The Turn: The Hollows Begins With Death

by Kim Harrison

  “Sorry about the fire,” she said. “It will go out when the sun goes down. I couldn’t let them sit there and putrefy.”

  He held up a hand as if asking for patience. “I’m not worried about the fire.” Pelhan scrubbed his hand across his bristled face, making her wonder if she was in worse trouble than being wanted for questioning. “And no one is accusing you of foul play,” he added, seeing her sudden worry. “I wish everyone could be as mentally capable of seeing that sentiment doesn’t interfere with health and safety.”

  “I didn’t burn them because of health and safety,” she said tartly.

  Pelhan chuckled, making her flush in anger. “Mars must be in retrograde,” he said. “I’m not getting my ideas across at all. I’m simply saying that it’s a mess out there right now. Someday, though, someone will want to know if their kin is alive or dead. If you have names, I’d like them.” His smile faltered. “I’m sure their family would appreciate knowing that they were taken care of respectfully and not tossed into one of those mass graves they’re turning the parks into,” he finished, a city’s worth of worry on him.

  “Oh,” she said, wondering if he might be Chicago’s senior employee right now, the man with whom the buck started, stopped, and circulated around. “Ah, it’s kind of funny, but we never got to last names. The little girl’s name was April, though.” Her chest hurt, remembering her beautiful smile at Orchid before she closed her eyes for the last time. “Two boys and their uncle survived. They’d probably know.”

  Pelhan grimaced. “I’ll keep an eye out for them, but it’s likely that another family saw them in the streets and took them in before we could.” He exhaled loudly, narrow shoulders slumping, the weight of the day falling on him now that he wasn’t moving. “The word has gone out to avoid anyone in a car or uniform. Even the sick hide, afraid of dying in a mass grave.”

  He was silent, and she didn’t know what to say. He clearly needed more people. At least he wouldn’t get sick, being a witch. Trisk began to fidget. If they didn’t have her here because of the fire she’d set, then she was here because she was wanted for Rick’s murder. She was worried about Daniel, worried about Quen, and worried what Kal might be doing. “I didn’t murder my boss,” she said, and Pelhan’s eyes met hers. “You should be looking for Dr. Trent Kalamack. He’s on my shortlist. He’s got motive, means, and opportunity.”

  “I don’t think you murdered your boss, Dr. Felecia Eloytrisk Cambri.”

  He sounded like a demon when he said it all like that, but relieved, she held out her left hand because her right was cuffed under the table. “Well, in that case, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain Pelhan. Call me Trisk.”

  His eyebrows rose as they awkwardly shook. “Trisk?”

  Her shoulder lifted and fell, a faint warmth on her cheeks. “Childhood trauma,” she said, and he thought about that for a moment before a faint smile lightened his mood.

  “Boys can be idiots,” he said, then sighed heavily. “God, what a day.”

  “I bet mine was worse.” If she wasn’t being detained for murder, then why?

  “I wouldn’t take that bet.” Pelhan’s head tilted to the side. “Just how sure are you about this tomato thing?”

  She sat up straighter, hope sparking through her. “Very. Kal—”

  Waving a hand, he cut her off. “You’re lucky. Sa’han Ulbrine is alive. I got word he’s on his way here, though I don’t know how. Nothing is moving.” A rueful smile crossed his face. “He’s why you’re cuffed, by the way. If I lose you, I’m out of a job.”

  She eased up to the edge of the seat, cradling her bad hand. “Did he say anything about the virus?” she asked breathlessly.

  Pelhan nodded, and she exhaled in relief. “He corroborates your story about the tomatoes, but he asked me to keep you away from the press and for me to keep my mouth shut until he can address it personally.”

  “How long is that going to take?” she said, suddenly unsure. People needed to know now.

  “Tomorrow, maybe next week.” Pelhan’s eyes crinkled and his wrinkles deepened.

  “Next week!” she exclaimed. “Every last human could be dead by next week. We need to burn the fields and bury everything tomato-based now! Spaghetti sauce. Tomato paste. Ketchup.” Her voice went soft as the magnitude of that sank in. “Can’t they charter a plane?”

