop.
“Congratulations on the Cloven,” she says. Gretchen becomes aware of important events outside her immediate vicinity approximately four seconds after they occur, less if they happen on the same continent.
“Thanks. Think Cassius will give me time off for good behavior? Didn’t think so.” I take a seat across from her. “We have a possible lead. Maureen Selkie.”
Gretchen gets right to work, hitting keys so quickly it sounds more like a burst of rattling than tapping. “Ah. Quite the busy girl. Involved in a number of terrorist actions in the last decade, including planting silver-laced meat in supermarkets in London and the staking of a high-ranking official in Belgium. Whereabouts currently unknown.”
“We have a report she visited a pub in Seattle called the Green Lily.”
More rattling. “Yes, that would make sense. It’s owned by her brother, James Selkie. If she were in town, she might drop by to see him.”
I nod. “We’ve also been told she’s a shape-shifter.”
Gretchen arches an eyebrow. “Very interesting. An Irish werewitch—that would explain her name, I suppose. A Selkie is a mythological Celtic creature who can assume different forms.”
“But she’s still human, right?”
“Absolutely. That sort of magic can’t be done by the other races—thropes are limited to one particular kind of change, and pires by their nature are unchanging. Golems—”
“Let me guess—lems are too stubborn to change.”
“Nah,” Charlie responds. “We just don’t see the need. Why mess with perfection?”
“Golems’ largely inorganic nature excludes them,” Gretchen continues. “It’s something of a trade-off for all of us. We’re protected from transformation spells, but unable to perform them ourselves.”
“Right. But Selkie can.” A sudden thought strikes me. “Any chance she’s whipped up something to do her dirty work for her? You know, turned a crocodile into a manservant, that sort of thing?”
Gretchen frowns. “I would think it unlikely, but you should really ask Eisfanger. You think that perhaps the Impaler is a magical construct of some kind?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” My headache has returned, and I rub my temples with both hands. “We need to talk to Selkie, in any case. I’ll need surveillance on the pub, covert, twenty-four-seven. And some way to bring her down if she turns into a bug or a bird or something.”
“I’ll talk to Cassius and arrange it.”
“Don’t bother. I need to talk to him, anyway.”
Gretchen gives me a be careful look. She’s been invaluable in the last few weeks, showing me around, introducing me to people, helping me settle in. Charlie’s been around a lot, too, of course, but he’s not really the kind of person you can talk to. Not about some things, anyway.
“I know, I know,” I say. Cassius and I haven’t said more than a few words to each other since he gave me the wolf pheromones—and no matter how busy he is, I know when someone’s brushing me off. Either I was completely wrong about his bad-boy act, or he just thinks on a different timescale than I’m used to. Ignoring someone you’re interested in for three weeks is probably completely sensible behavior when you’re a few centuries old.
Not that I care. Maybe I’m demanding, but the one thing I insist on in a man is a pulse. And I don’t care how charming, intelligent, or attractive he may be.
I tell Charlie I’ll be back and march up to Cassius’ office. He tells me to come in before I knock on the door—his teeth aren’t the only thing that are sharp—and looks up from his computer when I walk in. “Yes?”
I don’t bother filling him in. Anything to do with this case is flagged and sent directly to him, and I’m sure he knew the details a split second after Gretch did. “Going to need some extra manpower. And weapons.”
“Already assigned. See Eisfanger about equipment.”
“Uh-huh. You know, I’ve finally figured out something.”
“What?”
“In extraordinary situations, ordinary rules don’t apply. And this is definitely far from ordinary.”
“It is an unusual case.”
“I’m not talking about the case. I’m talking about my employment status.”
He frowns. I’ve seen twenty-five-year-olds with more wrinkles. “Is this about the terms of your contract?”
“Not exactly. It’s about what the contract doesn’t say.”
“I don’t—”
Call me petty, but interrupting him gives me a great deal of pleasure. “See, I’m not really an employee. I’m a freelancer, an independent contractor. No pension plan, no 401(k), no dental. And despite having me at a colossal disadvantage, you need me.”
Now he smiles. Negotiation is something Cassius understands the way a woodpecker understands trees. “It’s a little late to revisit your contract, Jace. And you’ll find I don’t respond well to extortion.”
I smile back. “Not my point at all. What I’m saying is that you can’t fire me.”
His smile changes. It’s not a smirk anymore; it’s the grin of someone who’s just gained a measure of respect for his opponent. I like it a lot better.
“And how do you plan to explore this newly discovered freedom?”
“Insults, I think. Possibly insubordination. Oh, and insolence—that worked really well for me in Japan. I’m sure I can come up with a few more, but for now just assume that if it starts with ‘in,’ it’s on my list.”
“Insufferable? Inept? Intransigent?”
I refuse to be drawn into a vocabulary showdown with someone who’s older than most words. “Don’t get me wrong—I want to catch this guy as badly as you do, and I’m not going to do anything to screw up my chances of going home. But as far as I’m concerned, I don’t march to your drummer. I see a No Smoking sign, I’m gonna fire up a cigar. Chain of command? Gonna yank it whenever I can. And you can forget about a dress code.”
