Underground (Greywalker, Book 3)

by Kat Richardson

  “What sorts of things? Aside from talking to ghosts and seeing magic.” He leaned forward with his cup in both hands between his knees, giving me an intent look.

  I didn’t mind the scrutiny. He seemed truly interested and maybe . . . something more? I didn’t mind that either, but I put that aside and thought a moment. “I can . . . see layers of time if they happen to be in the right orientation at the right spot. I can pull a sort of shield between me and the magic stuff, sometimes. I—” I couldn’t say I could pluck energy and move it around. Strange. I could talk about it with Carlos, but not Quinton. I filed that for future investigation. “Well, not a lot else aside from the ghosts and being able to see that some people—or things— are magical in certain ways, but I don’t know what all the signals mean.”

  “That’s how you spotted the vampire in Starbucks.”

  I nodded again. “Yeah. I can see he’s a vampire. They’re sort of . . . in both places at the same time and there’s a look and a smell to them I’ve come to recognize.”

  “A smell? Aside from the bad breath?” he added, making a face.

  I laughed. “Yeah, aside from that.”

  He smiled before growing serious again. “Edward must want you badly—a human who can spot vampires and magic and still go around in the daylight. Someone with enough balls to take him on and enough skill to survive it. And you’re a pretty good investigator, too. Very attractive package.” I wasn’t sure if he meant that intellectually or in a more personal sense. Either way, I kind of liked it, but that liking made me a little nervous.

  I ducked my head and felt my face get hot. “Yeah. Well . . .”

  Quinton didn’t leave me to twist. “So what happened tonight?” he asked.

  “He denies anything to do with the deaths or the zombies.”

  Quinton snorted. “Of course he does.”

  “I believe him. He was pissed off about it and disgusted by the thought of zombies, and his denials rang true. He even offered to warn his people off of us while we look into it. He didn’t have to. He could have said nothing and sent me on my way or tried to kill me if I was too close to a truth he didn’t want me to know. But he didn’t even try. He sent me to talk to Carlos, instead.”

  Quinton shivered but kept silent, encouraging me with an eager nod.

  “The details are nasty, so I’ll skip them for now, but between the vampires and Fish—the guy at the morgue—I think I’ve spotted an emerging pattern that goes back at least to the 1949 earthquake, assuming all the dead or missing were in the underground or Pioneer Square at the time.”

  “All the people who’ve died or disappeared were undergrounders sleeping in the tunnels or the alleys and streets above them,” Quinton confirmed, thinking aloud. “Not in the shelters.”

  “Then we’re on the right track,” I said. “This thing is paranormal, but it’s not a vampire and it’s not a zombie. It makes zombies of some of its prey by coating them in some kind of paranormal web, but that seems to be incidental to the way it stalks people or captures them or something. I’m not sure of that yet. But, corny as it sounds, we really are looking for a creature that’s crawling around somewhere in those underground tunnels. That makes every undergrounder a potential meal. We have to find it and get rid of it, or it’ll just keep on killing people, and some of them are going to get back up and walk. And I don’t think the cops are going to be too hip to that.”

  “No. We’ll have to go down and figure out where it comes from or where it dens up. Then we’ll have to trap it and kill it.”

  I was glad Quinton had automatically included himself in the solution—it made me like him even more; he could have left the baby in my lap as Carlos and Cameron had. I went on, making a face as I said, “It might not be mortal. It’s very long-lived if it’s the same thing that killed people in 1949. And there might be earlier deaths that aren’t in the database or not in a way that’s made them stand out. If we can figure out what happened after the earthquake in 1949, we might have some clues as to where it came from and how to get rid of it again.”

  Quinton looked thoughtful and finished his coffee. “Y ’know ... there are a few undergrounders who might remember.”

  I scoffed. “Anyone old enough to remember the earthquake would have to be approaching eighty.”

  “Not necessarily. They’ve resurrected the oral tradition down there—it’s not like there’s TV or great reading material in the underground, so mostly they tell each other ‘back when’ stories. Some of them might still be awake, if they have a fire to keep warm by and haven’t been drinking.”

  He got up, fired with urgency. “Let’s go find them before they crash. The sooner we find the thing, the sooner it’s gone.”

  I finished off my coffee too and stood up, not really thrilled about going back into the cold, musty dampness of the buried streets. I didn’t have a choice, though; I’d agreed to help and I couldn’t—wouldn’t—back out. I wished I had some decent gloves and warmer clothes, but at least there was no wind in the dead city below and I’d have a friend at my back.

