Reboots: Diabolical Streak

by Mercedes Lackey;Cody Martin

  “Fair enough.” He looked at both of them, pondering the situation. “Very well, you’ve convinced me, ol’ buddy. It isn’t going to be easy, but I think we can work something out. I know a guy who runs a trans-orbital garbage scow for a service. Something that’ll get you off of dirtside, and will bypass a lot of the usual checks and searches.” He leaned back in his chair. “Meanwhile, you relax. I’ll have the kitchen send in a meal. Just let Jeanpaul do the heavy lifting.”

  “Thanks for this, Paulie. I meant it when I said we’re square after this is done—”

  The Boggart stopped halfway through his sentence. From the main room, he could hear that the band had stopped playing. There was shouting and other sounds of a commotion out there, and that sick feeling had returned to his stomach.

  Jeanpaul frowned, and took a firm grip on his cane. “Well, drat. They’re a mite early.”

  The Boggart stared daggers at the club owner. “You goddamned rat. You’ve sold me out.”

  “Economics, Humph. It was you or my bar, and there’s no way I’m letting anyone take my bar.” He spread his hands, looking apologetic. “Just the way it is.” Someone’s leaning on Jeanpaul? That…has never happened before.

  Humph turned to the door for a moment, reaching for his revolver. “Forget what I said about scores, Paulie, ’cause now I owe you big—” When he turned back, Jeanpaul was gone, vanished into thin air. Slippery bastard.

  Harry had dropped his glass, his eyes as big as saucers. “What are we going to do? There’s no way out of this room except for the way we came in!”

  “We can’t stay here, that much is for certain. Come on, and keep your head down. It sounds like it’s going to be messy out there.” Humph thought for a moment, making sure that his revolver was loaded; the regular hollow points would have to do. He went for the door, opening it slightly. What he saw looked like the inside of a prison riot, or an insane asylum. All right, Boggart. Whatever you do, don’t shoot any cops. Right now he was just the easy target for a lazy investigator. If he shot a cop or, worse, killed one, there was no place in the ’verse far enough away for him to hide. Cops were really persistent when it came to tracking down and “dealing” with those who had killed one of their own. They were the biggest and baddest gang out there, when you got right down to it, and their style of retribution wasn’t exactly a short or pretty process.

  The first thing that stood out was that there were a lot of cops. And more were trying to pour in through the front door. Everyone else in the place was either scrambling for an exit or fighting with the cops. The latter group must have thought that they were the ones that the police had come for; and this wasn’t the sort of demographic that was accustomed to backing down from a fight. The Weres were sticking together; some had partially wolfed out, and were moving as small packs as they descended on targets. A few of the cops were also Weres, so whenever the two groups met a furball took place. The band was mostly cowering behind their instruments, the singer nowhere in sight. The Jersey Devil was running around, screaming wildly, and generally being in the way. Some of the Fangs had left, while others saw this as an opportune time to get some “fresh food” off the books, going after other patrons and cops alike.

  Through all of this violence and bloodshed the Bigfoot was still at the end of the bar, drinking disconsolately. A bottle flew through the air and exploded on the door just above the Boggart’s head. Bar looks good right about now. Ducking low and making sure that Harry followed him, Humph dashed over to the bar, diving behind it. Alphonse was still there; any time someone was thrown over the counter, he grabbed them and threw them right back. He looked like he was having a merry old time. After grabbing a cop and a Were in each hand and throwing them back into the fray, he looked down long enough to notice the duo. “Humph! Having fun yet?”

  “What’re you smiling about, you damned jackal?” Humph peeked over the edge, trying to look for a way out that wouldn’t involve having to kill anyone.

  “Because after this is all over with, I have to clean the joint up. And after a fracas like this, there’s always lots of spilled blood.” Alphonse licked his lips in anticipation, clearly savoring the meal that he would get later. “Sometimes, there are even body parts. And here I was, feeling sorry for myself because I forgot to pack a lunch.”

  He grabbed Alphonse by the wrist, hard, to get his attention. “Did you know that Paulie was setting me up?”