  Mood pensive, Pelhan got up and went to the coffee-stained counter. “It’s not simply an issue of transport,” he said as he dumped the sludgy coffee and threw out the grounds. “He was in Detroit when it was extirpated.”

  Trisk took a breath to protest, then caught it back in alarm. They had erased Detroit?

  “He has to survive his own inquiry first,” Pelhan said, his back to her as he made new coffee. “A million and a half people, gone.” He gave a rueful scoff. “Inderland and human alike.” He rinsed out the pot and added cool, fresh water to the coffeemaker. “I suppose we were lucky to have an elven representative there at the time to make the vote legal.” Taking the grounds from a cupboard, he looked at her. “I’m curious. Just how many of you are out there, anyway?”

  She swallowed. “Ah . . .” She tried to grasp the power needed to end an entire city—and why the powers that be saw the need. It felt wrong to be talking about Inderland matters in public, where anyone could be listening, but she’d seen no humans in the entire building. “Few hundred thousand, mostly in the U.S.,” she said, and he nodded, focused on measuring out the grounds. “It’s easier if we stay on the same continent. What happened in Detroit?”

  Concentrating on the new gadget, Pelhan carefully pushed the start button. “Vampires got out of hand,” he said, satisfied when the machine began making gurgling noises. “That’s why we’ve been bringing them in here. Detroit has always had a disproportionately large vampire population. Never many witches or Weres to balance them out. When the plague began to impact their living kin, the undead panicked and began taking the healthy but unwilling from the street.”

  “My God,” she whispered, truly appalled.

  “As few as they were, the witches began to try to force the undead vampires back into the shadows before something happened that couldn’t be explained. Some fool master vampire began taking witches instead of humans when it was realized they never got sick. That,” he said with a sigh, “was a mistake. Witches fought back and the magic couldn’t be explained away, especially when even more undead masters began to surface in an effort to regain control.”

  “They broke the silence?” she said, shocked, and Pelhan nodded.

  “I’m sure they tried to get as many out as they could, but everyone caught within the area is dead.” He hesitated. “They’re blaming it on the plague.”

  Trisk swallowed hard, trying to wrap her mind around what had happened. They had killed the innocent and guilty alike, human and Inderlander, as an object lesson in self-patrol: keep your neighbor in line, or you yourself might pay the cost.

  The rich scent of the coffee began steaming out of the machine, and Trisk put a hand to her middle, feeling ill. Damn morning sickness . . .

  “Hence the reason for us trying to relocate all humans to a central place,” Pelhan said as he got two mugs down and wiped them out with a clean towel. “Not just for their safety, but ours in case of an accidental use of magic. We’re taking no chances, jailing the master vampires with their children to prevent a spread of plague to the living vampire population as well as help keep the masters calm. You don’t see many right now, but Chicago’s Weres are out patrolling, especially at night. They can take a lot in wolf skin, and if anyone sees them, the first thought is abandoned dog, not werewolf.”

  “I didn’t know you could jail a master vampire,” she said, still not liking the idea of human camps. It was better than having your city razed because the vampires lost control, though.

  Pelhan poured coffee into the two mugs and came over to set one down beside her. “It’s more like house arrest within their own domicile. It’s only
the nastier vamps, the ones more inclined to ignore the rules, that we have down in the basement lockup with their children.” He took a sip of coffee, visibly relaxing as it slipped down. “We’ve asked them to come in voluntarily, but most are too agitated to think clearly.” He chuckled, feeling his jaw. “I don’t know how many more voluntary vampires I can handle.”

  Ormand is a nasty vampire? she thought. But it was said that the nicer they were in the day, the uglier they were in the dark. She slipped her hand around the warm porcelain, drawing it closer to her but not drinking it. It smelled wonderful, but her stomach was in knots.