  Quinton showed me another way into the underground down a narrow stairway in an alley. Once again there was a nearly hidden door at one side, set into an arch of cement. Quinton jiggered with it and we slipped into a catacomb of brick and old steel girders.

  Something grunted in the darkness and there was a thump. We both fell silent and turned our heads, trying to pinpoint the noise. Quinton pointed deeper into the gloom ahead and began down the sidewalk corridor. I followed him carefully over the dusty, rubble-strewn floor, brushing past ghosts, to a set of stone arches where wooden doors must have hung that had now rotted and fallen away. We edged into the a cavernous space and I felt a touch of cold nausea.

  I whispered into Quinton’s ear, “Vampire.”

  He made a low noise and a shaft of white light cut the blackness, showing a slice of a once-grand room. Near the door where we stood was a humped, wriggling thing: two human shapes, one slumped, the other holding that one, bending over it. . . .

  A sharp crack of ozone and a burst of arc light came from Quinton’s other hand and he jabbed a small lightning bolt into the bending figure. The vampire shrieked and spun toward us, fangs bared, dropping the ragged man he’d been trying to bite.

  “Bastard,” Quinton muttered. He jabbed a second time at the vampire with the small stun stick. The arcing horns connected with the creature’s shoulder and slid up the curve to its neck. The vampire shrieked and jerked and then fell to the ground where he lay looking more dead than it probably had in a long time.

  “Edward said he’d keep his people out of our way,” I said.

  “Yeah. Well, either he lied, or this one didn’t get the memo.”

  I looked at the vampire and recognized his face from the After Dark. “He didn’t say he wouldn’t keep them out of the snack bar,” I said, “and this one probably figured it was the last chance to grab a bite of marinated bum for a while. So . . . is this one . . . down for good?”

  “No, unfortunately. Just out for a while. The current disrupts what passes for a bioelectrical system in these guys, but it’ll reset after he’s been out a while. With higher voltage I could probably kill them, but I don’t want to be in that kind of trouble with Edward or let someone like Lass loose with a stun stick that might kill a human as well.”

  “And that’s what keeps Edward at his distance?”

  “Kind of. He stays away from me so I don’t stick him. That way none of his pack will ever see that he’s as vulnerable to the stun as they are. Right now they think he’s immune. If they find out he’s not, his strongman image will be on its ass.”

  “How did you figure this electrical thing out?”

  He grinned and I saw the light of his flashlight reflected off his white teeth. “You’d be amazed at the things you can find out if you break into the right parts of the Internet.”

  The other man moaned and rolled on the floor. Quinton went to help him up. It was Blue
Jay.

  “Hey, Jay. Are you all right?” Quinton asked.

  Jay rubbed his head. “Yeah, I guess. I feel woozy. . . .”

  “Let’s get you somewhere warmer.” Quinton put his shoulder under Jay’s armpit and helped him up.

  Jay directed us down the sidewalk and around to a hole in a wall where we could dimly see a yellow glow deeper in the hole. We crawled in and found a room in what must have been some building’s condemned and forgotten basement. A clutch of shapeless people sat in a huddle around a lit Sterno can, passing bottles and chatting in low voices. They welcomed Jay, one of the figures giving him a blanket while another asked what had become of his own.

  “I—lost it. One o’ them bad men.”

  “One of them stole it?” asked a woman—I assumed from the voice, since it was impossible to tell gender by the shadowed hump of the form from which it issued.

  “Nah. I dropped it. But I don’t wanna go back for it now. Go in the morning. When he’s gone.”

  The shapeless female nodded.

  “You guys seeing more of those creeps down here?” Quinton asked.

  “The bad ones? Not more’n normal.”

  “Anything else? Critters? Walkers?”

  One of the shapes rocked back and forth. “I seen a . . . a crawling thing, long as a snake, hairy like a yak.”

  “A yak!” one of the other shapes said. “You ain’t never seen no yak.”

  “Then hairy like a musk ox—I seen plenty musk ox when I was home in Alaska at that qiviut farm.”

  “And a buncha rats,” another said. “We saw ’em. Rats running through here last night.”

  They began chattering, throwing in comments in a flurry, and I couldn’t keep track of which lump of filthy cloth was talking when.

  “Bugs. Been a lotta bugs for winter time.”

  “And the shadow people.”

  “Lotta rats, yeah. Big ’uns!”

  “That’s trouble—rats. Something’s stirred ’em up.”

  “It’s the cold.”

  “Maybe they’s scared of the yak!”

  “And the crows,” said Jay.

  They got quiet and stared at Blue Jay.

