Hot Lead, Cold Iron

by Ari Marmell

  Ottati howled something completely unintelligible and came my way, raising the Chicago typewriter again. Hopping on one leg, wishing I could ignore what it was doing to my broken ribs, I flung myself across the office toward cover—and, not incidentally, putting myself between him and the bathroom. I know it sounds heartless, but I was sure he wasn’t about to open fire with his daughter in the killing zone.

  Well, I was pretty sure… But damn it, I wasn’t gonna just sit there and let him perforate me!

  And I was right, mostly. He dropped the chopper and yanked a Colt “vest pocket” model from, well, his vest pocket. Guess he figured he had more control that way. “Muoia, stronzo! Muoia!” He was back to ranting, trying to line up his shot even as I dove behind the demolished desk again. “Tutto è incazzato! Hai rovinato tutto!”

  A couple of .25 slugs dug into the wood and cheap metal of the desk, but they didn’t quite have the power to punch through. I was breathing heavy, trying to steady myself, regain a little bit of focus. And that, with another second’s thought, was when everything finally fell into place.

  Tutto è incazzato! Hai rovinato tutto!

  It’s all fucked up! You’ve ruined everything!

  Oh, swell…

  “Fino!” My answer was another bullet plowing into my pathetic barricade. “Fino, goddamn it, hold your fire! For your daughter’s sake, stop shooting!” I took a gamble and raised my hands so they were both visible over the desk. When he didn’t immediately try to blow ’em off, I poked just enough of my head up to look. “She’s in danger, Fino! We’ve gotta—”

  Too late. She was already here.

  I saw her, a short, dark-haired shape behind Fino and his boys, moving, gliding through the hall, her feet never touching the floor…

  Orsola Maldera raised her hands, some kinda grey powder spilling from one, old and clotted blood from the other. She shouted, her voice more deafening than the gunfire, a horrible word, or maybe a name; something not English, not Italian, not ever intended for human mouths.

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t act. I was too far to reach her, too weak to try, too hurt and beaten to focus whatever magics I mighta had left. A bank of darkness, not visible but tangible, a shadow of the soul, rolled like a bomb blast down the hall and through the doorway. I felt a horrible vertigo, a spike of nausea worse’n anything I’d felt inside her wards.

  And then I didn’t feel, or see, or think anything at all.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Nothingness, complete and utter. Absent. Empty. No dreams. You mortals spend swathes of every night this way?! How do you stand it? I’d go absolutely—

  “…think I oughta put a slug right between his fucking…”

  Huh. Thinking. Thoughts. Thoughts are good. Means there’s not nothing, right? The nothingness is going away, and if there’s not nothing, that means there’s gotta be—

  “…dare! We need him! She needs him! We can’t…”

  Oh, there’s something all right. Pain. Oh, holy shit do I hurt!

  Hey, I hurt! I have an “I” again!

  “…from his kind! Fuck, you know what he is? He ain’t even…”

  Yeah, I. Me. Mick Oberon. Mick Oberon, PI, whose office was just blasted to hell and back by a lunatic chopper squad.

  And not just my office, either.

  “…matter what he is, he found her once, he can do it again!”

  Fingers wiggling, and toes. Okay, that’s good. Everything works. Really hurts, though… Chest’s aching, hip’s throbbing, but I can breathe okay. Leg strong enough to stand? Dunno; not standing…

  “…need anyone to find her! I just gotta get hold of Mama, talk to her, work this…”

  Better than before I went under, at least. Pain’s faded, breathing’s easier. Wish I had more time to rest up and heal, but…

  “…told me your mother’s the one who took her! We can’t trust anything she…”

  …but those goddamn voices aren’t about to let me, and would they please just shut up, shut up…

  “Shut up!”

  I pried my lids open and rocked upright, trying to find a position to sit that wasn’t pulling at my ribs or my hip, and failing miserably to find one. The light stung for just a few, ’til I adapted, and the first thing I saw was a garishly upholstered sofa.