  Alphonse sneered, jerking his arm away. “Please. You’re assuming he’d tell any of the staff the time of day, much less that he was about to feed someone like you to the sharks. We’re all mushrooms here, Boggart. He keeps us in the dark and feeds us bullshit.”

  Humph waited a beat, then decided he believed the bartender. He turned to Harry, grabbing him by the collar. “We’re going to try for the back door. Don’t get lost in this mess; if you do you might end up on Alphonse’s plate. Got it?”

  Harry nodded emphatically.

  “Let’s do it.” Humph led the way, staying low. He shoved and kicked his way through, knocking a few hysterical Were groupies down here, bumping “into” the back of the hollow woman there. And it was a damn good thing that he was another Para, because he could feel her magic trying to suck him in, to integrate a mortal soul into her body. He wrenched himself away. Another narrow miss from a swung bottle, followed by a direct hit to the back of his head from a flying one.

  “Sonofabitch!” The pain startled him more than anything, but it was enough; his glamour dropped right as he came face to face with a cop. The cop’s eyes went wide with recognition. Shit. The cop was the first to react; he had a truncheon and apparently knew how to use it. He swung hard and fast for Humph, missing his jaw by an inch. Humph closed the distance; any blows the cop would be able to land would have that much less power that way. The cop responded by backing up and swinging wide, forcing the Boggart back. This exchange went on for a few more beats until the Boggart ducked one roundhouse swing; instead of connecting with the Boggart’s temple as the cop had intended, it smashed into the nose of an already blood-crazy Fang. A trickle of blood escaped the Fang’s nose as he calmly turned his head to look at the cop; he then shrieked and leapt upon the poor bastard. As the Fang sank his teeth into the cop’s neck, three of the cop’s compatriots piled on the Fang, hosing the whole area down with garlic-spray and using wooden truncheons on the Fang’s head. The anti-Para press was going to have a field day with this entire story.

  Humph moved on; it was slow going. The club had been packed before the cops barged in, and the fighting wasn’t helping matters. Harry was still in tow, however. Humph tried to keep from becoming entangled in any scraps, but a very pissed-off-looking gargoyle wasn’t having any of it. He had been keeping a space around himself relatively clear by thrashing his tail and knocking over anyone that got too close. Harry, too busy looking over his shoulder at another part of the fray, stepped on the gargoyle’s tail, causing it to howl in rage. The gargoyle was ready to take Harry’s head off when Humph stepped in; the Para focused his ire on the new target. Humph didn’t want to give him any time to work up a head of steam, so he swept out one of his legs, hoping to topple him. The gargoyle simply used his tail to keep himself upright, looking vicious and smug. Humph, feeling exasperated, kicked the gargoyle square in the chest, sending it tumbling backwards into a table. The table had been occupied by a party of cyclopes, who had been staying out of the affray and laughing at everyone else. They weren’t laughing anymore, and they piled on the gargoyle with fists swinging.

  When Humph checked over his shoulder for Harry he had to do a double take before he confirmed that Harry was gone. He stood up to his full height—what little there was of it—searching for the playboy in the surging crowd. There! Harry was almost to the back door, but had run afoul of a bloodied Were. The Were was partially wolfed-out, and was backing Harry up to the wall. Humph gave up all pretense of sneaking through the crowd, running and dodging toward Harry. A cop got in his way, swinging a haym
aker at Humph’s jaw. He ducked the swing, spun the cop with the momentum of it, and then rabbit punched him for his trouble before shoving him away. A few steps later a mook with a switchblade tried to take a stab at him; Humph caught the palooka’s wrist under his armpit, then used his free hand to break the man’s elbow upward. As the mook was screaming, Humph worked his arm over his shoulder and then threw him backwards; from the sound of it, he didn’t land comfortably. Another few steps and Humph came up short to avoid a rolling furball of Weres, cops and customers both. Then he was at the back door; the bloodied Were had Harry pinned to the wall by his throat, getting ready to disembowel him with his other paw. Harry’s eyes were bugged out and his face was red; he spotted Humph, though, and flailed his arms frantically for him to help.