  “As it stands, all the major cities except Cincinnati are in lockdown. The Cincy vamps rebelled the same time Detroit did, but the city had a larger population of Weres and witches, and with a little creative encouragement, the master vampires quickly directed the fear into keeping the city running. The vampires still own the streets, but their incredible need to protect the weak was somehow clicked on instead of their incredible need to dominate, and the city is under control. From what I understand, they even have shops open.”

  “Thank God,” she said, thinking about her dad. “It’s all about the balance,” she added, and Pelhan looked at her as if she’d said man would someday walk on the moon. “Don’t you see?” she asked. “When there’s a good balance of Inderland species and humanity, the fear is contained. When humans or witches and Weres are low in numbers in comparison to the vampires, the vampires try to take control and cause their own destruction. We need a moderate population of witch and Were to balance out the more aggressive vampire, and we need humans in sufficient numbers to keep the vampires’ fears, irrational or otherwise, under control.”

  His eyes held a heavy doubt and she added, “We can’t wait for the elven council to approve of the announcement. We have to start telling people before more, human and Inderland alike, get sick from eating ketchup on their hot dog and send the vampires into a freak-out.”

  Pelhan shuddered. “Why would anyone put ketchup on their hot dog?” Eyes lifting from her untouched coffee, he pushed back. “Dr. Cambri, there’s nothing more I’d like to do than give you access to our public TV station so you can tell the world about your theory, but the witches’ coven of moral and ethical standards and a member of the elven enclave just eradicated Detroit, taking Inderlanders, humans, and little brown dogs with it. I’m not risking they do the same here to shut you up. I’m sorry, but you are stuck here until I hear different. I don’t want to put you in a cell, but I need some kind of promise that you won’t try to leave.”

  Her lip curled. The cuff was more than confining, it was insulting. “I won’t be any trouble,” she said, and Pelhan twisted to reach his keys in his pocket.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he said as he opened the cuffs and she rubbed the cold feel of metal off her wrist. “I don’t have a lot of places to put you anymore.” His gaze lingered on her red and slightly swollen palm as he stood. “Is that a sensory burn from the fire you set?”

  She followed his attention to her hand, curling her fingers to try to hide it. “No. I was trying to stop Kal from leaving,” she lied, determined not to feel guilty about coating him in smut. He’d caused the plague, and for what? Because he was jealous and stupid enough to think he could control her science? “It’s just a focal burn.”

  “You should be more careful,” he said as he stood over her with his cup of coffee. “They still don’t know how large amounts of energy affect a developing baby.”

  Wha-a-a-at . . . ? she thought in shock, her hand instinctively going to her middle. “How?” she asked, and his gaze went to her untouched coffee.

  “My sister went off coffee when she was pregnant. Seeing your face, I just guessed.” Smiling, he put a finger conspiratorially to his nose. “And your aura tends to shift when you’re carrying. Kind of condenses in certain areas.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she said, worried. Crap, how was she going to keep this a secret if people could just look at her and see?

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said as he went to top off his mug. “I only knew about it because my sister is a midwife. I hope everything goes well for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “Captain, about Daniel. Is there anyway you can get him out of containment?”

  He turned, head cocked. “Is he the father?”

  She felt her face warm. “If he is, will it get him out?”

  Pelhan chuckled. “No.”

  Trisk slumped, determined that Daniel wouldn’t stay there long. “He’s just going to tell everyone there not to eat tomatoes,” she muttered.

  “Which is exactly why I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” Pelhan looked at his watch. “I’ll have something sent over from the deli across the street. Any diet restrictions? I don’t know a lot about elves. We seldom bring any in, and when we do, they’re usually released in an hour on some technicality no one has ever heard of.”

  She drew herself up, hope a faint ribbon pulling through her. He wanted the word to get out, but his hands were tied by the elven and witch councils. “No tomatoes,” she said, giving him a grateful smile. “And thank you, Captain Pelhan.”

  He nodded, pleased she understood. “I want you to stay here,” he said. “I mean it. My ass is on the line. You’re welcome to nap in one of the empty offices. Some have couches. I’ll try to get you a cot tonight. If we’re lucky, Ulbrine will be here tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be good,” she said faintly, and with a last look, he walked out.

