by DD Barant
Not a lot of lem lawyers that I know of.
Vegas and Night’s Shining Jewel snapped back into their proper places when I killed Chassinda—or maybe ended her existence is a more accurate description. I wonder how long Ahaseurus had her captive; centuries, at least. If Azura’s friend Brunt was the true father of the golem race, I guess that makes her, what, its aunt? Which makes me—
Nothing.
I’m just another cop. I’m not special, not some sort of linchpin in this whole mess. A different version of myself, from a different world and a different time, had the bad luck to be a killer’s first victim, that’s all. The consequences eventually filtered down to me, but that’s not my fault.
I’ve seen many victims blame themselves for the horrible things that have happened to them, and I’m not going to do that. I understand the process—it’s a way of imposing control, of trying to make sense of a senseless situation. To someone who’s been targeted and attacked, it’s actually more comforting to think they’ve done something wrong than to view it as random; you can fix a mistake, but you can’t fix chaos.
But chaos is a part of life, just like order is a part of death. You have to accept that, adapt to it.
It’s the only way to survive.
* * *
Azura disappears, too.
Not into thin air like Ahaseurus and Stoker did. No, she’s still there after they’ve gone, a little groggy from whatever the sorcerer did to her, and the first thing she does after I untie her is to retrieve the Warbler’s Child from the wreckage of the throne. Then she helps me free Cassius while the room slowly fills up with confused lems, all of whom are suddenly being very helpful. Some kind of psychic backlash, I guess.
The next time I look around, she’s gone.
Makes sense, I suppose. Secret agents aren’t really supposed to hang around afterward and answer questions—it detracts from the whole mysterious vibe. Plus, there’s always the chance they’ll get thrown in jail for the indiscriminate slaughter of henchmen. I have no doubt she’s still after Ahaseurus, which means I’ll probably run into her again. I’m kind of looking forward to it.
Cassius is in pretty bad shape—a pire becomes more vulnerable to damage when he’s aging. He’ll recover, though, as will Tair. I grab the highest-ranking lem I can find and shout at him until he finds someone who can get me a chopper. I want both my boss and my prisoner in a hospital, but their injuries aren’t life threatening; I tell the pilot to take them to the nearest medical facility across the state line. Nevada still feels like a war zone, and those are never safe.
When a thrope dies, he reverts to human form, while a lem just becomes inert. A pire who expires pays off the time-debt his body owes the universe: If he’s been undead for a hundred years, then a century’s worth of decay sets in all at once. I expect something similar to occur with an underdead body, but to my surprise the exact opposite happens: Chassinda’s corpse turns to stone. I remember something from one of the myths about sunlight affecting them that way, which makes me sad. Not only was Chassinda a possession for all those years, she never saw the sun the entire time.
I have an NSA team haul the corpse away. Eisfanger’s going to have to chisel the Balancer gem out of her body.
I wrap things up in Vegas as quickly as I can, then commandeer another chopper to get the hell out of town. Turns out my instincts were right; not less than twenty-four hours later the Mantle enters into negotiations with the US government to turn the entire state into a self-governing entity, a golem country. Tom Omicron is still in prison, but that’s probably just a negotiating tactic. Now that they’ve demonstrated they can take over the world anytime they want to, the prevailing political opinion seems to be Let’s not give them a reason to want to. Besides, it’s only Nevada—it’s not like they’re asking us to give up California or New York.
Chassinda’s body never makes it to Eisfanger’s lab. Somewhere on the road between Vegas and Seattle, it disappears; when the NSA agents who were transporting it open the back of the truck, all that’s there is a full bottle of tequila and a note that reads: You still owe me a drink. Thought I’d hold on to this in the meantime. Well, I’d rather she had the Balancer than Ahaseurus.
I don’t see Charlie for a while.
I sent him out on the chopper with Cassius and Tair, telling him to keep an eye on the thrope. He didn’t argue.
I get back to Seattle. Debrief with Gretchen. Turns out the whole time-traveling stabby thing can be handled with some industrial-strength wards in place on each of the victims, preventing the blade from showing up and killing them. The news is a great relief, and I celebrate by going home, feeding my dog, and falling into bed.