  “Hey, sunshine.” The Were turned his head just in time to catch a jab augmented with silver knuckles to his brow. The Were went down instantly, his lights turned out; Harry went down with him in a messy pile, gasping for breath as the Were’s grip loosened. Humph gathered Harry up, grabbing the doorknob for the back exit. “Almost there, Harry. Let’s get out of here.” The Boggart flung the door open.

  The hallway was filled with cops, all of whom looked decidedly annoyed.

  Happy cackled, and without missing a beat said, “And, behind door number three: an asswhooping!”

  Humph slammed the door, then looked to Harry. “We can’t go through there.” Almost immediately he heard the cops on the other side pounding on the door, ignoring Happy’s muffled objections. Humph searched frantically for someplace to run to; there wasn’t anywhere. The front door was still plugged by cops; even if he donned a new face with his glamour, they’d be able to recognize Harry. Happy’s door started splintering behind him. Out of time. He grabbed Harry and started dragging him toward the bandstand; it was closer than the bar, and was as good of a place as any at the moment. They were halfway there when they heard the back door finally come down.

  “There he is!”

  “Shoot him! Get him now!”

  The gunfire was extraordinarily loud in the confines of the club. A few patrons and even cops went down from the fusillade; Humph threw Harry and then dove behind the meager cover of the bandstand. Everyone else except for the most blood-crazed and diehard of the club patrons hit the deck as well. This is it. No way out; can’t shoot our way out, and once they get us it won’t be too long before they hand us over to the goons. Or maybe they won’t bother, and will just put two in the back of my head while I’m “resisting” or “escaping.” He could hide in his watch, but only if he somehow managed to pass it off to someone else or hide it, since the cops would no doubt be sweeping the entire club for any evidence.

  Harry was whimpering next to him. “Sorry, kid. We’re out of cards to play this hand.” To hell with it. He grabbed the top slide of the revolver, pulling it back and cocking the cylinder and hammer; going down swinging was better than buying the farm on his knees. He was about to vault over the edge of the bandstand and meet his fate when he heard something slam open behind him. Whirling around and bringing his revolver to bear, Humph was met with those same electric blue eyes from before. The singer. Her hair was done up in a simple bun, and she was out of her black beaded dress and into simple working clothes. But he was damned if she still didn’t look like the stuff dreams and dark deals were made of.

  “Well, come on! We don’t have all day!” She grabbed at Harry’s leg, and started to pull him in through the trap door she had appeared out of. Humph stuffed his pistol in his belt and helped her. As soon as they were all through, she slammed the small door shut and threw the latch. From the main club Humph could still hear the Jersey Devil screaming and the gunfire picking up. The were in a cramped and musty understage area, intersected with support beams, the lighting intermittent and harsh.

  “Come on!” the singer said urgently, tugging on Humph’s arm. He suppressed a sneeze and dodged around a tangled mess of old music stands, following her toward what looked in the shadows like a blank wall. Harry complied with being dragged along, happy enough to just be alive at that moment. The blank wall wasn’t, however, just a simple wall; it was a metal door painted the same color as the concrete wall. She opened it into a service tunnel that was, if anything, less welcoming than the understage.

  “Service entrance,” she explained, “For the musicians and their instruments and things. Sometimes Jeanpaul has a magician in. The stage kind. That’s what the trap door is for. This place was a club a long, long time before Jeanpaul got his greasy mitts on it.” By that point they were all the way at the end of the tunnel, and she stopped and put her ear to the door, waving a hand at him. He supposed she wanted him to shut up, so he obeyed. This broad has moxie, all right.

  “Sounds clear. My pod’s out there, I always leave it at this entrance. It saves hassle at the back door.” She shoved on the bar to open the door; it did so with a reluctant scrape of metal on concrete. Humph grabbed her by her elbow, holding her back while he scanned the street. He could see the red and blue of squad car lights playing against the buildings, but he could tell it was from around the corner.

  “Looks clear.”

  The trio quickly made their way to the pod; Humph cut in front of the singer when they got to the driver’s side door. “I’m driving, you give me directions.” She looked like she wanted to protest, but decided against it after biting her bottom lip and thinking on it for a moment.