  Yep, I was sitting in that same damn sitting room, back at the Ottati house; they musta woken up faster’n I did—which probably meant I’d been the primary target of Orsola’s spell, surprise, surprise—and dragged me back here. I was on the floor, obviously. Even if I hadn’t felt the floorboards under me, the fact that I was nose to nose with the furniture was a pretty solid indicator. A quick glance around showed me some table legs and more chairs, farther away than I’d expected. They’d cleared the center of the room—come to think of it, hadn’t there been a rug here, last time?—obviously in preparation for…

  Oh, come on.

  Yep, there it was, spread out in an uneven circle all around me. Salt, mostly, but I could see the occasional twists and bulges of the runes chalked onto the wood under it—and, more importantly, beneath the tang of tea and booze that permeated the room, I smelled the rusty powdered iron mixed in with the salt. It was sloppy, slipshod; clearly not Orsola’s work. I stretched out, first with curiosity alone, then with an extended finger. Both times, I hit the edge of the circle and felt as though I was trying to push through a heavy curtain of cobweb.

  I patted halfheartedly at my pockets, and even wiggled a finger through the holes in what used to be a pocket. Just as I’d expected, no wand. Yeah, I could get through the ward… given time. Hours.

  Y’know, I just didn’t think I had hours.

  “Fucking cut it out!” This as I prodded at the barrier a second time. I blinked, popped my neck, and scooted around to see my “captors.”

  Neither of the Ottatis looked too good. Fino’s hair was mussed, his jacket was off, and his shirt was untucked and hanging out from under his vest. Bianca’s makeup was smeared, and her jaw was clenched hard.

  “What’s the matter, Fino? Don’tcha stand behind your work?”

  “You shut the fuck up, you stronzo bestiale!”

  “Yeah, your mamma calls me names, too.” I shrugged. “It ain’t half bad work, for an amateur. You been taking lessons?”

  “I said shut up, before I blow your fucking head off like I shoulda done back in your office!” And yeah, maybe it was just theatrics, but he was reaching into his vest pocket even as he spoke.

  “But you didn’t,” I said, a little more calmly. “Because you want me to find Celia. Again.”

  “Her name ain’t Celia!” He was actually shrieking, now, and I swore I could feel a breeze from his twitching eyelid. “It’s Adalina!”

  “No. No, Fino. Your other daughter’s name is Adalina.”

  Bianca choked on a muffled sob; Fino flushed red and turned away.

  “Can you find her again, Mr. Oberon?” Bianca asked. I thought her husband’s glare alone might knock her off her feet, but she stood firm.

  “That depends, Mrs. Ottati. First, have you asked your husband why he arranged for her to vanish in the first place?”

  I actually hadn’t been positive until the words came out, but yeah, I was sure. It actually wasn’t that hard to piece together, now that I had enough to work with.

  “What?” I can’t even rightly call it a whisper; it was just a breath dressed up as a word. Her skin wasn’t pale so much as it was practically transparent.

  Fino roared something that was even less of a word and skinned his .25. The first shot went completely wide, ripping into the sofa a good few feet off to my left. His whole body shaking, he swung the piece further toward me, ready for another shot with a whole lot better aim…

  Bianca stepped between us, her shoulders so rigid you coulda crucified a man on ’em.

  “Get the fuck outta the way! I’m gonna kill this fucking stronzo!”

  She didn’t move, didn’t flinch; I’m not sure she even
breathed.

  “Bianca, move!”

  “Is it true, Fino?”

  “What the fuck? ‘Is it true’?!” The gun was shaking so bad now, I think the pin might actually have missed the shell if he’d fired. “He’s a fucking faerie! You can’t buy a fucking word he says!”

  “Is it true?”

  “I said move!” Fino reached out to shove his wife out of the way, and a sharp report echoed across the room.

  Not a gunshot at all, but about the most vicious slap I’d ever seen. Fino didn’t just stagger, he actually dropped to one knee. His empty hand rose to his reddened cheek and bleeding lip as he stared incredulously upward. Bianca loomed over him, her fists clenched. “You son of a bitch! Is it true?”

  “No, Bianca! No, it’s—it’s not…” The gun, and Fino’s gaze, both dropped toward the floor. “Yeah.” His voice cracked. “Oh, Madon’, yes. It’s true.”