The world slowly gets back to normal, or what passes for it here. Cassius spends all of a day in the hospital then comes back to work. He wants a full report, which I give him. Charlie isn’t with him.
I go see Damon Eisfanger in the forensics lab. He’s got an uncomfortable look on his face when I walk through his door.
“Uh, hi, Jace. Glad to see you’re okay.”
“Better than a lot of other Vegas tourists, anyway.” After the cities snapped back into their proper places, hundreds of bodies were found inside the initial swap sites. Ahaseurus needed something to get his spell going, and apparently he used the Balancer to trade innocent lives for a mystic jump-start. I’m sure Azura’s people discovered the same thing in NSJ.
“You said you had something to tell me,” I say. “When I contacted you over the Internet. What was it?”
“Oh, that.”
“Yeah, that.”
“I don’t know, I thought the situation was dire, so maybe there was something you should know. Maybe.” He looks miserable.
“Please tell me you’re not going to reveal you’re madly in love with me.”
“What? No! No, this is about Asher. Uh, Ahaseurus.”
“So spill it, already.”
“Do you know the legend of the Wandering Jew?”
“Vaguely. Taunted Jesus on the cross, right? Doomed to wander the Earth until Judgment Day as punishment. Always sounded kinda harsh to me; make one bad joke and pay for it forever? That’s not exactly turning the other cheek. And come on, the guy was up and around three days later—apparently the only thing that stayed dead was his sense of humor.”
“That’s the story—more or less—from your world. Here, it’s a little different.” He hesitates. “You have to understand, pires and thropes weren’t exactly on good terms with the human race back then. There were periodic purges, wholesale slaughters of the supernatural races. Until the Christians came along, people thought we were demons. Then, suddenly, there was one person saying maybe we weren’t so bad.”
“Hold up. Are you saying the early Christian church was pro-supernatural?”
“Not explicitly. But some people took the whole ‘love thy neighbor’ thing to include hemovores and lycanthropes.”
“But not the Wandering Jew.”
“No. In fact, it’s said that what he taunted Jesus about was his support of the supernaturals—that that’s what got him crucified. It split religious scholars for a long time, with people arguing that the taunter was right or wrong, or that he did or didn’t exist. The Catholic Church eventually endorsed the view that yes, he did exist, and yes, his punishment was deserved. This wasn’t a condemnation of the Jewish faith in general, you understand, just this one individual. In fact, he’s usually just referred to as the Wanderer these days.”
“It’s what I’m going to call you if you don’t get to the point.”
“Despite what the church says, most people still consider the Wanderer a myth. But he’s not. In fact, he’s a powerful sorcerer who helped end World War Two.”
I can see why Eisfanger was reluctant to talk about this. “You mean he was one of the shamans who crafted the Shub-Niggurath spell? The spell that sacrificed six million human beings?”
“He was in charge.” Eisfanger’s voice is low and ashame
d. “I’m not supposed to know any of this, Jace. I did some snooping where I shouldn’t. The names of all the sorcerers who worked on the project were top secret, but I managed to get the name of the top guy. It was—”
“Ahaseurus.”
“Yeah.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. The look on my face must be telling Eisfanger volumes, though, because he blurts out, “I didn’t know if the information would do you any good, but you were stranded in Vegas and there were riots breaking out everywhere and no one could get in touch with Cassius—”
“It’s okay, Damon,” I say. “It doesn’t make any difference. I already hate the son-of-a-bitch; this just makes me hate him more.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Keep on chasing him.”
“And when you catch him?” I notice he doesn’t make the mistake of saying if.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” I say. “Depends on whether or not I’ve run out of bullets by then.”
I can hardly believe it. No matter how evil I thought Ahaseurus was, I still believed he was a human being. But like all sociopaths, he’s a species of one; nobody other than himself is real to him. He didn’t create golems to help the human race, he created them to help him.
And he’s been alive for a long, long time. I wonder what other events in history he’s manipulated, what other genocides or atrocities he’s engineered.
He’s responsible for the deaths of at least six million people, maybe more. Somebody has to avenge them.
Even if it means ripping up my ticket home.
* * *
On the third day, Charlie’s waiting for me outside my apartment when I leave for work.