  “No birds down here, Jay.”

  “I know that. But I seen a crow with Jenny last night and this morning she was killed. You saw it, too, Grandpa Dan. It was an omen.”

  “Why didn’t you see no crow when Go-cart died?”

  “I ain’t no medicine man. I just seen the one crow.”

  “Do crows come out when people die?” I asked in a low voice. I didn’t like the clutching feeling that rasped up my spine as I thought of those big crows and Go-cart or of the gleaming eyes of creatures in the tunnels, watching Jenny from the darkness.

  There was a glimmer in the Grey around them and one of the other lumps spoke in a slow, old voice, the voice of Grandpa Dan. “Sometimes. Crows are the messengers of gods and the spirits of our ancestors. They speak of death and magic. They say crows flew all day over Battleground back during the last days of the People—before the reservations. I did see Jay’s crow, but it said nothing I understood. Maybe it was a raven though. Ravens intercede for us in the world of the spirits—maybe that’s why it came here, to fight for Jenny, and it lost.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence before one of the others added, “My old grandma said the animals used to talk to us long ago, but now they’re afraid and they lose their power with all these white men around. You hardly see real animals anymore in the cities. ’Cepting rats and dogs and mangy cats and they don’t talk so much.”

  Grandpa Dan nodded. “Down here near the mud where we used to fish, maybe they talk more. . . . Maybe they remember more what it was like to be real animals.” Then he looked directly at me and something atavistic in me stirred and quailed at his fierce glance. “These mudflats, they were the life of our people. It is still ours, even if it is only a ghost place now, buried under this city. We can’t leave it. We’d do anything to protect it, if we could. We will do so when the need is on us.” Then he turned his filmed eyes back to Jay, releasing me to shiver a moment. “That’s why the animals and our ancestor spirits still come here—to keep the land safe. Maybe that’s why your raven came down here, Blue Jay.”

  “Maybe that’s why Frank’s yak come here—to talk,” another voice bantered.

  “Was a musk ox and musk ox don’t talk.”

  “Do you remember what happened in 1949?” I asked Dan.

  “When was that?” Dan asked. “That was after the war—the Second World War. I was just a boy then.”

  The people around the circle watched with suspicion. I’d come with a friend, but that didn’t guarantee they’d trust me, especially interrogating an old man they respected. I pushed on, but I chose my questions with care.

  “Did you live here in Seattle?”

  Dan shook his head and shrugged, growing tiny and bent before my eyes. It seemed as if the wise old man had vanished with the movement, leaving a smaller, weaker substitute behind who mumbled in a quavering voice, “Nah, I lived on the rez. I never lived here then.” He seemed befuddled and I wasn’t sure it was an act.

  “Did you hear about the earthquake here in April of 1949?”

  “Oh, sure!” another piped up. “Buildings fell down. That’s why they torn down the old hotel and built that parking lot.”

  “You suppose that’s where all them ghosts the medicine man drove away come from?” another asked.

  “What ghosts?” old Dan asked.

  “Them old ’skins. You remember. Back in . . . what, ’ninety-four? They used to raise hell up ‘n’ down the tunnels here. Scared the tourists. Then they got some shaman down from Marysville to come and send ’em on their way.”

  The old man shook his head, deep in its blankets. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Well, they did it. And he danced and chanted and burned some nasty-ass stuff and sent ’em on their way.”

  “Where was that?” I asked.

  “First and Yesler. That’s the baddest corner. There’s an old dance hall girl there and her boyfriend. He was a bank clerk at the old bank there. Sometimes y’see ’em there. And down Oxy. There’s a lotta ghosts down Oxy.”

  That I could attest to myself. But that was about as far as we got. No matter how we asked—or who, when we moved on to the next group and the next—no one had any useful information about 1949 or the ghosts of natives or of zombies or monsters that ate people and set the dead to walking. The natives had a strange sense of proprietorship for the place; several talked about it as Grandpa Dan had, saying it was the closest you could get to the “old land.”

  “Do you know what we called this place before your people came?” one had asked.

  “No,” I replied.

  “Duwamps. Funny word, huh? But it means ‘good fishing’ and it was good for clams and collecting driftwood for fires. It was our life. Before the rez.”

  Another said something in a coughing, lilting language and the speaker answered back the same way. Then they laughed and the bottles passed again. And it was the same in every group that talked about the mudflats: a slightly drunken declaration of protectiveness and pride even as they huddled in the hollows of the ground, in the face of the amnesia and disdain of society that drew a pall over everyone down below and everything that crept there, consigning it to Lethe.