  She fell on him with a horrified, tormented wail, flailing with both fists. Fino didn’t raise an arm, didn’t fall back, as she hit him again, and again, and again.

  I could make out part of what she said, between punches and heaving, gut-wrenching sobs, but I ain’t repeating it. You don’t need to know.

  “Bianca,” I said softly after a moment, “that’s enough.” She literally fell away from him, slumping to the floor, her face buried in her palms as her entire body shook. Fino, rumpled and bleeding, reached a hand out for her and stopped, clearly afraid to touch her—and not, I think, because he might get hit again. For a time, we all just sat, maybe afraid that any movement would shatter something, or someone.

  Through the doorway behind them, at the top of the staircase where I couldn’t see, I thought I heard the creak of a step and the sound of something settling.

  Finally, with a pained grunt, I pulled my calves in under me, sitting crosslegged; it was more comfortable for the rest of me, no matter the murder it was committing on my hip.

  “Bianca,” Fino began, “I—”

  “Don’t you talk to me! Don’t you dare say a fucking word!”

  Part of me wanted to let him suffer a little. I mean, the gink shot up my office, and put a slug through my hip!

  But I didn’t; there wasn’t time. “Go easy on him, Bianca,” I said. “He did it for her. Didn’t you, Fino?”

  They both stared at me, her incredulous, him hesitant. And then, reluctantly, he nodded.

  “I don’t understand,” Bianca said. “What…?” Her lips kept moving, but the question wouldn’t come.

  “It don’t matter,” he began. “I—”

  “Oh, it matters, Fino,” I said, refusing to flinch from a glower that woulda intimidated most of his Mob rivals. “It’s time for you to decide which side of the family you’re on. You can’t play the middle anymore.”

  Again he looked away. I saw him fiddling with the pistol, but at least he wasn’t making any move to raise it.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” I pressed. “You knew what she was planning, and you wanted to protect your little girl.”

  “No! No, I didn’t—” Fino sighed and slowly rose, leaving the roscoe on the carpet. Gently, he reached out, offering a hand to Bianca; hesitantly, she took it, and stood beside him. With a sorrowful smile, he led her to two of the chairs along the wall, guided her into one and just about fell into the other.

  I thought about asking if he’d be willing to let me the hell outta this damn glyph so I could find a more comfortable seat myself—this really wasn’t doing my hip any good—but somehow, I didn’t figure this was the right time for a change of topic.

  “You shoulda known her before,” Fino said, and though he was looking right at me, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t talking to me. Not mostly, anyway. “Back in Sicily, when I was a boy. We weren’t rich, but we were comfortable. Better off’n most. I knew even then Papa was into some ugly business, that we were part of something bigger’n just our family. But I didn’t get what that meant, at that age.”

  “Cosa Nostra?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I mean, we didn’t call it that, but yeah.”

  “All right.” I went motionless for a minute, thinking. “You and your mother came to America well before il Duce started cracking down on the Mafia, so I’m figuring things went a little downhill?”

  Fino snorted. “Yeah, like a fucking avalanche. We had a lotta rival families, back then. Politics, neighborhoods, routes; everybody wanted what everyone else had, yeah?

  “I think… I think Mama coulda recovered from losing Papa, if she’d had time, y’know? But it was less’n two months after that when Alessandro died. He was nineteen months—nineteen—into a two-year bit, when someone had him whacked. We—”

  “Hang on,” I said, raising a hand. I was pretty sure I knew what the answer was, but I hadda be sure. “Alessandro?”

  “My brother,” Fino said sadly. “Mama’s only other child.”

  Yep; that was it. “Lemme guess, Fino. Older’n you?”

  “Uh, yeah. Almost three years. Why?”

  “I’ll get there. Go on.” Actually, what I wanted was to just blurt out everything I suspected and make up the parts I didn’t; anything to get ’em to let me outta this fucking cage and find Celia before it was too late. But if I didn’t know exactly what I was getting into, the witch’d squash me—and besides, even if he was starting to talk, and to listen, I didn’t think Fino was ready to just up and spring me.