  They spent the next half hour in tense silence; Humph making sure that they weren’t followed as he did his best to follow the singer’s initial directions and hurry without standing out in traffic. The last thing that they needed was to get pulled over. Harry was somehow managing to be quiet. Maybe the idiot had finally gotten some sense knocked into him. Circling the area the singer had directed them to, Humph realized that it was a storage facility: one of the big box ones that rented out individual units. Lots of security to keep undesirables out; the singer supplied a passcode and flashed an ID to one of the gate guards. Just like that, they were in. They parked the pod in the lot, which was mostly empty, and entered the building. A short walk, an elevator ride, and a few twists and turns brought them to the unit that she was apparently paying for.

  “Inside, quick.” She pressed her hand to a biometric reader and then punched in another string of characters to a keypad; the door rattled up, and the three of them shuffled inside. It was simple; a small cot, a net station, and a half-sized fridge were the only furnishings. Piled against the back wall were some crates and trunks. “Home sweet home, as they say,” the singer offered with an apologetic smile.

  They just stood there for a moment, everyone feeling awkward. Harry, surprisingly, was the first to talk. “Uh, shall I fix something to drink for everyone?” He went over to the fridge, opening it. “Oh, yeah, we’ve got some things to work with here.” Humph nodded absently to him, and the singer did the same; they kept their eyes locked on each other.

  “So. Are you going to tell me who you are, or am I going to have to guess?” The singer stood there with her fists on her hips, appraising the Boggart. “I’m guessing that the dust-up back there was over you and pretty boy here, judging by the way those cops were coming after you. Did Jeanpaul sell you out for money or something?”

  He held up a hand. “Before we get into that, I think introductions are in order. First, I’m Humphrey.”

  She blinked. “You’re a Boggart. Humphrey B—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m a private investigator. The sap behind me is Harry Somerfield; son of my latest client. I was hired to find him. That’s where this whole can of worms got opened up.”

  She gave him a quizzical look. “But if you were hired to find him, why was everyone after you?”

  “Exactly the right question to ask. Some sort of frame up is what I think; they’re saying I kidnapped him. Had to deal with some goons when I found him, and they were clearly looking to snuff him.” He sat down, sighing. “What about you? What’s your name, and w
hy did you help us?”

  “My name’s Lori.” It was her turn to look embarrassed.

  “Lori the Lorelei—”

  “Hey, don’t blame me, I went for most of my life without a name!” She flushed angrily. “It’s not my fault the first human to snare me had no imagination whatsoever!”

  Humph chuckled. “I feel your pain, darling. Still, why did you help us out? I’m guessing that you were free and clear of the club pretty soon after the ruckus started.”

  Her flush deepened. “It was the imp. I mean, it was the spell the imp used. I mean—it’s a long story.”

  Humph looked around; Harry pushed drinks into both of their hands. “I think we’ve got time.” He took a long draught from his; it was a rather good martini. He suspected that Harry had quite a bit of experience making his own drinks, from whenever he’d been kicked out of whatever establishment he’d worn out his welcome in on any given day. “The beginning is usually the best place to start from.”

  “The rat bastard that snared me sold me to Jeanpaul. I might have been able to escape from the wretched human, but Jeanpaul…” she shuddered. She took a sip of her martini before continuing. “Whatever you think you know about him, I can tell you that you are probably only scratching the surface. Anyway he bound me to him—and as nearly as I can tell it was only so he would always have a singer for that club of his. He loves that place more than anything or anyone.”

  “That’s your answer as to why Jeanpaul sold us out; someone got to him, threatened the club if he didn’t turn us over.” He motioned with his drink for her to keep going.

  “So one night, I bailed out an imp who was short the cash to pay his tab. I felt sorry for the little guy, and he’s from the same part of Old Earth as I am, but more than that, I was pretty sure that an imp would be able to get around Jeanpaul’s binding and break me free. He was drunk—or maybe desperate enough—to agree. He was about to face the wrath of Alphonse, after all.” She sighed. “But what I forgot was that an imp can’t ever do anything in a straightforward manner.”