“Every day is casual Friday? Going to start coming to work in your pajamas?”
“I don’t wear pajamas, Cassius. But maybe I’ll show up in nothing but high heels and my underwear, just to make a point. Add another ‘in’ to the list. . . .”
“Well,” he says softly. “As you said. There’s really not much I can do.”
“Not yet, anyway . . . but I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“Good-bye, Jace.”
“Seeya later, Caligula.”
He chuckles as I walk out the door.
“This should incapacitate her,” Eisfanger says.
Charlie and I study the contraption dubiously. We’re in the tech lab, looking at something Eisfanger’s cobbled together to take down Maureen Selkie, if and when she pops up.
“It’s a tether,” Eisfanger says. It looks more like the offspring of a deep-sea fishing rig and a stuffed octopus: a short rod and reel tipped with a black rubber bulb and a dozen thick rubber cables dangling from that. “You activate it by jabbing her with the end. The cables snap around and entangle her—they’re lined with superglue pods, so they’ll adhere and stay in place.”
“What if she changes into something tiny?” I ask. “She could slip right between the cables.”
“Well, you have to nail her befo
re she does that,” Eisfanger admits. “But once you do, she’s stuck. The cables are infused with Anaconda and Chameleon spirit—they’ll actively wind around her and squeeze. More important, they’ll attach to her on a metaphysical level, too; no matter what she shifts into, the cables will shift with her without losing their strength.”
Charlie hefts the thing. “How about the line?”
“Braided nanofiber. She might yank your arm off, but the line won’t break. And she’ll need a lot more than an ordinary blade to cut it.”
“Let’s hope she’s not carrying Excalibur around in her purse,” I murmur. “You’ve only got the one?”
“It’s a prototype. Try not to break it.”
My phone chimes. “Valchek. Yeah? Okay, we’re leaving now.” I hang up. “Selkie just showed up at the Green Lily.”
Charlie props the tether against his shoulder like a rifle. “So let’s go fishing.”
Back home, we’d take down a suspect like Selkie fast and hard: tactical strike team, body armor, sniper support. That won’t work against someone who can turn into a housefly or a cockroach, though Eisfanger tells me that the further away from human form and mass the more difficult the transformation is to maintain. Still, she only has to maintain it long enough to get away, which means we have to get close to her before she sees us coming.
The Green Lily isn’t strictly a humans-only bar, but I don’t see any obvious pires or thropes—there are, however, a number of golems, including a table full of workers with orange hard hats on the table in front of them. I wonder what they’re doing there—lems don’t eat or drink. Maybe they’re fans of Celtic music.
The bar itself is brightly lit, loud, and smoky. The air smells of beer and garlic. There are prominent crucifixes on every wall, and I get more than a few suspicious looks when Charlie and I walk in. I walk up to the bar and order a beer, scoping out the situation. Charlie sits beside me.
“That’s her at the table near the end of the bar,” I say.
“Yeah. That’s her brother with her. Don’t know the other two guys.”
“No, me either. FHR, or just locals?”
Charlie glances in that direction. “Associates or potential recruits, I think. Hard to say—could be bodyguards.”
“We’ll assume they’re muscle. Don’t spook them. I think I can get close enough to nail Selkie without help, but hit ’em hard as soon as I’ve bagged her—not before. Got it?”
“Yeah. You planning on just strolling over with that thing in your hand?” The tether was in a black bag slung over my shoulder—a little awkward, and not exactly designed for a quick draw.
“That’s where you come in, big guy. You’re going to sit right here and strike up a conversation with the bartender. About fishing. Complete with show-and-tell, understand?”
“I got it.”
“When the moment arrives, I’ll signal and you toss me the rig. I know your arm’s good, but how’s your patter?”
“I spend all day talking to you, don’t I?”
“Oh, so you’re just going to start a fight?”
“Not unless he insults my casting technique.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
I grab my beer and stroll up to Selkie’s table. She’s a slender, pale-skinned redhead with her hair cut short, wearing a leather bomber jacket over a green T-shirt. Her brother’s a chunky man with the same complexion and hair, wearing a pair of glasses with heavy black frames. The two unknowns are a skinny guy with scraggly black hair and a bony face, and a shaved-skull bodybuilder in a sleeveless black T-shirt. They both check me out as I walk up, and their gaze is a little too professional for my liking; definitely bodyguards.
“Hi,” I say. “You guys like sex toys?”
It’s probably the second-weirdest thing I’ve ever said to start a conversation, but I figure it’s strange enough to at least get a response. And with three men at the table, my offer of a free demonstration should fog their radar long enough to get the tether in my hands. This maneuver would probably get me shot in my own world, but here I just might be able to pull it off—
“Are you saying I’m fucked, Officer?” Selkie asks. My stomach clenches like a fist.