  For his part, Fino shrugged and said, “We knew who’d done it—or which family, anyway—same as we’d known when Papa was killed. Me’n my cousins hit ’em back, hard, but Mama… She just sorta stopped. Spent all her time in mourning, or in prayer. And I swear, every time anyone in our family got whacked, no matter how distant a cousin, she just got worse.

  “I hadda get her away from there, so when the opportunity came to come to America…” He shrugged again. “And it worked, for a while. She seemed to shake off the worst of it, started living again. And then…”

  “Then,” I finished for him, “you found out the other families were here, too.”

  “Yeah. The Scolas, the Giovaniellos, all of ’em. I never seen Mama so angry as the first time she ran into one of ’em, over at the market, not even the day we learned about Alessandro. I actually locked up all the heaters in the house, make sure she didn’t do nothing stupid.”

  “Which didn’t stop her from cursing everyone who threatened you,” I pointed out.

  “Mama taught me all about the Benandanti, but she hadn’t practiced much in the Old Country, ’cept occasionally to keep us going in lean times or divine whether a new plan would go well. But here… Well, she was angry, and I sure wasn’t gonna turn away the help.”

  “But she didn’t stop there, did she?”

  He shuddered—Fino “the Shark” Ottati, vicious gangster, shuddered—and Bianca put a hand over his. He reached out with the other, squeezed it hard. “She was so happy when Bianca and I got married, even though…” He hesitated, glanced her way. “Even though she never really seemed too fond of Bianca.”

  Bianca nodded; obviously, despite how well they’d appeared to get on when they were meeting with me, this came as no big surprise.

  “And then…” He looked down at his—their—hands.

  “Then,” I said, “you tumbled to why. Lemme guess again… While Bianca was expecting?”

  They glanced at each other, and this time it was Fino who nodded. “Mama hadn’t taught me much, but I’d learned some of the basics of her craft.” I poked once at the edge of the circle, basically saying Yeah, I can see that. Also basically saying Lemme the hell out, but either he didn’t get that, or he ignored it. “She’d been working hard for a few months, pretty much ignoring everything else—except making sure Bianca and the baby were doing okay. One day I got into her stuff to see what she was up to, and I found an old book she’d never showed me. Real old. Parts of it were in… I don’t even know. Languages I never seen before. But her notes, those were Italiano, those I could read. It wa
sn’t enough to tell me much, but I got that it was a fucking ugly curse of some sort—made the malocchio look like cheap superstition. And…” Fino was chewing his lip and tongue something fierce, now. “And it required the blood of a firstborn relative to focus.”

  Bianca gasped, and whatever color had started seeping back into her cheeks disappeared. “Jesus and Mary, Fino! How could you not tell me?”

  “She’s my mama! She was just angry, she—”

  “Just angry? She was going to kill our baby!”

  “No! Not kill, just spill some blood! Mama would never have—”

  “You can’t be sure of that, Fino!”

  “Yes, I—”

  “If you were so sure,” I interrupted, making no effort at all to keep the exasperation outta my voice, “why’d you interfere, Fino?”

  He was starting to make a habit of avoiding my gaze. “I didn’t want my little girl involved in nothing like that,” he protested. I didn’t believe that was the whole of it, not for a minute, and clearly Bianca didn’t either. “I didn’t want her caught up in black magics and curses, and… And…”

  “And maybe getting hurt,” Bianca insisted. This time, Fino didn’t argue.

  “Look,” he said finally, “I done a lot of nasty things, and I wasn’t in any position to refuse help, even the kind Mama was offering. But ancient curses, the blood of children…? Maddon’, I didn’t want nothing to do with that. Not for me, and no fucking way for my little girl!”

  “I gotta admit,” I said, “your solution was brilliant.” Then, at Bianca’s outraged gasp, “Think about it, Mrs. Ottati. It ain’t as though he was gonna kill his mother. He didn’t know enough witchcraft to protect the kid, and there sure as hell wasn’t anyplace he could hide her where Orsola wouldn’t find her. Or at least, nowhere here. But in the Otherworld…”

  Fino actually managed a half-smile. “It sure wasn’t my first idea, but yeah. Way I figured, Mama would think it was just bad luck—the whims of the fate, see?—and my baby would be safe.”