  Standing, she stretched and went to the window to gaze out at the river. The street below was empty, and even as she worried about Daniel and Quen, the thought crossed her mind that the earth might appreciate a few less people on it. Still, if Sa’han Ulbrine didn’t show soon, she was going to get out of here and find Daniel. She’d take this right to the enclave in DC if she had to, and if they wouldn’t listen, she’d go to the elven religious council, the dewar. One thing was sure: it wasn’t going to end here, and not with Kal running free.

  27

  It was the noise that first struck Daniel as wrong as he was escorted to the arena floor, a Red Cross comfort pack under his arm. It wasn’t the roar of the crowd living vicariously through athletes playing out their strategies with elegance and grace. There was no rise or fall to make the sound a living, breathing thing. No, the clamor spilling into the hallway to push against him was the muted thunder of a thousand conversations, of coughs and baby cries, of laments unanswered, all merging into a din without meaning. It was a sound absent of intent . . . but one heavy with the promise of no way out.

  He scuffed to a halt as he emerged into the light, gazing at the court in a moment of shock. His grip tightened on his cot assignment, and as he looked over the humanity sprawling out of the neat rows designed to give order to chaos, he wondered if he could ever go to another basketball game and not see cots in columns.

  B-12, he thought as he looked at the number the man had given him along with a thin pillow and blanket, and he blinked fast when he sent his gaze over the malaise. He was reluctant to step down into it, afraid that if he did, he’d be swallowed up, his ability to change the course of the future—gone.

  Why did they send me here to die? he wondered, his thoughts going to Trisk and her expression of anger and fear when they’d shoved her in the back of that cop car. But the answer was clear. Global Genetics, or perhaps the entire elven community, was going to make her into the scapegoat for Kal’s actions. Blaming the plague on a poor, stupid human was not as believable or satisfying as blaming it on an upstart woman. She’d go down easy, her defense written off as a weak attempt to sway when everyone knew she shouldn’t have been trusted with such a monumental task to begin with.

  The bitterness swelled, showing in his expression.

  “Looking for your cot?” a voice at his elbow said, and he jumped. The noise beat again on him, and he turned to the man beside him with a laminated STAFF badge and a clipboard. “
Single men are to the right, single women to the left, and families are in the middle,” the man added, pointing in case Daniel didn’t know his right from his left.

  “It’s just me,” Daniel said as he showed him his cot assignment. He couldn’t help but wonder if the man was a criminally optimistic human or a witch who knew the virus had been engineered to not even see him. Witch, he decided, though he couldn’t say why.

  The man frowned at the small slip of paper and handed it back. “Down the stairs. About four rows in, cut a right. You’re near the basket.”

  “Thanks.” Daniel shifted his care package and started down the stairs. He was in the red zone. How appropriate.

  The noise changed as he descended, and he stifled a shudder when he reached the court and was immersed in chaos. Immediately he stopped trying to make eye contact. There was no privacy apart from what you could find behind a draped blanket. Signs of his virus were everywhere, hidden like guilt itself.

  He turned right, walking sideways and feeling as if he was intruding as he slid between the cots where people played cards or dice or just lay covering their faces. No one looked at him. His head lifted when he came under a blue canopy providing a little relief from the open aspect of hundreds of people in one spot, and he slowed when he saw the empty cot. B-12.

  There was a big, dark-complected man in slacks and a white button-down shirt reclining on the cot to one side of Daniel’s, reading a paper so used it was almost like fabric. A skinny young man in a T and jeans sat on the cot to the other side, coloring his sneakers with a black marker. They both looked up when Daniel cleared his throat. “Hi, I’m—”

  “Don’t want to know,” the ragged-looking man with the marker said, his gaze lingering on Daniel’s care package. “The last man to have that cot lasted four hours. He shouldn’t have been allowed in, but they say you can’t catch it by touch.”