“Have a seat,” the skinny man says. He’s got dark hollows under his eyes you could hide bodies in. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“I’ll stay on my feet, thanks. You know who I am?”
“That we do,” Selkie says. Her accent is lovely. “I came here for a reason, you see. To deliver a message.”
Messages from terrorists are often signed with high explosives. I realize I’m a little unclear on exactly how advanced that particular technology is on this world; no guns doesn’t necessarily equal no bombs. I have the sinking feeling I’m about to be educated.
“We know about you,” Selkie says. “That you’re from another world, one with no vampires or werewolves in it. Is it true?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
She leans forward, her green eyes intent on mine. “Good God in Heaven above. What I wouldn’t give to see a place like that.”
My head hurts. My stomach hurts. For the first time in my career, I find myself wondering if I’m doing the right thing. I have no idea what to say to this woman.
“But that’s neither here nor there,” she says. “There’s bigger things at stake than what either of us wants, isn’t there? And what you want is the Impaler.”
“You know where he is?”
“Have you been here long enough to get a sense of this place? I’m sure your masters have kept you on a tight enough leash, but even so, the truth is hard to hide.”
“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s going on.”
“Do you now? You know about the Purists, and the camps? You know about how pires procreate?”
“I know about the camps.”
She nods. “That’s more than we expected. Tell me, have you given any thought to the kind of human being that exists in this world?”
“I don’t know what—”
“There are no weaklings in the human flock. The wolves and the bloodsuckers, they do a damn fine job of weeding those out. But then, there aren’t a lot of fighters, either; they’re eliminated as being too dangerous. The fighters that do survive have to be tough enough to not be picked off and smart enough to stay off the monster’s radar.”
“And that’s you, right?”
She smiles and shakes her head. “Me? I’m not what you think. Just another sheep tired of standing in line at the slaughterhouse, that’s all. But the Impaler is different.”
Her eyes narrow. “He wants you to know who he is. He’s not some faceless killer, not some myth dreamed up by the Resistance. He’s the strongest, fiercest free man on the planet. His family’s been staking pires and killing thropes for more than a hundred years, and he’s not going to stop. His name is Aristotle—tell that to your bosses, and see what kind of reaction you get.”
“I’ll do that,” I say. “Mind if I get another beer, first?” I wave in the general direction of the bar.
Charlie puts the tether right in my hand. I whirl and jab with it, not really expecting success; she was far too prepared, and any of her colleagues has enough time to get between me and her.
But they don’t. None of them move a muscle, including Selkie. She stays exactly where she is as the black tentacles whip around her and tighten. She looks more resigned than shocked.
And then she changes. Not into another form, just another face. An older woman with salt-and-pepper hair and an ugly scar under her right eye.
The men at the table have all placed their hands very carefully on the table, palms up. None of them make eye contact. It has the feeling of a routine they’ve been forced to perform many times before.
I feel like I’m going to throw up, again. I’ve been had.
The question is, how many times . . .
“Aristotle,” Cassius says carefully. “Are you sure?”
C
harlie, Cassius, and I are in Gretchen’s office on the intel floor. Gretchen and Cassius exchange a glance that tells me this is not good news.
“He’s supposed to be dead,” she says quietly.
“He’s supposed to have been dead for fifteen years,” Cassius replies. “Thoughts?”
“I think it explains a great deal.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s true.”
“Excuse me,” I interject. “Who the hell is Aristotle, and why should I care?”
Gretchen looks at Cassius. He nods.
“Aristotle,” Gretchen says, “is descended from a rather infamous historical figure, one I believe has a well-known counterpart in your own world. But regardless of his ancestry, Aristotle was one of the most ruthless and hunted humans of the last fifty years. No photograph or reliable description of him exists; the only thing we can say for certain about him is that he’s very, very smart. It’s thought he was one of the central planners of the FHR until he was assassinated by one of his own in an internal coup.”
“So is it possible? Could he be the Impaler?”
“It would make a certain amount of sense,” Cassius says. “Considering his family tree.”
“Enough with the hints. Who’s he related to?”
Cassius hesitates, then says, “Aristotle’s last name is Stoker.”
It takes me a second to process, then I burst out laughing. “Stoker? As in Bram Stoker, the guy that wrote Dracula? Oh, that’s great. That’s too good.”
“In a world without vampires he created his own,” Gretchen says. “And destroyed them. On this world, he wasn’t limited to his imagination.”
“Bram Stoker was known by another name here,” Cassius says. “The Whitechapel Vampire Killer. Or as he called himself in letters to the press—”
“Jack the Ripper,” Charlie growls.
“Why not?” I say. “I’ll bet he and Dr. Frankenstein shared a dorm room in college, right?”
“Sure. Make jokes,” Roger says. “That’s what you always do when you know you’re screwing up.”
He’s standing right behind Gretchen. Nobody else reacts to his presence—in fact, they all seem to be frozen in place. “You’re on the wrong side, Jace,” Roger says reasonably. He always sounded reasonable, even when he was dumping me. “And you know it.”