“Hey,” he says. He’s wearing a new suit, a plum-colored one with gray pinstripes. Gray fedora with plum hatband, polished dark gray shoes. He’s leaning up against a lamppost with his hands jammed in his pockets.
“Hey.” I stop, look him up and down. “Nice.”
“Picked it up in Reno.”
“Thought you were in California.”
“I was. Stopped in Reno on the way back.” He hasn’t met my eyes yet. “Got a job offer.”
I blink. “As what, a replacement for a cigar-store Indian? Something that doesn’t show quite as much emotion?”
He doesn’t take the bait. “Reno’s going to be the new capital. The Mantle thought I might make a good police chief.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod. “Oh.”
“Haven’t given them an answer yet.”
“Ah.”
“Oh? Ah? You gonna use actual words, or just practice your vowels?”
“You’d make a great police chief, Charlie.”
He rubs the back of his head with one hand. “Maybe. Thing is, I don’t like to leave things unfinished. Not in my nature.”
“Sure. I know what that’s like.”
“And you and me, we have some unfinished business.”
“I guess we do.”
“Which is why I’m here.”
I take a deep breath. I knew this was coming, I just didn’t know how I was going to handle it. “Okay. Look, I’m sorry. You didn’t give me any choice.”
Now he looks offended. “What, you replaced me already? I know you have the patience of a chimpanzee that’s been guzzling espresso, but it’s only been two days—”
“Replace you? I’m trying to apologize to you, you moron.”
“For what?”
“Shooting you?”
“Oh, that.” He snorts. “I’ve taken worse. No, what I’m saying is that I can’t just quit my assignment. It wouldn’t be fair. I mean, the next poor guy to get stuck with you would never forgive me.”
“No, of course not.”
“So I guess I’ll stick around. At least until we catch Stoker.”
“And Ahaseurus.”
“Yeah. Him, too.”
We look at each other for a moment. “Then what?” I ask. “Going to move to Nevada, help build the new lem homeland?”
“Nah. I like the home I’ve got.”
We fall in step beside each other. It’s a nice night, and the office isn’t that far away.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me, too.”
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles
by DD Barant
Dying Bites
Death Blows
ALL-OUT RAVES FOR
THE BLOODHOUND FILES
“Snappy writing, a page-turning story and fresh world-building make Dying Bites a satisfying meal of a book.”
—Kelley Armstrong, New York Times bestselling
author of Men of the Otherworld and The Awakening
“Dying Bites is wacky, unpredictable, fresh, and amazing. I would kill to write as well as DD Barant. Seriously.”
—Nancy Holder, author of Pretty Little Devils
“This engrossing debut adds another captivating protagonist to the urban fantasy ranks … Barant’s well-developed world offers intriguing enhancements to mythology and history. Jace is remarkable, strong-willed, and smart, and she sets an unstoppable pace. Look for the Bloodhound Files to go far.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A heroine with plenty of guts, moxie, and a sense of the absurd. [A] fresh and original take on urban fantasy … Huge kudos to Barant for spicing things up with a story that expertly integrates detective work, kick-butt action, and a wacky sense of humor. Make sure you get in early on the outstanding new Bloodhound Files series.”
—Romantic Times
“DD Barant builds a strong world and fills it with fascinating characters that will delight and entertain. Dying Bites is a well-written urban fantasy with a gripping plot and a heroine who is quite believable with her very human flaws. I’m looking forward to seeing more in this captivating world.”
—Darque Reviews (starred read)
“Five stars. An exciting new series. It has humor, mystery, and adventure. A great book!”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Barant does an excellent job introducing a whole new world where vampires make up the majority of the population … quick and engrossing … a great new series.”
—Romance Reader
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
KILLING ROCKS
Copyright © 2010 by DD Barant.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 978-0-312-94260-1
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2011
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
eISBN 978-1-4299-2863-2
First St. Martin’s Paperbacks eBook Edition: December 2010
Death definitely blows. And dying sure does bite …
Don’t miss more novels from The Bloodhound Files
by
DD Barant
DYING BITES
ISBN: 978-0-312-94258-8
DEATH BLOWS
ISBN: 978-0-312-94258-8
Available from St. Martin’s Paperbacks